The “Westminster” Series.

THE BOOK

Golden Binding of “The Gospels of Charlemagne,” with Jewels and Enamels, 11th or 12th Century. [Frontispiece.

THE BOOK

ITS HISTORY AND DEVELOPMENT

BY
CYRIL DAVENPORT, V.D. F.S.A.

ILLUSTRATED

LONDON
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO. LTD.
10 ORANGE STREET LEICESTER SQUARE W.C.
1907

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS
LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

LIST OF PLATES.

THE BOOK:
ITS HISTORY AND DEVELOPMENT.

CHAPTER I.
EARLY RECORDS.

Rock inscriptions—Marks on wood—Quipus—Wampum—Modern ideographs—Indian palm leaf books—Ideographs and alphabets—Diptychs.

The idea of making records by means of marks cut on stone or wood did not originate in any one place, for signs of it are found more or less all over the world wherever primitive man has existed. It was not until a comparatively late period that the various kinds of record keeping were unified after a fashion and true writing evolved itself out of the chaos.

There are some forms of record keeping that have been largely used by the human race which, as far as we can at present tell, have not influenced our present form of book except negatively; but indirectly they may still have done so in some manner that we cannot distinguish.

Mankind is naturally imitative, and among his early efforts in this direction are the scratchings on bones and antlers. They comprise outlines of deer, mammoths, reindeer, seals, bears, horses and other animals. Several instances of these early drawings have been found in the caves of the Dordogne in France. These, however, are not records, they are only pictures of what the artist saw, and a large proportion of rock and stone markings come into the same category. But there is no doubt that many of the latter are intended to commemorate certain events; they show groupings of marks, animals and men in positions and attitudes which are clearly intended to mean something, and now and then it has been possible to make a good guess at their interpretation.

The earliest marks made by man that still exist are to be found among the rock markings or carvings, as these are often in protected places where the weather has not worn them away. Prehistoric caves and tombs are prolific in such treasures, and the marks, ideographs or hieroglyphics are always of the greatest interest. There seems to be some analogy between the great megalithic temples like that on Salisbury Plain and many of the rock inscriptions, but little is at present known on this point.

Cup and ring markings on rocks or stones are among the most remarkable of rock inscriptions because they are not isolated as to their design. From Ireland to India these marks are found possessing the same radical forms, and it is impossible to avoid the conclusion that they have been made by tribes of men who had some thought or idea in common. What this idea was is still a disputed point among archæologists.

Cup and ring markings are held by some authorities to be astronomical, sun signs, but these speculations, especially in Scandinavian examples, soon land us in pure symbolism, ring crosses, swastikas, triskeles and the rest.

Apart from these, marks are found in the British Isles and in India particularly through which a dominant idea is clearly present. It seems likely that some common religious symbolism is really the key to the mystery, and this belief, disavowed by Sir J. Simpson, is strongly held by Col. J. H. Rivett-Carnac, as well as by many others. By these archæologists the cup and ring markings are considered to be the ideographic expressions of one of the primitive religions of the world which was very widely spread, and the remains of which exist in India at the present day.

Fig. 1.—Stone cist with ring marks. Found at Coilsford in Ayrshire.

But even admitting the possibility of this interpretation, there are still many points left unexplained. For instance, in the drawing, it will be seen that the cups with their rings are cunningly attached to each other, and the whole design appears as if it “means something.” No doubt some day further light will be thrown upon this curious form of record.

The Assyrian and Babylonian sculptures both in the round and in bas-reliefs are commonly covered with cuneiform inscriptions, and these are also plentifully found inscribed on stone stelæ and bronze figurines. The famous Rosetta stone is a familiar example of a tri-lingual inscription that will probably last as long as the world lasts. It is now in the British Museum, and bears an inscription in Hieroglyphic, Demotic and Greek. The Greek being understood, it gave at once the key to the interpretation of the Hieroglyphic. The date of the cutting of this stone is about the beginning of the second century before the birth of Christ. An earlier stone of a similar kind is known as the tablet of Sen; it contains a decree of the priests at Canopus in honour of Ptolemy Evergetes I. It was made in B.C. 238, but has not yet got to England.

The ten commandments were engraved on stone, and instances of inscriptions on small stones are very numerous. From Egypt to North America amulets bearing mystical sentences have been commonly made. Familiar to most of us are the turquoises engraved with Arabic words run in with gold, and the curious “Garuda” and other stones, with magical inscriptions and credited with magical powers, have been common in the East from time immemorial.

Fig. 2.—Garuda amulet.

In India inscriptions, holy names, invocations and quotations are cut on small flat pieces of jasper, agate, onyx, carnelian, amethyst, hematite, jade, and materials of less value like coral or glass, some of the old and some new. Musulman amulets of similar kinds are also sometimes found on gold, silver, iron, and even on small bricks of baked clay.

Many of these amulets have pierced ears for suspension, and they were worn as jewellery on the neck or ears or sewn on girdles. They were also fixed on weapons of war and horse furniture. Some of the stones are engraved in reverse so as to make impressions. These are seal stones, but the greater number are engraved simply so as to read straightforwardly. They are in Arabic, Persian, and rarely Turkish.

Greek and Roman cameos and intaglios are often found bearing short inscriptions as well as the names of their engravers. Even the diamond has not escaped, but inscriptions on this stone are very rare because of the difficulty of engraving it. Numbers of inscriptions, names and mottoes can be found on ring stones of all times as well as on real stones.

Curious Chinese books are made of leaves of jade, and in these inscriptions are cut in the decorative Chinese character, run in with gold.

It should be noted that the forms of letters have always been much influenced by the manner in which they could be most easily made. It is easier to cut a square form of letter on stone than a cursive form, so we find that the majority of rock or stone inscriptions favour the square form rather than the rounded form of letter. We derive our angular forms of letters from the distant past, but the rounded forms are adapted from the later times of papyrus or vellum, when reed or pen writing was understood.

Writings on metal have been made from time to time, but never very largely. In India inscribed plaques of bronze, kept together by metal rings, have been often used. Tablets of lead are recorded as having been used by ancient peoples, and Oriental as well as European talismanic formulæ have been engraved on small plates of silver, bronze, brass or lead, the letters being now and then damascened with gold and silver. In ancient Rome name-brands were cut in bronze, and impressions could have been printed from them. They were beautifully cut.

The Nicene creed was cut in silver by order of Pope Leo III., and in the East strips of metal have constantly been substituted for the long thin pieces of palm leaf which formed the normal books. The metal leaves are found of gold, silver, or gilded copper particularly. The plates are quite thin, and the characters upon them are generally engraved, but sometimes they are chased with tracer and hammer. Such records are not only very permanent but they are also very decorative. The modern engraving of inscriptions on metal has mainly found refuge in monumental brasses, and in this case the letterings are usually run in with some pigment.

Fig. 3.—Runic calendar on bone.

Another primitive form of record is found in the case of notches cut in wood. A savage warrior of a literary turn of mind would naturally wish to keep some record of the number of his enemies that he had killed and perhaps eaten, and an obvious way of doing this would be to cut or scratch marks on his war club. Such records would, no doubt, become customary among war-like tribes. The handles of war axes or spears would offer excellent ground for such marks, and presently, especially in peace times, similar marks may well have kept tallies of the numbers of game killed.

From such personal notes the transition to others of wider interest is not difficult, and so we find the notches used, on bits of wood or sticks, for almanacks and calendars.

Ogham and Runic inscriptions follow the ancient idea of notches cut along an angular edge, and these notches and rods are the very distant ancestors of our modern types of metal; the German word “Buchstab,” meaning type, is etymologically “a wooden rod.”

In Denmark and Sweden in ancient times almanacks were cut on flat pieces of metal, bone, horn, box, fir or oak. The majority of them are of wood, but the other materials were sometimes used. They are variously known as Rune staves or stocks, Prime staves, Messe dag staves or Brim stocks, and they are generally hinged along one side by cords run through holes, several slabs being thus fastened together. Wooden calendars are also often found among the records kept by primitive peoples; they have been found in Sumatra and in many other places.

Similar almanacks were used by our Saxon ancestors, who no doubt borrowed the idea from the Scandinavians. One side was kept for the summer and the other for the winter, and notches for the days were made across the edges.

Fig. 4.—Staffordshire clog almanack.

During the reign of Queen Elizabeth a modification of the Scandinavian Rune staves was largely used in England, chiefly in Staffordshire, but not exclusively. These are known as “clog almanacks,” and Dr. Plott says that “Clogg may mean Logg, or that they are like the cloggs with which we restrain our doggs.”

English clog almanacks are squared pieces of wood, measuring from about two feet to nine or ten inches in length, and the larger ones are sometimes as much as three inches square. They are notched along the angles, small notches without ornamentation indicating week days, big notches stand for Sundays, and Saints days have all kinds of ornamental flourishes, which now and then show familiar forms such as Saint Catherine’s wheel and Saint Lawrence’s gridiron.

Fig. 5.—Modern hop-tally of wood.

Some of the clogs show a hole at the lower end, evidently so that they could stand upright upon a peg, others, and these are the most usual, have a flat pierced handle so that they can be suspended by a loop. They were commonly kept in churches. Details of several well known examples of clog almanacks will be found figured in The Reliquary for January, 1865, in illustration of an excellent article on the subject by Mr. John Harland. Exchequer and other wooden tallies were common in England in the 14th century, and in modern days a certain survival of them exists in the form of hop-tallies. These are two strips of wood which fit closely together with a tongue, and when in contact notches are made across the two edges in apposition, so that when the two pieces are apart, neither party can falsify the notches without it being at once apparent when the slips are finally brought together. The principle is exactly the same as that utilised in the old legal “indentures,” by virtue of which a piece of vellum was cut in two by an indentured, or toothed line, and if these did not exactly fit whenever they were brought together it became evident that they had been tampered with. In parts of France tallies like these are still used by bakers.

Wooden tallies are also found among the inhabitants of Torres Straits, where they use them made of short sticks tied together at their tops.

Curious inscriptions, as yet undecipherable, have been found at Easter Island; they are cut in thick slabs of wood and are ideographic.

Bones have been from very early times the recipients of men’s marks; the earliest of these, however, were only copies of things seen. But inscriptions and symbols were presently scratched on them, and the blade bones of buffaloes in North America as well as the shoulder blades of sheep used by the Arabs are equally convenient for writing upon. In Sumatra inscriptions are commonly cut in flat pieces of bone. Instances of inscriptions in ivory are very numerous, and the finest examples of these occur in the case of the Roman consular diptychs which are described a little further on.

Information as to direction is still often given by means of marks or “blazes” on trees, a survival of a primitive method, and American lumbermen or “loggers” cut hieroglyphic marks of ownership on their logs when they send them down stream.

In times of trouble it often happens that primitive methods of communication are resorted to, like that received by a Cavalier from his lady love who heard that the Roundheads were after him—she sent him a feather, and he flew away and escaped.

Fig. 6.

Such symbolical messages are common enough among savage tribes, but without some key it is almost impossible to interpret them. They are so various in their composition that no useful analysis of them can be made. On one such message from West Africa, strung on a string of flat fibre knotted at each end, are a bit of shell, a bit of fur, a bean, a cylindrical stick, a piece of leather, a mass of frog’s eggs or something like it, a flat piece of bark, a feather, a tooth and a shell. In another are two pieces of flat glass kept together with red thread, and two teeth on each side of it, all strung on fibre, and so on.

Fig. 7.

The Battas of Sumatra use different and probably more elaborate messages, as they consist of carefully cut strips of wood, resembling the old spillikins with which our childhood’s days were made happy. These strips of thin wood, about three inches in length, are cut into various shapes which have no obvious collective meaning. In one of them is a capital model of a little broom, accompanied apparently by a series of little clubs and spikes. Such a message might have been sent by an absent brave to his squaw at home, and may have meant that if she didn’t sweep up the wigwam before his arrival she would experience the effect of one or other of the clubs.

The Incas of Peru had a regular system of keeping records by means of coloured pieces of string knotted in a peculiar way.

Fig. 8.—Peruvian Quipu.

These knotted records, or Quipus, had special keepers who held office in the provinces, and the results of their energy were forwarded annually to the capital city for examination and preservation. The provincial keepers were called “Quipu Camayas,” and the records they kept were mainly statistics concerning the people of their districts. The knots were arranged either on a strong piece of cord or upon a stick, and formed a sort of fringe; the word “Quipu” means a knot. According to the position of the knot a certain number was probably indicated, and the class of person referred to is shown by the colour of the bit of string which represents it.

But it is also likely that more elaborate interpretations could be made by skilled interpreters of Quipus. Little is really known as to that, but it is suggested by competent observers that, for instance, red meant war, yellow meant gold, white meant peace, and silver. But this is probably guess work. The same idea has been utilised in the case of a rare Chinese book, the leaves of which were of differently coloured silks. Each colour was supposed to convey a certain emotion to the student, and when he had exhausted the emotion caused by one colour, he turned over the leaf so as to experience the effect of another.

Fig. 9.—Cardinal’s hat.

The use of knots as reminders is not quite obsolete, as it is common enough even now to make a knot in one’s handkerchief, if anything easy is to be remembered. It is curious if this custom is really a survival of the Peruvian Quipu!

A form of knotted record is used among several of the tribes in the Pacific Islands, and the Jewish “Taleth,” or scarf, has fringes which imply certain facts.

The ordinary rosary with its ten beads for Ave Maria’s and single ones for Pater Nosters has also something in common with knots, and possibly the abacus of the Greeks and the Chinese may have a similar origin. But probably these last are only used as aids in mathematical calculations.

Something analogous to the Peruvian knots is to be found in the tasselled and knotted fringes which adorn the ceremonial hats of dignitaries in the Romish church.

The hats themselves are always of the same shape, round shallow crowns with broad brims. The fringes, however, differ in size and colour according to the rank of the wearer. The master cord is drawn through the brim of the hat at its inner edge, at a point over each ear, and kept in place by a large ornamental knot on the outside.

The tassels start from one, and from this two others depend, and from these three, and so on, one more in each row. An abbot wears a black hat with six green tassels on each side; a bishop wears a green hat with six green tassels on each side on a gold cord; an archbishop has a violet hat with ten violet tassels on each side on a gold cord, and a cardinal has a red hat with fifteen red tassels on a gold cord, depending on each side.

Fig. 10.—Portion of North American wampum belt.

The wampum belts of North America were primarily used as money, but they were also made sometimes in such a way that they formed historical records.

The true “Six Nation” wampum belts were made of little white and purple cylinders of shell very laboriously cut, and the purple ones very difficult to get. “Wampum” means white, and there is generally a preponderance of this colour. The short beads are strung upon long threads or strips of leather, and the design shows sometimes in purple on a white ground and sometimes in white on a purple ground.

The designs are sometimes easy to decipher, like the belt which typifies the Iroquois League, showing the one heart of the ruling nation in the centre, and the allied nations, each shown by a square, united together in one bond.

A very fine and interesting wampum belt was given as a record of friendship to William Penn at the Great Treaty in 1682, by the Sachems of the Lenni Lenape. It is now preserved by the Historical Society at Philadelphia. It is made of eighteen rows of white and purple cylindrical shell beads, the ground white and the designs in purple. The beads are laced upon nineteen parallel “horizontal” strips of leather by means of thinner strips running vertically across them and brought twice through each bead, one running being above the horizontal strip and the other below it. It is a curious way of stringing beads, and was practised in England some sixty or seventy years ago in the making of small bead ribbons. In the centre of the belt is a conventional figure of Penn shaking hands with the chief Sachem.

Many of the wampum belts seem to have only geometrical designs upon them, but doubtless, without exception, these fine white and purple shell belts, cut with infinite patience and skill, and put together with the greatest care, always have some meaning. The Iroquois could, until recently, interpret them at once, but now they are less able to understand the work of their ancestors.

There are plenty of imitation wampum belts, usually made of small shells or ordinary beads. The genuine belts are flat and strong, and the little shell cylinders nearly all of the same size. The imitations are much more irregularly and carelessly made, and they are often without any colour but white.

A common form of book in Oriental countries consists of long narrow strips of palm leaf, kept together by two strings run through holes near each end. The writing upon the leaves is carried right along the length of each leaf in successive lines, and is scratched in, and usually strengthened by means of lamp black rubbed over it so as to stick in the scratches.

Fig. 11.—Oriental palm-leaf book.

This form of book rests by itself. Apparently it has never altered materially, neither has it in any way affected the production of the book as we know it. The palm leaves are brittle, they are troublesome to turn over, and are likely to split and break where the cord touches them. But the leaves are frequently made of stronger materials than palm leaf, some of them being of gold, silver, or gilded copper, and in these cases the lettering is engraved or punched. Others are written on plates of ivory, the letters being gilded, others again on plates of lacquer with letters inlaid with mother-of-pearl; indeed, the variety is large.

The leaves are always enclosed between two covers of stronger make but of the same shape, and these covers are often very elaborately ornamented. Some of them have exquisite carved work and inlaid work and others are painted. In the case of Indian examples they are often messed over with red stains. When this is found the manuscript has belonged to some shrine, and worshippers have daubed it with rice and red paint as a sort of peace offering. The strings with which the leaves are bound together are also sometimes handsomely ornamented.

Ancient rock inscriptions, tallies, quipus and wampums are all more or less ideographic, and among trade signs there are still many ideographs in common use, some of them of considerable antiquity. There are the three golden balls of the pawnbroker, which mean that money can be borrowed there. They are derived from the coat of arms of the Medici of Lombardy. The Lombards were mediæval bankers and money lenders, and for their badge they took three of the golden balls, or pills, out of the Medici coat.

These balls varied in number and colour, they were sometimes red, and sometimes blue, and three blue balls upon a white ground was one of the mediæval signs used by money lenders, but the three golden balls have proved more lasting.

Another old ideograph is the white barber’s pole, with its red spiral, the image of the red bandage used to tie up an arm which had just been bled. It was originally the mark of a barber surgeon, but the barber still uses it although he no longer bleeds his clients. An old sign for a barber is also a shaving dish. This is oftener seen on the continent than it is here.

The embowed arm holding a hammer is an old sign of a gold beater, and is generally itself gilded. It is clearly an ideograph, as is also the fishing rod with a golden fish, which is a usual sign over a fishing tackle maker’s shop. A modern instance of the same kind is a gilded ham which is not uncommonly seen over provision shops, quite a modern sign. The rapidly disappearing Highlander taking snuff is another modern ideograph. There are plenty more of such signs, most of which tell their story directly and simply, while others, the older ones particularly, may at first seem arbitrary, but often a little examination will reveal a simple origin.

The curious hieroglyphics still used by gypsies are no doubt derived from Egyptian hieroglyphics, and although most of them have changed considerably, a certain resemblance in some of the forms can still be traced.

Ideograms are still used in North America in out of the way places. A common mark for a cheese is a circle, and this sign was found opposite a farmer’s name, but he had never had one. He did, however, owe for a grindstone, and the draughtsman clerk had forgotten to put in the centre dot which would have marked the difference between the stone and the edible.

In common use more or less all over the civilised world is the pointing hand, meaning either “Look there” or “This way.”

Some signs are also ideographic in character; among these are certain of the deaf and dumb signs, and also some of the arm signals used in the navy. In the army some of the bugle calls imitate as far as possible the sounds to which they refer. For instance, the “prepare for cavalry” has some resemblance to horses galloping.

Ideographs used in written languages soon change in character. No longer do they mean simply what they portray, but the sound of its name, and then by degrees they represented the first syllable, and eventually only the first letter of its name. These changes of meaning are accompanied by changes of form, and it is very curious to trace how an apparently arbitrary letter form is really only the survival of the main lines of an ancient ideogram. There are several most interesting instances of these changes given by Dr. Isaac Taylor in his classic “History of the Alphabet,” as well as by other writers on the subject, particularly Sir E. Maunde Thompson and Mr. Falconer Madan.

Egyptian inscriptions show both ideographs, hieroglyphics and alphabetic signs, as there is usually a word spelt out in syllables or letters, and at the end of it the complete word shown as a little picture. The hieroglyphics altered into a style of writing which was not so pictorial about the nineteenth century B.C., and although alphabetical symbols were actually used as early as 4,000 B.C., yet it was very many years later than this that they became of general use. The earliest piece of hieroglyphic known is cut upon stone on a tablet now preserved in the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford. It is supposed to have been made about 4,000 B.C., and on it the name of King Send is written alphabetically.

Our present alphabetic writing is by no means final, as it is even now undergoing a remarkable change, in which neither ideograph, hieroglyphic, nor alphabet plays any part. Shorthand will in time supersede our comparatively cumbrous process, and it is purely phonetic.

Chinese writing is still in the syllabic state, but the Japanese, which is formed from it, has advanced many steps towards the alphabetical stage.

The earliest handwriting known is that on the Papyrus Prisse, now in Paris. It is in Egyptian hieratic writing, and is supposed to date perhaps from about 4,000 B.C. The hieratic is a cursive form of hieroglyphic, and was used particularly by priests.

We derive our present letters “longo intervallo” from Egyptian hieroglyphics, and the history of their evolution is full of interest.

It may be well here to review rapidly how it is that we have acquired an alphabet for printing purposes which is clear, though not beautiful. Our present type shows two alphabets; one, the capital letters, are of Roman origin, the other, the small letters, are a modification of what are called Carolingian minuscules, and both alphabets have reached us through the Latin, Greek, Phœnician and Semitic.

Up to the seventh or eighth centuries in Europe the various styles of writing were in a mixed condition, but about that time the different forms of letters began to arrange themselves, and to follow distinctive lines of development in different countries.

Charlemagne interested himself in the matter, and saw that the time had arrived when something could be done towards clearing away the many difficulties which cropped up by reason of the different forms of letters which then existed. He caused careful studies to be made of existing styles so that some sort of common ground could be found. At Tours the Emperor set up a sort of Royal Commission to enquire into the matter, and at the head of it he placed a learned Englishman, Alcuin of York, who was known as a great student and was himself a calligraphist. Alcuin was trained in the beautiful Hiberno-Saxon hand, of which so many magnificent examples still remain—the Book of Kells, the Gospels of Lindisfarne, and several more.

At Tours the Carolingian minuscules, which are the direct ancestors of our small, or lower-case letters, were developed.

Our capital letters have developed themselves on different lines. They are like the ancient Roman types, which in the twelfth century had modified themselves somewhat and become very clear, and these forms commended themselves to the scribes of the Renaissance period, and underwent still more improvement in details. The early type cutters who formed their letters directly after the shapes of letters written by hand, soon saw that these capitals were not only easy to cut but were in every way the best they could find to copy.

Fig. 12.—Roman diptych.

During some excavations at Pompeii in 1875 a large collection of small wax writing tablets or Pugillaria was found. These tablets resemble small slates; they are of wood, and one side is slightly hollowed out so as to receive a filling of blackened wax. Generally two of the tablets were hinged together, hence their name of diptychs, but sometimes they were in threes or even more, like a tail or “Caudex,” from which it is said we derive our word Codex. Diptychs are the direct prototypes of our modern books.

The writing was marked on the wax by means of a style in the same way that writing was formerly done in England on the curious sand tables. These styles are usually of iron, sometimes inlaid with brass, but they were also made of bronze, brass, wood or bone. They always have one end pointed to write with and the other flat to erase with. A space was often left in the thickness of the wooden edge of a diptych to keep the style in. The erasing in the case of the diptych was effected by rubbing the flat end of the style over it, and in the case of the sand writing-tablet by a plasterer’s level or a good shake. Sand tablets have been used up to quite recent times in elementary schools. But the sand writing was always temporary, whereas the wax writing is very lasting, one of those found at Pompeii bearing the date A.D. 55. It records a payment to Umbricia Januaria, and is the earliest Latin manuscript known.

Fig. 13.—Roman diptych stylus.

Diptychs of similar form were widely used. They have been found in Egypt, and in England—remains of the Roman occupation—together with numbers of the styles used for writing with.

Diptychs were kept together at the back by means of metal rings or thongs of leather, run through holes made in the wood, so that they are true prototypes of our modern books both as to form and manner of keeping together, the “stabbed” form of binding, that is to say, threads or bands or wires run through holes pierced along the back edge of the sections of a book, having been in continual use ever since rolls were first turned into books.

When the diptychs were used as private letters they were further fastened with a tie or clasp in front, and this tie was often sealed with the sender’s signet in wax or clay.

The Pompeian and all the other small wooden diptychs are unornamented, but at a later period, particularly from the second to the seventh century, Roman diptychs became of much importance and were often decoratively treated, being made of ivory and elaborately carved.

Labarte, Gori, Westwood and Maskell have all written valuable works concerning these ornamental diptychs, and specimens of more or less excellence can be found in most museums that have any collection of carvings in ivory. The earlier examples are the best; later specimens rapidly decline in art value, although they are always of great historical interest.

Fig. 14.—Byzantine diptych of ivory.

One leaf of one of the finest diptychs in existence is fortunately in the British Museum; it shows a full-length figure of an archangel with globe, cross and long-staff, and is supposed to have been made in the third or fourth century. A curious point about this leaf is its unusual size, about 16 by 6 inches, and it is said that such a piece could not be cut from any known elephant tusk. It is possibly mammoth ivory.

For a long time the supreme power at Rome was vested in the consuls who held office for one year. Naturally anyone elected to this high position was anxious to inform everyone holding any high place or office of his accession to the dignity, and the usual way of doing this was to send round diptychs of ivory announcing the event, as well as subsequent ones concerning any other important matters which might occur during the consulate.

Fig. 15.—Ivory diptych, of the consul Valentinian, A.D. 380.

Not only was the communication inscribed upon the wax, all of which is now gone, but the outside ivory was carved with invaluable portraits, scenes and inscriptions. By examining these carvings we can frequently ascertain who was the consul that issued them, and often enough we can find his portrait carefully drawn. In one of the many excavations made in the Forum at Rome, tablets containing a list of Roman consuls were found, and these serve as an official check upon our interpretation of the records existing upon the consular diptychs.

Consular diptychs were generally larger than the wooden pugillaria, which were always small. Ivory diptychs are rarely less than six or seven inches in length.

The privilege of giving away finely carved ivory diptychs was highly esteemed, and in the fourth century the Emperor Theodosius issued an edict forbidding any but one of the two consuls, one at Rome and the other at Constantinople, to issue them.

In the matter of consular and official costume the Roman carved ivory diptychs are of great importance.

Figures often appear on coins or gems, but they are always very small. On the diptychs, however, they are sufficiently large to show full details. The subjects depicted on them are various. There are games, combats in the circus, scenes from the Passion, boys emptying sacks of prizes, figures of Saints, Adam and Eve, busts and portraits of consuls both in medallions and full length. The best collections of consular diptychs are to be found at Rome, Milan, Monza, Paris, Munich, Berlin, Liverpool and London.

Besides the consular there are also ecclesiastical diptychs, the majority of which were probably only diverted from their original intention and altered and adapted to a new use. The original wax was removed and new inscriptions engraved on the ivory, mostly lists of martyrs or benefactors to the particular church which had possession of the diptych.

There is one at Liège on which the names of the bishops of Tongres are written, and there is another similar one at Novara. It is probable that the liking for ivory carvings on books arose from the lead given by the ivory diptychs. Indeed in several instances the sides of ivory diptychs are actually inlaid in late bindings of MSS.

WORKS TO CONSULT.

Aglio, A.—Antiquities of Mexico. London, 1830-48. (Vol. 4, at end.) (Quipus.)

Berger.—Histoire de l’ecriture dans l’antiquité. Paris, 1891.

Gori, A. F.—Thesaurus reterum diptychorum consularium et ecclesiasticorum. Florentiae, 1759.

Harland, J.—The Reliquary, Jan., 1865. (Clog almanacks.)

Labarte, J.—Histoire des Arts Industrielles au moyen age. (Diptychs.) Paris, 1864-66.

Lacroix, P.—Les arts au moyen age. (Diptychs.) Paris, 1809.

Lubbock, Sir J.—Prehistoric Times. London, 1865.

Madan, F.—Books in Manuscript. London, 1893.

Maskell, W.—Ivories Ancient and Mediæval. London, 1875.

Maskell, A.—Ivories. London, 1904.

Plott, R.—Natural History of Staffordshire. (Clog almanacks.) Oxford, 1686.

Prescott, W. H.—History of the Conquest of Peru. (Quipus.) London.

Reinaud.—(Description des monumens Musulmanes du cabinet de M. le Duc de Blacas.) (Indian amulets.) Paris, 1828.

Rivett-Carnac, J. H.—Prehistoric Remains in Central India. Calcutta.

Rivett-Carnac, J. H.—Ancient Rock Sculptures in Kamaon. Calcutta, 1877.

Simpson, Sir J. Y.—Archaic Sculpturings. Edinburgh, 1867.

Smithsonian Report, 1879, p. 389. (Wampum.)

Tavernier, J. B.—Voyages. Paris, 1810.

Taylor, I.—The Alphabet. London, 1883.

Thompson, Sir E. M.—Handbook of Greek and Roman Palæography. London, 1893.

Westwood, J. O.—Cat. of Fictile Ivories. London, 1876.

CHAPTER II.
ROLLS, BOOKS AND BOOKBINDINGS.

Rolls of papyrus and vellum—Quaternions—The sewing of books—Headbands—The rounding and backing of books—Mediæval books—Irish cumdachs—Byzantine bindings—Oriental books—Modern methods of sewing and binding.

The length of ancient rolls of vellum has often puzzled bibliophiles. Rolls of narrow breadth are found 16 or 17 feet or more in length. A learned scholar on being asked how he accounted for this extraordinary length was quite puzzled, never having realised that the roll was in one piece. The neck of the giraffe seemed the only possible solution.

Fig. 16.—Egyptian papyrus roll, with mud seals.

The writer however consulted a clever leather worker and gave him a skin measuring about 3 feet by 2, suggesting certain ways of cutting it. He produced eventually, by wetting, pulling and pinning, a beautiful roll of nearly 4 inches in breadth and 16 feet 9 inches in length.

Mediæval leather workers were no doubt more skilled and practised in this particular art than anyone now is, and the experiment showed that there is really nothing out of the way in the very long rolls which at first sight seem so surprising.

Rolls were written upon in three ways. In the oldest rolls the usual way was to write lines across the breadth of the roll, which was held upright before the reader, and unrolled from the top downwards.

Fig. 17.—Roll written upon across its shorter diameter.

A rare form of writing upon rolls is that found in the prayers written on the strips which are rolled up inside Buddhist prayer wheels. Such prayers, however, are never read, but are counted as being read through on each revolution of the wheel. Each line of manuscript runs along the entire length of the roll, which is unrolled sideways. The prayer wheels vary immensely in size, the best known being the little hand ones chiefly used in Thibet; they are variously ornamented.

Fig. 18.—Roll written upon longitudinally.

The form of writing in rolls that is of most interest so far as books is concerned is a modification of the Thibetan form. Instead of each line running the whole length of the roll, a space limit is now fixed, and the lines of writing follow under each other, so that the page form is at once apparent. This form, a late one, can be seen in the case of the Jewish scrolls of the law. The roll is unrolled sideways, and the rollers at each end are often very handsomely decorated.

Fig. 19.—Thibetan prayer wheel.

But writing of this last kind on rolls has suggested another arrangement in which the reading is more easy, and the re-rolling of the roll itself avoided.

It will be seen that a blank space is left between each of the written “pages.” Now if the vellum, bark, or paper be folded across these vacant spaces, one after the other, backwards and forwards, like accordion pleating, we shall find that we get a form of book well known in the East and also among primitive nations.

Fig. 20.—Roll written upon in page form.

Curious examples of such converted rolls can be seen in most museums, and they are generally kept flat by means of two boards front and back, but not otherwise fastened.

The Chinese and Japanese have taken this particular form of evolution from the roll to the book a step further, and by help of the ancient device of “stabbing” the flattened roll along one of its sides, they produce a form called an “Orihon,” easy to consult, strong, and the blank back of the roll so hidden up that its existence is frequently not realised. But if some of the leaves of an Orihon are cut, its real structure becomes at once evident, and a book will be produced with letterpress and blank paper alternately in pairs. A similar kind of alternation shows now and then in the case of MS. rolls that have been cut up, but they are oftener arranged letterpress and blank alternately.

Fig. 21.—Sumatran bark book in the form of a folded roll.

Fig. 22.—Orihon.

Without realising it we still preserve this blank and letterpress sequence, found in the converted roll, in official and legal manuscripts as well as in those intended for the printer.

When the printing press took the place of the scribe, the blank leaves had no further raison d’être, so they dropped out for good.

Following the rule that the forms of binding have always followed tolerably closely the forms of the manuscript they have covered, we find that rolls were kept in cylindrical boxes, called “scrinia.” Each roll was usually provided with a little tag, so that if there were several of them in one box they could easily be distinguished. The same sort of tags are used to-day in the case of rolled maps kept on shelves.

Until a late period the term parchment must be understood to mean vellum. Now we call sheep skin “parchment” and calf skin “vellum,” and they are prepared in the same way with lime, so that not being tanned they are not strictly “leather.” The finest vellum is prepared from the very youngest and smallest calves, and it is the most beautiful and suitable material for writing or printing upon that has ever yet been found. The surface is singularly even and offers little or no resistance to a pen, so that every sort of handwriting, square or round, is put upon it with equal ease. Vellum has one fault alone, particularly when bound in book form as distinct from a roll, and this is that the edges are apt to cockle, and by so doing they not only make the pages look ugly, but they also admit the dust. Often and often magnificent vellum books, especially at the top, show large vandykes of dust-stained spaces due to this cockling, and all such books should be provided with a close fitting cardboard cap, to be kept upon them whenever they are not in use.

Parchment and vellum were both well-known to the ancients, but their value as materials for writing upon does not seem to have been fully acknowledged until the second century B.C., until which period papyrus had held undisputed pre-eminence for that purpose. At that time for some reason the supply of papyrus from Egypt ran short, and Eumenes II., King of Pergamum, successfully introduced parchment in its stead. Parchment is so called because it was first produced at Pergamum.

Until about the fifth century A.D., vellum MSS. were in the roll form, but then came a change to the book form as we now know it. This change was probably due to the fact that stabbed binding, the only sort then used, was not suited to vellum. The few papyri that exist in book form were stabbed, that is to say, the rectangular pages were kept in position by a binding cord laced through holes pierced sideways right through the entire thickness of the back of the book. The marks of these holes can often be seen along the inner margins of ancient papyri, and they also show in many instances of rebound copies of our early English printed books. To-day plenty of examples of this form of sewing can be seen in the Chinese and Japanese books, “Orihons,” which are really links between the roll and the book form. It is also largely used for thin books of little value, and a modification of it can be seen in numbers of magazines, books of advertisements, and the like, which are kept together by abominable little clamps of wire attached on the same principle. When such books have to be properly bound the little clamps have to be carefully removed, and it is generally found that they have made an indelible stain of rust on the paper, even if they have not also torn it considerably.

Fig. 23.—Stabbed binding.

In mediæval libraries or monasteries when a book was to be made, vellum leaves were cut into the required size and folded once across the middle. The folded leaves were then fitted inside each other in groups of four (quaternions) or five (quinternions), or whatever other number seemed good to the bookmaker. The leaves were then marked in some slight way so that their order might not be lost, and sent to the scribe to be written upon.

The books count as folios because each original sheet only forms two pages; the fact of their being arranged in groups is accidental, and does not theoretically alter the size of the book. For this the original skin of vellum would have to be folded with certain further divisions, and in the case of early manuscripts this was never done.

Vellum shows a different surface on the flesh side to that on the hair side, and the scribe usually made his rule marks with a blunt style to guide his writing on the hair side, so that on this side the ruled lines are slightly indented, whereas on the flesh side they show as little ridges.

This point is apparently trivial, but if, as seems likely, both Greek and Latin scribes were really very particular and consistent in the way they alternated the two sides of the vellum, then the matter becomes one of much critical importance. Indeed, it has already been of the utmost value in deciding questions as to whether new pages had been added or not to an old book.

Fig. 24.—Quaternion threaded together.

When the scribe had made his rulings he then doubled up his sheets once, and arranged them as he desired with regard to the hair or flesh sides. When a section of four sheets were fitted into each other, so that when pressed together they made a solid gathering, such a gathering is called a “Quaternion,” from which term we derive our word “Quire.” This is a normal state of things, but it is obvious that abnormal arrangements might easily be made, from the insertion of a single leaf to that of an entirely additional section.

Now the question arose of how best to fasten the quaternions together, not only as to themselves but also as to the other quaternions, which together formed the entire book.

As to the quaternion itself, it must have been evident at once that a stitch of thread or fibre run from the innermost fold right through to the outermost would hold the leaves firmly together. It is likely enough that this was done separately at first, and then the binder would have looked at a small heap of such gatherings wondering how best to keep them together, and it would soon occur to any constructive mind to knot the loose ends of the threads together, or else to supply a supplementary cord or cords laid at right angles to the back of the sections on which the projecting ends of the threads might be tied or sewn.

Fig. 25.—Four threaded quaternions ready to be tied together.

Fig. 26.—Four threaded quaternions tied on to transverse bands.

This, in fact, was done, and very shortly the best way of fastening the sections on to such cords or threads was hit upon—a method indeed that we have never bettered, and which can still be found in the work of many of our best modern binders.

At first this fastening together of the sections of a book was no doubt done uncomfortably and roughly by hand, but it soon became evident that some simple device in the form of a skeleton frame might be contrived which would render the operations of sewing and binding much easier. Not only easier to execute but also giving a more regular and workmanlike result.

The earliest known sewing frames were the same as are used now. There are two strong columns of wood fixed on a broad platform, with a slot between their bases. From capital to capital extends a bar, and the strips of leather, vellum, or hempen cords which are to form the bands of the book are looped upon it, and are kept taut by means of metal keys attached to the other end, which lock into the slot at the bottom. The bands can be quite easily adjusted to any space the worker desires.

Fig. 27.—Modern hand-sewing press.

The book, ready for sewing and in proper order of sections, is laid near the worker’s hand, and he, or she, takes it up by sections, one at a time. The section to be worked upon is laid downwards on the little platform, with its back close against the bands, and the worker’s left hand keeps the section open in the middle, while with the right hand a thread is drawn through the back fold, from the inside to the outside, round the band, and then back from the outside to the inside, and so on until all the bands have been caught round. Then to end up, the thread is passed through near the extreme end of the fold and knotted, forming what is called a “kettle stitch,” and from this point the whole operation is repeated, backwards, with the next section. It sounds complicated, but is not so really, and several sections could have been sewn together in the time that it has taken me to describe the sewing of one of them.

Fig. 28.—Faulty sewing over a band.

Now comes an interesting point, and that is the exact way in which the threads are passed over the bands. We will first see that if the thread is drawn through the back fold of the section, round a hand and back again through another hole, that there is a weak construction, inasmuch as the thread will have a strong tendency to cut through the paper at a and b, because there is in each case a side strain. It therefore seemed necessary that the thread should make its return journey by the same hole through which it emerged, but if simply done, this did not mend matters much, as the strain still tended to pull this hole open wider. A line of exit and entrance without any side pull was needed, and this was found by means of a very clever device. A broad band of leather or vellum was cut through lengthways, leaving a solid piece at each end.

Fig. 29.—Mediæval sewing round double band.

Now when the sewer came to this band he ran the thread straight through the slot, then brought it round the entire band, under it, between it and the back of the book, and down again, back through the slot, and in at the same point from which it emerged. The result of this is that there is no strain at all on the needle hole through which the thread passes, as the pull is quite straight both coming and going. This is undoubtedly the best form of sewing a book on bands, and a book so treated is said to be sewn on “double bands.” But our recent work is not always true, although from the outside it appears correct, because in numbers of cases such double bands are simply glued on the outside of the back, the real sewing, of a very inferior kind, possibly even done by machinery, being hidden underneath the leather. Few great binders except Charles Lewis have ever used sham bands.

Flexible sewn books can be had now if wanted, but the sewing on the bands is not quite the same as the fine mediæval double bands I have described. It is, however, practically nearly as good, and the bands themselves can be made smaller.

Fig. 30.—Modern sewing round single band.

The modern method is to bring the needle and thread through the back of the section as usual, then give it one turn onwards over the band and back again through the same hole. It will be seen that this is a thoroughly sound principle, and brings no strain upon the back of the section.

The ends of the bands of limp vellum books have always been treated in the same way; they are drawn straight through the vellum at the joint and then back again and fastened inside by means of the end paper.

The manner of drawing the bands of a “limp” vellum bound book through the limp vellum cover is of much interest, and it survives in many instances where boards are used.

In principle it is the same process as is described further on with regard to boarded books, but in the case of the limp vellum bindings the ends of the bands are normally visible for a short length, but in the case of boarded books they are always covered up with the exception of some vellum-covered boarded books in which the limp vellum peculiarity is preserved.

Another small point of interest about the old limp vellum bindings is that the head and tail bands are made of the same sort of thin vellum strip as the main bands and carefully drawn diagonally through the vellum at the corners and fastened inside. Dealt with in this way the head band becomes of real structural value, much of which is lost if it is cut off short as is done in the large majority of cases.

William Morris liked limp vellum bindings and often used them, but without head bands. Instead of the short strips of vellum used for bands in old books Morris used specially prepared silk tapes, and brought them through the vellum at the joint in the old-fashioned way. Instead of being cut short and pasted down as the old limp vellum bands were, Morris continued his tapes and brought them out again near the front edge of the vellum, where they could be tied. This is an excellent arrangement and keeps such a book together in an admirable and effective way.

Vellum bindings required flat backs because the material would not yield sufficiently to be tucked round the projecting bands of a normal flexible bound book, in which the leather back is firmly fixed over the bands. Nevertheless in several instances old vellum books, in boards, which have been sewn on raised bands show traces of these bands in low relief across the back. In such cases it is common to find that some padding has been put in the spaces between the bands so as to level the back up. Books treated in this way are usually stiff to open and uncomfortable to consult.

The flat back, which was necessary for the same reason in the case of books bound at a later date in velvet, cloth, silk or canvas, necessitated some modification of the thick projecting bands of the ordinary book, and the requisite flatness was attained by using strips of vellum or tape instead of cords of hemp. Then it was found that it was not necessary to fasten the back of the cover to the back of the sections, so the “hollow back” came into existence.

Fig. 31.—Book bound with “open” or “hollow” back, and modern headband, cut off at each end.

The majority of modern books are bound with hollow backs; it can be recognised by opening a book to the full and seeing if the back is separate, and it has one real virtue as well as several vices. If a book should happen to be printed too far back, a hollow back binding will enable it to “throw up,” and show the printing right down to the inner edge of the paper, whereas a flexible binding always tends to open less freely, especially in the middle.

For books that are likely to be much used hollow backs are unadvisable as they are sooner worn out, but for small light books there is no doubt much to be said in their favour.

Fig. 32.—Back of book prepared with cut trenches to hold the bands.

Among English binders of note I think Charles Lewis was the first to use hollow backs extensively. But for fine books there is no doubt that the old-fashioned flexible sewing on raised bands is the best in the long run. Books bound with hollow backs often have the bands “sawn in,” that is to say, a trench is cut for each band across the back of the sections. In these trenches the bands are laid, and the sewing is of a simpler and quicker sort than it is when the thread is brought round each band as it is in the flexible style. Moreover, there is a weak point where the thread touches the edge of the saw cut, and at this place the paper is always apt to give. It is obvious that to cut away paper from the back of a section must always be not only a barbarism but also structurally wrong. Such a method of sewing a book can only be excused on the score of cheapness, and it may be urged that in this case it does not matter.

Towards the end of the fifteenth century it was found that the extreme tops and bottoms of the backs of the sections of bound books not only looked untidy and unfinished, but also that they tended to gape, in fact they were weak points both structurally and artistically. When it was once realised it was soon rectified, and a small additional band was made of a strip of leather or vellum, to fit along the outer edge of the top and bottom at the back. This slip was then sewn on by means of thread and button-hole stitching, being caught in at intervals by a long stitch drawn through the centre of one or other of the sections of the book. The loose ends of the headband itself were drawn in to the boards, forming in fact an additional band. The headband is a point in the forwarding of a book which has not received much notice as yet, but it is of some importance, as there is no doubt that much attention has been paid by binders to the ornamentation of headbands from mediæval times until now, and it is the first point in the binding of a book in which ornament is considered.

Fig. 33.—French sixteenth century headband.

Fig. 34.—Italian fifteenth century headband.

Fig. 35.—German fifteenth century headband.

Fig. 36.—English seventeenth century headband.

Fig. 37.—English eighteenth century headband, by Roger Payne.

Fig. 38.—English nineteenth century headband, by Charles Lewis.

Some of the early headbands are sewn over with strips of soft leather, and at a later time they are cut in distinctive ways, flat or round, and sewn over with silks of particular colours or combinations of colours.

Of late years the vice of cutting off the ends of the headband has come into being; these ends ought to be drawn properly into the boards, as Mr. Douglas Cockerell has indeed done for me in several instances. But no words can adequately condemn the miserable ready-made coloured slips which are often found simply stuck on in the proper place.

Fig. 39.—What a book may do if the back is not properly rounded.

Vellum books were the first to be properly bound. The papyri which were stabbed are so rare that they may be passed by. As I have already said, vellum is apt to be curly; for this reason the boards used for binding in early days were made of thick wood, the heaviness of which, even when unaided by clasps, tended to keep the vellum flat.

Fig. 40.—Book with flat back.

Beech wood was largely used for these old covers, and from the German word “Buch,” meaning beech, we derive our word “book.” Beechen boards were light, decorative, and very carefully dried and seasoned. It is remarkable how flat such old boards are, and they were no doubt very highly valued as they often have upon them the stamp of the monastery in which they were used.

The edges of the boards are sometimes bevelled, from the upper side in English or French books, and from the under side in German books—but such a distinction must not be taken as invariable. Boards often show signs of having been used more than once, and it is rarely that any decoration shows on the wood. In a few cases of German books may be found outline drawings of an heraldic nature.

Fig. 41.—Book with flat back falling in.

The first bound books were made with flat backs, and the boards fitted close upon the outer sheets of vellum, papyrus or paper. In this formation, however, it was found that there was a strong liability for the back to fall in and the foredge to project outwards.

As early as the fifteenth century, in the case of printed books on paper, this fault of the back falling in led some few binders to neutralise it by giving the back of the book a rounded form by means of hammering, and this quite prevented the falling in of the back. The exact extent of the rounding can easily be seen by looking at the front edge of a book, because the curves of the back and front correspond. The boards, however, remained in their first position, flat on the outer sheets.

Fig. 42.—Book with rounded back.

But another trouble was apparent in both these cases, namely, that when such books were opened, the joint between the boards and the back showed a tendency to pull up the few pages next adjacent. In time these pages became torn and injured, and constructively there was something wrong with the principle of attachment.

Paper is soft, and when a “rounded” book was fitted with hard boards and strongly pressed there would be a certain tendency for the boards to sink into the mass of the paper and to throw up a small ridge along the edge of the back. Such a small accidental ridge is often found on old paper books.

Fig. 43.—Book with back rounded and backed.

Fig. 44.—Book rounded and backed, before the boards are put on.

But there is no doubt that the actual process of making an intentional groove for the boards to fit in was practised by a few fifteenth century binders in England. This groove is made by an extension of the process of rounding the back, and it is produced by hammering the back over two hard boards carefully placed in the proper position. The shape of a back thus treated is theoretically as shown in Fig. 44, and it will be seen that the actual joint now falls away from the body of the book and is removed to the artificial line along the outer edge of the groove, and from this line the projecting bands are drawn in to the boards. If this operation of “backing” is properly done it is almost impossible for the back of a book to fall in. It will always open easily and return to its original form, and if the bands are properly attached to the boards, the latter will never fall off.

Although the principle of backing was known at the early time mentioned, it was not universally understood and practised until quite recent times. Now, however, it is fully recognised as one of the most important processes in the binding of books, especially large ones.

We have seen that the book sewn in leather bands has the ends of these bands left loose, projecting in the case of a large book some two or three inches. Holes were now carefully cut along the back edge of the board to fit the ends of the bands, sloping upwards, and some little way in other slots were cut from the upper surface of the board to meet them. Into these holes the ends of the bands were drawn, and when in proper position they were pegged down with one or more small wooden pegs. Sometimes the bands were drawn right through the boards and fastened inside. Numbers and numbers of instances of this work exist and are quite sound to-day. But such books do not open satisfactorily, as there is a disagreeable pull upon the outer sections when the book is opened. In fact, the junction between the bands and the boards is not scientifically correct, because the backs are not rounded.

Fig. 45.—Half-bound book.

The vulnerable part of the binding will now be seen to be the soft threads which cover the bands where they adjoin the back of the sections of the book, and to protect these delicate threads a strip of leather was cut, damped and pressed over the bands so as to fit quite closely, and fastened on with glue, projecting a short way over on to the board itself so as to cover up the holes used for the bands. This is called a “half-binding.” On the leather of such half-bindings there is usually some blind tooling, lines or rolls or even small cameo stamps.

Mediæval bindings are commonly provided with clasps. The original reason of this was to help to keep the vellum leaves flat, but of course artistic binders saw that clasps might be made very ornamental, and so many of them are. They have survived as ornamental adjuncts to a binding until the present day, although there is no necessity for them.

Fig. 46.—Mediæval book with bosses, corner pieces and clasps.

Bosses in the centre and at the corners of mediæval bindings were of structural use, as they protected the actual boards of the book from wear. In early days books were kept upon their sides and probably had flat boards between each volume. So the bosses took the wear and preserved the books. Many of the mediæval bosses and corners have ornamental settings; they are generally of brass, but sometimes of silver or wood. The titles of such books were sometimes written on the front edges and sometimes on a slip of paper fastened under horn on the upper board, and in the late fifteenth century they were sometimes lettered in gold or blind, also on the boards.