Past is Present

Call for Co-editors for an AAS Glossary

The American Antiquarian Society is almost 200 years old. I guess that’s not entirely shocking, given that “Antiquarian” is in our name, but sometimes it’s easy to forget that when we were founded there were no functional steam-locomotives, no sewing machines, no modern matches. Napoleon was still fighting his way across Europe. Even “The Star-Spangled Banner” had yet to be written.

While I think you’ll agree we look very good for our age, two centuries of continuous collecting has given us a few wrinkles. Not everything is exactly where it started. In fact, the various stages of arrangement and cataloging of our collections provide a complete, if eccentric, history of librarianship and cataloging technologies.

Searching for collection material can feel like an archeological dig through layers of accumulated cataloging. You hit strata from multiple centuries working backwards in time. Level 1: digitized products. Level 2: online records. Level 3: microform. Level 4: a unique cataloging system. Level 5: handwritten card catalogs. Level 6: lists of collection material. Level 7 (and this is the most tenuous of all): the back recesses of a librarian’s mind. As the AAS Librarian reported on October 23, 1829:

The number of volumes now in the library exceeds eight thousand, and these are rendered almost useless from the fact that there are only two or three individuals who are acquainted with their arrangement or contents, and perhaps no one who can at all times find the book called for.

It may sound daunting, but this historical evolution is actually one of my favorite parts of working at AAS. It puts our collections on a human scale, since we are all slowly evolving.

Once you’ve worked here for a while, the weirdness wears off. You don’t have to consciously struggle to remember each unusual term. In fact, it becomes increasingly difficult to recall which words are common parlance, which are specific to “library people,” and which are AAS originals (which as you will see is a category onto itself). Here are some examples off the top of my head, in no particular order.

Things in the AAS Reading Room (other libraries may have these too):

1. Book Snakes (hint: here’s a picture of them in their natural habitat) booksnake
2. Trucks (seems like they wouldn’t fit in the building, but have you seen our dome? — it could be the new Thunderdome)
3. Cradles (for those sleepy researchers)
4. Fellows (they’re jolly good)
5. Call Slips

AAS Neologisms:

1. Cataloging campers (do they get to sleep over?)

2. Red sleeve (sounds cheerful, if somewhat lacking as a garment)

3. The Buff (which appropriately enough goes in a red sleeve to cover it up)

4. Pink Slip (given the scary recent unemployment figures, it’s not as bad as it sounds)

5. Stacks, Locked Stacks, & Stack D

6. Exit Passes

Most of the foregoing are merely amusing, but other terms can really benefit your research.

AAS Collection Names (most are abbreviations and so pretty easy to figure out, but they sometimes sound funny):

1. Lithf, Lithff, and Lithfff as well as Engrf, Engrff, Engrfff (sounds like a stuttering problem)
2. First Eds
3. Bibs (I thought we weren’t supposed to have food in the library)
4. CS5 (an American version of the MI-5)
5. Classed Collections (where are the gendered collections?)
6. Pams, Misc Pams, Dated Pams (way too many folks named Pam)
7. Dated Books (a bibliophile’s dream)
8. Digital Evans (Why didn’t they ask Digital Evans?, for the Agatha Christie fans among us)
9. Shaw-Shoemaker (which sounded vaguely like a Native American name to me)

Imaginary Places at AAS (my personal favorite, you may come across these figments in the card catalog):

1. First Eds Room
2. Map Room
3. Alcove B, or F, or D

Book Terms:

1. The Gutter (get your mind out of there!)
2. Chain Lines (sounds a little scary)
3. Provenance (sadly not the region in France, but almost as cool)
4. Ghosts (a term that seems to haunt the library)

The fascinating stories behind these odd terms will be periodically revealed in posts on Past is Present, as the fancy strikes us. Hopefully, it will strike once a week. Our ultimate goal is a comprehensive AAS Glossary (hey, a girl can dream). While some of the above terms are common to many libraries, our definitions will be sprinkled with a generous dose of AAS history. After all, our 200th birthday is coming up soon so now is a good time to brush up on your AAS trivia to impress your friends and relatives.

To help us reach this goal, we invite our Past is Present readers to join us as co-editors. The OED created a massive linguistic team by harnessing the power of individual readers and so can we! When you think of another good example of an odd library term (from AAS or elsewhere), or if you see something in the lists above you’re particularly curious about, let us know and we’ll try to post on those first.

Better yet, feel free to comment on this post with your own definitions — the snarkier the better! I am confident you all will come up with some truly witty definitions to replace my corny one-liners.

The Sweet Smell of a Mystery Solved

There is something fitting in one librarian coming to the aid of another. The mystery surrounding the New York Times 1964 claim that the Adams family celebrated July 4, 1776 with “Green turtle soup, New England poached salmon with egg sauce and apple pan dowdy,” found a resolution with the detective work of New York librarian Beth Chamberlain. She pointed out that the Times article sounded remarkably similar to the American Heritage Cookbook (Simon and Schuster, 1964), but with one key difference: it was the “Adamses’ neighbors in Massachusetts” who served the menu (page 406).

There are still no answers as to what the Adamses themselves ate on July 4th. The American Heritage Cookbook refers to a June 23, 1797 letter from Abigail in Philadelphia to her sister Mary Cranch in Quincy, MA. She writes of the long hours associated with being the President’s wife,

To day will be the 5th great dinner I have had, about 36 gentlemen to day, as many more next week … then comes the 4 July which is a still more tedious day, as we must then have not only all Congress, but all the gentlemen of the city, the governor and officers and companies, all of whom the late president used to treat with cake punch and wine.

The letter, held in AAS’s Abigail Adams manuscript collection, is followed by a confirmation on July 6th that the Adamses followed Washington’s generous practice, and guests called on the first lady in her drawing room only “after visiting the president below and partaking of cake, wine & punch with him.” Abigail suffered the same situation the following hot summer, and she complained on July 3, 1798, “Tomorrow will be 4 July, when if possible I must see thousands. I know not how it will be possible to get through, live here I cannot an other week unless a change takes place in the weather.”

Correspondence to her sister Mary, running from 1784 to 1816, forms the bulk of our Abigail Adams Letters. Among the first items in the collection is a letter from July 6, 1784 written aboard the ship Active, that suggests an Independence Day feast was the last thing on her mind. As Abigail sailed towards her husband in Europe, she wrote,

I have had frequent occasion since I came on Board to recollect an observation of my best friend’s, “that no being in nature was so disagreeable as a Lady at sea,” and this recollection has in a great measure reconciled me to the thought of being at sea without him.

The July Fourths spent in Europe, as recorded in these letters, indicate the day had not yet become an event in Abigail’s mind. In 1788 both John and Abigail were focused on the recent wedding of their daughter Nabby. In 1789, her days were so busy visiting friends that she apologized for the delay in writing her sister.

The first acknowledgement of Independence Day comes from New York on July 4th, 1790,

A memorable day in our calender a church belonging to the Dutch congregation is this day to be opened and an oration delivered. This church was the scene of misery & honor, the prison where our poor Countrymen were confined, crowded, & starved during the war & which the British afterwards destroyed.

In Abigail’s letters to Mary, one finds a chronicle of the growing recognition of the Fourth of July as a holiday of importance. But there are few clues as to Abigail’s culinary preferences. Based both on our collection of letters and the digitized ones provided by the Massachusetts Historical Society, food it seems held only a minimal place in Abigail’s consciousness, at least as recorded by her correspondence. Much more important was the company she kept while dining.

Slate, before the hype

With the pending release of Apple Computers’ tablet computer and the surrounding press and discussion, it seemed like a good time to review the precursor to it all, the humble school slate. The Antiquarian Society has several nineteenth-century slates in the games collection, including one with multiple pages, patented in 1867 and bound like a book. These small objects were used in schools for spelling and mathematical exercises and featured a surface that could support erasure and re-writing. Some were made of actual stone slate, others, like the one pictured here, were paper or paperboard treated with a slate-infused pigment. The selling points for a good-quality school slate might be recognized by today’s computer-savvy consumer: the size of the writing surface, the portability of the object, and the durability over time. Most salesmen’s texts and advertisements promote these qualities. At rates of $1 to $2 per dozen, the school slate was cheap enough that it was widely disseminated and used by thousands of school children across the country.

Where did all that slate come from? Before the Civil War, slate was m slate_Lithf_MoorT_Grae_Disp ined in New York, New England and throughout the Mid-Atlantic states. As the population moved westward, slate deposits were recorded and mined right the way across the continent to California. Also used as a roofing and paving material, slate was in high demand through about 1900.

Let’s keep thinking like those executives at Apple. What about the market? In the nineteenth century, school slate manufacturers tried to capture market share in several ways. They created decorative frame styles to appeal to customers, they sold their slates directly to schools to get children used to them (sound like a familiar strategy?), and they offered accompanying items like chalk pencils, cleaners, and rubberized tips to protect the corners of the slate. To help create demand, schoolbook publishers often included in their texts sections designated as “for the slate,” which include suggestions for teachers and students to improve their hand writing, mathematical calculating skills, etc.

So, go ahead and enjoy your tablet computer (or the tablet that belongs to the student in your life)! Now you know that you are following in the footsteps of American consumers well before your time, folks who wanted a smooth surface to write on during class. Just remind your kids to be gentle with their new technology and not to be like the “naughty boy” in the 1845 gift book illustration pictured here. In a fit of pique, he has apparently thrown his slate to the floor of the schoolhouse and it lies there, broken in a million pieces. Alas, there is no evidence that manufacturers ever offered extended warranties on nineteenth-century school slates!

The Acquisitions Table: Only Known Copies

This week we feature two items acquired by AAS in recent months. What they have in common is that our copies are the only ones known to exist. Given the age of these items (they were printed in 1795 and 1815 respectively) and given the fact that generations of bibliographers have labored to identify and locate every book, pamphlet and newspaper known to have been printed in the United States when these were published, it may seem strange indeed that we could acquire two such items during the same quarter. However the fact is that although we know a great deal about what was printed in this period, new discoveries are not that uncommon. We always have pleasure in getting things we don’t already have, but that pleasure is much greater when things come into the building and we find that they seem to be unique copies.

They’re still out there, and that makes the search all the more exciting.

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The singers pocket companion. Being an abridgement from Arnold. Containing concisely the rules of psalmody: to which are added a number of pages with blank lines that music may be written by any who wish to select from the various collections now published. Southwick [MA?]: Printed and published by J. Langton, 1795.

A newly discovered early American music book, apparently published in Southwick, MA. If so, it is by several decades the earliest Southwick imprint. Like other music books, the text and ruled pages are oblong in shape and entirely engraved. The title page is signed “J. Allen”—presumably the Boston engraver Joel Knott Allen, who engraved other music books at this time—hence this work may also have been printed in Boston. “J. Langton” may be Job Langton (or Langdon), an early settler of Southwick. The Preface states: “The design of this publication is to furnish Schools with a concise system of RULES for SINGING with Blank lines for the purpose of inserting TUNES at every ones pleasure. The advantage of this will appear in saving a great expence to Learners; and in giving Masters opportunity to introduce in their schools tunes of their own choice.” This copy bears a contemporary inscription: “Moses Andrews Singing Book January 19^th AD 1795,” and the 44 pages with blank lines are entirely filled with manuscript music in a contemporary hand. Purchased from Savoy Books. Hugh Amory Memorial and General Library Acquisitions II Funds.

~ David Whitesell, Curator of Books

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True American (St. Clairsville, OH). Apr. 6, 1815.

AAS has acquired the only known issue of this title. When Clarence Brigham published History and Bibliography of American Newspapers 1690-1820 in 1947, he had located references to this newspaper, but no issues could be found. In 1961 he published a supplement in the AAS Proceedings, but he still had not located a copy. This issue turned up in a box of uncataloged miscellaneous issues given to AAS by the Missouri Historical Society in St. Louis. It confirms most of the information that Brigham gathered from secondary sources.

~ Vincent Golden, Curator of Newspapers and Periodicals

Clean out your closets!

Recently the Graphic Arts staff at the American Antiquarian Society posted its latest illustrated inventory, a complete listing of political and social engraved satires from the Charles Peirce collection (yes, that last name is spelled correctly! Peirce, not Pierce!). You can have a look by following this link http://www.americanantiquarian.org/Inventories/Peirce/

Like many collections here at the Society, the Peirce collection is amazing and rare and wonderful for many reasons. It includes the only known copy of James Akins’ (1773-1846) sharp-witted cartoon The Philosophic Cock which depicts Thomas Jefferson as a rooster and his slave Sally Hemmings as a hen. There are rich social satires by the English engravers Thomas Rowlandson (1756-1827) and George Cruikshank (1792-1878) that lampoon everything from fashion to dentistry in the early nineteenth century.

Our web resource for this collection features an introduction written by 2009 Last Fellow Allison Stagg (University of London) documenting her research on how the Peirce album was used in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Peirce, a bookseller, compiled the album then rented it out for parties – see the image Twelfth Night by Cruikshank (Folder 40) for a group of Brits using a set of prints in a similar manner. We have also illustrated Peirce’s newspaper advertisements documenting the album, which Allison found in the course of her research.

What you will not learn from this great new finding aide is the way the album was originally found by the donors. In a compelling little essay titled “All I wanted to do was put the vacuum cleaner in the closet,” the donor, Edith Fisher Hunter, describes how she discovered the somewhat-tattered, portfolio-sized album among a large group of books from her spouse’s multi-generational family library. The books had been boxed up and shoved into the hall closet under the stairs during various moves and renovations in the 1798/1810 family farmhouse.

Until 1990, the boxes had been competing for space with the vacuum cleaner and tubs of Christmas decorations. One muggy August day, while trying to cram the vac into the closet, Edith decided enough was enough. She pulled everything out and began sorting. The results: two boxes of material relating to bookseller and relative Charles Peirce were put aside, including the album of caricatures. It all eventually made its way to AAS, much to our pleasure. “The closet in the hall is delightfully empty,” Edith wrote in her conclusion, “The box of Christmas decorations fit into the closet very nicely as does the vacuum cleaner!” The moral of this tale could be – It is never too late to tackle spring cleaning. Or, for those of us who lack acute housekeeping motivation – Clean out the closet to avoid dealing with the dust and dog hair on the rugs. Yep, I admit it. I’d rather lose myself in twelve boxes of early American imprints than push the Hoover!

The gentleman doth protest too much

Background: The books in the AAS collection began appearing long before a comprehensive cataloging system. Building on the foundational donation of Isaiah Thomas’ personal library, members sent books to the Society, and according to the letter transcribed below, at times also removed them.

Item: A letter from AAS member and prominent Worcester lawyer William Lincoln to statesman and AAS member John Davis written August 16, [1829].

Found by: AAS-NEH Fellow Mary Beth Sievens, Associate Professor of History, SUNY-Fredonia.

Location: Lincoln Family Papers, Box 5, Folder 1.

——————————————————————————–

Hon John Davis.

By night.

—————————————————-

Worcester August 16

Dear Major

Two or three weeks since, in pursuance of an understanding with the members of the Antiquarian Council, I took from the Antiquarian Library three or four volumes which I considered as so indecent and vile that they should not be kept by a decent Society or read by any respectable person. Among them were “Wilkes Essay on Women” and “Rochesters Poems.” I took them, for the purpose of burning them and brought them home, and, unfortunately left them in a drawer in my chamber, intending to purge the earth of such polluted shapes of conception on the earliest opportunity. Still more unfortunately, I left them covered with my clothes, in the drawer when I removed—I cannot express to you the mingled feelings of shame and sorrow I have [felt] this evening on finding all of them missing—I would not for slight consideration be suspected of having such works of damnation in my possession—still less of keeping the accursed trash for my private study—and least of all of being accessory to its circulation. I ask it as a special favor that you will remove them and keep them safely in your own own [sic] most safe deposit until I can consign them to a more secure resting place.

Obliged to be absent early in the morning and coming like a thief, by night, I have no other means of communication than pen and paper afford or I should personally and bodily express to you my grief for the consequences of my carelessness in this matter. Baldwin will confirm my story, and exonerate me from the disgrace of having ever begged, bought or stolen this base coinage of prostituted genius.

Good Night Dear Sir, and accept the assurances of the unqualified regard of respect of your distressed friend

William Lincoln.

——————————-

PastIsPresent Postscript: The AAS archives do not reveal how John Wilkes’ “Essay on Women” or the Earl of Rochester’s Poems might have arrived in the stacks. Lincoln would have been consoled to learn that today the library no longer collects such items — that is, books published in Britain instead of the United States. But he would undoubtedly be horrified to learn of our recent acquisition of American risque literature: twelve 19th century translations of the work of French novelist Paul de Kock.

The Question: Something Smells Fishy

If Abigail Adams were planning an Independence Day feast what would she make? According to a 1964 New York Times article: “green turtle soup, New England poached salmon with egg sauce and apple pan dowdy.” In fact, the article claims she served this fine menu to John Adams on the very first Independence Day. Is the story sounding a bit strange to you, too?

Edible Queens, a local food magazine for Queens, New York, tasked Sarah Lohman (author of the blogs F our Pounds Flour and Ephemera) with recreating an early Fourth of July menu. Research led her to the New York Times article but she had her own doubts: apples in early July? So she wrote to AAS with a question, was the article’s claim true or just a myth?

We call myth. As we all know, John was busy in Philadelphia that July 4th. And poor Abigail had an eye infection. In fact, she wrote John on July 13, 1776 from Massachusetts apologizing for a silence of nearly a month, “I have really had so many cares upon my Hands and Mind, with a bad inflamation [sic] in my Eyes that I have not been able to write.”

But dear readers, that is as far as we got. And now we need your help. Where did this myth come from? Is there truth to any of it? The New York Times article described the meal in context of its recreation for the 1964 World’s Fair.

At the Festival ’64 Restaurant in the Gas Pavilion, George Lang, director of the restaurant, came up with a meal served by Abigail and John Adams at their home on July 4, 1776. Actually the Adams family first served this meal in 1773. It was such a memorable meal that Mrs. Adams served it on the first Independence Day. (“Fourth of July Glorious as Usual, But Especially Glorious at Fair” by Philip Dougherty in the New York Times, July 5, 1964 page 44.)

Rumors of Abigail Adams’ 18th century handwritten cookbook float around, but does it exist? The Massachusetts Historical Society has an extensive digitized collection of Adams Family Papers, but we had no luck there. Given the success of our first reference question post, we’re trying again. Anyone have any answers or thoughts? As usual we offer the weighty prizes of admiration and praise.

Even if this mystery goes unsolved, be sure to look for Sarah’s article on a historically inspired Fourth of July feast in the summer issue of Edible Queens.

The Acquisitions Table: Ira Hill’s Memorial

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Those of us who are located in the chilly Northeast are already beginning to dream of spring and gardens. Curator of books David Whitesell describes Ira Hill’s proposal for a very special garden for Washington D.C.

Hill, Ira, ca. 1783-1838. Ira Hill’s memorial, and remarks to Congress. [N.p., 1824]

Second recorded copy of this intriguing proposal for a ten-acre three-dimensional garden map of the world, in Mercator projection, to be built adjacent to the U. S. Capitol building. Hill was a Maryland schoolteacher best known for his theory that the enigmatic Dighton Rock bore inscriptions from an expedition sent to the New World by the Biblical King Solomon. Here he proposes a botanical novelty unsurpassed for its beauty and pedagogical utility. In Hill’s garden, “the United States from the Atlantic to the Pacific will be one hundred and sixty feet” in length, and major topographical features such as oceans and mountain ranges would be depicted (albeit not so visually impressive even at this scale). Congress could have all this for only $10,000 up front, eventually refunded through a half share in future profits from ticket sales. Hill presented his petition in April 1824. Despite offering to scale the project back to a map of the United States alone, he failed to attract the necessary votes, and the garden remained unbuilt. Purchased from Savoy Books. General Library Acquisitions II Fund.

~ David Whitesell

Now Where Was I, Redux!

Last Friday we posted an entry about bookmarks describing the variety of scraps and ephemeral objects used by eighteenth and nineteenth century readers to mark their places in their books.

As that blog post was being edited, yet another bookmark was discovered, and a most curious one at that. A small letter was found tucked between the pages of the New York periodical The New Mirror of Literature and the Fine Arts for 1844. The note was written by Mrs. Gen. Macomb (Harriet Balch Macomb, 1783-1869, widow of General Alexander Macomb) to a “Mr. Abbott” and we transcribe it below in full:

July 20, 1844

Dear Sir,
I have been requested by a very poor and respectable young Lady to ask you to take one or two of the accompanying Book Marks. She is endeavoring to support herself by her industry. I have taken several as presents for my friends. Would not Mrs. Abbott like one? I do not urge the business as Miss Mountz does, ha ha. Your Friend, H. B. Macomb.

The letter was not accompanied by any other bookmarks, but instead was used as one itself.

The fact that the note was found the same morning the blog post was written and was being edited just illustrates again the wonderful sense of kismet found under the generous dome of the Antiquarian Society.

Now Where Was I?

If you were lucky enough to be the recipient of multiple books this holiday season, all of which beg to be read immediately, you may be in need of a crucial tool . . . the humble bookmark!

At the Antiquarian Society, as books are catalogued they are checked over carefully by our staff and often reveal between their pages the bookmarks of previous owners. These slips and bits are removed for conservation reasons and make their way to the desk of the Curator of Graphic Arts where they are added to the bookmark collection. Yes, we have a bookmark collection which includes handmade needlework, slips of paper, assorted ephemera and any flat item which may have been used to mark the pages of a book.

We have religious-themed markers that were removed from the bible collection, including a cut-out of the head of Christ which caused much conversation by those passing my desk (“I don’t see it! Where is the nose?”), and the expected needlework crosses, doves and chalices. An 1833 edition of William Cowper’s poems gave up a scrap of fringed silk, a ladies periodical included an advertisement for a rose nursery, and a mechanic’s manual shed a lone playing card (the five of clubs). In early days, the provenance of these small items was lost and so we how have a folder of stray bookmarks marked as “removed from nineteenth-century novels,” which includes a blank tax receipt for the town of Ashburnham, an undated note from Martha to her friend Jane asking her to “come sup and call with me on Mrs. Chester Wilson,” and a homemade marker of ferns inscribed on the verso “1876, A happy New Year to all yours, as ever, Clara.”

Before we chide these earlier owners for their untidy use of found material and bits and scraps to mark their place in their books, an assessment of contemporary practices should be considered. A quick survey of the books stacked by the bedsides in my house revealed the following being used as bookmarks: one of those annoying rectangular magazine advertising inserts, a scrap of newspaper torn from the morning paper, a feather, an actual bookmark given out by the public library to raise awareness for an upcoming building campaign, a postcard of a panda bear from a recent trip to Washington D.C., and, inevitably, a length of sparkly Christmas ribbon.

The Acquisitions Table: Scripture Scenes

If the holiday leftovers are still lurking in our refrigerators, we figure there’s still time for one more Christmas-themed post, courtesy of Curator of Children’s Literature Laura Wasowicz. The charming engraving below raises two interesting questions you might want to mull over as you finish off the pecan pie. First, where would Anderson have seen the image upon which this engraving is based? I’m guessing it was reproduced in a book or as a print he saw. Second, what is that object in front of the kneeling Magus? Perhaps it has to do with gold, frankincense or myrrh? Or is it his turban? Is it a recognizable part of the iconography of the Magi?

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Fawcett, John, 1740-1817. Scripture Scenes. Cadiz, OH: H. Anderson, 1829.

This is a scarce early Ohio imprint; it is rarer still in that it contains nine hand-colored metal engravings probably executed by its publisher Hugh Anderson (1782-1866), who worked as an engraver in Philadelphia prior to his move to Ohio. Anderson based this engraving of the Adoration of the Wise Men upon a painting by the 16th-century Italian master Jacopo Bassano, shedding new light on the types of access that American children living in the Old Northwest had to Renaissance art. Purchased from David M. Lesser. Ruth E. Adomeit Book Fund.

~ Laura Wasowicz

Do you hear what I hear?

Within the roughly 60,000 pieces of sheet music in the AAS collection, a devilish and spry Santa Claus waits for just this time of year. At the first talk of Christmas, he appears, dancing on a chimney while playing the violin. This 1846 incarnation of Santa Claus stands on the cover of the Santa Claus Quadrilles, painted by the anonymous Spoodlyks. The accompanying music was composed by Harvey B. Dodworth.

Separated into five parts and characterized by sections of eight measures, the quadrille was intended as popular dance music. The 6/8 beat of two of the parts encouraged intricate steps and was a forerunner to the square dance.

In the spirit of Dodworth’s Quadrille Band, the AAS Readers’ Services Follies offer you a small sampling of the music: No. 5 of the Quadrilles played by Andrew Bourque. We’ve provided the music itself, but you’ll have to bring the dancing. Happy Holidays!

Santa Claus Quadrilles No. 5

[book id=’10? /]

Type Findings: Introducing the AAS Printers’ File

Avis G. Clarke, cataloger-cum-researcher of early American imprints and printers, Avis Clarke filled hundreds of AAS card catalogue drawers with the AAS printers’ file. Detailing the lives and works of virtually every printer working in America before 1820, the printers’ file is a masterpiece of indexing. Comprising 134 drawers of biographical, printing, and publication history for a vast number of printers before 1820, and 11 drawers for the post-1820 period, the printers’ file represents the perfect merger of detailed research and scholarly vision on the world of early American printing.

printers_file
As I methodically enter Ms. Clarke’s carefully compiled data into a series of spreadsheets that translate her print index into digital format, I imagine that Ms. Clarke’s own curiosity must have been piqued by printers like James Draper Bemis. printers_file_bemis_died Sued for libel by Micah Brooks in 1811, Brooks was one of the earliest surveyors of New York state and would go on to become U.S. Representative in the Fourteenth Congress. Bemis’ own newspapers, the Western Repository (1804-1809), the Ontario Repository (1809-1828), and the Onandaga Register (1814-1817), all at AAS, leave no record of the libel suit. (For further information on the libel suit, click here). Just as mysterious is Bemis’ commitment to the Utica State Hospital in 1848, release in 1849, and re-commitment to the Vermont Asylum for the Insane in 1850, where he died in November of 1857. Clarke never pried into Bemis’ life, yet her cards consistently tug at the curious researcher.

Ms. Clarke had to combine the skills of historian, genealogist, and bibliographer as she created the printers’ file. She never judged or discriminated against the printers: each printer received his own set of cards, in some cases one or two and in others a half-drawer full. Ms. Clarke had to sort through some complex histories of printing families, such as the Adams family. James Adams, patriarch and first printer in Wilmington, DE, was father to John Adams, publisher of the Delaware Courant. James Adams’ firm, James Adams & Sons, comprised James, John, James Jr. and Samuel. Samuel and John published the Delaware and Eastern-Shore Advertiser from 1794-1799, while Samuel and James Jr. printer together in 1786. The whole family printed together from 1788-1789. Sorting through the interwoven histories of family history and newspaper publishing seemed to become one, but only one, of Ms. Clarke’s specialties.

The printers’ file is an AAS treasure, and Ms. Clarke’s excruciatingly detailed work remains an exemplar of AAS cataloging, scholarship, and research. Keep reading PastisPresent for more from Type Findings.

The Acquisitions Table: “U.C., or, How to Keep Sharp in Dull Times”

As we celebrate the holiday season it’s also good to be mindful of those less fortunate than ourselves. 2009 has no monopoly on hard times, as Curator of Books David Whitesell’s account of a recently acquired 1873 pamphlet shows. This very curious little item also carries a mystery in its title, U.C. There is nothing in the pamphlet to suggest what “U.C” stands for. We welcome your suggestions.

Hyde, Walter. U. C., or How to keep sharp in dull times. New York: Yorkville Monitor, 158 86^th Street, 1873.

Stock market crashes and bank failures? Yes, 1873 was a very bad year for the American economy. After serious but unspecified business reversals, Walter Hyde tried to make ends meet as a knife sharpener on New York’s Upper East Side. He also produced this unrecorded example of mendicant literature: a small pamphlet of his verse reflections on the times, with frequent references to sharpening and grinding:

For I have been rich;–

Am now in the ditch,

And trying to keep my poise.

And as I go

I sharpen so,

That the angry hardened steel,

Becomes sharp as wit,

By the flying grit,

And illustrates how I feel.

(Purchased from Ian Brabner at the RBMS Preconference Book Fair, Charlottesville, VA.)

Santa Claus Exposed

AAS’s The Children’s Friend: A New Year’s Present is one of just two known copies of the 1821 pamphlet. Fifteen centimeters tall and eight pages deep, the paper-covered volume stood little chance of survival in the hands of generations of American children. But there was one family fastidious enough for the task, and by chance they would be among AAS’s most important benefactors.

The Salisbury family provided AAS, notably, with two of its presidents, 67 boxes and an additional 100 bound volumes in manuscript materials, and the land for the library’s current home. In 1897 the Society also received the childhood book of one of those presidents, Stephen Salisbury III. Six-year old Stephen received The Children’s Friend in 1841 as a gift from Kitty Lawrence.

What makes this little book so important? Put simply it is believed to be the first American Christmas picture book. But we asked Laura Wasowicz, Curator of Children’s Literature, and Gigi Barnhill, Director of CHAViC for a few more details.

~The publishing location, New York City, is important. The brick chimneys visible as “Old Santeclaus” lands his sleigh indicate an urban environment.

~The pamphlet falls within a set of attempts by well-to-do New Yorkers to domesticize the holiday from a time for rowdy alcohol-infused parties and mob revelry to a safe, family-focused holiday. The Children’s Friend joined efforts by New York Historical Society founder John Pintard and Clement Clarke Moore (author of the poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” first published in 1823).*

~The story offers the first visit by St. Nicholas on Christmas Eve (instead of his Saint’s day December 6th), as well as the first appearance of his reindeer.

~While the “long, black birchen rod” left for parents with naughty sons might seem a harsh ending to modern readers, it was in keeping with the parlance of the day. In a time when a children’s book might conclude with a child burned to death for playing too close to the fire, The Children’s Friend is in fact a gentle cautionary tale.

~The Children’s Friend is considered the first American example of a completely lithographed book. Lithography (the practice of drawing on limestone with waxy crayons to create a master image that absorbed ink) was introduced in the United States in the early 1800s.

~Unlike engraving, lithography did not require the same high level of skill to execute and could make up to 100,000 impressions with one stone. But the technology did require special equipment and a specific type of printing press.
~Barnet and Doolittle, the firm that likely lithographed the pamphlet, was the first commercial lithographic printing shop to be established in the U.S.

~The publishers used lithography as an inexpensive alternative to engraving and avoided the expense of multiple presses by lithographing both illustration and text (you can see that the text looks handwritten).

~The color, added by hand after printing, suggests the pamphlet was expensive to buy.

*Historian Stephen Nissenbaum discusses The Children’s Friend and explores the transition to a family-oriented holiday in The Battle for Christmas (New York, 1996). Nissenbaum did much of his research at AAS as a long-term fellow.