The Culture of the Publisher's Series, Volume 2: Nationalisms and the National Canon

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The Culture of the Publisher’s Series, Volume Two

10.1057/9780230299399 - The Culture of the Publisher's Series, Volume 2, Edited by John Spiers

Brycchan Carey et al. (eds), Discourses of Slavery and Abolition: Britain and Its Colonies, 1760–1838 Gail Marshall and Adrian Poole (eds), Victorian Shakespeare, Vol. 1: Theatre, Drama and Performance, Vol. 2: Literature and Culture Andrew Nash (ed.), The Culture of Collected Editions Jerome McGann, Radiant Textuality: Literary Study after the World Wide Web Elizabeth James (ed), Macmillan: A Publishing Tradition Elizabeth Maslen, Political and Social Issues in British Women’s Fiction, 1928–1968 Angelique Richardson and Chris Willis (eds), The New Woman in Fiction and Fact: Fin-de-Siècle Feminisms Warren Chernaik, Martin Swales and Robert Vilain (eds), The Art of Detective Fiction Rebecca D’Monte and Nicole Pohl (eds), Female Communities 1600–1800 Isobel Armstrong and Virginia Blain (eds), Women’s Poetry in the Enlightenment: The Making of a Canon, 1730–1820 Isobel Armstrong and Virginia Blain (eds), Women’s Poetry, Late Romantic to Late Victorian: Gender and Genre, 1830–1900 Warren Chernaik and Martin Dzelzainis (eds), Marvell and Liberty (July 1999) Andy Leak and George Paizis (eds), The Holocaust and the Text: Speaking the Unspeakable Warwick Gould and Thomas F. Staley (eds), Writing the Lives of Writers Ian Willison, Warwick Gould and Warren Chernaik (eds), Modernist Writers and the Marketplace (1996) John Spiers (ed.), George Gissing and the City: Cultural Crisis and the Making of Books in Late Victorian England Mary Hammond and Shafquat Towheed (eds), Publishing in the First World War (2007) Mary Hammond and Robert Fraser (eds), Books without Borders, Volume 1: The Cross-National Dimension in Print Culture (2008), Books without Borders, Volume 2: Perspectives from South Asia (2008) Gina Potts and Lisa Shahriari (eds), Virginia Woolf’s Bloomsbury, Volume 1: Aesthetic Theory and Literary Practice (2010), Virginia Woolf’s Bloomsbury, Volume 2: International Influence and Politics (2010) Robert J. Balfour (ed.), Culture, Capital and Representation (2010)



Other publications by Palgrave Macmillan in association with the Institute of English Studies

Nationalisms and the National Canon Edited, and with an introduction by John Spiers Senior Research Fellow, Institute of English Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London and Visiting Professor, School of Humanities, Social Sciences and Law, University of Glamorgan

In association with the Institute of English Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London



The Culture of the Publisher’s Series, Volume Two

Selection and editorial matter © John Spiers 2011 Individual chapters © contributors 2011

No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2011 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN 978–0–230–28403–6

hardback

This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne



All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.


For my dear granddaughters Alina and Jodie




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List of Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgements

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Notes on Contributors

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Introduction. Wondering about ‘the Causes of Causes’: The Publisher’s Series, Its Cultural Work and Meanings John Spiers

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The American Publisher’s Series Goes to War, 1942–1946 John B. Hench

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The Foreign Series of Herder Verlag by 1900: International Catholic Literature Álvaro Ceballos Viro

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Adamantios Korais’s ‘The Greek Library’ (1805–1827): An Ingenious Publisher and the Making of a Nation Nassia Yakovaki

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4

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Fabricating a National Canon: The Role of Richard Bentley and George Robertson in Developing and Marketing the Australian Library Alison Rukavina

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Women’s Series – by Women, for Women? Lisa Kuitert

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Leonard Bast’s Library: Aspiration, Emulation and the Imperial National Tradition Robert Fraser

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Negotiating the List: Launching Macmillan’s Colonial Library and Author Contracts Shafquat Towheed

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Household Words: An Account of the ‘Bengal Family Library’ Abhijit Gupta

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Great Books by the Millions: J. M. Dent’s Everyman’s Library Terry I. Seymour

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8

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Contents

10 ‘The Green and the Gold’: Series Publishing in Nineteenth-Century Ireland Elizabeth Tilley

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11 One Series after Another: The Macmillan Company of Canada Ruth Panofsky

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Index

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viii Contents

1.1 Three of the twenty-two titles in the series Bücherreine Neue Welt, published to be sold to German prisoners of war in camps in the USA. Jeff Adams Photography

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2.1 Alexander Baumgartner et al., Drei Indianer-Geschichte (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herdersche Verlagshandlung, 1896)

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3.1 Adamantios Korais (1748–1833). Smolki. Black and white lithograph, 35 ⫻ 25 cm, Athens, National Historical Museum, Print Collection no. 4948/14

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5.1 Catharina F. van Rees (1831–1915), editor of the Dutch series with women authors, published in 1879–80

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6.1 Constable’s Miscellany of Original and Selected Publications in the Various Departments of Literature, Science and the Arts: Volume XV, Robert Chambers, Rebellion in Scotland (Edinburgh: Constable, 1827), Volume One, title page with frontispiece of Charles Edward Stuart 120 6.2 Professor Henry Morley (1822–94)

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6.3 ‘Handsome Oak Bookcase’, 1886 for Cassell’s National Library, displaying fifty-two early titles

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7.1 Series catalogue bound into Rudyard Kipling, The Light that Failed (London: Macmillan, 1895), no. 249 of Macmillan’s Colonial Library 149 8.1 Title page of John Robinson’s translation of Robinson Crusoe, published in the Bengali Family Library (3rd edn, 1860) 154 8.2 Frontispiece to John Robinson’s translation of Robinson Crusoe, published in the Bengali Family Library (3rd edn, 1860) 159 10.1 Thomas MacNevin, The History of the Irish Volunteers of 1792 (Dublin: James Duffy & Co., Duffy’s Library of Ireland, 1848), courtesy of the James Hardiman Library, National University of Ireland, Galway 181 11.1 W. O. Mitchell’s novel Who Has Seen the Wind, no. 14 in the Macmillan Company of Canada’s Laurentian Library, 1972 (first published 1947)

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List of Illustrations

In editing these two volumes concerned with the complex relationships between knowledge and culture, the market and the historical individual reader I have contracted many debts. Notably, to my splendid colleagues, the contributors. These offer chapters that range very widely in time and place. There is much significant new material about national and international cultures and the role of the series. These studies help us to understand publishing as a commercial, risk-taking, competitive, practical and entrepreneurial enterprise, as well as appreciating publishing as a fundamental cultural venture that poses the largest of all social and economic questions about meanings and events in different nations, regions and times. In my separate Introductions to each volume I have highlighted some problems of the historiographical analysis of events, and the economic and cultural work done by series, together with the wider cultural implications of this work. As Clifford Dyment wrote in 1943, ‘Collective urgency thinks only of action; poets, however, are always wondering about causes.’ I am most especially grateful to my good friend Professor Warwick Gould, Director of the Institute of English Studies, for encouraging me when I first suggested a conference on ‘The Culture of The Publisher’s Series’ (held at the IES on 18–19 October 2007), and for all his support over my seven years (so far) at the IES. He has actively aided this project at every turn. His exuberance and intelligence, wisdom and guidance have, indeed, been the basis of one of his own greatest creations, the Institute of English Studies itself. My thanks, too, to another senior colleague at the IES, Professor Simon Eliot. My friend and colleague Professor Robert Fraser of the Open University has read the Introductions to these two volumes and given me advice of pure gold concerning the content and structure of an earlier version. I am deeply grateful to him for our discussions and for helping me shape (and reshape) my arguments, not all of which he approves. He will, I hope, forgive me where I have demurred. What is printed inevitably remains my responsibility. I also owe much to my colleagues at the Institute of Economic Affairs, Professor Philip Booth and the late Arthur Seldon, as to my first tutor in economics, Professor Donald Winch. x



Acknowledgements

My dear wife Leigh has, as always, given me constant help. I am grateful, too, to those who chaired the original conference sessions, and to each of the patient contributors to these volumes. My friend and colleague Dr Mary Hammond was very supportive and encouraging in co-organising the original event, and in suggesting possible speakers and approaches to the issues. Palgrave Macmillan’s reader has, too, been of enormous help. Paula Kennedy, Publisher, Literature, Theatre and Performance Studies at Palgrave Macmillan, has been all that an editor could hope for, and has earned the gratitude of all those involved in the project. I am grateful, too, to Ben Doyle, Editorial Assistant at Palgrave Macmillan, and to Linda Auld of Linda Auld Associates for their detailed care and guidance in seeing the project through the press, and to John Taylor for his excellent copy-editing. John Spiers Twyford, Sussex



Acknowledgements xi

Robert Fraser, Professor of English, Open University, UK. Abhijit Gupta, Reader in English, Jadavpur University, Kolkata, India. John B. Hench recently retired as Vice-President for Collections and Programs, American Antiquarian Society, USA. Lisa Kuitert, Professor in Book History and Manuscript Studies, University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands. Ruth Panofsky, Associate Professor of English, Ryerson University, Canada. Alison Rukavina, Instructor in Department of Film and English Studies, University of Alberta, Canada. Terry I. Seymour is an independent scholar living in the USA. John Spiers, Senior Research Fellow, Institute of English Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London; Visiting Professor, School of Humanities, Social Sciences and Law, University of Glamorgan, UK; founder and chief executive of The Harvester Press academic publishing group, 1969–88. Elizabeth Tilley was Director of the MA in Literature and Publishing at the National University of Ireland, Galway, Eire. Shafquat Towheed, Lecturer in Literature, Open University, UK. Álvaro Ceballos Viro recently completed his doctorate at GeorgeAugust-Universität, Göttingen, Germany. Nassia Yakovaki, Assistant Professor of Early Modern European History, University of Thessally, Greece.

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Notes on Contributors

Wondering about ‘the Causes of Causes’: The Publisher’s Series, Its Cultural Work and Meanings Part Two: The Series, the Academy, and the World John Spiers [For Part One: The Methodologies of Series and the Limits of Knowledge, please see The Culture of the Publisher’s Series, Volume 1] The series is a major factor in aiding the book historian to pose and to answer many questions, including ‘why does book history matter?’ Here we confront wider dilemmas about ideas and assumptions about culture, art, education, politics, economics, democracy, morality, the intellect and individual development, and the relations with ourselves, with others, and with the State. And so we find that in considering the culture of the publisher’s series we have to examine social roles and consciousness, perceptions of self and of others, and the complex interactions of private and public thought and practice on how we are to live and how others have done so. These issues concern – in the words of Raymond Williams – ‘changes in consciousness which are themselves forms of consciousness of change’ (Williams 1986: 142). In the first half of this two-part Introduction (in Volume 1 of this twovolume set) I considered some essential terms relating to publishers’ series as cultural phenomena, the cultural and economic work that they do, their nature as cultural artefacts and the modes of understanding appropriate to their appreciation. As I said in Volume 1, our contributors are especially concerned with the social processes by which competing publishers have sought to occupy niche-spaces, in response to changing opportunities and by extrapolating from the experience of the recent past. Here, we need to work with a definition of a niche which is helpfully ever-present in discussions of the series and which is actively explanatory. Paul Colinvaux, in his The Fates of Nations, offered ‘A niche is a specific set of capabilities for extracting resources, for surviving hazard, and for competing; coupled with a corresponding set of needs’ (Colinvaux 1980: 232). 1



Introduction

John Spiers

For a series publisher to recognise, learn and master a niche, to occupy it as a fresh environment in a culture, to respond successfully to contextual change, is to seek fitness for purpose and survival. In Volume 1 I looked at the series over time, and the role that series have played in cultural formation and in the constitution and positioning of readerships. I stressed, too, the limits of all such knowledge as well as the elements that can be comfortably assimilated into scholarly discourse, together with the more elusive factors which escape such classification – and, indeed, which may always do so. In this second part here I broaden the discussion to consider the place of publishers’ series in our understanding of publishing and its changes. I do so in relation to society, to economics, and to national and international identities – as, indeed, do our contributors. Critically, we are examining the cultural work of the series, its purposes, strategies and contexts. In these two collaborative volumes we offer twenty-two entirely new papers focused on this polarity. Introductions to such volumes commonly tell you what the authors of the following papers then tell you. I do not envisage my role as editor as to try to steal the thunder (or the lightning) of contributors by summarising their best points in a few cursory sentences. Instead, I have offered an Introduction in two halves, each of which precedes a volume of the two-part set and which instead attempts some wider contextual work. The two volumes can stand alone, but the reader will gain much from studying the two as a whole. In the first volume I provide some basic definitions and observations – of what we mean by a ‘niche’, a ‘series’, a ‘library’ etc., as well as a ‘culture’, a ‘classic’ or a ‘canon’. In this second volume I particularly emphasise the importance of taking entrepreneurship and business and the individual consumer seriously, if we are to understand the actual dynamics of risktaking, the calculations of odds and probabilities made by publishers and the wider context and agencies of book publishing and book-buying. Paul Colinvaux’s The Fates of Nations (1980) showed how and why nations competed for resources, and how they sought to occupy specific and changing niche-spaces in the world’s polity and economy. These were learned niches in national struggles to secure extra resources. They are fundamental to our understanding of the dynamics of such national strategies as colonialism, trade and the onset of aggressive wars – analysed by Colinvaux as deliberate efforts to change a nation’s niches to increase its resources. By implication this study suggests many insights into the social mechanism which was and is the publisher’s series. As I outlined in Volume 1, the phenomenon of the publisher’s series has generally been neglected by all but a few scholars working on individual



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publishing houses. Few book-trade studies index ‘series’, although most index ‘serial’. The series has never before been considered holistically as part of the changes in culture and the production, pricing and distribution of books in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and as something with precedents in earlier periods and ramifications in later ones, and in many nations and cultures. As my friend and colleague Dr. Mary Hammond said, in encouraging the project, in this two-volume set the different contributors’ voices emerge as complementary methodological systems: engaging with archival research, cultural theory, literary, paratextual and bibliometric analysis, and often with each other. They demonstrate a wide range of approaches which scholars of book history have come to recognise as essential in the task of excavating texts and readers of the past, and in assessing which trends reflected general patterns of change. The papers in these two volumes were first presented to the conference ‘The Culture of the Publisher’s Series’, held at the Institute of English Studies at Senate House in central London on 18–19 October 2007. They celebrate the series in its complex diversity. The essays in this second volume all concern the broader frameworks provided by nation, empire and the international community insofar as they help us to appreciate the purpose and function of series, and the rapport that each seeks to establish with various kinds or categories of reader. John Hench examines the role of American publishers’ series during the Second World War, 1939–45; Álvaro Caballos Viro considers international Catholic literature; Alison Rukavina considers the canonmaking aspects of Richard Bentley and the Melbourne bookseller and publisher George Robertson’s Australian Library; while Lisa Kuitert looks at series for women in the nineteenth-century Netherlands. Robert Fraser surveys a number of series in nineteenth-century Scotland and England, and the ways in which each moulded their readers’ sense of nation; he ends with some personal remarks concerning his maternal grandfather’s intellectual debt to Cassell’s National Library. Two essays concern the international dealings of the firm of Macmillan. Shafquat Towheed examines the author contracts supplied by the firm for their Colonial Library, and Ruth Panofsky looks at some series launched locally by the Macmillan Company of Canada. Abhijit Gupta discusses the Bengal Family Library, and Terry Seymour examines J. M. Dent’s Everyman’s Library. Elizabeth Tilley looks at the publisher’s series in nineteenth-century Ireland, where much original and highly influential publishing work influenced a sense of ‘the nation’. The essays here help us to see how some inhabitants of some countries actually saw themselves, and how ideas and people were differentiated



Introduction 3

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within historical and temporal frontiers. They thus illuminate the flux of culture, custom, outlook and identity held in common and the different senses of nationhood over time. They also emphasise cultural disparities as well as homogeneities, alignments and re-alignments, and the variety of identities prevailing and persuasive among different groups at different times. Self-image was always a crucial factor, itself reflected in many series. Here specifics matter, as Loughran (2007) shows. A key context here is Benedict Anderson’s controversial work Imagined Communities (1991). In an important essay about the development of the modern American nation Robert A. Gross offered this summary: As formulated by Anderson, modern nationalism took shape under the aegis of ‘print capitalism’ seeking out markets for readers with a common language and with inchoate sentiments and identities waiting for public expression. Out of the experience of reading the ascendant genres of the newspaper and the novel. ‘rapidly growing numbers of people’ came ‘to think about themselves, and to relate themselves to others, in profoundly new ways. Although they followed the news and absorbed the plots of novels in ‘silent privacy, in the lair of their skull’, they did so in an ‘extraordinary mass ceremony’, aware that thousands of others were doing the same thing more or less at the same time. Their outlooks were enlarged, their sympathies broadened, and by this means an impersonal aggregation of strangers, scattered across far-flung settlements, developed into a ‘remarkable community in anonymity’, joined in mutual awareness, collective sentiments, and emotional bonds. (Gross 2010: 12) Loughran queries this account, but Linda Colley, draws attention to the words of the French historian Georges Duby, who noted that ‘The attitudes of groups of individuals to their own situation in society and the conduct these attitudes dictate are determined not so much by actual economic conditions as by the image in the minds of the individuals and groups’ (Colley 1996: 45; Duby, in Briggs 1985: v). The differing cultures of the series, too, show us that there are few consistent monolithic national identities. There are complex divergencies due to different geographies, including the powerful influence of island status and also the fact that a nation is not made by ruling a line on a map. In the formation of nations, ambiguities abound. And smaller nations regularly seek to re-emerge from larger formations, too. In addition, as we have seen in our own time in Eastern Europe and Africa, when centrally imposed controls relax old enmities and aspirations can re-emerge. There is then



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an open conflict of cultures and controls. Since the eighteenth century at least, invention and investment has constantly shifted in the formation of national and regional identities, as these studies of series show. With respect to national series whose innovations A. Gupta, L. Kuitert, E. Tilley, A. C. Viro, and N. Yakovaki examine. They explore the question of what a specific nationality or sense of nationhood is about, how people established who they were, what they felt, why they thought the way they did, the frame through which they looked at the past and the present, the psychic and political questions concerning what made them special, what forged their national consciousness, what offered them rallying cries, what legitimated their national structures and bound people together. As Jennifer Alison has shown in her study of George Robertson (of Angus & Robertson), an individual publisher can have an enormous and conscious impact in establishing a purely national literature of prose and poetry, and a new sense of a ‘nation’ (Alison 2009). The publisher’s series has thus reflected differing (and not always durable) senses of identities, and the extent to which they have been serviceable and useable resources in national expression, as Linda Colley has investigated for Britain. She points, too, to ‘the unsoundness of any single platonic notion of what constitutes nationalism and nationhood’ (Colley 1996: 408). Certainly, the drivers for specific recent cultures have been many and diverse: the pressures of revolutions in industry and transport, the geographical mobility of a nation’s or a region’s inhabitants, elite attitudes and the privileging of minorities, the rise of the bourgeoisie, the patriotic influence of organised religion, networks of self-interest and credit, the urbanisation of a population, the growing volume and complexity of internal and external trade (including exporting, importing and re-exporting), the operations of free trade and the realities of entrepreneurship and profits, the impact of imperial tides, and for Australia (and New Zealand) the consequences of what historian Geoffrey Blainey has called ‘the tyranny of distance’ (Blainey 1968). As John Hench shows in his paper, war has been a key factor in enhancing literacy and book distribution. Colley (echoing the Orwell of Nineteen Eightyfour) says, too, that ‘Time and again, war with an obviously hostile and alien foreign power has forged a semblance of unity and distracted attention from the considerable divisions and tensions within. In a very real sense, war – recurrent, protracted and increasingly demanding war – had been the making of Great Britain’ (Colley 1996: 339). John Stevenson, too, has pointed out that ‘Modern mass communications, railways, delivery vans, the telegraph, wireless and the newspapers also fostered a greater sense of nationhood. People of widely different



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backgrounds and outlook were increasingly moulded by common, collective concerns of which the sense of national identity was one of the most powerful. This sense of nationhood played a large role in the war fever of Europe and further afield in 1914’ (Stevenson 1990: 48). Then there is the range of networks of communications and the proliferation of print (tracts, religious works, almanacs, newspapers and periodicals, pamphlets, books) which have been fundamental in any culture, and in the evolution of its ‘political personality’. So, too, shifts in religious belief and influence, political upheavals, the threats of wars and invasions and the national bonding they have encouraged. The yields of peace and prosperity, educational change and other modernising agents form a major part of the picture, too, as John Hench and others show. Here, one of the great interests of the culture of the publisher’s series that we see is to examine what were common frameworks among series publishers and what was peculiar to time, to the inventive entrepreneur in invented nations, to those identifying with a nation, as well as to place, and why. Each of our authors is tussling with intractable questions raised by the series as material artefact and social fact. They address priorities which seem to be mandatory for book historians at the point at which they are driven to assess such questions of cultural, social, political and economic relevance. Here it is a challenge for the academy to come to terms (often reluctantly) with business as a generator of social and economic change, in an adaptive liberal market economy. We need a new-revisionist assessment of the preponderance of anti-capitalist rhetoric in the academic discourse of the recent past, its pervasiveness and apparent appeal, and the constraints which it can place on our appreciation of something as subtle and as substantial as the production and distribution of books. We need to be sympathetic to that frequently misunderstood figure the creative capitalist entrepreneur, always a major actor on many diverse scenes. In the process I suggest that we are driven to consider nothing less than the politics and purposes of book history itself. In my Introduction to the first volume of this two-volume set I sought to open out some fundamental problems of method and of address. The reader with this second volume in their hands may wish to see the Introduction to the first volume. There I stressed the importance of studying publishing and its culture as a practical business with evershifting everyday challenges, to which the series has been one significant response. Here, a publisher’s books are valuable as an archive in themselves – especially in the absence of surviving commercial archives.



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In the absence of direct evidence we are forced back upon the indirect and the otherwise overlooked. I raise some key problems of cultural and social analysis, including the vital role of the creative entrepreneur, the management of every kind of capital, and the energy and the capability to dare to be different – to march to a different drum, to break step, to show a touch of imagination and wit, to take a risk and to learn from failure, and to garner success. Series show that this work is a mix or synthesis of art, science, knowledge and intuition – of conception, inception and experience. Leaps of imagination have been essential – such as the first introduction of the ‘railway’ novel by the Belfast firm of Simms & M’Intyre in 1847 as the railway emerged as the predominant metaphor of the Industrial Revolution as Elizabeth Tilley shows. This fundamentally important series had many effects, the consequences of which are felt to this day. A major large niche of proven opportunity, quality and apparent permanence was revealed – ultimately leading to mass market cheap books for all. In its novelty and tradeeffects it particularised key factors of change, including the benefits of cheaper materials and production techniques alongside growing readerships and new methods of distribution. In the 1840s and 1850s there chimed motive, opportunity and means. These were enormous cultural changes, consequential as entrepreneurs trapped and widely applied the energies captured in fossil fuels. As our studies of individual publishers’ series demonstrate, postindustrial processes of manufacture and management rapidly changed and every other culture had to contend with the consequences. Every localised culture across the globe shifted in response to newly reorganised world markets. As the environmental historian James Winter puts this: ‘Inexorably, material goods and information flowed from less to more highly organized systems … Increase in the scale and complexity of technological systems encouraged further increases; these increases and the diffusion of technology to new areas encouraged centralisation of management; this centralized management encouraged the development of implements and techniques whose performances were predictable and therefore responsive to central management’ (Winter 1999: 205). As he shows, local, social, business, physical and cultural landscapes were much changed by the far-reaching influence of London. These cultures were vulnerable to such a powerful remote interest, and to policies and events. And, in the short term at least, the diversity of local enterprises was reduced or blocked. The influences were complex: Extranatural power, iron machinery, artifice, railway speed, innovation, precision, synchronization, professionalism, rationalization, calculation,



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utility, abstractness, efficiency – these phenomena, values, and processes were what Victorians had in mind when they described their age, as they frequently did, as the age of steam (Winter 1999: 83). Key new techniques were introduced, as production reached everexpanding global markets, carried part way at least by steam, directed by telegraph from mid-century onwards, and expedited by new professional accounting procedures, by innovative financial and exchange services, and by new marketing systems. As Winter argues, ‘each of these technologies shaping and stimulating the other’ (Winter 1999: 11). From the 1860s onwards ‘investors, shippers, import and export companies, international railway engineers, politicians, and military strategists were forming a world trade, insurance, banking, information, and communications network centered in London’ (Winter 1999: 20–1). And so Britain was able initially to co-opt much world production into its Imperial system. In many prismatic senses, the ‘railway novel’ is a whistle that signals these changes. We see each of these interlocked aspects of cultural change in the mirror of the publishers’ series. Steam became a metaphor for artifice and innovation of every kind. Space and time shrank as opportunities expanded. The gulf between the conceptual world of the late eighteenth and the early nineteenth centuries widened rapidly. Local markets and culture – as Alison Rukavina shows – were co-opted and often overwhelmed by the newly industrial Britain, as they struggled for local self-definition. How these cultures and values responded and developed is a key focus of our essays. The ‘railway novel’ proved to be an entirely new niche. It was at the railway station bookstalls that the first Simms & M’Intyre novel – and the imitators led by George Routledge and his ‘Railway Library’ – were to be found. These changed access to a huge number of texts, both new and old. They changed price and design. The new and cheaper novels in pocket-format were specifically located in these opportunities generated by new technology – the railway and its new bookstalls. That niche then permitted other recruitments in the market and broadened niches for both individuals and populations. The origin of the ‘railway novel’ itself depended on the application to movement of new and cheap fossil-fuelled industrial energy, and to the entrepreneurship of booksellers at railway stations. Cheaper, faster, wider distribution by railway (and steamship) led, among other changes, to cheaper food, to more personal disposable income and to much changed cultural horizons. The ‘railway novel’ showed – reflecting Paul Colinvaux’s terms in his The Fates of Nations (1980) – that well directed energy multiplied the benefits from a good idea, and that such change was the friend of the



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shrewd, the quick-witted and the innovative. But it also demonstrated that it was difficult to retain a competitive edge in an adaptive market. Technical superiority was brief. Monopoly was temporary. Competitors learned and imitated any new approaches, and they improved on innovations too. Few if any publishers could behave like the management of Arnold Bennett’s Grand Hotel Babylon and defy competition by ignoring it. The knowledge of new techniques and technologies was rapidly held in common. Compromises did not endure. Once a favourable new niche was demonstrated, others rapidly occupied it. Every series was vulnerable to imitation. Careers could be built on emulation. As Colinvaux (1980: 192) says, ‘Anyone can make a warship, just as anyone can make a musket, a cannon or a tank.’ Or a series. New ideas were easily adopted by others, and counter-techniques thought of too. The benefits of a new kind of series were immediate, but they had to be exploited rapidly in a culture where people were learning to live better and where new standards rapidly spread. Here marketing had to be sustained if a firm was to hold onto a sufficient share of a newly established market. The historical data shows that rivals, indeed, learned new techniques very quickly, as the emulative career of George Routledge in England and that of the many nineteenth-century American cheap reprint firms highlighted. The contemporary struggles over copyright were necessary technical attempts to attract and protect new material, to hold it alone for long enough to recover and benefit from the necessary investment in a jostling and a piratical market, to retain business in the face of the challenge of new technologies and determined competitors. Nevertheless, ‘wealth, numbers and ambition grew together’ (Colinvaux 1980: 155). How and why the Belfast firm withdrew from fiction publishing, returning to its old base of educational books, is a separate problem – as is the influence for good and ill of conservative habits. John Simms and James M’Intyre were genuinely creative, where their imitator George Routledge was an alert and vigorous copyist and marketer who seized and amplified the opportunities they had first recognised. The Belfast duo showed that publishers are not metronomes, and that the acceptance and management of risk is an essential element in a creative business. The series publisher had to judge what works, what might work, what had not worked and what his or her firm might do with ideas tried by others, or never tried at all. Probabilities, and combinations of probabilities, always needed to be sensibly assessed, where they could be predicted. Self-criticism was always an essential. Markets showed up strengths and weaknesses in the knowledge of the publisher, and encouraged adaptive improvement. No publisher ever wanted to



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take undue risks, even when accepting the impossibility of a risk-free society. These factors have been basic in the culture and engineering of the publisher’s series. Here the technology scholar Henry Petroski has drawn attention to several key points, in assessing the science of physical engineering projects. What he says is apposite to the culture of the publisher’s series, and its constantly changing new environments. First, there is ‘the idea of design – of making something that had not existed before’, which is essential to any new beginning in economic, social and creative development and evolution. Second, ‘defects are unplanned experiments that can teach one how to make the next design better’ (Petroski 1985: 84). Successes may be repeatable, but the essential necessity is to learn from failures, as human beings seek to design what has not existed before and to ‘go beyond the past’ (Petroski 1985: vii, 9). Third, ‘No one wants to learn by mistakes, but we cannot learn enough from successes to go beyond the state of the art.’ Therefore the acceptance of risk and uncertainty in a trial-and-error system – including failure analysis and corrective action – is essential as we seek to increase creativity as well as the ability to predict the future. And innovation does not necessarily lead to failure, although the test is in the doing (Petroski 1985: 62). Fourth, the individual personality, craft and judgements of the engineer – and the publisher – matter, too. Petroski notes that, ‘As with all recipes … the cook is always the invisible ingredient’ (Petroski 1985: 42). Fifth, ‘While the curse of human nature appears to be to make mistakes, its determination appears to be to succeed … there is little indication that innovation will ever be abandoned completely for the sake of absolute predictability’ (Petroski 1985: 105). In these terms we can try to track the decisions taken and the realities of the publishers’ contemporary world and culture, for the structure and publication of series reflect the publisher’s observations, experiences, inspiration, hopes, guesses, calculations and conclusions, investments and results in ever-changing markets which are a daily economic referendum of taste and choice. Digital technology enables contemporary publishers to analyse and ask many questions of this data in detail and to respond rapidly, but archives do not survive sufficiently for us to track what earlier publishers did, save in very general terms. Key signals, however, are price, design and format, length, marketing and advertising, the development or closure of a project and patience or impatience with the market. Who copies whom is telling, too, as is the response of book-trade organisations that have sought to curtail competition when challenging new niches (created by experiment and learning) have emerged – for example, with the organised subversion by the British



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booksellers of the innovative Smith, Elder ‘Library of Romance’ between 1833 and 1835. This challenged the public to buy instead of borrowing new fiction in single volumes. The series offered was comprised entirely of original fiction, and was thus the forerunner of the one-volume novel of modern times. ‘It broke down (1) because the trade in its own immediate interest wished to maintain the status quo, (2) because the public in Britain were not book-buyers but book borrowers’ (Sadleir 1951: 170–5). Our contributors have highlighted much new material which reflects bright light on these issues with regard to an uncommonly met range of national identities, cultures, publishers, series, histories and traditions – and on such perennial economic issues for every publisher as how to increase sales, improve margins, cut costs, increase productivity, maintain reputation and achieve a sustained yield. In examining the culture of the publisher’s series within these different national imaginations and identities our essayists have focused on specific situations and eventualities. These detailed monographic studies are the essential building blocks of a new theoretical understanding of key aspects of book publishing in many countries and regions, and of international competition between them. Contributors have, too, tested the adequacy or otherwise of different kinds of social analysis – including nation, race, class, gender and time-bound place. Notably, the essays show that the culture of the publisher’s series raises key methodological issues about what we mean by ‘history’, and about the role of historical memory, of methods of historiographical research and of historical consciousness, the roles and origins of social processes and the difficulty of the concept of ‘purpose’ in history. The analysis of specific series confronts this cluster of perennial problems, including ‘the past’ as differentiated from the intellectual and political processes of historians. Here we see that the series has been concerned with particular and different identifications, norms and prescriptions – as an agent of socialisation, of national identity and of common (if often very different) values. It has reflected every aspect of the evolution of modernity, of liberal urban and industrial capitalism, the development of democracy and of ‘popular’ culture, the decline of religious faith, the rise of science and now the electronic global situation. In these constant and often unnerving cultural and commercial shifts a fundamental role of the series has been to seek to make sense of life, offering a model of order in differing fields. The series has thus selected and reflected on issues and events, and offered readers a resonant means of identifying their relationships. It has been one institutional means which has linked the everyday life of the individual, observed realities and prospects, historical and cultural memory. Series editors have sought



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to make sense of social processes, while themselves functioning as such a process. As we have seen, the series is itself a technological, a cultural and thus a historical system. It closely relates to inevitable – and creative – uncertainty. It has done much to structure public and private fields of meaning, and the ways in which people have understood their historical situation. The series has played its part in reaffirming and disrupting perspectives and experiences. It has combined ideas, cultural practices and industrial processes. As we seek disciplined historical understandings the series is one major means by which to study how a publisher has sought to imply ideas of permanence, authority, validation and judgement, while balancing art and economics. Our contributors show that the series has been a major contribution to the nature of book culture itself. It has been a significant factor in the evolution of ideas and in public conversation about literature, culture and competing political ideas. As we can see in these two volumes, the ‘canon’ is one problem posed by the series. The ‘canon’ (a time-capsule) has usually flowed backwards, summarising a national essence, as a touchstone and an approved inheritance. In ‘arranging’ (or ‘re-arranging’) the past the series has been the site for new claims made for the significance, too, of previously excluded cultures and interests, just as it has often offered works which imply necessary qualitative change. Reprint, or ‘classic’, series have commonly presented themselves as retrieving those texts which are said to define us (whoever ‘we’ are) in a social process of reaffirmed community and continuity. The series and ‘the canon’ is thus a key but very complicated element in what the cultural commentator Patrick Wright has spoken of (in another context) as a historically produced sense of the past which acts as ground for a proliferation of other definitions of what is normal, appropriate or possible. … Far from being somehow ‘behind’ the present, the past exists as an accomplished presence in public understanding. In this sense it is written into present social reality, not just implicitly as residue, precedent or custom and practice, but explicitly as itself. … Any attempt to develop and assert a critical historical consciousness will find itself in negotiation if not open conflict with this established public understanding of the ‘past’. It is therefore important to understand what it is that functions as the ‘past’ and to distinguish it from history. (Wright 1985: 128) In these terms, we have sought to evade reductionist explanations of cultural phenomena, and to be alert to the risks of raising particularities



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to principles, as Sir J. H. Plumb warned us in his The Death of the Past (1969). Here I have drawn attention to the benefits of considering the technologies of book publishing and the actual documented work of every agent involved in editorial, marketing and distribution decisions. Our contributors have considered the physical book as well as the text, together with the social and personal processes of interacting with books – including how people read as well as what they read. Here we seek both public and private meanings. This remains the most difficult territory. For we confront what are for millions of past people entirely insuperable problems of discovering the meaningful individual responses and ideas of readers, the interiority amidst many unrecorded specifics and confused social contingencies of past lives. We struggle to capture the point of view, private intimacies and values which animated an individual, save for the necessarily unusual self-recorder and autobiographer. Robert Fraser illustrates this issue. Economics is a vital focus. Series reflect both individual and aggregate demand, and its changes. And so our contributors consider such economic categories as capital, costs, rents, income, profits and such as these are indicated in the profile of the publisher, culture and series. Here, in emphasising the importance of studying publishing as a business, our essayists have studied the series both as an editorial and a marketing device and as an important part of that set of cultural and economic processes which create the object which is ‘the book’. The culture of the publisher’s series evidences how publishers have projected ideas about the book (and about ‘book culture’) – by design, by price etc. Experience, however, often knocks a publisher on the head. It provides new information, and changes adaptive expectations, confronting predictions with actualities. And so change in a series indicates slopes and plateaus, experience and equilibrium, evolution and stability in cultures and choices. Here price is one key indicator. Price, of course, is only one factor which determines demand; others include the consumer’s tastes, customs and preferences; the consumer’s income, and the price of rival goods; and such intangibles as comparative consumer status and aspiration, envy and peer pressure and what the Norwegian economist Thorstein Veblen in 1899 called ‘the emulatory instinct’. It is major ideas – social, cultural, technical, political – as well as responses to market movements – which drive the specific series, as Ruth Panofsky illustrates. To circulate, ideas need both sponsors and buyers. And so we are concerned with both supply curves, which slope upwards, and demand curves, which slope downwards. In any particular publisher’s business



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model the series has been one means to seek to eliminate some of the inevitable gambles and the uncertainty of guesswork in judging how many copies to print of a particular title. This is a non-trivial decision, and publishing is always concerned with living forces and movements. Time is also a constant problem. The clock is always ticking. Change always has to be handled. And there are few publishing houses which have progressed in a straight line. The business model necessarily concerns, too, what economists call ‘marginalism’, or the necessity of incremental decisions in response to market changes – a publisher making step by step changes to improve their situation. There is no wriggling room for the scholar here. This issue must be addressed. For it focuses us on the key economic and psychological problem of ‘value’ to the consumer, on who discovers or determines this and how, and what records we can discover about willing consumer choices. It necessarily enmeshes us in the theory and functioning both of distribution and of the explanation of prices by marginal analysis. It is not enough to say that prices always matter, and then walk on by. We need to see why and how they were arrived at, and how people responded. These factors are the key to the behaviour of consumers and thus of producers. The economist William Stanley Jevons (1835–82) showed that the essential economic problem was that of allocating given resources to obtain maximum satisfactions for the consumer, achieved through competitive, dynamic market processes. Jevons highlighted the effect of a small increment or decrement of a good or service on consumption or production, and thence on price determination. As R. D. Collison Black, the modern editor of Jevons’s The Theory of Political Economy, has said, Jevons ‘shifted the focal point of value theory from long-run “normal” values determined by the cost of production to short-run exchange-ratios determined by the psychology of the parties making the exchange’ (Jevons 1970 edn: 11). Critically, the consumer is always concerned with marginal cost and with marginal utility, or the additional comparative satisfaction that additional expenditure may secure. Increments of a commodity are not equally valuable, Jevons argued, and the consumer’s degree of satiety would or should determine willingness to consume more and to pay the price, this itself influencing the producer’s willingness to provide more. The producing publisher is interested in the last increments of a commodity that might be consumed, and publishing in series has given much guidance. This idea was outlined by Jevons in his ‘final’ (marginal) utility of theory of value, drawing on previous work by the political economist Richard Jennings and the physiologist Alexander Bain (Jevons 1871;



14

Gallagher 2006: 120–1). This is the ‘law of the relativity of sensation’, to adopt Catherine Gallagher’s words, from her invaluable discussion of marginal utility theory (Gallagher 2006: 121–30). The margin of utility is the moment when the desire for a book purchase and the wish to spend the money on something else become equal, or almost so. Jevons highlighted an inverse proportion between value and quantity – ‘the degree of utility varies with the quantity of the commodity, and ultimately decreases as that quantity increases’ (Jevons 1970: 11). As Collison Black summarises: In other words, consumption of successive units yields an increasing total utility, but each additional unit consumed adds a smaller amount to that total: we can say that marginal utility, the utility of an increment to the consumer’s stock, is diminishing. It can then be shown how this marginal utility will serve to determine the quantity of the good which the consumer will demand at a given price. … Hence marginal analysis can be used to produce a consistent explanation of the determination of all prices in a market system, and this can perhaps be regarded as the crowning achievement of neo-classical economics. (Jevons 1970 edn: 16–17) Here, degrees of satisfaction featured as a curve, with no abrupt transition. Novelists keep human ‘motivation’ and ‘character’ before us as vital issues, and, as Gallagher says, ‘political economists like Jevons … claimed to be taking emotions seriously as the bedrock of exchange’ (Gallagher 2006: 144). But, alas, we do not have the information about the individual psychological, physiological and economic motivations and wished-for satisfactions of those who made up the mass of individual readers. And so we cannot, alas, commonly measure to what extent any specific buyer consciously sought to maximise their pleasure and resources, or was consciously aware of the equal and unequal utility which was relevant to him or her. Such choices and preferences are inevitably highly idiosyncratic decisions and unpredictable, but the publisher still seeks to influence these by many devices. The publisher, too, is concerned with the marginal cost of producing one more unit at the marginal benefit, the price. Just as the consumer in theory compares the marginal utility of spending a dollar, a pound, a euro etc. on a book (or on another product entirely) the producer constantly compares the marginal utility of spending a dollar on capital (machinery) with the marginal utility of spending that dollar on labour to produce an alternative book or series. The producer,



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too, is aware of what Alexander Bain called the ‘rule of Novelty’, and the constant necessity to counteract decay in demand by refreshing attractions in the market place (Bain 1873: 51). Elusive as the specific individual reader is, price, as ever, is still a key parameter and indicator. The market price is, too, a quantitative effect. Indeed, as an indicator of likely readerships it is the most useful and objective of quantitative effects, and a measure of decisions made by producers and consumers. Combined with our understanding of marginal utility it is a record of psycho-social phenomena such as individual preferences and an indicator of the value negotiated in the market and thus accorded to individual books and series by consumers. Price reflects costs, of course, as well as a publisher’s conception of the market (which tends towards equilibrium), and their experience of it. It mirrors consumer responses too, for it expresses aggregated individual choices. Both the producer and the consumer determine price, in the intersection of supply and demand. Sales of series may or may not sum up the quantitative effects of individual feelings and emotions, but they do show us cash on the counter. Here there is constant mutual counterpoise and interaction, which the history of an individual series reflects. A classic statement here is Alfred Marshall’s Principles of Economics (1890). The publisher’s series, too, is an example of a comment that Bertrand Russell once made to his friend Beatrice Webb, that the second law of thermodynamics says ‘that everything tends to uniformity and a dead level, diminishing (not increasing) heterogeneity. Energy is only useful when unevenly concentrated, and the law says that it tends to become evenly diffused’ (Webb 1938: 112). An adaptive, creative economy constantly seeks to press back the walls of these constraints, enlivened by new series. We have seen that the series can serve to identify or confirm a niche in markets, as evidence of evolution in markets, and as a record of individual decisions taken where publishers judge that the benefits exceed the costs. Series thus function as a reference point for potential readers and historians, just as they perform as a hook in the market and a reflection of adjustments book buyers have made to their purchases – in response to price and other factors in markets. As one means of helping the publisher predict and function the series serves, too, a classificatory function – in Foucault’s terms – which we know, too, as ‘branding’. Our contributors address price, which reflects both the publisher’s costs and their estimate of what markets will bear, as well as what markets prove to bear or reject. They comment, too, on the range of social and economic factors which constantly come into play.



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Introduction 17

We have to discharge two tasks: to find an adequate theoretical account of cultural practices, in which specific empirical studies of the conditions of book history and reading fit, and which they help make fit; and to analyse particular individual publishers and series and the associated general history of cultural forms and the social processes of cultural production. This is the location of key problems concerning materiality, the historically specific publisher, agent and reader, and the meanings, influences and consequences for individuals, for firms and for the wider culture. The historian, too, has to work with evidence. And, while understanding theory, we must avoid a priori assumptions controlling some possible discoveries and suppressing others. Here, book historians carry a heavy burden of theory concerning concepts of cultural continuity and change, the literary canon and politicised literary studies, in the radical convergence of the history of the book and of cultural theory. Many theorists are concerned with pleas about mentalities, discursive practices, reader response, ideological criticism, cultural materialism, deconstruction, new historicism, postmodernism and the end of an author-centred perspective concerned with authorial intentionality.1 There is a heavy preponderance of anti-capitalist writings. Yet paradoxically, perhaps, this criticism is itself multiplied and distributed easily by the free market in new ‘wired’ and wireless technologies. These enable the instant and cheap circulation of oppositional materials, both digitally and in hard copy by on-line retailers. Thus, there is full access to the competing ideas of structuralism, deconstruction, Marxism, feminism and gender studies, reader-response theory, the revision of canons, postcolonial studies and cultural studies.2 So, too, the youth culture is now intertwined and defined by instant and global electronic access. Here Michael Schudson has written that ‘Accompanying consolidation there has been an increase in book titles published, improved distribution, wider access, more choice, and new constituencies reached (notably teenagers and children and, through large print books, the growing population of the elderly). Efficiencies in distribution that online bookselling makes possible have even encouraged publication for “niche markets” now that profitability on the basis of modest sales is more and more likely.’ Reproducibility and economic growth have gone hand in hand, too, just as investment and technology have increased competitiveness, risk-taking and the discovery of new talent. The industry itself has thus moved to new performance means, and higher absolute levels of performance. In our time, the innovations



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of the internet have dramatically lowered the costs of holding diverse or non-mainstream ideas, reflected different ideas of merit and changed what we mean by publication and access. Despite consolidations, indeed. Schudson suggests that new technologies have reconfigured what we even mean by author, publisher and audience (Schudson 2009: 7, 17). He argues, too, that much publishing remains subsidised, favouring academic and minority projects. The economic system which many radical critics decry actively enables minority voices. The American Book Industry Study Group estimated in 2004 that there were 62,815 firms, organisations and self-publishers (Schudson 2009: 26). By 2006 more than 200,000 new titles were published annually in the USA, most of them by small publishers, organisations and individuals (Bowker 2007). Yet these wired and paradigm shifts are, however, regarded as catastrophic by Sven Birkerts, in their impact on social and cultural practices and relationships. Birkerts discusses the nature and discipline of ‘the durational reverie of reading’ in a text-centred imaginative engagement, in the animating worlds of writing and literature, artistic narrative and reflection. He is concerned with ‘our entire collective subjective history – the soul of our societal body’, previously encoded in print. He calls the ‘electronic deluge’ a fault line or a ledge dividing cultural possibilities, which has slammed many doors (Birkerts 2006: 20). The problem for the historian is to work with evidence about such developments, using theory but not being misled by it. We need to study how things were, not how they ought to have been, or, indeed, might be made to be tomorrow with the past viewed as a weapon in the battle for the future. These problems are illustrated as we consider culture, literature, democracy – and the series and its culture. The issues are silver fish slippery. An important area of cultural analysis which reflects on these issues in book history concerns the ‘Industrial Revolution’. Here, recent amendments in perspectives have seen historians revisiting ‘catastrophist’ ideas about the nature of the ‘industrial revolution’ – which the economic historian D. C. Coleman has called ‘one of the mythic phenomena of British history’ – and its consequences and benefits. The view that commentators take of this historical event powerfully colours their assumptions, ideas and theories of past and present, as well as what they think counts as suitable subjects for study and of what counts as evidence (Toynbee 1884; Ashton 1948; Hartwell 1971; Raven 1989; Coleman 1992; Taylor and Wolff 2004). One major part of the cultural background has left a romantic inheritance of doctrinal history about the Industrial Revolution – and about



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life, political economy, economic and social institutions, public policies and private morality. There are competing attempts to theorise such a complex development as the Industrial Revolution (with its inevitable Capital Letters). Revisionist historians have noted that these developments encompassed many of the crucial changes in the scale and pace of life – including longer living itself, changes in communications, wider literacy, education and reading, and choices of how to live, not least the new freedoms gained by women and by non-white peoples. John Stuart Mill (while fearful of the consequences of population growth) pointed out that the standard of living in Britain was higher than ‘the condition of the corresponding classes in other countries’, even during this period of great vicissitudes. Macaulay made the same point in 1830 (Mill 1843; Macaulay 1886: 120). The ‘industrial revolution’ debate was most sharply characterised by Arnold Toynbee as the ‘bitter argument between economists and human beings’ in his pessimistic and posthumously published Lectures on the industrial revolution of the eighteenth century in England (1884). The issue was famously characterised, too, in Unto This Last (1862) by John Ruskin as that between wealth and life. It was much influenced by J. S. Mill, Carlyle, Wordsworth, Southey, Engels and Alfred Marshall. And it has been used and followed more recently by F. R. Leavis, Raymond Williams and E. P. Thompson – the keepers of the legacy of ‘the Gradgrind caricature.’ However, the cultural historian Donald Winch – who recommends agnosticism and non-doctrinal history as a means to facilitate ‘an understanding of what happened and how it did so’ – has recently noted that ‘Fortunately, there are signs in the early years of the twenty-first century that the engagement of literary historians with the serious economic literature of the past is moving beyond the old stereotypes, making rapprochement with intellectual histories of economic debate possible’ (Winch 2009: 21–2, 6). As Winch has written, ‘The argument was part of a broader assault on the allegedly self-interested, mechanical, and materialistic thinking of a despoiling industrial age – an assault that was to be hailed in the twentieth century as the “romantic” or “cultural” alternative to utilitarianism and political economy’ (Winch 2009: 1, 367–98). Recent historians have introduced a more subtle and a more realistic picture (Taylor and Wolff, 2004). But these former and predominant criticisms accepted uncritically and sympathetically by some book historians unfamiliar with later historical work – were set by the earliest generation of romantic critics, notably by Carlyle, Southey, Coleridge and Wordsworth. The ‘hungry forties’ was seen subsequently as a key



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decade. But Winch writes that Walter Bagehot commented that those who had forecast impending ruin during the debate on the condition of England in the 1840s had been proved wrong. For reasons that Adam Smith had foreseen, Bagehot noted that ‘we were [then] on the eve of the greatest prosperity which we have ever seen’ (Bagehot, ‘Centenary of the Wealth of Nations’, in Collected Works, III: 117). Winch says that the problem of the influences of judgements made about the Industrial Revolution ‘invites the attention of the intellectual historian as well as the literary scholar. It concerns the power of symbolic representation to define allegiances and form part of a canon that remains, if only by tireless repetition, a significant part of Our Island Story’ (Winch 2009: 368). Stefan Collini has written of ‘a familiar dichotomy … between, on the one hand, the temper of rational science, leaning to positivism, receptive to Utilitarianism and political economy, and most commonly issuing in some kind of Liberal or reforming politics; and, on the other hand, the temper of essentially Romantic cultural critique, uneasy with modernity, suspicious of the reductive tendencies of science, hostile to the soulless reasonings of political economy, a temper whose political expression, where not straightforwardly Tory, veered, by an intelligible affinity, from a Carlylean authoritarianism to a Ruskinian or Morrissian Socialism’ (Collini 1991: 185–6). We might, however, justly query how many book historians and literary critics – much concerned with ‘commodification’ – would agree with Cowen that The market economy and capitalism are among the greatest enablers of civilization. Our lives are comfortable instead of wracked with hard physical labour, chronic malnutrition, and massive losses of women and babies during childbirth, to cite just a few features of earlier times. Whether our political views are right-wing, left-wing, or elsewhere on the spectrum, we can agree on these facts. … Markets are not just about the steam engine, iron foundries, or today’s siliconchip factories. Markets also supported Shakespeare, Haydn, and the modern book superstore. The rise of oil painting, classical music, and print culture were all part of the same broad social and economic developments, namely the rise of capitalism, modern technology, rule of law, and consumer society. The Renaissance occurred when growing cities and reopened trade routes created enough wealth to stimulate demand for beautiful arts. Beethoven gave music lessons and concerts to a rising middle class and later sold them sheet music;



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his rise required the printing press, the affordable piano, and ready travel around Europe. Markets, of course, have their uglier side. … But the balance favours markets, which themselves more easily correct bad effects; government failure is much more difficult to erase. (Cowen 2007: 219–20) J. H. Plumb wrote, too, that Any historian who is not blindly prejudiced cannot but admit that the ordinary man and woman, unless they should be caught up in a murderous field of war, are capable of securing a richer life than their ancestors. There is more food in the world, more opportunity for achievement, greater areas of liberty in ideas and in living than the world has ever known: art, music, literature can be enjoyed by tens of millions, not tens of thousands. This has been achieved not by clinging to conservative tradition or by relying on instinct or emotion, but by the application of human ingenuity, no matter what the underlying motive may be. (Plumb 1969: 140) Plumb wrote elsewhere, of ‘trade, the life-blood of civilisation’ (Plumb 1966: 80). As Rowland noted in Literature in the Marketplace: Romantic Writers and Their Audiences in Great Britain and the United States, ‘Orestes Brownson claimed that the often criticized materialism of the country was already creating a “nation of readers”. In response to Emerson’s “literary ethics”, Brownson wrote: “Now this very business world, against which we war, is the most active in teaching all to read, in providing the means of universal education. And how, without this general and absorbing devotion to money-getting, is the general wealth of the country to be sufficiently augmented to allow the leisure we have determined to be necessary?”’ (Rowland 1996: 11). Brownson said that the first duty of the scholar was to cultivate the audience being formed by capitalist expansion: ‘Now in this country the whole people must constitute the audience, the public. The scholar here must speak not to a clique, a coterie, but to the entire nation. The first thing to be done, then, is to make the whole nation “a fit audience” To talk of a “fit audience though few”, betrays an entire ignorance of the age and the country’ (Brownson 1996: 13). As the work of England’s first printer William Caxton (c.1421–91) made clear, art has always been material. And so it has been perennially commodified – with its value determined by the patron, or the market, or both (Kuskin 2008). Overall, our attitude to markets per se (and our



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economic literacy, too) are central to analysing the culture of the publisher’s series. What we believe is what we often see. This is the rock and the hard place: whether markets are seen as creative, adaptive, positive and necessary to freedoms or as the focus of oppositional politics and cultural pessimism. A priori perspectives here seriously influence what the viewer actually sees. The series is thus implicated by differing critics – by Postrel, Cowen and Delany in adaptive, creative, trial-and-error innovations, and by Eagleton, Ohmann and Williams in hegemonic commodification and in revolutionary politics. These stark polarities offer competing ideas about the value and purposes of book history. They remind us, too, that, as the Marxist Ohmann puts this, ‘The teleology present in such ideas makes it clear that they will satisfy only those who want to believe them for other than historical reasons’ (Ohmann 1996: 37). And that empirical verification or falsification is essential, as well as the need to spell out ‘the implications of a theory, reflecting on its perspicuity in analysis of events and processes, and considering its capacity for fruitfulness, for generating new knowledge’. And, of course, ‘no historical account begins without theoretical presuppositions that influence what the investigator will look for and find, what will seem to be evidence, what story will shape it’ (Ohmann 1996: 46). In the reconstitution of corporate capital and of its institutions in North America and Europe at the end of the nineteenth century, a key device was the series itself. This helped to shape taste, audiences, consumers and cultural industries as individual publishers pursued specific purposes and coped with the circumstances with which they were confronted. The series thus used and produced capital. For the ‘romantic period’ and since, St Clair has sought to ‘model the links between texts, books, reading, changing mentalities, and wider historical effects’ (St Clair 2004: 1). This sets the agenda and the context of key questions – of behaviour, culture, systems, political economy, literacy, access – which the culture of the publisher’s series helps to illustrate and to which it can seek to offer some further material towards answers. It can net more archival material, more statistics, more evidence with which to check and recheck St Clair’s persuasive conclusions, and enhance his fine-grained mesh. St Clair asked: ‘Could histories of reading help us to understand how knowledge was constituted and diffused, how opinions were formed and consolidated, how group identities were constructed, and, more generally, why ideas that at one time seemed mainstream and unassailable could suddenly lose credibility, while others persisted for centuries largely unchallenged? Can we find explanations



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which apply to the print era as a whole? Can we begin to model the links between texts, books, reading, changing mentalities, and wider historical effects?’ (St Clair 2004: 1). These quandaries include asking how series help us to see how changes related to and interacted with the governing structures of society and with the questions of how to live, including democratic and cultural evolution. Here we directly confront the differing contributions of theory. These themes and problems open out ideas, attitudes and choices about ideas of culture and systems of values, publishing and politics. They offer differing ways to analyse what was happening with publishing cultures and series. One approach is to suggest that the study of the culture of the publisher’s series – itself, generally oriented towards development, persuasion, recognition and identity – can do much to help us to recover and interpret the relationships of all of the diverse but interlinked agents involved in books, and all of whom depended for their living on the market reception of books (and series), and who existed in mutual relationships.3 Thus, we seek to find their motivations; their ways of working; the books that resulted; and some reflections, too, on audiences and readers. Richard Ohmann, in his influential Marxist study Selling Culture: Magazines, Markets, and Class at the Turn of the Century, posed basic questions about the transforming capitalist social relations of marketing and advertising: ‘When did mass culture arise? Why? What has it done for and to its various participants?’ (Ohmann 1996: 340, 10). In Ohmann’s answers we hear Adorno, Horkheimer, Marcuse, Gramsci and Althusser speak in the accents of the Frankfurt school and in later Marxist tones. This body of work was notably taken up in Britain by Raymond Williams and by some of his successors.4 These ‘Theorists’ saw an alien apparatus of hegemonic mental production, commodity consumption, a new ‘literacy of goods’ and ‘self-transformation through purchase’ which changed class relations, reshaped people as consumers and reconstructed society.5 As Ohmann wrote, on American magazines, ‘Publishers mass-produced a physical product, which they sold at a loss, and used it to mass-produce an immaterial product, the attention of readers, which they sold at a profit’ (Ohmann 1996: 346). These issues of how to live, including how to ‘do’ book history, are raised by many book historians and literary critics themselves, either very directly or by the implications carried with their theories. There are broadly two general views. First, the non-Marxist view that cultural bias – most notably against business and also suspicions about ‘mass’ culture – are a problem and a barrier to a fuller understanding of the



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cultural work of publishing, and the active roles of the reader. Second, the Marxist perspective that history needs to be viewed from the revolutionary potentials of the future. These choices significantly affect the writing of book history. And they are among the socio-political elements which themselves command study if we are to achieve a fully systematic and coherent evolutionary account of economic, aesthetic, literary and social influences concerning the book and its cultures, and the factors which have thus far shaped our understandings. The revolutionary Marxist view, to my mind, presents the hazards of ways of seeing, or mis-seeing, the past through a future-focused lense. Consider a very prominent case, par example. The enormously productive Oxford (and now Lancaster) Marxist literary critic Professor Terry Eagleton has emphasised a guiding preference for the final collapse of late (or, surely, latest?) capitalism and for socialist revolution: ‘If Marxists manage to bring down the bourgeois state, socialise the means of production, and institute full socialist democracy, then we really do not mind being told by people like Richard Rorty that all we are doing is carrying on the conversation. If that is what one prefers to call what we are doing, for some philosophical reason of one’s own, then this is perfectly alright with us as long as we are still allowed to do it’ (Eagleton, 1989, in Desan et al., 93).6 This kind of analysis and proposition concerns particular acts of faith. As Eagleton himself says, ‘all statements of political interest are always implicitly theories of reality’ (Eagleton, 1989: 92). The Marxist offers a theory of causation which is focussed on a generalized future rather than on a particular past. This theory relies upon an interpretation of history and of society which seems unpersuasive after a century of actual practical experience of Communism. I suggest that it makes impossible connections between disparate phenomena. One major danger is the temptation to patronise both the future and the past. Another is to overlook the evidence of recorded historical realities in the capitalist economy – in book history, as in much else, including human nature. Marxist accounts embedded in much otherwise necessary revisionist feminist, gay, black, and colonial book history – for example, in Great Britain – frequently discount the records of the late-Victorian economy which showed significant increases in real earnings for those in work, which released an enormous new consumer demand, and which prompted socially and educationally valuable developments in consumerism, whilst also creating many new freedoms for women in particular. This was the context of huge changes in the world of books, magazines, education and reading. The introduction of a wide range of



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cheap branded goods, alongside new welfare provision, radically altered life, notably for the poor and for the growing lower middle-class. There was still, of course, a sharp contrast between rapidly improving living standards for a majority – most clearly shown in higher per capita food consumption – alongside the survival of poverty and a harsh and precarious existence for a significant minority. But this problem proved to be capable of being addressed in the medium term in mass markets and by government action: evolution without revolution, as historians such as D. H. Aldcroft (1970), W. Hamish Fraser (1981), John Stevenson (1990) and José Harris (1993) have shown. Such evolutionary changes were international in scope, too. There have been enormous qualitative gains, notably in the lives of the poor – not least in access to cheap reading matter. In addition, as the economic historian Sidney Pollard remarked, ‘Statistics fail to take full account of the difference made by electricity instead of candles, and gas cookers instead of coal or coke ranges, as standard equipment in working-class homes; of improved housing, including indoor water and sanitation; or of radio, the cinema and newspapers within almost everybody’s reach’ (Stevenson 1990: 129). These shifts may be dismissed as ‘commodification’, but they changed millions of lives for the better. In Britain, too, class divisions and class loyalties have been much more complex than many Marxist literary critics have suggested, as historians Hamish Fraser (1981), Stevenson (1990), Harris (1993) and McKibbin (1998, 2010) have shown. Book history needs to reflect these works. However, the focus of many Marxist literary critics – and that of some influential book historians – has been on politics and social formations, on inclusion and marginalisation, on struggles over the production of cultural power and with advancing ‘resistance’ to ‘the logic of dominance’ – rather than on the autonomous and unpredictable reader and ‘the book itself’ in an adaptive, creative, renewing global culture where many lives have much improved. Often in the writing of book history, as in literary criticism, ideology has been a fundamental reference point. For example, Alexis Weedon noted that a much quoted study by Gaye Tuchman and Nina E. Fortin (1989) was ‘ideologically motivated’, and that these authors ‘used methods widely accepted in the social sciences, but care must be taken when applied to historical data’ (Weedon, in Eliot and Rose 2007: 41). Much apocalyptic thinking and historical interpretation still seems to resist rational contemporary and historical observation. And so a bias against business, entrepreneurship and investment – as well as against the results of consumer choices in mass markets – remains a powerful



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transmitter of unhelpful ideas. This gravely damages book history by limiting its range and perspectives. In terms of understanding publishing cultures and the series it needs radical revision and replacement. To make progress we need to recognise what really happened in the past, whether we approve of it or not. And then to use a non-deterministic and non-holistic theory of history that is itself testable, that makes verified predictions and that is self-correcting in the light of what we learn of the unforeseen novelty that only experience reveals. This can then be fruitful of new knowledge about what publishers and readers do and have done. As to the fundamental choice and competition between holistic perspectives, the economist and cultural historian Professor Donald Winch has recently cited Henry Sidgwick’s view that ‘Henry Maine was right in saying that there were only two ways of getting the world’s business done, slavery and coercion on the one side, and competitive industry on the other’ (Winch 2009: 230; Maine 1885; Sidgwick 1906). Professor Winch has quietly stated, too, that many of the practitioners of alternative ways of writing intellectual history clearly feel that they are engaged in resolving the weightier moral and political dilemmas of today, deploying sophisticated ‘theory’ and suitably technical apparatuses for the purpose. However, ‘There are other, equally important things to do, and they rarely require the use of theories borrowed from other pursuits for the purpose of achieving historical understanding … we should not regard our subjects as helpless victims of their circumstances and our theoretical and ideological categories.’ Further, ‘We are never merely eavesdroppers, anxious only to recapture as faithfully as possible what our interlocutors were saying and how they were doing so. We are engaged in conversations of our own, and we select, edit, and translate according to priorities dictated by our own curiosity and the possible interest and knowledge of those to whom we are speaking. We also possess hindsight and ways of looking and listening that enable us to discern features of the landscape that were not perceived by past interlocutors’ (Winch 1996: 29–30). Here there are competing ways in which theoretical insights are deployed about markets, by which, in Coleridge’s words, we can ‘possess ourselves as one with the whole’. Indeed, the economist Tyler Cowen says that ‘cultural assessments contain an irreducibly subjective component’ (Cowen 1998: 6). These issues are clearly very directly relevant to considering reading and readers, markets and marketing and thus the culture and context of the publisher’s series and all the active agents involved. As Cowen puts this, ‘When translated into the terminology of



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economics or rational choice theory, the internal forces correspond to preferences and external forces represent opportunities and constraints. These internal and external forces interact to shape artistic production’ (Cowen 1998: 16). There is much more to say, too, of the relationships between theory and practice. For example, John Vernon, in his Money and Fiction: Literary Realism in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries, says that: Theory should free us to investigate reality rather than provide us with a set of immutable conclusions. But theory and metaphor have this in common: both clamp forces on the truth and may damage it in the process. In this respect, even so noted a theoretician as Marx was a metaphoric thinker. I tend to agree with Kurt Heinzelman’s suggestion that Capital is one of the great three-decker nineteenthcentury novels, complete with plot and characters (Mr Moneybags, the simple laborer, Free-Trader Vulgaris), at least in part 2. And to call it a novel is not to show it any disrespect or to lessen its truth value – only to assert that its truth, like a novel’s, is provisional, elusive, and contingent: an investigation of reality. (Vernon 1993: 23)7 The culture of the publisher’s series, as can be seen, thus embraces large-scale personal and social dilemmas of ‘democracy’: of how to live, of how to act for oneself and of the acceptable reach of the State. The culture of the series, too, engages us in asking how change happens, how we make decisions, with which cultural assumptions, with which material and cultural results, and how we study change. The principal historical challenge is to keep one’s eyes open, to pose explicit and useful questions and not to privilege prior allegiances which can exclude from review necessary evidence. As Talia Schaffer has emphasised, we need to ‘find the findings first’ rather than to prejudge these. We do not only want ‘facts’ which fit the chosen model. Nor do we wish to be trapped by the limitations of theories. We do need to know what it is we think we are observing, analysing and describing, but the balance between evidence we can discover, preconceived notions of the objects of study and the historically distorting power of a priori assumptions and of shibboleths is one problem to recognise and address. Critically, in book history, we should consider the willing consumer and the entrepreneur, and profit and the returns to those varying agents engaged in productive processes. Are entrepreneurial gains as rents of ability appropriate, and positive, or illicit and alien? Are profits morally reprehensible and socially damaging, or the best available measure



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of business efficiency? One positive and influential economic view is that recorded by the sociological historians Rosemary O’Day and David Englander. Discussing the economist F. A. Walker’s views (contemporary with the late nineteenth-century inquiry work into industry in London of Charles Booth), they have said that ‘Walker tried to demonstrate that wages were partly determined by the productivity of the undertaking and that profit was not the outcome of exploitation but the special remuneration due to the entrepreneur. High profits and high wages were, he argued, mutually supportive’ (O’Day and Englander 1993: 140).8 Walker urged that the entrepeneur was functionally distinct from the capitalist and the central figure in the production process. In an economy with a high degree of specialisation and with a large amount of fixed capital the entrepreneur must manage risks and anticipate changing consumer demand. The increased responsibility of managements has become an essential characteristic of modern industry, in much altered markets where the premium has been placed not on the ownership of fixed capital but on the skills and capacities of the entrepreneur in handling capital. As our contributors show, in the late nineteenth-century firms everywhere reorganised, industrialised, changed their methods of production and output, adopted new marketing techniques, and altered market relationships both with authors and readers. The traditional ‘high culture’ Enlightenment focus was amended. Technological, economic, educational and cultural shifts were the basis of a new reading revolution for a mass market. One where women’s and children’s reading, too, became increasingly important. We thus need to take the creative role of the entrepreneur very seriously if we are to understand the dramatic changes in publishing characterised by the careers of George Newnes, Alfred Harmsworth (who launched the Daily Mail in 1896, and became Lord Northcliffe in 1905) and C. Arthur Pearson in the late nineteenthcentury in Britain, and by similar figures elsewhere. These men came, by their own efforts, to be in charge of new and very large capitalist enterprises. Although the ‘Americanisation’ of the press had been in progress for several decades, the newspaper and magazine public – and then, book buyers – became widely familiar in the 1890s with dramatic new approaches. Newnes, Harmsworth etc. did much to forward a sense of national cohesion and identity, too, with common sources of information and awareness available to all. Harmsworth was criticised by the Saturday Review in 1905 as having done ‘more than any man of his generation to pervert and enfeeble the mind of the multitude’ (cited in Searle 1987: 94). But the shift to a large popular audience was reinforced



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by mass education, by radio and then by cinema and television, and by mass interest in sports. Harmsworth and his competitors applied the latest methods of business organisation in a thoroughgoing way, including the quest for advertising revenues which enabled prices to be very low, with magazines even sold at prices below the direct cost of production. The changes also shifted power from editors and journalists to proprietors. It was an international change. In North America in the publishing trade there were Frank Munsey, S. S. Mclure and John Lovel; the successors in business of Louis Hachette in France; such firms as Reclam, Insel-Verlag and Tauchnitz in Germany; the two George Robertsons (of Melbourne and of Sydney) and the Melbourne and Adelaide bookseller and publisher E. W. Cole in Australia. Each of these dynamist firms was led by an innovative ‘captain’ who perceived new wants among a growing middle class and also among those rising from poverty. These newly recognised wants were the basis of large-scale investment to meet financially empowered individual consumer demand. These publishers exploited new niches which arose as new standards spread to the poorer sections of several different societies, and as the middle classes expanded. They were part of new paths in life, new ways of living better, which people could choose and which they recognised as a form of personal freedom. This was because a time had come ‘when wealth, hopes, ambitions and numbers all rise together’ (Colinvaux 1980: 220). Newnes et al. recognised that ‘Wealth is to be made by attending to mass needs. The corollary should also be true, that needs of the individuals of the mass are best met by attending to the needs of wealth. Shifts of mass population in ways that serve entrepreneurs are a result. This is the phenomenon known to history as the drift to the towns. The social process of drift to the towns is actually a number of individual movements that can be understood without a theory of group behaviour’ (Colinvaux 1980: 247). In our own time, too, in Asia, Africa, Eastern Europe and South America there ‘are countries of rising literacy, rising ambitions, rising civilization and rising numbers’ (Colinvaux 1980: 222). Such careful observation of day-to-day practical action and changing contexts in publishing is important. Here Harvey Teres is one recent critic of over-theorised approaches which lead away both from aesthetic and practical realities: ‘Instead of learning alertness to the subtle forms and devices that distinguish a work of art from a social document, a generation of students and citizens has dispensed with aesthetic experience in favor of the hunt for a text’s ideological propositions, conflicts, contradictions, and deficiences. The goal has become “interrogating” the text rather than being challenged by it, mastering it through superior



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political awareness rather than surrendering temporarily to the author’s world [and] submitting to the pleasures and insights that arise when literal reality is suspended in favor of an imaginative virtual reality that paradoxically illuminates it’ (Teres: 236). Sven Birkerts, in The Gutenberg Elegies: The Fate of Reading in an Electronic Age, spoke too of the cultural losses if we lose the value of ‘that slow, painful, delicious excavation of the self by way of another’s sentences’ (Birkerts 1994: 146). As the nineteenth-century environmentalist George Perkins Marsh said, in his Man and Nature (1864), sight is a faculty; seeing is an art (cited in Winter 1999: 26).

The entrepreneur In his magisterial study, Judging New Wealth, James Raven has pointed out that ‘the modern study of business elites remains comparatively youthful’. His is an important analysis of how and why hostile attitudes to business were cultivated in popular literature (Raven 1992: 1). The prospects for new and successful research based on some respect for what the creative entrepreneur has done have, indeed, in our own time been hindered by a continuing academic ‘moral’ suspicion of profits – without which all publishing companies rapidly vanish, unless subsidised. This view is rooted in Romanticism, in criticism of the English Industrial Revolution and then in Marxism. The eighteenth-century radical Sir James Mackintosh mused about ‘such fanciful chimeras as a golden mountain or a perfect man’. William Hazlitt (in The Spirit of The Age) wrote, too, of the risks of the state ‘being hurried down the tremendous precipice of human perfectibility’. The economic historian D. C. Coleman is but one who has pointed out that profits matter: ‘The very facilities which permit our historical studies are among those fruits’ (Coleman 1992: 177). So, too, are the freedoms to criticise these.9 Whether publishers sought profits for further investment, personal prestige, social status, political power, other personal satisfactions or merely as a measure of these several factors, we need to track these not least as a measure of enterprise and as the transmitters of economic growth, publishing development and changing print culture. The creation of wealth is not an accident, and if we regard it as a crime we will not, I suggest, ‘enquire within’ appropriately. We need to carefully consider the detailed use of resources, all of which record the decisions of individual consumers, businessmen or publishers, in the totality of print culture. Similarly, an emphasis on what Alan Sinfield has called ‘left-culturalism’ – on postcolonialism, on poststructuralism, on cultural materialism, on New Historicist theory and on gender studies – is one corrective by which



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to study the excluded in previous cultural narratives (Sinfield 1989: 241–5). But we need to achieve a pluralist approach to historical analysis. A ‘corrective’ which foregrounds ‘class struggle’, the fragmentation of ‘the bourgeois public sphere’ and the hegemonic state itself needs significant correction – if, that is, we want to understand the quandaries that real human beings faced as publishers (and readers) in the past, and what they did. And thus we are serious about series as a prismatic lens through which we might see what has been obscured concerning reading and readers – if, indeed, it can be recovered. Adrian Johns has urged us to reconstruct how texts were used in their own times and in their own terms ‘by these people, here, in these circumstances, with these results’ (Johns 2000: 47). A crucial figure here is the entrepreneur, very often a figure of disruptive, innovating energy. The economist Jean-Baptiste Say distinguished the entrepreneur from the other agents of production, formalising the term ‘entrepreneur’ in his Catechism of Political Economy in 1815. Say said that the entrepreneur is the economic agent who ‘unites all means of production – the labour of the one, the capital or the land of others – and who finds in the value of the products which result from their employment the reconstitution of the entire capital that he utilizes, and the value of wages, the interest, and the rent which he pays, as well as the profits belonging to himself’ (Say 1816: 218–29) Joseph A. Schumpeter famously urged the need for empirical research on entrepreneurs and their shaping influences in what he called ‘a sociology of the enterprise’ (Schumpeter 1949: 63–84). As both Raven and St Clair have emphasised, book history needs augmented understandings of the business management, leadership and direction of such agents, the actual practice of business and the entrepreneur’s combination of a number of factors into productive relationships. The entrepreneur – who was not necessarily or essentially the capitalist or inventor – is at the centre of productive distributive theory and practice. Enquiries here should include analysis of the institutional and economic framework of wholesaling and retail distribution; comparative prices, and their messages; bankruptcies and stock transfers; sales outside the book trade; who became a publisher, and why. And who the other personnel who did the work were, cooperating inside the buildings where the publisher’s shingle hung.10 As our papers make evident, we can greatly benefit from a further series of studies of the publisher as an entrepreneur, and as a figure of distinct and special abilities. We can then fulfil our historical interest in particulars and our theoretical interest in achieving informative generalisations. Thus, studying the designing, directing, leading and coordinating



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functions of the dynamic entrepreneur in book publishing is part of the social process, as it is of viewing leaders and their motives and mental processes, interests and attitudes, styles and strategies in adapting to everchanging situations. It is no surprise that the series matters here. These characteristics are ‘social facts’. John Stuart Mill recognised their importance, saying that the entrepreneurial role often required ‘no ordinary skill’. Schumpeter rightly notes that the ‘successful survival of difficult situations and success in taking advantage of favourable situations is not merely a matter of luck’ (Schumpeter 1949: 65–6). We need to look again at book-history generalisations from these viewpoints, and to verify what we think we know by case studies, by statistics and by other empirical work. We then need to synthesise this work in book history and in economic and social history and the history of social thought; that is, if we are to achieve a usefully provisional set of broad generalisations about publishers and publishing, readers and buyers, business and consumer behaviour, leadership and creativity. Then we can offer a coherent answer to the question of why book history matters. A key task is to consider individual publishers as innovative leaders and agents of change with a spirit of adventure, always operating in conditions of uncertainty and risk. The entrepreneur’s prices are uncertain at the time the commitment is made as to costs. The entrepreneur is, too, not merely a shadow of technological and other social changes, significant as these often were. The challenges which publisher’s series represent and reflect can very usefully be considered in terms of the work done by entrepreneurs. This is the result of business decisions which dealt with finance, editorial, design and production, and marketing. The publisher assessed markets, costs and risks, and necessarily sought to minimise uncertainties. The publisher targeted and tried to reach specific audiences, notified by the series. If, too, series books could be shelved side-by-side by the retailer – when did booksellers begin to do this? – they would help to sell each other by attracting readers for that type of book or category. The publisher thus tried not only to sell more units, but to limit the congenital distribution infirmity of publishing, the problem of over-supply and of returns. Famously, Alfred A. Knopf described this anecdotally as ‘Gone today; here tomorrow!’ The entrepreneur offers us a way of analysing a business and its economic evolution in terms of the expressions of directing energies and judgements, as empirical, cognitive and rational actions. We need to know more of these many careers, and in detail: when and how people entered the business and why; their transactions and decisions; their attitudes to and their management of uncertainties; the sources of their



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business information; their deployment of resources; their attitudes towards the social and economic environment, including towards business itself; the external situations; their motivations; the decisions they took; and their colleagues.11 Alas, the materials available with which to ask and answer these questions are very variable and patchy, but we need to draw together what can be known in constructing a historical sociology of entrepreneurship in publishing – as well of longitudinal studies of specific functions or relations, such as those offered by St Clair and Raven. There may be a case for saying that entrepreneurs are driven not by profit alone but by a quest for efficiency, the growth of an enterprise with which they have identified themselves, and by ideas of social service too – as well as the sheer fun of it all. But we make these assumptions with little real knowledge of the motivations of entrepreneurs, changes of motivations over time or accounts of individual publishers themselves. The recent fine study by Kate Jackson of George Newnes shows something of what can be seen in how the destiny of an enterprise was carried in individual hands through effective innovation, competent management, and successful or unsuccessful adjustments to changing external conditions. Such restless new British businessmen as Newnes, Harmsworth and Pearson (and others overseas) challenged customary forms. They embarked on risky and innovative ventures, and with little to lose they had a high propensity to take such risks, as economic theory shows that they would and did (Jackson 2001; Ohmann 1996).12 These people were not your ordinary Clapham bus-riders. As Say said, the entrepreneur must be someone of special qualities, needing: judgement, perseverance, and a knowledge of the world as well as of business. He is called upon to estimate, with tolerable accuracy, the importance of the specific product, the probable amount of the demand, and the means of its production: at one time, he must employ a great number of hands; at another, buy or order the raw material, collect labourers, find consumers, and give at all times a rigid attention to order and economy; in a word, he must possess the art of superintendence and administration. … In the course of such complex operations, there are abundance of obstacles to be surmounted, of anxieties to be repressed, of misfortunes to be repaired, and of expedients to be devised. (Say 1821: 104) As we have seen, these creative originals embarked on risky and innovative ventures, and, valuably, had a high propensity to take risks.



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Economies, which require innovation and risky and new projects, rely on such people. Publishing did not merely proceed independently of such creative and often daring leadership. Much of the modern increase in physical capital which has underpinned the book industry comes from entrepreneurial actions, which have been able to give the fullest effect to the possibilities inherent in the social system. For example, the dramatic increase in British book exports (which Shafquat Towheed’s paper illustrates) resulted from the increase in factors of production but also from leadership in making different uses of those new factors which Winter described so well (Winter 1999). This was part of the creative process of construction and destruction, innovation and revision, which has characterised human societies, and which Postrel illustrates (1998, 2003). Certainly, business decisions and necessary revisions were a constant problem, concerning the objectives of the business, changing conditions, the development and maintenance of the organisation, the need to secure sufficient finance, nurturing good relations with investors and with the trade, using modern machinery, developing markets and meeting or anticipating consumer demands. Once a success, a series often proved to be a key contributor to a solid operational base for a great enterprise, as George Routledge’s ‘Railway Library’ proved to be from the 1850s onwards in the UK (James 1997). Such series help us to ask why and how changes happened in publishing, through which institutions and instrumentalities, and how these were influenced by the social and political environment. For example, why did the huge-selling British ‘yellowback’ and the US ‘dime novel’ of the nineteenth century give way to new products? Such series had been an important aspect of the wish and need to enhance profits, to increase business income, and the efficiency and survival of the enterprise. As the economist Arthur H. Cole wrote, entrepreneurial decisions (including those of banking entrepreneurs) constitute the chief element in business cycles. These decisions are a potent force for change. The entrepreneur is often considered the central figure in modern economic history, and, indeed, in economics. As Cole said, The economic significance of such business phenomena is patent, although infrequently adumbrated. Economic advance, at least insofar as it springs from business and not from governmental or other forces, is largely a consequence of innovations by individual enterprises copied by competing business units … Advantageous innovations, made effective by efficient management, are copied



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by other enterprises; the differential advantages of the innovating institutions are repeatedly lost; marginal expenses are reduced; and the phenomenon of economic progress – greater productivity at lower human cost – is attained. Such surely is an adequate social reason for studying entrepreneurship. (Cole 1946: 186–7) James Raven has emphasised that ‘Historical analysis of literature as both evidence of and as a causal agent in the development of social thought, must adopt a more plebeian approach than that of the literary critic. It must develop a methodology which treats of literature as it was produced, distributed, popularised, and discussed’ (Raven 1992: 22). Many factors necessarily influence business management and the successes or failures of individual enterprises in using practical knowhow. The economic historian D. C. Coleman has said that ‘Enterprise, like patriotism, is not enough. Its quality and nature are all-important’ (Coleman 1992: 212). We need to be able to put a set of consistent questions concerning the analysis of behaviour and economic issues relevant at the specific time to particular managements, publishers and entrepreneurs – especially the publisher as an entrepreneur: the psychologies of individuals, their behaviours, their decisions and – indeed – their monopoly practices as studied by St Clair. Insofar as the evidence allows us to isolate and to assess entrepreneurship within a particular firm or sector we would like information on many factors, such as their origins (often as ‘practical men’ – like the bookbinder J. M. Dent, by contrast with the ‘educated amateur’), their career tracks, methods, personalities and productions. Entrepreneurship requires an individual (or a cooperating group) to offer leadership and influence to transform or combine factors into products in new ways for the market, often in ways which are not inherited from the past. This is not ‘management’; nor is it ‘administration’. It is something different entirely. It invokes the study of the economic and political environment, the structures of public authority, individual and corporate initiatives, readers and responses. Entrepreneurship is usually judged by economists to be a creative response to given conditions, acting ‘outside the pale of routine’ and distinct from adaptive responses. One of the pressing tasks is to ask: how did this conceptualisation take effect in actual historical practice in the book business? The response of a publisher such as Robert Cadell, or Henry Colburn, or Colburn’s erstwhile partner Richard Bentley in England from 1829 onwards – and the emergence of a host of such entrepreneurs – is itself a study in the actualité of these ideas



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and of distinctive states of mind. Their success as entrepreneurs, their launch of successful publisher’s series – and the response of competitors closely or at a distance – may be seen as one of the gains of entrepreneurship. This was, too, marked by asset returns and in further consequent experimentation. Entrepreneurship thus proved to be a positive frame of mind, with results welcomed by those who wanted books. It affected, and was influenced by, the entire culture. Series were a part of this significant and enquiring cultural achievement. To study the economics of past publishing we need thus to take seriously invention, creativity and adaptive, pragmatic and improvising trial-and-error change. We then have the greater chance of appreciating the complexities of the social and institutional contexts of cultural production and consumption. We then increase our chances of successfully examining the contemporary readership and influence of particular texts, as well as the day to day challenges faced in past times as we probe literary output, the mechanics of commercial development, the growth of the fiction industry and of other literary endeavours, and as we assess consumer responses and their assumptions, prejudices and actions. And so urgent research topics should include: what was the social background of new print entrepreneurs; who of these were average and who exceptional, who the more typical; who was successful, who unsuccessful – who durable and who transient; who were the inspirational and creative figures; who were the initiators and who the imitators; who were the ‘new men’ and ‘new women’ (including those who began with limited means), and who from elite backgrounds; who were the educated amateurs, the ‘Gentlemen’, and who the practical and problem-solving ‘Players’; why and how? What motivated the entrepreneur, and what were their measures of success? What were the barriers and thresholds of entry, and what the consequences for social mobility? How far forward did the entrepreneur look? And did they sustain long-term interests? What did they do when the tides turned against them? To what extent, too, did the work of entrepreneurs in publishing contribute to the democratisation, changing social basis and leadership of industry, and changes in traditional power structures? We need to apprehend the culture of the series in these terms. The entrepreneur, classically, is seen as someone who has exploited innovations to increase profits, generate new products, sell in different ways, achieve higher productivity and achieve growth – either within an existing business or by setting up a new business. And as someone who has adapted technical and organisational structures to changes in



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the market place, both for the factors of production and for the final products. The functionings of the entrepreneur were one distinguishing factor between businesses. The body of modern economic theory, arising initially from Alfred Marshall’s late Victorian neo-classical synthesis and built upon by Keynes and post-Keynesian macroeconomics, provides a general framework. But detailed studies of individual publishers must deal with the strategy and structure of specific firms, and how they relate to decision-making processes in markets and over time. Who took individual decisions, how and why are crucial. These decisions are reflected in the publisher’s series. Simon Eliot, too, has regularly stressed the necessity of capturing and analysing statistical data for the examination of the behaviour of publishing businesses. Quantitative values especially help us to make comparisons – between sectors and countries. Professor Eliot’s quantified material has contributed much to filling notable gaps, including being able to put a consistent set of questions to the past, and to varied source material. This new bibliographical control has enabled us to make valuable comparisons, within changing and differing national cultures and trajectories. James Raven’s The Business of Books is a commanding exemplar of how to analyse entrepreneurship and demand, its complexities and contradictions, its fruitfulness and fault-lines, its cultural context and yields. Raven says that ‘Without the diversity of individual entrepreneurship, the shape of this industry would have been very different. In the first century of print, the production of many types of literature owed much to the personalities of the publishing booksellers and promoters of books. In succeeding centuries … the rivalries and enthusiasms of those involved in the manufacture and sale of books continued to enlarge the business and create new specialisms and services’ (Raven 2007: 356). As he has said, too, of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in Britain, ‘The business agility of the new, often first-generation entrepreneur proved critical. On him (and sometimes her) depended the moves towards greater market specialisation and the particular identification and targeting of new and existing groups of consumers’ (Raven 2007: 226). We want, too, to study what worked well and what did not work at all in a business marked by a high degree of liquidations and take-overs as we seek more detailed comparative studies of how entrepreneurs responded to the difficulties they confronted, and as we identify who was ‘typical’ and who atypical, and why. As P. L. Payne has said, ‘It is not enough to say what had been done; it is necessary to assess what might have been done and was not’ (Payne 1974: 40).



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If a piece of printed matter is conceived of not only as a manufactured material object, a ‘book’, but as a carrier of a potentially readable text, then the field of study is potentially widened to the history of reading, the construction of knowledge, the diffusion of ideas, and the competition for allegiance of minds. What book history could do is make a huge, and otherwise unobtainable, contribution to the history of mentalities – that is, people’s beliefs, feelings, values and dispositions to act in certain ways at particular times in particular places – including not only states of mind that are explicitly acknowledged but others that are unarticulated or regarded as fixed or natural, including nationalism. (St Clair 2009: 7–8) We are concerned with new and specific understandings of the particulars of materialist history, and with their cultural (and ideological) representations. This analysis engages us in assigning values and drawing up accounts between competing choices. Here, St Clair has sought to ‘model the links between texts, books, reading, changing mentalities, and wider historical effects’ (St Clair 2004: 1). This sets the agenda and the context of key questions – of behaviour, culture, systems, political economy, literacy, access, democracy, relations with the state and with one another. These quandaries include asking how series help us to see how changes related to and interacted with the governing structures of society, including democratic and cultural evolution. As the present two volumes show, there are indeed differing answers in different cultures. But ‘knowing best’, a priori, is a poor guide to discovery. As to culture itself, we might recall Lord Burghley’s comment in 1593: ‘I find the matter as in a labyrinth: easier to enter into it than to go out.’

Notes 1. A large body of theoretical work by Marxist and neo-Marxist thinkers has related literature to society. These theorists are widely used by Englishspeaking and European academics although most of this writing arises from the very specific cultural contexts of France and Germany. See Delany (2002: Introduction) for commentary on this point. Theoretical analysis has offered ideas about inter-textuality, production and consumption. Much of this has been ‘oppositional’ and culturally pessimistic, concerned with exposing and



Finally, the broadest of contexts again. William St Clair has persuasively shown that book history can make a larger contribution to ‘the political economy of knowledge’. Thus,

2. 3. 4.

5. 6.

resisting ‘the workings of dominant capitalist ideology’. Much referenced in debates about ‘print culture’, too, is Benedict Anderson (1991), with his vision of ‘imagined communities’ and national identities influenced by ‘print capitalism’. A. Gregg Roeber argues that the process described by Anderson is directly contradicted by German experiences in the USA. (Roeber, 2010: 462). Sydney J. Shep (2008) offers another quizzical and sceptical critique of Anderson. Cowen (1998: 181–210) reviews the field. See also Johnson (1979) and Cowen (2002: passim); also Hobsbawm (1990) and Loughran (2007). Schudson (2009: 7, 17), Bowker (2007), Birkerts (2006: 20). These points are stressed by Delany (2002) in his Introduction, ‘The Peculiarities of the English’. See Williams (1961, 1973, 1980, 1983, 1986, 1989). On the Birmingham school which pursued Williams’s agenda under Stuart Hall’s direction, see, for example, ‘Approaches to Cultural History’, in Collins, Curran, Garnham, Scannell (eds) (1986) Space does not permit a detailed discussion of cultural materialism – including its elision of politics and culture – and its controversies, but see Melling and Barry (eds) (1992) and Milner (1994, 1999). In Britain, the major theoretical roots of ‘cultural studies’ – and the hostile study of markets as aspects of culture – have been chiefly based on the writings of Richard Hoggart, Raymond Williams, E. P. Thompson and Stuart Hall (when director, from 1968, of the deconstructionist Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies at Birmingham University). For a right-of-centre view, see the publications issued by the Institute of Economic Studies in London (www.iea.org.uk). Birmingham’s centrality has more recently been superseded by the structuralist tradition derived from Lévi-Strauss, Althusser, Lacan, Derrida, Foucault and their disciples, and by the sociology of Pierre Bourdieu. See also Hoggart (1957), Thompson (1963) and Bourdieu (1979, 1993). Two ‘foundation documents’ were Eliot (1948) and Leavis (1932). For a still valuable general commentary see Johnson (1979). The phrase ‘self-transformation through purchase’ is from Lears (1994: 42). Eagleton (1989). Such critics may be thought to fit the stance noted by Pierre Bourdieu, that of ‘seeing temporal failure as a sign of election and success as a sign of compromise’ (Bourdieu 1993: 40). Two other recent feminist writers – Margaret Beetham and, separately, Laurie Langbauer – might stand as other examples of a separate specific, unhelpful, way of seeing. Beetham has carefully and historically studied the sixpenny reading public in the 1890s in Britain, but with the explicit declared purpose of seeking ‘to destabilise through making visible’ how what she viewed as inequalities of power worked (Beetham 1996: 268). Langbauer has written similarly on serial publications: ‘I’m interested not so much in delivering a history as in exploring that history’s ongoing process of revision’ (Langbauer 1999: 7). On the politicised framework which Eagleton suggests, cultural critic Patrick Wright (a man of the left) has reflected that ‘The idea of the necessarily victorious proletariat has passed with its own inevitable progress into the museum of inadequate philosophical constructs’ (Wright 2009: 175). Orwell was early and prescient here, notably on what the total transformations of ‘revolution’ entailed. Orwell, ‘The Prevention of Literature’, Polemic, 2, January 1946; reprinted in Orwell (2008: 21–41). See also detailed modern analysis in Furet (1999) and Conquest (2002). Plumb, reflecting Gibbon, noted that



Introduction 39

7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

John Spiers ‘History contained causes and events, not laws or systems’ (Plumb 1969: 130). See also the still valuable François Simiand, ‘Causal Interpretation and Historical Research’, 478, in Lane and Riemersma (eds), 1953. See Schaffer (2000). I owe this reference to Nickianne Moody, ‘The Best Defence Is a Good Methodology: Studying Popular Fiction in a Hostile Academic Environment’, paper given to Victorian Popular Fiction Association meeting, Kingston University, 31 October 2009. The economist Tyler Cowen noted that ‘Trade is an emotionally charged issue for several reasons, but most of all because it shapes our sense of cultural self’ (Cowen 2002: 2). Wholesalers have been an important agent in the book world, but their contribution has been much neglected. We need new work here as we seek information on print runs, prices, sales, margins and distribution deals with major London, Edinburgh and the many more localised publishers and distributing agents in the UK. We need to consider these wholesalers, too, in broader economic terms including the history of markets, credit arrangements, risk-taking, and the nineteenth-century changes in company structures which facilitated major change in the book world. On eighteenthcentury credit see Hoppit (1987). There are many wholesalers in addition to those large firms of W. H. Smith, John Menzies, Simpkin, Marshall (including Hamilton, Adams & Co. and Kent & Co., both taken over by Simpkin’s), William Dawson & Sons, John Joseph Griffin, Hodgsons, Longman, Henry Vickers, Eason & Son in Dublin and Mullan in Belfast. Wholesalers whose imprints we find on nineteenth-century books include The Grand Colosseum Warehouse, operating from Glasgow, and Faudel Phillips in London. Each, for example, evidently issued much reprinted fiction under its own or joint title pages, as we see from surviving books, for example, many issued by the London firm of Richard Edward King, 1886–1922. The Grand Colosseum and Faudel Phillips combined publishing and bookselling. The evidence of surviving copies of books indicates that they seem to have purchased large quantities, although I can find no archival evidence. They seem to have supplied the country trade as well as institutional buyers at discounts. For a summary of current knowledge see Stephen Colclough (2009), who also discusses other firms including James Askew, Bell & Bradfute, Dean & Munday, Robert Evans, Gale & Fenner, Abel Heywood, George Gaillie, Houlston & Son, Law & Whittaker, James Nisbet, Oliver & Boyd and Lewis Smith & Son. Colclough says that ‘all of this evidence suggests that fundamental changes took place in the distribution and retailing of texts during this period 1880–1914’ (Colclough 2009: 278). Some of the major religious publishers in Britain also had their own distribution networks. See Michael Ledger-Thomas (2009). I explore these questions further in my By Book or By Crook. The Secret History of a Victorian Publisher, in preparation. For example, we need, for the UK, modern studies of such pivotal figures as Henry Colburn, Richard Bentley, Simms & M’Intyre, George Routledge, Alfred Harmsworth and C. Arthur Pearson (following Jackson’s recent important work on George Newnes); in America, Frank Munsey, S. S. Mclure, John Lovel; in France, Hachette; in Australia, E. W. Cole, and E. A Petherick. Where any accounts exist of these they are often embedded in the jellied-eel preservative



40

of patronymic house histories. A key figure like Henry Colburn – an influential series publisher, among other roles – has, too, been ill served by history. He played important creative parts in the formation of literary cultures and in series development. Sadleir’s bias against him has been too powerful for too long. See Sutherland (1986: 59–84), Sadleir (1951) and Gettmann (1960). Colburn did not only publish fashionable and meretricious fiction, either. He published Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle in 1839, and took many other important bookselling and publishing initiatives. 12. Among the very considerable literature on entrepreneurship see especially Schumpeter (1934, 1989) and Crouzet (1985). A still valuable and perceptive discussion on which I have drawn is Payne (1974). Payne discusses, too, the ‘competence’ of entrepreneurs in Victorian and Edwardian Britain, and the declining rate of growth of industrial production, a topic of continued controversy, notably since the forceful but one-sided argument put by Wiener (1981). See also Raven (1989: 178–204; 1992: 249–51).

Bibliography Individual contributors have provided guidance to reading in their specific fields, including non English-language sources with which I am unfamiliar. Individual studies in English include: Altick, Richard D. (1958) ‘From Aldine to Everyman: Cheap Reprint Series of the English Classics, 1830–1906’, Studies in Bibliography, 11: 7–8. Anon (1846) ‘Bohn’s Standard Library’, British Quarterly Review, 3,. Bassett, T. J. (2004) ‘T. Fisher Unwin’s Pseudonym Library: Literary Marketing and Authorial Identity’, English Literature in Transition, 47(2): 143–60. Bennett, Scott (1976) ‘John Murray’s Family Library and the Cheapening of Books in Early Nineteenth-Century Britain’, Studies in Bibliography, 29: 139–66. Bonnell, Thomas F. (1987) ‘John Bell’s “Poets of Great Britain”: The “Little Trifling Edition” Revisited’, Modern Philology 85; 128–52. Bonnell, Thomas F. (1989) ‘Bookselling and Canon-Making: The Trade Rivalry over the English Poets, 1776–1783’, Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture, 19: 53–89. Bonnell, Thomas F. (2008) The Most Disreputable Trade. Publishing the Classics of English Poetry 1785–1810. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bowden, Ann, and Todd, W. B. (2003) Tauchnitz International Editions, 1841–1855. A Bibliographical History. New Castle, Del: Oak Knoll Press; London: British Library. Bowker, R. R. (2007) ‘Bowker Reports US Book Production Rebounded Slightly in 2006’, news release, 31 May. Ezell, Margaret J. M. (1994) ‘Making a Classic: The Advent of the Literary Series’, South Central Review, 11(2). Hench, J. B. (2010) Books as Weapons: Propaganda, Publishing and the Battle for Global Markets in the Era of World War II. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press. Howsam, Leslie (1992) ‘Sustained Literary Ventures: The Series in Victorian Book Publishing’, Publishing History, 31: 5–26. Howsam, Leslie (2000) ‘An Experiment with Science for the Nineteenth-Century Book Trade: The International Scientific Series’, British Journal for the History of Science, 33: 187–207.



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James, Elizabeth (1997) ‘George Routledge’s publishing enterprise, 1837–1888, with special reference to the Railway Library’, University of London PhD thesis, November. McCleery, Alistair (2006) ‘Tauchnitz and Albatross: A “Community of Interests” in English-langauge Paperback Publishing, 1934–1951’, The Library, 7(3): 297–316. Neavill, Gordon B. (1979) ‘The Modern Library Series: Format and Design, 1917–1977’, Printing History 1: 26–37. Neavill, Gordon B. (1981) ‘The Modern Library Series and American Cultural Life’, Journal of Library History, 16 (Spring): 241–52. Neavill, Gordon B. (2007) ‘Publishing in Wartime: The Modern Library Series during the Second World War’, Library Trends, 55(3): 583–96. Rectanus, Mark (1984) Literary Series in the Federal Republic of Germany from 1960 to 1980. Wiesbaden: O. Harrassowitz. Reynolds, Sian (2005) ‘Nelson’s French Collection 1910–60s’, in David Finkelstein and Alistair McCleery (eds), An Introduction to Book History. London and New York: Routledge, 2006 edn. Sadleir, Michael (1951) XIX Century Fiction, Volume II. London, Constable; Los Angeles, University of California Press. This magisterial work contains much significant detail, bibliographical information and the histories of the major series for its period. Satterfield, Jay (2002) ‘The World’s Best Books’: Taste, Culture and the Modern Library. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Turner, John R. (1992) ‘The Camelot Series, Everyman’s Library, and Ernest Rhys’, Publishing History, 31: 27–46. The bibliography given below only lists specific titles cited in the Introduction and the notes to this second volume of the two-volume set. Aldcroft, D. H. (1970) The Inter-War Economy: Britain, 1919–1939. London: B.T. Batsford. Alison, Jennifer (2009) Doing Something for Australia. George Robertson and the early years of Angus and Robertson, Publishers, 1888–1900. Melbourne: Bibliographical Society of Australia and New Zealand. Anderson, Benedict (1983) Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso (rev. edn 1991). Ashton, T. S. (1948) The Industrial Revolution (1760–1830). London: Oxford Unviersity Press. Bain, Alexander (1873) Mind and Body: The Theories of the Relation. New York: D. Appleton. Beetham, Margaret (1996) A Magazine of Her Own. Domesticity and Desire in the Women’s Magazine, 1800–1914. London: Routledge. Birkerts, Sven (1994) The Gutenberg Elegies: The Fate of Reading in an Electronic Age. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux (rev. edn 2006). Blainey, Geoffrey (1968) The Tyranny of Distance. How Distance Shaped Australia’s History. London: Macmillan. Bloch, Marc (1928) ‘Pour une histoire comparee des societies europeennes’, Revue de synthese historique, 46: 15–50. Bourdieu, Pierre (1993) The Field of Cultural Production. Essays on Art and Literature, ed. and intro. Randal Johnson. New York: Columbia University Press.



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Bourdieu, Pierre (1979) Distinction. A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, trans. Richard Nice. New York and London: Routledge. Brake, Laurel, Bell, Bill and Finkelstein, David (eds) (2000) Nineteenth-Century Media and the Construction of Identities. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Briggs, Asa (1985) The Collected Essays of Asa Briggs. Volume II: Images, Problems, Standpoints, Forecasts. Brighton: The Harvester Press. Brownson, Orestes A. (1966) The Writings on Literature, in Henry F. Brownson (ed.), The Works of Orestes A. Brownson, Volume 19. New York: AMS Press, 20 vols. Casper, Scott E. (2010) ‘Case Study: Harper & Brothers’, in Robert A. Gross and Mary Kelley (eds), A History of the Book in America. Volume 2: An Extensive Republic. Print, Culture and Society in the New Nation, 1790–1840. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press in association with the American Antiquarian Society. Colclough, Stephen (2009) ‘Distribution’, in David McKitterick (ed.), The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain. Volume VI: 1830–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cole, Arthur H. (1946) ‘An Approach to the Study of Entrepreneurship’, Journal of Economic History, 6 (supplement): 1–15 (reprinted in Lane and Riemersma (eds), 1953). Coleman, D. C. (1992) Myth, History and the Industrial Revolution. London: The Hambledon Press. Colinvaux, Paul (1980) The Fates of Nations: A Biological Theory of History. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Colley, Linda (1992) Britons, Forging the Nation 1707–1837. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press (Vintage edn 1996). Collini, Stefan (1991) Public Moralists: Political Thought and Intellectual Life in Britain 1850–1930. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Collins, Richard E., Curran, James, Garnham, Nicholas, and Scanell, Paddy (eds) (1986) Media Culture and Society. London: Sage. Conquest, Robert (1986) The Harvest of Sorrow. Soviet Collectivization and the Terror Famine. Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 1986; London: Pimlico edn 2002. Cowen, Tyler (1998) In Praise of Commercial Culture. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Cowen, Tyler (2002) Creative Destruction. How Globalization Is Changing the World’s Cultures. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cowen, Tyler (2007) Discover Your Inner Economist. New York: Dutton. Crouzet, Francois (1985) The First Industrialists. The Problem of Origins. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Delany, Paul (2002) Literature, Money and the Market. From Trollope to Amis. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Desan, Philippe, Ferguson, Priscilla Parkhurst and Griswold, Wendy (eds) (1989) Literature and Social Practice. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Eagleton, Terry (1976) Criticism and Ideology: A Study in Marxist Literary Theory. New York: Verso. Eagleton, Terry (1989) ‘Two Approaches to the Sociology of Literature’, in Desan et al. (1989), reprinted from Critical Inquiry, 14:3 (Spring 1988), 469–76. Eliot, Simon and Rose, Jonathan (eds) (2007) A Companion to the History of the Book. Oxford: Blackwell. Eliot, Simon, Nash, Andrew and Willison Ian (eds) (2007), Literary Cultures and the Material Book. London: British Library.



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Eliot, T. S. (1948) Notes Towards a Definition of Culture. London: Faber. Furet, François (1999) The Passing of an Illusion: The Idea of Communism in the Twentieth Century. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Gagnier, Regenia (2000) The Instability of Human Wants: Economics and Aesthetics in Market Society. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Gallagher, Catherine (2006) The Body Economic: Life, Death and Sensation in Political Economy and the Victorian Novel. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Gettmann, Royal A. (1960) A Victorian Publisher: A Study of the Bentley Papers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gross, Robert A. (2010) ‘Introduction. An Extensive Republic’, in Gross and Kelley (eds). Gross, Robert and Kelley, Mary (eds) (2010) A History of the Book in America. Volume 2. An Extensive Republic. Print, Culture, and Society in the New Nation, 1790–1840. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press in association with the American Antiquarian Society. Hamish Fraser, W. (1981) The Coming of the Mass Market, 1850–1914. London and Basingstoke, Macmillan. Hammond, Mary (2006) Reading, Publishing, and the Formation of Literary Taste in England, 1880–1914. Aldershot: Ashgate. Harris, José (1993) Private Lives, Public Spirit: Britain 1870–1914. London: Allen Lane, 1993; London: Penguin Books edn 1994. Hartwell, Max (1971) The Industrial Revolution and Economic Growth. London: Methuen. Hobsbawm, Eric (1990) Nations and Nationalism since 1780. Programme, Myth, Reality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hoggart, Richard (1957) The Uses of Literacy. London: Chatto & Windus. Hoppit, Julian (1987) Risk and Failure in English Business 1700–1800. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jackson, Kate (2001) George Newnes and the New Journalism in Britain 1880–1910. Culture and Profit. Aldershot: Ashgate. James, Elizabeth (1979) ‘George Routledge’s Publishing Enterprise, 1837–1888, with Special Reference to the Railway Library’, University of London DPhil thesis, November. Jevons, William Stanley (1871) The Theory of Political Economy. London: Macmillan (2nd edn 1879). Jevons, William Stanley (1970) The Theory of Political Economy, edited and with an introduction by R. D. Collison Black. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Johns, Adrian (2000) The Nature of the Book. Print and Knowledge in the Making. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Johnson, Lesley (1979) The Cultural Critics: From Matthew Arnold to Raymond Williams. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Keynes, John Maynard (1973) The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money (1936), in The Collected Writings of John Maynard Keynes, Volume VII. London: Macmillan for the Royal Economic Society. Kuskin, William (2008) Symbolic Caxton. Literary Culture and Print Capitalism. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Lane, Frederic Chaplin and Riemersma (eds) (1953), Enterprise and Secular Change. Readings in Economic History. London: George Allen and Unwin. Langbauer, Laurie (1999) Novels of Everyday Life: The Series in English Fiction, 1850–1930. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press.



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Lears, T. J. (1994) No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Leavis, F. R. (1932) New Bearings in English Poetry. A Study of the Contemporary Situation. London: Chatto & Windus. Ledger-Thomas, Michael (2009) ‘Mass Markets: Religion’, in David McKitterick (ed.), The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain. Volume VI: 1830–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Loughran, Trish (2007) The Republic in Print. Print Culture in the Age of U.S. Nation Building, 1770–1870. New York: Columbia University Press. Macaulay, T. B. (1886) Essays, and Lays of Ancient Rome. London: Longmans, Green. McKibbin, Ross (1998) Classes and Cultures. England 1918–1951. Oxford: Oxford University Press. McKibbin, Ross (2010) Parties and People. England 1914–1951. Oxford: Oxford University Press. McKitterick, David (ed) (2009) The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain. Volume VI: 1830–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Maine, Henry S. (1885) Popular Government: Four Essays. London: John Murray. Marshall, Alfred (1890) Principles of Economics. London: Macmillan (9th edn, ed. C. W. Guillebaud, 1961). Melling, Joseph and Barry, Jonathan (eds) (1992) Culture in History: Production, Consumption and Values. Exeter: Exeter University Press. Mill, John Stuart (1843) ‘On the Definition of Political Economy’, in J. S. Mill, Collected Works, IV. Toronto: University of Toronto Press; London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Milner, Andrew (1994) Contemporary Cultural Theory. An Introduction, 2nd edn. London: University College London Press. Milner, Andrew (1999) Class. London: Sage. Moody, Nickianne (2009) ‘The Best Defence Is a Good Methodology: Studying Popular Fiction in a Hostile Academic Environment’, paper given to Victorian Popular Fiction Association meeting, Kingston University, 31 October. Nord, David Paul, Rubin, Joan Shelley and Schudson, Michael (eds) (2009) A History of the Book in America. Volume 5, The Enduring Book: Print Culture in Postwar America. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, in association with the American Antiquarian Society. Ohmann, Richard (1996) Selling Culture: Magazines, Markets, and Class at the Turn of the Century. London: Verso. Olivero, Isabelle (1999) L’Invention de la Collection. De la diffusion de la littérature et des savoir à la formation du citoyen au XIXe siecle. Paris: Editions de l’Imec. Orwell, George (2008) Books v. Cigarettes. London: Penguin Books. Payne, P. L. (1974) British Entrepreneurship in the Nineteenth Century. London: Macmillan. Petroski, Henry (1985) To Engineer is Human. The Role of Failure in Successful Design. New York: St Martin’s Press; New York: Vintage Books edn 1992. Plumb, J. H. (1963) Men and Places. London: The Cresset Press, 1993; Harmondsworth, Penguin Books edn 1966. Plumb, J. H. (1969) The Death of the Past. London: Macmillan. Postrel, Virginia (1998) The Future and Its Enemies: The Growing Conflict over Creativity, Enterprise, and Progress. New York: The Free Press.



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Postrel, Virginia (2003) The Substance of Style: How the Rise of Aesthetic Value Is Remaking Commerce, Culture, and Consciousness. New York: HarperCollins (Harper Perennial edn 2004). Raven, James (1989) ‘British History and the Enterprise Culture’, Past and Present, 123: 178–204. Raven, James (1992) Judging New Wealth. Popular Publishing and Responses to Commerce in England, 1750–1800. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Raven, James (2007) The Business of Books. Booksellers and the English Book Trade. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Roeber, A.Gregg (2010) ‘Readers and Writers of German’, in Gross and Kelley (eds). Rowland, William G. Jr (1996) Literature in the Marketplace. Romantic Writers and Their Audiences in Great Britain and the United States. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Sadleir, Michael (1951) XIX Century Fiction, Volume II. London: Constable; Los Angeles: University of California Press. Schaffer, Tallia (2000) The Forgotten Female Aesthetes: Literary Culture in LateVictorian England. Charlottesville and London: University Press of Virginia. St Clair, William (2004) The Reading Nation in the Romantic Period. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. St Clair, William (2009) ‘Afterwords’, Times Literary Supplement, 10 April: 7–8. Say, Jean-Baptiste (1816) Catechism of Political Economy. London (first French edition 1815). Say, Jean-Baptiste (1821) A Treatise on Political Economy, Volume 1. London (first French edition 1903). Schudson, Michael (2009) ‘General Introduction: The Enduring Book in a Multimedia Age’, in David Paul Nord, Joan Shelley Rubin and Michael Schudson (eds), A History of the Book in America Volume 5, The Enduring Book. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Schumpeter, Joseph A. (1934) The Theory of Economic Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schumpeter, Joseph A. (1949) ‘Economic Theory and Entrepreneurial History. Change and the Entrepeneur’, in J. A. Schumpeter (ed.), Change and the Entrepreneur: Postulates and Patterns for Entrepreneurial History. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Reprinted in G. J. Hugh (ed.) (1965) Explorations in Enterprise. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schumpeter, Joseph A. (1976) Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy. New York: Harper & Row. Schumpeter, Joseph A. (1989) Essays: On Entrepreneurs, Innovations, Business Cycles, and the Evolution of Capitalism, ed. Richard V. Clements. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers. Searle, G. R. (1987) Corruption in British Politics 1895–1930. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Seldon, Arthur (1990) Capitalism. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Shep, Sydney J. (2008) ‘Books without Borders: The Transnational Turn in Book History’, in Robert Fraser and Mary Hammond (eds) (2008), Books without Borders. The Cross-National Dimension in Print Culture. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Sinfield, Alan (1989) Literature, Politics and Culture in Postwar Britain. London: Routledge. Stevenson, John (1990) British Society, 1914–45. London: Allen Lane.



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Sutherland, John (1986) ‘Henry Colburn Publisher’, Publishing History, 19 (1986), 59–84. Taylor, Mike and Wolff, Michael (eds) (2004) The Victorians since 1901. Histories, Representations and Revisions. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Tatlock, Lynne (ed.) (2010), Publishing Culture and the ‘Reading Nation’: German Book History in the Long Nineteenth Century. Rochester, NY: Camden House. Teres, Harvey ‘The Critical Climate’, in Nord, Rubin and Schudson (eds) (2009). Thompson, E. P. (1963) The Making of the English Working Class. London: Gollancz. Toynbee, Arnold (1884) Lectures on the Industrial Revolution in England: Public Addresses, Notes and Other Fragments, together with a Short Memoir by B. Jowett. London: Rivington’s. Tuchman, Gaye and Fortin, Nina E. (1989) Edging Women Out: Victorian Novelists, Publishers and Social Change. London: Routledge. Veblen, Thorstein (1899) The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study in the Evolution of Institutions. New York: Macmillan. Vernon, James (1993) Politics and the People: A Study in English Political Culture, c.1815–1867. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vernon, John (1984) Money and Fiction: Literary Realism in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries. New York: Cornell University Press. Wadsworth, Sarah (2006) In the Company of Books: Literature and Its ‘Classes’ in Nineteenth Century America. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Walker, Francis Amasa (1883) Political Economy. New York: Henry Holt. Webb, Beatrice (1938) My Apprenticeship, Volume 1. Harmondsworth: Pelican Books. Weedon, Alexis (2007) ‘The uses of quantification’, in Eliot and Rose (eds). Weedon, Alexis and Eliot, Simon (1996) British Book Trade Archives 1830–1939: A Location Register. Bristol: History of the Book on Demand Series, 5. A revised list by Alexis Weedon was published on the web in 2001. See http//:madwiki. beds.ac.uk/british book Wiener, M. J. (1981) English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit 1850–1980. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Williams, Raymond (1961) The Long Revolution: An Analysis of the Democratic, Industrial and Cultural Changes Transforming Our Society. London: Chatto & Windus. Williams, Raymond (1973) The Country and the City. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Williams, Raymond (1976) Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society. London: Flamingo (rev. and exp. edn 1983). Williams, Raymond (1980) Problems of Material Culture. London: Verso. Williams, Raymond (1981) Culture. London: Fontana Press (3rd imp. 1986). Williams, Raymond (1989) ‘Culture Is Ordinary’, in Resources of Hope. New York: Verso. Winch, Donald (1996) Riches and Poverty. An Intellectual History of Political Economy in Britain, 1750–1834. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Winch, Donald (2009) Wealth and Life. Essays on the Intellectual History of Political Economy in Britain, 1848–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Winter, James (1999) Secure from Rash Assault. Sustaining the Victorian Environment. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wright, Patrick (1985) On Living in an Old Country. The National Past in Contemporary Britain. Oxford: Oxford University Press (2009 edn).



Introduction 47

The American Publisher’s Series Goes to War, 1942–1946 John B. Hench

The Second World War exalted the importance of books in many ways, most of all by clearly demonstrating the ambivalent power of books to foster evil as well as good. What was good and what was evil, of course, lay in the eye of the beholder. During the run-up to the war, the Nazis reactively burned or banned millions of books that they deemed a threat to their noxious ideology. Proactively, Goebbels and others of Hitler’s henchmen published and circulated masses of books and other printed materials in conformity to the tenets of party doctrine. For its part, the US government, in anticipation of Hitler’s defeat, responded by purchasing and funding the special publication of large numbers of American books to accomplish the goal of weaning the civilians in both overrun and aggressor nations from years of Goebbels’s propaganda. As part of this undertaking, many of the burned-or-banned books were symbolically rubbed in the noses of the citizens of the shattered Third Reich. In concluding that, of all the media, books had the longest-term effect on people’s minds, the government endorsed the cornerstone of the publishers’ professional ideology, the notion that books were uniquely suited to perform vital cultural work.1 No less a personage than President Roosevelt pronounced books to be ‘weapons in the war of ideas’ against the fascist powers, and with his blessing a coalition of private and governmental organisations sent them into battle on both sides of the Atlantic. The war even emboldened American book publishers to become far more active players in the world’s markets than they had previously contemplated or even desired. Books in series became the dominant vehicle for these vital wartime programmes. My interest in the wartime work of books and other printed material stems from the collecting and scholarly research and writing that I have 48



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pursued for nearly a decade. I started to collect American books, magazines and newspapers that were published for the purpose of advancing certain important military, political and propaganda goals. By definition, magazines and newspapers are published in series. It soon became clear to me, however, that most of the books I came to own had also been issued in series. My collecting led directly into the research that has culminated in my book, Books as Weapons: Propaganda, Publishing, and the Battle for Global Markets in the Era of World War II (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2010), from which this chapter draws material. In doing both the collecting and the research, I discovered additional war-related series of books. Preparing for this chapter gave me the chance to think about how the intellectual and marketing concepts behind the series I was collecting and studying, as well as the physical nature of the books in the series, were particularly appropriate to the needs and demands of wartime publishing and propaganda. In this chapter, I briefly describe the various series and the circumstances of their creation, production and circulation. It is important to realise that all of these processes had to be carried out in a state of emergency, with stakes incredibly high, time short and resources limited. From there, I explore such questions as how and why the series model was well suited to wartime use, how the wartime series differed from the series norm, and how these particular series influenced the post-war direction of book publishing and book consumption not only in the United States but throughout the world. The most famous of these special wartime series was the one called Armed Services Editions. Produced by the Council on Books in Wartime, a non-profit wartime agency of the publishing industry, with funding and worldwide distribution provided by the army and navy, 123 million copies of 1,322 eclectic titles were put, free of charge, into the hands of US forces in all theatres of the war. Of course, these books were meant to help soldiers and sailors to use to good advantage the time available within the ‘hurry up and wait’ military routine. Altogether, the books provided entertainment, cultural enrichment and education, particularly on how to prepare for success in civilian life after the war. The books, which were selected by the army and the navy, included world classics as well as more current fare, in all genres and appealing to all brow-levels.2 For publishers, participating in the series not only contributed directly to the war effort by benefiting the morale of the military, it also held promise for stimulating the domestic market for books after the troops came home. If the great interest soldiers and sailors had shown in reading books during the war continued afterwards, Council member William



The American Publisher’s Series Goes to War 49

John B. Hench

Sloane remarked, the Armed Services Editions plan would ‘justify itself 100 times over’.3 The publishers didn’t even have to dip into their own paper rations in the production of these special editions. So that they could be printed economically on fast rotary presses used in peacetime for magazines and catalogues but under-utilised in wartime, most of the Council Books, as they were also called, appeared in an unusual, landscape format in two trim sizes, with the text arrayed in two columns per page, rather than one, which produced a shorter, more legible line. Though this format arose out of expediency, it resulted in a convenient size and shape for fitting into a soldier’s tunic or pack and to be read comfortably while lying on one’s back in a hospital bed, as one war correspondent observed.4 After the war was over and greater and more varied press capacity became available, the last titles – produced for troops occupying Germany and Japan – were published in the standard portrait paperback format that had become prevalent in the USA in the 1930s. The Armed Services Editions were described, shortly after the war had ended, as ‘the greatest mass publishing enterprise of all history’,5 a judgement that may remain unchallenged more than sixty years later. Though by far the largest and most important, the ASEs (or Council books) were not the only series intended for GIs. Next in significance was the Fighting Forces Series, which was initiated by the Infantry Journal, an influential semi-official professional publication for infantry officers since its establishment in the early 1900s. Some of the titles were published by Infantry Journal alone, others through a loose but inventive and highly effective partnership between Infantry Journal and the American branch of Penguin Books. Most of the titles in the Fighting Forces series were on some military subject or other. They provided service personnel with information on military strategy, tactics and materiel, as well as descriptions of the enemies they faced and of the history, geography, flora and fauna of the places to which they were being sent to fight.6 A key figure on the Penguin side of this enterprise was Kurt Enoch, who had come to the USA as a refugee from Hitler’s Europe, and who neatly connects the Fighting Forces series with two legendary series, Albatross Modern Continental Library, which he had co-founded, and Tauchnitz Editions, which he had acquired (see Volume 1, Chapter 10 of this book).7 Another specialist publisher, the Military Service Publishing Company, started a series called Superior Reprints, also in cooperation with Penguin USA. This line mainly featured not-very-challenging popular novels.8 Pocket Books, Inc., the pioneer American paperback publisher of modern times, also issued books for the soldier market, which were



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confusingly also designated as Armed Services Editions. Some were marked as for free distribution, while containing in the back matter lists of other Pocket Books titles available for 25 cents each. Besides issuing its own armed forces editions, Pocket Books actively promoted the sale of all of its titles by urging civilians to purchase and mail the books to loved ones in the service.9 Some of the most interesting, and least known, of the wartime American series were those that were not published for the GI Joes and GI Janes overseas or in training camps stateside. Among them are the two related series – Overseas Editions and Transatlantic Editions – that prompted me to undertake my research project and that form the core of my book. Both series were published to be put in the hands of European and Asian citizens as soon as possible after the defeat of the Axis powers. Like the Armed Services Editions, the Overseas Editions were published in New York by a subsidiary of the Council on Books in Wartime in partnership with an arm of the government – in this case, the Office of War Information (OWI), the chief propaganda agency. Overseas Editions consisted of forty-one separate titles in seventy-two editions in English, French, Italian and German, all manufactured in the USA and shipped to overseas markets, where they were to be sold rather than given away. For various reasons, OWI produced the Transatlantic Editions through its London office – ten titles in French and ten in Dutch. These books were typeset and printed in Britain, using American paper, but they bore a New York imprint of Transatlantic Editions in Dutch or French.10 The Overseas and Transatlantic editions reflected separate, but manifestly complementary, goals of their two sponsors, the OWI and the private, non-profit Council on Books in Wartime, which the publishing industry had created in 1942 to focus its contributions to the war effort. For OWI, the exhaustively selected titles were meant to respond to the figurative and literal hunger of war-torn peoples for books free of the taint of Axis ideology and censorship and to liberate their minds from the intellectual blackout that the war had produced. For the publishers who made up the Council, the projects offered them a golden opportunity to gain a foothold in overseas markets, in which they had shown little interest until the wartime damage to the British and European book trades created a vacuum. Another foreign-language series – Bücherreihe Neue Welt (‘New World Bookshelf’) – has an especially interesting publishing history. Twentytwo titles in twenty-four volumes, all in German, were published for German prisoners of war held in camps in the United States. Like the Overseas and Transatlantic editions, these books were sold. The internees




John B. Hench

could afford to buy them because they earned small amounts of cash from required or voluntary labour in the camps and from the sale of handmade crafts. The project was undertaken late in the war when it was felt necessary to provide some formal re-education to the prisoners in anticipation of their repatriation to the defeated and devastated former Third Reich. Responsibility for the top-secret series lay with the army’s Office of the Provost Marshal General, which had custody of the POWs. Handling the production and distribution were two silent partners – once again the Infantry Journal and the US branch of Penguin Books. Most of the texts were supplied by the rights holder, Gottfried Bermann-Fischer, a refugee German Jewish publisher and heir to the noted German publishing house, S. Fischer Verlag, who ultimately found refuge in New York in 1940. About three-quarters of the selections were books by contemporary German writers (mostly Jews) that had been proscribed by the Nazis. The remainder were American-authored titles and a few other books that Bermann-Fischer had already published in German translation through his Stockholm branch-in-exile.11 There are some other books worth mentioning, which may or may not meet the criteria for being a publisher’s series. These were books published in foreign languages in New York largely for audiences of refugees from Hitler. There are, for example, at least three series of books published in French by firms in New York City. The targeted audiences for these were French émigrés in countries throughout the Americas, as well as Francophones around the world whose normal supply of books in French had been cut off by the war. The most notable of these was a series called Éditions de la Maison Française. The publishers were immigrants of Sephardic Jewish ancestry from Turkey and Greece who moved to the USA in the 1920s and set up a French-language bookstore in Manhattan. The shop existed until 2009. Anyone who visited Rockefeller Center in New York before then probably saw it, the Librairie de France, directly across from St Patrick’s Cathedral. If so inclined, one can still purchase pristine copies of many of their wartime titles from the firm’s website. André Maurois, himself in exile in New York, was the chief patron of this enterprise, which included a number of his books on its list.12 The other French series were similar in purpose and content to the EMFs. One was published under the name Éditions Didier and the other by the New York and Paris bookseller Brentano’s.13 Titles with the Maison Française and Didier imprints have numbers attached to them, as would befit a series. Their covers are also very uniform, but it is a uniformity of general house style and French convention, rather than specifically the uniformity of a series.



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Copyright material from www.palgraveconnect.com - licensed to Universitetsbiblioteket i Tromso - PalgraveConnect 2011-03-13

Figure 1.1 Three of the twenty-two titles in the series Bücherreine Neue Welt, published to be sold to German prisoners of war in camps in the USA. Jeff Adams Photography

John B. Hench

How can we define the characteristics of these various series? How much do they have in common with each other? How do they differ from the classic series of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, like Ticknor & Fields Blue and Gold Series, Tauchnitz, the Railway Library, Albatross and the Modern Library? First of all, they were all designed to meet one or more specific wartime needs, which included: • providing recreational and educational books for the American armed forces; • putting American books carefully selected for their propaganda value into the hands of civilians in liberated and Axis countries; • re-educating German POWs prior to their repatriation; • producing books for émigrés cut off from their homeland; • giving publishers more access to paper, printing facilities and markets; • providing visibility for American books in order to capture overseas and domestic markets after the war. Even though the sponsors clearly hoped the wartime series would stimulate post-war demand, the series themselves were entirely ad hoc efforts, with no pretensions as to permanence as series. They were also highly improvised. Most were established as series only after other methods of satisfying the stated needs proved inadequate. For example, previous efforts to take random public donations of used books for the troops turned up too many useless and hard-to-ship titles, so plan B was the highly successful, made-to-order Armed Services Editions. Similarly, the Overseas and Transatlantic series came about because the supply of publishers’ in-stock titles in English, let alone in the required foreign languages, was inadequate to meet the anticipated post-liberation demand abroad. In the case of the books for German POWs, domestic supply was likewise wanting, so a special series was commissioned. The most significant of these series were produced with close ties to one US government agency or another, whether the army and navy, the OWI or the Office of the Provost Marshal General, but all were actually ‘published’ by a non-governmental entity, in the case of books aimed at foreign nationals, to mask the true origins of the books. All the books were published in one or two standard formats. Nearly all were paperbacks, though one of the Éditions Didier titles I own is in a publisher’s cloth binding. Most of the series numbered the titles in one or more sequences. The uniformity of the formats is not only a principal characteristic of publishers’ series in general, but for wartime



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purposes it also greatly simplified the task not only of manufacturing the books but all the packing and shipping of them overseas, whether to GIs or liberated civilians, all the more so because the books were in paper rather than hard covers. Aspects relating to the design and other paratextual features were critical elements of their character and are well worth consideration.14 The element of uniformity of design and format, first of all, helped to create, or draw on, familiarity. For example, the producers of the Overseas and Transatlantic editions consciously rejected the landscape format that worked so well for the Armed Services Editions in favour of a portrait paperback purposely designed to resemble the typical paperbacks of France and elsewhere in Europe. These were squatter than the typical British or American paperback, generally with tan covers printed in black and red, with few graphic touches. The books published by the three French publishers in New York were virtually identical in design to the Gallimard, Grasset and other Paris publishers’ titles that the Librarie de France and Brentano’s had been importing and selling in their stores for years. The publishers of these wartime series also took advantage of the characteristic of series that historians Jay Satterfield and John Spiers, among others, have noted: that is, that such books were designed, branded, marketed and sold as a coherent whole, rather than as an assortment of individual titles.15 Moreover, many of the paratextual features included in the books gave clear signals as to what the readers were meant to gain from reading them and, more subtly, what the sponsors wished to accomplish. The books aimed at foreign readers contained blurbs on the back cover that noted the propaganda goals (without calling them such) that the books were chosen in order to accomplish. For example, the blurb for David Lilienthal’s TVA: Democracy on the March pointedly demonstrated that a democracy could successfully engage in social planning no less than a fascist or communist state, while Bernard Jaffe’s Men of Science in America countered Nazi propaganda that the USA lagged in major accomplishments in the basic sciences. Bücherreihe Neue Welt titles also carried blurbs that performed propaganda work. On the back cover of John Scott’s Jenseits des Ural: Ein Arbeiter in Stahlzentrum Russlands, for example, it was made clear that the POW readers were supposed to gain a view of America’s ally the Soviet Union different from the one they had been supplied by their leaders.16 The back-cover blurbs of ASEs were similar to what would have appeared on the original editions, including complimentary ‘puffs’ from noted critics and journalists. This plus the fact that the covers of the ASEs featured images of the dust jackets




John B. Hench

of the publishers’ own editions was a clear sign that the firms wanted to promote their products to the GIs, who would, some day soon, be returning home and to civilian life. The ‘series-ness’ of these publications was important, even crucial, to accomplishing their assigned wartime work: that is, getting them produced efficiently, on budget and as much on schedule as political, economic and technical conditions allowed them to be. Publication and translation rights for the ASEs, OEs and TEs, about which I know the most, were cleared en masse. The books were ganged-up for printing and binding. Because they were parts of a series, and the whole was greater than the sum of its parts, individual titles could be dropped during the production cycle for any number of reasons and other titles meeting the same propaganda criteria easily substituted for them. The series format produced some cost savings. For example, all the Overseas Editions were printed by the same firm, thus gaining a volume discount for the government. Volume-buying was not possible for the typesetting of the books, however, because virtually all composing houses were offered far more work than they could possibly handle, so composition had to be parcelled out to many firms. Moreover, buying good foreign-language typesetting commanded few if any discounts.17 Insofar as rights holders and vendors could persuade themselves that, by participating in these programmes, they were providing patriotic service to the war effort, the governmental connections also helped, at least occasionally, to keep costs down and production on the fast track. Finally, these series, for the most part, operated outside the normal market forces of book publishing, including other publishers’ series, like Tauchnitz and the Modern Library. The choice of books to include tended to reflect the strategic goals of the series’ creators more than the presumed wishes of the intended audiences, especially in the case of the series aimed at German POWs and civilians abroad. The greatest number of these books (namely, the ASEs) were given away. Others, to be sure, were sold – to civilians abroad and German prisoners of war, for example – but the products were created by US governmental entities, far removed from their customers. To varying degrees, the books were intended for ‘captive’ audiences. This was quite literally so for the German POWs, and essentially so for the GIs, who were captive to the full power of military discipline. Although the liberated civilians abroad by then possessed the free will to purchase the Overseas and Transatlantic offerings, or not, their market choices were highly circumscribed since there was little if anything of domestic production available to sate their widely proclaimed hunger for non-Nazi reading material.



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Wars shake up the status quo, often with lasting consequences. This was certainly the case with many of the wartime American publishers’ series. Historians credit the Armed Services Editions both with helping to develop a new generation of book readers and buyers and with fuelling the post-war paperback boom. Certainly, the first Armed Services Edition that many of the service men and women read may have been the first book they managed to read all the way through since they were in school, if ever. Many of the troops, of course, came from small towns in rural America, far from bookstores and decent public libraries, which remained luxuries to be enjoyed mainly by those who lived in large cities, especially in the north-east. The veterans who attended college under the celebrated GI Bill of Rights would have had a chance to further develop and refine their taste for reading. Armed with a college degree paid for by the government, a good job and secure status in the middle class, the veteran might have proudly displayed the Modern Library books he read for college classes in his suburban bookcase, joined the Book-of-the-Month Club and occasionally bought other books, both in paper and in hard covers. The ASEs unquestionably helped to boost the market for Pocket Books, Penguin Books and their imitators and competitors in post-war America.18 The archives of the Council on Books in Wartime, sponsor of the ASEs, contain hundreds of letters suggesting how the books were read and discussed. Most were written by the servicemen themselves, and sent to the offices of the Council, while others came from civilian observers overseas. The GIs wrote tens of thousands more letters directly to the authors whose books they most enjoyed. Most of the missives were complimentary and grateful. The letters document a host of reading styles and situations: reading books in a foxhole, in the chow line, waiting for a film to begin. Sometimes copies of the books themselves provide eloquent, if silent, testimony as to how, when and where the books were read. Many were literally consumed to pieces. Some GIs preparing for D-Day held on to their ASEs even when they threw other personal items of value away to lighten their load before embarkation. Grimly, one copy displayed a bloody thumb print on page 35 and thereafter, until a place two-thirds of the way through, when it ceased to appear. One marine in the Pacific wrote movingly about finding, sticking out of the back pocket of a dead young comrade, a copy of the ASE edition of Cornelia Otis Skinner and Emily Kimbrough’s Our Hearts Were Young and Gay.19 Many of the ASEs in my collection bear stains whose origins I choose not to contemplate. The letters and other accounts also provide ample documentation about how the books fostered critical communities. One platoon leader




John B. Hench

gathered up all the ASEs held by his troops and refused to give one back to any man unless he agreed to read it aloud to his comrades. A soldier wrote to the Council, from a ship en route to some battle zone, for advice. Conrad Aiken’s Silent Snow, Secret Snow, he wrote, ‘caused quite a bit of discussion and argument among us. We are not agreed upon what Mr. Aiken has in mind.’ Numerous other letters testify to consensus among ‘buddies’ as to meanings or at least to how a book was enjoyed. A journalist noted that ‘the non-coms and privates at the back of the general’s tent were all reading and discussing constantly’. The books even fostered, in at least one instance, a reading community among European civilians, which produced propaganda benefits. The army’s Psychological Warfare Division dropped a few of the books by parachute on an island off the coast of Yugoslavia. Those who found them, according to a senior officer in the ASE programme, ‘took them to someone who could read English where groups would gather round while they were translated aloud on the spot. The warm feeling, toward American soldiers on the part of those people is in part credited to this use of books.’20 For many reasons, mostly having to do with distance, language barriers and the rapid post-war dissolution of the civilian and military agencies responsible for their creation, there are few traces of how the Overseas and Transatlantic editions and the Bücherreihe Neue Welt titles might have been read and appreciated (or not). There is only one letter, rather than hundreds, in the Council’s archives from a reader of Overseas Editions. In it, an elderly Greek man expressed thanks, while indicating that the books had succeeded in their purpose. ‘I understand now,’ he wrote, ‘that in reading American books the new Greek generation will little by little gain and obtain some of the precious characters that are the privilege of the practical American, and will learn to be serious and educated.’21 As for the books for German POWs in their own language, among the many prisoners who took the books they bought in the camp canteen home with them was a man named Seffner, who thought highly enough of his copy of Thomas Mann’s Lotte in Weimar that he had it bound up, put his bookplate in it and wrote an inscription characterising the volume as a memento of the years, 1943–6, he spent in Camp Princeton, Texas. The book is now in my possession. The Overseas Editions, Transatlantic Editions and Bücherreihe Neue Welt books, on the other hand, stimulated in American publishers a new interest in gaining increased international market share and helped to create a taste and demand overseas for American books after the war. Participation in a wartime book series project even helped Gottfried Bermann-Fischer to achieve the goal he held throughout his years as a



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refugee. The titles he sold for the Bücherreihe Neue Welt series formed the core of the paperback series Fischer-Bücherei, which he established after returning to Germany in 1950 and regaining ownership and control of the famed S. Fischer Verlag. The conference ‘The Culture of the Publishers’ Series’, held at the University of London in October 2007, along with John Spiers’s exhibition catalogue and its lively and provocative introduction, raised some excellent questions and provided some tentative answers about the origins, production, materiality, consumption and social, political and cultural consequences of the publication of books in series. It is clear that much more work can be done, even with the publication of the two-volume work of which this chapter is a part. Spiers helpfully hinted at the importance of studying the effect of war on publishing in general and on the publisher’s series in particular. He notes important work on the American Civil War, British publishing in the First World War and the US Armed Services Editions in the Second World War.22 My chapter serves as another contribution along these lines, and I hope it demonstrates useful parallels as well as differences between books in series in peacetime and in time of war. Much more can be done, and some of it is already under way, especially with regard to book publishing during the Cold War.23 Moreover, work on series emanating from publishing countries other than the UK and the USA should be encouraged. One other passage from Spiers’s introduction also struck a special chord with me. This was his call to focus, in studying series, ‘on particulars, not grand abstractions; on individual publishers and series, not aggregates and averages; on distinct circumstances and the intentions of the actors’. Certainly I have tried to maintain such a micro-historical focus in the study of which this is a part. Spiers also noted the importance of ‘the actual series and books themselves, gathered en masse and studied carefully’.24 That this is possible is a tribute to collectors, both institutional and individual. I for one cannot conceive of having undertaken my study had I not uncovered its potential through the fruits of conscious labour to collect. I suspect that many of my fellow contributors to this work would feel the same about how imaginative yet disciplined collecting can itself be a powerful tool for research.

Notes 1. John B. Hench (2009). 2. On Armed Services Editions, see Robert O. Ballou (1946: 64–83), John Y. Cole (1984) and Daniel J. Miller (1996).




John B. Hench

3. Trysh Travis (1999: 393–5). 4. Gretta Palmer to Council on Books in Wartime, 30 November 1944, Council on Books in Wartime Records, box 26, folder 2, Public Policy Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library (hereinafter cited as CBW Records). 5. Lewis Gannett (1946: 460). 6. Kenneth C. Davis (1984: 60–4). 7. Jeremy Lewis (2005: 76–77, 140–2). 8. Davis (1984: 99, 102). 9. ibid.: 65–6. 10. Hench (2009) and Ballou 1946: 83–94. 11. Ron Robin (1995: 91–106). 12. Colin W. Nettelbeck (1991: 58–61) and interview with Emanuel Molho, New York City, 17 May 2007. The firm’s website is Frenchbookstore @aol.com. 13. Nettelbeck (1991: 61–4). 14. See John Spiers (2007: 20). 15. Jay Satterfield (2002: 27) and Spiers (2007: 4). 16. Robin (1995: 98). 17. Various documents in CBW Records, boxes 33–40. 18. Davis (1984: 77–9) and Cole (1984: 3–11). 19. Most of the letters are in CBW Records, boxes 31–2. See also Ballou (1946: 80–3), John Jamieson (1947: 148–52), Davis 1984: 75–8) and Cole (1984: 18–20). 20. Ballou (1946: 81), Travis (1999: 393–4) and ‘Col. Trautman’s Speech, 1 Feb. 1945’, CBW Records, box 38, folder 3. 21. Ballou (1946: 93–4). 22. Spiers (2007: 19). 23. Among scholars currently researching book publishing in the Cold War are Gregory Barnhisel, Amanda Laugesen and Trysh Travis. Much of their work on the subject has not yet been published. 24. Spiers (2007: 17).

Selected bibliography Ballou, R. O. (1946) A History of the Council on Books in Wartime, 1942–1946. New York: privately printed. Cole, J. Y. (ed.) (1984) Books in Action: The Armed Services Editions. Washington, DC: Library of Congress. Council on Books in Wartime Records, Public Policy Papers, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library, Princeton, NJ. Davis, K. C. (1984) Two-Bit Culture: The Paperbacking of America. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Gannett, L. (1946) ‘Books’, in J. Goodman (ed.), While You Were Gone: A Report on Wartime Life in the United States. New York: Simon and Schuster, pp. 447–63. Hench, J. B. (2009) ‘A D-Day for American Books in Europe: Overseas Editions, Inc., 1944–1945’, in D. P. Nord, J. S. Rubin and M. Schudson (eds), The Enduring Book: Print Culture in Postwar America, Volume 5 of A History of the Book in America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.



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Hench, J. B. (2010) Books as Weapons: Propaganda, Publishing, and the Battle for Global Markets in the Era of World War II. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Jamieson, J. (1947) ‘Armed Services Editions and GI Fan Mail’, Publishers’ Weekly, 12 (July): 148–52. Lewis, J. (2005) The Life and Times of Allen Lane. London: Viking. Miller, D. J. (1996) Books Go to War: An Exhibition at the University of Virginia. Charlottesville, VA: Book Arts Press. Nettelbeck, C. W. (1991) Forever French: Exile in the United States, 1939–1945. New York and Oxford: Berg. Robin, Ron (1995) The Barbed-Wire College: Reeducating German POWs in the United States during World War II. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Satterfield, J. (2002) The World’s Best Books: Taste, Culture, and The Modern Library. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Spiers, J. (2007) Serious about Series: American Cheap ‘Libraries’, British ‘Railway’ Libraries, and Some Literary Series of the 1890’s. London: Institute of English Studies. Travis, T. (1999) ‘Books as Weapons and “The Smart Man’s Peace”: The Work of the Council on Books in Wartime’, Princeton University Library Chronicle, 60: 353–99.




The Foreign Series of Herder Verlag by 1900: International Catholic Literature Álvaro Ceballos Viro

My goal in this chapter is to study Catholic literary series in languages other than German that were published and exported by the German publishing house Herder. I focus on the Spanish market as it was the main one for Herder’s foreign series. Yet my observations also apply to a much broader international market. Isabelle Olivero has stated that, in the nineteenth century, the system of distribution for Catholic series was different from all the others (Olivero 1999: 24). The Catholic Church was a state within a state, and it had a book-trade market within another book-trade market. This parallel system was constituted by parochial libraries, religious schools and other educational institutions, clergymen, the CPatholic press, Catholic bookstores and, of course, Catholic publishers. As Jean-François Botrel writes, the cultural production of the Catholic Church in Spain depended to a considerable extent on that of Rome or France because of its poorly developed ecclesiastical science (Botrel 1982: 127). In 1876, for instance, the Catholic publishing house Subirana, in Barcelona, announced 140 titles, of which eighty-five were translations from French or Italian originals. Other literary series were completely translated from the French, like the Biblioteca escogida de la Juventud (Selected Library for the Youth). A similar situation is to be found in North America: ‘Before 1865 most children’s fiction was translated from French, German, and Flemish works or reprinted from English and Irish editions’ (Klein 1973: 138). It was just a question of time before European publishing houses began to exploit that demand – and it is precisely what the publishing company Herder would do. With Solange Hibbs-Lissorgues we can therefore say that an international market of edifying books arose in the second half of the nineteenth century, that went hitherto almost unnoticed by literary historiography (Hibbs-Lissorgues 2003: 656). 62



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The Foreign Series of Herder Verlag by 1900 63

The Herder publishing house was founded in 1801 and located in Freiburg im Breisgau from 1808. Its founder, Bartholomä Herder, had studied under theologian Johann Michael Sailer, known for teaching a new religiousness that was far from the decadence of baroque Catholicism. Instead, this new religiousness resembled some sort of ‘Catholic Enlightenment’ that should, however, not be mistaken for a progressive trend. For Sailer’s sole purpose was to gain influence over lay society. His doctrine was crucial to the development of the Catholic book-trade in Germany, if one considers that descendants of some of his disciples, like Herder or Pustet, were to sit on the board of the most important German organisation for the promotion of Catholic literature, the Vereinigung der Vertreter des katholischen Buchhandels, later Vereinigung des katholischen Buchhandels (Spael 1967: 99). In spite of an edition of cartographic works and a successful encyclopaedia, the 1830s were difficult years for Herder’s business. Bartholomä Herder died in 1837 and after his death his sons Benjamin and Karl Raphael ran the company. But in the next five decades, after a remarkable expansion of the market and the catalogue, Herder consolidated itself as the pre-eminent Catholic publishing company in the German-speaking countries. Although the Paris branch was closed in 1840, others were opened later in Strasbourg (1867), St Louis (1873) and Vienna (1886). At that time Herder had started printing works in foreign languages, usually textbooks recommended for schools in foreign countries. Pope Leo XIII bestowed on Benjamin Herder the privilege of printing the official texts of the Curia, among them the encyclicals (Weiß and Krebs 1951). When Benjamin Herder died in 1888, his son Hermann continued the editorial line of his father.

Herder’s Spanish editions Ongoing arguments between German lay booksellers and Catholic booksellers – organised in the Borromäusverein after 1844 – as well as the interference of the Vatican in Germany’s internal affairs (the so called Kulturkampf) had caused Protestant readers from north Germany to give up purchasing products from Catholic publishers. In the course of these events, Catholic publishers like Herder hoped to find abroad the buying public they had lost within the Wilhelminian Empire (Hug 2003: 125). Travelling abroad appealed to Hermann Herder and soon the foreign trade became increasingly significant under his management.



Herder Verlag

Álvaro Ceballos Viro

Latin America became a major market for Herder as the company set up ties with the Catholic missions, for whom it published magazines and literary series (Hug 2003: 134). There were other Catholic publishing houses in Germany, such as Friedrich Pustet in Regensburg, that already had foreign retail locations in the 1850s (Jäger et al. 2001: Volume 1, 415). But Herder was the first company that paid attention to the potential market of Spanish-speaking countries, a good time before opening a branch office there. Herder’s Spanish editions date back to 1885. Yet it was not the first German publishing firm to publish in Spanish. In the 1860s, Leipzig’s F. A. Brockhaus had printed the first volumes of a series of Spanish literature. Later on, the same company sent hundreds of thousands of books to Chile. Still, Herder was the first German Catholic company to publish edifying books in Spanish. The firm was followed, among others, by Loewensohn and by the Swiss publishing company Benziger. Benjamin Herder, at the end of his life, understood the opportunities of the Spanish and Latin American market and decided to create a Spanish section. In 1892, Herder had a sixteen-page catalogue of Spanish works; by 1895 it contained twenty-four pages. Moreover, many of the printed titles formed part of a series. Between 1870 and 1937, Herder’s exports amounted to about thirty-five million books: twenty-six and a half million copies of German works and more than nine million copies in foreign languages, of which four million were in Spanish (Anonymous 1937: 4, 25).1 Many of these works were written by Jesuits, who had been banned from German public schools in the course of Bismarck’s Kulturkampf, and who had found a new and powerful way of exerting influence on society in the publishing section. The Society of Jesus had even set up houses for writers, such as those in Tervueren, near Brussels, and Luxembourg. By the 1830s Herder had started to create a network of bookstores allowing the global distribution of its books. A hundred years later, that network spread all over the five continents, with eight branch offices, six of them in Europe. The works were ‘approved of by an immense number of Cardinals and other Prelates’, and adopted as textbooks in dioceses all around the world. Thus, sales were ensured. Two of the most prolific authors of the Society of Jesus were Joseph Spillmann and Peter August Moritz Meschler, both of Swiss origin. Spillmann was a great admirer of Charles Dickens and Sir Walter Scott, and the imitation of those models assured the lasting success of his works. Even in the 1950s they were still read in Germany (Köhler et al. 1951: 177). Joseph Spillmann worked as editor at Die Katholischen Missionen, a periodical for the promotion of Catholic missions, and wrote most



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of the stories that were published. The stories addressed a young public, and dealt with adventures that occurred during the missionisation of overseas territories. Starting in 1891 Herder reproduced those stories in a German series called Aus fernen Landen: that is, Tales of Foreign Lands. Within the next few years, this series was translated into eighteen different languages. The Spanish series was published from 1894 onwards. By 1910 it consisted of twenty-five titles. All of them were translations of the German originals, except two. In spite of its luxurious appearance, even the hardcover edition was relatively inexpensive for the Spanish public.

The series Desde lejanas tierras: characteristics Previously, the customary edifying books had treated the main events of Christianity: the Crusades, the conquest of America, the beginnings of Christian faith. Life in the missions was new and exotic, full of opportunities and adventures. Accordingly, the novels of Desde lejanas tierras (Spanish for the original German series Aus fernen Landen) were set in a foreign country. The idea was to instruct the readers in geography. Therefore one always finds faithful depictions of the territories. The main purpose of the series was, however, to show episodes from the life of Catholic missionaries and to implicitly teach a moral lesson. Besides, ‘the wars in Asia and stories relating to German colonies in Africa became more popular’ around 1900, when the ‘Indian craze’ that had characterised the last quarter of the nineteenth century declined (Feest 1988: 584). A remarkable characteristic of this series is its insistence on national identities. Nationality is the main feature of the characters and actually determines in advance the role they will play in the novel. Thus, we will find protagonists who are inevitably Polish, Irish, Italian or Spanish – Catholicism being regarded as inherent to their national identity, which is, of course, why they are the heroes of the story in the first place. Missionaries are generally German or French, whereas the English and (North) Americans are often depicted as being selfish and even evil. Unlike Russians or Turks, however, they still have the capacity for repentance. But both Russians and Turks are presented as barbarians beyond redemption, though the latter externalise their religiosity in a manner that many Christian readers would be expected to envy, such as when they pray in public. Finally, the Greeks, as members of the Orthodox Church, cause harm and trouble because of their lack of consideration. Concerning the catechised peoples, we can state that they do not have a clearly defined national identity. On the contrary, they are usually mentioned as tribes, folk or merely subjects of a certain sovereign. Here,





as in many novels of that time, the few ‘good’ natives ‘are mainly those who have been “improved” by Germans or by Christianity’ (Feest 1988: 584), a feature to which the popular author Karl May would later resort. Providence dictates the entire plot of the novels. The hand of the Deus ex machina is ubiquitous. Accordingly, the plot contains plenty of ordeals and exemplary punishments, culminating in the moralising triumph of the good. Another quite surprising aspect of the series Desde lejanas tierras has yet to be mentioned: namely, the insistence on the idea that the Christian character must show respect to authority, even if he regards it as unjust.

Figure 2.1 Alexander Baumgartner et al., Drei Indianer-Geschichte (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herdersche Verlagshandlung, 1896)



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It is said that ‘the Christian religion commands to obey every established authority, be it tyrannical or heretical … he who is true to God and his conscience stays faithful to his prince and his homeland’ (Spillmann 1895: 24–5).2 It would therefore be advisable – and this is the point the Jesuit wants to make – that every authority favours the spread of the Catholic Church. It remains to say that the protagonist of Desde lejanas tierras is always a male teenager or pre-adolescent, who, in the course of the action, usually feels the calling to serve his religion as a priest or missionary. His family usually turns against him – often quite alarmingly so. Relatives may torture or even murder the protagonist because of his faith, which in turn leaves the reader with the implicit message that children can only feel safe in Catholic educational institutions. Girls and women generally stay in the background and rarely have proper names; if they do, they are called Mary. Every volume had between four and six illustrations, making the product more appealing. Most of them were drawn by Richard Ernst Kepler, an artist who worked for other lay German publishers including Dietrich in Munich, Neff and the Süddeutsches Verlags-Institut, both in Stuttgart. His artwork portrayed faithfully the exotic nature of remote countries – botanic species are recognisable more often than not – but these completely idealised the characters and occasionally smoothed crude details. Of course, moral novels for youth existed in Spain as well as in many other countries long before Herder brought their edifying books onto the market. I have already mentioned some series translated from the French. These and many other contemporary series were not engaged with a certain and specific religious denomination. They praised moral virtues like honesty or industriousness, while Herder’s series preached blind submission to the Ten Commandments. The adventurous stories printed by Herder often reached epic dimensions. And, although their structure is that of a fairytale, the moral they teach is intimately connected to the Catholic faith. The publication of Desde lejanas tierras was stopped in 1910. But it was taken up again in 1925, when a Herder bookshop opened in Barcelona. We can therefore speak of a second stage of the series. The lack of communication with the German main offices during the Second World War would finally compel this Barcelona branch to publish the series by itself, and with success. In the 1950s, with National Catholicism as the victorious ideology in Franco’s Spain, some of the old Spanish translations would eventually reach their eighth or ninth edition.





In 1912, the English version of the series Aus fernen Landen, called Tales of Foreign Lands, was made up of only twelve volumes. Many of the translators were women writers, such as Helena Long or Anna Theresa Sadlier. In Ireland The Irish Monthly: A Magazine of General Literature regularly published reviews of Herder’s novelties, although ‘It is chiefly for the United States [through the St. Louis branch] that he [Herder] issues his English publications.’3 But the Swiss company Benziger Brothers, with branches in New York, Cincinnati and Chicago, had a virtual monopoly of the publication of Catholic books in America, which Herder could hardly break.4

Other series: reception This chapter has mainly dealt with the series Desde lejanas tierras and Aus fernen Landen or Tales of Foreign Lands. But this was not the only Spanish series Herder published at the time. From 1893 onwards, the Freiburg company had also published a little textbook series for the instruction of youth, Biblioteca instructiva para la juventud. This series collected Spanish manuals of physics, natural history, geography, chemistry and so on. At the very beginning of the twentieth century, Herder undertook the publication of two further Spanish series. One of them (El narrador de la juventud) was of irregular appearance and it is virtually impossible to find nowadays.5 The other one is much more interesting. It was simply called Las buenas novelas – the good novels. Of eleven titles, four were written by Jesuit author Josef Spillmann, whom we have mentioned before and whose German originals had already been published by Herder. He experimented with Lucius Flavus – an imitation of Sienkiewicz’s Quo Vadis – and the crime fiction A Victim to the Seal of Confession. The plot of the latter was based very freely on the real case of Albert Bruneau, Vicar of Entrammes, judged (and, in real life, sentenced) for murdering his superior and a florist in 1894. These series enjoyed an enthusiastic reception in Spain. By the early 1890s, journals of the Augustinian and other orders commented on the publication of new titles. A review stated that: The benefit this kind of book can give our young people nowadays is inestimable. We all know and regret the damage pornographic novels cause today in moral standards, which could be prevented by offering recreational literature like the present [series: in this case Tales of Foreign Lands] for young people, in which the artistic intention is attached to Christian morality. We believe it is useful to observe that



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This is just one of many possible examples. Herder offers an antidote to the naturalistic, far too realistic novel. This points undoubtedly to a shift in the cultural politics of the Catholic Church that implies a loss of the traditional hegemony this institution had exerted over nations like Spain. The Spanish Church had never approved of the consumption of so-called recreational literature and the newspaper serials in particular were the bête noire of the clerical critics. However, the example of the Italian Jesuits Antonio Bresciani and Giovanni Giuseppe Franco, as well as the success of a series directed by Cardinal Wiseman from 1854, led the Spanish clergy to fight the profane novel with the religious novel, as Solange Hibbs-Lissorgues (1997: 29) has pointed out. And in the end, that is the reason why the Spanish clergy favoured the import and national production of edifying novels. The resort to literary series then, is just another symptom: the Catholic Church unwillingly updated its commercial strategies, imitating lay models, and eventually admitting the inevitable literary consumption. There was a need for books, a constant need that had to be satisfied with ever more products. And the Catholic Church wanted those products to be edifying. An open series could guarantee an uninterrupted supply, as well as the moral innocence of the whole collection. And of course the series was a means of marketing, as Isabelle Olivero (1999) has stated. In this sense, it is significant that Herder aimed its series mainly at the young public – a new public, indeed, with an unprecedented rate of literacy, and easily controllable by the Church. The series Aus fernen Landen and its translations had great success throughout the world. In Herder’s catalogue, only Jón Svensson’s novels could beat this success, having been translated into twenty-five different languages (Anonymous 1937: 25). They also addressed young readers, like Herder’s greatest ‘long-seller’ of all times, the Geschichte vom hölzernen Bengele, with its ninety editions between 1913 and 1976 (Anonymous 1976: 131). Herder became a major Catholic publishing house worldwide because it succeeded in developing modern marketing strategies for an ancient and anti-modern ideology. It found in the Catholic public of some foreign lands an unexploited market niche. But in providing the Catholic public with regular literary novelties, Benjamin Herder simply followed the motto he had adopted: ‘Prayer should be business, and business should be prayer’ (Weiß and Krebs 1951: 55).



the edition is exquisite, and that the collector as well as the publisher deserve our congratulations, because of the service they render to Catholic families.6

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1. The business of the Herder Verlag is to be understood as part of a broader, non-confessional phenomenon: the German printing for export at the end of the nineteenth century. As John Spiers (2007: 15) has noticed, there were ‘many successful German firms publishing in English’ at that time, of which Tauchnitz is the best known. Simultaneously, other German publishing companies like F. A. Brockhaus were printing national series of Spanish literature. 2. Translation by the author. 3. Anonymous review in The Irish Monthly, June 1897: 334. 4. See the anonymous review in The Irish Monthly, October 1898: 563: ‘We are glad to see that the Benzigers are not to have a monopoly of the publication of Catholic books in America’ – i.e. they almost had that monopoly. Some years later the same organ stated that Benziger Brothers ‘are by far the most generous providers of Catholic stories for the young folk of the Englishspeaking races’ (January 1906: 50). Benziger published, for instance, a series with the books of the Jesuit Francis J. Finn, and advertised his books as the ‘Most Popular Catholic Story-Books Published’ (Molson 1977: 29). By 1900, Catholics numbered over twelve million in the United States of America, and therefore made up more than 15 per cent of the population (Klein 1973: 137) – undoubtedly a desirable audience. 5. Some of the authors who, according to editorial announcements, contributed (or should have contributed) to this series were Richard Garrold, William Henry Anderdon, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Jón Svensson and Louis Veuillot. 6. Anonymous review in La Ciudad de Dios, 2 (1896): 137. Translation by the author.

Selected bibliography Anonymous (1937) Der Verlag Herder im Ausland. Pionierarbeit für das deutsche Buch. Freiburg im Bresgau: Herder & Co. Anonymous (1976) 175 Jahre Herder. Kleines Alphabet einer Verlagsarbeit. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder. Botrel, Jean-François (1982) ‘La Iglesia católica y los medios de comunicación impresos en España de 1847 a 1917: doctrina y prácticas’, in Metodología de la historia de la prensa española. Madrid: Siglo XXI, pp. 119–76. Feest, Christian F. (1988) ‘The Indian in Non-English Literature’, in Wilcomb E. Washburn (ed.), Handbook of North American Indians, 4. History of Indian– White Relations. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. Hibbs-Lissorgues, Solange (1997) ‘Le roman édifiant catholique (1840–1900)’, in Jacques Maurice (ed.), Le roman espagnol au XXe siècle. Nanterre: Université Paris X-Nanterre, pp. 17–43. Hibbs-Lissorgues, Solange (2003) ‘El libro y la edificación’, in Víctor Infantes, François Lopez and Jean-François Botrel (eds), Historia de la edición y de la lectura en España 1472–1914. Madrid: Fundación Germán Sánchez Ruipérez, pp. 651–61. Hug, Wolfgang (2003) ‘Benjamin Herder und Hermann Herder der Ältere. Die zweifache Transformation des Herder Verlags im 19. Jahrhundert’, Zeitschrift des Breisgau-Geschichtsvereins ‘Schau ins Land’, 122: 121–37.



Notes

Jäger, Georg, Langewiesche, Dieter and Siemann, Wolfram (eds) (2001) Geschichte des Deutschen Buchhandels im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. Das Kaiserreich 1870–1918, 2 vols. Frankfurt am Main: Buchhändler-Vereinigung. Klein, Christa Ressmeyer (1973) ‘Literature for America’s Roman Catholic Children (1865–1895): An Annotated Bibliography’, American Literary Realism 1870–1910, 6(2): 137–52. Köhler, Oskar et al. (1951) Der Katholizismus in Deutschland und der Verlag Herder 1801–1951. Freiburg im Breisgau: Verlag Herder. Molson, Francis J. (1977) ‘Francis J. Finn, SJ: Pioneering Author of Juveniles for Catholic Americans’, Journal of Popular Culture, 11(1): 28–41. Olivero, Isabelle (1999) L’Invention de la collection. De la diffusion de la littératura et des savoirs à la formation du citoyen au XIXe siècle. Paris: Institut Mémoires de l’édition contemporaine/Maison de sciencies de l’Homme. Spael, Wilhelm (1967) ‘Die Geschichte der Vereinigung des katholischen Buchhandels’, in Der katholische Buchhandel Deutschlands. Seine Geschichte bis zum Jahre 1967. Frankfurt am Main: Vereinigung des katholischen Buchhandels e.V., pp. 91–171. Spiers, John (2007) Serious About Series: American Cheap ‘Libraries’, British ‘Railway’ Libraries, and Some Literary Series of the 1890’s. London: Institute of English Studies, University of London. Spillmann, Josef (1895) Luchas y coronas. Narración del imperio de Annán. Freiburg im Breisgau: B. Herder. Weiß, Albert M. and Krebs, Engelbert (1951) Im Dienst am Buch. Bartholomä Herder. Benjamin Herder. Hermann Herder. Freiburg im Breisgau: Verlag Herder.




Adamantios Korais’s ‘The Greek Library’ (1805–1827): An Ingenious Publisher and the Making of a Nation Nassia Yakovaki The Greek Library, a successful twenty-year long publishing venture based in Paris and addressed to a Greek readership within and beyond the Ottoman Empire, is the first ever series in the history of the Greek book. This simple (but still unacknowledged) fact may be enough to make it an interesting topic of inquiry – especially because it does not come from the strong languages of the printing industry. The Greek example may indeed – as it is hoped – shed some light from the margins on the transformations and the potential of a thriving printing culture in early nineteenth-century Europe. The very existence of such a series in this pre-independence Greek context is a clear indication of the dynamism of a peripheral, small, in quantitative terms, and poorly organised book market. It may also offer intriguing evidence about the possibilities of this still novel publishing strategy in the European print industry, i.e. the production of books in themed series packaged and marketed as distinct recognisable groups. The elementary question that this chapter attempts to answer is ‘why a Greek series in the early nineteenth century?’ This is not the place to offer a general outline of the history of the Greek book, a field of research that has achieved considerable results during the last thirty years.1 Yet two or three general remarks may prove useful in order to put into context the development under discussion, i.e. the major and unprecedented publishing endeavour exemplified by the Greek Library. First, although the history of the Greek book (that is, the book printed in Greek and addressed to a Greek clientele) starts in the early sixteenth century, the printing centres of Greek publishing activity were based and remained largely beyond the borders of the Ottoman territory.2 They were initially, and for a long period, in Italy (Venice), while from 72



3

the middle of the eighteenth century they expanded to various northern towns, following the steps of an emerging Greek merchant (and student) diaspora. This geographical expansion went along with the growth and longevity of the Greek-owned printing enterprises. By the mid-eighteenth century three Greek printing firms were well established in Venice, and the success of one of them not only in surviving but in leading the market for more than a century is indicative of the stabilisation and growth of the Greek book market.3 By the turn of the nineteenth century, when the Greek Library was launched from Paris, Vienna had already become the rival of Venice as the centre of a differentiated and innovative scholarly publishing activity. It goes without saying that the channels of distribution suffered from both the distances involved and the absence of bookshops or specialised book traders. Second, it is not wrong to claim that the long-term trends of the Greek printing industry correspond, mutatis mutandi, to the general trends of book production in Europe. Right from the start, along with books printed in ancient or ecclesiastical Greek, the Greek printed book made available different versions of the vernacular. The number of titles and volumes produced increased steadily in the eighteenth century, reaching its peak during the first two decades of the nineteenth century. The content of the works produced shifted as well, becoming less religiously oriented: the rate of issue of the until then predominant ecclesiastical and religious titles decreased as new categories came to the fore (Greek grammars, a variety of dictionaries, a broad range of translations in the spoken language from Italian, French and German, school books, science, historical and philosophical editions).4 From the 1760s there was a call for a revaluation and cultivation of the spoken language as the appropriate medium for written and especially printed communication. This was the opening scene of a long (almost endless) adventure usually referred to as the ‘Greek Language question’.5 Along with these developments, a new form of funding and sales emerged: from the mid-eighteenth century subscription had become an alternative form of support for book production, especially in the new categories.6 In the limited terms of this march forward of print culture among the Greeks, one should not overlook the fact that more or less around 1800 the first efforts to publish editions or translations of ancient Greek texts especially addressed to a Greek clientele appeared. This disparate publishing activity has not yet received due attention;7 it should be stressed, however, that these first editions sprang from different milieux and the results were uneven, as far as both the quality and the motivation are concerned. To say that the Greek Library is a clear sign and indeed



Adamantios Korais’s ‘The Greek Library’ 73

Nassia Yakovaki

a more systematic response to a growing demand for more, and less expensive, editions of ancient Greek texts is evidently right. Equally right is that the first modern Greek series was intended to raise the standards in this branch of publishing and to set the rules and criteria by which the modern editions of ancient texts should be judged. The growing demand for this kind of edition should be considered a necessary but not an adequate condition for explaining the introduction via the Greek Library of the series within modern Greek print culture. It does not pay justice to the very distinctive and well thought out publishing features of the series under discussion, which was not only the first but quite a unique case in the Greek book market until well into the mid-nineteenth century. Moreover, it is not a sufficient answer to the basic question raised above: why should such an effort take the form of a series? A last remark should be added to the picture. Until the 1810s there was no Greek periodical press.8 However, a Greek weekly gazette had been successfully published in Vienna for more than seven years (1791–8) – but was discontinued due to overtly political reasons.9 So, by the early nineteenth century, one might plausibly claim that a growing Greek reading public was under formation. The beginning of the series, from a modern Greek point of view, thus coincides with the peak of Greek book production and readership. The same years are usually linked with the most mature years of the modern Greek Enlightenment.10 Yet the end of the series takes place in radically different circumstances. For, in the meantime the Greek War of Independence changed for good the conditions within which the Greeks lived – and published. Having said this, and as perhaps the publication dates already suggest, it is easier to understand that the Greek series under discussion does not belong to those typically nineteenth-century developments which made the publisher’s series an integral part of the transition to industrialised book production and to mass readership.11 To say the least, the size and scale of the Greek market excluded from the start (and for a long time) such a possibility. The Greek Library is, from this point of view, a successful experiment generated from the publishing and literary traditions of the long and innovative eighteenth century. Although it goes without saying that the launching of this first Greek series in 1805 drew from international experience, it should be underlined that while the Greek project was in the making, the publisher’s series had not yet obtained in Europe the status of a clear-cut and well defined tradition. In other words, the Greek Library should be understood as



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part of the broader – and looser – context of the early phases of the invention of the series, rather than as an ex post import to the periphery of an already established practice of international publishing activity. How can one thus explain its appearance? What were the advantages offered and the objectives served by this new publishing strategy in this particular case? A final preliminary reminder of a different nature, before I proceed to a closer examination of the Greek Library, may be more relevant to this investigation. Whatever may have been the weight of the eighteenthcentury legacies, the political conditions, both local and global, of the twenty-year period of its circulation were intrinsically linked with the revolutionary era that was inaugurated in Europe (the Ottoman Empire included)12 by the Revolution in France. The revolutionary era was intensified by the Napoleonic Wars. To say the least, the series not only came some years before the major and founding moment of modern Greece, namely the outburst of the Greek Revolution in 1821. It not only managed to survive and dexterously adjust to the turmoil caused by the Greek War of Independence. It stopped (coincidentally? by mere coincidence?) precisely at the time when the newborn Greek state was finally established. It should be emphasised that without bearing in mind this highly politicised atmosphere, it is difficult to grasp how this innovative publishing strategy interacted with its readers and consumers. Let us at this point take a closer look at the Greek Library. Or – as it was named in Greek – at the Elliniki Vivliothiki. Instead of any other presentation, I suggest we look at the words of its founder, Korais, as traced in his private correspondence in 1805. Adamantios Korais, a leading figure of modern Greek Enlightenment and of an emerging Greek patriotism, was the mind (plus the hands) behind the first Greek series. We will return to him later on. It should be stressed, however, as has been already implied, that the first Greek series did not derive directly from the already existing book market’s forces. It was the well prepared and single-handedly executed plan of an intellectual who bet on its success and was determined to earn his living by his labour (via a well negotiated sponsorship) while serving his ‘fatherland’ and his compatriots. But in what capacity? The answer should wait for a while. In Korais’s own words, the whole project was in essence about ‘the publication of [a series of] (ancient) Greek authors by a Greek, for Greeks, and funded by Greeks’.13 This is indeed a lucid phrasing of both the motives and the aims of the founder. It works, moreover, as a dense and accurate description of what the Greek Library was about in




Nassia Yakovaki

practice from the first printed ‘Prospectus’ of the series in 1805 until its end in 1827. A total of twenty-one titles and thirty-two volumes of new editions of some twenty-five Greek authors were produced in Paris by Korais, with an average of at least one volume per year for the whole period (for half of the period two volumes per year), funded indeed by Greek money and directed through various channels towards the Ottoman lands.14 Each edition was printed in 1,000 copies. Among the authors published – the criteria for selection will concern us later on – were Isocrates, Plutarch, Hippocrates, Strabo, Xenophon, Aristotle, Xenocrates, Homer, Arrian and Epictetus. Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, written in Greek, were also included. The majority of these volumes were published under the label of the series, The Greek Library. The main collection was backed by a second collection, the Supplement (or, Parerga) to the Greek Library, and within the whole venture some other texts were published as ‘hors série’. This last case was an interesting attempt to serialise in parts classic oeuvres, such as the Iliad, in the form of separate small and quite cheap editions based on a single rhapsody at a time. Korais himself selected the texts, edited and annotated them in ancient Greek, and oversaw the printing process. In addition to the usual prefaces introducing the authors, he also wrote lengthy preliminary texts, and the very important prolegomena, which for the first ten years were placed under a distinct common title, ‘Impromptu Reflections’,15 and addressed ‘To the Greeks’. This is indeed an intriguing dimension of the Greek Library, reinforcing in its own way the ‘serial’ character of the series. The Zosimas brothers, traders from Ioannina settled in Nizna, Moscow and Livorno (a powerful Greek merchant company involved in long distance international trade), paid both for Korais’s work and for the cost of the printing. Their cooperation was based on a mutual agreement, which lasted, despite frictions and misunderstandings, for almost ten years.16 The Zosimas were also committed to offering copies of the series free of charge to the Greek schools in the Ottoman Empire and as a prize to the top students. The profits were meant – at least in Korais’s view – to support the continuation of the series. A network of bookshops in Vienna, Venice, Livorno and Trieste were contracted as selling points for Greeks, for whom there was a special provision for a reduced price. A longer list of bookshops was also involved in selling to non-Greeks interested in subscribing to the collection. It was with this extra potential readership in mind that the accompanying notes to the text were written in ancient Greek.



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It is not difficult to see that the Greek Library was conceived, executed and received as a national project. We may now add that the Greek Library was not just the first ever series in the history of the modern Greek book: it may in fact be regarded as the first ‘national series’. Why was a rather novel and not fully stabilised editing scheme, like the series, invested with such a task? And how exactly did this particular series work as a ‘national operation’? To be sure, this chapter cannot pay justice to the diverse elements that constitute and have determined the Greek Library. The scope, the size and the quality of the achievement, along with the difficulties involved in a twenty-year publishing enterprise, are such that one might wish to dedicate a monograph to it. Especially, the Greek Library’s reception among Greek critics and colleagues, the polemics and friendships that it generated, the international response in the form of published reviews or letters to the author, the actual distribution, sales and donations, among the Greeks, along with the readers’ responses suggest an intriguing and still rather unexplored area of research. The Greek Library, being the magnum opus of the leading figure of pre-independence modern Greek culture, is a well known and highly admired collection, something like a ‘national treasure’, and as is often the case with national treasures it is more admired than studied. However, this is just half the truth, because the Greek Library has been studied, but mostly as a personal oeuvre: that is, as a ‘source’ for understanding Korais himself, his thought and his politics – and to a lesser degree his scholarship. The Greek Library, in other words, has become a part of this special branch of modern Greek studies, often referred as ‘Koraic studies’.17 In the case of the Greek Library, one might say that somehow the celebrity of its creator overshadowed the creation. So the key strategy employed by Korais in order both to secure the access of his compatriots to their ancient heritage in terms of high quality editions and to guarantee his personal public intervention, the very invention of a modern Greek series, has passed unnoticed. It is precisely the choice of this novel and innovative publishing strategy, the choice of launching and sticking to a series, that needs to come to the fore. By putting into focus this cultural and material aspect of how the books were produced by Korais, namely that they were packaged and marketed as a series, one may better grasp what was at stake in his publishing initiative. I hope that an examination from such a perspective of the magnum opus of someone who stands as the leading figure of the modern Greek Enlightenment may thus shed some light on both the series as an innovative practice and the public role assumed by Korais himself.




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Adamantios Korais, ‘by far the most prestigious representative of Greek culture’,18 is also, beyond doubt, the best known Greek intellectual of pre-revolutionary Greece. In order to catch the peculiarity of his oeuvre and life,19 one should glance at two distinct bodies of academic literature in which he has found a prominent place: first, at the various histories of classical scholarship, from Sandys to Willamowitz;20 second, at the bibliography of nationalism, especially the theoretical contributions concerning nationalism, from Kedourie to Anderson.21 In 1805, at the moment he launched his major publishing project, Korais was in parallel working for a new edition (with a French translation), of Strabo’s text commissioned by Napoleon himself. By then he was quite a distinguished man of letters with an international reputation among classical scholars for his erudition, his philological skills and his sober and acute critical judgement. Already a doctor of medicine from the University of Montpellier, he was highly esteemed as – inter alia – an editor and translator into French of Hippocrates and Theophrastus as

Figure 3.1 Adamantios Korais (1748–1833). Smolki. Black and white lithograph, 35 ⫻ 25 cm, Athens, National Historical Museum, Print Collection no. 4948/14



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well as the translator into Modern Greek of Giuseppe Beccaria’s much acclaimed European bestseller On Crimes and Punishments. Korais was not just a classical scholar, a Hellenist, of an old-fashioned erudition; he was a man of his time, a man of his century – the eighteenth century, as he was born in 1748 – and by conviction a supporter of les philosophes, an ardent eye-witness of the French Revolution22 and a close friend of many of the French ideologues. A careful observer of the still evolving Napoleonic Wars from a modern Greek point of view,23 he took action in various ways; a major initiative of his was the much acclaimed ‘Mémoire sur l’état actuel de la civilisation en Grèce’, delivered at the Societé des Observateurs de l’Homme in Paris in 1803. And his home address in Paris had become by then a real centre of a dense pan-European Greek epistolary network stretching from Moscow, Bucharest, Vienna and Smyrna to Constantinople, Ioannina, Livorno, Trieste and Marseilles. Yet by 1805, when the new collection was theatrically launched, with a first volume deliberately and consciously titled as the Precursor to the Greek Library, along with a special ‘Prospectus’, Korais was taking the risk to engage in a new activity, one might even say in a new job: the intellectual and scholar turned himself into a publisher.24 One may justifiably add, an ingenious publisher. Not to take his commitment to becoming the publisher of a series seriously is to miss a dimension of his life and work. The multiple roles he took up (namely the roles of philological editor and proof corrector, writer of the Prolegomena to the editions, ‘director’ of the series – if one is permitted to play with an anachronism) should not conceal his main capacity vis-à-vis the series: the fact that Korais himself was practically the publisher of the series. He not only conceived the idea of the collection, but also undertook single-handedly a variety of tasks: the choice of the printer, careful negotiation with the sponsor, the selection of the authors, the promotion of the series, the layout and the material included in the books, the price and the sales policy. This sketch of the man behind the Greek Library helps to show some of the distinctive features of the first modern Greek series. According to Korais’s own description the series had two main characteristics. First, it was a collection of ancient Greek authors; second, it was published with the editorial care and money of modern Greeks for the sake of the modern Greeks. What was here at stake? The first component (the decision to edit ancient Greek authors) seems at first sight, from our present point of view, quite an obvious and understandable choice. Although this is not exactly the case (because why publish the texts in the original and not in translations in the




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spoken language; or why publish the whole texts and not an anthology?), I will not focus on that, limiting myself to emphasising only the novelty in terms of the way the Greek authors were defined and selected. There is a key word that supplements the way these Greeks authors were classified from the very start of the project, that most evocative adjective ‘classic’. Such an addition had nothing self-evident at the time in a modern Greek context, quite the contrary: with this word that presents itself in a programmatic manner in the ‘Prospectus’25 we may trace – as far as I know – its very introduction into modern Greek. It is rather a novelty that needs explanation. By using the term ‘classic Greek authors’, Korais distances himself from a venerable but worn out tradition, as he drastically reinterprets who the Greeks are: those wrote in the period from Homer until the Ptolemies.26 His criterion is explicitly based on the history of the language but the dates coincide with an implicit yet clear historical condition: Greek freedom. With this drastic definition he discards at once all the Christian, Byzantine and Atticising Greek texts that had until then informed the Greek schools’ traditional curriculum. Of course, the backbone of this curriculum coincided with courses on the Greek (meaning ancient Greek) language. Korais’s open battle against both the method and the texts under study in Greek educational institutions was launched through his Prolegomena into the spoken language. It should be added here that this same (historical and linguistic) criterion determines the distinction between the Greek Library per se and the Supplement to the Greek Library (Parerga). Thus, Korais’s series should be seen as a well calculated rupture with the then prevailing confusion about the character and value of the ancient Greek tradition. Yet one should not overlook the basic function of this fundamental choice: what is at work in this case is no less than a new (unprecedented) use of the classical Greek authors, namely a national use. It is a clear will of appropriation of a stock highly regarded and respected by all the ‘civilised nations’, the rendering of a common classical heritage of the Moderns into a national heritage. But let me offer a minor – but significant – qualification: the appropriation concerns not only the ‘ancestors’ but also the value added to the texts by modern European scholarship: that is, the philological work that made these very texts available in print to early nineteenth-century Europe. In other words, it is an appropriation of both the ancestors and the copious work invested in those texts since the revival of letters in Europe. But not just an appropriation. Each edition was not just a publication of an already set text, but a new edition of an ancient author. A new edition of an ancient text in this early nineteenth-century context implies, if not



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a critical edition, a better edition, in terms of correction and clarity of the text, from the ones existing in print until then. This means that hard critical philological work was invested on the actual ancient text (emendations, critical apparatus etc.). This aspect of the whole project may shed some further light on the very selection of the authors published. They were those among the classics, as defined above, for which Korais was ready or in a position to provide a new and better text than those already available in print. The Greek authors published under the banner of the Greek Library matched the highest standards of his time as to what an edition of an ancient text meant: they were competitive editions within the broader market of the editions of classical texts. This is not pedantry or a technical detail, because quality was indeed an integral dimension of the whole gesture. For the choice, along with the quality, of the ancient Greek editions was simultaneously a claim of participation on equal terms in the group of nations that recognise the value of these specific authors and texts; a claim to be at the same time both Greek and European. In that sense, one might say, the Greek Library set the benchmark for the future participation of the Greeks in the ‘ranks of the civilised nations of Europe’. A last remark – and of a different kind – regarding this basic choice of publishing a series of ancient Greek authors is necessary. Apart from putting the classical Greeks in the service of the nation, their publication in this new context coincided with a new reading relationship with the classical texts themselves in the original.27 They came out of the closet of the learned, erudite and wealthy circles of la République des Lettres – that is, out of the expensive folio or quarto editions, overloaded with grammatical and other notes – and they were made available to the general educated public (not exclusively Greek-speaking) in affordable but accurate editions of a smaller size, as part of a personal education in classical learning. One needs to remind oneself at this point that the famous Bibliotheca Teubneriana in Leipzig, the series that played that role in nineteenth-century Europe for the general reading public, was not launched until 1849. This line of inquiry cannot be pursued any further, but it may be argued that the Greek Library introduced plenty of editorial innovations that allow us, or urge us, to discuss it also within this (as far as I know, understudied) international context. The modern Greek series was indeed part of the shifts and mutations in the editing and publishing of the classics, both Greek and Latin, in this new landscape of the enlargement of readership in late eighteenth- and especially nineteenth-century Europe. The story of classical texts’ series,




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along with the (inter) national competition involved in the process, may be seen as an interesting exemplar for a fuller understanding of the history of the broader category, i.e. the publisher’s series. After this ex curso remark, we should return to the second feature of the Greek Library: a series of classical Greek authors published using Greek effort and money for Greek readers. The meaning is clear: the ancient Greeks should become a modern Greek cause and they should be published by Greek means, both intellectual and financial, for the benefit of the Greeks. That is indeed what happened. Korais himself edited the texts, and the Zosimas brothers paid for it. The presence of the recipients, namely of contemporary Greeks, was equally prominent within the printed pages of the series. The series was addressed simply ‘To the Greeks’: that is, Pros tous Ellinas (and not Pros tous Graikous). This was the header, with no further qualifications, of the special and idiosyncratic Prolegomena, written deliberately in modern Greek, instead of the usual until then type of address: To the Readers, To the Friends of Reading, To the Readers Friends of the Nation etc. For those who know how delicate and intriguing during this formative period was the question as to the ethnic naming of those called in modern European languages from the mid-eighteenth century the ‘modern Greeks’, this type of address means a lot.28 Still, at least a hint is unavoidable. For contemporary Greek-speaking people, for Korais’ compatriots, the question of the name was not exactly a settled issue: Romioi or Graikoi (that is, Romans or Graeci) was the usual way for most of the Greek-speaking population to refer to themselves. The rise of the word Ellines – as the name has been settled since – was thus an integral part of the formation of a modern and secular sense of belonging to a nation. The Greek Library provides a splendid illustration of this process. This is underlined in an overt way in a special ‘Avis aux étrangers’ inserted by Korais at the end of the modern Greek ‘Prospectus’ published in the Precursor to the Greek Library. One should note the intensity of the unusual phrasing ‘to foreigners’; it sounds almost as a warning. The full meaning of this rigid dichotomy is rendered crystal clear by the text of the ‘Avis’: ‘la collection des auteurs classiques Grecques … sera principalement publiée pour la nation Grecque’.29 The phrasing ‘for the Greek nation’ has a welcome ambivalence. Although the ‘Avis’ has the form of a technical, informative and promotional note, the intrusion of ‘the Greek nation’ informs it with a surprising significance; even more so, because the expression had not yet achieved the status of a selfevident expression – the series is not just addressed to the Greeks, it is produced for the sake of the nation.



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It is clear that there is more to that than just the name. The creation of a collection of Greek authors for the sake of the Greeks is about the formation, the elevation and the expansion of a national reading public. Why should we stress the self-supporting nature of the enterprise? Why was it emphasised in such a manner? We are at the point where important questions cannot be properly answered unless we become specific. Contextualisation is an unavoidable need, but in the confines of this chapter we cannot afford it. A list of aspects involved in the state of the modern Greeks in the early nineteenth century, however, may offer useful hints: the Ottoman domination and the power of the Church, the empowerment of the Russians, Catherine the Great’s so-called Greek project and the two Russo-Ottoman Wars, an uneducated predominantly rural population and a flourishing merchant diaspora, the rise of Greek schools in the Ottoman lands, the French Revolution and then the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars. In short, a centuries-long tradition of investing hope and cultivating expectations somewhere else (to another world, to God’s will, to the Christian Kings, to a Revolutionary Army: that is to external – real or supernatural – but superior forces) was activated and accentuated within the context of the so-called ‘crisis of the ancien régime’. From the 1770s to the early nineteenth century hopes and disappointments were alternating successively. It was not an individual stand of Korais’s but part of a rising tendency among several of the more restless and liberal-minded Greeks in the early nineteenth century to stress this important conviction, which was novel to them, and which took the status of a call to action: ‘on our own’. That is, if we are to paraphrase it, ‘we are going to find our way on our own, we are going to find a place among the “civilised nations” on our own, we are going to find our road to freedom and dignity on our own’. The ‘Prospectus’ in Greek does not leave any doubt: the very decision to produce such a series is there presented as an answer to Zosimas’s question: ‘what are the means with which one may accelerate the already began regeneration of Greece’?30 And Zosimas’s voice is interestingly presented as the ‘voice of the fatherland’.31 This is a decisive turn in modern Greek self-awareness, which may be dated with sufficient certainty to the first years of the nineteenth century, more or less the years when the series was under preparation. In fact, the ambition behind the launching and continuation of the series exemplified was to exemplify this fundamental conviction, which perhaps one would not be wrong to designate as a political stand. The battle cry ‘on our own’, a saying that repeatedly appears in that very form in Korais’s correspondence, had already been announced




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Si jamais quelque nation magnanime vouloit … seconder vos efforts, que cette nation sache, qu’elle aura tous les titres à votre gratitude, qu’elle méritera de tout le genre humain; mais qu’elle soit aussi persuadée d’avance, qu’elle ne sera point la première à dissiper les ténèbres de la Gréce moderne. De vous même, ô ma patrie, et sans secours étranger, dès que les circonstances l’ont permis, vous venez d’ouvrir les yeux aux lumières, vous les cherchez de tous cotés, vous les introduisez chez vous.32 This is the implicit service paid by the Greek Library, which was already gestating when the above words were printed in 1803.33 It stands as evidence and at the same time as a warning that the Greeks had taken the cause of their own enlightenment in their own hands. To put it plainly, the series was meant as a pre-emptive measure against any foreign power who might have the will and get the chance to ‘liberate’ Greece from what was usually called in the vocabulary of the time ‘the Turkish yoke’. It should be remembered again that the time of this publishing venture was not an innocent one. Korais, from Paris, was well in a position to know that the Napoleonic Wars had opened up the Eastern Question for good, that the frontiers of the Ottoman Empire were no longer certain and secure. The battle cry was, in the case of the Greek Library, materialised as a printing adventure that was public and open, personal and collective, timely and continuous at the same time. It was an investment in the power of the printing press, an act of trust in the force of a weapon (‘artillery’ is the metaphor used by Korais in another instance) to describe the power that the publishing and reading activity, the printed page, may possess. In the context of this specific publishing activity, however, in relation to the Greek Library, this aim of making the ancients their own based on their own devices had a twofold meaning. It was not just a medium of self-improvement, a necessary corollary of the call to action. The Greek Library may also be considered as a deliberate attempt to build national prestige in the eyes of the others: the non-Greeks and especially the powerful others that were the Europeans. From this point of view the Greek Library was at the same time an answer in practice to criticism and a proof of the changes and progress already taking place among the Greeks: a conscious and well calculated ‘display’ of the maxim ‘on our



publicly by Korais in his already mentioned ‘Mémoire sur l’état actuel de la civilisation dans la Grèce’, read in La Société des Observateurs de l’Homme in January 1803.

own’. Because it was a printed object, it was in common (that is, international) view. Because it was a series – that is, steadily recurring – the act of building prestige was reinforced and guaranteed. This is perhaps a not sufficiently examined aspect of the impact of printing and the history of the book: it operates on the international stage. Especially by the early nineteenth century, because of literary journals in French, English and German, printed products, regardless of language, national or not, were noticed and discussed. To print thus meant not only to address oneself to a national readership but also to find access to this new actor or arbiter of international (or just European) life, European public opinion. What is the relationship between the invention of the series and the emergence and development of public opinion in European societies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries? How productive might such a perspective be in making sense of the publisher’s series as a new category along with journals and the press? This is for me an open question indeed. But as far as the Greek series under examination is concerned I am quite ready to argue that this was at stake when Korais launched his project. When he attempted to construct a publishing structure in the form of a series with a common but flexible thematic unity, the first Greek publisher of a series was counting on the response to and the empowerment of an emerging modern Greek public sphere. In order to support such an approach it is necessary to turn to examine in detail a distinctive feature of this particular series, which has until now been left aside, namely the publisher’s prolegomena to the series. These prolegomena, for a time titled ‘Impromptu Reflections’, written of course in the spoken language and addressed to a national audience, ‘To the Greeks’, as already discussed, constitute a separate whole, follow their own path of improvisation and, to be sure, need a separate treatment. However, they cannot be fully appreciated unless they are linked to the printed environment in which they belong. Contrary to standard opinion, which sees these prefaces as exemplary forms of essays, I would like to suggest that it is worth looking at this ‘series within the series’ as pieces of journalism. Journalistic writing without a journal? Yes, but periodically produced, in steady succession, keeping the reader waiting for the next piece. At this point the fact that the launching of the Greek Library took place in a printing culture which, as mentioned earlier, did not possess until then a literary journal becomes more clearly significant. It is therefore suggested that the creation and circulation of the ‘epoch making’ modern Greek literary journal in Vienna (Hermes, the Scholar)34 from 1811 to 1821 should be examined in parallel and in interaction with the development of the Greek Library and the politics of




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its prolegomena. A last stroke within the same canvass: the title of our series, namely the very word Library (in Greek Vivliothiki or in French Bibliothèque), was very often used in the entire eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries to label literary journals – especially in French. This chapter has highlighted only a few of the numerous issues raised by this innovative publishing venture, which was the creation of the first ever Greek series, organised from the centre of Europe and oriented towards its undefined margins – and back again. Korais, the leading Greek intellectual of his time, dedicated his energy and most mature years from his mid-fifties to mid-seventies to a publishing venture, the Greek Library, which was entrusted with a multifaceted task: to provide the nation with a literary mirror worthy of its history and name, a mirror which could by the same token operate as a clear and impressive ‘warning’ to ‘foreigners’ that the Greeks had the ability to enlighten themselves by their own means. Yet, it was not just a mirror or the illustration of a competence. It was offered at the same time as an instrument of personal education and public instruction in schools. Prestige (or social distinction) was combined with utility to create an efficient tool for ‘accelerating the regeneration already began in Greece’, to cultivate a public to the highest standards established in Europe at their time. This was the purpose of the edited texts. But the series was not only about ancient texts felicitously edited. The same goal was aimed at by the lengthy and, in their conception, original prolegomena, Korais’s editorials, a separate section and one of the most brilliant uses of the potential of a familiar, yet not worn out, paratext of the printed book, the publisher’s preface. The combination of the classics in the original Greek with timely interventions, implicitly or overtly political depending on the circumstances, in modern Greek, is what the Greek Library was about. The choice of creating a Greek Series was made precisely because it was a publishing strategy that could meet such a diverse and multiple public task. This key strategy, served by the series, was the very challenge that urged the Greek émigré in Napoleonic Paris to transform himself from a lonely or cosmopolitan erudite to an ingenious publisher of a new European nation.

Notes 1. For a recent account of this field of research see Loukia Droulia (2001); cf. Droulia (1996). Two international conferences, held in Athens (1981) and Delphi (2001) respectively, offer themselves as the landmarks in book history in Greece: Le livre dans les sociétés pré-industrielles (1982) and The Printed Greek Book, 15th–19th Century (2004).



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2. Especially for the first crucial century of the Greek book published for Greek consumption, see Layton (1994). 3. Georg Veloudis (1974). For Vienna, see Frederic Barbier (1998). 4. For the documentation see C. Th. Dimaras (1969: 104–6). 5. The Greek language question, thirty years after its final solution, has been revisited in a recent monograph by Peter Mackridge (2009); cf. Nassia Yakovaki (2005). 6. On this issue see especially Philippos Iliou’s contributions, now in the posthumous collected edition, Iliou (2005). See also his first pioneering publication (Iliou 1969). 7. Gr. Konstantas and Spyridon Vlantis in Venice and especially Neophytos Doukas in Vienna are among the first Greek editors of ancient Greek texts. For Doukas, see Dimaras (1992). 8. The first Greek literary journals appeared in 1811 in Vienna; others followed in Paris and London. Yet the ‘Viennese’ Hermes the Scholar (1811–21) was by far the best. 9. The first Greek newspaper – yet with no remaining traces – was published by the well known publisher and translator George Vendoti in Vienna in 1784. For Ephemeris (Vienna 1790–8), see the facsimile edition. For the beginnings of the Greek press see Koumarianou (2008); cf. Koumarianou (1995). 10. Dimaras (1969) and Kitromilides (2000). 11. Spiers (2007) and Olivero (1999). 12. Kitromilides (1994). 13. Korais (1966) Correspondence, volume 2, 1799–1809, p. 268. 14. For a short introduction to the Greek Library in English, see Dimaras (1992: 216–19). For a more detailed presentation of the authors published, see Droulia (1997). 15. It should be noted that these prolegomena were published separately in a special collected edition with the help of some of his friends in Vienna (1815) and reissued in Paris (1833). 16. On the Zosimas brothers and especially their involvement in the Greek Library, see Bettis (1990). 17. Dimaras’s contribution to this field of studies has been pioneering and essential since the 1950s: see Dimaras (1969: passim) and the posthumous Dimaras (1996). Instrumental to the research on Korais was the publication of his extant correspondence under the auspices of The Group for the Study of the Greek Enlightenment (Korais 1964–84), as well as the new and complete (French editions included) collected edition of Korais (1986–95). For other important contributions one should refer to studies by Koumarianou, Iliou, Droulia, V. Rottolo, Franghiskos and Kitromilides. For Korais’s philological work see especially Kalospyros (2006). Useful introductions to Korais in French or English are Dimaras (1969: passim) and Henderson (1971: 142–58); cf. a recent reappraisal of Korais by Olga Augustinos (2008). 18. Dimaras (1992: 216). 19. Korais’s autobiography was translated into English by Clogg (1976). The authoritative biography of Korais still remains that of Thereianos (1899). 20. Sandys (1908) and von Willamowitz-Moellendorff (1981: 10); cf. Franghiskos (2005).




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21. 22. 23. 24.

Kedourie (1970) and Anderson (1991: 72, 79, 195). Kitromilides (2007). Iliou (1982). Regarding the professional origins of the publishers of series see Spiers (2007: 9–10). The Prospectus to the Greek Library was published before the preface of the first volume of the series (Korais 1805; from here on referred to as Prospectus); see Korais (1986), Prolegomena, Volume I, p. 57. Iliou (1982: 59). Iliou (1982: 58). Droulia (2004); cf. Rodoumetov (1998: esp. 21–6). Korais (1805: 9–10). Prospectus, p. 58. Prospectus, p. 59. Korais (1803: 64, emphasis added). Korais’s first edition of a Greek text for a Greek audience (Heliodorus, Aithiopica, Paris, 1804) was, as I have argued in detail elsewhere, the ‘general rehearsal’ and a crash test of his project for the Greek Library (see Yakovaki 2006). Coumarianou (1966) and Camariano-Coran (1975).

25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

Selected bibliography Anderson, Benedict (1991) Imagined Communities. London: Verso. Augustinos, Olga (2008) ‘Philellenic Promises and Hellenic Visions. Korais and the Discourses of the Enlightenment’, in Katerina Zacharia (ed.), Hellenisms: Culture, Identity, and Ethnicity from Antiquity to Modernity. London: Ashgate, pp. 169–200. Barbier, Frederic (1998) ‘Vienne et la Grèce. Notes de lecture. Le livre grec,ou la géographie d’un trasfert culturel’, Revue française d’histoire du livre, 98/99: 111–38. Bettis, Stephanos (1990) Zosimades and Their Contribution to the Greek Regeneration. Their Life and Work [in Greek]. Ioannina. Camariano-Coran, Ariadna (1975) ‘Le rôle de la revue ‘Loghios Ermes’ de Vienne dans les relations culturelles internationales au xixe siècle’, Revue des Études Sud-Est Européennes, 13. Clogg, R. (1976) The Movement for Greek Independence 1770–1821: A Collection of Documents. London, pp. 119–31. Coumarianou, Catherine (1966) ‘Cosmopolitisme et Hellénisme dans le Mercure Savant, premiére revue grecque, 1811–1821’, in Proceedings of the IVth Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association. The Hague: Mouton, pp. 601–8. Dimaras, C. Th. (1969) La Grèce au temps des Lumières. Geneva. Dimaras, C. Th. (1992) ‘Greece 1750–1850’, in K. J. Dover (ed.), Perceptions of the Ancient Greeks. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 220–21. Dimaras, C. Th. (1996) Historical Solicitudes B: Adamantios Korais [in Greek]. Athens. Droulia, Loukia (1996) ‘Histoire du livre grec. État des recherches grecques et tendances actuelles’, Revue française d’histoire du livre, 92/93: 313–45. Droulia, Loukia (1997) ‘The Classics in the Service of Renascent Greece: Adamantios Korais and his Editorial Work’, Humanitas, 49: 245–62.



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Droulia, Loukia (2001) The History of the Greek Book. Approaches and Modern Greek Research Orientations: Bibliography of Greek Publications (1965–2000) [in Greek]. Athens. Droulia Loukia (2004) ‘Towards Modern Greek Consciousness’, The Historical Review/La Revue Historique, 1: 51–67. Ephemeris (1790–8) Facsimile edition, edited and with commentary by L. Vranoussis [in Greek], 7 vols. Athens: Athens Academy, 1995 (orig. publ. Vienna). Franghiskos, Emm. (2005) ‘A Survey of Studies on Adamantios Korais during the 19th Century’, The Historical Review/La Revue Historique, 2: 93–127. Henderson, G. P. (1971) The Revival of Greek Thought 1620–1830. Edinburgh: Scotish Academic Press. Iliou, Ph. (1969) ‘Pour une étude quantitative des lecteurs grecs à l’époque des Lumières et de la Revolution’, offprint from Actes du Premier Congrès International des études Balkaniques et Sud-Est Européennes, Volume IV. Sofia. Iliou, Ph. (1982) The War Song: An Anonymous work of Korais [in Greek]. Athens: ELIA. Iliou, Ph. (2005) Histories of the Greek Book [in Greek]. Athens. Kalospyros, N. A. E. (2006) Adamantios Korais as a Critic, Philologue and Editor [in Greek], 2 vols. Athens. Kedourie, Elie (1970) Nationalism in Asia and Africa. New York: Meridian. Kitromilides, P. (1994) ‘Republican Aspirations in Southeastern Europe in the Age of the French Revolution’, in Enlightenment, Nationalism, Orthodoxy. London: Ashgate/Variorum, pp. 275–85. Kitromilides, P. (2000) Modern Greek Enlightenment. The Political and Social Ideas [in Greek], 3rd edn. Athens. (Original title: ‘Tradition, Enlightenment and Revolution. Ideological Change in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Greece’, PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 1978.) Kitromilides, P. (2007) ‘“Témoin oculaire de choses terribles”: Adamantios Koraïs, observateur de la Révolution française’, Dix-huitième siècle, 39: 269–84. Korais, A. (1803) Mémoire sur l’état actuel de la civilisation dans la Grèce. Paris. Korais, A. (1805) The Precursor to the Greek Library [in Greek]. Paris: Didot. Korais, A. (1964–84) Correspondence [in Greek], 6 vols. Athens. Korais, A. (1986–95) Prolegomena to the Ancient Greek Authors [in Greek], 4 vols. Athens: Cultural Foundation of the National Bank. Koumarianou, Aikaterini (1995) Die griechische vorrevolutionare Presse, Wien–Paris 1784–1821. Athens: Stiftung für Griechische Kultur. Koumarianou, Aikaterini (2008) ‘Genesis and Development of the Greek Press 1784–1863’, in Loukia Droulia and Youla Koutsopanagou (eds), Encyclopedia of the Greek Press [in Greek], vol. 1. Athens, pp. 23–33. [Koumarianou] Coumarianou, Catherine (1966) ‘Cosmopolitisme et Hellénisme dans le Mercure Savant, premiére revue grecque, 1811–1821’, in Proceedings of the IVth Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association. The Hague: Mouton, pp. 601–8. Layton, Evro (1994) The Sixteenth Century Greek Book in Italy. Printers and Publishers for the Greek World. Venice: Library of the Hellenic Institute of Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Studies. Le livre dans les sociétés pré-industrielles (1982) Athens: Actes du Premier Colloque Intenational du Centre des Recherches Néohelléniques. Mackridge, Peter (2009) Language and National Identity in Greece, 1766–1976. Oxford: Oxford University Press.




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Olivero, Isabelle (1999) L’invention de la collection. De la diffusion de la littérature et des savoirs à la formation du citoyen au XIXe siècle. Paris: IMEC. The Printed Greek Book, 15th–19th Century (2004) Acts of the International Congress, Delphi, 16–20 May 2001. Athens. Rodoumetov, Victor (1998) ‘From Rum Millet to Greek Nation: Enlightenment, Secularization, and National Identity in Ottoman Balkan Society, 1453–1821’, Journal of Modern Greek Studies, 16: esp. 21–6. Sandys, J. E. (1908) A History of Classical Scholarship, 3 vols. London. Spiers, John (2007) Serious about Series. American Cheap ‘Libraries’, British ‘Railway’ Libraries and Some Literary Series of the 1890’s. London: The Institute of English Studies. Thereianos, D. (1899) A. Korais [in Greek], 3 vols. Athens. Veloudis, Georg (1974) Das griechische Druck und Verlaghaus ‘Gliki’ in Venice (1670–1854). Wiesbaden: Das griechische Buch sur Zeit der Türkenherrzchaft (Greek translation: Athens 1987). Willamowitz-Moellendorff, U. von (1981) History of Classical Scholarship. London: Duckworth 1981 (1st German edn 1921). Yakovaki, Nassia (2005) ‘Printing Industry and Spoken Language. Aspects of the Expansion of the Modern Greek Reading Public’, in Uses of the Language [in Greek], Acts of a Conference of the Society of Modern Greek Culture Studies, Athens, pp. 175–208. Yakovaki, Nassia (2006) ‘A New Role for Letter Writing. Its Contribution to the Formation of a Modern Greek Public Sphere’ [in Greek], Mesaionika and Nea Ellinika, 8: 199–230.



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Fabricating a National Canon: The Role of Richard Bentley and George Robertson in Developing and Marketing the Australian Library Alison Rukavina

Richard Bentley and Son was a prominent publishing house (1829–98) that produced fiction, travel and history bestsellers and series for the British market that ‘would flood the bookstores for three to six months and then disappear from the shelves’ (Gettmann 1960: 23).1 The firm only sporadically sold editions overseas before 1860 because Richard Bentley was initially reluctant to risk capital to manufacture books specifically for colonial and foreign markets. He preferred to sell higher-priced British editions to foreign and colonial wholesalers. In the 1860s and 1870s, Bentley, his son George and his grandson Richard gambled that working directly with American and colonial booksellers would financially benefit the firm. Relying solely on the British market limited the quantity of books the London publisher could sell in an already crowded and competitive business. In 1876, George Bentley, who by then was running the family firm, partnered with colonial distributor and bookseller George Robertson to distribute and sell Bentley publications in the Australian colonies. George Robertson started his bookselling and distribution business in Melbourne in 1852 and in 1857 opened a London distribution branch. During his tenure as George Robertson’s London distribution manager from 1870 to 1887, Edward Petherick promoted Australia as a viable and lucrative book market and, through the early adoption of new transportation and communication technologies, expedited the exportation of English-language books from Britain, Europe and North America to the Australian colonies.2 Petherick’s eagerness to improve existing distribution channels and to pioneer new routes convinced many British publishers, including Richard Bentley and Son, to distribute their books through Robertson. 91



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This chapter examines the partnership between George Robertson and Richard Bentley and Son that culminated in the development of the Australian library. This was marketed as a collection that was uniformly Australian and by Australians, even though a number of the books were by English authors and, in earlier editions, did not display the Australian ‘vernacular and idiom’ that Bentley promised in a press release draft would be ‘clearly present’ (Richard Bentley and Son 1887). Further, I survey how Bentley and Son edited one of the novels in the Australian library – Caroline Leakey’s The Broad Arrow (1859) – to excise any content that would contradict the rebranding of the novel as Australian. Even though the creation of a colonial edition did not usually result in major alterations (Johanson 2000: 12), Bentley edited both books and authors’ biographies in order to sell the collection as a nascent Australian canon. In the mid-nineteenth century, British book remainders often found their way to the colonies, including Australia. In the colonies, as in England, the ability to read and to own books comprised ‘a surrogate index to respectability’ (Askew and Hubber 1988: 112). Reading was linked in Australia with self-improvement and books were viewed as key to the ‘advancement of true culture in the colonies’ (Askew and Hubber 1988: 115). Reading and book ownership were not just signs of class attainment, but in Australia signs of cultural attainment. Moreover, the demand was for popular British authors. By 1897, the Australian market accounted for 40 per cent of British book exports. English publishers irregularly sent book remainders and excess stock to be sold in Australia in the early nineteenth century, but with the increasing demand of a large Australian reading public, local publishers and distributors wanted regular shipments of English books. Moreover, Australia had a growing domestic book trade. From the 1850s to the 1880s there was a proliferation in the production of domestic fiction and writing. For example, George Robertson ‘maintained a publishing department and produced about 600 titles between 1855 and 1898’ (Kirsop 1988: 40).3 However, domestic supplies could not meet the growing demand for books and British publishers did not cooperate and increase shipments. In 1855, William Robertson on his brother’s behalf wrote letters to The Athenaeum advertising in the British periodical incidences of book piracy in Australia. The actual threat of book piracy in the Australian colonies was negligible in the nineteenth century (Kirsop 1988: 34; Hubber 1992: 22), yet William Robertson exaggerated the quantity of American and foreign unauthorised reprints circulating in Australia.



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The danger of a foreign ‘invasion’ of the local colonial markets was inflated in order to cultivate the fear that the Australian market would be ‘closed, and perhaps closed for ever, against English editions of many works’ (Robertson 1855: 115). William Robertson and his brother wanted British publishers to send regular and inexpensive shipments of books and texts to the colonies, and he used the fear of book piracy to pressure the British trade into regularly supplying and thereby ‘protecting’ the Australian market from the pirates. Moreover, the letters in The Athenaeum positioned George Robertson’s Melbourne firm as a business partner that would protect British publishers’ interests in the Australian colonies and facilitate the sale of British books in the booming Australian market. However, the dire warnings in The Athenaeum of an American invasion of the Australian market did not substantially increase the flow of books from England to the colonies. Tired of waiting for British publishers to ship books to the colonies, George Robertson took the initiative and, in 1857, opened a London distribution office, run by his brother William Robertson between 1857 and 1870 and by Edward Petherick between 1870 and 1887 (Holroyd 1968:19). Robertson and both of his London managers worked with a number of British publishers, but Richard Bentley and Son was the firm with which the Melbourne publisher and distributor had the most arrangements.4 While Robertson had published at least one Richard Bentley and Son book before 1873, Petherick’s letters to and from George Bentley between 1873 and 1887 mark a period of increased business dealings between the two firms that culminated in the production of the colonial library series and the Australian library. In 1873, Petherick, on Robertson’s behalf, approached George Bentley, with a proposal for a cheap colonial issue of Mrs Henry Wood’s novels. Petherick tried to interest the London firm by noting that other British publishers were reprinting novels specifically for the Australian market: ‘a similar arrangement has been made with the publishers of Ouida’s novels’ (Petherick 1873). Bentley favourably responded to Petherick’s proposal and an agreement was struck to reprint 35,000–50,000 copies of Mrs Wood’s works for the Australian market. On 25 November 1875, Petherick approached George Bentley about formalising the British firm’s business arrangement with Robertson. The Australian bookseller wanted to give the publisher’s imprints a prominent place in his Australian bookshops, to wholesale Bentley’s publications to other Australian, New Zealand and colonial booksellers, and to ‘put [the Richard Bentley and Son] … imprint on any work of good character and in keeping with your own publications – which he might



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be issuing in Melbourne’ (Petherick 1875). George Bentley agreed to the proposal, and on 8 April 1876 Petherick passed along Robertson’s ‘great pleasure for the privilege of using your name, (i.e. Richard Bentley and Son) on the title page of any book he may issue, subject to conditions stipulated’ (Petherick 1876b). The partnership seemed to have been modelled on an earlier Robertson reprint of a Bentley publication, South Sea Bubbles, by the Earl of Pembroke and Doctor Kingsley, regarding visits to Tahiti, the Cook Islands and Samoa, which had first been published in London in 1872. The title page of the Australian edition stated the book had been ‘printed for R. Bentley and Son, London, By George Robertson’ and, according to a sticker on the back cover, bound by Robertson in Melbourne. As part of their partnership, Robertson offered to safeguard Bentley’s British copyright and protect against copyright infringement in the Australian colonies. In 1876, Bentley accused Robertson of an unauthorised reprinting of Annie Edwards’s novel Leah: A Woman of Fashion (1875) for the Australian market, but Petherick insisted that his employer would not resort to piracy: Mr. Robertson has always defended the right of British publishers, frequently putting a stop to reprints in the local newspapers. I may add that he holds power of attorney for this purpose from some publishers – Notwithstanding the strong desire we have for cheap issues we like to get them legitimately. (Petherick 1876a) Bentley’s accusation came during negotiations to permit Robertson to use the Bentley imprint and distribute Bentley’s books in the colonies. Evidently, Bentley accepted Petherick’s defence of Robertson, as less than a month later the British publisher agreed to the Melbourne firm using Bentley’s imprint on some of Robertson’s publications. Robertson’s offer to protect the British firm’s literary interests was put to the test in 1880 when Petherick informed the London publisher that one of Robertson’s travellers had discovered American reprints of Bentley publications, including a number of Mrs Henry Wood’s novels, in a Christchurch, New Zealand, bookshop (Petherick 1880a). Petherick also forwarded to Bentley Robertson’s letter to the Collector of Customs in Christchurch. The letter protested the sale of New York publisher George Munro’s Seaside Library in Richard Shannon’s bookshop: ‘I respectfully ask you to protect [Bentley’s rights] by seizing the works complained of, or by taking other legal measures’ (Robertson 1880). The London publisher responded to Petherick’s initial letter by agreeing that Robertson



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would have to act for the British firm as ‘whatever action is necessary will have to be taken on the spot’ (Richard Bentley and Son 1880). It was in Robertson’s best interests to protect British copyright as he had exclusive agreements with British publishers, like Bentley, to distribute their editions in the Australian colonies. Therefore, Robertson’s business would be undermined if American reprints were allowed free rein in the colonies. Once Robertson had agreements with British publishers to produce and distribute their books in the Australian colonies, there existed a ‘Mutual commitment’ between the British and Australian firms to protect the colonial market from interlopers (Johanson 2000: 143). Another benefit of Robertson and Bentley’s partnership was that when Robertson or another Australian firm published a work that interested the London house, but that Bentley did not want to take the risk of publishing in Britain, Robertson could have copies of the work shipped to England. For instance, when solicitor John McLeod informed Richard Bentley and Son about their author Marcus Clarke’s death in 1881, he asked the publisher to publish ‘a memorial volume’ of Clarke’s essays (McLeod 1881). George Bentley declined to produce a memorial edition but agreed to accept ‘80 or 100 copies’ of the book, if published in Australia, for the English market, which he asked McLeod to ship through Robertson (Bentley 1882). While George Bentley agreed to allow Robertson to print and distribute the London firm’s publications in the Australian market, he was disinclined to manufacture cheap editions for the colonial market as he did not believe the financial risk that such a venture entailed would be offset by increased overseas sales. In 1883, Clarke’s literary executor, Hamilton Mackinnon, asked Richard Bentley and Son to produce an inexpensive Australian edition of His Natural Life, which Bentley had first published in 1875, but the London publisher was resistant to the printing of a cheap edition of the novel (Richard Bentley and Son 1883).5 While Bentley had produced inexpensive Australian editions of Mrs Henry Wood’s novels, the firm had declined to print cheap editions of other books for the colonial market. Instead, Bentley preferred to produce jointly with Robertson one-volume Australian editions of books, such as His Natural Life (1878), priced at six shillings. Further, if Bentley did not want to print a book, he would offer the copyright and stereotype plates to Robertson, who could then print his own Australian edition. For example, in 1877, Bentley offered Robertson the stereotype plates and Australian copyright of Helen Mathers’s Cherry Ripe! (1877) for fifty guineas. Added to the bottom of the letter is a note that states, ‘Bentley will not be making any two-shilling edition of Cherry Ripe! – as




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you are aware we very seldom publish any works under 6/- in price’ (Richard Bentley and Son 1877). The London house did not want to run the risk of losing money if the colonial editions – which would often retail for around two shillings – did not sell in large enough quantities. The firm preferred to license the copyright of a book rather than publishing their own cheap colonial edition. In 1882, Bentley printed a thousand copies of Clarke’s novel, the first edition titled For the Term of His Natural Life, but for sale at the regular price of six shillings. George Bentley finally reconsidered the issue of a cheap colonial edition of the novel when Mackinnon and Clarke’s widow threatened to ask an American publisher to reprint the novel for the Australian market (Richard Bentley and Son 1883). On 24 June 1884, the British publisher wrote to Hamilton Mackinnon reporting that the firm was willing to publish an inexpensive imprint of the novel but only after the firm had consulted with Robertson. In February 1885, Bentley further replied to Mackinnon that Robertson’s advice had been that the sale of the cheap edition would not be ‘sufficiently great to compensate for the … loss of “margin” involved in reducing a book from 6/- to 2/6’ (Richard Bentley and Son 1885a). However, Robertson recognised that the threat of a cheap American edition flooding the Australian market was unacceptable and recommended the publication of a cheap edition of Clarke’s novel in order to avoid Mackinnon and Clarke’s widow carrying out their threats. Bentley reluctantly agreed to produce jointly with Robertson an inexpensive edition of Clarke’s novel. While the relative success of this new edition of Clarke’s novel probably motivated Bentley to assemble the Australian library, Petherick’s relentless lobbying of both his employer and Bentley to produce cheaper publications to combat book piracy also influenced the development of the series. When American copies of Mrs Henry Wood’s novels were found in a New Zealand bookshop in 1880, Petherick argued that the only way for Robertson’s and Bentley’s respective businesses to survive the scourge of piracy and stay competitive in an increasingly international market place was for the firms to produce, market and distribute a cheap series of books for the colonies. Petherick complained about the lack of international copyright and argued that piracy damaged both the colonial and the British book trades. He suggested that the only course of action was for British and Australian firms to work together to produce legitimate inexpensive editions for the colonies: ‘For my part, I think the only cure for the present evil … is in cheaper books. The so-called “Pirates” must be met upon their own ground’ (Petherick 1880b). Petherick proposed that Bentley issue and Robertson distribute an inexpensive series



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of books, costing two shillings and sixpence, that drew on Bentley’s back catalogue. Finally, after the successful sale of the inexpensive edition of Clarke’s novel and Petherick’s continual lobbying, Bentley was convinced that his firm should produce a series for the colonial market. Bentley’s colonial library series, ‘entitled Special Editions for Colonial Circulation Only’, of which the Australian library was a part, was repeatedly expanded and reissued between the series’ inception in 1885 and the firm’s sale to Macmillan in 1898.6 The series included national libraries created for and marketed to colonial readers. Further research is warranted to develop a list of all the books and individual national libraries that formed part of the series. However, research completed so far suggests that Bentley constructed national libraries not only for Australia but also for South Africa and possibly India. Nevertheless, this chapter focuses on one library within Bentley’s larger series, the Australian library, for which the archival records are the most extensive. The Australian library repackaged a number of books for which Bentley owned copyright and was referred to in 1887 in a draft of a new publication catalogue for booksellers as a collection of ‘Australian Books and Especial Australian Editions’ (Richard Bentley and Son 1887). The sheets for the books in the Australian library were printed in England and initially bore both Bentley’s and Robertson’s imprints, which suggests the library was conceived as a joint venture of the London and Melbourne firms.7 While research on the reception of the Australian library has only begun, Richard Bentley and Son account ledgers indicate that each of the Australian library books had initial print runs of a minimum of 2,000 copies, were reprinted in 1888 and 1892, and generally sold quite well in the Australian colonies, Britain and other colonial and foreign markets. Apparently the warning on the covers of the books did not stop Bentley from selling the series and library outside of the intended colonial markets. The first issue of the library included Marcus Clarke’s novel For the Term of His Natural Life, Caroline Leakey’s novel The Broad Arrow, Frederick Edward Maning’s history Old New Zealand: A Tale of the Good Old Times and A History of the War in the North against the Chief Heke (1876), and William Delisle Hay’s travel narrative Brighter Britain: or Settler and Maori in Northern New Zealand (1882). The library would over time expand into a large collection of informative historical texts, travel accounts and novels. The catalogue described the library as focused on the special Australian qualities of the books in the collection: we should like to say a word about their literary merits. In the first place, they are all by Australian authors, and treat of Australian or




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New Zealand incidents, actual or imaginative, the narrations of fact we should judge very much predominating. There is one matter that the writer (an old colonist) feels will be specially grateful to the Australian reader: the vernacular and idiom are Australian. (Richard Bentley and Son 1887) The catalogue is written from the perspective of an ‘old colonist’ who encourages fellow Australians to buy the works that are the best Australian writers have to offer, from one of England’s pre-eminent publishers. Whether Bentley had a writer produce this advertisement or whether it was composed by a genuine ‘old colonist’ who was involved with the series, such as George Robertson or Edward Petherick, is not clear. What is apparent is that Bentley seized the opportunity to construct a competitive series that would be profitable in a burgeoning Australian market and recognised that Australians increasingly wanted to read books about Australia and written by Australians. Consequently, Bentley marketed both the authors and books in the library as Australian, and edited some of the books to emphasise their Australian qualities. For example, the first edition of Caroline Leakey’s The Broad Arrow was a two volume, 847-page, religious tract that Bentley marketed and published in 1859 as an unofficial sequel to George Eliot’s Adam Bede (1859), in which Hetty Sorel’s death sentence for infanticide is set aside in favour of sending her to a penal colony. Similarly, The Broad Arrow is about a female convict, Maida Gwynnham, who had been sent to Van Diem’s Land for infanticide. Bentley capitalised on the success of Eliot’s novel and had Adam Bede re-reviewed in conjunction with The Broad Arrow in his Quarterly Magazine in July 1859. While the first edition was not a financial success, The Broad Arrow was critically well received and later was one of the sources that Marcus Clarke drew upon for his novel. Thus, The Broad Arrow was an obvious choice to add to the Australian library that included Clarke’s novel. However, Leakey was not Australian and her book was critical of the convict system, so both novel and author were edited to fit the Australian library mandate. Gertrude Townsend Mayer cut over four hundred pages from The Broad Arrow in the process of editing the novel from two volumes to one.8 Large parts of the first edition of Leakey’s novel were set in England: the chapters and sections that dealt with the British plot-line were excised in the Australian library edition. Four complete chapters were eliminated from the novel, as well as many passages that were critical of colonial practices, in order for it to appear more pro-Australian.



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Mayer’s abridgement toned down Leakey’s moralising as well as her condemnation of the Australian penal system. The first edition of The Broad Arrow had met with ‘local disapproval’ of its criticisms of Australian penal practices and colonial life, and, probably aware of this, Bentley had many of the inflammatory passages removed (Winter 1993: 150). The abridgement also attempted to shift the focus from a moral tale about a virtuous English woman, wrongly convicted of infanticide and struggling to survive her life sentence, to an Australian romance featuring a morally ambiguous heroine. For example, Mayer removed the opening of Chapter 3 when Maida’s starving and sickly child dies. The section illustrates Maida vigilantly watching over and praying for her infant, as he labours for air. The library edition excised this passage and began with Maida’s baby already dead. The changes to the text leave the second edition implying that Maida has killed her infant because she is afraid of what would happen to her child if she went to prison for the forgery she had committed to help her lover. Maida’s role as the good convict with whom the reader sympathises is, in the second edition, further complicated by the excision of passages that encode Maida’s virtue. Chapter 5, which addresses Maida’s innocence and the circumstantial evidence in her trial, is completely eliminated from the Australian library edition. In this chapter Bob Pragg, who arrested Maida and whom the reader meets later in the novel as a convict, debates Maida’s innocence. He argues that ‘I learn by ’xperience. She an’t the right sort for murder’ (Leakey 1860: 68). With the elimination of this chapter and other similar sections, Maida’s unjust transportation in the first edition is no longer unjust: the second edition, through excision, creates a guilty Maida. Consequently, the criticisms of the penal system that are exposed throughout Maida’s story are either excised or problematised. In Bentley’s account ledgers for the Australian library there are references to other books in the series being abridged, including Herbert Stonehewer Cooper’s The Islands of the Pacific (1880), which was added to the library in 1888 and advertised as ‘A New and Revised Edition’ (Richard Bentley and Son 1888). The creation of a colonial edition did not usually result in any alterations: ‘Sometimes a publisher ordered a printer to correct typesetting errors in the colonial issue or allowed the author to revise colonial sheets, but usually these revisions resulted in minor amendments only’ (Johanson 2000: 12). Moreover, library was a marketing word favoured by publishers … to encourage buyers to collect all items in a series of cheap books, often a miscellaneous




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Subsequently, Bentley’s actions in marketing the library as a unified collection was standard publisher behaviour but his actual editing of some of the books and authors’ biographies that were not as Australian as the firm would like was not the norm. Books in the Australian library, such as Leakey’s The Broad Arrow, were purposely edited; though it seems that for a number of the books in the series – and future research will, I hope, bear this out – Bentley simply marketed and advertised both books and authors as Australian. The library was comprised of reprints and, with a focus on reprints, Bentley avoided ‘the risk of judging new manuscripts … the venture [then] was essentially one of marketing’ (Gettmann 1960: 45). Generally all Bentley’s libraries and series followed a similar formula, mixing reprinted novels with histories and travel accounts. Bentley took previously successful books originally issued as three and two volume sets and edited and repackaged them in one volume (Gettmann 1960: 48). Moreover, if he owned the books, Bentley could edit them as he saw fit without the interference of the author. However, with the library Bentley also needed the books and authors to be Australian. He surmounted the problem that he had few Australian-born authors who published with the house by marketing the authors in the library as Australian whether they were or were not. For example, both Caroline Leakey and William Hay testify in the prefaces in the library editions of their texts to the fact they were not simply British visitors, regardless of how long they did or did not stay, but had immigrated to the colonies with the intention of settling there: ‘I am not an emigrant-tout, a land salesman, or a tourist’ (Hay 1882: iii). Moreover, in the publisher’s notice in The Broad Arrow, Bentley described Leakey as ‘a lady long resident in Hobart Town’, neglecting to mention that she lived there for only a few years. Therefore, regardless of whether the authors were Australian or not – Hay and Leakey both returned to England – they were represented and marketed as such: ‘they are all Australian authors, and treat of Australian or New Zealand incidents’ (Richard Bentley and Son 1887). Bentley anticipated that Australians increasingly wanted to read books by Australians and seized the opportunity to construct a series that promised colonial readers domestic literature reflective of the emerging nation: ‘The Australian origin is as marked as the humorous mode of thought is in almost every American author, and from the chippy, detailed, and cynical style of a French novelist’ (Richard Bentley



collection of titles in which it is difficult today to discover any homogeneity. (Johanson 2000: 10)


There is one other point in the issue of these books worth referring to: it would seem to mark a distinct place in the literary life of Australia, the start of a home/produced – so far as authorship goes – series of novels, recording the day-to-day impressions [that] without some such record would gradually be forgotten. (Richard Bentley and Son 1887) Observing the ‘distinct’ language exhibited in the series, the old colonist, who positions himself as a wise elder statesman of this new nation, utilises the rhetoric of nationhood when he notes the ‘freshness of thought and diction’ captured by the books in the Australian library that represent the emergence of a distinctive Australian literature. Bentley’s library participates in an imagining of nation or community (Anderson 1991: 44). The old colonist connects the Australian library to the growing national movement in the Australian colonies and contends that the collection reflects the emergence of a unique Australian identity. While Benedict Anderson (1991: 6) argues that ‘imagined communities’ should not be distinguished ‘by their falsity/genuineness’, I believe it is important to recognise the constructedness of imaginings of nation because the success of the underlying power structure(s) ‘is proportional to its ability to hide its own mechanisms’ (Foucault 1990: 86). The Australian library is potentially only as successful as the encoding of it in terms of an authentic Australian series. Certainly, in financial and social terms Bentley was in an advantageous position to frame and sell the library as a national collection. As a British publisher, who advertised on publications, including the Australian library editions, ‘Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen’, Bentley occupied a privileged position over local Australian publishers, who could not claim a connection to Queen Victoria and who were financially disadvantaged compared to the British publisher (Gettmann 1960: 65–6). Bentley’s partnership with Robertson guaranteed widespread distribution of the Australian library book throughout the Australian colonies. Moreover, the British publisher’s ability to lower costs through large print runs allowed the firm to sell books in the series for two shillings and sixpence. Moreover, Bentley has the budget to advertise the Australian library in both the British and colonial markets. Finally, the old colonist, on Bentley’s behalf, endorses the library and assertively proclaims that the library is representative of a ‘distinct’



and Son 1887). The old colonist promises in the introduction to the catalogue that the series is authentic and the books in the library would form part of a nascent Australian canon:

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national literature. The library received a stamp of approval from this Australian, who is identified as an immigrant long settled in the colonies, perhaps to suggest both his legitimacy to comment on the collection and his position as a man with ties to both the old and new worlds. Rhetorically, the old colonist occupies a middle space where he can comment on the value of the library as Australian literature but also reassure those frightened of independence, both within the colonies and outside of it, that the collection represents an acceptable vision of Australian nationhood. The old colonist proclaims that ‘There is freshness of thought and diction that gives a new sensation to an English reader and brings up old thoughts and feelings to a colonist’ (Richard Bentley and Son 1887). The Australian library presents a ‘safe’ imagining of Australian nationhood and literature and the old colonist and Bentley position the collection as organically developing out of a growing national movement in the colonies. The Australian library was in actuality a motley collection of books chosen for practical and financial reasons rather than sentimental motives. While certainly there was a rising national interest in Australian authors and writings in the Australian colonies in the 1880s, the library existed not as a natural result of an emerging Australian identity, as the old colonist suggests, but as a product of a British publisher’s desire to produce books for the burgeoning colonial market. However, through advertising and the editing of authors’ biographies and their books, Bentley manufactured a coherent national collection of Australian literature. Therefore, my study supports the idea that series can be ideological and cultural vehicles that privilege certain texts and the cultural, political, and social images encoded within and ‘dismiss’ others (Spiers 2007: 4). Bentley’s privileged position and his partnership with Robertson enabled the series to be received as a nascent Australian canon. Finally, Bentley and the old colonist envelop the series in the discourse of nation that signifies its authenticity and defines Australian nationhood in ‘safe’ British terms.

Notes 1. The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada provided funding for this research. 2. For a brief history of Robertson’s London branch and Edward Petherick’s promotion of the international book trade see A. Rukavina (2008) ‘“This is a Wonderfully Comprehensive Business”: The Development of the BritishAustralian and International Book Trades, 1870–1887’, Script & Print, 32(2): 69–94.



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3. For a history of the Australian book trade and readers please see W. Kirsop (1995) Books for Colonial Readers: The Nineteenth-Century Australian Experience (Melbourne: Bibliographical Society of Australia and New Zealand). 4. This section is based on Rukavina, ‘“This is a Wonderfully Comprehensive Business”’. 5. For the publication and reception history of Marcus Clarke’s novel see M. Clarke (2001) His Natural Life, ed. L. Stewart (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press); and I. McLaren (1982) ‘Richard Bentley and the Publication of His Natural Life’, BSANZ Bulletin, 6(1): 3–21. 6. Bentley published his first colonial series between 1878 and 1881. A one-volume edition of Clarke’s Natural Life was part of this series and all the books in the collection were priced at six shillings. This series was not profitable for the London publisher. 7. For example, the title page of 1887 edition of The Broad Arrow lists Robertson’s imprint at the bottom of the page under Richard Bentley and Son’s imprint. 8. The section on the history of Leakey’s The Broad Arrow draws on A. Rukavina (2000) ‘Cultural Darwinism and the Literary Canon: A Comparative Study of Susanna Moodie’s Roughing It in the Bush and Caroline Leakey’s The Broad Arrow’, unpublished MA thesis, Simon Fraser University.

Selected bibliography Anderson, B. (1996) Imagined Communities, rev. edn. London: Verso (1st edn 1991). Askew, M. and Hubber, B. (1988) ‘The Colonial Reader Observed: Reading in its Cultural Context’, in W. Kirsop and D. H. Borchardt (eds), The Book in Australia: Essays Towards a Cultural and Social History. Melbourne: Australian Reference Publications, p. 110–37. Bentley, G. (1882) Letter to Hamilton Mackinnon, 19 April (Charles ChadwyckHealey microfilm edition), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 31/61/101. Foucault, M. (1990) The History of Sexuality. Volume One: An Introduction, trans. R. Hurley. New York: Vintage. Gettmann, R. A. (1960) A Victorian Publisher: A Study of the Bentley Papers. New York: Cambridge University Press. Hay, W. D. (1882) Brighter Britain: or Settler and Maori in Northern New Zealand. London: Richard Bentley. Holroyd, J. (1968) George Robertson of Melbourne, 1825–1898. Melbourne: Robertson and Mullens. Hubber, B. (1992) ‘A “Free Trade” in the Antipodes: American Reprints in the Australasian Colonies’, Bibliographical Society of Australia and New Zealand Bulletin, 16(1): 19–22. Johanson, G. (2000) A Study of Colonial Editions in Australia, 1843–1972. Wellington, NZ: Elibank Press. Kirsop, W. (1988) ‘Bookselling and Publishing in the Nineteenth Century’, in W. Kirsop and D. H. Borchardt (eds), The Book in Australia: Essays Towards a Cultural and Social History. Melbourne: Australian Reference Publications, pp. 16–42.




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Leakey, C. (1860) The Broad Arrow: Being Passages from the History of Maid Gwynnham, ‘A Lifer’. Hobart, Tasmania: Walch and Sons. McLeod, J. (1881) Letter to Richard Bentley and Son, 4 October (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 31/61/96. Petherick, E. A. (1873) Letter to Richard Bentley and Son, 12 September (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, IU Reel 49. Petherick, E. A. (1875) Letter to George Bentley, 25 November (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, IU Reel 49. Petherick, E. A. (1876a) Letter to George Bentley, 15 March (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, IU Reel 49. Petherick, E. A. (1876b) Letter to George Bentley, 8 April (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, IU Reel 49. Petherick, E. A. (1877) Letter to Peter Petherick, 10 May (manuscript), in Edward Petherick Collection 1887, MS 760/1/320–21. National Library of Australia, Canberra. Petherick, E. A. (1880a) Letter to Richard Bentley and Son, 12 July (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, IU Reel 49. Petherick, E. A. (1880b) Letter to Richard Bentley and Son, 17 July (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, IU Reel 49. Petherick, E. A. (1888) Letter to George Bentley, 3 October (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, IU Reel 49. Richard Bentley and Son (1877) Letter to Edward Petherick, 15 December (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 41/85/61. Richard Bentley and Son (1880) Letter to Edward Petherick, 16 July (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 41/85/200. Richard Bentley and Son (1883) Letter to Hamilton Mackinnon, 29 March (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 41/85/389. Richard Bentley and Son (1884) Letter to Hamilton Mackinnon, 24 June (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 41/85/452. Richard Bentley and Son (1885a) Letter to Hamilton Mackinnon, 13 February (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 42/86/50. Richard Bentley and Son (1885b) Letter to Hamilton Mackinnon, 3 October (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 42/86/80. Richard Bentley and Son (1887) New Publication Catalogue (manuscript) Richard Bentley and Son Collection, Add. 59629, 40–5, British Library, London. Richard Bentley and Son (1888) Advertisement (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, Reel 40/309/42 iii–v. Robertson, G. (1880) Letter to Collector of Customs, 15 May (microfilm), in The Archives of Richard Bentley and Son 1829–1898, IU Reel 49. Robertson, W. (1855) Letter, Athenaeum, 1422 (27 January): 115–16. Spiers, J. (2007) Serious about Series. American Cheap ‘Libraries’, British ‘Railway’ Libraries, and Some Literary Series of the 1890’s. London: Institute of English Studies, University of London, with The Senate House Library. Winter, G. (1993) ‘We Speak that We Do Know, and Testify that We Have Seen: Caroline Leakey’s Tasmanian Experiences and Her Novel The Broad Arrow’, THRA Papers and Proceedings, 40(4): 133–53.



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Women’s Series – by Women, for Women? Lisa Kuitert

Between 1850 and 1900, Dutch publishers brought out a good three hundred series.1 Many of these were embellished with the inscription ‘Library’, conveying the suggestion of a well chosen collection of handsome bindings. This way of publishing proved an effective method of approaching specific target groups. A series is more than the sum of its parts: this was the idea that publishers tried to convey to consumers. In the nineteenth century – how sadly different from today – books had not yet become throwaway products, and a series was thus a serious business. In theory, a literary series was seen as a select literary collection, each part being essential to the whole. Most of the literary series published in the second half of the nineteenth century were cheap, but they were generally beautifully produced. Publishers tended to imitate foreign successes, such as Everyman’s Library and the Tauchnitz Collection of British and American Authors. In the nineteenth century, as today, the Netherlands was a small country with a population of roughly three million in 1850: a rural and religious community. Such a small population, 30 per cent of which furthermore was illiterate in 1850, would naturally have an effect on the book trade. In the Netherlands this meant that publishers tended to concentrate on translated foreign literature. In the words of a nineteenthcentury publisher looking back on the period 1850–9: As regards translations, English literature predominated during this decade. It provided us with the work of roughly 90 authors, compared to 60 German and 20 French writers. The generally profound and devout spirit of English woman writers such as Currer Bell, Yonge, Sinclair, Kavanagh, Grace Aguilar, Charlotte Bury, Elizabeth Gaskell, Oliphant, Ellis, Wetherell, Caroline Fry and not forgetting 105



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Beecher Stowe, over and above a number of other ladies, was so much in tune with our own spirit that their romantic products were eagerly sought after; they competed favourably in that respect with the famous names of Dickens, Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, Kingsley, D. Jerrold, W. Collins, James, Ainsworth, Warren, and so many more.2 For the Dutch, publishing the translated work of foreign authors, including that of many women as the quotation shows, was a lucrative business. There was as yet no international copyright, so that foreign authors did not need to be paid. No one felt the slightest twinge of conscience about this. After all, the Netherlands was a small country, unable to provide for itself. It did not harm foreign authors, it only made them more famous, reasoned the Dutch publishers. The Netherlands did not sign the Berne Convention until 1912. Translations galore came on the market. The series formula was very suitable for tailoring translated literature to a particular readership. For through the series formula, literature acquired a hallmark. It is precisely this element that makes a series interesting from a literary historical point of view, namely that by packaging together various authors under one heading, publishers could manipulate the image. The name of the series served in this respect as label, a hallmark that buyers or readers might or might not find attractive. The Scandinavian Library (1876) contained the translated works of Scandinavian authors, the Roman Catholic Novel Library for Young Ladies (1898–1907) comprised books for devout young girls. With a series containing an ideological designation in the title, the effect of such a ‘hallmark’ is obvious. Purchasers of a series with the prefix ‘Catholic’ could happily leave the book lying around when the parish priest came to visit. And for Protestants, the Reading Library for Christian Families had the same sort of innocuous signboard. Readers tend to obey these ideological regulations. There were dozens of this sort of ideological literary series, including series with original Dutch literature. The pronoun ‘Dutch’ or ‘Vaderlandse’ (‘from our own country’) was frequently used, as this improved the series’ status. Series were an effective method of reaching the right target group. In the nineteenth century particularly that became an important point because an increasing number of target groups came within reach. In the nineteenth century a certain ‘democratisation of reading’ took place. It was still tentative though, because many people were still prevented from reading books, owing to lack of free time, money or education.



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It was this very lack of education on the part of many readers that made the pre-selection that a series offered so attractive. Compared with earlier centuries, the nineteenth century saw an increasing number of women taking part in the literary life, both as writers and as readers. This did not happen without a struggle. In some conservative circles, reading by women was seen as not without its dangers: when young girls in particular read novels, the devil as it were lurked round the corner.3 Reading, according to some people, not only led to moral degeneration but was also bad for the nerves: it could afflict women with headaches and other ailments. Novels in particular were inadvisable. The percentage of women readers compared to men is unknown – there is no statistical material on this subject. But that women in the Netherlands began to read more and more is almost certainly true, going by the stream of critical comments on this point.4 The ‘woman reading’ is a well nigh archetypical figure in paintings and illustrations.5 The writing woman too was the subject of discussion. It was thought that the female virtues did not combine well with the female writer’s vocation. According to Planté, the ‘femme-auteur’ is a nineteenthcentury invention, and we see that after 1800 women were regarded as a separate category by literary critics.6 After the middle of the nineteenth century in the Netherlands, too, there was more opposition to women who express themselves intellectually. For all that, it cannot be denied that the number of women writers only increased after the middle of the century. On the occasion of the National Exhibition of Women’s Labour (Nationale Tentoonstelling van Vrouwenarbeid) in 1898, a catalogue listed all the women writers then working in the Netherlands.7 Their number amounted to as many as 447. If we restrict the list to fiction, we are left with 183 names. The other 264 were authors of children’s literature mostly, or of non-fiction. The fact that writing was the subject of attention at an exhibition of women’s labour evidently shows that by the end of the century it had become a respectable profession for women. At the beginning of the century the case had been radically different.8 Translating, too, was now a frequently occurring profession among women. Around 1860 an article on women’s educational opportunities by A. M. M. Storm van der Chijs set in motion the ‘first feminist wave’ in the Netherlands. In the following years the flamboyant (male) writer Multatuli got involved in the ‘woman question’ and Betsy Perk founded successively the feminist journals Ons Streven (Our Endeavour) and Onze Roeping (Our Vocation). In 1870 the Dutch translation of John Stuart Mill’s On the Subjection of Women appeared; in 1878 excerpts from this work were included as a free supplement to subscribers to the



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latently feminist journal De huisvrouw (the housewife).The number of subscribers, however, is unknown. During this period ‘reading museums’ specially for women made their first appearance. These were reading rooms in fashionable areas, run by a society of wealthy ‘ladies’ interested in reading. Members could read books on the premises, or borrow them. All in all it must have been clear to publishers that where literature was concerned, women were both target group and supplier. The fact that series by or for women came into being is thus not surprising in itself. Women as a category are represented in the Netherlands by a modest number of series: the Library of Dutch Women Writers (Bibliotheek van Nederlandsche Schrijfsters, Erven F. Bohn, 1879–81), the Library for Ladies (Bibliotheek voor Dames, W. H. Kirberger, 1856), Miniature Library for Young Ladies (Miniatuurbibliotheek voor jonge dames, L. G. C. Malmberg, 1898) and Short Plays for Ladies (Toneelstukjes voor Dames, Blom & Olivierse, 1898). The fact that the year 1898 produced no fewer than three women’s series presumably has to do with the afore-mentioned National Exhibition of Women’s Labour in that year. The year 1898, which was also the year in which Queen Wilhelmina succeeded to the Dutch throne, was a high point for the ‘women’s movement’. Womanhood stood, as it were, in the spotlight – and publishers responded to this with their series. It is striking that in the Netherlands the women’s series consist of Dutch female authors. Foreign women writers were classified together with their male colleagues in literary series of a more general sort, without special attention to their sex. In series of classics of Dutch literature, female authors like Betje Wolff, Aagje Deken and Anna Bijns are present, but in their foreign counterpart, such as Krusemans ‘Buitenlandse klassieken’ (Foreign Classics), with authors such as John Milton, Tristram Shandy and Cervantes, there are no female authors to be found. The women’s series was no novelty. As early as 1795 the renowned French series Bibliothèque universelle des romans had a subsection entitled Bibliothèque universelle des dames, in Italy the Biblioteca amena e istruttiva per le donne gentile came into being in 1821 and in 1833–4 the ‘Biblioteca de las damas’ was produced in Barcelona. But around the middle of the century, writes Isabelle Olivero in her study on series, the supply of women’s series dropped to practically nil. Women were seen not so much as hostile to reading as hostile to books, even by fellow woman George Sand, who spoke of ‘bibliophobia’.9 During the last quarter of the nineteenth century, books for women made a comeback, at least in France, and attention was paid to ‘feminine’ design, with small formats and gilt edges.



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How did publishers set about producing such a ‘woman’s series’, and did they manage to find a market for it? Archive material has survived from one Dutch series, namely the Library of Dutch Women Writers (Bibliotheek van Nederlandsche Schrijfsters), brought out by Bohn Publishers. The publishing house of Erven F. Bohn have conceived the idea of providing the literary productions of modern women writers with a worthy place in a Library of Dutch women writers, to be founded and published by themselves. They believe that by realising this idea they will be performing a useful service. With these words the series was launched in 1878.10 The publisher, as he wrote, found one justification for founding the series in what he saw as women’s increased interest in literature, and in the growing interest in the ‘woman question’ in general. The idea of the women’s series at the Dutch publishing house of Bohn was thought up not by a feminist, but simply by the publisher himself. Did this businessman have emancipationist aims? His first idea for the title had been ‘Library for Dutch Women’, but the woman compiler whom he had employed for this purpose rejected it: ‘Why exclusively for women? I assume that women writers are happy to write for men too, and many women writers have remarked as such to me’ (8 January 1878). It accordingly became the Library of Dutch Women Writers, thus making the name an indication of the content. In that respect the ‘Library’ diverges from the other ‘women’s’ series that explicitly mentioned women as target group in the title. In the case of the ‘Library’ women were the suppliers. The idea was not to reprint books but to publish new work. The intention was that the volumes would be written by women, but that the readers could be both men and women. The publisher, as it were, packaged literature written by women and offered it to readers as a separate category of books. Compiler Catherina van Rees was the person who gave meaning to the term ‘women’s literature’, but the correspondence reveals that there was continual consultation between publisher and editor. A clear definition of what ‘women’s literature’ actually was cannot be traced in the correspondence. The Harlem publisher Erven F. Bohn had existed since 1752 and had a good reputation, which also extended to the literary world. Catharina van Rees, the compiler, wrote novels under the pseudonym Célestine, and had taken part in the debate on the education of girls in 1870, with her Open Letter to her Fellow Countrywomen. Whether the publisher




Lisa Kuitert

Figure 5.1 Catharina F. van Rees (1831–1915), editor of the Dutch series with women authors, published in 1879–80

had commissioned her for the series precisely because of her position on this question is not clear. Van Rees’ prospectus for the Library of Dutch Women Writers does, however, point in that direction. Here she alludes in portentous terms to the ‘earnest endeavour of women’ to elevate themselves and to develop, so that ‘many a fellow countrywoman shall thereby be encouraged to bring her hidden talent into the light and let it shine forth’. The editor set to work with a will and established several basic principles which showed that she was no newcomer to the literary world. She would have no previously published work in the series, no translations, and included not only novels but also short stories – two or three collected in one volume, for example. It is also striking that she went about her work in a strategic way: women writers were invited on account of their networks and their status; after all, reviewers had to be won over. After three years another principle was relinquished. Van Rees suggested that they should now include male authors too, albeit for practical reasons. ‘Our country is too small to produce many good women writers’,



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she sighed (1 December 1880). She could have decided, of course, to include translations of women writers for that reason. But she did not. Evidently the ‘Dutch’ element carried more weight with her than the ‘female’ element (although she agreed to publish the work of the originally Flemish Virginie Loveling). In June 1881 the series was terminated as it was making a loss. No male authors are to be found in the six published volumes. Of an average print run of 1,500 copies, just over half was usually sold, as Bohn’s archive reveals. Little is known about the readers of the series. Most of them would have subscribed via their local bookshop. Sixteen customers subscribed with Bohn himself, as the archive shows, and fourteen of these were female. Two famous male literati reveal in their correspondence that they read volumes from this series. At first Bohn advertised only in women’s magazines, but later in national newspapers too, as his expenses book shows. That suggests that the target group had expanded. It is odd that sales were nevertheless poor, as the reviews were strikingly favourable. There was no trace of the slightest disdain towards female authors: For a long time now woman has occupied a worthy place in the field of literature, in fact her work distinguishes itself favourably from that of men in many respects; less tainted if at all by the scepticism of this century, finding in her own heart a source of warmth and thereby of vitality, the products of her pen are suffused with greater profundity and appeal to us through an amiable sort of partiality. There are exceptions but generally speaking the situation in our own time is thus: man is becoming weaker, woman is becoming stronger. (De Tijdspiegel 1878, III: 375) The reviewer of Het Leeskabinet saw it as a favourable sign that such a renowned firm as Erven F. Bohn was publishing a women’s series. The Netherlands with its host of women writers was following in the footsteps of England, where ladies had been active as writers for some time. ‘Time and again in recent years we have been able to announce the works of women writers to which many products of male authors have had to take second place’, wrote Het Leeskabinet some time later (1881, II: 96). ‘May the lyre of women murmur in concert with the song of men.’11 When the series’ second year of publication opened in 1880 with Van Rees’s own work Schijn en wezen (Appearance and Reality), the reviewer of De Tijdspiegel adopted a more caustic tone. He (or she) did not see the point in the fact that ‘in literature, as in railway trains, separate compartments were reserved for women only, at least as long




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as one cannot so arrange matters that ladies can be safe there from the criticism of gentlemen’ (1880, II: 297). It is of course perilous to make statements on the basis of one literary series about the literature of women in the second half of the nineteenth century in the Netherlands. But with a few reservations one can still draw some conclusions. Around 1880 women as a whole were regarded as serious participants in the literary circuit.12 Women writers were well paid, and Van Rees was entrusted with a responsible job as editor, which was furthermore sealed with a contract. It is also significant that it was the publisher who came up with the plan for the women’s series. He evidently expected it to be a commercial success, which says something about the prevailing ‘market value’ of women writers. But it is significant that Bohn wished to reach a female readership through women, and that the compiler altered his ‘for women’ into ‘by women’. The fact that the publisher Bohn was not greatly influenced by idealistic motives is shown by his pulling out as soon as the series started to make a loss. In general the Library of Dutch Women Writers was well received by the press. In this respect, though, the compiler’s network should not be underestimated. It is striking that the press was more positive about the whole than about the separate parts. We may attribute this to the series effect: the label ‘literature by women’ carries such weight that the series comes to mean more than the sum of its parts. It is precisely on this last point that women’s publications often come to grief. Books are described as ‘women’s literature’ and begin to exist as a separate genre. Literature by women is then regarded as literature ‘for’ women. At the beginning of the twentieth century, when the number of

Box 5.1 Bibliotheek van Nederlandsche Schrijfsters 1878–81 Elise van Calcar – Eigen meester blijven Franciska Gallé – Twee vreemdelingen Virginie Loveling – Drie novellen Catharina F. van Rees – Schijn en wezen Mevr. Van Westhreene – Philip’s eerzucht M. C. Frank – Bijna Verloren



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women writers had increased once more in comparison with a century earlier, women’s literature had already become an accepted idea. People spoke of ‘ladies’ novels’, a more disparaging term than ‘women’s literature’.13 This was not the case with the Library of Dutch Women Writers of 1879, for that was taken seriously. After 1900 this attitude changed for the worse. This must be partly linked to the gradual increase in the number of women writers – think of the number of 447 in 1898. The literary market around 1900 was in its hey-day – for men too. We can see that as soon as women enter the labour market, the status of that labour drops.14 In the Netherlands, education is one sector in which this development has been taking place in recent decades. The drop in status seems to create a vicious circle, for as soon as a field has less social status, women are even more attracted to it, precisely because men are put off by a sector with diminished status. In literature something similar has occurred, in a fluctuating way. The reception of a women’s series serves in this respect as an ‘antenna’. At this very time the debate is going on in the Netherlands, and series such as ‘Sterke vrouwen’ (Strong Women, published by Meulenhoff) and ‘Bewogen vrouwenlevens’ (Stirring Women’s Lives, published by Arena) fulfil a striking role. Although in the Netherlands few women openly call themselves feminists, the woman’s book is engaged in an inexorable advance. The woman’s book of today is a book for and often also by women, but not necessarily with a feminist aim. In the Netherlands we have three publishing houses whose aim is to publish exclusively women’s books (Artemis, Orlando and Sirene), and we have several series that feature only the work of women. The reason for this is that women in the Netherlands can be classed among the most voracious readers. Roughly 70 per cent of readers are women, and of that 70 per cent more than half are highly educated and over forty years old. The assumption of commercial thinkers is that women read books by women. ‘A lighter man’s book is more likely to be rejected than a lighter woman’s book, that is, one written by a woman’, said Tanja Hendriks, of Artemis Publishers, in an interview. This publisher only deals with books by women. Other publishers admit that they feminise their list in other ways. For example, they like to work the word ‘woman’ into the title of a book, as this is said to stimulate sales. For the status of women’s literary work this target-group marketing appears to be disastrous. Women have not been awarded mainstream literary prizes now for many years in the Netherlands, and when critics smile derisively about ‘undemanding literature’ and commercial bestsellers, they invariably mention women, even though there are plenty




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of male equivalents. Men’s series, however, do not exist. Nor do literary prizes for men. For women it has proved necessary to establish special literary prizes, which, however, does not help them to obtain ‘ordinary’ literary prizes. Book marketing intensifies the sociological side-effect of the increased number of women writers: diminished status. Earlier researchers, such as Huyssen, determined that ‘modernist high art developed in the form of an authentic pure male reaction to an inferior, commercial female mass culture’.15 For critics and authors the negative qualification of women’s books has become a cliché, which people feel obliged to agree with, because those who jeer at female pulp fiction are at least showing that they do not belong to it. I am coming to a conclusion. If series are fatal to the status of literary women writers, they are a boon for the literary historical researcher, as they form an excellent resource for research into the embedding of female authors in the literary landscape. The fact that this embedding still leaves a lot to be desired is clear, but that lies beyond the framework of this chapter.

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

L. Kuitert (1993). A. C. Kruseman (1886–7: 461). See also Suzan van Dijk et al. (2004). M. Mathijsen (1996). B. Dongelmans (1996). Kate Flint (1993: 321–30). Christine Planté (1997). See also Toos Streng (1997). Catalogus van boeken door Nederlandsche Vrouwen Geschreven en sedert 1850 uitgegeven, met verklarende lijst van pseudoniemen. ‘s Gravenhage, Nat. Tentoonstelling van vrouwenarbeid, 1898. Streng (1997: 23). Isabelle Olivero (1999: 243–4). Lisa Kuitert (2001). De portefeuille (Volume 1, 1879–80), no. 18: 52. See for several case studies van Dijk et al. (2004). Erica van Boven (1992). See for the position of women in Dutch culture and society M. Vogel (2001: 68–70). Andreas Huyssen (1986).

Selected bibliography Boven, Erica van (1992) Een hoofdstuk apart. Vrouwenromans in de literaire kritiek 1898–1930. Amsterdam: Van Gennep.



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Catalogus van boeken door Nederlandsche vrouwen geschreven en sedert 1850 uitgegeven, met verklarende lijst van pseudoniemen (1898). ‘s Gravenhage: Nationale Tentoonstelling van vrouwenarbeid. Dongelmans, B. (1996) ‘Niet geschikt voor vrouwen. Wat mochten vrouwen lezen in de negentiende eeuw?’, Literatuur, 13(6): 326–35. Dijk, Suzan van et al. (eds) (2004) ‘I Have Heard about You’. Foreign Women’s Writing Crossing the Dutch Border: From Sappho to Selma Lagerlöf. Hilversum: Verloren. Flint, Kate (1993) The Woman Reader 1837–1914, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Huyssen, Andreas (1986) ‘Mass Culture as Woman. Modernism’s Other’, in T. Modleski (ed.), Studies in Entertainment. Critical Approaches to Mass Culture. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, pp. 188–207. Kruseman, A. C. (1886–7) Bouwstoffen voor een geschiedenis van den Nederlandschen Boekhande. Gedurende de halve eeuw 1830–1880. Amsterdam: P. N. van Kampen & Zoon. Kuitert, Lisa (1993) Het ene boek in vele delen. De uitgave van literaire series 1850–1900. Amsterdam: De Buitenkant. Kuitert, Lisa (2001) ‘Het debacle van een negentiende-eeuwse “vrouwenreeks”‘, Literatuur, 18(3): 150–9. Mathijsen, M. (1996) Gij zult niet lezen. De geschiedenis van een gedoogproces. Amsterdam: De Buitenkant. Olivera, Isabelle (1999) L’Invention de la collection. De la diffusion de la littérature et des savoirs à la formation du citoyen au XIXe siècle. Paris: Éditions de L’Imec. Planté, Christine (1997) La petite soeur de Balzac. Essai sur la femme auteur. Paris: Seuil. Streng, Toos (1997) Geschapen om te scheppen. Opvattingen over vrouwen en schrijverschap in Nederland 1815–1860. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Vogel, Marianne (2001) Baard boven baard. Over het Nederlandse literaire en maatschappelijke leven 1945–1960. Amsterdam: Van Gennep.




Leonard Bast’s Library: Aspiration, Emulation and the Imperial National Tradition Robert Fraser

In a famous passage from Chapter 6 of E. M. Forster’s Howard’s End (1910), Leonard Bast, a very lower middle-class clerk, has just hurt his hand on shattered picture glass in his rented flat in South London. To soothe his equally shattered nerves, he walks through into his mean living room, pulls out a volume and starts to read the Torcello chapter from Ruskin’s Stones of Venice: Then he went back to the sitting room, settled himself anew, and began to read a volume of Ruskin. ‘Seven miles to the north of Venice …’ How perfectly the famous chapter opens! How supreme its command of admonition and poetry! The rich man is speaking to us from his gondola. ‘Seven miles to the north of Venice, the banks of sand, which nearer the city rise little above low-water mark, attain by degrees a higher level, and knot themselves at last into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into shapeless mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of the sea.’ Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin: he understood him to be the greatest master of English Prose. He read forward steadily, occasionally making a few notes. ‘Let us consider a little each of these characters in succession; and first (for of the shafts enough has been said already), what is very peculiar to this church, its luminousness.’ Was there anything to be learned form this fine sentence? Could he adapt it to the needs of his daily life? Could he introduce it, with modifications, when he next wrote to his brother, the lay-reader? For example – 116



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‘Let us consider a little each of these characters in succession; and first (for of the absence of ventilation enough has been said already), what is very peculiar to this flat, its obscurity.’ Something told him that the modifications would not do; and that something, had he known it, was the spirit of English Prose. ‘My flat is dark as well as stuffy.’ Those were the words for him.1 We are not told which chapter from Ruskin is being sampled here; the assumption is that, as educated readers, we already know. Leonard, of course, does not. ‘As usual,’ remarks Frank Kermode in a 2007 Clark lecture on Forster, ‘Bast is not allowed to be comfortable with the middleclass culture to which he aspires.’2 The gesture is as much one of exclusion as of inclusion, and is at one with Forster’s description of Leonard’s ham-fisted piano playing since, as Kermode also observes, with each successive draft of the relevant sentences he plays worse, worse even than Lucy Honeychurch in A Room with a View (1908) with her enthusiastic rendition of the opening movement Maestoso; Allegro con brio ed appassionato of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No 32 in C Minor, Opus 111.3 But then Lucy, as she earlier confesses to Miss Lavish, lives in ‘only thirty acres’ of Surrey. But why, we may well ask, of all authors is Bast reading Ruskin? Because Ruskin is not only a great cultural diagnostician, but someone with a concern for the political welfare and education of the man in the street, the man, in the lawyer’s phrase, ‘on the Clapham Omnibus’. But Leonard doesn’t own Ruskin in even the minimal way of say Lucy Honeychurch, who in an earlier chapter of A Room with a View enters Santa Croce in search of a sepulchre much praised by this master in Mornings in Florence. Or as Marcel Proust owned Ruskin, translating him after mounting personal pilgrimages to French cathedrals, and eventually to Venice, in search of the authentic Ruskinean – or is it Ruskinesque? – ambiance. In Leonard’s eyes, Ruskin is rich, and his style is inimitable, even if it is enviable. He reaches towards him in aspiration and emulation, but in the last resort Ruskin shuts him out. Or, at least, Forster does so on Ruskin’s behalf. And Leonard, unlike Lucy, is unlikely ever to get to Italy. There is, as the novelist’s writing is keen to emphasise, a horizon he is unlikely ever to cross. What exactly is Leonard excluded from? First, from high culture: that is, in terms of the novel from the Schlegel element. Second, from travel and from history: the Ruskin element. Third, from power: the Wilcox element. In all of these respects he is quite typical of the class of reader to whom throughout the nineteenth century – and especially



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in its closing years – publishers aimed certain kinds of book series. His needs were part of the culture for which such series came to cater, and an important driving force in their development. In this chapter I take a snapshot of three rather different such series, aimed at different audiences and on the surface at least possessing rather different agendas, so as to tease this proposition out, to look at the balance between inclusion and exclusion, to assess the tradition that each constituted and to situate as precisely as I can the horizon towards which each aspired. I would like to start in that haven for self-educators: Scotland. The name Constable’s Miscellany may prove confusing because there were actually two series of that name. The one I have in mind was that launched in Edinburgh in 1826 – the year of his infamous bankruptcy – by Archibald Constable (1774–1827), publisher of Walter Scott, of The Edinburgh Review and of The Encyclopaedia Britannica. The scheme had been mooted in May of the previous year in Scott’s house in Abbotsford, and Lockhart’s summary of Constable’s prospectus is revealing of its ambitions: ‘I have now settled my outline of operations – a three shilling or half crown volume every month, which must and shall sell, not by the thousands, but by the hundreds of thousands – ay by the millions! Twelve volumes in a year … so good that millions will wish to have them, and so cheap that every butcher’s callant may have them.’4 Callant, by the way, is Scots for a lad or stripling, so a butcher’s callant is a butcher’s boy, somewhat lower in the pecking order than even poor Bast. As Constable’s Miscellany of Original and Selected Publications in the Various Departments of Literature, Science and the Arts, the series was launched in January 1827 when Constable appointed John Aitken (1793–1833), an elementary-school educated bank clerk from Stirlingshire, as its editor. When Constable died that June, the title was bought out by Aitken in association with Messrs Hurst and Chance of London, with whom it stayed until 1831. Aitken continued the series much in the spirit of Constable’s original scheme, which, according to Scott, had been for ‘selling at a low profit, a great number of the most standard works in history, in belles letters, as well as in science, and the department of voyages and travels’.5 Through his choices, we can moreover watch Aitken compiling a tradition, a particular vision of Scottishness. The Scots are a peripatetic people, so it is little surprise that the third of Scott’s categories – voyages and travels – looms large. Volume 3 featured Hall’s Voyages: Extracts from a Journal Written on the Coasts of Chili, Peru and Mexico in the Years 1820, 1821, 1822, a recently compiled



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travelogue by Captain Basil Hall (1788–1844), an Edinburgh-born naval officer who had travelled widely in North America, India, China and South America. One of the highlights of the book was his meeting with Napoleon, with whom, strange to say, his father had once been at school. Volume 13 was William Mariner’s Account of the Natives of the Tonga Islands (1827). This was another very recent and up-to-date offering. William Mariner (1791–1853) had joined a whaling ship in Wapping at the age of thirteen and been marooned on Tonga at the age of fifteen, living there for four years, learning the language and getting to know the people and the social system. His travels had been written up by his friend John Martin, to whom he had recounted them, and include a dictionary and grammar of the Tonga tongue. They were to be of lasting influence, since almost a century later the Scottish anthropologist J. G. Frazer was to draw on them for the discussion of the nature of taboo and the institution of the sacrifice of the first fruits in the Third Edition of The Golden Bough6. Bearing in mind the newness of the project, and Aitken’s relative inexperience as an editor, the series had a happy knack of choosing relatively out-of-the-way works that just happened to hit an historical nerve. Volume 8, for example, was Michael Symes’s An Account of an Embassy to the Kingdom of Ava [Burma] in 1795, to which is now added a narrative of the late military and political operations in the Burmese Empire (1826). Symes had conducted the first embassy to Burma on behalf of the Directors of the East India Company, to whom he dedicates his book. He was thus able to report first hand on the background to the, then very recent, First Anglo-Burmese War, an event that after two more such conflicts was eventually to lead to the presentation of Burma as a New Year’s Present to Queen Victoria in 1886 (Her reactions go unrecorded). Few of the choices indeed were ideologically neutral. Volume 16, for example, was Orlando Roberts’s Voyages and Excursions in Central America (1827). A first edition, it describes expeditions up the River San Juan and a trip across Lake Nicaragua. Dedicated to Bathurst, the antislavery campaigner, it possesses a strong anti-slavery subtext, a strong clue to the political leanings of the series as a whole. Despite its origins in the publishing house that had once produced the novels of the High Tory Sir Walter Scott, Aitken’s Miscellany ploughed its own furrow politically. Once again, I think, a certain version or vision of Scottishness provides the essential clue. Aitken could rely on his impecunious readership to be loyally patriotic, but North Britons were not what he was aiming at. Quite to the contrary, there was throughout the series an emphasis on what you might call a native-born radical tradition,




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a demotic turn concentrating on key figures and events. Mary Queen of Scots, victim of an English monarch, could be relied on to stimulate the right sort of response, and so duly at Volume 25 we have Henry Bell’s Life of Mary Queen of Scots (1828), complete with its frontispiece, a portrait of Mary herself. Jacobitism was to supply another impulse, if not outright Jacobinism. So Volume 15 gives us Robert Chambers’s Rebellion in Scotland, 1745 (1827), one of five volumes especially written for the series dedicated to the Scottish revolutionary tradition by the celebrated Edinburgh autodidact and bookseller, author, it later transpired, of that pioneering work of evolutionary theory: the anonymously published Vestiges of Creation. As his frontispiece to the Constable work Chambers provided an image guaranteed to enlist local sentiment: a portrait of Bonny Prince Charlie. In 1827, let it be recalled, there would have been not a few readers, certainly in the Highlands, whose fathers had taken

Figure 6.1 Constable’s Miscellany of Original and Selected Publications in the Various Departments of Literature, Science and the Arts: Volume XV, Robert Chambers, Rebellion in Scotland (Edinburgh: Constable, 1827), Volume One, title page with frontispiece of Charles Edward Stuart



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part in that campaign. In pre-Victorian Scotland, the Old Cause was a not too distant memory. But insularity was not the point. For Aitken, as for Constable himself, the radical tradition was something that internationalised Scotland, joining it like a continental shelf to great movements in Europe and beyond. Several items on the list were histories of revolutions culled from around the world. They are epitomised by three volumes of a work that seems to want to pull all of these strands together and to relate them to a demotic trait, both regional and universal, for which these butcher’s apprentices and the like could be expected to feel some affinity. This work was Christophe Guillaume de Koch’s History of the Revolutions in Europe from the Subversion of the Roman Empire in the West till the Abdication of Bonaparte, translated by Andrew Crichton and published in the series in 1828. Like many of the translations, this was original to the series. Scotland, so the implicit argument ran, pertained to a European radical tradition. What did these careful choices amount to? The combination by and large is of Scottish and European texts suggestive of a common revolutionary tradition within a frame of, mostly very recent, travel writing. Here is Scotland – a radical though Christian Scotland – standing and hoping in relation to the World. Significantly, I think, the only text on English history was a life of Oliver Cromwell. There is a biography of Napoleon and one of the Empress Josephine, but none of Wellington, or indeed of any loyalist English general or leader. There is no fiction. When not explicitly Scottish, the action, both of the travels and of the history, is for the most part set far away, over a geographical horizon that Aitken, Constable and their readers had never crossed. In the long run, however, it fed an appetite. It is no coincidence, I think, that so many of those who sailed overseas to man the Empire, or to expand its borders, in the long nineteenth century, were to be Scots. The impulse may have stemmed from a sort of high-minded Bovaryism, a hankering for the unobtainable. The result, however, was what the late Angus Calder, a fine twentieth-century exemplar of indigenous Caledonian radicalism, was to call a Revolutionary Empire. This raises a larger question. Constable’s readers were Scottish and English. What would happen when publishers in Britain turned their attention to envisaged audiences located overseas? Were the action, and the interest, to be set overseas too? Or did the logic of horizons I seem to be expounding stimulate an equivalent but countervailing exoticism? It is with this query in mind that I turn to my second example: Macmillan’s Colonial Library, launched on 1 March 1886. The series would issue




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1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17, 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

Mary Anne Barker, Station Life in New Zealand. Mary Anne Barker, A Year’s House-keeping in South Africa. William Black, A Princess of Thule. Hugh Conway, A Family Affair. F. Marion Crawford, Mr Isaacs: A Tale of Modern India. F. Marion Crawford, Dr Claudius: A True Story. F. Marion Crawford, A Roman Singer. F. Marion Crawford, A Tale of a Lonely Parish. Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Conduct of Life. Frederick William Farrar, Seekers after God. Archibald Forbes, Souvenirs of Some Continents. P. G. Hamerton, Human Intercourse. Annie Keary, Oldbury. Henry James, Tales of Three Cities. A. B. Mitford, Tales of Old Japan. Margaret Oliphant, A Country Gentleman. 18, 19 Margaret Oliphant, The Literary History of England in the end of the 18th and beginning of the 19th Century, 3 vols. Alfred St. Johnston, Camping Among Cannibals. D. Christie Murray, Aunt Rachel. Charlotte M. Yonge, Chantry House. Frederick Harrison, The Choice of Books, etc . ‘The Author of John Halifax, Gentleman’ [i.e. Dinah Maria Mulock, later Craik], Miss Tommy: A Medieval Romance. Lucas Malet, Mrs Lorimer: A Sketch in Black and White. Hugh Conway, Living or Dead. Margaret Oliphant, Effie Ogilvie. Joana Harrison, A Northern Lily. W. E. Norris, My Friend Jim. Emily Lawless, Hurrish: A Study. ‘The Author of John Halifax, Gentleman’ [i.e. Dinah Maria Mulock, later Craik], King Arthur: Not a Love Story. Thomas Hardy, The Mayor of Casterbridge. John W. Graham, Neaera: A Tale of Ancient Rome. Fayr Madoc, Margaret Jermine. Charlotte Yonge, A Modern Telemachus. J. Henry Shorthouse, Sir Percival. Margaret Oliphant, A House Divided Against Itself.



1,738 titles between that date and 1960. What did it concentrate on? Let us look at the first fifty titles:

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38 ‘The Author of John Halifax, Gentleman’ [i.e. Dinah Maria Mulock, later Craik], About Money, and Other Things. 39 William Black, The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 40 Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism. 41 Thomas Hughes. Tom Brown’s Schooldays. 42 Charlotte Yonge, The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. 43 Margaret Oliphant, A Beleaguered City. 44 John Morley, Critical Miscellanies. 45 Bret Harte, A Millionaire of Rough-and-Ready, etc. 46 F. Marion Crawford, Saracinesca. 47 Margaret Veley, A Garden of Memories; and Other Stories. 48 William Black, Sabina Zembra. 49 Thomas Hardy, The Woodlanders. 50 Amy Elizabeth Dillwyn, Jill.7 One or two lurid personalities lurk behind the, often female, aliases here. Marion Crawford was, of course, a commercially successful masculine peddler in, for the most part Orientalist, exotica. ‘Lucas Mallet’ was the late Reverend Charles Kingsley’s Catholic (and probably lesbian) youngest daughter. Dinah Mullock later married a senior member of Macmillan’s editorial staff, the one-legged George Lillie Craik. Margaret Oliphant is referred to everywhere in the lists as ‘Mrs Oliphant’, which sounds like a pseudonym but is in every sense not one, since she had married her own first cousin, her full name therefore being ‘Margaret Oliphant Oliphant’. The Irish writer Emily Lawless was her protégée. And the Swansea-based novelist and suffragette Amy Dillwyn must rank as the only author in British history ever to manage a zinc works.8 For a book historian, however, it is the selection of titles that is instructive. The list starts with what I can only describe as a kind of editorial wobble. Clearly the architects of the series are at a bit of a loss where to begin: the first twelve titles, indeed, look as if they are being organised alphabetically by the name of the author. Beyond that possibly coincidental fact, however, there seems to be an assumption that readers in the colonies will be interested primarily in colonial themes, and in books with contiguous settings. So the first two titles are settlers’ memoirs,9 then we get a run of stories by the American and, yes, male writer of romances – and Sanskritist – Francis Marion Crawford, with Indian or else Italian backdrops. By title 16, with the entry of Mrs Oliphant, something has happened. In fact, the imperial penny has dropped. These readers may be situated in Asia or Australasia, but as far as their literary tastes are concerned, they are hungry for home, either real or imagined. For the




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Memsahibs of the Raj home, of course, was a matter of nostalgia, but for, say, the large Eurasian readership in India, it was much more likely to have been a locus of fantasy, aspiration or possibly misdirected sentiment. The fact is that titles 17–19 comprise Mrs Oliphant’s Literary History of England, and then the series settles down to a staple diet of middle-brow contemporary novels produced by and large in the form of cheap reprints of Macmillan’s domestic fiction list, eventually to include Charlotte Yonge, Thomas Hardy and the rest. There are, of course, notable exceptions to this rule, though whether Rudyard Kipling’s Kim, issued in both the British and the colonial list in 1901, is one of them depends on the way you view Kipling. A more unmistakable exception is Rolf Boldrewood’s Robbery Under Arms, published in 1889. This was not, of course, originally a Macmillan title but was bought in by them. It was first published in London by Remington in three volumes in 1888, after originally being printed as a serial in the Sydney Mail in 1881. Acclaimed in London when issued as a threedecker, it was then reprinted by Macmillan in one volume for the home market and as no. 94 in the Macmillan Colonial Library in 1898. This mere sprinkling of titles with colonial backdrops, however, cannot really disguise the basic rule: this is a collection of contemporary middle-brow British novels intended for readers living far away, who at moments wish they were not. What, after all, was the journalistic pabulum of the colonial clubs? It was The Illustrated London News or perhaps Country Life. In Rawalpindi you needed the illusion that you were au fait with what people might be gossiping about in Mayfair or Tunbridge Wells, and the review columns of newspapers, both imported and local, fed this appetite for what lay so tantalisingly across the mental and spiritual horizons of those displaced, or believing themselves to be displaced. The remoteness, the aspiration, the longing were surely the very point. At first sight, then, Macmillan’s Colonial Library looks as if it might be cancelling out of the earlier example of Constable’s Miscellany, until you realise that here we are faced with an advanced case of cultural Bovaryism in reverse. Wherever their situation in life, people like to read about what they do not have. It is in relation to these two polar instances that I want to examine my third and central example: Cassell’s National Library. There is, however, a missing piece to the jigsaw here: the short-lived Reynold’s Miscellany of 1846–69, the historic link I imagine between Constable and Cassell, and certainly an inspiration behind successive ventures into popular educational publishing by John Cassell (1817–65), Mancunian, former carpenter’s apprentice, reformed drunk, one-time



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Temperance campaigner, idealist and founder of the firm10. Cassell campaigned against stamp duty on publications in 1851 on the grounds that he had entered the profession ‘for the purpose of issuing a series of publications which I believed were calculated to advance the moral and social well-being of the working classes’.11 He published the first British edition of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and the title of his periodical The Popular Educator provides an important clue to his philosophy. Like Constable’s Miscellany, however, Cassell’s National Library came to fruition after the death of the man from whom it took its cue, and after which it was named. John Cassell had been an autodidact, minimally educated at the British and Foreign Bible School in Stockport and passionately devoted to the spreading of both literacy and literature among the proverbial Basts. A succession of series were named after him and designed in his egalitarian image, both before and after his death in 1865; the series of which I am speaking, however, took its immediate character from the man employed as its editor from 1887, Henry Morley.

Figure 6.2 Professor Henry Morley (1822–94)




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Morley was Professor of English at University College London at the time, but had found his way to academic English via a circuitous route, including training as a doctor, working as tutor to Elizabeth Gaskell’s children in Manchester, compiling the sanitary column for Dickens’s Household Words and All the Year Round, mentorship by Dickens’s friend and biographer John Forster and assorted freelance journalism.12 After his appointment to UCL in 1865 he needed to work for publishers on a regular basis, since his post there was unpaid. Morley took his responsibilities seriously, editing with introductions more than 300 texts, either for Cassell or for another comparable series that Routledge had christened after him as Morley’s Universal Library. Both of these publishers afforded him carte blanche in the selection of titles; his shaping hand is to be seen everywhere in the resulting books. The books that he edited for Cassell were pocket size (4 ⫻ 5½ inches), produced plainly with simple red, beige or blue covers and with no illustrations of any kind. They were issued weekly at a cost of 3d. or 6d. cloth. Acquired either by mail order or though selected booksellers, they were 192 pages long (twenty-three lines a page averaging ten words per line). The uniform length must have been achieved by adjusting the size of Morley’s introduction: in other words there was a weekly diet of slightly under 45,000 words. Not long enough for a novel (which, in any case, were issued in Cassell’s ‘Red Series’ at a shilling), but just right for, say, one Shakespeare play, like The Taming of the Shrew, which the series brought out in 1888 under the same covers as A Pleasant Conceited History called the Taming of a Shrew, one of Shakespeare’s own sources. Just the right length too for two Platonic dialogues, like The Crito and the Phaedo, which came out together in 1894. Or just the right length for one pair of lives (one Greek and one Roman) from Plutarch, such as Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar, who made a double appearance the following year. Just the right length again for one of Hakluyt’s Travels, such as Hakluyt’s Discovery of Muscovy, which came out in 1889. But what was the orientation of the series? What tradition did it represent for aspirants and emulators? Below, to place beside the list of fifty Macmillan colonial titles displayed above, are the first fifty-two of Cassell, representing the first year’s output as it appears in early advertisements. 1 2 3

Warren Hastings My Ten Years’ Imprisonment The Rivals and The School for Scandal

Lord Macaulay Silvio Pelllico Richard Brindsley Sheridan



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4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26, 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin The Compleat Angler Childe Harold The Man of Feeling Sermons on the Card Lives of Alexander and Caesar The Castle of Otranto Voyages and Travels Plays The Lady of the Lake Table Talk The Wisdom of the Ancients Francis Bacon Lives of the Poets (Waller, Milton, Cowley) Thoughts on the Present Discontents, etc. The Battle of the Books, etc. Poems Egypt and Scythia Hamlet Voyagers’ Tales Nature and Art Lives of Alcibiades and Coriolanus Life and Adventures of Baron Trenck, 2 vols Essays Sir Roger de Coverley Voyages and Travels The Merchant of Venice Religio Medici The Diary of Samuel Pepys, 1660–1661 Earlier Poems The North-West Passage The Sorrows of Werter Lives of Poets (Butler, Denham, Dryden etc.) Nathan the Wise Grace Abounding Macbeth The Diary of Samuel Pepys,1662–1663 Earlier Poems Early Australian Voyages

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Isaac Walton Lord Byron Henry MacKenzie Bishop Latimer Plutarch Horace Walpole Sir John Maundeville Oliver Goldsmith Sir Walter Scott Martin Luther Francis Bacon Lord Macaulay Samuel Johnson Edmund Burke Jonathan Swift George Crabbe Herodotus William Shakespeare Richard Hakluyt Elizabeth Inchbald Plutarch

Abraham Cowley Steele and Addison Marco Polo William. Shakespeare Thomas Browne John Milton Richard Hakluyt Goethe Samuel Johnson Lessing John Bunyan William Shakespeare Alexander Pope John Pinkerton




44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

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The Bravo of Venice Lives of Demetrius and Mark Antony Peter Plymleys’s Letters, etc. Travels in England in 1782 Undine, and The Two Captains

Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit, etc. As You Like It A Journey to the Hebrides

A Christmas Carol, and The Chimes

M. G. Lewis Plutarch Sydney Smith C. P. Moritz La Motte Fouqué Samuel Taylor Coleridge William Shakespeare Samuel Johnson Charles Dickens

From comparing Cassell’s home-orientated list with Macaulay’s colonial one we can perhaps glean some sort of impression of the respective tastes of these two readerships, as well as the ‘horizons’ towards which the publisher in each case was inviting its target audience to aspire. Note, for example, the range and density of Cassell’s list, and its catholicity of genre. Clearly it served for its late nineteenth-century subscribers as the Open University of its own day, except that if I was to turn up to a departmental meeting and propose a course featuring one set book per week, I think I can predict the comments around the table. Has this something to tell us about standards then and since? But there is one more element to which I would like to call your attention. At the foot of the flyleaf on which these titles were advertised towards the end of the first year of publication, a special promotional offer was made. All fifty-two might now be acquired in a specially designed miniature oak bookcase, the whole at a bargain price of 31s. 6d. I will return to the bookcase shortly. Before that, I would like to point to certain not altogether predictable elements in the ensemble. It represents, for example, a far more male list of authors than does Macmillan’s, reflecting a shift from the contemporary to the classic, and perhaps too an editorial perception of the priority of instructive non-fiction over recreational fiction. On the face of it, moreover, the very first text provides a surprising corner stone. Macaulay’s Life of Warren Hastings is not the first text that springs to mind when putting together a collation of English classics. At least, not to us. But I think you have to consider the mindset of men and women schooled first on the cult of the great man – what I think we would prefer to call the ‘role model’ – evidenced, for example, by Thomas Carlyle’s lecture series of 1841, Of Heroes, Hero-Worship and the Heroic in History, a text that enjoyed a wide currency in the later decades of the nineteenth century. As did Carlyle himself, especially as it happens among autodidacts,



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a literary cult epitomised in Forster’s A Room with a View in the person of the aptly named Mr Emerson. Warren Hastings, for all his blemishes, had been just such a hero, the ups and downs of whose career recall the protagonists of Shakespearean tragedies, most of which would in due time appear later in the series. The cult of the hero was the spur behind several other series at the time framing processions of eminent worthies: in Britain Macmillan’s English Men of Letters (1877–97), edited by John Morley, Liberal statesman, biographer of Gladstone and future Secretary of State for India; and in India itself Makers of India, launched by Oxford University Press the year after Cassell had launched its National Library. (In his novel of 1901 Rudyard Kipling depicts Kim receiving a volume of Rulers of India as a school prize in Lucknow for his accomplishment in that imperially useful skill, mathematics.) Macaulay had been both one such Man of Letters and one such Maker of India: someone who, in tune perhaps with a Whig interpretation of history, had been experiencing something of a revival in Gladstone’s England. Witness, for example, the extraordinary success of George Otto Trevelyan’s Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay, written by the subject’s nephew and soon to be made available to lowerincome British families in Longman’s Popular edition of 1889, just as it had been flaunted for continental admiration in the Tauchnitz edition of 1876. To us this success may seem inexplicable, so grounded does Trevelyan’s prosaically composed book appear to be in the traditions of late Victorian hagiography. To scoff, however, is to miss the point. Warren Hastings, whose life Macaulay wrote, provided readers with an indigenous Plutarchian narrative, an English/Greek tragedy played out on a Liberal imperial stage. Hence, if Constable’s Miscellany had once served up for Caledonian emulation a Scottish/European radical tradition in an international frame, Cassell was now manifestly offering an English Whig tradition set in a context of Liberal imperialism – in effect an imperial national tradition. But what tradition did it precisely represent? Clearly this was a series whose most glaring horizons were as much educational as geographical. It catered in fact for the needs of the elementary school educated products of Forster’s 1870 Education Act who wished to better themselves. For 3d. or 6d. a week they got a pick of Greek and Roman classics in translation, most of Shakespeare, much of Plutarch, much of Hakluyt, Bacon’s essays, Sidney’s Apology for Poetry and so on and so forth. All this, far from irrelevantly, at the very period when English literature was beginning to establish itself as a discipline in the universities. Cassell’s readers could in effect watch that process of canon formation taking




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place before their very eyes, even if they were not precisely aware that this was what was happening. There was also a heavy input of travel writing since, like Constable’s Miscellany, the National Library early established a rhythm of alternating home-grown classics with travel, especially the classics of British exploration and empire building: in a widening circle beginning with Defoe’s English travels, and then broadening the horizon outwards to include Raleigh, Mungo Park’s Travels in Africa, Fielding’s account of Lisbon and Sir John Malcolm’s Sketches of Persia. The inflection from the one to the other was effortless; there was a continuum of interest across what I have ventured to call the imperial national tradition. It may be helpful at this point to examine this series and the tradition it represents through the eyes of one particular reader. The individual I have selected is Alfred Horace Gittins, born in Liverpool in 1872, impecunious maternal grandson of James Pilkington, the St Helens Glass Manufacturer.13 Almost certainly, however, his formal education had ended at fourteen after elementary school, as it did for so many millions of gifted young men at the time. Gittins, though, had professional ambitions: eventually, at the age of twenty-five, he moved to South Wales where he became a legal clerk, ultimately managing clerk, in a long-established family firm of solicitors in Pontypool.14 Perhaps in order to prepare himself for such a role, he had been from his midteens an inveterate self-educator. Accordingly he invested in Cassell’s National Library weekly over a nine-year period between its inception in 1885, when he was thirteen and almost ready to leave school, and 1894 (the year incidentally of Henry Morley’s death), when he would have been twenty-two, purchasing the cloth edition at 6d. every week from the stationer and bookseller James Woollard at 54 Castle Street, a stone’s throw from the river Mersey. These are precisely the years when he would have been in the higher forms of secondary school and at college, had either avenue been accessible to him. In a very meaningful sense Cassell was his university. Alfred’s later career accords with several paradigms of self-improvement within the class structure of South Wales, with its small and fairly precarious middle class positioned just above a far larger working class, principally a mining community itself struggling at the period towards difficult corporate self-expression. His social milieu included a leading lay role in the Anglican church, widely associated at the time with the resident English community and the professions and, as such, set in vivid contrast with the plethora of local chapel-going nonconformism with its multifarious Welsh- or English-speaking denominations.



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(The Church in Wales would be disestablished in the 1920s, after which it still retained in the public mind strong English roots.) After a couple of years in Monmouthshire he also joined the Freemasons, their elaborately structured – almost feudal – hierarchy providing a measurable standard of self-advance for such an upwardly mobile, conscientiously respectable, young man.15 Because of surviving photographs taken in Masonic regalia this is one of several ways in which I remember him: as the Worshipful Brother A. H. Gittins, Provincial Grand Organist for the Masonic chapter of South Wales, Provincial Grand Standard Bearer, Provincial Grand Sojourner and Third Provincial Grand Principal. To the very end he kept and referred to his carefully preserved set of Cassell’s National Library, which served much the same function in his household as is fulfilled in other homes by framed graduation certificates. He was, as you may have guessed, my own maternal grandfather. The fact that he preserved these books for so long is to my mind one of the most noteworthy aspects of his collection. Relatively inexpensive they may have been, but these slender volumes were clearly not to be regarded, either by the publishers or by their customers, as dispensable. They were cultural stock in which to invest, yielding intellectual, professional, arguably even financial dividends. Which leads me to my closing question. What ultimately is the distinction between a publisher’s series and a self-styled ‘library’? One surely is to be considered as consecutive, a procession of acquisitions, the other as simultaneous and potentially permanent. One is sequential or diachronic, the other is synchronous, to be regarded as an impressive and coherent whole: a possession, an inheritance. In advertising their wares as a ‘library’, publishers such as Cassell were therefore half-snobbishly inviting their patrons to lay hold of cultural capital in a palpable form: in effect to adopt a miniature of the walkin gentleman’s libraries towards which the Basts of that age naturally aspired. This was surely the purpose behind the handsome oak bookcase that Cassell offered as an accessory to the series at the end of the first year of production, a polishable frame in which these well bound books could be displayed, savoured, consulted, even handed on to later generations. It is perhaps no coincidence that this was the period of British culture that gave rise to the phrase ‘a well-furnished mind’. For books can furnish a mind as well as a room, even one as spare as Leonard Bast’s. So Figure 6.3 presents Alfred Gittins’s own Cassell’s oak bookcase, complete with fifty-two of the early titles, just as that fourteen-year-old and – in his own sphere – fairly eminent Victorian acquired it from James Woollard booksellers in Liverpool for 31s. 6d. in the year of our




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Figure 6.3 ‘Handsome Oak Bookcase’, 1886 for Cassell’s National Library, displaying fifty-two early titles

grace 1886. Just too as it now stands in our bedroom in south London, a room both spacious and, I am happy to report, brightly luminous.

Notes 1. E. M. Forster (1910) Howard’s End (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975), pp. 61–2. 2. Frank Kermode (2007) ‘Fiction and E. M. Forster’, London Review of Books, 10 May: 18. 3. E. M. Forster (1908) A Room with a View (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1986), pp. 50–2. Kermode’s lecture on Forster and music was delivered on 12 March 2007 in the Mill Lane Lecture Rooms, Cambridge, as the last of a mini-series delivered as part of the Clark Lectures for that year. The successive typescripts of Howard’s End may be consulted in the modern archives of King’s College, Cambridge, GBR/0272/PP/EMF/1/3 ff. 1–494. 4. J. G. Lockhardt (1837–8) Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott (Edinburgh: A. and W. Galignani), Volume 6, p. 31. 5. H. J. C. Grierson et al. (1932–79) Letters of Sir Walter Scott (London: Constable), Volume 9, pp. 262–3. 6. J. G. Frazer (1906–15) The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, 3rd edn (London: Macmillan), Volume 3, p. 140; Volume 8, pp. 128ff. 7. For the careful compilation of this list, I am indebted to my colleague Dr Shafquat Towheed. The complete listing of all volumes in the series was first given in Graeme Johanson (2000) Colonial Editions in Australia, 1843–1972 (Wellington, NZ: Elibank Press).



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8. Meic Stephens (ed.) (1986) The Oxford Companion to the Literature of Wales (Oxford: Oxford University Press), p. 148. The business that she managed after the death of her father, a local Liberal MP, was the Dillwyn Spelter works near Swansea. They no longer exist, but her house in Swansea itself, Ty Glyn (The Valley House), does. In 1883 Dillwyn was among the first to recognise the genius behind Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, which she reviewed in The Spectator. 9. Mary Anne Barker had quite a convoluted life. Born in Kingston, Jamaica, in 1831, she married in 1852 George Robert Barker of the Royal Artillery, who was knighted for his role in the siege of Lucknow in 1858, dying a few months later. In 1865 she married the journalist Frederick Napier Broome, with whom she emigrated to New Zealand, before the couple moved on to colonial appointments in Mauritius, Australia, Barbados and Natal. It was as ‘Lady Barker’, however, that she continued to publish. 10. For further biographical details, see G. H. Pike (1894) John Cassell (London: Cassell). 11. Simon Nowell-Smith (1958) The House of Cassell, 1848–1958 (London: Cassell), p. 22. 12. See Henry Shaen Solley (1898) The Life of Henry Morley (London: Arnold). 13. T. C. Barker (1977) The Glassmakers: Pilkington, The Rise of An International Company 1826–1976 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson) traces the family tree up to and including Alfred’s mother, Alice Pilkington. Though the firm was later to amass a considerable fortune from the manufacture of sheet glass, in which it enjoyed an effective monopoly, little of the resulting affluence flowed through this particular branch of the distaff line. Information from Cyril Pilkington Gittins (1908–94), augmented by personal knowledge. 14. Bythway and Son, 1727–1940. See National Library of Wales, GB 0210 GLAMON; also Gwent Record Office, Bythway papers, GB 0218 D32. 15. Robert S. Johns (ed.) (1939) The Masonic Calendar for the Province of Monmouthshire, 1939–40 (Newport: R. H. Johns at the Directory Press), pp. 8–9.




Negotiating the List: Launching Macmillan’s Colonial Library and Author Contracts Shafquat Towheed

Announced with considerable fanfare in the periodical and trade press, the Macmillan Colonial Library was formally launched on 1 March 1886; Charles Morgan, the firm’s first house historian, noted that the project was apparently launched at the personal instigation of Maurice Macmillan following his honeymoon tour of India, Australia and New Zealand in 1884–5.1 The list issued a relatively modest thirty-four titles in its first twelve months, with fiction comprising the overwhelming majority of titles; as Simon Eliot has observed, this represented a small, but significant proportion of the new titles (156) issued by Macmillan in 1886.2 The firm claimed that the venture was a bold experiment in publishing by providing quality books at low prices for the prime colonial markets, but it is equally evident that Macmillan was intent on capitalising on the weakness of the lending library system in the colonies, and the prospective expansion of both the domain and effectiveness of international copyright law. This expectation was partially satisfied by the passage and ratification of the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works, which was signed on 9 September 1886, and ratified on 5 September 1887. While the extension of a mutually enforceable international copyright law among the signatory nations (including Britain’s colonial possessions) was not a panacea against unauthorised publication, it did substantially decrease the potential loss of revenue from piracy for British authors and publishers.3 The launch of Macmillan’s Colonial Library list roughly coincides, therefore, with a new phase in the production, distribution and legal protection of books in an increasingly international publishing market. Macmillan’s enterprise was driven not just by changing legislation, but also by the demands of readers. As Graeme Johanson observes in his landmark study, Colonial Editions in Australia, 1843–1972, Macmillan 134



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sought to benefit from the extraordinary appetite of the colonial markets (especially Australia) for imported British books; sufficiently distant from the USA and with an embryonic home grown publishing industry, Australia, Johanson notes, ‘was the largest market for British book exports continuously from at least 1889 until 1953’.4 India, New Zealand and South Africa were also book hungry markets with fast expanding reading publics, keen to be supplied with the latest fiction published in London; the situation in Canada was altogether different, with British publishers incapable of stemming the flood of cheap (often unauthorised) American publications. In attempting to meet the needs of these markets, Macmillan’s Colonial Library soon became one of the most successful ventures in the history of colonial fiction publishing; some 624 titles were issued by 1913 at the rate of about one title every fortnight, and some 1,739 titles were published under the imprint of the Colonial Library and its successors, a feat that was unsurpassed by any other publisher.5 Macmillan’s rate of production of new titles closely matches the reading rate of avid purchasers and collectors of the Colonial Library, once again suggesting the very close relationship between the needs of readers and the production of the list. In 1913, the name of the Colonial Library edition was changed to the Empire Library, and in 1937, by which time the air was thick with talk of swaraj in India and self-rule in the rest of the dominions and colonies, it became the blandly titled Overseas Library. The venture finally came to an end in 1960, long outlasting the apogee of British imperial political power, and belatedly limning the reading tastes of several generations of subject readers. Macmillan’s Colonial Library was overwhelmingly and unashamedly a fiction list, and in this sense it was not particularly representative of Macmillan’s overall production profile or, indeed, the nature of its activities in a range of colonial markets; in India, for example, Macmillan was overwhelmingly a publisher of educational primers and textbooks, and its publishing identity, as Rimi B. Chatterjee has noted, was already closely associated with school boards and their curricula.6 At this time the producer of high volume educational primers, such as Pyari Charan Sarkar’s First Book of Reading for Native Children (1851–70), Macmillan’s imprimatur in the Indian market before the launch of the Colonial Library list was as an educational publisher; this was not the case in Australia, for example, where the Macmillan brand would become much more closely associated with quality contemporary fiction. In her groundbreaking study of Indian circulating libraries and their readers, Priya Joshi notes that ‘of the 680 titles published between 1886–1916, 93 per cent (or 629 titles) were fiction, with history and



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travel trailing at roughly 1 per cent to 3 per cent respectively’.7 Not only was the Macmillan Colonial Library the most successful colonial publishing venture of its kind, but it was also the most overtly fiction heavy; in this respect, it is worth comparing Macmillan’s list with that other roughly contemporary British construction, Oxford University Press’s World’s Classics list.8 The historical, cultural and economic implications of a publisher’s ‘colonial list’ are now attracting academic interest. Priya Joshi has shown the extent to which Indian readers were shaped by their selection, appropriation, assimilation or rejection of the largely fictional and overwhelmingly British works available to them. Contesting the notion of subaltern intellectual passivity (Leonard Woolf’s infamous observation that popular fiction was the ‘fodder on which the subalterns chew the cud in the cantonments of the Empire’), Joshi has demonstrated that Indian readers made discriminating choices in what they chose to read, and how, and that this had a directly registered impact on the firm’s policy: The success of Macmillan’s fiction series lay largely with the firm’s willingness to satisfy the tastes of their Indian readers, a fact well documented in the firm’s private correspondence files and readers’ reports … not only is research into the colonial marketplace useful for gaining insights into the circulation of print and ideas between metropolis and periphery, but analysing the nature of what Macmillan sold discloses an understudied economic aspect of the production of the British novel. The willingness of British firms such as Macmillan to please this new and palpable colonial market might also, as I show, be reflected in the kinds of novels that were eventually published in Britain, thus highlighting the contribution of the colonial marketplace to the shape of the English novel.9 What has been less easily registered and interpreted is the extent to which authors themselves engaged with their publishers in the dynamics of the construction of the colonial list. I want to take Joshi’s argument a little further, in this case from within the copious evidence offered by the Macmillan archive itself, and ask to what extent authors engaged in this process. Who did Macmillan choose for their colonial list, and why? Was being placed on the colonial library list a sign of literary esteem and, therefore, another expression of what John Sutherland has called Frederick Macmillan’s ‘highmindedness’, and did Macmillan’s authors see it this way?10 Or was the colonial list simply a highly successful commercial venture, an exercise in cheap



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printing and distribution that disproportionately benefited the firm’s most overtly populist authors? Did British or American writers register either enthusiasm or reluctance in entering Macmillan’s remarkably successful venture in colonial publishing? Did they willingly engage in this exercise in transnational print capitalism? Did they understand its contexts? Did negotiations over the Colonial Library affect transactions over their British and American editions? Were contractual terms bundled together and, if so, what does this reveal about both the authors’ and the publishers’ understanding of the importance of colonial markets? And did Macmillan’s understanding of the cultural capital resident in the Colonial Library list and, implicitly, the taste of its potential readers change with its evolving author profile? I want to try to answer some of these questions by examining, albeit discursively, some examples of these negotiations over the contractual terms for inclusion in the colonial library list. I want to scrutinise the contractual negotiations on Macmillan’s Colonial Library list of five leading late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century novelists: two established (and establishment) British novelists, the Tasmanian born Mrs Humphry Ward (1851–1920) and the Dorset born Thomas Hardy (1840–1928); two popular and financially successful expatriate Americans, the Tuscan born Indophile F. Marion Crawford (1854–1909) and the New York born Francophile Edith Wharton (1862–1937); and one new and developing ex-colonial writer, the Australian born Prussian Countess, Elizabeth von Arnim (1866–1941). In examining these seemingly disparate individual negotiations over contractual terms, I want to bring a renewed attention to the importance of colonial editions to the business of writing and publishing in the imperial centre, and suggest once again the deeply implicated sets of relationships between London and its captive markets, between commercial success and literary esteem, and between intended readers and implicit assumptions about literary taste.

Fashioning a colonial identity: Thomas Hardy In many senses, Thomas Hardy presents perhaps the most uncomplicated itinerary in Macmillan’s Colonial Library list. He was one of the first major novelists to be contacted by Macmillan about the new colonial edition even before the scheme had been formally launched. His first formal response to the publisher was both enthusiastic and proactive: I have asked Mr. Smith (of Smith & Elder) if he would have any objection to your publishing The Mayor of Casterbridge in the Colonial




Shafquat Towheed

Library; & he says that he has none whatever; but he suggests that I should consider whether such an edition would effect the sale of a cheap English edition I might hereafter publish. Now that is a matter on which you are the best judge, so that if you think I need be under no fear on that score I agree at once – for personally I [very?] like the idea of this Colonial Library which you have been so enterprising as to start. You will perhaps know from experience of your own cheap editions if the new library has interfered with these at all.11 Smith, Elder’s concern, that cheap editions would find their way back to Britain and damage sales in the home market, was a predictable and largely fatuous one; remarkably few copies did indeed find their way back ‘home’. Smith, Elder’s concerns about developing the Indian market in particular were coloured more by past experience (the firm had suffered disastrously in its first venture in India during the events of 1857) than by current events. At any rate, Frederick Macmillan responded immediately to Hardy’s interest in the venture, offering him a contract for £25 to cover royalties for the Colonial edition of The Mayor of Casterbridge (no. 32 in the Colonial Library) just two days later. Macmillan’s offer was doubled to £50 for Hardy’s next book, The Woodlanders (no. 49 in the Colonial Library), in May 1887. Another £50 was offered for the Colonial Library edition of Wessex Tales in May 1888. In 1894, Macmillan offered Hardy a memorandum of terms for the Colonial Edition, which brought all his previous titles under their control, and also offered to standardise his royalty payments: The publishers have the right to print and publish in England subject to a royalty two books viz. The Woodlanders and Wessex Tales written by the author and have the exclusive right to print and publish in their colonial library editions of the following novels of which he is the author: Desperate Remedies, A Laodicean, A Pair of Blue Eyes, Far from the Madding Crowd, The Hand of Ethelberta, The Mayor of Casterbridge, The Return of the Native, The Trumpet Major, Two on a Tower, A Group of Noble Dames, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Life’s Little Ironies, The Woodlanders, Wessex Tales … the publishers further agree on their part to pay to the author a royalty of fourpence (4d) on each volume of the Colonial Library editions of these books sold by them and the Author undertakes not to authorise the publication of special Colonial editions by any other firm … it is agreed that should any of the books run out of print and should the publishers decline to



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Macmillan’s memorandum serves to underline several trends in Hardy’s standing with the firm. First, Macmillan wanted all of Hardy’s books, including those that were published earlier in England under the imprint of Sampson Low or Chatto & Windus, for example, to appear under the Macmillan Colonial Library edition imprint in the colonies (the memorandum included transfer rights for these books). Second, instead of Frederick Macmillan writing in each instance to Hardy to ask him whether his next novel would appear in the Colonial Library Edition, he offers a standard and bundled contract: 4d. per volume for all Colonial Library titles, and payments included with the royalty agreements for the British and American markets (4d., about 11 per cent, was the standard rate that Macmillan offered their authors for this series; the books retailed for the equivalent of 3s.). In India and the colonies at any rate, Hardy was to have a uniform identity in front of his reading public as far as his publisher’s imprimatur was concerned: he would be presented unambiguously as a Macmillan house author, even though his British and American readers at this point might not have considered him to be that. Yet Hardy’s existence on the Colonial Library list was not simply a case of Macmillan subsuming and deleting the textual and material identity of his earlier publishers, for as Michael Millgate has proven, Hardy’s colonial editions were effectively hybrids.13 Macmillan went to great pains to ensure that the typesetting, font and format matched that of the Sampson Low and Chatto & Windus British editions, thereby ensuring a seamless familiarity for colonial readers (especially British emigrants to Australia) who already knew Hardy’s work. Perhaps the most interesting clause in Macmillan’s memorandum of agreement was the last: that should any of his books run out of print for a space of six months, then the publisher would lose their rights in that work. This is perhaps the clearest expression of both Macmillan’s confidence in the success and longevity of their Colonial Library edition and an unequivocal expression of their confidence in Hardy’s ability to garner readers. This confidence between author and publisher smoothed over potential difficulties. Writing to Frederick Macmillan in September 1895, and with the imminent publication of Jude the Obscure clearly on his mind, Hardy declared that The only idea bearing on the subject that I have had about your Colonial edition is that any future novel of mine would probably be



reprint them for the space of six months their interest and rights in them shall cease and shall revert to the author.12

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added to those enumerated in the list, subject to agreement at the time. Now, as there always would be the possibility of my writing a novel of such a character that you would not care to attach your imprimatur to it, or of some objection on my side, there could be no definite understanding between us on the matter beforehand. I also suppose that in the event of such agreement, a colonial volume of any new story would follow first publication here not sooner than was formerly such in the case of the cheap home edition when the first edition was in three volumes– i.e. – six months.14 Macmillan would prove to be far less censorious than Hardy had feared, and their institutional commitment to him was greater than he had anticipated. Despite Hardy’s very public withdrawal from novel writing following the negative reception of Jude the Obscure, in 1902 Macmillan offered him a memorandum formalising his royalty rate for all the different editions of his work that they published: 25 per cent on 6s. editions; 20 per cent on 4s. and 5s. editions; 16.5 per cent on books priced below 4s.; and 4d. per copy (roughly 11 per cent) for the Colonial Library edition. The 1902 memorandum’s fixing of all these royalty rates (colonial and otherwise) suggests the interdependence of sales in different markets and for separate editions. Good sales in the Colonial Library edition were recognised through improved terms for British editions. Hardy’s terms were clearly at the higher end of contractual royalties that they paid their authors at the time (25 per cent was a gold standard for the firm); what is also evident is that despite his public withdrawal from the field of novel writing, Macmillan was confident that his work would continue to sell in the British and colonial markets for years to come. For Hardy, the Colonial Library opened up a new market of predominantly Australian readers while at the same time entrenching his position as one of Macmillan’s favoured authors.

A source of supplementary income: Mrs Humphry Ward For the enterprising author, the existence of colonial editions and a Colonial Library list meant the possibility of better contractual terms with the publisher and, indeed, a supplementary revenue stream. Macmillan’s correspondence with Mrs Humphry Ward over the contractual arrangements for her books again suggests this transactional relationship between the terms offered for the Colonial Library edition, and that offered at home; however, in Mrs Humphry Ward’s case, this was a negative one. Ward was one of the first major commercially and



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critically successful new novelists placed on the Colonial Library list; Robert Elsmere (1888), Miss Bretherton (1884) and The History of David Grieve (1892) all featured on the Colonial Library’s list within its first decade (numbers 77, 84 and 135 on the list, respectively). Macmillan, the British publisher of her first novel Miss Bretherton, had famously lost Mrs Humphry Ward to Smith, Elder and Co. over her next book, Robert Elsmere, an unexpected sales success that went on to become the bestselling book of the decade.15 Despite having lost her, Macmillan were eager to be her publisher in the colonial markets, and Mrs Humphry Ward was ready to accept – but not at any price. In May 1888, Macmillan paid her £75 for the rights to print the Colonial Library edition of Robert Elsmere, and in February 1889, they paid her £30 for the right to print Miss Bretherton. When it came to negotiations over her next novel, The History of David Grieve, Mrs Humphry Ward again displayed her famous ability to talk up her literary and financial worth. Writing to Frederick Macmillan in October 1891, she declared that she was ‘very much obliged for your letter and for your proposal concerning the Colonial and Indian copyright of The History of David Grieve. I am quite willing to accept 4d. on each copy sold, and £200 on account of the royalty.’16 Mrs Humphry Ward was clearly aware of Macmillan’s standard contract for the Colonial Edition (4d. per copy sold), but what is interesting here is her confidence in her ability to sell very large numbers; her demanded advance represents the royalty on a sale of 12,000 copies. At this point, of all the Macmillan authors, only Marion Crawford was achieving sales of over 10,000 copies in the Colonial Library edition. Clearly troubled by the prospect of losing her again, especially as Macmillan had already paid an enormous £7,000 advance for the American rights to the book, the firm agreed to Ward’s exacting terms. She pushed her publisher even further with the terms for the Colonial Library edition of her next novel, Marcella (1894). ‘We have not yet made any arrangement for the colonial copyright’, she imperiously informed Macmillan, adding ‘I shall be content with 4d. a copy royalty, and £250 in advance of royalty, if that will suit you.’17 Macmillan succumbed, noting in their contract that ‘Two hundred & fifty pounds on account of a royalty of fourpence (4d) agreed to be paid on every copy sold of “Marcella” printed in a special form for circulation only in India and the British Colonies (“The Colonial Library Edition”).’18 Unfortunately for the publisher, Ward’s novel Marcella did not sell in the volume she had anticipated; once again in their dealings with Mrs Humphry Ward, Macmillan were out of pocket.




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As far as Mrs Humphry Ward was concerned, Macmillan’s Colonial Library venture was another source for bolstering her already considerable literary income. As early as May 1892, she wrote to Frederick Macmillan requesting that the agreed royalty on the Colonial Library of The History of David Grieve be paid in advance. ‘In our agreement’, she wrote, ‘I notice that £200 was to be paid in advance of royalty … would it be inconvenient to you to let me have that sum now?’19 Just five months later, and frantically juggling both her increased earnings and her even greater expenses, she wrote again to her publisher, asking for a further royalty payment based on expected sales: ‘would it be inconvenient to you to let me anticipate a little & to send me my share of the proceeds of the Colonial sale up to Michaelmass?’20 If Hardy’s negotiations over the Colonial Library editions of his books demonstrate the gradual and consolidating recognition of an author within a publisher’s list, Mrs Humphry Ward’s astute dealings with Macmillan suggest something altogether more mercantile, perhaps even mercenary: the opening up of new colonial markets meant the possibility of exacting greater remuneration for her work from her publisher. Yet while she was acutely aware of the financial benefits of the Colonial Library editions, it is fairly evident from her correspondence that Mrs Humphry Ward did not see colonial (and specifically Indian) readers as readers at all. To her surprise Macmillan had included her English translation of the Swiss Huguenot philosopher Henri-Frédéric Amiel’s Fragments d’un Journal Intime (1882–4), translated as Amiel’s Journal, the Journal Intime of Henri-Frédéric Amiel (1885) on the Colonial Library list (no. 87), and she received with even greater astonishment the news that Macmillan wanted to have Amiel’s Journal translated and published in Bengali. ‘Of course I shall be very glad that Amiel should be translated into Bengalee’, she wrote to Frederick Macmillan in March 1892, but she added, ‘what a strange proposal! The Indian mind is wonderful!’21 Ward did in fact have many willing readers of the Bengali translation of her rendition of Amiel’s journal; the translation sold well, and its reading was even represented in contemporary Bengali fiction. Nikhil in Rabindranath Tagore’s The Home and World (1915) notably reads this Macmillansponsored Bengali translation of Amiel’s Journal; Tagore had himself read Mrs Humphry Ward’s English translation in the Colonial Library edition in 1894.22 The reception of Amiel’s twice translated text is evidence of Macmillan’s far greater and more realistic awareness of the reading potential (and not just the possible financial gain) to be had from Indian readers and Colonial editions – in stark contrast to



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Mrs Humphry Ward’s purely commercial interest in increasing advance payments or royalties. Two expatriate and very different American novelists – F. Marion Crawford and Edith Wharton – provide another perspective in their negotiations with Macmillan over the Colonial Library. One had an insider’s knowledge of the possibilities offered by the Colonial Library; the other, while relatively unaware of the venture, was clearly rewarded by Macmillan through their contractual terms for her loyalty to the firm.

The colonial insider: F. Marion Crawford Though scarcely read today, F. Marion Crawford was the first commercial success of Macmillan’s Colonial Library Edition, and the first author to sell in excess of 10,000 copies; in this, he replicated in no small measure the remarkable sales figures he was already achieving in the British and American markets. Unsurprisingly, Macmillan had anticipated his potential sales in colonial markets, and he was one of the first novelists, on 4 January 1886, to be formally approached by the publisher about their new venture. An amateur Sanskrit scholar, and for two years the editor of the Indian Herald in Allahabad, Crawford replied informatively and enthusiastically on 8 January 1886: I think you will allow that, if the publications prove remunerative, it will be fair to pay a certain percentage on the copies sold. I do not mean in the first instance, but later, when the plan is working well. Therefore I think that this first arrangement ought not to be regarded as a precedent from which there is to be deviation. From personal knowledge I am aware that a very large sale might be anticipated in India from a good book published at one rupee, and if you can publish at 12 annas (about 1s 6d) a volume like an English shilling edition, you would catch the whole Eurasian (half-caste) population, who read greedily. I once printed and published a small amount in the office of my newspaper at Allahabad, containing a few Christian stories. I sold it at 8 annas, about 1 shilling, and I disposed of 500 copies in Allahabad alone in about a fortnight. The cry in India is for cheap books, especially among the Eurasians. As regards the ‘Lonely Parish’, I am quite willing to give you the publication of it in the colonies for £40, the price Tauchnitz have paid for each of my last two books. You will soon know whether the sales are really important, and whether you can afford, for another book, to pay a percentage.23




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Crawford’s reply glosses his own knowledge of writing and publishing for money in the Indian marketplace. What is interesting here is that Macmillan’s price point of entry into the Indian market was higher than that expected by Crawford (the 8–12 anna market), and despite this, the sales volume achieved was higher than Crawford’s relatively modest ‘500 copies in a fortnight’ (this is incidentally, exactly the scale of production that typified much Indian mofussil printing presses at the time and still does today).24 In terms of price, Crawford’s vision of the Colonial Library sits above the cheap (and largely disposable) printing of mainly India presses, but below, for example, A. H. Wheeler’s recently established Indian Railway Library series (this was Kipling’s stalwart and sold relatively short paperback books for 1 rupee). Macmillan’s Colonial Library, however, befitting a publishing firm that, as Simon Eliot has observed, bucked the nineteenth-century trend for ever cheaper editions by relentlessly adding value to its catalogue, knew that it could pitch this series very successfully at a higher price.25 Clearly there was more value (and more profit) to be extracted from the Indian market than Crawford had anticipated, and Macmillan was aware of this. Crawford was in fact a very willing addition to Macmillan’s Colonial Library List. In March 1887 he was offered (and accepted) £50 for the rights to his new novel, Saracinesca (1887); in May 1887 Macmillan offered to pay £50 for each of five previously published novels to be included in the Colonial Library edition (once again, Crawford accepted without hesitation).26 He soon became the stalwart of the list, especially in India, and Macmillan recognised this with improved contractual terms. In May 1893, for example, they offered him £100 for the rights to Marion Darche (1893). Increasingly, Macmillan’s contracts for Crawford were bundled; the Colonial Library edition rights were included in the contract for British and American publication. One of the chief reasons for Crawford’s burgeoning earning power in this period is the success of his books on the Colonial Library edition list; as a publisher, Macmillan were certainly not averse to rewarding their authors for success in colonial markets.

The esteemed house author: Edith Wharton Sometimes, as in the case of Edith Wharton, the contracts for the Colonial Library edition became an avenue for the publisher to compensate the author for relatively disappointing sales in the British market. Macmillan was for almost the first twenty years of Wharton’s literary career her only publisher in the British and colonial markets, but not in her home market, America.27 As an esteemed (even perhaps, a coterie)



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house writer, she was offered generous terms for the inclusion of her books in the Colonial Library edition, despite that fact that sales of her books in the British market were a fraction of their American figures. As early as March 1903, and without any prompting from the author, Macmillan offered Wharton the top royalty rate for the Colonial Library edition of her next novel, The House of Mirth: In addition to the ordinary six shilling edition we generally publish all our new novels in our so-called Colonial Library, – a series which is issued in a cheap form for circulation only in India and the British Colonies. We publish all Mr. Crawford’s novels in this series and in fact nearly everything that we bring out. On such an edition the highest royalty is sixpence (6d) a copy and we shall be glad to include your book in this series on that basis. I have therefore included the Colonial Edition in the accompanying form of agreement and hope that you will allow it to stand.28 Wharton accepted Macmillan’s offer of a 6d. royalty rate for The House of Mirth in 1905 without hesitation. She was again offered the top 6d. royalty rate for the colonial library editions of Men, Women and Ghosts in June 1910, for Ethan Frome in January 1911, for The Reef in 1912, for Summer in March 1917 and for The Marne in September 1918. Despite the fact that Marion Crawford outsold her by a factor of more than ten to one in the Colonial Library edition, Edith Wharton was consistently offered a higher rate of royalty (6d. per copy rather than 4d.) than her bestselling compatriot. Even after she left Macmillan’s books in Britain in the aftermath of the First World War, and switched publishers in America (from Scribner’s to Appleton), Wharton insisted on keeping the colonial contracts for her novels with Macmillan. Wharton’s high rate of royalty contracts within the Colonial Library list visibly demonstrates her high esteem within the firm; but it also demonstrates Macmillan’s willingness to include their best authors in this venture in colonial publishing. Unlike Leonard Woolf, Frederick Macmillan clearly did not think of readers in colonial markets as passive, indiscriminate and illinformed consumers, nor was he constructing a literary list dictated only by sales success.

The colonial outsider: Elizabeth von Arnim It is important to note that while Macmillan remained proactive about placing their authors on the new colonial library list, some writers




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(both new and established) remained sceptical and resistant about being included. The Australian born, English raised, Prussian novelist, the Countess Elizabeth von Arnim (surely a paragon of the déraciné colonial metropolitan), was openly confused and resistant to the idea of being placed on the colonial library list. Writing to her in February 1901, Frederick Macmillan offered to place her next work, a still untitled third novel, on the Colonial Library list as part of the contract for the book. ‘We should like also to include the book in our Colonial Library which circulates only in India and the other British Colonies’, Frederick Macmillan informed her; ‘on all copies sold in this form, which is considerably cheaper, we would pay a royalty of fourpence per copy, which is the same that we pay to Mrs. Humphry Ward, Marion Crawford and other popular writers’.29 Replying over the contractual terms for the novel, now called The Benefactress, von Arnim obstinately refuted Macmillan’s offer: ‘the proposal to include the book in your Colonial Library, paying me a royalty of 4d a copy, I could not agree to anything like so small a royalty’, she declared, adding, ‘as far as I understand, the including of the book in that series would be directly contrary to my interests’.30 It is worth pointing out here that while 4d. per copy was a standard offer for inclusion on the Colonial Library list, it was not the best possible contractual term that Macmillan provided; Edith Wharton and Dorothy Vernon, for example, both received 6d. in contracts negotiated at roughly the same time. Dismayed by von Arnim’s resistance to a colonial edition (this was all the more regrettable considering her burgeoning sales at the time), Frederick Macmillan felt obliged to explain to her the importance of the colonial library to her sales in a number of markets: We have no desire to press the question of the Colonial Edition, but we feel it right to point out that if you have been advised that such an edition interferes with the sale of the ordinary English edition your advisers can have no real knowledge of the facts. You will see from the enclosed list that all the leading novelists, without exception, from whom we have the honour to publish, have their books included in this Colonial Library, and the same is true of other publishers for since we led the way with our Colonial Library some fifteen years ago every publisher and author has followed suit. The fact is that the ordinary English edition does not find its way into the backwoods of Australia or the scattered English populations of India or South Africa, so that if no Colonial edition is produced it



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merely means that the author misses an important public. The books are sold on the strict understanding that they are not to circulate except in the Colonies, and in our long experience we have never known a single case in which the Colonial editions have interfered with the English. Not long ago, the objection you urge was made to us by another popular author, Mr Lane Allen, author of ‘The Choir Invisible’ and other books which have an extremely large circulation both here and in America, but we succeeded in convincing him that in declining to take advantage of our Colonial Library he was deliberately cutting off a source both of revenue and influence.31 Despite Macmillan’s reassurances, von Arnim the ex-colonial did not take up her publisher’s offer. To the best of my knowledge, none of her books appeared in Macmillan’s Colonial Library edition. Her refusal to countenance Macmillan’s offer demonstrates both her inexperience in dealing with publishers and negotiating contracts, and her lack of awareness of the function of the Colonial Library edition. This was in the eyes of the publisher not just a venture driven by profit, but one that bolstered their literary esteem as well. Macmillan sought to place their best authors on this new list; the contractual terms for the inclusion of titles in the Colonial Library edition that I have examined display a remarkably deft accommodation of popular tastes and the dictates of the market place with the firm’s characteristic highmindedness, and its determination to shape and exploit new readers in emerging markets.

Conclusion As Macmillan’s Colonial Library developed through the inexorable issue of new works of fiction in its first decade, roughly at the rate of one every fortnight, the implicit relationship between publication strategy, literary taste and implied readership became more evident. From the very beginning, the Colonial Library had been designed as a high-quality, low-cost and relatively up-to-date fiction list, one designed to furnish British emigrants with the kernel of both high culture and contemporary cosmopolitan taste. Macmillan’s desire to place their best authors, and not merely their bestselling authors, on the Colonial Library list is evident from the contractual negotiations that I have examined. In case we are in any doubt about Macmillan’s commitment to the cultivation of literary taste among their readers, no. 23 on the list, Frederic Harrison’s The Choice of Books (1886), reminds us volubly




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of the critical debate taking place at the time about the canonisation of literature. The firm’s desire to support the establishment of private libraries in the colonies was instantly recognised, as the editorial in The Australasian for June 1886 observed: ‘Macmillan are evidently of opinion that numbers of persons in these colonies would be disposed to form permanent libraries of their own if the best works of standard authors of the present day could be purchased for something less than a French novel, with this advantage over the latter, that the English book is neatly bound, and printed in a good clear type on paper that is agreeable to the touch.’32 Perhaps the most telling evidence of how Macmillan’s Colonial Library developed to both structure and respond to changing literary tastes comes from the paratextual material to be found in so many of the volumes – the Colonial Library list itself. There are two main ways in which the Colonial Library list is catalogued. The first, the simple numerical list, such as that appended to Rolf Boldrewood’s A Sydney-Side Saxon (London: Macmillan, 1891), Colonial Library edition no. 124, has titles ordered by their date of issue; this is unsurprisingly most prevalent during the initial years of the project, the period of its consolidation. The numerical list provides a linear itinerary driving the private collector and reader; the order of books is shaped by the publisher, and the onus is on the buyer/reader to conform and keep up. As the Colonial Library list became more extensive, a different culture of literary consumption became enshrined: that of discerned discrimination. As the Colonial Library approached its first decade, and with over 250 titles already issued, the catalogues bound into new editions, such as that in Rudyard Kipling’s The Light that Failed (London: Macmillan, 1895), Colonial Library no. 249, changed from numerical to alphabetical lists, often with the addition of précis material and clips from reviews. Readers’ purchasing could now be author driven, rather than list driven; the anxiety over contemporaneousness evident in the numerical list is displaced by a concern about the literary value of the author, reprising the rationale for the construction of a quality personal library in Harrison’s The Choice of Books. Authors negotiated their way on to Macmillan’s Colonial Library list, thereby denoting their standing (both critical and commercial) within the firm; but just as evidently, readers too had to negotiate the complex structure of a burgeoning, consolidated, increasingly sophisticated list, one that had progressively transformed itself from a numbered list of itemised books to buy, to a browseable, descriptive list of works of literature to collect: in other words, the essential apparatus for a discriminating, bourgeois culture



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Figure 7.1 Series catalogue bound into Rudyard Kipling, The Light that Failed (London: Macmillan, 1895), no. 249 of Macmillan’s Colonial Library

of reading. As The Calcutta Englishman reminds us, ‘Messrs Macmillan and Co. have made it possible, not merely to every scattered group of Europeans, but for every individual throughout the Empire, to acquire for a nominal outlay the nucleus of a really valuable library.’

Notes 1. Charles Morgan (1944: 187). 2. See Simon Eliot (2002: 20–1). 3. See Lionel Bently and Brad Sherman (2001); for the impact of changing translation rights upon British publishers’ business practices in India, see Lionel Bently (2007). 4. Graeme Johanson (2000: 5). 5. Ibid.: 75. 6. See Rimi B. Chatterjee (2002). 7. Priya Joshi (2002: 30). 8. For an astute reading of the formation of Oxford’s World’s Classics list, see Mary Hammond (2006: 85–116). 9. Joshi (2002: 30). 10. John Sutherland (1988: 400).




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11. Thomas Hardy to Frederick Macmillan, 6 June 1886, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54923. 12. Frederick Macmillan to Thomas Hardy, 21 May 1894, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54923. 13. Michael Millgate (2002: 76–8). 14. Thomas Hardy to Frederick Macmillan, 12 September 1895, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54932. 15. See John Sutherland (1991: 138–9). 16. Mrs Humphry Ward to Frederick Macmillan, 13 October 1891, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54928, fo. 97. 17. Mrs Humphry Ward to Frederick Macmillan, 6 October 1893, British Library Macmillan Archive Add MS 54928, fo. 116. 18. Contract for Marcella dated 10 April 1894, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54928, fo. 127. 19. Mrs Humphry Ward to Frederick Macmillan, 11 May 1892, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54928, fo. 106. 20. Mrs Humphry Ward to Frederick Macmillan, 19 October 1892, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54938, fo. 111. 21. Mrs Humphry Ward to Frederick Macmillan, March 1892, British Library Macmillan Archive, BL Add MS 54927, fo. 104. 22. See Krishna Dutta and Andrew Robinson (1997: 38–9). 23. F. Marion Crawford to Frederick Macmillan, 8 January 1886: British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54935, fo. 58. 24. For an evaluation of small-scale provincial printing and its impact on Kipling’s early career, see Shafquat Towheed (2008: 125–36). 25. For Macmillan’s progressive move up the value chain in the nineteenth century, see Eliot (2002). 26. Macmillan’s contractual terms for Crawford can be found in the author correspondence file, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54935-6. 27. For a fuller discussion of Wharton’s relationship with Macmillan, see Shafquat Towheed (2007: 1–57). 28. Frederick Macmillan to Edith Wharton, 6 March 1903, British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 55472(2), fo. 784. 29. Frederick Macmillan to Elizabeth von Arnim, 11 February 1901: British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 55465 (1), fo. 145. 30. Elizabeth von Arnim to Frederick Macmillan, 16 February 1901: British Library Macmillan Archive, Add MS 54949, fo. 54. 31. Frederick Macmillan to Elizabeth von Arnim, 19 February 1901, British Library Macmillan Archive, MS 55465 (1), fos 322–4. 32. The Australasian, 12 June 1886: 1112.

Selected bibliography Bently, L. (2007) ‘Copyright, Translations, and Relations between Britain and India in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries’, Chicago–Kent Law Review, 82(3): 1181–240. Bently, L. and Sherman, B. (2001) ‘Great Britain and the Signing of the Berne Convention in 1886’, Journal of the Copyright Society of the USA, 48: 311–40.



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Chatterjee, R. B. (2002) ‘Macmillan in India: A Short Account of the Company’s Trade with the Sub-continent’, in E. James (ed.), Macmillan: A Publishing Tradition. Basingstoke: Palgrave, pp. 153–69. Dutta K. and Robinson A. (eds) (1997) Selected Letters of Rabindranath Tagore. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eliot, S. (2002) ‘“To You in Your Vast Business”: Some Features of the Quantitative History of Macmillan, 1843–91’, in E. James (ed.), Macmillan: A Publishing Tradition. Basingstoke: Palgrave, pp. 20–1. Hammond, M. (2006) Reading, Publishing and the Formation of Literary Taste in England, 1880–1914. Aldershot: Ashgate. Johanson, G. (2000) Colonial Editions in Australia, 1843–1972. Wellington, NZ: Elibank Press. Joshi, P. (2002) In Another Country: Colonialism, Culture, and the English Novel India. New York: Columbia University Press. Millgate, M. (2002) ‘Thomas Hardy and the House of Macmillan’, in E. James (ed.), Macmillan: A Publishing Tradition. Basingstoke: Palgrave, pp. 76–8. Morgan, C. (1944) The House of Macmillan, 1843–1943. London: Macmillan. Sutherland, J. (1988) The Longman Companion to Victorian Fiction. Harlow: Longman. Sutherland, J. (1991) Mrs Humphry Ward: Eminent Victorian, Pre-eminent Edwardian. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Towheed, S. (ed.) (2007) The Correspondence of Edith Wharton and Macmillan, 1901–1930. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Towheed, S. (2008) ‘Two Paradigms of Literary Production: The Production, Circulation and Legal Status of Rudyard Kipling’s Departmental Ditties and Indian Railway Library Texts’, in R. Fraser and M. Hammond (eds), Books without Borders. Volume 2: Perspectives from South Asia. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, pp. 125–36.




Household Words: An Account of the ‘Bengal Family Library’ Abhijit Gupta

The idea of a publisher’s series was slow to arrive in colonial Bengal. Though the first half of the nineteenth century saw rapid growth in almost all genres of letters, the protocols of the printed book were yet to crystallise. While government and missionary printing followed the conventions of the European book, indigenous printing was still in the process of negotiating the often untidy transition from manuscript to print. By the middle of the nineteenth century, it had carved out its own niche and market share, much to the alarm of European missionaries and Bengali reformers alike. The reformist lobby regarded print as an instrument of social, intellectual and political change, and abhorred popular genres for their alleged vulgarity and obscenity. These genres were encompassed by the general term Battala, which was actually a location in north Calcutta but soon became a metonym for the cheap literature produced in that area. Much of Battala printing dealt unabashedly in sub-genres such as erotica, scandals, current events, doggerels and songs, leading to much hand-wringing in politer circles, and a gradually hardening resolve to purge Bengali literatures of such ‘impurities’. One of the most significant attempts to counter the glut of ‘unsuitable’ literature was the formation of the Vernacular Literature Society in 1851, which was responsible for the first-ever publishers’ series in the Bengali language, the Bengal Family Library. This was by no means the first society of letters in Bengal – the Calcutta School-Book Society, founded in 1817, had been active in textbook publishing for over three decades, while Fort William College was instrumental in publishing college-level textbooks. Then there were missionary bodies, such as the Christian Tract and Book Society (1823) and the Christian Vernacular Education Society (1857), which mostly dealt in religious 152



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tracts but occasionally published books of more general interest. But the Vernacular Literature Society was formed with the specific mandate of publishing ‘sound and useful Vernacular Domestic Literature for Bengal’, at a time when the original enthusiasm over the propagation of vernacular literature was somewhat on the wane. Geoffrey A. Odie, for example, argues that the formation of the Society ‘was opposed by Europeans who argued that translations into the vernacular were absurd “because they cannot transfuse all the shades of thought of the original”, that Bengali “was the rude tongue of a semi-barbarous race”, and that translations should be abandoned and the people taught through English alone’.1 But thanks to the initiatives of a coalition of Bengali intelligentsia, European missionaries and British government officials, the Society came into being in 1851, with the following committee: Patron: Marquis of Dalhousie President: J. R. Colvin Committee: H. V. Bayley, H. T. Buckland, J. A. Crawford, Rajah Radhakanth Deb, A. Grote, W. Seton-Karr, Rev. W. Kay, J. Long, Baboo Joy Kissen Mookherjea, Rajah Pertab Chunder Singh, E. A. Samuells, Dr Spenger, Baboo Prosonno Coomer Tagore, M. Townsend, Pundit Eshwar Chunder Vidyasagar, M. Wylie Treasurer: H. Woodrow Secretary: Hodgson Pratt The first report of the Society published in 1852 finds it chalking out an ambitious programme of translations. The name for the series would be the Bengal Family Library (or Garhasthya bangala pustak sangraha in Bengali), while the following titles were identified for translation: ‘The Life of Robinson Crusoe, Lamb’s Tales, Macaulay’s Life of Clive, Irving’s Life of Columbus, Life of Peter the Great, Selections from the Percy Anecdotes, Life of Sivjie and the Rise of the Mahratta power, the Annual Register, Selections from the Native Press’. Of these, the first title to be issued was Robinson Crusoe (Robinson Crusoe-r bhraman brittanta c.1852). There was also a secondary list subject to the availability of funds: ‘A Description of Rajpoothane. Hajji Baba. The Lost Senses (Sight and Hearing). Sketches of Turkish History. Davis’s China. History of Remarkable People. Scenes in Arctic Regions.’2 Another important initiative of the society was the publication of an illustrated periodical, Bibidhartha-Sangraha, edited by the antiquarian, linguist and book collector Rajendralal Mitra (1824–91). In the first year, six monthly numbers of sixteen pages each were issued at a price of 2 annas, each issue containing at least three



The ‘Bengal Family Library’ 153

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illustrations. These illustrations were printed from eighty-seven plates obtained from Charles Knight, a London publisher, and John Drinkwater Bethune, a Calcutta-based educationist, and a further 1,000 rupees was sanctioned by the society for plates to be ordered from London.3 Such munificence was made possible by donations to the tune of 4,600 rupees in the first year, of which Bethune, Joykrishna Mukherjee and Rajkrishna Mukherjee accounted for 1,000 rupees each. Joykrishna Mukherjee was also thanked by the society ‘for his gift of a library containing all works at present printed in Bengal’.4 This collection would later grow into the Uttarpara Joykrishna Public Library, one of the most important holdings of Bengali books in the world.

Figure 8.1 Title page of John Robinson’s translation of Robinson Crusoe, published in the Bengali Family Library (3rd edn, 1860)



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The first years of the society were full of activity but not all its projects bore fruit. The report of 1855–6 ruefully admitted that the ‘experiment of publishing a Bengali almanac … has not succeeded’, with sales falling from 1,627 in 1854–5 to 419 in 1855–6 out of a print run of 2,000.5 The report of 1856–7 shows the society in disarray, with its founder members having left the city, or preoccupied with other work. The illustrated magazine was discontinued owing to insufficient funds and it was noted that ‘the publications of the Society had not generally gained much genuine popular favour’. There were suggestions that the society be wound up but it was noted that ‘education was spreading rapidly, the intellect of the people was waking, and must be supplied with food of some kind. Decidedly, it was not the time to abandon the field to the impure and immoral productions of the low presses of Calcutta.’6 Accordingly, a new direction was proposed for the society in which books would be sufficiently low-priced for wide dissemination. More significantly, it was decided to publish works ‘which were pre-eminently popular and amusing’ and ‘enlist the services, as translators, not merely of good Bengali scholars, but of men who can write in a style which will be read with pleasure by their fellow countrymen’.7 This acknowledgement of popular taste and ease of reading marked a departure in the society’s way of thinking, more so since fiction was a highly elastic and contentious category in the world of Bengali letters. Fiction in mid-nineteenth-century Bengal embraced a variety of genres such as ‘moral tales and ethics’, ‘drama’, ‘popular songs’ and ‘tales’. These four terms were first used by Rev. James Long – missionary, amateur ethnographer and the first-ever bibliographer of Bengali books. In A Descriptive Catalogue of Bengali Works, Long wrote: ‘Tales abound in Bengali, “thick as leaves in Vallambrosa”, like those in England’s last century. Love in all its difficulties and agitations form the chief subject.’8 But the novel as such did not exist, unless in translation. Priya Joshi quotes from the Marathi novelist Naro Sadashiv Risbud’s introduction to his 1868 romance Manjughosha: ‘One finds in the lives of us Hindus neither interesting vices nor virtues, and that is the difficulty which we find in trying to write novels. If we would write about the things we experience daily, there would be nothing enthralling about them, so that if we set out to write an interesting book we are forced to take up with the marvellous.’9 Much the same thing was said by Gopeemohun Ghose, the writer of Bijaybullubha, a Bengali romance published in 1863, two years before Bankimchandra’s novel: ‘This book has been written in accordance with the techniques used to compose the narrative called the novel in the English language. But I do not see any possibility that




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my endeavour will achieve success. The lives and times of Europeans are full of strangeness and wonder but this is rarely seen among the people of India.’10 As far as the society was concerned, shorter fiction was preferred over the longer novel. From the mid-1850s, an unusually large number of translations of Hans Andersen’s fairy tales began to appear. All these translations were carried out by Madhusudan Mukherji, who would become the assistant secretary of the society in 1857: so we have ‘The Little Mermaid’ translated as Marmet in 1857, ‘The Chinese Nightingale’ as Cındesıya bulbul paks.ir bibaran. (1857), ‘The Ugly Duckling’ as Kutsit hamsasabak o kharbbakayar bibaran. (1858), ‘The Garden of Paradise’ as the Bayucatustayer akhyayika (1858), ‘Great Klaus and Little Klaus’ as Choto kilas o bodo kilas (1860, 2nd edn), ‘Wild Swans’ as Hamsarupı rajputra (1859, 2nd edn) and finally ‘The Tinder-Box’ and ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ as Cakmaki baksa o apurbba rajbastra (1867). Another intriguing translation was that of Jacques-Henri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s 1787 French novel Paul et Virginie, a love story set in the eve of the French revolution, by Ra¯mna¯ra¯yan. Bidya¯ratna. As far as English literature was concerned, only two works managed to make the cut other than Robinson Crusoe: the ubiquitous Lamb’s Tales of Shakespeare and the Percy Anecdotes. The latter was translated as Manoramya path (Pleasant Reading) and subtitled ‘Selections from the Percy Anecdotes, Translated into Bengali Part 1’. It was also the only work in the series to be printed from the Alipore Jail Press: most of the other works in the series were issued from Girishchandra Sharma’s famous Bidyaratna Press, located at Mirjapur, 49 Upper Circular Road, Calcutta, since the society did not have a press of its own. Occasionally, other presses were also called upon, such as the Sucharu Press of Lallchand Biswas, the Satyarnab Press, the Tattwabodhini Press and the Bishop’s College Press. To what extent did these translations convey the flavour of the original? In a revealing note to the first edition of Paul and Virginie, Hodgson Pratt, one of the founder members of the society, explained the society’s preference for adaptations over translations. The passage deserves to be quoted at length for the light it throws on the theory and practice of translation: Mere Translation would not meet the great objects which this society intends to keep in view. There is not only a difference of language between the people of India and of England. We must recognise the far greater difficulty of a difference of ideas, associations and literature. The instruction communicated to the masses require



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somewhat more than the mere employment of the vehicle of native language; – the form in which it is conveyed must appeal to ideas and feelings already existing. Every possible use must be made of what we already find in their literature and associations – consistently with our object of communicating truth. All literature, even of the simplest kind, abounds with allusions which it is as necessary to understand as the words themselves; and if there is a complete ignorance of the subject-matter of these allusions, the words can only convey half of what it is intended to communicate. With this view, therefore, all works issued by the Committee, will be carefully adapted with reference to the actual condition of the native mind, – its characters and associations. In accordance with this view two of our number undertook to adopt the text of Robinson Crusoe, which was the first of our series of translations. On the ground that the paramount object was to bring the story home to the understanding of a Bengali public, we did not hesitate to change the scene, to make Robinson Crusoe the son of an Armenian merchant in Calcutta, and to wreck him on one of the islands of the Eastern Archipelago. The beauty and point of the Story was, I contend, in no way affected by a change of this sort, while on the other hand it made the story much more real to the reader than the description of a voyage from Hull to London could have been. But these liberties with De Foe’s text were considered by the majority of the Committee in bad taste, and non-adaptation became the rule of the Society. When, however, in the absence of any one else to undertake the duty, I commenced supervising the translation of the present work, I found that to attempt literal translation was to lose every object the Committee had in view. The translation of the work was assigned to a well known scholar (Pundit Ramnarayan Vidyaratna) who had been frequently entrusted with work of this kind before, both by natives and Europeans, and he brought me a translation of the first 30 or 40 pages, perfectly satisfied with the mode in which he had accomplished his task; but I had not read two pages before I found half a dozen sentences which I was perfectly certain no one could understand and which I ascertained the translator did not. As long as the mere narrative part is concerned, the difficulty is not so great, but directly we come to abstract reflections and didactic passages, the whole turn of thought - every allusion and every illustration




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is entirely different from what any one would use in writing for a native reader. As there have been no meeting of the committee for a long time past and the management of its affairs, therefore, rested with myself. I have taken the liberty of freely paraphrasing every passage in the text where I could make the sense clearer, and I have omitted all allusions and illustrations which would be stumbling blocks to the Bengali reader. These remarks apply more especially to the latter twothirds of the Book. Excepting in very rare cases where men like the Rev. Mr Robinson or the Rev. Krishna Mohun Banerjee are the translators, – every translation, I should think, have the advantage of two heads, a Bengali and an English head. An Englishman is hardly ever to be found who can really write for the masses in Bengali, – nor a native who can do this and also understand English so thoroughly as not to commit serious blunders.11 While it is beyond the scope of this chapter to discuss the merits or demerits of the translations of the society, it is my opinion that John Robinsons’s translation of Robinson Crusoe into Bengali is largely successful in capturing the style and flavour of Defoe’s prose. The adoption of a more popular list by the society was accompanied by initiatives to create distributing networks. The Deputy Inspectors of the Educational Department were roped in to distribute the society’s publications in mofussil areas while a commission of 25 per cent was given to the booksellers of the Garanhata area of Calcutta. It was observed that ‘several books have been sold, through the agency of female hawkers, in the Zenanas of wealthy native gentlemen’.12 Though we do not find the name of any woman printer in nineteenth-century Bengal, there are several women who are named as selling books from their home addresses: others, it may be assumed, supplied books directly to the sequestered zenana or women’s quarters in wealthy households. The report of 1859 further noted: ‘the female hawker … continues to distribute our publications in the families of native gentlemen, and she has disposed in this way many copies of Sushila, Paul and Virginia and the Exiles of Siberia. In truth, the committee feel much encouraged by the fact that a large portion of the books which we sell are bought by native gentlemen to be read by the female members of their families.’13 In fact, after the society amalgamated with the Calcutta School BookSociety in 1862, the female reader became an important target audience, something that I discuss later in this chapter.



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Figure 8.2 Frontispiece to John Robinson’s translation of Robinson Crusoe, published in the Bengali Family Library (3rd edn, 1860)

Two other decisions were taken at the meeting of 1857: Madhusudan Mukhopadhyay was appointed as assistant secretary of the society at a salary of 200 rupees a year; and a prize, or ‘premium’, of 200 rupees was offered for ‘new original’ work in Bengali submitted to the society. The society stipulated the following clauses for such work: 1st: The work must be of good moral or practical tendency. 2nd: The subject must be some such as the following: 1. Natural History and Sciences 2. Topography and Geography 3. Commerce and Political Economy 4. Popular and Practical Science 5. The Industrial Arts 6. Education 7. Biography 8. Didactic Fiction.




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3rd: The composition must be idiomatic, and at the same time simple, and the general style of the work, and treatment of the subject, must be specially adopted to the comprehension of the natives of the country. 4th: The work when printed must consist of not less than 100 printed pages duod. 5th: The copyright of any work to which a premium under these Rules may be adjudged, shall become the exclusive property of the Vernacular Literature Society. 6th: The Society, however, after attaching such conditions as may seem suitable to the offer, will, as a general rule, give the author the option of publishing the first edition of the work. 7th: Should more than 2000 copies of the work be sold bona fide to the public within 12 months from the date of publication, a further premium of not less than Rs 50 will be paid to the author.14 Two of the earliest winners of the prizes were the poet Rangalal Bandyopadhay for his poem Padmini upakhayan (1858) and the assistant secretary himself, Madhusudan Mukhopadhyay, for his three-volume novel Sushilar upakhyan (1859–64), a female Bildungsroman of polite manners. The novel attracted favourable reviews, though the influential Calcutta Review noted its didactic character: ‘The easy and simple style in which it is written – its lively delineations of the inner life of Bengali society – its exact morals – its almost Christian tone, render it an admirable reading-book to every Bengali lady. The virtuous and gentle Sushila reminds us of some of the best female characters in the novels of Miss Edgeworth.’15 The case of Padmini upakhayan was somewhat more intriguing. At a meeting of the Bethune Society in April 1852, certain members had commented that no good poetry could emerge out of Bengal since it was not a free nation. Rangalal read an article refuting this, and then wrote a historical poem based on one of the episodes from James Tod’s Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan. The manuscript was showed to Rajendralal Mitra, the editor of the Bibidhartha samgraha, who arranged for the work to be published under the auspices of the society. However, since the work in question was a poem and not prose as the society had stipulated, the prize was reduced to 50 rupees with another 50 to be added if the work ‘was revised and certain defects corrected’. The society also observed that at 2 rupees, the book was priced too high and defeated the society’s objectives. This drew the ire of the Calcutta Review, which commented: Two reasons are specified … for rejecting the Padmini Upakhyan; first, it was not equal to the standard the Committee had fixed; and



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secondly, that it was in verse. For the second we have no quarrel with the Vernacular Literature Society. Tastes differ. … But we have a quarrel with the Committee on the score of the first reason – ‘It was not equal to the standard that they had fixed.’ What is that standard? Who are the adjudicators? … Seriously, if the Committee refuse to accept the merit of the tale before us, they may wait a quarter of a century before they find a single book suited to their taste.16 Another reduced prize of 50 rupees was given to Dwarkanath Gupta for his novel Hemaprabha (1859), probably because it ran to only 65 pages and not the 100 as stipulated by the society. The only person to be awarded the full amount in the first year of the prize was in fact the assistant secretary, who was awarded 150 rupees for the first part of Sushilar upakhyan (as it ran to only 76 pages) and 200 rupees for the second part, which managed to cross the century mark (108 pages). The 1857 report also reported on the sales of the society’s titles in its first five years (1851–6).17 The mixed nature of the titles represents the first phase in the society’s career, when it preferred to commit its resources to tried and tested genres like biographies and almanacs. Three years later, the sales figures began to reflect the turn towards fiction that the society had decided on in its 1857 meeting. In its issue of 8 March 1860, the Serampore-based newspaper Friend of India commented:18 The Society pursues its useful course. During the eighteen months ending 1st January, 1860, it has sold 8,166 volumes of thoroughly unobjectionable books, three-fourths in the interior of the country. In Dinagepore alone 1,068 books have been sold, a number which small as it may seem is greater than were perhaps ever sold in any Zillah in ten previous years. The following list shows clearly the character of the works sold: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

Story of Mother Percy Anecdotes Tinder-box Boro koilas Hansrupee Rajpootra Chinese nightingale Elizabeth Susheela, first part Raja Pratapaditya

646 572 519 468 435 413 411 407 392




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10. 11. 12. 13.

Little Mermaid Robinson Crusoe Ahalya Haddika Lamb’s Tales

340 305 305 301

Most of the books were sold as fictions, and we wish all were. The object of the society is not to give information, except incidentally, but to create a taste for purer literature, and this may be most rapidly accomplished by good fictions. It is only one class who want to read astronomy, but all classes are interested in Robinson Crusoe and can comprehend the ‘Ugly Duckling’. The taste for reading once excited is as strong as the craving for dramas. The reader will not go without the demand, will soon be met by an indigenous supply. The society is still striving to obtain original works by natives, though without much success. A tale in verse called Padmini Upakhayan has been accepted, and Susheela, a tale designed to illustrate female life in India, written by Pundit Mudhoosoodun Mookerjea, appears to sell very rapidly. The bulk of the purchasers, it is believed, are women, to whom their husbands read these tales, a most satisfactory fact, if it were only established on a little clearer evidence. The last paragraph in the report signals a conscious targeting of women readers on the part of the society. Both Padmini and Sushila featured women as central protagonists, and a number of female biographies were commissioned from 1858 onwards. The women featured were mostly figures from Mughal history, such as the Princess Jahanira or the Empress Nur Jahan, but there were also biographies of Ahalya Haddika and Queen Elizabeth. Once the society merged with the Calcutta School Book Society in 1862, reaching the women reader became its chief preoccupation. In the joint prospectus that was written after the merger, the society reiterated its desire to ‘supply and distribute, at the lowest possible price, a healthy household literature in the Vernacular tongues’. It also stated that ‘the Society offers … to publish translations of such works as are not included in the design of the Tract of Christian Knowledge Societies on the one hand, or of the School Book and Asiatic Societies on the other, and likewise to provide a sound and useful Vernacular Domestic Literature for Bengal’ (emphasis added).19 Two words in the prospectus claim our attention: healthy, and household or domestic. An obvious connection is being made between the two, with the word family in the series title used as a surrogate for the female reader. This gesture towards a hitherto unrecognised interpretative



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community marked a new phase in the construction of what we may call the Bengali common reader in the nineteenth century. In her book Power and Print,20 Anindita Ghosh has drawn our attention to the often adversarial relationship between the culture of the educated bhadralok (or gentleman) and that of the women’s antahpur or inner quarters. The shared and communitarian character of the antahpur culture, Ghosh argues, found expression in variety of meyeli or womanly genres, both oral and written, such as basar or wedding songs or early excursions into print by the likes of Kailashbasini Debi, Rassundari Debi or Saralabala Sarkar. At the same time, as in nineteenth-century England, the question of suitable reading for women engaged the attention of the reformist lobby. In 1859, James Long reported with approval: Some of the books of the Vernacular Literature Committee have proved very interesting to Bengali Females, such as the translations of ‘Elizabeth or the Exiles of Siberia’, ‘Paul and Virginia’, Hans Andersen’s Tale, Account of Sushila, by Mudhusudun Mookerjee. The works of Videasagur21 and Madhusudun have been very valuable in female schools. If females are not supplied with good books they will be sure to read bad ones, we know of a case where a female of a higher class wished a European lady, her teacher, to procure for her the licentious tale Videa Sundar, the latter refused and gave her Sushila one of the Vernacular Literature Society’s publications – the result was half a dozen copies of the last work was sold to the friends of the family.22 The merger of 1862 did not prove to be a happy one for the society. The expectation that the society could benefit from the CSBS’s elaborate network of branches was to a large extent belied, and report after report in the 1860s lamented falling sales. This in turn meant that the society had less resources to commit to new titles, and fell back on its earlier formula of translations of histories and geographies. In the annual report of 1862–3, for instance, the following books were reported to be in preparation: Translation of ‘Japan Opened’ in Bengali by Baboo Muddoosoodun Mookerjee, containing 236 pages, price 7/12 annas. The Baboo has been paid Rs 236 for the translation. Rise and Progress of the Saracens, compiled by Baboo Hemango Chunder Bose, containing 75 pages, 3 annas. The Baboo has been paid Rs 60 for the copyright.




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A translation of the tales Sandford and Merton by Baboo Muddoosoodun Mookerjee, is in the press and will soon be published. A new edition of 1000 copies of the Exiles of Siberia is also passing through the press, the old stock having been exhausted. A new edition of 2000 copies of the Chinese Nightingale has been printed, the former edition having been exhausted. The following year, a life of the Sikh Guru Nanak by Ramnarayan Vidyaratna came out, and the pandit was further commissioned to translate an ‘interesting book’ called The House I Live In, a project he failed to complete following his death in the same year. By this time, the society had more or less abandoned its plans of producing original fiction in the Bengali language. These impulses now came from other quarters, as Bengali fiction began to come into its own, evolving a style and character free of the didactic confines of the society. This process came to a head in 1865, when Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay produced Durgeshnandini, the first fully fledged novel in Bengali, and in any Indian language. The floodgates were now open, and the Vernacular Literature Society had finished its work.

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

Geoffrey A. Odie (1999: 82). First Report of the Vernacular Literature Committee (1851: 1). Ibid.: 2. Ibid.: 4. Report of the Vernacular Literature Committee for 1854–55 (1855: 5). Report of the Vernacular Literature Committee for 1856–7 (1857: 5). Ibid.: 8. James Long (1855: 74). Priya Joshi (2002: 146). Gopeemohun Ghose (1863: i). Hodgson Pratt, ‘Preface’, in Jacques-Henri Bernadin de Saint-Pierre, P¯al o barjiniy¯a, tr. R¯amn¯ar¯ayan Bidy¯aratna (Calcutta: Bidy¯aratna Press, 1859), i-x. Report of the Vernacular Literature Committee for 1856–7 (1857: 14). Report of the Vernacular Literature Committee for 1858–9 (1859: 6). Report of the Vernacular Literature Committee for 1856–7 (1857: 23). Anon. (1859: xiv). Anon. (1858: lxx). Report of the Vernacular Literature Committee for 1856–7 (1857: 21). Friend of India, 8 March 1860. The Twenty-Third Report of the Proceedings of the Calcutta School Book Society with which is now amalgamated the Vernacular Literature Society (Calcutta: Calcutta School Book Society’s Press, 1864), pp. 3–4.



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20. Anindita Ghosh (2006). 21. Ishwarchandra Bidyasagar (1820–91), social reformer, scholar and one of the architects of the Bengali prose style, started the Sanskrit Press and Depository in Calcutta in 1847. Annually, over 50,000 copies of his famous primer Barnaparichay were printed from the press. 22. James Long (1859: ix).

Selected bibliography Anonymous (1858) ‘Miscellaneous Notices’, Calcutta Review, 31, July–December. Anonymous (1859) ‘Critical Notices of Works on India and the East Published during the Quarter’, Calcutta Review, 33, June. Annual Reports of the Calcutta School-Book Society (1819–57). Annual Reports of the Vernacular Literature Committee (1851–7). Ghose, Gopeemohun (1863) Bijoybullubha. Calcutta: Sanskrit Press. Ghosh, Anindita (2006) Power and Print: Popular Publishing and the Politics of Language and Culture in a Colonial Society, 1778–1905. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Joshi, Priya (2002) In Another Country: Colonialism, Culture, and the English Novel in India. New York: Columbia University Press. Long, James (1855) A Descriptive Catalogue of Bengali Works. Calcutta: Sanders, Cones. Long, James (1859) ‘Report on the Native Presses of Bengal’, in Selections from the Records of the Bengal Government, no. 23. Calcutta: John Gray, General Printing Department. Odie, Geoffrey A. (1999) Missionaries, Rebellion and Proto-Nationalism: James Long of Bengal 1814–1887. London: Routledge.




Great Books by the Millions: J. M. Dent’s Everyman’s Library Terry I. Seymour

From its founding in 1888, the publishing house of J. M. Dent relied upon books in series. The most notable early example of the large series was The Temple Classics, embracing some 300 volumes. There were also many successful smaller series, including the Medieval Towns, the Temple Shakespeare, Temple Dramatists and several author series: Defoe, Fielding, Dickens, Dumas, Scott and all forty volumes of Balzac, just to name a few. As we shall see, these efforts were a mere warm-up for Everyman’s Library. A series, of course, may be any sort of collection of books that share some thematic or authorial relationship. Such a series is generally produced in volumes with a distinctive common appearance. The series, particularly as Dent viewed it, would typically have a logo, often on the front cover, sometimes in gilt, sometimes blind-stamped. The Temple Classics used an owl in gilt on the leather front covers and a sundial blind-stamped on the cloth front covers. While the Temple Series was broad in scope, Everyman’s Library went well beyond Temple and other similar series efforts and aspired to be a library in the comprehensive sense of that term. The idea for Everyman’s Library had swirled in Dent’s brain for some years before the practical planning took place. The clear move forward was precipitated by Dent’s collaboration with Ernest Rhys.1 Rhys would become the general editor of Everyman’s Library and remain in that post for the rest of his lifetime, some forty years. Together Dent and Rhys devised the architecture for what they deemed to be the perfect library: exactly 1,000 volumes covering all realms of knowledge and world literature. This library was to be priced at one shilling per volume, putting it within the means of many readers who previously were unable to afford such books. The library was divided into twelve (later thirteen) sections: Fiction, History, Science, Travel, Children’s, Philosophy, Classics, Poetry 166



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and Reference among them. Each section was given a unique colour for its boards. This practice turned out to be a clever way of promoting additional sales, as many customers bought books to match the colour of others they already owned. It is noteworthy that great books were being sold to the masses not just for reading, but so that the new book buyer’s taste and acumen could be visibly on display. My examination of tens of thousands of Everyman volumes clearly reveals that some titles were bought to be displayed rather than read. Who then were the readers of Everyman’s Library? Currently I am at work on a printing history of Everyman’s Library. Thus far I have identified some 9,000 separate print runs of over 1,150 titles. This study has enabled me to infer a great deal about the readers. They are of several types: those who bought books they wanted to read, those who placed the books on their shelf feeling they should read them and those who found the low price attractive for the books they needed to read. Because Everyman’s Library published continuously and extensively for more than seventy-five years, there are obviously several generations of readers. Thus we are able to add a final category that came to the fore in c.1960, of books that students were required to read. It was during this era that many titles were issued or reissued with new introductions by scholars and more scholarly apparatus. This effort clearly targeted the rapidly expanding college text market. Books of this vintage frequently show underlining and highlighting, hallmarks of the student. By examining objective data, such as actual sales figures and the frequency of reprinting for a title, we can get one measure of readership. More subjectively, by observing the average condition of older books in the library, we can draw some inferences about which books were actually read rather than just displayed. Let us consider some examples. Books that went through many printings over many years and are also typically found in dog-eared condition were read for pleasure, evidently many times. The novels of Austen and Dickens are prime examples. These novels went through twenty-five to thirty printings (a print run was typically 10,000 copies): Sense and Sensibility (22 printings), Pride and Prejudice (33), Mansfield Park (18), Emma (23) and Northanger Abbey (24), A Tale of Two Cities (25), Great Expectations (27), Oliver Twist (20), Pickwick Papers (23) and David Copperfield, the all-time Everyman’s Library bestseller (31). Considering the wide availability of other cheap editions of these popular novels the Everyman’s Library sales are impressive. Several children’s books were also read so avidly that it is almost impossible to find a decent copy at this date. This is curious because the books in appearance were uniform with the rest of the Library and,



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as such, seemingly not appealing to a child. Nevertheless, a volume of Mother Goose, despite seven printings and sales of 38,000 copies, is almost impossible to find nowadays in any condition. Similarly, some of the reference books that clearly were purchased for use are hard to find. Everyman’s English Dictionary, seemingly with no lack of competition, sold almost 90,000 copies yet is even harder to find than Mother Goose. Other books in the ‘needed’ category were those titles unavailable except in limited and expensive editions. Examples of such niche classics are the Dennis Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria, Howard’s State of the Prisons and Blackwell’s Pioneer Work for Women. Though none of these titles was ever reprinted their availability for a shilling must have been welcome news for their small audience. At least half of the copies I have seen of these titles show clear signs of use and readership. In contrast are the complete novels of Sir Walter Scott in twentythree volumes. Most of these novels were reprinted numerous times, and seventeen titles were still in print through the 1960s. Nonetheless, I hardly ever see any Scott title that shows evidence of study or readership. I can only surmise that even by 1906, Scott’s allure had started to fade and books were bought on the merit of his past reputation. Through 1940 the complete works of Scott were still being offered as a set in the deluxe leather binding, clearly suitable for display. Of course, in the early days all of the binding styles were meant for display. Dent was an admirer of William Morris, embracing both his taste in design and his progressive politics. Thus, Everyman’s Library was elegantly produced, sporting full gilt spines and elaborate preliminary papers and using high quality paper. Part of his genius for selling so many books was the manner in which Dent made each Everyman’s Library volume about the same size, resulting in a standard appearance on the shelf. This uniformity was accomplished by the use of several type sizes and weights of paper. A children’s book of 178 pages was the same approximate thickness as the complete Tragedies of Shakespeare in 982 pages. The fantasy of time travel has allure to anyone with a touch of imagination. I have certainly enjoyed a sort of time travel through my study of the early days of Everyman’s Library. These few years just prior to the First World War were an exciting period in the London book scene. Most of the important publishing houses were centred on a small geographical area around Covent Garden. And it seems as if everyone involved – writers, printers and booksellers – knew each other. At the birth of Everyman’s Library, Frank Swinnerton was a 22 year-old assistant to Hugh Dent, the publisher’s son and right-hand man. In this



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capacity he was an eye witness to the launch of the Library and its immense impact on the book-buying public. By the time he wrote the introduction to his very own entry in Everyman’s Library (The Georgian Literary Scene) in 1938, Everyman’s Library was a veritable institution throughout the world and particularly in England. He writes: nobody remembers how sensational was the first news of the series, the first sight of the books, and the first tremendous sale which they enjoyed. From within, it seemed as though we were besieged by storming enthusiasts who wanted the books we had, the books we should have in the next two or three batches, the books newly published which the enthusiasts wanted to buy for a shilling. We ran out of stock and out of print; we reprinted, bound, and supplied in a delicious frenzy; we drove stationers, printers, and binders to a speed which we ourselves believed to be impossible. I think even Mr. Dent was impressed by several major book-trade miracles. His employees certainly were. They all worked like ants in a disturbed nest. And while they worked to supply the first fifty volumes the second fifty volumes were being editorially assembled for the production of a second terrific wave. It was like an avalanche. Such publishing, I feel sure, had never previously been known.2 Before the standstill caused by the First World War the Library issued 743 volumes in ten years, from 1906 to 1915. During this period every title was available in four different binding styles: cloth, sturdy library with linen endpapers, leatherette and quarter pigskin. A smaller number of titles were sold in two additional deluxe bindings. There seemed to be no limit to the public appetite for fancier iterations of their favourite titles. With wartime shortages and other privations, however, deluxe sales declined and new title issuance slowed markedly, never to regain its early momentum. Volume 800 was not achieved until 1927, volume 900 in 1933. The magical 1,000 was not reached until 1956. Thus, in the next forty years required to hit the magic 1,000, only an average of six or seven new titles per year were published. In total the first ten years produced 1,051 reprints, in addition to 743 new volumes. The general practice was to produce 10,000 copies at each printing. This effort represents a rather astonishing output of some two million volumes. How was it done? At the outset, Dent did not own a printing facility. For early Everyman’s Library production, eight different printers, Richard Clay & Sons chief among these, were employed.3 In all cases these printers had produced




Terry I. Seymour

books for Dent in the past. Several of the Everyman’s Library volumes were exact duplicates, including the editor and introduction, of these prior printings. Dent’s practice was to do all the binding, sales and distribution from the London offices. Thus, it was possible to keep all the sub-contractors in the dark about the launch date and extent of the first batch of fifty volumes. The first year’s batch included the complete novels of Sir Walter Scott, in twenty-three volumes. Because six different printers were employed on various Scott volumes, however, no one printer could suspect the complete plan. I have studied the 1906 output of 155 volumes in an effort to understand how much actual outside assistance and talent Dent had to solicit and remunerate. Of necessity, all the volumes were out of copyright so that no royalties were owed.4 This practice of paying no royalties remained in force until the 1920s. Perhaps as many as seventy-five of the first 155 volumes were ‘recycled’ from prior editions, often reusing the prior introductions and pagination. Of course, many new introductions were required and prominent writers were recruited for the task. G. K. Chesterton, Hilaire Belloc, Richard Garnett and V. R. Reynolds were some of the early introducers. These were writers with whom either Dent or Rhys had dealt before. It is often not easy to distinguish a new introduction from one that may have been written and paid for earlier. I would estimate, however, that in 1906 about twenty-five to thirty new introductions required payment. Far less expensive for Dent, however, was to exploit the talents and stamina of Ernest Rhys. Rhys was usually the man who had to approach other scholars to write an introduction. He sat in hours of meetings with J. M. Dent debating the books to be included in Everyman’s Library. Obviously he had general editorial duties that touched all the planned volumes. With all of this work to do, though, he somehow personally wrote seventy-nine introductions in 1906 alone, an astounding body of work. Even though some of the Rhys introductions were short, they were unfailingly elegant and incisive. Ultimately, he would go on to write some 227 introductions for the Everyman’s Library. Were the selections themselves truly ‘great books?’ Obviously we need to remember that these were classics as of a century ago, and so we need to view such a judgement through Victorian eyes. With that proviso, an examination of the list reveals mostly true classics about which few would quibble. Sadly present, however, are second tier books by ‘great’ authors, a sprinkling of Dent’s personal favourite but inferior authors and some easy additions from the back-list. The essence of Everyman’s Library is composed of such fare as the complete Shakespeare and



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Dickens, The Iliad, The Life of Johnson, the major poets, essayists and travel writers, children’s favourites such as Heidi and Little Women. It is hard, however, to justify all the novels of Scott or fifteen separate works from Balzac. Dent had a strong attachment to the works of Mrs Gaskell and also Mrs Cowden-Clarke. Cousin Phillis from the former and three volumes devoted to The Girlhood of Shakespeare’s Heroines from the latter would have never made many great books lists. Fittingly, neither entry ever sold many books to the public. Dent ultimately permitted them to go out of print and replaced them with new titles. Despite these shortcomings Dent made some courageous choices. He devoted twelve volumes to Grote’s History of Greece and six volumes to the complete Livy. These sets were unavailable in other cheap series and Dent knew in advance that their sales would never be sufficient to cover costs. Such bold selections are a major part of what makes Everyman’s Library so respected. As the publication of new volumes rushed forward, accompanied by the immediate demand for reprints, Dent felt almost crushed by success. To continue the enterprise, putting aside the financial problems, he decided that he must control his own printing. Construction of the new works at Letchworth began almost immediately. Five acres of land were leased and ground broken in June 1906. Letchworth was the first of the new ‘garden cities’ developed with the ideals of progressive social thinking. Factories, agriculture and residential areas were to be planned and coordinated so that the needs of all inhabitants and workers would be considered. It was a bold move by Dent. The Letchworth garden city experiment was young, and it was far from clear in 1906 that it would succeed.5 But the chance to provide a decent environment for his workers while adding the crucial storage and printing capacity for Everyman’s Library was a powerful combination for Dent’s enterprise. Although Dent was a relentless taskmaster and at times something of a tyrant, his record as a good employer was remarkable. Dent’s was among the first companies to shorten the working week, to employ large numbers of women at essentially equal pay and to form a thrift pension plan to benefit long-term employees. The factory was completed quickly and in 1907 books began to stream from the new Temple Press. The Temple Press at Letchworth quickly grew in size and capacity as it strove to meet the demands of the Everyman’s Library juggernaut. Even though the list of new volumes stopped almost completely during the First World War and never resumed at the same pace, the reprint factory continued to operate in high gear. Reading the party line from the publishing house one would think that the business itself almost ground




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to a halt.6 An examination of the reprints issued, however, reveals that nothing could be further from the truth. In the eight years affected by the First World War (1916–23) only fifteen new volumes were issued in Everyman’s Library, an abrupt slowdown. The number of reprint editions, however, totalled 951, an average of 119 per year, more than were issued during the fat years of 1906–15. Thus, it is clear that the sale of reprinted numbers, rather than the introduction of new numbers, was what made the business successful. Even though the design concepts of Morris were abandoned for a more modern look in the 1930s, and even though quality standards and book production suffered mightily during the Second World War, the onslaught of reprints continued. By 1965 Dent could advertise ‘More than 46 Million Volumes Sold’ in the Everyman’s Library. Great books by the millions indeed.

Notes 1. There are several accounts of how the two men came together on the Everyman’s Library project. The one from Rhys seems the most reliable: Everyman Remembers (1931), pp. 238–9. 2. Frank Swinnerton (1938) The Georgian Literary Scene (London: J. M. Dent), pp. vii–viii. 3. The other printers were Ballantyne, Hanson & Co., Colston and Coy, Hazell, Watson & Viney, Robert Maclehose & Co., William Brendon & Son, Turnbull & Spears and Aberdeen University Press. 4. Annually an internal memo was produced at Dent’s to identify authors who were now dead long enough to be out of copyright protection. 5. For a discussion of the development and progress of Letchworth see C. B. Purdom (1963) The Letchworth Achievement. 6. Many later accounts of the history of Everyman’s Library relate how the war interrupted its flow. One example appears on page 198 in The House of Dent 1888–1938, in the words of J. M. Dent, speaking of the effects of the war: ‘We tightened our belts like everyone else, and set our faces like the rest of the nation to endure and overcome … though we could not go on with our work upon “Everyman” and many another scheme we kept the ship afloat and looked forward to better times.’



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‘The Green and the Gold’: Series Publishing in Nineteenth-Century Ireland Elizabeth Tilley

It has become commonplace to begin any examination of the publishing industry in nineteenth-century Ireland with a lament for the lost glories of the eighteenth century. The fact is that the Act of Union in 1800 had both physical and psychological effects on the country. First, the copyright laws operating in England up to that time were applied to Ireland as well, specifically from 1802 onwards. Ireland had been very successful in the reprint business at the end of the eighteenth century. English books were imported to Ireland, the sheets reprinted and then sent back for sale at reduced prices to English buyers. From 1802 this was no longer (legally) possible. Second, the loss of the Irish Parliament and Dublin as the seat of government meant a drastic reduction in the amount of jobbing work available. Finally, as many Irish politicians and peers decamped for London, there was a consequent decline in the domestic market for high quality books and government publications. The ultimate result was the decimation of many Irish firms and an 80 per cent decrease in production.1 Though the first years of the new century were difficult, a positive influence on Irish publishing was the passing of the Catholic Emancipation Bill in 1829, along with the central regulation from 1831 of the national school system. Greater freedom for Catholics meant a flurry of activity in terms of church building, the formation of Catholic book societies, circulating libraries and the production and distribution of school books. Nevertheless, James Cahalan, in The Irish Novel (1988) calls the 1830s and 1840s a ‘pathetic period of Irish book publishing, with only three publishers on the scene in Dublin – William Curry, James McGlashan, and James Duffy – [who] smothered or ruined promising talents’, largely, it appears, through lack of promotion of Irish authors in the English market.2 This seems to me a rather harsh view of the situation, though 173



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certainly by the post-famine period an air of waste and exhaustion hung over the entire country. It needs to be remembered too that the difficulties surrounding the publishing industry in Ireland had as much to do with government suppression – of newspapers and periodicals in particular – as they did with a dwindling market during years of famine and emigration. In fact, a very crude trawl through the catalogue of the Bradshaw Collection of Irish books (published in 1916), lists roughly 286 publishers in Dublin from 1800 to 1900.3 Most of these firms would have failed, but their sheer numbers indicate a demand for home-grown material, albeit much of it religious, during a century we have been taught to think of, as Cahalan says, as pathetic. The focus of this chapter is on the products of a few of the firms that did survive, which took an active interest in publishing nationalist literature in series form during the 1830s, and particularly during the turbulent decade of the 1840s: the firms of James Duffy and of James M’Cormick. The model chosen by Duffy and M’Cormick originated with the Belfast-based firm of Simms & M’Intyre. Simms & M’Intyre were the first to produce a cheap monthly series of Irish novels under the Parlour Novelist label. Their first title was John Banim’s Tales of the O’Hara Family, which appeared on 1 February 1846. Their mandate was to produce cheap editions of standard copyright works, but not necessarily exclusively Irish titles. In fact the second volume in the Parlour Novelist series was Eugene Sue’s The Commander of Malta. A dozen or so titles later the series was renamed the Parlour Library, the price lowered to one shilling, in distinctive green boards. The first title of the new series was William Carleton’s The Black Prophet, a novel that had just run its course in the Dublin University Magazine for 1846. Volumes in the Parlour Library were issued at the rate of two per month until there were one hundred titles in the series by September 1853. By that time the firm had found it necessary to open a London office, and their books began to be printed in London. In fact the title page of the 1848 Tales of the Munster Festivals gives the Paternoster Row, London, address in larger type than the Belfast address. In any case, the series was in different hands by the middle of the 1850s. I mention Simms & M’Intyre simply to note that the format they chose – size of volume, design, colour of cover and price – resembles that of Dublin firms who very quickly began to produce the same sort of material, but with an explicitly nationalist intent.4 In the south, particularly in Dublin, the fortunes of the publishing industry after the passing of the Catholic Emancipation Act reflected a new confidence: the shock caused by the passing of the Act of Union seemed to dissipate, and the new enthusiasm for the publication of



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antiquarian material provided readers with a rediscovery of and a new pride in a forgotten heritage. It was perhaps inevitable that a new notion of Irish national identity would be inextricably bound up with this re-animated notion of Irish ethnic identity. Similarly, with Daniel O’Connell’s Repeal Movement as a strong political force in the 1820s and 1830s, Irish nationhood ultimately became synonymous with Catholic nationhood, and Catholic nationhood synonymous with education. The time I focus on here actually concerns the generation of writers and politicians after O’Connell, men with radically different ideas, though still intimately involved with Repeal: that is, the Young Ireland group of the 1840s, comprising Thomas Davis, John Mitchel, Charles Gavan Duffy, Thomas McNevin and others.5 The Reading Rooms O’Connell and the Catholic hierarchy had begun to set up in the 1830s were seen both by them and by the Young Irelanders as the perfect venue for the education of the people, education being acknowledged as a necessary precursor to reform action. It was plain to them that the Irish national school system was wholly inadequate to the task of forming an independence of mind, administered as it was by a foreign power and failing to provide the sort of reading material proper to a state aspiring to self-determination. Similarly, the failure of the Mechanics Institutes in Ireland seemed due in large part both to the air of condescension notable in their boards of management, and, more importantly, to the lack of fundamental education in the membership. Moreover, political discussion was censored, and popular literature was lacking in the reading material provided, although, as R. G. Morton notes, the Institutes ‘were not total failures. They provided meeting places, centres of information and sources of relaxation after the day’s toil.’6 But, ultimately, there was little point in explaining elaborate chemical experiments or the intricacies of electricity to a disenfranchised audience.7 What was required was a plan of education based on a rediscovery of Ireland’s own history. Thomas Davis noted that until the National Schools fall under national control, the people must take diligent care to produce books on the history, men, language, music, and manners of Ireland for their children. These schools are very good so far as they go, and the children should be sent to them; but they are not national, they do not use the Irish language, nor teach anything particularly Irish.8 Elsewhere Davis wrote: ‘The Repeal Association has now constituted itself schoolmaster of the people of Ireland, and must be prepared to



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carry out its pretension. The people, knowing the attempt, must sustain it with increased funds and zeal.’9 Davis’s identification of this dearth of suitable reading material was a constant refrain heard in the pages of the Young Ireland newspaper, the Nation, begun in 1842. The question was: which works would be most fitting for the sort of public education the Young Irelanders envisioned? This re-creation of an Irish national literature in the 1830s and 1840s, since that is really what the group were talking about, would be part of a conscious reaction to a general feeling of being cut off from a heroic past. It must include, therefore, song, epic accounts of battles and historical accounts of past encounters with foreign powers. The Oxford Companion to Irish History puts this quite succinctly: ‘The Young Ireland concept of a ballad history of Ireland, conceived as a romantic protest, was carried out through the systematic dissemination of didactic mass literature using methods borrowed from English radicals.’10 This idea is certainly echoed in the most famous of these manufactured histories: the Young Ireland compilation of essays and articles reprinted from the Nation, and entitled The Voice of the Nation: A Manual of Nationality, published from the offices of the newspaper in 1844. As it turned out, the cheaply printed volume was in such demand that the newspaper could not handle requests, and the editors decided to have the volume printed for them by the firm of James Duffy. Duffy was already well known for producing very cheap editions of old romances and religious works. When a further collection of ballads, poems and songs from the Nation was produced in 1844, called The Spirit of the Nation, it was assumed that Duffy would handle this as well.11 The two books became the foundation of a new series produced by Duffy, called the Library of Ireland. Volumes were uniform in style: about 250 pages each, 18mo, one shilling in price, in ornamental wrappers or green boards, and two shillings in cloth. As noted above, the general format resembled the one Simms and M’Intyre would use from 1846 on. Here, though, the prominence of the Celtic cross, the Irish harp and classical figures signifying learning and heroism were most evident. The volumes were published every month for two years, from 1845 to 1847. Titles included the novels of William Carleton, lives of Grattan and Curran, three or four books of songs and ballads, and histories of both Irish and American revolutionary movements. In short, the Young Irelanders published, with Duffy’s assistance, enough material to produce an alternative Irish history syllabus, with the ultimate aim of reinvigorating the country. The letters of Thomas Davis reveal a close association between the Young Ireland movement, particularly Davis



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himself, and Duffy’s publishing firm. A letter from 11 April 1845 talks about the new publications Davis hopes to see coming from Duffy: ‘We shall have a flood of Irish publications this coming season … our literary progress in 1845 promises to be real.’ Again, in July 1845 Davis wrote: ‘Our Library of Ireland promises better than any other undertaking of our party, and, what is better still, is likely to be aided by Whigs and Tories.’ Another letter from July 1845 recounts James Duffy’s entertainment of ‘a large party’ at Duffy’s house in Bray, and Davis says to his correspondent, ‘tell your friend to send me the MS. and a statement of the form in which he wills to have it printed, and I shall let him know the cost and prospect of publication’.12 Clearly, Davis assumed that he could influence Duffy’s choice of material to be published, that in fact Duffy was the not so unofficial publisher to Young Ireland. This was a good fifteen years after Duffy’s entrance into the field of Dublin publishing, and I find it hard to believe that he would undertake to produce anything that he would see as being difficult to sell. In other words, Duffy was certainly a nationalist, but he was also a businessman. In an article in the Nation entitled ‘Irish Literature and Publication’, Thomas Davis cited Duffy as one of those citizens who had managed to combine commercial interests with patriotic work: The most useful among … [the publishers, in promulgating these new notions about Ireland] … has been a Mr. James Duffy, who, starting, as we have heard, with trifling capital, has established an immense traffic as a re-publisher of books. By buying them out at a very low price, he has obtained the vast sale which was necessary to repay him; and he has been, we are told, repaid by every one of his projects … We know nothing of this spirited citizen beyond seeing what he has done; and considering the value of putting such works into the hands of tens of thousands which he must do to ensure a profit, we must say he has done a good work – he has earned the good word and support of all who prize national education.13 The declaration of business interests as not necessarily incompatible with patriotism is clear. After all, Duffy was chosen for his business sense, not for his literary acumen; in fact, there were constant complaints from the Young Irelanders about Duffy’s inability to distinguish trash from gold, but because he had the ability to produce great quantities of material at very cheap prices, and a track record of doing so, he seemed the ideal conduit through which the Young Ireland message




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The Spirit of the Nation was issued in the first instance from the Nation office, but as the demand for it became embarrassing, I looked out for a publisher and fixed upon Mr. James Duffy. This was the beginning of his connection with the Young Ireland party. He was a man of shrewd sense and sly humour, but without cultivation or judgment in literature; it was a subject of constant vexation to the men who were making his name familiar to the world, that side by side with books of eminent merit, he would issue some dreadful abortion of an Irish story or an Irish pamphlet which was certain to be treated at a distance as the latest production of Young Ireland.14 Duffy certainly used stereotyping to good effect, bringing out what he called ‘new editions’ of the Library of Ireland series at regular intervals. Duffy was also an old hand at the series game. The Irish Book Lover published a short biography of Duffy in 1930, in which the writer noted that ‘For a decade or so before the founding of the Nation he [Duffy] had, through his Popular Sixpenny Library, been unwittingly cultivating the popular taste for the mighty feast of song and story that was to be sprung upon them in the early “forties”.’15 I would suggest that a sort of symbiotic relationship developed between the Young Irelanders and the firm of Duffy. Everything Duffy produced – whether it was church missals or cheap translations of old French romances – became associated with Young Ireland, occasionally to the chagrin of the group, as they were only too aware of Duffy’s eclectic tastes. On the other hand, because of the predominance of Young Ireland authors on the books of one of the most successful publishers of the time, nineteenth-century literature in Ireland tended to be seen as radical in intent and heavily weighted towards politics and religion over fiction, with the exception of the omnipresence of William Carleton, the only Irish novelist to be published by all the major Irish firms, including Duffy. With Simms & M’Intyre more interested in engaging with an English than an Irish audience, the only real possibility for competition in cheap Dublin publishing was between Duffy and a relative newcomer on the scene, James M’Cormick. M’Cormick is first heard of in 1840, with a shop at 16 Christ-church Place. M’Cormick seemed to specialise in inflammatory volumes, such as accounts of the 1798 rising and a series called The Black List, which gave the names of all those who



might be disseminated. Charles Gavan Duffy also paid tribute to the publisher in recalling his questionable taste:

voted for the Union, along with the rewards and pensions they received for doing so. Another of M’Cormick’s volumes, entitled Black History of Ireland, issued as a series in twenty numbers in 1848, gave a highly coloured account of the 1641 rebellion. In 1847 he published an exposé of the corruption in the Dublin police system, apparently written by an ex-inspector of police; the book caused a good bit of trouble for the publisher, and there were rumours that he would try to leave Ireland for America in order to escape arrest for sedition. A year before this, in 1846, M’Cormick had begun to publish a series almost identical to that of Duffy, called the Library for Ireland. M’Cormick’s volumes most closely resembled those of Simms and M’Intyre, boasting a dark green paper cover, with a garland of shamrocks surrounding the series title. In the Library for Ireland volumes, though, M’Cormick highlighted the Irish wolfhound, the round tower and the harp, echoing the title pages of nationalist penny papers from the 1830s. M’Cormick’s series was cheaper than Duffy’s, at four pence per volume, well printed and advertised alongside Duffy’s books in the Nation. According to Christoper Clinton Hoey, in his series on the history of Irish printing and publishing, the volumes, which ran for several months, had apparently a pretty good sale, but they had to contend against those issued by Duffy, and they were looked upon by a large number of the Young Ireland school, represented by the Nation, as an ungenerous opposition. Of course, the Young Ireland party was very much interested in the success of Duffy’s volumes, for the ‘Library of Ireland’ was one of their favourite projects.16 Apparently, this combination of official disapproval and M’Cormick’s own penchant for publishing seditious material spelled the demise of the series; in fact M’Cormick did escape arrest by sailing for New Orleans in 1848, dying there not long after arrival. The point here is to underscore the fairly tight control the Young Irelanders exerted over publishing practice during the middle years of the 1840s. Duffy was their man, and they made sure that their voices, through him, were the ones most in the public arena. Duffy’s position as a clearing house for nationalist literature was confirmed in the pages of the Nation, where his lists of titles often take up a column and a half. His volumes were also constantly referred to in letters to the paper, and reviews of Duffy books were included in its pages. In addition to the cheapness of the books themselves were




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the discounts Duffy offered to reading rooms for multiple copies and for what was called ‘gratuitous Distribution Among the Poor’.17 Even letters from Duffy to the paper were transcribed. One from 21 April 1843, printed in the 29 April edition, reads: ‘I have to thank you for connecting my humble name with our national literature; but the praise is due to the kind patronage and extensive support which I have received from the Catholic hierarchy, clergy, and the laity of Ireland.’18 An explicit connection is made, then, between Duffy, nationalism and the Catholic hierarchy. The connection certainly becomes more important as the century goes on, but it begins here with Duffy as publisher of the Library of Ireland series. Quite frequently, in the prefaces to the Library of Ireland volumes, Duffy is mentioned as an individual deeply concerned with the sort of reading material the public is constantly being subjected to: memoirs of robbers, fairy stories etc., actually the sort of thing that Duffy himself, in an earlier incarnation, might have considered issuing. It should also be noted that within a very short time after its foundation, the Library of Ireland series was being advertised as ‘Duffy’s Library of Ireland’. So M’Cormick’s series, though cheaper than Duffy’s, could not compete with the superior advertising space, in all sorts of forms, given to Duffy’s product, combined with the tacit disapproval of competition as somehow unpatriotic. The Young Ireland project fell apart after the failed rebellion of 1848, the government suppression of the Nation and the arrests and sentence of transportation passed on many of the leaders. We often forget how quickly this version of nationalism arose, and how much it depended on the production of easily identifiable literature for support and development. Given that famine and emigration, not to mention government prosecution, were always a threat, it is remarkable that the Young Ireland movement lasted as long as it did. Pocket books, produced in series, telling the true history of the nation through the activities of its rebellious leaders, and shored up through dialogue and debate in a newspaper created specifically for this purpose, meant that the nationalist message was disseminated as effectively as if the leaders had had access to nightly radio broadcasts. Colour, size and price were crucial to success. The presence of the green cover (see Figure 10.7)19 or green lettering meant freedom, small size meant portability and low price meant universal saturation. Duffy must have known this and must have had no hesitation in annexing his own name to what had become the official nationalist voice, at least for a time. And, ultimately, there could really only have been one voice of the nation in the 1840s. The number of readers was still relatively



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Figure 10.1 Thomas MacNevin, The History of the Irish Volunteers of 1792 (Dublin: James Duffy & Co., Duffy’s Library of Ireland, 1848), courtesy of the James Hardiman Library, National University of Ireland, Galway

small. As such, I think it significant that that voice was associated with a publisher also in the employ of the Catholic hierarchy. Cautious, temperate, not particularly literary, Duffy turned, after 1848, to a growing Catholic list and the production of what have been called ‘cosy, domestic’ Catholic periodicals,20 and any number of Catholic books in series form, such as Duffy’s Golden Library and Duffy’s Standard Library of Catholic Divinity. The use of series publishing in the 1840s in Ireland, then, was seen as a means of education, of advertisement, of reinvigoration of an exhausted country, and the back-up of the series with the Nation




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newspaper meant that the greatest possible number of readers could be accessed, and given the most up-to-date news about the progress of reform. An unintentional effect of choice of publisher, though, was the continuation of the conflation of nationalism with Catholicism, something begun by O’Connell, but not originally part of the mandate of Young Ireland.

Notes 1. See Vincent Kinane (1994: 79). 2. See James Cahalan (1988: 75). 3. See A Catalogue of the Bradshaw Collection of Irish Books in the University Library, Cambridge (1916). 4. See ‘The Parlour Library’ (1911: 133–5) and John Spiers (2007). 5. The literature examining the Young Ireland movement is extensive. See, for example, Richard Davis (1987) and the eye witness history of the movement by Charles Gavan Duffy (1973). 6. See R. G. Morton (1972: 71). 7. See Norman McMillan (n.d.) and Elizabeth Neswald (2006). 8. Thomas Davis (1846: 27). 9. Ibid.: 243. 10. S. J. Connolly (2002). The best account of this process of re-imagination is to be found in Joep Leerssen (1996). 11. In fact there were fifty-nine editions of the book issued by 1934 (T. F. O’Sullivan 1945: 67). 12. See ‘Letters of Thomas Davis’ (1888). 13. Thomas Davis (1843). 14. The Irish Monthly, 23 (November 1895): 597–8. 15. ‘James Duffy’ (1930). 16. Christopher Clinton Hoey (1878). 17. Notice in the Nation, 27 September 1845. 18. See the Nation, 29 April 1843: 456. 19. Duffy’s standard cloth binding is shown here, common from 1850 on. It resembles nothing so much as the standard binding of an official government publication. 20. See Barbara Hayley and Enda McKay (1987).

Selected bibliography Cahalan, James (1988) The Irish Novel: A Critical History. Dublin. A Catalogue of the Bradshaw Collection of Irish Books in the University Library, Cambridge (1916). Cambridge. Connolly, S. J. (ed.) (2002) ‘Literature and the Historian’, in Oxford Companion to Irish History. Oxford. Davis, Richard (1987) The Young Ireland Movement. Dublin. Davis, Thomas (1843) ‘Irish Literature and Publication,’ Nation, 15 April: 425. Davis, Thomas (1846) Literary and Historical Essays. Dublin.



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Duffy, Charles Gavan (1973) Young Ireland: A Fragment of Irish History, 1840–1850. New York. ‘James Duffy’ (1930) Irish Book Lover, 18(6): 168–9. Hayley, Barbara and McKay, Enda (eds) (1987) Three Hundred Years of Irish Periodicals. Mullingar, Co. Westmeath. Hoey, Christopher Clinton (1878) ‘The Rise and Progress of Printing and Publishing in Ireland’, the Irish Builder, 1 March: 67. Kinane, Vincent (1994) A History of the Dublin University Press, 1734–1976. Dublin. Leerssen, Joep (1996) Remembrance and Imagination: Patterns in the Historical and Literary Representation of Ireland in the Nineteenth Century. Cork. ‘Letters of Thomas Davis’ (1888) The Irish Monthly, 16(180): 335–48. McMillan, Norman (ed.) (n.d.) Prometheus’s Fire: A History of Scientific and Technological Education in Ireland. Kilkenny. Morton, R. G. (1972) ‘Mechanics’ Institutes and the Attempted Diffusion of Useful Knowledge in Ireland, 1825–79,’ Irish Booklore, 2: 59–74. Neswald, Elizabeth (2006) ‘Science, Sociability and the Improvement of Ireland: The Galway Mechanics’ Institute, 1826–51,’ British Journal of the History of Science, 39(4): 503–34. O’Sullivan, T. F. (1945) The Young Irelanders. Tralee, p. 67. ‘The Parlour Library’ (1911) The Irish Book Lover, 2(9): 133–5. Spiers, John (2007) Serious about Series: American Cheap ‘Libraries’, British ‘Railway’ Libraries, and Some Literary Series of the 1890’s. London: Institute of English Studies, University of London, with The Senate House Library.




One Series after Another: The Macmillan Company of Canada Ruth Panofsky

Central to the history of the Macmillan Company of Canada is a study of the firm’s marketing practices over the course of seventy-five years. Most notable among those practices was the publication of books in series, which began as early as 1911 and continued throughout the twentieth century. The Macmillan Company of Canada issued a plethora of series. Some of the company’s early series undoubtedly had equivalents in the British company: Macmillan’s Literature Series, the St Martin’s Series (classics, literature and Shakespeare) and the Macmillan War Pamphlets Series, for example. The last of these had a Canadian offshoot in the Macmillan War Pamphlets (Canadian Series). The majority of Macmillan’s series were established for educational purposes, some for textbooks used in particular provinces, and they covered practically all curricular subjects. In later years, Macmillan still issued many series, most with an educational aim. The Great Stories of Canada, a semi-literary series, began in the 1950s. The Laurentian Library was conceived in the 1960s, partly in response to the successful New Canadian Library, a paperback reprint series issued by the rival Toronto firm of McClelland and Stewart, and as an attempt to retain the rights to books by keeping them in print. The subject of series publication is much neglected, especially in the case of series aimed at the Canadian market. Macmillan’s preference for series publication – particularly as a means of targeting the educational market – warrants serious consideration. This chapter addresses the following key questions. Did the parent house in London and the affiliate house in New York influence the early appearance of Macmillan Canada series? Why did the Macmillan Company of Canada go on to establish so many series? What marketing strategies did the company employ in doing so? Did competition from other Canadian publishing companies 184



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encourage Macmillan Canada’s use of series publication? This chapter argues for the importance of the series as ‘a key publishing strategy’, designed ‘to influence socialisation and to exert moral and social control … to shape values and behaviours’ (Spiers 2007: 4, 3). I show how series publication helped to establish Macmillan’s role as an educational publisher of note and contributed to its status as one of the most important Canadian publishing companies of the twentieth century. Macmillan’s success can be traced directly to tactical series publication, undertaken by a sequence of enterprising publishers who understood the value of the series to the firm and its readership. Book historian Leslie Howsam points out that series publication has always involved constructing systems – she cites the Victorian examples of the Cornhill Library of Fiction, the Aldine Edition of the British Poets and Redway’s Shilling Series – whose ‘sum of the collected books was greater than their individual parts’ (Howsam 1992: 5). Such systems, Howsam goes on to argue, were ‘invented and refined by publishers, in whose minds the marketing of books as commodities ranked equally with or above literary considerations. The launching of a series was an opportunity for entrepreneurship. It provided a focus for advertising, and standard formats made it cost-efficient’ (Howsam 1992: 222). Between 1835 and 1900, Macmillan and Company of London published a large number of series across several genres, including many literary, educational and juvenile series. By late 1905, when the Toronto branch was established under first president Frank Wise – Wise had been employed by the New York office for more than ten years – Macmillan was known for its long established, reputable series and the company understood the economic and cultural value of series publication. Wise recognised that series publication was an effective means of establishing financial stability for a fledgling branch and securing a wide, at times captive, readership. An ardent student of publishing practice and former head of the education department in New York, Wise had learned from the parent and affiliate houses that educational series, once adopted by boards of education across the country, could prove both lucrative and culturally significant. He also understood that readers were attracted to Macmillan’s series for their familiarity and the cultural authority wielded by the Macmillan imprint. As John Kijinski affirms, ‘that Macmillan was the publisher gave the general reader an assurance these books would present respectable, reputable treatments of the topics covered’ (Kijinski 1991: 207). More important, however, was the powerful cultural influence of Macmillan’s numerous series, which ‘worked to establish for a wide readership a notion of a shared, organic



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English culture, one that united all citizens of the [British] nation regardless of class or region’ (Kijinski 1991: 207). Throughout his presidency, Wise published educational series that sought to capitalise, in ways both legitimate and questionable, on his readers’ confidence in the Macmillan product and to similarly nurture a ‘shared, organic’ Canadian sensibility.1 Among the first publications to be issued by the Toronto office were educational titles, conceived and written specifically for Canadian students. Wise was driven to produce indigenous texts for several reasons. First, the British-born Wise brought with him to the position of president an interest in the Dominion’s connection to the British Empire, and a desire to affirm the value of that connection through the publication of Canadian books. Second, he required a secure financial base upon which to build his firm, and he knew that successful educational titles showed considerable and consistent economic return over time. Finally, although his primary obligation was to promote Macmillan’s educational titles published in London and New York – George Platt Brett, head of the New York office and a director of the Canadian branch, would confirm later that ‘the intention was, in establishing the Canadian house, to work thoroughly in that market our many and important new books’ (George Brett to Frank Wise, 25 February 1915) – his superiors granted Wise the opportunity, however tentatively at first, to publish books that had been sanctioned for use by provincial boards of education. As Sir Frederick Macmillan cautioned Wise on 11 October 1910, You say something about the necessity of having money in hand in case some profitable publishing venture came in sight, but as to this I may say at once we should be more than a little surprised and displeased if you embarked on any ‘publishing venture’ of importance without first consulting us. The primary business of the Macmillan Company of Canada is to sell the publications of the New York and London houses, and the only kind of publishing which ought to originate in Canada is the production of school books authorized by one or other of the Provincial governments. Macmillan scholar Bruce Whiteman confirms that in the early period ‘the majority of Macmillan textbooks … were [indeed] English or American Macmillan books on which Wise was able to put his imprint’ (Whiteman 1984b: 71). Through his connections with school boards, teachers and textbook authors, Wise was well positioned to judge the educational market in



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Canada. His first educational titles were discrete publications – series publication did not begin in Toronto until 1911 – such as H. S. Hall’s Junior Algebra for Schools, which appeared in 1908, and the Ontario High School Chemistry, published the following year. As their title pages announced, the minister of education for the province of Ontario authorised both textbooks. Two 1907 texts, George W. Mitchell’s An Introduction to Latin Prose and John Waddell’s A School Chemistry, were written by Canadians. Mitchell was a professor of classics at Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario and Waddell was a professor of chemistry, also in Kingston. Neither book was produced in Canada, however. Following the purchase of the Morang Educational Company in 1912, Macmillan’s publishing programme expanded considerably. As Whiteman (1984b: 72) asserts, ‘The Morang purchase was unquestionably the most important occurrence during the Wise years.’ Over several years – during the period of the Morang Company’s decline – Wise had been attempting to secure Morang’s educational list for Macmillan. A striking example of ‘how often sheets, stereo-plates, binding cases and the titles of series moved between publishers’ (Spiers 2007: 9), the acquisition brought Macmillan invaluable assets. For the purchase price of $150,000, Wise received Morang’s lucrative textbook contracts and the services of the skilled and charismatic editor John Cameron Saul, who joined Macmillan at the time of the sale. Over the next seven years, Wise and Saul worked jointly to consolidate Macmillan’s position as one of the leading textbook publishers in Canada. Without the financial backing of the London and New York houses Wise would not have been in the position to purchase Morang, and he grasped the need to build Macmillan’s fortunes on the foundation of his newly acquired list of textbooks. Immediately, Wise set out to secure the trust of his superiors and repay a considerable debt, and he did so largely through series publication. Among the numerous Morang titles that Macmillan reissued in series format were: Laurence H. J. Minchin’s The King Edward Music Readers, authorised for use in the provinces of Manitoba, Saskatchewan and British Columbia; the Nova Scotia Readers, authorised for province-wide use; E. W. Hagarty’s Introductory Latin Grammar and First Latin Reader and David M. Duncan’s The Story of the Canadian People, titles in Macmillan’s Canadian School Series; Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Tanglewood Tales, J. E. Wetherell’s Poems of the Love of Country and John Burroughs’s Sharp Eyes and Other Essays in Macmillan’s Literature Series; John Ruskin’s The King of the Golden River or The Black Brothers: A Legend of Stiria in Macmillan’s Eclectic Series; Rudolph Baumbach’s Waldnovellen in Macmillan’s German Classics Series; and




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Eugène Labiche’s Le Voyage de Monsieur Perrichon in Macmillan’s French Classics Series. Wise supplemented these with additional titles that originated in Macmillan’s offices in London, New York and Toronto. Of the many Morang titles acquired by Macmillan, The Alexandra Readers were perhaps the most successful. The Alexandra Readers were a series of primers prepared by W. A. McIntyre and the indomitable John Cameron Saul, himself a former teacher and incomparable editor, and authorised by the departments of education of Alberta and Saskatchewan. In 1900, Morang published the first Alexandra Phonic Primer and, by the time Macmillan acquired the series, the Readers had been ‘twelve years in use with practically no criticism’ (Box 1, file 2, Macmillan Company of Canada). No doubt, Saul’s own commitment to the project, as both editor and salesman, accounted for its continued success. When he transferred his professional loyalty from George Morang to Frank Wise, he also shifted his energy and ambition to the promotion of Macmillan’s books. Wise’s entrepreneurial skill, Saul’s editorial acumen and a marketable series of educational titles combined to provide a solid financial base for the Toronto branch of Macmillan. Important series such as The Alexandra Readers and the Nova Scotia Readers, which were reissued regularly for classroom use across the country, helped to establish Macmillan’s role as an educational publisher, its reputation as a signal producer of textbooks, and ensured the company’s financial viability. Moreover, as Whiteman notes, Wise’s autonomy grew in proportion to the success of the Toronto branch: ‘The freedom to issue books of its own was only granted to the company by its directors because of Wise’s ability to make the Toronto branch financially successful in a very short time’ (Whiteman 1984b: 77). By February 1921, when Wise’s misdemeanours finally obliged him to leave the company, Macmillan had a flourishing list of series. Wise’s successor was twenty-six-year-old Hugh Eayrs, a Yorkshire-born natural bookman who had been hired by Wise himself. Under Eayrs’s visionary leadership, Macmillan matured into a successful publishing house with an expanded list of educational series and Canadian trade titles. Unlike the more traditional Wise, Eayrs sought to foster a burgeoning Canadian nationalism through the publication of indigenous titles. Between 1921 and 1940, the period of Eayrs’s presidency, Macmillan emerged from the shadows of its branch-plant status, developed a distinctively national character and was known for publishing works by and for Canadians. Series remained at the heart of the Macmillan enterprise, the financial engine that drove the publication of Eayrs’s cherished trade list. Although he lacked interest in the educational side



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of Macmillan’s publishing programme – the dynamic Eayrs preferred the excitement of building a trade list of significant titles – he could not ignore the importance of textbooks to Macmillan’s economic success and cultural influence. Space does not permit a full discussion of the Macmillan series produced under Eayrs, such as the McGill University Economic Studies series, which addressed the national problems of Canada, or the idiosyncratic What You Should Know About series, which covered a curious range of subjects, including cancer, tuberculosis, the heart and economical cooking. Here, I focus on the Canadian Treasury Readers for their compelling example of collaboration between the Macmillan Company of Canada and Ryerson Press, a rare instance of competitors joining forces in an attempt ‘to cut competition’ (Lorne Pierce to Hugh Eayrs, 25 March 1932) and win the lucrative textbook market for themselves. On 27 September 1932, after the first books in the series were nearing completion, the wily Hugh Eayrs explained to Daniel Macmillan in London: ‘In response to a straight tip from the Interprovincial [Schoolbook] Committee [of British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba] that no one house would get the contract, we have associated with us the Ryerson Press … at once the most dangerous competitor and the best book manufacturer, a house like our own of substance and repute.’ Books one to three of the Canadian Treasury Readers were originally published in the Canada Books of Prose and Verse series under the editorship of Lorne Pierce of the now defunct Ryerson Press, one of English Canada’s oldest publishing companies. In April 1932, Pierce and Eayrs signed a formal agreement to jointly edit and publish the newly named Canadian Treasury Readers, a continuation of the Canada Books of Prose and Verse Series. The new series, which had been in preparation throughout 1931, would comprise a primer and readers for grades 1 to 11, together with manuals, workbooks and supplementary teaching materials; books one to three were to be revised as readers for grades 7, 8 and 9. Pierce was named editor-in-chief of the series, with Eayrs as managing editor. Eayrs anticipated ‘that these readers will be adopted as the authorized readers for the four Western Provinces. If we are right it will be much the biggest deal the House has ever had, and will involve an extra turnover of some $100,000 a year’ (Hugh Eayrs to Daniel Macmillan, 14 October 1931). Eayrs was confident in his alliance with Pierce, who was highly respected both as a publisher and as an intellectual. Biographer Sandra Campbell claims that Pierce ‘was arguably Canada’s most influential




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perfectly architected [sic] … This is solely due to the sound scholarship and the awareness of modern pedagogical thinking which are part and parcel of Lorne Pierce. As the editor-in-chief of the Series you have in him a man with an essentially fine mind, concerned first of all with the beautiful and the lasting, and secondly with the up to date. I am satisfied that so far as the text is concerned no Series can match ours. (Hugh Eayrs to Frances Ormond, 15 January 1932) The honeymoon period was short-lived, however. Although Pierce and Eayrs continued to work alongside one another for many years, their personalities often clashed. The serious Pierce and flamboyant Eayrs were opposite in temperament and work habits. Pierce was dedicated and meticulous, ‘an academically inclined editor’ (Campbell 1994: 136), while Eayrs worked in great spurts of frenetic energy. That their business practices differed considerably was also a recurring source of conflict. One such instance took place in March 1932, at the beginning of Ryerson and Macmillan’s collaborative relationship. Pierce believed Eayrs was competing with their joint series when the latter submitted the St Martin’s Classics series to the Ontario board of education for its consideration. Eayrs countered that he had ‘no right to prescribe your general publishing policy, and you have no right to prescribe mine. Both of us intend to defend the one venture, a very large one, in which we are so very deeply interested’ (Hugh Eayrs to Lorne Pierce, 20 May 1932). Eayrs’s response served to allay Pierce’s concern, but only briefly. Their connection was punctuated by lapses in Pierce’s trust of Eayrs, whom Pierce regularly suspected of disingenuous behaviour. As Eayrs’s secretary confirmed in 1946, six years after his untimely death, Pierce ‘was always unhappy about the collaboration’ (Ellen Elliott to John Gray, 18 June 1946) between the two publishing houses. In fact, Eayrs’s driving ambition, which he struggled to mask with his natural charm, often led to duplicitous behaviour. In July 1933, for example, in an effort to secure the contracts he and Pierce coveted, Eayrs chose to holiday in Lake Louise, forty miles from Banff, Alberta, where the Interprovincial Schoolbook Committee was meeting to assess textbook submissions. Surreptitiously, he arranged that Archie Herriott,



publisher and editor in the period from Canada’s coming-of-age after the First World War to the Quiet Revolution [in Quebec (1960–6)]’ (Campbell 1994: 135). Eayrs correctly assumed that his editor-in-chief lent credibility to their joint series, which he regarded as

Figure 11.1 W. O. Mitchell’s novel Who Has Seen the Wind, no. 14 in the Macmillan Company of Canada’s Laurentian Library, 1972 (first published 1947)

inspector of schools in Manitoba, ‘one of the committee people at Banff, which we can trust, should know that we are at [Lake] Louise, and therefore could get any word to us if it were necessary’ (Hugh Eayrs to Lorne Pierce, 19 July 1933). Eayrs’s plan worked to his advantage. When he learned from Herriott – who received $500 for being a staunch ally – that the Committee found the Canadian Treasury Series too highly priced, Eayrs and Pierce immediately reduced the cost of the readers. In the end, despite Eayrs’s determination and political connections, the Committee split the textbook contracts between Macmillan-Ryerson and their rivals Gage-Nelson, who had also joined forces in a highly competitive market. Eayrs and Pierce were pleased, nonetheless, by their




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qualified success and heartened by further interest in the readers shown by Nova Scotia boards of education. Until 1937, when the last title appeared, Eayrs sought to advance the Canadian Treasury Series. Over the years he kept abreast of the competition, tried successfully to expand the market for the series, ensured the timely production of each reader and handled conciliatory and angry negotiations with Pierce, whose repeated claims of feeling burdened by his editorial responsibility annoyed Eayrs. With the assistance of John Morgan Gray, employed at the time in Macmillan’s education department, Eayrs also resolved two charges of plagiarism in books one and six of the Canadian Treasury Series brought by Gage-Nelson. Eayrs’s promotional efforts were motivated by the likelihood of personal as well as professional gain, since his wife, Dora Whitefield, was co-editor alongside Pierce of books two and three in the series. Not surprisingly, it was Eayrs himself who arranged for his wife to represent Macmillan’s editorial interests in these two early books. As a result, the Macmillan Company of Canada prospered from the wide adoption of the readers, and Eayrs benefited personally from the royalties accrued to his wife. These details should not suggest, however, that Eayrs acted solely out of self-interest. In fact, Eayrs’s dynamism and vision for the company brought important changes and exciting new authors to Macmillan. Through a vigorous publishing programme that included successful educational series, as well as key trade publications – prose works by Louis Hémon, Grey Owl and Mazo de la Roche, and poetry by E. J. Pratt, for example – Eayrs nurtured Macmillan through adolescence and consolidated its position as an important Canadian publishing company. As Whiteman affirms, ‘it was largely through Eayrs’s efforts that Macmillan played so significant a role in the coming of age of Canadian literature which took place in the 1920s and after’ (Whiteman 1984a: vi). When Eayrs died of a heart attack in 1940, Ellen Elliott was placed in charge of publishing. Capable and energetic, Elliott had served as editor and had overseen much of the trade publishing undertaken by Macmillan, especially during Eayrs’s latter years when his health declined rapidly, the unfortunate result of hard living and excessive drinking, not unusual among bookmen of his day. Like Eayrs, Elliott was an ardent nationalist who upheld the role of publisher as arbiter of cultural taste and education, as she announced in her 1941 address to the Canadian Authors’ Association, issued that same year by Macmillan as Publishing in Wartime: ‘Publishing is making known in a permanent form a nation’s mind and intellect, heart and soul’ (Elliot 1941: 2). Elliott soon recognised an



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opportunity to publish topical works of interest to a growing readership that valued Macmillan’s culturally relevant books. One of Elliott’s earliest projects was the Macmillan War Pamphlets (Canadian Series), an offshoot of the Macmillan War Pamphlets series published in London; both series were prompt responses ‘to the reading wants of wartime constituencies’ (Spiers 2007: 19). Elliott intended to publish a number of ‘pamphlets which will express the opinion of outstanding Canadians who are doing important work for Canada as she is to-day and for the great power she will be among nations after the war is over’ (Ellen Elliott to Graham Towers, 25 February 1941). She modelled her Canadian pamphlets after the war pamphlets issued by the parent company: each was no more than thirty-two pages or approximately 8,000 words in length, affordably priced at 10 cents, and covered a separate topic pertaining to Canada’s role in the Second World War. Although she had envisaged a series of eleven pamphlets, Elliott succeeded in publishing a total of eight titles: Irene Baird’s The North American Tradition; Maurice N. Eisendrath’s Reading in War-Time; John Murray Gibbon’s The New Canadian Loyalists; Lou L. L. Golden’s Conscription; John Douglas Macbeth’s Somewhere in England: War Letters of a Canadian Officer on Overseas Service; Claris Edwin Silcox’s The War and Religion, all published in 1941; E. H. Bartlett’s The Royal Canadian Navy and Charlotte Whitton’s Canadian Women in the War Effort, which appeared in 1942. That the pamphlets received ‘excellent press in Canada’ (Ellen Elliott to A. J. Putnam, 15 October 1941) pleased Elliott and confirmed for her the value of timely, inexpensive series publication that addressed pressing national concerns. In 1946, the London directors appointed John Morgan Gray to the position of General Manager of the Macmillan Company of Canada, a decision that effectively required the resignation of Ellen Elliott. Having been hired by Hugh Eayrs, Gray had worked for ten years in Macmillan’s educational department before serving overseas from 1941 to 1946 in the Intelligence Corps of the First Canadian Army. When Gray returned to Toronto and resumed work at Macmillan, he soon displaced Elliott as head of publishing. Elsewhere I provide the details of Elliott’s twentyseven-year career at Macmillan and the circumstances of her departure from the company. Suffice it to note here that her resignation was less than voluntary.2 As the London directors recognised, Gray was indeed a visionary publisher and skilled editor. ‘Until his death in August 1978,’ as Whiteman (1984a: vii) describes, ‘Gray was one of the most highly regarded publishers in Canada, and under his guidance Macmillan continued




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to publish significant new Canadian writers’. He also continued the Macmillan tradition of series publication. The Great Stories of Canada series was conceived by Gray in 1952 and reflected his long-standing interest in Canadian history. Gray had served as president of the Ontario Historical Society, for example, and in 1963 Macmillan issued his award-winning biography of the historical figure Lord Selkirk. Gray envisaged a succession of trade books that would appeal to readers aged eleven to sixteen and also serve the educational market, ‘a series of junior popularly written accounts of particular events or people of importance in Canadian history’ (John Morgan Gray to Daniel Macmillan, 10 July 1952). Among Macmillan’s first juvenile series, the books ‘would be first and foremost good stories; secondly, sound and accurate as rigorous research could make them’ (Dobbs). The first title in the series appeared in 1953 and by 1959 a total of twenty books had been published, endorsed by renowned author Robertson Davies as ‘a library of Canadian Stories, written by some of our best authors, which will stand beside anything of its kind in English anywhere. If your children do not know it already, do not stint them any longer’ (quoted in Dobbs). The new series was widely promoted in the national press – in half and full-page advertisements in newspapers such as the Montreal Star, the Ottawa Journal, the Toronto Globe and Mail and the Saskatoon Star-Phoenix – in The [Boy] Scout Leader and on national radio as ‘action-packed, adventurous, true-to-life tales [that] make Canada’s colourful history come to life. The details of the exploits of early explorers, traders and scouts are faithfully told yet are recounted in a thrilling, easy-to-read style’ (Dobbs). As Macmillan editor Kildare Dobbs admitted, vigorous advertising helped to establish the series ‘in the public mind. Promotion of this sort would, of course, be impossible for individual titles which do not form part of a series. Budgets for such books, with their potential sale of say two or three thousand, are obviously too slender to buy space on this scale’ (Dobbs). Not surprisingly, given the series’ emphasis on exciting adventure tales, the majority of readers were boys, who featured prominently in Macmillan’s advertisements, dressed in jackets and ties and studiously engaged in reading the latest title. Written by well known, respected authors – Pierre Berton, Roderick Haig-Brown, Edward McCourt and Thomas Raddall, for example – The Great Stories of Canada found favour with readers and critics alike. In the first five years of the series, three books were awarded the prestigious Governor General’s Literary Award in the juvenile category: Marjorie Wilkins Campbell’s The Nor’Westers: The Fight for the Fur Trade (1954),



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Edgar Allardyce Wood’s The Map-Maker: The Story of David Thompson (1955) and Wood’s The Great Chief: Maskepetoon Warrior of the Crees (1957). Available in Canada, the United States, Britain and Australia, the volumes sold steadily; by 1960 several titles had sold more than a quarter million copies. The success of The Great Stories of Canada is significant for several reasons. First, the series’ emphasis on important historical figures and events reflected Gray’s commitment to fostering a sense of nationalism. Gray ‘[dis]agreed with those inverted patriots who held with morose pride that Canadian history was dull’ (Dobbs). He understood that national pride required nurturing and he utilised the vehicle of the juvenile series – at once didactic and entertaining – to promote his view of Canada’s past as exciting and worthy of study. Second, the books broke new ground as a Canadian juvenile series that straddled trade and educational markets. Their success demonstrated the positive effect of strategic promotion and confirmed the value of advertising books as commercial merchandise. Finally, the merit of series publication as a long-term investment was further confirmed as reissues of several volumes in The Great Stories of Canada series sold steadily over twenty years. Unfortunately, Gray was less discerning when it came to the paperback revolution. The Laurentian Library, Macmillan’s paperback reprint series, began in September 1967, Canada’s centenary and nine years after the inception of the renowned New Canadian Library issued by the rival Toronto firm of McClelland and Stewart. In the early 1950s, Malcolm Ross, at the time professor of English at the University of Toronto, met Gray to discuss the possibility of publishing a paperback reprint series of Canadian literature. Ross argued that a rise in Canadian literature courses in secondary schools and universities across the country was generating a need for inexpensive texts. When the conservative Gray politely declined Ross’s offer to edit such a series for Macmillan – the publisher soon regretted his negative decision – Ross approached Jack McClelland. Unlike Gray, who was preoccupied with rebuilding his company after the difficult war years and wary of the long-term prospects for Canadian literary paperbacks, McClelland accepted the proposal and in 1958 the first four titles in the New Canadian Library were issued under Ross’s general editorship. That Ross first sought an affiliation with Gray, however, shows his regard for Macmillan as an autonomous publishing house that might have embraced the national project he envisaged. Disappointingly, the Laurentian Library, Macmillan’s belated attempt at a paperback literary series, never matched the sustained success of




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McClelland and Stewart’s New Canadian Library, which still retains its hold on the paperback reprint market for Canadian literature. The Laurentian Library included the work of prominent novelists, among them Ethel Wilson, Morley Callaghan, Hugh MacLennan, Robertson Davies, W. O. Mitchell, Adele Wiseman and Timothy Findley. They were packaged as trade paperbacks aimed at the general reader and suitable for the educational market, and Gray sought to retain the rights to books by keeping them in print. A devoted publisher, he also hoped to find ‘a new, wider circle of readers’ (John Gray to Colin McDougall, 27 September 1967) for his loyal authors. After a false start, when Macmillan lost money by redesigning and resetting the first six titles in the series, all subsequent titles were paperback reissues. By 1972, the year the parent company sold the Macmillan Company of Canada to Maclean-Hunter, fourteen titles had been published and sales had increased from 9,435 in 1967 to a total of 63,079, further evidence that series publication was a sound, long-term undertaking. But the Laurentian Library could not compete with McClelland and Stewart’s New Canadian Library, its only true rival. Hugh Kane, successor to John Gray, articulated in 1973: Our books are manufactured very cheaply, printed on newsprint, and do not contain any introductions. They are, therefore, not nearly so useful to Can-Lit students. Several people have advised me recently … to revamp our plans by appointing an acceptable General Editor for LAURENTIAN LIBRARY; by including introductions to each new title; and by improving the quality of our product. (Hugh Kane to George W. Gilmour, 11 April 1973) Although the series expanded to fifty titles and continued until 1979, the Laurentian Library never was revamped and did not go on to achieve significant success. That Gray was late to embrace the paperback cannot be disputed – from our current perspective, his initial reluctance appears overly cautious – but his overall publishing programme was instrumental in fostering the Canadian writing that gave rise to highly influential reprint series such as the New Canadian Library and, to a lesser extent, the Laurentian Library. Today, the Laurentian Library remains notable as Macmillan’s mass market paperback venture that signalled the vibrant growth of modern Canadian literature. Throughout the twentieth century, Macmillan’s commitment to series publication across a wide range of genres – including the educational,



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topical, historical, juvenile and literary series discussed here – helped to establish a national cultural identity for Canada, separate from Britain and the United States, whose books otherwise dominated the classrooms, libraries and bookstores of the country. As this chapter has shown, from the outset Macmillan’s series were much more than opportunities for ‘entrepreneurship’ (Howsam 1992: 22). Each Macmillan series sought to furnish Canadian readers ‘with a common experience and a standardized piece of work’ (Howsam 1992: 11) that also reflected their own cultural values and world view. That those values and world view grew in clarity and scope over the course of the century was due in no small part to Macmillan’s visionary publishers and their ever-increasing determination to cultivate an identifiably Canadian sensibility through vigorous and diverse series publication.

Acknowledgements I wish to thank Michelle Coyne and Shawna Ferris for research assistance and Dr Carl Spadoni for his invaluable advice. Unless otherwise noted, all cited primary material is held in the Macmillan Company of Canada Fonds, William Ready Division of Archives and Research Collections, McMaster University. Preparation of this chapter was assisted by funding from the Bibliographical Society of America, the Bibliographical Society of Canada and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.

Notes 1. The compelling details of Wise’s eventual folly, which resulted in his resignation followed by a prison term, lie outside the scope of this essay. For a full description, see McKillop (2000). 2. See Panofsky (2006).

Selected bibliography Campbell, S. (1994) ‘Nationalism, Morality, and Gender: Lorne Pierce and the Canadian Literary Canon, 1920–60’, Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada, 32(2): 134–60. Dobbs, K. (1960) ‘Canadian History Is Exciting’, MacLaren Advertiser. Elliott, E. (1941) Publishing in Wartime. Toronto: Macmillan. Howsam, L. (1992) ‘Sustained Literary Ventures: The Series in Victorian Book Publishing’, Publishing History, 31: 5–26. Kijinski, J. L. (1991) ‘John Morley’s “English Men of Letters” Series and the Politics of Reading’, Victorian Studies, 34(2): 205–25.




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McKillop, A. B. (2000) ‘Mystery at Macmillan: The Sudden Departure of President Frank Wise from Macmillan of Canada in 1921’, Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada, 38(1): 73–103. Macmillan Company of Canada, Fonds, William Ready Division of Archives and Research Collections, McMaster University, Hamilton. Panofsky, R. (2006) ‘“Head of the Publishing Side of the Business”: Ellen Elliott of the Macmillan Company of Canada’, Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada, 44(2): 45–64. Spiers, J. (2007) Serious about Series: American Cheap ‘Libraries’, British ‘Railway’ Libraries, and Some Literary Series of the 1890’s. London: Institute of English Studies, University of London. Whiteman, B. (1984a) ‘The Archive of the Macmillan Company of Canada Ltd. Part I: 1905–1965’, Library Research News (McMaster University Library), 8(1). Whiteman, B. (1984b) ‘The Early History of the Macmillan Company of Canada, 1905–1921’, Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada, 23: 68–80.



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a priori assumptions, hazards 2, 17–18, 22, 27 access 8, 17, 77 acceptance of risk 9–10 adaptive market economy 6–10, 16, 22, 25, 36 advertising 10, 23, 28–9, 92, 102, 131, 180, 185, 194, 195 aesthetic theory 24, 29–30, 45, 46 Africa 4, 29, 65, 89, 97, 122, 130, 135, 146 aggressive wars 2 Aldcroft, D. H. 25, 42 Alison, Jennifer 5 Althusser, Louis 23 American Book Industry Study Group 18 American books in war-time: Armed Services Editions; Bücherreihe Neue Welt (New World Bookshelf ); Council on Books in Wartime; Fighting Forces Series; Infantry Journal; Military Service Publishing Company; Overseas Editions; Pocket Books, Inc.; Transatlantic Editions 48–61 as weapons of war/battle of ideas 48 Bermann-Fischer, Gottfried 52, 58, 59 blurb 55 books, their ambivalent power 48 books, their cultural work 48 books in foreign languages for refugees from Hitler 52 books in series dominant war-time vehicle 48 Brentano’s 52 developed new generation of book buyers/readers 57 differing norms, peace-time and war-time series 49

domestic market stimulated 49 Editions Didier 52 Éditions de la Maison Française 52 formats 49–50, 54–5 foreign language bookshop, Manhattan [Librairie de France] 52 fuelled post-war paperback boom 57 gains from collecting 48–9, 59 global distribution 49 Goebbels, Joseph 48 Hench, J. B., Books as Weapons and the Battle for Global Markets in the Era of World War 49 influence on post-war book production/consumption 49 influence promoting US publishers into world markets after 1945 48, 51, 58 intellectual concepts 49 Maurois, André 52 marketing concepts 49 Nazi book burning 48 paper rations 50 paratext 49–50, 54–5 private/public coalition for book production 48 production processes 56 purposes of war-time series 54 reader’s documented responses 57–8 ‘seriesness’ 56 Fischer-Verlag, S. 52, 59 Sloane, William 49–50 Soviet Union 55 success in context of wartime damage to British/European book trades 51 Armed Services Editions [Council on Books in War Time] 49, 50, 52, 57, 60, 61 ‘greatest mass publishing enterprise of all history’ 50

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Index

Armed Services Editions – continued sales, 123m. copies 49 Sloane, William 49–50 titles (1,322) 49 titles produced for troops occupying Germany and Japan 50 Bücherreihe Neue Welt (New World Bookshelf) [Office of the Provost Marshal General] 51, 53, 55, 58, 59 partnership with Infantry Journal and Penguin Books, American branch 51 titles in German for prisoners of war in US camps 51 Fighting Forces Series 50 books for Germany internees in USA 51 Enoch, Kurt 50 initiated by Infantry Journal 50 partnership with Penguin Books, American branch 50 Infantry Journal and Fighting Forces Series 50, 52 partnership with Penguin Books USA 50 Military Service Publishing Company 50 partnership with Penguin Books, American branch 50 popular novels 50 Superior Reprints series 50 Overseas Editions [subsidiary of Council on Books in Wartime] partnership with Penguin Books, American branch 51 titles in English, Dutch, German, Italian 51 Pocket Books, Inc. 50–1, 57 books for soldiers, from Pocket Books, designated Armed Services Editions 50–1 Transatlantic Editions [Council on Books in Wartime/Office of War Information] 51, 54, 56, 58 titles produced through its London office, in French and Dutch 51

American catholics 62, 68, 70 American catholic publications 68 American booksellers/publishers and Australia 91–3 American dime novel 34 American magazines 23, 24, 29, 45, 49, 50 American piracy 94–7 Americanisation of the Press 28 Ashton, T. S. 18, 42 Asia 29, see also Australia, India, and New Zealand Australia Study of Colonial Editions in Australia, A, 1843–1972 (G. Johanson) 92, 95, 99, 100, 103, 132, 134–5 Australasian, The 148 Australian library (collection) 93 Australian qualities of Bentley’s colonial library 97–8 abridgment of Bentley colonial library books for Australian market 98–100 Bentley/Robertson colonial library series [‘Special Editions for Colonial Circulation Only’] 93, 97–102 Blainey, Geoffrey 5 developments in Australian canon 92–104 cheap colonial issue of novels of Mrs. Henry Wood 93 cheap colonial issue of novels of Ouida 93 cheaper books 99–101 Clark, Marcus, For the Term of His Natural Life, re-titled Australian cheaper 6s. edition 96, 103 Clark, Marcus, His Natural Life, Australian first edition 95, 98, 103 Colonial Editions in Australia, 1843–1972 (G. Johanson) 92, 95, 99, 100, 103, 132, 134–5 Cooper, Herbert Stonehewer, The Islands of the Pacific 99



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copyright 94–7 distribution 94 Edwards, Annie, Leah: A Woman of Fashion 94 Robertson, George of Melbourne 29, 91–104 Hay, William Delisle, Brighter Britain: or Settler and Maori in Northern New Zealand 97 imaging of a nation 100–2 Leakey, Caroline, The Broad Arrow 92, 98, 99, 100, 103 Maning, Frederick Edward, A History of the War in the North against the Chief Heke 97 Maning, Frederick Edward, Old New Zealand 97 market, Australian 91–135 marketing of Bentley’s colonial library as Australian 98–100 Mathers, Helen, Cherry Ripe! 95–6 Mayer, Gertrude Townsend 98–9 nascent Australian canon 92 Pembroke, Earl of, and Kingsley, Dr. G. H., South Sea Bubbles 94 Petherick, E. A., manager of G. Robertson London branch 91, 93–4, 96, 98, 102 promotion of Australian market by Petherick 91 reading as index of respectability and personal culture 92 reading/buying public 92 rebranding of novels as Australian 92 tyranny of distance 5 writing 92 see also Richard Bentley and Son Anderson, Benedict, Imagined Communities 4, 39, 42, 78, 88, 101 anti-capitalist ideas 17–21 attitudes to markets 21 audiences: new popular leisure – cinema, radio, television, sports 28–9 autodidacts 120, 125, 128, 130–3

Bagehot, Walter 20 Bain, Alexander 14, 16, 42 Bast, Leonard 116–33 Beetham, Margaret 39, 42 Belloc, Hilaire 170 Bennett, Arnold, and competition 9 Bentley, Richard, and Son 91–104 Australian library (collection) 93, 96–7 Australian market 92 Australian reading/buying public 92 Australian writing 92 British market 91 Clark, Marcus, For the Term of His Natural Life, re-titled Australian cheaper 6s. edition 96, 103 Clark, Marcus, His Natural Life, Australian first edition 95, 98, 103 colonial library series 93, 97–8 copyright safeguarded by G. Robertson 94–5 copyright, lack of international protection 96 distribution 94 firm sold to Macmillan, publishers (1898) 97 increasingly competitive international market-place 96 Leakey, Caroline, The Broad Arrow 92, 98, 99, 100, 103 limited overseas sales pre-1860 91 Mathers, Helen, Cherry Ripe! 95–6 McKinnon, Hamilton 96 nascent Australian canon 92 paratext 92 partnership with George Robertson of Melbourne 91, 93 Petherick, E. A., manager of G. Robertson London branch 91, 93–4, 96, 98, 102 print runs 97 promotion of Australian market by Petherick 91 reading as index of respectability and personal culture 92



Index 201

Index

Bentley, Richard, and Son – continued rebranding of novels as Australian 92 reluctance to risk capital 2, 95–6 remainders 92 resistant to cheap editions 95 stereo-plates 95 threat of American cheap editions 96 works with American and colonial booksellers 91 Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works (1886–7) 106, 134, 150 bias against business 6, 23–5 Birkerts, Sven 18, 30, 39, 42 black history 24 Black, R. D. Collison 14–15, 44 book buyers 11 book history, politics and purposes 1, 6, 22–4 books actually read 167–8 books as an archive 6–7 books during the Cold War 59 book-sellers German lay booksellers and Catholic booksellers – organised in the Borromäusverein 63 Herder Verlag network of bookshops 67, 76 on-line bookselling 17–18 Shannon, Richard 94 women selling books from home 158 Woolard, James 130–1 book trade, curtailment of competition 10–11, 35 book trade employees 13 book trade and monopoly 9 books, cultural work 48 Booth, Charles 28 Bourdieu, Pierre 39, 42 brand 16 Brownson, Orestes 2, 43 Canada Alberta 188–9 British Columbia 187, 189

Canadian Authors’ Association 192 Canadian literature, coming of age 192, 196 Canadian nationalism and cultural identity 188–9, 195, 197 Canadian sensibility 186 Macmillan Company of Canada 184–98 Canon, definition 12, see also Vol 1 4, 23, 26, 89 Australian canon 91–104 bookselling and canon-making 41 Canadian canon 197 canon-making 3, 41 Cassell’s 129 cultural Darwinism and canon 103 ‘Our Island Story’ 20 politicised literary studies 17 Richard Bentley, George Robertson, and Australian canon 91–104 sense of past 12 time capsule 12 capitalist social relations 23 Carlyle, Thomas 19, 128 Cassell, John 124–6, 129–33 Cassell’s National Library 125–32 contents 126–30 home orientation 128 imperial national tradition 129–30 instructive non-fiction 128 Morley, Henry, editor 125–30 process of canon formation 129–30 special book-case 131–2 catastrophist ideas 19 catholic church and literature/ publishing Augustinian order 68 America 62, 68, 70 Aus fernen Landen [Tales of Foreign Lands series] 65–7 Benjziger Brothers, publishers 64, 67, 68, 70 Biblioteca escogida de la Juventud (Selected Library for the Youth), translated from French 62, 67



202

Biblioteca instructiva para la juventud 64, 68, 70 Bismarck, Prince Otto von 63–4 booksellers, Catholic, organised in the Borromäusverein 63 booksellers, lay 63 booksellers, network of Herder publishers 64 Borromäusverein 63 Botrel, Jean-François 62 Bresciani, Antonio 69 Brockhaus, F.A., publishers 64, 70 catholic church in competition with non-Catholic fiction 69 catholic church, commercial strategies 69 catholic church/publishers representations of foreign nationals: Dutch, English, Germans, Greeks, North Americans, Russians, Turks 65 catholic Enlightenment 63 cheaper Catholic books 65 catholic opposition to newspaper serials 69 catholic series 106 cultural politics of catholic church 69 Desde lejanas tierras, Spanish translation of series Aus fernen Landen [Tales of Foreign Lands] 65 Dietrich, publishers 67 Die Katholischen Missionen, periodical for promotion of Catholic missions 64 Finn, Francis J. 70 Franco, Generalisimo Francisco 67 Franco, Giovanni Giuseppe 69 French, series translated from 62, 67 Friedrich Pustert, publishers 64 German catholic book trade 63 German catholic printing for export 70 German firms publishing in English for catholic market 70 German series 65

Germany 62–71 Herder, Bartholomä 63, 71 Herder, Benjamin 63, 64, 69, 70, 71, 127 Herder, Hermann 63, 70, 71 Herder, Karl Raphael 63, 69 Herder Verlag [Herdersche Verlagshandlung], publishers, motto 69 Herder Verlag [Herdersche Verlagshandlung], branch offices, St. Louis, Strasbourg, and Vienna 63 Herder Verlag [Herdersche Verlagshandlung], publishers 62–71 Herder Verlag sales figures 64, 67 Herder Verlag Spanish series 64, 67 Hibbs-Lissorgues, Solange 62, 69, 70 ideas represented in catholic series 62–71 illustrated 67 international 62–71 Irish Catholic Monthly: A Magazine of General Literature 68 juvenile market 69 Kepler, Richard Ernst 67 kulturkampf 63–4 Las buenas novelas narrador de la juventud 64, 68, 70 Latin America 63–4 Leo XIII, Pope 63 literary historians have overlooked markets for catholic books 62 Loewensohn, publishers 64 Long, Helena 68 market/marketing, catholic books 62–71 May, Karl 66 Meschler, Peter August Moritz 64 missions/missionaries 63–5, 67 naturalistic novel 69 Neff, publishers 67 new religiousness 63 protestant readers 63 Sadlier, Anna Theresa 68 Michael Sailer, Johann 63 series and national identities 65–6



Index 203

Index

catholic church and literature/ publishing – contiuned Society of Jesus 64, 67, 69 Spanish series published by Herder: Desde lejanas tierras and Aus fernen Landen [Tales of Foreign Lands]; Biblioteca instructiva para la juventud; Las buenas novelas narrador de la juventud 64, 68, 70 Spain 62–4, 68, 70 Spillman, Josef (Joseph) 64, 68, 71 state within a state 62 Subirana, publishers 62 Süddeutsches Verlags-Institut, publishers 67 Svensson, Jón 69, 70 Tauchnitz Editions 29, 50, 54, 56, 70, 105, 129, 143 textbooks 64, 68 translations 62, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69 Vereinigung der Vertreter des katholischen Buchhandels, later Vereinigung des katholischen Buchhandels 63 war, impact 67 Wiseman, Cardinal Nicholas 69 women 67 Caxton, William 21, 44 Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, Birmingham University 39 change, drivers of 5–8 cheap(er) books/reading matter 7, 25, 65, 74, 95, 118, 126, 134, 138, 155, 174, 177, 179–80 Chesterton, G. K. 170 children’s books and reading 17, 28, 71, 135, 167–8, 175, 194 circulating libraries 135–6, 173 Clark, Marcus, For the Term of His Natural Life, re-titled Australian cheaper 6s. edition 96, 103 Clark, Marcus, His Natural Life, Australian first edition 95, 98, 103 classic 12

classic, definition, see Vol.1 23, 74 Colburn, Henry 35, 40–1 Colclough, Stephen 40, 43 Cole, Arthur H. 34, 35, 43 Cole, E. W. 29, 40 Coleman, D. C. 18, 30, 35, 43 Coleridge, S. T. 19, 26, 28 Collini, Stefan 20, 43 Colinvaux, Paul 1, 2, 8, 9 Colley, Linda 4, 5 colonial libraries 134, 148 colonial markets 137 colonialism 2, 7, 24, 30, 65 commodification 20, 22–3, 25 positive aspects 25 communications networks 6 communism, 20th century experience 24–5 competition 8–9 concepts of the past 11–13 conceptual worlds 8 Conquest, Robert 39, 43 Constable, Archibald 118 Constable’s Miscellany of Original and Selected Publications in the Various Departments of Literature, Science and the Arts, scheme of 118 audience envisaged 118–22 Aitken, John 118 Caledonian radicalism 119–22 Constable, Archibald 118 contents 118–21 Hurst & Chance takeover 118 launched January 1827 118 Scottishness 118–22 Scott, Sir Walter 118, 119 consumer/consumerism behaviour 32, 36 bias against consumer choice 25 comparative status 13 consumer society 20 consumerism 24 demand 15, 29, 34 determines value 14 entrepreneur 28, see also entrepreneur late-Victorian consumer 24 marginal cost 14–15



204

price 16 satisfactions 14 taken seriously 2 willing choices 14, 27 continental theorists 23, 39 Cooper, Herbert Stonehewer, The Islands of the Pacific 99 copyright 9, 134, 170, 173 Cowen, Tyler, markets, wealth, and the arts 20, 26–7 adaptive economy 22 government failure and market failure 21 print culture 39 sense of cultural self 40 subjectivity 26 Creative Destruction. How Globalization Is Changing the World’s Cultures 43 Discover Your Inner Economist 43 In Praise of Commercial Culture 43 Crouzet, Francois, The First Industrialists. The Problem of Origins 41, 43 culture, reading as index of respectability 92 cultural authority 185 cultural Bovaryism 124 cultural formation 2 cultural internationality 17 cultural materialism 17, 30 cultural narratives 30 cultural power 25 cultural practices 17 cultural production 17 cultural studies 17 cultural theory 17, 27, 38 Daily Mail 28 deconstruction 17 definitions canon, see Vol.1 4, 23, 26, 89 classic, see Vol.1 23, 74 library (series), see Vol.1 21, 23, 85 niche (series as) 1, 29, see also Vol.1, 3, 22 series, see Vol.1 23, 167 Delany, Paul adaptive trial-and-error 22

European theory 38 mutuality of book-trade relationships 23 Literature, Money and the Market. From Trollope to Amis 43 demand curve 13 demand, factors determining 13 Dent, J. M., and Rhys, Ernest, concept of Everyman’s Library 166–7 Letchworth ‘garden city’ 171–2 market, college texts 167 Temple Press at Letchworth 171–2 war, impact of 67, 169, 171–2 Derrida, Jacques 39 design 8, 10, 13 Dickens, Charles, imitator of 64 Dillwyn, Amy, novelist manager of Welsh zinc works 123 Duby, Georges 4 Eagleton, Terry 22, 24, 39, 43 eastern Europe 29 economic categories 13–14 economic literacy 22 economy, late-Victorian changes 24 educational books, Macmillan India 135 Edwards, Annie, Leah: A Woman of Fashion 94 Eliot, Simon 37, 47, 134, 141, 149, 150, 151 Eliot, Simon, Nash, Andrew, and Willison, Ian 43 Eliot, Simon and Rose, Jonathan 25, 43 Eliot, Simon, and Weedon, Alexis 47 Eliot, T. S. 39 Emerson, R. W. 21 empirical studies 17 Engels, Friedrich 19 Englander, David 28 entrepreneur 2, 5–8, 10, 25, 27, 28, 30–7, 41, 43, 45, 46, 185, 197 entrepreneur/entrepreneurship: ‘Economic Theory and Entrepreneurial History. Change and the Entrepreneur’, (Schumpeter, Joseph A.) 46 capital management 28



Index 205

Index

entrepreneur/entrepreneurship: – continued Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy Essays: On Entrepreneurs, Innovations, Business Cycles, and the Evolution of Capitalism (Schumpeter, Joseph A.) 46 Catechism of Political Economy, (J.-B. Say) 31, 46 central figure in economics 34 consumer demand 28 creative role taken seriously 28, 30–2, 36 economic evolution 32 empirical research on entrepreneurship 31 empirical research on entrepreneurship 31 entrepreneur and survival 32 entrepreneur and survival 32 Essays: On Entrepreneurs, Innovations, Business Cycles, and the Evolution of Capitalism (Schumpeter, Joseph A.) 46 functionally distinct 28 future focus of 36 handling capital 28 inventive role 6–7 late-Victorian industrial reorganisation 28 measures of success 36 misunderstood 6 motives 36 not mere shadow of technologies 32 profits 27–8 publishers as entrepreneurs 31, 35 qualities of 33 quality of enterprise 35 Raven, James 30, 37 research issues 35–7 risk management 28 Say, Jean-Baptiste, distinguished entrepreneur from other agents of production, formalising term ‘entrepreneur’ (1815) 31 Schumpeter, Joseph A., and entrepreneur 41 The Theory of Economic Development (Schumpeter, Joseph A.) 46

Treatise on Political Economy, A (J.-B. Say) 46 Ephemeris (Vienna 1790–8), first Greek newspaper 87 feminism 17, 24 format 8, 10, 42, 50, 55, 56, 139, 174, 176, 187 Forster, E. M., Howard’s End 116, 132 Fortin, Nina E. 25, 47 Foucault, Michel 16, 39, 101, 103 Frazer, J. G. 119 Fraser, Robert 3, 13, 46, 116, 151 Fraser, W. Hamish 25, 44 French language series/translations 42, 51, 52, 62, 73, 78, 87, 108, 156, 188 Furet, François 39, 43 Gallagher, Catherine 14–15, 44 Garnett, Richard 170 gay history 24 gender studies 17, 30, 197 Germany, internees in USA 51 Gittins, Alfred Horace, autodidact and individual reader 130–3 Governor General’s Literary Award 194–5 Greek Library (Elliniki Vivliothiki), first national series 74, 77 Adamantios, Korais 72–90 absence of Greek periodical press, 18th century 74 access 77 books as prizes 76 book market 74 cheaper books 74 classical texts 80–2 closure of Greek Library 1827 76 content/features of Greek Library 74, 76, 79–81 differences from 19th century book developments elsewhere 74 editorial work by A. Korais 76 emerging Greek public sphere 85–6 Ephemeris (Vienna 1790–8), first Greek newspaper 87 evidence 81



206

Index 207 Venice 72 Vienna 72, 74 war 74 Zosimas brothers 76, 72, 83, 87 Gross, Robert A. 4, 44 Hachette, Louis 29, 40 Hall, Stuart, 39 Hammond, Mary xi, 3, 44, 149, 151 Harmsworth, Alfred, [Lord Northcliffe] 28–9, 33, 40 Harris, José 25, 44 Hartwell, Max 18, 44 Hazlitt, William 30 Hay, William Delisle, Brighter Britain: or Settler and Maori in Northern New Zealand 97 Heinzelman, Kurt 27 Hench, J. B., Books as Weapons and the Battle for Global Markets in the Era of World War 49 high culture 28, 117, 147 historian and evidence 17–18, 22, 25 historical consciousness 11–13 historical memory 11–13 historical research 11–13 Hobsbawm, E. J. 39 Hoggart, Richard 39, 44 ideology 25, 29, 39, 43, 48, 51, 67, 69 Imagined Communities (B. Anderson) 4, 39, 42, 78, 88, 101 India 152–65 Andersen, Hans Christian, translations 156 antahpur culture 163 Bandyopadhay, Rangalal, Padmini upakhayan 160 Banerjee, Rev. Krishna Mohun 158 basar or wedding songs 163 Battala 152 Bengali ‘common reader’ 163 Bengal Family Library (Garhasthya bangala pustak sangraha) 3, 152–65 sales 161–2 Bengali translation of Mrs. H. Ward’s translation of the Journal Intime of Henri-Frédéric Amiel 142



explanation of appearance of Greek Library 74–5 foundation of Greek Library 1805 74, 76 French revolution/Napoleonic wars 75, 79, 83, 84 French series, translated 67 Greek book-market, growth 72–3 Greek book distribution 73 Greek enlightenment 74 Greek language question 87 Greek Library addressed to Greeks globally 72 Greek publishing 72, 74, 76 Greek Revolution/War of Independence, 1821/establishment of new State 74, 75 Greek weekly gazette introduced 74 Hermes, the Scholar, Greek literary journal 85–7 key strategy 77 marketing 76 modern Greek culture/selfawareness 74, 82–5 modern Greek society, characteristics as influences 83 moral novels 67 nationalism/nationhood 72–90 Ottoman Empire/Turkey 72, 75, 76, 83, 84 output of Greek Library 76 paratext 86 Paris 72, 76 political context 75 precursor 79 print culture 30, 72 prolegomena, Korais’s editorials 76, 79, 80, 82, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89 purposes 72, 79, 83–4, 86 reading public growing early 19th century 74, 83 relation to public opinion 85 risk of concept 79 sales/subscriptions 73 sponsorship of Greek Library 72, 75–76, 83, 87 strategy of Greek Library 77 translations 73

Index

India – continued Bernardin, Jacques-Henri de SaintPierre, Paul et Virginie, translation by revolution, by Ra¯mna¯ra¯yan. Bidya¯ratna 156 Bethune, John Drinkwater 154 Bethune Society 160 Bibidhartha-Sangraha 153 Bidyasagar, Ishwarchandra 165 Bose, Baboo Hemango Chunder 163 British exports 135 children’s reading 135, 175 Colvin, J. R. 153 copyright 9, 94–7, 106, 134, 141, 150, 160, 163, 170, 172–4 Dalhousie, Marquis of 153 educational books, Macmillan firm’s profile 135 Calcutta School-Book Society, (1817) 152 annual reports 165 text-book publisher 152 Chatterjee, Rimi B. 135, 149 Chattopadhyay, Bankimchandra, Durgeshnandini 164 Christian Tract and Book Society (1823) 152 Christian Vernacular Education Society (1857) 152 circulating libraries 135–6 culture of the educated bhadralok (or gentleman), and adversarial relationship between the and that of the women’s antahpur or inner quarters 163 Debi, Kailashbasini 163 Debi, Rassundari 163 Defoe, Daniel, Robinson Crusoe [Robinson Crusoe-r bhraman brittanta c.1852] 153–4, 156–9, 162 female Bildungsroman of polite manners 159 female life 162 female reader 105–115, 158, 160, 162–3 fiction 155–6, 160, 162, 164

figures from Mughal history 162 Fort William College 152 Friend of India 161 Ghose, Gopeemohun, Bijaybullubha 155, 165 Ghosh, Anindita 163 Gupta Dwarkanath, Hemaprabha 161 Joshi, Priya 135–6, 155, 165 Long, Rev. James, A Descriptive Catalogue of Bengali Works 155 Macmillan publisher’s first venture (1857) in India 138 metropolitan and periphery 136 meyeli or womanly genres, oral and written 163 Mitra, Rajendralal 153, 160 mofussil areas 158 Mookerjee, Baboo Muddoosoodun 164 Mukherjee, Joykrishna 154 Mukherjee, Rajkrishna 154 Mukhopadhyay Madhusudan, Sushilar upakhyan 158, 159, 160, 162, 163 Nanak, Sikh Guru 164 Naro, Sadashiv Risbud 155 Odie, Geoffrey A. 153 Percy, Bishop Thomas, Manoramya path (Pleasant Reading) [Percy Anecdotes] 156 poetry 160 Pratt, Hodgson 156 printers: Alipore Jail Press 156 Bidyaratna Press 156 Bishop’s College Press 156 Satyarnab Press 156 Sucharu Press 156 Tattwabodhini Press 156 Power and Print (A. Ghosh) 163 printing, indigenous 152 government printing 152 missionary printing 152 print as instrument of social, intellectual, political change 152 print sub-genres 152



208

prizes/ premiums 159, 160–1 Risbud, Naro Sadashiv, Manjughosha 155 Sarkar, Saralabala 163 School Book and Asiatic Societies 162 Smith, Elder 137, 138 Sharma, Girishchandra 156 target audience 158, 160 Tod, James, Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan 160 Tract of Christian Knowledge Societies 162 translations 142, 149, 153–9, 162, 163, 164 Uttarpara Joykrishna Public Library 154 Vernacular Literature Society 152–64 formed (1851) 152 mandate 153 copyright 160 standards 161 amalgamates with Colonial Book Society in 1862 164 Vidyaratna, Ramnarayan The House I Live In 164 women’s antahpur or inner quarters and adversarial culture vis-avis the educated bhadralok (or gentleman) 163 Industrial Revolution 7–8, 18–19 Insel-Verlag 29 Institute of Economic Affairs [IEA] 39 intended readers 50, 56, 97, 124, 137, 157 international competitive context 7–8 internet 17–18 Ireland Act of Union (1800) 173–4, 178–9 Banim, John, Tales of the O’Hara Family 174 Belfast 174 Carleton, William, The Black Prophet 176, 178 catholic book societies 173 catholic circulating libraries 173

Catholic Emancipation Act (1829) 173 catholic freedoms 173 catholic hierarchy and clergy 180–1 catholic school books 173 copyright 173 Curry, William 173 Davis, Thomas 175–7 didactic mass literature 176 discounts 180 domestic market 173 Dublin 174, 177, 179 Duffy, Charles Gavan 175, 178 Duffy, James 173–80 ethnic identity 175 forgotten heritage/history, new pride/re-creation of Irish national literature 175–7 Hoey, Christopher Clinton 179 Irish authors 173 Irish Book Lover 178 Irish Catholic Monthly: A Magazine of General Literature 68 Library of Ireland ( James Duffy, ‘Duffy’s Library of Ireland’) 176–81 Library of Ireland ( James M’Cormick) 179–80 M’Cormick, James 179–80 M’Intyre, James 9 McNevin, Thomas 175 market 174 mechanics Institutes 175 Mitchel, John 175 Nation 176, 181–2 nationhood 175–7 national school system 173, 175 O’Connell, Daniel 175, 182 post-famine period 174 production levels, 173 publishing, government controls 174 reading rooms 175, 180 Repeal Association 175–6 reprint business 173 Simms, John 9 Simms & M’Intyre 7–9, 174, 176, 178, 179 Sue, Eugene, The Commander of Malta 174



Index 209

Index

Ireland – continued Young Ireland 175–9, 180, 182 Catalogue of Bradshaw’s Collection of Irish Books in the University Library, A, Cambridge 174, 182 Dublin University Magazine 174 Spirit of the Nation, The 176, 178 Voice of the Nation: A Manual of Nationality, The 176 Italian language series 51, 62, 73, 108 Jackson, Kate 33, 44 Jennings, Richard 14 Johanson, Graeme, A Study of Colonial Editions in Australia, 1843–1972 92, 95, 99, 100, 103, 132, 134–5 Johns, Adrian 31, 44 Keynes, John Maynard 37, 44 Knopf, Alfred A. 32 Korais, Adamantios 72–90 aims/motivations 75 becomes publisher 79 career 78–9 formation of national reading public 83 Greek Library 72–90 Greek participation amongst nations 81 innovator of series 75 Koraic studies 77 modern Greek enlightenment 75, 77 network of bookshops 76 overseas production 76 pan-European Greek epistolary network 79 patriotism 75 prolegomena, Korais’s editorials 76, 79, 80, 82, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89 publications, hors série’, sponsorship 75 reinterprets who Greeks are 80 selects, edits, annotates works 76 series as key strategy 77 view of character/value of ancient Greek tradition 80 Zosimas brothers 72, 76, 83, 87 Kuskin, William 44

Lacan, Jacques 39 Langbauer, Laurie 39, 44 Lawless, Emily 123 Leakey, Caroline, The Broad Arrow 92 Leavis, F. R. 19, 39, 44 left-culturalism 30 Letchworth ‘garden city’ 171–2 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 39 library (series), definition of 131, see also Vol.1 21, 23, 85 literacy of goods 23 literary studies, politicised 17 literary taste, assumptions about 137 London, global influence 7–8 Loughran, Trish 4, 39 Lovel, John 29, 40 McKibbin, Ross 25, 45 Mclure, S. S. 29, 40 Macaulay, Lord Thomas Babington 19, 45, 126, 127, 129 Mackintosh Sir James 30 Macmillan publishing firm’s profile in India, educational books 135 Macmillan’s buy firm of Richard Bentley & Son (1898) 97 Macmillan’s Colonial Library 121–4, 134–51 Australian profile as firm a publisher of quality contemporary fiction 135 Australian market 135 Australian reader 140 author advances 138 authors 137 Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works (1886–7) 134 Boldrewood, Rolf (pseud. Thomas Alexander Browne) 124 book exports 135 Chatto & Windus 139 cheap books 138 chiefly a fiction list 35–6 colonial market, importance of business of writing and publishing 137 colonial market, importance of sales 137



210

competes with OUP World’s Classics 136 contents of list 122–4 contracts 138–47 copyright 134 Crawford, F. Marion 123, 137, 143–4 cultural capital 1`37 distribution in international markets 1`34 first titles 134 Frederick Macmillan’s judgement 135 Hardy, Thomas 124, 137–40, 142 intended readers, assumptions of literary taste 137 Kipling, Rudyard 124, 129, 149 launched 1 March 1886 134 lending libraries in colonies 134 literary tastes, response to 148 low prices 134 Macmillan, Sir Frederick 139, 142, 145, 146 market 123–4 paratextual material 148 rates of production 1`35 reading potential 142 royalties 138–46 Sampson Low 139 selection of titles 123–4 series ended in 1960 135 series instigated by Maurice Macmillan 134 series title becomes Empire Library 135 series title becomes Overseas Editions 135 series unrepresentative of firm’s profile 135 shaping individual readers 136 Smith, Elder 137–8 publishing strategy, literary task, and implied readership 147 taste 137 title selection 123–4, 136 transfer rights 139 von Arnim, Countess Elizabeth 137, 145 Ward, Mrs. Humphry 137, 140–3 Wharton, Edith 137, 144–5

Wheeler’s Indian Railway Library 144 willing buyers 135, 142 Macmillan Company of Canada 184–98 Brett, George Platt 186 Cane, Hugh 196 collaboration with Ryerson Press 89–90 company sold to Maclean-Hunter 196 competition with other Canadian houses 184 connection to British Empire 186 cultural authority 185–6 Davies, Robertson 194 Eayrs, Hugh 188–93 educational purposes 184–5 educational titles 186–8 Elliott, Ellen 192–3 entrepreneurship 188, 197 financial base/stability 185–9 flood of competing cheap USA exports 135 Gage-Nelson 191 Gray, John Morgan 192–4 Herriott, Archie 190–1 Interprovincial [School Book] Committee [of Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan] 189–91 Juvenile series 194–5 Kijinski, John 185–6 Laurentian Library 184 Maclean-Hunter 196 Macmillan, Daniel 189, 194 Macmillan, Sir Frederick 138, 186 Macmillan, Maurice 134 Macmillan War Pamphlets (Canadian Series) 184, 193 Manitoba 187, 189, 190 market, college texts 167 marketing practices/strategies 184–95 Mitchell, W. O. 191 Morang Educational Company 187 neglect of series aimed at Canadian market 184 Novia Scotia 187, 92 Ontario education board 190



Index 211

Index

Macmillan’s Colonial Library – continued Ontario Historical Society 194 paperback revolution, failings of firm 195–7 Pierce, Lorne 189–90 prices 191 provincial boards of education 186, 188, 189, 190, 192 purchase of Morang Educational Company 187 Quebec 190 relations with London parent house 184, 186–8, 193, 196 relations with New York office 184 Reynolds, V. R. 170 Ross, Malcolm 195–6 Saskatchewan 187, 188, 189 Saul, John Cameron 187–8 series, as key strategy 77 series, role in establishing Macmillan Company of Canada 185 shaping social values 185 textbooks 186–92 Toronto 187 trade titles 188–9, 192, 194 war, publishing impact 184, 193 Whitefield, Dora 192 Whiteman, Bruce 186–7 Wise, Frank, President 185, 188 marginal cost: Black, R. D. Collison 14–15 demand 13 determination of value 14 Jevons, William Stanley, The Theory of Political Economy 14–15, 44 market processes 14 publisher’s view 15–16 ‘rule of novelty’ 16 satisfactions 14 value to consumer 14–15 value theory 14–15 willing choices 14 Maine, Henry 26, 45 markets, attitudes to 21 markets, late-Victorian methods of production 28 markets, late-Victorian relationships 28

markets, qualitative gains from 25 Marsh, George Perkins 30 Marshall, Alfred, Principles of Economics 16, 19, 37, 45 mass communications: new popular leisure – cinema, radio, television, sports 5, 28–9 mass culture, non-Marxist view 23 mass culture, Marxist suspicions of 23–6 mass culture, why arose 23 mass market 7, 25, 28, 29 Moody, Nickianne 40 Morley, Henry 125–30 Morris, William 20, 268, 172 Malet, Lucas (pseud. Mary Kingsley) 123 management of risk 9–10, 28 market analysis 10 market as daily referendum 10 marketing practices 9, 13, 184 marketing transforms capitalist social relations 23 Marxism 17, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, 38, 39, 43 mass communications 5 methodological issues 11–13, 24–7 middle-class expansion 29 Morris, William 168, 172 Mulock, Dinah (Mrs. G. L. Craik) 123 Munsey, Frank 29, 40 Nash, Andrew 43 niche (series as), definition, see Vol.1 3, 22 nationhood and cultural identity 3–6, 11, 21 America 4, 43, 45 Australia 91–104 Canada 184–98 Greece 72–90 Ireland 173–82 The Netherlands 105–15 Nazi book burning 48 Nazi publishing 48 Netherlands Bijns, Anna 108 debate on education of girls 109 Deken, Aagje 108 democratisation in reading 106



212

Dutch series 105–15 absence of ‘men’s’ series, 114 Bewogen vrouwenlevens (Stirring Women’s Lives) 113 Bohn, Erven F., publishing strategy 112 Buitenlandse klassieken (Foreign Classics) 108 distinctions between Dutch series for Dutch and for foreign authors 108 feminism and the book 113 ideological series 106 imitate foreign successes 105 Library of Dutch Women Writers (Bibliotheek van Nederlandsche Schrijfsters) 108, 109, 114 Library of Dutch Women Writers, originally to be titled Library for Dutch Women, but initial proposal rejected 109, 112–4 Library for Ladies (Bibliotheek voor Dames) 108 Library for Young Ladies (Miniatuurbibliotheek voor jonge dames) 108 male writers 110–11 Miniature Library for Young Ladies (Miniatuurbibliotheek voor jonge dames) 108 modernist high art 114 national verification of series 106 niche targets 106 no international copyright: Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works (1886–7) signed only in 1912 106 print runs 111 publishing houses issuing only women’s books 113 readers of Dutch series 111 Reading Library for Christian Families 106 ‘Reading museum’s’ for women 108 Roman Catholic Novel Library for Young Ladies 106 religious imprints on series 106

Scandinavian Library 106 series and status of women 113 series as hallmark 106 series containing only women’s work 113 series fatal to status of literary women writers 112–14 Short Plays for Ladies (Toneelstukjes voor) 108 Sterke vrouwen (Strong Women) 113 translations 105–7, 111 van Rees, Catherina (also wrote as Célestine) 109, 110, 112 Schijn en wezen (Appearance and Reality) 111–12 women reading 107–8, 113 women as suppliers of texts 109 women as target group in markets 106, 109, 111 women writing 106–14 women’s writing and status 113 women’s series 105–15 feminist journals De huisvrouw (the housewife) 108 Onze Roeping (Our Vocation) 107 Ons Streven (Our Endeavour) 107 national catalogue of women writers 107 literacy rates 105, 107, 113 literary prizes 113 Loveling, Virginie 111 Multatuli (pseud. Edouard Douwes Dekker) 107 National Exhibition of Women’s Labour (Nationale Tentoonstelling van Vrouwenarbeid, 1898) 107, 108 opposition to intellectual women 106 Perk, Betsy 107 Wilhelmina, Queen 108 Wolff, Betje 108 women’s educational opportunities [article by A. M. M. Storm van der Chijs, c.1860] 107



Index 213

Index

new Historicism 30 Newnes, Sir George 28–9, 33, 40, 44 New Zealand American piracies 94, 103 British exports 135 histories 97–8, 103 Richard Bentley & Son 93, 100 Macmillan’s Colonial Library 134–5 ‘tyranny of distance’ 5 O’Day, Rosemary 28 Ohmann, Richard 22, 23, 33, 45 Oliphant, Margaret 123 online bookselling 17 opportunities for new research 31–2, 36, 40–1, 59, 77, 97 Orwell, George 5, 39 Ouida (pseud.) Marie Louisie de la Ramee), cheap colonial issue of novels 93 paratext 49–50, 54–5, 86, 92, 108, 148, 166–9, 174, 176, 179, 180 Payne, P. L. 37–8, 41 British Entrepreneurship in the Nineteenth Century 45 Pearson, C. Arthur 28, 33, 40 Petroski, Henry 10, 45 piracy 134 Plumb, Sir J. H. 13, 21, 39, 40, 45 political economy of knowledge 23, 38 Pollard, Sidney 25 post-cultural studies 17 Postrel, Virginia 22, 34 The Future and Its Enemies: The Growing Conflict over Creativity, Enterprise, and Progress 45 The Substance of Style: How the Rise of Aesthetic Value Is Remaking Commerce, Culture, and Consciousness 45 post-structuralism 30 price 8, 10, 13–14, 16, 91, 134, 174, 176–7, 180, 191 print as instrument of social, intellectual, political change 152 print capitalism 4

production plants 169–70, 172 profits, theory of 27–8 academic suspicion 30 attention of readers sold for 23 importance of 30 profits/wages, mutually supportive 27–8 publishing, late-Victorian changes 24–5 purchases, aspirational/display 167 publishers/distributors: Adamantios, Korais 72–90 Albatross Press 50 Alfred A. Knopf 32 Angus & Robertson 5 Arena 113 Artemis 113 Benjziger Brothers 64, 68, 70 Bentley, Richard and Son 40, 91 Bentley, George, son of first Richard Bentley 91 Bentley, Richard, founder 35, 91 Bentley, Richard, grandson of first Richard Bentley 91 Bethune Society 160 Gottfried Bermann-Fischer 52, 58, 59 Blom & Olivierse 108 Erven F. Bohn 108, 109 Brentano’s 55 Brockhaus, F. A. 64, 70 Bücherreihe Neue Welt 55 Cadell, Robert 35 Calcutta School-Book Society 152 Cassell’s 125–32 Chatto & Windus 139 Christian Tract and Book Society 152 Christian Vernacular Education Society 152 Colburn, Henry 35, 40–1 Cole, E. W. 29, 40 Council on Books in Wartime 49, 50, 57, 60, 61 Curry, William 173 Dent, Hugh 168 Dent, J. M. 35, 166–72 Dietrich 67 Duffy, James 173–80



214

Earys, Hugh 188–92 Éditions de la Maison Française 52 Editions Didier 52 Elliott, Ellen 192–3 Enoch, Kurt 50 Fort William College 152 Friedrich Pustert 64 Gage-Nelson 191–2 Gallimard 55 Grasset 55 Gray, John Morgan 193–4 Hachette, Louis 29, 40 Harmsworth, Alfred [Lord Northcliffe] 28, 29, 33, 40 Tanja Hendriks 113 Herder, Bartholomä 63, 71 Herder, Benjamin 63, 64, 69, 70, 71, 127 Herder, Hermann 63, 70, 71 Herder, Karl Raphael 63, 69 Herder Verlag, [Herdersche Verlagshandlung], publishers 62–71 Hurst & Chance 118 Infantry Journal 50, 52 Insel-Verlag 29 Kane, Hugh 196 Kepler, Richard Ernst 67 W. H. Kirberger 108 Knight, Charles 154 Kruseman 108 Librarie de France 55 Loewensohn 64 John Lovel 29, 40 McLelland and Stewart 184, 195–6 McLelland, Jack 195 Mclure, S. S. 29, 40 Maclean-Hunter 196 Macmillan Company of Canada 184–98 Macmillan, Daniel 189 Macmillan, Frederick, Sir 186 Macmillan, London 134–51 Macmillan-Ryerson 191 Malmberg, L. G. C. 108 Meulenhoff 113 M’Cormick, James 174, 178–9 M’Intyre, James 9 McGlashan, James 173

Military Source Publishing Company 50 Mill, John Stuart 19, 32, 45 Morgan, Charles 134 Morang Educational Company 187 Munro, George 94 Munsey, Frank 29, 40 Neff 67 Newnes, George 28–9, 33, 40, 44 Orlando 113 Pearson, C. Arthur 28, 33, 40 Penguin Books 50, 57 Petherick, E. A. 40, 91, 93–4, 96, 98, 102 Pierce, Lorne 189–90 Pocket Books 50–1, 57 Reclam 29 Remington 124 King, Richard Edward 40 Robertson, George (of Melbourne) 3, 29, 91–104 Robertson, George (of Sydney) 5, 29 Robertson, William, son of G. Robertson of Melbourne 92–4 Ryerson Press 189 Routledge, George 8–9, 34, 40, 126 Rhys, Ernest 166–72 Fischer-Verlag, S. 52, 59 Sampson Low 139 Simms, John 9 Simms & M’Intyre 7–9, 40, 174, 176, 178, 179 Sirene 113 Smith, Elder 10–11, 137–8 Subirana 62 Süddeutsches Verlags-Institut 67 Sydney Mail 124 Ticknor & Fields 54 Tauchnitz Editions 29, 50, 54, 56, 70, 105, 129, 143 Vendoti, George 87 Vernacular Literature Society 152–64 Wise, Frank 185–6, 188, 197 publishers, motivations 30 bankruptcies and stock transfers 31 booksellers and displays 32 business decisions 32



Index 215

Index

publishers, motivations – continued sales outside book trade 31 who became a publisher and why 31–3 wholesaling 31 railway novel 7–9 rational choice theory 27 Raven, James British History and the Enterprise Culture 45 business elites 30 business management 31, 33, 37, 41 enterprise culture 45 entrepreneur 31, 33, 37, 41 evidence 18 hostile attitudes to business analysed 30 Judging New Wealth. Popular Publishing and Responses to Commerce in England, 1750–1800 45 methodology 35 The Business of Books. Booksellers and the English Book Trade 46 reader, reassured by series 185 aspirational/display purchases 167 how people read 13 identity of 167 limits of knowledge 13 sales figures 167–8 shapes individual readers 136 reader-response theory 17 readers, inclusion and exclusion 116–33 readers, limits to knowledge of 2, 15–17 reading, histories of, and how knowledge constituted/ diffused, group identities constructed, ideas sustained or lost 22–3, 38 reading, reverie of 18 reading, mentalities, historical effects 22–3, 38 readers shaped by Macmillan’s Colonial Library 136 Reclam, publisher 29 reconstruction of corporate capital 22 rents, theory of 27–8

Rhys, Ernest, and Everyman’s Library 166–72 Robertson, George, of Melbourne 3, 29, 91–104, see also Richard Bentley & Son Australian distribution of British publications 91 Australian Library collection 91 Clark, Marcus 95 fears American market invasion 92–3 founds bookselling business, 1852 91 letter to The Athenaeum 92–3 opens London distribution branch 91 places editions in British market 95 publication department 92, 93 publication of Richard Bentley & Son books 93 versus book piracy 92, 93–4 safeguards Richard Bentley copyright 94–5 seeks regular UK shipments 93 wholesalers of Richard Bentley publications 93–4 Robertson, George (of Sydney) 5, 29 Robertson, William, son of G. Robertson of Melbourne 92 manager, London office 1857–70, 92–4 Roeber, A. Gregg 39, 46 romanticism 30 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, President 48 Rose, Jonathan, and Eliot, Simon 25, 43 Rorty, Richard 24 Rowland, William G., Jr. 21, 46 ‘rule of novelty’ 216 Ruskin, John 19, 116, 117 Russell, Bertrand 13, 16 St. Clair, William Afterwords, Times Literary Supplement 46 book trade practices/monopoly 35 business management 31 entrepreneurship 33



216

histories of reading and how knowledge constituted/ diffused, group identities constructed, ideas sustained or lost 22–3 model to link texts, reading, mentalities, historical effects 22–3, 38 nationalism 38 political economy of knowledge 38 The Reading Nation in the Romantic Period 46 Sadleir, Michael 7, 1, 40, 41, 42 Sand, George 108 Say, Jean-Baptiste, distinguished entrepreneur from other agents of production, formalising term ‘entrepreneur’ (1815) 31 Treatise on Political Economy, A 46 Catechism of Political Economy 31, 46 Scotland 118–22 Scott, Sir Walter 118, 167–8, 171 imitators of 64 Schaffer, Talia 27, 40, 46 Schudson, Michael 17–18, 39, 46, 60 Schumpeter, Joseph A., entrepreneur 41 Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy Essays: On Entrepreneurs, Innovations, Business Cycles, and the Evolution of Capitalism 46 ‘Economic Theory and Entrepreneurial History. Change and the Entrepreneur’ 46 empirical research on entrepreneurship 31 entrepreneur and survival 32 Essays: On Entrepreneurs, Innovations, Business Cycles, and the Evolution of Capitalism 46 The Theory of Economic Development 46 series, definition of 131, see also Vol.1 23, 167 series absence of ‘men’s’ series 113

as assurance to reader 185 as social process 11–12 America 48–61 Australia 91–104, 134–51 Bibliothèque, French word for series 85 book culture 13 book market, late-Victorian changes 24 brand 16 catholic religion, series 62–71 Canada 184–88 classificatory function 16 common experience 197 cultural authority/influence 185–6 creative uncertainty 12 democratic culture 3 differing norms, peace-time and war-time series 49 distinctions between Dutch series for Dutch and for foreign authors 108 dominant war-time vehicle 48 editorial device 13 educational series 185 entrepreneurship 31, 33, 37, 41, 185 fatal to status of Dutch literary women writers 114 first ever Greek series 72–90 focus for advertising 185 German series 65 governing structures of society 23 Greece 72–90 hallmark 106 hook on market 16 ideological and cultural vehicle 102, 106 ideas represented in catholic series 62–71 India 152–165 influence on publishing and book consumption, post 1939–45 war 49 introduced to Greek modern culture 74–5 Ireland 173–82 limiting risk 14 marketing device 13



Index 217

Index

series – continued models of order 11 model suited to wartime production 49 national verification 106 nature of book culture 12 neglect of series aimed at Canadian market 184 Netherlands 105–15 new readers driving force in series development 118 niche markets 16–17 predictive function 16 previous scholarly neglect 2–3 previous scholarly studies 2–3 purposes 11 reconstruction of corporate capital 22 relationship with development of public opinion, Greece 85 reference point 16 reflects adjustments by consumers 16 religious imprints 106 role in achieving financial stability 185 role in establishing Macmillan Company of Canada 185 series containing only women’s work 113 shaping audiences, consumers, taste, cultural industries 22 shaping social values 185 Spain/Spanish series 64, 65, 68, 69, 70, 108 standard formats 185 status of women 113 sum greater than parts 185 uses/produces capital 22 Vivliothiki, Greek word for series 86 what did/did not work 37 war-time series 48–61 women’s series 105–15 series cited Albatross Modern Continental Library 50 Aldine Edition of the British Poets 185

Alexandra Readers 188 Armed Services Editions 49–50 Aus fernen Landen [Tales of Foreign Lands] 68 Bengal Family Library (Garhasthya bangala pustak sangraha) 152–65 Bentley’s colonial library 97 Bewogen vrouwenlevens (Stirring Women’s Lives) 113 Biblioteca escogida de la Juventud (Selected Library for the Youth), translated from French 62, 67 Biblioteca instructiva para la juventud 64 Bibliotheca Teubneriana 81 Biblioteca amena e 108 Biblioteca de las damas 108 Bibliothèque universelle des dames 108 Bibliothèque universelle des romans 108 Black History of Ireland 179 Blue and Gold series 54 Bücherreihe Neue Welt (New World Bookshelf) [Office of the Provost Marshal General] 51, 53, 55, 58, 59 Buitenlandse klassieken (Foreign Classics) 108 Canada Books of Prose and Verse 189 Canadian Treasure readers 189 Cassell’s National Library 125–32 Cassell’s Red Library Constable’s Miscellany of Original and Selected Publications in the Various Departments of Literature, Science and the Arts 118–21 Cornhill Library of Fiction 185 Desde lejanas tierras, Spanish translation of series Aus fernen Landen [Tales of Foreign Lands] 65 Duffy’s Golden Library 181 Duffy’s Standard Library of Catholic Divinity 181



218

El narrador de la juventud 68, 70 Empire Library 135 English Men of Letters 128–9 Everyman’s Library 105, 166–72 Garhasthya bangala pustak sangraha (Bengal Family Library) 152–65 Great Stories of Canada 184, 194 Greek Library (Elliniki Vivliothiki) 72–90 ‘Green and Gold series’ 173–82 King Edward Music Readers, Las buenas novelas 68, 70 Library of Dutch Women Writers (Bibliotheek van Nederlandsche Schrijfsters) 108, 109–14 Library of Ireland (James Duffy, ‘Duffy’s Library of Ireland’) 176–81 Library of Ireland (James M’Cormick) 179–80 Library of Romance 10–11 Library for Ladies (Bibliotheek voor Dames) 108 Library for Young Ladies (Miniatuurbibliotheek voor jonge dames) 108 McGill University Economic Studies 189 Macmillan War Pamphlets (Canadian Series) 184, 193 Macmillan’s Eclectic Series 187 Macmillan’s Canadian School Series 187 Macmillan’s Colonial Library 121–4, 134–51 Macmillan’s French Classics 1288 Macmillan’s German Classics 187 Macmillan’s Literature Series 184 Makers of India 129 Medieval Towns 166 Miniature Library for Young Ladies (Miniatuurbibliotheek voor jonge dames) 108 Morley’s Universal Library 126 New Canadian Library 184, 195–6 Nova Scotia Readers 188 Overseas Library 135

Parlour Library 9, 174 Parlour Novelist 9, 174 Popular Sixpenny Library 178 Railway Library 8–9, 34 Reading Library for Christian Families 106 Redway’s Shilling Series 185 Roman Catholic Novel Library for Young Ladies 106 Rulers of India 119, 129 St. Martin’s Series 184 Scandinavian Library 106 Seaside Library 94 Short Plays for Ladies (Toneelstukjes voor) 108 Sterke vrouwen (Strong Women) 113 Superior Reprints 50 Tauchnitz Editions 29, 50, 54, 56, 70, 105, 129, 143 Temple Classics 166 Temple Shakespeare 166 Black List, The 178–9 Laurentian Library, The 184, 195–7 What You Should Read Series 189 Wheeler’s, A. H., Indian Railway Library 144 World’s Classics 13 sheets, stereo-plates, bindings, &c. transferred 187 Shepp, Sydney J. 39, 46 Sidgwick, Henry 26 Simms & M’Intyre 7–9, 40, 174, 176, 178, 179 Sinfield, Alan 30 Society of Jesus 64, 67, 69 South Africa, British exports 135 Southey, Robert 19 South America 29 Spiers, John 1–47, 55, 59, 60, 61, 70, 87–8, 102, 182, 185, 187, 193 Stevenson, John 5–6, 25, 46 structuralism 17 supply curve 13 Sutherland, John 41, 46, 136, 149, 150, 151 Swinnerton, Frank 68–9



Index 219

Index

Teres, Harvey 29–30, 46 Thompson, E. P. 19, 39, 47 Towheed, Shafquat 132, 151 three-decker 27, 124 Toynbee, Arnold, Lectures on the industrial revolution of the eighteenth century in England 19, 47 Tauchnitz Editions 29, 50, 54, 56, 70, 105, 129, 143 Taylor, Mike and Wolff, Michael (eds), The Victorians since 1901. Histories, Representations and Revisions 18, 19, 46 translations Bengali 142, 149, 153–9, 163, 164 Dutch 107 English 142 French 78 German 52, 56 Greek 90, 129 Roman 129 Spanish 70 Tuckman, Gaye 25, 47 Veblen, Thorstein 13 Vernon, John, Money and Fiction: Literary Realism in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries 27, 47 Victorian Popular Fiction Association 40 Walker, F. A. 28, 47 war 3, 5, 6, 21, 42, 48–61, 67, 74, 75, 89, 97, 119, 145, 168, 169, 171, 172, 184, 190, 193, 195 Ward, Mrs. Humphry 140–3 Webb, Beatrice 13, 16, 47

Weedon, Alexis 25, 47 wholesaling/wholesalers 31, 40 Wiener, Martin J. 41, 47 Williams, Raymond 19, 22, 23, 39, 44, 47 Winch, Donald, historical method 19–20, 26 business, coercion, and freedom 26 Maine, Henry 26 Industrial Revolution 129–20 ‘Our Island Story’ 20 romanticism 19 Riches and Poverty. An Intellectual History of Political Economy in Britain, 1750–1834 47 Wealth and Life. Essays on the Intellectual History of Political Economy in Britain, 1848–1914 47 Willison, Ian 43 Winter, James, Secure from Rash Assault. Sustaining the Victorian Environment 7, 8, 30, 34, 47 wired technologies 17–18 Wolff, Michael, and Taylor, Mike (eds), The Victorians since 1901. Histories, Representations and Revisions 18, 19, 46 Wood, Mrs. Henry, cheap colonial issue of novels 93 Wordsworth, William 19 willing consumers 14, 27, 135, 142 women/women’s reading 19, 28, 47, 57, 105–15, 162–3 working class life, changes 25 Wright, Patrick 12, 39, 47 ‘Yellowback’ 34 youth culture 17



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