Shakspere & Typography

In Short

This bibliographical study explores the theory that William Shakespeare spent his "lost years" in London working for the printer Thomas Vautrollier. By analyzing technical terminology, trade-specific metaphors, and the specific library of books printed by Vautrollier, the author argues that the poet’s deep familiarity with printing presses, type-founding, and proofreading shaped his imagery. Written by a dedicated scholar of typography, the book serves as a charming, speculative exercise in literary sleuthing, offering a unique perspective on the intersection of early modern manufacturing and the evolution of dramatic language.

The Story

The narrative begins with a biographical puzzle: the period between the playwright’s departure from Stratford-on-Avon and his emergence as a known figure in the London theater. Seeking to fill this vacuum, the author posits that the young, impoverished poet found work in Blackfriars with the scholar-printer Thomas Vautrollier. This connection is anchored by the presence of Richard Field, a fellow Stratford native and apprentice to Vautrollier, who would later print the poet’s early works. The author suggests that in this environment, surrounded by the mechanical realities of the composing room and the scholarly atmosphere of a high-end printing house, the aspiring writer absorbed the technical vocabulary that would later permeate his plays.

The argument proceeds by mapping the poet’s life against the specific inventory of Vautrollier’s press. The author demonstrates that the texts Shakespeare draws upon—from Italian grammars and French vocabularies to Plutarch’s lives and Ovid’s works—were all available under Vautrollier’s roof, often in editions exclusive to that shop. This environment, the author suggests, provided the perfect incubator for the poet’s wide-ranging yet often precise classical references.

As the text moves into the mechanics of the printing office, the narrative shifts from biographical conjecture to linguistic analysis. The author systematically catalogs instances where terms like "print," "impress," "form," "chase," "quoins," and "devil" appear in the plays. These are not presented as scholarly pedantry, but as the unconscious, habitual language of a man who once performed the labor himself. The author explores how the physical reality of "locking up" a page, the frustration of "full points," and the precarious nature of "register" inform metaphors about love, human nature, and authority.

The arc concludes with an assessment of the poet’s relationship with his own printed work. The author suggests that the playwright’s supposed disdain for seeing his plays in print was not merely an aesthetic choice, but the weary reaction of a man who had spent years "sickened" by reading proofs for a living. By the end, the author admits the theory remains unproven—as do claims of the poet being a lawyer or a soldier—but asserts that the typographical evidence is far more consistent and pervasive than any other, framing the result as a compelling testament to the poet’s keen powers of observation and memory.

How It Unfolds

The missing years The narrative establishes the obscurity of the poet’s early London life. It proposes a practical, trade-based origin for his rapid ascent and broad, sophisticated knowledge base.

The printer’s shop The author reconstructs the environment of Vautrollier’s printing house in Blackfriars. He links the specific titles published there to the classical and foreign-language allusions found throughout the plays.

The technical lexicon The text transitions into an analysis of printing terminology. It highlights how terms like "quoins," "formes," and "nonpareil" appear in dramatic dialogue with an ease that suggests intimate, hands-on experience.

The compositor’s perspective The focus shifts to the specific headaches of the trade, such as erratic punctuation and the use of "devils" for errand boys. The author interprets the poet’s frequent grumblings about "points" and "periods" as the specialized frustrations of a former proofreader.

The closing argument The work concludes by acknowledging the speculative nature of the claim. It invites the reader to weigh the evidence, ultimately positioning the poet as a man whose genius was grounded in the tangible, mechanical reality of the press.

The People

The central figure, William Shakespeare, is characterized not as a distant genius, but as an observant, industrious worker who learned the trade of printing as a means of survival. He is portrayed as a man who "sickened" of the labor of proofreading, yet whose mind remained permanently imprinted with the sights and sounds of the shop. Thomas Vautrollier acts as the key facilitator; he is the scholarly master-printer whose intellectual influence and inventory of books provide the vital "missing link" to the poet’s education. Richard Field serves as the connective tissue of the story—the childhood playmate who bridges the gap between the poet’s provincial roots in Stratford and his professional life in London. The author, William Blades, functions as a guide through the "mystery" of the craft, acting as an expert witness who interprets the technical shorthand of the plays for a lay audience. Finally, the "Printer’s Devil"—the inky, overworked errand boy—is presented as a recurring cultural artifact, a figure who haunts the poet’s imagery and underscores the gritty reality of the sixteenth-century printing house.

In Its Own Voice

"Old Printers can still call to mind that period of our history when a stalwart Pressman, on his way to work, ran considerable risk in the streets of London of being seized by another kind of pressmen, viz., the Press-gang."

This passage establishes the professional camaraderie and the historical context of the printing trade.

"He cares not what he puts into the Press when he would put us two."

The author uses this line from The Merry Wives of Windsor to argue that the poet utilized common trade puns to characterize the reckless nature of the heavy-handed Falstaff.

"The world's a Printing-house: our words, our thoughts, Our deeds, are Characters of sev'rall sizes."

The author quotes Francis Quarles to illustrate how the act of printing served as a pervasive, foundational metaphor for writers of the seventeenth century.

What It's Really About

The book explores the thesis that technical craft is a primary, yet often overlooked, source of artistic genius. It challenges the reader to consider that the poet’s vast knowledge—frequently attributed to a mysterious, classical education—might instead be the product of a specific, industrial apprenticeship. Underlying the argument is a meditation on the nature of "special knowledge"; the author suggests that poets do not create metaphors from thin air, but from the rhythms and realities of their daily labor. The book questions how the physical constraints of a trade, such as the rigidity of a printing chase or the precision of a type-setter, define the boundaries of a writer's imagination.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy literary mysteries and the history of books will find this volume particularly rewarding. It provides a fascinating look at the sixteenth-century book trade, detailing everything from the patent laws of the Elizabethan era to the physical process of manual printing. For those who enjoy "detective" work in literature, it is a delight to see familiar lines of dialogue re-read through the lens of a print shop’s composing room.

However, prospective readers should be aware that the book assumes a high level of familiarity with the plays and the standard, often romanticized, biographies of the era. The prose is Victorian in its elegance—warm, precise, and occasionally pedantic—which may feel slow to those accustomed to modern, fast-paced literary analysis. Furthermore, the author’s reliance on "selection"—cherry-picking lines to prove a point—is a technique he openly admits to, which may frustrate readers looking for rigorous, empirical proof. Yet, for all its speculative nature, the book remains a sincere, deeply informed love letter to the "mystery" of printing. It leaves one with a lingering appreciation for the mechanical labor that allowed the written word to flourish, and a heightened awareness of how even the most profound metaphors are often rooted in the simple, daily toil of a working life.