Early Modern English Marginalia 9780415418850, 0415418852

Table of contents :
1. Reading Habits and Reading Habitats
Or, Toward an Ecobibliography of Marginalia Joshua Calhoun2. Cut-and-Paste Bookmaking: The Private/Public Agency of Robert NicolsonJason Scott-Warren3. Book Marks: Object Traces in Early Modern BooksAdam Smyth4. The Occupation of the Margins: Writing, Space, and Early Modern WomenKatherine Acheson 5. Praying in the Margins across the Reformation: Readers' Marks in Early Tudor Books of Hours Elizabeth Patton 6. Articles of Assent: Clergymen's Subscribed Copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Church of EnglandAusten Saunders7. Anne Clifford Reads John SeldenGeorgianna Ziegler8. Marital Marginalia: The Seventeenth-Century Library of Thomas and Isabella HerveyEmma Smith9. Studied for Redaction? Reading and Writing in the Works of John HigginsHarriet Archer10. Vide Supplementum: Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading in the First FolioClare Bourne11. Early Modern Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitterSjoerd LeveltAfterword Alan G. StewartBibliographyIndex

Citation preview

Early Modern English Marginalia

Marginalia in early modern and medieval texts – printed, handwritten, drawn, scratched, colored, and pasted in – offer a glimpse of how people, as individuals and in groups, interacted with books and manuscripts over often lengthy periods of time. The chapters in this volume build on earlier scholarship that established marginalia as an intellectual method (Grafton and Jardine), as records of reading motivated by cultural, social, theological, and personal inclinations (Brayman [Hackel] and Orgel), and as practices inspired by material affordances particular to the book and the pen (Fleming and Sherman). They further the study of the practices of marginalia as a mode – a set of ways in which material opportunities and practices overlap with intellectual, social, and personal motivations to make meaning in the world. They introduce us to a set of idiosyncratic examples such as the trace marks of objects left in books, deliberately or by accident; cut-and-pasted additions to printed volumes; a marriage depicted through shared book ownership. They reveal to us in case studies the unique value of marginalia as evidence of phenomena as important and diverse as religious change, authorial self-­invention, and the history of the literary canon. The chapters of this book go beyond the case study, however, and raise broad ­historical, cultural, and theoretical questions about the strange, marvelous, ­metamorphic thing we call the book, and the equally multiplicitous, eccentric, and ­inscrutable beings who accompany them through history: readers and writers. Katherine Acheson is Professor of English Language and Literature and a senior administrator at the University of Waterloo in Canada. Her work includes Visual Rhetoric and Early Modern English Literature, also published in this series. Her recent scholarship is about the ways in which the visual features of early modern printed literature constructed reading experience, generic categories, and literary value.

Material Readings in Early Modern Culture

Series editors: James Daybell, Plymouth University, UK, and Adam Smyth, Balliol College, University of Oxford, UK

The series provides a forum for studies that consider the material forms of texts as part of an investigation into the culture of early modern ­England. The editors invite proposals of a multi- or interdisciplinary nature, and particularly welcome proposals that combine archival research with an attention to theoretical models that might illuminate the reading, writing, and making of texts, as well as projects that take innovative approaches to the study of material texts, both in terms of the kinds of primary materials under investigation, and in terms of methodologies. What are the questions that have yet to be asked about writing in its various possible embodied forms? Are there varieties of materiality that are critically neglected? How does form mediate and negotiate content? In what ways do the physical features of texts inform how they are read, interpreted and situated? Print Letters in Seventeenth-Century England Politics, Religion, and News Culture Gary Schneider Singing the News Ballads in Mid-Tudor England Jenni Hyde Text, Food And The Early Modern Reader Eating Words Jason Scott-Warren and Andrew Zurcher Reading Drama in Tudor England Tamara Atkin Early Modern English Marginalia Edited by Katherine Acheson For more information on this series, please visit: https://www.routledge. com/literature/series/ASHSER2222

Early Modern English Marginalia

Edited by Katherine Acheson

First published 2019 by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 Taylor & Francis The right of Katherine Acheson to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Acheson, Katherine O., 1963- editor. Title: Early modern English marginalia / edited by Katherine Acheson. Description: New York, NY: Routledge, 2018. | Series: Material readings in early modern culture | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2018043545 (print) | LCCN 2018054250 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Marginalia—England—History—16th century. | Marginalia—England—History—17th century. | Books and reading—England—History—16th century. | Books and reading—England—History—17th century. | Early printed books—England—16th century. | Early printed books— England—17th century. | English literature—Early modern, 1500–1700—Criticism, Textual. | Manuscripts, English—Editing. Classification: LCC Z1003.5.G7 (ebook) | LCC Z1003.5.G7 E27 2018 (print) | DDC 028/.90942—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018043545 ISBN: 978-0-415-41885-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-22881-5 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by codeMantra

Contents

List of Figures Acknowledgments Notes on Contributors Introduction: Marginalia, Reading, and Writing

vii xi xiii 1

K atherine Acheson

Section 1

Materialities

13

1 Reading Habits and Reading Habitats; or, toward an Ecobibliography of Marginalia

15

J oshua C alhoun

2 Cut-and-Paste Bookmaking: The Private/Public Agency of Robert Nicolson

35

J ason S cott-Warren

3 Book Marks: Object Traces in Early Modern Books

51

A dam S myth

4 The Occupation of the Margins: Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women

70

K atherine Acheson

Section 2

Selves

91

5 Praying in the Margins across the Reformation: Readers’ Marks in Early Tudor Books of Hours

93

E lizabeth Patton

vi Contents 6 Articles of Assent: Clergymen’s Subscribed Copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Church of England

115

Austen S aunders

7 Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden

134

G eorgianna Z iegler

8 Marital Marginalia: The Seventeenth-Century Library of Thomas and Isabella Hervey

155

E mma S mith

Section 3

Modes

173

9 Studied for Redaction? Reading and Writing in the Works of John Higgins

175

H arriet A rcher

10 Vide Supplementum: Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading in the First Folio

195

C laire M . L . B ourne

11 Early Modern Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter

234

Sjoerd L evelt

Afterword

257

A lan S tewart

Bibliography Index

267 291

List of Figures

1.1 Depiction of the sizing room, a crucial space in early hand papermaking operations. Plate XI from “Papeterie,” in d’Alembert and Diderot’s Encylopédie, vol. 5 (Plates), Paris, 1767 25 1.2 The Bible (1580), Folger STC 2129, Ii3r 29 2.1 Nicolson’s marginal marks in Christof Wirsung, Praxis medicinae universalis (1598), Folger STC 25863, cs1292, T3v (p. 294) 41 2.2 Nicolson’s pasted and manuscript additions to Christof Wirsung, Praxis medicinae universalis (1598), Folger STC 25863, cs1292, fols 2D2v (p. 420), 2S1v (p. 642), and rear pastedown 42 2.3 Title-page of Nicolson’s manuscript addition to Lodowick Lloyd, The First Part of the Diall of Daies (London: Roger Ward, 1590), Bodleian Library 4° Rawl. 140 (1) 45 3.1 Shakespeare’s Works (1623), Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library.S52 A1 1623f, 395 53 3.2 Les Oeuvres de Charles Loyseau (Paris, 1640), 133. Hendrik Conscience Library EHC 714330 56 3.3 William Shakespeare, Works (1623), Folger First Folio 63, Tragedies, 298 62 3.4 John Foxe, Acts and Monuments (1596), Ohio State University, BR1600.F6 1596, copy 1, 366–7 63 4.1 Henoch Clapham, Briefe of the Bibles history (1639), Folger STC 5335, front endpaper 75 4.2 The Bible: That is, the Holy Scriptures Contained in the Old and New Testament (1580), Folger STC 2190, blank verso at the end of the New Testament 77 4.3 Theodore Beze, Iob Expounded (1589?), Folger STC 2764 copy 1, n.s.4v 78 4.4 John Mayer, The English Catechisme Explained (1623), Folger STC 17734; rear flyleaf 78 4.5 Book of Common Prayer (1632), Folger STC 16386 copy 2, sig. B4r 79

viii  List of Figures 4.6 The Bible: That is, the Holy Scriptures Contained in the Old and New Testament (1603), Folger STC 2190, p. 43 of the New Testament 79 4.7 The Bible (1580), Folger STC 2129, p. 75 of the New Testament 81 5.1 Hore presentes ad vsum Sarum (Paris, 1502), Folger STC 15897, fol. Q8r 95 5.2 Officium Beate Marie Virginis ad vsum Sarum (Vostre, 1512), Folger STC 15913, sig. C3r 96 5.3 Officium Beate Marie Virginis ad vsum Sarum (Vostre, 1512), Folger STC 15913, sig. F8r 97 5.4 Hore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis Ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1530), Folger STC 15968, fol. 54r 99 5.5 Hore beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1534), Folger STC 15984, fol. 54r 100 5.6 Hore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis Ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1530), Folger STC 15968, n.p. (endpage with printer’s mark) 102 5.7 Hore beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1594) British Library. Shelfmark C.35.e.11, n.p 103 5.8 Hore beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1594) British Library. Shelfmark C.35.e.11, n.p 104 5.9 A goodly prymer in englyshe (London, 1538), Folger STC 15998, Sig. Q1r 107 5.10 A goodly prymer in englyshe (London, 1538), Folger STC 15998, sig. X1r 108 5.11 John Bydell for William Marshall. A goodly prymer in englyshe (London, 1535). British Library. Shelfmark C.25.gc, sig. A8v 110 6.1 Thirty-Nine Articles (1633) Bodleian 4o 277(4), sig. A1r 124 6.2 Thirty-Nine Articles (1640) Bodleian 4o 277(6), sig. A1v 128 7.1 Detail of Lady Anne Clifford’s inscription on the title page of John Selden, Titles of Honor (London, 1631), Folger Folio STC 22178 copy 3 135 7.2 Detail of annotated page 594 from Selden, Titles of Honor, Folger STC 22178 copy 3 137 7.3 Detail of p. 878 mentioning Anne Rochford (Boleyn) from Selden, Titles of Honor, Folger STC 22178 copy 3 145 7.4 Detail of p. 539 with added reference to Montaigne’s Essays from Selden, Titles of Honor, Folger STC 22178 copy 3 149

List of Figures  ix 7.5 Details of p. 412 with mention of Ben Jonson and p. 413 showing bayleaf and bookmark from Selden, Titles of Honor, Folger STC 22178 copy 3 150 8.1 Thomas Hervey’s inscription marking Isabella’s death, on a copy of Henry Hammond’s The Power of the Keyes (1647) 160 8.2 A previously owned copy of Calvin’s Institutes (1561), reinscribed for Tho:& Isabella Hervey 161 10.1 A note to the reader to see the “supple,” (or, “supplement”) for missing lines (sig. Oo1r) 196 10.2 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. G6v 199 10.3 Examples of marginal brackets in the Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio: The Tempest (sig. A2v) and Romeo & Juliet (sig. ff1r) 200 10.4 Changes made to the text of the Folio by the earlier of two hands in light-brown ink 201 10.5 Prologue to Romeo & Juliet, transcribed on the last page of Titus Andronicus 202 10.6 Images of the Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio binding 204 10.7 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. pp5r 204 10.8 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. A5r 205 10.9 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff3r 209 10.10 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff6r 210 10.11 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff5r 211 10.12 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff6r 212 10.13 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff6r 213 10.14 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff3r 214 10.15 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff4v 215 10.16 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ee6v 216 10.17 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. pp2r 220 10.18 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sigs. nn5r and nn6r 221 10.19 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. pp2r 222 10.20 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. pp2r 222 10.21 The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. F5r 223 11.1 A small doodle of a bird, in the margin between woodcuts of an early printed book, tweeted with the hashtag #MarginaliaMonday 235 11.2 Tweets, one from a rare books librarian (top), and one from a researcher involved in coding of digitized early modern marginalia, using the hashtag #marginaliamonday 236 11.3 Tweet of an image of pen trials on a pastedown in a binding, including a series of manicules, tweeted with hashtag #manicule 238

x  List of Figures 11.4 Tweet with a request for help transcribing a word in an eighteenth-century document 239 11.5 (a): Tweet about a burn mark in Higden’s Polychronicon, London: Peter Treveris, 1527 (Oxford, Bodleian Library, S.Seld. d.35, fol. 298); (b): Similar burn mark reproduced on modern paper, in response to the tweet 241 11.6 (a): Tweets appearing above each other in a timeline. Report of an archaeological find in a potato field juxtaposed with a Thompson folk-literature motif classification randomly tweeted by @MythologyBot. (b): Tweets appearing above each other in a timeline. Short humorous exchange about a blurred picture presented as “what I look like right now”, juxtaposed with a tweet from @GettyMuseum about self-portraiture 242 11.7 Tweet showing repeated deletions of the word ‘pope’ in an English printed chronicle from 1510 (Oxford, Bodleian Library, Antiq.d.E.19) 244 11.8 A tweet from Desiderius Erasmus (@DesideriErasmus), selected from his Education of a Prince, tweeted on the day of the inauguration of President Donald Trump 246 11.9 Tweets from @samuelpepys, with responses from followers 247 11.10 Tweets from @EnglishPlymUni, using hashtag #miltonwoolfparadisewaves, juxtaposing fragments from Milton’s Paradise Lost and Woolf’s The Waves 248 11.11 (a): Tweets from Holger Syme’s live tweeted reading of Brian Vickers’ The One King Lear. (b): Tweet showing an early modern manuscript response to a printed Dutch medieval chronicle (Oxford, Bodleian Library, H 1.8 Art.Seld.): ‘Oh God, how can the world have been so blinded?’ 249 11.12 (a): Tweet about bilingual annotation, showing Emmanuel van Meteren’s English annotations to Jan van Naaldwijk’s Dutch chronicle of Holland (London, British Library, MS Cotton Tiberius C IV); (b): Tweet asking “why does it all have to be in English again.” 251 11.13 Tweet showing an early modern medical student’s annotation to a printed text 252 11.14 Marginal note to the table of contents of Poly-Olbion (1613). Stanford Libraries, David Rumsey Historical Map Collection, 12180. Published under a CC BYNC-SA 3.0 license 254

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to the contributors to the volume for their brilliant essays and for their unceasing good humour at the many requests for revisions, illustrations, captions, biographies, and proofing through the process of bringing this volume together. I also thank the series editors, James Daybell and Adam Smyth, who proposed this volume to me and have helped all along the way; Tyler Black for exemplary editorial and research assistance; Andrew Gordon, William Poole, and an anonymous reader who read the proposal for Ashgate; and the editorial team at Routledge who took over the series from Ashgate. I would like to thank the Folger Institute for a short-term fellowship that led to the research represented in my chapter in the volume, and my teachers over the years, especially Heather Jackson, Stephen Orgel, and Germaine Warkentin. During the composition of this volume, I underwent treatment for cancer; I have no end of gratitude for my family, friends, colleagues, and medical team who supported me during that experience. Work on this volume during that time was a welcome, even delightful, diversion.

Notes on Contributors

Katherine Acheson  is Professor of English and Associate Dean for Undergraduate Programs in the Faculty of Arts at the University of Waterloo. She is the author of Visual Rhetoric and Early Modern English Literature and Writing Essays about Literature, the editor of Anne Clifford’s The Memoir of 1603 and the Diary of 1616–1619, and the author of numerous articles and chapters, most recently in the Oxford Companion to Marvell and the present volume. Harriet Archer  is Lecturer at the University of Colorado, Boulder. Her research focuses on historiography and metatextuality in early modern English poetry and drama. She is the author of Unperfect Histories: the Mirror for Magistrates, 1559–1610 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017) and the coeditor of Andrew Hadfield’s A Mirror for Magistrates in Context: Literature, History, and Politics in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016); with Paul Frazer, she is preparing a new edition of Thomas Norton and Thomas Sackville’s Gorboduc for the Manchester Revels Plays Series. Claire M. L. Bourne  is Assistant Professor of English at Pennsylvania State University, where she teaches courses on Shakespeare, early modern drama, and book history. She is completing a monograph entitled Typographies of Performance in Early Modern England. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in English Literary Renaissance, The Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America, Shakespeare, and several edited collections, and her research has been supported by fellowships from the Folger Shakespeare Library, the Huntington Library, and the Bibliographical Society of America. Joshua Calhoun is Assistant Professor of English and a Faculty Affiliate with the Nelson Institute for Environmental Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He specializes in Shakespeare, sixteenthand seventeenth-century poetry, environmental humanities, and the history of media. Calhoun’s work has been published in PMLA,

xiv  Notes on Contributors Shakespeare Studies, and Environmental Philosophy. His first book, The Nature of the Page: Poetry, Papermaking, and Ecology in Renaissance England, is forthcoming from University of Pennsylvania Press in 2019. Sjoerd Levelt  was until recently Assistant Professor of the Program for Cultures, Civilizations and Ideas of Bilkent University, Ankara, having previously taught at the Universities of Exeter and Sussex. He studied Dutch and English Medieval Studies in Amsterdam, Berkeley, and Oxford; received his PhD in Combined Historical Studies at the Warburg Institute (2010); and in 2012 was elected to the Fellowship of the Royal Historical Society. He won the Society for Renaissance Studies Book Prize 2012 for his book Jan van Naaldwijk’s Chronicles of Holland: Continuity and Transformation in the Historical Tradition of Holland during the Early Sixteenth Century. Levelt’s areas of interest include the medieval and early modern historiographical traditions of the Netherlands and Britain, book history, and manuscript culture in the first centuries of printing. His new position is Senior Research Associate at Bristol University’s The Literary Heritage of Anglo-Dutch Relations, c.1050 –1600 project. He tweets as @slevelt. Elizabeth Patton is Senior Lecturer in the Humanities Institute at Johns Hopkins University, where she directs the Master of Liberal Arts program. Her research interests include the history and literature of post-reformation Catholicism, with a focus on recovering the lives and writings of early modern women. She is currently completing a collaborative scholarly edition of the seventeenth-century biographies of Anne and Philip Howard, Earle and Countess of Arundel, and has published several preliminary studies for her next project: the recovery, from multiple contemporary sources in translation, of the lost Life of Father John Cornelius, SJ, by the late sixteenth-century English woman, Dorothy Arundell, who was herself an active participant in the English Mission. Austen Saunders  is Director of the Printed Books Census for the ­Oxford Traherne. He wrote a PhD on early modern marked books at ­Cambridge and has published articles on subjects including the autobiographical functions of seventeenth-century libraries and the use of marked books as a form of petition. Jason Scott-Warren is Reader in Early Modern Literature and Culture at the University of Cambridge, a Fellow of Gonville and Caius College, and Director of the Cambridge Centre for Material Texts (www.­ english.cam.ac.uk/cmt/). He is the author of Sir John Harington and the Book as Gift (2001) and Early Modern English Literature (2005). He has just completed a book based on the life records of Richard

Notes on Contributors  xv Stonley, Shakespeare’s first documented reader, and is initiating a project entitled The Exuvial Renaissance, exploring the literary implications of Alfred Gell’s notion of distributed personhood. Emma Smith  is Professor of Shakespeare Studies at Hertford College, University of Oxford. Her work focuses on the reception of Shakespeare in print, in criticism, and on stage. Her most recent book is Shakespeare’s First Folio: Four Centuries of an Iconic Book (2016). She is currently working on the ideological history of provenance and bibliography. Adam Smyth is Professor of English Literature and the History of the Book at Balliol College, Oxford University, where his research concentrates on the intersections between literary and material forms. His books include Material Texts in Early Modern England (2018), Autobiography in Early Modern England (2010), and Book Destruction from the Medieval to the Contemporary (edited with Gill Partington, 2014). He writes regularly for the London Review of Books. Alan Stewart  is Professor of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University. His publications include Close Readers: Humanism and Sodomy in Early Modern England (1997); Hostage to Fortune: The Troubled Life of Francis Bacon 1561–1626 (with Lisa Jardine, 1998); Philip Sidney: A Double Life (2000); The Cradle King: A Life of James VI and I (2003); Letterwriting in Renaissance England (with Heather Wolfe, 2004); Shakespeare’s Letters (2008); and The Oxford History of Life-Writing, vol. 2, Early Modern (2018). With Garrett Sullivan, he is co-general editor of the three-­ volume Wiley-Blackwell’s Encyclopedia of English Renaissance Literature (2012). He is co-­Director of the Oxford Francis Bacon, for which he has edited volume I, Early Writings 1584-1596 (2012), and International Director of the Centre for Editing Libes and Letters in London. His current projects include editing volume II of the Oxford Francis Bacon, and a classroom anthology of Tudor drama for Broadview Press. Georgianna Ziegler  is Associate Librarian and Head of Reference ­Emerita at the Folger Shakespeare Library, where she continues to serve as a consultant. She has published and given talks on Elizabeth I, Elizabeth of Bohemia, Esther Inglis, and about discovering writings by early modern women in the archives. A long-term project involves editing the dedications to the manuscripts of Esther Inglis. Lady Anne Clifford’s copy of Selden featured in her Folger exhibition, Shakespeare’s Sisters: Voices of English and European Women Writers, 1500–1700.

Introduction Marginalia, Reading, and Writing Katherine Acheson

In the ramshackle family cottage, the floor may be sinking but the books are in order. In my grandmother’s room, her favorites are shelved by author. The collection includes at least a dozen books by each of John Le Carré, Nicholas Freeling, Colin Dexter, and P.D. James; she prefers the well-crafted mystery story to any other. If you flip through any of these books, you will find one of the many examples of corrective marginalia that quilt my reading grandmother’s attention to the pages of her books. There’s a good one in Not as Far as Velma, one of Freeling’s novels featuring Henri Castang. This is the passage that provoked the marginalia: Monsieur Metz comes into the office around once a week for instructions or discussion, and generally manages to fart. I have sometimes said ‘You overeat’. Makes no difference. The window is open anyhow. I get up and open it further and he doesn’t even notice. The man is older than I am and does a lot he isn’t paid for. I can’t read him off like a girl of Varennes’ age. I could tell him, and do, that he is gross and revolting personage. He gets called much worse every day, and doesn’t pay a blind bit of heed.1 This passage is full of Freeling’s dry, concise, but rich characterization, not only of the individuals depicted, but of their relationship. What my grandmother has honed in on in the passage, however, is the word “overeat,” which she has underlined firmly. In the bottom margin she has written “NOT ‘OVEREATING’! →‘DIGESTING HIS FIBRES.’” This is a fine display of her character (rather more than most she is concerned with both verbal precision and gastrointestinal matters), and her relationship to the book itself, which is both an object to criticize and a framework within which she imagines her subjective self, providing a better comment on the alimentary function of her colleague as she sits in Henri Castang’s chair in the police headquarters in Strasbourg in the 1980s. My grandmother’s books are full of marginalia which are vividly expressive of herself and her interaction with the books in which they

2  Katherine Acheson appear. Her marginalia are about writing and reading and about the opportunities to do both provided by the material qualities of the book and the ballpoint pen. As almost any bookshelf in any home or library will reveal, where there are books there are marginalia. It is almost as if writing marginalia – even marginalia which do not engage with the text, which simply use the affordances of blank paper bound and enclosed  within boards – was a special provision of the thing we call a book, an opportunity for each user to express his or her experience of the moment, to become integrated with the object, the narrative, and the characters, to relate not only to the text and book themselves, but to future readers, including themselves in the future. Marginalia of all sorts are a record of our complex material, intellectual, emotional, and psychological interactions with the book, and therefore presents a special kind of history of those marvelous things and their readers. As a graduate student, I worked as a research assistant on the Coleridge project when Heather Jackson was co-editing one or another of three of the six volumes of Coleridge’s marginalia published by Princeton University Press between 1992 and 2001. Proofreading Professor Jackson’s edition of Coleridge’s marginalia was the closest I had come by that point in my life to real, active, research in the humanities, and it was duly exciting. The late Rhea Wilmshurst and I traded roles back and forth, one of us reading out loud from the typescript and the other following along silently in the galleys. We read – or rather sounded out – in several of Coleridge’s seven languages; this is the source of my knowledge of the Greek alphabet. For me, then, marginalia were the gateway to the world of scholarship and the pure delight of discovery it affords. For the rest of the world, Coleridge defined the importance of marginalia to our understanding of reading. The six volumes of marginalia published in the Princeton edition contain more than eight thousand notes by Coleridge. Coleridge brought the Latin word, marginalia, into English when his notes on Thomas Browne were published in Blackwood’s Magazine in 1819. Coleridge was known as an annotator, and “His friends knew about and encouraged his habit of writing comments in the margins of books. They lent him books of their own to comment on.”2 Like his notebooks, Coleridge’s marginalia reinforced his reputation as a paradigmatic reader. The publication of the Princeton volumes coincided with growing interest in the experience of reading; as Jackson noted in her study of marginalia from 1700 to 2000, “Given the recent shift of attention from the writer to the reader and to the production, dissemination, and reception of texts, marginalia of all periods would appear to be potentially a goldmine for scholars.”3 For early modernists, the first scholars to mine marginalia for gold were Lisa Jardine and Anthony Grafton, in their essay “‘Studied for Action:’ How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy.” They too sought evidence of reading, but the early modern context, and the intellectual circle to which their examples belonged, painted a picture of a different kind of

Marginalia, Reading, and Writing  3 reading than was imagined for Coleridge. From marginalia and letters written by Gabriel Harvey and his employers and associates, Jardine and Grafton identified reading that was “intended to give rise to something else,”4 collaborative, action-oriented, and context-driven. Harvey and others made their books into records of the social circles they inhabited, using title pages, margins, and blank leaves to give detailed accounts of remarkable experiences and conversations. Annotated books regularly turned into something between diaries and historical records, efforts to freeze and preserve for posterity the talk and buzz of a particular intellectual world. (Grafton in Baron 32) Jardine and Grafton used marginalia as unique and privileged evidence of humanist reading practices and therefore of the history of reading as a social and intellectual collaboration, rather than an individual, private, activity. Jardine and Grafton’s essay was (and remains) very influential, and the use of marginalia as evidence of reading practices has been furthered by scholars such as Stephen Orgel in his work on Anne Clifford,5 Heidi Brayman in her book Reading Material in Early Modern England: Print, Gender, and Literacy, Fred Schurink in articles on marginalia in sixteenthand seventeenth-century copies of Sidney’s Arcadia, and Edith Snook in Women, Reading, and the Cultural Politics of Early Modern England. William H. Sherman’s 1995 book, John Dee: The Politics of Reading and Writing in the English Renaissance was a case study along the lines established by Jardine and Grafton; it used marginalia as evidence of the reading practice of an exceptional reader in interaction with key cultural and literary texts and in the context of an intellectual and ideological community. Sherman’s second book, Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England (2008) – alongside Bradin Cormack and Carla Mazzio’s Book Use, Book Theory: 1500–1700, published in 2005 to accompany an exhibition at the University of Chicago – shifted the conversation to the material features of the book which provided early modern readers with opportunities for producing marginalia and other signs of book use. In addition to marginalia which offered evidence of readerly engagement, such signs of “use” include signatures claiming ownership; pen-trial, doodles, and practice in writing and arithmetic; accounts; family events, such as births, journeys, illnesses, and marriages; and sundry other acts unrelated to the matter of the text made by pen, pencil, and other marking materials. Juliet Fleming and Jason Scott-Warren characterized this kind of marking as graffiti – ­opportunistic inscription which foregrounds the availability and visibility of the ground of writing, whether a wall visible in public or the flyleaf of a commonly used book. This categorization helped scholars attend to the “endless dry runs of people learning to write their names,” “the practice alphabets,” and the reams of paper space used to practice sums.6 These

4  Katherine Acheson readings were part of growing commitment to discovering the particular affordances – what a material design allows or encourages – and constraints – what a material design prevents or discourages – of the material book and the processes by which it was produced, circulated, stored, and even – ­literally – consumed7 in early modern culture. This scholarship turned what Steven Zwicker describes, in the following passage, as signs of reading, into what they more obviously were, writing: To read with pen in hand underscoring or otherwise marking memorable passages; to correct errors or emend the text and cite variant readings; to gloss or interline with technical or rhetorical terms or with translations and citations; to summarize and cross-refer; to outline and paraphrase; to make synopses and provide interpretations; to extract maxims from Scripture and sermons, from plays and poems, from prayers and devotions; to move themes, arguments, and topics, indeed whole poems, elegies, and epitaphs, recipes and remedies, speeches and letters from one transcript to another, from printed book or manuscript text to commonplace compilation, notebook, or miscellany – these were indeed among the most commonplace acts of the early modern reader.8 All of the emphasized terms in this passage (emphasis I added) describe writing directly, and reading only indirectly: as Adam Smyth writes in this volume, “a defining paradox of studies of reading that draw on marginalia is that they are in fact, and necessarily, studies of writing, reflecting on those moments not when readers read, but when readers wrote in books.”9 This turn in marginalia studies towards writing and away from reading allows us to see marginalia as an integrated part of the early modern environment. The early modern world was textured with writing on all its surfaces: on walls and on prints pasted or tacked on walls, on trees, floors, banners, embroidered objects, plaster decorations, paintings, in jewelry, sugar work, and tableware. As writing, marginalia could be affiliated with genres, such as autobiography, biography, or writing in calendars and almanacs,10 or methods, such as those for writing exemplified in Edward Cocker’s manuals, or Robert Record’s accounting texts, or commonplacing.11 For modern critics, marginalia as writing might evoke a host of theoretical precepts that reading does not; hence, for example, the place of marginalia in Fleming’s Cultural ­Graphology, which reads features of the early modern book – including its ­inscribability – alongside Jacques Derrida’s theories about writing. The essays in this collection develop from this background. They consider marginalia, first and foremost, as writing which is material, which has the power to invent things (including selves), and which exists at the intersection of generic norms and technological affordances. The first section of the volume is titled “Materialities,” and follows up on the promise provided by the intersection between the material

Marginalia, Reading, and Writing  5 history of the book, and the turn to writing in marginalia studies. Joshua Calhoun’s chapter, “Reading Habits and Reading Habitats; Or, Toward an Ecobibliography of Marginalia,” opens by foregrounding the technological shift – from books made of paper and boards to books made of electrons and screens – that corresponded to our rising interest in reading as a historically-grounded phenomenon, and stimulated materialist inquiries into the early modern book. A notable feature of electronic books is the difficulty we have annotating them; they only grudgingly accept deliberate marginalia, often in the form of publicly-shared notes, and refuse unintended marks of use (such as those tracked by Adam Smyth in his chapter in the volume). For Calhoun, the unannotatability of e-books raises technical questions about early modern print: “whether or not,” writes Calhoun, “the average book in England c. 1600 was annotatable in the first place.”12 The chapter goes on to tell us about the history of the use of animal gelatin, or sizing, in the production, marketing, and use of early modern books, and comes to a remarkable conclusion: as paper was sized to receive water-based (manuscript) ink, and thereby became resistant to oil-based (printing) ink, most early modern printed books (the majority of which were printed on sized paper) were enabled for writing at least to the degree they were for reading. Jason Scott-Warren’s chapter, “Cut-and-Paste Bookmaking: The Private/ Public Agency of Robert Nicolson” also invites us to turn the tables on our usual way of thinking, and see marginalia not only as a fundamental affordance of the early modern book, but as a fitting supplement to it. The books that Scott-Warren brings to our attention, “refuse to treat print as final” and “sprout handwritten marginalia.”13 The additions and interventions of Robert Nicolson, the subject of Scott-Warren’s chapter, include page numbers and running headlines; pasted-in heraldic shields and lozenges; marginalia drawing attention to his presence within the printed part of the book; captions for narrative elements in poetry “so that his interventions look less like reading and more like finishing”14; blank and manuscript leaves bound with printed matter; new, hand-drawn, title pages; and instructions to the printer. Playing with a metaphor exploited by Juliet Fleming in her discussion of graffiti within books, Scott-Warren shows that this eccentric impresario, Robert ­Nicolson, succeeds in making the works he cut, embellished, supplemented, pasted in, and inscribed into distinctive, “authored,” works: “Nicolson opens his books up and inserts materials into them so as to establish his own status as a new scion growing on the old stock.”15 Adam Smyth’s chapter, “Book Marks: Object Traces in Early Modern Books,” makes clear the degree to which the questions raised in this set of essays are methodological by drawing our attention to a limit-case for marginalia studies: incidents of books marked by objects left in them, whether deliberately or accidentally. Just as Calhoun complicates our neglect of the substrate of marginalia, and Scott-Warren adumbrates our understanding

6  Katherine Acheson of reading versus writing by interjecting cutting between them, this chapter asks us whether object marks can be considered marginalia, inasmuch as they lack the scrutability, the deliberation or intentionality, and the symbolic currency of conventional marginalia. Even without words, however, object marks are legible: we understand, for instance, that a reader’s flower marking a notable passage is different from an actual flower pressed in a volume, which is different again from a row of printers’ flowers that separate sections of text or areas of the page. Object “traces” of the type Smyth takes up – flowers, spectacles, and scissors – “which seem to languish out of time, which mark something that was there but is no longer, and which signal potentially very long periods of non-reading” – raise rewarding questions about “the rich and strange social lives of books.”16 “The troubling status of object marks,” as Smyth writes, helps clarify “some of the assumptions that have underpinned work on marginalia more generally.”17 My chapter, “The Occupation of the Margins: Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women,” argues that women writers used writing, including marginalia, to create space for themselves. Anne Clifford provides several outlying and exceptionally literal examples of this: sententiae written on papers adorned her four-poster bedclothes, her castles were imprinted with her initials and motto, the Great Picture features her surrounded by printed and written words, and her marginalia created genealogical space in which to build fortresses of entitlement and moats and buttresses of inheritance. The excised dedication to Anthony Stafford’s 1611 Niobe is a negative example in which Clifford (or her husband, Richard Sackville) refused to allow her verbal image to circulate in the spaces of the city, private homes, and other readers’ hands. The chapter focuses on examples drawn from women’s marginalia in Bibles and biblical paratexts in the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library, and discusses three forms of space they open up for their writers: one, the space of ownership, a complex field in which genealogy intersects with gender, inheritance, and the proper name; two, the space of education, in which writing, reading, speech, work together to compose subjectivity and undergird entitlement; and three, the space of the city, or perambulatory, architectural, urban, geographic and chorographic space.18 Books gave women access to spaces within which to write, within which to enlarge their senses of themselves and to enjoy the power of words. Writing in books allowed women to mark out their space and define their participation in the media-rich environment in which they lived. The second section of the volume is entitled “Selves.” As Jason Scott-Warren has written, “books as vehicles for many kinds of life-­ writing,”19 and margins, flyleaves, blank pages, and endpapers were quite literally a site of biography and autobiography. As Femke Molecamp reports of family bibles in the British Library, “Taking over from books

Marginalia, Reading, and Writing  7 of hours, the bible also commonly served as a place to log family histories of births, deaths, marriages and baptisms.”20 In a more sophisticated sense, writing in the empty spaces of books might chart the evolution of an individual identity in relation to the content of books, the circulation of ideas and of books themselves, the other users of the books, and the culture of wordiness these support. Kate Narveson comments on the ways in which the printed book in Protestant England stimulated a new mastery of modes of analysis – of text, self, and world – that engagement with Scripture opened to ordinary folk. These modes of analysis granted these writers a new control over their identities. They took to Scripture their preoccupations, their consciousness of immediate circumstances, their broader literacy, and their need to map the larger significance of their lives. The culture of devotion in turn called them to apply what they found to their lives, shaping how they read and what they wrote. Application to the self, along with the ability to write, functioned as a mode of self-authorization that had never before been available to people like them. 21 The life-writing that we find in the margins of early modern books is distinctly eccentric, in that it reaches out from the self and seeks attachment to institutions, values, and communities through inscription. It is dialogic, in that the marginalia always speak to or after something else. It is often performative or illocutionary, inasmuch as it makes what it describes happen: a statement of ownership, of approval, or of relationship is often sufficient to substantiate those things. The essays in this section explore the role of marginal inscription in the development of distinctive identities, whether those are spiritual, institutional, or interpersonal. Elizabeth Patton’s chapter, “Praying in the Margins across the Reformation: Readers’ Marks in Early Modern Books of Hours” uses marginalia as evidence of “wide-ranging religious beliefs and practices” during the “confessional conflict” of the English Reformation. 22 During the Reformation, Catholic books still circulated after proclamations had declared some or all of their content illegal or sacrilegious. In these books, the removal of images by cutting, the obscuring of proper names, the sequence of crossings-out and re-inscriptions, and the manuscript addition of particular prayers and Biblical references are meaningful signs produced by readers at precise moments of their experience. We have long understood how important reading was in the emergence of Protestant subjectivity, but seldom have been afforded such glimpses of the interaction between reading and writing in books that span the pre- and post-Reformation eras that these marginalia represent. Austen Saunders’ chapter, “Articles of Assent: Clergymen’s Subscribed Copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Church of England” takes as its basis copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles sworn to and subscribed by Church of England clergymen inducted into new parishes, beginning in

8  Katherine Acheson 1571 and continuing through the seventeenth century. The clergyman’s memorandum and signature attested to their having read through the Articles in front of their parish and sworn assent to them; after 1662, the ceremony included the morning and evening services from the Book of Common Prayer as well. Saunders explores “the implications of this practice for participants’ subjective understanding of themselves as political subjects, religious believers, and members of communities.”23 Through these attestations the government used “the printed book as a technology for implementing policy” with regard to adoption of doctrine and liturgy in the Church of England. These memoranda served to prove loyalty to Church authorities, but they also required the agreement of parishioners who also signed them; in this way, the practices of the Church were promulgated and validated at several levels of Church hierarchy. According to Saunders, copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles “may have been manufactured to facilitate this practice;” they were often printed with a single blank leaf with signature A1, showing “these were not blank leaves added by binders, but integral parts of the printed book.”24 In these examples, then, we see “the printed book as a technology for implementing [and disseminating] policy”25 and for cultivating the political and theological subject of early modern England. Georgianna Ziegler’s chapter, “Anne Clifford Reads John Selden,” takes up marginalia by Clifford in a book of particular importance to her, John Selden’s Titles of Honor (1631).26 Clifford left an exceptional and complex record of her reading and writing habits: she read and reread on her own, she was read to by her secretaries and other servants, she and they wrote marginalia and other forms for later reference. Both her reading and writing were, as Ziegler describes them, “transactional,”27 in that they were interpersonal and asynchronic, and trace complex social, legal and intellectual relationships between the material, the readers, and the writers. Selden’s work was itself a compilation from multiple sources in several languages, printed with copious marginalia, and Clifford’s approach to her own textual work – intended to substantiate her legal claim to the estates bequeathed by her father to her uncle – was similar and bent towards similar ends. “The collecting, transcribing, and organizing necessary for the creation of the autobiographical projects on paper, canvas and stone which assert and prove her inherited rights, mark Lady Anne Clifford as a true historian,” writes Ziegler, “and a worthy reader of Selden.”28 ­Clifford was, as both Ziegler and Sherman argue, the supreme example of a “matriarchivist” who constructed at the meeting point of her reading and her writing an aristocratic female lineage and entitlement. The last chapter in this section is by Emma Smith, and is entitled ­“Marital Marginalia: The Seventeenth-Century Library of Thomas and Isabella ­Hervey.” Books in the Hervey collection, a “modest provincial library,”29 are marked and re-marked with ownership claims as they changed hands and as the relationships between the people whose hands they passed

Marginalia, Reading, and Writing  9 through changed. In some books Isabella’s maiden name, Isabella May, is inscribed in her hand; in some it is inscribed in Thomas’s hand; in most the mark reads “Tho: & Isabella Hervey,” a mark which has what Smith calls indelible “sentimental force.”30 These signatures reveal the movement of books, and of people around them, through time and space. They show that Contrary to its popular associations of permanence and fixity, any library is always in motion across numerous axes: place, persons, extent…. Marginalia, particularly in the form of the personal names and inscriptions…interrupts this movement by inscribing books with a particular moment, and by witnessing and authenticating a specific material encounter.31 The Hervey’s library, then, gives us an example of how the autobiographies of people and the life-stories of their books are mutually constitutive and speak together of the times that have passed, the places they have been, and the lives they have led. The third and last section of the volume is devoted to “Modes.” By mode, we mean the product of the intersection of a genre of writing with a technology of representation. The first brings with it ideas of function, audience, register and style; the second imposes limits or constraints, and offers opportunities or affordances. Marginalia are especially interesting in this frame, as they always present at least two genres (the printed work and the annotation) and two technologies of representation (print and handwriting). In many examples of marginalia multiple genres intersect with multiple affordances and constraints. Jardine and Grafton’s reconstruction of the annotating Gabriel Harvey, for instance, brings into play the genres of the source text, of commentary, of letter-writing, of dialogue, and of annotation, which intersect with the technologies of representation enjoined by “critical reading, skillful annotation and active appropriation.”32 These include the narrowness of the margins of printed books, the quality of the sizing on the paper, the availability of quill and ink for both annotation and correspondence, the technology of the book wheel, and the possibility of conversation. When we look at marginalia in terms of mode, we see more clearly how – in its hybridity, its situatedness, and its supplemental character – it offers stimulus for innovation in both writing and reading. Far from being derivative and dependent, then, marginalia – as we see in these chapters – are innovative and opportunistic, opening up the possibility of further transformation of the materials of writing and reading into acts of communication, works of literature, and interventions in the world of learning. Harriet Archer’s chapter, “Studied for Redaction? Reading and Writing in the Works of John Higgins,” introduces us to John Higgins, author of a prequel to William Baldwin’s A Mirror for Magistrates, reviser of an English-Latin lexicon, expander of Nicholas Udall’s book of sententiae

10  Katherine Acheson gathered from Terence, translator of Hadrianus Junius’s 1567 text The Nomenclator, and editor of a compilation of his own and Baldwin’s Mirror complaints. Higgins was inspired by his reading to extend, translate, edit, and embellish the work of others. In Higgins’s work, marginalia offer a model for understanding the method of his copious and diverse oeuvre: as Archer writes, “conceiving of his oeuvre as a series of marginal notes may help to make sense of the complexities of its engagement with its sources.”33 The tension Higgins’s work exemplifies “between the capacity the printed text has to stabilize knowledge… and the portrayal and recognition of instability”34 upon which his own work depends draws our attention to the ways in which marginalia, as a method, can serve to exemplify early modern authorship. As authorial method, marginalia help us to see Higgins – and countless other extenders, embellishers, translators, and compilers – as collaborative authors. Claire Bourne’s chapter, “Vide Supplementum: Early Modern ­Collation as Play-Reading in the First Folio” compares the annotations by two writers in a copy of the Shakespeare First Folio with quartos of H ­ amlet and Romeo & Juliet printed in 1637 by John Smethwick. ­Focusing on key speeches (such as Horatio’s about the Ghost at the beginning of ­Hamlet, Juliet’s soliloquy on the eve of her marriage to R ­ omeo, and ­Romeo and Juliet’s dialogue at parting on that night) one of the two ­Folio marginalists “implemented and proposed textual emendations that illustrate a sustained engagement with textual variants found in quarto playbooks published more than a decade after F1 itself.” Bourne finds that both marginalists were responsive to the title-page claims (that we tend to dismiss as publishers’ puffery) and emended speeches to reflect the changes in “newly corrected, augmented, and amended” quartos available at London’s bookstalls in the mid-seventeenth century.35 She characterizes these marginalists as modern editors avant la lettre, carefully measuring the benefits of changes to the Folio text proposed by the later quartos. Reading as an editor – with pen in hand, and multiple copies open – is another example of how marginalists can be understood as collaborators, working as writers within the genres with which they were familiar, and the affordances and constraints provided by the printed book. The last chapter in this section is Sjoerd Levelt’s “Early Modern Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter,” which surveys approaches to early modern marginalia articulated on Twitter and Twitter as a ­location of the annotation of early modern texts. Twitter is an excellent example of a mode, given that it forces the adaptation of various genres (from the journalistic lede to the short story) into a contracted space limited by character count. Since its advent, Twitter has been a favorite social media genre of academics and rare book librarians. Twitter exists within an inter-operative or linked set of social media forms (blogs, published material, news stories, Instagram, Facebook, memes, letter-writing, crowd-sharing research projects), just as early modern marginalia were

Marginalia, Reading, and Writing  11 linked to sites of reading, writing, conversation, gift exchange, and other social networking modes. Both early modern marginalia and twitter threads can move from being commentary to being texts in their own right. Like early modern marginalia in the cases outlined by Archer and Bourne, tweets have the potential to become authored material which can exist independently from the original text about which, or around which, they were written. Importantly, Twitter builds alliances which are used to promote ideas and values, just as early modern marginalia could be used to build communities of intellectuals. The differences between postmodern Twitter and early modern marginalia are useful to us as well, inasmuch as Twitter’s corporate centre, its instantaneity and ubiquity, its capacity to cultivate violence and hatred, and its vulnerability to invasion by automated agents help us see more clearly that the constraints faced by early modern marginal writers may also have been forms of protection that enabled them to use their opportunities to become writers. This volume begins with an account of early modern paper production, and ends with a survey of the use of Twitter as marginalia. There are many more topics and sites of evidence between those two poles, however, as the complexity of the interaction between words – our most powerful tools – and the technologies of communication we use is literally inestimable. Marginalia prove, in a sense, what Juliet Fleming asserts, “The book is a thing that differs from itself, at all the moments of its production, and at all the moments of its consumption.”36 We hope that these essays will stimulate more research in to marginalia within and without the early modern period. We will be grateful to read them and to write in their margins, should the material form allow for it.

Notes 1 Freeling, Not as Far as Velma, 182. My aunt, Jean Uçar, found this item of marginalia. 2 Jackson, Marginalia, 7. 3 Ibid., 6. 4 Jardine and Grafton, “Gabriel Harvey,” 30. 5 See Orgel, The Reader in the Book, Chapter 6, and “Margins of Truth.” 6 Scott-Warren, “Reading Graffiti,” 368. 7 Helen Smith gives many examples of consumption (eating, drinking, breathing) used to describe reading in “More swete.” 8 Zwicker, “The Reader Revealed,” in The Reader Revealed, edited by Baron, 12. The conversion I am proposing (that evidence of reading is writing, and therefore evidence of writing) can be contrasted with Michel de Certeau’s insistence on the opposition between the two modes: Far from being writers–founders of their own place, heirs of the peasants of earlier ages now working on the soil of language, diggers of wells and builders of houses — readers are travelers; they move across lands belonging to someone else, like nomads poaching their way across fields

12  Katherine Acheson they did not write, despoiling the wealth of Egypt to enjoy it themselves. Writing accumulates, stocks up, resists time by the establishment of a place and multiplies its production through the expansionism of reproduction. Reading takes no measures against the erosion of time (one forgets oneself and also forgets), it does not keep what it acquires, or it does so poorly, and each of the places through which it passes is a repetition of the lost paradise. The Practice of Everyday Life, 174. Quoted in Chartier, Order of Books, 1 9 Smyth, this volume, 59. 10 With regard to commonplacing, see Smyth, “Almanacs.” With regard to generic affiliations more generally, see Grafton, “John Dee Reads Books of Magic,” in The Reader Revealed, edited by Baron, 32: [Gabriel] Harvey and others made their books into records of the social circles they inhabited, using title pages, margins, and blank leaves to give detailed accounts of remarkable experiences and conversations. Annotated books regularly turned into something between diaries and historical records, efforts to freeze and preserve for posterity the talk and buzz of a particular intellectual world. 11 See Smyth, “Rend and Teare,” and “Little Clippings.” For more about cutting-­ and-pasting, see the essays (in addition to “Little Clippings”) collected in the special issue of The Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 45, no. 3 (2015), especially essays by Juliet Fleming, Jeffrey Todd Knight, and William Sherman and Heather Wolfe. 12 Calhoun, this volume, 17. 13 Scott-Warren, this volume, 39. 14 Ibid., 37. 15 Ibid., 48. 16 Smyth, this volume, 67. 17 Ibid., 52. 18 Acheson, this volume, 73. 19 Scott-Warren, “Reading Graffiti,” 380. 20 Molekamp, “Using a Collection,” 12. 21 Narveson, Bible Readers, 99. 22 Patton, this volume, 93 and 100. 23 Saunders, this volume, 116. 24 Ibid., 121. 25 Ibid., 118. 26 See Sherman, “Reading the Matriarchive” (Chapter 3) in Used Books; Orgel, “Margins of Truth;” Brayman, Reading Material; and Ziegler and Acheson’s chapters in this volume for other discussions of Clifford’s marginalia. 27 Ziegler, this volume, 127. 28 Ibid., 151. 29 Smith, this volume, 155. 30 Ibid., 171. 31 Ibid., 168. 32 Jardine and Grafton, “Gabriel Harvey,” 76. 33 Archer, this volume, 191. 34 Ibid., 177. 35 Bourne, this volume, 197. 36 Fleming “Afterword,” 552.

Section 1

Materialities

1 Reading Habits and Reading Habitats; or, toward an Ecobibliography of Marginalia Joshua Calhoun It may have simply been the next logical step for book historians, ­especially those thinking about the sociology of texts in the 1990s and early 2000s, but the rise of e-books so strikingly correlates, chronologically, to a scholarly interest in readerly annotation practices that one is tempted to assert causation. In 1989, the year before Lisa Jardine and Anthony Grafton’s “‘Studied for Action’: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy,” Project Gutenberg added its tenth book—The King James Bible—to its digital corpus.1 The Sony Bookman appeared in 1992, as did Roger Chartier’s L’ordre des livres (1992). 2 In 1994, Lydia G. Cochrane’s English translation of that work, The Order of Books, was published, and Project Gutenberg added its 100th book (The Complete Works of William Shakespeare). In 1995 when William H. Sherman’s John Dee: The Politics of Reading and Writing in the English Renaissance appeared, Project Gutenberg was adding sixteen books per month; the next year that number doubled to thirty-two per month and David M. Bergeron’s essay collection Reading and Writing in Shakespeare was published. In 1998, the SoftBook Reader, the Rocket eBook Reader, and Adrian John’s The Nature of the Book were released. If my goal really were to argue for causation, I might go on tracking, year by year, the coincidental rise of e-readers and scholarly studies of Renaissance readers. Right in the midst of the timeline, just before a series of breakthrough devices such as Sony Reader (2006), Amazon Kindle (2007), Apple iPhone (2007), Barnes & Noble Nook (2009), and Apple iPad (2010), we would find Heidi Brayman’s Reading Material in Early Modern England (2005), a defining work in the history of early modern reading that shifted focus from professional scholars (such as Harvey and Dee) to “less extraordinary readers.”3 In the opening sentence, Brayman reflects on the book historical context of her own work: “This book was written over a decade that brought electronic communication and literacy into the offices and homes of a great variety of readers.”4 She goes on to suggest that the “proliferation of electronic media and its displacement of print have prompted a range of questions” such as “What practices does the codex

16  Joshua Calhoun encourage and allow?” “What should be preserved of this medium?” and “What might an electronic book look like?” From Brayman’s first sentence, we begin to learn about a period of new and exciting variety of readers of all kinds of printed books, and we learn all this in a study that was conceived during a period of new and exciting variety of readers of all kinds of e-books. I can now read Brayman’s opening sentence in my printed copy or I can read the opening sentence in an electronic copy on Google Books, but things would get tricky if I tried to do the same kind of reading with both printed book and e-book. 5 In my printed copy, next to the passage quoted above, I have scribbled the words “great variety of e-readers” in black ink in the outer margin.6 The writing is small and fits snugly in the 2 cm margin as a two-line annotation. It is evidence of a simple textual interaction, but one that would be impossible in an e-book version of Reading Material. Even if the annotation had no ts to cross, an action that can send an electronic page into spasms, I could never write sharply enough with a stylus to make an identical e-annotation. Or I would need to pinch, spread, scale, enlarge, or otherwise manipulate page or writing space or both. Or I would have to type the note instead of writing it. Or try to do one of the above and find I had “flipped” back to the Table of Contents. “Marginalia are supposed to be spontaneous and fluent,” writes Mark O’Connell in a 2012 New Yorker essay on marginalia.7 Instead, “‘[n]oting’ something on a Kindle feels like e-mailing yourself a throwaway remark.” In short, makers of e-readers have failed spectacularly when it comes to designing an e-book experience that allows an active reader to easily annotate its margins.8 With e-books in the twenty-­fi rst century, the problem is a feeling of being manually divorced from the text. The interface is clunky and unintuitive, and readers apparently feel they cannot get at the thing itself with their hands. It leaves one wanting the relative simplicity of pen and paper. Brayman’s experience writing about margin-marking readers against the backdrop of an e-reader revolution has a mirroring counter-­ experience: Erik Schmitt was helping to design the first Kindle in 2007 when he inherited some of his grandfather’s books—books “filled with notations, comments, tick marks and translations,” with, as Schmitt puts it, “the thought process and interests of someone long gone.”9 He eventually created a visually rich online archive, the Pages Project, which explores material acts of reading and “the nature of the book as a transitory physical object in a digital age.” On the site and in interviews, Schmitt talks about his design work on the Kindle being part of a ­“disruptive revolution of communication” that would not only “transform” certain book models and features but also “eradicate” others.10 Whether handwritten marginal notes in e-books will be transformed or eradicated remains to be seen. A 2011 article in The Atlantic claims that “[a]t present, annotating an e-book with a stylus is about as handy

Reading Habits and Reading Habitats  17 as marking up a Norton anthology with a Crayola.”11 The simile is apt, even painful. All the more so because, more than half a decade and dozens of hardware and software updates after the Atlantic article appeared, the same issues remain. The active book users I imagine reading this essay might, like me, prefer the fate of Tantalus to the prospect of spending an eternity alternately trying to annotate the margins of a printed book with a crayon and the margins of an e-book with a stylus. The e-book context outlined above sets up the following simple thought experiment—a thought experiment that can help us see some common but erroneous assumptions that we tend to make about handwritten annotations in early printed books. Suppose three things: 1 By the year 2030, makers of e-readers have used haptic feedback and/or some other innovation to clear the design hurdle that has tripped them up so far. 2 E-annotation, in this brave new world, becomes not only possible but pleasurable, and readers take up the new technology with zeal. 3 Four hundred years later, in 2430, scholars studying annotation archives dating back to the earliest e-readers observe a gap in the marginal record. Instead of dwelling on this gap, they might surmise that readers of the earliest e-technologies were simply less interested in annotation. To assume a lack of readerly interest in annotation in the early days of e-readers would, of course, be a scholarly oversight. Those twenty-­ fifth-century scholars would be missing some crucial bits of information. Lack of annotation in the early years of e-books is merely a symptom; lack of “annotatability” is the underlying condition. Just as scholars of the future might mistake a lack of annotatability for a lack of interest in annotation, scholars of early modern books tend to speak of books as either annotated or not annotated without considering whether or not the average book in England c. 1600 was annotatable in the first place.12 Studies of the history of reading have generally taken for granted the fact that readers could write in their books. In the traditional view, a volume either is or is not annotated with manuscript notes, but its ­“annotatability” is not questioned. For instance, in an expansive, major contribution to the history of reading, William H. Sherman draws from an impressive data sample in order to better comprehend and analyze Renaissance readers’ “patterns of use.”13 Sherman’s data sample is the entire Short Title Catalog (STC) at the Henry E. Huntington Library; he found that 1,531 of the 7,526 STC books, or 20.3 percent, “contain manuscript notes by early readers (not just signatures, underlining, and nonverbal symbols but more or less substantial writing).”14 From these scattered notes, a picture of Renaissance readers begins to emerge.

18  Joshua Calhoun These examples, Sherman observes, “can reveal…large-scale patterns of use and . . . can correct some of our most deep-seated assumptions about reading and readers.”15 But historical records suggest that early printed books, like early e-readers, were not always annotation-friendly reading objects. Sherman’s investigation of available evidence reveals a great deal about how historical readers used the books that have survived to the present day; however, making an argument about “large-scale patterns of use” based on percentages is trickier. Percentages assume that we are looking at a representative sample, a point Sherman raises when he claims that “the practice [of marking books with manuscript notes] must have been much more widespread” than his findings indicate, in part because “the more heavily a book was used, the more vulnerable it was to decay.”16 And yet the data suggest the direct opposite was true in some cases; some books, especially large books, that were meant to be heavily used were less vulnerable to decay. Their pages were generously coated with an animal gelatin that allowed readers to write with water-based ink, and this coating, in turn, has tended to preserve historical papers over time.17 Andrew Pettegree has convincingly argued that “diversification of format” was the strategy of “pragmatic,” profitoriented early printers, who developed “new types of book[s] for new types of reader[s].” As I will argue here, the practice of coating the pages of a printed book with gelatin sizing was an added cost, one that savvy printers with an eye toward diverse book options for diverse book buyers had ways of reducing or even eliminating.18 And yet the important role that gelatin sizing plays in early printed books, from production to consumption, has been largely overlooked or misunderstood in book history scholarship. Anyone who has turned the pages of an expensive, well-made sixteenth-century folio can probably recall the thickness and crispness of its paper and the crackling sound of turning a page. Sizing is responsible for that texture and sound. To connect our tactile and aural experience of well-sized paper with the logistics of its production requires a technical description of Renaissance papermaking at the outset. Once through the gory details of boiled-down animal parts smeared across the pages of printed books, I shift from the language of book production to the language of book use. I focus, especially, on historical language of book use that helps us begin to see the archive as a more dynamic and ­perhaps less-representative sample of early books. Early printed books were less annotatable than we imagine. If margin-marking readers of e-books find themselves distanced from the text and are unable to easily record their reactions on resistant surfaces, Renaissance readers had the opposite problem. The interface, paper made from recycled rags, was fibrous and spongy, and putting quill to paper could create so much ­interaction between writing implement and book surface that handwritten remarks became a series of illegible blots.

Reading Habits and Reading Habitats  19

Handwriting on Hybrid Media Gelatin sizing (hereafter, I use the terms “sizing,” “animal sizing,” and “gelatin sizing” interchangeably), the most obscure ingredient in early books and one that is rarely considered despite scholarly interest in the annotation practices of readers, is the viscous gelatin solution in which handmade paper was dipped to render it suitable for writing. The British Library Guide to Printing notes that paper’s “greatest drawback is that it is hygroscopic, which means that it is sensitive to moisture and therefore dimensionally unstable.”19 Paper made from recycled linen will soak up moisture in much the same way that linen clothing does. It will also, of course, soak up water-based writing ink—unless it is coated in a substance that yields a “harder surface to minimize its absorbency.”20 But what some call a drawback, others call an advantage. Jonathan M. Bloom cites paper’s hydrophilic nature as a feature that would have been a selling point to bureaucrats: “[b]ecause paper absorbs ink, writing on it could not be erased easily. Paper documents were therefore far more secure from forgery than those written on papyrus and parchment.”21 Absorption, then, is an essential characteristic of paper, one that has to be managed depending on the paper’s intended use. In Vulgaria uiri doctissimi Guil. Hormani Caesariburgensis (1519), we find descriptions of the various kinds of paper, including “cours papyr/that wolde serue for no wryttynge: but for marchandis/and pedlars to wrappe thyr stouffe in” and “Blottynge papyr [that] serueth to drye weete wryttynge.”22 The Latin text beneath the English refers to “Blottynge papyr” as “Charta bibula”—bibulous paper, paper that ­imbibes moisture. (Unsized paper is often referred to now as ­“waterleaf,” a word that was not in usage until the end of the eighteenth century.)23 So paper, pulled from a vat of fibers suspended in water, was pressed in order to expel excess water and then hung to dry. The dry sheets were, by every definition, paper; they were useful as such for various purposes such as blotting, wrapping, and, as I argue here, printing—but not for writing. Coating paper with sizing required a series of separate, additional steps in the papermaking process. We might think of gelatin sizing as an upgrade, an added or premium feature (a feature that contributed to the diversification of formats highlighted by Pettegree). The dried sheets of unsized paper hanging in the drying loft were gathered into small stacks or spurs and soaked in a warm gelatin solution rendered from animal bones and hides. The paper was then pressed a second time, this time to expel excess sizing, and then hung to dry a second time. These additional steps meant additional effort and drying time, of course, but they also required additional equipment and space. A detailed inventory of a Southampton paper mill in 1696 reveals that the mill had a separate “Sizing Roome” with “2 Great Copper furnashes,” “2 Great

20  Joshua Calhoun Sizing Tables,” “1 Sizing press,” and “1 washing Tubb,” among other furniture. 24 According to Dard Hunter, the sizing phase of papermaking “was extremely wasteful, as many sheets were torn and bruised beyond repair.”25 Hunter claims that the sizing process was so wasteful that the sizing room of early paper mills was known as the “slaughter house.”26 Such terminology is provocative: the slaughtered animals’ body parts make sizing, which in turn “bruise[s]” and “slaughter[s]” the sheets of paper in the process of coating. 27 ABC for Book Collectors defines size as “a thin glutinous or viscid decoction of bones or animal substances.”28 Philip Gaskell refers to sizing as “a solution of animal gelatine made from vellum or leather shavings boiled in water.”29 One also finds historical reference to parchment-scrap glue in John Florio’s Italian-English dictionary (1598) under the entry “Carnizzo, sinewes or threds of parchment to make size or glew.”30 However, Hunter defines early European sizing as a “gelatine rendered from the hoofs, hides, and horns of animals”— that is, from butcher scraps instead of tanner scraps. 31 In his 486-line Latin poem Papyrus sive ars conficiendae papyri (Papyrus, or The Craft of Paper) (1693), Jean Imberdis suggests another animal ingredient for the sizing pot—ears: “A store of ears from Oxen and from Sheep/For just this very purpose men do keep;” Imberdis also claims that “Some choose the Guts and leave the Ears aside.”32 Hunter cites Papyrus as the “earliest European book to mention the actual sizing of paper,” but he seems not to have known about an account of sizing that predates Imberdis’s by 200 years: Francesco Maria Grapaldo’s De partibus aedium, printed in Parma, Italy, in 1494.33 Grapaldo, like Florio and Gaskell, mentions leather and parchment parings as the raw material for sizing: Later [the dried pages] are steeped in glue made from waste scraps which tanners and parchmenters save for this purpose; they are hotdipped, dried, and glazed, rendering them apt to take the pen and not to soak up the ink.34 John Bidwell, writing about seventeenth-century English paper makers, claims that one of their challenges was “to learn how to brew a gelatin size solution, and how to apply it evenly, so that each sheet would absorb the right amount to bear ink properly and attain the desired printing and handling properties.”35 The lack of standard sizing recipes may well indicate that papermakers knew they could throw into the sizing pot whatever animal parts were handy—hooves, hides, ears, horns, heads, parchment and leather scraps, and bones. And yet it is clear that, over time, sizing practices grew more sophisticated and demanding. The kind of animal used to render sizing was also a means of diversification and therefore a factor in determining paper quality and cost. Joseph Jérôme de

Reading Habits and Reading Habitats  21 Lalande’s Art de faire le papier, published in 1761 and acknowledged as the first technical account of the process of papermaking, claims that by the mid-eighteenth century, papermakers were perfecting the craft of sizing—or at least using the various animal scraps more discretely. For instance, one sizing ingredient is valued for strength (tan-leather scraps), another is valued for whiteness (sheep skin), and even isinglass, rendered from sturgeon fish, can be used in rare instances. 36 To the extent that sizing practices and recipes can seem tedious, it is worth remembering that, as Imberdis writes in 1693, “Without it [size] you could not one Letter make/Nor any Mark upon the paper’s Back.”37 In addition to making paper that meets the basic requirements of writers, there would have been an added financial incentive to develop advanced techniques for those who could afford higher qualities of paper. Bidwell notes that “[w]riting grades [of paper] cost twice as much as printing grades because they required greater skill, better rags, a brighter color, a smoother finish, and a harder surface” (586). What has been largely overlooked in the history we tell of books and book-marking readers, however, is that what is good for the writer is not necessarily good for the printer. Animal sizing, which required more work of the papermaker and added the risk of waste, could also make the printer’s job more difficult. 38 Like the papermaker, who had to add a series of steps to the process of papermaking in order to produce a sheet that could accept handwriting (dipping in gelatin, re-pressing, and re-drying), the printer using sized paper had to add the extra step of moistening or misting the paper—of “melting” the sizing—in advance of printing so that the paper would accept oil-based printing ink. James Mosley calls attention to the fact that paper’s fibers had to be softened by dampening “[i]n order to make a satisfactory print on the hard-surfaced paper that was designed for use with the pen.”39 According to Lotte Hellinga, “Because oil-based ink was used, it did not penetrate the paper to any great extent; the paper had to be dampened to melt the size if the ink was to make any mark at all.”40 Sizing transformed a hygroscopic, bibulous sheet of paper into a writing substrate that could record ideas scrawled in water-based ink; however, to be impressed with oil-based printing ink, the once-absorbent, now impervious sheet needed to be made more absorbent again. The question naturally arises: Why not just print on unsized paper? Hunter claims to have observed early books printed on unsized paper: In an examination of more than a hundred different volumes of incunabula (books printed in Europe before 1501) I have found that…many of the sheets are heavily sized, others contain a limited amount of sizing, and a small number no sizing at all.41

22  Joshua Calhoun Describing “The Tools of Early Printers,” Theodore De Vinne backs up Hunter’s claim, adding to it the assertion that not only could one print on unsized paper, it was cheaper as well: The paper made for the Bibles of Gutenberg and for the earlier books was the ordinary writing paper of the period. . . . But the qualities which commended the paper to the copyist were objectionable to the printer. The hard surface caused a harsh impression, and strong sizing made the damp sheets stick together. It was soon discovered that unsized paper, which, according to Madden, was about half the price of sized, was easier to print. It would take a clearer impression, and more thoroughly imbibe the oily ink.42 De Vinne’s late-nineteenth-century scholarship and Hunter’s midtwentieth-century scholarship on animal sizing and unsized books seem to be ignored by many modern book historians and conservators. One reason may be that, because Hunter does not identify his data sample, we are left with an anecdotal claim but no hard evidence. In 2007, I came across Hunter’s claim about unsized books and began asking the question “Why not print on unsized paper?” of dozens of scholars in various disciplines in the humanities and of numerous conservation scientists at the various archives in which I conducted the research for this project. Invariably, I was told that one cannot print on unsized paper. And the answer was often emphatic—that is, Hunter’s claim was taken to be erroneous out of hand. However, both historical scholarship and modern hand papermaking practices contradict commonly held beliefs about sizing and printing, and they bear out the argument that printers could print—and even sometimes preferred to print—on unsized paper, and that varying degrees of sizing from various kinds of animals yield differently useful and annotatable paper. How then do we account for the invisibility of sizing in more recent scholarly studies of marginalia? And how do we find evidence of sizing in early printed books that might help us recover an understanding of sizing’s integral role in bookmaking and book use?

Sinking Substrates One way to answer the question “What evidence do we have that one could print on unsized paper?” is to turn from production to consumption, from papermakers and printers to readers. Crucially, sizing affects book functionality and, one could argue, helps to define what is indicated by the word “reading.” If we imagine that most books can accept writing ink, then we might say that a book that cannot be annotated by hand is dysfunctional. Regardless of the percentage of books that were annotatable, it is clear that sizing was not a skeuomorphic, formal

Reading Habits and Reading Habitats  23 decoration, but a functional feature that allowed—or disallowed or complicated, depending on its relative presence—readerly interaction with the text.43 No wonder readers thought about and discussed sizing in ways that are analogous to our own present-day discussions about the challenges of annotating e-books. Imberdis refers to sizing as an “Art” in Papyrus, and he claims, “So, if you seek a surface fit for Pen/First see if Size sufficient it has ta’en;” According to Imberdis, licking the paper was one way, among others, of testing its fitness for the pen: Shaken by hand, it does not limply sag, As is the fashion of a piece of Rag, But crackles parchment-like, resisting still The holder’s Touch, and loth to do his Will. If you seek further proof, then take a Sheet, And, licking it, with Spittle make it wet; If on the back no moisture-trace is found, Be sure, with ample Glue the Paper’s bound; If it show through, the lack of Size is plain, On porous Paper you will write in vain.44 Those readers who had to make do with “porous paper” literally came up with solutions. In The iewell house of art and nature (1594), for instance, Hugh Plat offers this recipe for coating the margins of printed books so that the paper will take the marginalia: Rvb your paper wel ouer with the fine powder or dust of Rosen and Sandrach [red arsenic sulphide] in equall parts before you write therwith… This is a necessarie secret for students, whereby they may note in the margentes of their bookes if the paper should happen to sinke, which is an especiall fault in many of our late yeere bookes of the Law.45 As Plat’s advice reveals, “Sink” or “sinking” was a contemporary term used of paper that could not hold its ink. The problem with poorly sized books, from the perspective of an end user, is that they frustrate readerly interaction: oil-based printing ink does not blot into the paper’s fibers, but water-based writing ink does. Anticipating the problem and taking the time to coat the margins of books printed on spongy paper, a reader might then add marginal notes. The homogeneity we expect of machine-made paper contrasts starkly with the heterogeneity of handmade, hand-sized paper, whose quality was affected by everything from weather patterns to the quality of plant fibers and available animal body parts. The variations in gelatin content observed by Barrett only serve to reinforce the point that writing on paper in Renaissance England was a constant negotiation. Plat’s condemnation of bad paper comes only after

24  Joshua Calhoun an exhortation, aimed particularly at students, to consider a book paper’s absorbency before writing in it. Plat’s language is part of the “rich esthetic vocabulary” that readers used to describe paper,46 and his use of the word “sinke” recalls the reading terminology that registered the experience of writing in books whose pages had varying degrees of sizing. In fact, Plat’s observation about the absorbency of late sixteenth-century law books is the earliest recorded usage of the now obsolete definition of “sink”: “Of paper: To cause ink to spread or ‘run’ on being applied to it; to absorb ink.”47 Sizing, and the attendant problem of sinking, seems to be as invisible in scholarly studies of historical readers and writers as it is on the surfaces of historical paper. For instance, despite their essential role in preparing the surface of paper to accept handwriting, neither “sizing” nor “gelatin” merits an entry among the “1,500 terms, including types of manuscript, their physical features, writing implements, writing surfaces…” in Peter Beal’s A Dictionary of English Manuscript Terminology: 1450 to 2000.48 In manuals meant to train scholars in the techniques of book history, sizing also tends to get short shrift. Although G. Thomas Tanselle’s Bibliographical Analysis: A Historical Introduction devotes significant space to the value of searching for bibliographical evidence in paper (particularly via examination of watermarks), the introduction never acknowledges the presence of sizing.49 Joseph A. Dane’s What Is a Book? The Study of Early Printed Books devotes seventeen pages to the topic of paper without mentioning sizing or gelatin. 50 Online, the Rochester Institute of Technology hosts an impressive image database that illustrates the history of graphic communication, and yet even this resource elides the history of sizing: digitized illustrations from Lalande’s Art de Faire le Papier depict the water wheel, the mould and deckle, and the rooms (1) where rags are sorted, (2) where rags are stamped or macerated, (3) where sheets formed from the vat and couched in stacks, (4) where the sheets are hung to dry, and (5) where the sheets are burnished and inspected. But in Lalande, a detailed illustration of the room where sheets of paper are sized appears between numbers 3 and 4; this illustration of the sizing room is not included on the Rochester Institute of Technology site. 51 An image of the sizing room that is similar to (and quite possibly based on) Lalande’s also appears as a full-page plate in d’Alembert and Diderot’s Encyclopédie (Figure 1.1) In both sources, the details, dimensions, and placement of the sizing room illustration suggests the important role it played in early hand papermaking. My point is not to pick nits with resources I have learned from and taught with; rather, I wish to point out that scholars tend to assume that the presence of pen and paper equals the potential for written expression. In fact, animal sizing is an influential, messy, time-consuming part of the equation. The problem of sinking raises some provocative

Figure 1.1  D  epiction of the sizing room, a crucial space in early hand papermaking operations. Plate XI from “Papeterie,” in d’Alembert and Diderot’s Encylopédie, vol. 5 (Plates), Paris, 1767. Image used by courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin-Madison.

26  Joshua Calhoun questions about the bibliographical method. For example, unless there is direct proof to suggest that the pen is the primary object being tested, could the scribbles we term “pen trials” in bibliographic description be just as accurately called “paper trials”?52 The problem of sinking also raises intriguing questions about literary expression, about ineffability, and about the legibility of historical readers (i.e., how a bookmarking reader from the past is readable by a present-day scholar). Numerous Renaissance texts register the frustration of encountering poorly sized or unsized paper—paper that “sinks.” Some references to sinking paper are technical. In Mathurin ­Cordier’s translated Latin dialogues, which served as a crib sheet of sorts to ­accompany Cordier’s Latin textbook, the scholarly interlocutors discuss everything from problematic ink and how to temper it so that it won’t sink into writing paper, to the various uses of paper, including its use in the privy. In one dialogue, a scholar complains that he writes in earnest, but his writing is poor because he lacks “the helpes of faire writing”: “Good paper, good inke, a good penne: for this my paper (as thou seest) doth sinke miserably, my inke is waterish and whitish, my pen soft and ill made.” A printed marginal note glosses “sinke” as “flowe thorowe.”53 In another dialogue, a distinction is made between sinking paper and leaky ink: “Thereupon the paper* would leake.” Two printed marginal notes keyed to the asterisk clarify: “perflueret, would sinke, or run thorow.” and “proflueret, would run abroad, or the ink would.”54 We also find simple analogies between sin and sinking. In the second sermon in a printed series titled The Saints Submission and Sathans Overthrow (1638), a series based on the command in James 4.7 to “resist the Devil and he will flee from you,” John Preston likens the believer’s heart to paper whose sizing has been compromised by moisture: For as inke sinkes into wet paper, and runnes abroad upon it… so when the divell offers his snares to any empty heart, they enter in and foile him, but when the heart is fortified with the fulnesse of grace, Satans baites cannot take hold, nor enter in.55 And in Davids hainous sinne (1631), Thomas Fuller imagines King David writing the letter that condemns Uriah to death on bad paper. In Fuller’s poetic account, David’s soul is likened to dysfunctional “spongy paper” that sinks and is easily stained. 56 Other more complex metaphors about sinking are harder to puzzle out. In Richard Harvey’s Plaine Perceuall (1590), a pamphlet against the pamphleteers on both sides of the Martin Marprelate Controversy, a sixline commendatory verse at the end of the tract creates a fairly complex metaphor in a short amount of space. Claiming that Perceval’s praises will “florish in [his] dary,” he says that his paper will be curds and his

Reading Habits and Reading Habitats  27 pen a spoon. He then claims that, if his paper sinks, he will write his praises upon “a cheese,/That as the same increaseth, so may these.”57 I understand him to be likening sinking paper to cheese cloth, while also referring to the curdling of his paper/curds into cheese. But my point in citing this example is that the metaphor is convoluted and relies upon an understanding of not only the natural properties of cheese but also the natural properties of writing on paper. A less complex, but similarly abstract metaphor occurs in the play The Mariage Night (1664) by Henry Falkland. The Duke claims, A Fair young Lady and Widow, is A rich piece of Stuff Rumpled: An Old one’s A blotting Paper: A Man shall never write any thing on, she sinks so. 58 In the Duke’s opinion, a young widow may be pre-creased and prefolded, so to speak, but unlike an old widow, she is still able to a­ ccept the metaphoric writing ink of a new husband. (Here, too, the language of blotting as it relates to women and chastity is complicated by the metaphor, which relies on the play between antonymic connotations of “blotting.”) The chronological range of these two abstract references to animal sizing (1590 and 1664) only serves to highlight the ubiquity of bad, sinking paper. Shakespeare’s Falstaff also makes a subtle reference to the relationship between sizing and sinking. In The Merry Wives of Windsor, having been hidden in a laundry basket, covered with Mistress Page’s “foul linen” (3.3.122), and subsequently tossed into the River Thames, Falstaff returns complaining about his supposed near-drowning experience. Lucky for him he landed in a shallow part of the river because, he says, “you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking” (3.5.11–12). 59 The pun reverses material expectations: while a lack of size makes paper sink, Falstaff’s ample size makes him sink. It is a subtle pun, but one that picks up on the play’s repeated references to paper (Mistress Page, paper letters as physical properties on stage, Falstaff’s page boy as an intermediary, identical love letters that might as well have been printed with blanks left for the wives’ names) and calls attention to Falstaff’s spongy, sexually incontinent nature as a defining quality. These varied references to the failure of animal sizing employed across a range of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century texts make visible an invisible substance with which Renaissance readers interacted on both a material and a metaphorical level. When annotating, they recognized the absence of sizing as a moment of sinking. When reading with their quills at rest or without pen and ink, they understood

28  Joshua Calhoun the ways in which sinking paper is likened to the sinking feeling of unrequited love, to the staining of a sinner’s soul, to the impregnating of a woman’s womb, or even to the technical difficulty of writing on “a cheese.” Even good, ink-worthy paper might “sink” where sizing is lacking. An example can be found in “The Newby Bible,” a 1580 Geneva Bible at the Folger Shakespeare Library which contains more than two centuries of manuscript marginalia.60 In one handwritten marginal note dated November 27, 1791, next to Psalm 119, Elizabeth Boggis, the annotator, ran into a weak spot, a blemish in the paper where the sizing was inadequate. (A number of factors related to immersing small stacks of paper in a warm gelatin bath, separating those sheets by hand, and hanging them to dry could cause some areas of a sheet to absorb less sizing than others.) The annotation, written vertically along the outer margin of the page, explains that the regular minister was “at Bath on account of ill Health.” A substitute preacher, Boggis writes, took “his text from Psalms 119 verse 75.” However, the note is not quite that clear (see Figure 1.2). A diplomatic transcription is, “his text […]. […]om from Psalms 119 verse 75,” but replacing some blot-like emoji for the bracketed periods in my transcription would yield a more accurate representation, for it seems that when the annotator first attempted “from,” the word sank into a rough section of the paper. Boggis tried the word again, but half of it sank, so she crosses out what is left (“om”) and, back on a well-sized portion of paper, the end of the “from” is finally legible.61 The Newby Bible offers an opportunity to see sizing by seeing the effects of its absence. In this way, it makes visible both a substance that is invisible to the naked eye and a practice that has become all but invisible in book history scholarship.62 I have argued that what we know about sizing should lead us to question the annotatability of early printed books. Assuming that all books are equally annotatable, we base our understanding of reading and especially annotation practices on a skewed sample. Paying attention to sizing—considering its absence and considering its concentration when present—we are likely to notice nuances in the archives that we have been missing. Typically, when we speak of researching the provenance of historical, handmade paper, we mean watermark research that attempts to narrow in on a mill, a maker, a date. And yet “provenance” gestures even further back toward origin and place, past the mill and toward where something originated or derived from before it was pulp in a vat or a sheaf of papers in the sizing tub.63 In a very simple narrative we sometimes retell about the history of the book, plant gives way to animal gives way to plant medium as records move from papyrus to parchment to paper. In reality, at least in Western paper, plant gives way to animal gives way to plant-animal hybrid.

Reading Habits and Reading Habitats  29

Figure 1.2  The Bible (1580), Folger STC 2129, Ii3r. Photograph by Joshua Calhoun from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

When Hamlet recites lines that describe Pyrrhus as “o’ersizèd with coagulate gore” (2.2.400), he uses a phrase that could also aptly describe early handmade paper—or, at least the sort of paper that ­Hamlet would need in order to “set down” a speech of “some dozen or sixteen lines” (2.2.477–8). Recognizing—reseeing—animal presence in the plantbased pages of early printed books may lead us to think more carefully about Renaissance ecology or ecocriticism or categorical hybridity or media consumption, but it also prompts material discoveries about books we explore in the archives. Seeing animal sizing, we also see a way to attend not only to the sociology of texts but also to the vital social ecology of texts, to the biomes from which books are made and in which books are read, marked, used, reused, torn, and preserved.64 Reading habits and reading habitats are always systemically entwined.

30  Joshua Calhoun

Notes For sharing work and/or commenting on various versions of this research, I am grateful to Katherine Acheson, Tim Barrett, Heidi Brayman, Karen Britland, Ginny Garnett, Peter Stallybrass, Alan Stewart, Mark Vareschi, Jonathan Walker, and Heather Wolfe. I am also grateful to the Folger Shakespeare ­L ibrary for a short-term fellowship and to the University of Wisconsin-­ Madison for summer funding that allowed me to complete parts of this ­research. The librarians and staff at the University of Wisconsin-Madison’s Special ­Collections generously assisted me throughout this research. Finally, Robyn Adams and Matthew Symonds organized a symposium on sizing at the Centre for Editing Lives and Letters at which I received invaluable feedback from attendees. 1 Lebert, “2. A Bet Since 1971.” All subsequent references to Project Gutenberg figures and milestones are from this section of the e-book. My struggle to clearly specify where a reader might refind this citation, given the multiple options (Generated HTML EPUB, Kindle, Plain Text UTF-8) available on Project Gutenberg, only begins to illustrate the sorts of bibliographic quandaries one encounters when trying to use new substrates, from paper to touch screens, based on reading practices that predate those technologies. 2 Dates given in this paragraph for e-readers, except for Apple’s iPad and iPhone, are from Manley and Holley, “History of the Ebook: The Changing Face of Books,” 292–311. 3 Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 3. For the history of the iPhone and iPad, see “Apple—Press Info—Apple Reinvents the Phone with iPhone” and “Apple—Press Info—Apple Launches iPad.” 4 Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 1. 5 I have found no extant e-book version of Reading Material, although the book is searchable in Google books and the printer’s imprint and copyright page of the paperback reprint claims “First published 2005/This digitally printed version 2009.” Here, I imagine how I would interact with an e-book version of Reading Material, were it available in the same e-book formats as Brayman’s more recent works. 6 Here I find a personal history of my reading practices. The book is heavily annotated in a mixture of pen and pencil, a practice that indicates which annotations I added while inside an archival library and which I added outside. 7 O’Connell, “The Marginal Obsession with Marginalia.” O’Connell also makes the claim that “an escalation of interest in marginalia” is due, in part, to “a preemptive nostalgia for the book as a tangible (scrawlable) object at a time of increasing e-reader ubiquity.” 8 In a 2011 New Republic article, Ruth Franklin critiques and largely dismisses “doomsday musings” about the fate of annotation in the digital age as well as G. Thomas Tanselle’s concerns about the challenges of preserving digital annotation. Further down in the article, six links supposedly lead to examples of digital annotations of Pride and Prejudice, The New Oxford American Dictionary, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, a New York Times article, and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Less than a decade after their creation, three of those six links were dead links. See Franklin, “In the Margins.” 9 Schmitt, “About the Pages Project.” 10 Schmitt maintains that e-books are eradicating, not transforming, handwritten marginal notes. Schmitt writes of handwritten marginalia as a

Reading Habits and Reading Habitats  31

11 12

13 14 15 16 17

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

“powerful feature that was unique to a technology and mode of communication in eclipse.” See also Schmitt’s interviews with Sarah Kessler in “A Kindle Designer’s Touching Online Memorial” and Hannah Keyser in “Digitizing the Unique Marginalia of Old Books.” Redmon, “As Kindles Take Over, What Happens to Margin Notes?” This sort of thought experiment—of imagining future scholars studying early e-book annotations in much the way we study annotations in early printed books—is not merely fanciful, especially if we consider annotatability not as a mere feature of a book or e-book but as an integral component of the document in the sense that Lisa Gitelman describes when she claims that “documents are epistemic objects; they are recognizable sites and subjects of interpretation across the disciplines and beyond, evidential structures in the long human history of clues” (Paper Knowledge, 1). One of Gitelman’s stated goals for Paper Knowledge, which is built upon her epistemic account of books, is that “documents in the past will without question facilitate more nuanced accounts of documents in and for the future” (6–7). Sherman, Used Books, 5. I am grateful to the author for sharing conversation and insights, as well as for sharing work from Used Books in advance of publication. Ibid., 5 and 188, footnote 8. Ibid., xvi. Ibid., 5. See Barrett et al., Paper Through Time. In my forthcoming monograph, where I consider sizing more fully, I devote more time to the relationship between sizing and book survival. As Barrett and his collaborators have demonstrated, gelatin sizing is largely responsible for the exceptional durability and stability of early handmade papers. On the project website, ­Barrett also offers a particularly extensive description of sizing practices in his article “European Papermaking Techniques 1300–1800.” Pettegree, The Book in the Renaissance, xiv. I am grateful to Peter Stallybrass for first suggesting, in response to an early draft of these ideas, that I further question the economics of sizing. Twyman, The British Library Guide to Printing, 13. Nickell writes “[t]o be used for writing . . . paper required a harder surface to minimize its absorbency; otherwise the ink would spread among the fibers.” See Pen, Ink, & Evidence, 88. Bloom, Paper Before Print, 49. Horman, 80v (N8v). “water-leaf, n.” OED Online. Oxford University Press: online edn., December 2016, accessed 20 February 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/226227. Cited in Thomas, The Company of White Paper Makers in Hampshire, 32. Hunter, 194. Ibid. Hunter’s use of the word “bruised” to describe less-than-perfect sheets also recalls paper’s animal counterpart. A fascinating example of bruised parchment can be found in Plimpton MS263 at Columbia University’s Rare Books and Manuscript Library. The manuscript served as Wynkyn de Worde’s printer’s copy for De Proprietatibus Rerum ([1495]). Robert W. Mitchner claims there is a “smudge” on fol. 186r of the MS “which looks suspiciously like a printer’s thumb-print,” in “Wynkyn de Worde’s Use of the Plimpton Manuscript of De Proprietatibus Rerum,” 9. Closer inspection, with the generous assistance of Conseulo Dutschke and Alexis Hagadorn at Columbia, revealed that the dark spots on the MS are actually the result of blood

32  Joshua Calhoun

28 29 30 31 32

33 34

35 36

37 38

39 40 41 42 43 4 4 45

that was trapped in the skin at the time of slaughter, likely the result of a bruise. Of particular interest to me is the mistaken identity and how I am conditioned to read (or ignore) the mark based on identity: what was thought to be the physical imprint of a significant printer turns out to be “merely” a beastly physical defect. On bruises and MS stains due to blood trapped in the skin, see Clarkson, “Rediscovering Parchment,” The Paper Conservator 16 (1992), 5–26. Carter and Barker, 206. Gaskell, A New Introduction to Bibliography, 59. Florio, A vvorlde of wordes, 61 (F1r). Florio’s dictionary also has entries for “Sisa, a kind of syse or glew that painters vse” and “Sisare, to syse, to glew, to stiffen”, 373 (Ii1r). Hunter, 62. Hunter does recognize that sizing could also be made from “parings of hides”; cf. 194. Imberdis, Papyrus sive ars conficiendae papyri (Papyrus, or The Craft of Paper), trans. Eric Laughton, 31–2. The text used is from a limited run printed on a hand press and is in the University of Delaware’s Special Collections. Hunter, 194. Dabrowski and Simmons call attention to this account in “Permanence of Early European Hand-made Papers,” 9. The quotation in the original appears on 115v; the English translation, from Latin, is from Dabrowski and Simmons. On the use of parchment scraps for sizing, see also Garlick, “A Brief Review.” Bidwell, French Paper in English Books, 586. LaLande, The Art of Making Paper, 23. I cite from the English translation of Lalande’s work, first published in the Universal Magazine (March 1762 to April 1763) and reissued in 1978 with an introduction by Colin Cohen and Geoffrey Wakeman. Imberdis, 33. Here, again, the language, albeit in translation, is suggestive of the animal nature of the page. Bidwell’s distinction between writing and printing grades of paper suggests that, when it comes to sizing, these two grades were different in degree and in kind: writing paper required “more sophisticated sizing techniques.” Barrett visually represents the variations of gelatin content as well as of concentrations of iron, calcium carbonate, chlorine, potassium aluminum sulfate, and aluminum sulfate in historical papers. See, especially, the “Plot Library.” On the dichotomy between writing paper and printing paper, see also Krill, who writes that “the major difference between writing paper and printing paper was sizing” (English Artists’ Paper: Renaissance to Regency, 52). I am immensely grateful to both Barrett and Krill for taking my ideas seriously and encouraging my curiosity about sizing when I began this line of inquiry as a graduate student. Mosley, Technologies of Print, 133. Hellinga, Printing, 92. Hunter, 194. De Vinne, The Invention of Printing, 537–8. According to Hayles, a skeuomorph “once had a functional purpose but in a successor artifact loses its functionality and is retained as a design motif or decorative element” (“Complexities of Seriation,” 119). Imberdis, 33–4. Plat, The iewell house of art and nature, 46 (H3v). Stewart quotes this passage and adds the helpful insertion “red arsenic sulphide” in Shakespeare’s Letters, 44. I am grateful to Alan for sharing his work in advance of

Reading Habits and Reading Habitats  33

46 47 48

49

50

51

52

53 54 55 56 7 5 58 59

60 61 62

publication and for discussing the ideas at length. I also agree wholeheartedly that, as Stewart writes, “[t]he raw materials of writing possessed vivid associations for their early modern users, in part no doubt because they often prepared them themselves” (41). Darnton, “Revisited,” 498. “sink, v.” OED Online. Oxford University Press: online edn., December 2016, accessed 20 March 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/180225. Beal, A Dictionary of English Manuscript Terminology. The quotation is taken from Oxford University Press’ “Overview” section for the book at https:// global.oup.com/academic/product/a-dictionary-ofenglish-manuscript-­ terminology-9780199265442?cc=us&lang=en&. Tanselle, Bibliographical Analysis. Here I cite my Kindle version of Tanselle’s study which is impossible to annotate with handwriting on my iPad, but easy to use for searching keywords. The words “gelatin” and “sizing” never appear in the volume, and the word “size” is used exclusively to indicate dimensions, not paper coating; “watermark” or “watermarks” occur twenty-seven times in the volume. Dane, What Is a Book, 49–65. According to Dane, the book was written to introduce students to questions such as “What are the methods scholars of books use in studying material books, and what are the implications of these methods on our understanding of what books are and do?” (2). For Dane, as for many bibliographers, that means about half of the space devoted to paper research is devoted to watermarks. See “Joseph Jerome de la Lande, Art de Faire le Papier (Paris, France, 1761)” Cary Graphic Arts Collection Image Database, http://library.rit.edu/cary/ joseph-jerome-de-la-lande-art-de-faire-le-papier [accessed January 16, 2017. Based on a communication with a staff at the Wallace Center, future visitors to the site should soon find that the sizing image has been added to image database. In the age of Google Books, one also learns that the term “pen trials” is used of scientific research on sheep, a not altogether irrelevant coincidence. See Lacey and Kaya, Field Manual of Techniques in Invertebrate Pathology, 717. Cordier, Corderius Dialogues, 154–5 (L5v–L6r). Cordier’s 1614 text was reprinted four more times by 1653. Ibid., 245 (R3r). Preston, The Saints Submission and Sathans Overthrow, 177–8 (I5r–v). Fuller, Davids hainous sinne, B2v. On “spungy” paper, see Moxon, Mechanick Exercises, 304 (Ss2v). Harvey, Plaine Perceuall the peace-maker of England, 24 (D4v). Falkland, The Marriage Night, act 2, scene 1, 11 (C2r). Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor, 232. The first folio has “you may know by my size, that I haue a kind of alacrity in sinking” (52; E2v in act 3, scene 4); the first quarto version (1602) puts a bit more direct blame on those who tossed him in: “they might know by my sise I haue a kind of alicritie in sinking” (E2v). Note: surprisingly, this quotation appears on E2v in both the F and Q. For a fuller description of this Bible, see Stallybrass, “Books and Scrolls,” 51ff. I am also grateful to Katherine Acheson, who informed me of the fact that Elizabeth Boggis is the annotator; see her chapter in this volume. The [Geneva] Bible, Ii3r. For two more recent instances in which scholars suggest ways we might find evidence of sizing in archival books, see McLeod, writing as (R. MacGeddon), “Hammered,” 152 and Chamberlain, “Paper,” 124–5.

34  Joshua Calhoun 63 See “provenance, n.” OED Online. Oxford University Press: online edn., ­December 2016, accessed 20 March 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/153408, especially the etymology and definitions 2 and 4. In my forthcoming monograph, I devote significant attention to our obsession with watermarks in both research and bibliographic training, and to the concerning cost-to-­ benefit ratio of watermark research relative to more modern and more sociological and ecological approaches to paper research. 64 My reference here is to McKenzie’s Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts a work that prodded my interest in seeing not only the “human presence in any recorded text” (29) but also the animal, plant, and mineral p ­ resences— which is to say, the biome or social ecology of a recorded text. On the language of entwining in the final sentence, see McKenzie’s discussion of the word “text” (13–14).

2 Cut-and-Paste Bookmaking The Private/Public Agency of Robert Nicolson Jason Scott-Warren

In recent years, as the history of the book has become more and more interested in physical stuff, it has become less and less invested in the book, the codex as privileged container of text. The focus of attention has been the non-book, whether in the form of pamphlets, broadsides, manuscript separates, or printed ephemera such as blank forms or trade-cards. Where there is still a book in view, it is what we might call ‘the book unbound,’ with critics exploring the interplay between books and their environments, the permeability of compilations, and the reshapings created by consumption.1 One of the most visible forms of bibliographic unbinding is cutting. As the contributors to a recent special issue of the Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies entitled “The Renaissance Collage” have shown, a lot of reading was undertaken in this period with scissors and knives, through the cutting of the page and associated processes of sewing, stitching, gluing, and filing. These processes command attention partly because of their obvious kinship with commonplacing. But as Juliet Fleming (introducing “The Renaissance Collage”) suggests, the picking out of details is also a description of “what we all do when we read (from Latin lego, legere, ‘to gather or pluck’):” “cutting,” she says, “is not the exception but the rule” of reading, as of writing. 2 For Fleming, cutting means not destruction, but pruning, grafting, tree surgery. Cutting makes for growth. In this chapter I want to bring some of these perspectives to bear on a set of materials now scattered across Britain and the United States, relating to an early modern reader named Robert Nicolson. I first came across Nicolson when I was following up a reference in the journals of the Exchequer clerk Richard Stonley, three volumes of which survive at the Folger Shakespeare Library. 3 Stonley is known to literary historians as the first recorded purchaser of Shakespeare’s first published work, Venus and Adonis, which he bought hot off the presses in June 1593.4 But almost a year after he made that purchase, on 8 May 1594, he paid a single penny for a less well-known title: “a Booke in commendacion of the Ladye Branche.”5 What he was buying here was an elegy for his

36  Jason Scott-Warren brother-in-law’s wife. Stonley seems to have been close to his brotherin-law Sir John Branche, a Draper and one-time Lord Mayor of London. So it is not surprising that he would have wanted to read a book in praise of Branche’s wife when she died five years after her husband. But which book did he buy? For, remarkably, the Lady Branche’s death was lamented in no fewer than four printed elegies.6 The elegies are written in a ragbag of poetic styles: the shortest, An Epitaph, by ‘S.P.,’ is in clunking fourteeners, as is A Commemoration, which was penned by the London clothworker and jobbing writer John Phillips.7 But the Epicedium, by one William Hervey, is written in pentameters and makes ultrafashionable references to Shakespeare’s ­Lucrece and Kyd’s Cornelia.8 Meanwhile the Monodia, written by Josuah Sylvester, the translator of Du Bartas, is not just in pentameters but is positively elegant, with a distinct sense of cadence.9 Yet for all of their stylistic variety, the elegies overlap considerably in their rhetorical strategies. In particular, it is hard for them to resist a pun on Helen Branche’s name. Here is S.P.: Compare our selves unto a tree, which springeth up with with sap And brings forth branches goodly ones, which taste of Adams hap. And as this tree doth grow to strength, the owner of the wood, May lop away the branches faire, as them which are not good. So hath [God] lopt away from us, a Ladie Branch of price, That lived here right worshipfull, disdaining every vice.10 Hervey offers the following account of her marriage to John Branche: Then was she grafted in a worthie stemme, And of a green-leav’d Branch the blossom prov’d To him more deare, then was the richest gemme And so togither they both liv’d and lov’d. And still her Orphanes care the mother mov’d.    For though nor Branch, nor blossome frute did beare,    Yet both in good workes alwaies fruitfull were.11 Here is Sylvester, doing something similar, but with the aforementioned sense of cadence: But boughes & Branches, shrubs, & Cedars tall Wither and die and into ashes fall, So fel this Branch, for what draws lively breth But old or yong must yeeld at last to death?12 The conceit of Dame Helen as a branch might be thought rather in­ felicitous, given the failure of any of her children to survive beyond

Cut-&-Paste Bookmaking: Robert Nicolson  37 childhood. However, the elegies make it clear that, despite this misfortune, all is not lost. Here is Hervey: And though the stocke, the Branch, the blossom sweete Wants sap, is withered, and is falne away, Yet doth a yoong plant, spring up at their feete, Which shall their greene leaves up in safetie laie.13 Sylvester instructs:   when you have drawn all your tear-springs drie; For her decease, heer let your comfort lie, That of this Phænix ashes there revives Another, where her vertue still survives.14 This unnamed ‘other,’ this phoenix that is going to rise from the ashes of the burnt bough, the young plant that is going to spring from the old stock, turns out to be Robert Nicolson. This much becomes clear when you look at the original copies of the elegies at the Huntington and the British Library, three of which are embellished with annotations in Nicolson’s distinctive hand.15 Nicolson was Helen Branche’s nephew and the sole executor of her will, from which he benefited to the tune of £100.16 He was also the orchestrator of this flurry of mourning verses for his aunt.17 Nicolson’s annotations in these flimsy pamphlets are quite elaborate. He outlines the ‘narrative’ of the elegies: “her virgin life,” “maried to m r Jno Minors,” “issue by m r Jno Minors.”18 But he also adds page numbers and running headlines (“A Commemoration, of / Helen ­Nicolson, Ladie Branch”), so that his interventions look less like reading and more like finishing.19 Here Nicolson is doing by hand some of the work that we might expect compositors to have done typographically, articulating the printed book for the reader. Sometimes, though, the printerly is also personal. At several points, where a pressman might have added a xylographic ornament, Nicolson pastes in a heraldic shield or lozenge. It would be easy for the casual browser on EEBO to mistake these for original printed matter, but in fact they are all pasted-in additions. And several of the handwritten annotations are also all about him. When the Epicedium mentions “a yoong plant,” Nicolson adds “R.N.” proudly in the margin. 20 Then, at the end of the same volume, he transcribes the text on the monument that he erected to Dame ­Helen’s memory in St Mary Abchurch. 21 The annotations ­offer an unstable blend of public and private cues, a kind of semi-secrecy. The poets hide Nicolson’s identity only so that he can himself reveal himself in his annotations; he is less a phoenix rising from the ashes than a rabbit pulled out of a hat.

38  Jason Scott-Warren So who was this rabbit? Nicolson was born in 1561 at Bramley in Surrey and was baptized at Holy Trinity, Guildford. 22 In 1594 (the year of the elegies) he married Martha Carrell, from Tangley, a nearby village; the first of their twelve children was born in 1598. 23 He seems to have been a servant of Cuthbert Buckle, a prominent Vintner, originally from Westmoreland, who rose to the office of Lord Mayor in 1594 and died in office in the same year, leaving a mourning cloak “to my Late servante Robert Nicolson.”24 In 1600, Robert inherited his father’s property, but his father apologized in his will for his paltry estates. 25 Lack of cash may explain why Nicolson had already headed for London, setting himself up as merchant adventurer, bibliophile and patron. He supported the cartographer John Norden, financing the earliest engraved map of Surrey (also in 1594); Norden repaid the favor by dedicating the second part of his Pensive Man’s Practice to him. 26 But Nicolson’s most serious patronage entanglement was with Sylvester. Among the shorter poems in the massive Sylvester folios of 1621 and 1633 one finds a feast of Nicolsoniana, including six verse epistles addressed directly to him, along with epitaphs to his father and his aunt Helen and several acrostic sonnets on his name. The most exorbitant of these (labeled “Sonnet Acrostiteliostichon”) is a pair of sonnets built on acrostics of Sylvester’s name (once) and Nicolson’s name (three times)—a crazy tour de force. 27 There’s also a gift-poem for Nicolson’s wife Martha, based on an anagram of her name (she is the “Soon calm in heart”). Sylvester offers Martha his heart in a poem that seems to have been written on the back of a playing card, a two of hearts. 28 These poems remind us that Sylvester was one of the most materially playful of early modern writers: his books abound with shape-poems (pillars, pyramids, castles), poems that are also pairs of spectacles, and fold-out posters on the mysteries of the Trinity. 29 Sylvester was also a lover of the anagram, which we need to see as something other than a debased and trivial form of wit. Frederick Ahl, attempting to undo our ideas about classical purity by arguing that canonical texts are in fact full of puns and anagrams, insists that for ancient writers the ­alphabet was an “element of language which could be rearranged, just as the natural elements which make up substance could be rearranged, to form a new being.”30 Sylvester delights in such textual recombinations. Here it may be relevant that Sylvester was not just a man of letters; he was also a merchant, who interpolated praises of English mercantilism into his Du Bartas, and whose translation was praised by Samuel Daniel as bringing “the best of treasures from a forraine Coast.”31 Transpositions of substance were his stock-in-trade. Returning to the tiny Branche elegies from the giant Sylvester folios, we might want to take their material transfers more seriously, starting with the master-pun on Helen Branche’s name:

Cut-&-Paste Bookmaking: Robert Nicolson  39 And as this tree doth grow to strength, the owner of the wood, May lop away the branches faire, as them which are not good. 32 Nobody would want to claim that this is great writing. But it does something significant all the same, as it turns the terminal cut of death into something generative, part of a process rather than a conclusion. Hence its appeal to Nicolson, as he tried to capitalize on Helen Branche’s death, to rise by her fall. But the excerpt may also be helpful in thinking about the kind of hybrids that Nicolson created in commissioning the elegies. These are printed texts that refuse to treat print as final, and which accordingly begin to sprout handwritten marginalia. The cut, as Juliet Fleming’s account predicts, is the prelude to the graft, which diverts death towards new life. Just such a process of revivification turns out to characterize Nicolson’s reading more generally. Around twenty books survive from Nicolson’s library, and many of these are thickly annotated. 33 As in the elegies for Helen Branche, there is a certain ambiguity to the interventions that Nicolson made in his books. On the one hand, there are what we might call public-service marginalia, added as though Nicolson were a pressman in the printing house, marking up the book for a general readership by making its material resources more visible. Such impersonality is, as William H. Sherman has taught us, a standard feature of early modern annotations, which usually provide technical analyses of the text rather than personal responses. 34 Thus on a typical page early in his copy of Hakluyt’s Principall Navigations (1589), Nicolson adds three notes on the narrative (“By what means one shippe, & men were sau’d,” “The prince of Joppas trecherie,” “Prince Edward wounded.”) and he bulks out a printed marginal note (“The arrivall of Prince E ­ dward at ­ icolas Acra”) with a helpful date: “Ao. Do. 1271.”35 Similarly, when in N de Nicolay’s Navigations … into Turkie (1585) the author and his ­companions sail into a cave full of “straunge myce,” and are forced to cover their heads with their cloaks “for feare they should pisse on our heades (their pisse being venimous),” Nicolson supplements a printed marginal note: Strange myce. whose piss is venemous/. 36 Such information as this, which might (just conceivably) be useful to the traveler, and which reveals something about the world’s bewildering variousness, was rendered more conspicuous by annotation, as well as by handwritten additions to the volume’s printed index. In the same spirit, Nicolson inserted numerous cross-references into his books (“Reade more of the Moores: folio: 8. 9: before”). 37 The sense that these are

40  Jason Scott-Warren ‘public’ annotations is reinforced by their visual appearance: penned in a tiny and formidably neat italic, they seem to be trying to emulate the scale and clarity of letterpress. On the other hand, we often find Nicolson engaging in curiously private practices. One of his trademark habits is to annotate a passage with a barrage of tiny marks, delivered with pinpoint accuracy to particular lines of text: a period here, two periods there, elsewhere a comma or double- or triple-commas, with or without flanking periods, with crosses for points of high excitement (Figure 2.1). At least one of these kinds of mark is merely mechanical: Nicolson adds ‘=’ signs to indicate words broken across the line-end by the printer (here again we see the annotator working as the equivalent of a typesetter). What I have called his commas are more sophisticated: these are diples or gnomic markers, usually used to signal commonplaces that float free of the text around them thanks to their sententiousness and broad applicability. Such symbols have recently been explored in some detail by critics exploring the rising status of literature in English in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. 38 But while many of ­Nicolson’s markings do single out commonplace material, and seem to be following standard practice in making that material more ‘common,’ the variegation of his markings suggests that he is using public symbols to speak a more private language. He becomes, in effect, a literary seismograph, offering what looks like a highly personal, line-by-line response to the rising and falling interest-levels of the text. Inevitably, there are some annotations that cut across any tidy distinction between public and private. In his copy of Nicolay’s Navigations, for example, Nicolson slips into Latin for a horrified note on what Turkish women get up to at the baths: “Frons ficta, / obscœni mores, / petulansque / libido / Certàque / fœmineus / viscera tor= / =ret amor” (“dissembling appearances, repulsive practices and freakish lust: truly, feminine love burns the innards”). 39 This sounds like a visceral response to visceral burning. More personal still are the notes in his Hakluyt, which cast Nicolson as archivist to the Branche family; here he quotes fragments of family letters, describes the experiences of a relative caught up in the Great Fire of Moscow in 1571, and reveals that both he and his uncle John Branche were members of the Muscovy Company.40 We need some category more subtle than private or public for such annotations. I have always liked Sherman’s term ‘privy’—denoting the selectively private, the privileged space that you enter when stepping into someone’s closet or when reading their marginalia.41 This also fits with the rabbitout-of-a-hat Nicolson we saw earlier, his identity a printed secret to be disclosed in manuscript. The pasted-in armorials that we found in Nicolson’s elegies feature in all of his surviving books, usually imitating printed ornaments. Blazing or blazoning your arms seems like an ostentatious public statement, but Nicolson also plays private games with his arms. It is predictable that he

Figure 2.1  N  icolson’s marginal marks in Christof Wirsung, Praxis medicinae universalis (1598), Folger STC 25863, cs1292, T3v (p. 294).  P ­ hotograph by Jason Scott-Warren. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0  International Licence.

42  Jason Scott-Warren should want to filch them in at the bottom of a page in his copy of the Civitates orbis terrarum that depicts the shields of the “Nobilis Hannoniae,” the Dukes of Hainaut.42 But in this volume he also does something rather stranger, pasting armorials into decorated initial letters seemingly without rhyme or reason. This kind of decoration becomes something of an art form in his copy of the Praxis medicinae universalis (1598), a vast medical encyclopedia, in which bits of heraldry are hidden all over the place; take, for example, this ounce (a argent, sable-spotted ounce, to be precise, thrust through the neck with a broken spear, or, headed gules), the Nicolson crest, hidden in a decorated letter ‘L’.43 Such paste-ins are often tiny: invisible until you start looking for them, and a bewildering presence when you find them. The strangeness continues in several decorated letters in the Praxis in which Nicolson writes names—“Thomas Holcroft miles” inside a letter ‘T’, “Isabella Rutlandiae” inside an ‘I’.44 And then, to cap it all off, there is a minute manuscript index stuck onto the rear pastedown, and on closer inspection this turns out to be a finding aid to the various armorials and names that are scattered through the book (Figure 2.2). Let us postpone the question of what on earth might be going on here while we look at some of Nicolson’s other book-makings. For he turns out to be a committed cutter-and-paster, sometimes merely customizing his books by adding annotations, manuscript indexes, and the like, sometimes exploding them, and radically transforming their significance. A copy of Abraham Fleming’s translation of Aelian, A Registre of Hystories, now at Illinois, offers an example of the former; it boasts a twelve-page manuscript index, signed “Ex industria Roberti Nicholsoni Londinensis 1590.”45 A book at Harvard better fits the latter category. This is a copy of the Latin and English versions of A Dialogue Betwene

Figure 2.2  Nicolson’s pasted and manuscript additions to Christof Wirsung, Praxis medicinae universalis (1598), Folger STC 25863, cs1292, fols. 2D2v (p. 420), 2S1v (p. 642), and rear pastedown. Photographs by Jason Scott-Warren. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0  International Licence.

Cut-&-Paste Bookmaking: Robert Nicolson  43 a Knyght and a Clerke, probably printed around 1533.46 The Dialogue was originally written in the 1290s to defend the French crown against Papal authority. Condemned as heretical by Pope Boniface VIII, it later became a popular Wycliffite text, and in the 1530s it was republished for an entirely new anti-papal context at the instigation of Thomas Cromwell.47 Sixteenth-century commentators ascribed the Dialogue to the scholastic philosopher William of Ockham, presumably because it was felt to fit with his writings on papal power. Nicolson’s volume is a Sammelband that combines copies of the English and the Latin texts of the work, with nine manuscript leaves as filling in the sandwich. Those leaves are devoted to the celebration of William of Ockham as one of the most illustrious sons of Surrey (the village of Ockham is north-east of Guildford). The interpolated encomium begins in prose, citing the judgments of Camden, Scaliger, Bale, Trithemius and Foxe in praise of a great philosopher, “Subtilissimus omnium mortalium,” “Nominalium parentem,” “a worthy Divine, & of a right sincere judgment, as the times then would ether give or suffer”—and, inevitably therefore, a proto-Protestant. Nicolson then goes on to restate these commendations in what he calls “A breife Idilion of English epick verses,” where an “Idilion” is presumably an Idyll, “A short poem, descriptive of some picturesque scene or incident, chiefly in rustic life” (OED). The writing here is anything but idyllic; indeed, it could do with a sharp slash from Ockham’s razor: O! would in Surrey mor such men were found; O! would mens vice, & sinn were sett a side; O! would that Ockams workes might be their guide; And to his good example them incline; who was a worthy & severe divine. But for all the flat-footedness of the writing, Nicolson’s manuscript interventions in the volume succeed in completely realigning the Dialogue, turning it from a piece of Protestant propaganda into a celebration of the intensely local. Pseudo-Ockham has been cut and regrafted onto a new stock. We might also want to see the badness of the poem as partly an effect of processes of material transfer. First Nicolson cites the prose sources in praise of Ockham; then he translates those prose sources into verse, which feels flatly prosaic as a result. This is an act of textual reconstitution akin to the shifting of letters in an anagram, or the play on the phoneme in a pun. This textual traffic goes hand in hand with the material reconstitution of the book. Nicolson’s most significant exploded book was also his magnum opus. This is a copy of The First Part of the Diall of Days, by Lodowick Lloyd, published and purchased in 1590.48 The Diall promised its readers a feast of ethnographic information:

44  Jason Scott-Warren 320. Romane triumphes, besides the triumphant Obelisks and Pyramydes of the Aegyptians, the Pillers, Arches, and Trophies triumphant, of the Græcians, and the Persians, with their Pompe and Magnificence: of feastes and Sacrifices both of the Jewes and of the Gentils, with the stately games and plaies belonging to these Feastes and Sacrifices, with the birthes and funeral Pomps of Kinges and Emperours, as you shall finde more at large in the 2. part, wherein all kind of triumphes are enlarged This is a comparative history focused on the powerful and on rituals of power. The book is arranged calendrically: Lloyd’s “dial” (perhaps a sundial or a watch) gives us a page for every day of the year—although since this is The First Part of the Diall of Days Lloyd only makes it from January to June (the second part seems never to have been published). Each day we are treated to a ragbag of information: dates of battles or portents, scraps of astrology, and exercises in chronology, including notes on the precise dating of Biblical events. For all its miscellaneity, the book would have helped its readers to ponder serious questions such as the relationship between Christian and pagan history, or the ways in which the stars influenced human affairs. Lloyd’s compilation as printed left no blank space for the addition of handwritten materials, unlike other day-by-day volumes published in the period, such as the Ephemeris historica of Michael Beuther.49 Nicolson opened up Lloyd’s text by having his copy of the Diall thickly interleaved. In the space thus created, he added vast amounts of new material, including entries for the missing half of the year, July to December. On Lloyd’s title page he noted that the book has “divers Additions / By Robert Nicolsons industrie.” He also created a new title page (placed at the beginning of July) in he worried away at the question of what to call his creation (Figure 2.3): should it be “DIARIVM;” “DIVRNVM HISTORICVM;” “An historicall Journall/or daybooke;” “EPHEMERIS HISTORICA,” or perhaps “Heroica historia;” “Horologium historicum;” “The Compendious Historie;” “Polychronicon diarium;” or “Synopsis historiarum”?50 What exactly was this thing that he was creating? The lengthy subtitle that Nicolson gave his work echoed Lloyd’s, but promised in addition to cover the deeds of “Constant martyrs,” “Reverend Bishops,” and “valliant captaines,” “with many other strange, rare, or admirable accidentes: by Lightening, thunder, earthquakes, extraordinarie fires; Inundations; prodigious births; Navigations; Blasing starrs, Earth moveing. or removed,” “from the creation of the world to this day.” “This day” might be 1608 or it might be 1617—Nicolson was at work on the text for a long period. The title page also has a note for a printer: “Memorandum to place the histories of the Bible, & other theologicall histories: in the first place of every severall Day./” So the final organization

Figure 2.3  T  itle page of Nicolson’s manuscript addition to Lodowick Lloyd, The First Part of the Diall of Daies (London: Roger Ward, 1590), Bodleian Library 4° Rawl. 140 (1). Reproduced by permission of the Bodleian Library.

46  Jason Scott-Warren of the material was to be made, not within the precincts of Nicolson’s interleaved book, but on the bed of the press—a bed that the book never came to rest on. Eventually it seems that Nicolson settled for a single title, “DODECAMERON: A Book in 12 parts.”51 Had it been printed, the book would have absorbed Lloyd’s text, presenting it in corrected form with new marginal notes. But it would also have contained lengthy additions, gathered from upwards of 140 books—among them the 1589 and 1600 editions of Hakluyt, manuscripts such as Richard Robinson’s account of the Armada victory, and a copy of Caxton’s translation of the R ­ ecuyell of the Histories of Troye, the first book printed in English, which ­Nicolson dated to 1464. 52 Nicolson also drew on a variety of almanacs and pamphlets in what was a highly eclectic mix of sources. He documents those sources with characteristic precision, giving dates, formats and page numbers for each citation; sometimes he specifies a printer and place of publication. This chimes with the strongly locative focus of the excerpts themselves, which are almost always focused around the particular times and places of this or that birth or death or marriage, or blazing star, or exploit of Sir Francis Drake. The project is underwritten by the desire to place the past, fixing it in time and space. The Dodecameron certainly allows us to place Nicolson, since as well as being a would-be printed book, for general consumption, it is also a private journal, albeit a journal that has been shredded and collaged across the days of the year. A host of manuscript entries in the text are singled out as not to be printed, or “for my remembrance,” or are just marked with Nicolson’s initials in order to privatize them. From these entries we can reconstruct the course of Nicolson’s early life, and in particular his extensive travels as a merchant in the mid-1580s, which had taken him to Elsinore in Denmark, Konigsburg in Prussia, and west along the Baltic through Heiligenbeil (modern Mamonovo), Braunsberg (Braniewo), Frauenberg (Frombork) and so on to Elbing, at the time “the sole Baltic entrepot for English goods,” where he stayed for several months. 53 He made several visits to Gdansk, was present for the great fair at Torun, and made a 500-mile detour to Emden, a centre of trade for the Merchant Adventurers of London. 54 It was presumably during these travels that Nicolson met Sylvester, who was stationed in East Friesland on behalf of the Merchant Adventurers’ Company in the mid-1580s. 55 But the highlight of the trip seems to have occurred on Friday 22 September 1587, on the Vistula river about a little way from Danzig, where he “plainly veiwed, & stedfastly beheld, Sigismundus .3. King of Poland, together with the Ladie Anna his Sister; and Prince Edward Fortunatus: aborde his royall Shipp, lying then at anker.” A manicule points out the crucial fact of the encounter: “His majestie also then, & there, firmly fixed his royall eies on me.”56 This intertwining of eye-beams of the English merchant with the Polish monarch, with its emphasis on stasis,

Cut-&-Paste Bookmaking: Robert Nicolson  47 steadfastness and fixity—and the precisely located “then and there”— perhaps defined Nicolson’s relationship with adhesion ever after. He had been cut and pasted into the European aristocracy. Much the same thing happens on a more local level. The Dodecameron is full of the patronage and friendship connections we have already seen in this chapter: thus we find, on 29 April 1594, the death of “Helen Nicolson Ladie Branch,” and on 24 July 1588 the death of her husband, “at which time, the vainly termed the invincible Spanish fleet, was on the coast of England.”57 Here is the knighting of “the right honorable Cuthbert Buckle, Lord Maior of London, (late my only Maister)” at Greenwich in May 1594, and his death just over a month later. 58 But the volume also allows us to understand Nicolson’s relationships with the Thomas Holcrofts and Isabella Rutlands whose names are filched into the Folger Praxis Medicinae. These people are, he believes, his relatives: The noble Ladie ELIZABETH Mannors (Baroness Ross) sole daughter & heire of the right honorable Lord Edward Mannors Earle of Rutland, Lord Ross of Hamlake, Belvoire, & Trusbut, Knight of the renowmed order of the Garter etc: By his honorable wife, ISABEL (daughter of Sir Thomas Holcroft, & his wife Julian Jennins:) was borne about the 14th of December. Ao. Do. 1575./. Which said Countess Isabell & my Mother: were Cosen Germans once removed; (By their mothers side.) For so the Ladie Julian Holcroft (mother of the said Countess & grandmother of the said Ladie Ross.) told to me, her selfe at her house in Tower streete, in London. Ao. Do. 1588./. Before the 10. october./. 59 It was on 30 March 1592, Nicolson reports, that “I first sawe, kist, talkd & ­ utland dyned with the right honorable Ladie Isabell Countess Dowager of R at her house in Stepney; … which honorable Countess, & my mother, were Cosen Germans, once removed (by their mothers side).”60 Elsewhere we learn of Isabel’s death at Stepney on 21 January 1605, and of the death of Baroness Ross, on 12 April 1591, and her burial at ­Westminster, “wherof I was an eie-witness; to my great greife, for the sayd Ladie Ross, her ­Mothers mother, & my mothers mother were cosen germans, vizt brother and sisters children” so that “The said Baroness Ross, & I: were cosen Germans twice removed.”61 (The said Baroness Ross had been married to William Cecil the younger, “nowe Lord Burghley,” so this was no mean connection). There is a kind of manic precision to Nicolson’s reiterated documentation of these relationships. The concern with genealogy seems to be shading into horary astrology, for which it might matter precisely where and when somebody told you that they were related to you. But these references help us to register the force of all those pasted-in armorials. Cutting—which splices together the art of the herald with technology of

48  Jason Scott-Warren the woodcut, and with the physical workings of knives or scissors and glue—is here part of a larger project of grafting: the grafting of an individual onto a family tree. Nicolson opens his books up and inserts materials into them so as to establish his own status as a new scion growing on the old stock. If reading is always a form of cutting, then we ought also to think of Nicolson’s marginalia as another kind of cut—an opening out of the book to new purposes—or perhaps as a kind of budding. The distinctive style of his italic hand, which sprouts ornamental hairline strokes at every opportunity, contributes to this impression. And if we recall that the Latin words for book—liber and codex—both derive from bark, while the English word ‘book’ derives from ‘beech’ (as in the tree), then we may be some way nearer to locating the life in seemingly dead wood.62

Notes 1 See, for example, Gillespie, Print Culture and the Medieval Author; Knight, Bound to Read; Raymond, Pamphlets and Pamphleteering; Stallybrass, “Little Jobs.” 2 Fleming, “The Renaissance Collage.” 3 Folger Shakespeare Library, MS V.a.459–61. For my preliminary study of Stonley’s journals and library, see Scott-Warren, “Books in the Bedchamber.” 4 Schoenbaum, William Shakespeare, 176. 5 Folger MS V.a.460, fol. 82v. I have modernized u/v and i/j in all direct quotations from early modern English-language sources. 6 On early modern elegy, see Brady, English Funerary Elegy in the Seventeenth Century and Kay, The English Funeral Elegy. 7 P., An Epitaph of the Vertuous Life and Death of the Right Worshipfull L ­ adie; Phillips, A Commemoration of the Life and Death of the Right Worshipfull and Vertuous Ladie; Walsham, Phillips [Phillip], John (d. 1594x1617), author. 8 Hervey, “Epicedium, A Funerall Song.” 9 Sylvester, Monodia. 10 P., An Epitaph, A3r. 11 Hervey, Epicedium, A3v. 12 Sylvester, Monodia, A3v. 13 Hervey, Epicedium, A3v. 14 Sylvester, Monodia, A4v. 15 Huntington Library (#81089–81090); British Library (C.40.e.67). 16 London, National Archives (TNA), PROB 11/83/291. 17 It is possible that other memorial volumes are now lost. Cambridge University Library MS Dd.5.77 contains an anonymous poem entitled ‘Mnemosynon’ addressed “To his Master maister ROBERT NICHOLSON Marchant a Commemoration vpon the Death of his deceased Aunt the right worshipfull Dame Hellen Branch my verie good Ladie and Mistress who departed this life the 10th of Aprill: 1594 and Lieth enterred in Saint Mary Abchurch LONDON.” 18 Phillips, Commemoration, Huntington Library (#81089), A2v–3r. 19 Ibid. 20 Hervey, Epicedium, A3v.

Cut-&-Paste Bookmaking: Robert Nicolson  49 21 Ibid., A4v. 22 IGI (accessed via www.familysearch.org). The fullest account of Nicolson to date is Williams, Robert Nicholson, “A Minor Maecenas.” In what follows I adopt Nicolson’s preferred spelling of his name (without an “h”). 23 The date of the marriage is established by Williams, “The Bear Facts about Josuah Sylvester.” For earlier generations of this substantial family, see HoP, “Caryll (Carrell), John (c.1505-66), of Warnham, Suss.” 24 TNA, PROB 11/84/123; Buckle also left “forty shillinges and a Cloke” to George Nicolson, presumably Robert’s brother. He received prominent notice on Nicolson’s funeral monument for Helen Branche, who left Buckle “one white silver playghted cupp which was Master doctor Cromers” in her will; TNA, PROB 11/83/291. 25 TNA, PROB 11/95/103. 26 Norden, The Pensive Mans Practise, A2r, A3r. 27 Sylvester, Du Bartas his Divine Weekes, 3H4v–5r. 28 Ibid., 3K3r–4v. 29 For the castle, see Sylvester, Du Bartas his Divine Weekes, 2Q6r; for the spectacles, 3F4v–6v. 30 Ahl, “Ars Est Caelare Artem (Art in Puns and Anagrams Engraved).” 31 Du Bartas, Bartas, 2A8v–2B1r, B6r. 32 P., An Epitaph, A3r. 33 Besides the books listed elsewhere in this article, the surviving books are: Danse macabre (Paris: Jean Tréperel, 1500), British Library IA 40884; Pomponius Mela, De totius orbis descriptione (Paris: Gilles de Gourmont, 1507), John Carter Brown Library, A507.M517P; Quintus Curtius Rufus,  De gestis alexandri magni (Paris: Ponset le Preux, 1508), sold at ­S otheby’s, ­C atalogue of Valuable Printed Books from the Broxbourne Library ­(second portion, 8–9 May 1978); Giovanni Nanni, Berosus Babilonicus De his quae praecesserunt inundationem terrarum (Paris: Apud Collegium Plessiacum, 1510), Princeton University Library, shelfmark 2613.1510; Ranulph Higden, Polycronycon (Southwark: Peter Treveris, 1527), currently unlocated; Guillaume Rouillé, Le premiere partie du promptuaire des medalles des plus renommees personnes (Lyon: Guillaume Rouillé, 1553), Oxford, Merton College, 17.A.9; The. Holie. Bible. (London: Richard Iugge, 1568), Chetham’s Library, Manchester, A.7.18; The Gospels of the Fower Evangelistes Translated in the Olde Saxons Tyme (London: John Day, 1571); copy sold by Sokol books in 2010; Antoine du Verdier, La prosopographie, ou, description des personnes insignes (Lyon: Antoine Gryphius, 1573), Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge (no shelfmark). 34 Sherman, chap. 4 in John Dee. 35 Hakluyt, Principall Navigations, B5r. 36 Nicolay, Navigations, B8v. 37 Ibid., X7v. 38 Stallybrass and Lesser, “The First Literary Hamlet.” 39 Nicolay, Navigations, H8r. 40 Hakluyt, Principall Navigations, *4r, 2E6v, 2Q4v; see also the annotations to 2O3r, 3B2v, 3F3v, 3G6r, 3P2r. 41 Sherman, John Dee, 50. 42 Braun, Civitates, New York Public Library, *KB+1581, 3/23. 43 Christof Wirsung, Praxis medicinae universalis, or, A Generall Practise of Physicke (London: George Bishop, 1598), Folger Shakespeare Library (STC 25863, cs1292), 2D2v (p. 420). 4 4 Ibid., 2S1v (p. 642), 2Q5v (p. 618).

50  Jason Scott-Warren 45 Claudius Aelianus¸ A Registre of Hystories (London: Thomas Woodcock, 1576), University of Illinois (IUA00084). 46 A dialogue betwene a Knyght and a Clerke (London: Thomas Berthelet, 1533[?]), Houghton Library, STC 12511; bound with Disputatio inter clericum et miletem (London: Thomas Berthelet 1531); Hougton Library (STC 12511). The Houghton catalogue entry explains that the English edition represented here is not a perfect fit with either STC 12511 or STC 12511a. 47 Warner, Henry VIII’s Divorce, 36. 48 Lodowick Lloyd, The First Part of the Diall of Daies (London: Roger Ward, 1590), Bodleian (4° Rawl. 140 (1)). My references are to the signatures of the printed work and the pagination of the interleaved manuscript sections, as appropriate. The copy is bound with another work by Lloyd, The Triplicitie of Triumphes (London: R. Ihones, 1591). 49 Beuther, Ephemeris historica. For the Montaigne family copy (CUL Montaigne 1.7.6), annotated from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, see Marchand, Le livre de raison de Montaigne sur l'Ephemeris historica de Beuther; compare the Lambarde family copy, annotated from the sixteenth through to the twentieth century, Drapers’ Hall (H./Add.14). 50 Lloyd, Diall, 199. 51 Ibid., B1r. 52 Ibid., 40.m.; 198.g., 205; 40.t., 140.y., 140.a.a. 53 Zins, England and the Baltic in the Elizabethan Era, 67. 54 Baumann, Merchant Adventurers, 13–15. For the travels of Nicolson’s uncle Henry Parvish to the Frankfurt fair in the 1570s, see ibid., 172. 55 These travels are recalled in Sylvester, Wood-mans Bear. 56 Ibid., 164–5, 171. 57 Ibid., Q3r, 207. 58 Ibid., 166.h. 59 Ibid., 369. 60 Ibid., 140.e. 61 Ibid., 40.f., 140.o. Along with the elegy for Lady Branche mentioned above (note 17), Cambridge University Library (MS Dd.5.77) also contains a poem by Nicolson entitled ‘THRENOS / A funerall song or Elegie of the right honnorable Ladie, the / Ladie ISABEL late Countess Dowager of RUTLAND’. 62 Peter Stallybrass and Joe Farrell, Book-Tree-Leaf-Body (unpublished conversation).

3 Book Marks Object Traces in Early Modern Books Adam Smyth

Over the past three decades, work on early modern literature has been animated by a number of influential studies of handwritten annotations in books, works that take as their subject the manicules, the underlinings, the trefoils, the disputatious hecklings that light up many early modern pages.1 Indeed, such has been the influence of this area of study that questions about the reception of texts via the category of the historical reader have become one of the dominant ways of responding to early modern texts, enacted at all levels of study, from undergraduate essays to scholarly monographs. But like all active fields of enquiry, work in this field is also characterized by a number of unresolved questions and problems, and I hope in this chapter to bring some of these to the critical surface. The subject of this chapter is not handwritten annotations but the marks or remnants of objects left in books, the subject of little sustained scholarly discussion, except for a suggestive but brief exhibition catalogue by Roger Stoddard in 1985. 2 As I hope to show, thinking about these beguiling but also unyielding traces can help us approach the larger field of book annotations afresh. The troubling status of object marks can help clarify some of the assumptions that have underpinned work on marginalia more generally. In order to help with this meta-critical reflection on the present field of book use, I will turn to the marks of objects left to lie in books. What do we call these things? They are not properly annotations, if we accept the OED’s definition, current in the early modern period, of a “note added to anything written, by way of explanation or comment.”3 Marginalia seems more helpful, if by that we mean marks added in the margins, until we realize that the marks of objects follow the space of the page with little sense of duty. I will call them “object marks,” or “object traces,” the copy-specific stains left by objects that once rested on the pages of early modern books. I exclude the many accidental marks left in the process of book production, such as loose or fallen type. The failure to lock up a forme tightly results in wobbly type and, usually in the process of inking, type can be pulled out and if left lying

52  Adam Smyth flat results in a printed text carrying a horizontal mark. Thus, for instance, the pulled type resting sideways on a page of a 1474 Biblical concordance, across entries for “Splendide” (brightly) and “Spoliare” (despoil).4 Like other instances of accidental production marks – the pressman’s fingerprints; the holes on the top and bottom of leaves from points attaching the paper to the tympan; the blind impression of bearing type; the hair inked and printed in a 1478 book printed by Johann Zainer of Ulm, Germany – fallen type vividly conjures up the process of production, and conveys normally concealed truths about printing (that type has depth, for example, and not just surface). 5 But such marks are manufacturing artifacts and are not properly signs of book use. My focus here will be on marks imprinted on books by three kinds of object with relative frequency (by which I mean they are not spectacular one-off finds): flowers, spectacles, and scissors. What can we say about these forms?

Flowers I need first to clarity what kind of flower marks I am studying. It is not unusual to find plants left between the pages of a book. A Folger Library copy of Anglicus Bartholomaeus’s Incipit Prohemium De proprietatib[us] rerum Fratris Bartholomei Anglici de ordine Fratrum Mino[rum] (Lyon, 1480) – a book heavily marked with signs of use, including handwritten corrections and an ownership note – has a dried plant between leaves y6 and y7.6 John Parkinson’s Theatrum Botanicum: The Theater of Plants (1640) sets out to provide “a more ample and exact history and declaration of the physicall herbs and plants that are in other authours,” and, in keeping with its taxonomic ambition, one copy has twenty-one plant samples, added by a reader but now removed by cataloguers and kept in two separate boxes.7 These and the other pressed leaves, cuttings and grasses found in books in Cardiff University Special Collections, at the Beinecke in Yale,8 and elsewhere, are really part of a distinct category of augmented book: the book as collecting space, as box, as cabinet of natural history, the plants carefully assembled by amateur botanists and laid out on the pages. They don’t quite fall under the heading of marks in books, partly because they are objects, not traces of objects, and also because they are the product of a sustained and purposeful process of curation. A more apt botanical instance is the stain in a copy of Shakespeare’s Works (1623), now held in the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library at the University of Toronto (Figure 3.1). Here, the tracks of a rose bud cross a page of Cymbeline. Tracing the form, we reach the tip of the bud at the place where Cymbeline says, “O most delicate Fiend! / Who is’t can reade a Woman?”9

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  53

Figure 3.1  Shakespeare’s Works (1623), by permission of the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto, Fisher.S52 A1 1623f, 395.

I write the “place” where Cymbeline speaks quite deliberately: one effect of this mark is to make us aware of the page as a surface, and of each word as a sign existing in a spatial, rather than a temporal relation with other words. Cymbeline, we see, is an arrangement of type, or rather is a collection of inked impressions left by an arrangement of type, and we read now not for literary meaning but in terms of mise-en-page. In this sense the conspicuous rose stain denaturalizes

54  Adam Smyth the page, and so helps us to perceive it anew. As Bill Brown notes, we see an object afresh, and more clearly, when it breaks down: the mobile phone becomes stranger, and more thing-like, when it refuses to work – no longer a magical source of conversation but an inert slab of metal and glass.10 Here, in Cymbeline, we become aware of Shakespeare’s text not as a living artistic creation that transcends its bookish form, but rather as a series of inked forms pressed on to paper: the materiality of the rose bud, as it unfurls across the page marking words irrespective of meaning, making more prominent the materiality of the text in general. We meet quite frequently the inked flowers added by readers to their books, but these are normally flowers in the form of marginal annotations, flowers sketched by hand, evidenced, most canonically, in books owned by Ben Jonson,11 but widespread in general. Such instances of flowers-as-annotations exhibit a twin pull between the functional and the aesthetic. That is, the role of the drawn flower, like the manicule or asterisk, is primarily to mark out a passage of text; but readers seem often to have felt a competing aesthetic impulse to make the flower (or the pointing finger) a vivid, humorous or spectacular intervention. Thus, for example, as William Slights has noted, a young reader named Jonathan, practicing penning flowers on the front endpapers of a copy of Christian Religion Substantially Treatised (1611), turned those flowers into drawings of decorations on a shirt.12 The rose in Cymbeline may have once had a practical function in the sense that the original flower marked an opening, like a bookmark. But does the stain have any aesthetic significance? Might the rose, poetry’s iconic flower, contribute to, or engage with, the play’s symbolic effects? Early modern readers of a certain disposition might have been susceptible to finding a connection between the rose mark and Cymbeline’s exclamation. The tradition of the sortes Virginilianae, or “Virgilian lots,” saw readers insert a pin at a random spot between the pages of the Aeneid, and the located verse was read as significant. John Aubrey describes how King Charles, on the urging of Abraham Cowley, performed such a reading during a visit to London in 1648 and “prick’t his pinne in the fourth booke of the Aeneids (IV 615–20).” That passage of Virgil was grimly prophetic – “let him die before his day, the sand his grave,/And with my bond this last request I crave” – and Cowley (who “always had a Virgil in his pocket”) was certainly typical of many in regarding the selected passages as meaningful.13 Located within such a culture of bibliomancy, or placed more generally within the long tradition of aleatoricism in art, running at least from the I Ching to the Dadaists of the 1920s, the random mark of a decayed rose might be seen as significant, but for the kind of critical interpretation this volume of essays represents, such interpretative promise is misleading, a hermeneutical dead-end, a sentimental allure. Since there is no literary intention

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  55 behind the staining of page by rose, no dramatic or aesthetic reason why the bud marks those particular words, there is no meaningful relation in terms of the play’s content. Two hundred and fifty years later, George Eliot played with this interpretative pull and push (the pull to read all marks symbolically, the push that recognizes there is no intent) in The Mill on the Floss: If, in the maiden days of the Dodson sisters, their bibles opened more easily at some parts than others, it was because of dried tulip petals, which had been distributed quite impartially, without preference for the historical, devotional, or doctrinal.14 But there remains something unnerving about the rose stain, something that has to do with the impression of an object that languishes outside of time. The rose has been abandoned, or lost, or forgotten, but its decay is frozen: it no longer has duration. In his sonnets, Shakespeare considers the prospect of removing flowers from time through the conceit of distillation: in sonnet 5, while “never-resting Time leads Summer on / To hideous Winter,” extracting the scent from petals means “their substance still lives sweet.” The form fades, but the essence (“[a] liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass”) is made to endure. In sonnet 54, the beauty of a rose becomes legible as a result of the flowers’ scent: “canker-blooms” may “have full as deep a dye,” but lacking “that sweet odour … They live unwoo’d and unrespected fade; / Die to themselves.” The process of distillation removes the scent from dying external matter, like the soul separated from the body, a process that is analogous to the work of poetry in keeping a memory of beauty alive while the body turns to dust: “my verse distills your truth.” But if distillation, like poetry, can preserve a flower’s essence, the rose-bud stain in the Toronto Works presents the opposite: what remains is the mark of a now decayed and lost external shape. The stain is eerie because it preserves what should not be preserved: the form or “show” (“Sonnet 54”), the materiality that should, in Shakespeare’s imagination, be jettisoned for the scent to live in, and the mark functions as a ghostly converse to the Sonnets’ distillations. The mark of the rose bud creates the curious effect of both dominating the page, and seeming only fitfully present.

Spectacles The marks left by spectacles can be found in a number of early modern books: in Shakespeare’s Works (1623) held at the Folger Shakespeare Library15; in a copy of Les Oeuvres de Charles Loyseau (Paris, 1640) at the Hendrik Conscience Library, Antwerp (Figure 3.2)16; in a Folger copy of Jeremiah Burroughs, The Ninth, Tenth, and Eleventh Books

Figure 3.2  L  es Oeuvres de Charles Loyseau (Paris, 1640), p. 133.  By permission of the Hendrik Conscience Library collection, Antwerp, EHC 714330.

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  57 of Mr Jeremiah Burroughs…Being the Last Sermons That the Author Preached at Stepney (1655)17; and in a circa 1526 edition of Le Roman de la rose in Oxford.18 Spectacle marks have also been found on medieval pages, including marks on the recycled medieval parchment waste that serves as endpapers in a copy of the Opera of Fr. Luigi di G ­ ranata (Venice, 1568–1569).19 There will certainly be more instances in archives, but cases of object-marked books are hard to find: in this sense they exemplify, in a heightened form, a problem infecting all work on annotations. While some library catalogues record some traces in some books, there is little consistency. In the words of one of the leading rare book curators, “that kind of thing [that is, object marks] has gone completely under the cataloguing radar;” in the words of another, “I have a vague recollection of something to do with a slice of bacon (an anecdote passed on by one of our now deceased former colleagues), but I’m afraid I don’t remember the details!”20 And while it is true that studies in annotations have encouraged a change in the kind of metadata that cataloguers routinely record, the best methodology, as so often, is to speak directly with librarians, cataloguers, and conservators: and this present chapter is indebted to them. Another methodology is to survey as many copies as possible of a single book, as has been done for Shakespeare’s Works (1623), and Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, gathering a unique level of bibliographical detail. 21 (That several of my examples come from this kind of survey of Shakespeare’s Works is indicative of the benefits of such single-text-centric research.) Perhaps the most common method is hardly a method at all, but rather the governing mood of most book use research, which is to say, alert serendipity. In an age where full-text digital transcriptions enable near-instantaneous word and phrase searches (a kind of reading that doesn’t always produce good work), object marks present instances of resistance. They demand time in order to be found – and in thus encouraging slow, digressive, wide reading, object traces remind us of certain reading methods we would be foolish to abandon. Spectacles were a thirteenth-century Italian invention, and were popular across Europe from the fifteenth. Originally they took the form of two convex glass disks held in bone or metal rims with a rivet and handle that could be placed over the nose or held before the eyes (“rivet spectacles,” of the sort represented in Conrad von Soest’s Glasses Apostle (1403)). Later models had leather or wire rims and could be held in place via frames over the ears. Spectacles were associated from the outset not with vision in general but more particularly with reading: known as vitreos ab oculis ad legendum (eyeglasses for eyes for reading), 22 they were a crucial prop for book use, as seen in visual depictions such as Domenico Ghirlandaio’s Saint Jerome in His Study (1480). An expectation that spectacles and books should travel together is also evidenced in books which have hollowed out spaces for glasses in the binding waste, like the copy of Imitatio Christi: Liber de Imitatione Christi cum tractatu

58  Adam Smyth de Cordis Meditatione (Cologne, 1503), at the Catholic University of America Library. 23 Bibliophile and antiquarian Anthony Wood noticed the practice, too: in September 1659, Wood and the Bodleian’s librarian Thomas Barlow “labour’d several week[s]” on “the library of the learned [John] Selden,” newly arrived at the Bodleian. In the process of “carrying them up stairs and placing them,” Wood noticed “[i]n opening some of the books … several pairs of spectacles which Mr Selden had put in, and forgotten to take out.” Wood was as prone to sentimentality as he was to vicious gossip, and the glasses became a means for him to recall a lost reader: “Mr Thommas Barlow gave AW a pair, which he kept in memorie of Selden to his last day.”24 The possibility of glasses being left in books was not only the antiquarian’s delight. Dramatists also saw some wit in the prospect. In Thomas Tomkis’s Lingua: or, The combate of the tongue (1607), Memoria, invited to read, remembers that I forgot my spectacles, I left them in the 349. page of Halls Chronicles, where hee tells a great wonder of a multitude of Mise which had almost destroyed the Country, but that there resorted a great mighty flight of Owls, that destroyed them. 25 Memoria not only remembers he has forgotten his spectacles; he also remembers the passage where his spectacles lie (even if there is in reality no page number 349 in copies of Edward Hall’s Union of the Two Noble and Illustre Families of Lancastre and Yorke (1548)), meaning that these spectacles function as a kind of marker, like the underlining or manicule that marks out a passage of text. It is not clear how much intention lies behind Memoria’s “I left them,” but it is the case that the spectacles, in this moment of remembering, become a means to recall and excise a particular passage from a much larger text. One way to respond to such marks is to place stains of spectacles alongside other non-textual traces to produce a kind of documentary snap shot of reading-in-process: a record of the cloud of things that surrounded the book, and through which reading took place. Thus spectacle marks can be grouped with what Alberto Manguel calls “the spoor of previous readers:”26 the pieces of candle wax and nutshells found in some surviving copies of John Foxe’s Actes and Monuments; the sealing wax dripped in one of William Drummond’s manuscript miscellanies; the crumbs found in a number of copies of Shakespeare’s Works (1623). 27 Such a corpus can contribute towards a social history of reading props. Rather like a study of Hans Holbein the Younger’s Portrait of the Businessman Georg Giesze (1532) that notices the seal, goosefeather quills, scissors, pewter writing-stand, ink, wax disks and sealing wax, such reconstructions can vividly itemize a range of props. But they can only describe reading as an exteriorized set of actions: it is hard to

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  59 imagine the material traces of readerly inwardness, hard to think of an interiority that, perceived in moments of exteriority, does not thus undo itself. One of the problems of histories of reading is always that the archive of reading-as-inwardness is elusive: and so a defining paradox of studies of reading that draw on marginalia is that they are in fact, and necessarily, studies of writing, reflecting on those moments not when readers read, but when readers wrote in books. Of course such moments are often intimately related to reading, but they are not the same, separated as they must be by at the very least a temporal lag: to make a note is to read and then, some time later, to write. It is thus not surprising that recent work on early modern reading has argued that ideas of use and application are central, and has warned of the perils of conceiving reading as romantic interiority: the nature of the marks being studied frames reading as not an internal but an external pursuit. The unyielding rust stains of a spectacle thus draw attention to a gap between reading and marking that must always be there, whether that mark is a handwritten manicule or a fulsome interpretative note. But object traces may be able to help us here. If annotations like Ben Jonson’s “emphatic” markings of Puttenham’s Art of English Poesy (1589)28 are held to be indicative of readerly engagement, then spectacle stains suggest the very opposite: they conjure the moment when reading stops, when glasses are taken off, when the book is shut. And since rust requires duration to form – these metal objects must have been left in books long enough to corrode29 – the stains suggest not just a moment, but a sustained period of non-reading. Spectacle marks thus point to what might be considered the obverse of the history of reading, or at least its shadow: namely, the history of books as objects that for most of their lives are closed or on shelves; of the life of even the most ardent bibliophile as a life spent more often not reading than reading; of nonreading as a mode of responding to books that is going on all the time. The spectacles can thus be grouped within a wider collection of objects that served as early modern bookmarks: some carefully made, like the hand-made cut-out parchment bookmark in a copy of Leon Alberti’s fifteen treatises, but most of them acts of bibliographical improvisation – a loose woodcut of Saint Elizabeth in a 1538 book on the epistles of St Paul; a fragment of a letter signed “Bartlett” placed between pages 64 and 65 of a copy of Petri Gassendi Diniensis Ecclesiæ præpositi et in academia Parisiensi Matheseos Regii Professoris Opera omnia in sex tomos diuisa (1658); a piece of parchment covered in fourteenth-century Gothic script used in a 1590 historical text.30 If the spectacles signify non-reading, they recall a crucial moment of non-reading within perhaps the most iconic scene of reading in Western culture: the conversion episode in Book 8 of Augustine’s ­C onfessions, the paradigmatic “epiphany of the book,” according to Theodore ­Ziolkowski, a sudden moment of light-bringing revelation caused by a

60  Adam Smyth passage of text, when Augustine’s book-induced conversion to Christianity symbolically marks the broader transition from the classicism of late antiquity to the early Middle Ages and Christianity. 31 Augustine, thirty-two-year-old philosopher and rhetorician, plagued by fears and doubts, hears in a garden a childlike voice: “Take it and read, take it and read” (tolle lege, tolle lege). Turning to his copy of the Pauline E ­ pistles and, in an instance of bibliomancy, reading the first passage he finds at random (Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, where Paul shows how the Gospel transforms believers), Augustine feels that “the light of confidence flooded my heart and all the darkness of doubt was dispelled.” Augustine then stops reading: “I marked the place with my finger or by some other sign,” he writes, and “closed the book.”32 The Latin “signo,” translated here as “sign,” is often understood as “mark” or “means” or, in the translation of Tobie Mathew from 1620, as “thing.”33 The description of this marking is both careful and curiously evasive: “I  marked the place with my finger or by some other sign.”34 There were no spectacles in late fourth-century Milan, but “some other sign [or mark or means or thing]” suggests the improvised use of an object, and more broadly the manner in which a reader of a codex (rather than a reader of a scroll) might intervene in the book to signal the moment when reading stops. But this needs nuancing. The moment of closing the book and marking the leaves is not only a moment when reading stops, but it is also more importantly the moment when interpretation begins. This is what happens to Augustine immediately after the book has closed: My looks now were quite calm as I told Alypius what had happened to me. He too told me what he had been feeling, which of course I did not know. He asked to see what I had read. I showed it to him and he read on beyond the text which I had read. I did not know what followed, but it was this: Find room among you for a man of over-delicate conscience [Romans 14:1]. Alypius applied this to himself and told me so. This admonition was enough to give him strength, and without suffering the distress of hesitation he made his resolution and took this good purpose to himself. And it very well suited his moral character, which had long been far, far better than my own.35 We can cautiously revise, then, my earlier note that histories of reading, reliant on external marks, don’t possess an archive of readerly inwardness. Object marks like the spectacles don’t quite constitute that archive but they do signal the process of reflection. The marking of the book for non-reading is a sign of that process that the history of reading has struggled to locate: of reflection, of discussion, of thought, of application.

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  61 Scissors Figure 3.3 shows the rust marks left behind by a pair of scissors in a copy of Shakespeare’s Works (1623).36 The blade bisects Act 3, Scene 4 of King Lear; the S of the bow is at the start of scene 5, when Cornwall says, “I will have my revenge ere I depart his house.” There is an irony in blades appearing on the pages of English literary culture’s most valued book, but such ghostly marks turn up in other copies of this same book: in one, at Henry IV Part I; in another, at The Merry Wives of Windsor. Because both volumes were closed, each single pair of scissors has left a double impression.37 Perhaps the scissors served also as bookmarks; perhaps they were nearby to be used by the reader to trim the candles; perhaps they were a binder’s, forgotten in the process of book-binding; or perhaps the scissor marks suggest readers about to cut out sections of the page to transfer it to a miscellany or commonplace book. 38 Such marks can be found in a surprisingly large number of other early modern books. A copy of the fifth edition of John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs (1596), now at Ohio State, is marked just below the marginal heading “The law of Christ standeth on two parts” (Figure 3.4), 39 and two copies of Philip Sidney’s Arcadia show scissor rust.40 There are rust marks of scissors in the gutter of a copy of The Nuremberg Chronicle (Liber Chronicarum) (1493),41 and scissor rust marks have been found on manuscripts, too: in two Greek texts at the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, in Milan, for example, both pre-1500 but the signs of the rust might well have been left in the sixteenth century, when the manuscripts were heavily used.42 Marks such as those in Figures 3.3 and 3.4 generate pathos because they signify not just absence but a double loss: they are the stains left behind by objects left behind by readers. If Anthony Wood cherished Selden’s spectacles as a proxy for the man – rather as Coleridge, responding to friends’ requests that he annotate books, said he would “spoil” a book “to leave a Relic”43 – then we are confronting another stage of remove: the traces of objects that belonged to a reader. And what, exactly, are we looking at? It takes some time to realize these marks are in fact the marks of scissors. The process of staining and, by closing the book, doubling amounts to a mediation that appears aestheticized, except that there is no aesthetic intention behind it. But certainly the scissors seem to have transformed into some other thing: in the case of Figure 3.3 (Shakespeare’s Works), into a swinging pendulum; in the case of Figure 3.4 (Foxe’s Acts and Monuments), into what looks like a fragment of a dynastic genealogical table, the blades on the left gesturing at some broken blood line. If we are used to thinking of objects as things possessing a sturdy facticity, particularly in contrast to text that requires interpretation, then these marks eerily confound those assumptions. That realization might

Figure 3.3  William Shakespeare, Works (1623), Folger First Folio 63, Tragedies, 298. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International Licence.

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  63

Figure 3.4  John Foxe, Acts and Monuments (1596), by permission of Ohio State University, BR1600.F6 1596, copy 1, 366–67.

serve to encourage in critics an interpretative humility: if such a stable thing as an object can become obscure, what hope do we have of properly understanding the more baroque and clouded marginal annotations that litter the pages of early modern books? I began this chapter by suggesting that recent work on marginal annotations has been characterized by a number of questions, paradoxes or gaps that I hoped to bring to the surface. By way of conclusion, I offer a list of five of these traits-as-problems, as both an assessment of where the history of marginalia stands now and an illustration of the value of attending to object traces. 1 The dominance of the case study as the structure (of writing, and of thought) for organizing investigations of marginalia. The case study tends to produce a certain kind of work: by their nature particular, case studies are effective at disrupting existing narratives, at worrying away at orthodoxies and assumptions, but they are much less ­effective at supporting the construction of new lines of argument. This is one of the reasons why histories of reading have often a prefatory tone. The close analysis of, typically, a particular reader – Jardine

64  Adam Smyth and Grafton on Gabriel Harvey; Sherman on Sir Julius Caesar; Orgel on Lady Anne Clifford – has meant that the history of reading, as a field, has often been organized around biography precisely at a time when early modern studies more generally has been moving away from the individual as the unit of cultural analysis, with a shift in the 1990s and 2000s to the coterie, and, in more recent years, to the network.44 The dominance of biography and of the individual for histories of book use has meant that studies of marginal annotations have tended to link book annotations back to the marking individual at the expense of other ways of organizing marginalia, such as genre (see below), either by reading the marks as expressions of selfhood (“even the most routine marking of a text allows us to hear the voice of the reader”45), or by connecting the markings to the social or political interests of the reader.46 Studies of objects can be useful because they suspend these biographical assumptions – the mark of an object is less obviously expressive of a reader, and less suited to biographical interpretation – and so encourage other ways of thinking about book use. 2 The question of genre. If any act of writing necessarily borrows from conventions, precedents and models, what generic patterns and scripts does the annotator follow? The use of biography as the frame for reading marked books has meant critics, preoccupied with readers’ marks in terms of the reader’s identity or life, have spent less time in establishing where the conventions for marking books come from. Until we have a sense of convention, it is hard to identify moments of departure, and thus hard to navigate the poles of the dutiful reader and the maverick. Heather Jackson has argued that what makes eighteenth-century marginal annotations distinctive is their newly critical engagement with their host text, and Jackson tracks this change to the influence of printed notes and commentaries by scholar-critics, imitated by annotating readers who sought to improve the work and to display their learning. Jackson also notes the significance of Coleridge’s Literary Remains (the first volume of which was published in 1836) as a stimulus and model for other annotators: “[i]f ever there was a naïve annotator, just irresistibly taken with the impulse to get down a note, the creature is gone the way of the dodo.”47 It would be profitable to place early modern annotations in relation to particular generic precedents, such as humanist dialogues, pedagogical works, devotional forms like the catechism, and autobiographical texts: such placements would helpfully connect the specific marginalia to writing other than the host text. Object marks raise this question of genre and influence in an extreme form: what category of mark or intervention are they? What is the larger group in which they belong?

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  65 3 The “active” reader. One of the most common arguments in studies of marginal annotations in the early modern period and beyond, is that readers were “active” (or sometimes “radical”), rather than “passive,” by which is meant generally that readers marked books in pursuit of their own agenda, that readers read with an idea of practical application in the world, that readers were concerned with future uses of the text rather than with authorial intention or original significance (with “reading as intended to give rise to something else”),48 that readers were quick to depart from prescribed interpretations. In the words of one important study, “[t]hese “active readers” … intervene[d] in a text to make it meaningful and in some cases … they then appropriated that text for their own purposes.”49 This notion of “goal-orientated” reading was formatively described by Jardine and Grafton in relation to a particular context – highly educated, prominent Elizabethan courtiers and scholars reading classical Roman history for political application – but this model has become the default model for most accounts of early modern reading. Such models are the product of a blending of archival work with patterns of consumption proposed by Michel de Certeau (on reading as poaching) and Roger Chartier (on appropriation). 50 There is certainly much that is vital in these assessments, and I don’t wish to dismiss them – indeed, I have advanced many of these reading models in my own, earlier work, although some of my own contentions now seem, on reflection, questionable.51 But there is a problem: namely, that the pool of evidence that scholars turn to in order to determine reading habits inevitably prescribes such conclusions. If we are seeking a reading mode by examining moments when readers marked books, have intervened in the printed codex, then the sense of that reader as “active” is difficult to resist. Furthermore, the term “marginalia” implies not only the margins of pages but also a social, political or religious marginality, a liminal identity. But such a conception of notes on books as dissenting may not be justified: hence William Sherman’s searching around for other terms (postillati, scholia, glosses, annotations, graffiti). 52 More generally, what, exactly, do underlinings in a book mean? Is a scribbled cross a signal of assent or dissent, of radicalism or dutifulness, or is interpretation based around those binaries precisely the problem? Is a scratch in the margin an affirmation or is it the case, as Robert Herrick imagines, that a “long-black-Thumb-nail marks ‘em out for ill”?53 And what exactly would an inactive reader look like? What is the archive for the conservative reader, the entirely orthodox consumer of print? An unmarked page? How can the history of book use respond to the overwhelming majority of early modern pages that are unmarked by readers, and the moments of reading that such texts imply? The marks of objects are useful here because they can help change the

66  Adam Smyth terms of the critical conversation: object marks suspend the search for intention (it is hard to talk of the intent behind the rust mark of a pair of spectacles); they map less easily on to the active or radical reader; and so they suggest other ways of framing discussions of book use. 4 Marginalia and reading. The study of marginal annotations has become virtually synonymous with the history of reading: and while the history of reading is not the history of marginalia, the history of marginalia is overwhelmingly framed as one aspect of the history of reading, as seen in work cited in this chapter by Grafton and Jardine, Brayman and Schurink. 54 But this need not be the case. Marks in books might serve other functions, and one of the roles of object traces is to trouble the connection between marking and reading. 5 Marginalia and time. When is an annotation’s moment? How might we, in reading marks in books, think about duration? On reading marginalia it is easy to fall into a trap of treating the annotations as all-present-at-once, or all-composed-at-once: as existing in a synchronic instant. But a single reader (let alone multiple readers) might add marks to a book over a long period of time, even a lifetime: and in such instances the reader’s earlier marks might seem as unknowable to that reader’s later self as they often do to us. Heather Jackson has suggested that annotations are often cumulative in their nature: that each mark exists in relation to earlier passages in the text, and not only its juxtaposed passage. A note that seems hooked to a particular passage of print might in reality be addressing a developing narrative or thesis, and the mark thus signals a sustained period of reading time, rather than a single moment. “It’s like the domestic quarrel,” Jackson writes: “it wasn’t really the way you squeezed the toothpaste that drove him mad.”55 Object traces, which seem to languish outside of time, which mark something that was there but is no longer, and which signal potentially very long periods of non-reading, raise urgently these questions of annotation and temporality. Like so many notes scrawled by readers across books, object traces carry both tremendous promise and a sense of the unyielding, and we respond to them, probably, “with mingled fascination and exasperation.”56 But their recalcitrance is also their value: they force us to pause, to think, to reflect, to consider the assumptions we are making about reading, to revise our ways of working. There are many other kinds of object and object marks in early modern books: this chapter might have reflected on the pins commonly found inserted in pages, or the knives or quill pens, or the rust stains of keys, 57 or, more dramatically, the series of encounters fellow scholars remembered, or half remembered, and kindly

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  67 conveyed to me, but were not quite able to identify exactly: the traces of mice in sixteenth-century copies of Suetonius and Cicero; the quill pen shavings in a copy of Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary; the squirrel’s tail in an eighteenth-century folio, glimpsed “forty years ago;” the page full of squashed flies at an archbishop’s library; the pieces of fishing bait in some early copies of Izaak Walton’s Compleat Angler, “but I cannot find the reference to it now I’m afraid.”58 The baffling promise of such vignettes reminds us of the rich and strange social lives of books, and of our texts’ meanings as both right before us, and also eternally beyond our grasp.

Notes 1 Grafton and Jardine, “Gabriel Harvey;” Sherman, Used Books; Orgel, The Reader in the Book. 2 Stoddard, Marks in Books. 3 “annotation, n.3a.” OED Online, Oxford University Press; online edn, December 2016, accessed 1 February 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/7922. 4 Conradus de Alemania, Concordantiae bibliorum (Strasbourg: Johann Mentelin, [Prior to 1474]), Bod-Inc C-428(1), sig. [4 d5r]. See also Angelus Politianus, Opera, Bod-Inc copy P-422(1), sig. b2v; Publius Ovidius Naso, Opera (Venice: Hermannus Liechtenstein, 1484.), Bod-Inc O-043, sig. gg5r. My thanks to Alan Coates for help with these. 5 For fingerprints, see Margaret Cavendish, Poems, and Phancies (London: William Wilson, 1664), Bod. Douce C subst.17. For point marks and bearing type, see Stoddard, Marks, 6; for inked hair, Bolton, The Fifteenth-Century Printing Practices of Johann Zainer, 41. 6 Folger cs1505. 7 John Parkinson, Theatrum Botanicum (London: Tho. Cotes, 1640), F ­ olger Folio STC 19302 Copy 1. George Swayne, Gramina Pascua: or, A ­C ollection of Specimens of the Common Pasture Grasses, with Descriptions ­(Bristol, 1790), Bod. Vet. A5 b.96, contains grass samples. My thanks to Sarah Wheale for this reference. 8 Leonard Plukenet, Leonardi Plukenetii Amaltheum botanicum (1705), Cardiff University Special Collections QK41.P5; Rembert Dodoens, A Nievve Herball, or, Historie of Plantes (1578), BEIN 2012 +286. My thanks to Ken Gibb and Kathryn James for these references. 9 Shakespeare, Works (1623), Fisher.S52 A1 1623f, 395. The Toronto ‘rosebud copy’ is reproduced in Richard Landon, Bibliophilia Scholastica Floreat: Fifty Years of Rare Books and Special Collections at the University of Toronto (University of Toronto Press: Toronto, 2005), 34. My thanks to the late Richard Landon for help with this. A pressed flower survives in a copy of Sidney’s Arcadia now at Harvard University Library, as noted by Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 159 n.76. 10 Brown, “Thing Theory.” 11 McPherson, “Ben Jonson’s Library and Marginalia.” 12 Slights, Managing Readers, image used for section heads. 13 Usher, “‘Pricking in Virgil’,” 557, 562. 14 Quoted in Price, Things to Do With Books, 46. 15 Folger 46, sig. Bb6v. 16 My thanks to Steven Van Impe for details of Les Oeuvres de Charles Loyseau.

68  Adam Smyth 17 Jeremiah Burroughs, The Ninth, Tenth, and Eleventh Books of Mr Jeremiah Burroughs: Containing Three Treatises: I. Of Precious Faith. II. Of Hope. III. The Saints Walk by Faith on Earth; by Sight in Heaven. Being the Last Sermons that the Author Preached at Stepney, neer London (1655), Folger 165–858q, sig. T2r. 18 Cy est le Roma[n]t de la roze (ca. 1526), Bodleian Lawn d.49, sigs. P3v–P4r. 19 Erwin, “Medieval spectacles.” For another medieval example, see Watkinson Library MS 9 ff. 6v–7r, Trinity College, Hartford, noted by Kidd, “Evidence of Medieval(?) Reading-Glasses.” 20 Stephen Tabor, Huntington Library, email correspondence; anonymized curator, email correspondence. 21 Most recently, Rasmussen and West, The Shakespeare First Folios; Brayman Hackel, Reading Material. For this method, see Sherman, Used Books, 10. 22 Erwin, “Medieval spectacles.” 23 Baron, The Reader Revealed, 110. 24 Clark, The Life and Times of Anthony Wood, I, 282. 25 Tomkis, Lingua, sig. F3. My thanks to Carla Mazzio for putting me on to this scene. 26 Manguel, The Library at Night, 17. Quoted in Marcus, How To Do Things, 90. 27 John Foxe, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs: Select Narratives (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), xxxix; NLS MS 2059, f. 345; Sidney Lee, Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies, 10. My thanks to Laura Estill for the Drummond reference. 28 British Library G.11548, discussed in Sherman, Used Books, 45. 29 Blayney, The First Folio of Shakespeare, 33. 30 Leon Alberti, Opuscoli morali (1568), Corpus Christi, Oxford, LF.6.d.13, bookmark inserted at sig. A3; Archangelus Favorinus, Adunatio materiarum sparsim contentarum in diuersis locis epistolarum sancti Pauli apostoli (1538), Bod. Vet. F1 f.393 (2); Pierre Gassendi, Petri Gassendi Diniensis Ecclesiæ præpositi et in academia Parisiensi Matheseos Regii Professoris Opera omnia in sex tomos diuisa (1658), St Edmund Hall, Oxford, Old Library Fol. E 3(2) t.1; John Twyne, Joannis Twini Bolingdunensis, Angli, De rebus Albionicis, Britannicis atque Anglicis, commentariorum libri duo (1590), Bod. Lawn f.83. 31 Ziolkowski, “‘Tolle Lege’,” 5, 7. 32 Augustine, Confessions, Book 8, Chapter 12, 178. 33 Augustine, The Confession of the Incomparable Doctour S. Augustine, tr. By Tobie Matthew (St Omer: 1620), sig. Bb7. Noted by Helen Smith, “‘Wilt Thou Not Read Me, Atheist?’,” 351. 34 My thanks to Molly Murray for discussing this moment in the Confessions with me. 35 Confessions, 178. 36 These images are reproduced in Blayney, The First Folio, 32–33. 37 William Shakespeare, Works (1623), Folger copies 58 and 67. 38 For the practice of cutting printed books, and the relationship of this to reading, see Smyth, Material Texts, Chapter 1. 39 OSU BR1600.F6 1596, copy 1, 366–67, noted in King, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, 285. My thanks to Rebecca Jewett, Assistant Curator of Rare Books & Manuscripts at The Ohio State University Library, for sending me images for the Foxe text. 40 Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 159 n.76. 41 Art Institute of Chicago, Ryerson and Burnham Libraries, marks at ff. 144v–145r. Schmidt, Altered and Adorned, 38, 41.

Object Traces in Early Modern Books  69 42 Ambr. O 144 sup. (gr. 602), ff. 35v–36r, and Ambr. C 154 inf. (gr. 864), ff. 28v–29r. My thanks to Anna Gialdini for these references. 43 Jackson, “Editing and Auditing Marginalia,” 76. 4 4 Crawford, “Reconsidering Early Modern Women’s Reading;” Harbus, “A Renaissance Reader’s English Annotations to Thynne’s Chaucer;” Schurink, “‘Like a Hand in the Margine of a Booke’.” The Ur-text for marginalia studies in the modern era is the Coleridge marginalia project; Coleridge presented himself as an exemplary and exceptional case study: see Jackson, Marginalia. 45 Kallendorf, “Marginalia and the Rise of Early Modern Subjectivity,” 113. 46 For productive recent exceptions which emphasize the social, networked function of reading rather than the single solitary reader, see Schellenberg, Literary Coteries, and Bullard, “What Swift did in libraries.” 47 Jackson, “Editing and Auditing Marginalia,” 77–79. 48 Jardine and Grafton, “Gabriel Harvey,” 30. 49 Dobranski, 22. 50 de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life; Chartier, “Culture as Appropriation.” These influences are helpful mapped out in Cambers, Godly Reading, 30–31. 51 For example, Profit and Delight, 70. 52 Sherman, Used Books, 20–24. Discussed in Scott-Warren, “Reading Graffiti,” 364–65. 53 Herrick, “To the Detracter.” Hesperides, sig. F4v. 54 Grafton and Jardine, “Gabriel Harvey;” Brayman Hackel, Reading Material; Schurink, “William Blount.” 55 Jackson, “Editing and Auditing Marginalia,” 79. 56 Scott-Warren, “Graffiti,” 365. 57 For a brass pin in a copy of Johann Herolt, Sermones de Tempore (Nuremberg, 1481), see Library of Congress BX1756.H4485 S4 1481. For a bone-handled knife, found in a file of Common Pleas writs from the 1650s, see National Archives SC 16/28. For a quill found in the spine of a list of the Justices of the Peace, NA SC 16/27. For the stain of a key in a medieval Greek manuscript, see Corpus Christi College, Oxford, MS 76, fol.1r, discussed by Peter Kidd, https://mssprovenance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/11/a-greekmanuscript-used-as-hiding-place.html. 58 My thanks to the users of the SHARP-L listserv, cited and quoted anonymously here, who responded generously to my enquiries.

4 The Occupation of the Margins Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women Katherine Acheson When John Donne writes, in the magician’s prop chest that is “The Canonization,” that “We’ll build in sonnets pretty rooms,” he’s using a metaphor we understand well – that imaginative writing creates alternative worlds, rich with scent, sound, texture, joy, and passion, and short on hunger, gravity, death, and debt-collectors. But as we know, early modern words – and poems – were also literally part of the built environment. Rooms really were built of sonnets, or if not sonnets, at least of words: printed, written, painted, stitched, carved words. Visit any early modern building still standing, as Juliet Fleming points out, and you will find some words integrated into its surfaces – graffiti, citations from the Bible, family mottos, and genealogies: words were semantic (usually), but they were also architectural and decorative.1 Prints, ballads, painted cloths, and book illustrations were posted on walls. 2 Embroidery, ubiquitous in interior decoration for the more affluent, often included words, 3 as did metalwork, plasterwork, and ceramics. Walls were written on with candle smudge, paint, charcoal and chalk, and stone surfaces were inscribed with sharp implements or marked with other stones. Lady Anne Bacon Drury had her entire closet painted with sententious sayings and mottos and accompanying illustrations, as Heather Meakin has documented. Leah Knight has uncovered numerous example of the fashion for writing on trees, or dendography. A triplet attributed to Elizabeth I is called, in modern editions, “Written with a Diamond on Her Window at ­Woodstock;” according to Fleming, diamond rings were specially “designed to mark glass,” being “set in high bevels with one point outward.”4 So yes, early modern pretty rooms were built of sonnets, more or less, as words were an integral part of the built and decorative environment. For his memorial sermon on Anne Clifford, Bishop Edward Rainbow re-gendered a passage from the Psalms: “Every wise woman,” he says, “buildeth her house.”5 By this he means that she prepared herself, “with Symetry, with Strength, Beauty and Order” metaphorically for death. Bishop Rainbow finds metaphors irresistible, but Clifford was stronger than that. When she heard you could build a room out of sonnets, she thought heck yes. Let’s do it. As Rainbow wrote:

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  71 She was not ignorant of knowledge in any kind, which might make her Conversation not only useful and grave, but also pleasant and delightful; which that she might better do, she would frequently bring out of the rich Store-house of her Memory, things new and old, Sentences, or Sayings of remark, which she had read or learned out of Authors, and with these her Walls, her Bed, her Hangings, and Furniture must be adorned; causing her Servants to write them in Papers, and her Maids to pin them up, that she, or they, in the time of their dressing, or as occasion served, might remember, and make their descants on them. So that, though she had not many Books in her Chamber, yet it was dressed up with the flowers of a Library. These words are assets, part of her wealth, which buttressed the built space in which she lived and the basis of her authority and identity: “The Sayings of Wisdom,” writes Rainbow, which he determines to be more precious than Rubies, these were strewed about her Chambers, these were instead of those rare Trinkets so much in use…So that you may safely tell, that her Furniture and Chambers were adorned with many precious Jewels. We might say that Clifford lived within a world built of words, a verbal universe in which writing was performative, in the sense that J. L. Austin uses the word: statements that act upon the world and create the conditions for their own plausibility and functionality. But Austin is writing about spoken words: in Clifford’s world, it is the written word that performs, as it can move through time and define space and identity in ways that speech acts never can. In the Great Picture of the Clifford Family, the books are the roof over Anne’s head. The painting is rich with words, both within the tableaus it displays, and surrounding them. They are semantic, but they are also both decorative, adorning what is present, and architectural, framing for us the separation of the built space from that which is outside it. We might also say that Clifford built her castles out of words: “Spending the enormous sum of 40,000 pounds on these projects,” writes Mihoko Suzuki, she prominently marked these buildings with her initials, plaques, and heraldic crests, along with the date of the restoration, calling attention to her authorship as well as its historical s­ ignificance…. In particular, she proudly signaled her taking possession of her estates as a momentous event by prominently emblazoning Desormais, or “henceforth,” the Clifford family motto, on these buildings.6

72  Katherine Acheson Clifford’s autobiographical and biographical writings were one of the forms in which her entitlement to her estates was established – not just articulated, but made real. Documentation of her claim constituted the claim, much as presence in one of the family castles (for example, when her mother Margaret died in her jointure castle7) was both the assertion and exercise of the right of tenure. These words were material things out of which her more abstract claims would emerge: they created for her, as Megan Matchinske writes of Clifford’s diary writing, “an embodied, temporally responsible, and spatially attentive identity.”8 With regard to Clifford’s marginalia Jason Scott-Warren “locative; blank spaces offered a means not just to assert the self but also to place it;”9 we might say the same of the blank spaces outside of books in which she inserted words that extended her reach and being. Clifford, of course, is an exception to almost every rule, but her work illustrates the collapse of the gap between the figurative and the literal that the “ostentatious materiality”10 of the early modern word precipitates. Books themselves are spatial forms. They have spatial parts: leaves, covers, bindings, spines, margins. But early modern books are especially self-conscious about their spatial aspirations. Tables of contents are often figured as tree diagrams (see examples as diverse as The Bishop’s Bible of 1602, Tarlton’s Iests of 1613, and Henry Peacham’s Complete ­Gentleman of 1634), powerful spatial forms that recast time and family or conceptual relationships in two dimensions.11 Architectural frontispieces and title-pages, such as that of Jonson’s Workes (1616), ­Christopher Saxton’s Atlas of the counties of England and Wales (1590?), and The vvhole workes of W. Tyndall, Iohn Frith, and Doct. Barnes, three worthy martyrs, and principall teachers of this Churche of England (1573), among dozens of other early modern examples, announce the analogy between the book and the (imaginary) built environment. Herbert’s The Temple – as a book, rather than as a concept – builds a church or rather a home for a religion; opening the volume, we step through the prefatory matter to “The Church-Porch,” and from there approach “The Altar,” itself a shape-poem creating architectural, spiritual space out of printed letters. Title-pages that depict enthroned monarchs, such as the Saxton mentioned above or the 1573 Holie Byble printed by Richard Jugge, surrounded by admiring throngs, inviting us to join a community of like-minded neighbours by entering the book. Books are treated as storage chests for generations of treasures – sometimes real, as in the case of the laurel leaf pressed between the pages of Clifford’s copy of Selden’s Titles of Honor (1631),12 at the point in the text at which J­ onson’s laureateship is mentioned (as I say, she had no time for metaphors), or in the examples that Adam Smyth and Sjoerd Levelt mention in their chapters in this volume. Marginalia – both printed and manuscript – are also spatial phenomena: they “are wayward in their very nature; they spring up spontaneously around a text unaware of their presence.”13

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  73 Marginalia, or manuscript additions to printed books, are renovations, in spatial terms, and they can be used to create specific kinds of space for their authors, including women. In most of the remainder of this chapter, I will survey the spatial effects of marginalia written by women in selected early modern books. I have divided my examples and discussion into three categories: first, the space of ownership, a complex field in which genealogy intersects with gender, inheritance, and the proper name; second, the space of education, in which writing, reading, speech, work together to compose subjectivity and undergird entitlement; and third, the space of the city, or perambulatory, architectural, urban, geographic and chorographic space.

The Space of Ownership Many early modern books have proper names written in them. Proper names were powerful tokens in early modern culture. The proper name was the mark of ownership and occupied its own particular space, within which inhabited the residual structures of feudalism and the transactional economy, the emergent structures of mercantilism and capitalism, the apparatus of discipline by class, age, and gender, and the systems governing the disposition of objects in the world. The proper name was a cipher for self-ownership: as Jonathan Goldberg elaborates in Writing Matter, the signature is a kind of “self-­ authentication”14 that is foundational to other forms of self-ownership in the early modern world, and emblematic of the often-tragic drama of subjectivity in the era: what’s in a name (or word), indeed. The idea of the signature concentrates Jacques Derrida’s thinking about language, the proper name, and the signature itself: the signature is the contingent, relative, impermanent mark of our (false) authenticity, our (untenable) consistency, our (imaginary) coherence; it gains its status as a unique and individual marker (ironically) only through repetition.15 Proper names written (repeatedly) in books vividly display how integrated identity was with the technologies of writing and print (the technologies of repetition), and how books themselves were containers for identity and experimentation with the same. One kind of space that women can create for themselves in books is the space of ownership.16 Generally speaking, early modern women did not own things (possibly including themselves): this is a constant throughout the long early modern period. As Pamela Hammons writes, however, “practical realities dictated that women had some control over property, real and moveable.”17 Moveables might include books and writing paraphernalia: quills, pen-knives, ink, blotting matter, and paper, and whatever else might be carried on the person, in a pocket, or stored in a personal space, such as a closet. Marks of ownership that include women’s names are far less common in early modern books than are those that

74  Katherine Acheson include men’s names, but the number is significant nonetheless; any collection of early modern books of any size will feature a handful of women’s names, at the very least.18 The form of these claims often point to the book itself, as in “Susanna Wilde her book” found in A briefe of the bibles history published in 1608,19 itself a verbal spatial construct which deictically connects the subject – Susanna Wilde  – with the object, her book. The distance between them is manifest in the formulation, as is the relationship they have. Susanna, like other women, understands how relationships to objects, especially relationships of ownership and control, can constitute or bolster subjectivity: the grammar of human identity means that a subject is completed by linkage to an object. These claims are not inviolable or immutable, however, and declarations of ownership can be pre-empted: in The Doctrine of the Bible (1621; Folger STC 3029, front flyleaf), as in so many other examples, “Susanna Wheeler her Book” is supplanted by “Samuelle Tonge his Book” in a different, but similar, hand. In a Book of Common Prayer published in 1682 (Folger B3668.2, back flyleaf) we find this insertion: “Jane Clare her Book and was baptized the first day of August 1672.” Jane here is inserting herself in a social space that is not normally hers, space in which a people own things. Ownership was also a way of insinuating oneself into genealogy, as one of the principle functions of genealogy is to ensure the predictable delivery of wealth and objects signaling status through time; with this claim, Jane asserts her right to choose the recipient of this book, either during her life by her choice, or after her death as governed by her wishes and carried out by others. Jane fittingly aligns the ownership of property with the rite of baptism, both of which confer upon her the power of a name. Husbands and wives could own books together, as the inscription in The Holy Bible (1621; Folger STC 2258a copy 1, rear flyleaf), “Thomas ffrost and Margrate ffrost his Wiff oweth this Book” suggesting not only their shared investment in the content of the book, but a quality of their relationship which enables them to share possessions within the marriage. Their joint ownership of the Bible points to the household, centered as it presumably is on godly precepts, and presided over jointly by husband and wife. 20 Ownership inscriptions in books often also record gifts and therefore mark positions within familial and community networks. A 1576 Bible (Folger STC 2117 copy 1) is inscribed on the title-page “Ann Bacon ye Gift of her father Edmund Bacon of Brerton-lattymer in Northamptonshire.” This inscription gestures toward the space of exchange, at once a physical and material space, and an area of reciprocal and accrued social obligation. 21 The inscription in the Folger’s copy of Henoch Clapham’s Briefe of the Bibles history (1608) (Figure 4.1) represents more than one such transaction on the front pastedown. The first layer of inscription

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  75

Figure 4.1  H  enoch Clapham, Briefe of the Bibles History (1639), Folger STC 5335, front endpaper. Photograph by Katherine Acheson from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

records the name “John Plumb” and the place of his residence. “John” is then overwritten with “Mary,” which is subsequently crossed out and superscribed “Phoebe,” both of whom are represented as sharing Plumb as surname with John. One of Mary or Phoebe has added “Widow” after the shared surname, and one of them is also – I presume – responsible for “given to me” under the place name. This sequence of inscriptions and emendations marks a complex set of transactions and social positions: we can imagine that John Plumb married Mary, who inherited his books upon his death, and that Phoebe (daughter? Niece? Sister-inlaw?) was given it by Mary. On the flyleaf facing we see “John Moore his Book pr. 1d” with another name x-ed out below it; it is not clear at what point in this series of proper names John or the other inscriber inserted their claims. All of these inscriptions are tokens of an eccentric, outward-looking, autobiography which traces relationships with other people and with objects, through time and in specific places (and even for particular prices). As Jason Scott-Warren writes, printed books were “vehicles for many kinds of life-writing,”22 and inscriptions in them provide a basis for the kind of autobiography Adam Smyth describes when he writes that Early modern life-writers, while certainly sometimes sketching what might plausibly be called interiority or inwardness, also constructed selfhood through a process of identifying, even overlapping, with

76  Katherine Acheson other figures, narratives, and events, and by looking out into the world, rather than within. 23 This book traces the relationships between the Plumbs, and stands in the middle of a web of obligation, entitlements, deferrals, and possibly even love defined by the succession of ownership marks within it. Marginalia, or more generally manuscript additions to printed books, create supplementary space within which identities are grafted to sites of entitlement, obligation, pleasure, and even risk (of loss, supplantation, or erasure).

The Pedagogical Space Another kind of space that we see women writing themselves into within the margins and flyleaves of books is the educational world. Entering the pedagogical space can be as simple as imposing an ownership inscription on a book. Take, for example, Anne Cooke Bacon’s handwritten name on the title-page of Erasmus’s Paraphrasis. 24 Bacon (c. 1528–1610) was, as Lynne Magnusson writes, the second of the five Cooke sisters whose education by their father in the classical languages and the early church fathers made them, according to Thomas Fuller, ‘all most eminent scholars, (the honour of their own and the shame of our sex)’; she was fluent in Greek, Latin, Italian and French;25 she supervised the education of her sons Anthony and Francis. 26 Anne Cooke Bacon’s name, in her own hand, written in this particular book, inserts her in the middle of the educational and religious revolutions of her era; Erasmus’s paraphrases of the Pauline books of the new testament were popular in the humanist schoolroom, and the work was ordered by Edward VI to be placed in all parish churches in 1547. Her inscription signals not only her relationship to the content of the book, but her presence in the space of learning. Magnusson cites Anne’s inscription in another book (Moschopulus) which makes my point even more clearly: “My father delivered this book to me and my brother Anthony, who was mine elder brother and schoolfellow with me, to follow for writing of Greek.”27 Books were central to humanist and later pedagogy, and the claim of ownership – or even the entitlement to write in a book – signaled the presence within the pedagogical space of the person writing. In addition to inscriptions of female names in books we know were used as educational texts and which might be found in schoolrooms, many books were actively pedagogical spaces in the sense that they provided room for children and other students to practice their writing. Books are full of handwritten sums, examples of pen trial (lines, scribbles, loops), alphabets, doodles, writing in imitation of the style

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  77 of writing masters such as Edward Cocker, crossings out of previous ownership claims, and the commonplaces through which both handwriting and moral values were taught. Most of these are not accompanied by names, and so we cannot tell if they were written by girls or women, or boys or men. But commonplaces often allowed for the integration of the individual’s name. Some were designed as book ownership claims, and thereby bridge the space of ownership and the pedagogical space. Sometime in the second half of the seventeenth-­century, for example, Michael Trepass wrote this personalized commonplace in a 1580 Geneva Bible: “michaell treppas his book god give him grace therein to look and when the bell begins to toll Lord jesus Christ receive his soule wit goy.”28 There are several examples featuring three names in the Trepass Bible of a version of this commonplace, which Henry Bourne, in Antiquitates Vulgares (1725), calls a “National Saying;”29 an incomplete but decorated version is visible in Figure 4.2, and the saying appears in other books as well. In 1699 Elizabeth Raper, for example, wrote: “Elizabeth Raper hir Booke Amen God give hir Grace on it to look and when [the] bell for hir doth towel ye Lord have Mercy on hir soul” in the foreleaves of a copy of Theodore Beze, Iob Expounded (1589?) (Figure 4.3). 30 Female writers customize commonplaces as well, although neither of the two named female writers (of the six named writers in total) in the Trepass Bible used that particular commonplace. In another book, we find two sisters’ names embedded within one commonplace, which also expresses their warm and teasing relationship: “Anne Grosvenor is my name but my sister Elizabeth rite the same and if her pene it had been better be sure she would have mended her leter” (Figure 4.4). 31 Mary Bradshaw’s commonplace in a 1632 Book of common prayer (Figure 4.5) endows the proper name with the magical power to make its owner present: “Mary Bradshaw is my name Praye thinke on me when you read the same: let not the ould saing be true in you, out of sight out of mind.”32 These examples insert women’s names into the doubled

Figure 4.2  The Bible: That Is, the Holy Scriptures Contained in the Old and New Testament (1580), Folger STC 2190, blank verso at the end of the New Testament. Photograph by Katherine Acheson from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Figure 4.3  T heodore Beze, Iob Expounded (1589?), Folger STC 2764 copy 1, n.s.4v. Photograph by Katherine Acheson from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Figure 4.4  J ohn Mayer, The English Catechisme Explained (1623), Folger STC 17734; rear flyleaf. Photograph by Katherine Acheson from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  79

Figure 4.5  Book of Common Prayer (1632), Folger STC 16386 copy 2, sig. B4r. Photograph by Katherine Acheson from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Figure 4.6  The Bible: That is, the Holy Scriptures Contained in the Old and New Testament (1603), Folger STC 2190, p. 43 of the New Testament. Photograph by Katherine Acheson from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

discursive space of learning and of ownership; they knock on the door of male privilege to see who’s home. These inscriptions also evoke the space in which media forms – especially print, manuscript, and oral media – intersect. In the Trepass Bible, for example, Mary Trepass has written, “Mary Trepass can say this”33 (Figure 4.6) at the bottom of the page on which we find the story of the resurrection of Lazarus in John. This simple statement puts Mary within the triangular relationship between the oral, printed, and manuscript circulation of the English Bible, its language, its values, and its

80  Katherine Acheson theology, within which is compounded much of the social realm outside of her schoolroom. As Femke Molekamp writes, Female devotion took place along the boundary between oral and print culture: texts that were often heard, like the psalms and sermons, were also read, and these, together with the scriptures, could be read out to other, less literate women by the mistress of the house.34 Mary Trepass’s inscription signals her bridging of the modes of communication that defined the pedagogical space; it also signals her capacity to breach the boundary between the schoolroom and the world beyond it, where women’s speech – even in the latter half of the seventeenth-­ century, when the Trepass family inscriptions were made in this Bible – was severely constrained and hotly contested. Handwritten additions to printed texts allowed women to assert their presence within the pedagogical space of early modern England and enter the dialogic classroom of the book.

The Space of the City My last example is a set of annotations in a late sixteenth-century Geneva Bible known as the Newby Bible because of the ownership markers repeated throughout it, beginning and ending with the tooled leather covers. 35 In addition to the ownership marks from the seventeenth century, the Newby Bible has over 600 marginal notes in a single hand. Peter Stallybrass has drawn our attention to these annotations, which he identifies as notes reflecting the religious practice of dissenters in the late eighteenth century, and an example of what he calls the “discontinuous reading” required by the overlay of the liturgical calendar on the canonical texts of the Christian faith. 36 Concealed under the front paste-down of the volume is an ownership inscription, “Elizth. Boggis, bought by her on the 22 April 1787, being the day preceding this His Majesty Geo. returned publick thanks at St. Paul’s to God for his recovery from the [heavy?] malady of insanity,” a detail discovered by the conservation team at the Folger. 37 The annotations are all in Elizabeth Boggis’s hand and they record her experience of the world of Methodism in late eighteenth-century London. Each of the 633 annotations records a date, a speaker and a text, and most of which record a place. Some of them also record the attendance at a meeting by people of the scribe’s family or most familiar circle (especially her “dear Joey”). The marginalia at the bottom of the first page of I Corinthians in the New Testament is fairly typical: “16 June 1793,” it reads, “Mr Knight text at Tabernacle the 1 Ch 30 and 31 verses – 27 August 1794 at Margate ch 1 verse 30 – Mr Dunking text – Dock Head” (Figure 4.7). 38

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  81

Figure 4.7  The Bible (1580), Folger STC 2129, p. 75 of the New Testament. Photograph by Katherine Acheson from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

The attendees at the services – who apparently did not include ­ lizabeth Boggis herself – are also usually noted, as in the margins of E Psalms 20 and 21: “11 March 1792 Mr Swain text at Devonshire Square Miss Savages and Mr Cole heard 19 Psalme 14 verce 28 October 1792 Mr Deurant text at Tabernacle 19 Psalme 7 verce.”39 Other frequent “hearers” include “my dear Joey,” Reverend Cole, Emily and Nancy Bick. These annotations were made over the course of more than seven years, during which time passages on individual pages of the Bible were used several times by speakers in the Methodist meeting houses that the annotator documents, so that some pages bristle with numerous annotations in all margins; there are ten separate annotations, for example, on the page on which is printed Isaiah, Chapters 24–26, in which the final judgment and the salvation and resurrection of the righteous are prophesied (“Thy dead men shall live: even with my body they shall rise” Isaiah 26: 19), attesting to the popularity of this prophecy and the frequency with which it was subject to Methodist preaching. Elizabeth Boggis’s marginalia create a spatial and temporal structure for the experience of her religion within the space and the temporality of the book, and this particular text. There are at least twenty different places mentioned in these annotations; the annotations overlay the book on to the space of the city. The most frequently noted place is “Tabernacle,” which may be John Wesley’s second chapel at 49 City Road in London, built in 1778. But also mentioned are chapels or meetings at Tottenham Court Road, Jewry Street, St. Catharine Church the Tower, Mulberry Gardens, Haberdasher’s Hall, “Mundin in

82  Katherine Acheson Essex,” St Mary Woolnoth, Monkwell Street, Little Ale Street, ­A ldgate, Bethesda Pool ­Society, Margate, Mr Thomas’s Mill Yard, Mr Brooksbanks, Mr  ­A ldridge, Mr  ­Clayton, and Rowland Hill. The annotations frame the same circuit of media that Mary Trepass’s does: oral, print, and manuscript are all pointed to in the notes – but this space is also social, political, geographical and historical. In her annotations, ­Elizabeth ­Boggis created something more than a pretty room: the world she ­invented was dynamic, rich, ambiguous, new, and incomplete. Her annotations are also performative – they make Methodism what it was then, the intimate attachment to scripture, the peripatetic service, the lay interpreter who leads the meeting, the frequency and intensity of the religious experience, and the social network that maintained the faith. Her annotations create a space in which to move around, thrive, experiment, speak and listen; they turn the text of the Geneva Bible into a map of the city of London. As Elizabeth Boggis refers to others, but never herself, “hearing” the sermon, we see that with her marginalia she has created a virtual map of Methodism through which she can experience that which those able to circulate in the actual city have enjoyed. In an essay which was the basis of a lecture in 1967, translated as “Of Other Spaces” and published in Diacritics in 1986, Michel Foucault distinguishes between utopias – no places, not spaces – and heterotopias. A heterotopia “is capable of juxtaposing in a single real place several spaces, several sites that are themselves incompatible.”40 Foucault cites the examples of the theatre, the cinema, the garden, the cemetery, and the fair ground; the cinema, for instance, “is a very odd rectangular room, at the end of which, on a two-dimensional screen, one sees the projection of a three-dimensional space.”41 A heterotopia mixes modes of perception and insists on the simultaneous significance of incommensurate points-of-view. We can add books to Foucault’s list of heterotopic forms: they contain multiple, contradictory worlds as products of the imagination, but they are also materially heterotopic, offering as they do multiple functional affordances and modes of meaning that register diversely across realms. As an example of what I mean by the latter, many people have commented to me that they are surprised by Folger STC 2190, the Trepass Bible – why were children in the 1650s allowed to scribble in a sacred and valuable book? The answer lies in the fact that from the children’s point-of-view, what they see is what is – at least momentarily – invisible to the reader of the sacred text – they see paper, blank paper: they see space instead of vacancy; they see an opportunity rather than an elegance; the figure and the ground reverses for them. Marginalia draw attention to the heterotopic and heterochronic qualities of the material form of the book. We know this from the work of Lisa Jardine and Anthony Grafton on the networks of correspondence, conversation, and commitment traced by Gabriel Harvey’s marginalia, and by the work of scholars who have followed the pathway

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  83 they established. But for women this capacity of books, I am arguing, had particular significance, given their relationships both to everything represented in the book, and everything represented by spatiality in the early modern world. It’s probably true that we should understand all human bodies in all times as heterotopic – as occupying, traversing, expressing, and creating multiple and incommensurate forms of space – but we can certainly say that the bodies of early modern women were heterotopic and were known to be heterotopic. Natalie Zemon Davis describes both the spatiality and the incommensurability of the ideas of the female body as follows: Her womb was like a hungry animal; when not amply fed by sexual intercourse or reproduction, it was likely to wander about her body, overpowering her speech and senses. If the Virgin Mary was free of such a weakness, it was because she was the blessed vessel of the Lord.42 Women’s circulation in the spaces of the church, the city, the theatre, and even the home was deeply overdetermined and profoundly overburdened with moral, economic, and social significance. The elision of women’s family name upon marriage, or married name upon remarriage, meant that every woman’s documentary record is a palimpsestic account of movement through ideology, of travel from one of what Foucault calls “a cluster of relations”43 to another. Heidi Brayman’s important work on early modern reading and its traces in the margins of printed books helped establish the commonplace that “the act of reading is … rooted in the material facts and circumstances of a specific culture and historical moment.”44 We have had trouble, however, in aligning the history of women’s writing with early modern marginalia and other kinds of manuscript additions to printed texts: in Brayman’s view, for instance, “very few early modern marginalia can be definitively attributed to women readers.”45 This is probably true in a literal sense – attribution is very difficult, and how do I know that Mary Trepass wrote about herself in the margins of Folger STC 2190, rather than a tutor, sibling, or parent? But the problem may more certainly lie in the kind of marginalia that we consider meaningful, and what we consider it to mean. According to Molekamp, “the British Library collection has twelve Geneva Bibles in which alphabet or writing practice is present;” she notes that Vives’ Instrucion of a Christen Woman recommended that women learn to write by copying from the Bible, and only the Bible.46 William H. Sherman says that Despite the fact that Renaissance households were far more likely to contain a Bible than any other volume, religious books have

84  Katherine Acheson attracted less attention from historians of reading than used books from the fields of literature, rhetoric, politics, law, mathematics, and medicine. Our bias, therefore, has been towards books that women did not so often read, and equally towards the kind of writing that women, it seems, were less likely to add to printed books. So looking at the right kind of books will help. In a culture where words are instrumental and architectural, and where books and bodies are spatial entities, perhaps we also need to think of writing and reading as heterotopic practices where spatial forms interact and re-shape each other.47 If we think of women’s writing as a form of spatial manipulation, renovation, extension, even re-decoration, we are rewarded. In Isabella Whitney’s “Wyll and Testament,” a marvelous, witty, rich magpie nest of a poem, the speaker claims ownership through perambulation of the city, economy, and people of London. Lanyer’s “To Cookeham” inspires a series of spatial metaphors in ­Katherine Larson’s description of the poem: “Exemplifying the realm of ‘entire love’,”48 writes Larson, Cookeham becomes a protected sphere that gives her privileged access to the Cliffords and their textual activities and enables all three women to enjoy intimacy with Christ. The poem maps out, in miniature, the coterie community that Lanyer tries so hard to create throughout Salve Deus. In so doing, it underscores Lanyer’s quest for exclusive space sequestered from male interference and enables her further to advance her claim for authorial recognition and social access. Once deprived of the sheltered world of Cookeham, Lanyer turns to the writing of Salve Deus to construct her own exclusive textual space.49 The incredible opening of Margaret Cavendish’s Blazing World is a great example of the paraphrastic, peripatetic sentence – a sentence form that imposes spatiality on its readers as it wanders towards its grammatical destination: A Merchant travelling into a foreign Country, fell extreamly in Love with a young Lady; but being a stranger in that Nation, and beneath her both in Birth and Wealth, he could have but little hopes of obtaining his desire; however his Love growing more and more vehement upon him, even to the slighting of all difficulties, he resolved at last to steal her away; which he had the better opportunity to do, because her Fathers house was not far from the Sea, and she often using to gather shells upon the shore accompanied not with above two to three of her servants, it encouraged him the more to execute his design.50

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  85 Before she gets to the story of her “feigned hero” in Oroonoko, Aphra Behn digresses in the mode of travel literature, the literature of real, imaginary space and its inhabitants: But before I give you the Story of this Gallant Slave, ‘tis fit I tell you the manner of bringing them to these new Colonies; those they make use of there not being natives of the place: for those we live with in perfect amity, without daring to command ‘em; but, on the contrary, caress ‘em with all the brotherly and friendly affection in the world; trading with them for their fish, venison, buffalo’s skins, and little rarities; as Marmosets, a sort of Monkey as big as a Rat or a Weesel, but of a marvelous and delicate shape, and has Face and Hands like an Humane Creature: and Cousheries, a little beast in the form and fashion of a Lion, as big as a kitten; but so exactly made in all parts like that noble Beast, that it is it in Miniature. 51 These spaces are bigger than a pretty room, and quite a bit more interesting to explore.

Conclusion The early modern spaces built of words by Whitney, Lanyer, Cavendish, and Behn are predicated by the incursions into the spaces of ownership, of education, and of the city itself that the marginalia cited in this chapter represent. Hundreds of years later another argument claiming intellectual and physical space for women writers would be published. It begins: But, you may say, we asked you to speak about women and fiction – what, has that got to do with a room of one’s own? I will try to explain. When you asked me to speak about women and fiction I sat down on the banks of a river and began to wonder what the words meant.52 Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own is much concerned with space – the room of one’s own is an antidote to the many spaces from which women are excluded, by virtue of being women, but the essay itself invents a rich, dynamic, new, and incomplete space as well, beginning at the river of deixis: “This was the turf; there was the path,”53 and so on. It’s perambulatory, chorographical: Strolling through those colleges past those ancient halls the roughness of the present seemed smoothed away; the body seemed contained in a miraculous glass cabinet through which no sound could

86  Katherine Acheson penetrate, and the mind, freed from any contact with facts (unless one trespassed on the turf again), was at liberty to settle down upon whatever meditation was in harmony with the moment. 54 Helen Smith has argued that early modern reading “was understood to be both a bodily and an embodied practice: an act of consumption that was productive and reproductive in physical as well as intellectual terms;”55 so too, it follows, should we understand writing, as productive and reproductive in physical and intellectual terms. Books gave women access to spaces within which to write, within which to enlarge their senses of themselves and the power of words. In 1611, Anthony Stafford’s book Stafford’s Niobe: or His age of teares was published. Described by Barbara Kiefer Lewalski as a “contemptus mundi treatise,” and by me as “an invective against the perceived sins of the times, as well as a call to discipline lust and desire,”56 the work included a “wildly effusive dedication”57 to Anne Clifford, then Countess of Dorset. “I am astonished Madam, I am astonished,” it reads, and could fine in my heart to pray you…to desist from doing well, for I am afraid that (ere long) you will disable my sex, falsify the Scriptures, and make woman the stronger vessel. But it is not I alone, whom you have troubled and amazed: you grow cruel, and disquiet the first of your own sex, Eve whose grieved ghost methinks I see rising out of her low-built bed, looking upon you with an envious blush…For whereas she was created in perfection, and made her self imperfect, you being created in imperfection, have almost made your self perfect.58 According to George C. Williamson, Clifford’s early twentieth-century biographer, the dedication survives in full in only one copy of the printed book; the fact that two other copies have torn pages where the dedication was positioned suggests that it was torn from the printed copies before binding.59 This rending was presumably at the behest of either Anne or her husband, Richard Sackville, Earl of Dorset, and their objections were presumably on theological and social grounds, as Stafford was a known Catholic sympathizer. Stafford goes to considerable lengths to embody Clifford: for example, he writes “I will try if I can limne your soul, as curiously with the pen as the limner doth your body with the pencil;”60 he (somewhat confusedly) builds her a palace of herself, asserting that “virtue wanted a beautiful lodgings, and therefore commanded nature to build you, and that nature was content to fulfill her command, with this condition: that virtue should make you her principal palace.”61 The effect of the censorship, then, is to remove Anne’s body – whether a human likeness, or a palatial building – from the spaces in which it might be seen, touched, inhabited – the places where books go – into

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  87 booksellers’ shops and private libraries, into the hands, minds, and hearts of others. Smaller acts of erasure – such as the x-ing out in printed books of handwritten proper names, or the elision of women’s birth names under the cover of their married names – have the same effect: they remove women from spaces they have, or might have, entered. In direct contrast to censorship such as this, marginalia – as writing, rather than as a function of reading – allowed women to enter forbidden spaces and extend their selves within those worlds. In this context, “Mary Trepass can read this” should be read as a cry of triumph, of one girl’s success in gaining access to the spaces, the language, and the modes of public discourse in her world. Allow me to add, Katherine Acheson can write this.

Notes 1 Fleming, Graffiti, 29. 2 Watt, Cheap Print, 196–98 et passim; Fumerton, “Not Home,” 497–99. 3 See Hackenbroch, Needlework Tapestries, and Hamling, Decorating the Godly Household. 4 Fleming, Graffiti, 55. 5 Clifford, Memoir, 237. 6 Suzuki, “Anne Clifford,” 78. 7 Clifford, Memoir, 19. 8 Matchinske, “Serial Identity,” 66. 9 Scott-Warren, “Reading Graffiti,” 373. 10 Fleming, Graffiti, 13. 11 See Acheson, Visual Rhetoric, Ch. 2. 12 Selden, Titles, Folger STC 22178 copy 3; see Georgianna Ziegler’s chapter in this volume for an image and discussion of this item. 13 Slights (Managing Readers, 714) citing Lawrence Lipking. 14 Goldberg, Writing Matter, 234. 15 Derrida, “The Battle of Proper Names.” 16 My examples in this chapter are from Bibles and Biblical paratexts in the Folger Shakespeare Library’s collection reviewed in 2013. People wrote all sorts of things in Bibles, just as they did in other kinds of books—commentaries, cross-references and mnemonics, but also doodles, pen-trials, attestations of ownership, family history, commonplaces, and accounts. When Femke Molekamp surveyed the Geneva Bibles in the British Library, she found that more than half of them had been marked by readers (Molekamp, “Using a Collection,” 9). William H. Sherman says that the same proportion of Bibles are written in as other early modern books at the Huntington, about 1 in 5 (Used Books, xii and Chapter 4). What sets writing in Bibles apart from writing in other books? The cultural, legal, social, theological, verbal, epistemological, and material centrality of the text, for one. The Bible was the most likely book to be owned by early modern families, and it was used by the family. Bibles were also the motive and method of literacy. As Sherman says, “literacy didn’t just mean reading; it meant reading the Bible” (Used Books, 72). The Bible was also more likely than most books to continue in the family, so it was the place to put biographical information, and a forum in which to read and write the continuity of the line, to imagine one’s relationships to the very local past and future. Finally, modern collections are more likely to contain multiple copies of early modern Bibles that were used

88  Katherine Acheson in domestic settings than other popular works such as almanacs, so Bibles that are written in are more readily available to us in larger numbers; they give us a basis on which to make observations about reading and writing in general. 17 Hammons, “Gendered Imagination,” 396. 18 For instance, Georgianna Ziegler’s survey of the STC titles in the Folger collection identified 358 volumes bearing female names as ownership marks (personal correspondence). 19 Henoch Clapham, A Briefe of the Bibles History. London, 1608. Folger STC 5334, front pastedown. 20 See Emma Smith’s chapter in this volume for an extended example of spousal coupling in the flyleaves. 21 Zemon Davis, Gift, 380. 22 Scott-Warren, “Reading Graffiti,” 380. 23 Smyth, Autobiography, 11. 24 Erasmus, Desiderius. D. Erasmi Roterodami Paraphrasis in Euangelium secundum Ioannem. Basel, 1523. Folger PA8517.P3 J4 1523a Cage. 25 Magnusson, “Bacon.” 26 Peltonen, “Bacon.” 27 Magnusson, “Bacon.” 28 Folger STC 2190 is a Geneva Bible printed in 1603, the last one printed in Elizabeth’s reign, bound in contemporary calfskin, with arms of James I on both covers, ruled in red throughout. It is bound with a Psalter published the same year (Sternhold and Hopkins; printed by Iohn Windet for Richard Daye, STC 2502) and the two works are treated by their inscribers as one volume. This volume has many signs of what Bradin Cormack and Carla Mazzio call “use” —rather than reading, of which it actually shows very few signs. There is only one annotation that is related to the Bible as a text, and that one is not interpretive or mnemonic; there is only one entry that seems to refer to the work as work rather than as paper. There are no family records per se, no lists of births, marriages, illnesses, travels, deaths, but there are dozens of inscriptions. Heidi Brayman Hackel says of the marginalia— by at least sixteen different writers—in a 1627 Arcadia that it reads “like a family copy book: lines of poetry, resolutions of debts, school exercises, mottos, aphorisms, accounts, drawings, even a legal summons and a laundry list” (162), and the inscriptions in this Bible-Psalter combination are similarly diverse and exuberant. This Bible is scrawled in by a number of people, most of them apparently children, several of whom are surnamed “Trepass;” for this reason, I refer to it as the Trepass Bible. There are two writers with female names, Mary Trepass and Sarah Trepass. 29 Bourne, Antiquitates, 9. 30 Theodore Beze, Iob Expounded (London: 1589?), Folger STC 2764 copy 1, n.s.4v. 31 John Mayer, The English Catechisme Explained (London: 1623), Folger STC 17734; rear flyleaf. 32 Book of Common Prayer (London: 1632), Folger STC 16386 copy 2, sig. B4r. 33 The Bible: That is, the Holy Scriptures Contained in the Old and New Testament (London: 1580), Folger STC 2190, New Testament, 43. 34 Molekamp, “Funeral Sermons,” 52. 35 This book is also referred to in Joshua Calhoun’s chapter in this volume. 36 Stallybrass, “Books and Scrolls,” 47. 37 Georgianna Ziegler, private correspondence.

Writing, Space, and Early Modern Women  89 38 The Bible (London: 1580) Folger STC 2129, New Testament, p. 75. 39 Ibid., Old Testament, 229. 40 Foucault, “Of Other Spaces,” 25. 41 Ibid., 24. 42 Zemon Davis, Society and Culture, 125. 43 Foucault, “Of Other Spaces,” 24. 4 4 Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 2. 45 Ibid., 203–4. 46 Molekamp, “Using a Collection” 12. 47 Critics writing about women’s reading often use spatiality and embodiment to describe their subjects. Wendy Wall, for instance, in an essay about the shared modalities of reading and housewifery constructed in early modern works on the subject, writes that publishers “cued readers about how to move physically through a book” and “instilled a ‘literacy’ that entangled conceptions of household labor with methods for reading” (Wall, “Literacy,” 386). 48 Larson, Conversation, 57 (quoting Lanyer, “Of Cookeham,” line 135). 49 Larson, Conversation, 57. 50 Cavendish, Blazing World, 1. 51 Behn, Oroonoko, 3–4. 52 Woolf, Room, 5. 53 Ibid., 9. 54 Ibid., 10. 55 Helen Smith, “’More swete’,” 414. 56 Clifford, Memoir, 207. 57 Lewalski, 139. 58 Clifford, Memoir, 208. 59 Williamson, Anne Clifford, 329–32. 60 Clifford, Memoir, 209. 61 Ibid., 208.

Section 2

Selves

5 Praying in the Margins across the Reformation Readers’ Marks in Early Tudor Books of Hours Elizabeth Patton Religious uniformity of the kind aspired to in the Thirty-Nine Articles of 1571, subsequently reinforced by the “reading in” ceremony for all Church of England clergymen discussed by Austen Saunders in this volume, was not immediately forthcoming in the wake of Henry VIII’s Statement of Supremacy in 1534.1 As this study of marginalia in early Tudor prayer books argues, although the English laity may have been remarkably compliant in eliminating references to Thomas Becket and to all papal indulgences, as mandated in the Henrician proclamations of 1535 and 1538, that compliance was also remarkably nuanced. 2 As Eamon Duffy and others have argued, superficial conformity on the level of prayer book usage during the years of reform often masked, and at times very lightly, more wide-ranging religious beliefs and practices.3 This essay examines marginalia and associated evidence of personal piety in two categories of prayer books: first, unreformed Latin Books of Hours or Horae produced on the continent for the English market until 1538, as exemplified here by those produced in the Paris workshops of Simon Vostre and François Regnault; secondly, reformed English primers, specifically the first state-sanctioned prayer books published in England by William Marshall, beginning in 1534. For the most part, this essay considers familiar categories of readers’ marks, such as repeating words or phrases in the margins, highlighting sections of the page with marginal checks or manicules, lightly underlining specific passages, and adding marginal or interlinear prayers or commentary; in at least two instances, however, marginalia is also defined more broadly to include the kind of “cutting” and “grafting” of i­mages discussed by Jason Scott-Warren in this volume.4 When such marks occur in prayer books, however, they often take on additional significance as evidence of readers’ devotional practice, and it is from this perspective that readers’ marks in early Tudor prayer books are discussed throughout this essay. Largely excluded from consideration here are state-­mandated readers’ marks—expurgations, cancellations and erasures made in response to Henrician proclamations—unless they can be shown to provide contextual evidence for marks of personal piety. Section one considers marginalia indicative of pious readerly practice, including added prayers,

94  Elizabeth Patton in the largely quiet margins of pre-­Reformation Horae produced by one of Regnault’s continental predecessors, Simon Vostre, in collaboration with his associate and illustrator Philippe Pigouchet. Section two extends this consideration of demonstrably pious readers’ marks into the turbulent years of the break with Rome, examining a series of Horae produced by Regnault in the 1530s. Section three focuses tightly on marginalia in the stringently reformed Marshall primers (his 1534 Prymer in Englyshe, and his somewhat revised 1535 Goodly Prymer in Englyshe), examining evidence of newly reformed readers’ attempts to pray directly to God. In terms of its physical presence in the Book of Hours, the Little Office of the Virgin in its “sparest form,” as described by Mary Erler, might occupy as little as a quarter of the text, “preceded by a calendar and by set passages from the four Gospels” and followed “by the seven penitential psalms, the litany of the saints, and the office of the dead” (495–96).5 Given this sacralized context, flanked by the Gospels and the saints, informed by the psalms, continuously inflected by recursive patterns of prayer at three-hour intervals and equally accessible to all (since even those who understood little Latin or had no access to a text could participate by reciting the rosary), the Little Office of the Virgin sank deep roots into the culture of English lay piety, providing a constant reinforcement of the rhythms of daily life in tandem with its continuous focus on the soul’s progression towards salvation.6 For most of the non-monastic population, the day began with a combined service for Matins, Lauds and Prime at about six a.m., followed three hours later by Terce at nine, Sexte at noon, Nones in the ninth hour or mid-afternoon, Vespers at about six p.m. and Compline at days end (over time the latter two services were combined and also referred to as Evensong). Earlier manuscript Books of Hours had translated seamlessly into print by the end of the fifteenth century.7 By 1527, the primary production of Latin Books of Hours for England had nearly completed its shift from English printers to the Paris workshop of François Regnault, who thereafter dominated the English market with prayer books that followed the usage of Sarum (or Salisbury), until all importation of such imprints from the continent was banned in 1538.8 Psalms and all liturgical materials remained in Latin in accordance with the 1408 Constitutions of Clarendon, but the practice begun in England of including non-liturgical materials in English increased, along with indulgences, in the products of continental presses.9

One: The Pre-reformation Years in England The primary focus of the first section of this essay concerns evidence left by readers who are drawn to the central feature of the Book of Hours— the Little Office of the Virgin—for reasons of piety, concern for doctrinal fidelity, or religiously-motivated philological accuracy. The margins of a beautifully hand-illuminated Latin Book of Hours printed by Simon Vostre on vellum in 1502 are largely silent spaces,

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  95 illustrated with metal-cut block prints and accented with illuminated capitals in red, blue, and gold throughout (Folger STC 15987).10 Proof that a copy of this book, now in the Folger Shakespeare Library, remained in use during the years of the break with Rome is evident in a number of mandated erasures, such as the partial scraping away of several lines of text referring to Thomas Becket and the cancellation of two indulgences in the “Suffrages” or Prayers for the Dead following Lauds.11 Other than these prescribed emendations, however, and perhaps out of respect for the value and beauty of this early printed primer, which retains the red-ruled lines of the incunabular period, successive readers have left few traces of their progress through its pages. On the very last page, as shown in Figure 5.1, two sets of double quotes in the left margin point, first, to “the viii. versis of saint Bernard” and “thre short prayers taught by our lady to seynt Brigitte” while the second set points to the “Psalmes of the passion.” In the same color ink, a relatively contemporary italic hand, presumably that of the reader who has marked these two entries, has also demonstrated an impulse towards bibliographical precision by adding, at the end of the table of contents, the title of the last prayer in the book, “Officium de Sancto Spiritu” (Office of the Holy Spirit) which had escaped the attention of compositors.12 Some of the same metal-cut prints appear in a 1512 Vostre Book of Hours, printed on vellum but no longer ruled in red to resemble a manuscript (Folger STC 15913); in this volume, a contemporary reader using secretary hand has added a seven-part prayer sequence for the Hours of

Figure 5.1  Hore presentes ad vsum Sarum (Paris, 1502), Folger STC 15897, fol. Q8r. Photograph by Elizabeth Patton from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

96  Elizabeth Patton the Cross in an empty space at the end of each service. The first of these is inserted into a blank space between illustrated borders at the end of Matins, as shown in Figure 5.2.13 The other six prayers in the sequence appear at the end of each service in turn until Compline, which in this printed text is combined with ­Vespers.14 Although the inserted prayer shown in Figure 5.2 is not separately labeled as a prayer for Matins, that title does appear in what may be an early printed source for this sequence, in which the first prayer is entitled “Ad Matutinum Precatio” and the other six prayers are correspondingly titled for each of the canonical hours, culminating in “Ad Horam Completorii” (“[Prayers] for the Hour of ­Compline”).15 This printed sequence was published in 1535 in the collected works the humanist and anti-Lutheran polemicist Johannes Faber (1478–1541), future Bishop of Vienna, whose work also circulated earlier in more ephemeral formats. In both the Faber text and in the manuscript insertions, the prayer for Matins invokes Christ as the image of God—“O Domine Jesu Christe, Deus invisibilis imago”—whereas each subsequent prayer begins with the more traditional invocation of Christ as the Son of God: “O Domine Iesu Christe Fili Dei Vivi.”16 The reader who has added this prayer sequence to the 1512 Vostre imprint may have shared with Faber an appreciation of the non-Lutheran focus on Christ’s human form, although it is equally possible that both Faber and this anonymous reader were drawn to “the underlying tonal quality … of Erasmian humanism favored by both conservatives and reformers in the Henrician court.”17 Additions to this 1512 Vostre Hore are not limited to Christocentric materials, however; in an

Figure 5.2   Officium Beate Marie Virginis ad vsum Sarum (Vostre, 1512), Folger STC 15913, sig. C3r. Photograph by Elizabeth Patton from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  97

Figure 5.3  O  fficium Beate Marie Virginis ad vsum Sarum (Vostre, 1512), Folger STC 15913, sig. F8r. Photograph by Elizabeth Patton from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

instance of textual correction similar to that shown in Figure 5.1, but employing a much more skillful italic hand, this reader has erased and corrected a compositor’s error in the first line of the Marian antiphon, “Salve Regina,” in which separate abbreviations for “mater” and “miserecordia” had become conflated18 (see Figure 5.3). Close resemblances between the formal italic shapes of the inserted letter forms in this corrected line and the shapes of the letters in the printed text indicate that this reader alternated easily between this italic script and the secretary hand used for the inserted marginal prayer sequence, thus quite literally enacting the fluid relationship between manuscript and print that persisted into the early decades of the sixteenth century.19 By the end of the 1520s, in fact, printed Horae contained so many intermixed offices for Christ, the Trinity, and the Holy Spirit, as well as short prayer sequences for individual saints, that the Paris printer François Regnault, to be discussed in more detail in the next section, provided concordances for these intermixed offices in his Table of Contents.

Two: The Years of the Break with Rome The volumes discussed in this section, all produced in the Paris workshop of François Regnault in the 1530s and in circulation during the years of schism, often bear evidence of ownership by a series of readers who left a variety of religiously-motivated marks. In general, however, these marks cannot easily be associated with specific confessional beliefs: some owners canceled indulgences and other passages in compliance with

98  Elizabeth Patton mandates, at times aggressively, while other owners (at times possibly the same owners) marked these texts for more directly pious purposes as well. The process of sorting through these marks is assisted to some extent in this study by the circumstance that almost all of the Regnault Horae discussed here, most of them quarto format imprints from either 1530 or 1534, share identical pagination: in addition to their shared title page woodcut showing the Assumption and Coronation of the Virgin, all subsequent folios in these volumes are virtually indistinguishable, varying only at the level of incremental differences in spacing between words and border woodcuts. 20 The juxtaposed pages of separate imprints can therefore serve as a common background against which to collate marginalia rather than text. For example, corresponding pages in the Prayers for the Dead following Compline in two versions of Regnault’s quarto Horae, published in 1530 and 1534 (Folger STC 15968 and STC 15984), are identically filled with rubricated text, but the sixteenth-century owners of copies of these imprints have treated these rubricated pages very differently. One of several readers of the 1530 edition, for example, has firmly crossed out the page-long indulgence on STC 15968, fol. 54r, in the process also canceling out the name of the former queen mother, Elizabeth of York, the “excellent princesse elizabeth late qwene of englond”21 (see Figure 5.4). In contrast, a reader of the later 1534 edition seems to have reached a diplomatic compromise, drawing nearly invisible lines through only small areas of the rubricated text of this indulgence on STC 15968, fol. 54r without in the least affecting its readability, and in some instances even appearing to underline the text 22 (see Figure 5.5). The contrast between marks made by these two readers of separate editions is even more evident in a comparison of another identical folio, also part of the Prayers for the Dead in the Suffrages following Lauds. In this case, a reference to Thomas Becket is at issue: a firm and unambiguous cancellation on fol. 51v of the earlier 1530 text, STC 15968, fol. 51v, of a prayer to this English saint, deposed by Henry VIII because of his support for the papacy, contrasts strongly with the more diplomatic and apparently thoughtful markings made in the same passage by the reader of the 1534 text, STC 15984, who used a moderately dark line to cancel the name of the deposed saint on fol. 51v, while lightly underscoring a brief portion of the accompanying Latin prayer. Such contrasts persist throughout these two imprints: the earlier is heavily expurgated throughout, while the later is more selectively marked in a consistently lighter hand. The visual impact of the more assertive cancelations in the earlier 1530 volume is so pervasive, in fact, that it nearly serves to obscure evidence of a markedly consistent devotional focus common to all readers of Folger STC 15968 and STC 15984: neither text possesses any cancellations or corrections in the pages or margins of its central feature, the Little Office of the Virgin (with the exception,

Figure 5.4  H  ore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis Ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1530), Folger STC 15968, fol. 54r. Photograph by Elizabeth Patton from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

100  Elizabeth Patton

Figure 5.5  H  ore beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1534), Folger STC 15984, fol. 54r. Photograph by Elizabeth Patton from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

as discussed, of indulgences in the Suffrages following Lauds). That central office thus remains a quiet devotional space—so quiet, in fact, that it would also be easy to miss a repetitive pattern of very light check marks, quite possibly the work of an earlier reader, in the margins of that earlier and more heavily marked text. Too faint to reproduce effectively in the present format, these feather-light check marks in the margins of Folger STC 15968 can in fact be collated with the habitual light underlinings made by the reader of Folger STC 15984, just as the more visible markings in the juxtaposed folios shown in Figures 5.4 and 5.5 have been collated.23 The very light marginal check marks present in the Office of the Virgin in the earlier imprint also appear on each page of the final “Tabula” or Table of Contents of Folger STC 15968: nine of these can be seen in the left margin of the final page, where adjacent entries have also been lightly underlined. Indicative of pious attention to the prayers in the Hours of the Virgin, these marks bear witness to the continuing use of this prayer book for its intended purpose—prayer—even in the midst of confessional conflict. Additional examples from other contemporary Horae could be adduced, all suggestive of readers’ efforts to comply with mandates while also ensuring that their books continued to serve a devotional purpose.24 What may be a third hand has left an annotation or caption on the final page of the more heavily marked of these two Regnault Hore, Folger STC 15968. The phrase, “The arms of the high and mighty prince Jesus of Nazareth” appears in secretary hand immediately below the printer’s

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  101 mark, an elaborate device displaying a cross with a crown of thorns surrounded by the instruments of Christ’s passion, all of these enclosed within the shape of a military shield, which in its turn is surmounted by a battle helmet (see Figure 5.6). Although a signed inscription follows this inserted caption, it has been made unreadable by cross-hatchings which leave only a final truncated symbol or set of initials, as if the writer had perhaps had second thoughts about revealing his or her identity, or ownership had changed. As discussed in the first section, Christocentric prayers were increasingly prominent in pre-Reformation Horae, and while there is nothing inherently illegal in the inscription, this reader might well have found it necessary, perhaps following Henry VIII’s 1534 Statement of Supremacy, to rethink the wisdom of being associated with any reference, however correct, to an alternative “high and myghty prince.” Similar evidence of readers who appear to second guess the wisdom of their own marginal comments can be found in a British Library association copy of Regnault’s 1530 Hore (STC 15968), on the title page of which the name “Lucie Savage” has been written in a contemporary secretary hand. This owner also seems to have had second thoughts about an inscription she added at the conclusion of an English translation of the “Fifteen Oes” of St. Bridget.25 Although her inscription has been scratched through in a manner similar to the example shown in Figure 5.6, enough remains to suggest that Lucie Savage recorded the pardons she hoped to obtain by saying this repetitive prayer, but then questioned the wisdom of allowing her record to stand.26 In 1594, a later owner of this volume employed secretary hand to record a deed or financial arrangement whose date is still partially visible in the cropped margin of the October page of the Index.27 It is worth speculating that this 1594 transaction also marks the period when another intervention was made in this book: several small metal-cut images of the Virgin were neatly cut out, possibly by a Catholic reader seeking portable objects of devotion less potentially incriminating that this now illicit quarto Book of Hours.28 Another series of readers’ marks in a single volume that might seem to represent opposing confessional perspectives on the part of a succession of owners appears in the margins of a British Library multiple association copy of Regnault’s 1534 quarto Book of Hours (STC 15984).29 Two of this book’s four or more owners have identified themselves: the first, James Braybrooke, has signed his name in full once, at the top of the title page, and three additional times using just his surname: the first of these appears on the same title page next to the date of publication, the second at the end of the calendar, and the third at the top of the final page, which bears the same militarized image of crucifix and crown of thorns shown in the printer’s mark in Figure 5.6. The book’s apparent second owner, “Robert Kistow,” signed his name just once, beneath that same printer’s mark30 (Figure 5.7). Both signatures are followed by inscriptions which appear to signify mutual recognition of the book’s transfer of ownership. Just barely

Figure 5.6  H  ore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis Ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1530), Folger STC 15968, n.p. (Endpage with printer’s mark). Photograph by Elizabeth Patton from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  103

Figure 5.7  H  ore beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1534). ©British Library Board. Shelfmark c.35.e.11, n.p. (Endpaper with printer’s mark).

legible in Braybrooke’s largely inscrutable inscription at the top of the page are the words “thys … boke,” whereas Robert Kistow’s more clearly written subscription seems to point unambiguously upwards towards Braybrooke’s testimony, identifying that former owner as a witness to the book’s transfer of ownership: “Casc[us] possessor meus est possessor testis Roberto Kistow” (“The old owner [is] witness [that] my owner is Robert Kistow”). Although Kistow then concludes his inscription with a

104  Elizabeth Patton minatory “Cave” (“Beware!”), the tone of this transaction appears to be friendly enough, with a possible pun on the Latin word “cascus” (“old”), used to describe both the “former” and (possibly) “aged” owner. 31 The distinctive colors of the two readers’ marks as shown in the December Calendar entry (see Figure 5.8), make it possible to theorize the following sequence of events: before transferring ownership of the book, the first owner, Braybrooke, obediently canceled the entry for Thomas Becket by drawing two horizontal lines through it in his customary dark grey ink, and then reinforcing these with a series of short cross-­hatchings (see Figure 5.8). In the calendar entry for December, the second owner, Robert Kistow, used his distinctive sepia ink to re-­enter Becket’s name and title above the canceled line; he then underscored a four-line rubricated English rhyme on the timor mortis theme that follows shortly after the Becket entry on the same page. While Kistow’s purpose in highlighting this short poem on the inevitability of death may have been to extend the apparent pun on Braybrooke’s greater age, he may also have been calling attention to the divine justice that would, in the end, void all civil mandates, including those deposing saints such as Thomas Becket. In addition to this apparent display of friendly toleration across confessional lines (the coordinated inscriptions above and below the printer’s mark may well have been made at the same time), Kistow used his new book for devotional purposes as well: a series of crosses made with sepia ink mark several sub-headings in the “Commendationes Animarum,” a traditional component of the Book of Hours that follows the central Office of the Virgin and consists entirely of Psalm 119, a lengthy psalm of eighty verses divided in the printed text into ten sections of eight verses each; Robert Kistow’s crosses mark eight of these ten sections. 32 A third hand also appears in this book’s margins, perhaps that of an owner who came into possession following the 1538 proclamation banning indulgences. Using thick black ink, this hand has moved quickly through the pages of British Library STC 15984, canceling all papal

Figure 5.8  Hore beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1594). ©British Library Board. Shelfmark c.35.e.11, n.p.

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  105 indulgences with slash-like cross-hatchings made so forcefully that on more than one occasion the quill tip has torn the paper. 33 This owner clearly did not pause to read the text, however, but turned each page so quickly that the heavy ink remained wet and the facing pages served as blotters, thus canceling not only papal indulgences but prayers as well, such as one to “The Holy Image of God” (“De sancta facie domine”) on fol. 74r; similar instances are to be found throughout. 34 Although the vehement and occasionally destructive nature of these marks would seem to suggest that the reader’s opposition to papal indulgences extended to the physical book as well, the untouched pages of the central Office of the Virgin again argue against this assumption; as in the case of all Regnault Horae consulted for this study, the pages of the central office in British Library STC 15984 have no negative markings. Much later, when this book, with its multi-faceted marginalia, was cropped and rebound, a nineteenth-century lithograph of the Annunciation bearing a “Newman” stamp was tipped in next to the Regnault title page, identifying this owner as a late nineteenth-or early twentieth-century Catholic who appears to have preserved this mutilated survival of the years of schism with reverence.35 Prior to this rebinding process, a page containing “a prayer for them that entende to be married, or be newe married” was removed; whether this was an expression of opposition to the views on marriage in this section, or, alternatively, the act of someone who wished to have frequent access to this prayer (and who saw little use for the rest of this heavily defaced book), remains an open question. 36 In summary, then, the apparently irenic markings that can dominate the visual field when these identically foliated Books of Hours are juxtaposed do not necessarily represent evidence of opposed doctrinal leanings, since in all cases (other than in the Suffrages for Lauds and Compline which contain indulgences) readers of the Hours of the Virgin in these Regnault Horae have either made pious interventions in the margins of the central office, or have allowed those margins to remain unmarked, giving them a kindred relationship to the margins of the early sixteenth-century Vostre Horae discussed in section one—largely silent spaces where even the faintest traces left by readers using their texts for the purpose of prayer can be discerned. Nevertheless, all of these accumulated marks, positive or negative, doctrinal or polemical, remained part of, and changed, the devotional setting in which owners of these books attempted to engage in prayer.

Three: The First Reformed Primers in English The evidence gathered in the previous section, pointing to a shared respect for the central Hours of the Virgin among readers who, at least at times, appear to hold conflicting views, recalls Ethan Shagan’s caution against trying to identify firm confessional affiliations during a period in which many of the English “never wholly accepted nor wholly opposed the reformation.”37

106  Elizabeth Patton Even that active agent of reform, Thomas Cromwell, for example, was seen weeping and “saying of Our Lady Mattins” just prior to Cardinal Wolsey’s demise in 1530, yet not much later he was busy providing William Marshall with translations of Luther’s works for the first English primer to exclude not only “Our Lady Mattins,” but the entire Little Office of the Virgin.38 Early in 1534, English and continental printers had received the “tacit approval of both Cranmer and Cromwell” to include English translations of portions of the Bible, psalms, and other liturgical material in their publications.39 In large part informed by these translations, A ­Prymer in Englyshe, published by John Bydell for William Marshall in 1534 “cum privilegio regali,” was the first state-sanctioned reformed primer to be printed in ­England entirely in the vernacular (STC 15986).40 Only in the introductory “Salutation of the Angel” and in the accompanying “instruction howe and in what maner we aughte to pray” is the Blessed Virgin Mary mentioned.41 Marshall published a revised version of the Prymer in Englyshe in 1535: A goodly prymer in englyshe, newly corrected and printed (STC 15988).42 Although the Goodly Prymer restored the Litany of the Saints and Prayer for the Dead, or “Dirge,” which had been eliminated from the Prymer in English, neither the 1534 Prymer in Englyshe nor the revised 1535 Goodly Prymer provided readers with any intercessory figures or images; more pertinent, perhaps, for this study, they contained no indulgences or other material requiring cancellation, making confessionally-inflected marginal interventions in these reformed primers considerably less prevalent than in the continental Horae discussed in sections one and two. These early reformed primers invited textual correction of another kind, however: readers seemed to feel a need to correct perceived errors in these largely unattributed English translations of Lutheran sources.43 Examples of such textual corrections are to be found in an association copy of the 1538 edition of the Goodly Prymer, Folger Library STC 15998, signed on the title page by an early seventeenth century bibliophile, Humphrey Dyson.44 In two instances, Dyson’s marginal notations supply passages elided from Lutheran sources, focusing, as did several readers of the Regnault Horae already discussed, on the nature of Christ as God, while also drawing particular attention to the nature of the relationship between Christ and the Virgin Mary.45 Even more interesting from the perspective of this study, in the lower margins of two pages in this text an earlier hand appears, possibly that of a young student, or perhaps that of a woman not formally trained; in either case, the awkwardly sprawling secretary hand has copied verses from two psalms into the lower margins of the respective pages: “Oh Lorde, my heart is not proud, neither look I alofte …”46 (Figure 5.9) and “Caste me not away from thy face”47 (Figure 5.10). If these separate verses are considered as evidence of a reformed reader’s attempts to engage in unmediated communication with God, however, this reader appears not to be finding such communication easy. As Alec Ryrie has documented, it was not uncommon for what he terms an

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  107

Figure 5.9  A goodly prymer in englyshe (London, 1538), Folger STC 15998, Sig. Q1r. Photograph by Elizabeth Patton from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

“inability to pray” to overtake early Protestants attempting to address the deity directly, without mediation: At the core of both ease and difficulty was an alarming simplicity: to pray meant merely to strip your heart bare before God and to hear his voice speaking through you. No wonder some people found themselves unable to do it. That daunting, bare simplicity—meeting God, unmediated—was the ideal. In practice, of course, complexity crept in. (207–8)48 By directing attention to what people did “in practice,” Ryrie identifies a key dividing line. In a purely intellectual sense, the Goodly Prymer provides numerous points of entry for a penitent seeking contact with the deity. Many of the psalms, now available to be read and recited in E ­ nglish without fear of retribution, offer positive ways of “looking up” and praying directly to God, such as the upward-looking optimism of Psalm 123

108  Elizabeth Patton

Figure 5.10  A  goodly prymer in englyshe (London, 1538), Folger STC 15998, sig. X1r. Photograph by Elizabeth Patton from the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

in the Goodly Prymer’s service for Sexte, which models direct eye contact with God on analogy with the homely familiarity of interactions between servant and master or mistress: “unto the[e] lyft I myn iyes…. as the servaunts ieys are ever upon theyr maysters, & the maydens waytyng upon theyr maystres.”49 In practice, however, the contemporary reader of this 1538 Goodly Prymer (Folger 15998) has either chosen not to echo such upward-looking psalms, or has yet to achieve a mental vantage point from which to make the kind of spiritual contact that came so easily to the laity of England in pre-Reformation years, when they addressed the divinity daily in repetitive prayer rituals, continuously assisted by intercessory figures such as Christ incarnate, the Virgin, and the saints. Why has this reader chosen, instead, to contemplate verses from psalms that model not looking up, and that seem to express a fear that God might turn his face away? The first of the two inscribed verses, containing the phrase, “I look not up above my station,” is written in the margin directly below Psalm 131, one of the gradual psalms indicative of progression and hope, in the service for Compline. The second of these inscribed verses, however, from the universally familiar fourth penitential psalm, the Miserere mei, was not inscribed by the reader below the psalm where it appears in the sequence of seven penitential psalms (fols. 37r–37v).50 Instead, this anonymous reader was attracted to the verse in its considerably amplified form in ­Girolamo Savonarola’s “Exposition on the 51st Psalm,” an extended meditation on penitence by the late fifteenth-century

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  109 Florentine Dominican and charismatic preacher.51 His “Exposition” (almost certainly translated by William Marshall), had cross-confessional appeal and was incorporated into the Goodly Prymer immediately following the restored Litany and the seven penitential psalms.52 Savonarola’s ­“Exposition” not only provided words with which a petitioner might speak to God directly, it also provided one of the intercessory figures otherwise absent from this stringently reformed and largely Lutheran prayer book. In Savonarola’s verse by verse amplification of psalm 51, King David’s anguished expression of penitence before God in verse 13, which caught the reader’s attention, is further amplified: “Beholde lorde, I stande before thy face, that I may fynde mercy … Caste me not confused from thy face.” This plea now modulates into a conversation between the reader and Christ, as Savonarola creates one of the ekphrastic images that distinguished his sermons, importing the story of the Canaanite woman from the synoptic gospels and shifting the focus of the entreaty in verse 13 from God the Father to God the Son. Savanarola ventriloquizes the ­Canaanite woman’s conversation with Christ, who eventually praises her persistence and complies with her request that he free her daughter from a demon.53 “I ask no bread” she says, addressing a very human Christ surrounded by his apostles, and using the first person singular as King David had done when addressing God: “I ask not that fauour that thy children shulde haue,” she continues, but only “the crummes which fall from thy chyldren’s table … let not me be destitute of this crumme of grace.”54 A reader of the Goodly Prymer, especially a woman reader, who is attempting to pray to God “unmediated,” might well find herself drawn (as Savonarola intends) into the mode of prayer modeled by the ­Canaanite woman, a woman like herself, whose “herte is not proude,” and who does not look “alofte,” yet a woman who persists.55 If the reader who found the verse, “cast me not away from thy face,” worthy of being copied into the lower margin continued reading Savonarola’s three page amplification of those words, he or she would indeed remain in conversation with God—not with “God” writ large, however, but rather with the second person of the Trinity in his manifestly human persona. The presence of the intercessory figure of Christ in this reformed primer is vividly reminiscent of the prayers inserted into the margins of the 1512 Vostre Book of Hours discussed in section one, which present a double formulation of Christ, not only as the “image of the invisible God” (“dei invisibilis imago”) but also as the human son of God (“fili dei vivi”). Unlike this reader of Folger Library STC 15998, who “look[s] not up,” another contemporary reader of a British Library copy of the Goodly Prymer (British Library STC 15988) does not hesitate to draw attention to the act of looking up towards God. In an association copy of the 1535 edition of the Goodly Prymer signed by “Elizabeth Manners” (British Library C.25.gc) it may have been Manners herself, or perhaps a family member, who placed a check mark in the margin next to this passage: “the iyes of all thynges loke up, and wayte upon the[e] (O lorde)” (Figure 5.11).

110  Elizabeth Patton

Figure 5.11  John Bydell for William Marshall. A goodly prymer in englyshe (London, 1535). ©British Library Board. Shelfmark C.25.gc, sig. A8v.

Part of the opening passage of “A Christen Instruction,” which appears towards the end of the Goodly Prymer, this uplifting sentiment in “The grace or blessynge of the table” initiates a series of suggested prayers for each of the daily meals, meant to be said with the entire family gathered at the table, the children “standynge before it, theyr handes elevated & ioyned together.”56 The first sentence of the opening prayer in this section, highlighted by the marginal check mark shown in ­Figure 5.11, reads in full: “the iyes of all thynges loke up, and wayte upon the[e] (O lorde) and thou gyuest them meate in due tyme.” ­Elizabeth Manners, however—if indeed these are her own marginal notations—is evidently not pleased with the formula used to address God in this translation, particularly with respect to the assertion in the partially canceled passage shown in Figure 5.11: “Thou openest thy hande & ­replenyshest all thynges lyuynge with thy blessynge” (emphasis added). Another marginal note adjacent to this passage supplies an alternative grammatical form for “Thou openest”: “Doost thowe [open]”—thus changing a confident assertion of God’s providence into a question or request, and bringing the syntax of this plea for divine providence into line with what Ryrie characterizes as a necessarily indeterminate process. 57 Additional underlinings and marginal marks throughout Manner’s copy of the Goodly Prymer continue to critique the translation in this manner. With respect to readers’ marks in this association copy of the Goodly Prymer,

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  111 as well as those marks and canceled annotations made by Lucie Savage in the 1534 Regnault Hore discussed in section two, this essay intersects with the work of scholars who extract “material traces of women’s reading found in the margins and title-pages of early modern books.”58 Whether or not Manners and Savage, for example, were connected to members of those families in Katherine Parr’s extended circle remains to be determined, but it is certainly not impossible: ongoing studies have now traced borrowings from Marshall’s primers not only in Katherine Parr’s “personal prayerbook,” but also in collections of prayers written, compiled or read by Queen Elizabeth, and in private compilations by individuals such as Elizabeth Tyrwhit.59 While such borrowings show that women in Katherine Parr’s circle and beyond were reading these early reformed primers, their borrowings are not limited to reformed works: Susan Felch, for example, juxtaposes printed Books of Hours with private prayer books and compilations from this same early period of reform in England, identifying what she calls a “cheerful ecumenicity” in individual efforts to construct prayer miscellanies “whose offerings are both consistent with the new Protestantism and part of the ongoing, continuous tradition of Christian prayer.”

Conclusion The examples of marginalia discussed here confirm previous studies of such interventions in early Tudor Books of Hours: on the level of simple piety, readers marked their prayer books in order to guide themselves back, daily, to prayers offering spiritual comfort, exhortation, or even timely warning. Although it is possible, given such an iterative context, to draw considerable information from the slightest marginal evidence, even in this small sample the picture changes as reformed readers leave traces of their attempts to pray directly to God. This study can be further contextualized by (and contributes to) ongoing studies of private prayer miscellanies, including prayers from both pre-Reformation and post-Reformation sources—compiled by the same readers who had learned to parse indulgences and read their prayer books critically during the years of reform.

Notes Particular thanks are due here to the Folger Institute for granting me a ShortTerm Fellowship in 2013 that facilitated my initial survey of all Latin Horae and English primers in the collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library. 1 See Austen Saunders’ chapter in this volume. 2 Following the 1534 Act of Supremacy, a proclamation in June of 1535 required that the title of “pope” or “papa” be erased or otherwise expurgated in prayer books and other documents, and a subsequent 1538 proclamation required similar treatment for all prayers promising indulgences,

112  Elizabeth Patton referencing Purgatory, or naming any of the Catholic popes and certain saints, especially Thomas Becket; see Hughes and Larkin. Tudor Royal Proclamations, 236–37. 3 Duffy, Marking the Hours; also see The Stripping of the Altars. 4 “Cut-and-Paste Bookmaking” [1]. 5 Erler, “Devotional Literature,” especially at 501–6; also see Susan Felch’s concise but comprehensive overview of the migration of the canonical hours from clerical breviary to Book of Hours, “A Brief History of English Private Prayer Books,” in Elizabeth Tyrwhit, 19–31. For a detailed summary discussion of the contents of the Prymer or book of hours, see Bishop, “On the Origin of the Prymer,” xi–xxxviii. 6 On the use of the rosary (or “the Psalter of Our Lady”) as an alternative to manuscript or print Books of Hours, see Dillon, “Praying by Number,” at 454. 7 Hoskins, Horae Beatae Mariae Virginis; Burton, Three Primers Put Forth; and Butterworth, The English Primers. 8 Erler, “Devotional Literature,” 503; also see, by the same author, “Maner to Live Well,” 229–43. 9 Pollock and Maitland, History of English Law, 146. 10 Hore presentes ad usum Sarum (Paris, 1502), Folger Library (HH219, Hoskins 24, STC 15897). 11 Ibid., fols. b8v, h6r and I2r; references to popes are also erased throughout the Kalendar. 12 This emendation appears on the final page of the unfoliated index of Folger STC 15897; readers of a slightly earlier but otherwise quite similar version of this Vostre imprint, now in the British Library, have left the error uncorrected. See Hore presentes ad vsum Sarum (Paris, 1498), British Library (BL IA 40335, Hoskins 24). 13 Officium beate Marie virginis ad vsum Sarum… (Paris: Symonis Vostre, 1512), Folger Library (STC 15913, Hoskins 34, HH 155/11). See Eamon Duffy’s account of prayers added over time to the fifteenth-century manuscript Book of Hours belonging to John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury (Marking the Hours, 69–80). 14 “O d[omi]ne Jesu, dei invisibilis imago, splendor et claritas, gloria eius, qui patienter, ut a Judaeis capereris, ligareris, severissimaeq[ue] per omnia tractareris[,] noctu tulisti: Da [ut?] ex tenebris evocati, in tuo lumine ambulem[us], ne tenebrarum nos occupent lemures. Amen.” (“O lord Jesus, image, splendor and renown of the invisible god, his glory, you who were patiently bound and by the Jews, taken at night: permit us to walk out of the shadows in your light, so that the demons of the shadows may not capture us”), sig. C3r. 15 Precationes Christiana. With the exception of minor variations in phrasing, the untitled prayers added by the reader of this Vostre Hore (STC 15913), align precisely with the sequence of prayers printed in the 1535– 40 edition of Faber’s collected works (fols.12r–14r); the Latin text can be accessed in the later 1579 edition at the following URL: http://daten. digitale-sammlungen.de/~db/0002/bsb00021446/images/index.html?id=00021446&groesser=&fip=eayaxssdaseayayztsxdsydsdaseayafsdrewq&no=1&seite=3. 16 Representations of Christ as the “dei invisibilis imago,” or the human face of an incomprehensible godhead, were pervasive in the Pauline epistles, e.g., Colossians 11–17; Hebrews 1.3, 13.15; 2 Corinthians 3.18, 4.47; and Romans 8.29. 17 Felch, Elizabeth Tyrwhit, 36.

Praying in the Margins: the Reformation  113 18 See the Bodleian copy of STC 15913, sig. f 8r, in which this error remains uncorrected. 19 In comparison, see the much more casual hand of the added index entry in the 1502 Vostre edition (Figure 5.1). On distinctions between “book script” and “documentary script,” see Derolez, Palaeography, 5. 20 Additional differences throughout include variations in abbreviations (with corresponding changes in line length but not phrasing) and, less frequently, in the subjects of border woodcuts. I am grateful to Goran Proot for his assistance in noting and measuring such variations. 21 Hore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis Ecclesie ritum… (Paris: François Regnault, 1530), Folger Library (STC 15968, HH220, Hoskins 93). On the queen mother’s association with this indulgence, see Duffy, Marking the Hours, 144. 22 Hore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis Ecclesie ritum… (Paris: François Regnault, 1534), British Library (STC 15984, HH223, Hoskins 113); for additional examples of what Duffy refers to as “neat and minimalist conformity,” see Marking the Hours, 149–61. 23 See, e.g., fol. 31v in both imprints. Small check marks in the borders of the Little Office of the Virgin in STC 15968 can be found in Matins, fols. 14r, 15v, and 16r; Lauds, fols. 17v and 18r; Prime, fols. 29r, 29v, 30r, and 31v; Terce, fol. 34r; sexte, fol. 34v; None, fol. 37r; Vespers, fol. 39r; and Compline, fol. 43r. Additionally, the pattern of feather-like check marks is also evident in the Suffrages following Compline where two manicules point to non-papal indulgences (fols 16v and 18v). 24 See, e.g., Regnault, Hore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis Ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1534), British Library (BL C.34.h.2, Hoskins 113), fols. 54r and 69r); and Hore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis Ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1536), British Library (STC 15987, BL C.34.h.15, Hoskins [not listed]), fols. 49r, 59r, 63r, 64r and passim. 25 Hore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis ecclesie ritum (Paris, 1530), British Library (BL C.35.h.11, Hoskins 93), fol. 190v. [n.b.: the foliation of this page in both STC 15968 and STC 15984 is incorrectly given as “xc” rather than “cxc”]. 26 For a comprehensive discussion of “The Fifteen Oes,” see White, The Tudor Books, 216–29. 27 Sig. X6v. 28 British Library STC 15968, sig. 57v. For a discussion of one of these images, “the Virgin and her titles,” which also appears on the title page of Regnault’s 1530 Book of Hours (STC 15973), see Duffy, Marking the Hours, 153. 29 Hore Beatissime virginis Marie ad legitimu[m] Sarisburie[n]s (Paris, 1534), British Library (STC 15984, BL Shelfmark c.35.e.11, Hoskins 113). 30 See the identical image in Figure 5.6, where a reader has added the description of Christ as a “hygh and mighty prince.” 31 The Latin adjective “cascus” (“old” or “old-fashioned”) is etymologically related to the adjective “canus” (“whitened with age”). I am indebted to Earle Havens for expanding the abbreviations in this inscription and to Troy Tower for tracing its etymological connections. 32 Marks such as these very definitive crosses and the manicules discussed in section three may well fall into the category of “pragmatic” readers’ marks, in this case religiously motivated, as referenced in this volume by Georgianna Ziegler. 33 See, e.g., fol. 73v. 34 Fols. 54v–56r, 65v–66r, 75v–76r, and passim.

114  Elizabeth Patton 35 This stamp associates the rebound volume with the Newman Society (Oxford University Catholic Society), established in 1878. 36 Fol. 108r. 37 Shagan, Popular Politics, 7; cited in Erler, Dissolution, 1. 38 On this iconic Cromwell vignette, see Cavendish, Life and Death, 90; on the translation project, see Underwood, “Thomas Cromwell,” esp. 520. 39 Butterworth, The English Primers, 49: “the printers and books sellers of Antwerp had been waiting for this very change, and thousands of volumes containing portions of the Scripture in English began to be imported into England.” 40 A prymer in Englyshe, with certeyn prayers & godly meditations, very necessary for all people that understonde not the Latyne tongue (London: John Bydell for William Marshall, 1534), Folger Library (STC 15986, Hoskins 117). 41 In the Bodleian copy of STC 15986, even these two brief sections on the Blessed Virgin Mary have been heavily canceled. 42 A Goodly Prymer in Englyshe, Newly Corrected and Printed… (London: John Bydell for William Marshall, 1535), British Library (STC 15988, BL C.25.g.17, Hoskins 119). For Marshall’s warning to readers, see fols. A3— A4; also see Erler, “Devotional Literature,” 504. 43 On the English practice of publishing translations of Luther’s work “with his role as author disguised,” see Pettegree, “Printing and the Reformation,” at 157. 4 4 A Goodly Prymer in Englyshe, Newly Corrected and Printed… (London: Thomas Gibson for Thomas Marshall, 1538), Folger Library (STC 15998, Folger HH170/5, Hoskins 199). 45 Ibid., fols. B1r and B1v. On Dyson, see Steele, “Humphrey Dyson,” 144–51. 46 Ps. 131/130:1, Goodly Prymer (1538), sig. Q1r. 47 Ps. 51/50:13, Goodly Prymer (1538), sig. X1r. I am grateful to Heather Wolfe for her assistance in evaluating these limited handwriting samples. 48 Being Protestant, 207–8; also see Alexandra Walsham’s discussion of “the lived experience of people who embraced the reformed religion” in her review of Ryrie’s study: “Reformation Britain,” 953–55. 49 Goodly Prymer, (1538, STC 15998), fol. O2v. 50 Costley, Miserere Mei. 51 For an introduction and twentieth-century translation, see Donnelly, Prison Meditations. 52 Butterworth, The English Primers, 67–66 and 111. 53 Matthew 15:21–27 and Mark 7:24–30. On Savonarola’s “painting of word pictures,” see Lesnick, “Preaching in Medieval Florence,” 199–247. I am grateful to Stephen Campbell for drawing my attention to this aspect of Savonarola’s sermons. 54 Goodly Prymer (1538), sig. X2r. The first person singular tense appears in Savonarola’s “Explication” and Marshall’s translation, but not in the biblical sources for this episode. 55 Ibid., fol. Q1r. 56 “A Christen Instruction,” sig. A8v. 57 Ryrie, 955. 58 White, “Dismantling Catholic Primers,” 93–113. 59 Mueller, Katherine Parr, 501–8 and passim; Marcus, Elizabeth I: Collected Works; Collinson, “Windows in a Woman’s Soul,” 87–118; and Felch, Elizabeth Tyrwhit’, 33 and 22–27.

6 Articles of Assent Clergymen’s Subscribed Copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Church of England Austen Saunders From 1571 all Church of England clergymen inducted into new parishes were required to appear before their congregations on a Sunday during service time and read through the Thirty-Nine Articles. They then had to swear assent to them. From 1662 they had to do the same with the morning and evening services from the Book of Common Prayer as well. This ceremony became known as “reading in” and was part of parish life until 1975.1 Because their right to possession of their livings depended on these acts, clergymen kept records of them. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries they did so by writing memoranda in copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles which they had signed by witnesses. This chapter introduces this practice by drawing on evidence from a survey of fifty-four examples (see Appendix A for details). It is not possible to say how representative this sample is, but it includes examples from the 1570s to the eighteenth century and from across England (although there is a bias towards the South East and East Anglia). It should be noted that twenty-five examples are taken from a single volume of subscribed copies in the Bodleian Library which was compiled in the first half of the eighteenth century by Richard Rawlinson. 2 My aim is to reconstruct the practices which created this sort of marked book and to show that they provide evidence about how the Church of England was experienced at parish level. The importance to the Church of England of practices involving the Book of Common Prayer and successive printed editions of the Bible is often recognized. The Thirty-Nine Articles are, however, more often considered in terms of their intellectual content and not as a printed book in frequent use. I hope to demonstrate that this is an oversight and that the Thirty-Nine Articles should be numbered amongst the printed books whose use defined England’s national Church. My methodology involves drawing on multiple examples rather than exhaustively describing a small number of case studies. This is done in order to establish how widespread the phenomenon was and to show how it was part of a broader network of practices. The chapter begins with a short description of a typical example before quickly moving on to establish the legal and political contexts which shaped the practice of subscription. Establishing these contexts makes it

116  Austen Saunders possible to test ideas about the motivations of those who participated in the practice, the social contexts within which it took place, and the implications of this practice for participants’ subjective understanding of themselves as political subjects, religious believers, and members of communities. The following memorandum is a typical example from a subscribed copy of the Articles: Memorandu[m] that Thomas Chaundler Clerke & Parson of Thruxton in the countie of South[ampton] did on the 5th day of September being the Sunday next after his induction into the said Parsonage in time of morning prayer there and in the audience of his parishioners, (according to the Statute of this Realme in that behalfe) publicklie reade the articles whereupon it was agreed by the Archbishops & Bishops of both provinces and the whole cleargie in the convocation holden at London in the yeare of o[u]r lord 1562 and for the avoiding of diversities of opinions and for the establishing of consent touching true religion with declaration of his unfained assent and consent there unto. In witnesse ^whereof^ wee whose names are heare underwritten have to these p[re]sentes subscribed the 5th day of September, anno do[min]i 1613: Teste Robert Challacomb Clericus This Roger [a rough ψ] Hales marke. Roberte [a rough R] Clerke his marke Roberte [a rough mark] Augers marke This memorandum was added in 1613 to a blank page at the end of a 1571 edition of the Articles.3 Thomas Chaundler was not unusual in using an old edition. It was almost as common for copies to be subscribed when they were thirty or forty years old as when they were brand new.4 Subscribed copies display a recurring set of features. I will provide further examples throughout this chapter but, to begin with, I will summarize my findings. Typically, a blank page at the front or back of one of the hundred or so stand-alone editions (typically of thirty-two pages) which were produced before 1700 will bear a manuscript text stating that a named clergyman read through and declared his assent to the Thirty-Nine Articles in a named parish church on a specified day. The signatures of witnesses then follow. There is no standard wording for memoranda and examples differ slightly from each other, but they are normally phrased in ways which echo legal documents (such as deeds poll) or the laws which made reading in a requirement. They are normally in English, but occasionally in Latin.5 Although many clergymen owned copies of the Latin version of the Articles, it was their English copies they had signed.6 Presumably this was the copy they read to their

Articles of Assent  117 congregations. The witnesses might include churchwardens, schoolmasters, and sometimes other clergymen. Normally all the witnesses were men, but sometimes women signed.7 Illiterate witnesses made marks next to their names. Subscribed copies were clergymen’s own and, when they moved to new livings, they sometimes added new memoranda.8 By the nineteenth century it had become usual for reading in to be recorded using a standardized certificate.9 Turning to the contexts which shaped this practice, the legal context was established by Acts of Parliament in 1571 and 1662. The 1571 Act stipulated of all clergymen admitted to a benefice with cure that: except that within Two Months after his Induction he do publickly read the said Articles in the same Church whereof he shall have Cure, in the Time of Common Prayer there, with Declaration of his unfeigned Assent thereunto, and be admitted to minister the Sacraments within One Year after his Induction, if he be not so admitted before, shall be upon every such Default, ipso facto, immediately deprived.10 The 1662 Act of Uniformity added that: every person whoe shall hereafter be presented or collated or put into any Ecclesiasticall Benefice or Promotion within this Realme of England and places aforesaid shall in the Church Chappell or place of publique worshipp belonging to his said Benefice or Promotion within two Monthes next after that he shall be in the actuall possession of the said Ecclesiasticall Benefice or Promotion upon some Lords day openly publiquely and solemnly read the Morning and Evening Prayers appointed to be read by and according to the said Booke of Common Prayer att the times thereby appointed and after such reading thereof shall openly and publiquely before the Congregation there assembled declare his unfeigned assent and consent to the use of all things therein contained and prescribed.11 The 1662 Act included prescribed wording for his assent: I. A. B. doe declare my unfaigned assent and consent to all and every thing contained and prescribed in and by the Booke intituled The Booke of Common Prayer and Administration of the Sacraments and other Rites and Ceremonies of the Church according to the use of the Church of England together with the Psalter or Psalmes of David pointed as they are to be sung or said in Churches and the form or manner of making ordaining and consecrating of Bishops Priests and Deacons.

118  Austen Saunders Some memoranda explicitly acknowledge these Acts. For example John Burscough noted that he in obedience to an Act of Parliament of the 13th of Elizabeth did read the 39 Articles of Religion within mentioned October 26 1662 in the afternoon at the time of divine service and did declare his Assent unto them.12 Many closely echo the Acts’ wordings, using key phrases such as “publikly reade” and “unfeigned Assent” along with careful notes of the time of day the reading took place and the fact that it was a Sunday to record compliance with all legal requirements.13 However neither Act specified that a written record be kept of reading and assenting. The 1571 Act established separate obligations for clergymen to subscribe to the Articles before a bishop and for records, known as Subscription Books, to be kept at diocesan level. Reading and assenting to the Articles before a new incumbent’s parishioners was an additional requirement with no prescribed form of certification. The laws which defined the practice of reading in were a response to an enduring problem – how do governments ensure that policies decided centrally are implemented nationally? Both Acts were passed at times when establishing and maintaining control over the Church of England were priorities for those in power.14 On both occasions those in authority turned to the printed book as a technology for implementing policy. They did so by mandating behaviors involving printed books (reading and assenting to the Thirty-Nine Articles and the Book of Common Prayer) and establishing a penalty for non-performance (legal forfeiture of livings). This solution worked in two ways: cascading and weeding out. ­Doctrine (via the Thirty-Nine Articles) and liturgy (via the Book of Common Prayer) were approved by both houses of Parliament and then cascaded by the bishops (themselves sitting in the Lords) to the clergy, and then to parishioners, through prescribed ways of using printed books. Priests who were unwilling to participate in this cascading process were weeded out when they refused to subscribe to the Articles or to read them before their parishes. Declaring assent was a common experience. Ministers facing the demand to assent to the Thirty-Nine Articles could at various times have been asked to swear Oaths of Allegiance (to monarchs), Oaths of Supremacy (repudiating Papal authority), Oaths of Abjuration (repudiating the Jacobite claim), and oaths to the ThirtyNine Articles themselves when matriculating as students. Demanding yet another act of public assenting was a standard policy tool which lawmakers reached for because it worked. Men were willing to die rather than swear the Oath of Supremacy and were willing to throw away their careers rather than swear the Oath of Abjuration.15 Thus (in theory at

Articles of Assent  119 least) laws demanding public reading and assenting to the Thirty-Nine Articles delivered a body of clergy willing to implement Parliament’s will in parishes across the country, equipped with practices which enabled them to do so. The process did not always work perfectly. In November 1624 John Davenport read through the Articles and had his copy subscribed by parishioners when he took up the living of St Stephen Coleman Street in the City of London.16 Two years later he was helping to organize the feoffees for impropriations, a scheme to buy the rights to make appointments to parishes and to give them to puritan clergyman. In 1633 he left England for Holland after deciding that he could no longer in conscience continue as a conforming member of the Church of England and in 1637 he emigrated, with members of his former congregation at Coleman Street, to Massachusetts. Why was he not weeded out by the need to subscribe to the Articles and publicly declare assent to them? His views may have shifted, but the key point is that reading in did not guarantee future conformity. Nevertheless, reading in is an example of the reliance policy makers placed on printed books to regulate the Church. They were of course an efficient way to distribute texts, but legislators also treated them as physical objects which clergymen were required to use in their churches. The statutes specifically required new incumbents to “read” the Articles and the Book of Common Prayer. The wording is specific and excludes alternatives such as reciting from memory. Even allowing for some elasticity in the meanings of “read,” there remained a clear expectation that the books would be physically present. This was a partial answer to the challenge of enforcing uniformity across a whole kingdom. It was impossible to monitor every service in every church and even harder to look into the consciences of ministers. But Parliament could insist that printed books, which were manufactured in conditions which allowed a degree of oversight and standardization, be present in parishes at defined times. The Book of Common Prayer and the Bible were to be present much more regularly, but the Thirty-Nine Articles also had to be produced on certain occasions (including reading in). Standardized doctrine was to be at least physically present in every parish. If those were the motivations of legislators, the motivation clergymen had for making subscribed copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles was their need to demonstrate that they had obeyed the legal requirements of reading in. The law said that they had no right to their benefices if they had not read and assented to the Articles but did not specify a process for removing non-conforming clergy. In practice enforcement depended on investigation during episcopal visitations (when the question was religious conformity) or legal proceedings when a living was disputed (when the question was possession of property). Given that a minister’s worldly possessions were at stake as well as his spiritual appointment,

120  Austen Saunders it was (as the standard nineteenth-century handbook put it) “prudent to obtain from the churchwardens, or some other inhabitants of the parish, a certificate that the new incumbent has complied with the above forms.”17 Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century priests agreed and their subscribed copies of the Articles are tokens of their prudence. This was not an entirely improvised practice. It imitated other practices which at times might be required of clergy, such as that every resident minister in the diocese of Lincoln in the 1570s present at visitations “a true certificate in writing under the hands of their Churchwardens” certifying that they had said the communion service according to the legally prescribed form at least once a quarter.18 Ministers anticipated similar needs when they had their copies of the Articles subscribed. Subscribed copies could be used to demonstrate religious conformity, especially during episcopal visitations. Visitations were a routine procedure for enforcing religious conformity at parish level but visitation articles only sporadically included questions about reading in.19 The visitation articles for Lincoln in 1585 and 1588, for example, asked churchwardens whether the incumbent of each parish “hath not within two months after his induction publiquely reade the said Articles in your Church in the time of the Common praier there, with declaration of his unfeigned assent thereunto?”20 But most visitation articles did not address reading in. They were more likely to include questions about the public reading of royal injunctions, homilies, or the Canons of the Church of England. A range of printed texts was used to enforce conformity, among which the Thirty-Nine Articles were not usually the most prominent. This changed immediately after the Restoration when a question about the Thirty-Nine Articles was included as standard in all visitation articles for 1662, the first since the Restoration. Those for London asked of each incumbent: did he within two months after his induction, publickly in the Church upon some Sunday or Holiday, in the time of Divine Service, read the 39 Articles of the Church of England, established by Authority, and there publickly declare his assent therunto?21 Articles for other dioceses included very similarly worded questions. As the Church hierarchy set about re-establishing baseline conformity following the end of the Commonwealth, the Thirty-Nine Articles were fixed upon as a key test of clerical compliance. Given this heightened attention, it would have been particularly important for ministers after the Restoration to have records of reading and assenting to the A ­ rticles. It is therefore unsurprising that whilst examples of the Articles subscribed during the Commonwealth are rare or non-existent (I have seen none dated after 8 April 1649), the practice reappeared in 1660. 22 Thus George Hynd had a memorandum signed by witnesses stating that, after

Articles of Assent  121 being presented by the Crown to the Rectory of Milton in Berkshire on 28 August 1660, he had read and assented to the Articles on 2 September. 23 And John Wilde wrote a record of having read and assented to the Articles on the very same Sunday. 24 Subscribed copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles were made to support claims to property as well as to demonstrate religious orthodoxy. This is what happened in June 1642 when a priest called Thomas Sheppard performed the ceremony of reading in in the middle of an empty field in Oxfordshire, not far from where John Hampden would be killed in battle a year later. The field was where the church of the abandoned village of Warpsgrave had once stood. The living worth £20 a year still existed and Sheppard was, at the time he read through the Articles, engaged in a dispute for possession of what was effectively a sinecure. 25 In support of his claim he wrote a memorandum in his copy of the Articles recording that he had read them in “the place where the Church aunciently stood” and had it signed by witnesses including a local farmer whose family had been shepherds in the area at the turn of the century. 26 This was the closest he could get to a congregation of parishioners and was meant to demonstrate that he had (in the words of the memorandum) been “inducted into the reall & actuall possession of the Rectorye [i.e. the living] of Warpsgrave.” This could be important evidence in disputed cases when adversaries might cite non-performance as grounds for deprivation. In one much later case which came before the civil courts in 1828, one of the parties freely admitted that he had physically prevented his adversary from entering the pulpit to read the Articles. The other man had read the Articles in the porch instead until, when removed from that, he had finished them in the Churchyard witnessed by several hundred congregants. Was this enough for him to take legal possession of the living? The court found that it was. 27 Subscribed copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles remained in the possession of clergymen and, because they could be used in case of legal contests about property, were part of his private archive of important documents. They were a product of the same needs which led people to record details of debts, leases, and legal disputes in the blank spaces of books. Printed books were an habitual repository for such records and a copy of the Thirty-Nine Articles was an obvious place to record that the process of reading in had been completed. It was easier to keep a single copy of the Articles with multiple memoranda safe than to keep hold of many small documents.28 Copies of the Articles may have been manufactured to facilitate this practice. They were often printed in an unusual design with a single blank leaf at the front (before the title-page) bearing a woodcut tail-piece and the signature A1. This shows that these were not blank leaves added by binders, but integral parts of the printed book. Some ministers used this blank leaf for their memoranda and it is quite possible that they

122  Austen Saunders were included specifically for that purpose. 29 If that were the case, then political policy, readers’ practices, and book production were linked in a cycle of influence. New political objectives became imaginable (uniformity of codified doctrine cascaded to each parish by minsters) because printed books provided a way of pursuing them. New policies about using printed books were then adopted (the requirements for reading in) which, in turn, gave rise to new practices for readers (producing subscribed copies of the Articles). Printers then responded to these practices, producing books which were physically suited to them. Eventually, the whole cycle could start again as yet more possibilities suggested themselves to policy makers in light of the new products now being produced by printers. This may have influenced the imposition of new requirements in 1662. The economics of printing were also affected as the practice of reading in must have helped support the market for stand-alone editions of the Articles. Subscribed copies of the Articles record episodes of sociability which tell us about ministers’ contact with parishioners, local clergy, and friends. When Matthew Smallwood arrived at Bramfield in Suffolk in 1677, a fellow clergyman named William Bacon visited from nearby Beccles (where he was vicar) and signed alongside three local men. 30 Witnessing each other’s reading in would have strengthened ties between local clergymen. Sometimes ministers and witnesses share surnames, suggesting that relatives were present.31 Other subscribed copies show that non-resident clergy habitually visited new livings to read in (as indeed the law required). Leonard Hutten spent his whole adult life at Christ Church, Oxford, holding several rectories as a non-resident. Nevertheless in 1601 he travelled to Flore in Northamptonshire to read in. He had a copy of the Articles subscribed by the curate who served the parish as well as by the vicar of nearby Weedon Bec. 32 In 1615 he made the shorter journey to Westwell in Oxfordshire for the same purpose, when again the curate who actually ministered to the parish was amongst the witnesses.33 Even though these visits would have been brief and perhaps never repeated, they meant that ambitious clergymen had a more than legal relationship with the parishes from which they drew their incomes. Even non-residents climbing the ladder of preferment saw their parishes at least once and met their parishioners. This marked out an ordained non-resident’s living from other sorts of landed property, including that of lay rectors (landowners who were not ordained but who owned the right to collect tithes) who were not covered by the laws requiring reading in. Subscribed copies of the Articles made these encounters legible. A copy subscribed by churchwardens, the parish clerk, the schoolmaster, and other parishioners along with the new minister’s friends became a record of a parish community and the minister’s own network of contacts which had intersected with that parish. Moreover, the memorandum

Articles of Assent  123 recorded a clergyman’s arrival in a new community. Witnesses acting as representatives of the parish community signalled their recognition of the new minister’s credentials and addressed him in the person of their offices within the administrative structures of the parish. Making inscriptions put clergymen in a new position. For the first time during the process of ordination and induction, they became the ones responsible for documenting their own orthodoxy. Previously their superiors (for example the bishops before whom they subscribed) had performed this validating task. But at the same time they had to ask their own congregants to sign as witnesses. Without these signatures, the document was of little use. A memorandum produced in Essex in 1633 makes that clear, stating that John Fuller had read that Articles in the church at Stebbing: “In wittness whereof wee the inhabitants of the said parish beeing then Auditors of the same doe hereunto putte our hands”34 (see Figure 6.1). The practice of making subscribed copies of the Articles thus created a complicated dynamic of reciprocal authority at parish level. Ministers were responsible for cascading orthodox doctrine in their parishes but their parishioners, when they subscribed memoranda, were given an implicit authority to validate that this had been done lawfully. This manifested an assumption that ordinary parishioners be familiar with this key text of the Church of England and able to involve themselves (even if at a low level) in policing the laws which controlled it. How exactly were parishioners able to judge conformity? Would they notice if a new incumbent “forgot” to read Article XVII: “Of Predestination and Election”? Or if he missed out the start of Article XX: “The Church hath power to decree Rites or Ceremonies, and authority in Controversies of Faith” and instead began it at “it is not lawful for the Church to ordain any thing that is contrary to God’s Word written”? Perhaps literate witnesses read along with the new incumbent, tracking him line by line. Visitation articles created the same problem when they demanded of churchwardens a detailed familiarity with the contents of the Book of Common Prayer, for example asking if ministers were delivering services according to it “without putting in any thing of their owne, or taking awaye.”35 How much weight could visiting bishops place on churchwardens’ knowledge? The bishops themselves recognized this general problem. One solution was to require ministers to read publicly the injunctions which defined their responsibilities, “that the whole parish may know and understand to what things as well the ministers as them selves are bound.”36 The Church of England thus attempted to police itself through its members, right down to parish level. It placed demands on all of them not just to understand its doctrines, but to participate in its governance. It would have been impossible to pursue this aim without being able to call on a range of practices involving printed books.

124  Austen Saunders

Figure 6.1  Thirty-Nine Articles (1633) Bodleian 4° 277(4), sig. A1r. By permission of the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

When the system worked it created a virtuous circle of reciprocal authority. Conforming ministers cascaded lawful doctrine down to knowledgeable parishioners who weeded out non-conforming clergy who did not fulfil their obligations. But if things went wrong, the circle could turn vicious. Non-conforming ministers would fail to cascade doctrine to parishioners who, not being properly ministered to, would be unable or unwilling to call out this dereliction of duty. This makes the weeding out part of the process look redundant, as it seems it would only work in an already well-regulated Church. And what was the point of the cascading process if parishioners were already knowledgeable? But two points should be borne in mind. First, ministers had already undergone a multi-staged process of vetting before they arrived in a parish, including subscribing to the Articles before a bishop. Reading in was a last backstop to test their conformity, not

Articles of Assent  125 a front-line defence. Second, the cascading element was amongst the procedures of the Church of England designed to provide stability over time. Reading in, like catechising, was a means by which knowledge of the Church’s doctrine was kept current at grassroots level. Although testing it had to rely on congregations of already knowledgeable and conforming parishioners, it served to refresh knowledge of the Articles and emphasized their importance. The dynamic of reciprocal validation was disguised when clergymen enjoyed a higher status than the witnesses who certified their conformity. For example, George Stradling, son of Sir John Stradling of Glamorganshire and fellow of All Soul’s College, Oxford, asked two illiterate parishioners in Kent to make their marks in November 1666. 37 Hierarchies would be even more marked when the clergyman was a high-flying non-resident. How would the churchwardens of Hartfield in Sussex have behaved in 1640 when George Morley, chaplain to the earl of Carnarvon and associate of Edward Hyde, Gilbert Sheldon, and Lucius Cary, Viscount Falkland, visited to take possession of his living? The visual contrast between the text of the memorandum recording that he had read the Articles which Morley wrote in his elegant italic hand, and the angular scripts full of old-fashioned secretary forms which the churchwardens and other parishioners used to subscribe their names, reflects the very different worlds these men inhabited. 38 Yet despite differences in social status, the churchwardens, schoolmasters, parish clerks, and other parishioners who were asked to subscribe memoranda were being invited to do their duty as members of what Mark Goldie has called “the unacknowledged republic” of small office holders. 39 These were the men of little (or even no) property who did not serve as magistrates or sheriffs or as electors of MPs, but who filled local offices as, for example, constables, churchwardens, and parish clerks. England could only be governed with the assistance of these men. Although they were excluded from what seem like the primary institutions of civic politics, perhaps half of all men held one of these offices in the course of their adult lives. Some of the witnesses who signed copies of the Articles were holders of these small offices. Even for those who were not, signing memoranda was a part of participatory civic life and it conferred a small dignity to sign one’s name – or even make one’s mark – in an official capacity at the request of an educated newcomer. The practice enlisted parishioners as participants in the processes of cascading and weeding out which were used to control the Church. It was a practice of grassroots validation which would have generated subjectively grounded legitimacy for the Church’s power structure by soliciting the agency of its most lowly participants. ­Occasionally (but rarely) women exercised agency in this way. Mistress Abigail Busby signed a memorandum that William Rechford had read

126  Austen Saunders the Articles in September 1660.40 She may have been the wife of John Busby who as patron presented Rechford to the living of Addington in ­Buckinghamshire. The same memorandum was also signed by one Mistress ­Saunders, whose name comes immediately beneath that of Master Thomas Saunders. These examples are exceptional, but they are evidence that women had some opportunities to act as members of the unacknowledged republic. When witnesses signed a subscribed copy they gave a minister something valuable because it substantiated his legal right to possession of his living. Signing could involve making promises to act on his behalf in the future, as when witnesses signed to confirm that they “doe & will testifie, being therunto required & called” that Francis Mansell had read in properly in 1630.41 Most witnesses probably didn’t think of this as a discretionary act but as a sort of duty consequent on their position within the parish. Nevertheless, it belonged within a widespread economy of exchange by which social ties were articulated through gift-giving, including gifts of books.42 Furnishing a new minister with a subscribed copy of the Articles was a mark of respect and a recognition of his place within the parish hierarchy. When witnesses were of equal standing to the minister, recognition might be reciprocated through other forms of gift. For example, when Samuel Parker went to Chartham in Kent to read in in 1667, his friend Nathaniel Bisby went with him and signed a memorandum as a witness.43 Parker in turn dedicated two published books to Bisby at around the same time.44 There was a symmetry to Bisby affixing his name in manuscript to one printed book to acknowledge Parker’s conformity and Parker affixing Bisby’s name in print to two others to acknowledge their friendship. As a record of obedience to the law and as an articulation of a range of social relationships, making subscribed copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles was one amongst a much wider range of practices which defined participants’ relationship with the state and other sources of authority. The wording of memoranda reflected an understanding that reading in was required by laws the ultimate aim of which was a uniform national Church. John Burscough noted in 1662 that he had read the Articles “in obedience to an Act of Parliam[en]t of the 13th [year of the reign] of Elizabeth” whilst Leonard Hutten included in a memorandum the part of the Articles’ full title which stated that they were “for auoiding of diuersitie of opinions, and for the establishing of consent, touching true Religion.”45 Memoranda like this were written acknowledgments by ministers that they were subject to such authority. Over time, the source of this authority changed. Almost all copies of the Thirty-Nine Articles were printed with the royal arms on them, which changed with each monarch. But old symbols remained in circulation when copies of the Articles were used over several decades, like the 1593 copy bearing

Articles of Assent  127 the arms of Elizabeth which John Price signed in 1622.46 Normally this signalled continuity as laws lasted longer than mortal monarchs, but this ceased to be the case in the middle of the seventeenth century. William Jemmat continued with old practices but trimmed them to new times in 1649, recording that he had read the Articles “excepting what the Parliament hath taken away.”47 The copy he signed was printed in 1642 with, instead of the royal arms, Parliament’s portcullis insignia and a colophon reading “Printed for the benefit of the Common-wealth.” Jemmat didn’t have his memorandum signed by witnesses, perhaps an acknowledgement that following the abolition of episcopacy and monarchy, assent and subscription were no longer legally enforced. Yet just eleven years later, after the Restoration, the revival of the practice became a sign that continuity had been preserved after all. Ministers who performed reading in did so as individual believers with consciences called upon to declare personal assent at the request of the state. It was an example of a response to a demand that religious subjects should believe inwardly with informed conviction. M ­ aurice Rowland declared that he “willingly and from his heart assented to all and aney of them to be true and agreable to the Scriptures.”48 George Morley wrote that he had read the Articles “which I believe to be Orthodox and agreeable to Gods word”49 (see Figure 6.2). The most common phrase used to signal inward conviction was “unfeigned assent” (a phrase taken from the 1571 Act). Early modern subjects were trained to think of using books as a way of testing conscience. In 1584 archbishop Whitgift required clergymen to subscribe to propositions including the validity of the Thirty-Nine Articles and the Book of Common Prayer. Rounding up those who refused proved an easy way of catching puritan ringleaders. In 1633 many ministers refused to read Charles I’s Book of Sports in their churches because they believed it to be blasphemous. ­Giving public assent to the contents of a book was treated as a performative act which both revealed and constituted conscience. A subscribed copy of the Articles was therefore a manifestation of conscience which a clergyman could put in his pocket. He could show it to parishioners or to visitors. He could carry it to his next parish and use it again. This part of his conscience wasn’t an inward faculty or an inscrutable instinct. It was a history of practice validated by a group of named people. Although this form of conscience turned on individual ministers’ responses to requirements imposed by the state, ministers’ subscribed copies signed by their parishioners reflect the degree to which laws only had meaning in the context of a local community. Royal and ­Parliamentary authority was a meaningless cypher unless applied to real people in real places. The whole point of the requirements of reading in was to mould a conforming national Church at parish level. In the juxtaposition of royal arms, memoranda, and signatures, a threepart relationship was made visible involving state authority, individual

128  Austen Saunders

Figure 6.2  Thirty-Nine Articles (1640) Bodleian 4° 277(6), sig. A1v. By permission of the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

conscience, and parish community. The royal arms were a symbol of sovereignty, but they changed over time whilst the practices of assenting and witnessing remained constant. The individual sovereign stood over the nation but the national identity upon which sovereigns’ claims depended was constituted through the communities and practices which defined that identity and made it visible to its subjects. As was demonstrated in the 1640s and 1650s, it was possible to imagine a nation without a monarch, but not a monarch without a nation. This dependence is played out on the marked pages of subscribed copies of the ­A rticles. The royal arms stamp authority on the subscriptions which at the same time underwrite royal authority. Subscribed copies of the ­A rticles were records of small, local, and sometimes transitory groups

Articles of Assent  129 of people enlisted as participants in the complex flows of agency and authority which underpinned the early modern English state. A clergyman making a subscribed copy of the Thirty-Nine Articles thus manifested a triple identity. First, as an individual believer with a conscience; second, as a member of a national Church exercising authority across the whole country; and third, as a member of a specific parish. At one extreme he was a unique subject exercising belief and conscience. But he was simultaneously at the other extreme an abstract and interchangeable member of a nation state and a national Church obedient to uniform laws which operated without diversity. In between he was a member of a specific parish community tied to one named place and connected to other named people each with their function in the parish. In conclusion, what can we learn from subscribed copies of the ThirtyNine Articles? As an archival source they provide biographical details about individual clergymen. Although they are difficult to find because subscriptions are not systematically recorded in catalogues, they include information which may not be available from other sources about what livings ministers held and when they took them up. More broadly, they provide an insight into the involvement of churchwardens and other parishioners in monitoring the processes by which the Church was governed. Whilst authority flowed down through a carefully maintained hierarchy, subscribed copies demonstrate that there were opportunities for low-level members of the Church to exercise a degree of authority when they fixed their names to memoranda confirming that ministers had fulfilled their obligations. Finally, they demonstrate the importance of practices involving printed books to the management of the Church of England. Without them, policy makers would not have had the tools they needed to enforce the degree of conformity they sought. Together, these forces helped to shape experiences of the Church of England at parish level.

Appendix A: Some Subscribed Copies of the Articles Current Location Shelfmark

Date of Copy

Date of Incumbent Subscription

Parish

Cambridge, G.15.42 (17) Magdalene College Cambridge, G.15.42 (17) Magdalene College STC 10046 Cambridge (Massachusetts), Harvard University Houghton Library

1612

1624

Uncertain

Uncertain

1612

1632

Matthew Brownrygg

Uncertain

1593

1604

Richard Lobe Stoke Lyne, Oxon

(Continued)

Current Location Shelfmark Cambridge (Massachusetts), Harvard University Houghton Library Cambridge (Massachusetts), Harvard University Houghton Library Eton, Eton College Library London, British Library London, British Library London, British Library London, Lambeth Palace Library London, Lambeth Palace Library London, Lambeth Palace Library London, Lambeth Palace Library London, Lambeth Palace Library London, UCL

Date of Copy

Date of Incumbent Subscription

STC 10048

1612

1624

STC 10055

Uncertain 1660

Parish

John St Stephens Davenporte Coleman Street, City of London

George Hynd Milton, Berks

[not available] 1690

1695

C.95.c.22

1720

1761

T 1013 (12)

1612

1615

T 1013 (20)

1684

1688

Henry Unknown Godolphin Henry Austen West Wickham, Kent Fancis Calcott Boughton Monchelsea, Kent John Younger Bishopstone, Wilts

A.57.3/1562

1605

1607

Peter Taylor

1661

1667

East Cowton, Yorks John Doughty Buxton, Norfolk

1661

1669

John Doughty Buxton, Norfolk

1661

1671

John Doughty Earsham, Suffolk

1684

1690

John Cooper

Trottiscliffe, Kent

ARC A 57.3 R 63 (2) ARC A 57.3 R 63 (2) ARC A 57.3 R 63 (2) H5137. C4[SR3] Lansdowne Tracts 11/8 Oxford, Bodleian 4.A.96.Th.

1631

Uncertain

Uncertain

Uncertain

1605

1612

Bersted, Sussex

Oxford, Bodleian 4.A.97.Th.

1616

1640

Maurice Rowland George Selfe

Oxford, Bodleian 4.Rawl.151(1) 1571

1577

Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (1) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (1) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (2) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (3) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (3) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (4) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (5) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (6)

1586

1590

1586

1613

1571

1613

1593

1622

1593

Uncertain

Shipton under Wychwood, Oxon Thomas Ware St Mary-le-Bow, City of London Anthony Sanderstead, Surrey Batten Franncis Kirby Misperton, Dalton Yorks Thomas Thruxton, Hants Chaundler John Price South Wootton, Norfolk John Ham Harnhill, Goucs

1631

1633

John Fuller

Stebbing, Essex

Uncertain 1666

George Stradling George Morley

Sutton at Hone, Kent Hartfield, Sussex

1640

1640

Current Location Shelfmark

Date of Copy

Date of Incumbent Subscription

Parish

Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (7) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (8) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (9) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (10) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (11) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (12) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (13) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (14) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (14) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (15) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (15) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (16) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (17) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (18) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (19) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (20) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (20) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (21) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (21) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (22) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (22) Oxford, Bodleian 4° Rawl. 277 (23) Oxford, Bodleian 8.Rawl.713 (2) Oxford, Bodleian Vet.A.1.123 (2) Oxford, Jesus T.3.5 (8) College Oxford, Lincoln N.1.22 (3) College Oxford, Lincoln N.1.22 (8) College Washington D.C., STC 10046 Folger Shakespeare Library

1612

1642

Warpsgrave, Oxon

1642

1645

1628

1660

1642

1649

1624

1660

1662

1662

1632

1667

1675

1676

1675

1676

1674

1675

1674

1677

1674

1675

1681

1682

1684

1688

Thomas Sheppard Anthony Bramstone John Wilde William Jemmat William Rechford John Burscough Samuel Parker Obadiah Brokesby Obadiah Broksby Matthew Smallwood Matthew Smallwood Thomas Baker

Ripple, Kent Uncertain St Giles, Reading, Berks Addington, Bucks Stoke next Guildford, Surrey Chartham, Kent Bekesbourne, Kent Ivychurch, Kent Huntingfield, Suffolk Bramfield, Suffolk Streatham, Surrey

John Coleshill, Warks Kettlewell Henry Ga[…] Uncertain

Uncertain 1690

Edward Glyn

1693

1697

John Leng

Broughton Poggs, Oxon Coton, Cambs

1693

n.d.

John Leng

Coton, Cambs

1693

1697

Cranham, Essex

1693

1697

Thomas Whetham Uncertain

1702

1704

1702

Uncertain

1708

1711

1628 1581

1634 1622

1629

1630

1593

1601

1604

1615

1593

1602

North Ockenden, Essex Samuel Harris Walgrave, Northants Samuel Harris Walgrave, Northants Thomas Ponteland, Dobyns Northumberland John Clarke Fiskerton, Notts Edward Cottingham, Yorks Gibson Francis Easington, Oxon Mansell Leonard Flore, Nothants Hutten Leonard Westwell, Oxon Hutten Thomas Great Rissington, Whittington Gloucs

132  Austen Saunders

Notes With thanks to Peter Auger, Arnold Hunt, Dunstan Roberts, and Alison Shell. All errors are my own. 1 See Appendix A for information regarding citations of the various subscribed copies of the Articles. The first recorded use in the OED of “to read in” as a verb is dated 1800. “Reading in” as a noun is first recorded in 1836. The requirement to read through the Thirty-Nine Articles was confirmed by the 1865 Clerical Subscriptions Act. The 1974 Church of England (Worship And Doctrine) Measure gave the General Synod of the Church of England power to change requirements for clergy to give assent to doctrine. This power was exercised the next year and a declaration of assent replaced the requirement to read through the Articles. See Amending Canon No. 4 (in particular substituted new Canon C 15). 2 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl 277. 3 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (2). 4 I have found twenty-two examples out of fifty-four of memoranda added to books less than five years old and ten to books more than twenty years old. 5 For a Latin example see London, British Library, T 1013 (12). This memorandum was signed in 1615 by several witnesses who made marks and were presumably illiterate. They must have taken the minister’s word when he told them what they were signing. 6 Maurice Rowland owned both a Latin version (London, Lambeth Palace, A.57.3/1562) and an English version (Oxford, Bodleian, 4.A.96.Th.). It was the English version he had subscribed when he took up a living in 1612. 7 For example Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (11). 8 Matthew Brownrigge wrote memoranda in the same copy in 1624 and 1632 (Cambridge, Magdalene College, G.15.42 (17)). Mathew Smallwood had his copy of the Articles signed at Huntingfield in Suffolk on 30 March 1675 and at Bramfield (again in Suffolk, five miles from Huntingfield) on 28 June 1677 (Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (15)). Obadiah Brokesby had his copy signed at Ivychuch in Kent on 25 February 1676 and at Bekesbourne (near Canterbury) one week later on 4 March (Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (14)). 9 See Hodgson, Instructions, 24–28. 10 13 Eliz c 12. 11 14 Car 2 c 4. 12 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (12). 13 See for example a memorandum dated 1590 in Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (1); and a memorandum dated 1675 in Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (16). 14 See Collinson, Elizabethan Puritan Movement, for a classic account of the struggles of the Elizabethan authorities to maintain control over the Church of England in the face of opposition from Presbyterians and others who worried that the Church was not yet ‘reformed’ enough. The 1662 Act was passed soon after the Restoration and was part of a wider project to reestablish forms of government similar to those in place before the civil wars. 15 On the development and implications of oath taking in early modern England, see Jones, Conscience and Allegiance. 16 Cambridge (Massachusetts), Harvard University, Houghton Library STC 10048. 17 Hodgson, Instructions, 26. 18 Injunctions, sig. A2r.

Articles of Assent  133 19 Visitation articles are sets of questions which were put to churchwardens during a visit by a bishop to an individual parish. These visits are known as an episcopal visitation and were usually meant to occur every three years. 20 Articles to be enquired of by the church-wardens and swornmen within the Dieocsse [sic] of Lincoln (1585), sig. B1r. Repeated verbatim in Articles (1588). 21 Articles (1662), sig. A3r. 22 For the 1649 example, see Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (10). 23 Cambridge (Massachusetts), Harvard University, Houghton Library STC 10055. 24 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (9). 25 See Oxford, Oxfordshire History Centre, Oxf. Dioc. Papers c.264 (Register). 26 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (7). The farmer’s name was John Wotton. On the Wotton family, see Oxford, Oxfordshire History Centre, MS Oxf. Archd. Oxon. c 118, and I/ii/1–5. 27 See Law journal reports, old series, vol. 6, pp. 284–285. 28 Stephen Orgel makes the argument that a printed book was a practical and sensible place to inscribe important documents. See “Margins of Truth,” 95. 29 See for example Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (4), subscribed in 1633. 30 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (15). 31 Edward Lobe witnessed Richard Lobe’s induction in 1604. See Cambridge (Massachusetts), Harvard University, Houghton Library STC 10046. 32 Oxford, Lincoln College, N.1.22 (3). 33 This time the memorandum was inscribed on a copy of the Canons of the Church of England bound with Hutten’s subscribed copy of the Articles. See Oxford, Lincoln College, N.1.22 (8). 34 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (4). 35 Articles (1574), sig. A2r. 36 Injunctions, sig. A3r. 37 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (5). 38 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (6). 39 See Goldie, “The Unacknowledged Republic.” 40 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (11). 41 Oxford, Jesus College, T.3.5 (8). Mansell was Principle of Jesus College. 42 On the culture of gift-giving see Zemon Davis, “Beyond the Market.” 43 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (13). 4 4 The dedicated books were A Free and Impartial Censure of the Platonick Philosophie (1666) and An Account of the Nature and Extent of the Divine Dominion and Goodness (1667). 45 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (12); Oxford, Lincoln College, Oxford, N.1.22 (8). 46 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (3). 47 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (10). 48 Oxford, Bodleian, 4.A.96.Th. 49 Oxford, Bodleian, 4° Rawl. 277 (6).

7 Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden Georgianna Ziegler

On February 18, 1638, Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, Dorset, and Montgomery, began reading the second edition of John Selden’s Titles of Honor (1631). She was able to get through it in about a month: “I did make an ende of reding, or over loking itt all over the first of Marche folloinge 1638.” We know this because she carefully inscribed her reading dates on the title page of a copy of this book which is now at the Folger Shakespeare Library1 (see Figure 7.1). Inside, the book is full of pencil markings with just a few manuscript notes, but the markings and the number of turned down or turned up leaves tell a story of their own about how she read this book, why she wrote in it, and what it meant to her.

Why Read Selden? Lady Anne Clifford’s interest in Selden and his influence on her is best understood by locating it within the context of her life. Although much recent scholarship has made the details of her life more familiar, a brief summary is helpful to explain her specific interest in the Titles of Honor. 2 Lady Anne was born in January 1590 to Margaret Russell, daughter of Francis Russell the second Earl of Bedford, and George ­Clifford, third Earl of Cumberland. She was thus part of two powerful political families. Her Russell grandfather was a member of Elizabeth I’s privy council; her father, George Clifford, was the queen’s champion. Through two prestigious marriages – first to Richard Sackville, third Earl of Dorset and then to Philip Herbert, fourth Earl of Pembroke – she further increased her position among the noblest families of England. By her first husband she was related to the Howards and by her second to the Sidneys. Years before she married Philip Herbert, she had socialized with his mother, Lady Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke, and as a girl had known his cousin, Lady Mary Sidney Wroth.3 The death of her father in 1605 when she was fifteen determined the direction of much of the rest of her life. Bypassing his daughter, George Clifford left his vast estates in Yorkshire to his brother Francis, with the Westmorland estates to follow upon the death of Anne’s mother,

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  135

Figure 7.1  D  etail of Lady Anne Clifford’s inscription on the title page of John Selden, Titles of Honor (London, 1631), Folger Folio STC 22178 copy 3.  Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0  International Licence.

Margaret Clifford, Countess of Cumberland. Thus, no property or titles descended to Anne herself. Margaret Clifford was determined to retrieve her daughter’s inheritance, and she immediately sued for recovery of the Clifford estates, while establishing her own presence and interest in her Westmorland estates as a source of much-needed revenue.

136  Georgianna Ziegler The Countess of Cumberland was a formidable woman, well-educated and conservatively Protestant. She began the long process which Anne would continue of retaining lawyers and hiring antiquarians to seek out ancient documents in support of her daughter’s case. Even Anne’s two marriages were made with an eye to obtaining the support of a powerful husband who could pursue her interests. Unfortunately, neither relationship was entirely happy, and neither brought the hoped-for settlement. Anne continued to pursue her interests until finally in 1643 the last of the Clifford male heirs died, leaving her at the age of fifty-­ three sole inheritor of the estates. The unthinkable had happened, and Anne Clifford could now style herself, Countess of Dorset, Pembroke, and ­Montgomery, “Barones Clifford Westmorland and Vescy; and High ­Shreives of that County and Lady of the Honor of Skipton in Craven.”4 She had become the greatest female landowner in England. John Selden, prominent jurist and intellectual, was a friend of Clifford’s. He had studied law at Clifford’s Inn, the ancient London property of the Clifford family, where Lady Anne evidently kept a few rooms for her own use when in London.5 Selden was friends with William Herbert, older brother of Clifford’s second husband, and he moved in a circle including the earls of Pembroke, Arundel and Kent, all of whom were related. Selden was also friends with Samuel Daniel (Clifford’s childhood tutor) and Ben Jonson.6 Clifford knew all of these people, and refers to Elizabeth Grey the Countess of Kent and John Selden as “worthy kind friends to me.”7 It is possible that Selden was one of the antiquarian experts whom she called upon over the years to help with the claims to her properties. Certainly, the men with whom she worked in collecting records relating to her inheritance, men such as Simon D’Ewes, Roger Dugdale, Matthew Hale, St. Loe Kniveton and Augustine Vincent, were all antiquarians, scholars and lawyers from John Selden’s circle.8 Selden’s Titles of Honor was a book that Clifford consumed with much interest because it traced the history and customs of titles from ancient times and as they came to be used in England, with direct relevance to her own situation.

How the Countess Read Her Selden Clifford’s copy was the enlarged second edition of 1631. When she read the Titles in February and March of 1638, she was forty-eight years old and was probably staying either at Baynard’s Castle in London, or at Wilton or Ramsbury Manor, two of the Earl of Pembroke’s residences in Wiltshire, to which she retreated after separating from him in 1634. Her secretary, George Sedgwick, later wrote of her: She could give a good account of most histories that are extant in the English tongue. Indeed she was an indefatigable reader, and had a library stored with very choice books, which she read over, not cursorily, but with judgment and observation.9

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  137 In her study of Clifford as a book collector and reader, Heidi Brayman points out that she is known to have owned close to seventy books: the forty-eight books depicted in her portraits and at least twenty others.10 The Folger copy of Selden’s Titles of Honor is a recent addition to that list, not known to Brayman.11 Sedgwick says that she read her books, “not cursorily, but with judgment and observation.” As the work of numerous scholars has shown, we need to broaden our concept of “reading” when considering the early modern period. We know from Clifford’s diaries that she was often read to by her servants or secretaries, and her books display characteristic underlinings and marginal crosses and lines in graphite (see Figure 7.2), as well as comments, sometimes in more than one hand. The seminal article on Gabriel Harvey’s reading by Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine made us aware of the transactional nature of much early modern reading, and Brayman has suggested that the arrangement of a reader and an engaged listener “challenges our definition

Figure 7.2  Detail of annotated page 594 from Selden, Titles of Honor, Folger STC 22178 copy 3.  Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0  International Licence. Photograph by Georgianna Ziegler.

138  Georgianna Ziegler of the term ‘reader’ itself.”12 I want to suggest “transactional reading” as a term that describes the method employed by Clifford, distinguishing it from “pragmatic reading” as described by Lisa Jardine and ­William Sherman. In the latter, a scholar or lawyer such as Henry Wotton or ­Gabriel Harvey marks up a treatise to provide a “‘route’ or ‘path’ through the text,” or to guide a reader to the answer of a particular legal question.13 In Clifford’s case, she often had more than one reader on a volume, and I think it’s likely that the passages were marked as they read out loud to her and she directed them in what was of interest to her. The transaction, then, is multi-directional: the text (in this case Selden) being read aloud by a secretary to Clifford, then working back again, Clifford’s oral instructions to the secretary for marking passages of interest to her in the text, then her overlooking of the text, especially the marked passages, and in a few cases, adding more markings. This method creates an active exchange that flows back-and-forth, employing the voice and hands of an intermediary, and the voice and sometimes the hand of the person read to. In his great book on the human body, Helkiah Crooke stated that we remember better those things we have heard, and that by hearing something read, “we receive more profit then by bare reading,” because those who read aloud can also explain things to us as they go along.14 The engagement of eyes, ears, and hands was all part of the physicality of reading which Helen Smith has called to our attention: ­“Reading  .  .  . was understood to be both a bodily and an embodied practice: an act of consumption that was productive and reproductive in physical as well as intellectual terms.”15 In her diaries from 1616 to 1619, Clifford notes twenty-five “specific moments of reading, twenty of which are scenes of aural reading,” often when she is engaged with sewing, and we have accounts of Margaret Hoby and Elizabeth Isham doing the same.16 I’d like to suggest that employing the hands in an activity such as embroidering, lacemaking, or knitting, uses motor skills that can free the mind’s perceptual skills to what is being read. ­Clifford mentions working pillows in the “Irish stitch,” which Susan Frye has identified as “flame stitch,” characterized by “ a series of straight stitches to produce a geometric pattern of zigzags in colored silks.”17 Once having learned this repetitive stitch, the hands automatically replicate it while the mind is free to think about the words and ideas it is hearing. We can usefully compare Clifford’s statements of reading inscribed in the six surviving books containing her annotations. The earliest record is the 1625 reading of Barclay His Argenis, just recently published. Her reader notes that he began “to reade this booke to your Ladiship” on January 16th and ended it on January 25th, 1625.18 We then move to Clifford’s own inscription on the title page of Selden: “I beegane, to ovrloke this Booke the 18 of Febuarary and I did make an ende of reding,

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  139 or over loking itt all over the first of Marche folloinge 1638.” About a dozen years later, she wrote in the 1605 edition of Sidney’s Arcadia: This Booke did I beegine to Red over att Skiton in Craven aboutt the Latter=ende of Januarey and I made an ende of Reding itt all ower in Apellby Castell in Westmorland the 19 daye of Marche following, in 1651.19 In 1665, we find her reading the Introduction to a Devout Life by St. Francis de Sales (1648): This Book was begun to be read to your Ladyship in Brougham Castle the 9 day of March, 1664–1665 by Messrs Geo. Sedgwick, Thos. Strickland and Johy Taylor. And they made an end of reading it to you in the same Castle the 15th day of the same month. 20 In 1669 Clifford read Anthony Weldon’s The Court and Character of King James as noted and ventriloquized by one of her readers: “about the beginning of June in 1669 I began to read this Booke myselfe in Appleby Castle and I & diverse of my menserv[ant]s made an end of readinge of itt the 21st of the same in 1669.”21 And finally, as Stephen Orgel has shown, there are a number of inscriptions in her copy of the 1609–1610 Mirror for Magistrates, indicating that the readings began on 21 March 1670, and ended in 1673. Like the note in the Arcadia and in Weldon, they record not only the date but the name of her residence where the reading occurred – a type of marking that Jason Scott-Warren calls “chronotopic.”22 Most are in the hand of her secretary William Watkinson, who sometimes writes in his own voice, sometimes in hers, but one of the notes is written by herself: “this I red over the first of May in Brough. Castel in 1670.”23 It is only the Selden, however, which Clifford says, twice, and very specifically, that she “overlooked” as well as read – the former term an important distinction in the kind of reading she sees herself giving this book. The term “overlook” according to the OED means: “To look (a thing) over or through; to examine, scrutinize, inspect; to peruse, read through.” The combination of reading and overlooking goes back at least as far as Chaucer in The Book of the Duchess (ca. 1396) where the narrator takes up a romance when he has trouble sleeping, and says, “Whan I had red this tale wele,/ And overloked it everidele,/ Me thought wonder, if it were so.”24 Overlooking suggests an activity that intensifies reading – one reads first then goes back to examine more thoroughly. Or, one might look through the book carefully, read it, and then overlook it again, as Clifford says she did. This process inspires Chaucer’s narrator to write his dream vision, and it indicates the scrutiny which Clifford applied to Selden’s Titles of Honor, a text intimately related to

140  Georgianna Ziegler her own agenda of inheritance. Indeed, some of the markings suggest a second layer, as the darker and thicker graphite X’s and lines on top of or added to markings on p. 594 concerning the title of Prince of Wales; or p. 793 where ink has been added over the pencil lines marking a section on the history of the Garter; or pp. 393, 399, and 539 where marginal glosses have been added in ink to pages already marked in pencil. As Bill ­Sherman has pointed out, “printers did not provide everything that every reader needed to make sense of the text.”25 Although Selden provides detailed marginal printed citations to his many sources, Clifford and her readers added more marginalia to mark passages of particular interest to her and thus serve as memory aids.

Selden’s Method and Clifford as (Un)-Expected Reader Selden himself was a compiler; indeed, as Jeffrey Todd Knight has shown, during the early modern period, “compiling was fundamentally entwined with textual production.”26 In some respects, Selden’s method was similar to that of his older contemporary John Higgins, whose acquisitive style is described by Harriet Archer in this volume as “predicated on his editing, expanding or responding to the work of others.”27 Selden has built a topical “library” in his Titles of Honor that draws upon a vast number of printed books and manuscripts at his disposal, which he carefully enumerates in his Preface, then pins as marginal printed glosses throughout his text, and finally expands upon further in his section on “Amendements” at the end. Selden builds a narrative around the history of titles using copious quotations from his sources, which he gives in the original Latin, French, Italian or Spanish without Translations . . . For either the Discourse in English that accompanies it, sufficiently supplies a Translation, or else the matter and language is such that a fit Reader, assisted with that discourse, may without difficultie understand it. 28 Selden also has specific ideas about who that Reader might be: “I expect not here a Reader without some such measure of knowledge as is usually had by Liberall Education . . .”29 Selden’s expected reader is male with the liberal education grounded in Latin, assumed at the time. Clifford is female, and while she was given a good education with a governess, tutors, and a good library, she did not have a “Liberall Education,” based on the classics, and her father did not approve of her learning languages. 30 Nevertheless, Clifford turned out to be one of Selden’s best readers in the close way she engaged with his book. So much work has been done on the reading practices of early modern women in the past ten years or so, that we no longer

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  141 have to prove, in the words of Julie Crawford writing about Mary Hoby, that “women, like men, read in scholarly and goal-oriented ways.”31 Certainly Clifford’s goal was to use Selden’s historical and legal examples to buttress her own claims as her father’s heir, and over the years of pursuing litigation and collecting evidence, she had gained a de facto knowledge of law. Indeed, as Tim Stretton has shown, such knowledge was not unusual among a number of elite women at the time who “took an active interest in their legal affairs and gained considerable expertise in various fields of law.”32 Clifford’s method was similar to that employed by her older contemporary Robert Nicolson, as described by Jason Scott-Warren in this volume. Warren writes that “Nicolson opens his books up and inserts materials into them so as to establish his own status as a new scion growing on the old stock.”33 Clifford inserts herself into Selden by marking the names of others who are related to or somehow connected to her, and by so doing she grafts herself onto the past of her family and associates to legitimize her hereditary claims. 34 Her progress through the book is further asserted by the paper slips used as bookmarks and the dog-eared corners of pages turned up or down, leaving a palpable physical trail showing the literal “handling” of the book. Selden’s larger historical approach is close to that adopted by Clifford herself. As Graham Parry has written, Selden was the most learned historian of his time, and early on in his writings he espoused the “principle of ‘synchronism,’” already used by Camden. 35 This method involves “the use of sources as close as possible to the events described, collation with comparable documents, and the matching of events with a reliable chronology.”36 Clifford used the same method in compiling her Great Books; adding to work begun by her mother, she collected all the documents available from the history of her family, going back to the twelfth century and continuing to the present. These she had transcribed, noting their sources, and adding her own comments as Selden does in his work. In particular, when she went through the collection made for her by antiquarian Roger Dodsworth, she made annotations, underlining “people and places relevant to her project,” much as she does in her copy of Selden. 37 To these documents she also added extensive historical accounts of her own, bringing the history of her family up to date. The purpose of the synchronic method for Selden was “to assert the antiquity and authority of the law,”38 a purpose which also lies behind Clifford’s great compilation. But beyond that purpose, “the Great Books of Record show her determination to produce an epic narrative of dynastic power and honour, through which she interwove her own identity.”39 Clifford’s own method of working and her use of legal materials thus made her perhaps a better reader of Selden than he might have imagined.

142  Georgianna Ziegler

Reading as a Matriarchivist Although Selden’s Titles “long served as a handbook for those concerned with genealogy and other ‘antiquarian’ matters,”40 it was especially relevant to Clifford’s situation, both as legal claimant and as creator and preserver of her family history. It is possible that she did not know of the first edition of Titles, since she has underlined “sixteen yeers” in the dedication where Selden remarks on how long ago the first edition was published.41 In August of 1637, five months before reading the book, she had made the second claim on her lands as Countess of Pembroke, and as she later writes, they were the third and last claymes made thereunto, For then the civill warres broke out in thatt extremity in the northerne partes thatt noe more claymes could be made there dureing my unckle of Cumberland and his sonne’s life tyme.42 The markings begin in the Dedication, Preface, and Contents of Selden’s book and continue all the way to the end. I focus primarily on Clifford’s reading of Selden’s Preface, the chapter concerning titles for women, and attention paid to Selden’s sources and to historical figures related to herself and her friends, as a way of extrapolating her larger interests and working methods. She was the supreme example of what William Sherman has called a “matriarchivist,” a woman who organized “goods, information, and history in the early modern household.”43 And as we follow her paths through the book, we see her mind choosing items that can be added to or supplemented by her own history which she continued crafting throughout her life in manuscript, paint, and stone. In the Preface, Selden defines four kinds of “Nobilitie or Gentry”: (1) “such as are borne of good and just Parents”; (2) those whose parents are “Men of Power or Gouernors”; (3) those whose ancestors were honored in war or at games; and (4) a person “that hath his owne inbred dignitie and greatnesse of Spirit. Of all which, this is the best kind of Nobilitie.” These passages (except for wars and games) have been marked with pencil lines in the margins, and “this is the best kind of Nobilitie” is underlined, as is a phrase following closely on, “or from a mans own worth.”44 While Clifford sought to inherit her lands as the rightful heir to her father, which would follow from the first kind of nobility, birth, she also appreciated that “greatness of Spirit” or worth is important as well. In later years she wrote of her first husband, the Earl of Dorset who was a spendthrift, that he was, in his own nature, of a just mind, of a sweet disposition and very valiant in his own person; he had a great advantage in his breeding, by the wisdom and devotion of his grandfather, Thomas Sackville, who was then held one of the wisest men of that time.45

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  143 Perhaps it was Clifford’s long-standing inheritance case that led Selden to add a whole section “Of Feminine Titles” to the second edition of his book. It is true, however, that in an earlier work on English law, Jani Anglorum (1610), Selden had already shown interest in “the prominence of women in British affairs,” as he looked at ancient British society. Beginning with women such as Boadicea and Cartismunda, “Selden praises the qualities of women as leaders and vindicates their legal and customary rights to supreme authority in a state.”46 Now in the second edition of Titles of Honour, Selden elaborates on women’s inheritance of titles. Clifford read this section carefully as the markings indicate. Selden remarks, Of foeminine Titles, some are immediately Created in Women, some are Communicated by their Husbands, others are Transmitted to them from their Ancestors, and some also are Given to them as Consequents only of the dignity of their Husbands or Parents;47 The underlined portions indicate the two that interested Clifford. In particular, the way she made an account of her own history in her Great Books shows that transmission of titles from ancestors was very important to her. Selden goes on to say that there are three kinds of “Transmission of titles to women”: by Limitation, by Assignment, and “by the very possession of the Territories to which they are inseparably annexed.”48 While Clifford marks the whole passage, she especially underlines the last part, and puts a little cross next to it in the margin, as “possession” of lands has always been of primary importance to her. She also marks Selden’s further comment: “And without customes or contracts to the contrary a ‘female vpon a generall limitation to the heires, may be heire as well as a male’.”49 Clifford’s particular interest in women’s “possession of the Territories to which they are inseparably annexed” underscores the concept of “inalienable property” which, as Mary Chan and Nancy Wright have shown, was important to her. “Inalienable property” is “understood as ‘a constitutive property of a subject,’ meaning it is an attribute of a person which cannot be sold or exchanged.”50 Clifford saw the Westmorland lands that had belonged to her family for generations as “an attribute of her ‘self’” – they helped to define who she was, which included not only the lands but the offices and duties that accrued to them. 51 This was in contrast to lands that came to her through the dowry or jointure of her marriage contracts – these she saw as commodities that could be used in business transactions, and was willing to let them go if need be.52 Taking possession for Clifford meant traveling north in 1649 after the Civil War when she was free to do so, making her way among her various properties, spending time in them, and initiating repairs and construction projects. She also marked her land through the creation of monuments. In her perceptive study of Clifford’s autobiographical writings and architectural pursuits, Anne Myers writes that the links

144  Georgianna Ziegler between “a legal document and a piece of physical property” were exploited by Clifford “in order to create a record of legal ownership which did not exist solely on paper but was authoritatively inscribed on the properties themselves,” in the many memorials written in the stone of her buildings. And indeed, her renovations were done in an earlier architectural style, for “these ancient architectural foundations were meant to prove her own ancestral ones.”53 Clifford was very conscious of the relationship of property to the female line in her family. In a notable passage in her Kendal Diary of 1649, she recalls that two of the homes of her younger daughter Isabella (married to the Earl of Northampton) and one home of her older daughter Margaret (married to the Earl of Thanet) are on lands very near places where she and her mother had lived; she writes “the destiny is remarkable.”54 As Clifford makes her way through the section on “Female Titles,” she is interested in medieval cases involving inheritance through the female line, marking “without customes or contracts to the contrary a female upon a generall limitation to the heires, may be heire as well as a male.”55 Selden cites a decision by the great thirteenth-century lawyer, Henry de Bracton, upheld under Edward III, “that every sister vpon a partition might (if there were whole dignities enough) haue one.”56 This phrase and the mention of Bracton are both underlined and crossed in the margin. Clifford notes the distribution of lands to several earls by King John based on their inheritance through the female line, and she underlines the statement that, “husbands . . . also [could be] raised into any of the two dignities of Earle or Baron by reason of the right discended on their wiues.”57 One of these, William first Earl of Pembroke who came into the title from his wife Isabel de Clare in 1199, “deriving their right through his [the Earl of Gifford’s] sisters,” Clifford underlines in ink.58 Her interest here is in descent of the title through a woman but also the Pembroke earldom itself, to which her second husband belonged. The importance of these pages to Clifford is further indicated by the evidence of her handling them; the top corner of page 882 is turned down, the bottom corner of page 883 is turned up, and a thin slip of paper has been inserted between the two pages as a bookmark. Selden gives various references to legal sources for the practice of raising husbands to earl or baron “by reason of the right discended on their wives,” but Clifford marks in ink next to his statement that “examples of this kind are also easily found in divers collections of things of that nature.” Reading down page 883 where Selden compares the early practice in France with those in England, she marks his passage acknowledging that in earlier times, titles were given to the persons that first bore them, and to their heires . . . and not restrained to the heires of the body, or to males only, as the most are at this day, and for many yeeres have beene, especially in England.

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  145 Selden devotes his last section on Feminine Titles to a discussion of the claims of the young Duke of Norfolk, during the reign of Henry VI, to the castle and title of Arundel. He was granted the title “by reason of the possession of the Castle,” and later a similar decision was made upon his heirs for the “same reason of the possession of the Castle.” Both of these statements are underlined by Clifford and page 884 is turned down at the top. Here is another example of how important the concept of “possession” was to her own claims upon her land, a possession literally marked by her buildings and monuments, but also by the constant reiteration in her diaries, Great Books, and even the books she owned of when and where she stayed, or slept, or visited, or read. Throughout the book, Clifford is also interested in Selden’s references to people she knows or to whom she is related, even in a corollary manner. She underlines such references and sometimes puts a distinctive cross in the margin. In addition to the twelfth-century William, earl of Pembroke and his wife Isabel, 59 Clifford marks other medieval ancestors such as Ralfe de Neville, Earl of Westmorland,60 and Henry de B ­ romflet, created Baron of Vesey under Henry VI.61 It was Baron Vesey’s daughter Margaret who married John, ninth Lord Clifford, and their history is told in her Great Books. From Selden’s section on titles “immediately Created in Women,” Clifford underlines Anne Rochford, eldest daughter of Thomas Bullein (Boleyn), who was created Marchioness of Pembroke by Henry VIII in 1533, in an attempt to raise her stature before their marriage (see Figure 7.3). Selden quotes from the grant of this peerage in Latin, and Clifford underlines the provision in English “the estate being limited to her and the heires

Figure 7.3  Detail of p. 878 mentioning Anne Rochford (Boleyn) from Selden, Titles of Honor, Folger STC 22178 copy 3.  Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons AttributionShareAlike 4.0  International Licence.

146  Georgianna Ziegler males of her body to be begotten.”62 Clifford, of course, would have known that, like herself, Anne Boleyn had no living male heirs, causing the created title to become extinct after Anne Boleyn’s death, whereas Clifford’s inherited titles passed on to herself after the deaths of her uncle and cousin, and eventually her daughters inherited her lands.63 Also in this section, Clifford duly notes with marginal lines titles granted to women during her own lifetime by James I and Charles I.64 The first is Mary Compton, mother of the Duke of Buckingham, the king’s favorite, whom James created Countess of Buckingham in 1618.65 Mary Compton’s third husband was William Compton, Earl of Northampton. Clifford’s daughter Isabella married his grandson, James Compton, third Earl of Northampton. The second is “Lady Finch made Vicountesse of Maidstone by King James, to her and the heires males of her body” (1623), then subsequently made “Countesse of Winchelsey” (1628).66 The lady was Elizabeth Heneage, wife of Moyle Finch, and mother of Heneage Finch.67 Clifford knew this family, as mentioned in her Memoir of 1603. On a journey with her mother and other female relatives to North Hall, Clifford records that one of their men fell ill and died, causing them all to fear the plague. “My aunt of Warwick sent us medicine from a House near Hampton Court where she then lay with Sir Moyle Finch and his Lady.”68 The other two recent titles she notes are Baroness Le Dispenser granted by James I, and Baroness Ogle granted by Charles I. Lady Mary Fane received the title Baroness Le Dispenser in 1604 from James I, in settlement of an arbitration between herself and her cousin Edward Nevill for the barony of Abergavenny. Neville had a distant relationship with Clifford’s family via the wife of her cousin, Francis Clifford.69 Catherine Ogle, mother of William Cavendish, later Duke of Newcastle, was made Baroness Ogle in 1628, the title which had been her father’s. Her title and large northern land holdings then passed to her son at her death in 1629. One of Clifford’s grandsons would later marry into that family.70 Selden discusses titles passed on to wives who “have the feminine of what their husbands are,” and continues, “but for the question whether or how farre these dignities so communicated continue after the death of the husbands, see the Lawes cited,” and he mentions several including “the Countesse of Rutland’s case.”71 Clifford has those passages marked and has underlined the latter. The reference is to the complicated inheritance case involving large landholdings that occurred between two parts of the family upon the death of John Manners, fourth Earl of ­Rutland in 1588, making his son Roger the fifth earl at the age of eleven.72 There were two dowager countesses of Rutland at this point, Isabel and E ­ lizabeth, wives of the third and fourth earls, respectively. Much of the land was in the Midlands, and some may have bordered on Clifford’s estates in the north. Furthermore, one of her best friends was Katherine Manners, daughter of the sixth Earl of Rutland, and later wife of the Duke of Buckingham.73 After Anne ­Clifford, she would become one of the greatest female land owners in England, inheriting vast estates and houses from her mother and her husband.74

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  147 ­ erself in As Katherine Acheson has suggested, Clifford “constructed h ­ exceptional terms of a metaphoric relationship to the past,” especially to “ women taken from her panoply of ancestors,” and I would add that she also derived empowerment from a long chain of historic women as seen in her markings of Selden’s section on titles “communicated” to women.75 Clifford is interested in his lengthy discussion of the term ­Domina, which he traces from Biblical and Roman times down to early British law. She has underlined “Men usually called women (after ­fourteen) . . . Domina, or Ladies,” and puts a cross next to the passage discussing the use of Domina or Lady for women in England who were to be married by “leave of the King” or by his choice.76 Indeed, throughout the book, Clifford’s markings show interest in the history of various titles relating to women, especially royal ones. Thus she marks “caesar” as used for Queen Elizabeth in her correspondence with Sultan Amurad III; Mary Tudor’s adoption of the title “Supreme Head of the Church of England”; the use of “Defender of the Faith” for Mary Tudor and Queen Elizabeth; and the history of the term “queen” and its subsequent use in England.77 She is also interested in the order of the coronation of queens, marking the English side-notes to Selden’s printing of the Latin rites.78 These royal women with titles of power under the church and state, and the various countesses whose titles were granted during her own lifetime, whether friends or relatives, all metaphorically suggest the position she sees herself attaining. Because Clifford – and her mother before her – paid legal scholars for years to collect documents related to her case, she expresses interest in antiquarian sources consulted by Selden. For example she makes a marginal ink mark and underlines “Fitzherbert,” a reference to the early sixteenth-century Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, whose collections of English law cases, La Graunde Abridgement, continued to be published down into the seventeenth century.79 She also underlines “Bracton,” ­“Littleton,” and “Lipsius.” These are references to the massive survey of English common law made in the middle ages but published under Henry de Bracton’s name as De Legibus . . . Angliae in 1569; Edward Coke’s Institutes of the Lawes of England . . . A Commentarie Upon Littleton, first published in 1628; and the recently-deceased scholar Justus Lipsius, whose commentaries on Tacitus were consulted by Selden.80 Among Selden’s other sources marked by Clifford are John Foxe’s “Acts of the Church of England,”81 and the more obscure Alexiad, a twelfth-century history by Anna Comnena, daughter of the Byzantine emperor – whose name Clifford marks on several pages.82 It is highly likely that Clifford would have had a copy of Foxe’s Acts but not of the Alexiad, which was as yet unavailable in English.83 The antiquarian Roger Dodsworth, mentioned earlier, was perhaps her most important source of documents, and “also the means through which the work of other antiquarians found their way into the Great Books.”84 When Selden thanks Dodsworth as his source for a record from the Wakefield courts, calling him “a Gentleman of those parts,”

148  Georgianna Ziegler Clifford marks the passage in the margin and underlines Dodsworth’s name.85 She is also interested in whether antiquarian materials are available in manuscript or in print. She underlines “the Rolls of the Tower,” one of Selden’s sources for documents,86 and also his statement in the Preface that some of his historical sources are of the kind “which is publique in print.”87 She used both kinds in her own genealogical work, including her Great Picture, where her intellectual history and family ancestry are depicted in books and written documents in the painting. More specifically, many of the documents originally collected by her mother were found in the Tower of London by antiquarian St Loe Kniveton, and subsequently copied into the Great Books.88 In the Preface to Titles of Honor, she further underlines Selden’s reference to “my deare Friend Sir Robert Cotton,” and “that inestimable Library of his Industrious, Judicious and most Chargeable Collection,”89 and she continues to underline references to Cotton throughout the book. Like Selden, she no doubt felt personally indebted to Cotton, since his library in London was one of the sources for copies of documents she collected for her own case.90 Her cousin Henry had also consulted Cotton “about the first creation of [the title] Lord Clifford.”91 In addition to all of these references related to her inheritance, C ­ lifford marks the names of individuals with whom she feels a personal connection. In the chapter where Selden discusses French titles, she underlines a reference to “Matthew de Gournay a Baron of the Duchie of Guienne,” and next to it in the margin inserts a reference to folio 373 of the second edition (1632) of Montaigne’s Essays, translated by John Florio (see Figure 7.4). It happens that on this particular page, Montaigne praises his intellectual soul-mate, Marie de Gournay, the woman who would go on to edit his works posthumously. This is one of those instances where the reader goes beyond the traces left by the printer or the author to create a context and marker for something that is important to her. Clifford was fond of the Essays and probably knew the translator Florio, as he was a good friend of her tutor, Samuel Daniel. At least twice in her diaries she mentions having the Essays read to her, and a copy of Montaigne’s Essays is displayed among her books in the left wing of the great triptych painting featuring her early life.92 Here she associates herself with a woman who facilitated the distribution of Montaigne’s text. A writer whom she and Selden both knew personally was Ben ­Jonson. Jonson’s dedicatory poem “To His Honord Friend Mr. John Selden” graces the front of Titles of Honor, and later in the book, during a digression on the ancient custom of crowning poets with laurels, Selden writes, And thus have I, by no unseasonable digression, performed a promise to you my beloved Ben Ionson. Your curious learning and iudgement may correct where I have erred, and adde where my notes and memory have left me short.93

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  149

Figure 7.4  D  etail of p. 539 with added reference to Montaigne’s Essays from Selden, Titles of Honor, Folger STC 22178 copy 3.  Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0  International Licence. Photograph by Georgianna Ziegler.

It sounds as though Jonson had made Selden promise to include the history of the title of poet laureate somewhere in his book, and Selden obliged his friend. Clifford underlines “my beloued Ben. Ionson” and has inserted a bay leaf into this page (see Figure 7.5). Her act carries the object marker described by Adam Smyth in this volume one step farther.94 The bay leaf leaves no trace on the page – indeed, since its removal and separate preservation by conservators, the act of inserting has disappeared, except through a photographic record. But its original insertion was not with the intent of using the book as “a cabinet of natural history”; rather it was a personal memento from Clifford, a mark of friendship for a man in whose entertainments she had danced at the Stuart court.95 Finally I want to argue that Clifford’s Books of Record and her “Great Picture” show that she had a collecting and organizing instinct similar to Selden’s, and that these detailed and comprehensive historical projects were her own versions of Titles of Honor with a focus on her personal inheritance. As a “matriarchivist,” she spent much of her life paying researchers to comb archives and copy hundreds of records proving her inheritance, which she had bound into the four sets of Books of Record. Like Selden, she had documents transcribed in Latin, French or Anglo-Saxon, but she also had them translated.96 In addition, she had “the origin and location of almost every document … given in marginal references,” much like Selden’s marginal glosses in his book.97 But she went beyond Selden in tying all of this historical material together with narratives of the lives of her ancestors and of herself. Her autobiography in the Books of Record and the hundreds of pages of her diaries document her life while constantly relating it back to what has gone before, and grounding it in the physical buildings where she and her ancestors

Figure 7.5  Details of p. 412 with mention of Ben Jonson and p. 413 showing bayleaf and bookmark from Selden, Titles of Honor, Folger STC 22178 copy 3.  Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0  International Licence.

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  151 have lived, placing her in a historical continuum. As Alice Friedman has noted, “the layering of meanings through juxtaposed texts, through allusions to literature and to the Bible, is a frequent device” in Clifford’s diary and memoirs, just as “overlapping images, heraldic devices, and inscriptions on paintings, buildings, and memorials” became one of her “chief vehicles for self-representation.”98 Such devices are especially evident in the two large triptychs she commissioned in 1646 after she came into her property. The plan of the paintings, which were meant as records for her two daughters who would inherit her estates, is a complex visual account of her ancestry from medieval times to the present. It not only shows herself in youth and age, her immediate family (father, mother, and two deceased brothers in the center), as well as her tutor, governess and the books that shaped her intellectual life, but it reaches back into time by including coats-of-arms and recorded lineages of the Clifford and Westmorland family from “six centuries before the ­Norman Conquest” to her daughter’s “wedding in 1647.”99 Of the eight small portraits on the walls of the triptych, five are of women, showing her governess and four paternal and maternal aunts, and the genealogies make a point of recording lines through female descent, much like her careful reading of Selden’s Titles. Indeed, the paintings were made to be read as much as seen. In Clifford’s world, the act of reading extends well beyond book or paper to the placement of texts on walls, bed hangings, paintings and monuments. As the Bishop of Carlisle noted in her funeral sermon, “her Walls, her Bed, her Hangings, and Furniture must be adorned” with “Sentences, or Sayings of remark, which she had read or learned out of ­Authors” and caused “her Maids to pin them up, that she, or they, in the time of their dressing, or as occasion served, might remember, and make their descants on them.”100 Everyday life is lived in part through multiple transactions of reading. The collecting, transcribing, and organizing necessary for the creation of the autobiographical projects on paper, canvas and stone which assert and prove her inherited rights, mark Lady Anne Clifford as a true historian, and a worthy reader of Selden.

Notes I am grateful to Lois G. Schwoerer for reading and commenting on an earlier draft of this essay, and to Linda Levy Peck for stimulating conversations on women, property and the law in this period. 1 John Selden, Titles of Honor, 2nd ed. (London: William Stansby for Richard Whitakers, 1631). Folger Library Folio STC 22178 copy 3. The volume was purchased from Maggs in 2011; its original provenance was Lady Anne Clifford to the library of Sir Daniel Fleming, Kt. (1633–1701), an antiquary who lived near her home in Ambleside, Westmorland. 2 I mention here only a few of the many studies about her, in chronological order. Editions of her writings will be referenced in the notes below: Williamson, Lady Anne Clifford; Lewalski, Writing Women, Chapter 5;

152  Georgianna Ziegler Spence, Lady Anne Clifford; Acheson, “The Modernity of the Early Modern;” Suzuki, “Anne Clifford and the Gendering of History;” Brayman Hackel, Reading Material; Orgel, “Marginal Maternity;” Myers, “Construction Sites;” Hearn and Hulse, Lady Anne Clifford; Matchinske, “Serial Identity.” 3 For the relationship between Anne Clifford and Mary Wroth see Hannay. 4 Quoted from one of her Great Books in Spence, 160. During most of the paper I refer to her as “Clifford” but in certain places, to disambiguate, I use “Anne” or “Lady Anne.” 5 Most of the property had been purchased by the Society of the Inn in 1618, but apparently a few rooms were set aside for use of the Cliffords. Williamson, 454–55. 6 Christianson, ‘Selden, John (1584–1654).’ 7 Williamson, 211. Selden lived with the Countess of Kent for some years, and in one letter to her, Clifford sends “my love and service to the worthy Mr. Seldon” (Williamson, 197). 8 For antiquarians consulted by Anne Clifford, see Malay, “Introduction.” For the relationship of these men to Selden see Toomer, John Selden. 9 Sedgwick, “A Summary,” I:302. 10 Brayman Hackel, “Turning to Her ‘Best Companions’,”99. 11 Although Wilton had a particularly fine library, there is no indication that this book belonged to the Herberts; its binding and endpapers show no indication of a Herbert provenance, and the title page does have Clifford’s inscription in her own hand. 12 Jardine and Grafton; Brayman Hackel, “‘Boasting of Silence’,” 109. 13 Jardine and Sherman, “Pragmatic Readers,” 115. 14 Crooke, Mikrokosmographia, quoted in Helen Smith, “‘More swete vnto the eare’,” 421. 15 Helen Smith, 414. 16 See Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 234, and Frye, Pens and Needles, 123. 17 Frye, Pens and Needles, 123. In November 1616 Clifford says “I sat at my work” while Rivers and Marsh read Montaigne’s Essays to her, then three days later she notes “I made an end of the long cushion of Irish stitch,” Clifford, Memoir, 99. 18 Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 234. 19 Quoted in Hackett, Women and Romance, 7. 20 Quoted in Williamson, 527. He records the book being in the library at Bill Hill, Berkshire. 21 See reference and image of inscription in Elsky, “Lady Anne Clifford’s Common-Law Mind,” 542. The book resides in the Cumbria Archive Centre. 22 Scott-Warren, “Reading Graffiti,” 372. 23 See Orgel, “Marginal Maternity,” 267–89. 24 “overlook, v.”, OED Online, Oxford University Press; online edn, June 2017, accessed 7 July 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/134802; Chaucer, “The dreame,” fo.ccxlv recto [modern line nos. 231–33]. Clifford was herself a lifelong reader of Chaucer; his Works appear among her youthful books on the left side of the Great Picture, and she is still reading Chaucer in 1649 for solace, as she tells her friend, the Dowager Countess of Kent (Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 233). 25 Sherman, “What Did Renaissance Readers Write,” 124. 26 Knight, Bound to Read, 5. 27 Archer, this volume, 176. 28 Selden, Titles, [sig. ¶3v].

Lady Anne Clifford Reads John Selden  153 29 Ibid. 30 Williamson writes that the prohibition may only have been against Greek and Latin, and that based on her account books, “she was in early days taught French,” 66. 31 Crawford, “Reconsidering,” 206. 32 Stretton, Women Waging Law, 65. In addition to Clifford, Stretton mentions Grace Mildmay, Elizabeth Russell, and Joan and Maria Thynne, among many others. The quantity and classes of women involved in property litigation, and the different kinds of law involved have been documented by Amy Erickson in Women and Property in Early Modern England. 33 Scott-Warren, this volume, 48. 34 “Clifford used her sense of communion with deceased authors and deceased family members alike to construct a community of the dead legitimating her rights to land when the community of the living did not.” Mary Ellen Lamb, “The Agency of the Split Subject,” 349. 35 Parry, Trophies of Time, 95, 99. Anne Clifford owned a copy of Camden’s Britannia, as seen in the left-hand panel of her “Great Picture,” Spence, 190. 36 Parry, 99. 37 Malay, ed. Anne Clifford’s Great Books, 13. 38 Parry, 101. 39 Malay, ed. Anne Clifford’s Great Books, 12. 40 Toomer, 1:166. 41 Selden, Titles, (sig. †2). 42 Quoted in Malay, ed. Anne Clifford’s Great Books, 810. 43 Sherman, Chapter 3, “Reading the Matriarchive” in Used Books, 54. Sherman borrows the term “matriarchive” from Derrida and expands it. 44 Selden, Titles, [S3v]–[S4]. 45 Quoted in Clifford, The Diaries, ed. David J. H. Clifford (Far Thrupp, Stroud, Glouces.: Alan Sutton, 1990), 85. Further cited as Diaries. 46 Parry, 103. 47 Selden, Titles, 876. 48 Ibid., 881. 49 Ibid. 50 Chan and Wright, “Marriage, Identity, and the Pursuit of Property,” 163. 51 Ibid., 165. 52 See Chan and Wright, “Marriage, Identity, and the Pursuit of Property,” 166 and Clifford, Memoir, 93, 134n11, 135. 53 Myers, 582. 54 Malay, ed. Anne Clifford’s Great Books, 813. 55 Selden, Titles, 881. 56 Ibid., 882. 57 Ibid., 882–83. 58 Ibid., 882; see also Crouch, “Marshal, William (I), fourth earl of Pembroke (c. 1146–1219).” 59 Ibid., 882. 60 Ibid., 662. 61 Ibid., 745. 62 Ibid., 878. 63 See Ives, Anne Boleyn, 389 n, 53. 64 As Peck notes, “Royal bounty increased markedly in early Stuart England, whether calculated in honors and titles conferred, in gifts given, in lands bestowed, or in offices and privileges granted” (Court Patronage, 32). See also Stone, Aristocracy. 65 Selden, Titles, 878.

154  Georgianna Ziegler 66 Ibid., 878–79. 67 Lady Finch was called “‘the richest widow in present estate, both in ioynture, moveables, and inheritance of her owne, that is in England,’” and according to Lawrence Stone, hers “was probably one of the most expensive titles ever sold.” She negotiated for six years to get it (Stone, 110–11). 68 Clifford, Memoir, 55. 69 On this case, see Spence, Lady Anne Clifford, 40. 70 See Williamson, Lady Anne Clifford, 159. 71 Selden, Titles, 879. 72 See Hammer, “Manners, Roger, fifth earl of Rutland (1576–1612).” 73 Clifford notes in her Great Books that during the reign of Henry VIII in 1525, Henry Lord Clifford was created first Earl of Cumberland the same day as Thomas Manners Lord Ross was made Earl of Rutland (Malay, ed. Anne Clifford’s Great Books, 586), indicating an old association between the families. See Clifford, Memoir, 103 and 145 for her relationship with Katherine Manners. 74 See Ohlmeyer, “MacDonnell, Katherine.” 75 Acheson, “Modernity,” 43. 76 Selden, Titles, 880. 77 Ibid., 47, 60, 109–10, 114–19. 78 Ibid., 212, 249ff. 79 Ibid., 881. 80 Ibid., 881, 883, 887. 81 Ibid., 819. 82 Ibid., 62, 103. 83 A Latin translation by David Hoeschel of the Alexiad was published in 1610 in Augsburg, and Selden may well have owned a copy. 84 Malay, ed. Anne Clifford’s Great Books, 11. 85 Selden, Titles, 833. 86 Ibid., 113. 87 Ibid., sig. [§4v]. 88 Malay, ed. Anne Clifford’s Great Books, 7–8. 89 Selden, Titles, Sig. [¶3r]. 90 Next to a medieval document concerning Alice Countess of Lancaster in the Great Books, Clifford writes “In the library of Sir Robert Cotton.” Malay, ed. Anne Clifford’s Great Books, 192. 91 Spence, Lady Anne Clifford, 88, 168. 92 Clifford owned both the 1603 and 1632 editions of Montaigne’s Essays. In her Diary for November 1616 she writes: “Upon the 9th I sat at my work and heard Rivers and Marsh read Montaigne’s Essays, which book they have read almost this fortnight” She also hears Montaigne being read on 28 January 1617 (Clifford, Memoir, 99, 117). 93 Selden, Titles, 412. 94 Smyth, this volume. 95 Clifford danced in Jonson’s Masque of Beauty and Masque of Queens in 1608 and 1609. 96 Selden usually prints passages from documents in the original languages, especially Latin, but paraphrases or summarizes in English. 97 Spence, Lady Anne Clifford, 164. 98 Friedman, “Constructing an Identity,” 362. 99 Spence, Lady Anne Clifford, 195. 100 Rainbowe, A Sermon, 40. See also Fleming, Graffiti.

8 Marital Marginalia The Seventeenth-Century Library of Thomas and Isabella Hervey Emma Smith Ickworth Hall, Suffolk, October 1686 Four months after his wife Isabella’s death, Sir Thomas Hervey returned to one of her favorite books, Symon Patrick’s The Hearts Ease, or A Remedy Against All Troubles (1671). Patrick’s consolatory discourse for those grieving impressed on its readers that death is “First, Common; Secondly, Necessary; Thirdly, Good,” and counselled “against immoderate sorrow.”1 The Herveys’ much-used copy of this small book is marked with extensive Latin manuscript commentary. On the flyleaf, one hand has written “Isabella Hervey, read in October 1686.” Two interleaved manuscript lines in darker ink begin “O decus atque dolor.” A tremulous third hand at the bottom of the page reads “This was my most pious, chast, and charitable mothers Book. Bristol.”2 These multiple inscriptions are typical of the late seventeenth-century book collection of Thomas and Isabella Hervey, later taken up by their son, John Hervey, created Earl of Bristol in 1702. This modest provincial library consists of some two hundred volumes still at Ickworth, near Bury St Edmund’s, as part of an impressive later estate now owned by the National Trust. In addition to this core collection, tracing the distinctive ownership marks of Thomas and Isabella through rare book dealers and special collections catalogues has so far revealed more than thirty other volumes that once belonged to the couple’s library. In many ways the Herveys’ collection is an unremarkable one. Its purchasing choices are often conservative, its printed books unexceptional. Where it is compelling is in its unique customization: the ways in which the affordances of the early modern book as a space for inscription and marginalia transform its affective significance. As Lisa Gitelman identifies in discussing the job-printing of a later period, we tend to assume that print is for reading, even though we know that books and other documents are often explicitly designed to encourage manuscript participation, and even as humanist instruction told early modern book owners to read with pen in hand.3 What the Hervey collection reveals through these manuscript interventions is an unusually insistent sense of a couple, rather than the individuals, as owners. We gain a glimpse of

156  Emma Smith marital and familial relationship enacted and authorized via books and, perhaps, by implied shared reading. Thomas’s inscription “O decus atque dolor,” adapted from the mourning of Pallas in the Aeneid and added to some books in the collection on Isabella’s death, suggests that their library was one important iteration of their marriage and its emotional freight, as well as a means by which the family shaped Isabella’s own posthumous character and legacy. The Hervey library showcases one particular and insistent aspect of early modern marginalia—signatures and proper names—marks that, as ­Jason Scott-Warren has discussed, “connect the physical books with particular individuals and locales.”4 Signatures of the Herveys before and after their marriage, and of subsequent members of the family, and the use of inscribed names as a memorial or mnemonic, establish the library as a means by which changing relationships and patterns of ownership were asserted and consolidated. Inscribing books that had a particular sentimental value on the death of his wife reframed the library as a site of mourning and of record for Thomas Hervey in the immediate months of his widowhood. Names written into the books of the Hervey collection construct, confirm, and record family ties. They establish title pages as a key location in this collection contributing to “the sprawling culture of life-writing” that Adam Smyth discusses in his Autobiography in Early Modern England.5 The very situatedness of these marked books within the Hervey household raises significant conceptual questions about our investment in the location, the origin, of particular book collections. Much scholarly activity in provenance research prioritizes and authenticates particular owners and periods in the lives of early books: perhaps we need to reconsider those investments in what diaspora studies usefully identifies as the myth of “the ancestral homeland as [a] true, ideal home.”6 The Hervey collection, then, challenges some prominent contemporary narratives about the reconstruction of historic library collections, about the distinctiveness of women’s reading, and about the affective investments of books and of book history.

Thomas and Isabella Hervey Thomas Hervey (1625–1694) was the third son of Sir William Hervey (1585–1660), and his second wife, Susan Jermyn. A middle brother, ­William, died as a young man in Cambridge and was eulogised by ­Abraham Cowley as “like to the Stars, to which he now is gone.”7 John Hervey, the elder brother, was an ambitious courtier who was elected to Parliament in 1661, one of the principal shareholders in the Duke of York’s theatre and a Fellow of the Royal Society. He left the running of the family’s Suffolk estate at Ickworth to his younger brother Thomas. Thomas himself had some wider professional ambitions: he bought a seat on the Navy Board in 1664 and was MP for Bury St Edmunds from 1679 to 1690. He is mentioned a number of times as a dining companion,

Marital Marginalia  157 without much affection, in the diaries of Samuel Pepys, who conveys the strong impression that Hervey does not work very diligently. He is “a man less necessary” (10 February 1655/1656), and “but a coxcomb he is and will never be better in the business of the Navy” (7 November 1666).8 The main business of Thomas Hervey’s life seems to have been the wooing of his wife, Isabella May, and their married life in Suffolk. Isabella (1625–1686) was born in the same year as her husband. Her father, Humphrey May of Norfolk, was close to James I who knighted him in 1613. May was an ambitious courtier who gained the valuable patronage of the Duke of Buckingham, and perhaps it was the residual ambition of the May family, even after Humphrey’s death, that initially kept Thomas and Isabella from marrying. Thomas Hervey and Isabella May conducted a long epistolary courtship throughout the 1650s, before their eventual union in 1658. Their fraught extended romance was operated in the houses of shared acquaintances in London and country society, aided by clandestine letter drops. Thomas writes in emotional agonies after a frustrating social encounter in March 1651: If you have not written this morning, or cannot find a time to give me your paper, let me desire you it may be ready against night, and tell me (for it was done in such hast as I am allmost afraid) whether you took not my paper yester-night in your mothers chamber; but if I be not much deceived, I saw you when you cam down take it out of your pocket, & put it where your master languishes to be.9 It is a rare example of a written text explicitly substituting for physical contact between the lovers, a kind of Clarissa or Love-letters Between a ­Nobleman and his Sister avant la lettre—but it’s a telling one and can be seen to anticipate something of the proxy charge of their shared ­marital library. More than a year later, the clandestine fun, if such it was, was ­wearing off: Soberly, my dearest, I am allmost a weary of this discreet part, tho I consider for whose sake it is I endure all this, which would else be intolerable… Never, oh never, my dear heart, can I be fully at peace till ye happy hour in which without injury to you I may lay by my disguise; & even this I would not wish if you may any other way be happier. So much I love you above my self, who am yet ye dearer to my self for being so intirely yours (May 30 1652).10 Thomas’ letters survive in late Victorian publication edited by Sydenham Hervey and published in 1894. The originals of his correspondence are in the Bury St Edmunds record office, but no records suggest that Isabella’s letters have survived. Correspondence, as often in the archive, survive only as soliloquy: the reciprocity of shared letter-writing is replaced by the monologue of one-sided persistence, and this structure has implications for the apparent reciprocity of their later married library inscriptions.

158  Emma Smith Sydenham Hervey’s choice of a descriptive subtitle for the volume “with Sir Thomas Hervey’s letters during courtship & poems during widowhood” forms part of a powerful Hervey family trope of Thomas and ­Isabella’s unusually reciprocal and happy marriage, and in particular of Thomas’s own uxoriousness. The couple’s memorial at Ickworth church extends this construction of their relationship: “Here lye the bodyes of Sir Thomas Hervey and Dame Isabella his wife, who were most eminent examples of piety, charity, and conjugal affection.” Thomas’s annual elegies on the anniversary of Isabella’s death were also published by ­Sydenham Hervey: “The first anniversary on ye death of ye excellent Issabella Lady Hervey, my dear wife, who dyed ye fifth day of June, anno domino 1686, att five of ye clock in the morning being Saterday, (the day of her birth also).”11 Amid more clichéd expressions of mourning, Thomas is capable of rueful self-knowledge. On the fifth anniversary, for instance, he wrote that “I blush to see my selfe thus long survive/ Thee, without whom I thought I could not live/ So many dayes as now I have done years.”12

The Hervey books If conventional poetry is one means of memorialization, then books offer a more eloquent form of elegy. More than 240 extant books can be identified as belonging to the couple. This is not a large collection by late seventeenth-century standards: the 1681 catalogue of the collection of the Lucy family of Charlcote Park, for instance, lists 1400 volumes, and a Sussex book collector almost exactly contemporaneous with the Herveys, Samuel Jeake (1623–1690), amassed more than 2,000 items for his “Register of all my Bookes, Pamphlets, Manuscripts, & F ­ ragments.”13 Samuel Pepys, a colleague of Thomas Hervey’s at the Navy Commissioners, owned almost 3,000 volumes.14 The overall shape of the collection is not unusual for similar libraries of the time. David Pearson’s account of five seventeenth-century male book owners—each with far larger collections than that of the Herveys—­ identifies certain shared books across all the collections. Like the others, the Herveys owned works of St Augustine, Joseph Mede, Henry Hammond, Erasmus, and a Book of Common Prayer, and they also shared contemporary taste in owning Camden’s Britain, Bacon’s Sylva Sylvarum, John Barclay’s Argenis and Herbert’s The Temple. On the other hand, they did not apparently own titles that were widely represented in ­Pearson’s sample, including Gerhard Voss’s history of Pelagianism, Aquinas’s Summa Theologica and the work of devotion The Causes of the Decay of Christian Piety, or works by Richard Baxter, Henry More, Hugo Grotius, Thomas Browne, John Owen or James Ussher.15 Their oldest book is a 1514 edition of Gesta Romanorum; the most recently published is a pamphlet on The Necessity of Parliaments published in 1689, after Isabella’s death. More than forty individual titles

Marital Marginalia  159 date from the sixteenth century and there is evidence that many of these were inherited by Thomas Hervey from his father. Nevertheless, a majority of the collection—both new and older books—was probably bought by the couple during their marriage. More than seventy-five books are printed outside England—the majority of these French—and there is a large proportion of French language material. Only about a quarter of the library is in Latin. There are works of philosophy, history, new science, and law by Erasmus, Hobbes, Euclid, Seneca, Descartes, Gassendi, Montaigne, Machiavelli, Bacon, Robert Boyle, Holinshed, and Edward Coke. Inevitably there is a good deal of material relating directly to politics, including numerous pamphlets of speeches such as the 1654 edition of His Highnesse the Lord Protector’s speeches to the Parliament in the Painted Chamber, the 1655 A catalogue of the lords, knights, and gentlemen that have compounded for their estates and Eikon Basilike (1648). These bear the marks of having been bound together in larger volumes, including manuscript numbers on the title page and a table of contents for a composite volume on one of the pastedowns: these collections were probably broken up and individually rebound early in the twentieth century. There is relatively little household or estate management beyond Gervase Markham’s Hungers prevention: or, The whole art of fovvling by water and land (1655), and only one book on medical or physical wellbeing, The temperate man, or The right way of preserving life and health (1668). Texts we would now call literary—what Alan B. Farmer and Zachary Lesser in their analysis of the Shorter Title Catalogue by six broad categories call “Poesy and the Arts”—are rather minimally represented.16 A 1623 Shakespeare First Folio, now in a library in Japan, seems to have been an outlier: their only other drama so far identified is Northward Ho (1607)—discussed below—and a 1647 translation of Guarini’s Il Pastor Fido by Richard Fanshawe. Thomas and Isabella owned George Herbert’s The Temple (1641), a 1561 copy of Langland’s Piers Plowman, and volumes of poetry by William Davenant and by Abraham Cowley, the eulogist of William, Thomas’s older brother. There is also a copy of Jonson’s translation of the Art of Poetry (1640) in their library. The largest single category of works owned by Thomas and Isabella is, as expected, on topics of religion, religious advice and sermons. They tend towards applied religion rather than biblical hermeneutics, including works by Donne, Andrewes, and Joseph Hall. One review of the collection, observes, noting volumes on Foxe and the Cathars, that the couple “seem to have had a particular interest in religious persecutions.”17 Perhaps one of the most interesting and unique volumes in the library is a Little Gidding Harmony, a unique cut and paste collage of the Gospel accounts to produce a chronological narrative, curated by the young Virginia Ferrar.18 A favorite author seems to have been the royalist cleric and moralist Henry Hammond (1605–1660), whose work was particularly popular for young people: Charles I sent his son Henry

160  Emma Smith

Figure 8.1  T homas Hervey’s inscription marking Isabella’s death, on a copy of Henry Hammond’s The Power of the Keyes (1647). By permission of the National Trust, Ickworth (NT 1.B.2.9(1)).

a copy of A Practical Catechism (1646) from Carisbrooke. Thomas and Isabella apparently followed Hammond throughout his career, acquiring eight of his religious and didactic titles (see Figure 8.1). The books inherited from William Hervey will be discussed below. What is also noteworthy about the collection is the number of books that bear earlier signatures and so seem to have been acquired as gifts or as second-hand purchases. Thomas and Isabella’s collection tends to the retrospective: more than half of their books were published before they themselves reached adulthood. A 1561 copy of Calvin’s Institutes is marked “Henry Copingers booke of Buxall”: Copinger was the rector of Lavenham Church—twelve miles from Bury St Edmunds—who died in 1622 (see Figure 8.2). A 1585 copy of Lipsius has the signature of the humanist, diplomat, and friend of Sir Philip Sidney “Danielis Rogerii”; another book has “Thomas Whyte his book 1638” written on the title page. These marks of other owners coincide with the new ownership marks of the Herveys and establish the title pages of the collection as an archive of the books’ prior itineraries.

Reading at Ickworth The main category of marginalia in the Hervey books is the inscription of proper names, sometimes as apparent marks of ownership or self-assertion, sometimes as memorial or recollection. Other forms of marginalia and marks of reading are scattered through the books in the collection, although, as always, it is difficult to be sure how to attribute and interpret them. The initial comedies section of Mr William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies (1623) is heavily marked. The first play

Marital Marginalia  161

Figure 8.2  A  previously owned copy of Calvin’s Institutes (1561), reinscribed for Tho: & Isabella Hervey. By permission of the National Trust, Ickworth (NT 1.A.3.3).

in that volume, The Tempest, has been marked with a particularly complicated system of symbols that can be seen elsewhere in the collection (in the 1673 edition of Edward Chamberlain’s Angliae Notitia; or the Present State of England, for example), but perhaps because this was so laborious, it has not been continued further into the book. Thomas seems to have often used a red pencil for commonplacing, either with a marginal line or with the trefoil or clover symbol with which he frequently ended his signature. Religious books in the collection tend to show the most consistent signs of use: clearly the library was an important part of devotional practices for the Herveys, and some of the marginal emphasis in religious

162  Emma Smith books may be revealing. Sherlock’s The Practical Christian (1677) has a red clover mark by some passages including in the section on “the great necessity of self-examination”: “he who daily accounts with himself and his offended God for his daily transgressions, shall have but one day’s sins to account for upon his dying day.” Later, in the section “A Form of Confession of Sin” he has put similar red mark by a prayer for “all the sinful Lusts of the Flesh.”19 A copy of Daily Devotions (1682) is also marked in red: this seems to differentiate certain of its statements from others. For example, marginal marks in the opening on pages 94–5 seem to praise God “for giving me a Heart to pardon mine enemies,” “for the Ministry of Angels,” and “for all the faithfull departed,” but not, since it is noticeably unmarked, “for the gratitude thou dost enable me to pay my Friends” or “for the capacity and extent of my Soul.”20 In the pastedown of a 1639 Book of Common Prayer the reminder “The 33 Chap of Ecclesiasticus an excellent lesson for servants” has been written (the last verses of the book give advice that the servant should be kept busy and given “bread, correction and work”: “Set him to work, as is fit for him: if he be not obedient, put on more heavy fetters /But be not excessive toward any; and without discretion do nothing”). The note suggests Thomas’s aspirations as master of his house and servant, but also perhaps indicates a lack of confidence in his management. A few books are marked to make their information easier to reference: the new peers listed in Englands Glory: Or an Exact Catalogue of the Lords of his Maiesties most Honourable Privy Councel (1660) have been numbered in the margin, although again Thomas Hervey has been distracted after a couple of pages. (It would be another two generations before Thomas’s grandson was raised to the peerage,) In other cases, Thomas Hervey seems to have used binders’ leaves or space on the title page in a number of volumes to create a minimal index to sections of particular interest: page numbers for “Confes[sion],” “evening praiers” and “for acceptation of Acts of Humiliation” are given on a leaf at the beginning of Daily Devotions. The majority of the collection does not show much sign of active reading. There is one major exception to this. Thomas has written his version of a Latin tag “o decus atque dolor”—the statement of mourning from book 10 of Virgil’s Aeneid—into at least seven books in their collection. Sometimes this is accompanied by a date placing the inscription or the consultation of the volume, usually in the immediate aftermath of ­Isabella’s death in 1686. Richard Sherlock’s The Practical Christian has “O decus atque dolor nunquam quie vit ut quies edebbonis” and “Read in August: 1686” (two months after Isabella’s death). Other books with this same post-mortem attention from Thomas Hervey seem to have originally belonged to Isabella before her marriage. Henry Hammond’s Of Schisme and Joseph Hall’s Resolutions and decisions of divers practicall cases of conscience both bear the name “Isabella May” as well

Marital Marginalia  163 as the joint inscription typical of the couple’s marital library. Perhaps Thomas gained proximity to his dead wife, or particular forms of familiar comfort, by returning to those books she herself most closely studied. Isabella’s own signature has a distinctive crossbar across the ‘I’, and this distinguishing feature makes it clear that, while she has written her own name into several books, a couple of “Isabella May” inscriptions are by Thomas himself. It seems that he has written her previous existence into those books, retrofitting them with her prior identity. As in those partial records of their epistolary courtship, Thomas’s voice evokes, but is not identical with, something more mutual: it is a monologue that implies but cannot reproduce dialogue. It is tempting to speculate about the emotional motives for this kind of marginalia, but one thing is clear: it establishes that proper names in the Hervey collection are not the sole property of their owners. Names in books are not necessarily signatures.21 “Isabella May” here functions as a double mnemonic—of the identity lost in marriage, and of its owner, now dead. Thomas’s inscription here, as in the example of The Hearts Ease with which we began, registers a temporal range in the material object, bringing the chronologies of his marriage and of subsequent events into synchronic focus on the pages of the book.

“Tho: & Isabella” The most prominent marking of these books, and their most compelling indication of use, is a mark it is tempting to see as one of ownership, marking the joint property of the couple on their marriage. Three quarters of the books in the extended Ickworth collection bear the ownership mark “Tho: & Isabella Hervey.” They have been marked, apparently in Thomas’s hand, and perhaps in batches: the books that were already in his library on his marriage in 1658, for instance, look from similarities in the ink to have been reinscribed for the new married couple at the same time, and sometimes the mark of wet ink blotted on the facing page suggests particular haste in completing a repetitive task. Five books are marked “Isabella & Tho: Hervey,” but these, too, appear to be in Thomas’s writing, and closer inspection reveals that limited blank space has made Thomas more flexible about the ownership mark, adding ­“Isabella &” to his own existing signature. A large proportion of the collection bears the mark “Tho. Hervey,” often followed by a clover symbol. Publication dates make it possible that some of them were owned by him before he was married, but we also see Thomas continuing to write his individual name into books acquired after the marriage. The title pages that assert the Herveys’ coupledom also continue to assert his independent identity. Ten books are marked “Isabella May,” perhaps suggesting that they were in the bride’s possession before marriage, and in two cases the mark is “Isabella Hervey.” Eikon Basilike, for example, is marked with the couple’s inscription and with each of their names

164  Emma Smith individually. In addition, around twenty books are marked with William Hervey’s name, and John Hervey, son of Thomas and Isabella, marks the majority with his signature, and, later, with his 1702 bookplate marking his elevation. The standard marginal mark that defines this collection, then—the mark that makes it visible as a collection—is “Tho: & Isabella Hervey.” This is usually inscribed on the title page or the verso of the facing page, and more than once on the preliminary leaves of a volume, and on a few occasions on the binders’ leaves or pastedown at the end as well. Nevertheless, a significant minority of the books drop the surname and are simply marked “Tho:& Isabella.” First names only as ownership marks have a particular quality of intimacy. Since they do not mark the book within the familial context denoted by the surname, they don’t do the work of inscribing Herveyness, which gathers momentum as subsequent generations inherit and reframe the books in the collection. Rather, the first names written in the books seem more like a private message. Jason Scott-Warren, who compares early modern marginalia to graffiti, identifies the ownership mark as a kind of tag, the celebration of self”: “a person, a place, and the documentation of a relationship between them.”22 Juliet Fleming claims that graffiti has “a simple and paradigmatic instance, ‘I was here.’”23 We can modify this invaluable observation in a key way when looking at the Herveys’ ownership mark: it seems to convey “we were here.” Part of the work of the inscription is to acknowledge Thomas’s changed status as a married man, perhaps particularly after a wearyingly long courtship: “I’m married! Look!.” Even if, as the paleographical evidence suggests, Thomas is solely responsible for the redesignation of their prior individual libraries into a single, married collection signified by the “Tho:& Isabella” portmanteau, this mark nevertheless carries the force of co-ownership. Isabella’s name—and her right to read if not her actual practice of reading—is inscribed in works by Robert Boyle and Machiavelli, just as she is in more obvious religious titles such as the works of Henry Hammond; there is no distinction between the way works on, say, politics are described from the way that works of vernacular literature are described. We do not know whether Isabella read French—she may well have done—but the French language books are all similarly marked with her name. Writing of a book marked by a second wife whose name joins those of her husband and step-children, Scott-Warren observes that the “‘I was here’ of graffiti becomes visible partly because the ‘I’ has a new name, an altered identity to experiment with, a new signature to tag.”24 Thomas seems to be marking his own altered identity as a married man as much as he is incorporating his new wife into his bachelor property. That dark ink that marks many of the joint inscriptions conjures his work registering his changed life by superimposing “Tho: & Isabella” over the top of the previous “Tho: Hervey.” That these ownership claims do something

Marital Marginalia  165 more than simply claim the book is suggested through repetition. Most books in the Herveys library have a clutch of names: Thomas Hervey, Thomas & Isabella Hervey, Tho:& Isabella, often more than once. Some act of iteration is being underscored here that is in excess of mere possession: property meets propriety. Sometimes the ownership tag captures time as well as self. Some books bear the marks of gift-giving and thus inscribe other horizontal relationships. A 1683 book of Ciceronian rhetoric is inscribed “Tho: Hervey: 16 may: 83: by Kez: Hervey”: Kezia Hervey was probably Thomas’s sister, although she may have been his daughter of the same name. A copy of Thomas Fuller’s The History of the Holy War bears the names of several members of the Reynolds family, in-laws of Thomas and Isabella. A 1662 sermon by Peter Gunning has the inscription “sent by my brother Sir John Poley for a new yeers gift 1662.” A copy of a French book of architecture bears the likeable family inscription “11 July 1684. The day that Jack came home from France,” marking a landmark in the immediate domestic life of the family, using a familiar name for their son John Hervey, and, though not expansive, nevertheless expressive of relief and pleasure at his return to Suffolk. The couple’s copy of Eikon ­Basilike is marked “Read in March 1686” and a book of sermons “Read in June 87.” It is tantalizing to wonder whether these, and several other examples, capture solo or joint reading. A large number of early books bear the mark of Thomas’s father, Sir William Hervey (1586–1660). Perhaps the most interesting marginalia in William Hervey’s books is his habit of including the prices paid, including five shillings for a French book on the wars of religion and six shillings for a French translation of a Spanish book on civil wars, suggesting that these French language books were bought from, or via, an English bookseller. Many of Thomas and Isabella’s books thus reframe elements of William Hervey’s library, just as their own son writes his name and sometimes that of his wife into the books. Married to his own first wife, another Isabella, it’s striking to see the Herveys’ son John later imitate their mark, writing “John & Isabella” in a handful of inherited books, including Seneca’s Morals by Way of Abstract (1682). The collection goes on through the generations. The couple’s granddaughter has written a childish prayer in Daily Devotions: “Isabella Carr Hervey her book. To give her grace therein to look /and when the bell for her doth tole /Lord Jesus Christ receive her Soul./amen & amen.”25 One book bears the marginal inscription, probably again by a child: “Elizabeth Reynolds is my nam and,” but the writer seems to have been interrupted. Books gather onomastic associations with Mary Lepel, the wife of the second earl: the book marked with news of Jack’s return from France also has a later inscription “Ex libris Dominae Mariae Herveaei,” and on the titlepage of Angliae Notitia (1673) the name “M. Hervey” has been written. Frances Meres’ translation of Granados Devotion:

166  Emma Smith Exactly teaching how a man may truely dedicate and devote himselfe unto God (1598) is marked “Harriet Hervey my Book which my Lord Bristol gave me in the year 1727,” and the pastedown of a copy of De L’art de Parler (1676) tells us “This book hath been intensely studied by one Charles Hervey.” Bacon’s essays (1642) are marked “J Hervey” and “Oxford January 24 1643.” These inscriptions establish the collection as a family archive across multiple generations.

Isabella May/Hervey Perhaps the most interesting, and simultaneously frustrating, presence in the library is Isabella May, later Hervey. On her marriage to Thomas it seems that Isabella owned a small number of books, mostly religious titles. She wrote her own name into about ten volumes, in the form ­“Isabella May” or sometimes “Isabella Mays” or “Isabella Mays book.” These books, too, have been reinscribed with some version of their married inscription, in all cases apparently by Thomas, incorporated into a joint library. There is no evidence of her reading habits or of her involvement in the books marked with her name. But the evidence of the memorial inscriptions written by the widowed Thomas suggests that Isabella’s own books retained a distinctiveness even as they were incorporated into the larger collection. The Hervey collection thus registers two potential alternative narratives of women’s reading in the period. The more familiar one is of women’s books as physically, conceptually, and generically separate from a male or family library, often kept somewhere other than the newly fashionable dedicated library room, perhaps in a bed-chamber or closet. 26 This has been interpreted as part of the “increasingly solitary, silent and private activity” of reading, particularly by women, in the period, as discussed by Heidi Brayman. Brayman cites Thomas Peyton’s commendatory poem to the 1647 folio collection of Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays, which lewdly imagines “Ladies Closets” filled with “pretty Bookes.”27 Almost all of the examples of women’s reading and book ownership that have been recovered by recent scholars have conformed to this pattern of distinctiveness. David Pearson’s ongoing list of seventeenth-­ century book owners includes a number of women, some well-known and others less so. He includes Anne of ­Denmark, Anne Bayning, Viscountess Bayning, Elizabeth Capell of H ­ adham,  ­Catherine ­Cavendish Baroness Ogle, Anne Clifford, Lady ­T heophyla Coke, ­Dorothy Cotton, Mary Dormer Countess of Carnarvon, Frances Egerton the Countess of Bridgewater, Anne Fanshawe, Ursula Gerard, Elizabeth Talbot Grey Countess of Kent, Margaret Hoby, Anne Hyde, Duchess of York, ­Elizabeth Isham, Frances Jodrell, Elizabeth Puckering, Mary Rich Countess of Warwick, Anne Stanhope, and Frances Wolfrestoun. 28 What is distinctive about all these owners in their quite different social,

Marital Marginalia  167 educational, geographical and familial contexts is the documentary evidence from inventories, probate valuations, catalogues, inscriptions or bookplates identifying their books as their own sole property. The husband and wife book owners Edward and Cary Coke of Holkham Hall, for instance, or Baptist and Dorothy Noel of Rutland, each had their own individual armorial bookplate. Frances Egerton’s library was recorded in a “Catalogue of my Ladies Books at London; Taken October 27th 1627,” and Katherine Ashe of Felbrigg made her own list of her reading, including practical and devotional texts alongside the popular satirical poem Gallantry-A-la-mode, plays by Dryden, Otway, and Wycherley, and the prognostications of Nostradamus. 29 As Ashe’s list begins to suggest, another assumption from recent work to recover women’s reading is that they preferred particular genres. “In the case of most family libraries we find the husband’s name rather than the wife’s,” concluded David McKitterick surveying seventeenth-century female book owners, nothing that those books which are identified as belonging to women tend to be in the vernacular.30 There is much archival evidence to suggest the truth of this linguistic preference during the period. Sir Nathanial Bacon of Stiffkey left English books to his wife and daughters, and books in French and Latin to male members of the family; John Florio left books in Italian, French and Spanish to the Earl of Pembroke and English books to his wife; Arthur Throckmorton’s widow kept the English books she liked best from a collection of books given to Magdalen College Oxford.31 In part, then, Thomas Hervey’s particular attention to his wife’s books after her death, marking them with the Virgilian mourning tag, suggests that despite being marked with their joint names, these books were particularly Isabella’s. He returns or redesignates a small subsection of the main library as a distinctly female collection, corroborating the widespread view of the increasing physical and generic distinctiveness of women’s reading in the period. Her son’s recollection in The Hearts Ease confirms this association: “This was my most pious, chast, and charitable mothers Book.” Read in this wider context, the collection encodes individual ownership and the different reading practices of husband and wife. On the other hand, the collection emphatically represents all the books, whatever their language or subject, as belonging to the couple’s joint library. There is no sense that only English language books can properly belong to both, or that romance, religious devotion or household management are genres suitable to Isabella alone. The joint inscriptions in the books may well construct, rather than reflect, an ideal intellectual partnership, but the inscribed project of marital reciprocity is highly distinctive and challenges orthodox ideas of women’s reading as a separate, private, gendered, or individualized sphere. Only if we assume that women’s reading was always and inevitably different from men’s does

168  Emma Smith the history of that reading assume a particular narrative importance: we could read Isabella’s absence in the library as a sign of equality and incorporation rather than marginalization and erasure. Even if the joint inscription of the library invents rather than witnesses mutual access to the content of the books, it uses the title pages of the collection to delineate a particular material version of companionate marriage.

Dispersal The impulse to reconstruct this library is in part a sentimental one, and one that attempts to fix a collection in a particular place and time. The afterlife of Thomas and Isabella’s library, some of it in Ickworth with their descendants, some in other libraries around the world, testifies to the portability of individual books and the fungibility of the library collection. Thomas and Isabella’s joint library contains an interesting sixteenth-century collection, gathered by Sir William Hervey and other members of the family, and develops into an eighteenth-century one in the hands of their son John Hervey, whose printed diary records many book purchases including £2. 13s for “Mr Lockes works in 3 vol” and a two-guinea subscription to Pope’s translation of the Odyssey. 32 Many of the books marked for the couple also show three or more generations of ownership marks, as older books are inherited and reinscribed into new and expanded collections. For example, the 1612 title ­L’Histoire de la decadence de l’empire grec bears the serial mark of William Hervey—including the price paid of 20 shillings—then the familiar “Tho: & Isabella Hervey,” and then the armorial bookplate marking the 1702 creation of John Hervey as Baron of Ickworth. Another Frenchlanguage book, Veues des Belles Maisons de France (1680) is marked for Thomas and Isabella, and also “Ex libris Dominae Mariae Herveaei. Ex Dono Domini Comitis De Bristol. 1742”; Joseph Hall’s Balm of ­Gilead (1646), still at Ickworth, and a 1560 copy of Ariosto’s Orlando ­F urioso sold by Quaritch in 1928, are both marked “Elizabeth Countess of Bristol her book” and dated 1735 and 1708 respectively. Such books thus belonged to Thomas and Isabella Hervey, to be sure, but there is no real bibliographic reason to privilege this particular period of their itineraries, and to downplay the authenticity of their other existences. Contrary to its popular associations of permanence and fixity, any library is always in motion across numerous axes: place, persons, extent. That motion is not always one of expansion. Books joined the Hervey collection, but they also left it. Tracing books, like the Meisei First Folio of Shakespeare, that have travelled from Suffolk into other collections is compelling not simply as a tracing exercise to bind those objects back to the Herveys, but as a case study in the porosity of the early country house library over the intervening centuries. Studies of libraries tend to focus on the acquisition of books, rather than their dispersal, or

Marital Marginalia  169 there is a tendency to bemoan or make into exceptions those books that leave the collection. Acquisition comes to stand as the library’s positive activity, and deaccession or loss as its dark twin, but both are important for the practical, personal, and ideological management of a book collection. So far, I have identified a further two dozen books with the Thomas and Isabella ownership mark in rare book libraries and booksellers’ catalogues, some of which are available for consultation, such as Fynes Moryson’s account of his Elizabethan travels, his Itinerary (1617), now in Durham library, or another of William Hervey’s books, The World of Wonders (1607), now in the Bodleian. Others emerge at points of sale but then disappear again, including a 1570 edition of The Ship of Fools that once belonged to William Morris and was sold at Christie’s in 2001, or two volumes of Machiavelli, publishing in Firenze in 1530–1531 and described as “very fine large copies ruled with red lines,” sold as part of the attempt to rescue the Malborough family of Blenheim from bankruptcy in the huge Sunderland Library of 1882. 33 When and why did these books leave Ickworth? An analysis of these fugitive titles is interesting in trying to track the processes of dispersal: books may have left the collection at random, in a trickle, or in some specific and intended transfers, as sales or gifts. Perhaps migrants from the library tell us something about the relative value of different titles at different times. That may be true: early modern play quartos became highly desirable collectors’ items in the early twentieth century, and one item that has left Ickworth is a copy of the 1607 city comedy by Thomas Dekker, Northward Ho, now in the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington DC. But the provenance information stored with the book reveal that it was owned by the theatre historian Jean Genest (1765– 1839) and subsequently sold by the London bookseller Joseph Lilly in 1859, so it had already left the Hervey collection by the early nineteenth century. Whatever prompted the initial movement of this play—the only single-play edition known to have been part of Thomas and Isabella’s library—it was not the collecting frenzy of the modern age. While some of their other books that can be identified from different collections, such as their copy of the anti-Jesuit work Anti-Coton (1611) now in Durham, or the account of Charles II’s genealogy published as Stemma Sacrum in 1660, now in Chetham’s library, or the Paris publication Chronologie des Estats Generaux (1615) now in King’s College London, are interesting books to specialists, they do not obviously present themselves as individual plums. Relatedly, literary titles which could have fetched high prices in later periods—poetry by George Herbert, for instance, or works by Donne, Montaigne or Bacon—were retained in the collection and are still part of the library at Ickworth. Money, that’s to say, does not seem to have been an obvious motivating factor in the dispersal of their books.

170  Emma Smith There is some evidence that pressures on space—a constant spur to deaccession across all periods—may have had an impact, particularly at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Four of Thomas and Isabella’s books are now in Durham library, as part of the Routh Collection. Martin Joseph Routh, classical scholar and President of Magdalen College Oxford, gathered his book collection during the first half of the nineteenth century. He acquired four Elizabethan works that had been owned by the Herveys, including a souvenir of Elizabeth’s coronation that had belonged to William. Perhaps these were sold amid the turmoil of moving to the new neoclassical Ickworth House, built by the fourth Earl of Bristol. The family moved into this partially completed folly in 1829. A later member of the family recalled that “old family books… were left at Ickworth Lodge in 1830 when the move was made into the Round house,” although the title given as an example, the 1681 edition of The Devout Christian, marked for Thomas and Isabella and for their children Kezia and John, is still at Ickworth. 34 Large inset bookcases in the grand library in the rotunda are designed for impressive folio volumes: it is perhaps not coincidental that the majority of the books from the collection that have left Ickworth are in smaller formats. The exception to these speculations about book format and the possible date of leaving the collection is the Shakespeare First Folio, which seems to have been a relatively early eighteenth-century migrant. In addition to the signature of John Hervey, it also bears a bookplate from Hagley Hall, the Worcesterhire seat of the Lyttelton family. It remained in that family until 1990, when it was transferred from Viscount Cobham to Meisei, as part of the energetic collecting policy of the university’s then President, Mitsuo Kodama, who had acquired ten copies of the First Folio by that date. Hagley Hall was an eighteenth-century Palladian house praised in James Thomson’s popular poem The Seasons (1744). There are strong ties of association between the Herveys and the Lyttletons in the eighteenth century. Molly Leppel (1697–1768), wife of John, Lord Hervey (1696–1743), a significant figure at the court of George II and a correspondent of Voltaire, mentions them in her correspondence, and her husband discusses George Lyttelton in unflattering terms (“His face was so ugly, his person so ill made, and his carriage so awkward, that every feature was a blemish, every limb an incumbrance, and every motion a disgrace”).35 One of George Lord Lyttelton’s own verse epistles written from Paris, “To the Rev. Dr Ayscough, at Oxford” (1728), lists Shakespeare amid a library of French writers.36 Lyttelton was a sponsor of Alexander Pope, the dedicatee of Fielding’s Tom Jones, and parodied in Smollet’s Peregrine Pickle. He was also the recipient of a bust of Shakespeare based on Peter Scheemakers’s statue in Poets’ Corner, from Pope; perhaps the copy of the Hervey First Folio operated similarly in this literary gift economy. It seems probable that the book made its way

Marital Marginalia  171 there at some point in the later eighteenth century, before it carried significant economic value.37 That some of the departures from the ­Hervey library may well have been gifts is demonstrated by an inscription recorded by a bookseller in another volume. A first edition of ­Holinshed’s Chronicles (1577), sold at Christie’s in New York in 1996 for $8000 (whereabouts now unknown), notes a number of inscribed names including Thomas Beomont and Thomas Cotton as well as “Thomas and Isabella Hervey.” An inscription reads: “This volume was presented me by the Earl of Bristol 1762” (the 2nd Earl, George Hervey (1721–1775), ambassador to Spain and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland). Thus, the impulse to keep books together that is so intrinsic to provenance research and to modern library practices was not, it seems, shared by the Hervey family.

Postscript: New York, 2017 In the hush of a high-end Madison Avenue antiquarian bookseller, I consult the latest title from Thomas and Isabella’s library chased down through online searches. The pamphlet Englands Glory, or, an Exact Catalogue of the Lords of his Majesties Most Honourable Privy Councel (1660) is a list of the Restoration establishment, marked “Tho: & Isabella Hervey” on the title page verso. It also bears the ownership stamps of the Royal Institution. I can see where Thomas has numbered the peers in the dark-brown ink recognizable from his inscriptions. I have the irrational feeling that this alienated item ought to be given back to Ickworth, that it belongs with Thomas and Isabella’s collection in Suffolk, that it is intrinsic to the emotional and ideological contours of their library and the relationship that it captures. But I can also see that Englands Glory is at home here in New York too: the very portability of books makes transferability, dissemination, and movement the element in which print operates. Marginalia, particularly in the form of the personal names and inscriptions that I have discussed as constitutive of the Herveys’ collection, interrupts this movement by inscribing books with a particular moment, and by witnessing and authenticating a specific material encounter. Diaspora studies identifies that privileged and idealized tropes of the “ancestral homeland” function to underscore the communal identities of dispersed peoples, who retain a collective memory of an original homeland “to which they, or their descendants, would (or should) eventually return when conditions are appropriate.” Perhaps dispersed books, too, retain this memory or “diaspora consciousness.”38 Although Thomas and Isabella Hervey seem, without fuss, to have registered their own temporary ownership of books that had previously been marked by other readers and users, their own distinctive proprietorial marks eclipse those prior claims. The sentimental force of the ampersand “Tho: & Isabella,” like the graffitied tag, is indelible.

172  Emma Smith

Notes 1 West, The Shakespeare First Folio, Figure 1.1, 56. 2 NT 3092906. 3 Gitelman, Paper Knowledge, 21. See also Stallybrass, Little Jobs, 315–42. 4 Scott-Warren, Reading Graffiti, 365. 5 Smyth, Autobiography in Early Modern England, 209. 6 Safran, Diasporas in Modern Societies, 83. 7 Cowley, On the Death of Mr. William Hervey, 16. The family owned a much annotated copy of the 1778 edition of Cowley’s Works, which served them as a template for mourning later family deaths. John Hervey has written alongside the elegy to “my good uncle”: “Almost all this ode may be (most critically) applied to my dearest wife Mrs Isabella Hervey as to character and […] her wretched husband, as to grief for the loss of her.” 8 www.pepysdiary.com. 9 Letter-books of John Hervey, first Earl of Bristol, 1:9. 10 Ibid., 1:15. 11 Ibid., 1:31. 12 Ibid., 1:36–7. 13 Mandelbrote, Personal Owners of Books, 188 and 182. 14 Loveman, Samuel Pepys and his Books, 248. 15 Pearson, Patterns of Book Ownership, 139–67. 16 Farmer and Lesser, What is Print Popularity? 9. 17 Purcell and Fishwick, The Library at Ickworth, 374. 18 On the Harmonies, see Smyth, Shreds of Holinesse, 452–81, and Ransom, Monotessaron, 22–52. 19 R. Sherlock, The Practical Christian (London, 1677), 8 and 84. (NT 3094826). 20 “A humble Penitent,” Daily Devotions ([London?], 1682), 94–5. (NT 3094909). 21 On the implications of the signature as the mark of “the separated self […] produced by these structures of detachment and reiteration,” see Goldberg, Writing Matter, 239 ff. 22 Scott-Warren, Reading Graffiti, 365. 23 Fleming, Graffiti and the Writing Arts, 72. 24 Scott-Warren, Reading Graffiti, 380. 25 “A humble Penitent,” Daily Devotions (1682), (NT 3094909). This commonplace is widely used; see Katherine Acheson’s essay in this volume. 26 Susie West notes that probate inventories generally distinguish between the books belonging to husband and wife, and make clear that women’s books were usually stored and identified separately. See An Architectural Typology, 441–464. 27 Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 36 and 41. 28 Pearson, English Book Owners in the Seventeenth Century. 29 Brayman Hackel, Reading Material, 260–81; Ketton-Cremer, Felbrigg, 51. 30 McKitterick, Women and Their Books, 361 and 371. 31 Pearson, English Book Owners. 32 Hervey, The Diary of John Hervey, 92–3. It’s a mark of John Hervey’s true interests, however, to compare his modest expenditure on books with his outlay on horses (120–8). 33 Bibliotheca Sunderlandia Sale Catalogue, 603, lot 7787. 34 Diary of John Hervey, 273. 35 Letters of Mary Lepel, 161–2; Sedgwick, Lord Hervey’s Memoirs, 123. 36 Extracts from Lord Lyttelton’s Poetical Works (1795). 37 West, The Shakespeare First Folio, Figure 1.1, 56. 38 Safran, Diasporas in Modern Societies, 83–5.

Section 3

Modes

9 Studied for Redaction? Reading and Writing in the Works of John Higgins Harriet Archer

At the beginning of John Higgins’s First Part of the Mirror for Magistrates (1574), Higgins-the-narrator reads a book, then has a vision. “A persone tall,” covered in “bloud that freshly trickled from his wounde,” addresses him and begins to recount the Trojan Brutus’s foundation of Britain.1 The figure is Albanact, Brutus’s son, drawn back from the distant beginning of ancient British legend, to provide a history that records cannot. When he begins to speak, “Depe from his breste, he threwe an vnked sounde”; five years before the publication of Edmund Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender (1579), Higgins reaches into an old vernacular lexicon to capture Albanact’s strangeness. 2 Here, at the interface between sound and memory, the inscribed Higgins struggles to make sense of the national origin myth in its freshest, most evanescent form. Yet nothing could be further from the extratextual Higgins’s literary practice. Perhaps suspicion should have been raised when it is ­A lbanact, not Brutus himself, who approaches Higgins to retell and extend his father’s story, itself an extension—backwards in time—of William ­Baldwin’s more famous collection of morally instructive historical tragedies, published as A Mirror for Magistrates in 1559 and 1563, which the inscribed Higgins buys and reads before his visionary encounter with the Britons. In her discussion of early modern prose continuations, Natasha Simonova notes, [t]he fact that all writers of continuations must begin as readers of the source text means that each continuation is also a record of reading and reception…The writing of continuations thus undermines the boundaries between the passive consumption and active production of literature.3 In this chapter, I want to situate Higgins on this boundary, the site of marginal annotation itself. In one text after another, Higgins insinuates himself into existing— but often incomplete or outdated—projects. Best known as the author of his prequel to Baldwin’s Mirror, Higgins also revised Richard Huloet’s, or Howlet’s, Abcedarium (1552), an English-Latin lexicon printed in

176  Harriet Archer 1572 as Huloets Dictionarie; expanded Nicholas Udall’s Flowers, or, Eloquent Phrases of the Latine Speech, Gathered out of the Sixe Comedies of Terence, printed in 1575 and 1581; translated The Nomenclator, or, Remembrancer of Adrianus Junius (1585); and edited a compilation of his own and Baldwin’s Mirror complaints in 1587. His later Answere to Master William Perkins, Concerning Christs Descension into Hell (1602), comprised a dialogue between the author and the theologian Perkins, which quibbled over the wording of the Creed.4 So Higgins’s entire oeuvre is predicated on his editing, expanding or responding to the work of others. Higgins’s reading material, a collection of innovative mid-century humanist texts is, then, studied for redaction: “to compile, arrange, or set down in a written document”; “[t]o put (writing, text, etc.) in an appropriate form for publication; to edit.”5 Might we productively reframe Higgins’s expansion of his hypotexts as an extension of marginal annotation in print, or recast his hypertexts as paratexts? In most existing criticism, Higgins is portrayed as tedious, backwardslooking, and essentially negligible as an early modern voice. But as a twenty-something finding his literary feet in the early 1570s, he is as notably exercised by questions of self-presentation and definition as the likes of George Gascoigne, John Lyly or Nicholas Breton, and, like Gascoigne and Spenser, with poetry’s role in the construction of a new nationhood. His Dictionarie definition of the name ‘John’ sees him engaging with these questions with dry, self-referential humor: after detailing the Apostle, he notes, “There were many mo of this name, both Princes and worthy wryters, as the histories tell.”6 While he may be a “worthy wryter,” though, there are ways in which Higgins could be considered not an ‘author’ at all, but rather one of the secondary, marginal figures who challenge modern notions of authorship in the landscape of early modern print. So, why focus on Higgins-the-writer as a subject, if he serves so well as an embodiment of sixteenth-century collaborative authorship and emendation? In some ways, he is a lightning rod for the questions that such a model of collaborative authorship raises. The spectrum which stretches from manuscript evidence of his reception by readers to his own reception of his reading in print offers a way to view early modern textual exchange precisely as a spectrum, only retroactively parceled up into discrete roles: author, editor, reader. Indeed, to speak of the intersection of these roles across Higgins’s extant works is still to demarcate their functions too definitely. However, Higgins is also useful because these difficulties evidently concern him, whether viewed as an author or author-function: his oeuvre returns tirelessly to the theme of authorship, and never produces a work in which the stability or authority of the text, or the relationship between text, hypotext and paratext, is not at issue. Rather than using a particular reader, like Gabriel Harvey, or work, such as Sidney’s Arcadia, as the organizing principle, therefore, I will suggest that reading marginalia and excerption as theorized and

Studied for Redaction?  177 practised across Higgins’s works and their reception, in manuscript and print, offers a new perspective on how authority is constructed and challenged at various stages of a text’s production, and how it defies attempts to understand such production as a strictly linear process.7 Kevin Dunn underscores the two-way traffic of authority embodied in the marginal gloss, “the essential genre” in the Middle Ages, and the ligature between authority and writer. Whether the gloss was the writer’s in the margin of an authorized text or an authority cited to buttress the writer’s words, the scene of writing always appeared as an interplay between a preestablished ‘master text’ and the writer’s liminal approach to that text.8 Marginal annotation traverses the boundaries between acts of reading, writing, and editing; Higgins’s role, I will suggest, is best understood with reference to that of the marginal annotator. Of particular interest is the gap between Higgins’s metatextual engagement with the processes of textual production, and his acknowledgement of the realities of his own generative process—the tension between the capacity the printed text has to stabilize knowledge, the adherence to which is prominent across Higgins’s works, and the portrayal or recognition of instability which also pervades his oeuvre. The consistency with which this tension governs Higgins’s publications despite their generic range—from dictionary and epitome to verse history and exegetical dialogue—is especially striking. His most influential and famous work, the monumental 1587 edition of the Mirror for ­M agistrates, is a compilation of existing texts framed by an audacious act of self-editing or revision, which rewrites, and even re-dates, the narrative of its own composition even as it asserts a new commitment to textual and historiographical stability.9 This paradox lies at the heart of Higgins’s intellectual practice throughout his career. In some respects, he is the archetypical humanist, a product and proponent of the educative project of Desiderius Erasmus, Thomas Elyot, and Thomas Smith, while this early Tudor framework also serves as a means of stabilizing a raft of late Elizabethan anxieties.10 Meanwhile, Higgins’s output is itself, of course, subject to readerly engagement. This chapter draws on a selection of manuscript marginalia found in the Folger Shakespeare Library’s holdings of Higgins’s printed works, to explore the ways in which such traces of reading bear witness to the kind of redactive activity which Higgins himself undertook, in direct opposition to his injunctions to readers in his oeuvre’s prefatory material. The role of the reader in the perfection of the early modern text is, by now, a critical commonplace. The residual imperfection of such works operates on a more prosaic level than Wolfgang Iser’s phenomenological conception of the literary work as a dynamic interaction between text

178  Harriet Archer and reader, but nevertheless exists regardless of whether ‘gaps’ are deliberately left in place by the author or not.11 Stephen Orgel explains, the book was not in its final form when it left the printing house: it was unfinished because it was unbound, obviously, but also because it was, in both early modern senses, ‘imperfect,’ incomplete and incorrect…[T]o have a final, authoritative text, the early modern reader had to do the correcting.12 Similarly, faith in the “fixity of print” continues to be critically eroded. Jeffrey Todd Knight has shown both the printed text and the printed book itself in flux, observing that, [l]ike the bound volumes that accommodated them, printed works of literature in early handpress culture were frequently the outward products of some order of compiling. But beneath these surface indicators on title pages, we know too that text collecting and assembly were important catalysts for discursive production and even creativity. The malleability of books – figurative rather than physical – lies at the heart of what literary scholars have long identified as the essentially imitative nature of Renaissance writing: the appropriation and manipulation of existing models, primarily from antiquity, and the assertion of writerly roles through or against one’s source.13 These observations’ pertinence to John Higgins’s writing is compelling, and helps to make sense of the slippage between reading, editorial intervention and new composition which occurs in and on these books in the name of amending the imperfect. As William H. Sherman makes clear, however, the reader—or ‘book-user,’ since reading is not the only activity to which marginalia bears witness—may or may not take that process of perfection in the direction the text itself encourages or anticipates.14

The First Part of the Mirror for Magistrates (1574) and The Mirour for Magistrates (1587) Higgins became involved in the complex transmission history of the Mirror for Magistrates perhaps as early as 1570, editing Baldwin’s 1563 version for the first in the decade’s frenzy of expansions.15 After the revised text was printed in 1571, Baldwin’s Mirror was repackaged as The Last Part of the Mirror for Magistrates, and printed to accompany Higgins’s First Part in 1574 and 1575. A new, further extended Last Part was printed in 1578, in tandem, probably more by accident than design, with Thomas Blenerhasset’s Second Part of the Mirror for Magistrates, a scion of the tradition set at a remove from the others, and printed not by Marshe but by the otherwise unknown Richard Webster.16 The Mirror tradition’s development was predicated on the imperfection of its series of iterations. Baldwin’s seminal

Studied for Redaction?  179 work, and subsequently Higgins’s First and Blenerhasset’s Second parts, all respond to the incompletion of their antecedents, beginning with John Lydgate’s Fall of Princes (1431–1438, first printed 1494) which ­Baldwin had been commissioned to extend up to the present day; all see their author-­ narrators called away to other affairs and unable to complete their own historical narratives. Like ­Sidney’s ­Philisides, Baldwin is reanimated in his inscribed persona throughout the extensions of the corpus into the 1580s, after his death from the plague in 1563; like that of Simonova’s ­Sidney, ­Baldwin’s “rebirth…is the temporary one of a ghost on the stage: he lives only long enough to see the gaps in his unfinished work completed, exorcised by the success of his haunting.”17 Baldwin’s predecessors, ­Lydgate and, ultimately, Giovanni Boccaccio, are also invoked at once as spirit guides and reading material. Higgins’s 1574 Mirror verse presents itself as a visionary emanation from Baldwin’s original, the psychedelic product of reading alone, untethered from the humanist framework within which ­Higgins claims paratextually to operate. Yet it is also the embodiment of Orgel’s marginal annotator, “the reader in the book,” as the narrator ­Higgins takes to his bed only to slip between the covers of the Mirror itself. Not only did the collection of tragic histories purport to encourage the improvement of its readers’ behavior, therefore; it also elicited a textual response, which was in turn the subject matter of its meditations on the instability of historiographical writing.18 Timothy Hampton argues that exemplary Renaissance texts demand the transposition of interpretation and ideology into action in the public sphere.19 Orgel similarly differentiates “the use of reading…from the act of reading,” in the transformation by the reader of “the book into a repertory of usable moral examples.”20 Here, though, readerly action is also textual; the distinction between the private world of hermeneutic engagement with the text and public action, bridged for Hampton by the rhetoric of exemplarity, is significantly blurred in the Mirror tradition, which constitutes a public, ideological action in the form of print publication. 21 The action required of its readers extends from buying and ‘marking’ or ‘noting’ the tragedies to composing and compiling additional verse complaints to perfect their history, to the extent that these collaborative textual endeavours overshadow the work’s interest in extratextual ethical progress. Related to the textual proliferation encouraged by the paratexts of successive Mirrors for Magistrates is the generative force of the ‘mirror’ metaphor. Aside from its admonitory generic significance, rooted in the medieval speculum principis tradition, the image of the mirror denotes a dynamic of reciprocal or co-dependent production. Slights employs it in his discussion of the margin’s relation to the so-called parent text: “readers cross, erase, and retrace the borders of Renaissance texts so often that it is sometimes unclear which side of the self-reflecting mirror of the twinned text they are on.”22 Iser also uses the image to theorize the phenomenology of reading, suggesting that “[t]he manner in which the reader experiences the text will reflect his own disposition.”23

180  Harriet Archer Exhorted to see themselves in the text, then, it is unsurprising that a series of readers find themselves among its pages. The Mirror for Magistrates’s annotator best known to scholarship is Lady Anne Clifford, whose extensive marginal notes, and those of her amanuenses, in Richard Niccols’s 1610 edition of the text have been explored by Stephen Orgel. 24 Countess of Dorset having married ­R ichard Sackville, a descendent of Mirror author and first earl of Dorset Thomas Sackville, Clifford “saw herself in [the Mirror], both her family history and her own trials and triumphs.”25 As Orgel notes, though, she came to the book late in life, and paid remarkably little attention to the complaint composed by her husband’s distinguished literary ancestor, mistaking Higgins’s verse “Induction” for Sackville’s at first, and failing to pay any heed to the “Complaint of Buckingham” which followed ­Sackville’s actual visionary prologue. 26 Nevertheless, she and her servants annotated the work extensively, “to make A Mirror for Magistrates her own, both to reinvent it as a part of her life and to command the attention of her staff, to render it an aspect of her authority.”27 Higgins’s reinvention of Baldwin’s Mirror in his continuation, the First Part, may be seen as a comparable act of readerly appropriation and authorization. Higgins is the first editor of the Mirror corpus to engage seriously with printed marginalia; Baldwin, who had employed the mode to complex and uproarious effect in his prose satire, Beware the Cat (MS c.1553, first printed 1570?), confined paratextual commentary to the prose framing narrative in the 1559 and 1563 Mirror texts.28 In the 1574 First Part, Higgins co-opts, revises, and then annotates Baldwin’s 1559–1563 “Dedication,” drawing attention to references to ancient authors, and occasionally, to the four cardinal virtues they promote. 29 This annotation also draws attention to Higgins’s mastery of the established humanist canon, in a way comparable to the marginal glosses found in Baldwin’s own hypotext, Lydgate’s Fall of Princes.30 Higgins’s 1574 “Complaint of Porrex” is also accompanied by marginal references to the sources for the mythological and historical stories to which the complaint alludes. Not citations, these marginal notes merely give the name of the relevant classical authority, “which contains folded within it the entire history” of both author and exemplar for the reader to unpack.31 By contrast, his “Complaint of Nennius” lists the historians Lanquet, Stowe, and Grafton alongside Nennius’s claim that his father “raignde not full a year” according to certain historiographical evidence, and “Flores Hist.” in the margin by the subsequent stanza, as originator of the conflicting suggestion that “[h]e raigned fourtye yeares as other tell,| Which seemes as tis a tale more true by farre.”32 Here, Higgins’s marginalia explicitly reinforce the vulnerability of historical texts to error. While reaffirming his ­Mirror as the product of careful antiquarian study, they also foreground, as Baldwin’s Mirror had, the conflict between historiographical authorities. Most absurdly, the fictive Nennius presents his father as subject to the

Studied for Redaction?  181 contingencies of textual transmission, able to recall the details of his autobiography only through his own reading in the chronicles; perhaps Anne Clifford identified with the subjects of these textually bound heredities. Elsewhere, I have characterized Higgins’s contributions to the expanding Mirror for Magistrates corpus as anxious about the flimsy textual basis on which his national history is built, paying attention to the ways in which he dramatizes the distance across which the British past has to be accessed, and ultimately as disillusioned with the humanist project he frames the Mirror as; his 1587 edition of the complaint collection exhibits doubts about the efficacy of historical exemplarity to prompt morally sound behavior.33 Either despite, or in response to, these doubts, ­Higgins’s 1587 edition of the complaint collection redoubles its emphasis on the duty of the reader to ‘note’ and ‘mark’ in his verse frame, excising the hesitation and empathy of his 1574 encounter with the ghostly ­Britons, and models the practice himself by the addition of marginal stars next to the kind of sententious phrases readers ought to heed and note within the complaints. As Daniel Wakelin reminds us, “[d]irecting people to one kind of reading also encourages the forgetting of other forms of reading, and the forgetting of other elements of the text”; marginalia encourage reading which is “discontinuous,” “uneven,” or ­“focused on some moments more than others.”34 Higgins’s marginal notes and markings speak to his ever sterner attempts to shore up textual stability, deflecting attention from the absence of evidence for his history, or that history’s alterity, by encouraging readers to inscribe their faith in his narrative in the form of stars or manicules, or to excerpt the specified axioms to incite virtuous action. But the action which extant manuscript marginalia record reflects back Higgins’s own piecemeal construction of the text, exposing the reliance of historiography on textual fragments. Marginalia added by readers of the Folger’s Copy 1 of the 1587 Mirror demonstrate not only the kind of reading which Higgins explicitly encourages, but also the kind of reading of which the text as a whole is made up.35 Of course, noting and marking carry metaphorical as well as literal force; additionally, it is possible that readers excerpted the morally educative maxims that Higgins had in mind and recorded them elsewhere under thematic headings: Robert Allott’s 1600 England’s Parnassus is a commonplace book in print which does just that. But marginalia in this copy do not verbally signpost worthwhile extracts—underlining seems to stand in for marginal notation. Instead, they preserve traces of readers who have “corrected, amended, set in order and enlarged,” as Higgins’s Dictionarie has it. These additions and emendations themselves fall broadly into four types: factual corrections, a small number of subjective revisions, augmentations—such as the provision of additional examples or indexes—and glosses or citations. 36 Aping a frequently printed kind of marginalia, the glosses and citations play what may be theorized as a performative, almost public role,

182  Harriet Archer displaying the reader’s learning (either from memory or a well-stocked library), and fulfilling the function of editor and/or of scholarly apparatus.37 Annotation to this particular copy provides references for unacknowledged quotations from or allusions to Horace, Ovid and Cicero in the main text, and cross-references the complaint of Bladud with Camden’s Britannia.38 Have the readers of these texts misunderstood the appropriative eclecticism of humanist education, and the purpose of the commonplacing which their annotations seem to play out in reverse? Or do these marginalia call up the Mirror contributors for the misrepresentation of their authorial practice: in their paratexts’ lists of source material, should they have included Horace and Ovid where they cite historiography and ethical manuals?39 By augmenting the citation of source texts, from whose pages the Mirror authors are shown to have excerpted numerous passages, rather than playing the game of marking phrases with which they particularly agree, readers of this copy appropriate the educative authority of the text’s authors. The marginal additions transform the book, and make manifest the processes of compilation ostensibly subsumed within its stated generic identity: lifting the bonnet of Baldwin and Higgins’s exemplary catalogue, to reveal its mechanics as a repository of humanist gleanings. One manuscript redaction in particular, though, enacts precisely the lectoral transformation with which its authors are so preoccupied, in the midst of its narrative expression. In George Ferrers’s “Fall of Robert Tresilian,” Richard II’s chief justice of the King’s Bench admits to the malleability of the law, which …wee did interprete and statutes of the land, Not truely by the texte, but newly by a glose: And wordes that were most playne, when they by vs were skand, Wee tourned by construction to a welshmans hose.40 Tresilian specifically draws unmediated engagement with the text into opposition with the mediation of the gloss through the internal rhyme of “truely” versus “newly,” when he recalls how he and his fellow lawyers were adept at manipulating the written word. In the Folger copy, a reader has replaced ‘welshman’ with ‘shipmen.’ The annotation seems to seek to correct an idiomatic expression, although in fact both analogies were current throughout the work’s print history, with minimally different force. As Angus Vine explains, Welshmen’s hose was proverbial at the time for its poor fit and pliability and renowned for its ability to be stretched. Ferrers’ analogy underscores the similar elasticity of language and warns the Mirror’s readers of the worrying ease with which a glossator, legal or otherwise, could stretch the meaning of a text to suit his or her purpose.41

Studied for Redaction?  183 The shipman’s hose, by contrast, refers to “a statement of wide application that can be turned to fit any case.”42 In a passage which happens to comment on the problematic relationship between marginalia and main text, the Folger copy’s annotator seeks to revise the main text from the margins—­perhaps correcting what they assumed to be a mistake on ­Ferrers’s part, and at once confirming and disrupting Tresilian’s testimony.

Huloet’s Dictionarie (1572) and The Nomenclator (1585) In 1572, Higgins had contributed a prefatory poem, alongside those of Thomas Drant, William Bullein and others, to John Sadler’s translation of the fifth century military treatise Epitoma rei militaris, or De re militari, printed by Thomas Marshe as The Foure Bookes of Flavius Vegetius Renatus. In this verse, Higgins locates in the text a nexus of learning whose impact is shifting and multivalent. Sadler, through his translation, “shewes so well:| That thou by practise mayest attaine, and therein soone excell,” a recommendation which seems to apply as much to the practice of translation as the information which this specific translation makes available.43 The pedagogical agency then jumps from Sadler to the book itself, which “doth teache, to muster and to chuse:| And after choyse what exercise, to practyse learne and vse.”44 Most telling, though, is Higgins’s statement of the triangulation of mutual teaching and learning between the translator, author, and reader: Vegetius teacheth Englishmen the Feates of warre at will, And learnes himselfe a language straunge, he erst ne wist before, Thus he by Sadler taught, of warre doth teache and learneth more.45 Higgins’s implication that the author, or perhaps the author as a metonym for his book, learns more by Sadler’s translation than he/it teaches, propounds a productive vision of an educative textual feedback loop whose primary agent is an author “in the second degree,” the editor-translator.46 This was the role Higgins was to embody throughout his literary career. While the Mirror was, of course, a work which played on history’s didactic function, Higgins’s periodic contributions to the corpus alternated with more explicitly pedagogical publications. These, no less than Higgins’s Mirror, were committed to the nationalisthumanist project of elevating English scholarship, following in the footsteps of—above all—Thomas Elyot.47 In the same year as his commendatory poem for Sadler, Marshe printed Higgins’s revised edition of Howlet, or Huloet’s Abcedarium, an English-Latin lexicon aimed at the relatively advanced student of Latin, which Higgins’s revisions rendered almost fully trilingual with the addition of French synonyms (to supplement the Latin entries, also greatly expanded).48

184  Harriet Archer D. T. Starnes notes that “Higgins more than Huloet consciously emphasized the principle of synonymy and of copy”; his revised dictionary “exemplified nearly all the methods suggested by Erasmus to obtain copiousness and elegance, and skill in varying the expression of thought.”49 With this specific modification in mind, Dunn’s assertion that Erasmian copia “freed one from overdependence on any one authority through the very abundance of rhetorical possibility,” raises an intriguing connection between Higgins’s dictionary and his practices of authorship. 50 According to Starnes, though, Higgins’s performative indebtedness to named authorities was more likely to move in the opposite direction, citing “demonstrably real sources” in his Dictionarie’s address to the reader, “though some of these he drew upon but slightly.”51 In fact, James Sledd has portrayed Higgins’s editorial overhaul of the Abcedarium as the work of an author with a clear projection of his own literary interests. He “presented the first substantial number of ­Martial’s epigrams to appear in English dress,” for example, and ­“includes a good deal of material showing a strong interest in history, especially in the falls of states and princes,” including some translated verses which would be reprinted as part of his 1574 tragedy of Albanact. 52 Sledd suggests that Higgins may have begun work on his additions to the Mirror by 1571, adding weight to the theory that he had been enlisted by Thomas Marshe to edit the 1563 Mirror for publication in 1571—a text whose historical veracity and specificity was enhanced by the incorporation of additional dates and toponyms, in line with Higgins’s practice. 53 The Dictionarie, then, acts almost as a commonplace book of Higgins’s own, a snapshot of a moment in the progression of his learning and thought in dialogue with his reading, characterised by the instabilities, incestuous plagiarism and occasional errors of early modern dictionaries and thesauri [which] attest in their own way to the fluid and contested natures of particular ideas, illuminating the variations and possibilities of specific lexicons at particular moments in time.54 Sixteenth-century compilers acknowledge the impracticality of treating printed word-lists as fixed records, and encourage readerly participation; these works are, they emphasize, in progress. John Withals’s 1553 dedication of his hugely popular Dictionarie (first printed 1553, revised in 1568 and 1574 by Lewis Evans) to Thomas Chaloner hopes that his prologue will induce Chaloner himself “to put your helpynge hande to the finishyng of this litle booke,” while Evans’s 1568 preface presents his revised version to Archbishop Edmund Grindal as a garden which has been tended and weeded, where the organic metaphor leaves room for a subsequent reiteration of this process. 55 The evidence of factual corrections in manuscript, such as emendations to misprinted page numbers, and other small typographical errors, demonstrate the extraordinary

Studied for Redaction?  185 care with which these very dense and often quite specialized texts were examined by their near-contemporary readership. Read in tandem with the evidence of successive ownership left decades and centuries after the texts’ publication, such attention makes clear these books’ statuses as working resources passed around families and communities, rather than static artefacts. 56 Indeed, Withals’s Dictionarie bears this out in its printed contents, too, reminding its juvenile readership that “ ­ Exercenda tria haec veniunt, equus, liber, arma, Three things must alwaies bee occupyed and used, to witte, a horse, a booke, and armour.”57 This maxim efficiently captures the sense that, just as neglected metal rusts and muscles atrophy, so a text’s value is diminished if it is not constantly active and exercised—the author tellingly places the book between the living and the inanimate, active and passive, in that list. Perhaps the practice of storing up supplementary knowledge for the benefit of future generations goes some way to explain the marginal addition by one of Withals’s seventeenth-century readers of the adage, “A midsomber grote wel and truly gotten is worth four pence halfpenny at Christmas.”58 While Withals figures the child’s memory as a book wherein the reader of his words “may with litle labour perfitely imprinte them,” John Baret’s Aluearie or Triple Dictionarie (1574) presents the book itself as an empty container, ready to be filled by the industry of its readers, in his metaphor of the bee hive.59 His narrative of the work’s composition is grounded, not in conference with learned authors as in Higgins’s Dictionarie’s preface, but in the schoolroom. Baret recalls how, perceyuing what great trouble it was to come running to mee for euery word they missed…I appointed them certaine leaues…euery day to write the English before ye Latin, and likewise to gather a number of fine phrases out of Cicero, Terence, Caesar, Liuie, &c. and to set them vnder seuerall Tytles, for the more ready finding them againe at their neede. Thus within a yeare or two they had gathered togither a great volume, which (for the apt similitude betweene the good scholers and diligent Bees in gathering their wax and hony into their Hiue) I called then their Aluearie, both for a memorial by whom it was made, and also by this name to incourage other to the like diligence.60 Crucially, Baret adds, if students desire any more phrases beside them which here wee haue gathered, they may themselues like diligent Bees here place such as they reade in good authours, vnder their proper Tytles, or in the margent of this booke, for their owne priuate vse against they shall neede.61 Such are the working manuscript compendia found in the Folger collection. Higgins, though, draws the lines between text and ‘margent’ back into his Dictionarie, making distinctions between writer and reader in

186  Harriet Archer his prefaces which discourage the reader’s textual involvement, beyond grateful acknowledgement of the work’s utility. By contrast to the examples above, editing is portrayed in these paratexts as the preserve of the envious carper, whose reading is hasty, unlearned and destructive. Thomas Churchyard’s poem which commends Higgins’s Dictionarie addresses the book itself and asks that it encourage Higgins to seek A patrone that doth learninge loue, and hates no gifte of grace, To keepe this booke from busy braynes, that would this worke deface.62 While Churchyard’s primary meaning of ‘deface’ is probably the Oxford English Dictionary’s obsolete sense 4, “To destroy the reputation or credit of; to discredit, defame,” Higgins’s own definitions bear out a semantic crossover with the mutilation of the material text.63 In his commendatory poem for Baret’s collaborative Aluearie, Arthur Golding had praised the work’s assistance in repairing Our Inglishe tung driuen almost out of kynde, Dismembred, hacked, maimed, rent, and torne, Defaced, patched, mard, and made a skorne.64 For Churchyard and by implication Higgins too, though, it is precisely the act of readerly collaboration which effects this mutilation. One specific dispensation to the general reader to add content to Higgins’s Dictionarie feels excessively simplistic and suspiciously insincere, when Higgins allows, Where you finde a verbe withoute this signe To, before him (which is oure Englishe note of the infinitiue mode of al Verbes, (except Passiues) you may adde the signe thereto, as in this Verbe Laye, where is Laye blame, Laye to ones charge, Laye in waite, which are in their places so easye for him to vnderstande that knowes a Verbe from a Nowne, that they neede no exposition: and signifye, To laye blame, To lay to ones charge, To laye in wayte. 65 His apparently arbitrary choice of examples hums with accusatory and retaliatory undercurrents. Another dedicatory poem prefacing Higgins’s Dictionarie divides readers into the wise who “will vewe and deeme the best,” and the unwise, in the legendary critic Momus’s camp, who “marke.”66 The familiar convention of paratextual references to misuse by critics seems to anticipate not simply generalized future censure, but a physical encounter on the page. It is ironic, therefore, that scholarship has been unable to determine whether the comprehensively annotated Folger copy of Higgins’s Dictionarie represents evidence of an

Studied for Redaction?  187 anonymous reader’s intensive use of the text, or Higgins’s own additions for a revised printed edition which never went to press.67 Adapted from the Dutch scholar Adriaen de Jonge, or Hadrianus Junius’s 1567 text of the same name, Higgins’s edition of The Nomenclator was released in 1585, a year or so before his final Mirror compilation was completed.68 Hovering on the borderline between lexicography and encyclopedia, the Nomenclator reversed the formula of Huloet’s Dictionarie to provide Latin terms by theme, followed by examples from Roman authors, and translations—sometimes—into Greek, French, and finally English, distinguished by the sequential use of italic and blackletter type. The thematic organisation of the topical dictionary, which “assume[s] that people preparing a text productively know what to say (if only vaguely), but they do not know how to say it,” acts as an aid to Latin composition of a freer sort than the alphabetical Dictionarie, requiring the reader to browse by topic, and begins on a metaliterary note with vocabulary “Of bookes, of writings, and all necessaries thereto belonging.”69 In the interim, Marshe had printed a new edition of Higgins’s Flowers or ­Eloquent Phrases of the Latine Speach (1581), with the addition of a Latin prefatory poem by Thomas Newton, whose edition of the Tenne ­Tragedies of Seneca was printed the same year; Newton would go on to write a commendatory poem for the 1587 Mirror, too. Higgins, perhaps thanks to Marshe’s sponsorship, was evidently moving in intellectually and commercially successful Latinist circles; Werner Hüllen calls his Nomenclator “one of the most elaborate and erudite onomasiological dictionaries to be written in the Humanist spirit and to include English.”70 Nevertheless, the Folger Library’s Copy 1 of Higgins’s Nomenclator sees one reader taking issue with Higgins’s technical expertise: where the printed English provides a description of various nautical features, whose names are given in Latin, the annotator provides specific English terminology.71 So, where the Latin ‘Columbaria’ is explained as “The holes or spaces whereout the water runneth after it is taken up therein,” the manuscript marginalia gives “Scupper holes”;72 ‘Siparum,’ “A saile wherewith the course or voyage of a ship is holpen, when the wind is weake and faileth,” is translated more concisely as “a goose wing”;73 ‘Pes,’ “The rope or cord wherewith the sail is hoisted,” as “the eare”;74 and ‘Circitores,’ “They that goe about & take view of the watch: the ouerseers, or the going watch,” are “Rounders.”75 The OED gives 1596 as the earliest instance of this use of ‘rounder,’ and 1599 for ‘scupper hole,’ which perhaps suggests that these were indeed terms that were not in use when Higgins’s Nomenclator went to press a decade before.76 The concision of the manuscript additions also seems to improve on ­Higgins’s verbosity. However, as Hüllen points out, “[i]t depends on the training of dictionary users whether they grasp the distinction between the language-specific form and the language-independent meaning of the lexeme in the leftmost position” in topical dictionaries.77 Hüllen

188  Harriet Archer specifically considers Higgins’s English elaborations to be noteworthy, and of greater interest than the provision of “a hard lexematic equivalent.”78 It appears that Higgins’s nautically minded-reader misapprehends the purpose of the topical dictionary, and instead asserts the editorial agency of marginal interpolation to transform the book to different ends. Seth Lerer reminds us that “[n]o book is the same once it has been marked. Its social function, its textual status, its place in literary history…has changed irrevocably.”79 Readers of Higgins’s lexicographical works, as of the Mirror, above, can be seen changing their books not only incidentally, by their miscellaneous use, but also deliberately, actively refashioning their purpose and form.

An Answere to Master William Perkins (1602) Higgins’s final work, An Answere to Master William Perkins, Concerning Christs Descension into Hell (1602), begins with a preface of 22 June 1602 which wishes “THE CHRISTIAN Reader…perfect knowledge of the Creed in Christ Iesu.”80 Enabling such perfect knowledge had been the purpose of the work’s composition, as well as its subject matter. As we have seen, the term ‘perfect’ is a significant container for ideas about text, whether it refers to the completely correct or the comprehensive. Its deployment here carries this conversation into the spiritual arena, a transposition which surely pushes the possibility of ‘perfect knowledge’ yet further out of reach. A dialogue between Higgins and Perkins in response to Perkins’s Exposition of the Symbole or Creed of the ­Apostles (1595), the Answere discusses whether or not the assertion that “he descended into hell” is an accidental interpolation or legitimate reading, and whether the “sign of Jonah” to which Christ alludes in Luke 11:28 and Matthew 12:39–41 should interpret Jonah’s sojourn inside the whale as a typological foreshadowing of such a descent into hell, or the three days and nights his body spent in the tomb. Higgins does not cite Perkins’s Exposition; instead, he appropriates chunks of it to reprint as Perkins’s side of the discussion, and refutes, in his inscribed persona, each point in turn. Specifically, Higgins counters Perkins’s claims that the offending phrase, “he descended into hell,” may have been introduced during the course of the text’s transmission, and argues by contrast for its divine authority and literal truth. Perkins, around fourteen years Higgins’s junior, was a theologian, preacher and prolific writer, sympathetic to puritan and Calvinist ideas following a prodigal reformation of his dissolute youthful tendencies.81 “By the end of the sixteenth century,” says Slights, he “was propounding a program for jettisoning the allegorical, tropological, and anagogical readings of Scripture and keeping only the literal”: an aim which, far from stripping centuries’ worth of corrupting marginal commentary away from biblical texts, Slights argues, “simply cleared the field and the

Studied for Redaction?  189 printed page for rival Protestant glosses.”82 He died exactly four months after the completion of Higgins’s tract, on 22 October 1602. Perkins “has long been remembered as…an important influence on the Elizabethan Puritan movement and its New England offshoot,” but, W. B. Patterson suggests, he was in fact “not so much an Elizabethan Puritan as he was an apologist, perhaps the chief apologist, for the Church of England as it emerged in the late Elizabethan period.”83 Higgins served as a vicar in the Somerset parish of Winsham from the early 1570s. We might therefore expect Higgins, as the dialogue suggests, to hold rather more moderate, conservative views than a figure like Perkins, who occupied a more radical space. Higgins was not a theologian, and this was his only foray into doctrinal debate. While anomalous in this regard, though, Higgins’s Answere engaged with a series of, by now, familiar concerns: interpretation, textual stability, and the encroachment of voices from the margins. The Answere is a work about textual transmission as much as it is about doctrine. It questions the rigidity of the boundaries assumed to govern the distinction between the marginal and the main text, occluding authorial agency; Perkins posits instead a mobile, autonomous conception of scripture, and of the written in general. The dialogue’s stated focus, the question of Christ’s descent into hell after his crucifixion, similarly hinges on the permeability of established physical and metaphysical barriers to movement, as well as the proper reading of signs: does Jonah’s whale signify hell, or merely the grave? Perkins had suggested that the words “hee descended into hell” may perhaps have “crept in by negligence” to the text of the Creed, since they are not present in many accounts by the Apostles.84 He considers that “it must not seeme strange to any that a worde or two in the processe of time should creepe into the Creede,” since “the Originall Copies of the old and new testament haue in them sundrie varieties of readings & words otherwhiles, which from the margin crept into the texte.”85 Higgins counters that many sections of, for example, the Nicene Creed are also missing in various witnesses. “[D]id al these therefore creepe in by negligence?” he asks, and replies, “I thinke not.”86 The agency of annotation, then, to infiltrate the main text from the margins, is the crux of the Answere’s contention. The evocative image of the errant readings ‘creeping’ into the Creed from the margin is taken from Perkins’s Exposition, as part of Higgins’s arrogation of that text.87 It does not originate with Perkins, however; it had been a fairly common exegetical formulation following John Daus’s translation of Heinrich Bullinger, who observed that, in Christ’s assertion, “I am Alpha & Omega (the beginning and end),” “that whiche followeth (the beginning and end) is omitted in some copies: As though that interpretation of that same, I am Alpha and Omega, crept in out of the margent.”88 The margins of scripture made up the front lines of post-Reformation confessional conflict framed as “a battle between different types of readers,” between “Roman Catholic scholastics” and

190  Harriet Archer “rival gangs of Protestant commentators, who could match marginalia with the best of the papists.”89 The Jesuit John Rastell and Catholic priest Gregory Martin both accuse Théodore de Bèze of making accusations of textual contamination too readily; Rastell calls Bèze a “blindebuzzarde” for suggesting such an occurrence in St Luke’s Gospel, while Martin rebukes “the mouse of Geneua” for doing the like in sundrie places…[H]e is saucie against al copies Greeke and Latin to pronounce corruption, corruption…[H]e biteth at the text, and would change it according to his imagination, if he might…that whatsoeuer pleaseth not him, crept out of the margent into the text, which is his common and almost his only coniecture.90 Bèze and Perkins occupy the same confessional territory and share the recognition that textual corruption may occur in the course of a book’s transmission. Although the degree to which such readerly agency is considered acceptable differs, the acknowledgement of this agency informs the centrality of interpretation, followed by the appropriative construction of personal narratives, to late Elizabethan Calvinist doctrine which Erin Sullivan has set out in relation to Perkins’s theological writings.91 The legibility, highlighted for example by Arthur Dent in his Plaine Man’s Path-Way to Heaven (1601), of signs and marks of predestination also gestures towards a common vocabulary between the reading of texts and of circumstances.92 Higgins, who had replaced Justice with Temperance as the primary virtue of the Mirror for Magistrates, clearly sought to hold the centre ground in his attack on Perkins’s admission of textual flux and lectoral authority. Yet here, as we have seen throughout his oeuvre, Higgins’s own work embodies these values. The Answere is another instance of combative annotation in print, as Higgins interleaves passages of his own amongst paragraphs excerpted from his hypotext, and so relocates his commentary from the Exposition’s margins to its core. His address to the reader also frankly recounts a disrupted, heuristic process of production, foregrounding the text’s personal, scholarly history: AT first (Christian Reader) I wrote these things more at large, interposed with the other which I tooke vpon mee to aunswere. But now I thought it farre better thus to set them at view after this maner, which I could not with out the much abridging of that my first copie. And this I did for two causes; the one to saue my labor in writing them out: the other to ease thee in reading them over.93 This attention to the formal presentation of his argument, down to, the preface implies, mise-en-page, shows us an author alert to the interaction of text and white space—as well as evasive about his appropriation of ‘the other.’ Like the sprezzatura of the revised Dictionarie’s similar false

Studied for Redaction?  191 start (Higgins had claimed that “AT first I toke this worke of ­M aister Huloets in hande (gentle Reader) onelye to enlarge, and when I had herein passed some paineful time, I perceyued it almost a more easye matter to make new, then to amende”) the Answere’s preface distances Higgins from his editorial role, and the cannibalization of other writing.94 He enlarges instead on how his arrangement of the text works to facilitate the reader’s comprehension, spelling out his use of initials to indicate how separate points in the dialogue between his own persona and Perkins correspond to one another, “so thou maiest the easier compare the places of both togither, and better consider & sentence of both.”95 In fact this arrangement calls for the reader to flip back and forth from Higgins’s point ‘A’ to Perkins’s point ‘A’; corresponding arguments could have been more easily compared if they had been printed on facing pages, or in columns, or had Higgins’s response been presented as a marginal gloss or commentary around Perkins’s thesis, or even had points ‘A’ and ‘A’ been printed consecutively rather than as part of a longer alphabetical sequence. Instead it is incumbent on Higgins’s reader to handle the text actively.96 “We must not allege, nor take the text lamely,” ­H iggins enjoins, where ‘lamely’ connotes imperfection, as well as weakness or paralysis.97 Higgins’s preface piles up active verbs as he requests his readers’ generosity and cooperation: “Now (if it please thee) I pray thee on kindenesse, with conscience and charity to read them: read, regard, and then iudge.”98 The Answere’s reception must be dynamic. However, this call to action is followed by something approaching a personal threat to those who will mistreat his work, turning the discourse of defacement explored above back on the reader, when Higgins adds, “but beware thou iudge not amisse, least thy iudgment endamage thy selfe.”99 Once again, the disjuncture between Higgins’s advice and his practice is startling. This is a work in which Higgins, taking issue with his reading, has transfused the material of marginal dispute into a reworked main text, specifically in order to argue that such a maneuver is impossible. It is significant, in a discussion of the decorous observation of boundaries between text and margin, author and reader, that Higgins’s admonition employs a spatial metaphor: his readers may judge, but “iudge not amisse.” In other words, the physical placement of readerly judgement is everything. Throughout his thirty-year career, Higgins produced works which refuse to confine the material traces of their reading to the margins. But conceiving of his oeuvre as a series of marginal notes may help to make sense of the complexities of its engagement with its sources. At once generically disparate and methodologically cohesive, Higgins’s extant corpus has much in common with the marginalia it also sought to control. Observing Higgins’s own readers at work in the margins of his printed texts, revising, expanding, glossing, and simply registering their presence in their books, reveals the continuum on which he understands author and reader to coexist.

192  Harriet Archer

Notes I am grateful to the Folger Shakespeare Institute, where an O. B. Hardison fellowship enabled me to undertake research for this chapter. I am indebted to Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine’s article, “‘Studied for Action’: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy,” which inspired this chapter’s title. 1 Higgins, First Part, f. 3r. 2 Higgins, First Part, f. 3v. Cf. Orgel, The Reader in the Book, 6–7. 3 Simonova, Early Modern Authorship, 8. 4 See Schwyzer, “Higgins, John (b. c. 1544, d. in or before 1620).” 5 “redact, v.,” OED Online, Oxford University Press; online edn, December 2016, accessed 28 February 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/160138. 6 Higgins, Huloets Dictionarie Newelye Corrected, sig. Aaiiv. 7 Cf. Grafton and Jardine, “Studied for Action,” 30–78; Schurink, “Like a Hand in the Margine of a Booke,” 1–24; Richards, “Gabriel Harvey,” 303–21; Stamatakis, “With Diligent Studie, but Sportingly.” 8 Dunn, Pretexts of Authority, 8. 9 See Archer, Unperfect Histories, Ch. 4. 10 See Eggert, Disknowledge. 11 Iser, “The Reading Process,” 279–99, especially at 285. Cf. Dobranski, Readers and Authorship, 2 and passim. 12 Orgel, The Reader in the Book, 10. See also Dobranski, Readers and Authorship. 13 Knight, Bound to Read, 7. See also Dobranksi, Readers and Authorship, 60. 14 Sherman, Used Books, xx. See also Dobranski, Readers and Authorship, 42; Anderson and Netzley, Introduction to Acts of Reading, 11–28, esp. page 17. 15 See below. 16 See Archer, “Those chronicles which other men had,” 147–63. 17 Simonova, Early Modern Authorship, 56. 18 See Angus Vine and Cathy Shrank’s chapters in A Mirror for Magistrates in Context, 89–106 and 109–25; Jellerson, “The Spectral Historiopoetics,” 54–71. 19 Hampton, introduction to Writing from History. 20 Orgel, The Reader in the Book, 15. 21 See Hampton, Writing from History, 5. 22 Slights, Managing Readers, 63. 23 Iser, “The Reading Process,” at 286. 24 Orgel, “Marginal Maternity,” 267–90. 25 Orgel, The Reader in the Book, 154. 26 Ibid., 146. 27 Ibid., 154. 28 See Griffiths, Diverting Authorities, Ch. 5. 29 See Richards, “Transforming A Mirror for Magistrates,” 48–63. 30 See Wakelin, “Duke Humfrey and Other Imaginary Readers.” 31 Hampton, Writing from History, 25. 32 Higgins, First Part, f. 69v. See Archer, Unperfect Histories, Ch. 2; Cox Jensen, “Reading Florus in Early Modern England,” 659–77. 33 See Archer, Unperfect Histories, Ch. 2; Ch. 4. 34 Wakelin, “Instructing Readers,” 433–52, at 438. 35 John Higgins, The Mirour for Magistrates (London: Henry Marshe, 1587), Folger Shakespeare Library (STC 13445, Copy 1). 36 This excludes the incidental notes, doodles and marks on the texts which also inform our sense of how these works were read, but which fall beyond the scope of this study.

Studied for Redaction?  193 37 See Jason Scott-Warren’s chapter in this volume. 38 See, for example, Higgins, Mirour (1587), Folger Copy 1, f. 25r; 28r; 31r; 83v; 96r; 122v; 229r. 39 Cross-references and citations of this kind are given in other Folger copies of near-contemporary texts by the comparable author, editor and translator figure Abraham Fleming, including the Panoplie of Epistles (1576) and Bright Burning Beacon (1580). For treatments of Fleming’s “secondary” authorial status, see Cummings, “Abraham Fleming’s Eclogues,” 147–69; Dodson, “Abraham Fleming,” 51–66; Story Donno, “Abraham Fleming,” 200–211. 40 Higgins, Mirour, Folger Copy 1, f. 111r. 41 Vine, “Bibliophily in Baldwin’s Mirror,” 89–106, esp. page 94; “† Welshman’s hose, n.,” OED Online. Oxford University Press; online edn, December 2016, accessed 28 February 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/276038. 42 See “† shipman’s hose n.,” in “shipman, n.,” OED Online. Oxford University Press; online edn, December 2016, accessed 28 February 2017, www. oed.com/view/Entry/178249. 43 Higgins, prefatory verse to “Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus,” sig. ⁂iv. 4 4 Ibid. 45 Ibid. 46 Cf. Slights, Managing Readers, 86–93. 47 See Green, Chasing the Sun, 14 and passim; Considine, Dictionaries, 9 and 156. 48 Starnes, “Huloet’s Abcedarium,” 717–37, at 726. See also Bately, “Bilingual Dictionaries,” 41–64, at 49–54. 49 Ibid., at 735; 737. 50 Dunn, Pretexts of Authority, 21. 51 Starnes, “Huloet’s Abcedarium,” at 727. 52 Sledd, “The English Verses,” 251–54, at 251–52. See also Starnes, “Huloet’s Abcedarium,” at 734. Higgins, Dictionarie, sig. F5r; Higgins, First Parte, f. 7v. 53 Sledd, “The English Verses,” at 253; See Archer, Unperfect Histories, Ch. 1. 54 Scott, Literature, 16. Cf. Considine, Dictionaries, 4 and 9. 55 Withals, Yonge Begynners, sig. Aiiv; Withals and Evans, A Shorte Dictionarie Most Profitable, sig. +iiv. 56 See Huloet, Abcedarium and John Withals, A Dictionarie in English and Latine for Children, and Yong Beginners (London: Thomas Purfoot, 1608), Folger Shakespeare Library copies; John Withals A Shorte Dictionarie for Yonge Beginners (London: Henry Wykes, 1566), 1825:20, Bodleian Library copy; John Withals, A Shorte Dictionarie Most Profitable for Yong Beginners (London, 1574), 1054:03, British Library copy. See also Lerer, “Devotion and Defacement,” 126–53. 57 Withals, Dictionarie (1608), 321. 58 Ibid., 296. 59 Withals, Dictionarie (1553), sig. Aiiv; Baret, “To the Reader,” in Aluearie. 60 Baret, Aluearie, sig. *5r. 61 Ibid. 62 Churchyard, commendatory poem, in Higgins, Dictionarie, sig. ¶ ivr. The Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery’s copy (249:01) in fact exhibits several examples of marginal graffiti on this leaf. 63 “deface, v.,” OED Online. Oxford University Press; online edn, December 2016, accessed 28 February 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/48679. See Higgins, Dictionarie, “cancell,” sig. Giiir; “dashe,” sig. Miiir; “deface,” sig. Mvr; “pricke wrytinges with a penne,” sig. Kkiiir; “stryke out,” sig. Ssiv v.

194  Harriet Archer 4 6 65 66 67

68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 8 9 99

“Arthur Golding to the Reader,” in Baret, Aluearie, sig. **1r. Higgins, Dictionarie, sig. ¶ iiir. Ibid., title page. See Wolfe, “Click-clack and crocodile tears.” It seems most likely, given the nature of the additions, that the marginalia were compiled as a working aid for, probably among other things, Latin verse composition—not something Higgins is known to have indulged in, but not beyond the remit of his literary and scholarly interests. See van Miert, Kaleidoscopic; Veldman, “Junius, Hadrianus [Adriaen de Jonghe] (1511–1575);” Siber, Nomenclatoris. Hüllen, Topical Tradition, 13. Ibid., 359. John Higgins (ed.), The Nomenclator of Hadrianus Junius (London: Thomas Marshe, 1585), Folger Shakespeare Library (STC 14860, Copies 1 and 7). Higgins (ed.), Nomenclator, Folger Copy 1, 216. Ibid., 226. Ibid., 226. Ibid., 486. See “rounder, n.2.,” OED Online. Oxford University Press; online edn, December 2016, accessed 28 February 2017, www.oed.com/view/Entry/167958, 1a; “scupper, n.,” OED Online. Oxford University Press; online edn, December 2016, accessed 28 February 2017, www.oed.com/view/ Entry/173915. Hüllen, Topical Tradition, 13. Ibid., 359. Lerer, “Devotion and Defacement,” at 130. Higgins, Answere, sigs A2r-v. Jinkins, “Perkins, William (1558–1602).” See also Merrill, Introduction to William Perkins; Patterson, Perkins. Slights, Managing Readers, 103. Patterson, Perkins, 40. Higgins, Answere, 1. Ibid., 4. Ibid., 2. Perkins, Exposition, 296–97. Bullinger, “Third Sermon,” 25. Pender, “Reading Bale,” 507–22, at 517; Slights, Managing Readers, 107. Rastell, A Briefe Shew, f. 98v; Martin, “The Preface to the Reader,” in Discouerie, sig. A6r. See also Martin, Discouerie, 14–16. Sullivan, “Doctrinal Doubleness,” 533–61. Ibid., at 538. Higgins, Answere, sig. A2r. Higgins, Dictionarie, sig. ¶ iiir. Higgins, Answere, sig. A2v. See also Adam Smyth’s discussion of ‘active readers’ in this volume. Higgins, Answere, 30; “lamely, adv.,” OED Online. Oxford University Press: online edn., December 2016, accessed 28 February 2017, www.oed. com/view/Entry/105282. Higgins, Answere, sig. A2v. Ibid.

10 Vide Supplementum Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading in the First Folio Claire M. L. Bourne

In the First Folio (F1) text of Hamlet, Horatio warns Hamlet not to follow the beckoning Ghost in case it is an evil spirit: What if it tempt you toward the floud my Lord? Or to the dreadfull Sonnet of the Cliffe, That beetles o’re his base into the Sea, And there assumes some other horrible forme, Which might depriue your Soueraignty of Reason, And draw you into madnesse thinke of it?1 Horatio entreats Hamlet to “thinke of” the possibility that the ghost might lure him into a dangerous situation. But F1 Hamlet, distracted by the apparition that “wafts” him “still,” does not “thinke of it.” Instead, he immediately bids the ghost: “[G]oe on, Ile follow thee.” These six lines of Horatio’s speech appear with small variations in all seventeenth-­century quarto editions of Hamlet. However, in all these editions ­(except for Q1), “thinke of it” is followed by four additional lines in which Horatio describes in more detail the vertiginous feeling of standing on “the dreadfull somnet of the cleefe” (Q2–Q5) with the sea churning below: …thinke of it, The very place puts toyes of desperation Without more motive, into every braine That lookes so many fadomes to the sea, And heares it roare beneath. 2 In this way, Horatio of the quarto tradition makes Hamlet “thinke of it”—“it” being the possible consequences of following the Ghost—more vividly (and for longer) than the Horatio of F1. For one seventeenth-­ century reader of a little-remarked copy of F1 now housed at the Free Library of Philadelphia (FLP), the absence of these lines in F1 and their presence in a text that was not F1 could not be ignored. In the little bit

196  Claire M. L. Bourne of white space to the right of a short horizontal line inscribed by hand just under “thinke of it?” the reader has written: “vide supple,” (Figure 10.1). The note is an abbreviation for “vide supplementum,” or “see the supplement,” where the supplement to the F1 text of Hamlet was a copy of a Hamlet quarto, quite possibly the fifth quarto of 1637. Throughout Hamlet and Romeo & Juliet in the Free Library’s copy of F1, the same reader has implemented and proposed textual emendations that illustrate a sustained engagement with textual variants found in quarto playbooks published more than a decade after F1 itself. This essay demonstrates that the reader was selectively collating this First Folio with the quartos of Hamlet and Romeo & Juliet brought to press in 1637 by John Smethwick, a junior partner in the Folio publishing syndicate. Smethwick would not have published these quartos if he had not sensed a demand among readers for stand-alone editions of the plays. The reader’s collation of the older F1 texts with Smethwick’s newest quartos embraces the multiple versions of “Shakespeare” that were circulating in the mid-seventeenth century—decades before editors began to identify this plurality as a hurdle to clarity and, more importantly, to accessing a singular version of “Shakespeare.”

Figure 10.1  A note to the reader to see the “supple,” (or, “supplement”) for missing lines (sig. Oo1r). Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  197 Histories of early modern reading, or book “use” (as most scholars in the field now refer to the range of ways early modern readers interfaced with printed texts), tend to distinguish between exemplary and exceptional modes of textual contact, or as William H. Sherman has put it, “what it is possible and (to some extent) what it is normal for readers to do.”3 As the other essays in this collection show, the line between conventional and atypical modes of early modern book use is a blurry one—and the traces of human interaction left in books from the period are not always easy to see and identify, let alone interpret and explain. It is, however, possible to say with some certainty that “sporadic corrections in the main body of the dramatic text” are the most common, or “normal,” type of readers’ marks in the printed texts of early modern plays, including copies of F1.4 And the emendations in the Free Library copy of F1 may seem, at first, to exemplify this mode of reading—­intervening occasionally to correct mistakes. But there is something much more concerted, systematic, and unusual going on: one of the book’s readers is collating the apparently “perfected” Folio playtexts against other editions. 5 In addition to collating Hamlet and Romeo & Juliet against midcentury quartos, the reader of the Free Library’s copy of F1 responsible for noting the extra lines in Horatio’s speech (whom I will call Reader A) also suggested a handful of changes to Folio-only plays, referenced a couple of Shakespeare’s source texts (down to the page number), scored and bracketed hundreds of passages (possibly for commonplacing), and supplied the second stanza of a song in Measure for Measure. A second, possibly earlier, reader (whom I will call Reader B) made a few corrections but, most notably, supplied the prologue to Romeo & Juliet on the last page of Titus Andronicus. This essay provides the necessary context for both early readers’ interventions. In doing so, it shows that these readers recognized Shakespeare for the play-patcher he was and that they themselves patched up speeches from the “newly corrected, augmented, and amended” (or, “newly imprinted and inlarged”) quartos available at London’s bookstalls in the mid-seventeenth century.6 In doing so, these readers made available (simultaneously) alternative readings that had the potential to reshape key aspects of the plays’ fictive worlds. ••• Little is known about the history of the Free Library’s copy of F1 before Tuesday, July 11, 1899, when it was sold at auction by a member of the Belleroche family, then living in Belgium, who said at the time that the book had belonged to his family for more than a century.7 The ­Belleroches were among the French Huguenots who settled in England for a time after the Edict of Nantes was revoked in 1685, but it is unclear

198  Claire M. L. Bourne if the family acquired the book this early.8 The highest bidder at the 1899 auction was Bernard Buchanan MacGeorge of Glasgow, who ­purchased the book for £1,700—a record price for a First Folio at the time.9 ­MacGeorge was in possession of the book when Sidney Lee conducted his census of extant Folios in 1902 and allowed Lee “to make a full examination of his prize.”10 Sometime between 1905 and 1908, ­MacGeorge sold this folio with copies of the second, third, and fourth folios, at £10,000 for the lot, to the notable Shakespeare collector Marsden J. Perry of Providence, RI.11 The First Folio is thought to have been valued in the lot at £6,000.12 As Sidney Lee commented, “In view of Mr. Perry’s great venture, the First Folio bids fair to become the most expensive (absolutely) of all printed books.”13 To take Lee’s word for it, the manuscript notes and marks on the pages of the Free Library First Folio increased the book’s cultural value, in addition to its monetary worth, as it passed from owner to owner at the beginning of the t­ wentieth century.14 In August 1919, A.S.W. Rosenbach purchased the four folios from Perry and soon sold them to Joseph E. Widener for his library at Lynnewood Hall, Elkins Park, just outside Philadelphia.15 In 1944, Widener’s son and daughter donated their father’s collection of Shakespeare folios, including the marked-up F1, to the Free Library of Philadelphia, where it would be stewarded by the Rare Book Department.16 In 1945, when the news of the donation was made public, Rosenbach characterized the gift as “most fitting” given that “Philadelphia was the place where the first collected edition of Shakespeare was published in America.”17 When Lee consulted this copy of F1 for his 1902 census, he counted “some forty” textual emendations in the entire book. I have counted 3 annotations, 121 emendations, 2 additions, and 603 marginal brackets.18 The annotations (all in Reader A’s hand) include a pair of references to Tottel’s Songs and Sonnettes and Purchas’ Pilgrimes, in Hamlet and The Tempest respectively.19 In the text of Timon of Athens, Reader A also inscribes “Gold” as a marginal gloss for “King-killer” in one of Timon’s speeches. In addition to these annotations, the book is peppered with localized textual emendations: the replacement of one word with another; the suggestion of a variant word for one given in the printed text; the addition of missing words; the elimination of redundant lines; the reassignment of speech prefixes; corrections to spelling; and re-­punctuation. All but three of these are the work of Reader A. In addition, two passages not printed in F1, the prologue to Romeo & Juliet and the second stanza of a song in Measure for Measure, have been supplied (see Figures 10.2 and 10.5). Finally, passages in every play except in Henry VI (Parts 1–3) and Titus Andronicus have been scored or bracketed in the margins (see Figure 10.3).20 The Tempest, with 54 brackets, and Antony and Cleopatra, with 49, contain the highest number of marked passages. 21 Several phrases within the bracketed passages, including “This blew ey’d hag” in The Tempest, are underlined. 22 Lee was puzzled by the brackets:

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  199

Figure 10.2  T  he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. G6v. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

“Some of the scored passages are such as actors might be inclined to omit in theatrical representations, but others are of the highest dramatic value.”23 Rather than relating to performance, it is more likely that the scored passages were marked for commonplacing. Many are songs and most others are easily extractable—absent of character names and other situation-specific information—while the breadth of topics they cover would indeed be suitable to such a project. 24 Lee claimed the presence of two manuscript hands: an “earlier pen” that he said was responsible for the intertextual references, and a “second pen” responsible both for the additions and emendations. 25 More recently, Donald Bailey, who examined the book for Eric Rasmussen and Anthony James West’s First Folio catalogue, has suggested the use of two different inks: a light-brown ink used early in the book for “marking lines, although there are some more detailed notes” (presumably the intertextual annotations, although this is not made clear); and a darkbrown ink used in the majority of the annotations and additions as well as to mark one passage in Henry VIII.26 My assessment of the manuscript marks and notes varies from both Lee’s and Bailey’s findings. Comparing individual letter-forms from annotations and emendations throughout the book leads me to believe that one hand (that of Reader A) is likely responsible for all the emendations, annotations, and brackets, except for three emendations made in a much lighter brown ink (Figure 10.4).

Figure 10.3  Examples of marginal brackets in the Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio: The Tempest (sig. A2v) and Romeo & Juliet (sig. ff1r). Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  201

Figure 10.4 Changes made to the text of the Folio by the earlier of two hands in light-brown ink. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

202  Claire M. L. Bourne These three changes, all of which rectify obvious compositorial mistakes, were made by an earlier hand than the one responsible for the other notes and marks in the book. Based on paleographic analysis, it is possible that the earlier hand (that of Reader B) is the one responsible for transcribing the prologue to Romeo & Juliet onto the last page of Titus Andronicus 27 and correcting erroneous running titles (printed as The Merry Wives of Windsor) on the last two pages of The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 28 Reader A, who is responsible for the other ninety-five percent of the book’s 121 emendations (and the one of most interest to me in this essay) seems also to have been responsible for the marginal brackets throughout the book. While this reader used more than one kind of ink (in addition to not particularly minding if his pen was low on ink as he continued to work), it is possible to match each of the inks used to emend the text with the inks used to score and bracket passages for commonplacing. The brackets must postdate Reader B’s transcription of the prologue since Reader A, if responsible for the brackets, scored the supplied prologue text (Figure 10.5). 29 Despite conflicting views over which hand is responsible for which of the manuscript notes, the few scholars who have examined the book in person agree that they were made during the seventeenth century. Lee was tempted to attribute the brackets to “the pen of a contemporary of the playwright,” dating some of the other annotations to “well before 1650” and the rest to “a little after that year.”30 West and Rasmussen’s catalogue entry is even more circumspect in its suggestion that all the

Figure 10.5 Prologue to Romeo & Juliet, transcribed on the last page of Titus Andronicus. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  203 notes “appear to date from the seventeenth century.”31 Whereas these tentative assessments seem to be based on paleographic evidence alone, it is possible to use bibliographic analysis to date the majority of emendations and brackets to or even before the Restoration, when the book acquired its current binding.32 According to Lee, the book underwent a “very slight examination” before the Belleroche family sold it at auction to MacGeorge in 1899. Based on this cursory audit, the appraisers concluded that the copy “was not merely perfect, but had never suffered any kind of restoration.”33 The experts Lee cited were right that the Folio possessed all its original leaves, making it one of fifty-four extant copies known to survive in such a complete state, but they were incorrect in suggesting that the book had never been reconditioned. 34 Tears in some of the pages were never (and still have not been) repaired, but the book was rebound in the second half of the seventeenth century (see Appendix). Experts who have examined the book, either in person or by looking at photographs, date its mottled, dark-brown calfskin binding to the second half of the seventeenth century, at least as early as 1666 (see Figure 10.6). 35 In the course of this process, the pages were trimmed to fit the new binding, and as a result, manuscript emendations, additions, and brackets situated close to the tops and sides of several pages were cropped (see Figures 10.5, 10.17, and 10.21). The corrections to the erroneous running title at the end of The Two Gentlemen of Verona were also cropped when the pages were trimmed, as were variants written in the margins of both Hamlet and Measure for Measure and the first letter or two from each line of the song verse transcribed on the last page of the latter (sig. G6v). 36 The experts who examined the Folio on the occasion of its sale in 1899 therefore overlooked one of its most important material features. So did A.S.W. Rosenbach, who claimed in 1945 that the book existed “in its original binding.”37 The copy’s second binding gives us the bibliographic means to date the reader’s manuscript emendations. If the binding provides a terminus ad quem for the notes, how early could they have been written? Two references to Shakespeare’s source texts in Hamlet and The Tempest were probably both written after 1625. The first of these notes cites Songes and Sonnettes, written by the right honorable Lord Henry Haward, Earle of Surrey (also known as Tottel’s Miscellany) as the source text for one of the Clown’s songs in Hamlet: “Among / Surreis / sonnets / fol. 72”38 (Figure 10.7). The five editions of the book that match the foliation mentioned in the note predate F1’s publication, so regardless of which edition the reader owned (or consulted), he was likely familiar with it before acquiring his copy of F1.39 A cross-reference at the start of The Tempest to Samuel Purchas’ Pilgrimes just above Caliban’s soliloquy about cursing—“Setebos god of ye Canibals / purch. pil. vol. 1. p. 35.”—dates this particular note to after

204  Claire M. L. Bourne

Figure 10.6  Images of the Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio binding. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Figure 10.7  T  he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. pp5r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

1625 (Figure 10.8).40 A printed marginal reference to “The Deuill Setebos” on page 35 of the first volume of Purchas’ collection of travel narratives, published in 1625, attests to the reader’s accuracy.41 Lee claimed that the author of this note wrote it “probably within a year or two of the issue of that edition of Purchas” but gives no evidence for this dating. The most I can say here is that the reader made this note sometime after 1625. Since both annotations are written in the same light gray-brown ink, the Songes and Sonnettes reference was probably added around the same time.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  205

Figure 10.8  T  he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. A5r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Finally, it may be possible to date one other manuscript intervention—­ the addition of the second stanza of a song from Measure for Measure— to sometime after 1639, when a version of this stanza was printed for the first time in John Fletcher’s The Bloody Brother.42 The reader might also have copied the stanza from John Benson’s edition of Shakespeare’s Poems (1640), where the song also appears in its entirety.43 The syntax of the penultimate line as transcribed in the Free Library’s F1 (“[Bu]t first let my poor heart free”) better approximates the text of the song in Fletcher’s play.44 An equally, if not more, plausible explanation is that the reader transcribed the stanza from a manuscript copy of the song circulating before or after 1639. The song has been identified in at least twelve manuscript commonplace books dating from the mid- to late seventeenth century.45 At least one matches the Free Library First Folio reader’s “first let my poor heart free,” where the Bloody Brother quarto and other manuscripts have “first set my poor heart free.”46 If he did not have access to an earlier manuscript, then we can date this addition to sometime between the publication of The Bloody Brother in 1639 and when the book was rebound after the Restoration since the beginning of each line has been cropped. The same dark-brown ink is used for the Measure for Measure

206  Claire M. L. Bourne stanza, the textual emendations, and the marginal brackets that appear throughout the volume. This suggests that the emendations were made around the same time as the reader transcribed the stanza—as early as 1639 and possibly earlier. ••• The 729 manuscript marks and notes in the Free Library’s copy of F1 exhibit multiple forms of readerly engagement with the plays—with language, spelling and punctuation, ideas, the relationship of the plays to other texts, and the potential of dialogue to be appropriated for other uses. Lee was the first to document the notes, detailing a few of them in a short account of the Folio for The Athenæum in 1899.47 More recently, West characterized the notes as “17th century MS. notes of value.”48 Rasmussen and West’s more recent Descriptive Catalogue of extant copies of F1 records many of this copy’s manuscript interventions for the first time, but the entry has a number of errors and accounts only for the brackets in the first half of the book.49 On the whole, these markings not only evince otherwise well-documented early modern reading practices such as correction (i.e., “perfecting,” as Sonia Massai had described it) and commonplacing. 50 They also demonstrate that printed plays could be—and were—treated as reading matter worthy of study, improvement, and indeed even a version of editorial collation that predates the stated investment in such a practice by eighteenth-century editors of Shakespeare.51 In particular, Reader A’s practice of collating the Folio against other editions seems to anticipate the centrality of collating to theories—if not always practices—of editing Shakespeare in the eighteenth century. But Reader A’s peculiar brand of collation even differs from these theories both in its use of editions that postdate the Folio and in the reader’s habit of leaving some choices unresolved. Reader A does not always seem to have been striving “to compare the several Editions, and give the true Reading as well as I could from thence,” as ­Nicholas Rowe claimed to have done; nor does he “stick invariably to the old editions … and never … depart from them,” as Edward Capell described his protocol for editing Shakespeare’s plays several decades later. 52 Reader A’s noncommittal collation comes closest to Alexander Pope’s 1725 edition, which provided access to textual variants for the first time: “The various Readings are fairly put in the margin, so that every one may compare ‘em.”53 In recording “various Readings” offered by Q5 Romeo & Juliet and Q5 Hamlet, Reader A was not guided by a desire to “restore” the elusive “original,” the benchmark by which Pope and other eighteenth-century editors said they were calibrating their editorial decisions. 54 While Reader A’s use of post-F1 quartos to emend the F1 texts of Romeo & Juliet and Hamlet may not align with

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  207 these eighteenth-century theories of editing, his use of newer texts to improve older ones does indeed square with the early editorial practice of choosing the text “that had undergone the most rather than the least mediation” to serve as the copy text for a new edition. 55 Although eighteenth-century editors claimed to be reconstructing “original manuscripts,” everyone before Capell actually looked to the most recent edition, just as this seventeenth-century reader did. In this way, Reader A’s attention to and sometimes preference for variants from later quartos differs markedly from the later practice of Edmond Malone, who in his preface to the 1790 Works declared a new criterion for textual editing: “all the variations in … quartos” subsequent to the first quarto, or (in its absence) the Folio, “were made by accident or caprice” and thus not worth considering. 56 While they may have been accidental or capricious to Malone, variants present for the first time in post-First Folio quartos of Romeo & Juliet and Hamlet provided Reader A with alternate readings that he deemed viable and sometimes even more desirable. 57 After observing that some of the changes “bring the text into conformity with that of the quartos,” Lee concluded that most were “doubtless due” to the reader’s “native and unaided sagacity.”58 Although the reader exercises a certain degree of editorial autonomy in the texts of Folio-only plays, the authority behind his emendations of Romeo & Juliet, the most heavily treated play in the book, is not only a well-tuned editorial instinct but also Q5. Smethwick published Q5 Romeo & Juliet in 1637, just two years before the publication of Fletcher’s Bloody Brother and so towards the early limit of the dating range for these notes. Thirty-seven out of the reader’s 39 emendations in this play alone stem from Q5.59 Many of the emendations have a basis in Q4 (1623) as well, but there are a few places where Q4 could not have been the source for the changes.60 A number of changes also mirror changes that turn up in F2, but again, there are more than enough that do not to make it unlikely that he was working from F2. What this means, then, is that the reader was improving the allegedly authoritative Folio text of the play by recourse to a quarto printed almost fifteen years later. If R. Carter ­Hailey’s dating of Q4 to the same year as the Folio is correct, then someone who could afford the Folio in the early 1620s probably would not have bought both. But when a new (and “amended”) edition of Romeo & Juliet came out in 1637, Reader A consulted it and brought some of its variant readings to bear on the Folio text. This is not to say that the notes necessarily date from the late 1630s since Q5 Romeo & Juliet (along with Q5 Hamlet) were advertised as late as 1661. Upon Smethwick’s death in 1642, the rights to print ­“Hamblett, a play” and “Romeo & Juliett” were transferred to his son Francis, who assigned them over to Miles Flesher just a month later.61 There is no other mention of Romeo & Juliet in the Stationers’ Register

208  Claire M. L. Bourne and Hamlet does not appear again until it is assigned to Richard ­Martyn and Henry Herringman by Richard Cotes’ estate in a 1674 entry. However, both titles show up in a list of plays and other books said to be “published for Henry Herringman” bound with An Institution of ­General History (1661).62 Of the seven plays listed in this catalogue, the three by ­Shakespeare—Love’s Labors’ Lost, Hamlet, and Romeo & Juliet—were all published by Smethwick in the 1630s. H ­ erringman did not finance new editions of these plays. Instead, it seems like he took over Smethwick’s stock and was selling his old ­playbooks—Q2 Love’s Labour’s Lost (1631), Q5 Romeo & Juliet (1637), and Q5 H ­ amlet (1637)—fifteen years before he would himself bring a new quarto of Hamlet to press. This said, Smethwick’s 1637 quartos of Romeo & Juliet and Hamlet endured as the newest editions of the plays until the publication of the Third Folio in 1663, and Reader A could have accessed them at any time in the middle of the seventeenth century. Reader A must have taken seriously Q5’s title-page claim to be “newly corrected” and, as Massai has shown, was justified in doing so. The variant patterns she identifies in Smethwick’s earlier editions of Romeo & Juliet (Q3, Q4, and F1) show that the publisher, who had owned the rights to Romeo & Juliet since 1607, “valued the progressive improvement of … texts and relied on the collaboration of annotating readers.”63 Given that Smethwick still owned the rights to the play when it was printed again in 1637, it is reasonable to assume that he would have sought annotated copy when preparing this new edition. His practice of soliciting “progressive improvements” to the text for each new edition would explain the handful of substantive textual variants between Q4 and Q5, even though Q5 is rarely cited in modern editorial collations. While there is no evidence to suggest that the hand at work in the Free Library F1’s text of Romeo & Juliet was working it up for republication, he was indeed interested in the “progressive improvements” of the annotating reader that found their way into Smethwick’s 1637 edition. Reader A’s particular interest in the Folio text of Romeo & Juliet may have resulted from the play having received “less editorial attention” than the other plays when they were prepared from printed copy for inclusion in the Folio.64 But Romeo & Juliet was also one of Shakespeare’s most popular plays in print (as Smethwick’s investment in post-Folio quartos affirms). Although no one play or constellation of plays dominated the attention of early readers who left traces of use in their copies of the First Folio, it is worth pointing out that the pages of Romeo & Juliet in the copy of the First Folio that was deposited at the Bodleian Library in 1623 (and then lost and then found again) were “worn … almost to shreds” in the seventeenth century.65 While certainly responsive to typographical errors and obvious compositorial misreadings, Reader A also grappled with the sense of certain passages

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  209 by consulting Q5—making decisions not only about which variants to address and which to leave alone but also whether to make decisive changes to the Folio text based on the quarto or to provide quarto readings as alternatives. In this way, the so-called “editorial accretions” that have barred post-Folio quartos from serious consideration in most modern editions actually recommended Q5 Romeo & Juliet to him.66 Of all the changes and suggested changes the reader records on the pages of F1 Romeo & Juliet, the attention paid to variant words is the most pronounced. Emendations—both decisive and provisional—­ comprise almost two-thirds of his markings. A good example of a decisive emendation appears in Benvolio’s description of how Romeo tried intervening in the altercation between Mercutio and Tybalt:   … Romeo he cries aloud, Hold Friends, Friends part and swifter then his tongue, His aged arme beats downe their fatall points.67 Here, Benvolio recounts Romeo’s verbal and then physical attempts to stop the fight. Romeo tries to lower their swords with his “aged arme,” but to no avail, as Tybalt thrusts his sword under Romeo’s arm to slay Mercutio. The reader changed “aged” to “agil,” a revision that reflects “agill” in Q1, Q4, and Q5 (Figure 10.9).68 Both Q2 and Q3 use “aged” here, while F2 and all subsequent folios print “able.” The use of “aged” in Q2, Q3, and F1 could reflect a perpetuated misreading of the printer’s copy—“-ed” and “-il” can look similar in secretary hand. Faced with the option of “aged” or “agill” (and perhaps also “able,” if he had access to F2), the reader chose the word that best fits the sense of the passage given Romeo’s youth. He makes a similar change to the text when Romeo urges the Apothecary to accept compensation for a fatal drug: “I pray thy pouerty, and not thy will.”69 With a single down-stroke, the reader strikes out the “r” in “pray”: “I pay thy pouerty, and not thy will.” Like

Figure 10.9  T  he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff3r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

210  Claire M. L. Bourne “agil,” “pay” makes more sense in context than the F1 equivalent and could derive from Q1, Q4, or Q5. Reader A makes another pair of decisive emendations in Juliet’s desperate plea to the Friar about finding some way out of her impending marriage to Paris: hide me nightly in a Charnell house, Orecouered quite with dead mens ratling bones, With reckie shankes and yellow chappels sculls: Or bid me go into a new made graue, And hide me with a dead man in his graue[.]70 The reader changes “chappels” to “chapless” and “graue” to “shroud,” both of which follow Q4 and Q5 (Figure 10.10).71 In the case of the first change, Q1 reads “chaples” (which could read as either chapless or chapels), Q2 reads “chapels,” and Q3 reads “chappels.” The reader’s identification of “chappels” as unsuitable is echoed in F2, where “chappels” is likewise amended to “chaplesse.” It makes sense to find “chapless(e)” skulls—those lacking bottom jaws—in a charnel house. These decisive changes improve the sense of the F1 text they alter. But the reader sometimes opts against F1 even in cases where the F1 text makes excellent sense. See, for example, Juliet’s response to her father’s incredulity at her not being “proud” of him having “wrought / So worthy a Gentleman [i.e., Paris], to be her Bridegroom”: Not proud you haue, But thankfull that you haue: Proud can I neuer be of what I haue, But thankfull euen for hate, that is meant Loue.72

Figure 10.10  T he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff6r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  211 Although Juliet is unhappy that he has made (“wrought”) this arrangement, she stresses that she is grateful for his effort. Although she hates the idea of marrying Paris, she acknowledges either that her father has made the match out of love or that Paris is well-meaning in his love. The word in question for the Folio reader is the third line-ending “haue.” He alters one letter to change “haue” at the end of the third line to “hate” (Figure 10.11). This alteration reflects the state of the line in all five quartos but none of the folios. “[H]aue” works here—Juliet cannot be proud of what she has, i.e. the prospect of Paris as a husband. But the reader deems “hate” a better choice, perhaps because it anticipates her paradoxical suturing of “hate” and “love” in the following line (or, “Chopt Logicke” as her father calls it)—Juliet is not satisfied with the match because she hates the idea, but she is thankful for the love motivating the match despite hating the idea. Another instance of the reader changing a viable word in F1 comes as Juliet prepares to drink the apothecary’s tonic: I haue a faint cold feare thrills through my veines, That almost freezes vp the heate of fire:73 The reader strikes out “fire” and replaces it with “life.” “Fire” is peculiar to the folio tradition; all quarto editions (except Q1 which does not include this line) use “life.” Fire makes perfect sense here given the repeated comparison of Juliet to the sun. But the reader’s preferences for “life” over “fire” here and “hate” for “haue” in the previous example testify to his selective inclination towards Q5 variants. While it may be tempting to dismiss Reader A’s spotty collation as a sign of unserious reading, this approach can just as easily be seen as a sign of attentive reading. Reader A consistently relies on Q5 to highlight different versions of the same passage and, as such, recognizes how textual plurality can shift the boundaries of character and dramatic circumstance. The three instances that isolate Q5 as the reader’s

Figure 10.11  T  he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff5r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

212  Claire M. L. Bourne

Figure 10.12  The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff6r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

copy text also show how Reader A explores these boundaries, Juliet asks the Friar to shut the doore, and when thou hast done so, Come weepe with me, past hope, past care, past helpe.74 The reader proposes “cure” instead of “care,” a variant only found in Q1 and Q5 (Figure 10.12).75 Both variants work. Juliet is beyond “care” (as in “preservation” or “oversight with a view to protection”). She is also so far beyond “care” (i.e., fear) at this point that she is willing to hide underneath “dead mens ratling bones” rather than marry Paris. But she is also beyond “cure” because she thinks that nothing can remedy the situation. The Friar’s subsequent ministering of a potion as just such a remedy makes the suggestion of “cure” resonate beyond these lines. The use of “past care” allows for a Juliet who is both vulnerable and fearless. The use of “past cure” on the other hand emphasizes her vulnerability. But by not blotting out the “a” in “care,” the reader leaves both options available. Reader A also turns to Q5 in the Friar’s subsequent description of how the vial of “distilling liquor” will affect Juliet once she has consumed it: No warmth, no breath shall testifie thou liuest, The Roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To many ashes, the eyes windows fall Like death when he shut vp the day of life:76 He changes “the eyes windows fall” to “thy eye’s windows fall” (Figure 10.13). Although he adds the apostrophe to eyes independently of any other text, “thy” instead of “the” is a variant reading found in both Q2 and Q5.77 In the very same line of this passage, the reader suggests that “many ashes” could also be read as “palie ashes.”78 He does not strike out “many” but rather scores an “x” above the word and writes “palie” in the right-hand margin. “Palie” is only found in Q4 and Q5, with Q2 and Q3 printing “many” and F2 onwards supplying “mealy” as a third option. This provisional change accepts both the image of Juliet’s lips and cheeks fading to “many” ashes—ashes to ashes, dust to dust—and the image of them losing color, that is, fading to “palie” (or, pale) ashes. Taking these three emendations—“cure” for “care”; “thy” for “the”;

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  213

Figure 10.13  T he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff6r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

and “palie” for “many”—as a group suggests that the reader was working from Q5, since no other text prints the word supplied by the reader in all three instances. Another passage in which Reader A uses provisional collation to open up interpretive possibility is Juliet’s astonishingly frank soliloquy on the eve of her marriage to Romeo. In this speech, she calls on night (a “sober suted Matron”) to “learn” her how to lose her virginity—“how to loose a winning match.” At the same time, Juliet knows (or feels) enough to anticipate the physical pleasure of this match: Come gentle night, come louing blackebrow’d night. Giue me my Romeo, and when I shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stares, And he will make the Face of heauen so fine, That all the world will be in Loue with night, And pay no worship to the Garish Sun.79 The reader offers an alternative to the “I” in the second line of this passage by inscribing a caret below and an “x” above the printed “I” and writing Q5’s “^he” in the right-hand margin (Figure 10.14).80 The sense of the passage changes dramatically depending on which pronoun Juliet uses. Read innocently, F1’s Juliet expresses a desire to be close to Romeo even after she dies—when she is in heaven she wants him (cut into stars) to be close to her. As the line is printed in Q5, Juliet expresses a desire for Romeo to shine down on her and “all the world” after he dies—to bask in his light. Instead of wanting him close to her in heaven, she wants to be bathed in his light on earth. However, these lines are also charged with

214  Claire M. L. Bourne

Figure 10.14  T he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff3r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

physical desire. Juliet’s blood is “bayting” in her “Cheekes,” and in F1, she imagines the ecstasy of reaching orgasm (i.e., “when I shall die”). The reader’s provisional emendation (i.e., “when he shall die”) replaces Juliet’s focus on her own sexual pleasure with a focus on Romeo’s. ­However, by not actually crossing out “I” in favor of “he,” the reader allows for the couple’s shared pleasure, a sense of reciprocity that Juliet stresses later in the speech when she figures her own body as well as Romeo’s as purchased goods that have yet to be possessed (or, enjoyed) by the other. Just as he allows Juliet to continue imagining her own sexual fulfillment by retaining F1’s “I” and to anticipate Romeo’s by supplying Q5’s “he,” the reader finds similarly rich variation across the two texts in the Friar’s admonition of Romeo for his “womanish tears” following Tybalt’s slaying: Happinesse Courts thee in her best array, But like a mishaped and sullen wench, Thou puttest vp thy Fortune and thy Loue: Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.81 He places “x” above “mishaped,” “puttest,” and “vp,” and to the right of the passage offers as alternatives: “misbehav’d,” “poutst,” and “upõ” (Figure 10.15). In F1, the Friar likens Romeo to a deformed or ugly (“mishaped”) and sulky woman who cannot see “Happinesse” right in front of her, arraigning him for storing (or suspending) his current lot— his relationship with Juliet. The provisional Q5 variants re-characterize Romeo’s behavior: Romeo is like an unruly (“misbehav’d”) and sulky woman who treats her present circumstances with petulance (“poutst upõ”) even though those circumstances are, for all intents and purposes, happy ones. Instead of simply failing to seize his “Fortune” and “Loue,” the Romeo of the quarto text actively scorns it. And instead of being “mishaped” (that is, born into a condition that cannot be changed), Q5

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  215

Figure 10.15  T  he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ff4v. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Romeo is “misbehav’d”—in control of his destiny but acting out. The reader’s decision to preserve F1’s reading of the passage alongside that of Q5 suggests that he thought both turns of phrase could plausibly convince Romeo that he has acted against his own best interests. Besides attending to textual variants, Reader A also proved alert to inconsistencies in speech assignments between F1 and his Q5 copy text. In two instances, he reassigned speeches to reflect the quarto. The more complex of these two speech reassignments comes at the end of Juliet and Romeo’s exchange after the masked ball. The reader is not only alert to the speech prefixes but also eliminates language from Romeo’s speech which is repeated in the Friar’s soliloquy at the start of the next scene:82   Rom. I would I were thy Bird.   Iul. Sweet so would I, Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing: Good night, good night.   Rom. Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say goodnight, til it be morrow. Ro. Iul. Sleepe dwell vpon thine eyes, peace in thy brest.   Rom. Would I were sleepe and peace so sweet to rest. The gray ey’d morne smiles on the frowning night, Checkring the Eassterne Clouds with streakes of light, And darknesse fleckel’d like a drunkard reeles, From forth dayes pathway, made by Titans wheeles. Hence will I to my ghostly Fries close Cell, His helpe to craue, and my deare hap to tell. Hence will I to my ghostly friers close Cell His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.83

216  Claire M. L. Bourne In addition to assigning two of Romeo’s lines to Juliet (“Parting … ­morrow”) and one of Juliet’s lines to Romeo (“Sleep … brest”), the reader also crosses out seven lines with a series of diagonal marks and rewrites the final couplet, changing the spelling of a couple of words and amending the misprinted “Fries” to “friers” (Figure 10.16). The bracket that the reader has drawn around the “rest”-”brest” couplet seems to indicate that the second line of the couplet should be restored, even though it was swept up in the wholesale elimination of the ensuing six lines.84 The reassignment of “Parting is such sweet sorrow / That I shall say goodnight til it be morrow” to Juliet makes sense given that she is the one of the pair who has been repeating “good night” throughout the scene to hold the eager Romeo at bay—“A thousand times good night.” The emendation also affords each lover a rhymed couplet to complete

Figure 10.16  T he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. ee6v. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  217 their exchange. Not unsurprisingly, Q5 Juliet asserts closure with her couplet but Romeo has to have the last word (complete with sexual innuendo). F1 gives Romeo the “sorrow-morrow” couplet and then has them sharing the “breast-rest” couplet. This works well enough, but the reassignment of lines (based on Q5) better aligns with the abiding power dynamic of the exchange. As the previous example illustrates, the reader was interested in removing perceived textual difficulties, but even in such cases, the changes and suggestions demonstrate a keen attentiveness to dramatic situation. He does this again in Romeo’s final speech, striking through four lines so it approximates the state of the passage in Q5:   I will stay with thee, And neuer from this Pallace of dym night Depart againe: come lie thou in my armes, Heere’s to thy health, where ere thou tumblesst in O true Appothecarie! Thy drugs are quicke. Thus with a kisse I die. Depart againe; here, here will I remaine, With Worms that are thy Chambermaides: … Heere’s to my Loue. O true Appothecary: Thy drugs are quicke. Thus with a kisse I die.85 In Q5, however, the passage does not include the sentence: “come lie thou in my armes / Heere’s to thy health,” which the reader left intact. As such, this could be seen as a provisional emendation that allows for both F1 and Q5 readings. As emended, Romeo does not drink the poison twice (as the Folio text, perhaps in error, suggests), but he does embrace Juliet’s limp body and raises the vial to her “health,” signaling his intent to drink. The “here, here” of the next unobscured line take on different meaning than in Q5, where he has not yet embraced Juliet. The physical embrace in the reader’s hybrid version gives Romeo momentary pause and a desire to stay “here, here”—physically embracing Juliet’s (so he thinks) decaying corpse. In Q5, Romeo says he’ll never “depart againe” from “this palace of dim night”—the “here, here” is the place where bodies decay. The reader’s version emphasizes the eroticism of the moment for Romeo, whose ideal of love is more abstract and never so seated in physical desire as Juliet’s. This hybrid also echoes Juliet’s early entreaty to be hidden in a charnel house “[o]recouered quite” with corpses rather than submit to family demands. Here, the reader seems to play with interpretive possibility by producing a composite text that is not F1 or Q5—it is both. Besides removing these repeated lines and adding a possessive apostrophe, Reader A makes two other changes that do not match up exactly

218  Claire M. L. Bourne with Q5. On sig. ff6r, he crosses out the “i” in “Countie” to make it read “Counte,” a change also reflected in F2, F3, and F4. The use of “County” as an honorific may have been obsolete at the time of the reader’s intervention. And his change of “same” to “sun” on sig. ee3v has no retrievable textual precedent, even though it anticipates the editorial tradition. While he deferred to Q5 in almost every other instance, examples like these show that he was not mechanically “correcting” the F1 text by a copy of Q5. In many cases—about 145 by my count—Reader A chose not to change or suggest a change to the Folio text when Q5 offered a different reading. Even though recovering his exact motivations is impossible, he was clearly making active decisions about when to and when not to intervene on the page. One example illustrates particularly well this activity between Reader A’s deferral to Q5 and his independent inclinations. Here, he endeavors to regularize the meter of a hyper-metrical line: “Whiter then new snow vpon a Rauens backe” (Figure 10.13).86 He has crossed out “new” and the “vp” in “vpon” before subscribing a caret below the crossed out half-word and rewriting “up” above it. The edited line—“Whiter then snow upon a Rauens backe”—reflects Q4 and Q5, but the cancelling and rewriting of “up” suggests that the reader changed his mind about how to eliminate the extra beat. His initial thought was probably to preserve “new” and change “vpon” to “on”—F2 makes this change, and F3 and F4 repeat it—but Q5 advanced another solution, one the reader preferred. So, he restored his initial cut by striking out “new” instead. His treatment of meter here suggests that while his editorial process had a basis in the copy text, it was not yoked to it. Reader B’s transcription of the prologue on the page facing the beginning of Romeo & Juliet demonstrates a similar indebtedness to the quarto tradition. Apart from variant spellings and punctuation, the prologue written into the Free Library’s F1 matches the prologue as printed in Q2, Q3, Q4, and Q5 with two exceptions. Instead of reading “their childrens end” as do all the quartos, line 11 of the reader’s transcription reads “thire childrens death.” Because “death” appears two lines above in approximately the same position, the reader’s use of the word here could very well have been the result of an eye-slip. The more striking change affects the prologue’s title. Instead of following the quartos, which all title the poem simply “Prologue,” the reader writes, “The prologue to Juliet and Romeo.” The addition of the play’s title clarifies that the transcribed passage does not belong to Titus Andronicus despite being written on the last page of that play. Moreover, the inversion of the protagonists’ names could mean that this reader wrote the prologue into the book after having read the play—with the syntax of the play’s final couplet still fresh in mind: “For neuer was a Storie of more Wo, / Then this of Iuliet, and her Romeo.” It is tempting to interpret

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  219 the inversion of the title as the reader’s not-so-tacit acknowledgement of Juliet’s priority.87 He would not be the only early modern reader to transpose the lovers’ names. Under the title-page imprint of a copy of Q4 at the Folger Shakespeare Library, an early reader has inscribed “Juliet and Romeo.”88 A copy of Corona Charitatis (1626), also at the Folger, features two different versions of the play’s final couplet inscribed on the blank verso of the final page.89 In a quarto verse miscellany dating from the early seventeenth century held at Meisei University, a reader has recorded Romeo’s speech (beginning “Oh shee doth teach the torches to burne bright”) upon first seeing Juliet as well as the first three lines of the sonnet they share (beginning “Yf I p[ro]fane w th my unworthyest hand”) under the heading “In Juliett & Romeo.”90 In an early print example, John Marston in his Scourge of Villanie (1598) references the language of the play, calling it “pure Iuliat and Romeo.”91 The circulation of this alternate title demonstrates, just like Reader A’s Q5-motivated emendations do, that different versions of the play—and, by extension, of “Shakespeare”—were viable in the middle of the seventeenth century. ••• As the reference to the “supple[ment]” at the end of Horatio’s warning suggests, Reader A’s engagement with the text of Hamlet also involved a second text. Of the thirty-two provisional and decisive changes made to that play in the course of his reading, twenty-eight have a basis in Q3 and Q4, while twenty-seven of these have a basis in Q5.92 The striking consistency across Q3–Q5 Hamlet in the passages corresponding to the ones the reader emends in F1 makes it impossible on the basis of collation alone to determine which quarto the reader consulted.93 But he was clearly collating against the quarto tradition. The reference to a “supple[ment]” could only mean that the reader had a copy of one of these quartos to hand. If he wanted to seek out the extra lines, he could. An enigma to anyone unfamiliar with the fact that the reader was collating the Folio and quarto texts of the play, this annotation suggests that the reader considered his Hamlet quarto a necessary adjunct to F1. Given that the reader probably owned Q5 Romeo & Juliet, there is a good chance that he also owned Q5 Hamlet. He could have bought both quartos at the same time from Smethwick, who re-published both of them in 1637 from his shop under the sign of the Dial in St. Dunstan’s Churchyard, or in the decades following their publication, as the quartos continued to be sold together. Reader A corrects misprints, regularizes hypo- and hyper-metrical lines of verse, and makes or suggests changes to the F1 Hamlet using quarto readings. For instance, he grapples with meter and textual

220  Claire M. L. Bourne variance in Gertrude’s speech to Hamlet after the Ghost appears to him in the queen’s closet:   Qu. Alas, how is’t with you? That you bend your eye on vacancie, And with their corporall ayre do hold discourse.94 The reader adds “doe” to the second line to turn tetrameter into pentameter, a change that reflects all seventeenth-century quartos except Q1 (Figure 10.17). The next pair of changes (“their” to “th” and “corporall” to “incorporall”) has the same basis in the quarto tradition. Not only do these emendations preserve this line’s meter, but just like the reader’s handling of the “snow upon a Rauens back” line in Romeo & Juliet, they also show a negotiation between his own reading of the passage for sense and an equally sensible reading supplied by his “supple[ment].” It seems he initially crossed out “their” entirely in the third line, so that it would read: “And with incorporall ayre do hold discourse.” Even though the definite article is metrically unnecessary, the reader defers to his quarto, crossing out the “eir” of “their” more vigorously, thus possibly suggesting an intent to preserve the “th.” Most of Reader A’s changes to the Folio text of Hamlet are more straightforward than this one. For instance, he changes the final word of “I haue heard, / The Cocke that is the Trumpet to the day” to “morn.”95 He substitutes “distill’d” for the Folio’s “bestil’d” in Horatio’s description of Bernardo and Marcellus being reduced “Almost to Ielly” at the sight of the Ghost.96 He suggests “intents” to replace “euents” in ­Hamlet’s “Be thy euents wicked or charitable, / … / I will speak to thee.”97 And he proposes “wicked tongue” in place of “idle tongue” in Hamlet’s rejoinder to

Figure 10.17  T he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. pp2r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  221 his mother (Figure 10.18).98 All these provisional substitutions align F1 with Q2–Q5, and the three post-Restoration quartos. Some of Reader A’s emendations do not reflect the Restoration quartos and thus isolate Q3–Q5 as the most likely candidates for his “supple [ment].” He changes Hamlet’s epithet about Claudius from “the blunt King” to “the bloat King” in accordance with Q2–Q5’s “blowt king,” where the Restoration quartos print a sanitized version of the line: “Let not the king tempt you to bed again” (Figure 10.19). Similarly, the reader emends the apparent compositorial misreading in Horatio’s reference to the “dreadful Sonnet of the Cliffe” to “sommet,” a variant spelling for Q2–Q5’s “somnet,” where the Restoration quartos opt for the unprecedented “border.”

Figure 10.18  T he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sigs. nn5r and nn6r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

222  Claire M. L. Bourne But Reader A was not entirely constrained by the quarto. Again, there are many changes he could have made but did not. There are also a handful of changes that have no basis in any extant text of the play, not even Q1. One of these independent emendations can be found in the Ghost’s revelatory speech to Hamlet at the end of the first act. Where the Ghost recounts the poison possessing and curdling his blood with “a sodaine vigour,” the reader suggests replacing “vigour” with “rigor.” The reader makes the same kind of unaided provisional emendation in the so-called closet scene when he describes his mother as bending towards vice:   Forgiue me this my Vertue, For in the fatnesse of this pursie times, Vertue it selfe, of Vice must pardon begge, Yea courb, and woe, for leaue to do him good.99 The reader may have determined “courb” to be a compositorial error since “-rb” looks similar to “-ch” in secretary hand (Figure 10.20). Although Lee was adamant about the superiority of the reader’s suggestion, both “courb” and “couch” make sense in the context of Hamlet’s complaint about Virtue (i.e. Gertrude) having become enslaved to Vice (i.e. Claudius).100 Gertrude is not only in the compromising position where she has to “woe” (or woo) the king, says Hamlet, but she also has to “courb” (bend) to him or, as the Folio reader would have it, “couch” (crouch, cower) in his shadow. Reader A’s editorial autonomy in these two cases is characteristic of his sporadic emendations to the texts of Folio-only plays. The most striking example of such an intervention comes in the text of Measure

Figure 10.19  The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. pp2r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Figure 10.20  T  he Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. pp2r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  223 for Measure, the play with the third highest concentration of manuscript changes (seven in total), when Angelo warns Isabella that hidden beauty elicits more attention than beauty openly exhibited:   Ang. Thus wisdom wishes to appeare most bright, When it doth taxe it selfe: As these blacke Masques Proclaime an en-shield beauty ten times louder Then beauty could displaied.101 The Folio reader seems to have had some difficulty with the adjective “en-shield,” offering “enshrin[d]” as an alternative (Figure 10.21). Written in the margin, the word was cropped when the page was trimmed to accommodate the book’s second, late seventeenth-century binding. All Folio editions print “en-shield,” as do most modern editions, where it is glossed as “shielded” or “concealed.” This is Shakespeare’s only use of the word, and it is also the only usage recorded in the OED.102 The reader’s suggestion of “enshrin[d]” preserves the idea of protection and concealment suggested by “en-shield.” As such, his considered choice of this word shows a very early instance of an editorial hand grappling with an abstruse Shakespearean neologism.103 Many of Reader A’s interventions in plays other than Hamlet and Romeo & Juliet address obvious errors, punctuation, and meter and could easily have been made without recourse to another text. It is worth noting, however, that he does make several substantive changes to the texts of Folio-only plays that are found in later Folio editions. He amends “periury” to “penury” in Measure for Measure,104 while in Coriolanus, he modifies Cominius’ reference to Tarquin’s “Amazonian Shinne” to read “chin.”105 F2 preserves “Shinne,” but F3 and F4 both print “chin.” This is not to say that the reader necessarily consulted these editions but rather that he was either familiar with these passages or perspicacious enough to make sense of these lines. The emendations that fall into this

Figure 10.21  The Free Library of Philadelphia’s First Folio, sig. F5r. Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.

224  Claire M. L. Bourne category, though, are too few to support any other meaningful conclusions about the reader’s method for making and suggesting changes to the texts of other plays in the book. Many of these changes, including the instance where he changes “Barlet” to “marlet” in the text of Macbeth, suggest that he was attentive to the sense, accuracy, and interpretive possibility of the dialogue. ••• The oft-neglected 1637 Shakespeare quartos made their mark—on this seventeenth-century reader and, by extension, on the pages of his book. But Reader A did not collate F1 against the quartos in the way we might today—line by line, word by word, point by point. We should not therefore imagine him reading folio and quarto side by side, shuttling his eyes back and forth between them and diligently ­“correcting” the Folio against the later text. It is more likely that he reached for his supplementum as a reference when particular passages caught his attention. Many of his interventions are clustered in long speeches—­ Juliet’s soliloquies, Romeo’s laments, and Friar ­L aurence’s counsels— so it is possible that he consulted Q5 when his memory of these speeches (from performance or from prior readings) did not wholly accord with the Folio text. It is also possible that he consulted Q5 mainly to cross-­ reference those passages that he intended to transcribe into a commonplace book. Reader A’s extensive marginal brackets show, at the very least, an intent to mark favorite or noteworthy passages and perhaps also to return to the text to transcribe them for future consultation or study. The references to Tottel’s Songes and Sonnettes and Purchas’ Pilgrimes not only suggest his aspiration to study the text alongside other vernacular books but also provide evidence that he did so with an eye to Shakespeare’s methods of appropriation. In other words, this early reader recognized Shakespeare as a borrower decades before Gerard Langbaine documented the “plagiaries” (i.e., sources) of Shakespeare and other early modern playwrights for the first time.106 A similar interest in intertextual reading is also evident in the transcription of the song stanza at the end of Measure for Measure as well as in the marking of songs throughout the volume. The reader’s attentiveness to all the ways the F1 plays are composite texts exposes not Shakespeare’s exceptionalism among other playwrights but rather his fairly conventional practice of “patching” together material from a variety of sources to make a play.107 Furthermore, the reader adds material to the plays that might not even be by Shakespeare in the first place: not only “new” (unauthorized) variants but also verse from other playwrights. The stanza of the song that the reader adds to the final page of Measure for Measure, after all, has been both attributed to Fletcher and circulated in manuscript anonymously.108

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  225 This is not the Shakespeare of Leonard Digges’ poem in John Benson’s 1640 edition of the Poems which characterized everything Shakespeare wrote a “pure, his owne … language exquisite.”109 The reader’s references to Tottel, Purchas, and a textual “supple[ment]” also present a different picture of “Shakespeare” than the one depicted in Anthony Van Dyck’s famous portrait of John Suckling, in which Suckling holds a copy of F1 or F2 open to Hamlet. In Van Dyck’s painting, the subject leans against a rock inscribed with the Latin phrase Ne te quaesiveris extra, or “Don’t seek outside yourself.”110 The motto suggests a closed network between reader and Folio—and indeed the Folio itself as a closed network—where the book contains everything Suckling needs to participate in a learned, literary culture. In contrast to both Digges, who insists on Shakespeare’s solitary genius, and Van Dyck’s portrait, which presents the Folio itself as a self-sufficient proxy for that genius, Reader A (and to some extent Reader B in supplying “The prologue to Juliet and Romeo”) legitimates Shakespeare’s practice of borrowing as evidence of his participation in a complex and often material network of vernacular textual production. Not only does the Free Library F1 testify to Reader A’s recognition that Shakespeare “sought outside” his own native capacities to construct his plays, but as I have shown, it also demonstrates the reader himself seeking outside Shakespeare’s proxy—“his Booke”—to update, explore, and make the plays new. Reader A’s practice of selectively collating his F ­ olio against post-Folio quartos suggests that these later texts themselves operated as the guiding principles for his interventions—interventions that illuminate, but do not necessarily resolve, both the textual and, crucially, the interpretive potential of key passages. While the Friar in F1 sees Romeo giving up on his happiness, the reader’s collation of this passage opens up the possibility of a Romeo who broods over it. F1 gives us a Juliet who anticipates her own sexual pleasure in consummating her marriage; the reader suggests that she focus also on Romeo’s pleasure. In F1, Hamlet insults Claudius’ impotence (“blunt king”) in contrast to the quarto-sanctioned reading, in which the prince accuses his uncle of having an insatiable sexual appetite (“bloat king”). Horatio in F1 supplies the image of Bernardo and Marcellus struck motionless (“bestil’d”) with fear, while the reader imagines that fear reduced (“distill’d”) them to trembling masses. These provisional emendations show that the reader was not only reading closely enough to be familiar with the fictive world of each play, but more importantly, that he was stretching the bounds of those fictive worlds. Given the reader’s capacity for making a handful of well-considered, if textually unaided, emendations in other plays (“enshrin[d]” for “enshield” in Measure, for instance), why did he not pay more attention to plays like Measure or Macbeth? Why did he dedicate so much ink to Romeo & Juliet and Hamlet? While it is inviting to equate the reader’s particular interest in these two plays to their privileged place in the

226  Claire M. L. Bourne Shakespearean canon, there is a much simpler explanation: the reader left his heaviest mark on Romeo & Juliet and Hamlet because he had access to distinct editions of these two plays (namely, the fifth quartos). So, while he was capable of exercising some measure of editorial autonomy, the disparity between the two plays he heavily annotated and the rest suggests that the quartos—his supplementa—were indeed one of the means by which he read his Folio. In this way, he took seriously Q5 Romeo & Juliet’s claim to be “Newly corrected, augmented, and amended” and set to work comparing this new and improved text against his Folio text. He proceeded in similar fashion with Q5 Hamlet, whose title page promised that the play had been “Newly imprinted and inlarged, according to the true and perfect Copy last Printed.” Because these claims had appeared first on the second editions of both plays (1599 and 1604/1605) and on every subsequent quarto, their presence on the title pages of Q5 Romeo & Juliet and Q5 Hamlet strike modern critics as either hollow marketing ploys or stale hold-overs from previous editions. To Reader A, as certainly to lots of other readers who invested in later quarto playbooks that made similar claims, such promises were neither hollow nor stale. And as Reader A’s emendations show, the quartos indeed fulfilled their title-page promise of containing playtexts different from—and possibly even better than—the ones already in circulation. Instead of seeking a textual history, then, this reader used his book to record a glimpse of a textual present, in which Romeo & Juliet and Hamlet were still (as they indeed still are) textually and interpretively in flux.

Appendix: The FLP Folio Binding In this appendix, I provide the technical bibliographical evidence for dating the binding of the Free Library of Philadelphia copy of the First Folio to the latter half of the seventeenth century. The red speckling on the page edges supports this conclusion, since this coloring treatment is characteristic of books bound in the late seventeenth century.111 ­According to the catalogue entry for this copy in Rasmussen and West’s catalogue, the binding was done by someone who also did work for Samuel Pepys. They cite Philippa Marks, the resident binding expert at the ­British Library, who points out that the largest floral tool used to decorate the top and bottom panels on the spine of the book corresponds to a tool used to decorate the binding on Pepys’ manuscript “Lt Gradon’s Collection of Naval Flags & Colors.”112 The manuscript was bound in 1686 by an unidentified binder. Marks also connected the tool to a binding on a copy of Charles Pora’s L’Amour reglé dating to 1682. In addition, the volute corner bracket used to decorate the spine of the Free Library First Folio is almost identical to a tool also used on at least two books bound by John Berresford for Pepys’ library—the Pynson Sarum

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  227 Missal (1520) and an illustrated roll depicting Henry VIII’s ships given to Pepys by Charles II and cut up to be bound in 1690.113 Berresford became a freeman of the Stationers’ Company in 1682 and presumably worked until he disappeared from the company’s records in 1716. He started taking commissions from Pepys as early as 1685, working for him until Pepys’ death in 1703.114 The connection of the Free Library First Folio to Berresford’s workshop would date its binding to sometime between 1682 and 1716, when Berresford was active. Of course, this dating is contingent on the exact same tool being used to ornament the books in Pepys’ library and the spine of the Free Library First Folio, and as David Pearson has cautioned, many of the smaller tools used to decorate bindings in a given period “were replicated in numerous virtually identical versions, so that many workshops would be simultaneously using tools that look very similar.”115 However, Pearson also notes that particular tool designs can help in “assigning bindings to the right time period irrespective of workshop identification”; or, as Mirjam M. Foot explains, “Small tools, as impressed on bindings, turn up over limited periods of time in specific locations.”116 Studies of seventeenth-­ century bookbindings by Pearson, Foot, and Howard M. Nixon show that a tool almost indistinguishable from the one used on the spine of the Free Library First Folio was used on a number of magnificent bindings attributed to the workshop of Samuel Mearne, a bookbinder who supplied bindings to Charles II’s household as well as to royal chapels and for ceremonies of the Order of the Garter.117 Nixon has dated the earliest of these bindings to 1666.118 Former Folger Shakespeare Library conservator Frank Mowery is doubtful that Mearne’s bindery could have been responsible for the mediocre quality of the ornamentation on the Free Library First Folio binding. However, even if neither the tool used in Mearne’s bindery nor the nearly identical one used by Berresford is the exact same tool used on the binding of the Free Library First Folio, it is possible to say with some degree of confidence that this tool and its variants started appearing on books sometime in the mid-1660s. This, in turn, means that the Folio could have been rebound at least as early as 1666, a date that accords with the late Philadelphia-based conservator and bookbinding expert Willman Spawn’s independent ­estimate of 1670.119 If this is the case, then the manuscript notes could very well have been made at some point before the Restoration or in the decade after Charles II reclaimed the throne.

Notes I would like to thank Peter Stallybrass, Zachary Lesser, Eric Rasmussen, and Adam G. Hooks for feedback on earlier drafts of this essay. I am also deeply grateful to the librarians at the Free Library of Philadelphia’s Rare Book ­Department for their assistance and patience during my research.

228  Claire M. L. Bourne 1 Shakespeare, Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies London: 1623, sig. Oo1r. Hereafter this book will be referred to as FLPF1. 2 Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Hamlet [Q5], sig. C3r. 3 Sherman, Used Books, xvi. 4 Massai, Shakespeare, 14. My own survey of 1,300+ early modern playbooks at the Folger Shakespeare Library supports Massai’s findings. On selective reading of the First Folio, see Emma Smith, Shakespeare’s First Folio, 132. 5 No recent study of F1 has shown a reader to be collating the apparently “perfected” Folio texts against other editions. See Smith, Shakespeare’s First Folio and The Making of Shakespeare’s First Folio. See also Mayer, “Annotating and Transcribing;” “Early Buyers and Readers;” “First Folio Readers’ Marks;” “Rewriting Shakespeare;” and “The Saint-Omer First Folio.” 6 Shakespeare, The Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet [Q5], [t.p.]; and The Tragedy of Hamlet [Q5], [t.p.]. On play-patching, see Tiffany Stern, Documents of Performance. 7 Lee, An Undescribed Copy, 267. 8 West, The Shakespeare First Folio, 235. The copy is listed as #179 in West’s census. 9 The auction was handled by Christie, Manson, & Woods in their rooms on St. James Square, London; the auction lot number for the Folio was 309. See Catalogue of the Library of the Lord Revelstoke, 26. According to West, a note in Maggs’s copy of Sidney Lee’s Census refers to the sale: “[Rare books dealer Bernard] Quaritch valued Folio at £1,100 but sent a commis[ion] of £1,000 to sale. His agent bid up to £1,700 to punish his opponent” (The Shakespeare First Folio, 235). 10 Lee, “Undescribed Copy,” 267. See also Lee, Shakespeares Comedies, histories, & tragedies. 11 Rosenbach dates the sale to 1905 (Books and Bidders, 87), while Maggs’s copy of Lee’s Census dates it to July 1908. See West, The Shakespeare First Folio, 235. 12 Lee, “Notes and Additions to the Census of Copies of the Shakespeare First Folio.” The Library 26 (1906): 119–120. 13 Lee, Notes and Additions, 119–120. 14 According to Lee, the First Folio, “apart from the pecuniary value now attaching to it, possesses numerous points of first-rate interest,” including the manuscript notes (“Undescribed Copy,” 267). 15 Rosenbach, Description, 16. Widener is thought to have paid $60,000 for the Perry set of folios (Wolf and Fleming, Rosenbach, 115). 16 Their grandfather P.A.B. Widener had served on the first board of trustees of the Free Library, and their father was also a trustee from 1916 to 1942, a year before he died. 17 Rosenbach, Description, 8. Rosenbach refers here to The Plays and Poems of William Shakespeare, 8 vols. (Philadelphia: Bioren & Madan, 1795–1796). 18 The number of emendations excludes annotations (references to other texts and the lone gloss in Timon of Athens) as well as the marginal brackets. It does, however, account for the addition of “missing” text, such as the second stanza of the song from Measure for Measure and the prologue from Romeo & Juliet. If more than one change has been made to a particular line or sentence, I have counted each change as a separate emendation. Even if I had calculated emendations in a given line or sentence as one emendation, my count would still have come in much higher than Lee’s estimate of 40.

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  229 19 FLPF1, sigs. Pp5r and A5r. In “Some Undescribed Copies,” Lee called these notes “the earliest experimentation in literary illustration of Shakespeare’s work that have yet been discovered” (168). I discuss the exact editions of the titles referenced by the reader in more detail below. 20 It is tempting to explain the lack of interest in these plays as a symptom of their status on the fringes of the corpus—products of multiple hands and therefore not entirely “Shakespearean.” 21 There are so many marked passages in the book that Eric Rasmussen and Anthony James West opted to record these marks only through 2 Henry IV in the entry for this copy of the First Folio in The Shakespeare First Folios, 721–725. 22 See sigs. A2v, A2r, A3r, B1r, F1r, and V3r. These phrases often appear at the beginning or the end of a loosely bracketed passage of text and could serve the purpose of isolating a portion of the passage for commonplacing. 23 Lee, Undescribed Copy, 267. Besides Lee’s analysis of the manuscript intervention in his piece for The Athenæum, Peter Stallybrass and Jonathan Hsy are the only two scholars I am aware of who have attempted to make sense of the notes. Stallybrass has shared his findings with me in conversation, while Hsy wrote a seminar paper about the manuscript notes (“An Analysis of Marginalia”). Hsy also was unable to see a “discernable pattern” in the bracketing (“Analysis,” 7). 24 28 of the 603 marked passages are songs, parts of songs, or standalone poems. 25 Lee, Undescribed Copy, 267. Lee does not assign the marginal brackets to either “pen.” 26 Bailey in Rasmussen and West, Descriptive Catalogue, 722. According to Bailey, the instance of bracketing in dark-brown ink occurs on sig. v3v. 27 FLPF1, sig. ee3v. 28 Ibid., sigs. D1r–v. 29 I use male pronouns for both readers for ease of comprehension, with the caveat that either reader could have been a woman. 30 Lee, Undescribed Copy, 267. Here, Lee provides no specific evidence for his dating of the notes. 31 Rasmussen and West, Descriptive Catalogue, 721. 32 If the Belleroches acquired the book after coming to England in the mid1680s, then it could be that they were responsible for its current binding. The timing of their relocation and the binding correspond, as I discuss at more length below. 33 Lee, Undescribed Copy, 267. 34 Other copies with all their original leaves present include West 1, 2, 4, 12, 13, 14, 19, 21, 24, 37, 43, 50, 53, 54, 58, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 71, 72, 80, 126, 127, 130, 133, 143, 147, 150, 151, 154, 157, 158, 164, 165, 166, 167, 170, 171, 172, 175, 145, 178, 181, 183, 194, 196, 197, 201, and 216 (West, The Shakespeare First Folio). 35 Lee thought it dated from “the last years” of the century (Undescribed Copy, 267). 36 FLPF1, sig. G6v; see also sigs. D1r–v; F5r; G3v; and pp2r. 37 Rosenbach, Description, 16. Rosenbach wrote this pamphlet to commemorate the Widener family’s donation of the books to the Free Library. West replicated the claim that the book was “in the original calf binding” in The Shakespeare First Folios, 234–5. 38 FLPF1, sig. pp5r. 39 A version of this song appears on folio 72r in the 1557, 1559, 1565, 1567, and 1574 editions of Songes and Sonnettes (STC 13862, STC 13863, STC 13864, STC 13865, STC 13866).

230  Claire M. L. Bourne 40 FLPF1, sig. A5r. 41 Purchas, Pvrchas His Pilgrimes, sig. C6r. 42 Fletcher, The Bloody Brother (1639), sig. H4v. The stanza appeared again with variants closer to the FLPF1 reader’s transcript in Q2 (1640), sigs. I2r-v. 43 Shakespeare, Poems (1640), sig. K6r. 44 Benson’s edition reads: “But my poore heart first set free.” 45 For all known appearances of this song including in FLPF1, see Beal, “Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher,” CELM, 15–26. 46 MS Eng. Poet. F. 27 (Bodleian Library Oxford), 66–7. This manuscript is dated 1638 in two places. 47 Lee, Undescribed Copy. 48 West, The Shakespeare First Folio, 234. 49 Rasmussen and West, Descriptive Catalogue, 721–5. 50 Massai, Shakespeare, 6. 51 See Lee, Undescribed Copies, 174. 52 Rowe, “To his Grace, The Duke of Somerset,” sig. A2v; Capell, Introduction, 20. 53 Pope, preface to The Works of Shakespear, xxii. 54 Rowe wrote that he was striving to “restor[e] this Work to the Exactness of the Author’s Original Manuscripts” (“To his Grace,” sig. A2r); Pope, to “restore the corrupted sense of the Author” (The Works of Shakespear, sig. xxiii); Louis Theobald, to “Restor[e] the genuine Readings” (The Works of Shakespeare, xl); and Capell, to access “that fair country the Poet’s real habitation” (Mr William Shakespeare, 20). 55 de Grazia, Shakespeare Verbatim, 52. 56 Malone, The plays and poems, xviii. 57 Lee thought the emendations were “aimed at removing obscurities of phrase and typographical confusions,” although he admits: “Occasionally comment of a more ambitious literary character is attempted. Once or twice an effort is made to improve the meter” (Undiscovered Copy, 267). He suggests Q4 as a possible source text for one of the emendations—the suggested replacement of “I” with “he” in Juliet’s phrase “When I shall die.” I discuss this change at more length below. 58 Lee’s conjecture that the reader used his own judgment to amend the text is in line with some more recent assessments of readers’ marks in printed plays. Fredson Bowers believed that variants in the second folio of Beaumont and Fletcher’s Comedies and Tragedies (1679) were based on “educated guesses,” and Robert K. Turner has suggested that the changes made to one of the plays in that volume (A Wife for a Month) were not “beyond the capacity of a thoughtful reader” (quoted in Massai, Shakespeare, 11). 59 I am not including in this tally Reader B’s addition of the prologue or correction of the misprinted s in “scattered” on sig. gg1r. 60 R. Carter Hailey’s dates this quarto in “The Dating Game.” Two emendations on sig. ff6r (“thy” for “the” and “cure” for “care”) eliminate Q4 as the text the reader used for collation. I discuss these emendations in detail below. 61 Arber, A Transcript, I:50 and 52. 62 Howel, General History, sig. 5V2v. 63 Massai, Shakespeare, 179. (Massai does not discuss Q5.) 64 Massai, Shakespeare, 141. Matthew Black and Matthias Shaaber identified 114 changes between the F1 and F2 texts of Romeo & Juliet, the most in any play (Shakespeare’s Seventeenth-Century Editors).

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  231 65 West, The Shakespeare First Folio, 31; Emma Smith, “The Bodleian’s First Folio.” On dating the wear on the pages of Romeo & Juliet to the seventeenth century, see “Arch. G c.7.” For a discussion of readerly interest in different plays, see Emma Smith, Shakespeare’s First Folio, 173–5. 66 For example, the Arden3 does not include Q5 in collations. According to my own collation of the FLP First Folio Romeo & Juliet with Q5, the reader deferred to Q5 about 20% of the time. This kind of selective i­ntervention—“dipping in and out”—is not unusual for readers who left marks in copies of the First Folio (Emma Smith, Shakespeare’s First Folio, 132). 67 FLPF1, sig. ff3r. 68 All three use the variant spelling “agill.” 69 FLPF1, sig. gg1v. 70 Ibid., sig. ff6r. 71 His substitution of “shroud” for the second instance of “graue” follows Q4 and Q5 only. In Q2 (sig. I3r) and Q3 (sig. I3r), the line is truncated metrically: “And hide me with a dead man in his.” The line is completely different, although metrically regular, in Q1: “Or lay me in tombe with one new dead” (sig. H3r). 72 FLPF1, sig. ff5r. 73 Ibid., sig. ff6v. 74 FLPF1, sig. ff6r. 75 The reader cannot be working against Q1 because they make or suggest changes to a number of other lines that simply do not have analogs in this earliest text of the play. Additionally, every emendation that matches Q1 also matches Q5. Q5 was probably set from an annotated printed text of Q4, and the correspondence between this line in Q1 and Q5 suggests that the editor responsible for preparing copy for the printing of Q5 might also have been able to reference Q1 in the process. Lynette Hunter has argued that the texts of Q3 and Q4 were prepared with “substantial recourse” to Q1, thus explaining why there are often correspondences between these later quartos and Q1 but not always Q2. See Hunter, “Romeo and Juliet.” See also Lukas Erne, Introduction, 43. 76 FLPF1, sig. ff6r. 77 The reader’s changes do not often agree with Q2, making it unlikely that he was consulting this particular quarto. 78 This “major crux” has led to all sorts of conjecture, even though “many” and “palie” both make sense. See 2 Henry the Sixth for “palie lips” (sig. n3v). Leon Kellner suggested “wany” (as in, pale) which has been adopted in most editions since 1925. McKerrow’s papers suggest his preference for “very.” See Taylor, Inventing Shakespeare, 29. 79 FLPF1, sig. ff3r. 80 “He” is used for the first time in Q4. 81 FLPF1, sig. ff4v. 82 Emma Smith expresses surprise that readers of other Folios who make changes to the text of Romeo & Juliet do not fix this infelicity (Shakespeare’s First Folio, 157). 83 FLPF1, sig. ee6v. 84 Unlike the following six lines, the second line of the couplet is also not repeated in the Friar’s speech at the beginning of the next scene. 85 FLPF1, sig. gg2r. 86 FLPF1, sig. ff3r. 87 The privileging of Juliet here reflects René Weis’ recent assessment of Juliet’s centrality to the play in his introduction to the new Arden Third Series edition of the play.

232  Claire M. L. Bourne 88 STC 22325a (Folger Shakespeare Library). 89 STC 22466 copy 3 (Folger Shakespeare Library), sig. G3v. 90 Beal, CELM, “Meisei University: MR 0799,” 56. 91 Marston, Villanie, sig. H4r. 92 The four changes that do not derive from any of these quartos have no ­basis in any other seventeenth-century edition of the play, including the late-­century “actors’ quartos” (AQ1, AQ2, AQ3). 93 Twenty-four of the twenty-nine changes have a basis in Q2. Hsy conjectured that the reader might have been working from Q2, while Bailey’s description of the annotations in the Descriptive Catalogue (Rasmussen and West) suggests that at least one of the changes (“Politician” to “Pelican” on sig. pp3v) might have derived from Q2. 94 FLPF1, sig. pp2r. 95 Ibid., sig. nn5r. 96 Ibid., sig. nn6r. 97 Ibid., sig. oo1r. 98 Ibid., sig. pp1v. 99 Ibid., sig. pp2r. 100 Lee, Undescribed Copy, 267. Lee’s preference for the reader’s suggestion is based on his observation that “courb” and its variant spellings are “never used elsewhere by Shakespeare in any like sense.” 101 FLPF1, sig. F5r. 102 See Lee, Undescribed Copy, 267. 103 Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century editors also fumbled over the idea of “an en-shield beauty,” suggesting “in-shell’d” or “enshell’d” as possible alternatives. See “Measure for Measure,” in The Plays of William Shakespeare (1685), 68n2. “In-shell’d” was the variant J. Payne Collier offered in his forged annotations. See Notes and Emendations, 46. 104 FLPF1, sig. G6r. 105 Ibid., sig. aa6r. 106 Langbaine, Momus Tirumphans, sigs. C3r–v. 107 See Stern, introduction to Documents of Performance. 108 Fletcher, Rollo, Duke of Normandy, 105–6. 109 Digges, Master William Shakespeare, 418–20. 110 Anthony Van Dyck, Sir John Suckling, oil on canvas, 1632. The Frick Collection, New York, NY. See Lesser and Stallybrass’ discussion of this motto in First Literary Hamlet, 419–20. 111 Pearson, Bookbinding, 112 and Col.pl.9.1. Pearson explains that “a red or red and black sprinkle” became the “standard option for run of the mill work” in the second half of the seventeenth century. 112 Eric Rasmussen, personal correspondence with the author, December 2012. 113 Nixon, ed., Catalogue, Plate 22 and “Rubbings.” 114 Records show that Berresford attended Pepys’ funeral and received a mourning ring to mark the occasion (Nixon, “Introduction,” in Catalogue, xxiii). 115 Pearson, Bookbinding, 117–18. Upon studying photographs of the goldtooled binding, former Folger Shakespeare Library conservator Frank Mowery said it would be difficult to attribute the Free Library First Folio binding to a particular bindery precisely because some version of the volute corner bracket used to decorate the spine was probably used by a number of workshops in the late seventeenth- and early eighteenth- centuries (personal conversation, July 19, 2012).

Early Modern Collation as Play-Reading  233 116 Pearson, Bookbinding, 118; Foot, Bookbinding Research, 13–29, esp. 15. 117 The tool appears on the Mearne bindings of at least three sets of Bibles and prayer books, two of which were inscribed to the king. See Nixon, Restoration Bindings, Plates 14, 15, 17, 18, 19, and 29. Mearne’s bindings of several MS Statutes of the Order of the Garter also display this tool (see Plates 31–33). 118 Mearne ran his bindery until his death in 1683, when his son Charles inherited the job of royal bookbinder. See Foot, “Mearne, Samuel (1624–1683).” 119 Peter Stallybrass, personal conversation, April 2008. According to Stallybrass, Spawn examined the book in person before he passed away in 2010. Rasmussen and West’s team also cite Spawn dating the binding to the eighteenth century.

11 Early Modern Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter Sjoerd Levelt

Early Modern Twitter-storms ‘A most learned Dutch author hath maintained that birds doe speake and converse one with another.’1 Throughout the early modern period, it was widely known that birds have voices, and The Parliament of Fowls, Chaucer’s great creation, reconvened at irregular intervals.2 The cacophony of tweets could lead to true Twitter-storms, and violent battles of birds were regularly reported,3 even sung about.4 Different birds were known to comment on affairs in ways characteristic to their own species,5 and while many concerned themselves primarily with erotic subjects6 —some voyeuristically commenting on the frolicking of young couples in London7— others even addressed the practicalities of government in their tweets.8 In an observation which also applies to early modern marginalia, medievalist Dorothy Kim has noted that [i]f the medieval manuscript is a recording medium that allows scholar[s] now to see the conversations and connected marginal glosses of individual readers, then Twitter is the digital medium that replicates this practice the most but with comments all the time and in real time for individual thinkers.9 Like early modern marginalia, tweets are used to engage with text in a plethora of ways: to annotate, explain, comment, cross-reference, call attention, memorize, disparage, satirize, ridicule, praise, translate, summarize, etc.—and to make apparently entirely extraneous, sometimes unintelligible, comments. Twitter is used by scholars in Early Modern Studies to comment on, relate to, teach and examine the sources they study, and to establish communities of readers, as well as communities of learning.10 The generic links to other types of writing which we see in early modern marginalia is mirrored by the ways in which #earlymoderntwitter communicates with other scholarly disciplines as well as other fields of knowledge, including current events, sports, entertainment and gossip), within a knowledge ecosystem of various interrelated media, including other social media such as Facebook, Instagram, but also (increasingly online) traditional publishing. This paper will survey

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  235

Figure 11.1  A small doodle of a bird, in the margin between woodcuts of an early printed book, tweeted with the hashtag #MarginaliaMonday.

both the approaches to early modern marginalia on Twitter, and Twitter as a location of annotation of early modern texts (Figure 11.1).

Networked Scholarship Twitter has become a prominent location for networked scholarship, by which is meant scholars’ “use of participatory technologies and online social networks to share, reflect upon, critique, improve, validate, and further their scholarship.”11 Networks of scholars, and non-scholars, regularly coalesce around common interests. Such coalescence can be driven by a hashtag—a word or phrase (written together) preceded by

236  Sjoerd Levelt a ‘#’—which allows for easy searching of all tweets using that tag, and for real time following of the conversations using it. Thus, for example, the hashtag #marginaliamonday, started by Annotated Books Online (@AboBooks), a digital archive of early modern annotated books (www. annotatedbooksonline.com), has become a space on Twitter where scholars and rare books librarians share examples of marginal annotations they encounter during their research and cataloguing (Figure 11.2). I myself started #flyleaffriday, which has become a hashtag with which academics, librarians, and occasionally collectors, share images of flyleaves and other parts of book bindings, forming a semi-continuous conversation about flyleaves and how they connect to our research interests. Through

Figure 11.2  T  weets, one from a rare books librarian (top), and one from a researcher involved in coding of digitized early modern marginalia, using the hashtag #marginaliamonday.12

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  237 hashtag use, networked scholarship can also serve community-building purposes, based around shared interests. By the non-symmetrical nature of its connections (i.e., where connections between two users are not necessarily reciprocal), by the connectivity that hashtags provide, and by the wide dissemination individual posts can receive through retweets (the sharing of a tweet by someone else among one’s followers), Twitter encourages new connections between users who would perhaps less quickly connect in more confining, more walled-off social environments. It also encourages conversations between scholars in different disciplines (history and literature; early modern and medieval) as well as between historical scholars, librarians, and the wider public. This has impact on scholarship, too: the labor of librarians, for example, has become much more visible to many scholars who reap its benefits, but would have previously done so without being immediately aware of the support structures that provide those benefits. Live tweeting has become a regular occurrence at humanities conferences and seminars, where it is used as a medium to involve people who are not physically present in ongoing dialogues. Thus, a conference Twitter feed allows for the discussion of the subject of the conference to reach beyond the confines of the lecture room and the conference venue. Responses to one’s tweets, in the form of retweets and ‘likes,’ as well as tweeted responses, provide instant feedback on user’s activities of a kind that scholarship published in traditional media (e.g., journal articles and monographs) rarely instigates. Rather than having to wait for that one review, or that elusive citation, tweets are instantly responded to, and by fellow academics as well as non-academic viewers, or not at all. Some hashtags provide a connection for large constituencies—such as #twitterstorians, a catch-all for anyone, but particularly scholars, with a historical interest—while others are much more specific. Significant hashtags around which users with an interest in early modern studies connect in particular are, for example, #earlymoderntwitter, #nuntastic, and #recusantsbaby. Such more specialized hashtags, often originally stemming from seminars or conference sessions, as in the case of the last mentioned, can be used to bring sources, resources, and conversations to the attention of interested colleagues; #ShakeRace, for example, functions as an alert to, as well as lasting archive of, online resources and conversations about race and Shakespeare. Like a manicule, the pointing hands found in the margins of so many medieval and early modern books, and any other “nota” sign, the hashtag serves to call attention to relevant information—and like the manicule also serves memorization and information retrieval purposes:13 the hashtag both immediately highlights, and makes it possible to find back relevant information and discussions at a later date (Figure 11.3).

Academic Support Hashtag-based communities can also provide support networks: #amwriting, #deadlineexchange and #writingaccountability all provide support for

238  Sjoerd Levelt

Figure 11.3  T  weet of an image of pen trials on a pastedown in a binding, including a series of manicules, tweeted with hashtag #manicule.

academic labor, while #PhDchat and #ECRchat have developed into active discussion and support fora for doctoral students and early career researchers in all disciplines. Indeed, Twitter is regularly used as an extended academic support network. Speaking from my own experience, this has been particularly important for me when I was working, when I first joined Twitter, as a researcher away from my academic base—­meaning I could not benefit from regular face-to-face conversations with my colleagues— and, more recently, as a scholar in Turkey whose academic network due to disciplinary reasons is primary focused on the United Kingdom (and secondarily on the United States and the Netherlands).

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  239

Figure 11.4  Tweet with a request for help transcribing a word in an eighteenth-­ century document.

Through Twitter, it is possible to reach a large group of people quickly; for this reason, the medium can be particularly useful for seeking help with small queries. Thus, for example, scholars transcribing early modern manuscripts regularly take to Twitter to ask for help with words they are uncertain about how to decipher (Figure 11.4). Like a virtual chat at the coffee machine, Twitter can also facilitate brainstorming about aspects of our work. For this article, for example, I asked my colleagues on Twitter whether they would add to the categories I was planning to include as uses of Twitter in the context of early modern studies, and for suggestions of good accounts to give as examples for the various categories. Their responses—too many to thank individually, but many of them can be found on the hashtags #medievaltwitter and #earlymoderntwitter—led me to refine some of my thinking, and added some useful resources. Finally, Twitter also facilitates access to resources to which access is restricted—for example, sometimes using the hashtag #icanhazpdf, but more commonly in a question posed to their followers, scholars can ask whether any of their contacts can provide them with digital copies of journal articles or book chapters which their own institution does not provide access to. In the case of scholars without institutional context, this kind of

240  Sjoerd Levelt access to scholarship can be a lifeline, while avoiding breaching copyright and publisher’s restrictions on sharing published articles.14

#twitterendipity The facilitation of scholarship via Twitter is often serendipitous. Once, while studying an early printed chronicle in the Bodleian Library, I came across a burn mark in the margin. I took a photograph, and tweeted it. The tweet attracted some attention, and looking at the page again, I noticed the burn mark was adjacent to a passage which mentioned a fire, reading “he was compelled by fire and smoke.”15 I tweeted a second photograph. My tweets were noticed by Richard Fitch (@tudorcook), interpretation co-coordinator for the Historic Kitchens at Hampton Court Palace, who decided to attempt to recreate the burn mark, to see if he could establish by what kind of flame it had been produced. His experiments established that the burn mark could only have been made, not by a candle falling onto the book, but by the book being held over a flame— that is, deliberately.16 This led Bob McLean, of the Glasgow University Library, to describe it as “a very knowing fiery manicule.” (Figure 11.5). The fact that one’s Twitter stream contains a constant mix of often unrelated subjects can also lead to a specific type of serendipity, which has been branded #twitterendipity: the juxtaposition of tweets from unrelated fields of discourse (e.g., current television and seventeenth-century literature; or medieval archaeology and today’s lunch) which appear in one’s timeline as if they are communicating with each other. Such coincidences can be very striking, but the most remarkable ones also serve as a good reminder of an underlying dynamic: seeing one’s own and one’s colleagues’ academic work contextualized in a stream of information covering a whole range of human experience, including current events, arts and media, personal reports of daily life, entertainment, political activism, jokes and satire, and the work of academics and scientists in fields other than one’s own, inevitably leads to the boundaries between those different categories of text and knowledge becoming blurred (Figure 11.6). This dynamic transforms our own scholarship to something more consciously connected to those other discourses. It makes us more aware of, and can make us more comfortable with, the place of anachronism in developing historical understanding, and facilitate an attitude more amenable to the drive to connect to wider audiences, too. It leads to more urgent thinking on how to present the results of research in such a way as to appeal to those different audiences, and to more conscious thinking on how the early modern and the present are (and can be made) conversant.17

Hashtag Activism Social media also serves as a platform for (political) campaigning.18 Such campaigns lead to vibrant discussions, both on and off Twitter, where

Figure 11.5  (a): Tweet about a burn mark in Higden’s Polychronicon, London: Peter Treveris, 1527 (Oxford, Bodleian Library, S.Seld. d.35, fol. 298); (b): Similar burn mark reproduced on modern paper, in response to the tweet.

(a)

(b)

Figure 11.6  ( a): Tweets appearing above each other in a timeline. Report of an archaeological find in a potato field juxtaposed with a T ­ hompson folk-­ literature motif classification randomly tweeted by @­MythologyBot. (b): Tweets appearing above each other in a timeline. Short h ­ umorous exchange about a blurred picture presented as “what I look like right now,” juxtaposed with a tweet from @GettyMuseum about self-portraiture.

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  243 the latter often serves as the facilitating medium. The conversations are generally linked through the use of hashtags. Such campaigns can touch early modern studies directly. Thus, for example, when, following the sale of independent humanities and social sciences publisher Ashgate Publishing—a particularly important list for Early Modern studies—to multinational publishing and events company Informa PLC, in November 2015, an announcement was made that Ashgate’s North America offices were to be closed, and its staff would cease to represent the press, academics, many with relations with Ashgate’s editors spanning years, started an online petition to urge Taylor & Francis, the academic publishing division of Informa, to reverse course. By December 1st, the petition was signed by more than 7,000 people. While ultimately unsuccessful in its aim, the campaign, carried out on Twitter using hashtag #SaveAshgate, did gain media attention in the higher education press,19 led to scholarly societies adding their voice, 20 and succeeded in channeling discussions about academic publishing, involving scholars from various fields, in blogs, 21 on Facebook pages, 22 in comments sections, and, especially, on Twitter itself. And besides these collateral benefits, such hashtag activism sometimes is successful in achieving its immediate ends: the hashtags #examhowlers and #myownexamhowlers, started in response to the Times Higher Education’s yearly “exam howlers competition,” a call for lecturers to submit the ‘funny’ errors made by their students in exams, may have been decisive in the disappearance of the feature in 2016. #StoptheDarkAges moved English Heritage to stop using the term ‘Dark Ages’ in its literature. Like the erasure of certain subjects in early modern books, such annotation of our surroundings via Twitter can have real life causes as well as real life effects. There is no divide between “virtual”/“online” and “the real world,” in the same way that there was never a divide between the printed page and its handwritten annotations (Figure 11.7). #SaveWarburg raised awareness in the scholarly community about a potential threat to the management of the Warburg Institute Library, leading to a petition signed by more than twenty thousand. Following the announcement of the scrapping of art history A-levels in England, a high-profile campaign, including activism under the hashtag #WhyArt­ HistoryMatters, succeeded in having the policy reversed. 23 Such campaigns can also become part of conversations among historical scholars themselves; such, for example, was the case when during the campaign for holding a referendum about the United Kingdom’s membership of the European Union, a group materialized calling itself “Historians for Britain,”24 campaigning for a renegotiated relationship between the UK and the EU—and part of Matthew Elliott’s campaign Business for Britain, which later morphed into Vote Leave, the official campaign for a ‘leave’ vote, of which Elliott became chief

244  Sjoerd Levelt

Figure 11.7  T  weet showing repeated deletions of the word ‘pope’ in an English printed chronicle from 1510 (Oxford, Bodleian Library, Antiq.d.E.19).

executive. The first public statement of “Historians for Britain”25 was quickly answered by an open letter, signed by over a hundred scholars, a significant proportion of whom were in the field of Early Modern Studies. 26 The letter resulted from contacts initially forged on ­Twitter, and from conversations carried out there, on Facebook, and in private conversation both online and offline. A blog, “Historians for History” (historiansforhistory.wordpress.com), likewise evolving out of this mobilization (initially appropriating the original group’s name as #historiansforbritain, later also taking the title of the most prominent open letter in answer, #foginchannel) is still an active platform for the discussion of public history. Twitter is a medium not only for the annotation of the texts we study but for our discipline itself. How the wider media ecosystem of which Twitter can steer or limit such ­annotation—in part by making it possible to transgress traditional borders of the audiences

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  245 of academic discourse—was shown in the context of ongoing discussions of the relation between white supremacy and Medieval Studies taking place on various media, among which prominently Twitter, via #medievaltwitter. In September 2017, Rachel Fulton Brown, associate professor at the University of Chicago, repeatedly brought the anti-­racist work of Dorothy Kim, assistant ­professor at Vassar College, to the attention of Milo Yiannopoulos, blogger and former Breitbart editor, who has been permanently banned from Twitter for inciting harassment of other users, but has millions of followers on Facebook. The re-blogging of Brown’s attack on Kim on Yiannopoulos’ own website predictably led to severe online harassment of Kim, including rape threats. 27

Outreach A specific type of online scholarship, making the most of Twitter’s potential to reach new and different audiences, is social scholarship, specifically aimed at sharing the fruits of scholarship, often beyond the walls of the university. 28 Aimed at broadening access, this scholarship explores the possibilities of various social media to lower the threshold of access to the products of academic research, and, to some extent, to participate in it. Such uses of Twitter include academic projects which seek volunteers’ help, for example for transcription or translation ­projects—such as Marine Lives (@marinelives), Shakespeare’s World (@ shaxworld) and Transcribe Bentham (@transcribentham)—which use Twitter as a platform to recruit volunteers and to report on their progress. The project Six Degrees of ­Francis Bacon (@6Bacon), a digital reconstruction of the early modern social network, calls for scholars to add to and revise their data. In other cases, the communication is not specifically aimed at recruiting volunteers, but outreach still entails a desire to instigate conversations. Individuals, ranging from the established, such as John Overholt (@john_overholt), curator of early modern books and manuscripts at Houghton Library, to the independent, like Rebecca Rideal (@­RebeccaRideal), PhD candidate, author, and founder/ editor of The History Vault (http://www.thehistoryvault.co.uk); projects, such as Before Shakespeare (@B4Shakes) and the Digital Cavendish Project (@DigiCavendish); institutions like the Folger Shakespeare ­Library (@­FolgerLibrary, @FolgerResearch) and the Bodleian Library (@ bodleianlibs), all have taken to Twitter as part of their mission to reach out to audiences within and beyond the academy, sharing their findings, images of objects from their collections, and actively engaging with people’s responses to their output. The popularity of historical images on Twitter has also attracted business interest, some of the most prominent of which has raised concerns among scholars: accounts such as History in Pictures (@historyinpix), for example, tweet historical images with little or no information about their provenance, and regularly with erroneous descriptions.

246  Sjoerd Levelt Such proliferation of unsourced images can lead to difficulties tracing factually accurate historical information online, and thus to real obstacles to historical research. 29 Similarly, parody accounts like Medieval Reactions (@medievalreacts) spread images of historical artworks with no reference to their source—leaving their followers unaware of the institutions which preserve the objects and have made the images digitally available, at great cost. The approach such accounts take to intellectual property, accuracy, as well as courtesy are strongly reminiscent of the practices of the more unscrupulous of early modern printers. Moreover, users are often unaware that such accounts regularly tweet series of advertisements to all their followers—their way of monetizing their business—which they subsequently, after a time lapse, delete, so as not to show new viewers that this is their business model.

Historical Authors Another category of accounts combining historical interest, entertainment, and current events, is the historical ‘sockpuppet’—an impersonation of a historical figure: William Shakespeare (@Shakespeare), Geoffrey Chaucer (@LeVostreGC), and the appropriately multilingual Marie Guise-­Lorraine (@Marie_Guise) all have their own voices on Twitter—some more, some less convincingly ‘in character’—voicing these historical personages’ ­observations not only on historical, but also current events. They provide a mix of irreverence and homage, historical awareness and creative anachronism, and a new way for their creators to engage with interested audiences, perhaps most akin to the Petrarchan letters to classical authors, or the appearance of Virgil as a character in Dante’s Divine Comedy. Accounts tweeting short quotes from historical authors’ works, such as @DesideriErasmus, an account run by the Erasmus Center for Early Modern Studies in Rotterdam, which tweets aphorisms of Erasmus, regularly choose selections of texts to respond to current events—thus using the early modern text to comment on present day concerns—even if not ventriloquizing like the sockpuppet accounts (Figure 11.8). Other accounts tweeting historical works are situated in time not by such direct engagement with current events, but by parallelism: thus Ben

Figure 11.8   A tweet from Desiderius Erasmus (@DesideriErasmus), selected from his Education of a Prince, tweeted on the day of the inauguration of President Donald Trump.

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  247 Jonson Walking (@BenJonsonsWalk) re-told Ben Jonson’s 1618 walk to Scotland following the dates of the original account, 30 and internet designer Phil Gyford set up an account (@samuelpepys) which tweets excerpts from the diaries of Samuel Pepys in real time (Figure 11.9). Followers engage with their tweets, and thus these early modern works, in a range of ways: their responses are emotive, critical, facetious; they focus on history, topography, and personal matters. The responses become a diverse and varied annotation of the early modern text.

Figure 11.9  Tweets from @samuelpepys, with responses from followers.

248  Sjoerd Levelt

Annotation Accounts also exist which tweet entire works, in automated fashion— themselves providing no further engagement with the text, just churning out bits of the text, either consecutively or in random order, at regular intervals. The account @gondibot, for example, tweets William Davenant’s Gondibert in no particular order. Other accounts provide texts in full, in proper order: a set of twelve accounts churn out all the lines of the twelve books of Milton’s Paradise Lost concurrently. 31 The tweets from such accounts themselves can become a focus for annotation: followers retweet and respond to the texts, and conversations ensue; such annotation can take place on Twitter itself but also on other, linked media.32 Twitter streams churning out texts can also become commentary in and of themselves—in a fascinating experiment, @EnglishPlymUni is tweeting a mashup, sequentially, of phrases from Milton’s Paradise Lost and Woolf’s The Waves, leading to regular serendipitous clashes between the two texts (Figure 11.10). Not only the tweeting of text, but also annotation itself can be automated: Vimala C. Pasupathi (@exhaust_fumes) created the ‘bot’ NotShaxButFletcher (@TwasFletcher), a Twitter account which automatically rewrote, and then retweeted, others’ tweets about Shakespeare, replacing his name with John Fletcher’s (or, for example, ‘Shax’ with ‘Fletch’), or the names of Shakespeare’s plays with those by Fletcher. The aim was to explore what would happen if Shakespeare was replaced with his now less well-known collaborator.33 The bot, as well as some responses to it, became an astute commentary on the dominance of one single author on our perception of early modern English literature.

Figure 11.10  T  weets from @EnglishPlymUni, using hashtag #miltonwoolfparadisewaves, juxtaposing fragments from Milton’s Paradise Lost and Woolf’s The Waves.

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  249 Social scholarship can take a form akin to annotations, where scholars annotate ‘text’ for different audiences—for example, the live annotation via Twitter of the television series Wolf Hall on its debut at BBC television, by Catherine Fletcher (@cath_fletcher), who worked as historical adviser for the series, Joanne Paul (@joanne_paul_), Kate Maltby (@ ­ WolfHall, glossed katemaltby), and many others, 34 using the hashtag # the series and the historical information underpinning it like an early modern chronicle, elaborately annotated by various hands (with the difference that now, all annotators see each other’s contributions, live, while in the early modern situation, only later annotators would be able to see earlier annotator’s notes). Such annotations can be aimed at wide audiences, such as #WolfHall’s, or at more specifically targeted academic audiences, such as appears to have been the case with H ­ olger Syme’s (@ literasyme) tweeted reading of Brian Vickers’ book The One King Lear, using hashtag #1Lear, 35 which was reminiscent of a furious early modern annotator complaining of—but also, apparently, titillated by—the baseless lies and fables they encounter on their reading (Figure 11.11). (b)

(a)

Figure 11.11 (a): Tweets from Holger Syme’s live tweeted reading of Brian Vickers’ The One King Lear. (b): Tweet showing an early modern manuscript response to a printed Dutch medieval chronicle (Oxford, Bodleian Library, H 1.8 Art.Seld.): ‘Oh God, how can the world have been so blinded?’

250  Sjoerd Levelt Syme’s live tweeting of his reading of Vickers showed a convincing new model for electronic annotation, which, due to the limitations of the electronic book, is detached from the physical (or even digital) object, but not any less engaged with its text, and because of its detachment from the book, able to reach a much larger audience (and even an incensed response from the author).36 Other instances of tweeted annotation start out as private endeavors, with no particular audience in mind—thus, for example, I started tweeting my reading of Camden’s Britannia, with hashtag #doombritain, mostly to ensure I would be shamed in completing my reading. Over time it became, however, a fascinating experience in which the different regions which Britannia moved through attracted interested Twitter users from those regions, who would add their own annotations to mine. These annotations were often as informative as the ones found in, for example, John Selden’s annotations to his copies of Camden’s Britannia; like Selden, Twitter users cross-reference information within Camden’s work, referring to external sources for further information and critiquing ­C amden’s scholarship as well as supporting it. As with early modern annotation, tweeted annotation will always be conscious of its context and potential audiences. Linguistic choice in early modern annotation—Latin annotation of vernacular text, or multilingual annotation in response to subject matter—is also mirrored on Twitter: like Emmanuel van Meteren, whose annotation of a Middle Dutch chronicle alternated between Dutch and English depending the subject matter, I myself alternate between English and Dutch depending on the audience I seek for individual tweets (see ­Figure 11.12). Like early modern annotation, where sometimes there seems to be no discernible connection between the written text and its context, Twitter annotation, too, can occasionally veer into the apparently disconnected. For personal Twitter accounts, it is usual for the user to find their own balance between scholarly and non-academic, non-work-related tweets. But even accounts of projects and institutions, even the most clearly focused, can occasionally publish apparently entirely unrelated tweets—­ sometimes accidentally, as when a user erroneously tweets using the project account rather than their private account.

Pedagogy Like students’ annotations of early printed books, tweeting is also used as a technology in the classroom, both in secondary and higher education. One such use is the assignment to write tweets based on a course text; such an assignment can help students to identify the perspective of various characters in a text, explore a text’s humor and other subtleties,

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  251

Figure 11.12  (a): Tweet about bilingual annotation, showing Emmanuel van Meteren’s English annotations to Jan van Naaldwijk’s Dutch chronicle of Holland (London, British Library, MS Cotton Tiberius C IV); (b): tweet asking ‘why does it all have to be in English again’.

and provide a medium for creative engagement with literary or historical sources. Students can be asked to tweet ‘as’ one of the characters in the text—this is now a common form of engagement with, for example, Shakespeare’s plays in the classroom. 37 The very strict modal features of the medium—the constraints posed by the 140-character limit, for example, 38 and the creative opportunities offered by hashtag—make this assignment particularly suitable for exploring how a specific medium constrains as well as provides particular opportunities for engagement with texts. The students’ tweets become an annotation of the course text, and can then be used as the basis of further discussion (see Figure 11.13). Such discussion, too, can take place on Twitter—instead of, say, an online message board.39

252  Sjoerd Levelt

Figure 11.13  T  weet showing an early modern medical student’s annotation to a printed text.

Medieval, Early Modern, #earlymoderntwitter Premodern ‘lewed folk,’ in spite of their presumed illiteracy, nevertheless had daily access to writing, both through various forms of literacy which did not conform to the medieval category of the ‘literatus,’ and through mediated reporting in circumstances of performed reading, or through the help of paid scribes, preachers, and other acquaintances.40 Similarly, while the penetration of Twitter falls much behind those of some other social media, such as Facebook, many more have access through mediated channels—from Buzzfeed lists, to Reddit threads, to Facebook reposts to embedded tweets on news websites to newspaper articles. Marginalia themselves originated as part of systems of writing which were consciously developed over time as a result of the balancing between the various interests of authors, book producers, and readers, over how the internal organization of texts could be displayed on the page.41 The way in which Twitter has developed over time, engineered as a tool to annotate daily reality, in large part by, or in response to the demands of, its users—the invention of the hashtag by early users, and its adoption by the company being a good example—interestingly mirrors, concentrated in a few short years, such development. However, in the case of Twitter, ultimately all fundamental developments depended on their adoption by the corporate entity rather than merely by recognition as convention by producers and users of text alike.42 The relation

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  253 between users and the company, however, is often fraught, particularly where the interpretation of the medium’s various functionalities is concerned.43 Similarly, the functionality of the marginal annotation was not always clear-cut: the gloss as a product of the authorial process and of the reading process, for example, were always in an uneasy relation, and medieval marginalia, even those added by readers of a text in one particular manuscript, could, over the course of the transmission of a text, become considered part of the text; a gloss included into the main text column in later versions of the text.44 Text originally planned as marginal notes could also be relocated into the text column, and start functioning as chapter headers—as in the case of several manuscripts of Gower’s Confessio Amantis.45 Responses to a text could become part of the text itself. Such relocations of medieval marginalia challenge a simple classification of marginal notes as either part of the text, or readers’ responses. The adaptation of marginalia in print culture led, to some extent, to a more pronounced and certainly more visible bifurcation of marginal annotation, if perhaps more in the scholarship—the handwritten marginalia of William H. Sherman’s Used Books versus the printed ones of William W. E. Slights’ Managing Readers—than in actual practice, where the two have a more symbiotic relationship. The printed notes are often the product of authors who were prolific annotators themselves, such as John Selden, whose heavily annotated “illustrations” to Michael Drayton’s Poly-Olbion were the product of research which itself involved heavy annotation of books owned by Selden himself (Figure 11.14). Annotation can also be the record of a form of time travel: early modern annotations to medieval books and texts often bear witness to active, often emotive engagement with the past—the annotation itself dragging the past into the present of the annotator. The early modern antiquarian historian adding manicules or nota signs, cross-references, and historical information to an early printed medieval chronicle, and the Protestant reader diligently carrying out the order to expunge references to popes from prayer books, each updated the books at their hands to suit their own times and contexts. Similarly, a radical reclaiming of historical text to twenty-first-century contexts occurs in Twitter annotations of medieval and early modern books. The advent of Twitter and other social media has coincided with the advent of high resolution digital photography of medieval manuscripts and early printed books, and with the adaptation of Creative Commons licenses by libraries and museums. This is allowing new re-appropriations of medieval and early modern text to occur in digital contexts. Ultimately, however, early modern marginalia were not #earlymoderntwitter. The absence of immediate worldwide reach, the absence of an NYSE-listed company controlling the medium, the absence of

254  Sjoerd Levelt

Figure 11.14  M  arginal note to the table of contents of Poly-Olbion (1613). Stanford Libraries, David Rumsey Historical Map Collection, 12180. ­Published under a CC BY-NC-SA 3.0  license.

automation, bot networks, and spam, all make the blank spaces of the manuscript or early printed page a very different carrier of information. The allegorical space of a bird, throughout the early modern period, remained occupied by birds themselves: “Men speak the language of Men, Birds of Birds.”46

Notes 1 John Stafford, in [Fuller], Ornithologie, sig. A2r. 2 See Andrew, Two Early Renaissance Bird Poems. 3 A True Relation of the Prodigious Battle of Birds. 4 A Battell of Birds Most Strangly Fought in Ireland; The Frenchmens Wonder, or, The Battle of the Birds. 5 [Fuller], Ornithologie. 6 The Birds Harmony. 7 H., The Birds Noats on May Day Last. 8 The Pleasant History of Cawwood the Rook, or, The Assembly of Birds. 9 Kim, #medievaltwitter. 10 For medieval communities of learning, and the role of texts and written communication in their development, see, e.g., Mews and Crossley, Communities of Learning Networks. 11 Veletsianos and Kimmons, Networked Participatory Scholarship, 768. 12 Permission for reproduction of all tweets included in this article was sought, in most cases granted, and in none denied. 13 Sherman, Used Books, 25–52; see Carruthers, The Book of Memory, 135– 52, for the role of notae in memorization and heuristics.

Marginalia and #earlymoderntwitter  255 14 Science Direct, for example, explicitly allows the sharing of its content by affiliates of subscribing institutions: http://help.sciencedirect.com/Content/ sharing_pubs.htm. 15 Higden, Polychronicon. London: Peter Treveris, 1527, Bodleian Library (S.Seld. d.35, fol. 298). 16 Tweet by Robert MacLean (@bob_maclean): https://twitter.com/bob_maclean/ status/529989657518669824, 5 November 2014. 17 I am grateful to Vimala C. Pasupathi (@Exhaust_Fumes) for this formulation. 18 See prominently Tufekci, Twitter and Tear Gas. 19 Jaschik, Concerns Over Ashgate Publishing's Future; Kolowich, In Fight Over Academic Publishing House. 20 E.g., statement from the Byzantine Studies Association of America, https:// drive.google.com/file/d/0BxpHDrS-z5XYZTFDYThGNnpZbVE/view; from the College Art Association: www collegeart.org/advocacy/2015/12/01/ caa-president-dewitt-godfrey-releases-statement-on-ashgate-acquisition/. 21 E.g., Kennedy, #SaveAshgate, from All of Us. 22 www.facebook.com/SaveAshgatePublishing/ 23 Weale, Art History A-Level Saved after High-Profile Campaign. 24 Historians for Britain’s website, historiansforbritain.org, is now mostly defunct, but it is archived at http://web.archive.org/web/20160224115252/http:// historiansforbritain.org/. While maintaining on its website that it did not campaign for the UK to leave the European Union, Historians for Britain later shared its office and telephone number with the official Vote Leave campaign. Matthew Elliott described the history of Business for Britain in: How Business for Britain Helped Change the Course of History in Three Short Years. 25 Abulafia, The ‘Historians for Britain’ Campaign. 26 Andress et al., Fog in Channel, Historians Isolated. 27 See Van Norden, What’s With Nazis And Knights? and Dr. Virago, How to Signal That You’re a Bully. 28 See Veletsianos, Social Media in Academia, 6–16. 29 Werner, It’s History, Not a Viral Feed. 30 www.blogs.hss.ed.ac.uk/ben-jonsons-walk/. 31 Reid, Milton Bot Flock: Tweeting John Milton's Paradise Lost in Perpetuity. 32 E.g., Reid, John Milton's Paradise Lost, Book I: Annotated. 33 See Pasupathi, #NotShaxButFletch. 34 See Fletcher, Wolf Hall Ep 1 - Some Top Live History Tweets. 35 See Symes, Syme on Vickers, The One King Lear, Preface. 36 Reisz, Shakespeare Scholar Vents 500-tweet ‘Bitterly Sarcastic’ Attack on Book. 37 See, e.g., the Hamlet Twitter assignment of Sarah Mulhern Gross (@the­ readingzone): https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zRK3yFNbujTkWVlrl O4ftejWjibthKkr-pb-jbQ3sPM/edit?usp=sharing, and my Iliad Twitter assignment: Levelt, #Iliad. 38 This has, since the writing of this chapter, been extended to 280 characters, but, as I point out to students, pre-modern literature long predates that change. 39 Ullyot, English 205: The Twitter Assignment. 40 The development of different forms of literacy among the laity are discussed by Malcolm B. Parkes in, The Literacy of the Laity; Scribes, Scripts and Readers, 275–97; McKitterick, The Uses of Literacy in Early Medieval Europe. 41 Parkes, The Influence of the Concepts of Ordinatio and Compilatio on the Development of the Book; Scribes, Scripts and Readers, 35–70. 42 See for the development of Twitter’s features, e.g., Dredge, Twitter Changes; for its corporate history, Bilton, Hatching Twitter.

256  Sjoerd Levelt 43 A good example is the disagreement between the company and its users over the significance of the ‘favourite’ function, as exposed when Twitter changed the star button into a heart button: Meyer, Twitter Unfaves Itself. 4 4 See for an example Stork, Through a Gloss Darkly, 44; sometimes such incorporations made the text unintelligible: Bammesberger, Hidden Glosses in Manuscripts of Old English Poetry, 45–6. 45 See Echard, Glossing Gower, 237–56. 46 [Fuller], Ornithologie, sig. B3v.

12 Afterword Alan Stewart

Toward the end of the “Preface” of his 2006 monograph Used Books – the landmark work on early modern marginalia cited by almost all the contributors to this excellent collection – William S­ herman recounts a long-running “mystery” that was solved only as the book “was in its final stages.” He had encountered at the Huntington ­L ibrary a ­“heavily annotated copy” of Cardinal William Allen’s 1584 A true, sincere, and modest defense of English Catholics that suffer for their faith both at home and abroad. The patriotic, “vehemently Protestant” commentary of the marginalia – and most notably “the striking hands with sharply pointing fingers” – stayed in Sherman’s mind, prompting “a spark of recognition” when he encountered them again in a Folger Shakespeare Library manuscript from 1587, entitled “The examination of Jesuits and Seminary priests.” But the person responsible for these marginalia remained a mystery, until, on a return visit to the Huntington in 2005, Sherman found a note by another reader, Frank Brownlow, explaining that the marginalia were “in the hand – and spelling – of Richard Topcliffe, pursuivant, torturer, Queen’s servant, &c.”1 This reminder in turn prompted Sherman’s fellow Huntington reader, historian Alexandra Walsham, to recall “a haunting passage in J. E. Neale’s Elizabeth I and her Parliaments” regarding that curious, sadistic gentleman, Richard Topcliffe; a man of birth, education and religious zeal, who revelled in his official task of torturing Catholics. His strange character remains portrayed for us in marginal comments written in his copy of an Italian history of the English Reformation, where from time to time he drew pictures of gallows, “for the author and William Allen and for his Pope, Clement VII.” “The viper”; “the villain”; “the bastard”; “I wished that I had this Doctor in Westminster Hall without weapon, and the author of this book in St. John’s Wood with my two-handed sword”: these are samples of his private exuberance. 2

258  Alan Stewart As a result of this identification, Sherman writes, What had earlier struck me as witty rebuttals, artful manicules, and quaint red threads took on a sinister edge as I imagined the notorious Topcliffe torturing Elizabethan Catholics, marking their arguments with his accusing fingers, and perforating their pages with needles trailing crimson strings. 3 This prefatory anecdote is produced to solve one of what Sherman calls “the ‘thousand little mysteries’ contained in Renaissance books.”4 But it is, I would argue, much more than that. In Sherman’s recognition of an individual’s marginal notes in documents thousands of miles apart, it speaks to the phenomenon of what Adam Smyth in his chapter calls the “alert serendipity” that is, perforce, “the governing mood of most early book use research.”5 But the encounter with Richard Topcliffe also speaks to the affective qualities of marginalia – in creating for Sherman a characterful Topcliffe but also in creating a new community invested in Topcliffe’s writings – not just Sherman, but Brownlow, Walsham, and Neale, and, as we shall see, several scholars beyond them. As Katherine Acheson astutely notes in her Introduction, the first generation of early modern marginalia studies – spurred by Lisa Jardine and Anthony Grafton’s 1990 article, “Studied for Action: How ­Gabriel Harvey Found his Livy”6 – was interested in the history of reading not as a way to reconstruct individual subjectivity, but as “social and intellectual collaboration.”7 In this tradition, in his first book on the sixteenth-­century magus, scholar and “exceptional annotator” John Dee, Sherman was at pains to point out the sheer dullness of most of his subject’s marginalia: “The tools that Dee (and his contemporaries) used to digest texts and make them useful lack, for the most part, the personal, creative, and emotional intensity that modern readers have some to look for in engagements with texts.”8 In Acheson’s account, a second wave of marginalia studies, typified by Sherman’s Used Books, focused on the material features of the book. And yet, despite their supposed moves away from the personal, both these waves continued to elevate the individual reader-writer, be it Gabriel Harvey, John Dee, Margaret Hoby, or Anne Clifford. There is an irony here: as Adam Smyth notes, “the history of reading, as a field, has often been organized around biography precisely at a time when early modern studies more generally has been moving away from the individual as the unit of cultural analysis”9 – to the point where, as Jason Scott-Warren has argued elsewhere, early modern printed books, thanks to their marginalia, have become “vehicles for many kinds of life-writing.”10 The essays in this volume reflect the mixed state of play in early modern marginalia studies. Some seek to track the reading practices of an individual – as Georgianna Ziegler does with Anne Clifford,

Afterword  259 Jason Scott-Warren with the cut-and-paster Robert Nicolson, and – albeit stretching the individual to a marital unit – Emma Smith with Thomas and Isabella Hervey. Some use a more expansive approach to identify the habits of groups of readers: Acheson tracks the architecture of women’s reading, Elizabeth Patton illuminates the marks of readers of early Tudor books of hours, while Austen Saunders surveys clergymen’s subscribed copies of the Church of England’s ­T hirty-Nine Articles. In their pursuit of the material book, some eschew traditional margin-writing altogether: Joshua Calhoun investigates the sizing of paper to facilitate marginal annotation, while Adam Smyth studies the marks or remnants of objects (flowers, glasses, etc.) left in books. Others explore marginalia within diverse modes of reading and writing: Claire Bourne investigates the collation practices by early readers of Shakespeare’s First Folio, while Harriet Archer relates the reading and writing practices of John Higgins to marginalia as a rhetorical method, and S­ joerd Levelt considers how Twitter shapes the ­scholarship ­surrounding marginalia. But despite their meticulous adherence to the materiality of marginalia and other forms of “book use,” many of the contributors – like Sherman with Topcliffe – betray the possibilities of being swayed by the affective possibilities of marginalia. In her Introduction, Acheson finds in her grandmother’s marginalia not only “her relationship to the book itself” but also “a fine display of her character.”11 In dealing with subjects of whose character they have no personal knowledge, most contributors are necessarily more circumspect, but the impulse to ascribe a character to the writer of marginalia is powerful. Jason Scott-Warren suggests that his subject, Robert Nicolson, “proudly” adds a reference to himself, “a rabbit pulled out of a hat.”12 Elizabeth Patton suggests that one “awkwardly sprawling secretary hand” is “possibly that of a young student, or perhaps, that of a woman not formally trained.”13 Even Adam Smyth speculates about a characterful impetus behind the traces left in books by objects: “readers seem often to have felt … [an] aesthetic impulse to make the flower (or the pointing finger) a vivid, humorous or spectacular intervention.”14 Perhaps the most sustained attempt to deal with the affective possibilities of marginalia comes from Emma Smith, who analyses the books owned and used by Thomas and Isabella Hervey for their “affective significance,” their “emotional freight,” their “affective investments;” moreover, she admits her own investment in such a project, that “The impulse to reconstruct this library is in part a sentimental one.”15 It is this cross-period impulse that concerns me here. As Acheson notes, “The life-writing that we find in the margins of early modern books is distinctly eccentric in that it reaches out from the self and seeks attachment to institutions, values, and communities through inscription.”16 That reaching out, as she argues, extends beyond the communities of the early modern period, and makes new communities today. Reading

260  Alan Stewart allows “for each user to express his or her experience of the moment, to become integrated with the object, the narrative, and the characters, to relate not only to the text and book themselves, but to future readers.”17 I returned to Sherman’s 2006 preface recently when I, too, had come under the spell of Richard Topcliffe’s unsettling marginalia – when I became the latest of its “future readers.” Examining a manuscript copy of Nicholas Harpsfield’s life of Sir Thomas More, now at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, I found – again, from an annotation – that the book had been “fovnde by Rich: Topclyff” during a raid on Greenstreet, a Catholic safe-house to the east of London on 13 April 1582. The volume is now covered in marginalia, as its new owner reacted with a mixture of anger and contempt to Harpsfield’s hagiography. When More reads Augustine’s City of God in the church of St Laurence in London, ­Topcliffe protests, “Master More a Lay man, to reade in the Church!” When More exclaims “by our Ladye, for my part,” Topcliffe mock-­ congratulates him: “well sworn sir;” and when More’s wife says “by God goe forwarde,” Topcliffe gleefully notes “Then Sr Tho: Mores wife could sweare too!” A reference to “this worthy man [More], of whose storye we be in hande” prompts an angry “All traytors!” When Harpsfield writes that “I suppose verilye he [More] was of himselfe very vnwilling to take vpon him” the office of Lord Chancellor, Topcliffe is not convinced: “So doe not I.” When Harpsfield tells of how More “would goe to the Churche and be confessed,” Topcliffe retorts, “He had better have gone to bed in prayer!” A rare moment of approbation – and black humor – is prompted by the revelation that More mortified his body by self-flagellation: “Whipp on! & smart enough.”18 Sensing that this attack seemed personal, I was keen to find out more about the relationships between Topcliffe and Harpsfield – and a G ­ oogle search (I’m not ashamed to admit it) turned up a 2013 Notes and Queries article by Thomas Merriam that dealt with Topcliffe’s marginalia in a copy of a book that was heavily indebted to Topcliffe’s writings: ­Girolamo ­Pollini’s book L’historia ecclesiastica della rivoluzion d’Inghilterra (Rome, 1594).19 That title was familiar to me – for in a ­footnote to his discussion of Topcliffe, Sherman quotes Neale’s footnote identifying this as the volume with marginalia, and revealing that the same volume was “now belonging to Professor Gordon of Reading University, who most kindly allowed me to see it”20 – presumably the Renaissance scholar D.J. Gordon, who in the 1950s was in Reading’s English department. However, Merriam revealed that the Pollini book was in the University of Exeter’s Special Collections, where it had been deposited in 1997 on the death of a later owner, the All Souls’ historian A. L. Rowse:21 in 1981 Rowse had mentioned in print that the volume was “in my possession,”22 and six years later he published an essay on Topcliffe largely based on the book’s marginalia. 23 Just as Sherman had been alerted to Topcliffe’s identity by Frank Brownlow, so Merriam was

Afterword  261 “indebted to Professor Frank Brownlow for alerting me to the existence of the volume.”24 And so, lured by what I knew of its marginalia as selectively quoted in their publications by Rowse and Merriam, I headed off to Exeter to view the book myself. It was worth the journey. Some 88 pages of the book boast annotations by Topcliffe, some quite extensive. 25 Many trace Pollini’s materials back to Harpsfield, and to the period when he was incarcerated in the Fleet and Marshalsea prisons with various recusants (“Ohe rabell of tratours”).26 Some notes self-servingly celebrate Topcliffe’s apprehending of printer William Carter, and his seizing of various English-language Catholic manuscripts, 27 which can perhaps be summed up by this one annotation, against the section in Pollini’s book dealing with Harpsfield: owt of this doctor Nicolass Harpesfildes Englishe written Booke All the veanom & poysonne matter within this Booke dot[h?] Springe to his Imortall shayme And to the Everlasting reporatche [reproach] of Carnall Allen [i.e. Cardinal Willliam Allen] the Basterde or the Basterds whelppe. 28 But Topcliffe also provides some grotesque autobiographical vignettes, including the following childhood memory of the 1536 Pilgrimage of Grace: And I did See great abhominacyon in an Abbey to the which my father did send me for refuidge in this first Rebellyon. And I did asuridly heare of the heads and boddyes of dead Childerne that were founde Bvried in the flowers of the Chambers of Nvnnes yea in Sume one Nunnes Chamber 5: or 6: heads of Chylderne: And I can proove That ther was great abhominacyon vsed in those Monestaryes, &c. That A Vicar of a towne cawlled Stixwolde in Lincolnshyr did Gett three Nvnnes with childe in a Short tyme, for the whiche offences Boathe Those :3: Nvnnes, & that vicar were pvnished As that ­Chapter Bookes at the Svbpressyon of three Abbeas did mayke Mencyon, & I my self have seene the vicar at Stixwolde who Culde Not deny it to bee trew. For good measure, he then signs his statement: “Ric: Topclyffe.”29 Beyond its Topcliffean attractions, however, the volume now bears the traces of its more recent travels. Tipped into the front (another object in a book) is a brief note that records Neale’s borrowing of the book, dated 20 November 1953: Dear Professor Gordon I want to thank you very warmly indeed for your great kindness in lending your ‘Topcliffe’ volume. What a treasure it is & how I envy

262  Alan Stewart your good fortune in finding it! I don’t know that one could find a better portrait of friend Topcliffe than in his marginal comments here. I wish it was my book, to nurse & chuckle over! I have copied a number of his commentts. {sic} Some of them add to our knowledge of his life & will help our parliamentary biography of him. Thank you once more for the great pleasure you have given me. Yours sincerely, J. E. Neale30 While Neale values the marginalia for their contribution to “our knowledge of his life,” its primary value is to bring its author’s character to life, to provide an unimprovable “portrait.” One is struck by the odd pleasure that Neale finds in Topcliffe’s often vicious notes: he is “friend Topcliffe,” to be “chuckle[d] over” and “nurse[d]” – like a fine Scotch, or like a baby? In print, as we’ve seen, Neale is cooler, noting in the marginalia a “strange character” of “private exuberance,” but even he cannot resist designating him as a “curious, sadistic gentleman” who “revelled” in torture.31 The information from the marginal comments did indeed make its way into “our parliamentary biography” of Topcliffe: the entry in the History of Parliament Trust’s House of Commons 1559–1601, published in 1981. Penned by the redoubtable Tudor historian S. T. Bindoff, the entry is the usual dry-as-dust facts-and-figures account – until the marginalia are mentioned: The gravamen of the indictment of Topcliffe is that he displayed an unmistakable and nauseating relish in the performance of his duties. On this the verdict of contemporaries is amply borne out by the evidence of his many letters and by the marginalia preserved in one of his books. It was, and is, easy to believe any evil of such a man; and to reflect that some of the worst accusations—among them that he reserved his most hideous tortures for infliction in his own house— rest upon fragile evidence is not to excuse him. Nor is there much profit in speculating on the influences which went to his making, although his early loss of both parents, the impact of rebellion upon his infant awareness, and perhaps some marital misfortunes might enter into the reckoning.32 Here, Topcliffe’s marginalia become evidence of his “unmistakable and nauseating relish” for torture – and the excuse for what must be a quite rare instance of pop psychology in the House of Commons volumes. For his part, A. L. Rowse used the Pollini book to reveal what he called (in an essay of the same title) “The Truth about Topcliffe.” Not

Afterword  263 only does Topcliffe provide “valuable information about himself and others, in his annotations to Pollini’s book”33 but “[h]is marginalia,” he asserts, “give us an intimate insight into his own mind and point of view, hitherto reported on only by his enemies.”34 The Pollini book provoked an intense response: “Topcliffe, who was easily roused to anger, was infuriated by its libels and lies;”35 when he comments on the English Catholic writers who had compiled the materials on which Pollini based his book as “O rabble of traitors.” According to Rowse, “one sees something of his temper:”36 “We see that Topcliffe had a vehement way of writing and speaking – but he was a North Countryman himself, rough and aggressive, liable to outbursts of rudeness, always ready to stand up for his own rights, persistent and tenacious.”37 From the marginalia, and “his beautiful signature,” Rowse comes to admires Topcliffe and makes a case for his rehabilitation: “Topcliffe has had a uniformly bad press; but there is always something to be said on the other side.”38 These notes provide “an authentic and vivid revelation of the temper of the time on both sides. They [Catholics and Protestants] were at war, and his was a war mentality;”39 it was “the regular thing for Elizabethan judges … to bully their prisoners;”40 Topcliffe merely “operated under orders” but “does not seem to have received much in the way of thanks for his ardent service.”41 In short, in Elizabethan England “Torture was applied in cases of treason against the state; our own age can hardly regard itself as any better when we remember Auschwitz and Dachau and Belsen, or the atrocities of Stalin”42 – a bizarre apologia for Elizabethan torture that sets the bar horrifically low. Rowse has not only constructed a character for Topcliffe from his marginalia: he has then used that rough, aggressive, rude, persistent, tenacious character to argue for Topcliffe’s right-minded assiduity in an official cause. Topcliffe’s marginalia in this book by Pollini have thus fascinated recent generations of historians and literary scholars – not just because they give the reaction of a top government employee to a controversial religious text, but because they conjure up a vivid, characterful ­presence – or rather, presences plural, because Sherman’s sinister torturer is not Rowse’s ardent order-following servant, nor Neale’s indulged “friend Topcliffe.” Beyond that, these marginalia-bred characters produce strong affective reactions in modern readers – strong enough that those readers circulate the experience: Gordon buys the Pollini book, G ­ ordon lends the book to Neale, Neale publishes on the marginalia, Neale shares his notes with Bindoff, Rowse buys the book, Rowse publishes on the marginalia, Walsham recalls Neale’s work and shares it with Sherman,43 Brownlow establishes himself as an authority on Topcliffe44 and identifies the annotations for Sherman and Merriam, Merriam’s article tips off Stewart. And the sharing goes on. As I was checking proofs of this book, I happened to meet up with Bill Sherman, and mentioned this “Afterword;”

264  Alan Stewart he told me that by coincidence he’d just been sent a forthcoming article on Topcliffe’s marginalia by Mark Rankin. When I contacted him, Rankin shared a story, similar to mine, of serendipitous encounters with fellow scholars that had alerted him to yet more Topcliffe marginalia in volumes at Yale’s Beinecke Library, at Ushaw College, at Durham – and that has allowed him to produce the most substantial work to date on Topcliffe’s compelling marginalia.45 We might see this as essentially a “social scholarship,” as Sjoerd Levelt dubs it in his chapter, but one firmly anchored in the pen-and-paper, personal contact, pre- “earlymoderntwitter” generation. One can only guess at the speeded-up “networked scholarship” that will result when “alert serendipity” is fully replaced by “twitterendipity.”46 Something beyond even the “eccentric” life-writing that Acheson identifies, Topcliffe’s marginalia perhaps signal the way for a third wave of early modern marginalia studies, implicit in many of the contributions here: one that fully embraces the affective pull of marginalia that seduce us into producing early modern characters to people our scholarship – and to cement new communities.

Notes 1 Sherman, Used Books, xvii–xviii, citing Allen, A true, sincere, and modest defence of English Catholics, with Topcliffe’s annotations (Huntington RB60060), and “The examination of Jesuits and seminary priests,” with Topcliffe’s annotations (Folger MS K.b.1). 2 Sherman, Used Books, xviii, quoting Neale, Elizabeth I and Her Parliaments 1584–1601, 153. 3 Sherman, Used Books, xx. 4 Ibid., xvi. 5 Smyth, this volume, 57. 6 Jardine and Grafton, “Studied for Action.” 7 Acheson, this volume, 3. 8 Sherman, John Dee, 80–81. 9 Smyth, this volume, 64. 10 Scott-Warren, “Reading Graffiti”, 380. 11 Acheson, this volume, 1. 12 Scott-Warren, this volume, 37. 13 Patton, this volume, 106. 14 Smyth, this volume, 55. 15 Smith, this volume, 168. 16 Acheson, this volume, 7. 17 Ibid., 2. 18 Harpsfield, “The life of Sir Thomas More,” Emmanuel College Library, Cambridge, MS 76, fos. 1r –57r, at 2r, 9v, 25v, 10v, 14r, 18r, 18v. See Stewart, The Oxford History of Life-Writing, vol. 2, Early Modern, ch. 1. 19 Merriam, 408. 20 Neale, Elizabeth I and Her Parliaments 1584–1601, 153 n.2. 21 Merriam, “Unremarked Evidence,” 408. 22 Rowse, Review of Wernham ed., List and Analysis of State Papers, 142.

Afterword  265 23 Rowse, “The Truth about Topcliffe.” 24 Merriam, 408. 25 Pollini, L’historia ecclesiastica della rivoluzion d’Inghilterra, with Richard Topcliffe's annotations, University of Exeter Library Special Collections, ROWSE/POL. 26 Exeter, ROWSE/POL, b3r. 27 Exeter, ROWSE/POL, B3v, B4r, 2N8r, 2T5v, 2T6r, 3D1r, 3F3v. 28 Exeter, ROWSE/POL, 2D4r. 29 Exeter, ROWSE/POL, K7v. 30 Neale to Gordon, 20 November 1953; in Exeter, ROWSE/POL. 31 Neale, Elizabeth I and Her Parliaments 1584–1601, 153. 32 Bindoff, “Topcliffe, Richard (1531–1604), of Somerby, Lincs. and Westminster.” 33 Rowse, “The Truth about Topcliffe,”185. 34 Ibid., 181. 35 Ibid., 192. 36 Ibid., 186. 37 Ibid., 186–87. 38 Ibid., 181. 39 Ibid., 192. 40 Ibid., 187. 41 Ibid., 199. 42 Ibid., 186–87. 43 And also with Patrick Collinson, I discover: see Collinson, “The politics of religion and the religion of politics in Elizabethan England,” 84 and 84 n.53: “I owe this reference [to Topcliffe’s annotated copy of Allen’s Defence] to Alex Walsham.” Collinson also cites Neale’s discussion. 4 4 See Brownlow, “Richard Topcliffe: Elizabeth’s enforcer and the representation of power in King Lear,” which does not, however, address the marginalia. 45 Rankin, “Richard Topcliffe and the Book Culture of the Elizabethan Catholic Underground;” e-mail communication with author, November 8, 2018. 46 Levelt, this volume, 240.

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Index

Note: page numbers in italics refer to figures and page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to endnotes. Abcedarium (Howlet) 175–6, 183, 184, 193n56 ABC for Book Collectors (Carter & Barker) 20 Acheson, Katherine 33n60, 147, 258, 259, 264 Actes and Monuments (Foxe) 58, 61, 63 Act of Supremacy (1534) 111 “Ad Horam Completorii” 96 “Ad Matutinum Precatio” 96 Aeneid (Virgil) 54, 156, 162 Ahl, Frederick 38, 49n30 Alberti, Leon 59, 68n30 Alexiad (Comnena) 147, 154n81 Allott, Robert (England’s Parnassus) 181 “The Altar” (Herbert) 72 Aluearie or Triple Dictionarie (Baret) 185 Amazon Kindle 15, 16 #amwriting 237–8 Angliae Notitia; or the Present State of England (Chamberlain) 161, 165 animal sizing 21, 22, 24, 29; failure of 27 Annotated Books Online 236 annotations 16; flowers as 54; handwritten 51; lack of 17; marginal 63–6; Nicolson, Robert 37; Twitter 248–50, 248, 249, 251, 252–4 An Answere to Master William Perkins, Concerning Christs Descension into Hell (Higgins) 176, 188–91 Anti-Coton (1611) 169

Antiquitates Vulgares (Bourne) 77 Antony and Cleopatra (Shakespeare) 198 Apple iPad 15 Apple iPhone 15 Arcadia (Sidney) 3, 57, 61, 88n27, 139 Archer, Harriet 9–11, 140, 152n27, 259 Argenis (Barclay) 158 Art de faire le papier (Lalande) 21, 24 De L’art de Parler 166 Art of English Poesy (Puttenham) 59 Ashe, Katherine 167 The Athenæum 206, 229n23 Aubrey, John 54 Augustine 59–60, 158 Austin, J. L. 71 Autobiography in Early Modern England (Smyth) 156 Bacon, Anne Cooke 76 Bacon, Nathanial 167 Bacon, William 122 Bailey, Donald 201, 229n26, 232n92 Baldwin, William: The Last Part of the Mirror for Magistrates 178; A Mirror for Magistrates 9–10, 175–83, 190 Baret, John 185, 186 Barlow, Thomas 58 Barnes & Noble Nook 15 Bartholomaeus, Anglicus 52 Baxter, Richard 158 Beal, Peter 24, 33n48 Becket, Thomas 93, 95, 98, 104 Before Shakespeare 245 Behn, Aphra 85 Ben Jonson Walking 246

292 Index Benson, John 205, 225, 230n43 Bergeron, David M. 15 Berresford, John 226, 227, 232n113 Beuther, Michael 44, 50n49 Beze [de Bèze], Theodore 77, 78, 88n29, 190 Bible 74, 77, 79, 79–81, 81, 87n16, 119 Bibliographical Analysis: A Historical Introduction (Tanselle) 24, 33n49 Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (McKenzie) 34n64 Bidwell, John 20, 21, 32n38 Bisby, Nathaniel 126 Blackwood’s Magazine (1819) 2 Blazing World (Cavendish) 84 Blenerhasset, Thomas: Second Part of the Mirror for Magistrates 178, 179 The Bloody Brother (Fletcher) 205, 207 Boccaccio, Giovanni 179 Boggis, Elizabeth 28, 33n60, 80–2 Bookbinding (Pearson) 232n110, 232n114 The Book in the Renaissance (Pettegree) 31n18 Book of Common Prayer 74, 77, 79, 115, 119, 123, 158, 162 Book of Hours, 94; readers’ marks in 93–4, 111, 111n2, 113n32; erasures/cancellations 95, 98; Goodly Prymer 106–11, 107, 108, 110; marginal prayer sequences 96–7; Regnault’s Horae 97–105, 111; 1512 Vostre Book of Hours 95–7, 109 Book of Martyrs (Foxe) 61 The Book of the Duchess (Chaucer) 139 Book Use, Book Theory: 1500–1700 (Mazzio) 3 Bourne, Henry 77 Bowers, Fredson 230n57 Boyle, Robert 159, 164 Bracton, Henry de 144, 147 Branche, John 36, 40 Braybrooke, James 101, 103–4 Brayman [Hackel], Heidi 3, 15–16, 30, 67n9, 68n21, 68n40, 69n54, 83, 88n27, 89n43, 137, 152n2, 152n10, 152n12, 152n18, 152n24, 166, 172n27, 172n29 Briefe of the Bibles history (Clapham) 74, 75

Britain (Camden) 158 Britannia (Camden) 182, 250 The British Library Guide to Printing (Twyman) 19 Bromflet, Henry de 145 Brown, Bill 54 Browne, Thomas 2, 158 Burscough, John 118, 126 Busby, Abigail 125–6 Bydell, John 106, 110, 114n40, 114n42 Calhoun, Joshua 5, 88n34, 259 Camden (Britannia) 182 Capell, Edward 206 Cardiff University Special Collections 52 Cary, Lucius 125 Castang, Henri 1 Cavendish, Margaret 84, 85 de Certeau, Michel 11n8, 65, 69n50 Chamberlain, Edward 161 Chan, Mary 143, 153n49 “Charta bibula” 19 Chartier, Roger 15, 65, 69n50 Chaucer, Geoffrey 152n24, 246; The Book of the Duchess 139; The Parliament of Fowls 234 Chaundler, Thomas 116 Christian Religion Substantially Treatised 54 Chronicles (Holinshed) 171 Chronologie des Estats Generaux (1615) 169 “chronotopic” marking 139 Church of England 115, 119, 120, 123, 129 see also Thirty-Nine Articles “The Church-Porch” (Herbert) 72 Churchyard, Thomas: Huloets Dictionarie 186, 193n62 Civitates orbis terrarum (Braun) 42 Clapham, Henoch 74, 75, 88n19 Clifford, Anne 70–2, 86, 153n33, 180; autobiographical writings and architectural pursuits 143–4; diaries 137, 138; Domina 147; early life of 134–6; Great Books (of Record) 141, 143, 145, 149, 154n71; Great Picture 71, 148, 149; inheritance of titles 142–4, 146; inscription on title page of Selden 135, 138–9; interest in Selden 134, 136; Kendal Diary of 1649 144; “matriarchivist”

Index  293 142–51; Memoir of 1603 146; “reading” concept 137–9; and Selden 136; and Titles of Honor 134, 136, 139; “transactional reading” 138 Clifford, George 134 Clifford, Margaret 134–6 Cochrane, Lydia G. 15 Cocker, Edward 4, 77 Coke, Edward 147, 159 Coleridge’s marginalia 2 Comedies and Tragedies (Fletcher) 230n57 A Commemoration (Phillips) 36 Comnena, Anna 147 Compleat Angler (Walton) 67 Confessions (Augustine) 59 Cordier, Mathurin 26, 33n53 Coriolanus 223 Cormack, Bradin 3, 88n27 Corona Charitatis 219 The Court and Character of King James (Weldon) 139 Cowley, Abraham 54, 156, 159, 172n7 Crawford, Julie 69n44, 141 Cromwell, Thomas 43, 106, 114n38 Crooke, Helkiah 138, 152n14 Cultural Graphology (Fleming) 4 Cymbeline (Shakespeare) 53–4 Daily Devotions 162 Dane, Joseph A. 24, 33n50 Daniel, Samuel 38, 136, 148 The Dating Game 230n59 Davenant, William 159, 248 Davenport, John 119 David, King 26, 109 Davids hainous sinne (Fuller) 26 Davis, Natalie Zemon 83, 88n21, 89n41, 133n42 #deadlineexchange 237–8 Dekker, Thomas 169 Dent, Arthur (Plaine Man’s Path-Way to Heaven) 190 De partibus aedium (Grapaldo) 20 De Proprietatibus Rerum (Mitchner) 31n27 Derrida, Jacques 4, 73, 87n15, 153n42 Descartes, René 159 Descriptive Catalogue (Rasmussen & West) 206, 229n26, 232n92

A Dialogue Betwene a Knyght and a Clerke 42–3 Dictionary (Johnson) 67 Dictionary of English Manuscript Terminology: 1450 to 2000 (Beal) 24 Digges, Leonard 225, 232n108 Digital Cavendish Project 245 The Doctrine of the Bible 74 Dodecameron 46–7 Dodsworth, Roger 141, 147–8 Donne, John 70, 159, 169 Drummond, William 58, 68n27 Drury, Anne Bacon 70 Duffy, Eamon 93, 112n3, 112n13, 113n21, 113n22, 113n28 Dunn, Kevin 177, 184, 192n8, 193n50 Durham library: Itinerary (1617) 169; Thomas and Isabella Hervey’s books 170 Dyson, Humphrey 106, 114n45 e-annotations 17, 31n12 #earlymoderntwitter 10, 234, 237, 239, 253 early reformed primers 105–11 e-books: lack of annotation 17; margin-marking readers of 16, 18; versus printed books 16; rise of 15 #ECRchat 238 Edict of Nantes 197 Eikon Basilike 163, 165 elegies 35–40 Eliot, George 55 Elizabethan Puritan Movement 132n14 Elizabeth I and Her Parliaments 1584–1601 (Neale) 257–8, 260–3 Encyclopédie (d’Alembert & Diderot) 24, 25 England: pre-reformation years in 94–7 Englands Glory: Or an Exact Catalogue of the Lords of his Maiesties most Honourable Privy Councel 162, 171 England’s Parnassus (Allott) 181 The English Catechisme Explained (Mayer) 78 English paper makers 20 Ephemeris historica (Beuther) 44

294 Index Epicedium (Hervey) 36, 37 episcopal visitation 120, 133n19 Epitaph, An (P.) 36 Erasmus, Desiderius 76, 88n23, 158, 159, 177, 184, 246, 246 Erler, Mary 94, 112n5, 112n8, 114n37, 114n42 Essays (Montaigne) 148, 149 Euclid 159 #examhowlers 243 Exposition of the Symbole or Creed of the Apostles (Perkins) 188 “Exposition on the 51st Psalm” 108–9 Faber, Johannes 96, 112n15 Facebook 252 Falkland, Henry Cary 27, 33n58 Falkland, Viscount 125 Fall of Princes (Lydgate) 179, 180 Fanshawe, Richard 159 Farmer, Alan B. 159, 172n16 Felch, Susan 111, 112n5, 112n17, 114n59 Ferrar, Virginia 159 Fielding, Henry 170 The First Part of the Diall of Days (Lloyd) 43–4, 45 First Part of the Mirror for Magistrates (Higgins) 175, 178, 180 Fitzherbert, Anthony 147 Fleming, Abraham 42 Fleming, Juliet 3, 4, 5, 11, 12n11, 35, 39, 42, 48n2, 70, 164 Fletcher, Catherine 249 Fletcher, John 166, 205, 207, 224, 230n57, 248 Florio, John 20, 32n30, 148, 167 Flowers, or, Eloquent Phrases of the Latine Speech, Gathered out of the Sixe Comedies of Terence (Higgins) 176, 187 #flyleaffriday 236–7 Folger Shakespeare Library 28, 35, 55, 95, 134, 219, 227, 228n4, 232n114, 245 Foot, Mirjam M. 227, 233n115, 233n117 Foucault, Michel 82, 83, 89n39, 89n42 Foxe: Actes and Monuments 58, 61, 63; Book of Martyrs 61 Foxe, John 43, 58, 61, 63, 68n27, 147, 159

Franklin, Ruth 30n8 Free Library of Philadelphia (FLP) 195; First Folio 198, 199, 201, 204, 205, 209, 216, 220–3, 226, 227 Freeling, Nicolas 1, 11n1 Friedman, Alice T. 151, 154n96 Frye, Susan 138, 152n16, 152n17 Fuller, John 123 Fuller, Thomas 26, 76, 165; Davids hainous sinne 26, 33n56; The History of the Holy War 165 Gallantry-A-la-mode 167 Gaskell, Philip 20, 32n29 Gassendi, Pierre 68n30, 159 gelatin sizing 18, 19 Genest, Jean 169 Gesta Romanorum 158 Ghirlandaio, Domenico 57 Gitelman, Lisa 31n12, 155, 172n3 Glasses Apostle (Conrad von Soest’s painting) 57 Goldberg, Jonathan 73, 87n14, 172n21 Goldie, Mark 125 Goodly Prymer in Englyshe 106–11, 107, 108, 110 Google Books 16, 30n5, 33n52 Gournay, Marie de 148 Grafton, Anthony 2, 3, 9, 11n4, 12n10, 12n32, 15, 64–6, 67n1, 69n48, 69n54, 82, 137, 152n12, 180, 192, 192n7, 258, 264n6 Granados Devotion: Exactly teaching how a man may truely dedicate and devote himselfe unto God 166 Grapaldo, Francesco Maria 20 Grotius, Hugo 158 Gunning, Peter 165 Hagley Hall 170 Hailey, R. Carter 207, 230n59 Hakluyt, Richard 39, 40, 46, 49n35, 49n40 Hall, Edward 58 Hall, Joseph 159, 162 Hamlet (Shakespeare) 195–7, 203, 206–8, 226 Hammond, Henry 158–60, 162, 164 Hammons, Pamela S. 73, 88n17 Hampden, John 121 Hampton, Timothy 179, 192n19, 192n21, 192n31

Index  295 Harpsfield, Nicholas (“The life of Sir Thomas More”) 260, 261, 264n18 Harvey, Gabriel 2, 3, 9, 12n10, 15, 82, 137, 138, 176, 192, 258 Harvey, Richard 26, 33n57 hashtag 240, 243–4, 244; #amwriting 237–8; #deadlineexchange 237–8; #earlymoderntwitter 10, 234, 237, 239, 253; #ECRchat 238; #examhowlers 243; #flyleaffriday 236–7; #marginaliamonday 235, 236, 236; #myownexamhowlers 243; #PhDchat 238; #SaveWarburg 243; #StoptheDarkAges 243; #twitterendipity 240, 241, 242; #twitterstorians 237; #WhyArtHistoryMatters 243; #writingaccountability 237–8 The Hearts Ease, or A Remedy Against All Troubles (Patrick) 155, 163, 167 Hellinga, Lotte 21, 32n40 Hendrik Conscience Library collection 55, 56 Henry IV Part I (Shakespeare’s play) 61, 229n21 Henry VI 145, 198 Henry VIII 50n47, 93, 98, 101, 145, 154n71, 201, 227 Herbert, George 72, 158, 159, 169 Herbert, Philip 134 Herbert, William 136 Herrick, Robert 65, 69n53 Herringman, Henry 208 Hervey, John 155, 156, 164, 165, 168, 170, 172n7 Hervey, Isabella (May) 8–9, 171, 259; books 166–8; death of 155, 156, 158, 162; Thomas and 156–8 (see also Library of Thomas and Isabella Hervey) Hervey, Kezia 165 Hervey’s library 9 see also Library of Thomas and Isabella Hervey Hervey, Sydenham 157–8 Hervey, Thomas 155, 160, 162, 165, 167, 168, 171, 259; books 158–60; and Isabella 156–8; letters 157–8; professional ambitions 156 see also Library of Thomas and Isabella Hervey Hervey, William 36–7, 156, 160, 164, 165, 168, 169

heterotopias 82 Higgins, John 140, 175–8, 192n6, 192n32, 192n35, 193n52, 193n62, 194n67, 194n97, 259; An Answere to Master William Perkins, Concerning Christs Descension into Hell 188–91; Churchyard, Thomas 186; First Part of the Mirror for Magistrates 175, 178; Huloets Dictionarie 183–8; A Mirror for Magistrates 178–83; The Nomenclator 187–8 The History of the Holy War (Fuller) 165 Hobbes, Thomas 159 Hoby, Margaret 138, 166, 258 Holbein, Hans 58 Holinshed, Raphael 159, 171 Horae (Regnault) 93–4, 97–105, 111 Hore Beatissime virginis marie ad legitimum Sarisburiensis ecclesie ritum 99, 100, 102–4, 113n21 Hore presentes ad vsum Sarum 95 House of Commons 1559–1601 262 Howlet, Richard (Abcedarium) 175–6, 183, 184 Hsy, Jonathan 229n23, 232n92 Huloets Dictionarie 176, 183–8 Hungers prevention: or, The whole art of fovvling by water and land (Markham) 159 Hunter, Dard 20–2, 31n27, 32n31 Hunter, Lynette 231n74 Hutten, Leonard 122, 126, 133n33 Hyde, Edward 125 Hynd, George 120 I Ching 54 The iewell house of art and nature (Plat) 23, 32n45 Imberdis, Jean 20, 21, 23, 32n32, 32n37 Incipit prohemium de proprietatibus rerum fratris Bartholomei Anglici de ordine fratrum minorum (Bartholomaeus) 52 Institutes (Calvin) 160, 161 An Institution of General History 208 Instrucion of a Christen Woman (Vives) 83 Introduction to a Devout Life (Sales) 139 Iob Expounded (Beze) 77, 78

296 Index Iser, Wolfgang 177, 179, 192n11 Isham, Elizabeth 138, 166 Jackson, Heather 2, 64, 66, 69n43 Jardine, Lisa 2, 3, 9, 12n32, 15, 63, 65, 66, 67n1, 69n48, 69n54, 82, 137, 138, 152n12, 152n13, 192, 192n7, 258, 264n6 Jeake, Samuel 158 Jemmat, William 127 Jermyn, Susan 156 John, Adrian 15 John Dee: The Politics of Reading and Writing in the English Renaissance (Sherman) 3, 15, 49n34, 49n41, 264n8 John Overholt 245 Johnson, Samuel 67 Jonson, Ben 54, 59, 72, 136, 148–9, 150, 154n93, 159, 247 Jugge, Richard 72 Kellner, Leon 231n77 Kim, Dorothy 234, 245 The King James Bible 15 Kistow, Robert 101, 103–4 Knight, Jeffrey Todd 12n11, 140, 178 Knight, Leah 70 La Graunde Abridgement 147 Lalande, Joseph Jérôme de 20–1, 24, 32n36 L’Amour reglé (Pora) 226 Langbaine, Gerard 224, 232n105 Langland, William 159 Larson, Katherine 84, 89n47, 89n48 The Last Part of the Mirror for Magistrates (Baldwin) 178 Latin dialogues, Cordier’s translation 26 law books 24 Lee, Sidney 68n27, 198, 201–4, 206, 207, 222, 228n10, 228n12, 228n14, 228n19, 229n23, 229n25, 229n29, 229n34, 230n56, 230n57, 232n99 Le Roman de la rose 57 Les Oeuvres de Charles Loyseau 55, 56 Lesser, Zachary 49n38, 159, 172n16, 227 Levelt, Sjoerd 10, 72, 255n37, 259, 264 Lewalski, Barbara Kiefer 86, 151n2

L’historia ecclesiastica della rivoluzion d’Inghilterra (Pollini) 260–3 Library of Thomas and Isabella Hervey: annual elegies 157, 158; Hervey collection 155–6, 158–60, 166; at Ickworth 155, 155, 158, 158, 160–3, 160–3, 171; Isabella’s books 166–8; Isabella’s death 155, 156, 158, 162; Little Gidding Harmony 159; marks/signs of reading 160–2; religious books 161–2; signatures 156, 160, 163; “Tho: & Isabella” 163–6; Thomas’s inscription 156, 160, 163 “The life of Sir Thomas More” (Harpsfield) 260, 261 Lilly, Joseph 169 Lingua: or, The combate of the tongue (Tomkis) 58 Lipsius, Justus 147, 160 Literary Remains (Coleridge) 64 Little Gidding Harmony 159 Little Office of the Virgin 94, 98, 106 Lloyd, Lodowick 43–4, 45, 46, 50n48 Love’s Labors’ Lost (Shakespeare) 208 “Lt Gradon’s Collection of Naval Flags & Colors” (Pepys) 226 Luigi di Granata 57 Lydgate, John (Fall of Princes) 179, 180 Lyttelton, George 170 Macbeth (Shakespeare) 224 MacGeorge, Bernard Buchanan 198, 203 Machiavelli 159, 164, 169 McKenzie, D. F. 34n64 McKitterick, David 167, 172n30, 255n40 Magnusson, Lynne 76 Malone, Edmond 207, 230n55 Manguel, Alberto 58, 68n26 Manners, Elizabeth 109–11 Manners, Katherine 146 Mansell, Francis 126 #marginaliamonday 235, 236, 236 “The Marginal Obsession with Marginalia” (O’Connell) 30n7 The Mariage Night (Falkland) 27 Marine Lives 245 Markham, Gervase 159 Marks, Philippa 226 Marshall, William 93, 94, 106, 109, 110, 111, 114n40, 114n42, 114n44

Index  297 Marston, John 219, 232n90 Martin Marprelate Controversy 26 Martyn, Richard 208 Mary Tudor 147 Matchinske, Megan 72, 87n8, 152n2 “matriarchivist” 142–51 Mayer, John 78, 88n30, 228n5 May, Humphrey 157 Mazzio, Carla 3, 68n25, 88n27 Meakin, Heather 70 Measure for Measure (Shakespeare) 197, 198, 203, 205–6, 222–4, 228n18 Mede, Joseph 158 Medieval Reactions 246 Meres, Frances 165 The Merry Wives of Windsor (Shakespeare) 27, 33n59, 61 The Mill on the Floss (Eliot) 55 A Mirror for Magistrates (Baldwin) 175–83, 190 Mitchner, Robert W. 31n27 Mitsuo Kodama 170 Molekamp, Femke 80, 83, 87n16 Monodia (Sylvester) 36 Montaigne, Michel de 148, 149, 152n17, 154n90, 159, 169 Morals by Way of Abstract (Seneca) 165 More, Henry 158 Morley, George 125, 127 Morris, William 169 Mosley, James 21, 32n39 Mowery, Frank 227, 232n114 Mr William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies (Shakespeare) 160 Myers, Anne 143–4, 152n2 #myownexamhowlers 243 Narveson, Kate 7 The Nature of the Book (John) 15 The Navigations, Perigrinations and Voyages, Made into Turkie (Nicolay) 39, 40 Neale, J. E.: Elizabeth I and Her Parliaments 1584–1601 257–8, 260–3, 264n2, 264n20, 265n43 networked scholarship, Twitter 235–7, 236, 238 Neville, Ralfe de 145, 146 Newby Bible 28, 80, 88n27 Newton, Thomas 187

New York, postscript 171 Nicolay, Nicolas de 39, 40 Nicolson, Robert 5, 35–48, 42, 45, 49n22, 50n54, 50n61, 141, 153n32, 259 The Ninth, Tenth, and Eleventh Books of Mr Jeremiah Burroughs (Burroughs) 55, 57 The Nomenclator, or, Remembrancer of Adrianus Junius (Higgins) 176, 187–8 Norden, John 38, 49n26 Northward Ho (Dekker) 159, 169 Not as Far as Velma (Freeling) 1 NotShaxButFletcher 248 The Nuremberg Chronicle 61 O’Connell, Mark 16, 30n7 Officium Beate Marie Virginis ad vsum Sarum 96, 97 “Of Other Spaces” (Foucault & Miskowiec) 82 Of Schisme (Hammond) 162 oil-based (printing) ink 21, 23 The Order of Books (Chartier) 15 L’ordre des livres see The Order of Books (Chartier) Orgel, Stephen 3, 11n5, 12n26, 64, 67n1, 133n28, 139, 151–2n2, 178, 179, 180, 192n2, 192n12, 192n20, 192n24, 192n25 Oroonoko (Behn) 85 Owen, John 158 Pages Project 16 Paper Knowledge (Gitelman) 31n12 papermakers 20–2 papermaking process 19–21 “paper trials” 26 Papyrus sive ars conficiendae papyri (Imberdis) 20, 23 Paradise Lost (Milton) 248 Paraphrasis (Erasmus) 76 Parker, Samuel 126 Parkinson, John 52, 67n7 The Parliament of Fowls (Chaucer) 234 Parry, Graham 141, 153n34 Il Pastor Fido (Guarini) 159 Patrick, Symon 155 Patterson, W. B. 189 Patton, Elizabeth 7, 259 Pauline Epistles 60

298 Index Pearson, David 158, 166, 172n15, 172n28, 172n31, 227, 232n110, 232n114, 233n115 Peck, Linda Levy 151, 153n62 Pensive Man’s Practice (Norden) 38 Pepys, Samuel 157, 158, 226–7, 232n113, 247 Peregrine Pickle (Smollet) 170 Perkins, William: Exposition of the Symbole or Creed of the Apostles 176, 188–91, 194n81 Petri Gassendi Diniensis Ecclesiæ præpositi et in academia Parisiensi Matheseos Regii Professoris Opera omnia in sex tomos diuisa (Gassendi) 59 Pettegree, Andrew 18, 19, 31n18, 114n43 Peyton, Thomas 166 #PhDchat 238 Phillips, John 36, 48n7 Piers Plowman (Langland) 159 Pigouchet, Philippe 94 Pilgrimes (Purchas) 198, 203–4, 224 Plaine Man’s Path-Way to Heaven (Dent) 190 Plaine Perceuall (Harvey) 26 Plat, Hugh 23–4, 32n45 Poems (Shakespeare) 205, 225 “Poesy and the Arts” 159 Pollini, Girolamo (L’historia ecclesiastica della rivoluzion d’Inghilterra) 260–3, 264n25 Pope, Alexander 170, 206, 230n53 Portrait of the Businessman Georg Giesze (Holbein painting) 58 A Practical Catechism (Hammond) 160 The Practical Christian (Sherlock) 162 Praxis medicinae universalis 41, 42, 42 prayer books 93 Precationes Christiana 112n15 pre-reformation years, in England 94–7 Preston, John 26, 33n55 Price, John 127 Princeton University Press 2 Principall Navigations (Hakluyt) 39 Project Gutenberg 15 A Prymer in Englyshe 106 see also Goodly Prymer in Englyshe Puttenham, George 59 Queen Elizabeth 147

Rainbow, Edward 70–1, 154n98 Rasmussen, Eric 68n21, 201–3, 206, 226, 227, 229n21, 229n26, 229n30, 230n48, 232n92, 232n111, 233n118 Rawlinson, Richard 115 reading 66; concept 137–9; discontinuous 80; goal-orientated 65; marks/signs of 160–2; overlooking 139; pragmatic 138; transactional 138 Reading and Writing in Shakespeare (Bergeron) 15 “reading in” process 58, 93, 115, 118–20, 125 Reading Material in Early Modern England: Print, Gender, and Literacy (Brayman Hackel) 3, 15–16, 30n5 Rechford, William 125–6 Record, Robert 4 A Registre of Hystories 42 Regnault, François 93, 94, 97, 98, 100, 101, 105, 106, 111, 113n21, 113n22, 113n24, 113n28 “The Renaissance Collage” 35 Renaissance readers 17, 27 Resolutions and decisions of divers practicall cases of conscience (Hall) 162 “rich esthetic vocabulary” 24 Rochester Institute of Technology site 24 Rocket eBook Reader 15 Romeo & Juliet (Shakespeare) 196, 197, 202, 206–15, 226, 228n18 A Room of One’s Own (Woolf) 85 Rosenbach, A. S. W. 198, 203, 228n11, 228n15, 228n17, 229n36 Routh, Martin Joseph 170 Rowe, Nicholas 206, 230n51, 230n53 Rowland, Maurice 127, 132n6 Rowse, A. L. 260–3, 264n22, 265n23, 265n33 Russell, Francis 134 Ryrie, Alec 106–7, 110, 114n48 Sackville, Richard 6, 86, 134, 180 Saint Jerome in His Study (Ghirlandaio’s painting) 57 The Saints Submission and Sathans Overthrow (Preston) 26 Sales, Francis de 139

Index  299 Sarum Missal 226–7 Saunders, Austen 8, 93, 259 Savage, Lucie 101, 111 #SaveWarburg 243 Savonarola, Girolamo 108–9, 114n53, 114n54 Scheemakers, Peter 170 Schmitt, Erik 16, 30n9, 30–1n10 Schurink, Fred 3, 66n4, 69n44, 69n54, 192n7 scissor marks 61–7 Scott-Warren, Jason 3, 5, 6, 11n6, 69n52, 72, 75, 87n9, 93, 139, 141, 152n22, 153n32, 156, 164, 258, 259 Scourge of Villanie (Marston) 219 The Seasons (Thomson) 170 Second Part of the Mirror for Magistrates (Blenerhasset) 178, 179 Sedgwick, George 136–7 Selden, John 8, 72, 87n12, 134–51, 151n1, 250, 253; and Jonson, Ben 148–9 see also Titles of Honor (Selden) Seneca 159, 165 Shagan, Ethan 105, 114n37 The Shakespeare First Folio (West) 230n64 Shakespeare’s World 245 Shakespeare, William 228n19, 228n19; Antony and Cleopatra 198; Cymbeline 53–4; Hamlet 195–7, 203, 206–8, 226; Henry IV Part I 61; Love’s Labors’ Lost 208; Measure for Measure 197, 198, 203, 205–6, 222–4, 228n18; The Merry Wives of Windsor 27, 33n59, 61; Mr William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies 160; Poems 205, 225; Romeo & Juliet 196, 197, 202, 206–15, 226, 228n18; sonnets 55; The Tempest 161; Timon of Athens 198; Titus Andronicus 197, 198, 202, 202, 218; The Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet 228n6; The Tragedy of Hamlet 228n6; Venus and Adonis 35; Works 52, 53, 55, 57, 58, 61, 62 Sheldon, Gilbert 125 Shepheardes Calender (Spenser) 175 Sheppard, Thomas 121 Sherlock, Richard 162, 172n19 Sherman, William H. 17–18, 39, 40, 65, 83, 87n16, 138, 140, 142,

178, 197, 257, 258; John Dee: The Politics of Reading and Writing in the English Renaissance 3, 15; Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England 3, 31n13, 178, 257, 258 The Ship of Fools 169 Short Title Catalog (STC) books 17 Sidney, Philip 3, 57, 61, 67n9, 68n27, 139, 160, 176, 179, 198, 228n9 see also Arcadia (Sidney) Simonova, Natasha 175, 179, 192n3, 192n17 Sir John Suckling (Van Dyck) 232n109 Six Degrees of Francis Bacon 245 sizing 18; animal 21, 22, 24, 29; as “art” 23; European sizing process 20; gelatin 18, 19; raw material for 20; and sinking 27 sizing room: illustration of 24, 25; as “slaughter house” 20 Sledd, James 184, 193n52, 193n53 Slights, William W. E. 54, 67n12, 87n13, 179, 188–9, 192n22, 194n89, 253 Smallwood, Matthew 122, 132n8 Smethwick, John 10, 196, 207, 208, 219 Smith, Emma 8, 9, 88n20, 228n4, 228n5, 230n64, 231n81, 259 Smith, Helen 11n7, 68n33, 86, 89n46, 138, 152n14 Smyth, Adam 4–6, 12n10, 12n11, 68n38, 72, 75, 149, 154n92, 156, 258, 259 Snook, Edith 3 SoftBook Reader 15 Songes and Sonnettes (Haward & Surrey) 198, 203, 204, 224 Sony Bookman 15 Sony Reader 15 sortes Virginilianae 54 Spawn, Willman 227, 233n118 spectacle marks 55–60 Spenser, Edmund: Shepheardes Calender 175, 176 Stafford, Anthony 6, 86 Stafford’s Niobe: or His age of teares (Stafford) 86 Stallybrass, Peter 30, 31n18, 50n62, 80, 227, 229n23, 232n109, 233n118

300 Index Starnes, D. T. 184, 193n48 Stationers’ Company 227 Stationers’ Register 207–8 Stemma Sacrum (1660) 169 Stoddard, Roger 51 Stone, Lawrence 154n65 Stonley, Richard 35–6, 48n3 #StoptheDarkAges 243 Stradling, George 125 Stretton, Tim 141, 153n31 “‘Studied for Action’: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy” (Jardine & Grafton) 15 Suckling, John 225 Sunderland Library 169 Suzuki, Mihoko 71, 152n2 Sylva Sylvarum (Bacon) 158 Sylvester, Josuah 36–8, 46, 50n55 Tanselle, G. Thomas 24, 30n8, 33n49 The Tempest (Shakespeare) 160, 198, 203 The Temple (Herbert) 72, 158, 159 terminus ad quem 203 Theatrum Botanicum: The Theater of Plants (Parkinson) 52 Thirty-Nine Articles 115, 124, 128, 132n1; cascading and weeding out processes 118, 125; conforming and non-conforming ministers 124; Davenport, John 119; memorandum 116; printed books 121–2; reading and assenting 118–21; royal arms 128; subscribed copies of 116–17, 119–23, 126, 128–31; 1571 Act 117, 118; 1662 Act 117–18, 132n14; visitation articles 120, 123, 133n19; witnesses 125–6 Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library 52, 53 Thomson, James 170 Throckmorton, Arthur 167 Timon of Athens (Shakespeare) 198 Titles of Honor (Selden) 72, 134; Anne Rochford (Boleyn) 145, 145– 6; annotations on 137; Clifford’s inscription on 135, 138–9; Clifford’s interest in (see Clifford, Anne); “immediately Created in Women” 145; mention of Ben Jonson 148–9, 150; “Of Feminine Titles” 143–5; possession concept 145; Preface 142, 148

Titus Andronicus (Shakespeare) 197, 198, 202, 202, 218 “To His Honord Friend Mr. John Selden” (Jonson) 148 Tom Jones (Fielding) 170 Tomkis, Thomas 58, 68n25 “The Tools of Early Printers” (De Vinne) 22 The Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare) 228n6 The Tragedy of Hamlet (Shakespeare) 228n6 Transcribe Bentham 245 Trepass Bible 77, 79, 82, 88n27 Trepass, Mary 79–80, 82, 83, 87, 88 Trepass, Michael 77 Turner, Robert K. 230n57 Twitter 234–5, 235; academic support 237–40, 239; annotation 248–50, 248, 249, 251, 251, 252–3; hashtag 240, 243–4, 244; historical authors 246, 246, 247; marginalia 252; networked scholarship 235–7, 236, 238; outreach 245–6; pedagogy 250–2, 252; #twitterendipity 240, 241, 242 #twitterstorians 237 The Two Gentlemen of Verona 202, 203 Udall, Nicholas (Flowers, or, Eloquent Phrases of the Latine Speech, Gathered out of the Sixe Comedies of Terence) 9, 176 Union of the Two Noble and Illustre Families of Lancastre and Yorke (Hall) 58 Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England (Sherman) 3, 31n13, 178, 257, 258 Ussher, James 158 Van Dyck, Anthony 225, 232n109 Venus and Adonis (Shakespeare) 35 Vine, Angus 182, 192n18, 193n41 De Vinne, Theodore 22, 32n42 Virgil 54, 162 “Virgilian lots” 54 visitation articles 120, 123, 133n19 Vostre Book of Hours 95–7, 109 Vostre, Simon 93–7, 105, 113n19 Vulgaria uiri doctissimi Guil. Hormani Caesariburgensis (Horman) 19

Index  301 Wakelin, Daniel 181, 192n34 Wall, Wendy 89n46 Walton, Izaak 67 “waterleaf” 19 Watkinson, William 68n19, 139 Webster, Richard 178 Weldon, Anthony 139 West, Anthony James 68n21, 172n1, 172n37, 201–3, 206, 228n9, 229n21 What Is a Book? The Study of Early Printed Books (Dane) 24, 33n50 Whitney, Isabella 84, 85 #WhyArtHistoryMatters 243 Widener, Joseph E. 198 Widener, P.A.B. 228n16 Wilde, John 121 William of Ockham 43 Williamson, George C. 86, 89n58, 151n2, 152n7, 152n20, 153n29 Wilmshurst, Rhea 2

Withals, John 184, 193n55, 193n56; Dictionarie 185 Women, Reading, and the Cultural Politics of Early Modern England (Snook) 3 Wood, Anthony 58, 61, 228n9 Woolf, Virginia 85, 248 Works (Shakespeare) 52, 53, 55, 57, 58, 61, 62 Wotton, Henry 138 Wright, Nancy 143, 153n49 #writingaccountability 237–8 Writing Matter (Goldberg) 73 “Written with a Diamond on Her Window at Woodstock” (Elizabeth I) 70 “Wyll and Testament” (Whitney) 84 Ziegler, Georgianna 8, 12n26, 87n12, 88n18, 88n36, 113n32, 258 Zwicker, Steven N. 4, 11n8

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