The auctioneer could barely give away the mounted illustrated ads. I understood why, because I had tried to figure out where they had come from and how I could use them. None of the other auction-goers had figured it out either, and they, too, were unwilling to gamble on them – especially not at an opening bid of $10.
The ads appeared to have been meticulously and evenly cut from late-19th-and-early-20th-century magazines, and affixed to light cardboard. They advertised all sorts of products – from food to medicine to cars to silver-plated serving pieces to beer to clothing.
I had seen them in a glass case at the auction house during my walk-through and had examined them. Paper items – ephemera, as it is called – always fascinates me. These were just as intriguing as old photographs because they told the story of a time and place way before me, of how people lived and what was important in making their living better.
I was just as curious about who took the time to clip these 40 or so ads, paste them on board and store them away. Was it the advertising agency that had created them, and then stored them in a file cabinet for record-keeping and promotions? An individual who collected magazine advertising? The clipper must have considered them valuable because these were well-cared for.
That made it even more surprising that no one – not a single person – bidded on the ads as the auctioneer tried mightily to rev us up. I lingered myself, holding back, unsure of what to make of them. When the auctioneer dropped the bidding down to a pittance, I blurted out: “I’ll take them.”
He was obviously pleased. He probably didn’t know what they’d do with them, either. Likely drop them in the trash, which would’ve been tragic especially since they are history worth collecting, as Duke University has done with its batch of advertising ephemera.
Looking over the ads later, I found that the images and graphics were first rate, looking more like works of art than just products printed on paper to entice customers to buy. Here’s a sampling of them:
Exchange classifieds in Harper’s Young People magazine, 1884.
In a bartering system of sorts, boys and girls (and some collectors) submitted ads offering to trade items – coins, stamps, printing presses, minerals, petrified moss, arrowheads, alligator teeth and more. One boy from Long Island wanted to exchange a pair of black rabbits and a white doe for a pair of gray squirrels. A magazine called “Golden Days” kept coming up in the ads, and so I was intrigued.
“Golden Days for Boys and Girls” was a children’s magazine with stories by various authors, including Oliver Optic, a pseudonym for William Taylor Adams, whose name also came up pretty often. It was published weekly from 1880 to 1907 by James Elverson, who would later buy a controlling interest and become publisher of the Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper. Along with the illustrated stories, the magazine included ads and exchanges/trades, puzzles and poems, according to the 1895 book “National Encyclopaedia of American Biography.”
The first printing was 3 million copies, and they were distributed in every city and small town. By the second issue, Elverson had 52,000 subscribers and the number rose steadily, making the publication one of the most successful in the country, according to the book. It was considered a wholesome publication by parents and the clergy, who wrote to tell him so.
Another item of special interest to the kids was the “V nickel without the word ‘cents.'” It seemed that the government had minted 5.4 million Liberty Head nickels with a V on the reverse side representing the roman numeral 5. It had forgotten, however, to add the word “cents,” so these error coins became a hot commodity. So hot that some unscrupulous types began gold-plating them to make them look like real $5 Liberty gold coins and selling them as such.
To put an end to the fraud, the government a year later began making Liberty Head nickels with the “cents” inscription.
J.L Mott Iron Works Water Closets, 1880s.
I had blogged about water closets and toilets before. None of these beautiful 19th-century water closets or toilets have come up for auction, but some modern ones have.
Sunlight soap, 1888; Pears’ soap, 1895 & Cosmo Buttermilk soap.
First produced by Unilever in 1885 in Great Britain, Sunlight soap was the first packaged laundry soap for washing clothes. Pears’ soap, the first translucent soap, was first sold from a factory in London in 1789. Cosmo soap apparently lost its footing when folks figured that it was worth 3 cents but not 10 cents.
Iver Johnson Revolver, 1918. From Cosmopolitan magazine. Iver Johnson revolvers were used in the assassinations of President McKinley in 1901 and Robert F. Kennedy in 1968.
Jewelry and Silver Plate, Mappin & Webb’s & Godwin & Sons (London).
Spring suits & shoes. National Cloak and Suit Co. & Louis Reimel shoes.
Murray Lanman Florida Water for the bath, 1891. I initially thought this was whiskey.
Writing and wrapping papers, & medicated and non-medicated toilet paper, 1889. The ad included testimonials from people extolling the virtues of medicated toilet paper (“The past few days I have passed in comfort, unknown for twenty years.”). Seth Wheeler of the Albany Perforated Wrapping Paper Co. in 1891 patented the first perforated toilet paper wrapped around a tube.
Grape-Nuts cereal. The ad offered a menu for breakfast and lunch: fruit, saucer of Grape-Nuts with cream, soft-boiled or poached eggs, Postum food coffee (iced if you like) and Zweibach or toasted bread.
Cero-Fruto cereal or breakfast food. Like Grape-Nuts, this ad didn’t show the product. I guess the company figured it couldn’t miss with a cute little girl with cute little puppies.
