'Meek innocence', 'ancient divines' and a pincushion: what I found next in the Headlam Collection

Here are my discoveries of today, Wednesday 21st February. I mean: they might not be discoveries: others might have found them already. And then there's the librarian who will have catalogued them. I wonder if there is a way to find out who has consulted the materials previously - to find out what they made of things in the same folders I have been working through.

Today, I looked at letters, just as I did on my previous days with the Headlam Papers - but not just letters. In fact I'll start this write up with something that wasn't a letter.

Before I get any further, let me share that when I write 'today', I'm referring to the day when I wrote my account of my day with the Headlam Papers - 21st February as I said at the start. I'm typing up what I wrote several days later, on Saturday, after a day spent at the coast, at Tynemouth. It was a magical day as these photos seek to convey. One is of King Edward's Bay looking down from the castle. The other is of a ship at anchor which turns out to be a Morgana fata. 

And here's a third, of me on the beach:

But to return to the 21st... what I'm starting with isn't a letter, but a poem written out in a beautifully-presented little notebook on the occasion of the first birthday of Margaret Emily Spedding. The poem is by Hartley Coleridge and dated March 30th 1843. I don't know if this means that Coleridge published/wrote the poem on that dater whether that is the date of Emily's birthday. In any case, here is the poem - I wish I could share it as it appears in the notebook but till I get permission (if I get it) here's a typed-up version:

On Margaret Emily Spedding's First Birthday

One year is past with change and sorrow fraught

Since first the little Margaret drew her breath,

And yet the fatal names of Sin and Death,

Her sad inheritance, - she knoweth not;

That lore, - by earth inevitably taught,

In the still world of spirits is untold

'Tis not of death or is that Angels hold

Sweet converse with the slumbering infant thought. *

Merely she is with God, and God with her

And her meek ignorance guiltless of demur

For her is Faith and Hope; - her innocence

Is Holiness. - The bright eyed crowing glee

That makes her leap her Grandsire's face to see,

Is love unfeigned - and willing Reverence

                                                       Hartley Coleridge March 30th 1848

I did a quick search for the poet - and his dates (he's the son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge) are 1796-1849 so it definitely falls within his lifetime.

As a poem about a child, there is a fit with my project - on young people in the nineteenth century - although his young person is way below the age that I'm hear to research. But... on seeing the reference to the 'bright-eyed crowing glee' of the baby, I thought of Athena, whose epithet - and sometimes theonym - Glaukopis signals bright-eyed - or various similar things such as gleaming-eyed, darting-eyed, and owl-eyed. 

Athenian coin with Athena's bright-eyed owl along with the first three letters (A Th E) of both goddess and city, an olive sprig and a crescent moon. Sourced from here

But making this bright-eyed and Athena connection likely says more about me - as someone VERY interested in this epithet - than about the poem or its subject and so it might be a classical reception I'm creating rather than anything intended by the poet. Still: I'll look into the poet and find out how far his work includes classical references.

There is, however, a comment written underneath to given an explanation to this line - hence the asterisk:

Sweet converse with the slumbering infant thought. *

The note reads:

It was an opinion of certain ancient Divines that when Babies smile in sleep their Guardian Angels are whispering to them 

'Ancient divines'?! Which ones might be meant? And what are 'divines'? Divinities? priests?

I did a quick search - it had to be quick as my time in the library was cut short by attending a talk, this time (yesterday as I've said I went to one at the Centre for Nineteenth-Century Studies) in the Classics department followed by coffee and cake. Again I missed lunch. All was great though, including connecting and reconnecting with classicists from Durham - and Newcastle. 

Anyway, from this search, I saw that there are plenty of people who think that babies smile because they see angles, including because they have only recently left the spirit world. But I didn't find any reference to any 'ancient divines' who held this 'opinion'.

As well as finding out about the poet, I must check the date of Emily's birth.

Among the other things I found was a piece of fabric embroidered with an alphabet, numbers 1-11 (meaning the person sewing was 11?), the name 'John Headlam' and the year 1853. I only noticed the date - which is sewn using light pink thread - when I enlarged the photo I took of the cloth. So here's a lesson - keep taking photos: they might show some things the eye alone misses.

It's accompanied by a note from 'Johnny Headlam' to 'my dear Mama' (at least I think he writes 'Mama') saying that it's a 'pincushion of my making'.

So... nothing classical here - but something lovely.

Also lovely - but including something classical - was one of two letters to 'Uncle John' sent because he is ill.

One - from Arthur - begins by saying how sorry he is that his uncle has been unwell. Then he gives details about his sister Rose's bridesmaid dress and bonnet. Then he says that he is going to collect some violets the following day. Then he says how many lambs have been born. The letter soon ends, but is followed with a PS about a trip to a Magic Lantern show, the health of a baby and a vegetable garden he hopes for. Then he says: 

we do Latin fables on Saturdays. 

Next he says that he is about to freeze flowers and ends the PS with an account of the weather.

What the fables mentioned in the midst of these other bits of news are is not detailed - but the mention them among the various things that he shares with his uncle shows, I guess, just how commonplace a classical subject will have been for a young person - a young boy at least.

So: after sharing my own classical reception, albeit one from me that was at least fuelled by the 'ancient divines' in the note accompanying Hartley Coleridge's poem, I've ended with something classical from the 19th century, and from a young person at that...

More asap!