With respect to my own collection of some six thousand volumes, brought together from the four quarters of the globe, I have a catalogue card which tells me when I purchased each item, from whom I purchased it, and the price I paid. But these facts are simply the menomic starting points which help to recreate the innumerable incidents of acquisition which provide so much pleasure to recall in the quiet moments of one's life.

Because we are honoring here today a distinguished collector who built his collection in the same rewarding fashion as I have, it seemed appropriate on this occasion to devote my talk to the kind of reminiscence I believe he would enjoy. I have tried to select from innumerable incidents of acquisition those ten that I feel were the most exciting for one reason or another. Because a wide spectrum of emotions are inevitably involved in the constitution of any collector, my choices will be more subjective than the result of any bibliographical value judgments.

I began to buy books at a very early age, my available funds confining my purchases to second-hand books. Actually I was acquiring them for reading purposes. It never occurred to me that I was a collector. But in fact I was, because the books I was buying were readily available to me at the local Carnegie library. That I wanted these books on my own shelves as my own permanent possession made me unknowingly a collector.

I took my couple of shelves of books to Seattle with me when, at the age of 18, I decided to try my Dick Whittington luck in the big city. I deliberately left behind Dr. Elliot's Five Foot Shelf of Books which I had been persuaded by a smooth-talking door-to-door salesman to purchase as a certain open sesame to wisdom, if not affluence. I had soon discovered that the standardized format and monotonous typography of Dr. Elliot's masterpiece was more to be recommended for their soporific qualities than for their intellectual stimulation. That's the last set I ever bought except for reference purposes.

Seattle was an exciting city after my restricted small-town life, and I explored its streets during noon hours, after work, and on weekends, and discovered, much to my surprise and delight, that there were stores devoted exclusively to second-hand books, with proprietors of seemingly endless knowledge of books and an apparent delight in encouraging a young man to browse.

I soon fell in with an old Scandinavian dealer located on my walking route home, and he began to introduce me into the arcane of press books. He explained the rationale behind the typography, margins and placement of type on page, and the fine press work, and I became convinced that I could attain wisdom more easily through reading beautiful books than those which were dull and listless to the eye. I must confess that this is a conviction which I find it difficult to shake.

I knew nothing of William Morris or Cobden-Sanderson and their theories of bookmaking, and I'm sure neither did my bookseller friend, as I never saw a Kelmscott or Doves Press book on his shelves. The best typographical examples he seemed to be able to advance from stock were from the Mosher and Roycroft Presses.

After having exhausted my first enthusiasm for the self-conscious gaudiness of Elbert Hubbard's imitation Kelmscott bound in ooze calf, I began a love affair with Mosher Press books which has lasted for more than 45 years. Fortunately it was an affair I could afford, as Mosher books were cheap in those days when the big collectors were going for the far more expensive productions of Kelmscott, Doves, Nash, Grabhorn and Bruce Rogers.

In fact, I saw and purchased my first Doves Press book only after I came to San Francisco in 1929, and became acquainted with a budding young British antiquarian dealer on Post Street who was undoubtedly hanging on as tenuous a financial thread as I was. The Doves book violated every principle of economic good sense I had ever learned, but charmed by its sheer beauty encased in simple vellum, I threw caution to the wind and had my fling.

But Mosher was my idol, and I rummaged the shops of San Francisco and Los Angeles methodically for these lovely little volumes, and during the next twelve years assembled a very respectable Mosher collection—good enough, in fact, to have prompted an invitation from the Roxburghe Club to present a paper on Mosher, with a representative exhibit of his works. This was in 1937, and I worked hard on the preparation of the paper and arrangement of the exhibit. Much to my astonishment it turned out to be a huge success. I was elected to membership by acclamation (the Club was far more informal in those days than today), and I was urged to do further work on the paper with the idea of eventual publication. I did precisely this, but 27 years later.

Then World War II came, and I enlisted. The uncertainty of the future prompted me to sell my library. Most of my books went to Newbegin's, but I didn't want the Mosher collection of 224 volumes broken up. I consulted George Fields, with whom I had become a Saturday afternoon bourbon buddie in the backroom of his Polk Street shop, and he was able to come up with a buyer to whom the collection could be disposed and kept intact. I never knew until after the war who this unknown buyer was.

Four years later found me in Detroit, out of the service and handling the advertising for Ford cars. I had resumed my old collecting habits by first acquiring a wife and three children before turning my attention to books. At this point, the only part of my pre-war library I regretted having sold was the Mosher collection.

In starting collecting all over again, I was able to profit by my earlier mistake of eclecticism—the purchase of various kinds of books that interested me, but a collection so scattered in various fields that there was no depth in any except, of course, Mosher.

So I determined after the war to concentrate in the specific field of the Art and History of the Book, which was at the same time general enough to allow me to purchase almost anything I really wanted to buy. In my bibliomania there has always been some method, as you can see.

At any rate, I began to find Mosher books here and there, and was beginning to have an attractive shelf of these little beauties when all of a sudden the first of my ten most exciting experiences as a collector transpired.

The library of Thomas Bird Mosher himself came to auction in May of 1948, twenty-five years after his death. The possibility of a "great leap forward" in Mosher was at hand.

My book buying funds were quite limited indeed at the time, and with the guidance of a rare book dealer located conveniently in the same building with my office, we set our strategy. $500 was the budget; all I could afford. We marked the items most important to a representative collection of Mosher Press, and decided upon cumulative bidding. As we were outbid on an item, the reserve for that item was added to the pot for additional titles.

We bid in 102 titles, but what an array! All books were from Mosher's own library, almost all on Japan Vellum, marked Copy No. 1, some on pure vellum, four copies only.

The first three publications of the Mosher Press were George Meredith's "Modern Love," James Thompson’s "The City of Dreadful Night," and Robert Bridges’ "The Growth of Love." All three fell to our bids, each copy a large paper edition limited to 10 copies printed on Japan Vellum.

The next Mosher series was called the "Bibelot Series." Of the ten titles published, we got eight, all on Japan Vellum, limited to 25 or 50 copies. The cornerstone of the Mosher Press productions is the "Old World Series," of which there were fifty titles published from 1895 to 1909. We got 45 of these so titles, all on Japan Vellum, limited to 50 to 100 copies.

The "Quarto Series" are the largest and most handsome books Mosher ever published, and, devoted to the works of Swinburne, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and Walter Pater. Ten titles, in eleven volumes, these books are seldom seen on the market, even today. We acquired every title on Japan Vellum, and two of them in duplicate on pure vellum—and what a delight to the eye these vellum copies are! Mosher mastered the art of printing on this tricky medium, one which Nash and Grabhorn avoided like poison.

A scattering of books in other less important Mosher series completed our objective. If I had no Mosher books in my collection other than those acquired in this 1948 auction, it would rank as one of the important Mosher collections in this country today. But during the 23 years that have elapsed since that exciting experience, my collection has grown to more than 800 items, including a mass of original manuscript material of poetry and essays which Mosher wrote during his younger days, practically none of which ever emerged in print.

But as Eve discovered that there is a worm in every apple of satisfaction, (the snake may be the tempter, but the worm is the source of discontent), I look back at that auction catalogue today with regret that I had to pass up so many things through sheer lack of finances. For example, I could have bid in 45 Mosher titles on pure vellum for about $1,200.00. A fine run of original letters and inscribed copies from Robert Frost to Mosher went for bargain prices. These are today in the Waller Barrett collection at the University of Virginia, a most appropriate place for them.

What I regret most, probably, is having to pass up the original correspondence from William Sharp to Thomas Bird Mosher, 61 pieces which went for $170.00. These letters deal with the various works of "Fiona Macleod," the fictitious kinswoman created by William Sharp to disguise the real author of a series of remarkable prose-poems. All letters were signed "Fiona Macleod," and were in the handwriting of Sharp's sister. Only after the death of William Sharp did the real identity of Fiona Macleod become known.

Let us plant, then, the first slim root. Thomas B. Mosher, of Portland, Maine, published his first small catalogue in 1895. Facing the title page is a quotation from John Ruskin on the subject of books, and it opens by saying, "A Book is essentially not a talked thing, but a written thing; and written, not with a view of mere communication, but of permanence." Then Ruskin ends with both a promise and an admonition "Now books of this kind have been written in all ages by their greatest men -by great readers, great statesmen, and great thinkers. These are all at your choice; and Life is short." In the foreword, Mr. Mosher informs the reader that only four years earlier he issued his first volume which incidentally was George Meredith's Modern Love, its first publication in this Country¾and that he had gone into publishing believing that a In the field of accomplished book-making," as he put it, "there was a reviving interest that demanded satisfaction, and so far had not found it."

Then, after a choice quotation from Emerson, Mr. Mosher proceeds to announce a new project in these words "Mr. Mosher takes pleasure in announcing for the Fall season of 1895, the initial volumes of THE OLD WORLD SERIES, in which such acknowledged masterpieces of Literature are presented as to render the name chosen a peculiarly appropriate one." The first of what would prove to be a fifty-two volume series, published over a period of twenty years, was the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, rendered into English verse by Edward Fitzgerald. The second was the exquisite old French love story, Aucassin and Nicolete beautifully "done into English" by Andrew Lang, and thereby hangs a tale to which we will come in a moment. My first introduction to Mosher took place about thirty-two years ago, when I was browsing through a book store on Olive Way in Seattle, and a kindly old Scandinavian dealer by the name of Munson called my attention to one of The Old World Series of Mosher's, and suggested that for a young man of obviously modest means the books of this press provided the ideal solution to my yearning for fine literature presented in a format of visual satisfaction. The purchase was quickly made (the price was fifty cents, as I recall); the book devoured that evening; and as I scoured the Seattle bookstores, other Mosher imprints followed, and a new world of great writers and wonderful ideas opened before my mind Swinburne, Tennyson, Stevenson, Walter Pater, Robert Bridges, George Gissing, the Brownings, Emerson, William Morris, A. E. Housman, William Blake, the Rossettis (Dante Gabriel and Christina), and a gentle horde of others.

Largely through Mosher books (and I have over three hundred different Mosher titles in my library today) the pattern of my collection began to be shaped. The world's finest literature, presented when possible by the world's finest printers. I could not have guessed during these early days that this would lead me into the history of printing, early printing and into the pre-incunabula era of medieval manuscripts.

Nor could I have foretold that the progressive exposure to related herds would cause sudden forays into new territories which would result in significant subsidiary collections of Carlyle, Ruskin, the Panama Canal, autograph letters of Presidents, fine bindings and fore-edge paintings. I admit that it might be difficult to convince others that all these interests are directly related to the main issue, but there isn't a bibliophile alive who doesn't possess his own peculiar brand of logic.

But I would like to return to Thomas Bird Mosher. His father was a sea captain, and Mosher himself spent five years at sea before he settled in Portland, Maine, and went to work in a law stationer's office. Is it any surprise, then, that he became a famous pirate! I have a collection of clippings from the English press of 1896, a number of which are headed "An American Pirate." They have to do with the controversy that developed over Mr. Mosher's reprinting of Andrew Lang's translation of Aucassin and Nicolete without permission. Lang, who was well-to-do and somewhat of an intellectual snob, published his beautiful translation for limited sale only. It was printed by the Chiswick Press on Japan vellum in 550 copies, plus 63 large paper copies. The subscribers were assured that no additional copies would be printed.

Mr. Mosher, who deeply admired the translation, felt that there was no justification for keeping it out of reach of the ordinary reader, and took the most direct corrective step he knew of, which was to publish it himself, complete with the original headband at the top of the Introduction. This came to Mr. Lang's attention through a critical review in the London Critic, which prompted an attack by him on Mosher in the columns of that same publication. Mr. Mosher wrote a most remarkable defense, including this rather unique approach to piracy: "Because your Aucassin was literature, I laid hold upon it; because you and your publisher abandoned it on the high seas, as flotsam and jetsam, I rescued it and brought it into port, that it might not become forever derelict and lost. It is mine because I found it! Shorn of all 'artistic and typographical grace' this book might have been [a] dead failure…; issued as I issued it here, where we are not all rich amateurs as with you, it found acceptance and will continue to do so."

Mr. Mosher's practice of charming piracy continued, to the delight of his growing list of customers, and to the tolerant amusement if not the tacit approval of his victims. Among the latter were Robert Bridges, George Meredith, Richard Le Gallienne and A. E. (George William Russell). In addition to a complete set of the clippings pertaining to this delightful episode, I have the true first editions of Andrew Lang's book, which caused the trouble, in both the ordinary and large paper formats.

But of greater collector's interest is the first item of the twenty-one I will show you tonight¾the original manuscript of Richard Le Gallienne's essay, Thomas B. Mosher An Appreciation. In this he speaks of Andrew Lang's anger over Mosher's act of piracy, and goes on to say:

"Possibly I take an unusual view of such so called literary piracy; yet it seems to me mere childishness, when one has neglected properly to protect one's literary property, to complain if someone exercises his undoubted legal right of taking a fancy to it. Actually, I rejoice no little that so much exquisite literature would seem to have been thus left unprotected; for in that neglect has been the opportunity of Mr. Mosher's enthusiasm, and by reason of it many lovely things that in the indifferent hands of their 'legitimate' sponsors, stood a fair chance of oblivion, have been rescued and displayed for our delight.... If, as Kipling says, he has taken his good where he found it, it's all to the gaiety of bookmen, and here I am not so much concerned with the so-called piracy as with the creative taste which inspired it."

About eight years ago, a large section of Mosher's personal library came to auction at Parke-Bernet, and included in it were many of his own personal copies of books he had published, some on pure vellum and even unbound sheets. Fortunately, my bids through my book dealer were of sufficient strength to carry the day on most of the important lots, including Mosher's own copy of his first book, the large paper edition on Japan vellum. Among my many prizes, however, was a small, paper covered pamphlet printed for his friends by the great typographer, Bruce Rogers, as a Christmas gift in 1909. It was titled IV Sonnets these being by Wordsworth. It was inscribed, "To the Aldus of the XIX Century from an amateur printer" and signed "B.R." Following up what I considered an inspired hunch, I sent the pamphlet to Bruce Rogers with a request that he re-inscribe it to me, which he did in these words, "Inscribed forty years later for Norman H. Strouse," signed "Bruce Rogers, October House, New Fairfield, Conn." In B.R.'s reply it became apparent why he was willing to do this. Curiosity got him. He had never seen this item at auction, and wanted to know what I had paid for it! What an association item!

Few people know, it seems, that Bruce Rogers drew some decorations for Mosher, and that the Mosher printing of A.E.'s Homeward Songs By The Way is included in the B.R. Bibliography under his "Incunabula." Through Mosher I was introduced to many of those fugitive bits of literature which do not come to the attention of even the most avid reader today George Gissing's Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft, Alexander Smith's Dreamthorp, Symond's Wine, Women and Song, William Morris' A Dream of John Ball, Stevenson's Virginibus Puerisque, and Swinburne's Atalanta in Calydon, to name but a few redolent titles. As I have browsed through English book catalogues across the years, I have picked up the first editions of many of these works which had come to Mosher's eye as "flotsam and jetsam" to excite his pirate's soul.

Although I would seem to give precedence to Updike, the Prayer Book is one of the few items of his in my collection. The Huntington Library may properly state that "The output of his Merrymount Press during the last half century has been the strongest continuous influence for the improvement of printing in the United States." But we must make our friends, one by one, and there are many whom we respect with whom we have not established bonds of intimacy which touch our emotions. I find myself in this position with Updike, but perhaps some day I will find my way past his formidable professionalism.

SUCH IS NOT THE CASE with Thomas Bird Mosher, who entered the arena of fine printing two years ahead of Updike, and, in fact, was the first American to publish books of distinction in limited editions. His first book, the first American edition of George Meredith's Modern Love, appeared in 1891, the same year that William Morris issued his first book, The Glittering Plain.

Morris and Mosher both loved books. Both were dissatisfied with the ugliness that characterized the bulk of book production at the time. But here the similarity disappears completely. It is true that Mosher tried several frank imitations of Morris' typographical style, the earliest being Hand and Soul in 1898; and even as late as 1912 he went back twenty years to pick up an initial from the Kelmscott Defense of Guinevere for his folio Memories of Lincoln where it made a surprising fit on the title page. But I credit these peccadillos to irresistible temptation to piracy which flavored Mr. Mosher's history, to the delight of so many, and certainly to the fury of a few. Mosher's first book, Modern Love, set a style all his own, which lasted through thirty-two years of publishing; and although he rang many changes on his basic style, the practiced eye of a Mosher addict can spot a Mosher book across the full length of any bookstore. No press has tempted the best efforts of so many of the world's great binders as has the Mosher Press, but even when rebound in full leather, whether by Zaehnsdorf, Root or Riviere, there is always something about the dimensions and title of a Mosher book that admits its identity to the Mosher collector on sight.

Mosher produced well over three hundred titles during his lifetime. Each was carefully designed to meet the needs of content, whether in the small 16mo of "The Old World Series," the substantial volumes of collected poetry in his "Quarto Series," or the occasional thin folio that turned up in the extensive catch-all he called "The Miscellaneous Series." All Mosher books were hand-set and printed on Van Gelder handmade paper, Japan vellum or pure vellum. Caslon was his favorite type, and he used little touches of color with discrimination, and decorative headpieces and initials with restraint. Most of his books were bound in white vellum paper or in blue, gray or green paper over thin boards with a little printed label for the title on the back, and enclosed in slipcases. Mosher sought to please the eye, to set the proper mood for appreciation of his specially selected treasures. Mosher is not well-known today, and although the rare book dealers seldom concern themselves with Mosher books, possibly because they are not rare as qualified by price, these books are hard to come by even in secondhand bookstores.

Yet there were authoritative voices who spoke highly of Mosher in his time. I have a copy of Bruce Rogers' privately printed Wordsworth Sonnets, which he inscribed to Mosher in 1906 in these words, "To the Aldus of the 19th Century"; and this was many years before John Henry Nash permitted his printer associates to call him "The Aldus of San Francisco." A. Edward Newton was proud to have paid tribute to Mosher before his death. And such other writers and book-loving gentlemen as Christopher Morley, Richard Le Gallienne, William Lyon Phelps and Prof. Harry Lyman Koopman of Brown University, have recognized the permanent obligation American literature and printing owed to the solitary workman at Portland, Maine. Although we see the lengthened shadow in these hundreds of exquisite volumes which carried the Mosher imprint into discriminating homes throughout the world, it would be well to know something of the man that cast it. What was Mosher's real objective behind all this publishing, which resulted in the amazing combination of beauty of physical presentation with enduring literary content, yet at a price that assured that all could drink at these cultural springs who would?

In his 1903 catalogue, Mr. Mosher summarized the results of his first twelve years of publishing, by which time he could list 160 volumes, and in the foreword defined his purpose in these words:

"First and last, the production of these books has been a labour of love… not for mere profit in dollars and cents but from the desire of producing beautiful books at a moderate price-'things of beauty rather than of mere utility'-thereby inducing that personal relationship between craftsman and client without which all doing is labour misapplied."

In Bruce Rogers' early days, there was a close relationship between him and Mosher. The first book to carry B.R.'s name was the Mosher Homeward Songs by the Way, by A.E. (George W. Russell), published in 1895, the colophon of which reads, "The designs and headbands by Bruce Rogers." There are eight designs in the book, two of which are signed. IN READING Grolier 75, I learned for the first time, and much to my surprise, that Thomas Bird Mosher had been a member of the Grolier Club for many years, from 1895 until his death in 1923.

Assuming that all things are relative, Keats could not have been more excited by his first exposure to Chapman's Homer than I with my first glimpse of a Mosher book, one of the slender little volumes from his Old World Series, bound in Japan vellum, hand set and printed on Van Gelder hand made paper, carrying the imprint of Thomas Bird Mosher, of Portland, Maine.

As was my custom during my early days on the Seattle Post-lntelligencer, I walked home one evening along Olive Way, which led to Capitol Hill, where I lived in a small room in a private home. Among the one-storied shops along the route was a second hand bookstore, the proprietor of which was an old Norwegian who had a scanty stock but whose talk about books had charmed me off my homeward schedule on more than one occasion.

On this particular evening we were debating the relative importance of format and content in a good book, and he advanced the proposition that one could acquire a liberal education solely through the reading of books designed and produced by the modern fine presses. When I evidenced some skepticism, he asked whether I had ever seen a Mosher book. I had not, so he brought several from his back room, together with one of the old Mosher catalogues. Before I left I was poorer by a few coins, but richer through this introduction to one of the most remarkable printer-publishers in the private press movement on either side of the Atlantic.

This introduction to Mosher opened for me a new world of literature, and led me into many avenues of reading which I might otherwise have missed. It also gave root to my interest in the art and history of the book which has provided countless hours of pleasure and education both as a bibliophile and student of English literature. Had it not been for the Mosher books which accumulated one by one, or sometimes in small clusters, on my library shelves, I probably would not have become acquainted with the writings of many authors whom one must read as a young man if ever they are to make their point, and become a part of one's life. Who ever reads William Blake, Yeats, Edward FitzGerald, Housman, Andrew Lang, William Morris, Walter Pater, John Ruskin, Swinburne, Keats, Rossetti and Wilde, George Gissing or Maurice Hewlett in the rush of a business or professional career?

Ten years of collecting brought more than one hundred and fifty Mosher books to my shelves. My study of them was assisted by a rewarding correspondence with Flora Lamb, long-time secretary to Thomas Bird Mosher, who had carried on the business of the firm for many years following his death in 1923. I gleaned a little information here and there from book dealers, who seemed always to have a few Mosher books around, spoke well of them, but who knew very little about the Press or its background. In 1937 I was asked by a member of the Roxburghe Club of San Francisco if I would prepare a talk on the subject of Mosher for one of their monthly dinner meetings upstairs at old Pierre's Restaurant on Pine Street. I had the temerity to accept.

Before this relaxed, informal group, well supplied with wine and food, I presented a paper, as well as an exhibit of representative Mosher books. My reward was a responsive audience, and membership by acclamation. Several booksellers present expressed surprise at the breadth and quality of Mosher's production during the 32 years history of the press, and urged that the paper be published. As I was continuing to accumulate information on Mosher, I was reluctant to proceed with any plans for publication. Soon the war in Europe and my active participation in the Willkie Volunteers distracted my attention. In 1942 I sold my library and entered the service.

When I returned to civilian life, I immediately resumed my old sins and started collecting books again, this time somewhat compulsively, and with Mosher high on my ]list of desiderata. It was slow work, as Mosher books seem to be about the rarest inexpensive books one can look for. However, there must be a patron saint for collectors. In 1948 Mosher's own library came to auction, and I was able to replace many of my pre-war Mosher items with his own personal copies. In 1960, I was asked to make a talk on books before the members of The Rowfant Club of Cleveland, and accepted because I felt it was time to talk about Mosher again. I revised my Roxburghe Club talk to include a considerable amount of new material which had accumulated. The reaction was the same as in 1937. Tremendous interest, both in the talk and the exhibit, and many nostalgic recollections about Mosher among the older members. And again the urge to publish. But as additional information was still coming to hand, I felt that the book could wait for a while yet.

Late in 1962 I was invited by The Society of Printers In Boston to make a talk on book collecting and fine printing and accepted an engagement for February 6, 1963. With the feeling that I might be carrying bibliographical coals to Newcastle in talking about Mosher to a group of printers in Mosher's back yard, I nevertheless decided this would be a good test of interest. With a more than respectable attendance, and a delightful scattering of wives in the audience, I was stimulated again by the unusual interest displayed in the talk and the exhibit, with discussion of Mosher continuing at a gracious postprandial gathering at Rollo Silver's book-lined home on Beacon Hill.

Once more there were suggestions that the talk be converted into print for wider availability, with one specific proposal for publication. I confess of some feeling of jealousy about the Mosher material which I had assembled across so many years. I wanted the circumstances for its publication to be right, both as to time and press. As a result of a modest collaboration in a remarkable book, Five On Paper, produced by Henry Morris of the Bird & Bull Press of North Hills, Pennsylvania, I became convinced that the circumstances were favorable-in fact, almost compelling. Five On Paper came completely from the hand of Henry Morris, even the 1800 sheets of hand made paper having been produced single-handedly during the weekends of the summer of 1962 in his basement. He designed the book, hand set the type, printed the book by hand on dampened paper, collated, sewed and hand bound it in full leather. Librarians and private collectors fortunate enough to secure copies were unanimous in their expressions of surprise and commendation. It won generous reviews, including one from far-off England, where James Moran in his publication The Black Art summed up: "The book is therefore a major achievement for a private press apart from the fact that Mr. Morris made all the paper himself." Five On Paper, a surprise hit, was almost immediately out of print, and now is a hard-to-come-by and inexpensive rare book. Basic to the delight one experiences in handling Mosher books is the exquisite hand made paper on which he exercised his rare talent for book making. Although Mosher drew on sympathetic craftsmen to print his books, every volume spoke eloquently of a personal dedication to the concept of a private press. Mosher books were a simple extension of the personality of Thomas Bird Mosher and his compulsive delight in the spiritual treasures of literature. The products of Mosher's artistry were scattered across the four corners of the English reading world during his lifetime. But he has also reached across the decades since his death to excite the interest of many others, including a dedicated hand craftsman of natural skills in Henry Morris.

In discussing Mosher with this delightfully unassuming young printer in my library last fall, his spontaneous enthusiasm made it inevitable that any first book about the enraptured book maker from Portland, Maine, should come from his hands. I knew that in his hands Mr. Mosher would be well dealt with.

N. H. S.
New York City February 1, 1964.