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.

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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.

Bad Boys: A Very Short History

Boys being boys… Another episode in the ongoing rivalry between Horrid Henry and Peter Perfect

During the Big Move–shifting miles of rare materials into RBSC’s cavernous new vault whose completion was celebrated in the previous post, “Moving Day in Feather Town“–I discovered three really awful nineteenth-century books about bad boys.  In contemporary children’s books, characters whose halos have slipped down around their shoulders are not exactly  underrepresented…   Think of Francesca Simon’s Horrid Henry, whose antics have given rise to a multi-media empire.  Bad boys are by no means non-existent in older children’s books, but the way boyish misbehavior was punished has changed dramatically as attitudes towards authority, curiosity, mischief, and mistakes have become more lenient.

Two well-known stories about bad boys display zero tolerance for boys like Horrid Henry who disrespected authority.   In Kings 2:22-3 of the Old Testament, the prophet Elisha passes a pack of young louts on the road to Bethel.   These ancestors of the Purple Gang yell at Elisha, “Go up, you old baldy” and  Elisha retaliates by cursing them.  Two female bears come out of the woods and maul forty-two of the no-goods.

Oh dear…

 

Undoubtedly this gruesome story was the inspiration for many cautionary tales about bad boys.   Daniel Fenning’s best-selling school book, The Universal Spelling Book (1756) was the source of this famous one about the brothers Tommy and Harry, which Charles Dickens alluded to in David Copperfield.   Harry the elder brother was a rotter and Tommy the younger was a Peter Perfect.  Guess which brother was eaten by lions?

Woodcut, page 43, Cotsen 118 (19th edition, 1773)

Woodcut of the lion lunching on Harry on page 43 of the 19th edition of Fenning’s Universal Speller (1773). The Universal Spelling-book. [Providence]: re-printed and sold by John Carter, [1773] (Cotsen 118)

By the nineteenth century bad boys are all over picture books, but  they usually make mischief in a series of illustrations rather than starring in a continuous narrative.  All three of the books I found during the Big Move–one French, one British, and one German–fall into the second category.  In Les Proverbes de Pierre (1890), illustrator Jean Geoffrey dresses up his little devils in Pierrot costumes and sets them loose in the classroom and in the street.  Notice that it takes a young peep show operator (the one with what looks like a little tower strapped on his back) and the boy-gendarme to break up the squabble below.    The second picture shows what can happen when the teacher steps out of the classroom.  Is the boy in the upper left sending up his teacher?  Where are the wild beasts?

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Page 21, Les Proverbes de Pierrot. Paris: Librairie Ch. Delagrave (Cotsen 10743)

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The one boy waves a hat that reads “Ass” while his accomplices dance on a sign saying “Lazy.” (Cotsen 10743), 1

In the British picture book Young Troublesome (ca. 1850), John Leech gleefully shows just how much mischief a public school boy could make at home during the Christmas holidays.  In this plate the adults stand by helplessly as the young pickle shows his little brothers and sisters how easy and delightful it is to slide down a bannister.

Plate [2], Cotsen 3141

Plate 2, “Young Troublesome.” London: Bradbury & Evans, [1850] (Cotsen 3141)

There are also illustrations showing boys playing practical jokes that are anything but fun and games.   In Ludwig Kies’ Der Kinder Art und Unart (ca. 1855′), the boys in the boat dump an elaborately dressed tailor overboard.  The tailor’s terrified expression suggests he thinks that once his heavy clothes become waterlogged, he will drown.  The boys, who may be working class, show no remorse for what they have done and it looks as if no one will step forward and punish them. .

24963plate[53]

Plate [53], Der Kinder Art und Unart. Stuttgart: Schreiber und Schill, [185-?] (Cotsen 24963)

 Likewise Leech’s Young Troublesome seems to think nothing of interfering with the servants while they are working, or apologizing when his prank ruins their clothing.  The hapless servant may have no other recourse than complaining to his comrades below the stairs.

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Plate 10, (Cotsen 3141)

Of all activities forbidden to children, playing with fire may have been one of the most satisfying because it was so risky.  From the late eighteenth century onward, it is not especially difficult to find illustrations of children whose clothes have caught fire, a very real possibility in homes where there were multiple fireplaces with open grates.  William Darton senior liked such subjects, but no engraving in his firm’s juvenile books can compare with this one from Der Kinder Art und Unart of a boy running out of the hen house, which he accidentally set aflame.  Unlike many of the plates in this book, no adult appears to reprimand the little arsonist (or mourn his passing as the kitties did Hoffmann’s Paulinchen).

Plate [30], Cotsen 24963

Plate [30], (Cotsen 24963)

In sharp contrast, Young Troublesome and his assistant look as if they have deployed every bit of firepower behind the scenes to bring the juvenile theater production of The Miller and His Men to a triumphant conclusion. The size of the explosion seems to have given his papa pause.  Or perhaps his ears were ringing from all the racket from the special effects.

Plate 7, 3141

Plate 7, (Cotsen 3141)

Last but not least, is this illustration of a boy on his way to school pausing to get a light from a street urchin, while a gaping classmate watches them indulging in a forbidden vice.  A casual depiction of underage smoking like this one in a picture book would be enough to get Les proverbes de Pierre a PG-13 rating these days and possibly launch a heated discussion on childlit-listserv…

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More bad habits… (Cotsen 10743), 33.