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Title: In the day's work
Author: Daniel Berkeley Updike
Release date: February 10, 2026 [eBook #77910]
Language: English
Original publication: Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1924
Credits: Craig Kirkwood and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DAY'S WORK ***
Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
An additional Transcriber’s Note is at the end.
* * * * *
_In the Day’s Work_
* * * * *
_London: Humphrey Milford_
Oxford University Press
In the Day’s Work
_By
Daniel Berkeley Updike_
Author of “Printing Types: Their
History, Forms, and Use”
[Illustration]
Cambridge
_Harvard University Press_
_1924_
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY THE HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS
PRINTED BY D. B. UPDIKE, THE MERRYMOUNT PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A.
* * * * *
_Note_
The paper entitled “On the Planning of Printing” first appeared in _The
Fleuron_, London, and is included through the kindness of its editor,
Mr. Oliver Simon. “Style in the Use of Type” was originally issued
in _Handicraft_, a publication of The Society of Arts and Crafts, of
Boston, and is reprinted (with some slight changes) by permission of
that organization.
D.B.U.
The Merrymount Press
June 24, 1924
_Contents_
ON THE PLANNING OF PRINTING 3
STYLE IN THE USE OF TYPE 41
THE SEVEN CHAMPIONS OF TYPOGRAPHY 53
* * * * *
_On the Planning of Printing_
_On the Planning of Printing_
“It must of necessity be,” said Sir Joshua Reynolds, “that even works
of genius, like every other effect, as they must have their cause,
must also have their rules; it cannot be by chance that excellencies
are produced with any constancy or any certainty, for this is not
the nature of chance: but the rules by which men of extraordinary
parts--and such as are called men of genius--work, are either such as
they discover by their own peculiar observations, or of such a nice
texture as not easily to admit being expressed in words. Unsubstantial,
however, as these rules may seem, and difficult as it may be to
convey them in writing, they are still seen and felt in the mind of
the artist; and he works from them with as much certainty as if they
were embodied upon paper. It is true these refined principles cannot
always be made palpable, as the more gross rules of art; yet it does
not follow but that the mind may be put in such a train that it still
perceives by a kind of scientific sense that propriety which words ...
can but very feebly suggest.”
Sir Joshua said this in regard to painting, in his case surely the
work of genius; but if we substitute for the word “genius” the word
“art,” we have a quotation which is applicable even to the task of
designing satisfactory pieces of typography. Although rules for
designing suitable printing may seem unsubstantial and difficult to
convey in words, it is still true that they are seen and felt in the
mind of the worker. They are illusive rules, and yet none the less a
man works from them with as much certainty as if they were set down on
paper. It is because they are so illusive that many persons believe
that, in designing printing, there are no rules at all; because they
commonly think of rules as matters of precise measurement and definite
proportion. As a matter of fact, the best rules for planning work are
general rules, and rules for the mind rather than for the hand--no less
real because applying to what may be called, in a sense, a spiritual
matter. So in properly laying out printing (which is nothing more than
successfully designing it for a given object) it is necessary to have
a certain mental equipment, which is, to tell the truth, where most
designers of printing fail. Having said this, I may divide the subject
into three parts: the first of which treats of the apparatus with which
we work; the second, of the requirements of the persons for whom we
work; and the third, of those principles on which we plan our work;
or, to put it more simply, the classification of our material, our
relations with customers, and how to plan the printing they ask us to
do.
_I. Arrangement of “Specimen-Books”_
The specimens of the type which a printing-office possesses should be
arranged in orderly and convenient fashion so that the time of the man
who is planning the printing may not be wasted. There is no need of
going to the expense of printing elaborate volumes to show our types.
A blank book in which proofs of type are pasted will do very well, or
a “loose-leaf” folder is better still, as it permits additions in
proper sequence. The same passage (either in Latin or English) may
be used throughout the volume to show types for book-pages and the
comparative amount of matter which can be set in various sizes of type.
For instance, in a Caslon series the first type may be the smallest
size shown; a passage of ten or twelve lines may be set in four ways,
solid, and leaded with 1-point, 2-point, and 3-point leads. On the same
page an alphabet of capitals, small capitals, swash letters, ligatured
letters, and all the “peculiar sorts” used with that particular fount
should be displayed, and the amount of type available for use should
be stated. In the specimen-book arranged by the late Theodore De Vinne
for the De Vinne Press, not only capitals, small capitals, lower-case,
and italic in the fount were shown, but also numbers, accented letters,
mathematical signs, signs of the zodiac, and every peculiar sort
were displayed; and the foundry in which the type was cast was also
mentioned.[1]
The four variously leaded paragraphs just spoken of might occupy two
facing pages. The next two facing pages would be devoted to italic of
the same size, similarly leaded. Then would come the next larger size
of roman in the same series with its italic, and so on, up to great
primer or 18-point, which would probably be the largest size of type
used for a book-page. In any size above great primer, a few lines of
roman and italic type with the alphabet and special characters could
occupy a page by themselves.
Transitional types treated in a like manner would come next; then
modified old styles; and finally the modern faces. Special faces such
as Bodoni, Garamond, or French old style, could be arranged in the
same way. These might be followed by black-letters and scripts. After
each series a table of graded sizes of its capital letters should be
exhibited--from the smallest size of capitals to the largest, “small
capitals” being inserted in their proper place, so that the variety of
sizes of capitals available may be seen at a glance. By placing small
tabs on the edge of the page at which each new type-family begins,
marked with a number or name, much time would be saved in turning to
founts one wished to look at.
Ornamental alphabets, ornaments, etc., may occupy a second division or
another volume of the same size bound in another colour. In this second
part, alphabets could be arranged in series, by sizes; or according to
styles. Typographical “flowers” should be grouped according to size
or style or arranged according to date of issue. In the specimen-book
of Briquet, published at Paris in 1757, such ornaments are displayed
very ingeniously. Each “flower” is numbered; a single one is first
shown, and is followed by the same “flower” arranged in rows to show
the effect if used as a border. Next the “flower” is shown in various
combinations--back to back, in two rows together, one running in the
ordinary way and the other upside down, etc. A great many effective
and ingenious patterns may be made from the same ornament placed in
different positions, and still greater variety can be had by combining
two ornaments, as a study of old specimen-books will show.
Some pages at the end of this division may be reserved for the
miscellaneous type ornaments which slowly accumulate in every
printing-house.
It may be said that this seems a practical plan for the man who lays
out the printing, but that such a book would not be attractive to a
customer choosing type. But why let a customer make a choice of type?
As Fournier said, “men who pride themselves most on knowing about
books, are often very much embarrassed when it comes to giving an exact
idea of the kind of type in which these books are printed; ordinarily
they are at a loss for the names of the types; sometimes they miscall
them, but ordinarily they employ inexact expressions--saying that such
a book is printed in large or small type, which only gives a vague,
indeterminate idea, and means nothing at all.”
And once upon a time there was an author who returned his proofs,
with the message that he hoped the type would be larger when the book
was printed! But by the time a customer has stated what he thinks he
wants (for he does not always end by wanting what he at first thinks he
does), the designer has formed an idea of the range of types which it
is best to use. If a customer insists that he must see the type to be
used, one or two types--either of which is suitable--may be shown him.
There is something to be learned, here, from the old trick of allowing
a person to choose a card from a pack, and telling him what that card
will be before he looks at it. If well done, the trick never fails,
because the man who is selecting the card does not really select it,
but has a certain card dealt into his hand. I believe a customer should
be treated in much the same way, with this difference: that instead
of allowing him to think he is selecting one among fifty-two cards,
I should give him (and tell him I was giving him) but four cards to
choose from--all aces of different suits! In this way a customer would
certainly exercise a choice, but it would only be a choice of the four
best kinds of the same thing! No one wishes to fool a customer, but it
is equally unfair to permit him to fool himself. He should get what he
is paying for: the best knowledge the printer possesses.
_II. Relations with Customers_
Thus we have suddenly arrived at the relation of the printer to his
customers. Cardinal Newman speaks somewhere of the need of practising
an “economy in imparting religious truth.” This being interpreted
signifies to keep back something; and has its authority in certain
rather “unevangelical” passages in the New Testament, to the effect
that it is at times wise to give out only as much truth as the hearer
is able to bear. This is usually the part of wisdom in a printer’s
treatment of a customer. He cannot be told everything; in fact, he can
only be told (advantageously to himself) what it is good for him to
know! Anglo-Saxons detest this kind of reasoning, because they say that
it appears shifty and untruthful; but what they really subconsciously
dislike is the principle of authority inherent in it. As a race we
resent experts--though all Americans, and no doubt some English,
secretly believe that they are experts themselves! So, though printers
often act on some such idea, they do not fancy calling it an “economy
in imparting truth.” One may hold back information, but it is bad form
to admit to yourself that you do, or to hold the theory that it may be
defensibly done. Such people agree in principle with George III when he
said, “Shakespeare often wrote sad stuff, but one must not say so.”
As customers fall into many different classes, they have to be met
in many different ways. They certainly sometimes bring difficult
typographical problems to the printer, for which they suggest or
dictate ridiculous solutions. But a printer cannot be of use to
typography by dismissing their views and them. His part is to lead
them into the more excellent way, by showing them what can be done to
improve their work and what cannot, and by explaining the reason why.
Thus he can avoid needlessly annoying a “client,” and encourage him
not only to have this particular piece of work printed well, but to
have more work printed better; for most people will use good types if
they can only be made to see the reason of their goodness. I remember
once being obliged to print, for a personage who dealt in muffins, a
circular which was to show their excellence; and to this end he showed
me an announcement printed in coloured ink from horrid types, on brown
note-paper, with a “hemstitched” perforated edge, as a model for what
was to be done. This circular he had secured from the establishment
of a milliner. His mind worked in this way: that as an expensive hat
was advertised by a circular adorned with perforations, and this hat
cost one hundred times more than a muffin, a circular adapted for
the hat must be many times better than the ordinary method of muffin
advertising! I explained that there was a suitable and even ideal
way of advertising muffins as well as hats, and that to advertise a
muffin as one would a hat might very likely mislead the public about
its digestibility! We ended by making an advertisement which I thought
pretty, and he said was extremely so, _and it sold the muffins!_
What more could you ask? Thus it is a part of wisdom, though not,
alas, always of inclination, to try to teach a customer--to lead and
not drive him. But there are times when, if a customer insists on
employing some bad, freaky types in cheap, tawdry display of colour,
you are right in telling him that he must have his work done elsewhere.
That amusing person, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, in a letter to
her daughter, Lady Bute, said that “people commonly educate their
children as they build their houses, according to some plan they think
beautiful, without considering whether it is suitable for the purpose
for which they are designed. Almost all girls of quality are educated
as if they were to be great ladies. You should teach yours to confine
their desires to probabilities.” And this is just as true of printing
as of education or house-building, and, I am told, is a useful idea
when marrying off a daughter.
But customers seldom see that the essential thing in all printing is
that it be suitable for the purpose for which it is designed, and
printers have not based their practice on any such sensible rule. If
printers had more of a standard and a stiffer one, both about the
types they employ and the way in which they use them, printing would
be better. The printer, if he has no standard, _must_ allow the
customer to dictate his own wishes about types. He is defenseless, no
matter how indefensible typographically the customer’s ideas may be.
In fixed opinions of what types are good and what are bad, the average
printer has been a most spiritless individual. His long-suffering
has become a tradition, and for him to assert that there are things
typographically which he will not do, has the expectedness of the
much talked-of (but seldom seen) turning worm! Clergymen, business
men, landscape architects, school teachers, and contractors all have
what they call “ideas” about types and their arrangement, and make
no bones about telling the printer what they are. Yet these people
are profoundly ignorant of typography. If the printer had an educated
standard in typography, he could show them that they were so. But he
has nothing to suggest. He is not leading, but following; if he takes
any other position, it is troublesome to him and he is misunderstood
by his public. Pained surprise is upon the faces of friends; annoyed
resistance is shown by the customer. “Prudential reasons” are
suggested by uncles, “kindness” by aunts, “horse-sense” by business
acquaintances. The printer who sticks to a standard is usually
supposed to be arbitrary, autocratic, wilful, conceited, and generally
top-lofty. Now, he may be all this, but he is not of necessity so; and
as a matter of fact, he is sometimes as weary of his standard as any
customer can be. There is, however, a standard. It can be held to,
though not without trouble. The lack of it has reduced much modern
printing to what it is.
These are some of the difficulties we meet with in dealing with
people who know little about printing and, to some extent, admit it.
But there is a second class who are worse: those who take a superior
tone about it and are very sure that they know the printer’s inmost
thoughts. To prove this they use an inaccurate semi-technical jargon
which has taught me the wisdom of never trying to talk in the terms of
another person’s trade--I do not deal in architectural terms before an
architect, though I may inflict them on my defenseless doctor! To the
mind of this second class there are two kinds of work that a press may
do, differentiated by the terms “artistic” and “commercial”--terms
very carelessly and very currently used. It is often said (as if it
were a compliment) that such and such a printer does not do commercial
work, but only artistic. One may say that he endeavours to do _good_
work, if that is “artistic”; and he _sells_ it, so it is after all
“commercial.” The rejoinder is, “But I mean printing of a commercial
character, _i.e._ used in business”--the inference being that such
printing cannot be “artistic” (poor, overworked word!), which, thank
God, is often the case! The real difficulty lies in what is meant
by artistic printing. To my mind it means: printing as exactly and
agreeably suited as possible to the object for which it is to be
used--commercial printing being just as capable of possessing this
excellence as any other variety. But most people, if they stopped to
analyse, would find that they really meant by “artistic printing”
something queer, dear, and not well adapted to daily use, delivered
later than expected; and by “commercial,” something commonplace, cheap,
nasty, and done in a hurry. The truth is that the best presses do but
one kind of work, which is neither solely commercial nor artistic, but
both, _i.e._ good. Then again, in the mind of the class of customers
of whom I speak, literary interest is confused with problems of
handicraft. A mere circular or an advertisement, they say, cannot be
interesting to arrange. One can never make such persons understand that
it is not the matter to be printed, but the problem of design presented
by that matter, which is interesting to a printer. An edition of Dante
may be a great bore to execute, and offer no very difficult problem;
while one may be exceedingly amused and interested by a circular about
tea! To see this requires the professional point of view, and does
not support the lazy generalizations of the amiable amateur. He will
continue to call printing “very artistic” and “only commercial,” and
rather fancy that he commends himself to a printer by so doing.
Perhaps it may be said that in old times there was not such a variety
of types as there is now, or so many kinds of work to be done. This
is true. But it is quite easy to restrict the repertoire of types in
any office to _good types_ and to permit their use only in legitimate
ways. The earliest printers were often learned men, and yet perhaps
their contemporaries thought that they took themselves too seriously.
But what they took seriously was not themselves, but their work. They
were educated enough and independent enough to hold to certain ideals.
If Aldus had watered down his manner of printing and continually varied
his types to suit other people’s views, he would never have been heard
of. None the less, the heads of contemporary Italian uncles and aunts
were sadly shaken, perhaps, and friends of the family were seriously
distressed. We remember the types and books of Aldus still; but the
names of these “wise and prudent” are forgotten.
_III. Some Principles in Planning Printing_
The man who has to plan or lay out a piece of printing should pause
a few moments before he attacks his problem, and his plan is best
made alone in a quiet room (from which examples of other people’s
work are banished) wherein is a large table, and on it nothing but
the manuscript of the work to be arranged and a book of specimens of
types. Supposing the work to be planned is a book: give thought not
only to what the book is about and to the author from whom the work
emanates, but to the public for whom it is intended, and to its trade
conditions; and in this light examine the manuscript from beginning to
end. By the time the designer has done this, some mental picture of
what seems a good typographic form for the work will present itself;
and his “job” is to express this image in terms of type. “The prophetic
eye of taste” (wrote the poet Gray), “when it plants a seedling,
already sits under the shadow of it, and enjoys the effect it will have
from every point of view that lies in the prospect.” So it must be with
the designer of printing: he should be able to visualize the effect of
his work in its finished form before a single type is set.
Furthermore, in planning this book one must think of its purpose, of
its convenience to the reader for that purpose--and remember, also,
any requirements as to uniformity with other books or other series.
The plan must also provide for illustrations, if such there are to be,
and determine how they are to be rendered; for these have a distinct
relation to type, which must in some way be made to harmonize with
them. Finally, there is the question of limitation of expense, and the
price at which the book is to sell, which will give some idea of how
much can be spent upon it. All this has to be thought out. And after
that we may proceed to choose the type which we think will best suit
the above requirements.
Having done this, take from the manuscript those pages which give (1) a
solid mass of text; (2) tabular or unusual matter; and (3) quotations
or poetry. The page of solid matter, already mentally designed, being
the norm, one can then judge how successfully this imaginary page will
permit the introduction of those various features which the unusual
pages demand. Some of those latter features may require a modification
of the imaginary normal page. But if the imaginary page, with these
exceptions in view, is successfully designed, it can be set up. If this
preliminary work is conscientiously done, that which results from it
will be good, because so well adapted for its purpose as to appear
inevitable. The result will give the same sense of satisfaction that
a well-made glove or a good tennis racket produces. These principles
apply to everything that is printed: to an edition of Aristotle, to a
choral book for a cathedral, to the circular for a pottery or a sale of
handkerchiefs, to the label for a pot of jam.
* * * * *
There is a passage in the _Architecture_ of Vitruvius that may serve
as a text for printers who forget that the adaptation of a thing for
its purpose is half its charm. Speaking of winter dining-rooms, he says
that “neither paintings on grand subjects, nor delicacy of decoration
in the cornice work of the vaultings, is a serviceable kind of design,
because they are spoiled by the smoke from the fire and the constant
soot from the lamps.” “In these rooms,” he adds, “there should be
panels above the dadoes, worked in black, and polished with yellow
ochre, or vermilion blocks interposed between them.” And he goes on
in the same practical strain to recommend the Greek method of making
floors of a porous material, so that at dinner parties whatever is
poured out of cups, “no sooner falls than it dries up, and the servants
who wait there do not catch cold from that kind of floor although
they may go barefoot.” Vitruvius makes, as all good craftsmen do, the
necessities of the case the factors of his choice of decoration and
material. Indeed, the limitations of a piece of work are often a help
to him who plans it. “Any designer is assisted, though also limited,
by conditions of construction as well as by art considerations,” says
a recent writer. “A thorough knowledge and acknowledgement of these
conditions will enable the designer, no matter in what material he
works, to make the most of his opportunities; and the recognition of
his limitations should prove a help rather than a hindrance to him.
The architect is limited in the size, site, and cost of his building.
The designer is restricted to the use of a certain number of colours
for his carpet, and is compelled to recognize the conditions of its
manufacture. The artist must plan the positions, form, and colour of
the features of interest in his picture. In fact, none of them are
absolutely free in their work. If they recognize their limitations,
they know that there are things they may do, and things which they
cannot do; and the success or failure of their efforts will be largely
influenced by their acceptance of the conditions under which they work.”
Bearing in mind these limitations, and also Morris’s three
propositions: “First, that a page should be clear and easy to read;
second, the types well designed; and third, the margins in due
proportion to the page of letter”; and that “furthermore, in a book the
effect of headlines, the size of type in relation to the size of page,
spacing between words, leading, style of type-face, title-page, and
decorations have all to be thought of”--we have the problem before us.
If our books are to be purely retrospective volumes, reprints in the
Gothic style, Renaissance style, or the French eighteenth century
manner, that call for close study of books of the period, there is
little opportunity to go wrong, if enough time and thought be devoted
to the problem. But the important characteristics of a given style
are not always those which at first glance appear to be so. Consider
an Aldine book. In reproducing one, many printers would lose sight of
the fact that the characteristic points of the Aldine edition were
as much Aldus’s use of small roman capitals combined with a slightly
larger italic, as his use of italic for the text of an entire volume.
The particular point which needs emphasis in planning reproductive work
is that the study of old models must be minute--not alone in the type
used, but in all details of its management.
But nine times out of ten a printer’s work is to design pages for
modern books. It is not enough that such a book should be legible
because set in good type, clearly arranged, and sharply printed.
Over and above this, there is a suitability which is as important,
and which constitutes the charm of typography. Of course no piece of
printing is good for anything which is not legible. Yet granted this,
it may still be a failure if it breaks down along the parallel lines
of literary and artistic suitability. A prayer-book may be printed in
a type which is readable, but which is so out of tune with liturgical
work that no person who wanted a prayer-book would buy it. You could
not sell _Punch_, however well printed, in black-letter; not because
black-letter is not in itself a good type-form, but because it is not
appropriate nor the kind we like in illustrated humorous periodicals.
So while a book must be easily read, it must also be printed in a
manner suitable for its purpose--attractive to the cultivated through
the mind, as well as to the ignorant through the eye. Thus a modern
book is often difficult to plan successfully because it involves a
personal view of the question, and there is no explicit guide in
designing work of this sort. The designer can succeed only by his
ability and taste in taking advantage of the factors in the problem
which are pointing out how the book is to be designed. Each piece of
printing has a still, small voice of its own if we can but hear it. To
listen to it saves taking many “false routes.”
The subject-matter of a book should, as has been suggested, furnish a
clue to its appropriate treatment. If you are to design a modern book
like Vernon Lee’s _Studies of the Eighteenth Century in Italy_, you
will not produce a suitable or agreeable effect if you use black-letter
headlines or a modern German aesthetic roman type for its text, both
of which connote an entirely different order of ideas. Give a slight
suggestion of an eighteenth century Italian volume to your modern book
by introducing into it a few characteristic eighteenth century Italian
type-forms or methods of arrangement, which can be adapted without
affectation to the work of to-day. The Italian eighteenth century book
should not be copied, but it should be suggested. On the other hand, if
you plan a book in such modern fashion that it recalls nothing of the
eighteenth century, but might as well be _Stormonth’s Dictionary_ as
far as charm goes, you have not made as good a scheme as you can with
the material at hand. Lack of practicality is the most serious fault;
but lack of suitability or appropriateness is still a fault, and one
which the intelligent typographer must know how to overcome. The two
horses must be driven together!
There is, too, the tendency to strive for undue originality. Now
originality is all very well, but it must be an improvement on what is
less original, and therefore more commonly used. I have often, when
travelling, been tempted to go where scarcely any one else had been,
because it seemed rather an original thing to do, and interesting (at
least, to me) to tell about afterward. When I got to my destination I
usually found that the reason the trip was not popular was because it
was not in the least worth while to have taken it! The same is true in
typography. Most experiments, wise and otherwise, have already been
tried, and the sure way--which is not very original now--is on the
whole the best way, unless it can be so much improved that its utility
can be recognized at once. If it seems commonplace, it is often so
because it is so much the best--merely common-sense!
It was said of Congreve that “his nice scholarship had taught him the
burden of association which time had laid upon this word or that.
He used the language of his own day like a master, because he was
anchored securely to a knowledge of the past.” A man, to become a
master of typography, should have this same anchorage. His typography
should be allusive, and his originality should consist in perceiving
opportunities for allusiveness when most printers would not. A modern
book should show that the man who planned it has a knowledge of old
styles, but never allows this knowledge to impair suitability for
to-day’s purpose. No matter what book is to be planned, you must always
ask these questions: What is it to be used for? Where is it to be used?
By whom is it to be used? What is the most suitable, practical, simple,
orderly, and historical method of producing it?--questions of universal
application, with answers capable of endless variation. The result of
such well-laid plans should be typography which is good for what it is
meant to be, yet decorative too.
For ephemeral printing--circulars, prospectuses, etc.--we have to
follow the principles laid down in planning books, except that we
may treat the printing more fancifully and lightly. There, more than
ever, we can hear the voice of the work speaking to us, if we are
willing to listen. If we are printing a syllabus of studies, we must
think, of the age of the person by whom the studies are pursued. If
it is a lesson-book for children, the type should be larger, and its
various features more clearly defined, than if intended for mature
persons. In all works of education, where the aim in view is the most
lucid possible statement, the typography should be of a transparent
nature, _i.e._ which attracts no attention to itself and is merely a
vehicle to convey the words of the printed page to the reader’s mind.
If a title-page used in educational printing permits of a slightly
decorative treatment, the kind of institution which presents the work
must be kept in mind. If it is a seminary for clergy, it might have an
ecclesiastical look; if a school of commerce, it should have a strictly
business-like appearance. If it is a literary society, an old style
type may be used; whereas for the school of commerce it would be better
to employ a modern face type. But for the religious seminary, school
of commerce, or literary society, it is always possible to employ a
type which is thoroughly good; the pages may be well proportioned and
well imposed; the type well spaced and properly leaded; the impression
clear and nervous. When the work is done, if it fulfils its purposes in
the most suitable manner, it will have “that note of rightness which,
evasive, indescribable, and intangible, nevertheless clearly marks off
the work of a craftsman from that of a hack.”
One can only plan successfully these smaller pieces of work by
considering minutely what they are meant to accomplish. Let us take a
menu. What questions would be uppermost in one’s mind in planning that?
The first that would occur to me would be the hour of the meal and
where it was to be served. Was it to be by day or night? If by day, by
artificial light or not? The colour of the card and the size of type
would be somewhat dependent on this. Was there any particular scheme
of colour in the decorations of the table? Because my menu must either
match or at least not be discordant with it. Was it to be a big table
with ample room for each guest, or a small one? Was the menu to be laid
on a napkin or to stand upright? That would dictate my choice of size;
for a menu is an incident, not a feature, at a dinner, and should not
be so large as to be in the way if laid down, nor so big as to knock
over glasses and fall into one’s plate if it is to stand. Decide all
these little points in the light of “What is the thing used for? Where
is it to be used? By whom is it to be used? What is the most suitable,
practical, simple, orderly, and historical method of producing it?”
For even menus have a history, and were first used in the household of
the Duke of Brunswick at Ratisbon in the first half of the sixteenth
century. By consulting some of the French books which have been written
on this and allied subjects, you will find out “a number of things.”
Some one brings a programme for a _musicale_ to be printed. Here,
again, you must know the hour; it must be printed on a single sheet
of paper or upon a card; it must not have a printed border close to
the margin; it must be in fairly large type. Why? Because the light
makes a difference in the colour of paper and ink to be used; because
a programme of more than one page rustles when turned over; because
the ink may spoil light gloves if it is too near the edge and is much
handled; and because all ages and kinds of eyes are to read it. If it
is too long a concert for a programme on one page, then one can use
a soft or unsized paper, so that it will not “rattle” when turned.
And as to the style of the thing, “the world is all before you where
to choose.” What is the music to be played? old or modern, French or
English, sacred or secular, serious or gay? There are all sorts of
sources to be consulted for the appropriate decorations for these
varied classes of music.
Again: a service for the consecration of a bishop is to be printed.
Now, in the Roman Catholic or Anglican communions, the canon of the
Mass or consecration of the Holy Eucharist is the most solemn moment
of the service, which must not be disturbed by turning leaves. So one
would print all that part of the office on two facing pages and let the
liturgical matter before and after come as it would. For a Protestant
order of service, where there is no celebration of the sacrament, it is
sufficient that the “turnovers” do not come in the middle of prayers,
if the prayers are printed in full. About liturgical printing there are
many other points to be kept in mind. I merely mention this as one of
them.
Every piece of work is different, yet each is governed by common-sense
illuminated by imagination. Project yourself into the situation of
the user. What does he need? How does he feel? Where is he? If your
design satisfies his feelings, needs, and situation, you have produced
printing which is suitable for its purpose.
But customers will not notice all these fine points, one may say.
There is no reason why they should--they are not printers! But it is
distinctly the printer’s job and what he is paid for, to help the
success of the occasion by making his small part in it as perfect as
he can. If he does, in time people will come to him for such printing,
because they will say his work is “so right.” So it is very much the
printer’s business to see that as Jack comes home from the musical
party he doesn’t say to Jill, “Did you hear what a noise the turning of
the programmes made in the middle of that solo?” Nor that she replies,
“No, but that silly decorated border spoiled a perfectly good pair of
white gloves.”
Style, said Sir Walter Raleigh, is an index to persons. “Write, and
after you have attained to some control over the instrument, you
write yourself down whether you will or no. There is no vice, however
unconscious, no virtue, however shy, no touch of meanness or of
generosity in your character, that will not pass on to the paper.”
This is as true of printing as it is of writing. If you have anything
in you, good or bad, you will translate it into the printed work for
which you are responsible. In printing, as in literary composition, by
expressing yourself (to use Raleigh’s words) you “anticipate the day of
judgment and furnish the recording angel with the material.”
Having refined our taste by a knowledge of standards, and regarding
our work in the light of what is needed to-day, it remains to acquire
the one thing needful: that personal touch, that personal note,
which shall make our work different from other men’s work. The most
dangerous moment for an ambitious designer of printing is that when,
having learned something of styles of type and ways of arranging
them, he begins to put his schemes into actual form. His ideas do not
at first come easily. He is either obsessed by the number of things
he has learned--like a young architect who tries to express in his
first commission all he has ever been taught at the École des Beaux
Arts; or he wonders what “the other man” is doing. A pair of horse’s
blinders would be useful just then! But this will pass. “There is a
time in every man’s education,” says Emerson, “when he arrives at the
conviction that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for
better, for worse, as his portion; that no kernel of nourishing corn
can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground
which is given to him to till.” For when he begins thus to toil and to
till, he releases for the first time that personal element which is
“himself,” and which is so much the best thing he has to put into his
work! The same problem in the design of printing is seen differently by
every pair of eyes and every mind behind them, and all one can suggest
is the background against which, the material with which, and the
principles by which, your personality must “make good.” Plan your work
sincerely and simply, and by and by you will arrive at a way of your
own. Follow this way persistently, and inevitably it will make your
work personal--so personal that it will not alone differ from the work
of the crowd, but from that of any printer on the face of the earth!
FOOTNOTE:
[1] This was an occasional feature of earlier specimen-books. In the
specimen-book of Pierres of Paris of 1785, and the little specimen
issued for the Temple Printing Office (J. Moyes), London, 1826, the
name of the founder immediately follows the name of the type displayed.
* * * * *
_Style in the Use of Type_
_Style in the Use of Type_
Among the illustrations common to books on typography there is a
familiar plate which is an admirable lesson to the modern printer--that
showing the 1486 specimen sheet of Erhard Ratdolt of Venice and
Augsburg, which exhibits the types that Ratdolt had in his office and
with which he made his books. There are ten sizes of black-letter,
three sizes of roman type, and one size of Greek, and with these and
the use of handsome initials he produced beautiful effects. The books
printed from this limited collection of types were beautiful because
the types were so in themselves and because the very limitations of his
material produced a restraint and harmony that gave the work style.
To-day, no printing-house would dare to confine itself to such a small
equipment.
Again, the cases of books exhibited in the King’s Library at the
British Museum have long seemed to me among the most valuable of
courses in typographic education. And the contents of those cases
especially which contain the Italian books are educative in the
particular of style beyond the others. In fact, to digress a little, no
man, I think, can study this splendid collection without recognizing
the preëminent excellence of Italian work in the fifteenth and early
years of the sixteenth centuries. There is about it a sanity, a
lucidity, and a severity which excels the work of other nationalities.
One thing about these books is most apparent: that they are related
to the book as we know it to-day, which the black-letter books are
not. The latter speak of a time which is to the modern man largely an
archaeological curiosity. For as a writer on the Renaissance has said,
“the rest of Europe was free either to repel or else partly or wholly
to accept the mighty impulse which came forth from Italy. Where the
latter was the case we may as well be spared the complaints over the
early decay of mediaeval faith and civilization. Had these been strong
enough to hold their ground, they would be alive to this day. If those
elegiac natures which long to see them return, could pass but one
hour in the midst of them, they would gasp to be back in modern air.”
And this is true not alone of thought but of life, of the arts and of
the trades. I am aware that this is not palatable to those admirers
of Ruskin (if anybody reads him nowadays) who accustom themselves to
alluding to “the foul torrent of the Renaissance,” but who forget that
Mr. Ruskin’s books were printed in a kind of type which the Renaissance
was the first to give! But this is a digression.
The books which had great style and elegance were not, it appears,
necessarily dependent upon archaic treatment for these qualities; and
are related to books as we to-day know them, more intimately than any
that preceded them. From this I should state as an axiom that a book
in order to possess style need not be archaic. This self-evident truth
is expressed only for the benefit of persons who, possessing more
knowledge than judgment, have worked as if they thought otherwise.
Another quality that makes for style is simplicity; and here again
the Italian books have much to teach us. They were strictly simple,
depending only on beautiful type, good paper, and a well-proportioned
type-page to produce a very elegant result. Any one can place a
great red decorated initial upon a page to dazzle the beholder into
a momentary liking for the effect. But to produce an agreeable and
pleasing page simply by proportion of margins, type, etc., is a matter
which requires study, experience, and taste. It appears, therefore,
that, as some of the most beautiful books are without decoration,
style does not depend upon decoration, but rather on proportion and
simplicity.
While to my mind the Italian books of the Renaissance possess the
highest qualities of style that the world has seen, I believe it
possible to attain much of the same quality in almost any manner that a
man may choose to adopt. In this connection one should mention William
Morris’s work, which possessed great distinction and style. One may
agree or disagree with the conclusions he arrived at as to which books
were the most beautiful models in printing, but he taught mightily
by the body of colour and unity of effect which his beautiful pages
display. He understood the style in which he worked, its capabilities
and its disabilities. He made use even of its disabilities in a way
that was decorative.
I have said that distinction of manner is happily not confined to
Italian books, nor to the school of Mr. Morris. Nor is it confined to
any one set of people. The worker who saw the value of simplicity,
proportion, and colour has existed at various times in all countries.
We find these qualities in much beautiful sixteenth century French
work--that of the Estiennes, for example--and in some of the earliest
German work, terrible as certain periods have been in Germany. But
if it is the fashion for the Anglo-Saxon to smile self-complacently
at some of the Continental printing of the present day, it must be
remembered that English printing, which now stands (in my opinion)
at the head of typographic achievement, has never been so before.
In fact, English printing has not furnished interesting or valuable
object lessons in style until within the last hundred and fifty
years, and in this statement--which I should hesitate, perhaps,
to make unsupported--I am glad to find myself borne out by Mr.
Alfred Pollard, who remarks: “It is quite easy to be struck with the
inferiority of English books and their accessories, such as bindings
and illustrations, to those produced on the Continent. To compare the
books printed by Caxton with the best work of his German or Italian
contemporaries, to compare the books bound for Henry, Prince of Wales,
with those bound for the Kings of France, to try to find even a dozen
English books printed before 1640 with woodcuts (not imported from
abroad) of any real artistic merit--if any one is anxious to reinforce
his national modesty, here are three very efficacious methods of doing
it.... And if I am asked at what period English printing has attained
that occasional primacy which I have claimed for our exponents of
all the bookish arts, I would boldly say that it possesses it at the
present day.”
Again, “manner” may be used with charm, and by this I mean a local
and characteristic variant of a real style, which has come to have a
literary and historical association of its own. What we call colonial
(or Georgian) printing is nothing more than a rendering (often an
overstatement) of certain features of seventeenth and eighteenth
century English printing. It is well adapted for old-fashioned
reprints, or for commercial work intended to describe or to sell
old-fashioned wares, though it is often used as having in itself a
beauty which renders it independent of its fitness. The “colonist,”
could he see the baskets of flowers magnified to the dimensions
of giant chap-book illustrations, would disown any part in such
obstreperous decoration. The average ornamentation of such books
was not of this _genre_ at all, but was rather timid in effect. Yet
such colonial typography sometimes possesses style. But it must be
remembered that style, being dependent on proportion and simplicity,
is more readily to be found in work whose mannerisms are less marked
and where there is less decoration. With the quaint features and
decorations of “colonial” printing suppressed, there is very little
left of it. The excellence of any given style seems to consist in its
power to exist apart from such things, and thus the better the style,
the less dependent it is on earmarks or whimsicality.
But there must sometimes be decoration, and here of course enters
the element of individual taste. Here again early Italian and French
books show that, with a little well-chosen decoration,--just enough
to give an air of careful luxury,--the greatest elegance of effect
can be arrived at. In all the schools of ornament, again, there is
special work which, through its grace and reserve, possesses this
same happy quality of style and elegance. In many modern books there
are ornamental title-pages which have this quality to a very high
degree--instances where the introduction of a very little good ornament
seems to shed over the whole book in which it is employed a light of
luxury and grace. The early printers, in many of their beautiful marks,
grasped this idea. With a very plain, simple title-page there was yet
one spot of decoration, graceful in outline, rich in colour. Badly
conceived ornamentation and the _abuse of good ornament_ have become
so general that one is tempted sometimes to think that the art of
decoration is the art of leaving things out!
Finally, if all work reflects the life of the day in which it is
undertaken, to-day’s restless and complex life may be reflected in our
work, which, in its lack of simplicity and repose, may be but an echo
of the time. Possibly, the tasteless exaggeration, and the desire to
excel our neighbour in startling effects which we see exemplified in
some American printing, may be traced to certain evil qualities in
American life. But, on the other hand, the interest in varying styles
of work and the open-minded acceptance of them for the printer’s
purposes is a happy feature of industrial endeavour to-day, and one,
too, which is characteristic of our epoch and country. It would be idle
to expect in the art of printing that concerted harmony which we do not
find in architecture, in painting, or in literature. We must recognize
this lack of concert, whether we like it or not. Instead of wishing it
otherwise, it is better to accept it, and make the best of it.
To conclude, style in printing does not permanently reside in any one
manner of work, but in those principles on which almost all manners
of work may be based. We have to be thankful that of late things are
turning in the direction of greater simplicity, greater reserve,
and less decoration. And as the printer is more and more deprived
of adventitious aids, he will find himself face to face with those
fundamental principles of style which have marked the work of the great
printers of the past; as they must the work of those to come.
* * * * *
_The Seven Champions of Typography_
_The Seven Champions of Typography_
There was once upon a time a curate, whose cast of thought ran to
symbolism, and who became so fascinated by the mystical meanings of
the number seven, that one day, being called upon unexpectedly to
preach, he inflicted on his congregation all that he could for the
moment remember of seven-fold numbers occurring in the Old and New
Testaments--the days of creation, the gifts of the Spirit, the seven
churches of Asia, etc.; but like many extempore speakers before and
since, he suddenly became confused and ended his phrase precipitately
with the surprising words, “And we all remember, dear brethren, that
there were seven apostles--plus five!”
When I entitled this paper The Seven Champions of Typography I had
in mind (being a lay person) the seven champions of Christendom, the
seven wonders of the world, the seven seas, stars, deadly sins,
liberal arts, and some other “sevens.” But on counting up my champions,
I was disconcerted to discover that there were but six--thus (like
the curate) finding myself suddenly at sixes and sevens in more
senses than one. Yet why spoil a good title for a mere detail! That
royal and unpleasant spinster called Good Queen Bess or the Virgin
Queen--who appears according to the best modern authorities to have
been neither--is said to have considered a lie to be merely an
intellectual way of getting over a difficulty. Perhaps so: but, even
then, remembering the precept of St. Francis de Sales, “Little things
for little people,” we have our little scruples. So I propose to make
my title good by adding to six Champions of Typography--Spacing,
Leading, Indentation, Ink, Paper, and Imposition--one more--the most
important of all, without which (as is alleged of charity) the rest
profiteth nothing. That Seventh Champion, dear Reader, is _You_. And it
all depends on how seriously you take the following pages, whether my
title turns out to be truth or falsehood! I assume for it no further
responsibility.
* * * * *
No matter how admirably we plan our work, nor how fine in design are
the types we select, its appearance when printed depends on good
composition,--the combination of type into words, the arrangement
of words in lines, and the assemblage of lines to make pages. And
composition falls into three divisions, spacing, leading, and proper
indentation--all factors in the effect of a type-page. Furthermore,
the successful presentation of our printing depends upon three things
more--ink, colour of paper, and proper imposition on that paper.
On these six points--for I shall not bore the reader and myself by
continuing the “champion” nomenclature--the successful effect of our
plans for printing and the use of good type-forms must rely.
I. Spacing is a term used in connection with composition to describe
the space between the words in a line of type, or the lateral distance
of one word from another. It plays an extremely important part in
composition. Everybody knows that there must be space between words,
but the problem for the printer is its proper adjustment. This is
effected by the discriminating use of spaces of different thickness,
just as leading--the proper adjustment of space between lines--requires
the intelligent use of leads.
The spaces between words in a line should be apparently uniform. If
they were _exactly_ uniform, they would not seem so to the eye; more
space being required between two ascending lower-case letters such
as “l,” which may end one word and begin another (as in “medical
libraries”), than between a “y” and an “a” (as in “any author”). “In
good printing,” said William Morris, in his paper on “Printing” in
_Arts and Crafts Essays_, “the spaces between the words should be as
near as possible equal (it is impossible that they should be quite
equal except in lines of poetry); modern printers understand this, but
it is only practised in the very best establishments. But another point
which they should attend to they almost always disregard; this is the
tendency to the formation of ugly meandering white lines or ‘rivers’
in the page, a blemish which can be nearly, though not wholly, avoided
by care and forethought, the desirable thing being ‘the breaking of the
line’ as in bonding masonry or brickwork, thus:
[Illustration:
____________
____________ ____________
____________
]
The general _solidity_ of a page is much to be sought for: modern
printers generally overdo the ‘whites’ in the spacing, a defect
probably forced on them by the characterless quality of the letters.
For where these are boldly and carefully designed, and each letter
is thoroughly individual in form, the words may be set much closer
together, without loss of clearness. No definite rules, however, except
the avoidance of ‘rivers’[2] and excess of white, can be given for the
spacing, which requires the constant exercise of judgment and taste on
the part of the printer.” On looking at the page of Mr. Morris’s essay
about proper spacing, we find the enemy has sown tares in the field,
for in derision of Mr. Morris’s own theories, a large white “river”
runs across the very phrase in which he deplores them! The book was
issued under the auspices of the London Society of Arts and Crafts--an
example of how much easier it is to tell people that work should be
done “so that our commonest things are beautiful,” than it is to put
the precept into practice!
While I cannot agree with much that has been said about the folly of
close spacing and pages of type set solid (_i.e._ without leading), as
if it were merely an affected return to archaic methods and a perverse
desire to make books unreadable, some modern printers, in their efforts
to obtain “colour” in a page, have undoubtedly forgotten that the
spacing of a line must be sufficient to make a distinct separation
between words and one sufficient to be _readily_ apparent to the eye. A
good test of spacing is to hold a printed page upside down, when, the
sense of the words not being caught, the eye more readily perceives
whether the spacing of the page is even or not.
An old and rather ignorant prejudice against the breaking of words
makes against good spacing. It is better not to break words if one
can help it, but often they must be broken, if good spacing is to be
maintained. Many printers who may be willing to break single words
consider that two consecutive lines should not end with hyphens; but
hyphens at the end of two, three, or even four successive lines,
while undesirable, are not so ugly as matter unevenly spaced to avoid
them.[3] The problem is to space evenly in spite of these difficulties.
Then again bad spacing may often be the result of corrections.
Sometimes replacing one letter by another makes no change in the proper
spacing of a line; but when words are replaced by longer or shorter
ones, or when whole phrases are inserted, serious difficulties occur.
Useless and expensive changes are often ordered by an author because
he does not know the tedious process by which they are effected, or
realize that the substitution of one word for another may necessitate
carrying over words or parts of words for several lines. Yet if, to
avoid expense, this is not done, the result is uneven, and therefore
bad, spacing.
The principles of good spacing which have been stated are of equal
application to machine-set type. If by the use of type-setting machines
printers cannot follow this “counsel of perfection,” it would appear to
show that, as yet, the best hand composition is better.
II. The excessive indentation of paragraphs, and em width spaces
between sentences, are usually unnecessary. In an early printed book
the paragraphs were indented to allow a paragraph mark to be put in by
hand. Often the paragraph marks were never filled in, and this led to
the discovery that the eye could pick out beginnings of paragraphs by
blanks almost as well as by paragraph marks. While a paragraph mark
preserved more or less the desirable regularity of outline of the page,
whereas a blank space broke it, for clearness it was necessary that it
should be broken; but not to such an extent as it often is by modern
indentation.
Again, the conventional use of an em quad at the beginning of a new
sentence is unnecessary and makes “holes” in the composition of pages.
In most cases, the same spacing used between other words in the line,
together with the period at the end of one sentence and the capital
letter at the beginning of the next, make a sufficient break.
III. Leading is to lines what spacing is to words; and the introduction
of leads between lines of type has a great deal to do with the effect
of a page. Type set solid is usually hard to read, and slight leading
improves its legibility. When to lead and how much to lead is a matter
of taste and judgment. For with the same type the colour of a page can
be increased or decreased by its leading. Nor does every type demand
the same amount of leading. Black-letter, although in early times
occasionally leaded for purposes of manuscript interlineation, should
normally never be leaded, and should be closely spaced: for leading
of black-letter makes a “striped” page; open spacing, a page full of
holes. On the other hand, light faces of roman type almost always look
better leaded, and sometimes require slightly open spacing. So it will
be seen that the effect of printed pages often depends on leading and
spacing as well as on the face of type employed. The leading of the
same kind of type in a given book should be uniform throughout. There
is no more wretched product in typography than a book in which, for
reasons of economy or convenience, pages which should have the same
leading or the same size of type throughout are set with less leading
or in a smaller type to “get the matter in.”
An unbroken type-page when held at a little distance should make a
perfectly defined block of even tint. This impression on paper of a
definite parallelogram which is practically uniform in tone is a chief
factor in the beauty of a printed book. Early books were remarkable
for the even colour of their pages, and that is one reason that they
give the eye a sense of satisfaction. This was arrived at by the use
of types which were masculine in design and fairly uniform in weight
of line, set solid, and close spaced. “Experience proves,” says Day,
“that the eye is best satisfied by a tolerably uniform distribution
of the letters, Roman, Gothic, or whatever their character, over it
[the page], so that they give at first sight the impression of a
fairly even surface, distinguished from the surrounding surface (that
is, the margin) more by a difference of tint than by any appreciable
letter-forms within the mass.”[4]
What about machine composition and type-faces for machine-work,
some one may ask? To answer this very proper question I must make
a digression. The introduction of a linotype or monotype into a
printing-office is open to no objection, provided the machine is
operated with the same care that is taken with the best hand-setting,
in which case the cost is often, I fear, much the same as if set by
hand; for the proper justification of the lines of type reduces the
rapidity of their product. Usually machines have not been carefully
worked, and to judge them by their ordinary product is not fair. Then
again machines can be desirably employed only in printing-houses
which have enough work of the kind that can be _well done_ upon such
machines. They cannot always readily or quickly perform certain sorts
of composition, in spite of the ingenious exhibits of this sort of
type-setting which are shown as specimens of their work.
The collection of matrices from which types are cast, on both linotype
and monotype machines, has been, until lately, unworthy of their
pretensions, and it is difficult to see on what principle such a
variety of mean types, differing so slightly from one another, were for
many years “the only wear.” Nowadays they are enormously improved, and
the best of them have been used for book-work with marked success.
On the other hand, it is absurd to be prejudiced by a machine or
machine-work because it is mechanical; the results obtained are what
really count. Some ultra-conservative men are (or have been) foolish
enough to shy at new inventions in machinery--for type-setting, for
instance. They feel that somehow a “modern spirit” is in the machinery,
and that in some sly and malign way it will defeat artistic excellence!
This is quite childish. The problem is to determine how work can be
done best. If for some typography the old method (incidentally endeared
to the lover of early printing by historical associations) produces
a better result than a modern machine, then the old method may be
adhered to. If a modern machine does other classes of printing better
and quicker than the old method and more conveniently for the workmen,
it is to be adopted. The tendency about us, it is true, is to glorify
speed, without paying attention to the details of the result. “This
machine,” says the seller, “can turn out so many ems per hour”; but one
must regard only _how many ems properly set up_ such a machine can turn
out, and not be beguiled by speed, which is an attribute of excellence
in automobiles, but not the sole question in type-setting! To judge
between the sentimentalist who believes that all virtue resides in the
hand, and the commercialist who thinks that salvation is obtained by a
machine, is not easy. I prefer good machine work to bad hand work and
vice versa. If one is as good as the other,--incidentally I have my
doubts,--I take the quickest and cheapest. But I quote without comment
the statement of a distinguished colleague--whose name is withheld for
what we are nowadays pleased to call prudential reasons--“The machine
is like a jungle animal, more or less obedient under the whip, but
always a wild animal.”
IV. To show good type-setting (whether set by machine or by hand) to
advantage, the inking of a page must be even. Composition, no matter
how careful, is dependent on good ink and the right amount of it. The
letters in a printed page, if not well inked, show, when examined
through a magnifying glass, little specks of white through the black,
and the effect of the type, as a whole, is lifeless and faded. The
result of using too much ink is so obvious that it is needless to say
anything about it.
Furthermore, ink must be black. A great deal of the so-called black
ink used in modern books has a brown, green, pink, or blue tinge. If
a good black ink is compared with inks commonly employed, it will be
found that there is little that is really black. It is cheaper to make
ink of materials that give it disagreeable tinges than to use the
proper ingredients. But no page will be effective or lively except when
printed in pure black ink.
V. Though ink must be black, paper should not always be white. The
somewhat irregular Caslon type (and some “period” and transitional
types) appears much more agreeably when printed on a slightly rough
paper of a cream tint. Caslon’s types in his day were printed on wet
paper, which thickened their lines and roughened the paper, so that we
get more nearly the effect that he meant them to have when we print
them on toned, rough paper. If smooth white paper is used for old style
types, it exposes their slight crudities of form in a disagreeable
way, and accents too much the shape of individual letters. This is
understood by some type-founders, who for that reason often display
their old style types on toned paper. Many people prefer a smooth and
pure white paper (or think they do) because they look at the paper
alone, and do not realize that its colour makes any difference in the
effect of printing. Some of the lighter modern-faced types look well on
a paper that is nearly white; for they are more clean cut, more regular
in shape, and have not the irregularities which such a paper reveals.
For these types the paper should _look_ white. There are, fortunately,
few absolutely white printing papers.
VI. And finally, there is imposition. A page of type, however well
set, well spaced, well inked, and printed on suitable paper, may be a
complete failure unless well “imposed.” “It is no less effective than
it is logical,” says Morris, “to consider two pages of the open book
as one area on which to plant, as it were, two columns of print. A
very considerable reduction of the inner margins, as compared with the
outer and the upper and lower, has this effect; and it is perhaps the
most satisfactory way of imposing the page--if only the binder were to
be depended upon. Unless the folding of the sheets is perfect, the two
patches of print do not range, and the closer they come together the
more obtrusive is the fault; it is not so easily detected when there is
a broad space of white between.” A well-imposed page, which is to show
off the type properly, must have margins widest at the bottom, narrower
at the outside, narrower still at the top, and narrowest of all on the
inside. If type-pages are imposed in the centre of a paper page, the
margins appear less at the bottom than at the top, and the combined
inside margins of pages thus imposed, in an open book seem so wide that
the print appears to be falling out of it! I believe that there are
various _formulae_ that are intended to effect perfect imposition; but
they are not infallible in their results.
* * * * *
To sum up, therefore, pages of type--however fine in design--must be
carefully spaced, tastefully leaded, moderately indented, thoroughly
inked, printed on paper suited to their design, and properly imposed.
Neglect one of these requirements, and the result is failure. But--and
it is the eternal “but” of the half-hearted printer--why should one
adopt a style of printing which involves much more labour and little
more return? The answer is that these simple but laborious requirements
have always been met in the best printing; and that all this is merely
typographical truth. It would be easier, no doubt, to believe that
there is something wrong about the idea. But there isn’t.
Nor is there anything that is new in all this; for in principle it
would be admitted by most printers. Yet what men often mean when they
talk of principles is a mere theory of conduct upon which they have
never acted. The theory becomes a principle only when practised. And
thus it depends on _You_ whether you will be the Seventh Champion
of good typography or not. Perhaps you may find it easier to be a
deserter. If so, like the dwindling company of little nigger boys in
the old song,
“And then there were Six!”
[Illustration: _Finis_]
FOOTNOTES:
[2] “Dog’s-teeth,” or as Moxon called them, “pigeon-holes.”
[3] Entire books have been printed without a single broken word. An
example of this is Marcellin Brun’s _Manuel pratique et abrégé de la
Typographie française_--the first edition printed by Didot père et fils
at Paris in 1825, and the second by Vroom of Brussels in 1826. The
latter is a 12mo volume of two hundred and forty pages, and is set in
8-point type, with notes in a still smaller size.
[4] Day’s _Lettering in Ornament_, London, 1902, p. 20.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Note:
Footnotes have been moved to the end of each chapter and relabeled
consecutively through the document.
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