American Typecasting Fellowship
Newsletter Issue No. 18
June 1994




A Painful Tale to Recount
—Richard L. Hopkins

Ten months after the ATF sale, I still am 
having bad dreams about how the event 
transpired, and still was putting myself 
through futile mental exercises of how it might 
have been done better. Never before had I been 
so close to such an historic archive; to 
witness its total and callous destruction at 
the hands of incompetent dimwits surely will 
continue to disturb my slumber far years to 
come.

The dimwits were the auctioneers, a father-son 
team perfectly matched to assure confusion, 
disgust, and repulsion. Though charged with 
maximizing cash receipts far the bankruptcy 
court, they succeeded only in alienating every 
person attending the auction and therefore, 
guaranteed minimal proceeds, and maximizing 
confusion. So very much vital information and 
so many tools and implements of the 
typefounding profession were destroyed as a 
result of the sale. Having spent many hours 
over the years studying primary research 
sources—things like business letters and 
company records-I was dumbfounded to find 
ATF's filing cabinets and miscellaneous boxes 
of records, patents and patent drawings strewn 
from one end of the plant to the other.

There wasn't even a "lot" on the auction bill 
to solicit bidding far these materials. When 
told of this oversight at the beginning of the 
sale, the auctioneer made a ridiculous 
solicitation for bids on the records and 
information contained in all the boxes, filing 
cabinets, cabinets, and drawers throughout the 
building—as a single bid-and he emphatically 
excluded the containers themselves.

This is only an inkling of the pathetic way the 
sale was concluded. Yet the enormity of the 
facility at ATF, and its very apparent disorder 
and abuse over recent years surely made the 
Auctioneer's job nearly impossible anyway.

I keep telling myself "What's done is done." 
Yet every single telephone conversation I've 
had with anyone who attended the sale has 
revealed that the affair profoundly distressed 
us all. It was just awful. No words will ever
adequately interpret the event. Still, one must 
try, and that's the principal purpose of this 
issue of the ATF Newsletter.




July Conference in California a 'Go'
—Richard L. Hopkins

Next month's biennial conference of the 
American Typecasting Fellowship, scheduled 
for July 15-17 with technical sessions 
immediately following on July 18 and 19, will 
be staged at the International Printing Museum 
at Buena Park, Calif.

The museum, which has an excellent collection 
of working linecasting machinery, will 
naturally have emphasis on this equipment, with 
opportunity for hands-on experience. Mark 
Barbour, curator of the museum, is serving as 
host. He has promised demonstrations of early 
Linotypes, Intertypes, the Linograph, Thompson 
typecaster, the extremely rare Linotype Junior, 
Typograph, Unitype, Fotosetter, Monophoto and 
the Ludlow. 

Mark has warned all that a block of motel rooms 
at the nearby Holiday Inn, will be held open 
only through June 21. A World Cup soccer 
tournament is scheduled for the Buena Park area 
at the same time; and motel facilities are in 
very short supply. You may contact the motel 
direct by calling (714) 522-7000.

The conference is open to all interested 
individuals. A fee of $150.00 covers all 
programs, continental breakfasts, lunches, and 
the Saturday banquet. An additional $50.00 will 
cover the technical sessions.

While still in the planning stages, the 
schedule already has confirmations for speakers 
including Corban Goble (speaking on Mark 
Twain's nemesis the Paige Compositor), Carl 
Schlesinger (speaking on Ottmar Mergentha1er's 
Interesting and frustrating life), Bill Davis 
(from Monotype Typography, speaking on type 
design modern and old), Pat Reagh (photopolymer 
plates), as well as others including Mark 
Barbour, Rich Hopkins, Bill Berkuda (Linotype 
practical sessions), Paul Duensing, and others.

Theo Rehak has promised a video presentation 
regarding his revival of the legendary Barth 
typecaster and his continuation of the American 
Type Founders tradition at his Howell, N.J., 
facility. He has engraved a 72-point matrix for 
a keepsake emblem (shown oversized at left) on 
the last remaining "adcut pantograph" bought at 
the ATF auction.

The keynote address on Saturday evening will be 
by Ernie Lindner, whose magnificent collection 
of linecasting equipment makes up a significant 
portion of the International Printing Museum.

If you haven't already made reservations, you 
should take action immediately. 

If you plan to attend, don't forget the 
traditional exchange of keepsakes at ATF 
conferences. Print and bring at least 60 
copies. And also, you're encouraged to bring 
slides of your shop for viewing Friday evening.




American Type Founders Company
A Troubled Report On Its Demise
—Richard L. Hopkins

The grandaddy of everything related to 
letterpress printing—and particularly had 
composition—was laid to rest August 24, 1993, 
with the bankruptcy auctioning of the 
Kingsley/American Type Founders organization of 
Elizabeth, N.J.

The event itself was attended by about 150 
souls who were either deeply concerned about 
the great heritage up for sale, or were metal 
dealers and junkers who had descended on ATF 
like vultures waiting to devour the kill. 
Modesty prevents him from taking credit, but 
those closest to the situation realize that 
Theo Rehak of Howell, N.J., was chiefly 
responsible for the sale being held at all. The 
trustee initially had opted to abandon the 
plant and equipment by assigning it to ATF's 
landlord, the Purepac Pharmaceutical Company, 
which owned the premises; Purepac occupied the 
first two floors of the building and leased the 
top floor to ATF. Though the building had been 
erected by ATF's Kelly Press Division in the 
1920's, ATF had lost ownership of the building 
many years ago. Kingsley/ATF apparently had no 
paid its monthly lease since March 31, 1991.

My first hint that the century-old tradition 
called American Type Founders was coming to an 
end was a call in the spring of 1993 from Theo. 
He was sure bankruptcy was looming—he just 
didn't know when. Then came his late night call 
sometime in April, when he reported corporate 
executives from California had marched into the 
plant and announced closing at the end of work 
that day. Theo had been an employee for a dozen 
years and thus, was present when the 
announcement was made. (Chapter 7 bankruptcy 
papers were file May 19, 1993).

Apparently he was the only person within the 
company concerned about the future of the 
equipment, matrices, and "tradition" of ATF. 
Theo had made it his business to try to keep 
abreast of events at the foundry from various 
perspectives, including Kingsley corporate
shenanigans in California, relations with the
Purepac company (ATF's landlord), and indeed, 
with George Gasparik, the long-reigning, 
cantankerous general manager. Kingsley made an 
effort to move selecl: pieces of equipment to 
California prior to declaration of bankruptcy, 
but either the landlord or bank officials 
halted the effort.

The landlord, obviously upset about delays 
caused by the bankruptcy and the prospect of
never being reimbursed for many months of 
unpaid rent, moved in on the foundry right 
after it was closed, taking over the entire 
forward area originally occupied by ATF 
offices, randomly dumping filing cabinets, 
desks, and other office equipment into the 
aisles of the foundry and into the bathrooms, 
completely blocking access to many areas.

Once this was discovered, the trustee took 
legal steps to get the encroachment stopped, 
but an extensive renovation project was 
clearly visible (definitely off-limits) to 
those attending the sale. Theo was in close 
contact with all parties, trying to preserve 
as much as possible. At one juncture, he 
discovered absolutely no security at the 
abandoned facility, and found that vandals had 
entered and trashed one area, which included 
the specimen book collection. 


The Trustee's First Notice 

The first announcement of trustee action 
reflected an inflated appraisal of ATF's 
facility and "good will," which had served to 
underwrite loans against ATF assets granted to 
Kingsley in 1988 totaling $650,000. The 
trustee was seeking broad-ranging bids or 
proposals from parties on things such as the 
various copyrights and patents owned by the 
company, the digital type activities (which 
were largely botched and ineffeCtive), the 
matrix collection, the machinery, and the cast 
type on the shelves. This announcement was 
sent to only a few persons and those names 
apparently were provided by Theo Rehak, whom 
the trustee consulted and employed to assist 
in the sale—one of the few intelligent moves 
made during the entire ordeal. 

Hal Sterne of Cincinnati, who a year earlier 
had inaugurated a new business called NA 
Graphics (which among other things was selling 
ATF type), was very interested in acquiring 
the finished stock on ATF's shelves. On 
receiving the first announcement, he made an 
appointment to inventory the stock. When he 
arrived, he found all aisles blocked with 
materials thrown out of the office area by the 
landlord. It was well over 100 degrees in the 
closed, lifeless third-floor facility. He was 
unable to do more than gaze at the stock from 
a distance. 

The auction was an on-again, off-again affair 
for several weeks. In the midst of all the 
turmoil, Stan Nelson and Elizabeth Harris of 
the Smithsonian Institution in Washington were 
trying to get possession of the foundry's 
matrices. Three possibilities existed. First 
was transferring all matrices to the 
Smithsonian. A second possibility was that 
only designated "obsolete" matrices would go 
to Washington. And a final, very real 
possibility was that no matrices would go to 
Washington. 

I confess I was greatly disturbed by the 
prospects of the entire ATF library going to 
the Smithsonian. In my estimation, such a move 
would guarantee that all ATF designs would be 
kept away from future utilization, and would 
totally void anyone's desire to have a Barth 
or pivotal typecasting machine from ATF, for 
there would be no prospect of having matrices 
to use with the machine. A tremendous 
collection of largely Victorian faces was 
donated to the Smithsonian several years ago 
by American Type Founders and to date, no way 
has been devised to enable access to these 
matrices for even the most limited revival. I 
cringed to think this might have happened to 
all remaining ATF matrices. But at the same 
time, I could only commend the Smithsonian for 
pursuing tenuous and treacherous negotiations, 
attempting to save the matrices from 
destruction. 


On-Again, Off-Again "Deals" 

In mid-July, a deal was "on," Stan said; the 
Smithsonian was to get all the matrices. He 
arranged to have skids, packing materials, 
etc., delivered to the ATF plant and a group 
of volunteers was to be there to get the 
wrapping done in preparation for shipment to 
Washing-ton. This deal was cancelled literally
 within hours of when I was to leave for New 
Jersey. The legendary mystery, confusion, and 
intrigue in dealing with ATF was far from 
dead. 

Personnel working at the foundry had shown 
only contempt for its irreplaceable holdings. 
On more than one occasion in the past, the 
thought of selling mats for their value as 
junk brass nearly prevailed. During the period 
when White Consolidated Industries owned ATF, 
George Gasparic had drawn up a lift of some 
1,400 drawers of matrices he considered 
"obsolete" and pledged to donate them to the 
Smithsonian in good time. That transfer never 
took place and now the Smithsonian was 
feverishly maneuvering to at least get these 
mats before the sale. 

The Auction Is Announced

A few days later I received word from Theo 
that an auction really was going to happen and 
he provided a tentative date: Augult 24, 1993. 
Then Stan reported another deal was "on." 
Under supervision of a representative of the 
trustee, he would be allowed to remove only 
matrices pledged to the Smithsonian several 
years earlier by WCI. Stan and his volunteers 
were to be at the foundry to get the work done 
at 9 a.m. sharp on August 10th. How and when 
it was decided I would be a member of the team 
has now escaped me, but when asked, I decided 
I'd have to find a way to be there. Never 
before, and never again would I have the 
chance to actually work in the hallowed halls 
of ATF, or get a chance to look at the 
operation close-up. 

A seven-hour drive on Sunday was uneventful. 
My destination was Howell, N.J., and Theo 
Rehak's home, where he graciously volunteered 
housing and hospitality for me, Dan Carr of 
Ashtuelot Village, N.H., Stan Nelson and 
Stan's son, Matthew, from Columbia, Md. Under 
other circumstances, it would have been 
impossible to pull me away from Theo's 
phenomenally wellequipped, orderly shop. But 
I confess we spent precious little time 
allowing Theo to do a "dog-and-pony show"; all 
of us were too concerned about what was soon 
to happen at ATF. Theo was unable to join us 
for the trip to ATF the next day, but he did 
all he could to brief us on what we would 
encounter. Conversation went far too late that 
night, considering the work ahead of us the 
next morning. 

Stan was the driver. His teenage son, Matthew, 
Dan and I were the passengers. Stan had 
directions from Theo and much to our delight, 
he drove right to the ATF door without a 
single wrong turn. Anton, the trustee's 
representative, arrived almost the same 
instant, and we all began our hassle with 
Purepak's tight security, trying to gain 
access to the building. Someone in their 
organization finally gave the magical command 
and we were given temporary ID tags. I was 
amused to be labeled "Rik, Smithson Insn." 
Next thing I knew, Stan was grabbing the 
controls of an ancient freight elevator and 
since there was no one to stop us, up we 
went, moving from the clean, varnished, 
air-conditioned environs of the Purepak 
shipping department on the first floor into 
the dark, dingy, environs of what was for all 
intents, an 19th century factory, on the 
third floor—ATF. 


Packing Up the Smithsonian Mats 

We were eager to explore, yet we knew we had a 
job to do, and were at the forbearance of 
Anton, whom we all knew would be calling the 
shots. Stan led us directly to the matrix 
"vaults" and began spreading out the wrapping 
paper, tape, and other tools we were to use. 
The "vault" term always has been used in 
referring to ATF's matrix storage area, but in 
reality it was an unrestricted area near the 
rear of the very large room. Matrices were 
neatly arranged in four waist-high cabinets 
each between 30 and 40 feet long and made of 
steel. They contained thousands of 
half-inch-deep drawers arranged from the floor 
up. I hesitate to speculate on the weight 
these matrices represented, but ATF obviously 
was keenly aware of it, for each cabinet was 
strategically placed on an inch-thick steel 
plate which spanned from one major reinforced 
concrete joist to the next under this 
third-floor room. 

After brief instructions, Stan left Matthew, 
Dan and me to work out how we would go about 
packing the drawers. Stan would work directly 
with Anton, pulling designated drawers and 
stacking them on top of the cabinets. Only a 
few minutes of their work revealed just how 
much work was ahead for us. 

Once drawers were pulled, we were to wrap them 
in kraft paper, and stack them neatly on wood 
pallets for steel banding in preparation for 
shipment to Washington. Stan had thoroughly 
studied the issue of weight. He'd calculated 
the average drawer to contain 12 pounds, and 
figured we should pack no more than 162 
drawers on a skid. That would bring each to 
about a ton. He figured he would need to haul 
five tons spread over five skids. 

There was a lot of work ahead of us, but we 
could not suppress the urge to at least 
glance at the goodies we were packing. One 
person would comment on a font in hand, and 
others would come to gawk. 

A veritable history of typefounding in 
America was passing through our hands as we 
worked. "Drew" from Inland Type Foundry, the 
original "Bookman" matrices from the Bruce 
foundry. Numerous fonts from Barnhart Brothers 
& Spindler. "Cushing" from the Boston Type 
Foundry, and "Curtis Post" from MacKellar, 
Smiths and Jordan. Each was laid out in its 
appropriate drawer, topped with a detailed 
inventory sheet telling which foundry it came 
from, which mold would need to be used, and 
miscellaneous details such as when extra 
characters were added, or when a matrix was 
replaced or recut. 

There also were ornaments—oh, so many 
ornaments. I was particularly intrigued with 
the 120-point "Colonial Printer" cuts which 
have graced so many printers' letterheads over 
the years. Included were two variations which 
I didn't recall seeing in ATF specimen books. 

About 10 a.m., Barbara Henry (of the South 
Street Seaport Museum in New York City) 
arrived to help as we continued to wrap and 
stack the drawers on skids. Only a few years 
previously, a special casting of "Scotch 
Roman" had been done for her museum and 
Barbara wanted to see the matrices. They were 
included among those on Stan's list, so 
eventually she got her chance. I halted upon 
finding the complete "Authors Roman" series 
from BB&S. An overflowing case of 12 pt. 
Authors Roman purchased in 1952 was the first 
non-ATF font of type I'd ever encountered. For 
a brief instant, I had the matrices in my 
hands used so many years ago to cast that font 
of type (which I still have). Dan Carr halted 
on finding several drawers containing very 
large sizes (72, 96 and 120-point) of what he 
exclaimed to be "the ugliest typeface I ever 
have seen." I glanced and said it was 
"Publicity Gothic" from BB&S. Why I could 
recall the name in an instant was beyond me. 


Benevolent Overseer 

Anton was captivated by our intense interest 
in the matrices and with our knowledge of 
ATF's history. He was a good listener and 
quickly became aware of our desire to see more 
of the foundry. He was tolerant of our 
wandering away from the matrix area from time 
to time in order to get a better look at the 
facility. The auctioneer already had tagged 
items for the sale, but the sale bill itself 
wasn't available. Nevertheless, this short 
encounter with the facility helped us brief 
others concerning what an enormous, confused 
jumble we all would face at the sale. It was 
during the solitude of these forays into the 
foundry that I was able to take the sill 
photos (and a video) until I exhausted my 
film/video supply. 

Still, we kept to our task and by the end of 
the second day, had all matrices for the 
Smithsonian Stacked and banded on five skids 
ready for pickup later that week. Dan and I 
both departed, with very mixed emotions about 
what our individual strategies would be when 
the sale came. Dan was very seriously 
considering not coming at all. "It's just too 
much," he said, "and against all logic I find 
myself toying with getting mats and a Barth 
and a Benton pantograph and I don't think I 
can afford either the money or stress of 
bidding at the auction." 


About Casting Type on the Barth 

Theo had done a good job of explaining ATF's 
complex facility to us. Apparently some effort 
had been made when ATF was first established 
in 1892 to create standards for matrix drives, 
etc. But as ATF continued to merge in massive 
additional foundries, such as BB&S, the effort 
was diluted. Machines were moved in to 
accommodate specific matrices and drives. And 
in succeeding years if those machines didn't 
seem adequately utilized, new letter designs 
were cut to match the machines and thus, keep 
them busy. That's how ATF ended up with 
several 18 point machines, for example, with 
each being paired off only to specific 
matrices. Thus, to effectively cast on a Barth 
machine, one would have to acquire the 
specific machine designated for calling the 
matrices you might also have acquired. And 
italics always were cut to a deeper drive than 
their roman counterparts. 

Eighteen point Baskerville Roman and Italic 
would require two separate machines. Theo also 
explained that changing a mold on a Barth 
caster was a complicated and tedious procedure 
that rarely was done. One should not expect to 
change the mold on a Barth, he admonished. 

With this in mind, I resolved that I would not 
bid on Barth casters. Still, I entertained the 
idea time and again. A two-ton hulk with such 
limited use would not be very practical in my 
hobby shop—assuming anything already there 
could be considered practical. Instead, I 
would concentrate on finding a way to cast 
foundry matrices on my Monotype machines, and 
Theo counseled me on that matter too. In his 
shop he demonstrated the "Hacker Block 
Leveler" made by the Vandercook company years 
earlier. Originally it had been made for 
trimming the base of electrotypes and 
sterotypes, but typefounders found the 
machine capable of milling the feet of type to 
get type to .918". This was important in the 
1950's when European type (which was taller 
than American type), was being imported to the 
U.S. ATF had such a machine for milling the 
fonts ATF imported, and I made it my goal to 
obtain that machine. 

Already having over 200 fonts of foundry 
matrices on hand from my acquisitions in 
January, 1993, at the Kelsey Company, I busied 
myself during my long trip back to West 
Virginia mentally working out a plan for a 
matrix holder for my Supercaster. 

I hardly recall the long trip, for with 
haunting intensity, I was going through the 
mental ordeal of trying to bring all my 
fantasies associated with ATF into perspective 
with the practical considerations related to 
the sale. Though saving the foundry in its 
entirety would be a laudable goal, it was not 
physically possible—either for an individual 
or a group of individuals. Financial 
considerations aside, it simply was too 
massive, too complex, and un-deniably 
impractical. 

Federal bankruptcy auctions apparently are 
handled only by seles organizations, and their 
experience seems to have little bearing on the 
issue. One would have expected an auction 
house specializing in graphic arts 
liquidations to have been selected, but that 
was not the case. The auctioneer hadn't the 
foggiest notion of how to seek out interested 
parties, and thus, leaned heavily on Theo to 
provide names and addresses. This put Theo in 
great difficulty, for no single person could 
hope to know—or instantly recall—all 
prospective buyers. This also precipitated my 
feverish effort to complete an ATF Newsletter 
containing details of the pending auction. 
That was accomplished, though I fear the post 
office failed to get most copies out in time. 


Time to Go to the Auction 

Being a solid eight-hour drive away from 
Elizabeth, I was forced to anticipate my 
success at the auction, and rent an 
appropriately sized U-Haul truck before 
departure for the auction. As I bounced down 
the highway in that rattling 28-foot aluminum 
can, I was haunted by the thought of coming 
away from the sale empty-handed, with the 
rental cost and all that discomfort going for 
naught. 

I was to drive to Allentown, Pa., 
where I would rally with Dave Peat and Dave 
Churchman, who would be traveling together 
from Indianapolis. I spotted Dave Peat's 
distinctive "TYPENUT" license plate as I 
rolled along Interstate 78 near Harrisburg, 
but unable to rouse his attention, opted just 
to follow him the last harrowing 70 miles to 
Allentown. The highway is one of several 
designated by Pennsylvania as an Interstate, 
though it isn't built to Interstate standards 
and the heavy night-time truck traffic on this 
direct-to-New York corridor was feverish, 
moving at speeds far above the legal limit. My 
only option was to "go with the flow" though 
it was quite uncomfortable in the unfamiliar 
surroundings of the U-Haul. 

We rallied as planned at Allentown, and spent 
a few hours discussing the next day. Dave Peat 
would lead in his van because he had a map 
reader (Dave Churchman). I would follow in the 
U-Haul. We crossed stretches of the Garden 
State Parkway we discovered restricted "no 
trucks." No alternate route was known, so we 
gambled (and weren't stopped). 

"A bitchy matron was sitting at the top of the 
stairs, handing out lists of the 714 lots 
along with equal doses of heartburn. After 
much yelling and cursing, we all got 
registered and were issued a bid number. 
Little were we to know that this was the 
kindest encounter we were to have with the 
auctioneer and his Staff." 
—Dave Churchman 

In Elizabeth, we found that Elmora Avenue 
circled the whole town and was a major artery. 
Though Dave Peat and I both had visited ATF 
previously, we were disgusted with ourselves 
at not being able to locate such a large 
building. An hour later, we finally found it 
and were delighted to see parking facilities 
had been set aside for auction attendees. 

Quickly inside, familiar faces greeted us from 
all corners. It was a veritable meeting of the 
American Typecasting Fellowship. Everyone 
wanted to visit, but we also were aware we'd 
need every minute available if we were to 
delve into what actually was contained in the 
714 designated lots. 


The "Viewing" 

Pausing, looking out over the immense, quiet 
foundry, dual emotions haunted all of those 
who had reverence for this longstanding giant

"It was a case of sensory overload and a mild 
depression, knowing that by the morrow it 
would all be broken up and hauled away." 
—Dave Churchman 

of a typefoundry. First was the feeling of 
disbelief that we were actually within the 
facility, freely wandering around, looking 
into drawers, fiddling with machines, and 
peering into the workings of an organization 
we'd revered from afar. In many instances, 
we'd spent much of our adult lives poring over 
ATF catalogs, fondling ATF types, and 
fantasizing over somehow gaining a more 
intimate relationship with the people, the 
tools, and the equipment that had become so 
important to US. 

All were astonished that so much of the 
foundry still existed, yet we were stunned by 
the chaos we discovered. Bankruptcy papers put 
the room's size at so,000 square feet, and 
every square foot was thoroughly occupied. The 
foundry had suffered immense abuse and neglect 
in its final years. Copies of ATF's film about 
typemaking were thrown irreverently in the 
corner of a junky cabinet. Dave Churchman 
found a matrix ATF had cut in the 1940's 
commemorating printing's 500th anniversary 
under trash on the floor in the women's 
restroom. Precision tools so essential to 

"All I saw was a handful of hopeful bidders 
and a long room full of doomed machinery 
awaiting the sledge hammer of progress. It 
boggled my mind that in 24 hours it would be 
little more than a footnote in 
history—magnificent technology responsible for 
the dissemination of knowledge now sadly 
consigned to the dung heap of a scrapyard in 
eastern New Jersey." 
—Dave Churchman 

type-making were stashed in drawers, on 
shelves, and under litter throughout the 
facility. 

Some had come from as far as California (Dan 
Solo, for example) for this rare opportunity 
and it was an overwhelming experience. Who 
ever would have thought that he might get the 
chance to look into cabinets containing 
alignment characters for every font of type 
ever manufactured by Barnhart Brothers & 
Spindler? Hadn't all that been destroyed in 
1929 when the Chicago foundry was closed? 
Matrix fonts out of the Keystone foundry still 
existing? ATF never lifted them. Weren't 
they destroyed when Keystone closed in 1919? 
And those fascinating glories about Laurence 
Johnson getting matrices for Caslon Old Style 
driven from original punches in England around 
1858 (so they'd be precise duplicates of the 
originals)—those historic matrices surely had 
long-ago been replaced. Not so! In all the 
instances noted, everything was still on hand. 

And the records? Yes, all the records were 
there too. But the landlord had brazenly 
hauled everything out of the office area, 
dumping filing cabinets and boxes of records 
from one end of the foundry to the other, 
wherever there might be an open corner. A huge 
quantity of this material was literally dumped 
in the two large ret rooms. Searching there 
was an odious task, to say the least, for 
commode facilities nearly all were inoperable 
and filled to overflowing. So much history 
about personalities, about designs, about 
designers, and about the innerworkings of the 
foundry was uncaringly thrown asunder. 

Hired guards hung over us as if we all were 
criminals, yet failed to detect pilfering 
(surely not at the hands of any typecasters!) 
in many lots. Fortunately, they kept a good 
eye on the matrix collection—until things got 
completely out of control when the sale was 
over. 


McGrew's Book—A Vital Reference 

"I simply must get hold of myself and quit 
being distracted," I said to myself as I 
returned to the auction bill and tried to 
give greater identity to the lots which 
intereSted me. "What's really in this one 
labeled Piranesi?" Though I had prepared lifts 
of ATF matrix holdings from Mac McGrew's book, 
and had made serious study of the auction bill 
which I received prior to going to Elizabeth, 
the research helped little in coming to grips 
with how things were broken into lots, and 
where various lots might be located. By late 
afternoon, I had scrawled notes on dozens of 
pages—dumb Stuff like "don't miss lot 457," 
and intelligent things like "forget 345—the 
machine is cannibalized." I knew even cursory 
study of the lots would be impossible as the 
sale would unfold the next day, so I would 
make sense of all my notes at the motel that 
evening. For now, I'd concentrate on studying 
the lots as well as I could. 

It was impossible. Specimen books were in desk 
drawers. Cabinets filled with trash also 
contained select tools. Finished fonts were 
concentrated in three separate areas, but 
scattered elsewhere too. Two of these 
locations weren't identified on the sale bill. 
Who could possibly know which of over 100 
machines was still functional, or where the 
required components might be? Theo Rehak was 
our only clue, and he tried valiantly to help 
us all—individually—to make some sense of this 
bewildering jumble of trash and treasure. 


Simply Not Enough Time 

A single day simply wasn't enough for anyone 
to grasp the extent of the holdings, or to map 
out any logical plan for acquisition or 
preservation. Astonishment at what we were 
seeing, coupled with bewilderment about the 
pending sale turned us into zombies, wandering 
aimlessly as we stared glassy-eyed at the 
immense facility. Against this setting loomed 
the menacing reality of auctioneer flunkies 
shouting threats of bodily harm if we didn't 
leave the place. Inspection time was over. 
"Come back tomorrow with your cash money in 
hand," they snarled. "We're 'gonna sell all 
this Stuff even if it takes us 'til midnight." 

Slowly, we moved away, turning our backs on a 
newly discovered yet long-cherished friend. We 
went back to our motel rooms to ponder what 
was to happen the next day. The few hours 
remaining would be consumed by last-ditch 
efforts to correlate hastily written personal 
notes with a confusing, imprecise, and 
arbitrary arranged list of auction "lots" 
provided by the auctioneer. 


Sale Day Agony Begins Early 

The sale was to begin at 10 a.m., August 24, 
and the doors would open at 9. With a 
tenseness of anticipation, nerves and muscles 
tight, and sweat on the brow, folks began to 
line up at 8 for their first taste of what 
would be devastating bombardment of abuse and 
mockery at the hands of the auctioneer and his 
crew. Never mind that we'd not slept that 
night because of anxiety over the sale. Never 
mind we had spent every waking moment checking 
and doublechecking the sale bill, trying to 
glean more information about the lots, and how 
the sale might be conducted. "Get your face 
outta' here and don't come back 'til we tell 
'ya." They weren't going to open until 9 a.m. 
regardless of how many people were standing in 
line. 

Filing into ATF that morning was a somber, 
silent, extremely tense and anxious group of 
devotees, intermixed with junk dealers and 
their cronies, joshing with each other about 
their misbegotten ancestors and boastings of 
their sexual conquests the night before. It 
was these individuals whom the auctioneer 
knew, and it was their relationship with him 
that set the disastrous tempo for the day. 
The auctioneer never had a hint that the 
occasion was anything more than the sale of a 
dismal, overwhelming bunch of junk. 

Virtually every aspect of the sale was 
arbitrary, clumsy, and above all else, 
offensive. The metaphor of a bull in a china 
shop is not at all out of place. The 
auctioneer knew nothing about what he was 
selling, and one could only wonder whether he 
knew anything about auctioneering. He caused 
massive confusion as he very arbitrarily 
established procedures, then changed, and 
changed again. The lots were described 
wrongly, and since he was ignorant of 
everything in the plant, the auctioneer 
repeatedly referred to his lots 
incorrectly—inconsistent even with the 
confusing sale bill. Those who dared to ask 
questions received only one clear answer. 
"We're in charge. Got that?" We haven't the 
foggiest notion of what we're doing, but we're 
in charge! 

In piteous bureaucratic ineptitude, the 
federal bankruptcy court restricted selection 
to an "approved" auctioneer—one who apparently 
had bought the sacred privilege in high-level 
New Jersey shenanigans. His contempt for the 
bankrupt company, and everyone associated with 
the sale, especially potential buyers, was 
crystal clear. The arrogance of the father-son 
auctioneer team was exceeded only by their 
manifest incompetence. 

"The auctioneer—a father-son team from 
hell—was loud, bellicose, rude, antagonistic, 
overbearing, boorish and not very bright. 
While he had a loudspeaker that would peel 
paint from walls, he would brook no 
conversation when doing his spiel. Every other 
word from his mouth was `sshh' and if buyers 
continued to talk and not pay attention to him 
(or his loutish father), he would become 
apoplectic and threaten expulsion for the next 
miscreant who opened his yap. Chuck Klensch 
was kicked out for talking to me during the 
middle part of the sale." —Dave Churchman 

We knew what we were in for when, realizing he 
had not assigned a lot number to the thousands 
of documents contained in the facility, the 
auctioneer decided to sell them all—as one 
lot—at the beginning of the sale. He 
admonished, "Just the contents. The cabinets, 
desks, safes and filing cabinets will be sold 
separately and if you win the bid, you must 
remove everything from the containers 
immediately." Mission impossible had just been 
described. No one dared offer a bid. 

When he didn't think things were moving 
quickly enough, the auctioneer would throw two 
or more lots together, constantly admonishing 
all bidders that they were responsible for 
removing everything they were winning. "I want 
the mat facing machine. I don't want the two 
other machines you just threw in with it," I 
pleaded. "Take them all or quit bidding," was 
his retort. Such antics surely reduced the 
bounty significantly, and caused both 
"saviors" and "vultures" alike great disgust 
and profound grief. Jack Boggs, a metals 
dealer from Ohio who attends several auctions 
across the country every week, boiled with 
anger saying he'd never before attended such a 
poorly run affair. His records of successful 
bids differed with those of the "official 
record" and when he demanded to hear the 
audiotape of the sale (required by law), they 
insisted there was none. 

"When hollered at by the crowd," notes Dave 
Churchman, who described attendees as quiet, 
orderly, and moderately competitive, "he 
cursed them and said that he was responsible 
only to the trustee and not to the buyers. His 
inartful disdain for us and what he was doing 
was pathetically apparent. One of his minions 
confided to some of the malcontents that at 
one auction his buyers had revolted, one 
grabbing the microphone and threatening to 
shove it where the sun didn't shine if there 
was any more verbal abuse. I would love to 
have seen this happen at the ATF sale."  

Greg Walters describes two of many problems 
relating to how the sale was organized. 


Clumsy, Impractical Lots 

"The sale of quills for the Benton pantographs 
is a typical example. An engraving machine 
needs at least three quills—the cylinders 
which hold the cutting tool. The auctioneer 
had rounded up all the quills and put them in 
one lot, even though there were six machines 
which use the quills. We were faced with one 
lot, which everyone needed... 

"Engraving patterns: again the auctioneer did 
a great disservice to our community of casters 
and historians. They put most of the patterns 
in one lot. It is difficult to gauge the 
weight of the lot, but I did a rough 
calculation and guessed at 18,000 pounds. If 
the guess is accurate, then a mixed metal 
price of 10 cents a pound would total $1,800. 
This is a major investment for someone like 
you or me. It is a pittance to a scrap dealer, 
so the bottom line was that only scrap dealers 
were involved in the bidding. The winning bid 
was $2,100 by a loathsome scrap dealer known 
as John. He promptly began selling the 
patterns for $2.00 each, and a pattern weighs 
about one pound. Had the auctioneers broken 
this one big lot into a few smaller ones, 
others might have offered bids. Had the 
auctioneers allowed people to buy patterns for 
$1.00 each on inspection day, they could have 
sold many hundred. As it was, the court and 
creditors got the lowest price possible, the 
collectors paid the highest price possible. 
The only one making money was John." 


Bids on Casting Machines 

Every typecasting machine was marked as an 
individual lot and that's how the bidding 
started. Greg took the very first antique 
pivotal caster for $50.00, but there were far 
more machines than bidders. Junkman John took 
most for $5.00 each and bidding changed as the 
auctioneer began seeking "per machine" bids 
for entire rows, with the winning bidder then 
being able to name the casters he wanted. The 
balance of the casters then went to the junk 
dealers. Of course all the pivotal molds were 
thrown together into three lots, with no one 
having a clear knowledge of which mold went 
with which machine. Fortunately, all molds 
were purchased by either the Smithsonian, 
Theo or Greg. 

Regarding the Barth casters, Greg reports that 
of the 96 lined, 67 went to junkman John for 
$10.00 each. Greg bought six for $20 to $25 
each, and Theo Rehak bought 17 at prices from 
$20 to $50. The only other purchaser was 
Kingsley, which bought six machines which had 
been used to can zinc type, and paid $100.00 
for each machine. 

In the matrix department, things weren't 
arranged in a manner pleasing to the junk 
dealers. At least in theory, they were listed 
by family and some choice families had 40 
drawers, which would need at least $120 to 
reach the scrap dealer's price range of from 
$3.00 to $5.00 per drawer. After most choice 
fonts were sold, junkers prevailed and bidding 
was switched from "per lot" to "per drawer." 
This tripped up my fragile mental presence and 
caused me to pull out of bidding prematurely, 
simply because I couldn't do the necessary 
recalculation to determine where I was with my 
budget. As it turned out, I stopped far short 
of my allotted money supply, and many fonts 
went to the junk heap which I could have 
saved, had the auctioneer not tripped me up by 
his change in procedure midway through selling 
the mats. 

How did we fare against the scrap dealers? 
Greg kept far better records than I, and has 
concluded that the scrap dealers only took 
about 25% of the desirable fonts, but in the 
volume fonts, scrappers took 78% of the 
matrices. Of the approximate 9,600 drawers, 
8,439 went to scrap dealers, meaning only 
about 14% of the matrices was saved. 

Specimen books were locked in glass cabinets, 
and sold by the cabinet rather than by the 
book. As with the engraving patterns, this 
took many individuals out of the sale, with 
grouped books bringing far less money than 
they could have brought if sold individually. 
Their condition and identity couldn't be 
easily discerned through the glass cases. 

Hal Sterne and Tom Bell of NA Graphics 
submitted an $11,000 bid covering most of 
the finished, packaged type in the facility. 
As Greg observed, this turned out to be one of 
those rare instances in which scrapmen were 
beat. 

Staying with the auctioneer was a horrible 
strain on one's nerves because of his 
offensive behavior, and the screeching blast 
of what had to be the worst amplification 
system ever conceived. Several of us 
suggested it was unnecessary, but you 

"One of my worn memories is of the auctioneer 
being pulled through the place in his aluminum 
chariot, like Nero through the Forum, whilst 
the blaring P.A. system was propelling his 
shrill and hissing sarcasms into our withering 
ears. Such was the ultimate example of the 
defilement of a hallowed place. I felt it was 
a very special site to those of us who revere 
not Gasparik and his latter-day Stalinesque 
cliques of flunkies, but those who came before 
and created a manufactory of the finest types 
in the world." 
—Theo Rehak 

couldn't convince the warrior that he didn't 
need his armour. I stepped away on several 
occasions simply to regain my composure and 
give my ears a rest, and know I missed items I 
had planned to bid on. Fatigue was setting in 
and rather than concentrating on what was yet 
ahead, many of us admit to becoming troubled 
by the prospest of moving our equipment out of 
the facility. 


"Give Me Your Money Now!" 

To say procedures were clumsy is an 
understatement. Soon as an individual won a 
bid, a cash deposit was demanded and the sale 
was delayed until the money was forthcoming. 
Some of us had preapproved checks, but a large 
portion of the sale was in cash money and the 
auctioneer dismissed as "ridiculous" requests 
from many that receipts for their cash be 
given. Further, the auctioneer did his own 
clerking, meaning his hastily scribbled notes 
were the only record to document the bids and 
the bidders. Worse still, as Dave Churchman 
notes (Dave's been in charge of several 
auctions and attended hundreds), "he was 
looking at his paperwork and not the bidders 
and thus missed many earnest bids from 
frustrated buyers." When the sale ended at 
4 p.m. (far ahead of the midnight deadline 
threatened the previous day), some of us got 
the message they were closing down and we had 
to leave. Others were told they could remain 
and settle their bills immediately. 


Your Word Again Theirs 

Of course, most of us kept notes on our own 
bids, but as Jack Boggs discovered, it was 
your word against the auctioneer's. In that 
way, Jack's bids were recorded higher, in some 
instances, than the winning bid. When I 
settled up, I was listed as having won three 
lots I didn't even participate in, and there 
were other discrepancies too. But their bottom 
line and mine were within $75.00, so I decided 
not to argue. My principal concern was getting 
my mats safely tucked away before the junk 
dealers began their wholesale assault on the 
drawers. 


Chaotic Clear-Out Begins 

When we arrived back the next morning, we were 
forced to stand in one intermingled line. Some 
of us were lined up to settle our accounts, 
while others were waiting to have an 
auctioneer representative assigned to them so 
they could go through the facility, claiming 
their lots. The idea may have been good, but 
my immediate observation was that the junk 
dealers were running freely through the 
facility, while I was being closely 
supervised. Many other typecasters came to the 
same conclusion and the auctioneer's flunkies 
soon became totally baffled by our cooperative 
spirit, working on each other's equipment when 
needed. I gave one matrix milling machine to 
Ed Rayher and another to Theo. I stripped 
another off its stand, realizing there was no 
way possible for the auctioneer to identify as 
mine remnants which I opted to abandon. In the 
meantime, Dave Peat was helping by 
disassembling another machine for me. My 
"supervisor" was more than eager to take off 
my hands the few matrix drawers I had won in 
"lot" bids which I really didn't want, and 
this gesture gained me added freedom in 
breaking loose from him and getting things 
done. It was a frantic rush to get my lots 
assembled and wait my turn for the single 
elevator designated to get stuff out of the 
building. 

The mad rush didn't end with the elevator. 
Downstairs at the loading dock, the Purepac 
people were trying to maintain order, but 
there was simply too much demand. Most of us 
brought moving equipment, but not even a 
simple dock plate was available to us and 
thus, many outrageous deals had to be struck 
to get forklifts (from Junkman John) to move 
things from the dock to our vehicles. It was a 
hectic process of riding the elevator, trying 
to get your truck to the dock, and then 
rushing around the building and up long 
flights of stairs to continue the ordeal. My 
throat was dry, I was sweating profusely (it 
was in the 90's), and filthy beyond belief. I 
must have been looking pale too, for others 
stopped me and asked if I was OK. Frankly, my 
heart was pounding. Like everyone else, I was 
working against all sorts of obstacles and 
time seemed to be the biggest of all. 


Greg Spills About 6,000 Mats 

On one of my many trips into the parking lot, 
I came across Greg Walters, who had just 
spilled an entire handtruck loaded with 
matrices. By his estimation, he'd spilled at 
least 6,000 mats, and there he was, kneeling 
in the sun-baked parking lot trying to pick 
them up. I paused and offered condolences, but 
knew if I didn't get back to my unprotected 
stuff upstairs, it surely would disappear. 
Further, I simply had to get checked out, 
loaded and out that day, and the only 
certainty was that the foundry would be locked 
up at 4:30. Fortunate for me, Stan Nelson and 
his Smithsonian associate, Larry Jones, 
weren't working on such a tight schedule; they 
helped me in so many ways, including slicking 
around after the foundry was closed, to help 
get my stuff onto my U-Haul once I finally got 
access to the loading dock. 

Theo, Steve Heaver, Ed Rayher, Dan Carr, Dave 
Peat, Dave Churchman and so many others gave 
me a hand at one time or another. Greg and 
Theo, especially, were working with their 
riggers in assessing how things would be moved 
out. Folks were rushing in all directions, and 
in the midst of it all, Junkman John was doing 
deals and (though no one could prove it) 
causing things to disappear. Fortunately, 
those who didn't have large lots to claim were 
able to haggle with him, and thus were able to 
acquire things they really wanted but were 
unable to bid on because of the processes 
used. The only factor which made the situation 
bearable was the fascinating and wonderfully 
cooperative spirit among those of us who have 
assigned ourselves the task of saving 
typecasting for the future. Borrowed tools, 
lent jacks, extra hands to ease heavy 
equipment onto skids, sharing and splitting up 
of oversize lots all took place in a friendly 
atmosphere which absolutely baffled the 
auction crew. 


My Last Farewell 

I pulled away from ATF for the last time about 
5:30 p.m. August 25. An overriding 
consideration all through the sale was fear of 
acquiring too much weight to safety carry in 
my U-Haul, but everything fit on the truck 
easily, and I probably could have carried 
another ton at least. Greg Walters wasn't as 
lucky. He had to abandon Barth carers simply 
because his rigger couldn't handle the added 
weight (he hauled about 60,000 pounds). I 
returned to the motel a few miles away where 
several of us had stayed during the ordeal. 
Stan, Larry and I got together for dinner, but 
many others already had departed. I left the 
next morning at 6, knowing I had to be back at 
the office before the end of work that day. 

Those with larger lots were forced to remain 
longer and reports from both Theo and Greg 
indicate matters got completely out of hand, 
with Junkman John demolishing Barth caters 
that didn't even belong to him; much other 
equipment simply disappeared. There was 
precious little time available for orderly 
removal, and tension was intensified by the 
fear of having equipment destroyed or stolen 
before it could be moved out. Though in theory 
everything in the plant had been sold, the 
trustee ended up paying $17,000 for removal of 
abandoned materials and general cleanup of the 
room after everyone had gone. 


A Dismal Failure 

By financial measures, the sale was a dismal 
failure. The Alan Atkins Appraisal Corp. had 
placed a "forced sale value" on the foundry at 
$149,484. Gross sale proceeds were $77,863. 
Charged against this were costs for the 
auctioneer, trustee, legal counsel, the 
appraiser, miscellaneous expenses and final 
cleanup costs. All this left net proceeds at 
approximately $26,000—not even enough to pay 
the salary of one highly skilled employee for 
a year. 

Those of us who bought matrices and equipment 
tended to perceive our lots in relation to the 
overwhelming size of the facility, concluding 
that most of the foundry was lost. But in 
succeeding months, as we have shared our 
inventories, our conclusions have proven 
premature. 

As Theo has noted, despite "the heat of the 
moment, the hostile environment, and with 
little time (we would have needed a month at 
least to do it right), still the essence of 
ATF has been saved. The right people saved the 
best of the faces and thus, the ability to 
make foundry type is till on the planet. God 
gives us what we need, not always what we 
want." 


Did It Have to Happen? 

Obviously, Kingsley/ATF filed for bankruptcy 
and that set off the chain of events which 
ended the 101-year history of American Type 
Founders. Legal terms such as secured 
creditors, unpaid rent, and abandonment of 
property all would suggest the foundry 
couldn't possibly have survived. Perhaps not. 

Theo Rehak indicates that Chapter 7 
reorganization on the part of Kingsley 
Machines, Hollywood, Calif., precipitated 
ATF's demise. Obviously, the folks in 
California didn't attend to ATF's financial 
concerns with much interest. When filing for 
bankruptcy, they claimed no secured debtors. 
Yet the trustee found two the National State 
Bank in Elizabeth, and the New Jersey Economic 
Development Authority. These two organizations 
had loaned Kingsley/ATF $650,000 in 1988. 
Curiously, both debts were personally 
guaranteed by a principal member of the 
Kingsley organization, Michael J. Rawson. 

Remarkably, ATF had made significant payback 
on these two loans to where, only six years 
after taking out the loans, jut $182,000 still 
was owed. The fact that the rent hadn't been 
paid since March of 1991 would suggest that 
ATF was in deep trouble. But other figures 
suggest inattention perhaps was the culprit. 

With such a significant payback already 
accomplished, one can hardly avoid the 
speculation that ATF, under proper management, 
could still be alive today. The world market 
for type, perhaps, has not totally 
disappeared. 




Odds n' Ends Tell of ATF;s Far-Flung History
—Richard L. Hopkins

By accident, the morning of the auction, I 
discovered a cabinet in a corner near the 
matrix collection, which contained many 
matrices for cored ornaments and all the 
Caslon swash caps from 84 to 120 point. Those 
mats I wanted, but tied with this cabinet in 
the same lot was another cabinet and a desk. I 
won the lot, so I had to take it all.

The desk and cabinet provide clear evidence 
that (a) ATF had a long and interesting past 
including much involvement in evolving 
technology for a while, and (b) that 
everything in the foundry was hopelessly mixed 
up.

Some of the items retrieved: Six chemical 
cartridges for filtering out sulphur dioxide 
via a breathing apparatus—apparently something 
used back when ATF was busy electroplating 
matrices. In the same drawer, a bunch of 
triangular type mold components carrying the H 
(Hansen Type Foundry) pinmark, one of the 
original foundries that merged in 1892 to form 
ATF. They appear to be parts of an angle-body 
mold.

Both a promotional booklet and a plastic line 
gauge depicted the ATF Typesetter: “a 
photomechanical system for text composition 5 
to 14-point in lines up to 7½ inches wide.” 
The system was introduced in the late 1950s or 
early 1960s, as I recall; it produced 
extremely high-quality work. In appearance, it 
resembled the Friden Justowriter and had two 
units. One was used for punching paper tape, 
and a second was a photocomposition unit, 
working from a spinning disk not too unlike 
the old Varityper disk used for galleys of 
display type. Why didn’t ATF’s system catch 
on? Probably, it was poor marketing.

Other items reminded me of ATF’s involvement 
in more recent technology: a handful of litho 
plate erasers with ATF stamped on the side; 
three bundles of 4"x4" cotton pads for offset 
press cleanup, clearly marked ATF on the side. 
Also present: a catalog of “ATF Spectype,” dry 
transfer lettering made to match ATF foundry 
type. The product resembles Formatt and other 
more recent products. ATF apparently had a 
good product but again had little marketing 
success.

Though ATF acquired most of what remained of 
Lanston Monotype, Theo Rehak says they did a 
“purge” of the plant in recent years to rid it 
of all materials related to Lanston Monotype. 
They weren’t totally successful, for the desk 
contained a Lanston leaflet plus two orphaned 
matrices.

In a drawer was a font of 8 pt. Univers 
figures “manufactured for ATF by Deberny & 
Peignot, Paris.” ATF dabbled in the type 
importing business, but that fact was little 
known to many users of type.

Two specialty type products appeared in the 
cabinet. One was a font labeled 12/14 Kimball 
Sero, a font which had a special flange near 
the foot of each letter, obviously made to 
hold it in a stamping machine. Another item I 
speculate to have greater historic interest: 
it was a pied package of sort lines of 
multi-nicked 8-point characters. Each letter 
carried a different nicking combination, and I 
speculate the type was made many, many years 
earlier for use in a Unitype machine (or 
something similar) which featured automatic 
type distribution by means of special nicking 
on the bodies. Also found: 12 sort lines of 
6-on-4 Lightline Gothic—this 4-point type is 
the smallest in my shop (though I do own a 
3-point Monotype mold).

Also there: alignment proofs for 42-point 
Americana Extra Bold, dated May 7, 1970; and 
alignment proofs for 42-point Brush, dated 
March 3, 1942; and two quarts of hydraulic 
oil!

How would you have liked the job of 
straightening out the entire 
500,000-square-foot facility?




ATF Tools & Implements Preserved
—Richard L. Hopkins

One of the great rewards of being a 
participant in the auction at American Type 
Founders was the opportunity to acquire some 
of the tools and implements of typefounding, 
found scattered through the plant like leaves 
after an autumn windstorm.

Thanks to sharing on the part of several 
“kindred souls” who won lots at the auction, I 
was lucky enough to acquire several tools, 
including a type gauge as depicted here, with 
the illustration being taken out of Theodore 
DeVinne’s book The Practice of Typography, 
first printed in 1902.

DeVinne suggests it’s an implement for 
measuring type, but doesn’t explain how it 
works. The tool first landed in my drawer of 
“nifty treasures from ATF,” but since I pulled 
it out and used it the first time, it has 
taken a permanent place on the work tray of my 
typecaster. Remarkable in its simplicity, it’s 
a measuring tool which I now find 
indispensable, especially when casting 
repetitive border elements which require such 
absolute consistency in casting.

How it works: You start with a piece of type 
you know to be precisely accurate. If calling 
an 18x18 piece, for example, you know your 
body size is fixed at 18 points, so you set 
the tool on that fixed dimension. The two jaws 
of the gauge are virtually parallel, but not 
quite. There’s a taper of approximately one 
ten-thousandth from outer end to inner edge, 
and when setting up, the piece of type being 
used as a standard should fit snug at the 
center point of the jaws. Once locked with the 
thumb-screw, the variable dimension—the 
18-point width—can be checked in an instant. 
You don’t even need to look at your type to 
test it and know instantly whether it’s too 
wide or too narrow.

Successfully reading a micrometer requires 
concentration; accuracy hinges on whether you 
close it loosely or snugly against the cast 
type each time you measure. But using the type 
gauge simply requires fitting the new letter 
between the set jaws. If it passes all the way 
to the inner edge, the letter isn’t wide 
enough. If it barely fits, it’s too wide. If 
it becomes snug at the center line, then your 
cast letter is right on the money in set 
width.

Using the gauge is so hassle-free the caster 
is much more likely to use it frequently and 
thus detect minor variations in set width long 
before it becomes troublesome. Variations in 
mold temperature will change the size of the 
type quickly, and the variations will be far 
beyond acceptable tolerances. Such variations 
are instantly detected with a type gauge.

How I was able to cast type for over 20 years 
without this nifty device is beyond me. The 
saint who went before—the man who made this 
gauge for “ATF Foundry No. 2” (St. Louis)—so 
many years ago hopefully will rest well 
knowing his tool is of inestimable value even 
in 1994 to this struggling typecaster.




The Barth Was One Reason for ATF's Quality But 
Matrices Also Played a Crucial Role
—Richard L. Hopkins

It’s undeniable: I have a long-standing 
romance with the physical aspects of type. I 
love to see and feel the impression of metal 
types into fine paper. I also love to fondle 
type itself—smooth, flawless bodies, 
well-defined feet, nicks, smooth beards, clean 
counters. On goes my list of terms describing 
well-made type.

Having cast type myself on the Monotype for 
over 20 years, I’ve personally witnessed all 
variations of quality when it comes to type 
aspects which simply are not visible to the 
person studying a sheet printed from that 
type. Stan Nelson has explained how absolutely 
lousy the bodies of hand-cast type often 
appear, yet if it has a good face, often type 
will fulfill its purpose, regardless of how 
poorly its body appears. 

Personally, I’ve printed from forms made up of 
little more than “bird cages,” as Harry Wearn 
(our Monotype guru from England) describes 
them. These are pieces of type off the caster 
which have little more than a face and a 
skeleton for a body—mainly hollowness.

With all this zest for type, it shouldn’t be 
surprising that I always considered the 
product turned out by American Type Founders 
was literally head and shoulders above 
anything ever produced on Monotype equipment; 
ATF types usually combined flawless faces with 
smooth, flawless bodies. I had always 
attributed this superior appearance to the 
Barth caster and its ability to move large 
quantities of metal quickly, under great 
pressure, with an absolute minimum of trapped 
air in the mold cavity.

Never before had it crossed my mind that there 
was something else in the equation. That all 
changed the first time I cast type on my 
Monotype Super Caster using genuine ATF 
matrices, acquired when ATF was liquidated in 
August 1993.

Suddenly the letters coming out of my caster 
looked surprisingly like those I thought could 
only be produced on a Barth caster. Suddenly, 
I realized ATF matrices themselves were a 
critical component in producing superior type. 
The deeper drive and near-vertical beards 
somehow give more emphasis to the letter form 
itself. And since ATF frequently chrome plated 
the inner core of its matrices, the letters 
seem to release from the mold and take on a 
more shiny, smooth appearance.

It still is an unreal feeling when I find 
myself casting type from the genuine original. 
I’ve fantasized over someday having the full 
range of sizes of ATF Caslon 471, for example. 
Never did I dream that I would own all the 
matrices themselves.




Earliest Lanston Patent Books Saved
—Richard L. Hopkins

A belated, unexpected, and altogether 
cherished item from the American Type Founders 
auction has come into my hands: three bound 
volumes containing copies of many (or all?) of 
the early patents assigned to the Lanston 
Monotype Machine Company. Dave Peat of 
Indianapolis acquired the volumes in a much 
larger “lot” of specimen books at the auction 
and graciously has allowed the books to come 
into my hands.

ATF, you will recall, acquired much of Lanston 
Monotype when the company was liquidated in 
1969. Later, according to Theo Rehak, ATF 
purged its holdings of anything related to 
Lanston Monotype, but somehow these volumes 
survived.

They begin June 7, 1887, with a patent granted 
to Tolbert Lanston for producing justified 
lines of type. Therein his unit count system 
was detailed. On that same date, Lanston was 
granted a patent for a “type forming and 
composing machine.” This device was a “cold 
metal” machine wherein the types were to be 
pressure formed out of lead instead of being 
cast. Of course, Lanston later moved to using 
molten metal in his typecasting machine.

The last patent in volume 3 relates to a 
machine for the production of type matrices, 
patented August 10, 1915. Thereafter is a 
tipped-in sheet referring to a fourth volume; 
certainly many other patents were granted, but 
copies held by the company have not survived.

The three volumes which do survive give a 
welcome resource to researchers attempting to 
date certain developments of the machine. For 
example, on January 10, 1911, an attachment 
for adding leading between cast lines was 
patented by a U.S. citizen, Frank Hinman 
Pierpont (who was residing in England, perhaps 
working with the new English company). The low 
quad mold was not developed initially; an 
early version was patented April 18, 1911. The 
short type mold for casting Multigraph type 
was patented April 30, 1912.

Patents for the peripheral devices used in 
manufacturing casters and matrices are 
included. A matrix cone-holing machine was 
patented April 28, 1914. On November 14, 1911, 
a device was patented for applying identifying 
markings to type machine (cellular?) matrices.

The company’s first address was in Washington, 
D.C. Many early patents were granted to the 
Lanston Monotype Machine Co. of Washington, 
D.C., with Tolbert Lanston himself as the 
inventor. As patents proliferated, Lanston’s 
name appeared much less frequently.

The machine which most resembles composition 
casters as they evolved was issued to J. 
Sellers Bancroft on May 30, 1899, and assigned 
to the company which still was in Washington.

This cursory report is provided primarily to 
let others know of the existence of these 
three volumes and to offer to share them with 
anyone seriously interested in documenting the 
early history of Lanston Monotype.




Wild Suppositions Give Way to Scientific Study
On the Hardness of Type Metal
—David W. Peat

Dave W. Peat is a long-time type enthusiast 
and maintains one of the largest collections 
of Victorian type fonts and pre-20th century 
type specimen books to be found in private 
hands in the United States. He resides at 1225 
Carroll White Drive, Indianapolis, Ind. 46219.
—Richard L. Hopkins

For years I have been interested in the 
controversy about the wearability of type 
versus the composition of its metal. Until 
recently, I had no non-destructive method of 
investigating, but a “state-of-the-art” 
machine became temporarily available to me 
which can analyze the composition of alloys. 
My study of type metal using this equipment 
gives some direct analysis of the many claims 
of superior metal once bellowed by type 
manufacturers of yesteryear.

Was type metal featuring copper or nickel 
something of substance, or was it advertising 
hoopla? Or was there really any difference? I 
have regarded ATF and Stephenson-Blake as 
being manufacturers of the finest type in 
terms of hardness and appearance. I now have 
attempted to verify that assumption.

Actually, I have done two studies. First was a 
study of the composition of type metal alloys. 
Secondly, assuming hardness has a direct 
relationship to wearability, I studied the 
hardness of metal using samples as old as 130 
years to type cast relatively recently. My 
testing was done with a Wilson Hardness 
Checker and an EDAX (Energy Dispersion 
Analysis by X-ray) machine.

Type metal is composed primarily of lead, tin, 
and antimony. Tin provides hardness and 
toughness, whereas antimony prevents the alloy 
from shrinking (and therefore becoming less 
than “type-high”) upon solidifying in the 
casting mold. An interesting phenomenon is 
that any mixture of lead and tin, lead and 
antimony, or all three melts at a temperature 
less than any of its components. An alloy of 
87% lead (melting at 620°F) and 13% antimony 
(melting at 1,166°F) melts at only 247°F. This 
is called the eutectic point. The melting 
point of a ternary (three-metal) alloy, 
however, is not reliable as a means for 
assessing its composition of the metal.

One might wonder why foundry type metal was 
not standardized. The simple matter of 
economics provides one answer. Tin and 
antimony are far more expensive than lead, so 
cheaper type could be made by using an alloy 
with a higher lead content. Founders also have 
alluded to the fact that certain alloys “flow” 
better than others, and thus they used 
better-flowing alloys for smaller type sizes. 
Thus, a single founder might stock more than 
one alloy to accommodate casting various 
sizes.

It must be pointed out that 100 years ago it 
probably was difficult—if not impossible—to 
analyze metal. How did a foundry verify its 
“melt” when old type from a variety of sources 
was the principal source of metal? I don’t 
know whether they even tried!


Metal Composition

From the samples I studied, metal makeup 
varied significantly:

Metal		Average		Low		High
Lead			52%			36%		69%
Tin			17%			9%		30%
Antimony		29%			21%		38%


The “Best” Types

Studying type made during the past 30 years, 
the following are the best samples. I report 
both metal composition and hardness. Three 
readings were averaged when checking hardness. 
Please note that the hardness of "80" does not 
necessarily mean the sample is twice as hard 
as one with a reading of "40."


Foundry			Tin		Antimony		Lead		Hardness

Theo Rehak’s 
Dale Guild 
Foundry			17%		36%			46%		80

Bauer Type 
Foundry			18%		38%			43%		82

Stephenson-
Blake			17%		32%			50%		86


Interestingly, all the above alloys included 
about 1% copper.

Considering the older foundries, the best 
samples studied were:


Foundry			Tin		Antimony		Lead		Hardness

MacKellar, 
Smiths 
& Jordan			17%		28%			54%		78

Indiana 
Type 
Foundry			25%		38%			36%		83

Boston 
Type 
Foundry			26%		37%			36%		87


All these samples also contained about 1% 
copper. Although 11 of the 15 samples revealed 
copper content of about 1%, only one had 
nickel that was Cleveland Type Foundry, not 
Keystone, which boasted of a superior nickel 
alloy in its advertising.

American Type Founders type seems to have 
"softened" since the turn of the century.


Foundry			Tin		Antimony		Lead		Hardness

Foundry “E” 
(Marder-Luse)	31%		36%			34%		87

Foundry “A” 
(Boston)			23%		33%			44%		80

1966 casting*	15%		29%			56%		44

*I can verify this date for I actually 
witnessed the type being cast.


Older Types Were Poorer

Some of the poorest type seems to come from 
foundries making type before the introduction 
of the point system (about 1880):

Foundry			Tin		Antimony		Lead		Hardness

Johnson			15%		30%			55%		27

Conner			17%		32%			51%		33

Unknown 
(ca.1850)		12%		24%			64%		30

Union 
(ca.1890)		16%		28%			56%		36

Farmer 
(ca.1890)		14%		27%			59%		29


Single sample tests can be misleading, for 
they might not be representative of the 
millions of types cast by a founder over the 
years. However, in several cases I analyzed 
more than one sample and got very similar 
results. For a truly scientific study, 
additional samples would be necessary.


Foundry			Number of Samples	Results

Boston			3					All good
M.S.&J.			2					Both good
BB&S				2					Both fair
Cleveland		3					All fair
Cincinnati		2					Both fair
Union			2					Both poor
Farmer			2					Both poor


It would be interesting to make checks 
studying the products of more foundries, and 
to compare small sizes with large sizes. 
Comparing Thompson and Monotype cast type from 
different sources also might be revealing.


In Summary

Observation: Generally, the better the 
composition (high tin and antimony 
percentages) the harder the type. Types cast 
before 1890 tested softer; they also had lower 
tin and antimony content. 

Curiosity: All the Stephenson-Blake type that 
I have (perhaps 75 fonts) has a slight coating 
of corrosion. I thought metal analysis would 
provide an answer for this phenomenon, but it 
did not. There was nothing unusual in the 
makeup of S-B metal so perhaps there's another 
reason. Perhaps they used no protective 
coating on their type and exposure to sea air 
during shipment to the United States 
precipitated the corrosion?

Conclusions: There definitely is measurable 
copper in the "best" type. Moreover, there is 
a great deal of difference in the composition 
and hardness of foundry types. Your comments 
are solicited.

[see PDF version for Type Metals Product 
Specifications (Alloys) table from Theo 
Rehak's book, Practical Typecasting.]




Obviously the Work of a Lifetime:
Monumental Type 'Bible' Now Available
—Richard L. Hopkins

MacMcGrew’s newly released book, American 
Metal Typefaces of the Twentieth Century, 
published by Oak Knoll Books and put into 
print as a finale to a preliminary edition 
released several years ago, puts this 
typophile somewhat in a compromising 
position. Frankly, Mac’s stolen my thunder! 
Heretofore, the massive information contained 
therein was to be found only in a piecemeal 
fashion (if at all), and was just something 
one gained over many, many years of experience 
using and studying type and talking with 
people who know type.

For example, the late Steve Watts told me 
about Repro Script being designed to align 
with and match the weight of News Gothic 
Condensed and I thought I was the only one in 
the world having that fleck of knowledge. So 
how’d it get in Mac’s book? Virtually every 
page is crammed full of solid information 
about type. I have known of Mac’s obsession 
with type for at least 25 years, and had a 
hint of his meticulous way of filing away 
information on the subject. But precisely how 
well he was organized, and how exhaustive was 
his research—well, it didn’t reveal itself 
totally until this edition came into print.

The book is styled with specimens on the 
left-hand page and complete discussion of the 
specimens on the right-hand page, including 
designer, manufacturer, what sizes were made, 
who made copies or “forgeries,” dates and 
miscellaneous information to absolutely 
delight the aficionado. Mac even credits the 
many folks who pulled repros of fonts in their 
collections right alongside the specimen.

Prior to this edition, the only “bible” 
typophiles had to work with was Jaspert, Berry 
& Johnson’s Encyclopedia of Type Faces, 
published in various editions over the years 
and professing to cover the whole world with 
regard to type design. Neither its 
reproduction quality nor the quality of its 
text can hold a candle to Mac’s edition. One 
of the most fascinating conversations I ever 
had was with the late Mike Mycoff in England 
at the ATF Oxford meeting, wherein Mike 
expounded on the hundreds and hundreds of 
errors in the Encyclopedia. This was somewhat 
of a revelation to me, for I had blindly 
worshiped the edition and used it as an 
unquestioned authority for so many years. Mike 
said he even volunteered to help correct some 
of the wrongs before a new edition was 
published, but the publisher opted to go to 
press without making any effort at revision. 
Mike, in England, certainly could have been 
the European edition of Mac McGrew but, 
unfortunately, his death has prevented that 
from ever happening.

Our extreme good fortune is that Mac’s goal 
was to get the thing done and done right. 
Likewise, it is our good fortune that Ben 
Lieberman, publisher of the preliminary 
edition, urged that such an edition be done, 
enabling Mac to integrate additional specimens 
and hundreds of revisions into this edition. 
In this regard, time has worked to our favor, 
for it’s a far better book now than it would 
have been five years ago.

This is an edition filled with incidental 
information which, as far as this typophile is 
concerned, is of tremendous historic value. It 
documents a world which simply doesn’t exist 
anymore. It’s a tribute to the hundreds of 
individuals who made type happen in this 
century, and it’s a memorial to everything and 
every player who stepped onto the typographic 
stage in this century. It comes at an 
excellent time, because there are so many 
folks dabbling in type on the desktop platform 
these days who have the impression it’s all 
happened within the past couple of years—that 
prior to PostScript and Adobe, simply nothing 
existed. Mac’s book will put that notion to 
rest in an overwhelming way.

There’s an anonymous quote on the dust jacket: 
“This volume belongs in every typographical 
library.” I agree enthusiastically. Indeed, I 
have used the preliminary edition so very 
often in my own pursuits. But having that 
edition is a far cry from having the final 
edition. You simply must have this edition 
because it’s so much more complete, so much 
better put together, and is remarkably well 
produced, especially with regard to the actual 
specimens.

The synopsis of type-making which precedes the 
specimens is a very concise, thorough 
discussion of the subject and covers all kinds 
of matrix manufacture and utilization.

Likewise, the appendices are excellent and 
painstakingly accurate. Where else will you 
find a complete list of ATF or Ludlow or 
Lanston or Mergenthaler fonts?

If you’re a type nut, you must have Mac’s 
book. Sized 8 ½ × 11 inches, 376 pages plus 20 
introductory pages, the book is available from 
Oak Knoll Books, 414 Delaware Street, New 
Castle, Delaware 19720. Call them at (302) 
328-7232 for pricing and availability. 




Lead Ain't Dead
—Richard L. Hopkins

Regarding the level of interest in letterpress 
printing in his immediate area, Jim Rimmer of 
Vancouver, B.C., is please that in 1994 alone, 
he has been able to put five people in touch 
with presses and typecasters, which they all 
have purchased.

"There is pronounced enthusiasm for the look 
of letterpress, possibly brought by the fact 
that almost all of the small printers here 
'print' on variants of photocopiers, 
possessing not even a 1250 Multilith or AB 
Dick," Jim says.

There is that type of person—and there always 
has been—who can feel the difference instantly 
between mass garbage and the grace of good 
printing. 

Jim continues: "Over the past six months, I 
have conducted five workshops in metal 
typography and lino cuts. These classes were 
sold out the first hour they were announced at 
the colleges. I find this re-affirming and 
heartwarming. It makes me feel I am not really 
so very odd to have 12 tons of stuff in my 
basement after all!"



A Reference Every Typecaster Will Cherish
Long-Awaited Rehak Book is Published
—Richard L. Hopkins

The well-organized appearance of Theo Rehak’s 
new book, Practical Typecasting, is deceptive 
to a fault. All of us who have ever run or 
tried to run a typecasting machine know the 
really important information is found in 
scribbled notes, old photostats of technical 
drawings, confiscated letters from technicians 
of yesterday, and dirty manuals that long ago 
lost their binding.

In his “Afterword,” Theo notes, “We have not 
merely arrived at the end of an era... 
something of the grandeur of ancient times is 
about to be lost.” His book is an excellent 
attempt to preserve some truly practical 
aspects of our ancient craft for generations 
which will, hopefully, follow. Those of us who 
carry on at present have had the good fortune 
of knowing at least a few old-time craftsmen 
who were able to pass along some of their 
practical knowledge to us. Opportunity for 
such face-to-face acquaintance with 
professional typecasters is literally at an 
end.

On page 61, Theo alludes to an attitude: “Do 
not show the new man anything! He will have 
your job soon enough anyway: the less he 
knows, the longer you will remain valuable.” 
All of us have had such experiences, often 
with the craftsmen who used to operate the 
machinery we now own. Obviously, they had 
some difficulty acquiring the knowledge they 
had, and they wanted to make sure we learned 
the hard way too—by trial and error. More than 
one craftsman I have known was resolute in 
withholding his knowledge, even if it meant 
carrying it to the grave with him!

Now that American Type Founders is history, 
never again will there be opportunity for any 
individual to pick, nag, cajole, and otherwise 
extract knowledge of the ancient craft from 
the few long-time employees of ATF who 
remained literally until the foundry’s death. 
It’s our collective good fortune that Theo 
Rehak devoted 12 years of his life to working 
at ATF (an undertaking representing great 
sacrifice, and even greater forbearance), 
making a valiant (and successful) effort to 
learn the trade while there still was an 
opportunity. This book documents much of what 
he was able to dredge from foggy memories and 
neglected (now lost) files. Most of the 
technical information presented 
matter-of-factly in the appendices and 
throughout the text simply is unavailable 
anywhere else. It represents thousands and 
thousands of hours of research, study, and 
experimentation and even if not a single word 
in the text had any value, the technical 
information is well worth the cost of the 
book.

You hear Stan Nelson talk of going back to 
Joseph Moxon’s Mechanick Exercises on the 
Whole Art of Printing (1683–84) to learn the 
process of hand typecasting. A principal 
reason is that little practical, revealing, 
and useful information has been published in 
the interim—until Theo’s book was published. 
The ancient apprentice program passed 
information from the craftsman to the 
neophyte (if he played his cards right). It 
simply wasn’t something that was written down, 
let alone published.

What use is Theo’s book? It’s only of passing, 
ephemeral interest to the armchair typographer 
or person who fantasizes about someday 
becoming a typefounder. But if you’re about to 
roll up your sleeves and delve into actually 
becoming a typefounder, you’ll find Theo’s 
book the kind of item quickly soiled and 
intently studied, word-for-word, propped open 
on the workbench by a hammer or screwdriver. 
Literally, it contains essential information, 
and along the way, also drops in a bit of 
humor, philosophy, and some real-world 
experiences worthy of not being repeated.

It’s my personal conviction that doing is the 
best way of learning, especially when it comes 
to running machines. But it sure is a big help 
to have someone standing beside you advising 
you, giving you all the formulas, and telling 
you the ups and downs of the process. There’s 
no way to duplicate the 12 years of intense 
study Theo invested in typecasting, but his 
book certainly is a laudable effort at 
recording the most important information.

Yes, his book indulges the Barth, pivotal, and 
other equipment peculiar to American Type 
Founders, but two points must be made: (a) the 
equipment might be unique, but the process is 
common to all typecasting and therefore quite 
valuable, and (b) ATF represented the 
paramount achievement in mass production of 
perhaps the best type made in the world and 
certainly any serious student of typecasting 
would benefit by knowing as much as possible 
about how ATF practiced the trade. And one 
also could complain that Theo indulges in 
discussion of highly specialized and extremely 
rare implements as if they were as common as 
lead. But it’s better to know of a tool or 
process and seek to replicate that process, 
rather than to try to reinvent it totally from 
ignorance.

I knew of Theo’s book long before it was 
published and I also know much was omitted 
simply in an effort to trim the book to an 
affordable size. I lament these omissions, but 
I praise and strongly recommend that you 
acquire your copy now. There’d be no indignity 
greater than heading down the trail of 
becoming a typecaster sometime in the 
future—and not having a copy of Theo’s book to 
guide you!

Practical Typecasting by Theo Rehak, published 
in 1993 by Oak Knoll Books, New Castle, 
Delaware. Call them at (302) 328-7232 for 
pricing and availability.




Unique Monotype Fonts Acquired
—John Eickhoff

We frequently see new typefaces, for 
electronic production or for instant 
lettering, but new letterpress faces? That's 
something different!

I was offered 12-point Littleworth among a 
host of other faces by a firm in Bedfordshire. 
I examined the Monotype specimen sheet, 
decided the face was "different," and bought 
it along with half a dozen other fonts. A 
second face came with a box of Times bought 
from Cambridge University Press which looked 
interesting enough to cast, even though only 
capitals were available.

Later, I visited Duncan Avery, at Monotype,
and asked for layout sheets (providing 
essential tables of character widths and 
machine components necessary for composition 
casting) for both faces. To both the name 
Littleworth and to a drawing of the second 
face, Duncan replied, "That's not one of 
ours." I assured him they were, for I had the 
mats, so he began a search.

Littleworth was found among the specimen 
sheets but the only other evidence of its 
existence was the production record. This 
showed one font of 12-point had been struck in 
1929 and sent to the Monotype Printing 
Department, and that two fonts of 16-point had 
been struck in the early 193o's. Mats and 
punches probably were sold at a 
rationalization sale in-the 1960's, but the 
firm had no idea where they went. I had bought 
the only composition font of a very rare face.

The second face is officially known as Latin
Open Face Roman, which I have changed to Acorn
Outline, a name suggested to me when I first 
cast it. Duncan found it was not designed as a 
jobbing face but for the 4-line Maths Series. 
I do not know how it is used, but it is now 
available on film and so must still be used 
somewhere. The only characters cut are all of 
the capitals, five lowercase letters, and the 
figure 1. There is also an italic font, which 
I do not have, which contains only the 
capitals. Printers who have used it say it 
makes a good secondary display line on 
business stationery.

John Eickhoff a spare-time typefounder, 
operates under the name Acorntype. He may be 
reached at 28 Honey Hill Road, Kingswood, 
Bristol BS15 4HJ, England. Phone 0272-677903




Study Program Proposed For Typecasting Aspirants
Prefaced by a Story of How a Collection Came to Be
—Richard L. Hopkins

June 20, 1971—On that date I mustered enough 
courage to fire up a Monotype machine and try 
to cast my own type. It been in my 
garage—where a car should have been parked—for 
many months while I procrastinated because I 
was fearful of what the machine might do.

Somehow I finally gathered the courage to turn 
it on, and the exhilaration of the moment has 
carried me a full 23 years as one of the small 
band of hearty souls who calls himself a 
“private typecaster.”

My initial goals were quite modest. A single 
family of type matrices and a single machine. 
Somewhere those goals got buried under tons of 
additional equipment and now I find myself 
with a letterpress shop which would have been 
the envy of nearly all professional printers 
back in the 1950’s and 60’s.

First I will attempt to record the effort 
which has gone into assembling my plant. Then 
I’ll explain the proposed 1995 workshop.


I Blame My Father

It’s all my father’s fault. He had a 
tremendous fascination with machinery, and 
especially precision instruments. This pitiful 
son had to stand or sit in his basement 
workshop while he explained things to me. He 
had a lathe, a drill press, grinder, jig saw, 
table saw, and all sorts of tools and 
instruments used for making components for his 
model railroad and model airplanes. He not 
only assembled kits, he did things “from 
scratch,” including turning out an O-gauge 
Hudson locomotive in brass on his lathe, and 
doing all the finishing work including placing 
all the miniature rivets wherever they were 
supposed to be.

My interest in printing was instantaneous when 
I entered a printing classroom in the seventh 
grade. I had illusions of being a big-time 
writer or editor. Being able to do the 
publishing myself really turned me on. By the 
eighth grade, I was hooked. My printing 
instructor did nothing to dissuade me—he gave 
me my first composing stick and my first case 
of type.


Santa Didn’t Bring a Press

Dad encouraged my activities. He built my 
first typecase stand, drove me to old shops 
across Charleston, W.Va. (where I grew up), 
and allowed me to set up in a comfortable 
basement corner close to his tools. The next 
Christmas, I was the most unhappy kid alive. 
Santa knew all I wanted was a printing press 
but didn’t comply. I cried all day.

Mom tried to explain the difficulty in finding 
such an unusual gift for a child, but that did 
little to appease me. She promised to go 
half-and-half with me (I carried newspapers 
and therefore had a source of income) if and 
when a printing press could be found. Indeed, 
it was mom who spotted the classified ad the 
next summer, and it was dad (using Grandad 
Hopkins’ truck) who went after the beast with 
me when we bought it. This was a 6×9 Pearl and 
I still use that neat little gem—clear 
evidence that I don’t easily abandon projects 
once they’re undertaken.

I did a modest amount of commercial work 
through my high school years, printing 
invitations to parties, programs, business 
cards, and most anything else folks would 
entrust to me. Probably the biggest job I took 
on was printing 20,000 charge receipts for the 
neighborhood grocery. It took me a week to 
hand-feed them one-up and this made me realize 
for the first time that type could wear out.

An adequate supply of type always seemed to be 
my problem. I made my first type purchase from 
American Type Founders in 1954. Even then, it 
was expensive. There was a Monotype sorts 
caster at my high school which the instructor 
used during summer to make the type students 
had in their cases. I daydreamed about getting 
a chance to work with him and possibly make 
some type for myself, but it never happened.


I Skipped Our Date—for Printing

My years in college took me away from home and 
my shop (except during holiday breaks), but I 
quickly became acquainted with the typography 
instructor in the journalism school and soon 
had free run of that shop, including a 
Heidelberg letterpress and Linotype machine. I 
became adept at running both machines. While 
at school, I met a neat girl who was at least 
tolerant of my growing affliction. I stood her 
up one evening in favor of working with my 
instructor on a printing project he was 
undertaking. She should have gotten the 
message about my priorities then, but instead 
became my bride and has put up with me—and my 
printing—for over 33 years.

In 1964, I discovered a Monotype caster at 
Mathews Printing in Charleston and arranged to 
have a case filled with type cast on the 
machine. The operator quoted $23. When 
finished, the bill came to $64. I got the bill 
adjusted, but this was the beginning of a 
lifetime of over-extended financial resources 
in pursuit of boundless typographic lusts.

I had a strong fascination with hand-set type 
and after Lynda and I were married, I stored 
typecases on top of the refrigerator in our 
apartment when I was in grad school. (The 
landlord probably never figured how we managed 
to scratch up the top of the refrigerator!) 
Back then, much was said about the superiority 
of hand-set type, and I believed it. 
Therefore, I didn’t take Linotype too 
seriously as an instrument for my beginning 
private press projects, though I did use it 
frequently. I consummated my first “deal” with 
the Lanston Monotype Company in 1967 when I 
bought special roman ct and ft matrices for 
Garamont. Typefounders of that day said the 
characters didn’t exist. I knew better, so I 
bought the mats and sent them off to be cast.

Constant moving in our first years after 
marriage prevented extensive private press 
activities, even though I always seemed to 
have a press and a case of type nearby. The 
big chance came when Lynda and I bought our 
first home near Morgantown. I was just getting 
out of the Army and the Government paid for 
moving all my personal stuff from my childhood 
home in the Charleston area, where Lynda had 
lived while I was overseas. I managed to 
include my teen-age collection of typecases 
and press in that move, so at last, I was to 
have it with me and I could really get serious 
about having a private press.

At the time, my intimacy with a Monotype 
consisted of three afternoons at a Monotype 
keyboard in Hempstead, New York, where (while 
in the Army) I managed to gain part-time 
employment making up forms and doing general 
shop work for a one-man operation that 
specialized in limited editions. Had I not 
been sent to Vietnam, I possibly would have 
remained there and become owner of that shop, 
for the owner was astounded by my interest in 
the machine and knowledge of it—gained simply 
from reading about it.


Displaced by a Four-Color Press

Offset was making tremendous inroads in the 
commercial world and Rose City Press (which 
had taken over Mathews after bankruptcy) 
decided to go big-time with a four-color 
press and a bunch of new Compugraphic 
equipment. That giant step eventually caused 
RCP to file for bankruptcy too, but a 
short-term result was a homeless Monotype—and 
I was asked if I wanted to buy it. Naïve as I 
was, I made my $200 offer and ended up owner 
of the whole Monotype department. It had not
been used for several years and all operators
had retired.

At this point I hasten to note that I had my
eye on many other shops too. This just 
happened to be the first one where I was able 
to negotiate a deal. On numerous occasions, 
the shops ended up being junked simply because
their owners refused to let a “hobbyist” have
the equipment. These were the tools they’d
worked with all their lives and they feared 
the equipment would be put to use in 
competition against them.

I called long-distance and asked my dad to
arrange for a U-Haul. I would be down Friday
night with a student (Frank Parke). He was
going to drive the truck back and I would 
follow in my Volkswagen. The folks at Rose 
City had everything skidded and on the loading
dock ready for my arrival. Things went too 
well. Forklifts, pallet jacks and stuff like 
that made loading incredibly easy.

A pattern would emerge with our late-night
arrival back at home with a truck to be 
unloaded. This predicament was explained to 
fellow members of my Sunday school class the
next morning, and several men volunteered to
help after church.

Some of them had moved heavy stuff before and 
knew how to use crow bars, blocks of wood, and 
brains (rather than brawn) to ease the 
top-heavy monster to the concrete floor 
without even a heavy thump.

Safely inside the garage, the Monotype 
remained for several months while I planned 
and made all the connections. I needed to run 
a gas line, an electric line, water, drainage 
(into a bucket) and I needed compressed air.

My dad figured I should get the machine 
running. Thus, every time my folks called, dad
would inquire. My excuse: I needed an air
compressor. I could have cast sorts without 
the air compressor, but I didn’t know that at 
the time. Finally, dad gave up, bought a 
compressor and shipped it to me. He knew 
money—more than anything else—was inhibiting
progress. To his credit, the same compressor
serves well even today in my hobby shop.


An Explosion That Didn’t Happen

In my high school days, I’d heard students
talking about metal pots exploding when they
were heated up because of expansion—that
you never turned them off without emptying 
them. Mine was full of metal, so I was quite
fearful of what might happen when I lit the 
gas flame for the first time. I even asked 
Kathy, my daughter, not to go into her 
bedroom above the machine during this first 
test. Experience has since shown me that this 
fear was totally unfounded, but at the time, I 
kept a safe distance from the machine until I 
could see the metal had turned to a liquid 
with no explosion whatever.

I also feared I would overheat the mold, so a
flow of water was moving through the mold
sufficient to cool a steel foundry, but what 
did I know? I knew that in the “neutral” 
matrix position the machine would cast an 
18-unit quad so I replaced the quad matrix 
with a nifty border element which I would 
surely cast in huge quantities before the day 
was ended.


A Day’s Work: One Letter

Cautiously, I turned the machine by hand and 
to my astonishment, I cast an fl ligature 
instead of the border piece—with the face half
off the body and hardly a body anyway because
of the chilled mold. Heavy water flow 
instantly froze the nozzle and to my disgust, 
I went to bed several hours later without 
getting another piece of type out of the 
machine. The 200-mile move, coupled with 
several idle years, had gotten adjustment out 
of whack, and I was unable to conquer so many 
problems at once. But at least I had cast my 
first piece of type. My day of infamy had 
arrived.

Getting familiar with the machine didn’t
happen overnight. My ancient (1921, I believe)
operator’s manual was sufficient to do the job
even though it was written with the assumption 
that you’d been to the Monotype School at 
Philadelphia. I confess that it took two full
days to figure out how to remove the mold for
the first time, and I ran the machine nearly
three months before I found the lever which
sent the cast type to the galley.

Soon after I got the first Mono, I started 
pursuing a second career as a weekly newspaper 
publisher. This diversion kept me away from my 
Monotype and basement shop more than I care to 
admit. Always having a bent for doing “a 
better job,” I found myself pulling repro 
proofs of headlines and ads (hand-set in my 
basement shop and then inserted in the paper, 
which was offset-printed). Otherwise I had 
little time for the hobby shop. 

When I found time to work on the caster is a 
mystery to me, yet I fought and eventually 
subdued it. By 1973 I made my newspaper career 
full-time, and ended my teaching job at West 
Virginia University. With total disregard for 
the prospect of failure, I uprooted my young 
family and moved to Terra Alta, W.Va. The 
hobby shop was moved piecemeal (I commuted to 
TA twice a week, and took a car full of stuff 
with each trip). But I left hauling the 
Monotype and my Pearl Press to professional 
movers who were to bring them with our 
household goods. This was the only move ever 
done for me by professional movers, and the 
only move which nearly ended in disaster. 


My Only “Professional” Move

The mover had unloaded almost everything at 
our new home in Terra Alta by walking down an 
aluminum ramp extending from the back of the 
truck. When he came to the tailgate with my 
precious Monotype, I expressed concern over 
whether the ramp would hold everything. “No 
problem,” he assured me. I instructed 
everyone to jump clear of the machine if the 
ramp did go. Sure enough, halfway down the 
ramp it folded up like a cardboard box and I 
watched in horror as my Monotype crashed to 
the ground. The men did jump clear, but one 
had the presence of mind to immediately swing
around and steady the machine after it hit
bottom. The result: nothing broken, no one 
hurt!

I hadn’t thought much about matrices when I 
bought my Monotype, and to my displeasure, 
the only “decent” face I had was Century 
Expanded. The machine had been used chiefly 
for tabular work and there were about seven
fonts of 6-point Modern Condensed with Gothic
49 as a boldface, but who in his right mind
would want to cast that stuff? (I still 
haven’t.) So a never-ending search for 
additional matrices
began.


Mother Appreciates Baskerville

One occasion particularly haunts me. My 
parents arrived for a weekend visit to see the
grandchildren. That same Friday, a sale flier 
had arrived from Erie, Pa., announcing the 
liquidation of a Monotype plant. I had called 
and found the Baskerville 353 series could be 
had for only $200.00. I went through the 
motions of hospitality all weekend, but the 
prospect of acquiring Baskerville matrices 
distracted me. Mothers have a sixth sense 
about things of this nature. Mom knew I would 
be hard-put to come up with the money, so near 
the end of their stay, she volunteered to give 
me a check in lieu of my birthday, Christmas 
and other traditional gifts for the year. I 
was elated; mom and dad probably were just 
relieved.

Another early acquisition was also assisted by
dad, who bid on and won a “Monotype smelter”
advertised by the school board back home. I 
got all the matrices and other paraphernalia 
from the high school shop where I had learned
printing; the instructor had retired and they
could find no one capable of continuing what
once was an excellent program.


Disasters in New York

Trips to New York to attend auctions never
worked out too well, but I went anyway. I
attended one auction in lower Manhattan and
was a successful bidder on a few manageable
lots. I was to return the next morning to pay 
the bill and pick up my goodies. Lynda and the 
girls would relax in Central Park until I 
returned and then we’d drive home. The auction 
was unbelievably disorganized and all buyers 
were outraged. I had no way of calling Lynda, 
nor would anyone hold my place in line if I 
left. When I arrived to retrieve the 
family—over three hours late—Lynda was so s
teamed she didn’t say a word to me until we’d 
driven clear across New Jersey.

On another occasion in New York, I got all the 
preliminaries out of the way only to find the
building’s elevator inaccessible and the 
loading dock blocked by unattended trucks. I 
searched until near exhaustion; suddenly a 
shadowy “advisor” pulled me aside saying $40 
would solve my problems. It was $40 I didn’t 
have, but that’s what it took for me to get my 
stuff on the elevator, and my pickup truck to 
the dock to load up my first Thompson machine 
and a bunch more matrices. When I arrived back
home I stopped first at the office. Folks 
observing my arrival asked what was on the 
truck, and before I knew it, volunteers were 
following me to my home to help unload the 
truck. Money? They wouldn’t consider it. And 
you ask why I chose to live in a small town?


On All Fours—Searching for Mats

My family was constantly drawn into my 
expeditions. I documented my first major 
matrix acquisition in a little booklet 
entitled, In Quest of Typographic Treasures at 
the Archabbey. I still can see my two lovely 
daughters crawling on their hands and knees 
through those dark, filthy hallways searching 
for loose matrices. But because of their 
efforts, several incomplete fonts became 
complete fonts.

On another occasion, Lynda and I drove 
cross-country to Chicago in a 13-year-old 
Volkswagen, surviving two breakdowns and a 
flat tire, detouring to meet a guy at 6 a.m. 
in Dayton, Ohio, so I could pick up a 
treasured “type notcher” I found available 
there. By this time I had ended my newspaper 
career and started a commercial offset shop. 
But still I was obsessed with Monotype.


Pittsburgh Is Mine!

My first full shop was from a legendary
typography house in Pittsburgh, Edwin H. 
Stuart, Inc. The company’s owner was phasing
out Monotype primarily because of the high
cost and unavailability of qualified workers.
Over two years of negotiations finally landed 
the “deal.” Everything in Monotype was mine 
and what I didn’t take would be junked. When I
arrived for the pickup, the man in charge—a
long-time employee with an overwhelming
devotion to the craft—refused to accept the 
fact that any sale might be made. He tracked 
the boss all over Pittsburgh and finally got
confirmation. Reluctantly, I was allowed to 
start the move. I took only one of the six 
casters (there have been dozens of casters not 
taken in my “deals”). This man was so 
devastated by the affair that he died of a 
massive heart attack one week later as he 
awaited the Grant Street trolley, which he 
rode home every evening.

I have nearly all the Monotype ever housed at
Pittsburgh, beginning with the Stuart shop and
ending—in early 1990—by picking a few loose
matrices off the floor at what once was a 
massive in-house plant at Westinghouse 
Electric. In between, I acquired equipment 
from Herbick & Held, William G. Johnston, 
Davis & Warde, Carnegie-Mellon University (the 
legendary typography laboratory), and probably 
other shops I’ve forgotten. A pattern had 
developed. I had gained the reputation as 
being the only idiot in three states silly 
enough to go after Monotype equipment.

Probably the most bizarre situation developed
around 1979–80 when I received a call from Ron
Harlowe, owner of Harlowe Typography in
Brentwood, Maryland, a Washington suburb. He’d 
somehow gotten my name as a person interested 
in obtaining Monotype equipment. I was in the 
throes of moving my commercial plant and a 
dozen other projects, so I gave him less than 
my usual burst of excitement. He insisted on 
sending me a list, which arrived the next day. 
The headline read “Over $100,000 of Equipment 
for Sale—Only $10,000”; it was the most 
detailed list of machines, parts, and matrices
I have ever seen in such a situation. Included
were two Monomatic II casters and three
Monomatic keyboards, all bought new in 1975.


Mono Shop Closed by a Gunman

The demise of this Monotype department was, 
indeed, a sad one. The firm had been 
established by Ron’s father years earlier in
Washington, D.C., and had earned the 
reputation as the premier typesetting firm in 
the region. Ron had taken over management 
while the firm was still all hot metal. One 
afternoon, a drug-crazed intruder burst into 
the plant, robbed all the employees and held 
everyone at gunpoint for an extended period. 
Ron resolved to immediately move the plant 
away from the city. In assessing use of 
equipment, he concluded that even though over 
$100,000 had been put into updating Monotype 
just a couple of years earlier, he could not 
rationalize reinstalling Monotype in 
Brentwood. He kept the equipment in storage 
and had been attempting to sell it for nearly 
three years.

I visited several days after his call and we
agreed on a sale—$1,000 for everything. I was
embarrassed, but that was the best I could 
offer. When I arrived a few weeks later on a 
Saturday afternoon, Ron was there with three 
employees ready to help. Believe me, this was 
unusual. Generally, you’re left to fend for 
yourself, and face nothing but hostility from 
anyone that might be around. That’s why I had 
two employees, Pat and Chris DeLauder, with 
me. I intended to take only two casters, a 
keyboard and all the matrices and parts, but 
before I knew what was happening, Ron had 
talked me into taking a total of five 
machines, three keyboards, and several other 
shop implements. His folks put everything on 
the truck while the three of us stood 
watching. I never stopped to think just how 
overloaded the 28-foot U-Haul was until we 
were high in the mountains of Western 
Maryland. Fortunately, we got back safely.


Manure Forks Come in Handy

Unloading was a unique situation too. I’d
arranged with George Ringer, who owns a farm
nearby, and he met me with his tractor 
equipped with manure forks on the front. The 
forks went right under the skids and in less 
than an hour, all machines were safely in my 
garage and out of the falling snow. Inspection 
revealed most of the matrices were new. 
Monomatics are radically different from 
Standard Monotypes (they were Lanston’s last 
hurrah, introduced woefully late in the game, 
totally eclipsed by cold type equipment), and 
I’ve not been able to devote time to learning 
how to operate them—yet!

Only on one other occasion did I run into help 
when attempting to move a plant. I had 
negotiated with Bill Darney, a man who’d cut 
his teeth on Monotype and though he’d moved 
into photocomposition, he had a strong interest
in preserving the Mono department at Davis &
Warde, Pittsburgh’s other major typographer.
Mac McGrew, a professional and hobbyist in
Pittsburgh, told Bill to call me.

I expected it would be a difficult move, 
because all the equipment was still connected
and on the fifth floor of the building. Upon
arrival, I was told everything was mine except
the matrices. I was mortified. Keybars, 
wedges, machines—nothing was worth anything 
without the matrices. “Well maybe if you talk 
to the boss yourself you can convince him,” I 
was told. But the boss was busy with customers.
Finally, at 2:30 p.m., I got my chance. Nearly
1½ hours later, I won the argument and received 
a go-ahead to make the move.

Bill and I rushed out of the office, knowing I 
had only an hour before closing. I was 
desperate, thinking I had rented a truck and
made the three-hour trip for nothing. To my
surprise, Bill had anticipated the outcome and
had workers completely dismantle the shop.
Everything was on the loading dock ready for me 
to haul it away. Indeed, I did make a second 
trip, but only because I had totally 
underestimated what was there. Sadly, I had to
leave all ten casters for the wrecking crew.


Worst Experiences: USGPO

My worst experiences at making deals and moving 
equipment were with the U.S. Government 
Printing Office at Washington. The GPO’s 
procedure for disposing of equipment is 
cumbersome and involves sealed bids, so you’re 
at a total loss as to what you should offer or 
who you might be up against. And, of course, 
you must wade through hundreds of monthly sale 
mailings for a tremendous variety of equipment 
in hopes you might find something of relevance. 
Even getting on the bidding list was difficult. 
A steady flow of surplus equipment lists passed
through my hands—so frequently that I started
neglecting them. Wouldn’t you believe it? I
missed the critical listing. Fortunately, Stan
Nelson, who works with the Smithsonian’s
printing exhibit, called from Washington,
alerting me.


Two Bids Won—No Merchandise

What remained of Monotype (the GPO once had 
over 150 casters on its floor) was still set 
up. I had a great chance to see what was there
and bid accordingly. The problem, however, was 
that though I had asked for clarification, 
after the fact I learned they were offering 
only the cabinets, etc., and not their 
contents. Thus, I ended up with machines and 
cabinets, but nothing else (such as molds, 
spare parts and matrices). In fact, I bid on 
and won the molds in the next sale too, but 
never got them because of inefficiency and 
pilfering at the GPO.

On loading day, they took forever to process
very simple paperwork and again I was up
against deadlines when the truck loading began. 
They literally chased me out of the loading 
area so they could close the gates. I found 
myself bouncing down Pennsylvania Avenue with a 
truck fully loaded with unsecured, top-heavy 
equipment in the back. Of course, a taxicab cut 
me off. I could hear the machines and cabinets 
tumbling in the back when I hit the brakes. 
Thankfully, nothing crashed through the side of 
the truck. I was in the Virginia suburbs before 
I was able to pull over and assess the damage, 
which was extensive. I had no way of lifting 
the equipment upright, so I just came on home.

Acquisitions have spanned over three decades. 
When I began, Monotype and especially Linotype 
were still the predominant means for setting 
type. I was literally taking working tools away 
from craftsmen caught in the transition. I 
adhere to my original idea of using the 
equipment I have acquired. I taught myself to 
use the Monotype, the Sorts Caster, the Super 
Caster, the Thompson, and even the Material 
Maker. And I have done a lot of letterpress 
printing too.


Manufacturing “Birdcages”

Until the ATF organization came about, I was
forced to function independently, with little
knowledge of what others might be doing as
typecasters. The professional type-making world 
was still falling apart and the amateur 
typecaster hadn’t become recognized as anything 
legitimate. Fortunately, the thrust of the ATF 
group has changed that.

We’ve benefitted greatly from visits to our
meetings by Harry Wearn, who worked in various 
capacities with Monotype England for over 40 
years. It’s absolutely astounding how much we 
don’t know about our machines, and Harry has 
done a lot to ease that situation. When he was 
at the Hill & Dale in 1988 for the ATF 
Conference, helping me cast (for the first 
time) on my English Composition Caster, he
initially was getting quite awful results. He
made constant reference to “birdcages.” The 
term plagued me until I finally saw the 
parallel. A piece of type which had only flimsy 
fins of metal for a body is what Harry was 
calling a birdcage. Over the years, I have been 
quite adept at birdcages. Indeed, that first 
piece of type I cast in 1971 was an excellent 
birdcage.


My Changing Objectives

By the mid-1980s, I found myself with more than 
enough equipment, but I then was being
asked—begged—by those professionals who still 
had equipment to come and rescue what I could. 
That’s when my shop grew extensively, and my 
concerns necessarily shifted from printing to 
sorting and inventorying the materials I was 
acquiring. The largest single acquisition of 
matrices was, by far, made when I acquired 
what remained of Baltotype from Herb Czarnowsky 
in the late 1980s. He had picked up additional 
equipment after Baltotype folded, and it took 
me over a year to haul the mats, machines and 
other stuff from Baltimore, a van load at a 
time.

From the beginning, preserving letterpress
equipment was my hobby goal, while my 
professional goal was to keep up with 
technology. All sorts of systems passed through
my hands as things accelerated—from the ancient 
Friden Justowriter and typewriter-like 
Varityper to the more recent Compugraphic 
Editwriter and Varityper 6400 digital system. 
Late in 1984, Linotype brazenly adopted the 
PostScript language for its typesetters. Now,
every manufacturer offers PostScript and
laser-generated type, graphics and photos. The
entire photocomposition world disappeared in 
six years. They don’t even call them 
typesetters anymore. Now they’re 
imagesetters.


Today’s Pace Is Incomparable

Compare this pace of change against a backdrop 
of Monotype machinists and operators who spent 
their entire working careers—often spanning 40 
and more years—working on and operating 
literally the same machines. With this slower 
pace of development, typography, letter design,
machine improvements, and careful study of
aesthetics all were developed into a wonderful
body of knowledge. Now, there seems to be
absolutely no time for such information and 
that unrecognized body of knowledge is totally
neglected on the back shelves of musty 
libraries.

I’ll be the first to admit total fascination 
with the do-it-yourself aspects of modern
composition and page makeup (desktop 
publishing), yet I know firsthand that the
disciplined, planned, thoroughly studied ways 
of letterpress production still have much to
offer—especially when put to use producing
volumes wonderfully described as “typographic
books” in yesteryear.

Much has been lost with today’s speed and
impersonal computer-generated production.
Compositors (even the term is now lost) no
longer have the intimate feel of perfecting
their product while working out widows, 
orphans, bad breaks, too many breaks, lines 
that are too tight, lines that are too loose, 
and “rivers of white.” The compositor of 
yesteryear was an intimate extension of the 
author and made a significant contribution in 
helping that author communicate most 
effectively.


A Goal for the Next Ten Years

It has been only recently that I came to the
realization that I possess both the equipment
and a body of knowledge that few others retain. 
Having gone through the period when skilled 
typographers adamantly refused to share their 
knowledge with anyone, I am quickly realizing I 
must make a solid effort to share my knowledge 
with others. Otherwise, the skills will 
disappear.

For that reason, I have decided to devote a 
full month each summer offering to and working 
with a newer generation of individuals 
seriously interested in using and preserving 
the ancient processes. Each year, I will work 
with three to five individuals, offering them 
my knowledge of machines and other tools, and 
availing them full use of my equipment in 
producing their works while learning the 
processes. That body of knowledge will include 
design, copyfitting, Monotype keyboarding, 
Monotype composition, display casting, 
imposition, makeup, makeready, and letterpress 
printing using the Heidelberg 10x15 
“windmill,” the Heidelberg 15x20 cylinder
letterpress, and Vandercook Model 5.


Three Objectives

There will be three objectives. First will be 
to acquaint new individuals with the old
processes through a strong hands-on experience. 
Second will be to carry to completion a 
booklet, small book, or other similar project 
which represents a strong interest of the 
learner, and meets my requirements as a 
teaching project. Third will be to help and 
assist these “new converts” in the acquisition 
of equipment so that they will be able to 
continue their newly learned skills in their 
own home shops.

Individuals will come to Terra Alta and will
live in nearby commercial lodging for the 
month. Each individual must provide his/her
own lodging and meals and must pay $200
toward materials to be used during the 
sessions. There will be no other fees.

Sessions will be both one-on-one at the Hill &
Dale Press and Typefoundry, in a classroom
setting, and also as independent work at the
Hill & Dale. Days (including evenings) will be
long and intense, for the objective will be to
pack as much in as possible.

If you’re interested in becoming a student in
one of these summer sessions in the cool hills
of West Virginia, you’re encouraged to write to
me for further details.

Only with the success of such an endeavor will 
my acquisition and careful inventorying and 
sorting of all my letterpress paraphernalia 
come to some meaningful conclusion. It’s an
amazing technology. The machines are absolute
mechanical marvels. Being successful at making 
one run is a major reward in itself. Success of 
this program will assure that a working 
knowledge of our letterpress tradition will be 
carried into the 21st century. I only hope 
there are folks out there who share my interest 
in preserving the past. If you’re one, I hope 
to hear from you.


Where to Write

Write to Richard L. Hopkins, Post Office Box 
263, Terra Alta, West Virginia 26764. It's best 
to call in the evening—phone number is (304) 
789-6153.




U. S. Bureau of Labor Statistics 1925 Report:
Lead Poisoning Is Statistically Remote
—Richard L. Hopkins

A wave of absurd paranoia is taking the United
States by storm regarding an unrealistic view 
that anything even remotely hazardous should be 
done away with totally, regardless of whether 
the hazard is real, controllable, or imagined. 
Of course, we amateur typefounders are gravely 
affected by real, but mostly imagined fears of 
lead poisoning.

Advice offered in the last ATF Newsletter 
suggested simple ways of minimizing your own 
risk in handling lead. But the question 
remained as to whether a real health hazard 
existed and was tabulated back in the days when 
literally thousands of persons made their daily 
wages handling lead in the printing trades. 
Some interesting insight is gained from a U.S. 
Department of Labor Bureau of Labor Statistics 
publication done in September 1925, entitled 
Survey of Hygienic Conditions in the Printing 
Trades. (I’ve had the volume in my library. I 
just never really looked at it before!)

Approximately 1,000 plants were visited in all,
and detailed reports were made of surveys of 
536 establishments employing 81,314 people in 
the following trades: composition (typesetting, 
machine composition, hand composition), 
typefounding, plate making (photo-engraving,
stereotyping, electrotyping, wood, copperplate 
and steel-die engraving), presswork (platen, 
cylinder, rotary magazine and newspaper, and 
others), binding, ink grinding, roller making 
and auxiliary work.

From the summary on page 2: “Practically all 
the hazards created by the various operations 
can be eliminated by sensible precautions, and 
there is really no necessity for any more 
danger to the health of the workers in the 
printing trades than would be encountered 
through employment in office work or any other 
indoor occupation.”

Lighting and ventilation were considered major
problems. Some plants still were utilizing gas 
lights when the survey was taken. The majority 
of the plants depended on natural ventilation, 
principally by opening the windows. Obviously, 
this was not considered satisfactory.

Tuberculosis and lead poisoning were listed as 
the top two problems in the industry. 
Tuberculosis cases totaled 29; only 14 cases of 
lead poisoning were reported from among the 
81,314 individuals surveyed.

From page 203: “Acute and violent cases of lead 
poisoning were seldom found or heard of during 
the survey. The rarity of these cases is borne 
out by the mortality statistics issued by the 
U.S. Bureau of the Census, which gives the 
death rate for lead poisoning per 100,000 
enumerated population... as 0.2. This is 
significant when one considers that over 100 
different occupations are engaged in industrial 
use of lead, some of which are constantly 
exposed to lead. ...The lead used in the 
printing process is in metallic form which is 
relatively insoluble, except when oxidized by 
exposure to the air. ...”

As indicated, there were 14 reported cases: 8 
compositors, 5 stereotypers, and 1 lithograph 
artist.

Page 205: “In one of the two type foundries 
surveyed it was stated that only one case of 
lead poisoning had occurred, 15 years ago, and 
the other one stated that no case had been 
found during the past five years. Among the 
employees in one of these plants 14 trade 
workers were found past 60 years of age, and in 
the other plant, 16. All, except two, claimed 
they had never been afflicted with lead 
poisoning. One of the two, a 64-year-old type 
dresser, stated he had an attack of alleged 
lead poisoning for two weeks 44 years ago, and 
the other, a 62-year-old type inspector, 
mentioned an attack of lead colic over 40 years 
ago. Both of these establishments had the 
employees examined regularly for possible 
affliction.”

Fumes, dust (especially in cases of old type) 
were cited as possible risks, but it was 
concluded the most likely exposure was deposit 
of oxide on the hands being conveyed into the 
mouth. Eating in the workroom and carelessness 
in washing the hands were cited as the most 
likely reasons for contracting lead poisoning.

This information has been reproduced for two 
reasons: (1) to allay growing fears we 
ourselves might be developing (because of the 
hysteria prevalent throughout the country) and 
detailing some sensible precautions, and (2) 
to provide everyone with some solid details to 
pass along to distraught friends regarding the 
remoteness of lead poisoning when simple 
precautions are taken.

A final thought: keep in mind the thousands of 
people covered by this report worked at 
printing full-time and that meant a lot more 
than 40 hours a week back in 1925. Their 
exposure surely was several times more intense 
than any exposure we might have as part-time 
typecasters and hobbyists.




Our Readers Write

In hand as a response from Laurence Pion of 
Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada, is a four-page 
full-size newspaper which he publishes monthly 
titled The Reviewer. He does it on a pony 
Miehle (circa 1892), and the publication 
features an ad for “up-to-the-minute 
typographic services featuring the latest in 
1920’s type machines: Intertype, Monotype, 
Ludlow and Elrod.”


“I especially enjoyed the Kelsey story, as I 
had a Kelsey press when I was 10 years old.”
—Gordon K. Rouze
Houston, Texas


“The day after I read your Kelsey article, my
son came in with a little gift—a cut of a 
Kelsey press he picked up at an antique store 
in Annapolis. It’s pretty old but in rather 
decent condition. I do believe it’s the model 
press my dad bought for me (a used 5x8) when I 
was in the seventh grade and had just taken 
printing. That was in 1939.”
— Jim Kapplin
Baltimore, Md.


“I must admit I related most to the Kelsey 
story. I picked up my first press, a 5x8, at 
the plant in Meriden in 1949. We (I) cut short 
a vacation on Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard so 
I could pick it up early. My wife still hasn’t 
forgiven me. ...Regarding Ed Rayher’s problem:
OSHA wants everybody to live in a hermetically
sealed cocoon. Phooey!”
— Al Fick
Cottonwood, Ariz.


“What a typographical treat! No. 17 brought 
back memories to me, especially on page 14 
where you picture a 5x8 Kelsey hand press and 
cabinet. It was in 1925 when I bought one of 
these and to a large extent formed my printing 
trade with it. Lamentably, the press is gone, 
but the cabinet is still in use at Graphic 
Crafts, Inc. (my commercial shop) now run by my 
son. Our company is now 68 years old, so you 
can guess if I established it in 1925, I’m no 
youngster (84 years) and love this business as 
much as ever.”
— Richard Hess, Sr.
Lancaster, Pa.


“Thanks for latest ATF Newsletter. Again a 
beautiful piece of work and indeed l
abor-intensive to say the least. The presswork 
is immaculate but, who once complained that the 
book was printed offset, would not only forgive 
you for doing the whole thing offset; I would
praise you. Letterpress seems harder all the 
time, more difficult to do right without the 
industry backing you; or is it that I’m getting 
old?”
— Vance Gerry
Pasadena, Calif.


“Just got to page 14 of latest ATF Newsletter. 
That cut is a picture of my Kelsey cabinet. 
Only difference is that the 5x8 is bolted to an 
additional plywood top which is clamped to the 
cabinet. Mine contains a drawer, one blank job 
case, and nine Yankee cases.”
— Ed Weber
San Francisco, Calif.


“It was worth the wait to see my Lydian Bold
wooden ABC, XYZ on your cover.”
— David Kent
Austin, Tex.


Editor’s note: David loaned the wood type 
characters to me for use with the Chappell 
article many years ago. I publicly apologize to 
him for holding the letters so long, and then 
forgetting to acknowledge the source of the 
letters in Newsletter 9. I apologize again. 
—Rich


“I am one of the few 100% letterpress 
commercial production shops. No fax, no film, 
no copy, no chemicals, no blankets, no 
computers, and if necessary, no electric, for 
I have foot treadles and oil lamps. Bring on 
the ink and paper!”
— Francis Stanley
Richmond, Ind.


“Andy (Bush) and I are setting up a letterpress 
shop here in New York City and plan to have hot 
metal. As of yet, I can’t give any details, but 
we’re interested in getting into Monotype 
casting. If you have any leads on shops being 
sold in our area, let us know!”
— Howard M. Bratter
85 East 10th St., Apt. 6-Q, 
New York City 10003


“Thank you for the beautifully designed and 
printed newsletters. I can only imagine the 
time and effort you put into them. That makes 
them so much more special. I’m 64 and started 
in a job shop at 18.”
— Joseph Blass
Mount Carmel, Pa.


“Things are really hectic here in the shop—the
Linotype is red hot trying to cope with a 
workload that is increasing as Christmas draws 
ever nearer. Who said lead was dead? My 
experience certainly disproves that statement; 
may well have to expand yet again to keep pace 
with demand.”
— Bruce Anderton
Shipley Slugset,
Bingley, West Yorkshire, U.K.


“Warren Chappell’s ‘Reminiscences’ (in 
Newsletter 17) cover a time that I knew. His 
three factors of letterpress printing are 
understandable to letterpress workers: shape 
of the alphabet, means of translating it into 
type, and the integrity of the impression. I 
might wonder how an ordinary pressman would 
react to being admonished to ‘watch the 
integrity of his impression.’”
— Emerson Wulling
La Crosse, Wis.




Jim Rimmer Uses Lanston Punches
To Strike ‘Goudy Bible’ Matrices
—Jim Rimmer

In the late 1920’s, Frederic Goudy produced a 
typeface named Goudy Newstyle, which was used 
by his Village Typefoundry in supplying fonts 
to patrons—until the entire facility was 
destroyed by fire.

Bruce Rogers was commissioned to design the 
World Lectern Bible in the 1930’s and decided 
Goudy’s Newstyle face should be used. 
Considering the size of the project, it was 
only logical that the design be made to work on 
the Monotype Composition Caster. Working with 
Sol Hess, and with Goudy’s blessing, the design 
was reworked to fit the unit rows of the die 
case. In the process, certain small revisions 
were made to the design, resulting in its being 
renamed Goudy Bible. It was sympathetic to the 
original and was cut only in 18 point.


Original Mats Were Large Comp

It is my understanding that only the one die 
case of matrices was ever struck, although it 
is possible others were made and sold. 
According to the current holder of the Lanston 
material,Gerald Giampa, the former is true, 
though there may have been a set of rough and 
unjustified strikes made when the punches were 
in the possession of Mackenzie-Harris.

Giampa kindly lent me the punches so that I 
could make a set of flat mats for use on the 
Monotype sorts caster. In going through the box 
of punches, we noted there were three small 
capitals in the box: ORD. We went on a search 
for another box that might hold the balance of 
the small caps, but after a lengthy search, we 
gave up.

I remembered that a local Bible supply store 
had a large Bible on a lectern in its front 
window and on inquiry was delighted to find it 
was a copy of the very same Bible. On studying 
the Bible, I realized wherever it appeared 
(which is quite frequently, by the way) the 
word Lord was set cap and small caps. Thus, 
it’s likely the remaining small caps never were 
cut.

To make my matrices, I bought a length of 
1¼" × ¾" copper bus bar and cut it up into 
one-inch lengths. I milled the side and head 
bearing surfaces to a perfect right angle and 
filed off the slight corner burrs. Since I 
intended (initially) to cast my fonts on the 
Thompson caster, I stripped the backing shoe 
out of the Thompson matrix holder so it would 
accommodate my matrices (which were going to be 
much thicker than standard Monotype display 
matrices). My reason for the thicker matrices 
was a feeling that the extra thickness would 
minimize the chance that the blanks would curl 
up as the punch was driven in. I milled all the 
blanks to .303" and lapped them on cutting 
cloth and then polished them on denim with 
copper polish to have a mirror finish for the 
image surface of the matrices.


Side Bearings on Wrong Side

Because the side bearing built into the punches 
was intended for composition matrices instead 
of display matrices, I had to account for this 
when I built a striking jig to punch the mats. 
(Side bearing is fixed to the right edge of 
composition matrices; just the opposite is true 
for display matrices.)

It stood to reason that a narrow letter punch 
like “i” would have some deadwood on the 
non–side-bearing side of the punch. To make up 
for this, I shifted the matrix blank a little 
on each of the narrower letters to eliminate 
the need to have to mill off a lot of metal 
when side fitting the mats.

I made it so the widest letters (m, w, M, W) 
would have about a 9-point side bearing and 
brought all the narrow letters as close to this 
(a point or so) to get them into rough 
justification. This left me room to 
second-guess the setwise fitting of the mats.

I made my striking jig on my hobbyist milling 
machine—that name appropriately reflects my 
machining skills. The striking jig works well. 
That fact that it produces a slightly rough 
finish is of no concern to me.

When striking mats, I made up a feeler gauge 
.052" thick, which I placed between the piston 
of the hydraulic press and the stop plate. I 
pumped the press so that the punch was pressed 
slowly into the copper, and when my feeler 
gauge was just trapped by the piston of the 
press, I knew I had a depth of drive of .052" 
or thereabouts.

The next step was to re-mill the side bearing 
to take off the side swell created by the punch 
displacing copper as it was pressed into the 
blank. Similarly, I took off the surface swell, 
which was removed by rubbing on a file held in 
the vise. I don’t own a needle depth gauge, so 
I did trial casts on the Thompson to check the 
height. In most cases all I needed to mill off 
the surface was .001". The rest was lapped 
again and recast until the depth of drive was 
.050", making the type .918".

Unfortunately, no specifications were to be 
found in Lanston files regarding die case 
arrangement or the unit values of each 
character, so I proceeded to fit each letter of 
the font according to dimensions of the neck of 
the punch. It was easy to see on each punch 
that the sides of the shoulders (setwise) had 
been run through an accurate milling or 
grinding device to eliminate any wideness of 
fit created by the angle of the punchcutter’s 
point. Both sides had been milled off to an 
exact 90 degrees to the shoulder of the punch. 
I checked these with my micrometer and noted a 
tentative letter width, casting samples to 
those widths. The pointwise alignment of the 
font was built into these incredibly accurate 
punches, so I needed to do little to check 
alignment. All letters lined up well!


Doublechecking Set Width

After I had enough type cast to set a line to 
match the one example of the type I had, I set 
a line to match. It was a measure of about 25 
picas and I was a little disappointed to find 
my line came out about a pica wider. The 
problem was not word spacing. I could see that 
each word in my line was a point or more wider 
than the example. Thus, I went back and altered 
the widths a little until my line matched the 
example precisely. Everything seemed to fit 
well using ¼ point as a minimal increment, 
though this possibly is not accurate to the 
wedge of the composition caster.

I cast a few fonts on the Thompson and then 
decided it would be a good idea to make the 
mats work with my Supercaster as well. To do 
this, I took a spare Supercaster holder and 
used my milling machine to remove the raised 
spline in the bed of the holder. Then I used a 
key-slot cutter to mill slots in the bottom and 
top edges of my new mats. Since there was now 
no spline to keep the type in alignment, I made 
certain that the lengths of all the mats were 
such that they were a press fit into the body 
of the holder.

This modification of the Supercaster matrix 
holder was altogether successful and I have 
cast several fonts from my new Goudy Bible 
matrices. If you’re interested in acquiring 
fonts or have need for a more extensive casting 
of this face, I would welcome your call or 
letter.


Punch/Matrix Cutting Possibilities

After some years of owning a Weibking/Ludlow 
pantograph, it looks like I am on the verge of 
being able to use it. I have worked out the 
problems of scaling and distortion, and have 
finally obtained a cutter grinder. I have a 
large number of collets and cutter blanks with 
the pantograph, so it made sense to have some 
parts made for the cutter grinder to be able to 
grind these points to their collets. This has 
been done, and now I await the repair of the 
grinder’s motor.

I also have been given still another pantograph 
of a more generalized industrial purpose. It is 
a Taylor Hobson, made in England. It seems that 
the company no longer exists, so again it was 
necessary to have parts made for it. The device 
will scale 18 to 1, and is still very accurate 
and tight; I attempted to engrave a 72-point 
leaf to cast on the Supercaster using only a 
pattern made of cardboard (coated with shellac 
to make it stand up to the abrading of the 
follower). The pantograph scales nicely and 
there seems to be no distortion. The edge of 
the leaf seemed sawtoothed and the finish of 
the face was rough. I cast some, though, and 
was happy to see that the pantograph was 
okay—the problems all are with me!

On the threshold of being able to produce 
another type of my own design by the use of the 
pantograph makes me all the more eager to 
continue on with this adventure.


Other Projects

I have some large comp matrices which I wanted 
to cast on the Supercaster, feeling I would get 
better type than off the Composition Caster. To 
do this, I made a holder of the same width, 
height, and thickness as the regular English 
display-matrix holder. To make it hold the 
large comp mats, I milled a channel running the 
same direction as the mold blade from the back 
to the front of the holder. Into this channel I 
place a small carrier which has a screw with a 
pin on the end which goes into the side hole of 
the large comp matrix. This keeps the matrix 
from falling out as the cast type is pulled 
from it.

Because the large comp mats have a reversed 
side bearing, I made a scribe line on the 
crossblock side of the surface of the holder 
body. I have an adjusting screw on this end of 
the holder, which allows me to shift the mats 
to get the image of the mat in line with the 
crossblock and the scribe line of the holder. 
This is a bother, and failure to get it very 
close for the first cast will result in a 
squirt on matrices where there is not much 
sealing surface (especially wider characters). 
I arrange the mats in lots according to unit 
values, so it is only necessary to line up 
setwise on the first of each group. This holder 
also is a little unpolished, but it works and 
does no damage to the mats or the bridge of the 
caster.

If you are interested in Jim’s processes or in 
acquiring his type, contact Jim Rimmer at 1182 
Hastings St., Vancouver, B.C. V6A 1S2, Canada. 
Phone (604) 522-5321.




Classifieds

John Eickhoff of Acorntype Typefounders, 24 
Honey Hill Road, Kingswood, Bristol BS15 4HJ, 
England (Telephone 0272-677903) submits the 
following:
Space Needed. English Monotype parts, manuals, 
cellular mats offered for American Monotype 
display mats, dingbats. No lists of parts. 
State your requirements.




Colophon

This 18th issue of the American Typecasting 
Fellowship Newsletter is produced in June, 
1994, by Richard L. Hopkins, P.O. Bos 263, 
Terra Alta, West Virginia 26764. You may have 
your name added to the mailing list for future 
issues (produced occasionally), by sending 
$10.00 to the editor ($20.00 for overseas 
delivery). Bulk of the text in this issue is 
produced via Aldus Pagemaker 5.0 on the PC. The 
font used is Adobe Caslon, specially configured 
with ligatures, old style figures, etc., 
utilizing a nifty (though perhaps flawed) piece 
of Monotype software called "Font Mixer." 
Because of the volume of material to be 
reported, this entire issue was done on offset. 
A wood engraving was done especially for this 
edition by Jim Horton of Ann Arbor, Michigan. 
The engraving depicts the original brass matrix 
from ATF, along with a cored 120-point N cast 
from that matrix. The block to fill the area of 
the "core," as you see, was actually part of the 
matrix. This matrix now is part of Rich's 
extensive collection of ATF, Lanston Monotype, 
English Monotype and original pivotal matrices.