On the first of June 1970, 25 university professors and community leaders got together in Gardiner Mines, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, for a seminar entitled, University Involvement in the Community, organized by Bill Shaw, Don Arseneau, Greg MacLeod, and George Topshee. While the topic could have wide-reaching interest, the seminar was convened specifically with reference to the institution now known as Cape Breton University.
The participants observed that:
there was a disconnect between the University and its surrounding community,
faculty have an obligation to offer constructive criticism with respect to public policy and planning,
an interdisciplinary approach should be taken when offering solutions,
a formal interface should be established between the University and the community,
a faculty member wishing to become actively involved in community work should be provided with relief from their teaching load,
students should part of any related initiative,
and that the ideals and values of society should be questioned and evaluated.
Among the methods suggested to act upon these observations, the participants specified that:
the University must take a new form, one in which it would be immersed in the work-a-day world,
the University provide a breeding ground for interchange and creation of ideas,
an institute be established as a center for interdisciplinary research into regional problems,
the University provide a budget ($25K) for the institute,
the University provide staff support for the institute,
and a committee be established to seek out appropriate research proposals.
If such a seminar were held today, I wonder if the outcomes would be any different?
An introductory overview, together with a copy of the seminar program, and the papers presented were bound, and placed in the Bras d'Or Collection at the Cape Breton University Library.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Gibson Girls and Library Treasures
Any library that has been around long enough will house some random treasures, usually donated items that some good-natured librarian could neither refuse nor discard. One such example from our library is a signed limited edition of "The Education of Mr. Pipp," a series of illustrations by Charles Dana Gibson, published in New York by R. H. Russell in 1899.
Gibson (1867-1944) became a very wealthy man from the many satirical sketches of high society that he created over a 20-year period starting the mid-1890s, and the Mr. Pipp series depicts a selection of events in the life of a young man, as he makes the transition from bachelorhood to well-trained husband. Augustus Thomas created a stage play based on the sketches in 1905, and a silent film version was produced in 1914.
Of course, the primary subject of the sketches was not Mr. Pipp, but rather the woman he married. The so-called Gibson Girl was the de facto model of the ideal American woman - beautiful, well-shaped, well-dressed, independent, spirited, and definitely in charge.
The early models for the Gibson Girl included Gibson's wife Irene Langhorne, and the Belgian-American stage actress Camille Clifford, famous for her hourglass figure and big hair. In the early 1900s, the popular artists' model Evelyn Nesbit came to dominate the image. With the advent of the First World War, the Gibson Girl faded in popularity, to be replaced by the new standard of American womanhood - the flapper.
Gibson's memory lives on through the cocktail that bears his name, reflecting his preference for gin martinis with a pickled onion garnish.
Gibson (1867-1944) became a very wealthy man from the many satirical sketches of high society that he created over a 20-year period starting the mid-1890s, and the Mr. Pipp series depicts a selection of events in the life of a young man, as he makes the transition from bachelorhood to well-trained husband. Augustus Thomas created a stage play based on the sketches in 1905, and a silent film version was produced in 1914.
Of course, the primary subject of the sketches was not Mr. Pipp, but rather the woman he married. The so-called Gibson Girl was the de facto model of the ideal American woman - beautiful, well-shaped, well-dressed, independent, spirited, and definitely in charge.
The early models for the Gibson Girl included Gibson's wife Irene Langhorne, and the Belgian-American stage actress Camille Clifford, famous for her hourglass figure and big hair. In the early 1900s, the popular artists' model Evelyn Nesbit came to dominate the image. With the advent of the First World War, the Gibson Girl faded in popularity, to be replaced by the new standard of American womanhood - the flapper.
Gibson's memory lives on through the cocktail that bears his name, reflecting his preference for gin martinis with a pickled onion garnish.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Diderot's Dangerous Idea
In the late 1740s, bookseller and printer, Andre Le Breton, approached Denis Diderot to undertake a French translation of Ephraim Chambers' Cyclopaedia, or Universal Dictionary of the Arts and Sciences.
Instead, Diderot decided to produce an original work that would encompass all branches of knowledge and challenge conventional ways of thinking. From the outset, the project was viewed as a threat to ecclesiastical and aristocratic power, in that it advocated religious tolerance, freedom of thought, and the value of science and industry. The first volume appeared in 1751, but in 1752 a court order was issued to cease the project. With the help of sympathetic supporters, Diderot was able to continue work in secret, and a second decree was issued in 1759 in an effort to suppress the work. Despite continual harassment and loss of friends and associates, Diderot carried on, with the final volumes of the 28 volume set finally being distributed to subscribers in 1772.
The photograph inserted above shows the title page of the first volume. This volume is part of a complete first edition set from the collection of about 400 rare books, that until recently were held at the Fortress of Louisbourg in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. The collection has been moved to the Beaton Institute at Cape Breton University, where it will be maintained in the archive and be made available to researchers.
Instead, Diderot decided to produce an original work that would encompass all branches of knowledge and challenge conventional ways of thinking. From the outset, the project was viewed as a threat to ecclesiastical and aristocratic power, in that it advocated religious tolerance, freedom of thought, and the value of science and industry. The first volume appeared in 1751, but in 1752 a court order was issued to cease the project. With the help of sympathetic supporters, Diderot was able to continue work in secret, and a second decree was issued in 1759 in an effort to suppress the work. Despite continual harassment and loss of friends and associates, Diderot carried on, with the final volumes of the 28 volume set finally being distributed to subscribers in 1772.
The photograph inserted above shows the title page of the first volume. This volume is part of a complete first edition set from the collection of about 400 rare books, that until recently were held at the Fortress of Louisbourg in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. The collection has been moved to the Beaton Institute at Cape Breton University, where it will be maintained in the archive and be made available to researchers.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Organ of Love
The Valentine's postcard pictured below dates from 1908. It comes from a collection of personal papers held in the Beaton Institute at Cape Breton University, the official repository of historically significant records pertaining to life and times in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Its seemingly unromantic caption reads: "Take back your heart. I ordered liver." Whatever personal message the sender was trying to get across to the recipient may be gleaned to some extent by the handwritten line on the card's front border and from the text on the back of the card. However, what caught my attention was the curious wordplay on internal organs, that was obviously penned by a commercial copywriter and considered worthy of mass production as a greeting card.
St. Valentine's Day was instituted by the Roman Catholic Church, on February 14th, 496, in commemoration of a priest martyred in Rome. Perhaps due to its pagan association with Cupid, or possibly because it had become such a secular and commercial phenomenon, the official observance of this day was removed from the religious calendar in 1969. The first association of St. Valentine with romantic love can be traced to Geoffrey Chaucer's Parliament of Fools, written in 1382 in celebration of the first anniversary of the engagement of Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. However, given the date of the engagement, Chaucer's reference to St. Valentine appears to be linked to the observance of the feast day of Valentine of Genoa on May 2nd. How the linkage between romance and the feast day of Valentine of Rome on February 14th was established is not known, but it is often spuriously linked to Lupercalia, a Roman fertility festival, that was celebrated in the middle of February.
Personalized Valentine's greetings date back at least until the middle of the 18th century, with commercial card production starting in England in the early 1800s. The mass production of Valentine's cards was started around 1850 in the United States, thanks to the entrepreneurial spirit of Esther Howland, the daughter of a stationer in Worcester, Massachusetts. The addition of candy and flowers appears to have emerged in the second half of the 20th century, as other sectors capitalized on the marketing opportunity established through the greeting cards.
What exactly is the message of this card?
In ancient Greek philosophical writings, as well as in early physiological works, the liver is associated with the dark emotions (wrath, jealousy, and greed). Dating back to ancient Egypt, the heart is seen as the seat of truth and the soul. So, is our seated diner rejecting love and asking for anger? Is this some curious variation on the old chestnut that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? Is this a card that a man would give to a woman, or a woman to a man? Given the time period, is it logical to assume that this is the man's wife? Otherwise, what is she doing feeding him? Whatever the intended meaning might have been, in today's world, a card like this would be more likely to conjure up images of Hannibal Lecter, than it would to evoke some expression of love.
St. Valentine's Day was instituted by the Roman Catholic Church, on February 14th, 496, in commemoration of a priest martyred in Rome. Perhaps due to its pagan association with Cupid, or possibly because it had become such a secular and commercial phenomenon, the official observance of this day was removed from the religious calendar in 1969. The first association of St. Valentine with romantic love can be traced to Geoffrey Chaucer's Parliament of Fools, written in 1382 in celebration of the first anniversary of the engagement of Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. However, given the date of the engagement, Chaucer's reference to St. Valentine appears to be linked to the observance of the feast day of Valentine of Genoa on May 2nd. How the linkage between romance and the feast day of Valentine of Rome on February 14th was established is not known, but it is often spuriously linked to Lupercalia, a Roman fertility festival, that was celebrated in the middle of February.
Personalized Valentine's greetings date back at least until the middle of the 18th century, with commercial card production starting in England in the early 1800s. The mass production of Valentine's cards was started around 1850 in the United States, thanks to the entrepreneurial spirit of Esther Howland, the daughter of a stationer in Worcester, Massachusetts. The addition of candy and flowers appears to have emerged in the second half of the 20th century, as other sectors capitalized on the marketing opportunity established through the greeting cards.
What exactly is the message of this card?
In ancient Greek philosophical writings, as well as in early physiological works, the liver is associated with the dark emotions (wrath, jealousy, and greed). Dating back to ancient Egypt, the heart is seen as the seat of truth and the soul. So, is our seated diner rejecting love and asking for anger? Is this some curious variation on the old chestnut that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? Is this a card that a man would give to a woman, or a woman to a man? Given the time period, is it logical to assume that this is the man's wife? Otherwise, what is she doing feeding him? Whatever the intended meaning might have been, in today's world, a card like this would be more likely to conjure up images of Hannibal Lecter, than it would to evoke some expression of love.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
One of a Kind
To my knowledge, this is the only photograph of my paternal grandmother Mary Jane Baillie/Campbell/Cannon, with her four children, their respective spouses, and her two grandchildren (one of whom is me).
I have no idea what the occasion was, but this photograph was taken some time in 1957, in the living room of my uncle Jack Cannon, my father's half-brother, who is seated at the far left of the picture. To his right is his sister, my father's half-sister, Mary Cannon, who never married. Third from the left is Doug Liddle, who was married to my father's sister Jess Campbell, and next to him is his son Doug, my only cousin on my father's side.
In the middle is my grandmother, who by this time was a widow twice over. To her right is my father's sister Jess, and to her right is Jack's wife Alberta. At the far right is my father William Campbell, and to his left is my mother Claire Elizabeth McLeod. As you might have guessed, I am seated in front of my parents, looking rather bemused by the proceedings.
I have had no contact with my cousin Doug in over forty years, and as far as I know, with the exception of my mother and he and I, all the others pictured here have passed away.
I have no idea what the occasion was, but this photograph was taken some time in 1957, in the living room of my uncle Jack Cannon, my father's half-brother, who is seated at the far left of the picture. To his right is his sister, my father's half-sister, Mary Cannon, who never married. Third from the left is Doug Liddle, who was married to my father's sister Jess Campbell, and next to him is his son Doug, my only cousin on my father's side.
In the middle is my grandmother, who by this time was a widow twice over. To her right is my father's sister Jess, and to her right is Jack's wife Alberta. At the far right is my father William Campbell, and to his left is my mother Claire Elizabeth McLeod. As you might have guessed, I am seated in front of my parents, looking rather bemused by the proceedings.
I have had no contact with my cousin Doug in over forty years, and as far as I know, with the exception of my mother and he and I, all the others pictured here have passed away.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
End of Year, New Beginning
As 2011 draws to a close, I am getting rid of stuff and packing in preparation for moving to a smaller house with more land, in a more rural area. The move will only add about five minutes to my drive to work, and it will be nice to be surrounded by more trees.
Of course, apart from the turmoil of the physical move, changing houses brings with it thoughts of changing other things. I have not been as successful with this blog as I had hoped. So, my pledge to myself is that I will post to this blog at least once every month, even if the posting is only a status update.
Of course, apart from the turmoil of the physical move, changing houses brings with it thoughts of changing other things. I have not been as successful with this blog as I had hoped. So, my pledge to myself is that I will post to this blog at least once every month, even if the posting is only a status update.
Friday, September 23, 2011
What Makes a Book Valuable?
I was also asked recently about the most valuable book in our library. Unlike the question about the oldest book, the answer to this question is far more complicated to determine.
Among the seemingly most valuable books in the library is a complete run of the Gentleman's Magazine (pictured above), from 1731 to 1868. The age, condition, completeness, and relative availability (or lack thereof) of this set all contribute to its value. In more blatant financial terms, in some cases, individual articles sell for thousands of dollars, while individual issues or volumes can sell for a few hundred dollars each.
With respect to individual works, our library also possesses a copy of Robert Wood's The Ruins of Palmyra, published in London in 1753, a copy of which recently sold in New York for $7500. As is obvious from the picture below, this volume is a precursor of what we would now call a coffee table book, with this one actually being big enough and heavy enough to serve as a coffee table.
Not only is this a big book, but it also contains some big surprises, like the engraving illustrated below. Much of the value of this work is associated with its existence as an expression of material culture.
With both of these examples, an insurance adjuster will want to know the replacement cost, and a rare book dealer will want to know how much a collector is willing to pay for such a work. What does a librarian want to know?
For that answer, we turn to the writings of Indian mathematician and librarian Shiyali Ramamrita Ranganathan (d. 1972), recognized as one of the founding fathers of modern library science. Among his five laws of library science, the first three are: books are for use, every reader, his or her book, and every book its reader. If our copies of the Gentleman's Magazine and The Ruins of Palmyra sit on the shelf and are never used by anyone, are they of any value at all?
Among the seemingly most valuable books in the library is a complete run of the Gentleman's Magazine (pictured above), from 1731 to 1868. The age, condition, completeness, and relative availability (or lack thereof) of this set all contribute to its value. In more blatant financial terms, in some cases, individual articles sell for thousands of dollars, while individual issues or volumes can sell for a few hundred dollars each.
With respect to individual works, our library also possesses a copy of Robert Wood's The Ruins of Palmyra, published in London in 1753, a copy of which recently sold in New York for $7500. As is obvious from the picture below, this volume is a precursor of what we would now call a coffee table book, with this one actually being big enough and heavy enough to serve as a coffee table.
Not only is this a big book, but it also contains some big surprises, like the engraving illustrated below. Much of the value of this work is associated with its existence as an expression of material culture.
With both of these examples, an insurance adjuster will want to know the replacement cost, and a rare book dealer will want to know how much a collector is willing to pay for such a work. What does a librarian want to know?
For that answer, we turn to the writings of Indian mathematician and librarian Shiyali Ramamrita Ranganathan (d. 1972), recognized as one of the founding fathers of modern library science. Among his five laws of library science, the first three are: books are for use, every reader, his or her book, and every book its reader. If our copies of the Gentleman's Magazine and The Ruins of Palmyra sit on the shelf and are never used by anyone, are they of any value at all?
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