We are pleased to announce our Michaelmas 2019 exhibition and catalogue celebrating the 40th anniversary of the admission of women students to Balliol.
This exhibition delves into Balliol’s historic collections to illuminate the fundamental contribution of women to the College’s history.
The first female students matriculated at Balliol in 1979, but a very much longer history of women’s influence and agency at Balliol can be found in the College Archives. Beginning with the College’s joint founder, Dervorguilla of Galloway, who gave Balliol its Statutes in 1282, this exhibition tells the stories of the benefactors, educationalists, reformers, wives, writers, domestic staff, sisters and friends who over seven and a half centuries helped to shape the College we know today.
It is tempting to conflate a writer’s personality and the work they produce, but this can give us an incomplete picture of who they really were. The great literary scholar Andrew Cecil Bradley (Balliol 1868) is best remembered for Shakespearean Tragedy, a work of ‘high seriousness’ that profoundly influenced 20th century Shakespearean criticism; but the Oxford poetry professor also had a playful side. In the poem ‘Were I but fat’, Bradley expounds on the many benefits of portliness: ‘Were I but fat, I should not freeze … Wives should be mine, and properties’.
The possibly unpublished poem was Bradley’s contribution to a friendship book recently acquired by Balliol Library as part of its continuing effort to collect the intellectual history of the College. It was compiled by Balliol alumnus, poet and clergyman Henry Charles Beeching (Balliol 1878) between 1889 and 1899, with two final pieces contributed in 1939. Friendship books, or liber amicorum, are personal albums to which the owner’s friends and loved ones contribute verses, drawings, photographs and personal inscriptions.
Bradley had been Beeching’s tutor when he was an undergraduate in Balliol from 1878-1881, and from the inclusion of the poem in the friendship book we might infer the two were quite close. Balliol at the time was under the Mastership of Benjamin Jowett who emphasised academic brilliance but also encouraged more informal and close relationships between tutors and students.
Congenial though the environment was, superiors were still to be respected. While Beeching was an undergraduate he contributed to the Masque of B-ll—l, a booklet of verse that poked fun at the students and Fellows of the College. Perhaps tame by our standards, it was quickly suppressed although a few copies remained in circulation. It was later published in 1939 by Basil Blackwell as Balliol Rhymes [Balliol Library, 68 e 33]. The most famous verse portrays Jowett as a pompous know-it-all and is attributed to Henry Charles Beeching:
‘First come I.
My name is J-W-TT.
There’s no knowledge but I know it.
I am Master of this College,
What I don’t know isn’t knowledge.’
One of the most visually arresting contributions to Beeching’s friendship book is Lucius Smith’s wonderful musical notation. Smith, a contemporary of Beeching’s at Balliol, was immortalised in the Masque as ‘Lucy …the Archbiaconate’ , particularly apt considering that he went on to become the inaugural Bishop of Knaresborough. The author of that verse and many more in the Masque was poet J W Mackail. Mackail and Beeching were part of a literary circle at Balliol that also included J B B Nichols and the three friends later collaborated on two published volumes of poetry. Both Mackail and Nichols contributed poems to the friendship book. In ‘Winter is over’, an unpublished poem dated 1889, Mackail describes the end of winter and spring’s return: ‘poppies & great white daisies in the dew/ morning by morning are uncurled anew’. Nichol’s ‘Pastel’ was later published in Love’s Looking Glass, one of the collections on which the three friends collaborated. Beeching’s own poem, ‘The robin in January’, which also features in Love’s Looking Glass is included here under the title ‘Hey robin, jolly robin’.
Other contributions speak further to the circles in which Beeching moved, and include poems by poet laureate, Robert Bridges whose niece, Mary, married Beeching in 1890, as well as writer and social reformer Annie Matheson. Matheson wrote one of the first biographies of Florence Nightingale, a close friend of Benjamin Jowett’s to whom, rumour has it, he proposed unsuccessfully.
Many of the contributions are initialled rather than signed and so we can only guess at their origin. Beeching’s daughter Helen Fanning speculated on the identities of the unknown authors were and her guesses are slipped into the front of the book. Others remain tantalisingly unknown to us including the contributor of a piece in Hebrew.
Friendship books may have been in their heyday in the 16th and 17th centuries, when they functioned in a similar way to social networks today, but they continue to be revived and re-imagined in the virtual world such as this 21st century incarnation, produced by graffiti artists in LA and inspired by rare books.
Nicola Freegard shares her research in Balliol’s Historic Collections and the remarkable story of the gift that she gave to the College in return:
The annual car enthusiasts’ yard sale was an unexpected stop for me that winter day in 2015. Set up outside on the pavement around the Shriner Temple, just a few hundred yards from my home in Tucson, Arizona, lay a collection of old army jeeps, 50’s cars, bumpers and unrecognizable pieces of car parts and road signs for avid collectors. Under the cover of a torn tarp, shadowing a warm winter desert sun, I came across a small, brown leather-bound book laying hidden in a plastic crate of car parts. Excited by my find, I flipped the book open and saw the brown ink of verse fall across a page, and quickly closed it. Instinctively, I rushed enthusiastically to purchase it when the seller said his asking price was $5.00, and the only information I got from him was, “That one’s old.” I tucked it in my handbag and hurried home.
Back in my writing studio, I cautiously opened the book and began to read. The pages were clearly legible and unfaded, lightly yellowed with age and filled with a beautiful, cursive handwriting, permeated with the dusky aroma of another time. At the top of the inner first page was the handwritten year 1797, and a name: ‘Fanny Merivale’. The first entry was a poem – “The Exile” – and the entry dated March 1797. The notebook contained around 80 pages of poetry and verse. Some original, some (as I later discovered) by the writer’s brother, John Hermann Merivale, and some by Robert Burns, Lord Byron and other popular poets of the day. The authors of some still remain mysterious. Over the coming months, I would spend hours researching through ancestry sites to find any information I could that would help me understand who Fanny Merivale was and why this journal was in Tucson.
After an extensive google search, I stumbled upon the digitized materials of Balliol College Library which mentioned her name in a ‘Family Memorial’. This book, documented by several generations, covered her ancestry through her grandparents, parents, her siblings and then her nephew and niece. I read it hungrily from cover to cover, learning about the family secrets, hardships and celebrations, and fascinated by the vivid descriptions of a warm and loving young Frances (Fanny). I was now led deep into a story of a family that intrigued me. I found myself impossibly entwined because, as I dug further, I discovered we held some blurred connections which gave cause to wonder – had Fanny been reaching out that day to me, to pull her from the box of car parts?
Being British born and having emigrated to the United States in the early 1980’s myself, I was also drawn into the provenance of the book and how it had arrived, in a box of discarded items, in this small Arizona city. Every friend I told the story to, had asked me, “But how did it get to Tucson?” I was not able to reach out to the man who had sold it to me at the yard sale, and I felt some guilt because I had not done my due diligence in asking more questions. I had to dig deeper.
My curiosity only grew when I learned Fanny had lived just a few streets away from my father’s house in Highgate, London; albeit 230 years earlier. Her nephew had attended the very same small school, in Hertfordshire, that my father and brother had attended, when it had made its transition from the East India Company College to the public school that is now known as Haileybury. Her nephew had walked the same cloisters as they. Her mother was a German who had moved to England, as was mine. Frances had spent holidays in Hastings, East Sussex (then the hot new tourist destination for Londoners looking for some fresh sea air) where my mother also had been living for the past 40 years. There were enough parallels to get my attention and lead me to pursue the idea of unravelling Frances Merivale’s story, with a creative purpose of seeking out a motive for either a book or screenplay treatment. Perhaps, had I found this notebook in a market stall in England, I would have been less surprised by our comparative connections; but it was undeniably remarkable that my fellow countrywoman had appeared in Tucson two centuries later, echoing similarities of my own family story.
In 2016 I wrote to an email address on the Balliol College Library website to discuss this notebook. The curator responded with interest. Subsequently, on my next visit to London, I made the journey to Oxford with my then 14-year-old son to take the notebook to the curator for review, and to confirm that it was authentic, and not my imagination playing tricks. The added experience of sharing the history of Balliol College and Oxford’s libraries with my son was worth the long journey. This small purchase led us to stand in front of an impressive exhibition, on display at the Bodleian, of the original Magna Carta, as well as first and second edition William Shakespeare publications, making it a memory which is now etched into our own collective family experience. My son put down his phone. He took notice of the grand scheme of things, and as a parent, it felt like an event of immense value. Even he, with his American teenage attitude, was impressed by this experience. It was the moment when it occurred to me that this was the best $5.00 I’d ever spent!
Over the following two years, my research continued whenever possible. The curator at Balliol confirmed the common notebook’s authenticity, inspiring further reading through a multitude of digitized documents. I was led through the tranquil life of Frances Merivale’s childhood in Devon, when she had started the notebook, to its final entry of verse in July 1816, entitled “Lines on the Splendid Funeral of R. B. Sheridan”. This was penned shortly after her sister’s own death, which was, by accounts, a tragic and life changing loss to Frances, throwing her into deep depression. It was this that sparked the family’s need to help her move on, and after introductions, she was proposed to by a young man who was recently widowed, John Lewis Mallet. There was record of an etching completed by Frances (a competent art student) held in archive at the Tate Gallery. Reading further of her brother’s close friendship with Lord Byron at Cambridge, her family life, and her eventual marriage to John Lewis, son of the renowned French political journalist of the time, Jacques Mallet du Pan, I was compelled to continue.
Through those digitized files held in Balliol’s Historic Collections, I was able to research her childhood home, discovering portraits of her father, husband and family members (although sadly, I have not yet found a portrait of Frances). I read in detail about her tranquil life before marriage, then about the move to her first married home in Russell Square, where she wrote descriptively of the fields that surrounded them when they first moved in – now hard to imagine; I learned of the subsequent and final home she shared with her husband for the last half of her life, not far from Windmill Hill.
She was raised into a society filled with art and poetry, like many young women of her day, yet she was surrounded with some of the most eminent creatives of her era, and the influence of that was deeply evident. As a writer in research, I was driven to find something more than her quiet life in Exeter, and her painting excursions along the muddy banks of the River Exe. Her young adult life was tranquil and full of love for her family. However, I did not want to recreate Little Women. Frances’ life was a period piece captured with both charm and comfort.
This past summer, I took a leap of faith and funded a trip specifically with the purpose of going deeper. Research required I go to Balliol’s Historic Collections in St Cross Church in person. With the help of the library staff, I spent a focused week pouring over the sections of the Mallet family archives that related to Frances and John Lewis Mallet in person. Not really knowing what to expect or find, I was treasure hunting again, reading many letters (mostly scribed in French in very tiny spidery penmanship). A few days in, among the boxes of letters and transcripts, lay the autobiography of the story that captured me.
Frances had led me here to her husband, John Lewis Mallet, who in later life served as a rising star of the Whig party and a respectable civil servant of colonial Britain. Mallet had published an autobiographical book specifically for his family’s own reading and sense of their place in history, outlining a compelling story of his life as a young man, at the beginning of violent change in his then home town of Paris, in 1792. Here he stood alongside his father, Jacques Mallet du Pan, who, under strict instruction from Napoleon, was to be executed or exiled from France in response to the publication of du Pan’s liberal published journal criticizing the Revolution. The Revolutionary Tribunal at the Bastion in 1794 was the turning point for John Lewis (then John Louis) and his father, whose friends included Voltaire, among other influential philosophers. In du Pan’s own words: “Like Saturn, the Revolution devours its children.” Father and son fled Paris on foot in the dark of night, leaving family and friends, in the hopes that they could seek refuge within Switzerland, the birthplace of Jacques Mallet du Pan, with a loose plan to reunite with loved ones later. Without a firm destination, John Louis recounts his story as a young man finding his place in an upturned world, with a tough journey of self-discovery, but also of his passage towards a new life in a vastly changing Europe.
Because of Balliol’s Library resources, an intimate world opened wide, and travels to locations I was compelled to experience through his eyes: Geneva, Switzerland, Northern Italy, Paris, France as well as my home town of London. The depth of my subjects’ own words, the descriptions of the times and textures of the characters surrounding them, breathed life into this valuable history lesson, and insight into the suffering that occurred through the rise of nationalism. He eloquently revealed how the Revolution unfurled a particular cruelty among the nobles and working class of Europe. These documents have provided me with a complex foundation for the story that I became inspired to tell by this research. My work is still in process as I write this, and I anticipate its first draft completion in the coming year.
Balliol’s Historic Collections have provided me the luxury to delve into a deeply personal creative experience and uncover a moving historical personal story of courage and strength in a time of far reaching social and political upheaval. Without such archives, I have no doubt I would have held onto Frances Merivale’s common place book, and it would have remained in my own library, another remnant of an unknown and disconnected past collecting dust. Because it sparked curiosity, it has given so much in return. I am still working on the ‘How did it get to Tucson?’ part, and that may end up revealing itself soon. I’ve learned that several of the Mallet family future generations also emigrated to the United States in the late nineteenth century. Another parallel I could not brush off. I will continue to follow this lead as I work on the next chapters.
I had no plan to become a savant of the Mallet family when I started this journey. It’s the fourth year into the project, and now the Mallets have become a part of my everyday life – a reminder that their history is entwined in our present; that the common experience of social upheaval set 200 years earlier is not much different than the current political climate. They are now familiar friends from another time; discovered through a notebook found in a box of car parts under the desert sun. This commonplace book now resides in the care of Balliol’s Historic Collections, digitized to share, where it will remain in safe keeping with the remnants of Frances’ letters and the volumes of work of the Mallets family archives. Now I am telling their story.
After conservation by the Oxford Conservation Consortium
We are grateful to Nicola Freegard for her discovery and subsequent gift. Frances Merivale’s commonplace book is now Manuscript 477 in Balliol’s Historic Collections. It has been fully conserved and digitised by the Oxford Conservation Consortium, with a view to making the images available online in future.
On Valentine’s Day we ask: did Balliol’s most influential Master propose marriage to Florence Nightingale?
Tradition has it that Benjamin Jowett (Master of Balliol College 1870-1893) proposed to—and was rejected by—Florence Nightingale in their younger years.
The source for this tale of unrequited love is the memoir of Cornelia Sorabji, the first woman to study law at Oxford, and India’s first female barrister. She was mentored by Jowett, who introduced her to Florence Nightingale, by now a “little old lady with rosy cheeks and a frilled nightcap”. When Cornelia lunched with Jowett after she had visited “the Lady with the Lamp”, he pointed to a picture on his wall, depicting a young Nightingale. “When she was like that, I asked her to marry me”, he revealed to Cornelia.
Florence Nightingale, c. 1860. Photograph by Henry Hering (1814-1893), National Portrait Gallery, London
Benjamin Jowett, c. 1855. Pencil and chalk on paper by George Richmond RA. Balliol College, Oxford
Later, Sorabji saw an entry in one of Nightingale’s old diaries, which may corroborate this episode: “Benjamin Jowett came to see me. Disastrous!”
Sadly, that diary no longer survives, and Jowett, for his part, arranged for his most personal correspondence to be burned. As a result, scholars debate whether the proposal actually took place.
What is clear from the over 700 surviving letters written by Jowett to Nightingale, preserved at Balliol College’s Historic Collections Centre, is that the two remained very close friends. They corresponded and visited with one another until Jowett’s death in 1893, conversing on topics as diverse as religion, promising students, international affairs, Poor Law reform, and their own families, health, and personal feelings.
Dear Miss Nightingale : a selection of Benjamin Jowett’s letters to Florence Nightingale 1860-1893, edited by Vincent Quinn and John Prest. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987.
India calling : the memories of Cornelia Sorabji, India’s first woman barrister. New Delhi; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.
To mark the centenary of the end of the First World War on 11 November 2018, Balliol Library created a display, drawn from across our Historic Collections, to commemorate the lives of Balliol members who took part in the Great War.
Over the course of four years, 900 members of College saw active service, 200 of whom were killed and a further 200 wounded.
The novelist John Buchan, in his memoir Memory Hold-the-Door characterised the Balliol generation which ‘flourished on the eve of the War’ as ‘a brilliant group’. We count among them poets, scholars, artists, musicians, journalists and statesmen. Their works, in such forms as poetry, drawings, reportage and letters, represent an important part of the Library’s collections and the College’s history.
Poetry reading in the Old Dean’s Room
The College War Memorial Book. Oxford, 1924 (Balliol Shelfmark: 88 d 13/10 and 88 d 13/11)
In addition to the War Memorial in the Chapel Passage, a two-volume book was produced by the College in 1924 to commemorate the Balliol members who died in the War. It contains an account and photograph of each, together with selections of their verse, musical notation and sketches. Among them are the poetry and sketches of Gerald Caldwell Siordet (1885–1917) who studied at Balliol from 1904–1909 and was killed near Kut, 9 February 1917. Balliol Library holds in its collection two editions of his work, which include the poems ‘Autumn 1914’ (first published in The Times, 13 November 1914) and ‘To the Dead’ (first published in The Times, 30 November 1915). The College War Memorial Book has been digitised and is available to view in full on our Flickr site.
The Minute Book of the Hanover Club. May 1911 — April 1913 (Institutional archives: Societies. 1.)
The Hanover Club was a University society in which many Balliol members were prominent, which aimed to ‘promote the course of good-feeling between Germany & England, by giving Englishmen and Germans in the university opportunities of meeting and discussing topics of interest & importance to both nations’ [p.1]. On the page shown we see a prophetic motion tabled for debate on 27 February 1912: ‘That under the present situation of European politics a rapprochement between England and Germany is an unrealistic ideal’. The motion was carried by 7 to 6.
Julian Grenfell: His Life and the Times of his Death by Nicholas Mosley. London, 1976 (Balliol Shelfmark: 81 e 25/2)
Pages from a Family Journal, 1888-1915 edited by Ethel Desborough. Eton, 1916 (Balliol Shelfmark: 81 e 25/1)
Into Battle by Julian Grenfell
The naked earth is warm with Spring,
And with green grass and bursting trees
Leans to the sun’s gaze glorying,
And quivers in the sunny breeze;
And life is Colour and Warmth and Light,
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight,
And who dies fighting has increase.
The fighting man shall from the sun
Take warmth, and life from glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fulness after dearth.
All the bright company of Heaven
Hold him in their bright comradeship,
The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven,
Orion’s belt and sworded hip.
The woodland trees that stand together,
They stand to him each one a friend;
They gently speak in the windy weather;
They guide to valley and ridge’s end.
The kestrel hovering by day,
And the little owls that call by night,
Bid him be swift and keen as they,
As keen of ear, as swift of sight.
The blackbird sings to him “Brother, brother,
If this be the last song you shall sing.
Sing well, for you may not sing another;
In dreary doubtful waiting hours,
Before the brazen frenzy starts,
The horses show him nobler powers;
O patient eyes, courageous hearts!
And when the burning moment breaks,
And all things else are out of mind,
And only Joy-of-Battle takes
Him by the throat and makes him blind,
Through joy and blindness he shall know,
Not caring much to know, that still
Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so
That it be not the Destined Will.
The thundering line of battle stands,
And in the air Death moans and sings;
But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
And Night shall fold him in soft wings.
Julian Grenfell’s (1888–1915, Balliol from 1906–1910) poem Into Battle features in a great many collections of WWI poetry. It was composed in April 1915 and published in The Times, 28 May 1915 (the same day his death-notice appeared in the paper). Indeed, many of the poems written by Balliol authors were first published in newspapers and biographies, written as they were by young men at the beginning of their careers. The original printing of the poem in The Times is available for Oxford University members to view via the University’s subscription to the Times Digital Archive. Also exhibited were: Julian Grenfell: His Life and the Times of his Death by Nicholas Mosley, and Pages from a Family Journal, 1888-1915 edited by Ethel Desborough, both from the Balliol Biographies Collection, which paint a picture of his time in College and at War.
Patrick Shaw-Stewart by Ronald Knox. London, 1920 (Balliol Shelfmark: 81 f 1a)
Achilles in the Trenches by Patrick Shaw-Stewart
I saw a man this morning
Who did not wish to die:
I ask, and cannot answer,
If otherwise wish I.
Fair broke the day this morning
Against the Dardanelles;
The breeze blew soft, the morn’s cheeks
Were cold as cold sea-shells.
But other shells are waiting
Across the Aegean sea,
Shrapnel and high explosive,
Shells and hells for me.
O hell of ships and cities,
Hell of men like me,
Fatal second Helen,
Why must I follow thee?
Achilles came to Troyland
And I to Chersonese:
He turned from wrath to battle,
And I from three days’ peace.
Was it so hard, Achilles,
So very hard to die?
Thou knowest and I know not—
So much the happier I.
I will go back this morning
From Imbros over the sea;
Stand in the trench, Achilles,
Flame-capped, and shout for me.
Patrick Shaw-Stewart (1888 –1917) studied at Balliol from 1907–1910.The first stanza of his poem Achilles in the Trenches (I saw a man this morning) has become a particularly resonant example of First World War writing and the poem has placed him in the canon of First World War poets, together with his friend and fellow Balliol alumnus, Julian Grenfell. It was composed on a blank page in his copy of A E Housman’s A Shropshire Lad (July 1915) and published for the first time in Patrick Shaw-Stewart (1920) by Ronald Knox, who was another of his Balliol contemporaries. The book, the first edition of which is in the Library’s collection, is chiefly a compilation of letters by Shaw-Stewart to his family and friends, detailing his observations of war, as well as his life and friends at Balliol.
The Diary of a Dead Officer: Being the Posthumous Papers of Arthur Graeme West. London, 1919 (Balliol Shelfmark: 81 f 6/3)
The Diary of a Dead Officer: Linocuts, Text Selection and Afterword by John Abell. Llandogo, 2014 (Balliol Shelfmark: 81 f 6/3a)
Arthur Graeme West (1891–1917) studied at Balliol from 1910–1914. He is particularly known for the posthumously published book, The Diary of a Dead Officer (1919), which consists of an introduction by the editor, Cyril Joad, extracts from West’s 1915–17 diary, and a handful of essays and poems. Poems like God, how I hate you, whose ‘prevailing mood is bitter, satirical’ provide a sharp contrast to works like Grenfell’s Into Battle seen earlier: ‘a paean celebrating the sensations and joys of the soldier about to enter combat’. West’s pacifism has been further interpreted by the artist John Abell in a modern special edition with linocuts, numbered and signed by the artist. A copy was recently purchased by the Library as part of our continuing commitment to collect and make accessible the intellectual heritage of the College.
A Scholar’s Letters from the Front by Stephen Henry Hewett. London, 1918 (Balliol Shelfmark: 81 f 8)
The title of this work serves as a reminder of how recently some of these writers had left their academic lives at Balliol. Stephen Henry Philip Hewett (1893–1916) studied at Balliol from 1911–1914 and was then commissioned part-way into his fourth year. Balliol remains a strong presence in his letters, particularly in those addressed to the Tutors and friends he made here, such as the legendary Dean F. F. ‘Sligger’ Urquhart, who also wrote the foreword to the book, in which he remembers Hewett as a talented man of independent thought and creativity. He was reported missing and killed near High Wood, July 22, 1916.
Charles Lister: Letters and Recollections with a Memoir by his Father, Lord Ribblesdale. London, 1917 (Balliol Shelfmark: 81 e 27)
Charles Lister (1887-1915) studied at Balliol from 1906-1909 and was part of the circle including Shaw-Stewart and Grenfell. At Balliol he was known for ‘his generous enthusiasms, his reckless fun, his nervous breeziness of manner, his embarrassing conviction that every second person he met was a “good chap”, his bewildering organisations, his despairing jeremiads, his inexhaustible vitality’, the product of some of which resulted in him being rusticated. Aside from this though, he was known for his practical Socialism during his time in Oxford: founding the Oxford branch of the Fabian Society and supporting a strike by women at the Clarendon Press. The exhibition included a volume of his letters and remembrances by others, published in 1917, now held in the Balliol Biographies Collection.
Disenchantment by C. E. Montague. London, 1968 (first published 1922) (Balliol Shelfmark: 1 f 31/3)
The Attack and Other Papers by R H Tawney. London, 1953 (Balliol Shelfmark: 81 e 16/3A)
The documents in this display convey a variety of sentiments towards the war, from enthusiasm to stoicism to dissension. Charles Edward Montague (1867–1928), journalist, novelist and essayist, studied at Balliol from 1885–1889. Montague was opposed to the First World War prior to its commencement. Once it started, however, he came to believe that it was right to support the war effort in the hope of a swift resolution. In 1914, Montague was 47, which was well over the age for enlistment. Yet in order to enlist, he dyed his white hair black to fool the Army into accepting him. The essay collection Disenchantment (1922), the 1968 edition of which is displayed here, was one of the first prose works to strongly criticise the manner in which the First World War was fought. A pivotal text in the development of literature concerning the War, it criticises the British press’ coverage of the war, and the conduct of British generals.
R H Tawney (1880-1962), historian and political thinker, who matriculated to Balliol in 1899 and was elected to a Balliol Fellowship in 1918, was another voice to raise objections to the War. In an essay entitled ‘Some Reflections of a Soldier’ first published in 1916 in The Nation and later reprinted in his book The Attack, a copy of which was in the exhibition, he debunked the myth of the glorified soldier which had been popularised in the press.
The Souvenir ‘A’ Coy, No. 6 Officers’ Cadet Battalion, Balliol College, Oxford, 1917-1918 (Balliol Shelfmark: 1 d 11)
Record of ‘A’ Company No. 6 Officers’ Cadet Battalion
Although the numbers of students at Balliol were greatly reduced in the War years, the College was far from empty. Between 1914-1918 around 3,000 members of the armed forces passed through, quartered here or on short training courses
The Balliol Authors Collection holds two numbers of The Souvenir, a journal produced by ‘A’ Company No. 6 Officers’ Cadet Battalion. While none of the officer cadets who resided and trained at Balliol during WWI matriculated into the college, these journals – which contain poetry, visual caricatures and illustrations, anecdotes, articles and group photographs conjure a real sense of College life in the First World War, a unique period during which a small body of Fellows and students would have been rubbing shoulders with the soldiery.
Also displayed was a record of ‘A’ Company No. 6 Officers’ Cadet Battalion, which contains invaluable details concerning the officers’ training regimes, accommodation, mealtimes, chapel services etc. while they resided and trained at the College. You can find more images from ‘The Souvenir’ on our Flickr pages.
No Patched-Up Peace by Herbert Henry Asquith (Privately printed, Ely, 1916) (Balliol Shelfmark: 1 a 5)
The Volunteer and Other Poems by Herbert Dixon Asquith (London, 1917) (Balliol Shelfmark: 1 b 174)
Herbert Henry Asquith (1852–1928), British Prime Minister 1908-1916, studied at Balliol from 1870–1874, and was a Fellow at the College from 1874–1882. In August 1914, Asquith took the United Kingdom into the First World War, but resigned amid political conflict in December 1916, and was succeeded by his War Secretary, David Lloyd George. Various speeches and writings presented to Balliol College Library can be found in the Balliol Authors Collection such as No Patched-Up Peace, a reproduction of a speech given in the House of Commons in October 1916 in which he states a resolve to see through stated policies.
H H Asquith’s son, Herbert Dixon Asquith (1881–1947), a poet and novelist, also studied at Balliol from 1900–1904. Asquith was greatly affected by his service with the Royal Artillery in World War One, as can be inferred from his powerful war poetry and fiction such as The Volunteer, the second edition of which was on display.
Herbert Dixon survived the War, but his older brother, Raymond Asquith, was killed at the Battle of the Somme in 1916.
Wheels, 1919 edited by Edith Sitwell, Osbert Sitwell and Sacheverell Sitwell (Oxford, 1919) (Balliol Shelfmark: 1 b 165/31)
Another important piece of WWI literature with a Balliol connection is the 1919 edition of the modernist poetry anthology, Wheels. It is in this issue that several of Wilfred Owen’s poems were published together for the first time, having been requested by the editors several months before. In the time between request and publication, Owen was killed in action, a week before the Armistice was signed. The issue is dedicated to his memory. Owen himself did not attend a university, but the editor and writer Sacheverell Sitwell (1897-1988) was up at Balliol in Hilary and Trinity terms 1919 and the Library holds a collection of his works, including an exciting recent donation by the family of Sitwell scholar Gordon W. Bennett, to be catalogued by the Library in a project next year.
Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall.
With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .”
Items in this display have been drawn primarily from two rich Library collections: The Balliol Biographies Collection (housed at the Historic Collections Centre at St Cross Church) and the Balliol Authors’ Collection (housed in the Library Stack at Broad Street), as well as the College’s institutional archive and main collections.
For more photographs and information on Balliol in the War, see also our Flickr album. Please contact the Library if you would like to consult any of this material further.
Text by Lauren Dolman (Assistant Librarian) and Alexander Blaney (3rd year, English Language and Literature).
Poems by Julian Grenfell, Patrick Shaw-Stewart and Wilfred Owen: Public Domain
 John Jones, Balliol College: A History, 2nd ed. revised (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 247.
 John Buchan, Memory Hold-the-Door (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1941), 52.
 I. M. Parsons (ed.), Men who March Away: Poems of the First World War (London: Chatto & Windus, 1968), 20.
 John H. Johnston, English Poetry of the First World War: A Study in the Evolution of Lyric and Narrative Form (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1964), 38.
 Ronald Knox, Patrick Shaw-Stewart (London: William Collins Sons & Co, 1920), 41.
 John Jones, Balliol College: A History, 2nd ed. revised (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 231.
Sue Hemmens, Deputy Keeper at Marsh’s Library, writes about her research discovery at Balliol:
In my home institution, Marsh’s Library, Dublin, there is an edition of Euclid in Arabic, printed at the Medici Press in Rome in 1594, which came to the library in the collection of the founder of the library, Narcissus Marsh (1638-1713). On the title-page is a signature, ‘Chr. Gardyner’, and a Greek motto. The book was to be displayed for the Seeing Euclid networked exhibition in Summer 2018, so I decided to see whether this former owner could be identified. One of the search results was an article by Vera Keller on the alchemy of the Royalist Sir John Heydon (1588–1653) [Vera Keller(2012)The Authority of Practice in the Alchemy of Sir John Heydon (1588–1653),Ambix,59:3,197-217,DOI: 10.1179/174582312X13457672281740] where an alchemical letter from Christopher Gardyner to Heydon was transcribed from a manuscript now in the State Papers and digitised in the State Papers online.
Vera Keller had identified the writer of the letter as Sir Christopher Gardyner, Heydon’s brother-in-law, who turned out to have been a colourful character, to say the least. Imagine my delight on finding that the signature on the letter matched the signature on the Euclid, and on three other books in Marsh’s (there is one more, which bears a slightly variant signature).
Even on the evidence of the books in Marsh’s, Gardyner was well-educated, and able to read Latin, Greek, and Arabic. I have now set out to trace his library, which has been widely dispersed. In Prague, there is a 1619 copy of Robert Abbot’s De Suprema Potestate Regia; a 1592 Kāfiya by li-Ĭbn al-Ḥāǧib is held by the UniversitätsBibliothek in Basel; and a Copernicus De Revolutionibus is to be found in Chatsworth. In Oxford, books with Gardyner’s signature are in University College (a 1560 Morel Leitourgiai Tōn Hagion Paterōn), in Christ Church (a 1620 London Euclid, with parallel Greek-Latin text), and in Corpus Christi (a 1549 Greek Etymologikon which once belonged to John Dee: the alchemical associations alone make this book of interest). Many thanks are due to Elizabeth Adams at University College, Julie Blyth at Corpus Christi, and Cristina Neagu and her colleagues at Christ Church for their help with the other Gardyner association copies in Oxford.
While in Oxford on a two-month David Walker Memorial fellowship in the Weston Library, I attended the stimulating Nicholas Crouch research day organised by Balliol’s Librarian Naomi Tiley, where I was delighted to meet again her colleague Amy Boylan, who had volunteered with us at Marsh’s before starting her library career. I told them the story of this rather naughty knight, with his irregular lifestyle and unusual reading, and emailed a note of thanks including a link to a blog post on Marsh’s website which included an image of Gardyner’s signature and motto, on the off-chance that he might turn up among the books at Balliol. I got an email almost by return showing the signature, this time on a beautiful 1525 printing from the Aldine press of a collection of Greek texts attributed to the 15th-century philosopher George Gemistos Plethon (Balliol classmark 610 b 4) . What is even better about this book is that we know its history shortly after it left Gardyner’s hands as Thomas Wendy (1614-1673) included it in his bequest to Balliol. Is it possible that they knew each other in Royalist circles?
I look forward to being able to find more information about Gardyner’s library and reading, and perhaps about his alchemy, of which his correspondence with Heydon gives such a tantalising glimpse.
We all too often read books without noticing their bindings. Particularly when the books are old, brown volumes like those from Nicholas Crouch’s library. However, the binding as a physical object can tell so many stories: they are the products of seventeenth-century craftsmanship, and through the leather or the sewing structure, the decorated edges and the coloured endbands, we can read so much more beyond the pages.
Book conservators are well trained in how to read a book’s binding for clues as to its history. We trace materials and techniques to particular places and times, reading repairs and damage as indicators of how the object has been used. In conservation work, we document each object that comes into the studio: taking note of how it is sewn, its size, materials used. For the Nicholas Crouch project, the documentation took the form of digital spreadsheets, allowing us to build up a body of data on the collection. By the end of the project, we had documented 132 volumes. This data is now available to researchers by contacting Balliol Library.
One of Crouch’s legacies to us, are his detailed contents pages that list not only the items and their costs, but also the cost of the binding, and in some cases who the binder was and the date of the binding. By including these notes in the object documentation, we were able to link specific named binders with the decorative tools on the cover, sewing style, and edge decoration. These markers can be read like binders’ signatures, and by building up a body of data, patterns and comparisons could be drawn up throughout the collection. Here are some of the binders that can be traced in Crouch’s books
Alum tawed sewing supports, sometimes cord; edge colouring on all edges.
Alum tawed or tanned sewing supports; head and tail edges sprinkled, fore edge coloured (red, plain).
Alum tawed sewing supports; edge colouring on all edges (blue, red, yellow)
Mostly cord sewing supports; head and tail edges sprinkled, for edge coloured (red, yellow)