bonæ litteræ: occasional writing from David Rundle, Renaissance scholar

Postcard from Harvard V: Bruni against the Goths gothicised

Posted in Manuscripts, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 4 May, 2018

I realise that the tradition of the postcard privileges messages of few words. I note also that I have, in my recent posts, underachieved in that respect. This post is an attempt to rectify that. It comes without a description, for the manuscript discussed here has been well described in print by Laura Light. What I want to draw attention to is how this codex is witness to a humanist text escaping from the confines of humanist presentation and taking on another identity.

It is not unusual to have the work by a humanist copied in a gothic script. Indeed, the previous post discussed one such manuscript produced in England. The Houghton’s MS. Lat. 170 is a particularly pungent example of this habit for two reasons. First, while the copy of Bruni’s Ethics translation discussed last time is in a cursive script, this thin volume provides a case of the less common practice: a text written in a classicising style to be rendered into a textualis, that is a gothic bookhand needing to be produced with care and so at a slower pace. MS. Lat. 170 has suffered over time, mainly because of water damage, but it is clear that the scribe wrote with deliberation and a concern for detail, shown in particular with the frequent hairline strokes adorning the letters (look, for instance, at the h). The block of text is compact, with little space between the lines, in an aesthetic quite different from that promoted by the early humanists — the only similarity with their style of mise-en-page is the substantial blank borders around the text, which is, in fact, also to be found in the ‘pre-humanist’ circle of Coluccio Salutati. The illumination in this manuscript also shows no concession to the fashionable preference for bianchi girari initials. It is as if the scribe was unaware of the humanist agenda but that certainly cannot be true.

Cambridge MA: Houghton Library, MS. lat. 170, fol. 18v

This brings us to the second point: the text that is being presented here. It is a work of Leonardo Bruni, the acknowledged doyen of the first generation of Quattrocento humanists; what is more, it is his history, De bello adversus Gothos — the Italians’ war against the Goths. Here we have an Italian scribe providing a humanist text that discusses the Goths but doing it in a style that the humanists would have described as ‘gothic’. Did the scribe enjoy the irony?

I see that the text above could not fit on a postcard, unless perhaps I used a tiny gothic script.

Postcard from Harvard IV: a little witness to English humanist interest

Posted in Manuscripts, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 3 May, 2018

The manuscripts I have discussed so far have all been easy on the eye (as they say). The subject of today is not. Indeed, seated on the shelves alongside gorgeously illuminated presentation manuscripts, this codex might feel embarrassed by its appearance. That it is pocket-sized is not that unusual, but that it is written cursively on quires that are encarté (paper except for the outermost and central bifolia which are parchment) suggests that this was a volume on which little expense was spared. Nor can it claim to be a textual rarity — it provides a copy of a fifteenth-century bestseller, Leonardo Bruni’s new translation of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. For me, though, this small workaday volume is gold dust in the library.

Cambridge MA: University of Harvard, Houghton Library, MS. Lat. 286, fol. 1 – the opening of Bruni’s translation of Aristotle’s Ethics.

The manuscript does not exclude any explicit statement of where or when it was produced but its evidence — palaeographical, philological and codicological — is revealing. James Hankins in his listing of Bruni manuscripts in North America correctly states that it was made in England. This is apparent from the pen-flourished initials, the script of the main text (which shows substantial continental influence) and of the textual corrections, which are by another hand using some anglicana forms. Those corrections show that the copy was being checked against its prototype — a suggestion that, for all its appearance of low-grade production for personal use, this was created in a communal context, with some care to ensure a level of textual accuracy. Collating passages of the text suggest where that might have been: it has affinities with two manuscripts which have Oxford associations. Those two volumes, however, are probably later than this one. This is where the paper becomes important.

The scribe wrote on paper of one stock, with a watermark of a hand, the fingertips of which touch a half-moon. The information gathered in Piccard on-line shows that there was a fashion for this in at a few German papermills in the 1430s. Those who know about paper suggest that use often follows at most a few years after production, but they are thinking of mainland Europe. England, which relied (apart from the 1490s) entirely on imported paper, may count as a special case: with the travel and distribution times involved, we would expect the possible lead-in before use to be longer. Perhaps Orietta da Rold’s exciting project mapping paper in medieval England will shed further light on the average time-delay. Even, though, if we assume a couple of decades between production in the German-speaking lands and use in this manuscript in Oxford, that would place it soon after the mid-point of the century, and that may be a little late, judging from the script. We know that the Ethics translation was known in England from the early 1430s, at the latest — that is, within fifteen years of its composition — and it may be that we have before us an early witness for its English circulation.

In short, this unprepossessing codex is notable evidence for the interest in the humanist re-translation of Aristotle’s textbook of ethics in England. It joins six other manuscripts identified at present as being of English provenance. Beside them, there is the well-known incunable, printed in Oxford in 1479. We might want to think of that printed version as a new beginning, but we could also see it as a culmination of an Oxford interest in the text stretching back decades.

Here is my description of MS. Lat. 286. As always, comments welcome.

Postcard from Harvard III: when manuscripts are fragments

Posted in Manuscripts, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 28 April, 2018

My previous trips to the States have been so brief that I could take my jet-lag home with me. Indeed, one reason I was keen to have a month in Harvard was to find out what it might be like to experience the culture without walking around in a daze. The sense of disorientation I had on other occasions was only heightened by working with collections that are so different from those in many European libraries. There a certain organic nature with a medieval core supplemented by later additions allows the style of provenance research I enjoy. That is not possible in the New World but there are, I am learning, compensating pleasures. In particular, the nature of what was available for American collectors sheds light on the mores of the later modern book market in their own lifetimes and earlier decades. What follows is a discussion of one element of that.

The heyday of the destruction of manuscripts was undeniably the sixteenth century, when technological change and religious turmoil combined to make many books obsolete. The dismantling of books was not a new discovery — there had been a medieval tradition of recycling and reuse — and it certainly did not end then. In fact, we would be cocooning ourselves in comforting myths if we claimed it was not still a function of some corners of the rare books market. My intention today is not to consider the morality of that but to take two examples from the Houghton collection to think about past practice and the challenges they set us as researchers. The first case of dismantling comes from the turn of the eighteenth to the nineteenth century, while the second occurred about a hundred years later.

Cambridge MA: Houghton Library, MS. Typ. 171, fol. 1.

MS. Typ. 171 is a delightful little manuscript from the last decade of the fifteenth century or possibly the first three years of the sixteenth. Its decoration may not be top-notch but it is written in a stunning italic script, one which in the twentieth century inspired the style of the leading English calligrapher, James Wardrop. Evidence for this comes in the curatorial records for this manuscript, where there are two captions written by Wardrop himself (I think they would be worthy of being given their own manuscript shelfmarks).

James Wardrop’s captions for MS. Typ. 171.

As Wardrop’s first note states, the work included in this manuscript is by Adriano Castellesi — a cleric and, eventually, cardinal who merits a walk-on role in The Borgias, as he hosted the dinner at which Alexander VI was supposedly poisoned (the intended victim, it is said, was Castellesi himself). The short text Castellesi had produced in this manuscript was dedicated to Cardinal Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini, the future Pius III — this, then, is a presentation manuscript in a different style from that I discussed in the previous post.

One might think that this manuscript in its early binding was complete. Indeed, that it is the assumption one is clearly supposed to draw from the title written in a lunette on the upper board, which has the one word ‘Hadrianus’.

The lunette on the upper board of MS. Typ. 171.

 This, however, is a case of misdirection. The lunette is original, but the script here is later, attempting to look contemporaneous with the manuscript. There are two details which show that the volume was more substantial than it is now. The first is the binding itself is showing wear, partly because it is apparent that something has been removed from it. We know, in fact, how many leaves are missing: look at the foot of the first image above and you will see it says ‘117’. There is one folio before it, originally blank, which also has a number: ‘116’. There were, in other words, 115 folios within this binding.

We can say something more about this, thanks to Bill Stoneman, the curator at the Houghton who is as sharp-eyed as he is genial. He immediately recognised the numbering as in a style often seen in the manuscripts owned by Luigi Canonici. He did not add them himself; they were inherited from the previous generation, when they were provided by Jacopo Soranzo. In other words, this volume had its first 115 folios into the late eighteenth century — but they must have left soon after that. Why? Look again at that first image and see at the top the added number, in a hand of the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century: that demonstrates that this had become the first folio of a manuscript numbered 60 (later 70) in a collection.

When precisely did the dismantling occur? And what exactly was on those preceding leaves? I do not know the answer to either. The first detail may be difficult to pinpoint; the latter, with the co-ordinates we have, should be possible to discover. The obvious first place to look is the catalogue of the Canonici manuscripts now in the Bodleian. I am dreaming of having a night of insomnia when I can look through hoping to see the information ‘fol. 115’ jump out at me. What we can say is that it is highly unlikely to have been a work of Castellesi, since no other text by him from this period survives. That suggests that what we now have in Typ. 171 was the original presentation copy handed over without a binding. The binding was probably added soon after and brought together this work with one or more others which had been entirely independent of it — thus, the volume was a manuscript Sammelband.

The implication of this is that the lunette does not just misdirect, it positively deceives, giving the impression that this lone text in this binding was always intended to be so. It is not the only feature of the binding which is odd: as I mention in my description, the clips and clasps are the ‘wrong’ way around — that is, the clasps sit on the lower board, rather than as is expected on the upper. This too may be a sign that someone at some point was trying to confect a look for this codex, using original materials but with the purpose of making them look ‘ancient’ but with the result that they appear not quite how they would originally have been.

We cannot put a name to the person who did that but we can for the man responsible for our second example which is now MS. Typ. 486. This is a less resplendent volume and its script is unusually small for a littera antiqua but it is still attractive.

Cambridge MA: Houghton Library, MS. Typ. 486, fol. 1.

As you will see, it provides the life of Tiberius by Suetonius — in other words, one twelfth of his Vitae Caesarum. Most of the rest of the manuscript survives, as has been skilfully reconstructed by Christopher de Hamel in describing the largest part of it, now Bloomington: Lilly Library, MS. Ricketts 225. That includes the bulk of the biographies, but two other fascicules, in Cambridge (the Old World one) and Philadelphia, provide single lives, like that here in Cambridge (the New World one). De Hamel could name the person responsible for the dismantling of the original volume: it was J. J. Leighton, the London bookseller, working about 1902 or 1903. What makes this more remarkable is what he did to the first leaf of the section now in the Fitzwilliam: the opening page had the very end of the life of Julius Caesar and the start of that of Augustus. To make the small manuscript look more like it had its integrity, he erased the last lines of the Julius life, so that the page began with the initial and incipit of the Augustus. This was not merely separating parts out for extra profit; it was also vandalism.

In both the cases, the person doing the dismantling did not have an eye to posterity. They were not going to work with the intent of fooling later scholars — their interest was more immediate and more pecuniary. Yet, like forged charters made in the Middle Ages, they set us challenges and remind us to be wary of trusting what we see before us, lest we too are deceived. In that challenge, of course, lies part of the excitement of our work: it requires us not only to decipher the medieval production and use of the manuscript, but also to be conscious of the ways in which later interventions may mislead us, intentionally or not. I hope this post has suggested some of what we can truly call the tricks of the trade: the techniques used by generations to maximise profit, and some of the details which can help us unravel the results of their actions.

As is my wont, I have embedded above links to my draft descriptions of each of these manuscripts. I would, as always, welcome any feedback.

 

Postcard from Harvard II: a presentation manuscript from Pier Candido Decembrio

Posted in Manuscripts, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 25 April, 2018

The opening leaf of Cambridge MA: Houghton Library, MS. Richardson 23, with the arms of Borso d’Este.

My second report from my new location involves a manuscript that is hardly unknown but which I could not resist making one of the first I studied. It is a copy of four texts by the Milanese humanist Pier Candido Decembrio, made under his guidance for presentation to the duke of Ferrara, Borso d’Este, in the early 1460s. Decembrio, cheer-leader for his city in its opposition to all things Florentine, has been an acquaintance of mine since my graduate days, for, in the late 1430s and early 1440s, he attempted to construct for himself an international reputation by presenting works and sending books to Humfrey, duke of Gloucester, as I discussed in my doctoral thesis. So, when I opened up this manuscript and saw before me Decembrio’s script writing the contents list, it had the sensation of a meeting with a familiar friend.

The humanist himself is not, however, the main scribe of this manuscript. As with some of those he made for Humfrey, he called on others to produce the volume but left enough evidence in the volume to show that oversaw its creation. As I explain in my description, his interventions here are multiple, correcting the whole text and adding annotations in some, using different inks for each level of accretion, suggesting he went over the manuscript two or three times. It provides us, then, with interesting detail about the mechanics of presentation — the desire to achieve an elegance which spoke of the cost involved being balanced by a need to personalise, not just in terms of the identity of the recipient but of the author as well.

Textually, this manuscript of importance for being the earliest known copy of his panegyric of his home city, De laudibus urbis Mediolanensis (a work first composed in the later 1430s but, apart from this codex, extant only in two later fifteenth-century manuscripts, in Milan and Brussels). That is a work which demonstrated his patriotism for Milan and his repudiation of Florence’s claims to pre-eminence, for in this panegyric he engages with the Laudatio Florentinae Urbis of Leonardo Bruni, a work which had already gained an international circulation, turning on its head its claims by a process of quotation and revision which, at times, comes close to creative plagiarism.

His expression of independence from Florence was expressed not only in words but in presentation on the page. He knew and acknowledged the reforms of the page promoted by Bruni’s friend, Poggio Bracciolini, but he by no means adopted it fully. In particular, he preferred a much smaller script than was fashionable in Florentine littera antiqua, and an example of this is on display not only in his own interventions but in the main script, which provides a notably compact block of text on the page. At the same time, Decembrio’s scribe here (identified as Gabriel Brepia) is more willing to accept some of the reforms than his commissioner. A key orthographical shift in Florence was the re-introduction of the digraph, demonstrating the presence of the diphthong (usually ‘ae’, sometimes ‘oe’). Here we see a contrast between Decembrio who continues to ignore it and his scribe who adopts a couple of strategies for marking the diphthong (a subscript mark, and a small loop before e). One wonders how far Decembrio condoned the transformation of his text in this detail, and whether he felt his work was succumbing to Florentine influence, even when it expressed its opposition to that city.

Cambridge MA: Houghton Library, MS. Richardson 23, fol. 12v – with Decembrio’s rubrication annotation at bottom left. Contrast his lack of digraph with the scribe’s writing of ‘quae’ at ll. 8 and 13.

The Houghton has helpfully digitised the whole manuscript and the iiif images can be viewed in Mirador. All I can add is a description of this important codex (with all the usual caveats about its draft status).

Postcard from Harvard I: a humanist manuscript owned by William Morris

Posted in Manuscripts by bonaelitterae on 23 April, 2018

Do not be jealous: I am spending a month in that other Other Place — Cambridge MA. I am doing so at the beneficence of Harvard’s Houghton Library as one of their Visiting Fellows. The result is that I have to sit in the elegant surroundings of their reading room, overlooking Harvard Yard, assisted by supremely obliging staff, spending my days poring over humanist manuscripts. Those of you who know me will be able to decide whether I consider this a hardship. Sometimes my blessings seem so many, I lose count.

As I will be having an intense time of study here, I am going to experiment with a new initiative. It will also act, I hope, as a sort of mark of gratitude to my hosts. Their collection is rich in humanist manuscripts — so much so that I will have more than enough to occupy me over the next four weeks — and not yet fully catalogued. Some received extensive discussion by Laura Light in her 1995 catalogue of part of the collection; for others, there are records in Seymour de Ricci and its supplement, and all humanist manuscripts are noted in Kristeller’s indispensable Iter Italicum. Many, however, do not as yet have published technical descriptions. As what I am doing while here involves producing such descriptions for my own private use, I thought I would share them with you.

In doing so, I must emphasise that each of them comes with a health warning. They are in draft form, and cannot be thought to be full or final. In particular, they spend more time on the technical details and the provenance of the manuscript than on identification of contents. Moreover, they occasionally cite works by brief title rather than giving the publication details — one rainy weekend, I hope to provide a listing of those (though they will probably all be familiar to you). In addition, I intend to provide an explanation of my conventions to help you understand more clearly the necessarily succinct paragraphs of the technical description.

I also need your assistance with this experiment. I have many draft descriptions of manuscripts in other repositories in my files and I have been thinking for some time of sharing them. I would like your feedback on whether that would be useful and, if so, in what format. For the time being, I will provide them as pdfs, but I am open to suggestions about how else they could be presented.

Cambridge MA: University of Harvard, Houghton Library, MS. Typ. 289, fol. 1 (Florence, s. xv2/4).

Following all those prolegomena, here is the first such description. It is of Cambridge MA: Houghton Library, MS. Typ. 289, an elegant manuscript of Athanasius in Ambrogio Traversari’s translation. There is a brief entry for it in the online Harvard catalogue. For some its principal interest may be in the fact that it was owned by William Morris, who himself was a scribe and illuminator, inspired by medieval manuscripts. In truth, this arrived late into his collection and was owned by him too briefly to have been a specific source for his practices. It is, though, an interesting witness to the texts it contains, as I hope this description suggests. There are also elements of its production and history which remain opaque — and any thoughts will be welcome.

A final plea: do provide your comments on whether this is a useful initiative or not. Your views will shape how it develops – if at all.

The Designs of English

Posted in Manuscripts by bonaelitterae on 20 April, 2018

Designing English, the present exhibition curated by Daniel Wakelin at the Bodleian’s Weston Library, is an undoubted triumph. If you have not seen it, do not miss your last chance: go before it ends on 22nd April 2018. Its display of manuscripts skilfully encourages the viewer to look beyond the text and see the page. It also encourages the visitor to think beyond the page and appreciate the extent of medieval graphicity — in graffiti or an inscription moulded onto a bell. What, however, has made the gallery are frequent haunt of mine in the past months is a realisation of how the exhibition is wonderfully subtle and, in the best sense of the word, ambivalent.

The show opens in apparently celebratory mood with a case (re)uniting the Alfred Jewel, usually held in the Ashmolean, with one of the earliest manuscripts (MS. Hatton 20) of the Anglo-Saxon translation of Gregory’s Pastoral Care, attributed to Alfred himself. It is a combination that alone, as they say, is worth the entrance fee (there is, in fact, no entrance fee, which makes this exhibition a particular bargain). It also, though, hints at some of the problems of its topic. In the confrontation of intricate metalwork and relatively simple layout on the page, there is no contest: the manuscript cannot have the same mastery as the jewel. This contrast is, in part, an issue with the difficulty of displaying books in cases. The power of a book is its plurality: it is itself an object but each opening within it is an object for the eye’s gaze. This multiplicity can only but be denied by the static presentation that an exhibition usually requires. It must be said that ‘Designing English’, in common with the recent and equally excellent ‘Colour’ at the Fitzwilliam, does well to help the visitor appreciate the mechanics of manuscript-production and, thus, remember the book’s dynamics.

That a book comes off worse in a comparison with the Alfred Jewel is not, though, entirely about the necessities of presentation. Turn your back on that case and you are faced with a rather different approach to the page – before you now is the intricate mise-en-page of the Macregol Gospels (MS. Auct. D. 2. 19).

Oxford: Bodleian, MS. Auct. D. 2. 19, fol. 127 – the Macregol Gospels (Ireland, s. ix in.), glossed in Anglo-Saxon (s. x2).

This is one moment when a manuscript shows it can take on a jewel-like quality. The Gospels are on display here not for their illumination or for its Latin text but for the interlinear glosses added in Old English. We are not here to consider the medieval book as a whole but to note the presence of the English language (in its various varieties) within it. It is a presence which is often marginal. Of course, as Alfred’s Pastoral Care bears witness, the Anglo-Saxon tongue had a remarkable heyday from the late ninth to the mid-eleventh century, sitting alongside Latin as an appropriate language of written communication. After the Norman Conquest, English was not to enjoy the same status again until… quite when is a question that hangs over this exhibition.

One obvious answer would be that English regained its glory with Chaucer, and some of the display here demonstrates the regard in which he was held. So, for instance, in one manuscript (MS. Rawl. poet. 223), the opening displayed has a running header announcing the author’s surname. What is striking with these pages is that the English language is presented in a cursive bookhand with substantial continental influence. This should remind us that England was by no means the first country to prize writings in the local vernacular: we can think of thirteenth-century Castile or the fourteenth-century construction of the tre corone of Florence. A precedent which was better known in England was the culture of French writing around the Valois court of Paris, and later also in Burgundy. In its patriotic fashioning of local language as literature, fifteenth-century England was playing catch-up. Even when emphasising its specific identity, England was indebted to what had been going on elsewhere in Europe.

If this surprises a visitor, they cannot complain that they were not warned. Daniel Wakelin’s introductory panel draws attention to the limited presence of English in this world where Latin dominated. The fully literate — the literati — did not just write in it, they spoke it and they thought in it. They were certainly not the majority: they were, in fact, a tiny minority in England, though their presence was unevenly spread. One of the images which acts as back-drop to the cases brought this forcefully home to me: I had a moment of recognition, seeing before me the hall of Christ Church, where I had been an undergraduate and my mind’s ear could hear myself reciting the Latin grace before dinner that I had been called upon to read. The hall was built in the later 1520s by Thomas Wolsey for his foundation of Cardinal College. The statutes for that college survive; they are derivative of earlier examples in many respects, including in their stipulation that over dinner the students should speak in Latin (or, if they stumbled, Wolsey allowed them to turn to Greek instead). Later in the sixteenth century, that same hall, now a central space of the royal foundation of Christ Church, was host to royal visitors who would be entertained by plays written by students in Latin. There is, in other words, an irony that ‘Designing English’ is taking place under the aegis of the University of Oxford, an institution where for centuries being learned was being Latinate — being conversant, that is, in something more than what would have been called dismissively the mother tongue.

This exhibition, then, is a triumph not only in its beauty and, indeed, in the artistry of its design. In the ancient Roman procession that gives us the term, triumph, beside the victorious general would stand a slave repeatedly saying in the victor’s ear ‘Remember, you too are mortal’. Likewise, this exhibition celebrates but it also whisper to us when we think of the book and of the extent of English: ‘Remember the limits’.

N. R. Ker and the palaeographer’s work ethic

Posted in Manuscripts, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 18 March, 2018

I am not doing very well with keeping my New Year’s resolution, which was, my friends, to spend more time with you via this blog. As you will see, after a sprint-start in January, the dynamo ran low and all fell quiet. I could claim that my Lenten vow has been to give up on my resolution – but now I am even breaking that.

I could make my excuses. I could, with honesty, say that I have been prioritising: apart from my teaching and research duties, there have been three papers to give in as many months (I know, I know, I should learn to say no). The last of these was in Magdalen College, Oxford, and was on someone whose energy and productiveness puts me to shame, the doyen of mid-twentieth century British palaeographers, Neil Ripley Ker.

Ker’s name is well-remembered in scholarly circles, though it is over three decades since his relatively early death in 1982, at the age of seventy-four. Anglo-Saxonists still prize his Catalogue of Manuscripts containing Anglo-Saxon (Oxford, 1957, reissued 1990); the wider community of manuscript researchers continue to thank him for his monumental Medieval Manuscripts in British Libraries, of which two volumes appeared in his lifetime — the first in 1969 — the third following soon after his death, and the enterprise being completed thanks to Alan Piper and Ker’s executor, Andrew Watson. It was one of two major projects for which Ker had main responsibility that has become widely known by a four-letter acronym. Alongside MMBL, there sits MLGB, Medieval Libraries of Great Britain, a listing of books for which provenance from a medieval British library can be traced; in the team that produced the 1941 volume, Ker was the most active (in part because, during the Second World War, he was a conscientious objector), and he also led on the significant revision which appeared as a second edition in 1964. The enduring importance of the work is attested by its transfer into electronic form as MLGB3, a version being provided thanks to Richard Sharpe and James Willoughby.

My talk in Magdalen, however, focussed on none of those works. It was designed to relate to the present exhibition in the college’s Old Library, which is an elegant and instructive display of music fragments. If you have not seen it yet, it is open each Thursday afternoon until 19th April 2018. It is the work of the urbane musicologist, Giovanni Varelli, and of the energetic librarian, Daryl Green — my only contribution to it was to offer a pun for its title, ‘Fragments of Note’. I was asked to speak in part because I am presently working on preparing the catalogue of the college’s manuscripts for print, and also because of my known interest in manuscript fragments. The most recent manifestation of that is the Lost Manuscripts website, but, a decade and a half ago, I was involved (with Scott Mandelbrote) in providing addenda and corrigenda for the reprint of Neil Ker’s Pastedowns in Oxford Bindings, which was first published by Oxford Bibliographical Society in 1954. Given that Ker himself was a Magdalen man, it seemed appropriate to talk about his work in producing a volume whose transformative potential for scholarship has not (I argued) yet been fully harnessed.

The title-page of the 2004 reprint of Ker’s 1954 volume.

It has been said that Pastedowns has a ‘wonderfully frumpy title’ and it may be that its lack of ostentation has been part of the reason that it is a publication often considered as one of Ker’s learned opuscula. That is not to say it has been entirely ignored: one of the reasons it was reprinted fifty years after its first publication was because it had been repeatedly cited in another volume that the Society had overseen, David Pearson’s Oxford Bookinding (2000). Pearson’s title suggests where the weight of attention has fallen: it is Ker’s exemplary discussion of the stamps and ornaments used in Oxford bindings of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries that has garnered the most interest. That, though, was, in effect, an appendix to the main study, which was a listing of manuscript pastedowns — not, it must be noted, all fragments — found in those bindings. Ker’s purpose was to begin to understand the process of destruction of manuscript culture in an England overtaken by print and by Reformation. In that enterprise, he has not, I would suggest, had the followers that his subject deserves.

My intention now, however, is not to reprise my talk but to draw attention to three points about his method of working which struck me forcibly as I was preparing it. The first is the evidence for his practices provided by the surviving notes on which the printed book depends. They show him checking each volume in person, taking rubbings of the binding as an aide-memoire and making brief notes on the text of the fragment. This last element hints at what a remarkably retentive memory he had. Boxed into our Google-world, where ‘real-time’ checking on-line can be combined with digital photography to refresh our hazy recollection of the item itself, we are liable to underestimate what a feat it was for him to identify both texts and the relationships between fragments which were geographically dispersed.

A page from Neil Ker’s post-publication notes on pastedowns.

If that might make most of us mortals despair at achieving his level of scholarship, there is a second factor that is salutary. It is the amount of sheer legwork that was essential for Pastedowns to be produced. The published work is nearly entirely confined to examples available in Britain. That was not the end of his studies: the image above shows him working on pastedowns on a rare trip to the States in 1971, a decade and a half after the book’s appearance. The tracking down of relevant examples was an enduring interest of Ker’s and, indeed, forms the main source of the addenda provided in both Pearson’s Oxford Bookbinding and the reprint of Pastedowns. What, though, is more remarkable is the effort he put into researching his topic ahead of submitting the volume to the press. It is perhaps best demonstrated by the map I have compiled of all the places he visited.

It is clear that, while there is a concentration in the obvious locations of Oxford, London and Cambridge, Ker saw it as his duty to criss-cross Britain in tracking down other examples, in public libraries, in parish church collections, and in private hands. All this took time, and that is the third point I want to stress. Pastedowns was published in 1954 and the text as printed shows that additions were being made up to the last possible moment. The history that lay behind it, however, went back about two decades. Magdalen has in its archives the notebooks he produced on the fragments in his college, and I am able to date those to the second half of the 1930s. That is to say, this was a long-term project requiring sustained determination. There was none of the publish-and-be-damned culture that the REF encourages. I would like to submit Ker’s Pastedowns as a vindication of the principle of slow study.

Looking through Neil Ker’s papers is a humbling experience. It reminds one of the qualities needed for such scholarship. We often hear of the ‘palaeographer’s eye’, and Ker certainly had that. What is meant by that is an ability to detect the distinctive features on a page, combined a retentive visual memory. In addition, Ker shows how the research has to be both painstaking and patient, aiming at a comprehensiveness which does not brook over-hasty publication. He also epitomises both a love of detail and an ability to see beyond the mass of minutiae to their wider implications — and it is that vision in Pastedowns which I think we have yet fully to appreciate.

There is, then, much more we can do and the starting-point must be to return to Ker’s work. This is why, thanks to financial support from the Bibliographical Societies of London and Oxford, I am beginning a project to create an online searchable edition of Pastedowns, to be hosted on the Lost Manuscripts website. Not all the funding is yet in place (if you want to assist, let me know!), but the work on building the database is beginning. I hope you share a little of my excitement at the times ahead.

Littera antiqua as a cosmopolitan enterprise

Posted in Humanism, Manuscripts, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 25 January, 2018

One advantage of teaching palaeography at King’s College, London, this year — apart from the enthusiastic and inquisitive students, of course — is that it is a short hop to the Eurostar. So, having introduced the groups to the delights of textualis yesterday morning, I am now in Paris to speak at the conference. Its title is L’Humanisme à l’épreuve de l’Europe (XV e. -XVI e siècles) and my topic is ‘The Renaissance of littera antiqua: a cosmopolitan enterprise’. At the risk of forfeiting what suspense there might be to my paper, let me share with you one small part of what I will discuss.

Littera antiqua, otherwise known as Roman hand or humanist minuscule, is famously an invention of Florence, c. 1400. Poggio Bracciolini (my old friend) and his colleagues called their innovation ‘ancient letter’ because they saw themselves reviving a script older than what had recently been fashionable. They insulted that fashion by labelling it not just modern but also ‘gothic’. That term implied that the contemporary bookhands, with their compressed, uniform-looking script, were an imposition on Italy by barbarian foreigners who knew no better. Poggio and those who encouraged him wanted to liberate their countrymen from this tutelage, and looked back to the scripts that preceded gothic to find a style of writing they considered more legible and more elegant. In this way, the humanists’ campaign had an element of local pride, of asserting an Italian-born cultural identity against the invasion of northern European habits.

The humanists’ nomenclature has stuck, and with it also some of the assumptions that underlie it. In particular, littera antiqua, like the other forms of script that the humanist came to promote, has been seen as an Italian product which was sometimes exported in the years after its invention and then slowly adopted in countries beyond the Alps, by the barbarians themselves. Thus, it is considered a safe assumption that a manuscript in a fine humanist minuscule was manufactured by an Italian, unless there is explicit evidence to the contrary. Sometimes there is, in fact, such contrary proof, for it is known that there were some non-Italians who adopted the humanist scribal habits, even in their homeland. So, for instance, Poggio tutored other copyists in the new style and these included one Frenchman, with whom his master was pleased — and his ability to emulate Poggio’s hand was so successful that it has sometimes proven difficult to distinguish one from another.

The ‘good French scribe’ is thought of as the exception, and in Florence, this has some truth. A. C. de la Mare’s seminal listing of seventy-two Florentine humanist scribes includes only eight who were non-Italian. That, though, does constitute a proportion of over one in ten. I have, previously in print, extrapolated from the data provided by Albert Derolez for a larger group of humanist scribes active across Italy and shown that the proportion there is one in six. It would, in other words, seem that in the city of littera antiqua’s birth, the engagement of foreigners in the humanist agenda was below the average.

There is one city which is certainly known to have been highly cosmopolitan and that is Rome. Elisabetta Caldelli, in a rich survey of scribes in the papal city, has drawn attention to the fact that about half of those whose identities we know were visitors, often long-term residents, from other countries. Caldelli’s figures, however, range across all scribes, not just those who adopted humanist practices. It would be plausible to assume that those who came from ‘gothic’ cultures would continue to deploy that style in which they were originally trained, and so that a lower proportion wrote in littera antiqua. In preparing my paper, I investigated her data further, organising those with a stated origin by geographical areas as they would have been contemporarily defined, and identifying the usual style employed by each of the copyists, both Italian and non-Italian. Of Caldelli’s 138 scribes, I find that 126 can be defined by national origin (my figures and designations differ slightly from hers; she organises them by modern countries). Of those, it becomes clear that only a minority — a third — of the total list were expert in littera antiqua, but that, of that minority, exactly half were non-Italian. Here is the information in detail:

 

All scribes

Scribes of littera antiqua

German

26

7

Netherlandish

17

8

French

15

4

Spanish

3

1

Scottish

2

1

Bohemian

2

 
TOTAL 65 out of 126 scribes (51.5%) 21 out of 42 scribes (50%)

[Data extrapolated from E. Caldelli, Copisti a Roma nel Quattrocento (Rome, 2006)]

Naturally, these figures need to be used with caution: they are based on named scribes, and not all were ostentatious enough to announce their identity. More did so in the Quattrocento than in previous centuries, but still only a small proportion of manuscripts have a revelatory colophon. It may be that scribes from afar were more likely to state their nationality, though I must say that I know of several non-Italian scribes active in Italy who did not feel the urge to do so. It is also the case that the figures make Rome exceptional, as Florence also was: nowhere else in the peninsula could claim to have a community of humanist scribes that was so cosmopolitan.

Even with those caveats, there is a very striking implication of these figures. The usual assumption, as I have said, is that a manuscript in littera antiqua should be taken to be by an Italian hand until proven otherwise. If, though, a volume hails from Rome, that assumption is patently not sound: it is equally likely that it was by a foreigner. That said, it is not always easy to localise a codex to a particular city and, that being the case, it raises further complications. In most places, only a minority of humanist scribes were non-Italian but the proportion was rarely negligible and, that being so, is it legitimate to continue to hold the traditional assumption? More broadly, is it not time to reconceptualise the history of the impressive pan-European success of littera antiqua?

This, as I have said, is only one small part of my talk and, in describing to you, I have glossed over some of the interesting features: I have not mentioned the split between nations; I have also left aside the issue of humanist cursive and of its most elegant sub-type, the italic bookhand (the proportions are strikingly different from the ones I have just outlined). There is more to say — but, then, I do need to leave some revelations fresh for the conference audience.

 

New light on George Hermonymos in England

Posted in Auctions, Manuscripts, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 9 July, 2017

Encountering the unexpected is the thrill and the curse of research. A thrill because it provides the frisson — no, that is too coy: it provides (as I have said before) a hit and a high as strong as any hallucinogen which keeps up going through the dull days when the sources turn up the same old material again and again. It is a curse because it reminds us that our work cannot be done and our conclusions only ever provisional. And if we imagine that we have conquered the archive and have panoramic knowledge of what is there, then the unexpected appears to remind us that the archive itself is always incomplete.

In my case, what offers up the unexpected is often an auction house. Perhaps, like the character in The History Man, I should be able to predict the unpredictable because, looking over my notes, I see the unexpected comes up for sale with some frequency. There have been four instances of previously unknown codices relevant to my research turning up for sale during the lifetime of this blog, so that it is an average of just under once every two years. But they do bunch together: the year 2010 was a bumper one (and not just because it was when I married — nobody thought of buying one of these as our wedding present): a previously unknown manuscript by the one-eyed Dutch scribe Pieter Meghen, and another by an earlier compatriot of his, Petrus Lomer. The following year Sotheby’s revealed to the world a volume associated with the English humanist, John Shirwood, protégé of George Neville, bishop of Exeter and subsequently archbishop of York. The latest addition to the list of manuscripts that have lurked in private hands unknown to scholars also has a connexion with George Neville, brother of the Warwick the kingmaker who fell into disfavour and into prison after Edward IV returned to the throne after Warwick’s failed coup against him. It is a pocket-sized codex, in its original binding of velvet over boards, by an itinerant Greek scholar, George Hermonymos, who was sent to England to secure the release from prison of Neville, only to end up in gaol himself. It is to be auctioned on Wednesday, 12 July, as lot 17 in the Christie’s sale. The asking price is beyond my meagre means but it is my birthday coming, so I can dream…

As the catalogue says, this volume is the twin of a known manuscript, London: British Library, MS. Harl. 3346, a set of gnomic sayings of ancient philosophers, compiled in Latin by Hermonymos. In that manuscript, the work opens with a dedication to Archbishop Neville, decorated with an English style of bianchi girari initial inhabited with grotesques, known from other manuscripts; preceding it on the opposite verso is an illumination of two angels holding Neville’s coat-of-arms (but with a glaring error that quarters them with the arms of the see of Canterbury). The new manuscript has the same layout, though here the dedicatee is, instead, William, abbot of St Albans – who precisely that was is unclear since, in the years that the Greek humanist was in England, the position changed hands from one William (Albon) to another (of Wallingford). The coat-of-arms in this manuscript (sable, three covered pitchers argent) does not help, either. The Christie’s catalogue considers them to be overpainted but when I inspected the manuscript, it struck me that there is absolutely no sign of a previous coat and that any removal has been very careful, leaving in place the angels’ fingers holding the shield. It is, then, more likely to be the only coat-of-arms painted but, as far as I have been able to find so far, we do not know the heraldry of either of these abbots.

If that sounds to be a dead end, there are ways in which the manuscript opens up new routes of research. It is a twin to that intended for Neville not just in its presentation but also in its text: the dedication to the work is nearly identical in wording, with only a few changes reflecting the lower status of the abbot (so ‘reverendissimus’ becomes ‘reverendus’). I have previous acquaintance with this text, because I edited it for the appendix I produced for the fourth edition of Roberto Weiss’s Humanism in England — a work available on-line and, I am assured, about to be printed (you can pre-order a copy). That, of course, has now become slightly outdated by the discovery of this new copy and so I have revised my own work which I offer to you (most learned reader) as an attachment.

As I note in the headnote to that appendix item, there is another codex, London: British Library, MS. Harl. 3348, which also has Hermonymos’s work, though it is damaged and so lost its opening. That means we cannot know for whom it was made and the assumption has been that it was an abortive attempt at a presentation copy for Neville, superseded by MS. Harl. 3346. Certainly, the preface addresses its recipient with the same superlatives (‘reverendissmus’ etc), while the script in this manuscript is a gothic bookhand rather than the humanist littera antiqua of MS. Harl. 3346. However, the fact that we know now that Hermonymos produced another version for another dedicatee raises the possibility that, in fact, he was having multiple copies made in a somewhat scatter-gun approach at seeking patronage. Famously, Erasmus was later chided for what was seen as a humanist habit of recycling one dedication for another recipient, and it is manifest that the visiting Greek was involved in this practice. It was not for that reason, we should stress, that he ended up in prison — that would have been a harsh penalty. We might wonder for whom MS. Harl. 3348 might have been intended: the form of address suggests that it was a high-ranking cleric, at least a bishop. Could the error in Neville’s copy, with the arms displaying those at the see of Canterbury, be a muddle with what was supposed to appear in this manuscript, making the other recipient Cardinal Thomas Bourchier, archbishop of England’s southern province?

I talked in the previous paragraph of Hermonymos having multiple copies made and this is where we can advance scholarship a little further because of the manuscript about to be sold at Christie’s. I have already mentioned that the two Harleian volumes are in different scripts but they are, I suspect, both by the same hand. I believe the work can probably be identified with a small group of three manuscripts (now in Corpus Christi College, Oxford) in which the style shifts between gothic and humanist — the identity of the copyist is elusive but we do know he produced those books for John Shirwood, Neville’s associate with whom we know Hermonymos had contact while in England. There is a further piece of evidence that needs to be added: while the main text of the presentation copy to Neville is all in one hand, the opening title is inserted by a different person, as can be seen in the image provided by the BL’s Illuminated Manuscripts Catalogue. The handwriting of that title is a match for the complete text of the ‘new’ codex.

This raises a possibility. It is common practice in humanist manuscripts that the person over-seeing the scribe adds the headings. If these volumes conform to that, it would suggest that the person who has control of the enterprise is the scribe of the copy made for the abbot of St Albans. This might seem counter-intuitive: would not the most care be taken for the volume planned to be given to the person of highest standing? Indeed, that is likely but that does not mean the overseer would take responsibility for the copying, particularly if they thought a more professional scribe was to hand. The tentative conclusion to which this thinking is reaching is probably already apparent: might not the overseer be the mastermind of the text itself, George Hermonymos?

Hermonymos has been well studied as a scribe in his native language of Greek; his Latin script is less known. The only certain examples are in a humanist cursive which is less formal than that in the manuscript up for sale. One of those is in the Bodleian, as MS. Grabe 30, Hermonymos’s own notebook, where he signs one entry in Latin.

Oxford: Bodleian, MS. Grabe 30 fol. 112v, with Latin and Greek scripts by George Hermonymos

We cannot make a direct match between that and the codex for the abbot of St Albans: not only are they in different styles of script but that in the Bodleian manuscript is less certain. We might hypothesise, of course, that Hermonymos would be in his private notebook more experimental and less confident than in a presentation manuscript. There are, moreover, some similarities of aspect — the similar slant of long letters — and of letter-forms, the pronounced foot of the r and the curve on the h, for instance. In short, the only firm conclusion must be that it cannot be ruled out that the small manuscript about to be sold at Christie’s is a rare example of its author’s Latin bookhand.

Oh dear, have I just increased the asking price? With that, another of my dreams recedes further from the realms of realisability.

Addendum (6th May 2019): The manuscript was sold at auction for £27,500, an impressive figure for a diminutive and damaged codex. The buyer’s identity was, as is usual, kept secret at the time, but (thanks to a mention by a Yale PhD student on Twitter) it is now known to be the Beinecke Library, where this manuscript now has the shelfmark of MS. 1217. I note that, in their description, they follow my suggestion that the script may be by Hermonymos.

 

 

Fragmentary futures

Posted in Manuscripts, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 12 June, 2017

Next week, there is a one-day conference in Cambridge which is a positively mouth-watering prospect — at least for those of us who are fascinated with manuscript fragments. The organisers, Stephanie Azzarello and Kate Rudy, have brought together an impressive list of speakers, and then there is me, rounding of the day with a talk entitled ‘Utopia, Babel and Dsytopias, past and present’. Ahead of that, I was asked to write a post for the conference’s micro-site and it has just been published. In it, I ask some questions about what the drivers may be for the recent upsurge in interest in fragments. I do not pretend to have answers and would be interested to hear your views.

https://reconstructingmanuscripts2017.wordpress.com/2017/06/10/the-age-of-the-fragment/

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