Mother Goose: a Visual Icon and its Changes…

A (Very) Short History of “Mother Goose” in Print

In a recent posting on the Cotsen blog, I talked about how American children’s books publisher McLoughlin Brothers depicted the “traditional” figure of Mother Goose and how the always-innovative McLoughlin didn’t hesitate to change, update, or appropriate this depiction for their own purposes.  In doing so, I talked in very general terms about the “traditional” associations of Mother Goose and the roots that stories connected with her have in folk tales. But no matter how much McLoughlin Brothers may have tried to lay claim to the figure of Mother Goose, they obviously didn’t invent her. What sort of traditional literary (and pictorial) antecedents for Mother Goose are they hearkening back to?

Title Page: "Histoire, or Contes du Temps Passe" (Amsterdam, 1697) Cotsen 25130

Title Page: “Histoire, or Contes du Temps Passe.” Amsterdam, 1697. (Cotsen 25130)

The earliest printed version of “Mother Goose” stories was published in Paris in 1697, as: “Histoires, ou Contes du Temps Passe” (“Histories, or Tales of Times Past”). Apparently, this was a popular book, because three unauthorized editions were published the end of the year, probably in Amsterdam. The title page of these versions (one shown at left) plays it cagey, noting: “Suivant la copie à Paris — “following the Paris copy” — with “à Paris” in large capitals, so a casual book-shopper (or unsuspecting cataloger!)  might not notice that this isn’t actually the Paris first edition.

Frontispiece: "Contes de ma Mere L'Oye" (Cotsen 25130)

Frontispiece: “Contes de ma Mere L’Oye” (Cotsen 25130)

Mother Goose isn’t mentioned on the title page either, but the book’s engraved frontispiece has the inset caption: “Contes de ma Mere L’Oye”: “Tales of Mother Goose” (as you can see at right). The frontispiece depicts a somber, oldish woman, telling tales to three children at night, while she spins in front of a roaring fireplace. (Note the bright candle, the cat happily sitting near the fire, and the appearance of the three children, pictured much like miniature adults, as was generally the practice at this time.)

With the perspective of book history, this figure is recognizable as Mother Goose, but it’s definitely a sterner version than we saw in McLoughlin Brothers’ (much later) books — a not altogether surprisingly one for its era.  Also worth pointing out is that “Contes de ma Mere L’Oye” was not first published as a children’s book, but rather as a literary form of tales popular with the French court.

Some thirty years later, the collection of tales was translated into English by Robert Samber and published as: “Histories, or Tales of Past Times” (1729). Numerous versions for children followed, including at least ten editions by Newbery & Carnan or Benjamin Collins, entitled: “Histories, or, Tales of Past Times, told by Mother Goose.”

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Title page and facing frontispiece of the 10th edition of “Histories,” Histories, or, Tales of past times told by Mother Goose. Collins ed. Salisbury, 1791. (Cotsen 32589)

As you can see from the photo above, Mother Goose is now cited in the title itself: “Tales … told by Mother Goose.” What had previously been suggested visually — that Mother Goose is the teller of the tales — is made explicit on this 1791 title page, which presents her as the nominal author.

And take a look at the woodcut frontispiece facing the title page in this edition. It looks an awful lot like the engraved frontispiece of our faux-Paris edition, doesn’t it?  The English publishers are hearkening back to the earlier French versions by using such a similar illustration.  And the frontispiece here also mentions Mother Goose in its inset caption — “Mother Goose’s Tales” — in a way that reinforces the idea that the teller of tales is Mother Goose herself.  Illustration reiterates text here, as is often the case in children’s books.

“Fairburn’s Description of the Popular and Comic New Pantomime…”

While cataloging new Cotsen Library acquisitions recently,  I came across another, quite different, version of Mother Goose: “Fairburn’s Description of the Popular and Comic New Pantomime, called Harlequin and Mother Goose, or the Golden Egg…” (1806).  The text of this little book within paper wrappers is not a tale itself, but rather a play-text and description of a staged pantomime production, a very popular form of English comedic theater, featuring songs and fairly outrageous slapstick humor.  (These stage productions often adapted familiar tales; “The White Cat,” one of the fairy tales collected by Madame d’Aulnoy, provided the basis for another popular English popular pantomime of this era.)

Fairburn

Fairburn’s Description of the Popular and Comic New Pantomime, called Harlequin and Mother Goose … London: Fairburn, 1806? (Cotsen 30522)

Let’s take a closer look at the frontispiece illustration of Mother Goose.  Quite a different depiction than we saw above in the earlier books’ illustrations, or in the later McLoughlin versions!  The caption below tells us this is: “Mr Simmons in the character of Mother Goose.”  In other words, Mother Goose is portrayed as the man who played her role onstage in this pantomime, an interesting piece of gender and role reversal.

Samuel Simmons was one of the stars of the theater company, as evidenced by the 1807 playbill (shown below) for this production at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, where he receives top billing. (Even though the top of the playbill was cropped off by a prior owner, the name of the company remains quite visible).  Note too, this pantomime was the second half of a “double-feature,” with “The Tempest”!  Such twin-bills were common in theater at the time, usually presenting abridged versions of one or both plays.  In an era before television or the Internet, the plays were indeed the thing in terms of popular entertainment.

playbill

Playbill for Thursday, February 26, 1807 for the Covent Garden Theatre. [Playbill for The Tempest and Harlequin and Mother Goose…]. London, 1807. (Cotsen 7251157)

Another, apparently later, version of “Fairburn’s New Pantomine” in Cotsen’s collection instead pictures the era’s famous clown Joseph Grimaldi on its frontispiece and replaces the title page text, “embellished with a colored frontispiece of Mother Goose” with printed decorative rules. (Both seem to be variations of the undated first edition; two later editions note “2nd” and “3rd” editions, resp.)  Why this variation in what seems to be the first edition, though?  Perhaps for the sake of variety, or to freshen up the item for sale?  After all, the play opened in 1806 and ran for ninety two productions; buyers might not take a second took at an “old” booklet they had seen in the shop for months?  Or perhaps Grimaldi got better reviews?  Perhaps Fairburn decided that Grimaldi was a better sales incentive to a potential buyer of the printed “Descriptions”?  Lacking more evidence from the items themselves or from an external source, I can’t say for certain at this point.  But that’s something to work on a bit more, as is the question of dating Cotsen’s different versions of “Fairburn’s Description” with more certainty.

Printed materials like “Fairburn’s Description” or printed play-texts were meant to appeal both visually and textually to potential buyers, but they were ephemeral sports of publications not necessarily meant to last on the shelves of someone’s library; as such they often lack the basic sort of bibliographical information usually found in books, such as a date of publication.  The same is true of playbooks from Shakespeare’s era, as hard as that may be for us to imagine now — relatively cheap pamphlet-like publications, usually undated.

The correlation between the sales of printed items issued by Fairburn  (or printed playbooks authored by Shakespeare & Co.) and the sale of tickets to attend actual theater performances is a tricky one, as those who study Elizabethan playbooks and plays know all too well.  (Changes on the title-pages or covers of Elizabethan playbooks — aka. “quartos” — sometimes seem to have been made just to prompt sales, not necessarily due to any real changes in the text itself, although usually there were indeed “additions” to the text or a new production staged.)  But I think it’s safe to say that the combination of at least three printed editions of “Fairburn’s New Pantomine” and an opening run of over ninety performances of the play itself attests to noteworthy popularity of this version of “Mother Goose.”

And I hope you’ve seen how the depiction of the figure of Mother Goose changed over time, from the stern, story-telling woman of 1697 to the gender-challenging comic depiction in 1807 to the kindly old grandmother depicted by McLoughlin Brothers in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.  Changes inevitably seem to come to even the most seemingly “traditional” literary or cultural figures, prompted by changing times.  “Traditional” doesn’t necessarily mean fixed, static, or unchanging.

Martin Engelbrecht’s Kleines Bilder-Cabinet: An Early Polyglot School Book, the Gift of Pamela K. Harer

The noted children’s book collector Pamela K. Harer was in friendly competition with Mr. Cotsen from the 1990s, when she was still practicing law in Southern California.  In spite of their rivalry, she gave Cotsen over fifty eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century English, American, and French books, which were described in the “New and Notable” in the Autumn 2000 Princeton University Library Chronicle.  Downsizing for a move to Seattle in 2004 prompted a second gift, this time illustrated nineteenth-century pamphlets, the majority published by the Dean firm.

As a collector of 19th- and 20th-century children’s books, including early Soviet picture books and propaganda aimed at children produced between World Wars, early modern educational books were not a priority for Pamela.  However the first sale of her collection at PBA Auctions on November 6 2014 contained some choice hornbooks, a copy of the Mohawk Primer, and two editions of the Orbis Sensualium Pictus in the first She held back the Thomas Malin Rodgers copy of the Kleines Bilder-Cabinet zu Erlernüng Vier Sprachen (ca. 1740?) consisting of one hundred leaves of engraved plates, each with nine hand-colored images arranged in three rows of three, acquired at Bonham’s in 2012.  Knowing that Mr. Cotsen had slowly built up a cache of early modern books for teaching foreign languages, she thoughtfully presented this polyglot schoolbook to the collection this fall.

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Title page, Kleines Bilder-Cabinet zu Erlernüng Vier Sprachen. Augspurg: Martin Engelbrecht, [ca. 1740?] (Cotsen 21019). Gift of Pamela K. Harer

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Plate 24, Kleines Bilder-Cabinet zu Erlernüng Vier Sprachen (Cotsen 21019)

Martin Engelbrecht (1684-1756) was one of the most important engravers working in the Bavarian city of Augsburg, a major center for print production during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.   He is most famous for his engraved dioramas designed to be displayed as peepshows that are the forerunners of the nineteenth-century toy theater.  There isn’t much evidence in the  standard reference books on 18th century German-language children’s books that he was a major player in the juvenile book market.

Engelbrecht’s Kleines Bilder-Cabinet is a genuinely rare book, as is so often the case with school books. A quick search revealed that it survives in a copy of the forty-seven-leaf 1708 edition in the Berlin Staatsbibliothek and an undated one with ninety leaves in the Koninklijke Bibliotheek in the Hague. Cotsen has an uncolored, undated copy of the one hundred leaves of plates in a somewhat later binding. Someone else is welcome to solve the little mystery I uncovered about it: another important Augsburg engraver, Johann Andreas Pfeffer, issued a book under the same title in 1734 and 1735 with what look like the same plates, but it has only ninety-six. There are copies at the University of Groningen, the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, the Staats- und Stadtbibliothek Augsburg, and the Getty Research Center in Los Angeles.

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The plate on the left is reproduced from the Pfeffer edition of the Kleines Bilder-Cabinet reproduced on p.58 of the exhibition catalog Deutsche Kinderbücher des 18. Jahrhunderts. Wolfenbüttel: Die Bibliothek, 1978, (Cotsen Reference Z1035.3 .D52). It faces the same plate in the uncolored copy of Engelbrecht edition (Cotsen 21019).

Given the interest in educational reform during the early modern period, I was curious how the Kleines Bilder-Cabinet would compare to others from the period, so I lined up some more polyglot school books on my desk.  The Kleines Bilder-Cabinet has been described as a picture dictionary, but that turns out to be something of a misnomer.  Here’s a contemporary example of a picture dictionary, Primitiva Latinae linguae, which was published by Peter Conrad Monath in Nurnberg in the 1730s.  It is quite easy to see that one book is an apple, and the other an orange.

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Title page, Primitiva latinae linguae. Nürnberg: Peter Conrad Monath, [1761] (Cotsen 1088)

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Page 1 and plate 1, Primitiva latinae linguae (Cotsen 1088)

In the Primitiva Latinae linguae, the vocabulary is arranged alphabetically by the Latin word, followed by its German and French equivalents. The words are numbered sequentially, so that it is easy to find the corresponding pictures on the plate opposite.   But there are more words on the page than there are illustrations on the plate.  Quite logically, the words that are unillustrated like “acerbus” and “adulter” are also unnumbered, so the student knows not to go hunting for a picture.   One of the students who owned the book made neat additions to text pages in the right hand and lower margins throughout the book.   So the Kleines Bilder-Cabinet really can’t be considered a pictionary, if only because the content isn’t arranged in alphabetical order. Only the name of the thing is provided, I suppose, because the picture makes a verbal description unnecessary.

And it’s not a direct descendant of Johann Amos Comenius’ Orbis Sensualium Pictus,  where the author gave considerable thought as to how to best visualize a thing, a category, a process, a concept, etc. and then provided a pithy description of the illustration in order to give the reader a clear idea of it. Comenius’ inspired pedagogy is nicely reflected in the section on the bedroom, where he succeeds in demonstrating how the objects’ interrelated functions are determined by their location in a particular space.

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Title page, (London : J. Kirton, 1659.) Orbis sensualium pictus, reproduced from Cotsen Ref LT101.C6 1659a. Orbis sensualium pictus. [Sydney]: Sydney University Press, 1967.

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Pages 148-9, Orbis sensualium pictus (Cotsen Ref LT101.C6 1659a)

And the Kleines Bilder-Cabinet isn’t a hybrid text like J. G. Seybold’s Teutsch-Lateinisches Worterbuchlein (Nurnberg: J. F. Rudiger, 1733), which is part dictionary, part encyclopedia.   Seybold classified some 6000 words into categories and each one is illustrated with a block about the size of a man’s thumbnail.  The page is laid out in six columns, three of images, and three of words, so a lot of information can be packed into a small page.  Even though it can be difficult to make out the thumbnails or read the words,  the page looks legible overall rather than cluttered because of all the white space.

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Title page, Teutsch=Lateinisches Wörterbüchlein zum Nutz und Ergötzung der Schul=Jugend…(Nürnberg): Johannis Friderici Rüdigeri, 1733. (Cotsen 90784)

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Pages 116-7, Teutsch=Lateinisches Wörterbüchlein (Cotsen 90784)

Where Comenius described the ship in a double-page spread illustrated with one block, Seybold offered the reader five pages covered with dozens of blocks showing all the ship’s parts.  The student who used Seybold would certainly acquire a much more extensive nautical vocabulary than he would from the Orbis Pictus, but it would come at the expense of a basic understanding of the interconnection of parts.

The Kleines Bilder-Cabinet represents yet another approach to impressing foreign-language vocabulary on school-boy brains. The model for the book may be a mid-seventeenth-century French work for teaching Latin, with which Engelbrecht might have been familiar: Louis Couvay’s set of plates based on the work of fifteenth century Belgian grammarian Johannes de Spater, Method nouvelle et tres-exacte pour enseigner et apprendre la premiere partie de Despautaire (1649).  Couvay was related to the engraver Jean Couvay, who executed the handsome plates. The volume was subsequently issued under the more pithy and accurate title, Le Despautaire en tables. It seems to have been in circulation until the 1700s, although it has to be said that the surviving copies are not easy to date with much precision.

The family resemblance between the two books isn’t hard to see. Each plate in Couvay is devoted to the particular Latin declension identified in the heading. The picture plane is divided into a grid and each box contains a small picture with a caption. Note that the size and number of the boxes varies considerably from leaf to leaf, as does the quantity and placement of explanatory text.

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Plate 14, Methodus nova et accurata docendi ac ediscendi Primam Despauterii [Paris: Jean Galliard, ca. 1649] (Cotsen 133)

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Plate 17, Methodus nova (Cotsen 133)

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Plate 49, Methodus nova (Cotsen 133)

Engelbrecht did not copy Couvay religiously, however, designing a regular grid of nine boxes all the same size. The plate has a heading for the Latin declension it illustrates, but no text beyond the captions.  Inside each box, the Latin word ought to come first, but perhaps because the book was produced in Germany, the German translation precedes it in large type, and after the Latin comes the French and Italian translations.  It’s hard to know if the change in order was confused or helped students, but it could have been dictated more by marketing than pedagogy.   Books or toys produced in Germany with polyglot texts — the content usually radically simplified to so that captions in three or four languages can be squeezed into a small space — I tend to regard as evidence for plans to distribute in German and abroad on the Continent.

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Plates 29 and 30, Kleines Bilder-Cabinet zu Erlernüng Vier Sprachen (Cotsen 21019). Gift of Pamela K. Harer.

Engelbrecht was not the only engraver who preferred a simpler layout: Nurnberg engraver Christoph Weigel stripped it down even more radically in the Neuer Lust-Weg.  Here the grids have just six boxes and they are large enough to allow for a clear and legible layout of the Latin, German, French, Italian captions within (the German words at the bottom of the boxes are written in Sutterlin script).  All attempt to integrate grammar and visuals has been abandoned and the pictures are arranged on the plates in random order.  While it makes for an undeniably attractive presentation, it is harder to imagine how the teacher used the book during lessons.

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Title page, Neuer Lust-Weg zum ziel nützlicher Künste und Wissenschaften Nürnberg: Christoph Weigel, [179-?] (Cotsen 86)

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Plates 60-1 Neuer Lust-Weg (Cotsen 86)

It struck me that the engraved grids in the Kleines Bilder-Cabinet, Couvay, and the Neuer Lust-Weg  resemble wall charts that have been  part of school room décor since the early nineteenth century. Or at least that is what histories of education that cover the subject tell us.  And I couldn’t help but notice that the Kleines Bilder-Cabinet and the Primitiva latinae linguae  both have frontispieces showing classrooms decorated with floor-to-ceiling grids of pictures. Could illustrations like these be one of the few sources we have for this alternative to wall charts?Somewhere has a school room wall decorated in this manner survived miraculously?

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On the left is the frontispiece for the Kleines Bilder-Cabinet zu Erlernung der Vier Sprachen (Cotsen 21019) and on the right is the frontispiece to the Primitiva latinae linguae (Cotsen 1088)

Should the these books I’ve been comparing in this post be thought of  as  collections of miniature charts that students could have at hand where ever they happened to be working on their lessons?  Of course such books have to have been expensive, but even so, would they have been accessible to more students than those fortunate enough to live where there were dedicated school rooms with painted walls, or walls hung with tables painted on fabric or glazed prints?

This attempt to learn more about Pamela’s gift turned out to be a fascinating exercise:  the descriptions in the Princeton on-line catalogue suggested that they all might be different attempts to further the pedagogy of visible language pioneered by Comenius, but it turns out that there was no consensus as to the best way to integrate the pictures with the text.  Different books offered different solutions to the very real problem of how to impress the thing, the word, and its representation on the student’s memory.

Pamela will not see this post. I’m sorry to have to close this with the sad news that the small world of American collectors of early children’s books was reduced and diminished by her death at age eighty-one in September 2014. Pamela was one of a kind and her sharp mind, engaging curiosity, and high energy will be missed.

Special thanks go to Pamela’s daughter Cynthia Gibbs and Pamela’s beloved husband of sixty-one years, W. Benson Harer MD, a distinguished collector in the field of Egyptology, for donating this splendid book to Cotsen as a final remembrance of Pam.

 Benjamin and Pamela K. Harer

Benson and Pamela Harer