There have been, I believe, only three attempts to treat in a pictorial manner that interesting subject, the introduction of the Art of Printing to England; of these, two may be dismissed with a brief notice, while the third, as issuing from the brain, and illustrated by the genius of, a very popular artist, will be discussed more at length.

I.—A Painting in oil, by James E. Doyle, 1848. Engraved by W. Walker: entitled, “Caxton submitting his Proof-sheet to John Esteney, Abbot of Westminster, in 1477.”

In this the aim of the artist has not been high; there are in all but four figures, viz.: Caxton, who stands leaning upon an old wooden press; Abbot Esteney, who is sitting upon a stool examining the fresh-pulled proof of a half-sheet of quarto (4 pp. on one side of the sheet); Earl Rivers, one of Caxton’s patrons; and, in the background, Wynken de Worde, Caxton’s successor. A Gothic door and window, and part of some stone groining in the roof, are intended to represent a portion of Westminster Abbey. All accessories are omitted, the artist depending upon his figures only for effect, feeling probably that, as very little of the subject was accurately known, the details might be left to imagination. With this idea the types, inking apparatus, and a large portion of the press, are either entirely hidden from view, or placed very indefinitely in the dark. The figure of Caxton is drawn too young by some ten or fifteen years; as, if born in 1412, he was at least sixty-five years of age when he began printing at Westminster.

II.—A Painting in oil, by E. H. Wehnert. Engraved by F. Bacon: entitled, “William Caxton examining the First Proof-sheet from his Printing-press in Westminster Abbey, 1474.”

This is much bolder in design than the former. We can see Caxton as the central figure, wearing the conventional cap and streamers invented for him about the year 1750 by Bagford, who was the first to draw his likeness. He is seated before an old-fashioned wooden press, Wynken de Worde looking over his shoulder at the printed sheet which has just been pulled and placed in the hands of his master. Three workmen—Machlinia, Pynson, and Lettou—are eagerly looking on, while others are variously employed. The stone-pointed roof of a long Gothic aisle denotes the scene to be placed in the Abbey. The artist has evidently paid attention to the technical details of early printing—the press is well designed, only the bar-handle should be a fixture, and not made to take in and out like a binder’s press. The types are placed as they should be: not in an iron chase, but in an oblong wooden coffin, only one page at a time being put to press. The compositor’s case, too, is correct, the boxes in Caxton’s time being all of one size. All these minutiæ are good, and show careful research.

III.—A Painting in oil, by D. Maclise, R.A. Engraved by Fred. Bromley: entitled, “Caxton showing the First Specimen of his Printing to King Edward the Fourth, at the Almonry, Westminster.”

This large and grand picture was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1851, where it attracted daily crowds of admirers. The critics were unanimous in praising its poetical composition, its accurate anatomy, and its wonderful colouring. The artist, however, has aimed at perfection, not in these qualities alone; but by the extraordinary care he has taken to present in detail all the mechanical operations and every tool in use by the workmen, he has challenged the criticism of the artisan as well as the connoisseur. This, indeed, is almost stated in the Exhibition Catalogue (1851, No. 67), where the following remarks are appended: “The designer, the illuminator, the wood-engraver, and the bookbinder, all worked at their several trades in the office of the First English Printer; combining with the Compositors and Pressmen to achieve the first complete book published in England”; and with reference to it the Art Journal critic pronounced the drawing of the tools to be “fastidiously careful” and “exquisitely rendered,” ending by the declaration that “the subject never could be treated in a manner more masterly.”

Accepting, therefore, the challenge, not at all as an art critic, but simply as an artisan who has paid some attention to the antiquities of his craft, I beg to submit the following remarks:—

“This scene, so memorable in the history of English literature, took place in the Almonry at Westminster,” says the Catalogue. No doubt the fancy of a royal visit adds great life and interest to the subject, but the fact is purely imaginary, without the slightest historical basis. The Almonry, too, I take to have been a place outside the consecrated walls but inside the abbey precincts, where almshouses and other tenements were. In one of these houses, the “Red Pale,” Caxton was placed, as he himself states in the handbill upon the side of the press. Permission to carry on a trade, and that often a very dirty trade, within the walls of any consecrated building, would never have been asked of, nor granted by, the Abbot.

Upon approaching the painting, the first thing that attracts the eye is the great wooden press, which occupies a large portion of the canvas, thus striking at once the key-note to the whole subject. On the further side of the press are grouped the principal characters, an arrangement admirably adapted to show their features and action. Caxton has just raised the tympan, upon which is a sheet of paper bearing the impression of two folio pages, which the title to the engraving informs us is “The first specimen of his Printing.” The King and Queen with three young princes are looking at it with interest. Behind them is the Earl of Clarence, to whom Caxton, when abroad, had dedicated the First Edition of his Chess-book, and by their side in full armour is Earl Rivers, a constant patron of Caxton, who has brought in his hand a roll of paper, upon which is revealed part of a title-page, displaying in a bold 19th-century hand the word “Dictes.” This is plainly “copy” which, with an eye to business, the Earl has brought with him, and which Caxton actually put to press the next year, viz., 1477. Two fly-boys (or Printers’ Devils) are waiting by the tympan to hand up and take off the sheets—they are beautifully painted with delicately clean hands and faces, and with snow-white linen shirt-sleeves, their hair carefully brushed and parted, and with spotless lay-down collars. To the right are four compositors—one, an old man, is puzzling, spectacles on nose, over a crabbed piece of copy; one is composing; one correcting; and the fourth moving a galley. To the left is a table, at which a multiplicity of operations are going on: one man has a paint-brush, and is taking colour from a pretty white enamelled tray of saucers, keeping his hand in as future “rubrissher” to the forthcoming sheets; another is binding a book; while a third and fourth are engraving “illustrations on wood-blocks.” Tools of all kinds are placed here and there. The Abbot, fat and stolid (the conventional stage monk), stands with crossed hands near the wall, his shadow hiding and darkening a copy of the Bible, which, with a block-book or two, he has had chained to a shelf for the use of the workmen. Six soldiers keep guard at the door. In a niche behind is an image of the Virgin and Child, before which a lamp is burning.

Such is the best account I can give of this clever and ambitious composition. Where much that is excellent exists the task of fault-finding is not agreeable; yet, looking at it from a common-sense point of view, I confess that the painting not only disappointed but pained me. Every artist should feel that his mission is to instruct the mind as well as gratify the eye; and that, above all things, truth—not truth of colour and drawing only, but truth historical and mechanical—truth in small as well as great things must be sought for. With a feeling, apparently, that he possesses intuitive knowledge, and with a lofty disregard of possibilities, Mr. Maclise paints anachronisms and mechanical untruths, which must always prevent any one who has the least practical acquaintance with the subject enjoying the work. In more than one instance it puts me in mind of the Dutch painter, who depicted Isaac bound upon the altar, and Abraham, in baggy Dutch costume, firing a blunderbuss to kill his son, a catastrophe prevented only by a naked angel, who, in a very natural way, is wetting the powder in the touch-hole. As some of the most evident untruths and anachronisms take the following:—First, as to the tools, etc. The compositor to the right is using a brand-new steel composing-stick, with latest improvements. The oldest “sticks” we know of are of wood, intended to hold one line only. Such may still be found in the rural towns of both Germany and France. Then the compositor is placing his types face downwards in the stick!⁠[18] Another workman is correcting a page of loose matter upon a galley, and the galley is laid flat upon the stone!—alas, for the pie! it is unavoidable.

The earliest representation of a Printing-press is that of Ascensius, 1508. Several writers have given fac-simile copies of it, and it is the nearest approach we have to presses of the 15th century. Mr. Maclise makes Caxton use the press with iron screw instead of wood, with the platen “slung,” and not fixed,—in fact, the press, as improved in the middle of last century by Blaew, which, after superseding the old wooden press, was in its turn superseded by the iron Stanhope. But what can we say of the “forme” upon the press? the first “forme” worked by the first English printer? Chronology and the laws of mechanics are equally violated. The chase is iron,—and cast iron too,—the first invention and introduction of which are in the memory of many still living. The painting of this chase is so good, that the peculiar grain of cast iron is easily recognised, if the fixed cross and strengthened corners did not unmistakably betray the fact. It is, in fact, an admirable copy from a cast-iron folio chase as seen in any modern printing-office. With such a chase the quoins, of course, would be at each side and foot; but our artist, probably copying blindly from an octavo form with double cross, has put quoins at the head and foot too, making the pages lock up all round the chase—truly a mechanical puzzle. After this, minor untruths seem hardly worth remark—though there is no lack of them. The foot-block of the pressman is on the wrong side, and quite useless unless fastened down in its proper position. The little fat bottles with ground-glass stoppers, used in modern times for holding coloured inks in powder, were as unknown to Caxton as the electric light.

Leaving the mechanical aspect of the painting, let us now look for a minute at the literary—or rather the bibliographical—information offered for public acceptance. The sheet just pulled is, as the Catalogue says, “a proof of that famous production, The Game of Chesse.” A fine copy of this First Edition is openly shown in the British Museum, where any one who cares can examine it. Why, then, does Mr. Maclise give us the Second Edition? The printed sheet on the tympan shows a wood-cut of a man in a state chair, with the chess-board before him: this is the third folio of the edition of 1480, the first edition being entirely without wood-cuts. How absurd to see the King and Queen, their children and courtiers, looking with admiration at a book which did not exist till the majority of them were in their graves! Looking further, so many similar anachronisms occur, that I begin to think they must be intentional, and meant to convey an abstruse, hidden meaning, not to be understood by matter-of-fact men. I will, therefore, without remark, note a few others. The well-known handbill about the sale of “pyes of Salisbury use,” printed in 1480-81, is pasted on the cheek of the press. Numerous specimens of future works are hung upon a rope, stretched from one pillar of the Abbey to another, while upon the pillar itself is seen a sheet bearing the device of Wynken de Worde, who succeeded Caxton in 1491-92. No artist can be expected to know the peculiarities of every trade; but, if not too self-contained to ask, he can always obtain the opinion of a sensible workman, who would certainly have pointed out most of the above blunders. Some of the anachronisms last mentioned may, perhaps, be justified by the conventional rules of Art; but surely truth is of more value than any amount of sentimental painting.