A Passion for Books

by Harold Rabinowitz

  John Baskerville is a good example. He had been a clergyman’s servant, exhibited a skill in penmanship which attracted his employer, became a teacher, then a businessman, made a fortune, and by the time he was fifty could afford to indulge in a hobby. That hobby was printing. He designed his own type, had presses built to special specifications, ordered paper to his own requirements, made his own ink. He did all this because he was a perfectionist; the best available was not good enough. He spent seven years in experimentation before publishing his first book. His greatest production was the folio Bible printed under the auspices of Cambridge University in 1763—it won the reputation of being one of the most beautiful printed books in the world. The edition was 1,250 copies, but barely half sold at the price of four guineas per copy, about twenty dollars, a fairly high price almost two hundred years ago. Baskerville sacrificed the remainder to a London bookseller.

  Another exceptionally beautiful Bible, perhaps the most beautiful between Baskerville’s of 1763 and its own date of 1903–1905, is the Doves Press Bible, which takes its name from the press which issued it. The partners in the Doves Press in England, T. S. Cobden-Sanderson and Emery Walker, were typographical artists and enthusiasts. As had printers before them, when they determined to produce something incomparable, they turned to the Bible.

  In the 1930s there came the Oxford Lectern Bible, designed by Bruce Rogers, the most important figure in the field of fine printing in the United States. This superb edition of the King James Bible was specially commissioned after it became known that the librarian of King George V had reported his failure to find a lectern Bible suitable for the king to present to a church.

  When the World Publishing Company, a leader in American Bible publishing, obeyed that recurrent printers’ impulse, the most natural procedure was to seek the aid and guidance of Mr. Rogers. The type in the Bruce Rogers World Bible is Goudy Bible, the first use of a face named for the late Frederic Goudy, a great type designer. But Mr. Rogers gave it his own orientation, adapting it from Mr. Goudy’s Newstyle, and with characteristic modesty named it for Goudy rather than for himself.

  The Bible is timeless. Man’s adoration of the Holy Scriptures is reflected in the works of artists of every age and in every field of endeavor. In all the arts, fine and applied, there has ever been a continual striving to interpret the Bible’s inspiration through art and craftsmanship. In no field has this been more true than in printing. For in printing we deal not with an interpretation of the Bible—as in music, painting, and sculpture—but with the Bible itself, the very Word. In this work, the printer will ever strive to match in zeal the great masters from Gutenberg to Rogers, as he endeavors to give into mankind’s hands the greatest of all inspirational works, in the most perfect form possible.

  Aldus Manutius

  BY WILLIAM DANA ORCUTT

  It is fitting that this essay about one of the most important people in the history of the Book should be written by a man who was himself the author of some of the most beautiful books about books ever published.

  The great figure in the whole history of the Book is Aldus Manutius, whose claim to fame comes not only from his work as a printer, but also from the profound effect of his scholarship upon the learning of the world, and his successful efforts to preserve the Greek classics to posterity. He was born at Bassiano, a small town in the Romagna, in 1447, his baptismal name being Teobaldo, from which came the abbreviated, Latinized form by which he will always be known. The Manucci were a noble Tuscan family.

  The young Aldus, as a student, early showed a distinct tendency toward learning, and at Rome and Ferrara he distinguished himself, particularly in the classics. Having mastered Latin, he studied Greek under the famous Guarini of Turin. At Ferrara he formed a devoted friendship with a brilliant fellow student, Pico della Mirandola, prince of Carpi, from which association may be directly traced his later steps in life. It was through this friend’s influence that, when Aldus completed his studies at Ferrara, he became tutor to the two young sons of Pico’s sister at Carpi; it was from meeting at Carpi the accomplished Greek scholar Adramyttenos, a refugee from Constantinople, that the full beauty of the Greek language burst upon him; it was from his work in instructing his youthful charges in Greek from manuscript textbooks that he received his vision of what it would mean to the scholarship of the world if these same manuscript classics might be multiplied by means of the new invention of printing; it was through the sympathetic and financial assistance of the princess of Carpi that he received his backing when he established himself in Venice, to translate his vision into practical expression.

  Beyond all this, the years at Carpi developed Aldus into an all-round, cultured gentleman. The atmosphere in which he lived was so charged with appreciation of the beautiful that life unfolded in such a way as to make upon him an indelible impression.

  While the tutor was under the influence of these surroundings, examples of the new art of printing fell into Aldus’s hands—volumes printed perhaps by John of Spires or Nicolas Jenson in Venice. They came to him as a direct message, almost as a command, to abandon his happy environment and, during his remaining years, to apply his scholarship and experience to extending the world’s horizon of learning through the now accessible medium of the printed book. “I have resolved,” Aldus wrote, “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 may 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.”

  Aldus at once outlined his vision to the princess of Carpi, and he found in her a regretful but a sympathetic listener. After all these years, it was a wrench for both of them to terminate the delightful relations which had always existed; but the young princes had grown up, and Aldus had really completed his work at Carpi. So the princess encouraged him to proceed with his ambitious plans and promptly offered to supply him with a modest financial background, to which her brother Pico and her two sons later generously contributed. That Aldus fully realized his obligation is shown in a letter, written years later to a friend who asked for a discount on an order for books: “I cannot give you these at a reduced price, because they belong to me in common with several other persons.”

  The princess and Aldus discussed the details, and the plans rapidly matured. It was important for the embryo printer to place himself where manuscripts were most available, and where he could receive capable editorial assistance. This made the selection of Venice inevitable. Starting with the notable collection of Greek and Latin manuscripts which Cardinal Bessarion had bequeathed to the Venetian Republic on his death in 1474, no city was richer in potential material. Venice was also the center of a large Greek colony, including many who were well educated and fully competent to assist Aldus in his ambitious undertaking. It was in Venice, therefore, that Aldus settled, about 1488.

  Aldus approached the art of printing with seriousness and with a full comprehension of the difficulties involved. There were the type letters to be designed and cut, the compositors to be taught, the editors and correctors to be assembled, the manuscripts to be selected, and last, but by no means least, provision to be made for the sale of his volumes. It required much courage for the young tutor voluntarily to abandon his delightful surroundings and to embark upon a career in an almost untried field, obviously full of pitfalls, and demanding for success much beyond the scholarship and enthusiasm which were his undoubted assets.

  In those early days a printer expressed himself in the design of his type as much as in the quality of his workmanship. Aldus was not content simply to copy what other printers before him had done. His Roman face, it is true, was based upon the same handlettering as Jenson’s, but he introduced originality by cutting small cap
itals to use with it, which no one else had ever thought of doing. Then it occurred to Aldus that the inclined, cursive handwriting of Petrarch would make an excellent type, so he had it translated into metal and called it “Italic.”

  The art of printing, as such, would never have appealed to Aldus if it had not offered him an opportunity to produce his beloved classics. Several of the great Latin authors had already been printed, but at this time Greek books had been issued in only four places: in Milan in 1476, in Vincenza in 1483, in Venice in 1484, and in Florence in 1488. Esop, Theocritus, Hower, and Socrates were the only Greek classics which had ever been printed in the original; and even these were composed in Greek type which was incomplete in the matter of capitals, breathings, and accents. Of his predecessors, Sweynheym and Pannartz, Vindelin of Spires, Nicolas Jenson, and Erhardus Ratdolt had introduced Greek characters in their books, but none except Bartolomeo di Libri and Leonicus Cretensis had attempted to print a complete book in Greek. Aldus felt that he had a clear field before him, and he settled down to prepare himself to embrace his opportunity.

  Gradually the Aldine Press began to shape itself. Aldus established himself in the old Campo S. Paternian, now the Piazza Manin, in Venice, near the church of S. Agostino. Here he set up his presses, organized his business, gathered together his staff, and made his home. Besides casting his own type, Aldus had to manufacture much of his material—the printing ink, for instance, being made upon the premises. Most of his paper came from the famous Fabriano mill, which is still in existence—“hand linen [so the old records run], made of pure linen and hempen rags beated in pieces by dint of wood, and made stiff with glue got from boiled hides.” At its height, the Aldine Press, including Aldus’s family, housed thirty-three souls, embracing the editors, the proofreaders, the compositors, and the pressmen. True to his ideals, Aldus permitted no word to be spoken within the limits of the establishment except in the Greek tongue.

  As against its many advantages for a printer, Venice presented one serious handicap—it had no university. In other cities the early printers drew freely upon the professors for editorial assistance and depended upon the universities to absorb a considerable number of printed volumes. Aldus was forced to retain learned editors upon his staff and to summon them from distant places.

  The personnel naturally changed from time to time. His chief compositor, fellow editor, friend, and most important collaborator was Marcus Musurus, a Cretan. Musurus was also a friend of Pico della Mirandola, and Aldus had first met him at Carpi. His labors were of the greatest value to the overworked head of the Aldine establishment, and Aldus always recognized his debt of gratitude. In 1502, upon the recommendation of Aldus, Musurus was asked by the Venetian Senate to occupy the chair of belles lettres at the University of Padua, where his lectures, repeated in Venice, attracted wide attention. “Scholars hasten to Venice, the Athens of our day,” wrote Aldus, “to listen to the teachings of Musurus, the greatest scholar of the age.” It was from the handwriting of Musurus that Aldus took the design for his Greek characters.

  The chief corrector for the Greek proof was John Gregoropoulos, of Candia. Theodore Gaza, from Athens, was numbered among the most useful editors Aldus had. Johann Reuchlin, the famous scholar of Heidelberg; Hieronymus Alexander and Pietro Bembo, both of whom later became Cardinals; Scipio Carteromachus; and the great Erasmus of Rotterdam were proud to be numbered among his associates and advisors. Erasmus put through the press the Aldine editions of Terence, Seneca, Plutarch’s Morals, and Plautus, while Gaza devoted himself chiefly to the great five-volume Aristotle. Erasmus is said to have made himself unpopular with the loyal Musurus by criticizing the meager table set by the financially harassed Aldus. The Cretan retorted by remarking that Erasmus “drank enough for the triple-bodied Geryon, and did the work of only half a man.”

  The greatest obstacle encountered by Aldus in preparing for his Greek publications was the lack of Greek lexicons and grammars. It was obvious that these had to be written and printed before editors could prepare the copy for the compositors and before the correctors could revise the proof after the copy had been put in type. About 1480 a Greek refugee named Constantine Lascaris had compiled the first Greek lexicon ever issued, published in Milan, which stands as the first work of a living writer printed in Italy. Aldus found this to be hopelessly inadequate, but he made of it an excellent basis for a revision the author now undertook, under his supervision. This was the first book printed at the Aldine Press. Then Aldus called upon Gaza to prepare a Greek grammar, and this was issued during the following year. Undismayed by the manifold duties which overwhelmed him, Aldus himself prepared a Greek-Latin dictionary that immediately became the standard. It passed through many editions and was honored by being pirated by the Giunta, famous printer-publishers in Florence, who even copied the famous Aldine mark of the Dolphin and Anchor.

  The patience and restraint of Aldus during these five tedious years of preparation show the character of the man. Other printers might issue texts filled with errors, using incomplete fonts of Greek type, but not Aldus. He tested out his material with Musaeus’s Hero and Leander in 1494, but his first real example of what he could do was the great Aristotle in five volumes, which appeared during the years 1495–1498. As an expression of affection, Aldus dedicated this splendid work to his former pupil, Albert of Carpi.

  Aldus came into the story of the Book at exactly the right time. We have noted how much the world owes to Italy for the spontaneous and extraordinary evolution of the printed book in the fifteenth century. We have seen how Venice quickly became the center of the new art, but it is even more important still to understand that it was the happy cooperation of the entire country that produced the final result. The humanists were scattered all over Italy and dominated the intellectual life of the period: in Florence they were devoting their energies to discovering manuscripts, founding libraries, and encouraging the study of the Greek language; in Naples they elevated the standard of learning by their constructive criticism; in Rome they brought learning nearer to the people by accurate translations; in Mantua and Ferrara a definite system of education was begun; in Venice the results of all this labor were made permanent, being given to the world in printed form.

  Thus it is to Italy as a whole rather than to any single Italian city that the gratitude of the world is due for the benefaction of the Book. The contribution in each center was vital, but it was the splendid coordination of all that regained the culture of antiquity, classified and interpreted it, and then turned it over in its entirety to all Europe. No finer instance could be found to exemplify the humanistic creed we have already studied: “to hold oneself open to receive truth unprejudiced as to its source; and, having received truth, to give it out again, made richer by one’s personal interpretation.”

  There was no more ardent humanist than Aldus. He appreciated to the full the service his fellow humanists of the preceding century had rendered to the world by preserving the classical manuscripts. His was to be the privilege of giving these precious gems of thought an eternal permanency. He pondered over the sudden antagonism exhibited by the great Italian princes to the development of the new art and quickly sensed its true significance. He watched an intellectually shackled people awake to the astonishing realization that these gems of thought, hitherto available only to the wealthy overlords, were now within their reach. It was an amazing revelation, and the spontaneous response on the part of the masses was so enthusiastic that it became terrifying to those who had previously counted upon their ignorance as essential to easy government. The man in the street, hitherto compelled to study argument merely by means of pictorial design, was now able to make himself as familiar with the vital problems of the day as those who had considered themselves his masters; and with this new knowledge came a self-reliance which the princes knew would eventually destroy their prestige and power.

  Aldus made application to the Venetian government for protection in the publication of his Greek volumes, a
nd, when a monopoly for twenty years was granted, this became the first copyright in history. Just how valuable this concession was, and how it operated, is difficult to understand, as we find other printers, such as Calliergi, issuing Greek volumes in Venice long before the expiration of this period.

  In his Aristotle Aldus demonstrated the ability of the press to produce a machine-made book of sufficient attractiveness to compete against the written volume. Other volumes, such as the Plato, were even more beautiful, and some were deemed worthy of being embellished by the art of the illuminator. Aldus might easily have curried favor with the princes and wealthy collectors by confining himself wholly to expensive publications, but this would have been in direct violation of his vision and a prostitution of his purpose in coming to Venice, He never wavered in his determination to produce volumes in Latin, Greek, and Italian—well made, but at so low a cost that anyone could purchase. “I will never desist from my undertaking until I have performed what I have promised,” he declared, “always unmindful of expense, however great, and equally regardless of labor, even were I to live in ease and affluence.”

  The first volume in the Aldine classics was the Bucolics of Virgil, issued in 1501 at a price of about fifty cents a volume. This was promptly followed by a long list of Latin and Italian authors. The Greek series opened with the Sophocles of 1502. These were set in the first Italic type ever cut.

  It was a curious and happy turn of the wheel that brought about the use of this newly cut type, based upon the handwriting of the father of humanism, in the Aldine classics, which were destined to fulfill Petrarch’s fondest dreams for the preservation and dissemination of the humanities!

  The type was cut for Aldus by Francesco da Bologna, of the celebrated Griffo family. The small, compact form of this design found immediate favor. Its condensed nature enabled the printer to compress his subject matter into a smaller number of pages and thus reduce the cost. This led Aldus to drop the quarto format and to issue his volumes in octavo size, which innovation immediately proved so popular as to create a revolution in bookmaking. The smaller volumes could be carried in the pocket, were cheaper, and were more available for everyday use. Aldus was granted a monopoly in Venice for ten years on all books issued in this form.