What better way to start 2010 than by giving myself the day off? Today's entry has been written by my colleague Chris Fleet and looks at an interesting and unusual map of Dundee which was recently discovered in the Bartholomew Archive Printing Record.

This spectacular panoramic photograph and map of Dundee harbour caught our attention during recent conservation. Merely one of the thousands of publications by Bartholomew, this particular item encapsulates many aspects of 1930s Dundee. The worldwide recession in the interwar years hit Dundee hard, with a major slump in textiles and related industries, and over a third of the labour force unemployed.

Amongst the various attempts to encourage new work and employment was a publication by the City of Dundee Development Corporation, accompanied by its inviting Do it At Dundee gold plaque.

This was a carefully written propaganda exercise, promoting executives and industrialists to move to the city, with pictures of its parks, golf courses, and state of the art port facilities. The striking panoramic view from Dundee Law was in fact done by Bartholomew blog veterans Valentines (see Now you don't see them, now you do) the famous Dundee photographic and postcard company, with the accompanying map by John Bartholomew & Son Ltd.

Bartholomew had been producing plans for Dundee Harbour Trust for at least two decades, and this map was reduced from a larger scale plan of the harbour they published in the same year at 1:2,500. Although the Ordnance Survey revision of 1921 would have provided basic cartography, there is much updated and additional information: company names and street names, depths of water on the wharves, loading capacities of cranes, harbour lights, and even underground sewers. 7,208 copies were printed on 10 December 1931, with water coloured blue, roads in sienna, and buildings in grey.

On the back is an attractive colour-coded plan of Dundee proposing new developments - regenerating the former industrial sites, planning new roads and outlying industrial estates, along with a large expansion of residential areas outwards from the city centre.

In 1911, over 60% of Dundee households lived in 1 or 2 roomed houses, and slum clearance and better housing was a key priority. From 1919 to 1939, over 8,100 local authority houses were built, many in new suburban districts such as Logie, Beechwood, and Craigiebank or Craigie Garden Suburb. This map is in many ways a blueprint for post-war Dundee, encouraging the residential and industrial expansion north of the Kingsway ring road, and even anticipating the new Proposed Municipal Airport (albeit some three decades before its eventual opening in 1962).

Both plans bore the stamp of James Hannay Thomson, the Dundee Harbour Trust General Manager and Engineer, who successfully encouraged a transition away from Dundee's failing textile industries towards new manufacturing at this time. He also was able to recognise the future importance of transportation of raw materials by roads, and not just by sea - a difficult issue, given the historical investment in the harbour and its immense value as a source of income and employment. Although they took time to locate in Dundee, multinational companies such as Dayco, Holochrome, National Cash Register, Timex, and Michelin provided much needed post-War employment, and the 1960s maps of Dundee show a surprisingly similar form to this map of 1931.

The importance of this map rests particularly on its promotional role, in presenting Dundee as an attractive, clear and organised geographical space for potential development, in conjunction with a well-argued supporting text. It serves as a useful reminder that for the history of towns from Victorian times into the post-War period in Scotland, some of the most useful and regularly updated maps were drawn and published, not by Ordnance Survey, but by Bartholomew.

Interesting though today's subject might be in this instance interesting is also a euphemism for "help, I haven't got a clue!". Bartholomew were unquestionably pioneers in their field, experimenting with colour, technique and design but what they achieved in these images is well beyond my expertise.

This is a sheet of eight, incredibly beautiful views, based on photographs taken by leading Scottish photographers. 2020 sheets were printed by Bartholomew on the 6th June 1882 although unhelpfully there is little else to go on in the Archive. According to the sheet they were produced for blog favourites MacNiven & Cameron, who cropped up in May with their outrageous stationery (When a Ballpoint just won't do). Just what MacNiven & Cameron planned to do with them is unclear but postcards are a distinct possibility.

The works of three photographers are represented. Arguably the most famous is George Washington Wilson renowned as a pioneer of photography in Scotland and famous for the poignant image of a grief stricken Queen Victoria upon her horse accompanied by John Brown. James Valentine also appears, with images taken from photographs of the Dundee area for which he was so famous. Again quite poignantly, Valentine is perhaps best remembered for the images taken of the Tay Bridge following its collapse in 1879. This was a monumental failure of engineering a result of which 75 people lost their lives, faith in progress was shaken, a landscape was dramatically altered and dubious poetry was inspired. These photographs would ghoulishly go on to be made into postcards but had been originally taken with the more honourable intention of being used as evidence in the official court inquiry. The third photographer is Peter MacFarlane who, as you can see if you've been following the links, has the distinction of being the only one without a Wikipedia page! His work appears to be less well known even though, in his own eyes, he was an official Royal photographer.

Neither Wilson nor Valentine suffered this fate with substantial archives in existence comprised of their phenomenal output. I cannot recommend highly enough a tour of Wilson's work via the pages of the University of Aberdeen Photographic Archive and of Valentine's via the University of St. Andrews Photographic Archive. In fact it was by doing just this that I came to be intrigued by the technique involved.

The above image captures the life of the people of Corpach, huddled under the looming protection of Ben Nevis. It was taken by Wilson, though the exact date is unknown, and is very practically called Ben Nevis from Corpach. A comparison with the original reveals one telling difference though, in the original the people aren't actually there. Exactly the same is true of a Valentine image called Inverlochy Castle and Ben Nevis. Whilst ostensibly the same photograph there are suddenly a couple of figures frolicking on the pebble beach in the foreground.

It is an interesting technique in that it produces an astonishingly beautiful effect. It is akin to a soft focus filtering already soft light. Yet how was it achieved and why the inclusion of the figures? Was it to add interest, did the lack thereof fail to satisfy MacNiven & Cameron's artistic sensibilities, was it to avoid copyright infringements by claiming them as something new? Whatever the reason though the images remain undoubtedly lovely.

As the nights begin to draw in and the temperature hints at frost, my mind turns to an image of myself warmed by a roaring fire with a nice glass of single malt in my hand. Perhaps Bartholomew shared a similar passion as the latter part of the Printing Record was stored in large whisky boxes! Whisky also found its way into their maps as this one, printed by them on the 18 September 1895, shows.

Distilleries were but one subject of the many thematic maps with a distinctly Scottish flavour produced by Bartholomew. It is canon which included golf and tartan, amongst other things. They were produced for an assortment of companies, each of which had a vested interest in promoting their products. This particular one was issued by Charles MacKinley & Co.

Charles MacKinley & Co. were wholesale whisky merchants and consequently motivated to promote an impressive image of Scotland's whisky culture. A product of which is this map, a simple design demonstrating the extent and geographical diversity of Scottish distilleries, hinting at the subtle nuances of flavour that results.

Amongst the names are some that remain well known brands and others long since fallen into obscurity.

The map also reveals the extent of the industry at this time, now nestling in a few restricted pockets.

Two distilleries particularly caught my eye, the first being the Royal Brackla Distillery. They were apparently distillers to Her Majesty. The variety of companies and products lusted after and requisitioned by the monarchy never fails to astonish me.

The second being the product at the bottom of this advertisement.

Silent whisky? Any suggestions?

Maps are ever so helpful when it comes to finding one's way around the world. In a literal way they are the obvious choice if you need to know how to get to Devon, in a figurative way they help to put the planet and its features into context. For most of us this is probably where our relationship with a map ends but for all sorts of groups of people they have a much more profound usefulness. I was particularly struck by this after finding a map showing the distribution of Pulmonary Tuberculosis in Edinburgh in the Bartholomew Archive Printing Record.

1130 copies of this map were printed on the 27 April 1892 commissioned by Oliver & Boyd, an Edinburgh based contemporary of Bartholomew. It records the location of the homes of patients admitted to the pioneering Victoria Dispensary for Consumption and Diseases of the Chest and is an uncomfortably close to home example of a type of map called, unsurprisingly, a disease map.

The power that can come from mapping disease has been made famous by the story of Dr. John Snow and his 1854 cholera map of Soho. Snow's map enabled him to recognise the relationship between cases of cholera and a specific water pump on Broad Street. In turn, through this discovery, he was able to prove that cholera was a water-borne disease and not miasmatic, as many at the time believed. However, whilst this is possibly the most widely known disease map they in fact originate as early as the late 18th century and most especially relate to yellow fever at this time.

The map is accompanied by two graphs. The first plots the number of cases against age. As can be seen, whilst tuberculosis may well have been more dangerous to vulnerable groups it is in fact amongst the healthiest groups of society that this chronic infectious disease is most prevalent, with those in their mid 20's worst affected of all.

The second graph mysteriously plots height against the number of cases. The black line shows height, in the range of 5 ft. to 6 ft., against cases of tuberculosis and the red line compares these with patients admitted with other illnesses. Quite how this information was deemed useful is hard to say. Nevertheless, were you to put the data from these two graphs together it shows that in Edinburgh, in 1892, if you were 25 and 5ft7 you probably didn't stand a chance.

The map is useful in presenting clearly, general trends relating to the disease. The most obvious of course being geographical trends. This map shows that the closer and more densely populated an area the higher the number of cases. So, this area of the Old Town

is much more affected than a similar area in the New Town.

This is clear vindication for those that believed cramped and unsavoury living conditions did nought but help to generate and then spread infectious diseases.

Although there is no doubt that Bartholomew happily printed more or less anything for anyone, especially at this time, this map would possibly have held particular resonance for their contemporary director, John George Bartholomew (1860-1920). For most of his life John George himself suffered mightily from Pulmonary Tuberculosis and was often chronically fatigued and prevented from participating fully in his short life. Indeed it would go onto be the long term effects of tuberculosis that heavily contributed to his death. And there is just a small possibility that one of the small red spots, on this fairly small map, represents John George himself.

On the 8th March 1889 Bartholomew printed 510 sheets of illustrations by George Tait. I'm none too familiar with the works of George Tait but, let me put it this way, he ain't no Quentin Blake! These illustrations were produced for an edition of the works of Scottish poet Thomas Kennedy. Now, I'm none too familiar with the works of Thomas Kennedy either but in truth, he's no Philip Larkin. Nevertheless, Kennedy turns out to have been quite an interesting character and for this reason is a worthy subject for today's entry.

Thomas Kennedy (1776-1832) was born in Paisley but at the age of nineteen he emigrated to the United States. As a result, whilst by birth and youth and indeed even by language he was Scottish through and through his star arguably burns brightest in his adopted home. He landed in Georgetown in 1796 before finally settling in Williamstown, Washington County. He was able to secure employment with the Potomac Navigation Company but swiftly began to pursue his ultimate goal of becoming a poet-politician.

His first major work was published in 1816, when Kennedy was ripely, forty years old. It was simply called Poems. The Bartholomew illustrations are for a much later reprint of the original. The illustrations include quotes from the text, arguably because of the potential for confusion amongst readers as to what they are actually trying to depict. But, what these quotes helpfully show is that, even after twenty years as a citizen of a foreign land Kennedy continued to utilise the Scots dialect.

If anyone is especially interested I am in the happy position to let you know that we here at the National Library of Scotland have a microform version of the original book which is freely available for consultation at our George IV Bridge building in Edinburgh. But, before you all rush out of the door a little word of caution....

Thomas Kennedy was not just a poet, as referred to earlier he also had political ambitions. Indeed, he was arguably fairly successful, entering the House of Delegates in 1817 and the Senate in 1826 before finally again entering the House of Delegates in a career that was only cessated due to his untimely death. Although a Republican he can perhaps be viewed as something of a liberal. One of his most resounding successes was fought over what was contemporarily called "the Jew versus the Christian Ticket". At the time it was constitutionally impossible for a person to take up office without first declaring their belief in Christianity. Clearly this excluded from office members of other faiths or indeed those with none. Kennedy brought about a Bill in 1822 and whilst initially defeated by 1825 it was approved by the people and passed by the Legislature. This success is still regarded as his foremost political achievement.

Yet this was not a "never the twain shall meet" state of affairs. In 1802 Kennedy was able to combine his twin loves of poetry and politics in what is probably one of the best stories that I have ever heard. This is the story of the Mammoth Cheese!

Baptist preacher John Leland (1754-1841) was the genius behind the cheese. As my Nan always says, behind every great cheese there's a great preacher! At any rate, it was conceived of as a gift to the newly elected Republican President, Thomas Jefferson. As preacher to a religious and political minority in Cheshire, Massachusetts, the separation of church and state as advocated by Jefferson and the coming of a more democratic Republicanism marked a welcome liberation for the community from the relative legal tyranny of the Congregationalist-Federalist majority that had preceded. Perhaps suitably poignant for a man that favoured yeoman farmers to city bankers, the community rallied and produced a gift best suited to their means and expertise. And what they produced was no ordinary cheese. It was reported to have been four feet in diameter, thirteen feet in circumference, seventeen inches tall and weighed 1,235 pounds. It became known as the Mammoth Cheese.

This cheese travelled to Washing D. C. by sea and land for a month before finally reaching the door of Pennsylvania Avenue. As Leland couldn't resist noting, "it was the greatest cheese in America, for the greatest man in America", indeed. Clearly, this cheese was of great poetic inspiration to Kennedy, who amongst us wouldn't be moved by so much cheese? He penned his, in my opinion legendary "Ode to the Mammoth Cheese presented to Thomas Jefferson, President of the United States, by the inhabitants of Cheshire, Massachusetts, January 1, 1802", catchy. Reproduced here is the first stanza:

Most excellent--far fam'd and far fetched cheese!
Superior far in smell, taste, weight and size,
To any ever form'd `neath foreign skies,
And highly honour'd--thou weft made to please,
The man belov'd by all--but stop a thrice,
Before he's praised-- I too must have a slice....

Just brilliant, but maybe not as good as the dizzying heights of the poem's climactic conclusion:

All that we want for or wish for in life's hour,
Heaven still will grant us - they are only these
Poetry - Health - Peace - Virtue - Bread and Cheese.

And who could argue with that?

Contrary to popular belief, the gorgeous, sweltering, sunshiny weather that we have been hearing about ad nauseam recently was not universally enjoyed. Images of beaches ripe to overflowing and the sad laments of city commuters were the stuff of dreams for those of us suffering torrential rain, blankets of cloud and "nothing to write home about" temperatures. But bitterness aside, it is of course not to be expected that all regions will enjoy the same weather at the same time, this very fact being the source of employment for the bunch of ne'er-do-wells that call themselves weather forecasters. The mapping of rainfall and temperature trends, or to get fancy about it maps which employ isohyets and isotherms, is the stock and trade of most weather maps that you will see on the news but, as recent events have brought to mind, there is a lesser known type of map which attempts to show trends in sunshine.

Bartholomew printed 2175 copies of this map on the 27 July 1893. It is called an "Approximate Sketch Map of Mean Annual Sunshine of the British Isles" and was produced by H. N. Dickson (1866-1922) and J. G. Bartholomew (1860-1920) for the Scottish Geographical Magazine. It is self-referentially "a first attempt to map sunshine".

John George Bartholomew is a man that has been encountered on numerous occasions before in this blog. As head of John Bartholomew & Co. at this time he was not only innovative in his approach to cartography but also happened to print all of the maps which appeared in the Scottish Geographical Magazine, a publication of the Society which he had helped to found in 1884. As such I will turn my particular attention to H. N. Dickson instead.

Henry Newton Dickson was an Edinburgh man through and through. The final decades of the Nineteenth Century seem to have been particularly good ones for the city in terms of the commerce, industry and thinkers that were seemingly overflowing. John George himself was a prominent part of this mini Enlightenment but as was Henry Newton Dickson. He studied at the University of Edinburgh and soaked up the radical teachings in experimental science that was influencing physics, meteorology and oceanography at this time. Men such as Peter Guthrie Tait (1831–1901), physicist, mathematician and former Cambridge Senior Wrangler and the mathematician George Chrystal (1851–1911) were amongst those that inspired Dickson whilst at university. Post university, Dickson continued to move in the company of such giants as Sir John Murray (1841-1914), the legendary oceanographer, through his voluntary work with the Challenger Commission and Alexander Buchan (1819-1907) known simply as the father of meteorology. It can hardly be surprising that Dickson thrived in this environment and company and went on to pursue a career largely concerned with meteorology, climate and the mapping thereof.

The accompanying article to the map is called "On Sunshine". Mapping sunshine might seem like a pretty straightforward academic pursuit but Dickson reassures us that it is not and in fact that it is full of complications. Consider, for example, how to judge if the sun is actually shining or not. In many respects this is subjective and as such could never fulfil the empirical need for fact. Also, sunshine is in itself quite a vague concept. What exactly does it mean? As Dickson argues, the light from the sun is comprised of many different types of wavelengths, which ones comprise light, which are to be recorded? When considering sunlight are we confusing light for heat? There are for example those winter days that are gloriously sunny but bitterly cold. Dickson wasn't helped by a lack of precedence and therefore a lack of appropriate technology. But, after weighing up the possibilities of instruments such as the Jordan photographic recorder he settled on the Campbell-Stokes burning recorder as his objective tool of choice.

The Campbell-Stokes recorder is interesting in its own right being, in my opinion, an example of a genuine Elegant Experiment. So beautiful in its simplicity it is still made and indeed used, even by professional agencies, to this day. J. F. Campbell attached to his house one day a hollow sphere of glass filled with water. He popped this in a wooden bowl that was big enough to allow the sun to focus its rays through the glass, onto the surface of the bowl leaving behind a scorch mark. As a result a record was made not only of the voyage of the sun through the sky but crucially the instances of its shining.

With recordings made in this way Dickson was now in a position to produce his map. His methodology was to imagine the maximum sunlight a station could get if the skies remained cloudless all day and every day. He then took his recordings and, comparing the actual and hypothetical results, produced a percentage of actual sunlight against maximum sunlight. These were then plotted on the map with lines joining areas with equal value.

By no means was this an easy thing to do and indeed as a note on the map itself tells us:

So in fact, after all of that and all the effort effectively this map cannot actually be trusted and indeed may be detrimentally misleading. Indeed, I am not too sure how well the art of mapping sunlight has progressed subsequently. You can find such maps but they are comparatively rare and usually incredibly vague. Even in 2005 there were only 200 reliable stations capable of recording sunlight covering the whole of both Europe and Africa - not too great considering that there are over thirty in the Dickson map of the British Isles alone. There is hope that satellite technology may provide the key but regardless, it just goes to show how something so simple sounding has in reality perplexed the human mind since the time of Dickson all the way to the present day.

Inspired by an item I've recently discovered in the Bartholomew Archive Printing Record the time has come for me to stop glossing over some of the more complicated intricacies of maps and to tackle the art of scale. For those in the know this is a simple and effective system to communicate the levels of detail within a map but for everyone else it's basically gibberish.

Bartholomew printed 2235 copies of this sheet on the 28 April 1891. It shows the four main scales that the Ordnance Survey were using at the time and neatly compares them by effectively zooming out of a map centred on St Enoch's Church in Glasgow.

The sheet accompanies a reproduction in the Scottish Geographicl Magazine of a paper read at a meeting of the Society of Edinburgh by Sir Charles Wilson. Sir Charles Wilson was the director general of the Ordnance Survey at this time.

According to Wilson, between the years 1851-1863, the Ordnance Survey was locked in the famous "Battle of the Scales" a battle that saw indecision regarding scale escalate to costs of about £30,000, a sum that would equate to over £2,000,000 today. But, eventually a decision was reached and the four scales seen in these maps are four of the six which were settled on as the standardised OS scales.

In a user friendly fashion they all have nice and friendly names, there's the town plan scale, the parish, county and maybe less friendly, topographical scale. It might have been wisdom to end it there but unfortunately for a science concerned with an accurate sense of place vague names simply weren't going to be good enough and so figures, ratios and fractions step in to complicate the picture.

So now for my attempt at a step by step guide to understanding scale. The last map on the sheet is at the scale of 1:63,360. However, 1 what to 63,360 what's? This of course isn't made clear. Is it one inch or one millimetre, we just don't know. What we do know however is that whatever one of them is on the map it's 63,360 in real life. Luckily there is an alternative second name for this scale being one inch to the mile, simply one inch on the map is a mile on the ground. You could of course use its alternative third name of topographic. But, if you're wanting to speak in generalities why not opt for a generic 'small scale' map? Because, even though you're looking at a map with a scale of 1:63,360 this is a 'small scale'. The first map, at 1:500 is a 'large scale' map of course. So, 1:1 is huge and 1:1,000,000 is tiny. Confused? If not you're clearly a genius but as for me, I think I'll go back to studying the maps!

There are maps of railways, maps of tramways and even maps of sewerage systems in the Bartholomew Archive. But one map which caught my eye recently was this one showing the distribution of mammal fossils in Scotland. On the face of it that might sound quite dull but when you look closer and see references to rhinoceros and bear it suddenly becomes much more interesting. So, on the day that it was announced beaver had been reintroduced to Scotland, it seemed just the right time to investigate this map further.

Bartholomew printed just 575 copies of this map on the 19 August 1887. It was produced for the magazine Transactions of the Edinburgh Geological Society and can be found, for those that are interested, in volume five, Session 1886-1887. Prestigiously, it accompanied the inaugural address given that Session by Ralph Richardson (1845-1933), vice-president of the Society at this time. His theme was "The Antiquity of Man, and the Discovery of Fossil Mammalia in Devonshire and Scotland.

Ralph Richardson was a renowned geologist and, as a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh and founder member of the (Royal) Scottish Geographical Society, his links to Bartholomew, most especially John George (1869-1920), were numerable.

The E.G.S had been set up 53 years prior to the publication of this map but nevertheless, geology remained a science in its comparative infancy. The Royal Geological Society had been set up only four years before the E.G.S. and to begin with was more of a gentleman's club than a rigorously academic venture. As a slowly developing, almost dangerous intellectual pursuit it is of course hard to pin down the beginnings of geology. It is however arguable that William Smith's (1769–1839) famous geological map, printed in 1815, was the moment at which the disparate thoughts and theories became crystallised into one, very beautiful, tangible and inescapable form. Dangerous because, in so doing these intellectuals were challenging the very foundations of a society that at the time still dogmatically believed the literal interpretation of the Bible by Archbishop James Ussher (1581-1656) which held that the Earth was created precisely on the 23 October 4004 B.C.

It is in this context that Ralph Richardson delivered his address. Although science had defeated dogma by then, there was still a sense of excitement every time a discovery was made which seemed to refute the ideas of Ussher and hint at an age of the Earth beyond comprehension.

Gone was the idea that these improbable fossils had been neglectfully dropped or maliciously placed and instead came the realisation that the world around us today is but one incarnation of the many different worlds which had preceded it. So, in this anything goes spirit, it was not at all inconceivable that at one time rhinoceros, hyena and bears were just as at home in Scotland as rabbits, deer and sheep are today.

No doubt subsequent research has changed the picture considerably in the time since this map was printed; it is of course very old. One possible flaw of this map is that the areas of fossil discovery it shows are inevitably concomitant to where the major centres of population are. However, this map is still interesting not only because of what it depicts but also for what it subtly reveals about the world which created it. And maybe one day, since the beaver have been reintroduced to Scotland, we can all look forward to the return of the rhinoceros too!

Try as one might, it is impossible to escape the vast quantities of railway related material in the Bartholomew Archive Printing Record. With commissions from the North British, Caledonian and London and North Western Railways, to name but a few, Bartholomew were certainly kept busy by the needs of the railways. In fact, for those interested in Bartholomew statistics, in the twenty years between 1877 and 1897, Bartholomew printed no less than 711 individual railway related items. In real terms, if we assume each order was for a modest 1000 copies, it becomes clear that this really was an important part of Bartholomew's output at this time.

Be it brochures, maps, or eye-catching posters, the appetite of the railway companies was voracious. In a system which more closely resembles the railway we have today, private companies ran discrete services and as such competed ardently for supremacy. And not without good cause, from a business perspective at least, as there was an awful lot of money to be made. With motorways and inexpensive flights a generation or two away, rail travel dominated as the only way to move goods and people around the country at speed.

There is therefore little surprise that this sense of speed, progress and unassailable success spilled over into ambitious engineering projects. The Forth Bridge is of course a prime example. Yet even superficially mundane buildings were built in the spirit of these ambitious times.

Waverley Station sits at the heart of Edinburgh. It remains as important to the city as it probably ever did. From here it is possible to get to almost every nook and cranny of the British mainland with the major advantage of the sheer convenience of its location. And it is to the North British Railway (N.B.R.) that we can offer our thanks.

The above plan was printed on the 2 October 1890 and shows the N.B.R's proposed plans for what they called New Waverly Station. Although city centre stations were not new to Edinburgh, the wealthy N.B.R. were able to buy up the disparately scattered stations of their rivals and consolidate them into one central hub.

The plan almost casually refers to the gas works which are to be removed, the market to be demolished and the entirely new roads that are to be built. It was an ambitious plan perhaps but nevertheless was adopted and begun. Indeed, not only was the plan adopted but by the very next year, was being enlarged and improved upon.

More platforms, more demolition and more building led to a Waverley that would be entirely recognisable to the modern traveller. Albeit with one minor detail, the iconic hotel known today as the Balmoral was at this time, just a collection of random buildings.

In the interests of balance though, it is worth remembering that it hasn't transpired to be such as plain a sail for all railway companies. The equally wealthy Caledonian Railway had an idea for a grand station, a monument to rail, at the opposite end of Princes Street.

The submitted plan was printed by Bartholomew on 8 October 1890, more or less the same time as that for Waverley. The building work commenced and was crowned by a magnificent hotel sat atop the platforms below. But by 1960 the need for both stations was hard to justify and the ultimate looser was the Caledonian. Deemed as less convenient in numerous ways all that now remains is the hotel.

Princes Street is currently undergoing major changes and will emerge as something very different to what it recently was. But of course this has always been the case, change is ongoing. Through material in the Archive it is possible to piece together the story of some of these changes and to learn more about buildings which, because of their utilitarian nature, are all too easy to take for granted.

To some, pens aren't just a slightly more indelible pencil, they are beauty personified. I might lust after an MGB GT, or a Bugatti Veyron, but to others Montblanc or Parker are what set the pulse racing. Perhaps it's time another name joins this illustrious company, that of MacNiven & Cameron.

MacNiven & Cameron were new to me when I stumbled upon a sheet of advertising produced for them by Bartholomew on 26 August 1879. I am told twelve reams were printed, and accepting that these were printers reams, that equates to 6192 copies. Their premises, at this time at least, was to be found at 23 to 33 Blair Street, Edinburgh.

One of the things which instantly struck me about the company was the sheer choice offered to the discerning pen lover. No mere ballpoint or fountain pen on offer here but how about a Rifle Pen or a Ladies' Pen? One which particularly troubled me was the oddly marketed Hand Pen, but all was revealed when later down the list you come across the Shoulder Pen, one can only imagine how that might have worked!

Various testimonials from highly regarded newspapers attest to the quality of the products on offer. A particularly glowing one makes the extraordinary claim that:

"There is magic about these pens"

That might explain the shoulder thing....

But, they didn't just stop at pens and pen nibs; they also produced stationery of repute and notably The Royal Exercise Book.

As can be seen, what better to sum up the claimed regality of this product than a semi-naked charioteer, slightly feminine looking horses and Pharonic masks! And that's what I like about MacNiven & Cameron. I don't know much about their pens and I don't know much about them but what they leave behind in this small collection of advertising is a glimpse into the insanity of their world. The names of the products, the ardent nature of the testimonials, surely not entirely honest. Maybe the newspaper review in its entirety read:

"It's certainly not true to say that there is magic about these pens"

Nevertheless, it was a formula which worked for them as MacNiven & Cameron were successful for almost 200 years and well into the 1960's. And although the firm may no longer exist even the quickest internet scan reveals something of the current cult nature of this firm and its advertising. One can even purchase an ironic t-shirt. With the odd imagery and the layer upon layer of hard sell it's hard to not be sucked in and maybe start coveting a MacNiven & Cameron above cars after all.