Gertrude Burford Rawlings

A book as we know it is usually contained in a case or cover intended primarily for its protection. The fastening together of the different sections of the book, and the providing it with a cover, and, incidentally, the decoration of that cover, come under the head of bookbinding, or bibliopegy, as the learned call it. The process of binding consists of two parts: first, the arrangement of the leaves and sections in proper order, their preparation for sewing by beating or pressing, the stitching of them together, and the fastening of them into the cover. This is called “forwarding.” The other half of the work is the lettering and decoration of the cover, and is called “finishing.” With the decoration of the cover only can we concern ourselves here.

The art of binding books is far older than the art of printing. The first known attempt to provide a cover by way of protection for a document was made by the workman who devised a clay case for the clay tablet-books of Babylonia, but this is as far from our notion of bookbinding as the tablets themselves are from our notion of books. Nor do the Roman bindings, which consisted of coloured parchment wrappers, come much nearer the modern conception. The ivory cases of the double-folding wax tablets or diptychs, too, of the second and third centuries, A.D., are also outside the pale, strictly speaking, but they deserve mention on account of the beautiful carving with which they are decorated, and on which some of the finest Byzantine art was expended.

One of the earliest bookbinders or book-cover decorators whose name has come down to us was DagÆus, an Irish monk, and a clever worker in metals. Among the many beautiful objects in metal wrought in the old Irish monasteries were skilfully designed covers and clasps for the books which were so highly prized in the “Isle of Saints.” Nor were covers alone deemed sufficient protection from wear and tear. Satchels, or polaires, such as that mentioned in Adamnan's story of the miraculous preservation of St Columba's Hymn-book, were in common use for conveying books from place to place. Very few specimens now remain, but there is one at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, containing an Irish missal, and another, which is preserved at Trinity College, Dublin, together with the Book of Armagh, to which it belongs, is thus described by the Rev. T.K. Abbott, in the Book of Trinity College:—

“An interesting object connected with the Book of Armagh is its leather satchel, finely embossed with figures of animals and interlaced work. It is formed of a single piece of leather, 36 in. long and 12½ broad, folded so as to make a flat-sided pouch, 12 in. high, 12¾ broad, and 2¼ deep. Part of it is doubled over to make a flap, in which are eight brass-bound slits, corresponding to as many brass loops projecting from the case, in which ran two rods, meeting in the middle, where they were secured by a lock. In early times, in Irish monastic libraries, books were kept in such satchels, which were suspended by straps from hooks in the wall. Thus it is related in an old legend that ‘on the night of Longaradh's death all the book-satchels in Ireland fell down.’”

In Ireland, too, specially valuable volumes were enclosed in a book-shrine, or cumhdach; and although, like the satchels, these cumhdachs are not bindings in the proper sense of the word, yet since they were intended for the same purpose as bindings, that is, the protection of the book, it will not be out of place to speak of them here.

The use of bookshrines in Ireland was very possibly the survival of an early custom of the primitive Church. It seems to have been applied chiefly, if not always, to books too precious or sacred to be read. We are told that a Psalter belonging to the O'Donels was fastened up in a case that was not to be opened; and were it ever unclosed, deaths and disasters would ensue to the clan. If borne by a priest of unblemished character thrice round their troops before a battle, it was believed to have the power of granting them victory, provided their cause were a righteous one.

Cumhdachs were also used in Scotland, but no Scottish examples have survived. The oldest cumhdach now existing is one in the Museum of the Royal Irish Academy, which was made for the MS. known as Molaise's Gospels, at the beginning of the eleventh century. It is of bronze, and ornamented with silver plates bearing gilt patterns. Another book-shrine, made for the Stowe Missal a little later, is of oak, covered with silver plates, and decorated with a large oval crystal in the middle of one side. The Book of Kells once had a golden cumhdach, we are told, or, more correctly, perhaps, a cumhdach covered with gold plates; but when the book was stolen from the church of Kells in 1006 it was despoiled of its costly case, with which the robbers made off, leaving the most precious part of their booty, the book itself, lying on the ground hidden by a sod.

One of the earliest bookbinders in this country was a bishop, Ethilwold of Lindisfarne, who bound the great Book of the Gospels that his predecessor Eadfrid had written. For the same book BillfriÐ the anchorite made a beautiful metal cover, gilded and bejewelled. The Lindisfarne Gospels still exists, but the cover which now contains it, though costly, is quite new. Like most ancient book covers the original one has been lost, or destroyed for the sake of its valuable material.

Among the earlier mediÆval bindings those of the Byzantine school of art rank very high. They were exceedingly splendid, for gold was their prevailing feature, and jewels and enamel were also lavished upon them.

The ordinary books of the middle ages were usually bound in substantial oak boards covered with leather, and often having clasps, corners, and protecting bosses of metal. In the twelfth century the English leather bindings produced at London, Winchester, Durham and other centres, were pre-eminent. Miss Prideaux instances some books which were bound for Bishop Pudsey, and which are now in the cathedral library of Durham, as “perhaps the finest monuments of this class of work in existence.” The sides of these volumes are blind-tooled; that is, the designs are impressed by means of dies or tools with various patterns and representations of men and of fabulous creatures, but not gilded.

Certain volumes, however, were treated with particular honour, either at the expense of a wealthy and book-loving owner, or for the purpose of presentation to some great personage, and for these sumptuous bindings the materials employed were various and costly. A Latin psalter which was written for Melissenda, wife of Fulk, Count of Anjou and King of Jerusalem, has a very wonderful French binding. The covers are of wood, and each bears a series of delicate ivory carvings of Byzantine work. The upper cover shows incidents in the life of David, and symbolical figures, and the lower cover scenes representing the works of Mercy, with figures of birds and animals. Rubies and turquoises dotted here and there help to beautify the ivory. This book is in the British Museum.

Another specimen in the same collection may be taken as an example of the use of enamel as a decoration for bindings. This is a Latin manuscript of the Gospels of SS. Luke and John, which is enclosed in wooden boards bound in red leather. In the upper cover is a sunk panel of Limoges enamel on copper gilt, representing Christ in glory. The work is of the thirteenth century. These enamelled bindings were often additionally decorated with gold and jewels.

A curious little modification of the ordinary leather binding was sometimes made in the case of small devotional works. The leather of the back and sides was continued at the bottom in a long tapering slip, at the end of which was a kind of button, so that the book might be fastened to the dress or girdle. Slender chains were often used for the same purpose.

About the time of the invention of printing, leather bindings began to be decorated with gold tooling. Tooling is the name given to the designs impressed upon the leather with various small dies so manipulated as to make a connected pattern. When the impressions are gilded the dull leather is brightened and beautified in proportion to the skill and taste expended by the workman. The art of gold tooling is believed to have originated in the East, and to have been brought to Italy by Venetian traders, or, as it has also been suggested, through the manuscripts which were dispersed at the fall of Constantinople. In any case, it was in Italy that it was first adopted and brought to perfection, and other European countries learned the art from Italian craftsmen. Chief among the early Italian gilt bindings are those made of the finest leathers and inscribed THO. MAIOLI ET AMICORVM. Nothing whatever is known of Thomasso Maioli, except that he had a large library and spared no expense in clothing his books in bibliopegic purple and fine linen.

What Maioli appears to have been among Italian book-collectors, Jean Grolier, Vicomte d'Aguisy, was among French bibliophiles. He held for a time the post of Treasurer of the Duchy of Milan, and while in Italy he collected books for his library and made the acquaintance of Aldus Manutius. Many of the Aldine books are dedicated to him, for Aldus occasionally stood in need of financial aid and found in Grolier a generous and practical patron of literature. Some of the famous bindings which distinguish Grolier's books were executed in Italy, others in France, where Italian bookbinders were then teaching their art to the native workmen. They display the same style of design that decorates the books of Maioli, and Maioli's benevolent inscription too, Grolier adapted to his own use, and stamped upon certain of his books IO. GROLIERII ET AMICORVM. The exact signification of these words is obscure. At first sight they might appear to refer delicately to the joy with which the owner of the book would place it at the disposal of his friends, but this does not accord with what is known of the character of book-lovers. Perhaps their only meaning is that Maioli and Grolier were at all times ready to please their friends and to gratify themselves by exhibiting their treasures. But since several copies of the same work are known to have been bound for Grolier—for instance, five copies of the Aldine Virgil—it has been suggested that he occasionally made presents of his books, though he drew the line at lending them.

Grolier's copy of the De Medicina of Celsus, which is in the British Museum, is bound in a somewhat different style from that usually associated with his name. It is in brown leather; blind-tooled except for some gold and coloured roundels in different parts of the device. In the centre of both covers is a medallion in colours, that on the upper cover representing Curtius leaping into the abyss in the Forum, and that on the lower cover representing the defence of the bridge by Horatius. This is an Italian binding.

Although it was Italy who first improved upon the usual methods of mediÆval binding, and from her that France took lessons in this new and better way of clothing books, it was France who was destined to bring the art to its highest excellence. Having learned her lesson, she perfected herself in it, and the workmen of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, such as Geoffroy Tory, Nicholas, Clovis, and Robert Eve, and Le Gascon, carried French bookbinding into the very first rank, where it may be considered to remain to this day.

Some of the finest French examples extant are those which were executed for HenryII. and Diana of Poitiers, Duchess of Valentinois. Both were ardent bibliophiles, and both indulged in very sumptuous bindings for their books. Some of the chief treasures in our great libraries to-day are the beautiful volumes which Henry presented to the duchess, and which are ornamented with the royal lilies of France, accompanied by the bows and arrows and crescents which were Diana's own badges and the initials of the king and the duchess.

Catherine de Medicis also was an enthusiastic book collector, which may surprise those who think that a person who is devoted to books is necessarily harmless. Some of her books she brought to France as part of her dowry, others she acquired by fair means or foul as was most convenient, and to their bindings she paid particular attention and kept a staff of bookbinders in her employ.

To such a pitch of extravagance did the bibliophiles of the period go in the binding of their books, that in 1583 HenryIII. of France decreed that ordinary citizens should not use more than four diamonds to the decoration of one book, and the nobility not more than five. The king himself, however, was as extravagant as any of his subjects, at any rate as regards the designs he favoured. Many of his books are clad in black morocco, bearing representations of skulls, cross-bones, tears, and other melancholy emblems. He developed his taste for these strange decorations, it is said, when, as Duke of Anjou, he loved and lost Mary of ClÈves. The early printers at first executed their own bookbinding, but presently left it to the stationers. It was generally only the larger works which they thought worth covering, and the small ones were simply stitched. Antony Koburger, of whom mention has already been made, bound his own books and ornamented them in a style peculiarly his own. Caxton bound his according to the prevailing fashion, with leather sides, plain or blind-tooled with diagonal lines, forming diamond-shaped compartments in each of which is stamped a species of dragon.

About the sixteenth century it became fashionable to have one's books

as a writer of the time expresses it, and this style naturally lent itself to the needleworked decoration. This decoration was especially favoured in England, and the ladies of the period executed some very fine pieces of embroidery as “pleasant covertures” for their books, using coloured silks and gold and silver thread on velvet or other material. One of the earliest embroidered bindings covers a description of the Holy Land, written by Martin Brion, and dedicated to HenryVIII. It is of crimson velvet, with the English arms enclosed in the Garter, between two H's, and the Tudor rose in each corner, and it is worked in silks, gold thread, and seed pearls. Queen Elizabeth is said to have preferred embroidered bindings to those of leather, and to have been very skilful in working them. The copy of De Antiquitate BritannicÆ EcclesiÆ, which the author, Archbishop Parker, presented to the Queen, has a cover which is very elaborately embroidered indeed. It is of contemporary English work, and is thus described in the British Museum Guide to the Printed Books exhibited in the King's Library:—

“Green velvet, having as a border a representation of the paling of a deer park, embroidered in gold and silver thread; the border on the upper cover enclosing a rose bush bearing red and white roses, surrounded by various other flowers, and by deer; the lower cover has a similar border, but contains deer, snakes, plants and flowers; the whole being executed in gold and silver thread and coloured silks. On the back are embroidered red and white roses.” Embroidered bindings remained in fashion during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and plain velvet, too, was often used, sometimes with gold or silver mounts.

The old Royal Library, which was given to the nation by GeorgeII., contains a large number of sumptuous bookbindings; and that our Sovereigns were not unmindful of the welfare of their literary treasures may also be gathered from various entries in the Wardrobe Books and from other documents. Thus, we read that EdwardIV. paid Alice Clavers, “for the makyng of xvj. laces and xvj. tassels for the garnysshing of divers of the kinge's bookes ijs. viijd.”; and “Piers Bauduyn, stacioner, for bynding gilding and dressing of a booke called Titus Livius xxs., for binding gilding and dressing of a booke of the The Holy Trinity xvjs.,” and so on. Again, in the bill delivered to HenryVIII. by Thomas Berthelet, his majesty's printer and binder, are found such entries as these:—

“Item delyvered to the kinge's highnes the vj. day of January a Psalter in englische and latine covered with crimoysyn satyne, 2s.”

“Item delyvered to the kinge's hyghnes for a little Psalter, takyng out of one booke and settyng in an other in the same place, and for gorgeous binding of the same booke xijd.; and to the Goldesmythe for taking off the claspes and corners and for setting on the same ageyne xvjd.”

Among the various styles which may be classed as fancy bindings may be instanced the seventeenth century tortoise-shell covers with silver mounts and ornaments, which have a very handsome effect, and the mosaic decoration of the same period. This mosaic decoration was made by inlaying minute pieces of differently coloured leathers, and finishing them with gold tooling. It was work which called for great dexterity in manipulation, and in skilful hands the result was very pretty and graceful.

Even from this slight sketch it will be seen that bookbindings have always presented unlimited opportunities for originality on the part of the worker, as regards both design and material. Wood and leather, gold and silver, ivory and precious stones, coloured enamels, impressed papier-mÂchÉ, gold-tooled leather and embroidered fabric, pasteboard and parchment, have all been pressed into the service, and the subject of bookbindings is a fascinating branch of book history. But from their nature bindings are difficult to describe in an interesting manner, and words can hardly do justice to them without the aid of facsimile illustrations.

The ordinary bindings of to-day are practically confined to two styles, the cloth and the leather, and those combinations of leather and cloth or leather and paper which make the covers of half-bound and quarter-bound volumes. Cloth binding, the binding of the nineteenth century, is an English invention, and came into use in 1823. On the Continent books are still issued in paper covers and badly stitched, on the assumption that if worth binding at all, they will be bound by the purchaser as he pleases. But although the English commercial cloth binding is often charged for far too highly, no one can deny its convenience, and its superiority over the paper undress of foreign works. Moreover, it is the homely, everyday garb of the great majority of our favourite volumes, and though, no doubt, it is delightful to possess books sumptuously bound, book-lovers of less ambition, or of lighter purses than those who can command such luxuries, are not very much to be pitied. There is something characteristic about a book in a cloth cover which it loses when it dons the livery of its owner's library. Cloth is not only more varied in texture, but admits of greater freedom and variety of design than does leather, so there is something to be said in its favour in spite of the contention that direct handicraft is preferable to handicraft which works through a machine, and that one of a batch of bindings printed by the thousand is not to be compared with a single specimen of tooled leather which has cost a pair of human hands hours of careful toil. The little libraries with which so many of us have to be contented owe their bright and cheerful appearance to the cloth covers of the books, in which each book stands out with modest directness, wearing its individuality instead of losing it in a crowd of neighbours dressed exactly like itself. In a series uniformly bound, however, a family likeness is not only admissible, but pleasing. It gives an idea of unison among, perhaps, widely differing individuals. But the unison which is becoming to a family makes a community monotonous.

On the other hand, something stronger than cloth is necessary when books are to be subjected to special wear and tear, and desirable when a volume is to be particularly honoured or when the library it is to enter is large and important. Protection is the first purpose of a binding, and endurance its first quality, and the experience of centuries has shown that the walls in the fairy-tale were right when they said,

In which, perhaps, the book-lover will see a parable. For, after all, the book is the thing, and the cover a mere circumstance, and those who wish to make books merely pegs to hang bindings upon deserve to have no books at all. Yet it is right that though the binding should not be raised above the book, it should be worthy of the book, and much of the cheap and good literature which is now within the reach of all who care to stretch out their hands for it, is clothed in a manner to which no exception can be taken on any score. Those who have not realised how charming some of the modern bookbindings can be, should consult the winter number of The Studio for 1899–1900.