Young characters in eighteenth-century children’s books have a reputation for being preternaturally well-behaved goody-goodies. That stereotype probably contains some truth, but we don’t have to dig very hard to find contemporary writers besides Jane Austen who showed that not all adults were natural managers of children and households. Descriptions of parents in over their heads turn up in magazine essays and I ran across one in the July 1799 European Magazine. “The Wanderer” number 15 was supposedly contributed by a cranky bachelor, but is actually the work of Joseph Mosher (1748-1819), one of the magazine’s regular writers. It’s a fascinating mash-up of half-examined gender expectations, details about the material culture of childhood, and stereotypes about “savages” that were thought comical then.
Before telling about his dinner at the home of his boyhood friend Frank Homely, “Solus” the bachelor gives the backstory. Years before he and Frank both fancied Rachel Barnaby, a farmer’s daughter, but Frank won her heart in just two months. Luckily Solus never revealed his passion and left England almost immediately after his disappointment for fourteen years. Shortly after his return, Frank sent him an invitation to visit his lovely wife and their little family of seven sons and seven daughters. Solus anticipates the pleasure of being entertained by an affectionate, rational couple who preside over an elegant establishment where the children are seen and heard when only when admitted to the company.
I repaired to Mr. Homely’s house, and was shewn into his study, which, instead of being furnished with books and maps, was strewed round with go-carts, dolls, whistles, penny trumpets, and “cheap publications.” 
I thought this rather strange furniture for a library….Scarce had I made this reflection, when my ears were alarmed with a tremendous sound, which, ascending the stair-case, and bursting open the study door, exhibited four of my friend’s sons and six of his daughters, shouting like wild Americans, with their arms strongly fastened with cords, and urged forward by another of the hopeful race, who brandished a whip over his head;…this gentle pastime, it seems, they called “playing at horses.” The infant banditti had paced round the room, and thrown down three chairs in their progress, when the second horse in the team fell down, and was dragged by his playful associates along the floor, in spite of his angry cries and remonstrances.
The floor sounds as if it were ankle-deep in inexpensive toys, the baby walkers (i.e. go-carts), and chapbooks (i.e. “cheap publications”), giving the impression that children took over their father’s library long before. 
If any further proof were necessary, eleven of the children burst in, as noisy as “savages” ( as Native Americans were then erroneously considered), pretending to be a team of horses drawing a carriage. It sounds as if the coachman was applying his whip to his siblings’ backs to make them go faster around the room. Their lack of respect for property provokes Solus to compare them as well to a lawless band of robbers (i.e. “infant banditti). Of course, their play ends in tears and roars.
It required all the authority of their father to quell this hideous din, who shortly made his appearance; and notwithstanding the increased wrinkles on his brow, welcomed me with a cordial shake of the hand, and led me upstairs to the drawing room, to introduce me his wife. The drawing room had discarded all superfluous ornaments, and boasted a negligence and plainness that Diogenes might not have been ashamed of. 
In one corner two mischievous urchins had torn open a new pack of cards, and were building houses with them. In another stood a cradle and cawdle cup; while rush-bottomed chairs, backboards, steel collars and stocks, usurped the place of candlelabrums, silk hangings, and mirrors.
A drawing room is supposed to be a handsome space where adults socialize, but at the Homelys it has been childproofed (i.e. emptied of furniture and objects needing protection from clumsy, careless, high-spirited members of the family) and is instead full of more the children’s things that belong more properly in the nursery. Equipment for improving posture like backboards, steel collars and stocks indicates parental aspirations that their children to carry themselves with fashionable grace. Could their resting place on the floor betray the little victims as having taken the first opportunity to throw off the wretchedly uncomfortable things.?
On my entrance, Mrs. Homely shook two children from her lap, and one from her shoulder, and arose to welcome me; exhibiting to my astonished view the once slender Rachel converted into a broad clumsy dame, with all the marks of premature old age. After the usual ceremonies I took my seat, and now my torments commenced. One child fastened my button with packthread to the back of the chair; another pierce the calf of my leg with a black pin; while a third insisted upon mounting behind me, and swinging by my pig tail. I bore these tortures with the firmness of an American captive, hoping that the call to dinner would put an end to my sufferings.
Solus’ observations here must test many modern readers’ notions. While it is natural to be taken aback when seeing an old acquaintance changed almost beyond recognition, Solus’ description of Rachel’s body after bearing so many children seems ungentlemanly and unkind. Comparing himself to a hostage tortured by Native American captors is now inappropriate, even if the Homely’s children were misbehaving. Certainly, they ought to be have been stopped by one of their parents.
But my expectations were vain… though I confess my sufferings were alleviated by observing that the rest of the company came in for their share. Mrs. Homely sat at the head of the table with a rickety child on her knee, and insisted, like an indulgent mother that she was, that none of her numerous brood should seat themselves at the board, which caused all the dine and disturbance that I expected. Two butter-boats were overset on the satin breeches of Mr. Deputy Maroon; the immaculate muslin of Miss Bridle was fated to receive the contents of a wine glass; and, to complete the calamity, a fine leg of pork was entirely flayed, that the children might devour the skin, under the significant name of crackling. My friend, not quite reconciled to matrimonial trammels, seemed rather disturbed at this scene of folly and confusion; but his help-mate, who had long buried politeness, and even decency, in the vortex of one instinctive passion, love for her offspring, was delighted with the bustle, and “would not have the poor things snubbed for the world.” She looked round upon her distorted brood with exultation, even priding herself upon their defects, and appeared to think that she had obtained a dispensation from rule and reason from the sole circumstances of having favoured the world with fourteen children.
After surviving a meal so disorderly, Solus was entitled to be exasperated and disappointed. And yet it seems incredible he would cast Mr. Homely as the victim of his wife’s failure as a mother. The figure of overly fond mother who does not restrain her children’s unmannerly and self-destructive behaviors goes back in English literature at least to the seventeenth century and usually the father is not considered an equally guilty party to the spoiling of the children. When the wife’s parenting makes life miserable for everyone in the house as well as anyone who visits them and the father does nothing to correct the course, then he has failed his children as much as she has.
Although Mosher’s essay contains distasteful stereotypes, he also points the finger at some very familiar shortcomings parents can fall into when outnumbered by their offspring and overwhelmed by their energy. Gentle readers of this blog may have experienced something like dinner at the Homelys while trying to enjoy a quiet meal in a nice restaurant or catch up with friends in their apartment on a night no babysitter was available. Perhaps they know someone who has been provoked to write to an agony aunts for advice about how to alleviate the miseries of such social situations.
Simon Lawrence, the proprietor of the Fleece Press in Upper Denby near Wakefield (above), is the descendant of Victorian block makers.
For over forty years, Mr. Lawrence has been printing handsome limited edition books by and about wood engravers with wood engraved illustrations. Mr. Lawrence is not only master printer of illustrations from antique wood blocks, but a discriminating collector of them as well. While searching E-Bay in 2010 he came across some very intriguing descriptions and contacted the consigner to see if there were more where they came from. It turned out that the then owner, a house clearance dealer, had discovered a cache of nearly 650 printing blocks in a house in Kingsbridge, Devon, but didn’t know anything beyond that about the blocks’ provenance. His plan was to sell them piecemeal. Rather than have the group dispersed and destroying its research potential, Lawrence decided to purchase the entire lot from the dealer.
What must have looked like a very risky proposition at the time has proven to be well worth it because the majority of the blocks were made to illustrate eighteenth-century children’s books. And not just any children’s books, but those of John Newbery, the most important publisher for children of the 1700s, his step-son Thomas Carnan, a notable children’s book publisher in his own right, and Carnan’s successor Philip Norbury in Brentford near London. There are also forty copper printing plates from the Norburys. The box below contains the block illustrating the first stanza of the accumulative nursery rhyme “This is the House that Jack Built, which can be easily picked out because the image has been dusted with chalk. No earlier set of illustrations are known and they appeared in John Newbery’s Nurse Truelove’s New-Year’s-Gift (1750). The survival of so many wood blocks made for this particular publishing house is truly miraculous, and scholars will thank Simon Lawrence for recognizing their value.
The blocks and some forty copper plates has been acquired by the Cotsen Children’s Library, as a very welcome addition to its superb collection of juveniles published by the three generations of Newberys. The four blocks below illustrate four lots knocked down at Charly Chatter’s Lilliputian Auction (1773): Friar Bacon’s brazen head which could see into the future, a bottle, a book, and a mirror, each with magical properties. Of course, the forthcoming descriptive catalogue of the Newbery collection will illustrate samples of the blocks. As soon as the collection has been unpacked and rehoused, the individual blocks will be scanned so that work can begin on an on-line searchable database so that the blocks and the images they bear will be widely available to researchers.
