Today is for all the woodworking math nerds. You know who you are. In 9th grade you cried when you found out Geometry and Shop Class were scheduled at the same time and you had to choose one or the other. You chose Geometry. Stashed somewhere in the back of your closet or in your underwear drawer is the dovetailed box you made to hold your first slide rule, your Texas Instrument SR-50 and your Casio C-80.
Let’s look at some pies from the woodworking world.
From 1st Dibs.
A nice example of a pie-crust tripod table. It is from the Georgian period and dated 1780-1789. The wood is mahogany. The foliate carving above the “knees” does not overwhelm the legs. The feet are hand-carved claw and ball, although the ball looks more like an egg.
The table top is one piece of wood with a hand-carved pie-crust edge that has aged very well. This particular design is considered a classic. If you encounter one of these tables in an antique shop or elsewhere in the wild check to see if the pie-crust is applied molding.
Top: A section of Plate 329 Roubo, bottom: the “bird cage” base.
Many of these small tripod tables have a sliding flip top to make these tables easier to store. You can see in Roubo’s example (on the right), that the bird cage sits between two rails. There is also a stop that limits how far the top can slide between the rails.
From 1st Dibs.
This Regency-period pie-crust table is dated circa 1820 and is made of mahogany. The top is smaller than the Georgian example, does not flip and it has a tripartite shelf.
The pie crust is much plainer than the Georgian table, but is very much in harmony with the table’s overall shape and design.
The description of the table indicates these are saber legs with hoofed feet that sit on brass casters. I disagree with the description of these feet as being hoofed. That is an even-toed ungulate if there ever was. However, ungulate might be off-putting to a prospective buyer.
One of three nesting tables. From 1st Dibs.
This is described as a pie-crust table. Pies are not square, this is clearly a tart. It does have a nice book-matched top which brings us to the next pie piece.
Table by Warren Snow of Snow Woodworks, Marshall, Virginia.
Warren Snow has a good description of the pie-matched table: ”Sequential wood cuts, from the same board, are then paired and arranged to create the table top surface.” For this table the pie ”slices” are made of American cherry and the edge is Macassar ebony. Pie-matching can reveal stunning grain patterns. On many examples, and as can be seen in this table, the center portion has an inlay that adds interest to the table top.
From Bonhams.
This is a Jupe’s Patent Extending Dining Table with two sets of pie-shaped leaves. Robert Jupe patented the design in 1835 and it is made of mahogany. It is the Big Daddy of pie tables. The table diameter is 65 inches, with the intermediate leaves the diameter is 83.5 inches, with the large set of leaves the diameter is 95.5 inches. As it is Pi Day you can figure out the circumferences.
The table top is turned to open it up into a Sarlacc-like maul and the leaves inserted (May 4th might be a better day for this table).
The table with leaves inserted.
According to the Bonham’s description these Jupe tables have sold for £120,000-£130,000, but those with more ornate bases have sold for much more.
Lastly, a good old American classic that probably originated in Europe. It the only piece of furniture that was routinely in the company of pies: the pie safe.
From 1st Dibs.
Pie safes (garde-manger in parts of Louisiana) kept pies and other foodstuffs safe from insects and vermin. This one is made of pine and is a very typical design with two doors and three shelves inside. The doors and sides have metal ventilation panels that have a pierced or punched designs. Fine metal screening or cloth might be used instead of metal panels.
I was planning a Pi Day post two years ago which happened to fall within a few days of the official announcement that we were in a pandemic. I had to make a quick trip out of town before hunkering down and consequently forgot about it. Last year I was deep into a research project. So, today have some pie and wear your old calculator watch, because tomorrow…tomorrow is March 15, the Ides of March and you should hide under your bed.
Henry Boyd, collection of the Cincinnati History Museum.
Publisher’s note: I first learned about Henry Boyd in “The Furniture Makers of Cincinnati: 1790 to 1849” (1976) by Jane E. Sikes. The short entry on Boyd was fascinating, but I found little else that had been published about his life or his woodworking. In the early 2000s, I encountered one of Boyd’s amazing beds at The Golden Lamb in Lebanon, Ohio, and became determined to learn more about him. Two years ago, I hired Suzanne Ellison to dig deep into public archives (her specialty) to put together a dossier on Boyd’s life. As many of you know, Suzanne does not engage in half-measures. After months of research, she produced a fascinating account of Boyd’s life that became the seed for a book on Boyd. Soon, we will introduce you to the author and the book (we have a signed contract with the author, but she asked for some time to work out some things on her end before we introduce her). This blog entry is a short introduction to Boyd’s life; more is to come. — Christopher Schwarz
When Henry Boyd died in March of 1886 at age 84 he had survived slavery, overcome enormous odds to start not one, but two businesses and persevered through tremendous societal changes. The story of his life as it has been printed in Cincinnati newspapers, often for Black History Month, was at best bare bones, at its worst just not true. Yet, his history has been waiting and is easily found in archives held in Cincinnati and in the Ohio History Collection. His history – his story – reveals a man of intelligence, determination and courage.
Boyd was born in Carlisle, Kentucky, the son of two worlds: his father was white and originally from Scotland; his mother was black, an enslaved person originally from Virginia. Boyd seems to have determined early on to buy his freedom. In his late teens he was hired out to work at the Kanawha saltworks in Virginia (now West Virginia) located about 150-160 miles from Carlisle. When slave owners had too many enslaved persons, one option was to send them to work at other farms or businesses. In this way the owner could continue to profit from their labor. For the enslaved person, it meant a year-long separation from family and possible exposure to dangerous conditions and harsher treatment. If there was an advantage to being hired out to the saltworks, it was that the enslaved person was allowed to work extra hours (overwork) to earn money they could keep. While in Kanawha, Boyd’s world expanded. He worked alongside enslaved persons from other states and interacted with free black men working the riverboats moving barrels of salt to Porkopolis (Cincinnati).
One of the overwork jobs that Boyd did at Kanawha was tending to the kettles in the salt furnace. The illustration is an example from the saltworks in Saltville, Virginia, as depicted in Harper’s Weekly, January 1865 (archive.org).
After several years, Boyd returned to Carlisle and was apprenticed to a carpenter (there are examples in the historical record of enslaved children of white owners given opportunities to learn a trade). During his apprenticeship Boyd would have had an opportunity to do overwork and earn money for himself. We don’t know exactly when his apprenticeship ended, exactly when he bought his freedom, or once free if he stayed in Kentucky for a while to earn more money. Fortunately for Boyd, Kentucky did not prohibit enslaved persons from learning to read and write, nor require them to leave the state within a set period after earning their freedom. We do know that once free, Boyd would have had to carry his official freedom papers with him at all times.
Boyd arrived in Cincinnati sometime during 1825 or 1826. Finding work along the busy docks of the Ohio River was fairly easy, but finding work as a black carpenter, no matter how skilled, was not. Although Cincinnati was a non-slave northern city, it had strong southern sympathies and business concerns. Eventually, with the help of a white man he was able to start working as a house carpenter. A newspaper biography published in 1877 relates the story of how Boyd met his future mother-in-law and how he came to live at 15 New Street. On his way to Cincinnati he was introduced to a woman whose widowed daughter lived in Cincinnati. She wanted to provide Boyd with a letter of introduction, but was illiterate. Boyd wrote the letter for her and on visiting New Street met Keziah, his future wife, and Sarah Jane, his future step-daughter. The 1850 census shows Emma Laws, his mother-in-law, was then living with them. One chance meeting on his journey to live as a free man resulted in a family firmly tied together. When Keziah died (estimated in 1862) they had been married 36 years. At the time of Boyd’s death he was still living in the same house on New Street with his daughter Maria and her family. He was buried next to Keziah in a cemetery plot owned by Sarah Jane.
Within eight years of arriving in his new city Boyd had his own business building houses and was employing five or six men, both black and white. In addition to having his own family and permanent residence, he had earned enough to purchase the freedom of two siblings.
Boyd was also planning and tinkering. He solved the most common problem of rope-suspension bedsteads (collapse) by devising a stabilizing screw-fastening system that tied the horizontal rails and vertical posts into a strong frame. With the help of George Porter, a Massachusetts-born cabinetmaker, he had the fastening system patented in 1833. At the time, black inventors were legally able to obtain patents, however, there were obstacles that made the preparation and submission of patent materials prohibitive. Six years later, in 1839, Henry opened his bedstead manufactory at the northeast corner of Broadway and Eighth Street.
An 1840 Boyd Bedstead, Smithsonian Collections.
Boyd advertised his bedsteads in city newspapers and business directories. Prominent business owners bought and endorsed his bedsteads. The 1850 Federal Profits of Industry Census shows the woods he used for bedsteads were poplar, walnut, mahogany, sycamore and cherry; more than 1,540 bedsteads were made annually for a production value of approximately $41,000. He employed an average of 20 men and, although the census doesn’t detail this, we know he employed both black and white men. Boyd’s bedsteads were popular in the South and and were transported by boat down the Ohio River to the Mississippi River, a cost-efficient transportation method for Cincinnati businesses.
From “Cincinnati in 1841: Early Annals and Future Prospects” by Charles Cist, Cincinnati Public Library.
The growth of Cincinnati and other “Western” cities attracted the attention of visitors, including abolitionists, from the East Coast and Europe. Henry Boyd and other successful black business owners were visited by the likes of Martin R. Delaney, Frederick Douglass and William Cooper Nell, and their successes were reported in abolitionist newspapers including Douglass’ The North Star and William Lloyd Garrison’s TheLiberator.
Sanborn Fire Map (1887) showing the location of Boyd’s home on New Street and the location of his former factory at Broadway and Eighth (Library of Congress).
Before the mid-1850s we know Boyd had expanded his operations into three or four additional buildings close to his original factory, and had more than doubled his work force. In addition to bedsteads he was advertising other types of furniture. He was also struggling to keep up with competition from larger furniture makers whose annual production values were more than triple his. One competitor, Clawson & Mudge, exclusively made bedsteads and offered 95 varieties. We also have documentation from an 1857 credit evaluation that indicates there was a level of turmoil in the workforce. By 1860, Boyd was not able to pay his leases and closed his factory. The leasehold agreements he had on the factory building and other holdings were advertised in sheriff’s sales.
The oft-published reason for Boyd closing his business was that his factory had been burned out three times and after the last fire he could not obtain insurance. The basis for this story is a newspaper article from the late 1870s. There is no documentation of Boyd’s factory being burned out either in the records of the Cincinnati Fire Department or in city newspapers. (Furniture factories in the 19th century were disasters waiting to happen with open fires, volatile liquids and plenty of wood shavings. There are plenty of records of other furniture factories burning down, including those of Clawson & Mudge.)
Boyd continued to operate a small furniture business for a couple more years, and in the late 1860s was employed by the city as a station-house keeper at one of the police stations.
Although he is best known for manufacturing bedsteads with a fastening system he devised and had patented, Boyd accomplished and contributed more to his adopted city.
When cholera arrived in Cincinnati in the autumn of 1832, the leading medical authority, Dr. Daniel Drake, was convinced the disease was caused by a type of aerial insect that was ”poisonous, invisible…of the same or similar habits with the gnat.” Boyd, on the other hand, thought cholera was in the water supply and communicated his idea to Charles Hammond, editor of one of the city newspapers. Hammond published Henry’s suggestion.
We don’t know if many people took up Boyd’s suggestion to boil drinking water. We do know Boyd survived cholera outbreaks in 1832, 1849, 1866 and one late in the 1870s. Twenty-two years after Boyd’s idea was published, a definitive study in London determined cholera was spread in the water supply.
While enslaved, Boyd was allowed to learn to read and write and learn a trade and was well aware of the advantages gained through education. In Cincinnati he supported and was involved in the initial efforts to open schools for black children. We don’t have full details on all of his family, but do know in 1849, when young women were not often allowed a higher education, his daughter Maria, age 16, was sent to Oberlin Collegiate Institute and completed three years of study. The Mechanics Institute prohibited enrollment of young black men wishing to learn a trade. We know of at least one instance where Henry apprenticed a young black man to learn how to be a turner.
Boyd had a home and business, paid taxes, obtained a patent and filed a lawsuit for non-payment for a house he built. Before 1857, he was citizen – of sorts, because he could not vote. After the 1857 Dred Scott decision, he was no longer considered a citizen. It was not until 1868, when the Fourteenth Amendment was passed, that he regained his citizenship. The Fifteenth Amendment passed on March 30, 1870, giving him the right to vote; three days later, on the evening of April 2, Boyd participated in the ward-level meetings of the Republican Party of Cincinnati. He was elected the initial chairman for the 13th Ward. In the autumn of that same year, at age 68, he voted for the first time in the state-wide election for the U.S. House of Representatives. The following year he joined the Grant Club to work for the re-election of Ulysses S. Grant.
Boyd had a humanitarian commitment that was not known until late in the 19th century. He was an active member of the Underground Railroad, contributing funds and helping to coordinate the movement of escaped enslaved persons to safety. He worked with other members, including Kitty Dorum, William Watson, Calvin Fairbanks and Levi Coffin. He knew Theodore Weld, a Lane (Seminary) Rebel, considered to be one of the architects of the abolitionist movements. Huntington Lyman, another Lane Rebel, revealed in correspondence with Wilbur Siebert (author of books on the Underground Railroad in Ohio) that Boyd had a hiding place in his house for escaped enslaved persons. Boyd’s involvement in helping escaped slaves seems to have begun within a few years of arriving in Cincinnati; they continued despite increased dangers brought about by the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act, and lasted until the end of the Civil War, a span of more than 30 years.
Transcription of an 1898 letter from Huntington Lyman to Wilbur Siebert outlining what he knew about the Underground Railway in Cincinnati. Siebert sent out hundreds of letters to “construct” the Railway trying to establish “stations” and “conductors.” In reality, the network of people and locations was not rigidly structured with members falling into a hierarchy. Siebert Archive in the Ohio History Connection.
There aren’t a huge number of chronicles of 19th-century black men whose lives included buying their way out of slavery, long-term involvement in freeing others from slavery, invention and entrepreneurship, enduring four race riots in 12 years, and involvement in the early struggle for the civil rights of equal education and the right to vote. Boyd’s story adds dimension to the history of Cincinnati in particular, and to American history as a whole.
Using historical documents and contemporaneous accounts we can reconstruct much of what Boyd did in his life and we can extrapolate ideas that were important to him. He was, however, always living in two worlds. At his birth, his white father owned him and his mother was enslaved; he received an education likely denied to others. He could start a successful business, prosper and be well-regarded, but his public life was proscribed by state Black Laws and threats of violence. He had a law-abiding public life countered by a dangerous hidden life of illegal acts to help escaped slaves. We can try to imagine how he felt to truly be a citizen and cast his first vote, but we can’t even get close. About his suffering while enslaved, or once he was free, we will never know.
Note: It is entirely in the realm of possibilities that the events recounted may have been slightly exaggerated. Nevertheless, it is all true.
Towards the middle of August on nice pre-autumn afternoon I was in the backyard minding my own business when, with a loud bang, something hit the garage roof. A second later, at the far edge of my peripheral vision, something whizzed by and landed with a sharp crack on the driveway. (Here it should be noted that the last time my vision was tested at the DMV office the agent said my peripheral vision was extremely good.) Whatever it was, it missed. Minutes later it happened again with the “missile” missing my head by just a few inches. It crossed my mind that it would be advantageous to take cover in the garage. When the barrage ended I collected the spent shot from the garage walkway and the driveway.
It was the Mockernut! Our hickory tree was throwing murder marbles at me! I was appalled. This is the tree that provides much-needed shade in the summer and gorgeous golden leaves in the autumn. This is the tree I always stop to give a pat to when walking by. It is solid, straight, true. And, apparently, a punk teenager.
The Mockernut hickory, Caryatomentosa, is a member of the Juglandaceae, the walnut family. Our tree is around 55-60 feet high and at least 40-45 years old. These trees don’t start producing murder marbles until they are 25 years old. That seems such a long ”childhood” until you learn they are both slow-growing and long-lived, with some trees reaching the age of 500 years.
Assassins in waiting.
As woodworkers are well aware, hickory wood is extremely hard and is an excellent wood for tool handles. The nuts are also exceedingly hard. People who enjoy hiking or camping in the forest and who have unfortunately lost their food supply to bears can enjoy a snack of hickory nuts if they happen to have brought along a sledge hammer. Try as I might, none of the many nutcrackers in the house could open a fresh Mockernut nut. Hickory nuts are an important food source for squirrels, rabbits and other wildlife, but how in the world do they get them open? Being much smarter than the average human they gather the nuts and wait. After a few weeks of aging the nuts are much easier to open.
Perhaps our Mockernut was feeling feisty after several “off” years and the beating it took last year. On a warm day in April 2020 we had what seemed to be a mini-derecho tear through our neighborhood. In just 15 to 20 minutes shearing winds tore thousands of leaves and small branches from trees. The wind was accompanied by hailstones the size of nickels and quarters. When the wind and hail stopped every surface was covered with ragged green leaves and the air was filled with a fog as the hailstones melted. Weeks afterward the damage inflicted on the springtime trees, especially to the crowns, was hard to miss. In our yard the Mockernut and Southern red oaks faired much worse than the white oaks.
Beyond the deep shade it provides in the summer the Mockernut is an important part of our yard’s ecosystem. It is home to myriad insects that provide food for several bird species. For many birds it is an intermediate stop and refuge on the way to the water bowls. The squirrels have made it their highway connecting their nesting trees to the yard. The Mockernut is also an important feature in squirrel parkour exercises and several branches are used as napping sites during the summer.
I have to admit the initial attack brought back childhood memories of the apple trees in the “Wizard of Oz.” It was upsetting to see an apple tree, mind you a talking apple tree, slap Dorothy and then pelt her with apples. Although there were days when there were so many nuts on the ground walking felt more like in-line skating, I made my peace with the Mockernut. Or so I thought. Just a few days ago we had a light rain followed by a nice breeze. I was in the yard minding my own business when suddenly, WHAPP! I was struck on the side of my head by a golden compound Mockernut leaf.
A plank chair seat with spindles and legs sawed off and repainted to make a sign. Possibly Pennsylvania-German. Photo: Garth’s Auctions, Columbus, Ohio.
While working on a research project earlier this year I had the opportunity to delve into 19th-century business directories. For some tradesmen using newspaper ads and business directory listings was the only effective means of advertising their goods and services to the public. For those newly arrived in town the local business directory provided maps, locations of city offices, churches and where to find merchants selling all manner of goods. For present-day researchers, from economists to those tracing their family history, old business directories provide valuable information on American life from the late 18th century to early in the 20th century.
A business directory for New York City in 1794 included a list of goods on which a customs tax had to be paid. An exception was made for the tools belonging to persons involved in one of the mechanical trades. This was one way to attract badly needed skilled mechanics to the new Republic.
Let’s take a look through advertisements placed by tradesmen associated with woodworking. The ads are from the 1830s to early 1880s with the majority from the “western cities” of Cincinnati, Columbus, Pittsburgh and St. Louis. All business directories were found in the collections of public and university libraries.
Paid advertisements were usually in a section towards the back of a directory. The cost of an ad depended on the size of the ad space. Consequently, a small business (and most were small businesses) needed to cram in all the necessary details in a space that might measure only 1 inch by three inches. Fortunately, there were numerous fonts and font sizes to jazz up their ads and grab the attention of the public. The combination of fonts and stock images used in these old ads is one feature that makes them so attractive to today’s woodworkers (and others).
A checklist of items to put in an ad include the tradesman’s name, business name, location, goods and services provided and references. Some directions on how the find the business (two doors down, westside, next to, between) were particularly helpful in the crowded conditions of the city. Phrases that communicate the tradesmen is ready, willing and able to meet the needs of a customer include “prepared to” “at the shortest notice” and “always on hand.”
Joseph Stringer (top-left) let his Cincinnati customers know he was previously a foreman at a premium saw manufacturer in New York. He is a “practical” saw maker and repairer indicating he will make or repair saws that fit the needs of the customer. The last lines of the ads are worth reading if you are looking for a job, can only afford a refurbished file or saw. First Premium Saw Manufactory of Cincinnati (bottom-right) has some weighty references. Mitchell & Rammelsberg made all varieties of furniture and at one time was considered one of the largest furniture factories in the world. Mudge & Clawson made over a hundred different styles of bedsteads.
It never hurts to have your name match your business.
Stock images, such as the handplane, made it easier for the woodworking customer find a merchant. The ad at the top-left is from a Cincinnati newspaper. After E. F. Seybold had a fire (or fire spread to his premises) it was a matter of urgency to let the public know his new location and that he had stock on hand. Business directories also helped customers find merchants after fires or other situations forced merchants to relocate.
Stout & Richey of Louisville, Kentucky advertised in a directory that seemed to allow only business-card type ads. Note that A.B. Seidenstricker of Baltimore is the successor to well-known planemaker Phillip Chapin. In the small print at the bottom of his add F.B. Marble of Cleveland boasts he can make BETTER tools at cheaper prices “as any establishment west of New York, or east of the Rocky Mountains.” That’s a lot of chutzpah and about 1800 miles (on today’s roadways).
Wood and metal compass from a toolmaker’s shop. It would have been displayed inside the shop. American, late 18th century to early 19th century. Photo: 1stdibs.
This is a well-ordered ad using its products to form a border. It also has the power of three: three products, three owners and three consecutive lots on Biddle Street. It makes me wonder if bolts were kept at No. 17, nuts at No.19 and washers at No.21 (and now you know why they would never have hired me). Richard H. Cole was granted a patent in 1857 for a machine that fabricated metal nuts. Denizens of St. Louis will recognize the names of the other two proprietors. C.P. Chouteau is likely a member of the family that helped found St. Louis. J.J. O’Fallon is likely the son of John O’Fallon. O’Fallon, senior, was a nephew of William Clark (of Lewis and Clark) and, after a career in the U.S. Army, made St. Louis his home and was involved in the expansion of the railroads.
The image of the adze draws the eye to Osborn & Swan’s ad and the name brands of tools on offer. Samuel Worl, cooper of Pittsburgh offered a full line of products. With his business located near the convergence of three rivers, including the Ohio River and steamboat traffic, he could take and fill orders from customers outside of Pittsburgh.
One 1844 business directory featured histories and advertisements from what it termed the cities of the Mississippi Valley. It was essentially a tour from the large cities that were along the Ohio River (or had access via canal) and those cities along the Mississippi River. The last city was, of course, New Orleans. Antognini, like many French craftsmen of the city, had his advertisements offered in French and English. However, he is a bit sly in offering one particular item to only his French-speaking customers (and you will have to figure that out for yourself). But, billiard tables? Yes, let’s not forget the importance of a game of billiards, fine liquor and the opportunity to make a business deal. Billiards was a popular pastime and Monsieur Roubo had a whole section on games tables. Plate 255 below.
As for hat forms, every man and woman wore a hat. The wealthy citizens of New Orleans looked forward to receiving news and drawings of the latest fashions from Paris. Antognini was probably one of several businesses that supplied hat forms to the hatters and milliners of New Orleans. By 1861 Antognini had gained a partner and was still in business but seems to have discontinued making hat forms.
19th-century French wooden hat form comprised of two pieces. Photo: Elizabeth Street Gallery, New York.
Of the three coachmakers and blacksmiths on this page my favorite is Guillaume Retaud. Monsieur Retard pays for only what is necessary and he basically says “I do what it says.”
Two Columbus, Ohio blacksmiths. Mr. Bevilhimer kindly thanks his customers and offers reassurance that he will be lighting a new fire to keep up with his orders. It’s possible he may have had to delay taking new orders until he cleared a backlog. Fred Litchford, on the other hand, wants to sell his business. I checked a later Columbus directory and found he was still in business and he was Black. He continued his business and eventually his son worked with him. I had to include this Baltimore blacksmith because he just goes whole hog with his inventory and, best of all, he was at the Sign of the Bellows and Anvil. Imagine that sign.
Left: a tin-mounted wooden bellows sign for a blacksmith. Photo: Weschler’s Auctions, Rockville, Maryland. Right: a tin anvil and hammer sign. Photo: Thomston Place Auction Galleries, Maine.
Thomas J. Magee was patriotic, a punster, or both. When applied to a ladder, “E Pluribus Unum” is very clever. Magee was first listed in the Cincinnati business directory in 1856. Two years later his carpenter and builder listing expanded to include ladder manufacturer. By their nature, a ladder ad should be tall and this ad fits the bill. Magee also doesn’t get to wordy. If you wanted carpentry and jobbing work it would be done, etc., etc. His last listing was in 1860. A five-year run for a business was not unusual. Magee may have moved on to another of the “western” cities or he may have succumbed to illness or injury.
I chose these two Columbus hardware stores because of their signs: the gilt padlock and the gilt broad axe. After putting them together I noticed they were next door to each other! Both the padlock and broad axe were traditional signs used by hardware shops. It must have been quite a sight to see the two gilt signs side-by-side and shining in the sunlight while the shop owners glared at each other. As you can see a good old fashioned hardware store carried everything.
Both signs are from 19th-century hardware stores. Photos: Skinner Auctions, Massachusetts.
All of the river cities and their merchants were of great importance to the pioneers that chose to move west. They were the transfer points when traveling by boat and the last large towns or cities before overland travel into the wilderness. St. Louis and the adjacent area was the jumping-off point for overland travel to Oregon and other parts of the West Coast. It was the last place for repairs and resupply. Hardware stores were often gathering places where the westbound traveler could shop, get directions to a specialized tradesman and hear the latest news.
Several St. Louis business directories gave merchants the option of using highly detailed images and colored paper. Paper colors were yellow, green, blue and this pinkish tone chosen by J.W. Tyzack. Tyzack also paid for the full image (the smaller central square portion was also an option). Who needs words when you have a picture of many of the tools used in the mechanical trades, on the farm and in the home. It’s all there including a pocketknife.
In the top portion Herman H. Meier, another hardware proprietor, advises he has taken over from Thomas Meier. He selected a very nice border of tools and implements—all is good. The following year he has an option to have his ad on color paper. He chose green, perhaps because his shop was on the corner of Green and Broadway. He has added the words Hardware and Cutlery at each end to make his ad more distinctive. Now, imagine his consternation when the new directory is published and his decorative tool border is upside down and backwards.
Three neat and orderly turners. Daniel Williams’ ad in the center is of particular note as he keeps a tree nail yard and makes trunnels (also known as trennels or trenails).
Siedhoff & Camp chose green paper and in case you didn’t notice they turn chair stuff, boring chair stuff, chair stuff and do turning in general.
In the gallery are several more tradesmen’s signs.
–Suzanne Ellison (all typos and other errors were caused by Titivillus, explanation here.)
The back of the chairmaker sign at the top of the blog post. Photo: Garth’s Auction, Columbus, Ohio.
Photo: Robert Young Antiques, London.
A French hardware shop sign dated 1834. Robert Young Antiques, London.
A wooden axe sign from a Kentucky hardware store. Skinner Auctions.
A blacksmith’s sign with an assortment of his wares. Skinner Antiques.
Another variation of a blacksmith’s sign. Skinner Auctions.
A wooden sign, either for a business selling these goods or a lumberjack. Jeffrey S. Evans, Mt. Crawford, Virginia.
Detail of a 15th-century misericord from St. Laurence’s Church, Ludlow, England.
Back in 2016 while working on blog posts about the woodworkers depicted in misericords I encountered a devilish creature holding a scroll of paper. At the time I thought he was just one of the many little demons carved on misericords. Recently, I found his name and realized he has followed me from when I wrote my first words at age four up until the present time. He is currently perched on my left shoulder taunting me to make a mistake. He is Titivillus, the demon responsible for typographical errors. I’m throwing punctuation and verb tense errors into his basket of writing miseries.
Titivillus (also Tutivillus or Tytinillus) has a history reaching back to the Middle Ages and his purpose was different from how we think of him today. In Margaret Jenning’s 1977 study of the origins of Titivillus she explained “…in their heyday, especially thanks to the Medieval preacher, demons were omnipresent. They rode on ladies’ trains, perched menacingly on lettuce, hid under beds, immersed themselves in fermented liquids, masqueraded as Don Juans and femme fatales, and remained consistently and perversely attached to churches and church people.” Indeed, it seems visions of demons, especially visions of demons noting the behavior of the congregation, were always had by members of the clergy.
At first there were two demons stationed in churches, monasteries and convents. One carried a bag or sack into which he gathered the snippets of half-spoken words, slipped syllables and abridged prayers of the clergy and laity. Each day this demon had the task of collecting (for the Guy Downstairs) one thousand spoken errors each day.
As the English priest, John the Blind Audeley wrote in the first half of the 15th century there should be no “over-hippers and skippers, moterers and mumblers.”
The second demon listened in on the members of the congregation and made note of idle chatter and gossip.
Top: New College Chapel, Oxford, England, 14th century. Bottom: St. Mary the Virgin Church, Enville, England, 15th century, photo by David Taylor).
In these two misericords Titivillus, as the recording demon, positions himself between women to hear their idle talk. You can understand, if you didn’t know this was Titivillus, you might mistake these demons as a winged bull and a bat. The misericord at the top is especially damning as to each side of the gossips are an old woman and a monk kneeling in prayer.
At some point the demon carrying a bag of misspoken words and the recording demon merged. The more prevalent depiction of Titivillus, whether on a misericord, a fresco or printed in a book, was the recording demon. He listened and he wrote on long scrolls of paper or in large books.
Top left: St. Michael and St. Mary Church, Melbourne, England, 13th century. Top right: Bible Moralisée de Naples, 14th century, BnF. Bottom: Faneford Church, Island of Mons, Denmark, 16th century.
Some remarkable frescoes featuring the recording demon were painted on church walls. The 13th-century fresco at the top-left (almost lost to Victorian restoration) shows Titivillus above two women in an argument, with another demon perched on the back of each woman. The demon from Faneford church with his trumpet-like ears is especially well-equipped to hear the latest gossip (with the added feature of horned kneecaps).
A bench end from the Church of St. Mary of Charleton Mackell, circa 1520.
This bench end shows the merging of the bag-carrying demon and the scribe. While he toils at his writing a small flower grows near the ink pot.
Two men engaged in idle talk, St. James’ Church, Cristow, Devon, England, late 15th/early 16th century.
Ah, ha! This carved-wood roof boss proves men gossip, too. Nestled just above their gossiping heads is the recoding demon making note of their conversation. If a parishioner were to look upward to the highest point of the church ceiling there was yet another reminder to avoid distractions from the service.
My nemesis at the top of the post is a side figure on this mid-14th-century misericord from St. Laurence’s Church in Ludlow, England (sketch is from Project Gutenberg). Another function of the recording demon was to be present when a sinner was judged. This is the judgment of a dishonest alewife, a most grievous offense in the Middle Ages. Titivillus, on the left, has an account of her transgressions. In the middle section one demon has the alewife over his shoulder while the second demon plays the bagpipes. On the right, the alewife is thrown into the jaws of Hell.
In Margaret Jennings study of Titivillus she wrote the point of this Medieval demon was to remind clergy and laity of the danger of “spiritual sloth.” The litany of the service, each prayer and each song were to be unhurried, expressed clearly and with fervor.
Woodblock from Der Ritter vom Turm by Geoffroy de La Tour Landry, 1513, Bayerische Staats Bibliothek.
To say or sing by rote and without care, to attend church, but not participate wholly was to open oneself to sin. Hence, visual reminders of a recording demon, as well as other devilish minions, were found on wood, walls and paper. In the hand-colored woodblock above three women gossip, one demon scribbles away and the second demon stretches a scroll with his teeth because they need more paper!
Church of Sts. Stanislaw and Wojciech, Poreby Dymarskie, Poland
This lovely old church was built in 1674 in Cmolas and later moved to Poreby Dymarskie. The walls have polychrome paintings including one in a note-worthy spot.
Under the steps leading to the pulpit there is a painting of Titivillus, pen in hand, observing the parishioners. He probably has already recorded the transgressions of the women behind him. If the priest abridges, mutters or mumbles that will be recorded, too.
Libro de horas de Leonor de la Vega, 15th century, Biblioteca Nacional de España.
Even saints were not immune to the presence of Titivillus. As St. John the Evangelist sits calmly and writes his gospel his ink is being pored out by the demon. This image is a turning point in that the demon is not recording a transgression, he is setting up St. John to fail in his writing. This may be some mischief on the part of the scribes that drew and decorated this page. Each saint in this manuscript depicted writing their gospel or teachings can be easily identified by a personal symbol, in St. John’s case, the royal eagle. St. John’s page is the only one with a demon “up to no good.” In remarks in the margins of manuscripts scribes often complained about their working conditions, spoiled ink and poor-quality paper. Perhaps this is the start of Titivillus shifting from the recorder of transgressions to the instigator of written errors.
Livres d’heures, circa 1510, Bibliotheque Municipale, Tours.
St. Bernard, pictured above, had an argument with a devil. The argument was over the recitation of psalms that would lead to salvation. This image is often used today to illustrate the the stand-off between the writer and Titivillus. I look at his illustration and can imagine Titivillus taunting me in a sing-song voice saying, “You are going to make a mistake.” I’m OK with a typo or two, or three.
Fortunately, there is a way to quiet the pesky causer of typos (and other writing errors) and it is comes courtesy of the Virgin Mary.
The De Brailes Hours by William de Brailes, 1240, British Library.
I had to include this Baltimore blacksmith because he just goes whole hog with his inventory and, best of all, he was at the Sign of the Bellows and Anvil. Imagine that sign.
