Two Notable Recent Acquisitions
(no.
35, Spring 2000)
Bruce Whiteman, Head Librarian, Clark Library
 The
Clark Library has recently acquired two wonderfully important items, the
first a manuscript and the second a printed book. The manuscript is dated
1634 and is a text called Porta veritatis, sive compendiaria ad beatitudinem.
It is said on the title page to be by Jacob Ben Amram, and although
it has never been published, it nevertheless has an interesting history.
The author's name is apparently a pseudonym, and traditionally the work
has been ascribed to Manasseh Ben Israel (1604-57), the Amsterdam rabbi
who was also a printer and a diplomat. Manasseh visited London in the
mid-1650s to encourage the readmission of the Jews to England during the
Protectorate and is known to have sold a manuscript of this work for £10
to Ralph Cudworth, the Regius Professor of Hebrew at Cambridge who was
consulted in 1655 by the council considering the question of Jewish readmission.
Cudworth died in 1688 and left the manuscript to Richard Kidder, the Bishop
of Bath and Wells. Kidder mentions the work in his Demonstration of
the Messias, part 2 (1699), and states there his opinion that Manasseh
was the author and that the work was composed to set out the Jewish objections
to Christianity. Kidder, who died in 1703-he and his wife were killed
in bed by the falling of a chimney during a storm-willed his copy of the
manuscript to Balliol College, where it is now Ms. 251. Despite Kidder's
assertion of Manasseh's authorship, however, the Dutch scholar J. M. Hillesum
has made a case for the work being by Duarte Pinheiro. A convincing piece
of evidence potentially disproving Manasseh as the author is the fact
that he was always careful to record his works, both published and not,
and the Porta veritatis does not figure in any of his lists. The
only other early published reference to the Porta veritatis is in Jacques
Basnage's L'Histoire des juifs (1706-07, English translation by
Thomas Taylor in 1708), where he notes that "this Author [Jacob the Son
of Amram, as stated on the title-page] . . . lived in the last century
and his Work continues in manuscript." This would seem to be the last
allusion to the work for well over two centuries.
David S. Katz, in his Philo-Semitism and the Readmission of the
Jews to England, 1603-1655 (1982) notes that, in addition to the
Balliol manuscript, there is a copy of the Porta veritatis among the
Harleian manuscripts at the British Library (Ms. Harl. 3427-8). He also
states (without giving exact references) that copies are said to exist
in Hamburg and Amsterdam. If the latter inexact citations are indeed
true, the Clark manuscript is the fifth known exemplar of this important
text. It is written in a very neat hand on 145 leaves of unwatermarked
paper and is signed on leaf 139 recto and dated "ab orbe condito. 5394,"
i.e. 1634. There are notes in the margins in many places, some in the
same hand as the text and some in a different hand or hands. The name
of a previous owner, Harry Hall Squire, is written in ink on the rear
flyleaf, but nothing is known of this collector. It may have been he
who loaned the manuscript in 1906 to the Whitechapel Art Gallery in
London, where it was displayed as part of a "Jewish Exhibition." The
manuscript, acquired from a Los Angeles bookseller, reportedly came
to the United States from an English source. It is in an eighteenth-century
full calf binding with modest gold tooling around the edges and more
elaborate tooling on the spine.
 The
Clark's second major acquisition, though it is a printed book, is almost
as rare as the text of the Porta veritatis. This is the true
first edition of Thomas Hobbes's De cive. Its title in full is
Elementorum philosophiae sectio tertia de cive, and it was privately
printed for Hobbes in Paris in 1642. The number of copies printed is
not known, but Hobbes's bibliographers assume that the edition was very
small because the book is now so rare. Until the Clark's copy turned
up, there were five recorded copies in England (King's College, Cambridge;
British Library; Bodleian Library; Dr. Williams's Library; and Chatsworth),
one in France (Bibliothèque nationale), and two in the United
States (Harvard and the Folger Library). The Clark's is thus the ninth
known copy. It was acquired indirectly from an Amsterdam bookseller
and is by chance bound much as the Manasseh manuscript: in full eighteenth-century
polished calf with gold tooling. There are at least three marks of former
ownership, of which the only certain one is the bookplate of the Baron
de Laussat, a French aristocrat who spent several years in the Louisiana
Territory towards the end of the eighteenth century. (It is tempting
to think that this copy of De cive may now be in the U.S. for
the second time).
Hobbes had been to France several times before 1640; he spoke French
well and had acquaintances and friends among the philosophical and scientific
community, including Mersenne, Descartes, and Gassendi. Thus when his life
seemed possibly at risk after the Long Parliament met in November of that
year, he fled to Paris and stayed there for eleven years. De cive was presumably
written early on during this exile, and although the book was printed carefully
and even elegantly (the engraved title page is particularly beautiful),
clearly it was meant in some sense as a trial edition, given the presumed
limited printing. The text was reprinted in Amsterdam by the Elzevier Press
in 1647, and for that second edition Hobbes added a number of important
notes (written in response to objections from readers) and a lengthy "Preface
to the Reader." Another edition, also published in 1647, contained letters
from Mersenne and Gassendi. A French translation appeared in 1649, and
Hobbes's own English version was published in London in 1651.
The text of De cive may have been well received by Hobbes's philosophical
comrades, but in the greater world it was extremely controversial, as indeed
most of Hobbes's work was throughout his long life (1588-1679). By 1654
the work was on the index of books prohibited by Rome to Catholic readers,
and, in 1683, it and Leviathan were ordered burned publicly by the
authorities of the University of Oxford (an event Hobbes, perhaps fortunately,
did not live to experience). Whatever the official outrage, the fact of
Hobbes's expressed hostility toward the papacy did not prevent Mersenne
and Gassendi, who were both Catholic priests, from remaining his lifelong
friends.
This very rare book (a bookseller has written "de la plus extrême
rareté" on the front flyleaf) was acquired for the Clark with the
generous assistance of a grant from the Ahmanson Foundation. The Library
is very grateful to the Ahmanson for its continuing support of our acquisitions
program.
Research Reports: The Global
Eighteenth Century
(no. 35, Spring 2000)
The following essays were contributed by three of the Ahmanson-Getty
fellows who participated in this year's core program, "The Global Eighteenth
Century: The Four Corners of the Earth":
I. Philippe Rosenberg,
"The Barbarian and the Pedagogy of Restraint"
II. Jill Casid,
"Empire through the Magic Lantern"
III. Anna Neill,
"James Morrison's Tahiti"
Research Reports
I:
The Barbarian and the Pedagogy of Restraint
Philippe Rosenberg, Emory University
The work of several historians and theorists of early
modern culture portrays the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as a period
when Europe developed something like a collective superego. Norbert Elias,
Michel Foucault, Peter Burke, and Robert Muchembled, to list only the most
obvious names, have advocated various approaches to the rise of scrutiny
and coercion in European societies. Although these scholars have offered
compelling interpretations of the cultivation of manners, the elite's suppression
of certain aspects of popular culture, and the development of ideologies
of criminalization, they have missed other crucial preoccupations of early
modern societies. They have certainly overlooked a propensity on the part
of men and women in the seventeenth century to discriminate between legitimate
and illegitimate violence and to draw upon these distinctions in their
discussions of the limitations that should weigh upon the exercise of force.
These scholars have also turned a blind eye to the symmetry between internal
and external imperialisms.
Their oversights, while unfortunate, are not surprising.
They stem from a reliance on documents which purport to describe the modification
of behavior in a straightforward fashion-prescriptive tracts and court
records, notably. In fact, Europeans showed a marked tendency to make sense
of control by reference to its absence. In denouncing breaches of
restraint in Europe, or in commenting upon the lack of political order
which they perceived among the native populations of other continents,
European opinion makers advertised the importance of limitations, moderation,
and self-control. They did so in spite of the fact that Europe itself was
very far from orderly and, to some extent, because it seemed to
be in violent disarray.
In order to understand the place of these perceptions
on the European scene, it is useful to begin with the vehicles, not of
commonplace moral injunctions, but of commonplace moral attack. By the
late seventeenth century-as an abundant literature on crime, military atrocities,
and religious persecution attests-condemning violence had become a minor
industry. Most pamphlets and tracts did not go very far in explaining why
given forms of behavior were inadmissible. These were polemical writings,
and they usually simply castigated offensive or transgressive behavior
as such. They relied upon rhetorical conventions of praise and blame. My
own interests have to do with the rhetorical markers of blame---in particular,
the various designations for cruelty, tyranny, and inhumanity---which
served to pigeonhole illegitimate violence. The notion of barbarism,
I
maintain, played an extremely important, if ambiguous, role within this
field of polemics. It is on this marker and its ideological implications
that a good part of my work at the Clark has focused.
Classical tradition, dating back to Herodotus
and Aristotle, had defined the barbarian partly as a foreigner, partly
as a nomad, and partly as a member of a society that was lacking in government
and therefore given to habitual violence. Christian tradition contributed
layers of meaning of its own to this concept by using the term barbarian
to
describe the heathen and the infidel. Over the course of the sixteenth
century, the term would also come to describe the foreign peoples with
whom Europeans interacted in their travels and colonial pro-jects, as well
as conquered peoples within Europe's immediate orbit (the Irish, for instance).
By the seventeenth century, the image of the barbarian supplied a point
of contact between ancient tropes, contemporary theories of civil government,
and encounters with foreign cultures. Accusing non-Europeans of being barbarians
was a way of shoring up the contrast between "civil" nations and those
judged "warlike" and "rude," and henceforth in need of European domination.
Applied to other Europeans, this same figure gave rise to complex analogies.
Labeling one's European foes as barbarous was a way of talking about their
cruelty. It also made them and their violence seem alien, uncivil, dangerous
and worthy of disdain all at once.
Within this broad pattern, specific references
to the image of the barbarian varied to some extent. For Daniel Defoe,
struck by the influx of Huguenot immigrants after the Revocation of the
Edict of Nantes and the Nine Years' War, "barbarities" were almost, if
not quite, synonymous with "cruelties." Defoe's Lex Talionis
(1698)
took issue with Louis XIV's treatment of French Protestants, especially
with the treachery involved in breaking treaties only to butcher otherwise
peaceful subjects. French behavior compared unfavorably with that of Christianity's
worst enemies, the Turks, who were renowned throughout Europe for their
lack of restraint and their use of arbitrary power. For Defoe, barbarism
was paired with duplicity and it was to be understood as a tool of tyranny.
The Royalist author Richard Perrinchief offered
a similar, but not identical, analysis of illegitimate violence. His life
of Agathocles (1661, reissued in 1676) held lessons about the recent as
well as the ancient past. As the preface explained, the story of the Sicilian
tyrant Agathocles provided a code for understanding the regicide and the
tyranny of Oliver Cromwell. For Perrinchief, tyranny stemmed from an excess
of unbridled lust and resulted in promiscuous cruelty. Tyranny and cruelty
were "barbarous" in their effects, rather than in their underlying mechanisms.
They destroyed the security of subjects, substituting slavery and naked
force for the rule of law and for mutual love between subject and ruler.
 An
engraved folded plate included in the Perrinchief volume presents a
view of the matter closer in spirit to Defoe's than Perrinchief's. It
shows the Tyrant, crowned both by Treachery and Cruelty, overlooking
a Weld of ruins. Treachery reaches for the dagger hidden beneath his
cloak. His decorum is only for show, as it conceals murderous intent.
Cruelty, by contrast is naked: he is what he seems to be. More importantly
though, Cruelty is a barbarian. He carries a burning torch and is ready
to sow devastation. He who subverts legitimate government may play the
part of the civil ruler, but in the end he is allied with the barbarian.
His duplicity turns into uncontained violence. The violence of the uncivil,
fickle foreigner thus provides the model for understanding the capricious
violence of tyrants, including Englishmen.
Defoe, Perrinchief, and Perrinchief's engraver
were only three of the individuals engaged in the making of seventeenth-century
polemics. I might have mentioned many more, but what these three (and others
like them) shared was an urge to exoticize the violence of Europeans. All
three were quite clear that European nations were not the orderly, deference-bound
societies which the prevalent dichotomy between the civil and the barbarous
suggested they should be. The analogies on which these three men drew exploited
the similarity, rather than the difference, between Europeans and so-called
savages-even while perpetuating a classical terminology premised on the
notion of cultural difference. These analogies were voiced in the form
of a reproach. Europeans could not yet agree on a proper set of checks
which would contain violence within the bounds of legitimacy; they only
knew how to attack each other for their mutual failures.
Research Reports
II:
Empire through the Magic Lantern
Jill H. Casid, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
In 1987, high above Manhattan's Times Square, Chilean-born, New York-based
artist Alfredo Jaar projected what he called "A Logo for America." On the
digital display screen the nationally bounded map image of the United States
as "America" and the U.S. flag as the claimed "American flag" were crossed
out by the statements "This is not America" and "This is not America's
flag." In the dissolving wake of these negations appeared a hemispheric
view of "America" with the land masses of the Americas joined to form the
"R" in the name. The negation and addition strategies of Jaar's logo question
the logic and the "legality" of U.S. aggrandizement across the geopolitical
and conceptual terrain of "America." But, in retaining the down-under position
of Latin America, Jaar's logo, nonetheless, maintains the implicit prioritization
of "north" over "south." In contrast, with its transposing flip of the
hemisphere, The Turn-About Map of the Americas (1982) attempts to
dislodge the coordinates of dominance by putting Latin America on top.
Over the last decade, numerous map publishers have produced global variations
of this reversal in expected orientation. By literally turning over cartographic
convention, such versions as the
Upside Down World Map by Interacts
visually challenge the vertical north-south stacking of, for example, Europe
over Africa, and this ranking's naturalization of a top to bottom, hence
potentially master to slave, relation of power.
Such plays with the cardinal rules of imperial map projection are not
new. The dissemination of visual representations of a world upside down
coincided from the mid-eighteenth century into the nineteenth century with
the widening use in Europe of another technology of projection for spanning
the earth: the magic lantern. The basic structure of this optical device,
like that of the camera obscure, took the form of a dark box with an aperture.
However, rather than reflecting a reality outside the box, the magic lantern
was employed to cast onto the wall of a darkened room enlarged representations
of the globe, the earth's flora and fauna, and other worlds. Despite modifications
over time, the basic setup of the apparatus involved a box, the lantern,
with a light source placed inside. Sometimes a mirror would be fixed to
the back of the lantern, and the aperture at the front of the box would
be fitted with a tube with lenses at each end serving to condense, focus,
magnify, and orient the images onto a wall or screen. Frames, or sliders,
holding glass plates painted with images would be set into and slid across
a kind of trough between the light source and the tube with the lenses.
Like the camera obscura, the magic lantern sends its images bottom up,
unless lenses are added to "right" the images. While such machines of projection
were frequently used to display, for example, natural history specimens
or views of distant places for the exercise of "rational inquiry," magic
lantern shows also often used prisms, mirrors, smoke, and rotating sliders
to make the projected images seem to come to life, appear out of nowhere,
or dissolve into one another. These conjuring effects of the magic lantern
show were supposed to confirm the rational sight-based cognition of metropolitan,
European spectators by the projection of its apparitional inverse. However,
the inherent capacity for reversal, which was understood to mimic the way
that external impressions are cast onto the retina of the human eye, provided
a metaphor for the magic lantern's potential for destabilizing claims to
reason. Presenting its beholders with an altered version of their model
of rational vision, the magic lantern show also opened up the dangerous
prospect of otherness and difference within.
In the process of doing research for my book project "Necromancy of Empire:
The Magic Lantern and Technologies of Projection, 1650-1850," I found,
at UCLA's Department of Special Collections, a small illustrated book
published in London in 1810 entitled Signor Topsy-Turvy's Wonderful
Magic Lantern; or, the World Turned Upside Down. In the preface,
the authors, the sisters Ann (1782-1866) and Jane Taylor (1783-1824),
call their collection of instructive poems "a queer book." The potential
transformations of perspective and hierarchy effected by the magic lantern
screening represented in the frontispiece exploit the sense of queer
as "estranging."
 The
book's structure takes the form of a sequence of illustrated story poems,
each based on a form of reversal ostensibly corrected for instructive
purposes in the concluding "morals." The introductory poem provides
the organizing conceit that the book itself is a topsy-turvy magic lantern
show and its poems the sliders. This frame tale takes its readers back
to an unspecified moment in the past when a "philosopher" devised "the
first Magic Lantern." Turning the tale of invention for comic effect
into a failure to contrive a means to project an upright image, the
frontispiece and the introductory poem cast the philosopher as the Italian
Signor Topsy-Turvy who, faced with a defiant mechanism that projects
"feet in the air," makes this perplexing obstacle the basis for a new
form of spectacle that sets its images' and spectators' "heads on the
floor." The frontispiece depicts the philosopher conducting a magic
lantern show lecture as a means of visual education for a surrounding
group of young subjects.
But, the twist comes in the projection---a flipped-over map of the globe
sets on its head the vision of the rational, European spectator and inverts
the imperial ordering of the relation between Europe and Africa. Three
types of projection technologies are condensed in this scene. The magic
lantern device represents image projection or the capacity to cast an image
onto a wall. The rendering of the globe is itself another technology of
projection---mapping, or what in cartography is called map-projection.
The
technique of comic inversion may also be understood as a device of projection:
anxieties about the potential reversibility of the terms of imperial dominance
are projected onto slider tales that play out feared scenes of transformation
and, in some instances, violent reprisal. By displacing geopolitical sites
of trauma to the realms of seeming fantasy, the comic treatment endeavors
to alleviate anxiety by re-presenting the feared reversal at an ostensibly
comfortable remove from any actuality.
Published just a few years after Britain pulled out of the slave trade,
the book was issued at a time of persistent unrest among slaves in the
British West Indies, where plantations continued to rely on slave labor.
The upside-down globe of the book's frontispiece throws Europe under Africa.
The slider tale of "The Cook Cooked" spins a successful kitchen revolution
among the "patriots" of the larder, including a "callepash," or turtle
in West Indian dialect. And "The Ass Turned Miller" turns the mill wheel
round so that a "poor slave" in the form of a female donkey wields a whip
over the "lord of the mill." Such references to Africa, the West Indies,
slavery, and particularly slave revolt might be understood as simple exercises
in cycling projected revolution back to a colonial order of things in which,
as the narrator of "The Ass Turned Miller" concludes, "fetters may suit
[those people] who[,] like this silly brute, attempt to rule over their
betters."
However, with its apparitional tricks, the magic lantern also threatened
to collapse the distance and the difference between top and bottom, master
and slave, human and beast. To the extent that these slider tales gave
form to an altered perspective, even if just a reversal of orientation,
they held out the possibility of actualizing the imagined. Britain's imperial
subjects might, as the frame tale's prospect of revolt implies, refuse
to watch a "righted" version of the show and declare instead that "they
would see upside down."
Research Reports
III:
James Morrison's Tahiti
Anna Neill, University of Kansas
When William Bligh was appointed commander of England's breadfruit expedition
to Tahiti, he was given a double moral responsibility. His primary charge-to
gather the breadfruit plants and deliver them to Jamaica where they promised
to offer a cheap source of food for slaves-was part of a "humanitarian"
(as well as profit-making) project in the late eighteenth century to deliver
botanical and agricultural knowledge to "backward" regions of the globe.
His other, related task was to find a means of managing the raw passions
of his seamen who, in succumbing to their own lustful, acquisitive, or
violent impulses, might cause trouble between Europeans and Tahitians,
or else might become so enthralled by local customs that they would forget
their duty to captain and country. At once the agent of state discipline
and the arbiter of moral conduct, Bligh was responsible for helping his
sailors recognize and appreciate what Adam Smith, endeavoring to correct
the narrow principles and intellectual torpor of laborers, called "the
great and extensive interests of [their] country."
The idea that sailors are the kind of people who are hard to keep interested
in the greater needs of their society is challenged, however, in The
Journal of James Morrison, Boatswain's Mate of the Bounty and in Morrison's
Account
of the Island of Tahiti & the Customs of the Islanders (the Clark
holds a volume, published in 1935 by the Golden Cockerel Press, which reproduces
both the journal and the account from the manuscripts in the Mitchell Library
of New South Wales). Morrison stayed on board the Bounty
with Fletcher
Christian after the mutiny in 1789. He was subsequently arrested in Tahiti
and brought back to England for court martial, found guilty, but given
a royal pardon. In his journal record of the voyage, he argues that the
mutiny was provoked by Bligh's brutal treatment of his crew rather than,
as Bligh later represented it, by a rebellious longing for the pleasures
of Tahiti. The Tahiti to which Christian and his crew return, Morrison
shows, is not a world that romantically defies the moral calculations of
British imperial culture---a world where the pursuit of pleasure is the
first principle of social life---but rather a distressingly remote island
onto which the mutinous sailors have been forced by desperate circumstances.
Morrison's account undermines many of the assumptions made about the sailors'
Tahitian experience in representations of the Bounty mutiny,
ranging from Bligh's published narratives to twentieth-century celluloid
versions of the story. Where Bligh reconstructs events in A Voyage
to the South Seas (1792) to show that the sailors had the "purpose
of remaining at Tahiti," Morrison remarks that on the voyage out "everyone
seemed in high spirits and began already to talk of home . . . and one
would readily have imagined that we had just left Jamaica instead of
Tahiti, so far onward did their flattering fancies waft them" (Journal,
April 1789). Once the mutineers have irreversibly changed their
fortunes by casting both Bligh and the breadfruit plants out of the
ship, Tahiti offers neither a refuge from the abuses of maritime life
nor a satisfying alternative to the oppressive economy of the ship.
Christian, Morrison reports, promises to become just as much of a tyrant
as Bligh, threatening with his pistol and clapping in irons two men
who refuse to recognize his authority and declare that they are now
their own masters. And the Tahitians are so "backward" in their agricultural
methods that the fertile soil of the island, Morrison considers, is
wasted. In particular, he reflects on the way the experiments in planting
begun in Cook's time have been thwarted by the islanders' passions for
new and curious commodities. These passions, he observes, have brought
all of Cook's humanitarian intentions to nothing, for although
 when
he first thought of stocking these islands with cattle, poultry and
the fruits and roots of Europe, [he] intended it for the good of mankind,
. . . these people knew not the value of them and for want of Europeans
to take care of them they were soon destroyed. [T]he curiosity of the
natives to see such strange animals made each wish to have one by which
means they were separated and their increase prevented; the poultry
soon became extinct, the sheep, who did not as in other warm climes
lose their wool, died for want of sheering, the black cattle alone thriving
tho kept mostly separate; the seeds and plants were destroyed by being
removed as soon as they made their appearance (An Account of the
Island of Tahiti).
Morrison then goes on to describe how certain plants---some, like shaddock,
introduced by Cook's ships, some, like Indian corn, by the Bounty---should
be properly cultivated; he speculates on how well these plants might grow
in such a climate if the native inhabitants were trained out of their
passion for curiosities and educated in the first principles of capital,
persuaded to produce more food than they actually consume, or to labor
for more than "what nature has abundantly supplied them." The irony here
is that such observations, particularly Morrison's inclination to see
the trade in curiosities as an obstacle to commercial progress, correspond
very closely to Bligh's com-ments about Tahitian neglectfulness:
 Thus
all our fond hopes, that the trouble Captain Cook had taken to introduce
so many valuable things among them, [and that] would . . . have been
found to be productive of every good, are entirely blasted (Bligh, Log,
1 November, 1788).
Morrison's journal and his account of Tahiti were probably transcribed
from notes after his return to England, and perhaps while he was in prison
in England awaiting court martial. His discussion of the backwardness of
the Tahitian economy, along with his accusations against Bligh, might therefore
constitute a defense of his own character as a loyal British seaman. But
if so, it is a truly radical defense, for what Morrison demonstrates is
the extent to which the "humane" undertakings of eighteenth-century global
capital are tied to the brutal exploitation of labor not only on the slave
plantations of the West Indies but also on the high seas. Sailors, in his
account, are not at all the easily seduced, near nationless creatures of
passion that they are in Bligh's writings. In a savvy interpretation of
the first principles of capital, Morrison uses the evidence of "primitive"
Tahitian culture to illustrate how un--appealing forced exile from the
commercial world is for men who so recently had rejoiced at the prospect
of home. What must it have taken to drive Morrison and his fellow sailors
to such desperate measures? Perhaps the sense that the commercial profits
to be had from so-called humanitarian undertakings like that of the Bounty
expedition
depended on the hard labor and physical deprivation forced on sailors during
voyages of such enormous length.
List of images reproduced in this on-line issue
When not otherwise identified, the images reproduced
here are from the Clark
Library Collection.
Title page to the manuscript of Porta
veritatis (1634)
Engraved title page to Thomas
Hobbes's De cive (Paris, 1642)
Double folding plate
from Richard Perrinchief, The Sicilian Tyrant; or, the Life of Agathocles
(London, 1676).
Frontispiece to Signor Topsy-Turvy's
Wonderful Magic Lantern (London, 1810). Courtesy
of the Department of Special Collections, Charles E. Young Research Library,
UCLA.
Details
from an image in James Morrison's Journal, engraved by Robert Gibbings
(London: Golden Cockerel Press, 1935).
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