Tag Archives: University of Edinburgh

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!

The love story of Hector and Andromache…

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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…

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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

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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.

‘Encounters of a mathematician’…

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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

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

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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.

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]

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!

A letter from ‘Dear old Rack’!

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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’!

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

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.

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.

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:

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!!’!

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.

A few of my favourite things…

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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!

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.

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.

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

Keeping history a ‘humane study’

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It is a real privilege to catalogue an individual’s personal papers. Yes, its fascinating learning about the field they contributed to and the innovations they left behind, but there is nothing better than putting on your cardigan (a necessary implement – archive stores are chilly!) and making a new friend.

As @mandahill quoted on twitter

“Where there is a good collection of personal papers there is a greater likelihood of history remaining a humane study.” #archives

Quite. And there are many fascinating personal papers to be found in Thomson’s collection, from photographs, to letters, to artefacts, telling us about his life as well as his work. After two months of working on his papers, I really do feel like I am getting to know Thomson. And I rather like him.

Thomson and his son, Hector, in Cornwall

But it was today, when I was lucky enough to have a tour of Moray House where Thomson was director between 1925-1951, that I really got an idea of the working environment in which he carried out his research. Myself and others involved in the project were led by former honorary Moray House archivist, Hugh Perfect.

Old Moray House, built in the early 17th century

: We started the visit in the corridor of Thomson’s office, surrounded by beautiful 1930s architecture. Like many teachers and academics in the early to mid 20th century, Thomson wore academic robes while he taught, and I could almost see him walking purposefully along the corridors around his office with his robes billowing behind him!

The corridor to the right of Thomson’s office

The corridor to the left of Thomson’s office

His office had (and still does have) a smaller office adjoining where his secretary, Marian Cooke, worked. The pair had a close working relationship – in the 11 years they worked together, they had only one skirmish which began with Thomson losing his temper, and ended with Cooke slamming the door! Thankfully, according to Cooke, this incident was a one off, and the pair thoroughly enjoyed working together. Though whether she enjoyed Thomson’s renditions of Gilbert and Sullivan is anyone’s guess!

The view Thomson and Cooke shared from their adjoining offices

The interior of Thomson’s former office

We were also lucky enough to see Thomson’s portrait by RH Westwater, which hangs in a room now used as a meeting or conference space:

Thomson’s portrait by Westwater

It was certainly nice to see that Thomson is still remembered by Moray House over 60 years after his retirement, and fitting one of the buildings has been named ‘Thomson’s Land’ in his memory.

In contrast, ‘Room 70’, where Thomson and his team designed the Moray House Tests, is rather unrecognisable today from the picture Thomson’s papers paint – that of a hive of quiet activity, with only the sound of the calculating machine, the rustle of paper, and the sighs of the unfortunates tasked with marking the tests punctuating the silence! The room is now used primarily for seminars, and has been refurbished in a modern style.

The tour really gave us a feel for the environment in which Thomson worked, and it also gave me more of an idea of the man himself. Hugh’s extraordinary knowledge of Moray House was fascinating, and I learned something not only about Thomson, but about the institution he became such a part of.

Hugh has written extensively about Moray House, but it occurred to me that this is unusual in most cases – the buildings which are such a part of the papers are often no longer standing, or those with the sort of knowledge that comes only from years of habitation are no longer there.

The moral of this tale? If you are working on an individual’s papers, whether in the capacity of researcher or archivist, leave the books and the archives for a day and visit their old haunts. You might well learn something!

With thanks to Hugh Perfect for his time and knowledge.

‘Never mind, dear, I didn’t want a competitor, only a wife!’

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Behind every great man is that truly awful platitude reserved for the woman in his shadow! Researchers and archivists often despair about the absence of women – and not only women, but that’s several other blogs! – found in the margins of the papers of great men. What was their part in the story, other than that of a dutiful wife neglected in the pursuit of greatness?

Comparatively little is known about Thomson’s wife, Jennie (or to give her full title, Lady Thomson!). She is admittedly rather absent from his autobiography, The Education of an Englishman. This may be pardonable in some respects as it is largely about his education and career, though indeed one might say what is marriage if not an education?! Thomson tells us that he married his ‘younger colleague’ and settled down to ‘happiness and careful budgeting’. We know they met at Armstrong College, where Jenny was also teaching, and that they had one child, Hector. We know that Thomson’s many influential friends, including Carlos Paton Blacker, thought very highly of Jennie and enjoyed her company – but why? Was she witty? Good humoured? Or did she simply bake a mean scone as the annotations to Thomson’s recipe book would attest?!

Jennie Thomson

Thomson credited Jennie for winning the Urban Prize with him, saying that she carried out the mathematical calculations, but Jennie’s story is somewhat different:

One night, sitting as usual in his study with Crelle’s Rechaud Tafel on my knee I said to him ‘You know Godfrey, although I can do these calculations, I haven’t the faintest idea of what it is really all about.

He said ’Never mind, dear, I didn’t want a competitor, only a wife!’

However, from Thomson’s papers it is entirely clear just how much his Jennie meant to him, and how much her Godfrey meant to her. Its telling, for instance, that Thomson kept so many photographs of Jennie, that on one of the photographs of her in full costume for an amateur production at Durham University, Thomson has written ‘Jane Hutchinson, (now my wife), in what I like to imagine was a proud and steady hand!

Jane Hutchinson (‘Jennie’), right, and Beatrice Buckley, left

Thomson’s notes on reverse

We can see Jennie in the papers of James Fitzjames Duff, in a letter from Thomson’s friend, G R Goldsborough, who recalls how Thomson informed him of his marriage:

I wrote back a congratulatory letter saying how fortunate she was to have a man of such fine qualities; which I was sure would lead to a happy union and future prosperity. He immediately replied saying that it would please him very much if I would write and say the same to Jennie! I felt it a pecuiliar request, but I did as he asked and got what I deserved for my pains – a cool reply with a plain hint that such an unsolicited testimonial was not required.

Jennie clearly knew that Thomson, for all his ‘fine qualities’, was jolly lucky to have her!

Jennie (right) and her sister on their graduation, Durham University

Nowhere is the love between Thomson and Jennie more apparent than her biographical notes. Thomson died 14 years before Lady Thomson. Sadly, Jennie never finished the biography, perhaps because she suffered from poor health following Thomson’s death until her own. However, the notes she left behind give an insight into the man she knew better than anyone. She describes Thomson’s characteristics – his humour, his kindness, his egalitarian nature:

He possessed a strong sense of humour, a ready wit and considerate personal charm which made him a perfect host at his own table. His tasks were simple, he loved his fellow men…He had what all great people had – humility.

Lady Thomson’s notes regarding Thomson’s death are particularly poignant:

I have said earlier that Godfrey sought truth and was not afraid of it when he met it. He was not afraid when he met it at the last.

He asked me two days before he died if the doctors had told me he was going to die. He said “I am not afraid to die, but I am afraid of the pain and anguish to you”.

Through my barely hidden tears, I said “Yes dear, I know you are very ill, but I am your old sweetheart you know – and I am coming to you soon”. He said “Some things are certainties”

Thomson died in the afternoon of the following day. Jennie, or Lady Thomson as she was by then, was flooded with letters of sympathy telling her how much the sender admired and loved Thomson, from many of the world’s leading statisticians and psychometricians including Charles Paton Blacker and David Glass, as well as several letters from past students. Almost every letter states Jennie should not answer, she should rest, etc., and almost every letter is marked ‘answered’, with the date Jennie replied.

We will likely never know terribly much about Jennie other than the traces dotted around Thomson’s papers – the photographs of her, the book about Durham she gave him for Christmas 1914 – but Thomson treasured these traces. He referred to them throughout his life, often annotating them in hindsight. Jennie wasn’t ‘just’ a wife to Thomson, and she wasn’t ‘just’ a figure in the background of his achievements. She was his partner, his friend, and the person he trusted the most, and he was all those things to her.

Godfrey Thomson Project

Documenting the understanding of human intelligence

Tag Archives: University of Edinburgh

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The disgruntlements of old age…

A letter from Pip

‘Encounters of a mathematician’…

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A letter from ‘Dear old Rack’!

A few of my favourite things…

Keeping history a ‘humane study’

‘Never mind, dear, I didn’t want a competitor, only a wife!’