The Man Who Refused To Laugh (And The Book That Laughed At Him)

by Stephen J. Gertz

On March 9, 1748 Philip Dormer Stanhope (1694-1773), 4th Earl of Chesterfield, wrote to his son:

"Having mentioned laughing, I must particularly warn you against it: and I could heartily wish, that you may often be seen to smile, but never heard to laugh while you live. Frequent and loud laughter is the characteristic of folly and in manners; it is the manner in which the mob express their silly joy at silly things; and they call it being merry. In my mind, there is nothing so illiberal, and so ill-bred, as audible laughter. True wit, or sense, never yet made anybody laugh; they are above it: They please the mind, and give a cheerfulness to the countenance. 

"But it is low buffoonery, or silly accidents, that always excite laughter; and that is what people of sense and breeding should show themselves above. A man's going to sit down, in the supposition that he has a chair behind him, and falling down upon his breech for want of one, sets a whole company a laughing, when all the wit in the world would not do it; a plain proof, in my mind, how low and unbecoming a thing laughter is: not to mention the disagreeable noise that it makes, and the shocking distortion of the face that it occasions. Laughter is easily restrained, by a very little reflection; but as it is generally connected with the idea of gaiety, people do not enough attend to its absurdity. 

"I am neither of a melancholy nor a cynical disposition, and am as willing and as apt to be pleased as anybody; but I am sure that, since I have had the full use of my reason, nobody has ever heard me laugh."

The letter is one of over four hundred written beginning 1737/1738 through the death of his son in 1768 and collected in Letters Written By the Late Right Honorable Philip Dormer Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, to His Son, Philip Stanhope Esq. Published in 1774 by his son's widow, Eugenia, a year after Chesterfield's death, the majority of the letters were written between 1746 and 1754. 

Also known as Letters to His Son on the Art of Becoming a Man of the World and a Gentleman, within Lord Chesterfield - yes, he of the eponymous sofa - with elegance, understated wit, and sharp observation discusses, amongst other issues including history and contemporary politics, the restraint in behavior and manners expected of the mid-18th century British upper class in general and gentlemen in particular.

His disdain for the manners of the general populace begged to be lampooned and thirty-seven years after Chesterfield's letters to his son were published caricaturist George Moutard Woodward ("Mustard George"), in 1808, gleefully rubbed his hands together and went to work, the great Thomas Rowlandson engraving Woodward's designs (as imprinted on plates but contrary to title page).

A satire of Lord Chesterfield's advice to his son, Chesterfield Travestie; or, School For Modern Manners presents "a new plan of education, on the principles of virtue and politeness in which is conveyed, such instructions as cannot fail to form the man of honour, the man of virtue, and the accomplished gentleman." In seven chapters illustrated by ten hand-colored plates it covers Rules for walking the Streets, and other Public Places; Behaviour at the Table; Directions respecting Apparel, &c; Short Directions respecting behavior at the Theatres; Rules for Conversation; Rules to be observed at Cards in private Families; and General Rules for Good Breeding on various Occasions. In short, all a swell has to know for good breeding to show, to wit:

"It is very becoming to break out into a violent fit of laughter, on the most rifling occasion. forming  your mouth into a grin like the lion's-head on a brass knocker; and more so to be continually simpering at every thing. like a country milk-maid at a statute fair" (Chapter 7, p. 47).

How To Walk The Streets.

"If, whilst you are walking, you see any person of your acquaintance passing, be sure to bawl and hem after them, like a butcher out of a public-house window; and leave the person you are walking with to run after them.

"In walking through a crowded street, throw your legs and arms about in every direction, as if you were rowing for Dogget's coat and badge. N.B. If you have a short thick stick, it will be of great advantage" (Chapter 1, p. 1).

How To Keep Up A Conversation With Yourself On The Public Streets.

"It is said that the emptiest vessels make the greatest noise; don't let that deter you from making a free exercise of your lungs; it is conducive to you health, therefore, in every conversation, however trivial it may be, be sure to bawl as loud as possible" (Chapter 5, p. 21).

How To Look Over Your Husband's Hand Of Cards And Find Fault With Him For Losing.

"It has a very good effect for a wife to look over her husband's hand while he is playing; at the same time, shewing evident marks of anger and discontent if he loses.

"When you lose, never pay before you are asked for it; it is quite time enough; and then do it with reluctance, so as to plainly shew you would much rather keep it in your pocket"  (Chapter 6, p. 43).

How To Break a Shop Window With An Umbrella.

"Should it be a rainy day, and you use an umbrella, pay no regard to breaking a few windows in your passage, &c., from your careless manner of carrying it" (Chapter I, p. 2).

A British statesman and diplomat, "Chesterfield’s winning manners, urbanity, and wit were praised by many of his leading contemporaries, and he was on familiar terms with Alexander Pope, John Gay, and Voltaire. He was the patron of many struggling authors but had unfortunate relations with one of them, Samuel Johnson, who condemned him in a famous letter (1755) attacking patrons. Johnson further damaged Chesterfield’s reputation when he described the Letters as teaching 'the morals of a whore, and the manners of a dancing master.' Dickens later caricatured him as Sir John Chester in Barnaby Rudge (1841). The opinion of these two more popular writers—both of whom epitomized middle-class morality—has contributed to Chesterfield’s image as a cynical man of the world and a courtier. 

"Careful readers of Chesterfield’s letters, which were not written for publication, consider this an injustice. The strongest charge against his philosophy is that it leads to concentration on worldly ends. But within this limitation his advice is shrewd and presented with wit and elegance. Ironically, Chesterfield’s painstaking advice seems to have fallen on deaf ears: his son was described by contemporaries as 'loutish,' and his godson was described by Fanny Burney as having 'as little good breeding as any man I ever met'” (Encyclopedia Britannica).

As far as his refusal to laugh aloud is concerned, I imagine Lord Chesterfield being kidnapped and taken to a dark, dank basement room where he is strapped to a chair under a glaring spotlight and compelled to endure unmerciful torture by Mel Brooks until his smile, always firmly set to prevent an accidental discharge of guffaws, breaks, his sides split, his gut busts, a lifetime's worth of repressed laughter escapes in a torrent, and an eternal human truth becomes manifest:

Ludibrio ergo sum vivo.

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WOODWARD, George Moutard (designer). ROWLANDSON, Thomas, (engraver). Chesterfield Travestie. or, School For Modern Manners. Embellished with Ten Caricatures, Engraved by Woodward from Original Drawings by Rowlandson. London & Edinburgh: Printed by T. Plummer...for Thomas Tegg, 1808.

First edition. Octavo (6 1/2 x 4 1/8 in; 166 x 104 mm). [1, half-title], [1, blank], iv, [2], 70, [2, adv.] pp.  Ten hand-colored plates (two folding) engraved by Rowlandson after drawings by Woodward (contrary to title), with tissue guards. Publisher's original printed boards.

Reprinted by Tegg in 1809, and again by Tegg in 1811 under the title "Chesterfield Burlesqued." American editions published in Philadelphia by M. Carey in 1812 and 1821.

The Plates:

1. Votaries of Fashion
2. How To Walk the Streets.
3. The Art of Quizzing.
4. How to Keep Up a Conversation with Yourself in the Public Streets.
5. How to break a Shop Window with an Umbrella.
6. Behaviour at Table.
7. Notoriety, &c.
8. Gentleman and Mad Author.
9. How to look over your Husband's Hand while at Cards.
10. The Nobleman and Little Shopkeeper.

Falk, 215-216, Grego, 115-117, Grolier, Rowlandson, 61, Hardie, p. 315. Gordon Library Catalog BC-19.

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Book images courtesy of David Brass Rare Books, with our thanks.

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Of Related Interest:

The Story of Nobody, By Somebody, Illustrated By Someone.

Pigmy Revels: Laughter For The Languid,  Fun For The Feeble.

The Annals Of Sporting, 1809; Or, Take This Horse And Shove It!
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Scarcer Than A Battleship In A Bathtub

by Stephen J. Gertz

A copy of James Ralfe's Naval Chronology of Great Britain in the original parts has come to market. A book of incredible scarcity in its original twelve installments 1818-1819, only one copy has been seen at auction within the last fifty-three years, in 1960, according to ABPC. The chances of seeing another in the original parts anytime soon are slim to none. The rare 1820 three-volume first edition in book format is commonplace by comparison.

It's a foundational historical account of British naval and maritime events from the beginning of the Napoleonic wars in 1803 through the War of 1812 to the end of 1816, illustrated with sixty magnificent hand-colored aquatint engravings. James Ralfe (fl 1818-1829) was a respected naval historian.

As such, it is an invaluable reference on the British Navy during the period under review, with the plates based on drawings by officers, many of whom were participants in the naval battles:  T. Sutherland, F.C. Lewis, D. Havel and others after T. Whitcombe, J. Beresford, W.A. Armstrong, J. Gore, and W. Hill.

"The object of this work is, more particularly, to perpetuate the names of those individuals who have, by their talents, courage, and professional abilities, increased the honour and reputation of the British Navy, and secured the peace and independence of the Country.

 "It will form a complete Naval History from 1802 (the time at which Captain Schomberg's Chronology terminates) to 1817, under the form generally acknowledged to be the most convenient for an historical work of reference. From the arrangements which have been made, it is expected that the work will answer every purpose of information not only to gentlemen of the Navy, but to those who feel an interest in the naval events of the last fourteen years; while the correctness of the drawings, the superior style of the engravings, and the neatness of execution, will render it worthy of the attention of every lover of the fine arts. Indeed, throughout the greatest pains will be taken to make this publication of the utmost utility, and deserving of general patronage" (rear wrapper).

Amongst the splendid hand-colored aquatints are images of the Battle of Trafalgar, the bombardment of Algiers, and more.

As if this copy in original parts wasn't special enough, it possesses important bibliographical points, not the least of which are early watermarking of the plates (1819; early issue) and printed plate inscriptions, i.e. "from a sketch by...,"  "from a plan by...". According to Abbey, plates later colored lack these inscriptions for genuine hand-colored plates, i.e. colored at time of issue. "Genuine colored copies are rare" (Tooley). The rear wrappers  state "Price to Subscribers 10s 6d plain, and 15s coloured."

This copy was stashed in the 1940s and forgotten in the vault of a bookselling firm in Europe until recently. While complete with all plates and the subscriber's list, the wrappers were distressed to one degree or another and those parts which bore the worst wear along the spine or edges, wrapper losses, loose plates, etc. were restored by master book conservator Bruce Levy who did an astonishing job that is almost invisible to the untrained eye.

The sinking of the H.M.S. Miasma, Trafalgar Motor Lodge, room 24, lavatory.

Pardon me. Battleships in bathtubs are not as scarce as I thought. But I think it safe to say that Ralfe's Naval Chronology of Great Britain in the original parts is almost as scarce as an aircraft carrier cruising the Sahara in search of Australian grass parakeets.

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RALFE, Mr. J[ames]. Naval Chronology of Great Britain. Or, an Historical Account of Naval and Maritime Events, From the Commencement of the War in 1803, to the end of the year 1816: also, Particulars of the Most Important Court-Martial, Votes of Parliament, Lists of Flag-Officers in Commission, and of Promotions for Each year: The Whole forming a complete Naval History of the above Period. Illustrated with Numerous Engravings. London: Whitmore and Fenn, 1818.

First edition, early issue with plates watermarked 1819. Twelve original parts, 1818-1819, in tall octavo (10 1/8 x 6 7/8 in; 256 x 175 mm). Sixty "genuine" hand-colored aquatint plates (with printed inscriptions, i.e. "from a sketch by...,"  "from a plan by...,"), including frontispiece, with original tissue guards. Original buff printed wrappers, restored and/or renewed.

Abbey, Life 342. Tooley 392. Sabin 67602. Howes R21. Cf. Prideaux, p. 348 (book edition).

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Images courtesy of David Brass Rare Books, currently offering this item, with our thanks.
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First Dibs On That Book: A Poetic Meditation On The Landscape of Memory

by Alastair Johnston

Mohammed Dib, Tlemcen or Places of Writing, translated from the French by Guy Bennett, Los Angeles: Otis Books/Seismicity Editions, 2012, 115 pp., paperback, perfectbound, $12.95

The kindness of strangers is legendary, but when you are used to getting books, manuscripts and CDs in the mail you are not always grateful, or aware of their significance. Last April I got a copy of The Poems of Luxorius translated by my friend Art Beck, sent to me from Otis Books, which are published by the Graduate Writing Program of Otis College of Art and Design in Los Angeles. They decided to add a bonus to the package, the book discovered here.

(To make a long story even longer: Last week I had a dentist appointment and had to take public transport there and back, a journey of an hour each way, an experience always improved by a good book. My Hazlitt volume was too big to fit in a pocket so I grabbed the small slim volume of Dib off the shelf where it had been sitting patiently waiting to be sorted into sell, give away or read later).

The cover is black, a matte black that is eventually going to be covered in scuffs and fingerprints, and the book contains some murky square photos, also very black. A good book needs no photos to sell it, I thought, especially badly reproduced ones. But then I got it: these are Dib's photos, amateurish mementos of his past. He took them in his hometown of Tlemcin, Algeria, in 1946. In 1957 he was exiled and spent the rest of his life away from his homeland, writing about it. Like James Joyce, like H. C. Earwicker -- like everybody! So this work is a poetic meditation on the landscape of memory and the unknowable trajectory of life. 

"Why worry about order and coherence if we don't have to? Memory knows no such concerns and we are strolling through a memory."

By the time I got home from the dentist I had finished the book and decided to read it again. I was ignorant of Mohammed Dib (1920–2003) until I read this slim poetic work. The web tells us, "Dib, who was at various times a teacher, accountant, rug maker, journalist, and drama critic, wrote of the poor Algerian worker and peasant in his early realistic novels." Coming across those old photos had started him thinking about where he had come from. Some of the people in his photos look pretty downtrodden, and I thought Algeria was a hot country. They look bundled up against the cold. His own family look a bit more comfortable, or maybe these shots were taken on special occasions, weddings and birthdays. And the black and white murky photos come to life as he paints them in for us:

"A few colors. Less for brightening up the photograph than to get us dreaming. The floor is a mosaic of olive-green tiles (so typically Arabo-Andalusian) on the one hand, and tiles the white of Chinese porcelain on the other…. The checkerboard they form is contained in a wide, dark red frame. The walls are paneled with azulejos in the grand tradition: blue motif on white background, repeated from tile to tile. You feel it has the moist transparency of a child's eye.
   "And green is the grape vine whose trunk stretches ever upward, plunging the patio into green shade."

He asks what the role of the writer is. It must be more than just a function to produce text. He has a set of references which he hopes coincides with those of the reader. Coming to the text, both writer and reader are looking for a space of freedom, he says. It's up to both to discover common ground, because once the work of writing is finished it disowns the author and leads a life of its own. Whimsically he suggests that critics and "people with master's degrees" need to open up these spaces of freedom once more, by which I think he means interpret the codes of a writer's work so they speak to all readers. Everyman as Augustine or Jerome?

From children's games (which are universal) to taking bread to be baked at the communal oven, Dib paints a portrait of a bygone time and a bygone lad he no longer recognizes: the 8-year-old whippersnapper in a bowtie and kalpak (one of those wooly cylindrical hats). "Such is the oddball that faces or rather confronts me. I can't get over it, the bow tie in particular delights me. And scandalizes me."

Other kids roamed the streets; some were already working. He went to school, which was run by the French colonial government. "And today French is a language that Algerians are not averse to speaking. I myself began as a school teacher in this language, which far from making me French made me more Algerian."

He takes us back to the market, "La Médresse," destroyed by the French because it might harbor terrorists. Nothing could be more unlikely: it was just a collection of gaily painted stands selling fruits and vegetables brought from the countryside, "paintings the Fauves would have been proud of." He recounts the trips with his grandmother to this market, the intoxicating odors, how she would haggle so much over an apricot it would drive the stall-holders to distraction. "That's it, old woman, shop's closed! I'm going straight home to bed!" Another destroyed neighborhood, Bab Sidi Boumédiène, was home to story-tellers. Though illiterate, these men told tales from memory that the author later discovered were from the Thousand and One Nights. "Story-telling is still forbidden: these people of the word may once have delivered subversive messages, and could still be doing so today."

"Just opposite there was a flourishing flea market where you would also happen upon the greatest concentration of fortune tellers. But it seemed they were only there for the infantrymen of the Gourmalah barracks, who could be identified by the pronounced fondness they had for the girls -- they monopolized every one. When you saw the proud soldiers hold them close, you had to wonder if they were having their palms read or whispering sweet nothings into their ears. Allah alone knows and, as for me, I was too young to approach these big women, girls from the South they said, in order to find out. Incredibly, they wore no veils and their faces were amazingly covered with tattoos, their burning eyes ringed with kohl."

But the whole neighborhood was torched by the French, along with Le Médresse: 

"Not only did this result in the physical disappearance of a place, but also of trades and professional practices, whose bell tolled at the same time. Neither would survive. As the cluster of shacks went up in smoke, the local customs were also immolated, and the traditions and spirit that gave rise to them vanished, too."

Dib's writing makes me want to go there, tempt the fates again that found me lost in the Nubian desert. (I pause to put on Musique Tagnawite by Mahmoud Guinia.) There are no bugs in the desert, no insects, nothing lives there. You can lay down in the sand and look at the stars until you fall asleep. But it's better to travel at night and look for shade during the day. Then I remember that as the world is more and more divided into haves and have-nots, it is increasingly impossible for us first worlders to wander unremarked into the Sahara, the world's largest desert. It's not only on Algeria's doorstep "but also within us, in the dark refuge."

 "The three revealed religions were born in the desert. Three religions that conceal others, many others, that were also revealed there. Let us keep that in mind so as not to forget that the desert is the blank page on which anything can be written, or anything erased.
   "Only it happens that not one religion was born in the Sahara. Our desert is a true blank page. Is it meant to remain a blank page? Based on what we know, we can say that this page is spreading further and further in all directions.
   "The blank page is not only something we can write on. It is also something your destiny can appear to you on, write itself on.
   "All Algerians know geomancy, the art of divination. The geomancer draws signs in the sand and you wait for the omen."

Because of my love for North African music I am drawn to his description of a festival: "Then come the Gnawa (the Blacks). In a thunder of enormous drums, their iron krakebs clack like the beaks of a thousand robotic storks." I can hear it! And now I can see it too. Blurry family snaps, girls in their finery (recalling Lehnert & Landrock's Rêves d'Orient), arty architectural shots, suddenly it all starts to come into focus. We cannot go there, except on the flying carpet of Dib's words. But he falters:

"You haven't said everything you thought you did, and what you did you didn't say well.
   "… Again to try your luck. From that time on you cannot escape the call of the work to be rewritten. Which will be perfect this time."

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Kate Greenaway Talks Almanack Layout

by Stephen J. Gertz

Sometime in late 1891, Kate Greenaway wrote the following note to her printer/publisher, Edmund Evans.

Dear Mr Evans

I think it will be best to fill the months oblong with colour. I don't think all the page tinted as the oblong left white will look well - I have finished 4 months - only if you agree with me in this. I will add some snow to one - before I send them to you.

Yours sincerely, KG

I enclose 6 stamps for postage. Many thanks for books.

Opposite the letter's text, on page three, is the layout she suggests: a tall oblong black ink drawing at left of a woman in hat and cloak with left arm raised, with text to its right and below. The design is clearly for one of her almanacks.

It's a very special note: A) It is written to Evans, the most accomplished and celebrated color printer of his era and the man who published Greenaway's first book and developed her professional career; B) It refers to work in progress, always prized in an ALs; C) It contains a sketch in Kate Greenaway's hand.

But there's something even more compelling about the note. That sketch came to life.

January 1892. Snow Added.

The sketch was developed, finished, and is found in Kate Greenaway's Almanack for 1892 as the illustration for January - the woman in red cloak and hat - with snow added, per Greenaway's declaration in the note. This puts a huge dot on the "i," as in Ai! Ai! Ai!

This note possesses all that one could hope for in a signed autograph letter. The only thing that could have improved its content would have been if Greenaway had referred to John Ruskin, celebrated art critic, her mentor and close confidant:

"Not content with his own madness, Ruskin is driving me nuts. 'Love the little girls!" He's beginning to creep me out."

"Working for the printer and publisher Edmund Evans, Kate Greenaway's books and various designs soon became enormously popular in Britain and the United States and, with [John] Ruskin acting as champion and her advisor, her fame and stature rapidly increased" (Chris Beetles, The British Art of Illustration 1800-1991, p. 43) (1846-1901)

Edmund Evans (1826-1905) was the foremost publisher of color-printed books of his era. "In the 1860s Evans established himself as the leading and the best woodblock colour printer in London...The next big development in commercial colour printing in Britain came with the publication of the Toy Books...The demand for Toy Books became so great that - like other printers - Evans turned publisher, and commissioned the artists himself...Evans's...protégé was Kate Greenaway...In 1877 she took a book of her own verses and drawings to Evans, who immediately accepted them and obtained...agreement to publish them in a 6-shilling book to be called Under the Window. He printed 20,000 copies, which soon sold out, and he had great difficulty in keeping up with demand: Under the Window was still in print in 1972. Greenaway never allowed anyone other than Evans to engrave and print her illustrations, clearly recognizing how much Evans's interpretative skills and ability to match medium to style contributed to the final appearance of her work" (Oxford DNB).

"By the 1870s [Edmund] Evans' firm had a high reputation. 'No firm in London could come near the result that Edmund Evans could get with as few, say, as three colour-blocks, so wonderful was his ingenuity, so great was his artistic taste and so accurate his eye' [Spielmann and Layard, p. 41]...[Greenaway] was not a shrewd businesswoman but in dealing with Evans she did manage to achieve considerable success" (Engen, p. 52).


“The beginning of 1883 had seen the publication of Kate Greenaway’s first Almanack. Published at one shilling by George Routledge & Sons, and of course engraved and printed in colours by Mr. Edmund Evans, it achieved an enormous success, some 90,000 copies being sold in England, America, France, and Germany. It was succeeded by an almanack every year (with but one exception, 1896) until 1897, the last being published by Mr. Dent. The illustrations were printed on sheets with blank spaces for the letterpress, in which English, French, or German was inserted as the market demanded. There are various little conceits about these charming productions which are calculated to appeal to the ‘licquorish chapman of such wares’; so that complete sets of them already fetch respectable sums from the collectors of beautiful books, especially when they have not been divested of the paper envelopes or wrappers in which they were originally issued” (Spielmann and Layard (1905), p. 122).

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GREENAWAY, Kate. EVANS, Edmund. Signed Autograph Letter From Kate Greenaway to Her Publisher/Printer, Edmund Evans. N.p. [London], n.d. [1892]. 3 pp, including ink drawing. 4 1/2 x 7 inches (114 x 176 mm); 4 1/2 x 3 1/2 inches (114 x 88 mm), as folded.  

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Images courtesy of David Brass Rare Books, currently offering this item, with our thanks.
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Diet Books: A Millenium of Advice Unheeded

by Cokie Anderson

15th century manuscript of Tacuinum Sanitatis
Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris

Every year, as January 1 approaches and the excesses of the holiday season begin to catch up with us, people everywhere begin thinking about their health. We resolve to go on a diet and to join a gym, firmly resolved (for a few weeks anyway) to whip ourselves into shape. For assistance with this endeavor, and perennially hopeful that there is some secret, easy way (The 4-hour Body!) to lose weight and stay in shape, we purchase millions of dollars worth of "healthy lifestyle" books. This is not a new phenomenon: people have been purchasing such books for nearly 1,000 years, and have been ignoring their basic advice--SPOILER ALERT! Eat less, exercise more--for just as long.

Medieval Exercise Regime. And you though Pilates was tough.

One of the earliest works to focus on the healthy lifestyle was the Taqwîm al-sihhah (Almanac of Health) by the 11th century Iraqi physician and Christian monk Ibn Butlan (died ca. 1038). One of the few upsides of the Crusades was the introduction into Western Europe of medical and scientific knowledge from Arab and Islamic scholars, which augmented considerably the knowledge handed down from the Greeks Galen and Hippocrates. The Tacuinum Sanitatis Medicina, as it was titled in Latin, was one of the most popular non-religious manuscript works. The wealthy, then as ever, had the means and the leisure to seek ways of preserving their life and health; peasants did lots of physical labor and could only afford to eat vegetables, so those lucky devils had no weight-gain worries. The upper classes were quite willing to spend large sums on illustrated manuscripts that could serve as the guide to a longer and more vigorous life.




Tacuinum Sanitatis explains and illustrates the six things necessary for good health, as outlined in its introduction: "treatment of the air which touches the heart," "right employment of food and drink," "right employment of motion and rest," "protection of the body from too much sleep and from sleeplessness," "the right ways to increase and to constrict the flow of humours," and "the right training of one's own personality being moderate in joy, hatred, fear and anguish." In other words, moderation in all things.



More than 200 appealing and lively illustrations show men and women cultivating and harvesting food, tending and slaughtering livestock, hunting, making wool and linen clothes, dancing, and sleeping. The description beneath each picture gives the qualities and benefits of the item or practice, as well as any potential harmful side effects and the appropriate remedy for these. For example, drunkenness is cited for its helpful quality of forgetting one's cares and relieving pain, with vomiting (depicted in the following miniature) given as the remedy for any related excess.

1538 print edition of Tacuinum Sanitatis from St. John's College, Cambridge

With the introduction of printing, Tacuinum Sanitatis was available to a wider audience, with woodcuts replacing the hand-painted miniatures. As one can see from the examples below, the medieval audience lacked our modern sqeamishness about bodily functions. The editio princeps (first printing) appeared in 1531, and the book enjoyed continued popularity through the remainder of the century.

TMI, thankyouverymuch

A humanist guide to good health was produced in the mid-16th century, by the Englishman Sir Thomas Elyot. His Castell of Helth "was a popular, sensible treatise on healthful living, with sound and practical advice on the recognition of the commoner symptoms of disease, as well as what to do about them." It provides the reader with suggestions for a proper diet (both to maintain health and ameliorate afflictions), discusses the curative properties of various herbs, and gives specific information about diagnoses, even down to the inspection of urine. According to Elyot, partridge is easier on the digestion than goose, and we should limit our intake of melons, cucumbers, and dates, whereas onions, eaten with meat, make it easier to sleep.



This work also has a tangential connection with the history of music because it contains one of the earliest references to the sackbutt, an early version of the trombone. The reference, however, is not to the sackbutt as an instrument for making sound, but rather as an appliance that, when blown through with sufficient energy, is capable of relieving problems of the bowels. Elyot says that "the entrayles [can be regulated] by blowynge . . . or playenge on the Shaulmes, or Sackbottes, or other lyke instrumentes whyche doo requyre moche wynde." (Sadly, we do not have an illustration demonstrating this technique). A courtier in the service of Henry VIII, Sir Thomas Elyot (1490?-1546) was a close friend of Sir Thomas More and of Thomas Cromwell, both of whom met an unhappy political fate that Elyot, though endangered, managed to avoid.

Holbein's portait of Elyot

In the 18th century, we find a contribution from the French chemist and physician Louis Lemery (1677-1743), physician to the king of France, member of the Royal Academy, and son of the famous pharmacist and chemist Nicholas Lemery. His Traité des Alimens was originally published in Paris in 1702 and first printed in English two years later as A Treatise of All Sorts of Foods, both Animal and Vegetable: Also of Drinkables. The work is divided into three sections, the first on the effects on one's constitution of various fruits, vegetables, and spices; the second on flesh, fowl, and fish; and the final section on drink. Lemery believes that what one eats is a key to health and that moderation and a balanced diet (AGAIN!) are advised (although he qualifies this by noting that our earliest ancestors were vegetarians and healthier for being so). Obviously addressing a French readership, he cautions against overindulgence in frog meat, and he comes out in favor of water and tea as beverages, while noting like a true Frenchman that wine is also healthful when taken in moderation, and the same is true of coffee and chocolate, although he warns that excesses will cause sleeplessness.

John Arbuthnot, physician and satirist

The English were not to be upstaged by the French in this area. John Arbuthnot (1667-1735), physician to Her Majesty Queen Anne, published An Essay Concerning the Nature of Aliments and the Choice of them, according to the Different Constitutions of Human Bodies. In which the Different Effects, Advantages, and Disadvantages of Animal and Vegetable Diet are Explained. Arbuthnot's study of diet is moderate and sensible (Again with the moderation! Sheesh!), particularly for his day. After discoursing on the mechanics of digestion, he discusses the properties of acidic and alkaline vegetable and animal food. In general, Arbuthnot recommends a light, balanced, and varied diet washed down with cold water. Alchohol, tea, and coffee must be kept to a minimum, although phlegmatic constitutions require some stimulus, and cocoa is not noxious. The author maintains that diet should be tailored to the individual constitution; a vegetarian diet, for example, is not wholesome for everyone, but works well for those inclined to be bilious.

Epicure and eccentric William Kitchiner

My favorite title in this genre--and really one of my favorites of all time--is The art of invigorating and prolonging life, by food, clothes, air, exercise, wine, sleep, &c., or, The invalid's oracle : containing peptic precepts, pointing out agreeable and effectual methods to prevent and relieve indigestion, and to regulate and strengthen the action of the stomach and bowels ... To which is added, The pleasure of making a will. Really covers all the bases and, unlike most lifestyle guides, acknowledges that despite the health diet and exercise, one day you are going to die, so you might as well face up to it and make the proper preparations. The brainchild of epicure and writer William Kitchiner (1778-1827), it contains the same basic advice as the hundreds of thousands of others produced from ancient times to the present: eat and drink in moderation, exercise regularly, guard against weight gain, and get enough sleep. Kitchiner was the author of the phenomenally popular work The Cook's Oracle, which provided inspiration to many aspiring domestic goddesses, among them Mrs. Beeton, the Victorian Martha Stewart.

In addition to chapters on "Reducing Corpulence," "Siesta," "Clothes," "Influence of Cold," "Air," "Exercise," and "Wine" (which he recommends but finds too expensive), the Invalid's Oracle, as it was popularly known, includes his Peptic Precepts, further described as "pointing out agreeable and effectual methods to prevent and relieve indigestion, and to regulate and strengthen the action of the stomach and bowels." These range from a relatively pleasant, or at least harmless, mint pill for mild indigestion to harsh and most unappealing purgatives.

An especially delightful feature of this section is the reprinted menu of a Parisian restaurant, dated 1820. Kitchener, who advocated a diet of beef, mutton, and more beef (a forerunner of the Atkins Diet), includes this as an example of the horrifying things foreigners will eat; the modern reader is struck rather by how appetizing the dishes--most of which can be found on the menu of any modern Parisian bistro--sound when compared to the relentless parade of boiled meat urged by the author. The final section accepts that all this good advice is only postponing the inevitable, and encourages the reader to put his mind at ease by making a will and getting his affairs in order. Ironically, Kitchener died suddenly and rather mysteriously the day before he was to change his own will to disinherit his "undeserving" son.

And so we face another season of resolutions and good intentions, still hoping that someday, someone will come up with something a little easier and more fun than "eat and drink in moderation, exercise, and be sure to get enough sleep." I'm holding out for "Eat Chocolate, Drink Champagne, Never Gain Weight, and Live Forever." Now that would be a bestseller.

Illumination for the Masses

by Cokie Anderson




In recent weeks, my Booktryst colleagues have shown you an illuminated manuscript worth millions of dollars, and choir book leaves from special collections. When most people think of "illuminated medieval manuscripts", they think of such priceless treasures, available only to the best libraries and museums and the wealthiest collectors--and for good reason: a finely decorated, complete Book of Hours, like the 15th century French specimen pictured above, would run you over $100K. However, it is possible to own your own little piece of the Middle Ages for under $100. Seriously. How, you ask? Well, think about it: for every complete manuscript that survived the centuries intact, dozens more made their way down to us in bits and pieces.

When you think of the famine, disease, war, and political upheavals that have wracked Europe over the past six or seven centuries, it is amazing that any of these books survived at all. Add to that the fact that early printers and binders saw manuscripts as a format that had been made worthless and obsolete (sound famliar?) and decided to recycle the leaves of text or music as binding materials. Manuscripts used in this way were generally scholarly or theological works or sheets of music without any decoration, illustrations, or bright gold, but it is still possible to find VERY early manuscripts (pre-12th century) in the pastedowns of incunabula bindings.

A very early manuscript leaf recovered from a binding

Books of hours were most vulnerable to having their miniatures and fine historiated initials removed, leaving pages of text that often had very pretty penwork and gold letters. After the "good stuff" was removed, the remainder of the book was discarded. These fragments are the source of affordable individual leaves, whose prices are based on age, decoration, quality of workmanship, and condition. [Please note: a reputable dealer in manuscripts would NEVER take a complete manuscript apart to sell the leaves individually. Such an act is sacrilege.]




The leaves pictured above and below, from a French 15th century book of hours, are priced in the $50 (below) - $100 (above) range, depending on decoration and condition. The one with the most initial and line fillers in colors and burnished gold is the most expensive, while those with fewer decorative elements or with imperfections such as darker vellum or small tears are less costly.




















Vellum was made from the hide of calves or sheep, and the "hair" side was usually darker, with the grain of the hair often visible. The lighter side is was the inside of the skin, and is whiter or "brighter", as we say in the trade. (Nota bene: Medieval manuscript leaves do not make good gifts for vegans.) The vellum of the leaves shown above is also not completely flat; it is "rumpled" (which sounds much sexier than wrinkled, does it not?). This imperfection is another reason for the lower cost. The decoration is also fairly simple--initials and line fillers in burnished gold, but no decorative borders or pictures, as in the costly manuscript at the top of this post.


The leaves above range in price from $60-$500. The least expensive is, as you have guessed, the one in the upper left-hand corner with plain text. Its neighbor, with gold initials and line fillers is $100, while the leaves with panel borders cost $325-500.

An illuminated choir leaf with historiated initial

Another type of book that is seldom found complete and is thus a good source of individual leaves is the antiphonary, or choir book. These books contained the music to be sung by church or monastic choirs at services, and they had to be large enough to be seen by everyone, as individual hymnals would have been an unjustifiable extravagance. Very expensive and grand antiphonaries might have "historiated" initials that contained a small scene in the open space of a "D" or "O." In the grisly example above, we see five Franciscan martyrs with scimitars buried in their heads.




Other antiphonaries were more modestly, but still beautifully decorated with penwork initials in red and blue ink. The examples below are from Spain, and the design reflect the Morrish influence in that country. While without the visual and emotional impact of a historiated initial, these delicate penwork designs were the product of considerable talent and many long and tedious hours of meticulous work. Leaves with very large initials will cost around $1,500, but their simpler brethren may be had for $95-200.




An ABAA book fair is great place to learn more about collecting manuscript leaves and to find individual leaves for purchase. The California fair will be held in San Francisco on February 11-13, 2011, and the New York book fair on April 8-10, 2011.

How to Rake Up 500 Yr. Old Leaves, or Taking a Page From History

by Cokie Anderson

The Gutenberg Bible owned by the Library of Congress

Why bother turning over a new leaf when you can turn over an old one--a very old one--build a collection and save money at the same time?

Some of the most desirable antiquarian books to collect are incunabula, that is, books printed before 1501.

Incunabulum, the singular form of the word, literally means "cradle" in Latin, and these books are the babies born in the earliest days of printing. The most famous, by far, is the Gutenberg Bible, generally recognized as the first substantial book printed with movable type in Western Europe. It was produced in Mainz, Germany by Johannes Gutenberg circa 1455.

There are 48 known copies of the Gutenberg Bible (a number imperfect, some comprising one volume of two, and a few of those imperfect). All but three are in institutional collections. The last substantially complete copy at auction sold in 1978 for $2,000,000, and the Doheny copy of volume one, consisting of 324 leaves of the Old Testament only, sold for a hammer price of $4,900,000 in 1987 .

The opening of the Gutenberg Bible at Harry Ransom Center*

The British Library copy on paper...

While complete copies are very rare, single leaves from Gutenberg Bibles appear on the market with some regularity. Volumes that survived the centuries but lost some pages along the way have been broken up by dealers and collectors for sale as individual leaves. These still fetch in the neighborhood of $45,000--no bargain, but a long way from the millions a complete copy would command.

...and the copy on vellum. Which do you like best?

Other books to printed soon after the advent of movable type were various histories, the letters of St. Jerome (translator of the Vulgate Bible), Jacobus de Voragine's medieval bestseller The Golden Legend (an imaginative account of the lives of the saints), and other Bibles--lots and lots of Bibles. A number of such leaves are available on the market, many for under $500 and some for less than $100. It's a very affordable way to own a piece of early printing.

Der Edelstein (1471), a collection of morality tales whose title means "The Precious Stone"

The price of printed leaves is determined by the desirability and rarity of the book from which they came (thus the high prices for the Gutenberg leaves), the reputation of the printer and the rarity of his work, and the decoration and condition of the leaves themselves. Some incunables (the Anglicized form of the word) were decorated much like illuminated manuscripts, with large initials or miniatures painted by hand. Printers would sometimes leave a space for these embellishments, printing a small version of the initial to be supplied as a guide to the illuminator.

The Nuremberg Chronicle

Later, printers began inserting woodcut illustrations in the text. Sometimes, these would be colored by hand. One of the earliest and most extensively illustrated books was Hartmann Schedel's Liber Chronicarum (Book of Chronicles), published by Anton Koberger in Nuremberg, Germany, in 1493 and commonly called the Nuremberg Chronicle. It is a history of the world from "God created light" to the early 15th century, and is illustrated with hundreds of woodcuts (some of them repeated) that depict everything from small portraits of popes and princes to the family tree of Jesus to 15th century German cities.

Constantinople, as pictured in the Nuremberg Chronicle
(Note: all cities pictured bear a remarkable resemblance to medieval German towns)

The vast majority of incunabula were printed in Germany, where moveable type was invented and first used, and in Italy, particularly in Venice. Some of the "Italian" printers, such as Sweynham and Pannartz, were in fact Germans who had migrated south. German printers generally used gothic type, based on the handwritten script commonly used in manuscripts of the day. Italian printers were more like to use a roman font, such as that employed by Nicolaus Jenson, or an italic typeface, like that of Aldus Manutius in Venice. When printing arrived in England, the most commonly used type was a variation on the Gothic style called "black letter" and the most important printers were William Caxton and the wonderfully named Wynkyn de Worde.

But, you ask, how will I know what book or printer a leaf came from? How can I verify it is what the dealer says it is? Where can I locate these desirable and affordable objects? [Hint: it's not e-bay, but ABAA.]

Well, boys and girls, tune in next week, when all will be revealed: the mysteries of Goff and BMC, the joys of line counting, and the thrill of typeface identification. Bring your rulers and magnifying glasses.

Class dismissed!
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*Luckily, the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas has digitized their copy (shown above) so you can view it online and get some idea of what this treasure is like. That perennial show-off, the British Library, which owns a complete copy on vellum as well as one on paper, allows you to view images of the two versions side by side so you can decide which one you like best.

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