When men were men …

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strength, tricks

… they apparently spent their leisure time demonstrating to their loved ones how massively muscular they were.

A man attempting to bend a poker on his neck.

Following on from Ros’s discovery of all the things a bright Edwardian boy could do, I recently came across Simple strength tests for home entertainment, a volume of “tricks and feats”, with the help of which the average Edwardian gentleman could show off his physical prowess. It would seem that the way to pass a dark winter’s night in 1909 (or thereabouts) was to get into competitions of strength with one’s companions. It’s intriguing, not least because while the book gives its readers hints on how to appear stronger than they actually are, most of the stunts suggested would require an iron physique anyway, and the author seems to realise that fact. So, when it comes to “Bending a poker on the neck”, men are advised, “Choose a poker that has been frequently on the fire”, as “Very few people have the strength to bend a poker with the use of arms only”. (Well, thanks for that brilliant tip.)

A quick way of rising

The book is, therefore, full of disclaimers. The “Jumping feat”, which involves jumping from a crouching position onto a chair, is, the author acknowledges, “Not so easy as it appears”. Should you want to attempt “Lifting a man with two fingers” (dear goodness), it’s easier if the man being lifted “retains his breath, keeping his lungs full of air”; but still, “A certain amount of strength is, of course, necessary for the performance of this feat”. (I should say so. I read this as the author saying: good luck to you, as it’s probably not going to happen.) Even when the feat is allegedly “really easy”, as in the case of “A quick way of rising” (pictured to the right), I have my doubts as to whether anyone would actually be capable of carrying it off. But maybe I’m being unfair. There was less obesity back in those days, after all, and I’m sure that physical education was more punishing, so perhaps most Edwardians were Superman types.

Oh well. Not being much inclined to physical exertion myself, I won’t try to lift a man on a chair, or even to break a pencil with my forefinger; and I can only exhort you not to try any of this at home. Particularly not this “skilful feat”:

Is this even humanly possible?

The average boy

“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.”

Just another indoor activities book, I thought, flicking through the pages of “Harper’s indoor book for boys” by Joseph H. Adams (1908.7.1025), but I was sorely mistaken. 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, bas-relief clay modelling, 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* I can assure you.

Whatnot

This book was originally published in America, and is a testament to the self-reliance and energetic spirit of our 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. If only we had “average boys” like these, James May could’ve put his feet up instead of making “Man Lab.”

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

Talwin Morris

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art nouveau, bookbindings, design, Talwin Morris

We spend so much of this blog looking between the pages of the books that

Red Letter Library

 we catalogue, but often neglect the bindings. Book bindings are very important, as anyone who has spent their weekends browsing in bookshops will know, since they are what draws many people to the book in the first place.

English Authors for School Reading Series

Several of the books that are currently being catalogued reflect the Art Deco movement of the early twentieth century. Talwin Morris was one designer who made his name with this sort of work.

Born in 1865, Morris started his professional life in the office of architectural firm Martin Brooks. It was here that he developed the interest in architectural drawing which was to heavily influence his work. In 1891 he became the sub-editor and designer for a weekly publication called “Black and White”.  His main duties included designing initial letters and decorative panels for the magazine.

Examples the house style designed by Morris

Hans Brinker by Mary Mapes Dodge

In 1893 he took a job that was to define his career. As well as working as a freelance designer, Morris took the position of Arts Director for the publishing firm Blackie and Sons in Glasgow. The firm wanted designs which could be used on each different publication but still tie them together with a unifying theme – a sort of ‘house style’. Morris used his knowledge of architectural drawing and the Art Nouveau movement to design images and covers which set Blackie and Sons books apart from the rest.

Aunt Hesba's Charge by Elizabeth J. Lysaght

At the time this was a new way of doing things, since previously publishers had been more focused on what was inside the book. Bookbinding technology had advanced to such a degree that bindings could become evermore colourful and elaborate and Morris took full advantage of this. Some of the designs, illustrated throughout this post, are truly beautiful. He also designed end papers and motifs for many of the books that he worked on.

Hill House, Helensburgh (photo: el_jambere)

Another of Morris’ claims to fame is that he introduced his friend Charles Rennie Mackintosh to publisher Walter Blackie. Blackie was looking for a designer for his new home and Morris recommended Mackintosh. The end result was Hill House in Helensburgh, Scotland. This is still open as a heritage site today and is regarded as Mackintosh’s ‘finest domestic creation’.

One lucky architecture student appreciated the beauty of Morris’ work when he found a copper plate and two plaques in a skip in Glasgow. After rescuing them he held on to them and recently sold them for £6,000. This proves that the Art Nouveau period is still in favour with many collectors today and hopefully will continue to be for some time yet!

Always read the label

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Jokes, W.W. Jacobs

  

On first glance, this looks quite an ordinary sort of book.  The cover promises some kind of humour, maybe a collection of jokey anecdotes, but clearly something amusing to pass an idle hour or two with.

 On a closer look, there is perhaps a hint of some kind of spoof.  W.W. Jacobs was a well-known writer of short stories, many of them based on dockyard characters.  He was born in Wapping and his father was a dockyard worker, which no doubt led to a certain amount of inspiration for his tales about Ginger Dick, Sam Small, and Peter Russett, a trio of rather feckless and credulous sailors.

 Obviously, the cover illustrates one of these wharf-side characters, apparently having a good laugh at the contents of the book in his hand.  But why is it described as “not” by W.W. Jacobs?  A parody of his works then, perhaps?  Surely an entertaining read, anyway.

 So, pity the poor reader, who shells out his sixpence and then opens his purchase to find this:

  

Yes, an entire volume of blank pages, each with a hole cut in the centre to reveal a skein of high quality wool glued to the final page.  An attached label repeats the message on the cover.  So, who is the joke on now?

The signalman

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Charles Dickens, Great Western Railway, railway memorabilia, The signalman

Great Western Railway. General instructions. May, 1857.

The library has received many donations of books and manuscripts over the centuries, but my favourite so far is not the most obviously expensive or impressive. It consists only of four boxes of material collected by the Rev. H.P Hart, Rector of Ixworth, near Bury St Edmunds.  The book covers are worn smooth by use, because they were used every day: they are the working manuals used by railway workers in the second half of the nineteenth century.  There are timetables, signal manuals, and even notes of special arrangements for Christmas Eve trains. They’re a favourite of mine because they tell us how things were done, in a detail that even includes the names of the men working that Christmas Eve 1857 on the Devon and Exeter line. 

Anyone who knows Charles Dickens short story “The signalman”,  will feel a shock of recognition at this illustration from the signalling instructions issued by Great Western Railway in 1857

Dickens’ signalman was haunted by a similar apparition who stood by the red light at the entrance to the tunnel, signalling danger “For God’s sake, clear the way!”  And less dramatically, Dickens’ signalman had his duties similar to those listed in these handbooks. “He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a desk for an official book in which he had to make certain entries, a telegraphic instrument with its dial, face, and needles, and the little bell of which he had spoken … Once he had to stand without the door, and display a flag as a train passed, and make some verbal communication to the driver. In the discharge of his duties, I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant, breaking off his discourse at a syllable, and remaining silent until what he had to do was done.”