22.09.2014 – A New (Old) Project.

Monday, 22nd September, 2014.

A New-Old Project.

You may remember, many moons ago, that I was working on transcribing some of WEG’s letters. Well, it’s started up again – and this time with computers. I know how to do what I’m doing, but I don’t quite know how to explain it. The librarian mentioned something along the lines of metadata, palaeography, Dublin core, granubobulating (I may have made that one up) and some other things that will look marvellous on my CV. I have over 550 to complete by Christmas.

It all sounds fun and lovely and wonderful…and then I come up against letters like this.

10 year old WEG obviously didn’t have time to write neatly.

To be fair, I’ve come across some pretty good letters. They make WEG (the founder of gladlib) into WEG (the man). I came across one to his wife which made me smile; he’d left the keys to his London House at home –

Allow me to translate (check out my palaeographical skillz!)…

Thomas made a mistake about my key and I alas a little one; I fully believed my London keys were in my travelling box but on arriving have discovered that I must have put them back in my table drawer. Please let Agnes open it & find them. Probably in the right compartment. They are a ring of 6 or 7 keys of various sizes not one of four.

Please ask Thomas whether a set of new socks are in my drawer at Hawarden? If so, I shall want ½ dozen pairs…

Bless him.

He also wrote a note at the bottom of one of his other letters which made me laugh, considering the hours I have and will spend deciphering his handwriting…

‘I hope he is better, there is a blank in your letter wholly unintelligible.’

Really, WEG?!

01.09.2014 – Queen Victoria.

Monday, 1st September, 2014

Victoria and her Albert.

~ Just a bit of a warning, this one gets philosophical! ~

It’s not stretching the truth too much to say that I’m still shattered from the wedding. The good thing about the library is that there are always a million different things to do. On a day like today, when I’m still emotionally and mentally exhausted, it’s nice to be able to switch off my brain and do some manual labour.

When I say manual labour, I mean moving books. I don’t mean the standard sized books, though. Today I was rearranging the oversize collection.

I’ve told you about oversize before. Some of the books are massive. Some were so big I couldn’t even lift them. Add that to the heavy bookplates that are attached either side and it’s quite a work out. Moving the books from the bottom shelf to the top shelf made my arms shake, and some of the books are so old that I have to make sure I manoeuvre them gently into their places – absolutely no dropping, scuffing or sliding.

As is usual when I’m amongst the stacks and the many books, I was distracted for much of the day. I found a beautifully decorated book which I’m pretty certain should be in the WEG collection (we’re still finding them amongst the normal books 100 years on).

I’m not distracted for hours; I just read a chapter here and there. Despite all of the archaic looking, beautifully decorated books surrounding it, this book was the one that caught my eye.

I suppose I’ve always thought of Queen Victoria in the childish ‘one is not amused’ kind of way. I’ve never been very interested in the personal lives of the famous in history (apart from the Romantics – and Vikings – of course). I’ve always tended to go towards the stories of the ‘normal’ people, the peasants, the maids. In Downton Abbey and Upstairs Downstairs, it’s always the lives of Downstairs that are infinitely more interesting.

Perhaps it was because I’ve watched Tooth and Claw (the Doctor who episode) recently, when the David Tennant Doctor and Rose encounter Queen Victoria. Although the standard amusement of Russell T. Davies emerges with Rose and the Doctor making a bet on who can make her say ‘not amused’, her character has another dimension which I always knew about but never really though about – her deep love and mourning for her late husband.

The chapter in this book, then, that most stood out to me was this one.

It seems to me that in society you are allowed a certain amount of time for public mourning, usually up to the date of the funeral. It is then that the mourning becomes closer knit, limited to close family and friends. Eventually it turns inward, and becomes a very intimate kind of mourning that nobody talks about. I’m sure everyone has those times, just like I do, when something triggers a memory of someone who has died, and for at least the rest of the day they stay with you in your mind.

Queen Victoria, however, was a woman who had the power to maintain this mourning publicly. She is an example of someone who has been forced to confront the ultimate fear (at least mine); losing someone that you utterly and devotedly love. She had the power to sustain this loss and mourning without anyone telling her that she had to draw it inwards. It’s fascinating, psychologically; although it feels harsh at the time, quietening the wails of loss helps you to clear your mind and accept that your loved one has gone. Queen Victoria is an example of someone who could not be told to be quiet and move on; she was not (as) constrained by society. The only man whom she would allow to advise her was the one who had died.

She was allowed, and allowed herself, to wallow in the despair of his loss. She ordered that life should go on as if he were still alive. With no one to counteract her, the servants duly laid out his clothes every morning and brought up a bowl of hot water for him to bathe. Wherever she went, she brought a picture of him with her and would sleep on the same side of the bed she always had, with a photo of him hanging over his side.

Her life became driven by ideas that he had spoken of; he had decided on a match for their son, and she was determined that the match would go ahead. ‘It is my firm resolve, my irrevocable decision, that his wishes – his plans – about everything, his views about every thing are to be my law! And no human power will make me swerve from what he decided and wished.’

During the wedding ceremony was one of the only times when she was forced to accept that he was not alive; seeing her children walk alone down the aisle, without their father where he should have been, she wrote that ‘it was indescribable. At one moment, when I first heard the flourish of trumpets, which brought back to my mind my whole life of twenty years at his dear side, safe, proud, secure, and happy, I felt as if I should faint. Only by a violent effort could I succeed in mastering my emotions!’

You can see in the plate that she refused to be a part of the wedding party; she watched from above (in the top left hand corner). She wrote that the day he died was ‘the day my life came to an end.’

As an atheist, I often wish that I could believe in an afterlife. Each time I lose someone, to me they have simple disappeared. The synapses have stopped firing and everything that that person was has disappeared, like a candle being blown out. There is no chance of meeting them again someday in a wonderful place. This chapter really showed me that you cannot dwell on the people you lose. Abiding by the unspoken rule that at some point not too soon after someone dies you have to start moving on leads to a much healthier understanding of life. They become a part of you; I still hear the voices of people who have died when I’m doing things that they would have liked or something that we did together before. For example, there was a wonderful lady who I was close to when I visited her in Canada. It was slightly different because she knew that she was dying of cancer. I can still hear her words of wisdom even now; her telling me that it’s healthier to eat six small meals a day than three big ones; telling me that the power of positive thinking will help to find you a car parking space on a busy day; that we will go out in the wind and rain because we are British, and are made of sterner stuff. When I am at (Indian) family functions, I can still vividly remember my Naniji grasping my hand and leaning her weight on me the last time we went on a hospital visit, saying in her broken English, ‘You are my grand-daughter.’

24.07.2014 – In Which I Begin Romantic Conversations.

Thursday, 24th July, 2014

In Which I Begin Romantic Conversations.

Despite the library being 19^th Century, there is a (to me, disturbing) lack of focus on the Romantic Age. Of course I’ve already found the Keats section, but it’s not even in the same building; it’s in our off site facility. I’ve decided that in my time here I’m going to remedy it. I’m amazed that, despite being a member of a Welsh University for over four years, I’d never heard of this place. Put that with Romanticism being a huge area of study in the literary world and I think it makes sense to emphasise on our Romantic section.

I’m beginning an ongoing set of Study Guides for the library that I’m entitling Romantic Conversations. Writing, and especially poetry, is irrevocably linked to its own context. Although it can (and arguably, should) be read by itself, it is impossible to view it in a vacuum. I was taught that to fully understand and appreciate Romantic poetry, you must understand the relationships between poet and politics, poet and landscape and poet and other poets.

I genuinely have no idea how I’m going to simplify Keats down to a single page. I decided about halfway through my Masters that I love his work too much to study it. I decided that I would build my collection around him, and his guide can be the finale. I have started with Wordsworth. It seemed fitting as he was part of what I refer to as the first-gen Romantic poets, he belonged to the Lake school of poetry and as far as I know it is widely accepted that he (with Coleridge) launched Romantic poetry with Lyrical Ballads. It was also easier (and I know this is bad) because I’ve cooled off from his work because (I know this is also bad) he was mean to John Thelwall, bless him. This has nothing to do with the fact that Keats was also disillusioned to him. (Honest).

As I started researching, the list of names I will need to add to the collection grew and grew. It’s definitely going to be a work in progress.

20.07.2014 – The Temple of Doom.

Sunday, 20th July, 2014

The Temple of Doom.

…I mean the Temple of Peace.

Today an opportunity presented itself which only comes around once a year. Perhaps the best introduction is the one I give in my daily tour (yes, I do daily tours now! How fancy!)

”Gladstone was one of the Great Victorians. Besides being four timesprime minister, four ties chancellor of the exchequer, walking vast distances in snowdina and the Scottish highlands and chopping down innumerable trees, he also found time to read and make notes in approximately 22,000 books. He lived in Hawarden Castle, just half a mile down the road, and created a magnificent study which he referred to as his Temple of Peace. Despite his castle, he still didn’t have enough room for his ever-evolving collection of books.’

And that’s where I’ll leave it. I know you’re all on tenterhooks; you’ll just have to come on a tour to find out what happened.

Anyway, today we were given the opportunity to see inside his Temple of Peace. The Gladstone family has preserved his study exactly as it was on the day he died and once a year it is opened to the special few who attend our Gladstone Umbrella conference (and the most special of interns of course). The estate could have been used in Downton Abbey. There was even ethereal music floating around the building, as we were informed that it was ‘practice for the proms.’ By music, I mean an entire orchestra. We were given a few moments to take in the building where people actually live. I half expected a flurry of maids of butlers to scurry outside and curtsey to us.

When I walked in, I decided that it is my life’s goal to have a study like this. This can be my midlife crisis when it manifests itself. It was surreal to see the desk at which he was so often depicted, hunched over scribbling notes or leaning back perusing a volume.

There was even a pitch black room to explore, with some creepy old books in it, complete with spiders webs hanging thickly over the doorway. That crazy marketing intern suggested it was where he planned to keep Disraeli (Gladjoke!).

I had one of those very surreal meta-moments when I looked at his desk. It was exactly as he left it – exactly – on the day he died. His iconic desk was like this. He left it like this. He saw it like this.

People had signed the guestbook as Professor…, Doctor… or …C.B.E, so I naturally signed it Master of Arts and the marketing intern signed it Ba (Hons). Gladstone would have been proud.

11.07.2014 – When Keats Resides by Chapman.

Friday, 11th July, 2014

When Keats resides by Chapman.

The other day, I was looking for something to put on @gladlib’s twitter. I try to put on at least one interesting thing a day, with a photo if possible. Naturally, my mind turned to Keats. I create problems for myself with the romanticised (both capitalised and not) notion that I want to experience the joy of discovering new Keatsian lines throughout my life, so I intentionally haven’t yet read all of his poems. The closest reference I found to weather (and it wasn’t really weather he was referring to) was

And every leaf, and every flower

Pearled with the self-same shower.

Not so useful for a sunny day. Then I had something of a light bulb moment. I’ve studied ‘On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer,’ and as I’m currently residing in the library of a man who loved the ‘greats’ and the ‘classics’ it seemed appropriate.

On first looking into Chapman’s Homer

MUCH have I travell’d in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men

Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Blackwood’s Magazine was not a fan of Keats. Unfortunately our Blackwood’s collection doesn’t go back as far as Keats’ time, which would have made interesting reading. From what I have read of their articles, however, it is perhaps a blessing as it prevents the injustice that I would inevitably feel.

There was a particularly scathing article in Blackwood’s (as if they weren’t all scathing) which seized upon the fact that Keats was not educated in classical languages, and ‘knew Homer only from Chapman.’ Perhaps Gladstone would not have approved of this, but Keats basked in the ‘realms of gold’ that Chapman’s translation presented to him.

This prompted me to go searching for Chapman’s translation. I knew that WEG was was a fan of the classics, and as he and Keats briefly shared the same years in history it would be unusual for him to not own the translation.

When I found it, I was very excited (more excited than you should be in a library). Not only was I reading the words that Keats himself read, but the translation was situated just around the corner from Gladstone’s Selected Poems of Keats. What would Keats have thought about his work being in the same library, let alone the same area, of Chapman’s Homer? He, who believed his name was Writ in Water.

Gladstone himself had some very nice things to say in the margins of his Keats volume, but that’s for another blog post.

10.07.2014 – Jane Austen’s Face.

Thursday, 10th July, 2014

Jane Austen’s Face.

Today, I found an article in the Guardian entitled ‘New Jane Austen waxwork uses forensic science to model ‘the real Jane’.’

At first I was curious. When I saw it, I was quite surprised. Despite her stories, I read that she had at one point discouraged her niece from marrying her true love and marry a rich aristocrat. This led me to imagine her as one of the plump old aunties from her stories.

It was strange seeing her face; until today, I don’t know what I thought she looked like. The descriptions of her had always been vague. It was that moment when your view of someone has changed forever, but you don’t know what it was before; like seeing an actor play your favourite character in a book.

There were a few descriptions, but it’s hard to know whether they are meant to be flattering or truthful. If they are, I would have expected a smaller nose and perhaps rosier cheeks.

Then my thoughts raced back to the ever-raging debate in my mind of historicism vs. the worth of a text on its own. My generation was always taught that to understand a work, you have to research the author and their background will give you the answer. In recent years though, with the help of lecturers, I’ve been slowly extricating myself from that school of thought. Although it is undeniable that historicism and context can enrich a poem (such as Keats’s To Autumn, as enriched by Richard Marggraf Turley), I think that a work can hold a very different meaning if it stands alone.

With this in mind, does it matter what Jane Austen looked like? Does it matter if she was a grumpy old aunt, or a young attractive maiden? We will only be able to tell when we read her work again with this image of her in my mind.

So are you ready to see her? Things cannot be unseen.

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16.06.2014 – In Which I Ponder the Seaside.

Monday, 16th June, 2014

In Which I Ponder the Seaside.

Today, this book appeared on the enquiry desk.

I flicked through it searching for the classmark, when this caught my eye.

I instantly recognised the much-visited seafront of my beloved Aberystwyth. As I looked through the pages, I saw places that I visited when I was younger; Ilfracombe, Lynton & Lynmouth and even places that had recently become special to me; Exmouth and Sidmouth (though no photos of Budleigh Salterton!) The book seemed to be commemorating the places where I was happiest; there’s something about the seaside that lends a certain joy and excitement to humankind.

Seeing Victorian people on the same beaches as I had been was a strange experience. It seems surreal that a place like Aberystwyth, which I love so dearly, could have meant the same to someone a hundred years ago. It seems strange that the places where I and my housemates would spend evenings having barbecues and watching the Sunset was the same place that Victorians,right out of a Dickens novel, would sit in full attire, and even ‘urchins’ (as the book puts it) would play in the sand.Places like Sidmouth, which are still so clear in my memory, look different; not because of the place, but because of the people. They lend an entirely different atmosphere.

As I studied the photographs, it struck me how odd it is to go to a beach. People love the sea. A day is considered well spent if we were to sit on a sandy beach staring at the ebb and flow. Everyone in the photos are setting up to eat or putting up parasols, but what they all look – and it brings the reality home – is a bit uncomfortable. Propping themselves up, they choose to sit on a beach of sand when they (and we) spend most of the time trying to prevent any sand from getting on us. People are sat awkwardly, trying to keep their balance on the floor that gives way under too much pressure.

It’s a lot like deciding to read in the sunshine. Even here at Gladstones, on a sunny day we will choose to go outside after work and take a book. Whilst it sounds lovely, in reality the sunshine will reflect off the pages of the book in a blinding glare, the wind will blow your hair everywhere and the pages over, andit’s never that comfortable being hunched over a picnic table. Yet, we choose to do it over and over again. People choose to go to the beach over and over again. People congregate to the nearest bit of sand when it’s sunny, myself included. Although I know it will be sandy, windy and uncomfortable, I would go to the beach tomorrow if I could.

And this book showed me that human nature never changes. On the beaches, people always smile. Even when I lived two minutes from the beach (both at Aberystwyth and Budleigh Salterton), the sea was always interesting and I could quite happily sit down for half an hour and just watch the waves. It’s not just me, either; everyone who lives near the coast seems to feel a draw to the ocean every day. There’s an excitement as you walk up the hill towards it; though you have seen it many times, it’s like seeing it afresh; it fills you with the same joy, the same calm. Moving away from the sea back to a city is like leaving someone you love behind. I can’t wait for the next time I can see the sea.

Even Clovelly made it into the book, a wonderful place of sunshine and bucolic utopia, which I find is the place that I allude happy holidays to.