In the winter of 1882–83, 27-year-old Charlie Siringo found himself on a lonely ranch in the northern part of Indian Territory with eight other cowboys. He was a literate Matagorda County fellow who had attended public school through age 15 and proposed that, to help pass the time, they pool their money by paying a fine for every curse word they uttered or if they were “caught picking grey backs off and throwing them on the floor without first killing them” and put it toward subscribing to some “choice literature—something that would have a tendency to raise us above the average cow-puncher.” Everyone agreed, and within 24 hours they had collected enough money for a subscription. But Siringo was surprised when the group, including two illiterate young Texans, voted for the Police Gazette, the sex/crime, girly/pinup magazine of the day. Why would you want to buy that “wicked Sheet,” he asked them. “’Cause we can read the pictures,” the cowboys shouted in unison, testifying to the impact that mass production of images had in 19th-century America, when Texas came of age.
The Police Gazette was but one of a number of pictorial magazines, newspapers, books, and separately issued prints that increasingly made pictures inescapable as the 19th century became known as the age of the illustrated press. Images of the American West poured from the government and other publishers as part of the effort to publicize and settle the newly acquired and explored territory. One correspondent noted in a widely published essay that the pictorial press provided “a series of truthful representations of various points … which afford, probably, a better idea of the lay of the land, the general appearance and characteristic of the country, than is to be had from the most elaborate written description. These will, doubtless, soon adorn the table of every farmer in the land, and exert an important influence in giving direction to many who are looking to the West for their future home.”
And an unnamed commentator for The Churchman concluded that, “It is no disparagement to their brilliant literary quality to suggest that the publishers find their account rather in the burin of the engravers than in the brains of their contributors.” Currier & Ives were in their prime, Boston lithographer Louis Prang returned from research into new lithographic techniques in Europe to introduce the Christmas card to America in 1874, and tobacco and coffee companies blanketed the country with various collectible full-color cards, from baseball players to policemen to cowboys.
The “ubiquitous chromo” became so common and cheap that the prim and influential editor of The Nation, E. L. Godkin, confronted with the high-profile society scandals of the day, condemned the age as a “chromo-civilization.” And Texas was no exception. In 1865, offended because the state was “deluged with worthless pictorial publications from the North,” a Galveston Daily News editor urged that parents shield their children from “the imperfect wood-cut or the colored lithograph.” But the pictures continued to come, many of them of Texas itself. Today, they offer a gateway to the history of the Lone Star State in its most formative period. The images reprinted here offer just a glimpse at the vast collection that is Texas Lithographs, and help paint a composite image of the state that emerged as lithography, a new method of printing discovered at the onset of the 19th century, became one of the dominant processes for printing pictures.
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