From the September 1944 WQXR Program Guide:

On a certain afternoon in June, WQXR broadcast about eight minutes of the 30-minute ‘Lyric Suite’ by Alban Berg. As this is an ultra- modern work, we asked the audience to write and tell us what they thought of it and whether they wanted us to play it in full at some future time.

Apparently a radio station cannot please all of the audience all of the time, as you may see for yourself from the following excerpts from letters which we received:

PRO: “You cowards! Go on and play the rest of the Alban Berg Quartet…We can take it, but can you dish it out? I doubt it. There’s been altogether too much Tchaikowsky coming from your spot on the dial lately.”

CON: “Brr…I prefer the music of the cats on the back fence to that!”

PRO: “Very original, new musical  ideas The composer must be very talented in a new direction.”

CON:” I do not wish to hear more of it. It fitted between Wagner and Mozart like a big square peg into a small round hole.”

PRO: “I certainly enjoyed hearing the first two sections of Berg’s Lyric Suite, and would appreciate hearing the work in its entirety.”

CON: “The Lyric Suite by Alvin Baer (?) was like a lot of squeaks and squawks. There wasn’t even rhythm. Please do not play any more of it. I am sorry if music has come to such a pass. Is the idea like ‘cubism’ or something?”

PRO:”I haven’t learned to hear such music, but it took long exposure to teach me to hear Mozart. I am willing to listen to any quantity of any kind of music so long as it isn’t false or vulgar.”

CON: “…as a musician, I must say that the divine music of Tristan which was played before, gave the best answer, the author of which, Richard Wagner, said: ‘Music without melody is no music!’ “

PRO: “I should like very much to hear Alban Berg’s Lyric Suite in its entirety.”

CON: “Awful! Ear Insulting! Nerve Torturing!…The more WQXR broadcasts this crime against the good name of music, the less I listen to the station’s programs.”

There is no need to give further examples to illustrate the point. Actually, the replies were divided almost equally between those for and those against.

Although this is a striking illustration of how people’s tastes differ, it is not exceptional. A similar divergence of opinion is to be found whether the music be modern or conservative. We get letters from people who say in effect, “Who wants to listen to such old fogies as Beethoven or Mozart?” Or “Why don’t you play more Victor Herbert?” Or, “As far as I am concerned, you needn’t play anything except Bach.”

So if we do not always suit your particular taste, remember that many other people are listening to what you dislike and want more of it. What the management of WQXR strives for is a reasonable balance of all kinds of good music. We never expect to attain that blissful state where we please everybody all of the time. But we do try, and, from what we hear, we are coming along pretty well.

Maybe you have some thoughts on this subject. If so, let us hear from you. We welcome your reaction to our programs. We cannot promise to answer all the letters, but we shall give them careful consideration, and they will help guide us in giving you the kind of music you want to hear over WQXR.

We named this blog “The Consecrated Eminence” partly as a self-conscious salute to the high-flown rhetoric of the 19th century, the kind of flowery language that many of us here in the Archives & Special Collections have a fondness for. Of course it sounds bombastic and stuffy to modern ears – but, as I hope our posts over the past two years have shown, we’re not! In any case, when we started the blog, we said that the earliest appearance we could find of the phrase “the consecrated eminence” was in the first issue of the College’s earliest student publication, The Sprite, dated May 1831. In this inaugural issue, the editors appeal to its readers (the Amherst student body) to support this new venture:

Our habitations, moreover, are small and we are but a weak people; we therefore apply for aid to you, inhabitants of the “consecrated eminence”; on you rest all our hopes and expectations…. (p. 2)

But those quotation marks clearly suggest that it is a reference to an even earlier source. As it happens, I believe I’ve found that source. I know our readers have been waiting breathlessly for any news on this issue, so without further ado, here it is.

This is the inaugural address of Amherst’s second president, Heman Humphrey, delivered on October 15, 1823. I always have the same thought about all 19th century speeches unfurled by windy ecclesiastical orators: I hope the weather was cool that day and refreshments were plentiful behind the last row, because this was not a brisk 15-minute speech. Probably closer to two hours, the first hour of which was devoted to disquisitions on Biblical evidences of salvation and providence.

Heman Humphrey, D.D., Amherst College President, 1823-1845

To be sure, Humphrey was speaking at a momentous time in the College’s history, as even he and his audience members surely sensed. Amherst College was barely two years old, but its ranks were growing, its name gaining renown; and though it was still a few more years before it would receive the official sanction of a state Charter, Amherst had much to be excited and optimistic about.  You can understand how fervent Christians could not fail to think of their mission as blessed by the Almighty, and the grounds on which they stood, from a vantage point overlooking the town, as some almost holy place. And so, on the very last page of his speech – almost inevitably, it seems to us — that beautiful/puffy phrase appears: “consecrated eminence.” Humphrey closes with a vision of a pleasant future in which Amherst College students will have learned great things and gone on to do even greater things for the glory of God and for the spreading of the Gospel:

As we cast our eyes down the long track of time, from this consecrated eminence, how many bright and interesting visions croud [sic] upon our view….

Humphrey seems to have been rather fond of this expression, because he uses it again four years later  in a letter accepting an invitation to become pastor of the College church. In it he expresses his prayer that “great additions may be made to [the church] from every successive class of such as shall be saved, and that it may shine brighter and brighter upon this consecrated eminence from generation to generation.”

Colleges, at least American colleges, like to imagine themselves as seated on a hill. And, in fact, many college really are situated on high ground with commanding views. (I myself attended two such institutions with absolutely breathtaking hilltop settings: Hamilton and Cornell.)

Amherst’s reference to itself as “The College on the Hill” is undeniably disingenuous: its actual physical setting, I would say, is not so much “on a hill” as “above a trough.” But it’s a pretty setting all the same, with especially nice views to the south (Holyoke Range) and the west (Hadley farmland and the expanse of the Connecticut River Valley). And the “college on the hill” line — maybe that can be readily forgiven as aspirational rhetoric, a reference to a place set apart (just a bit) from the world, where young people congregate for a time to learn, to think and to prepare their engagement with the greater world — surely not “all downhill from there”…

Saturday is Robert Burns’ 255^th birthday. In 1928, a memorial to this celebrated Scottish poet was dedicated in Stanley Park. It was the first statue erected in Vancouver.

Robert Burns statue in Stanley Park, 1940s. Jack Lindsay, photographer. Reference code AM1184-S1-: CVA 1184-2705.

In February 1924, inspired by a recently published critical analysis of Burns’ work, the Vancouver Burns Fellowship was formed to encourage the study of Burns’ life and works and the singing of his songs. The group also hoped to erect a statue of Burns in Stanley Park.

The original executive of the Burns Fellowship. Page 9 of “Vancouver’s Tribute to Burns”, 1928, reference code PR 4331 R24.

The original caption for the above image reads:

Above are the enthusiastic Burnsians selected as original executive of Burns Fellowship. In the minds of these men the thought of a worthy memorial assumed practical shape, and it is largely as a result of their whole-hearted endeavors that such a magnificent memorial has been erected. Several of the original members are still on the executive, including the President, the Hon. Secretary, and the Hon. Secretary of the Statue Fund.

Reading from left (Front row) Rev. Alex. Thomson, James Taylor (Hon. Secretary of Statue Fund), P. McA. Carrick (President), Alex. McRae (Vice-President), and A. Fraser Reid (Hon. Secretary of Fellowship). (Back row) David Murray, John Macdonald and John MacInnes.

In October 1924, the Fellowship approached the Vancouver Scottish Choir and the Scottish Orchestra to help with fundraising for the statue. On August 22, 1925, they started their fundraising with a music festival at the Brockton Oval that raised over $100 in spite of the weather. Fundraising continued with a wide variety of activities including whist drives, dances, more music festivals and sales of pamphlets and buttons.

Attempts were made to commission an original statue but the organization thought that the designs submitted did not look enough like Robert Burns. They decided to purchase a replica of the Burns statue designed by George Lawson in Ayr, Scotland. The cost was $5,000, and the statue was shipped from England to Vancouver via the Panama Canal.

A further $2,000 was raised to create a granite pedestal for the 9-foot bronze figure. The pedestal was created in Vancouver by Patterson and Chandler and is set with 4 bronze panels.

Invitation to the unveiling and the dinner at the Aztec Room of the Hotel Georgia. From the file “Societies – Vancouver Burns Fellowship” in reference code AM54-S23-1.

The unveiling ceremony was August 25, 1928 and was followed by dinner at the Aztec Room of the Hotel Georgia.

Ex-Prime Minister of Britain Ramsay MacDonald, August 25, 1928. Photographer W.J. Moore. Reference code AM54-S4-: Port P1240.

The Honourable Ramsay MacDonald, ex-Prime Minister of Britain, arrived by train that day with his three daughters. It has been reported that a large crowd welcomed him in spite of his arrival time of 7:30am. He was, coincidentally, in Canada on vacation and agreed to unveil the monument.

A portion of the crowd at the unveiling, August 25, 1928. Page 23 of “Vancouver’s Tribute to Burns”, 1928, reference code PR 4331 R24.

The unveiling ceremony featured music by the pipe band of the 72nd Seaforth Highlanders and the Vancouver Scottish Choir. The proceedings were broadcast using loudspeakers so that the crowd, estimated at 10-12,000, could hear the program. Motion picture films were made of the ceremony and later shown in theatres in Vancouver and across Canada. A court stenographer created a verbatim record of the proceedings, which is reproduced in Vancouver’s Tribute to Burns.

Sixteen different organizations laid wreaths at the foot of the monument. Attached to the wreath from the St. Andrew’s and Caledonian Society of North Vancouver was this poem by W.S. Mitchell:

O Robin, could ye see the day
When buirdly Scots in great array,
On Britain’s shores that face Cathay
Your memory mark
Wi’ nine fit bronze, on granite base,
Such as the toon o’ Ayr doth grace;
Wi’ Presidents you’ve got your place
In Stanley Park.

And there, where wanton breezes stir
The stately taps o’ Douglas fir,
Midst scent o’ roses and o’ myrrh
You stand on guard—
A monument, a mark a guide
To those wha walk and those wha ride,
That Scotsmen tak’ an unco pride
In Coila’s bard.

Born in a humble theekit cot,
With hardship for they earthly lot,
Perchance thy Muse had little thought
To live aince mair
In hearts o’ men the humble flower
And Patriot Bard, whose rhyme has power
To banish care.

The menu from the dinner after the unveiling. From “Vancouver’s Tribute to Burns”, 1928, reference code PR 4331 R24.

Three hundred people attended the banquet that evening, entering the room to the sound of bagpipes. The proceedings—speeches, songs and toasts—were broadcast on radio station CKWX. They are recorded in Vancouver’s Tribute to Burns.

Enjoy Robbie Burns Day!

Remember when New York City was covered in weed? Well it turns out that even as the city oversaw historic removal efforts in the 1950s, there were already some in government urging swift legislative reform.

In this notably candid episode of WNYC’s Campus Press Conference from 1951, not only does State Supreme Court Justice John Murtagh reject punitive solutions to drug problems, but he also says that science supports the notion that marijuana is non-addictive and potentially safer than cigarettes.

The interview is surprising for two reasons.  First, it debunks the perception that people were completely freaked out by weed in the 1950s. Between mass hysteria-inducing cult films like Reefer Madness and the shock and awe of educational television, it’s interesting to learn that our views about marijuana haven’t changed all that much.

Secondly, there was a HUGE marijuana crackdown in New York in 1951.  At the time, weed grew everywhere, with seven foot high plants sprouting in fields from Williamsburg to Cobble Hill to East New York.  In 1951 alone, a division of the Department of Sanitation called the “White Wing Squad” confiscated and destroyed 41,000 pounds of the plant. These photos and corresponding story from the Brooklyn Public Library go a long way to help us understand the marijuana jungle that was New York City in 1951. To hear the entire Campus Press Conference, visit the full catalog record here. Audio courtesy of New York City Municipal Archives.

Weeding out operation–Police Inspector Peter Terranova, commanding officer of the narcotics squad, flanked by Anthony Cristiano, a Department of Sanitation workman, and Frank Creta, general inspector. photo: Brooklyn Public Library, Brooklyn Collection.

Plenty of dream stuff–There seems to be no end to the marijuana ‘plantations’ unearthed in the borough. Here Sanitation Department Chief Inspector John E. Gleason examines a plant taller than he, found in a lot at 81 N. 4th St. photo: Brooklyn Public Library, Brooklyn Collection

The PIDB still wants your suggested topics that you feel agencies should prioritize for declassification.  Beginning on January 27, 2014, the PIDB will begin compiling the responses and comments it received on this blog.  It will then use those ideas and report back to the public its conclusions and suggested next steps to assist the President in his goal of transforming the security classification system.

Please submit your ideas as soon as you can, but no later than January 26, 2014 to have the PIDB receive them before it issues its upcoming report.  The PIDB intends to share its report during the coming months and engage the public in more discussions about ways it can help improve the declassification process.

We thank all of those who have already participated on the blog and look forward to hearing more of your ideas.

Walter James Miller interviewed Kurt Vonnegut for the last time on WNYC’s Reader’s Almanac on January 2, 1983. Vonnegut’s novel Deadeye Dick had just been published to mixed reviews.

As he had in several earlier conversations with Vonnegut, Miller staunchly defends his fiction against critics who continue to pan his writing as “naïve,” “unoriginal,” “unserious,” “juvenile,” “tasteless,” and worse. Vonnegut laughs off the criticism, mostly, comparing his detractors “circus geeks” who “bite the heads off chickens [his novels] for the amusement of the rubes [readers of “serious” book reviews] who walk by.”

This ongoing battle between Vonnegut and the critics in the 1980s is especially interesting given the fact that he was right in the middle of his greatest post-Slaughterhouse-Five period of productivity. Jailbird, a fascinating novel about the Watergate political scandal that brought down President Nixon, had preceded Deadeye Dick, and soon to follow were two even better books, Galapagos and Bluebeard. So while Vonnegut had been deeply stung by the harsh, and somewhat deserved, excoriation he got following the publication of Slapstick in the mid-1970s, he’s clearly past all that in this interview and enjoying his literary renaissance—even if some reviewers still are calling his novels sub-literary.

Deadeye Dick is a tragic tale of “gun nuts and nukes,” Vonnegut tells Miller. Rudy Waltz, the protagonist, while playing around as a child in his father’s upstairs gun room, fires off a round from a high-powered rifle and accidentally kills a pregnant woman as she vacuums her apartment several blocks away. In typical Vonnegutesque black humor, it’s Mother’s Day.  Soon the police track down the source of the shot and drag Rudy to the station, where they utterly humiliate him and his distraught father. Vonnegut reveals the autobiographical parallels of the novel, saying that like Rudy he once “let off a high-powered shell over Indianapolis.” He then jokes with Miller that “and I’m not about to check in the newspaper files to see if anybody got shot back then.” Rudy’s father’s humiliation by the police parallels Vonnegut’s father’s emotional collapse during the Great Depression, when he lost his prestigious architectural career. The other significant tie to real life in the novel, the Reagan-era tensions with the Soviet Union over Reagan’s buildup of nuclear arms, serves to drive home Vonnegut’s warning that mankind, on both the micro and macro scales, seems absurdly ready to destroy itself with its own ingenious weapons.

Miller praises Vonnegut’s method of “telling the story in bursts,” a la Slaughterhouse-Five; his use of “playlets” as Rudy (who, like Vonnegut, tries play writing with humiliating results) relates several important incidents in his life; his inclusion of at least a dozen recipes to counterbalance the general misery of the rest of the novel; and his insight that life “is like a literary plot—with an epilogue.” Vonnegut considered his own life and work after Slaughterhouse-Five an epilogue, but this interview suggests that it was a fine one, a genuinely worthwhile second act.

___________________________

Special thanks to Mary Hume, Donald Farber and Ana Maria Allessi at Harper Collins for making the release of these broadcasts possible.

Walter James Miller was affiliated with the NYU Program in Liberal Studies.

In the April, 1942 WQXR Program Guide, distinguished American pianist and composer Abram Chasins wrote about the obligations of performers, composers and listeners to the art of music. In July, 1943 he was appointed WQXR’s Music Consultant, and in 1946, its Music Director, a post he held for nineteen years.

By and large the American composer is doing pretty well, certainly much better than he did twenty years ago. His fellow countrymen realize that he is alive and “kicking;” orchestras are much less reluctant to program his music; recordings and broadcasts of American music are more numerous. But the American composer has not yet been made to feel that he is contributing as much to American life as the American writer or painter.

And why? In my opinion, before a really favorable atmosphere and attitude are created, American composers make certain requests that must be complied with, and have some obligations they must fulfill.

The first request of the American composer is that listeners regard his music from the same point of view they use for other music. Performers should not play a work as a stunt, as a duty, as a gesture, or because of pressure–and then forget it. American compositions should be chosen as a result of study, selection and conviction.

The American composer prefers not to have his work administered in all-out doses, as in “All-American” programs. He wants to see his music simply presented on varied programs. He has every right to expect that the work will be as carefully placed and prepared as any other work a performer chooses to play. He hopes his work will be repeated regardless of first public or critical reactions, until such reactions crystallize into opinions, and familiarity can bring a proper estimate of value.

As a general rule, this method of presentation is not applied to new music, even to that of the best-known composers. What generally happens after a particularly successful performance is that word spreads about “a good new American work.” The following season, a sprinkling of minor orchestras may play it. Then, it’s through–and another new piece takes its place, to be shelved in turn. Too few orchestras and performers feel an obligation to build American music as a live and growing art, and audiences have encouraged that policy.

Certainly we give prizes and make speeches, and we always have a competition somewhere to take care of a big bunch of musicians all at once. But American audiences have not earnestly concerned themselves with their fellow countrymen who write or play music.

Concertgoers and radio listeners should have more curiosity and more courage. They should listen to every new work as an individual creation, forgetting what nation and period produced it. If it has any meaning, or interest, or vitality, they should ask to hear it again. They should not be afraid to like it, or to hate it. While much new music is excellent, much is bound to be rubbish.

In every period of art only a small fraction of the total of artistic production has survived, but that fraction could not have been born except in the same environment which produced the rest. It takes a lot of music…bad music, mediocre music, all kinds of music and lots of it …for the great stuff to emerge. The public must have an opportunity to hear all of it, in order to allow the necessary process of selection and rejection to function.

There are two powerful groups within the musical public. One hails anything new, just because it doesn’t sound like anything else heard  before. The other group refuses to hear any but familiar, established works. A plague on both their houses. They are music’s natural enemies.

As to those who belong to neither group, they need a bit of jacking up. If music is really a source of inspiration and spiritual enjoyment to you, then you owe something to music. It is up to you to keep it a living, vital, growing art. You should be eager to hear what a composer has to say, whether or not you like it. Give it every attention. Be willing to hear it again. That’s little to ask.

Performers have their obligations too. Few artists stack up against a man like Liszt, whose career was always at the service of music; whose greatest joy was in the discovery of the creative spark, in the furthering of music of the men of his time. To which you might say, “Ah, but then there were Chopin and Mendelssohn and Schumann; today however, where are there such composers to be discovered?” Well, how do we know? I don’t say there are, but we have a small chance of finding them, if they exist, until more artists arise with a modesty and curiosity that allow them to realize the art of music is greater than themselves and their careers.

Upon the composer rests the greatest obligation of all. Twenty-five years ago a post-war cynicism, coupled with a justified result against over-ripe, decadent post-romanticism, led artists to denounce the melodic, the romantic, the heroic quality of music. People wanted to avoid emotion. And what emerged? Brittle, “hard-boiled” music; intellectual concepts in sound; works which composers actually directed performers to play without feeling and without expression; the repudiation of music as a medium for the fanciful vision and the inner life of the emotions.

Today, people need sorely a music which will remind them that their tottering material world is not everything; that it is not even very important. Responsibilities are heavy. The future is uncertain. Human life itself is precarious. We need music for spiritual reassurance. Our composers, if they are to speak to us in a language we understand, may not use the wisecrack or the mathematical gimcrack. They cannot isolate themselves. They must not only express; they must communicate.

If we free our artists from the necessity of making hysterical efforts to gain a hearing; if we show also that they don’t have to write sentimental ear-kissers to overcome listening-resistance, we will be generously repaid. For artists way down deep realize that no art can thrive which the people do not want or cannot understand in their hearts. Composers know that they have a supreme task today: to fulfill their heritage, to convert chaos into order, to renounce and show up false values and insincere bids for attention, and to articulate the cause of the creative human spirit, the cause that no enemy has ever defeated, nor ever will.

On January 1^st, while we were singing Auld Lang Syne, the copyright expired for some of our holdings: they are now in the public domain in Canada. This means that they are no longer restricted to being viewed only at the Archives, but are available online to all. Here’s a quick look at what’s become easier to view and re-use.

This is a 2-reel documentary made by CBC in 1963 to be broadcast as part of The Morning Show. It contains footage of the recreational activities—such as carpet bowling, women’s Christmas crafts, and Judo—that take place at the Kerrisdale Community Centre as well as interviews with the centre’s instructors, users, and administrators. “Morning show” – Kerrisdale Community Centre part #1, reference code VPK-S652-: MI-114 and “Morning show” – Kerrisdale Community Centre part #2, reference code VPK-S652-: MI-115.

This is another 2-reel documentary made by CBC in 1963 for The Morning Show. The first reel covers a visit to Stanley Park for a conversation with Stuart Lefeaux, Superintendent of Parks, and a visit to Queen Elizabeth Park, including footage of Century Rock, a time capsule located there that is to be opened in 2054. The second reel contains further discussion of Stanley Park and Queen Elizabeth Park, footage of Nelson Park, and remarks from Grace McCarthy, Parks Board Commissioner. “Morning show” Park Board part #1, reference code VPK-S652-: MI-116 and “Morning show” Park Board part #2, reference code VPK-S652-: MI-117.

Grauer bull at Fraser Dairy, Sea Island. Photographer W.J. Moore. Reference code AM54-S4-: Misc N59.1.

It has been 50 years since the death of photographer W.J. Moore, so all his photographs, not just the ones taken before 1949, are in the public domain. Above is one of three images of a bull at Fraser Dairy (AM54-S4-: Misc N59.1, AM54-S4-: Misc N59.2 and AM54-S4-: Misc N59.3) that are available. We’ve written before about W.J. Moore, his panoramic camera, and our project to digitize his panoramic images.

The last trip of the B.C. Electric Railway observation car No. 124. Photographer Harry Bullen. Reference code AM54-S4-: Trans P122.

Harry Bullen, official photographer for the B.C. Electric Railway Company, also died in 1963. Major Matthews’ notes with this photographic print are:

Observation Car, the last trip; 17^th Sept. 1950

For fifty one [which he later corrected to 40] summers the celebrated “Observation Car”, B.C. Electric Railway Company street car No. 124, carried tens of thousands of sight-seeing passengers. It is estimated that, during the half century, it carried a million and a half passengers; her very popular conductor, “Teddy” Lyons, was a notable personality, known to travellers from all parts of the world. He talked continuously, and with much humour, as he descr4ibed the numerous objects of interest passed during the long trip of about two hours through all parts of the City. When street cars gave way to busses, i.e. rails to rubber, the street car tracks were torn up, the B.C. Electric Railway Company gave one last ride, complimentary, to civic dignitaries, then offered it as a relic to anyone who wanted it, which no one did. In 1955 the “Observation Car” was in Montreal. It came to Vancouver in the summer of 1910.

We hope you find these items useful.

Those who work in digital collections often talk about supporting scholarship and new research. While that’s certainly an important endeavor, occasionally it can be fun to explore the wacky and weird in the archives without necessarily having higher academic pursuit in mind.

Edward Hitchcock

Since December 2013, I have been working closely with the Edward and Orra White Hitchcock collection held by Amherst College. As the Metadata Resident, I look at individual objects in depth to attach titles, dates, subject headings, and abstracts (among other things) to these items to make them discoverable in our online collections in Amherst College Digital Collections (ACDC). I have read nearly all of the letters that passed between Edward Hitchcock and Benjamin Silliman, have read pages upon pages of sermons written by Hitchcock during his early career as a Congregationalist minister, and have become quite the expert at reading Hitchcock’s notoriously bad handwriting. In all, I’ve read over 200 letters, 144 sermons, 28 sermon outlines, packets of lecture notes on botany, chemistry, and natural history, and much, much more. Often, I come across passages, phrases, or situations that strike me as funny and I thought I’d share some of them.

1.)    An 1854 remedy for constipation: 

In a letter Edward Hitchcock wrote to his son, Edward Hitchcock, Jr., he writes: “I am sorry to hear that Mary [Hitchcock Jr.’s wife] is unwell: yet I think she cannot be well so long as troubled with obstinate constipation. I am sorry I did not converse with her about it: for this has been one of my troubles. Yet I have conquered it mainly by coarse bread, applesauce, and milk diet. Perhaps she would prefer the disease to the remedy.” Hitchcock was constantly ill and it’s rare to find a letter from him that doesn’t mention his poor state of health, but generally his ailments included fatigue and problems with his lungs, so I just had to laugh at this unexpected ailment and cure.

2.)    A pocketful of bats:

In October of 1860, Edward Hitchcock, Jr. was traveling in Switzerland. One of the letters written to him during this time includes pieces written by six members of the Hitchcock family. Charles H. Hitchcock, who was 23 or 24 at the time, had just been involved in a naming ceremony to name a summit in Dorset, Vermont, “Mt. Eolus” [now Mt. Aeolus]. I was surprised to read this passage about the trip to Vermont: “I obtained a pocketful of bats at the Eolian cave …” At first I assumed this meant dead bats, but I read on “… and have them now in a glass before me. There are five or six of them. They are now quite active, though torpid when taken from the cave. One flew out of my pocket on the way down the Mt. Two of them have been flying round my room, & one I rather think got out of the house & flew to the church. […]I have just let my bats loose & they are flying all over the room with great joy.”

Edward Hitchcock, Jr.’s comments about the bats highlighted in his letter

The letter seems to indicate that Charles was back in Amherst at the time of writing. How Charles not only managed to take “five or six” live bats from a cave in Vermont but also managed to get them home to Amherst (a two-hour car ride now, Dorset, VT, to Amherst, MA, was quite the journey in 1860) I have no idea, but it’s impressive to say the least.

3.)    Hitchcock and publication

Hitchcock kept up correspondence with Benjamin Silliman, founder and editor of the American Journal of Science, and they were constantly discussing scholarly publishing either for the Journal or other publications. In one letter (I unfortunately can’t recall which), Hitchcock tells Silliman that he has sent a review to a different publication. He apparently didn’t think the publication was well run, because he confided to Silliman that submitting his review was equivalent to “throwing it into the Dead Sea.”

4.)    A sermon for children

From 1821 to 1825 Hitchcock was minister at the Congregational Church in Conway, MA. His sermon “Duties of Children,” is the first I read intended for the children in his congregation. For the most part, Hitchcock didn’t rely on the “hellfire and brimstone” approach to preaching, but his sermon to children uses that strategy and is the most morbid of all those I read. Hitchcock tells his young listeners: “And let me tell you that every one of you must die too. It will not be long before the bell will toll at your funerals and you will be put into the coffin and covered up with earth.” He also tells the children about what happened to people who told others about Jesus during times of hostility to Christianity, saying “Very many were thrown into the fire and burned to death – others were torn to pieces by wild beasts.” I’m sure he gave those children nightmares!

Excerpt from “Duties of Children”

5.)    Love notes to Orra White

Edward and Orra White Hitchcock were married May 31, 1821. In the archives, we have a small number of love notes arranging late night trysts between them prior to their marriage. One September 6, Edward wrote to his future wife:

Orra White Hitchcock

“Do you think, Orra, if you should go up to Harriet’s towards night we would make it so muddy, dark and rainy this evening that it would be impossible for you to get back tonight? If such should be your belief I assure you I should be very happy to be placed in the same predicament (after Mr. Eliphlalet & wife have gone to bed) or in other words ‘I’ll be with you bye & bye’”

After spending so much time reading business correspondence from Hitchcock related to science and publishing, these slightly scandalous letters revealed a drastically different side of Hitchcock. That’s part of what’s so exciting about getting to work with original materials. Hitchcock’s published work can’t offer this type of insight into his life and personality.

6.)    A very strange sermon.

The final page of Edward Hitchcock’s Fourth of July Fair sermon

The item in this collection that made me laugh the most was an absurd occasional sermon written for the Fourth of July in which Hitchcock appears to write primarily in wordplays on the word “fair.” It seems the women in the town of Conway were planning a fair for the Fourth of July, and he writes “The 4^th of July Fair, a charming affair. Begun carried on and completed in elegant style by our own Fair on a very fair day we thank them for their many fair smiles and words and refreshments and nic-nacks,” but after four pages of discussing what a fine affair a fair is, he mysteriously concludes with this bizarre statement: “I have tried and failed. One woman = 5 pairs of cattle.” What he intended by that I’m not sure, possibly a comment the hard work of women in putting on the fair? Whatever the case may be, I cracked up laughing at my desk reading it.

Lots of new material from the Edward and Orra White Hitchcock collection, including letters and sermons, is now available within ACDC. I hope more people will explore these materials and find something that interests them, inspires them, or just makes them laugh.