Moxon's Mechanick exercises, volume 2 (of 2)

In Short

Joseph Moxon’s second volume of Mechanick Exercises serves as a foundational bridge between the Renaissance and the Industrial Age. It provides an exhaustive, granular account of how books were actually produced, moving from the compositor’s nimble selection of type to the pressman’s rhythmic, strenuous labor. Beyond the mechanics of ink, lead, and vellum, the book captures the internal culture of the printing house—the "chapel"—with its own idiosyncratic laws and rituals. It remains an essential artifact for understanding the tactile, human origins of the printed word.

The Story

The narrative arc of the book follows the physical trajectory of a single page of text, starting from the compositor’s initial manipulation of individual characters and ending with the final, dried sheet ready for the warehouse. It begins with the compositor, whose craft requires both a scholarly eye and the steady, practiced fingers of an artisan. He is governed by a strict rule: follow the copy exactly, unless the copy is incompetent. Moxon details the entire process of "justifying" a line—the art of spacing words so that they stand with equal tension within a composing-stick. The text follows this movement through the workshop, describing how the compositor transfers his work to a galley, creates a proof, and manages the inevitable, often frustrating back-and-forth process of correction with the master printer.

As the focus shifts to the pressman, the atmosphere changes from the quiet, mental discipline of the case to the heavy, rhythmic exertion of the press itself. The narrative now concerns the maintenance of the machine—bracing the wooden frame against the floor and wall to withstand the violent, repeated "pulls" of the lever. We watch the pressman prepare his "tympan" and "frisket," the essential frames that hold the paper and mask the margins. The technical detail is absolute: the reader learns how to soak animal skins for the tympan, how to mix "hasty-pudding" paste to secure them, and how to grind pigments like vermillion and red-lead into varnish for ink.

The journey concludes with the pressman’s labor-intensive printing cycle: inking the type with leather balls, placing the paper, pulling the bar, and then repeating the process to print the second side of the sheet—a "reiteration" that requires perfect registration to ensure the pages align. Once the heap of paper is printed, the scene shifts to the warehouse, where the pages are hung to dry.

Crucially, the book does not end with the technology; it ends with the humanity of the workshop. Moxon describes the "Chapel," the self-governing body of workmen. Here, the story enters the realm of social governance. We learn of the "benvenue," the fee every new worker must pay to enter the fraternity, and the "solaces," a complex system of fines levied for various offenses, such as bringing a wisp of hay into the workshop or giving the lie to a colleague. By the end, the reader has moved from the microscopic detail of a single lead letter to the macroscopic view of a seventeenth-century labor union, seeing the print shop not merely as a factory, but as a living, breathing community.

How It Unfolds

The Rule of the Compositor The process begins with the compositor, whose intellectual and physical labor turns written copy into structured lines. He must balance the necessity of following his author’s words with the professional obligation to correct poor spelling and erratic punctuation.

The Craft of Justification The compositor’s primary technical challenge is "justifying" his lines, ensuring they are neither too loose nor too hard within the stick. This stage establishes the physical integrity of the page before it ever reaches the press.

Building the Form Once the type is set, it is locked into a chase and carried to the correcting stone. This phase involves the careful use of quoins and bodkins to ensure every letter is square, solid, and ready to survive the pressure of the press.

The Pressman’s Preparation The scene shifts to the press, where the pressman must "make ready" by bracing the equipment against the shop walls. He prepares his tympan and frisket with soaked parchment, creating the stable surface required for a clean impression.

The Rhythmic Labor The work becomes a series of repetitive, physical motions: distributing ink with leather balls, pulling the bar, and handling the paper. These sections emphasize the "hand-craft" required to achieve an even impression without tearing the paper or damaging the type.

The Culture of the Chapel The final movement leaves the machinery behind to document the social life of the shop. Moxon outlines the rules, fines, and traditional payments that govern the brotherhood, revealing how the workers regulated their own behavior and settled disputes.

The People

Joseph Moxon stands as the primary observer and narrator, a man of scientific standing who views the "handy-works" of the artisan with deep, analytical respect. He is a mediator between the high-minded scholars who write books and the "common" laborers who build them. He displays little patience for "botches"—workmen who rely on temporary, messy fixes rather than mastering the fundamental geometry of the trade.

The compositor is the intellectual engine of the shop. He is described as needing a "natural genius" more than a classical education. He works in a state of constant, quiet tension, governed by the "Laws of Printing" that demand he respect the copy, yet empowered to amend it when the author fails. He is a person of precision, constantly calculating line-lengths and page-counts to ensure his work fits the physical constraints of the paper.

The pressman is the physical counterpart, defined by the "craft acquired by use." His world is one of ink, varnish, and heavy iron, and he is often the target of the compositor's jests. The pressman is portrayed as a master of improvisation, capable of fixing a "crazy" press with wooden battens or grinding colors on a marble stone.

Finally, the "Chapel" acts as a collective character. It is the invisible authority, composed of all the journeymen, who maintain order through the system of solaces. They are a protective, sometimes rigid, and occasionally rowdy group, bound by traditions like the "way-goose" feast. They represent the collective pride and the shared struggle of the working class in the London printing trade.

In Its Own Voice

"In a strict sence, a good Compositer need be no more than an English Scholler, or indeed scarce so much; for if he knows but his Letters and Characters he shall meet with in his Printed or Written Copy, and have otherwise a good natural capacity, he may be a better Compositer than another Man whose Education has adorn’d him with Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and other Languages, and shall want a good natural Genius."

Moxon argues that the compositor's craft is a matter of intuition and disciplined focus rather than academic pedigree.

"If he finds the Form or any part of it, was not hard enough Lockt up, he Locks all, or part harder up, as was shew’d before."

This instruction demonstrates the constant, iterative vigilance required to ensure that the form of type remains stable under the immense pressure of the printing process.

What It's Really About

The central theme is the translation of human thought into physical form. Moxon explores the tension between the intellectual requirements of language and the material limitations of lead, paper, and wood. He argues that printing is not merely a mechanical act but a disciplined, architectural endeavor that requires strict adherence to geometry and tradition. Beneath the technical descriptions lies a profound respect for the "doctrine of handy-works"—the idea that manual skill is a form of intelligence. The book implicitly asks whether a technology can ever be truly efficient if it does not acknowledge the physical reality of the materials it uses, or the social needs of the people who operate it.

Why Read It Today

Readers with an interest in the history of technology, labor history, or the physical evolution of the book will find this an indispensable, if challenging, resource. It offers a rare, "warts and all" window into a world that has largely vanished, documenting the sounds, smells, and social frictions of a seventeenth-century workshop with startling immediacy.

The prose is dense, technical, and written in a dialect that requires patience; the reader must be prepared to navigate unfamiliar terminology, such as "tympan," "frisket," and "solaces," alongside period-specific spelling and capitalization. However, the reward is a tactile, almost sensory experience of history. You will learn to see the printed page differently, recognizing the "botches" and "fryers" that the author spent so much energy trying to avoid. What stays with you is the sheer, back-breaking humanity of the trade—the image of a pressman struggling with a "crazy" press, or a group of journeymen sitting down to dinner, their work defined by traditions that date back centuries. It is not a book for a casual skim, but for the reader who wants to understand how the modern world was built, letter by letter, through the calloused hands of its artisans.