O say, can you see…?

The last few weeks have been busy preparing for the California Book Fair.  America has been in the news recently, of course, and so I am interested to see what people make of one item I shall be exhibiting next week in Oakland:

If it looks familiar, that’s because it’s the tune to The Star-Spangled Banner in its original form (both textually, rhythmically, and harmonically), published around 1780.  In fact, I have two printings of it:

The song was written by John Stafford Smith for members of the Anacreontic Society, and first published by Longman & Broderip, c.1779.  The following year they reprinted the song (the one on the left here; the only difference between this and the first printing are the additional words ‘and No. 13 Hay Market’ in the publishers’ address).  The plates were used again c.1784 by the publisher Anne Bland (the printing on the right here), with a re-engraved title section.

‘The social cachet of the Catch Club, with its permanent waiting list for membership, and its success in reviving the catch and establishing the glee, inevitably inspired emulation …  One of the earliest and most significant London imitators was the Anacreontic Society, founded in 1766 …  It took its name from the Greek lyric poet Anacreon, famous for his celebration of love and wine …  The Anacreontic Song, ritually performed at all meetings of the society, had been specially composed by members of the society under the direction of John Stafford Smith to words by the lawyer Ralph Tomlinson, for a number of years president of the Anacreontics’ (Robins, Catch and Glee Culture in Eighteenth-Century England, pp. 72–3).  The song ‘soon became well known both in England and America, and its melody was also used as the setting for about 85 different printed American poems, almost all of a patriotic nature, from 1790 to 1820’ (Fuld, World-famous Music, p. 530).  The tune was first published with Francis Scott Key’s poem The Star Spangled Banner in Baltimore in 1814.  Eleven copies are recorded; the last in private hands sold at Christie’s in 2010 for over $500,000.

If you’d like to hear what the original sounds like, here you are:

For details of these, and other items I shall have with me at the fair, please click here.

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A burlesque Tempest

When I put out a list on the theatre last year, this was one of the most sought-after items: excerpts from Ariel, a burlesque stage production based on The Tempest by the prolific playwright, librettist and editor of Punch, Francis Cowley Burnand (1836–1917).

Ariel was first performed by John Hollingshead’s company at the Gaiety Theatre on 8 October 1883, with Ellen ‘Nellie’ Farren (1848–1904) in the title role and Arthur Williams (1844–1915) as Prospero.  It received mixed reviews; The Times complained of the ‘flatness and insipidity’ of Burnand’s text and of his ‘vulgarising’ the original.  The Observer was less censorious, finding the piece moderately amusing, and predicting correctly that it would run well until making way for the annual Gaiety pantomime at Christmas.  It is certainly more jocund than its source material, containing a musical chorus of Storm Fairies, a duet between Miranda and Prospero, and a music-hall number for Alonzo entitled Just My Luck.

F. C. Burnand

From 1860 until his death Burnand produced more than two hundred burlesques, farces, pantomimes and other stage works.  He took over the editorship of Punch following Tom Taylor’s death in 1880, and is thought to have improved the paper’s tone, brightening it with his ‘rackety leadership’ (Oxford DNB).  Arguably his greatest editorial move was the publication of the enduring classic The Diary of a Nobody (1888).

Although it purports to be a selection of excerpts, no full version of the play is recorded and this may either the whole, or its only survival.

 

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Lovely litho

The past couple of weeks I have written about the opportunities offered by lithography to British musicians in the nineteenth century, and the problems they also encountered.

One of the obvious benefits of the new medium was illustration, and a number of recent acquisitions set me thinking about this:

This song was published c.1820, i.e. before lithography was being used in the UK for music itself (the notes are all engraved here), but was beginning to be employed to enhance the outward appearance of music publications.  The title illustration depicts a moment in the song: a young woman and her parents, she (and their dog) turning towards the window and the tap-tap-tapping of her beloved.  The composer, Willliam Thomas Parke (1762–1847), was principal oboe at Covent Garden for forty years, but took to composing light songs such as this in his later years.

Published in 1826, this is is a relatively early work by Barnett (1802–1890), though he was a published composer when still in his teens.  (The production from which it comes, Before Breakfast, was a highly popular musical put on by Richard Brinsley Peake, ‘one of the author’s most successful plays, performed no fewer than thirty nights in its first season’, Oxford DNB).  Again, the title-page here is lithographed, but the music is engraved.

This is the first edition of a ballad by Charles Henry Purday (1799–1885), published in 1837,  and ‘written upon the occasion of the tremendous storm of the 29th of November 1836, which severed the Tree represented on the title page in two; which Tree, and the Church are faithfully sketched as they stood previously to the above period, in the Parish of Boughton Monchelsea, near Maidstone, Kent.’

Later in the century, in the 1880s, another musician, Frederick Ouseley (1825–1889), Professor of Music at Oxford for over thirty years, turned to lithography for producing the handouts to accompany his lecture series on Spanish church music:

The volume contains five pieces: the opening of Doyague’s Magnificat for double choir; Eslava, Bone Pastor; Ledesma, Sancta Mater; Brós, Benedictus; and Ozcoz y Calahorra, Lauda Zion.

For more details on these, and other music, please see my recent Music list.

 

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Disappointed of Merseyside

cooper

Here’s rare book: the first (and probably only) edition of A Selection from the Music in use at the Church of St John the Divine Fairfield, privately printed in—presumably—a small number of copies, in 1858.  (This is Fairfield, Merseyside, by the way, not Connecticut.)  The compiler was one J. B. Cooper.

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The whole thing is wonderfully ornate, and a fantastic example of Victorian private lithography, but it seems the final result did not meet with Cooper’s approval:

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This was after having previously thanked the printers, Marples and Fraser, and their foremen for their ‘valuable assistance’ and for ‘furnish[ing] me with facilities which the limited resources of my own office and press did not supply’.

St John the Divine, Fairfield (architect: W. Raffles Brown) was consecrated in 1853, just five years before Cooper created his book.  According to its website, the Diocese of Liverpool agreed to demolish the church in 2008, as it had become structurally unsound.

 

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The new opportunities of lithography

I’m currently putting together a list on Music, to be sent out next week.  One item in particular brings together a number of things which interest me: a) music, b) illustration, c) lithography, d) provincial imprints, e) private printing:

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Lithography, as Michael Twyman notes, was largely neglected by British music publishers in the first four decades of the nineteenth century.  ‘One man who did experiment with the printing of music lithographically, though only as a sideline, was the Birmingham antiquarian William Hawkes Smith.  He had his own lithographic press on which he produced his own sets of pictorial lithographs of an antiquarian kind, but he also printed a few pieces of music.  The best known of these are his “Quadrilling”, which is known to exist in three editions [1820, 1821, 1822], and “Washing day” …  Both publications had their pen and ink decorations “designed and executed” by Smith and it is clear from the unusually comprehensive imprint of “Quadrilling”, which reads “W. Hawkes Smith, del. fec. & lithog: impr: 1821”, that he did everything himself.  Both publications are delightfully naive and are of interest primarily for their early date, provenance, and novelty’ (Early Lithographed Music, 1996, p. 386).

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Twyman returned to the work in his Panizzi Lectures: ‘Lithography made it possible for words, pictures, and other graphic marks to be produced together using precisely the same technology … [Smith’s work] illustrates as well as any single item can the new opportunities offered by lithography in this respect.  Hawkes Smith wrote the verses, set them to music, wrote out both the text and the music, drew the illustrations, designed the publication, printed it, and published it too …  His three known music publications, a couple of which ran to further editions, are in some respects closer to being “desktop” publications than their late twentieth-century equivalents’ (Breaking the mould: the first hundred years of lithography, British Library, 2001, pp. 8–9).

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The satire itself targets the quadrille, ‘one of the most popular ballroom dances of the 19th century’ (New Grove), which had been introduced to London at Almack’s Assembly Rooms in 1815 and must soon have spread across the country.

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Donald: the mask’s thrown off

Sometimes, in the book world, there are wonderful coincidences; you can come across a book you’ve never heard of at precisely the right moment.  Take this, which I found just earlier this week:

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Published in about 1794, it was written by Samuel Harrison (1760–1812), one of the country’s principal tenors for almost 30 years, some difficulties with his voice notwithstanding: ‘the voice was at once the weakest and most pure and equal ever heard in England’ (The Harmonicon, 1830); his intonation was perfect.  ‘After George III heard him sing at one of Queen Charlotte’s musical parties at Buckingham House, he arranged for Harrison to sing the opening recitative and aria in Messiah at the 1784 Handel Commemoration festival in Westminster Abbey.  He had made his first appearance at the Three Choirs festival as principal tenor in 1781, at Gloucester. From 1786 until 1808 he sang at each of the Hereford meetings, and from 1801 to 1808 was a principal at Gloucester and Worcester as well.  The 1811 festival was managed by Harrison with others’ (Oxford DNB).

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‘Signor Corri’, mentioned in the subtitle, is the influential music teacher Domenico Corri (1746–1825).  He had arrived in Britain in 1771, settling initially in Edinburgh, where he gave lessons and ran concerts for some eighteen years, before moving to London and a successful career as a music publisher.

 

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Bloody satire

I was looking for something election-related for today’s blogpost.  I wrote about a couple of very nice items connected to the Russian 1906 (parliamentary) election a few years ago, but I don’t think I’ve shared this before:

It’s a merciless (and rather bloodthirsty) satire of the Radical-Socialist Édouard Herriot and the Cartel des gauches during the 1928 election by the great caricaturist Sennep (i.e. Jean-Jacques Pennès, 1894–1982), strikingly printed in red and black on ‘butcher’s paper’.

 

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Bor’ba in Boston

A bookseller’s year is marked by the book fairs.  Summer is a quiet time, but in autumn everything starts up again.  There was York, then the ILAB Congress in Budapest, and now there’s Grasmere (a first for the ABA), Seattle, Frankfurt, INK in London (another new fair), Boston, and Chelsea.  Obviously, I can’t attend all these, so have decided this year on Boston, where I shall be exhibiting for the first time.  As I have written elsewhere, the show is my shop, a chance for collectors to see what I sell.

One of my interests is the theatre.  Another is cross-cultural material, books which document the reception of, often, Anglo-American culture in Continental Europe.  Here’s one book I intend to have on my stand in Boston, something which I cannot locate another copy of in the West:

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It’s the first edition in Russian of Nobel Laureate John Galsworthy‘s third play, Strife (1909), published in Moscow in 1918, just a year after the Revolution.  While rarely staged now, the play, which features a strike in a Welsh factory and the battle between the directors and the workers, was highly successful at the time—it was voted as one of the National Theatre’s 100 most influential plays of the twentieth century—and would have proved perfect material for the early Bolshevik theatre.

John Galsworthy (1867-1933)

‘At the white-heat core of [Galsworthy’s] play are the eternal human conflicts between idealism and pragmatism, justice and mercy, the needs and rights of individuals and communities.  Two men are simultaneously its hero and antihero: the board’s chairman and the strike’s leader.  Each is honourably committed to his beliefs; each is disastrously prepared to sacrifice himself and others for the sake of his vision’ (The Guardian, 21 August 2016, on Chichester Festival Theatre’s recent production).

The striking cover and the stage designs illustrated in the book are by Vasily Denisov (1862–1921), a Symbolist artist who worked a lot in the theatre.

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A bomb of a book

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As it’s Banned Books Week (and as this year the focus is ‘Celebrating Diversity’), I thought I’d post this: The Empire of the Czar; or, Observations on the social, political, and religious State of Prospects of Russia, made during a Journey through that Empire, the first edition in English of La Russie en 1839 (Paris, 1843) by the Marquis de Custine (1790–1857).  Published the same year as the French original, it has been called ‘one of the most fascinating and most instructive volumes of Russian impressions by a foreigner’ (Simon Sebag Montefiore).

‘Custine’s 1839 trip to Russia was spurred by the triumph of Tocqueville’s De la démocratie en Amérique [1835–40], where democracy is represented as the ineluctable political evolution of advance societies.  Custine may have hoped that Russia was the proof that enlightened despotism was an equally viable system …  What Custine discovered, or believed he had discovered in Russia, turned out to be of a totally different nature from what he had expected to find: a country dominated by fear of a tyrannical power served by an implacable bureaucracy, in other words a police state.  Reluctant at first to publish his impressions, he did so after four years of discreet work.  The success of the book was considerable.  The 3000 copies of the first printing sold out.  Four pirate editions came out in Brussels before the second edition appeared in Paris.  The first English edition, entitled The Empire of the Czar, was issued in the same year, as was the first German edition; both were reprinted the following year.  In Russia, Custine’s book was banned at once …’ (Vincent Giroud, St Petersburg: a Portrait of a Great City (Beinecke Library, 2003), p. 108).

It may have been banned at the time, but Custine’s book is still in print over 170 years later.  When it was selected for inclusion in the Bibliothèque nationale’s 1990 exhibition En Français dans le texte (item 262), it was described as having ‘l’effet d’une bombe’.

 

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Greasepaint

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This is a copy of the first edition of The art of stage make-up.  A visual aid for members of drama groups, drama schools and professional actors by Nikolai Novliansky, with illustrations by Vadim Ryndin, a large book (252 × 362 mm) which details make-up designs for the stage from 1930.

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Member of the intelligentsita/bourgeoisie; Worker/Komsomolets; Country girl.

Novliansky worked at Aleksandr Tairov’s Kamerny (‘Chamber’) Theatre, a small Moscow theatre which ran from 1914–49.  Make-up had played an important part from the Theatre’s very beginning, a production of Kalidasa’s Shakuntala, ‘notable for Tairov’s use of the painted “revealed body” of the actor as a basic costuming principle …  [and in] the Kamerny’s 1916 production of Innokenty Annensky’s Famira Kifared … the actors, many of whom played satyrs and maenads, wore false breasts with painted nipples, and costumes which further counterfeited nudity by outlining muscles’ (Spencer Golub, ‘The Silver Age, 1905–1917’, A History of Russian Theatre, CUP, pp. 296–7).

During the 1920s, Tairov’s theatre was still cutting-edge, openly mocking the government.  By the end of the decade, however, Socialist Realism was beginning to take hold, and the Theatre mended its ways.  Novliansky’s books documents this change, offering both a fascinating insight into contemporary stage practice, and the evolving Soviet iconography of certain types (the intelligentsia, the worker, the Komsomolets; the activist, the prostitute, the peasant; the priest, the kulak, the Englishman).

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The member of the intelligentsia

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The Komsomolets

An Armenian

The Armenian

An Englishman

The Englishman

 

 

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