On m’accuse?

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you will know that I am interested in the reception of Anglophone literature abroad, and of foreign literature in the English-speaking world.  One figure in this area who cannot be ignored is Henry Vizetelly (1820–1894), publisher, journalist, and editor, whose defiance of censorship and policy of issuing cheap reprints exerted a considerable influence on British publishing, not least the demise of the three-decker.

henry-vizetelly

Vizetelly published Dostoevsky, Flaubert, Gogol, the Goncourt brothers, Tolstoy and, famously, Zola.  ‘During the period from 1884 to 1889 Vizetelly published translations of seventeen Zola novels and one volume of short stories in various editions, most of them selling for six shillings or less, with a total distribution of more than a million copies.

‘Despite the fact that these works were “softened and chastened” for the English reader, in 1888 they came under attack by the National Vigilance Association.  Vizetelly was charged with publishing obscene libels, particularly Nana, The Soil (La Terre), and Piping Hot! (Pou-Bouille).  When Vizetelly was brought to trial in September, 1888, the Director of Public Prosecution took over the case against him.  After a postponement until October 31, Vizetelly was found guilty, fined, and enjoined from publishing Zola translations.  Nevertheless, claiming to understand that only the specified works were forbidden, Vizetelly continued to publish Zola, and in May 1889, he was tried, convicted, fined, and imprisoned for three months.

Vizetelly

‘Perhaps the most interesting and curious result of the affair is a small volume issued by Henry Vizetelly in 1888 …  Extracts principally from the English Classics …  This eighty-seven-page work begins with an Introduction which quoted Macaulay defending Restoration comic writers; Andrew Lang, Henry James, and Edmondo de Amicis on the seriousness of Zola’s work; and Zola himself on the scope and purpose of the Rougon-Macquart series.  Then follows a selection of passages from Shakespeare [via Beaumont & Fletcher, Jonson, Dryden, Congreve, Defoe, Swift, Fielding, Smollett, Sterne, Byron, Rossetti, etc.] to Swinburne in which reference is made to fornication, whores, and related topics.  Added to the book is a four-page letter, dated September 18, 1888, addressed to Sir A. K. Stephenson, Solicitor to the Treasury, in which Vizetelly protests the intervention of the government in the case against him and asks if the works of the authors from whom he draws his selections are also to be suppressed.  Although an impressive collection of bawdry, the Extracts proved ineffective in Vizetelly’s defense’ (William E. Colburn, ‘The Vizetelly Extracts’, Princeton University Library Chronicle, Vol. XXIII, No. 2 (Winter 1962), p. 54–5).

 

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Among Americans

Later this week, I shall be travelling to Utah and Nevada, en route to the RBMS Preconference in Oakland, which I am again sponsoring this year.  I enjoy the chance to catch up with some of my American customers, and find out about current issues in the rare book library world.  A month or so ago I came across a ‘Visited States Map’, where you can track the number of states you have been to (I don’t fare too badly), and it put me in mind of the following book which came in recently:

Vladimirov-1

It’s the first edition of a book called A Russian among Americans.  My personal impressions as a lathe operator, unskilled labourer, carpenter, and traveller, by Mikhail Vladimirov, published in St Petersburg in 1877.  Vladimirov had grown up in Saratov on the Volga, and became interested in America from reading about it in novels and journal descriptions.  ‘Somewhat sobered by maturing experiences in the Caucasus and St Petersburg, he made the voyage across the Atlantic, arriving at Hoboken in August 1872.  Working his way around the country, Vladimirov would probably see more of the United States than any other Russian visitor of this period.

Vladimirov-2

The map in the book, on which a previous owner has marked Vladimirov’s route in coloured pencil.

‘After the mandatory few weeks with the Russian community in New York [see my earlier post, on Nikolai Slavinsky, writing at a similar date], Vladimirov journeyed south through Savannah to Jacksonville, Florida, where he began his toils in a flour mill, then at a sawmill.  He moved on to Tallahassee early in 1873 to work at a convent and on a farm.  He then jumped from job to job, with the longest stint as a stevedore in Appalachicola and Pensacola, before finally making his way to New Orleans in the summer of 1873.  Affected by the depression that year, he went north to St Louis, shoveled dirt for a tunnel project, and took odd jobs as a carpenter and bricklayer.

Vladimirov-3

The Grand Hotel, San Francisco

‘Taking to the road again, the itinerant Russian tried his luck in Chicago …  By April [1874] he was once more on the move—to San Francisco, through Kansas City and Omaha …  He hopped freight trains through Wyoming, ran completely out of money, and was forced to join a railroad work crew in Utah in order to eat.  By June he had reached California, where he found pleasanter and more lucrative employment as a tutor for children of a Russian-Alaskan family.  Now able to sightsee at leisure, Vladimirov toured the state during the eighteen months he spent there, visiting the Bay Area, Yosemite, the redwood forests, and Fort Ross.

Bridalveil Fall, Yosemite

Bridalveil Fall, Yosemite

‘Vladimirov saved enough money for a train ticket all the way to Boston, via Detroit and Niagara Falls, and for an extended tour of the East Coast—New Haven, New York, Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia [where] he found work as a carpenter on Centennial buildings and stayed on to examine the exposition before departing for home.

Vladimirov-5

‘Vladimirov’s book about his far-flung adventures did not glorify America since his focus was on the underside, the impoverished and depression-afflicted part of society.  Yet he balanced the desperation of unemployment with the variety of jobs available, poor pay with the cheapness of housing, exploitation with the generally good relations between bosses and workers.  Everywhere he found educational opportunities and personal successes as well as dejection and failure.  In conclusion, he did not regret the experience but would not recommend it to others; there was no place like home’ (Norman E. Saul, Concord and Conflict: the United States and Russia, 1867–1914, pp. 223–5).

 

 

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Touring London’s bookshops, in 1807

 

 

‘No one buys more books than booksellers.’  This was the advice given to those setting out in the trade at the inaugural York Antiquarian Book Seminar last year by the American bookseller, Lorne Bair.  Lorne was talking about old books, but I suspect that the same may well hold true for reference books, too.  I enjoy the discoveries I make when cataloguing stock, but I also like to find new secondary literature, to help improve my knowledge in a particular area of book history.  So when I heard about this, I knew I had to get a copy:

Jefcoate

‘German Printers and Booksellers in London: The Form and Impact of the German Role in the English Book Trade, 1680–1811′.  I have long been interested in foreign-language publishing in Britain (I recommend the British Library’s 2002 publication Foreign-Language Printing in London 1500–1900, if you’d like to find out more for yourself), and Graham’s new book is worth reading (though you’ll need to know German; there’s no English-language version).  It was also the book to which I immediately turned when the following came in:

London

This is a very rare account of early nineteenth-century London by an anonymous German ‘honest observer’, who (according to the preface, at least) had been sent with despatches to the Court of St James following the Prussian defeat at Auerstedt (14 October 1806).  His remarks touch on contemporary English life and manners, often contrasting with France and/or Germany, with a particular focus on books and literature.  He notes that French, Italian, and even German, are read much more widely than twenty years before, and there are a larger number of foreign-language booksellers to cater for this: the ‘little Swiss’ Joseph Deboffe, a specialist for French books and now ‘a very rich man’; Dulau & Co. (‘a very large premises … in Soho Square’); De Conchy (‘an enormous number of French books, plus Italian and Spanish’); as well as English booksellers with links to Paris presses: Earle, Payne & Mackinlay, Boosey, Escher, Bohn, and Clerk, ‘and all the booksellers we call Antiquarios in north Germany.  All of them had a large number of Didot stereotypes on three kinds of paper, and at very reasonable prices’.

Jefcoate makes no mention of Weise, and I can find no book published by him in either COPAC, or the British Book Trade Index, perhaps suggesting that ‘London’ is here a fictitious imprint.

 

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A Great Flood for the millionaires?

Waag

This graphic illustration comes from the cover of a book called Der Untergang des Titanic am 14. April 1912.  Eine Darstellung aller beim Untergang des Titanic historisch wertvollen Momente, a very early book on the Titanic disaster, and certainly one of the earliest German, which was published in Lorch, a small town just west of Schwäbisch Gmünd, in 1912.

The author, Bernhard Waag, draws together information from a variety of sources to create his book, which shows how early some of the superstitions and myths surrounding the tragedy were in circulation.  He cites Morgan Robertson’s strangely prophetic novella Futility, or the Wreck of the Titan (1898), the rumour of the cursed Hope Diamond, and sailors’ superstitions, before detailing facts and figures about the ship, and much information about icebergs, then the collision itself, and the aftermath (reports from London, Southampton, New York).  The whole is presented in short, journalistic bursts, with headlines in larger type.

On the copy I have here, a previous owner has written the following in pencil at the head of the front cover: ‘Eine neue Strafe Gottes(?)  Die Sintflut der Millionäre’ (‘A new punishment from God(?)  A Great Flood for the millionaires’).

As one might expect, the book is rare.  It was not picked up by Eugene Rasor for his The Titanic … annotated bibliography (2001), and is not listed as being held by any library outside Germany.

 

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Capital Fun

In my last post before the London International Antiquarian Book Fair next week, I want to share a rather delightful Victorian children’s game, which using rebuses (see my earlier post for something similar from the eighteenth century) and fractions to help teach the cities of the world:

Capital Fun 3

The cards are grouped in pairs: one is headed ‘Capital of x’, with a rebus beneath to help the child work out the answer.  For example, the clues for ‘Capital of England’ are: ‘Two thirds of a [picture of a LOG]’, ‘Half an [picture of a HAND]’, ‘Two Fifths of an [picture of an ONION]’.  The ‘Capital of America’ is ‘Four Elevenths of a [picture of a WASHERWOMAN]’, ‘Three Fourths of a [picture of a RING]’, ‘Half a [picture of a TONGUE]’.  The card with the correct answer is then placed below to form a completed picture illustrative of the city.

The cities featured are: London, Dublin, Paris, Berlin, Dresden, Vienna, Rome, Madrid, Lisbon, Bergen, Warsaw, Moscow, Washington, Quebec, Cairo, Teheran, Suez, Calcutta, Kandy (Sri Lanka), Pekin, Edo (Japan), and Ava (Burma), and the whole is preserved in its original box:

Capital Fun 2

We all look forward to some ‘capital fun’ at Olympia next week!

 

 

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The King was an hors d’œuvre

As regular readers of this blog will know, something I particularly like is cross-cultural material.  So this was a nice find:

French Constitution

This is the first edition in English of the French Constitution of 1791, the first written constitution in France (based on the American model), and reluctantly accepted by Louis XVI.  It’s a very rare book.

The translator, the young Scottish political writer Thomas Christie (1761–1796), had spent six months in Paris in 1790.  ‘There he met, among others, Mirabeau, Sieyès, and Necker, and returned to England as an enthusiastic supporter of the principles of the revolution.  He published A Sketch of the New Constitution of France, and in the following year, 1791, joined the attack on Burke with his Letters on the Revolution in France and the New Constitution …  He returned to Paris in 1792, and was employed by the national assembly on the English part of their proposed polyglot edition of the constitution.  Only the English and Italian sections had appeared by the time that the assembly made way for the convention, and the republic took the place of the monarchy’ (Oxford DNB).  As Etienne Dumont remarked of the Constitution: ‘il y avait trop de république pour une monarchie, et trop de monarchie pour une république.  Le roi était un hors-d’œuvre: il était partout en apparence; mais il n’avait aucun pouvoir réel.’

 

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A 17-foot timeline

It’s May, and I’ve started cataloguing recently-acquired material in preparation for the London International Antiquarian Book Fair at the end of the month.  I’m not sure how this will fit on the stand, but…

We're going to need a longer tape measure...

We’re going to need a longer tape measure…

This large, folding chromolithograph (it’s over 6.5m long) is Adams’ Illustrated Panorama of History (London & Paris, A. H. Walker, 1878).  First published in 1871 under the title Synchronological Chart by the Oregon pioneer minister Sebastian C. Adams, and in various later editions under different titles, this was, for a timeline chart, ‘nineteenth-century America’s surpassing achievement in complexity and synthetic power.  Adams, who lived all of his early life at the very edge of U.S. territory, was a schoolteacher and one of the founders of the first Bible college in Oregon.  Born in Ohio in 1825 and educated in the early 1840s at the brand-new Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois, at the heart of the American abolitionist movement, Adams was a voracious reader, a broad thinker, and an inveterate improver.  The Synchronological Chart is a great work of outsider thinking and a template for autodidact study; it attempts to rise above the station of a mere historical summary and to draw a picture of history rich enough to serve as a textbook in itself.

Adams 1

‘Adams’ Synchronological Chart was big—seventeen feet long and more than two feet tall—but it was also visually richer than its contemporaries.  Though he conceived it in far-away Salem, Oregon, Adams traveled east to have his chart made by the virtuoso Cincinnati lithographers Strobridge & Co., a firm that produced precision maps, details engravings of Civil War scenes, travelogues, and colorful advertisements for commercial clients including theaters and circuses.  In its final form, Adams’ chart embodied characteristics of all of these: it was huge and detailed, packed with information, and a riot of color …

Adams 2

‘Adams initially produced the chart independently by selling subscriptions and investing his own money.  But after the 1871 edition, his work was picked up by printers in different American cities and then in England as well.  Indeed, it is still available in colourful facsimile today’ (Daniel Rosenberg & Anthony Grafton, Cartographies of Time, pp. 172–3).

Adams 3

Adams 4

Adams 5

 

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Sherwood the Faithful

Back in December 2013, I wrote about the ill-fated Decembrist Revolt.  What I hadn’t realised at the time was that the plot to stage the coup was uncovered by an Englishman, one John Sherwood (1798–1867).

Sherwood

He was born in Greenwich, but left England as a child to go to Russia with his father, a mechanic who served as foreman at the Alexandrovsky cotton mill in St Petersburg.  The young Sherwood ‘seems to have had a good education, learning French, German and Latin, as well as English.  On leaving school he was employed as a teacher of English in a general’s household.  Unfortunately, he fell for one of his pupils, eloped with her, but on being caught up with, the young couple were parted, she to a convent, he to the army.  Eventually he was promoted to Lieutenant, and served among other places at Kherson, in the deep south, where one day he chanced to overhear some superior officers engaged in deep conversation.  It turned out to be a plot to assassinate the Emperor, which eventually culminated in the Decembrists’ Revolt of 1825.  Sherwood, being anxious to please the Emperor, wrote him a letter, which he entrusted to the Imperial physician, Sir James Wylie.  From the on, he was allowed a bodyguard, and asked the Emperor’s permission to join the Masonic lodge where several of the conspirators were active.  Eventually, the officers were detected and punished.  Sherwood was promoted to Captain, and decorated.  He and his father were awarded a pension for life, Ivan Vassilievich (John son of William) was given a coat of arms with the Imperial eagle in the centre, and became known as Sherwood-Verni (faithful).  Nicholas I thought it might be risky for Sherwood to remain in Russia, and suggested he should retire and settle in England.  But the Faithful one preferred to remain where he was, and his bonus was that his wife was restored to him’ (Michael Skinner, What we did for the Russians, p. 61).

I discovered all this when researching the following, the decree from June 1826 which rewarded Sherwood for his part in uncovering the conspiracy by naming him ‘Sherwood the Faithful':

Sherwood

 

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The Human Slaughter-House

‘We’re only charging machines.  And the machine triumphs into our flesh.  And the machine drinks the blood from our veins, guzzling it by the bucketload.’  These lines come from the extraordinary novella Das Menschenschlachthaus by Wilhelm Lamszus (1881–1965), which I read recently.

Lamszus 2

I’ll admit I’d never heard of it until I saw it among the items in the DHM’s First World War exhibition.  Published in 1912, it uncannily predicts the mechanised nature of war which was to come.  Though perhaps forgotten now, over a century later, at the time it sold 100,000 copies in three months, was translated into eight different languages, and was then banned in Germany in 1915.  The dust-jacket for the first American edition (New York, 1913) sums it up for us:

Lamszus 1

 

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A theatrical retirement

Kemble

Kemble as Hamlet, 1802

 

When the great Shakespearean actor, John Philip Kemble (1757–1823), retired from the stage in 1817, aged 60, he was showered with gifts and accolades, and dinners were given in his honour.  His farewell performance as Coriolanus had been met with a rapturous standing ovation; The Morning Post reported ‘the repeated shouts of cheering from all parts of the house were ardent and ecstatic beyond anything of its kind perhaps ever witnessed’.

His retirement banquet, held at the Freemasons Tavern on Great Queen Street, on Friday 27 June 1817, was ‘a singular honour, even Garrick had nothing comparable’ (Kelly, The Kemble Era, p. 201).  Lord Holland and the Duke of Bedford presided over the event, which was very well attended by over three hundred guests ‘drawn from the highest reaches of rank and talent’.

Kemble

‘The evening went off swimmingly.  A silver medal presented to Kemble bore on one side a classically austere profile of the actor, on the other the legend, “Thou last of all the Romans fare thee well.”  Speeches and toasts flowed together.  An ode which Thomas Campbell had written for the occasion was vastly admired …  [The French actor François-Joseph] Talma, who praised his illustrious colleague “in a clear and powerful voice, with great boldness of utterance, and much vehemence of action,” was impressed no end by the proceedings.  Back home he wrote an account of the evening and of “le premier acteur du théâtre anglais, aussi justement chéri pour son noble caractère que pour ses rares talents.”  Kemble’s farewell, everyone agreed, was a splendid one’ (Baker, John Philip Kemble, p. 341).

 

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