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Sometimes, when the world feels bleak, I make the deliberate decision to lose myself, forgetting all pains and woes for a while, in a book.  And because, in these circumstances, I want to be sure that the book is good enough to get lost in, I turn for comfort to an old favourite which can be guaranteed to freeze out a cold world, at least for while.  I don't mean to provoke, but the EU referendum results that emerged on Friday morning and the responses to it since then, have left me saddened and feeling in need of a good comfort read.  So this morning I picked up a dear old friend, Dickens' Tale of Two Cities, which I have loved since I first came to know it as a O'level text.  And on page one, this is what I found:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way–in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Although Dickens' penned this in the 1850s, and was of course commenting on the times of the French Revolution some 70 years earlier, his words seem remarkably apposite this weekend. There are other themes, too, in A Tale of Two Cities, which seem to pre-echo today's political debates - relations with Europe, the role of the banks, disconnects between different sectors of society, rapidly shifting political powers playing out in the day to day lives - often with violence and hatred and rarely with understanding or tolerance - of less empowered people, driving wedges between friends and among families. Dickens uses A Tale of Two Cities to show, to the point of ridicule, just how rich and powerful the rich and powerful actually are.  One character needs four, yes four - count them -  servants to make his daily drink of hot chocolate. He shows how that sort of excess breeds discontent among those struggling to survive. He portrays the start of the French Revolution as a critique of the aristocracy and then vividly recounts how the fine ideals of the new classless Republic become an even harsher and more bloody form of class warfare than that which went before.  Let's hope that, despite starting in very similar scenarios, the outcomes of the political turmoil we find ourselves in now do not play out to in the same way. [caption id="attachment_2128" align="alignnone" width="3072"] 'The Sea Rises', illustration from Book 2 of The Tale of Two Cities, by Phiz[/caption] I think that's enough of Dickens novels for me today.  I'm off to find my copy of Pride and Prejudice...oh, wait...may be today is a day to stick to a good crime thriller.

Rummaging around local charity shops often rewards with a wee gem or sought after book but the this morning's find turns out to be a little different.  I'm very fond of reading vintage crime fiction and Freeman Willis Crofts is one of my favourite authors in the genre.  His books were published largely in the early part of the 20th centre and are rarely reprinted, so finding one his books that I haven't read being offered second hand makes for a good day and I almost always snap it up.  And this one comes in the lovely green and cream bands of classic Penguin mystery and crime, so was irresistible.  It is a little battered and dog eared but I don't mind books like that if their just for reading, so long as they are not smelly, brittle or falling apart. But its turns out that this copy has another twist which appeals in particular to that part of me which wishes I was a book collector as well as a reader.  When I got it home I found it had a bookplate in it.  When I find bookplates, I always google a bit to see if I can find out a bit about the previous owner - often they turn out to have been local or had local connections.  Turns out though that the Anne and  F G Renier, whose names appear on the bookplate,were themselves book collectors of some note. [gallery ids="eyJ1cmwiOiJodHRwczpcL1wvYm9va2FkZGljdGlvbi5jby51a1wvd3AtY29udGVudFwvdXBsb2Fkc1wvMjAxNVwvMDhcL2Jlc2lkZS5qcGciLCJ0aXRsZSI6ImJlc2lkZSIsImNhcHRpb24iOiIiLCJhbHQiOiIiLCJkZXNjcmlwdGlvbiI6IiJ9,eyJ1cmwiOiJodHRwczpcL1wvYm9va2FkZGljdGlvbi5jby51a1wvd3AtY29udGVudFwvdXBsb2Fkc1wvMjAxNVwvMDhcL2NyaW1zb24uanBnIiwidGl0bGUiOiJjcmltc29uIiwiY2FwdGlvbiI6IiIsImFsdCI6IiIsImRlc2NyaXB0aW9uIjoiIn0=" type="rectangular"] Fernard Gabriel Renier (1905-1988) was a Dutchman, born in Flushing, who as a young man settled in England around 1918, studying languages at London University in the 1920s.  It was here he met his future wife, Anne Cliff (1911?-1988) through a common interest in collecting match box labels.  After university, Renier worked for the BBC World Service but he also translated several works from his native dutch and from German into English and produced various Dutch and German grammars and learning aids among other books,  at times working in collaboration with Anne . Together they built up an enormous and in elements important collection of books, illustrations and popular printed materials.  In 1970, they donated their collection of children's literature to the Victoria and Albert Museum.  The Renier Collection was subsequently transferred to the Museum of Childhood in Bethnal Green and more recently to Blythe House, where it is now known as the Renier Collection and comprises some 80,000 books, games and printed materials. Two delightful colouring books from the Renier Collection were recently featured in a V&A blog post, Colour Our Collections. Some of the Reniers' manuscripts and ephemera were acquired in 1993 by Adelphi University in New York, where they now form the William Hone Manuscript Collection.   But it seems that they were also rigourous about adding their bookplate, which reads 'From the Library of Anne and F. G. Renier', to the less special books they acquired as well.  A quick scan of some book sellers catalogues etc reveal several books being offered for sale with this bookplate - presumably books which were generally dispersed when their collection was broken up. And more important books they owned are now in the collections of national institutions such as the Royal Academy, which has acquired, for instance, the Reniers' copy of Memoirs Of John Bacon, Esq. R.A. (1822). Or their broadside,  The Grand Mortar, from Cadiz, in St James's Park which is now in the British Museum. I shall enjoy owning the Reniers' copy of The Loss of the Jane Vosper all the more for knowing that it once sat alongside some really important books on the shelves of such notable book collectors.  Definitely my favourite find of the week!

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Stacking the Shelves is a weekly meme hosted by Tynga’s Reviews and started way back in 2012 to help booklovers and readers celebrate the arrival of new and exciting books in their homes and on their bookshelves. But I owe my inspiration for using this meme to the lovely Hayley at Rather Too Fond of Books.  The BookAddict’s  posts under this heading may be a little different in that (a) they are occasional rather than weekly, and (b) they are certain not to be exhaustive.  I also run a small second hand bookshop selling beautiful, unusual, vintage and quirky books which means some weeks literally hundreds of books arrive all at once!

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Advice needed: Am I a published author?

It's been a particularly exciting week for my inner geek this week, with the arrival this week of an 'author's copy' of Parliament: Legislation and Accountability (edited by Alexander Horne and Andrew Le Sueur, Hart, 2016).  All those hours, days, weeks, spent slaving over drafts, with my dear friend and colleague, Helen Kinghorn, of a chapter examining the ways in which Parliament considers draft legislative, and the impact it has on the shape of legislation which hits the statute book and ultimately affects people's lives, now seems so worth it.  (Those who read my blog closely will probably know that Parliament is my day job and a long-term obsession.) Of course, a niche publication of this sort is only likely to interest a small cadre -  those who are nerdishly interested in the inner workings of legislatures and the practices of law-making. It's not going to reach any best-seller list or be talked about in reading groups but I am nevertheless ridiculously excited.  The book is officially launched later this week but is already available on Amazon (hardback and kindle) and, of course, from all good bookshops! I have a lovely hardback in my hands, complete with an elegantly stylist dust jacket which gives my words more credibility and authority than I felt while drafting. [gallery ids="eyJ1cmwiOiJodHRwczpcL1wvYm9va2FkZGljdGlvbi5jby51a1wvd3AtY29udGVudFwvdXBsb2Fkc1wvMjAxNVwvMDVcL2Rpc3RhbmNlLmpwZyIsInRpdGxlIjoiRGlzdGFuY2UiLCJjYXB0aW9uIjoiIiwiYWx0IjoiSGVsZW4gR2lsdHJvdyBUaGUgRGlzdGFuY2UgSGFyZGJhY2sgY292ZXIiLCJkZXNjcmlwdGlvbiI6IlRoZSBoYXJkYmFjayBkdXN0IGphY2tldCBjb3ZlciBmb3IgSGVsZW4gR2lsdHJvdydzIFRoZSBEaXN0YW5jZSJ9,eyJ1cmwiOiJodHRwczpcL1wvYm9va2FkZGljdGlvbi5jby51a1wvd3AtY29udGVudFwvdXBsb2Fkc1wvMjAxNVwvMDVcL3RoZS1kaXN0YW5jZS1ieS1oZWxlbi1naWx0cm93LmpwZyIsInRpdGxlIjoidGhlLWRpc3RhbmNlLWJ5LWhlbGVuLWdpbHRyb3ciLCJjYXB0aW9uIjoiIiwiYWx0IjoiVGhlIERpc3RhbmNlIEhlbGVuIEdpbHRyb3cgUGFwZXJiYWNrIGNvdmVyIiwiZGVzY3JpcHRpb24iOiJVSyBwYXBlcmJhY2sgY292ZXIgb2YgSGVsZW4gR0lsdHJvdydzIFRoZSBEaXN0YW5jZSwgYSB0aHJpbGxlciBmZWF0dXJpbmcgQ2hhcmxvdHRlIEFsdG9uIn0=" type="rectangular"] The chapter I co-authored sits alongside contributions and essays from leading practitioners and eminent academics (which is a bit intimidating and leaves me asking what I'm doing there).  But what I'm wondering is whether I now can consider myself a published author?  My only purpose in seeking an answer to this is to decide if I can fairly ask LibraryThing to add an author tag to my profile page? Hundreds of authors who LibraryThing have them, like this one which belongs to Patrick Rothfuss - not that I'm comparing myself to Mr Rothfuss!  It would make me stupidly happy to have an author tag but I don't want to claim it unfairly. I'd really well any thoughts, comments etc?  What does being a published author actually mean?

Bees, Honey History and Secrets

Receiving books through the post - whether gifts from friends, review copies or purchases, is always a high point, bringing intrigue and anticipation into the working week (and well as a child-like pleasure in 'unwrapping presents').  But this week's book post was better than most - a bright and shiny review copy of Josephine Moon's The Beekeeper's Secret. It arrived with wonderful serendipity on the very day that The Republic of Slovenia had proposed to the United Nations as World Bee Day. Why Slovenia?  I hear you ask.  And 'Why 20 May?'. In Slovenia, 20 May is remembered as the birthday of one Anton Janša (1734-1773). Considered the pioneer of modern beekeeping, Janša was the first teacher of apiculture at the Hapsburg court in Vienna.  He wrote two books on bee-keeping - Discussion on Bee-keeping (1771) and A Full Guide to Bee-keeping (1775).  After his death, the Empress Maria Theresa issued a decree obliging all teachers of apiculture to read and use his books. Can it be co-incidence that the central character in Moon's The Beekeeper's Secret is also called Maria?   My review copy (from Allen & Unwin - thank you) came with a lovely tin of beeswax lip balm and a wee pot of English Wildflower honey - so I will read the book while eating honeyed toast through beeswaxed lips (and with a good slug of tea).  I rarely read family sagas or romantic fiction but somehow I'm really looking forward to this one. Josephine Moon's The Beekeeper's Secret will be published in paperback on 7 July 2016 by Allen & Unwin. Watch out for a review here on BookAddiction before that.

Short texts - Jean de la Fontaine's The World is Full of Foolish Men

[caption id="attachment_1891" align="alignleft" width="207"] Enter a caption[/caption] I'm currently listening to 'A Days Read', a series of lectures from Professor Arnold Weinstein, Professor Emily Allen and Professor Grant L Voth on short stories and other texts, and how they can be exhilarating  and expand the ways you see the world around you. These lectures are so insightful and inspiring that I'm resolved to read more short texts. So early this week I picked up a copy of Jean de la Fontaine's The World is Full of Foolish Men (available for a very reasonable couple of quid in Penguin's Little Black Classics series) from Foyles at Waterloo Station.  This really is taking 'short' to the extreme - many of the fables and poems are less than a page (and the pages are quite small at that!). Jean de La Fontaine (1621-1695) was a French fablist and poet whose works are ranked among masterpieces of world literature. His first volume appeared when the author was 47 and included some 240 poems and timeless stories of countryfolk, heroes from Greek mythology, and familiar beasts from the fables of Aesop.  This slim volume contains 26 of those and I chose it as a 'taster'. The World is Full of Foolish Men promises sparkling fables of lions and foxes and cicadas coming together to expose the foibles of 17th century French society and includes some charmingly hilarious cartoon engravings as illustrations. [caption id="attachment_1896" align="alignnone" width="920"] One of the illustrations, this one by Charles Doyle, in The World of Full of Foolish Men. Those in the penguin edition are in black and white and lack some of the magical detail[/caption]

Revisiting the wild Shropshire countryside of childhood memory

With a few minutes to kill in Epsom before catching a train I browsed the books in charity shop close to the station and stumbled across a copy of Mary Webb's Precious Bane.  Webb, whom John Buchan described as capturing 'the soul of nature in words' and I share a home county - Shropshire, and most of her works are set there. She was also one of my father's favourite writers.  And yet I've never read a word she wrote.  Time to put that right!  I'm thinking this may be the adult equivalent of reading Malcolm Saville's Lone Pine series, also focussed on south Shropshire, which I gobbled through several times as a child.  Even better, it's in the Virago Modern Classics series which I try, spasmodically, to collect.

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[gallery ids="eyJ1cmwiOiJodHRwczpcL1wvYm9va2FkZGljdGlvbi5jby51a1wvd3AtY29udGVudFwvdXBsb2Fkc1wvMjAxNVwvMDVcL2hvbGxvd2F5cmVhZGluZ3MwMGhvbGxfMDAwMS5qcGciLCJ0aXRsZSI6ImhvbGxvd2F5cmVhZGluZ3MwMGhvbGxfMDAwMSIsImNhcHRpb24iOiIiLCJhbHQiOiIiLCJkZXNjcmlwdGlvbiI6IkhvbGxvd2F5IENvbXBhbnkgQnJvY2h1cmUgZnJvbSB0aGUgMTg5MHMgZmVhdHVyaW5nIHRoZSBIb2xsb3dheSBSZWFkaW5nIFN0YW5kIGFuZCBEaWN0aW9uYXJ5IEhvbGRlciJ9,eyJ1cmwiOiJodHRwczpcL1wvYm9va2FkZGljdGlvbi5jby51a1wvd3AtY29udGVudFwvdXBsb2Fkc1wvMjAxNVwvMDVcL2hvbGxvd2F5cmVhZGluZ3MwMGhvbGxfMDAwNi5qcGciLCJ0aXRsZSI6ImhvbGxvd2F5cmVhZGluZ3MwMGhvbGxfMDAwNiIsImNhcHRpb24iOiIiLCJhbHQiOiJIb2xsb3dheSBSZWFkaW5nIFN0YW5kIGFuZCBEaWN0aW9uYXJ5IEhvbGRlciAxODkwcyIsImRlc2NyaXB0aW9uIjoiSG9sbG93YXkgUmVhZGluZyBTdGFuZCBhbmQgRGljdGlvbmFyeSBIb2xkZXIgMTg5MHMifQ==" type="rectangular"] Stacking the Shelves is a weekly meme hosted by Tynga's Reviews and started way back in 2012 to help booklovers and readers celebrate the arrival of new and exciting books in their homes and on their bookshelves. But I owe my inspiration for using this meme to the lovely Hayley at Rather Too Fond of Books.  The BookAddict's weekly posts under this heading may be a little different in that (a) they are not likely to be weekly, and (b) they are certain not to be exhaustive.  I also run a small second hand bookshop selling beautiful, unusual, vintage and quirky books which means some weeks literally hundreds of books arrive all at once!

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It starts with a stabbing. But fifteen years earlier, Lily is a newly-minted solicitor who, as she secures a place with a prestigious legal firm in London, resolves to make a fresh start and put her woes and secrets behind her. She’s helped in this mission when she meets up-and-coming artist, Ed at one of those parties no one really enjoys.  Ed proposes on their second date and Lily finds herself swept away for a romantic Italian honeymoon. Jane Corry’s My Husband’s Wife has haunted me ever since a review copy slipped into my bag at the inaugural meeting of the First Monday Crime Club and then, a few evenings later, a flyer whispered out from the elegant surrounding of the University Women’s Club. At first glance, this is not the sort of book I would usually read. I like my crime hard-boiled and plot-driven with plenty of opportunity for the reader to outwit the author. My Husband’s Wife, with its pastel-coloured wraps boldly proclaiming ‘first comes love’ looks like another chick-lit romance dressed up as family saga. And the crime is given away on page two! Yet this is just one of many intriguing semi-deceptions – make no mistake, there’s intrigue and layering and mind games aplenty. [caption id="attachment_1829" align="alignright" width="300"] Jane Corry.  My Husband's Wife is her début novel.[/caption] The honeymoon is not a success and back in their South London flat, the couple’s flaws and insecurities begin to pressure their relationship. And then Lily meets Joe – a convicted murder who both attracts and repels her, and reminds her of her own chaotic past – and Ed meets Carla, a young girl who lives in the same block of flats and who will become his muse. My Husband’s Wife is very much Lily’s story – eventually revealing not only her future but also her past – but it’s Carla who drives the plot and is, ultimately, the most interesting of characters. She’s Italian, and different. She struggles to fit in with suburban London and resents playing second-place to her mother’s Sugar Daddy. Initially she elicits sympathy but it soon becomes clear that she isn’t the innocent she plays and she relies on her manipulative and duplicitous tendencies to get want she wants. She is, if such thing is possible, an innocently evil child who grows into a manipulative and largely amoral adult – and yet Corry constantly challenges the reader to empathy, questioning whether Carla is really responsible for her actions, even when she commits the most heinous betrayals. Similarly, Joe, now released from prison largely thanks to Lily’s belief in his innocence, has loyalty and gratitude which manifests in shockingly unexpected ways. Corry adeptly layers intrigue upon secret – enough to keep any crime fiction fan gripped – but there’s more to My Husband’s Wife than that. It has a more human, softer element than many modern novels of the genre, blurring concepts of good and bad and, by peeling away a past that echoes into the present, it invites repeated character reassessment. There are no heroes here -nothing is so black and white.  And who’s to say that murder is the most hurtful of human acts or that time and justice bring healing? My Husband’s Wife is a thoroughly enjoyable and thought-provoking read. A slow-burn psychological drama with a crescendo ending. Want to know what others have thought of the book before you decide whether to read it or not?  My Husband's Wife is on a blog tour between 5th May and 5th June 2016, so there are lots of other reviews and views to choose from.  There's a great Q&A with Jane Corry on the Orenda Books blog and I really liked the reviews from bookbloggers Anne Cater (on Random Things Through My Letterbox) and Ana (on This Chick Reads). My Husband’s Wife will be published as an e-book on 26 May 2016 as an e-book and, in paperback, on 25 August 2016 by Penguin Books.

These days we tend to shelf books 'spine out' and publishers, conveniently, usually reproduce the title, author and other helpful details on the spine so that we can easily run our eyes along a shelf to find a particular book.  But it wasn't always thus! This 17th century painting by Guercino shows the Italian lawyer and one time governor of Cento in northern Italy, Francesco Righetti, at home in his library.  Righetti is surrounded by his law books, speaking to his learning and erudition.  But his books are shelved 'tail end' out, with the titles written on the base of the text block. [caption id="attachment_1736" align="aligncenter" width="580"] Portrait of Franceso Righetti by Guercino, 1626-8[/caption] Look too at this engraving of the poet William Cartwright (printed in 1651 as a frontispiece to his 'Poems and Plays').  Again, he's in his library and his books can be seen - this time with the fore-edges facing out from the shelves and the spines neatly tucked in against the rear walls and hidden.  This was a common practice in the 16th and 17th centuries. Imagine shelving books with gilded page edges in this way - they would have gleamed and glistened, catching the candlelight, in quite a glorious way.  Some medieval manuscripts and early printed books now in rare book collections have the title and other details written on in several different places, reflecting changes in shelving the preferences of owners and book collectors over time. [caption id="attachment_1735" align="aligncenter" width="580"] William Cartwright and his books, frontispiece from his Poems and Plays (1651)[/caption] In medieval monasteries codices and manuscripts might be found stored flat on sloping shelves in carrels or armoires.  The picture below, taken from the 8th century Codex Amiatinus (thought to be the oldest surviving example of a near complete Bible in Latin Vuglate), shows Ezra the scribe next to his books which are housed in this way. [caption id="attachment_1759" align="aligncenter" width="574"] The scribe Ezra with his books, from the Codex Amiatinus[/caption] To increase accessibility and circulation, monasteries began to chain individual books to sloped desks - giving a greater sense that the book was communal property rather than belonging to a particular monk.  As the number of books increased, they might be piled horizontally on top of each other making it hard to retrieve those books at the bottom, with the chains clanking and tangling against each other. And so, it is said, the transition to storing books vertically began. The image below shows the chained library at Hereford Cathedral - one of the few to survive to modern times. [caption id="attachment_1770" align="aligncenter" width="574"] Chained Library at Hereford Cathedral. Photo credit Chris Killip, 1992.[/caption] Sometimes, before 'spine out' became ubiquitous, an unique design or cipher might be added to the visible text block to help identify books.  One  Bulluno doctor of law and book collector, Odorico Pillone (1503-94) had Cesare Vecellio (Titian's nephew) adorn the fore-edges and sometimes the parchment covers of books in his collection with colourful scenes related the contents. Books with fore-edges of this beauty were certainly not intended to be shelved spine out. Pillone's collection of 172 books was bought in its entirety  by the English book collector Thomas Brooke in 1875 but was sadly broken up by his descendants in the 1950s. [caption id="attachment_1798" align="aligncenter" width="574"] A sample of books with fore-edges decorated by  Vecellio for Odorico Pillone in the 16th century.[/caption] The practice of putting title information on spines seems to have begun in northern Italy, perhaps as early as 1535 and there are several examples from France from before 1600 with spine identifiers, strongly suggesting that the practice of shelving 'spine out' was  taking hold and spreading. According to Henry Petroski (The Book on the Bookshelf, 1999) "One of the first large libraries to be arranged with all book spines outward was that of the French politician-historian  Jacques Auguste de Thou" who, at some 8,000 books, had one of the largest and most impressive libraries of the late 16th and early 17th centuries. Visit my pinterest board, Shelving Books, for more images of older ways of shelving books.  

The manuscripts and codices which survive from the late 15th century are often large and lavish affairs and usually conform to certain norms in terms of shape. But this curious and unusual little gem, which takes its name 'Codex Rotundus' from its unique shape, measures just over 9 centimeters across and is circular.  Its 266 pages are bound along a spine just 3cm long, so small that three clasps are needed to help keep it closed.  Thought to have been rebound in the 17th century, the original clasps which help hold the tiny codex together, were reused. As so many of the manuscripts from this period, it is a devotional text -a lavishly illuminated Book of Hours in Latin and French. Remnants of a coat of arms, which a subsequent owner appears seems to have tried to obliterate, in the first initial 'D' suggests that it was created for Adolf of Cleves and Mark (1425-92). Adolf was a wealthy and well-connected aristocrat, the nephew of Philip the Good and cousin to Charles the Bold, successive Dukes of Burgundy.  The clasps are monogrammed and these too link the codex to Adolf: the same stylised decorations appear in another Book of Hours known to have been his and now held by the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore.  Despite the codex's royal and courtly associations, its size and portability suggest that it was intended for private devotional use, for the owner to carry with him to church or on long journeys away from home. The shape is certainly a bibliographic gimmick - the Cambridge History of the Book refers to it as 'bizarre' - but it is also thought to suggest the perfection of circle and sphere and thus symbolise the (Christian) world. The illuminations - 3 full-page miniatures and some 30 decorated initials - show scenes from the Bible, episodes in the life of Christ and pictures of saints.  The artist is not identified, known only to history as 'the painter of the codex rotundus' but according to the Rare Books and Manuscripts Library at the University of Ohio (which acquired an exquisite facsimile copy a few years ago) certain stylistic traits indicate that it was made around 1480 in a Bruges workshop often associated with the books of the Burgundian court. The original Codex Rotundus is held by the Dombibliothek Hildesheim (Hs728) in Germany. All the images which appear here are of a facsimile of the original Codex Rotundus.    

[Subsequent comments from helpful souls on Twitter suggest that my original tentative identification of these uniforms as City of London police is not right -  see update II below - I'm hugely grateful.  Any further info v gratefully received.]

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Finding the things that others have tucked and forgotten between the leaves of old books is one of the joys of a secondhand bookseller.  This afternoon I came across these two intriguing pictures which had been slipped inside a 1901 US edition of George Ade's Forty Modern Fables. [gallery ids="eyJ1cmwiOmZhbHNlLCJ0aXRsZSI6bnVsbCwiY2FwdGlvbiI6ZmFsc2UsImFsdCI6IiIsImRlc2NyaXB0aW9uIjpudWxsfQ==,eyJ1cmwiOmZhbHNlLCJ0aXRsZSI6bnVsbCwiY2FwdGlvbiI6ZmFsc2UsImFsdCI6IiIsImRlc2NyaXB0aW9uIjpudWxsfQ==" type="rectangular"] The pictures have been roughly clipped from an old printed newsletter or newspaper and are about the size of a modern passport photos.  They appear to show the same policeman, sporting an majesterial mustache,  but some time apart as in the second picture he has acquired a sergeant's stripes - and perhaps a little sergeant's spread as well. I think these are the uniforms that would have been worn by policemen in the City of London in about the 1890s.  The date at least is consistent with the printing style and paper quality.  On the back of the clippings is a part of a printed story about a heroic police officer who seems to have rescued a woman who had 'slipped down under the footboard of an oncoming excursion train at Baghill Station, Pontefract', in 1897.  'The [sergeant] threw himself down on the platform a great personal risk'. Unfortunately there's only a small part of the story on the reverse of the clipping, so we don't know if the woman or the officer survived; and there's no way to tell if the story relates to the fellow in the photos at all. (See updates below.) Do you know who this is? Is he part of your family history? Did you forget that the photos were tucked in the book when you gave it away? If so, do get in touch as I'd love to reunited the photos with their owners or the police officer's family.  I bought the book second hand in January 2016 in Wimbledon, South West London. [caption id="attachment_1576" align="alignnone" width="647"] Old copy George Ade's Forty Modern Fables [New York: Harpers, 1901] in which the clippings were found.[/caption] 

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Update (13 February 2016) I have just found this account of a police officer receiving an award in the Church  Weekly from London from July 1898, which seems to relate to the same incident at Baghill Station.

Thomas Whincup (Superintendent, West Riding Constabulary, Pontefract), bronze medal awarded for conspicuous presence of mind displayed on July 15, 1897, in rescuing a woman who had slipped down under the footboard of an incoming excursion train at Baghill Station, Pontefract. The superintendent threw himself down on the platform, and, at great personal risk, held the woman clear of the rails till the train stopped. He was severely bruised by the passing train.

It would seem then that the story does not relate to the photos at all as Thomas Whincup belonged to the West Riding Constabulary, not the City of London police force.

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Update II (15 February 2016) Subsequent comments from Twitter pals suggests that I was wrong to think these are City of London Police uniforms - based on the shape of helmets and badges.  Pertinent tweets embedded below. https://twitter.com/squaremileplod/status/698608123859304448 https://twitter.com/squaremileplod/status/698608486620532736

[caption id="attachment_1542" align="aligncenter" width="529"] The Lady of the Lake[/caption] From 1st-5th February 2016, guardians of rare and beautiful books on both sides of the Atlantic invited colourers and crayonists to colour some of the wonderful illustrations and decorations they care for. It's rare (has it happened before?) for curators and librarians to encourage people to take their crayons to precious, unique pages.  We're more used to strict injunctions for 'pencils only' in the reading room, bag inspectors guarding against fountain pens and sharp objects and the dubious habit of handing with white gloves.  Colour Our Collections steps away from such limiting, albeit necessary, constraints and actively encourages fulfillment of rainbow imaginings by applying crayons, brushes and pastels to historic pictures. [caption id="attachment_1541" align="alignleft" width="211"] The Political House that Jack Built[/caption] Over the course of the week, various institutions, including the Smithsonian in Washington, the Bodleian Library in Oxford, the National Library of Wales and the University of Minnesota, prepared PDFs of some of their most attractive holdings for keen colourists of any age to download and colour.  Congratulations to those involved for finding a novel, and fun, way of opening up their collections and offering a wholly new - practical and personal -  way of experiencing the joy that fine illustrations can bring.  Colourists can then share their coloured works on social media using the hashtag #colorourcollections (or #colourourcollections). Never one to be slow to get the crayons out, I choose three images from The Special Collections and Rare Books Department at the University of Missouri Libraries to colour during the week.  And here are my coloured versions. Aubrey Beardsley's illustration of the Lady of the Lake appeared in a 1909 edition of Sir Thomas Mallory's Le Morte d'Arthur [Edinburgh: Printed by Turnbull & Spears, 1909].  The soldier image is from an engraving by William Cruikshank which appeared in William Hone's The Political House that Jack Built [London: Printed by and for William Hone, 1820]. And the final one, below, is an image from  The Poems & Sonnets of Henry Constable [[London): [Printed at the Ballantyne Press], [1897].   [caption id="attachment_1540" align="aligncenter" width="187"] Poems & Sonnets of Henry Constable[/caption] Although ColourOurCollections week is over for this year, it's not too late to have a go yourself.  Many of the images and PDF colouring books produced for the week are still available for download.  Have a look at some of these: Colour Our Collections at

• Wangensteen Historical Library at the University of Minnesota 
• National Library of Wales
• Smithsonian Libraries
• New York Public Libraries
• The Bodleian Library
• The Folger Library
• The Huntington Library

[caption id="attachment_1420" align="aligncenter" width="444"] Embroidered Binding of The Miroir or Glasse of the Synneful Soul, 1544[/caption] It is common now to associate old and antiquarian books with leather bindings - the cherished patinas and leathery smells, embellished perhaps with armorial motifs or previous owners' library markings giving a sense of permanence and authenticity.   But it wasn't until around the time of the Restoration in the latter part of the 17th century that English bookbinders took up the French fashion of working almost exclusively in leather. Until then "English bookbinders had never been content to regard leather as the sole material in they could work".  Books bound in cloth (binders most commonly used canvas but velvet and satin were also used) and decoratively embellished with embroidery have a long history: there is a embroidered Psalter, now in the British Library collection, which was stitched by one Anne Felbrigge towards the end of the 14th century. Embroidery as means of binding books was especially popular, among those who could afford such luxuries, in the Tudor age.  Silver and gold threats were often used, with the base material perhaps studded with pearls or other jewels, to create an unrivaled decorative effect. [caption id="attachment_1419" align="alignnone" width="600"] Manuscript of The Miroir or Glasse of the Synneful Soul, 1544[/caption] The Miroir or Glasse of the Synneful Soul exemplifies the fashion for embroidered bindings at Henry VIII's court and truly counts as a beautiful book, beside its historical significance.  At the age of 11 the young Princess Elizabeth (later to become Elizabeth I, England's Virgin Queen) wrote out the manuscript in her own handwriting.  In it she says it is a translation from "frenche ryme into english prose" and that she has joined "the sentences together as well as the capacitie of my symple witte and small lerning coulde extende themselves".   The french rhyme to which Elizabeth refers was the Miroir de Lame Pecheresse, a devotional piece by Marguerite of Naverre about the soul's love of God and Christ - an appropriate gift for a Queen known during her reign for learning, a love of modern languages and devotional piety.  And as James P Carley notes in his The Books of King Henry VIII and his Wives, "a fit tribute from the daughter of Anne Boleyn" (British Library, 2004, p. 140). It is said that the embroidered binding around her manuscript is also the work of Princess Elizabeth.  This is hard to prove but quite likely.  Princess Elizabeth dedicated and presented the book to her stepmother, Queen Katherine Parr, in 1544.  Queen Katherine's initials appear in the centre of the binding, suggesting that the book was made for her specifically.   There is a touching dedication in the book from Princess Elizabeth to Queen Katherine: "From Assherige, the last daye of the yeare of our Lord God 1544 ... To our most noble and vertuous Quene Katherin, Elizabeth her humble daughter wisheth perpetuall felicitie and everlasting joye". This image perhaps gives a better idea of both the condition and original colours. The Countess of Wilton in her book on the art of needlework says that "Elizabeth was an accomplished needlewoman" and that her "embroidery was much thought of".    The Rev. W. Dunn Macray in his Annals of the Bodleian Library, Oxford [Claredon Press, 1868, p.52] considers this binding to be one of the princess's "bibliopegic achievements". The design is similar on both sides, although the back is now sadly very worn.  The base of the embroidery is worked in pale blue silk stitched all over the canvas.  Surrounding Katherine's initials is a geometric motif worked in scroll-work in gold and silver braiding and in each corner a heartease appears, worked in purple and yellow silks interwoven with fine gold thread.  The volume comprises 63 small quarto parchment leaves and measures around 7 by 5 inches.  It is now in the collection of the Bodleian Library. For more English Embroidered Bookbindings see my curated board on PinInterest.