CHAPTER XII

Specifications 115

Prefatory Note

It is not the purpose of this book to try to establish a claim for

printing that it is an art. It is hoped that it may show that the

principles of art may be applied to printing, and that such application

may lead to improvement in some essentials of printing.

Thanks are due to several experts in printing who have read the proofs,

and have given wise and acceptable counsel.

I desire to acknowledge that aid has been freely sought from books upon

art, and that in some instances forms of expression have been adopted

from them. No originality is claimed for the allusions to art, nor for

art terms and formulas employed.

September, 1903.

Introduction

Because it is difficult to perfectly transfer a thought from one mind

to another it is essential that the principal medium through which such

transference is accomplished may be as perfect as it is possible to

make it.

It is not wholly by means of the literal significance of certain forms

of words that ideas are given currency, whether the words are spoken or

printed. In speaking it is easy to convey an impression opposed to the

literal meaning of the words employed, by the tone, the expression, the

emphasis. It is so also with printed matter. The thought or idea to be

communicated acquires or loses force, directness, clearness, lucidity,

beauty, in proportion to the fitness of the typography employed as a

medium.

It is not primarily a question of beauty of form that is essential in

printing, but of the appropriateness of form. Beauty for itself alone

is, in printing, but an accessory quality, to be considered as an aid

to the force and clarity of the substance of the printed matter.

An object of art illustrating forms and expressions of beauty subtly

suggests esthetic or sensuous emotions, which play upon the differing

consciousnesses of beholders as their capacities and natures enable

them to appreciate it. The impulse received from the art object is

individually interpreted and appropriated, and its value to the

individual is determined by each recipient, in accord with his nature,

training, and capacity.

The motive of a piece of printing is driven into the consciousness of

the reader with brutal directness, and it is one of the offices of the

typographer to mitigate the severity of the message or to give an added

grace to its welcome.

The book has become such a force as had not been dreamed of a

generation ago. The magical increase in the circulation of books,

by sale and through libraries, is one of the modern marvels. It is

inevitable that the gentle and elevating influence of good literature

will be greater and broader in proportion to the increase of the

reading habit, for despite the great amount of triviality in literature

the proportion of good is larger than ever before, and the trivial has

not as large a proportion of absolute badness. The critical are prone

to underrate the influence of what they esteem trivial literature upon

the lives of the people who read little else. It is certain that there

is some good in it, and that it affects the lives of those who read it.

Even the most lawless of the bandits of the sanguinary novels has a

knightly strain in his character, and his high crimes and misdemeanors

are tempered with a certain imperative code of homely morality and

chivalry. The spectacular crimes are recognized by the majority of

readers as the stage setting for the tale--the tabasco sauce for the

literary pabulum. They are not considered to be essential traits of

admirable character. The cure for the distemper it is supposed to

excite resides in the sensational literature of the day; it is as

likely to lead to better things, it may be, as it is likely to deprave.

The cultivating power of any book is enhanced if it is itself an object

of art. If it is made in accord with the principles of art, as they are

applicable to printing and binding, it will have a certain refining

influence, independent of its literary tendency.

If we are to subscribe to the best definition of esthetics, we are

bound to recognize in the physical character of the books that are read

by masses of people a powerful element for artistic education, and one

lending itself to the educational propaganda with ready acquiescence

and inviting eagerness.

The business and the mechanics of printing have attained a high degree

of perfection. The attention bestowed upon the machinery of business,

the perfection of systems and methods, has brought commercial and

mechanical processes to a degree of perfection and finish that leaves

slight prospect of further improvement, more illuminating systems, or

more exact methods. The business of printing is conducted in a manner

undreamt of by the men who were most consequential a generation ago.

Only a few years have passed since the methods that now control in

the counting-rooms of the larger printshops were unknown. Now all is

system; knowledge, by the grace of formulas and figures.

A like condition prevails in the work rooms: in the composing-room and

the pressroom. The processes incident to printing have been improved,

in a mechanical way, until little is left for hope to feed upon. The

trade of the printer has been broken into specialized units. The "all

'round" printer is no more. In his place there is the hand compositor,

the "ad" compositor, the job compositor, the machine operator, the

make-up man, the pressman, the press feeder, etc., each a proficient

specialist but neither one a printer. To further mechanicalize the

working printers, the planning of the work has been largely taken into

the counting-room, or is done in detail at the foreman's desk. So

every influence has been at work to limit the versatility and kill the

originality of the man at the case. The compensatory reflection is the

probability that the assembly of results accomplished by expert units

may be a whole of a higher grade of excellence.

The process of specialized improvement has been carried through all

the mechanical departments, and has had its way with every machine

and implement, revolutionizing them and their manipulation also. The

time is ripe for a new motive of improvement and advance to become

operative. The mechanical evolution may well stay its course. It has

far outstripped the artistic and the intellectual motives. It is quite

time to return to them and bring them up to the point reached by the

mechanics of the craft, if it be found not possible to put them as far

in advance as their relative importance seems to demand.

It is not difficult to conclude that certain principles of art have

been influential in printing since the craft was inaugurated by

Gutenberg and Fust and their contemporaries, but it appears that the

relation between printing and the graphic arts has not yet been fully

and consciously acknowledged. Some of the older rules and principles of

printing are in perfect harmony with the principles and rules of art,

and undoubtedly had their origin in the same necessity for harmony that

lies in human nature and that was the seed of art principles.

Printing touches life upon so many of its facets, and is such a

constant constituent of it, that it requires no special plea to raise

it to the plane of one of the absolute forces of culture and one of

the most important elements of progress. This postulate admitted, and

the plea for the fuller recognition of the control of art principles

in printing needs to be pressed only to the point of full recognition,

and it requires no stretch of indulgent imagination to find printing

successfully asserting a claim to be recognized as an art. It is

manifest that printing is not an art in the sense that painting is

an art. Painting has no utilitarian side. It is, with it, art or

nothing. Printing is 99-100ths utilitarian. It is essentially a craft.

If there is a possibility latent in it of development of true art

through refinement and reform in its processes, and the application of

art principles, to the end that the possibility of the production of

occasional pieces that can demonstrate a claim to be art be admitted,

it is all that can be hoped. This is claiming for printing only that

which is conceded to the other crafts. There is no claim put forward

for silversmiths that their work is all artistic; the chief part of

it is very manifestly craftsmanship, yet examples that are true art

constantly appear. The same is true of wood carving, of repoussé work

in metals, and of many crafts. It may be true of printing, and will be

when printers themselves become qualified to view their craftsmanship

from the point of view of the artist, and feel for it that devotion

which is always the recognizable controlling motive of artists in other

graphic arts, and in those crafts that verge upon the graphic arts.

Art in Printing

There is this vital difference between other objects of art and

printing: That our association with them is purely voluntary, and that

printing forces itself upon us at all times and in every relation of

life. It is impossible for a person of intelligence to remove himself

from the influence of printing. It confronts him at every turn, and in

every relation of life it plays an important and insistent part.

Such examples of art as a painting or a piece of statuary exert a

certain influence upon a restricted number of persons; and it is at

all times optional with all persons whether they submit themselves to

the influence of such art objects. We are able to evade the influence

of other forms of art, but we are not able to ward off printing. To

it we must submit. It is constantly before our eyes; it is forever

exerting its power upon our consciousness. It is quite possible that

we may not at present be able to refer any quality of mind, or any

degree of cultivation, directly to printing, in any form it may have

been presented to us; but it is easily conceivable that printing has a

certain influence upon our esthetic life which has been so constant and

so habitual as to have escaped definite recognition.

If we engage our minds in some attempt to realize the quality and

extent of pleasure and profit derivable from the constant influence of

printing that conforms to artistic principles, we may perceive that

it may be a most powerful and effectual agency for culture. It is

understood that it is the gentle but constant influence that moulds

our habits and lives the more readily and lastingly. If therefore it

is possible for us to conceive that the printed page of a book may

illustrate and enforce several of the more elemental and important

principles underlying graphic art, we may thereby realize that printing

may readily be employed in the character of a very powerful art

educator, if because of certain inalienable limitations it must be

denied full recognition as a member of the sisterhood of arts.

The book page may be regarded as the protoplasm of all printing. If

we examine the relation of principles of art to the book page we will

be able to appreciate the exact importance of those principles in the

composition of any other form of printing, and to so apply them as to

secure results most nearly relating printing to graphic art.

It is the chief characteristic of this uncertain dogma of art in

printing that its limitations and variations defy the conventional

forms of expression, and almost require a new vocabulary of art terms.

It assuredly requires a new and a different comprehension of the terms

of art, and a distinctly varied comprehension of the word art itself.

It has ever been a stumbling block to printers that the word art as

applied to their craft must be given a more limited significance

than is given it in its usual acceptance. If we can come at some

intelligible appreciation of what we mean by art in printing the way

will be opened for the application of that motive to the work of the

presses.

If we recognize at once the fact that we do not mean exactly what a

painter means when we use the word art with reference to printing, we

will have taken the vital step toward a comprehensible employment of

the term, as well as qualified ourselves for an understanding of the

results we desire to achieve.

It is essential that we do not fall into the error of supposing

that scientific accuracy is art. It is destructive of art, and the

temptation to put too much stress upon exactitude is a mistake the

printer must guard himself from with the most sedulous care. It is

agreeable to recognize the touch of the artist, in printing as in other

arts, and scientific accuracy is certain to obliterate individuality.

It is not the cold, lifeless abstraction, the shining exemplar of all

the precepts and rules of art, that we love and desire, but the human

note speaking through the principles and rules. If the artist is not

the dominant note, and the rules submerged by the personality, there

is no value in the object of art. The picture is interesting because

the artist expresses through it his appreciation, his interpretation,

of a beautiful thought or a lovely thing. This is what puts the

most faithful photographs outside of the pale of art, and compels

the idealization of the performance of the camera before it can be

considered to be artistic. The photograph is not, usually, true to our

view of life. If it is indeed true to life it represents a view of

life that is quite strange to us, and often distasteful. We are not

familiar with the uncouth animal the photograph shows us the horse in

action to be, and we will not accept that caricature as the real horse.

The horse that is real to us is the animal we see with our eyes, and

the horse in art must be the animal we see plus the artist's logical

idealization. The facts are the same with regard to nearly all of the

work of the camera, and with regard to other attempts at scientific

accuracy in art. It is foreign to our experience, and does violence to

our ideals. We actually see no such automatons as photography shows us

men in action are, and we can never accept such disillusionment. If it

is attempted in the name of art we will turn upon art and throw it out

of our lives.

It is the irredeemable fault of some processes employed in printing

that they are too scientifically accurate. This is the legitimate

argument against the halftone plate as contrasted with the line

engraving or the reproductions of pen-and-ink work, etc. The halftone

is too accurate. It brings us face to face with the stark reality,

and brushes away all the kindly romance nature has made a necessary

adjunct to our powers of vision. Attempts to restore this quality to

halftones with the graver are only partially successful, as the defect

is too deep seated, too radically fundamental. Some other processes,

other than reproductive processes, employed in printing are exposed to

this danger of too much scientific accuracy, producing results that

have no warmth, no sympathy, no human power. Printing is peculiarly

the victim of this cold formality of sentiment, and must be considered

as upon that plane. But this fact makes the obligation to be alive to

every opportunity to mitigate its severity the more pressing upon

every printer who dreams of his work as of an art, and the closer the

sympathy between the printer and the culture of art the more warmth and

humanity he will be able to infuse into his work.

Some of the principles of art have a fundamental relation to printing,

while some have an influence upon it so illusive as to defy definition,

and compel us to look upon the connection as something no more

substantial than feeling. Indeed, the whole matter of the application

of art principles to printing may not unfairly be considered to be one

of feeling; involving the saturation of the printer with the rules and

tenets of art and the adding thereto of a fine discrimination tempered

by a resolute philistinism, and then the play of his cultivated

individuality upon the typography.

Principles and rules of art for the printer's guidance must be more

mobile than can be permitted for the guidance of the painter, the

draughtsman, the engraver, or the sculptor, because the medium for the

expression of the printer's conception is so nearly immobile. It is

the reverse of the general conception: The rule must adapt itself to

the medium and to the circumstances, at least so far as the measure

of its observance is concerned, if not in some emergencies where

its principle is also at stake. It is conceivable in printing that

emergencies may occur making it imperative to ignore the primary rules

of composition, of proportion, of balance, or of perspective; it may

be necessary to even do violence to principles relating to color or to

tone. Such emergencies must be exceedingly rare, but that we are forced

to regard them as possible emphasizes the subtle difference between art

and art in printing. There can be no good art if the principles of art

are violated in execution; there may be good printing if the principles

of art are occasionally modified or even ignored.

The motive of printing is not primarily an art motive. It is a

utilitarian motive. In printing therefore art is to be invoked for

guidance only so far as it will lend itself to the expression of the

motive. It is never, in printing, "art for art's sake"; it is ever art

for printing's sake. We do not print to illustrate art, nor to produce

objects of art. We print to spread intelligence--to make knowledge

available to all who will read. A painted picture, if of a high order

of art, is meant to appeal to a sentiment but slightly connected

with the "story" of the picture. The appreciative observer of a good

painting gives little thought to the "story," to the literary motive,

but is absorbed in seeking for the artistic motive, in order that he

may yield himself to the charm of the work of art; he seeks "art for

art's sake."

In printing it is the "story" that is told; it is the literary

motive that must be considered, first and most anxiously. Nothing

may interfere--not even art. The shaft of the "story" must go, swift

and true, straight into the comprehension of the reader. This is the

constant anxiety of the printer. The literary motive must not be

encumbered. It must be freed from the mechanics of the printed page

absolutely. This is the printer's problem. He must not seek to attract

to his mechanics. It is the essence of his art that he liberate ideas

and send them forth with no ruffled pinions, no evident signs of the

pent-house page from which they wing their way.

The printer's work and the painter's art exactly reverse their

processes, as their motives are opposed; but they must both work

with the same tools, measurably. Everything with the painter is

plastic, except his art. Everything is immobile with the printer,

except his art; and of that he hopes to employ only so much as will

gild the prosaic commercialism of the motive he must express. The

chief principles and tenets of art are all applicable to the craft of

printing, in some degree. Drawing, composition, harmony, balance,

proportion, perspective, color, tone, light-and-shade, values, etc.,

are qualities of graphic art that apply to printing with varying

force, according to the exigencies of each particular case in hand,

and particularly according to the comprehension and cultivation of

the printer. It is always possible to explain the beauty and power of

any piece of printing by reference to the same principles that are

responsible for the excellencies of other works of graphic art. It is

therefore logical to assume that those principles which explain the

excellencies of printing are responsible for them.

It is evident that the value of these art qualities in printing must

depend upon the care and intelligence exercised in their application.

They are refinements upon the usual and primary practices of printing,

and unless they can be employed with full sympathy and knowledge, as

well as with the artistic spirit and comprehension, they will appeal to

the printer in vain.

The question with the printer is: Is it worth while to give my work all

the beauty and distinction and power possible? If it is decided that it

is profitable to execute work as worthily as it is possible to execute

it, the printer will not be satisfied if he does not devote himself to

a study of this phase of his craft, and a study of sufficient breadth

and thoroughness to give him a reliable basis of knowledge and the

resultant self-confidence. Having proceeded thus far he will not fail

to apply all these art tenets to the full extent of his knowledge and

their adaptability.

Pictorial Composition

While too much science is often deadly to art, the true basis of

pictorial composition is rigidly scientific, and all of the principles

governing it are of use and importance to the printer, especially in

planning displayed work and in title pages.

Composition is that quality which gives a picture coherence, "the

mortar of the wall." It was not esteemed of importance by the old

masters, and many of their works do not show that they knew or cared

for that which distinguishes a picture from a map, a group photograph,

or a scientific diagram. It is the absence of composition, balance,

unity, that makes ordinary photographs something other than true works

of art. It is not primarily truth of representation that is necessary

in a work of art, but truth of idealization; and that quality is

beyond the conscious reach of the camera's lens. It is a redeeming and

a justifying element added by the imagination of the artist. There

may be a picture, by a photographer or by a painter, having all the

requisite component parts to make it a work of art; there may be, for

example, a woman, an axe, a road, a mountain, trees; but these thrown

together upon a canvas do not make a work of art unless they are

properly composed, even if they are arranged in an order satisfying to

the realist, and each faultlessly executed. It is not the same thing to

paint and to make pictures; to print and to execute artistic printing.

The application of the rules of composition to pieces of printing made

up in a whole or in part of "display" types is obviously essential

to their beauty. It is the touch of beauty given to science that

produces art. In printing the matter of securing balance and unity is

at once more simple and more difficult than in painting. The component

parts to be dealt with are more rigid and restricted, but are purely

conventional and precise. The painter's conception is given balance

and unity through the original drawing and color-scheme corrected and

perfected by constant scrutiny and by tests and continual alterations.

The printed piece must be balanced by a wise choice and skilful

arrangement of the types, and a careful distribution of white space and

black ink, or color. The actual center of a canvas is the center of

attraction in a picture perfectly balanced. This does not mean that an

equal amount of paint must be spread upon every quarter of the canvas,

nor that objects of equal visual importance in themselves must be

equally distributed over it. A tiny dot of distinctive paint, placed a

certain distance from the center of the canvas, may perfectly balance

an object ten times its size which is placed relatively nearer the

center. Balance in printing must not be understood to mean that there

must be an equal distribution of weight over all quarters of the piece,

but that there must be a compensatory distribution of weight.

In his lucid and interesting book upon "Pictorial Composition" Mr. H.

R. Poore gives a series of "postulates" which embody his ideas upon the

subject, and are expressed in terms intelligible to the non-artistic

as well as to those whose familiarity with art enables them to grasp

more technical phrases. To the printer it is only necessary to suggest

that he interpret "units" as meaning features in his work and he will

be able to appreciate that these art rules may not infrequently stand

him in good stead, especially when he is perplexed with some piece of

work that he is having difficulty in making "look right." Those of Mr.

Poore's "postulates" that appear to apply easily to printing, and may

be more profitably studied and heeded by printers and others interested

in typography, are here given:

All pictures are a collection of units.

Every unit has a given value.

The value of a unit depends on its attraction; of its character,

of its size, of its placement.

A unit near the edge has more attraction than at the center.

Every part of the picture space has some attraction.

Space having no detail may possess attraction by gradation and by

suggestion.

A unit of attraction in an otherwise empty space has more weight

through isolation than the same when placed with other units.

A unit in the foreground has less weight than one in the distance.

Two or more associated units may be reckoned as one and their

united center is the point on which they balance with others.

In the application of the rules of composition to graphic art it is

possible to minutely subdivide the topic and refer to specific examples

and explicit rules for practice. The selection of the particular kind

of balance to be sought depends upon the placement of the important

item or subject, which is in itself chiefly important in the scheme of

balance as giving the keynote, furnishing the starting point. There is

the balance of equal measures, which is a picture or piece of printing

which may be cut into four equal parts, by horizontal and vertical

lines drawn through its center, with each part showing equal weight;

the balance of isolated measures, where the chief item is placed away

from the center and has one or more isolated spots to compensate,

skilfully placed; the horizontal balance; the vertical balance; the

formal balance; the balance by opposition of light and dark measures;

balance by gradation; balance of isolation, and other varieties of

balance more technical and more especially adapted to the painter's

uses. Each of these variants of the basic rules of composition may be

of special value to the printer, if he studies the subject sufficiently

to gain a clear comprehension of how each applies in printing.

This is one of the art subjects that the practical printer may deem of

too slight consequence to merit his careful attention. But if it is

desired to produce printing of power--power to pleasurably attract the

eye of those persons who possess either an instinctive or a cultivated

taste for art--it is essential that the work adhere closely to the

rules governing pictorial composition. The eye is a relentless judge.

Here, as in all printing, the esthetic motive is identical with the

business consideration. There is a double motive for the best printing,

the esthetic and the business motive, and it is impossible to separate

them, or consider either apart from the other. It is unnecessary to

attempt to evade the force and meaning of the new appreciation of the

basis of good printing, as it leads so surely to financial as well as

esthetic betterment, and should be congenial to the tastes of every

printer who has advanced in his craft beyond the standards of the

wood-sawyer.

Type Composition

The composition of type is the first task an apprentice is required to

undertake when he goes to "learn the trade," and his ideas regarding

its importance rarely rise above the level of the drudgery of his early

days at the case. But little of the effort to improve the quality

of printing has as yet extended back to this primary proceeding,

the setting of the type, yet in this fundamental operation lies the

possibility for very great improvement and distinction, and for

lamentable failure.

Progress in typography has been slower, and it has reached a less

advanced position, than have other branches of the printing craft.

Presswork for example has become so nearly perfect as to leave

little room for the exercise of the critic's art; and the choice and

manipulation of paper leaves little hope for radical advance. Type is

set as it was set one, two, three generations ago, for the most part. A

few printers have given this subject special study, and are executing

book pages that are the wonder and despair of the craft. Their

distinction has been rather easily won. It is quite possible to detect

the source of it, and not difficult to draw the same results from the

same fount.

It has become a habit to accept the composed page of type as the

foundation upon which to erect a fine piece of printing. The real

foundation lies somewhat further back. There can scarcely be

distinction in a printed piece unless its source is in the successive

steps of progress that antedate the composition of the type. The final

artistic result must be clearly conceived in the mind of the printer

before he drops one type into the stick. His scheme must be fully

developed, and it must be consistent in all its details.

The type for a piece of printing should be selected to give adequate

expression to the literary motive, to properly emphasize the subject

matter, with the view to the production of a handsome and worthy piece

of printing. To secure this latter quality in printing is the primary

object of the typesetter, and therein lies the proof of his skill

and of his taste. Whether the type selected is the best possible for

a given piece of work may be a debatable question, but however it

succeeds or fails in this particular, the printer may manipulate it

in such a manner as will result in a consistent and artistic example

of typography. He may use the sizes which should be in conjunction;

he may avoid the common anachronism of lower-case and capital-letter

lines in the same piece; he may place his white space so that it will

not only be agreeably proportioned to the black or other color of the

print but so that it will be as important an element of strength as the

ink-covered surface; he may adjust the margins.

These points are all vital, but none of them more so than the use

of lower-case and capital-letter lines in conjunction. The capital

letters of the ordinary font of type do not lend themselves gracefully

to the making of complete words. They are not designed for such work.

The lower-case letters are designed to stand together, but it is

impossible to combine many capital letters without making noticeable

gaps and breaks and some awkward connections. But the objection to

capital-letter lines in conjunction with lower-case lines does not

rest chiefly upon this point. There are fonts of type from which

capital-letter lines scarcely subject to the criticism suggested

may be set. The objection is not urged against capital-letter lines

in a prohibitive sense, but because their intrusion in a company of

lower-case lines destroys harmony. A like deplorable effect is produced

by the use of inharmonious series of type for the same piece of

typography. The war of styles of type is as destructive to artistic

effect as the poorest execution can be. In the old days the apprentice

was taught to alternate lower-case and capital-letter lines in job

printing, and avoid using two lines of the same series in conjunction.

No one of the small refinements which are now being applied to

composition has worked so radical an improvement as the newer ideas

relative to spacing, and the perception that the spacing between words,

the leading between lines, and the degree of blackness of the face of

the letter, must have a balanced relation. This has operated to abolish

the conventional em quadrat after the period, and to produce a page of

type-matter which lends itself readily to securing tone and optical

comfort.

The activity and the fecundity of the type founders in producing

new type faces has operated, in the first instance, to furnish new

excuse for discord. Then a reaction began, and the liberality of the

founders in making complete lines and elaborate series of type faces is

suggesting uniformity in scheme and supplying material for consistent

execution. The elaborate specimen books are scarcely a temptation to

restraint however, nor do they tempt to classicism. Too much type at

the hand of the printer is a positive detriment. Until quite recently

a very large proportion of the new faces had no warrant for existence.

They were abortions, based upon the fantastic ideas of designers who

exhibited little knowledge of art or of history. The more recent

product of the foundries is much more creditable, and it appears that

the designing of type has been taken in hand by artists of capacity,

who are actuated by motives worthy of their ambitions and guided by

historical research that is true in aim if not always profound.

The typographic tendency is distinctly toward better things. It lags,

however. It is not on the level of the other processes of printing. We

are yet compelled to admit that presswork is far ahead of composition

in development, as is the facility for compounding and handling inks

and the selection and the manipulation of paper.

In this vitally fundamental matter we have made little real progress.

The disciples of better things are not honored with a following. They

are regarded with mild interest by a few of the more progressive ones,

with distinct disapproval by the many conservatives, and with utter

indifference by the mass. Yet they will win. That there is impending

a considerable reform in the composition of type is certain, and

the reform will consist in the general adoption of the refinements

now practiced by a few: In a closer study of the matter of spacing

and leading, with a view to bringing the tone of the page up to near

the artistic requirements; in a better balance between body type and

chapter and page headings; in a better, more consistent and uniform

management of the folio; in order that those features may be actually

the guiding and subsidiary features in typography that they assuredly

are in the literary scheme of the book.

The time is coming when a book page will be planned to harmonize with

and express the literary motive; to promote ease and pleasure in

reading; and to satisfy the innate sense of artistic harmony which is

felt and appreciated by the cultivated reader, even if, as must often

be the fact, he is quite unconscious of the existence of such a demand.

It is upon a basis somewhat like this that books should be planned:

Make one page that meets the requirements of art and of the literary

motive, and base the book upon it. Such is not the general custom.

It is more the fashion to fix the size of the book and accommodate

the page to the arbitrary scheme, forcing the type and the format to

adequate proportions. There are books that are artistically ruined by

the use of type of an inharmonious face, or that may be one size too

small or too large; there are many books that are, typographically,

abortions, because of neglect to conform to certain very simple tenets

of art, when they might as easily have been exemplars of artistic

motives and a comfort and delight to each cultivated reader.

It is doubtless because these neglected essentials are so simple and

so easily incorporated that it is so difficult to obtain recognition

and currency for them. But we may rejoice that books are beginning

to receive some of this kind of attention, even in the big printing

factories, where books are made very much as barrels of flour are

turned out of the great northwestern mills, or as bags of grain are

discharged from the modern reapers marching in clattering procession

over the horizon-wide wheat townships.

Proportion and the Format

It is a delicate and essential matter to fix upon the length of the

type page, and a difficult question to fix the margins. There is a

mass of literature bearing upon these matters, but they cannot in

every case be decided according to arbitrary rules. It is usually

safe to be guided by the usual rules in proportioning a page of type,

and in placing the page upon the paper. A thorough understanding of

the principles of art as they may be applied to printing will suggest

occasional infractions of mechanical rules in the interests of good

art. Exactly what is to be the procedure in every instance cannot be

formulated into rules, but it is always possible to explain justifiable

infractions of rules by reference to principles of art. When it is

found impossible to thus justify departures from rule, precedent or

convention, it is evident that art would have gained if the rules had

been adhered to.

The treatment of the format of a book has become somewhat of a moot

question, though it is evident that the advocates of the strictly

conventional method are gradually drawing practical printers into

agreement with them, and that their opponents rely upon the spirit of

philistinism for their chief justification, confining their arguments

largely to contradiction unfortified by either logic or precedent.

Philistinism is not entirely evil, but the present is not a time

of such slavish conformity as to clothe it with the appearance of

a virtue. Protest is the instinctive spirit of today. In printing

there is too much of it. We need more conformity, if conformity be

interpreted not to mean blind adherence to precedent but a large and

active faith in the saving virtue of demonstrable principles.

Proportion, balance, in a limited sense composition as understood in

art, and optics must be considered in adjusting the format of a book.

The size and shape of the book must determine the exact dimensions

of the page and the margins. The leaf of the ordinary book which is

generally approved is fifty per cent longer than it is wide. This

proportion is often varied, and for different reasons, but it may be

accepted as a standard.

The margins of a correctly printed book are not equal. The back margin

is the narrowest, the top a little wider than the back, the front

still wider, and the bottom, or tail margin, the widest of all. Why

this scheme for margins has grown to be authoritative, and adopted by

good bookmakers, is not entirely clear. Nearly all the literature upon

the subject is devoted to attempts to justify the custom instead of

explaining its origin. The best justification that can now be offered

is the evident fact that the custom is agreeable to publishers, to

authors, and to discriminating readers.

It is often alleged that there is some law of optics that is in

agreement with the custom, but it might be difficult to establish such

a claim though it is not necessary to attempt to refute it. We are

accustomed to this arrangement of the margins in the best books, and

that to which we have become accustomed requires no defense, scarcely

an explanation. It is certain that the format of a book appeals to us

as right only where this arrangement of unequal margins is strictly

observed. It is easy to imagine that our eyes rest more contentedly

upon the pair of pages before them when those pages incline toward the

top of the leaves and toward each other. The eye of the bookish person

is undeniably better satisfied if the margins are proportioned as

specified. There may be grounds for doubting the claim that the reasons

for such satisfaction are optical; there are some plausible arguments

to support such a contention. It is a question for oculists.

The other reasons for the evolution of the book format into its present

form are logical. If they do not lead to the conclusion that art has

been served and justified in full they assuredly do not lead to a

contrary conclusion. The early paper makers produced a sheet that was

uneven in shape and variable in size, and the pressman was compelled to

make large allowance on the front and tail margins. The back and top

margins could be reckoned, as when the sheet was folded by the print

they would be uniform. The front and tail margins were made wide enough

to allow for the unevenness of the paper and for the trim. It was

inevitable that the allowance should be too great, and that to preserve

the proper form and proportion for the book the front and tail margins

should occasionally be left wider than the back and head margins. This,

it may be imagined, did much to fix the present custom. The ancient

handmade papers were thicker on the fore edge of the sheet than in the

center, and as the bookbinder could not beat the edges flat they had to

be trimmed off.

In the old days books were taken more seriously than they now are, and

studious readers desired to annotate their copies of favorite books.

The front and tail margins were used for this purpose, and they were

therefore given their larger proportion of the sheet. In the fifteenth

century this motive for wide margins was recognized by all printers,

and many of them went so far as to provide printed annotations for all

four of the margins.

There were other motives for fixing the margins as we have them.

Whether the optical and the artistic motives, purely as such, may

explain the modern format more logically than the historical motives

do, may be debatable. The question is not vitally important. We wish to

see the format of our books made as the best practice makes it, whether

our taste is inherited as a habit or is acquired through our artistic

cultivation.

Accepting therefore the dictum as it stands, without pressing an

inquiry as to its authority or its legitimacy, it remains something

of a problem to fix the margins and place the page of a book. When

all suggestions and rules are considered it will be found that it

is not often that the ordinary book page will submit gracefully to

variation of the rule that the length be determined by cutting the

page into two triangles, the hypotenuse of either of which shall be

twice the width of the page. The page-heading should be included in

this measurement, but if the folio is placed at the foot, either in

bare figures or enclosed within brackets, it need not be included.

This formula must often be disregarded, especially when the book is

not to be proportioned in conventional dimensions. No other form is as

satisfactory however, and it is quite within the bounds of the practice

of the better bookmakers to consider it as the approved conventional

page. Whenever it is varied the guide must be a general sense of

appropriateness, having consideration for all the other varied elements.

There are other rules. One that was much in vogue at one time, and is

esteemed now by some good printers, makes the type page one-half more

in length than its width. This rule is restricted in its application.

It will not do for a quarto page, nor for a broad octavo. Another rule

provides that the sum of the square inches on the back and top margins

shall be one-half the sum of the square inches on the front and tail

margins. This is difficult to apply in practice, for obvious reasons,

except as a test to determine the correctness of margins already fixed.

The margins must be adjusted with the intent to make the two pages

lying exposed to view properly harmonize with the book leaf, and adjust

themselves to the tyrannical optical demands of the eyes of the

reader. This requires a very strict and careful adherence to rules well

understood by good printers, as well as a courageous disregard of those

rules when the exigencies of the case demand it. There are many other

things to consider. The general character and purpose of the book must

be taken into account, the size of type, and whether it is to be leaded

or set solid, the quality and weight of paper, etc. A bible, guide

book, or directory, need not have wide margins, nor a book printed on

small type and thin paper; and a book the type for which is not leaded

should be given less margin than is allowed for a page of leaded type.

While the same general scheme for margins is applicable to nearly all

good books, of whatever shape and size, when the contents and object do

not dominate the physical character, it is obvious that the dimensions

cannot in all cases be fixed according to the same formulas. A quarto

page must have wider margins than an octavo, but they must bear a like

relative proportion to each other. A quarto page must be proportioned

differently than an octavo; it must be shorter by about one-seventh.

The width of the margins must in some degree depend upon the amount

of white in the page of type, upon the tone of the type page. This

involves the character of the type face quite as much as the spacing

and leading given it, as some type faces have such light lines as to

give the page a very light tone, even when the type is set solid and

the spacing is close, other types have such heavy lines as to demand

wide spacing, leading, and wide margins, to bring the tone down to a

proper degree of grayness.

Consideration of all these questions affecting the format, and

especially the margins, of a proposed book lead to the conclusion

that it is good practice to select the paper as the first step in the

planning of a book that is intended to be made upon artistic lines, and

upon this foundation to build the typography and the binding, according

to the rules of harmony and of proportion.

Color

In art, color is not essential to some forms and processes, as

engraving, etching, charcoal work, and the various forms of crayon

work; and in printing, it is absent from the large percentage of work

done in black and white.

This limitation of the application of the word "color" in printing is

quite arbitrary. If we speak in the strictest sense we must consider

that black and white work is color work. White is the concentration of

all the rays of the solar spectrum, the epitome of all colors; while

black is the appearance of the substance that most nearly rejects all

reflections of the spectrum colors; and black and white are as truly

colors as are red, violet, vermilion, or any of the other brilliant

tints. Yet as it is usual to allude to black and white as some other

qualities than color, and as they affect us so differently, it is

deemed to be more convenient to consider them in relation to light and

shade, tone, and values, and to confine the meaning of "color" to the

tints shown by the spectrum. This is not an insignificant distinction

when employed in relation to printing, as much of the beauty and

power of the plainly printed book page is due to the apportionment

of black and white--black type and white paper. So when we speak of

color in printing it must be understood that the word is not used in

its broadest, nor in its most exact, sense; but in an arbitrarily

restricted sense, applying exactly as it is applied by printers in

actual practice.

The printer's understanding of color, his appreciation of its

usefulness and power, is approaching toward the high esteem in which

it is held by the painter. He is coming to know that it is a high

quality of his work, and that by it he is able to suggest several other

qualities that are vital, such as lights, shadows, perspectives, etc.

There are no explicit rules for the guidance of the printer in the use

of color. There are certain fundamental principles, and many rules

deduced from them, a thorough acquaintance with which will enable

him to avoid serious blunders and greatly aid him in the working out

of a scheme; but that sense of rightness which the successful artist

or craftsman occasionally experiences, cannot be won by the mere

following of the letter and the spirit of rules. How true this is

becomes apparent when the work of the best printers is examined with

intelligent care, and it seems absolute when the meager list of great

painter colorists is reviewed: Titian, Giorgione, Tintoretto, Paul

Veronese, Rubens, Velasquez, Delacroix, and a few with less claim to

the title. All that is known about color has been absorbed by hundreds

of artists; yet out of a great army of successful students there have

come so few good colorists that their names can be spoken in ten

seconds.

To effectively deal with color a fair understanding of what science is

able to tell of its essential properties and powers is necessary as a

basis. To this may be added such of the deductions and rules as have

been formulated by the great painters and the students.

The important starting point is this: To realize that color is not

a material existence, not a substance, not a fixed fact equally

appreciable by all and equally demonstrable to all. It is a sensation;

and a sensation not of the same force or quality for different

individuals. Of itself it depends upon the waves of the ether in

space; for us it depends upon the power and truth of our eyes. One may

truthfully see a color that is quite another thing to another person,

if there should chance to be a difference radical enough or defects

serious enough in the eyes of either. The laws governing light are

of great importance to the colorists. There are subtleties that have

important practical application which cannot be guessed otherwise than

by direct reference to science. In no other way can a printer know for

example what colors are complementary or what effect a certain color

will have upon another when they are used together.

There are many curious facts about color which do not appear to be

regulated by laws at all similar to those we are accustomed to apply

in other matters; that there is this universal and radical difference

is of great importance to those who use color in printing. It is

interesting to realize that color is produced by light waves, the

different colors by waves of different lengths, or greater frequency;

that red appears to the eye when the light wave is 1/39000 of an inch

in length, or when the frequency of the vibration is 392 quadrillions

per second, by the American system of enumeration. It may be also of

practical money value to the printer to know such facts, and to always

be conscious of a fact more likely to be of practical use, namely, that

the sensation of color is produced upon our sensory nerves in a manner

closely analogous to that which produces the sensation of harmony: by

ether waves set in motion in a different way. These sensory nerves

are the most easily entered avenues to our pleasurable sensations;

far more delicate and responsive than the different brain organs to

the more obvious consciousnesses, as personal regard and literary

appreciation, etc.

The printer handling color is making an appeal of the most subtle and

delicate nature, vastly more so than is made by the type matter that

may form the body of the piece of printing he is embellishing with

color.

There are three primary colors--red, yellow, and blue--and three

composite colors, which can be formed by mixings of primary

colors--green, orange, and violet. It is of importance to the

printer to know which of these colors are complementary and which

uncomplementary. Complementary colors are those that may be used in

close conjunction without one unfavorably affecting the other. This

is the secret of complementary, or harmonious, colors: Will they

make white if mixed? This means a natural and perfect union of the

light rays reflected from the color scheme upon the eye's retina,

and so passed along to the sensory nerves--the telegraph line from

the physical world to the appreciative brain. It appears that those

complementary color schemes which can be perfectly justified are

such as reflect light rays nearest like the rays that show us white.

Red and green, the two most pronounced and vigorous colors, are

complementary. When mixed in the proper proportions they produce white,

but this does not mean that they weaken each other when otherwise used;

when placed side by side they enhance each other's power and brilliancy

by reflection. Their very intimate relation is further shown by the

fact that red, by itself, is bordered by a faint halo of green, and

green by a tinge of red. Yellow and indigo also make white by mixing,

and easily reveal traces of each other when properly manipulated. This

interchange between complementary colors is carried still further: The

shadow of a color does not show the color itself, but the complementary

color to which it is most nearly related.

There is a curious law of optical mixture to deal with--that tendency

of the eye to unify the color scheme which changes colors when used

in combination upon a piece of printing or upon a canvas. This

sometimes so changes the expected effect of a color scheme that has

been carefully studied as to render it inadvisable to use it. It is

generally found that optical mixture verifies the taste and judgment

of the colorist who has been faithful to the complementary color laws,

and helps him to a harmony, rather than condemns his work. Optical

mixture is too nearly a mere name for a manifestation of the relation

of complementary colors to trouble the printer, though a consciousness

of it and its effect may at times aid him in producing some delicate

effects.

The reasons for desiring reliable knowledge of these qualities of

colors are clear. Brilliancy is obtained by using complementary colors

side by side, because each gives to the other its favorable halo of

color; and dulness of coloring follows the use of uncomplementary

colors side by side because each partially kills the other with its

unfavorable halo of color.

Careful observance of this law of colors will not give perfect harmony

to the color scheme, but it will give one of the more important

elements of harmony. But there is an important exception to be noted.

The law of contrast claims attention, though it cannot produce harmony.

Strong effects may be obtained by ignoring these rules relative to

harmony, or by boldly employing pronounced discords and seeking to

so mitigate the discord as to tempt the attention to divide itself

between the contrasting colors. Red and blue in the national flag are

so tempered with pure white as to subdue their fierce antagonism.

And so it may be with other examples--there must be either some

overpowering sentiment or some skilful expedient, like breaking the

main colors into lower tints, to ease the transit from one to the

other. A good piece of color work need not be composed of different

colors. It may be composed of different shades of the same color, or

of tints very nearly related. This requires a good workable knowledge

of perspective and of that rather elusive and indefinite quality known

in painting as "values"; which chiefly means that each tint employed

in a piece of work shall be placed as it would appear in nature and

shall properly harmonize with every shade or color in the piece. Such

a composition as this is difficult for a letter-press printer, less so

for a lithographer, with exactly the kind of delicate manœuvering that

delights some painters. It involves such fine discriminations as are

necessary to show the difference between a white handkerchief and white

snow, between a gray house and a gray sky, between a green tree and a

green mountain, between a carnation pink and a pink muslin gown.

It is well to appreciate the difference between color and colors,

and to recognize the fact that good color does not necessarily alone

mean the degree of brightness or contrast, but is oftener found in

accordance, mellowness and richness. Color does not always mean bright

color. There is beginning to be seen some low keyed color work, simple

in color composition. It is a good sign. It is only the masters who

are able to successfully cope with the high keyed compositions, and the

masters are, as they ever were, scarce.

The wise choose, when there is a choice, such harmonies as may be

indicated by mahogany wood and Cordova leather; Indian red instead

of brick red, peacock blue instead of sky blue, olive green instead

of grass green; golden browns, garnet reds, Egyptian yellows, deep

tones of brown, green, and orange. These colors are not gay, flippant

nor flimsy; they are dignified and good style; they have a quality of

beauty inherent in them--a depth; and they may be in keeping with a

motive in the printed piece that means something other and better than

a shock to the color sense.

Tone

No quality of printing is of more general importance than tone. It

has great weight as a purely artistic attribute, and it has a great

physiological value. If the tone of a page of print is not right--if

it does not conform very closely to the standard set up by the rules

of art--it will not be "easy" reading, and will severely try eyes that

are not absolutely normal and perfectly strong. Here as elsewhere, and

as is the unvarying rule, the art standard is the standard required by

hygiene and common sense.

It is of the greatest importance that a printed page shall be toned,

with respect to the proportion of visible white paper and black type,

in strict accord with the requirements of art, which are identical with

the rules that guard healthy eyesight.

Tone in painting has a radically different meaning in America from

the meaning attached to the term in England and in France, and it

appears to be less important. The American meaning of the word tone

as an element in painting is that it refers to the dominant color of

a picture; that is, as one would note that the prevailing color of

a certain picture is red, of another yellow, of another blue. This

makes of tone a mere descriptive adjective of small value as an aid to

a critical estimate or as a guide in creation. To the printer, this

meaning of the term would bar it out of his curriculum. The English

understanding of tone is quite different, and it appears more worthy

of acceptance. It is, at all events, the meaning that must be accepted

by printers if they are to derive any benefit from a study of tone

as a possible aid in their craft. The English consider tone to be

"the proper diffusion of light as it affects the intensities of the

different objects in the picture; and the right relation of objects

or colors in shadow to the parts of them not in shadow and to the

principal light."

It is easier, and may be clearer, to think of tone in a piece of type

composition, or in a black-and-white engraving prepared for printing,

somewhat as we think of tone in music. And we find upon getting further

into the subject that it is expedient to take advantage of the extreme

comity at present existing between England and America and let the two

meanings of tone merge into a more general one for the benefit and

use of the printer in practice. The painter's estimate of the tone

of a painting may be understood by applying a test cited by a writer

upon art: "If the canvas were placed upon a revolving pin and whirled

rapidly around, the coloring would blend into a uniform tint." The

color tone of a painting must then be the dominant color, modified by

the subordinate colors. If the color tone be yellow for example, as

it is in some of the good work of Dutch artists, there must be enough

yellow so that it will be a yellow blur if the piece is spun rapidly

around.

In black-and-white printing tone must mean depth of color, and

diffusion of color, and the tone can scarcely be otherwise than

some shade of gray. If it is advantageous to strive for a certain

harmony between literary motive and type motive an appreciation of

the technical meaning of tone and the utilization of the unique test

suggested may be of great assistance to the printer of black-and-white

work.

The printer has to consider the tone of his piece in a different light

than the painter. The latter has only his canvas to take account of,

and he works his canvas to its edge. The printer has his page of type

and his margins. This blends the question of tone in a very practical

way with questions bearing upon the format--with the question of

proportion for example, and with the important question of the balance

of the margins; and while the determination of the tone of the type

page itself, irrespective of the margins, involves one weighty question

in optics, the placing of the type page upon the leaf involves another,

quite different in nature but none the less important from an artistic

point of view.

It is easily perceived that the element of tone is of considerable

importance in what is erroneously called "plain" composition, the

black-and-white book page. In color printing it is apparent that the

knowledge of tone is of more practical importance, as colored printed

pieces should show a decided preponderance of that tone which best

illustrates or translates the idea that the piece is conceived for

the purpose of expressing. It may be important that a certain piece

emphatically presents to the eye a certain shade of red. It must be

just enough given over to the red to produce the effect required--no

more, no less. There must be red everywhere, but not too much. The

simple test will show the printer whether he is overloading his

piece with the dominant color or whether he has not yet used enough.

The color scheme must be keyed to the required pitch of color, as a

piece of music written in a certain key must be kept free from notes

belonging to another key. But not absolutely free, of necessity; short

notes of another key, and very few of them, may be introduced. So a

touch of a radically different color may be thrust into a composition

without ruining it, as a bit of brick red or small patch of blue in a

monotone, or a little green or yellow in a red composition, but not

enough to show plainly when we apply the whirling test.

This more obvious meaning of the term tone seems to be applicable to

printing, at least to the extent of informing and modifying the mind of

the printer. The more important significance of the term in painting

means but little to the printer, as it deals in modifications and

gradations in color not practicable in typography, and applying, so far

as printing in general is concerned, to engravings.

Light and Shade

Light and shade means nearly the same as the English idea of tone,

to the printer, as it has to do with the distribution of light and

shadow in such a manner as will best illustrate the motive of the

painter. This important element in graphic art has its value for the

printer. It is only necessary to note the part played by light and

shade--"light-tone"--in any work of art to conceive how important is

its office in good printing, particularly in the printing of the modern

process engravings. Some of the older Japanese and Chinese paintings

are nearly devoid of light and shade, and are therefore given that

appearance of flatness and false perspective which is their distinctive

characteristic. Egyptian and Assyrian wall painting, and many Italian

paintings of the medieval period, lack this quality, and they sharply

emphasize its importance in graphic art. In nature it is more important

than in art. We can recognize no form except by the aid of light and

shade, neither a grain of sand nor a mountain, nor any other physical

thing. It is probable that every piece of good printing owes some of

its excellence to this element of light and shade; and as directly to

tone. Light and shade has reference to the proper proportion of light

to shadow, and of shadow to light; not to the proper proportion of

light to shade in a composition. That is tone. Is there light enough

to supplement the shadow, and thus bring the object illustrated into

such reasonable harmony with nature as to warrant us in accepting it

as a faithful picture of nature? Does the composition, in other words,

appear natural to an untrained vision?

It is the persistent study of this question of light and shade which

has rescued the halftone engraving from the pit of oblivion into

which it seemed destined to fall during its early days, and placed

it in the forefront of illustrative processes. Probably the halftone

of today, which in competent hands is a superb and exact recorder of

nature, is not strikingly better in any other detail than it was in its

early days except the one quality of light and shade. This variety of

illustration was as flat and as expressionless as a Chinese painting

until artist, engraver, and printer conspired to give it expression

and verisimilitude by working up its capacity to bring light and shade

fully and broadly to its task. There can be no rule that will apply

to this employment of light and shade. Rules there are, but they

apply with truth only to one experience--that which prompted their

formulation. The eye of the printer is the guide. This is the reason

why he should study this question, and others of similar artistic

value, from the point of view of the artist, not from the viewpoint of

the printer.

Values

The quality in a painting which is known as "values" may quite easily

be regarded by the printer as signifying to him the same as tone.

Careful study will show him that there is a difference, and also

that value is a vital element in his work which has for him a real

significance. Value may not unfairly be considered to be an element

of tone. It relates to the intensity of light; not the brilliancy of

color, but the capacity that resides in color to reflect light. In

color printing the value of the most common colors ranks with yellow

first, then orange, green, red, blue, and violet. That is, yellow is

capable of reflecting more light from the same quantity of sunlight

than any other color, and violet less than any other color. Scientists

have reckoned that chrome yellow reflects 80 per cent of light, green

40 per cent, etc. These figures serve no very practical purpose,

because the reflecting power of any tint is dependent upon the other

colors employed. Colors are dependent upon each other for their value

as well as for their intensity and their harmony. It is not difficult

to treat this matter of value in a mathematical way, as is suggested by

Prof. J. C. Van Dyke: "Let the chrome yellow with its 80 per cent of

light represent a sunset sky in the background; let the green with its

40 per cent represent the grass in the immediate foreground; and let

the orange-red with its 60 per cent represent the sail of a Venetian

fishing vessel upon the water of the middle distance. Now we have the

three leading pitches of light in the three planes of the picture," and

the problem would stand thus: 40:60::60:80 and the result will indicate

the relative power of the value in the picture.

Interesting, but not especially useful, the "practical" printer says.

No, not unless there is recognizable in this, as in all that has been

said about art in printing, the subtle relation between the vital

elements of graphic art and those refinements of knowledge and practice

which tend to bring printing nearer to the arts. The connection is

there, and is evident to the seeing eye. In nature and in life the

sense of values is of such importance that without it objects would not

have relative positions; all would be a jumble of shades and tones,

objects and colors; we would stumble, as we could not see depressions;

we would grasp an arm or the empty air, when we attempted to seize

a hand; we could not judge distances. It is upon the extent and the

thoroughness of the printer's knowledge of this question of values

that the degree of refinement and truth he is able to impart to a

certain class of work depends, and hence its money value to him and its

intrinsic value to his patrons.

Paper

Paper is as important an artistic or esthetic element in the well-made

book as it is as a technical element; and it is likewise to be regarded

from the point of view of the optician and the physiologist.

It is possible to select a paper for any book that will lend itself to

the artistic scheme of the book. It has not long been possible to do

this. The product of the skilled paper maker has more than quadrupled,

in artistic variety, during the few years last past, until it is

now the fault of its designer if a book intended to be harmoniously

artistic is not as true to its motive in paper as in typography or

binding. But it is evident that paper for a book cannot be selected

without reference to the typography, the plates, and other mechanical

features. A grade of paper that would be appropriate for the printing

of a rugged-faced type (like Caslon) upon, would not do at all for a

conventional type, such as the Scotch face, it might be discovered,

even though the paper, in texture and finish, seemed to be peculiarly

appropriate for the literary motive. There are certain type faces which

may be printed upon paper that is milk white, and certain other faces

that lend themselves more readily to the production of harmonious tonal

effects when the paper has a "natural" tint, or is thrown strongly

toward a brown color. Either of these combinations, or any similar

combination, may harmonize unfavorably with the literary motive, or

with the scheme for proportion and balance, or with the tone and values

element, and though admirable in itself have to be finally rejected.

The weight and texture of the paper have to be considered as minutely

and as carefully, and with the same principles in full view. A delicate

and shy literary motive must not be given the massive dignity of heavy

handmade paper and large and strong type. Such a scheme is harrowing to

a sensitive reader's nerves and rudely subversive of the more obvious

and elemental artistic principles.

It is a complex and an involved process to select the proper paper for

a given piece of printing, and the rightful decision of either of the

component elements involves the rightful decision with reference to

each of the others. It is impossible to consider the question of paper

apart from a consideration of the typography, the illustrations, the

format, and the binding; and it is not possible to consider either of

these elements apart from the literary motive, which must always be the

foundation of the structure.

Paper is one of the group of coördinately important elements in a piece

of artistic printing, and only one, and never otherwise than strictly

coördinate. It may not be considered by itself, unless possible

disaster be consciously and deliberately invited.

Therefore before the specifications for a book or other piece of

printing are otherwise fixed, it is necessary to decide upon the

paper to be used. It is one of the elements of printing over which

the printer exercises no control except the liberty of choice. He can

choose the paper he wishes to use, but he cannot adapt it. He can adapt

his typographic plan and his color scheme, and adjust them to the paper

in such fashion as will result in harmony for the completed work, but

his paper he is obliged to take as the paper-maker furnishes it. For

this reason, and because the paper is actually a foundation element

in printing, it is necessary that printers know about paper, and that

those who essay to execute work of a high standard be familiar with its

history, composition, and methods of manufacture.

Too much importance will not be likely to be attached to the history

of paper, for it runs parallel with the record of the advance of

civilization and learning, and it has been an indispensable factor in

that advance. When we note the important part played by paper in the

complicated scheme of our twentieth century lives, we may gain some

faint appreciation of its place and relative importance as a factor

of life. As a factor in printing it has been customary to place paper

first in the list. It is a safe practice, though the versatility of the

paper makers is yearly making it less essential to do so. Yet, when

all the progress in paper making has been considered, it paradoxically

remains that the selection of paper by the printer is not the simple

matter it was only a few years ago.

With the progress of the art of printing during the last quarter of

the nineteenth century there has come complexity in all its branches.

Type has been wondrously multiplied, inks are in greater profusion, and

varieties of paper have rapidly multiplied. The good printer of today

needs to know the history of the evolution of type, ink, and paper, if

he hopes to be able to cope successfully with the problems facing him.

One reason for this particularity of knowledge is the tendency of

the laity to study the technical phases of printing. Type founders

have courted the attention of large consumers of printed matter and

of large advertisers, and the lay knowledge of type has led to a

like result regarding paper. So that it at present happens that the

printer's patron is able to dictate the style of typography he desires,

and the quality and tint of paper he prefers. This predicates knowledge

on the part of the printer; and in the case of paper it necessitates

expert knowledge. Type is type, speaking somewhat loosely, and,

whatever the crotchet a consumer of printing may get into his head it

is not likely to cost more than about so much a pound. It is otherwise

with paper, and generally it is more the color, texture, and appearance

the patron wishes than the intrinsic value, and the printer must make

a choice that shall satisfy the artistic exigencies of the case, as

well as consider its financial aspects. One paper may be unsuited for

a particular piece of work, and another of the same tint, weight, and

price may be exactly suitable; and the reason may lie in so obscure a

cause as the peculiar process of manufacture, or the chemical nature of

material used by certain paper mills, or a slight variation in finish

that may affect ink in a different manner.

A bright and observing printer inevitably becomes more or less versed

in paper. He handles it continually, and cannot avoid recognizing

certain more evident differences. What is learned in this way is good

knowledge, but it takes a long time to get a comprehensive acquaintance

with paper, and there has not in the meantime been built up that

flawless reputation for good work which all printers regard as the very

best capital.

The printer who knows about paper knows about its history, its

composition, and the methods of manufacture. To him wood-pulp paper is

not all the same, and he knows what he means when he speaks of "all

rag" or "handmade." He knows that paper made wholly of wood varies in

goodness according as it is made by this or that process--mechanical

wood, soda, or sulphite; and knows that "all rags" may be all cotton,

or all linen, or a combination of rags, or a combination of wood and

rags, or indeed all wood, or some vegetable fiber not specified. It is

not the mere exhibition of this sort of knowledge that particularly

signifies; it is that it adds greatly to the printer's power to execute

good work, as it places him in a position to select the most suitable

paper, and insures his reputation. It enables him to execute a piece of

work intended to endure a long time in a manner that will preserve its

beauty, so that it will not fade or turn a dirty brown or yellow color,

as well as to make his paper play its legitimate rôle as the most

important inflexible art element he will usually find it necessary to

deal with. A knowledge of paper in this thorough sense is even more

desirable if a printer presumes to arrogate to himself the title and

qualities of an artist. It is scarcely too radical to assert that the

esthetics of printing depend for exemplification more upon paper than

upon typography. It has been said that type, ink, and paper go to the

making of good printing. This formula may be reversed and made to

read paper, ink, and type, since so much of the effect of decorative

printing depends upon the paper and the ink. If these two harmonize

properly it remains that the type must not interfere but must play the

negative rôle of conformity. It is the paper that is selected first,

then the ink, and lastly the typography is brought into the scheme.

Typography, as an ornate art, has dwindled, and the skilled constructor

of wonderful effects with types and rule is no longer esteemed in the

job room. The arbiter of style sits in the counting-room, and turns the

leaves of the paper and type specimen books before the critical eyes of

the patron. The job is built upon a paper sample, and the designer sees

it completed in his mind before he sends it to the compositor.

Style

Style is that subtle atmosphere pervading literary, artistic and

handicraft work that suggests the cultivated personality of the author.

It is not a usual nor a clear conception of style to consider the term

as applicable to inferior work. The word, as used to designate quality,

has come to mean positive and recognizable merit, and generally

also that indefinite but powerfully distinctive merit indicating

individuality.

The word is used somewhat in this sense, though more broadly, in

descriptive art nomenclature, as when the style of a Rubens or of a

Titian is spoken of; and in art it often appears that the word is

used more commonly to designate a school or a genre of painting,

than to point to the work of any particular person of the present or

the recent past. Yet it is noted that whenever an artist is able to

attract favorable attention through the exercise of talents markedly

his own, he is at once credited with a style that is distinctively and

peculiarly his. It is quite fair and just therefore to consider that

style in printing means that quality of beauty or distinction which is

to be directly referred to the printer, rather than those meritorious

qualities that owe their existence to careful following of established

rules and principles, concerning which all printers have, or may have,

a working knowledge. There are some printers whose work is so redolent

of a peculiar style as to be recognizable to observing persons; and

such work has a quality that may almost be said to be narrow. The

possessor of a style pronounced enough to have attracted attention is

also usually limited in his range; is, in fact, an exponent of his own

peculiar style and is but little else.

Style does not absolutely involve excellence; only a distinctive

individuality. That individuality may produce printed work that may be

wholly bad, or it may be the hall mark of a supreme excellence. This is

the technical meaning of the word. In usage the word style is generally

understood to imply excellence, and a high grade and peculiarly

distinctive excellence. The derivation of the word is suggestive of

the accepted appreciation of its scope. It is the Latin name for an

iron pen, but it has come to signify not only the art that wields the

pen but it is applied to the whole range of the productive activities

of man; to music, painting, architecture, sculpture, dancing, acting,

tennis and baseball playing; to burglary and picking of pockets, and to

printing.

In printing, style is an element of value, and may be accorded as

careful attention as is given to the type outfit, to the presses, or to

the employes. We can perhaps think of half a dozen printers who have

made great reputations and considerable fortunes through having a style

that appealed singularly to purchasers of printed matter. What is there

in the work of Mr. De Vinne's press that gives the name a distinct

value? Why do publishers announce in their advertisements that certain

books are printed by De Vinne? Mr. De Vinne's style is valuable to him

and to the publishers who employ him to make books for them.

Probably there is not an intelligent printer who may read this who

does not recognize the value of style in printing, and who does not,

more or less seriously, struggle to acquire for himself a distinctive

style, and chiefly because he knows that the possession of a style

that appeals to the buyers of printed matter is almost the only sure

means of gaining new clients and holding old ones, and obtaining

profit-making prices. While there are many printers who will be

inclined to scout the idea that the possession of a style of their own

would be of financial advantage to them, it is a fundamental element

in success. There needs must be some diggers of ditches, hewers of

wood and drawers of water, and it is probably true that the great bulk

of printing will continue to be done by workmen, a small proportion

of it by artisans, and an almost infinitesimal portion by artists.

Nevertheless, there is a gravitation toward the artisan class, and from

it to the sparse company of the artist printers.

"The only way," says an acute literary critic, "to get a good style is

to think clearly." That is in literature.

In printing, the only way to get a good style is to know thoroughly.

Yet it is not all to know. The knowledge must be expressed, and it must

be expressed in a manner agreeable to those to whom printed matter is

to appeal. They do not always know the point of view of the printer,

even if he has a style that is admirable. So his style must, after all,

be subordinate to clearness and comprehensibility.

In a piece of printing it is necessary to bring out "the extreme

characteristic expression" of the central motive. That is, if the piece

of printing is intended to promote the sale of a certain substance or

article it is desirable that all the suggestive power residing in the

types be brought into play to drive the motive home. This is however a

secondary quality of style. The primary quality is that which attracts

the eye, and style for the printer may be limited to those qualities

that do most attract the eye quickly and agreeably.

The secondary literary constituent of style, which is harmony, takes

first rank in printing. The three essentials of printing style may be

generalized as knowledge, harmony, and expressiveness. In literature

they are thought, expressiveness, and harmony, or melody, as some have

it. The greatest of these is, of course, knowledge--knowledge of the

fundamentals which go to the making of the best printing.

It is not possible to teach style. It is almost as impossible to

acquire style. This seems like a paradox, but a paradox is not always a

symbol of hopelessness. Style must be born in a man--style in any art

or profession. "Style," a writer has recently said, "is gesture--the

gesture of the mind and of the soul." We can eliminate the last clause,

and call style in printing the gesture of the mind, the evidence of

the amount and degree of knowledge possessed by the mind, tempered,

arranged, given distinction, by the born talent, aptitude, or whatever

it may be termed, which is the seed germ of style. We do not hesitate

to accept the obvious theory that artists are born, not made. Some

claim for printing that it is an art. Why then should we hesitate to

admit that a printer capable of cultivating and expressing a genuine

style must depend upon something other than mere knowledge; something

deeper and more subtle than knowledge, which is able to mould knowledge

into style?

Style, in the highest sense, is given to but few, and we cannot

hope that printers will be more favored, in proportion, than the

practitioners of other graphic arts. But they may be as highly favored,

if they avail themselves of the opportunities for culture that are open

to them, as they are open to other artists, and not otherwise. While it

is not to be expected that the printing art will produce Morrises or

Bradleys with great profuseness, it is to be frankly admitted that in

the grade next below--the grade of talent, that is, as distinguished

from the grade of genius--there is not found the high average of

attainment among printers that rules in other graphic arts. The reason

is as obvious as the fact: Printers are not students, in the sense that

painters, etchers, engravers, illustrators, and even photographers,

are students. Printers (the progressive ones) have in recent years

become close observers and good imitators, but there are few who have

attempted to qualify themselves for original work by thorough study

of those principles of graphic art that vitally control printing. The

artist, in any other line than printing, comes to the practice of his

art only after prolonged study and mastery of the principles and the

laws governing it. Not so with the printer.

The time has arrived when eminence in printing means much more than

good work along existing lines. It means a radical departure and

the full recognition of the power and value of art in printing. We

have been rather hesitant in accepting this word, art, as applying

legitimately to printing, and we have been hesitating merely because

we have seen the term so freely and ignorantly applied to work that

merited no better name than archaic; to work that, while it usually

possessed the common virtues of good mechanical execution, was wholly

deficient in those qualities which fairly entitled it to be called

artistic. But we must put away this prejudice against an innocent

and needed term, and boldly reclaim it from the philistines. We must

reinstate in the public mind, and in our own minds, the thing and the

name that fittingly describes the thing. We must make art printing mean

art printing.

Style should be the goal of the printer who cherishes hopes of

distinction or of wealth. We have said that style is born in a

man, not acquired by him. This is true, if we consider the highest

development of style. But we are all capable of greatly improving our

style by study. We cannot improve upon it in any other way. It is

almost useless for us to observe the good work of others, for this

purpose. We must go beyond that. The first step is to keenly realize

the need. We are on a par with every other person who wishes to truly

understand any art. We cannot arrive at that understanding by merely

wishing it. There is no understanding of art except through study of

art.

We may spend a lifetime looking at the great paintings of the world

and then know so little about them as to appreciate but a tithe of the

rich store of culture and pleasure they hold in reserve for us. We may

cultivate a taste for paintings by putting ourselves frequently under

their influence, as we may build up a taste for literature by strenuous

reading. But knowledge, as distinguished from acquaintance, gives us a

very different conception of a painting, or a piece of sculpture, or

an example of any form of art, and reveals to us new beauties. So it

is in printing. We cannot do good color printing unless we understand

color as an artist understands it; we cannot get the best results from

a halftone engraving unless we understand tone, light and shade, and

values, as an artist understands them. We are not sure of our ground

with regard to a page of plain type matter unless we know something

conclusive about the fundamentals of art.

We cannot take one pronounced step toward acquiring style until we

realize the need, the vital need, of a good foundation knowledge of

art--not in a historical sense, but in a technical sense--for the

technique of printing that is better than good.

The Binding

It is a pity that bookbinding and printing have drifted so far apart,

since they are so intimately related. A good book cannot be produced

without the coöperation of both crafts, and that coöperation ought

to be of a much closer nature. The printing and the binding of a

book should be done by artists or craftsmen actuated by a unity of

purpose and effort similar to the unity that must prevail in the book

if it is to express anything worthy. In the production of books of

a high excellence it is necessary that the binding shall chord with

the general nature as expressed through the printing and as fixed by

the literary body. This result can only be assured if the printers

and the binders work in close harmony. When it is manifestly present

in the book of today it is necessary to assume that the agreeable

result follows the effects of some influence outside of printers and

binders, brought strongly to bear upon each, rather than the result of

a harmonious understanding of the artistic proprieties of the case by

either the printer or the binder. Binding has a double significance: It

is essentially artistic, and emphatically a mechanical process. In its

artistic phase it rivals printing; it is considered to be quite apart

from printing, in fact, since there is a pretty decided cult in binding

that takes no cognizance of typography or of literary character. With

this collector's estimate of bindings we are not here concerned. The

desire to cheapen production has led to serious deterioration in the

quality of binding, of the ordinary library editions of books, during

the past century. Machine methods, unobjectionable when used upon very

cheap books but disastrous to the lasting quality of library books,

have obtained an undesirable vogue, and they are so capable of cleverly

simulating good work that they have been a very active agent in the

decay of good binding practice. The results of the more recent binding

methods are extremely lamentable, and those results have but partially

made themselves manifest. The next generation, and the generations

after the next, will suffer for the sins of the binders of the books

issued during the last half of the nineteenth century. The twentieth

century may achieve no more creditable record, but the sinning will

be in the light and will not be due to ignorance. The English Society

of Arts charged a special committee with the task of investigating

the cause of the decay in bindings, and the report of this committee

may be one impulse urging publishers to require better workmanship and

better methods. This committee formulated five specifications against

prevailing methods, each of which constitutes a defect of a radical

nature recognizable and curable only by bookbinders or experts in

bookbinding. Books are, this committee found, sewn on too few and too

thin cords; the slips are pared down too much and are not always firmly

enough laced into the boards; the use of hollow backs is condemned;

headbands are not sufficiently strong to hold the leather of the back

against the strain of taking the book from the shelf; leather used is

often far too thin; leather is wetted and stretched to such a point

that little strength is left to resist wear and tear.

It must be noted in extenuation that at least one of the counts in

this indictment may be partially condoned, upon the ground that the

fault crept into bookbinding practice with the intent to facilitate

the reading of the book and not to cheapen its production. The hollow

back was adopted for the twofold purpose of allowing the book to be

opened easily and flatly and to preserve the tooling and gilding on

the back. This form of back need not be always reckoned as bad. It is

quite possible to bind a book well and use the hollow back, and it is

extremely easy to use the hollow back to cover sins that ought not to

be condoned in a binding.

The life of a book depends upon its binding. The leading idea in

planning a binding for a good book should therefore be to strive for

strength, durability, and convenience. To beautify a book in its

binding should be the secondary motive. But the idea of beauty, through

harmony and the application of elementary art precepts, may always be

considered with the strictly utilitarian processes, and the book may

be brought into close accord with the requirements of art without any

strain for art efforts being apparent nor any economical or mechanical

purpose being strained or perverted. This can be effected by arranging

the binding to tone with the literary and typographic motives, and

studying to have all details harmonious--such as the lettering on the

side and back; the design of the stamp for the cover, if there be a

stamp; the material for the cover, its texture and its color, etc.

It is manifestly impossible to put into print specific directions

for the binding of a book to bring it within the meaning of the term

"artistic" while it does not depart from the ordinary in quality or

form. It is quite easy to perceive however that for a book of a certain

literary quality a binding consisting of a buckram back and paper

sides is exactly appropriate, while a cloth binding with a gilt stamp

is obviously not harmonious. If the title-stamp on the back of a book

is made of type unlike that used for the title-page there is a jarring

note that might easily have been avoided. The motive of a book should

extend its influence to, and envelope, every process necessary for its

completion; it should be as apparently in control of every detail of

the visible binding as of the typography, the format, and the paper.

It produces an agreeable impression upon the reader if he discovers

this artistic unity in a book he hopes to extract literary profit or

enjoyment from--if the typography, the format, the paper, and the

binding all tone to the same key, and that key in harmony with the

literary motive.

This much of art is possible for all bindings. When they rise above

this mere expression of harmony, of unity, there is a widely different

question involved. Then there must be art for art's sake, rather than

art for the book's sake; and of bindings that are in and of themselves

works of art we have for the present nothing to say.

As to exactly what constitutes a proper binding for a given book there

may be differences of opinion, especially if the inquiry be pushed

so far as to involve questions of art, or questions concerning the

artistic qualities of harmony and unity. There are however certain

broad lines which may be indicated within which worthy bindings must

be brought, leaving plenty of latitude for individuality in taste and

in judgment. What these basic requirements are is perfectly known to

practical bookbinders and to publishers; to many printers as well.

They should be as familiar to the lay mind, and every book should have

printed somewhere in it a clear statement of the specifications of its

binding. Its typography is visible; so is its format and its paper. The

vital parts of its binding are concealed, from the expert as from the

tyro, and every purchaser of an ordinary book stands to lose heavily if

the foundations of its binding are not honestly laid.

The specifications for the binding of a fine book should show, then,

that the cover material is all leather of some one of the approved

sorts and properly manufactured, sheets carefully folded, single leaves

guarded round the sections next to them, all plates guarded, guards

sewn through, and no pasting or overcasting; end papers sewn on and

made of good paper, board papers of good quality of paper or vellum;

edges to be trimmed and gilt before sewing, or left uncut; sewing to be

with ligature silk around five bands of best sewing cord; back to be

as nearly flat as possible without forcing it and without danger of its

becoming concave in use; boards to be of the best black millboard, and

the five bands laced in through two holes; headbands to be worked with

silk on strips of vellum or catgut or cord, with frequent tiedowns,

and "set" by pieces of good paper or leather glued at head and tail;

lettering to be legible, in harmony with the typography of the book or

with the decorations; decorations such as may be wished.

These skeletonized specifications may be modified in some particulars

if they are to be applied to grades of books below the best, but great

care and good judgment must be exercised to guard against an extent

of deterioration which will bring the book below its standard of

utility and beauty. For library books, for example, the covers may be

half leather or any of the several serviceable cloths; the end papers

may dispense with the board papers; the edges may be cut guillotine

and colored instead of gilt, or the top only may be gilt; the sewing

may be done with unbleached thread and the tapes may be reduced to

four of unbleached linen; the boards may be of split gray stock or of

strawboard with black board liner, and the tapes may be attached to

portion of waste sheet inserted between the boards; the headbands may

be omitted and cord substituted, or they may be worked with thread or

vellum.

Specifications

The paper in this book is French handmade, 16 × 20--29, imported by the

Japan Paper Company of New York, and catalogued as No. 333.

The type is a liberal modification of the Caslon, 12 point. It was

designed and cast by the Boston branch of the American Type Founders

Company, and had never been used until set for this book.

The binding is according to the specifications of the Society of Arts,

of London. The sheets are folded with special care, end papers are made

with zigzag and sewn on, edges are uncut, signatures are sewn with

unbleached thread over three unbleached linen tapes, back left nearly

square, boards of the best black millboard, covers of imported marbled

paper, and the backs of art vellum, with paper label. The binding was

executed by the regular force of workmen and in the regular routine of

commercial work.

The composition of the type was by a journeyman and an apprentice, and

the presswork was done on a half super royal Colt's Armory press. No

attempt has been made to execute the work in other than the ordinary

manner, with ordinary appliances and ordinary workmen. All the material

is such as is regularly carried in stock by dealers.

THIS EDITION CONSISTS OF 935 NUMBERED COPIES PRINTED AT THE

IMPERIAL PRESS CLEVELAND, OHIO, IN NOVEMBER, 1903, OF WHICH THIS

IS NUMBER 506

* * * * *

Transcriber's Note:

Duplicate chapter title pages removed by Transcriber

Page 35, "cristicism" changed to "criticism" (subject to the criticism

suggested)

The edition number "506" is handwritten (OF WHICH THIS IS NUMBER 506)