[Posted by Allexandra Beatty for AMST 838/438, “America Collects Itself”]

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow illustrated by Felix O.C. Darley (The American Art-Union, 1850).

Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is a well-known and beloved tale throughout the northeast.  The ghoulish story, set in Tarrytown, New York (or rather, Sleepy Hollow), narrates the encounter between Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman.  This edition is set in large format (32 x 29 cm), containing 16 pages of text and 6 black and white plates featuring recognizable scenes from the story.  Interestingly, these illustrations were not published interspersed between relevant passages, but appended to the complete narrative.

Subscribers to the American Art-Union would have been familiar with this tale, as it was originally published in 1820.  This edition, released in 1850 and illustrated by Felix O.C. Darley, provided a different experience for readers who were well acquainted with the twists and turns of the Legend’s plot.  Rather, this publication offers a unique synthesis of illustration and text.  Through the lens of another artist (fine, not literary), the overall experience is altered dramatically.  The accompanying images are finely tuned amalgamations of facial expressions, body language, and sparse scenery giving structure to the composition, and grounding the figures within the narrative arc.  Unfortunately, the plates are untitled and, as noted, separated from the original text.  As such, they act as their own narrative, beginning first with Figure 1—a scene within Ichabod Crane’s classroom.

Here, the knobby-kneed schoolteacher is surrounded by a group of disinterested, shy, and mischievous young boys.   Ichabod stares half-heartedly at a quill held in one hand while he pares away the tip with a tool in his other. 

In Figure 2, his expression is starkly the opposite.  Ichabod winches his head in earnest, gesturing a word of caution to the surrounded group of listeners.  One cowers in fear, another stares wide-eyed, and another has drifted to sleep in his arms.  Surrounded by the accouterments of a humble home, this image offers a vision of Ichabod retelling the folklore of Sleepy Hollow, and the legend of the Headless Horseman.

Figure 3 jumps to a scene between Ichabod and the woman of his affection, 18-year-old Katrina Van Tassel.  Perhaps the most evocative of Darley’s illustrations, this piece uses the languid tree limbs mirror Ichabod’s limp body posture as he croons over his beloved.  Katrina sits firm and stoic, looking away from how downward longing.

Figure 4 represents the climax of his relationship with Katrina, as they dance in the center of this composition, Katrina nearly meeting the viewer’s eye and Ichabod looking back at her, again, lovingly.  Among the crowd are a myriad of characters—some drunk, some sleeping, some foolish, and some simply enjoying themselves.  This densely populated scene speaks to the generalized nature of the overall narrative, whereby Washington Irving’s tale typifies a sense of regionalism.  His writing seems to apply to the cultural tendencies of northeastern Americans from the early to mid 19^th century.  As such, the illustration of such figures could prove to be a useful tool in connecting American Art-Union subscribers to the narrative, though published 30 years after its intended audience.

Figures 5 and 6 finally reveal the Headless Horseman.  The first shows the character disguised as a traveler, his face turned away from the viewer.  In his lap, an indiscriminate round object sits perfectly out of sight.  Notably, the rider’s horse seems to be gesturing in a similarly disguised manner.  His head is reared down, as if bowing to the oncoming Ichabod Crane, though wide-eyed and seemingly fear-stricken.  The facial expressions of Ichabod and his horse are perfectly mirrored—both caught at the brink of a sharp inhale upon the sight of the cloaked traveler and his horse.  The horse’s legs are taught and spread, in a stopped and abrupt motion.  Ichabod too seems caught off-guard, as his cloak is still billowing behind him.  At their feet, a small puff of dust has been disturbed, signaling unrest and disruption.  The last plate features the exciting chase between the Headless Horseman and Ichabod Crane.  Again, the horses and their respective riders appear with mirrored expressions.  The cloaked rider is finally revealed to be “headless”, while the flank of Ichabod’s panicked plow horse hides the other animal’s face.   Ichabod and his horse are both painfully wide-eyed in sheer dread.  Darley most successfully conveys the stress and tension of the scene within the body of Ichabod’s horse—the visible rib cage, reaching muscles, and taught neck of the animal bespeak terror and desperation as the two clamor toward safety.

As successful as these images may be in visually conveying key points in the written narrative, they seem to lack conclusiveness and fluid linear progression.  These six plates offer only a few glimpses into the characters of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  Furthermore, they offer no sort of finality—though the story ends is a rather poignant paradox.  True to the story, however, there is no neat conclusion to be backed in a nice bow and handed to consumers of said piece.  Rather, the lack of finality in the visual storyboard reflects the integrity of the original narrative, whereby readers are left stunned, reaching back to page one to begin again.

[Posted by Susan Hood for “America Collects Itself: From Colony to Empire”]

A reasonable assumption could be made that books by pre-revolutionary Americans were published before 1776. That is not the case with the scant milestone works by Colonel William Byrd of Westover, Esquire (1674-1744), an aristocratic Virginian known to contemporary scholars of American history, literature, and book collecting as William Byrd II.

Byrd’s manuscript of  “A History of the Dividing Line in the Year 1728”–the subject being the disputed border “betwixt the colonial governments of Virginia and North Carolina”–was evidently favorably known among a coterie of early American historians and literati, but his first-hand account of exploration was not published until 1841 by a small firm in Petersburg, Virginia. This report, with other short works by Byrd, was re-printed in a two-volume set in 1866 in Richmond, Virginia, and another iteration, edited by the scholar John Spencer Bassett, ensued in 1901 from the major New York publishing house of Doubleday, Page.

The Watkinson Library holds the 1841 and 1901 editions, and the differences are striking. The 1841 copy is exceedingly slim, printed on what appears to be thin wood-pulp paper, now dark brown and brittle, the acidic content corroding the white thread binding. The type is small and antiquated to contemporary eyes, and the page margins are exceedingly narrow. In contrast, the 1901 volume, of which only 500 were printed, is lavish: the font size is large, the margins unusually wide, even more so at the page bottom (approximately four inches), the creamy-hued paper is intended to look like laid, and is obviously low-acid or perhaps acid-free, for there is no discoloration.

Was the 1841 publication intended for wide distribution? Who was the audience? What explains the reverential and luxurious 1901 edition? I found a hint in a book in my possession, printed circa 1925: “American Literature” by John Calvin Metcalf. In his thumbnail biography of Byrd, Metcalf states “he was only incidentally a writer; perhaps no one would be more surprised than he, could he return and look into a history of American literature, to find his name high among the authors of the colonial period.” Metcalf briefly discusses the “Dividing Line,” and cites the following passage (comments in brackets are mine):

Since the surveyors [charting the latitude] had enter’d the Dismal [Swamp] they had laid eyes on no living creature; neither bird nor beast, insect nor reptile came into view. Doubtless the eternal shade that broods over this mighty bog, and hinders the sunbeams from blessing the ground, makes it an uncomfortable habitation for anything that has life. Not so much as a Zealand frog could endure so anguish a situation. It had one beauty, however, that delight’d the eye, though at the expense of the other senses: the moisture of the soil preserves a continual verdure, and makes every plant an evergreen, but at the same time the foul damps ascend without ceasing, corrupt the air and render it unfit for respiration. Not even a turkey buzzard will venture to fly over it, no more than the Italian vultures will over the filthy lake Avernus or the birds in the Holy Land over the salt sea where Sodom and Gomorrah formerly stood.

In these sad circumstances the kindest thing we cou’d do for our suffering friends was to give them a place in the Litany. Our chaplain for his part did his office, and rubb’d us up with a seasonable sermon. This was quite a new thing for our brethren of North Carolina, who live in a climate where no clergyman can breathe, any more than spiders of Ireland.

The passage demonstrates Byrd’s erudition, his powers of observation, and gives a taste of his keen and occasionally sardonic wit.

Yet reading only a portion of the “Dividing Line” is revelatory, for Byrd could be classified as an early American “nature writer.” To think the “Dividing Line” was penned eight years after the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, and more than two centuries before Henry David Thoreau went to live at Walden Pond! Byrd tells of parakeets flying into apple orchards in the fall, “apt to be loud and mischevious”; of conch shells found on beaches; of wolves, foxes, and bears; and of a polecat (a relation of the ferret), which despite issuing a noxious odor to repel enemies, was killed, cooked, and eaten by members of his company.

Byrd explains that the surveying commission took 16 weeks and covered 600 miles. They began surveying at the Atlantic coast, sailing among the coastal islands and inlets, and forging rivers. The expedition was conducted in two parts, in the spring and the fall, to avoid rattlesnakes, which are most active and menacing during the heat of the summer. Rattlesnakes obviously posed dangers to his party (on foot most of the time) and their horses (laden with provisions, muskets, gunpowder, tomahawks, and presumably surveying equipment, tents, and scant changes of clothing). He lists a number of venom antidotes that could be concocted from a number of flowering plants categorized as rattlesnake root and a variety of fern.

Byrd also recounts encounters with settlers, and describes how their “homely log-houses” were built. This, from a wealthy patrician who lived in an enormous mansion made of brick! On the trek, his company baptized children of white residents. The party was also regally entertained by what may have been the last remaining Indian village in those parts. He mentions that the natives groomed their hair with bear grease, and that the women were offered as night companions. He appears to have regarded the native people with favor, whereas he deems white North Carolinians as having a “thorough aversion to labor,” and remarks upon the “Slothfulness of the People,” by which he must mean the men, for he mentions that the women begin their work at dawn. He attributes the men’s laziness to the climate.

For those who thought early American writing was nothing but reiterations of hellfire and damnation, turn to the stylish, informative, and humorous Byrd.

[Posted by Rene Dion for AMST 838/438 “America Collects Itself”]

Mourt’s Relation is the earliest known eyewitness account of the Pilgrims’ first several months after landing at Cape Cod. Although no official author is listed it is known to have been primarily written by Edward Winslow, a senior leader on the Mayflower and future governor of Plymouth. The account details the day to day diary of the settler’s explorations of their new land, relations with the surrounding Indians, and up to the first Thanksgiving.

Mourt’s Relation was first published in London in 1622 by George Morton. The original booklet was mostly lost and forgotten over time and possibly overshadowed by William Bradford’s retrospective account Of Plimoth Plantation written several years later. With this in mind I knew my chances of the Watkinson housing an original copy were fairly slim. What I did find was a copy from 1865. At the beginning is the publisher’s preface which states that this copy is just that, a copy, a facsimile, a “page by page and line by line edition.”  For some reason this encouraged me to continue on. Sure, it wasn’t a 400-year-old book but as I kept reading I could imagine that it was. All I needed were the words on the page for me to travel back to the first days at Plymouth Rock.

As I leafed through I found the Chronological Table of Events listed towards the back. This was a very short daily synopsis of the day’s events starting in July 1620. An example would be “Saturday, November 11. Saw Cape Cod.” I found myself really enjoying reading through each day and envisioning what it must have been like to record a diary of such importance. Events such as on “November 30, 1620:  Wigwams and graves were found as well as the very first baby, Peregrine White was born.” Although I must admit my favorite entry is this: “December 5. Francis Billington nearly blows up the Mayflower.” Who is Frances Billington? I must know more. I had never considered seeing the Pilgrims as individuals rather than a group. Apparently Francis was making explosives and shot a musket in the Mayflower while it was anchored at Cape Cod. As I read on it came to light that these Billingtons were known as troublemakers in the colony. Young John Billington, brother of Francis, got himself lost in the woods in late August. Apparently, this caused enough trouble to earn an entry in the book. John Billington, father of both boys, was hanged for the murder of fellow settler John Newcomen in 1630.

More significant entries included the meeting on February 17, 1621 where Myles Standish was elected as Plymouth Colony’s first commander, a position he would hold until his death in 1656.  Recorded on August 13, 1621 was Standish leading a ten-man search party to find Squanto, the Indian liaison to the Pilgrims, who was captured by the Wampanoag Indians.

The event that Mourt’s Relation is perhaps most associated with among historians is the first Thanksgiving. It appears in a brief paragraph stating, “Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after have a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors; they four in one day killed as much fowl, as with a little help beside, served the company almost a week, at which time amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest King Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain, and others.” In my research I found it to be believed by historians that Edward Winslow wanted to stress harmony with the tribes and abundance of harvest so as to attract more English settlers to the New World. It is often stated that the hardships of the first year were downplayed by its authors.

As I searched through Mourt’s Relation and found great little facts and stories, I realized how glad I was to have stayed with my initial choice. It had made me want to find out more about the goings on of these transplanted people. When my interest is piqued I have to know much more about a subject. I believe the Watkinson will be seeing much more of me perusing its collection for more fascinating stories of America’s history.

[Curator’s note: here is an image of the title-page of the original 1622 publication]

[Posted by Jacob Miller ’14, for AMST 838/438 “America Collects Itself”]

J. Hector St. John de Crevecoeur is an 18^th century French writer, most famous for his expository work recounting the cultural and structural identity of the newly forged American colonies to the European world. At a time where colonists were fashioning their own identity and Europeans wondered about the makeup of this “new world” society, Crevecoeur attempted to bring his own interpretation of this new American identity. One of Crevecoeur’s most popular works both today and during his writing career was a volume of narrative essays published under the title, Letters From an American Farmer.   Written from the perspective of a fictional American farmer, James, living in the Quaker colony of Pennsylvania, these essays are a direct attempt at depicting the American condition from the corrupting evils of slavery, to descriptions of local animals, plants and trees, as well as descriptions of Quaker society on the islands of Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. Crevecoeur spent an extensive amount of time in the colonies of New York and Pennsylvania before the Revolutionary War, even purchasing 120 acres of farmland in Orange County, New York and marrying Mehitable Tippet, the daughter of a wealthy landowner. He even became a naturalized citizen in New York in 1765.[1]

In the Watkinson, I handled and read sections from a copy of the text published in 1783 in London, printed by T. Davies. One of the most interesting aspects of this particular book was the incredibly detailed and expertly inserted foldout map of the island of Nantucket. This version of the text also bore the lengthy original title of Letters from an American farmer: describing certain provincial situations, manner, and customs not generally known; and conveying some idea of the late and present interior circumstances of the British colonies in North America. While thorough, this title has been shortened in the more recent publications. While the subject matter of this letters is extensive, I found Letter III and Letter IX to address the most interesting aspects and problems facing our newly forged nation.

Letter III is titled “What is An American?” This letter attempts to assign meaning and parameters to the culture of America. Recognizing the multi-cultural heritage of the new nation, Crevecoeur, as James, writes, “The next wish of this traveler will be to know whence came all these people? They are a mixture of English, Scotch, Irish, French, Dutch, Germans, and Swedes. From This promiscuous breed, that race now called Americans has arisen.” With this mosaic of cultural heritage as the foundation, Crevecoeur builds to address the very question of citizenship as a right. “Can a wretch who wanders about, who works and saves, whose life is a continual scene of sore affliction or pinching penury; can that man call England or any other kingdom his country?” While part of a multifaceted depiction, I think this argument is one of the more poignant pieces of Crevecoeur’s constructed American identity. For Crevecoeur, the removal of predetermined societal clout based on birth or caste is the basic right of every American. The removal of monarchical society and the ability to be socially mobile, based solely on how hard you are willing to work is an idealized, and arguably accurate depiction of the early years of colonial life. In order to examine this depiction critically, one must compartmentalize the reality that these rights were only allotted to white men, and this land, which is depicted as free and ready for cultivation and enterprise originally belonged to now displaced native populations. In some ways, the recognition of this reality taints the idealized tone of this early work of America cultural study.

Crevecoeur does mention the Indian tribes in this letter; however, it is part of a comparison that contains the lingering social hierarchies that he celebrates absence of in American society. One of the sections deconstructs the structure of society to a primal level. In this letter Crevecoeur also argues that colonists brought order and structure to a savage world. The settlements, buildings, religious and governmental organizations that have been established are in many ways an inherently positive civilizing force in the region. He compares these interior and coastal towns with the frontier areas near the “great woods.” “There, remote from the power of example and check of shame, many families exhibit the most hideous parts of our society.” He goes on to state that they exist and live off the wild; therefore, this wild permeates its way into their existence and behavior.

Letter IX titled “Description of Charles-Town; Thoughts on Slavery; On Physical Evil; A Melancholy Scene” is also very interesting and an important critique of slavery. Crevecoeur paints a portrait of the stanch contrast in the populace of this town.  “The inhabitants are the gayest in America; it is caked the centre of our beau monde, and is always filled with the richest plants of the province, who resort hither in quest of health and pleasure.” This is the Charles-Town at the top of the social spectrum, those lawyers, planters and merchants who reap the rewards of an economy based on the sweat equity of slaves. The world of the slave is depicted much differently as “they are obliged to devote their lives, their limbs, their will, and every vital exertion to swell the wealth of masters.” This contrast is chilling and Crevecoeur seems ahead of his time stating through James, “I hope the time draws near when they will be all emancipated.”

This collection of letters is any incredibly important depiction of early life in our country. It shows the founding principles and cultural identity that resulted from the conditions and societal climate of early colonial America. While slightly hypocritical and shaped by a catering to its largely European audience, this work contextualizes and provides an insider look at the founding of a nation. Crevecoeur brought the American colonies and frontier to a worldwide audience and handling a text from the very time that people were reading about the nation I call my home for the first time was a fascinating experience.

[Posted by Mollie Scheerer ’14 for AMST 838/438 “America Collects Itself”]

George Washington died on December 14, 1799 at his Mount Vernon home in Virginia. Upon his death the total sum to which his property and land amounted was $530,000 and was divided among his family, friends, and organizations and causes close to his heart. A copy of it is at the Watkinson published in New York on January 23, 1800 by J. Furman. The original will was printed in Alexandria but the copy in particular at the Watkinson is an authenticated copy as noted by George Deneale, Clerk of Fairfax County Court in Virginia. The original was printed in his office and on the page preceding the title page, Deneale writes that this copy, with the schedule of Washington’s property directed to be sold annexed, is a “True Copy from the Original.” His name was signed at the bottom of every page in the original manuscript but was not included in the copies printed in January of 1800.

Washington’s will is a window into the life and values of the first President of the United States. He bequeathed his entire estate and everything “real and personal” to his dearly beloved wife, Martha for the remainder of her life. He also gave his property on Pitt & Cameron Streets in Alexandria to her and her family for the rest of its legacy. His love and devotion to his wife during his lifetime is apparent in his will as he respects and trusts her by leaving decisions about his property to her best judgement. Even in his bequests to other family members and friends, much of it has to do with Martha’s well-being after he dies as he wanted to ensure she live the best life possible even without him.

Perhaps the most interesting and well-known part of his will is the freeing of his slaves, however. In his will he states that after Martha’s death all slaves that he owned were to be emancipated. He waited until after her death to ensure she was taken care of after his passing but both wanted their slaves to find freedom when they were gone. Being the noble man that he was,
however, he makes sure that they were not released into the free world without being able to land on their feet. He intended for his heirs to make sure the slaves who were too old, young, crippled, or sick were comfortably fed and clothed. For the young slaves with no parents alive, able, or willing to provide for them in freedom, they were to be bound by the court until they were twenty-five years old. He further protected their well-being by forbidding the sale and transportation of any slave out of the commonwealth of Virginia, wanting to keep families together and near their home. The release of his slaves, even in his death, was a powerful statement to make at the time. Washington also wanted to ensure his slaves lead good lives after their freedom, going a step further than most would have done.

Washington also granted immediate freedom upon his death to William, his valet, or whom he called his “Mulatto man.” Again, just as he did for the rest of his slaves after Martha’s death, Washington wanted to ensure William was able to lead a satisfactory life after his master’s death. Due to his position as Washington’s valet, however, William received even more advantageous options. In his will Washington gave William the choice of immediate freedom or, if he so chose, to remain working for Washington’s estate. Washington alludes to William’s situation of being crippled due to accidents that had befallen him rendering him incapable of walking or any active employment. With either option William chose, however, Washington states that he was to receive thirty dollars a year for the rest of his life. Washington’s bequest toWilliam is unlike many master-slave wishes in a last will and testament. Not only is it extremely generous and unprecedented, Washington also speaks to William’s faithful services during the Revolutionary War and their attachment to one another. Another indication of his character, Washington left four thousand dollars to the Trustees of the Academy in Alexandria to support a free school for orphans and the poor annexed to the current Academy. He believed in the power of educating the youth of the United States in strong institutions on our own soil and planned for the establishment of a university in the District of Columbia in his name. There, he intended students to complete their education in all branches of “polite literature; in arts and Sciences, in acquiring knowledge in the principles of Politics & good Government; and…by associating with each other, and forming friendships in Juvenile years, be enabled to free themselves in a proper degree from those local prejudices & habitual jealousies.” Washington also gave a generous endowment to Liberty Hall Academy, later named Washington & Lee University which carries on the President’s legacy and interest in education today.

Although George Washington did not have any children his many nieces and nephews benefited from his will, as did other relatives and friends and their heirs. A great many interesting objects were left for those especially fortunate, such as a gold cane left to him by Dr. Benjamin Franklin to his brother Charles; spy glasses to one of his childhood friends that Washington revealed “constituted part of my equipage during the late war”; and for the Earl of Buchan, the box made out of the legendary Elderslie Oak that sheltered Sir William Wallace after the Battle of Falkirk near Paisley, Scotland. Most of the bequests in Washington’s will are thoughtful and seem personal, again showing his character as well as his respect for those close to him. The physical document itself is interesting as in this edition a schedule and breakdown of Washington’s property to be sold is included. He had a great deal of livestock to be sold including horses, donkeys, mules, cattle, sheep, and hogs totaling to around $15,658. This copy also includes a note from the publisher revealing that the document states it was sealed on July 9, 1790 but the testator omitted the last nine. Although the will states it was finalized that year, it was actually sealed in 1799 just months before Washington’s passing. He also signed the bottom of every page in the original manuscript but his signature was not included in later copies produced. Although the original document is always interesting to explore, sometimes the following copies and editions can be even more revealing about the true nature of the original, as seen with the Watkinson’s copy of George Washington’s Last Will and Testament.

[Posted by Professor Sarah Rivett, Princeton University]

Housed in the American Indian Vocabulary Collection of the Watkinson Library are two manuscript prayer books from the eighteenth century, written in the Abenaki language. The prayer books are in the same hand, and on the inside of the front cover of one of them, we have a clue as to who the author might have been: “Father Germain, the last Jesuit missionary of the St. Francis.” Ordained in Belgium, Charles Germain decided to work as a missionary in New France.  He lived among the Abenaki for twenty-nine years, from 1739 until his death in 1779.

Germain lived through tumultuous times of a war-ravaged northeast that culminated with British dominion of North America following the Seven Years War (1754 – 1763). When Germain arrived in the Abenaki community in Acadia, the region was already under British control, as a consequence of the Treaty of Paris (1713) that ended the War of Spanish Succession. Germain was a military strategist as well as a missionary. He worked as a liaison between the government of New France and the Abenaki Indians under his pastoral care. His aim, like that of his predecessor, Sebastian Rale, was to consolidate Acadian resistance by ensuring that Franco-Catholicism left a lasting mark on North America. Committed to his faith and his country of origin, Germain’s proselytizing of Abenaki souls was intimately connected to his disdain for the Anglo-Protestantism.

Language was Germain’s tool of both Abenaki conversion and war strategy. Speaking the language of the indigenous inhabitants of North America proficiently was the best means of communicating Christian doctrine and establishing alliances. Since the French presence in North American paled in comparison to the British, in terms of population and cosmopolitan development, the Indian-French alliance was France’s only hope of survival. Luckily for Germain, his Jesuit predecessors were accomplished linguists. Sebastian Rale lived among the Abenaki in Norridgewalk from 1691 until his death at the hands of the British in 1722. He composed an extensive dictionary that is now housed at the Houghton Library in Cambridge Massachusetts. For Rale, learning Abenaki was an incredibly difficult task. There were no books on the topic, no grammars, and no teachers other than the Abenaki themselves. Rale describes going to sit in Abenaki wigwams for eight to nine hours every day as “a child goes to school.” He spoke as best he could and the Abenaki corrected him. Because of Rale’s work, Father Germain entered a community with a fairly substantial written record of Abenaki. Indeed, we might even speculate that Germain developed his prayer books from Rale’s scribal publications of similar texts. Additionally, some of the Abenaki would have known French while others were used to playing the role of teacher to the Jesuit missionaries in an ironic process of role reversal where the European became the student and the American Indian the teacher.

Scale is the most striking material difference between the Abenaki Prayer Books composed by Germain and Rale’s Abenaki Dictionary, or the monumental Illinois-French Dictionary compiled by Jacques Gravier and also housed at the Watkinson Library. Gravier’s dictionary contains over twenty-two thousand words listed alphabetically, with the Illinois preceding the French. The writing is small, economizing space in the enormous tome bound in marbled leather. Composed over decades, words were crossed out. Corrections were made, sometimes in Gravier’s hand and sometimes in a different hand, possibly that of his successors, Julien Binneteau and Gabriel Marest. By contrast, the Abenaki prayer books are small enough to fit in a missionary’s pocket. Composed of only about twenty leaves, they are sewn together with a thin piece of leather. The design ensures that the books function as useable texts in liturgical and ritual worship. The contents are equally succinct: morning prayers, evening prayers, the Ave Maria, the ten commandments, catechisms, confessional prayers, and psalms. Each title appears in French, as a clue to the priest leading the service, while the text itself is in Abenaki. It is likely that these prayer books were used by priests other than Germain. Such was the case with the Illinois prayer book written by Claude Allouez for Father Jacques Marquette to take on his travels along the Joliet trail. With the aid of such a prayer book, a priest could get by with minimal language skills. The prayers were mnemonic, sung within the context of a primarily oral indigenous language culture. Additionally, many of the Abenaki who had already converted to Catholicism lead the prayers during ritual worship, often more effectively than the priests who were bound by a partial understanding of both the language and the worldview that it represented.

Germain entered into Abenaki territory with the goal of controlling the Abenaki people for imperial purposes. The Abenaki-French alliance during the Seven Years War is the dominant narrative that we associate with this time period. Yet texts such as these Abenaki prayer books suggest an alternative perspective, one in which language both facilitated French desire for indigenous dominance and undermined it. To learn the language, missionaries had to submit to instruction. They had to suspend their education and their linguistic training in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew in addition to several European languages. The indigenous languages of North America were nothing like they had ever encountered, nothing that they could have planned for upon leaving the Old World. To become proficient in Abenaki, Rale would assemble a group of native speakers whom he felt to be the most intelligent and eloquent. Before them, he would recite the catechism and hear their corrections. In doing so, he learned how different the language was from European languages, how delicate the mode of correct expression was. The massive dictionaries produced by Jesuit missionaries at the turn of the eighteenth century were attempts to visually capture the phonetic sounds of the spoken words around them. The catechism functioned as an educational text for native proselytes and missionaries alike. In some cases, this is all we have left of an otherwise lost language.

As anyone who has studied a language other than his or her own mother tongue knows, language is a window into a worldview. Language gives us unique access to another culture. Something is always lost through translation, but in the case of the Abenaki prayer books, something was also gained. These texts became mnemonic tools for priests and proselytes alike. The form of translation reflected in the prayer books was cyclical, from oral to written and then back to oral. In learning the Abenaki language, the Jesuits also learned of Abenaki culture. And while Christianity was a tool of colonization, it also changed through translation. Doctrine, pious practice, and religious expression took on new resonance when expressed through words intended to represent an entirely different cosmos.

[Posted by Anisha Chakrabarti ’14, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

Going to the Watkinson Library to research T.S. Eliot was an astonishing experience, as I found that the collection included works from throughout Eliot’s life. The work I chose to examine was a copy of Eliot’s poem, The Dry Salvages. The piece is the third of four sets of poems that Eliot published later in his career entitled, The Four Quartets.

 While the first time the poem was published was in February of 1941 in an edition of New English Weekly, this version was published in September of the same year and is the first edition of its publication alone.

The poem is not particularly long; therefore it surprised me that it was published on its own in such a sparse manner. It is slightly flimsy; the book cover is cardboard, and it is bound in an elm green binding that has been reinforced by green tape. The pages are yellowed, but do not look particularly worn. The book cover says nothing; it is only when you turned to the title page that very simply, T.S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages, Faber and Faber is printed. This made me think that perhaps the edition had been published originally with a compilation of other works.

Faber and Faber is printed quite largely on the title page, so I looked up what the publishing company was. The second page describes the publishing as being done in London. Upon research, I learned that the editor of Faber and Faber was in fact, T.S. Eliot. This means, that he had completely control and editorial power over this piece, and approved it. It would then make sense, that he could have released his own work on its own, regardless of its length. This made me question the format of the font and layout of the piece in relation to the time period in which it was published.

Eliot’s pieces contain such complexity; it made me wonder if that was the reason for the simplicity in the format of the publishing. I then considered the time period in which the piece was published. Eliot had been working on the piece during the air raids of Great Britain during World War II. So the simple paper, short work, lack luster binding, and plain fonts may have been a result of a lack of resources during the war.

Although the piece was published in Great Britain, and was written there, its title is derived from a rock formation that is located on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, as Eliot indicated on the third page before the poem begins.

I was first attracted to this piece in the Watkinson because I was interested in its autobiographical nature that Eliot was writing about during his later life. The Dry Salvages includes references to Gloucester Harbor, where Eliot would go sailing as a child. I thought it was intriguing that how even though he essentially ex-patrioted, at a later time in his life he was writing about his childhood in the United States. It makes sense, as it was a time of disorder in his new home of Europe that he would be reflecting on his earlier American life.

What I found most striking about The Dry Salvages in relation to studying early Eliot and why it was also very interesting to read because of its similarity to the section, Death by Water in the Wasteland. Eliot was writing almost 20 years later, yet many images and themes of life as being a boat adrift, as well as the sea, from Death by Water are still imminent in The Dry Salvages, yet it was a more hopeful poem than the Wasteland.

In the original, pre-edited manuscript of The Wasteland, you see the much longer IV. Death By Water, and in the original, Eliot references “The Dry Savages,” and comments on it in his notes. This did not make the final version of The Wasteland, but was clearly an idea that Eliot thought about even twenty years later and that he went back to in The Dry Salvages.

[Posted by Forrest Robinette ’16, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

On October 19^th in 1955, Robert B. Young, the head of the Marketing Research Department at the Ford Motor Company, sent a letter to Marianne Moore to ask if she would help the company in coming up with a name for Ford’s newest series of cars. What followed was a yearlong written correspondence between the businessman and the poet in which Moore suggested hundreds of possible names for the Ford E-car, what would eventually become the “Edsel.” Some of her suggestions include the “Ford Faberge,” the “Mongoose Civique,” the “Pluma Piluma,” the “Turcotinga,” and, perhaps the most infamous of all, the “Utopian Turtletop.” Moore and Young’s letters were collected in a book that I found during my visit to the Watkinson titled,  “Letters Between Marianne Moore and the Ford Motor Company.” The book is particularly fascinating because, as the correspondence continues, we see Mr. Young realizing that he may have bitten off more than he can chew in his attempt to work with the very eccentric Moore. It is fascinating to examine how the tone of his letters change as Moore continues to send page after page of bizarre names for the Ford E-car.

In his first letter to Moore, Young’s tone is extremely humble as he requests help on a problem that is, as he says, “more in the field of words and the fragile meaning of words than in car-making.” Young repeatedly establishes himself as Moore’s inferior on the subject of words and he holds her up as an expert. He writes, “We are seeking the help of one who knows more of this sort of magic than we.” His use of the word “magic” frames Moore’s artistic work as something that transcends the more mundane world of car-making. Young seems to be engaging in some flattery here in the hope of enlisting Moore as a consultant. Young is successful and Moore agrees to help, but he quickly runs into difficulty as he tries to establish the terms of their business relationship.

Throughout his letters, Young repeatedly tries to settle on a method of payment for Moore’s services. At the end of his first letter he writes, “Of course, it is expected that our relations will be on a fee basis of an impeccably dignified kind.” Moore does not acknowledge this comment in her responding letter and simply says, “I am complimented to be recruited in this high matter.” Young becomes more insistent about monetary reimbursement in his second letter saying, “in compliance with procedures in this rigorous business world, I think we should make some definite arrangements for payment… before pursuing the problem further.” Moore once again fails to respond to his comment and instead responds with her first suggestion for a name, “The Silver Sword.” She then launches into a lengthy description of the Haleakalā Silversword, the rare Hawaiian plant that inspired her suggestion.

Young mentions money for a third time in his third letter to her. He writes, “It is unspeakably contrary to Procedures here to accept counsel… without a firm prior agreement of conditions (and, indeed, without a Purchase Notice).” While Young repeats himself about the issue of payment, Moore simply continues to send him fanciful suggestions for the E-car. In this third letter, Young even asks Moore to stop sending him so many suggestions. He writes, we propose “a recess in production for orderly bookkeeping.” Despite this comment, Moore continues to send letters in which she muses about the car’s name. At this point in the correspondence, it becomes clear that these individuals do not understand each other. For Young, this is his job and he intended to bring Moore on board as a paid consultant. For Moore, this is most likely a fun task that she has chosen to take on. This disparity in their objectives leads to a correspondence that is ultimately unproductive.

In Young’s last letter to Moore, it is clear that his attempt to utilize her help has largely failed. He writes, “contributions have been entered from many directions, and those from our “favorite Turtletopper” rate among the most interesting of all.” Note that he does not say the “best” of all. He says the most “interesting” of all. Young goes on, “We can scarcely begin to thank you for your interest… in our dilemma.” The word “interest” is particularly loaded because it would suggest that Moore approached Ford to offer suggestions when, in reality, it was Young who approached her. It seems as though Young is trying to let Moore down easy because he has realized that he cannot establish a steady or productive working relationship with her.

These letters are truly unique in how they shed light on Moore’s interactions with the non-artistic sectors of society.  I do not know who chose to compile these letters in a small book, but I do know that the book is one of only five hundred and fifty copies. I imagine that this book came about because someone wanted to preserve this unique look at the personality of Marianne Moore.

[Posted by Michael Peluso, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

In the early 1960s, less than a decade after Wallace Stevens’s death at age 75, Trinity worked with his daughter Holly and the University of Connecticut archives to put together an exhibit on the poet. The exhibition focused partially on correspondences that Stevens kept up with friends and publishers, and also explored a significant portion of his personal collection of artwork that, presumably, influenced his own approach to poetry. Much has been made of the man’s fascination with burgeoning artistic movements, and the prints available help to flesh out a portrait of how Stevens explored the visual arts in service of his poetry.

Buried within a pile of these prints and correspondences, though, a small pamphlet caught my eye. Provided, presumably, by Holly for the exhibition, this rather unassuming program for the Poetry Society of America’s 41^st annual dinner suggests an interesting personal, and familial, side of Stevens that isn’t usually immediately evident in his work or in the common conception of the reticent insurance man who made pains to keep his poetic excursions separate from his Hartford business life. The artifact also tells us a bit about Stevens’s world in the poetry community, and about the evolving reception to his work.

The 41^st annual dinner occurred in 1951, and it’s worth noting that Stevens, our guest of honor, as well as the Honorary President (Robert Frost), and the Honorary Vice-President (Leonora Speyer) were all elder statesmen of American poetry by that time. It’s also worth noting that, among so many of their contemporaries who travelled overseas extensively and blurred the lines of professed nationalism, Speyer, and particularly Frost and Stevens, were all primarily American poets, making them prime candidates, naturally, for this poetry society’s recognition. The gathering was a celebration of the old guard, full of long-overdue odes to Stevens’s Harmonium from those early adopters who saw its worth well before the critics. Said A.M. Sullivan, it “made me aware for the first time of a person’s ability to enjoy poetry without the necessity of explanation or justification.” The celebration of poets passed, and the honoring of those formative to the “American” movement speaks to an appropriate concern with the foundations of American poetry. Additionally, the dinner was an occasion to meditate on the nature and presence of American poetry on a global stage, and a celebration of its current representatives. Similarly, a glance through guest list suggests that the society was, possibly, more concerned with the social visibility of poetry and poetic support than with the virtues of poetics themselves.

With this in mind, Holly’s brief notations on the page showing her father are open to a range of interpretations. Under one picture, captioned “Richard Wilbur, in an entranced moment…” Holly underlined “entranced,” which undercuts the gravitas of the situation, and suggests, somewhat sarcastically, that the pomp and circumstance and florid language of the event was somewhat less than genuine, or, at the very least, trumped up to excessive proportions in either the intended perception or in the retelling. In the next pane over, Stevens himself takes center stage, “lending an attentive ear” to the proceedings. In the margin, with an arrow pointing to her father, a daughter’s “ha” complicates the scene immeasurably. It could be a simple piece of familial teasing, a goofy picture warranting a small jibe, or an inside joke between parent and progeny. Given what we know of Stevens, with his reluctance to discuss his poetry, mixed with the smattering of dignitaries, ambassadors, and actual poets in attendance, the notation, and Stevens’s expression, could be read as a signal of discomfort among the bombast of the occasion. The underlined “entranced” would certainly suggest that Holly was of the opinion that this group took themselves a bit too seriously (whether the group themselves shared this opinion remains less clear, although the text alone would suggest a certain formality), and paired with the somewhat inscrutable expression on Stevens himself, these two simple notations open a world of possibility about the truth of an experience otherwise unapproachable through the text itself. At the very least, these marks serve to humanize and humble. We tend to lionize our heroes, and even our attentions to their personal lives come through a reserved distance. Holly’s marks, however slight, give an intimately unguarded lens, and partial clue, into her father’s appreciation of his poetic society.