Shorn of all the romance and glamour which seem inevitably to surround
every early phase of typographic art, a Printer’s Device may be
described as nothing more or less than a trade mark. It is usually a
sufficient proof that the book in which it occurs is the work of a
particular craftsman. Its origin is essentially unromantic, and its
employment, in the earlier stages of its history at all events, was
merely an attempt to prevent the inevitable pirate from reaping where he
had not sown. At one time a copy, or more correctly a forgery, of a
Printer’s Mark could be detected with comparative ease, even if the body
of the book had all the appearance of genuineness.
[Illustration: G. U. VON ANDLAU.]
This self-protection was necessary on many grounds. First of all, the
privileges of impression which were granted by kings, princes, and
supreme pontiffs, were usually obtained only by circuitous routes and
after the expenditure of much time and money. Moreover, the counterfeit
book was rarely either typographically or textually correct, and was
more often than not abridged and mutilated almost beyond recognition, to
the serious detriment of the printer whose name appeared on the
title-page. Places as well as individualities suffered, for very many
books were sold as printed in Venice, without having the least claim to
that distinction. The Lyons printers were most unblushing sinners in
this respect, and Renouard cites a Memorial drawn up by Aldus himself on
the subject, and published at Venice in 1503.
But apart from the foregoing reasons, it must be remembered that many of
the earliest monuments of typographic art appeared not only without the
name of the printer but also without that of the locality in which they
were printed. Although in such cases various extraneous circumstances
have enabled bibliographers to “place” these books, the Mark of the
printer has almost invariably been the chief aid in this direction. The
Psalter of 1457 is the first book which has the name of the place where
it was printed, besides that of the printers as well as the date of the
year in which it was executed. But for a long time after that date books
appeared without one or the other of these attributes, and sometimes
without either, so that the importance of the Printer’s Mark holds good.
A very natural question now suggests itself, “Who invented these Marks?”
Laire, “Index Librorum” (Sæc. xv.), ii. 146, in speaking of a Greek
Psalter says: “_Habet signaturas, registrum ac custodes, sed non
numerantur folia. Litteræ principales ligno incisæ sunt, sicut et in
principio cujuslibet psalmi viticulæ quæ gallicé _vignettes_
appellantur, quarum usum primus excogitavit Aldus._” The volume here
described was printed about 1495, and the invention therefore has been
very generally attributed to Aldus. That this is not so will be shown in
the next chapter. We shall confine ourselves for the present to some of
the various points which appear to be material to a proper understanding
of the subject.
One of the most important and interesting phases in connection with
Printers’ Marks is undoubtedly the _motif_ of the pictorial
embellishment. Both the precise origin and the object of many Marks are
now lost to us, and many others are only explained after a thorough
study of the life of the particular printer or the nature of the books
which he generally printed or published. The majority, however, carry
their own _prima facie_ explanations. The number of “punning” devices is
very large, and nearly every one has a character peculiarly its own.
Their antiquity is proved by the fact that before the beginning of the
fifteenth century, a picture of St. Anthony was boldly, not to say
irreverently, used by Antoine Caillaut, Paris. A long series of punning
devices occur in the books printed by or for the fifteenth century
publishers, one of the most striking and successful is that of Michel le
Noir, whose shield carries his initials, surmounted by the head of a
negress and sometimes supported by canting figures in full. This Mark,
with variations, was also employed by Philippe and Guillaume le Noir,
the work of the three men covering a period of nearly 100 years. The
device of Gilles or Gillet Couteau, Paris, 1492, is apparently a double
pun, first on his Christian name, the transition from which to _œillet_
being easy and explaining the presence of a pink in flower, and secondly
on his surname by the three open knives, in one of which the end of the
blade is broken. It was almost inevitable that both Denis Roce or Ross,
a Paris bookseller, 1490, and Germain Rose, of Lyons, 1538, should
employ a rose in their marks, and this they did, one of the latter’s
examples having a dolphin twining around the stem. Jacques and Estienne
Maillet, whose works at Lyons extended from the last eleven years of the
fifteenth century to the middle of the sixteenth, give in the centre of
their shield a picture of a mallet.
[Illustration: GILLET COUTEAU.
Du grant aux petis
Gillet couteau]
[Illustration: GALLIOT DU PRÉ.
VOGVE LA GVALLEE
GALLIOT DV PRE]
One of the boldest of the early sixteenth century examples is that
employed by Galliot Du Pré, Paris, and in this we have a picture of a
galley propelled with the aid of sails and oars, and with the motto
“Vogue la gualee.” This device (with several variations) was used by
both father and son, and possesses an interest beyond the subject of
Printers’ Marks, for it gives us a very clear idea of the different
boats employed during the first three quarters of the sixteenth century.
Another striking Mark of about the same time and covering as nearly as
possible the same period, was that of the family De La Porte. The
earlier example used in Paris about 1508 was a simple doorway; but the
elder Hugues de la Porte, Lyons, and the successors of Aymon De La Porte
of the same place, used several exceedingly bold designs in which Samson
is represented carrying away the gates of Gaza, the motto on one door or
gate being “libertatem meam,” and on the other “mecum porto.” The two
printers of the same name, Jehan Lecoq, who were practising the art
continuously during nearly the whole of the sixteenth century at Troyes,
employed a Mark on the shield of which appears the figure of a cock;
whilst an equally appropriate if much more ugly design, was employed by
the eminent Lyons family of Sébastien Gryphe or Gryphius: he had at
least eight “griffin” Marks, which differed slightly from one another.
François Gryphe, who worked in Paris, had one Mark which was original to
the extent of the griffin being supported by a tortoise. J. Du Moulin,
Rouen, employed a little picture of a windmill on his Mark, as did
Scotland’s first printer, Andro Myllar; but Jehan Petit, a prolific
fifteenth century printer of Paris, confined his punning to the words
“Petit à Petit,” as is seen in the reduced facsimile title, given on
p. 9, of a book printed by him for T. Kerver. Mathias Apiarius,
Strassburg, used at least two Marks expressing the same idea, namely,
a bear discovering a bee’s nest in the hollow of a tree--an obvious pun
on his surname. The latter part of the sixteenth century is not nearly
so fruitful in really good or striking devices. Guillaume Bichon, Paris,
employed a realistic picture of a lap-dog (in allusion to his surname)
chasing a hare, with the motto “Nunc fugiens, olim pugnabo”; and equally
realistic in another way is the Mark of P. Chandelier, Caen, in which
effective use is made of a candle-stick with seven holders, the motto
being “Lucernis fideliter ministro.” Antoine Tardif, Lyons, employed the
Aldine anchor and dolphin, and also a motto, “Festina tarde,” which is
identical in meaning, if not in the exact words, of that of Aldus.
Guillaume De La Rivière, Arras, used a charmingly vivid little scene of
a winding river, with the motto “Madenta flumine valles”; and it is not
difficult to distinguish the appropriateness of the sprig of barley in
the Mark of Hugues Barbon, Limoges. The Mark of Jacques Du Puys, Paris,
was possibly suggested by the word _puits_ (or well), and of which Puys
is perhaps only a form: the picture at all events is a representation of
Christ at the well. In the case of Adam Du Mont, Orange, the christian
name, is “taken off” in a picture of Adam and Eve at the tree of
forbidden fruit; and exactly the same idea occurs with equal
appropriateness in the Mark of N. Eve, Paris, the sign of whose shop was
Adam and Eve. Michel Jove naturally went to profane history for the
subject of his Mark, and with a considerable amount of success.
[Illustration: JEHAN LECOQ.