Using the library in the Lambert ten Kate Huis on Herengracht 330-36, where the English Institute was situated when I was a student, was quite daunting for two reasons. First of all there was the librarian Ms Marietje Krijgsman (who also figured in one of Henk Romijn Meierâ€s novels). She was old (as if she had never been young) and looked as if she couldnâ€t see a thing, with her thick jam-pot glasses, but there was nothing wrong with her ears. As soon as you dared talk or whisper to a fellow student, she would come out of her little glass cabinet, and tell you off in no uncertain terms. She could make you feel really small.

The other risk you ran was wearing a mini-skirt (still quite a thing in the late sixties) when working in the library. The books were piled up very high along the walls of the high-ceilinged library so you often had to go up ladders. A feast for some of the other students (and in those days we still had a large proportion of male students), but excruciating for yourself. I always made sure to wear trousers whenever a planned a library session.

Later, of course, things were to change in Britain, but when I got to Amsterdam the University seemed amazingly bureaucratic.  The idea that I was employed for a specific number of hours per year, and that these hours were to be divided into so many for teaching, so many for research, and so many for administration, was a culture shock. Filling in my onderzoeksformulieren, with the hypothetical projections of time to be spent on various projects, was to me unpleasantly reminiscent of doing my income tax. And, of course, the real time spent on these things seldom bore any relation to the figures on the paper. So each year you had to make sure that your figures related to last yearâ€s return, and this meant that slowly you began to creep into a fictional world where the figures might match but bore less and less relation to reality. I had a friend who worked for a research institute in France: his one obligation was to have lunch once a year with his boss and report on what he was doing. This may appear extreme, but in contrast the Dutch system did seem to assume that unless you could prove that you were at your desk doing whatever it was that you were supposed to do, then you were almost certainly up to no good. I attributed this attitude to a strong sense of original sin. My colleagues advised me that there had been blatant abuse in the past, and Iâ€m sure they were right, but this did seem to me a heavy-handed way of solving the problem. But then, all over the world, as higher education has become more politicized, trust has been in short supply. Yet without it intellectual creativity is hindered.

When I announced to the department at Cardiff my impending departure it coincided with the installation of Queen Beatrix, an event that was accompanied by some riots in Amsterdam. These were shown on British TV and my colleagues were particularly pleased: ‘See what you are getting into,†they smirked. This was still in the era of krakers, and I remember walking home one evening across Museumplein and finding my way blocked by lines of riot police, while a tram went up in flames in front of the Concertgebouw. This was certainly different from Cardiff, and even more from Cambridge, but part of me was slightly exhilarated and I found myself thinking, ‘this is the real thing.†It took me a while to get adjusted to the volatility of Amsterdam but I could see that it had its points. One anecdote I like to tell to wide-eyed academic friends is about the occasion when I was giving a class in the Bungehuis on Renaissance Pastoral Poetry (the topic has its ironic relevance); it was one of those rooms where the lecturer was placed in the window bay, facing into the room.  As I talked I noticed that no one was looking at me – they all gazed past me. I spoke louder, but to no effect; so I began to jump up and down and wave my arms. Same result. So then I turned round and looked out of the window myself, and there in Spuistraat was a line of mounted police charging at a mob of krakers. It was an interesting variant on the pastoral theme of social simplicity, though Iâ€m not sure that the students recognized that point.

But, then, what about the students? How did they seem after my Canadian and British experience? I donâ€t want to seem flattering, but for me the best thing about Amsterdam was the students. I found an openness and a genuine interest in the subjects of study that was far from widespread in the UK, and to that one can add a friendly attitude towards teachers which made that aspect of my work a pleasure.  There was (is?) also a welcome element of maturity in the student body which may come from having to navigate life in Amsterdam rather than living in university hostels. I was warned beforehand that university committees in the Netherlands had students on them, which was still unusual then in Britain. As I soon found, the students were often the most useful people on them. The great change in Dutch higher education took place not long after I arrived, when the 6-year doctoraal course was reduced to 4 years. Looking back I suppose that it was inevitable, especially as universities world-wide shifted from academic goals to issues of employability. But it did make a big difference.  Most of my teaching then was directed at the 4^th and 5^th year students, and this included ‘tutorialsâ€. Now these were a wonderful opportunity: the course lasted for a whole year, and the class met (if my memory is correct) for four hours a week. This made it possible to explore a subject in great detail, and provided students with the opportunity to do some really original research. You may not know it, but my special area was the Renaissance: apart from my interests in English literature and culture of the 16^th and 17^th centuries, my Ph.D was in Neo-Latin. In fact I came to Amsterdam in part because I had done work on Erasmus and Hugo de Groot and I knew that Neo-Latin was a serious subject in the Netherlands (in Britain it counted as a ‘hobbyâ€). I found Dutch students very responsive, and often better equipped than British ones in matters like art history, European languages, and the Classical world, and this gave them a valuable basis for the interpretation of Renaissance texts. Some of the ‘scriptie†students I supervised at the Engels Seminarium were outstanding by any standard and compared very favourably with their British counterparts. It is a matter of some delight to me that two, at least, of my former students there now have posts in English universities, one as a professor.

I gave courses on â€Literature and the Renaissance Courtâ€, ‘Renaissance Love Poetryâ€, and even a whole tutorial on John Donne, but my bread-and-butter teaching was on Shakespeare. Now that was a very good experience for me. I suppose the fact that Dutch students approach Shakespeare through a ‘second language†gives their reading a special focus, and there is the further point that their study of linguistics has given them a vocabulary to analyse what it is that appeals to them in Shakespeareâ€s dramatic writing. I found Dutch students had an enthusiasm for Shakespeare which was most refreshing after the cultural piety which could block appreciation among British students. And then there were the performances. Several times the students put on Shakespearean plays in the University theatre with great success; there was even a group of players known as the Caterwaulers (I never found out why), and I joined in two of their performances, once as Oberon – it seemed only right that the professor should be the King of the Faeries. These were directed by a talented student from Theaterwetenschap called Paul Springer: he was a lively and innovative director, though I viewed his ideas about Shakespeare as quite up the creek. But he was the director and so I did what he told me. I would rate acting in these plays, and the easy atmosphere it generated among us performers, as one of the highlights of my time in Amsterdam. But I canâ€t leave the subject of theatre without mention of the late John Peereboom, whose popular courses on the English drama would culminate in a trip to see the latest offerings on the London stage.  John was an amazingly bi-cultural man, and among his enthusiasms was cricket; we would often discuss the latest Test match, or slip along to see the live thing at Amstelveen. When I first arrived I was drawn into the committee to read the proefschrift  on Henry Fielding that John was preparing for his doctorate at Leiden. The title rather shocked me: Fielding Practice (in case you donâ€t know, that is a term in cricket). I complained that this was a bit too facetious for such a solemn event as a promotie, but Professor Bachrach, his promotor, shook his head: ‘Let him have his wayâ€, he said.  And later, as I got to know John, I realized that that this playful touch was exactly his style.

But what about the future? It is now fifteen years since I packed my bags and became ‘emeritusâ€, and I donâ€t have a clear picture of developments since that time. Looking back on the many experiences I confronted in the Bungehuis, some of them memorable, many of them definitely to be forgotten, I suppose that one quality I associated with Amsterdam English students was resilience, and I am confident that that must still be true. Over the years the Engels Seminarium has been the setting for numerous bizarre happenings: usually these were acted out among the staff members, while the students got on with the serious business of completing their studies. The administrative burden was a heavy one, and after I arrived from the relatively autocratic structures of British academe I was awed by the proliferation of committees and the time they consumed. What was worse was my sense that even after long hours had been spent in discussion – not all of it amicable – the decision reached might have little relation to the ultimate outcome, since that often appeared to be dropped into the situation from some higher level.  Democracy can be a good thing, but it can also lead to frustration and factional pressures.

The Faculty of English at Cambridge University at one time enjoyed an international reputation for its internal quarrels. These survived into the 1980s, and I can recall one or two lively meetings when threats of litigation were tossed about. The Engels Seminarium might not match this, but there were episodes of friction from time to time, and as voorzitter I found myself drawn into them. To some extent these arose from clashes of personality, but a factor was undoubtedly the division of the department into distinct sections. This led to a certain competitive spirit which was not always helpful. All this was new to me since at UK universities English departments were dominated by literary studies: at Cambridge the history of the language played some part in the Faculty of English, but linguistics as such were housed elsewhere. Naturally, where English is not the first language, there must be substantial allowance for language acquisition; so I was not surprised by the arrangements in Amsterdam, though I could see that the dividing line between practical and theoretical linguistics might prove contentious. This was indeed the case. Then the staff numbers were higher, which might seem a good thing; but it also meant that when there were divisions these were on a larger scale. I often wondered then whether some more unified structure might not be a gain for the department. It may well be that things have moved that way since I left.

When I first arrived in the University of Amsterdam I described my experience as trying to land a helicopter on an avalanche: everything was always shifting. In the highly unsettled world of the modern university to have survived a hundred years is quite something, so I think that all of us who have been concerned with the Engels Seminarium either as producers or consumers can pat ourselves on the back. One way or another we made it. Certainly I had some bruising encounters, but then academics are notoriously aggressive to each other. Looking back over my years in Amsterdam I like to recall the many happy contacts with colleagues that still leave a glow in the memory and, when it comes to students, in my personal World Student Ratings those in the Engels Seminarium come top. Enjoy the celebrations, and get ready for the next hundred years.

Betsy leverde tal van bijdragen aan het nationale en internationale wetenschappelijke debat over poëzie, proza en drama van de vroegmoderne en moderne tijd. Haar laatste jaren werkte ze aan een monografie over de dichter C.H. Sisson, een project dat ze helaas niet heeft kunnen voltooien. Ook het sociale leven van de opleiding had haar belangstelling. Vorig jaar was ze nog een van de drijvende krachten achter de Christmas Pantomime, waarmee de toneeltraditie van de opleiding nieuw leven werd ingeblazen.

Betsy stond voor kwaliteit en het was voor collegaâ€s niet altijd gemakkelijk met haar samen te werken: hier stond haar hartstochtelijke aard haar soms in de weg. Maar ze was een warme en stralende persoonlijkheid. En bijzonder attent: bij iedere blijde of droevige gebeurtenis kon je rekenen op een kaartje of briefje met een toepasselijke boodschap in haar fraaie handschrift.

We zijn diep onder de indruk van de wijze waarop Betsy tot het einde toe zichzelf is gebleven en ze, samen met haar man Albert en zoon Engelbert, de laatste maanden van haar leven vorm heeft gegeven. We zullen haar en haar elegante aanwezigheid (prachtig mantelpak, vos om de schouder, klein sigaartje, lang blond haar in de wind) heel erg missen.

Anne Bannink en Roger Eaton

With these more than appropriate words, written by Professor H. Daalder in 1997, we would like to thank all our secretaries who ensured that the English institute functioned day in day out and in times of upheaval and change. We especially wish to mention the secretaries we knew ourselves, who kept us going and who were with us a long time, Julia Klooster, and the team of Jetty Peterse en Mariëtte Geurtz, with Henny de Boer joining Jetty for the last nine years after Mariëtte retired.

We are fortunate to have found a new ‘Daalderâ€-secretary in Marloes Geers ….

Witness, for instance, on www.linguavox.nl, my recent 2013 lacus handout on (dis)embodied linguistics together with a pilot movie entitled How To Scramble An Egg – by LvB. This devastating exposure of ‘mainstream†linguistics and phonetics of course could never have come about without you people concentrating my charmingly subversive mind all those years, and I shall therefore dedicate EPC Part 2 to you all (do let me know if youâ€d prefer to be counted out). My (slightly chaotic) website also contains a free pdf of EPC Part 1 (1993) with improved Arthur transcriptions on pp. 132-135 (and more! to come! soon!). Enjoy! Thanks again, and keep up the good work.

You can read more about the history of this exercise in the Department.

To commemorate the 75th anniversary of the English Department in 1988, a number of students approached some members of staff with the idea of performing Shakespeareâ€s Midsummer Nightâ€s Dream together. What a lovely idea that was. With the help of budding director Paul Sprenger (for whom this performance was his graduation project in Theatre Studies) we pulled it off – three hilarious performances of the play at a sold-out University Theatre. Who did what? To name but a few: Literature Professor Dominic Baker-Smith was a stately Oberon, with student Jonneke van Wierst as his angry wife Titania, and linguist Manon van der Laaken as his trusty Puck.  Willem Meys played  Bottom; John Peereboom was typecast as Peter Quince, with students Ron Visser and Nils Voskuil unforgettable  as Snout (Wall) and Francis Flute (Thisbe). The lovers were played by students Sally Farrar, Hanneke van den Boom (“Though she be little, she is fierce!”), Arthur Verhagen and language lecturer Steve Smith. What we all thought of as a one-off event, continued over the years into a series of performances, including A Winterâ€s Tale, As You Like It and Twelfth Night. Lots of fun was had by all!

In September 1980 I was appointed at the Engels Seminarium to help Jet van Dam van Isselt cope with the huge number of students who decided to take the teacher training course to obtain their first-grade teaching certificate – if only “voor de zekerheid”. Teacher Education was a new phenomenon at the university at the time. Until the late 1970s aspiring teachers just had to attend a couple of lectures by experienced practitioners who basically said ‘never turn your back to your studentsâ€, shared a few anecdotes and otherwise told them to get on with it. But in the beginning of the 80s teaching finally became acknowledged as a profession and teacher education began to be treated as a serious academic subject. Jet had done the pioneering work: when she got the job in 1977 she had to start from scratch. The program gradually took shape and soon around a hundred students a year got their certificates. Those were the days!
In the beginning I felt rather like a student among the students, many of whom were much older than I was (in these days we saw lots of mature students – such a pity their opportunities have been blocked by government policies…). But I gained confidence during the years. Early on – initiated by Jet – we agreed that classroom practice (a situated approach) should be the core of our program: our ambitious aim was to bridge the proverbial gap between theories about and the realities of classroom life. Pedagogical recommendations and models of L1/L2 acquisition are very useful tools but the real challenge is to teach 25+ noisy adolescents on a daily basis and spark an interest in English language and literature – and even, at times, enjoy it.
We decided that the way forward was video. We would go and tape English classes at secondary schools of experienced teachers. This may not sound revolutionary now but in the early 1980s it was completely new (‘cutting edgeâ€) and – an important detail – involved the logistic planning of a minor war. Everything had to be hired from Beeld & Geluid and arrived in large crates. Tripods, microphones and cameras were so heavy that we needed a taxi to even move the stuff to the schools. After a few years we managed to secure our own equipment. At present in our office there are still two trolleys with camcorders we cannot bear to part with: nostalgic witnesses to the dazzling technological innovations of the past decades. These days we simply use our smartphone.

Ever noticed how tourists stand outside of the Bungehuis, looking in expectantly? Especially during the summer break, when there are no students milling outside the buildingâ€s entrance to help betray its purpose, tourists look at the Bungehuis as though they are expecting a guided tour.

I guess that what makes the Bungehuis so suggestive of Lonely Planet Amsterdam is its mix of imposing architecture with art deco details. The stern lines of its façade are combined with limestone panels and bronze window frames and railings, which, I think, make this one of the most beautiful buildings in Amsterdam, in spite of its sometimes foreboding appearance.

Interestingly, the buildingâ€s combination of austere and ornamental design languages reflects the personality of its designer. The heir of the Bunge business, Julius Carl Bunge commissioned the Bungehuis in 1921 to act as a base of operations for the Amsterdam branch of his company. As such, the building was originally envisioned as a no-nonsense office building without any decorative elements. Happily, Bunge junior was never much of a businessman and when the Bungehuis was being built he indulged more and more in his real passion, the arts. Subsequently, the design of the Bungehuis was altered from a featureless office building to include elements that bespoke the more sensitive side of its owner, such as the beautiful stained glass, art deco tiles and creaky wood-paneled elevators.

For the past couple of decades, the history of the Bungehuis has overlapped with English studies at the UvA, and Iâ€ve always thought of this as a perfect match. After all, learning about language and culture is about assiduous industry without drowning out those faculties that allow us to appreciate the finer things in life. As such, the combination of productivity and appreciation for beauty that the design of the Bungehuis articulates, matches perfectly with what goes on inside the building, something that Iâ€m sure old man Bunge would have appreciated.