The Yellow Fairy Book: Some Thoughts

The Yellow Fairy Book (1894).

Every Fairy Book thus fair has included at least a few familiar favourites, and the Yellow Fairy Book, not to be left out of the loop, includes “The Emperor’s New Clothes”, “How to Tell a True Princess” (an ironic retelling of “The Princess and the Pea”), “The Nightingale”, “Thumbelina”, “The Steadfast Tin-soldier”, and “The Tinder-box”, a fairy tale by Andersen which I’d actually never heard of but which bears a resemblance to the story of Aladdin. There are lesser-known tales from Mme d’Aulnoy, Andersen, and the Brothers Grimm, and other tales from Iceland, Hungary, Poland, Russia, Germany, France, and England. There are even a few (mostly depressing) stories from the Native Americans.

Frontispiece of "The Swineherd" and Title Page.

For this post, I decided to compile a few observations that I found intriguing, whether hilarious, quirky, or kind of disturbing. They are haphazard and in no particular order.

1. All stepmothers are bad. This is because it is biologically “unnatural” and counter to one’s basic instincts of self-interest to put children who don’t carry one’s own genes before children who do. “This propensity [to dispose of nonbiological children] is connected to a basic human drive to invest love, time, and energy in children that are biologically reproduced to carry on one’s species [i.e. one’s bloodline]” [1]. Perfectly natural, but highly immoral. The popularity of adoption today is a mark of how civilised humans have become. Indeed, “[f]airy tales are all about basic instincts and genetic evolution within a civilizing process” [2].

The childless stepmother turns her stepsons into swans.

Childless stepmothers, too (one hardly ever meets stepfathers, if indeed they exist [and if they do, I don’t think murdering stepkids would be their crime…]), are expected to be evil [3]. They desire to eliminate all competition for male parental investment in order to optimize the chance of perpetuating their own genes [4] (a phenomenon more commonly known as “jealousy”). Alas, stepmotherhood causes even apparently good women to go to the bad [5]–it is unescapable.

2. Princesses do not always live happily ever after. At least, not within certain tales. There is a certain type of fairy tale in which the princess scorns the prince who desires to marry her. Traditionally, the undaunted prince returns in lowly disguise to woo the lady, who is won over and marries him once his royal identity is revealed. In “The Swineherd”, however, the prince spurns the princess in the end, because she “would have nothing to do with a noble Prince; [she] did not understand the rose or the nightingale, but [she] could kiss the Swineherd [alias the selfsame Prince] for the sake of a toy”. The insipid girl has no appreciation for real roses or songbirds, but is willing to pay (i.e. prostitute herself) with kisses, and to a swineherd no less. He actually shuts the door in her face. Proud and inelegant princesses do get punished (though I don’t think she could have had a particle of pride left once that first kiss had been forfeited). But who can say she didn’t find her happy ending beyond this fairy tale?

3. Daughters of evil, oppressive witch mothers are not assumed to be inherently bad and may hope to win the sympathies and love of good men. This is because evil witch mothers treat their daughters abominably. Perhaps the witch beats her daughter to obey her, or has turned her into an African [6], or has had her confined. The evil witch mother, on the other hand, is to expect no sympathy from anyone–least of all her own daughter, who she has abused or transfigured or imprisoned.

The black girl, actually a white girl under enchantment, attacks her mother the witch.

For instance, the Hunter in “The Donkey Cabbage” revenges himself by turning a witch, her daughter, and their maid into donkeys which he entrusts to a farmer, enjoining him to deal the  old one “three beatings and no meal”, the youngest one “no beating and three meals”, and the middle one, the servant, “one beating and three meals”. Shortly afterwards the “old one” dies, and the other two become depressed. The compassionate Hunter restores them to their true forms, whereupon the daughter, ostensibly unmoved by her mother’s death, confesses that she’d only done her mother’s bidding under bodily threat and happily marries the man. In another tale, “The Three Brothers”, a daughter’s freedom is contingent upon her mother the witch’s demise–about which the former seems to have no qualms whatsoever.

The evil witch mother hovers over her daughter as she does her bidding (which is to make the Hunter disgorge a swallow's heart that gives him gold under his pillow every night).

4. The youngest of three brothers is invariably the hero of the fairy tale. If you are the third brother, a happy ending awaits you at the end of your tale–but not before you attend to many trials, which may or may not include getting blinded, your legs broken, and left for dead by your two backstabbing brothers who obviously never liked you very much. They will prove to feel threatened by your superior handsomeness and will want to snuff you out in order to succeed better at court themselves. But do not fret! Justice will be served, for you will set a pack of wolves on them or they will flee in terror from you, seemingly come back from the dead. You will have been healed and your invidious beauty restored, and that will carry you through [7], unless you have also been endowed with intelligence [8], in which case your wits will carry you the day.

Ferko is the third and youngest brother. His two treacherous brothers malign him.

If your brothers do not attempt to kill you, it will be because you are not worth it: you are a dunderhead. Banish the thought of affectionate brothers–there is no such thing, unless you are a sister. For if your brothers are not vicious would-be fratricides, they are arrogant, derisive churls. But their words shan’t hurt you because you are a shade too thick to comprehend. Nevertheless, your ignorance and innocence will win the day. Plus, if you are especially muttonheaded, you will have earned a colourful name for readers to remember you by, such as “Simpleton” [9], or “Blockhead-Hans”[10]. And if you are in actual fact not a dunderhead, but merely misperceived as one, well, you shall all the same proceed more or less as if you were.

Blockhead-Hans with mud, broken clog, crow carcass, and his noble steed. Is it just me or is his cap reminiscent of a dunce cap?

5. Heroes with supernatural assistants should take care that their helpers do not outshine them to the point of looking impotent. In “Prince Ring”, the eponymous prince has a massive, talking dog named Snati-Snati, no doubt magical in some way, who thoroughly outdoes his owner in every feat. When Ring and his rival go out to cut wood, Ring, with the help of his dog, presents a heap “more than twice as big” as his competitor’s. I think it’s clear whence the “more than” came. When Ring and his dog set out to slay two monstrous oxen, the former, at the latter’s counsel, takes on the smaller ox, while the latter falls on the bigger one: “With this Snati leapt at the big one, and was not long in bringing him down. Meanwhile the Prince went against the other with fear and trembling…”

Snati-Snati worrying big ox and Prince Ring being overpowered by little ox.

Later, when they need to top a sheer cliff, Snati climbs its face, pulling Ring up by his tail. His master, it would seem, has a fear of heights: “…he pulled Ring up the lowest shelf of the rock. The Prince began to get giddy, but up went Snati on to the second shelf. Ring was nearly swooning by this time, but Snati made a third effort and reach the topped of the cliff, where the Prince fell down in a faint.” The writers of this tale tried really hard, one can see, to ennoble this character. Finally, in their fight with a troll’s ghost, the roles of master and servant are reversed: “Snati immediately sprang upon him, and Ring assisted in the attack”.

A wonderful illustration of Prince Ring hanging by Snati's tail.

Now, heroes often have magical or animal helpers who aid them in their tasks by completing them in their stead. One might think this looks worse on the hero since he does nothing at all, but I say it is better, on the contrary. Where one does not lift a finger, there is no opportunity for one to look incompetent. But where one does take action, and only manages to take little, well! Not very impressive to the onlooker, is it?

Furthermore, if Snati were a genuine super-dog, I might hold off comparing Ring with him. But, as it turns out, Snati is actually a prince under enchantment, which Ring breaks. And Snati’s real name is Prince Ring as well! Gah!

6. Abducting a princess is the tried and true way of earning her loathing. Sometimes a male, normally a magic user, will fall so hopelessly in love with a princess that he will whisk her away on the spot. Confinement of the girl always follows, and plenty of rejection, for a girl cannot love him who is her captor. All she can do is repulse his advances and wait for her Prince Charming to deliver her. In the case of “The Wizard King,” the Wizard King, a widower, kidnaps a princess and tries to persuade her to marry him. She refuses, is sprung by the King’s son the Prince, whom she quickly weds. It was quite she lucky did, because otherwise she would have become a stepmother! And we all know stepmothers come to no good end.

A captive princess surrounded by her guards.

"I can only look on you as my worst enemy," said the Princess.

7. Exceedingly long facial hair can be surprisingly useful. But beware! If the option is available to you, always choose the lengthy moustache over the lengthy beard. The former may come in handy as leashes for your pet lions; the latter, however, is not useful to you, but your enemy, who will seize you by your ill-advised extent of beard and dash you to your doom, as vividly illustrated below.

One of my favourite illustrations in this book.

All observations were made based solely upon the Yellow Fairy Book. I am aware that material from other fairy/folk tales may and do qualify what I have said, but I do not address them here.

All images courtesy of the Osborne Collection, Toronto Public Libraries.

1. p. 131: Zipes, Jack. Why Fairy Tales Stick: The Evolution and Relevance of a Genre. New York: Routledge, 2006.
2. p. 131, Ibid.
3. In “The Six Swans”. In this tale, the stepmother has no children of her own nor does she have a particularly evil bent. Her husband the king, however, “could not look at her without a secret feeling of horror” and conceals the fact of his children by ensconcing them in the woods. I cannot help but think that the king himself triggered he evilness of his second wife in not trusting her with even the knowledge of his children. He keeps sneaking off to visit his kids. The queen becomes jealous and suspicious, and when she finds out about them she turns them into swans. So it seems that no stepmother is safe from harming her stepchildren, and that vying even for the husband’s attention will incur her wrath.
4. p. 134-135, Zipes.
5. Such as the Queen of Hetland the Good from “Hermod and Hadvor”.
6. In “The Glass Axe”.
7. In “The Grateful Beasts”.
8. In “The Three Brothers”.
9. In “The Flying Ship”.
10. In “Blockhead-Hans”.

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Sarah Ellis: Current Writer In Residence at The Osborne Collection

Sarah Ellis at the Lillian H. Smith Branch of the Toronto Public Library. (February 11th, 2012)

Sarah Ellis is currently the writer-in-residence at The Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Literature. She will be working at the Lillian H. Smith Branch of the Toronto Public Library until May 31st.

Ellis is here from British Columbia, but she first worked as a professional librarian in Toronto, in 1975. She was here for a very short time, but during that time she made lasting friendships, and remembers meeting Lillian H. Smith, the founder of the Boys and Girls House in Toronto. For a librarian, she said, it was like meeting the Queen Mother.

Thirty-seven years later, she admits that some of her beliefs about libraries and children have “taken a beating,” but one thing that has stuck with her is the belief in the value of the imaginative life of children, expressed through reading and writing. The two readings she chose to present at the launch of the program, this past Saturday, reflected her commitment to that value, and her ability to carry that imaginative life into adulthood.

Part of Ellis’s imaginative life as a child involved making paper dolls from images in the Sears catalogue. She explained how that experience, combined with a conversation she had with her travel agent years later, led to her writing the first piece she read aloud. It was a short story titled “The Fall and Rise of the Cut-Out Family,” available in When I went to the Library: Writers Celebrate Books and Reading.

She described her second reading as a bit “cheekier and weirder” than the first. It was an unpublished piece called, “If it’s a Story,” a stream-of-consciousness-like essay, following the thoughts of a writer as she forms the idea for a story. It also showed how Ellis’s non-fictional life informs her work. She does some ESL tutoring in Vancouver, which helps her stay in touch with her audience—mostly eleven-year-old girls—and the second piece she read began by introducing two girls: Mildred (a recent immigrant from China) and her friend, Dogsmirt.

The questions Ellis was asked, following the reading, are probably familiar ones: questions about where ideas come from and the writing process.They are questions I have become afraid to ask authors, though I’m always curious about their answers. Ellis’s storytelling abilities were clear in her answers, as was her good-nature. I have been to readings where those questions received eye-rolling and snarky comments from the author. Instead, Ellis included anecdotes and descriptive examples to make her responses unique and interesting.

For example, when asked whether or not she was the type of writer who reads a lot, or one who thinks reading impinges on a writer’s creativity, the answer was one you might expect from an author/librarian: she reads a variety of books and is often reading more than one book at the same time. However, she included an anecdote about a common experience readers have when they are reading two very different kinds of books at the same time, and then pick up one, mistaking it for the other. She compared it to sitting down at a dinner table with a glass of milk and a glass of wine. If you are expecting milk and drink from a glass of wine by mistake, it’s disgusting, and vice versa, even if you like them both. She took a familiar question, with a predictable answer, and added a common experience… and totally grossed me out. It was surprising and wonderful.

Ellis will be hosting several workshops while she is in Toronto and she will deliver the 9th Albert Lahmer Memorial Lecture. I received the following information about the workshops and the lecture in an e-mail from The Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Literature.  The information can also be found on their website.


Build Your Own World Saturday February 18, 2-4 p.m.

A workshop for young writers ages 9-13.

A Picture Book Celebration for Writers and Writer/IllustratorsTuesday March 6, 6:30-8:30 p.m.

Sarah Ellis and Barbara Reid host a picture book appreciation evening. Please bring a picture book that you admire for its craft and be prepared to share your enthusiasm. What can we learn from the masters? In the course of the evening we will look at some Osborne treasures.

Writing and Telling Monday May 7, 6:30-8:30 p.m.

Join Sarah and members of Toronto’s storytelling community for an interactive discussion of stories in the air and stories on the page/screen.

 Everything I Know About Writing for Young ReadersFriday May 25, 1-4 p.m.

In this adult workshop for aspiring writers, Sarah will take a once-over-lightly approach to the pleasures and pitfalls of writing for and about children and young adults. Bring questions, and come prepared to play.

 Albert Lahmer Memorial Lecture:

Sowing Seeds in Danny, Dorothy, Dennis, Dillon and Destiny:  A Century of Library Service to ChildrenThursday, April 26, 2012, 8 p.m.

When we think of female social activists of the early twentieth century we think of women like Nellie McClung.  Politician, organizer, dynamic speaker, writer (children’s novel Sowing Seeds in Danny, 1908), McClung was in the vanguard of a huge shift in public consciousness.  Less often do we think of the quieter, and in some ways more subversive, revolution that was taking place in public libraries.  As we celebrate the centenary of service to children at the Toronto Public Library and look back to the early decades of library service to children let’s examine some of the specific books and stories that lay behind that mission. What were those seeds that Lillian H. Smith and her disciples were sowing with such energy, idealism and creativity?  And how did they get away with it?

All events take place in the Community Room at the Lillian H. Smith branch of the Toronto Public Library. If you would like to register for any of the following workshops you can call Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books at  416-393-7753. Registration is not required for the Albert Memorial Lecture.

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Nursery Rhymes

Nursery Rhymes and Fables by Louey Chisholm (1920)

As my niece Ainsley grows up, my mom keeps bringing out all kinds of books and toys that my brother and I played with as kids. They are often things that I had completely forgotten about but instantly remember once I see them again.  On a recent visit, we read a nursery rhyme book that was a favourite of mine when I was three or four years old. I wasn’t sure I could remember any of the rhymes when I first saw it, but I did know exactly what the picture of the cow jumping over the moon was going to look like when I opened it.

In the introduction to The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, Iona and Peter Opie write: “An oft-doubted fact attested by the study of nursery rhymes is the vitality of oral tradition. This vitality is particularly noticeable where children are concerned…as V. Sackville-West has put it, children say ‘tell it again, tell it just the same’, and will tenaciously correct the teller who varies in the slightest particular from the original recital.”[i]

That must have been the case with my book of nursery rhymes. If you asked me how many rhymes I knew before I looked at the book again, I would have said I couldn’t remember many of them. Yet, once I read the first line of most of them, the rest of the rhyme came back to me. At The Osborne Collection I found many of my same old favourites and many more that were new to me.

From Nursery Rhymes and Fables by Louey Chisholm (1920)

Humpty Dumpty is one of the oldest and most familiar nursery rhymes today. The entry in The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes says students of linguistics believe that its age “is to be measured in thousands of years, or rather it is so great that it cannot be measured at all”.[ii] It was once a riddle, but it has been linked the picture of an egg so often that most people know the why the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.

Other familiar rhymes are associated with games. I remember playing “Keep the Castle” as a kid. One person would stand on something high—when I played it was often the top of a slide—while the others attempt to push or pull them down. When someone succeeded, they would occupy the place at the top and yell: I’m the king of the castle, get down you dirty rascals! There is a Scottish version of the game, called “Haud the Bowerique,” but the rhyme was slightly different:

I William of the Wastle

Am now in my Castle,

And awe the Dogs in the Town

Shan’t gar me gang down.[iii]

From Nursery Rhymes and Fables, by Louey Chisholm (1920).

I also remember playing the “Patty Cake” clapping game with my grandma when I was very young. It was not in my nursery rhyme book but it was in one of the books at The Osborne Collection. It was book it was written:

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man,

Bake me a cake as fast as you can;

Pat it and prick it, and mark it with B,

Put it in the oven for Baby and me.

Now that I have been reminded of it, I’m looking forward to teaching it to my niece. Of course, the cake will be marked with an A for Ainsley though. I’m also likely to say “patty cake,” even though “pat-a-cake” makes so much more sense now that I have seen it.

From Nursery Rhymes, by Claud Lovat Fraser (1919).

This one was also one of my favourites when I was younger and I liked this photo, by Claud Lovat Fraser. But as I mentioned above, many of the nursery rhymes at The Osborne Collection were new to me. For example:

From Rhymes for the Nursery, by Jane Taylor (1854).

Why here’s a foolish little man,

Laugh at him, donkey if you can;

A cat, and dog, and cow, and calf

Come every one of you and laugh.

For only think, he runs away

If honest donkey does by bray!

And when the bull begins to bellow,

He’s like a crazy little fellow.[iv]

Most of the rhymes that were unfamiliar to me were in an older volume by Jane Taylor, published in 1854. There are many volumes to choose from though and at least one book of nursery rhymes with illustrations by Arthur Rackham.

If you are interested in looking at some of the nursery rhyme books and would like to take some sort of reference books with you, The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, by Iona and Peter Opie is really helpful. The Annotated Mother Goose: Nursery rhymes old and new, arranged and explained by William S. and Cecil Barring-Gould is also very good. It list rhymes chronologically, approximate date of first appearance in print, starting with Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book  (c. 1744). Also, there is a book by Katherine Elwes Thomas that attempts to fit the rhymes into an historical framework called, The Real Personages of Mother Goose (1930). When I was looking for information about the rhymes I used in this post I also came across an interesting book by Felix Dennis, called When Jack Sued Jill – Nursery Rhymes for Modern Times (2006). He has a couple of illustrated examples on his website.

All photos were taken at The Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books, Toronto Public Library:

1. Taylor, Jane. Rhymes for the Nursery. London: Arthur Hall, Virtue, & Co., 1854.

2. Fraser, Claud Lovat. Nursery Rhymes. London: T.C. & E.C. Jack, 1919.

3. Chisholm, Louey. Nursery Rhymes and Fables. London: Thomas Nelson and Sons, Ltd., 1920.

[i] Iona and Peter Opie, The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes (Oxford: The Clarendon Press), page 8.

[ii] Henry Bett, quoted in The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, page 215.

[iii] Iona and Peter Opie, The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes (Oxford: The Clarendon Press), page 254.

[iv] Jane Taylor, Rhymes for the Nursery. (London: Arthur Hall, Virtue, & Co., 1854), page 84

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The Green Fairy Book: Large Paper Edition

The Green Fairy Book Large Paper Edition (1892).

Not very green, is it? Perhaps a ‘subdued verdigris’ if you felt like being pretentious. Or a ‘pale jade’, which would still be optimistic if not false. No, I think ‘glaucous’ would be the most accurate word to describe the colour of the boards–the spine is irrefutably squalid white. Behold the so-called Large Paper Edition of the Green Fairy Book, published in the same year as the first edition. A large paper edition, as you might guess, is “One of a (usually small) number of copies printed on a larger size of paper than the main bulk of the edition; either for presentation, or for subscribers, or to be sold at a higher price” [1].

In my readings for my previous Fairy Book posts, I’d been alerted to the existence of these special, limited editions of the first few Fairy Books–the first four, to be exact. I was lucky enough to find this one at the Osborne. These editions are “expensive limited editions with larger format” and have “longer introductions by Lang” [2]. The latter feature was one of the reasons why I searched the Osborne catalogue for these editions, but the introduction of large paper Green Fairy Book is unfortunately identical to that of the standard edition.

According to The Oxford Companion to Children’s Literature, these editions were published with the idea that book collectors (of questionable taste) “would help defray the cost of the general edition. This device was never again thought necessary” [3]. Surely this implies, if it does not bear out, that the standard edition cost more to prepare than the special edition? It all seems very topsy-turvy to me. There seems to be little to justify the price, obviously higher than that of the standard edition, and even less to recommend it to the rational book collector (bibliomaniacs are another case). The edition in itself is disappointing in too many respects.

The Green Fairy Book, first edition (1892).

First there are the boards, which I have already briefly commented on with regard to colour. They are aesthetically humble if not homely. But if they are not handsome, they ought at least to be harmonious with respect to their title and/or contents. It is called the Green Fairy Book, for no obvious reason except that each Fairy Book is designated by the colour of its covers. How funny it is to have a Green Fairy Book that isn’t even green! Indeed, a quick search on AbeBooks reveals that the large paper editions of the Red, Blue, and Yellow Fairy Books were issued in the same uninspiring grey and white paste boards.

Paste boards and untrimmed edges.

Paste boards! That is, paper boards made from layers of paper and wrapped in paper, whereas the standard editions are clothbound, to say nothing of the pretty gilt pictorials (handsome and harmonious). Did the Editor or publisher perhaps think the limited edition unworthy of the dignity of cloth?

Frontispiece and title page in the large paper edition.

I had always considered special or limited editions of books to be unmistakably superior to their standard editions, but this copy seems to be superior only in size and thickness of paper. In ABC for Book Collectors, John Carter says of the large paper copy, “The paper will often be of superior quality; and, in the 18th century particularly, these were generally called fine or royal or imperial paper copies” [4]. Presumably, a large book is better than a small book because there is simply more book, more material. Indeed, for the ancient Egyptians, size mattered, since they weren’t as wasteful as we are. It was ‘the bigger, the better’ when it came to their papyrus, and the largest size was ‘Imperial,’ whereafter ‘Royal’ followed, and so forth. These names are retained in the traditional British inch-based paper size system according to which this large paper copy would be closest to a ‘royal octavo,’ royal denoting the full sheet size (20″x25″), and octavo the folding format (i.e. the full sheet was folded thrice to create 8 leaves, or 16 pages). A royal octavo is 6.25″x10″ or thereabouts.

Frontispiece and title page of the standard edition, with intervening China paper.

Besides that, there isn’t anything royal about the edition. In fact the size is rendered ridiculous because the page size is far too superior to the size of the text. Enlarged page size seems aimless and unjustified if unaccompanied by enlargement of page content, but this lack thereof is sadly characteristic of large paper copies. As Carter eloquently put it, “Extravagantly large paper makes an unsightly book, unless the type is reset to accord with the increased page-size; for the result is all too often a blob of type in an expanse of margin” [5].

Blobs of text in an expanse of margin.

Interestingly, “in the 18th century the classics were often issued in this form” [6]. But as to the origin of this custom, now happily discarded, I’m actually not sure. English printer and engraver Sir Emery Walker conjectured “that the custom ‘may have originated in consequence of a former habit of binders to cut the margins off when rebinding a book'” [7].

Apart from an early claim to rarity, and better paper (though the paper in the normal edition is not absolutely inferior; I found it surprisingly stout), the only other possible virtue of the large paper edition itself is its unopened edges. According to Carter, “This means that the leaves of a book issued entirely untrimmed (and therefore having the folding of its component sections still intact at the top and fore-edges) have not been severed from their neighbours with the paper-knife” [8]. The result is that many edges are actually folds, without cutting which the book cannot be read in its entirety.

Table of contents. I’d have to crawl in there to read it!

I think it would be fun to open unopened pages–I’m told a playing card works best–for the sheer novelty of it, though it would probably get tedious after the first few fairy tales. But evidently the previous owner was not of the spirit to indulge in this activity, because the book is wholly unopened–not a single fold has been sliced. I must admit that having a book so close to its original condition of issue is desirable, but keeping it that way–how unloved and unenjoyed a book! Which just shows that there are some eccentric collectors who “prefer their books not only unread but unreadable” [9]. What, then, is a book for? Thankfully “the majority of book collectors adopt the sensible attitude that a book, even a collector’s item, is designed to be read” [10].

Unopened top edges.

To mitigate my condemnation of this large paper edition, I’ll add that it is not improbable that its dreary covers were only provisional and meant to be bound “to the purchaser’s taste, at his order and expense” [11]. Before the days when publishers, as opposed to buyers and retail booksellers, provided binding for books, that is, between 1450 and 1823 (as far as English books are concerned), books were sold either 1) “at a higher price in some usually simple binding put on by or for the bookseller” or 2) unbound, or, as later, with temporary covers, to be bound elsewhere at an additional cost to the purchaser [12]. Perhaps the vast margins are an indicator of this custom. Personally I find the idea of customized binding quite attractive. But whether or not this was the intention, it seems many owners agreed that the large paper copies in their original boards did not deserve shelf space, and engaged the services of a bindery. A quick search in Abebooks will yield a large paper a Blue Fairy Book halfbound in navy leather and marbled paper; a Green Fairy Book halfbound in green leather, with green decorative endpapers; and a set of all four large paper Fairy Books bound in full morocco leather in their respective colours, with gold gilt, and marbled endpapers.

Leatherbound large paper copies. The first two are the Blue and Red Fairy Books, the 4th and 5th the Green and Yellow.

To pay more money only to pay more money still–clearly only a road taken by the wealthy book collector, or the credulous.

Photo of leatherbound large paper copies courtesy of Peter Harrington.

All other photos courtesy of the Osborne Collection, Toronto Public Libraries.

1. p.130: Carter, John, and Nicolas Barker. ABC for Book Collectors. London: Granada, 1980.
2. p.176: Carpenter, Humphrey, and Mari Prichard. The Oxford Companion to Children’s Literature. Oxford [Oxfordshire: Oxford University Press, 1984.
3. p. 176, Ibid.
4. p.130, Carter.
5. p.130, Ibid.
6. p.274: Glaister, Geoffrey A. Encyclopedia of the Book. New Castle, DE: Oak Knoll Press, 2001.
7. p.274, Ibid.
8. p.210, Carter.
9. p.208, s.v. uncut, Carter.
10. Chapter 9: Wilson, Robert A. Modern Book Collecting. New York: Knopf, 1980.
11. p.203, Carter.
12. p.202-203, Ibid.

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The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

A Copy of "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" from The Osborne Collection

When I first met my father-in-law (and fellow blogger) Owen Gray, I was a little intimidated. He is a well-educated, well-mannered, and well-spoken man with a deep “radio voice” and a very firm handshake. If he had been any taller I am afraid I might have run away. However, he quickly put me at ease by reciting the introduction to one of his favourite books.  In an excellent 19th Century, rural-Mississippi accent he performed the first few sentences of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain:

You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter.  That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly.  There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.  That is nothing.  I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary.[i] 

Over the holidays I had the opportunity to ask family and friends what their favourite books were when they were children. I assumed that Owen would say that The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was one of his but I decided to ask him anyway and to my surprise, he told me he didn’t like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn at all when he was young.

When he was twelve he read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and liked it so much that he sought out The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (the subtitle of which is Tom Sawyer’s Comrad) didn’t finish reading it. As an adult, however, he had to read it for an American Literature course in university and he liked it so much he found himself laughing out loud.

He asserts, for several reasons—I won’t get into in detail here—that The Adventures of Tom Sawyer is a book for children and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is a book for adults. Briefly though, he did compare Tom Sawyer to Anne Shirley, from Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery: Tom and Anne are both bright, adventurous, and at times, mischievous. Ultimately, though, they are good-at-heart and destined to become a pillar of their society. Huckleberry Finn, on the other hand, is a less romantic figure and his story is less nostalgic than Tom Sawyer’s.

It is hard to say exactly what makes a story for children, as opposed to one that was written for adults; I imagine because the definition of a children’s story changes as society and our understanding of childhood changes. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was written more than a century ago, about a boy who grows up in Missouri, in the 1840s. In this case, however, Twain wrote in the preface:

Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.[ii]

I don’t think I had ever actually read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer before deciding to post about Owen’s favourite childhood story. So, when I visited The Osborne Collection, I chose two beautifully illustrated editions to share here. For those of you who haven’t read it, or would simply like a reminder, I’ve included illustrations with a summary below. You can find the original illustrations by True W. Williams (the ones Mark Twain approved when the book was first published) online here. If you would like to read the story yourself, the text is available online and there is a free audio recording at Librivox.

The Adventure of Tom Saywer consists of 35 short chapters that are more like a series of linked vignettes. For example, the second chapter, “The Glorious Whitewasher” describes the famous scene in which Tom, fools other boys in to believing that whitewashing a fence is so much fun that they trade their valuables for the privilege to do the work for him.

Inside Cover of "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer." Illustrated by Donald McKay (1946)

What he thought would be a day of drudgery turns into a stellar day for Tom. He comes away from his ‘punishment’ with several small treasures from the other boys and plenty of time left to spend with his friends; he is rewarded by his aunt Polly for finishing the task without complaint; he wins the imaginary battle he plays with his friends that day and he is immediately smitten when he sets eyes on Becky Thatcher for the first time.

Tom meets Huck on his way to school. Illustrated by Richard Rogers (1933)

On his way to school on Monday, Tom runs into Huck. Many of the boys, including Tom, envy  Huck because he has the freedom to do as he pleases all day. Huck’s father is an alcoholic and pays little attention to whether his son attends school. Huck is carrying a dead cat that he plans to use to get rid of warts. He tells Tom that taking a dead cat to the cemetery after someone wicked has been buried invokes devils that will take away the warts. The two boys agree to meet in the cemetery that night. The same night, Injun Joe and Muff Potter are also at the cemetery with Dr. Robinson to rob a grave. Tom and Huck are silent witnesses as Injun Joe kills the doctor in an act of revenge for having insulted him five years earlier. Muff Potter is knocked out in the scuffle and set up by Injun Joe to take the blame for the murder.

Injun Joe standing over the body of Dr. Robinson & The letter penned by Huck and signed in blood. Illustrated by Donald McKay (1946)

The two boys swear to each other that they will keep silent about the murder, out of fear of Injun Joe. Both boys have a guilty conscience and they bring Muff food and gifts in jail but they stay silent as the trial gets closer and carry on making mischief. For example, they decide to live the life of pirates on the river with their friend Joe Harper and when Tom learns the town thinks they’ve drowned, the three boys return to make a dramatic entrance at their own funeral.

Tom decides to testify at Muff Potter’s trial, without betraying Huck by revealing that he also witnessed the doctor’s murder. Injun Joe escapes out the courtroom window and Tom is terrified at first that he will return for revenge but enough time passes that it seems unlikely and Tom goes back to sneaking out at night to meet Huck.

One night, they meet to search for buried treasure in a haunted house and  Injun Joe enters with a stranger. The boys hide and watch as he attempts to stash stolen money in the house and finds thousands of dollars in gold, already buried there. The stranger is keen to get out of town with the treasure but Tom and Huck hear him vow to get revenge before he leaves and they assume he means revenge on Tom.

Tom Sawyer, Injun Joe, & Huckleberry Funn. Illustrated by Ricard Rogers (1933)

Huck begins to follow Injun Joe each night, hoping to discover where he has hidden the gold and he discovers that he plans to get revenge on the Widow Douglas for something her husband, the former judge in town did to punish him years ago. His partner is uncomfortable with the idea of killing a woman for her husband’s actions so Injun Joe says he will mar her looks by slitting her nostrils or clipping her ears and leave whether or not she bleeds to death to fate. Huck fetches a neighbour and his two sons, who rush to the widow’s house with guns in time to rescue her.

Illustration by Donald McKay (1946)

Becky & Tom lost in the cave. Illustrated by Donald McKay (1946).

Meanwhile, Tom and his classmates have gone on a picnic to McDougal’s cave. Tom and Becky get lost while exploring the cave and they are not missed until the next day. The townspeople are unable to find them and they begin to run out of food and candlelight. Tom lets Becky rest while he searches for an exit and discovers Injun Joe is using the cave as a hideout. Eventually, Tom comes across a slit of light in the cave walls and pushes his way out of the cave with Becky. They emerge near the river, five miles from the mouth of the cave and flag down some men in a boat, who return them to town.

A few days later, once Tom has had time to recover, Judge Thacker tells Tom that he has sealed the cave with an iron door to keep people from getting lost in there again. Tom tells him about Injun Joe, who is soon discovered laying dead inside the cave, with his knife snapped in two and scratches on the door where he has tried to claw his way out. He is buried near the mouth of the cave. On the day after his funeral, Tom and Huck return to hole where Tom and Becky escaped and find the treasure.

The widow learns that Huck saved her from Injun Joe and offers to adopt him. Huck has a hard time adjusting to all of the widow’s rules and runs away within three weeks. Tom finds him in an old barrel, dressed in his old clothes, eating scraps. He convinces him to return to the widow’s house in exchange for a place in his new robber gang. Tom returns with Huck and mediates a reconciliation between the two: the widow agrees to be a little less strict with Huck and Huck vows to make her proud of her decision to adopt him.

Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn. Illustration by Donald McKay (1946).

All photos were taken at The Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books, Toronto Public Library:

1. Twain, Mark. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. New York: Gosset & Dunlap, 1946. Illustrations by: Donald McKay.

2. Twain, Mark. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. New York: Three Sirens Press, 1933. Illustrations by: Richard Rogers.

[i] Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc, 2004), 3.

[ii] Twain, Adventures of Tom Sawyer (London, ON: CRW Publishing Limited, 2004), 9.


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From The Pentamerone to the Red Fairy Book

First edition of the Red Fairy Book (1890).

The Red Fairy Book contains quite a few lesser-known French, German, Russian, and Romanian tales, in addition to tales by Mme d’Aulnoy and, oddly, an adaptation of the Sigurd legend (evidently Lang thought Norse mythology sufficiently “savage” for the collection). The tale I thought would be fun to look at is a familiar favourite–“Rapunzel”. Lang’s version (not that he translated it) seems to be a close translation of “Rapunzel” from the final edition (1857) of Kinder- und Hausmärchen (Children’s and Household Tales) by the Brothers Grimm, but the tale is part of a longer literary tradition which ultimately stems from the 17th-century Lo cunto de li cunti overo lo trattenemiento de peccerille (The Tale of Tales, or Entertainment for Little Ones) by Giambattista Basile [1].

Front Cover of The Pentamerone, translated by John Edward Taylor (1848).

Better known as The Pentamerone, after the fashion of Boccaccio’s The Decameron, it is a collection of fifty fairy tales delivered by ten female storytellers in a frame story over the course of five days. The anthology is the literary terminus a quo, that is, the earliest known written versions, of other well-known fairy tales as well, such as “Cinderella,” “Sleeping Beauty,” “Hansel and Gretel.” Basile’s “Rapunzel” is called “Petrosinella” (“parsley”). In this story, Petrosinella’s pregnant mother is seized by an apparently fatal craving for–of all things!–parsley, specifically the parsley in her neighbour’s garden, which you’d think might subdue her appetite, since her neighbour is an ogress. (NB: Rapunzel is not of royal birth; dispel any contamination from exposure to any recent Disney productions.) But, not to be put off by this minor detail, she goes into the garden and steals herself some parsley. Eventually she is caught and made to promise the ogress her child when it is born, whom the mother christens Petrosinella, “because she had a pretty birthmark on her breast, the shape of a tuft of parsley” [2]. At age seven, the girl is whisked away by the ogress to the proverbial tower in presumably austere but otherwise undescribed conditions.

The Pentamerone, gilt pictorial spine.

This motif of gravid woman hankering after someone else’s luscious vegetables (an oxymoron, in my opinion) is a recurring motif present in all the Rapunzel stories (at least those that I know) and rooted in popular belief: “In many peasant societies, people believed that it was necessary to fulfill the longing of a pregnant woman; otherwise, something evil like a miscarriage or bad luck might occur. Therefore, it was incumbent on the husband and other friends and relatives to use spells or charms or other means to filfull the cravings” [3].

Frontispiece and title page.

Basile’s text makes it explicit that the prince and Petrosinella have (premarital!) sex. The ogress is enlightened as to their affair by a gossipmonger, but the couple run away (Petrosinella descends by a rope ladder). The remarkably athletic ogress gives chase, is thwarted by three magical gallnuts in Petrosinella’s possession, and she is finally devoured by a wolf. The prince then takes Petrosinella back to his kingdom and marries her.

Petrosinella plate by John Cruikshank (1848).

Some like to trace the Rapunzel tale, a “Maiden-in-the-Tower” type tale (Arne-Thompson type 310), to the story of Saint Barbara from the 3rd century who is said to have been confined in a tower by her jealous father. If you want to go that way, we could go back even farther in time and cite Danaë. I wouldn’t, however, because to me the Rapunzel tale is not just about any maiden in a tower; it is about the girl who got locked up in the tower because her mother traded her in for unlimited salads (if only this were a real craving among people today) and who has insanely long hair.

The tale subsequently crops up in the literary tradition in Mlle de la Force’s Les contes des contes (1698). (Alas, this book is devilishly hard to find, even in translation.) According to Jack Zipes, “It is apparent that Mlle de la Force was acquainted with [Basile’s] tale, and there is a very important retelling of this story embedded in Mme d’Aulnoy’s ‘The White Cat’ (1697)” [4], the plot of which seems to have influenced de la Force’s adaptation, entitled “Persinette” (also a diminutive of “parsley”). One of the chief differences is that the ogress is swapped for a fairy, who actually lavishes Persinette in opulence and gracious living; Persinette has everything she could need or want, except for human society.

What tips the fairy off here is not a third party but Persinette’s swollen state, which she, being totally benighted, doesn’t understand. And, just like a man, the prince decides it’s best to keep it that way, though at least this prince seems to have the modesty to marry her before he gets to know her in the biblical sense:
“Now the prince was happy, and Persinette grew accustomed to loving him. They saw each other every day, and in a short time she became pregnant. Since she had no idea what this condition meant, she was upset. Although the prince knew, he did not want to explain it to her for fear of tormenting her. But the fairy had come to see her, and no sooner did she look at her than she recognized the malady.” [5]

Persinette is forced to tell everything, whereafter the fairy conducts her to a seaside spot “that was very isolated but pleasant enough” [6]. When the prince returns to the tower for Persinette, the vengeful fairy lets him climb up Persinette’s hair, which she has cut off, and then, “invoking her power, she [cases] the prince to throw himself from the top of the tower” [7]. (One wonders why a fairy, with all her power, would bother with the business of clambering up a tower by means of anybody’s hair.) The prince survives this fall (de la Force does concede that “his body should have broken into a thousand pieces” [8]), losing only his sight, and wanders blindly for a few years till by chance he stumbles across his wife and their twins, now toddlers. Her tears magically restore his vision and they share a touching family reunion only to despair later the same day of starving to death because, thanks to the fairy, all the food they touch turns into inedible stones, crystals, snakes, etc. Luckily, the fairy is finally moved, and, “recalling at this moment all the tenderness that she had once felt for the amiable Persinette” [9], relents and ferries the family back to the prince’s kingdom.

De la Force’s version expands on Basile’s (it is almost twice as long), giving justifications or rationales for the characters’ dubious behaviour. For instance, Persinette’s mother does not raid her neighbour’s garden. No, she withholds her wish and simply wastes away beyond recognition (“her husband could barely recognize her with his own eyes” [10]) until her husband makes her confess her consuming desire for parsley. It is the husband who, in the name of love, plunders for parsley. To mitigate the absuridity of her craving, the narrator says,
“At the time of this story, parsley was very rare in this country, and the fairy had it brought from the Indies. Indeed, one could not find any parsley in that country except in her garden…To be sure, the parsley must have been extremely delicious at that time.” [11]

Whereas Petrosinella seems to fall immediately in love with the prince, Persinette is initially baffled by the amorous youth and accepts his marriage proposal “without hardly knowing what she was doing” [12], growing “accustomed to loving him” only afterwards.

A German version of “Persinette,” a virtual translation, by Friedrich Schulz is thought to have been an underlying influence of the Grimms’ version [13]. Schulz’s retelling is called “Rapunzel” (1790). Indeed, “rapunzel” is yet another vegetable delicacy–not parsley, but rampion–which generates some rather humorous results in translation if one is not so familiar with the etymology:
“Now the young woman developed a huge craving to eat some rapunzel…she confessed that she had a strong desire to eat rapunzel salad…The rapunzel tasted so delicious that the next day her craving for it was three times as great as it was before.” [14]

Schulz made other minor changes, too. Unlike his predecessors, Schulz furnishes Rapunzel with a hook around which to fasten her hair when it is to be climbed. He even injects an instance of social commentary:
“…finally [the prince] was so bold as to propose marriage to her, and he wanted to have her right away. She said yes, without knowing why it was happening and without knowing how, and she did not really want to know where. What good behavior!” [15]
I sincerely hope that concluding exclamation was ironic.

Beautiful Rapunzel illustration by H.J. Ford from the Red Fairy Book.

Rapunzel’s pregnancy is only obliquely referred to when she complains “that all her clothes [have] become too tight for her” [16]. This detail is preserved in the first edition of Children’s and Household Tales (1812), which, despite its title, was not originally intended for a children; all evidence of their intercourse, however, was removed as their juvenile audience grew and so the seventh and final edition of the collection does not even hint at Rapunzel’s pregnancy [17]. Accordingly, it is not Rapunzel’s sudden need for maternity wear that betrays her; instead, Rapunzel is made out to be an abject simpleton who gives her secret away with a careless remark: “‘Mother Gothel, how is it that you are much heavier than the prince? When I pull him up, he’s here in a second” [18]. Notwithstanding, the twins are snuck in by the narrator at the end. Mr. Lang, on the other hand, or perhaps whichever woman translator had charge of this tale, excises even the children, and I daresay that it is this version of the story, so utterly bowdlerized, that is most widely-known. The Grimms’ version also turns the antagonist, still a fairy in Schulz, into a sorceress, a witch in the Red Fairy Book, who is considerably less benevolent than her fairy antecedents though not evil.

The Brothers Grimm were aware of and acknowledged their use of Basile’s The Pentamerone, though to what extent they relied on “Petrosinella” in setting down their version of “Rapunzel” is not clear.

There are other stories written in the Rapunzel tradition between Basile and the Brothers Grimm, and of course after them. I have only mentioned those relevant to the literary transmission of the tale from Basile to Lang. Translations of the tales I have quoted can be found in Jack Zipes’ The Great Fairy Tale Tradition: From Straparola and Basile to the Brothers Grimm : Texts, Criticism. Other Rapunzel and type 310 tales can be found in Rapunzel and Other Maiden in the Tower Tales From Around the World, edited by Heidi Anne Heiner. (Unfortunately the latter cannot currently be found in the UofT or public library catalogues.)

All photos courtesy of the Osborne Collection, Toronto Public Libraries.

1. p. 474: Zipes, Jack. The Great Fairy Tale Tradition: From Straparola and Basile to the Brothers Grimm : Texts, Criticism. New York: W.W. Norton, 2001.
2. p. 475, Ibid.
3. p. 474, Ibid.
4. p. 474, Ibid.
5. p.481-482, Ibid.
6. p. 482, Ibid.
7. p. 482, Ibid.
8. p. 482, Ibid.
9. p. 484, Ibid.
10. p. 479, Ibid.
11. p. 479, Ibid.
12. p. 481, Ibid.
13. p. 474, Ibid.
14. p. 484-5, Ibid.
15. p. 487, Ibid.
16. p. 487, Ibid.
17. A comparison of the first and final versions of the Grimms’ “Rapunzel” can be found online (in English, of course).
18. p. 491, Zipes.


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Rational Recreations

One of the best things about The Osborne Collection is how accessible the collection’s rare books are to the general public. I recently studied the four volumes of Rational Recreations, by William Hooper. At 234 years old, they are in excellent condition. The book is out of copyright and it can be found online, but it is much more interesting to study the originals, especially in this case because the volumes at The Osborne Collection contain sixty-five engraved plates by John Lodge, and all but four of them are hand-coloured.

The full title is long and descriptive, which was typical for the time. Rational Recreations: in which the Principals of Numbers and Natural Philosophy are clearly and copiously elucidated, by a series of Easy, Entertaining, Interesting Experiments. Among which are All those commonly performed with the cards. Some of the experiments are fairly straightforward and in the process, they teach children (and adults) about mathematics and natural philosophy, as the title states.

I had some trouble finding information about Dr. William Hooper, but I did find that in 1755 he translated Nouvelles Recreations Physiques et Mathematiques, by Edme-Gilles Guyot. He credits Guyot for many of the figures and experiments included in Rational Recreations and he specifically acknowledges  Giambattista della Porta (1535-1615) and  Jacques Ozanam (1640-1718) for many of the ‘recreations’ included in the book.

Hooper says that although the work is, “in general, a compilation, some original experiments will be here found…The principal of each science are, moreover, here laid down in a few plain aphorisms, such as require no previous knowledge, and very little capacity or attention to comprehend…” (Vol. 1, i-ii). Although the experiments he includes are entertaining and interesting, I wouldn’t say that they are all easy, or safe. For this reason, I wouldn’t say it was specifically a book for children, as you will see below.

The Catapulta & The Sailing Chariot

Volume I: Page 200, Plate IX.

Figure One – The Catapulta. ABCD, the frame in which the arrows are placed; EF the spring by which they are forced out. G the post to which the rope that bonds the springs are fastened.

Figure Two – The sailing chariot; AB the body of the chariot; CD the sails; E the rudder, guided by the man at the helm A.

A Carriage To Go Without Any External Force

The footman is technically inside the carriage, so I suppose the name is accurate.

Volume I: Page 196, Plate VIII

Figure One – A carriage to go without any external force. ABCD, the figure of the carriage, with the person who rides in it, and the footman who drives it.

Figure Two – represents the machinery by which it is moved, and which is concealed in a box behind the carriage. CD are two treadles behind that are pushed down alternatively by the man behind the carriage, and by means of the ropes. CA, DA, turn the wheels HH, which being fixed on the frame axis with the great wheels II, turn them also.

A Carriage To Sail Against the Wind & The Univertable Carriage

Volume I: Page 206, Plate X

Figure One – A carriage to sail against the wind. ABCD the body of the carriage; M the mast; GEFH the sails; K the cog-wheel, that takes the teeth placed perpendicular to the sides of the fore-wheels; R the rudder by which it is guided.

Figure Two – The uninvertible carriage. AB the body of the carriage; C the weight by which it is always kept upright. FGDE are iron circles in which it moves; P the door; O the window, and QR the shafts.

The Magician’s Box

Volume III: Page 232, Plate XVIII

Figure One – The magicians box. AB is the base of the box in the top of which is a hole E, about the size of a card: in this base is placed the circle of OP, figure three, that has five cards painted on it; containing a magnet QR, and is movable on a pivot.

Figure Two – the body of the box, which consists of four inclined panes of glass; and in a hole at the top is fixed a convex lens. This box is placed on the magnetic table, by which either of the cards on the circle are brought under the hole.

Figure Four – The mystical dial: this dial is divided into ten equal parts and its centre is a touched needle, which is regulated by the magnetic table.

Figure Five – The box for the intelligent fly. At the centre of the box is a pivot, on which is placed a touched needle L, that has at one end of it an enameled fly: over this is placed the pasteboard circle ABCD, on which ten letters are written.

Volume One contains an inserted advertisement (between pages viii and iv) for the instruments and machines needed to perform some of the experiments in the book, sold by George Adams at the time of publishing. It says he is “the only person who makes them under the author’s inspection.” Unfortunately, you cannot find any such equipment at The Osborne Collection, but you can find the original instructions and coloured diagrams for making your own.

All photos were taken at The Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books, Toronto Public Library:

1. Hooper, William. Rational Recreations: in which the Principals of Numbers and Natural Philosophy are clearly and copiously elucidated, by a series of Easy, Entertaining, Interesting Experiments. Among which are All those commonly performed with the cards.Vol. 1. London: L. Davis, Holborn; J. Robson, New Bond-Street; B. Law, Avemary-lane; and G. Robinson, Pater-noster-row, 1774.

2. Hooper William. Rational Recreations: in which the Principals of Numbers and Natural Philosophy are clearly and copiously elucidated, by a series of Easy, Entertaining, Interesting Experiments. Among which are All those commonly performed with the cards. By W. Hooper, M.D. Vol. 3. London: L. Davis, Holborn; J. Robson, New Bond-Street; B. Law, Avemary-lane; and G. Robinson, Pater-noster-row, 1774.

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