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From Cradle to Grave: The Beveridge Report at 75

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As the Beveridge Report reaches its 75th anniversary Helen O’Neill, Archive, Heritage & Development Librarian takes a look at this landmark report.

The economist and social reformer, William Henry Beveridge (1879-1963) entered Whitehall as a civil servant in July 1908 and became a member of the Library in 1912 when he was thirty-three years old. During the Liberal government of 1906 – 1914 he advised David Lloyd George on old age pensions and national insurance. In 1941 Churchill’s wartime government commissioned a report into the ways Britain should be rebuilt after World War Two and Beveridge was appointed chair. Between 1941 and 1942, in his role as chair of the Inter-departmental Committee on Social Insurance and Allied Services, Beveridge wrote a landmark report which was laid on the table of the House of Commons at 3pm on 1 December 1942 and was presented to Parliament the following day. Known as the Beveridge Report it laid the foundations for the welfare state.

The report identified five ‘Giant Evils’ that the government needed to address: ‘Want, Disease, Ignorance, Squalor and Idleness’ and made recommendations for tackling them which included the establishment of a free national health service and government policies to maintain full employment.  The Beveridge Report proposed a system of social insurance which protected citizens ‘from cradle to grave’ funded by all working people paying a weekly contribution to the state. Beveridge aimed to ensure that there was an acceptable minimum standard of living in Britain below which nobody fell.

The Library has an original copy of the Beveridge Report, currently on display in the main Reading Room. The report garnered enormous popular support both at home and abroad when it was published in 1942.  It was seen as the light at the end of the tunnel of war and a promise of social justice once hostilities had ended.  It was translated into several languages and it circulated amongst Allied forces. It even caught the attention of Goebbels who realised its importance to Allied moral.

At home Beveridge characterized the Government’s response to the report in 1942 as one of “marked reserve” and felt himself increasingly ignored. After the landslide Labour victory in the 1945 general election, the welfare state proposals recommended in the Beveridge Report were introduced.

The Beveridge Report changed British society. Applaud

ed, translated, emulated, contested, embattled and defended, its influence continues today. As Jane Beveridge wrote in Beveridge and His Plan in 1954, it marked a new beginning in the relation between citizens and state:

“Whether you like it or not, whether you are glad or sorry, the Beveridge Report was the inauguration of a new relation within the State of man to man, and of man to the State, not only in this country but throughout the world.  The ethic of the universal brotherhood of man was here enshrined in a plan to be carried out by every individual member of the community on his own behalf and on behalf of his fellows.”

Helen O’Neill

Archive, Heritage & Development Librarian

William Henry Beveridge, economist and social reformer joined the Library in 1912 when he was thirty-three. Thirty years later he wrote the Beveridge Report which laid the foundations for the welfare state.

The Beveridge Report was presented to Parliament on 2 Dec 1942. Its recommendations were adopted by the Labour government after their general election victory in 1945.

Beveridge spoke to capacity crowds about the report. In his autobiography he described the huge public support for the report as “the Boom” and the government’s reaction to it as “the Boycott”.

Beveridge was President of the Social Insurance League which campaigned for the introduction of the Beveridge Report. This pamphlet, from the Library’s collections, was published by the Social Insurance League before Beveridge’s recommendations were adopted.

 

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A Class Act: Howards End, E.M. Forster and the London Library

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As the second of a new four-part adaptation of E.M. Forster’s novel Howards End airs on the BBC on Sunday evening, Helen O’Neill, Archive, Heritage & Development Librarian considers E.M. Forster’s long association and lasting legacy to the London Library.

The works of E.M. Forster are part of our shared cultural heritage. When I re-read A Room With a View, Howards End or Maurice I see the Merchant Ivory films of the 1990s but Forster’s works continue to surface as cultural touchstones, as this new adaptation shows, because they are written on the fault lines of class, gender, sexuality and empire. Less well known than his novels and the Merchant Ivory films is Forster’s long association with The London Library. His connection to the Library lasted an astonishing 66 years and followed the trajectory of his writing life. He joined as a life member in 1904 at the age of 25; became a committee member over 30 years later, serving in the post for thirteen years and then lent the weight of his name to the Library by accepting an honorary position as Vice-President in 1960: a post he held for a decade until his death in 1970.

Forster was a dedicated committee member serving during the height of the London Blitz. He was in attendance at committee meetings directly after the devastation caused by a German bomb, which hit the Library in 1944, decimating five floors of book stacks and destroying 16,500 books. After the blast the committee met hurriedly in a room in the basement of the National Portrait Gallery to take stock and plan for a speedy return to normal service. Forster’s support of the Library never wavered. When the Library found itself in choppy financial waters in 1960 he donated his only manuscript of A Passage to India to a fundraising auction of manuscripts, books and art work held at Christie’s to raise funds for the Library. His manuscript realized £7,500: the highest price at that time, for any manuscript by a living author. Before the auction his voluminous manuscript was busily collated by a member of London Library staff, Oliver Stallybrass. A note to Stallybrass from Forster while he was attempting to collate the manuscript survives and is currently on display in the Library’s Reading Room. It opens with the words “I don’t envy you” and closes with a postscript “P.S. A last search has revealed masses more …”

Forster even paid for two life membership subscriptions as a way of shoring up his support of the Library. The Library turns up casually in his letters and diaries and in 1941 he penned a landmark article on the Library to mark its centenary. First published in The New Statesman and Nation in 1941 it was included in his post-war collection of essays Two Cheers for Democracy a decade later and contains some of the most eloquent writing on the Library’s purpose and character and more broadly on the role of libraries as knowledge repositories. Penned during the London Blitz, Forster’s wartime essay is as relevant and as potent today as it was in 1941. As bombs fell on London, Forster claimed the Library was a promise of sanity, a symbol of civilization which catered “for creatures who are trying to be human.” His essay was more than an endorsement of the Library; it was a reflection on the destructibility of knowledge. “Knowledge” he wrote “will perish if we do not stand up for it and testify. It is never safe, never harvested. It has to be protected.”

E.M. Forster’s joining form to the Library dating from 1904.

The flyleaf of a 1939 edition of Howards End inscribed by E.M. Forster to Rose Macaulay in June 1941 which was bequeathed by Rose Macaulay to the Library in 1959.

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The 95 Theses – a Tale of Survival

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To mark the 500th anniversary of the Reformation, Jane Haslam looks at the story behind one of the most remarkable items in The London Library’s collection – an original, and extremely rare, copy of one of the three editions of Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses known to have been printed in 1517. 

Exactly five hundred years ago, during Vespers on All Hallows’ Eve in 1517, a notice appeared, nailed to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg (an emerging Saxon town in North-East Germany), inviting discussion over the sale of Papal indulgences in the neighbouring provinces of Brandenburg and Saxony-Anhalt. It was usual practice to advertise topics for academic debate on the church doors of University towns – a notice board for a captive audience. This particular disputation was authored by Fr. Martin Luther, an Augustinian friar, doctor of theology and University lecturer. The text ran to a total of ninety-five items for discussion and, as every school child knows, Luther’s action is considered to pin-point the exact moment when the Reformation began. Within months the German Church was in ferment and Christendom torn asunder. The repercussions have reverberated throughout half a millennium.

The process of affixing notices to church doors was so familiar, so ordinary, that no-one thought to make record of the moment. We are left in the dark as to whether Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses were printed or hand written, whether they were nailed solely to the Castle Church door or onto every other church door in Wittenberg and, most significantly, whether they were nailed or posted anywhere at all. Academics have been, and remain, divided as to the veracity of the story.

The selling of Papal indulgences was an established practice – guilty sinners would part with their money and receive in return letters of safe conduct through Purgatory for themselves and their deceased relatives. The advent of the printing press during the 1440’s had enabled the mass production of  indulgences. Producing more meant selling more; boosting the income of the Church. Sales of indulgences had been banned by the Elector Friedrich in Saxony but many Wittenbergers crossed the border into Brandenburg and Saxony-Anhalt attracted by Johannes Tetzel, a well-known indulgence preacher.

The question remains how a pedestrian call for debate became the spark from which the Reformation took light. Luther maintained his innocent intentions, but there can be no doubt that once he realised what was happening, and saw how eagerly and quickly his Theses were shared and re-printed, he undertook to mobilise one of the greatest populist movements in history.

Over the centuries, many words have been written about the Reformation, millions of which have been published over the past year or so alone. A quick scan of the London Library Catalogue turns up dozens of monographs and articles, and in this quincentenary year prominent religious and academic institutions are holding conferences and symposia and mounting real and virtual exhibitions.

The London Library is commemorating too because we hold one of the very few remaining copies of the Ninety-Five Theses that were printed in 1517.

Three editions are known to have been printed at the time and it is thought that each were printed within a fortnight of the nailing of the disputations to the church door. There are two broadsheet or placard editions – attributed to printers Joseph Thanner of Leipzig and Hieronymus Höltzel of Nürnberg – and one quarto or pamphlet edition attributed to Adam Petri of Basel. The Library holds an original from the Petri print run.

The three editions show us how swiftly the word was spreading in late 1517. The Thanner broadsheet is set with haste, untidy and full of mistakes. The compositor, clearly under pressure, numbers each thesis in sequence using Arabic numerals but becomes muddled as item 24 becomes 42; 27 becomes 17; and 46 hovers in the middle of item 45, 75 in the middle of 74 leaving a nominal tally of 87. The Höltzel impression is neater and cleaner; an experienced compositor uses Arabic numbers in three sets of twenty-five and one of twenty, a pilcrow marks the beginning of each.The Petri pamphlet uses lower case Roman numerals in sets of twenty-five and twenty, each piece of text is indented. Not as cleanly set as the Höltzel impress, the Petri has a standard print-shop woodcut capital ‘D’ as decoration but the composition is a little loose. During the printing of the Library copy, it appears an enthusiastic or possibly harassed apprentice over inked the type face prior to the paper being laid upon it and the printed sheet was not pulled cleanly from the press. Once the paper had dried our copy was folded twice to make the quarto pamphlet, sent from Petri’s print shop, and distributed from Basel.

Unfortunately, it is impossible to ascertain where our Petri edition went from there: the provenance of the London Library copy is sketchy and open to conjecture. What we know for certain is that The London Library acquired it in 1921. It was delivered to St. James’ Square from the Methodist Central Hall in Westminster which was acting as a temporary repository of The Allan Library. Thomas Allan was a 19th century bibliophile and his passion drove him to scour Northern Europe for any and every book of a religious theme. Charles Theodore Hagberg Wright, Librarian, was eager to acquire this substantial collection in order to supplement The London Library’s German Collections in which he had a specific interest. Thanks to a lack of commitment by the Methodist Conference, and canny manoeuvring by The London Library, a huge resource of 21,500 volumes packed with historically significant gems was had for a song and the Ninety-Five Theses came to The London Library as part of that collection. Today, Allan’s acquisitions not only supplement and enhance the Library’s enviable German Collection but they also form the substantial core of the Library’s Special Collections.

One can only guess where this copy of the Ninety-Five Theses was during the three hundred and fifty years prior to Thomas Allan acquiring it in the early 1860s. Unfortunately, his acquisition records and invoices have not survived, so it is impossible to pin down where any of the collection originated or how much it cost.   Thomas Allan stored his collection in packing cases in Baker Street until he gifted it to the Methodist Conference in 1886 where the majority remained packed away, firstly on City Road and then at Methodist Central Hall in Westminster. On transferring to St James’s Square the Ninety-Five Theses was catalogued on 28th October 1921, bound between plain boards and shelved in the recently constructed new glass floored stacks. This seemingly insignificant four-page pamphlet then survived nearly eighty years on the open shelves. When the Anstruther Wing opened in 1999 to house the Special Collections, Allan’s Reformation books were transferred there and it is where our pamphlet now resides in a dust-free, temperature-controlled environment.

It doesn’t matter whether Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-Five Theses to the Castle Church door in Wittenberg or not, the story survives, as does one of only a handful of copies of the only contemporary quarto printing. Half a millennium after it was pulled from the press, now newly bound and about to be digitised, the London Library copy of the Petri edition of Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses reaches its quincentenary both treasured and preserved.

 

Jane Haslam

The Library’s copy of one of the three editions of Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses known to have been printed in 1517

The Thanner broadsheet –
printed by Joseph Thanner of Leipzig – is set with haste and contains numerous setting errors.

The Höltzel edition: attributed to printer Hieronymus Höltzel of Nürnberg and the second of the two broadsheet or placard editions

The London Library’s copy of the Petri pamphlet edition. The type face was over-inked prior to the paper being laid upon it and the printed sheet was not pulled cleanly from the press

The Ninety-Five theses formed part of the 21,500 strong collection of Thomas Allan acquired by The London Library in 1921.

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The Wilde Side: Oscar Wilde and the London Library

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On 19 May 1897, exactly 120 years ago today Oscar Wilde was released from Reading jail. As part of her series of blogs on the London Library and the Victorians and to mark this Wildean anniversary Helen O’Neill, our Archive, Heritage & Development Librarian, reveals some of the Library’s connections to Oscar Wilde’s life and work and takes a look at some special editions from the Library’s collections.

There was no more sensational trial or public fall from grace in the Victorian era than that of the writer, playwright and cultural icon, Oscar Wilde. Secreted in the Library’s Victorian membership ledgers are the names of Oscar Wilde’s wife, Constance; his publishers John Lane and Algernon Marshall Methuen; and his illustrator Aubrey Beardsley.  Constance appears in the Library’s membership records in 1894 giving her occupation or position as “Wife of Oscar Wilde Esq”.  Within a year of joining the Library her husband was serving a two year prison sentence with hard labour and the family home at Tite Street, along with all its contents, had been auctioned off.

Wilde’s iconic fin-de-siècle illustrator Aubrey Beardsley joined the Library in 1896 when he was twenty-three. His risqué illustrations for Wilde’s illustrated edition of Salome were commissioned when Beardsley was just twenty-one and caused a scandal on publication. Wilde dedicated Salome to “My Friend Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas” and the play was published by another London Library member, John Lane with his business partner Elkin Matthews. Beardsley’s art is stamped on the short-lived but influential avant-garde magazine The Yellow Book, which was also published by John Lane at the Bodley Head between 1894 and 1897. The Yellow Book became inaccurately but fatally associated with the scandal that surrounded Wilde when the press reported that he had a “yellow” book under his arm when he was arrested at the Cadogan Hotel in 1895. In a bid to distance Bodley Head from the furore John Lane swiftly ceased publication of the magazine, withdrew Wilde’s plays from publication and sacked Beardsley.

It was another London Library member, Algernon Methuen Marshall Methuen, who first published part of De Profundis in 1905: it was a book which triggered the start of Wilde’s literary rehabilitation. A first edition was quickly acquired by the Library in February 1905. In the form of a letter to Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas, it is a composition of some 55,000 words written during Wilde’s incarceration. It became, on first publication an instant best seller. 10,000 copies were sold within a few weeks and 14 editions followed over the next three years. In 1962 while he was Chair of the Library’s committee, the writer and publisher, Rupert Hart Davis published an authoritative edition of The Letters of Oscar Wilde which included, what is considered to be, the first true text of De Profundis.

Alongside a first English edition of De Profundis, the Library has a very rare German edition of the work which was published in Berlin in 1905 by S. Fischer.  Bound in vellum on handmade paper with gilt lettering on the spine, it is one of only twenty such copies made. What makes it noteworthy is not only the quality of its production but the speed at which the Library acquired it.  Published in Germany in 1905 it was available for loan from the Library’s shelves by July the following year – and there it has remained ever since.

Wilde’s vulnerability is present in an exceptional first edition in the Library’s collections of The Ballad of Reading Goal by C.3.3. Written after Wilde’s release from prison, it was published in London by Leonard Smithers in 1898.  It is lightly inscribed in ink manuscript on the front flyleaf by Wilde, at that point an exile in Paris.  It is addressed to his publisher Leonard Smithers “in gratitude and wonder”. Tipped in at the back of the book is a letter from Smithers explaining Wilde’s inscription.  Dated 27 January 1898 it reads:

‘This copy of “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” (No 1 of thirty copies on Japanese vellum) was given to me by the author.  The inscription “In gratitude and wonder” I presume means, in gratitude for my having produced his book; and wonder at my having done so, when other London publishers refused.’

After his release from prison Wilde wrote two letters to the editor of the Daily Chronicle about the need for prison reform.  The letters were reproduced in pamphlet form in 1898 by Murdoch and Co. and sold for a penny.  In Children in Prison and Other Cruelties of Prison Life Wilde describes the dehumanizing effect of the prison system on all who came into contact with it.  He made a direct request for the case of prisoner A.2.11 (a young soldier whose inhumane treatment Wilde witnessed at first hand) to be looked into as a matter of urgency.  He also praised the kindness of a prison warder named Martin, whom he knew from his time in Reading, who had been sacked for acts of humanity–in particular for giving sweet biscuits to a tiny, hungry child.

As Wilde prepared to leave prison he wrote “I know that on the day of my release I shall be merely passing from one prison into another…Still I do see a sort of possible goal towards which, through art, I may progress … On the other side of the prison wall there are some poor black soot-besmirched trees which are just breaking out into buds of an almost shrill green. I know quite well what they are going through.  They are finding expression.”

Helen O’Neill

Archive, Heritage & Development Librarian

Constance Wilde’s joining form to the London Library in 1898.

Constance Wilde’s joining form to the London Library in 1898.

Salome by Oscar Wilde illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley.

Salome by Oscar Wilde illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley.

A first edition of Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis published in 1905 and acquired by the Library in the same year.

A first edition of Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis published in 1905 and acquired by the Library in the same year.

This rare German edition of De Profundis is one of only twenty copies and was acquired by the Library in July 1906.

This rare German edition of De Profundis is one of only twenty copies and was acquired by the Library in July 1906.

The Ballad of Reading Goal inscribed by Oscar Wilde to his publisher Leonard Smithers “in gratitude and wonder.”

The Ballad of Reading Goal inscribed by Oscar Wilde to his publisher Leonard Smithers “in gratitude and wonder.”

Ballad of RG

A penny pamphlet written by Wilde on the need for prison reform was published in 1898.

A penny pamphlet written by Wilde on the need for prison reform was published in 1898.

Getting in on the Act: Bram Stoker and Henry Irving

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To mark the anniversary of Bram Stoker’s death today (he died on 20th April 1912) and continuing her series on the Library’s Victorian membership, Helen O’Neill, our Archive, Heritage & Development brings a few hidden gems out into the light…

The London Library membership records of Henry Irving (1838-1905) and Bram Stoker (1847-1912) both date from 1890.  Irving is Britain’s most acclaimed Victorian actor theatre manager who, against considerable odds, made it to the top of his profession and changed the perception and status of that profession in the process.  Five years after joining the Library he became the first actor to be knighted for services to the stage.  Irving’s wingman, Bram Stoker joined the Library in the year he began work on Dracula.  Within seven years he published his most famous literary work which has never since been out of print, and which made the most breath-taking transition onto the global stage with the advent of film. Dracula without a doubt is one of the 19th century’s most iconic and enduring works.

Stoker’s handwriting is a good example of the challenges involved in deciphering Victorian manuscript records. His occupation, if you are struggling with the handwriting reads “Acting Manager Lyceum Theatre” where he was Irving’s right-hand-man for 27 years.   It is no coincidence perhaps that someone working at close quarters with an actor of Irving’s magnetism, would create a character that would enthrall in a visual medium. Stoker dedicated Dracula to the novelist that introduced him to the Library, Hall Caine and in the year Dracula was published Hall Caine became the first novelist in Britain to sell a million copies with his novel The Christian.

It is hard to imagine looking at these documents that either Irving or Stoker could have imagined when they wrote them, that over a century later they would have the power to arrest and captivate in quite the way they do.  Look at Irving’s description of his occupation: verve, wit, humility and pride all wrapped up in that playful, telling word “Comedian”.

Irving’s status as a national treasure is captured in an evocative piece in The Times on October 20 1905, the day before his funeral.  The piece describes the traffic being stopped locally, at the junction of Stratton Street and Piccadilly as a large number of “humble admirers” assembled to pay their respects as the hearse carrying Irving’s flower covered coffin made its way, at walking pace, to Westminster Abbey.   In the Library’s Special Collections there is a copy of Tennyson’s play Becket.  Irving died in a hotel lobby after performing in the title role of this play.  His praise for the play appears on the title page, which is signed and dated by Bram Stoker. The play, annotated throughout, was donated to the Library in 1937 by Bram Stoker’s son, Noel Thornley Stoker.  It is an eloquent example of how the Library’s collections have been shaped and enriched by past members and it demonstrates how a connection to the library, once made, can spread across generations within the same family.  Viewed in conjunction with the Irving and Stoker’s joining forms to the Library it reflects the relationship between the membership and the Library’s book collection, and also between the Library and the cultural life of 19th century literary London.

© Helen O’Neill

Archive, Heritage & Development Librarian

Bram Stoker joined the Library in 1890, the year he started his began his research for Dracula.

Bram Stoker joined the Library in 1890, the year he started his began his research for Dracula.

Henry Irving joined the Library in 1890, the year he sold his own personal library to replace his theatre sets lost in a warehouse fire.

Henry Irving joined the Library in 1890, the year he sold his own personal library to replace his theatre sets lost in a warehouse fire.

The novelist Hall Caine joined the Library in 1886. He nominated Bram Stoker to membership in 1890.

The novelist Hall Caine joined the Library in 1886. He nominated Bram Stoker to membership in 1890.

This copy of Tennyson's play Becket from the Library's special collections, was annotated by Irving and inscribed by both Irving and Stoker.

This copy of Tennyson’s play Becket from the Library’s special collections, was annotated by Irving and inscribed by both Irving and Stoker.

Binding, Binders and Buckram

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Each year around 4,500 books pass through the binding division of the Library’s Collection Care department.  Around half of these are new acquisitions – paperbacks and journals – in need of brand new bindings, while the others have been pulled out of our existing stock because their dilapidated bindings are due some TLC or an entire overhaul. When commissioning new bindings for a book already in the collection, we take care to preserve as many of its original features as we can: evidences of provenance such as bookplates; illustrated, or simply distinctive, cloth covers. Even when dealing with brand new books, we are conscious that we are working within a tradition of binding commissioning at the Library that stretches back 175 years.

Binding tradition

The majority of our books are sent to small binding companies with expert craftspeople, who have all the hand-sewing and letter-blocking skills to turn out new bindings with flair. We have long-standing relationships with our binders, and have developed a good understanding of the way they work. This allows us to match the binding needs of our book stock to the strengths and skills of each binding company.

You might have thought that the advent of telephone and email would have completely transformed the way we communicate with our binding contractors, but in one respect this has hardly changed at all. Our staff still issue each of our books with a handwritten binding instruction slip – completed with details of the covering colour, spine lettering and any repairs we might require – before packing and despatching the volumes to the binding firms.

The Library’s handwritten binding instruction slips have changed little with the passing of time. We chanced upon one from 1909 a few years ago, and were amazed to find that the layout and content were almost exactly the same as those we use today. There have been a few minor tweaks along the way. One small change relates to the placement of lettering on books that are too thin for title information to be blocked across the spine.  Up until the early 1980s British Standards recommended the lettering to run up the spine in the belief that this would help readers when scanning the shelves; a suggestion that The London Library dutifully adopted.  Since then new thinking has prevailed and as a general rule we now ask for the print to run down the spine. It’s a relatively rare example of the Library breaking with decades of in-house binding tradition.

The birth of buckram

Another area of continuity is our use of buckram. Virtually all the rebinding work commissioned by the Library is done in buckram, a linen cloth made tough and washable through chemical strengthening.  Buckram was adopted by British binders in the mid-nineteenth century as a replacement for traditional cover materials that had been most popular until then: cloth, which could be prone to fraying, fading and tears, and leather, which was expensive.

Cost wasn’t the only problem with leather. As the Industrial Revolution continued to transform the nation’s towns, libraries, museums and private collectors in urban areas discovered that their leather bindings were being degraded by the acidic pollution of gas lighting and factory fumes. Victorian librarians in the metropolis sought an alternative that would prove durable under these changing conditions, and the result of their investigations was buckram. Though 25% dearer than ordinary book-cloth, buckram was still considerably cheaper than leather and could be procured in several different colours.  These included a brilliant yellow and a dirty white, but also, black, brown, green, red, purple, slate and dark blue.

Applying colour with care

Today’s binders offer us a rich array of colour options. We consult swatch books of cloth samples to help us choose the best matches for our collections. When we’re dealing with a replacement binding, we’ll usually be guided by the colour of its previous binding. In the case of badly faded cloths, this can require a bit of detective work, checking the turned-in areas on the inside of the boards or other volumes in the series for the true hue. For new additions to the collection we select a cloth that corresponds with the dominant colour of the publisher’s paper covers. There’s only one collection where we consistently bind in one colour, and that’s Religion. The London Library’s Religion collection is bound in black, and has been for generations. As with so many things, the reason for this has long been forgotten. Perhaps it was a reflection of how bibles and prayer books were commonly produced in black cloth or leather?

Respect for history and respect for books

As we’ve seen, the way we commission binding work today is based on principles and customs established during the rapid evolution of libraries from the mid- to late Nineteenth Century, and at The London Library we continue to recognise the value of a good quality binding. Sir Redmond Barry, head of Victoria Public Library, Melbourne, summed up the importance of a good binding when addressing the Conference of Librarians at the London Institution in 1877:

“The individual reader in a spacious, well-proportioned, amply ventilated apartment, with the temperature regulated according to the season, takes more care of a book and feels more interest in the subject of his study if the volume be handsomely bound, than if in boards which soon break up or in a common cloth cover, which imbibes damp, retains dust, warps and shrinks, or if enveloped in a paper wrapper which – especially with those of large size – makes the book unsightly to the eye and unwieldy to the hand.

The idea that a well-bound book will be a better-loved book still inspires us today. Our binding work not only affords vital protection to many millions of pages within the London Library’s collections, but also enhances readers’ enjoyment of our books. Respect for binding traditions, from lettering conventions to the choice of book-cloths, lends our bookstacks their distinctive appearance and transforms a book into a London Library book.

 

The number of damaged books that can be rebound every year is limited by the Library’s rebinding budget. Donations from individuals or trusts & foundations can enable the rebinding of damaged books that wouldn’t otherwise be possible. If you are interested in making a donation, or to find out more, please contact the Development Office (development@londonlibrary.co.uk, tel. 020 7766 4734).

Books with their instruction slips queued up for rebinding

Books with their instruction slips queued up for rebinding

 

Filling in a binder's instruction slip

Filling in a binder’s instruction slip

 

Binders' swatch books offer a wide range of buckram colours

Binders’ swatch books offer a wide range of buckram colours

 

The Library's Religion collection has traditionally been bound in black buckram

The Library’s Religion collection has traditionally been bound in black buckram

 

Books with their new buckram bindings and London Library labels

Books with their new buckram bindings and London Library labels

 

Finished books get ready to go back out onto The Library's shelves

Finished books get ready to go back out onto The Library’s shelves

 

Good binding on the agenda at this conference 140 years ago

Good binding on the agenda at this conference 140 years ago

 

The Victorians and the London Library: The Double Life of William Sharp

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In her next instalment on the Library’s Victorian past Helen O’Neill takes a look at the double literary life of William Sharp, a Victorian London Library member who had two successful literary careers:  one as the author and critic William Sharp and the second as the pre-eminent Scottish writer of the 19th century Celtic Renaissance, Fiona Macleod.

Over Christmas the Victorians did well in the TV ratings. A Christmas Carol was brought up to date by ITV and the BBC showed the literary biopic To Walk Invisible which traced the story of the Brontë family, up to the point that the sisters disclosed their true identities.  It was Anne Brontë’s birthday this week (born 17th January 1820) and to mark the moment I thought I’d take a look at another Victorian literary figure who walked invisible, the Scottish novelist and mystic William Sharp (1855-1904).

Sharp had a distinguished literary career as a poet, novelist, biographer, essayist, and dramatist. Between 1884 and 1894 he wrote or edited almost forty books in his own name, including several literary biographies on Rossetti, Shelley, Browning and Heinrich Heine.  He also published several literary geographies considering the impact of place on the works of Charles Dickens, George Meredith, George Eliot, the Brontë sisters and Thomas Carlyle. He was the London art critic of the Glasgow Herald and the Art Journal and was a familiar figure in London’s literary and artistic circles.

The emergence of his second literary life as Fiona Macleod was triggered in the early 1890s by meeting Edith Wingate Rinder, with whom Sharp had an intense relationship.  According to Sharp’s wife, Elizabeth Amelia Sharp (1856-1932), a writer and critic in her own right, “the life of William Sharp divides itself naturally into two halves … the second begins with Pharais, the first book signed by Fiona Macleod.”  Pharais, a Celtic romance set in the western isles of Scotland, was first published in 1894 and was the inaugural work by Sharp’s female alter ego.  He went on to write many other works in this name (some 20 titles still available in the Library’s collections) establishing a successful career for his female pseudonym, whose literary reputation eclipsed his own. Fiona Macleod attracted fame for her mystical Celtic legends, folklore, and mythological writings which first appeared in print the year after William Sharp joined the Library.

Fiona Macleod was more than a simple pseudonym however. In his correspondence with W.B. Yeats and others, Sharp elaborated on her creating a backstory to this elusive female Scottish-Celtic writer, whom he claimed was his cousin to whom he was closely attached. This fictional relationship was modeled on Sharp’s actual relationship with, what his wife called his “dear friend”, Edith Wingate Rinder.  Rinder is credited with providing the inspirational spark that triggered the Fiona Macleod creation. Sharp corresponded as Fiona Macleod, his sister providing the handwriting to disguise his own.

Some have claimed that Fiona Macleod was a vehicle for Sharp to write creatively without damaging his established literary reputation; others that Sharp capitalised on the mystery surrounding Macleod’s identity as an effective marketing strategy; and yet others that writing as a woman allowed Sharp to express an inner life which the social mores of the time made difficult under his own name. There is some evidence to support this.  In a letter to Catherine Janvier in September 1894 Sharp claimed ownership of Pharais and asked that his identity be kept secret:

“Yes, Pharais is mine. It is a book out of my heart, out of the core of my heart … I can write out my heart in a way I could not do as William Sharp … This rapt sense of oneness with nature, this cosmic ecstasy and elation, this wayfaring along the extreme verges of the common world, all this is so wrought up with the romance of life that I could not bring myself to expression by my outer self, insistent and tyrannical as that need is. . . . My truest self, the self who is below all other selves, and my most intimate life and joys and sufferings, thoughts, emotions and dreams, must find expression, yet I cannot save in this hidden way… Sometimes I am tempted to believe I am half a woman.”

The stress of maintaining two literary identities came at a cost however.  In 1898 Sharp suffered a nervous breakdown. Keeping his second identity secret involved denying a claim in 1899 in the press that he and Fiona Macleod were the same person and having to intervene to prevent Fiona MacLeod’s name being put forward for a civil-list pension. The real identity of Fiona Macleod was kept secret, except from a few, until after William Sharp’s death in 1905, at the age of fifty. He left a letter to friends revealing his double identity and his wife published a memoir in 1910 which covered both sides of her husband’s literary life.

Opportunist, mystic or free spirit William Sharp’s life provides a fascinating glimpse into the Victorian world. W.B. Yeats, who had been duped by Sharp before 1897 about the identity of Fiona Macleod, retained his respect for Sharp writing to his widow in 1906:

“….Your husband was a man of great genius, who brought something wholly new into letters….To me he was that, & a strange mystery too & also a dear friend. To talk with him was to feel the presence of that mystery, he was very near always to the world where he now is…”

Helen O’Neill

Archive, Heritage & Development Librarian

 

William Sharp was striking in appearance. This photograph, by Frederick Hollyer was taken the year after Sharp joined The London Library. It appeared in The Chap-book on September 15, 1894.

William Sharp was striking in appearance. This photograph, by Frederick Hollyer was taken the year after Sharp joined The London Library. It appeared in The Chap-book on September 15, 1894.

This photograph of “Fiona Macleod” appeared in Heinemann’s 1910 re-issue of Sharp’s first work as Fiona Macleod, Pharais.

This photograph of “Fiona Macleod” appeared in Heinemann’s 1910 re-issue of Sharp’s first work as Fiona Macleod, Pharais.

On his joining form to the Library William Sharp alludes to his biography of Rossetti. He became a member of the Library the year before his first work as Fiona Macleod was published.

On his joining form to the Library William Sharp alludes to his biography of Rossetti. He became a member of the Library the year before his first work as Fiona Macleod was published.

William and his wife were both interested in the Celtic revival. This edition of Lyra Celtica: an anthology of representative Celtic poetry, published by Heinemann in 1910 was edited by Elizabeth Sharp with an introduction by her husband.

William and his wife were both interested in the Celtic revival. This edition of Lyra Celtica: an anthology of representative Celtic poetry, published by Heinemann in 1910 was edited by Elizabeth Sharp with an introduction by her husband.

On the spine of the Library’s copy of Pharais, which is still in its original binding, the name “Fiona Macleod” has been crossed out. So too has the later hand written addition “Wm. Sharp”.

On the spine of the Library’s copy of Pharais, which is still in its original binding, the name “Fiona Macleod” has been crossed out. So too has the later hand written addition “Wm. Sharp”.

 

 

 

Camberwell Students at the London Library

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Twice yearly, students from Camberwell College of Arts MA Conservation course join us a for a preservation placement in the Collection Care Department

Twice yearly, students from Camberwell College of Arts MA Conservation course join us a for a preservation placement in the Collection Care Department

 

An "enlarging box" helps protect small books and prevent them being lost behind their larger neighbours

An “enlarging box” helps protect small books and prevent them being lost behind their larger neighbours

 

Customised boxes include designs to make heavy books accessible

Customised boxes include designs to make heavy books accessible

In December 2014 we began a new work-placement scheme for MA students at Camberwell College of Arts, part of the University of the Arts London and one of the country’s leading providers of professional conservation training. This has proved to be a collaboration which has benefitted both the Library and the students themselves.

Twice a year two students from the MA Conservation course join us a for a preservation placement in the Collection Care Department; they come in one day a week for 12 weeks, fitting the time in between their college-based studies, which include studio time, tutorials on conservation techniques, environmental science and organic chemistry lectures and seminars on preservation management.

The students are first introduced to the theory of boxes as a simple and cost-effective preservation practice; boxes help protect vulnerable books from light-exposure, dust and the damage that can occur on the shelves or in transit. Once the students have mastered the basics of making customized, acid-free boxboard boxes in the house style, they are given a specific project to complete.

The students have helped us to find innovative solutions to difficult storage issues – from ‘upsizing’ tiny books in danger of being lost behind their larger neighbours to creating a box for an enormously wide volume, with heavy-duty handles that could be used to pull the box off the shelf.

When planning their boxes, the students have had to consider some of the special features of the London Library collection. Some of our Special Collection volumes have attractive bindings which we want our members and visitors to see and enjoy. When students have been working on books in one of our glass-fronted display case, we specifically asked them to make boxes that would fulfil all the criteria of protection but were not opaque, so that we could continue to display these volumes.  Another challenge for the students has been to create boxes that enhance protection for our collections but do not involve much loss of shelf space. One intake of students helped us to create boxes that would allow us to store rare newspaper issues in a space-efficient vertical position – making strong, heavy-duty boxes that would provide support to the flimsy paper; the boxes needed to be light enough to safely ease off a shelf, but still sturdy enough to withstand handling.

Other past projects have included making portfolios for an unbound series of reproductions of medieval documents (preserving the original wrappers in such a way as to not allow their acidic paper to damage the items, whilst still keeping that element of the object available to the members) and making boxes for a range of extremely slim books with light-weight bindings – the task here being to produce thin yet inflexible boxes that are still strong enough to support their contents.

Throughout our time with the students we have discovered that it is best for us to talk over the task with them, highlighting the problems and requirements and then to allow them to discuss it with each other, draw sketches, mock up small-scale models, either in paper or using the different weight boards available and then to make up a prototype in the chosen board.  This can then be put through its paces by the team, looking for design elements that don’t quite work and need to be rethought.  Occasionally we have enlisted the help of a passerby to ‘road-test’ a new style box to make sure it is easy to open or manhandle by someone who hasn’t been involved in the planning process. Once the design is perfected they set to work.

We ask the students to draw an instruction sheet for future use and we are slowly building a portfolio of these new-style boxes for any problem that may turn up in the future.

Our intention is always that both sides should benefit from this arrangement; by giving them a discrete project with no known solution, we have intelligent, problem-solving, post-graduate students rather than just box-making machines, and they have the chance to develop analytical skills and practise decision-making, whilst learning new materials and processes that will be of use to them in the future.

 

 

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Conservation

The Dreadful Explosion of Wallsend Colliery

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The account of the Wallsend tragedy reprinted by Pushkin Press as part of our Found on The Shelves of The London Library series

The account of the Wallsend tragedy reprinted by Pushkin Press as part of our Found on The Shelves of The London Library series

 

The 1835 original - produced as a low cost 24 chapbook with print size diminishing towards the end to squeeze emerging information in

The 1835 original – produced as a low cost 24 page chapbook with print size diminishing towards the end to squeeze emerging information in

 

The list of the dead: swift publication meant that one fatality went unreported

The list of the dead: swift publication meant that one fatality went unreported

Dunia Garcia-Ontiveros – our Head of Bibliographic Services – blogs on the tragic 1835 colliery accident at Wallsend, the contemporary account of which has been reprinted as one of the titles in our Found on The Shelves series, published by Pushkin Press to coincide with our 175th anniversary.

In 1835, the Gala Day of the Sunday Schools for which the town of Wallsend had been preparing, never took place. The spice loaves the miners’ wives had baked the week before for this day of happiness and celebration on the eve of the summer solstice was served instead at dozens of wakes:

“On Monday the entire vicinity of the mine presented an appearance indescribably agonizing. On the afternoon of that day, about 60 bodies were conveyed, in carts, to the parish church, where they were interred.”

These were the first 60 casualties of a colliery explosion that would claim the lives of 102 men and boys.

The people of Wallsend were no strangers to having their loved ones ripped away from them.  Over the previous 53 years ten separate explosions had caused a total of 91 deaths, but 18 June 1835 went down in Tyneside history as the date of the worst disaster the town had ever suffered. Much has been written about this tragedy but A Full Account of the Dreadful Explosion of Wallsend Colliery by Which 101 Human Beings Perished! is a contemporary version, so contemporary that the death toll in the title is premature and sadly incomplete. The original was a humble chapbook, printed cheaply for a poor public hungry for affordable reading material, preferably of a sensational nature. In 24 pages with ever-decreasing print size, the anonymous author managed to squeeze in not just the advertised full account of the explosion but also of the ensuing rescue efforts, the funerals and the inquest that was quickly set up in order to try and find out why what should have been a day like any other turned into a nightmare of desolation and despair.

It was an ordinary Thursday. The mine had undergone the usual safety checks and everything seemed normal – that is, no worse or more dangerous than usual. Nearly all the hewers – strong grown men who skilfully cut the coal away from the earth – had finished their shift at eleven a.m., having started at two a.m. At half past four in the morning, the ‘putters’ – youngsters from the age of 8 or 9 through to their teens or early twenties at most, overseen by older men – had started the work of putting the hewn coal in corves (special containers) to be sent up to the surface. They were still underground at two p.m. when the explosion occurred. A banksman, who stood on the surface by the edge of the pit and was emptying the corves the putters had sent up on chains attached to a rope, quickly stepped back when he felt a rumble below ground and a blast of air from the pit blew his hat off and the corf he had emptied into the air:

“The rushing of foul air to the mouth of the shaft, bringing up with it some of the pitmen’s clothes and other light articles from the bottom, left no room for conjecture as to what had occurred in the mine.”

When he was able to approach the mouth of the shaft he shouted down but no one replied. He got the engine going to pull the rope up but it wouldn’t move and when more power was applied it broke off.  There was little doubt then that only death lay below.

Some immediate rescue efforts proved fruitless, dangerous and exhausting. There was so little hope of finding anyone alive that when the man in charge of the mine, the ‘viewer’, John Buddle, arrived in the evening he made the unpopular decision to give the rescue team a few hours’ rest before making any further attempts. Some felt that the air in the mine would only get worse when the furnaces died out and wanted to act immediately. Two teams of volunteers ventured down and found some bodies but were overcome by the foul air and were unable to bring the dead back with them. Buddle’s team did not fare much better until the air courses began to be repaired. The first of the bodies were retrieved on the Friday and on Saturday three men and a boy were found alive, although one of the men died days later. Meanwhile, wives and mothers waited “in silent despair”, sheltering from the torrential rain in a shed near one of the pits. The same shed where a number of coffins also waited.

Over the next few days more bodies were “brought up” and the full horror of the effects of the explosion unfolded:

“The bodies were removed to the houses of their respective friends, and the entire community of the colliery was in a state of the most dreadful agitation and distress. Several of the bodies were black, shrivelled, and burnt; one or two were mutilated, but the greater portion, having been suffocated by the after damp, had the appearance of being in a tranquil sleep.”

The inquest quickly found that no one could be held responsible for what were concluded to be accidental deaths and the coroner’s closing address, though probably well-meaning, was not well received. In his view, Providence had not been ‘unwatchful’ since so many of the dead were too young to have dependants or great sins to answer for.

The loss to the mining community of Wallsend is unimaginable. The account tells us that “the workmen of each colliery form, with their families, a distinct colony.” And it was a very tightly-knit colony with the interrelated families living side by side on the same few streets. Fathers and sons, brothers – in some cases as many as three from one family -, cousins, friends and neighbours were suddenly taken away. In some cases, widowed mothers lost the sons they depended on to feed their younger children.

Miners were driven to their perilous work by poverty, were imprisoned or fined if they absented themselves from work for a single day. Their working conditions were horrendous and their working lives, which sometimes began at the age of five often came to a brutally abrupt end. The families of those who died that day at Wallsend received some financial relief but nothing could have compensated them for their hideous loss. There was nothing fair about the tragedy and nothing to be grateful for. Some of the victims died instantly but some boys had time to cling to others in terror before their end in a network of dark tunnels almost immediately below the village school where they rightfully belonged.

Through A Glass Lightly

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Frontispiece image for Greg's 1897 Ode to Bacchus -  Through A Glass Lightly

Frontispiece image for Greg’s 1897 Ode to Bacchus – Through A Glass Lightly

Dunia Garcia-Ontiveros – our Head of Bibliographic Services – blogs on wine-loving solicitor Thomas Greg, whose 1897 hymn to wine, “Through A Glass Lightly”, is one of the latest titles in our Found on The Shelves series, published by Pushkin Press to coincide with our 175th anniversary.

Greg dedicated the book to his father

Greg dedicated the book to his father

Through a Glass Lightly reprinted by Pushkin Press for our 175th anniversary

Through a Glass Lightly reprinted by Pushkin Press for our 175th anniversary

At first glance Thomas Tylston Greg (1858-1920) could seem a most unremarkable man. He was born to a wealthy mill-owning Manchester family but rather than follow in his ancestors’ footsteps and become a tycoon of renown he chose a career in the legal profession. He was called to the Bar in 1881 but, ever shunning the limelight, he practiced as a solicitor instead. Unlike his brilliant brother Robert, who embarked on a distinguished career as secretary to Lord Kitchener, ambassador in Romania and eventually Director of the Cairo Museum, Thomas lived a fairly quiet life as a young bachelor in Kensington. He was pious and philanthropic, keenly interested in the work of the Essex Church, and when we learn that he had been collecting porcelain from a very young age we feel that the picture of the shy, unworldly man of regular habits is complete. But we would be wrong. Underneath this quiet and sober exterior beat the surprisingly playful yet passionate heart of a man who loved nothing more than a good wine vintage and for whom life did not make sense unless it could be seen “Through a Glass Lightly.” This, in fact, is the title of his book, dedicated ‘to my father, from whose generous cellars has floated up much of the inspiration of the following essays’. In his little volume Greg dazzles with his expertise on the subject of wines and while the tone is light and bubbly many a truth is spoken, or in this case written, among all his jesting:

“Wine does more than generate talk: it is talk itself…”

“Not to have a cellar is derogatory to the dignity of man.”

By the time we reach the chapter devoted to champagne, all the gravitas of the pious solicitor is washed away by golden bubbles:

“Truly it is a beverage of romance and laughter, this Champagne.”

“To look at life through this clear and golden medium is to cast seriousness to the winds.”

And any serious advice comes with a whiff of wine-induced flippancy:

“Where two things [burgundy and champagne] are almost equally meritorious it were well to leave each alone, or swallow them in equal quantities.”

It is safe to guess that Greg opted for the latter approach! After all, wines were Greg’s good friends:

“Now Madeira in his youth is harsh and austere, he has a pungent tongue, and speaks with bitterness; but age cometh over him, and, like a tender schoolmaster or parent, leads him gently along and his tart sayings are metamorphosed into genial wit and a happy softness of utterance.”

During these heady bachelor days Greg does not come across as an admirer of women:

“A waitress, being a woman, cares nothing about wine and knows less.”

“In no house where woman predominates do we ever find plate kept as plate should, darkly lustrous and beautifully bright. The trim cap and dainty apron of suburban Phyllis may please and delight some, but, for solid grandeur and substantial splendour, and, it may be added, potential enjoyment, we look solely to those houses whose threshold is guarded and whose portals are opened, by that great emblem of British respectability, the British Butler. Fair Phyllis may crown our brows with myrtle or with laurel, and there is always a plenty of laurel bushes where Phyllis lives, but it takes a man to crown our wine.” (p. 119-120)

However, life was about to deal Greg a cruel blow and put an end to this love affair with wine. In the last two chapters of his book he tells how gout and the need to obtain life insurance (possibly because of his impending marriage) have forced him to renounce the demon drink, with consequent heartbreak:

“We – let the kindly plural shelter my singular aberration – we have become a degraded thing that has taken to drinking soda-water, or H2O tempered with flavour of toast; our cup is filled, but only with misery and aqua pura…”

“ …for a drinker’s crown of sorrow is remembering wetter days…”

In 1895, only two years before the book was published, a 37 year old Greg married Mary Hope, eight years his senior. By all accounts the abstemious newly-wed had by this time changed his opinion of women, or at least of one woman. He is said to have been devoted to his wife, a true soulmate who shared his love for beautiful objects. Given their ages, the marriage was unsurprisingly childless and when, in 1906, Greg inherited his uncle’s estate of Coles in Hertfordshire the couple left London. It is at this point in his life that Greg surprises us again. Instead of jealously hoarding his private pottery collection, he donated it to the Manchester City Art Gallery before moving to Coles so that others could enjoy it during his lifetime.

In Hertfordshire, Greg surprises us for the third time. Rather than relax and enjoy his early retirement, his desire to be useful to others drove him to serve as a Magistrate, District Councillor, Parish Councillor, School Governor and Trustee of Dr. Williams’s Library. He even dabbled in local politics, albeit unsuccessfully. In this arena he could never rise to the heights his brilliant brother reached.

Nevertheless he was known for being a happy man, fun-loving and convivial, even in his sobriety. Or at least he was until a beloved nephew became another casualty of the Great War. Greg never recovered from the loss and in 1920 he died after undergoing major surgery. The passage through this world of this quietly remarkable man is evidenced by his expertly collected pottery and by his ode to Bacchus.