Hear the Recently Discovered, Earliest Known Recording of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” (1894)

As keen observers of Amer­i­can cul­ture and his­to­ry like W.E.B. Du Bois and Ralph Elli­son have writ­ten, there is no Amer­i­can music with­out African-Amer­i­can music. The his­to­ry of the record­ing indus­try bears wit­ness to the fact, with jazz, blues, and rag­time dom­i­nat­ing the ear­ly releas­es that drove the indus­try for­ward. Before these pop­u­lar forms and the age of “race records,” how­ev­er, came the spir­i­tu­als, gospel songs dat­ing back to slav­ery, whose fame spread across the world in the lat­ter half of the 19th cen­tu­ry with groups like the Fisk Jubilee Singers. As Du Bois wrote in 1903, “their songs con­quered till they sang across the land and across the sea, before Queen and Kaiser, in Scot­land and Ire­land, Hol­land and Switzer­land… they tell of death and suf­fer­ing and unvoiced long­ing toward a truer world, of misty wan­der­ings and hid­den ways.”

Giv­en the world­wide fas­ci­na­tion with the spir­i­tu­al and the singing groups who spread them across the world, it’s no won­der this was sought-after mate­r­i­al for a nascent indus­try eager for music that appealed to the mass­es. And no spir­i­tu­al has had more mass appeal than “Swing Low, Sweet Char­i­ot.”

The first record­ing of the song was long thought to have been per­formed in 1909 by a four­some, the Fisk Uni­ver­si­ty Jubilee Quar­tet, “car­ry­ing on the lega­cy,” notes Pub­lic Domain Review, “of the orig­i­nal Fisk Jubilee Singers of the 1870s.” You can hear that record­ing below, made by Vic­tor Stu­dios.

Even before the turn of the cen­tu­ry, writes Toni Ander­son at the Library of Con­gress, “the musi­cal land­scape was pep­pered with over ten com­pa­nies fash­ioned after the orig­i­nal Jubilee Singers, and by the 1890s, many black groups had launched suc­cess­ful for­eign tours.” (Du Bois laments the poor qual­i­ty of many of these imi­ta­tors.) The 1909 record­ing, writes Pub­lic Domain Review, “pop­u­lar­ized the song huge­ly,” or, we might say, even more huge­ly, help­ing to make it a sta­ple in decades to come for artists like Paul Robe­son, Louis Arm­strong, Etta James, John­ny Cash, and Eric Clap­ton (in a 1975 reg­gae take). How­ev­er, it turns out that an even ear­li­er record­ing exists, made by one of those suc­cess­ful trav­el­ing groups, the Stan­dard Quar­tette, in 1894.

Record­ed on a wax cylin­der by Colum­bia Records in Wash­ing­ton, DC while the group made a stop on a spring tour, this “’holy grail’ of ear­ly record­ing his­to­ry,” writes Archeo­phone Records, “push­es back by fif­teen years the first known record­ing of the clas­sic spir­i­tu­al,” but it might have been lost for­ev­er had not a care­ful col­lec­tor pre­served it and Archeophone’s Richard Mar­tin not iden­ti­fied its bad­ly-decayed sounds as “Swing Low, Sweet Char­i­ot.” The record­ing has been includ­ed on a 102-track com­pi­la­tion, Wax­ing the Gospel: Mass Evan­ge­lism and the Phono­graph, 1890–1900.

First dis­cov­ered on a “large group of dam­aged ear­ly cylinders—moldy, noisy, and thought to have no retriev­able con­tent,” the song has been unearthed from beneath “an ocean of noise.” What Archeophone’s Mea­gan Hen­nessey found is that the ver­sion “is very dif­fer­ent from what peo­ple expect. The cho­rus is famil­iar, but the vers­es are dif­fer­ent. The Stan­dard Quar­tette sing lyrics we asso­ciate with oth­er jubilee songs.” Also, as Mar­tin points out, the song’s arrange­ment is unusu­al: “there are com­plex things going on here with har­mo­ny and rhythm, but you’ve got to lis­ten close­ly through the noise.” (Learn more about the dis­cov­ery and restora­tion in the short video above.)

The song itself may have been writ­ten in the mid-1800s by an enslaved man named Wal­lace Willis, who was tak­en from Mis­sis­sip­pi to Okla­homa by his half-Choctaw own­er dur­ing forced relo­ca­tion in the 1830s, then “rent­ed out” to a school for Native boys. The head­mas­ter heard him sing it, and passed it on to the Jubilee singers. In anoth­er, more dra­mat­ic, account of the song’s com­po­si­tion, it “’burst forth’ from the anguished soul of Sarah Han­nah Shep­pard, the moth­er of Ella Shep­pard of Fisk Jubilee Singer fame,” when Sarah learned she would be sold and sep­a­rat­ed for­ev­er from her daugh­ter.

In his live per­for­mance of the song, above, John­ny Cash gives a pic­turesque ori­gin sto­ry of an anony­mous slave, “sit­ting on his cot­ton sack one day,” and singing about a vision of a char­i­ot. But what­ev­er the song’s true ori­gins, “Swing Low, Sweet Char­i­ot,” per­haps more than any oth­er pop­u­lar spir­i­tu­al of the 19th cen­tu­ry, has come to rep­re­sent the music, Du Bois wrote, through which “the slave spoke to the world.”

via Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Walt Whit­man (Maybe) Read­ing the First Four Lines of His Poem, “Amer­i­ca” (1890)

Hear Voic­es from the 19th Cen­tu­ry: Ten­nyson, Glad­stone & Tchaikovsky

Hear the First Jazz Record, Which Launched the Jazz Age: “Liv­ery Sta­ble Blues” (1917)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Extremely Rare Technicolor Film Footage from the 1920s Discovered: Features Louise Brooks Dancing in Her First Feature Film

In brief sur­veys of film his­to­ry, the eye-pop­ping process known as Tech­ni­col­or seems to emerge ful­ly-formed in the 1930s and 40s with clas­sics like Gone with the Wind and The Wiz­ard of Oz, movies so vivid they almost exem­pli­fy the phrase “eye can­dy” with a “rich­er, col­or-flood­ed ver­sion of the real world,” writes Adri­enne LaFrance at The Atlantic. This gold­en age of Tech­ni­col­or, with its “super­sat­u­rat­ed aes­thet­ic… cre­at­ed films punc­tu­at­ed by col­ors so elec­tric they were sur­re­al.”

But like any new tech­nol­o­gy, col­or film, and the Tech­ni­col­or process in par­tic­u­lar, fol­lowed a long tra­jec­to­ry of tri­al and error involv­ing many an ambi­tious fail­ure and many ear­ly attempts now lost to his­to­ry. One such film, 1917’s The Gulf Between, con­sid­ered the first Tech­ni­col­or film, employed one of the ear­li­est, two-col­or ver­sions of the process. Sur­viv­ing now only in very short frag­ments, the 58-minute pro­duc­tion was “expen­sive and hard on the eyes,” notes Richard Tren­holm at Cnet, “a crit­i­cal and artis­tic flop” and “a com­mer­cial one, too.”

Tech­ni­col­or sci­en­tists and film­mak­ers refused to give up on the process, labor­ing might­i­ly through­out the 1920s to fig­ure out the exact ele­ments need­ed to con­nect with movie­go­ers. Most prob­lem­at­i­cal­ly, the two-col­or process could not repro­duce believ­able blues, pur­ples, or yel­lows. As James Lay­ton, co-author of The Dawn of Tech­ni­col­or, tells The Atlantic, “skies would nev­er repro­duce accu­rate­ly, and water wouldn’t…. There are some great exam­ples. A beach scene… where the sky is this very vivid green, it’s very unnat­ur­al.”

One her­culean effort to make Tech­ni­col­or a hit came from Dou­glas Fair­banks, whose painstak­ing 1926 film The Black Pirate made artis­tic use of the process’s lim­i­ta­tions, tak­ing inspi­ra­tion from the Dutch mas­ters to achieve a sense of depth. In 1970, the British Nation­al Film Archive began a restora­tion (see some clips above, with a 70s-sound­ing sound­track over­laid).

Fair­banks’ film remains one of only a hand­ful of Tech­ni­col­or films from the peri­od that has sur­vived in full into the present, like­ly because it rep­re­sents one of the few com­mer­cial suc­cess­es. But just last month, Jane Fer­nan­des, a British Film Insti­tute (BFI) con­ser­va­tion­ist, dis­cov­ered sev­er­al snip­pets of many more 1920s Tech­ni­col­or films taped to the begin­nings and ends of reels from a copy of The Black Pirate donat­ed to BFI in 1959.

These frag­ments include a very brief shot of silent icon Louise Brooks in col­or (at the 1:11 mark), from the lost 1926 film The Amer­i­can Venus, her first fea­ture. Also includ­ed in the find are short clips from oth­er Tech­ni­col­or films made that same year, The Far Cry, The Fire Brigade, and Dance Mad­ness, as well as a test shot from the his­tor­i­cal dra­ma Mona Lisa, star­ring L.A. Times gos­sip colum­nist Hed­da Hop­per as Leonar­do da Vinci’s enig­mat­ic mod­el.

You can see these prized snip­pets in the video at the top of the post, with nar­ra­tion from BFI cura­tor Bry­ony Dixon. “Anoth­er batch of extracts,” reports Smithsonian.com, “was found taped to ads for a North Lon­don tele­vi­sion shop that ran before and between movies in the 1950s. They include scenes from ear­ly Tech­ni­col­or musi­cals that came out in 1929 includ­ing Sal­lyGold Dig­gers of Broad­way, Show of Shows and On with the Show!

In BFI’s April 30 press release announc­ing these rare finds, Dixon com­pares them to “an Egypt­ian vase shat­tered into pieces and the shards scat­tered across muse­ums all over the world…. For now we have the shards but we can dream of see­ing Louise Brooks’s first film or a lost Hed­da Hop­per in colour.” Future dis­cov­er­ies, as well as the lat­est restora­tion tech­niques, may soon return an expand­ed his­to­ry of 1920s two-col­or Tech­ni­col­or to schol­ars and film fans of the 21st cen­tu­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ear­ly Exper­i­ments in Col­or Film (1895–1935)

How Tech­ni­col­or Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Cin­e­ma with Sur­re­al, Elec­tric Col­ors & Changed How We See Our World

The Col­or Palettes of Your Favorite Films: The Roy­al Tenen­baums, Reser­voir Dogs, A Clock­work Orange, Blade Run­ner & More

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Groundbreaking Map from 1858 Colorfully Visualizes 6,000 Years of World History

We start to under­stand his­to­ry by lis­ten­ing to it told to us ver­bal­ly, which lets us visu­al­ize it in our imag­i­na­tion. But how much more might we under­stand his­to­ry if we could see it ren­dered visu­al­ly right before our eyes? That ques­tion seems to have occu­pied the minds of cer­tain of the car­tog­ra­phers of 19th-cen­tu­ry Europe, those who want­ed to take their craft beyond its tra­di­tion­al lim­its in order to do for chronol­o­gy what it had long done for geog­ra­phy. Here we have one of the most glo­ri­ous such attempts in exis­tence, Eugene Pick­’s 1858 Tableau De L’His­toire Uni­verselle — or at least the half cov­er­ing the civ­i­liza­tions of the East­ern Hemi­sphere — as held in the David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion.

At first glance, all of the infor­ma­tion on the map might appear over­whelm­ing. But zoom in (look­ing at the cen­ter first, ide­al­ly from top to bot­tom) and you’ll soon grasp how Pick has depict­ed the his­to­ry of the world, as a mid-19th-cen­tu­ry French­man would con­ceive of it it, by draw­ing a kind of net­work of rivers and trib­u­taries.

The “sources” of ancient civ­i­liza­tions, like those of the Greeks, the Phoeni­cians, the Egyp­tians, and the Chi­nese, flow down to those of var­i­ous descen­dants — the Gauls, the Nor­we­gians, the Rus­sians, the Turks — and the mighty empires in which they pool, and arrive at the nations of the Danes, the Swedes, the Bel­gians, the Span­ish, the Per­sians, and oth­ers besides. In total the map cov­ers 6,000 years of his­to­ry, mov­ing from 4004 B.C. to 1856.

This tech­nique of visu­al­iz­ing his­to­ry has its prece­dents, includ­ing Friedrich Strass’ Der Strom der Zeit­en oder bildliche Darstel­lung der Welt­geschichte, pic­tured just above (and lat­er updat­ed by Amer­i­can map­mak­er Joseph Hutchins Colton as The Stream of Time in the 1840s and 1860s.) The David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion notes that, unlike Strass’ map, Pick­’s also has “vignettes of peo­ple, build­ings, his­tor­i­cal scenes and impor­tant places in the his­to­ry of the world” lined up on either side of the main con­tent. It thus illu­mi­nates the abstract and con­tin­u­ous cen­tral ren­der­ing of his­to­ry with rep­re­sen­ta­tive, dis­crete ones, show­ing view­ers every­thing from the Bib­li­cal flood and the Tow­er of Babel to the Great Sphinx of Giza and Agrip­pa’s Pan­theon to Notre Dame and the Arc de Tri­om­phe. It has a cer­tain fran­co­cen­trism, to be sure, but con­sid­er how many in Pick­’s time con­sid­ered France the cen­ter of human­i­ty’s genius. Pro­duc­ing a map as com­pelling as this one could­n’t have dimin­ished that image.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the His­to­ry of the World Unfold on an Ani­mat­ed Map: From 200,000 BCE to Today

The His­to­ry of Civ­i­liza­tion Mapped in 13 Min­utes: 5000 BC to 2014 AD

5‑Minute Ani­ma­tion Maps 2,600 Years of West­ern Cul­tur­al His­to­ry

The His­to­ry of Car­tog­ra­phy, the “Most Ambi­tious Overview of Map Mak­ing Ever,” Is Now Free Online

Down­load 67,000 His­toric Maps (in High Res­o­lu­tion) from the Won­der­ful David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

National Geographic Has Digitized Its Collection of 6,000+ Vintage Maps: See a Curated Selection of Maps Published Between 1888 and Today

As some of the finest fic­tion­al world-builders have under­stood, few things excite the imag­i­na­tion like a map. And despite the geo­graph­i­cal lim­i­ta­tion implied by its title, Nation­al Geo­graph­ic’s maps have sur­veyed the entire globe and beyond. The magazine’s arti­cles have not always pre­sent­ed an enlight­ened point of view, but for all its his­tor­i­cal fail­ings, the rich­ly-illus­trat­ed month­ly has excelled as a show­case for car­tog­ra­phy, over which read­ers might spend hours, pro­ject­ing them­selves into unknown lands, jour­ney­ing through the care­ful­ly-drawn topogra­phies, cityscapes, and celes­tial charts.

Start­ed as the offi­cial jour­nal of the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic Soci­ety, the mag­a­zine has amassed a huge, 130-year archive of  “edi­to­r­i­al car­tog­ra­phy,” the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic site writes. “Now, for the first time,” that col­lec­tion is avail­able online, “every map ever pub­lished in the mag­a­zine since the first issue of Octo­ber 1888.”

The entire archive is only avail­able to sub­scribers (how­ev­er you can find curat­ed selec­tions on the Nat­Ge­oMaps Twit­ter, Insta­gram, and Face­book accounts), but we can still see an aston­ish­ing qual­i­ty and vari­ety on dis­play in dozens of maps on social media of every con­ceiv­able loca­tion, top­ic, and event, begin­ning with the very first pub­lished map, depict­ing the Great White Hur­ri­cane, “one of the most severe bliz­zards to ever hit the Unit­ed States” (above)—the “start of a long tra­di­tion… of enhanc­ing sto­ry­telling with maps.”

As long­time read­ers of Nation­al Geo­graph­ic well know, the maps—often sep­a­ra­ble from the mag­a­zine in fold-outs suit­able for hang­ing on the wall—function as more than visu­al aids. They tell their own sto­ries. “A map is able to con­nect with some­body in a dif­fer­ent way than a text will or a pho­to will,” notes the magazine’s direc­tor of car­tog­ra­phy Mar­tin Gamache. Maps “engage with a dif­fer­ent part of our psy­che or our brain.” From its ear­li­est artic­u­la­tion, geog­ra­phy has inclined toward the poet­ic. The ancient geo­g­ra­ph­er Stra­bo cred­it­ed Homer as “the founder of geo­graph­i­cal sci­ence,” who “reached the utmost lim­its of the earth, tra­vers­ing it in his imag­i­na­tion.” Maps present us with a visu­al poet­ry often Home­r­ic in its scope.

Though so many of these maps are detach­able, it often helps to under­stand the spe­cif­ic con­text in which they were cre­at­ed, which doesn’t always appear in a self-con­tained leg­end. The map above, for exam­ple, pub­lished in March 1966, shows the Krem­lin “in unprece­dent­ed detail,” as the magazine’s Twit­ter account points out: “Sovi­et reg­u­la­tions pro­hib­it­ed aer­i­al pho­tos, so artists col­lect­ed dia­grams and ground-lev­el pho­tos to draft a sketch that was brought to Moscow and cor­rect­ed on the spot.” Fur­ther up, we see a map of Mex­i­co from May 1914, “one of the first gen­er­al ref­er­ence maps of the coun­try” from the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic archive. The map at the top, from the Decem­ber 1922 issue, is the magazine’s very first pub­lished gen­er­al ref­er­ence map of the world.

There are maps celes­tial, as above from 1957, and architectural—such as recent dig­i­tal recre­ations of King Tut’s tomb, late­ly revealed to have no hid­den cham­bers left to explore. Maps of plan­ets beyond the solar sys­tem and plan­ets (or “dwarf plan­ets”) with­in it, such as this first pub­lished map of Plu­to. Maps of rivers like the Rhine and spec­tac­u­lar nat­ur­al for­ma­tions like the Grand Canyon. There are even maps of flow­ers, like that pub­lished below in May 1968, show­ing “the ori­gins of 117 types of blooms.” Some maps are much less joy­ous, like this recent series show­ing what the world might look like if all of the ice melt­ed. Some are pure­ly for fun, like this series on the geog­ra­phy of Star Wars and oth­er fic­tion­al fran­chis­es.

If we can imag­ine it, Nation­al Geo­graph­ic sug­gests, we can map it, and con­verse­ly, when we see a map, our imag­i­na­tions are imme­di­ate­ly engaged. Learn more at the Nat­Geo blog All Over the Map, and con­nect with many more curat­ed maps from this huge col­lec­tion at the magazine’s Twit­ter, Insta­gram, and Face­book accounts.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Map Show­ing How the Ancient Romans Envi­sioned the World in 40 AD

The Illus­trat­ed Med­i­c­i­nal Plant Map of the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca (1932): Down­load It in High Res­o­lu­tion

An Inter­ac­tive Map Shows Just How Many Roads Actu­al­ly Lead to Rome

Inter­ac­tive Map Shows the Seizure of Over 1.5 Bil­lion Acres of Native Amer­i­can Land Between 1776 and 1887

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The 16,000 Artworks the Nazis Censored and Labeled “Degenerate Art”: The Complete Historic Inventory Is Now Online

The Nazis may not have known art, but they knew what they liked, and much more so what they did­n’t. We’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture the “Degen­er­ate Art Exhi­bi­tion” of 1937, put on by Hitler’s par­ty four years after it rose to pow­er. Fol­low­ing on a show of only Nazi-approved works — includ­ing many depic­tions of clas­si­cal­ly Ger­man­ic land­scapes, robust sol­diers in action, blonde nudes — it toured the coun­try with the intent of reveal­ing to the Ger­man peo­ple the “insult to Ger­man feel­ing” com­mit­ted by Entartete Kun­st (Degen­er­ate art), a Nazi-defined cat­e­go­ry of art cre­at­ed by the likes of Paul Klee, Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky, Max Beck­mann, George Grosz, and oth­ers, a ros­ter heavy on the abstract, the expres­sion­is­tic, and the Jew­ish.

Now, thanks to the Vic­to­ria and Albert Muse­um, we know exact­ly which works of art the Nazis con­demned. “The V&A holds the only known copy of a com­plete inven­to­ry of ‘Entartete Kun­st’ con­fis­cat­ed by the Nazi regime from pub­lic insti­tu­tions in Ger­many, most­ly dur­ing 1937 and 1938,” says the muse­um’s site.

“The list of more than 16,000 art­works was pro­duced by the Reichsmin­is­teri­um für Volk­saufk­lärung und Pro­pa­gan­da (Reich Min­istry for Pub­lic Enlight­en­ment and Pro­pa­gan­da) in 1942 or there­abouts. It seems that the inven­to­ry was com­piled as a final record, after the sales and dis­pos­als of the con­fis­cat­ed art had been com­plet­ed in the sum­mer of 1941.”

You can read and down­load the entire doc­u­ment, which pro­vides “cru­cial infor­ma­tion about the prove­nance, exhi­bi­tion his­to­ry and fate of each art­work,” in PDF form at the V&A’s page about it.

Daunt­ing though the inven­to­ry itself may seem, Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Jil­lian Stein­hauer points out “a way to con­nect many of these pieces to the present day: an online data­base main­tained by the Freie Uni­ver­sität Berlin. You can plug an artwork’s inven­to­ry num­ber from the Nazi log books direct­ly into their search engine, and it will pull up a record.” Here you see Max Beck­man­n’s Zwei Auto-Offiziere, El Lis­sitzky’s Proun R.V.N. 2, and Paul Klee’s Garten der Lei­den­schaft, just three exam­ples of the thou­sands upon thou­sands of images that Hitler and com­pa­ny con­sid­ered a threat to their regime. Today, the artis­tic mer­its of work by these and oth­er artists once labeled Entartete Kun­st have drawn more admir­ers than ever — though the very fact that the Nazis did­n’t like it con­sti­tutes a decent rea­son for appre­ci­a­tion as well.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Nazi’s Philis­tine Grudge Against Abstract Art and The “Degen­er­ate Art Exhi­bi­tion” of 1937

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

The Nazis’ 10 Con­trol-Freak Rules for Jazz Per­form­ers: A Strange List from World War II

Joseph Stal­in, a Life­long Edi­tor, Wield­ed a Big, Blue, Dan­ger­ous Pen­cil

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Mister Rogers Accepts a Lifetime Achievement Award, and Helps You Thank Everyone Who Has Made a Difference in Your Life

Tele­vi­sion host and children’s advo­cate Fred Rogers was also an ordained Pres­by­ter­ian min­is­ter, for whom spir­i­tu­al reflec­tion was as nat­ur­al and nec­es­sary a part of dai­ly life as his veg­e­tar­i­an­ism and morn­ing swims.

His qui­et per­son­al prac­tice could take a turn for the pub­lic and inter­ac­tive, as he demon­strat­ed from the podi­um at the Day­time Emmy Awards in 1997, above.

Accept­ing a Life­time Achieve­ment Award, he refrained from run­ning through the stan­dard laun­dry list of thanks. Instead he invit­ed the audi­ence to join him in spend­ing 10 sec­onds think­ing of the peo­ple who “have loved us into being.”

He then turned his atten­tion to his wrist­watch as hun­dreds of glam­orous­ly attired talk show hosts and soap stars thought of the teach­ers, rel­a­tives, and oth­er influ­en­tial adults whose ten­der care, and per­haps rig­or­ous expec­ta­tions, helped shape them.

(Play along from home at the 2:15 mark.)

Ten sec­onds may not seem like much, but con­sid­er how often we deploy emo­jis and “likes” in place of sit­ting with oth­ers’ feel­ings and our own.

Of all the things Fred Rogers was cel­e­brat­ed for, the time he allot­ted to mak­ing oth­ers feel heard and appre­ci­at­ed may be the great­est.

Fif­teen years after his death, the Inter­net ensures that he will con­tin­ue to inspire us to be kinder, try hard­er, lis­ten bet­ter.

That effect should quadru­ple when Mor­gan Neville’s Mis­ter Rogers doc­u­men­tary, Won’t You Be My Neigh­bor? is released next month.

Anoth­er sweet Emmy moment comes at the top, when the hon­oree smooches his wife, Joanne Rogers, before head­ing off to join pre­sen­ter Tim Rob­bins at the podi­um. Described in Esquire as “hearty and almost whoop­ing in (her) forth­right­ness,” the stal­wart Mrs. Rogers appeared in a hand­ful of episodes, but nev­er played the sort of high­ly vis­i­ble role Mrs. Claus inhab­it­ed with­in her husband’s pub­lic realm.

The full text of Mis­ter Rogers’ Life­time Achieve­ment Award award speech is below:

So many peo­ple have helped me to come here to this night.  Some of you are here, some are far away and some are even in Heav­en.  All of us have spe­cial ones who loved us into being.  Would you just take, along with me, 10 sec­onds to think of the peo­ple who have helped you become who you are, those who cared about you and want­ed what was best for you in life.  10 sec­onds, I’ll watch the time. Whomev­er you’ve been think­ing about, how pleased they must be to know the dif­fer­ence you feel they have made.  You know they’re kind of peo­ple tele­vi­sion does well to offer our world.  Spe­cial thanks to my fam­i­ly, my friends, and my co-work­ers in Pub­lic Broad­cast­ing and Fam­i­ly Com­mu­ni­ca­tions, and to this Acad­e­my for encour­ag­ing me, allow­ing me, all these years to be your neigh­bor.  May God be with you.  Thank you very much.

via Men­tal Floss

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch a Marathon Stream­ing of All 856 Episodes of Mis­ter Rogers Neigh­bor­hood, and the Mov­ing Trail­er for the New Doc­u­men­tary, Won’t You Be My Neigh­bor?

Mis­ter Rogers Turns Kids On to Jazz with Help of a Young Wyn­ton Marsalis and Oth­er Jazz Leg­ends (1986)

Mis­ter Rogers, Sesame Street & Jim Hen­son Intro­duce Kids to the Syn­the­siz­er with the Help of Her­bie Han­cock, Thomas Dol­by & Bruce Haack

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC this Wednes­day, May 16, for anoth­er month­ly install­ment of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Newly Unearthed Footage Shows Albert Einstein Driving a Flying Car (1931)

Dur­ing his life­time, Albert Ein­stein appar­ent­ly nev­er learned to dri­ve a car–some­thing that also held true for Vladimir Nabokov, Ray Brad­bury, Eliz­a­beth Bish­op, and Jack Ker­ouac. But he did man­age to expe­ri­ence the thrill of get­ting behind the wheel, at least once. Above, watch a new­ly-dis­cov­ered home movie of Ein­stein and his sec­ond wife, Elsa, vis­it­ing the Warn­er Bros. sound­stage on Feb­ru­ary 3, 1931. The fol­low­ing day, The New York Times pub­lished this report:

Pro­fes­sor Ein­stein was sur­prised tonight into loud and long laugh­ter.

Hol­ly­wood demon­strat­ed its prin­ci­ples of “rel­a­tiv­i­ty,” how it makes things seem what they are not, by use of a dilap­i­dat­ed motor car.

At the First Nation­al stu­dio, Ger­man tech­ni­cians per­suad­ed Pro­fes­sor Ein­stein to change his mind about not being pho­tographed and pho­tographed him in the old car with Frau Elsa, his wife. He can­not dri­ve a car.

Tonight the Ger­man tech­ni­cians brought the film to the Ein­stein bun­ga­low. The lights went out.

Then the ancient auto­mo­bile appeared on the screen with Ein­stein at the wheel, dri­ving Frau Elsa on a sight-see­ing tour.

Down Broad­way, Los Ange­les they drove, then to the beach­es. Sud­den­ly the car rose like an air­plane, and as Ein­stein took one hand from the wheel to point out the scenery, the Rocky Moun­tains appeared below. Then the car land­ed on famil­iar soil and the dri­ve con­tin­ued through Ger­many.

It was just a Hol­ly­wood trick of dou­ble expo­sure and a thrilling com­e­dy, but not for the pub­lic. The mas­ter film was destroyed, and the only copy was giv­en to the Ein­steins.

That one sur­viv­ing copy of the film even­tu­al­ly end­ed up in the archives at Lin­coln Cen­ter, where it sat unno­ticed for decades, until Bec­ca Ben­der, an archivist, stum­bled up on it last year. And for­tu­nate­ly now we can all enjoy that light moment shot so long ago.

To learn more about the dis­cov­ery of the 1931 film, watch the video below. Or read this arti­cle over at From the Grapevine.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read the “Don’t Let the Bas­tards Get You Down” Let­ter That Albert Ein­stein Sent to Marie Curie Dur­ing a Time of Per­son­al Cri­sis (1911)

Albert Ein­stein Impos­es on His First Wife a Cru­el List of Mar­i­tal Demands

Albert Ein­stein Tells His Son The Key to Learn­ing & Hap­pi­ness is Los­ing Your­self in Cre­ativ­i­ty (or “Find­ing Flow”)

The Musi­cal Mind of Albert Ein­stein: Great Physi­cist, Ama­teur Vio­lin­ist and Devo­tee of Mozart

Albert Ein­stein on Indi­vid­ual Lib­er­ty, With­out Which There Would Be ‘No Shake­speare, No Goethe, No New­ton’

Lis­ten as Albert Ein­stein Calls for Peace and Social Jus­tice in 1945

Albert Ein­stein Reads ‘The Com­mon Lan­guage of Sci­ence’ (1941)

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Interactive Map Shows the Seizure of Over 1.5 Billion Acres of Native American Land Between 1776 and 1887

From time to time, Amer­i­cans will talk about the mass killing, treaty-break­ing, impov­er­ish­ment, and forced removal or assim­i­la­tion of Native peo­ples in the U.S. as “a shame­ful peri­od in our his­to­ry.” While this may sound like the noble acknowl­edge­ment of a geno­ci­dal crime, it is far too half-heart­ed and disin­gen­u­ous, since these acts are cen­tral to the entire­ty of U.S. his­to­ry, from the first land­ing of Euro­pean ships on North Amer­i­can shores to the recent events at Stand­ing Rock and beyond. An enor­mous body of schol­ar­ly and pop­u­lar lit­er­a­ture tes­ti­fies to the facts.

For a thor­ough one-vol­ume sur­vey, see Rox­anne Dunbar-Ortiz’s Indige­nous Peo­ples’ His­to­ry of the Unites States, a book that exhaus­tive­ly cites sev­er­al hun­dred years of well-doc­u­ment­ed events, like orders for exter­mi­na­tion and land theft under mil­i­tary lead­ers George Wash­ing­ton, Andrew Jack­son, and Army gen­er­al Thomas S. Jesup. Dun­bar-Ortiz shows how many U.S. mil­i­tary prac­tices and terms (such as the phrase “in coun­try”) came direct­ly from the so-called “Indi­an Wars.”

Take the prac­tice of “scalp hunt­ing,” encour­aged dur­ing the Pequot War and becom­ing rou­tine through­out the peri­od of New Eng­land set­tle­ment in the late 1600’s:

Boun­ties for Indige­nous scalps were hon­ored even in absence of war. Scalps and Indige­nous chil­dren became means of exchange, cur­ren­cy, and this devel­op­ment may even have cre­at­ed a black mar­ket. Scalp hunt­ing was not only a prof­itable pri­va­tized enter­prise but also a means to erad­i­cate or sub­ju­gate the Indige­nous pop­u­la­tion of the Anglo-Amer­i­can Atlantic seaboard. The set­tlers gave a name to the muti­lat­ed and bloody corpses they left in the wake of scalp-hunts: red­skins.

The Amer­i­can foot­ball team cur­rent­ly bear­ing that name and rep­re­sent­ing the nation’s cap­i­tal, as Bax­ter Holmes shows at Esquire, pays trib­ute to the extreme bru­tal­i­ty of mur­der­ing Indige­nous peo­ple and using their scalps as cash. “This way of war,” writes Dun­bar-Ortiz, “became the basis for the wars against the Indige­nous across the con­ti­nent into the late nine­teenth cen­tu­ry.” 

In the GIF above, we see a dra­mat­i­cal­ly tele­scoped visu­al­iza­tion of the “vio­lent seiz­ing of Native Amer­i­cans’ land” after 1776, writes Dylan Matthews at Vox, doc­u­ment­ed by his­to­ri­ans like Dun­bar-Ortiz and Uni­ver­si­ty of Georgia’s Clau­dio Saunt, who, along with Slate’s Rebec­ca Onion, cre­at­ed the graph­ic as a sup­ple­ment for his book West of the Rev­o­lu­tion: An Uncom­mon His­to­ry of 1776. “The project’s source data,” write Saunt and Onion, “is a set of maps pro­duced in 1899 by the Bureau of Amer­i­can Eth­nol­o­gy,” a Smith­son­ian research unit that “pub­lished and col­lect­ed anthro­po­log­i­cal, archae­o­log­i­cal, and lin­guis­tic research… as the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry drew to a close.”

Blue areas show Indige­nous home­lands, red areas show reser­va­tions. The “time-lapse func­tion,” note the map’s cre­ators, “is the most visu­al­ly impres­sive aspect of this inter­ac­tive,” but you can access a “deep lev­el of detail” at the map’s site, such as the names of the hun­dreds of dis­pos­sessed and dis­placed nations and links to the his­tor­i­cal doc­u­men­ta­tion of their land “ces­sion.”

Many of the bound­aries are vague, write Saunt and Onion, “a broad approach that left a lot of room for cre­ative imple­men­ta­tion.” As Saunt puts it, “greater legal­i­ty and more pre­ci­sion would have made it impos­si­ble to seize so much land in so short a time,” just over 100 years shown here, from the 1776 found­ing to 1887, dur­ing which over 1.5 bil­lion acres were seized and occu­pied by fron­tier set­tlers and the U.S. army in what Saunt calls in the map’s title the “Inva­sion of Amer­i­ca.”

View the full map, search­able by place and Indige­nous nation, here. You can also select a sep­a­rate lay­er that shows cur­rent reser­va­tions. See above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1,000+ Haunt­ing & Beau­ti­ful Pho­tos of Native Amer­i­can Peo­ples, Shot by the Ethno­g­ra­ph­er Edward S. Cur­tis (Cir­ca 1905)

New Inter­ac­tive Map Visu­al­izes the Chill­ing His­to­ry of Lynch­ing in the U.S. (1835–1964)

Visu­al­iz­ing Slav­ery: The Map Abra­ham Lin­coln Spent Hours Study­ing Dur­ing the Civ­il War

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Erich Fromm’s Six Rules of Listening: Learn the Keys to Understanding Other People from the Famed Psychologist

Pho­to by Müller-May/Rain­er Funk, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

The social psy­chol­o­gist and philoso­pher Erich Fromm lived through just about the first 80 years of the 20th cen­tu­ry, begin­ning in Ger­many, end­ing in Switzer­land, and spend­ing peri­ods in between in places like New York, Mex­i­co City, and Lans­ing, Michi­gan. But his intel­lec­tu­al expe­ri­ence exceed­ed even his clear­ly for­mi­da­ble his­tor­i­cal and cul­tur­al expe­ri­ence: he engaged in not just psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic the­o­ry and prac­tice but the­o­log­i­cal schol­ar­ship, polit­i­cal cri­tique, and what he called a kind of “mys­ti­cism.”

To the wider pub­lic, which first got to know him through his 1956 best­seller The Art of Lov­ing: An Enquiry into the Nature of Love, Fromm — who had already expe­ri­enced so much of human­i­ty — was an author­i­ty on human rela­tion­ships. Before one can love, one must, in a broad sense, be able to lis­ten, and he treats that sub­ject at length in The Art of Lis­ten­ing, a posthu­mous­ly pub­lished book adapt­ed from a 1974 sem­i­nar in Switzer­land.

Speak­ing in terms of psy­cho­analy­sis, Fromm objects to fram­ing lis­ten­ing as a “tech­nique,” since that word applies “to the mechan­i­cal, to that which is not alive, while the prop­er word for deal­ing with that which is alive is ‘art.’ ” And so if “psy­cho­analy­sis is a process of under­stand­ing man’s mind, par­tic­u­lar­ly that part which is con­scious… it is an art like the under­stand­ing of poet­ry.” He then pro­vides six basic rules for this art as fol­lows:

  1. The basic rule for prac­tic­ing this art is the com­plete con­cen­tra­tion of the lis­ten­er.
  2. Noth­ing of impor­tance must be on his mind, he must be opti­mal­ly free from anx­i­ety as well as from greed.
  3. He must pos­sess a freely-work­ing imag­i­na­tion which is suf­fi­cient­ly con­crete to be expressed in words.
  4. He must be endowed with a capac­i­ty for empa­thy with anoth­er per­son and strong enough to feel the expe­ri­ence of the oth­er as if it were his own.
  5. The con­di­tion for such empa­thy is a cru­cial facet of the capac­i­ty for love. To under­stand anoth­er means to love him — not in the erot­ic sense but in the sense of reach­ing out to him and of over­com­ing the fear of los­ing one­self.
  6. Under­stand­ing and lov­ing are insep­a­ra­ble. If they are sep­a­rate, it is a cere­bral process and the door to essen­tial under­stand­ing remains closed.

From­m’s rules apply not just out­side his pro­fes­sion but inde­pen­dent­ly of era or cul­ture: wher­ev­er you are or when­ev­er it hap­pens to be, you can always prac­tice free­ing your mind so as to con­cen­trate as com­plete­ly as pos­si­ble on the per­son talk­ing to you, hon­ing your imag­i­na­tion so as to vivid­ly expe­ri­ence in your mind what they have to ver­bal­ly com­mu­ni­cate. Of course, to love, in From­m’s sense, remains a par­tic­u­lar chal­lenge in this process, and for humans may well stand as the chal­lenge of exis­tence. But whether or not you cred­it psy­cho­analy­sis itself, the fact remains that we all must, to the great­est extent pos­si­ble, under­stand one anoth­er’s minds as our own; the very sur­vival of human­i­ty has always depend­ed on it.

via Brain Pick­ings

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Pow­er of Empa­thy: A Quick Ani­mat­ed Les­son That Can Make You a Bet­ter Per­son

We Are Wired to Be Kind: How Evo­lu­tion Gave Us Empa­thy, Com­pas­sion & Grat­i­tude

How to Lis­ten to Music: A Free Course from Yale Uni­ver­si­ty

Learn 48 Lan­guages Online for Free: Span­ish, Chi­nese, Eng­lish & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Eleven Rules for Writing from Eight Contemporary Playwrights 

Chances are most of us won’t be imme­di­ate­ly famil­iar with the eight most­ly British play­wrights reflect­ing on their process in the Nation­al The­atre’s video, above.

That’s a good thing.

It’s eas­i­er to choose which pieces of inspir­ing, occa­sion­al­ly con­flict­ing writ­ing advice to fol­low when the scale’s not weight­ed down by the thumb of celebri­ty.

(Though rest assured that there’s no short­age of peo­ple who do know their work, if the Nation­al The­ater is plac­ing them in the hot seat.)

It’s impos­si­ble to fol­low all of their sug­ges­tions on any giv­en project, so go with your gut.

Or try your hand at one that doesn’t come nat­u­ral­ly, espe­cial­ly if you’ve been feel­ing stuck.

These approach­es are equal­ly valid for those writ­ing fic­tion, and pos­si­bly even cer­tain types of poet­ry and song.

The Nation­al wins points for assem­bling a diverse group—there are four women and four men, three of whom are peo­ple of col­or.

With­in this crew, it’s the women who over­whelm­ing­ly bring up the notions of per­mis­sion and per­fec­tion, as in it’s okay to let your first draft be absolute­ly dread­ful.

Most of the males are prone to plot­ting things out in advance.

And no one seems entire­ly at home marooned against a seam­less white back­ground on a plain wood­en stool.

Jew­ish iden­ti­ty, school shoot­ings, immi­gra­tion, race, cli­mate change, and homo­pho­bia are just some of the top­ics they have con­sid­ered in their plays.

Some have worked in film and TV, adapt­ed the clas­sics, or writ­ten for young audi­ences.

They have won pres­ti­gious awards, seen their plays staged ‘round the globe, and had suc­cess with oth­er artis­tic pur­suits, includ­ing poet­ry, per­for­mance, and dance.

Clear­ly, you’ll find some great advice below, though it’s not a one-size-fits-all propo­si­tion. Let us know in the com­ments which rules you per­son­al­ly con­sid­er worth fol­low­ing.

Eleven Rules for Writ­ing from Eight Con­tem­po­rary Play­wrights

1. Start

or

2. Don’t start. Let your idea mar­i­nate for a min­i­mum of six months, then start.

3.. Have some sort of out­line or plan before you start

4. Do some research

5. Don’t be judg­men­tal of your writ­ing while you’re writ­ing

6. Embrace the ter­ri­ble first draft 

7. Don’t show any­one your first draft, unless you want to.

8. Know how it’s going to end

or

9. Don’t know how it’s going end

10. Work with oth­ers

11. Print it, and read it like some­one expe­ri­enc­ing it for the first time. No edit­ing aloud. Get that pen out of your hand.

And now, it’s time to dis­cov­er the work of the par­tic­i­pat­ing play­wrights. Go see a show, or at least read about one in the links:

In-Sook Chap­pell

Ryan Craig

Suhay­la El-Bushra

Inua Ellams

Lucy Kirk­wood

Evan Placey

Tanya Ron­der

Simon Stephens

The Nation­al The­atre has sev­er­al fas­ci­nat­ing playlists devot­ed to play­writ­ing. Find them here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Samuel Beck­ett, Absur­dist Play­wright, Nov­el­ist & Poet

How the Russ­ian The­atre Direc­tor Con­stan­tin Stanislavs­ki Rev­o­lu­tion­ized the Craft of Act­ing: A New Video Essay

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Wednes­day, May 16 for anoth­er month­ly install­ment of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The Muggletonians, an Obscure Religious Sect, Made Beautiful Maps That Put the Earth at the Center of the Solar System (1846)

In 1975, the philoso­pher of sci­ence Paul Fey­er­abend pub­lished his high­ly con­trar­i­an Against Method, a book in which he argued that “sci­ence is essen­tial­ly an anar­chic enter­prise,” and as such, ought to be accord­ed no more priv­i­lege than any oth­er way of know­ing in a demo­c­ra­t­ic soci­ety. Moti­vat­ed by con­cerns about sci­ence as a dom­i­neer­ing ide­ol­o­gy, he argued the his­tor­i­cal messi­ness of sci­en­tif­ic prac­tice, in which the­o­ries come about not through ele­gant log­i­cal think­ing but often by com­plete acci­dent, through copi­ous tri­al and error, intu­ition, imag­i­na­tion, etc. Only in hind­sight do we impose restric­tions and tidy rules and nar­ra­tives on rev­o­lu­tion­ary dis­cov­er­ies.

Sev­er­al years lat­er, in the third, 1993 edi­tion of the book, Fey­erebend observed with alarm the same wide­spread anti-sci­ence bias that Carl Sagan wrote of two years lat­er in Demon-Haunt­ed World. “Times have changed,” he wrote, “Con­sid­er­ing some ten­den­cies in U.S. edu­ca­tion… and in the world at large I think that rea­son should now be giv­en greater weight.”

Fey­er­abend died the fol­low­ing year, but I won­der how he might revise or qual­i­fy a 2018 edi­tion of the book, or whether he would repub­lish it at all. Polit­i­cal­ly-moti­vat­ed sci­ence denial­ism reigns. Indeed, a blithe denial of any observ­able real­i­ty, aid­ed by dig­i­tal tech­nol­o­gy, has become a dystopi­an new norm. But as the philoso­pher also com­ment­ed, such cir­cum­stances may “occur fre­quent­ly today… but may dis­ap­pear tomor­row.”

In the record­ed his­to­ry of human inquiry across cul­tures and civ­i­liza­tions, we see ideas we call sci­en­tif­ic co-exist­ing with what we rec­og­nize as pseu­do- and anti-sci­en­tif­ic notions. The dif­fer­ences aren’t always very clear at the time. And then, some­times, they are. Dur­ing the so-called Age of Rea­son, when the devel­op­ment of the mod­ern sci­ences in Europe slow­ly eclipsed oth­er modes of expla­na­tion, one obscure group of con­trar­i­ans per­sist­ed in almost com­i­cal­ly stub­born unrea­son. Call­ing them­selves the Mug­gle­to­ni­ans, the Protes­tant sect—like those today who deny cli­mate change and evolution—resisted an over­whelm­ing con­sen­sus of empir­i­cal sci­ence, the Coper­ni­can view of the solar sys­tem, despite all avail­able evi­dence the con­trary. In so doing, they left behind a series of “beau­ti­ful celes­tial maps,” notes Greg Miller at Nation­al Geo­graph­ic, some of which resem­ble William Blake’s visu­al poet­ry.

The sect began in 1651, when a Lon­don tai­lor named John Reeve “claimed to have received a mes­sage from God” nam­ing his cousin Lodow­icke Mug­gle­ton as the “’last mes­sen­ger for a great work unto this bloody unbe­liev­ing world.’… One of the main prin­ci­ples of their faith, a lat­er observ­er wrote, was that ‘There is no Dev­il but the unclean Rea­son of men.’” Their view of the uni­verse, based, of course, on scrip­ture, resem­bles the Medieval Catholic view that Galileo attempt­ed to cor­rect, but their prin­ci­ple antag­o­nist was not the Ital­ian poly­math or the ear­li­er Renais­sance astronomer Coper­ni­cus, but the great sci­en­tif­ic mind of the time, Isaac New­ton, whom Mug­gle­to­ni­ans railed against into the 19th and even 20th cen­tu­ry. Mug­gle­to­ni­ans, Miller writes,” had remark­able longevity—the last known mem­ber died in 1979 after donat­ing the sect’s archive of books and papers… to the British Library.”

These plates come from an 1846 book called Two Sys­tems of Astron­o­my. Writ­ten by Mug­gle­ton­ian Isaac Frost, it “pit­ted the sci­en­tif­ic sys­tem of Isaac Newton—which held that the grav­i­ta­tion­al pull of the sun holds the Earth and oth­er plan­ets in orbit around it—against an Earth-cen­tered uni­verse based on a lit­er­al inter­pre­ta­tion of the Bible.” The plate above, for exam­ple, “attempts to show the absur­di­ty of the New­ton­ian sys­tem by depict­ing our solar sys­tem as one of many in an infi­nite and god­less uni­verse.” Iron­i­cal­ly, in attempt­ing to ridicule New­ton (who was him­self a pseu­do-sci­en­tist and Bib­li­cal lit­er­al­ist in oth­er ways), the Mug­gle­to­ni­ans stum­bled upon the view of mod­ern astronomers, who extrap­o­late a mind-bog­gling num­ber of pos­si­ble solar sys­tems in an observ­able uni­verse of over 100 bil­lion galax­ies (though these sys­tems are not enclosed cells crammed togeth­er side-by-side). Anoth­er plate, below, shows Frost’s depic­tion of the hat­ed New­ton­ian sys­tem, with the Earth, Mars, and Jupiter orbit­ing the Sun.

The oth­er maps, fur­ther up, all rep­re­sent the Mug­gle­ton­ian view. His­to­ri­an of sci­ence Fran­cis Reid describes it thus:

Accord­ing to Frost, Scrip­ture clear­ly states that the Sun, the Moon and the Stars are embed­ded in a fir­ma­ment made of con­gealed water and revolve around the Earth, that Heav­en has a phys­i­cal real­i­ty above and beyond the stars, and that the plan­ets and the Moon do not reflect the Sun’s rays but are them­selves inde­pen­dent sources of light.

Frost gave lec­tures at “estab­lish­ments set up for the edu­ca­tion of arti­sans and oth­er work­men.” It seems he didn’t attract much atten­tion and was fre­quent­ly heck­led by audi­ence mem­bers. Like flat earth­ers, Mug­gle­to­ni­ans were treat­ed as cranks, and unlike today’s reli­gious anti-sci­ence cru­saders, they nev­er had the pow­er to influ­ence pub­lic pol­i­cy or edu­ca­tion. For this rea­son, per­haps, it is easy to see them as quaint­ly humor­ous. Frost’s maps, as Miller writes, “remain strange­ly allur­ing” for both their artis­tic qual­i­ty and their aston­ish­ing­ly deter­mined creduli­ty. The plates are now part of the mas­sive David Rum­sey col­lec­tion, which hous­es thou­sands of rare his­tor­i­cal maps. For anoth­er fas­ci­nat­ing look at reli­gious car­tog­ra­phy, see Miller’s Nation­al Geo­graph­ic post “map­ping the Apoc­a­lypse.”

via Nation­al Geo­graph­ic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How a Book Thief Forged a Rare Edi­tion of Galileo’s Sci­en­tif­ic Work, and Almost Pulled it Off

Down­load 67,000 His­toric Maps (in High Res­o­lu­tion) from the Won­der­ful David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion

Carl Sagan Pre­dicts the Decline of Amer­i­ca: Unable to Know “What’s True,” We Will Slide, “With­out Notic­ing, Back into Super­sti­tion & Dark­ness” (1995)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness


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