The public burning of illicit books, Father Time pursued by a devil, and commentary on corrupt politicians — these all appear in this week’s newsletter. It’s a slightly-shorter-than-usual one because I’ve been spending some time on an upcoming article about a fascinating little piece of London history, which should be published soon!
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Burning scandalous books in Civil War England
In the 17th century, England’s authorities really wanted to censor the news. They weren’t alone, because pretty much every European power also shared that ambition. And they weren’t in uncharted territory, because those in power had been devising methods of censorship since the printing press first arrived in the country in 1476.
The authorities were especially anxious about printed newsbooks, which had emerged in the 1620s from attempts to mechanise the scribal newsletters which long preceded them. Initially, these were ostensibly sober, objective, and much less sensational than the single-story news pamphlets which had hitherto dominated the news market.
As historians like Andrew Pettegree have noted, however, the circulation of even the most tedious printed news evoked a great deal of political interest in the information these reports contained, the manner with which it was procured, and the language with which it was communicated to an audience — the constitution of which was yet another political anxiety.
Newsbooks were to become the sites of fiery polemical debate, radical new ideas, and scandalous rumour during the Civil War. The extent to which these books were successfully suppressed the by the political powers they threatened is the subject of academic debate, but it is generally agreed that (excluding certain, brief, moments when it could be selectively damaging) censorial legislation was not working. Despite this, the government projected a degree of strength through one of the ways it treated unsavoury books: burning them.
By the late 1630s, Gregory Brandon, London’s hangman, was a familiar face for London’s public. But his presence at book burnings in Smithfield Market and Paul’s Cross was not because of his pyrotechnic skills, it was about sending a clear message of ideological repudiation against those works about to be consumed by flames. David Cressy describes these burnings as “symbolic executions” and “rituals of public punishment”. Two royalist newsbooks, Mercurius Elencticus and Mercurius Pragmaticus, were burned in November 1647. In the Netherlands, the aldermen of Amsterdam had five years earlier ordered the burning of a collection of heretical books found in a bookseller’s shop. They were described as having been “publicly executed and burnt by fire”.
Burning was a particularly religiously evocative and obvious form of performative regulation of print, one which was by no means limited to newsbooks, and could be particularly useful when the author of a condemned work had evaded capture (indeed, they may have been long dead). As Ariel Hessayon has remarked: “Where they could no longer burn people, they could still burn their books.”
Featured Woodcut
Pedestrians passing by John Clarke’s bookshop at the Sign of the Bible and Harp in West Smithfield, London, in the late 17th century may well have paused and done a double take after seeing this detailed woodcut illustration attached to a broadside ballad.
That ballad was Poor Robin’s Dream, commonly call’d, Poor Charity (c. 1668-1674) and was published in at least 7 editions between 1668 and 1708. It was so popular, in fact, that Clarke sold it to the a group of booksellers who had formed a “Ballad Partnership” — and himself joined the group. This partnership was a joint publishing enterprise where copyrights and profits were shared among members.
According to the 100 Ballads project, this tune was the 68th most popular in the early modern period. The ballad “focused mainly on social injustice” and “contrasted the luxurious and fashionable living enjoyed by the rich, such as courtiers, with the economic struggles faced by tradesmen and the poor”, according to the project’s co-lead investigator Angela McShane.
The woodcut above was one of three included in the original ballad. It depicts Father Time being pursued by the devil. Here he is depicted very traditionally (except that he is not winged) — with an hourglass on his head and holding a scythe, both of which symbolise the passage of time and inevitability of death. He himself is elderly and very modestly clad, with a bag of items on his back, including a book, a broom, and some jewellery, which are beginning to tumble out thanks to Satan.
Samuel Rowlands on “the Devil’s Statesman”
Here is how the Stuart poet Samuel Rowlands, who absolutely loved writing satirical epigrams lampooning some of the more disreputable characters of the day, summed up Machiavellian politicians who cared only about themselves and had no shred of integrity:
To thee that art impos’d of villanie,
The Deuils States-man for all trecherie.
That art of that religion beares most sway,
A Papist now, a Protestant next day,
Or any thing with any man for gaine:
That canst all humors flatt’ring entertaine,
To please the world, that it may pleasure thee,
Just fashon’d as incarnate Deuils bee,
With gluttons, Dives: murderers, a Caine:
With Theeues, an Achan: and with Judas traine,
A false and bloody vile Iscariot,
That wilt be brib’d to any damned plot.
With Corah’s crew, murmuring malecontent,
Grudging at Majestrate, and gouernment,
To thee that in thy life deny’st saluation,
A wilfull worker of thine owne damnation,
Know that thy howers doe hasten on to death,
And that a Deuill at thy parting breath,
Will find that soule, which thou deny’st to haue,
And all thy life thou did’st neglect to saue.
