William Caxton: England's First Print Author
A thesis presented to
the faculty of
the College of Arts and Sciences of Ohio University
In partial fulfillment
of the requirements for the degree
Master of Arts
Heather L. Kaley
May 2014
© 2014 Heather L. Kaley. All Rights Reserved.
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This thesis titled
William Caxton: England's First Print Author
by
HEATHER L. KALEY
has been approved for
the Department of English
and the College of Arts and Sciences by
Marsha L. Dutton
Samuel and Susan Crowl Professor of Literature
Robert Frank
Dean, College of Arts and Sciences
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ABSTRACT
KALEY, HEATHER L., M.A., May 2014, English
William Caxton: England's First Print Author
Director of Thesis: Marsha L. Dutton
This thesis seeks to redress the lack of emphasis that has scholars have bestowed
on William Caxton’s writing as a cohesive body of work. Using N. F. Blake’s Caxton’s
Own Prose as my primary text, I analyze Caxton’s representations of himself in his
prologues, epilogues, interpolations, and colophons, and come to the conclusion that he
displayed himself not as a printer, but as an author. I propose, therefore, that the longestablished epithet of England’s First Printer does not fully encapsulate his creative
autonomy, and propose instead the use of the title England’s First Print Author.
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DEDICATION
To my grandmother—Elizabeth “Betty, Betty Jane, Betty Jane Good-Girl, Granny,
Granny Gums” Kaley.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my advisor, Marsha L. Dutton, for introducing me to
William Caxton and for her insight and guidance through the many iterations of this
project. I would also like to thank Mary Kate Hurley for her eye-opening talks with me
about how to function as an academic, Nicole Reynolds for her lively, thought-provoking
discussion about this project, and Matthew Stallard for chatting with me early on about
Caxton and encouraging me to continue with my work. The English Department at Ohio
University has offered me a supportive space to take my first fledgling steps as an
academic, and for that I thank it and everyone who is a part of it. Acknowledgments
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Table of Contents
Page
Abstract ............................................................................................................................... 3 Dedication ........................................................................................................................... 4 Acknowledgments............................................................................................................... 5 Chapter 1: Caxton’s Career Change ................................................................................... 7 Introduction ..................................................................................................................... 7 Life Abroad as a Mercer ............................................................................................... 13 In the Burgundian Court ............................................................................................... 15 Navigating the War of the Roses .................................................................................. 17 A New Approach to Caxton Studies: The Author beneath the Covers ........................ 19 Chapter 2: Caxton’s Publishing and Editing Decisions .................................................... 23 Aesop’s Fables .............................................................................................................. 28 The Golden Legend ...................................................................................................... 33 Chapter 3: Caxton’s Authorial Persona ............................................................................ 38 Who was Writing Caxton’s Checks? A Critical Debate ............................................... 40 Making New Friends but Keeping the Old: Caxton’s both/and Approach to Marketing
...................................................................................................................................... 43 Caxton’s Paradox: A Humble Authority ...................................................................... 47 Establishing Relationships: Humility and His Patrons ................................................. 51 Establishing Relationships: Humility and His Peers .................................................... 53 From “vertuouse pryncesse[s]” to “gentylwymen”: Caxton’s Relationship with Women
...................................................................................................................................... 56 What’s in a Name? Named Women and the Nobility .................................................. 58 Nameless Women and the Middle Class ...................................................................... 62 Conclusion .................................................................................................................... 69 Chapter 4: Caxton’s Translation Practices ........................................................................ 72 Working toward a Medieval Understanding of Translation and Translators ............... 73 Caxton’s Authority as a Translator ............................................................................... 77 Conclusion: Caxton as Author .......................................................................................... 85 Works Cited ...................................................................................................................... 90 7
CHAPTER 1: CAXTON’S CAREER CHANGE
“Forsothe . . . yf I doo my trewe dylygence in the cure of my parysshens in
prechyng and techynge and doo my parte longynge to my cure, I shalle have
heven therefore. And yf theyre sowles ben lost or ony of them by my defawte, I
shall be punysshed therefore. And hereof I am sure.”
. . . This was a good answere of a good preest and an honest.
--William Caxton, Aesop
Introduction
In these words, taken from the fifteenth century English translation of Aesop’s
Fables, a parish priest articulates to a rich cathedral dean what he understands to be the
reward for a job well done within his vocation. William Caxton, the famous fifteenthcentury author, printer, and bookstore owner, who translated this work from French, not
only quoted the priest’s words but reached in to commend the man who spoke them, and
the words themselves, effectively using the priest as a mouthpiece for his own mission
statement for his work as a print author. Among the thousands of words Caxton wrote
explaining his goals as a translator and printer in his prologues, these few, embedded in
an original addition within his conclusion, leap off the page, opening a window into his
own intellectual and moral goals.
Most scholars, when they think of William Caxton, ascribe to him the epithet of
“England’s First Printer,” as do William Blades in The Life and Typography of William
Caxton, England’s First Printer and George D. Painter in William Caxton: A
Quincentenary Biography of England’s First Printer. This title is true, though limiting.
Caxton established England’s first printing press in Westminster in 1476 and printed over
one hundred works there before his death in 1492. However, this title minimizes the
authority he had in every one of the endless decisions inherent in creating a printed text.
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He painstakingly chose what copy texts to print from, often drawing from three or more
in as many languages. His desire for completeness led him to supply what he felt was
missing, either from supplementary editions or from his own mind. His expressed desire
for the moral instruction of his texts helped him to establish himself as a trusted advisor
to his reading public. He addressed both noble and merchant classes in his texts, balanced
his work on the thin line of mass appeal—and succeeded. Such specific, academic desires
for his finished product denote the values of an author, a word-craftsman, rather than
those of a producer of physical goods. Yet he did not begin his life as an author of print
texts; like the good priest in his Aesop, he was not born with some inherent aptitude for
the task. Rather, Caxton saw himself as the best option at the time.
In light of this emphasis on firsts, it is ironic that printing was in fact Caxton’s
third career. Born to a mercer family, he was in his youth apprenticed to a mercer and
finally became a mercer himself. While plying his trade and living abroad in Bruges, he
spent nearly a decade as a diplomat before he learned the art of printing, an art that would
change how he spent the rest of his life. Yet he never let his mercantile or his diplomatic
hats rest unused on the shelf for long; he used the skills he had mastered while fulfilling
those roles in his new job of disseminating literature to the English public.
In the fifteenth century, printing was new, and because of this newness, it was
multifaceted. The art of printing, established in 1455 by Johannes Gutenberg, did not
reach England until 1476, when Caxton established his own printing press in
Westminster. Caxton himself did not learn the art of printing until the early 1470s in
Cologne, then returned to his home at the time, Bruges, to set up a press with Flemish
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calligrapher Colard Mansion. There he printed seven works before moving his print
house to England. Even though twenty-one years intervened between the invention of the
press and Caxton’s transmission of the technology to England, the printed book trade was
still in the earliest stages of its evolution. As a result, the early printer did more than just
run the press. In fact, the title does more to obscure Caxton’s work than it does to
elucidate it, for rarely did he actually do the manual labor of printing, concerned as he
was with choosing, translating, editing, emending, adding to, introducing, and
contextualizing texts, as well as with dedicating them to those who commissioned or
requested them.
For Caxton, being a printer meant much more than the title allows. In his
historical moment, being a printer also meant being a publisher, translator, marketer, and,
above all, writer. Indeed Caxton’s degree of autonomy in creating texts has no parallel
except for that of an author, and a profoundly prolific one at that. According to N. F.
Blake’s Bibliographical Guide of Caxton’s work, within his fifteen-year tenure at
Westminster, he printed ten works, translated three works, and both printed and published
ninety-seven works. Within his numerous publications, this author wrote a large number
of his own prologues and epilogues, some of which are based on prologues from the
original texts that he translated, and some of which are wholly original.
In his book Medieval Theory of Authorship, Alistair Minnis defines an auctor as
one who was, by the fourteenth century, “an authority, someone to be believed and
imitated,” and whose “human qualities began to receive more attention,” until the auctor
became “the reader’s respected friend” (5, 7). Although Caxton was writing in the
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fifteenth century, he carried these authorial traditions forward. Minnis grounds his theory
of authorship in the medieval prologues to the commentaries on the authoritative Latin
auctores. These prologues were given as opening lectures by medieval teachers and
written down by pupils. Caxton was similar to both the auctores as well as the teachers
who evaluated them, for, like the teachers, he wrote prologues that discussed the literary
merits of authors and translators. Like a true author, he made texts his own by writing
prologues and epilogues, editing the texts to include additional material, and writing his
own additional material to include within the texts.
Because his role as printer also included becoming an author in his own right, he
was able to appeal to his audiences throughout the prologues, epilogues, interpolations,
and colophons he added to the texts he printed. These additions to the texts clearly show
Caxton’s self-assertion as a financially successful and culturally important literary
printer. Although he does not call himself an author in these additions, he implicitly
identifies himself as one through his discussion of his editorial, translational, and
authorial decisions. In his writing, he identifies the criteria by which he judges himself,
the criteria of an author of the time. Therefore it is anachronistic and unfair to refer to
him as a “printer”—as the term fails to encompass and in fact actively limits his true role
in creating print texts.
For all of Caxton’s stated goals of disseminating moral texts in clear English to a
wide audience, he still made money from his successful enterprise. Yet this is true of any
author; for most, it is a profession that provides the income necessary for survival.
However, authors are nonetheless creative beings who take pride in their work.
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Emphasizing Caxton as printer—a term mired in a mercantile and mechanical
connotation—makes it difficult to look beyond Caxton’s finances. In insisting on
ascribing mercantile values alone to Caxton’s literary endeavors, the possibility that he
had developed a craftsman’s pride in his work is overlooked.
Even when they analyze Caxton through the same economic lens, scholars differ
on the degree to which his financial success was due to patronage, marketing, or both.
Early Caxton scholars like Blades and Edward Gibbon insist that Caxton’s book
production was almost completely supported by the patronage system, as earlier
manuscript production was. Another point Blades and Gibbon agree on is the separation
of noble and middle-class readers into two separate categories: noble patrons who
commissioned texts and a more general audience that simply purchased what Caxton
printed. N. F. Blake, a prolific scholar who built his career on Caxton, places Caxton’s
printing choices more on his reaction to the demands of the literary marketplace as a
whole, proposing that he may have relied on middle-class readers to buy his books more
than he did on noble patrons to commission them, and so chose books to print and
marketed them with the middle class in mind.
Even within such a restrictive economic lens, identifying Caxton according to one
business strategy is nearly impossible. William Kuskin in Symbolic Caxton and Russell
Rutter in “William Caxton and Literary Patronage” agree that an either/or perspective to
Caxton’s marketing appeals does him a disservice, that in fact he appealed to both
audiences, and that a strict adherence to the traditional thinking about patronage limits the
understanding of his (Kuskin would say capitalistic) endeavors. Kuskin and Rutter’s
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recent evaluation of Caxton’s publishing and marketing decisions contends that his
decisions were not wholly informed by either the nobility or the middle class, but by a
combination of the two. Narrowing one’s view of Caxton through the lens of mercantile
printer is similarly limiting—Caxton scholars need to broaden their approach by starting
from the source.
An analysis of Caxton’s own writing makes Caxton’s own multifaceted voice as
an author/publisher/translator/marketer begin to sound clearer. Although many scholars
seem averse to taking him at his word about his goals and practices, they have only a
precious few other sources to work with, for they have also noted the limitations of
bibliographical work with Caxton. Time, the great destroyer, has ensured that few
historical records of Caxton’s early life, and even fewer of his copy texts, have survived.
So if scholars want to discover the methods by which Caxton made his enterprise
profitable, they must look at the information that is available—Caxton’s own writing. His
writing shows that he inhabited not one role but many and that he justified the decisions
he made within those roles. The multiplicity of Caxton’s identity, his willingness to
inhabit the various required roles of a printer of his time, as well as his eagerness to
justify his decisions in writing, showed a determination to appeal to each member of his
audience that is invaluable for revealing more about Caxton’s place in literary history.
Caxton’s writing was, in some important ways, one long sales pitch—but not just
a sales pitch for the physical print text: he was not just selling books with his writing; he
was selling himself. Primarily in his prologues and epilogues, he repeatedly assured his
audience that his books were useful and necessary; he constantly legitimized his work by
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creating his own work and incorporating it into the texts. Caxton qualified the choices he
made as a publisher by assuring his audience in his prologues that the books he printed
were for their moral edification and maintenance. He humbly declared his linguistic
shortcomings as a translator and simultaneously wrote himself into the literary history of
the works he printed. The image he offered of himself as the humble translator/author
endeared him to his audience and showed his adaptation to the common literary
convention of humility among authors and bookmakers. He couched his appeals to his
audience in the terms of the roles he inhabited. The multi-faceted nature of Caxton’s
appeals show how Caxton utilized the skills of bookmakers past—as well as creating new
ones—and set the tone for future printers. Because of the complex nature of his work,
then, and the creative effort it took to create these print texts, reducing Caxton’s epithet to
“England’s First Printer” is essentialist and inaccurate. More appropriate, and a better
acknowledgement of his authority, would be the title “England’s First Print Author.”
Life Abroad as a Mercer
Caxton was no stranger to inhabiting many roles at once in a life that
geographically spanned Kent, Bruges, and Cologne before he settled in Westminster,
where he spent the last twenty years of his life. During his time in Bruges, he was a
mercer as well as a diplomat, being elected in 1462 as the Governor of the English Nation
in Bruges. He inhabited the post until around 1471, after Edward IV was restored to the
English throne. After having been deposed by the Lancastrian King Henry VI in 1470,
Edward IV had come to the Burgundian court. Hellinga says that although “in none of the
records of these events is Caxton’s name so much as mentioned . . . it is unthinkable that
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the king’s presence in Bruges would not have required some form of response from him,
either as the Governor of the English Nation, or as the servant of the King’s sister
Duchess Margaret” (25). After Edward IV’s time at the Burgundian court and subsequent
return to power, he granted Caxton a pardon on March 8, 1472, “for all manner of crimes
before 4 March last” (Hellinga 26).
During Caxton’s life abroad, he found it necessary not only to hold several
occupations but also to use several languages. Hellinga remarks on his facility with
English, French, Dutch, Italian, and Latin. His time in a Flemish land and in a Frenchspeaking court led to his facility with those two languages, although he must have been
well read to have been able in later years to translate so many works so quickly from so
many different languages. Blake says that a lack of evidence prevents scholars from
knowing what exactly Caxton read (Caxton’s Own Prose 21), but clearly his time abroad
and use of these languages accounted for his skills as a translator of texts into English.
Before his tenure at Westminster, Caxton lived the life of a merchant. Born
between 1420 and 1424, he was raised by mercers and became a mercer himself in his
late twenties. As such, he was no stranger to the buying and selling of goods, nor to the
laws of supply and demand. The financial lessons he had learned as a middle-class
merchant proved to be dominant forces in his later career as a printer. Blake, Kuskin,
Rutter, and others have noted Caxton’s financial successes and his adept marketing skills.
Those skills helped him to appeal across class and gender lines and to focus in on English
people of all types as his primary audience. Although a wider audience meant that he
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could supply more of the English with vernacular literature, it also meant that he could
make more money.
While securing an income was important for any working person,
overemphasizing this facet of Caxton’s career goals obscures his other, more literary,
concerns. Because of Caxton’s humble mercantile origins, he was aware of the real need
to make money, an awareness that scholars have worked to emphasize in their estimation
of his motives at the expense of other possible explanations. For example, Hellinga says
that his awareness of his economic surroundings quite probably influenced his initial
decision to set up a printing press in England and sell works printed in the English
vernacular (33-43). She says that Caxton recognized a need for vernacular literature in
English, decided that England was where that need would be greatest, and set up a
business to meet that need. Of course, his dedication to his craft extended beyond his
purse and has been noted by Caxton scholars such as Richard Deacon, who compares
Caxton to an “ardent monk of the Dark Ages . . . dedicated to the cause of the written
word” and “trying to preserve what was left of civilization in the seclusion of his cell”
(78). While this comparison runs the risk of being overly romantic and assumes an
unproven celibacy, Deacon remains one of the few twentieth-century Caxton scholars
who acknowledges that Caxton’s goals may have included more than just financial gain.
In the Burgundian Court
During his time as a mercer, Caxton was also a diplomat at the Burgundian court
for nine years, from 1462-1471, and so was able to utilize the lessons he learned from his
relationships with nobles to help him in his later relationships with aristocratic patrons.
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As a diplomat, he knew how to interact with the nobility in order to succeed financially;
this skill served him well later during his time as a printer. Kuskin says that Caxton was
“as much a courtier as anyone else,” and as such he played the complicated game of
politics in order to succeed as a book-maker (Symbolic Caxton 159). Readers may see his
aptitude in appealing to (and even manipulating) the nobility in his own writing. He often
evoked the names of monarchs as patrons in his dedications, even when there was no real
patron to mention. He sometimes paid lip service to patrons like Margaret of York in the
prologues to texts which she took no part in producing.
As the Governor of the English Nation in Bruges, Caxton was well acquainted
with the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy, and the latter became the first patron of his
printed work. Indeed, it is through his role as diplomat in the Burgundy court and his
association with the Duchess of Burgundy, Margaret of York, the older sister of Edward
IV and Richard III, that he made many of the connections from which he would benefit in
his later printing life. Margaret of York was a particularly well-placed patron for an
aspiring print author, positioned as she was in the heart of the royal family tree. Caxton
would benefit from her influence, for chief among his other patrons was Earl Rivers,
brother to Elizabeth Woodville, Edward IV’s queen.
Besides making those all-important contacts with the royal family at the court of
Burgundy, Caxton was also able to see firsthand how a bookmaker could produce written
works with no financial risks. By observing Duke Philip the Good’s patronage of David
Aubert, who Hellinga says was in the Duke’s service from 1453 until the Duke’s death in
1467 (36), Caxton would have seen firsthand the advantages and disadvantages of the
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patronage system. The financial backing of a powerful figure was something to be
desired, and it also came with a built- in demand. However, a patron also limited a
printer’s freedom to explore other potentially lucrative markets. During his time at the
Burgundian court, Caxton was able to learn how to navigate the social situations of
courtly life as well as to introduce himself to the art of manuscript making as supported
by the patronage system.
Navigating the War of the Roses
It only takes a brief historical contextualization to realize that the War of the
Roses and its aftermath, from Edward IV’s time in Bruges in 1470-1471 until Caxton’s
death in 1492, shaped the choices that Caxton made as a publisher and author. During his
career, he saw four monarchs on the throne, Edward IV, Henry VI, Richard III, and
Henry VII—and mentioned most of them in his prologues. Through his tell-all additions
to texts, readers may see how adeptly he navigated the dangerous political upheaval that
took place between the Yorks and Tudors at the time—although he certainly had more
personal connections to the Yorks, by honoring everyone, he publicly aligned himself
with no one in particular. The universal appeal he strove for was a boon to both his
political and his print careers. He was highly aware of the moving pieces that he needed
to attend to if he was to be successful. He juggled not only the various roles of an early
modern printer, but also his relationships with nobles across lines of war—a messy
inheritance from the patronage system.
Despite his attempt to remain neutral, the fallout from the War of the Roses would
affect Caxton’s printing as well as his diplomatic life. In 1471, during the time of Henry
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VI’s brief second reign, Caxton was forced out of his position as Governor of the English
Nation in Bruges. As a result, he spent some time in Cologne, from June 1471 to the end
of 1472, where he learned the printing trade, which changed how he spent the remainder
of his very productive life. Caxton was later welcomed back into Bruges, where he
approached Margaret of York on a matter not of diplomacy but of literature. Caxton
seems to have been able to shield himself from undoing at every turn. When he found
that his path was blocked, he simply skirted the problem on an adjacent trail. This
adaptability to the rise and fall of the Yorkist would prove a useful specialized skill,
useful in his later life as a printer.
As a printer, Caxton experienced another bit of turbulence when one of his
patrons, Earl Rivers, led an army against his brother-in-law, Richard III, and was
subsequently executed. Richard III had inherited the throne after his brother, Edward IV,
died. Caxton’s printing business slowed down overall in 1487-89, one possible
explanation for which, as Hellinga notes, was Richard III’s kingship. Hellinga seems
surprised at how private Caxton kept his feelings about the political upheaval,
considering how open he is in his other writing: “He had been acquainted with several
players in this high drama, and he had lost the patron who had engaged more with his
work than any other. Personal in tone as many of his prologues and epilogues were, much
remained unexpressed” (62). Caxton’s silence on the subject may further evince his
adaptability to the changing political tides. He had already experienced political fallout
when he was forced out of his diplomatic post in Bruges. Including his true feelings about
the death of Earl Rivers—and then later Richard III—in his prologues and epilogues
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could have once again disturbed his post, this time his post as England’s printer—a post
he in which he was deeply financially invested.
Caxton’s life abroad as a mercer and diplomat gave him all the skills he would
later utilize as a printer. The lessons he learned as a diplomat about the fickleness of
nobility would help him later on when he had to deal with the shifting power of the
English monarchy as a printer. As a diplomat, Caxton had to carefully align himself with
the dominant power as it shifted during the War of the Roses. As a publisher and author,
he did the same thing by choosing to print works preferred by the reigning monarch and
by editing his prologues in order to market them to said monarchs. His life abroad
ensured his familiarity with foreign languages, something that was of great use in his
later role as a translator; it allowed him to acquire the skills to operate the printing press
itself and the various book trades built up around that technology. His shrewd observation
of the market for literature in the French vernacular led him to capitalize on the market
that would prove financially fruitful—a localized market in English vernacular literature.
A New Approach to Caxton Studies: The Author beneath the Covers
William Caxton’s contributions to literary culture are more complicated than most
scholars acknowledge. Traditionally, scholars have relied on historical lenses, as Blake,
Deacon and Painter do, economic lenses, as Blake, Kuskin, Rutter do, or artistic lenses,
as Gibbon and Blades do, to study Caxton. These approaches, although wonderfully
illuminating in some ways, are unfair to Caxton in others. By favoring these lenses over
his own words, scholars are judging him according to their criteria, not his own—criteria
that he was only too happy to reiterate often and at length in his writing.
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A study of Caxton’s writing, however, shows that he operated simultaneously in
multiple academic and social endeavors. He was not merely England’s first printer,
helping to standardize English spelling, grammar, syntax, and diction; nor was he merely
a merchant who plied his trade with books instead of cloth, responsible for the
development of an English literary marketplace, nor was he merely a courtier, currying
favor with his literary endeavors. He was not merely any one of these things, but a
combination of them all: he was an authorial figure who wrote his personality into
literary history. Recognizing Caxton as an author who set his words in print and then sold
them in his own bookstore next to his printing press provides a closer understanding of
his autonomy. In the additions he made to his texts, scholars can see an author who
shaped and was shaped by his historical moment.
Looking at these additions is complicated, however, when one considers the
scarce availability today of Caxton’s source texts. Marsha Dutton points out that no one
can really know the degree to which he altered the texts he printed from his source texts
without the source texts themselves (82). Likewise, Blake recognizes the difficulty in
distinguishing Caxton’s original contributions to the works he translated from what was
already there in the source text, even in prologues and epilogues: “When there is only one
undivided preface it is difficult to disentangle what is Caxton’s own and what is from the
original, unless (as rarely happens) the exact source has survived” (Caxton and His World
154) And, in some cases, this difficulty includes his prologues and epilogues, for he
sometimes copied the pre-existing versions: “when the book he was publishing already
had a prologue, he never omitted it, but either modified it and made it his own, or left it
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substantially intact, but added something to it” (Blake, Caxton and His World 154). Blake
here almost inadvertently points to Caxton’s reliability as an author: he reliably “made it
his own” with his additions and alterations, and thus further established himself as a print
author.
Although scholars often are unable to distinguish line for line what Caxton added
to his printing because of a lack of his copy texts, they can to some degree rely on him to
elucidate for his audience what material he added to his copy texts. In addition to
physically separating his additions from his source material, he acknowledged in the text
of some of his prologues (Dicts or Sayings, for example), when he had made changes to a
text. He was concerned to explain his editorial choices, and thanks to this practice,
scholars can recognize the changes he made from his words. To edit various editions of
the same work, as well as incorporating some of one’s original material into a new text, is
to create something original out of disparate parts. Furthermore, to explain why one made
those editorial and authorial choices is to acknowledge and to take on the responsibility
of a creator. Because of the way he articulated his creative process for his audience,
Caxton acted as an author throughout his career as an editor, translator and printer.
Analyzing Caxton’s prologues, epilogues, interpolations, and colophons, and
paying particular attention to how he defined himself in his various roles and explained
the decisions he made within those roles show him as an autonomous creator. In what
follows, all passages from his writing come from Blake’s Caxton’s Own Prose. This
approach explains Caxton in his own terms. He did not see himself in any single
prescribed role—he certainly did not see himself as merely a printer setting formes of
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moveable type. To ascribe to him the modern title of printer would be at best ahistorical
and at worst a gross misinterpretation of what he was trying to achieve. As a way of
getting closer to describing Caxton’s agency as a literary creator more aptly, I here
replace the term printer with print author. In so doing, I endeavor to understand Caxton
as he described himself in his own writing. In letting him explain what he was trying to
do, scholars can get out of the habit of looking at him through one lens that hides the
complete picture of the man who would change the English literary marketplace forever.
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CHAPTER 2: CAXTON’S PUBLISHING AND EDITING DECISIONS
One of the ways in which Caxton both developed and practiced his authorial skills
was through his roles as publisher and editor. Caxton’s versatility in printing various
genres mirrors his adaptability to changing political tides and market demands. He
published everything from romances and fables to religious and didactic texts over the
course of his career. Regardless of genre, however, he often offered only a few major
reasons for printing individual works in his introductions and conclusions: one, that some
noble patron asked him to; two, that he has confidence the work will appeal to a wide
audience despite class differences; three, that the tale will serve some didactic function
for his audience. Many Caxton scholars, for example, Belyea, Blake, and Hellinga, who
have made a point of historically contextualizing the printer’s work have thus favored
several political motives for his publishing decisions. In ascribing political and economic
motives to Caxton’s publishing decisions, these scholars attempt get to a fuller picture of
the social reality of the printer, and of the literary marketplace, during his time period.
However, separating the writer from his writing comes with its own set of disadvantages;
when scholars disregard Caxton’s words completely in favor of a historically based
explanation for his publishing choices, they lose sight of these explicitly stated goals.
Furthermore, they risk anachronistically imposing modern attitudes toward the politically
involved artist onto him.
Caxton’s words on his editorial practices have been neglected. He was an
involved editor, for, besides deciding what texts he would print, he also edited them,
choosing what to include or exclude, sometimes piecing together an amalgamation of
24
several different versions. In editing too, he offered explanations for many of his choices
in his prologues and epilogues. Scholars such as Blades and Blake, however, have
deemed his editing choices haphazard and without literary merit. Indeed, to my
knowledge, no scholar other than George D. Painter has ever argued for Caxton’s literary
merit. Painter calls him a “gifted compulsive writer” (vii), and it is no coincidence that
Painter is also the only scholar routinely takes Caxton at his word. But when judged
according to his own criteria, Caxton looks more and more successful within his
vocation.
Further, like other scholars, Blake falls into the anachronistic trap of judging
Caxton according to modern values. Blake acknowledges Caxton’s explicit explanations
of the texts he chose to print yet criticizes his choices as a publisher because he used the
critical language of his time:
In his prologues and epilogues Caxton turns time and time again to the question of
the value of the books he printed. Although he had definite ideas as to what he
should print, his critical vocabulary was not well developed and he had no general
theory as to what constitutes a work of literature. He relies on the critical
language and themes of the fifteenth century and on occasions this can lead to
contradictions (44).
While Blake admits that Caxton had criteria for choosing what to print, Blake refuses to
judge Caxton’s success or failure according to those criteria. Instead, he rejects the
editor’s contemporary theoretical justification and decisions he made and instead holds
him accountable to twentieth-century language and theory, allowing little room for praise
25
or even an acknowledgement of the editor’s agency. Blake offers a picture of Caxton as
simply mimicking what he thinks is good literature with little comprehension. Yet Caxton
consistently showed himself to meet the criteria he set for himself in his prologues and
epilogues.
One of Caxton’s stated goals for his texts was that of completeness. In the pursuit
of this goal, what Blake identifies as “contradictions” in Caxton’s editorial theory were in
reality unavoidable. He cites Caxton’s editorial choices in Dicts or Sayings as an example
of one of these aforementioned contradictions, noting that Caxton had no qualms about
following the translator’s lead in leaving out certain letters but that he also decided to
include a portion of the French original which the translator had omitted. Blake says that
this type of contradiction is prevalent throughout Caxton’s body of work: “He had no
fixed theory about literary works, but he dealt with each problem as it arose and justified
it by resort to traditional themes and language” (44). Yet Caxton’s focus on the
completeness of his texts is itself a literary concern, one that modern scholars still express
today. Many editors go to great lengths to ensure that they create a text as much like the
original as possible. Moreover, they recognize the difficulty of creating one single,
authoritative text. This difficulty evolves into near impossibility when one considers that
many texts contain multiple printings and editions. With all of these moving pieces,
Caxton had no choice but to remain flexible in his editorial practices. Blake, in his
negative judgment of Caxton for dealing “with each problem as it arose,” negatively
judges all editors, both before and after Caxton; every editor must to some extent
approach texts in the same way, on a case by case basis.
26
Another explanation for what Blake identifies as contradictions in Caxton’s
editorial practices is that he was often forced to make every decision count. For example,
sometimes he had to sacrifice his goal of accessibility in order to meet his goal of moral
instruction. Caxton could not follow the same editorial procedures in every text he
worked with, for each had its own specific challenges. Furthermore, neither he nor any
other editor could hope to accomplish all of his goals all at once. For example, Blake
recognizes Caxton’s explicit intention to provide moral instruction:
This use of abstract nouns in enumerating the contents suggests he was more
concerned with the tone and moral implications of his books than with their
specific narrative details . . . but it is clear that of these qualities entertainment
was of least, and moral character of most importance. It is certainly the latter
attribute which is selected most frequently for comment . . . It is the moral utility
of the works which is also stressed as the reason for their being printed.
Instruction and not enjoyment is the motivation for publication (45)
Blake is correct in his observation that Caxton constantly expresses a concern for the
instructional value of the works he printed. However, in recognizing one goal he obscures
another: accessibility. Yet Caxton’s editorial choices show that moral utility was not
always foremost in his mind; he often concerned himself with accessibility.
What Blake calls a contradiction was really Caxton making a choice to that would
meet as many of his goals as possible. For example, as Blake mentions, Caxton included
a misogynistic dialogue by Socrates in Dicts or Sayings, expressing a desire for
completeness as justification for its inclusion despite its omission from his source text,
27
Earl Rivers’s translation. However, in his lengthy narrative on why Rivers might have
omitted the dialogue in the first place he humorously commented on Rivers’s relationship
with women. Caxton first posed the hypothesis that perhaps some woman asked Rivers to
keep the dialogue out of the book, next that perhaps Rivers loved some noble lady and
would not include the dialogue for her sake, and finally that perhaps Rivers loved all
women and refused to include the dialogue for his love of all womankind.
When Caxton included this dialogue, he was able to meet two of his goals
simultaneously. For while the inclusion of the dialogue made for a more comprehensive
text, his witty line of reasoning regarding Rivers’ omission did little to fulfil Caxton’s
prescribed goals of completeness. This comedic turn did, however, make his text as well
as himself more socially appealing. Accessibility, in this case, extends beyond a simple
translation to reader appeal. By showing a nobleman’s womanizing tendencies, he invited
all men to join him in the gentle mocking of his friend and patron, an invitation easy to
accept when couched in such timeless, universal terms as a man’s desire for a woman.
While Blake focuses mainly on Caxton’s desire for completeness and moral
utility, Richard Garrett more readily acknowledges Caxton’s desire to appeal to a wide
audience. However, he cites financial motives as being behind this desire, identifying it
as a conscious attempt to build a literary market that straddled class lines:
His main purpose was to make the ‘great books’ of European literature from the
preceding centuries accessible, in English, to a large, diverse English audience . . .
Caxton’s objective was certainly not to educate the people of England, but rather
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to create a market—to appeal to an already educated yet linguistically diverse
class of English readers. (52-53)
Garrett judges that Caxton’s stated moral goals seem to distract from his true goal,
financial success. According to Garrett’s interpretation of Caxton’s actions and motives,
the printer was serious about two of his three goals: printing what his patrons told him to
and cultivating a multi-class audience—all to achieve financial success.
Nevertheless, Caxton did succeed in meeting his stated goals while also adding a
humanizing layer of humor that most scholars have failed to notice. Caxton poured
himself into every aspect of his work, and his complicated nature led to complicated
texts. Caxton certainly was a capitalist playing the literary marketplace as best he knew
how, as Garrett argues. However, an income is the standard byproduct of almost any
vocation—that does not mean that he did not also achieve the other, more explicit goals
he enumerated in his writing; his identities as an artist and as a successful businessman
were not mutually exclusive for him or any other creative working professional.
Aesop’s Fables
While Blake looks to Caxton’s explanations of his publishing and editing choices
in his prologues and epilogues, and Garett looks to his historical placement, one of the
most fruitful illustrations of his literary and vocational theory lies in his translation of
Aesop’s Fables, a text in which Caxton does not explain his choices. When he printed the
work in 1484, he uncharacteristically included very little information on the impetus
behind his decision to publish it. In addition, he refrained from mentioning any patron
who commissioned the text, or even a nameless friend who begged him to publish, and
29
thus placed the meaning of the text squarely on his own shoulders. Furthermore, he made
no mention of his goals, neither a desire for the moral utility of the text nor a desire for it
to appeal to all audiences, regardless of class—he allowed his original additions, two
fables, to communicate those desires for him. He bookended his translation simply with
“Here begynneth” and “herewith I fynysshe,” noting the date of the printing (March 26,
1484), the place of printing (Westminster), and Richard III, whose reign had just begun
within the year. Despite his lack of direct address to his audience in his prologue and
epilogue, the two fables he added were intended to appeal to his readers and to eloquently
articulate his philosophy on work and life.
Caxton wielded a larger amount of autonomy in his decisions to publish and edit
Aesop than he claimed to have in some of his other works. Furthermore, he let his
audience believe that he wielded that autonomy, offering no patron’s request as exigency
for printing this book and adding two new fables that did not appear in his French
translation. Caxton’s copy text is assumed to be a copy of Julien Macho’s 1480 French
translation of the edition compiled by the German Steinhöwel. While Caxton derived his
two additions to Macho’s translation from Poggio Bracciolini’s Facetiae, R. T. Lenaghan
hypothesizes that Caxton altered his additions to such a degree that they can be
considered “original with [Caxton]” (5). Caxton also added four tales from the Facetiae
that did not appear in either Steinhöwel or Macho, though apparently with no substantial
revisions.
The two stories that Caxton did revise, those of the “widow’s reply” and of the
“good, simple priest” were chosen and edited, according to Lenaghan, as a form of moral
30
instruction: “their overt morality has the effect of returning the reader to a serious
atmosphere of instruction, and by virtue of their strategic final positions they do much to
shape an impression of the book” (9). In the tale of the widow’s reply, a maid expresses
concern for her mistress the widow, who is to marry a widower. She relates to her
mistress the tale of the widower’s previous wife, who was engaged sexually by her
husband so often that she died, and worries that her mistress will encounter a similar fate.
The widow answers, “Forsothe, I wold be dede, for ther is but sorowe and care in this
world” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 55).
This reply is much more subdued than the one written by Bracciolini, where the
dialogue is between the widow and the widower in their marital bed. The widower tells
the widow that her “fold is too large for [his] flock,” to which the widow replies, “That is
your fault; for my poor deceased husband (God have mercy on his soul!) so well filled
the fold that, for want of room, the kids had frequently to leap out of the enclosure” (22829). Considering the two tales together, Lenaghan certainly seems justified in his
assessment of Caxton’s originality. Caxton edits Bracciolini’s tale almost beyond
recognition. Only the first and last sentences remain similar across the two editions.
When compared with the Bracciolini version, Caxton’s version sacrifices humor by being
less sexually explicit. However, his version still retains humor. The premise, a widow
marrying a lusty widower, remains the same. Furthermore, Caxton does not shy away
from sex; he just incorporates it in a different way, finding a median between comical
entertainment and serious instruction. The entertainment does not disappear with the
explicit metaphor for the female anatomy; it merely redirects itself into a more general
31
discussion of sex, one that addresses the stereotype that women must constantly resist the
tireless sexual advances of men if they are to survive. The widow’s deadpan answer can
be read as a moral adage on the importance of the spiritual over the physical world, thus
adding a tone of propriety to the text. However, the widow’s answer may also be read as
a punchline to the joke Caxton has set up. If men are constantly seeking sexual congress
with women, perhaps women would be better leaving the “sorrowe and care” of the
physical, sexual world. The afterlife might provide them some peace from their
husbands’ advances.
The tale of the good, simple priest seems more overtly moral. It is the story of two
priests, one who was quick witted and went off to rise quickly within the ranks of the
priesthood, eventually becoming the dean of a great prince’s chapel. The quick-witted
priest never thought the good, simple priest would be promoted. He asks his former
companion, “Are ye here a sowle preest of a paryssh preste?” and the good, simple priest
replies, “Nay, sir, . . . For lack of a better, though I be not able ne worthy I am parson and
curate of this parysshe” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 56). Impressed with the good,
simple priest’s career advancement, the dean asks him how much he makes in his new
position. The good, simple priest explains his decision to eschew worldly wealth for
spiritual wealth with a hardworking sentiment: “yf I doo my trewe dylygence in the cure
of my parysshens in preechyng and techynge and doo my parte longynge to my cure, I
shalle have heven therefore. And yf theyre sowles ben lost or ony of them by my
defauwte, I shall be punysshed therefore, And herof am I sure” (Blake, Caxton’s Own
Prose 56). Hearing this speech, the rich dean realizes that he should concern himself
32
more with the immortal souls of his charges and less with the money they provide him.
Lenaghan points out the highlighting effect Caxton created by inserting the tale of the
good, simple priest as well as the tale of the widow at the end of his book. In the tale of
the priest, readers see a man who did not seek a higher position, but rather dutifully filled
the role when no other candidate appeared. Caxton, as editor and first printer in England,
was tasked with an enormous responsibility, and since no one else took the mantle of
shaping the first books that would create a print culture in England, he did.
The parallel between Caxton and the good, simple priest deepens when one
considers the goals Caxton set for himself with his printing in his prologues and
epilogues. Caxton never strays far from his didactic preferences, always concerning
himself with the moral instruction of his audience. Like the priest, he has a duty to look
after the spiritual welfare of his constituents; like the priest, he stands to benefit
financially from that moral instruction. The good, simple priest says what Caxton cannot,
lest he not be believed or, worse, be called a liar and lose credibility. Through the figure
of the good, simple priest, Caxton eschews the importance of the financial gain he will
receive from selling books and instead emphasizes the knowledge he can offer his
readership.
Lenaghan concludes that Caxton’s editorial choices in Aesop were centered on his
goal of disseminating works that would teach rather than entertain: “his reshaping of the
last part of the final selection implies that though he wanted to entertain his reader, the
traditional literary function of instruction was still an active principle in his work. It is the
special quality of the fable that it is the most elementary combination of the two
33
functions” (9) In his two final tales, Caxton emphasizes the importance of moral utility,
yet not at the expense of entertainment. The “widow’s reply” still reads as funny, but
adds a didactic flair to the witty tale. Although less entertaining than the “widow’s
reply,” the placement of the tale of the good, simple priest acts as a semi-biographical
mission statement for Caxton’s work as a printer.
The Golden Legend
Caxton also got the most out of his editorial decisions in his edition of The
Golden Legend, having added a tale to the life of Saint Augustine that promoted moral
utility as well as establishing his authority as a purveyor of morality. According to the
printer, he finished the work on November 20, 1481, at the behest of William, Duke of
Arundel. In his prologue, he explains his reasons for printing an edition of saints’ lives:
And for as moche as Saynt Austyn aforesaid sayth upon a psalme that good werke
ought not be doon for fere of payne but for the love of rightwysnesse and that it
be of veray and soverayn fraunchyse, and bycause me semeth to be a soverayn
wele to incite and exhorte men and wymmen to kepe them from slouthe and
ydlenesse and to lete to be understonden to suche peple as been not letterd the
natyvytees, the lyves, the passyons, the myracles, and the dethe of the holy
sayntes and also somme other notorye dedes and actes of tymes passed. (Blake,
Caxton’s Own Prose 89)
Commissioned by a noble patron, this highly accessible didactic work met all three of his
criteria for printing. This passage also illustrates how Caxton saw himself as adhering to
the adages of Saint Augustine, making the lives of the saints available to those who did
34
not understand French or Latin not for fear of any repercussions from a third party, but
for the pure joy of knowing he has helped those outside the elite classes to learn. In this
way, he represented himself as a man concerned not only with the knowledge of the
middle classes, but also as an autonomous editor and author who was able to function
outside of the patronage system. He did not conclude his justification of the text with the
evocation of William, Earl of Arundel. He made certain that his audience knew why he
himself believed this text was worthwhile. In evoking St. Augustine’s commentary on a
psalm, Caxton asserted that he printed this text not for fear of disappointing his patron,
but for the hope that his audience would learn valuable information.
Caxton continued to assert his autonomy when he outlined his editorial process
for his audience:
Ageynst me here might somme persones saye that thys Legende hath be translated
tofore; and trouthe it is. But for as moche as I had by me a Legende in Frensshe,
another in Latyn, and the thyrd in Englysshe which varyed in many and dyvers
places, and also many hystoryes were comprised in the two other books whiche
were not in the Englysshe book, and therefore I have wryton on oute of the sayd
thre bookes. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 89-90)
Having recognized his audience’s possible objections to the need for such a book,
considering that an English version already existed at the time, Caxton explained the need
for a definitive, complete volume that would encompass all three editions of the text and
include all the available tales. However, he did not limit himself to translating and
transcribing texts from other editions.
35
As Caxton couched his reasoning for printing this text in the words of Saint
Augustine, his addition to the life of Saint Augustine is of particular interest to his goal of
didacticism. He invented a narrative of a miracle not found in any of his three sources: “I
wylle sette here in one miracle whiche I have sene paynted on an aulter of Saynt Austyn
at the Blacke Freres at Andwerpe how be it I fynde hit not in the Legende, myn exemplar,
neyther in Englysshe, Frensshe ne in Latyn” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 94). Once
again, Caxton took the initiative to make substantial additions and changes to the texts
that he printed.
Inspired by a painting he saw on an altar, Caxton regaled his audience with a tale
all his own. In it, Saint Augustine wanders the beaches of “Auffryke” after having written
a book on the Holy Trinity. There, he sees a young boy using a spoon to try to fill a small
pit he had dug with the whole of the sea’s waters. When Augustine remarks on the
impossibility of this task, the boy responds,
I shalle lyghtlyer and sooner drawe alle the water of the see and brynge hit into
this pytte than thow shalt brynge the mysterye of the Trynyte and his dyvynyte
into thy lytel understandynge as to the regard thereof, for the mysterye of the
Trynyte is greter and larger to the comparison of thy wytte and brayne than is this
grete see unto this lytel pytte. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 95)
Caxton went on to provide the moral of the story for his audience explicitly, in case his
readers misinterpreted the boy’s words: “Thenne here may every man take ensample that
no man, and specially simple lettred men ne unlearned, presume to entermete ne to muse
on hyghe thynges of the godhead ferther than we be enfourmed by our faythe, for our
36
only feyth shalle suffyse us” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 95). His message seems
paradoxical considering he spent so much time in his prologues assuring his reading
audience of the necessity of its learning. However, his language was always specific in
limiting what his audience should learn to what lessons they would find in a particular
volume of his work. In the same way, the moral of Caxton’s story is not to seek out
unnecessary knowledge.
Pulling from three source texts as well as his own creative mind, Caxton went to
great lengths to ensure that his readers had the most complete edition of the Golden
Legend available. They did not need to search for further knowledge; they just had to
have faith that the volume they had in their hands would satisfy their moral and doctrinal
needs. In this way Caxton made himself invaluable to his audience and ingrained himself
as the best supplier within the literary marketplace he had created; this capitalistic move
expanded his possible motivations beyond a desire for the moral edification of the
English people, as he stated, and back into the desire for a monopoly on book sales. Yet
these two goals were inseparable—with a great product came great sales. He filtered
through the great sea of knowledge, finding the choicest waters with which to fill his
audience members’ modest pits.
In any given prologue or epilogue, Caxton always met at least two out of the three
explicit goals he sets for himself. He often named specific patrons, almost always
expressed a desire that his works would appeal to noble and merchant class readers alike,
and just as often emphasized the works’ moral potential. As some scholars have noticed,
meeting these three goals may have helped Caxton in the business of selling his product.
37
However, looking at the printer through any one lens will not create a complete picture of
what was really happening. Although the utility and wide appeal of these nobly endorsed
works may have made them more desirable for an expanding market, there is no reason to
suppose that Caxton’s goals for a work ended once the book left his store front. The
lengths to which he went to edit his often multiple copy texts into one definitive volume,
say that he cared about these works beyond what they could do to fatten his purse. Like
any craftsman, he took pride in his work and did the best he knew how to do.
38
CHAPTER 3: CAXTON’S AUTHORIAL PERSONA
Caxton did not just narrate his professional practices for his audience on the pages
of his prologues and epilogues; he also created narratives that displayed his authority and
accessibility as an author and as a person. Over the course of his life, he lived with many
different kinds of people in various locales. However, his adaptability to changing
markets, political events, and his surroundings account for only a fraction of his success
as a print author. His fluid identity meant that he could inhabit the varied spaces of men
and women, of both the merchant and noble classes. As he interacted, he learned about
each person’s wants and needs. When he established his press, he was able to fulfill these
desires and appeal to these various people by engaging them in a one-sided dialogue
about their needs—often addressing more than one person or type of person within the
same prologue, or even within the same sentence. He would tell his audience about the
comprehensiveness of a text or its moral utility, assuring his audience that it was
something they needed and should appreciate. In the same way that his editorial choices
often helped him to meet more than one goal, his marketing decisions often helped him to
appeal to more than one demographic. Using his own words, Caxton displayed his
relationships on the page for everyone to see, charming his audience with his direct
address. Caxton built his career on his ability to appeal successfully to people across class
and gender boundaries, using the social capital of friendship to procure his place as
England’s first print author.
In order to appeal successfully to such a wide audience, Caxton filled his writing
with evocations of the people who influenced him in his printing practices. N. F. Blake
39
says that most of the prologues and epilogues that Caxton wrote contain three themes:
“the value of the book itself, whether on account of its novelty, its edifying stories or its
courtly style; the nobility of the patron; and the humility of the printer-translator”
(Caxton and His World 152-53). Blake correctly notes Caxton’s penchant for expounding
the noble nature of some of his patrons and, in some instances, the elevated, courtly style
of works. However, Blake fails to mention the tone in which Caxton wrote on these
themes. In his addresses to both his noble and middle-class audiences, Caxton relied
heavily on his personality to appeal to potential buyers. He often used universalizing
appeals like humor, morality, and family life to appeal to men and women across class
lines.
Although he emphasized his deference to the needs and desires of a noble
readership, Caxton also catered to his middle-class patrons in his many of his printed
works. By frequently expressing the hope that a diverse readership would enjoy and learn
from his texts, Caxton opened up his appeal to those outside of the ruling elite. With the
advent of the printing press, mercers and merchants like him could afford to purchase
books, and he intended to take advantage of this untapped market. Building on the
relationship with his peers that he had cultivated throughout his lifetime, Caxton began to
treat his fellows in the middle class like the serious literary influences they were,
addressing them directly and indirectly alongside his noble patrons.
Although the necessity (and thus the market) for education among the middle
classes had grown in the 150 years before Caxton’s tenure at Westminster, he developed
and added to this demand by in his texts appealing to the middle classes. Marjorie Plant
40
estimates that in England, by the end of the fourteenth century, there were already at least
ten grammar schools per county catering to the families of rising merchants, what she
calls “the new middle class” (37). Caxton referred to them as “comone people,” but
Hellinga argues that this term is problematic to a modern understanding of the middle
class. She expands Plant’s definition and says that, for Caxton, “common people” were
probably “the landed gentry (but not the nobility), the administrative classes, members of
Parliament, judges and lawyers, together with an urban elite of prosperous merchants”
(107). Plant also notes that England was, in Caxton’s time, slightly behind the rest of the
continent in coming around to the “revival of learning,” and so when Caxton came to
Westminster in 1476, “he had to find some sheltered branch of the trade from which he
could confront a well-established foreign competition (25). For Caxton, this meant
producing romances in the English vernacular rather than classical scholarship in Latin.
Although Caxton started out marketing his romances to the nobility, the traditional
audience for romances, Hellinga cites merchants’ inscriptions of their names and
occupations as bibliographic proof of a middle-class readership (107). She argues that
since his audience had expanded, Caxton had to shift his marketing appeals from noble
patrons to middle-class merchants, a shift which may be seen in Caxton’s steadily
increasing dialogue with the middle class in his prologues and epilogues over the years.
Who was Writing Caxton’s Checks? A Critical Debate
Despite the likelihood of a both/and approach to Caxton’s marketing strategy,
scholars have often debated the importance of patronage to his enterprise. Early Caxton
scholars Edward Gibbon and William Blades argue for the importance of the patronage
41
system to Caxton, indeed saying that he needed the commissions he received from noble
patrons in order to survive. However, this explanation of how Caxton succeeded
financially seems to downplay the reality of Caxton as an entrepreneur willing to build a
relationship with, and subsequently profit from, the popular market. James K. Bracken
and Joel Silver contend that Caxton came from a mercer family and was apprenticed as a
mercer himself (48). In short, Caxton was a businessman, capable of making a living
from the buying and selling of goods.
Scholars like Blake, Kuskin, and Rutter have hotly debated the likelihood that
Caxton made his living more from the proceeds of his middle-class readership purchasing
his books than from his noble patrons supporting him. In Caxton and His World, Blake
acknowledges the effects of Caxton’s business expertise on his financial success, but
insufficiently for Russell Rutter, who says that Blake still places too much emphasis on
the importance to Caxton of literary patrons. In his study of Caxton’s literary patronage,
Rutter claims that Caxton wrote in order to please his larger buying public, from whom
he made most of his money, rather than the individual patrons he cites in his prologues
and epilogues:
This study examines the networks of great-house patronage that sustained authors
during the years before printing, demonstrates that the sustenance Caxton
received from patrons was by comparison thin and inconsequential, and identifies
in Caxton’s own writings clear evidence of a mass-marketing strategy such as
recent scholarship on the book trade might lead us to expect. (444)
42
As Rutter explains in his article, “William Caxton and Literary Patronage,” Caxton was
no Chaucer; he was not a courtly figure, whose whole livelihood depended on pleasing
his patrons. Blake notes that although Caxton’s works were in many cases commissioned
by figures from court, Caxton probably had very little interaction with his noble patrons;
he would only have met with Edward IV and Richard III in a public audience (Caxton’s
Own Prose 29).
Rutter asserts that it is unreasonable for scholars to assume that Caxton
functioned in the same way as his manuscript-making predecessors did, creating a single
handwritten copy of a text: “Caxton’s debt to patronage has been consistently overstated
because an untenable analogy has been drawn between manuscript authorship and the
publication of printed books” (456). With new technology come new ways to make
money. Caxton knew from observing David Aubert, a manuscript maker in the service of
Phillip the Good, Duke of York, that bookmaking within the patronage system was lowrisk, but also low reward. In his new literary marketplace, Caxton had many more types
of people to please. Thus, combining of the old writing convention of dedicating a work
to a patron with appealing to a larger buying market served Caxton’s marketing purposes.
William Kuskin, in his more recent book on Caxton, rejects Blake’s assertion that
Caxton had little interaction with his noble patrons and highlights his role as a courtier
who knew how to use the relationships he made with noble persons to his advantage.
Alternatively, Rutter insists upon Caxton’s mass-market appeal and says that marketing
to the middle class was a deliberate move on the part of Caxton, a move that made him
the bulk of his money (444). However, in Rutter’s eagerness to write off the effect of
43
patrons on Caxton as minimal, he ignores some of the reasons Caxton the businessman
might have wanted to keep those patrons happy—marketing reasons unrelated to the
classic patronage dynamic. I enter into to this debate by analyzing Caxton’s dialogue with
his readers. His prologues do address both noble and middle-class readers, and while he
did ultimately make his money from both demographics, he did so in a way that
subverted the traditional system of patronage.
Making New Friends but Keeping the Old: Caxton’s both/and Approach to
Marketing
Caxton peppered his prologues with mentions of and invocations to the courtly
elite for whom he supposedly printed many of these texts, so much so that any logical
person reading his writing for the first time would assume that an important bond existed
between Caxton and his patrons. As scholar Barbara Belyea acknowledges, “A first
reading of Caxton’s prologues and epilogues leaves the impression that the press catered
exclusively to a courtly audience” (15). One noble lady, Margaret of York, Duchess of
Burgundy, commissioned his first work, Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye, published in
1473. Caxton made it clear in his prologue that it was she who gave him the authority to
translate and publish this piece, as well as requiring him to finish it:
And whan she had seen hem, anone she fonde a defaute in myn Englissh whiche
sche commanded me to amende and moreover commanded me straytli to
contynue and make an ende of the residue than not translated. Whos dredefull
comandement Y durste in no wyse disobey because Y am a servant unto her sayde
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grace and resseive of her yerly fee and other many goode and grete benefetes and
also hope many moo to resseyve of her Hyenes. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 98)
He tells his readers that, when he became discouraged with his translation skill, Margaret
of York met with him, gave him suggestions for revision, and ordered him to complete
the project. This suggests a collaborative relationship between Margaret of York, a noble,
and Caxton, a middle-class diplomat and merchant. In this narrative of their working
relationship, Caxton showed himself to be worthy of such a relationship not only because
he produced a text, but because he illustrated himself as deferring to the superior learning
of the nobility and willing to take their guidance—attractive qualities for the nobility,
who would be used to such treatment.
Caxton said he was indebted to Margaret, not just because of the “yearly fee” he
earned from her patronage, but because his relationship with her introduced him to the
rest of the English royal family, most importantly Margaret’s brothers, Edward IV and
Richard III. He also cited Lord Arundale, the Duke of Clarence, Edward Prince of Wales,
Arthur Prince of Wales, Sir John Fastolfe, Lord Berkeley, the Earl of Oxford, Anthony
Earl Rivers, and Henry VII among his patrons. From one important relationship arose a
plethora of others. In short, Caxton knew how to network.
Caxton utilized his social skills in order to sell books by addressing both noble
and middle-class audiences in his writing. Even in his prologue to Recuyell of the
Historyes of Troye, which is arguably one of the most flattering portraits of a specific
noble patron, he still acknowledged the middle classes who would also buy his book. He
prayed that Margaret of York as well as everyone else who read it would enjoy it:
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“Prayng her said grace and all them that shall rede this book not to desdaigne the simple
and rude werke” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 100). He acknowledged his “rude”
rhetorical skill but nevertheless hoped that “all them” that would read it would forgive
him; a blanket apology and an attempt for universal appeal came intertwined with the
pursuit of financial success, for separating vocational success from finance was (and still
is) difficult. He appealed to the middle class by uniting it with Margaret of York in his
address, putting its interests on par with that of a member of the nobility. This flattery
would certainly appeal to a rising middle class, a class that desired to emulate its
superiors.
Because of the middle class’s desire for upward mobility, Caxton was able to
appeal to his merchant customers through his association with the nobility. Blake
explains that nobles were the tastemakers of the time:
The more general books of all kinds are to improve the readers’ behavior. It is
somewhat strange therefore that Caxton should insist on the elitist character of his
books. They are not for ordinary people, but for the nobles and the educated … .
Who he meant by his noble readers he never defined, and probably such remarks
were meant to indicate that his works were fashionable rather than provincial.
(Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 47)
Caxton’s insistence on the fact that his books were for the elite was perhaps no more than
the modern equivalent of a celebrity endorsement for a product. When he claimed that
nobles read his works, he was essentially claiming that they were in vogue. In this case,
Caxton’s affirmation that the nobility read his books could have been used as a marketing
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method to pull in more of the ordinary people who might be inclined to buy a book that
was good enough for the likes of nobility and royalty.
The History of Jason, published in 1477, contained within its prologues and
epilogues an example of Caxton’s appeal to his reading public outside the court. He had a
pattern of first dedicating the book to some great courtly figure and then, after much
enumeration of the grace, importance, or knowledge of that figure, widening his
dedication to include his middle-class readers. In the History of Jason, he followed this
established pattern:
Moost humblie besekyng my sayd most drad soverayn and naturel liege lorde, the
Kyng, and also the Quene to pardon me so presuming, and my sayd tocomyng
soverayne lord, my Lord the Pryynce, to recyve it in gree and thanke of me, his
humble subgiett and servaunte, and to pardone me of this my simple and rude
translacion; and all other that luste to rede or here it to correcte where as they
shalle finde defaulte. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 105)
First, Caxton articulated his deference to the royal family in a drawn-out introduction that
contained within it the most humble of hopes that the seven-year-old Prince of Wales
would read and enjoy his book, with the blessing of King Edward IV and his queen,
Elizabeth Woodville. However, at the end of the passage, he casually mentioned “all
other that luste to rede or here it,” openly inviting all those who were not members of the
royal family to read and correct the text as they saw fit. His lavish recognition of the
royal family’s might almost overshadowed this brief mention of others who might buy
this book. However, his acknowledgement of the general population who would also read
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the text showed once again that these works were not meant to be read by any one person
alone.
Caxton’s Paradox: A Humble Authority
Yet Caxton’s desires for his whole audience did not end with its enjoyment of the
text; rather, Caxton also wished his audience to take a moral message from the
entertaining work. In addition to editing and publishing texts that would give moral
instruction to his audience, he marketed the moral utility of romances to his audience in a
way that reached across class lines. He waxed religious near the end of his epilogue to
Recuyell: “T[h]erfore th’apostle saith all that is wreton is wreton to our doctrine. Wyche
doctrine for the comyn wele, I beseche God, maye be taken in such place and tyme as
shall be moste needefull in encrecyng of peas, love, and charyte” (Blake, Caxton’s Own
Prose 101). So, according to Caxton, since all writing is moral writing, readers should not
feel guilty about being entertained by a romance. Readers still received their moral
instruction; the exciting plots inherent in romances just helped to mask the more useful
but perhaps less enticing moral lessons. In attributing moral value to romances, Caxton
was able to make his products desirable twice over.
Caxton was not only helping to instruct his audience morally; he was building his
authority by emulating the values of other authors. Blake notes Caxton’s justification for
printing secular works:
the insistence that all literary works are written for our instruction, a saying which
is attributed to various fathers, is common enough. Caxton used it as his
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justification for printing romances and other seemingly secular works, since they
could thus be read as allegories and parables. (47)
Blake correctly observes Caxton’s promotion of his romances as having embedded within
them moral messages vital to the spiritual well-being of his entire audience. Interestingly,
this phenomenon was not original with Caxton but is a move that he imitated, having
seen other authors utilize it successfully. This does not mean that Caxton was insincere in
his desire for the moral instruction of his audience; it just means that he shared the goals
of other authors. In insisting on the moral utility of his works, he endeared himself to all
of his audience by emulating authors they were familiar with, authors who were also
concerned with the combined goals of moral utility and entertainment.
Yet presuming to instruct the nobility as well as the middle class on their moral
values was a tall order for Caxton, who had to cross class lines himself in order to do so.
Because Caxton’s reading audience did include, as he assures readers in his prologues
and epilogues, “somme persones of noble estate and degree” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose
67), he needed to take some of the edge off the high level of authority that came with
writing didactic texts. Therefore, the humility he often expressed in his writing served to
preserve the status quo, allowing him to continue inhabiting his unthreatening role as
middle-class merchant. No nobleman would want to take advice from a mercer who
aspired to move above his station. Therefore, because Caxton wanted to ensure that his
moral message reached all of his audience—including courtly readers—he needed to
make a show of his modesty so as not to threaten the social status quo, a move he made
throughout his writing.
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In the epilogue to Feats of Arms, Caxton appealed to the middle class through a
show of humility to his monarch. He begs King Henry VII to “pardone me of this simple
and rude translacion wherein be no curious ne gaye termes of rethoryk” and hopes “to
Almighti God that it shal be entendyble and understanden to every man” (Caxton’s Own
Prose 82). He apologized to his king for his lack of elevated style, humbly ingratiating
himself with the nobility. Yet in the same sentence, he expressed a desire that his prose
would be accessible across class lines. Caxton worked to recommend himself to the
nobility, but never at the expense of his middle-class readers.
The humility with which Caxton prefaced and concluded many of his printings
and translations also served as a tool to appeal to high-class and low-class readers alike.
This humility is a theme that has not gone unnoticed by Blake, the foremost authority on
Caxton’s life and work. In Caxton’s Own Prose, a compilation of Caxton’s prologues,
epilogues, interpolations, and colophons, Blake touches on Caxton’s preoccupation with
modesty. He mostly notices Caxton’s self-deprecating remarks on his own style, saying
they “consist of complaints about the English language and about his own lack of
rhetorical training and remarks concerning his sources” (Caxton and His World 47).
Blake calls this humility “traditional.”
Utilizing the trope of traditional humility, Caxton was able to portray himself as
an authority to both his noble and middle-class readers. Anita Obermeier, author of The
History and Anatomy of Auctorial Self-Criticism in the European Middle Ages, expands
on this idea of traditional well-voiced humility, citing Chaucer as a classic example of a
self-critical author. Chaucer’s self-deprecation takes the form of apologies for his
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linguistic skills and allows him to hide behind the role of translator rather than take on an
authorial identity in The Canterbury Tales: “Although the author still follows the same
strategy of avoiding responsibility, he switches roles, moving from the emulating
translator of ancient auctores closer to the definition of Bonaventure’s compilator, indeed
a mere reporter of supposed contemporary reality expounded by his fellow pilgrims”
(203). According to Obermeier, Chaucer’s insistence on his role as a mere reporter,
relating a story he heard first hand, serves to “exonerate Chaucer from charges of literary
and linguistic impropriety” (203-4). Emulating Chaucer, Caxton’s humility saved his
literary reputation from scrutiny.
Just like his intellectual hero—for Caxton praises Chaucer in his introduction to
the printing of The Canterbury Tales as a “noble and grete philosopher” (Blake, Caxton’s
Own Prose 61)—Caxton also made an effort to assure his readers that he kept as close to
the original text as possible, adding nothing new. In this way, he attempted to avoid any
blame for what his audience might not like (it was not his fault; it was the text’s), while at
the same time aligning himself with famous authors like Chaucer. In the epilogue to
Feats of Arms, after he apologized to the nobility for his simple translation and expressed
a wish that his middle-class readers would be able to understand it, he expressed another
desire for his text, “that it shal not moche varye in sentence fro the copye receyved”
(Caxton’s Own Prose 82). By assuming the role of the compilator and assuring his
audience that he stayed as close to the text as possible in his printings and translations,
Caxton used the well-established trope of humility to solidify his reputation as a print
author.
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Establishing Relationships: Humility and His Patrons
Caxton assured his audience that he had remained as close to the original text as
possible in the prologue to his printing of Dicts or Sayings, published on November 18,
1477. In it, he showed significant deference to the superior intellect of his patron, Earl
Rivers. Rivers first translated the document from French into English and then asked
Caxton to “oversee it and where as I sholde fynde faute to correcte it” (73). Caxton
humbly answered Rivers that he could not dare to correct his work: “I coude not amende
it, but if I shoulde so presume I might apaire it, for it was right wel and connyngly made
and translated into right good and fayr Englissh” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 73). The
thought that Rivers might have made a mistake is, according to Caxton, unthinkable, and
by presuming to correct it, he would only make it worse or “apaire” it (Blake, Caxton’s
Own Prose 73). However, despite his protests, he ultimately did add to Rivers’s
translation, but in a way that also illustrated for his audience his humility in his
interactions with his noble patron. Furthermore, he placed the responsibility of the text’s
success or failure on Rivers’s shoulders—after all, he was just transcribing Rivers’s
words.
The only word Caxton would hear over Rivers’s was that of Socrates. Caxton
chose to include Socrates’ conclusions on women, which Caxton said Rivers might have
passed over for love of some woman or all womankind:
And I fynde nothing dyscordaunt therin, sauf onely in the dyctes and sayengys of
Socrates, wherin I fynde that my saide lord hath left out certain and dyverce
conclusions towchyng women … . But I suppose that som fayr lady hath desired
52
hym to leve it out of his booke, for whos love he wold not sette yt in hys book; or
ellys for the very affeccyon, love and good wylle that he hath unto alle ladyes and
gentylwomen. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 74)
Even when Caxton told his audience that he did not completely follow the form of
Rivers’s translation (for he did add the text omitted by Rivers), even when he began to
make the text his own, he made excuses for his patron’s omission of Socrates’s
conclusions on women and continued to paint him as the authority on this project. Caxton
continued to make his own decisions despite assuring his audiences that he was a mere
tool in the hands of the nobility. In this way, he was able to reconcile the level of
authority he truly wielded as a print author with the level of humility he had to maintain
in order to keep his noble patrons happy. Such fine diplomacy is another example of
Caxton’s attempt to satisfy both his high-profile patron and the masses while still
maintaining his autonomy.
Scholars have most often noted Caxton’s criticisms of his own writing style,
because this modesty is the most present and formulaic of the written examples of
Caxton’s humility. For example, Blake notices the language Caxton uses in Blanchardin
and Eglantine, published in 1478, to describe his work—“rude” and “comyn.” However,
more facets of Caxton’s modesty lie unnoticed by Blake and other scholars beneath the
sheen of stylistic concerns. Caxton confessed his ignorance of the art of “rehtoryk” and
“gaye terms”—in short, all of the elegant embellishments that separate his work from that
of writers considered gifted in the art of writing:
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Bysechynge my sayd ladyes bountyous grace to receive this lityll boke in gree of
me, her humble servaunt, and to pardoune me of the rude and he, where as shall
be found faulte; for I confesse me not lerned ne knowynge the arte of rethoryk ne
of suche gaye termes as now be sayd in these dayes and used. But I hope that it
shall be understonden of the redars and herers—and that shall suffyse. (Caxton’s
Own Prose 58)
However, this passage also illustrated another common theme within Caxton’s
qualifications of his work—his humility in relation to his sponsor. Throughout his
prologues and epilogues appear more direct apologies, specifically to his noble patrons
who commissioned the works.
Establishing Relationships: Humility and His Peers
Even when Caxton explicitly humbled himself to his noble patrons in order to
cultivate his relationship with them, he delicately expanded his humility to a larger
reading audience by valuing every one’s judgment of his work. By his attributing the
desire for his printed works to intentionally unnamed lords, masters, gentlemen, and
friends, any number of Caxton’s acquaintances could easily insert themselves into one of
these generic categories and believe that he was talking about them. Thus Caxton
appealed to several people with whom he had relationships all at once, saving time and
paper.
Another example of Caxton’s widening appeal was present in his prologue to
Charles the Great, published on December 1, 1485. In it, Caxton acknowledged that he
translated the book “to satysfye the desire and requeste of my good synguler lordes and
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special maysters and frendes” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 67), when only a few lines
earlier he has cited his reason for undertaking this work as the request of Henry
Bolomyer, the “Chanonne of Lausanne”: “And bycause Henry Bolomyer hath seen of
thys mater and the hystoryes dysjoyned wythoute ordre, therefore at his request after the
capacyte of my lytel entendement and after th’ystoryes and mater that I have founden, I
have ordeyned this book folowyng” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 66). In the epilogue, he
cited yet another patron, “a good and synguler frende of myn, Maister Wylliam
Daubeney, one of the Tresorers of the Jewellys of the noble and moost Crysten kyng . . .
Kyng Edward the Fourth” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 68).
Finally, rather than favor any one of these named or unnamed figures with his
supplication, he humbly asked that all who read the book feel free to evaluate and correct
his work: “al them that shal fynde faute in the same to correcte and amende it, and also to
pardone me of the rude and symple reducyng” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 67). These
stock phrases appear frequently throughout Caxton’s addresses to his audience. With
them, he appeals to the linguistic knowledge of all of his readers, claiming no particular
mastery on his own part. In this way, Caxton strengthens the relationship between
himself and his readers, asking them to collaborate with him in his literary projects—just
as Margaret of York did in his History of Troy.
In this recognition of his own stylistic shortcomings, Caxton apologized not to
Henry Bolomyer alone but to all of his readers. It is significant to note that his audience,
though broader than his patrons alone, still consists of lords, masters, and friends. He
insisted on elevating the perceived status of his readership. How wide his proclaimed
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circle of readers extended in this case depends on what Caxton meant by “friends.” Did
he mean his peers, his fellow mercers, the rising middle class? Or could he have meant to
imply that among his friends he numbered the social elite? According to the Oxford
English Dictionary, the sense he was most likely to have meant was “a person with whom
one has developed a close and informal relationship of mutual trust and intimacy; (more
generally) a close acquaintance. Often with adjective indicating the closeness of the
relationship.” According to the OED, Caxton had used this form of frende the year earlier
in his Aesop. His friends seem to have crossed class boundaries, for while “special
maysters and frendes” was vague enough to apply to anyone, in claiming William
Daubeny as a “frende,” he claimed at the very least a healthy working relationship. The
ambiguity of the term was beneficial; a salesman should be friendly with people from
every walk of life, for money was money no matter whose purse it came from.
The motives for Caxton’s modesty in his prologues and epilogues were varied.
Even the types of modesty Caxton exhibited varied from text to text, although he usually
directed his humility to a combination of high and low figures. Those scholars who
completely discount Caxton’s deference to his patrons in favor of emphasizing his
appeals to the mass market ignore the fact that he may have utilized both tactics in order
to sell more books. These patrons, sometimes named, sometimes unnamed, often helped
to legitimize the need for Caxton’s translations, and he used the endorsements of his
patrons to sell more books. In this way Caxton was the businessman as Rutter seeks to
display him.
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However, although patronage in the time of Caxton was significantly changed
with the advent of the printing press (Rutter 444), it still served a purpose for those who
would make their living through the making of books. Caxton truly knew how to use the
remnants of the patronage system to his fiscal advantage when selling to the masses.
Furthermore, his relationships with readers across class lines (both in his past life as a
mercer and diplomat and in his later life as a printer) prepared and allowed him to
succeed as a print author, not only financially but socially as well. For establishing a
relationship with his readers was integral to any author’s success, whether he did so
through his humility or his manipulation of the middle-class desire for learning and
emulating the upper class.
From “vertuouse pryncesse[s]” to “gentylwymen”: Caxton’s Relationship with
Women
Although in his works Caxton appealed to many people across class boundaries,
the majority of the people he addressed and discussed in his prologues and epilogues
were male. However, Caxton also cultivated relationships with noble and middle-class
women in his prologues and epilogues, through direct address, through his written display
of women, and through his written display of his friendships with women. But the only
woman Blake mentions in his analysis of the people who appear in Caxton’s prologues
and epilogues is Margaret of York, one of Caxton’s best-known patrons (Blake, Caxton’s
Own Prose 30). Blake is not alone in his oversight. Most Caxton scholars fail to notice
notice the full benefits Caxton received from his favorable relationship with women,
usually only scrutinizing his relationship to his female patrons as an example of
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patronage. Though Kuskin acknowledges the exceptions, he focuses mainly on Caxton’s
higher-class patrons, Margaret of York and Margaret Beaufort, as well as his printing of
the work of Christine de Pizan. Looking outside of the strict confines of the traditional
patronage system in her article “Translation, Self-Representation, and Statecraft: Lady
Margaret Beaufort and Caxton’s Blanchardin and Eglantine (1489),” Bartlett notes the
importance of Caxton’s instructional work Blanchardin and Eglantine to young noble
men and women and acknowledges the buying power of noble women. Hellinga cites the
bibliographic evidence of female readers among the upper classes and in the church
(107).
While the relationship between Caxton and these noble women is of course an
important example of women as taste-makers of their time, it has tended to overshadow
the effect of middle-class women in the evolution of the literary marketplace. Scholars
have acknowledged that middle-class and female buyers were both important
demographics to Caxton; middle-class female buyers held equal importance. In
displaying his relationship to women on the page for all to see, Caxton was also able to
display himself as a funny, accessible, caring friend to them, as an author they could
trust.
Caxton incorporated several women of varying statuses into his works. A
duchess, a king’s mother, a widow, noble young women, Greek women, female saints,
and the Virgin Mary all appeared in his writing. When the women he discussed in his
prologues appear in the works that he printed, such as Saint Winifred and Life of Our
Lady, their presence can easily be explained. Likewise, when he printed Feats of Arms, a
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translation of the French work by the female author Christine de Pizan, he mentioned her
name in his prologue, affording her the same courtesy as male authors. More interesting,
however—and more relevant to Caxton’s relationship with women—are the instances in
which Caxton chose to add women, mostly in prologues and epilogues, without any
apparent necessity and sometimes in opposition to the editorial choices of a work’s
previous translator. These additional women included his patrons, Margaret of York and
Margaret of Somerset, but also more generic female figures like mothers and young
noblewomen. Caxton even included some women whom other translators intentionally
omitted from texts, as in the case of Dicts or Sayings.
What’s in a Name? Named Women and the Nobility
Caxton appealed to noble women when he cited Margaret of York and Margaret
of Somerset as two of his patrons. He made a point of describing his collaborative
relationship with each woman, thus portraying himself as a man who respected the
authority of women and helping him to elicit relationships with other women; he relied
on being able to display relationships like these in order to market and sell his books to
women. In his first work, History of Troy, published in 1473, he lauded Margaret of York
not only as a financial backer but also as a literary advisor, saying that she pushed him to
keep translating when he doubted himself and his ability:
Y lete her Hyenes have knowleche of the forsayd begynnyng of thys werke,
whiche anone commanded me to shewe the sayd v or vi quayers to her sayd grace.
And whan she had seen hem, anone she fonde a defaute in myn Englissh whiche
sche comanded me to amende and moreover comanded me straytli to contynue
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and make an ende of the resydue than not translated. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose
98)
The reason Caxton took Margaret’s advice and continued in his work, he freely
admitted, was hope for financial gain and marketing success as much as respect for
Margaret of York. She demanded to see what progress Caxton has made, and he was in
no position to disobey: “Whos dredefull comandement Y durste in no wyse disobey
because Y am a servant unto her sayde grace and resseive of her yerly fee and other many
goode and grete benefetes and also hope many moo to resseyve of her Hyenes” (Blake,
Caxton’s Own Prose 98). She had the authority to suggest some faults in his language,
and she urged him to move forward in his translation work. Once again, Caxton sought to
benefit from enacting the humility trope, ingratiating himself with Magaret and, by
extension, all noble women. More than the “yerly fee,” the “goode and grete benefetes”
he would receive from his relationship with Margaret would extend far beyond his time
in Burgundy. Through his relationship with her, he would gain a foothold as an author,
powerful friends and contacts, and the legitimizing power of her good name.
Indeed, in the prologue to History of Troy, Caxton seemed preoccupied with the
hope of pleasing Margaret with this translation: “Any yf ther be onythyng wreton or sayd
to her playsir Y shall thynke my labour well employed” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 98).
This level of dedication is no surprise, considering his debt to her. He chose to expound
the many virtues of Margaret, citing anecdotal evidence of her superior knowledge and
support in his depiction of their working relationship, with her acting as editor and
mentor in his translation work. In this depiction of Margaret, with her finding “a defaute”
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in his English and commanding him “to amende” and “to contynue” his translation, he
showed his patron as an intelligent, capable, and powerful woman, a woman who
demanded respect and wielded authority. This favorable portrait may have been the price
of the “yerly fee” that Margaret of York bestows upon Caxton, and/or the sincere respect
of a grateful subject; however, his celebration of her may also have served as an entreaty
to a larger female audience, proving him to be respectful of women.
Regardless—or perhaps because—of his esteem for his larger female audience,
Caxton incorporated his praise of Margaret of York into the text of his work instead of—
or perhaps in addition to—offering these compliments in person. Logic would indicate
that Margaret would be more flattered if Caxton took the time to include his favorable
portrait of her in his book; books usually last much longer than mere verbal praise.
However, he could easily have mentioned her wise manner and noble generosity in
passing, as modern authors do in their dedications. Caxton choose a more comprehensive
approach, mentioning her in the preface, prologue, conclusion and epilogue to book II,
and in the epilogue to the entire work. In short, Caxton inserted mentions of Margaret of
York into every section he could, with the exception of the translation of the original
poem. This ceaseless evocation of one of his most successful female friendships served to
illustrate his respect for women as well as to align himself with a powerful tastemaker.
In contrast, Caxton was not always insistent on repeating the name and virtues of
his male patrons in any given work. In the Golden Legend, a huge work published in
1481, he mentioned his sponsor Lord Wyllyam Erle of Arondel only twice, once in the
prologue and once in the epilogue. By utilizing the striking figure of Margaret of York
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throughout the History of Troy and beyond, Caxton claimed that intelligent, noble women
enjoyed and promoted his books. Though she was technically his patron and sponsor, she
gave him much more than a “yerly fee”: she gave him the selling power of her good
name. Alternatively, William, in addition to granting Caxton a “yerly fee” that was “to
wete a bucke in sommer and a doo in winter,” promised “to take a reasonable quantyte of
[the books] when they were achieved and accomplished” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose
90). William not only had to give him an annuity; he had to ensure a demand for the
printed work. Margaret had to make no so assurances.
Caxton even evoked Margaret’s name in works that she did not commission, like
Jason, published in 1477. In the prologue to the work, he recounted the first commission
she gave him, that of the translation of the History of Troy, printed four years earlier in
1473: “For as moche as late by the comaundement of the right hye and noble princesse,
my right redoubted lady, my Lady Margarete by the grace of God Duchesse of
Bourgoyne, Brabant et cetera I translated a boke out of Frensshe into Englissh named
Recuyel of the Histories of Troye” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 103). Clearly, the
incessant invocation of Margaret of York served some purpose other than flattery or
thanks for a commission, because he talked of her in works for which she gave him no
financial support. His repeated mention of his backing by and intellectual support from a
noble lady probably served the purpose of persuading his potential female buyers that
women could enjoy and use his books. He knew for a fact that one woman liked his book
enough to buy it; by advertising this fact, he may have hoped that others would do the
same.
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Another noble Margaret, Margaret of Somerset, mother of King Henry VII,
appeared in Caxton’s prologue to the didactic romance Blanchardin and Eglantine,
published c. 1489. Caxton credited her with having commissioned the translation of the
romance from French into English. He said that the text might serve as a learning tool for
young noblemen and noblewomen:
For, under correction, in my judgment it is as requesyte otherwhyle to rede in
auncyent historyes of noble fattyes and valyaunt actes of armes and warre, whiche
have be achyeved in olde tyme of many noble princes, lordes and knightes, as wel
for to see and knowe their valyauntes for to stande in the special grace and love of
their ladyes, and in lyke wyse for gentyl yonge ladyes and damoysellys for to
lerne to be stedfaste and constaunt in their parte to theym that they ones have
promysed and agreed to. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Words 57-58)
By teaching young noblemen and women how to behave in courtly society with this
“ancient” romance, Caxton was yet again broadening his readership, this time by
marketing the book to impressionable young women and their mothers who might want
them to emulate some of the qualities offered in such an instructional text. Anne Clark
Bartlett acknowledges that Caxton was playing to an audience, that he chose to print the
text because it addressed a “rapidly expanding audience of English readers” in which he
was very invested (58)—an audience that, according to his prologue, included women.
Nameless Women and the Middle Class
Noble women were not the only women who appeared in Caxton’s prologues; He
displayed successful relationships with women of the middle class as well. The mother
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who requested the translation of Knight of the Tower from Caxton is an interesting figure;
Although he identified her as “noble,” unlike his other patrons, he never named her.
Caxton cited the nameless lady as having commissioned the book in order for the
advancement of her daughters’ education:
Which boke is comen into my hands by the request and desyre of a noble lady
which hath brought forth many noble and fayr doughters which ben vertuously
nourisshed and lerned; and for very ziele and love that she hath alway had to her
fayr children and yet hath for to have more knouleche in vertue to the’ende that
they may always persevere in the same, hath desired and required me to translate
and reduce this said book out of Frenssh into our vulgar Englissh to the’ende that
it may the better be understonde of al suche as shal rede or here it. (Blake,
Caxton’s Own Words 111)
The namelessness of the woman meant that, although she was a noble figure,
Caxton was able to appeal to all the good mothers of England who wanted to help their
already “nourished and lerned” daughters “have more knouleche in virtue.” Because of
the woman’s common motherly concerns, all mothers could easily have inserted
themselves into the given situation and more easily justified purchasing a book if it was
for the education of their daughters. The “ziele and love” that this woman and all women
had for their daughters might prompt them to buy the book. Caxton could have hoped that
mothers would justify the purchase because of its potential benefits for their children.
Just as he did in his prologue to Blanchardin and Eglantine, Caxton emphasized
the instructional value of Knight of the Tower, published in 1484, in the prologue to that
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work. This time he seemed equally if not more concerned with “gentilwymen,” or
“women of good birth or breeding” than the noblewomen, or “women of noble birth or
rank; peeresses” (OED). He widened his readership by addressing the special teaching
properties of the book, especially for young women of good (though necessarily not
noble) birth: “Emonge al other this book is a special doctryne and techyng by which al
young gentilwymen specially may lerne to bihave themself vertuously as wel in their
vyrgynyte as in their wedlok and wedowhede, as al along shal be more plainly said in the
same” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 111). He puts gentlewomen on the same level as the
nobility when he addresses the value of this book for his audience, which he said was of
particular use for “ladyes and gentilwymen, doughters to lords and gentilmen” (Blake,
Caxton’s Own Prose 111). He acknowledged the difference between noble and
gentlewomen, the difference between noble and good birth, and in doing so, he boldly
aligned himself and his work with all ladies of the larger reading public.
Caxton’s expressed desire that the book the Knight of the Tower would be
understood by “al suche as shal rede or here it” was another instance of Caxton’s attempt
at mass appeal, although a gendered one. He expresses a hope that all young women who
read his text would find it useful. Just as he did with his depiction of the nameless
mother, Caxton exercised amplification through simplification in his depiction of young
women. He put a generic face on his potential audience, so the audience could more
easily see themselves within the figures Caxton describes. Most important for Caxton,
they could see themselves buying and enjoying his book.
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Like his prologues to Blanchardin and Eglantine and Knight of the Tower,
Caxton’s translation of Aesop’s Fables, published in 1484, gave readers another view into
Caxton’s representation of women in the domestic sphere. In the conclusion to his
translation of Aesop’s Fables, he included a humorous tale about a widow who is to
marry a widower. When the widow’s maid hears of her mistress’s pending nuptials, she is
worried:
“Allas,” sayde the mayde. “I am sorry for yow, bycause I have herd saye that
he is a peryllous man, for he laye so ofte and knewe so moch his other wyf that
she deyde thereof; and I am sorry thereof that yf ye should falle in lyke caas.”
To whome the wydowe answerd and sayd: “Forsothe, I wolde be dede, for
ther is but sorowe and care in this world.”
This was a curteys excuse of a wydowe. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 5556)
Being put to death by sex is doubtlessly a humorous way to go, and the widow’s deadpan
answer only adds to the absurdity of the maid’s worries. The addition of a humorous
woman to Caxton’s writing helped to make a more lighthearted appeal to all classes of
women and to all readers—sexual anecdotes are timeless. In this added fable, Caxton
incorporated the humor of women, valuing it enough to include it alongside the other
fables. He also represented himself as a humorous person, further developing his
relationship with his readers.
Caxton found the relationship between men and women particularly funny, and he
respected women enough to let them in on the jokes in prologues and epilogues. Even
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when the subject material with which he is working degraded women, he found a way to
calm the tension through lighthearted, universal comedy. Dicts or Sayings, published in
1477, contained a particularly inflammatory portrait of womankind, a portrait that the
original translator, Earl Rivers, left out:
in the dyctes and sayengys of Socrates . . . I fynde that my saide lord hath left out
certayn and dyverce conclusions towchyng women . . . . But I suppose that som
fayr lady hath desired hym to leve it out of his booke; or ellys he was amerous on
somme noble lady, for whos love he wold not sette yt in hys book; or ellys for the
very affeccyon, love and good wylle that he hath unto alle ladyes and
gentylwomen, he thought that Socrates spared the sothe and wrote of women
more than trouthe, whyche I cannot thinke that so trewe a man and so noble a
phylosophre as Socrates was shold wryte otherwyse than trouthe. (Blake,
Caxton’s Own Prose 74)
Out of concern for completeness, Caxton said that he included the previously deleted
portion of Socrates’ musings on women in his epilogue to the work. He cited Rivers’ love
of women as the reason for his cutting of the material. Nevertheless, Caxton asserted that
whatever the wise and noble Socrates had said must have been true and seemed to be
alienating his potential female customers.
However, Caxton completely reversed this potential public relations disaster as he
continued in his epilogue. He first acknowledged what he declared to be Rivers’
reasoning for cutting the text: “But I apperceyve that my sayd lord knoweth veryly that
such defautes ben not had ne founden in the women born and dwellyng in these partyes
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ne regyons of the world” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 74). He neatly sidestepped the
issue of Socrates’ misgivings about women by saying that Greek women were different
than English women. English women, Caxton contended, were “good, wyse, playsant,
humble, discrete, sobre, chast, obedient to their husbondis, trewe, secrete, stedfast, ever
besy and never ydle, attemperat in speking, and vertuous in alle their werkis—or at leste
sholde be soo” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 74).
While this long-winded praise was in itself witty in its absurd length, Caxton’s
shifting of Socrates’ criticism of all women to Greek women humorously passed on the
problem to another distant people. Caxton’s printing shop was located in Westminster,
outside of London, from where the trade routes that passed through the big city would
have taken his books to other locales (Blake, Caxton and His World 81). In Westminster,
Caxton was selling to a localized English audience, as is shown by the fact that he kept
translating French and Latin works into English. Caxton would certainly have been more
concerned with maintaining a relationship with the women of England than the women of
Greece, for English women were his potential customers.
Caxton then presented the misogynistic tale of Socrates that Rivers chose to omit,
making it easily accessible in his epilogue. In it, Socrates offered his advice for learned
men regarding women: “Whosomever wyll acquere and gete syence, late hym never put
hym in the governaunce of a woman” (Caxton’s Own Prose 75). After Caxton
reproduced the omitted text, having translated it from French into English, he offered his
own dialogue on Socrates’ unpopular opinion and why he chose to include it:
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Lo these ben the dictes and sayengis of the phylosophre Socrates, whiche he
wrote in his book; and certaynly he wrote no worse than afore is rehersed. And for
as moche as it is acordaunt that his dyctes and sayengis shold be had as wel as
others, therefore I have sette it in th’ende of this booke … And somme other also
happily might have supposed that Socrates had wreton moche more ylle of
women than hereafore is specified. (Caxton’s Own Prose 76)
Caxton professed his desire for inclusivity; he often expressed similar sentiments in his
other addenda, usually attempting to keep his translation as close to the original as
possible. However, in this instance Caxton was faced with an editorial decision. He chose
to keep the potentially offensive remarks omitted by Rivers in order to preserve the
original text, wittily noting that readers might actually think the worse of Socrates
without them.
However, in preserving the missing text about the inadvisability of being ruled by
women in the epilogue, at the end of the book, Caxton could not have been too concerned
with reproducing the text exactly as it originally appeared. Given his history of including
humorous misunderstandings between men and women, he was probably using it as an
opportunity to draw his readers’ attention to a comically misogynistic text. Given the fact
that Caxton benefitted from the influence and power of women throughout his life, he
was guilty of the very mistake Socrates warned against.
Caxton distanced his own opinions on women from those of Socrates:
Wherefore in satisfyeng of all parties and also for excuse of the said Socrates I
have sette these saide dyctes and sayengis aparte in th’ende of this book to
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th’entent that yf my sayd lord or any other persone whatsomever he or she be that
shal rede or here it that if they be not wel plesyd wythall that they wyth a penne
race it out or ellys rente the leef out of the booke. (Caxton’s Own Prose 76)
With one pronoun, Caxton gave women the authority to do what they would with
Socrates’ thoughts on the ability of women to govern men of science. Should they choose
to mark the offending page up with a pen or tear it out altogether, that was their
prerogative as learned women. In advocating the right of women to think for themselves,
he recognized what Socrates apparently did not: that learned women could and did
govern learned men. Furthermore, in providing the instructional material women needed
to broaden their body of knowledge, he helped to give them the power to do so. He
certainly was governed by women in his own work, figures like Margaret of York and
Margaret of Somerset, and even nameless women like the noble lady in the Knight of the
Tower, who could have stood in for noble and middle-class womankind. In separating
this story out from the rest of the text, he invited women to laugh at the foolishness of
mankind.
Conclusion
Caxton appealed to women of varying statuses, worldly and domestic, throughout
his prologues and epilogues. He presented powerful, noble women as endorsers of his
work, he displayed thoughtful mothers commissioning and utilizing his work as an
opportunity for the further education of their daughters, and he laughed with women
when he included all the naughty bits of his work that others would have chosen to leave
out. He respected women enough to acknowledge their recognition of the way the world
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worked and their ability to survive and thrive in a world that worked to grant women less
autonomy than men. In his comic additions about sex and misogyny in Aesop and Dicts
or Sayings, he acknowledged that women were often the butt of men’s jokes—but he
permitted women to have the last laugh.
In displaying his personal relationships with women on the page, Caxton helped
to forge new relationships with his female readers. The ways in which he talked about
women in his own writing points toward a marketing approach geared toward his female
customers, an approach rooted in the development of human relationships. Many scholars
have noted the marketing power of William Caxton and the business sense he must have
had in order to be successful. However, because his representations of women occurred
less often in his prologues and epilogues than did his representations of men, the fact that
he was marketing his work to women as well as to men may and does elude scholars.
Most scholars acknowledge that Caxton strove to make his books appealing to all classes
of people in his prologues and epilogues; in fact, he strove to make his books appealing
to both genders as well.
The personality that Caxton displayed on the page for his readers was one of
respect, open-mindedness, moral concern, and humor. Moreover, in addition to
addressing his readers directly, he illustrated for his readers the working relationships he
forged with men and women. He helped to build his authority as an author on the page by
displaying his humanity for his audience to read and respond to; In offering up his own
personality, he solicited their friendship. Besides engaging in this dialogue about
friendship, he also forged real-life connections that established him as an author—first
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through the endorsement of noble patrons like Margaret of York, and later through
nameless female supporters like the mother in Knight of the Tower. Although these
relationships helped him to sell books, more important they helped him to establish
himself as an author. The demand for books was already on the rise at that time; he
probably could have sold several books without writing lengthy, personal prologues and
epilogues to accompany them. Caxton, by choosing to include himself in his texts, was
attempting to establish himself as more than a financially successful printer; he was
attempting to become a print author.
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CHAPTER 4: CAXTON’S TRANSLATION PRACTICES
Whether as a translator of French, Latin, or Dutch works, scholars have praised
Caxton for his accurate, word-for-word translations of his copy texts. That praise,
however, also often acts as a backhanded compliment, as scholars then in the same breath
criticize him for his lack of linguistic and literary creativity. In the estimation of
nineteenth-century scholars like Edward Gibbon, William Blades, and Heinrich Oskar
Sommer, he was nothing more than a tool through which popular literature was translated
and disseminated to the English people, suggesting that he did not artistically influence
the works he printed either linguistically or thematically, though he may have tried.
Twentieth and twenty-first-century scholars like N. F. Blake, William Kuskin, and
Russell Rutter paint him as a capitalist, whose only concern in preparing works for the
literary marketplace was to ensure a large customer base for his business. This
dichotomous scholarly approach stems from a desire to place Caxton neatly in one
narrow role. However, the nascent art of printing required those who would practice it to
fill many roles concurrently. Therefore, this limited view may also stem from an
uncertainty as to the roles he inhabited, as well as what one should realistically expect
from a man acting within those roles during the fifteenth century. As he performed the
duties of one role, he never forgot the others he needed to fill. Caxton the translator was
never separate from Caxton the publisher, Caxton the editor, Caxton the merchant, and
Caxton the diplomat.
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Working toward a Medieval Understanding of Translation and Translators
In order to operate so successful in so many different spheres, Caxton had to
make quick decisions in changing circumstances while simultaneously working toward
his goal of becoming a print author. With each new text came a new set of circumstances,
and to assume that Caxton translated every text in the same way is to do him a disservice.
Richard Garrett, in his essay “Modern Translator or Medieval Moralist?: William Caxton
and Aesop,” acknowledges that scholars have long refused to acknowledge Caxton’s
literary merit and posits that he was much more complicated than scholars give him credit
for:
As a commercial printer Caxton was obligated to emphasize productivity and
efficiency over poetic merit. Yet his translations, rather than being mere
transparent, “faithful” copies of the original, reflect a mindful awareness of the
cultural environment in which he was working. Not an “invisible” translator
whose only concern is fidelity to his sources, Caxton instead exhibits a tension
and an anxiety about his authorial self-representation through his rewriting. (48)
Garrett also acknowledges the inherent limitations of defining Caxton according to any
one term, and although he himself focuses on Caxton as translator, he nevertheless notes
that Caxton’s “interpretive program entails a translation of culture—as an interpolator,
printer, and publisher” (48). He claims that Caxton carries out what modern translation
scholar Walter Benjamin calls Überlaben, or the survival of the original language and
culture in the target language.
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While the concept of Überlaben, and the knowledge that Caxton was himself
multilingual may explain why he so often strove for word-by-word translations, one
should be careful in attributing any one governing principle to his translation practices.
Furthermore, ascribing modern values onto medieval practices often creates problems for
understanding the historical context. Alistair Minnis raises reservations about ascribing
modern literary theories to medieval texts. He rightly complains that there has been a lack
of scholarship on medieval literary theory, a lack which forces scholars who wish to
discuss medieval texts to look forward to postmodern critical theory as a guide: “Faced
with such apparent limitations, naturally the scholar is inclined to adopt concepts from
modern literary theory, concepts which have no historical validity as far as medieval
literature is concerned” (1). Minnis refers specifically to the ahistorical practice of
ascribing modern authorial values to medieval writers, although one can easily extend his
line of reasoning to translation theory.
Holding medieval translators accountable to modern standards has affected how
two different scholars have approached similar texts. Like Minnis, Blake also recognizes
that scholars should use a historically contextualized understanding of literature,
specifically of translation, but he offers little evaluative comment on that usage. In
Caxton and His World, Blake analyzes the differences between the views of Heinrich
Oskar Sommer, who in 1894 edited Caxton’s History of Troy, and Leon Kellner, who in
1890 edited Blanchardin and Eglantine. Blake attributes the conflicting critiques of
Sommer and Kellner to differences in critical understanding:
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The difference between the views of Sommer and Kellner . . . is the result not so
much of the different quality of the two translations, as the different expectations
and outlooks of the two modern editors. The mistakes in the two works are
comparable, but Kellner viewed them in relation to other fifteenth-century
translations, whereas Sommer looked at them with a modern eye. (Caxton and His
World 126)
According to Blake, the two men edited linguistically similar texts but evaluated them
differently because they judged Caxton’s translation according to different criteria. What
Sommer found to be “very peculiar,” Kellner identified as Caxton’s “repetitions,
tautologies, and anacolutha” but recognized that those were “conscious sins, committed
not only by him, but also by all the writers of his time” (Caxton and His World 125).
Sommer’s view of Caxton’s translation is the same kind of ahistorical evaluation Minnis
criticizes in his book Medieval Theory of Authorship. Certainly Sommer dismisses
Caxton’s knowledge of French as “superficial” and blames his “long absence abroad” for
his “rusty” English (qtd. in Blake, Caxton and His World 125). Holding medieval
translators accountable to modern translation values confuses what is a true translational
failure with what are simply normative writing practices of the time. Caxton’s
overarching goal was to appeal to his audience as an author. In order to do so, he had to
act like one.
Most of the difficulty that arises when modern scholars try to understand Caxton’s
translation practices through the lens of postmodern translational theory does not stem
from the theory itself; rather, it stems from an incomplete understanding of what being a
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translator meant at that time. Emma Campbell and Robert Mills, in the introduction to
their book Rethinking Medieval Translation: Ethics, Politics, Theory, reject a historicist
reading of Caxton’s writing in favor of a reading centered on postmodern translational
theory. However, they assume that medievalists implicitly acknowledge “the translator’s
role as interpreter or author of the text” (2). In the case of Caxton scholars at least, this
assumption does not seem to be quite as ingrained as Campbell and Mills hypothesize.
They get hung up on his linguistic style as a translator, ignoring his autonomy as an
author. For example, according to Blake, “all editors of Caxton texts, whether they are
early or late texts, note how closely he follows his original” (Caxton’s Own Prose 126).
When scholars do acknowledge historical factors that influenced his translational
style, they usually focus on his role as bookseller. For Blake, Caxton’s translation style
was all about output; he grants the printer little autonomy:
How then did Caxton approach a text for translation? He often claims that he has
kept as close as he can to his original; but statements of this sort are found in all
fifteenth-century translations. Caxton doubtless includes such statements because
he felt obliged to, rather than that they accurately reflect his own views on
translation. His method was to finish the translation as soon as possible in order to
set it up in type. Since he was translating to keep his own presses in work, it is
only natural to assume that there were many occasions when financial gain took
precedence over literary responsibility. (Blake, Caxton and His World 126)
This view ignores linguistic variety when it does appear and refuses to acknowledge the
possibility that when he translated with the goal of preserving the structure and linguistic
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originality of his source text, he might have done so for a reason other than financial gain.
Blake’s view is not uncommon—for many scholars, artist and businessman are
irreconcilable roles. Overall, Caxton has accrued many negative evaluations in terms of
his creative capabilities, both through a desire to judge him according to modern literary
criteria and through an inherent rejection of the creative capacity of translators. Those
who would condemn Caxton all seem to base their rejection of him as an artistic creator
of texts on the foundational assertion that he had little to no autonomy. For them, he was
not creating as much as he was transcribing. However, Caxton made all his translational
choices based on what would make for the best text. He was aware of the choices he was
making and used his translational style to create the text he wanted. He defended those
choices as well as his own autonomy in his prologues and epilogues.
Caxton represented himself as more than a translator; he was his readers’
knowledgeable yet human friend who wanted dearly to provide them with text that would
entertain and inform them. In short, the decisions he made as a translator helped him to
solidify being England’s first print author. The use of postmodern translation theory in
evaluating Caxton’s translation practices obscures this larger goal.
Caxton’s Authority as a Translator
Although Caxton often utilized the trope of humility in his prologues and
epilogues, he also expressed a degree of self-assurance often overlooked by scholars. He
knew what he was looking for in translations that were not his own. His different
estimations of two translators in Mirror of the World and Dicts or Sayings show him to
have had some idea of what he did and did not value in translation. In Mirror of the
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World, published on March 8, 1481, he acknowledged the fallibility of his texts, but not
of himself: “requyryng alle them that shal fynde faulte to correcte and amende where as
they shal ony fynde; and of suche so founden that they repute not the blame on me but on
my copie, which I am charged to folowe as nyghe as God wil gyve me grace” (Blake,
Caxton’s Own World 115). While he began this passage with his familiar request that his
audience read actively and hold him accountable for mistakes he may have made in the
still fledgling art of creating print, he blames the source of those potential errors not on
his own ability as a translator but on the copy text he was working from.
Caxton was willing to admit his own faults, but never to take the blame for
someone else’s. His copy text of Mirror of the World was French, “translated out of
Latyn into Frensshe by the ordynaunce of the noble duc, Johan Berry of Auvergne in
1245” (Blake, Caxton’s Own World 114). Though he did not name the translator who
reduced the work from its original Latin into French, he repeatedly placed any blame for
a faulty translation squarely on the shoulders of this earlier, nameless translator. He
explicitly mentioned the translator and not just the text in his epilogue: “And yf ther be
faulte in mesuryng of the firmament, sonne, mone, or of th’erthe or in ony other
mervaylles herin conteyned, I beseche you not t’arette the defaulte in me but in hym that
made my copye” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 119). Caxton reinforced his lack of faith in
his Latin-to-French translator by deciding not to name him.
Alternatively, Caxton was willing to praise a translator when he thought the work
was good. In Dicts or Sayings, for example, he expounded the virtues of Earl Rivers, the
translator of the copy text for that book, at great length. In his desire for completeness,
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Caxton included a passage left out by Earl Rivers in his translation of Dicts or Sayings.
He qualified this inclusion, offering reasons as to why Rivers might have made the
delicate omission that he did, presumably with a hope that no backlash would fall upon
Rivers for his editorial choices, possibly out of his esteem for and personal relationship
with the translator and queen’s brother. Notwithstanding his favorable view of Rivers’
translational style, Caxton felt that he had the agency to add to that translation what
Rivers excluded in order to create his own new text.
Only a few months after he published Mirror of the World, on August 12, Caxton
printed his own translation of Cicero’s Of Old Age, of Friendship and Declamation of
Noblesse. In the prologue to this work, in the very first sentence, he let his audience know
the linguistic pedigree of his translation: “Here begynneth the prohemye upon the
reducynge both out of Latyn as of Frensshe into our Englyssh tongue of the polytyque
book named Tullius: De Senectute” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 120). Caxton often
drew from multiple texts in different languages, often French and Latin, in his desire to
create as complete a text as possible, and Of Old Age, of Friendship and Declamation of
Noblesse was no exception. Besides a desire for completeness, Caxton expressed his
judgment of the Latin language:
th’ystoryes of this book whiche were drawen and compiled out of the books of
th’auncyent phylosophers of Greece, as in th’orygynal text of Tulli: De Senectute
in Latyn is specyfyed compendyously, whiche is in maner harde the texte. But
this book reduced in Englyssh tongue is more ample expowned and more swetter
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to the reder, kepyng the juste sentence of the Latyn. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose
121)
Here the translator expressed a complex desire for his translation, one many modern
translators still struggle with: to create a readable text without losing meaning and the
sense of the original language. Certainly this task was not easy, even for the best
translator, let alone an unskilled merchant whose only desire was to get the words on the
press without any regard for artistic merit. Clearly Caxton did have opinions about
translation and worked to create texts that aligned with his values. This sentiment also
helps to expand on Caxton’s more often stated goal of a faithful translation—such a
translation would help to preserve the full meaning of the language.
Caxton’s reasons for editing and printing texts also guided him in his translation
choices and his authorial additions. Although he was often explicit about his goals for
translation, he sometimes failed to state an explanation of those goals in order to
emphasize another aspect of the text that he deemed more important. It seems that the
more he believed in the moral value of a book, the less likely he was to change or emend
it, and the less likely he was to talk about translation at all. He apparently wanted to focus
on content. His translation of Caton, published c. 1484, for example, contains no
additions other than a prologue, a table of contents, and an epilogue. The prologue
consisted of a lengthy diatribe against the state of English individualism and a hope that
the book would ensure that future generations would concern themselves with the
common good rather than personal gain. He expressed great faith in the power of the
book to improve the as-yet-disappointing minds of young people as they stood on the
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precipice of adulthood: “In whiche I doubte not, and yf they wylle rede it and understand,
they shal moche the better conne rewle themself thereby. For among all other bookes this
is a synguler book and may well be callyd ‘The Regyment or Governaunce of the Body
and Sowle’” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 64). In enumerating the faults of the English
youth and the qualities of the Ancient Roman ones, Caxton revealed his reason for
printing the book; he believed, or claimed to believe, that a close reading of this book
would increase the greatness of the English nation. Therefore, because moral utility was
the primary function of this text, the preference for a close, word-for-word translation
that scholars so often ascribe to him would have helped to transcribe some of the virtues
of the Romans onto the English.
Caxton’s translation style in all his works was the one that best served his
purpose. In addition to expressing a desire that his readers would understand his simple
translation of Caton, Caxton once again, as he did when he invited his readers to amend
his errors, appealed to communal learning:
Thenne to th’ende that this sayd book may prouffyte unto the herars of it, I
byseche Almyghty God that I may ach[y]eve and accompplysshe it unto his laude
and glorye, and to th’erudicion and lernynge of them that ben ygnoraunt that they
maye thereby prouffyte and be the better. And I require and byseche alle suche
that fynde faute or errour that of theyr charyte they correcte and amende hit; and I
shalle hertely praye for them to Almyghty God that he rewarde them. (Blake,
Caxton’s Own Prose 64-65)
82
This appeal was especially appropriate here, where Caxton evoked a nationalist pride in
his native home of England. It drew readers’ attention away from the fact that he was
printing these texts in order to gain financial capital for his individual needs; it instead
drew readers closer together under the watchful, paternal eye of one who would expand
their minds out of a desire for the communal good. In this translation, Caxton indicated
that he cared deeply about the message of the text, more than the style, for he offered
very little commentary on the aesthetics of his translation.
Even though Caxton did not mention translation and his translation style in all of
his prologues and epilogues, he nevertheless showed himself to be highly aware of
language and language variety. The prologue to Eneydos, published at the end of his
career in 1490, illustrated his understanding of the shifting nature of language and the
values placed upon it. In this prologue, Caxton created for his readers a narrative of his
working practice, starting with the vetting and choice of a text. When he arrived at the
stage in his narrative in which the translation was to take place, he displayed a heightened
awareness of the critical attitudes toward translation practices in general, as well as his in
particular:
And whan I had advised me in this sayd boke, I delybered and concluded to
translate it into Englysshe, and forthwith toke a penne and ynke and wrote a leef
or tweyne whyche I oversawe agayn to corecte it. And whan I sawe the fayr and
straunge termes therein, I doubted that it sholde not please some gentylmen
whiche late blamed me saying that in my translacyons I had over-curyous termes
83
whiche coude not be understand of comyn peple and desired me to use olde and
homely termes in my translacyons. (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 79)
In this passage, the translator illustrated for his readers a careful process, one which
included revision. Furthermore, he identified a feature of his translation that could
alienate some of his readers: language variety. It seems that come of his contemporaries
were no more fond of Caxton’s translation style than later scholars.
As a response to the critical attitude toward his “over-curyous termes,” Caxton
made an argument about the ever-changing nature of language that was insightful and
that could easily have come out of the mouth of a scholar today. He first remarked on a
time in which he was asked to translate a document “wryton in olde Englysshe” into
Middle English and discovered that he “coude not reduce ne brynge it to be
understonden” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 79). He ended the paragraph with a lyrical
rumination on the nature of language change: “And certaynly our langage now used
varyeth ferre from that whiche was used and spoken whan I was borne, for we
Englysshemen ben borne under the domynacyon of the mone whiche is never stedfaste
but ever waverynge: wexynge one season, and waneth and dyscreaseth another season”
(Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 79). He compared the fluid nature of language to the everchanging moon, acknowledging that one person’s waxing gibbous was another person’s
waning gibbous.
To further illustrate his point that all terms are curious to someone, Caxton related
for his audience a tale that comically raises its awareness of the subjectivity of linguistic
criticism. In it, a merchant asked for eggs with the word egges instead of the word eyren.
84
As a result, the good wife at the inn said that she could not understand him because she
did not speak French. The merchant grew angry, because he did not speak French either;
he was merely using a different form of the same word. Caxton remarked on how the
diversity of the language leaves a writer in a win-lose situation; he is going to end up
alienating someone: “Loo! what sholde a man in thyse dayes now wryte, ‘egges’ or
‘eyren’? Certaynly it is harde to playse every man bycause of dyversite and change of
langage” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose 80).
As a translator of many texts throughout the course of his career, Caxton was
perhaps in one of the best positions to truly understand and appreciate the changing
nature of language. He was not some translation machine, churning out texts solely to fill
his coffers. He thought about things like translation style and the nature of language, and
what style would best convey his message. He told his readers in his prologues and
epilogues that he thought about these things, taking responsibility for the decisions that
he made. Although he often evoked the commonly expected trope of humility, he did not
take the blame for past mistakes made by previous translators. When he needed to make
sacrifices in order to emphasize the aspect of his work which he thought was most
important, he did so. For, ultimately, he was more than just a translator. He was a print
author, creating new texts through the transcription, translation, and collation of the texts
of others. He worked to produce what he thought was the best possible text in each
translation situation, but it was, as he said, “harde to playse every man.”
85
CONCLUSION: CAXTON AS AUTHOR
The most striking aspect of Caxton’s prologues and epilogues was the autonomy
he exhibited in his narration of his creative output. The creative ownership he assumed
over the texts he created is comparable to that of an author. Certainly the amount of
writing he created to accompany his printed texts is large enough to create a volume of its
own, as N. F. Blake and W. J. B. Crotch have each done. Yet despite the size of his
oeuvre, scholars have not ascribed much literary authority to Caxton because they do not
see him as a creator of literature, as an author. They assume that his desire for verbally
close translations was equivalent to uncreative mimicry. However, although he often
expressed a desire to be understood by all and said that the moral nature of his texts
would appeal to noble and merchant classes alike, he was nevertheless a dynamic
translator and editor, pulling from multiple sources to create the most authoritative text
possible while at the same time understanding the zero-sum game of translation in a time
of great linguistic evolution.
The epithet “England’s First Printer” is an inherently inaccurate one. The nascent
art of publishing encompassed many tasks that today would be divided and subdivided.
Caxton personally engaged in vetting, choosing, translating, editing, printing, and
marketing the texts. Such a high level of involvement, care, and dedication to his product
makes him no less an author than Chaucer or Lydgate. Just like Shakespeare with
Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyda, Caxton did not create wholly new texts, but he
transformed them into printed books, a new form. Alistair Minnis describes an auctor as
one “who was at once a writer and an authority, someone not only to be read but also to
86
be believed and trusted” (“Chaucer” 61). As evinced by his prologues and epilogues,
Caxton worked tirelessly to be that authority, reading multiple volumes of a work in
multiple languages, finding the best manuscripts, compiling the most complete texts he
could, and often walking his audience through his process as a bookmaker. He tried to
earn the trust of his audience, explaining the necessity, value, or social significance of a
text through its backing by noble patrons. He developed a relationship with his reading
public through his prologues and epilogues, engaging them in a dialogue about the
bookmaking process and the valuable knowledge that could be disseminated because of
it. At every turn Caxton sought to make himself and his work valuable to his audience.
Although Caxton’s modesty regarding his literary skills may seem excessive and
speak to some anxiety on his part, the trope of humility that Caxton included in nearly
every printed work also helped to legitimize his role as author. Anita Obermeier cites
auctorial self-criticism as one of the defining authorial characteristics of the medieval
period and shows how important literary figures of the fourteenth century, such as
William Langland, Geoffrey Chaucer, and Thomas Hoccleve, exhibited this trait. Caxton
had a great admiration for Chaucer, printing two editions of his Canterbury Tales and
ascribing to him the title of “noble and grete philosopher” (Blake, Caxton’s Own Prose
61). He also expressed an admiration for the poet’s contributions to the English language.
In addition to composing several original prologues and epilogues of his own, Caxton
was also known for translating the prologues and epilogues of his source texts. In doing
so, he was exposed to the trope of authorial self-criticism and thus could have begun to
experiment with it in his own writing as a way to emulate authorial autonomy.
87
Caxton pulled from past authorial traditions in order to create a new authorial
identity. In addition to his own work on Caxton, William Kuskin has much to say on the
fifteenth century. In his book Recursive Origins: Writing at the Transition to Modernity,
he notes the pervasive pull of the past on the present and the way traditional periods of
specialization in literature studies have hidden this connection:
the dominant narratives of literary studies assert totalizing divisions that insist that
things come from themselves. In contrast, I propose that we can best step outside
of this narrative, that we can make war on totality, by recognizing that nothing
comes from itself unless through a complex process of interconnectedness, of
return on precedent, which is no origin at all. (5)
In recognizing that “nothing comes from itself,” that new phenomena are deeply
entrenched in what came before them, we can view Caxton as a new kind of author, the
print author, who navigated not only various source texts but also the literary marketplace
in which he disseminated his work. Using what he learned about authorial identity from
Chaucer and others, he worked to repurpose that authority in service of his new creation,
just as print books emulated the form of manuscripts.
In his historical moment, the transition period of the fifteenth century, Caxton was
not only reappropriating authorial identity; he was transforming it in a meaningful way.
Although the origins of his work may have been recursive, what grew from those origins
was something different from the authorial position that had come before it. Garrett
describes this evolution in his essay on Caxton’s translation practices in Aesop:
88
Writing in the fifteenth century and occupying a different socio-cultural position
from that held by Marie de France and Chaucer, Caxton, rather than calling
attention to himself as an individual artist and translator, instead, like Lydgate,
examines his role as writer in the public sphere, with its attendant obligations and
risks. In his fable translations he attempts to reconcile the artistic voice with the
expressions and demands of the public, the latter perhaps exerting more pressure,
thus producing fables even more reflective of modern culture than those of other
medieval vernacular fabulists. (Garrett 54)
Thus Caxton was an author not of the court, as Chaucer and Marie de France been, but an
author for the literate masses. As such he needed to attend to the needs of the people.
However, this authorial position was not new. Recursively, he had go back to Lydgate for
an example of a “writer in the public sphere.” Yet he needed to grow something new
from those origins and reconcile his “artistic voice” with the demands of the market he
had helped to establish.
In his work, and specifically in his prologues and epilogues, Caxton filled many
roles at once, often making artistic moves that would help him to meet several of his
goals with one decision. The fact that he did this so successfully has led some scholars to
believe that his process was as simple as he claimed. If scholars take his modesty as an
honest assessment of his authorial skills, they cannot understand Caxton as author. Many
printers after him did not include such lengthy prologues and narratives and so lost the
close relationship he had cultivated with his audience. In an age where knowledge was
becoming more and more available thanks to the printing press, Caxton stepped out of his
89
pages and into the lives of his readers, introducing himself as a print author and inviting
them to embark with him in this new creative venture.
90
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Belyea, Barbara. “Caxton’s Reading Public.” English Language Notes 19.1 (1981): 1419. Literary Reference Center. Web. 20 Nov. 2012.
Blades, William. The Life and Typography of William Caxton. New York: Franklin,
1964. Print.
Blake, N. F. Caxton: England’s First Publisher. New York: Barnes, 1976. Print.
---. Caxton and His World. London: Deutsch, 1969. Print.
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Bracken, James K., and Joel Silver, eds. The Dictionary of Literary Biography. Detroit:
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Deacon, Richard. A Biography of William Caxton: The First English Editor, Printer,
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