One lesser-known collection at the American Antiquarian Society is a group of broadsides printed on textiles. Broadsides are ephemeral, single-sheet items that are usually printed only on one side. Some topics typical of broadsides include advertisements, official proclamations, theater announcements, and opinions. AAS has approximately 148 textile broadsides that showcase the breadth and type of these objects. The textiles were produced on the same presses that were used for paper printing, and like their paper counterparts, they combined text and decorative elements. These objects were used as keepsakes, souvenirs, or commemorative objects, and some, in theory, could be used as handkerchiefs. The themes include commemorating specific events or people, “persuasive texts” that showcase social or political movements of the time, and instructional textiles that would have been used for teaching tools in reading, spelling, and arithmetic. The commemorative textiles were usually printed on silk, whereas the “persuasive” and instructional textiles were printed on cotton or muslin (Affleck, 2001).
These textiles were created using various transfer methods common in paper printing, including plate printing, letterpress, and lithography. In addition to the content being copied from other printed sources, the decorative elements like the images and borders were also not created specifically for the textile broadside. The same decorative elements are seenin other printed formats like title pages, tail pieces, and on book covers. The tools used to create these decorations were generally made at local type founders, and many of the ornamental borders can be found in catalogues or type specimen books for these foundries (Affleck, 2001).
To best preserve these unique items at AAS, Chief Conservator Babette Gehnrich and I conducted a survey of all our textile broadsides. This survey included assessment of each textile’s condition as well as treatment recommendations. During the survey, I took a thumbnail photograph and assigned priorities and approximate treatment times to each item. Detail of the compiled data can be seen below (Fig. 1).
After all the textiles were examined, each of them was rehoused in a Polyester film pocket with an unbuffered piece of paper to help create friction so that they did not move and become wrinkled when pulled from the stacks and handled by researchers in the Reading Room (Fig.2).
In addition to the single–sided broadsides, there were several printed textiles in the format of a newspaper, either because they were actual newspapers,or they copied a format of newspaper to announce an event. The actual newspaper printed on a textile seen below was called a “blizzard paper” because the paper used for newspaper printingcould not reach the Dakotas due to a large blizzard.Thus, they printed on what they had: textiles (Fig.3). Because these textiles were printed on both sides, they were simply unfolded and placed in polyester film pockets without the paper backing. This “blizzard paper” also demonstratessome common staining seen in the textiles that will hopefully be reduced when more comprehensive treatments are performed.
Severely stained or wrinkled textiles were flagged for treatment so researchers will be able to view the text more easily once the stains are reduced or the wrinkles are gently flattened. Additionally, as part of the project, the front and back of each textile was imaged by the Society’s photographer, so that researchers have access to digital surrogates.
Once the survey was completed, Gehnrich reached out to a local textile conservator, Camille Breeze, from Museum Textile Services in Andover, MA. We set up a virtual consultation in our Learning Lab where we were able to utilize our document camera and discuss the different treatment options for all the objects we felt needed to be treated immediately. The curator and assistant curator of Graphic Arts (Lauren Hewes and Christine Morris, respectively) were also able to join in the consultation which allowed for a better understanding of context for the textiles as well as ascertaining which ones were higher priority due to their scarcity (Fig. 4).
Paper and textile conservation treatments are often very similar in nature, butwe wanted to make sure that we fully understood the risks, benefits, and potential problems that could arise during treatment of these textiles. Camille was able to give us some helpful tips and overall guidance for our treatments. Luckily, because the condition issues are all similar, we were able to come up with a streamlined process for most treatments. However, because I will be onleave, we decided to postpone the more comprehensive treatments for when I return.In the Spring of 2024, I was able to complete a coupleof minor treatments, including the removal of paper hinges from the verso as well as local flattening to reduce creases, which made the textiles more legible (Figs.5 and 6).
In the Fall of 2024, treatments are anticipated to begin on the remaining textiles. I will create a new blog post about the final steps of this project, so stay tuned!
If you are looking for information on our printed textile collection, check out another blog post written by Lauren Hewes on our ribbon collection:
Marissa Maynard is the Library and Archives Conservator at AAS. Marissa helps to ensure that collections are not only preserved but also usable by researchers, working closely with library staff to prioritize and assess conservation needs.
References
Consulted Lynne Bassett, independent textile and costume historian, elected AAS member (2010).
Affleck, Diane L. Fagan. “Textile Commemoratives and Broadsides from New England’s Mid-Nineteenth Century.” In Textiles in New England II: Four Centuries of Material Life. Boston University, 2001
Celebration and Remembrance: Commemorative Textiles in America 1790-1990. Museum of American Textile History, 199
Amasa Southwick was a Quaker born in Bolton, MA in 1778. By 1809 he was living in Leicester, where he was engaged in the manufacture of cards used in processing cotton and wool fibers. The Amasa Southwick manuscript collection1 at the American Antiquarian Society (AAS) mainly consists of business correspondence and financial documents. An example is the slip of paper shown in Figure 1.
The text of this document is as follows:
Leicester 5mo 28 1809
For value recd of Paulina Southic I
promis to pay her or order the sum of
one hundred and twelve dollars in one
yeare frome the above date with interest
$112.00 Amasa Southic
Southwick’s document is a promissory note. Its format closely follows an example in Michael Walsh’s New System of Mercantile Arithmetic,2 shown in Figure 2.
The Southwick note contains a number of interesting features. The date of May 28 is written as 5mo 28, following the Quaker convention where months and days of the week are written as numbers, avoiding references to non-Christian gods in names such as Saturday or March.3 Paulina and Amasa’s surname is written as Southic, rather than Southwick, perhaps reflecting the pronunciation of the name at that time. Paulina Southwick could be Amasa’s sister Paulina, born in 1788, or an older relative with the same name. After Amasa signed the note in 1809, he would have given it to Paulina. When she received payment Paulina would have returned the note to Amasa, who then crossed out his name. This made the note non-negotiable and showed that the note had been paid. (His signature is visible under the cross-hatched lines of Fig. 1.) The reverse of the Southwick note is shown in Figure 3.
We see that the note was folded to form a narrow oblong, with:
Amasa Southic
Note $112.00
written along the fold. The note would have been kept by Paulina in this folded state for eight years until it was paid in 1817. The date and amount of payment are indicated in two ways. The right side reads:
5 mo 28th 1817
Paid one hundred
seventy eight dollars
fifty cents and ninety
four hundredth,
and on the left we see:
Paid $178.50.94
5 mo 28th 1817.
These observations give rise to a number of questions. For example, why was there so much formality in a loan between family members? Today, a person who loans a significant amount of money to a family member would expect repayment, but most people would be unlikely to draft a document with the structure of Southwick’s promissory note.
Compared to other documents from the era, Southwick’s note is typical rather than exceptional. If one was to look at a collection of New England receipts, invoices, and orders from the early nineteenth century, one would see that they are almost universally detailed, precise, and formal, even in the case of modest transactions of one dollar or less. It is a characteristic of that period. We can also address more quantitative questions, as follows.
What was the value of $112.00 in 1809?
We can answer this question in an approximate way by using a tabulation of historical consumer price indices. John McCusker’s 1992 publication4How Much Is That in Real Money? lists consumer price indices which increase from a numerical value of 148 in 1809 to 1,629 in 1991. The ratio of these indices corresponds to an increase in prices by a factor of 11. Using recent data from the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis,5 there is an additional increase in the consumer price index by a factor of 2.3 from 1991 to 2024. Combining the two increases, one can estimate that consumer prices increased by a factor of 25 from 1809 to 2024. In other words, consumer goods which could be purchased by one dollar in 1809 would cost twenty-five dollars today. Using the factor of 25, we can estimate that the $112 principal of Southwick’s note would have the present-day purchasing power of $2,800.
What was the nature of money in 1809?
Money was complicated in the early nineteenth century. People were familiar with pounds and shillings from the colonial period, and from ongoing trade with Great Britain. American coin denominations, known as Federal money, were relatively new, and there was a shortage of gold and silver coins. To function in an environment where coins were in short supply, foreign coins were accepted in trade. An indication of the importance of Spanish silver coins is shown in Figure 4.
This note says that Southwick is to repay Four hundred and Nine spanish milled Dollars and Fifty eight Cents. The wording implies that the Spanish ocho reales coin, known as the Spanish dollar, was equivalent to the American dollar. The term milled means that the Spanish dollars were machine-made, with a well-defined shape and a decorated edge, in comparison to hammered coins with irregular shapes. As David Martin explains, the Spanish dollar was so important as to appear in the Coinage Act of 1792:
Not until April 1792 did Congress – following essentially the recommendations of Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton – authorize an American currency. The new coinage was based upon a silver dollar “to be of the value of a Spanish milled dollar as the same is now current”…6
Well into the nineteenth century, financial quantities in New England transactions were sometimes specified in pounds and shillings. In trade with Great Britain, one would use a conversion rate where one dollar was worth 4 British shillings and 6 pence. But in the local economy things were more complicated. Mathematics books of the period (such as Reference 2) included many sample problems with conversions of colonial currencies. These were denominated in pounds, shillings, and pence, like the British pound and its subdivisions, but the colonial currencies were devalued relative to those of Britain. The complexity of the currencies used at this time is illustrated by Figure 5, from an 1818 mathematics book.7
An example of an 1817 financial record involving colonial currency is shown in Figure 6.
This receipt is part of the Gleason & Company papers at AAS.8 The item descriptions are difficult to read in this receipt, but the monetary values are clear. They are shown below, with added descriptions.
charge for first item 1. 10. 0
charge for second item $6 2. 8. 0
total charge £ 3. 18. 0
credit 12. 0
net charge £ 3. 6. 0
payment in dollars $8.25/100 Rec’d payment
McFadden’s net charge is 3 pounds and 6 shillings, or 66 shillings, given that there are 20 shillings per pound. Gleason paid $8.25. There is a conversion at work here which is determined by the ratio:
We also get a ratio of 8:1 from the second line, where £ 2.8.0 is written next to $6.00. Since £2.8.0 is 48 shillings, the ratio is 8 shillings per dollar. At first this may seem odd because according to the table in Figure 5, one dollar was worth 4 British shillings and 6 pence. The solution to this puzzle is found by examining the middle portion of the table, where we find that one dollar was worth 8 shillings in New York colonial currency. That is, the pounds and shillings in McFadden’s receipt are not British, they are New York pounds and shillings! We conclude that merchants in Troy, NY were keeping accounts using colonial currency and taking their physical payment in Federal money, that is, dollars. The physical coins were most likely Spanish dollars, given the small numbers of American dollars which had been minted at this time.
The use of colonial New York money in pricing the items in the McFadden receipt may seem quite peculiar to a modern person, because the prices are given in terms of a currency which had no physical existence. In other words, the prices are given in an imaginary currency. The notion of imaginary money was familiar during this period and the topic was covered in mathematics textbooks, as shown by Figure 7.
Actual payments are made in real money, and imaginary money is used in accounting, therefore economists refer to imaginary money as money of account. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, British colonists in North America used pounds, shillings, and pence in accounting, but there were essentially no British coins available for transactions. Coins were briefly minted in Massachusetts in the latter half of the seventeenth century, but on the whole the coins used in trade were Spanish dollars.9 On the basis of silver assays the dollars were equivalent to 4 British shillings and 6 pence, but within the various mainland colonies the dollar was redefined to have higher values, for example one dollar was worth 6 Massachusetts shillings and 8 New York shillings, as shown in Figure 5. According to Curtis Nettles,9 “six different rates of colonial money prevailed on the mainland after 1710.” Massachusetts shillings were imaginary, as were New York shillings, and they were not equal to each other!
It might seem that the use of money of account with no relation to the currency in circulation was a peculiar or even unique phenomenon, but the practice was in use for more than one thousand years. Doepke and Schneider point out:
In France, for example, the livre tournois served as a unit of account for centuries during the medieval and early modern periods, even when the corresponding coin was no longer in circulation. The value of a coin used as an accounting currency could also be different from that of the same coin in circulation, a phenomenon referred to as “ghost money”…10
Thus we see that in the early nineteenth century, financial transactions were complicated by a shortage of coins, the American dollar was based on a Spanish coin, and accounting was sometimes in terms of ghostly pounds and shillings used as monies of account.
Returning to Amasa Southwick’s promissory note in favor of Paulina Southwick (Figures 1 and 3), we address the initial loan amount and the remarkable value, specified in hundredths of one cent, which was paid after eight years. From the front of the note (Figure 1) we see that the original loan was $112.00 on May 28, 1809. From the back (Figure 3) the repayment was $178.5094 on May 28, 1817. How was this value calculated? Why was repayment specified to one one-hundredth of one cent? Is the number accurate? What was the interest rate?
We begin by noting that the interest allowed by Massachusetts usury laws was 6%, so we will try this rate. For a one-year loan, the interest would be:
6% ($112.00) = 0.06 × $112.00 = $6.72 [2]
If the eight-year loan involved simple interest, the same interest would accrue every year, leading to $53.76 over eight years. The balance due at the end of the loan period would be the principal ($112.00) plus the interest ($53.76), that is, $165.76. This value is less than what Southwick paid, so next we suppose that he paid compound interest. In this case the interest paid in a given period is based on the balance during that period, with increasing values of the balance over the course of the loan. Consider the case of annual compounding with an interest rate of 6%. If the initial value of the loan is P, the interest in the first year is 0.06 P. The balance B1 at the end of the first year is:
B1 = P + 0.06 P = (1 + 0.06) P = 1.06 P. [3]
That is, the loan balance increases by a factor of 1.06 during the first year. The rate of increase is the same during all succeeding years, therefore at the end of two years the balance is:
B2 = 1.06 (1.06 P) = (1.06)2P. [4]
Continuing this process, at the end of eight years the loan balance is:
B8 = (1.06)8P. [5]
According to Equation 5, the amount which is due after eight years of an annually compounded 6% loan is the initial value of the loan multiplied by (1.06)8.
The quantity (1.06)8 is what Amasa Southwick (or Paulina) would need to use in order to determine the amount due after eight years. There are at least three ways to determine this number, as follows.
We could determine (1.06)8 by multiplying directly, that is:
(1.06)8 = 1.06 × 1.06 × 1.06 × 1.06 × 1.06 × 1.06 × 1.06 × 1.06This calculation is tedious but can be done by a patient person. Using a hand calculator, we get (1.06)8 = 1.59384808. Substituting into Equation 5 we get the balance due:
B8 = 1.59384808 × 112.00 = 178.51098 [6]
Rounding to hundredths of a cent (as in Amasa’s note), the amount due is $178.5110. This value is 16 hundredths of one cent larger than Amasa’s value on the back of his note.
Promissory notes and corresponding interest calculations were common in the nineteenth century; therefore, interest tables were published in numerous math textbooks and handbooks. As an example, Figure 8 is from p. 119 of Reference 2.
Using the value given in this table for an eight-year loan at 6%, Amasa’s balance due would be 1.59384 × 112.00 = 178.51008. Rounding to hundredths of one cent we get $178.5101. This value is 7 hundredths of one cent higher than Amasa’s value and 9 hundredths lower than the exact value given in section 1.
The third method employs logarithms, using techniques which were widely studied in the early nineteenth century, for example using Burritt’s text.7 The speed and flexibility of this method is based on a property of the logarithm for a number raised to a power. For example, in our case we would use:
log (1.06)8 = 8 log (1.06) [7]
Using logarithm values from the table in Reference 7 we get:
log (1.06)8 = 8 × 0.0253059 = 0.2024472 [8]
Then we use the logarithm table a second time to get:
(1.06)8 = 1.5938 [9]
and the balance due would be 1.5938 × $112.00 = $178.5056. This value is 38 hundredths of one cent lower than Amasa’s value, and 54 hundredths lower than the exact value. Some of the details in using the logarithm method have not been explained here, in the interest of brevity.
Our modern world is sophisticated and complicated in many ways, but when it comes to financial transactions many of us employ a sort of “point and click” approach, perhaps not even bothering to maintain a detailed record of our transactions. When we look at the small bits of paper which are our record of nineteenth century invoices, receipts, and loans, they may not seem very interesting at first glance. But there are interesting data in those bits of paper, involving the people taking part in a transaction, the things which people were buying, labor rates, and as we have addressed here, the mathematical methods used in the calculation of loan balances.
Frank Lamelas did a Ph.D. in physics at the University of Michigan and then he was a postdoc at AT&T Bell Labs and the University of Missouri. He taught physics at Marquette University, Boise State University, and Worcester State University. His experimental research involved x-ray and neutron scattering, surface science, crystal growth, high-pressure cells, and optics. Currently he reads manuscripts as a volunteer at AAS.
References
Amasa Southwick papers, American Antiquarian Society 364115.
Michael Walsh, A New System of Mercantile Arithmetic; Adapted to the Commerce of the United States, in its Domestic and Foreign Relations; with Forms of Accounts and Other Writings Usually Occurring in Trade, 4th ed. (E. Little & Co., Newburyport, 1814), American Antiquarian Society 312042.
Samuel G. Barton, The Quaker Calendar, Proc. American Phil. Soc. 93, 32 (1949).
John J. McCusker, How Much Is That in Real Money? A Historical Price Index for Use as a Deflator of Money Values in the Economy of the United States (American Antiquarian Society, Worcester, 1992).
Economic data are posted by the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis at fred.stlouisfed.org.
David A. Martin, The Changing Role of Foreign Money in the United States 1782-1857, J. Econ. Hist. 37, 1009 (1977).
Elijah Hinsdale Burritt, Logarithmick Arithmetick Containing a New and Correct Table of Logarithms of the Natural Numbers from 1 to 10,000, Extended to Seven Places Besides the Index; and So Contrived, That the Logarithm May Be Easily Found to Any Number Between 1 and 10,000,000 (Ephraim Whitman, Williamsburgh, 1818), American Antiquarian Society 293540.
Gleason & Company papers, American Antiquarian Society 530276.
Curtis Nettles, British Policy and Colonial Money Supply, Econ. Hist. Rev. 3, 219 (1931).
Matthias Doepke and Martin Schneider, Money As a Unit of Account, Econometrica 85, 1537 (2017).
In the summer of 2023, while completing my MA in book conservation at West Dean College in Chichester, England, I undertook a 10-week internship at the American Antiquarian Society, working alongside Chief Conservator Babette Gehnrich and Library and Archives Conservator Marissa Maynard. In between my time spent writing a thesis, attending a week-long course on the history of the book in China at the University of Virginia’s Rare Book School, and undertaking pigment identification research at Harvard’s Weissman Preservation Center, Babette and Marissa provided a fantastic opportunity to explore the wealth of the AAS collections and hone my treatment skills in an exceptional lab environment.
Beyond the physical repair of cultural heritage objects, conservation involves the preservation of the intangible values, meanings, and stories embodied by those artifacts. The first step in an effective treatment, then, must be to consider what makes those objects worth preserving. Babette encouraged me to take advantage of AAS’s unique collection of early American printed works and pursue personal research interests in 18th-century decorated papers and book structures. These elements found a happy balance in a short study of one quintessential American publication, The New England Primer.
What is a Primer?
Primers are among the earliest printed schoolbooks developed expressly for children, offering lessons in reading, spelling, and morality. Following some prototypical publications in the 16th century, English printer Benjamin Harris published The Protestant Tutor in 1679, which included woodcut illustrations of the alphabet and several prayers. The positive reception of this publication led Harris to develop a similar work, The New England Primer (NEP), for audiences in the newly established American colonies between 1687 and 1690. This history of the NEP is known only through publishers and booksellers advertisements: no copies of the text dated before 1727 are known to survive, making AAS’s 1727 copy an exceptional treasure indeed.
Schoolbooks like the NEP were subject to heavy use and wear as they passed from one generation to the next. The examples that survive today speak to that history. Despite their fragility, the books were cherished — many volumes bear evidence of multiple owners and homespun repairs, decorations, and re-coverings, illustrating the value systems of thrift in which these books were used. Often, it was preferable to make a single copy last as long as possible rather than purchase a new copy when the old one began to break down. These alterations and interventions offer a glimpse into that reality, rendering the bindings (and their damage!) just as valuable as the texts they hold.
Working closely with Babette and Laura Wasowicz, Curator of Children’s Literature, my survey of pre-1821 primers at AAS grew from that mindset: setting aside content, what are these books made of, and what can that information tell us about their place in the book history continuum?
Book Structure Surveys
The study of physical book bindings is one of materiality as well as functionality. How and with what materials a book was made can provide insights into how, when, and by whom it was used. This might be especially true considering the historical focus of bibliographers on highly decorated “extra” bindings and their general dismissal of books without full leather coverings or gold tooling as unfinished or temporary. In truth, these simpler bindings speak to the practical needs and buying power of their intended audience, offering a more inclusive and representative perspective on the way books were used in the 18th and 19th centuries. Material analysis helps to highlight this shift in the role of printed books from the status symbols of the privileged to the cherished tools of a rapidly growing middle-class readership.
One common structure recorded during this survey is the scaleboard binding, a distinctly early American structure which deserves exploration in its own right. Scaleboard bindings are unique in their use of thin (1–3 mm) wooden cover boards nearly two hundred years after the uptake of paper-based paste- and pulpboard in the West. The lack of a developed papermaking industry in the American colonies, the expense of importing paper products from Europe, and the wealth of natural forest resources in the New World made scaleboard economically preferable in the Colonies, but the practice persisted for a variety of reasons through the 1840s. The books are generally quarto size or smaller and bound in full leather before the 1790s, after which time quarter leather with blue or decorated paper sides proliferated. Bindings from the 17th and 18th centuries often hold theological imprints such as sermons, psalms, and religious treatises, but by the turn of the century these bindings are largely associated with schoolbooks and primers.
As utilitarian products, scaleboard and wrapper bindings have been neglected by booksellers and historians focused on the more refined products of contemporary Europe. Only recently has there been a rise in scholarship addressing the important place of these structures in book history, and this burgeoning knowledge base has shown us how much we have yet to learn about American bookbinding. As conservators, we start not by treating objects according to our preconceived ideas, but by letting the objects speak for themselves.
NEP Bibliographic Survey Results
Of the 269 primers surveyed at the American Antiquarian Society, 105 were bound in scaleboard, 97 in paper wrappers, and 32 in paper-based boards. The binding style of 34 textblocks was indiscernible due to extensive damage or rebinding, and the survey turned up a single example of a post-gothic style binding, with wooden boards thicker than those of scaleboard bindings (3–6 mm) and beveled along the head, tail, and fore-edges.
Most scaleboard bindings from this survey were bound in quarter tanned leather with either blue (72 examples), marbled (4), plain (4), or block-printed (1) paper sides. Full leather bindings were the next most popular covering category (11 examples). This survey presented the first recorded example of a full alum-tawed skin covered scaleboard binding (The New England Primer, Boston, 1756). Of particular note is the fact that the AAS copies of both the 1679 Protestant Tutor and the 1727 NEP were originally bound in full leather over scaleboards, though the NEP was sympathetically rebound following extensive conservation treatment in 1997.
Paper wrappers were most popularly plain blue (27), printed blue (13), block-printed (11), marbled (11), plain (10), and brocade (Dutch gilt) (6). The rarer types of decorated paper from this survey, including paste paper, sprinkled paper, and flocked wallpaper, also survive as wrappers. While most of the surveyed wrapper bindings held imprints dated after 1780, this could be attributed to a limited survival of these fragile structures as well as to contemporary production trends.
Primer Treatments at AAS
During this bibliographic research, I did my own bit of work to keep these objects accessible, contributing to their physical history by recognizing and preserving them. The following three treatments demonstrate the various forms this work can take:
1798 American Primer: Ramieband Board Re-attachment
As dictated by conservation standards, treatments are generally minimized to the greatest extent possible, with the primary focus of the work being not on restoration but on facilitating access, whatever that might mean. In one case, a primer in a scaleboard binding had a snapped tanned leather support, resulting in a loose board. A standard Japanese paper hinge reattachment would have been overkill and masked bits of the original text. Instead, I took note of the original board attachment method and wove a strip of new ramieband (a strong plant-fiber ribbon) through the original support slot, fraying it out onto the inner face of the boards. The ramieband was toned with acrylic paint and adhered to the original scaleboards with wheat starch paste, which can be easily softened and removed with water. This treatment not only restores access to the binding by making it safe to handle but also preserves its original unique construction.
1814 Windsor Primer: Decorated Paper Wrapper Restoration
Minimal treatments are not always possible if a book is intended for regular use. This copy of the Windsor Primer, originally stitched through the side of the textblock and covered with a simple marbled paper wrapper, had been at some point damaged by water, torn in half, and resewn into a limp leather cover to keep the contents together. The textblock was interleaved with archival paper slips in 2008 to keep the relevant page fragments aligned, but even in this state the text was too vulnerable to be accessed by researchers. Treatment necessitated removing the leather wrapper in a manner that preserved as much of the object’s history as possible. The thread was cut from the inside and the thread ends were pasted in place to maintain the visual aesthetic of the overcover. Removing the leather wrapper allowed the textblock to fall to pieces, facilitating surface cleaning, washing, re-sizing, pressing, mending, and collation. The reconditioned textblock was sewn through the fold to allow for smoother opening, but the original bits of side-stitching thread were re-sandwiched into the structure to restore the tactile sensation of that structural terrain. Even in this intensive treatment, great efforts were made to preserve not just the object but also its sensory experience and history of use.
1772 NEP: Faux-scaleboard Historical Rebinding
The same is true for the last project I completed during my internship. The binding on this NEP was totally obliterated, but evidence remained of the original structure (slots for stabbed supports) and access to a later edition of the same work offered some idea of the original binding. Knowledge of scaleboard and other contemporary structures facilitated the design of a replacement binding altered to improve access (sewing through the fold over frayed cords using the original spine notches) while respectful of the original tactile and aesthetic experience (including faux tawed supports, blue paper covering, and exposed ‘wooden’ boards). This treatment managed to preserve the original structural evidence while re-establishing access and even restoring historical information which was lost through neglect and degradation.
Their idiosyncrasies and unique considerations notwithstanding, the goal of each of these treatments was to facilitate access, allowing more readers to engage with these historical objects and bring their own perspectives to bear on their history and social value as heritage artifacts. From a conservator’s point of view, this is best accomplished when such treatments maintain and even highlight the damage and repairs these books have been subject to. Content, structure, and evidence of use each reveal insights on the intended audience for these objects: they are not finely tooled leather bindings meant to sit on a shelf, but everyday objects subject to heavy use, repair, and alteration over generations. These, in turn, are the stories conservators must strive to recognize, share, and preserve.
Unrecorded Textblock Edge Decoration Style
In closing I offer up a new mystery uncovered over the course of this research: a particular style of textblock edge decoration which, so far as I can tell, has not been recorded or explored in any published literature. While fully colored and sprinkled edges are fairly common for 18th century bindings, the bands of red, blue, green, or brownish black ink found on several bindings are unique in both appearance and the fact that they are apparently exclusive to the NEP. When I first noticed this decoration during a survey at the Library of Congress, I was ready to write it off as personalization by a previous owner. After gathering more data, however, we’ve found 75 examples of this decoration on imprints spanning 100 years, 7 states, and 20 cities. Edge decoration is important because these books were produced at minimal cost and maximum efficiency: the extra time and expense required to decorate these books must have had some financial justification. Was the bright decoration a form of advertising for the NEP, meant to catch the eye of children or parents? A nationalist attempt to distinguish the new American product from English imprints with similar content?
The origins of this style are yet unknown, but it bears some resemblance to the sprinkled band edge decoration on some 16th- and 17th-century German bindings and to some bindings from the collection of Edward Gwynn, a 17th-century English bibliophile known for his personalized bindings. Is the style linked to European bookbinders coming over to the New World and bringing their training and aesthetic sensibilities with them? Might Colonial binders have seen these books and decided to emulate the style themselves? In any case, why was the practice confined to primers? Whatever the reason, it is linked to the global history of the book, and deserves further exploration.
Miller, J. (2013) “Not Just Another Beautiful Binding: A Typology of American Scaleboard Bindings” in Miller, J. Suave Mechanicals, Volume 1. Ann Arbor: The Legacy Press, pp. 247–315.
Pattison, Todd (2024) “As Good as it Needs to Be: The Myth of Temporary Book Covers in American Book Production, 1700-1850” in Miller, J. (ed.) Suave Mechanicals, Volume 8. Ann Arbor: The Legacy Press.
Pearson, David (2005) English Bookbinding Styles 1450-1800: A Handbook. New Castle: Oak Knoll Press.
Mitchel Gundrum was the Conservation Intern at AAS in Summer 2023. He began his training in 2017 at the San Francisco Center for the Book, from there earning a diploma in traditional bookbinding techniques from North Bennet Street School in 2021 and an MA in book conservation from West Dean College in 2023. He has previously worked at the US National Archives, the National Park Service, and the Boston Athenaeum, and taught workshops in book repair and related arts at North Bennet Street School, Pyramid Atlantic Art Center, and West Dean College. He is currently the Kress Conservation Fellow at UCLA’s Library Preservation program.
The Stubbs Collection at the American Antiquarian Society contains hundreds of friendship albums. Friendship albums usually contain messages to the album owners from friends, family members, and schoolmates. Many messages have a “forget me not” theme, or they may be philosophical or humorous. The contents of friendship albums were not private, in that the albums were circulated by the owner among those who made entries, and in many cases the albums would have been on display for household visitors to read. Some messages are in foreign languages, including Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, and various Asian languages. While reviewing the albums recently, we noticed coded messages in two of the albums.
The first example is in 17-year-old Mary Boyden’s 1854 album from South Walpole, MA. It contains the following dedication:
A birthday present from her friend Dkaqhcfd, July 27th/54
The person who presented Mary Boyden with her album wrote his name in code, perhaps to preserve a sense of privacy, but it is a code which is easily solved. If we shift each letter by one place in the alphabet, D becomes E, k becomes l, and so forth, yielding the name Elbridge for the album donor. We can determine who Elbridge was by looking at public records. From marriage records, we find that at age 23, Mary Boyden, the daughter of Harvey and Esther Boyden, married E. P. Boyden, a schoolteacher, the son of James and Lucy Boyden on June 3, 1860. Later records confirm that E. P. Boyden was Elbridge Boyden. In other words, the coded name “Dkaqhcfd” represents the person that Mary would marry, six years after the entry was made in her friendship album.
A more complex coded message was found in an 1858 album owned by Lydia Rise of Lebanon, PA. Lydia was 12 years old when she was given the album in 1858, but there is no date on the message itself. The first part of the message is not encoded and reads as follows.
To Lydia
O May the path of life for thee
still wear a vernal smile
May hope thy sweet companion be,
And friendship, love, and sympathy
Thy happy hours beguile.
Your Friend
Lilly
This is a fairly typical friendship-album expression of hope and good wishes. However immediately underneath the “ordinary” message there is an extension of the message written in a code with curious symbols (Figure 1). Some of the symbols look similar to Greek letters or mathematical symbols, but as a whole they do not correspond to any standard alphabet or symbol set.
To solve the code, we start with the assumption that this is a substitution code — that is, we assume that each symbol corresponds to a letter of the Roman alphabet. Next, we assign a number to each symbol in the message, so that we can refer to individual symbols. The symbol numbers are arbitrary, here we assign them according to the order in which a particular symbol first appears in the message. We also note the total number of characters in the coded message (99), the number of distinct symbols (23), and we count the frequency of each symbol, that is, the total number of times a symbol appears in the message. The symbol numbers and their frequencies are given in Table 1.
Since there are 99 characters in the coded message, a symbol’s number frequency is approximately equal to its percent frequency. For example, using Table 1 we see that symbol 1 corresponds to 1% of the characters in the message, symbol 2 appears as 4% of the characters, and so forth. This information is useful because the frequencies with which individual symbols appear can be used in guessing which letter of the Roman alphabet they correspond to.
The frequencies with which particular letters occur in the English language are available from numerous online sources. According to Ref. 1, the ten most frequent letters in order of frequency are: E, T, A, O, N, R, I, S, H, and D. We can use this list to make initial guesses for the symbols in the Lydia Rise album, after ranking the symbols in order of frequency. The results are as follows.
symbol no.: 10 15 16 (5 11 13 14 21)
possible letter: E T A O N R I S
The symbols with numbers in parentheses all have a frequency equal to six, therefore the specific O N R I S assignments are arbitrary.
We can now start to decode the message using this letter assignment. The process can be carried out using pencil and paper, however it is convenient to set up a spreadsheet which automatically populates the coded message with our trial letters. This allows us to make rapid guesses for the letters corresponding to the symbols and immediately see how the message is affected. With the letter assignments given above the message appears as follows:
Examining the message, we notice that the word TAEE appears twice, which may be thee, therefore the symbol 16 should be an H. Also, the last word in the third line may be innocence, which means that symbol 13 should be an I, and symbol 22 should be a C. Making these three changes we get:
In the first line, the fifth word looks like protect, which means symbol 20 is P and symbol 21 should be an R. In the second line, the first word may be is, which means that symbol 14 is S. The word before innocence may be of, which means that symbol 19 is an F. With these changes we get the following:
Now we are getting closer. We can make changes based on the following guesses. The last word in the first line is ever. The third word in the second line is wish and the last word is Harrisburg. (This is a Pennsylvania album.) The phrase in the third line is the snowy wings of innocence. After incorporating these guesses the message appears as follows:
Now we are quite close. Proceeding with a few more guesses we obtain the final message,
May God love and protect thee ever
is the wish of Lilly Speel of Harrisburg.
May the snowy wings of innocence
protect thee.
The coded message is a benediction which is more or less a continuation of the first (unencoded) part of the album entry. Through looking at vital records, we can determine that “Lilly” is Elizabeth Speel, born on April 11, 1847, in Harrisburg, PA. One may wonder why Lilly Speel encoded the second part, since the character of the message does not seem to require privacy. Was this code only used in private communication between Lydia and Lilly? Did other students use the same code? Did Lilly Speel have an album of her own, and did Lydia Rise write a coded message in Lilly’s album? (We do not have Lilly’s album for comparison.) More generally, was the encoded communication between Lilly and Lydia a rare occurrence, or was it common among 19th century friends and correspondents? We can’t address the prevalence of coded messages in friendship albums in general, but they are certainly not common in the Stubbs Collection albums.
A young person might write a coded message to a friend in order to emphasize the special nature of that friendship, as if to say, We can communicate in our own private language because we have a special relationship.
That is, communication with a particular code may have been a sort of textual shibboleth, a unique means of communication distinguishing a small set of friends from the wider community.
Or, the use of codes may have been just for fun, a sort of parlor game. It appears that the topic had a degree of popular interest because Edgar Allen Poe wrote an article about it in Graham’s Magazine in 1841. Titled “A Few Words on Secret Writing,” the article is essentially a tutorial on the writing of coded messages using a variety of techniques. Poe introduces elementary substitution codes using the Roman alphabet, and then he explains that one can use arbitrary non-alphabetic characters, as shown in Fig. 2.
In his example Poe shows how to encode the message which begins,
We must see you immediately upon a matter of great importance.
The encoded message is shown on p. 37 (b), starting with the symbols $0.£][].. and so forth.
A close reading of the encoded message shows that it contains numerous errors. For example, if we decode the first five words of the encrypted message we get:
Wmeust see you xmmedxasely.
Perhaps Poe’s manuscript submission was not clear to the typesetter, or the errors could have occurred if the typesetter struggled with such a peculiar string of symbols. In the five words shown here the typesetting errors were as follows.
(i) The e and m symbols were interchanged in the first and second words, producing Wmeust instead of Wemust.
(ii) The question marks are upside down in the fifth word, turning i into x in the word immediately.
(iii) A right bracket was used instead of a left bracket, turning t into s in the same word.
Revisiting Lilly Speel’s coded message (Figure 1 and Table 1), there are a few coding errors in that case as well. The first involves the symbol used for the letter o. In the first case, as symbol number 5, it is written as a circle with a double cross superimposed. It reappears in symbol 8 with one of the lines in the cross missing, and as symbol 18 with the crosses entirely absent, although in all cases the symbol represents the letter o. The other type of error in Lilly’s message is in the word innocence at the end of the third line, where the last c in the word contains the superposition of two symbols, one being the correct one (symbol 22).
Poe’s example in Figure 2 shows the same type of code as the one used by Lilly Speel and Lydia Rise. The only difference is superficial: whereas Poe used symbols available to a typesetter (such as brackets, an asterisk, and the British pound symbol), Lilly and Lydia used their own invented symbols which were drawn by hand. It is possible that Lilly and Lydia were familiar with Poe’s article in Graham’s Magazine, but the 17-year time delay between the article and the friendship album may make this unlikely. Nonetheless, the general idea of writing coded messages in the middle of the 19th century may have had a degree of cultural currency. The message in the Lydia Rise album may simply be one example out of many.
References:
Herbert S. Zim, Codes and Secret Writing, Scholastic Book Services (New York, 1948).
Within the vast collections at the American Antiquarian Society there is a particularly interesting assortment of items that offer a unique glimpse into the world of Dr. Nathan Staples Pike, his family, and the medical trade in antebellum America. The Pike-Wright Family collection, donated to AAS by Susan Pike Corcoran, contains Dr. Pike’s early 19th century medical equipment alongside numerous letters, ledgers, journals, and more. A handful of these items are currently on display in the AAS reading room, along with related materials. Looking at these items brings to life the daily activities of Dr. Pike more than just reading words on a page. You can almost see him plucking one of the tools out of his bag while visiting a patient recorded neatly in his ledger.
Born to Isaac Pike and Rebecca Briggs on August 19, 1819, Nathan’s lifelong passion for learning is revealed through the material safely housed in the Pike-Wright Family collection. In 1837, at the age of 18, he began teaching in the Foster Connecticut school district. Two years later, in 1839, Nathan enrolled at the Berkshire Medical Institution in Pittsfield, MA. Leaving school the same year, he first apprenticed with D. W. Hovey and then in 1840 with Dr. William Hubbard while beginning a two-year course of study at New York University. Nathan graduated in 1842 and went on to set up a successful medical practice in central Connecticut.
Though Dr. Pike had completed his medical degree and an apprenticeship, he continued to attend lectures and further his knowledge of the latest innovations to the antebellum medical field. To hear a medical lecture in the first half of the 19th century, matriculated students and the curious public could purchase a ticket to attend and receive credit for their topic of choice. This method allowed physicians to continue their medical education long after earning a degree or completing an apprenticeship. Evident in the twelve lecture tickets found in the Pike-Wright Family collection, Dr. Pike took full advantage of the academic opportunity the ticket system provided throughout his career.
Now a well-established physician, Dr. Pike turned his focus to his personal life. On April 28, 1853, he married Jane Frances Perkins of Sterling, CT. Beginning in December of 1853, the pages of his diary tell us of his daily struggle against a worsening tuberculosis infection, the sad passing of his infant daughter, Jennie, in 1855, and the stillbirth of a second daughter in 1856. Most often noted, aside from the weather, are Dr. Pike’s symptoms, and how he treated the often debilitating symptoms of tuberculosis with opium, diluted calomel (a mercury chloride mineral), and several other common cures of the day. Another medicinal highlight mentioned that would cause some alarm today is deadly nightshade. Dr. Pike writes on February 9, 1855, “…Belladonna is good very good.”
On March 17, 1854, Dr. Pike recorded a conversation he had with William Tenner, who likewise suffered from tuberculosis. Tenner found that travel and the use of opium best alleviated his suffering, two treatment options that Dr. Pike employed himself. Much of the diary reports on Dr. Pike’s trips south to keep up with warmer weather and the many stops to hospitals, medical lectures, and visits to colleagues he makes along the way. An earlier blog post documents Dr. Pike’s experience at a slave auction he attended while in New Orleans. The diary ends just ten days before Nathan succumbed tuberculosis on February 16, 1857.
Included in the display of Dr. Pike’s materials are two 19th-century medical books. While these did not belong to Dr. Pike, they serve as examples of the type of printed materials available to those practicing medicine at that time. The first of these is a diagnosis manual, which helped inform medical students and practitioners to identify known ailments and diseases based on the symptoms presented in their patients. Chapter 18 in Barclay’s 1858 A Manual of Medical Diagnosis explains how to use differences in breathing, speaking, and percussion resonance to determine the condition of a patient’s lungs. Perhaps assisted by the use of a stethoscope, a physician might notice “the breathing is louder on the duller side,” a possible indication of a “tubercular deposit” (Barclay, p. 199).
Accompanying Barclay’s chapter on pulmonary diagnosis is Dr. Pike’s beautifully carved monaural stethoscope. The monaural stethoscope is an invention of French physician René Laennec in 1816, who wished to find a way to listen to a female patient’s heartbeat without placing his ear against the chest. Originally crafted from boxwood, Laennec modeled his stethoscope after a rolled-up quire of paper. The bell-shaped end of Dr. Nathan Pike’s stethoscope amplifies sound to a higher decibel than Laennec’s straight tube design, making it possible to hear a fetal heartbeat. Adding a removable earpiece would prevent damage when Dr. Pike traveled to visit his patients.
The second book on view, Manual of Materia Medica, is an example of a medicinal guidebook used by medical students in the mid-19th century. Preceded by herbals, these guides contain in-depth instruction on the application of the latest medicinal science and are the forerunners to the pharmaceutical drug texts available today. Manuals such as this would have been invaluable references in any doctor’s library. While individual titles are not listed in the “library valued at $100” in Dr. Nathan Pike’s inventory records, it is possible that he owned a medicinal manual such as this.
Among the most curious of Dr. Pike’s tools is a spring-loaded, multi-blade scarificator, first developed in the 17th century and considered a more compassionate bloodletting tool than the earlier lancets and fleams. To use, Dr. Pike would pull back the lever and then push the round button to release the blades inside the device, creating a series of superficial cuts in the patients’ flesh. This intimidating tool was often used in conjunction with a cup adhered by suction to collect the blood, like the small glass cup also found in Dr. Pike’s collection.
If you found this article of particular interest, check out the previous blog posts about the Pike-Wright collected linked below, or come visit us at Antiquarian Hall to see a select number of objects on view in the reading room display cases.
The Brown Family Library was donated to the American Antiquarian Society in 2019 by Dr. John Goldsberry, Jr., and his wife Dr. Dorista Goldsberry, along with their family. The family’s library joins other part of the Brown Family Collections already at AAS, donated by earlier generations of the family starting in the 1970s. Togetherthe collections consist of family papers, portraits, photographs, and over one hundred 19th-century books. The materials center around William and Martha Ann Brown and their descendants, a prominent Black family living in Worcester, Massachusetts, in the mid-1800s.
Recently, a conservation survey was conducted to assess the overall condition of each of the 19th-century books. From this survey, books were pulled to be placed in custom housing for preventive conservation, or for treatment to help improve the longevity and stability of these historic materials. Below is a snapshot of the spreadsheet created to record the condition and treatment or rehousing measures taken for each Brown family book.
Some of the main treatments included minor repair of the original cloth bindings using wheat starch paste or animal glue and toned Japanese papers, as well as reattaching loose spines and cover boards (figs. 2-7). Here is one example where the back cover board and spine were detached from the textblock (figs. 2 and 3).
Due to the size and weight of the book, a piece of cotton was adhered to the spine with some excess to the side where the board was detached (fig. 4). The cotton was further secured with thread that was sewn through the first three signatures (fig. 5).
A “tube” made from strong paper was adhered using animal glue over the cotton and thread, then adhered to the loose spine (fig. 6). The endpaper on the back board was carefully lifted and the excess cotton piece was inserted under the paper, thus reattaching the board. Finally, a piece of toned Japanese paper was adhered over the interior joint to secure and hide the slightly exposed back cover board (fig. 7).
In addition to these more extensive treatments, like the one seen above, some more minor treatments were performed on the Brown family books. These minor treatments included pasting down pieces of spines that were lifting; adding guard tissue to lose pages with wheat starch paste and toned Japanese paper; and adding partial tubes to the spine to ensure that the spine stayed attached to the book cloth and boards during repeated opening and closing of the volume.
Another issue addressed during the conservation survey was how to safely house the many newspaper clippings, bookmarks, and pressed botanicals that were found between the pages of several Brown family books. These added objects show how the book was used by Brown family members, which is of great importance not only for the curators, but for future researchers. However, these materials are not always compatible with the paper of the book and can cause staining through acid migration (fig. 8).
A discussion was had on how to best preserve the physical properties of the book while also respecting and preserving the history of its use. After much debate, conservation staff and the curator of books decided to house pressed materials into polypropylene sleeves with a note stating on which page the materials were found so that this information is not lost for future researchers (fig. 9).
Due to the fragile nature of some of the clippings, an inner folder of translucent paper was added for safe removal of the clippings from the sleeves (figs. 10). These smooth, translucent, acid-free papers are often used to make folders because they allow for a preview of the object without opening the folder.
These sleeves are then placed with the book in which they were found in a conservation binder (fig. 11) or a custom-made clamshell box (fig. 12).
After the collection survey, treatment, and rehousing of several books, the Brown Family Collections are in more stable condition and ready to be used for research! The goal of the survey and treatments was not to make the books look new or alter original material, but rather enhance their stability so that they can be safely accessed by current and future researchers.
Below is a snapshot of Brown family books that were treated and rehoused, and then placed safely back in the stacks (fig. 13).
Want to know more about the Brown Family Collections at AAS? Check out these links below to other blog posts and public programs!
Marissa Maynard is the library and archives conservator. Marissa helps to ensure that collections are not only preserved but also usable by researchers, working closely with library staff to prioritize and assess conservation needs. Prior to joining AAS, Marissa worked at the Cleveland Museum of Art as an Andrew W. Mellon Fellow in photograph conservation. Marissa has also worked in the conservation lab of libraries including the Indiana State Library and Syracuse University Special Collections. Marissa has a Master of Art Conservation (MAC) degree, specializing in paper and photograph conservation from Queen’s University. She also holds an MA in art history from Syracuse University and a BA in chemical microscopy from North Central College.
As I near the end of my second summer at the American Antiquarian Society as an intern through the Library Internship for Nipmuc Community Members, supported by a grant from the United Way Central MA, I wanted to reflect on what this internship has done for me, and what I have been doing for it in return.
This internship has given me a passion for archives and librarianship – things I didn’t think I’d be interested in when I applied, as I’d mainly applied due to my love of books and history. I remember when I wrapped up my time at AAS last year, I was in disbelief at just how much I loved my time here and how much excitement for my future and career I came away with. It’s given me opportunities by way of admission to Simmons University for a library science degree and has given me hope for a future where I can steward cultural archives and give other youth from underprivileged communities the same opportunities I was gifted. It has fostered my love for research and has given me tools for hunting down topics I’m interested in, or for tracking down genealogies.
My main project upon returning to AAS was the John Milton Earle Papers. As a Nipmuc working under the Nipmuc Community internship, the Earle Collection was the end goal for me. Detailing land purchases and other dealings of mainly Nipmuc individuals in the 18th and 19th centuries, the Earle Papers are thought to be some of the most important manuscript items for the Nipmuc tribe. Last year, I assisted in rehousing the papers – a job that entailed poring over difficult to read handwriting and dividing items into categories of “surveys,” “deeds,” “correspondence,” etc. This year, I came back to focus on changing the description of the Earle Papers to center the Indigenous people the collection items are about. I wanted future researchers to be able to know right away that this collection is about Indigenous communities, not the white man for whom they’re named. As someone who’s struggled in research to find her people and any mention of past relatives, I wanted to make sure it’s known right away who may be found in this collection to trim down the time it may take for someone to find out if any one of these hundreds of documents mentions their tribe or their ancestors. This is what has motivated my work.
A lot of the heart and effort I put into this work wasn’t exactly asked of me. I spent an hour or two creating a family tree of prominent Nipmuc names mentioned in the Earle collection, just for people to have an easier time visualizing the connections between these people. This amount of effort wasn’t asked of me, but I enjoyed doing it. I’d forgotten just how much I loved doing research and hunting information down with only a name and date to guide me.
I’m not totally set on what I’ll be doing in 5-10 years, when I’ve completed a degree in Library and Information Science. So far, I can only think in terms of ideals: It’d be ideal if I could support public libraries because they supported me. It’d be ideal if I could make cultural archives accessible. It’d be ideal if I could work in the National Archives, but also at Ivy League libraries, but also at my hometown public library, but also just do research for a playwright’s next historical piece, but also help my relatives create a tribal library. I don’t have a clear plan for my future, but that doesn’t worry me the way it would have only two years ago. I feel prepared for whatever path I may end up taking, because I’ve spent these two summers working at AAS making sure I’ll be equipped for anything the future has for me.
Sophia Ramos is the summer 2023 Nipmuc Community Intern through the Library Internship for Nipmuc Community Members, supported by a grant from the United Way Central MA, returning to the role for a second summer. She is a transfer student at Simmons University where she is earning an accelerated Computer Science + Library and Information science degree. She hopes to turn her experience at AAS into a career in libraries and archives. Her summer project has been focusing on re-describing the John Milton Earle Papers.
For the past few months, I have had the opportunity to work as an intern in the manuscripts department here at the American Antiquarian Society. Usually, I spend my days the digitizing department working as a liaison between AAS and our vendors, paging newspapers and serials. I jumped at the chance to work in manuscripts and learn a little more about a different part of our collections.
I started my internship working with the miscellaneous oversized manuscripts. My task was to sort through the box, pull out items that needed different housing, and identify any items that should get their own catalog record. One item particularly caught my eye: a large, undated, hand-written document addressed to the New York state legislature signed by one DeWitt Clinton. Reading through the document without any context, it seemed as though Clinton was calling for less funding for New York public schools; but I knew there was more to the story, and in any case, I needed to figure out when the document was created to catalog it. So, with the permission and encouragement of manuscript curator (and my internship supervisor) Ashley Cataldo, I dove into the world of early 19th-century New York public education.
(Document from DeWitt Clinton addressed to the New York state legislature, undated.)
DeWitt Clinton (b. 1769- d. 1828) was a prolific New York politician and philanthropist. Clinton served as a New York state senator (1798-1802, 1806-11), a United States senator (1802-03), mayor of New York (1803-07, 1808-10, 1811-15), lieutenant governor of New York (1811-13), and governor of New York (1817-22). Clinton also served on the Erie Canal Commission from 1810 to 1824 and was instrumental in the construction and completion of the Erie Canal. (He was also elected as a member of the American Antiquarian Society in 1814 and was voted vice president in 1821.) Clinton was a staunch supporter of public education. He founded and served as the president of the Free School Society of New York from 1805 until his death in 1823.
(Portrait of DeWitt Clinton, 1830.)
The Lancasterian system of education (now more commonly referred to as the Monitorial system) was a system of education popularized by Joseph Lancaster (1778-1838). The system relied on students to educate other students – a small number of adult masters would oversee the education, while students who mastered a topic were enlisted to help their less advanced peers. The system was cost-effective and efficient. Clinton was a dedicated proponent of free and accessible education in New York, and the Free School Society supported the Lancasterian schools, which made it even more confusing why this mysterious undated address was seemingly calling for less funding for the schools and less payment for the teacher.
The missing piece of the puzzle that I discovered through my research was the existence of the Common School Fund. By searching the AAS catalog, I found a legal memorial from the Free School Society published in 1823 that detailed the purpose of the Common School Fund (catalog record link here). According to the memorial, the fund was established in 1813. At the time, the New York legislature decided that the money in the fund should “be applied exclusively to the payment of teachers, and to no other purpose whatever.”
(Information on the Common School Fund.)
With this knowledge, the Clinton document started to make sense. Because the Lancasterian schools relied on students to educate their peers, there were fewer teachers who needed pay, meaning that the Common School Fund money allotted to pay teachers at Lancasterian schools was equal to “the pay of ten ordinary ones,” as Clinton wrote in the address. Clinton was asking the legislature for a reallocation of the Common School Fund to include funding for school buildings, textbooks, and even lower application and enrollment fees for students of Lancasterian schools.
(Reasoning for the reallocation of funds.)
The 1823 memorial states that on April 5, 1817, the legislature passed an act containing a provision to grant Lancasterian schools the ability to use their excess funding for “the erection of buildings for schools, and to all the needful purposes of a common school education” – of course, after teachers had been granted “ample compensation.”
(Information on the reallocation of funds.)
After finding this date, I was able to finish describing the document before me. Though I didn’t know the exact date that Clinton delivered this address to the New York state legislature, I knew it must have been around the time that the act was passed. By using our catalog to find related collection materials, I put together the puzzle pieces and learned a lot more about early systems of education than I ever expected.
The history of the book is predicated on the idea that the book itself as an object is significant in its own right, not simply on its printed content alone. Which materials were used, how they were made, and who made them all speak to a vast network of economic, environmental, and human systems that came together to create a printed volume; these elements of bookbinding are always interesting and worthy of investigation. And if those things are beautiful to behold, even better!
“An Opulence Unexpected” brings together a variety of books bound in red morocco leather, which have been prized for centuries for their beauty and exemplification of a binder’s craft. Also known as “Turkey leather,” it was first produced in North Africa from Turkish goats and exported to Spain as early as the 11th century. It is made traditionally with tawed goatskin stained with sumac (a tangy spice prevalent in Middle Eastern cuisine) for its iconic deep red color. The use of morocco in western book binding became popular in the 17th century, as goatskin leather was supple, long lasting, and took color and tooling well, especially gilt tooling, a method of finishing bindings by pressing gold into covers and bindings with specific tools to create ornate, sometimes lavish, designs. Continue reading “An Opulence Unexpected”: Examples of Red Morocco’s Use in Bookbindings
Operation Alert was a Cold War exercise designed to assess how prepared both government agencies and citizens were in the event of a nuclear attack on the United States. Starting in 1954, about 200 cities around the country took part in these drills until the project ceased in 1962. Worcester, Massachusetts, the home of the American Antiquarian Society, was one of these cities.
This fall I’ve been an intern at AAS as part of my graduate program in public history and archives, and one of my projects has been cataloguing the objects in the Society’s archives. While working with these objects, I came across a sign that reads, “There will be a civil defense exercise during the course of this morning May 6, 1958. If you are still in the Library when the alarm sounds your cooperation is requested.” On that day, alarms and air raid sirens would have gone off and people were required to stay indoors, sheltering in place for fifteen minutes. Depending on the location, certain penalties were in place for noncompliance. For example, in New York City, there was a fine of $500 for people who didn’t follow the directions of the Civil Defense Agency.
This agency had a clear situation in mind when they devised drills and exercises. Not only did they plan the drill itself, but they created an entire fictional story around what might cause a scenario where the United States was under attack. In this case, the story goes that tensions around the world increased to the point where, during the week prior to May 6, 1958, things came to a head. On May 6, with only a couple hours’ warning, an “attack” was launched on the country. This drill scenario evaluated government and citizens’ reactions to a potential event when little time was available to develop a strategic plan to protect themselves and their constituents as best they could. The 1958 test was taken extremely seriously, with members of multiple organizations coming up with reasonable facsimiles of a nuclear attack plan that was as realistic as possible.
The exercise was also meant to test preparedness in general. At the time of “attack,” was there enough food and clothing in a city’s holdings to supply people who were sheltered? What about medical supplies? Was there a plan for transporting people to places where they would be safe? Was there a power supply and fuel that could be depended upon? As part of the drills, communications would black out on the day following the “attack” in order to replicate what might really happen and gauge the responses of the local and federal agencies. The plans were very detailed, even down to using the actual weather conditions of the day to model potential nuclear fallout.
Not everyone cooperated with the sign requests like the one at AAS, however. A great many Americans protested, some because they felt the drills were terror-inducing and not actually effective, and others because they were pacifists. Many protesters said it was laughable that the government thought they could protect people during a nuclear attack and proposed putting the money and resources that went into these drills toward attaining peace. Peace was, they claimed, the only defense against nuclear war.
The final Operation Alert exercise occurred in 1961, when over two thousand people protested in New York City, and even more at college campuses and other locations nationwide. The project itself was canceled in 1962. You can read the full standards for the 1958 Operation Alert exercise issued by the Office of Defense Mobilization and the Federal Civil Defense Administration here.
Book bansand challenges have been on the rise in libraries and schools across the United States: according to the American Library Association, who have tracked book censorship since 1982, over 1,600 titles have been affected in 2022 alone. These challenges, whether for political, legal, religious, or moral motivations, illuminate a variety of the nation’s current cultural anxieties, are not the first instances of books being banned in America. The American Antiquarian Society holds a panoply of materials that have been repressed, hidden, and censored, including a facsimile of the book which lit the flame of North America’s relationship with the concept of literary obscenity and government sanctioned censorship. In 1651, William Pynchon’s 1650 writing The Meritorious Price of Our Redemption was publicly burned in Boston via court order for its perceived criticism of the Puritans, who dominated local governance; Boston’s common executioner personally carried out the order. The book was so efficiently destroyed that only four copies are known to be extant, and are held at the Congregational Library in Boston, the British Museum, the New York Public Library, and the Connecticut Historical Society.
Over 200 yearslater, after an aggressive morality campaign led by Civil War veteran and founder of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice, Anthony Comstock, the Comstock Laws of 1873 were passed in Congress which would effectively outlaw the distribution, sale, and possession of “obscene” materials, especially those solicited and sent through the U.S. Postal Service. U.S. obscenity laws were largely overturned through a series of Supreme Court decisions in the late 1950s, backed up by the First Amendment, which ended a nearly 90 year crusade on novels, valentines, song sheets, textbooks, contraception, newspapers, and erotica. Materials were confiscated and destroyed en masse during this time, significantly impacting the history of material culture in the United States.
Evidence of the volume and variety of materials seized during this time can be found in an1874 report of the Committee for the Suppression of Vice, which urges readers to destroy its words after reading, as it contains information on contraband seized in “the work of Mr. Comstock,” and such materials were “a fruitful source of demoralization and crime.” Listed alongside “indecent playing cards,” “rubber goods,” and abortifacients are not only books (134,000 lbs. worth, both bound and unbound), but materials and information used in their production, including names of “persons likely upon receipt of circulars, etc., to send orders.” AAS’s copy was personally given to the Society by Comstock in 1893.
Many of what are now to be considered classic works of Western fiction were affected by Comstock Laws, including John Cleland’s Fanny Hill, Daniel DeFoe’s Roxana and Moll Flanders, Candide by Voltaire, and Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
The novel Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, also known simply as Fanny Hill, is considered to be one of the most prosecuted and banned books in United States history due to its overt representation of pornographic sex. It has been explicitly banned by the US government twice, once in 1821 and once in 1963 (both times for “obscenity”), before being legally cleared for publishing again in 1966. This 1820 copy lacks portions of the text, most of the plates, and is significantly worn.
Considered an essential text of Western canon, Voltaire’s literary satire Candide has been historically censored from the reading public in France, Switzerland, the United States, and by the Catholic Church since it was first published in 1759 for containing religious blasphemy and political sedition. Both the U.S. Customs and Post Offices have influenced circulation of Candide, from seizing inbound copies from France for obscenity to demanding the work be omitted from the shelves of major book retailers.
Throughout the 19th century, the Portsmouth Athenaeum, a membership library located in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, regularly published advertisements in local newspapers with lists of books missing from their collections alongside a plea for their prompt return. Beginning in March of 1873 (just as Comstock Laws were being passed), Moll Flanders — rife with allusions to sex outside of wedlock, adultery, prostitution, and crime — populated that list for the first time. Its loss from the Athenaeum’s collections may have happened through honest mistake, political cowardice, or perhaps a patron looking to squirrel away a title that would prove harder and harder to come by, as Moll was banned from shipment in the US post, drastically affecting available supply.
Described as “professedly obscene” and “objectionable” since its first publication in 1855, it wasn’t until the 1881 edition of Whitman’s magnum opus Leaves of Grass that its production was halted due to legal concerns. Under pressure by Comstock himself, Boston’s District Attorney advised Whitman’s publisher James R. Osgood that the book could not continue to be legally published without significant alterations to the text. Initially open to changes, Whitman later refused to revise his work due to the sheer volume of objections and was forced to find a new publisher. Due to the publicity this action caused— which increased further after the subsequent arrest of activist Ezra Heywood of Princeton, MA, for mailing excerpts of Leaves of Grass alongside other contraband—its popularity rose and under a different publisher the new edition’s first printing sold out in a single day. Heywood went on to publish a rebuke of both his treatment by Comstock’s goons and more broadly of federally backed, morality-based censorship titled “The Impolicy of Repression” in the Boston Commonwealth. Heywood was pardoned by President Harrison in 1878 after a successful, highly publicized petition and protest movement.
For more information on the banned books discussed here, and others, check out the resources below. An exhibit featuring some of these works will be on display in the reading room at the American Antiquarian Society from November to December 2022. — Resources:
“The world is full of poetry, the air is living with its spirit, and the waves dance to the music of its melodies.” ~ James Gates Percival’s “Poetry” copied into Martha Ann Brown’s commonplace book from 1849.
Please join us at the American Antiquarian Society this Thursday, November 17, at 7 p.m. (register here to attend in-person or virtually) to explore the power of poetry and its role connecting us to the past. What did poetry mean to Martha Ann Brown, a nineteenth century woman of color integrally connected to the local Black and Indigenous communities, and what does poetry mean to us today? How did women in the Brown family pass along forms of artistic expression through generations, and how are similar generational connections maintained today?
In partnership with the Worcester Black History Project, Thursday evening’s event in the new AAS Learning Lab will be moderated by Deborah Hall and begin with a brief historical introduction to the Brown Family Collections at AAS by Kimberly Toney. Then we will hear new original poems from three Black women poets working in Worcester today – Rev. Catherine Reed, Xaulanda Thorpe, and Ashley Wonder – who will reflect on connections especially among the women of the Brown Family as well as in their own families and lives.
The women of the Brown family expressed themselves artistically in many ways.
→ Martha Ann Brown kept a commonplace book that included artistically arranged pressed flowers and poetry in the 1840s. (The entire book is digitized here thanks to funding from the Delmas Foundation.)
→ Emma Griffin Brown (Martha Ann’s daughter-in-law) wrote her own penciled annotation into the margins of a printed book of “Moore’s Poems,” commenting on favorite poems or expressing philosophical angst, in the 1890s.
→ Bernice Brown Goldsberry (Martha Ann’s granddaughter and Emma’s daughter) inked her own illustrations in a book in the family’s library and became a professional commercial artist producing Valentines and greeting cards in the 1910s-20s.
BONUS EVENT: Intrigued by the Brown Family and interested in learning more about them and their descendants? There is another event you can attend in Worcester on Thursday, November 17 (learn more and register here). At 7 a.m. there will be a networking breakfast at Mechanics Hall to learn more about their Portraits Project, a plan to increase representation of women and people of color among the portraits on display at Mechanics Hall. Martha Ann Brown and William Brown are among those for whom new portraits are to be commissioned, and one of the descendants of the Brown family, James Goldsberry, will be speaking at the breakfast.
If you then come to the American Antiquarian Society at 185 Salisbury Street for the evening’s poetry event at 7 p.m., you will see on permanent display in the reading room a portrait of one of the Brown family’s ancestors, John Moore, Jr., as well as photographs brought out for this event of Martha Ann and William Brown, that will help provide inspiration for today’s artists to create new portraits of the family.
From left to right: Oil on canvas portrait of John Moore, Jr. (b. c. 1800) and carte-de-visite photographs of his nephew, William Brown (1824-1892), and William’s wife Martha Ann (Tulip/Lee/Lewis/Lewey?) Brown (1818-1889).
EXTRA BONUS EVENT (not related to the Brown Family): As if that weren’t enough, AAS also will be holding a virtual book talk on Thursday, November 17, at 2pm. Marcy J. Dinius will talk about her book, The Textual Effects of David Walker’s “Appeal”: Print-Based Activism Against Slavery, Racism, and Discrimination, 1829-1851 (learn more and register here).
So consider bookending your day on Thursday, November 17, with the amazing Brown Family: 7 a.m. at Mechanics Hall for breakfast and 7 p.m. at AAS for poetry!
October 8, 1871 – On this day in 1871, the Great Chicago Fire erupted. The fire burned for two days, destroying buildings, claiming about 300 lives, and causing an estimated $200 million in damages. In all, the fire decimated a four-by-one-mile area of Chicago, including the city’s business district. The city quickly began reconstruction efforts, fostering a newly booming economy and a population to match.
October 7, 1765 – On this day in 1765, the Stamp Act Congress convened in New York City. Representatives from nine colonies met to protest the Stamp Act, which imposed the first direct tax by the British Crown on American colonies. The passage of the Stamp Act is often cited as one of the first catalysts of the American Revolution, as some people living in the colonies felt they were being unfairly taxed without representation in Parliament.
The Boston Gazette and Country Journal published a page-long criticism of the Stamp Act on that day. The newspaper reads, in part:
“AWAKE! – Awake, my Countrymen, and, by a regular & legal Opposition, defeat the Designs of those who enslave us and our Posterity. Nothing is wanting but your own Resolution…Be Men, and make the Experiment. This is your Duty, your bounden, your indispensable Duty.” Continue reading This Day in History: Stamp Act Congress Convenes in Protest
October 3, 1863 – On this day in 1863, President Abraham Lincoln issued a proclamation designating the last Thursday in November as Thanksgiving Day. The proclamation came in the midst of the Civil War. In his address, Lincoln chose to focus on the country’s prosperity:
“[T]he country, rejoicing in the consciousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom.”
His words throughout the address encourage unity during the Civil War.