Category Archives: Make history human

The simple art of reference writing

As I am now coming to the end of my time in Edinburgh cataloguing the papers of Professor Sir Godfrey Thomson, references aren’t terribly far from my mind! But I had some pause for thought after a conversation with my eighty-one year old Grandmother. While most of my Grandmother’s contemporaries now shop, talk, and bank online, she remains resolutely uninterested. When I explained I would never see my references – they would be e-mailed, uploaded, etc, my Grandmother was particularly disdainful.

For once, I found myself rather agreeing with her. References were often treasured by the subject, years after they no longer had use for them. They were a courtesy, a kindness. While their primary function was to allow the receiver to gain further employment, they were also an acknowledgement of their hard work, and usually written by someone the receiver respected and admired. References are still, undoubtedly, all of these things – but now, of course, the subject rarely has a copy, and employees rarely keep them for any length of time.

Thomson’s collection contains two – one from the Nobel Prize winning physicist, Karl Ferdinand Braun, and one from educator and historian of music, Sir William Henry Hadow:

: Reference from Professor Ferdinand Braun

Reference from Sir William Henry Hadow

Both are highly complimentary. Hadow describes Thomson as ‘one of my most distinguished students…a man of very pleasant manners and address…extremely popular in college’, and praises his ‘remarkable power of influencing others for good’.

Hadow was Professor of Education at Armstrong College while Thomson was in turn a student then lecturer. Both had in common a love of music – Hadow frequently wrote on the topic, while Thomson was a skilled pianist. We know that both Thomson and Hadow were interested in the role that music could play in a liberal education, and Thomson’s lectures on teaching music survive in his collection. The notes written on the reverse of the reference are in Lady Thomson’s hand, and comment on Thomson and Hadow’s harmonious friendship and working relationship.

Braun was Professor of Physics at Strasbourg while Thomson was undertaking his DSc, supervised by Braun. He was an inventor, and experimented widely with wireless telegraphy. No doubt he would have been an exiting person for the young Thomson to work with, and it would appear the feeling was mutual – he describes him as well informed, and showing great ‘experimental ingenuity’.

Part of the reason these references meant to much to Thomson is because they were unique, and written in the hand of men whom he had a great deal of respect for. While archivists are widely encouraged to see the beauty in bit code as much as they can illuminated letters (a gross exaggeration on my part!) I’m not quite sure how this will translate in our current day record creation. Laying the ever evolving issues of digital preservation aside, references simply aren’t prescribed with long term value. Which is a shame, because however biased they may be (which they are supposed to be – they are, after all, the opinion of the writer!) they certainly tell us a good deal about the subject.

With thanks to Simone Müller and Christina Schmitz for their translations, and to Serena Frederick for pestering them for said translations!

‘Towards a better understanding of human relations’

Leave a reply

This week’s letter from Thomson’s collection comes courtesy of psychologist and psychoanalyst, John Carl Flügel (1884–1955):

The letter was one of many sent from eminent psychologists, mathematicians, scientists, and former students to Lady Thomson following Thomson’s death in 1955. Flügel’s rather amusing anecdote, where he recounts a conference in Sweden Thomson chaired and describes how Thomson threatened to ‘chop off the heads’ of anyone who spoke over their allotted time, is true to character! This was, in fact, a pet hate of Thomson’s, well known to his students and colleagues.

Lady Thomson’s annotations on the reverse of the letter are also important. They refer to a documented account of the seminar, though sadly the cutting is long gone, and endorse Flügel’s account, stressing it was the ‘correct description of Godfrey’s manner’. Her annotations can be found throughout the collection, and were most likely for her projected biography of Thomson (which she never undertook due to ill health) or to aid James Fitzjames Duff in his introduction to Thomson’s posthumously published autobiography, Education of an Englishman.

: Flugel, c1930

Like Thomson, Flügel was a psychologist. He was born three years after Thomson, and died a few short months after sending this letter. However, the course of his career and study was very different to Thomson’s. While Flügel was an experimental psychologist, first and foremost he was a practising psychoanalyst. He is credited as one of the few psychoanalysts who successfully bridged both academic psychology and psychoanalysis. His publications included The Psychology of Clothes (1940); Man, Morals and Society: a Psychoanalytical Study (1945); and the neo-Malthusian Population, Psychology and Peace (1947).

Flügel spent most of his working life in the psychological laboratory of University College London, starting off as psychologist Charles Spearman’s assistant, then progressing to senior lecturer (1920) and assistant professor (1929). Following his retirement in 1944, he was appointed special lecturer. Throughout this time, he managed to balance lecturing on psychoanalysis alongside working with Spearman, thus utilising both an emotional and cognitive approach to understanding the human mind. As his obituarist, Roger W Russell, argues:

During the six years I knew him personally, he occasionally discussed the conflicts which these two roles had produced, for he believed that such conflicts could not be resolved by accepting one role and abandoning the other. He felt strongly that the two approaches were working towards similar, general goals, toward a better understanding of human relations, and he did all he could to encourage each to proceed as far and as rapidly as possible.

The American Journal of Psychology, vol. 69, no. 2

The letter hints at a close relationship between Thomson and Flügel – and indeed, they shared many correspondents and acquaintances including Spearman (with whom Thomson had a 30 year professional feud!) and Cyril Burt. Flugel rather eloquently comforts Lady Thomson:

We were so fond of you both, and we felt we had suddenly lost a friend whom we both loved and admired…at such moments, little poignant memories keep creeping in…all of them rousing tender and nostalgic feelings. Our hearts go out to you who have to bear the chief burden of his loss, but we are only too aware of the many who must be mourning with you today and perhaps the thought that your sorrow is so deeply and so widely shared may help in some measure to ease the sad and heavy burden.

The most touching aspect of the letter for me, however, was not Flügel’s kind words, but the letter’s tone. He refers also to the death of his friend, Mollie Rees, ‘another charming person who, alas, has left us’, and the reader is left with his general feeling of acceptance that both he and Thomson’s generation is coming to an end.

Personal archives from any period of change are significant. Thomson’s collection is a case in point, covering eugenics, intelligence testing, and social mobility. They help in our understanding of these ‘big’ themes through the professional and personal relationships represented. At the risk of sounding twee, they allow us to explore what it means to be human at any given time, and give us ‘a better understanding of human relations’. This is perhaps their greatest value.

A few of my favourite things V: a gift from ‘the Polish Teachers in Uniform’

5 Replies

My favourite item from all the collections I have worked with in the past 10 months is a beautiful album in the Moray House collection. The album was made for Thomson by the ‘Polish Students in Uniform’. This initiative was likely very similar to the Polish School of Medicine, set up in the University of Edinburgh during World War II with the aim of training Polish students and doctors in the armed forces (almost immediately, civilian students too were accepted). Students were trained in Polish, and could obtain Polish degrees.

Images from an album gifted to Thomson by the ‘Polish Students in Uniform’, Moray House archive (notice the ‘Scottish flowers’ on the left!)

The album itself is a beautiful object – the colours, the drawings, even the positioning of the photographs. For me, however, what really makes this object wonderful is the informality of it, the spontaneous photographs and the witty captions combine to make it, in contrast to the formal staff and student photographs, a real snapshot of life at Moray House as the students knew it.

A close up of Thomson from the album

Following German and Soviet occupation, hundreds of thousands of Polish people were deported from their home country – many of the students trained at the Polish School of Medicine would never return. At such a time of sadness, upheaval, and uncertainty for the students, it is wonderful that, nonetheless, they took the time to thank Thomson for his kindness in such a thoughtful way.

Staff and students at Moray House

It is likely that Thomson’s work with the ‘Polish Students in Uniform’ is the reason that, on the 13th June, 1944, he was awarded the declaration of the Third Class of the Order of Polonia Restituta. The order was conferred by the President of the Polish republic in recognition of his services to Polish interests during the war. The geneticist Francis Crew also had the award bestowed on him.

Thomson’s certificate for the award – his cross has sadly not survived in the collection

Roughly translated, the Polonia Restituta is ‘Order of Rebirth of Poland‘. It is generally awarded, and has been since 1921, for outstanding contributions to education, science, sport, culture, art, economics, national defence, social work, civil service or diplomacy. The vast majority of those awarded are naturally given to Polish nationals. Thomson’s award also came along with a letter from Anthony Eden (well, at least his secretary!) and an honorary membership card for the Association of Polish Teachers in Great Britain.

Letter from Sir Anthony Eden confirming that King George has given his permission for Thomson to wear the cross

Thomson’s honorary membership for the Association of Polish Teachers in Great Britain

Thomson has often proved an illusive character to those researching his history – in oral testimonies from those he worked with or who studied under he has in turn been described as reserved, friendly, quick tempered, even tempered, etc.! But objects such as the photograph album, as well as the many letters sent to Thomson’s widow by his students, show that his students were very much at the heart of what he did.

With many thanks to Ela Wiklo for information about the Polonia Restituta.

‘The old conditions cannot continue, and some new form of political and economic existence must be found’

Leave a reply

All of history seems to be contained in the letters of ordinary people living in extraordinary times. We may know what backdrop will emerge, but there are seldom enough traces to discover the fate of the individual. The following letter, sent by a Dr Friedrich M Urban of Brünn a short while after the Nuremberg rally of 1938 to Professor Godfrey Thomson, is a fascinating example:

EUA IN1/ACU/G1/6/2/2, ‘Letter to Thomson from Dr Friedrich Urban’

It is not clear from Thomson’s papers how he knew Urban – quite possibly he had met him while studying in Strasburg, during which time he undertook a tour of Europe.

All from Coll-1310/1/2/3, which contains photographs of Thomson’s European tour of 1909

Urban’s letter shows a great deal of affection for Thomson and his wife, referring to the kindness of the Thomsons to their girls. Speaking to Thomson as an old friend, Urban thanks him for the suggestion of medicinal honey to help with his gallbladder, and reports on the method’s success! But the mood in the letter quickly turns:

Much has happened since we met and took those pleasant walks in the parc [sic] of the Spielberg. Our country was involved in a catastrophe which is bound to have the most serious consequences for its citizens. The old conditions cannot continue and some new form of political and economic existence must be found.

The first consequence was that we had to separate from our children. When we listened to Hitler’s speech at Nurenberg [sic] – for who did not? – we understood that he contemplated violent measures against our country. We wished to have the girls out of the way and asked Mr and Mrs Sanderson and Dr Fernberger for hospitality for our children. We got positive answers at once and managed to get the girls across the German frontiers. It was in the nick of time, for three weeks later the frontiers were closed.

There is much about the letter that is perplexing – initially, I thought Urban might have been writing from Brunn in Austria, but for the addition of the umlaut (both Germany and Austria have regions called Spielberg to confuse matters further). He could also have been writing from Brno in the Czech Republic, which does not seem an unlikely option considering Brno is home to Spielberg castle and was captured by Germany in 1939. However, it does seem rather unlikely that Urban would use the German spelling of his town in that instance.

If we are to assume that Urban is writing from Germany, his phrase ‘our country was involved in a catastrophe’ is an interesting one. The ‘catastrophe’ he refers to is likely the annexation of Austria by Germany, which took place earlier in the year. It was a catastrophe caused by Germany’s actions rather than their involvement, but he makes a clear distinction between the activities of the Nazis in this instance and ‘our’ country, his country, refusing to identify one with the other.

Urban tells how the girls stayed in London with the Sandersons for a few weeks, before sailing to New York where they remained in the custody of the Fernbergers in Philadelphia. He mentions how they are waiting for a letter describing the girls’ travels, but can’t hide quite how much they are missed:

We miss the girls tremendously, but inspite [sic] of this we thank God every day that they are not here and that we have friends who look after them.

He talks about how life at Brunn will likely become ‘rather difficult’, and asks for Thomson’s help in finding teaching work in Britain. While he accepts that this may be impossible, and admits his chances of securing work in Britain are ‘very small’, Urban remains optimistic nonetheless – thankful even – that his daughters are safe, and his health good. I can find no trace of Urban – whether he and his wife were ever reunited with their daughters remains a mystery. For me, this serves to make the letter, which describes the plight of millions throughout Europe from the perspective of one individual to another, all the more touching.

If you have any information regarding Dr Urban, do please comment.

The love story of Hector and Andromache…

Leave a reply

Valentines Day. A wonderful time of year when we can indulge in levels of cynicism and sarcasm simply unacceptable at any other! However, here in the archives our hardened hearts are often shamefully disarmed by the traces of friendship, romance, and (dare I say it!) love we come across every day within our collections.

Those of you familiar with Greek mythology may know the story of Hector and Andromache – Hector the bold Trojan warrior, and Andromache, his beautiful wife. For those who do not, the story doesn’t end happily, with Hector killed at the hands of Achilles. Today’s Valentine’s blog is about another Hector and Andromache – Hector Thomson, the son of Godfrey Thomson, and his rather beautiful wife, the aptly named Andromache.

Hector as a young boy with Thomson

From the outset, despite their fateful monikers, the pair seemed a rather unlikely match. Hector, according to one family friend, was socially awkward, quiet, and was most likely to be found with his nose in a book. Andromache, according to the traces of her in the letters of others, was the sort of house guest welcome at every home, who could bring cheer to even the most despondent of households.

Sadly we have no photographs of Andromache in the archives. This scan was given to us by a relative.

Hector began his career as an Oxford educated Classicist. Perhaps surprisingly when compared to the accounts we have regarding his boyhood, he finished his degree with a yearning of adventure, and entered the diplomatic service, working in Baghdad.

Telegrams from Hector to his family sent during his time in Baghdad

At some point in 1939, he found himself teaching at the English School in Nicosia, Cyprus. It was here the somewhat socially awkward Hector met the vivacious Andromache! The pair quickly fell in love – in one letter from his father, Hector is told:

We would dearly love to hear from you, and especially to hear more about Andromache, but I know communication must be precarious.

His parents, of course, had their own love story.

Hector also fell in love with Cyprus – his letters to Thomson from this period discuss both the language and the religion of the Cypriots in great detail. Details which Thomson with his enquiring mind would have found fascinating. References to Andromache in the surviving letters are brief, with the Thomson’s sending their love and asking how she is – but we know in later years that the Thomsons, along with many of their friends and acquaintances, would affectionately call her ‘Mackie’.

Scenes from Hector’s time in Cyprus

After their wedding, they settled in Aberdeen where Hector eventually became senior lecturer in Ancient and Modern Greek at the University of Aberdeen. Hector’s teaching techniques owed a lot to his Father’s career as a psychologist and professor of education, throughout which Thomson emphasised the need to gain and keep the attention of students and pupils. This is by no means an uncommon idea now, but one which was new and innovative in Thomson’s time.

His Father’s methods are reflected in the many ways Hector grabbed and maintained the attention of his students, apparently even making yoghurt in one lecture! He endeavored not only to teach his students Greek, but invited them to share in his love of Greek culture.

Following his retirement, he and Andromache spent their time between the Thomson’s former home in Ravelston Dykes, Edinburgh (left to Hector in their will), and Cyprus. Hector died on 19th February 2008, aged 91. According to her relations, Andromache was bereft after his death, and decided to move back to Cyprus permanently. A few short months later, she too passed away. Hector and ‘Mackie’ were married for 67 years – they were a true love match. Now that, dear readers, is better than chocolates, flowers, and stuffed toys clutching hearts!

The disgruntlements of old age…

Leave a reply

Disgruntlement. The archives are full of it – though I should stress I am referring to the contents of our records rather than our lovely readers (or indeed my lovely colleagues)! This week’s letter is a wonderful example of disgruntlement from the eccentric and brilliant zoologist and classicist, D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson (1860–1948). The youth, he tells us, simply aren’t what they used to be:Thompson wrote the letter to Thomson in 1946 to congratulate him on his Galton Lecture, ‘the Trends of National Intelligence’, which explored the idea that as a nation, our intelligence was in decline.

While he acknowledges that he may well be ‘biased by the disgruntlements of old age’, he assures Thomson:

I still believe that my students are inferior to those of thirty or forty years ago, and to my own companions of 60-70 years ago. They have less ability, much less diligence, and hardly any of the old enthusiasm and joy and happiness in their work.

And that, according to Thompson, isn’t even the half of it!:

There is something, something very subtle and mysterious, which brings the Golden Ages and the Dark Ages; which gives one, in literature, the Elizabethan, the Queen Anne, and the Victorian periods; and in Art the great and shortlived glories of Greece, Italy, Holland and our English school of Reynolds, Turner, Constable and the rest. All gone!

Indeed. And according to Thompson, who finishes on a wonderful note of pessimism, its only going to get worse:

I judge from the young people I have to do with, that we are going to be worse before we are better.

D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson

But despite appearances, Thompson loved teaching – he was a renowned speaker whose lecture halls were packed, and he encouraged his students to exercise their enquiring minds. Even while he lay on his death bed, Thompson’s students visited and livened up his last days with discussion and debate. Any disappointment hinted at in his letter to Thomson could be attributed to his own brilliance, which perhaps caused him to expect similar levels of extraordinariness in those he taught.

Thompson’s love of biology was awakened by his Grandfather, who, along with Thompson’s Aunt, brought him up in Edinburgh. This was due to the death of his Mother and his Father’s appointment as professor of Greek in Queen’s College, Galway. He was educated at the Universities of Edinburgh and Cambridge – gaining a first, naturally, and was appointed professor of biology in University College Dundee.

The importance of artefacts in teaching was clear to Thompson from the outset. Under his guidance a rich museum of zoology was created, helped by the Dundee whalers. Thompson himself was deeply interested in whaling, visiting the Pribylov Islands as a member for the British–American ‘inquiry on the fur seal fishery in the Bering Sea’. This interest would continue throughout his life, seeing him speaking at international conferences; appointed CB (1898); becoming a member of the fishery board for Scotland; and becoming a British representative for the International Council for the Exploration of the Sea. In 1917, Thompson accepted the post of senior chair of natural history in the United College of the University of St Andrews.

Thompson’s published output was vast, and included papers on biology, oceanography, classical scholarship, and natural history. He had several honours bestowed upon him, including his election as fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh (1885); his election as fellow of the Royal Society (1916); the Linnean gold medal (1938); the Darwin medal (1946); and his knighthood (1937). Despite his description of himself as a ‘disgruntled old man’, Thompson encouraged the youth surrounding him to think, to enquire, and to explore – something he did right up until the end of his life.

A letter from Pip

Leave a reply

Some of the most interesting letters in Thomson’s collection were sent to his widow following his death in 1955. The following, from psychiatrist and secretary of the Eugenics society Carlos Paton Blacker (1895–1975), gives a good indication of the friendship between himself and Thomson:

It is not clear when Thomson and Blacker first became acquainted, but their research interests certainly overlapped. Thomson was the key figure in the two Scottish Mental Surveys, which tested the intelligence of almost every school child in Scotland born in 1921 and 1936 in 1932 and 1947 respectively. These were of direct interest to Blacker, who had helped establish the Royal Commission on Population.

The word ‘Eugenics’ is one which the 21st century audience is rather uncomfortable with. Unsurprisingly, following the holocaust and devastation of World War II, mid 20th century Britain wasn’t comfortable with the concept either. At best Eugenics was considered a mere pseudo-science (as it is to this day, despite Blacker’s efforts, widely acknowledged to be). But the eugenics of Blacker were more moderate than that of those preceding him. As Soloway argues in his Oxford DNB entry:

Under Blacker the Eugenics Society was transformed from an unfocused, amateur propaganda agency dabbling uncertainly in the newly emerging areas of birth control and genetics, into a quasi-professional research foundation committed to family planning and the serious study of population problems.

Blacker had experienced first hand the effects of a lack of access to, and information about, birth control throughout his time as a medical student at Guy’s hospital, where he encountered large numbers of deeply distressed female patients undergoing unwanted pregnancies they were powerless to avoid. However, it is undeniable that alongside this very human desire to help the women he encountered, Blacker viewed contraception as a tool to ensure what eugenicists saw as the least desirable echelons of society were not ‘out-breeding’ the more desirable.

PP-CPB-B.20AwardOfGaltonMedalToCarlosPatonBlackerWELLCOME1957

From the Wellcome Trust archives, Blacker being awarded the Galton medal, 1957 (ref: PP/CPB/B.20). Image Wellcome Trust

This was a concern that pervaded the first half of the 20th century – namely that of the perceived ‘differential birth rate’, the idea that the more educated (therefore the most desirable) sections of society were producing less offspring than the ill-educated working classes. Indeed, the second Scottish Mental Survey was undertaken in order to establish whether Scotland’s intelligence was declining (in fact, the results indicated a slight increase).

Thomson fought for a fair education for all that catered to each individual’s abilities regardless of their background, often in the face of eugenic principles which argued that such an approach would encourage the supposed ‘differential birth rate’. Similarly, Blacker faced criticism from fellow members of the Eugenics Society who believed availability of contraceptives to all would lower the birth rate of educated professionals even further. Both were men of strong beliefs, and the development of their friendship can be seen in records of the Eugenics Society held by the Wellcome Trust Library and available online.

The changes in how they address one another in the course of their correspondence are particularly telling. The surviving correspondence in the records of the Eugenics Society dates from 1946-1950 (though we know from Thomson’s papers that he and Blacker were in touch until Thomson’s death). At the onset, Thomson addresses Blacker ‘Dr Blacker’, then ‘Blacker’, then ‘My dear Blacker’. Eventually, in his letter of November 1948, Thomson begins:

(I would like to feel privileged to use the name you once told me was yours among your friends, but I can’t for the life of me remember it – Punch or Plug or something like that I think. Do tell me).

From SA/EUG/C.329, ‘Professor Sir Godfrey H Thomson’, Wellcome Trust Library

Blacker evidently signed his reply (of which only the typed copy survives) by this name, which was of course ‘Pip’. From then on, Thomson addresses Blacker as ‘Pip’, while Blacker moves from ‘My dear Thomson’ to ‘My dear Godfrey’. Their correspondence shows the value each placed on the other’s professional opinion, as well as the interest they took in one another’s lives and the enjoyment they derived from one other’s company.

When Blacker was awarded the Galton medal two years after Thomson’s death, Lady Thomson wrote to him (her letter can be found in Blacker’s personal papers, held by the Wellcome Trust Library and available online) in her typically touching fashion:

I can only say how delighted I am, and you know how proud of you Godfrey would have been.

I hope he knows about it in some way or other.

From PP/CPB/B.20, ‘Award of Galton Medal to Carlos Paton Blacker’, Wellcome Trust Library

Blacker’s career was varied, taking him from an heroic performance in World War I (where he was awarded the Military Cross), to a medical graduate (then psychologist) working in Guy’s hospital. Blacker went on to work as a psychiatrist in Maudsley Hospital, where he stayed to the end of his career, broken up only by his time as a field Doctor during World War II (where he was awarded the George Medal for gallantry), and a secondment to the Ministry of Health, where he was investigating the need for psychiatric care following World War II.

Blacker was certainly an interesting character. His views, moderate in their time, are open to criticism in ours. But then everyone is a product of the time from which they emerge. Blacker’s work, whether it be establishing the needs of soldiers during and after warfare, or working towards making contraception both available and socially acceptable, was both far reaching and forward facing, and the traces he has left behind are a fascinating glimpse of the turbulent and changeful 20th century from some of its most interesting and complex characters.

Wellcome Trust University Award Research Fellow Dr Edmund Ramsden will be speaking about Eugenics and intelligence testing in the 20th century at a seminar titled ‘Gathering Intelligence: the work of Professor Sir Godfrey Thomson’, which will be held at Edinburgh University Library on the 16th May, 9-3.30 (with an optional tour of Moray House in the afternoon). Dr Ramsden will be one of 6 speakers, each looking at Thomson’s work from a different perspective. The seminar is free to attend, however booking is required. Bursaries for travel and accommodation may be available. If you are interested in attending, please contact me at Emma.Anthony@ed.ac.uk for further information.

A few of my favourite [festive!] things

Leave a reply

At the start of the festive period, I had the best of intentions to post a festive blog post for every day of advent. Alas, there isn’t much mention of Christmas in Thomson’s papers – even his family photo albums are a decidedly festive free zone! However, having three working days left until we break up for the festive period, I thought I would share (you’ve guessed it!) three festive items from the collection…

1) Christmas card to Thomson from his students…

Quite possibly the best Christmas card I’ve ever come across – spelling ‘Christmas’ in mathematical terms. Genius! And if that wasn’t zany enough, there is a wonderfully nebulous poem on the inside!

In all seriousness, this is one of my favourite items in the collection – it is signed by 13 of Thomson’s students, who were obviously very fond of him, and I bet the master of Factorial Analysis loved it!

2) Christmas card from Andromache

Andromache was the wife of Thomson’s son, Hector. Hector was a classicist, so the mythical love story of Hector and Andromache would have been one familiar to him. She is a frequent character in the collection, and is mentioned throughout Thomson’s correspondence by friends and family – Thomson and Lady Thomson appear to have been particularly fond of her. The card depicts her native Cyprus.

3) A Christmas gift from Lady Thomson:

The gift is a thoughtful one – Thomson was brought up near Newcastle, and the sights in this book would have been familiar to him. The book has clearly been well loved and frequently referred to, and has some beautiful images of Newcastle.

With that, I’d like to wish you all a lovely Christmas and a productive New Year!

If anyone recognises their signature or that of anyone else’s on the card, do please get in touch (Emma.Anthony@ed.ac.uk)

The Story of One

Leave a reply

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.

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:

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’…

Leave a reply

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.

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.

Professor Sir Godfrey Thomson

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.

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

Godfrey Thomson Project

Documenting the understanding of human intelligence

Category Archives: Make history human

The simple art of reference writing

‘Towards a better understanding of human relations’

A few of my favourite things V: a gift from ‘the Polish Teachers in Uniform’

‘The old conditions cannot continue, and some new form of political and economic existence must be found’

The love story of Hector and Andromache…

The disgruntlements of old age…

A letter from Pip

A few of my favourite [festive!] things

The Story of One

‘Encounters of a mathematician’…