egotistical in the highest degree, and absurd, to assert positively that
the argument about to be advanced is at all novel, though it may
certainly appear strange. It is, however, original so far as I am
concerned, for I have not seen it hinted at before by anyone, much less
carried to a conclusion. Whether there be any warrant for it or no is a
point for others, who have a greater capacity for distinguishing reason
in probabilities than I can lay claim to, to determine for themselves.
It is admitted by all writers who have studied the subject of
bookbinding from its historical aspect, that, as the monks of the Middle
Ages were the sole producers of books, so also they were the only
binders, and that the record of their achievements dates from about 520
A.D., when Dagaeus, the Irish monk, practised his art, to the invention
of printing from movable types by Gutenberg and Fust nearly a thousand
years later. Not merely in England, but all over Europe, the monks were
practically the sole custodians of knowledge during the earlier part of
this period; they alone produced books, they alone bound them, they
alone could read them. There were, no doubt, laymen who could read and
write, but neither accomplishment was general in the outer world. King
Alfred (A.D. 870) was a scholar; William the Conqueror, two centuries
later, could neither read nor write.
The Stowe MS. No. 960 contains all that remains of the register of Hyde
Abbey, Winchester, from the time of King Canute, one of its earliest
benefactors, to the Dissolution. Among the many interesting articles in
this Stowe manuscript there is one which exceeds all the rest in
interest, for it bears the actual cross, sign or signature made by
William in testimony that he had granted 9 hides of land to the monks,
in exchange for the site of the cemetery in the city of Winchester. The
King has drawn with a quill a rude and most illiterate cross, if such a
thing can be imagined. The ink has not flown evenly from a pen
evidently held in a perpendicular position with tremulous and infirm
grip. Each line begins with a splutter, and at the point of
intersection there is what looks suspiciously like a blot. It is
obvious at the first glance that King William, though a man of many
accomplishments eminently useful in those days, was accustomed to wield
the battle-axe rather than the pen. And this was so general for
centuries after his day that, but for the monks, there would have been
no learning at all, and no books all that time.
It is unnecessary to refer to this phase of the matter further than to
say that all the ancient and medieval European manuscripts which still
exist were written by ecclesiastics, and doubtless bound by them as
well. Manuscripts of the ninth century, beautifully encased in ivory,
silver and gold, and sometimes encrusted with precious stones, are still
extant. These are undoubtedly monkish, and the question arises, What
has become of the vast bulk of which these are but a remnant? What has
become of the old English libraries that existed in hundreds at the time
of the Reformation? Were they, all but a very few, wantonly destroyed
by those who undertook the spoliation of the monasteries, or did many
escape them? and if so, where are they now? The suggestion that
innumerable volumes, particularly those which were handsomely and
expensively bound, would never be seen by the raiders at all is not so
improbable as it may at first sight appear, when we come to consider the
facts.
In November, 1534, an Act of Parliament declared that 'the King's
Highness was the supreme head of the Church of England, and had
authority to reform and redress all errors, heresies, and abuses in the
same.' This Act was speedily followed up, for in 1535 Cromwell, in his
capacity of Vicar-General, proceeded to make a visitation of the
monasteries, where he is said to have found such evidences of shameless
immorality that another Act was passed, transferring such of these
establishments to the Crown as were not of the annual value of L200.
The number of religious houses at this time dissolved, raided and sacked
amounted to 376. With diabolical minuteness the revenues of each and all
were estimated to the last penny. Bangor was worth L151 3s., and was
accordingly seized on the spot. St. David easily escaped for the time
being, for the revenue of that monastery proved to be L426 2s. 1d. St.
Asaph, being assessed at L202 10s., escaped an early wreck by L2 10s.
It was the same all over England and Wales. The revenue was estimated,
and if it fell below L200, the monastery was at once filled with armed
men, while Cromwell's experts stripped the walls of their arras, seized
the gold and silver vessels, tore up the books, scoured the
neighbourhood round about for game, tapped the vintage, and thoroughly
enjoyed themselves in their own peculiar way.
It is recorded that priceless books and manuscripts were wantonly
destroyed, tombs sacrilegiously broken to pieces for the sake of the
metal, often merely lead or brass, that extolled the virtues or the
lineage of those who slept below; silver and gold plate of exquisite
workmanship, and of a degree of antiquity rarely, if ever, seen now,
were melted down and sold by weight; buildings of an architectural
beauty unsurpassed anywhere were wantonly defaced, and in many cases
dismantled, for the sake of the materials, and in the midst of this
disgraceful scene of plunder and desecration, the destroyers fought with
one another as desperately as Roman gladiators of the days of Nero, for
the possession of some coveted jewel or ornament that all wanted and
only one could have.
Now here comes the crux of the argument. Only the smaller houses were
dissolved at this time, and unless human nature were totally different
in the days of Henry VIII. from what it is now, unless the Abbots of
Furness, Bolton, Fountains, and other large and extremely rich
monasteries, looked on unmoved while their humbler brethren were
stripped to the skin and flung destitute into the lanes and ditches to
die, then it is morally certain that they would take steps to protect
themselves, as far as lay in their power, from the fury of the storm
which they must have known would shortly burst over their heads. Unless
they were wholly infatuated, they would cautiously and gradually remove
their choicest possessions, their basins, images, censers, crucifixes
and chalices, and above all their precious volumes, with which the very
history and fortunes of the abbey were associated, and bury them deep
down, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet, under the walls.
The ruin brought at this time upon all that was priceless by reason of
its antiquity and associations is incalculable, and the only ray of
consolation let in upon these dark days' doings is that the Abbots of
the larger monasteries, taking warning from what they saw going on all
around, may have buried their choicest possessions, where, perhaps, they
will be found some of these days, when the plough shall furrow up the
dust of Furness or Denever.
Many of the inventories taken by the King's agents are extant. One of
them, that of Fountains, taken just before the Dissolution, will suffice
to show what is meant. The value of all the plate, gold and silver,
amounted to L708 5s. 9-3/4d.--a comparatively small sum, seeing that the
cattle, sheep and swine belonging to the abbey were of much greater
value. Not a single book of any kind is scheduled, and yet the library
of Fountains was at one time the most extensive and important in
Yorkshire. As the Knights Templars buried their gold under the high
altar in the church of the New Temple, yet standing within sound of the
roar of Fleet Street, in order to protect it against the rapacity of
Edward I., so it is suggested that the Abbots of Fountains and other
surviving houses buried their treasures in the most sacred place they
could think of, thereby handing them over, as it were, to God and the
right, rather than abandon them to the tender mercies of man.
Now, this is merely an argument based upon probability; it cannot, from
the very nature of the case, be supported by a scrap of evidence, and
yet it carries with it such a ring of truth in my ears that, were I the
happy owner of one of those fast-crumbling piles which still rear their
rugged fronts to the sky, I would, by all the enamels of Limoges, by the
ivory, gold and silver, and rubies which make up this glamour of
bindings unseen, put the argument to the test without hesitation and
regardless of cost.
Monastic bindings of English workmanship are not, as we may well
understand, distinguished as a rule for extreme beauty. The gorgeous
covers that protected illuminated manuscripts, themselves extremely
valuable, were in vogue at a very early period, long before the
invention of printing, and the vast majority were probably either hidden
away as suggested, or destroyed. In any case, however, they must have
been rare even a thousand years ago--as rare, indeed, as the
exceptionally fine missals and breviaries they protected, some of which
would take a monk his lifetime to produce. We find that by the
fourteenth century monastic bindings were usually serviceable and plain,
and that it was only occasionally that rich materials were employed, as,
for example, when a King's library was added to, or some important
monastery gave a special order by way of continuing the traditions of
the house, and showing that time had not in any way curtailed its
glories. The most interesting ancient bindings that yet survive to us
consist of a specimen of the work of the monk Dagaeus, which dates from
about 520 A.D., and a manuscript known as the 'Textus Sanctus
Cuthberti,' bound in velvet with a broad silver border, and inlaid with
gems, by the first English binder, one Bilfred, a monk of Durham, who
was living at the beginning of the eighth century. This is the holy
volume that was swallowed up by the sea, and, according to the old
legend, restored out of respect for the memory of the saint, or perhaps
that of the monk or both.
We have, therefore, two styles of monastic bindings--one resplendent in
gold, ivory, and precious stones, and the other of a more sober
character for ordinary and daily use. The latter were of wood covered
with embossed leather, or with plain shark skin, or even seal. They
were ponderous, massive folios of great weight and durability, protected
in vulnerable parts with brass or iron bosses and corner-plates. We
find them produced as a matter of course to about the time of the
Renaissance, when they gradually gave place to smaller books bound in
velvet or silk, and embroidered by abbesses and nuns, and so the custom
prevailed until the days of the first printers, when calf and morocco
were introduced from the East by the Venetians, and pigskin or thick
parchment became fashionable. Prior to this time oaken boards formed
the groundwork of every binding, and to this day the word 'boards' is in
general use, although the reason for its existence obtains no longer.
The Italians were the first to awaken to a sense of the propriety of
things, and the modern collector to whom bindings appeal with an
irresistible force instinctively turns to the first Italian era to
supply him with some of the rarest and choicest examples of the art.
The commoner monastic bindings have no beauty in his eyes, and those of
a superior order and more costly finish are practically interred within
the walls of great public institutions, from which they will, in the
nature of things, never emerge. For some reason or other the finest
binding loses its glamour, if not its interest, when exhibited in a
glass case. We must have these things for our own before we can
appreciate them to the full. What more melancholy mortal than a public
curator trying to work himself up into a state of enthusiasm as he
describes the objects committed to his care? They are mere pots and pans
and 'things,' but yet how different if he had them all at home!
But to return to our bindings. Let it be observed that with the
invention of printing, and the consequent production of books in a more
portable form, the modern style of binding was gradually introduced.
These were the days of deep-toned leathers, ornamented in gold and
variegated colours, and executed for wealthy and powerful Italian
families, who employed skilful artists to draw the designs, often
consisting of geometrical interfacings or foliage, such as Maioli and
Grolier rejoiced in.
This style of ornamenting leather came from the East, as did the
Saracenic rope ornament, which was perhaps the first design to take the
fancy of Italian workmen. The general appearance of this rope design
reminds one of the frontispiece to a certain 'Biography of Jack Ketch,'
which someone brought out a few years ago. The half-length portrait of
the hero is within a graceful border of ropes intertwined, there are
ropes tumbling from the clouds, and he holds a rope in his hand, as if
ready to begin. Behind, so far as my memory serves me, there is the
frowning portal of Newgate, festooned with fetters. A panel of
Saracenic rope-design set on end reminds one of this frontispiece, and
we listen instinctively for the tolling of the prison bell.
The celebrated printer Aldus Manutius seems to have been the first to
rebel against such sinister designs as these, and, moreover, he was the
friend of Jean Grolier and Thommaso Maioli, princes among book-lovers,
and artists by nature. Aldus often bound the books he printed in smooth,
rich morocco, tooled in gold to various patterns of elaborate design,
and to him we doubtless owe much of the improvement in binding which
became so marked at the beginning of the sixteenth century. His were,
indeed, publishers' bindings produced by rule of thumb, but they are not
on that account less worthy of interest, for the name of Aldus is one to
conjure with in all things bookish.
The Thommaso Maioli to whom reference has been made exercised a much
greater influence than Aldus ever did in the matter of bindings, for his
were the models on which were fashioned the designs of later collectors,
not merely of Italy, but of France and other European countries.
Maioli's designs are free and open, in a style suggestive of Eastern
influence, but reduced to earth and reality by perpendicular and
perfectly straight lines. His library was open to his friends, and most
of his books were lettered on the covers 'Tho. Maioli et amicorum,'
qualified sometimes by other words of different import, 'Ingratis
servire nephas.' Very likely Maioli was on occasion the victim of some
too ardent bibliophile, who would think nothing of borrowing, and
perhaps also of some Philistine, who left ruin in the trail of his dirty
or heavy fingers.
So, too, Jean Grolier, whom Dibdin ludicrously turns into a bookbinder,
but who was, in fact, the French contemporary and twin soul of Maioli,
chose to follow the traditions of all true book-lovers, and his covers
also bear the courteous invitation to friends, 'Io Grolierii et
amicorum,' though he too found occasion to alter it from time to time.
The bindings of Maioli and Grolier, worked out and finished most
probably at Venice for the most part, are highly valued by collectors
all over the world, and they are indeed worthy of all the attention they
receive.
The bindings of Maioli are more difficult to meet with than those of
Grolier, because the library of the latter numbered some 8,000 volumes,
and was eventually sold by auction and dispersed broadcast. Grolier's
descendants had no false sentiment in their composition; the 'amici'
were themselves, and they acted in their own interests, in strict
accordance with their interpretation of the family motto. Besides, in
those days, though the love of books raged furiously in isolated
breasts, in general it was cold, and no one could probably have been
found to take over the entire library, or even that considerable portion
of it which at the last lay among the dust and cobwebs of the Hotel de
Vic.
Rarer than any of this period, however, are the medallion bindings of
Demetrio Canevari, physician to Pope Urban VII., who was living in the
year 1600. In all probability Canevari merely inherited his books, for
their covers belong to an earlier period. Still, whatever the fact in
this respect, they are called after his name, and are very scarce,
notwithstanding that the whole library was intact at Genoa until 1823.
Libri thought that these delicate and elaborate bindings had never been
surpassed, and certainly they are very beautiful, with their cameos in
gold, silver, and colours enriched with classical portraits and
mythological scenes.
But to the lover of bindings it is Grolier, Grolier, Grolier; from the
haunting music of that name there is no escape, and, moreover, Grolier
even in death was great. The Emperor Charles V. did not disdain to
follow his taste, while Francis I. was completely carried away by it,
his bindings, as soon as he could shake off the early influence of
Etienne Roffet, being magnificently Grolieresque, blazing with gold and
the brightest colours. Then came Henri II. and the accomplished Diane de
Poictiers, whose emblems, the crescent moon, the bow, quiver and arrows
of the chase, are invariably found associated with the initial of the
King. Diane was the royal mistress, and seems to have had a passion for
blending the two linked D's with the regal H. This joint monogram was
on the walls and furniture of her Chateau of Anet, and still stares us
out of countenance occasionally from behind glass doors. Diane, however,
so long as she had it in her power--that is to say, until 1559, when the
King died--did everything she could to introduce a taste for magnificent
and sumptuous bindings into France; to eclipse once and for all time the
efforts of every book-lover who had preceded her. In a measure she
succeeded, and certainly no good books come to us, when they come at
all, which is but seldom, breathing more of romance than these volumes
which Diane treasured till her dying day, in spite of Court frowns and
persecution. Her library, which was a very extensive one, remained
intact at Anet until 1723, when it was sold.
It would be almost an endless task to name all the patrons of artistic
bindings who lived in France up to about the time of the Revolution.
There was the legitimate Queen of Henri II., Catherine de Medicis, a
descendant of the great Lorenzo, called the Magnificent, whose books are
often covered in white calf, powdered with golden flowers. This lady
was an enthusiastic book-lover, who, when she died, left a library of
some 4,000 volumes, most of which are still to be seen in the
Bibliotheque Nationale.
Then we must not forget her son, Francis II., who married the
unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots. His bindings, whether stamped with
the golden dolphin or with a monogram in which his own and the Queen's
initials are interlaced, are extremely scarce, and worth much gold.
Francis was only seventeen when he died, and had, consequently, no time
to become thoroughly saturated with the intense longing for beautiful
decorations which probably did much to set Catherine de Medicis and the
fair Diane by the ears. His younger brother, afterwards Henri III., had
greater opportunities for indulging his tastes in this respect, and the
history of his bibliopegic life, so to speak, is full of strange
surprises.
Like all other bindings with a history, specimens from the library of
this gloomy and taciturn monarch are very rarely met with. They are
distinctly worth looking at, however, especially by those of a morbid
turn of mind. They are more suggestive than the Saracenic rope style,
and infinitely more eloquent of woe. Henri ought to have married the
Princess Conde, but she died, and the young King, then about twenty-four
years old, and apparently influenced by the example of his father and
mother, turned for consolation to his library, and the designing of
emblems congenial to his mood.
These consist, at least at this period, when his grief was young and
fresh, of skulls garnished with cross-bones, tears, and other emblems of
the grave. They are, in their way, absolutely unique, and much more
remarkable than the curled snake of Colbert or the three towers of
Madame de Pompadour. The bindings of Henri III., though uncongenial to
most tastes, are of excellent design and workmanship, for Nicholas and
Clovis Eve were living in his day, and better artists than they proved
themselves to be it would be hopeless to look for. It was one or other
of the brothers who introduced the fanfare style, which resolved itself
finally into a profusion of small flourished ornaments, so closely
worked together that a volume bound in this way looked as though picked
out ethereally with sprays, scrolls, and showers of golden rain. The
fanfare style was, so it is said, introduced to put an end to the
suicidal gloom that had overtaken the Court of Henri III.
That monarch, though a bad man, was probably the most original thinker
in the matter of bindings who ever lived, for De Thou's plan of
inventing a fresh design every time he got married resolved itself into
nothing more than a series of heraldic changes, and De Thou is generally
credited with a considerable amount of ingenuity, and regarded as a
person distinctly worth collecting on account of the variations in which
he is found, and for other reasons. Every book which touches, however
remotely, on the subject of bindings never fails to give the armorial
bearings of De Thou at different periods of his life; and we must pass
on to Marguerite de Valois; not the celebrated Queen of Navarre who
wrote the 'Heptameron' in her youth, but the daughter of Henri II.,
already mentioned as a great lover of bindings. Marguerite very
appropriately, having regard to the origin of her name, chose designs of
daisies, which she placed in oval compartments bearing the quarterings
of Valois, the whole being surrounded with leafy and branching
scroll-work. Clovis Eve was her binder, and the work he turned out at
this period is in his best style.
The history of bookbinding takes a curious turn at this epoch. Hitherto
we have heard more of the patron than of the artist, a state of things
which from this time forth exists no longer. I would not commit myself
to the assertion that Marguerite de Valois, who, by the way, died in
1615, was the last of the great collectors who eclipsed the reputation
of the binders they employed; but I know that about this period we begin
to hear more of the workman and less of the patron. When everybody of
the least importance begins to collect books, and to have them bound in
specially designed covers, the artist rises on the ashes of the amateur,
whose day is from that time forth over and gone, except in the limited
circle in which he moves. So it was at the epoch which immediately
followed the death of Marguerite de Valois. The Eves had forced their
way into notice in spite of the overwhelming presence of Henri II.,
Diane de Poictiers and Charles IX., Henri III. and IV., and other
less-exalted persons; and now Le Gascon made his presence felt still
more forcibly than they.
Le Gascon, who is identified with one Florimond Badier, introduced a
style of ornamentation known as _pointille_, consisting of graceful
geometrical designs worked out with innumerable minute gold dots,
usually on a ground of bright scarlet. The effect of a perfectly fresh
and bright binding by Le Gascon must have been brilliant in the extreme;
but, alas! the cost was something phenomenal, and the style, after being
parodied and imitated by mechanical process, finally died out in France
some thirty-five years after its introduction. Mazarin was the great
patron of Le Gascon, and many books which once belonged to the great
Cardinal are found with ornamentation, arms and motto--'His Fulta
Manebunt'--laboriously picked out in the beautiful _pointille_ style.