ILLUMINATION OF BOOKS

One cannot enter a book shop or a library to-day without realizing how many thousands of books are in constant circulation. There was an age when books were laboriously but most beautifully written, instead of being thus quickly manufactured by the aid of the type-setting machine; the material on which the glossy text was executed was vellum instead of the cheap paper of to-day, the illustrations, instead of being easily reproduced by photographic processes, were veritable miniature paintings, most decorative, ablaze with colour and fine gold,—in these times it is easy to forget that there was ever a period when the making of a single book occupied years, and sometimes the life-time of one or two men.

In those days, when the transcription of books was one of the chief occupations in religious houses, the recluse monk, in the quiet of the scriptorium, was, in spite of his seclusion, and indeed, by reason of it, the chief link between the world of letters and the world of men.

The earliest known example of work by a European monk dates from the year 517; but shortly after this there was a great increase in book making, and monasteries were founded especially for the purpose of perpetuating literature. The first establishment of this sort was the monastery of Vivaria, in Southern Italy, founded by Cassiodorus, a Greek who lived between the years 479 and 575, and who had been the scribe (or "private secretary") of Theodoric the Goth. About the same time, St. Columba in Ireland founded a house with the intention of multiplying books, so that in the sixth century, in both the extreme North and in the South, the religious orders had commenced the great work of preserving for future ages the literature of the past and of their own times.

Before examining the books themselves, it will be interesting to observe the conditions under which the work was accomplished. Sometimes the scriptorium was a large hall or studio, with various desks about; sometimes the North walk of the cloister was divided into little cells, called "carrels," in each of which was room for the writer, his desk, and a little shelf for his inks and colours. These carrels may be seen in unusual perfection in Gloucester. In very cold weather a small brazier of charcoal was also introduced.

Cassiodorus writes thus of the privilege of being a copyist of holy books. "He may fill his mind with the Scriptures while copying the sayings of the Lord; with his fingers he gives life to men and arms against the wiles of the Devil; as the antiquarius copies the word of Christ, so many wounds does he inflict upon Satan. What he writes in his cell will be carried far and wide over distant provinces. Man multiplies the word of Heaven: if I may dare so to speak, the three fingers of his right hand are made to represent the utterances of the Holy Trinity. The fast travelling reed writes down the holy words, thus avenging the malice of the wicked one, who caused a reed to be used to smite the head of the Saviour."

When the scriptorium was consecrated, these words were used (and they would be most fitting words to-day, in the consecration of libraries or class rooms which are to be devoted to religious study): "Vouchsafe, O, Lord, to bless this workroom of thy servants, that all which they write therein may be comprehended by their intelligence, and realized by their work." Scriptorium work was considered equal to labour in the fields. In the Rule of St. Fereol, in the sixth century, there is this clause: "He who doth not turn up the earth with his plough, ought to write the parchment with his fingers." The Capitulary of Charlemagne contains this phrase: "Do not permit your scribes or pupils, either in reading or writing, to garble the text; when you are preparing copies of the Gospels, the Psalter, or the Missal, see that the work is confided to men of mature age, who will write with due care." Some of the scribes were prolific book transcribers. Jacob of Breslau, who died in 1480, copied so many books that it is said that "six horses could with difficulty bear the burden of them!"

The work of each scriptorium was devoted first to the completion of the library of the individual monastery, and after that, to other houses, or to such patrons as were rich enough to order books to be transcribed for their own use. The library of a monastery was as much a feature as the scriptorium. The monks were not like the rising literary man, who, when asked if he had read "Pendennis" replied, "No—I never read books—I write them." Every scribe was also a reader. There was a regular system of lending books from the central store. A librarian was in charge, and every monk was supposed to have some book which he was engaged in reading "straight through" as the Rule of St. Benedict enjoins, just as much as the one which he was writing. As silence was obligatory in the scriptorium and library, as well as in the cloisters, they were forced to apply for the volumes which they desired by signs. For a general work, the sign was to extend the hand and make a movement as if turning over the leaves of a book. If a Missal was wanted, the sign of the cross was added to the same form; for a Gospel, the sign of the cross was made upon the forehead, while those who wished tracts to read, should lay one hand on the mouth and the other on the stomach; a Capitulary was indicated by the gesture of raising the clasped hands to heaven, while a Psalter could be obtained by raising the hands above the head in the form of a crown. As the good brothers were not possessed of much religious charity, they indicated a secular book by scratching their ears, as dogs are supposed to do, to imply the suggestion that the infidel who wrote such a book was no better than a dog!

This extract is made from a book in one of the early monastic libraries. "Oh, Lord, send the blessing of thy Holy Spirit upon these books, that, cleansing them from all earthly things, they may mercifully enlighten our hearts, and give us true understanding, and grant that by their teaching they may brightly preserve and make a full abundance of good works according to Thy will." The books were kept in cupboards, with doors; in the Customs of the Augustine Priory of Barnwell, these directions are given: "The press in which the books are kept ought to be lined with wood, that the damp of the walls may not moisten or stain the books. The press should be divided vertically as well as horizontally, by sundry partitions, on which the books may be ranged so as to be separated from one another, for fear they be packed so close as to injure one another, or to delay those who want them."

We read of the "chained books" of the Middle Ages, and I think there is a popular belief that this referred to the fact that the Bible was kept in the priest's hands, and chained so that the people should not be able to read it for themselves and become familiar with every part of it. This, however, is a mistake. It was the books in the libraries which were chained, so that dishonest people should not make way with them! In one Chapter Library, there occurs a denunciation of such thieves, and instructions how to fasten the volumes. It reads as follows: "Since to the great reproach of the Nation, and a greater one to our Holy Religion, the thievish disposition of some who enter libraries to learn no good there, hath made it necessary to secure the sacred volumes themselves with chains (which are better deserved by those ill persons, who have too much learning to be hanged, and too little to be honest), care shall be taken that the chains should neither be too long nor too clumsy, more than the use of them requires: and that the loops whereby they are fastened to the books may be rivetted on such a part of the cover, and so smoothly, as not to gall or graze the books, while they are moved to or from their respective places. And forasmuch as the more convenient way to place books in libraries is to turn their backs out showing the title and other decent ornaments in gilt work which ought not to be hidden, this new method of fixing the chain to the back of the book is recommended until one more suitable shall be contrived."

Numerous monasteries in England devoted much time to scriptorium work. In Gloucester may still be seen the carrels of the scribes in the cloister wall, and there was also much activity in the book making art in Norwich, Glastonbury, and Winchester, and in other cities. The two monasteries of St. Peter and St. Swithin in Winchester were, the chronicler says, "so close packed together,... that between the foundation of their respective buildings there was barely room for a man to pass along. The choral service of one monastery conflicted with that of the other, so that both were spoiled, and the ringing of their bells together produced a horrid effect."

One of the most important monasteries of early times, on the Continent, was that conducted by Alcuin, under the protection of Charlemagne. When the appointed time for writing came round, the monks filed into the scriptorium, taking their places at their desks. One of their number then stood in the midst, and read aloud, slowly, for dictation, the work upon which they were engaged as copyists; in this way, a score of copies could be made at one time. Alcuin himself would pass about among them, making suggestions and correcting errors, a beautiful example of true consecration, the great scholar spending his time thus in supervising the transcription of the Word of God, from a desire to have it spread far and wide. Alcuin sent a letter to Charlemagne, accompanying a present of a copy of the Bible, at the time of the emperor's coronation, and from this letter, which is still preserved, it may be seen how reverent a spirit his was, and how he esteemed the things of the spiritual life as greater than the riches of the world. "After deliberating a long while," he writes, "what the devotion of my mind might find worthy of a present equal to the splendour of your Imperial dignity, and the increase of your wealth,—at length by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, I found what it would be competent for me to offer, and fitting for your prudence to accept. For to me inquiring and considering, nothing appeared more worthy of your peaceful honour than the gifts of the Sacred Scriptures... which, knit together in the sanctity of one glorious body, and diligently amended, I have sent to your royal authority, by this your faithful son and servant, so that with full hands we may assist at the delightful service of your dignity." One of Alcuin's mottoes was: "Writing books is better than planting vines: for he who plants a vine serves his belly, while he who writes books serves his soul."

Many different arts were represented in the making of a mediÆval book. Of those employed, first came the scribe, whose duty it was to form the black even glossy letters with his pen; then came the painter, who must not only be a correct draughtsman, and an adept with pencil and brush, but must also understand how to prepare mordaunts and to lay the gold leaf, and to burnish it afterwards with an agate, or, as an old writer directs, "a dogge's tooth set in a stick." After him, the binder gathered the lustrous pages and put them together under silver mounted covers, with heavy clasps. At first, the illuminations were confined only to the capital letters, and red was the selected colour to give this additional life to the evenly written page. The red pigment was known as "minium." The artist who applied this was called a "miniator," and from this, was derived the term "miniature," which later referred to the pictures executed in the developed stages of the art. The use of the word "miniature," as applied to paintings on a small scale, was evolved from this expression.

Figure 67

A SCRIBE AT WORK: 12TH CENTURY MANUSCRIPT

The difficulties were numerous. First, there was climate and temperature to consider. It was necessary to be very careful about the temperature to which gold leaf was exposed, and in order to dry the sizing properly, it was important that the weather should not be too damp nor too warm. Peter de St. Audemar, writing in the late thirteenth century, says: "Take notice that you ought not to work with gold or colours in a damp place, on account of the hot weather, which, as it is often injurious in burnishing gold, both to the colours on which the gold is laid and also to the gilding, if the work is done on parchment, so also it is injurious when the weather is too dry and arid." John Acherius, in 1399, observes, too, that "care must be taken as regards the situation, because windy weather is a hindrance, unless the gilder is in an enclosed place, and if the air is too dry, the colour cannot hold the gold under the burnisher." Illumination is an art which has always been difficult; we who attempt it to-day are not simply facing a lost art which has become impossible because of the changed conditions; even when followed along the best line in the best way the same trials were encountered.

Early treatises vary regarding the best medium for laying leaf on parchment. There are very few vehicles which will form a connecting and permanent link between these two substances. There is a general impression that white of egg was used to hold the gold: but any one who has experimented knows that it is impossible to fasten metal to vellum by white of egg alone. Both oil and wax were often employed, and in nearly all recipes the use of glue made of boiled-down vellum is enjoined. In some of the monasteries there are records that the scribes had the use of the kitchen for drying parchment and melting wax.

The introductions to the early treatises show the spirit in which the work was undertaken. Peter de St. Audemar commences: "By the assistance of God, of whom are all things that are good, I will explain to you how to make colours for painters and illuminators of books, and the vehicles for them, and other things appertaining thereto, as faithfully as I can in the following chapters." Peter was a North Frenchman of the thirteenth century.

Of the recipes given by the early treatises, I will quote a few, for in reality they are all the literature we have upon the subject. Eraclius, who wrote in the twelfth century, gives accurate directions: "Take ochre and distemper it with water, and let it dry. In the meanwhile make glue with vellum, and whip some white of egg. Then mix the glue and the white of egg, and grind the ochre, which by this time is well dried, upon a marble slab; and lay it on the parchment with a paint brush;... then apply the gold, and let it remain so, without pressing it with the stone. When it is dry, burnish it well with a tooth. This," continues Eraclius naÏvely, "is what I have learned by experiment, and have frequently proved, and you may safely believe me that I shall have told you the truth." This assurance of good faith suggests that possibly it was a habit of illuminators to be chary of information, guarding their own discoveries carefully, and only giving out partial directions to others of their craft.

In the Bolognese Manuscript, one is directed to make a simple size from incense, white gum, and sugar candy, distempering it with wine; and in another place, to use the white of egg, whipped with the milk of the fig tree and powdered gum Arabic. Armenian Bole is a favourite ingredient. Gum and rose water are also prescribed, and again, gesso, white of egg, and honey. All of these recipes sound convincing, but if one tries them to-day, one has the doubtful pleasure of seeing the carefully laid gold leaf slide off as soon as the whole mixture is quite dry. Especially improbable is the recipe given in the Brussels Manuscript: "You lay on gold with well gummed water alone, and this is very good for gilding on parchment. You may also use fresh white of egg or fig juice alone in the same manner."

Theophilus does not devote much time or space to the art of illuminating, for, as he is a builder of everything from church organs to chalices, glass windows, and even to frescoed walls, we must not expect too much information on minor details. He does not seem to direct the use of gold leaf at all, but of finely ground gold, which shall be applied with its size in the form of a paste, to be burnished later. He says (after directing that the gold dust shall be placed in a shell): "Take pure minium and add to it a third part of cinnibar, grinding it upon a stone with water. Which, being carefully ground, beat up the clear white of an egg, in summer with water, in winter without water," and this is to be used as a slightly raised bed for the gold. "Then," he continues, "place a little pot of glue on the fire, and when it is liquefied, pour it into the shell of gold and wash it with it." This is to be painted on to the gesso ground just mentioned, and when quite dry, burnished with an agate. This recipe is more like the modern Florentine method of gilding in illumination.

Concerning the gold itself, there seem to have been various means employed for manufacturing substitutes for the genuine article. A curious recipe is given in the manuscript of Jehan de Begue, "Take bulls' brains, put them in a marble vase, and leave them for three weeks, when you will find gold making worms. Preserve them carefully." More quaint and superstitious is Theophilus' recipe for making Spanish Gold; but, as this is not quotable in polite pages, the reader must refer to the original treatise if he cares to trace its manufacture.

Brushes made of hair are recommended by the Brussels manuscript, with a plea for "pencils of fishes' hairs for softening." If this does not refer to sealskin, it is food for conjecture!

And for the binding of these beautiful volumes, how was the leather obtained? This is one way in which business and sport could be combined in the monastery, Warton says, "About the year 790, Charlemagne granted an unlimited right of hunting to the Abbot and monks of Sithiu, for making... of the skins of the deer they killed... covers for their books." There is no doubt that it had occurred to artists to experiment upon human skin, and perhaps the fact that this was an unsatisfactory texture is the chief reason why no books were made of it. A French commentator observes: "The skin of a man is nothing compared with the skin of a sheep.... Sheep is good for writing on both sides, but the skin of a dead man is just about as profitable as his bones,—better bury him, skin and bones together."

There was some difficulty in obtaining manuscripts to copy. The Breviary was usually enclosed in a cage; rich parishioners were bribed by many masses and prayers, to bequeath manuscripts to churches. In old Paris, the Parchment Makers were a guild of much importance. Often they combined their trade with tavern keeping, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The Rector of the University was glad when this occurred, for the inn keeper and parchment maker was under his control, both being obliged to reside in the Pays Latin. Bishops were known to exhort the parchment makers, from the pulpit, to be honest and conscientious in preparing skins. A bookseller, too, was solemnly made to swear "faithfully to receive, take care of, and expose for sale the works which should be entrusted to him." He might not buy them for himself until they had been for sale a full month "at the disposition of the Masters and Scholars." But in return for these restrictions, the bookseller was admitted to the rights and privileges of the University. As clients of the University, these trades, which were associated with book making, joined in the "solemn processions" of those times; booksellers, binders, parchment makers, and illuminators, all marched together on these occasions. They were obliged to pay toll to the Rector for these privileges; the recipe for ink was a carefully guarded secret.

It now becomes our part to study the books themselves, and see what results were obtained by applying all the arts involved in their making.

The transition from the Roman illuminations to the Byzantine may be traced to the time when Constantine moved his seat of government from Rome to Constantinople. Constantinople then became the centre of learning, and books were written there in great numbers. For some centuries Constantinople was the chief city in the art of illuminating. The style that here grew up exhibited the same features that characterized Byzantine art in mosaic and decoration. The Oriental influence displayed itself in a lavish use of gold and colour; the remnant of Classical art was slight, but may sometimes be detected in the subjects chosen, and the ideas embodied. The Greek influence was the strongest. But the Greek art of the seventh and eighth centuries was not at all like the Classic art of earlier Greece; a conventional type had entered with Christianity, and is chiefly recognized by a stubborn conformity to precedent. It is difficult to date a Byzantine picture or manuscript, for the same severe hard form that prevailed in the days of Constantine is carried on to-day by the monks of Mt. Athos, and a Byzantine work of the ninth century is not easily distinguished from one of the fifteenth. In manuscripts, the caligraphy is often the only feature by which the work can be dated.

In the earlier Byzantine manuscripts there is a larger proportion of Classical influence than in later ones, when the art had taken on its inflexible uniformity of design. One of the most interesting books in which this classical influence may be seen is in the Imperial Library at Vienna, being a work on Botany, by Dioscorides, written about 400 A. D. The miniatures in this manuscript have many of the characteristics of Roman work.

The pigments used in Byzantine manuscripts are glossy, a great deal of ultramarine being used. The high lights are usually of gold, applied in sharp glittering lines, and lighting up the picture with very decorative effect. In large wall mosaics the same characteristics may be noted, and it is often suggested that these gold lines may have originated in an attempt to imitate cloisonnÉ enamel, in which the fine gold line separates the different coloured spaces one from another. This theory is quite plausible, as cloisonnÉ was made by the Byzantine goldsmiths.

M. Lecoy de la Marche tells us that the first recorded name of an illuminator is that of a woman—Lala de Cizique, a Greek, who painted on ivory and on parchment in Rome during the first Christian century. But such a long period elapses between her time and that which we are about to study, that she can here occupy only the position of being referred to as an interesting isolated case.

The Byzantine is a very easy style to recognize, because of the inflexible stiffness of the figures, depending for any beauty largely upon the use of burnished gold, and the symmetrical folds of the draperies, which often show a sort of archaic grace. Byzantine art is not so much representation as suggestion and symbolism. There is a book which may still be consulted, called "A Byzantine Guide to Painting," which contains accurate recipes to be followed in painting pictures of each saint, the colours prescribed for the dress of the Virgin, and the grouping to be adopted in representing each of the standard Scriptural scenes; and it has hardly from the first occurred to any Byzantine artist to depart from these regulations. The heads and faces lack individuality, and are outlined and emphasized with hard, unsympathetic black lines; the colouring is sallow and the expression stolid. Any attempt at delineating emotion is grotesque, and grimacing. The beauty, for in spite of all these drawbacks there is great beauty, in Byzantine manuscripts, is, as has been indicated, a charm of colour and gleaming gold rather than of design. In the Boston Art Museum there is a fine example of a large single miniature of a Byzantine "Flight into Egypt," in which the gold background is of the highest perfection of surface, and is raised so as to appear like a plate of beaten gold.

There is no attempt to portray a scene as it might have occurred; the rule given in the Manual is followed, and the result is generally about the same. The background is usually either gold or blue, with very little effort at landscape. Trees are represented in flat values of green with little white ruffled edges and articulations. The sea is figured by a blue surface with a symmetrical white pattern of a wavy nature. A building is usually introduced about half as large as the people surrounding it. There is no attempt, either, at perspective.

The anatomy of the human form was not understood at all. Nearly all the figures in the art of this period are draped. Wherever it is necessary to represent the nude, a lank, disproportioned person with an indefinite number of ribs is the result, proving that the monastic art school did not include a life class.

Most of the best Byzantine examples date from the fifth to the seventh centuries. After that a decadence set in, and by the eleventh century the art had deteriorated to a mere mechanical process.

The Irish and Anglo-Saxon work are chiefly characterized in their early stages by the use of interlaced bands as a decorative motive. The Celtic goldsmiths were famous for their delicate work in filigree, made of threads of gold used in connection with enamelled grounds. In decorating their manuscripts, the artists were perhaps unconsciously influenced by this, and the result is a marvellous use of conventional form and vivid colours, while the human figure is hardly attempted at all, or, when introduced, is so conventionally treated, as to be only a sign instead of a representation.

Probably the earliest representation of a pen in the holder, although of a very primitive pattern, occurs in a miniature in the Gospels of Mac Durnam, where St. John is seen writing with a pen in one hand and a knife, for sharpening it, in the other. This picture is two centuries earlier than any other known representation of the use of the pen, the volume having been executed in the early part of the eighth century.

Two of the most famous Irish books are the Book of Kells, and the Durham Book. The Book of Kells is now in Trinity College, Dublin. It is also known as the Gospel of St. Columba. St. Columba came, as the Chronicle of Ethelwerd states, in the year 565: "five years afterwards Christ's servant Columba came from Scotia (Ireland) to Britain, to preach the word of God to the Picts."

Figure 68

DETAIL FROM THE DURHAM BOOK

The intricacy of the interlacing decoration is so minute that it is impossible to describe it. Each line may be followed to its conclusion, with the aid of a strong magnifying glass, but cannot be clearly traced with the naked eye. Westwood reports that, with a microscope, he counted in one square inch of the page, one hundred and fifty-eight interlacements of bands, each being of white, bordered on either side with a black line. In this book there is no use of gold, and the treatment of the human form is most inadequate. There is no idea of drawing except for decorative purposes; it is an art of the pen rather than of the brush—it hardly comes into the same category as most of the books designated as illuminated manuscripts. The so-called Durham Book, or the Gospels of St. Cuthbert, was executed at the Abbey of Lindisfarne, in 688, and is now in the British Museum. There is a legend that in the ninth century pirates plundered the Abbey, and the few monks who survived decided to seek a situation less unsafe than that on the coast, so they gathered up their treasures, the body of the saint, their patron, Cuthbert, and the book, which had been buried with him, and set out for new lands. They set sail for Ireland, but a storm arose, and their boat was swamped. The body and the book were lost. After reaching land, however, the fugitives discovered the box containing the book, lying high and dry upon the shore, having been cast up by the waves in a truly wonderful state of preservation. Any one who knows the effect of dampness upon parchment, and how it cockles the material even on a damp day, will the more fully appreciate this miracle.

Giraldus Cambriensis went to Ireland as secretary to Prince John, in 1185, and thus describes the Gospels of Kildare, a book which was similar to the Book of Kells, and his description may apply equally to either volume. "Of all the wonders of Kildare I have found nothing more wonderful than this marvellous book, written in the time of the Virgin St. Bridget, and, as they say, at the dictation of an angel. Here you behold the magic face divinely drawn, and there the mystical forms of the Evangelists, there an eagle, here a calf, so closely wrought together, that if you look carelessly at them, they would seem rather like a uniform blot than like an exquisite interweavement of figures; exhibiting no perfection of skill or art, where all is really skill and perfection of art. But if you look closely at them with all the acuteness of sight that you can command, and examine the inmost secrets of this wondrous art, you will discover such delicate, such wonderful and finely wrought lines, twisted and interwoven with such intricate knots and adorned with such fresh and brilliant colours, that you will readily acknowledge the whole to have been the work of angelic rather than human skill."

At first gold was not used at all in Irish work, but the manuscripts of a slightly later date, and especially of the Anglo-Saxon school, show a superbly decorative use both of gold and silver. The "Coronation Oath Book of the Anglo-Saxon Kings" is especially rich in this exquisite metallic harmony. By degrees, also, the Anglo-Saxons became more perfected in the portrayal of the human figure, so that by the twelfth century the work of the Southern schools and those of England were more alike than at any previous time.

Figure 69

IVY PATTERN, FROM A 14TH CENTURY FRENCH MANUSCRIPT

In the Northern manuscripts of the eleventh and twelfth centuries it is amusing to note that the bad characters are always represented as having large hooked noses, which fact testifies to the dislike of the Northern races for the Italians and Southern peoples.

The thirteenth and fourteenth centuries may be considered to stand for the "Golden Age" of miniature art in all the countries of Europe. In England and France especially the illuminated books of the thirteenth century were marvels of delicate work, among which the Tenison Psalter and the Psalter of Queen Mary, both in the British Museum, are excellent examples. Queen Mary's Psalter was not really painted for Queen Mary; it was executed two centuries earlier. But it was being sent abroad in 1553, and was seized by the Customs. They refused to allow it to pass. Afterwards it was presented to Queen Mary.

At this time grew up a most beautiful and decorative style, known as "ivy pattern," consisting of little graceful flowering sprays, with tiny ivy leaves in gold and colours. The Gothic feeling prevails in this motive, and the foliate forms are full of spined cusps. The effect of a book decorated in the ivy pattern, is radiant and jewelled as the pages turn, and the burnishing of the gold was brought to its full perfection at this time. The value of the creamy surface of the vellum was recognized as part of the colour scheme. With the high polish of the gold it was necessary to use always the strong crude colours, as the duller tints would appear faded by contrast. In the later stages of the art, when a greater realism was attempted, and better drawing had

Figure 70

MEDIÆVAL ILLUMINATION

made it necessary to use quieter tones, gold paint was generally adopted instead of leaf, as being less conspicuous and more in harmony with the general scheme; and one of the chief glories of book decoration died in this change.

The divergences of style in the work of various countries are well indicated by Walter de Gray Birch, who says: "The English are famous for clearness and breadth; the French for delicate fineness and harmoniously assorted colours, the Flemish for minutely stippled details, and the Italian for the gorgeous yet calm dignity apparent in their best manuscripts." Individuality of facial expression, although these faces are generally ugly, is a characteristic of Flemish work, while the faces in French miniatures are uniform and pretty.

One marked feature in the English thirteenth and fourteenth century books, is the introduction of many small grotesques in the borders, and these little creatures, partly animal and partly human, show a keen sense of humour, which had to display itself, even though inappropriately, but always with a true spirit of wit. One might suppose on first looking at these grotesques, that the droll expression is unintentional: that the monks could draw no better, and that their sketches are funny only because of their inability to portray more exactly the thing represented. But a closer examination will convince one that the wit was deliberate, and that the very subtlety and reserve of their expression of humour is an indication of its depth. To-day an artist with the sense of caricature expresses himself in the illustrated papers and other public channels provided for the overflow of high spirits; but the cloistered author of the Middle Ages had only the sculptured details and the books belonging to the church as vehicles for his satire. The carvings on the miserere seats in choirs of many cathedrals were executed by the monks, and abound in witty representations of such subjects as Reynard the Fox, cats catching rats, etc.; inspired generally by the knowledge of some of the inconsistencies in the lives of ecclesiastical personages. The quiet monks often became cynical.

The spirit of the times determines the standard of wit. At various periods in the world's history, men have been amused by strange and differing forms of drollery; what seemed excruciatingly funny to our grandparents does not strike us as being at all entertaining. Each generation has its own idea of humour, and its own fun-makers, varying as much as fashion in dress.

In mediÆval times, the sense of humour in art was more developed than at any period except our own day. Even-while the monk was consecrating his time to the work of beautifying the sanctuary, his sense of humour was with him, and must crop out. The grotesque has always played an important part in art; in the subterranean Roman vaults of the early centuries, one form of this spirit is exhibited. But the element of wit is almost absent; it is displayed in oppressively obvious forms, so that it loses its subtlety: it represents women terminating in floral scrolls, or sea-horses with leaves growing instead of fins. The same spirit is seen in the grotesques of the Renaissance, where the sense of humour is not emphasized, the ideal in this class of decoration being simply to fill the space acceptably, with voluptuous graceful lines, mythological monstrosities, the inexpressive mingling of human and vegetable characteristics, grinning dragons, supposed to inspire horror, and such conceits, while the attempt to amuse the spectator is usually absent.

In mediÆval art, however, the beauty of line, the sense of horror, and the voluptuous spirit, are all more or less subservient to the light-hearted buoyancy of a keen sense of fun. To illustrate this point, I wish to call the attention of the reader to the wit of the monastic scribes during the Gothic period. Who could look at the little animals which are found tucked away almost out of sight in the flowery margins of many illuminated manuscripts, without seeing that the artist himself must have been amused at their pranks, and intended others to be so? One can picture a gray-hooded brother, chuckling alone at his own wit, carefully tracing a jolly little grotesque, and then stealing softly to the alcove of some congenial spirit, and in a whisper inviting his friend to come and see the satire which he has carefully introduced: "A perfect portrait of the Bishop, only with claws instead of legs! So very droll! And dear brother, while you are here, just look at the expression of this little rabbit's ears, while he listens to the bombastic utterance of this monkey who wears a stole!"

Figure 71

CARICATURE OF A BISHOP

Such a fund of playful humour is seldom found in a single book as that embodied in the Tenison Psalter, of which only a few pages remain of the work of the original artist. The book was once the property of Archbishop Tenison. These few pages show to the world the most perfect example of the delicacy and skill of the miniaturist. On one page, a little archer, after having pulled his bow-string, stands at the foot of the border, gazing upwards after the arrow, which has been caught in the bill of a stork at the top of the page. The attitude of a little fiddler who is exhibiting his trick monkeys can hardly be surpassed by caricaturists of any time. A quaint bit of cloister scandal is indicated in an initial from the Harleian Manuscript, in which a monk who has been entrusted with the cellar keys is seen availing himself of the situation, eagerly quaffing a cup of wine while he stoops before a large cask. In a German manuscript I have seen, cuddled away among the foliage, in the margin, a couple of little monkeys, feeding a baby of their own species with pap from a spoon. The baby monkey is closely wrapped in the swathing bands with which one is familiar as the early trussing of European children. Satire and wrath are curiously blended in a German manuscript of the twelfth century, in which the scribe introduces a portrait of himself hurling a missile at a venturesome mouse who is eating the monk's cheese—a fine Camembert!—under his very nose. In the book which he is represented as transcribing, the artist has traced the words—"Pessime mus, sepius me provocas ad iram, ut te Deus perdat." ("Wicked mouse, too often you provoke me to anger—may God destroy thee!")

In their illustrations the scribes often showed how literal was their interpretation of Scriptural text. For instance, in a passage in the book known as the Utrecht Psalter, there is an illustration of the verse, "The words of the Lord are pure words; as silver tried in the furnace, purified seven times." A glowing forge is seen, and two craftsmen are working with bellows, pincers, and hammer, to prove the temper of some metal, which is so molten that a stream of it is pouring out of the furnace. Another example of this literal interpretation, is in the Psalter of Edwin, where two men are engaged in sharpening a sword upon a grindstone, in illustration of the text about the wicked, "who whet their tongue like a sword."

There is evidence of great religious zeal in the exhortations of the leaders to those who worked under them. Abbot John of Trittenham thus admonished the workers in the Scriptorium in 1486: "I have diminished your labours out of the monastery lest by working badly you should only add to your sins, and have enjoined on you the manual labour of writing and binding books. There is in my opinion no labour more becoming a monk than the writing of ecclesiastical books.... You will recall that the library of this monastery... had been dissipated, sold, or made way with by disorderly monks before us, so that when I came here I found but fourteen volumes."

It was often with a sense of relief that a monk finished his work upon a volume, as the final word, written by the scribe himself, and known as the Explicit, frequently shows. In an old manuscript in the Monastery of St. Aignan the writer has thus expressed his emotions: "Look out for your fingers! Do not put them on my writing! You do not know what it is to write! It cramps your back, it obscures your eyes, it breaks your sides and stomach!" It is interesting to note the various forms which these final words of the scribes took; sometimes the Explicit is a pathetic appeal for remembrance in the prayers of the reader, and sometimes it contains a note of warning. In a manuscript of St. Augustine now at Oxford, there is written: "This book belongs to St. Mary's of Robert's Bridge; whoever shall steal it or in any way alienate it from this house, or mutilate it, let him be Anathema Marantha!" A later owner, evidently to justify himself, has added, "I, John, Bishop of Exeter, know not where this aforesaid house is, nor did I steal this book, but acquired it in a lawful way!"

The Explicit in the Benedictional of Ethelwold is touching: the writer asks "all who gaze on this book to ever pray that after the end of the flesh I may inherit health in heaven; this is the prayer of the scribe, the humble Godemann." A mysterious Explicit occurs at the end of an Irish manuscript of 1138, "Pray for Moelbrighte who wrote this book. Great was the crime when Cormac Mac Carthy was slain by Tardelvach O'Brian." Who shall say what revelation may have been embodied in these words? Was it in the nature of a confession or an accusation of some hitherto unknown occurrence? Coming as it does at the close of a sacred book, it was doubtless written for some important reason.

Among curious examples of the Explicit may be quoted the following: "It is finished. Let it be finished, and let the writer go out for a drink." A French monk adds: "Let a pretty girl be given to the writer for his pains." Ludovico di Cherio, a famous illuminator of the fifteenth century, has this note at the end of a book upon which he had long been engaged: "Completed on the vigil of the nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, on an empty stomach." (Whether this refers to an imposed penance or fast, or whether Ludovico considered that the offering of a meek and empty stomach would be especially acceptable, the reader may determine.)

There is an amusing rhymed Explicit in an early fifteenth century copy of Froissart:

"I, Raoul Tanquy, who never was drunk
(Or hardly more than judge or monk,)
On fourth of July finished this book,
Then to drink at the Tabouret myself took,
With Pylon and boon companions more
Who tripe with onions and garlic adore."

But if some of the monks complained or made sport of their work, there were others to whom it was a divine inspiration, and whose affection for their craft was almost fanatic, an anecdote being related of one of them, who, when about to die, refused to be parted from the book upon which he had bestowed much of his life's energy, and who clutched it in his last agony so that even death should not take it from him. The good Othlonus of Ratisbon congratulates himself upon his own ability in a spirit of humility even while he rejoices in his great skill; he says: "I think proper to add an account of the great knowledge and capacity for writing which was given me by the Lord in my childhood. When as yet a little child, I was sent to school and quickly learned my letters, and I began long before the time of learning, and without any order from my master, to learn the art of writing. Undertaking this in a furtive and unusual manner, and without any teacher, I got a habit of holding my pen wrongly, nor were any of my teachers afterwards able to correct me on that point." This very human touch comes down to us through the ages to prove the continuity of educational experience! The accounts of his monastic labours put us to the blush when we think of such activity. "While in the monastery of Tegernsee in Bavaria I wrote many books.... Being sent to Franconia while I was yet a boy, I worked so hard writing that before I had returned I had nearly lost my eyesight. After I became a monk at St. Emmerem, I was appointed the school-master. The duties of the office so fully occupied my time that I was able to do the transcribing I was interested in only by nights and in holidays.... I was, however, able, in addition to writing the books that I had myself composed, and the copies which I gave away for the edification of those who asked for them, to prepare nineteen missals, three books of the Gospels and Epistles, besides which I wrote four service books for Matins. I wrote in addition several other books for the brethren at Fulda, for the monks at Hirschfeld, and at Amerbach, for the Abbot of Lorsch, for certain friends at Passau, and for other friends in Bohemia, for the monastery at Tegernsee, for the monastery at Preyal, for that at Obermunster, and for my sister's son. Moreover, I sent and gave at different times sermons, proverbs, and edifying writings. Afterward old age's infirmities of various kinds hindered me." Surely Othlonus was justified in retiring when his time came, and enjoying some respite from his labours!

Religious feeling in works of art is an almost indefinable thing, but one which is felt in all true emanations of the conscientious spirit of devotion. Fra Angelico had a special gift for expressing in his artistic creations is own spiritual life; the very qualities for which he stood, his virtues and his errors,—purity, unquestioning faith in the miraculous, narrowness of creed, and gentle and adoring humility,—all these elements are seen to completeness in his decorative pictures. Perhaps this is because he really lived up to his principles. One of his favourite sayings was "He who occupies himself with the things of Christ, must ever dwell with Christ."

It is related that, in the Monastery of Maes Eyck, while the illuminators were at work in the evening, copying Holy Writ, the devil, in a fit of rage, extinguished their candles; they, however, were promptly lighted again by a Breath of the Holy Spirit, and the good work went on! Salvation was supposed to be gained through conscientious writing. A story is told of a worldly and frivolous brother, who was guilty of many sins and follies, but who, nevertheless, was an industrious scribe. When he came to die, the devil claimed his soul. The angels, however, brought before the Throne a great book of religious Instructions which he had illuminated, and for every letter therein, he received pardon for one sin. Behold! When the account was completed, there proved to be one letter over! the narrator adds naÏvely, "And it was a very big book."

Figure 72

ILLUMINATION BY GHERART DAVID OF BRUGES, 1498; ST. BARBARA

Perhaps more than any books executed in the better period, after the decline had begun, were the Books of Hours, containing the numerous daily devotions which form part of the ritual of the Roman Church. Every well appointed lady was supposed to own a copy, and there is a little verse by Eustache Deschamps, a poet of the time of Charles V., in which a woman is supposed to be romancing about the various treasures she would like to possess. She says:

"Hours of Our Lady should be mine,
Fitting for a noble dame,
Of lofty lineage and name;
Wrought most cunningly and quaint,
In gold and richest azure paint.
Rare covering of cloth of gold
Full daintily it shall enfold,
Or, open to the view exposed,
Two golden clasps to keep it closed."

John Skelton the poet did honour to the illuminated tomes of his day, in spite of the fact that the Æesthetic deterioration had begun.

"With that of the boke lozende were the clasps
The margin was illumined all with golden railes,
And bice empictured, with grasshoppers and waspes
With butterflies and fresh peacock's tailes:
Englosed with... pictures well touched and quickly,
It wold have made a man hole that had be right sickly!"

But here we have an indication of that realism which rung the death knell of the art. The grasshoppers on a golden ground, and the introduction of carefully painted insect and floral life, led to all sorts of extravagances of taste.

But before this decadence, there was a very interesting period of transition, which may be studied to special advantage in Italy, and is seen chiefly in the illuminations of the great choral books which were used in the choirs of churches. One book served for all the singers in those days, and it was placed upon an open lectern in the middle of the choir, so that all the singers could see it: it will be readily understood that the lettering had to be generous, and the page very large for this purpose. The decoration of these books took on the characteristics of breadth in keeping with their dimensions, and of large masses of ornament rather than delicate meander. The style of the Italian choral books is an art in itself.

The Books of Hours and Missals developed during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries into positive art galleries, whole pages being occupied by paintings, the vellum being entirely hidden by the decoration. The art of illumination declined as the art of miniature painting progressed. The fact that the artist was decorating a page in a book was lost sight of in his ambition to paint a series of small pictures. The glint of burnished gold on the soft surface of the vellum was no longer considered elegant, and these more elaborate pictures often left not even a margin, so that the pictures might as well have been executed on paper and canvas and framed separately, for they do not suggest ornaments in a book after this change had taken place. Lettering is hardly introduced at all on the same page with the illustration, or, when it is, is placed in a little tablet which is simply part of the general scheme.

Figure 73

CHORAL BOOK, SIENA

Among the books in this later period I will refer specifically to two only, the Hours of Ann of Brittany, and the Grimani Breviary. The Hours of Ann of Brittany, illuminated by a famous French artist of the time of Louis XII., is reproduced in facsimile by Curmer, and is therefore available for consultation in most large libraries. It will repay any one who is interested in miniature art to examine this book, for the work is so excellent that it is almost like turning the leaves of the original. The Grimani Breviary, which was illuminated by Flemish artists of renown, was the property of Cardinal Grimani, and is now one of the treasures of the Library of St. Marc in Venice. It is impossible in a short space to comment to any adequate extent upon the work of such eminent artists as Jean Foucquet, Don Giulio Clovio, Sano di Pietro, and Liberale da Verona; they were technically at the head of their art, and yet, so far as taste in book decoration is to be considered, their work would be more satisfactory as framed miniatures than as marginal or paginal ornament.

Stippling was brought to its ultimate perfection by Don Giulio Clovio, but it is supposed to have been first practised by Antonio de Holanda.

One of Jehan Foucquet's assistants was Jehan Bourdichon. There is an interesting memorandum extant, relating to a piece of illumination which Bourdichon had accomplished. "To the said B. for having had written a book in parchment named the Papalist, the same illuminated in gold and azure and made in the same nine rich Histories, and for getting it bound and covered, thirty crowns in gold."

At the time of the Renaissance there was a rage for "tiny books," miniature copies of famous works. M. WÜrtz possessed a copy of the Sonnets of Petrarch, written in italics, in brown ink, of which the length was one inch, and the breadth five-eighths of an inch, showing fifty lines on a page. The text is only visible through a glass. It is in Italian taste, with several miniatures, and is bound in gold filigree.

The value of illuminated books is enormous. An Elector of Bavaria once offered a town for a single book; but the monks had sufficient worldly wisdom to know that he could easily take the town again, and so declined the exchange!

With the introduction of printing, the art of illumination was doomed. The personal message from the scribe to the reader was merged in the more comprehensive message of the press to the public. It was no longer necessary to spend a year on a work that could be accomplished in a day; so the artists found themselves reduced to painting initial letters in printed books, sometimes on vellum, but more often on paper. This art still flourishes in many localities; but it is no more illumination, though it is often so designated, than photography is portrait painting. Both are useful in their departments and for their several purposes, but it is incorrect to confound them.

Figure 74

DETAIL FROM AN ITALIAN CHORAL BOOK

Once, while examining an old choral book, I was particularly struck with the matchless personal element which exists in a book which is made, as this was, by the hand, from the first stroke to the last. The first page showed a bold lettering, the sweep of the pen being firm and free. Animal vigour was demonstrated in the steady hand and the clear eye. The illuminations were daintily painted, and the sure touch of the little white line used to accentuate the colours, was noticeable. After several pages, the letters became less true and firm. The lines had a tendency to slant to the right; a weakness could be detected in the formerly strong man. Finally the writing grew positively shaky. The skill was lost.

Suddenly, on another page, came a change. A new hand had taken up the work—that of a novice. He had not the skill of the previous worker in his best days, but the indecision of his lines was that of inexperience, not of failing ability. Gradually he improved. His colours were clearer and ground more smoothly; his gold showed a more glassy surface. The book ended as it had begun, a virile work of art; but in the course of its making, one man had grown old, lost his skill, and died, and another had started in his immaturity, gained his education, and devoted his best years to this book.

The printing press stands for all that is progressive and desirable; modern life and thought hang upon this discovery. But in this glorious new birth there was sacrificed a certain indescribable charm which can never be felt now except by a book lover as he turns the leaves of an ancient illuminated book. To him it is given to understand that pathetic appeal across the centuries.

THE END.