I have a tendency to shudder at the mere thought of advertising. The idea of television programmes which tantalisingly countdown the top 100 adverts fill me with dread, on many levels. Can something so inherently awful ever be beautiful? Of course, it turns out that the answer is yes.

Until now this blog has focused exclusively on items from the Bartholomew Archive Printing Record. Yet the Printing Record is merely one component of this impressive and extensive Archive. Departing from the norm, this entry is dedicated to some of the beautiful, and dare I say it charming, advertising from the Bartholomew Archive Business Record.

This is perhaps the quintessential Bartholomew advert. It dates from the late 1920's into the 1930's. It manages to capture something of the excitement and freedom that newly available automobiles offered. Who knows what lay over yonder hill, who can tell the wondrousness just encountered in the valley behind? Of course, the answer is anyone with a Bartholomew map! At this time there is a real explosion in the number of maps Bartholomew were explicitly aiming at this market. It is an extension of the contacts which they had long since forged with groups such as the Cyclist's Touring Club or the Caledonian Railway, producing maps of cycling or railway routes and lines. Now however, the clients included the A.A., the R.A.C. and the Royal Scottish Automobile Club.

Images such as these typify this period in time. Any episode of Poirot or Miss Marple worth their salt would have images such as these discreetly in the background, conjuring up a sense of a bygone era. They are somehow familiar, comforting and satisfyingly traditional - qualities Bartholomew would have been eager to convey. Yet they are also, surprisingly, in the minority of the advertising material in the Archive which in fact shows a tendency towards the unusual, the modern and the vaguely dangerous.

Photography is perhaps not the first medium which springs to mind when imagining 1930's advertising, yet here's Bartholomew experimenting in just this way.

And this is just what they are, experiments. No evidence (so far) exists which proves that Bartholomew pursued these images, of which there are a total of five. There is a narrative here, a mystery. Who are they? Where are they? What are they doing? They intrigue and beguile, surely everything an advert at its best ought to do? They mark a stark departure from the bucolic connotations of the watercolours. Perhaps too stark of a departure for an essentially conservative, gentile and traditional firm.

But contradicting that are a set of images which Bartholomew did print, albeit in a very small quantity. A set of four photographs, similar in style to the one above were printed in 1935. A mere 150 copies were printed demonstrating a tentative reticence, a testing of the water perhaps. This does not appear to be a style that they pursued with much vigour or conviction.

As well as printed copies of advertising, the Business Record also contains proofs and drafts, such as above. The route from original sketch to finished product is sometimes possible to reconstruct. Just who the artists were remains a total mystery. Signatures appear on some, others are anonymous. The name most often encountered is J. G. Rennie, but just who this is, I do not know. Records from the Business Archive detailing advertising matters are rare, very rare, indicating two possibilities. Firstly, that they haven't survived, secondly, that there was a certain embarrassment, a cloak-and-dagger nature to these dirty dealings. My money's on the second. Bartholomew did not even have a dedicated marketing team until the 1970's.

For all of their charm, inherent beauty, social relevance, the thing that I love most of all is the women. Women in this make believe Bartholomew world are dominating the skill of map reading. This is a small but interesting detail. Historically, companies including the venerable Ordnance Survey, tended to show women as peripheral by standers in a world where men did the map thing. So, if only for this fact alone, here's a cheer for Bartholomew!

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.

As 2009 draws to its inevitable conclusion it seems appropriate to mark the occasion by saving, in my opinion, the best 'till last. To stumble across something of interest in the Bartholomew Archive Printing Record is, in all honesty, almost inevitable. Items printed by Bartholomew can have a genuine cartographic value, they can have great social value, and they can transpire to have interesting stories behind them but the item which has inspired this entry is rare because it manages to satisfy all of these. This is Sir Harry H. Johnston's map of Black, White & Yellow British Africa

As someone who sees a fair number of Printing Record items this one initially stood out for its striking and bold aesthetic. In the scheme of things it is relatively small, measuring only 23cm by 16cm (in the context of an Archive with items well over a square metre in size) but its impact belies this. There is an almost enigmatic quality to this map as it manages to look incredibly simple and yet at the same time conveys a wealth of information. The bold colour scheme, so unlike other items which Bartholomew were printing at this time, coupled with the social and commercial undertones demanded further examination.

Pivotal to the story of this map is the figure of Sir Henry Hamilton Johnston (1858-1927), or Harry as he preferred.

By the time this map was printed, in October 1890, Johnston was a renowned, highly flamboyant and talented British consular official in Africa. In his youth he had dreamed of becoming an artist and worked simultaneously at the Zoological Gardens in London and as a painter of anatomical curiosities at the Royal College of Surgeons. He eventually secured a place at the Royal Academy but by then he was plagued by the realisation that, as an artist, he would never be anything more than competent. This was to be the major turning point in his life. Johnston instead turned to travel and in the process showed an innate aptitude for language which proved so useful in his later Foreign Office career.

The map itself was presented to members of the Liverpool Chamber of Commerce and graphically proposed an imaginary and enlarged British Empire in Africa. It accompanied a speech given by Johnston entitled 'The development of tropical Africa under British auspices'. The speech touched upon such disparate themes as domesticating elephant, the right type of person for life in Africa, namely no gluttons or drinkers, the fundamental wealth of African products and the profit to be obtained by working with the native populations. Ultimately however his purpose was singular, to make a clear case for the benefits of colonial expansion in Africa through increased funding from the British Parliament, as well as through chartered companies. His main ally in Liverpool was the colonial magnate Sir Alfred Jones (1845-1909) at this time head of shipping firm Elder Dempster & Co. By 1890, Jones had built up a predominant control over the entire merchant shipping trade from Africa to Liverpool, and had considerable related colonial and commercial interests in West Africa.

Socially, this came at a time when major international agreements on African partition were being negotiated. Johnston had huge ambitions for an expanded British Empire and in fact it was Johnston who coined the term 'From Cape to Cairo'. By this time he had established his reputation and wielded the power of several influential allies including the British Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury as well as substantial financial support, to the tune of £10,000 per annum, from Cecil Rhodes. Johnston vigorously supported the signing of an Anglo-German Agreement in July 1890, and the signing of an Anglo-Portuguese Agreement in June 1891. This effectively brought the Lakes Region of Africa under the control of Rhodes' British South Africa Company. From February 1891, Johnston was appointed consul-general for these territories north of the Zambesi (including Nyasaland, now part of Zambia). He recruited Sikhs from the Punjab as a fighting force, necessary given the armed resistance to his attempts to assert British sovereign rights over the area.

It is easy to think of these times and those involved with scornful disdain, and there is unquestionably justification there. But, when seen in context, although the motivations may now seem abhorrent, to people like Johnston there was utter conviction in the right and good of their cause. His Black, White & Yellow theme is a highly visual encapsulation of that. For Johnston it was a reflection of the potential strength which could come from Black Africans, Yellow Arabs, and White Europeans working together. So ardently did he believe this that he wore a straw hat with ribbons of these colours, his staff were asked to wear yellow waistcoats with their black and white suits, and he wrote letters on special writing paper edged with these colours. He designed flags, coats of arms, and even postage stamps for his proposed British Protectorate with these colours, and his soldiers wore a specially designed black, white and yellow uniform.

As history has revealed however these plans were never to come to fruition. A series of misfortunes at a time of incredible political complexity, of which it is not possible to do any justice to here, effectively quashed Johnston's hopes. He himself fell out with Rhodes, lost the goodwill and respect of his Foreign Office colleagues and finally lost his health after suffering a succession of episodes of Blackwater Fever (an infinitely terrifying illness which is no exaggeration to say was usually fatal). He would never see his ambitions realised and returned to Britain more or less a pariah who stood for the colonial aspirations that some were already beginning to see as an embarrassment. However, Johnston did make a genuine contribution to linguistics via his seminal Comparative Study of the Bantu and Semi-Bantu Languages (1919) and enjoyed moderate success as an author and lecturer, touring the United States, Germany and ultimately the front line of First World War France.

Johnston has revealed himself to be an intensely likable, interesting and engaging man. His life had of course far more depth than it is possible to convey here and if you are interested I recommend his autobiography, The Story of My Life (1922). He writes exceedingly engagingly but perhaps most of all it is fascinating to hear a personal account of life at the height of the age of Empire.

Lastly, I would just like to thank Chris Fleet on whose research much of this entry relies.

It is arguable that we never have handwriting as good as we had at 11. Years of patient practise, unceasing drilling and line after line after line ensured a cursive perfection that we gleefully unshackle ourselves from at the first available opportunity. It was perhaps ever so. However, examples of copy book pages found in the Bartholomew Archive Printing Record are a timely reminder of the beauty and worth of a clear and immaculate hand.

In total there are 35 double sided sheets of copy book pages in the Printing Record. It represents a not insubstantial glimpse into late Victorian education, standards and in some respects morality too. Some of the copy book material is dubious to a modern eye, some of it is extraordinary in its complexity and some of it is frankly odd. Not wanting to be a naysayer of the modern educational system lists of words such as this below astonish me with their exuberant optimism of a child's expected vocabulary.

These pages were ultimately destined for copy books published by Gall and Inglis. Unlike other material printed by Bartholomew the utilitarian nature of these pages stands out as unique in the Printing Record. Another consequence is that relatively little of this type of material remains today. These sheets were designed to be used and disposed of and for this reason they represent something quite rare.

Some of the phrases, quotations from poetry and factual information offered up as handwriting exemplars are surprisingly gloomy for a youthful audience.

Whilst others resemble something you might hear emanating from a studenty bar late at night.

In a week where we are told even our own Prime Minister could do with a bit of practise maybe it's time we all took up our pens and attempted to live up to the expectations of a Victorian childhood.

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.

You would seldom have found a Bartholomew map in the Geographical Journal of the Royal Geographical Society in the late nineteenth century. Understandably, Bartholomew were focused on producing maps for the publication of the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, a Society which John George Bartholomew had been a founder member of. However, there were times when a map required a certain technical touch and as today's map demonstrates this was when Bartholomew were turned to.

Although deceptively simple in appearance this map is actually full of fine and intricate detail and relies upon the masterful use of colour in order to convey that very sense of simplicity.

The map itself is a representation of the dream of Dutch engineers and business entrepreneurs to massively increase the scale of their small nation through reclaiming land from the sea. That this was done is no secret but just how it was done and the people involved is perhaps something given less thought.

The map accompanies a very brief article in the March 1893 edition of the Geographical Journal which was written by Pieter Hendrik Schoute. Schoute was Professor of Mathematics at Groningen but had done his first degree in civil engineering. With his interest in Euclidean geometry and regular polytopes quite how he came to author this article is unclear, however, it reveals something of the history of the project and the processes undertaken which culminated in the ability to produce the map.

A committee was established in 1886 tasked with considering the possibilities of extending the land mass. A massive eight volume tome resulted with each volume concentrating on a specific problem and postulating the potential solution. The focus of each ranged from commercial and strategic issues to engineering and geology. To a modern eye the one area which appears to be conspicuously lacking is the environmental impact.

The project sought to reclaim 500,000 acres of fertile land and a further 30,000 for non-agricultural purposes from the Zeiderzee. This would be achieved through the construction of numerous dykes including the main seclusion dyke designed to cut the Zeiderzee off from open water and causing it to become a great lake. Sluices in this dyke would compensate for the waterways which drained into the lake thereby maintaining a constant water level and eventually polders, or low lying tracts of land, could be established. The lake would gradually change from salt to freshwater and a whole new ecosystem would be created. Shipping links would be maintained, of exceptional importance to a port such as Amsterdam which was visited by 52,000 ships approaching from the Zeiderzee per year, via a series of canals. The projected timescale was 32 years at a cost of £16,000,000. It was estimated that it would take 16 years to pay for itself with suggested income generation coming from renting the land at a rate of £2 per acre per year. However, it was predicted that ancillary benefits such as the resultant increase in employment and the profits from the products produced would potentially see this boosted by the resultant increase in GDP.

In the end it wasn't until the 1930's that the work was eventually initiated with some of the land reclamation shown on the map only completed as recently as 1986. Not all of the proposed extensions happened but the estimated 530,000 acres has proven accurate with an area of around 407,700 having been reclaimed, this represents one fifth of the total land mass of the Netherlands.

This item from the Bartholomew Archive Printing Record is a stark contrast to and visually unique from anything else that I have found. It pre-dates Piet Mondrian's self styled Neo-Plasticism by a good 25 years and whilst you could be forgiven for thinking it was a work of art, as it happens, this is science.

This is a colour chart, not of the paint variety but related to a case of colour blindness. It was printed by Bartholomew on the 9 December 1895 and ran to 780 copies. Printed for the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh it accompanied an article revealing the strange case of Mr A.

Mr A. was a patient of Dr William Peddie, or perhaps more accurately a subject of Dr William Peddie. Dr Peddie was not a medical doctor as you might expect but rather a physicist. He was born on Papa Westray in 1861 going on to study science at Edinburgh University. After graduation he eventually rose to the position of Harris Chair of Physics at University College, Dundee, a post held by him for 35 years. He died only comparatively recently in 1946. One of his particular interests and fields of expertise was colour vision which explains his link to the case. As it happens he was also a Fellow of the RSE and consequently an unsurprising contributor to their Transactions.

Appearing in the 38th edition, Peddie's article is a brief but interesting insight into Mr A.'s condition and how such matters were dealt with by scientists in 1895. Numerous methods and instruments are mentioned including quartz plates, colour discs and colourful powders. There are of course the obligatory equations such as 180 R + 180 B = 133 R + 60 W + 167 Bk. The result of these investigations led Dr Peddie to believe that Mr A. was probably dichromatic rather than monochromatic, a paradox which suggests that he could see both no and some colours at the same time. It appears that there was still much to be learnt by Dr Peddie's generation.

So to the significance of the chart. This is a representation of how you would have seen the world had you been Mr A. Mr A. lacked the ability to distinguish certain colours from one another with differences that might seem blatant to most people meaning nothing to him. To Mr A. the colours in the first column as you go from top to bottom were all identical, the same with the second column. He was also unable to distinguish between the top and bottom pairs of colour in the third column although somehow he knew that they were different. In Peddie's opinion Mr A. was blind to all colours except red.

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.

Could that be one of the greatest titles for a book ever conceived of? In my opinion it certainly is, my only regret being that I didn't think of it first! Luckily this is somewhat sated by the fact that I am at least able to write about it as there is, as you might suspect, a strong link between this book and Bartholomew.

This is the frontispiece for "The Book of Adventure and Peril" first released by W. P. Nimmo, Hay & Mitchell in 1875, although this page was printed for an 1895 re-edition. As well as the enticing title the print is accompanied by a picture that equally caught my imagination.

Clearly this is a reflection of a time where a book, ostensibly aimed at an audience of young male children, deemed elephant hunting to be a perfectly acceptable pursuit. Nevertheless, the book transpires to be something of a revelation with the potential to encourage even the least sentimental of us to mourn the loss of the time when children were encouraged to read proper books, about world affairs, rather than the wizardy drivel that seems to abound today. Or not. As the preface acknowledges:

"Prefaces are not usually read, therefore we will make this as brief as possible"

Sage words and indeed so far so good.

"We have given the book no startling or sensational title..."

The mind can but wonder what they might have come up with if they had have gone for a sensational title!

"The volume opens with stories of poor prisoners, and their desperate and persevering attempts to escape from the cells and dungeons where a cruel and despotic power had immured them"

And on it goes. Some of the chapters designed to entertain the children readers include "A supercargo's narrative on the loss of a Russian ship on the north-west coast of America, and the subsequent adventures of the crew", "Between a tiger's jaws - Under-neath a tiger - A fine specimen of courage - Tiger-shooting at night", "How Sieur de Montauban's vessel blew up" and "God's power and providence shown in the miraculous preservation and deliverance of eight Englishmen, left by mischance in Greenland, anno 1630, nine months and twelve days; with a true relation of all their miseries, the shifts and hardships they were put to, their food, such as neither heathen nor Christian ever before endured. Faithfully reported by Edward Pelham, one of the eight men aforesaid...".

Yet this was but one of the books published by Nimmo and for which Bartholomew provided the illustrations.

"The treasury of British eloquence" being, as it seems to be, a compendium of political wit is undoubtedly one of Nimmo's briefer tomes; how well it sold I cannot tell. Their catalogue was nothing other than vast though. With a book to suit every pocket and every age group it was possible to buy from their fourpenny juvenile books, to their popular religious gift books to their all the year round gift books. Amongst their broader repertoire includes titles such as "Things a Lady would like to know concerning domestic management and expenditure" by someone no doubt best placed to understand the concerns of women at this time, male Henry Southgate and "The wealth of nature: Our food supplies from the vegetable kingdom".

Bartholomew seem to have supplied illustrations for only a very small number of Nimmo publications and most typically for the adult-orientated, heavy-weight books. The illustrations are characteristically beautiful, very finely engraved and exquisitely printed. It is perhaps testament to their reputation at this time that Nimmo turned to them to be relied upon to produce work of this quality. Portraits accompanied many of the frontispiece pages and for their comparatively small size they display a deftness of hand that attests to their skill.

The relationship between Nimmo and Bartholomew endured for some time and reveals the variety of the material produced, and the commissions undertaken by Bartholomew, at this point in their history.

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?