One of the most curious among the studies of a professed connoisseur,
is that of the signatures or marks, technically called 'monograms,' by
which painters, sculptors, engravers, and other artists, are
accustomed to distinguish their works. The dishonesty of the modern
picture-market, however, has made it now little more than a curious
study. As a practical guide in determining the genuineness of a work,
the monogram, from the skill and precision with which fraudulent
dealers have learned to counterfeit it in almost all its varieties,
has long been far worse than equivocal, and the authorship of a
picture must, now-a-days, often be decided on entirely independent
grounds. But the history of the subject is, in many respects,
extremely curious and interesting, although few have ever thought of
bestowing attention upon it, except those whose actual experience as
amateurs or collectors has brought it directly under their notice.
The practice of artists signing their works with their name appears to
be as old as art itself. The odium excited against Phidias for his
alleged impiety in inscribing his name upon the shield of his
celebrated statue of Minerva, is a familiar example, which will occur
to every reader; and there can be no doubt that the usage was also
known to the painters of the classic times. But if we may judge from
the Grecian and Roman remains, whether of sculpture, of fresco, of
cameo, or of mosaic, which have come down to our times, the precaution
of affixing the name was by no means universally, or even commonly
adopted; and the monogram, properly so called, appears to have been
entirely unknown among them.
It was so also at the first revival of art in the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries. The practice of using a single letter, or a
single combination of letters or arbitrary characters, seems to have
originated with the mediæval architects and other artists in stone.
Neither the painters, nor the engravers, nor the metal-founders, nor
the medalists of those ages, availed themselves of this device, nor do
we find it at all general among such artists, till the very close of
the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century. But, once
introduced, it became universal. Every artist of the sixteenth, and
of the greater part of the seventeenth century, has his monogram, more
or less simple according to the taste or caprice of the designer; and
to such a length was the practice carried, that the very excess
produced a reaction, and led, for a time, to the abandonment of
monograms altogether. With the painters of the eighteenth century,
they fell into complete disfavour; and although, in the present
century, the revival of ancient forms has led to their re-adoption in
the German school, and among the cultivators of Christian art
generally, yet many of the first painters of the present day seem to
eschew the use of monograms, as savouring of transcendentalism, or of
some other of the various affectations, by which modern art is accused
of having been disfigured.
Independently altogether of its bearing upon art, the study of
monograms has a certain amount of interest. There is a class of
adventurers at the present day who make a livelihood from the
curiosity or credulity of the public, by professing to decipher the
peculiarities of an individual's character, and to read his probable
destiny, in any specimen of his handwriting which may be submitted for
their inspection. Without carrying the theory to these absurd lengths,
it is impossible not to feel some interest about the autograph of any
celebrated individual, and some tendency to compare its leading
characteristics with our preconceived notions regarding him. A still
wider field for speculation than that which grows out of the
handwriting, is afforded by a device like the monogram, which, being
in a great measure arbitrary, may naturally be expected to exhibit
more decidedly the workings of the judgment, the fancy, or perhaps the
caprice, of the artist.
The monogram, as we have seen, is a substitute for the full-length
signature of the artist--the mode of marking their works originally
adopted by the ancients. It is found in an almost infinite number of
varieties.
The earliest, as well as the most natural and easy substitute, was a
simple contraction of the name--as, 'augs ca.,' for Augustinus
Caraccius; or JVL. ROM., for Julius Romanus. This contraction,
however, cannot properly be called a monogram at all; and the same is
to be said of the form of signature adopted by many of the most
eminent painters--the simple, unconnected initials of the name. The
idea of a monogram supposes that the characters, whatever may be their
number considered separately, shall be all connected so as to form one
single device.
The first such form which will occur to one's mind is the mere
combination of the initial letters of the name--as, for example, AB,
or AK, which are the actual monograms of Andrew Both, the celebrated
Flemish landscape painter, and of Antony Kölbel, a distinguished
Austrian artist of more modern times. In some instances, the monogram
is found appended to the full signature of the artist, as in Albert
Dürer's beautiful engraving of Adam and Eve, and in other less
celebrated works, especially those of the early engravers. It is to be
observed, however, that some artists were by no means uniform in the
style of monogram which they employed. The device of the same artist
often varies, not only in the size and figure of the letters which
form it, but sometimes even in the letters themselves. Many artists
have employed two, three, four, and even a greater number of devices;
and of the celebrated engraver just named, Albert Dürer, we ourselves
have seen not less than thirty different modifications of the letters
A D, the initials of his name.
[Transcriber's Note: In the first sentence of the previous
paragraph, the letters AB and AK are joined together, with
the letter A tilted slightly to the right.]
These combinations are seldom so simple and intelligible as in the
signature of Andrew Both, referred to above. In most of the earlier
monograms, the initial of the family name is smaller than that of the
Christian name. It is so in that of Albert Dürer; and it is remarkable
that, through all the modifications of his signature which we have
been able to discover, this characteristic is maintained--the D being
invariably the smaller, and, as it were, the subordinate letter. Very
often, one of the letters--generally the initial of the surname--is
enclosed within the lines of the other. This peculiarity is also
observable in Albert Dürer's signature; and we only know one single
instance, among the numberless ones that occur, in which he has not
maintained it.
In progress of time, it became fashionable to combine, not the
initials merely of the name, but sometimes the most important letters,
sometimes even all the letters, of the full name. Many of the
monograms thus constructed would prove a puzzle even to the most
accomplished decipherer, especially those in which the whole of the
letters are not given, but only the most striking of them, and these,
as very frequently occurs, not in their natural order. Sometimes the
artist combined with the initials of his name that also of his place
of birth or residence. It need scarcely be said that, especially in
the earlier period, when the place of birth formed almost an
invariable adjunct of the name, this practice also existed, even when
the signature was given at full length.
A difficulty is sometimes created by the discovery of the letter
V--very frequently smaller than the other letters of the
monogram--between the initials of the artist's name. It occurs in the
signatures of Flemish or German artists, and represents the _van_ or
_von_, which, in the usage of these countries, was the characteristic
of nobility. It is seen in the monogram of Esaias van de Velde, and is
introduced rather curiously in that of Adrian van der Venne, who lived
through the greater part of the seventeenth century. In this
interesting monogram, the small v is inserted in the head of the large
one, so as to form a figure not unlike one of the masonic emblems.
Sometimes the identity of the initial letter of the surname with that
of the Christian name gives rise to a curious device in their
combination. Thus, the signature of Francis Floris, a German engraver,
who died about the middle of the seventeenth century, reverses the
former of the two FFs, placing them back to back, with the down stroke
common to both letters; while that of Francis Frederic Frank, in which
the same letter is three times repeated, drove the ingenuity of the
artist to a still more curious combination--the three letters being
kept perfectly independent, yet interlaced, or rather overlapped, so
that their lines exhibit a figure which has the curious property, like
the cabalistic Abracadabra, of presenting the same appearance from
whatever point it may be viewed.
Another, and often more puzzling uncertainty, may arise out of the
practice of adding to the ordinary letters of the name, the initials
F, P, D, or I--representing _fecit_, _pinxit_, _delineavit_, or
_invenit_. Without adverting to this circumstance, few would recognise
the distinguished name of Anthony van Dyck, in the monogram which he
habitually employed, and of which the F seems to form a principal
part; or that of our dear old friend, Hans Hemling, in the still more
perplexing symbol by which his very best works may be distinguished.
But besides the variations of which the letters are susceptible when
grouped in this manner, many of the artists have indulged in a variety
of strange and puzzling accompaniments.
A more interesting class of monograms are those which employ symbols
instead of letters; or, what is not uncommon, use both letters and
symbols in combination. Many of these resemble the illustrated enigmas
which have become fashionable in the pictorial journals both of
England and of foreign countries, and of which Mr Knight, in the last
issue of his _Penny Magazine_, set so beautiful an example in the
poetical enigmas of Mr Mackworth Praed. The general character of this
class will be sufficiently indicated by the example of the Italian
painter, Palma, whose name is translated _palm_, and who used the
emblem of a _palm_ as well as the initial of his family name; or the
still more characteristic one of a painter of Tübingen, Jacob
_Züberlein_ (_little tub_), who appended to his literal monogram the
simple and striking, though not very graceful, emblem of _a tub_.
The several classes which are here slightly indicated, contain under
them many subordinate varieties, which it would be tedious to
enumerate, and which, indeed, it would be almost impossible to
classify. It is a remarkable circumstance, however, in the history of
art, that the signatures of the most distinguished painters are
precisely those which, for themselves, and for their forms, possess
the least interest. With few exceptions, it may be said of the great
painters, that they appear to have avoided the affectation of the use
of monograms; and certainly that those who did employ them, selected
the very simplest and least fantastic forms. The greatest masters of
the art--Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, Guido, Domenichino, Paul
Veronese, Rubens, Guercino, Agostino Caracci, and many hardly less
distinguished artists--either omitted to sign their pictures at all,
or signed their name at full length, sometimes with the addition of
their local surname, or employed the initial syllables or letters of
their name in the ordinary Roman form, without any attempt at grouping
them into a monogram. Even Salvator Rosa, with all the wildness and
extravagance of his manner, used an exceedingly simple combination of
the initials of his name. The monogram of the great Spanish painter,
Bartholomew Esteban [Stephen] Murillo, consists simply of the three
initial letters of the name, signed in the common Roman character, and
combined with perfect simplicity, except that there is a curious
inversion of their order. That of his countryman, Joseph
Ribera--better known as _Espagnoletto_--is merely the combination of
the same letters, written in a cursive hand; and his signature is even
occasionally found at full length, or very slightly abridged.
There is one curious exception to this general preference for
simplicity among the masters of the first class--that of the
celebrated Anthony Allegri, more commonly known under his surname,
Correggio. This eminent painter did not think a pun beneath the
dignity of his art, and, accordingly, the device by which he
distinguishes his pictures consists of a punning symbol, representing
his name. We need hardly explain to our readers that _Correggio_ may
be read _Cor_ (_cuore_) _Reggio_ (_Royal Heart_.) The painter has
expressed this pun in two different ways: by the figure of a heart,
with the word _Reggio_ inscribed upon it in Roman letters; and again
by the still more punning emblem of a heart surmounted by a crown, or,
it should rather be said, of a crowned, and therefore royal, heart. In
confirmation, however, of the general tendency to simplicity which we
have observed as prevailing among his great contemporaries, we should
add that some of Correggio's pictures are signed with the initial
syllables of his name, printed in the ordinary Roman character.
It is perhaps more remarkable, that even among the humorists the same
simplicity should have prevailed. Our own Hogarth, both the Tenierses,
Hans Holbein, Ostade, even Callot himself, with all his extravagant
and capricious fantasies, fall into the general rule; and the lady
artists, Diana Chisi, Angelica Kaufmann, and Anna Maria Schurman, may
be cited as equally exhibiting the same simplicity. There are some,
indeed, in whom this affectation of simplicity goes almost to the
length of rudeness. A charming cabinet picture, in the possession of
the writer of these pages, by the celebrated Philip Wouvermans, well
known for the familiar 'gray horse' which characterises all his
pictures, is scratched with a P. W. which would disgrace the lowest
form in a charity school. And, with every allowance for haste and
indifference, it is impossible not to suspect something like
affectation in the rude and sprawling signatures which we sometimes
find, not only in ancient, but even in comparatively modern artists.
It would carry us far beyond our allotted limits to pursue further the
examination of individual monograms. But there are some in the class
of symbolical monograms, already referred to, which we must notice
more in detail. Most of the monograms of this class, like that of
Correggio, given above, involve a pun, sometimes, indeed, not a very
recondite one. Thus the French artist, Jacob _Stella_, who died in
1647, invariably signs his pictures with _a star_--a device which the
modern artist, Frederic _Morgenstern_, has applied to himself,
representing his own name by the letter M, prefixed to the same
symbol.
In the same way, an ancient artist, Lauber (leaf-gatherer), adopted a
leaf (in German, _Laub_), as his symbol. Haus Weiner, in allusion to
the genial beverage from which his name is derived, marked his works
with the sign of a bunch of grapes. David Vinkenbooms (Anglice,
tree-finch), a Dutch painter of the sixteenth century, took a 'finch
perched upon a branch of a tree' as his pictorial emblem. Birnbaum
(pear-tree) employed a similar emblem; while the monogram of Bernard
Graat, a Dutch painter, who lived in the end of the seventeenth
century, though utterly without significance to an English eye, would
at once suggest the name of the painter to his own countrymen: Graat,
in Dutch, signifying the spine of a fish, represented in this curious
monogram.
The history of another emblem is perhaps still more remarkable. By a
singular and perhaps humorously intended coincidence, three German
painters, George Hufnagel, Sebastian Scharnagel, and John Nothnagel,
have all employed the same homely emblem--a nail; the German name of
which, _Nagel_, enters into the composition of all three surnames.
Hufnagel (hoof-nail) has signed his pictures with a horse-shoe nail,
sometimes crossed, sometimes curiously intertwined with the letters of
his Christian name. Scharnagel has combined with a nail the figure of
a spade or shovel (_schar_); while Nothnagel distinguishes himself
from both by prefixing the letter N to their common emblem.
There is more of delicacy and ingenuity in the device employed by a
female wood-engraver in the beginning of the sixteenth century,
Isabella Quatrepomme (four-apple.) She was accustomed to sign her
works with a neat and spirited sketch of an apple, marked with the
numeral IV. This mark is found upon some old French woodcuts still in
existence. There was some similar allusion, we have no doubt,
concealed in the device of John Maria Pomedello, an Italian engraver
of the time of Leo X. and Clement VII.; it has occasioned much
speculation to the learned in these matters, but we must confess our
inability to decipher all its significance. Nor was the use of these
punning emblems confined to masters of the fine arts. Printers, too,
frequently introduced them. The symbols of the olive, the sword, the
dolphin, &c. so familiar to all bibliographers, had their origin in
this fanciful taste; and a more direct example than any--the leading
feature of which is a rude image of a spur--is to be found in the
imprint of the curious old German books published by Hans Sporer
(spur-maker) during the very first years after the introduction of
printing into Germany. Editions of books, with this characteristic
imprint, still reckon among the choicest gems in a German
book-collector's library, of what the amateurs in this department have
chosen to call _Incunabeln_.
To those who have given any attention to the deciphering of
illustrated enigmas, many of the early monograms might furnish
considerable amusement. That of the rather obscure artist, Colioloro,
is a perfect counterpart of the most elaborate and fanciful of the
modern enigmas. The curious combination, not alone of words, but of
single letters, with the pictorial emblems, is fully as fanciful as
any which we remember to have seen, even among those of the Leipsic
_Illustrirte Zeitung_, which seems to bestow more attention on the
subject than any of its contemporaries.
It must be remembered, that the artist's full name is Artigli Coscia
Colioloro. The device begins with a confused heap of birds' claws,
paws of animals, &c.; next appears a thigh, cut short above the knee;
this is followed by the letter C. Next in order is seen a flask
pouring out a stream of oil; the letter l, with a comma above the
line, comes next; and the whole is closed by a goodly heap of gold
pieces. To an Italian scholar, it is hardly necessary to offer an
explanation. The group of emblems at the left hand represents Artigli
(limbs); the rude image which succeeds it stands for Coscia (a thigh);
the C, followed by the little flask of oil (_olio_), forms Colio; and
the l, with the comma, or rather the mark of apostrophe, followed by
the heap of gold pieces (_oro_)--making together l'oro, completes the
characters of the name--Artigli Coscia Colioloro.
It will not, however, be a matter of surprise, that the key to many of
these emblems has, in the course of time, been lost; and that at
present a considerable number of this class of monograms are a mystery
even to the most learned in the art. Notwithstanding every appliance,
the monogrammatists have occasionally been forced to confess
themselves in doubt, and sometimes altogether at fault, as to the
identification, or even the interpretation, of some of the emblems.
During the latter part of the seventeenth century, and the whole of
the eighteenth, the monogram went almost entirely out of fashion. In
England, even still, its use is far from being general; and
engravings, especially, are now-a-days almost invariably signed with
the full name. But foreign artists, and particularly those of the
_renaissance_, have revived the old usage. Frederic Overbeck, the
great father of the Christian school of art: Cornelius, to whose
magnificent conceptions Munich and Berlin owe their most glorious
works, both historical and imaginative--as the fresco illustrations of
the _Nibelungen Lied_, in the Royal Palace; the 'Last Judgment,' in
the Ludwig-Kirche; and the 'History of St Boniface,' in the
Bonifaz-Kloster--Storr, the great Austrian master, whose conception of
'Faust,' in the Royal Gallery at Vienna, is in itself a great poem;
and the whole Düsseldorf school--have conformed to the ancient type.
Even the humorists have made it, in some instances, a vehicle of their
humour. Few of those who were wont to enjoy Richard Doyle's inimitable
sketches in _Punch_, whose guiding-spirit he used to be, can forget
the funny little figure, surmounted by his well-known initials; and
the lovers of political caricature must often have smiled over the
quizzical-looking gentleman who used to figure at the right-hand
corner of HH.'s admirable sketches. But we doubt whether the fashion
is destined to be ever fully restored, or whether the monogram is not
rather doomed to remain a thing of the past--a subject of speculation
for that laborious, though not very practical class,
'Who delve 'mid nooks and sinuosities,
For literary curiosities.'