tempus: issue 15.2

Tempus

15.2

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Tempus: The Harvard College History Review is the undergraduate journal of the Harvard History Department. Tempus was founded by a pair of undergraduates, Adam G. Beaver and Sujit M. Raman, in 1999 as a forum for publishing original historical scholarship through which all students have the opportunity to learn from their peers. Tempus also sponsors history events on campus and aims to promote an undergraduate community within the History Department. In the spring of 2009, Tempus became an online publication. In the spring of 2013, Tempus returned to print.

About Tempus

The Fall ‘14 Editorial Board

Forrest BrownSantiago PardoCody DalesMartin CarlinoNathaniel HayEli LeeSama MammadovaNancy O’Neil*Caleb Shelburne*Barbara Halla*

Editor-in-ChiefDeputy Editor-in-ChiefBusiness Chief

Design by Cody DalesCover art by Claudia Interrante, with thanks

Submissions and inquiries may be E-mailed to [email protected] or mailed to Tempus: The Harvard College History Review, Box 47, 59 Shepard Street, Cambridge, MA 02138. Additional information may be found online at both www.hcs.harvard.edu/tempus/ and www.facebook.com/harvardtempus

As always, we are appreciative for the support of the Harvard History Department and the Undergraduate Council. Special thanks to History Department Writing Fellow Hannah Callaway for helping revise the papers in this issue. We are forever grateful to all those who submitted papers for consideration for the high quality of their work. Berylium typeface courtesy of Larabie fonts.

*Congratulations to our new members

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Charles Sheeler, Diego Rivera, and the Ford Rouge River Plant by Isaac Dayno

The Efficient Image

The King Nobel Banquet and Racial Tension in the “City too Busy to Hate” by Kristin Holladay

“Black and WhiteTogether in Atlanta”

The Pilgrim’s Progress and the Book Trade in Seventeenth-Century England by Emma Rausch

“Similtudes of a Dream”

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Dear Reader,

Welcome to the Fall 2014 Issue of Tempus, Volume XV, Issue 2. The three papers in these pages cover an impressive range of subjects with an array of enlightening methods. Emma’s essay examines the very early years of printing and copyright in Britain through the prism of an immensely popular Christian allegory, its author, publisher and their adversaries.We have the distinct honor of publishing both Isaac and Kristin for the second time. Isaac returns this time with a poignant and incisive art and culture history, examining how three prominent artists dealt with the strangeness of the Ford Motor Company plants. Kristin continues her excellent work in civil rights history of the South with a surprising piece about the controversy over an Atlanta banquet honoring Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Nobel Prize.

Each author built their story out of a challenging set of sources. Emma closely analyzed the menagerie of pirated books, imitations, and misrepresentations, and drew out of it a complex picture of authorship in the 17th century. Isaac fused a detailed reading of artwork with a careful explication of Fordism and the rise of mechanization. And Kristin patched together a convincing narrative of a much-disputed story out of newspaper accounts, Coca-Cola Company records, and contradictory accounts of the participants.

I hope you enjoy reading this nearly as much as I have enjoyed helping to create it. Sincerely,

. Forrest BrownEditor-in-Chief

Editor’s Note

TheEfficient ImageCharles Sheeler, Diego Rivera, and

The Ford Rouge River Plant

by Isaac Dayno

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a single path of efficient movement. Efficiency, according to the Gilbreths’ visual models, is standardized, geometric, and disembodied.

The cyclographs capture the blurred body of the worker for the duration of production; the wire models have omitted human presence completely. In an effort to consistently eliminate wasted motion from the factory task, movement that did not correspond to the most efficient path of production did not translate to the wire models. The Gilbreths’ motion models do occasionally bear signatures: the names “Burns,” “Allen,” and “Lorthop” can be found inscribed at the base. These names, however, do not refer to the skilled factory worker the Gilbreths chose to represent production, but rather the engineer who constructed the model.3 The visual models give little hint as to the act of production; it is impossible for a viewer to reconstruct from the model the making of a switchboard or the

To create a cyclegraph, Frank and Lillian Gilbreth attached small, flashing electric bulbs to the fingertips of factory workers.

High-speed cameras with extended exposures recorded the trace of the lights in a darkened studio the Gilbreths termed the “Betterment Room.”1 The resulting photographs (Figure 1) documented a series of white arcs representing the movements of the worker and illustrated what Frank Gilbreth called the “path of least waste” and the “One Best Way.”2 The Gilbreths carefully copied the series of arcs and dashes from the photographs to a three-dimensional grid, using white wire to trace the original motion of the worker’s hands (Figure 2). The resulting visual wire models, developed to train disabled veterans of the First World War for factory work, are white and abstract, their curving shapes angling through space. The models collapse the many light traces of the photographic plate into one line, expressing

1 Scott Curtis, “Images of Efficiency: The Films of Frank B. Gilbreth”, in Films That Work: Industrial Film and the Productivity of Media, ed Vinzenz Hediger and Patrick Vonderau, (Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP, 2009), 89. 2 Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, Motion Study for the Handicapped (London: Routledge, 1920), XIV.3 Sharon Corwin, “Picturing Efficiency: Precisionism, Scientific Management, and theEffacement of Labor,” Representations 84 (2003), 146.

“The old man argues science cheapened speed.A good cheap anti-dark is now the need.Give us a good cheap twenty-four-hour day,No part of which we’d have to waste, I say,And who knows where we can’t get! Wasting timeIn sleep or slowness is the deadly crime.”

- Robert Frost, “The Literate Farmer and the Planet Venus”

7The Efficient Image

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of the factory complex. The Gilbreth models belong to a larger vocabulary of Frederick Winslow Taylor’s Scientific Management of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Surging mechanized labor in industrial America led Taylor to pioneer a field of study that examined the pace and efficiency of human labor. The Gilbreths were not alone in their pursuit of waste reduction, but rather emblematic of a wave of business leaders who pursued and managed the efficiency that fed the booming national market for industrial goods. The annual production of automobiles in America in 1900 numbered four thousand; twenty-three years later, output had increased to 4,080,000 vehicles, of which 57 percent came from the Ford Motor Company.4 To achieve this explosive growth and market share, Henry Ford instituted a suite of business practices, including Scientific Management, at

typing of a keyboard. The simplification of the motion of labor and the removal of the worker from its production created stark and alienated visual representations. Ironically, in an effort to isolate the essential elements of production, the Gilbreths and their efficiency engineers have abstracted labor to the point that it becomes unrecognizable and inimitable. With little practical application, the wire models instead work to create an aesthetic of efficiency, visualizing the principles of a new age of industrial production.

The models of Frank and Lillian Gilbreth present the difficult problem of representing the labor at the heart of America’s surging industries. Artists Charles Sheeler and Diego Rivera would encounter the same obstacles at the Ford Motor Company plant as they struggled to depict the worker in the vastness

4 Peter Ling, American and the Automobile: Technology, Reform, and Social Change (New York: Manchester University Press, 1990), 171.

Figure 1: Cyclegraph, Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, undated. Image: Gilbreth Collection, National Museum of American History (NMAH), Smithsonian.

Figure 2: Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, efficiency motion models, 1913–14. Image: Gilbreth Collection, NMAH.


In 1917, as the Highland Park factory peaked in efficient output, construction began on a larger Ford production plant ten miles from Detroit at River Rouge.7 The complex was the largest and most technologically sophisticated production site in the world, consisting of 93 miles of interior railroad track, nearly 100 buildings, and more than 75,000 workers.8 The River Rouge plant included its own iron ore processing and smelting facilities, allowing Henry Ford to control the entirety of his production process. To document the River Rouge Plant and promote the new Ford Model A, Edsel Ford, Henry Ford’s son

and president of the Ford Motor Company, contracted an advertising agency, which in turn commissioned the Precisionist painter and photographer Charles Sheeler. Sheeler spent six weeks photographing the facilities of Ford’s industrial metropolis at River Rouge, producing an official selection of 32 prints. On his arrival at the plant in late November 1927, Sheeler found the frenetic pace and scale of the production electrifying and overwhelming: “The subject matter is incomparably the most

his Highland Park factory in Detroit. Workers in the plant received twice the average starting salary for unskilled laborers under the 1914 ‘Five Dollar Day’ plan if they followed managerial directives and unquestioningly submitted to the Ford Sociological Department’s monitoring of job productivity, absenteeism, tardiness, and off-the-job personal spending, sobriety, and morality.5

Higher wages and worker productivity did not, however, correlate with worker satisfaction; employee turnover rate peaked at 370 percent in the Highland plant and many Ford workers complained of the dehumanization of mechanized labor. Ford’s employee management and assembly line production prompted one longtime employee to note how “workers cease to be human beings as soon as they enter the gates of the shop. They become automatons and cease to think.”6 Taylor’s Scientific Management, which sought to improve working conditions by providing higher wages and additional leisure time, had by the 1910s alienated workers from labor and their own sense of humanity. While wages like those working under the Five Dollar Day rose, they did so in conjunction with consumer spending. The Ford Sociological Department failed to radically change the moral value of its employees, but Henry Ford did pacify labor union demands and offered employees the option of buying Ford cars, even if the vehicles were second-hand.

5 Karen Lucic, Charles Sheeler and the Cult of the Machine (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1991), 19. 6 As quoted in Stephen Meyer, The Five Dollar Day: Labor Management and Social Control in the Ford Motor Company, 1908-1921 (Albany: State U of New York, 1981) 40-41.7 Evelyn Cobley, Modernism and the Culture of Efficiency: Ideology and Fiction (Toronto: University of Toronto, 2009), 41.8 Lucic, Charles Sheeler and the Cult of the Machine, 90.

“... the largest and most technologically sophisticated production site in the world...”

10 Dayno

geometries of machines. While Frank and Lillian Gilbreth moved factory workers inside the darkness of the Betterment Room to record movement in front of a gridded background, Sheeler has simply whitewashed the worker altogether, focusing his camera instead on the stillness of the machines that make up the streets of River Rouge.

The photographs take on a near-religious quality, sanctifying an industrial architecture and acclaiming the cathedrals of the machine age.12 A 1928 Vanity Fair caption beneath a print of Sheeler’s iconic Criss-Crossed Conveyers similarly describes how “in a landscape where size, quantity and speed are the cardinal virtues, it is natural that the largest factory, turning out the most cars in the least time, should come to have the quality of America’s Mecca, toward which the pious journey for prayer.”13 By the end of the 1920’s, American industrial output had doubled from a decade before, canned food consumption had grown by more than 100 percent in fifteen years, and the number of telephones in America had grown from 1.35 million in 1900 to 20.2 million in 1930.14 As the Vanity Fair caption satirizes, consumer culture had overtaken America with religious zeal.

Sheeler’s photographs of the Ford Motor Company plant did not, however, maintain the company’s majesty in the face of economic downturn during the Great Depression. From 1929 to 1932, the manufacturer recorded

thrilling I have had to work with.”9 To absorb the complexity of the Rouge plant, Sheeler spent the first few weeks wandering through the factory grounds, taking photographs only after identifying potential subjects.10 Sheeler was particularly fascinated with the early stages of car manufacturing, preferring to photograph the dramatic steel foundry equipment rather than the crowded assembly line units. His images, such as Stamping Press – Ford Plant (Figure 3), calm the frenzy of industrial production, distilling the sprawling facilities of Rouge River into a series of functional geometries. Sheeler neatly aestheticizes smokestacks and conveyor belts, fitting them into each other like interlocking pieces of a machine.

A profound quiet haunts Sheeler’s 32 photographs as soft light diffuses through the huge and largely empty industrial spaces. Sheeler has recorded not the 75,000 workers or the teams of managerial staff that pushed employees toward ever-increasing outputs, but instead what Karen Lucic describes in her book Charles Sheeler and the Cult of the Machine as an “industrial grandeur.”11 Workers, if they appear at all, fade into the background of the factory or, as in Stamping Press, become completely subsumed into the machinery of the production line. Like the Gilbreths’ visual wire models, it is impossible to piece together what part of the Model A these workers might be in the process of fabricating. Sheeler has presented River Rouge in isolation from human movement and celebrated the unimpeded

9 As quoted in Lucic, Charles Sheeler and the Cult of the Machine, 92.10 Linda Downs and Mary Jacob, The Rouge: The Image of Industry in the Art of Charles Sheeler and Diego Rivera (Detroit: Detroit Institute of Arts, 1978), 12.11 Lucic, Charles Sheeler and the Cult of the Machine, 95.12 Ibid.13 ‘By Their Works Ye Shall Know Them’, Vanity Fair, 29, as quoted in Lucic, Charles Sheeler and the Cult of the Machine, 95. 14 William Edward Leuchtenburg, The Perils of Prosperity 1914-1932 (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1993), 178-81.


industry, others found Sheeler’s new natural landscape particularly troublesome. Leo Marx, writing in The Machine in the Garden, notes how “by superimposing order, peace, and harmony on our modern chaos, Sheeler represents the anomalous blend of illusion and reality in the American consciousness.”18 Sheeler had, as Marx discusses, recalibrated the pastoral form and used it to mask the industrial and technological processes that threatened to efface the human presence altogether. More unnerving than the reduction of the human figure, however, is the oddly still and romanticized image of a fully controlled technological landscape. For Sheeler, the drama of the American vista derives from the size of the machines and their potential for efficient creation. He developed the image put forward almost a century earlier by Thomas Cole in The Oxbow; the ferocity of a natural landscape yet to be fully tamed has yielded, developed, and been made efficient.

Like the omission of human exertion in American Landscape, Charles Sheeler also worked to make his own labor invisible in his painting. The exactitude of the brushstrokes and photographic perspective underlie a scientific fastidiousness that characterized the Precisionists. As Sharon Corwin explains in “Picturing Efficiency”, Sheeler described his obsession with the aesthetic of efficiency: “I speak in the tongue of my times, the mechanical, the industrial. Anything that works efficiently is beautiful.”19 Painting the efficiency of the

37 million dollars in losses as American consumption of motor vehicles dropped by more than half.15 Ford Motor Company made widespread job cuts, angering labor unions and leading to demonstrations, one of which resulted in the death of four workers during a hunger protest outside the Rouge plant. At this time of economic and political unrest, Sheeler revisited his reference photographs of the Ford Motor Company factory complex, cropping the images and painting a series of canvases detailing the vast scale and geometries of the Rouge River plant.16 Sheeler’s American Landscape, like the photographs produced on behalf of the Ford Motor Company, maintains a distinct hush, the flat surface of the canal reflecting the large machinery at the water’s edge (Figure 4). Large mounds of brown and white industrial material pile up next to rail tracks and a smokestack emits vapor like a giant cigarette. A solitary human figure sprints down the rails, its features and purpose swallowed in the scale of the machines.

Rather than embracing Sheeler’s image of American industry like his 1927 photographs, critical response during the Great Depression bristled at Sheeler’s paean to machines in the American pastoral style. In a discourse framed by the betrayal of the American people by the industrial-capitalist system, writers like William Carlos Williams criticized Sheeler’s “little direct reference to humanity.”17 While Williams was ultimately supportive of the project, calling the paintings the only art possible in an age of

15 Lucic, Charles Sheeler and the Cult of the Machine, 99.16 Joyce Peterson, American Automobile Workers, 1900-1933 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987), 130-33; Gene Smiley, Rethinking the Great Depression (Chicago: I.R. Dee, 2002), 23.17 William Carlos Williams and Bram Dijkstra, A Recognizable Image: William Carlos Williams on Art and Artists (New York: New Directions, 1978), 144. 18 Leo Marx, The Machine in the Garden: Technology and the Pastoral Ideal in America (New York: Oxford UP, 1964), 355, as quoted in Lucic, Charles Sheeler and the Cult of the Machine, 104.19 Sharon Corwin, “Picturing Efficiency”, 154.

Detroit Institute of Arts, but to expand his initial designs to a full, 27-panel series. Rivera, given artistic control, but prodded to include “something out of the history of Detroit, or some motif suggesting the development of industry in this town,” devised the Rouge plant as the heart of the murals, although these panels would be the last to be painted.22

Rivera began his painting at midnight, waiting two to three hours after his assistants had prepared the plaster for the murals.23 The plaster, mixed in the basement of the museum under the theater, consisted of sand and lime, base industrial materials widely available

in Detroit.24 During the night hours Rivera completed black outlines and gray shading and painted his monochrome panels, such as those showing the daily life of workers as they punch in, eat lunch, collect wages, and leave the Rouge factory. At dawn the muralist moved to color pigments, created by mixing Detroit tap water with minerals ground with glass contributed by the Ford Motor Company.25 Rivera painted the main walls of the mural in one sitting each, balancing artistic spontaneity with prepared sketches to ensure he finished the panels before the plaster dried. The buon fresco process also

River Rouge plant in motion required Sheeler slow down the industrial processes of the factory, producing depopulated photographs that could be translated into still images. The result, as American Landscape shows, conflates the presence of technology with the absence of the forces that allow it to function, much like a Ford Model A fresh on the lot from the Rouge River factory.

Diego Rivera arrived at the Ford Motor Company Rouge River plant late in April of 1932 and stayed for over a month, taking in the vast industrial complex that had so absorbed Charles Sheeler five years before.20 Touring the

facilities with Ford company photographer W. J. Settler, the Mexican muralist became fascinated with the vertical integration of the site and marveled at the scope of industrial processes the plant commanded. Rivera saw Marxist potential in the Rouge plant to overcome the alienation of labor from production; he particularly noted how a diverse team of laborers could transform, at a single site, the raw and primordial materials of the earth into their final commercial form.21 At the end of his study of the Rouge plant, Rivera agreed to not only complete a mural installation at the

20 Linda Downs and Mary Jacob, The Rouge, 47.21 Rivera was expelled from the Mexican Communist Party in 1929. Linda Downs and Mary Jacob, The Rouge, 48.22 As quoted in Linda Downs and Mary Jacob, The Rouge, 47.23 Linda Downs and Mary Jacob, The Rouge, 51.24 Linda Bank Downs, Diego Rivera: The Detroit Industry Murals (New York: W.W. Norton, 1999), 37.25 Linda Downs and Mary Jacob, The Rouge, 51.

“The result, as American Landscape shows, conflates the presence of technology with the absence of the forces that allow it to function...”

12 Dayno

mural, although Rivera has styled the machine far differently from Sheeler’s dehumanized depiction. Rivera chose the older press in order to better model the machine after the humanoid form of the Aztec god of creation and underscore the sacrifices inherent in industry.28

Rivera painted the attendants below the stamping press using staged images from Ford photographers. The reference shots from which he painted show two workers posed at various machines on an empty factory floor. To better capture the motion of the work, the photographs were taken while the factory was closed, much like the isolation of the Gilbreths’ Betterment Room. The men in the photographs, stiff and unfamiliar with factory labor, often handle the machinery with paper towels in an effort to avoid dirtying themselves

required that Rivera organize and direct teams of contractors and assistants, coordinating his workers with managerial authority.

The South Wall of the Detroit Industry Murals illustrates the production and assembly of the 1932 Ford V-8 based on Rivera’s observational studies at the Rouge River plant (Figure 5). The muralist, fascinated with engineering, painted each machine in exacting detail and consulted with Edsel Ford to ensure the technology was as accurate as possible, apparently making only one mistake when he included an outdated stamping press.26 Rivera, however, deliberately chose this older model while painting from photographs of the Rouge plant; the image he used of the stamping press was that of Charles Sheeler’s 1927 photograph for the Ford Motor Company (see Figure 3).27 The stamping press begins the South Wall

26 Linda Bank Downs, Diego Rivera, 140.27 Ibid., 143.28 Linda Downs and Mary Jacob, The Rouge, 55.

Figure 3: Stamping Press – Ford Plant, Charles Sheeler, 1927. Image: University of Southern California

Figure 4: American Landscape, Charles Sheeler, 1930, oil on canvas. Image: MoMA, New York.


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supervising labor on the factory floor. The model for this scowling figure wearing a tie and bowler hat was Mead L. Bricker, a notorious Ford assembly line manager who constantly urged laborers to increase the speed of their work. The central and final panel of the South Wall and the entire mural cycle depicts the assembly line creation of the car chassis. Workers stretch over the conveyor belt as they load pulleys and heft steering wheels, joining together the final pieces of the Ford V-8 as it

with grease.29 Rivera painted these men at the base of the stamping press in heavy overalls and working gloves, filling in the emptiness of the factory floor with laborers, many painted with the faces of his assistants and friends from Detroit. Rivera has also included portraits of Edsel Ford and William Valentiner, benefactors of the mural, standing by the stamping press in the style of Renaissance traditional patrons. In the corresponding panel on the left, Rivera painted one of the several portraits of managers

29 Linda Bank Downs, Diego Rivera, 145.

Figure 5: Detroit Industry Murals, South Wall, Diego Rivera, 1932-1933, fresco. Image: Detroit Institute of the Arts


days in demonstrations, breadlines, or watching the artist paint. Rivera’s murals are not social documents of Detroit in the Great Depression, but rather utopian visions of a fictitious industrial past or future. The visualization of efficiency that Rivera employs to create this vision requires him to engage the same fantasies of the wire models of the Gilbreths and Sheeler’s Rouge River photographs and paintings. Despite a devotion to mechanistic accuracy sourced from photography, picturing efficiency demanded a departure from reality.

What does the fantasy of efficiency look like in Rivera’s murals? It cannot be said to be entirely Marxist; there is no call to arms for workers and the inclusion of managers and Edsel Ford make clear that a hierarchy of social classes still coheres in the murals. Industrialists like Ford were seen in Depression-era America as reckless capitalists, but Rivera has instead painted the magnate as a benevolent patron of the arts and of industry. Henry Ford’s introduction of Scientific Management and the rise of efficiency in the workplace increasingly showed that businessmen were not devoted to the welfare of their workers – Ford’s Sociological Department and its moral code aimed to make workers better laborers, not moral citizens. Rivera also includes in his murals elements of Aztec and Central American history and religion, making “an analogy between the Mexican archaeological sites of human sacrifice and modern industry.”31 The workers toiling at the base of Rivera’s deified stamping press

rolls out of the factory.

Rivera has placed the viewer directly in the orchestrated motion of the assembly line. Rather than divorcing his image of the Rouge plant from the workers that drive its production, Rivera amplifies the noise of the crowded assembly line and lionizes the workers who wear masks and goggles as they weld, buffer, operate blast furnaces, sew, and lower motors into place. Rivera’s aesthetic of efficiency traces the entirety of industrial production made tangible in the hands of the worker. The worker and the human figure populate Detroit Industry, notably enshrined in the Four Races panels above the North and South Walls. In these sections Rivera equates the raw elements of steel – coal, sand, iron, and lime – with each of the four human races. Industrial production, Rivera asserts, not only requires human labor but also inherently contains the human element.

The animated image of production Rivera painted in his mural was not, however, the economic reality of Detroit of the early 1930s. During the 11 months he and his wife Frida Kahlo lived in the city, financial hardship deepened as the Great Depression continued to take its toll on the automotive industry. Laid-off Ford employees often visited Rivera as he painted and the muralist paid for many Mexican migrant workers to return home.30 The murals show full car lots and crowded factory floors brimming with workers; in reality many of these Ford employees most likely spent their

30 Linda Downs and Mary Jacob, The Rouge, 51.31 Linda Bank Downs, Diego Rivera, 171.

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“one of the 10 great places to be inspired by innovation.”33 Charles Sheeler and Diego Rivera, touring the Rouge River plant in the late 1920s and early 1930s, found inspiration and fantasy in the scale of industry at the Ford factory. Their efforts to represent the labor and efficiency of River Rouge encountered the same difficulties as Frank and Lillian Gilbreth in their motion studies. What does the efficient image look like and how does it represent labor in motion? Perhaps, they answer, the “One Best Way” is to show something else instead.

become offers to a technological system that Rivera believed would bring liberation to the working class. Yet as the Detroit breadlines and the ever-growing push in efficiency showed, the gods of capitalism were jealous gods.

Rivera’s murals can only “legitimize modern industry” in the lives of laborers and “sustain the order of the industrial cosmos” by refusing to depict the disorder of the social realities of the Great Depression.32 The murals reveal a single sign of their contemporary troubles on the paper hat of an automobile worker on the South Wall. The words “We want” are visible, but the rest of the slogan is obscured on the opposite side of the hat. The question persists: what do the workers of Rivera’s murals want? The Ford company photographs of hired men posed at machines that inspired the images of many workers obscures the answer. Although the artist has taken care to paint laborers into in his picture of efficiency and devoted himself to the truthful depiction of technology, Rivera has cast these accuracies within a larger fantasy. These men and women do not toil in any factory in Dearborn, but only in the imagination of the muralist.

The Rouge River plant remains Ford Motor Company’s largest production facility, covering 600 acres and employing 6,000 workers. The Henry Ford Museum offers tours of the production area of the main factory, promising on its website that visitors will tour

32 Here I push against the thesis of curator Linda Downs in her Diego Rivera, 171.33 “Ford Rouge Factory Tour - America’s Greatest Manufacturing Experience”, Ford Motor Company, accessed May 2014, http://www.thehenryford.org/rouge/index.aspx.

“Black and WhiteTogether in Atlanta”1

The King Nobel Recognition Banquet & Racial Tension in the “City too Busy to Hate”

by Kristin Holladay

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1 Coretta Scott King, My Life With Martin Luther King, Jr. (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1970), 32.2 “A Banquet in Honor of Dr. King is set for Atlanta Wednesday,” New York Times, January 23, 1965; “A Remarkable Dinner and…Off to Jail,” Life Magazine, February 12, 1965, 34.3 King, My Life With Martin Luther King, Jr., 31-32. 4 “Tribute to Dr. King Disputed in Atlanta,” New York Times, December 29, 1964; “City’s Leaders Plan Dinner for Dr. King,” Atlanta Constitution, January 6, 1965; King, My Life With Martin Luther King, Jr., 32. 5 Flip Schulke, King Remembered (New York: Pocket Books, 1986), 166; Alton Hornsby Jr., “A City That Was Too Busy to Hate: Atlanta Businessmen and Desegregation,” in Elizabeth Jacoway and David R. Colburn, eds., Southern Businessmen and Desegregation, (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1982), 124.

“... even one year before, such a sight would have been unthinkable in a southern city.”

On Wednesday, January 27, 1965, fifteen hundred Atlanta citizens crowded the ballroom of the Dinkler Plaza Hotel to attend a

racially integrated banquet honoring Martin Luther King, Jr., Georgia’s first recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. Addressing a crowd composed of “banker and yardman, society matron and maid,” which exceeded the ballroom’s ordinary capacity by 300, Dr. King called the event “a very significant evening, for [himself] and for the South.”2 Years later, Coretta Scott King would remember the Atlanta banquet as “the most surprising tribute to Martin in connection with the Nobel Prize” and recall the event as a landmark in the city’s progress on race relations, asserting that “even one year before, such a sight would have been unthinkable in a southern city.”3

But as Mrs. King well knew, the banquet proved contentious even in 1965. The New York Times reported “behind-the-scenes controversy” surrounding the event even before city leaders officially unveiled plans for the dinner, and Mrs. King recalled that initially, “the testimonial committee was having so much difficulty that Martin said he did not care whether they had the affair or not.”4 White resistance to honoring King’s receipt of the Nobel Prize was not isolated to Atlanta; upon learning that King had won the Peace Prize, FBI director J. Edgar Hoover remarked that the Nobel selection committee had “really scraped the bottom of the barrel.” However, white antipathy towards King in his hometown concerned city leaders who feared that controversy surrounding the event would undermine Atlanta’s reputation as an “oasis of tolerance.”5 National coverage of turmoil within Atlanta’s white community over the dinner raised the stakes of failing to publically congratulate King, and several prominent white business and political leaders threw their weight behind the event to avoid embarrassment on the national stage. Racial conflict also posed a threat to the white power establishment’s pursuit of a business-friendly climate. Ultimately, anxiety within the city’s white power establishment over Atlanta’s reputation ensured the success of the banquet. As such, Atlanta’s Nobel recognition banquet both typified the climate of race relations in the city and constituted a successful implementation of King’s pragmatic strategy for achieving desegregation and racial tolerance in the South.

19“Black and White Together in Atlanta”

6 Ibid.7 Ibid.8 See for example Harvey K. Newman, Southern Hospitality: Tourism and the Growth of Atlanta. (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1999), 140; David Andrew Harmon, Beneath the Image of the Civil Rights Movement and Race Relations: Atlanta, Georgia, 1946-1981 (New York: Garland Publishing, 1996), 96; Hornsby “A City that was too Busy to Hate,” 121.9 Harmon, Beneath the Image, 97.10 Virginia Hein, “The Image of ‘A City too Busy to Hate’: Atlanta in the 1960’s,” Phylon 33 (1972), 210. 11 Newman, Southern Hospitality, 162.

liberal stance on race relations than their counterparts in other Southern cities. Atlanta did not experience widespread violence during the civil rights movement in the way that Little Rock, Birmingham or Selma did. Most scholars attribute this to a fear among the city’s white corporate and political leaders that race conflict was bad for business.8 Historian David Harmon argues that “the majority of Atlanta’s business leaders shared the same prejudices as their fellow citizens” but “were willing to accept limited racial reform” to avoid racial violence that could hinder the city’s economic development.9 For this reason, many African-Americans felt that Atlanta “enjoy[ed] a reputation it [didn’t] deserve” with regards to civil rights issues. Historian Virginia Hein argues that only white Atlantans truly believed “the absence of violence to mean good race relations.”10 Though Atlanta saw little outright race violence in the civil rights years, the absence of physical clashes did not indicate a lack of prejudice or ideological conflict in the city.

The public relations messages of city leaders on many perceived civil rights victories of the era contrasted with the beliefs and behaviors of the general white population, so that much-touted acts of tolerance often proved more symbolic than substantial. In 1948, Mayor Hartsfield made headlines by integrating the Atlanta police force, but hired only eight black officers. These officers were forbidden from arresting whites.11 In a similar

Atlanta’s attitude towards civil rights issues reflected white leaders’ belief that its racially progressive reputation would allow the city to attract national and international business. By the 1960s, Atlanta was in its third stage of boosterism. After the Civil War, ambitious city promoters had succeeded in establishing Atlanta first as the leading city of the state and then as a “metropolis of the South.” In the second half of the twentieth century, Atlanta boosters sought to elevate the city to national significance by expanding its business community.6 In the 1960s, the city made strides towards this ambitious aim under Mayor William B. Hartsfield. Hartsfield viewed a moderate position on race relations as an integral part of creating a business-friendly climate.7 During his two-decade tenure as mayor, Hartsfield christened Atlanta “a city too busy to hate,” an epithet he hoped would prove self-fulfilling. Because Hartsfield and his successor Ivan Allen considered business growth essential to gaining national and international recognition for the city, they took pains to avoid racial conflict that would disrupt patterns of production and consumption.

However, Hartsfield’s optimistic, simplistic slogan for the city did not imply feelings of kinship across the color line in Atlanta, which remained segregated in the early 1960s. Instead, this famous phrase revealed an economic pragmatism that prompted white leaders to take a more

20 Holladay

12 Ibid., 165.13 Ibid., 143.14 Harmon, Beneath the Image, 164. 15 Ibid.

murky. In his study of civil rights-era Atlanta, Harmon asserts that African-American community leaders conceived of the banquet and approached McGill about joining a biracial committee of co-chairs that would also include Rabbi Rothschild, Archbishop Paul Hallinan and Dr. Benjamin Mays, president of Morehouse College. According to Harmon, this biracial coalition next approached Mayor Allen, formerly the head of Atlanta’s Chamber

of Commerce, who acted as a liaison to garner support within the city’s business community.14 The New York Times first reported on the controversy surrounding the banquet on December 28, by which time Mayor Allen and former Mayor Hartsfield were already involved, endeavoring “forcefully but quietly to prevent any incident that would become a snub to Dr. King.”15 Thus weeks before the banquet’s official announcement, many of Atlanta’s high-profile religious, intellectual and political leaders had made clear their support for the event. Though these Southern liberals might have hosted a successful event without the involvement of the business community,

“triumph of symbolism over substance,” Hartsfield desegregated Atlanta’ schools in 1961 without violent incident, earning the city congratulations from President John F. Kennedy. But two years later, barely fifty of Atlanta’s 45,000 African-American students actually attended integrated schools.12 City leaders pointed to these and other limited advances as evidence of Atlanta’s racial tolerance, but such early, largely symbolic gestures left much to be done in the way of substantive desegregation.

In a more glaring manifestation of prejudice, the 1958 bombing of prominent King supporter Rabbi Jacob Rothschild’s synagogue revealed that the potential for racial violence did indeed lurk beneath Atlanta’s progressive façade. Even confronted with such stark examples of racism in Atlanta, white leaders determined to save face. Mayor Hartsfield insisted that the perpetrator could not have been an Atlanta native, and Atlanta Constitution publisher Ralph McGill wrote a scathing indictment of the violence that earned him the Pulitzer Prize.13 Both men would prove instrumental in garnering support for the King banquet seven years later, again hoping to downplay the presence of prejudice in Atlanta and cast a positive light on their city even amid conflict.

Though Hartsfield, McGill and several other religious, intellectual and political leaders were early supporters of the King banquet, the event’s precise origins remain somewhat

“... such early, largely symbolic gestures left much to be done in the way of substantive desegregation.”


the dinner.20 Atlanta’s business community mobilized behind the banquet just days after Scripto “reached an accord” with its black workers, ending King’s calls for a boycott.21 Perhaps the city’s businessmen agreed to honor King only after he ceased to pose an immediate threat to a large Atlanta company, or perhaps they, like Hartsfield and Allen, believed that racial conflict would be worse for business long-term than a temporary King-led boycott. Either way, economic concerns helped mobilize the business-community’s about-face regarding the King dinner.

Even so, the precise nature of the negotiations that inspired the business community’s rapid change of course remains ambiguous and disputed in the historical record. The efforts of Mayor Allen and former Mayor Hartsfield to garner support for the banquet are well documented; the New York Times identified the pair as “the most active participants in the controversy.”22 Reports at the time also cited, albeit vaguely, some support within the divided business community: the New York Times recounted that “the president of one of the city’s biggest companies…attempt[ed] to persuade others to unite behind the plan.” The paper further reported that when “many of the city’s most influential leaders gathered without public disclosure…to discuss whether the event should be supported…a widely known corporate executive argued forcefully for support of the event.”23 These quasi-clandestine negotiations and efforts at

Atlanta’s forward-thinking reputation could be maintained only if the entirety of city leadership appeared monolithic in backing progressive measures like the interracial King banquet.

Thus, the critical question became whether the city’s white business community would join the pro-King coalition. In 1965, Atlanta’s business community was divided over King. Despite Hartsfield’s insistence that Atlantans were “too busy to hate,” Mayor Allen recalls that Atlanta contained “more than [its] share of racists and bigots,” including members of the business community who felt “great bitterness…toward Dr. King’s successful efforts at desegregating public facilities… ‘Martin Luther Coon,’ they were calling him.”16 This resentment stemmed in part from civil rights tactics that used economic pressure to force business concessions; King’s recent call for a boycott of Atlanta-based Scripto, Inc. office supplies only exacerbated existing tensions between King and Atlanta’s white business community.17 Soon after invitations to the banquet went out in December, the New York Times reported, “at least one highest-level bank executive was making telephone calls to discourage participation.”18 Life magazine would later note, “certain top bankers and businessmen scorned the dinner and even threatened to boycott it.”19

In the end, many white business leaders, including the president of Scripto, would attend

16 Ivan Allen, Mayor: Notes on the Sixties (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1971), 96. 17 “Tribute to King Disputed in Atlanta”; “Atlanta’s Dinner for Dr. King Gains,” New York Times, December 30, 1964.18 Ibid.19 “Splendid Victory for ‘the concerned,” Life, February 12, 1965, 4. 20 King, My Life with Martin Luther King, Jr., 33.21 “Atlanta’s Dinner for Dr. King Gains.”22 See for example “Tribute to King Disputed in Atlanta,” “Atlanta’s Dinner for Dr. King Gains,” “Splendid Victory for ‘the concerned’”; Harmon, Beneath the Image, 164; “In 1964, Award to King stirred a storm,” Atlanta Journal-Constitution, December 10, 2002.

22 Holladay

dictated civil rights policy. By 1965, Coca-Cola was an internationally known brand, and Austin was apparently well aware that other countries viewed segregation and discrimination against blacks as a substantial blemish on American democracy.26 Some sources suggest that Austin’s support for the event stemmed from Coca-Cola CEO and prominent Atlanta benefactor Robert Woodruff. In a history of the Coca-Cola Company, Mark Pendergrast claims that when plans for the banquet “nearly foundered…Woodruff let it be known through J. Paul Austin that he favored the dinner, and the rest of Southern society promptly fell in line.”27 Whichever story is more accurate, both indicate not only the enormous clout that Coca-Cola possessed in Atlanta, but also the extent of influence exerted over civic affairs by the city’s business community, as its support guaranteed the banquet’s success almost instantaneously. Despite the initial controversy surrounding the event, demand for tickets eventually exceeded supply, and at least 200 ticket requests had to be turned down.28

The program for the event reveals the efforts of its organizers to frame the groundbreaking event in a traditional way, endeavoring to make the controversial respectable. The program describes the event as “A Recognition Dinner honoring Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Citizen of Atlanta, Winner of the 1964 Nobel Peace Prize sponsored by Citizens of Atlanta,” firmly establishing King as both a hometown hero and figure

persuasion reveal division within the white business community over civil rights issues, but also illustrate white leaders’ desire to reach a consensus and act as a monolith.

According to some accounts, the Atlanta-headquartered Coca-Cola Company threw its weight behind the banquet to ensure its success. Mayor Allen claimed that the shadowy pro-King executive written up in the Times was Coca-Cola President J. Paul Austin. Austin apparently told Mayor Allen that “the city should properly acknowledge” King’s achievement and called a meeting of “two dozen prominent white business leaders” at the prestigious Piedmont Driving Club to discuss the biracial dinner. Andrew Young, a King aide who later served as mayor of Atlanta, also recalls this storied meeting, though he asserts that it was jointly called by Allen and Austin and convened at Atlanta’s Commerce Club. According to Young’s more colorful description:

Austin told them flatly, “It is embarrassing for Coca-Cola to be located in a city that refuses to honor its Nobel Prize winner…The Coca-Cola Company does not need Atlanta. You all need to decide whether Atlanta needs the Coca-Cola Company.” Within two hours of the end of that meeting, every ticket to the dinner was sold.25

This anecdote, whether or not it relays Austin’s words verbatim, reveals how the image-consciousness of Atlanta’s business community

23 “Tribute to King Disputed in Atlanta”; “Banquet for Dr. King Gets More Backing,” New York Times, December 29, 1964. 24 Allen, Mayor: Notes on the Sixties, 97.25 Young, An Easy Burden, 327. 26 For further reading, see John David Skrentny, “The effect of the Cold War on African-American civil rights: America and the world audience, 1945-1968,” Theory & Society 27, no. 2 (April 1998): 237-285.27 Mark Pendergrast, For God, Country and Coca-Cola (New York: Basic Books, 2000), 282. 28 “A Banquet in Honor of Dr. King is set for Atlanta Wednesday.”


well,” and the banquet’s program exhibits this determination to execute an initially divisive event in a dignified, sophisticated manner.

An atmosphere of decorum was crucial for Atlanta’s reputation. As Newman argues, the banquet afforded “an opportunity for Atlantans to demonstrate their difference from other white Southerners.”30 The event’s reception in the press and place in the memoirs of attendees suggest that progressive Atlantans met this challenge. A Life editorial called the dinner “history-making,” and a senior aide to Mayor Allen later described the banquet as “one of the turning points” for the city in terms of race relations.31 Writing in the 1970s, Allen called the dinner “a chance to cross the last racial barrier [and] throw aside the remnants of our old bigotry.”32

Only Coretta Scott King’s description tempers these potentially hyperbolic accounts of the banquet’s significance. The impromptu biracial rendition of the civil rights anthem “We Shall Overcome” that ended the night was “tremendously moving,” King wrote, “[because]... We had overcome a major barrier for a southern city... for that night at least.”33 Mrs. King’s assessment offers more nuance than Life’s assertion that the song “suggested

of international prominence. The program’s insistence that “Citizens of Atlanta” acted collectively to honor King speaks once again to leaders’ desire for city-wide cohesion and consensus with regards to civil rights issues; since Atlanta’s reputation was at stake in honoring King, the entire city must be seen as participating. The use of the word “citizens” instead of “leaders” or “leading citizens” also suggests grassroots support for the dinner rather than careful orchestration by Atlanta’s political and business elite. The next page of the program contains a list of American Nobel Peace Prize winners, placing King in the company of presidents and other well-respected national figures. A rendition of the National Anthem immediately followed Rabbi Rothschild’s greetings, emphasizing that regardless of race or religion, the dinner attendees derived identity from the same flag.

The all-black Morehouse College Choir led the anthem, symbolically claiming societal inclusion through patriotism. The program’s back cover lists over one hundred sponsors of the event, including Allen, Hartsfield, McGill, Rothschild, Hallinan, and Mays, again underscoring widespread support for the dinner within the Atlanta community.29 Life would later highlight Atlanta’s “intense pride in itself as a…place that knows how to do things

29 Program for Recognition Dinner Honoring Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., King Center Digital Archive. 30 Newman, Southern Hospitality, 169.31 “Splendid victory for ‘the concerned;’” “In 1964, Award to King stirred a storm.”32 Allen, Mayor, 95. 33 King, My Life with Martin Luther King Jr., 32.

“... regardless of race or religion, the dinner attendees derived identity from the same flag.”

24 Holladay

functioned as the “instrument of progress” that brought it about.38 Rabbi Rothschild was doubtless aware of these undercurrents of self-interest when he assured banquet attendees that, “in honoring King, they honored themselves and their city as well.”39 Personal racial views aside, Atlanta’s white community coalesced behind the King banquet largely as an opportunity to bolster Atlanta’s national reputation.

Yet this pragmatic motivation did not negate the city’s progress, at least for King. During the banquet, King urged attendees to help “remove every vestige of segregation and discrimination from this nation’s life…not merely because it is economically and politically sound but because it is morally compelling.” But he also expressed an awareness that southern businessmen had “come to see that bigotry is costly and bad for business.” While King would have preferred Atlanta’s whites to support the civil rights movement along moral lines, the self-interest evident in the white community’s participation did not invalidate the event in King’s eyes. He nonetheless called the dinner “a significant evening…for the South.”40 In fact, the white community’s coerced cooperation was a successful implementation of a strategy King outlined two years earlier in his famous “Letter from Birmingham City Jail.” In that letter, he recognized that civil rights leaders needed to create a climate of “crisis and tension” in order to provoke change.41 In King’s pragmatist view, forced progress did not invalidate civil rights

an emotional acceptance heretofore unknown in the South,” recognizing its significance and emotional impact while subtly denying that one interracial dinner constituted sufficient evidence of an ideological revolution among Atlanta’s white community.34 The banquet was indeed “history-making” as an instance of the city’s white community actively facilitating and participating civil rights change, but did not indicate a sweeping “emotional acceptance” of desegregation or race equality.

The white community’s reasons for supporting the banquet lend credence to this view. Hartsfield urged reluctant businessmen to support the dinner in order to “keep [Atlanta’s] good reputation and be known as an adult town,” appealing directly to a desire for national respectability. Pendergrast argues that Woodruff, whose personal racial sentiments remain somewhat ambiguous, backed the dinner mainly because he feared negative press that “would embarrass Atlanta.”35 Although Allen described himself as “a half-step ahead of my friends [in the business community] on the race issue, dragging them along behind me,” Newman argues that Allen primarily adopted a moderate attitude on civil rights issues because he felt it “pragmatic.”36 Whatever his own motives, Allen conceded that the business community agreed to back the endeavor “primarily on pragmatic grounds,” without “overwhelming, enthusiastic endorsement.”37 Even the Life editorial exalting the banquet acknowledged that “municipal pride” had

34 “A Remarkable Dinner.” 35 “Splendid victory for ‘the concerned’”; Pendergrast, For God, Country and Coca-Cola, 282.36 Allen, Mayor, 97; Newman, Southern Hospitality, 169.37 Allen, Mayor, 97. 38 “Splendid victory for ‘the concerned.’”39 Hein, “The Image of ‘A City Too Busy to Hate,” 213.40 MLK Speech at Nobel Prize Recognition Dinner, King Center Digital Archive, 5; “A Remarkable Dinner.”41 Martin Luther King, “Letter from Birmingham City Jail,” in A Testament of Hope, ed. James Washington, (New York: HarperCollins, 2003), 289-302.


gains, but rather served as a first step for what he envisioned as an eventual moral elevation of the nation.

While undoubtedly significant, Atlanta’s Nobel Recognition Dinner was not a sign of the white community’s rapid and sweeping acceptance of the civil rights cause. Instead, the controversy surrounding the event reveals that economic considerations and concern over public image proved equally, if not more, vital as racial tolerance in securing civil rights gains in the city. Resistance to the banquet at its inception and the self-interest that ultimately prompted white leaders to support it establish Atlanta’s banquet for King as a triumph of pragmatism over prejudice. In 1965, as King’s receipt of a token of international commendation exposed Atlanta’s civil rights record to outside scrutiny, the still-divided city proved not “too busy to hate,” but rather too self-conscious.

26 Holladay

“Similtudes ofa Dream”

The Pilgrim’s Progress and the Book Tradein Seventeenth-Century England

by Emma Rausch

3

Ponder, meanwhile, published every edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress printed in London during Bunyan’s lifetime as well as numerous other works by the author; the two were so closely associated that the publisher was referred to as “Bunyan Ponder.”4

The success of Pilgrim’s Progress also spurred a veritable cottage industry of fraudulent versions of the text. Although both Bunyan and Ponder attempted to stem the flow of these unauthorized books, they were largely unsuccessful, stymied by both the volume of the problem and by a system that did not recognize copyright in the modern sense. By examining the types of infringing works, the ways in which Bunyan and Ponder responded to them, and the legal framework of the publishing industry, The Pilgrim’s Progress offers a window into the concerns and motivations of authors and publishers in seventeenth-century England.

Quite early in its history, the potential to illicitly share in the success of The Pilgrim’s Progress proved too great a temptation for a number of London authors, printers, and publishers. The deceptive practices of these individuals ranged across the broad spectrum of what would today constitute copyright infringement, and can be

1 Keith Thomas, “The Meaning of Literacy in Early Modern England,” in The Written Word: Literacy in Transition, ed. Gerd Baumann, 1985 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), 99.2 The languages were English, Dutch (first appeared in 1682), German (1685), French (1685), and Welsh (1688); the cities were Edinburgh (1680), Boston (1681), Amsterdam (1682), Utrecht (1684), and Hamburg (1685) (Albert B. Cook, “John Bunyan and John Dunton: A Case of Plagiarism,” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America 71 [1977]: 11).3 Barbara A. Johnson, Reading Piers Plowman and The Pilgrim’s Progress: Reception and the Protestant Reader (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1992), 163.4 John Brown, John Bunyan: His Life, Times and Work (London: William Isbister Ltd., 1885), 263; Kathleen Lynch, Protestant Autobiography in the Seventeenth-Century Anglophone World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 226.

“... a work second in sales only to the Bible.”

In 1678, a Christian allegory of 232 pages in length appeared on the London book market. It told the story of a man named Christian, who left behind family

and friends in the City of Destruction to embark on a spiritual journey to the Celestial City, encountering various trials, tribulations, and fellow travelers. The book was written in English, in relatively simple language, though with numerous marginal references to biblical passages. It was not a work intended to serve the intellectual elite, but rather to instruct the growing body of pious (and often nonconformist) English men, women, and children whose literacy rates were steadily increasing.1

That small work was The Pilgrim’s Progress (full title: The Pilgrim’s Progress from this World to that which is to come delivered under the similitude of a dream, wherein is discovered the manner of his setting out his dangerous journey and safe arrival at the desired country), written by John Bunyan, and it was an immediate and overwhelming success. Within a decade of its publication, the book had reached its eleventh edition in London alone, with other editions published in five languages across five other cities.2 It also marked the beginning of a partnership between Bunyan and the book’s publisher, Nathaniel Ponder, that would seal both men’s reputations in their respective fields. Upon Bunyan’s death in 1688, he had already achieved national and, to an extent, international renown as the author of a work second in sales only to the Bible.3

29“Similtudes of a Dream”

of piracy in the relationship between Ponder and the printer Thomas Braddill. In 1679, Ponder initiated legal action against Braddill for producing four thousand unauthorized copies of The Pilgrim’s Progress, for which Ponder was “the manifestly true proprietor.”8

The two men appear to have reached some sort of settlement, and Ponder later contracted Braddill as an auxiliary printer, one of several commissioned to meet the enormous demand for Bunyan’s text. However, Ponder came to suspect that Braddill was again selling unlicensed editions, and so sued him a second time in 1697. According to Ponder’s lawsuit, Braddill had been hired to print ten thousand copies of The Pilgrim’s Progress and to share the proceeds, but had in fact printed twice as many, and pocketed the extra profits.9 As Braddill was legitimately commissioned to print some copies, the maneuver would have been easy to pull off but difficult to prove or trace, and no extant copies have been definitively singled out as examples.

Indeed, Ponder seems to have considered piracy a serious enough problem that he sought to address it not just in the courtrooms but in the public arena as well. In an “Advertisement from the Book Seller” that he included with the fourth edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress, Ponder condemned “Thomas Bradyl” and “five more of his Confederates” as “malicious men of our profession, of lewd principles, hating honesty, and Coveting other mens rights, and which we call Land Pirates,” who “hath so abominably and

5 The use of the term “piracy” to describe the reproduction of another’s work without permission became more common during the eighteenth century, after the era of Bunyan and Ponder. However, while rather rare during their lifetimes, it was in use to a degree—Ponder himself used it in the introduction to the fourth edition of “The Pilgrim’s Progress (Adrian Johns, Piracy: The Intellectual Property Wars from Gutenberg to Gates [Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2009], 23–24).6 Peter Melville Logan et al., The Encyclopedia of the Novel (John Wiley & Sons, 2014), s.v. Typography.7 Roger Sharrock, “Introduction,” in The Pilgrim’s Progress, by John Bunyan, ed. James Blanton Wharey, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1960), lxxiii–lxxxvii.

30 Rausch

divided into three general categories: piracy, name appropriation and misrepresentation, and plagiarism. Of course, infringing books frequently straddled the line dividing these forms of fraud—for instance, a work could both deceptively present Bunyan as its author while freely incorporating elements of his plot and style—and so the categories are by no means definitive or mutually exclusive. However, they provide a useful framework for dividing the various works.

The first of these involved the sale of pirated editions, unauthorized printings of texts essentially identical to The Pilgrim’s Progress. The printers and publishers who sold these versions properly attributed authorship to Bunyan and typically kept his name on the title page, but neglected to share any of their profits with Bunyan or with Ponder.5

Definitive evidence of such behavior is difficult to find. One can attempt to identify pirated copies by looking for differences in typeface, lower quality typesetting and printing, and typographical errors. But the key difference between a licensed edition and a pirated edition is in the circumstances of its printing and sale rather than any characteristics of the text itself. Moreover, well-executed piracies are often indistinguishable from authorized texts.6

Nevertheless, there are extant copies of the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and ninth editions that do not appear to have originated with Ponder.7

We find further indications of the extent

World of Wickeness [sic] and Misery, to An Eternity of Holiness and Felicity Exactly Described under the Similitude of a Dream..., was published by someone identified only as T.H. The wording of the title clearly evoked that of Bunyan’s novel and suggested a common authorship—indeed, there is no mention of the author on the title page at all. However, this sequel was wholly unauthorized and penned by one “T.S.” (thought to be Thomas Sherman); Bunyan’s own sequel would not appear on the market until two years later in 1684 (fig. 1).11 If one begins to read the book, the author’s note is completely open: in it, T.S. identified himself as the book’s author and stated that he wrote the work only to remedy a “fourfold Defect” he observed in the first “Pilgrim’s Progress.”12

Though his intentions may truly have been honest, the fact remains that his plotline—that of a pilgrim leaving the “Wilderness” for the “Celestial Paradise”—was undeniably lifted from Bunyan’s work. Moreover, the intentions of his publisher in designing a title page that resembled that of The Pilgrim’s Progress in language and appearance, and that obscured the identities of author and publisher were clearly deceitful.13

Another publisher, John Deacon, was

basely falcified the true Copie, and changed the Notes, that they have abused the Author in the sence, and the Propriator of his right.”10 The issue appears to have been so important to Ponder that he placed his note at the very front of the book, even before the frontispiece. Ponder was clearly convinced that his “right” as a publisher had been violated by Braddill’s actions. Whether he felt he possessed the “right” to control publication of The Pilgrim’s Progress on legal or moral grounds is not quite clear, but his word choice seems to suggest a bit of both. Braddill’s actions, according to Ponder, were not only “malicious” and “abominable,” but also the work of a “Pirate”—someone who takes from others outside the confines of the law.

Meanwhile, many other publishers and authors attempted to profit from the immense popularity of The Pilgrim’s Progress by attempting to pass off their work as those of Bunyan. They imitated the language, ideas, and design of The Pilgrim’s Progress to varying degrees. There is a far larger body of evidence for these misrepresentations than for piracy; while a full account of such works is beyond the scope of this paper, a few examples will suffice to highlight the problem. In 1682, The Second Part of the Pilgrims Progress, from this present

8 Frank Mott Harrison, “Nathaniel Ponder: The Publisher of ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’,” The Library, 4, 15, no. 3 (December 1934): 268; Ronan Deazley, On the Origin of the Right to Copy: Charting the Movement of Copyright Law in Eighteenth-Century Britain (1695-1775) (Oxford: Hart Publishing, 2004), 68.9 Harrison, “Nathaniel Ponder,” 271–273; Henry R. Plomer, “A Lawsuit as to an Early Edition of the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’,” The Library, 3, 5, no. 17 (1914): 64–65.10 Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress, 4th ed, f. 1r (italics in original).11 Johnson, Reading Piers Plowman and The Pilgrim’s Progress, 221; Beth Lynch, John Bunyan and the Language of Conviction (Cambridge: Brewer, 2004), 155.


“... malicious men of our profession, of lewd principles, hating honesty, and Coveting other mens rights ... which we call Land Pirates...”

Figure 1

Title: “The pilgrim’s progress from this world to that which is to come: the second part. Delivered under the similitude of a dream, wherein is set forth the manner of the setting out of Christian’s wife and children, their dangerous journey, and safe arrival at the desired country”Author: John BunyanPublisher: Nathaniel PonderDate: 1684

32 Rausch

Figure 2

Title: The Pilgrim’s progress from this world to that which is to come: the third part. Delivered under the similitude of a dream, shewing the several difficulties and dangers he met with, and the many victories he obtained over the world, the flesh, and the Devil, together with his happy arrival at the celestial city, and the glory and joy he found to his eternal comfort : to which is added, The life and death of John Bunyan, author of the first and second part, this compleating the whole progress.Author: AnonymousPublisher: John DeaconDate: 1693


Bunyan’s name in thick blackletter on the title page. While Deacon nowhere expressly stated that Bunyan was the author, the placement of his name on the title page and the complete absence of any mention of the work’s true author were undeniably misleading. The work’s content was similarly imitative: the main story followed the pilgrimage of a character called Tender-Conscience to the Celestial City, travelling a route very similar to that taken by Christian and his wife and children in Bunyan’s works. Thus, in content and appearance, the work appears to have been designed to be virtually indistinguishable from those of Bunyan. Its failure to identify its true author further implies an intention to pass off the text as Bunyan’s posthumous work. The final form of literary infringement surrounding The Pilgrim’s Progress involved authors and publishers who presented Bunyan’s words as their own without acknowledging their original source.14 One such publisher was John Dunton, who, in 1683, published The Informer’s Doom, a book describing the Assizes of Utopia, in which Judge Conscience presided over the Bench of Impartiality. One passage of nearly four pages, describing the trial of a character called Justice Implacable, was lifted almost verbatim from the trial of Faithful at Vanity Fair in The Pilgrim’s Progress: the names of the jurists and the accused have been changed, but the proceedings are otherwise a direct copy.15 The very next year, Dunton published another plagiarized work, The Pilgrims Guide from the

12 The four problems Sherman identified with the first Pilgrim’s Progress are that Bunyan omitted any reference to “the State of Man in his first Creation” or “the Misery of Man in his Lapsed Estate before Conversion, that he was too brief in his description of “the Methods of Divine Goodness in the Convincing, Converting, and Reconciling of Sinners to himself,” and finally that some of the passages could elicit “lightness and laughter ... in some vain and frothy minds” ([Thomas Sherman], The Second Part of the Pilgrims Progress (London: T.H., 1682), f. 7v–8r; Lynch, John Bunyan and the Language of Conviction, 155.)13 Cook, “John Bunyan and John Dunton: A Case of Plagiarism,” 14.14 My attention was first drawn to John Dunton’s work (including the identified passages) in Cook, “John Bunyan and John Dunton: A Case of Plagiarism.”

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responsible for distributing at least two works intended to pass as Bunyan’s own. The first, which appeared in 1687, was a short book entitled, Heavenly Passenger, or The Pilgrim’s Progress From this World to that which is to come, Deliver’d under the Similitude of a Dream, Wherein is Discovered, the manner of his setting out, his Dangerous Journey, and Life Arrival at the desired Country, Newly done into Verse. This was Bunyan’s exact title, but for the added phrase “newly done in verse,” which was placed on a separate line in very small print below the rest of the title. Furthermore, the central engraving on the title page, was almost an exact copy, though of poorer quality, of that which Ponder used in his frontispiece. It appeared to be designed to visually mislead potential purchasers into believing the work was Bunyan’s. Deacon did identify S.M. as the author of the text, but not particularly prominently, and, as the title suggests, the book’s content was drawn directly from The Pilgrim’s Progress (though severely abridged and set in verse). Even more brazen was The Pilgrim’s Progress: The Third Part, published in 1693 (after Bunyan’s death, but before Ponder’s) and yet another unsanctioned story “delivered under the similitude of a dream.” Deacon again used a frontispiece very similar to those Ponder used in the authorized editions of The Pilgrim’s Progress (fig. 2). The typeset and wording of the title itself also closely resembled those of Ponder’s editions. Deacon’s most blatant deception, however, was his inclusion of John

Both Bunyan and Ponder both took a number of steps to expose those authors, printers, and publishers who took liberties with The Pilgrim’s Progress. Bunyan’s efforts took the form of published remarks, which were included in early editions of the true sequel to The Pilgrim’s Progress. These copies contained a note signed by Bunyan placed immediately after the title page, which read “I appoint Mr. Nathaniel Ponder, But no other to Print this Book.”19 Whether the note was included of Bunyan’s own volition or at Ponder’s request, it was intended to show potential customers that it was the famous and influential Bunyan’s desire that they only purchase from his chosen publisher. Furthermore, it could have served as a double protection for Ponder, as it potentially referred both to pirated copies of Bunyan’s sequel and the false sequel published by T.H. Bunyan provided further defense of his own work in the preface to his sequel, “The Authors Way of Sending forth this Second Part of the Pilgrim,” in which he wrote:

Though it is not clear to which fraudulent or pirated works Bunyan referred, he certainly recognized that others were profiting from his work on a wide scale. He apparently found

Cradle to his Death-Bed, which included directly copied passages from several works, including The Pilgrim’s Progress, parts one and two.16 From the first Pilgrim’s Progress, Dunton lifted large sections of his plot, through a combination of abridgements and direct (and unacknowledged) quotations, sometimes with the names changed, though just as often not. From the second Pilgrim’s Progress, Dunton closely copied a scene in which his pilgrims cross the River of Death from an analogous scene in Bunyan’s work and duplicated wholesale a few songs.17

This is not an exhaustive account of Dunton’s illicit borrowing, but it should suffice to show the general patterns of his appropriation of Bunyan’s words as his own. Indeed, The Pilgrim’s Progress seems to have been so widely recopied, by Dunton and others, that some began to question whether Bunyan was in fact the original author. In “An Advertisement to the Reader” at the very end of his 1682 book The Holy War, Bunyan wrote “Some say the Pilgrims Progress is not mine, / Insinuating as it I would shine / In name and fame by the worth of another, / Like some made rich by robbing of their brother,” finally declaring “the whole and ev’ry whit is mine.”18 Bradill, Deacon, T.H. and T.S. and Dunton were merely a handful of the many participants in the tradition of literary infringement and fraud surrounding Bunyan and Ponder’s work—a tradition that was evidently flourishing in the late seventeenth century in a variety of forms.

15 [John Dunton], The Informer’s Doom, (London: John Dunton, 1683), 30–34; c.f. Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress, 1st ed., 135–136. Dunton also copied from a variety of other books, including The Isle of Man by Richard Bernard (1626), The Discovery of Witches by Mathew Hopkins (1647), and A Quip for an Upstart Courtier by Robert Greene (1592) (Cook, “John Bunyan and John Dunton: A Case of Plagiarism,” 17–18n16).16 Cook, “John Bunyan and John Dunton: A Case of Plagiarism,” 20–25. Again, Dunton’s plagiarism varies, including portions from The Isle of Man by Richard Bernard (1626), Sincere Convert by Thomas Shepard (1641), “The Pilgrimage” by George Herbert, and the hymn “Jerusalem my Happy Home.” (Cook, “John Bunyan and John Dunton: A Case of Plagiarism,” 21; Susan Cook, “Pilgrims’ Progresses: Derivative Texts and the Seventeenth-Century Reader,” in Awakening Words: John Bunyan and the Language of Community, ed. David Gay, James G. Randall, and Arlette Zinck (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2000), 199n13.


’Tis true, some have of late, to CounterfeitMy Pilgrim, to their own, my Title set;Yea others, half my name, and Title too;Have stitched to their Book, to make them do;But yet they by their Features do declareThemselves not mine to be, whose ere they are.20

sway those who may have been less persuaded by legal or moral arguments, declaring that Ponder’s editions were not only the lawful choice, but the superior one as well. Ponder also tried to secure legal protection for The Pilgrim’s Progress. Each of the editions he published included on its title page the words “Licensed and Entred [sic]According to Order,” by which Ponder meant that he had registered the work with the proper authorities. As mentioned above, he also twice pursued claims against Braddill in court, though neither of these proceeded very far. These efforts, along with the published opinions of Bunyan and Ponder, show that both author and publisher were not only aware of but also publicly opposed to piracies and other fraudulent uses of their work. Curiously, however, neither successfully obtained legal protection against these illicit publications during their lifetimes. This failure does not appear to have been unique to Bunyan and Ponder’s experience, but rather a general characteristic of an age in which the law afforded little protection for the intellectual and physical property of authors and publishers. Instead, the printing industry operated within a legal framework that focused little attention upon the rights of its participants. When Ponder published the first edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress in 1678, the most important piece of legislation governing the printing industry was the Licensing Act of 1662, which was in turn enforced by the Stationers’

17 [John Dunton], The Pilgrims Guide from the Cradle to His Death-Bed (London: John Dunton, 1684), 59–60, 113, 115, 116, 118.18 John Bunyan, The Holy War (London: Dorman Newman, 1682), 399; Natasha Simonova, “Passing Through Vanity Fair: The Pilgrim’s Progress in the Marketplace,” Authorship 2, no. 1 (December 18, 2012): 2–3, http://www.authorship.ugent.be/article/view/761.19 John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress: The Second Part (London: Nathaniel Ponder, 1684), f. 2v.20 Ibid., f. 4r.21 Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress, 4th ed., f. 1r.

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the issue of enough importance to warn his readers of these works, though he trusted that the “features” of the “counterfeit” copies were sufficiently distinct from his own style to enable his audience to distinguish between them without further instruction.

Ponder, as the businessman of the pair, was more vigorous in his efforts to protect his product. As previously mentioned, his note published with the fourth edition castigated Braddill and his associates as “pirate[s]” and vigorously defended his own right to sell the work without competition. To help readers distinguish authorized copies from pirated ones, Ponder included a list detailing the differences between the two: whereas Braddill’s copies were printed with “base old letter, almost worn out, hardly to be read,” his own were printed with “Legible fair Character” and furthermore contained “The Author’s Picture before the Title, and hath more than 122 passages of Additions, pertinently placed quite thorow the Book, which the Counterfeit hath not.”21 These descriptions would have also served to

“But yet they by their Features do declare themselves not mine be, whose ere they are.”

violate other statutes that broadly prohibited expressions of religious nonconformity and political sedition, one could quite freely and legally publish it without ever submitting it to the Company. While this may have been a boon for enterprising authors and printers, it was much less so for already established figures like Ponder and Bunyan. The Stationer’s Company’s decreased control over what was printed meant that it could no longer guarantee a publisher’s exclusive right to publish works he registered with the Company.25 Piracy thus became legal by default; it is likely no coincidence that it was during this period that Bunyan and Ponder first began experiencing difficulties ensuring the protection of their most lucrative project. Despite Ponder’s declaration in 1680 that publishing The Pilgrim’s Progress was his “right” and his alone, the law no longer supported this view. Both of his lawsuits against Braddill (the first of which was filed in 1679, the year the Licensing Act lapsed, and the second of which was filed in 1697, two years after it expired once more) therefore had no hope of success. Even if the printer had sold copies without Ponder’s express permission, the Stationer’s Company could not legally move against him on the grounds of copyright violation.26 While the Stationer’s Company could not offer any legal protection against piracy during this period, it at least staunchly opposed the practice. The same could not be said for the other forms of literary fraud affecting early editions of The Pilgrim’s Progress, deceptive

Company and its Court of Assistants.22 The Stationers’ Company was a London guild long responsible for controlling publication in England (which, in the late seventeenth century, largely took place in London). Though the Company’s monopoly over printing and publication had slipped during the wilder days of the English Civil War, the government of Charles II firmly reestablished it with the Licensing Act. In addition to forbidding the printing of “Seditious and Heretical” material of any kind, the Act stated, “No private Person to print any Book, &c. unless first entered with the Stationer’s Company of London…and unless first duly licensed.”23 Those who wished to publish were thus legally obligated to submit a copy of the work in question to the Stationers’ Company for approval; if it was deemed to be appropriately conformist in the religious and political realms, the publisher earned the exclusive right to publish the title.24

As such, although censorship was its primary concern, the Licensing Act did nominally afford a measure of protection against piracy. Just as Ponder published the third edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress in 1679, however, the Licensing Act of 1662 lapsed, and was not reenacted until 1685, around the time of the publication of the tenth edition. In the six-year interim, the English printing industry fell under a rather different set of rules. The Stationer’s Company continued to issue licenses, but they were no longer a legally enforceable requirement. So long as a given work did not

22 The Stationers’ Company Court of Assistants was the governing body of the Company and had the authority to arbitrate disputes among members and to seize illicit books and presses. During the years in which the Licensing Act was active, it could be used as a source of recourse against piracy. (Johns, Piracy, 40–43.)23 An Act for Preventing the Frequent Abuses in Printing Seditious Treasonable and Unlicensed Books and Pamphlets and for Regulating Printing and Printing Presses, 1662, 2 & 3 Car. II, c. 33.24 Johns, Piracy, 24–25.25 Simonova, “Passing Through Vanity Fair,” 4; Deazley, On the Origin of the Right to Copy, 1–2.


Ponder frequently tangled with the authorities for publishing unlicensed works with seditious or nonconformist content.30 Furthermore, they had no legal obligation to do so between 1679 and 1685, and, as has been established, gained little in the way of copyright protection from the process. Why, then, did Ponder continue to go to the trouble of licensing each edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress?

The answer perhaps lies in the fact that while a license from the Stationers’ Company conferred little in the way of property protection (economic or intellectual), it did provide some level of political protection. In the years after the lapse of the Licensing Act, the printing industry remained subject to strict regulations that prohibited the publication of seditious and nonconformist material. Though the political climate had calmed down slightly by the late 1670’s and early 1680’s, publishing or authoring such material remained an act punishable by imprisonment throughout the reign of Charles II.31 Securing a license from the Stationers’ Company at any time, however, meant that one’s work had been inspected by an official of the Company and deemed in accordance with the party line, politically and religiously. The possession of a license could therefore make a work less likely to be subject to further scrutiny, and could provide a first line of defense should it be questioned.32 Bunyan and Ponder had both come into conflict with the restrictive political and religious

26 In theory, Ponder might have been able to move against Braddill on contractual grounds, if he could prove that Braddill had agreed not to print more copies than Ponder ordered and further agreed not to sell them to any other bookseller. No detailed court record exists from the 1679 suit, but the records of the 1697 suit indicate that Ponder was unable to produce such a contract. See Plomer, “A Lawsuit,” 64–65.27 Johns, Piracy, 38–39.28 Ibid., 25–26.29 As gathered from the title pages.30 For Bunyan’s licensing record, see Christopher Hill, A Tinker and a Poor Man: John Bunyan and His Church, 1628-1688 (New York: A. Knopf, 1989), 198. For Ponder’s, see Brown, John Bunyan, 263.

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imitation and unacknowledged appropriation. The concept of a text as the intellectual property of its author had no precedent in the thinking of the Stationers’ Company; it was only willing to defend its members’ economic interests.27 As a result, even before the lapse of the Licensing Act, a guild license generally protected only against outright piracy. Other infringements—the incorporation of another’s ideas, characters, design, or even unacknowledged direct quotation—were handled on a case-by-case basis, with the Company taking action only when one work was deemed sufficiently similar to another to damage its likelihood of economic success. This had been difficult to prove and enforce even when all works technically had to be licensed; after 1679, it was nearly impossible.28 The Stationers’ Company’s lax stance on general fraud is especially apparent in Bunyan’s and Ponder’s case, since it in fact licensed several of the books that imitated or directly copied their work. These included The Pilgrim’s Progress…Newly Done Into Verse, The Pilgrim’s Progress: The Third Part, and The Informer’s Doom.29 This reveals the thorough lack of options available to Ponder and Bunyan in any quest to protect their work from their enterprising and morally dubious fellow authors and publishers. In fact, neither Ponder nor Bunyan displayed any particular aversion to publishing without a license over the course of their careers. The majority of the works Bunyan released during his lifetime were unlicensed, while

the protection of their text remained severely underdeveloped. Even those who acquired the proper credentials could fall victim to rampant piracy, misrepresentation and copying, with no options for legal recourse. The first attempts at copyright in anything resembling the modern sense would not come until the eighteenth century, with the enactment of the Statute of Anne in 1710.36 In the meantime, however, acquiring a license was not a completely wasted endeavor. Bunyan’s era was one of widespread religious and political dissent, but also of extensive repression. If the words “Licensed and Entred According to Order” upon a title page could earn an author or publisher some measure of political protection, they could be well worth the process of securing them.

climate of the Restoration period. Bunyan had been arrested for a twelve-year period (from 1660 to 1672) for preaching without the proper credentials and against the teachings of the Anglican Church, and again for six months in 1676 (he likely conceived of The Pilgrim’s Progress during his first imprisonment and began work on it in earnest during his second).33 Ponder, meanwhile, had at least one prison spell (also in 1676), “for carrying to the Presse to be printed an unlicensed Pamphlet tending to Sedition and Defamation of the Christian Religion.”34 Neither man appears to have given up their nonconformist tendencies as a result of their imprisonments—Bunyan continued to preach and Ponder continued to publish questionable and unlicensed material—but it was also likely not an experience either hoped to repeat if he could avoid it. Furthermore, though the content of The Pilgrim’s Progress was not exactly incendiary, it was a theological work written by a known nonconformist. It also included comments about heavy-handed political and religious authorities that could be seen as dangerous if read by a particularly censorious inspector.35 By managing to acquire a license for the work, Ponder earned for himself and for Bunyan a sense of respectability and compliance in a time that could be dangerous for noncompliant men. The license in the late seventeenth century was thus simultaneously a source of frustration and security. As Bunyan and Ponder’s experience shows, the rights of publishers and authors to

31 Hill, A Tinker and a Poor Man, 283–284.32 Johns, Piracy, 27.33 Hill, A Tinker and a Poor Man, 123.34 Brown, John Bunyan, 263.35 Hill, A Tinker and a Poor Man, 198.36 Johns, Piracy, 111.


tempus: issue 15.2

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