Paul J. Erickson

Randolph G. Adams Director

William L. Clements Library

Americans are a declaring people. We declare things ranging from love to bankruptcy. Much less often, we declare martial law, or war (or at least Congress does, on our behalf). These declarations do two very specific things. First, they tell someone something and typically also offer an explanation. Second, they identify who is doing the telling. Sometimes it’s the speaker, sometimes it’s the government, or the nation. And sometimes it’s a group of people who have gotten together to make a statement, and have signed their names to the document so that everybody will know who is declaring.

The collections of the Clements Library are filled with different types of documents from America’s past that did similar sorts of things, but their different names tell us a lot about their creation and reception. Petitions of redress were a form of making a complaint and asking for repair, often made to the government. Many of our official documents from eighteenth-century Britain are proclamations, often from the king. They are announcements, and they contain all the authorization they need in their first few lines—the royal imprimatur is right there.

Of course, when readers in the United States see the word “declaration,” they usually think of the Declaration of Independence, which you may have heard is soon to mark an important anniversary. The Declaration of Independence changed the world. It wasn’t the first time that a colony had tried to split off from its imperial progenitor, but it was the first time that the colonial subjects had gotten together to formally declare independence, and then made it stick on the battlefield.

In the nineteenth century, popular publishers like Beadle & Adams put out countless pamphlets like this one, which provided Americans texts to practice the art of public speaking. By effectively reenacting the public reading of the Declaration of Independence, people declared their Americanness through the act of public speaking.

The signatures matter because they are what made the Declaration a declaration supported by specific, identifiable people, rather than a proclamation issuing from a governmental body (the Crown, Congress, etc.). Those fifty-six men all made a distinct pledge in the final line of the Declaration of Independence: “And for the support of this Declaration … we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” The list of names was so important that George Richards, a now largely forgotten poet, wrote “The Declaration of Independence, a Poem” in 1793 and structured its belabored stanzas around listing the names of all of the Declaration’s signatories. By signing the Declaration, these people were saying: I am telling you that I believe this.

Declarations took multiple forms in the American past, and were put to different purposes, as the contributions to this number of The Quarto will show. However, they all share some common declarative qualities. They seek to state a self-evident truth clearly, and they strive to make readers aware of who is doing the stating. All of these declarations are, among other things, political speech. In these times of artificial intelligence and deep fakes and astroturf campaigns, it is critical to be reminded of what political speech can be, of what can happen when we declare things clearly. Alice Hubbard summarized this aspiration perfectly in her 1908 manifesto “Woman’s Work,” recently acquired by the Clements: “I shall compliment you by using plain, direct and simple speech.… You may not agree with what I say, but you will understand what I mean.”

Jayne Ptolemy

Associate Curator of Manuscripts

How do you celebrate the Fourth of July? For me, a naturalized citizen who did not grow up with this date having any great significance, it mostly conjures up the smell of a barbecue, sticky summer days, and the sting of sparklers on my fingers. I’m certainly not sitting down reading a copy of the Declaration of Independence. I don’t think I’m alone in being able to faithfully recite, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,” before mumbling a bit over the next part about inalienable rights and ending strongly, “among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness!”… but nothing else.

And while, yes, that is a bit embarrassing, I also think it’s partially because we live some 250 years removed from it and the Declaration of Independence is more of an idea than anything else. It’s what it tells us about freedom and self-governance that resonates and calls us to action, celebration, or protest. Which is perhaps why each Fourth of July, before I sit in the sunshine and eat a hot dog, instead of reading the Declaration of Independence I think about Frederick Douglass.

In part this is because nestled in the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society Papers is a manuscript broadside that has been calling to me for years. It advertises an Independence Day celebration to be given in 1852 “For the purpose of Commemorating the Glorious Declaration of 1776 … After the reading of the Declaration of Independence, an Oration will be delivered by Frederick Douglass, Once a Slave, but now a firm supporter of the principles of the Declaration.”

This “Celebration Festival” advertised in the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society Papers would prove to be an iconic moment in the history of abolition and Black oration, when Frederick Douglass unleashed his masterful “What to the Slave is the 4th of July” speech.

You can almost hear Douglass booming from the stage. The cadence of his contrast between white celebration and Black suffering skewers the hypocrisy of Independence Day. There’s a reason so many still trot it out to this day on the Fourth of July when they’re feeling disappointed in how we continue to fail to live up to the founding claim that all men are created equal. It’s a powerful reminder of all the work that remains to be done.

But as electrifying as that speech was, and the enduring resonance it continues to have, I find myself less interested in Douglass’s masterful oration than in what declaring independence would have meant for him in that moment. He made this speech some seven years after his autobiography, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, was first published. The forematter of the book includes a printed letter from Wendell Phillips reacting to the text and Douglass’s bold decision not to cloak any facts that would reveal his identity. “They say the fathers, in 1776, signed the Declaration of Independence with the halter about their necks,” he reflects. “You, too, publish your declaration of freedom with danger compassing about you.” The comparison between the dangers facing both the founding fathers and Douglass as they declared freedom is a deliberate one. Making the ideological connection between the lauded revolutionary principles and abolitionist ones brings Douglass’s fight for freedom within the realm of just causes.

If Douglass’s Narrative was his “declaration of freedom,” though, it still obscures his actual act of achieving it. For good reason, as those abetting escapes from slavery would have been committing punishable crimes. While Douglass was willing to take on the dangers associated with publishing real names and places connected to his enslavement, he was not willing to pass that danger on to those who helped him achieve his freedom. He does, however, note that one of his very first acts as a free man was to write to Anna, his “intended wife … informing her of my successful flight, and wishing her to come on forthwith.” They were married just days after she made her way to him a week later

We now know that he was referring to Anna Murray, a woman born to formerly enslaved parents. One of her and Frederick’s children, Rosetta Douglass Sprague, revealed in a printed account in 1923 that Anna played a pivotal role in securing her future husband’s liberation. She saved and shared her earnings, as well as selling “one of her feather beds to assist in defraying the expenses of the flight from bondage.” While we get glimpses of the emotional bond between Frederick and Anna in the Narrative when he acknowledges writing to and marrying her were among his very first acts of freedom, knowing her role in making the escape possible at all further shifts the framing of the story from one of the pursuit of justice to the simultaneous pursuit of love.

Freedom is absolutely a political matter—we fight wars for it, we elect presidents over it, we define a nation by it. But it is also a deeply personal one that is often brought about with the help of those who love us the most. Looking at archives of manumission with that duality in mind, you begin to see those moments of the heart scattered throughout.

Take, for example, the unassuming volume kept by the justices of the peace of Jackson County, Ohio, from 1816 to 1854. Its existence is a relic of the prejudiced Black Laws that restricted African Americans’ ability to settle in Ohio by requiring them to register with the court, pay registration fees and surety bonds, and provide formal proof of their freedom. The bulk of the volume is copies of court forms and other documents that Black Americans carried with them as they migrated to Ohio. But mixed amongst the formulaic legal language—all the herebys and aforesaids and whatnots—is a love story.

This copy of a legal document tells the entwined stories of the fight for liberty as well as love.

Emma Schneider

Information Resources Assistant

For many of us, religion is something we are born into. We often believe because our parents believe, making religion a deeply familial practice that can look different for every household. For some, it means going to church with parents every Sunday. For others, it might involve a bar or bat mitzvah, marking a coming of age within a tradition shared across generations of a Jewish family. In some cases, maybe the extent of religious practice was being baptized as an infant. Those raised in a religious family may not need to formally declare belief, dedication, faith, or commitment to religion. Instead, participating in shared traditions and inherited practices can itself be enough of a statement of faith.

But sometimes people deviate from family traditions. They set out to find their own faith and make meaning in a new religious life, or they may reaffirm their faith later in life. In these cases, religious declarations or declarations of faith can take many forms. Adult baptism, conversion, and confirmation (which seals the covenant created during an infant baptism) are examples of more bodily, spoken, and public declarations or reaffirmations of faith.

Declarations of faith are both personally and communally intimate. The act of the declaration itself is a personal expression of belief and trust in God, but when that declaration is made in community with other believers, a sense of connection occurs. This emphasizes the duality that faith and belief are not just private matters, but can be shared and experienced with others.

I encountered the dual intimacy of these declarations of faith while reading the Brattle Street Church diary in the Clements Library’s collection. This diary records the sermon notes and spiritual reflections of an unnamed member of Boston’s Brattle Street Church between March 1772 and April 1775.

The Brattle Street Church was a culturally and historically significant Congregational church founded in 1698, boasting prominent figures of the American Revolution among its members, including John Hancock, Samuel Adams, Joseph Warren, and John and Abigail Adams. It was on Brattle Street in the heart of Boston, Massachusetts (it stood near Faneuil Hall, roughly where Boston’s City Hall now stands).

A small map dated 1860 entitled “Plan of Boston” frames the physical place and space where Brattle Street Church stood, offering insight into how deeply embedded religion likely was in the everyday lives of its members. The church would have been integrated into the daily rhythms of colonial Boston. Located only a short walk from the town’s commercial center, the church stood along routes that congregants travelled constantly. Members would walk down Brattle Street past the church on their way to the shops and markets, on their morning commutes, or while visiting their neighbors, encountering fellow congregants in both business and social settings. Religious, economic, and social worlds all overlapped, making the church a very visible and familiar part of everyday movement.

When examined more closely, the area around Brattle Street reveals a dense spatial layout that reflects a tightly knit community. The close proximity of homes, streets, gathering places, and shops shows that Bostonians lived, worked, and worshipped within a compact environment. This clustering illustrates lived religion, where faith was not confined to formal religious services, but intertwined into everyday routines, encounters, and movements.

The Brattle Street Church diary itself is not glamorous. It’s rather simple-looking in its current condition: coverless, full of loose stitching, fraying edges, and a metal pin that peeks out of the spine. But there is something deeply personal and intimate in its simplicity, the emphasis placed not on the vessel itself, but what it contains. And inside this diary is a rich record that shows the dedication and immense impact that faith and the Brattle Street Church community had on the diary’s author.

Congregationalist churches are autonomous, independent, and self-governing, meaning that each congregation has its own authority to make decisions regarding belief, worship, and leadership. This means that Congregationalist church members were encouraged to engage actively with sermons, scripture, and communal worship. This framework made individual spiritual reflection especially important. Nearly every Sabbath evening, the diarist would give an account of the day’s service, including who preached and from what text, as well as a reflection on their own spiritual condition. Often, the diarist would declare their devotion to God, admit they were falling short spiritually, and ask for forgiveness and divine help in remaining committed to their faith. This level of deep introspection can be seen in an excerpt from the entry from “Sabbath Evening August the 2”:

I have devoted myself intirely [sic] to thee my dear Lord and must acknowledge thy Service to be the most perfect freedom, and that thy acceptance of my best performances lays new obligations upon me to love thee more, and serve thee better: Lord, pardon all the weakness and defects which I have been guilty of in the performance of this great Duty, and I beseech thee to assist me with thy Grace, that in the whole course of my life I may ever be careful to fulfill and perform those vows and resolutions which I have made unto thee–.

There is a deep intimacy in reading this diarist’s innermost thoughts, which show great humility in recognition of their flaws, weaknesses, and religious shortcomings. Furthermore, this contemplation on the diarist’s spiritual life shows that faith and belief operate cyclically. It’s a continuous loop that begins with devotion, moves toward an awareness of personal imperfection, then to a plea for grace, and finally returns to a renewed sense of commitment, with the resolve to do better, to live more faithfully. This pattern of faith, grace, and redemption is rooted in the Great Awakening, which transformed religion into something woven into everyday life.

The religious revivals that swept through the American colonies in the 1730s and 1740s during the Great Awakening reshaped how people experienced faith by shifting focus away from formal rituals and institutional practices and toward personal spiritual devotion, introspection, and individualism. This movement challenged the traditional institutional structure of religion, instead emphasizing a personal and direct relationship with God, where individuals were encouraged to examine their own souls, recognize their own sins, and seek redemption through personal faith.

Many of the “Sabbath Evening” entries reflect that deeply introspective and personal faith that would have been widely practiced by the 1770s, but there is one entry that stands out among the rest. Within the diary, there is a half-sheet of paper sewn into the body that is dated “Sabbath day night April 1756,” nearly 20 years earlier than all the other entries.

It reads:

This day god graciously has enabled me to dedicated my self to him in the presence of his people and to take the Seal of his covenant upon me in his sanctuarey & that he would enable me to adorn the profession I have now made; Remember O my soul, the vows of god that are upon thee and be more circumspect than was in heart, speech, and behavior; Lest religion be evil spoken of by thy careless walking but I consider thou art not sufficient in thy self even to think aloud thought, but apply to Christ Jesus for righteousness and strength; and depend wholly upon the merits of his perfect obedience for acceptance before god.

This entry is extraordinary as it represents a deliberate preservation of a key spiritual moment in the life of the diarist. Its addition after the fact may suggest a defining moment of recommitment, and it raises intriguing questions. We cannot be certain this was actually written in 1756, or whether it is instead a memory of an earlier experience that was later recorded and used to center and shape future religious thought. Why physically sew in a memory instead of summarizing it? This choice suggests an intentional act of embedding the experience into the text itself, underscoring that this moment of conversion or reflection carried such significance that it required a tangible and permanent place within the record. This sewn-in declaration can be understood within the contexts of the spiritual cycles evident in both the diarist’s writings and the Great Awakening, reinforcing the idea that faith is not only remembered but actively revisited and reaffirmed. It echoes the patterns of personal conversion central to the Great Awakening, in which individual experiences of sin, grace, and renewal shaped religious identity. This entry fits the pattern of a New Light conversion narrative, a practice that continued in the 1750s as a requirement for church membership.

The next page of the diary features a deliberate blank space where the overlapping conversion narrative or declaration was carefully written around. More than just an artifact of the volume’s piecemeal construction, the blank space becomes meaningful. It marks a boundary that sets the declaration apart from the surrounding entries and suggests its importance to the writer’s religious identity. As the diarist literally circles their writing around this central profession, each entry is written and read in relation to it, reinforcing the idea of faith being cyclical. By writing after the Sabbath, the diarist moves beyond simple documentation and into ritual practice, in which there is a continual re-engagement and affirmation of religious commitment and identity. Therefore, the diary operates simultaneously as documentation, devotional practice, and devotional object.

The diary ultimately returns us to the idea that religion is often something inherited through family and shaped through everyday practice long before it is consciously chosen. It invites the reader to appreciate the balance and duality between communal worship and personal devotion, emphasizing how religious identity emerges through both shared experiences and individual reflection. At the same time, the diary reflects how religion is deeply woven into the intimate moments of ordinary life, revealing how faith moves beyond formal worship and into family traditions, private contemplation, and routines that quietly shape identity over time. Faith is not only defined by dramatic public declarations of belief, but often by the inherited practices and personal moments that sustain it across generations. The diary itself becomes a private declaration of faith, yet its preservation and study transform it into a moment of communal engagement.

Cheney J. Schopieray

Curator of Manuscripts

Seth Perry was on board his sloop, lying in Buzzard’s Bay west of Sandwich, Massachusetts, on a cold day in February 1778. The calm was broken by a beckoning shout from land, which reached Perry on deck. The voice belonged to Mr. Pope, who informed Perry that he must stand before a magistrate and declare his allegiance and fidelity to the State of Massachusetts and to the United States. Though expected, the voice was unwelcome. Seth Perry was among many Americans who were hesitant to make a formal declaration in favor of Revolution. Nearly three years into the war and with no end or certain victor in sight, with a wife and two children, and with friends and family on both sides of the conflict, a formal statement of “which side” could have disastrous effects on their lives. Perry consulted with shipboard blacksmith Ebenezer Raymond and brother-in-law Nicholas Cobb about whether or not to take the oath. The magistrate gave Perry 20 hours to deliberate, and ultimately the mariner refused to declare his allegiance or fidelity.

Military, naval, and civil servants were required to take oaths of office and allegiance during war and peacetime, but the oath presented to Seth Perry was different. It focused instead on any person suspected of being “inimical to the United States.” Who was inimical? Any suspected loyalists (those still sympathetic to the Crown) found aiding or abetting the enemy since fighting broke out at Lexington and Concord (April 19, 1775), or for providing the enemy with intelligence since the Declaration of Independence (July 4, 1776). Who could accuse someone of inimicality? Any two “substantial” freeholders or any single civil or military authority. What evidence was needed? Suspicion was satisfactory grounds to bring someone before the judge to demand a statement.

An Act for prescribing and establishing an Oath of Fidelity and Allegiance (Mass. General Court, February 3, 1778) gave procedures for county justices of the peace to receive intelligence about people suspected of loyalty to George III or his allies; to order suspects to take an oath; to imprison or exile those who refused to declare allegiance; and to punish even to death, without clergy, loyalists returning to Massachusetts after leaving.

For his refusal, Perry was committed to the Barnstable jail on February 26, 1778. He was not alone. The same day Melatiah Bourn, Isaac Knowles, John Jennings, Abiel Ellis, and Prince Tupper—all of Sandwich, Massachusetts—were imprisoned. The editor of the Boston Gazette indicated that once the imprisoned men “who will refuse to take the Oath” were “got rid of,” “the Town [of Sandwich] will be pretty well purged.”

Committee of Correspondence member and Justice of the Peace Col. Nathaniel Freeman took oaths and handled refusals. His papers, held by the William L. Clements Library, shed light on Seth Perry, his relatives, and the community-rupturing events set in motion by the oath of allegiance requirement.

Counterfeit money, such as these two examples of Continental Currency, could wreak havoc on the economy and trust in state and United States governments. The investigations following Seth Perry’s imprisonment discovered him to be in some way involved in a plot to introduce forged bills into Massachusetts in early 1778.

Unfortunately for Seth Perry and the other prisoners, several of the men had a history of activities and statements in support of the Crown, and were known for gathering at a local tavern recognized as a meeting place for loyalist-leaning people. Indeed, eight other men with family ties and friendly connections—Lemuel Bourn, Samuel Perry, Thomas Perry, Stephen Perry, Samuel Perry Jr., Francis Phinney, David Atkins, and John Blackwell Jr.—had already left Sandwich for British-controlled Rhode Island in the fall of 1777. To winnow the reality from a pile of partial truths, Nathaniel Freeman and his associates spent March and April taking depositions from Perry’s extended socio-political network. The results were enlightening.

The depositions in the Nathaniel Freeman Papers include interviews with the accused, the wives of the accused, accusers, Ebenezer Raymond, and others. Carefully read, they include conflicting accounts, vagaries, avoidance of questions, and a surprising amount of corroboration. Edward Davis claimed a Marshfield loyalist promised to pay him to smuggle Tory names and plans (in a hollow cane) to British leaders and spread counterfeit money to distress and embarrass the rebels. He also claimed that he was a Patriot double agent who intended to report everything to Massachusetts authorities. Toward one end or the other, Davis connected with the Sandwich loyalists.

At the same time, Seth Perry, his wife, Lydia Perry, and sister-in-law Sarah Perry, Hannah Bourn, and Elisabeth Bourn swore that Seth’s brothers Samuel and Thomas Perry returned from Rhode Island twice since they left in 1777. On the second trip, Samuel brought a stack of counterfeit 4/4 notes (4 shillings, 4 pence), “maybe as many as a pack of cards,” 20–30 bills, and through various transactions scattered clutches of them to Ebenezer Raymond and into Perry and Bourn family homes. Several of the women, wishing to have nothing to do with the paper, claimed to have burned as much as they could find.

Nathaniel Freeman posed further questions about a rumor that the Perrys either had provided or intended to provide venison to British soldiers at Newport, but heard little to connect Seth Perry to such a plot. Another line of questioning pertained to whether or not Perry spoke seriously about transporting people or goods to/from Rhode Island.

Seth Perry remained in jail almost two months despite having been assured that he would be freed in fewer than 40 days. Concerned for his health and his family, Seth Perry escaped near the end of April 1778. In his cell, he left a letter to his captors:

“as self preservation is the first law of nature i think there a duty incumbent on me to take care of myself[.] be not supprised to find me gone[.] i have and still am suffering a false imprisonment for crimes laid to my charge which i appeal to heaven for my Innocency … finding that i am suffering for other mens crimes and i think i have a Right to get clear if i can[,] putting my trust in divine assistance and praying almighty god to deliver me from this unhappy place[.] i am not a going to the enemy Except i should be taken[.] …i have offered Every thing Reasonable but to no Effect[.] i here Sollemnly declare before god and man that i never had any intent in my heart to hurt my Country or any person in it nor do i know of any people that doth[.] i acknowledg i have opposed some things and i did it on principle thinking that softer measures would have done better and perhaps a party Spirit Ruled too much on both sides which made the breach wider but always stopd Ready to do my part of the war[.] the only desire of my heart is to git to my family which must suffer soon without my help[.] god only knows what they will do but as they are innocent i hope you will not punish them[.] if i have done amiss i Should not have a gone from here but i found prejudices in the minds of people to bear great Sway against me and where that git hold of men they cant never Rest in there minds untill Revenge is Executed and all the ties bonds and affections of men are seperated when prejudice & invy instid of Love and friendship do appear[.] … i conclude praying that peace happiness prosperity love unity & friendship may once more possess and flourish in this once happy country whose Rights Liberty & happiness may god long preserve and that no unlawfull authority may Ever be set up over us but that we may yet all unite in love and friendship again and then we may hope for a blessing from heaven on our undertakings and happiness to our country. … from your unhappy & most miserable Humble Servant &c Seth Perry[.] Mr Nye told me after i Refused the oath i might go off my own way within forty days which contract is Broke on you part as well as mine and i think you broke first[.]

Petition of “Tory wives” of Sandwich, Massachusetts, to safely take their children and moveable property and join their husbands in Rhode Island.

For Seth Perry, his failure to declare allegiance to the rebellious State of Massachusetts resulted in imprisonment, the discovery of his tenuous connection to a loose plot or conspiracy to spread counterfeit currency, his escape from prison, flight to Newport, and the relocation of his family to Canada. Unlike their other family members, Seth and Lydia and their children Nathan and Anne were ultimately able to return home. They declared their allegiance and gained U.S. citizenship in 1788. 

Christina Karas

Member, Clements Library Associates Board of Governors

When the United States commemorated the centennial anniversary of its independence in 1876, at least one group of citizens did not find cause for unalloyed celebration. They believed that one half of the American people needed a new declaration of liberty, and this they promulgated in dramatic fashion. Their request to formally present a statement at the official ceremonies on July 4th had been refused, with the explanation that there was simply no room in a Centennial designed to celebrate the country’s achievements since its founding, rather than examine its failures. But the image of dignitaries on the platform in Philadelphia’s Independence Square extolling the nation’s success as a democratic republic only galvanized the writers of this new declaration. They decided to seize the stage for themselves.

Among them, Susan B. Anthony had already been arrested for voting in the 1872 presidential election and had spent decades working ardently to advance the rights of women. She and four other representatives of the National Woman Suffrage Association (NWSA) ascended the centennial platform in 1876 immediately following the reading of the Declaration of Independence, bearing their own Declaration of the Rights of the Women of the United States. They were determined to convey the injustices of a nation that, having liberated itself from tyranny one hundred years prior, had yet to liberate their sex. In advance of the Centennial, the NWSA had called on American women to “unite with us in this declaration and protest … that the world may see that the women of 1876 know and feel their political degradation no less than did the men of 1776.” Their “Woman’s Declaration of Rights” invoked Abigail Adams’s famous warning to her husband: eager as she was to learn that the colonies had “declared an independency,” if the rights of “the Ladies” were not provided for, they would “not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation.”

Like their Founding Mother, the women of 1876 made their protest insistently yet decorously. Anthony handed their document to the presiding government representative so that it would be entered into the historical record, then she and the other ladies processed from the platform, distributing copies of their Declaration to the mostly male audience, many of whom clamored for one. On the opposite end of Independence Square, Anthony spontaneously read the proclamation aloud to an assembled crowd before the women departed for their own centennial gathering, “scattering another large number of printed copies” in their wake.

The event was recounted, accompanied by the text of the Declaration of Rights, in A History of Woman Suffrage (Rochester, N.Y., 1886), a sweeping record of the movement compiled by Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Matilda Joslyn Gage. Stanton also described the process of writing the Declaration of Rights with co-authors Anthony and Gage in her autobiography, Eighty Years and More (New York, 1898); both of these works can be found in the Clements Library’s collection. She recalled that the women were deliberate in crafting the language, applying “many twists from our analytical tweezers, with critical consideration of every word and sentence.” Less famous than the Declaration of Sentiments issued at the 1848 women’s rights convention in Seneca Falls, the 1876 Declaration expressed many of the same concerns and aspirations but differed in significant ways. It was written in a vastly changed context, in which the discourse of women’s rights reflected debates over postwar amendments to the U.S. Constitution addressing citizenship and its attendant rights and privileges, including suffrage. The Declaration of Rights affirmed the NWSA’s faith in “the broad principles of human rights, proclaimed in 1776” yet exposed the numerous ways in which the Republic had deprived them of those natural rights because of their sex. It catalogued those violations in “articles of impeachment” against the male leaders of the United States, demonstrating how little had improved since the 1848 Declaration. Moreover, it emphasized new obstacles such as the uneven, precarious status of women’s rights across U.S. states and territories, as well as flawed interpretations of the Constitution in recent legal decisions concerning citizenship and voting rights. It also asserted that women’s political equality was essential to “national safety and stability”— a powerful contention at a time when the Civil War was more immediate in the nation’s consciousness than the Revolution.

Popular reaction to the Centennial affair ranged from admiration to derision. Stanton included extracts of press coverage in the History as part of her grand project to frame the legacy of the women’s rights movement. Several newspapers praised the dignity of the women’s conduct and the audacity of their Declaration, speculating that it would live in memory until the next centennial. Others belittled them. The New York Tribune printed a sensationalized account in which the women “pushed their way vigorously through the crowd … [h]ustling generals aside, elbowing governors, and almost upsetting [the Brazilian Emperor] in their charge” (in fact, most reports indicated that the gentlemen courteously stepped aside as the ladies passed). The Tribune ominously predicted that this “very discourteous interruption … pre-figures new forms of violence and disregard of order which may accompany the participation of women in active partisan politics.”

The women were used to this sort of reception. Though revered in the history of women’s rights, the 1848 Declaration of Sentiments did not escape the scorn of the contemporary press and public—nor the nineteenth-century satire industry. The Declaration itself anticipated “misconception, misrepresentation, and ridicule,” and while it concluded with a defiant vow to persist in spite of them, it also revealed the challenge of doing so in a culture that aimed “to destroy [woman’s] confidence in her own powers.” As the Declaration circulated throughout the country, Stanton remarked sarcastically that “every man who could wield a pen prepared a homily on ‘woman’s sphere.’” For some women who originally signed the document, the reaction stirred enough self-doubt that they chose to withdraw their names.

The antislavery newspapers were stalwart allies, however, and one of strongest voices was that of Frederick Douglass, one of the 32 men who signed the Declaration of Sentiments. His post-convention editorial in The North Star called the Declaration “the basis of a grand movement,” yet acknowledged that “the bare mention of this truly important subject in any other than terms of contemptuous ridicule and scornful disfavor, is likely to excite against us the fury of bigotry and the folly of prejudice.” While many papers joined his in support, the reactionary side dismissed the women’s statement as a “ludicrous farce” and “a parody on the Declaration of Independence.”

The ridicule extended to literature as well. The nineteenth century loved a satire, and Stanton herself embraced it, both as an effective mode for countering opponents of women’s rights and for sheer fun. Visiting Ann Arbor in 1869, she joined a good-natured dinner-table debate where “[w]oman suffrage was the target for the combined wit and satire of the company, and, after four hours of uninterrupted sharpshooting, pyrotechnics, and laughter, we dispersed … fairly exhausted with the excess of enjoyment.” But less clever and humorous satire attempted to undermine women’s conviction in their cause.

The Clements holds an outlandish example of anti-women’s rights satire, with its own intriguing connection to both the Declarations of Sentiments and the Rights of Women. A Book for the Times: Lucy Boston; or, Woman’s Rights and Spiritualism: Illustrating the Follies and Delusions of the Nineteenth Century (Auburn and Rochester, N.Y., 1855) is a satirical novel published pseudonymously by “Fred Folio,” later identified as Rev. Frederick Jackson of New York. Writing in 1855, the author claimed to tell “a history of the future” in which, by the centennial year 1876, the women of New York have overturned the social and political order to become men’s “fair enslaver,” through their own “wiles” and the help of supernatural powers. “Folio” did not disclose precisely how he was able to foretell the triumph—and eventual downfall—of women’s rights; he only alluded to the possibility that his “pen may be but the passive tool of Spiritualism.” He expected that the “fanatical and splenetic, the prejudiced or malicious Spiritualist and Woman’s Rights clan” will “pour out the vials of their wrath” against him for “expos[ing] to public contempt the two greatest humbugs of modern times.”

Satirical marriage ceremony in Lucy Boston (1855).

The newly enfranchised women elect Lucy Boston as Governor and a female majority to the state assembly, whose signature legislation is an act to legalize “spiritual marriage,” or “Free Love.” Naturally, by the end of Folio’s tale, women’s ascendancy to power results in “universal stagnation” for business, agriculture, art, communication, and transportation. Only domestic life carries on, having been taken up by the industrious, if sometimes bumbling, men. Governor Boston calls for a restoration of the former political order and women’s return to “the Sphere … and duties for which they were designed.” She then happily abandons politics, women’s rights, Spiritualism, and of course, her bloomers to become the wife of a landlord.

Lucy Boston shows how extravagantly the women’s movement was satirized. It also reflects the irony of the attacks leveled at women when they engaged America’s founding principles in support of their rights. Rather than being taken seriously as political theorists, they were accused of merely parodying the American founders. On the other hand, they were—often at the same time—the target of parody. In spite of their rigorous legal and ethical claims, suffragists were in the frustrating position of defending the Declarations of Sentiments and Women’s Rights against ridicule more than against genuine critique. Lucy Boston expresses this dilemma when she tells Mr. Badger, “The blows of argument we can meet and parry, but against the shafts of ridicule and derision, we have no defense.”

The popularity of Lucy Boston and other contemporary satirical texts and caricatures shows that ridicule can be, in Lucy’s words, a “more formidable” foe than reason. The physical demonstrations of later suffragists are aweinspiring, but it also took true courage for the women of 1848 and 1876 to write and sign their names to declarations that were equally provocative and daring at the time. Still today, we risk provoking mockery and criticism when declaring our beliefs. We can be emboldened by the women of the past who were brave enough to laugh it off. 

Katie Jaede

Assistant Director of Development

Do declarations have to be written or spoken? I refer to the ways individuals communicate meaning, identity, and emotion through embodied, visual, or performative acts—not solely through written or spoken words. In this sense, expression itself becomes a form of declaration, capable of conveying intent and shaping interpretation. I recently viewed the papers of Elizabeth Whipps, a famed facial contortionist (a professional maker of funny faces) from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Her expressive face was pictured in newspapers, showing her talents through photos of the many and varied expressions that Elizabeth, or Bessie, as she was known, could perform. Her repertoire of facial expressions as a performance act enthralled me, and I argue that they are indeed a type of declaration.

A common theme I found throughout Bessie’s news articles, letters, and advertisements for performances was the constant mention of her looks. She was described in headlines as “the most remarkable face in America” and as requiring much less makeup than other performers due to her skills as a facial contortionist. Of course, her talent for facial manipulation was also discussed, even described as “the most extraordinary that I have seen.” However, alongside the accounts of these talents, there was almost always a mention of her good looks. As a modern reader, I hear this echoed today in the common tropes of beauty women face today, and that same scrutiny of how beauty was and is expressed. Bessie’s declarations of facial expression were celebrated by the press and critics while they also made obligatory mention of her beauty, an assigned feminine trait that women then faced and still grapple with today.

Yet when we look today at photos of Miss Whipps performing her facial tricks, fear is not the first thing that comes to mind, but rather a feeling of silliness and playfulness. The common parental warning about one’s face “getting stuck like that” was similarly applied to Bessie. These negative references speak to how women’s expressions and beauty were critically assessed at the turn of the century.

While her abilities as a performer were celebrated for their abnormality, she was still measured in part by her physical appearance, and was described as “remarkably pretty,” “a pretty and talented young girl,” and “the pretty girl of many faces.” The press celebrated her talent but in the same breath emphasized her physical beauty. Her appearance is even described as “sweet, fascinating, and demure.” “Sweet” and “demure” are well in line with the praised attributes of a woman at that time. So, even as her “extraordinary” talent was celebrated, she was still being critically assessed for her looks—as if it would be abhorrent for a woman to make such “grotesque” facial features if she weren’t also a beauty.

Bessie’s extraordinary and quirky talent was not only measured against her physical appearance but also against male performers of the era. Her origin story revolves around the actor Benoît-Constant Coquelin recognizing her talents when she was still an unknown and repeatedly attempting, unsuccessfully, to recruit her to join his performance company in Europe. Despite the acclaim she earned under her own name, she was sometimes billed as “The Female Marshall P. Wilder,” a reference to the contemporary actor, monologist, humorist, and sketch artist, implying that, to be considered a worthy performer, her talent had to be compared to a man’s. Her ability to manipulate her face was even compared to the writing of Charles Dickens—a compliment, to be sure, but one that failed to recognize her skills as singularly impressive without comparison to a male celebrity.

Four women who characterize the style of the Gibson Girl, with their coiffed hair and delicately feminine features, examine a tiny man under a microscope.

In considering the life and reception of Elizabeth Whipps, we are left with a striking example of how declarations of expression are never made in isolation, but rather are interpreted, reshaped, and at times constrained by the cultural expectations surrounding them. Bessie’s face—elastic, inventive, and wholly her own—became both her medium and her message, a living declaration that defied the fixed ideals of beauty and femininity of her era. Yet, as the collection of papers about her career at the Clements shows, even her most original expressions were filtered through a lens that sought to categorize, compare, and contain them. To revisit her story now is to recognize not only the remarkable individuality of her performances, but also the enduring tension between self-expression and societal interpretation. In this way, Bessie’s many faces continue to speak, inviting us to consider whose declarations are celebrated as art and whose are diminished as novelty, and how we might more fully honor expression in all its forms. 

Mary Pedley

Assistant Curator of Maps

What greater declaration can there be than naming a new nation? The “United States of America” made its first public appearance in Thomas Jefferson’s first draft of the Declaration of Independence and remained there until the final version: “In Congress, July 4, 1776 The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.” Maps similarly declare names and so enter the competition for the name that endures.

Another declaration on a map is its dedication, usually to a person either linked to the author or the work itself, often as an act of honor and homage. An early French map of the United States, published in Paris in 1784, was dedicated to Benjamin Franklin with a unique iconography in the title to match Franklin’s stature. The Carte des États- Unis de l’Amérique Suivant le Traité de Paix de 1783 Dediée et Presentée A S. Excellence Mr. Benjamin Franklin Ministre Plénipotentiaire des Etats-Unis de l’Amérique près la Court de France, anc[ien]. Présid[ent]. de la conventio[n] de Pensilvanie et de la Société Philosophique de Philadelphie &c &c Par son très humble et très obeissant Serviteur Lattré. 1784. (Map of the United States of America according to the Treaty of Peace of 1783. Dedicated and presented to his Excellency Mr. Benjamin Franklin, Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States of America to the Court of France, former President of the convention of Pennsylvania and of the Philosophical Society of Philadelphia By his very humble and very obedient Servant, Lattré.)

Detail from map of title cartouche.

Paris in 1784 buzzed with the news of the peace treaty negotiated between the victorious Americans and the defeated British, as the world watched a powerful nation lose her colonies. Benjamin Franklin was one of the chief negotiators of the treaty. Printer, essayist, scientist, and diplomat, Franklin had arrived in Paris in late 1776 to act as minister plenipotentiary for the fledgling United States, soon after the Declaration of Independence. Franklin was a popular figure in Paris, lionized by salon society, as contemporary prints show. He also pursued his scientific interests while there, attending meetings of the Académie des Sciences and continuing to conduct scientific experiments.

To find a Paris mapmaker paying his respects to Franklin and the young United States of America was no surprise. Jean Lattré (c. 1722?–1788) was a well-known and prolific engraver, printer, and mapseller, whose Carte des États-Unis de l’Amérique was designed to celebrate the connections between France and the United States and to pay homage to Franklin for his services both to his native country and to his hosts in France.

The map’s dedication, integral to the title, is displayed in a decorative cartouche in the form of a view of the foresail of a ship in full sail. Three seals incongruously hang amid the sails: one from the ship’s beam, that of the Society of the Cincinnati; another from the central mast, that of the United States of America; and the third of Benjamin Franklin himself, being hung from the beam by a sailor balancing precariously.

These three seals connect the subject matter of the map to its dedicatee, Benjamin Franklin, and to the French government. In the center, the seal of the United States commemorates the legitimization of the young country by the terms of the recently signed Treaty of Paris. The seal’s design is rooted in the deliberations over the Declaration of Independence in 1776. Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson had worked on a design of an earlier seal, which was not accepted by the Continental Congress. A later design was proposed by the Secretary of the Congress, Charles Thomson, assisted by William Barton of Philadelphia. An eagle grasps the arrows of war and the olive branch of peace in its talons and holds the Latin motto of the United States in its beak: e pluribus unum (out of many, one). Above the eagle, clouds surround thirteen stars, the thirteen original British colonies, now independent states. The design was adopted in 1782, and a die was cut from brass later that same year. Franklin had ordered another block to be cut in Paris for use on the published version of the Treaty of Paris. Franklin’s printer, Philippe-Denis Pierres, used the seal on the title pages of both the Constitutions des Treize Etats-unis de l’Amérique, and the Definitive treaty between Great Britain and the United States, both published in 1783 at Passy, on the west side of Paris, where Franklin lived. Franklin also used the seal for other official documents he issued as Minister Plenipotentiary. On the cartouche ship sail, the seal is repeated in faint outline imprinted on the flag billowing in the wind.

Until he had his own printing block of the official seal of the United States, Franklin had used his personal seal for identifying his own papers and books and as his official seal of office. This is the seal which the young sailor is hanging onto the yard. Franklin had devised this seal when he was a printer’s apprentice in Boston, designing his blazon in imitation of a coat of arms he had found associated with an English Franklin family. The arms comprise a pike’s head facing upward, two lion’s heads facing to their right, and a diagonal cross bar with two martins on either side of a dolphin. Such crests were usually associated with landed gentry and nobility, not men of the lower social orders like Franklin, but he justified the creation of his seal: “The first thing requisite in an almanac-writer is, that he should be descended of a great family and bear a coat of arms, this gives luster and authority to what a man writes, and makes the common people believe, that certainly this is a great man.”

The third seal on Carte des Etats-Unis is that of the Society of the Cincinnati, a group that honors the participation of the French army and navy in the War of American Independence. The society was founded in May 1783, with George Washington as its first president. Named in honor of the ancient Roman farmer turned patriot, who twice abandoned his plow to take up arms in defense of his country and returned to the fields after each war was over, the society was open to the officers of the Continental (American) Army and their French counterparts, in order “to perpetuate the memory of the revolution and their mutual devotion to it” by aiding the officers according to the three principles of financial, fraternal, and patriotic support. The society’s seal was designed by Pierre Charles l’Enfant, a member of the original society and the architect who laid out the city of Washington, D.C. It consists of an eagle with wings slightly spread and a roundel on its chest, in which Cincinnatus is depicted with his plow, and the name of the society written in Latin and its foundation date around the edge of the circle. The seal, also known as an “eagle,” was first manufactured sometime between December 1783 and April 1784 by the Paris goldsmiths Duval and Francastel. Lattré’s depiction of the seal on this map must be a very early representation of it in print.

Franklin himself felt a certain ambivalence about the Society of the Cincinnati, as he was concerned, rightly, that it would become a hereditary society rather than merely honoring the courage and patriotism of the participants in the war. Critics of the society accused it of creating an aristocracy in a country that valued liberty and equality. Franklin expressed this view privately, and supported the pamphlet describing these concerns by the Comte de Mirabeau.

Benjamin Franklin (1709-1790) was an immensely popular ambassador for the fledgling United States. His presence in Paris elicited the delirium today afforded to modern celebrities. He had visited Paris on earlier occasions, but arrived as a minister plenipotentiary in 1777 to encourage French participation in the war as an ally of the young republic and to act as the diplomatic face of the new United States. His success may be measured in the French provision of military support by land and sea to the Continental Army and financial support to a county whose trade was cut off from its colonial mother.

While Franklin worked tirelessly for the cause of the United States, he also found time and energy to pursue his scientific interests, making presentations to the Académie des Sciences, and doing his own bit of mapmaking. His ideas about the Gulf Stream were visualized by the Paris geographer Georges Le Rouge in a map of the ocean river (Maps 8-M-1770 Re).

Nothing in the voluminous Benjamin Franklin papers connects him with Jean Lattré, the publisher of the map. Although the title of the map says “dedicated and presented” to Franklin, no record of Lattré’s presentation has been recovered. Nonetheless, Franklin’s acquaintance with the circle of printers in Paris, his interest in mapmaking and acquaintance with Le Rouge could easily have included an introduction to Jean Lattré who, like Le Rouge, had an interest in the current events of the War of American Independence and in placing these events on maps. Lattré was an eminent engraver: graveur ordinaire du roi; graveur ordinaire de monseigneur le Dauphin (1767) and graveur ordinaire de monseigneur le duc d’Orléans et de la Ville [de Paris] (1771). He was eager to meet the demand for maps of the war and advertised English maps, imported from London, “relative to the present war in North America.” He was in regular touch with London mapmakers; his letters to William Faden during the War of American Independence, now in the Clements Library (Jefferys and Faden Collection) testify to his interest in the ongoing war. In 1777, he ordered the John Mitchell map of the British Empire, maps of the theater of war, of Canada, of the province of New York, of the area around Philadelphia, and of specific military operations. His map of the newly minted United States with its side panels of events was published as an aide-mémoire for up-to-date journalism.

The map’s publication in 1784, the year before Franklin’s departure in July 1785 from France to return to the United States and in the year of the formal ratification of the peace treaty between the United States and England, serves as an homage to the one man who successfully represented the alliance between France and the young nation. With his dedication to Franklin and the innovative display of the three seals, Lattré summarized and glorified the extraordinary victories of the War of American Independence.

Angela Oonk

Director of Development

It may sound like I’m especially excited about the legal language behind a bequest, a new fund agreement, or the gift of a large collection. The truth is more practical: Declarations of Intent, Gift Agreements, Bargain Sales, and Memorandums of Understanding can be some of the most time-consuming and complicated parts of my job. But they matter—because once they’re signed, they become part of the permanent record. Long after the donor and I are gone, those pages will still be here, quietly enduring as a lasting statement of intent.

In Margaret Maxwell’s book Shaping a Library: William L. Clements as Collector, she gives us the sense of just how important this documentation was to Clements. She chronicles numerous discussions, visits, and letters between 1916-1920 that led to a proposal for the formation of the library being formally accepted by the Regents. She then goes on to devote a chapter to the gift agreement (1920-1921), and later yet another entire chapter to its revision (1922).

Clements donated his remarkable collection of rare books, manuscripts, maps, and prints—along with resources to house and steward them—so that scholars and students could study the founding era and the nation’s development through original sources. The agreement marked a turning point for the university’s research mission, transforming a private passion into a public trust and creating a library that continues to preserve, expand, and share materials central to understanding America’s past.

University President Marion Burton also acknowledged the importance of the revised gift agreement as part of the historical record when he wrote to Clements in December 1922, “It rather inspires me to think how in the centuries to come students of American history and others interested in the welfare of this University will study the Agreement which we have been attempting to formulate.”

Begin with William Clements’ declaration. Continue it with yours. 

Any gift to the Clements is, in a real sense, a declaration of support—for preserving the fragile, irreplaceable evidence of the past and making it available for study. It says you believe primary sources still matter: the letters, maps, books, and documents that let us test ideas against the known narrative and tell fuller, truer stories. Whether it funds conservation, acquisitions, teaching, fellowships, or public programs, your generosity becomes a public commitment to stewardship and access—helping the Clements Library carry its mission forward for the next generation.

Gift Agreement

A well-crafted agreement puts your intentions in black and white: what you’re giving, how it should be used, how it will be stewarded over time, and how your support will be recognized. It’s the step that turns a generous idea into a durable commitment, giving the library clear guidance it can honor into the future.

On February 11, 1884 Eliza A. Cummings signed a contract with the Vermont Methodist Seminary giving the institution $500 on the condition that the Seminary pay her $30 per year until her death. This is an early example of a planned gift that we would now call a charitable gift annuity where an institution invests the initial gift and pays a percentage to the donor or their designate until their death at which time whatever is remaining in the corpus becomes a donation to the organization. Eliza died on March 13, 1895, so she would have received 10 years of payments. We don’t know how the sum was invested to know what the final amount was that the Seminary received.

Staff News

On account of the increasing volume of digitized manuscripts and other archival materials, we opened a new position to oversee the creation, proofreading, editing, and standardization of descriptive metadata. We are pleased to announce that Meghan Arends, formerly a Digitization Technician, has accepted this new role as Metadata Librarian

Due to the tremendous growth of the Clements Library’s collection of photography, senior staff identified a need for a curatorial role specifically focused on photographic material. We were able to create a new Assistant Curator of Graphics position, and are delighted that Jakob Dopp (former Graphics Cataloger) has been hired into this new role.

Library Director Paul Erickson has been on the road. He participated in a session at the Organization of American Historians conference in Philadelphia in April on “Writing Your Second Book NOW,” and was invited to participate in the opening plenary session of the annual conference of the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture in Nashville in June on the theme “Engaging Treasures: Archives, Libraries, and National Narratives in the 21st Century’s Revolutions.”

The Clements Library congratulates Digitization Specialist Ella Johnson as she embarks on the next chapter of her career, pursuing a graduate degree in Information Science. 

Librarian for Instruction and Engagement Maggie Vanderford submitted the final version of her doctoral dissertation, “The Vermicular Imagination in Eighteenth-Century Literature (1660–1760),” to the Department of English at UCLA in March. She will receive her Ph.D. in June. Congratulations to Dr. Vanderford!

Ava Wilcox joined the Manuscripts Division as a Processing Assistant in February 2026. She received her BA in History from Wellesley College in 2025, and has previously worked at the Leventhal Map and Education Center at the Boston Public Library and the Geography & Map Division of the Library of Congress.

Board of Governors Updates

In Memoriam

John R. Axe passed away on February 1, 2026, after a battle with cancer. He was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and studied Political Science at the University of Michigan before attending and graduating from Harvard Law School. He had a strong passion for law, and was admired for his expertise in municipal law. 

John was also an insatiable reader with a love of history. He collected, among other items, maps, war posters, and sports ephemera. Every piece in his collection contained a story, which John was always eager to share. John also shared his collections with the Clements, donating a number of maps to the library. These included Bellin’s map of the Great Lakes, one of the earliest appearances on a map of Detroit, the Port of Chicago, and the four fictitious islands in Lake Superior. In addition to the fictitious islands, the map also shows an imaginary mountain range in Michigan. John’s love of the Clements ran deep, as he served on the CLA Board of Governors for nearly 25 years.

New Members

Welcome to new board members Ben Grimmett (Wayland, Mass.), Lee Rucker Keiser (Bethesda, Md.), Denise Kiernan (Asheville, N.C.), Julian Mortenson (Ann Arbor, Mich.), Lori Rumley (Grosse Ile, Mich.), Alyce Sigler (Ann Arbor, Mich.), and Greg Zimmerman (Ann Arbor, Mich.).

Farewell

In her 36 years as a CLA Board member, Sally Kennedy has graced the Clements Library with her generosity and deep knowledge of history. Described as a “walking encyclopedia of history,” Sally has family roots at West Point and in the Schuyler family. During her time as a board member, she funded the David B. Kennedy Fellowship, named after her late husband. Sally and Dave were also instrumental in funding the ceiling restoration in the Avenir Foundation Room in the early 2000s. She retired at the May CLA Board of Governors meeting.

All board portraits by Michigan Photography.