Lord Stiffupperlip

Just in case anyone was feeling jealous about my travels, let me tell you:

I spent eight hours yesterday reading endnotes and bibliographies (you know, the small print at the end of academic books that no one really reads).  If I were made god for a day, I would make endnotes illegal, opting for the much more user friendly footnotes.

I've spent my entire morning (well, except for the 30 minutes I spent writing a complaint to the British Library for not letting me bring my tiny little violin case into the library because it didn't fit in the little carry on luggage measuring thing.  I mean, you can bring in a 30lb carry-on suitcase, but my little violin is 4 inches too tall) listing the Colonial Secretaries and Home Secretaries from 1768 to 1868.

What made this last thing so tedious is the fact that almost all these secretaries were aristocrats with a gajillion different titles.

For example, take the second son of James Smith, Marquess of Stiffupperlip aka Lord Stiffupperlip

First he is the Honorable John Smith, second son of the Marquess of Stiffupperlip,
Then, his older brother, Robert Smith, Earl of Pratville (courtesy title) dies and John Smith becomes John Smith, Earl of Pratville aka Lord Pratville.
Then, his father dies and he becomes John Smith, Marquess of Stiffupperlip aka Lord Stiffupperlip.
Then, after long service to his country, he is made John Smith, Duke of Richland aka Lord Richland.

So in the course of one life, he is called Hon. Mr. John Smith, Lord Pratville, Lord Stiffupperlip, and Lord Richland.

How is one supposed to keep all this in one's head?

Archival Asides: Infanticide in Grass-Market

Alright, ladies. Hear ye well.  It is time that we get down on our knees and thank our lucky stars that we were born when and where we were.

 In my text searches for GRASS? (you add the "?" so that you also turn up words like grasses, grassland, etc), I keep coming across entries that tempt me so much.  For example, in the English Short Title Catalogue (pamphlets, mainly) I get hits for Grass-Market, which is a place in Edinburgh where all sorts of people were executed in the 17th and 18th century.  There is a whole series of pamphlets called "The Last Speech and Dying Words of _______________, who was executed in the Grass-market of Edinburgh on ____________, for ___________"  The most famous I've come across so far is Rob Roy Jr's, executed for "Being Art and Part and Guilty of Hamesucken, and Carrying Off the Heiress of Edinbelly in a Violent and Hostile Manner."  Hamesucken is felony trespass with the intent of damaging persons not property.

But then there are the scores of broadsides with the dying words of women (or girls, really) accused of the "most horrid crime" of infanticide.

  For example, Janet Hutchie, "For the Murder of Her Own Child," who wrote:

"I am now going in 30 Years of Age, and declares; I never knew a Man in the World but John Williamson to whom the Child was, alas a married Man, his Wife being my own Commerad while she was unmarried. I intirely free him of the Act of Murder it self,as was alledged; But acknowledges, it was by his Advice and Direction,and he desired me earnestly to do it; and when it was done to put it in some Hole or another, that it might be hid from the Eyes of the World. But Oh! who can hide from the Eye of an All-seeing GOD, to whom all Things are naked and bare.

I likewise further own, I never knew the said Williamson but once in an Morning, when my Brother and Family were at the Coal-pit, but he has frequently attempted it, but never got his Design perpetuate but that Time, by which I was got with Child by him, and when I found my self with Child, I told him, and he gave me several Things to Cause me Mis-carry, but I never took them. I did not Reveal my being with Child to any but to him and one Isobel Guthry, who in a little after died in Child-bed. 

                          

I truly own my Guilt in destoying the Child, but not directly, for it was alive when I was delivered, but for want of Help and my Unnaturality in the Birth it soon died, which if it had not, I was resolved to have strangled it, which makes me equally Guilty in the Sight of GOD, as if I had actually done it, and thereafter tyed it in a Codwair, and keep-ed it three Days in my Chest, into which Codwair I put an big Stone, and threw it in a Mill-dam, where it lay 18 Days before it was found, and knows nothing of its having a Cord about its Neck, as the Witnesses declared, unlels it had been the Knitting of the said Codwnd."

How horrible is that?  He (probably) rapes her, tries to make her miscarry, convinces her to kill and hide the baby, and she's the one that gets hanged and publicly dissected.

Bleak.  And this is just one of many infanticide executions.  

Here's Anne Morrison, age 14, whose baby probably just died in childbirth:

 I went to service in the Multrees hill, in the first of June last, and being with Child by a young Man, whose Name I forbear to mention ; I took all possible Care to conceal it, but being come to my Time, and going a little Way off from my Master's House I unexepectdly took traveling and was there delivered without Assistance,nor did I call for any, altho' I knew there was People within hearing of me. The Child being born, I laid it among the Corn and returned to my Master's House, but soon after, the truth was suspected, and upon Examination, I was found guilty, for which I am to suffer this Day.

And here's poor 19-year-old rape victim Helen Marishal:

I Was Born in the Shire of Stratharn, of very Honest and Creditable Parents, who took great pains for my Education; but I being Regardless of it, neglected my School, and Reading, and the loss of Which Means, has made me ignorant of the Knowledge of GOD and his Ways: So I being Disobedient to my Parents, and would not be in Sub-jection to them, I went away from them and betook my self to Service, where having been in several Services, where I served very faithfully, untill I had the Misfortune to meet with the Young Man who is Father of the Deceast Child for whom I now Suffer ; for now I Confess I never knew no Man in the World but him, and that only once, and that he by sending out my Commerad, and none being in the House with me but himself, he overpow'red me, and I for Concealing my self to be with Child, left that Place, and came to this Place where I stayed till near my Delivery, and it never being perceived, I engaged again in Service in Libertoun, where I really brought forth the said Child, without calling for help, but did not destroy it as it was reported, for I neither had Knife nor no other Instrument.

Some bad shit went down at Grass-Market. And the sad thing is that this kind of stuff still happens today in many places.

It's not easy being green

But green's the color of Spring.

Pictures from Regents Park and the enormous Richmond Park
(and also my room)

My Humble Abode.  Items to note: 1) Swiss ball for back ailments--doubles as
desk chair.  2) Duvet that very conveniently matches the sheets I brought from
home 3) a small pharmacy in my cubbies 4) the cool desk built into the window nook. 

One of many many self-portraits in attempt to send a picture of myself to the history department
for the website.  Only a few of them turned out any good.  I don't know the name of this section
of the garden, but it is pretty much the weed garden (even though I know that weeds are a social category).

This is the problem with having transition lenses...This was a cool path through the
Royal Weed Garden, oh, pardon me, the "herbaceous border."

Beautiful wisteria covered bridge in the Oriental Garden in Regent's Park

More Oriental Garden.

Weeping Willow by the pond, though badly in need of a trim on the opposite side
to avoid the horrible bad luck you get if you let your willow branches touch the ground.  

Some sort of cypress knees.  I've never seen cypress knees
unsubmerged in a coastal swamp before.  

Mama Duck with six ducklings (two of which she is sitting on).

Beautiful dark blue tree/shrubs.  I looked them up and I think that it is a
Californian lilac, though it is unlike most of the lilacs I've encountered before. 

Peephole into another Royal Weed Garden, this one in
Richmond Park.  

Lots of lovely grassy woods in Richmond Park.  You might be tempted to roll around
in these gentle blades, but you would find yourself with lots of nettle stings.
Ask me how I know.  

View from atop Richmond Hill.  

Postcards from the Edge

I had a post planned about my touristy day yesterday, which I will eventually write once I upload my pictures from my camera, but I need to indulge in a somewhat personal interlude instead.

In said touristy day, I picked up a handful of postcards to send out to friends and family.  We've gone past the letter-writing phase of history, I'm afraid (barring a nice post-apocalyptic world without the interwebz), but I haven't given up on the humble postcard yet. I popped by Baker Street for the express purpose of picking up some Holmesian cards, and picked up a few double-decker bus-shaped cards for the 4-year-old boys in my life.  And for good measure, I bought a handful of the less-tacky (but still tacky) 30p each cards.

I unpacked my daybag this morning to survey my collection and decide who would get which card, when I got a bit of a lump in my throat.  You know the one.

I don't have grandparents anymore.

Lump gets bigger.  Face fills with water.

It is strange that something so small and menial can cause such a big wave of grief.

The last time I traveled abroad, I had two reasonably healthy grandparents to send postcards to.  The time before that, I had four.  Now I have none.  And something about not being able to send them a 4 by 6 card with something pretty on the front and something interesting on the back just makes me ache.  Mema would have kept it by her chair for ages, right by the TV flipper, her ancient phone, her latest Nora Roberts, and her address book.  Daddaddy would have kept it on the kitchen table for a time and would have informed visitors of its existence until it eventually became part of the outdated fridge landscape.

We lost Mema (my paternal grandmother) and Daddaddy (my maternal grandfather) last summer. For several reasons, not least of which was simply that they were the last to go, these losses were harder.  The sting wasn't lessened much by the fact that they had lived long, productive lives, punctuated by several hard years of widow(er)hood.  And I didn't have very much time to grieve.

I miss them terribly, especially when I'm at home in South Carolina, where, for the last six or seven years, our family's weekends (and many times weekdays) revolved around caring for grandparents--bringing meals, visiting at nursing homes, etc. I feel the absence of them more. Feel sadder. Wish that I had come by more often than I did on my short and infrequent visits from New York or Chicago.  But I don't usually miss them as much when I'm away.  I'm conditioned to long absences.  So I was somewhat sideswipped this morning with the realization that the only people in my life who I really needed to send a postcard to, to whom a postcard was more than a lark in a wired world, are no longer there to receive it.

Maybe I should write them one anyway.

Shhhhhhhhh!

Permit me to bore you with details of the University of London's Senate House Library, in an effort to not write depressing things about how lonely and homesick I am, and how much I miss my dog, or I almost cried three different times yesterday morning in the reading rooms of the British Library, or about how hard it was for me to get out of bed this morning (oh, wait, I just wrote that). Well, now that we've gone there, I will mention that I got very sage advice yesterday from my friend Sheila who has "been there, done that,' and I spent most of the afternoon investigating groups on meetup.com and, joy of all joys, signing up for a fiddle class at a place called The Cecil Sharpe House.  I emailed the instructor who invited me to join the session going on now, and said he would also have some leads on jam sessions.

Anyway, anyway, anyway.  Libraries.

The Brits love their procedures.  There is a multi-step process for everything you do.  And everything you want to do requires a form (sometimes many) of identification.  For example, to open a bank account (which I can't do because I'm not an official resident) or get a Reader's Card (library card) you need, like, seven different proofs of identity, address, blood-type, education, paternal grandmother's maiden name (I only exaggerate slightly). In order to read a book at The British Library, you must first long onto a computer using an account number, then you find what book you want and request that it be brought to a certain reading room front desk, then you must log in to that account so that you can see when (takes up to 70 minutes) your book is ready, then you must go to the front desk and show your ID to the attendant, then she/he retrieves your book from the back room, then you must tell him/her your seat number, then you read your book, then you have to go back to the front desk and give them your books, showing your ID yet again.  Add to this a long list of prohibited items (coats, bags, pens, highlighters, sharp implements, food, drink, cough drops, gum, cameras) and the fact that you are subject to a strip search before entering the building or leaving a reading room.  At the Bodleian at Oxford, add to this a sworn oath that you shalt not lighteth a fire in the library and an honest-to-god letter of introduction. I have also found the staff of these kinds of libraries to be at least 7 times out of 10, singularly bitter and intentionally unhelpful.

So the Senate House Library does not allow access to  foreign students unless you are pursuing a research degree.  Well, I am, but my student ID card does not specify my status, so, according to their website, I would need to provide the following: 1) Passport 2)Proof of Address 3)proof of current enrollment status and 4) proof of enrollment as a Ph.D student. Printing is somewhat difficult in my current living situation, but after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I managed to procure and print off a copy of my enrollment certificate and my Admission to Candidacy Letter.  I stumble into Admissions office, armed with all my documentation, and braced for interrogation.

And instead I find a perfectly helpful receptionist, who was both kind and chatty, who presented me with the easiest and most unthreatening application process I've yet to encounter. I told her I was a Ph.D student, and she merely asked to see my university ID.  "Do you not need to see all the other stuff?" says I. "No worries," she says, "I believe you." Be still my beating heart.

The University of London is much more laid back than its snooty Oxbridge counterparts. This makes sense, I suppose, as it was founded  in 1836 originally to provide an alternative education to people who wanted to study in the sciences and "useful arts," not just Classics, Letters, and Theology, the staples of Oxbridge.  It was also, in 1878, the first university to admit women in degree programs.
Senate House Library is an open stacks library, which is virtually unheard of in most of the big libraries. It was actually quite cosy and welcoming.

Of course it didn't mean that the reading rooms weren't still deathly silent. I found my way into the "Middlesex Germanic Studies" reading room, where a handful of students hunched over their books.  My stomach began to growl ever-so-softly and it practically echoed through the room.  The coolest thing about the library is the study carrels, which are rented out to advanced students.  When I think of carrells, I think about the ones at Bard College:

(basically, a small desk full of your Senior Project books

and rotting food, that other people still use anyway)

These, on the other hand, were beautiful, hard-wood rooms(about as big as the place I'm living), built into the bookstacks and accessed by skeleton key.  

Well, I was suitably impressed.  

My time in the reading room came quickly to an end, however, as my leather-bottomed chair kept making farting noises underneath me, which I think could have been heard out on the street. 

I may make this library my default instead of the BL for days that I just need to process what I've collected or plan more archive visits.  

Important Things That I Forgot

1. The belt for my bathrobe

2. My super expensive (and completely necessary) Redken Curl Lotion

3. Flip flops for the shower

4. Not a single, bloody rubber band.

Also, is it British shampoo or British water that makes my hair feel nastier after the shower than before it?

And, yes, all these things are shower related, since I have just taken my first shower since leaving SC on Thursday.  Yes, it is Sunday.  Number 3 had to be addressed before I would set flip-flop clad foot in the shower.

Ship of Fools

I went to three different churches today.

I'm not a religious nutter, I swear.  I just really like really good choral music and gothic architecture.  In particular, I love boy choristers (and not in a creepy pedophile way).  I am just always amazed by how these tiny boys (and girls in some cathedrals) can master such technically difficult music and sound so sweet and pure. My grandfather was a treble soloist in the Greenville Boys Choir back in the 1930s, so maybe my love of this kind of music stems from that heritage.

London has at least four cathedrals that have a choir of men and boy choristers.  Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Cathedral, and Southwark Cathedral. As with most cathedral choirs, these four have affiliated schools where the boys are educated for free or reduced tuition.  They admit boys at the age of 7 or 8 for a probationary year, and then they join as full choristers after that if they make the cut. They sing at least two services on Sundays during the school term, and at least two or three Evensongs during the week.

I had never been to Southwark (pronounce Suth-ook) Cathedral, so I decided to give it a try.  It is right near one of my favorite spots in London, on the south bank of the Thames under London Bridge.  It's where Borough Market, a wholesale (and retail) food market, is, The Globe Theatre, and, my favorite, a full-size replica of The Golden Hinde, Sir Francis Drake's pirate ship.

I got to the Cathedral early in hopes of getting seated in the choir (or quire) area where the seats are cushier and the action nearer, but, unlike St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey, they don't open it up to ordinary folk.  Southwark is definitely less touristy than the others I've been to.  It had a large congregation of regulars, and this morning there was also a baptism of an adorable little baby with an unfortunate name (Stanley). As such is was a long service. 

After a somewhat grueling search around town for a cheap shoulder& bag (I should mention that I have no less than three quality shoulder bags at home which I forgot to pack), I finally ended up at this horrible place called Primark, which is full of cheap things...mostly cheap skimpy clothing for teenage waifs, and bought a purse for $5.  It will last until I can get something more serviceable.  This Primark happened to be close to Victoria Station, which is close to Westminster Abbey, which, at 3 p.m. on Sundays happens to have a beautiful Evensong service.  So I couldn't not go.  

Westerminster Abbey Evensongs are always crowded, but have enjoyed (sarcasm) a boost in popularity since the Royal Wedding a few years ago.  So, even though I arrived 10 minutes early, I was seated in the nosebleed section.  The curates of Westminster Abbey are pretty jaded, and they are the same ones year after year.  There are the two that stand at the gate, sneering at visitors to tell them that entrance is for worship only and that they must, under pain of death, stay for the entire hour.  They look generally disgusted with everyone that walks by.  We are all, in their eyes, heathens who are too cheap to pay the 15gbp (I still haven't learned how to shortcut the gbp sign) entrance.  Then there is a slightly creepy woman with a vacant, almost possessed look on her face that directs you down the nave.  Then there is a really really creepy guy who, bless his heart, looks exactly like Marty Feldman.  I was going to post a picture of Marty Feldmen, but I have a deep and abiding phobia of Marty Feldman.  I literally feel woozy when I see his face, so I'm not going to put in on my blog.  It is the same feeling I get when I see an empty pool.  And, yes, I know I have some issues.  

When I got back to the Centre-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named, I went to their informal 3rd Sunday of the month service in the basement, thinking maybe I could meet a few people and stop being so socially awkward. Being active with Brent House at The University of Chicago, I'm used to a small congregation, but there were only four of us.  Five if you count the Danish chaplain's unborn child. A bit disappointing, but had interesting conversation afterwards.  

So I think I've fulfilled my ecclesiastical obligations for the week.  I'm slowly settling in to my new quarters, and am not even that frustrated by the fact that both of the hall's toilets are out of commission.  One is clogged and the other has no functional light.  I swear I packed a little flashlight, but I couldn't find it.  So I have been peeing in the dark with only the light of my Nexus 7 to keep me company. Tomorrow I brave the breakfast room, which I have been too cowardly or tired to do thus far.  

High Tide in London

When I've told people about the fact that I'm going to be living in England for six months (followed by an additional eight months in Australia and South Africa), I feel by their enthusiastic reactions that they are expecting that I will have this look on my face at all times while on this adventure:

(This is, by the way, my wonderful and lovely dog, Evie, who, as

it happens, is always excited to get in the car and go.  It might be 

the park, it might be Chicago, it might be South Carolina, and, if 

you know Evie, it's most likely the emergency vet's office.)

The truth is, this is a pretty uncertain thing that I'm doing here, on both a personal and a professional level.  A lot rides on the success of my time in the archives...like, my whole academic career.  And anyone who has had the good fortune to be able to go abroad for a research year will tell you that it can be dreadfully lonely. I've taken some pains to keep from being completely isolated (i.e. NOT living in the attic of some middle-class semi-detached terrace house in Kew), it is still daunting.  

After my first 48 hours in the country, I don't really look much like the above picture.  I look more like this one:  

The first week in a new place, abroad or not, is just exhausting.  I remember this from when I moved to Chicago almost four years ago, the strength of mind and body required just to figure out where the heck to buy a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread, deposit money in the bank, and set up the %#$@*& internet.  Add some significant jet lag, and I'm just one pooped puppy.  

I had an awkward flight this time around...not quite an overnight flight, but not quite a non-overnight flight. Left Charlotte at 11:45 am, hung out in Toronto (just the airport, mind you) for five hours, left Toronto at 6:30 p.m, got to London at around 1:30 am My Body Time, 6:30 a.m. London Time, spent about an hour in line at Customs, and another hour being detained and interrogated by a clueless Home Office agent who told me I should have applied for a student Visa despite it clearly stating that only students enrolled in UK institutions can get student visas AND despite it clearly stating that an American citizen does not need a Visa for stays less than 6 months.  I hit the Piccadilly line just in time for rush hour, spent an hour on the tube trying to keep my luggage from collapsing, spent another half hour rolling around a 50lb piece of luggage whose wheels were strained by the addition of a 40lb duffle bag bungeed to the top, the three or four blocks to my new home, praying to Jesus and TjMaxx that I wouldn't lose a wheel. I nearly broke into song when the lady in reception said that I could take the lift to the third floor (which in British English translates into the 4th floor).  I had been very worried the prospect of a walk-up.  

 I had told myself that if I could wait until 5pm to go to bed, I would be okay.  To that end, I went out in search of a mobile phone.  I walked to the nearest Carphone Warehouse, which was not so near as I had been led to believe, and bought my first ever smart phone (perhaps this deserves its own post, though), and picked up some bread and cheese and water at the Tesco Express, only to find that I didn't have the strength to move another inch. So I broke the budget and took a cab back to The-Centre-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named (what, for anonymity's sake, I shall call the place I am living), and promptly went unconscious for about 5 hours, waking up to nightfall and the sudden urge to be productive and ORGANIZE ALL THE THINGS. 

So now my tides are off, as Barbara Kingsolver once put it.  I spent all day fighting the urge to sleep the day away.  It is high tide in London and I'm in danger of getting swept out to sea.  I'm also desperately trying to stay hydrated despite the terrible drinking water here (maybe this deserves its own post as well).  

But, enough for now.  The sun is finally all the way down and I am perfectly justified in retiring to the comfort of my little twin duvet.  Pictures of my little abode to come.