Toolemera Blog

When Bookbinders Couldn't Spell

First and foremost, this is not a negative post regarding the individual or cumulative intelligence of bookbinders. Not in the least. Some time ago Stephen Shepherd asked me "why is there a leading word at the bottom of the pages of most early books?". Or words to that effect. 

You can see the example here from this page from Mechanic Exercises. "May" appears in the lower right hand corner of the text block. I've pondered this question for the past few months. The question kept me up late. I couldn't sleep for wont of a reasonable answer. I surmised this was a hold over from religious literature. It was my guess that the average 17th Century church goer couldn't keep track of a passage from one page to the next. Or perhaps the individual reading the passage needed a prompt before turning the page.

The same line of thought brought me to consider the possibility that the average reader had such a pitiful intellect that a memory crutch was needed lest the reader forget where he/she was in the book. I finally remembered what I had meant to do for a long time. Email Wesley Tanner, who knows a whole lot more about this stuff than I do.

Wesley cleared the air on this most important of matters.

"That's a pretty straightforward question. Early bookbinders were often Illiterate. The catchword was a guide to assembling books in the correct order. Even if a workman couldn't read, they could match the letters. This practice went back to the medieval period and lasted in manuscript practice well into the early part of the nineteenth century."

No hidden meanings from the tomes of the Rosecrucians. No magical import in the leading word of the following page. Just your average illiterate hard at work.

The other question that has long used up what remains of my brain cells has to do with the long 's'. I've read quite a bit about it. Thanks once again to Wesley, I've been turned on (if the phrase 'turned on' can be allocated to such a topic) to Typefoundry, a most interesting blog about... type. For the best answer to they why's and wherefore's of the long 's', read Typefoundry: Long S.

Till next, Gary

When real looks like a mistake

 A few people have contacted me about the recent release of Mechanick Exercises in a digital format. The experience of reading it as it was printed, warts and all, gave the hands-on feeling I was looking for. But... the question is: why is there scan-through and is that a mistake?

I scratched my head for a minute. An easy task now as my hair thins. After loosening a few more hairs, I realized why people thought this was a case of scan-through. First, what is scan-through? When you scan a piece of paper, or page from a book, the light of the scanner bulb may shine through the page, reflect from the white backing of the top platten and produce a ghost image of what is on the reverse of the page. The typical resolution for this problem is to place a piece of black paper or other material on top of the paper to be scanned. No reflection, no scan-through.

So take a look at this image to the left. This is a low resolution copy of one of the TIFF images I used to create the PDF. The text block is all akilter and there are what looks like scan-through images from the next page. But no, this page looks exactly like the original.

Look closely at the enlargement (go ahead, click on the image). You can see the impressions of the type, the fault of the printer using too much pressure. You can see ghost-like images of the letters. This is bleed through from the original ink. Was there too much ink on the type or perhaps over the centuries there was some bleed-through or chemical change to produce the ghost image? On pages facing ink heavy graphics, you can often see an image of the graphics from the facing page. Decades or centuries of pressure and chemical actions have transferred the image from one page to another.

All this is part of reading the original text. Many modern facsimiles are actually 'literal' facsimiles that have been re-typeset with a matching font along with photographic or digital copies of the graphic elements. With the advent of new digital imaging technologies (Google Books, for one), high resolution digital cameras take a shot of the page and some very advanced imaging software removes the 'offending' background clutter. What you get is a black or gray type against a stark white background. Fine details, such as the lines in old wood, copper or steel engravings are lost or mushed together (that's a technical word used by Yiddish pressmen). Some attempt is made to isolate and image the engraved portions as separate items. The result is usually less than satisfactory when processed by your average scan operator. You end up with those annoying moire lines, funny color artifacts or just plain burry images.

That is why I like true facsimile reproductions. Ok, so 'true facsimile' is a repetitive statement. I should worry? You should have better things to do with your day than get all ver klempt about repetitive statements.

And that is why (Sorry Mr. Schwarz, it's a poorly formed sentence, but I am still too ver klempt what with all this mishagos to remember my high school grammar) I like to read facsimiles and to publish them. When possible, I like to have the experience of  reading the real thing. If I can't afford to buy a copy of the real thing, a good facsimile is the next best thing to the real thing. That's enough about Things for today. If you want to learn more about Things, go rent a copy of The Adams Family.

Till  next, Gary

Moxon v Felibien: The Tale of the Two Plows

There has been discussion in various corners of the internet, yea the omnipresent blogsphere even, examining the relationship between Joseph Moxon's presentation of the Plow plane as opposed to the Plow Plane offered by Msr. Felibiien's earlier work on the Principle of Architecture.

So let's start class by taking a look at the two warring plates, Mr. Moxon on the Left and Mr. Felibien on the Right:

Now, look carefully at the planes as depicted in these two plates. Do you see? The Moxon images are facing to the left. The Felibien images of the same planes are facing to the right.

What can this mean? I have a very simple theory as to what happened and why this has bedeviled us for centuries. Remember first that Moxon was not a member of the Guild that controlled printing. He was first and foremost a Publisher. In fact, some of his books note that they were 'printed for Jospeph Moxon". We can infer that Moxon had to outsource the work that he planned on publishing. Not having ready access to overseas contractual labor, he may have engaged the skills of a newly minted journeyman engraver. And what did journeymen engravers do? The learned how to slavishly copy an existing image, or engraving, to be used in further editions of a given book. Plates underwent considerable wear and tear during the printing process. Periodically, new plates had to b engraved. The journeyman engraver was a skilled artisan in recreating an existing plate such that the viewer could not tell the difference.

But... in this case, I think the engraver was less than skilled, less than attentive, or to fond of his Ale. The Plow Plane, Jointer, Fore, Smooth and Rabbet planes are all pointing in opposite directions on each plate. Let's say the engraver was given an engraved print to copy. Too drunk to think clearly, the engraver faithfully copies the images, all the while forgetting that the images must be engraved in reverse in order to match the originals!

And so, we have a possible answer to why the Moxon tool engravings seem suitable for the dexter amongst us.

I am trying to set up an interview with Mr. Joseph Moxon so that we may settle questions such as this one. If anyone has particular questions that have been bugging them for the past 300 years, please let me know and I will do my best to bring them to Mr. Moxon's attention.

Till next, Gary