[Post be Georgia Summers, ’15, for Jonathan Elukin’s History of the Book Course]

The Fairy Family: a series of ballads and metrical tales illustrating the fairy mythology of Europe was written by Archibald Maclaren and published by Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans, and Roberts in 1857.  It is a collection of poetry based on the fairy folk, some of which are familiar and some of which are entirely new.  It was illustrated by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, who was known for being part of the Pre-Raphaelite movement.  This was his first commission received and later on, he would deny any involvement, due to the amateur nature he perceived within his drawings.   The illustrations for the book were recently displayed in the Pierpoint Morgan Library as the earliest examples of Burn-Jones’ work.

The binding itself is green, with gold colored decorations, most of which are nature-themed.  On the spine, there is a picture of a fairy, as well as various creatures, including a snail and bird. On the inside, the title page is a wonderfully complex illustration, with fairies representing the letters. Unusually for a book of its time, the introduction retains the usage of the “long s” which looks like an unfinished ‘f’ instead of an ‘s’ at times.

Some of the creatures mentioned inside are common characters in children’s stories.  The brownie, for example, is described as a “houfehold Spirit of the Scottifh low-lands and Borders.”  Indeed, most of the creatures described here are specific to certain regions of the country.  There are also plenty of others that are less commonly known, such as the Rafalki, or river nymph.  Attempting to find out more proved difficult; the name does not turn up on any search engine, suggesting that this is a creature either entirely forgotten, or perhaps even made up by one of the poets in the collection.

This book is particularly unusual when placed in context with other books that Maclaren wrote throughout his lifetime. Maclaren is best know as the founder of the Oxford Gymnasium and his emphasis on exercise routines in the mid-19^th Century.  While the Oxford Gymnasium was originally used by the British Army for their training exercises, Maclaren spread his knowledge of the benefits of physical education, going so far as to write Military System of Gymnastic Exercises (1862) and Physical Education (1895), among other similar works.

So how is it that a medical man fixated on physical education came to write a book about fairies?  There is little known about him that isn’t attached to his work on physical education.  He was a scholarly character, not an artist.  Perhaps, as his earliest work, it could be an attempt at a different career, or maybe a frivolous activity that occupied otherwise free time.

Maybe we’ll never know.  We can only speculate.

[Posted by Julia Falkowski (’13), for Jonathan Elukin’s History of the Book course]

While exploring the Watkinson for a book to examine for the course, a small, elaborately decorated leather spine caught my eye.  The pattern on the spine consisted of alternating suns and moons, giving the book a gypsy-like feel.  In size, the book was 5”x2 ¾”or about the size of a deck of cards.  Something about the romantic decorations combined with the petit size gave the book an air of mystery and magic.

I picked it up not knowing what to expect.  Examining the cover, I was somewhat shocked to learn that this mystical looking book was actually an 1898 edition of Benjamin Franklin’s Poor Richard’s Almanack.  The leather cover was decorated with a mix of horoscope signs and pastoral American scenes.  Upon inspecting the inside, I found that it was a sort of “Best of” Poor Richard’s, with selections from editions of the Almanack ranging in year from 1733 to 1758.  In the back was a facsimile re-print of Franklin’s very first 1733 Almanack.

I discussed my find with Watkinson curator Rick Ring.  He mentioned that the Watkinson possesses an original copy of Franklin’s 1756 almanac, and suggested I take a look at that as well.  Rick brought the original almanac out and I realized that, despite the fine quality of the 1898 edition, the 1756 edition was the more exciting find.  The 1756 edition has an actual connection to a living Franklin.  One can imagine the industrious Franklin working diligently at his press into the late hours of the night to produce the pages I held in my hand.  Of course, this fantasy neglects the likelihood that Franklin had hired drones to do the bulk of the printing work by that time of his life.  Regardless, the fact remains that Franklin lived at the time this almanac was produced, and was intimately involved in overseeing its production.

Comparing the two almanacs proved an interesting exercise.  The original looked older (of course) but it also looked much more used.  The 1898 version, though over a hundred years old, looked almost as if it came straight from the bookstore.  The more recent version also appears nicer; the pages are gilded and cut exactly to be exactly the same size, the paper is thick and sturdy.  Comparatively, the pages in the original are thin and not all cut to the same size.  No effort to achieve luxury seems to have been made with the original edition; it is quite utilitarian.  Interestingly enough, though the original seems more suited to everyday use, it is substantially larger than the reprint, with dimensions of 7”x4”.  The reprint seems more pocket-sized, and therefore, more convenient for everyday use.  But then again, the work that has to go into making something small often indicates luxury.  Take for example the ever-smaller cell phones and ipods of today.

One question that came to mind about the re-print was a simple: Why?  What about the culture of 1898 America created a market for this product?  Unlike many modern reprints of books, there is no long-winded introduction explaining the cultural situation that accommodates publishing.  One hint at why the almanac was put out can be found in the publisher.  This re-printed almanac was produced by the Century Company, a New York publishing enterprise that began in 1881 and was particularly successful around the turn of the century.  In 1930, the company was absorbed by another, and disappeared for a while.  The company was revived in 2007 as a branch of Grand National Media.  All the information I learned about the Century Company, I found on the modern Century Company’s website.

In its heyday, Century Publishing was famous for its periodical, The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine.  The company showed a particular interest in producing historical works.  Their most successful endeavor was an 1880s series of articles on the history of the Civil War.  In 1898, the company was at the pinnacle of its success. They had the resources to put out luxury facsimiles of any books they wanted to.  And what better for a company concerned with the preservation of American history than a re-print of one of the most famous publications by one of the most prominent men of early America?

As I looked at the two almanacs side-by-side, I was reminded of Franklin’s efforts to create a cohesive American nation.  I felt like the success of his endeavour could be seen in the two books in front of me. The luxury Century edition, printed over one hundred years after Franklin’s death in 1790 combined my reverential interest in both of the almanacs seemed a testament to the continued existence of the patriotism that Franklin worked to foster.

[Posted by Emma Sternlof, ’13, a student in Jonathan Elukin’s History of the Book class.  The class was allowed the signal honor of browsing the stacks to find their gem]

Even on my second visit, wandering through the basement archives of the Watkinson Library was a bewildering, bewitching experience.  I slowly meandered past shelves of American novels, astronomy guides, and fairy tales before turning toward the stacks dedicated to Native American history.  I’m planning a thesis on the history of the Brotherton Indians, a group of Christian Native Americans drawn from several New England tribes, and I hoped to discover some helpful texts. A small dark book, no longer than my hand, caught my eye. Its worn spine proclaimed the title Uncas and Miotonomah in gilt. Born and raised in southeastern Connecticut, I recognized the first name as that of a famous Mohegan chief from the 17th century. Intrigued, I brought the book upstairs to the reading room for further examination.

The book’s title page sums up its contents:  Uncas and Miantonomoh; A historical discourse delivered at Norwich (Conn.,) on the fourth day of July, 1842, on the occasion of the erection of a monument to the memory of Uncas, the white man’s friend, and first chief of the Mohegans.  The discourse was delivered by William L. Stone, a man considered an expert on Native American history at the time.  He dedicated the book to “the ladies of the city of Norwich,” who organized the monument ceremony.  In his introduction, Stone explains that he got completely carried away in the course of researching his speech.  According to him, its excellent reception inspired him to publish an expanded version in 1842.  Within the book, Stone praises Uncas for his nobility, noting that he possessed courage “of a lofty and chivalrous character” (153).  He contrasts Uncas’ loyalty to the white settlers with the duplicity of Miantonomoh, a Narragansett chief who conspired against the colonists.

As I glanced through the book’s appendix, I was very excited to discover that the section entitled “Of the New England Indians in General” included information about Samson Occum, a prominent Mohegan preacher during the late 1700s and a possible subject of my thesis.  Stone offers details about Occum’s groundbreaking preaching tours of England, his efforts to support himself financially, and his well-attended funeral; he also mentions a source, “Allen’s biography,” which I hope to track down for my own research.  The appendix also includes the June 6, 1659 deed recording Uncas’ sale of Norwich to white settlers, reproducing the signature marks of Uncas and his sons Owaneco and Attawanhood. Another interesting and pertinent section, “Of the Pequods,” quotes a 1832 letter: “There is still a remnant of Pequods still existing… They are more mixed than the Mohegans with negro and white blood, yet they are a distinct tribe, and still retain a hatred for the Mohegans” (204).

I was more than pleased with my discovery, but this little book had more surprises in store.  Throughout its pages, a previous reader penciled in several notes, often challenging Stone’s perspective.  At one point, Stone discusses the devastating Pequot War of the 1630s.  Describing the capture of a Pequot band by colonial forces, he writes, “… the women and children were spared” (75). “Sent captive to the Bermudas!” rejoins the incredulous reader in his marginal note.  On one of the blank pages at the end of the book, the same pro-Pequot reader carefully hand-wrote a highly amusing account of his encounter with Stone.  I can’t resist giving the entire remarkable passage here:

“In the summer of 1842 or 4, I met Col. Stone at Stonington, in company with Hon. A.H. Tracy (of western New York).  In conversation with Mr. T., I had expressed an opinion of Uncas, as unlike as possible to that which Col. Stone’s researches had apparently led him to form, speaking of him as the most contemptible, worthless, and treacherous of all the Indians of Conn.  Mr. Lacey, laughing, called the Colonel’s attention to my heresies.  “So you don’t believe all I have said of Uncas?” he asked.  I was slightly ‘cornered,’ but put the best face on it.  “No, sir: I do not believe any of it.  I think Uncas was a very miserable Indian, hardly worth talking about; and not nearly deserving of a good monument as his father-in-law, Sassacus.” “Well! I do not know but it’s so,” said Col. S., “but see here my young freind [sic,] if the ladies of Norwich should send for you, to come and make a speech over Uncas’s grave, and they were all present to hear you, do you think it would be well to all the truth about him?  I couldn’t do it.”  “No,” I replied, “I did not expect it from you.  All that I object to is, that you have printed the blarney, and tried to make it pass for history.”

This unofficial afterword brings the author and his reader to quirky, quarrelsome life like no published postscript ever could.  Almost 170 years ago, another historically-minded reader challenged on paper and in real life what he saw as a distortion of the past.  His interjections inspire me to read critically and thoughtfully as I sit in the Watkinson now.