Front cover, Crocket Comic Almanac 1840 |
In late 2013, I bought a
box lot of old American almanacs at an antique auction in Ohio that I frequent.
Most were from the early nineteenth century, and I really knew almost nothing about
them when I purchased them. But almanacs were among the most widely published
and widely owned American books in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
Almanacs provided rural Americans and townsfolk alike with calendars and
astronomical data, and they usually included edifying, educational, political,
or polemical reading material for their users, too. Depending upon one’s
inclination, one could purchase an anti-slavery almanac, an anti-masonic
almanac, a temperance almanac, or even a phrenology almanac. Despite—or because
of—their essentially ephemeral nature, many early almanacs are collectible (and
collected) nowadays, as available and often inexpensive examples of early
American printing, as records of popular culture, and in some cases for
containing early examples of what we’ve come to call comics.
The almanacs in this lot, as it turned out, were very
much a mixed bag, but the one I immediately spotted as most interesting was
titled only “Crockett Comic Almanac 1840.”
No author or publisher was given, and there seemed no obvious way to identify even
the printer. But I knew that much of Davy Crockett’s reputation as a
rough-and-ready frontiersman had been spread and elaborated by a variety of
Crockett almanacs dating from the 1830s to the late 1840s, and that those books
were very collectible indeed. My almanac was missing one leaf, and someone had
snipped out a further joke or two, but it still seemed likely to have some value.
But it wasn’t listed in Drake, the standard bibliographic
reference on American almanacs before 1850. A closer look revealed that the first
interior page, listing the eclipses for the year, stated that they had been
calculated for the longitude of Cincinnati, and it seemed likely that the book
had been printed there. Still, I could find no record of any Crockett almanac
printed in Cincinnati, and the Morgan online bibliography of early Ohio
imprints had no record of such a book either. At last I turned to WorldCat, and
was nearly frustrated there, too, but for a buried reference to an almanac with
the same title bound in a collection of almanacs from the 1840s in the state
library of Ohio. On my next trip to Columbus, I dropped into the library and
called for the book, and I was delighted to see that it was the same as my own
Crockett almanac. Further, I glanced through the other almanacs bound together
with it, and I discovered that type batter on the eclipses page of another Cincinnati
almanac enabled me to pin down the printer (and probably the publisher) with
certainty. I had learned something.
Back Cover |
The learning, and the
sharing of what I have learned, have always been the things I love most about
the academic life, and I am happy to say that it is truly part of my life as a
bookseller as well. But also, it seems important to state clearly that the rare
book trade is often, surprisingly often, a knowledge generating enterprise, not
all that different from the academic world. And in these days when graduate
schools and graduate programs in English in particular are trying to think how
they might help guide students to so-called “alt-ac” careers, the rare book trade is
one straightforward place where at least some of the skills of academia
(bibliographic reference and description, paleography, knowledge of printers’
habits and practices) are used every day. But museum work, librarianship, and
public history or folklore might make equally interesting futures for English
graduate students, though it’s the book trade I know best, of course. Academics,
it seems to me, need to understand and value all of these other
knowledge-generating careers, if they have any hope of effectively
communicating to their students that they have value.
Perhaps, however, it is hard to expect academics to give
more than lip service to these alt-ac possibilities—which are employment and
career options for both them and for their students, I might point out—when the
MLA’s own annual house-organ styles itself Profession.
As far as the MLA is concerned, there is only one profession, or only one that
matters. Likewise, most academics, I’ve come to realize, are often not very
good at even seeing, much less thinking, outside of the university box, and so
I find myself telling stories like this one as often as I can, hoping without
much hope that the academic world, and the MLA, might find a way to value more
than one profession, to honor more than one knowledge generating enterprise. To
my mind, there should be greater cross-over and cross-participation:
booksellers and librarians should regularly be represented on MLA panels;
humanities scholars should seek—even demand—joint appointments in their
universities’ rare book rooms. If there is a crisis in the humanities, it seems
to me, it is in part caused by the explicit and implicit messages that humanities
doctoral programs send to their students: that there is only one profession
that counts; that any sacrifice is worthwhile for the life of the mind; that
it’s better to work as an adjunct than to leave “the profession”; that
non-tenure-track teaching is a stage in one’s career, as if “graduating” to a
tenure line were automatic.
The refrain (if such a term is accurate) of the
Old English poem Deor, “Þæs
ofereode; þisses swa mæg,” is often loosely translated as if it simply
expressed the notion that “This too shall pass.” But of course, in the Old
English, the promise is only that it may pass, and for Deor himself, there is
no certainty at all that his current distress will reach any end while he
lives. The truth is that the crisis in the humanities is no more certain to pass
than Deor’s distress. Graduate students, after all, are canny enough to
recognize when their teachers give only lip service to the possibilities of
alt-ac employment, and thus graduate educators must learn to have an authentic
respect for the learning that goes on outside “the profession” before any real
solution to the crisis can be imagined.
Of course I sold my Crockett Almanac: I had put a lot of energy
and a lot of hours into learning about it, and I was able to turn my learning
into cash money: selling it it literally made my week. I find it odd, sometimes,
to recognize that my livelihood is now tied to the whims of the American
consumer (and the American consumer of luxury goods, no less!). But then again,
isn’t that, also, true of academics as well?
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