Jennifer WileyIST 632 Dr. Lavender11/30/10

Historical Significance of the Printer’s Device

According to the Dictionary of Publishing and Printing a printer’s device is “an

ornamental design used by a publisher or printer as part of their logo.” Though accurate in

defining the technical purpose of the mark used by printers and publishers for centuries, this

definition fails to acknowledge the cultural and historical significance found in the details of

such marks. Going back to the fifteenth century, these devices have been used by the men in the

trade of bookmaking as a way of laying claim to the craft that required a great deal of both skill

and labor. In the mark each designed or adapted himself, a window is opened into the origins of

that book, but also, more importantly, into the printer, a commonly faceless name that is often of

no matter, if even known, to the typical reader. Through their designs, printers left clues of

referring to their personal connections to other printers, to their physical location, to their

personal philosophies, to their family histories and more. Often these symbols are clear and

telling, but sometimes the choices made by the printer responsible for the design have only led to

more questions and puzzles about who the printer really was or what was really involved in his

past. However, even though it would be easy to let these cases slip into the cracks, scholars have

valued these sparse clues enough to take the time to study and attempt to solve those mysteries.

Today, publishers still use a form of these marks, though some in the field consider it to be a

superfluous trend, showing how truly significant the history of the printer’s device is to the world

of printing.

The history of the printer’s device is one steeped in tradition reaching all the way back to

ancient times. In the ancient world merchants used a very similar method of marking the items

they created and sold to their patrons. These were used initially as a tool of security, to mark the

rightful property of one merchant over another. As time progressed and the trade industry

continued to grow, merchants took the use of the mark a step further began to use these

trademarks as a way to identify the source of products, allowing for items to be identified for

quality as well as for security. Later, when the printing industry began, the tradition of the

trademark used by merchants for centuries became adopted in the book printing industry as the

printer’s device. However, it’s important to note that during the era of manuscript books, scribes

never used their own version of a trademark. This serves as an important indication of the

communal knowledge that printed books were different from books made from scribes in the

most essential ways (McMurtrie 289). Printed books were, at the core, “articles of commerce”

(McMurtrie 289) and therefore required the steps taken by merchants to protect their product that

scribes didn’t require.

The value of the printer’s mark from the very beginning came from its ability to “serve as

a hall-mark of quality and to safeguard what later became known as copyright” (Steinberg 96)

across the board. It protected both the printer and the patron by ensuring credit went where it

was due and by promising a book worth its price. This, in many ways, is a fact that remains true

today, though the legal rights may have changed. Though the purpose was largely a standard

across Europe, popular trends in design varied century to century, and even country to country.

For example, the first era of devices often used the double-shield, following the tradition of the

trademarks used by medieval craftsman while later, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,

the popular art trend of Baroque began to influence the designs of devices. Additionally,

throughout the hand-press era, the basic design of a serpent coiled around a cross or a flowering

branch remained popular in Spain (Steinberg 96) while all over France, devices became

especially elaborate during the fifteenth century (McM 301). These variations have served an

important purpose in helping to fill in the gaps sometimes left in the lives of printers and their

devices.

But with the increase in technology and industry occurring in the world, times were

changing and the printer’s device, as important as it was, was almost lost. England’s Copyright

Act of 1709 revolutionized the industry, giving the legal rights of a book not to the printer

anymore, but to the author (Gaskell 308). This, for all intents and purposes, made the tradition

of the printer’s device superfluous in England. But that wasn’t the only change happening in the

world of book printing. As the industry continued to grow and flourish, emphasis began to shift

from the printer to the publisher. This further made reference to the printer within the final

product less and less necessary. Surprisingly, however, there is little evidence that the printers at

this time were bothered by this, a fact that has been attributed by some to fact that these changes

were taking place during the Age of Reason. It is possible, with that fact being kept in mind, to

assume that the printers of this period looked to the tradition of the printer’s device as nothing

more than a pointless survival of a trend from a less enlightened age (Steinberg 214). With no

one to fight for it, the printer’s device became obsolete.

However, “a happy combination of good business instinct and good taste led to the

revival of the printer’s device in the middle of the 19th century” (Steinberg 214). Around 1850

Charles Wittingham the younger was credited with beginning a revival of the tradition of using a

trademark. Thanks to him and his connections with other printers such as R. and R. Clark, T.

and A. Constable, and William Morris, the printer’s device again made its way into the pages of

the wide majority of books. “The reason for this resumption of the old custom was artistic as

well as economic.” (Steinberg 214). Morris would go on to be a leading figure in the private-

press movement, which refocused the world of bookmaking on quality “with boundless care for

layout, paper, ink, impression, and binding” (Gaskell 285). The artistic nature of this movement

was an ideal catalyst for the revival of the printer’s device, allowing those who would be more

interested in the publicity opportunities it offered to take notice and adopt it for themselves.

Charles Ricketts, another big name in the movement, designed several devices during this

time period in order to lay claim to books he worked on that were then handed over to large scale

publishing firms. The firms never used his mark for books without a connection to Ricketts and

never removed it during their own publishing process (Revival 373). Interestingly, there is

question as to whether Ricketts chose to design these devices himself or whether the firms asked

him to do so. Most devices in use at the time were simple monograms, a foreshadowing of the

increasing trend toward a more economic and less artistic purpose. But Ricketts, as part of the

private-press movement, was much more along the lines of an artist than the average publisher at

the time and was in need of a special design that supported the asymmetry of his typographical

designs. This further required him to create several different designs as each book was

fundamentally different from the one before it. However, the basic design at the heart of each of

these versions used the image of “two hands holding a caduceus between two horns of plenty

surmounted by Pegasus.” (Revival 375). Though the image cannot be credited as entirely

original to Ricketts (it actually can be traced back to a pair of booksellers and printers in Paris in

the sixteenth century) (Revival 375), it did strongly stand to represent Ricketts as an artist in the

publication trade promising prosperity to any involved in the process (Revival 371). Though the

trend did eventually fall away from the artistry utilized by publisher’s such as Ricketts, it was

clear by the beginning of the twentieth century that devices had reclaimed their place in the

bookmaking industry.

Throughout the scope of this history, the design of these devices usually remained

symbolic in some way of the actual craft of printing or of the individual printer’s name or

ancestry, though there were many different common trends used in creating those symbols. The

earliest known device is credited to Fust and Schoeffer in 1457 (McMurtie 289). It was a double

shield hanging from a branch with symbols in the shields that have been the cause of much

speculation as to what they are (McMurtie 290). Though today no one knows what the symbols

within those shields were meant to represent, the general concept became very popular at the

start of the history of the printer’s device. In some cases, Fust and Schoeffer were “boldly

counterfeited” (McMurtie 291), but many printers also developed their own style based around

the same general concept. Some used different symbols, others used only one shield (McMurtie

291). But other printer’s developed completely new designs, each representing that individual

printer.

There are a number of other classifications for the symbolic designs utilized by printers’

devices. The “imitations of armorial bearings” devices were purposefully designed to look like a

coat of arms from knighthood. Most of the printers who used these designs, however, were not

actually entitled to do so as no one in their family had actually been knighted. There were

occasionally printers who had been knighted and thus used their real coat of arms, but these

instances are rare in comparison (McMurtrie 291). Another design technique used by many

printers was a pictorial representation of the printer’s name. In these examples, the printer would

develop a symbol that visually represented his real name. Among the many examples for these

designs are a rose for the name Rose, a mallet for the name Maillets, and a mill for Myllar (McM

292). Similar to these were “punning” devices. In these devices, the printer would create an

image out of a pun, usually stemming from his name. For example, Richard Grafton designed a

device depicting a tree grafted onto the head of a hog, often referred to at that time as a tun.

(McM 297). Other designs simply show the printing press or tools of the printing trade (McM

293) or are classified as “myriad” showing a range of images including animals, trees, flowers,

or people. Some of these “myriad” designs are elaborately pictorial (McM 294). A hugely

popular design used by printers was the “orb-and-cross” design. There were many variations of

this device design, but “the exact significance of the symbolism in the orb-and-cross has never

been satisfactorily determined” (McMurtrie 292). Some believe its roots are deeply connected to

religion, others believe that it has connections to the pagan symbols for Mercury/Hermes, the

ancient god of merchants, but most likely its popularity stems simply from pure imitation

(McMurtrie 292-293).

Sometimes, a printer experimented with his device, changing it several times before

finally deciding on one to stick with. Wynkyn de Worde, for one, had at least nine different

marks after he took over for William Caxton (McM 296). This certainly seems to defeat the

purpose of creating a trademark at all, but he was not alone. Richard Pynson created at least six

marks (McM 297), the Oxford University Press’s mark has had several forms (McM 298), and

Berthold Lembolt, believed to be the first printer with a device in Paris, had four designs (McM

300). In all of these cases, the majority of the variations had strong similarities to one another,

showing in many ways the creative process one printer may go through to find a device he

believes truly represents himself. In Worde’s case, for example, his first device is very similar to

Caxton’s and his second device has been described as an elongated version of the first (McM

297). One could argue that this pattern is a clear example of Worde’s attempt at honoring his

predecessor and maintaining the reputation gained through Caxton, yet also trying to show

himself as an individual.

In many other cases, though individual printers may not have changed their device

several times, new generations within families of printers would tweak the design of the device.

Sometimes this was as small as simply adding an additional character to a scene. Other times the

entire device would be outright replaced. In the case of the Aldus family of Italy, the first

adopted device in 1502 depicted an anchor and a dolphin. This was used as was until 1546 when

the new generation added an embellishment of cornucopias, cupids, and more around the anchor.

In 1574 the overall shape of the device was changed from a square to an oval. Then in 1581 the

anchor was almost completely covered by a coat of arms, legitimately granted to the family by

Emperor Makimilian (McM 300). The Elzevier family, with nine devices overall (PDF 2), went

through five important changes with their design. The first design, credited to the elder Louis,

depicted an eagle with arrows, a motto, and the year 1597. The younger Louis used a similar

design with just some small changes, but Issac, his successor, eventually designed a hermit

standing under the branches of a tree. The third major change made the tree a palm tree and

added the motto “Assurgo pressa,” a device that had been used by Erpenius, a professor who had

at one point operated a printing office and of which the Elzevier’s took the equipment. The

fourth change of the device shifted to the Roman goddess Minerva and the fifth change became

what is known as the “Elzevier sphere,” a typical representation of the globe by geographers at

the time (McM 303). In comparison to the individuals who changed their marks multiple times,

these generational changes are far more drastic, but it still shows how personal the design of a

printer’s device was to an individual.

Though most trends of design can be lumped into generalizations, each printer made his

device his own. It is through these individual touches that the greatest cultural significance can

be found in this trend that has spanned centuries. By examining an individual design, whether

there is much known about the printer behind it or not, the world is left with the opportunity to

see what other printers influenced the device’s own printer, how that printer might have traveled,

where that printer might have called home and much more. Richard Fawkes, for example, was

an English printer whose device shows heavy French influence, indicating a personal connection

in some way to the French bookmaking industry. Robert Estienne and his family used differing

versions of an olive tree, their shop’s address being “At the Sign of the Olive.” Estienne

eventually also used a serpent on a rod wrapped with a climbing stem which represented his time

holding office in the “Printers of Greek to the King,” which was used by seven of his successors

(McM 301). Christopher Plantin’s device utilizes less the more obvious forms of symbolism, but

has been described as truly epitomizing the life of its printer. He chose for his design a golden

compass in the act of drawing a circle as directed by a hand coming from the clouds with the

motto “Labore et Constancia” (translated “Labor and Constancy”). This device does not tell a

story about the man’s physical life, but instead speaks to who he was as a printer and what he

valued in life (McM 303).

Sometimes, a device does not readily answer questions, but instead initially brings about

further ones. In one such case, a device was found with only a part of a name, “Salvioni”, and

appears in the same book as another device. Though through research it was at least deduced

that the name could belong to that of either Marcus Salvionus or Joannes Marcus Salvionus, the

device’s purpose remains especially confusing as the other device clearly identifies the publisher

of the book. What then did this “Salvioni” do to contribute enough to earn the right to include

his mark? (Italian 3). Interestingly enough, the presence of more than one device or of different

devices being used in different copies of the same book serves as an indication that some in the

bookmaking trade split the expenses of editions in order to make the whole process more

economically manageable (Italian 4). In other words, “Salvioni” may have printed part of the

book to help the previously identified publisher manage the expenses of a process that was often

very costly for the bookmaker, a fact that could make the printing of a book a dangerous one if

sales did not balance out the price.

Another device that has created riddles for itself is a second mark of Italian decent. This

one single device can be attributed to three different towns, all of rather considerable distance

from one another. Though answers can be reasoned to answer the question as to why, there are

several options. One possible cause could be the fact that some printers took devices from

others. This was usually done when one printer retired and another takes up his device. Another

reason could be that printers did not always stay in the same town their entire lives. Though not

common, it was not unheard of for printers to move nor was it impossible that this might happen

more than once in the lifetime of a printer. A third option that could result in this type of thing

could be that sometimes when one printer sold his typographical material to another, the device

was included. This possibility can lead to more mysteries as sometimes the buying printer

already had a device of his own and therefore ended up with two devices, very likely of little

relation to one another (Italian 5).

In other cases, a great deal is known about the printer, but the device remains a mystery.

William Caxton’s device, the first printer in England, is one of the more famous marks known

today, yet it is a very cryptic example. Everything from its deepest symbolism to its most basic

physical design are argued by scholars across the board. Some believe the mark reads “W74C”

with the “W” and “C” representing his initials and “74” representing the year that printing was

introduced to England. However, historically it is believed that printing did not come to England

from continental Europe until 1476. Others agree that the “WC” stands for William Caxton, but

that the “74” represents the year of an unknown significant event in Caxton’s life (McM 294).

One scholar doesn’t believe it represents a year at all, believing them to be nothing more than

“printer’s marks” (McM 295). The outlying details have also been argued over, the discussion

being over whether they are an “S” and a “C” or merely decorative vines. To add to the riddle,

the device does not appear until 1487, well after England had entered the bookmaking trade for

itself (McM 295). A final argument has been made that the device was designed ten years after

Caxton had established himself as part of a special project he wished to be part of but did not

have the tools necessary for in England. He thus sent the job to Paris and had the device created

to mark the project on its return to emphasize his own part in the process. It was in the Sarum

missal that Caxton’s device first appeared, giving this version of an explanation some additional

weight (McM 296).

In other cases the device and the known history of the printer serve to supplement one

another, helping both to be understood more. Frans Houttuyn of Amsterdam was a bookseller

and publisher in the mid-eighteenth century. The main picture in his device is an example of a

punning device, his name translating to “timberyard” and the picture, though there is no way to

know for sure that it depicts a timberyard that ever actually existed, shows a scene of industrial

Amsterdam. However, certain details within the scene do indicate is was a view he was familiar

with, such as a “humpback bridge”. A second pun is utilized in the motto “Aedificando floret,”

echoing “the name of the ‘builder’” (Frans 84) and small pictures of a printing press and a

bookshop in the top corners of the device depict his combined form of business. Above it all is a

portrait of Isasc Newton, the only piece of the puzzle that requires a little more exploration to

understand (Frans 84).

Though Houttuyn did share include more information from time to time within his books,

it was not as common as some, making the missing pieces available, though not always quick to

find. His address, for one, is rarely included on his title pages, though it strengthens the theory

that his device may be designed from his actual home as it reads “on the River Amstel…opposite

the Papen Bridge” which very well may be that humpback bridge in the image. The biggest

differences in versions of this device in fact lie in the presence of the address, as well as in the

quality of the device as a whole. A bigger clue, however, has only been found on one title page

in 1748, stating that his house was actually called the Isaac Newton. Not only does this explain

the portrait, but it could further indicate that the site in the device is based on his real home

(Frans 86). There are several examples of writing in which Houttuyn expressed his enthusiasm

for Newton. Among these are a long editorial preface in which Newton is the only scholar

specifically named amongst an otherwise general account of the progression of knowledge

through history. He also printed twenty-four pages in defending Newton in response to what has

been described as “very mild” criticism of him. Interestingly though, he never independently

published any of Newton’s work (Frans 88).

The case of the Elzeviers in Hungary presents an entirely different showcase of history in

the world of bookmaking. It has already been discussed how the living members of the family

changed the device generation to generation, but what is interesting in this case is the number of

times the device representing a tree with the motto “Non Solus” has been found in books not

printed by the Elzevier family. It first appeared outside family use in connection with Abraham

Szenci Kertesz in 1650 and is last seen in use by the Press of the Reformed Church College in

Kolozsvar in 1794. During that span of time, three versions of the device were used a total of

twenty-seven times, none of those versions being the same as any of the nine versions used by

the Elzeveirs. It was in most frequent use during the 1650’s while two Hungarian shops used it

simultaneously (Ecsedy 125). Even more interesting is that of the twenty-seven uses, only two

were used after the Elzeveirs’ closed their shop in Leiden meaning it was in use while the

Elzeviers themselves were using other designs (Ecsedy 126). However, no matter how many

other printers adopted the device for themselves, the device remains credited to the original

family. Instead these adoptions serve as a historical trail, always leading back to the Elzeviers,

showing the true reach of one family of printers across Europe. To begin, Szenci Kertesz’s use

of the device indicates that, though he did the majority of his work in Transylvania and was in

fact from there, it is very likely that he learned the craft of printing in the Netherlands and even

more likely from the Elzeviers themselves. This apprenticeship may have lead the family to

grant Szenci Kertesz’s use of their device. However, there is little evidence to support the claim

that this act of adopting the device from a famous print shop by an apprentice, even a foreigner,

actually occurred in practice. Even so, it was no unheard of in Hungary for foreign symbols to

be used in devices dating back to the sixteenth century. Though still not hard evidence, this does

indicate that the idea may not be entirely improbable. However, in the majority of these cases it

is not possible to identify a strong connection between the original and the adaptation, the

adopting printer usually making significant changes to the essential details of the original. If this

is what happened between Szenci Kertesz and the Elzeviers it is clear that this example would

stand as an exception to that rule. It is also important to keep in mind when deciding how much

Szenci Kertesz’s use of this device indicates about the history of the device that the

representation of a tree with a person or of a tree with an inscription was quite common all across

Europe, though the similarities between his and the Elzeviers are certainly noteworthy at the very

least (Ecsedy 127).

Like the rest of Europe, devices in Hungary were falling out of use and had almost

disappeared entirely by 1640 only to be revived in 1650. This makes the motivation behind

these adaptations of the Elzeviers’ device even more interesting. Was it an accident that caused

as a result of the sudden revival? Or is there a deeper meaning? Of the nine versions of the

device the Elzevier family used, the copies have been attributed to four cuts. Cut I was used

primarily by Szenci Kertesz. Though other’s did use this version later, it is likely that this is a

result of the common trend wherein a device cut was sold along with the type faces when the

equipment of one printer was bought by another, leaving it up to the new primary user whether

he would actually use the cut or not. It is also important to remember that though the clues do

seem to point there, there is no physical proof that Szenci Kertesz actually studied under the

Elzeviers, only assumptions. After all, the device had long been connected to the family and

known as a symbol of good standard and quality in Europe by later generations. Szenci Kertesz

himself was known for a high level of quality

Today the tradition lives on, though it has taken a different tone. The reason for the

revival of printer’s devices in the mid nineteenth century was both economic and artistic. There

was something appealing about the typographical aspect of the device as much as there was for

the publicity it allowed for. For these reasons, publishers, who by this point had developed their

own niche in the field separate from printers, began to design their own devices (St 214). These

devices, however, now focus less on the individual behind the machine. In a world where the

book trade market encompasses the entire world, and can do so quickly and cheaply, it would be

impossible for one person to keep up with the demand. Penguin, for example, was not a

namesake of its creator. It was born from a merger of publishers G. P. Putnam’s Sons and

Minton, Balch & Co. But the individual is no longer personally responsible for the quality of the

work. Penguin in the United States alone publishes under more than sixteen imprints and

trademarks. Furthermore, it has publishing groups in nine countries (Penguin Site). With such a

wide reaching scope, it is only natural that the identify of the company as a whole becomes the

focus over the individual.

Also, since the first Act of 1709 that gave the author copyright rights, there have been

three more important laws that have further cemented the rights of the author around the world.

This has further made it less important for the printer or publisher to individually be recognized.

Still, the devices remain understood the world over as a reassurance of quality and a

visual reminder of copyright. Recent lawsuits like that of Penguin Group (USA) versus Google

are clear reminders of this. Even then the publisher’s acted more in representation of the authors

in connection with them. According to the settlement (which is still being reviewed), those

individuals who actually hold the copyrights of the books in question must each fill out claims

forms in order to receive what is believed to be owed (googlebooksettlement.com).