Throughout my time with Quaker Meeting Houses, I have found a couple of oddly named ones including Old Gunpowder Meeting House in Maryland.  However, it was a meeting house in T. Chalkley Matlack’s Notebooks that made me do a double-take.  In the index to Book 12, a name jumped out at me.  “Murderkill.”  I thought that there must be some mistake. When I turned to the pages devoted to “Murderkill,” I realized that I was not mistaken.

Here is the particular passage from Book 12 that clarified things for me:

“‘A Friend writes: “The name of said Monthly Meeting I find to be variously spelled on the Quarterly Meeting records; which would be of very little importance, if they did not convey ideas essentially different from each other.  By way of explanation, it may not be improper to state that Delaware having been settled by the Swedes, their word for stream, or creek, was in many instances retained with an English prefix, – as ‘Broadkil,’ and that a bloody battle fought by the Indians on the banks of one of those streams, gave it the name of Murderkil, which name was also imparted to a district of Kent County lying on said steam, and known as Murderkil Hundred, where the Friends’ meeting-house was located in which the meeting under consideration was held.  The Friends, being a murder-hating, peace-loving, and simple-minded people, and not approving of the word murder, adopted in lieu thereof that of mother as a prefix to kil, making the name of Motherkil for this meeting.  But the word kil is often, and I believe mostly, spelled kill, which, in combination with mother, makes a very inappropriate name for a Friends’ meeting, more objectionable than the one intended to be softened and improved.  It is sometimes written Motherkiln, a name that conveys a totally different idea, and is not objectionable in itself.”‘”

The struggle to correct the name of the meeting house is quite interesting.  I have a suspicion that Matlack found this name amusing since he listed it under Murderkill (with two ls)  instead of Motherkiln.  His choice was a good one because this passage may have escaped my notice if it had been titled otherwise.

For more information about T. Chalkley Matlack’s Notebooks, click here.

A lot of times, my work is spent doing the nitty gritty of historical work.  I chew through letters from Cadbury or from other sources and attempt to place the information in the proper context and note the important stuff.  But sometimes, I like to play a game I call “Find the Famous People” to keep myself occupied.

It’s a simple game; I just look for letters from famous people that float around the collections using the ambient noise from my undergraduate history education and occasionally Google people who have important sounding names.  My threshold for “being famous” so far pretty much just consists of whether or not you have a decent Wikipedia page.  This is really mostly just a game.  Most of these letters don’t really have any historical significance.  They are thank you cards or short business letters, nothing that will change the way we view their careers but rather one of the countless bits of flotsam and jetsam that a public life leaves behind that people collect and cherish later.

Sun Fo

Or little Son Yat Sen as I like to think of him [this is a pun].  Fo’s father was Sun Yat-Sen, the founding father figure of both Taiwan and mainland China.  Sun Fo became mayor of Guangzhou during the Republic of China years and later became a prominent politician in Taiwan.  His letter basically contains an agreement to write a foreword to Cadbury’s book about the Guangzhou Hospital.  Nothing earth-shattering but definitely nifty.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun_Fo

Wu Lien Teh

This is a neat little story that I discovered today that only partially fits in to my find the famous people game.  Wu Lien Teh was the first Chinese graduate of Cambridge University and was an important figure in epidemiology in the early twentieth century.  He helped to end a catastrophic plague in Manchuria and Mongolia that claimed more than 60,000 people and was head of China’s National Quarantine service for many years.  To cap off his career, he won the Nobel Prize for his work in medicine in 1935. So he’s famous, but how does this relate to Cadbury?  Well, it turns out that Cadbury was the one who nominated him for that honor according to letters to and from Lien-Teh as well as letters to the Nobel Committee.  Cool.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wu_Lien-teh

nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/medicine/nomination/nomination.php?action=show&showid=1229

Li Yuanhong

Someone who is definitely more important than most historians give him credit for.  This guy led the army that overturned the Qing dynasty and served as President of China three times during the most troubling period of its history.  Most historians (my bff Johnny Spence included) largely credit him with being an aggressive thumb twiddler who was more or less outclassed by Yuan Shikai and Sun Yat Sen.  His letter is essentially a typewritten thank you card sent to Dr. C.K. Edmunds for his work in education.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Yuanhong

William Jennings Bryan

One of those names that is recognizable to history majors for reasons they can’t recall.  He was a very influential turn of the century politician who is chiefly remembered for his role as the chief lawyer for the prosecution in the Scopes Monkey trial (I’m pretty sure the case is not Scopes v. Monkey—I have no idea why it is remembered as “Scopes Monkey”), the author of the famous Cross of Gold speech, and his numerous bids for the office of President.  His letter is a response to a request for a job/a recommendation from a young Sarah Imbree Manatt (later to be Cadbury’s first wife) for a job.  I just graduated and I wrote a number of these kinds of letters myself—too real.  Anyway, he was totally helpful and suggested a number of congress people and judges she should contact.  Whuttaguy.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Jennings_Bryan

Anyway, you should come by and play this game yourself—it’s easy.  The letter from William Jennings Bryan is a great example.  Whoever had recorded this letter before me had just listed this letter as a random piece of correspondence from a “William Bryan” or a “Billy Brian” or something. On a hunch I decided to check it out and after matching the letterhead to a paper he owned and his signature on the letter to a signature online, a William Jennings Bryan letter sprang into existence.  Cool, right?  Well, way cooler than a Billy Brian letter anyway.

Best,

Patty Lozada

From time to time, we will be posting profiles of our Gest Fellows. Aaron Jerviss is a Ph.D. candidate in History at University of Tennessee, Knoxville.  His research is on “Testimony through Sufferings: The Civil War in Pacifist Memory, 1865-1914.”

2011 Gest Fellow Aaron Jerviss

My dissertation focuses on how Friends, Mennonites, and Brethren (the three “historic peace churches”) remembered their Civil War experiences throughout the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. For me, the great research question has been: How does a group document the role it played during a war when its members refused to fight or contribute directly to the military effort? I argue that these religious bodies did so by seeking to redefine the concepts of “suffering” and “heroism” in distinctly non-militaristic terms.

During my months’ stay as a Gest fellow, I have primarily been diving into Haverford’s rich collection of Quaker serials. Two topics have jumped out at me after reviewing these periodicals. First, I am interested in how Quakers explicitly linked the perceived social, economic and moral evils of the last three decades of the nineteenth century back to the Civil War. National “sins” as diverse as increased intemperance, the “militarization” of school textbooks, and the corporate corruption of the Gilded Age all found their roots in the great American internal conflict, according to Quaker authors and thinkers. Second, I am fascinated by the way peace churches memorialized Abraham Lincoln. The Quakers contributed to the construction of an image of Lincoln as “Pacifist Friend,” even though he took unprecedented actions in the areas of conscription and military mobilization.

My time spent at Haverford Quaker and Special Collections has been highly profitable. The wealth of source material and the helpful suggestions of the knowledgeable staff have given my dissertation structure and opened up exiting new fields of inquiry. I am extremely grateful for the opportunity to spend part of my summer as a Gest fellow and would strongly encourage anyone interested in researching Quaker-related topics to come investigate the extensive holdings at Haverford.

–Aaron Jerviss

It was a dark and stormy night. In an archive that knows how to keep its secrets. Patrick Lozada, Special Collections student assistant. *cue jazzy saxophone*

Well it was something like that (I watched the Maltese Falcon recently). Anyway, last week in our weekly meeting with the Quaker historian Emma Lapsansky, Jon William (a colleague working on the Morris-Shinn-Maier papers) mentioned that he had found a China related document that had Cadbury’s name on it that might be of interest. Although on further inspection it turned out to be from a William E. Cadbury and not William Warder Cadbury (there are apparently only five Quaker names), the contents of the letter still proved interesting. It revealed that Haverford had created a body called the Simkin committee for the sole purpose of maintaining a Quaker mission in China led by one Robert Simkin. Who was this guy? To the matriculate catalog!

Well that wasn’t that helpful; other than telling me that he graduated in 1902, this bird wasn’t talking. I then went to ask Diana Franzusoff Peterson: College archivist, special collections guru, and Quakers in Asia Extraordinaire.

                 

Not Diana Franzusoff Peterson

She knew this Simkin fellow and had been holding out on me this whole time. I should have known. Turns out she had written a whole piece on him.

As a student at Haverford College, Robert Simkin (1879-1958) was president of the Y.M.C.A. and elected to Phi Beta Kappa. After graduation in 1903, he earned another B.A. from Harvard in 1904, a B.D. from Union Theological Seminary in 1906 and an M.A. from Columbia in 1915. He was recorded a minister in the Society of Friends in 1905 and began his sojourn as a foreign missionary in 1906. Supported at first by English Quakers through the Friends Foreign Missionary Council and later by the American Friends Board of Foreign Missions in Richmond, Indiana, Simkin also received aid from members of the Haverford College community as Haverford’s missionary in West China from 1917-1944. He was principal of Union Middle School in Chengtu, West China from 1912-13, acting Vice-President of West China Union University in Chengtu in 1919, and taught Old Testament and Church History there up until 1932.

Unfortunately, his letters were sleeping with the fishes (oops, wrong genre). Or were they? It turns out Margaret T. Simkin, his dame, had written a memoir entitled Letters from Szechwan: 1923-1944. Letters from Szechwan turned out to be a wonderful and rich account of early 20th century China using snippets from both her and Robert’ letters as well as a few pictures to tell the story of their trip.

The selection of letters she presents in the book brings a shockingly progressive perspective to the Chinese conflict. Unlike nearly all missionary accounts of pre-CCP China, presents a sympathetic perspective towards the Chinese people and condemns Western imperialism. It also gives insight into how Quakers deal with war when it is not a distant thing but rather a present reality. In the midst of a country constantly at war with itself as well as with imperial Japan, the Friends mission in Szechwan consistently spoke out against militarism and went as far as to resign their positions when colleges began to implement military drill.

The existence of Mrs. Simkins book also presents an interesting fact from an archival perspective. The couple’s letters still exist and are in good condition. I had to find out where these letters were. A little digging on ancestry.com, Archive Grid, an a few other sites did yield some interesting results. The couple settled in California where they engaged in academic as well as peace and social justice work, founding an organization called Woolman House at the University of Southern California. Robert Simkin died in 1958 at 79 while Margaret Simkin died at the ripe old age of 101 in 1993. Claremont College has some of their papers as well as an oral history that Margaret recorded, but they clearly do not have the enormous collection that Margaret drew upon to write her book.

So where are they?! As of 1977 according to Letters from Szechwan the letters were being preserved by Fannie C. Timberlake, however there is no mention of where those letters would go in the future and I have not been able to find any record of Mrs. Timberlake in public databases. Me and Dianna’s best guess is that the letters are kicking around in the family somewhere. But who in the family would have taken the letters? The couple had two daughters: Dorothy Ellen and Margaret Ruth Simkin. Unfortunately , there’s no information that we could find as to their whereabouts other than that Dorothy attended William Penn and Whittier Colleges and that Margaret Ruth attended high school somewhere in Los Angeles. They were all born in the early twentieth century so they would be in their seventies or eighties now. If they married someone they may have changed their name. It’s a mystery that I don’t think I can solve on my own. But you might be able to. If you know someone from this branch of the Simkin family that did missionary work in China or know anything about the whereabouts of these papers, please send me an e-mail at e.patrick.lozada@gmail.com or send special collections an e-mail at hc-special@haverford.edu. It’d be really cool to learn where all this rich material ended up.

After William Warder Cadbury’s marriage to Catharine Balderston Jones, they had three children: Jane, Emma, and Catharine. Jane ends up at Wellesley, Emma at Bryn Mawr, and, at this point in my reading, Catharine is presumably still in Canton with her parents as she is not yet college-aged. I’ve been reading Jane’s letters to Emma (or, Erm, affectionately) while they’re at school. The sisters address the envelopes rather charmingly with the recipient’s name, dorm building, and city/state, instead of today’s standard of street number, street, city, state, and zip code. Because of this, I found out that Emma lived in Denbigh, which some of you might be familiar with, and Jane lived in Norumbega Cottage on Wellesley’s campus. They talk about classes, boys, family, China and other world news, and social activities on campus.

In a letter dated November 14, 1937, Jane describes “Freshman hazing day” at Wellesley. (By comparison, Bryn Mawr has Hell Week. WEEK.) She describes the punishment for not knowing the freshman songs: one girl had to “push a half onion down the [aisle] with her nose” while another was made to “scrub the floor with a tooth brush.” Sounds pretty tame compared to the stores I’ve heard from my fellow Mawrtyrs (Mawrters?).

Jane goes on to talk about hockey games and choir try-outs, and then she mentions going to a tea given by the Cosmopolitan Club for MIT foreign students. Wellesley’s Cosmopolitan Club of 1937 is probably most analogous with modern-day Haverford’s International Students Association. (side note: Just as I was looking up the ISA’s link on the Haverford website, I noticed this news–how pertinent to this post, and how exciting for Professor Tensuan!) Jane says that since she came from China, she’s automatically a member of the club.

Reading Jane’s letters is a lot of fun–it’s easy to see similarities between her and some of my own friends. She is definitely a typical college woman, but with an extraordinary family history.

Any questions about the William Warder Cadbury collection can be emailed to me (deannaelizabethbailey@gmail.com) or Special Collections (hc-special@haverford.edu).

The problem I sometimes have with writing blog posts is that no matter the content of the post, I find it nearly impossible to resist inserting a joke or two. Sometimes it’ll be blatantly obvious, but other times it’ll be a hyperlink nestled within the text of a post of a serious nature that takes the reader to a site of a not-so-serious nature. Whatever the guise of my puckish ways, sometimes enough is enough. I came to this conclusion while trying to figure out the subject of this week’s blog post…take a look at some of my original titles:

Why the word “miscellaneous” makes me want to cry

Big Money Trouble in Cadbury’s China

Row, row, row your boat, gently off to war

What can I say? Groan-worthy blog post titles are my forte. But, I promise, today there will be no jokes. Special Collections is serious business. I have, instead, prepared a brief analysis of a trio of manuscripts from Box #44 of the collection: the vaguely titled, wondrous “Letters Not To or From William Warder Cadbury or Catharine Jones Cadbury.” Organized alphabetically by sender’s name, the letters in this box are the bits and pieces left over from the Cadburys’ correspondence, but not insignificant enough to warrant being unincluded in the collection.

Letter no. 1: from Friends of Lingnan. To small list. [1930s]

Rarely is it an easy task to tactfully ask for money, as many college students and their parents know, but once honed, it is a skill to marvel at. One example of this became very clear to me as I was reading through the “F” folder of this box. One particular series of letters stood out to me; sent by William Wistar Comfort, president of Haverford College acting as treasurer of Friends of Lingnan University, they are an appeal to the board to send money to Dr. Cadbury. The nine different letters, spanning 15 years from 1930-1945, at first looked like the same message being sent year after year, but after a careful re-reading, I realized that they tell an amazing story that reflects the political and economic situation of the time period. The first letter reveals the ease with which Comfort deals with the problem of asking for donations. There is no mention of money save for the final sentence: “Perhaps at some future time you might consider it [Lingnan University] as an object of your benevolence.” In 1934, Comfort attempts to extract some more money from the board for a new roof for Cadbury’s residence, which was destroyed by white ants. He also casually mentions at the end of the letter that Dr. Cadbury and his family have given up “their usual year’s furlough” which is now a year past-due, and might not be able to come to America for another two years.

The letters continue, becoming more direct in their message. 1935: “We still have an extra amount to collect, about $700.” 1936: “Please send check now.” Another 1936 letter: “If you have not given in the past, begin now. If you gave last year add 50% to your gift.” By 1939, Dr. Cadbury had to move his work to Hong Kong because the Japanese occupation made it too dangerous to continue working and teaching in Canton. Comfort doesn’t let the board forget this–he continues appealing to the board on behalf of Cadbury and his family, and again calls out non-participants, sending a specialized letter specifically to those who, according to his records, have not yet pledged money. Reading each of these letters one after another is almost exhausting, though Comfort remains steadfast, and his contribution proves vital to the success of Cadbury’s mission.

Letter no. 2:  from Edward. To Family. Somewhere in the Atlantic, 1918 8/2-1918 8/19

This August 1918 letter from “Edward” to “Family” poignantly describes a young man’s maritime journey across the Atlantic on his way to the south of France for military duty. Among his poetic descriptions of the water, Edward muses hopefully about returning home and reflects on the books he reads while on the ship (one being John Marvel, Assistant by Thomas Nelson Page, available on Google Books!). I got the sense that this was not your typical soldier. Edward seems very introspective, a quality I’ve often found common among Haverford students. He seems to carefully choose his words so as not to worry his family; he calls his time spent in the military “traveling around the world” and says that he thinks it is a good way to learn languages, “if you follow the life long enough.” I wondered how long Edward followed this life. What he didn’t know in August was that the war was to end in November. I wondered if he lived to see the end of the war and was able to return home. It is difficult to find an answer to these questions because my only clues are his first name and the date–other details, such as the ship’s name and his last name, are either self-censored to protect a military mission or left out because of the assumed familiarity between sender and recipient.

Letter no. 3: from Jane. To Edward. [1925-1930]

This letter from young Jane Cadbury, daughter of William and Catharine, is a love note addressed to another mysterious Edward. It’s unlikely that this Edward and the one from Letter no. 2 are the same, since at the time Jane’s note was sent, the previous Edward would be about 30 years old. (I know, I know, I really wanted it to be the same Edward, too.) Nevertheless, her note conceals a hidden message: “To my love” scrawled in the unmistakable handwriting of a child just learning to write. On a piece of paper accompanying the red cut-out heart is the more mature script of Catharine Cadbury, telling Edward that Jane’s note was made several days earlier. Catharine seeks to ensure that the letter’s lateness must not be misattributed to any reluctance on Jane’s behalf.

All in all, these letters, though sometimes mysterious, give us a richer view of William and Catharine Cadbury’s life. This collection continues to reveal treasures that luckily have been well-preserved, and creating a finding aid for the collection continues to be a wonderful summer adventure.

Any questions about the William Warder Cadbury collection can be emailed to me (deannaelizabethbailey@gmail.com) or Special Collections (hc-special@haverford.edu).

I will attempt to lead you on the recent adventure that I have undergone through the mystical and mysterious portal that is known in our mortal realm as the “Rufus Jones Study”. On my latest quest through this ethereal plain of existence, I stumbled upon a very perplexing anomaly, filled with intrigue and non-existent books.

Okay, here’s the skinny: I came across a book titled “I Awoke! The Article of Death and the Soul’s Awakening” while cataloging  the Rufus Jones Library. This is a book which was allegedly automatically-written, or written by spirits being channeled through a person who is in a sort of trance. According to the preface:

“Three friends, who had been receiving messages by this means on various subjects for some time, were told that they could have a connected account of the life on the other side-as far as such could be put into words-if they sat together occasionally for that purpose….[T]hose to whom these messages have come believe[sic] that the simplest and most reasonable explanation is, that these communications come, as they profess to do, from those who once dwelt here, but have now passed over into the Unseen.”

The only problem, and spooky/ominous part, is that I could not find this book anywhere! And I mean anywhere (besides this ONE mention here. Seriously, when googling the exact phrase of the title, that is the only thing that comes up!). I tried searching for title: nothing. Tried searching for category: nothing. I even searched for all titles published by the publisher during that year (1900): still nothing! My immediate thought was that it must be a conspiracy, but it’s a good thing that I don’t really listen the my immediate thoughts before going on giant wild goose chases…

So what most likely happened is that it wasn’t very widely read, or had a limited run, or was not very popular. However…there is printed on the title page “FIFTH THOUSAND”- this leads me to believe that many were published…

Perhaps this will always be a mystery, but in the meantime, if you have any Rufus Jones Study, general knowlege, or paranormal questions, shoot me an email at kmoll@haverford.edu

Special Collections is in Magill Library, which is only the latest iteration of the Haverford College library. After the library was built in 1863, there have been four rounds of additions—in 1898, 1912, 1941 and 1967. One of the stars of my collection—William Morris Maier—was on the board of the College in the 1930s and 1940s, and was the chairman of the committee in charge of the 1941 addition. In his papers, I found two fascinating documents about that addition. Click on either picture to enlarge it.
The first is this architectural rendering of the library with the 1941 addition and without the 1967 addition, seen approximately from atop the roof of the north end of Leeds. The tree on the far right side of the image is the large tree near the current entrance of the library. The wall with the three buttresses and arched windows is now in the main lobby of Magill—the window closest to the inner corner is now the doorway to the old section of the library. The 1941 addition is the portion of the library with the tall rectangular windows—which is now the ‘old section’ of tiers 3-5. This view of the library is a rare one—there are unexpectedly few images of this the library from the 25-year period between this addition and the 1967 addition, when the profile of the library we know and love was completed.
The second document is a letter, presumably to alums, explaining the importance of this addition. It says that the library catalogs three to four thousand books each year and that there is no longer adequate space in the library for users or librarians. As a stopgap solution, the books of the Astronomy, Biology,  Physics, Chemistry and Mathematics departments were moved from Magill—the beginning of the Science Library.
These documents provide a fascinating insight into the evolution of the current campus. It remains to be seen what the next library construction project will be—there’s still space for more books, but there’s talk of more renovations. When it happens, though, Special Collections will surely preserve images of the library in its current form for future generations of students.

During Customs Week in the fall of 2009, I remember being bombarded with all sorts of information intended to guide  me as I embarked on my 4-year journey. I promptly forgot the bits of advice that I considered pointless (who cares about having a balanced class schedule or knowing all the important academic deadlines of the semester?) and focused on counsel that struck me as the most instructive, e.g. the low down on the locations and nuances of all the vending machines on-campus, the inside scoop on the best place to buy socks in Suburban Square and the list of unofficial graduation requirements (any Quakers in need of a black eye, or info about the Friendly Association Papers, should contact me at akhan@haverford.edu).

A few days ago, I was musing on how the list needs to be updated with new requirements.  That same day, while idly browsing the records of the class of 1915 in the History of Haverford College section on triptych, I came across an article that provided me with the idea for one such requirement (did Special Collections read my mind? Far-fetched, but possible) :

The article reports the suspension of six Haverford seniors after they were caught serenading beneath the windows of a Bryn Mawr dorm at midnight. I was more than a little amused when the article noted that “there was an intimation that the singing was off-key” and the suspension infringed on “the unalienable right of college men to sing college songs on their way home from class gatherings”.

The thought that the article was a hoax never crossed my mind until I read the alleged telegram exchange between the presidents of the two colleges presented as exhibits. It seems scarcely believable that president of Bryn Mawr would send her telegrams from “the beanery” and would sign off as Emma Scarey. It seemed even less likely that M. Carey Thomas, a prominent suffragist from the early 20th century, would complain to President Sharpless that her “poor dear lambs were disturbed….much to the detriment of their needed beauty sleep”. There are numerous other gems embedded in the article that indicate this article is a century-old precursor to the Bi-Co (on A Budget) website.

There’s also a possibility that the article itself is chronicling an event that really happened but the telegrams are fabricated to poke fun at the administration in a more subtle way than this comic that follows the article:

In any case, I’m inspired by the antics- real or imagined- of the class of 1915 and I will endeavor to copy them towards the end of my senior year in order to be considered truly worthy of graduating from this great institution.

Triptych contains a wealth of such material and I urge readers to go on a treasure hunt and find similar gems from the college archives. It’s a much better procrastination tool than facebook, which is evil incarnate anyway.

In a drawer filled with folders of meeting house images, I found a  folder with four  images of Burlington Meeting House.  Three of the drawings (pictured in the thumbnails below) appear to be drawings of the  first meeting house built in 1683.  This meeting is unusual because it is hexagonal.  Throughout my time with meeting houses (and regular houses too), I have seen many rectangular and square ones, but very few hexagonal ones.  I have not been able to find any information about why they built such an oddly shaped meeting house.

Unfortunately, this unusual meeting house met its end in the 1780s, when another meeting house was built in close proximity to it.

The fourth image is a little mysterious.  I assumed when I was scanning it that it was a plan for the new Burlington Meeting House.  So I took a look at images of the building on Triptych.  I soon realized that I was wrong.  Some digging did not get me very far, which is not surprising considering that the plan is undated.  Hoping to find out more about the person who drew the plans, I tried to find information on Wm. Dillwyn.  From what I could find out, he was born in Philadelphia, and married his first wife in Burlington, NJ.  However, he lived in England when the new meeting house was built, so he may or may not have submitted this plan.  It is also possible that there was another William Dillwyn living in the area at the time.

Even without knowing the exact history of the plan, it was really interesting to see the detailed notes and drawings for a meeting house, which is something I had not come across before this image.

Regardless of the roadblocks, trying to figure out this architectural mystery was quite enjoyable.  It’s just too bad that there seems to be no clear answer.

For more images of Burlington Meeting House, check out Triptych.