bonæ litteræ: occasional writing from David Rundle, Renaissance scholar

The Relics of Humfrey, duke of Gloucester at St Albans

Posted in British History, Uncategorized by bonaelitterae on 19 November, 2018

One of the greatest pleasures among many of my line of work is being invited to give a public lecture. This is always thanks to the audience, who bring their own knowledge and interests to the event, often encouraging (and sometimes forthrightly challenging) you to rethink your own assumptions, and inviting you to present your research with a fresh perspective. It can also be because of the location — and there are few better than mine last Thursday: the crossing of St Albans Cathedral.

The title for my evening lecture was ‘St Albans and the Cult of Humfrey, duke of Gloucester’. I had been asked because news had reached there of my interest in the duke who, of course, is posthumously a local lad, being buried there with a fine chantry situated behind the high altar, just south of Alban’s shrine. My talk was necessarily an overview, considering, as I put it, ‘how Humfrey became Good’ and ‘how Humfrey became an Anglican’. That, though, is not how I began the discussion and it is that first section I want to discuss with you.

Humfrey tomb

Engraving of Humfrey’s chantry in George Sandford, A Genealogical History of the Kings of England (London, 1677)

I opened the lecture with the visit to St Albans in 1765 of David Garrick and his fellow actor, James Quin. They went to the abbey church and saw the duke’s chapel. They were particularly interested in the duke’s tomb which, as was rediscovered in 1703, lies beneath the monument, with a wooden coffin enclosing a lead one. It had been opened on its rediscovery to find that the duke had been embalmed, preserved in a ‘strong pickle’. The two visitors left the church to find lunch at the Christopher Inn on French Row (which in later years, it is said, was a brothel). Over their food and drink, they mused on what they had seen and Garrick was inspired to pen a short poem, entitled Quin’s Soliloquy, in which it was wondered what the use would be of being pickled when dead; much rather (Garrick claimed Quin proposed) to be pickled in Burgundy wine when alive.

For these two actors, the remains of Humfrey were a curiosity and a cause for merriment, but they did not, as far as we know, carry away any part of him — as did many other visitors. There are tales of the removal of bones and of other parts of the body. For instance, in later years, Elizabeth, countess of Moira, herself a proto-archaeologist, recalled a trip to St Albans in 1747, when she would have been sixteen. She recounted that ‘I took from the skull of Humphrey duke of Gloucester, in his vault at St. Alban’s, a lock of hair which was so perfectly strong that I had it woven into Bath rings’. Similarly, an antiquary named John Webster recorded that he owned Humfrey’s beard ‘which the archdeacon gave me leave to take away’.

This last example, incidentally, sheds a side-light on another element of the eighteenth-century interest in Humfrey. Horace Walpole was keen to have in his collection a depiction of the ‘Good Duke’ and believed that he had two. The first that he bought was said to come from the abbey Bury St Edmunds and to represent both the duke and his uncle and enemy, Cardinal Beaufort. In truth, neither identification has much foundation and that of Humfrey shows a bald old man who is also beardless. Either John Webster was duped or (more likely) Walpole had been over-enthusiastic in his identification.

Humfrey Walpole NPG

Print of the panel that Horace Walpole owned and identified as being Humfrey (National Portrait Gallery).

We do not know if Walpole himself was one of those who paid their homage to Humfrey at his monument, but the result of others’ reverence was the depletion of the physical remains, to the extent that only a few bones and his skull now are in situ. The skull was studied in 1830, with a cast being made, so that a phrenological investigation could be undertaken. By the time the report was published a couple of years later, the cast had disappeared.

There are two features that strike me in these tales. The first is that of the secular relic. That visitors could take away hair and bones, with the church’s connivance, might suggest that some payment was made and that this was a much-needed source of funds for an over-large building for the parish it then served (the former abbey was only to be raised to the status of a cathedral in 1877 and, at the point, much restoration was necessary). We might want to see it as the precursor to tourist tat, but that would surely to be misunderstand at least part of its attraction. The examples I have mentioned all suggest an antiquarian or ‘scientific’ interest related to the removals. There was surely also something else involved in these, as with Walpole’s fascination with Humfrey: a sense of association with a ‘great man’ that was best expressed by ownership of some tactile element of him.

We might well find that alien and our distance from this tradition is perhaps part of the explanation for the second element: the ephemeral nature of these relics. The cast was not available very soon after its production; neither piece of hair — to my knowledge — remains. If you happen to own some bodily part of the duke or know where one might be found, I would dearly like to hear from you. As our information stands at present, there is no such thing available to view in a present-day collection. That says much about how the style of interaction reflected in these tales has died. With it, of course, Humfrey has undergone something akin to a second death: the removal of his bones was a dispersal but it is later generations who bear the responsibility of their discarding and disappearance. We cannot but find odd a Protestant habit of seeking relics of such an unsaintly figure as the ‘Good Duke’ but we have also to recognise that our perplexity leaves us struggling to reconstruct not just one aristocrat’s body but a former culture’s apparatus of association in which even a piece of hair could have talismanic qualities. It leaves me wondering whether the eighteenth century would have been more comfortable with ‘actor network theory’ than some third millennium observers seem to be.

I opened with the visit to St Albans in 1765 of David Garrick and his fellow actor, James Quin. They visited the abbey church and saw the duke’s chapel. They were particularly interested in the duke’s tomb which, as was rediscovered in 1703, lies beneath the monument, with a wooden coffin enclosing a lead one. It had been opened in 1703 to find that the duke had been embalmed, preserved in a ‘strong pickle’. The two visitors left the church to find lunch at the Christopher Inn on French Row (which in later years, it is said, was a brothel). Over their food and drink, they mused on what they had seen and Garrick was inspired to pen a short poem, entitled Quin’s Soliloquy, in which it was wondered what the use would be of being pickled when dead; much rather (Garrick claimed Quin proposed) to be pickled in Burgundy wine when alive.

For these two actors, the remains of Humfrey were a curiosity and a cause for merriment, but they did not, as far as we know, carry away any part of him — as did many other visitors. There are tales of the removal of bones and of other parts of the body. For instance, in later years, Elizabeth, countess of Moira, herself a proto-archaeologist, recalled a trip to St Albans in 1747, when she would have been sixteen. She recounted that ‘I took from the skull of Humphrey duke of Gloucester, in his vault at St. Alban’s, a lock of hair which was so perfectly strong that I had it woven into Bath rings’. Similarly, an antiquary named John Webster recorded that he owned Humfrey’s beard ‘his which the archdeacon gave me leave to take away’.

This last example, incidentally, sheds a side-light on another element of the eighteenth-century interest in Humfrey. Horace Walpole was keen to have in his collection a depiction of the ‘Good Duke’ and believed that he had two. The first that he bought was said to come from the abbey Bury St Edmunds and to represent both the duke and his uncle and enemy, Cardinal Beaufort. In truth, neither identification has much foundation and that of Humfrey shows a bald old man who is also beardless. Either John Webster was duped or (more likely) Walpole had been over-enthusiastic in his identification.

We do not know of Walpole himself was one of those who paid their homage to Humfrey at his monument, but the result of others’ reverence was the depletion of the physical remains, to the extent that only a few bones and his skull now are in situ. The skull was studied in 1830, with a cast being made, so that a phrenological investigation could be undertaken. By the time the report was published a couple of years later, the cast had disappeared.

There are two features that strike me in these tales. The first is that of the secular relic. That visitors could take away hair and bones, with the church’s connivance, might suggest that some payment was made and that this was a much-needed source of funds for an over-large building for the parish it then served (the former abbey was only to be raised to the status of a cathedral in 1877 and, at the point, much restoration was necessary). We might want to see it as the precursor to tourist tat, but that would surely to be misunderstand at least part of its attraction. The examples I have mentioned all suggest an antiquarian or ‘scientific’ interest related to the removals. There was surely also something of Walpole’s fascination with Humfrey — a sense of association with a ‘great man’ that was best expressed by ownership of some tactile element of him.

For us, a bone is most likely to be considered just a bone, a witness to our shared humanity. In a culture where phrenology took the shape of the head to be revelatory of the inner workings of a character, there was a different sense of signification and significance. A parallel could be with the interest in autographs, where a person’s writing was not just a specimen but a potential window on their mind as the movement of the pen could be claimed to reveal that person’s thoughts and inclinations. One piece of evidence taken from their true self, in other words, could express their essence: they are immanent in their slightest remain.

We might well find that mindset alien and our distance from this tradition is perhaps part of the explanation for the second element: the ephemeral nature of these relics. The cast was not available very soon after its production; neither piece of hair — to my knowledge — remains. In fact, we would be hard pressed to find any bone or bodily part of the duke’s in a present-day collection, and that says much about how the style of interaction reflected in these tales has died. With it, of course, Humfrey has undergone something akin to a second death: the removal of his bones was a dispersal but it is later generations who bear the responsibility of their discarding and disappearance. We cannot but find odd a Protestant habit of seeking relics of such an unsaintly figure as the ‘Good Duke’ but we have also to recognise that our perplexity leaves us struggling to reconstruct not just one aristocrat’s body but a former culture’s apparatus of association in which even a piece of hair could have talismanic qualities. It leaves me wondering whether the eighteenth century would have been more comfortable with ‘actor network theory’ than some third millennium observers seem to be.

 

 

 

 

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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.

 

 

Good Duke Humfrey: bounder, cad and biliophile (Part I)

Posted in Manuscripts by bonaelitterae on 17 December, 2013

Yesterday, 16th December, I gave the Christmas Lecture to the Volunteer Guides of the Bodleian Library. The talk took place in the University’s Convocation House, with the convivial party following next door in the Divinity School. I would like to thank Marilyn Tresias for the invitation, and Felice Vermeulen for her skilful organisation. My talk was entitled ‘Good Duke Humfrey: bounder, cad and biliophile’. As has become my usual practice, I spoke without notes, but I intend to provide here an approximation of what I said. This is the first instalment, with the second half appearing tomorrow:

When I was invited to talk to you about Humfrey, duke of Gloucester, on whose library I have worked intermittently for over a decade, I accepted with alacrity. Standing here now, I wonder whether I should have tread with more angelic steps. Sitting at the back of your business meeting a moment ago, it struck me that I was about to lecture to people all of whom are themselves expert in being the speaker, rather than the passive listener. Not only that but you are the guides to this institution, Thomas Bodley’s successor foundation to that endowed by the Good Duke, by Bodley’s own calculation the fourth Library of the University of Oxford – the third being Humfrey’s, the second that provided by Thomas Cobham, bishop of Worcester and the first (moving back beyond history into the mists of myth) that donated by King Alfred. What, I am wondering, can I tell you that you do not already know about the man largely responsible for the third library of the University of Oxford?

You certainly do not need me to remind you that Humfrey delighted in being described as the son, brother and uncle of kings. He was the youngest boy of Henry Bolingbroke who, when Humfrey was not yet ten, usurped the English throne from Richard II and was crowned Henry IV. Humfrey was brother to Henry V who, at Agincourt, saved his youngest sibling’s life when Humfrey, thrown from his horse, lay prone on the ground, with Henry standing over him, fighting off assailants until the duke of Gloucester could be pulled to safety. And he was uncle to Henry VI who, it has been said, moved from the inanity of childhood to imbecility without the intermission of lucidity that usually occurs between those two states. He was, in his nephew’s long minority, England’s Protector – not its Regent, and that was an issue of some contention. Moreover, from 1435, following the death of his last surviving elder brother, John, duke of Bedford, Humfrey was heir apparent to the throne.

The heir apparent who, as you also well know, ended his life on 23rd February 1447 at St Saviour’s Hospital, Bury St Edmunds, arrested on an accusation of treason against his own nephew. The manner of his death was cause for him to be awarded posthumously the sobriquet of ‘Good’. Those contemporaries who may have been in a position to know did not suggest any foul play was involved in the duke’s death but the circumstances allowed those of a more suspicious bent to smell the scent of conspiracy and murder. In the sixteenth century, the most frequent explanation was that he had been smothered ‘between two featherbeds’, though others said he had been strangled – that is the version that appears in Shakespeare – while some suggested that the murder had been hidden by effecting it with, in John Foxe’s words, ‘a whole spit [being] privily forced into his body’. In the immediate wake of his demise, his downfall was taken by those discontented with the regime as a symbol of the end of good statesmanship. There is something fitting that two of the battles of what we know of as the Wars of the Roses should have been fought close by the chantry chapel erected for him in the Abbey of St Albans.

Yet, later political historians have not been so quick to find goodness in the Duke. Rather, the general opinion is that – saving his nephew – Humfrey was the runt of the Lancastrian pack: he lacked the political shrewdness of his father, Bolingbroke, the charisma of his eldest sibling, Henry V, or even the downright competence of his closest brother in age, John, duke of Bedford. Humfrey was, these historians say, hot-headed, cack-handed and tight-fisted – but, they go on, at least he liked books.

About the books, of course, you, the volunteer guides of the Bodleian, know so much. You know that he amassed a large collection, some presented to him by their authors, some sent to him from the Continent (from France and from Italy), some given to him (more or less willingly), and many bought by him. What is all the more striking is that, in his own lifetime, he gave away something in the region of three hundred of them in a series of donations to the University of Oxford, between the late 1430s and 1444.  The University believed it was the rightful inheritor of the rest of his collection but Oxford was to be thwarted in that aspiration. On his death, the crown claimed that the Duke had died intestate – a claim strongly challenged by the University but to no avail. The result was that Humfrey’s possessions passed into the hands of the crown, and his books were dispersed, with some (but by no means all of them) suffering a sorry fate of ending up in Cambridge, at King’s College, Henry VI’s new foundation, the sister of the chantry school he founded at Eton. The Reformation saw significant deprivations to that college, so much so that only one of Humfrey’s manuscripts now resides there and only another one is known (now in the British Library). That said, the manuscripts he gave to the University of Oxford did not fare much better.

Humfrey’s books had originally been stored in the Old Library, the first-floor space in the semi-detached university accommodation adjoining the Church of St Mary the Virgin. As you know, the University authorities decided to revise the plans they had already made for the Divinity School, so that that building could house on its first floor a new library room, suitable for the donations of the Duke and of others. It opened in 1488 but its heyday was brief: by the very middle of the sixteenth century, it was closed and its books dispersed. How that came to happen is something to which I want to return at the end of this talk.

The result of the two dispersals of Humfrey’s library – that immediately following his death and the other in the sixteenth century – leaves us, presently, with just under 50 manuscripts (the exact number depends on how you count them) from a collection which probably comprised, at a necessarily rough estimate, between 500 and 600 manuscripts: an overall survival rate of under 10%. This masks some variation for, in fact, the books given to the University of Oxford have suffered worse than those he did not donate. Of the 274 listed in the University Register, only 14 are presently identifiable: a survival rate of 5%. Of those, just three are in the Bodleian, with another two of Humfrey’s books, not originally given to Oxford, now resident here; in the Oxford colleges, we can now count seven manuscripts, of which probably four come from those donated to the University.

How do we identify a manuscript as once having belonged to the Duke? As I have just mentioned, the relevant Register of the University of Oxford includes inventories of three of the gifts that Humfrey made and, on occasion, a manuscript can be matched with the information that provides. More often, though, the evidence for his ownership comes from the Duke’s own hand, for Humfrey was one of those blessed collectors who cannot resist writing in their books. In many of his volumes, Humfrey adds a formula announcing his ownership either at the front or at the final colophon – sometimes both and a few times in more places. In its usual form it reads: ‘Cest livre est A moy homfrey duc de gloucestre’. On occasion, he is even more helpful, giving his not just his name but details of how he came by a book – whether he was given it and, if so, he sometimes mentions when, or whether he bought it from, for example, an acquaintance’s executors. More rarely, but also significantly, he adds a motto to mark his ownership. I want to concentrate for a moment on one of those. At the very top of a copy of a medical treatise which opens with an illumination of his coat-of-arms, he adds ‘Loyale et belle A gloucestre’ – ‘loyal and beautiful to Gloucester’, in the feminine. The gender of those adjectives has made some wonder whether, in fact, this was a gift to Humfrey from his wife but I see no reason to make that assumption. The motto is definitely written in Humfrey’s script and there are other signs of his interest in this manuscript: he notes a section on cures for baldness (a passage which, I have to admit, also interests me). The use by a husband of a motto relevant to a wife is not unknown in other manuscripts of the fifteenth century – there is a well-known example in the collection of Humfrey’s brother, John, duke of Bedford. Are we then to take this as a mark of uxoriousness, a symbol of his love for his wife? That wife was the ill-fated Eleanor Cobham, who would end her life in prison – a little like her husband, though her confinement lasted decades not days and was as a result of her attempts, in 1441, to use sorcery to predict when Humfrey would be king. Eleanor was a distant relative of the Cobham, bishop of Worcester, who founded the University’s second library (on Bodley’s counting); it was surely not, however, for that family association Humfrey came to marry her. Indeed, that he married her at all was, to some people’s eyes a scandal, and this brings me to what you have been waiting for: Good Duke Humfrey as bounder and cad.