on Charles Darwin, 1871

January 30, 2015

In my research into fossils in early American works for children, mention of Charles Darwin has been conspicuously absent, perhaps because the editors of early American periodicals for children weren’t sure they understood the theories enough to present them, probably because his theories didn’t fit well with the theories of the editors about the history of the planet.

Not George Quayle Cannon, editor of The Juvenile Instructor in 1871. In his quest to educate young members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, he included mention of publication of Darwin’s The Descent of Man in two volumes. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

(The Juvenile Instructor 6 [29 April 1871]: p. 68)

When men forsake God and seek for no revelation from him, there is no telling to what depths of folly they will reach. They will indulge in the most absurd fancies, and imagine they are correct. You cannot imagine, children, how much valuable time is spent, by what are called in the world wise men, advancing their theories and other so called wise men disputing them. Thousands of books are written for and against theories of this kind, after reading which many people have less idea of the truth than they had before they read them. This is vain philosophy; and yet it is the philosophy the world has always indulged in when they reject God. How much easier it would be for a man to seek unto God, who is the fountain of all knowledge, and obtain revelation from him. A few words from him, through His Holy Spirit, would set at rest many of the disputes in which they indulge; but this does not suit them, and they go on groping in darkness and spending their lives in doubt.

Two volumes have just been published in the East which were written by an English philosopher named Darwin. He tries to prove in these books that men are descended from monkeys, and he has got many learned men to believe that this is the case. Did you ever hear of such folly! What an idea men must have of themselves when they think of their forefathers being such creatures as we see in our Menagerie! Yet this is the wisdom of the world! Any man who thinks that he would like to have a monkey for an ancestor is welcome to the thought, but to us, such an idea is revolting. It is a great comfort for Latter-day Saints to know that they are descended from God, that He is their Father, and that if they are faithful, they will be like Him, and dwell with Him eternally. It is a great consolation also to know that we can be baptized for our dead friends, who died in ignorance of the gospel, and that they can be saved with us, until the whole race, from the present generation back to the days of our father Adam, will be united. There is something godlike in this reflection; a very different thought to what it would be if we imagined that after we had gone back a certain number of generations, we would gradually reach a tribe of monkeys.

We should be very thankful to the Lord for the knowledge which he has revealed unto us. We are not left in doubt or uncertainty, but everything necessary for our happiness and eternal salvation is revealed unto us, and we can obtain knowledge through the means which God has appointed. In relation to vain philosophy, Paul warned the Saints when he was upon the earth, to

“Beware, lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the traditions of men, after the rudiments of the world.”

The same warning is necessary in these days.

One of the fun aspects of researching American children’s periodicals and books before 1873 is seeing how they deal with prehistory. It’s interesting to see how writers dealt with the increasing disconnect between religious tradition and scientific explanation. But it’s especially entertaining to watch dinosaurs change with decades.

Okay, mostly one dinosaur: the iguanodon. The first American work for children to show dinosaur illustrations appears to be the frontispiece of Peter Parley’s Wonders of the Earth, Sea, and Sky, reworked by Samuel Griswold Goodrich from one in a British book as Goodrich asserted ownership of his creation: “Peter Parley.”

EarthfrHere are the pterosaur, the plesiosaur, and the ichthyosaur, which in the nineteenth century belly-crawled on land because it hadn’t yet been established as a water-dweller.

Goodrich appears also to have published the first illustration of an iguanodon for children in Robert Merry’s Museum in 1842. It’s … unfamiliar:

Iguanodon, from Robert Merry's Museum, 1842The mighty (and mighty low-slung) iguanodon roars to the sky, while a duckish plesiosaur glides serenely through a prehistoric pool. It will look familiar to anyone who’s seen the first volume of The Wonders of Geology, by Gideon Mantell; the frontispiece is John Martin’s “The Country of the Iguanodon,” with an iguanodon which is lunching on one reptile roaring in pain as it is attacked by another reptile. The iguanodon in the Museum is the middle dinosaur in Martin’s picture.

It looks fairly sleek by comparison with one appearing in The Children’s Friend thirty years later:

1872ChFrPAIt’s … Hmm.

illustration of a short-legged dinosaurIt’s sturdy, low-browed, no-necked—almost stereotypically Neanderthalish. At least it’s off the ground.

And it’s accompanied by some old friends:

ichthy1872It’s our old pal, the ichthyosaur, still scrambling about on the land! And is that the plesiosaur beside it? (The stocky little critter in the foreground looks almost un-reptilian.)

The later iguanodon shows up in the work of Waterhouse Hawkins, who made life-size recreations of dinosaurs for a London park. We’ve changed it again: the horn that 19th-century naturalists put on its nose is now believed to be the thumb.

I like the 21st-century iguanodon, but I rather miss the seal-like version from 1842.

(Oddly enough, while the word “dinosaur” was first used in England in 1841, it hasn’t yet shown up in any pre-1873 works for children that I’ve seen. Stay tuned.)

Showing the Mammoth

May 30, 2014

Mammoths and mastodons are mentioned surprisingly often in early American works for children, but they weren’t often illustrated.  Partly, it was due to the cost of illustrating:  cash-conscious editors were most likely to use a ready-made illustration, rather than adding the expense of having one engraved.  So I was especially pleased to open a newly purchased volume of the Quaker publication The Childrens Friend and find a wood engraving of an astonished hunter gazing at an astonishingly large mammoth:


It’s part of an article describing the discovery of a mammoth in Siberia in 1799; having waited five years for the ice to melt, the man and his friends “feasted on the carcase” and harvested the tusks.  Part of the charm of the illustration is that peacefully snoozing … er, I mean deceased mammoth:


It’s a definite improvement on the earlier representations, which were much more … fundamental:

Mastodon skeleton, from Robert Merry's Museum, 1841The mammoth illustrated in Robert Merry’s Museum in 1841 was pretty basic, as was the mastodon shown in Charles Willson Peale’s museum ten years earlier:

a mastodon skeleton on display(That’s a Roman sarcophagus under the mastodon’s ribs; the background is probably the cases with taxidermied birds that appear in Peale’s self-portrait.)

At least toward the end of the century works for children were getting some of the details right.  (Though, just how edible would that mammoth have been after defrosting for five years?)  And starting a new stereotype:  instead of the mammoth-as-skeleton, illustrators were presenting the frozen mammoth on its feet, perfectly preserved in a block of ice.  Let’s see that face again:

mammothChFPA_headeyes closed, trunk artistically curled, not a hair out of place …  And standing on all four legs, waiting to amaze us.

That’s the mammoth most of us have in mind when we hear about a frozen mammoth being found, not the carcass deformed by tons of ice over thousands of years.  We love it still:

mammothPearlThat’s Charles Livingston Bull illustrating a scene from Samuel Scoville, jr’s The Boy Scouts of the North; or, The Blue Pearl, with the protagonist gazing at one of Scoville’s patented wonders:  “There, frozen in a solid block of clear ice, towered a monster such as had not walked this earth for ten times ten thousand years. Unburied from the grave where it had rested, untouched by time, and intact as when some unknown fate had overtaken it when the last Ice Age overwhelmed the earth, the monstrous creature, standing erect, seemed ready to step forth out of an age-long sleep.”

Still astonishing; still wonderful; still inaccurate.  But at least this one doesn’t get eaten.

Mr. Peale’s mastodon

June 14, 2010

a mastodon skeleton on display

I’ve been working recently on updates for the online exhibit of works on fossils published for American children before 1873.  (Seven months.  It’s been seven months since I scanned the first illustrations.)  Mostly it was so I could put up an illustration from 1831 of the mastodon skeleton on exhibit in Charles Willson Peale’s museum.

Charles Willson Peale founded his museum in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in 1786. It contained an eclectic collection of natural history specimens, portraits of admirable historical figures, and human artifacts from various countries–all intended to edify visitors and to show the place of human beings as part of the animal kingdom.

His most famous display, however, was the mastodon skeleton he obtained in 1801. Eleven feet high at the shoulder and fifteen feet from chin to rump, it was huge and strange and confusing: was it carnivorous? Was it an elephant? If so, what were elephants doing in North America? There were a lot of questions to be answered about the “Great American Incognitum.”

Samuel Griswold Goodrich is the focus of a lot of my research.  He tried to mix education with entertainment in his books on geography, history, natural science–just about anything he thought children might need to know about.  And he knew that if you were going to introduce something as new-to-readers as the mastodon, it helped to have a picture of the thing.  So he provided one.

Well, sort of.  No one seems to have figured out what the living animal must have looked like, but there were illustrations of the skeleton put together by Peale.  So in his discussion of Peale’s museum in The Child’s First Book of History, Goodrich included a picture of the mastodon on display in the museum.

The image is tiny (two inches wide and 1.5 inches tall) and the skeleton is almost lost in the background.   It’s tuskless, and, to us, the head is oddly misshapen.   But the illustration certainly gets across its point:   the skeleton is huge–the human visitors barely reach the first leg joint–and it’s evidently part of a wide-ranging collection.  What appears to be a stuffed alligator (or crocodile) is suspended in the background, with two statues (a message-bearing Hermes and what appears to be a “Dying Gaul”) nearby.  Was the illustration wholly accurate? in other words, were there classic statues on display nearby? Probably not.  But it’s a charming visualization of the major themes of Peale’s museum:  education and variety.

The skeleton pictured here greatly resembles one drawn by Titian Ramsay Peale II, which appeared in American Natural History, by John D. Godman (1826-1828).  Strange as the skeleton looks, the illustration is fairly accurate. The head is flat on the top because the top of the skull hadn’t yet been discovered.  And where are the tusks? Tusks seem to have confused naturalists of the time; there were arguments that the tusks curved up, like those on elephants, and there were arguments that the tusks curved down, so the mastodon could dig for mussels (and a wood engraving by Alexander Anderson appears to have the tusks inserted in the eye sockets). Leaving off the tusks may have seemed the safest option.

What’s puzzled me is why this illustration hasn’t been mentioned in the secondary works I’ve been looking at, and that’s made me notice (yet again) how often researchers seem to copy from each other.  Paul Semonin’s American Monster:  How the Nation’s First Prehistoric Creature Became a Symbol of National Identity has been invaluable to my research into how the mastodon was perceived in early America.  And he does mention The Child’s First Book of History.  He doesn’t mention the illustration, but he does say that “In 1831, he [Goodrich] reproduced Charles Willson Peale’s broadside advertising the exhibition of the ‘mammoth’ … introducing his young readers to the American monster as the ‘uncontrouled Monarch of the Wilderness’ and the ‘largest of all Terrestrial Beings!'” (p. 378).

Now, I have three copies of various early editions of that book; and I’ve seen the copy of the first edition at the Internet Archive, and that broadside isn’t anywhere in any of the copies.  And reproducing an entire broadside isn’t the kind of thing Goodrich tended to do.  But from what I can see on google books of Charles Coleman Sellers’ Mr. Peale’s Museum, the broadside is reproduced in that book, with the caption to the illustration I’ve put at the top of this piece, and the words “from Child’s First Book of History“.

Was there a misprint?  No idea–I haven’t seen a copy of Sellers.  But presumably Semonin did; and he copied the info from that into his profoundly confident sentence.  Looking at his bibliography I don’t find that he managed to track down the First Book of History.

And this is why I manage to produce so little:  I’m always redoing other people’s research before I use it.  Good habit–when you have a really good research library at your disposal.  Lousy habit, though, if you want to actually finish anything.

How I love this illustration.  Those tiny human figures pointing out various parts of the skeleton; the skeleton itself, looming so huge in the dark gallery, that sprightly little eye-catching statue of Mercury/Hermes; the slightly chubby dying Gaul (or is it an odalisque?); the mysterious shape in the upper left-hand corner–so much in such a tiny rectangle.  Goodrich liked it too:  he used it at at least twice more that I can find.

It’s just a shame Peale’s museum didn’t put it on their broadside.