“Wednesday.”
“Then,” said the second, looking at her itinerary, “this is Venice.”
“I was born a printer, you know,” Howells remarked during one of my
visits. “I can remember the time when I couldn’t write, but not the
time when I couldn’t set type.”
He referred to his boyhood experiences in the printing office at
Hamilton, Ohio. His father published there a Whig newspaper, which
finally lost nearly all its subscribers because its publisher had the
unhappy genius of always taking the unpopular side of every public
question. Howells immortalized this printing office in his essay _The
Country Printer_,--where he recalls “the compositors rhythmically
swaying before their cases of type; the pressman flinging himself back
on the bar that made the impression, with a swirl of his long hair; the
apprentice rolling the forms; and the foreman bending over them.”
The Lucullan banquet referred to outrivaled that given by Colonel
Harvey to Mark Twain. How Mark Twain would have loved to be there,
and how much the presence of this life-long friend would have meant
to Howells! More than four hundred men and women prominent in letters
gathered to do honor to the beloved author, and President Taft conveyed
to him the gratitude of the nation for the hours of pleasure afforded
by his writings.
In the course of his remarks, Howells said:
_I knew Hawthorne and Emerson and Walt Whitman; I knew
Longfellow and Holmes and Whittier and Lowell; I knew Bryant
and Bancroft and Motley; I knew Harriet Beecher Stowe and Julia
Ward Howe; I knew Artemus Ward and Stockton and Mark Twain; I
knew Parkman and Fiske._
As I listened to this recapitulation of contact with modern humanists,
I wondered what Howells had left to look forward to. No one could
fail to envy him his memories, nor could he fail to ask himself
what twentieth-century names would be written in place of those the
nineteenth century had recorded in the Hall of Fame
* * * * *
My library has taken on a different aspect during all these years. When
I first installed my books I looked upon it as a sanctuary, into which
I could escape from the world outside. Each book was a magic carpet
which, at my bidding, transported me from one country to another, from
the present back to centuries gone by, gratifying my slightest whim in
response to the mere effort of changing volumes. My library has lost
none of that blissful peace as a retreat, but in addition it has become
a veritable meeting ground. The authors I have known are always waiting
for me there,--to disclose to me through their works far more than
they, in all modesty, would have admitted in our personal conferences
VI
TRIUMPHS OF TYPOGRAPHY
In gathering together his book treasures, a collector naturally
approaches the adventure from a personal standpoint. First editions may
particularly appeal to him, or Americana, or his bibliomania may take
the form of subject collecting. I once had a friend who concentrated
on whales and bees! My hobby has been to acquire, so far as possible,
volumes that represent the best workmanship of each epoch, and from
them I have learned much of fascinating interest beyond the history of
typography. A book in itself is always something more than paper and
type and binder’s boards. It possesses a subtle friendliness that sets
it apart from other inanimate objects about us, and stamps it with
an individuality which responds to our approach in proportion to our
interest. But aside from its contents, a typographical monument is a
barometer of civilization. If we discover what economic or political
conditions combined to make it stand out from other products of its
period, we learn contemporaneous history and become acquainted with
the personalities of the people and the manners and customs of the
times.
No two countries, since Gutenberg first discovered the power of
individual types when joined together to form words down to the present
day, have stood pre-eminent in the same epoch in the art of printing.
The curve of supremacy, plotted from the brief triumph of Germany
successively through Italy, France, the Netherlands, England, France,
and back again to England, shows that the typographical monuments of
the world are not accidental, but rather the natural results of cause
and effect. In some instances, the production of fine books made the
city of their origin the center of culture and brought luster to the
country; in others, the great master-printers were attracted from one
locality to another because of the literary atmosphere in a certain
city, and by their labors added to the reputation it had already
attained. The volumes themselves sometimes produced vitally significant
effects; sometimes their production was the result of conditions
equally important.
* * * * *
The first example I should like to own for my collection of
typographical triumphs is, of course, the _Gutenberg Bible_
(_opp. page_); but with only forty-five copies known to be in
existence (of which twelve are on vellum), I must content myself
with photographic facsimile pages. The copy most recently offered for
sale brought $106,000 in New York in February, 1926, and was later
purchased by Mrs. Edward S. Harkness for $120,000, who presented it to
the Yale University Library. This makes the _Gutenberg Bible_ the
most valuable printed book in the world,--six times as precious as a
Shakespeare first folio. Fortunately, the copies are well distributed,
so that one need not deny himself the pleasure of studying it. In
America, there are two examples (one on vellum) in the Pierpont Morgan
Library, in New York; another in the New York Public Library, and
still another in the library of the General Theological School; while
the private collections of Henry E. Huntington and Joseph E. Widener
are also fortunate possessors. In England, one may find a copy at
the British Museum or the Bodleian Library; on the Continent, at the
Bibliothèque Nationale at Paris, at the Vatican Library in Rome, or in
the libraries of Berlin, Leipzig, Munich, or Vienna. Over twenty of the
forty-five copies are imperfect, and only four are still in private
hands. Of these four, one is imperfect, and two are already promised to
libraries; so the copy sold in New York may be the last ever offered.
[Illustration: Part of a Page from the Vellum Copy of the _Gutenberg
Bible_, Mayence, 1455
Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris (Exact size)]
[Illustration: Rubricator’s Mark at End of First Volume of a Defective
Copy in the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris]
[Illustration: Rubricator’s Mark at End of Second Volume of a Defective
Copy in the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris]
The copy I love best to pore over is that bound in four volumes of
red morocco, stamped with the arms of Louis XVI, in the Bibliothèque
Nationale. This perhaps is not so historical as the one De Bure
discovered in the library of Cardinal Mazarin in Paris in 1763,--three
hundred years after it was printed, and until then unknown; but the
dignity of those beautifully printed types on the smooth, ivory surface
of the vellum possesses a magnificence beyond that of any other copy
I have seen. Also at the Bibliothèque Nationale is a defective paper
copy in two volumes in which appear rubricator’s notes marking the
completion of the work as August 15, 1456. Think how important this
is in placing this marvel of typography; for the project of printing
the _Bible_ could not have been undertaken earlier than August,
1451, when Gutenberg formed his partnership with Fust and Schoeffer in
Mayence.
[Illustration: GUTENBERG, FUST, COSTER, ALDUS, FROBEN
From Engraving by Jacob Houbraken (1698-1780)]
To a modern architect of books the obstacles which the printer at
that time encountered, with the art itself but a few years old, seem
insurmountable. There was the necessity of designing and cutting the
first fonts of type, based upon the hand lettering of the period.
As is always inevitable in the infancy of any art, this translation
from one medium to another repeated rather than corrected the errors
of the human hand. The typesetter, instead of being secured from
an employment office, had to be made. Gutenberg himself perhaps, had
to teach the apprentice the method of joining together the various
letters, in a roughly made composing stick of his own invention, in
such a way as to maintain regularity in the distances between the
stems of the various letters, and thus produce a uniform and pleasing
appearance. There existed no proper iron chases in which to lock up the
pages of the type, so that while the metal could be made secure at the
top and bottom, there are frequent instances where it bulges out on the
sides.
[Illustration: John Fust, from an Old Engraving]
From the very beginning the printed book had to be a work of art.
The patronage of kings and princes had developed the hand-lettered
volumes to the highest point of perfection, and, on account of this
keen competition with the scribes and their patrons, no printer could
afford to devote to any volume less than his utmost artistic taste and
mechanical ingenuity. Thus today, if a reader examines the _Gutenberg
Bible_ with a critical eye, he will be amazed by the extraordinary
evenness in the printing, and the surprisingly accurate alignment of
the letters. The glossy blackness of the ink still remains, and the
sharpness of the impression is equal to that secured upon a modern
cylinder press.
It has been estimated that no less than six hand presses were employed
in printing the 641 leaves, composed in double column without numerals,
catch words, or signatures. What binder today would undertake to
collate such a volume in proper sequence! After the first two divisions
had come off the press it was decided to change the original scheme of
the pages from 40 to 42 lines. In order to get these two extra lines
on the page it was necessary to set all the lines closer together. To
accomplish this, some of the type was recast, with minimum shoulder,
and the rest of it was actually cut down in height to such an extent
that a portion of the curved dots of the _i_’s was clipped off.
Monographs have been written to explain the variation in the size of
the type used in different sections of this book, but what more natural
explanation could there be than that the change was involuntary and due
to natural causes? In those days the molds which the printer used for
casting his types were made sometimes of lead, but more often of wood.
As he kept pouring the molten metal into these matrices, the very heat
would by degrees enlarge the mold itself, and thus produce lead type of
slightly larger size. From time to time, also, the wooden matrices wore
out, and the duplicates would not exactly correspond with those they
replaced.
In printing these volumes, the precedent was established of leaving
blank spaces for the initial letters, which were later filled in by
hand. Some of these are plain and some elaborate, serving to make the
resemblance to the hand-lettered book even more exact; but the glory of
the _Gutenberg Bible_ lies in its typography and presswork rather
than in its illuminated letters.
* * * * *
Germany, in the _Gutenberg Bible_, proved its ability to produce
volumes worthy of the invention itself, but as a country it possessed
neither the scholars, the manuscripts, nor the patrons to insure the
development of the new art. Italy, at the end of the fifteenth century,
had become the home of learning, and almost immediately Venice became
the Mecca of printers. Workmen who had served their apprenticeships
in Germany sought out the country where princes might be expected to
become patrons of the new art, where manuscripts were available for
copy, and where a public existed both able and willing to purchase the
products of the press. The Venetian Republic, quick to appreciate this
opportunity, offered its protection and encouragement. Venice itself
was the natural market of the world for distribution of goods because
of the low cost of sea transportation.
I have a fine copy of Augustinus: _De Civitate Dei_ (_page
205_) that I discovered in Rome in its original binding years ago,
printed in Jenson’s Gothic type in 1475. On the first page of text,
in bold letters across the top, the printer has placed the words,
_Nicolaus Jenson, Gallicus_. In addition to this signature, the
_explicit_ reads:
_This work_ De Civitate Dei _is happily completed, being
done in Venice by that excellent and diligent master, Nicolas
Jenson, while Pietro Mocenigo was Doge, in the year after the
birth of the Lord, one thousand four hundred and seventy-five,
on the sixth day before the nones
of October (2 October)_
[Illustration: _Nicolas Jenson’s Explicit and Mark_]
[Illustration: Jenson’s Gothic Type. From Augustinus: _De Civitate
Dei_, Venice, 1475
(Exact size)]
Jenson was a printer who not only took pride in his art but also in the
country of his birth! He was a Frenchman, who was sent to Mayence by
King Charles VII of France to find out what sort of thing this new art
of printing was, and if of value to France to learn it and to bring it
home. Jenson had been an expert engraver, so was well adapted to this
assignment. At Mayence he quickly mastered the art, and was prepared
to transport it to Paris; but by this time Charles VII had died, and
Jenson knew that Louis XI, the new monarch, would have little interest
in recognizing his father’s mandate. The Frenchman then set himself up
in Venice, where he contributed largely to the prestige gained by this
city as a center for printing as an art, and for scholarly publications.
Jenson had no monopoly on extolling himself in the _explicits_ of
his books. The cost of paper in those days was so high that a title
page was considered an unnecessary extravagance, so this was the
printer’s only opportunity to record his imprint. In modern times we
printers are more modest, and leave it to the publishers to sound our
praises, but we do like to place our signatures on well-made books!
The _explicit_ in the hand-written book also offered a favorite
opportunity for gaining immortality for the scribe. I once saw in
an Italian monastery a manuscript volume containing some 600 pages,
in which was recorded the fact that on such and such a day Brother
So-and-So had completed the transcribing of the text; and inasmuch as
he had been promised absolution, one sin for each letter, he thanked
God that the sum total of the letters exceeded the sum total of his
sins, even though by but a single unit!
Among Jenson’s most important contributions were his type designs,
based upon the best hand lettering of the day. Other designers had
slavishly copied the hand-written letter, but Jenson, wise in his
acquired knowledge, eliminated the variations and produced letters not
as they appeared upon the hand-written page, but standardized to the
design which the artist-scribe had in mind and which his hand failed
accurately to reproduce. The Jenson Roman (_page 22_) and his
Gothic (_page 205_) types have, through all these centuries, stood
as the basic patterns of subsequent type designers.
Jenson died in 1480, and the foremost rival to his fame is Aldus
Manutius, who came to Venice from Carpi and established himself there
in 1494. I have often conjectured what would have happened had this
Frenchman printed his volumes in France and thus brought them into
competition with the later product of the Aldine Press. The supremacy
of Italy might have suffered,--but could Jenson have cut his types or
printed his books in the France of the fifteenth century? As it was,
the glories of the Aldi so closely followed Jenson’s superb work that
Italy’s supreme position in the history of typography can never be
challenged.
For his printer’s mark Aldus adopted the famous combination of the
Dolphin and Anchor, the dolphin signifying speed in execution and
the anchor firmness in deliberation. As a slogan he used the words
_Festina lente_, of which perhaps the most famous translation is
that by Sir Thomas Browne, “Celerity contempered with Cunctation.”
Jenson’s printer’s mark (_page 203_), by the way, has suffered
the indignity of being adopted as the trademark of a popular brand of
biscuits!
[Illustration: Device of Aldus Manutius]
The printing office of Aldus stood near the Church of Saint Augustus,
in Venice. Here he instituted a complete revolution in the existing
methods of publishing. The clumsy and costly folios and quartos, which
had constituted the standard forms, were now replaced by crown octavo
volumes, convenient both to the hand and to the purse.
“I have resolved,” Aldus wrote in 1490, “to devote my life to the cause
of scholarship. I have chosen, in place of a life of ease and freedom,
an anxious and toilsome career. A man has higher responsibilities than
the seeking of his own enjoyment; he should devote himself to honorable
labor. Living that is a mere existence can be left to men who are
content to be animals. Cato compared human existence to iron. When
nothing is done with it, it rusts; it is only through constant activity
that polish or brilliancy is secured.”
[Illustration: GROLIER IN THE PRINTING OFFICE OF ALDUS
After Painting by François Flameng
Courtesy The Grolier Club, New York City]
The weight of responsibility felt by Aldus in becoming a printer may
be better appreciated when one realizes that this profession then
included the duties of editor and publisher. The publisher of today
accepts or declines manuscripts submitted by their authors, and the
editing of such manuscripts, if considered at all, is placed in the
hands of his editorial department. Then the “copy” is turned over to
the printer for manufacture. In the olden days the printer was obliged
to search out his manuscripts, to supervise their editing--not from
previously printed editions, but from copies transcribed by hand,
frequently by careless scribes. Thus his reputation depended not only
on his skill as a printer, but also upon his sagacity as a publisher,
and his scholarship as shown in his text. In addition to all this, the
printer had to create the demand for his product and arrange for its
distribution because there were no established bookstores.
The great scheme that Aldus conceived was the publication of the Greek
classics. Until then only four of the Greek authors, Æsop, Theocritus,
Homer, and Isocrates, had been published in the original. Aldus gave
to the world, for the first time in printed form, Aristotle, Plato,
Thucydides, Xenophon, Herodotus, Aristophanes, Euripides, Sophocles,
Demosthenes, Lysias, Æschines, Plutarch, and Pindar. Except for what
Aldus did at this time, most of these texts would have been irrevocably
lost to posterity.
When you next see Italic type you will be interested to know that it
was first cut by Aldus, said to be inspired by the thin, inclined,
cursive handwriting of Petrarch; when you admire the beauty added to
the page by the use of small capitals, you should give Aldus credit for
having been the first to use this attractive form of typography. Even
in that early day Aldus objected to the inartistic, square ending of a
chapter occupying but a portion of the page, and devised all kinds of
type arrangements, half-diamond, goblet, and bowl, to satisfy the eye.
To me, the most interesting book that Aldus produced was the
_Hypnerotomachia Poliphili_,--“Poliphilo’s Strife of Love in
a Dream.” It stands as one of the most celebrated in the annals of
Venetian printing, being the only illustrated volume issued by the
Aldine Press. This work was undertaken at the very close of the
fifteenth century at the expense of one Leonardo Crasso of Verona, who
dedicated the book to Guidobaldo, Duke of Urbino. It was written by a
Dominican friar, Francesco Colonna, who adopted an ingenious method of
arranging his chapters so that the successive initial letters compose
a complete sentence which, when translated, read, “Brother Francesco
Colonna greatly loved Polia.” Polia has been identified as one Lucrezia
Lelio, daughter of a jurisconsult of Treviso, who later entered a
convent.
[Illustration: Text Page from Aldus’ _Hypnerotomachia Poliphili_,
Venice, 1499 (11 × 7 inches).
It is on this model that the type used in this volume is based]
[Illustration: Illustrated Page of Aldus’ _Hypnerotomachia
Poliphili_, Venice, 1499 (11 × 7 inches)]
[Illustration: GROLIER BINDING
Castiglione: _Cortegiano_. Aldine Press, 1518
Laurenziana Library, Florence]
The volume displays a pretentious effort to get away from the
commonplace. On every page Aldus expended his utmost ingenuity in the
arrangement of the type,--the use of capitals and small capitals,
and unusual type formations. In many cases the type balances the
illustrations in such a way as to become a part of them. Based on
the typographical standards of today, some of these experiments
are indefensible, but in a volume issued in 1499 they stand as
an extraordinary exhibit of what an artistic, ingenious printer
can accomplish within the rigid limitations of metal type. The
illustrations themselves, one hundred and fifty-eight in number, run
from rigid architectural lines to fanciful portrayals of incidents in
the story. Giovanni Bellini is supposed to have been the artist, but
there is no absolute evidence to confirm this supposition.
Some years ago the Grolier Club of New York issued an etching entitled,
_Grolier in the Printing Office of Aldus_ (_page 208_). I
wish I might believe that this great printer was fortunate enough
to have possessed such an office! In spite of valuable concessions
he received from the Republic, and the success accorded to him as
a printer, he was able to eke out but a bare existence, and died a
poor man. The etching, however, is important as emphasizing the close
relation which exited between the famous ambassador of François I at
the Court of Pope Clement VII, at Rome, and the family of Aldus, to
which association booklovers owe an eternal debt of gratitude. At one
time the Aldine Press was in danger of bankruptcy, and Grolier not only
came to its rescue with his purse but also with his personal services.
Without these tangible expressions of his innate love for the book,
collectors today would be deprived of some of the most interesting
examples of printing and binding that they count among their richest
treasures.
The general conception that Jean Grolier was a binder is quite
erroneous; he was as zealous a patron of the printed book as of the
binder’s art. His great intimacy in Venice was with Andrea Torresani
(through whose efforts the Jenson and the Aldus offices were finally
combined), and his two sons, Francesco and Federico, the father-in-law
and brothers-in-law of the famous Aldus. No clearer idea can be gained
of Grolier’s relations at _Casa Aldo_ than the splendid letter
which he sent to Francesco in 1519, intrusting to his hands the making
of Budé’s book, _De Asse_:
[Illustration: GROLIER BINDING
Capella: _L’Anthropologia Digaleazzo_. Aldine Press, 1533
_From which the Cover Design of this Volume was adapted_
(Laurenziana Library, Florence. 7½ × 4¼ inches)]
_You will care with all diligence, _he writes_, O most
beloved Francesco, that this work, when it leaves your printing
shop to pass into the hands of learned men, may be as correct
as it is possible to render it. I heartily beg and beseech this
of you. The book, too, should be decent and elegant; and to
this will contribute the choice of the paper, the excellence
of the type, which should have been but little used, and the
width of the margins. To speak more exactly, I should wish it
were set up with the same type with which you printed your_
Poliziano. _And if this decency and elegance shall
increase your expenses, I will refund you entirely. Lastly, I
should wish that nothing be added to the original or taken from
it._
What better conception of a book, or of the responsibility to be
assumed toward that book, both by the printer and by the publisher,
could be expressed today!
* * * * *