Fourth Day of Advent

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The children had been up early in the morning, and beginning to roll a snowball about they very soon saw that at every roll they gave it got bigger and bigger, and at last got so big just by the cottage door that they couldn’t move it, and then it stood right in the way, so that they couldn’t get in and their mother couldn’t get out.

From ‘Snowball’ by Edric Vredenburg, illustrated by Lizzie Mack, volume 3 in ‘The Daisy Chain Library’ published by Ernest Nister, 1891

Lizzie Mack (1858-ca. 1905) was a highly successful children’s book illustrator. Her trademark winsome children express the sentimental portrayal of children in popular art at that time. This book was published by Ernest Nister (1841-1906), a German lithographer and printer of children’s books, greetings card, postcards and calendars based in Nuremberg.

 

#victorianchildrensbooks #victorianchristmas #adventcalendar #victorianpicturebooks #advent #childrenspicturebooks #victorianillustration #victorianillustrators #lizziemack #winter #snowball #edricvredenburg #lizziemackillustrator #ernestnister

 

Third Day of Advent

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O is for Orange – good, eaten in reason,
P for Plum Pudding, the crown of the season.

From “Father Christmas’ ABC” illustrated by Alfred J. Johnson, published by F. Warne & Co., 1894

I love the bright, cheerful warmth of this illustration – I can almost smell the tangy scent of those oranges. Is the little dog startled? Or off on its own harum scarum adventure?

 

#victorianchildrensbooks #victorianchristmas #adventcalendar #victorianpicturebooks #advent #childrenspicturebooks #victorianillustration #victorianillustrators #alfredjjohnsonillustrator #christmaspudding

 

 

Second Day of Advent

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Come to the window, little folks,
And read these tiny Story-books!

From ‘Snow-Flakes and the Stories they Told the Children’, by Matilda Betham-Edwards, illustrated by Hablot Knight Browne (Phiz), published ca. 1862

 

This is my personal favourite, it’s by Phiz, Dickens’ illustrator. I love his pictures full of charming, quirky detail. The elves in this are delightfully mischievous.

 

#victorianchildrensbooks #victorianchristmas #adventcalendar #victorianpicturebooks #advent #childrenspicturebooks #victorianillustration #victorianillustrators #christmas #matildabethamedwards #hablotknightbrowne #phiz #elves

First Day of Advent

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And the games that we had, oh! they were so nice,
Such sleighing and skating and bowls on the ice!

From ‘The Twigs, or, Christmas at Ruddock Hall’, illustrated by Robert Dudley, published by Castell Brothers.

 

I thought it would be nice to create an Advent Calendar, by posting an illustration each day from Victorian children’s books from the Tower Project collection I worked on at Cambridge University Library. I hope you like them as much as I do.

 

#victorianchildrensbooks #victorianchristmas #adventcalendar #victorianpicturebooks #advent #childrenspicturebooks #victorianillustration #victorianillustrators #christmas #robins #robertdudleyillustrator

For Truth’s Sake

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I was privileged to work on the Tower Project at Cambridge University Library, cataloguing books, pamphlets, broadsides, fiction, even children’s games, published between 1805 and 1925, held in the seventeen storey library tower.

An enjoyable challenge of the job was to find a suitable subject heading to express what a particular book was about, so that researchers would find it when doing a subject search of our online catalogue. Some books made it easy, others required considerable pondering before that “mot juste” sprang to mind.

When I plucked a pamphlet entitled An exposition of the polypantoglyphograph by Thomas Tyldesley from my trolley, I thought “Hmmm, this is obviously about something of which I know nothing, what an opportunity to learn something new” – well, something along those lines, anyway. Now I pride myself on my grasp of the English language, I consider myself moderately well read, and will tackle pieces of literature that require more than a passing moment’s concentration, but after scanning a few pages of Mr. Tyldesley’s publication I began to feel confused. I flicked through looking for fresh paragraphs to attempt, each time failing to grasp the meaning of the text before me, such as:

M– An eMbleM of coM-Munication by analogy between the OWL(e)’s and Man’s Sense of household habits, and the whole WORLD’S Light by coM-Munion from SOPH-I-VAU with his dog (re dog and GOD, in series 5), and the love of Man through All the dead-men’s skulls to THOX-I-TAU, and the workings of that LeVER  and fulcrum … 

By the time I’d worked my way through that paragraph I had a headache.

I did a quick search on the author’s name and chased up other publications of his in the hope of clarifying my thoughts.  I retrieved a number of pamphlets, all self-published, in a series entitled For truth’s sake.

After failing to grapple with Ex-shæphoenominology, or, The science of letters I started to browse The ressus(c)itation of the revælation and ‘natural’ meanings of letters, which were sought by Plato and his compeers, but got a bit bogged down, to be honest.  Determined not to be beaten, I decided to tackle The original meaning of K, but fell at the first hurdle with:

All abstracts of thought have tails, and, like comets, the quicker they move the longer their tails become; and I fear that the majority of all classes of our literati, from the lorey occupant of the professor’s chair to the standard-fixed multitudes in our common schools (the latter being battered by strifeful contending Ismst, and fettered by the circumfused fickle curriculum of a co-deified power, emanating from a consanguineous body of clannish richly-paid officials) are more attracted to the tail (tales and stories) than to the body – substance – nucleus – root – ORI, not pri-ORI.

Now I was beginning to feel decidedly cross. It is hard to explain the sensation of reading something in your own language and not having a clue as to its meaning – vexatious, perhaps? Mr. Tyldesley obviously enjoyed language, and I have managed to glean from his ramblings that he believed the shape of letters to be crucial to their meaning, which explains his predilection for peppering his prose with capital letters and symbols.

And to be fair, I did learn something new. In my ignorance I had never heard of the Sator Square, which is a satisfying palindrome of ancient origin and various interpretations, suitably obscure for Thomas Tyldesley, but a genuine phenomenon in the real world:

Tyldesley’s overarching obsession was a mystical interpretation of the alphabet, upon which he built a complex, and frankly baffling, theory of language, which I am sorry to say I have failed to get to grips with. I’m obviously not alone in my bewilderment, as he frequently complains of having his articles and letters rejected by the various papers to which he sent them, and even quotes a baffled individual to whom he had shown his work: “Put your books in our language, and then we can understand you.” Undeterred, Mr. Tyldesley continued his pursuit of the truth with zeal:

The rejection of newspaper editors to publish my letters on this subject … constrains me to publish this additional paper; although great and severe has been my financial loss up to the present  …

 He claims to have left school at 6½ “to wind bobbins and learn to weave,” in which case perhaps he belongs to that admirable tradition of the autodidact. It would be interesting to know where he gained access to the information he used in his pamphlets, what, or who, set him on his path of discovery.  I got the feeling, as I struggled to interpret his convoluted prose, that his mind was teeming to bursting point with arcane occult concepts, hieroglyphs, symbols and quasi-religious concepts, but however eccentric or bizarre we may think him, Thomas Tyldesley was evidently happy inhabiting his peculiar world view:

The unspeakable joy which I possess is begot of my communion with words true to nature, by inception, conception, and comprehension of her mæanderings and the commingling of forces, within the power of order and design, radiating, refracting, and reflecting each clearer ray of light, by which the knowledge of the celestial and the terrestrial becomes fused into matter, mannas for the mind, through a knowledge of visible form, cosmical movement, and invisible but thinkable shape, the steps to higher planes upon which the sublimity of the mind can solve supernal problems. The reality of this rare and lasting pleasure renders me imperious and impervious to all acrimonious attacks of human ignorance and infelicity, and subdues my loss to the value of dross in the smelting furnace of the soul.

I wish I could say that after grappling with Thomas Tyldesley of Bolton I could agree with Dr. Seuss, who said “I like nonsense; it wakes up the brain cells.” I’m afraid I had to do as the gravedigger in Hamlet advises his baffled companion, who is struggling with a riddle, to do: “Cudgel thy brains no  more about it” and assign the best subject headings I could muster, and move on to more mundane, but blessedly comprehensible, works.

 

The pamphlets referred to may be consulted on request in the Rare Books Room, either through the online catalogue here: https://idiscover.lib.cam.ac.uk/primo-explore/search?vid=44CAM_PROD&lang=en_US
or by completing a paper request slip in person in the Rare Books Room at the University Library. You can search by title, author or classmark, as given below:
  • An exposition of the polypantoglyphograph … / by Thomas Tyldesley. Classmark 1913.8.768
  • Ex-shæphœnominology, or, The science of letters … / by Thomas Tyldesley. Classmark 1906.8.920
  • The resuss(c)itation of the revælation and “natural” meanings of letters, which were sought by Plato and his compeers. Classmark 1906.9.355
  • The original meaning of K  … Classmark 1906.9.352.

The Babes in the Wood

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Contributor: Rosalind Esche

One of the most popular traditional stories reproduced in children’s books during the 19th century was  The Children in the Wood, also known as The Babes in the Wood, first published in Norwich as a broadside ballad by Thomas Millington in 1595 with the title The Norfolk gent his will and Testament and howe he Commytted the keepinge of his Children to his own brother whoe delte most wickedly with them and howe God plagued him for it.

What a sorry little tale this is. For those of you mercifully unfamiliar with it, it relies on that stock villain, the wicked uncle. The parents of two small children both die at the same time (somewhat irresponsibly, in my view) and on their joint deathbed consign their hapless offspring to the clutches of their uncle. To be fair on the chap, he looks after them for a while until he reads the terms of the parents’ will and discovers that he would benefit to the tune of several hundred pounds on the occasion of the children’s untimely deaths prior to attaining their legal majority.

This is when things really start to go downhill for the eponymous babes. The uncle hires two “sturdy ruffians” to take them into the woods and kill them. One of the villains relents on hearing the innocent, lisping prattle of the two babes, and refuses to carry out the murder; a quarrel ensues and the “milder” cut-throat kills the other, in front of the (presumably traumatised) babes.

He tells the children that he will bring them some food, and, convincing himself that a passing traveller will discover them, leaves them alone in the woods, never to return. 

The children wander through the woods, and eventually, weary and forlorn, they sit down beneath a big oak tree to rest.

 

As dusk falls they settle to sleep. Relief in the form of a passing traveller never arrives.The children starve to death. It’s as stark as that. You will be glad to hear that all kinds of disasters befall the wicked uncle and he dies in prison.

However, perhaps I do the purveyors of this sensationalist literature a disservice. I was interested to see that one of the many 19th century copies of this grim children’s tale is entitled The Children in the Wood, or, The Norfolk Tragedy.

Local folklore has it that the events told in the many versions of The Babes in the Wood originally happened in Wayland Wood, reputedly the third oldest wood in England, dating back to the Domesday Book, in which the Wayland Hundred is referred to as Wane-lond. Various theories have been advanced as to how the legend of the babes came to be associated with Wayland Wood, one being that there used to be a carved wooden overmantel in the nearby Elizabethan manor house Griston Hall, where the uncle is said to have lived, which depicted the story of the babes.

Apparently the tale of the babes in the wood has never been associated with any place other than Norfolk during its long folkloric career, so perhaps we have a real Elizabethan crime which morphed into legend. Inevitably local tradition has it that the ghosts of the murdered children haunt Wayland Wood, hence its popular name “Wailing Wood.” The village signs at both Griston and nearby Watton depict the story. When in 1879, the tree under which the babes had reputedly been abandoned was struck by lightning and destroyed, the popularity of the legend had grown to such an extent that people visited the site, hoping for souvenirs.

If it seems to stretch our credulity that two small children should be lost in a wood for so long that they starved, this arresting account by a local may bring home to us the desperate plight of the children:

Having known this wood all my life I can remember my father taking me to the keeper’s cottage when I was about seven and asking the keeper if he would show us the tree under which the babes were reputed to have been found, buried by a robin covering them with leaves. He escorted us far in­to the wood and stopping by the stump of a large tree, informed us that this was where they died, the tree having been destroyed by lightning in August 1879. As we made our way back to the road I realised how difficult this would have been without our guide, with so many overgrown paths criss­ crossing each other in all directions. At this time it was not unknown on shooting days for one of the beaters to get lost in the wood during the last “drive” of the day, with darkness falling fast. Occa­sionally it meant he had to wait until morning light to find his way out. This would not happen today, as one can hear the continuous roar of traffic passing along the road and head towards it. None the less 30 years ago, when “birding” in the wood with a naturalist friend, we came upon an elderly man whom I knew very well, but owing to his dishevelled appearance did not recognise at once. He had grown a beard, was painfully thin and obviously so weak he could hardly stand. Although he manag­ed a slight movement of his lips, no sound was forthcoming and we realised he was in a very serious condition. Informing the police, we were surprised to learn that he had been missing for three weeks and that they had spent many hours searching for him. As he lived alone, arrangements were made for him to be cared for in a Thetford home and when I saw him a month later he thanked me for saving his life. It appeared that he had strolled far into the wood one afternoon and was unable to find his way out again, but it was not certain if he had been there all the time.(http://www.historyofwatton.org.uk/wattonttages/053.htm)

So perhaps this unpleasant little tale has its origins in history rather than in some warped imagination. Nevertheless, the fact is that Victorians loved this kind of sensational, sentimental storytelling. The prevalence of this dismal tale as a staple of children’s picture books testifies to its assimilation into the popular imagination. Indeed, the expression “babes in the wood” survives to this day as shorthand for inexperienced innocents making their way (or not) in a wicked world.

It’s interesting to speculate on this “evil uncle hires two murderers to despatch troublesome children” story – how far back in the mists of time does its folk tale origin reach? It almost certainly pre-dates the Norfolk version, having its roots in inheritance struggles for money and power. Did the stock character of the wicked uncle just happen to be reinforced by a real crime in Norfolk some time in the 16th century? And for those of us troubled by a nagging sense of familiarity, could the existence of such an archetype lend credence to those Richard III advocates out there who claim him as a victim of Tudor propagandists? Could those canny Tudors have been tapping into folk imagination to besmirch the Plantagenet’s name? Just how far back do wicked uncles trace their heritage? But I digress …

Still, it’s not all bad news. Imagine my delight when I came across the following antidote to all this misery, with the stirring title:

Perfidy detected! or, The children in the wood restored, by Honestas, the hermit of the forest

with the following explanatory subtitle further down the title page:

who were supposed to have been either murdered or starved to death, by order of their inhuman uncle ; being the continuation of The history of the children in the wood.

The logistics of this reworking are a bit hazy; not only do the babes survive, but even the dead parents aren’t dead after all. No matter, someone else had obviously had enough of this wretched story and decided to set everything to rights again, even if it meant glossing over minor technicalities of logic and plot integrity.

Postscript

I had one of those satisfying connection moments, when I read that it was a robin who covered the children’s bodies with leaves – could it have been Cock Robin himself? Before he was brutally murdered, obviously, in that other cheery children’s tale so beloved of the Victorians.

 

Illustrations are from the following books held in Cambridge University Library, which may be requested to be consulted in the building.

The Story of the Babes in the Wood, illustrated by Frank Adams. Published London ; Glasgow ; Bombay : Blackie & Son Ltd., [1904?] – University Library classmark 1904.11.86

The Children in the Wood, or, The Norfolk Tragedy. Published  London : Printed for the Religious Tract Society, and sold at their Depository, [18–] – University Library classmark CCE.7.67.27

 

A Family of Phrenologists

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Contributor: Rosalind Esche

When we think of seaside promenade attractions, such as fortune-telling, palm-reading and so forth, we tend to imagine stripey booths and bead curtains. When I worked on the Tower Project at Cambridge University Library I catalogued a series of pamphlets written and published by the Ellis family, who advertised themselves as phrenologists and publishers (but who dabbled in a great deal more than that), and had impressive premises on the promenade in Blackpool.

The Ellis family establishment

Note the heads either side of the word “Phrenologists” above the door, and the slogan “Advice On Health” on the roof, between two particularly striking hands, palms facing outwards, in front of the chimneypots. Clearly the Ellis family, Ida, Albert and Frank, were successful enough to operate from a solid building rather than a beach hut. The 1911 census records that Albert and Ida Ellis (husband and wife), Frank Ellis (brother) and Annie Edwards (domestic servant) occupied a house with 11 rooms, not counting, as instructed on the census form,  “scullery, landing, lobby, closet, bathroom, nor warehouse, office, shop.” Looking at the illustration of their promenade premises (81/82 Central Beach, Blackpool) it is likely that the consulting rooms were on the ground floor and they lived in 11 rooms above on two further floors – quite an establishment. Albert originated from Canterbury, and Ida from Suffolk, but when they first arrived in Blackpool I could not discover. Blackpool, as a popular seaside resort, offered excellent opportunities for a business such as theirs. Albert and Ida were 42 and 43 respectively at the time of this census, and had been married for 21 years.  All three Ellises give their occupation as Palmist/Phrenologist and record that they work “at home.”

Each family member specialised in their own particular skill: Frank in physiognomy, Albert in graphology and phrenology, Ida in palmistry, crystal gazing, automatic writing and psychometry.  When customers consulted the Ellis family they would receive a booklet described as a “chart,” published by the Ellises themselves, packed full of information, with blank spaces in which a personal reading would be inscribed, with appropriate advice.

Even babies could be taken to a consultation and have their own chart filled in with their potential characteristics, personality, skills and so forth.

Each chart has an index to character, so that after the initial phrenological consultation, the relevant Ellis, presumably Albert in this case, would mark in pencil numbers listed in a sort of tabular key at the front of the booklet, which the customer then relates to the characteristics correspondingly numbered in the following pages.  After that there are pages with blank spaces in which the Ellises would write customised advice (for an extra fee) on your health, occupation, relationships and so forth, even describing “persons likely to prove enemies.”  On a page headed “Summary of mental powers” the seven options provided include “You have inherited a very inferior nature, and will not think for yourself. You are low and vulgar in your habits.”

I can’t help thinking that anyone diagnosed in this category would feel pretty hard done by, parting with ready cash only to be told they were vulgar and inferior. The Ellis family obviously didn’t pull their punches; perhaps such brutal truths bestowed an air of authenticity on their readings.

The Ellises knew that they had to keep clients coming back for more. In their “Advice worth following” on p. 23 of “Stepping stones to success” they explain:

 “We would like you to consult us every year, because science is advancing so quickly that we are continually adding new features to our book. This enables our clients to obtain the latest information about themselves we can give, and also an opportunity to compare one chart with another, and thereby see what improvement has been made.”

Good idea to let your clients know that you keep up with the latest research in your field, there’s nothing so reassuring as a commitment to professional development in health practitioners.

In the lists of their books for sale at the end of their pamphlets, I noticed that the Ellises had initials  (F.B.I.M.S.) after their names, which my research tells me stood for Fellow of the British Institute of Mental Science. Apparently the British Institute of Mental Science was founded by Albert Ellis in 1891, initially to offer postal tuition, later  issuing diplomas and certificates.*

Thanks to information provided by Mark Ellis, a descendant of the Ellis family, we know that Ida ran the consulting rooms at these premises while Frank was busy running the promenade business.

The Ellises are careful to qualify their claims to scientific authenticity in “Notice to clients” at the beginning of “Palmistry chart” with an ingenious  explanation of why a client’s life may not unfold as read in their palm:

“It must be thoroughly understood that palmistry does not teach that things must absolutely occur, but that they possibly may unless steps are taken to hinder their occurrence. Thus it will be seen that if a voyage is marked on the hands, and efforts are made to hinder such an event, the mind will gradually register on the hands that the voyage was hindered, or the sign may fade away; whereas if events had taken their ordinary course the voyage would have been undertaken.”

In other words, anything could happen.

The allusion to science is a canny ploy by the Ellis family – phrenology occupied a curious position in the public imagination during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, peddled on the one hand by fairground quacks, while being the subject of genuine academic research by respected thinkers on the other.  Significant British phrenologists included the Scottish brothers George and Andrew Combe, who established the Phrenological Society of Edinburgh in 1820. This group included such well-respected luminaries as the publisher/author Robert Chambers, the astronomer John Pringle Nichol, the botanist Hewett Cottrell Watson and psychiatrist and asylum reformer William A.F. Browne (who took part in debates at the Plinian Society, of which Charles Darwin was a member). However, phrenology enjoyed a chequered career as a serious academic discipline, was rejected by the British Association for the Advancement of Science, and was eventually designated a pseudoscience.

 

We may scoff at the Ellis family’s methods, but aren’t they just cashing in on that enduring human need – to be listened to? Clients could enjoy the time and undivided attention of Albert, Ida or Frank at a consultation. What, after all, are psychiatrists and counsellors, if not people who will listen and dispense advice, for a price? And a much higher price than the Ellis family’s fees. Perhaps we should see the Ellis family as the poor man’s psychoanalysts, the working class alternative to the psychiatrist’s couch? People then, as now, were hungry for the promise of self-improvement, success, personal happiness and fulfilment.

As for Albert, Ida and Frank, the bumps on their heads would surely have denoted sharp business brains. It feels a bit like booking with a certain budget airline, reading Ellis family booklets – you’re forever coming across extra charges.

“If at any time you require a more complete guide to success, you should send this book by post to the address on the cover, and enclose ten shillings.”

“We shall be pleased to fill up any portions of this book at any time from your photo or handwriting or impressions of hands. Our fee for doing so through the post is one shilling for each part.”

 “Palmistry by post or by personal interview. If by post it is necessary for the client first to send 6d. for a bottle of Transferine, a liquid composition for the purpose of making impressions of hands. Fees according to length and detail of description.”

I can’t help wondering what the ingredients of Transferine were – Mark Ellis told us that it was invented by Frank as a removable (washable) type of ink for sending hand prints by post.

The Ellises were careful to preserve their intellectual property, too. On the first page of all their publications is the following warning:

“This chart is copyright, and legal proceedings will be taken against any person or persons who publish any portion of it without the written consent of the publishers, who have obtained an injunction and costs against a character reader who infringed the copyright of one of their charts.”

In other words, look out, any other “mental scientists” out there, and make sure you don’t impinge on the Ellis family turf.

 

*Witchcraft, magic and culture 1736-1951 by Owen Davies (published Manchester UP, 1999) – this book is held by Cambridge University Library at this shelfmark: 198.c.99.179

These pamphlets are housed in the tower of Cambridge University Library at the following shelfmarks and may be requested for consultation in the Library building:

  • Aids to self improvement. Classmark 1916.8.483
  • Guide to fame and fortune. Classmark 1916.8.572
  • Guide to health. Classmark 1916.8.484
  • Guide to success. Classmark 1916.8.509
  • Palmistry chart. Classmark 1916.8.617
  • Stepping stones to success. Classmark 1916.8.508
  • What baby is likely to become. Classmark 1916.8.621

Discovering Tower Treasures

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What’s really housed in Cambridge University Library’s fabled 17 storey tower? Contrary to a popular notion among students, the tower is not packed with pornography (Neville Chamberlain did rather unfortunately refer to the tower as ‘this magnificent erection’) but you might be surprised to learn that it houses a remarkable collection of so called ‘ephemera’ (non academic material) including board games, recipes, Victorian toys, handbooks on poultry farming, colourful children’s books, pamphlets on palmistry and treatises on phrenology, all jostling for shelf space in this 1930s landmark of the city skyline.

I was lucky to be part of the Tower Project at the University Library, cataloguing online all items received under legal deposit by the library from 1800 to 1925. A collection that had up until then been accessible only by consulting small, handwritten, wedge shaped books which read from back to front, and were slotted into niches in a corridor wall, became discoverable through the library’s online catalogue by anyone around the world with an internet connection. 

I blogged about the books I was cataloguing for the Tower Project, and I’m still blogging about them now in the hope that they will amuse, intrigue and entertain.

The Average Boy

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“When stress of weather, or the coming of long winter evenings, or any other reason gives the indoor part of life a larger importance, this indoor handy book will be found an invaluable companion.”

If your children are bored being cooped up at home under the current lockdown, this may well be the book for you. You may think “Harper’s indoor book for boys” by Joseph H. Adams old fashioned, published as it was in 1908, but the scope of its ambition is impressive. No egg boxes and pipe cleaners here, oh no, this is on an altogether grander scale. Projects include making a bird cage, a candelabra, a stereopticon (double magic lantern, in case you were wondering), a settle and “nooks for books,” not to mention trying a spot of pyrography (fire-etching on wood – is this wise?), bookbinding, Venetian metalwork, even clock making, for goodness’ sake.

What a joy parenting must have been in 1908, when “the average boy” (as he is constantly referred to in this handy tome) would tackle “fitting up a boy’s room” at the drop of a hat, assembling “an indispensable clothes press” along the way, while constructing a “curved-back window seat” at a moment’s notice. Where have we gone wrong? To think that your sons could furnish your entire house for you if only they didn’t spend all their time sitting comatose in front of a screen.

An exercising weight

Heaven knows it’s easy enough to feel inadequate as a parent, but I can see that I have fallen lamentably short:

“Nearly every boy has had, at one time or another, a desire to make scroll-brackets, fretwork-boxes, and filigree wood-work of various sorts.”

Oh dear. I failed to nurture this enthusiasm while my boys were growing up – neither of them could build a whatnot* to save their lives.

Whatnot

This book was originally published in America, and is a testament to the self-reliance and energetic spirit of our pioneering cousins across the water. Perhaps this explains the book’s assumption that one has sufficient space at home in which to construct what has to be the most ambitious project in this frankly daunting volume, a “house gymnasium,” featuring an “adjustable flying trapeze.” Yes, that’s right, a flying trapeze.

The high expectations of the average boy expressed in this “indoor handy book” beg the question as to what constitutes average. I wonder how many botched whatnots and wonky settles cluttered up Edwardian family homes? As for the consequences of pyrography and flying trapezes, we can only hope that the emergency services in 1908 were up to the task.

* ”For trinkets, books, and the general assortment of odds and ends that a boy is sure to possess.”