“Books share their fates with their readers” Umberto Eco in ‘The Name of the Rose’
GUILDHALL
LIBRARY
The Library of London History
Old books have all had past lives. Some previous owners are known; many are anonymous; and some will remain undiscoverable. The older the book, the greater the chance that its material content has been altered, sometimes in an unusual or thoughtful way. Customised, adorned, despoiled and disguised, some of Guildhall Library’s most intriguing examples are just around the corner …
Henry VIII’s royal proclamation of 16 November 1538 attempted to erase Thomas Becket from memory.
In all cultures with a written heritage there is evidence of authoritarian attempts to control people’s actions and beliefs. Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury from 1162, fiercely supported the independence of the Church. His murder in 1170 by knights of Henry II made him a martyr and a popular hero. Centuries later, the name of Saint Thomas Becket thrived; Henry VIII, disturbed by a man who had defied his king, took steps to suppress the cult of St Thomas. A Royal Proclamation of 16 November 1538 was issued with the intention that “henceforth … Thomas Becket shall not be esteemed, named, … the days used to be festival in his name, shall not be observed, nor the service, office, antiphons, collects, and prayers in his name read, but rased and put out of all the books.” As the Reformation of the Church in England continued, references to popes, purgatory and indulgences all met a similar textual fate.
In this Index to the Nuremberg Chronicle 1493 the references to Pope Adrian have been crossed out.
St Thomas Becket has been crossed through in this 1509 text used for the Mass.
References to indulgences have been scored through in a 1538 Book of Hours.
A 1688 print of Judge Jefferys surrounded by a mob.
Bibliomania is a passion for collecting and owning books, and takes many forms. Some book owners add new material to, or remove superfluous material from, their books and bindings.
Signatures of city dignitaries, including several lord mayors, inserted in Thomas Gillespy’s ‘Account of the Worshipful Company of Salters’ ... from the earliest known period of its history, 1827.
James Granger, topographical writer, lent his name to the practice of extraillustration or ‘grangerising’, where clippings from varied sources are added, often expanding a single slim volume to a multivolume juggernaut. Seymour de Ricci, bibliographer, records the bizarre example of John Bellingham Inglis, a nineteenthcentury scholar, who “loved to cut out tiny engravings, coats-of-arms, monograms, etc., and paste them on the first or last leaves of his books, regardless of their being in any way suitable for such a singular use”.
Portrait of Earl of Strafford pasted on to title page.
Andrew Moreton (a pseudonym of Daniel Defoe) is removed from ‘Augusta Triumphans: or, the Way to Make London the Most Flourishing City in the Universe’, 1728.
John Bellingham Inglis at work extra-illustrating ‘De miseria humanae conditionis’ (c. 1485-1487).
When it comes to books, one size does not fit all. Guildhall Library’s largest book (109 x 160cm) was created to advertise the skills and craftsmanship of the Rollinger Brothers, Viennese bookbinders. They exhibited this monster album at the 1862 London International Exhibition of Industry and Art. 6.1 million visitors attended. Charles Rollinger solved the problem of what to do with the tome after the Exhibition by donating it to the City of London. For years, though, the question of what might be done with this book, which weighs over 700lb (317 kg) and takes eight people to lift, has perplexed Guildhall Library staff. In 1941 an exasperated librarian referred to the album as the “most inappropriate gift ever given’ and suggested that the blank leaves of high quality paper be put to ‘some useful war purpose”. Happily the book survived the war and remains in Guildhall Library stores.
One of the covers of our Monster Album.
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The Big Book took pride of place in a display stand in the North Western transept of the Exhibition Building.
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From a book the size of a small tree to one the size of a leaf. Guildhall Library’s smallest book, measuring 32 x 18 mm, is ‘The Smallest English Dictionary in the World’ published (in the 1890s) by David Bryce and Sons of Glasgow. They used a printing technique called photolithography to create the text on 384 pages of India (very thin, strong) paper. The book also contains a portrait of Dr Samuel Johnson. The dictionary was originally held in a locket with a magnifying glass set in its lid.
The words in ‘The Smallest English Dictionary in the World’ are small but perfectly legible.
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A hand-drawn ‘inhabited’ capital ‘I’ in a copy of the Nuremberg Chronicle 1493 owned by the London chronicler Robert Fabyan (died 1512). .
Temptation to take a pen to a book is often irresistible. Children’s first books, loved and used, are often filled with attempts to master the alphabet or capture their world in a drawing. Yet, for many, writing and drawing in books is unacceptable.
A young William Harold Radford tries out his penmanship in his copy of ‘Whittington and his Cat’ published by Dean & Son in 1860.
Was the reader who doodled distracted from this collection of sermons by the wildlife outside the window?
For sixteenth-century readers, writing and drawing in books was not a crime but more or less an expectation. It not only made the book one’s own but also enabled the transfer of knowledge. Buyers of early printed books might have begun their customisation at the stationer’s by ordering a bespoke binding. They might continue the process, either by themselves, or by further commissions, colouring in the illustrations or supplying ornate capital letters to turn the book into their own work of art.
The maniculum, or pointing hand, drew attention to a specific word or image. Robert Fabyan notes an image of the burning books of the Library at Alexandria in his copy of the ‘Nuremberg Chronicle’ 1493.