Category Archives: Objects

If it’s Almost Microscopic, is it a (Real) Book? “Le Bijou des enfans pour l’année 1817”

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Can you judge a book by its cover? Cover of: Bijou des enfans pour l’année 1817. Paris, [1816?]) at 28 mm tall. (Cotsen 46176)

You can’t judge a books by its cover, the old saying goes. That’s true enough, for the most part. The body of the binding isn’t necessarily a window onto the soul of the printed text within.  The early quarto publications of Shakespeare’s plays were offered for sale in unbound sheets, or sometimes in plain paper wrappers when first published. The simple green wrappers of the first edition of James’ Joyce’s Ulysses (with just author and title simply printed on the upper wrapper) provide no hint of the revolutionary narrative lurking inside. The unimpressive, and well-handled, covers of George Bickham’s 1750 Pretty-Book give no sign that the book is now a unique surviving copy. (You can’t get much more “rare” than that!).

There are some exceptions to this truism, of course.  Some book covers do signal the content inside: children’s books with bright (loud?) chromolithographed wrappers or covers, artists’ books with complex cover designs or engineered paper, or medieval “treasure bindings,” such as the gold, silver, and gem-encrusted “Magnificent Gems” on exhibit recently at the Morgan Library & Museum.

Bespoke morocco bindings of the book? Or is it “just” the box?

The idea of judging a book by its cover — and being surprised by it — was certainly brought home to me recently while working with the Cotsen Library’s copy of Le bijou des enfans pour l’anée 1817 (Paris: Chez Janet, [1816?]).  The cover, or so I thought, at first looked like a nice, bespoke maroon morocco binding for a nineteenth-century book, apparently in a protective sleeve.  Take a look for yourself!  But then as I (gently) pulled the “book” out, I realized it wasn’t really the cover of a book at all, but rather part of a protective box of some kind.  The plot thickened…

Opening up the clamshell box, a real surprise awaited me.  Inside was a tiny book — one of the smallest I’ve ever seen (at 28 mm., barely more than 1 inch)– and also a magnifying glass, an artifactual magnifying glass,to boot, which appeared to be roughly contemporary with the book, which is bound in crimson roan — probably a publisher’s binding (and definitely cheaper than the later bespoke morocco binding of the case).  I felt a little like Alice, after swallowing the “drink me” shrinking potion in Wonderland.  Where would this end?  Curiousier and curiousier, for certain.

A glimpse inside the box… Extreme miniature book, magnifying glass, bookplate, and hand-painted paper…

The tiny book and magnifier both lay within perfectly-fitted, red velvet-lined cut-out indentations inside the box.  (Note the gilt turn-ins around the box’s inner edges too.)  The box was lined with quite beautiful, hand-painted, floral-patterned paper — quite a work of art in itself. And then there was the hand-colored, engraved pictorial bookplate, depicting a seated young tutor and his charge, who seems more interested in his drum and hobby-horse than whatever might be inside the book that his tutor is holding!

Kurt Szafranski’s bookplate, depicting tutor and less-than-diligent pupil…

The bookplate belonged to Kurt Szafranski, an early twentieth-century book collector of some note, whose collection was purchased en bloc from his daughter in the late 1990s.  The German text on the bookplate — “aus der kinderbuch sammlung von” — translates as “from the children’s book collection of” Szafranski.

But what about the tiny book itself? OK, I’m getting to that now…  It’s a little hard to know where to start with this mini marvel, as I hope you can appreciate!  This is where the magnifier came into play — perhaps it was sold with the book? — and eventually, a more powerful, new-fangled one, better suited to tired eyes.

The book’s title page provides just the basic bibliographic facts, ma’am.

The Bijou’s title page “under glass”… No books were harmed in the making of this photo!

Pour les demoiselles…

Pour les garçons…

Title (including date), imprint, and address of Pierre-Étienne Janet, the book’s issuer, a Paris bookseller active from about 1791 to 1830. No illustration, publisher’s ornament or device, nor engraved frontispiece on the facing page. The date is part of the title, though, not the date of publication, and we’ve dated this book as [1816?], since almanacs were typically issued late the year before, just in time for Christmas or holiday giving (much like gilt-stamped leather pocket date-books were in the olden times before Palms, PDAs, and cell-phones rendered these.leather-and-paper objects somewhat obsolete to many).

These little almanacs tended to follow a similar general format in their contents: a monthly calendar noting holidays, religious events, and other dates of note, poetry, some sorts of mottoes, quotations, or sayings to inspire thought, and illustrations (often nicely executed).

Cotsen’s Bijou des enfans indeed follows that model, beginning with emblem-like illustrations facing little poems, followed by short rhyming couplets about love and romance for both boys garçons and young ladies (“devises pour les garçons” / “devises pour les demoiselles), a table of these “devises”, and the calendar pages.

December pages from the calendar section of Le bijou

According to the Grolier Club’s Miniature Books (the wonderful catalog accompanying their 2007 miniature book exhibition), these “bijou” (jewel) almanacs were especially popular in Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with the small “almanachs minuscules” (tiny almanacs) being especially popular among fashionable young ladies during the 1740-1850 period, when they were issued in two different sizes: a “larger” size of up to 3 1/4 inches tall (80 mm.), and a smaller size of “less than an inch” in height, numbering sixty-four pages in length, “entirely engraved from metal plates,” and featuring illustrated love songs or poems; Cotsen’s Bijou des enfans seems to fit the latter description to a “T”.  The Grolier’s Miniature Books catalog adds that these smaller leather-bound almanacs were “given out at the New Year to favored patrons of Parisian chocolate shops”!  I wonder if these special bijoux publications came with tiny sweets too?  That’s certainly a notion that would have appealed to children!

Hey buddy, Can you spare a dime? The cover of the Bijou (at 28 mm), with FDR included for scale

At less than an inch in height, the tiny size of these smaller almanachs minuscules places them at distinctly the smaller end of the spectrum of miniature books, which are technically 100 mm in size or smaller (i.e. less than 4 inches inches).  Compare the size of Cotsen’s 28 mm copy of the Bijou des enfans to the dime in the photograph and imagine just how small that really is. By way of comparison, Cotsen’s copies of the individual volumes in John Marshall’s Doll’s Library, a miniature library set (dated [1800?]), are 50 mm tall; Francis Newbery’s 1772 Pocket Bible for Little Masters and Misses is 84 mm tall; and each of the five volumes in Marshall’s miniature library set, A Concise Abridgement of Natural History … for the Juvenile, or, Child’s Library, are 98 mm tall.

Imagine handling, reading, and simply turning the pages a much tinier 28 mm book — it takes some dexterity.  And while children have smaller hands than grown-ups and are also more dexterous with tiny objects, think of how roughly they can handle books and toys, even in the case of older children, at whom the Bijou des enfans seems to be aimed.  One can readily imagine lost pages, torn up books, or books lost altogether.  Perhaps that’s why Cotsen’s copy is one of only a very small handful of copies of a Bijou des enfans from the years 1816 or 1817 that seemed to turn up on (admittedly very) quick searches of OCLC and the French Bibliothèque nationale.  Almost microscopic and rare!

The Bijou des enfans (box) on the shelf (third from left) with some of its mates… The next time you see a book on the shelf, as yourself: “Can you really judge a book by its cover?”

 

Novel Interactive Books for Kids: McLoughlin’s Sing-a-Song Playerbook

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Sing-A-Song Player Book. McLoughlin Bros., Springfield, Mass., c. 1938. (Cotsen 7158175)

“Interactivity” is one of the bywords of new media and contemporary books of all sorts. It’s hard to read a book review or an article about books or publishing these days without finding some reference to interactivity or mention of an interactive, online adjunct to a printed book. A quick Google search for “interactive books” turns up a whopping 158 million results! Included in the list are: Android apps, iPad items, and yes, even some now relatively”old-format” computer-based books, as well as interactive versions of novels, plays, and poems.

Children’s books are a particularly fertile area for interactivity too. A slightly refined Google search for “interactive books for kids” returns over 56 million items. But interactive books for children are hardly a new idea, or even a fundamentally technology-based phenomenon. From the early days of publications intended for children, interactive aspects have been common. Books with volvelles, flap-books, “magic transformation” books, pop-up books, and various drawing and coloring books were seen by publishers as both appealing and educational offerings for child readers (and their book-buying parents).

Foreword to Sing-a-Song Playerbook with instructions and list of songs below. (Cotsen 7158175)

McLoughlin Brothers, a pioneering publisher of children’s books, games, educational toys, and novelties was finely attuned to the market — and to helping create a market via extensive and persuasive advertising. Thus, it’s hardly surprising to find a wide variety of their interactive items for children in the Cotsen collection; pop-up books, panoramas, books that open up to create a zoo or circus toy, as well as many instances of drawing and coloring books abound.

An unusual example of a McLoughlin item that spans the genres of books and toys is the 1938 Sing-a-Song Playerbook. It has the appearance of a book and has some reading matter and music, but it actually functions as a musical toy. The cover displays some characteristic features of McLoughlin books of the time: bright colors in a visually arresting style, color-printed illustrations, and, of course, a depiction of children having fun. Children have always liked seeing and reading about other children; grown-ups, while they have their roles in children’s literature, are just too boring on their own!

Detail of xylophone and playing mallet (Note the numbers on the individual xylophone bars, which correspond to notes on the simplified musical scores shown below). (Cotsen 7158175)

But this spiral-bound item — for which McLoughlin sought a patent — is more than a book. Take a look at the small xylophone that’s visible though the cover. It comes complete with its own small wooden mallet for playing, which still remains with the book — a survival that’s somewhat amazing some eighty years after publication.

The interior pages of the book feature bright process-printed  illustrations of children (generally presented in characteristic 1930s clothing), facing pages with a song and a simplified musical score, which a child could play on the xylophone in a “play-by-number” manner — and perhaps sing along to, since all the songs have lyrics. Instructions on the Table of Contents page (shown above) instruct a child how to use the book. But McLoughlin’s accompanying Forward section disclaims the “teaching of technical music.” The goal of the book is instead to “provide an interesting medium” for the “sheer joy of doing.”  “Delight” is usually the dominant aspect of the firm’s “Teach and Delight motto in their publications for children.

A variety of traditionally popular children’s songs are featured in the Sing-a-Song Playerbook, from “Jack & Jill” to “London Bridges Falling Down” to “Jingle Bells,” all accompanied by illustrations providing a window (however idealized) onto how children looked and how childhood was depicted in the late 1930s.  It’s a world where boys wore short pants and girls wore skirts or jumpers (and when “men wore hats,” as John Cheever once noted.)

“Jack & Jill” with children clothed in period 1930s attire. (Cotsen 7158175)

Playing “London Bridge is Falling Down” on an idyllic summer day. (Cotsen 7158175)

“Jingle Bells” and a nostalgic depiction of Christmas fun. (Cotsen 7158175)

McLoughlin Brothers thought the Sing-a-Song Playerbook sufficiently novel to feature it in an advertising flyer for booksellers: “McLoughlin Brothers Money Makers, 1938,” which touts the Playerbook as: “Unique! Entertaining! Low Priced! Appealing! Handsome! A Sure Fire Hit!” All music to a retailer’s ears. Note that the firm’s Zoo Book-Toy is also highlighted as “the book that becomes a toy!” — another variation of the interactive book format.

“McLoughlin Money Makers, Fall 1938.” Springfield Mass.: McLoughlin Bros. Inc., [1938]. (Cotsen 97060)

And the Sing-a-Song Playerbook did indeed seem to have been a hit. A later McLoughlin retail flyer (presumably from 1939) advertises a sequel, The Second Sing-a-Song Playerbook, and notes that the original sold over 400,000 copies in nine months, a staggering sales volume for a children’s novelty item in 1938, especially one priced at $1.25 in a time when many McLoughlin books sold for a quarter!  And take a look at McLoughlin’s PR-speak: ” musical notes play a profit tune,” “more a gift than just a book could be,” “appeals to children from six to sixty.” (Hmmm…)

“Second Sing-A-Song Player Book” advertising flyer. [Springfield Massachusetts: McLoughlin Bros. Inc., 1939]. (Cotsen 96882)

The Sing-a-Song Playerbook and McLoughlin’s marketing materials for it combine to provide a window onto childhood at the time, the marketing of children’s books, and what was new and exciting in terms of interactive material for children. But by themselves, the book or advertising materials tell only part of the story. It’s only by looking at them together that we can really see how publishing and marketing were combined by the premier American publisher of children’s books of the era. Providing context for the books and how they were presented to the public is one of the real values of publisher’s advertisement and publisher’s catalogs, which, as ephemera, often weren’t saved and reused in the way children’s books themselves were.  Cotsen Library has one of the largest collections of McLoughlin Brothers publisher’s catalogs and advertising flyers, which are the subject of a an ongoing digital project now.  Stay tuned for more on that in a subsequent blog posting…

To see some glorious French interactive books, see the on-line exhibition on Pere Castor