Whistory, or the inherent civility of the Cambridge fellow

I recently catalogued a four-volume set of the works of Virgil, edited by Peter Burman, and printed in Amsterdam in the 1740s.  It’s in lovely bindings, and has a very swanky title page, complete with an engraving by someone with the initials L.F.D.B. whom I’m struggling to identify, so if anyone’s got any thoughts, please feel free to comment!  The fact that these books have nothing whatever to do with law have endeared them to me indefinitely, in spite of the fact that whenever I espy anything to do with Virgil I have to suffer through Latin GCSE flashbacks, which vary in severity but are always painful.


The set is in almost pristine condition, which means one of two things.  Either it was very well cared for, protected, or almost revered.  Or it was never, ever used, and has lain untouched for hundreds of years, until I disturbed it by grabbing it (gently and carefully) off the shelf to catalogue it, making it basically the book equivalent of Sleeping Beauty.  But there’s proof, in one of the volumes, that at the very least one person has used, or touched, or opened these books.  And the reason I know that is because tucked away inside the third volume, was this little note:

Anyone for whist?

It might be difficult to read, so here’s what it says: Dear Hildyard, Whist will be performed at my rooms on Friday next as heretofore.  –Your presence is solicited, by yours truly, Jos. Romilly.

I love finding stuff like this in the older books that I catalogue.  For me, it’s miles better than any old marginalia precisely because it reveals nothing at all about the content of the books, nor what the reader thought of it; rather, it reveals something personal, something intrinsically human, about the poor chap poring over these heavy volumes.

A bit of digging and, thanks to Venn, I found out who these blokes were.  One is Rev. Joseph Romilly, of Trinity, and the other Rev. William Hildyard, of Trinity Hall.  Romilly came up to Cambridge in 1808, and after an illustrious career as a student (he was 4th wrangler), became a Fellow of Trinity.  Hildyard, a little younger and a good Yorkshire lad, came up to Cambridge in 1813 where he too matriculated at Trinity, before migrating over the street to Trinity Hall to become a fellow and a tutor.

I started to wonder about these chaps, and how they met.  I like to think of their eyes meeting across a pint of ale in the local tavern, and there being a moment when they knew–when they just knew–that they’d met their whist soul mate.  Gone were the days of w(h)istfulness, the future would be bright. That’s probably a bit too Grey’s Anatomy to be true, and it’s far more likely that they met in Norwich when both were ordained deacon around the same time–an occupation which probably completely scuppers my ‘met-down-the-pub’ theory.

Nice-looking chap

Having never knowingly, or consciously, played whist (my card-playing abilities and experience extending little beyond Snap, and a few games of poker which are probably best forgotten), I thought I’d try to find out a little bit more about this game which was drawing Romilly and Hildyard away from their studies for an evening.  I found a truly brilliant little book on the history of whist, the rules of the game, and the development of strategy, written in 1844 by “an amateur”.  The author begins by vindicating the very existence of the game based on nothing but the intrinsic charm of its name.  Now THAT’S a good argument.  He (or she…probably he) then moves on to justify the existence of the book by stating his fervent opposition to the fact that no other book on the subject had existed before (which wasn’t true!), despite the stuff that you could find in print.  For example, he says that there is ‘immortal verse’ concerning the ‘combats of mice and frogs’–and this in a world where there are no guides to whist?! Abominable.  Wind in the Willows premonition in tact, the author goes on to praise whist on a variety of counts, some more sensible than others, and among which are the following:

  • Whist… is unique, in its rivalry to heavy drinking (whether it’s as enjoyable as, or whether it prevents it, remains unclear)
  • Whist… is universal, played by Cockneys and Cornish alike
  • Whist… has the ability to neutralise, even among those with divergent political affiliations
  • Whist… is delightfully linear, and chronological, and it’s possible to map its development–and that of its players–over time
  • Whist… is challenging, based on skill rather than luck, and it wards off amnesia
  • Whist… is the bastion of gentleness, civility and good manners


It’s little wonder, if this is what a good game of whist does for you, that these guys played so often (more supposition, I know).   And it’s the last of the bullet points in particular which made me think of Romilly and Hildyard–the good manners evident in Romilly’s little note seem to corroborate it.  Whist is going to be “performed”, he says, making it seem rehearsed, planned out, and prearranged, as if the very act of playing itself is going to achieve something.  Hildyard’s presence at this game is “solicited”, which on the surface seems so formal, yet beneath this there lurks a little hint of cheekiness and humour.  It’s almost as if Hildyard is going to be accosted should he fail to put in an appearance, which I presume he did.  The note is, simply, the equivalent of our “be there or be square”.

Less well-mannered

It’s possible to imagine Hildyard receiving this note, in the middle of a verse of the Aeneid, and being pleased at the opportunity to procrastinate a little, to see friends and perhaps assert his superiority at the game.  Perhaps he thought that the note would make a good bookmark; perhaps he wondered whether he ought to take a bottle of wine along with him to Romilly’s rooms; or perhaps, on receiving the note, he got out his deck of cards, shuffled them in that fancy way that only experienced card players can, and practised a couple of his sleight of hand tricks to ensure that victory, Friday next, would be his.  Though somehow I doubt it!

References and other stuff:

Venn, of course, where would we be without it?

Wikipedia (same goes)

And of course: “An Amateur” (1844). Whist: its history and its practice. London: Bogue of Fleet Street, from whom I also stole the cartoons.


Catch 22? No thanks, I’ll pass.

It’s been a bit quiet on the blog lately, so here’s an attempt to rectify that! Unfortunately, for both you and me, what I’ve been working on for the past few months hasn’t exactly been the most stimulating thing in the world.  More paint-drying than paint-balling, if I’m honest.  But as it’s now done, the final challenge is to transform it into something worthy of a blog post.  This might be tough.  Mission Impossible? Perhaps, but hopefully without Tom Cruise. Every cloud … etc.

It’s been almost three months, then, and I’ll admit it, cards on the table, in the confessional, time to come clean: I’ve only catalogued one thing.  In two-and-a-half months.  Sort of.  But, as a disclaimer, it isn’t the case that I’ve just been being slow.  I haven’t been trying to master the art of cataloguing in the style of a tortoise.  Rather, in my defence, m’lord, the item I’ve been cataloguing was a bound-with with 22 (yes, you read that right, TWENTY TWO) individual items contained within the same binding.  I’m led to believe that this was a pretty common practice until the nineteenth century; books weren’t sold as units as they are today, and it was often the responsibility of the purchaser to get things bound.  So presumably binding all these little individual items together would have been more economical than binding them all separately.

Still, though, twenty two.  Did you catch that? Two little ducks. Twenty two.

…my new least favourite number…

In terms of the catalogue process of bound-withs, the rules are pretty simple.  Each individual item has to be catalogued separately (yes, all twenty two of them, and yes, I’ll shut up about that now), and then the bibliographical records of each item are linked together in the same holding and item record.  The way to do this is simultaneously: a) extremely straightforward; b) entirely unfathomable; c) strangely, and instantly, forgettable.  For me, anyway.  And this means that I’ve spent quite a long time in the past few months looking up how to do this, jotting down instructions, losing instructions, cursing lost instructions, looking up how to do this, and so on.  You get the picture.

And then, to continue my list of excuses for being to industriousness what The Wizard of Oz is to gritty realism, or what Catch 22 is to chick-lit, the subject matter of these items was hardly riveting.  In fact, ‘hardly riveting’ is a bit of a stretch.  They’re a series of doctoral dissertations, mostly from Lugduni Batavorum (now commonly known as Leiden) in the Netherlands, mostly on Roman law, and mostly in Latin.  So at the very least they make some sense as a ‘collection’, justifying the way in which they’ve been bound.  Not that I approve of the way they’ve been bound! Twenty two! Seriously. Oops, sorry.


This is one of them…

One thing that struck me was the way in which they’ve been printed: they don’t half put dissertations these days to shame.  I remember submitting mine a couple of years ago (don’t be silly, not a doctoral one), and it was a case of very last-minute rushing to a printing shop, with dissertation lovingly crafted and hurriedly converted to pdf and shoved on a usb stick, one eye on the clock while the shop assistant patiently exhorted the benefits of heat binding over everything else in existence, ever, and then filling out billions of forms, guessing my student number, exasperating the poor (yet brilliant) faculty secretaries, and all the while praying that the massive typo on page 18 would escape the notice of the markers.

Not so much in the Netherlands in the early eighteenth century.  These dissertations have engravings and woodcut vignettes on their title pages, and headpieces, and illustrated initials.  And the engravings weren’t just done by anyone, either, but by Francois van Bleyswyck, that famous and celebrated … well, I hadn’t heard of him, and he’s not on Wikipedia, but that doesn’t mean he’s not famous and celebrated, all right?  Plus the dissertations are written in Latin: ’nuff said.  I’m already impressed.  I could barely write mine in English (that typo on page 18 still haunting me…)


…and this…

The dissertations are mainly connected to the University of Leiden, founded by Prince William (no, not that one, this one) in 1574.  They date from the early eighteenth century, though their dates span about 40 years in total; and no, they’re not bound chronologically.  In fact, I can’t see any method as to the order in which they’ve been bound.  They do reveal a couple of interesting facts about the way dissertations were submitted, though.  For one thing, they all acknowledge the “Rector Magnificus” of the university, on whose authority (presumably) they’re awarded their degrees.  I thought that was a nice practice…not to mention an amazing job title! It’s also good to see that some of the writers of the earlier dissertations eventually became the “Rector Magnificus” themselves and were credited in later ones (or at least, they’ve got the same name); it shows, if nothing else, that their doctorates were valuable!  The information on the title-pages also reveal how widespread the printing trade was in Leiden at the time–remarkably few of them have been printed by the printing houses.


Don’t worry, I won’t use all of them… we’re almost at the end of the post.

As for how Trinity Hall came to be in possession of this interminable fascinating item, well, here’s a story for you! Or not, unfortunately.  The book was given to us by James William Geldart, though I’m not sure which one.  There were two: both lawyers here, father and son.  My money would be on Geldart Senior.  He was vice-Master at Trinity Hall from 1809-1821, as well as Regius Professor of Civil Law at Cambridge from 1814-1847.  His son, also James William, took a law degree here as well, as did his other son, Henry Charles; and not forgetting arguably the most important Geldart, Thomas Charles, the elder James William’s brother (are you keeping up?), who was Master of Trinity Hall, from 1852-1877, and also a lawyer, and also Regius Professor of Civil Law.  Talk about keeping in the family.

So that’s that. Finished. Finito.  Caput.  It’s almost the end of a very short, and really rather boring, era.  Perhaps I’ll “never quite be the same again”, as Joseph Heller(‘s publisher) promised.  If nothing else, then I’m once again terribly pleased that I’m not a student having to read this stuff.  But here’s to the next three months of rare books cataloguing.  There’s hopefully not a single bound-with in sight.

Image credit:

Thanks to: Leo Reynolds on Flikr