The Story of One

In 1932 and 1947, every 11 year old child in Scotland was given an intelligence test*.  This fact is referred to throughout the blog. Its the reason Thomson was famous (he designed the test), it was unique (no equivalent exists anywhere else in the world), and it was done on a huge scale (87, 498 children were tested in the first Scottish Mental Survey, and 70,805 in the second).

For over a decade, Professor Ian Deary and his team have used the results of the tests in Lothian Birth Cohorts 1921 and 1936 to explore why some individuals’ cognitive abilities decline more than others – vital and far reaching research in an increasingly ageing population.  Hundreds of people given the intelligence test as a child have participated in the follow on studies, which have explored their cognitive skills, their physical well being, and their lives.

At the very heart of all this data are the people themselves, and what the numbers given in the beautifully neat test ledgers don’t tell us.   Deary and his colleagues have previously secured funding for author Ann Lingard to tell the Lothian Birth Cohort’s stories through words, artist Fionna Carlisle through paint, and photographer Linda Kosciewicz-Fleming through the lens.

One individual who participated in the 1932 survey, but who was unable to tell his story, was Deary’s Uncle, Richard Deary.

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Richard Deary, courtesy of Professor Ian Deary

Richard Deary was the son of a miner, and lived with his parents and five siblings
in a one-bedroom miners’ terraced cottage.  The family had the most basic of education – Richard would leave school at the age of 14.  He, like the thousands of other school pupils who sat the test, was never told his results.  He probably never gave them a second thought, and went on to become a miner like his Father.  His IQ was an impressive 120.

As an adult, Richard found himself in the midst of World War II:

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The last letter from Richard Deary to his parents before his death, courtesy of Professor Ian Deary

In the last letter he sent to his parents, he tries to alleviate his parent’s worry, and informs them about a new fangled thing called ‘air graphs’.  Two acts of kindness universal from children to their parents the world over.  He ends the letter with a ‘cheerio’, and signs ‘your loving son’.  Richard died aged 21 when his submarine struck a mine in the Mediterranean Sea 2 months later.

On lecturing at the McEwan Hall on the centenary of the psychology department in November 2006, Deary was presented with this rather wonderful poem by poet Michael Davenport, scribed as he listened to Richard’s story:

A PORTRAIT BY NUMBERS

27.10.2006: a psychologist speaks

of intelligence quotients, cognitive differences,

the Scottish Mental Survey 1932.

Using Powerpoint he illustrates,

shows details from a ledger of the time.

He highlights one boy, Richard,

born 4.4.1921:

number 4 in a class list,

IQ 120 on the Moray House Test.

 

2.8.1942: Richard’s letter

describes his submarine the ‘Talisman’.

He asks his parents not to worry

if they do not often hear from him

and finishes: ‘Your Loving Son.’

 

10.9.1942: the ‘Talisman’

leaves Gibraltar reports

a U-boat 5 days later.

 

18.9.1942: Richard dies at sea,

presumed mined off Sicily.

He’s 21, his navy number:

30938

 

His nephew, the psychologist, describes

follow-ups of 1930’s survey scores:

correlations with rank and fate in war;

effects of illness, ageing, on the mental skills

of those who still live on.

And with a quiet love

he has included Richard

in this journey of discovery,

his numbers, dates, transmuted

into an elegy.

Michael Davenport

That both history and science are fundamentally about people becomes obvious when looking at a story like Richard’s – or any of the cohorts who shared their lives with Deary and his team.  Their stories may not be unusual, but they are all unique, and they allow us to gain some understanding of the humanity behind the numbers – vital if the significance of history and science are to be conveyed to those of us who don’t know much about either!

 

Every effort has been made to contact Michael Davenport before reproducing his poetry.  If there are any objections to this being re-produced in whole or in part, contact Project Archivist, Emma Anthony (Emma.Anthony@ed.ac.uk) who will remove it from the blog.

 

‘Encounters of a mathematician’…

For the last few weeks, I have been cataloguing the papers of mathematician, Walter Ledermann (1911-2009).  The collection largely composes of highly mathematical letters from Thomson to Ledermann.  Having the somewhat dubious distinction of failing mathematics twice, its fair to say I had misgivings!

My failure as a young mathematician was due in part to my ready dismissal of mathematics as a dull, dry, monotonous subject (but in the main, a serious lack of talent!).  I remember somewhat haughtily telling my long-suffering teacher that I liked subjects about people.  Mathematics, as far as I was concerned, lacked any humanity and any discernible art.  How wrong I was.

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Ledermann as a young man, from his autobiography

Ledermann, a German-Jewish refugee, was more than used to such criticism being levelled at the subject – the art form – of his choice.  In fact, he opens his autobiography, Encounters of a Mathematician, with the following:

Mathematics is a soulless occupation devoid of feeling and human values.

But that, Ledermann tells us, was never his experience:

I feel strongly that mathematics can and should form part of human relationships.

Ledermann grew up in Berlin, proving himself a talented violinist and mathematician from an early age.  He loved music, and despite growing up in the midst of the depression, attended concerts regularly by any means possible.  By the 1930s, the Berlin that Ledermann called home had changed rapidly, and he and his family were no longer welcome.  It was his love of mathematics that gave him hope – despite the anti-Semitism he encountered, Ledermann’s ability, talent, and enthusiasm could be neither denied nor quashed.  In fact, Ledermann’s talent for mathematics quite literally saved his life.

On completion of his degree at the University of Berlin in 1934, Ledermann won a scholarship created by students and citizens of St Andrews to support a Jewish refugee.  He received a warm welcome from his fellow students, his lecturers, and the local community at St Andrews, and tells us: ‘it is no exaggeration to affirm that I owe my life to the people of St Andrews’ (Encounters of a Mathematician).

Ledermann completed his PhD after just two years, and found himself at the University of Edinburgh.  This would be the start enduring friendships between Ledermann and the brilliant and troubled mathematician, A C Aitken, as well as Professor Godfrey Thomson.

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Professor Sir Godfrey Thomson

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Alexander Craig Aitken

Ledermann quickly became Thomson’s mathematical assistant (or ‘tame mathematician’, as he puts it!), assisting him in writing The Factorial Analysis of Human Ability.  Thomson and his contemporaries used Factorial Analysis to understand human differences (mathematics and humanity again!), and this is still a technique used by psychologists today.  Thomson spoke to Ledermann in fluent German at their first meeting, much to Ledermann’s delight, and the working relationship was a successful one:

My work with Godfrey Thomson was inspiring, creative, and intimate.  We met daily during the morning break at Moray House, where the Department of Education was situated.  After we had briefly surveyed the progress of our research on the previous day, Miss Matthew, his charming and highly efficient secretary, brought in the coffee and some delicious buttered ginger bread.

The very intensity with which he pursued his ideas, was a great stimulus for me to solve the mathematical problems he had passed on to me.  Godfrey Thomson did not claim to be a mathematician.  Although he understood mathematical formulae when they were presented to him, he preferred to verify his ideas by constructing elaborate numeral examples from which the theoretical result could be guessed with some confidence.

Sadly much of Ledermann’s replies to Thomson are absent.  Thomson sends Ledermann pages and pages of calculations with explanatory notes, then his next letter will be one thanking Ledermann for the brief formula he has sent in return (Thomson at one point refers to Ledermann’s formulae as ‘very pretty’!).  The letters also show the warmth of feeling between the two, with Thomson frequently enquiring of Ledermann’s family, many of whom were still in Germany, and telling Ledermann about his own family.

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An example of the small postcards Thomson sent Ledermann

Ledermann treasured the letters.  In a letter to Lady Thomson, who was attempting to write Thomson’s biography, he writes:

I have over a hundred letters from Sir Godfrey, written between 1937 and 1946, some of them short notes, others carefully worked out in the form of a research paper, with many interesting questions and illustrations.  I greatly treasure the correspondence, not merely on account of its considerable scientific, and, may I add, aesthetic value, but also because it contains so many typical examples of that human warmth and sympathy for which Sir Godfrey finds a place even at the beginning or at the end of a mathematical letter.

Letter from Ledermann to Lady Thomson, Coll-1310/1/1/1/17

Ledermann returned to St Andrews after working with Thomson, and would go on to accept teaching positions at the University of Manchester, and the University of Sussex.  His love of mathematics continued to endear him to students and fellow lecturers, and he continued to undertake revision lectures for students for years following his retirement.  His wife, Ruth, was a social worker and therapist, and they retired together to London, where Ledermann passed away in 2009.

For Ledermann, the beauty of the equations passed between himself and Thomson were no different to the music of his violin – each displayed ingenuity and art.  His love of mathematics was the source of the most satisfying ‘human encounters’ he had throughout his lifetime, and the correspondence between himself and Thomson serves as a reminder of the beauty and humanity of mathematics.

Sources: Walter Ledermann’s autobiography, Encounters of a Mathematician

‘Who is that chap with the terrific head?!’

Robert Heriot Westwater’s most famous portrait is probably that of Christopher Murray Grieve (more widely known by his nom de plume,  Hugh McDiarmid!).  But Westwater also painted two very different portraits of Sir Godfrey Thomson in honour of his retirement in 1951:

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Formal presentation of Thomson’s portrait at Moray House, 1951, with Lady Thomson on the right

Westwater’s first encounter with Thomson was as a student training as a teacher of art at Moray House:

I remember very clearly my first sight of Professor Thomson as he passed a group of us students in the corridor.  “Who”, I demanded, “Who is that chap with the terrific head?”.  For the rest of my course at the training college I vainly tried to screw up courage to approach him – the art students, alas, had no class under him – to ask him if he would sit for me.  But I never quite succeeded.  And in the intervening years I lamented this somewhat uncharacteristic lack of “brass neck”

Moray House Magazine, March 1951

Westwater was delighted several years later on being commissioned to paint the-chap-with-the-terrific-head’s portrait!  The main portrait was to be a formal one in the striking red and white academic dress of the University of Durham DSc:

Thomson's formal portrait by Westwater

Westwater had some concern with regards to Thomson’s clothing outshining him in the painting:

With most other sitters such a garb would almost inevitably lead to a “portrait of robes with head attached.”  But in Godfrey’s case, not so.  When he arranged himself in the chair set ready, with complete dignity and composure, it was obvious at once that even such a gown could not compete.  The “terrific head” easily subdued it to its proper and subordinate place. 

Moray House Magazine, March 1951

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Page with Thomson’s photograph from the Moray House Magazine, 1950

Westwater commented on the many and varied conversations he and Thomson had during Thomson’s sittings, informing the reader that they were even prone to a sing song now and again (Thomson’s secretary and students were quite used to him playing, singing, and humming Gilbert and Sullivan whenever the notion took him!).  But my favourite passage by far is when Westwater gets rather verbose for his own good and waxes lyrical about the shape of Thomson’s head!:

The very bone structure of his skull begins the puzzle, for it is at once positive, virile, and yet almost frail in its delicacy.  The eyes have an imperious authority and penetration, but the mouth under the forceful nose astonishes by its nearly feminine gentleness.  it would be easy to cite another score of complexities, more subtle and more difficult from the painters point of view.

Moray House Magazine, March 1951

Quite!  Westwater’s second portrait of Thomson was more informal, and was Thomson’s gift from Moray House :

portrait

This remained with the Thomson family for many years after Thomson’s death, eventually being donated to the University.  Ever keen to see paintings around the university rather than in store, we are delighted that Thomson now hangs proud in the office of his greatest advocator!  He is frequently seen and admired by a host of students and visitors.

Westwater clearly enjoyed painting Thomson, and likely he and Thomson would derive great pleasure from knowing his other portrait hangs in Moray House to to this day, reminding everyone, as Westwater put it, ‘of he whom they and I will always think of from different angles as “A Terrific Head”‘!

A few of my favourite things…III

In his mid 20s, Thomson found himself studying for a PhD under the formidable talents of Nobel Prize winining physicist, Karl Ferdinand Braun, at the University of Strasburg.  Today’s object is from this period, and likely held a great deal of sentimental value to Thomson:

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Thomson’s watch fob

The watch fob bears the initials of Thomson’s student ‘verein’ or club, the M.N.St.V, (the mathematical and natural science student verein), which he described as a humble version of the expensive ‘Burschenschaften’, elite student clubs which exist to this day and often involve duals (or Mensur):

In the Mensur…the fighters are protected by goggles and nose-piece, by mattress-like chest and arm protection, must not move or flinch, hold the straight pointed rapiers above the head, touching and at the word…strike at each other’s head and faces.  Two seconds crouch with drawn swords and at the first touch they strike up the combatant’s swords.  this is repeated until the referee gives a decision, or for a given number of rounds.  Often one man gets all the cuts, and the other none.  they are mostly on the head, but also on the forehead and cheek and chin, a ‘Durch-zieher’ cutting across both cheeks almost horizontally.  Then senior medical students give hasty and not very sterile assistance and stitchings, and the heroes drink beer and swagger (if well enough) through the next few days.

The Education of an Englishman, p.53

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Physikalisches Institut, Strasburg, March 1906

The scarring resulting from the dual was, and is, seen as a badge of honour, and students often deliberately irritated the wound, packing it to ensure it was widened.  In Thomson’s humbler club, duals were rare and usually in response to an insult or wrong doing.  No uniforms were required, but members wore a watch fob with the verein’s arms.  Thomson’s Leibbursch*, Carl Andriessen (whose name is engraved on the watch fob with Thomson’s) gave him his.

After World War I, Thomson lost contact with many of his German friends, many of whom were killed or missing.  However, the inscription of one book in his collection, Das Deutschland Buch, shows he kept in touch with Andriessen:

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Inscription from Das Deutschland-Buch

The book is inscribed with a message to Thomson and his wife Jennie, thanking them for their hospitality, and dated June 1931 – 25 years after Thomson left Strasburg.  The more fluent among you might notice he refers to them as ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle’, which made me wonder if the giver was in fact Andriessen’s son, though he refers to them as old friends, which would suggest otherwise.  It contains many beautiful images of Germany, a country Thomson loved his whole life, despite the ravages of two World Wars:

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I found the book rather touching – despite the remaining animosity of their prospective nations after World War I, the two clearly have a strong friendship, and Andriessen is able to give Thomson a book about the beauty of his own country, a country Thomson also loved.

For Thomson, the time he spent in Strasburg was one of the happiest periods of his life.  It allowed him to indulge in his passion for research, undertaking intensive work on Herzian waves. His German became fluent, and he immersed himself in German culture.  The watch fob, which he treasured for all those years, perhaps served as the perfect reminder of his life there, and a reminder of enduring friendship.

*’A second year student who adopts a freshman, shows him the ropes, and can claim services in return’

With many thanks to Sarah Noble, LHSA Conservation Intern, who patiently spent a morning showing me how to make bespoke museum boxes and made the lovely box for Thomson’s watch fob!

‘I am a better man for loving him, and having had his friendship’

Thomson described education as ‘the food of the Gods’, but he might well have described friendship in the same way.  The many letters of grief sent to Lady Thomson following his death attest to how he cultivated and valued friendship throughout his life.  But of all the friendships present in his papers, the one which I have found the most touching is that between himself and the delightfully named Sir James Fitzjames Duff, who was knighted on the same day as Thomson.

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Thomson and Duff after being Knighted – Duff is situated on the right hand side behind Thomson, 1949

An eternal bachelor who had his widowed Mother, and later his equally wonderfully named unmarried sister, Hester, live with him throughout his adult years; who refused to learn to drive; and who was gloriously and unapologetically dreadful at golf, Duff sounds like he might just have had all the ingredients of the quintessential British eccentric!

Duff’s friendship with Thomson spanned from his employment at Armstrong College in 1922, when Thomson gave him a job as lecturer.  Duff continued to work in Durham University, having been promoted to Warden of the Durham colleges in 1937, until his early retirement in 1960, as well as the various educational commissions and Committees he devoted his time to.  He was enthusiastic about his career throughout his life, and very much enjoyed his work at Durham.  In a letter to Thomson upon hearing the sad news of his illness, Duff writes:

Its just upon 33 years since you chose me for the vacant lectureship at Armstrong College; and I regard that as about the most fortunate day of my life, partly because it shaped my career in a way that has given me great happiness and more than adequate success, but partly because it led to my friendship with you.  Considering that I was only on your staff for a very short time, its surprising how close and, to me at least, delightful the friendship has been.  Part of that joy has been that I always looked up to you, as a younger man to a wise and kind elder.  And at my age there are few indeed left to whom I can look up in that way.  So don’t leave us yet, if you can help it.  And if you can’t help it, let me tell you while I can that so long as I live, my admiration and affection for you, and my gratitude for your friendship, will not die. [Coll-1310/1/1/25]

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Duff was not short of friends – he was renowned for his conversational skills, and could hold an audience rapt with his stories.  One might say he seemed an odd companion for the more quiet, considered, Godfrey, but the two quickly became friends.  They worked together on pioneering intelligence test work in Northumberland during which time Duff was seconded to Northumberland county council as educational superintendent.  In particular, they were trying to ensure that clever children who suffered from a lack of education due to living in rural areas, would not miss out on secondary school places.  Several items of correspondence survive from this time in the Duff papers held in Durham University.

From an affluent background, Duff had had many of the advantages Thomson had lacked, attending the prestigious Winchester College, then Cambridge.  Duff much admired Thomson’s achievements in light of his relatively humble background:

Godfrey’s was really was a wonderful life.  Personal affection apart, I can think of nobody whose whole life was so filled with happy beneficent actions as his.  And the triumph over the handicaps and poverty of his boyhood adds a special sort of lustre to it all. [Coll-1310/1/1/25]

It was Duff who would write Thomson’s obituary, though the copy in the collection with Lady Thomson’s annotations attests that she thought his accounts of Thomson’s impoverished background greatly exaggerated, and gave him a jolly good telling off!

Following Thomson’s death in 1955, Duff kept in touch with Hector, and later edited Thomson’s autobiography, Education of an Englishman, ensuring its publication in 1969 much to the delight of Hector.  Many items of correspondence survive between himself and Hector, which exchange anecdotes of Thomson many years after his death.  Lady Thomson features as a topic rather than a correspondent, since by this time she was suffering from ill health herself, and spent a great deal of time in hospital.  Rather touchingly, Hector tells Duff of his Mother’s removal to hospital, and her insistence, in her confused state, that the drive would have to be swept and cleaned because ‘Mr Duff’ was coming.  Throughout this period, Duff continues to write to Lady Thomson, addressing her as ‘My dear Jennie’.

Upon his sudden death at Dublin airport in 1970, his beloved sister, Hester, writes to Hector Thomson, expressing her gladness that Duff managed to finish editing Thomson’s biography and telling Hector about the manner of his death:

As for the manner of James’ going, I do not think he would have wished it otherwise.  he had a slight heart attack while on holiday in Ireland, made an excellent recovery, and was passed fit to go home, then collapsed and died quite suddenly (of a coronary thrombosis) at Dublin Airport.  Although I miss him more than I can say, I could not wish him a long illness and old decline.[Coll-1310/1/1/28]

Fifteen years after Thomson’s death, Hester tells Hector that he still has Thomson’s photograph on his mantelpeice:

There is a photograph of your Father on James’ study mantelpiece…He is standing with his hands on a desk, wearing glasses, aged perhaps 40. [Coll-1310/1/1/28].

It is clear that Thomson’s friendship meant a great deal to Duff – in a letter to Lady Thomson following his death, he writes, ‘I am a better man for loving him, and having had his friendship’.  But equally, it is clear his friendship too meant a great deal to Thomson, and indeed the Thomson family.  True to his word, Duff’s admiration and affection for Thomson did not die.

* Any stories of friendship (or romance!) from your historical research? Tweet me about it at @emmaeanthony using the #makehistoryhuman!

 

Catching the spirit of the thing

Last week, we were pleased to welcome Professor Peter Fenton from Otago University, New Zealand, who was researching the work of A C Aitken.  A deeply troubled and brilliant mathematician, Aitken was a phenomemal human calculator, with a photographic memory which could recall Pi to 1000 decimal places. His work impacted algebra, numerical analysis, and statistics.   Additionally, he was a polyglot, a poet, a writer, and a violist.

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Aitken in his later years

My interest was immediately piqued – always a fan of historical gossip, I had been intrigued when I discovered this letter from Aitken, who helped Thomson during the writing of his book Factorial Analysis of Human Ability, in Thomson’s collection:

Aitken1derAitken2der

Who was this lady who possessed ‘just about every quality of combined physique, charm, character, and intelligence as would enrich any nation possessing her type in good proportions’?!  Aitken continues ‘valuable as her chosen career may prove to the nation, in the end, there was a still more valuable career of which the nation was being defrauded, partly, of course, through the blind crassness of men younger than ourselves’.  I can forgive Aitken’s comments which suggest a woman’s biological capabilities should be valued over any others, since he is also rather unfair to his own sex!  But I can’t help but wonder who this nameless, charming lady is – or just what Aitken and Thomson ‘mentioned’ about her in their previous discussion!

Alexander Craig Aitken (1895–1967) was born in Dunedin, in Otago, New Zealand.  He was an exceptional student, winning several class prizes and graduating top of his class.  His Father, who was a shopkeeper, allowed Aitken to do the accounts from an early age – this he enjoyed, and often credited his later mental arithmetic skills as stemming from this period.  In 1913, he was awarded a full scholarship to attend Otago University, studying mathematics and languages (Latin and French).  His experience of mathematics at University was unpleasant, although he met his future wife there, a brilliant botanist credited with establishing the Botany department at Otago.

100_1484Winifred Aitken

Aitken’s studies were interupted by the First World War, and he enlisted in 1915 at the age of 20.  He documented his experience of the War in his book, Gallipoli to the Somme.    It was first drafted in 1917, but Aitken’s published version was re-edited in 1962.  Aitken’s account is at once harrowing and moving, as can be seen when he describes a friend’s death:

Two or three yards beyond this pair we found Harper lying, his thigh badly fractured, but calm and in full possession of his senses.  We asked if it was very bad.  He simply said: ‘I think I’m done for’…he spoke quietly, with the same high calm, far beyond his years – he was, I suppose, my own age, twenty-one, perhaps twenty-two – and he knew better than we, for he had lost too much blood and died of wounds a week later.  He was of very heavy build and we could not move him an inch without causing him pain; but at that moment I caught site of a group of men, carrying a stretcher with them, coming through the gap and towards the trees.  It was a volunteer party lead by Captain Hargrest, always the first to think of his men, and including Sergeant-Major Howden (killed at the Somme, 27th September 1916), Sergeant Carruthers (killed at Paschendaele, 12th October 1917), and Sergeant Frank Jones (died of wounds received at the Somme, 22nd September 1916).  These men laid Harper on the Stretcher and carried him in, I following as dawn was breaking.

Gallipoli to the Somme p.103

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Aitken c.1915

Throughout the war, Aitken carried a cheap violin, deriving comfort from the art he had learned as a child from a blind violinist who guided his playing through touch and ear.   Such luxuries were prohibited – space in the trenches was extremely limited, but Aitken’s comrades took it in turns to hide the contraband instrument.

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Aitken’s music manuscripts, many of which are his own compositions

Aitken sustained wounds to his arm and foot in 1917, which ended his army career.  He returned to Otago, completing his studies, and becoming a mathematics master at his old school, Otago Boys High School.  In 1923, he gained a postgraduate scholarship to study under Sir Edmund Whittaker.  During his studies, his wife fell pregnant with their first child, and Aitken, feeling the full weight of his financial, familial, and academic responsibilities, began to feel physically and mentally ill.

His research was not prospering, and he feared he would be unable to submit his thesis on time.  Months of frenzied calculations followed, cultimating in weeks of illness Aitken describes as being ‘like food poisoning’.  Following his recovery, Aitken set about his thesis, and found the solution to the problem instantameously, submitting his thesis (by his own admission) hurredly.  The thesis was awarded the DSc rather than PhD, an honour which AItken modestly describes as ‘a surprise’.

A fellowship of the Royal Society of Edinburgh at the age of thirty followed, as well as the society’s highest honour, the Gunning Victoria Jubilee Prize.  In 1936, Aitken became a fellow of the Royal Society of London in 1936; and in 1946 the chair of Pure Mathematics at the University of Edinburgh.  For a short time during World War II, he also worked at Bletchley Park, though this part of his life remains a mystery.

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Some of the many cuttings showing Aitken’s achievements

These achievements were overshadowed by his breakdown in 1927.  Aitken, who had had something of a prepensity for mysticism from an early age, had been subject to hallucinations throughout his life.  These began to intensify:

Clermiston Road, which leads up Corstorphine Hill to Clermiston Avenue, would suddenly twist in front of me; the branches of trees, full of the foliage of June, would suddenly become drenched with the heaviness of some further dimension, arresting, symbolising something, apocalyptic.  The world “apocalyptic” is the only one by which I can describe the moonlight, the sycamore tree at nightfall, the further Pentlands, the edge of the skyline at Curriehill, which often seemed fringed with fire; and I could not see that this fire was the fire of my own nerves.

To Catch the Spirit, p.90

‘The fire of his own nerves’ would plague him throughout the rest of his career, ordinary women would look like angels and he would see indescribable colours.  His wife, who had long since given up her distinguished work, devoted herself to looking after Aitken.  This, according to their daughter, Margaret Mott, she did not grudge, fully believing in Aitken and his abilities.  He spent much time towards the end of his career campaigning against decimilsation, his zeal eventually attracting ridicule, and died in 1967.

In his excellent introduction to Aitken’s memoirs, compiled from papers in the possession of his daughter Margaret Mott, Fenton tells us the title derives from ‘a letter taken up with the proof of a certain theorem, which Aitken signed ‘Q.E.D and A.C.A’ (ad captandam animam=to catch the spirit of the thing)’ (To Catch the Spirit, p.7).  The title is a wonderfully evocative one, especially fitting in light of the following passage:

I believe we are surrounded the whole time by marvellous powers, are immersed in them, closer than breathing,and I think that all great music, poetry, mathematics, and real religion come from a world not distant but right in the midst of everything, permeating it. 

To catch the spirit, p.23

Numbers, and Aitken’s intrinsic gift of understanding them, were ‘the spirit of the thing’, allowing Aitken to view the world around him in a way no one else could.  In his review of Aitken’s memoirs, Wimp asks if any of us would choose to have such an incredible gift in light of the terrible price it comes with.  I end with what I would imagine Aitken’s reply to be, from a passage regarding his breakdown:

It is customary to pass quickly over such an experience, as an illness,a regrettable pathological interruption in a career otherwise uniform, a passing spasm of suffocation.  When I consider the great gain of experience, the widening even of personal sympathies, the sudden openings onto a hundred vistas unsuspected before, the emergence of new standards in literature music and painting… I could not but regard my own breakdown of importance…for since that time, there is not a tree, not a turn in a road, nor a hilltop, not even a swaying reed, but speaks of the beauty, the at first terrible beauty and mystery of the world.

To Catch the Spirit, p.94

Sources:

Aitken, A C, To Catch the Spirit,  with an introduction by Peter Fenton, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1995)

Aitken, A C, Gallipoli to the Somme, (London: Oxford University Press, 1963)

Wimp, Jet, accessed 27/09/2012

Oxford DNB

 

 

A few of my favourite things…II

In the next instalment of interesting objects (chosen solely on the discerning basis that I rather like them!) are these intelligence testing blocks from the Godfrey Thomson unit:

TestingBlocksTesting blocks were (and are) used in several intelligence tests, including the WAIS intelligence tests and Wechsler tests.  The individual is presented with the blocks and cards with patterns on them, and tasked with replicating the patterns with the blocks against a timer.  This measures spacial ability.

Sadly, the accompanying cards have not survived (though this is perhaps just as well, since they would have resulted in procrastination en masse here in the archives!).

However, purely for entertainment purposes are the following teasers for you to try your hand at:

test5

test4Enjoy!*

* Before embarking on this endeavour, the reader is advised that we do not have the answers!

A letter from ‘Dear old Rack’!

As mentioned previously, Thomson’s collection features a great many interesting letters, and I’ll be sharing these throughout the course of the project.  One  which I found particularly touching was a letter from Thomson’s friend, Marjorie Rackstraw (1888-1981), to Lady Thomson shortly after Thomson’s death.

Rackstraw is an excellent example of the interesting people drawn to the Thomsons.  One of a five-daughter family, with no brothers, Rackstraw’s Father encouraged all of his daughters educationally, and gave them a small proportion of his fortune to afford them independence.  Her collection features slides, photographs, and several letters – many  of these are rather charmingly addressed to ‘Dear old Rack’!

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Some of the many letters in Rackstraw’s collection with correspondents throughout the world

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Rackstraw’s international driving documentation, 1930s-1940s

The Thomsons met Rackstraw at Edinburgh University, where she was warden of Mason Hall from 1924 to 1937.  Before then, Rackstraw had studied history at Birmingham, found herself at Bryn Mawr College, Pennsylvania, and worked as a relief worker in Russia during the famine.

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Rackstraw’s International Driving Permit photograph, 1939

As Lady Thomson’s annotations on the letter [below] suggest, Rackstraw’s particular concern was for the care of the elderly – particularly the poor, and she was Chair of the the Hampstead Old People’s Housing Trust until she was 80.  She was a firm socialist throughout her life, a member of the Fabian society, and a Labour councillor.  Her aid work did not end in Russia, she also volunteered for with the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration throughout World War II.  Rackstraw had suffered from spinal difficulties as a result of contracting polio as a child, which impaired her movement somewhat, but she refused to allow this to get in the way of her humanitarian work, or indeed any other aspect of her life.

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Readers might remember my earlier blog about the partnership of Thomson and Lady Thomson, and Rackstraw’s letter gives us more insight into this:

What a wonderful partnership it has been, something that has made one believe in the beauty and goodness of human nature.

I think you know how much joy it has brought me to have shared with you two so many wonderful things in life, the wonderful holidays at Glenapp, your dear house in Edinburgh, and oh so many jaunts

The Thomson’s had a great many friends who frequented their house, and Thomson himself often chose to work from home, so its unsurprising Marjorie comments on the warmth of his home.  Most touchingly, she calls Thomson ‘a rare plant in God’s garden’.

Many of the letters sent to Lady Thomson laud Thomson’s achievements and his intellect, but Marjorie’s letter simply remembers the man.  Her warmth and her kindness are evident, as are the love and esteem she felt for the family.

Within Marjorie’s collection, we also have a letter from Thomson, sent a few short months before he died, which further shows the intimacy and friendship between the two:

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Letter 3

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As the letters of condolence sent to Lady Thomson show, his death was a surprise to many, since Thomson, perhaps unsurprisingly for his generation, did not mention his health troubles to his friends and acquaintances.  However, he does share them with Rackstraw, telling her her that a specialist visited him, and hinting at how he is struggling to be cheerful.

Unbeknown to Rackstraw, Thomson’s ‘tummy troubles’ were down to cancer, and he would pass away a few months later in February 1955.  It is likely Thomson and his family were unaware of this too – particularly since his son Hector, as Thomson mentions in the letter, had taken to shouting ‘Goodbye, Daddy, don’t die till I come back!!’!

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Rackstraw with Thomson’s son, Hector, from one of the Thomson family albums, c1940s

Collections like Thomson’s and Rackstraw are fascinating not only because they tell us something of the creators’ work, but because they offer the researcher a slice of 20th century life, and an example of the colourful personalities, networks, and friendships abounding – Thomson’s collection informs the user of his work, but also of himself as an individual, his family, his friends, and the people he surrounded himself with.

Many of the letters in Rackstraw’s collection – which I confess I have merely scratched the surface of – are surprisingly candid, discussing marriages that happened too soon, regrettable career decisions, and the odd bit of scandal!  In other words, all the components necessary to make the historical human. (Or at the very least, to make some deliciously salacious discoveries!).

Sources: Papers of Marjorie Rackstraw, Oxford DNB.

 

Education and the ‘Disconnected Mind’

This week, I was lucky enough to have a good rummage through the Scottish Council for Research in Education collection, which is in Glasgow University Archive Services.  The council, which began in 1928, spent much of its life situated in Edinburgh, until its latter years when its staff were moved to the faculty of education in Glasgow.

It was the Scottish Council for Research in Education (who shall henceforth be known as SCRE!) who carried out the Scottish Mental Surveys, with funding from the Population Investigation Committee, the Eugenics Society, and, with later follow on studies, the Nuffield Trust.  The surveys tested every child in Scotland born in 1921 and 1936 in 1932 and 1947 respectively, and there were three follow on projects (the ‘Binet 1000’, the ‘6-day sample’, and the ’36-day sample’).  Some of the children from the 1947 survey were still in contact as far as 1963, their achievements and social background being examined alongside their original results to see what bearing these had had on the rest of their lives.

The records of these surveys, including the completed test papers, compiled results, follow on studies, and sociological data, survive to this day within the collection, and have been utilised to great effect by psychologists at Edinburgh University who are working with participants of the surveys to explore why some individuals’ cognitive abilities decline more than others.  Their work is part of the Disconnected Mind project, which aims to prevent an increasingly ageing population from losing their cognitive abilities, and is funded by Age UK.  You can hear Prof Ian Deary discuss the project here:

Like Deary, SCRE were concerned with the ‘disconnect’ of the mind, though that of the child rather than the adult.  Much of SCRE’s work involved the engagement of the child in their learning.  They had various primary school committees including committees for handwriting, numbers, spelling, and bilingualism (of which Thomson was convenor), as well as committees looking at the needs of blind, partially sighted, and deaf children.

This is reflected in the SCRE published spelling list:

Dr Robbie reported that in preparing the spelling list which the panel is proposing to compile the panel had sought to discover the kind of subject about which children liked to write.  he explained that the pupil’s spelling and vocabulary would be obtained by distributing the chosen topics to selected schools,  from this, a spelling list compiled on the child’s need would ultimately be compiled [Council minutes, 21 June 1947].

This concern about the child’s interests was, in actual fact, highly forward thinking, and there are many artefacts and teaching aids surviving in Moray House which show how teachers at the demonstration school piqued the interest of the children:

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Some of the artefacts from the Moray House cupboard/wunderkabinet! [photograph courtesy of Emma Smith]

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Another of the Moray House demonstration school’s teaching aids [photograph courtesy of Emma Smith]

Today, SCRE is no longer in operation.  However, the publications they produced as a result of their work were widely disseminated, surviving in many higher education libraries.  These, along with their records, show SCRE to have been both a highly innovative and democratic organisation, exploring hitherto unexamined areas and keeping equality, as well as the abilities and potential of each child, at its core.

With thanks to Glasgow University Archive Services.

A few of my favourite things…

Over the next few weeks, we will be looking at some of the fascinating objects associated with Thomson.

Today’s object of choice is this mechanical calculating machine, manufactured by Swedish company, Facit.  The calculator was used in ‘Room 70’, Thomson’s intelligence testing unit.

‘Room 70’ was described by one former employee as quiet, happy, and industrious – perhaps with the rattle of this calculator occasionally breaking the silence!

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The machine was operated by hand, and was the first Facit keyboard-set pinwheel calculator, produced between 1932-1939.  It is part of Albert E G Pilliner’s collection.

Pilliner was a chemist by trade – throughout the Second World War he worked for a government research facility using his statistical knowledge and experience to evaluate the effectiveness of explosives. It was here Pilliner met William Emmett, who worked closely with Thomson.

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After the war, Pilliner taught Chemistry and Physics, taking up a post as lecturer at Moray House College of Education. Following Thomson’s retirement in 1951, Pilliner and his colleagues continued his work, with Pilliner taking charge of the unit, which formally became the Godfrey Thomson Unit in 1965.

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By the 1970s, much of Pilliner’s time was taken up working as a consultant to the British Council and UNESCO amongst others, conducting research into the examination systems of countries including Mauritius, Pakistan, and Malaysia.  His collection contains many of the reports he produced throughout this period.  He died in 2003.

With thanks to Emma Smith for providing the photographs