Transmissions and translations in Medieval literary and material culture 2021044678, 9789004499324, 9789004501904, 9004501908

Table of contents :
Contents
Plates
Figures
Abbreviations
Contributors
Introduction
Part 1 Translating Text, Image and the Material across the Medieval World
Introduction to Part One
Chapter 1 Unconquered Rome? Translating the Visualin Early Medieval Material Culture
Chapter 2 Grasping the Cross: Transforming the Body and Mind in Early Medieval England
Chapter 3 Crossing and Re-crossing; Translating and Transmitting: The ‘Art of the Archipelago’
Chapter 4 Transmitted in Stone: Church Organisation in Early Christian Ireland
Chapter 5 Finding Dewisland: Hagiography and Landscape in Gerald of Wales’ Vita Davidis Episcopi Menevensis
Part 2 The Power of Transmission: Images and Ideas across the Medieval World
Introduction to Part Two
Chapter 6 Adapting the Ascension: Transmitting Visual Languages on the Leeds Cross
Chapter 7 Transmitting Sacred Authority through Stone: The Clematius Inscription and Cologne’s Cult of the Holy Virgins
Chapter 8 Images of Identity at the Edge of Empires: The Visual Concept of Power in Medieval Georgia in the Second Half of the 10th Century
Chapter 9 Abul-Abbas and All That: Visual Dynamics between the Caliphate, Italy and the West in the Age of Charlemagne
Chapter 10 Ecce Videns Arabes Se: Revisiting the Question of Islamic Influence at Le Puy Cathedral
Chapter 11 Ingrediente Domino In Sanctam Civitatem: The Golden Gate in Jerusalem and Its Echoes in 12th-Century Christendom
Part 3 Transmission and Translation: Medievalists and Medievalisms
Introduction to Part Three
Chapter 12 Cacophony in C: Custodian, Curator and Collector. Sir William Betham’s Collecting and Redistribution of Medieval Manuscripts
Chapter 13 Through a ‘Celtic’ Mist: The Translation of Sacred Places into Theatre Spaces in Medieval and Early Modern Ireland
Chapter 14 Beyond the Pale: Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf as Postcolonial Translation
Chapter 15 From Dawes to Domesday: Recovering Genealogies of Settler Colonialism
Chapter 16 ‘Anglo-Saxon’ Artefacts in English ‘World’ Museums, 1851–1906
Index

Citation preview

Transmissions and Translations in Medieval Literary and Material Culture

Art and Material Culture in Medieval and Renaissance Europe Edited by Sarah Blick Laura D. Gelfand

Volume 17

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/amce

Transmissions and Translations in Medieval Literary and Material Culture Edited by

Megan Henvey Amanda Doviak Jane Hawkes

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Cloister, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century. © Photograph: Elisa Foster. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at https://catalog.loc.gov LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021044678

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 2212-4187 ISBN 978-90-04-49932-4 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-50190-4 (e-book) Copyright 2022 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau Verlag and V&R Unipress. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents List of Plates ix List of Figures xi Abbreviations xvi Contributors xvii

Introduction 1 Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey

Part 1 Translating Text, Image and the Material across the Medieval World

Introduction to Part One 7 Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey

1

Unconquered Rome? Translating the Visual in Early Medieval Material Culture 9 Matthias Friedrich

2

Grasping the Cross: Transforming the Body and Mind in Early Medieval England 29 Rachael Vause

3

Crossing and Re-crossing; Translating and Transmitting: The ‘Art of the Archipelago’ 51 Jane Hawkes

4

Transmitted in Stone: Church Organisation in Early Christian Ireland 74 Megan Henvey

5

Finding Dewisland: Hagiography and Landscape in Gerald of Wales’ Vita Davidis Episcopi Menevensis 100 Ross McIntire

vi

Contents

Part 2 The Power of Transmission: Images and Ideas across the Medieval World

Introduction to Part Two 121 Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey

6

Adapting the Ascension: Transmitting Visual Languages on the Leeds Cross 123 Amanda Doviak

7

Transmitting Sacred Authority through Stone: The Clematius Inscription and Cologne’s Cult of the Holy Virgins 145 Cher Casey

8

Images of Identity at the Edge of Empires: The Visual Concept of Power in Medieval Georgia in the Second Half of the 10th Century 162 Nino Simonishvili

9

Abul-Abbas and All That: Visual Dynamics between the Caliphate, Italy and the West in the Age of Charlemagne 186 John Mitchell

10

Ecce Videns Arabes Se: Revisiting the Question of Islamic Influence at Le Puy Cathedral 220 Elisa A. Foster

11

Ingrediente Domino In Sanctam Civitatem: The Golden Gate in Jerusalem and Its Echoes in 12th-Century Christendom 244 Lesley Milner

Part 3 Transmission and Translation: Medievalists and Medievalisms

Introduction to Part Three 269 Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey

Contents

vii

12

Cacophony in C: Custodian, Curator and Collector. Sir William Betham’s Collecting and Redistribution of Medieval Manuscripts 271 Aideen M. Ireland

13

Through a ‘Celtic’ Mist: The Translation of Sacred Places into Theatre Spaces in Medieval and Early Modern Ireland 293 Edel Bhreathnach

14

Beyond the Pale: Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf as Postcolonial Translation 318 Alison Elizabeth Killilea

15

From Dawes to Domesday: Recovering Genealogies of Settler Colonialism 337 Tarren Andrews

16

‘Anglo-Saxon’ Artefacts in English ‘World’ Museums, 1851–1906 354 Katherine Cross



Index 381

Plates 1.1

Objects as assemblages: Early medieval personal objects that incorporate Roman gemstones and coins. (a) Disc brooch with cameo. 7th century. Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. no. 95.15.101; (b) Star-shaped brooch with 4th-century sapphire intaglio. 10th century. Rhineland (?). Metropolitan Museum of Art inv. no. 1988.15; (c) Ring with chalcedony intaglio showing bearded figure. 7th century. Italy, Region of Benevento (?). Metropolitan Museum of Art inv. no. 17.230.128; (d) Ring with Byzantine coin. 7th century. Pfahlheim, Germany. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, inv. no. FG1149. Photographs: (a–c) Public Domain (d) © Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, Creative Commons: CC: BY-NC-ND 22–23 2.1 The Trumpington cross, Trumpington, Cambridgeshire. 7th century. Cambridge Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, inv. no. 2017.58. Photograph: Reproduced by permission of University of Cambridge Museum of Archaeology & Anthropology 30 2.2 Wilton cross, Wilton, Norfolk. 7th century. London, British Museum, inv. no. 1859,0512.1. Photograph: © The Trustees of the British Museum 35 3.1 Shoulder clasp, Sutton Hoo, Suffolk. Early 7th century. London, British Museum, inv. no. 1939,1010.4.a: (a) Detail, showing boars. Photograph: Creative Commons. CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 license; (b) Drawing clarifying arrangement of boars. Drawing: © Amanda Doviak 57 3.2 Disc brooch, Faversham, Kent. 7th century. London, British Museum, inv. no. 1895,0320.4. Photograph: Creative Commons. CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 license 63 3.3 Carpet pages, Book of Durrow. 7th century. Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 57: (a) Folio 1v, opening; (b) Folio 85v, Mark; (c) Folio 125v, Luke. Photographs: © The Board of Trinity College Dublin 64–65 3.4 Carpet pages, Lindisfarne Gospels. Late 7th/early 8th century. London, British Library Cotton MS Nero D IV: (a) Folio 2v, opening; (b) Folio 94v, Mark. Photographs: British Library 67 4.1 Sacrifice of Isaac: (a) Armagh cross-shaft, detail: E3, St Patrick’s Church of Ireland Cathedral, Armagh, Co. Armagh; (b) Clones cross-shaft, detail: S-E2, Clones, Co. Monaghan; (c) Galloon East cross, detail: E1, Galloon Island, Co. Fermanagh; (d) Galloon West cross, detail: W2. Galloon West cross, Galloon Island, Co. Fermanagh. Photographs: Megan Henvey 84–87 6.1 Copper-alloy mount from Uppåkra, winged man. Mid- to late 10th century. The Historical Museum at Lund University, Lund, Sweden, inv. no. LUHM 32146:13360. Photograph: Amanda Doviak 139

x 8.1

9.1

10.1

10.2

10.3 10.4

10.5

12.1 12.2 13.1

13.2 16.1 16. 2

Plates Niche preserving polychromy in the southwest pier under the dome containing donor images, Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976. Photograph: Nino Simonishvili 166 Design Motifs: (a) Dado panel, north corridor, annular crypt, San Vincenzo Maggiore, San Vincenzo al Volturno. c.820; (b) Detail, dado, west aisle wall, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter of 8th century; (c) Detail, dado, axial corridor, annular crypt, San Vincenzo Maggiore, San Vincenzo al Volturno. c.820; (d) Mosaic pavement, north aisle of hall, Qasr Shuqayra al Garbiyya, Jordan. Second quarter 8th century. Photographs: (a, c) John Mitchell; (b) Agnieszka Szmymanska: http://www.manar-al-athar.ox.ac.uk/; (d) after Hamarneh, 2017 200–201 Wooden doors, known as the Infancy Doors, Western Porch of Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189. Photograph: Elisa Foster 224 Detail, Infancy Doors with Latin inscription on the batten and Arabic inscription, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189. Photograph: Elisa Foster 230 Detail of the Magi before Herod, Infancy Doors, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189. Photograph: Elisa Foster 232 Magi Journeying to Herod’s Court, Infancy Doors, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189. Photograph: Elisa Foster 233 Detail of floriated kufic border and vegetation. Magi Journeying to Herod’s Court. Infancy Doors, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189. Photograph: Elisa Foster 234 Illustration of the Evangelist Mark, Book of Dimma, p. 30. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. II 274 Drawing of the ‘In Principio’ initial page, Book of Dimma, p. 105. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. V 288 Aerial image of the Hill of Tara. The monuments known as Ráith na Ríg (‘The Fort of the Kings’), Tech Cormaic (‘Cormac’s House’), the Forrad (‘The inauguration mound’), and Duma na nGíall (‘The Mound of the Hostages’) are included in the image. Copyright: National Monuments Service Dublin 297 ‘Mystical Tara’. Advertisement: www.wanderingcarol.com 313 Drawing of Kingston Down brooch. Bryan Faussett, et al., Inventorium sepulchrale (London, 1856), pl. 1 368 Alfred jewel. 9th century. Photograph: Creative Commons. CC BY-SA 4.0 license 370

Figures 1.1

Unconquered Rome: (a) Repouseé brooch from Dotzheim, Germany. 7th century. British Museum, inv. no. 185,0421.2. Resembles personification of Rome as presented on (b) solidus (reverse) of Priscus Attalus. Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, inv. no. 18200521. Photographs: (a) © The Trustees of the British Museum; (b) Copyright Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin. Photograph: Lutz-Jürgen Lübke (Lübke und Wiedemann). Creative Commons. CC: BY-NC-SA license 11 1.2 Imperial Portraits and the Personal: (a) Repoussé disc brooch showing portrait. 7th century. Niederbreisig, Germany; (b) Repoussé disc brooch. 7th century. Marchélepot, Somme, France. Translates the image of the Roman emperor from imperial coinage to personal objects. Photographs: Public domain  13 1.3 Bronze coin (as) of Domitian. Minted AD 87. Rome. Freiburg, Seminar für Alte Geschichte der Universität, inv. no. 01154. Copyright Seminar für Alte Geschichte, Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg. Photograph: Creative Commons. CC: BY-NC-SA license 13 1.4 Copper alloy brooch. 9th century. Shropham, Norfolk. Portable Antiquities Scheme: NMS-A39743. Copyright Norfolk County Council. Drawing: Jason Gibbons. Creative Commons. CC: BY-SA license 16 1.5 Heginric medallion. 10th century. Klein-Roschaden, Germany. Copyright Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Münzkabinette – Stiftung Preßicher Kulturbesitz, inv. 18206256. Photograph: Lutz-Jürgen Lübke (Lübke und Wiedemann). Creative Commons. CC: BY-NC-SA license 18 2.1 Staffordshire Hoard cross. 7th century. Photograph: © Birmingham Museums Trust 40 3.1 Desborough mirror, Desborough, Northamptonshire. 1st century AD. London, British Museum, inv. no. 1924,0109.1. Photograph: Creative Commons. CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 license 56 3.2 Late antique floor mosaics, Italica, Spain. 2nd century BC. Photographs: Jane Hawkes 58 3.3 Early Christian mosaics: (a) Ceiling, Santa Costanza, Rome. 4th century; (b) Floor, San Vitale, Ravenna. 6th century. Photographs: Jane Hawkes 60 3.4 Rubin’s Vase/Profiles. Image: Public domain 61 4.1 Map of the crosses of Armagh (Co. Armagh), Clones (Co. Monaghan), and Galloon (Co. Fermanagh). Image: Rick Deckard 77 4.2 Armagh cross, east face. St Patrick’s Church of Ireland Cathedral, Armagh, Co. Armagh: (a) cross-shaft; (b) cross-head. Photographs: Megan Henvey 79–80

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Figures

4.3 Clones high cross, Clones, Co. Monaghan. Photograph: Megan Henvey 82 4.4 Galloon crosses, Galloon Island, Co. Fermanagh: (a) East cross; (b) West cross. Photographs: Megan Henvey 90 4.5 Sacrifice of Isaac: (a) Detail: Sarcophagus of Agape and Crescentianus. 4th century. Vatican Museum, Vatican City; (b) Newent cross-shaft fragment. Early 9th century. Newent, Gloucestershire; (c) Ivory. 8th–late 9th century. Musée de Cluny, Paris, inv. no. 391 (d) Reculver fragment. Early 9th century. Reculver, Kent. Photographs: (a) Megan Henvey; (b) and (c) Elizabeth Alexander; (d) Jane Hawkes 91 5.1 The cult sites of St David in south-west Wales. Image: Created by Ross McIntire, with ArcMap 102 5.2 The ‘sacred landscape’ of the St David’s Peninsula, Wales. Image: Created by Ross McIntire, with ArcMap 104 5.3 Enclosure of St Non’s Chapel (centre), with holy well to the immediate north-east. Photograph: after Ludlow, 2009 109 6.1 Leeds cross, Leeds Minster, Leeds, West Yorkshire. 10th century: (a) Face A: clerical figure, figure with bird and sword; (b) Face C: nimbed figure, figure with book, and Weland panel. Photographs: Amanda Doviak 125 6.2 Leeds cross, Leeds Minster, Leeds, West Yorkshire. 10th century. Face C, detail: Weland panel. Photograph: Amanda Doviak 129 6.3 Ilkley (1) cross, All Saints Church, Ilkley, West Yorkshire. Mid- to late 9th century: (a) Face A: Christ in Majesty; (b) Face C: eagle symbol, calf symbol, lion symbol, man symbol. Permission granted for publication. Copyright: Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, Durham University. Photographs: (a) T. Middlemass; (b) K.P. Jukes and D.J. Craig 130 6.4 Ilkley (3) cross-shaft fragment, All Saints Church, Ilkley, West Yorkshire. Mid-to late 9th century. Face A detail, lower panel: nimbed figure. Photograph: Amanda Doviak 134 6.5 Ardre VIII picture-stone, detail: Weland scene. c.800–1099. Statens Historiska Museet, Stockholm, inv. no. SHM 11118:8. Photograph: Amanda Doviak 136 7.1 The Clematius stone: (a) The inscription. c. early 5th century. South wall of the choir, Church of the Holy Virgins, Cologne, Germany. Limestone. (b) Detail of surface. Photographs: Cher Casey 146 7.2 Damasas Stone: (a) The inscription. c. late 4th century. Sant ‘Agnese fuori le mura, Rome. Marble; (b) Detail of surface. Photographs: Cher Casey 152 7.3 Clematius stone in situ. South wall of choir, Church of the Holy Virgins, Cologne, Germany. Photograph: Cher Casey 154 8.1 South Façade, Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976. Sketch: M. Kern, according to measurements by A. Kalgin, 1917 164

Figures

xiii

8.2 Detail, south façade, Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976. Photograph: Nino Simonishvili 164 8.3 Donation panel on the south-east exterior wall, Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976. Photograph from the archaeological expedition of 1917, led by Ekvtime Takaishvili 165 8.4 Sculpted image of Davit and the Virgin holding Christ. Stone stele. Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976. Photograph: Valeri Silogava and Kakha Shengelia, Tao-Klarjeti (Tbilisi, 2006), image 192 167 8.5 Sculpted image of Bagrat and John the Baptist. Stone stele. Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976. Photograph: Nino Simonishvili 167 8.6 The Davati stele. 6th century. Photograph: Bryan Whitney 177 9.1 Architectural features: (a) Paired balusters of west portal entrance, St Peter’s, Monkwearmouth, Co. Durham. Late 7th century; (b) Paired columns, Qasr al-Walid, Jordan. 8th century; (c) Hollow stucco colonette, St Benedikt, Mals. Late 8th century; (d) Hollow stucco colonette, Little iwan, Khirbat al-Mafjar, West Bank. First half of 8th century. Rockefeller Museum Jerusalem. Photographs: (a) Public Domain; (b–c) John Mitchell; (d) Judith McKenzie: http://www.manar-al-athar.ox.ac.uk/ 195 9.2 Dadoes: (a) Dado, annular crypt, San Vincenzo Maggiore, San Vincenzo al Volturno. c.820. Photograph: John Mitchell; (b) West aisle wall, reconstruction, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter of 8th century. Drawing: Claude Vibert-Guigue 198 9.3 Narrative scenes: (a) Burial of saint (Panel S21), San Salvatore, Brescia. 760s. Drawing: after Panazza, 1962; (b) Bathing scene, west aisle wall (reconstructed), Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter of 8th century. Photograph: Agnieszka Szmymanska: http://www.manar-al-athar.ox.ac.uk/ 203 9.4 Figural style: (a) Detail, head of bather, bathing scene, west aisle wall (reconstructed), Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter 8th century; (b) Head of saint, Tempietto Longobardo, Cividale. Second quarter of 8th century; (c) Sack of Carthage and capture of Santa Giulla, San Salvatore, Brescia. Drawing: after L’Orange and Torp, 1977; (d) Detail, sack of Carthage (Panel S22), San Salvatore, Brescia. Photographs: (a-b) John Mitchell; (d) Gian Pietro Brogiolo 206–207 9.5 Scenes of Engagement: (a) Zaccharias naming John the Baptist, Santa Sofia, Benevento. 760s; (b) Mary and Elizabeth at Visitation, Santa Sofia, Benevento. 760s. Photographs: Valentino Pace 209 9.6 Scenes of engagement: (a) Detail of figures on gallery, bathing scene, west aisle wall, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan, second quarter 8th century. Photograph: John Mitchell; (b) East aisle wall, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter 8th century. Drawing: Claude Vibert-Guigue 211

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Figures

10.1 Western façade, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 11–12th century, reconstructed 19th century. Photograph: Elisa Foster 221 10.2 Cloister, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century. Photograph: Elisa Foster 222 10.3 Wooden doors, known as the Passion Doors, western porch of Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189. Photograph: Elisa Foster 231 10.4 Western entrance, known as the porte dorée, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. Iron grill replaced original door. 12th century, with restorations in 1780 and the 19th century. Photograph: Elisa Foster 237 11.1 East façade, the Golden Gate, Jerusalem. 7th century AD. Photograph: Creative Commons. CC-BY-SA-3.0 licence 246 11.2 West façade, the Golden Gate, Jerusalem. 1856–60. Photograph: Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington DC, 20540 USA. Reproduction no. LC-DIG-ppmsca-04558 247 11.3 Interior, the Golden Gate, Jerusalem. 1898–1914. Photograph: Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington DC, 20540 USA. Reproduction no. LC-DIG-matpc-06649 248 11.4 Map of Jerusalem, Frederick Catherwood, 1835. Image: Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Frederick_Catherwood._Plan_of _Jerusalem._1835.jpg 252 11.5 South façade, Church of the Holy Sepulchre. 12th century. Photograph: Public domain 257 11.6 The east porch into the monastery of Christ Church, Canterbury. 12th century. Photograph: Lesley Milner 259 11.7 The interior of the east porch into the monastery of Christ Church, Canterbury. 12th century. Photograph: Lesley Milner 261 12.1 Drawing of the Shrine of the Book of Dimma, Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. VI 273 12.2 Drawing of the top of the Miosach shrine. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. IX 276 12.3 Drawing of the top of the Cathach shrine. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. VII 278 12.4 Drawing of the Four-Symbols Page, Book of Armagh, fol. 32v. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 2 (Dublin, 1827), pl. X 282 13.1 Location of the Hill of Tara, Co. Meath. Image: Rick Deckard 295 13.2 Survey image of the monument known as Treduma Nessa (‘The Triple Rampart of Ness’) at Tara. Copyright: The Discovery Programme Dublin 296

Figures

xv

13.3 The tech midchúarta, the so-called ‘Banqueting Hall’ of Tara, following a diagram in the 12th-century manuscript, the Book of Leinster. Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 1339. Image: after George Petrie, 1839 306 13.4 Great Seal of Henry II, 1150–89. Drawing: William Cowper Price, Coins, medals, and seals: ancient and modern. Illustrated and described. With a sketch of the history of coins and coinage (New York, 1861), pl. XXXIV 307 14.1 John Tenniel, “The Irish ‘Tempest’”, Punch, 19 March 1870, p. 111. Image: Public domain 326 16.1 Franks Casket, Northumbria, whalebone. Early 8th century. Photograph: Jane Hawkes 361 16.2 Objects from Sutton Hoo, Suffolk. Early 7th century: (a) Gold buckle, gold and niello. (b) Sceptre, whetstone and bronze. Photographs: Jane Hawkes 362 16.3 Windsor Pommel, Berkshire. Silver, silver alloy, and gold. 8th or 9th century. Photograph: Ashmolean Museum. “Windsor sword-pommel,” Woruldhord. Available at: http://poppy.nsms.ox.ac.uk/woruldhord/items/show/635. Accessed 2020 July 29 374

Abbreviations AFM

AU BAA BAR CASSS CCSL CSEL DOE HE JADHS JBAA JRSAI MGH NAI NLI NMI OCRE PL PMLA PRIA RCAHMW RIA RIC

Annals of the Four Masters. John O’Donovan, ed./trans., Annala Rioghachta Eireann: Annals of the kingdom of Ireland by the Four Masters, from the earliest period to the year 1616. 7 vols. (1848–51; repr. Dublin, 1990). Annals of Ulster. Seán Mac Airt and Gearóid Mac Niocaill, ed./trans., The Annals of Ulster (to AD 1131) (Dublin, 1983). British Archaeological Association British Archaeological Report Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Dictionary of Old English Historia Ecclesiastica. Bertrum Colgrave and R.A.B. Mynors, ed./trans., Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Oxford, 1969) (Seanchas Ardmhacha): Journal of the Armagh Diocesan Historical Society Journal of the British Archaeological Association Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland Monumenta Germaniae Historica National Archives of Ireland National Library of Ireland National Museum of Ireland Online Coins of the Roman Empire Patrologiae Cursus Completus: Series Latina. 221 vols, ed. Jacques-Paul Mignes (Paris, 1844–1855 and 1862–1865). Publications of the Modern Language Association (of America) Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Wales Royal Irish Academy Roman Imperial Coinage

Contributors Tarren Andrews is a tribally-documented descendant of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes. She grew up on the Flathead Indian Reservation and, as of 2021, is completing her Ph.D. in English at the University of Colorado, Boulder. In 2019, she was awarded the inaugural Belle Da Costa Greene prize from the Medieval Academy of America for scholars of color contributing to important changes in medieval studies. Edel Bhreathnach is an Adjunct Professor in the School of History, University College Cork. She is a medievalist who has worked on kingship, the early royal sites of Ireland, monasticism in pre-Norman Ireland, landscape studies and the Franciscans in medieval Ireland. Cher Casey is a current doctoral candidate in the History of Art at the University of York. She specializes in high medieval visual culture, especially the ornamentation and ‘construction’ of relics. Her Overseas Research Scholarship funded project focuses on the materiality, structural assembly, and sacred significance of the medieval textile skull reliquaries of Cologne’s 11,000 Holy Virgins. Her wider research involves re-thinking concepts of authenticity, enshrinement, visual and intellectual networks, and considering sacred bodies together with medieval perceptions of human anatomy. Cher holds a BA in the History of Art and Visual Culture from the University of California, Santa Cruz and an MA in the History of Art from the University of York. Katherine Cross is a historian of early medieval northern Europe with interests in ethnic and religious identities, and their modern reinterpretations. Her book, Heirs of the Vikings, explores the uses of Viking identities in the early Middle Ages. She is a Lecturer in Medieval History at the University of York and previously worked on the Empires of Faith project at the British Museum and University of Oxford. Amanda Doviak Humanities Research Centre Postdoctoral Fellow, University of York completed her doctorate on the figural iconographies of Viking-age stone crosses in northern England in 2021. She has previously published on the Christian

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Contributors

imagery of Viking-age monuments, and her current research interests include the secularisation of the Northumbrian church during the Viking-age; the material reflexes of this process and their perception by early medieval audiences; and the early medieval liturgy. Elisa A. Foster (Ph.D., Brown, 2012) is a Visiting Lecturer at Leeds Arts University and an Associate Tutor at the University of York. She is working on a book project on sculptures known as ‘Black Madonnas,’ or images of the Virgin Mary with darkcolored skin, from c.1200–1700. Her research on this subject has been published in Studies in Iconography (2016) and Envisioning Others: Race, Color and the Visual in Iberia and Latin America, ed. Pamela A. Patton, Brill (2015) and The Long Lives of Medieval Art and Architecture, ed. Jennifer Feltman and Sarah Thompson, Routledge (2019). She is also a co-editor of Sculpture Journal. Matthias Friedrich is an archaeologist working on material and visual culture from late Antiquity throughout the Middle Ages, with a particular focus on the early medieval period. His forthcoming book Image and Ornament in the Early Medieval West (under contract with Cambridge UP) explores post-Roman art and emphasises aesthetic variety over ethnic and religious dichotomies. He obtained degrees in archaeology and art history from the Universities of Bonn, Freiburg, and York. Currently, he is a postdoc in the Department of Prehistoric and Historical Archaeology at the University of Vienna. Jane Hawkes is Professor of Art History at the University of York. She has published widely in the field of Anglo-Saxon art and has a special interest in the art of late antiquity and early medieval Europe, particularly in the roles of sculpture as public art, the cultural cross-currents between the Insular world and Europe, and the relationships between text and image. Megan Henvey is an Associate Fellow in the Department of History of Art at the University of York, where she also completed her AHRC-funded and Stanford Text Technologies-supported doctorate in early 2021. Her multi-disciplinary research employs the historical, literary, liturgical, archaeological, art historical and geological evidence to explore early medieval Christian communities in Ireland, their pan-geographic networks, and the relationship between regional

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iconographies and Christian beliefs in the early Middle Ages, with wider research interests including the nature of borders and their function and value in the classification of material heritage. Aideen M. Ireland is the retired Head of Reader Services Division of the National Archives of Ireland. She serves on the Council of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland of which she is a past president. She is a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries of London and has served on its Council. She is President of the Archives and Records Association. She is an investigator with the Beyond 2022 project - Ireland’s Virtual Record Treasury, a digital reconstruction of the Public Record Office of Ireland building and its collections. To the first Archive Fever, the on-line feature articles connected with the project, she contributed “Baron Lassberg or the Curious Case of the Wandering Plea Rolls”. Alison Elizabeth Killilea received her doctorate in English from University College Cork in 2018, with her thesis regarding the reception history of Beowulf from the Victorian era to the present day, with a particular focus on Grendel and Grendel’s mother. Her research is focused on translation and adaptation, as well as philological study of the Old English itself. Her work is theoretically informed by feminist and postcolonial theory. Ross McIntire is a Research Associate at the Centre for Medieval Studies at the university of York. His Ph.D. thesis concerns the role of sacred landscapes in saints’ cults in England, Wales, and Ireland in the post-Conquest period, as well as the re-use and appropriation of these sites and landscapes and the construction of ‘alternate’ histories to bolster claims of legitimacy and continuity. He is extending his research into comparative examples in western Europe and the Middle East for his forthcoming monograph, published by Medieval Institute Publications at Western Michigan University. Lesley Milner spent her childhood in the shadow of Lincoln cathedral. In 2015 she completed her Ph.D. (entitled Secret Spaces, English Sacristies, Vestries and Treasure Rooms 1066–1300). Her supervisor was Professor Paul Crossley. She has published articles on her subject in a number of journals and has given papers in a number of institutions including the Courtauld Institute, the University of East

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Anglia, Leeds International Medieval Congress and, most recently, the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia. John Mitchell is emeritus professor, School of World Art Studies and Museology, University of East Anglia, working between the history of art and archaeology with interests in the wider Mediterranean basin, west and east, between Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages. Recent books are Encounters, Excavations and Argosies: Essays for Richard Hodges (2017) and Lombard Legacy: Cultural Strategies and the Visual Arts in Dark-Age Italy (2018); among recent studies are “‘Blessed are the eyes which see divine spirit through the letter’s veil’: The book as object and idea” (2019) and ‘La cripta di Epifanio a San Vincenzo al Volturno’ (2021). Nino Simonishvili is Associate Professor at the Institute of Art history and Theory at the Iv. Javakhishvili Tbilisi State University (Georgia). Her research interests concentrate on the cultural interactions between East and West, medieval and modern art, art historiography, and image theory. She has been Director of the International Research Center in the Visual Arts at the Georgian State Museum of Folk and Applied Art (2015–2018), and is the recipient of the A.v. Humboldt and Gerda Henkel, W. Fulbright, Andrew and Paul Mellon Fellowships, and Senior Fellow at the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations at KOÇ University in Istanbul. She also was a guest scholar at the Kunsthistorisches Institute in Florence (2017) and Bibliotheca Hertziana in Rome (2018). Rachael Vause Currently a doctoral candidate in Art History at the University of Delaware, Rachael specializes in early medieval material culture, specifically jewellery and other ornamentation from the 5th–11th centuries. Her research interests include the cognitive process, embodied experience, and the ability of objects to affect bodily and cultural change. Rachael’s current research interests center around the relationship between Christian and non-Christian power-objects and the wearer in early medieval England and Francia, as well as in Fatimid Caesarea. Rachael also holds a BFA in studio art from the University of the Arts Philadelphia and an MA in Art History from Temple University.

Introduction Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey At a time when international borders and boundaries are undergoing significant political and geographical redefinitions, so too are practices of classification and categorisation, once the mainstay of historical research and writing, being reconsidered. It was with this in mind that the conference at which this volume has its origins was organised in June 2018: as a forum facilitating discussions between scholars from Europe and beyond, surrounding the manifold ways we, as art historians, archaeologists, historians, and literary scholars can begin to reframe our medieval subject-matter in terms of transmissions and translations across these traditional frontiers: theoretical and actual. The result was a notably stimulating few days that encouraged the publication of this volume, soliciting new essays to complement those first aired at the meeting; we can only hope to have captured some of that vigour in the pages that follow. Together, the essays presented here represent an investigation into the theoretical and methodological issues challenging scholars of the ‘global Middle Ages’,1 with particular focus on the modes, purposes and impacts of various transmissions and translations of ideas, practices, objects, language, and people. Traditionally employed in relation to literature and texts, the phenomena of transmission and translation have recently begun to be considered in the wider context of medieval scholarship. The translation of a text from one language into another is rarely an apolitical endeavour, as demonstrated here by Ross McIntire and Alison Killilea, and this is true, too, of the movement of an object or people – as Matthias Friedrich and Tarren Andrews demonstrate – as well as the subsequent display and research of these subjects, explored here by Jane Hawkes, Edel Bhreathnach, and Katherine Cross. These different types of translation share characterisation as changes or conversions occurring in the process of displacement to make the primary objects more readily apprehended in their new contexts: they are the creation of something new. Transmission, on the other hand, is broadly understood as the process of moving something or someone out of one setting and into another, in a way that changes, and/or (re)forms the new context. The essays in this volume thus 1 For discussion of some of the problems inherent in this essentially Euro-centric term, see, e.g., Jason Hawkes, “Finding the ‘Early Medieval’ in South Asian Archaeology,” Asian Perspectives 53, no. 1 (2015), 53–96.

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explore not only translations or transmissions, but the interactions of these two distinct activities, and their implications for the development of the material and literary cultures of the global medieval world, as well as later conceptualisations and categorisations of that period. The validity, and indeed value of these terms, their concepts, and methodologies have begun to yield fruitful results in the context of medieval material culture.2 Their full valency is now beginning to be recognised with some regularity in academic discussion, and coincides with an opportune development in the contemporary political context that indicates an increasing focus on nationalising individualisms. The ideas of transmission and translation can further address the impact and legacy of colonialism and Europeanism on how the Middle Ages are conceptualised and constructed. Such subjects have naturally attracted considerable scholarly debate, leading to the establishment of dedicated research groups and their subsequent publications, as well as providing a thematic strand for the programmes of recent conferences,3 indicating the growing academic interest in issues surrounding transmission and translation in the global Middle Ages. Contributing to this fledgling scholarship, this volume approaches the complementary themes of transmission and translation together as vehicles for reinterpreting the global Middle Ages in terms of its own political and artistic relationships, as well as a means by which to reassess the historiographical record. The essays here centre on how attitudes towards the self and others, senses of belonging and ownership, and conceptions of regionality were informed in global contexts through exchanges within and between the traditionally marginal and peripheral regions of the medieval and modern worlds. While sharing a focus on theories surrounding transmission and translation and their application, these discussions encompass consideration of a wide range of geographic areas, periods, ideas, texts, and objects to significantly facilitate the development of a better understanding of the true nature of interconnectedness between regions and people in the Middle Ages. To facilitate movement between these subjects, the volume is arranged in three parts to address 2 Finbarr Barry Flood, Objects of Translation: Material Culture and Medieval ‘Hindu-Muslim’ Encounter (Princeton, NJ, 2009); David W. Kim, Stephanie L. Hathaway, Intercultural Transmission in the Medieval Mediterranean (London, 2012). 3 Robert Wisnovsky, Faith Wallis, Jaime C. Fumo, and Carlos Fraenkel, Vehicles of Transmission, Translation, and Transformation in Medieval Textual Culture (Turnhout, 2011); Faith Wallis and Robert Wisnovsky, Medieval Textual Cultures: Agents of Transmission, Translation and Transformation (Berlin, 2016). See also, conference programmes, including those of the International Society of Anglo-Saxonists, Hawai’i (2017) and the International Medieval Congress, Leeds (2018).

Introduction

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the complementary areas of the translation of material objects and motifs, the transmission of ideas, and the historiographic conceptualisations of translation and transmission in textual, literary, and material cultures. With a focus on objects, spaces, and their motifs and functions, the five essays of the first section together provide insights to the physical movement of artefacts, and the (re)appropriation of the ideas and symbolisms they encompass. These translations and adaptations challenge preconceived notions of the validity of period- and region-based categorisations that have been used to support claims of religious, political, or social authority both in the Middle Ages and their reception in later periods. Challenging the distinct object classifications of personal adornment, Matthias Friedrich and Rachael Vause explore how nummular brooches and pectoral crosses reflect the translation of political authority and social identity to redress the altered meanings of the objects in new and varied contexts. Having introduced the changing functions of artefacts across space and time, these same ideas are brought to the fore in relation to medieval and post-medieval understandings of non-figural and iconographic motifs, by Jane Hawkes and Megan Henvey, and in the context of hagiographical accounts of St David by Ross McIntire. Discussions of the adaptations of objects in section one are sustained through the six essays of the second, which address the transmission of ideas and the subsequent conceptual changes that occurred, and were often manifest physically, in new material and spatial settings. Cher Casey, Elisa Foster, and Lesley Milner each demonstrate the exchanges of literary and visual languages in the development, expression, and legitimisation of liturgical and ecclesiastical idea/ls. Political and social motivations impacting the deliberate selection of existing visual motifs and their reiterations in new ecclesiastical and secular contexts are also explored by John Mitchell, Nino Simonishvili and Amanda Doviak, within the framework of cross-cultural transmissions. Together, these discussions provide a compelling demonstration of the value of investigating medieval visual culture to develop an understanding of the extent, modes and natures of global exchanges. In a new departure for scholarship in and on the phenomena of transmissions and translations, the five essays of the final, third section explore their historiographic conceptualisations in literary and material cultures. Discussing historical approaches to object collecting, research and display, Aideen Ireland and Katherine Cross both re-centre scholars and object-classes that have long received only peripheral attention; challenging this, they provide new insights to the tensions between collections and local, regional, national, and personal histories, suggesting ways forward for consideration of the material. Conversely, the central position of the world-famous Hill of Tara (Ireland) and

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the layers of mythology in the public and scholarly arenas that have developed around it are unpicked by Edel Bheathnach to reveal how the transmission of tales have obscured historical understanding of the site. Meanwhile, the pantemporal, global perspectives employed by Alison Killilea and Tarren Andrews in relation to the reception of medieval texts and documents facilitate a critical analysis of the legacy of colonialism and the re-assessment of established chronologies and relationships between text, translation, and political discourse to prioritise indigenous histories, rather than those of the coloniser. Together, these discussions provide a valuable demonstration of the value of interrogating transmissions and translations of historical ‘fact’ across time and space. In developing the application of the theories and methodologies of transmission and translation to encompass the literary, textual, artefactual, visual, and historiographical together, across this volume, the collection represents a comprehensive reframing of the exchanges of ideas taking place in the global Middle Ages. Bibliography Flood, Finbarr Barry, Objects of Translation: Material Culture and Medieval ‘HinduMuslim’ Encounter (Princeton, NJ, 2009). Hawkes, Jason, “Finding the ‘Early Medieval’ in South Asian Archaeology,” Asian Perspectives 53, no. 1 (2015), 53–96. Kim, David W. and Stephanie L. Hathaway, eds., Intercultural Transmission in the Medieval Mediterranean (London, 2012). Wallis, Faith, and Robert Wisnovsky, eds., Medieval Textual Cultures: Agents of Transmission, Translation and Transformation (Berlin, 2016). Wisnovsky, Robert, Faith Wallis, Jaime C. Fumo and Carlos Fraenkel, eds., Vehicles of Transmission, Translation, and Transformation in Medieval Textual Culture (Turnhout, 2011).

Part 1 Translating Text, Image and the Material across the Medieval World

∵

Introduction to Part One Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey The five contributions of this section explore, in a variety of contexts, the adaptation, development, and (re)appropriation of motifs and places. Friedrich and Vause’s essays reveal the different ways in which objects in the early Middle Ages could translate and transmit power. The former challenges the validity of categorising images of Roman imperial rule in terms of formal qualities and an original/copy dichotomy, highlighting that the image-type was employed and appropriated in various contexts in later, medieval traditions as a means of expressing those same notions of authority. Similarly, Vause outlines the functions of the pectoral cross in early medieval England in terms of both its form and materiality as an outward sign and symbol of the wearers’ Christianity, a mimetic aid to devotional prayer, and a means by which they could establish a physical connection with the Body of Christ, whose power of protection was thereby invoked, both in life and death. For both, objects can, and should, be interpreted in the full multiplicity of their intended and actual functionality within the societies that made and used them. The form of the cross and the ways in which the Christian faithful of ‘the Archipelago’ interacted with it spiritually is further explored by Hawkes, who rescues the pattern-forms of the art of the early medieval Church in Britain from 19th- and early 20th-century scholarly perceptions of their ‘monstrosity’, demonstrating that their ambiguity finds its origins not only in vernacular traditions, but also in Roman classical art: the tradition against which the early medieval has been offset – to its disadvantage – in the scholarship. Henvey and McIntire’s approaches complement each other as both employ historical, textual, and archaeological evidence, with the former re-establishing connections between early medieval ecclesiastical sites in Ireland, and the latter interrogating the historicity of long-held assumptions surrounding sites associated with the figure of St David. Henvey explores the imagery of the Sacrifice of Isaac shared by high crosses at three sites, pointing to the choice of eastern and Roman types available to the sculptors, and the local development of this iconography in line with changing exegetical interpretations of the event in the 9th century. This, importantly, facilitates the further argument that the exegetical (visual) interpretation supports the historical, textual, and archaeological evidence in understanding broader organisational connections. McIntire, meanwhile, demonstrates that sites understood as significant places

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in the life of St David were, in fact, developed much later, both textually and architecturally, as a means of boosting the importance of the cult and maintaining its episcopal status; in overcoming the spectre of chronological flattening of these places, McIntire provides new insights both about the period in which St David lived, and those of the subsequent generations that sought to capitalise on his (developing) cult.

Chapter 1

Unconquered Rome? Translating the Visual in Early Medieval Material Culture Matthias Friedrich

Introduction: The Visual Tradition of the Roman Empire

The transformation of the Roman World into the Middle Ages is an everrecurring theme in (art-)historical and archaeological scholarship. While there is some interest in material translations in prehistoric archaeology,1 the visual and material transformations and translations in the archaeological record of the Middle Ages have not been in the academic limelight. After the political disintegration of the Roman Empire in western Europe in the 5th and 6th centuries, we only have scarce evidence of ‘figural’ images compared to more ‘classical’ times, yet those we encounter often resemble Roman imperial iconography. Such objects, mostly metalwork, were common across western and central Europe in the 5th to 10th centuries. A small number of disc brooches found in 7th-century female burials from Merovingian Europe resemble late Roman medallions and coins depicting the enthroned personification of Rome framed with the inscription INVICTA ROMA (unconquered Rome). Despite the fact that Rome was not unconquered – the urbs aeterna was sacked three times in the 5th century – Roman elites stuck to the mantra of invincible Rome.2 These brooches, which translate the visuality of unconquered Rome, are the starting point for this study, while other early medieval objects that transform imperial images – such as that of the emperor – into new forms, materials, and contexts will also be considered. Besides the Roma Invicta brooches, the so-called nummular brooches – fibulas that resemble or incorporate coinage – and other objects that include 1 In a recent article, the prehistoric archaeologists Kerstin P. Hofmann and Philipp W. Stockhammer ask the rhetorical question of whether translations should be on everyone’s lips, while providing the straightforward answer “No”. They do argue, however, that material translations are a relevant concept in archaeology: Kerstin P. Hofmann and Philipp W. Stockhammer, “Materialisierte Übersetzungen in der Prähistorie,” Saeculum 67, no. 1 (2017), 45–66. 2 Peter Brown, The Rise of Western Christendom: Triumph and Diversity, A.D. 200–1000 (1996; 10th rev. ed. Chichester, 2013), p. 194.

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ancient coins and gemstones will be examined. By this means, the relevance of categorising material culture in terms of being ‘authentic’ or a mere ‘imitation’ of the Roman visual tradition is critically assessed. While this distinction is closely related to cultural associations of objects being ‘Roman’ or ‘Germanic,’ new interpretations based on the concepts of object biography and assemblages as an alternative for understanding the visual and material translations in early medieval material culture will be explored.

Roma Enthroned

With this in mind it is useful to consider the small number of repoussé disc brooches showing the personification of invincible Rome. Such brooches are scarce in the archaeological record3 and in contrast to most of the images considered here, the ‘Roma Invicta’ scheme occurs only on those found in 7th-century female burials known mostly from eastern France, Switzerland and southwest Germany.4 Though differing in detail many brooches are closely related, and previous studies that focussed on this particular group of artefacts have stressed the resemblances to Roman coinage and medallions.5 One of the best-preserved pieces, which has been kept in the British Museum since the mid-19th century, was found in Wiesbaden-Dotzheim (Fig. 1.1a) without any documented archaeological context.6 Here, an enthroned figure holds a staff in the left hand, while the outstretched right hand holds a small figure. The headdress is possibly a simplified version of a helmet or diadem, while the small figure can be understood as Victoria on the globe, as depicted on late 3 Egon Wamers mentions approximately “two dozen” Roma Invicta brooches, without providing a detailed list in the exhibition catalogue, Helmut Roth and Egon Wamers, eds., Hessen im Frühmittelalter: Archäologie und Kunst (Sigmaringen, 1984), p. 128; for Germany, 10 brooches are listed by Margarete Klein-Pfeuffer, Merowingerzeitliche Fibeln und Anhänger aus Preßblech, Marburger Studien zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 14 (Marburg, 1993), p. 199. 13 brooches are listed by Reto Marti, Zwischen Römerzeit und Mittelalter: Forschungen zur frühmittelalterlichen Siedlungsgeschichte der Nordwestschweiz (4.–10. Jahrhundert), Archäologie und Museum 41 (Liestal, 2000), p.374. 4 On the chronology of early medieval disc brooches in southern Germany, see Matthias Friedrich, Archäologische Chronologie und historische Interpretation: Die Merowingerzeit in Süddeutschland, Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde 96 (Berlin, 2016), pp. 88–92. 5 Gustav Behrens, “Merowingische Pressblech-Scheibenfibeln,” Mainzer Zeitschrift 39–40 (1944–45), 17; Helmut Roth, Kunst und Handwerk im frühen Mittelalter: Archäologische Zeugnisse von Childerich I. bis zu Karl dem Großen (Stuttgart, 1986), p. 272; Klein-Pfeuffer, Merowingerzeitliche Fibeln, pp. 199–201; Barbara Sasse, Ein frühmittelalterliches Reihengräberfeld bei Eichstetten am Kaiserstuhl, Forschungen und Berichte zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte in BadenWürttemberg 75 (Stuttgart, 2001), pp. 53–56. 6 Klein-Pfeuffer, Merowingerzeitliche Fibeln, p. 466.

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a

b

Figure 1.1 Unconquered Rome: (a) Repoussé brooch from Dotzheim, Germany. 7th century. Resembles the personification of Rome as represented on (b) solidus (reverse) of Priscus Attalus. 5th century. Not to scale Copyright: Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin. Photograph: Lutz-Jürgen Lübke (Lübke und Wiedemann) Creative Commons. Cc: By-Nc-Sa License

antique coins and medallions (see Fig. 1.1b). Framing this scene is the barely legible inscription INVICTA ROMA. Other brooches of that type feature an additional VTERE FELIX (use it with luck) which is now missing from the Dotzheim brooch.7 While enthroned figures, such as the personifications of Rome or Constantinople, were frequently used on the reverse of coins throughout the imperial period, the phrases Roma Invicta and Invicta Roma are rare. They appear on coins of the (self-proclaimed) emperors and usurpers Domitius Alexander and Priscus Attalus.8 Recent investigations have shown that some usurpers in late Antiquity invoked the notion of Rome as the urbs aeterna as a political means.9 An early 5th-century solidus of Priscus Attalus, now held in the Münzkabinett Berlin, illustrates this political manoeuvre (Fig. 1.1b).10 The reverse shows a figure seated on a throne, holding a sceptre or a staff and Victoria on the globe, accompanied by the legend INVICTA ROMA AETERNA. Other late antique coins and medallions feature similar representations, but lack the Roma Invicta

7 8

9 10

Ibid., p. 199. Online Coins of the Roman Empire (OCRE). Available at: http://numismatics.org/ocre. Accessed 2020 May 8. This includes the records from the Roman Imperial Coinage volumes (RIC) for: Domitius Alexander (RIC 6: Carthage 62 and 68); Priscus Attalus (RIC 10: Priscus Attalus 1403–8 and 1411–12). Martijn Icks, “Three Usurpers in Rome: The Urbs Aeterna in the Representation of Maxentius, Nepotian, and Priscus Attalus,” Studies in Late Antiquity 4, no. 1 (2020), 4–43. Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, inv. 18200521 (RIC 10: Priscus Attalus 1406).

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inscriptions.11 The Dotzheim brooch translates various aspects of this coinage into a new material and visual form. The adaption of unconquered Rome and its credo Roma Invicta is not just a literal, but also a visual and material, translation of imperial Rome into the early Middle Ages.

Small Change? Nummular Brooches and Medallions

Within the same family as the Roma Invicta brooches, and developing along similar lines, are Merovingian repoussé disc brooches derived from Roman numismatic templates. Among the Merovingian collections donated by J.P. Morgan to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, in 1917 are two die-impressed brooches that illuminate the different ways in which Roman coinage was used as a visual template in the early Middle Ages (Fig. 1.2). A remarkable piece from Niederbreisig (Fig. 1.2a) is only 3.5 cm in diameter and shows a portrait with a wreath encircled by an inscription, reconstructed as DOMIT AVG GERM COS XIII CENS PER P P.12 Besides the inscription, one detail is striking: the small dotted line just above the letters AVG GERM indicates that the metal sheet was stamped directly from a Roman coin of the emperor Domitian (AD 81–96).13 Coins depicting Domitian as a laureate and that fit the legend of the Niederbreisig brooch are asses or sesterces minted in AD 87.14 A coin probably quite similar to a bronze as of Domitian (Fig. 1.3) was used to translate Roman visual traditions into the early Middle Ages;15 this coin was at least half a millennium old when used as a template for the die-impressed sheet from Niederbreisig in the 7th century. It is quite astonishing that such ancient coins were used in what is, in this case, a quite literal and material translation which applies the physical and visual impression of an old Roman object to the dress of the early medieval period. 11 12

13 14 15

Klein-Pfeuffer, Merowingerzeitliche Fibeln, p. 200, Fig. 63.9–10. Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 17.193.46: Katharine R. Brown, Dafydd Kidd, and Charles T. Little, eds., From Attila to Charlemagne: Arts of the Early Medieval Period in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York, 2000), p. 353; cf. Klein-Pfeuffer, Merowingerzeitliche Fibeln, pp. 420–22, no. 239. Klein-Pfeuffer, Merowingerzeitliche Fibeln, p. 208; Brown, et al., From Attila to Charlemagne, p. 249. OCRE: http://numismatics.org/ocre. Accessed 2020 May 8. RIC 2, 1: Domitian, 525–32, 542–51. RIC 2, 1: Domitian 542. Today held in the Münzsammlung des Seminars für Alte Geschichte, Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg: https://ikmk.uni-freiburg.de/object?id=ID2750. Accessed 2020 May 8.

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a Figure 1.2 Imperial Portraits and the Personal: (a) Repoussé disc brooch showing portrait. 7th century. From Niederbreisig, Germany; (b) Repoussé disc brooch. 7th century. From Marchélepot, Somme, France. Translates the image of the Roman emperor from imperial coinage to personal objects. Not to scale

Figure 1.3 Bronze coin (as) of Domitian, minted in Rome AD 87 Copyright: Seminar für Alte Geschichte, Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg. CC: BY-NC-SA

b

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Such instances where the actual, physical Roman object served as an immediate and direct material template are rare, but were not unknown. Far more common are loose adaptions of Roman imperial coinage, as demonstrated by the piece from Marchélepot (Somme), France (Fig. 1.2b).16 As with the Niederbreisig brooch, the die-impressed gold sheet was attached to a copperalloy base-plate and shows a bust in profile encircled by a beaded line. With this, the brooch translates the shape and visuality of an actual Roman coin: the emperor’s image, and its bead-and-reel frame. The hair of the bust is indicated by various curved lines, intersected by shorter orthogonal lines: these may well indicate that the head was intended to represent the emperor wearing the radiant crown linked to the prevalent iconography of Sol Invictus on Roman coinage. Even further ‘reduced’ is a brooch of unknown provenance, likewise held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.17 In the centre it shows various straight and curved lines that render the obverse of Roman coins in very abstract and stylised ways, when compared to the brooches and coins discussed above. A similar intensity of abstraction can only be found in the late 5th- and 6th-century gold bracteates from northern Europe.18 However, nummular brooches (Münzfibeln, fibules monétiformes), which incorporated coins, or casts of coins, are mostly a phenomenon of the ‘later’ early Middle Ages, dating generally from the 8th to 11th centuries, although early forms appear from the 5th to 7th centuries, as demonstrated. They resemble coins of varying origins, dates, forms, and shapes: Roman, Byzantine, Carolingian, Ottonian, and Arabic coins are the most prevalent types. In his work on Carolingian and Ottonian-period disc broches from northern Europe, Hans-Jörg Frick lists 117 nummular brooches subdivided into six different types: those resembling gold solidi of Louis the Pious (Type 1); those with Carolingian or Ottonian (Type 2), Roman (Type 3), Anglo-Saxon (Type 4), Byzantine, or Arabic coins as the prototype (Type 5); and nummular brooches with an unknown prototype (Type 6).19 Mechthild Schulze-Dörrlamm criticised the data and distributions put forward by Frick and Peter Berghaus,20 16 17 18 19 20

New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 17.191.24: Brown, et al., From Attila to Charlemagne, p. 345. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 17.192.86: ibid., pp. 249, 350, fig. 21.29. For similar brooches, see Klein-Pfeuffer, Merowingerzeitliche Fibeln, pp. 210–11. Nancy L. Wicker, “Decolonising Gold Bracteates: From Late Roman Medallions to Scandianvian Migration Period Pendants,” in Postcolonising the Medieval Image, ed. Eva Frojmovic and Catherine E. Karkov (London, 2017), pp. 17–36. Hans-Jörg Frick, “Karolingisch-ottonische Scheibenfibeln des nördlichen Formenkreises,” Offa 49–50 (1992–93), 309. Peter Berghaus, “Münzfibeln,” in Die frühmittelalterlichen Lesefunde aus der Löhrstrasse (Baustelle Hilton II) in Mainz, ed. Egon Wamers, Mainzer archäologische Schriften 1 (Mainz, 1994), pp. 106–15.

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arguing that ‘pseudo-coin’ brooches (or, fibulas that only resemble coinage) and those made from actual Carolingian coins should be treated separately.21 For the Dutch Province of Friesland, J.M. Bos listed such 9th- to 11th-century pseudo-coin brooches by categorising nearly 180 fibulas into various types and variants,22 while Stijn Heeren and Lourens van der Feijst specify 122 pseudocoin brooches from the 5th to 10th centuries.23 For late ‘Anglo-Saxon’ England, Rosie Weetch counted 106 specimens of nummular brooches (her Type 2), and sub-divided them into pseudo-nummular brooches (Type 2.A) and those made from actual coins (Type 2.B).24 This brief typological survey shows two things: first, the tendency for archaeologists to classify and organise the material record according to formalist categories, and second, the pervasive notions of ‘pseudo’ versus ‘real,’ objects oscillating between original and copy, between authenticity and inaccuracy, between innovation and imitation. Such concepts are misleading when considering the translation of Roman iconography in early medieval material culture because both ‘pseudo’ and ‘real’ coin brooches translate Roman images – that of the emperor (except, of course, brooches based on Arabic Dirham coins)25 – into new forms and materials, and eventually, social contexts. An example of this tendency is a copper-alloy brooch from Shropham, Norfolk, based on Carolingian coinage (Fig. 1.4).26 The brooch, from Weetch’s Type 2.A (pseudo-nummular), consists of a central disc enclosed by a beaded ring, with an iron pin and hinge attached to its reverse. The obverse shows a stylised portrait; of interest here are a loop and two lines in the figure’s neck 21

22 23 24 25

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Mechthild Schulze-Dörrlamm, “Münzfibeln der Karolingerzeit,” Archäologisches Korrespondenzblatt 29, no. 2 (1999), 275. On Carolingian-period graves with coin finds, including ‘real’ coin brooches, see Mechthild Schulze-Dörrlamm, “Gräber mit Münzbeigabe im Karolingerreich,” Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz 57 (2010), 339–88. Type 2.6 and its variants: J.M. Bos, “Medieval Brooches from the Dutch Province of Friesland (Frisia): A Regional Perspective on the Wijnaldum Brooches, Part IIII: Disc Brooches,” Palaeohistoria 49–50 (2007–8), 755–67. Stijn Heeren and Lourens van der Feijst, Prehistorische, Romeinse en middeleeuwse fibulae uit de Lage Landen: Beschrijving, analyse en interpretatie van een archeologische vondstcategorie (Amersfoort, 2017), p. 224. Rosie Weetch, “Brooches in Late Anglo-Saxon England Within a North West European Context: A Study of Social Identities Between the Eighth and the Eleventh Centuries” (PhD thesis, University of Reading, 2014), pp. 69–70. On dirham finds, see Christoph Kilger, “Kaupang from Afar: Aspects of the Interpretation of Dirham Finds in Northern and Eastern Europe Between the Late 8th and Early 10th Centuries,” in Means of Exchange: Dealing with Silver in the Viking Age, ed. Dagfinn Skre, Kaupang Excavation Project 2 (Aarhus, 2007), pp. 199–252. Portable Antiquities Scheme find number: NMS-A39743. Available at: https://finds.org.uk/ database/artefacts/record/id/600841. Accessed 2020 May 28.

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Figure 1.4 Copper alloy brooch from Shropham, Norfolk. 9th century

that denote the tied ends of a taenia, and thus suggest that the head is supposed to be understood as surmounted by a diadem or a wreath,27 similar to that depicted on the previously mentioned coins of Domitian (Fig. 1.3). In the Portable Antiquities Scheme entry, Andrew Rogerson argues that the obscure legend of the nummular brooch from Shropham reads KAROLVS IMP AVG, suggesting that the prototype is a post-coronation solidus or denarius of Charlemagne.28 However, coins with the attribute IMP AVG – following the coronation in AD 800 – are extremely rare in the corpus of coins minted by Charlemagne. Bernd Kluge records only 35 coins that make use of the title imperator augustus, while the previous title rex Fr[ancorum] accounts for more than 1,000 coins.29 Far more common – as prototypes for nummular brooches both in early medieval England and on the Continent – are coins with the portrait of Louis the Pious;30 the reverse of such coins seems to have been used as a template for the reverse of the Shropham piece, as Rogerson argues.31 Given the rather illegible nature of the inscription, the obverse could also be inspired by coins of Louis the Pious. Fortunately, for the purpose of this 27

On the different types, forms, and shapes of the emperor’s wreath in Roman art and archaeology, see Birgit Bergmann, Der Kranz des Kaisers: Genese und Bedeutung einer römischen Insignie, Image and Context 6 (Berlin, 2010). 28 Andrew Rogerson, “NMS-A39743: A Early Medieval Brooch.” Available at: https://finds .org.uk/database/artefacts/record/id/600841. Accessed 2020 May 28. 29 Bernd Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, 1: Handbuch und Thesaurus Nummorum Medii Aevi, Veröffentlichungen der Numismatischen Kommission 45 (Berlin, 2007), pp. 86–87. 30 Frick, “Karolingisch-ottonische Scheibenfibeln,” pp. 309–14; Weetch, “Brooches in Late AngloSaxon England,” pp. 208–12. 31 Rogerson, “NMS-A39743.”

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discussion, the question of whether the brooch renders coins of Charlemagne or Louis the Pious is not of the most pressing significance.32 Across the early Middle Ages, nummular brooches – no matter the degree to which a portrait and its attributes are recognisable or the legend is decipherable – share certain characteristics: a portrait that resembles the Roman imperator (regardless of whether it is an actual Roman emperor of old or the contemporary Carolingian-Ottonian iteration), an inscription (legible or not), and a beaded frame or border. In fact, in the cases of ‘illegible’ or ‘garbled’ inscriptions or stylised portraits, the individual emperor’s significance as a political figure is diminished, while the powerful image of the emperor, not one in particular, takes over. There are cases, however, where the particular political figure is indeed in the limelight, as is the case with the Heginric Medallion (Fig. 1.5).33 The medallion was found in 1887 in Klein-Roschaden in Lower Saxony as part of a deposit that contained brooches, coins, and another silver disc, which renders a highly stylised portrait with the letters C and X (and was thus labelled the CX medallion).34 The central disc of the Heginric Medallion is enclosed by braided silver wires and a beaded frame, forming a medallion c.5 cm in diameter. In the centre we encounter a figure in profile wearing a diadem and dressed with a paludamentum, adapting the classical iconography of the Roman emperors and other (military) dignitaries. The inscription encircling the head reads, upside down, HEGINRIC REX. The medallion was found alongside a deposit of nearly 700 coins with a terminus post quem of 996 and is thus generally accepted to depict the Ottonian King Henry I (919–936).35 The Heginric Medallion resembles the visual tradition of late antique Roman medallions and coins – as do the rare imperial coins of Charlemagne – and 32 For portraits on Carolingian coins, see Ildar H. Garipzanov, The Symbolic Language of Authority in the Carolingian World (c. 751–877), Brill’s Series on the Early Middle Ages 16 (Leiden, 2008), pp. 208–16. 33 Heginric Medallion: Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, no. 18206256. Available at: https://ikmk.smb.museum/object?id=18206256. Accessed 2020 May 28. Cf. Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters 1:314–15, no. 287. 34 CX Medallion: Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, no. 18217651. Available at: https://ikmk.smb.museum/object?id=18217651. Accessed 2020 May 28. Cf. Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, pp. 314–15, no. 288. 35 Berghaus argued that the last Ottonian king and emperor Henry II (1002–1024) is not to be ruled out, as one more deposit was found in the vicinity of the Hengeric and CX medallions that contained some 70 coins with a terminus post quem of 1002; Peter Berghaus, “Die Darstellung der deutschen Kaiser und Könige im Münzbild 800–1190,” in Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit: 751–1190, ed. Florentine Mütherich (Munich, 1983), pp. 133–44, no. 80.2.

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Figure 1.5 Heginric medallion from Klein-Roschaden, Germany, 10th century Copyright: Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin. Photograph: Lutz-Jürgen Lübke (Lübke und Wiedemann). Creative Commons. CC: BY-NC-SA license

by doing so, it translates and transmits powerful ‘Roman’ images into an early medieval iconography of authority. As shown here, the translation of authority could imbue different material, visual, and eventually social scales, from everyday copper-alloy brooches to more valuable silver and gold fibulas and medallions, penetrating the post-Roman early medieval societies from top to bottom.

Reassembling Coins and Gemstones

In the light of these examples of the translation of powerful images, we can now turn to focus on the reuse of old Roman coins and gemstones in the making of new early medieval objects. The reuse and recycling of Prehistoric and Roman material – the past in the past – is a frequently discussed theme, from ancient objects in early medieval graves and burials in Roman ruins, to the use

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of spolia in ecclesiastical architecture.36 But rather than consider this in terms of reuse or recycling, it will be explored in terms of object biography. This concept operates on the understanding that things have a cultural life of their own,37 and this life constantly reassembles itself in different social, cultural, and chronological places and spaces. In archaeology, a discipline of ‘things’,38 this concept has naturally received much attention.39 The most significant implication for the present discussion is that objects cannot, as Gosden and Marshall put it: be fully understood at just one point in their existence  … not only do objects change through their existence, but they often have the capability of accumulating histories, so that the present significance of an object derives from the persons and events to which it is connected.40 In recent years this understanding has been further established through the notion of things and objects as ‘travellers’ through space and time.41 In a recent study on Roman objects in the barbaricum, Stefan Schreiber has argued for an understanding of ‘imported’ objects as travelling things that constantly change and reconnect in their material and social relations.42 One example he uses 36

37

38 39

40 41

42

For example: Howard Williams, “Ancient Landscapes and the Dead: The Reuse of Prehistoric and Roman Monuments as Early Anglo-Saxon Burial Sites,” Medieval Archaeology 41, no. 1 (1997), 1–32; Hella Eckardt and Howard Williams, “Objects Without a Past? The Use of Roman Objects in Early Anglo-Saxon Graves,” in Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies, ed. Howard Williams (Boston, MA, 2003), pp. 141–70; on spolia, see essays in Richard Brilliant and Dale Kinney, eds., Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine (London, 2011). Igor Kopytoff, “The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process,” in The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. Arjun Appadurai (Cambridge, 1986), pp. 64–91. Also, Janet Hoskins, Biographical Objects: How Things Tell the Stories of People’s Lives (New York, 1998). Bjørnar Olsen, Timothy Webmoor, Michael Shanks, and Christopher Witmore, eds., Archaeology: The Discipline of Things (Berkeley, CA, 2012); Ian Hodder, Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships Between Humans and Things (Malden, 2012). Chris Gosden and Yvonne Marshall, “The Cultural Biography of Objects,” World Archaeology 31, no. 2 (1999), 169–78; Dietrich Boschung, Patric-Alexander Kreuz, and Tobias Kienlin, eds., Biography of Objects: Aspekte eines kulturhistorischen Konzepts, Morphomata 31 (Paderborn, 2015). Gosden and Marshall, “Cultural Biography of Objects,” p. 170. Hans P. Hahn and Hadas Weiss, “Introduction: Biographies, Travels and Itineraries of Things,” in Mobility, Meaning and the Transformations of Things: Shifting Contexts of Material Culture Through Time and Space, ed. Hans P. Hahn and Hadas Weiss (Oxford, 2013), pp. 5–7. Stefan Schreiber makes use of a figure called ‘die Wanderin’ – the (female!) traveller – to explain the various ways in which Roman ‘imported’ objects change and move, in

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to exemplify this concept is of particular significance here: a rather unusual 5th-century pottery vessel found in an inhumation grave in Coswig, Saxony, that includes glass beaker fragments. Such vessels – labelled Fenstergefäß (window vessel) in German – are scarce in the archaeological record.43 As in the case of the coin and pseudo-coin brooches discussed above, Schreiber contends that Fenstergefäße unravel the archaeological bias for clear-cut classifications and their discontents: on a material basis, the Fenstergefäß is made from both clay and glass combined in one object, and while on a ‘cultural’ level the production is putatively ‘Germanic,’ it includes ‘Roman’ glass fragments.44 Here, the established archaeological methods of careful typology and classification hit a wall: is the Fenstergefäß to be classified as pottery or glass vessel; is it one single object or two things at once (pottery vessel and beaker); is it opaque or translucent; is it ‘Germanic’ or ‘Roman’?45 Such ‘either/or’ explanations fall short in the light of the complex assemblage that constitutes the vessel. Schreiber shows that the various parts had different biographies or itineraries before they joined to form one particular object or, to be more precise and follow the concept as developed in Deleuze and Guattari’s philosophy: an assemblage.46 The Fenstergefäß sets off on new trajectories, including its deposition in an inhumation grave and its subsequent excavation, publication, and exhibition as an object of interest in a museum.47 When things or assemblages cannot be understood ‘at just one point in their existence’ a different angle to explore the ‘reuse’ of Roman objects is essential. Returning to the visual and material translation of Roman images of power into early medieval material culture, there is a large and diverse body of material in addition to the nummular brooches that literally incorporates Roman

43 44

45 46

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Stefan Schreiber, Wandernde Dinge als Assemblagen: Neo-Materialistische Perspektiven zum ‘römischen Import’ im ‘mitteldeutschen Barbaricum’, Berlin Studies of the Ancient World 52 (Berlin, 2018), pp. 207–32. For further literature on Coswig inhumation grave no. 4 and Fenstergefäße in general, see ibid., pp. 25–31, 317, cat. 246/VIII-15-2/1.4. On the term ‘Germanic’ and its discontents in late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, see James M. Harland and Matthias Friedrich, “Introduction: The ‘Germanic’ and Its Discontents,” in Interrogating the ‘Germanic’: A Category and Its Use in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Matthias Friedrich and James M. Harland, Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde 123 (Berlin, 2021), pp. 1–18. Schreiber, Wandernde Dinge als Assemblagen, pp. 29–30. Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis, MN, 1987). Briefly on the concept in the humanities and archaeology: George E. Marcus and Erkan Saka, “Assemblage,” Theory, Culture & Society 23, no. 2–3 (2006), 101–6; Yannis Hamilakis and Andrew M. Jones, “Archaeology and Assemblage,” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 27, no. 1 (2017), 77–84. Schreiber, Wandernde Dinge als Assemblagen, pp. 201–6.

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coins and carved stones, such as intaglios and cameos.48 Well-known examples in the art of the Middle Ages are incorporated into book covers, reliquaries, and crosses mostly from ecclesiastical collections, such as a late 10th-century crux gemmata, the so-called Cross of Lothair, that features a cameo of Augustus as a laureate in its centre.49 We also encounter Roman coins and gemstones outside ecclesiastical contexts in brooches (yet again) and finger rings, and these can also be considered in the context of object biographies and travelling things as assemblages. Disc brooches provide a large quantity of samples throughout the early Middle Ages – this is true for the iconography of coinage as discussed above and also for the integration of cameos and intaglios.50 An early 7th-century disc brooch (Plate 1.1a), now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art,51 mounts a 2nd- or 3rd-century cameo with a figure and chariot, perhaps Aurora driving a biga,52 while a later piece, an Ottonian star-shaped brooch (Plate 1.1b), includes a 4th-century sapphire intaglio with a profile portrait.53 Besides brooches, finger rings are objects that commonly adapt, transform, or reassemble Roman coins and cut gemstones.54 A 7th-century gold ring recovered from southern Italy (Plate 1.1c) surmounted by a chalcedony intaglio with a bearded figure is considered either a Lombardic or Byzantine object.55 As with the Fenstergefäß 48 49 50 51

52 53 54

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For an overview, see Dale Kinney, “Ancient Gems in the Middle Ages: Riches and Ready-Mades,” in Brilliant and Kinney, Reuse Value, pp. 97–120. On the cameo from the Lothair cross, see Erika Zwierlein-Diehl, Antike Gemmen und ihr Nachleben (Berlin, 2007), p. 148. On cameos and intaglios in the archaeology of Merovingian Europe, see: Hermann Ament, “Zur Wertschätzung antiker Gemmen in der Merowingerzeit,” Germania 69 (1991), 401–24. Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 95.15.101: Brown, et al., From Attila to Charlemagne, pp. 154–55; James D. Draper, “Cameo Appearances,” Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 65, no. 4 (2008), 17, no. 26. In her catalogue of Merovingian filigree brooches, Graenert lists the Cameo disc brooch from the MET as a potential forgery, but does not elucidate this classification: Gabriele Graenert, Merowingerzeitliche Filigranscheibenfibeln westlich des Rheins, Europe médiévale 7 (Montagnac, 2007), p. 319, cat. VIII: Nachträge, no. 008. Draper, “Cameo Appearances,” p. 17. Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 1988.15: William D. Wixom, Mirror of the Medieval World (New York, 1999), p. 58, no. 71. For a brief summary on early medieval rings, with a particular focus on the Merovingian and Carolingian periods, see Christamaria Beckmann, Helmut Roth, Sebastian Ristow, and Egon Wamers, s.v. “Fingerring,” in Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, ed. Johannes Hoops, vol. 9, 2nd ed. (Berlin, 1995), pp. 56–66. Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 17.230.128. Brown, et al., From Attila to Charlemagne, pp. 128, 356. For additional finger rings in the J.P. Morgan collection: Hélène Guiraud, “Ten Rings from the Collection of J. Pierpont Morgan,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 32 (1997), 57–63.

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a

b Plate 1.1

Objects as assemblages: Early medieval personal objects that incorporate Roman gemstones and coins. (a) 7th-century disc brooch with cameo; (b) 10th-century Ottonian star-shaped brooch with 4th-century sapphire intaglio; (c) 7th-century ring with chalcedony intaglio showing bearded figure; (d) 7th-century gold ring from Pfahlheim, Germany incorporating a 5th-century Byzantine coin

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c

d

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from the central European barbaricum, the ring resists unambiguous cultural classification with, for example, the MET catalogue description reading “Byzantine or Byzantine-Langobardic.”56 The ring can be better understood as being made of different things from various trajectories, or as assembled from things at different points within their individual cultural biographies that meet at one point, and are thus translated into a new assemblage. Another such ‘assemblage’ is a gold ring from Pfahlheim, Germany, that incorporates a Byzantine coin, possibly of Heraclius or Constantine III (Plate 1.1d).57 The various parts of assemblages travel from their ‘initial’ use as a coin or a precious gemstone to the ring or brooch, constituting a completely new, assembled object in a new context, being buried and excavated, researched, and displayed in a museum, while also travelling to this very article.

Conclusion: Translating the Visual in Post-Roman Europe

This discussion opened with consideration of Merovingian 7th-century repoussé disc brooches depicting the personification of invincible and unconquered Rome. While these Roma Invicta brooches (Fig. 1.1a) resemble rare late antique medallions and translate their distinctive imperial iconography to early medieval female dress, the 5th- to 11th-century nummular brooches (Münzfibeln, fibules monétiformes) adopt imperial coinage more miscellaneously. The common ground of the nummular brooches discussed here is the likeness of the emperor that was a frequently used template in early medieval material and visual culture. The visual translations range from stylised portraits, such as the Merovingian-period brooch from Marchélepot (Fig. 1.2b) to such splendid works as the 10th-century Heginric Medallion (Fig. 1.5), and to actual coins reworked and reused in medieval objects. Here, the reuse of coins and carved gemstones in brooches and finger rings (Plate 1.1) was explored through the notions of objects biographies and ‘travelling’ things. These ‘assemblages’ combine old- and new-form objects in a new social and historical setting and, for that reason, withstand established classifications and categories. In general, the adaption, translation, and reassembling of images and actual objects of authority to personal objects play active roles in the vast changes that occurred in the post-Roman West. The well-established imperial and 56 57

Brown, et al., From Attila to Charlemagne, p. 356. Germanisches Nationalmuseum Nürnberg, inv. FG1149: Manfred Nawroth, Das Gräberfeld von Pfahlheim und das Reitzubehör der Merowingerzeit, Wissenschaftliche Beibände zum Anzeiger des Germanischen Nationalmuseums 19 (Nürnberg, 2001), p. 245, cat. 16.39.

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powerful motifs provide a strong visual and material anchor in the social and political changes after the end of the Roman world, a visual transformation of the Roman power of images into the early Middle Ages.58 While the widespread image of the defeated and untamed barbarian as the complementary counterpart of the victorious and civilised Roman world faded in late Antiquity,59 the victorious Roman image lived on, even though this life changed significantly in the early Middle Ages. While the city of Rome was conquered and the Roman Empire ceased to exist in the West, the visual translation of Rome and its authority was truly unconquered: paradoxically, the power of images from the Roman world thrived on its fading. Bibliography Ament, Hermann, “Zur Wertschätzung antiker Gemmen in der Merowingerzeit,” Germania 69 (1991), 401–24. Beckmann, Christamaria, Helmut Roth, Sebastian Ristow, and Egon Wamers, s.v. “Fingerring,” in Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, ed. Johannes Hoops, vol. 9, 2nd ed. (Berlin, 1995), pp. 56–66. Behrens, Gustav, “Merowingische Pressblech-Scheibenfibeln,” Mainzer Zeitschrift 39–40 (1944–45), 17–21. Berghaus, Peter, “Die Darstellung der deutschen Kaiser und Könige im Münzbild 800– 1190,” in Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit: 751–1190, ed. Florentine Mütherich (Munich, 1983), pp. 133–44. Berghaus, Peter, “Münzfibeln,” in Die frühmittelalterlichen Lesefunde aus der Löhrstrasse (Baustelle Hilton II) in Mainz, ed. Egon Wamers, Mainzer archäologische Schriften 1 (Mainz, 1994), pp. 106–15. Bergmann, Birgit, Der Kranz des Kaisers: Genese und Bedeutung einer römischen Insignie, Image and Context 6 (Berlin, 2010).

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Based on the seminal works by Paul Zanker, Augustus und die Macht der Bilder (Munich, 1987) and David Freedberg, The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response (Chicago, 1989). This topic is further explored in Matthias Friedrich, Image and Ornament in the Early Medieval West, 400-800: New Perspectives on Post-Roman Art (Cambridge, forthcoming). Philipp von Rummel, “The Fading Power of Images: Romans, Barbarians, and the Uses of a Dichotomy in Early Medieval Archaeology,” in Post-Roman Transitions: Christian and Barbarian Identities in the Early Medieval West, ed., Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann, Cultural Encounters in the Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages 14 (Turnhout, 2013), pp. 365–406.

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Bos, J.M., “Medieval Brooches from the Dutch Province of Friesland (Frisia): A Regional Perspective on the Wijnaldum Brooches, Part IIII: Disc Brooches,” Palaeohistoria 49–50 (2007–8), 755–67. Boschung, Dietrich, Patric-Alexander Kreuz, and Tobias Kienlin, eds., Biography of Objects: Aspekte eines kulturhistorischen Konzepts, Morphomata 31 (Paderborn, 2015). Brilliant, Richard, and Dale Kinney, eds., Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine (London, 2011). Brown, Katharine R., Dafydd Kidd, and Charles T. Little, eds., From Attila to Charlemagne: Arts of the Early Medieval Period in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York, 2000). Brown, Peter, The Rise of Western Christendom: Triumph and Diversity, A.D. 200–1000 (1996; 10th rev. ed. Chichester, 2013). Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis, MN, 1987). Draper, James D., “Cameo Appearances,” Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 65, no. 4 (2008), 4–56. Eckardt, Hella, and Howard Williams, “Objects Without a Past? The Use of Roman Objects in Early Anglo-Saxon Graves,” in Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies, ed. Howard Williams (Boston, MA, 2003), pp. 141–70. Freedberg, David, The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response (Chicago, 1989). Frick, Hans-Jörg, “Karolingisch-ottonische Scheibenfibeln des nördlichen Formenkreises,” Offa 49–50 (1992–93), 243–463. Friedrich, Matthias, Archäologische Chronologie und historische Interpretation: Die Merowingerzeit in Süddeutschland, Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde 96 (Berlin, 2016). Friedrich, Matthias, Image and Ornament in the Early Medieval West, 400–800: New Perspectives on Post-Roman Art (Cambridge, forthcoming). Garipzanov, Ildar H., The Symbolic Language of Authority in the Carolingian World (c. 751–877), Brill’s Series on the Early Middle Ages 16 (Leiden, 2008). Gosden, Chris, and Yvonne Marshall, “The Cultural Biography of Objects,” World Archaeology 31, no. 2 (1999), 169–78. Graenert, Gabriele, Merowingerzeitliche Filigranscheibenfibeln westlich des Rheins, Europe médiévale 7 (Montagnac, 2007). Guiraud, Hélène, “Ten Rings from the Collection of J. Pierpont Morgan,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 32 (1997), 57–63. Hahn, Hans P., and Hadas Weiss, “Introduction: Biographies, Travels and Itineraries of Things,” in Mobility, Meaning and the Transformations of Things: Shifting Contexts of Material Culture Through Time and Space, ed. Hans P. Hahn and Hadas Weiss (Oxford, 2013), pp. 1–14.

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Hamilakis, Yannis, and Andrew M. Jones, “Archaeology and Assemblage,” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 27, no. 1 (2017), 77–84. Harland, James M., and Matthias Friedrich, “Introduction: The ‘Germanic’ and Its Discontents,” in Interrogating the ‘Germanic’: A Category and its uses in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Matthias Friedrich and James M. Harland, Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde 123 (Berlin, 2021), pp. 1–18. Heeren, Stijn, and Lourens van der Feijst, Prehistorische, Romeinse en middeleeuwse fibulae uit de Lage Landen: Beschrijving, analyse en interpretatie van een archeologische vondstcategorie (Amersfoort, 2017). Hodder, Ian, Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships Between Humans and Things (Malden, 2012). Hofmann, Kerstin P. and Philipp W. Stockhammer, “Materialisierte Übersetzungen in der Prähistorie,” Saeculum 67, no. 1 (2017), 45–66. Hoskins, Janet, Biographical Objects: How Things Tell the Stories of People’s Lives (New York, 1998). Icks, Martijn, “Three Usurpers in Rome: The Urbs Aeterna in the Representation of Maxentius, Nepotian, and Priscus Attalus,” Studies in Late Antiquity 4, no. 1 (2020), 4–43. Kilger, Christoph, “Kaupang from Afar: Aspects of the Interpretation of Dirham Finds in Northern and Eastern Europe Between the Late 8th and Early 10th Centuries,” in Means of Exchange: Dealing with Silver in the Viking Age, ed. Dagfinn Skre, Kaupang Excavation Project 2 (Aarhus, 2007), pp. 199–252. Kinney, Dale, “Ancient Gems in the Middle Ages: Riches and Ready-Mades,” in Brilliant and Kinney, Reuse Value, pp. 97–120. Klein-Pfeuffer, Margarete, Merowingerzeitliche Fibeln und Anhänger aus Preßblech, Marburger Studien zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 14 (Marburg, 1993). Kluge, Bernd, Numismatik des Mittelalters, 1: Handbuch und Thesaurus Nummorum Medii Aevi, Veröffentlichungen der Numismatischen Kommission 45 (Berlin, 2007). Kopytoff, Igor, “The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process,” in The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. Arjun Appadurai (Cambridge, 1986), pp. 64–91. Marcus, George E., and Erkan Saka, “Assemblage,” Theory, Culture & Society 23, no. 2–3 (2006), 101–6. Marti, Reto. Zwischen Römerzeit und Mittelalter: Forschungen zur frühmittelalterlichen Siedlungsgeschichte der Nordwestschweiz (4.–10. Jahrhundert), Archäologie und Museum 41 (Liestal, 2000). Nawroth, Manfred, Das Gräberfeld von Pfahlheim und das Reitzubehör der Merowingerzeit, Wissenschaftliche Beibände zum Anzeiger des Germanischen National­ museums 19 (Nürnberg, 2001).

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Olsen, Bjørnar, Timothy Webmoor, Michael Shanks, and Christopher Witmore, eds., Archaeology: The Discipline of Things (Berkeley, CA, 2012). Rogerson, Andrew, “NMS-A39743: A Early Medieval Brooch.” https://finds.org.uk/data base/artefacts/record/id/600841. Roth, Helmut, Kunst und Handwerk im frühen Mittelalter: Archäologische Zeugnisse von Childerich I. bis zu Karl dem Großen (Stuttgart, 1986). Roth, Helmut, and Egon Wamers, eds., Hessen im Frühmittelalter: Archäologie und Kunst (Sigmaringen, 1984). Sasse, Barbara, Ein frühmittelalterliches Reihengräberfeld bei Eichstetten am Kaiserstuhl, Forschungen und Berichte zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte in Baden-Württemberg 75 (Stuttgart, 2001). Schreiber, Stefan, Wandernde Dinge als Assemblagen: Neo-Materialistische Perspektiven zum ‘römischen Import’ im ‘mitteldeutschen Barbaricum’, Berlin Studies of the Ancient World 52 (Berlin, 2018). Schulze-Dörrlamm, Mechthild, “Münzfibeln der Karolingerzeit,” Archäologisches Korrespondenzblatt 29, no. 2 (1999), 275. Schulze-Dörrlamm, Mechthild, “Gräber mit Münzbeigabe im Karolingerreich,” Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz 57 (2010), 339–88. von Rummel, Philipp, “The Fading Power of Images: Romans, Barbarians, and the Uses of a Dichotomy in Early Medieval Archaeology,” in Post-Roman Transitions: Christian and Barbarian Identities in the Early Medieval West, ed., Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann, Cultural Encounters in the Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages 14 (Turnhout, 2013), pp. 365–406. Weetch, Rosie, “Brooches in Late Anglo-Saxon England Within a North West European Context: A Study of Social Identities Between the Eighth and the Eleventh Centuries” (PhD Thesis, University of Reading, 2014). Wicker, Nancy L., “Decolonising Gold Bracteates: From Late Roman Medallions to Scandianvian Migration Period Pendants,” in Postcolonising the Medieval Image, ed. Eva Frojmovic and Catherine E. Karkov (London, 2017), pp. 17–36. Williams, Howard, “Ancient Landscapes and the Dead: The Reuse of Prehistoric and Roman Monuments as Early Anglo-Saxon Burial Sites,” Medieval Archaeology 41, no. 1 (1997), 1–32. Wixom, William D., Mirror of the Medieval World (New York, 1999). Zanker, Paul, Augustus und die Macht der Bilder (Munich, 1987). Zwierlein-Diehl, Erika, Antike Gemmen und ihr Nachleben (Berlin, 2007).

Chapter 2

Grasping the Cross: Transforming the Body and Mind in Early Medieval England Rachael Vause In museum displays and academic publications, the beauty, style, or symbolism of medieval jewellery is often privileged over consideration of the body on which it was once displayed.1 Throughout museums of Great Britain, 10 crosspendants extant from the 7th century sit behind glass, far removed from the bodies they once adorned and the graves from which they were unearthed. A rare exception involves a burial excavated in 2012 in the village of Trumpington just outside Cambridge: approximately 1,300 years ago a woman was laid to rest, a small gold-and-garnet cloisonné cross lying upon her chest (Plate 2.1). To her mourners, interment with jewellery would have been a familiar tradition observed since the 5th century. But in the 7th century the cross was a recent addition to the corpus of adornment- and power-objects, largely disappearing in the 8th century with the discontinuation of grave goods. Today the Trumpington cross is suspended on a plexiglass shelf in a museum (like the others), but in Cambridge’s Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology it hovers, uniquely, above a life-sized photograph of the woman’s skeleton in situ. The more typical display methods have encouraged viewing wearable crosses in stylistic or craftsmanship terms and the scholarship has largely followed a similar set of interests. It is worth considering what is missing from these evaluations. In exhibits bereft of contextual images such as those from the Trumpington excavation, the cross becomes disembodied from the human form it once adorned; the affective aspects of the bodily engagement between ornament and wearer go unexplored. A wider disciplinary assessment that incorporates phenomenology with archaeological evidence and a careful reading of primary sources may expand our understanding of embodiment of the cross in early medieval England. Additionally, the application of the cognitive sciences presents an exciting range of possibilities for understanding the relationship between the body and material culture. As established in the work of phenomenologists such as Maurice Merleau-Ponty and anthropologists like Michael Jackson and 1 See below, Cross, pp. 354–80.

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The Trumpington cross, Trumpington, Cambridgeshire, 7th century Reproduced by permission of University of Cambridge Museum of Archaeology & Anthropology (2017.58)

Thomas Csordas, the body includes the brain; furthermore, the body exists in an environment with which it interacts and is affected by environmental conditioners.2 Investigating the cognitive impulses that prompt the creation of material culture and govern the acquisition of knowledge through the body, counteracts the conception of the mind as a disembodied generator of abstract ideas, separate from, and unaffected by, the body and the world of its experience. In this case-study of wearable crosses, an approach that balances the abstract concepts of belief with bodily perception and experience will be employed. Such an approach can serve to elucidate the cultural and 2 Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, ed./trans. Donald A. Landes (Abingdon, 2012); Michael Jackson, Paths Toward a Clearing: Radical Empiricism and Ethnographic Enquiry (Bloomington, IN, 1989); Thomas J. Csordas, Body/Meaning/Healing (New York, 2002).

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psychological conditions that precipitated the creation of Christian powerobjects in the 7th century, and provide a clearer picture of the peoples of early medieval England and the glittering crosses they carried with them in life and beyond. Although not appearing before the 7th century, the wearable cross belongs to the tradition of social communication through ornamentation in use by groups in England since the 5th century.3 Jewellery was worn by men, women, and children in life and in the grave, and served a variety of practical and aspirational functions. Pins, brooches, and buckles fastened clothing; amulets protected the living and the deceased. Personal ornaments not only carried monetary value but were often a part of a familial legacy as they were passed down through descendants or buried with relatives. As active material agents in the fabric of society, jewellery forged the identity of both the wearer and his or her family, shaped memories of the past, and created possibilities for future action. In the 6th century, the disparate groups inhabiting England began to combine and enlarge families, landholdings, and resources via intermarriage and alliances, and differentiated themselves from rival groups through various jewellery and clothing fashions, not only in life but in death.4 Accessories displayed on the body created not only the public perception of a social group, but also reinforced individual members’ identities as participants in a communal legacy. The sheer amount of material wealth removed from circulation and dedicated to the grave in early England suggests an intrinsic connection between bodies and their material culture. Signs of repair and usage of grave goods indicate that most objects were not impersonal symbols manufactured for inhumation, but were items utilized by the living, often over decades, before being deposed with the deceased.5 Elite families of the later 6th and 7th centuries sought to strengthen authority over labour and resources by normalizing social differentiation. The use of particular motifs on metalwork may have signalled kinship with a select clan or specific regional group.6 In the 7th century, inhumation practices were ritualized to incorporate lavish displays, including barrow- and ship-burials, 3 See below, Hawkes, pp. 51–73. 4 Christopher J. Arnold, An Archaeology of the Early Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms (London, 2005), p. 176. 5 Leslie Webster and Janet Backhouse, eds., The Making of England: Anglo-Saxon Art and Culture, AD 600–900 (London, 1991), p. 27; Sally Crawford, “Votive Deposition, Religion and the Anglo-Saxon Furnished Burial Ritual,” World Archaeology 36, no. 1 (2004), 91. 6 Siv Kristoffersen, “Transformation in Migration Period Animal Art,” Norwegian Archaeological Review 28, no. 1 (1995), 3; Arnold, An Archaeology, p. 185; For evidence of descent groups,

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as expressions of a dynastic and heroic past that legitimized current rule.7 By the second half of the 6th century the most affluent families were adopting royal titles and beginning to build substantial powerhouses that would solidify into the recognizable kingdoms of the 7th century.8 As these domains began to adopt Christianity during the 7th century, Christian symbols were integrated into items of adornment.9 Scholars have sometimes characterized the rise of Christian ornamentation as a gradual replacement of non-Christian amulets, although this view is no longer as conventional.10 While it is true that a Christian symbol does not necessarily a Christian item make, the transition between pre- and post-Christian power-objects cannot be so simply explained.11 The pre-Christian embodiment of jewellery and power-objects paved the way for a deep, transformative connection between the pendant-cross and the body. The signum crucis (sign of the cross) represents the most enduring of Christian signs and images to enter English society in the 6th century. In her work on popular religion in medieval England, Karen Jolly described the cross as “the simplest and most accessible symbol of the central truth of Christian belief… . It was the first and sometimes the only symbol many rural Anglo-Saxons experienced.”12 The crux usualis (the act of signing the body with the form of the cross by movement of the hand) was introduced to early medieval England through the rite of baptism.13 Whether every English priest and parish closely followed the tenets of the Roman rite as preached by Augustine and later encouraged by Archbishop Theodore is far from certain, although it 7 8 9 10

11 12 13

see Martin G. Welch, Early Anglo-Saxon Sussex (Oxford, 1983), p. 199; S.J. Sherlock and Martin G. Welch, An Anglo-Saxon Cemetery at Norton, Cleveland (London, 1992), pp. 73–102. Barbara Yorke, “Anglo-Saxon Origin Legends,” in Myth, Rulership, Church and Charters: Essays in Honour of Nicholas Brooks, ed. Julia Barrow and Andrew Wareham (Aldershot, 2009), p. 24. Arnold, An Archaeology, pp. 207–25. See Webster and Backhouse, Making of England, pp. 26–9, 59–62. Audrey L. Meaney, Anglo-Saxon Amulets and Curing Stones (Oxford, 1981), p. 269; John D. Niles, “Pagan Survivals and Popular Belief,” in The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature, ed. Malcolm Godden and Michael Lapidge (Cambridge, 1991), p. 130; Carol Neuman de Vegvar, “In Hoc Signo: The Cross on Secular Objects and the Process of Conversion,” in Jolly, et al., Cross and Culture, p. 98. On the translation of power-objects and iconographies, see above, Friedrich, pp. 9–28. Karen Jolly, Popular Religion in Late Saxon England: Elf Charms in Context (Chapel Hill, NC, 1996), p. 165. For references to baptism in early England, see Vita Gregorii 29, ed./trans. Bertram Colgrave, The Earliest Life of Gregory the Great by an Anonymous Monk of Whitby (Oxford, 1968), p. 127; Bede, HE 2.2, pp. 134–42; essays in Michael Lapidge, ed., Archbishop Theodore: Commemorative Studies on His Life and Influence (Cambridge, 1995), esp. pp. 1–29.

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is likely that the priests closest to the English elite would have had access to the sacramentaries outlining the rite.14 As a mimetic gesture, the sign of the cross exemplified the role of touch in religious life as a means of contact with both the communal body of Christians and the literal body of Christ. In Roman Christian practice, the physical touch of the clergy was mandated in the initiation rite of baptism. Contact with the initiate came in many forms: blowing upon the face, the laying on of hands, anointing the mouth with salt, and various areas such as the ears and nostrils with saliva or oil, and making the sign of the cross on the head, chest, and between the shoulders with chrism.15 The continuation of these practices by the English Church suggests an acceptance of, or even perhaps a shared understanding of, the power of touch in religious ritual; activation of membership into the Christian community required the touch of the sanctified official. Tactile interaction is understood to have facilitated the transference of blessing and protective power from priest to new believer.16 Inscribing the sign of the cross was at the very heart of this exchange, transforming the body from non-Christian to Christian. Although performing the sign of the cross was initially the exclusive provenance of the clergy, such distinctions eventually became irrelevant to usage of the sign among the laity, which was in fact, beneficial to the entrenchment of the new religion.17 Repeated motor actions have been shown to enhance memory, and in the case of the crux usualis, which includes recurrent gestures, such repetition can establish new conceptual systems, such as Christianity, in the body.18 If the touch of a priest’s fingers bound the converted to the Body of Christ, a further connection to the Saviour may have been effected by the gesture of the convert him/herself. David Chidester has observed that:

14

15 16

17 18

See Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum Episcopum 5, ed./trans. Christopher Grocock and Ian N. Wood, The Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, Bede’s Homily I. 13 on Benedict Biscop, Bede’s History of the Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, the Anonymous Life of Ceolfrith, Bede’s Letter to Ecgbert, Bishop of York (Oxford, 2013), pp. 130–31.; Alcuin, Epistola 226, ed. Ernst Dümmler, MGH EpistMerov 2 (Berlin, 1895), p. 370. Wulfstan of York, Homily 8c, ed. Dorothy Bethurum, The Homilies of Wulfstan (Oxford, 1957), pp. 176–79. Bede, Epistola, Grocock and Wood, Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, pp. 136–39. For a summary of initiation rites in the 6th and 7th centuries, see J.D.C. Fisher, Christian Initiation: Baptism in the Medieval West. A Study in the Disintegration of the Primitive Rite of Initiation (London, 1965), pp. 78–87. Neuman de Vegvar, “In Hoc Signo,” pp. 98–9. Lawrence W. Barsalou, Aron Barbey, W. Kyle Simmons, and Ava Santos, “Embodiment in Religious Knowledge,” Journal of Cognition and Culture 5, nos. 1–2 (2005), 47.

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in the kinesthetic movements of the body, tactile information is acquired. For the study of religion, kinesthesia calls attention to embodied movements – kneeling, standing, prostrating … – not only as types of ritual performance but also as instruments of knowledge.19 The knowledge of Christ’s victory over death was made present and personal in the body through the action of crossing, mapping Christ’s physical body onto one’s own.20 In this way, the ordeal of Christ’s crucifixion was made experiential through the vehicle of touch. In his Homilies on Ezekiel, Gregory the Great encouraged contemplation of the Passion in order to create a point of access between Christ and the faithful. Meditation on his sacrifice fostered an awareness of Christ as living and present rather than an actor in past events.21 By the late 7th century the splendour of the crux gemmata (gemmed cross) was put on display within the church to engender adoration.22 Both quotations and embodiments of the cross of the crucifixion, what differentiated the wearable cross from public versions was a personal, tactile potency. Understanding and embodying the Christian deity and the power of his Son’s sacrifice necessitated reduction of the prototype to the familiar form of jewellery. The personal and portable nature of the wearable cross would have granted individuals access to the power of the cross outside defined ecclesiastical sites and enabled private worship at all levels of society. Jackson has identified an intelligible advantage to the resizing of a prototype: “Reduction in scale and objectification extend our power over a homologue of a thing, so allowing it to be grasped, assessed, and apprehended at a glance.”23 The design of many pendant-crosses also suggests specific intentions for personal viewing and contemplation. A pendant-cross discovered in Wilton, Norfolk (Plate 2.2), with its geometric inlays of garnet in gold, is replete 19 20 21 22

23

David Chidester, “Haptics of the Heart: The Sense of Touch in American Religion and Culture,” Culture and Religion: An Interdisciplinary Journal 1, no. 1 (2000), 71. Roy M. Liuzza, “Prayers and/or Charms Addressed to the Cross,” in Jolly, et al., Cross and Culture, p. 276. Gregory the Great, Homiliae in Hiezechihelem prophetam 2.1.16, ed. Marcus Adriaen, Homiliae in Hiezechihelem prophetam, CCSL 142 (Turnhout, 1971), p. 221. Aldhelm, Carmina Ecclesiastica 3, trans. Michael Lapidge and James L. Rosier, Aldhelm: The Poetic Works (Cambridge, 1985), p. 49. Bede. HE 2.20, pp. 203–05. See also, Charles R. Dodwell, Anglo-Saxon Art: A New Perspective (Manchester, 1982), pp. 24–43; Barbara C. Raw, Anglo-Saxon Crucifixion Iconography and the Art of the Monastic Revival (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 8–11; John Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society (Oxford, 2005), p. 136; Ian N. Wood, “Constantinian Crosses in Northumbria,” in Karkov, et al., The Place of the Cross, pp. 3–13. Jackson, Paths Toward a Clearing, p. 154.

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Plate 2.2 Wilton cross, Wilton, Norfolk, 7th century © The Trustees of the British Museum

with opportunities for visual interrogation. The gold coin (solidus) of the Emperor Heraclius mounted in its roundel bears the image of the cross standing upon four steps representing Golgotha. Curiously, the solidus was struck with the reverse die upside-down in relation to the obverse.24 The image of Calvary would have appeared right-side-up to the wearer, perhaps providing direct evidence for intimate contact with the object.25 Studies have shown that visual perception is actually enhanced when an object is engaged with an area of tactile spatial attention: the sight of a cross clutched in one’s hand, for

24 25

Angela Care Evans, “The Wilton Cross,” in Webster and Backhouse, Making of England, pp. 27–28. Ibid., p. 28.

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example.26 Signs of use and repair prior to burial, as well as patterns of wear in suspension loops, have been identified on pendant- and pectoral-crosses. Microscopic examination of the surface for marks produced by habitual touching or rubbing may provide further indications of deliberate interaction between the cross and the body.27 Connecting the body to the Christian faith via the cross was achieved most significantly by the habitual touch and sight of personal cross-ornaments. The collapse of temporality and the embodiment of jewellery associated with powerful figures from the past (such as Christ) was not unfamiliar in early England. Jewellery passed down from one relative to another acted to embed actual and imagined ancestral legacies within the familial structure and to strengthen ties between relations.28 Viewing an inherited item could prompt recollection of the deeds and words of the deceased or the legends connected to them, and stir emotions associated with that person or with the tales surrounding them.29 The value of inheritance and a connection with ancestors may have been of such importance as to be imbued into the very material of jewellery. Analysis of elemental levels in saucer brooches from numerous sites in Oxfordshire suggests that an ancestral copper-alloy artefact was used as the base material in the forging of new brooch pairs.30 Recycling materials, particularly metals, or the resetting of jewels from older pieces was not uncommon in the Middle Ages.31 In the case of the brooches under examination, the lack of functional benefit and technical complexity of this process invites a cultural interpretation of the act. Reusing material from a family heirloom may have imbued the metal itself with ancestral value or power. As will be demonstrated 26

27 28 29

30 31

José van Velzen, Elena Gherri, and Martin Eimer, “ERP Effects of Movement Preparation on Visual Processing: Attention Shifts to the Hand, Not the Goal,” Cognitive Processing 7, suppl. 1 (2006): 100–101; Martin Eimer, Bettina Forster, José van Velzen, and Gita Prabhu, “Covert Manual Response Preparation Triggers Attentional Shifts: ERP Evidence for the Premotor Theory of Attention,” Neuropsychologia 43, no. 6 (2005), 957–66. I am in the process of completing a microscopic study of the eight crosses currently available to scholars for examination. Robin Fleming, Britain After Rome: The Fall and Rise, 400 to 1070 (London, 2011), p. 90. See, Heinrich Härke, “The Circulation of Weapons in Anglo-Saxon Society,” in Rituals of Power from Late Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages, ed. F. Theuws and Janet L. Nelson, The Transformation of the Roman World 8 (Leiden, 2000), p. 378; see also Beowulf, lines 1488– 90, 2729–32, trans. Seamus Heaney, Beowulf (London, 1999), pp. 49, 86. Chris Caple, “Ancestor Artefacts – Ancestor Materials,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 29, no. 3 (2010), 305–18. Catherine Mortimer, “Northern European Metalworking Traditions in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries AD,” in Archaeological Sciences 1989: Proceedings of a Conference on the Application of Scientific Techniques to Archaeology, Bradford, September 1989, ed. Paul Budd, B. Chapman, C. Jackson, R. Janaway, and B. Ottaway (Oxford, 1991), pp. 162–68.

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here regarding the affectivity of gold and garnets, such an explanation fits well in a society wherein materials mattered. Additionally, it could account for the anomalous makeup of metalwork from this period, including the inconsistent patterns in some copper-alloy compositions and the unusually high silver content in others.32 The wearing of jewellery that commemorated a past kinsman allowed a family member to directly embody his or her ancestor, to collapse the temporal divide between the venerable deceased and living kindred. Thus, past time is essentially embedded into the collective, and is therefore tethered to present time; it is materialized, performed, and re-presented by an individual.33 It is the embodied and performative act of arraying the body with ornamentation that creates meaning, within the family group and the greater social body. The relationship between memory and emotion and personal ornaments applies equally to interaction with the wearable cross. When recalling an object to mind, an actual simulation of it is evoked, as opposed to a collection of symbols that describe it;34 the viewing of movement, whether live or pictorial, activates motor and somatosensory cortices as if we were, ourselves, performing the same action.35 Thus, any imagery or performance of Christ’s Passion involving the gesture of his figure would trigger not only emotional empathy, but a “felt imitation” in the body of the viewer.36 The memory of these events is thus shaped by the body and may condition subsequent responses to images of the cross, including wearable versions. In the same way that an individual would map Christ onto his or her body through the motion of signing, a mapping of movement, meaning, and emotion could be projected onto the form of the wearable cross. The imagistic and somatic information from past experience pertains not only to arenas of public worship, but also to personal devotion, wherein a vision of the crucifixion is conjured, and imagined experience becomes a shared experience in the body of the believer. In the words of Kerry Martin Skora, it is “imaginative thinking that reproduces and gives

32 33 34 35

36

Caple, “Ancestor Artefacts,” p. 316. Rafael F. Narvaez, “Embodiment, Collective Memory and Time,” Body and Society 12, no. 3 (2006), 54. Barsalou, et al., “Embodiment in Religious Knowledge,” p. 23. David Freedberg, “Memory in Art: History and the Neuroscience of Response,” in The Memory Process: Neuroscientific and Humanistic Perspectives, ed. Suzanne Nalbantian, Paul M. Matthews, and James L. McClelland (Cambridge, MA, 2011), pp. 341, 350; Giacomo Rizzolatti, “The Mirror Neuron System and its Function in Humans,” Anatomy and Embryology 210, no. 5 (2005), 420. Ibid., 341.

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rise to divine reality, not representational thinking, but mimetic thinking.”37 The vehicles of emotion, imagination, and memory, prompted by visual and tactile interaction with a wearable cross, broke down temporal structures and triggered neural bridges of empathetic access to the suffering and redemption of the body of Christ. Pendant-crosses hung at the heart, not only where a Christian applied the crux usualis, but in accordance with the culturally accepted localization of the mind and heart in the breast. Leslie Lockett’s interesting work on the ‘hydraulic model’ of the mind expressed in Old English narratives and poetry treats the concept as literal rather than metaphoric.38 Latin and Greek sources had long identified the head or brain as the seat of the soul,39 but corresponding suggestions in Old English literature were rare and do not appear in medical texts until after 1000 AD.40 The body and mind are not portrayed as dual or conflicting forces, but a ‘mind-body complex’ sharing a single will that affects the eternal soul for good or for ill. The soul is only able to act on its own once released from the mortal coil, as a representative of the self in the afterlife. Perhaps then for the English Christian, virtue, as well as protection, were sought through contact with the wearable cross. In the Juliana poem, a devil outlines his strategy for compromising the mind of a victim: the entrance opened, then I at once send in to him, with the shooting of an arrow into his breast-mind, bitter thoughts through the various desires of his mind, that it seems to him better to perform sins and lusts of the flesh than the praise of God.41 37 38 39

40

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Kerry Martin Skora, “The Hermeneutics of Touch: Uncovering Abhinavagupta’s Tactile Terrain,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 21 (2009), 103. Leslie Lockett, Anglo-Saxon Psychologies in the Vernacular and Latin Traditions (Toronto, 2011), p. 5. Plato, Timaeus, ed./trans. Albert Rivaud, Oeuvres completes, tome X: Timée – Critias (1925, repr. Paris, 1985), pp. 195–97; Cassiodorus, De anima, ed. Mariangelo Accursio, Magni Aurelii Cassiodori Variarum Libri XII. Item De anima liber vnus, ex Aedibus Henrici Silicei, 1533 (Madrid, 2009), pp. 314–15. Lockett, Anglo-Saxon Psychologies, pp. 23, 442. Alcuin of York, De animae ratione liber ad Eulaliam virginem [De ratione animae], PL 101.639–50; and The Homilies of the Anglo-Saxon Church: The First Part, Containing the Sermones Catholici or Homilies of Ælfric, 1, ed./trans. Benjamin Thorpe (Cambridge, 1844), p. 288. Cynewulf, Juliana, 397, quoted in Soon Ai Low, “The Anglo-Saxon Mind Metaphor and Common Sense Psychology in Old English Literature” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1998), p. 41. I use Low’s translation for her precise interpretation of OE breostsefan, a compound of breost (breast) and sefa (mind/seat of thought). See further, Soon Ai Low, “Approaches to the Old English Vocabulary for ‘Mind’,” Studia Neophilologica 73, no. 1 (2001), 11–22.

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As a physical weight upon the breast, the pendant- or pectoral-cross may have been worn to shield the gateway of mind and flesh from the arrows of evil, as well as to serve as a constant reminder to care for the needs of the soul. The English tradition of commemorating the dead through the wearing of jewellery, may have translated effortlessly into the wearing of the cross as an anamnestic device to keep the Saviour in mind. In terms of the materials chosen for personal cross-ornaments, the goldand-garnet combination dominates. Discovery of crosses of more widely available metals, such as copper-alloy or silver, are rare,42 although it is possible that crosses fashioned of perishable materials may have been utilized by a laity unable to afford costly golden crosses. Cross rituals, such as one listed in Lacnunga CXXXIII to protect cattle enclosures, prescribe the use of crosses made from cassuc, a type of grass or sedge.43 The popularity of such rites in rural areas has been demonstrated by Jolly, who described the cross as a “source of ‘tangible grace’ accessible to all.”44 While it is impossible to rule out the fabrication and use of wearable crosses in materials other than gold, the affective qualities of brightness and colour, as well as cultural attitudes toward contrasts may explain the dominance of gold specimens featuring garnet cloisonné (Plate 2.1) or a single central garnet (Fig. 2.1). The particular English predilection for gold and reflective surfaces has been illustrated most famously by Charles Dodwell who identified a fascination with “variable brightness” in early English art, attire, and literature.45 Most significantly, the sensitivity of visual perception to refulgence is made evident in the Old English vernacular where colour words expressed “nuances of brightness” rather than concepts of hue. Of note are words such as brun, fealu, and wann, “which suggest, in turn, the degree of brightness of metal in sunshine, of shining material under the same circumstances, and the subdued brightness of something seen on a dull day.”46 In England, garnets were the preferred stone for 7th-century gold and gilded jewellery, perhaps signalling that the wearer was not only a member of 42

43 44 45 46

Four 7th-century copper-alloy crosses and one silver cross inset with a garnet are held at the British Museum; two silver crosses are held at the World Museum, Liverpool. For further discussion of material effects, see below, Hawkes, pp. 56–66 for museum access of such objects, see below, Cross, pp. 354–80. DOE, s.v. “cassuc.”. Edward Pettit, ed./trans. Anglo-Saxon Remedies, Charms, and Prayers from British Library MS Harley 585 The Lacnunga, 1 (Lewiston, NY, 2001), pp. 96–97. See Karen Jolly, “Tapping the Power of the Cross: Who and for Whom?,” in Karkov, et al., The Place of the Cross, pp. 70, 74. Dodwell, Anglo-Saxon Art, pp. 34–35. Ibid., p. 34.

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Figure 2.1 Staffordshire Hoard cross. 7th century © Birmingham Museums Trust

a particular regional group, but also connected with elite continental communities. Importation of garnets from the distant lands of India and Bohemia for the beautification of luxury objects further demonstrated entrepreneurial and diplomatic prowess in acquiring raw materials.47 While the inlay of red stones on a cross-pendant may have called the blood of Christ to mind, this analogy did not appear in Christian texts until the 10th century.48 Beyond expressions of power or belief, a cultural affinity for contrasts may have been at work in the preference for the pairing of gold and garnets. Indeed, Leslie Webster has related this very juxtaposition to Old English poetry and prose, wherein “the joys of the bright hall are contrasted with the outer world of darkness, cold and dangers.”49 The interrelation of red and gold is evident in reád gold, a term previously assumed to reference a high level of copper in the gold-alloy of early 47 48 49

Daniel Symons, The Staffordshire Hoard (Birmingham, 2014), p. 49; Arnold, An Archaeology, p. 145; Sam Lucy, “The Trumpington Cross in Context,” Anglo-Saxon England 45 (2016), 25. The Blickling Homilies of the Tenth Century. From the Marquis of Lothian’s Unique MS. A.D. 971, ed./trans. Richard Morris (London, 1880), pp. 9–11. Leslie Webster, Anglo-Saxon Art: A New History (London, 2012), p. 25.

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medieval metalwork.50 In studies of Old English conceptions and expressions of colour, William Mead cited “green” as appearing most frequently in the poetry,51 while Joycelyn Baker later contended that “red” occurred most often,52 and Nigel Barley named “black” as the most common and “white” as the second most common;53 yet, Barley also warned against this essentialist emphasis on cataloguing and quantifying recorded occurrences of terms.54 Without considering the primary stress of the Old English system on brightness rather than hue, merely compiling terms provides a misinformed image of English thought and sensibilities, skewed through the lens of our modern conceptions of colour. It was the love of contrasts rather than a love for the colour red at work in this interplay between garnet and gold. Light ripples across the surface of a cross-pendant as each gem absorbs or reflects the light, flashing with a sharp brilliance against the golden glow of its metal framework. The preference for gold and garnets in early English jewellery may also be related to cultural perceptions of the environment, including landscapes and weather-scapes. Simon Harrison has described the environment and its elements as instrumental in shaping the symbolisms that give meaning to our affective states.55 His observations of the bifurcation of darkness and light as related to the turn of the seasons, the turn of the humours to melancholia, and the turn of life and death recall descriptions of the English countryside from Felix’s accounts of Guthlac to the poems Beowulf and The Seafarer. Depictions of the bleakness of the moors, the dangers of fengelad (fen-paths) and wulf-hleoðu (wolf-fells), and the grey unforgiving expanse of the Atlantic, were the specialty of Old English poets and represent some of the only descriptions of their environment.56 Indeed, evidence suggests that weather conditions between AD 400–900 may have been significantly colder, stormier, and

50

51 52 53 54 55 56

William E. Mead, “Color in Old English Poetry,” PMLA 14, no. 2 (1899), 195; Richard Avent, Anglo-Saxon Garnet Inlaid Disc and Composite Brooches 1, BAR British Series 11 (Oxford, 1975), p. 17; Jocelyn Margaret Baker, “The Colour and Composition of Early Anglo-Saxon Copper Alloy Jewellery” (PhD thesis, Durham University, 2013), pp. 122, 125. See below, Hawkes, p. 66. Mead, “Color in Old English Poetry,” p. 200. Baker, “Colour and Composition,” p. 122. Nigel F. Barley, “Old English Colour Classification: Where do Matters Stand?” Anglo-Saxon England 3 (1974), 17. Ibid., 26. Simon Harrison, “Emotional Climates: Ritual, Seasonality and Affective Disorders,” The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 10, no. 3 (2004), 596. Dodwell, Anglo-Saxon Art, p. 26; Jennifer Neville, Representations of the Natural World in Old English Poetry (New York, 1999), pp. 9–10, 59–62.

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snowier than in our current century,57 and Bede certainly remarked on the exceptional length of winter nights.58 The bodily experience of this environment may have contributed to the development of a cultural aesthetic, eliciting a preference for ornamentation that represents light or is animated by it. Perhaps most significant in the selection of gold for these ornamental iterations of the cross, was the affective quality of the material. In the dim sanctuary, the surface of golden church treasures was set shivering with candlelight or set aglow in the sunlight.59 Handling a personal cross-ornament could likewise animate the appearance of metal and gems. As the holder deliberately turned the form to observe the play of light, one can imagine the flash or glimmer appearing as something living. In the context of early medieval English culturally and environmentally conditioned aesthetics, the material was the message: if one wished to touch the divine, no other substance was as suitable or effective as gold.60 Beyond significations of identity or wealth, ornamentation served another equally vital function, operating as an apotropaic device in answer to a cultural anxiety concerning the protection of body and soul. To classify the use of wearable crosses solely as a gradual replacement of pagan amulets would be reductive and inaccurate; comparison with the amuletic tradition in early medieval England does, however, underscore the importance of embodied contact with tangible implements of protection. The crux usualis delivered a modicum of tactile protection for the body from the assault of malevolent forces. Application of the crux usualis to oneself, one’s children, and one’s belongings was encouraged by the earliest Christian fathers, and translated into daily practice among the English laity.61 The frequency of signing in popular religion in early medieval England is illustrated through three medical compilations; the Lacnunga, the Leechbook of Bald, and Leechbook Book III list numerous charms invoking the protection of the cross against evil forces.62 This perceived need 57

58 59 60 61 62

Hubert Horace Lamb, “Climate in the Last Thousand Years: Natural Climatic Fluctuations and Change,” in The Climate of Europe, Past, Present, and Future: Natural and Man-Induced Climatic Changes, a European Perspective, ed. Hermann Flohn and Roberto Fantechi (Hingham, MA, 1984), pp. 35–38. Bede, HE 1.1, p. 17. Webster, Anglo-Saxon Art, p. 25. See above, n. 18; Raw, Anglo-Saxon Crucifixion Iconography, pp. 50–51. Tertullian, De Corona 3, ed. Joseph Marra, De Corona Liber; De Culto Feminarum Libri Duo, (Turin, 1951), p. 44; Jerome, Epistula 130.9, ed. Isidorus Hilberg, S. Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae CXXI–CLIV, CSEL 56 (Vienna, 1996), p. 188. London, British Library, Harley MS 585, Lacnunga, fols. 130r–193r/10, s. xi; London, British Library, Royal MS 12 D.xvii, Bald’s Leechbook and Leechbook III, s. x.

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for ceaseless crossing challenges the permanence of the sign and illustrates social solicitude regarding protection against the persistence of sin and evil spirits. For early English converts, a possible solution to the transitory power of the seal may have been found in the familiar tactility of a physical powerobject such as a wearable cross. Before the introduction of the cross, amulets were utilized to shield the wearer from evil, although this practice continued well into the conversion period and beyond, despite clerical complaints.63 The Old English language, while supplying several words for ‘nature,’ apparently had no term that expresses the modern conception of the natural world as a cohesive, external entity. Rather than a group of irreconcilable elements, the unseen, the strange, and unearthly were integral as an understood part of reality. Old English poetry communicates an antagonistic sense of the natural world as malicious towards humankind, drawing a sharp distinction between the yawning vastness of creation and the alarmingly small presence of humanity.64 In his work “Cognition, Emotion, and Religious Experience,” Ilkka Pyysiäinen postulates the evolutionary origins of the anxieties that gave rise to conceptions of unseen agents in pre-literate cultures. He describes the adoption of the intentional stance, or the application of animism, as a strategy for understanding and predicting nature, as we are able to understand and predict the behaviour of our fellow humans. This in turn enables a belief in a counter-intuitive reality with invisible agents only accessible, understandable, and controllable through religious or magical means. Gaining power over those agents through ritual or objects instils assurance that one no longer has anything to fear and can result in significant anxiety reduction.65 A wide range of apotropaic items and materials were put in contact with bodies, including: amber, fossils, shells, rock crystal, animal teeth, coins or imitations, plants, and rarely, small gilded figures of men and women.66 Amber constitutes the most frequently occurring amulet in burials of necklaces and

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64 65 66

See Theodore of Tarsus, Theodore’s Penitential 1.15.4, trans. John T. McNeill and Helen M. Gamer, Medieval Handbooks of Penance: A Translation of the Principal “Libri Poenitentiales” and Selections from Related Documents (1965; repr. New York, 1990), p. 189; trans. Allott, Alcuin of York, p. 69. Neville, Representations of the Natural World, p. 37. Ilkka Pyysiäinen, “Cognition, Emotion, and Religious Experience,” in Religion in Mind: Cognitive Perspectives on Religious Belief, Ritual, and Experience, ed. Jensine Andresen (Cambridge, 2001), pp. 70–93. Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, p. 170; Webster, Anglo-Saxon Art, p. 38.

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bracelets with women and children.67 According to Caesarius of Arles (470– 542) and Eligius of Noyon (588–660), amulets of amber were in active use in Francia in the 6th century;68 the compiler of Egbert’s Penitential echoed Caesarius’ complaints against these amulets, indicating the practice probably continued into eighth-century England.69 Faceted beads cut from rock crystal also appear in graves from the second half of the 6th century, though the clearest use of rock crystal as a wearable amulet emerged in the 5th through 7th centuries in the form of spheres most likely worn by women on a chatelaine.70 Bald’s Leechbook contains a remedy for various ills that utilizes se hwita stan, an Old English term for crystal, in combination with water.71 Indeed, the curative synthesis of rock crystal and water continued to be employed in the wider Insular world, appearing in miracle stories such as those recorded by Adomnán in the Life of Columba.72 As inhabitants of a hostile natural world, humans turned to ornamentation to invoke protection from and obtain command over the forces of the unseen realm that existed alongside the mundane. The desire for protection beyond the expiration of the body is also evinced by burial practice. The inclusion of amulets can be tracked throughout the entire time-span of furnished burial, adding a further layer of protection as the soul travels an indeterminate path, possibly towards a reunion with its kin.73 The Old English poetic corpus characterizes the sawol, (soul), as residing in the body but impotent in life, achieving agency only when separated from the 67 68 69 70 71

72 73

Arnold, An Archaeology, pp. 103–104, fig. 5.1.; Meaney, Anglo-Saxon Amulets, pp. 67–68; Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Dress in Anglo-Saxon England, rev. ed. (Woodbridge, 2004), p. 87. Caesarius of Arles, Sermo 14.4, ed. G. Morin, Sancti Caesarii Arelatensis Sermones, part 1, CCSL 103 (Turnhout, 1953), pp. 71–72; trans. Mary Magdeleine Mueller, St. Caesarius, Sermons, 1, The Fathers of the Church 31 (1956; repr. Washington, DC, 2004), pp. 82–83. Egbert, De Auguriis vel Divinationibus 4, ed. Arthur West Haddan and William Stubbs, Egbert’s Penitential 8, in Councils and Ecclesiastical Documents Relating to Great Britain and Ireland, 3 (Oxford, 1964), p. 424. See British Museum, inv. 1867,0729.2 and 1995,0102.672. Available at: https://research.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/search.aspx. Accessed 2020 April 10. Ronald W. Casson, “Color Shift: Evolution of English Color Terms,” in Color Categories in Thought and Language, ed. C.L. Hardin and Luisa Maffi (Cambridge, 1997), p. 227. See Bald’s Leechbook 2.64, trans. Audrey L. Meaney, “Alfred, the Patriarch and the White Stone,” Journal of the Australasian Universities Language and Literature Association, 49, no. 1 (1978), 66; Genevra Kornbluth, “Early Medieval Crystal Amulets: Secular Instruments of Protection and Healing,” in The Sacred and the Secular in Medieval Healing: Sites, Objects, and Texts, ed. Linda Migl Keyser (London, 2016), p. 167. Adomnán, Vita Sancti Columbae 1.1.7a; 2.33.80b, ed./trans. Alan Orr Anderson and Marjorie Ogilvie Anderson, Adomnan’s Life of Columba (London, 1991), pp. 12–13, 142–43. Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, p. 170.

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body to represent the individual after death.74 Furnished inhumation served a protective function in assisting the soul in its transformation “from potentially threatening ghost into beneficent ancestor.”75 Anchoring the body to its resting place and facilitating the transportation of the soul to the land of ancestors precipitated as much effort, ritual, and disposal of material wealth as efforts to legitimize individual or family status. The connotations of crosses in the grave are numerous, the majority relating to issues of identity and anxiety regarding protection of the body and soul beyond this mortal life. In the decades c.670–720, items professing life-cycle or gender waned even as Christian items (such as wearable crosses) persisted.76 Hence, the psychological need for bodily contact with sacred Christian objects may have carried as much weight as claims to identity. If the seal of the crux usualis was temporary in life, so it may have been in death. Despite the certainties afforded by the Christian religion, anxiety regarding protection of the body in death and the journey of the soul to the afterlife persisted, reflected in both burial practice and in later literature of the 9th and 10th centuries. In his poem to Saint Juliana, Cynewulf appealed for aid at the time of his death, lamenting ignorance of his soul’s final destination.77 When facing his end on the battlefield, the hero Byrhtnoth implored God to allow his soul safe passage to his heavenly kingdom, unscathed by helsceaðan (hell-fiends).78 It is interesting to note that unlike the commentary on amuletic practice, clerical texts issued no complaint against furnished burial.79 In the absence of commentary what may be deduced is that wearable crosses were designed to operate in the spiritual realm as well as the earthly, and therefore their protection was expected to continue as the body passed into it. Grave items were not considered passive markers of identity, but as active agents of protection, equally applicable to life and death in the transition from non-Christian to Christian belief in the 6th and 7th centuries. 74 75 76 77 78 79

Lockett, Anglo-Saxon Psychologies, p. 33; Malcom R. Godden, “Anglo-Saxons on the Mind,” in Old English Literature: Critical Essays, ed. Roy M. Liuzza (New Haven, CT, 2002), p. 302. Marylin Dunn, The Christianization of the Anglo-Saxons, c. 597–700: Discourses of Life, Death and Afterlife (London, 2009), p. 66. Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, p. 234. Cynewulf, Juliana, lines 699–701, Exeter, Exeter Cathedral Library MS 3501, fols. 65b– 76a; trans. Robert E. Bjork, The Old English Poems of Cynewulf (Cambridge, MA, 2013), pp. 124–25. The Battle of Maldon, line 180, Oxford, Bodleian Library, Rawlinson B.203 fols. 7–12; trans. Bill Griffiths, The Battle of Maldon: Text and Translation (Harmondsworth, 1991), pp. 40–41, 58. Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, p. 234; Crawford, “Votive Deposition,” p. 89.

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Lawrence Barsalou has said that “knowledge depends inherently on the brains, bodies, and environmental situations in which it resides, rather than existing independently of them.”80 Indeed, this statement must give hope to those who desire to better understand people of a bygone age, but who inhabited a similar flesh in a similar landscape; however, we must be mindful of Barsalou’s comma separating ‘brains’ and ‘bodies’. In the case of early medieval England, the wearable cross represents a prime example of the bodily continuities and changes that can occur in the creation of, and interaction with, new forms of material culture. Propelled by the neural functions of emotion, imagination, and memory and prompted by sensorial and tactile interaction with the cross, the bodies of the faithful participated in the suffering and redemption of the body of Christ, as well as his victory and protection. The eventual disappearance of the cross from the burial record may denote an increasing reliance on abstract ideas of faith and a devaluation of the material world in the 8th century. Whether this was indeed the case, the study of the wearable cross presented here provides an important metric for evaluating the cultural, environmental, and psychological conditions of 7th-century England that precipitated its creation and use and dictated its material form and style. Furthermore, it has the potential to contribute to the understanding of the neurobiological impulses that continue to affect material culture, particularly in complex societal transitions from one belief system to another. Bibliography Accursio, Mariangelo, ed., Magni Aurelii Cassiodori Variarum Libri XII. Item De anima liber vnus, ex Aedibus Henrici Silicei, 1533 (Madrid, 2009). Adriaen, Marcus, ed., Homiliae in Hiezechihelem prophetam, CCSL 142 (Turnhout, 1971). Anderson, Alan Orr, and Marjorie Ogilvie Anderson, eds./trans., Adomnan’s Life of Columba (London, 1991). Arnold, Christopher J., An Archaeology of the Early Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms (London, 2005). Avent, Richard, Anglo-Saxon Garnet Inlaid Disc and Composite Brooches 1, BAR British Series 11 (Oxford, 1975). Baker, Jocelyn Margaret, “The Colour and Composition of Early Anglo-Saxon Copper Alloy Jewellery” (PhD thesis, Durham University, 2013). Barley, Nigel F., “Old English Colour Classification: Where do Matters Stand?” AngloSaxon England 3 (1974), 15–28. 80

Barbey, et al., “Embodiment in Religious Knowledge,” p. 24.

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Barsalou, Lawrence W., Aron Barbey, W. Kyle Simmons, and Ava Santos, “Embodiment in Religious Knowledge,” Journal of Cognition and Culture 5, nos. 1–2 (2005), 14–57. Bethurum, Dorothy, ed., The Homilies of Wulfstan (Oxford, 1957). Bjork, Robert E., trans, The Old English Poems of Cynewulf (Cambridge, MA, 2013). Blair, John, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society (Oxford, 2005). Caple, Chris, “Ancestor Artefacts – Ancestor Materials,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 29, no. 3 (2010), 305–18. Care Evans, Angela, “The Wilton Cross,” in Webster and Backhouse, Making of England, pp. 27–28. Casson, Ronald W., “Color Shift: Evolution of English Color Terms,” in Color Categories in Thought and Language, ed. C.L. Hardin and Luisa Maffi (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 224–39. Chidester, David, “Haptics of the Heart: The Sense of Touch in American Religion and Culture,” Culture and Religion: An Interdisciplinary Journal 1, no. 1 (2000), 61–84. Colgrave, Bertram, ed./trans., Felix’s Life of Saint Guthlac: Introduction, Text, Translation and Notes (Cambridge, 1956). Colgrave, Bertram, ed./trans., The Earliest Life of Gregory the Great by an Anonymous Monk of Whitby (Oxford, 1968). Crawford, Sally, “Votive Deposition, Religion and the Anglo-Saxon Furnished Burial Ritual,” World Archaeology 36, no. 1 (2004), 87–102. Csordas, Thomas J., Body/Meaning/Healing (New York, 2002). Dodwell, Charles R., Anglo-Saxon Art: A New Perspective (Manchester, 1982). Dümmler, Ernst, ed., MGH Epistolae Merowingici et Karolini aevi 2 (Berlin, 1895). Dunn, Marylin, The Christianization of the Anglo-Saxons, c. 597–700: Discourses of Life, Death and Afterlife (London, 2009). Eimer, Martin, Bettina Forster, José van Velzen, and Gita Prabhu, “Covert Manual Response Preparation Triggers Attentional Shifts: ERP Evidence for the Premotor Theory of Attention,” Neuropsychologia 43, no. 6 (2005), 957–66. Fisher, J.D.C., Christian Initiation: Baptism in the Medieval West. A Study in the Disintegration of the Primitive Rite of Initiation (London, 1965). Fleming, Robin, Britain After Rome: The Fall and Rise, 400 to 1070 (London, 2011). Freedberg, David, “Memory in Art: History and the Neuroscience of Response,” in The Memory Process: Neuroscientific and Humanistic Perspectives, ed. Suzanne Nalbantian, Paul M. Matthews, and James L. McClelland (Cambridge, MA, 2011), pp. 337–58. Godden, Malcom R., “Anglo-Saxons on the Mind,” in Old English Literature: Critical Essays, ed. Roy M. Liuzza (New Haven, CT, 2002), pp. 284–314. Griffiths, Bill, trans., The Battle of Maldon: Text and Translation (Harmondsworth, 1991). Grocock, Christopher, and Ian N. Wood, eds./trans., The Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, Bede’s Homily I. 13 on Benedict Biscop, Bede’s History of the Abbots of Wearmouth

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and Jarrow, the Anonymous Life of Ceolfrith, Bede’s Letter to Ecgbert, Bishop of York (Oxford, 2013). Haddan, Arthur West, and William Stubbs, eds., Councils and Ecclesiastical Documents Relating to Great Britain and Ireland, 3 (Oxford, 1964). Härke, Heinrich, “The Circulation of Weapons in Anglo-Saxon Society,” in Rituals of Power from Late Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages, ed. F. Theuws and Janet L. Nelson, The Transformation of the Roman World 8 (Leiden, 2000), pp. 377–99. Harrison, Simon, “Emotional Climates: Ritual, Seasonality and Affective Disorders,” The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 10, no. 3 (2004), 583–602. Heaney, Seamus, trans., Beowulf (London, 1999). Hilberg, Isidorus, ed., S. Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae CXXI–CLIV, CSEL 56 (Vienna, 1996). Jackson, Michael, Paths Toward a Clearing: Radical Empiricism and Ethnographic Enquiry (Bloomington, IN, 1989). Jolly, Karen, Popular Religion in Late Saxon England: Elf Charms in Context (Chapel Hill, NC, 1996). Jolly, Karen, “Tapping the Power of the Cross: Who and for Whom?,” in Karkov, et al., The Place of the Cross, pp. 58–79. Jolly, Karen L., Catherine E. Karkov and Sarah Larratt Keefer, eds., Cross and Culture in Anglo-Saxon England: Studies in Honor of George Hardin Brown (Morgantown, WV, 2008). Karkov, Catherine E., Sarah Larratt Keefer, and Karen Jolly, eds., The Place of the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2006). Kornbluth, Genevra, “Early Medieval Crystal Amulets: Secular Instruments of Protection and Healing,” in The Sacred and the Secular in Medieval Healing: Sites, Objects, and Texts, ed. Linda Migl Keyser (London, 2016), pp. 143–81. Kristoffersen, Siv, “Transformation in Migration Period Animal Art,” Norwegian Archaeological Review 28, no. 1 (1995), 1–17. Lamb, Hubert Horace, “Climate in the Last Thousand Years: Natural Climatic Fluctuations and Change,” in The Climate of Europe, Past, Present, and Future: Natural and Man-Induced Climatic Changes, a European Perspective, ed. Hermann Flohn and Roberto Fantechi (Hingham, MA, 1984), pp. 35–38. Lapidge, Michael, ed., Archbishop Theodore: Commemorative Studies on His Life and Influence (Cambridge, 1995). Lapidge, Michael, and James L. Rosier, trans., Aldhelm: The Poetic Works (Cambridge, 1985). Liuzza, Roy M., “Prayers and/or Charms Addressed to the Cross,” in Jolly, et al., Cross and Culture, pp. 276–320.

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Lockett, Leslie, Anglo-Saxon Psychologies in the Vernacular and Latin Traditions (Toronto, 2011). Low, Soon Ai, “The Anglo-Saxon Mind Metaphor and Common Sense Psychology in Old English Literature” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1998). Low, Soon Ai, “Approaches to the Old English Vocabulary for ‘Mind’,” Studia Neophilologica 73, no. 1 (2001), 11–22. Lucy, Sam, “The Trumpington Cross in Context,” Anglo-Saxon England 45 (2016), 7–37. Marra, Joseph, ed., De Corona Liber; De Culto Feminarum Libri Duo, (Turin, 1951). McNeill, John T., and Helen M. Gamer, trans., Medieval Handbooks of Penance: A Translation of the Principal “Libri Poenitentiales” and Selections from Related Documents (1965; repr. New York, 1990). Mead, William E., “Color in Old English Poetry,” PMLA 14, no. 2 (1899), 169–206. Meaney, Audrey L., “Alfred, the Patriarch and the White Stone,” Journal of the Australasian Universities Language and Literature Association, 49, no. 1 (1978), 169–206. Meaney, Audrey L., Anglo-Saxon Amulets and Curing Stones (Oxford, 1981). Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, Phenomenology of Perception, ed./trans. Donald A. Landes (Abingdon, 2012). Morin, G., ed., Sancti Caesarii Arelatensis Sermones, part 1, CCSL 103 (Turnhout, 1953). Morris, Richard, ed./trans., The Blickling Homilies of the Tenth Century. From the Marquis of Lothian’s Unique MS. A.D. 971 (London, 1880). Mortimer, Catherine, “Northern European Metalworking Traditions in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries AD,” in Archaeological Sciences 1989: Proceedings of a Conference on the Application of Scientific Techniques to Archaeology, Bradford, September 1989, ed. Paul Budd, B. Chapman, C. Jackson, R. Janaway, and B. Ottaway (Oxford, 1991), pp. 162–68. Mueller, Mary Magdeleine, trans, St. Caesarius, Sermons, 1, The Fathers of the Church 31 (1956; repr. Washington, DC, 2004). Narvaez, Rafael F., “Embodiment, Collective Memory and Time,” Body and Society 12, no. 3 (2006), 51–73. Neuman de Vegvar, Carol, “In Hoc Signo: The Cross on Secular Objects and the Process of Conversion,” in Jolly, et al., Cross and Culture, pp. 79–117. Neville, Jennifer, Representations of the Natural World in Old English Poetry (New York, 1999). Niles, John D., “Pagan Survivals and Popular Belief,” in The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature, ed. Malcolm Godden and Michael Lapidge (Cambridge, 1991), pp. 126–41. Owen-Crocker, Gale R., Dress in Anglo-Saxon England, rev. ed. (Woodbridge, 2004). Pettit, Edward, ed./trans. Anglo-Saxon Remedies, Charms, and Prayers from British Library MS Harley 585 The Lacnunga, 1 (Lewiston, NY, 2001).

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Pyysiäinen, Ilkka, “Cognition, Emotion, and Religious Experience,” in Religion in Mind: Cognitive Perspectives on Religious Belief, Ritual, and Experience, ed. Jensine Andresen (Cambridge, 2001), pp. 70–93. Raw, Barbara C., Anglo-Saxon Crucifixion Iconography and the Art of the Monastic Revival (Cambridge, 1990). Rivaud, Albert, ed./trans., Oeuvres completes, tome X: Timée – Critias (1925, repr. Paris, 1985). Rizzolatti, Giacomo, “The Mirror Neuron System and its Function in Humans,” Anatomy and Embryology 210, no. 5 (2005), 419–21. Sherlock, S.J., and Martin G. Welch, An Anglo-Saxon Cemetery at Norton, Cleveland (London, 1992). Skora, Kerry Martin, “The Hermeneutics of Touch: Uncovering Abhinavagupta’s Tactile Terrain,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 21 (2009), 87–106. Symons, Daniel, The Staffordshire Hoard (Birmingham, 2014). Thorpe, Benjamin, ed./trans., The Homilies of the Anglo-Saxon Church: The First Part, Containing the Sermones Catholici or Homilies of Ælfric, 1 (Cambridge, 1844). van Velzen, José, Elena Gherri, and Martin Eimer, “ERP Effects of Movement Preparation on Visual Processing: Attention Shifts to the Hand, Not the Goal,” Cognitive Processing 7, suppl. 1 (2006), 100–101. Webster, Leslie, Anglo-Saxon Art: A New History (London, 2012). Webster, Leslie, and Janet Backhouse, eds., The Making of England: Anglo-Saxon Art and Culture, AD 600–900 (London, 1991). Welch, Martin G., Early Anglo-Saxon Sussex (Oxford, 1983). Wood, Ian N., “Constantinian Crosses in Northumbria,” in Karkov, et al., The Place of the Cross, pp. 3–13. Yorke, Barbara, “Anglo-Saxon Origin Legends,” in Myth, Rulership, Church and Charters: Essays in Honour of Nicholas Brooks, ed. Julia Barrow and Andrew Wareham (Aldershot, 2009), pp. 29–44.

Chapter 3

Crossing and Re-crossing; Translating and Transmitting: The ‘Art of the Archipelago’ Jane Hawkes In 1938, in the first book published on the art of the Anglo-Saxons, Thomas Downing Kendrick (1895–1979) was to state, unequivocally, that: With Patrick, the British Church had gone to Ireland; with Columba it recrossed the Irish Sea; and with St Aidan … this ancient [British] Church returns to the land of its origin with new strength and new sanctity to do battle with the pagans who had driven it in to exile.1 Admittedly, the art of this ‘ancient Church’ was not well-known, having been “blotted out by the pagan invaders”, along with all other evidence of its culture. Yet, according to Kendrick, it had survived under the Church in Ireland, “the principal home of Celtic Christianity”, founded by Patrick who, being “a Briton of the post-Roman period,” was first a member of the ancient British Church.2 Against this background he was able to set one artistic tradition against the other. The products of the early ‘Celtic Church’ (emerging from the early British Church), were exemplified by the mid- to late 7th-century Book of Durrow,3 which was “typologically far behind” the others, being “relentlessly barbaric in concept from beginning to end”,4 and while the later c.800 Book of Kells was “magnificently monstrous”,5 only the art of the Lindisfarne Gospels,6 1 Thomas D. Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art to A.D. 900 (London, 1938), p. 94. 2 Ibid. p. 93. 3 Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 57. Jonathan J.G. Alexander, Insular Manuscripts 6th to the 9th Century, A Survey of Manuscripts Illuminated in the British Isles 1 (London, 1978), pp. 30–32, cat. 6, ills. 11–22, fig. 4; Bernard Meehan, The Book of Durrow. A Medieval Masterpiece at Trinity College Dublin (Dublin, 1996); Rachel Moss, The Book of Durrow. Official Guide (London, 2018). 4 Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art, pp. 94–95. 5 Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 58; Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art, p. 95. Alexander, Insular Manuscripts, pp. 71–76, cat. 52, ills. 231–60; Bernard Meehan, The Book of Kells. Official Guide (London, 2020). 6 London, British Library, Cotton MS Nero C IV. Alexander, Insular Manuscripts, pp. 35–40, cat. 9, ills. 28–46, fig. 2; Janet Backhouse, The Lindisfarne Gospels (Oxford, 1981); Michelle Brown, The Lindisfarne Gospels: Society, Spirituality and the Scribe (London, 2003). © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004501904_006

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at that time thought to be the product of an Irish scriptorium,7 was deemed “gloriously and extravagantly a salutation” to both artist and the Divine.8 In all cases, even the best of these early works, being but a shadow of the ancient British Church, were “as yet, completely outside the stage in which copies of classical paintings, or obvious adaptions or translations of them, interrupt the sequences of barbaric ornament.”9 Thus, according to Kendrick, despite the valiant struggle undertaken by this ancient Church back in its ‘English’ homeland, it was only with the arrival of the Gregorian mission from Rome that an “Anglo-Saxon Renaissance”, an art “based on humanistic themes,” could commence.10 For, as Kendrick reminds his readers, the Celts “were content in their monastic buildings”, the refectory being “probably the largest building in these kraal-like enclosures;”11 for Kendrick’s generation, the Boer war was still a living memory. Thus, this Renaissance could really commence only with the “sudden and pregnant happening [the arrival of the ‘Roman Church’], which is nothing less than the reappearance of the greatest of the arts.”12 In constructing a narrative explaining the emergence of an Anglo-Saxon art which he admired, Kendrick was enjoined to compare it with that which he did not: the art of the “pagan Saxons”. This he considered “clumsy stuff”, the “total effect [being] that of uncouth barbaric craftsmanship that was usually incapable of rising above awkward ostentation and over-elaboration in display.”13 While the art of the ‘Celts’ was not quite up to scratch, that of the Saxons was equally challenging: it was “garish”, “fantastically shaped”, characterised by “exaggerated forms” and “sprawling lumpiness”. It was, nevertheless, 7

8 9 10 11 12 13

It was only with the publication of Evangeliorum quattuor Codex Lindisfarnensis, ed. Thomas D. Kendrick, Julian Brown, Rupert L.S. Bruce-Mitford, H. Roosen-Runge, A.S.C. Ross, E.G. Stanley, and A.E.A. Werner (Olten, 1960) that the Anglo-Saxon provenance (Lindisfarne, Northumberland) and identity of the scribe-artist (Eadfrith) were established unequivocally. This was accepted by Françoise Henry who, until then, had followed previous scholars of the early Christian art of Ireland, in considering the manuscript a product of the ‘Golden Age’ of Irish art. Although with this realisation, Eadfrith, who she demonstrated had been trained in Ireland, and so had “absorbed the principles inculcated to him by some Irish master”, and was thus “a lot more developed than the Australian aborigine,” was nevertheless to be condemned as being able to produce only a “desiccated” “dead imitation”. Françoise Henry, “The Lindisfarne Gospels,” Antiquity 37 (1963), 105, 110. Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art, p. 95. Ibid., p. 97. Ibid., p. 120. Ibid., p. 111. Ibid., p. 120. Ibid., p. 61.

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“by no means despicable” for it retained evidence of Roman techniques and style, and in this, it could be deemed “often of commendable excellence”.14 In this respect, it was the art produced in eastern Kent by those of Jutish descent, that stood out for Kendrick as most notably redeemed by its ‘Roman’ features: for it “easily surpasses the best work in the German world abroad”, and having been “developed to a pitch of excellence that was never attained on the adjacent Continent”, it could be identified as “markedly different from the rest of the Teutonic provinces.”15 Although Kendrick’s narrative has proved a quarry for what today might be deemed delightfully inappropriately articulated judgements, it nevertheless set the stage for much of the scholarship that would follow in the later 20th century: a scholarship that has been concerned with establishing the relative quality of the influences at play in the construction of what came to be called ‘Insular’ art – although the term has now, in some quarters, been replaced by that of “The Archipelago”.16 While it is certainly possible to dispense qualitative 14 15

16

Ibid. Ibid., p. 62. Here, it is worth noting that Kendrick’s book was penned on the eve of WWII, and having fought and been wounded in WWI, he lived always with the pain of his wounds, fully aware that the German nation (established only in 1871) was yet unsettled; he helped a number of refugees from Germany during the 1930s. R.L.S. Bruce-Mitford, “Thomas Downing Kendrick, 1895–1979,” Proceedings of the British Academy 76 (1990), 445–71; David M. Wilson, “Kendrick, Sir Thomas Downing (1895–1979),” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, 2004. Available at: https://doi-org.libproxy.york.ac.uk/10.1093/ref :odnb/31303. Accessed 2020 April 7. Marie-Louise Coolahan, “Whither the Archipelago? Stops, Starts and Hurdles on the Four Nations Front,” Literature Compass 15 (2018), 1–12. Although arising from a notion pursued by historians and scholars of literature produced in England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales in the early modern period during the last two decades, the term has anticipated more recent moves to replace the term ‘Anglo-Saxon’ in the light of increasing disquiet over terminology that, during the course of the 20th century had sought to alleviate historical binaries (English/British vs Irish; England/Britain vs Ireland) rooted in Anglo-Irish colonial/colonised histories. Against this background, the term ‘Anglo-Saxon’ has the advantage of avoiding ‘pre-Conquest’ and ‘England/English’, terms that are historiographically fraught in relation to the study of the visual culture of early medieval Ireland, in the context of which, generations of ‘British’ scholars used them to downplay the influence of early medieval Ireland on the art and culture of (Anglo-Saxon) ‘England’ (for insight into these dialogues, see above, n. 7). The term is here understood, primarily adjectively, to denote the cultural, social, political, and economic phenomena associated with the peoples living in the geo-political region now known as ‘England’ during the early Middle Ages (c.450–1100). It is used with the understanding that, from the 8th century onwards, the term, as a compound based on Latin forms current in the early Middle Ages, was one of a number used to designate the political and ethnic entities dominated by speakers of Old English. In relation to the art specifically, it is that which is deemed to be distinct from the so-called ‘Celtic’ art of the region and period and from that of the classical tradition. It

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judgements and to trace influences in areas such as the choice of media, motifs, subject-matter, and palettes,17 the underlying question remains: is this really the lens through which to view the translations and transmissions discernible in this art? Certainly, the visual traditions circulating in the region in the early Middle Ages were well established and were drawn on with considerable regularity by the artists practising in various media. What is perhaps important to note, regardless of the quality of the re-articulations of those traditions and the relative dependence on one as opposed to another, is the fact that two of the three most dominant were primarily arts of pattern and variegated surface. They are characterised by stylization, abstraction, two-dimensionality, pattern, and colour, all of which work together to hide and present simultaneously various patterns co-existing within the same field of ornament. Yet, the same can be said of the third of the dominant visual traditions circulating in the region at this time – although this aspect of the classical tradition is not generally discussed in the canonical scholarship. While the arts of the ‘Celts’ and the ‘Anglo-Saxons’ depended almost entirely on such techniques, that of the classical tradition is deemed to have prioritised the human form – although it often presented this subject-matter in a stylised, abstract, two-dimensional manner: unrealistic and unnaturalistic.18 The scholarship, however, prioritising the art

17

18

also serves to denote, with some exactitude, the fact that much of the art produced by the ‘Anglo-Saxons’ exists elsewhere in Britain, beyond the borders of modern-day England. For summaries see, for example, Jane Hawkes, “Design and Decoration: Revisualising Rome in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture,” in Rome across Time and Space. Cultural Transmission and the Exchange of Ideas, c. 500–1400, ed. Claudia Bolgia, Rosamund McKitterick, and John Osborne (Cambridge, 2011), pp. 201–21; Leslie Webster, Anglo-Saxon Art: A New History (London, 2012). See also, “Responsible Use of the Term ‘Anglo-Saxon’”. Available at: www.fmass.eu. Accessed 2019 December 27. For discussion of the value of judgements regarding the quality of Anglo-Saxon art, see e.g., Fred Orton, “Northumbrian Identity in the Eighth Century: Style, Classification, Class and the Form of Ideology,” The Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 34, no. 1 (2004), 95–145. On the question of influence, see discussions in Alixe Bovey, ed., Under the Influence: The Concept of Influence and the Study of Illuminated Manuscripts (Turnhout, 2008). See discussions in Jane Hawkes, “Iuxta Morem Romanorum: Stone and Sculpture in AngloSaxon England,” in Anglo-Saxon Styles, ed. Catherine E. Karkov and George Hardin Brown (New York, 2003), pp. 69–99; Hawkes, “Design and Decoration,” pp. 201–21; Meg Boulton, “‘The End of the World as We Know It’: The Eschatology of Symbolic Space/s in Insular Art,” in Making Histories, ed. Jane Hawkes (Donington, 2013), pp. 279–90; Meg Boulton, “(Re)Viewing ‘Iuxta Morem Romanorum’: Considering Perception, Phenomenology and Anglo-Saxon Ecclesiastical Architecture,” in Sensory Perception in the Medieval World: Manuscripts, Texts, and other Material Matters, ed. S. Thompson and Michael D.J. Bintley (Turnhout, 2016), pp. 206–26; Meg Boulton, “Art History in the Dark Ages: (Re)Considering

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of the so-called ‘Italian Renaissance,’ arguing for its dependence on naturalism, realism, and its lauding of the human form, has characterised these features as definitive of ‘classical art’ and reflective of the contemporary interest in humanism. Against this scholarly yard-stick any art not firmly situated within, or responding recognisably to, the tradition thus established, is deemed unsatisfactory – as evidenced by Kendrick’s assessments. Nevertheless, as even he noted, the art of the classical tradition did include that of pattern, visual ambiguity and double entendres.19 Such art, articulated in the medium of mosaic, covered the floors of dwellings, temples, and shops throughout the Greek and Roman worlds. It also covered walls and ceilings in paint and stucco. But this is not regarded as the aspect selected by Italian artists of the 14th and 15th centuries in their re-articulations of what is perceived as ‘classical’. From the point of view of the artists working in 7th- and 8th-century Anglo-Saxon England, however, it was an aspect of the arts of the Mediterranean world that coincided with the visual traditions of the ‘Celts’ and the Germanic-speaking peoples of north-western Europe.20 Thus, while the art traditional to the Celtic peoples of Europe, including Britain and Ireland, was based primarily on curvilinear motifs, and that of the Germanic-speaking peoples was based on interlacing zoomorphic motifs, that of the Mediterranean world and northern Europe settled by the Romans, included geometric motifs. The Celtic art produced in Britain and Ireland can briefly be described as being built up of established motifs – such as the peltas, running scroll, triskele, yin-yang, spherical triangle, confronting trumpet, and triskele spiral – in such a way that, as on the 1st-century Desborough mirror (Fig. 3.1), included within the overall positive pattern of the lyre, other motifs, forming alternative patterns, which are foregrounded (by being picked out with a hatched surface) and backgrounded (being left plain), so that the burnished surface of the bronze jostles with darker (black) areas, challenging the eye so that it focuses on first one area and then another as it attempts to discern the individual components and the overall pattern/s.

19 20

Space, Stasis and Modern Viewing Practices in Relation to Anglo-Saxon Imagery,” in Stasis in the Medieval West?: Questioning Change and Continuity, ed. Michael D.J. Bintley, Martin Locker, Victoria Symons, and M. Wellesley (London, 2017), pp. 69–86. Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art, pp. 98–99, pls. XVII–XXI. For further discussion, see Jane Hawkes, “Globalizing Anglo-Saxon Art,” in Global Perspectives on Early Medieval Britain, ed. Karen L. Jolly and Britton Brooks (Woodbridge, 2021), pp. 39–52.

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Figure 3.1 Desborough mirror, Desborough, Northamptonshire, 1st century AD

Likewise, the hemispherical field of the early 7th-century shoulder clasps from Sutton Hoo (Plate 3.1) presents a series of interlaced zoomorphs:21 two boars and three serpents articulated in garnet cloisonné and millefiori glass-work (for the boars) and gold filigree (for the serpents). To discern the boars it is necessary to let the eye roam the surface until it settles on the black glass tusk (unique in the palette of the object) protruding over the upper jaw of the beast; from this it is possible to identify the (oval) eye and the curved back of the head, to move up and along the bristled spine (articulated in a serried row of small gold-and-garnet cells), from which, just behind the head, depends the front haunches of the beast, picked out in blue-and-black millefiori work, and the front trotter (articulated in garnet cloisonné). Continuing along the boar’s spine it crosses another such row of garnet ‘bristles’ to form a double arch, and terminates in a small curled comma, the tail, flanked by the hind quarters and trotter. With the completion of this journey comes the realisation that two such beasts have been presented, interlacing with each other as a mirrored 21

London, British Museum, inv. 1939,1010.4.a. See, e.g. Noël Adams, “Rethinking the Sutton Hoo Shoulder Clasps and Armour,” in Intelligible Beauty: Recent Research on Byzantine Jewellery, ed. Chris Entwistle and Noël Adams (London, 2010), pp. 83–112; Michael King, “Besette swinlicum: Sources for the Iconography of the Sutton Hoo Shoulder-clasps,” in The Anglo-Saxons: The World Through Their Eyes, ed. Gale R. Owen-Crocker and Brian W. Schneider, BAR British Series 595 (Oxford, 2014), pp. 89–102.

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a

b

Plate 3.1 Shoulder clasp, Sutton Hoo, Suffolk. Early 7th century. (a) Detail, showing boars; (b) Drawing clarifying arrangement of boars

but contra-posed pair. They are then lost as the eye turns to focus on the mass of gold filigree lying between the heads and trotters of the boars. On the right and left, serpentine creatures can be identified by the clear, upturned U-shape lying on the base of the cell: the open mouth of the serpent. In the central cell the upturned, tulip-lipped, U-shape rises from a simple row of double-twist interlace, comprising the head and body of the third serpent (Plate 3.1b). Here, variegated media and surfaces, colour and refracted light serve both to hide and allow the component motifs to be discerned, lost and recovered, forever shifting, never fixed – particularly as they would have been in constant movement with the body on which they rested, passing in and out of different lighting effects and shadows.22 The geometric mosaics covering the floors of Roman buildings are also designed with analogous visual riddles in mind (Fig. 3.2). With reduced palette, squares, which can also be seen as lozenges (Fig. 3.2a), form 8-armed stars and, simultaneously, 4-sided cubes, bordered by simple twists of interlace; likewise, lozenges form circles containing 4-armed crosses interspersed with diamonds (Fig. 3.2b). Constantly shifting visual frames of reference draw the eye in to see first one, and then another pattern. This artistic tradition, familiar throughout 22

See further discussion in Webster, Anglo-Saxon Art, pp. 34–36; Leslie Webster, “Wundorsmiþa geweorc: a Mercian Sword-pommel from the Beckley Area, Oxfordshire,” in Crossing Boundaries: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Art, Material Culture, Language and Literature of the Early Medieval World, ed. Eric Cambridge and Jane Hawkes (Oxford, 2017), pp. 97–111. See also above, Vause, pp. 29–46.

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a

b Figure 3.2 Late antique floor mosaics, Italica, Spain. 2nd century BC

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the Roman Empire, continued to be used in early Christian contexts, decorating both floors and ceilings of churches and mausolea (Fig. 3.3). The vaults of the imperial mausoleum of Constantina and Helena in Rome (c.360), probably set up by Julian the Apostate (331/32–63),23 are filled with paired mosaic panels, their palette recalling that generally used for floor mosaics, limited in colour and favouring earth-tones; here, lozenges, four-armed stars, crosses, and octagons move in and out of focus, all bound by simple running twists of interlace (Fig. 3.3a). Likewise, the floor mosaics of the later, 6th-century church of San Vitale in Ravenna (Fig. 3.3b), present squares with corner blocks decorated with stars, ellipses filled with the same blocks, circles and 4-armed axial crosses, hammer-head crosses, pelta triangles, and curved lozenges all shifting and changing as the eye moves across the shapes, discerning first one then the next as each moves into focus, a process that constantly intrudes and redefines the whole. Viewed in this manner, it is clear that the art of which Kendrick approved, the art which formed, in his eyes, a Renaissance, was one that drew on and translated various artistic traditions, all of which were firmly based on pattern, paradox, ambiguity, and double entendres. This is a visual phenomenon familiar to modern scholars since the work of the Danish psychologist Edgar Rubin in his 1915 study of figure/ground reversal, and the recognition that the human brain needs to be able to interpret patterns in terms of external objects.24 To do this the visual system needs to be able to distinguish objects (figure) from their background (ground). But the (now-familiar) vase/profile illusion demonstrates that perception is not solely determined by an image formed on the retina (Fig. 3.4). The spontaneous reversal observed by the viewer illustrates the dynamic nature of subtle perceptual processes. These processes underscore how the brain organizes its visual environment. What today might be broadly termed ‘vision science’ was clearly being exploited to great effect in Anglo-Saxon art in the 7th and 8th centuries – in many media.25 23 24

25

See, e.g., Gillian Mackie, “A New Look at the Patronage of Santa Costanza, Rome,” Byzantion 67, no. 2 (1997), 383–406. Edgar Rubin, “Taste,” British Journal of Psychology 27 (1936), 74–85; Edgar Rubin, Experimenta psychologica: Collected Scientific Papers in German, English and French (Copenhagen, 1949); Edgar Rubin, “Visual Figures Apparently Incompatible with Geometry,” Acta Pyschologica 7 (1950), 365–87; Edgar Rubin, “Figure and Ground,” in Readings in Perception, ed., D.C. Beardslee and M. Wertheimer (Princeton, NJ, 1958), pp. 194–203; John M. Kennedy, A Psychology of Picture Perception (San Francisco, 1974); Nicholas Wade, The Art and Science of Visual Illusions (London, 1982). See Jane Hawkes, “Figuring Salvation: An Excursus into the Iconography of the Iona Crosses,” in Able Minds and Practised Hands: Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st Century, ed. Sally Foster and Morag Cross (Edinburgh, 2005), pp. 269–271; Hawkes, “Design

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a

b Figure 3.3 Early Christian mosaics: (a) Ceiling, Santa Costanza, Rome. 4th century; (b) Floor, San Vitale, Ravenna. 6th century

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Figure 3.4 Rubin’s vase/profiles

Furthermore, the way in which this phenomenon permeates the various arts transmitted into and circulating in the region indicates that it was primary in the aesthetic governing those visual traditions: pattern was the aim, and with it, the shifting ambiguities of line, colour, surface, and shape. Questions of quality in relation to a constructed definition of the classical tradition, or of the relative influences at play fail to address this. Yet, if pattern and its concomitant phenomena are accepted as dominant, desired in and of themselves, it is equally the case that contemplation of those phenomena and their and Decoration,” pp. 215–20; Jane Hawkes, “East Meets West in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture,” in England, Ireland, and the Insular World: Textual and Material Connections in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Mary Clayton, Alice Jorgensen, and Juliet Mullins (Tempe, AZ, 2018), pp. 58–60. For further discussion of this and related phenomena, see Emmanuelle Pirotte, “Hidden Order, Order Revealed: New Light on Carpet Pages,” in Pattern and Purpose in Insular Art, ed. Mark Redknap, Nancy Edwards, Susan Youngs, Alan Lane, and Jeremy Knight (Oxford, 2001), pp. 203–207.

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shifting ambiguities are what must inform the various developments in the art, whether ‘ancient British’, ‘Celtic’, ‘pagan Saxon’, or Christian. In Kendrick’s paradigm, and indeed that of the scholarship generally, it is this which is shared by the various visual translations and transmissions that can be traced across the ‘Archipelago’. It is the ways in which the visual was articulated that reflect how the features shared by the artistic traditions of the ‘Celts’, the ‘Saxons’, and the ‘Romans’, were exploited to express new ideals through a (Christian) visual language that would be familiar to those living in the Archipelago, regardless of their ethnic, linguistic, or cultural identities. The 7th-century disc brooch from Faversham, Kent, so admired by Kendrick as being “dexterously and delicately made”,26 provides a good example of this, being one of a number of such brooches presenting various and varied crossshapes in their overall designs (Plate 3.2). One fills a central lozenge covering the centre of the field; another, with foliate terminals, transects it diagonally; a third fills the central raised roundel, quartering cloisonné garnets.27 Produced at a time when the Church was beginning to make inroads into Anglo-Saxon society, the display of the motif central to Christianity is yet disguised by the ways in which it is overlaid and intersected by variations on that shape, exploiting techniques and modes of display and viewing long familiar in the region. The phenomenon is also familiar in the decorated pages of the early Christian manuscripts produced there, as has long been argued.28 The layout of motifs on the carpet-pages of the Book of Durrow (Plate 3.3.) demonstrate an approach analogous to that seen in the Faversham disc brooch. That on folio 85v, preceding the Gospel of Mark, for instance (Plate 3.3b), comprises a series of interlace knots contained within circular frames alternately coloured yellow and red. The red roundels are arranged so that they form a double-barred cross, as do the yellow ones; yet they also present saltire crosses while the yellow roundels form additional lozenges. Then there are the black-and-white open-work motifs that fill the central (yellow) roundel, which provide further cross-shapes that align with the strands of interlace joining the various lozenge 26 27

28

Kendrick, Anglo-Saxon Art, p. 62. For summary of discussion, see e.g., Jane Hawkes, “Symbolic Lives: The Visual Evidence,” in The Anglo-Saxons from the Migration Period to the Eighth Century, ed. John Hines (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 31–44. For corpus of these cruciform brooches, see Helena Hamerow, Anni Byard, Esther Cameron, Andreas Dürig, Pula Levick, Nicholas ManquezGrant, and Andrew Shortland, “A High Status Seventh-Century Female Burial from West Hanney, Oxfordshire,” The Antiquaries Journal 95 (2015), 93–95. See, e.g. Robert B.K. Stevenson, “Aspects of Ambiguity in Crosses and Interlace,” Ulster Journal of Archaeology 44–45 (1981–82), 1–27; Hawkes, “Symbolic Lives”; Pirotte, “Hidden Order”.

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Plate 3.2 Disc brooch, Faversham, Kent. 7th century

and double-barred crosses: one presents a ‘hammer-head’ cross lying vertically within the roundel, while another forms a saltire cross, and where they intersect is a small yellow cross: minute but centrally placed. Conversely, the central panel of interlace filling folio 125v, preceding Luke (Plate 3.3c), is arranged such that the apparently random colouring of the strands in yellow, red, and green serve to form, but also ‘hide’ a series of cross-shapes in the spaces lying between the strands. Once seen, the negative pattern of the black background is foregrounded, and the patterns framing them recede.29 Although badly damaged, the design of the opening carpet-page (folio 1v) likewise offsets positive and negative spaces (Plate 3.3a). The central panel is dominated by the yellow double-barred cross with squared terminals and 29

Stevenson, “Aspects of Ambiguity”; Hawkes, “Symbolic Lives”.

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a

b

Plate 3.3 Carpet pages, Book of Durrow, 7th century. Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 57: (a) Folio 1v, opening; (b) Folio 85v, Mark; (c) Folio 125v, Luke

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c

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central crossings, each of which is filled with miniature ‘insets’ of millefioriwork, a design that in itself forms a series of interconnected cross-shapes. However, the interstices of the cross-arms are also filled with equal-armed crosses of interlace, as are the four corners of the panel. These latter motifs are, moreover coloured in a darker red which effectively draws the eye into the brighter red arms of the inner crosses that, along with the yellow terminal squares of the central cross, form the shape of a ‘mandorla’ which serves to push the cross forward into the field of vision. Here, the effect of colour and its relative absorption of light has been manipulated to affect the perception of light by the eye. The visual impact of ‘yellow’, which varies depending on the lightness and saturation of the hues (meaning they are not the same as the socalled primary colour), shifts in relation to the ‘red’ pigments, which also vary according to the concentration of the chromium red pigments. The contrasts between the red-orange and yellow hues thus produce varying perceptual and psychological effects, with so-called warm (‘red’) colours seeming to advance or appear more active, while the yellow undulates before them.30 The same phenomena are also visible in the carpet-pages of the Lindisfarne Gospels (Plate 3.4), where the so-called warm (‘red’) colours seem to dominate, while cool (‘blue’) colours tend to recede, particularly on folio 94v, the carpet-page preceding the gospel of Mark (Plate 3.4b). This phenomenon was, as seen, manipulated in the early metalwork, where gold (yellow), silver (white), niello (black), garnet (red), and millefiori inlay (blue), in the case of the Sutton Hoo shoulder clasps, were used to great effect to offset, define, and disguise patterns. Here, we see the same principles transmitted into Christian art, and translated to highlight and hide the shapes and forms of the cross created in the layout of the patterns. Thus, the varying shades of blues, reds, and yellows interspersed across the knots of plain interlace framing and forming the central cross of the carpet page to Mark reveal and disguise numerous subsidiary cross-shapes across the folio.31 Rather than focusing on the ways in which the overall layout of the page might imitate the layout of early Anglo-Saxon name stones,32 or the ways in which the central medallion of the cross might recall millefiori designs (which is not to deny these associations), it is clear that colour has been used in this instance to present a page filled with the leitmotif 30

31 32

Augusto Garau, Color Harmonies (Chicago, 1993); F. Mahnke, Color, Environment and Human Response (New York, 1996); K.E. Burchett, “Color Harmony,” Color Research and Application 27, no. 1 (2002), 28–31; Josef Albers, Interaction of Color, rev. edn (New Haven, CT, 2006). See also, folio 138v (Luke carpet-page), and folio 210v (that preceding John). For most recent discussion of this association, see Christine Maddern, Raising the Dead: Early Medieval Names Stones in Northumbria (Turnhout, 2013), pp. 234–51.

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a

b

Plate 3.4 Carpet pages, Lindisfarne Gospels, late 7th/early 8th century. London, British Library Cotton MS Nero D IV: (a) Folio 2v, opening; (b) Folio 94v, Mark

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of the cross, the central symbol of Christian salvation. Resolving these shapes in the mind’s eye performs the act of contemplation, the process deemed necessary to acquire a fuller understanding of the means of salvation available through that cross. Together pattern and colour work to full effect to “captivate the viewer’s mind”.33 With this observation, it is worth turning, in closing, to (re)consider the layout of folio 2v, the opening carpet-page of the manuscript (Plate 3.4a). Here, as elsewhere, the page capitalises on the theme of the shape of the cross, apparent not only in the foregrounded cross that fills the centre of the main panel of decoration, but also in the red and yellow interlaced, equal-armed crosses that rest in the spandrels of the cross, and which themselves form a square panel filled with a cross that incorporates the eaxlegespanne (central crossing)34 of the foregrounded cross. Furthermore, the use of green that dominates the diminutive squares set in the block-terminals of the cross-arms and stem and so foregrounds them, not only references the historical object of the cross (of the Crucifixion), but also the jewelled cross of the Parousia, itself recalled by the jewel-encrusted crosses encased in precious metals that were familiar in church processions and on altars.35 In such contexts, the gems in the crossarms referred to the Old Testament prophecy by Zechariah (12:10) of the piercing of the Messiah: And I will pour out upon the house of David, and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of grace, and of prayers: and they shall look upon me, whom they have pierced: and they shall mourn for him as one mourneth for an only son, and they shall grieve over him, as the manner is to grieve for the death of the firstborn (emphasis added).36

33 34 35

36

Alfred Gell, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford, 1998), p. 80. Dream of the Rood, line 9a. George Philip Krapp, ed., The Vercelli Book, Anglo-Saxon Poetic Records 2 (New York, 1932), p. 61. Matthew 24:30: “And then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven” (et tunc parebit signum Filii hominis in caelo). See also “the sign of the living God” (signum Dei vivi) of Revelation 7:2. Gier Hellemo, Adventus Domini: Eschatological Thought in 4th Century Apses and Catecheses (Leiden, 1989), p. 112; Richard N. Bailey, England’s Earliest Sculptors (Toronto 1996), pp. 46, 122–23; Ilse Schweitzer, “The Crux Gemmata and Shifting Significances of the Cross in Insular Art,” Marginalia 3 (2006). Available at: http:// www.marginalia.co.uk/journal/06illumination/schweitzer.php. Accessed 2020 April 7. Brandon W. Hawk, “‘Id est, crux Christi’: Tracing the Old English Motif of the Celestial Rood,” Anglo-Saxon England 40 (2011), 43–73. Et effundam super domum David et super habitatores Hierusalem spiritum gratiae et precum et aspicient ad me quem confixerunt et plangent eum planctu quasi super unigenitum et dolebunt super eum ut doleri solet in morte primogeniti.

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In early exegesis this was commonly associated with the exalted Christ of Revelation 1:7, which describes how, as Christ descends, “every eye shall see him, and they also that pierced him.”37 Thus, Augustine linked Christ’s return at the Second Coming, foretold at his Ascension (Acts 1:0–11), with Zechariah’s prophecy: The Son alone will be apparent to the good and the bad in the judgment in the form in which he suffered and rose again and ascended into heaven…. That is, in the form of man in which he was judged, [he] will be judge, in order that also that prophetic utterance may be fulfilled, ‘They shall look upon him whom they pierced’.38 Thus, through the representation of the cross as pattern, drawing on the shifting appearance manipulated by colour and line, the Lindisfarne carpet-page draws the mind to the historical, prophetic, and revelatory future Parousia.39 In this instance, however, this cross is notably surrounded by two small squares filled with lozenge-shapes (above the horizontal cross-arms) and two rectangles containing the same motifs below the horizontal cross-arms, flanking the vertical stem of the cross.40 With these, the non-specificity of pattern allows the viewer to call to mind all possible renditions of the figural crucifixion scenes. It facilitates recollection of images of angels flanking the crosshead with the sponge- and spear-bearers (Stephaton and Longinus) below, as preserved on folio 38(3)v of the 7th-century Durham Gospels;41 or the symbols of the sun and moon filling the upper quadrants of the cross, with Longinus and Stephaton below, on the early 9th-century cross-shaft at Bradbourne in 37 38

39 40 41

Et videbit eum omnis oculus, et qui eum pupugerunt. Augustine, Tractate XXXVI.12 in Iohan. 8.16–18: sed quoniam bonis et malis in iudicio solus Filius apparebit, in ea forma in qua passus est, et resurrexit, et adscendit in caelum … id est, in forma hominis in qua iudicatus est iudicabit, ut etiam illud propheticum impleatur: ‘Videbunt in quem pupugerunt’. A. Mayer, ed., Sancti Aurelii Augustini in Iohannis Evangelivm tractatvs CXIV, CCSL 36 (Turnhout, 1954), p. 331; trans. Philip Schaff, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, 7 (Grand Rapids, MI, 1978), p. 213. See also Tractate XX1.13 in Mayer, Sancti Aurelii Augustini, pp. 219–20. See further discussion in Jane Hawkes, “Venerating the Cross around the Year 800 in AngloSaxon England,” Jennifer O’Reilly Memorial Lecture (2018). Available at: https://www.ucc .ie/en/history/drjenniferoreillymemorialpage/thejenniferoreillymemoriallectureseries/. Accessed 2020 April 7. See Vause, above, pp. ##, for further discussion of the symbolic references of crosses in early Anglo-Saxon art. It is an arrangement also alluded to in the design of the carpet-page on folio 210v of the Lindisfarne Gospel manuscript, that preceding the gospel of John. Durham, Cathedral Library, MS A.II.17.

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Derbyshire;42 or images where the sponge-and spear-bearer are replaced by those of John and Mary; or those where they are accompanied by mother and disciple.43 Then there are the images that display the cross flanked by the symbols of the evangelists, as on the late 8th-century sarcophagus cover at Wirksworth in Derbyshire or the early 9th-century North cross in the market-place at Sandbach in Cheshire.44 In each case the frames of reference vary and are specific to the particular versions of the scene – dictated by the protagonists pictured and their placement in relation to each other in the overall composition. In the Lindisfarne carpet-page, however, while the layout of the design is fixed, the use of (the specifically non-figural) pattern allows perceptions of the scheme to constantly change: to segue from one frame of reference to another depending on how the variations available to the viewer are contemplated and understood. Thus, in considering the manner in which various visual traditions circulating in the ‘Archipelago’ were transmitted to Anglo-Saxon artists, it is clear that they involved a shared set of principles of design: principles that simultaneously hid and revealed shapes that were ever-changing. They demanded that the viewer engaged in contemplation of them, and in this process the viewer was involved in the act of creation and recreation: they were integral to the crafting of the design which was constantly fluid and shifting, never fixed, but always opening new avenues of exploration. With the translation of this art to Christian use, new ideals were expressed through familiar visual languages and new frames of reference were brought to the fore in the mind of the viewer-artist.

42 43

44

See Jane Hawkes and Philip Sidebottom, Derbyshire and Staffordshire, CASSS 13 (Oxford, 2018), pp. 147–52, fig. 4b–c, ills. 109–14; Hawkes, “Venerating the Cross”. E.g., the c.1000 ivory plaque now held in the British Museum (inv. 1980,1201.1) shows just John and Mary flanking the foot of the cross, while a mid-8th- to early 9th-century ivory plaque now at Cividale in Italy, shows Mary and Longinus on one side paired by John and Stephaton on the other side of the cross; both illustrate symbols of the sun and moon in the upper quadrants. Jane Hawkes, The Sandbach Crosses: Sign and Significance in AngloSaxon Sculpture (Dublin, 2002), p. 40, fig. 2.6. For Wirksworth, see Hawkes and Sidebottom, Derbyshire and Staffordshire, pp. 240–50, fig. 47, ills. 446–55; Jane Hawkes, “The Wirksworth Slab: An Iconography of Humilitas,” Peritia 9 (1995), 264–65. For Sandbach, see Richard N. Bailey, Cheshire and Lancashire, CASSS 9 (Oxford, 2010), pp. 99–113, fig. 17, ills. 244–61, 263–72; Hawkes, The Sandbach Crosses, pp. 38–46, fig. 2.5.

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Bibliography Adams, Noël, “Rethinking the Sutton Hoo Shoulder Clasps and Armour,” in Intelligible Beauty: Recent Research on Byzantine Jewellery, ed. Chris Entwistle and Noël Adams (London, 2010), pp. 83–112. Albers, Josef, Interaction of Color, rev. edn (New Haven, CT, 2006). Alexander, Jonathan J.G., Insular Manuscripts 6th to the 9th Century, A Survey of Manuscripts Illuminated in the British Isles 1 (London, 1978). Backhouse, Janet, The Lindisfarne Gospels (Oxford, 1981). Bailey, Richard N., England’s Earliest Sculptors (Toronto 1996). Bailey, Richard N., Cheshire and Lancashire, CASSS 9 (Oxford, 2010). Boulton, Meg, “‘The End of the World as We Know It’: The Eschatology of Symbolic Space/s in Insular Art,” in Making Histories, ed. Jane Hawkes (Donington, 2013), pp. 279–90. Boulton, Meg, “(Re)Viewing ‘Iuxta Morem Romanorum’: Considering Perception, Phenomenology and Anglo-Saxon Ecclesiastical Architecture,” in Sensory Perception in the Medieval World: Manuscripts, Texts, and other Material Matters, ed. S. Thompson and Michael D.J. Bintley (Turnhout, 2016), pp. 206–26. Boulton, Meg, “Art History in the Dark Ages: (Re)Considering Space, Stasis and Modern Viewing Practices in Relation to Anglo-Saxon Imagery,” in Stasis in the Medieval West?: Questioning Change and Continuity, ed. Michael D.J. Bintley, Martin Locker, Victoria Symons, and M. Wellesley (London, 2017), pp. 69–86. Bovey, Alixe, ed., Under the Influence: The Concept of Influence and the Study of Illuminated Manuscripts (Turnhout, 2008). Brown, Michelle, The Lindisfarne Gospels: Society, Spirituality and the Scribe (London, 2003). Bruce-Mitford, R.L.S., “Thomas Downing Kendrick, 1895–1979,” Proceedings of the British Academy 76 (1990), 445–71. Burchett, K.E., “Color Harmony,” Color Research and Application 27, no. 1 (2002), 28–31. Coolahan, Marie-Louise, “Whither the Archipelago? Stops, Starts and Hurdles on the Four Nations Front,” Literature Compass 15 (2018), 1–12. Garau, Augusto, Color Harmonies (Chicago, 1993). Gell, Alfred, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford, 1998). Hamerow, Helena, Anni Byard, Esther Cameron, Andreas Dürig, Pula Levick, Nicholas Manquez-Grant, and Andrew Shortland, “A High Status Seventh-Century Female Burial from West Hanney, Oxfordshire,” The Antiquaries Journal 95 (2015), 91–118. Hawk, Brandon W., “‘Id est, crux Christi’: Tracing the Old English Motif of the Celestial Rood,” Anglo-Saxon England 40 (2011), 43–73. Hawkes, Jane, “The Wirksworth Slab: An Iconography of Humilitas,” Peritia 9 (1995), 246–89.

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Hawkes, Jane, “Symbolic Lives: The Visual Evidence,” in The Anglo-Saxons from the Migration Period to the Eighth Century, ed. John Hines (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 31–44. Hawkes, Jane, The Sandbach Crosses: Sign and Significance in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture (Dublin, 2002). Hawkes, Jane, “Iuxta Morem Romanorum: Stone and Sculpture in Anglo-Saxon England,” in Anglo-Saxon Styles, ed. Catherine E. Karkov and George Hardin Brown (New York, 2003), pp. 69–99. Hawkes, Jane, “Figuring Salvation: An Excursus into the Iconography of the Iona Crosses,” in Able Minds and Practised Hands: Scotland’s Early Medieval Sculpture in the 21st Century, ed. Sally Foster and Morag Cross (Edinburgh, 2005), pp. 259–75. Hawkes, Jane, “Design and Decoration: Revisualising Rome in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture,” in Rome across Time and Space. Cultural Transmission and the Exchange of Ideas, c. 500–1400, ed. Claudia Bolgia, Rosamund McKitterick, and John Osborne (Cambridge, 2011), pp. 201–21. Hawkes, Jane, “East Meets West in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture,” in England, Ireland, and the Insular World: Textual and Material Connections in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Mary Clayton, Alice Jorgensen, and Juliet Mullins (Tempe, AZ, 2018), pp. 41–61. Hawkes, Jane, “Venerating the Cross around the Year 800 in Anglo-Saxon England,” Jennifer O’Reilly Memorial Lecture (2018). https://www.ucc.ie/en/history/drjenni feroreillymemorialpage/thejenniferoreillymemoriallectureseries/. Hawkes, Jane, “Globalizing Anglo-Saxon Art,” in Global Perspectives on Early Medieval Britain, ed. Karen L. Jolly and Britton Brooks (Woodbridge, 2021), pp. 39–52. Hawkes, Jane, and Philip Sidebottom, Derbyshire and Staffordshire, CASSS 13 (Oxford, 2018). Hellemo, Gier, Adventus Domini: Eschatological Thought in 4th Century Apses and Catecheses (Leiden, 1989). Henry, Françoise, “The Lindisfarne Gospels,” Antiquity 37 (1963), 100–10. Kendrick, Thomas D., Anglo-Saxon Art to A.D. 900 (London, 1938). Kendrick, Thomas D., Julian Brown, Rupert L.S. Bruce-Mitford, H. Roosen-Runge, A.S.C. Ross, E.G. Stanley, and A.E.A. Werner, eds., Evangeliorum quattuor Codex Lindisfarnensis (Olten, 1960). Kennedy, John M., A Psychology of Picture Perception (San Francisco, 1974). King, Michael, “Besette swinlicum: Sources for the Iconography of the Sutton Hoo Shoulder-clasps,” in The Anglo-Saxons: The World Through Their Eyes, ed. Gale R. Owen-Crocker and Brian W. Schneider, BAR British Series 595 (Oxford, 2014), pp. 89–102. Krapp, George Philip, ed., The Vercelli Book, Anglo-Saxon Poetic Records 2 (New York, 1932). Mackie, Gillian, “A New Look at the Patronage of Santa Costanza, Rome,” Byzantion 67, no. 2 (1997), 383–406.

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Maddern, Christine, Raising the Dead: Early Medieval Names Stones in Northumbria (Turnhout, 2013). Mahnke, F., Color, Environment and Human Response (New York, 1996). Mayer, A., ed., Sancti Aurelii Augustini in Iohannis Evangelivm tractatvs CXIV, CCSL 36 (Turnhout, 1954). Meehan, Bernard, The Book of Durrow. A Medieval Masterpiece at Trinity College Dublin (Dublin, 1996). Meehan, Bernard, The Book of Kells. Official Guide (London, 2020). Moss, Rachel, The Book of Durrow. Official Guide (London, 2018). Orton, Fred, “Northumbrian Identity in the Eighth Century: Style, Classification, Class and the Form of Ideology,” The Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 34, no. 1 (2004), 95–145. Pirotte, Emmanuelle, “Hidden Order, Order Revealed: New Light on Carpet Pages,” in Pattern and Purpose in Insular Art, ed. Mark Redknap, Nancy Edwards, Susan Youngs, Alan Lane, and Jeremy Knight (Oxford, 2001), 203–207. Rubin, Edgar, “Taste,” British Journal of Psychology 27 (1936), 74–85. Rubin, Edgar, Experimenta psychologica: Collected Scientific Papers in German, English and French (Copenhagen, 1949). Rubin, Edgar, “Visual Figures Apparently Incompatible with Geometry,” Acta Pyschologica 7 (1950), 365–87. Rubin, Edgar, “Figure and Ground,” in Readings in Perception, ed., D.C. Beardslee and M. Wertheimer (Princeton, NJ, 1958), pp. 194–203. Schaff, Philip, trans., Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church, 7 (Grand Rapids, MI, 1978). Schweitzer, Ilse, “The Crux Gemmata and Shifting Significances of the Cross in Insular Art,” Marginalia 3 (2006). http://www.marginalia.co.uk/journal/06illumination/ schweitzer.php. Stevenson, Robert B.K., “Aspects of Ambiguity in Crosses and Interlace,” Ulster Journal of Archaeology 44–45 (1981–82), 1–27. Wade, Nicholas, The Art and Science of Visual Illusions (London, 1982). Webster, Leslie, Anglo-Saxon Art: A New History (London, 2012). Webster, Leslie, “Wundorsmiþa geweorc: a Mercian Sword-pommel from the Beckley Area, Oxfordshire,” in Crossing Boundaries: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Art, Material Culture, Language and Literature of the Early Medieval World, ed. Eric Cambridge and Jane Hawkes (Oxford, 2017), pp. 97–111. Wilson, David M., “Kendrick, Sir Thomas Downing (1895–1979),” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004). https://doi-org. /10.1093/ref:odnb/31303.

Chapter 4

Transmitted in Stone: Church Organisation in Early Christian Ireland Megan Henvey Introduction The organisation and development of the early Church in Ireland continues to be a subject of great debate both with regards to individual sites and the relationship/s between them.1 While historians have focussed on the textual sources, ranging from law tracts, saints’ vitae, and annals in order to better understand the nature of the Church in early medieval Ireland, archaeologists have tended to deal exclusively with topographical evidence and material remains recovered in the course of excavation. Combined literary and archaeological approaches have been undertaken infrequently, and have rarely, if ever, stretched beyond these bounds to consider the value of art-historical enquiry, deemed, understandably, to be the remit of art historians. High crosses have thus been excluded from studies on the nature of the early Church, their potential contribution to enhancing our understanding of the organisation and communication across ecclesiastical sites that commissioned, made, and used them, being sadly overlooked. While the early scholarship on the high crosses generally took the form of surveys,2 increasingly attention is being 1 Kathleen Hughes, The Church in Early Irish Society (London, 1966); Liam De Paor, Saint Patrick’s World (Dublin, 1996); Colmán Etchingham, Church Organisation in Ireland A.D. 650 to 1000 (Maynooth, 1999). 2 Henry O’Neill, Illustrations of the Most Interesting of the Sculptured Crosses of Ancient Ireland (London, 1857); John Romilly Allen, Early Christian Symbolism in Great Britain and Ireland before the Thirteenth Century, (London, 1887); Margaret Stokes, Early Christian Art in Ireland (1887; repr. Dublin, 1911, 3rd ed. 1928); Henry S. Crawford, “A Descriptive List of the Early Irish Crosses,” JRSAI 37, no. 2 (1907), 187–239; Henry S. Crawford, “Supplementary List of Early Irish Crosses,” JRSAI 8, no. 2 (1918), 174–79; Henry S. Crawford, “The Early Crosses of East and West Meath,” JRSAI 16, no. 1 (1926), 1–10; Henry S. Crawford, “The Early Crosses of East and West Meath (Continued),” JRSAI 16, no. 2 (1926), 71–81; Henry S. Crawford, “The Early Crosses of East and West Meath,” JRSAI 17, no. 1 (1927), 1–6; Eric Hyde Lord Sexton, A Descriptive and Bibliographical List of Irish Figure Sculptures of the Early Christian Period (Portland, OR, 1946); Peter Harbison, The High Crosses of Ireland: An Iconographical and Photographic Survey, 3 vols (Bonn, 1992).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004501904_007

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paid to the function and carvings of these monuments with the focus on scene identification, iconographic sources, and theological significance.3 This discussion will take a multidisciplinary approach bringing together the archaeological, textual, and art historical evidence to reveal the nature of the connection between three early medieval ecclesiastic sites in Ireland. Two recent developments in the scholarship on the early medieval Church in Ireland coalesce to indicate the individual character and identity of each ecclesiastical site in the mid-8th to mid-9th centuries. First, the concept of a homogenous ‘Celtic Church’ separate from the Christian Church elsewhere has been rejected;4 as Kathleen Hughes outlined in her seminal essay, it was not just people, but ideas and practices that moved between geographically disparate communities.5 Secondly, concepts surrounding a 7th- and 8th-century move away from episcopal organisation and rule to monastic is now interpreted as being much less stark.6 Together, these changes of focus enable us to contemplate an early Irish Church that was organised along neither geographic nor geo-political lines, but as a series of individual ecclesiastical communities 3 See, e.g., Helen M. Roe, “Antiquities of the Archdiocese of Armagh: A Photographic Survey with Notes on the Monuments. Part I: The High Crosses of County Louth,” Seanchas Ardmhacha: JADHS 1, no. 1 (1954), 101–14; Helen M. Roe, “Antiquities of the Archdiocese of Armagh: A Photographic Survey. Part II: The High Crosses of Co. Armagh,” Seanchas Ardmhacha: JADHS 1, no. 2 (1955), 107–14; Helen M. Roe, “Antiquities of the Archdiocese of Armagh: A Photographic Survey. Part III: The High Crosses of East Tyrone,” Seanchas Ardmacha: JADHS 2, no. 1 (1956), 79–89; Megan Henvey, “History, Iconography and Theology: Re-Examining the Downpatrick High Cross,” Ulster Journal of Archaeology 71 (2012), 65–84; Roger Stalley, “Irish Sculpture of the Early Tenth Century and the Work of the ‘Muiredach Master’: Problems of Identification and Meaning,” PRIA 114C (2014), 141–79; Megan Henvey, “Crossing Borders: Re-assessing the ‘Need to Group’ the High Crosses in Ireland,” in Peopling Insular Art: Practice, Performance, Perception. Proceedings of the Eighth International Insular Art Conference, ed. Cynthia Thickpenny, Katherine Forsyth, Jane Geddes, and Kate Mathis (Oxford, 2020), 179–87. 4 Wendy Davies, “The Celtic Church,” Journal of Religious History 8 (1975), 406–11; Kathleen Hughes, “The Celtic Church: Is This a Valid Concept?,” Cambridge Medieval Celtic Studies 1 (Summer 1981), 1–20; Wendy Davies, “The Myth of the Celtic Church,” in The Early Church in Wales and the West: Recent Work in Early Christian Archaeology, History and Place-Names, ed. Nancy Edwards and Alan Lane (Oxford, 1992), pp. 12–21. 5 Hughes, “The Celtic Church”. See also: Dorothy Hoogland Verkerk, “Pilgrimage Ad Limina Apostolorum in Rome: Irish Crosses and Early Christian Sarcophagi,” in From Ireland Coming: Irish Art from the Early Christian to the Late Gothic Period and Its European Context, ed. Colum Hourihane (Princeton, NJ, 2001), pp. 9–26; Stalley, “Irish Sculpture”. 6 See, John Ryan, Irish Monasticism; Origins and Early Development (Shannon, 1931); Kathleen Hughes and Ann Hamlin, The Modern Traveller to the Early Irish Church (London, 1977); De Paor, Saint Patrick’s World, pp. 3–7; Etchingham, Church Organisation; Richard Sharpe, “Some Problems Concerning the Organization of the Church in Early Medieval Ireland,” Peritia 2 (1984), 230–69.

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with different networks of connections across land masses and oceans.7 What is important here, is the question of whether such connections, known textually, can be further illuminated through consideration of the iconography of the high crosses at the sites. Furthermore, it must be noted that despite the developments in ecclesiastical studies, the enduring methodological approach towards the high crosses has been to group them according to formal and stylistic similarities and along modern geo-political lines.8 Studies of discrete groups from the South-Eastern, Central and Northern / Ulster Groups,9 are thus as misleading in their anachronisms and implied geo-political stability, as they are in their disregard of scholarly understanding of the complex organisation of society, the Church in Ireland, and their role within the wider Insular and European spheres in the period. This approach to the study of the high crosses is incongruous within both the reality of early Christian Ireland and the scholarly approach to historical and archaeological investigations, and goes some way to explaining the exclusion of high crosses from studies of the organisation of the Church in early medieval Ireland. Thus, a case study comprising the textual, archaeological, and art historical evidence of three ecclesiastical sites in Ireland will illuminate the potential for such multidisciplinary programmes of enquiry.

Development of the Ecclesiastic Communities

The early establishment of ecclesiastic sites at Armagh (Co. Armagh) and Galloon (Co. Fermanagh), currently in the North of Ireland and Clones (Co. Monaghan) in the Republic, are attested by archaeological remains, and textual sources (Fig. 4.1). At Armagh, excavations at 39–41 Scotch Street reveal a 9th-century metalwork-shop, perhaps evidence of long-standing metalworking activity of the sort preserved in Tírechán’s account of Archbishop Assicus, 7 Etchingham, Church Organisation. 8 Françoise Henry, “Les Origines de L’Iconographie Irlandaise,” Revue Archéologique 32, no. 2 (1930), 89–109; Françoise Henry, La Sculpture Irlandaise Pendant Les Douze Premiers Siécles de L’ére Chrétienne (Paris, 1933); Françoise Henry, Irish Art during the Viking Invasions (800– 1020 A.D.) (London, 1967); Harbison, High Crosses; Ann Hamlin, “The Blackwater Group of Crosses,” in From the Isles of the North: Early Medieval Art in Ireland and Britain, ed. Cormac Bourke (Belfast, 1995), pp. 187–96. 9 Françoise Henry, Irish Art (London, 1947), p. 173; Máire De Paor and Liam De Paor, Early Christian Ireland (London, 1958); Helen M. Roe undertook much work on the ‘Ulster Group’, including a three-part series: Roe, “Antiquities – Armagh I”; Roe, “Antiquities – Armagh II”; Roe, “Antiquities – Armagh III”; Both ‘Ulster’ and ‘Northern’ are referred to by Harbison, High Crosses, 1:337–38, 373–77.

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Figure 4.1 Map of the crosses of Armagh (Co. Armagh), Clones (Co. Monaghan), and Galloon (Co. Fermanagh)

a coppersmith and contemporary of Patrick, whose wares at Armagh were known to him in the 7th century.10 It certainly suggests the presence of a community of craftsmen at Armagh over a sustained period throughout the early Middle Ages.11 Indeed, the 9th-century Book of Armagh itself supports a reference in the annals to scribes at Armagh as early as 725.12 The importance of highlighting the practice of these crafts at Armagh in the early medieval period lies in the confirmation of not only habitation, but also the wealth, both economic and intellectual, of the community, which in turn points to 10

11 12

Ludwig Bieler, ed./trans., The Patrician Texts in the Book of Armagh (Dublin, 1979), pp. 140–41: “faber aureus”; Assicus also appears in the later Tripartite Life, see: Whitley Stokes, ed., The Tripartite Life of Patrick with Other Documents Relating to That Saint, Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores 89 (1887; repr. Wiesbaden, 1965), pp. 96–97. Department for Communities, “‘Armagh,’ Northern Ireland Sites and Monuments Record.” Available at: https://apps.communities-ni.gov.uk/NISMR-PUBLIC/Details.aspx?MonID =5432. Accessed 2018 June 22. Dublin, Trinity College Dublin, MS 52. Thomas M. Charles-Edwards, The Chronicle of Ireland: Translated with an Introduction and Notes, Translated Texts for Historians 44 (Liverpool, 2006), 1:298.

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circumstances that could facilitate a practicing and learned Christian community in the early medieval period. Two entries in the annals – for 789 and 840 – further reference stone buildings at Armagh, indicating that stone was in use there in the late 8th/ early 9th century, and that there were craftsmen/labourers who knew how to use it.13 However, the identification of these buildings according to their materiality – stone – suggests this was not yet an established building practice. Unfortunately, the references have not been substantiated archaeologically as it has been assumed that the early church/es existed in the area now occupied by the extant early 19th-century Church of Ireland Cathedral. The presence of the high cross (Fig. 4.2a–b), however, might be taken in lieu of such early buildings; supporting the textual references to the use of stone in Armagh at this time. From the combined archaeological and textual evidence therefore, it seems clear that by the 7th to 8th centuries, Armagh was a substantial and active ecclesiastic community. Other textual sources promoting Armagh’s status and power, including Muirchú’s and Tírechán’s biographies of St Patrick, highlight an increased self-awareness regarding both the necessity and potential of fostering belief in their alleged early foundation by Patrick.14 This further enabled their community to support, stabilise, and develop its reputation (and that of Patrick) in a variety of creative and lasting ways in the practices of metalwork, book production, and stonework – architectural and monumental. Contextualising the community in this way has important ramifications for dating the high cross, suggesting an early 8th-century terminus post quem, with circumstances ripe for such a commission by the early 9th century. Contemporary with this phase of increased creative output, the annals for 806 record the death of Gormgal, abbot of Armagh and Clones.15 Clones is believed to have been founded by St Tigernach in the first half of the 6th century; archaeological evidence of a probably 9th- to 10th-century round tower, 12th-century abbey, and a high cross, certainly indicate ecclesiastical habitation here in the early medieval period. The remembrance of Tigernach’s cult on 4 April is attested in the 9th-century Martyrology of Oengus,16 although 13 14 15 16

Ibid., 1:253, 298. Bieler, Patrician Texts, pp. 18, 6; David R. Howlett, Muirchú Moccu Macthéni’s ‘Vita Sancti Patricii’: Life of Saint Patrick (Dublin, 2006), p. 182. Charles-Edwards, Chronicle of Ireland, 1:267. Oengus, Félire Óengusso Céli Dé, ed. Whitley Stokes, Félire Óengusso Céli Dé: The Martyrology of Oengus the Culdee, Henry Bradshaw Society 29 (London, 1905), pp. 104, 111. See also, Whitley Stokes, ed., Félire Húi Gormáin: The Martyrology of Gorman (London, 1895), pp. 70–71; Richard Irvine Best and Hugh Jackson Lawlor, eds., The Martyrology of

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a Figure 4.2 Armagh cross, east face. St Patrick’s Church of Ireland Cathedral, Armagh, Co. Armagh: (a) Cross-shaft; (b) Cross-head

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b

the earliest extant copies of his vita date from the 14th century.17 This tells of Tigernach’s time at Whithorn (Dumfries and Galloway, SW Scotland), and Rome, and how he raised Dubhtach of Armagh from the dead.18 Thus, by the 14th century, Tigernach was understood as having been an important, welleducated, and well-connected man; through this association, Clones was also promoted as a Christian community with considerable power and prestige. Abbots at Clones are recorded as early as 701,19 suggesting that the Christian community had been established there by this date. Furthermore, the

17 18 19

Tallaght: From the Book of Leinster and MS 5100-4 in the Royal Library, Brussels (London, 1929), p. 29; Michael O’Clery, John O’Donovan, William Reeves, and James Henthorn Todd, eds., The Martyrology of Donegal: A Calendar of the Saints of Ireland (Dublin, 1864), pp. 94–95. Codex Salmanticensis (Brussels, Royal Library, MS 7672–4); Rawlinson B485 (Oxford, Bodleian Library). Charles Plummer, Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae: partim hactenus ineditae, (Oxford, 1910), 1:lxxxviii–lxxxix. Ibid., 2:262–63, 266; Pádraig Ó Riain, A Dictionary of Irish Saints (Dublin, 2011), p. 572. Charles-Edwards, Chronicle of Ireland, 1:176.

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association of Tigernach with Clones appears to be supported by the first use in 716 of a ‘Céle’ name – meaning ‘client’ or ‘companion’ – (“Céle Tigernaig”),20 a term also used in relation to an abbot at Armagh in 758.21 The short-lived popularity of this naming practice for abbots employed at both Clones and Armagh, as well as the annals’ recording of an abbot shared between both sites in 806,22 suggests some close association between the two ecclesiastical communities. This coincides with what has been shown above to be a period of increased self-awareness manifested in rising wealth and craft production within Armagh’s ecclesiastic community. Thus, the organisational connection observed between these two sites might be interpreted as a further reflection of Armagh’s impulse to outward expansion, and moreover, have ramifications for the dating of the high cross at Clones (Fig. 4.2) as well as the cross-shafts at Galloon (Fig. 4.3), a daughter-house of Clones. Tigernach’s vita records that he founded a community at Galloon,23 but there are no further textual references to the site, and no excavation has taken place – understandably – as it was used as a burial ground through the 19th century.24 Thus, the presence of the two small, figurally-carved cross-shafts are the only extant evidence that supports the claim of Tigernach’s vita that there was a Christian community there in the early Middle Ages.

The High Crosses

So, in what ways can the high crosses of these three sites help us to further understand the nature of their association? First, the fact that these communities were aware of one another’s topography, and perhaps commemorative or liturgical practices, is evidenced by the conception and use of a shared monument type: the high cross. Secondly, the variety of the iconographic programmes selected for these monuments supports scholarly interpretations of early medieval ecclesiastic sites as having unique characteristics and identities; at the same time, the carvings importantly reveal the complex nature of their influences on one another. The Armagh cross bears the most extensive iconographic programme of the monuments under consideration here, comprising at least 15 panels, while the others bear fewer scenes, are arranged in 20 21 22 23 24

Ibid., 1:190. Ibid., 1:228. Ibid., 1:267. Plummer, Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae, 2:267. Harold Mytum and Robert Evans, “The 18th and 19th Century Graveyard Monuments of Killevan, Co. Monaghan and Galloon, Co. Fermanagh,” Clogher Record 18, no. 1 (2003), 1–31.

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Figure 4.3 Clones high cross, Clones, Co. Monaghan

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different orders, reveal iconographic variations, and include some scenes not seen at Armagh, to form programmes that emphasise unique and specific theological ideas and ideals.25 Scenes shared across all four shafts are Adam and Eve, and the Sacrifice of Isaac. The extreme variations in the depictions of Adam and Eve on the Irish high crosses indicate the variety of models that were circulating in the Insular world, as well as the differing theological ideals expressed in the choices made by each individual community in the articulation of the iconographic details of those scenes.26 However, for the purposes of this discussion it is the iconographic type of the Sacrifice of Isaac that helps us to further apprehend the nature of the connections between the three sites of Armagh, Clones, and Galloon.

The Iconography of the Sacrifice of Isaac

The third panel on the east face of the Armagh cross (Plate 4.1a) features a figure in profile dressed in a tunic with arms outstretched, the left hand holding a long thin object vertically, and the right grasping the long hair of the figure on the right, who kneels and bends over a central rectangle that they clasp with their hand. Above, in the centre of the panel, is a quadruped with tail and horn, facing left. On its right, in the corner, is a second kneeling figure. These details identify the scene as the Sacrifice of Isaac, and although the iconography includes details absent from early Christian versions of the scene and at odds with images found elsewhere in the Insular world, it does correspond with the account presented in Genesis.27 25 26

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Discussion of these issues is a focus of Megan Henvey, “The High Crosses of ‘Northern Ireland’: An Iconographic Review of a Modern Geo-Political Grouping of Early Medieval Monuments,” 2 vols (PhD thesis, University of York, 2020). Ibid. See also: J.B. Trapp, “The Iconography of the Fall of Man,” in Approaches to ‘Paradise Lost’: The York Tercentenary Lectures, ed. C.A. Patrides (London, 1968), pp. 223–65; Jennifer O’Reilly, “The Trees of Eden in Mediaeval Iconography,” in Walk in the Garden, ed. Deborah Sawyer and Paul Morris (Sheffield, 1992), pp. 167–204; On the Anglo-Saxon material see: Elizabeth Alexander, “Visualising the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon England: From the Seventh to the Mid-Eleventh Century,” (PhD thesis, University of York, 2018), 1:111–21, 199–205. Crawford, “Supplementary List,” 174; Crawford, “Early Crosses III,” 6; Henry, “Les Origines,” 96, 98, 100; Arthur Kingsley Porter, The Crosses and Culture of Ireland (1931; repr. New York, 1971), p. 130; David A. Chart, E. Estyn Evans, and H.C. Lawlor, Preliminary Survey of the Ancient Monuments of Northern Ireland (Belfast, 1940), p. 66; Sexton, Irish Figure Sculptures, p. 62; Roe, “Antiquities – Armagh II,” p. 109; Henry, Irish Art During the Viking Invasions, p. 154; Ann Hamlin, The Archaeology of Early Christianity in the North of Ireland, BAR British Series 460 (Oxford, 2008), pp. 227–28; Nancy Edwards, “An Early Group of

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a Plate 4.1

Sacrifice of Isaac: (a) Armagh cross-shaft, detail: E3, St Patrick’s Church of Ireland Cathedral, Armagh, Co. Armagh; (b) Clones cross-shaft, detail: S-E2, Clones, Co. Monaghan; (c) Galloon East cross, detail: E1, Galloon Island, Co. Fermanagh; (d) Galloon West cross, detail: W2. Galloon West cross, Galloon Island, Co. Fermanagh

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Strikingly similar compositions are depicted on the cross-shafts at Clones and Galloon (where that on the West shaft is, unfortunately, considerably worn) (Plates 4.1c–d), while variations are found on the 13 further extant sculptural examples from early medieval Ireland, some of which are outlined below. Starting with the altar at the centre of the composition in all four depictions at Armagh, Clones, and Galloon: it can be identified as a specific type which indicates the nature of the likely source of the scene. In early Christian art the altar takes different forms, with the pillar-type that has been considered typically Eastern and even more specifically, Egyptian,28 being the type which (without denticulation) is found in most Anglo-Saxon examples.29 It is the rectangular table-type, found on most early Christian sarcophagi, catacomb frescoes and mosaics in the West, which features on the Irish crosses. At Armagh and on the two at Galloon, the solid rectangular altar with a protruding frontal panel is reminiscent of that on the (possibly) 4th-century marble sarcophagus of St Sidoine (1st-century Bishop of Aix) in the catacombs of Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume.30

28 29

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Crosses from the Kingdom of Ossory,” JRSAI 113 (1983), 27; Harbison, High Crosses, 1:20, 199–200. Alison Moore Smith, “The Iconography of the Sacrifice of Isaac in Early Christian Art,” American Journal of Archaeology 26, no. 2 (1922), 166; Isabel Speyart van Woerden, “The Iconography of the Sacrifice of Isaac,” Vigiliae Christianae 15, no. 4 (1961), 227, 229. There are no extant examples in the corpus of material from Scotland. The pillar-type is seen on the 9th-century Newent shaft in Gloucestershire: Richard Bryant, The Western Midlands, CASSS 10 (Oxford, 2012), pp. 232–36, ills. 392–400; figs. 24, 27, 33; Elizabeth Alexander, “The Art of the Church in Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England: The Case of the Newent Cross,” in Insular Iconographies: Essays in Honour of Jane Hawkes, ed. Meg Boulton and Michael D.J. Bintley (Woodbridge, 2019), pp. 49–59; in the early 9thcentury Carolingian manuscript copy of a Northumbrian version of Sedulius’ Carmen Paschale (Antwerp, Plantin-Moretus Museum, MS 17.4, fol. 8r); 8th-century ivory (Paris, Musée National du Moyen Âge); Malmesbury Prudentius (Cambridge, Corpus Christi College Library, MS 23, fol. 1v); Canterbury Prudentius (London, British Library, MS Cotton Cleopatra C VIII, fol. 4r); and in the Bury Prudentius (London, British Library, MS Add. 24199, fol. 2r). Jonathan J.G. Alexander, Insular Manuscripts 6th to the 9th Centuries (London, 1978), cat. 65; John Beckwith, Ivory Carvings in Early Medieval England (London, 1972), cat. 6; Elzbieta Temple, Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts 900–1066 (London, 1976), cat. 48, 49, 51. The broad-type rectangular altar, as on the Irish crosses, is seen in the Old English Hexateuch (London, British Library, Cotton MS Claudius B IV, fol. 38r). Temple, Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts, cat. 86. The fragmentary nature of the Reculver (Kent) sculpture renders the altar-type unknown. Dominic Tweddle, Martin Biddle, and Birthe Kjølby-Biddle, South-East England, CASSS 4 (Oxford, 1995), pp. 151–61, ills. 111–20. A. Fevrier, “Saint-Maximin: Mausolées antiques,” in Les premiers monuments Chrétiens de la France, 1: Sud-est et Corse, ed. Noel Duval (Paris, 1995), pp. 175–80.

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The flame, while ubiquitous on Eastern and Eastern-influenced examples and common on Anglo-Saxon ones, is not consistently depicted in the Western versions and never in Irish examples, and decreased in popularity in the 10thcentury,31 a tendency explained by exegetical commentaries on the subject. The event as recorded in Genesis (22:1–8) refers to the “burnt offering” (holocaustum) of Isaac four times before the appearance of the ram; the language is precise, and invokes Leviticus 1:3–9 which sets out specifics on how such an offering should be undertaken.32 Yet, while following the commands of Leviticus, the Genesis event omits any indication that the fire was lit. Larry Powell has suggested that the story was interpreted differently in Jewish and Christian contexts: Isaac upon the flames might indicate Jewish influences which regarded him as having been resurrected, while Christians rejected this possibility, believing only Christ could exercise such powers.33 Certainly none of the Irish cross versions depict the flame, which combined with the rectangular table-type altar, indicates that the model circulating on the island emerged from an early Western iconographic type and was distinct from the model/s circulating in early medieval England and Scotland.34 Abraham’s use of a sword to dispatch his son further substantiates the influence of a late antique, Western model, appearing, for example on the early 4th-century Sarcophagus of Agape and Crescentianus now in the Vatican Museum (Fig. 4.4a). Like the absence of the flame, further aspects of the iconographic type shared by these four Irish examples of the Sacrifice of Isaac suggest a carefully nuanced approach to the exegetical, and perhaps even liturgically-minded, planning of the high cross iconographies in each case. Most early medieval continental, and all three extant Anglo-Saxon examples of the image depict a hand emerging from the upper left corner – beside Abraham – and occasionally grasping his raised sword, clearly intervening in, and stopping Abraham’s action in the sacrifice (Figs 4.4b–d). In such depictions the central significance is on the figure and actions of Abraham, an emphasis articulated by the exegetical works of Augustine who stresses Abraham’s unflinching faith in God: “that his true obedience might show itself to all the world in that shape, which God

31 32 33 34

The flame is present at Newent, in the OE Hexateuch, Bury Prudentius, Canterbury Prudentius, Canterbury Prudentius, and Sedulius’ Carmen Paschale. It is absent from the 8th-century ivory, now in Paris. Alexander, “Visualising the Old Testament,” p. 122. Larry D. Powell, Holy Murder: Abraham, Isaac, and the Rhetoric of Sacrifice (Lanham MD, 2007), p. 18. Ibid. Alexander, “Visualising the Old Testament,” p. 129.

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Figure 4.4 Galloon crosses, Galloon Island, Co. Fermanagh: (a) East cross; (b) West cross

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figure 4.5 Sacrifice of Isaac: (a) Detail: Sarcophagus of Agape and Crescentianus, 4th century, Vatican Museum, Vatican City. (b) Newent cross-shaft fragment. Early 9th century. Newent, Gloucestershire. (c) Ivory. 8th-late 9th century. Musée de Cluny, Paris, 391. (d) Reculver fragment. Early 9th century. Reculver, Kent

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knew already that it bore.”35 However, in these four examples the angel is in the upper right of the panel, and its role takes on a different aspect. By the late 7th century, the significance of the event and its iconography appears to have moved away from the figure of Abraham, to focus more on the relationship between Isaac and the ram, typologically calling to mind Christ’s sacrifice on the cross at the crucifixion.36 The presence of the ram was certainly always a key aspect and exegetically crucial: with its horns stuck in the thorny bush, early Christian writers typified the animal to link it with the death of Christ (the Agnus Dei) on the cross37 in a manner that reinforced Abraham’s typological connection to God the Father in sacrificing his son.38 The move to refocus the significance on Isaac is noteworthy and likely originated at Rome, as indicated by Bede’s record of the paired images of Isaac carrying the wood, and Jesus carrying the cross, brought back to Wearmouth-Jarrow by Benedict Biscop in 679.39 Bede himself also makes this connection in De Templo, “because the immolation of Isaac is a type of the Lord’s passion it is right that the temple should be built on the site of the same sacrifice.”40 This idea clearly spread throughout the Insular world as, contemporaneously, Adomnán of Iona made the same connection in De Locis Sanctis,41 and in a specifically Irish context, it is expressed in the 8th- or 9th-century Martyrology of Tallaght – written in Ireland and based on an earlier, Ionan text. This records the feast of the Sacrifice of Isaac alongside the crucifixion 35

36 37 38 39

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Augustine, De Civitate Dei, 16.32: “ut pia eius oboedientia probaretur, saeculis in notitiam proferenda, non deo” ed. B. Dombart and A. Kalb, Augustine: De Civitate Dei, Libri XI– XXII, CCSL 48 (Turnholt, 1955), p. 536; trans. John Healey, Augustine, The City of God: De Civitate Dei, ed. R.V.G. Tasker (London, 1945), 2:131. See also De Civitate Dei, 16.33, Dombart and Kalb, Augustine, p. 536. Alexander, “The Art of the Church”. Augustine, De Civitate Dei 16.32, Dombart and Kalb, Augustine, p. 536. Jean Danielou, S.J., From Shadows to Reality: Studies in the Biblical Typology of the Fathers (London, 1960), p. 127. Bede, Historia Abbatum: “Verbi gratia, Isaac ligna quibus immolaretur portantem, et Dominum crucem in qua pateretur aeque portantem, proxima super inuicem regione pictura coniunxit.” Trans. Christopher W. Grocock and Ian N. Wood, ed./trans., The Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow: Bede’s Homily I. 13 on Benedict Biscop, Bede’s History of the Abbots of Wearmouth and Farrow, the Anonymous Life of Ceolfrith, Bede’s Letter to Ecgbert, Bishop of York (Oxford, 2013), pp. 44–45. Bede, De Templo 1: “Et quia immolatio Isaac typus dominicae passionis existit recte in loco eiusdem immolationis templum aedificatur.” ed. David Hurst, Opera exegetica, 2A. De tabernaculo. De templo. In Ezram et Neemiam, CCSL 119A (Turnholt, 1969), p. 159; trans. Sean Connolly, Bede, On the Temple, Translated Texts for Historians 21 (Liverpool, 1995), p. 20. Adomnán, De Locis Sanctis, in Brussels, Bibl. Royale, 2921–22’, fol. 23. Available at: https:// uurl.kbr.be/1449083. Accessed 2019 July 20.

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on 25 March.42 In other words, exegetical interpretations of the Sacrifice of Isaac that typologically linked Isaac with Christ were circulating in the Insular world by the 8th century, and this is clearly expressed in the iconography of the four depictions of the episode at Armagh, Clones, and Galloon. The ram is positioned directly above Isaac, drawing a clear parallel between him and the lamb as Agnus Dei.43 Furthermore, the hand of God/angel is no longer shown in direct relationship with Abraham, nor is the ram in the thicket; instead the angel presents the ram to Isaac, clearly emphasising the later exegetical identification of Isaac as a type of Christ. In short, the iconographic type with the rectangular altar and sword as weapon indicates strong influence of a continental iconographic type, while the absence of a flame, and the visually reinforced relationship between Isaac and the ram as typologically symbolising Jesus’ sacrifice at the crucifixion also suggests the patrons/designers of the crosses paid careful attention to representing contemporary exegetical concerns in their iconographic programmes. Furthermore, we can see that an older, continental (possibly originally Easterninspired) model continued to be used in Britain from the different iconographic type circulating in Anglo-Saxon England, evidenced by the three extant examples there, and Elizabeth Alexander has recently shown that this, too, was subject to iconographic adaptations to reflect the change of focus to Isaac in both text and image.44 The proliferation of this altered exegetical interpretation of the event articulated at these three sites in Ireland clearly also impacted the choice of iconography, which developed from a late antique, continental example. The image of the Sacrifice of Isaac appears on 13 further crosses and crossfragments in Ireland,45 three of which likely derived from the same model used at Armagh, Clones, and Galloon,46 as well as that at Durrow,47 which is similar 42 43 44 45

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Best and Lawlor, The Martyrology of Tallaght, p. 27. Augustine, Expositions of the Psalms 1–32, ed./trans., Boulding, Maria, and John E. Rotelle, Saint Augustine: Expositions of the Psalms, 1–32, The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, pt. 3, vol. 15 (Hyde Park, NY, 2000), pp. 341–42. Alexander, “The Art of the Church”. Arboe (Co. Tyrone), Camus (Co. Derry), Donaghmore (Co. Tyrone), Castledermot North, Castledermot South (Co. Kildare), Moone (Co. Kildare), Drumcliff (Co. Sligo), Durrow (Co. Offaly), Graiguenamanagh (Co. Kilkenny), Market cross and Cross of Patrick and Columba at Kells, Killary (Co. Meath), Tall cross at Monasterboice (Co. Louth). For images, see Harbison, High Crosses, 2:Figs 31, 85, 197, 103, 107, 509, 226, 248, 311, 337, 346, 414, 489 (respectively). See images in Harbison, High Crosses, 2:Fig. 31 (Arboe, E2); Fig. 85 (Camus, W4); Fig. 489 (Tall cross at Monasterboice, E2). See images, Ibid., Fig. 247 (Durrow, E3).

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but includes the further detail of sticks carried on Isaac’s back: an aspect that reinforces the exegetical tradition linking Isaac with Christ. The nine other examples on the Irish crosses vary considerably, some omitting the angel, while at Donaghmore, Graiguenamanagh, and Killary48 the composition is reversed, perhaps suggesting template-use;49 that at Moone is a totally unique depiction and certainly deserves further study.50 These highlight the distinct nature of the four depictions at Armagh, Clones and Galloon whose similarities with each other suggest the use of a shared model-type, one that was perhaps developed specifically in the light of contemporary exegetical developments that impacted theological beliefs across these three, demonstrably, administratively connected sites. Conclusion While early medieval ecclesiastical sites in Ireland had individual identities, networks of communication can be discerned, even across modern geographic and geo-political boundaries, and the aim of this chapter has been to show that a combined archaeological, textual, and art-historical approach can greatly illuminate this. First, that there are extant high crosses or cross fragments at Armagh, Clones, and Galloon indicates at least a shared knowledge of the monument type; at present the evidence does not indicate the function of each monument, but further such work, as has been undertaken in relation to some of the Anglo-Saxon material, might reveal shared topographies, and ecclesiastical or liturgical rites.51 Secondly, it has been shown that consideration of the details of the iconography of the Sacrifice of Isaac at Armagh, Clones, and Galloon, reveal a theological interpretation of the event that was translated into an iconographic model that became transmitted between these sites. Elements of the 48 49

50 51

See images, Ibid., Fig. 197 (Donaghmore, W3); Fig. 311 (Graiguenamanagh, E2); Fig. 414 (Killary, E3). Jane Hawkes, “Anglo-Saxon Sculpture: Questions of Context,” in Northumbria’s Golden Age, ed. Jane Hawkes and Susan Mills (Stroud, 1999), p. 207, suggests template use between Masham (N. Yorks.), Hovingham (E. Yorks.), and Cundall-Aldborough (N. Yorks.). Hamlin, “Blackwater Group,” p. 188, considers model use at Donaghmore while repeating that these models were not used at Armagh and Arboe in an unexplained passage. See images in Harbison, High Crosses, 2:Fig. 509. (Moone: E Base 2). On the function of monumental stone sculpture in relation to the Anglo-Saxon material, see: Hawkes, “Anglo-Saxon Sculpture,” pp. 204–215. This is explored in: Henvey, “The ‘Northern Group’”.

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model-type have been traced to late antique, western continental examples, and are demonstrated to have been rooted in an exegetical tradition with its ultimate origins in Rome. That it was transmitted to the Insular world is evidenced in the writings of Bede; however, the fact that it is a different iconography preserved in the Anglo-Saxon and Scottish material perhaps suggests that this learning and knowledge had reached these communities in Ireland directly from Rome through some other means,52 and in this regard it is worth noting that the vita of St Tigernach of Clones records time spent in Rome in the 6th century.53 Therefore, in sharing this (continentally-influenced, but locallydeveloped) iconographic type of the Sacrifice of Isaac on a shared monument type – the high cross – the communities at Armagh, Clones, and Galloon can be understood as intellectually connected, and also, as active, learned participants within the wider, western Christian world. Thus, not only does the shared iconography displayed on the early medieval monuments at Armagh, Clones, and Galloon substantiate the relationship between these communities in the 9th century – as indicated in the annals and vitae of their associated founding saints – but it also demonstrates that together they constituted an outward-looking, continentally-connected nucleus of ecclesiastic intellectual activity: something not indicated in the documentary sources. Bibliography Alexander, Elizabeth, “Visualising the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon England: From the Seventh to the Mid-Eleventh Century”, 2 vols (PhD thesis, University of York, 2018). Alexander, Elizabeth, “The Art of the Church in Ninth-Century Anglo-Saxon England: The Case of the Newent Cross,” in Insular Iconographies: Essays in Honour of Jane Hawkes, ed. Meg Boulton and Michael D.J. Bintley (Woodbridge, 2019), pp. 49–59. Alexander, Jonathan J.G., Insular Manuscripts 6th to the 9th Centuries (London, 1978). Allen, John Romilly, Early Christian Symbolism in Great Britain and Ireland before the Thirteenth Century (London, 1887). Beckwith, John, Ivory Carvings in Early Medieval England (London, 1972). Best, Richard Irvine, and Hugh Jackson Lawlor, eds., The Martyrology of Tallaght: From the Book of Leinster and MS 5100-4 in the Royal Library, Brussels, Henry Bradshaw Society 68 (London, 1929). 52 53

Hoogland Verkerk, “Pilgrimage Ad Limina Apostolorum”; Stalley, “Irish Sculpture”. Plummer, Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae, 2:262–63.

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Bieler, Ludwig, ed./trans., The Patrician Texts in the Book of Armagh, Scriptores Latini Hiberniae 10 (Dublin, 1979). Boulding, Maria, and John E. Rotelle, ed./trans., Saint Augustine: Expositions of the Psalms, 1–32, The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, pt. 3, vol. 15 (Hyde Park, NY, 2000). Bryant, Richard, The Western Midlands, CASSS 10 (Oxford, 2012). Charles-Edwards, Thomas M., trans., The Chronicle of Ireland: Translated with an Introduction and Notes, Translated Texts for Historians 44, 2 vols (Liverpool, 2006). Chart, David A., E. Estyn Evans, and H.C. Lawlor, Preliminary Survey of the Ancient Monuments of Northern Ireland (Belfast, 1940). Connolly, Sean, trans., Bede, On the Temple, Translated Texts for Historians 21 (Liverpool, 1995). Crawford, Henry S., “A Descriptive List of the Early Irish Crosses,” JRSAI 37, no. 2 (1907), 187–239. Crawford, Henry S., “Supplementary List of Early Irish Crosses,” JRSAI 8, no. 2 (1918), 174–79. Crawford, Henry S., “The Early Crosses of East and West Meath,” JRSAI 16, no. 1 (1926), 1–10. Crawford, Henry S., “The Early Crosses of East and West Meath (Continued),” JRSAI 16, no. 2 (1926), 71–81. Crawford, Henry S., “The Early Crosses of East and West Meath,” JRSAI 17, no. 1 (1927), 1–6. Danielou, Jean, S.J., From Shadows to Reality: Studies in the Biblical Typology of the Fathers (London, 1960). Davies, Wendy, “The Celtic Church,” Journal of Religious History 8 (1975), 406–11. Davies, Wendy, “The Myth of the Celtic Church,” in The Early Church in Wales and the West: Recent Work in Early Christian Archaeology, History and Place-Names, ed. Nancy Edwards and Alan Lane (Oxford, 1992), pp. 12–21. De Paor, Liam, Saint Patrick’s World (Dublin, 1996). De Paor, Máire, and Liam De Paor, Early Christian Ireland (London, 1958). Dombart, B., and A. Kalb, eds., Augustine: De Civitate Dei, Libri XI–XXII, CCSL 48 (Turnholt, 1955). Edwards, Nancy, “An Early Group of Crosses from the Kingdom of Ossory,” JRSAI 113 (1983), 5–46. Etchingham, Colmán, Church Organisation in Ireland A.D. 650 to 1000 (Maynooth, 1999). Fevrier, A., “Saint-Maximin: Mausolées antiques,” in Les premiers monuments Chrétiens de la France, 1: Sud-est et Corse, ed. Noel Duval (Paris, 1995), pp. 175–80. Grocock, Christopher W., and Ian N. Wood, ed./trans., The Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow: Bede’s Homily I. 13 on Benedict Biscop, Bede’s History of the Abbots of Wearmouth

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and Farrow, the Anonymous Life of Ceolfrith, Bede’s Letter to Ecgbert, Bishop of York (Oxford, 2013). Hamlin, Ann, “The Blackwater Group of Crosses,” in From the Isles of the North: Early Medieval Art in Ireland and Britain, ed. Cormac Bourke (Belfast, 1995), pp. 187–96. Hamlin, Ann, The Archaeology of Early Christianity in the North of Ireland, BAR British Series 460 (Oxford, 2008). Harbison, Peter, The High Crosses of Ireland: An Iconographical and Photographic Survey, 3 vols (Bonn, 1992). Hawkes, Jane, “Anglo-Saxon Sculpture: Questions of Context,” in Northumbria’s Golden Age, ed. Jane Hawkes and Susan Mills (Stroud, 1999), pp. 204–15. Healey, John, trans., Augustine, The City of God: De Civitate Dei, ed. R.V.G. Tasker, 2 vols (London, 1945). Henry, Françoise, “Les Origines de L’Iconographie Irlandaise,” Revue Archéologique 32, no. 2 (1930), 89–109. Henry, Françoise, La Sculpture Irlandaise Pendant Les Douze Premiers Siécles de L’ére Chrétienne (Paris, 1933). Henry, Françoise, Irish Art (London, 1947). Henry, Françoise, Irish Art during the Viking Invasions (800–1020 A.D.) (London, 1967). Henvey, Megan, “History, Iconography and Theology: Re-Examining the Downpatrick High Cross,” Ulster Journal of Archaeology 71 (2012), 65–84. Henvey, Megan, “Crossing Borders: Re-assessing the ‘Need to Group’ the High Crosses in Ireland,” in Peopling Insular Art: Practice, Performance, Perception. Proceedings of the Eighth International Insular Art Conference, ed. Cynthia Thickpenny, Katherine Forsyth, Jane Geddes, and Kate Mathis (Oxford, 2020), 179–87. Henvey, Megan, “The High Crosses of ‘Northern Ireland’: An Iconographic Review of a Modern Geo-Political Grouping of Early Medieval Monuments”, 2 vols (PhD thesis, University of York, 2020). Hoogland Verkerk, Dorothy, “Pilgrimage Ad Limina Apostolorum in Rome: Irish Crosses and Early Christian Sarcophagi,” in From Ireland Coming: Irish Art from the Early Christian to the Late Gothic Period and its European Context, ed. Colum Hourihane (Princeton, NJ, 2001), pp. 9–26. Howlett, David R., Muirchú Moccu Macthéni’s ‘Vita Sancti Patricii’: Life of Saint Patrick (Dublin, 2006). Hughes, Kathleen, The Church in Early Irish Society (London, 1966). Hughes, Kathleen, “The Celtic Church: Is This a Valid Concept?,” Cambridge Medieval Celtic Studies 1 (Summer 1981), 1–20. Hughes, Kathleen, and Ann Hamlin, The Modern Traveller to the Early Irish Church (London, 1977).

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Hurst, David, ed., Opera exegetica, 2A. De tabernaculo. De templo. In Ezram et Neemiam, CCSL 119A (Turnholt, 1969). Mytum, Harold, and Robert Evans, “The 18th and 19th Century Graveyard Monuments of Killevan, Co. Monaghan and Galloon, Co. Fermanagh,” Clogher Record 18, no. 1 (2003), 1–31. O’Clery, Michael, John O’Donovan, William Reeves, and James Henthorn Todd, eds., The Martyrology of Donegal: A Calendar of the Saints of Ireland (Dublin, 1864). O’Neill, Henry, Illustrations of the Most Interesting of the Sculptured Crosses of Ancient Ireland (London, 1857). O’Reilly, Jennifer, “The Trees of Eden in Mediaeval Iconography,” in Walk in the Garden, ed. Deborah Sawyer and Paul Morris (Sheffield, 1992), pp. 167–204. Ó Riain, Pádraig, A Dictionary of Irish Saints (Dublin, 2011). Plummer, Charles, ed., Vitae Sanctorum Hiberniae: partim hactenus ineditae, 2 vols (Oxford, 1910). Porter, Arthur Kingsley, The Crosses and Culture of Ireland (1931; repr. New York, 1971). Powell, Larry D., Holy Murder: Abraham, Isaac, and the Rhetoric of Sacrifice (Lanham, MD, 2007). Roe, Helen M., “Antiquities of the Archdiocese of Armagh: A Photographic Survey with Notes on the Monuments. Part I: The High Crosses of County Louth,” Seanchas Ardmhacha: JADHS 1, no. 1 (1954), 101–14. Roe, Helen M., “Antiquities of the Archdiocese of Armagh: A Photographic Survey. Part II: The High Crosses of Co. Armagh,” Seanchas Ardmhacha: JADHS 1, no. 2 (1955), 107–14. Roe, Helen M., “Antiquities of the Archdiocese of Armagh: A Photographic Survey. Part III: The High Crosses of East Tyrone,” Seanchas Ardmacha: JADHS 2, no. 1 (1956), 79–89. Ryan, John, Irish Monasticism; Origins and Early Development (Shannon, 1931). Sexton, Eric Hyde Lord, A Descriptive and Bibliographical List of Irish Figure Sculptures of the Early Christian Period (Portland, OR, 1946). Sharpe, Richard, “Some Problems Concerning the Organization of the Church in Early Medieval Ireland,” Peritia 2 (1984), 230–69. Smith, Alison Moore, “The Iconography of the Sacrifice of Isaac in Early Christian Art,” American Journal of Archaeology 26, no. 2 (1922), 159–73. Speyart van Woerden, Isabel, “The Iconography of the Sacrifice of Isaac,” Vigiliae Christianae 15, no. 4 (1961), 214–55. Stalley, Roger, “Irish Sculpture of the Early Tenth Century and the Work of the ‘Muiredach Master’: Problems of Identification and Meaning,” PRIA 114C (2014), 141–79. Stokes, Margaret, Early Christian Art in Ireland (1887; repr. Dublin, 1911, 3rd ed. 1928).

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Stokes, Whitley, ed., The Tripartite Life of Patrick with Other Documents Relating to That Saint, Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores 89 (1887; repr. Wiesbaden, 1965). Stokes, Whitley, ed., Félire Húi Gormáin: The Martyrology of Gorman (London, 1895). Stokes, Whitley, ed., Félire Óengusso Céli Dé: The Martyrology of Oengus the Culdee, Henry Bradshaw Society 29 (London, 1905). Temple, Elzbieta, Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts 900–1066 (London, 1976). Trapp, J.B., “The Iconography of the Fall of Man,” in Approaches to ‘Paradise Lost’: The York Tercentenary Lectures, ed. C.A. Patrides (London, 1968), pp. 223–65. Tweddle, Dominic, Martin Biddle, and Birthe Kjølby-Biddle, South-East England, CASSS 4 (Oxford, 1995).

Chapter 5

Finding Dewisland: Hagiography and Landscape in Gerald of Wales’ Vita Davidis Episcopi Menevensis Ross McIntire Introduction The late 11th-century Vita S. David by the Welsh bishop, Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, is in many ways a fairly standard high medieval hagiography, particularly by contrast with the century-later work of Giraldus Cambrensis (Gerald of Wales) on the same subject. Rhygyfarch’s Vita begins with the story of David’s parents, his conception, and the signs and portents that preceded his birth, and follows the course of his life as a monastic founder and bishop.1 In his Vita Rhygyfarch references a handful of place names in the discussion of David’s early life and career, though these tend to be descriptive rather than specific, with the exception of individual monastic houses. Giraldus’ revision, on the other hand, while broadly reproducing the earlier text, displays a small number of significant differences that testify to a specific agenda: one that used the transmission of the Vitae to reinforce the antiquity of the site where the cathedral dedicated to St David had been built. The most significant of these were the insertion of specific place names, all of which had the effect of grounding David’s life and early career in the landscape around the cathedral. Rhygyfarch’s text, the earliest surviving hagiography of St David, was composed c.1091–93, in a time of serious uncertainty for the cult of Wales’ most esteemed saint. Prior to this, Welsh annals record several centuries of intermittent attacks by various hostile elements, and one source documents that a raid in the late 11th century led to the destruction of David’s shrine and the loss of his relics, and perhaps the abandonment of the cathedral site.2 Beginning with Bernard, the first Norman bishop of St David’s (appointed in 1115), the cathedral community at Menevia (modern St David’s) increasingly sought to reclaim their past glories, and above all else strove to attain metropolitan status to put 1 Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, ed. Richard Sharpe and John R. Davies, “Rhygyfarch’s Life of St David,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, p. 113. 2 John of Tynemouth, De Sancto Caradoco Heremita, ed. C. Horstman, J.F. Dimmock, and G.F. Warner, Nova Legenda Anglie, 1 (Oxford, 1901), pp. 174–77.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004501904_008

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their foundation on the same level as the sees of York and Canterbury. This effort gained an unlikely champion at the end of the 12th century in historian and hagiographer Giraldus Cambrensis, with his revised Vita of St David: the Vita Davidi Episcopi Menevensis.3 This literary work was only one component of what seems to have been a deliberate propaganda campaign to promote the cult of St David by the canons of that foundation: the environs of St David’s Cathedral in Pembrokeshire came to feature a sacred landscape that can be reconstructed from both hagiographical and archaeological sources. Drawing upon archaeological and antiquarian evidence, it can be demonstrated that from at least the 12th to the 16th centuries, four coastal chapels built and owned by the cathedral radiated out from the cathedral close, with the possibility of an additional two located on nearby Ramsey Island (Fig. 5.1).4 While the archaeological evidence is limited by the scale and proficiency of past excavation, the locations of these chapels are known and their immediate contexts can be surmised. The chapels are dedicated to, or associated with, figures and events from St David’s life, as told in his 11th- and 12th-century Vitae, and through some later traditions. From this evidence, it appears that the canons of St David’s Cathedral were responsible for an ideological campaign to reassert their foundation’s antiquity and turn the landscape around the cathedral into ‘Dewisland’: the site of St David’s birth, upbringing, early monastic career, and ultimately, his death. Giraldus’ revision of Rhygyfarch’s Vita was a key part of this ideological programme, along with the investment and rebuilding of the coastal chapels, which together acted to firmly situate David’s life in the area around medieval Menevia. To date, the landscape around St David’s has been most fully explored by Heather James, who noted the coastal chapels and collated their limited archaeological material, relating them to the broader landscape around medieval St David’s. While James favoured an early medieval date for the creation of this network of sites, here it is argued that a high medieval date is more probable for the integration of these early medieval sites into the cult of St David at medieval Menevia, a date that coincides with Giraldus’ revision of Rhygyfarch’s Vita.5

3 Giraldus Cambrensis. De Vita S. Davidis Archiepiscopi Menevensis, ed. J.S. Brewer, Giraldi Cambrensis Opera, 3, Rolls Series 21 (London, 1861), pp. 377–404. 4 Heather James, “The Cult of St David in the Middle Ages,” Journal of the Pembrokshire Historical Society 7 (1996), 7–13. 5 James, “The Cult of St David,” pp. 7–8.

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Figure 5.1 The cult sites of St David in south-west Wales

The Vitae According to Rhygyfarch’s Vita, which survives most fully in the late 12thcentury British Museum Cotton MS Vespasian A. XIV, David was born in Wales to a woman named Nonnita after she was raped by a local Welsh king, Sanctus.6 The Irish apostle Patrick was present in Wales as an evangelist before 6 Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, p. 133. On the manuscript history of Rhygyfarch’s Vita, see Richard Sharpe, “Which Text Is Rhygyfarch’s Life of St David?,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 90–106.

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departing for Ireland, leaving Wales as ‘Dewisland’, to be looked after and spiritually directed by David.7 Following his education at Vetus Rubus (the old grove) by Guistillianus, David established monastic communities across the south of England before returning to Wales to found his own house in what Rhygyfarch dubbed Vallis Rosina (The Valley of Roses), of which he won control from a local tyrant.8 He was elevated to archbishop at the anti-Pelagian Synod of Llanddewi Brefi and travelled to Jerusalem where he received the pallium and a number of sacred objects (including altars) from the Patriarch of Jerusalem himself.9 David died in his monastery, and was buried there.10 Our oldest surviving Vita of David was produced during a tumultuous period in the history of the cult. By the time it was written, Rhygyfarch’s father, Bishop Sulien (d.1090/1), had restored the episcopal see at Menevia, and some relics and a shrine were present to be despoiled and destroyed by a major Viking raid in 1091.11 This incursion was only the most recent upheaval in Menevia’s turbulent and violent history: incessant attacks from Vikings, Saxons, the English, and local barons are recorded in the period between 810 and 1080, including two (999 and 1080) that resulted in the death of the bishop.12 In the later, 12thcentury Vita of St Caradoc, who died in 1124 and whose relics were acquired by the community at St David’s shortly after his death, it is explicitly stated that after one of these raids (perhaps either that of 1080 or 1091) Menevia was almost completely abandoned for seven years, to the extent that it could take up to a week to cut through the brambles and thorns to reach the tomb.13 While this is likely poetic license, it seems probable that the relics of David, or at least the shrine that held them, had been lost by this time. That Rhygyfarch does not mention this (but does highlight the importance of David’s secondary relics: his bells and staff) is unsurprising if they had not been recovered in his lifetime.14 In terms of material, or archaeological evidence, it is clear St David’s Peninsula was a site of early medieval Christian activity, and potentially a saint’s cult.15 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, p. 111. Ibid., pp. 119–25. Ibid., pp. 141–47. Ibid., p. 151. J. Wyn Evans, “Transition and Survival: St David and St Davids Cathedral,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 20–40. Ibid., pp. 32–33. John of Tynemouth, De Sancto Caradoco Heremita, pp. 174–75. John Reuben Davies, “Cathedrals and the Cult of Saints in Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Wales,” in Cathedrals, Communities and Conflict in the Anglo-Norman World, ed. Paul Dalton, Charles Insley, and Louise J. Wilkinson (Woodbridge, 2011), p. 102. James, “The Cult of St David,” pp. 13–15.

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Figure 5.2 The ‘sacred landscape’ of the St David’s Peninsula, Wales

But while historians have traditionally accepted that the site known as Menevia in Latin, Hen-mynyw in Welsh, and the monasterium et paruchia Sancti Degui by Asser in his Vita Alfridi, is the site of the present day cathedral city of St David’s (Ty Dewi in modern Welsh), it is likely that the early medieval history of the site and its cult is more complicated (Fig. 5.2).16 The most obvious cause of confusion is found in a reference to the entourage of Bishop Sulien in the secular Vita of Gruffydd ap Cynan (King of Gwynedd, r.1081–1137). This work appears to draw a distinction between those individuals belonging to the episcopate of Menevia and a “chorus universus” associated with St David.17 Previously, J. Wyn Evans suggested the possibility of a dispersed or relocated cult that was not, at this time, exclusively based in present-day St David’s, but rather divided between Mynyw (Menevia) and Hen Fynyw (Old Menevia, in 16 17

Ibid., pp. 5–6. J. Wyn Evans, “St David and St Davids and the Coming of the Normans,” Transactions of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion 11 (2005), 15.

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Ceredigion, now Cardiganshire). However, he assessed this as “unlikely,” suggesting instead two communities existing on one site.18 But Evans’ hypothetical scenario of multiple cult centres as late as the 11th century should not be so easily discarded. Generally, the centre of a cult would be the site of the saint’s relics, but none of David’s corporeal relics were recovered until the 13th century, despite diligent work by the Norman bishops.19 Further evidence for a second major cult centre is that more churches are dedicated to David and his associates in the Aeron and Teifi valleys of the Ceredigion region nearer to Hen Fynyw and Llanddewi Brefi, respectively, than anywhere in Pembrokeshire or the ancient kingdom of Dyfed, which included the site of modern St David’s.20 As noted, within Rhygyfarch’s Vita, little geographic detail is given for the Vetus Rubus or Vallis Rosina, though Rhygyfarch adds that the Welsh refer to the latter as Hoddnant.21 This (Welsh) rendering is conspicuously absent from the later Vita of Giraldus. Further complicating the picture, David’s pastoral staff resided at the church of Llandewi Brefi in Ceridigion, where it drew praise from Gwynfarrd Brycheiniog as late as the 1170s.22 Llandewi Brefi also provides the earliest reference to David in the archaeological record, from a now-lost inscription dated to the 7th century.23 Between the ambiguous date of the archaeological evidence in St David’s peninsula, the inscription referring to ‘Dewi’ at Llandewi Brefi (where David was elevated to archbishop), and the frequent violent disruption of the cult by outside forces, it seems reasonable to suggest that the cult might have been dispersed between the 7th and 11th centuries. A dispersed or multi-focal cult would have important implications for later hagiography. The first Norman bishop of Menevia, Bernard (bp. 1115–48), and his successors took up the cause of both the cult of David and the canons’ aspirations for metropolitan status. Such an initiative would have only heightened the importance of localizing the cult in the landscape around St David’s, thus reinforcing its claims to antiquity.24 The longevity and continuity of the cult had larger implications for Menevia’s metropolitan claims, and the importance 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Evans, “Transition and Survival,” pp. 38–39. Fred Cowley, “The Relics of St David: The Historical Evidence,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 274–81. Heather James, “The Geography of the Cult of St David: A Study of Dedication Patterns in the Medieval Diocese,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 76–77. Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, p. 121. James, “The Cult of St David,” p. 11. Ibid., p. 5. Evans, “St David and St David’s,” pp. 12–13. Bernard was also responsible for building the first stone church on the site, and to date no evidence has been found of a previous building of the same rank.

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of the (dubiously) unbroken line of 25 archbishops from David to Sampson of Dol was emphasized by Giraldus.25 It was this Samson (better known as Sampson of Dol) who Giraldus claims was archbishop when “the pallium was taken away,” with Samson fleeing to Brittany.26 Giraldus is also the first to state unequivocally that St David’s Cathedral in contemporary Menevia stands in the Vallis Rosina on the site of David’s original foundation, and even attributes the cathedral’s remote location to a desire for David and his predecessor, Bishop Dyfrid of Caerleon to “remove themselves from the upsets of the world.”27 As the key to the metropolitan case was establishing the existence of an independent Welsh archbishopric before the arrival of St Augustine at Canterbury, it seems logical that being able to pinpoint where the cathedral of the see stood would be an important step to verifying the claim. Thus, it was essential that any confusion over the original site was conclusively resolved. Giraldus’ own involvement and investment in St David’s metropolitan case was far from straightforward; less than a decade after calling the Welsh “barbarous” (gens barbara) and spurning the see of Menevia in a dream recounted in his autobiography, he was visiting Rome to argue the cathedral’s metropolitan case.28 But while Giraldus’ own advocacy for the pallium might post-date the accepted date of his Vita of David (c.1192 to late 1190s), it seems reasonable to conclude that Giraldus’ revision would have reflected the concerns and desires of his patrons at St David’s, and that a number of the changes he made represented subtle but important shifts in the cult since Rhygyfarch’s day. The revised Vita is characterized by an informed acquaintance with local geography, also evident in the Topographia Hibernica and the Itinerarium Cambriae, which Michael Richter found unusual in a hagiographic work.29 But if one presumes a degree of geographic confusion or controversy surrounding the life and cult of David, such close attention to local details and place names is less surprising. When Giraldus wrote the Itinerarium in c.1191, he not only stated 25

26 27 28 29

Giraldus Cambrensis, Itinerarium Kambriae, ed. J.S. Brewer and J.F. Dimock, Giraldi Cambrensis Opera, 6, Rolls Series 21 (London, 1861), pp. 102–103; De Jure et Statu Menevensis Ecclesiae, ed. J.S. Brewer, Giraldi Cambrensis Opera, 3 (London, 1861), pp. 101–373. Giraldus’ list is clearly erroneous, given that a number of the 25 archbishops are known from the annals to have served after the death of Samson of Dol in 585 (and David himself died in 601). But equally it is hard to believe that Giraldus was ignorant of that fact, given his relationship to the canons of St David’s. Giraldus Cambrensis, Itinerarium Kambriae, p. 103: “Pallium … est translatum.” Ibid., p. 102: “ut populares strepitus subterfugiendo.” Giraldus Cambrensis, Itinerarium Kambriae, p. 223; Robert Bartlett, Gerald of Wales: A Voice of the Middle Ages (Stroud, 2006), pp. 45–46. Michael Richter, Giraldus Cambrensis: The Growth of the Welsh Nation (Aberystwyth, 1976), p. 383.

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that St David’s Cathedral stood in the Vallis Rosina, near to the site of Patrick’s vision of Ireland, and on the site of David’s original monastery, but gave the full account of the Synod of Llandewi Brefi where David was declared archbishop.30 At the very least, these choices suggest that Giraldus would have been viewed as sympathetic and skilled enough at this date to later produce a revision of Rhygyfarch’s Vita for the post-Norman invasion of St David’s community. By this time, the cult had become firmly located in Menevia, and within his work Giraldus represented a successful, if temporarily displaced, line of sanctity and metropolitan dignity from David to the present day.31 In addition to this prime example of textual propaganda, we can identify through archaeological evidence and extant remains a large-scale campaign in the 12th century to use the landscape itself to revise history. For the most part the Vita Davidis Episcopi Menevensis was simply a more polished version of Rhygyfarch’s Vita S. David, as Giraldus himself suggested.32 But there are key differences: Giraldus’ most striking contribution, in both the Vita and the Itinerarium, was the promotion of a claim to unbroken continuity from the monastic settlement of David to the present cathedral. Any geographic confusion that may have existed previously was cleverly explained away. Giraldus rendered Vetus Rubus, the site of David’s education as given by Rhygyfarch, as Hen-meneu or Vetus Menevia, and suggested that the Irish name for the ecclesia Menevensis was Kil-muni (with muni also meaning ‘grove’).33 Crucially, he then suggested that Vallis Rosina, the site of David’s original monastery (and the present cathedral) was nearby (ad locum … Meneviam), as he had previously stated in the Itinerarium.34 Within the revised narrative, David’s conception (as well as the vision of Ireland received by St Patrick) specifically took place in Pepidiuac, or ‘Pebidiog,’ the cantref of the ancient kingdom of Dyfed (Demetica) in which St David’s is located.35 He removed entirely the reference to Vallis Rosina being known locally as Hoddnant, which was one of the few geographic details given in Rhygyfarch’s Vita beyond Portu Magno and the River Alun (and even these might have been added when the surviving manuscript (MS Cotton Vespasian A. XIV) was produced in the

30 31 32 33 34 35

Giraldus Cambrensis, Itinerarium Kambriae, p. 102. Evans, “Transition and Survival,” p. 31. Giraldus Cambrensis, Vita Davidis, p. 377. Ibid., p. 384. Ibid., p. 387. Ibid., pp. 379–80. By contrast, Rhygyfarch’s Vita gives the much less precise location of Demetica (Dyfed), Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, pp. 111, 113.

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late 12th century).36 Finally, Giraldus inserted Portelais (Porth Clais) as the site of David’s baptism (and possibly his birth), firmly grounding his entire childhood in Pebidiog, rather than elsewhere in Dyfed or in nearby Ceredigion.37 Here it is worth noting that Rhygyfarch was from Llanbadarn in Ceridigion near Hen Fynwy or Hen Meneu (a more linguistically likely translation of Vetus Rubus).38 By the time Giraldus revised the Vita, the Norman bishops (and aspiring archbishops) had accepted that Menevia was in fact the site of the modern St David’s in Pebidiog, and Giraldus had created the impression of unbroken continuity and success that is somewhat belied by the historical record.

The Archaeology and Built Remains

What makes the situation in 12th-century St David’s unusual is that the transmission and revision of the Vita of St David was only one part of a campaign of cult promotion and institutional consolidation. In addition to two chapels on Ramsey Island (Ynys Dewi), the landscape around St David’s is primarily organized around four chapels, several of them accompanied by nearby holy wells (Fig 5.2). Each of these mainland chapels is linked by historical evidence and tradition to either associates of St David or key events during his life, and there is reason to suppose all of them were at least rebuilt between the 12th and 16th centuries. Post-dissolution antiquarian accounts by Browne Willis and George Owen make it clear that all four coastal chapels were made of stone, and all were likely to represent more than one phase of building.39 There is evidence to suggest that the majority of the chapels had been abandoned for some time, corresponding with a known decrease in Irish pilgrimage to Wales in the 15th century.40 The main obstacle to accurately dating these sites is how unsophisticated the majority of the archaeology has been, with the exception 36

37 38 39 40

Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, p. 121; D. Simon Evans, in The Welsh Life of St. David (Cardiff, 1988), pp. xli–xlii, argued that the 12th-century date of the Vespasian recension might allow for some “accretions and amplifications” relating to “the identification of persons and places in west Wales in the vicinity of St Davids” like those “which were added to [the Nero E. i] text by someone in St David’s about the year 1190,” better reflecting the state of the cult as anchored at Menevia, not Hen Fynwy. Giraldus Cambrensis, Vita Davidis Episcopi Menevensis, p. 383. Sharpe, “Which Text?,” p. 99. Browne Willis, A Survey of the Cathedral Church of St David’s and the Edifices Belonging to It, as They Stood in the Year 1715 (London, 1717); RCAHMW, An Inventory of the Ancient Monuments in Wales and Monmouthshire VII: County of Pembroke 7 (London, 1925). A.B. Badger and F. Green, “The Chapel Traditionally Attributed to St Patrick, Whitesand Bay, Pembrokeshire,” Archaeologia Cambrensis 80 (1925), 117–18.

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Figure 5.3 Enclosure of St Non’s Chapel (centre), with holy well to the immediate north-east

of more recent excavations at the site of St Patrick’s Chapel near Porth Mawr, as well as the lack of datable finds recorded in the earlier excavations.41 In addition, a number of the sites have not been excavated at all, and we must rely exclusively on antiquarian accounts like those of Owen or Willis or local tradition for descriptions of what survived above the ground hundreds of years ago. All the evidence considered, the presence of stone buildings in such relatively remote locations is almost certainly proof of their post-11th-century origin, and 41

K. Murphy, M. Shiner, and H. Wilson, “Excavation at St Patrick’s Chapel 2014 Interim Report.” Available at: www.dyfedarchaeology.org.uk/projects/stpatricksinterim. Accessed 2020 February 23; K. Murphy, M. Shiner, and H. Wilson, “Excavation at St Patrick’s Chapel 2015 Interim Report.” Available at: www.dyfedarchaeology.org.uk/projects/stpatricksinterim2015. Accessed 2020 February 23; K. Murphy, M. Shiner, and H. Wilson, “Excavation at St Patrick’s Chapel 2016 Interim Report.” Available at: www.dyfedarchaeology.org.uk/ projects/stpatricks2016interim. Accessed 2020 February 23.

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their stone construction thus provides a rough terminus post quem for use of the sites by the Norman community of St David’s.42 It is entirely possible, in some cases even likely, that these chapels were preceded by wooden buildings, and several stone-lined (or cist) burials and other features suggest early medieval activity.43 The site of St Patrick’s chapel lies approximately 1.5 miles (2.41 km) northeast of the city of St David’s, though nothing remains but a mound known as ‘Parc y Capel.’ It is on a low cliff slightly above high tide level on the beach of Whitesands Bay (Porth Mawr in Welsh, Portu Magnus in Latin), one of the major landing sites for pilgrims travelling to and from Ireland during the medieval period.44 Porth Mawr plays a major role in David’s hagiography; it was the site of Patrick’s departure after he was informed by an angel that Wales would be granted by God to the still-unborn David.45 It lies opposite Ramsey Island (Ynys Dewi), a terminus for the shortest route between Wales and Ireland. While nothing remains above ground, a series of excavations carried out in 1924, the 1970s, and from 2014 to the present have confirmed the existence of a substantial stone building on an East-West alignment, identified by antiquarian George Owen in 1600 as the “wholly decayed” ruins of St Patrick’s Chapel.46 The interim report of 2014 dated the chapel to the 13th to 16th centuries; it is of course possible that another building predated the stone chapel, possibly made of wood, although no trace of it was identified archaeologically.47 The 2014 excavations also clarified the stratigraphic sequence: the chapel was built over a layer of rubble, within which was found an 11th-century Hiberno-Norse ringed pin.48 St Patrick’s Chapel is almost certainly a high- to late-medieval building, and thus occupies an important place in the history of the medieval ecclesiastical landscape of St David’s. The site of the chapel is at, or at least near, St Patrick’s point of departure as detailed in David’s Vitae, and the 42

43 44 45 46 47 48

Aimee Pritchard reviewed the evidence for stone buildings in Wales, concluding that while absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, the earliest architectural fragments surviving were associated with major sites (such a possible late 10th-century example from Bangor Cathedral). Aimee Pritchard, “The Origins of Ecclesiastical Stone Architecture in Wales,” in Edwards, Archaeology of Early Medieval Celtic Churches, ed. Nancy Edwards (Leeds, 2009), pp. 253–57. David Longley, “Early Medieval Burial in Wales,” in Edwards, Archaeology of Early Medieval Celtic Churches, pp. 106–11. James, “The Cult of St David,” p. 7. Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, pp. 112–13. This incident is not found in any extant Life of St Patrick. Badger and Green, “Chapel Traditionally Attributed to St Patrick,” pp. 87–95. Murphy, et al., “Excavation at St Patrick’s Chapel 2014,” pp. 1–4. Ibid., p. 5.

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presence of early medieval burials is consistent with the story of Patrick’s resurrection of a priest before he took ship to Ireland.49 As for the excavated chapel’s beginnings, a 12th- or 13th-century date can be proposed on the basis of the stratigraphic data and the stone construction, which would coincide with the celebration of the hagiographical links between Patrick and David, beginning in Rhygyfarch’s late 11th-century work and subsequently repeated and localized by Giraldus’ late 12th-century Vita. Nothing remains of what is recorded on the 1908 OS Map as Capel y Pistyll (Chapel of the Well), though the ancient harbour has survived. The well (more accurately a spring) was still visible in 1921, “protected by a well-head of masonry and hidden beneath a dense growth of brambles,” but is today hidden by undergrowth and disturbed by modern roadworks to the northwest of the National Trust carpark.50 According to Willis the spring formerly ran underneath the chapel into a cistern beneath the east end, but unfortunately he provides no details of the architecture or possible date of the building.51 The place name of Porth Clais could derive either from clas, meaning a narrow trench or groove, or more intriguingly clais, a church or monastic community.52 Porth Clais has been the primary harbour in the region since the Roman period, and is mentioned in the 12th- to 13th-century Welsh epic Mabinogion. As mentioned before, the insertion of the place name Portelais in Giraldus’ Vita firmly anchored the events of David’s life in Pebidiog and the area around the cathedral. According to Giraldus, this was the site of David’s baptism and the resulting miraculous spring; presumably that running under the chapel reported by Willis, though Giraldus made no mention of a building on the site.53 In the absence of any archaeological evidence, it is impossible to verify the accuracy of the account, but a chapel at this location directly associated with a well would at least suggest a link with the story as it was understood in the late 12th century. Certainly any pilgrims arriving through Porth Clais would have had reason to visit the chapel and its spring (which may have been itself a source of cures), and its location within a mile of the cathedral would have made it easily accessible to pilgrims arriving by land.54 A possible parallel might be found in 49 50 51 52 53 54

Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, pp. 112–13; Giraldus Cambrensis, Vita Davidis, p. 381. RCAHMW, p. 337. Willis, Survey of the Cathedral Church, p. 53. James, “The Cult of St David,” p. 11. Giraldus Cambrensis, Vita Davidis, p. 383. Rhygyfarch relates that while carrying out the baptism, St Mobi of Glasnevin was cured of his lifelong blindness: Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, p. 117. Furthermore, the verse of Gywnfardd Brych acclaimed the curative powers of wells dedicated to St David: James, “The Cult of St David,” p. 11.

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the 11th-century Vita of St Rumwold, where the site of the infant saint’s baptism is said to be an important place of veneration, even though his relics reside at Buckingham.55 The extant remains and holy well located about a mile east from the harbour of Porth Clais have long been associated with St Non, St David’s mother. While its N/S orientation and irregular shape might suggest it was not a chapel, a grant of 1335 by Bishop Henry Gower mentions a “chapel of the Blessed Non.”56 St Non’s Well is north-east of the ruins, formerly covered with a “plain dome of masonry” much restored during the 18th century.57 The ‘chapel’ lies within the remains of a circular enclosure visible in aerial photographs.58 A cross-incised stone of the late 6th to 8th centuries is today set against the southwest corner of the ruin, though its relationship to the ‘chapel’ and the cult more broadly is unclear.59 These earthworks, the incised cross, and a number of stone coffins or cist burials reported by antiquarian Richard Fenton in the 1790s,60 suggest that the site does have a longer Christian history extending beyond the 13th century. In the accounts of David’s birth, both Vita authors described how David’s pregnant mother was pursued by a Herod-like tyrant who feared her unborn child, and that she eventually gave birth shielded by a terrible storm that kept human danger at bay. She was said to clench a stone, squeezing so tightly in her birthing pains that it broke in half and her fingerprints were left “impressed as on wax.”61 On this spot, Rhygyfarch wrote, a church was built, with the broken stone hidden beneath the altar.62 No specific location was given, and while a spring is said to have burst forth on the occasion of David’s baptism, no mention is made of a well being associated with the place of his birth. Rhygyfarch 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

62

Vita S. Rumwoldi, ed. Rosalind C. Love, Three Eleventh-Century Anglo-Latin Saints’ Lives: Vita S. Birini, Vita et Miracula S. Kenelmi, and Vita S. Rumwoldi, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford, 1996), pp. 101–102. Jane Cartwright, “The Cult of St Non: Rape, Sanctity and Motherhood in Welsh and Breton Hagiography,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, p. 190. RCAHMW, p. 327. Neil Ludlow, “Identifying Early Medieval Ecclesiastical Sites in South-West Wales,” in Edwards, Archaeology of Early Medieval Celtic Churches, p. 73. Nancy Edwards, “Monuments in a Landscape: The Early Medieval Sculpture of St David’s,” in Image and Power in the Archaeology of Early Medieval Britain: Essays in Honour of Rosemary Cramp, ed. Helena Hamerow and Arthur MacGregor (Oxford, 2001), pp. 56–58. Richard Fenton, A Historical Tour through Wales (London, 1811); James, “Cult of St David,” p. 12. Rhygyfarch ap Sulien: “Quare uestigium ueluti cere impressum.” Vita S. Davidi, p. 117. Wade-Evans, following Baring-Gould, reasonably suggests that the ‘marks’ allegedly left by Non might have been ogham writing: Arthur Wade-Evans, Life of St David, Translations of Christian Literature, ser. 5 (London, 1923), p. 76. Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, Vita S. Davidi, p. 117.

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states that David’s birth and baptism were at the same site, while Giraldus supplies the place name Portelais only for the second.63 Nonetheless, on the basis of documentary references, we can be relatively certain that the extant remains either represent, or are in some way associated with, the aforementioned chapel of St Non.64 If a stone with ‘Non’s’ ‘fingerprints’ did exist in this chapel, it is long gone, and there does not appear to be any link between this story and the cross-incised slab on the site. It is possible that some sort of early medieval burial plot or religious enclosure, centred around or at least associated with a holy well, became part of the hagiography of St David, potentially originating with the early Vitae and cemented with the localisation of David’s Life in the landscape around Menevia by Giraldus at the end of the 12th century. The ruins of another chapel, dedicated to St Justinian, stand above the cliffs of Porth Stinian about 1.24 miles (2 km) south of Whitesands Bay and the site of St Patrick’s Chapel, in full view of Ramsay Island. The ruins date to the 16th century, but there is evidence of an earlier stone building, possibly consisting of two phases. While no evidence of an altar has been discovered in the eastern part of the chapel, traces of an earlier stone building were revealed: a rectangular structure with a single opening in the centre of the north wall. Unlike the others, this one cannot be so easily linked into the hagiography of David as transmitted by Rhygyfarch and Giraldus, as the earliest references to Justinian within David’s story date from the 14th century works of John of Tynemouth.65 Its presence as part of the landscape is noteworthy, however, and it is possible that the association of Justinian, a martyred recluse who may have served as David’s confessor, with the cult of David, may have earlier origins even if he goes unmentioned in Giraldus’ revision. Conclusion Giraldus claimed in the introduction to his revision of Rhygyfarch’s Vita that his changes were aimed more at elevating the language of the text than 63 64 65

Ibid.; Giraldus Cambrensis, Vita Davidis, p. 383. RCAHMW, p. 327. John of Tynemouth, De Sancto Iustiano, pp. 93–95. Justinian’s own passion ties in closely with the local landscape; he was beheaded by his demonically possessed servants on Ramsey Island, and where the head fell, a spring burst forth. Following the example of St Denis, Justinian’s decapitated body arose, retrieved his head, and walked across the sound to Porth Stinian, where he was buried, and a chapel was built over his tomb. Sometime later, David and his brethren brought his confessor’s body to their church at Menevia. It is tempting to identify the small stone building as a mausoleum to the saint.

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changing any of the details, and for the most part, this seems true.66 However, even small changes can have major implications. As was the case with several revised hagiographies of the 12th century, an innocent claim to merely update the style of the original could be used to serve a contemporary agenda. In this case, the insertion of the place name Portelais into Giraldus’s Vita ends any confusion as to the place of David’s birth and baptism, while its absence from Rhygyfarch’s Vita leaves open the possibility that the early stages of David’s life might have taken place in Ceridigion or elsewhere in Dyfed other than the cantref of Pebidiog.67 Giraldus’s own muddled motivations ultimately come second to the desires and expectations of his presumed audience: the keepers of the cult of St David. The canons, many of whom still seem to have been Welsh in the late 12th century, were probably engaged in a major building program both at the cathedral and the coastal chapels, each of which could have drawn pilgrims either arriving at St David’s from Ireland, or those seeking closer contact with the saint and his life after hearing readings from the Vitae or being encouraged to visit the secondary sites by the canons themselves. The links between St David’s and Ireland are perhaps more than just a coincidence. The contemporary development of sacred landscapes with multiple holy sites associated with the life or activities of a saint can be found in several Irish contexts, including the valley of St Kevin at Glendalough (Co. Wicklow) and the still surviving turas, or pilgrimage round, at Glencolumbkille (Co. Donegal).68 Giraldus’s revision of Rhygyfarch’s Vita and the 12th-century construction of the chapels around St David’s Peninsula can thus be seen as part of a single ideological programme. There was a need to both settle a controversy over the true centre of David’s fractured cult and to create a focal point for his power in the absence of any corporeal relics. If the praesentia (presence) of a saint could not be found where their relics resided, the places where they had been born, baptized, educated, lived the monastic life, and died would have to suffice. 66 Giraldus Cambrensis, Vita Davidis Episcopi Menevensis, p. 377. 67 For example, Llanon, in Rhygyfarch’s native Ceredigion, is another possible site for both David’s birth and baptism, and it could be the location referred to in Rhygyfarch’s Vita (particularly if the area above St Bride’s Bay was not closely associated with David or Non in the 11th century). 68 Melanie C. Maddox, “Finding the City of God in the Lives of St Kevin: Glendalough and the History of the Irish Celestial Civitas,” in Glendalough: City of God, ed. Charles Doherty, Linda Doran and Mary Kelly (Dublin, 2011), pp. 1–21; Tomás Ó Carragáin, “Recluses, Relics, and Corpses: Interpreting St Kevin’s House,” in Glendalough: City of God, ed. Charles Doherty, Linda Doran and Mary Kelly (Dublin, 2011), pp. 64–79; Lorcan Harney, “Medieval Burial and Pilgrimage within the Landscape of Glendalough,” in Glendalough: City of God, ed. Charles Doherty, Linda Doran and Mary Kelly (Dublin, 2011), pp. 112–36; Peter Harbison, Pilgrimage in Ireland: The Monuments and the People (Syracuse, 1995), pp. 108‒10.

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But for these places to be precisely located, the defining texts of the cult had to better reflect local geography. At the same time, several chapels were built or modified on the periphery of the cathedral, each associated with either major figures or events in David’s life. All these efforts pertained to a larger goal of promoting the see of St David’s to an archbishopric, which necessitated the foundation tracing its origins back to before the arrival of Gregory the Great’s missionaries at Canterbury and the creation of the papal archdiocese. Ultimately, these efforts would be unsuccessful: Giraldus failed to gain the pallium from the pope, and eventually fell out with the canons at St David’s, but in the texts and material evidence produced during the period, the products of their efforts remain to this day. The 12th-century efforts of Giraldus and the canons represent a clear example of institutional propaganda, in part facilitated by the transmission of Rhygyfarch’s 11th century text a century later. Bibliography Badger, A.B., and F. Green, “The Chapel Traditionally Attributed to St Patrick, Whitesand Bay, Pembrokeshire,” Archaeologia Cambrensis 80 (1925), 87–120. Bartlett, Robert, Gerald of Wales: A Voice of the Middle Ages (Stroud, 2006). Brewer, J.S., with J.F. Dimock, and G.F. Warner, eds., Giraldi Cambrensis Opera, Rolls Series 21, 8 vols (London, 1861–91). Cartwright, Jane, “The Cult of St Non: Rape, Sanctity and Motherhood in Welsh and Breton Hagiography,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 182–206. Cowley, Fred, “The Relics of St David: The Historical Evidence,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 274–81. Davies, John Reuben, “Cathedrals and the Cult of Saints in Eleventh- and TwelfthCentury Wales,” in Cathedrals, Communities and Conflict in the Anglo-Norman World, ed. Paul Dalton, Charles Insley, and Louise J. Wilkinson (Woodbridge, 2011), pp. 99–116. Doherty, Charles, Linda Doran, and Mary Kelly, eds., Glendalough: City of God (Dublin, 2011). Edwards, Nancy, “Monuments in a Landscape: The Early Medieval Sculpture of St David’s,” in Image and Power in the Archaeology of Early Medieval Britain: Essays in Honour of Rosemary Cramp, ed. Helena Hamerow and Arthur MacGregor (Oxford, 2001), pp. 53–78. Edwards, Nancy, ed., The Archaeology of the Early Medieval Celtic Churches (Leeds, 2009). Evans, D. Simon, The Welsh Life of St. David (Cardiff, 1988).

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Evans, J. Wyn, “St David and St Davids and the Coming of the Normans,” Transactions of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion 11 (2005), 5–18. Evans, J. Wyn, “Transition and Survival: St David and St Davids Cathedral,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 20–40. Evans, J. Wyn, and Jonathon M. Wooding, eds., St David of Wales: Cult, Church, and Nation (Woodbridge, 2007). Fenton, Richard, A Historical Tour through Wales (London, 1811). Harbison, Peter, Pilgrimage in Ireland: The Monuments and the People (Syracuse, NY, 1995). Harney, Lorcan, “Medieval Burial and Pilgrimage within the Landscape of Glendalough,” in Doherty, et al., Glendalough, pp. 112–36. Horstman, C., J.F. Dimmock, and G.F. Warner, eds., Nova Legenda Anglie, 2 vols (Oxford, 1901). James, Heather, “The Cult of St David in the Middle Ages,” Journal of the Pembrokshire Historical Society 7 (1996), 5–25. James, Heather, “The Geography of the Cult of St David: A Study of Dedication Patterns in the Medieval Diocese,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 41–83. Longley, David., “Early Medieval Burial in Wales,” in Edwards, Archaeology of Early Medieval Celtic Churches, pp. 105–32. Love, Rosalind C., ed., Three Eleventh-Century Anglo-Latin Saints’ Lives: Vita S. Birini, Vita et Miracula S. Kenelmi, and Vita S. Rumwoldi, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford, 1996). Ludlow, Neil, “Identifying Early Medieval Ecclesiastical Sites in South-West Wales,” in Edwards, Archaeology of Early Medieval Celtic Churches, pp. 61–84. Maddox, Melanie C., “Finding the City of God in the Lives of St Kevin: Glendalough and the History of the Irish Celestial Civitas,” in Doherty, et al., Glendalough, pp. 1–21. Murphy, K., M. Shiner, and H. Wilson, “Excavation at St Patrick’s Chapel 2014 Interim Report.” www.dyfedarchaeology.org.uk/projects/stpatricksinterim. Murphy, K., M. Shiner, and H. Wilson, “Excavation at St Patrick’s Chapel 2015 Interim Report.” www.dyfedarchaeology.org.uk/projects/stpatricksinterim2015. Murphy, K., M. Shiner, and H. Wilson, “Excavation at St Patrick’s Chapel 2016 Interim Report.” www.dyfedarchaeology.org.uk/projects/stpatricks2016interim. Ó Carragáin, Tomás, “Recluses, Relics, and Corpses: Interpreting St Kevin’s House,” in Doherty, et al., Glendalough, pp. 64–79. Pritchard, Aimee, “The Origins of Ecclesiastical Stone Architecture in Wales,” in Edwards, Archaeology of Early Medieval Celtic Churches, pp. 253–57. RCAHMW, An Inventory of the Ancient Monuments in Wales and Monmouthshire, 7: County of Pembroke (London, 1925).

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Richter, Michael, Giraldus Cambrensis: The Growth of the Welsh Nation (Aberystwyth, 1976). Sharpe, Richard, “Which Text is Rhygyfarch’s Life of St David?,” in Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 90–106. Sharpe, Richard, and John R. Davies, “Rhygyfarch’s Life of St David,” in, Evans and Wooding, St David of Wales, pp. 107–55. Wade-Evans, Arthur, Life of St David, Translations of Christian Literature, ser. 5 (London, 1923). Willis, Browne, A Survey of the Cathedral Church of St David’s and the Edifices Belonging to It, as They Stood in the Year 1715 (London, 1717).

Part 2 The Power of Transmission: Images and Ideas across the Medieval World

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Introduction to Part Two Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey Together, the six essays in this section highlight various conceptual exchanges that occurred across the medieval world, and which were (re)expressed materially in their new contexts. Further considering how the transmission of particular motifs can indicate cultural connections, Doviak addresses the shared literary traditions and exchange of visual languages between Scandinavia and Anglo-Saxon England, focussing on visual motifs associated with the legend of Weland the smith. She demonstrates that this secular image was likely imported from Scandinavia and translated to a new public format – that of the monumental stone cross – and arranged according to pre-existing Anglian pictorial conventions, which enabled it to express complex Christian theological concerns. Moreover, many of these transmissions were manifest in the political arena, and Mitchell outlines the influence of the Islamic caliphate on the visual arts of 8th- and 9th-century Lombard Italy and Carolingian Francia. He identifies several potential conduits of material and visual exchange, which point to the centrality of early medieval Italy for the reception of these motifs from the ‘Near East’, their distribution across early medieval Western Europe, and their (re)use in this new context to underpin their patrons’ political supremacy. Simonishvili likewise considers political cross-cultural exchanges, in this case between the Byzantine empire and the Georgian aristocracy, with the 10th-century sculptures at Oshki monastery in Georgia demonstrating how Byzantine visual models were transmitted across media and adapted by a new political regime to both establish and promote their patrons’ sociopolitical identities. Taking a different approach to the physical manifestation of transmitted concepts, Milner examines how the Golden Gate in Jerusalem was reimagined in the 12th-century liturgy of Western Christendom. She demonstrates how such liturgical developments influenced and enabled architectural re-articulations of the Golden Gate in the vestiarium at Canterbury cathedral and the porte dorée at the cathedral of Le Puy, which functioned as meditative mnemonics that denoted the topography of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem for their medieval audiences. The porte dorée at Le Puy is further addressed by Elisa Foster, though she considers the question of Islamic influence in the inscription surrounding its 12th-century doors, examining the potential crosscultural influences of the physical and ideological functions of the inscription that connected the cathedral to Jerusalem: past, present, and future. The role

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of inscriptions in transmitting ideological concepts is further considered by Casey, who explores the authority and efficacy of the Clematius stone in promoting and legitimising Cologne’s cult of St Ursula and her 11,000 virgins. She draws together the stone’s inscribed textual content, its arrangement, and its materiality to underscore how the tituli not only preserved aspects of the cult’s history, but conveyed the information in such a way that the virgins’ presence could be activated to collapse temporalities and emphasize the significance of place and space.

Chapter 6

Adapting the Ascension: Transmitting Visual Languages on the Leeds Cross Amanda Doviak Introduction Scholars of Viking-age sculpture have argued that the mid-9th-century Scandinavian arrival in northern England destroyed monastic life and the economic, religious, and artistic networks associated with it.1 Consequently, many AngloScandinavian monuments are assumed to break with pre-Viking, Anglian iconographic traditions through their inclusion of presumed secular and/or ‘pagan’ figures. These, however, often comprise only a single component of the monuments’ iconographic programmes, suggesting that their inclusion in these arrangements and their intended symbolic significance(s) are dependent on their relationship to the other, often ecclesiastical, imagery forming these complex schemes. Nevertheless, the ‘secular’ images tend to be prioritized at the expense of those they accompany, resulting in generalizations about the monuments’ overall ‘pagan’ nature. Although James Lang cautioned against over-emphasizing the secular patronage of Anglo-Scandinavian sculpture, the secular (and therefore, ‘pagan’) nature of the monuments produced during this period and their divergence from previous Anglian precedents remains a preoccupation in the scholarship.2 Despite the perpetuation of the carvings’ apparently ‘pagan’ nature, the monuments themselves indicate some survival of Anglian sculptural traditions. While Rosemary Cramp and Richard Bailey previously proposed that Anglian and Scandinavian styles co-existed, these continuums of Anglian form and style have not been fully explored within the wider cultural and religious context of the Northern Danelaw, the area of Scandinavian settlement in 1 Rosemary Cramp, “The Anglian Tradition in the Ninth Century,” in Lang, Anglo-Saxon and Viking Age, p. 11; Richard N. Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture in the North of England (London, 1980), pp. 41, 84, 96, 145, 231. 2 James T. Lang, “Continuity and Innovation in Anglo-Scandinavian Sculpture: A Study of the Metropolitan School at York,” in Lang, Anglo-Saxon and Viking Age Sculpture, p. 146; cf. Lilla Kopár, Gods and Settlers: The Iconography of Norse Mythology in Anglo-Scandinavian Sculpture (Turnhout, 2012), p. 145.

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northern England during the late 9th to mid-10th-centuries.3 Cramp did, however, acknowledge that the incoming settlers established new cultural links and contributions to stone carving.4 The networks inspired by these links thus facilitated the transmission of visual languages and modes of representation, which were incorporated among surviving elements of Anglian imagery. It will be argued here that the amalgamation of visual languages from Anglian and Scandinavian sources enabled the formation of iconographic schemes that could communicate complex Christian theological concerns to contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian audiences.

The Leeds Cross

The reconstructed cross-shaft at Leeds (W. Yorks.) provides an example of such visual amalgamations. Produced after Scandinavian settlement and dated to the 10th century on stylistic grounds, it exhibits continuity with Anglian designs in its form, decoration, and layout.5 Its figural programme consists of six figures, arranged in four panels over the two broad faces of the shaft (Fig. 6.1). The exception to its preservation of Anglian traditions materializes in the two panels containing apparently secular figures at the bottom of the two broad faces (A and C). Yet, the inclusion of these panels in an otherwise ecclesiastical iconographic programme suggests that they were deliberately selected for incorporation into the overall scheme: a choice that was arguably made to articulate and emphasize a complex commentary on Christian theology. Although the figural imagery of the Leeds cross is somewhat ambiguous, it maintains clear formal stylistic links with earlier Anglian carving traditions, while incorporating a motif with Scandinavian origins – one potentially imported by settlers from this region, and considered new and innovative in Anglo-Scandinavian contexts. Therefore, the apparently secular panels of this cross must be considered alongside those they supplement. Together, the combination of Anglian elements and imported motif suggests a carefully calculated selection of figures, which form a complex iconographic programme offering theological commentary, rather than a monument simply professing 3 Cramp, “The Anglian Tradition,” p. 11; Richard N. Bailey, “The Chronology of Viking-Age Sculpture in Northumbria,” in Lang, Anglo-Saxon and Viking Age Sculpture, p. 175. 4 Rosemary Cramp, “Tradition and Innovation in English Stone Sculpture of the Tenth to Eleventh Centuries,” in Studies in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture, ed. Rosemary Cramp (London, 1992), p. 87. 5 Elizabeth Coatsworth, Western Yorkshire, CASSS 8 (Oxford, 2008), pp. 201–202.

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a Figure 6.1 Leeds cross, Leeds Minster, Leeds, West Yorkshire. 10th century: (a) Face A: clerical figure, figure with bird and sword; (b) Face C: nimbed figure, figure with book, and Weland panel

b

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a patron’s secular or ‘pagan’ identity through the depiction of a legendary heroic figure. The lowermost panel on Face C contains a figure understood to represent the legendary hero, Weland the smith, first identified by George Forrest Browne in 1885, and re-confirmed by James Lang in 1976.6 The panel depicts a series of smith’s tools in the lower right corner, and a figure in a flying contrivance, composed of a pair of wings attached to the figure’s limbs by a series of bindings formed of closed loops. A female figure holding a drinking horn is held horizontally above his head, and may represent either a conflated scene involving Beadohild, or Weland’s swan-maiden wife, Alvítr.7 The panel above is partially restored, but its original fragments present two frontal figures. The first wears long pleated robes and holds a book in his outstretched right hand. He has curling hair and a nimbus, suggested by a section of hair rising over his head and extending past the curled ends. The uppermost figure, also wearing a long, pleated garment, bears a deeply dished halo that crowns a slightly curled hairstyle. The integration of the ecclesiastical figures and the Weland scheme on this face of the shaft can be understood as a commentary on the ascension, one elucidated through exegetical commentaries and contemplation of the figures’ visual and spatial relationships.8 For instance, Gregory the Great’s Ascension Day Homily explains that Christ admonished the apostles at his ascension, so they would be encouraged to follow his command to spread the Gospel.9 This episode is likewise recorded in Christ II, a 9th-century Old English poem recorded in the Exeter book and attributed to Cynewulf; here, however, Christ also warns his followers of his impending return to earth and subsequent judgement.10 Although the poem draws on various patristic, liturgical, and scriptural sources, its primary source has been identified as Gregory’s Ascension 6 7 8

9 10

George Forrest Browne, “The Ancient Sculptured Shaft in the Parish Church at Leeds,” JBAA 41 no. 2 (1885), 138–39; James T. Lang, “Sigurd and Weland in Pre-Conquest Carving from Northern England,” Yorkshire Archaeological Journal 48 (1976), 90–91. Lang, “Sigurd and Weland,” 90; Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture, p. 106; Kopár, Gods and Settlers, pp. 17–18. For further discussion, see Amanda Doviak, “What has Sigurd to do with Christ? ReAssessing the Nature of Anglo-Scandinavian Sculpture in the North of England,” in Peopling Insular Art: Practice, Performance, Perception. Proceedings of the Eighth International Insular Art Conference, ed. Cynthia Thickpenny, Katherine Forsyth, Jane Geddes and Kate Mathis (Oxford, 2020), pp. 167–77. Gregory the Great, Homily 29, ed./trans. David Hurst, Forty Gospel Homilies: Gregory the Great (Kalamazoo, MI, 1990), p. 227. Cynewulf, Christ II, trans. S.A.J. Bradley, Anglo-Saxon Poetry (1982; repr. London, 1995), pp. 219–20.

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Day Homily.11 At Leeds, the figural group on C seems to schematically depict this scene, with Weland substituted for Christ; the central figure representing Christ’s command to spread the Gospel; and Christ himself at the top of the cross-shaft,12 although represented without a cruciform halo, comparable to the Ilkley Christ in Majesty. Additionally, Christ II describes Christ as a bird during his ascension and emphasizes his divinity in this episode.13 The clearly defined wings of Weland’s flying machine seem to draw an additional parallel with the poetic reference to Christ as a bird, supplementing that implied by the arrangement of the two upper figures, which appear to reference Christ’s command to his apostles, as recorded both in Gregory’s Ascension Day Homily and Christ II.14 The account of the ascension offered in Christ II is compelling, when considering its close temporal relationship to the Leeds cross. The poem expounds on the ascension’s significance as a pivotal moment in the scriptural narrative, marking the critical juncture between Christ’s advent and second coming. It concludes with references to what humanity can expect at the eschaton, and the judgements and punishments Christ will subsequently distribute.15 While its format generally follows that of the scriptural accounts referencing the ascension, it additionally underscores Christ’s forthcoming judgement and the punishments to be distributed to the unfaithful. In this respect, it differs from Gregory’s homily, but these associations were well known. Indeed, Christ’s future judgment is referenced in Mark 16:16 immediately before his ascension, when he tells his disciples that those who believe and are baptized will be saved and not condemned,16 while in Acts 1:10–11, men in white garments inform the apostles that Christ will return in the manner in which he has just ascended.17 The account in Mark focusses on the methods that will enable salvation at Christ’s second coming; conversely, the Acts narrative concentrates on the mechanism of Christ’s return. These differing accounts are synthesized in Christ II. Yet, in its description of the specific retribution to be endured by the damned, this poetic narrative 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

George Hardin Brown, “The Ascent-Descent Motif in ‘Christ II’ of Cyneuwulf,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 73, no. 1 (1974), 1. See Doviak, “What has Sigurd to do with Christ?,” pp. 172–76. Cynewulf, Christ II, p. 223. See Doviak, “What has Sigurd to do with Christ?,” pp. 172–76. Cynewulf, Christ II, pp. 226–228. “qui crediderit et baptizatus fuerit salvus erit qui vero non crediderit condemnabitur.” “cumque intuerentur in caelum eunte illo ecce duo viri adstiterunt iuxta illos in vestibus albis. Qui et dixerunt viri galilaei quid statis aspicientes in caelum hic Iesus qui adsumptus est a vobis in caelum sic veniet quemadmodum vidistis eum euntem in caelum.”

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of the event gives primacy to the effects of Christ’s judgment, rather than his return.18 Here, expanding on themes of judgment and retribution in relation to the Ascension suggests that these themes attained greater significance at the time of the poem’s completion, with the ascension’s fulfilment necessary to facilitate Christ’s Second Coming. Moreover, the 10th-century Vercelli homilies XI–XIII and those composed by Ælfric for Rogationtide and Ascension ceremonies made explicit connections between Christ’s divinity, his ascension, and the subsequent ascent of the blessed at the eschaton,19 suggesting that these associations were familiar to contemporary audiences. The Leeds Weland motif can thus be understood to reflect contemporary beliefs surrounding Christ’s anticipated return as attested in contemporary poetic and homiletic texts. With this in mind, the figural imagery of the Leeds cross, referencing Christ’s ascension and anticipated second coming, expresses thematic continuity with earlier sculptural iconography, such as the apocalyptic imagery carved on the nearby Ilkley cross (Fig. 6.3a–b), whose figural programme consists of Christ in Majesty and zooanthropomorphic portraits of the four evangelists.20 The designers of the Leeds cross have articulated complex theological concerns through seemingly schematic figures, a task accomplished by incorporating a new Weland motif, likely imported by incoming Scandinavian populations (Fig. 6.2).

Weland the Smith

The narrative of the Weland legend is preserved in three textual sources, Deor, Völundarkviða, and Þiðrekssaga af Bern. The earliest of the three, Deor, was produced in Anglo-Saxon England and recorded in the Exeter book, dated to c.1000, providing it with close temporal and cultural proximity to the Leeds cross.21 This variant of the legend provides oblique references to the injustice Weland suffered at the hands of Niðhad while imprisoned by him, and the revenge Weland subsequently enacted upon Beadohild, Niðhad’s daughter.22 18 19 20 21 22

Cynewulf, Christ II, p. 227. M. Bradford Bedingfield, The Dramatic Liturgy of Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2002), pp. 200–208. Coatsworth, Western Yorkshire, pp. 167–69. Janet B.T. Christie, “Reflections on the Legend of Wayland the Smith,” Folklore 80, no. 4 (1969), 288. Deor, in The Exeter Book, ed. George Philip Krapp and Elliot van Kirk Dobbie (New York, 1936), p. 178; trans. Bradley, Anglo-Saxon Poetry, p. 364.

Adapting the Ascension

Figure 6.2 Leeds cross, Leeds Minster, Leeds, West Yorkshire. 10th century. Face C, detail: Weland panel

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a

b

Figure 6.3 Ilkley (1) cross, All Saints Church, Ilkley, West Yorkshire. Mid- to late 9th century: (a) Face A: Christ in Majesty; (b) Face C: eagle symbol, calf symbol, lion symbol, man symbol

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The indirect references to the characters’ plights assume the reader or listener of the poem possessed detailed familiarity with their circumstances. In turn, this suggests that the tales invoked by the speaker were well-known among contemporary audiences, enabling him to employ this technique. Despite the poem’s refrain of “that passed away, so may this” (Ƿæs ofereode, ƿisses swa mæg), the means of Weland and Beadohild’s triumph over adversity is not disclosed, likewise implying the listener’s assumed familiarity with the resolution of their sorrows.23 The refrain further underscores Weland and Beadohild’s victory over their miserable circumstances, emphasising individual triumph, rather than the injustices suffered by Weland and his subsequent revenge. Conversely, the two Old Norse versions of the legend preserved in Völundarkviða and Þiðrekssaga were written in the 12th and 13th centuries, respectively, and emerged from non-Insular (Icelandic and Norwegian) contexts.24 Although Völundarkviða lacks an Anglo-Scandinavian provenance and postdates the production of the Leeds cross by two centuries, it offers a more complete narrative of the Weland legend than Deor, and so is generally invoked in discussions of the Leeds figure. This poetic variant provides explicit details of Weland’s marriage to a swan maiden; his capture and imprisonment by King Niðhad and his wife; and the subsequent revenge he enacts on Niðhad’s children.25 Weland describes his revenge in detail while escaping, although the escape is only briefly alluded to in the line “laughing, Weland lifted himself to the sky” (Hlæiandi Völundr hófz at lopti), which is repeated twice, but excludes explicit details of how this activity was undertaken.26 That the smith’s escape is airborne is also implied by Niðhad’s complaints that no man is tall enough nor strong enough to reach Weland in the clouds, or to shoot him down.27 In opposition to the emphasis on Weland’s suffering and his eventual triumph in Deor, themes that would be entirely appropriate within a Christian cultural milieu, the variant preserved in Völundarkviða confers a more hostile tone upon the legend, explicitly recounting Weland’s acts of revenge and implicitly referencing his escape, which suggests that the overarching theme of this variant was vengeance. Apparently seeking to rationalize Weland’s escape, the third variant in Þiðrekssaga differs from the other two by including an episode

23 24 25 26 27

Deor, p. 178; trans. Bradley, Anglo-Saxon Poetry, p. 364. Christie, “Reflections on the Legend,” 288. Völundarkviða, ed. Ursula Dronke, The Poetic Edda (Oxford, 1997), 2:243–51. Völundarkviða, 2:251–54. Völundarkviða, 2:253.

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that recounts Weland creating a flying suit and using it to escape, with the assistance of his brother Egill, an archer.28 This version of the legend is frequently invoked in discussions of Scandinavian metalwork assumed to represent the smith in his flying contrivance.29 The possibility that these metalwork figures were potentially intended to depict other mythological or heroic figures should not be excluded, however, as similar instruments of flight are attested in other Old Norse texts. In Þrymskviða, for instance, the goddess Freyja is asked whether she will lend her flying-/ feather-suit (“Muntu mér, Freyja, fjaðrhams ljá?”), and Loki is described as flying, presumably with the assistance of the feather-suit, which whirred (“Fló þá Loki, fjaðhamr dunði”).30 Significantly, the same term, fjaðrham (flying-suit; feather suit) is used to designate Weland’s flying apparatus in Þiðrekssaga.31 This suggests that the term was applicable to objects owned by both legendary and mythological characters, and that it was potentially an established literary convention. The application of the term to legendary and mythological figures may also indicate that there were shared iconographic conventions that were deemed acceptable for depicting either mythological or legendary figures in flying contrivances, which may help explain the apparently deliberately ambiguous appearance of some visual representations. Although applying these later written accounts to the 10th-century carvings at Leeds is problematic due to potential influences from other sources and possible regional variations of the tale, the discrepancy is mitigated by evidence for the legend’s circulation during the Anglian period in England. The front panel of the Franks Casket, a whale bone box believed to have been produced in Northumbria c.700, depicts narrative scenes from the Weland legend and the New Testament account of the Adoration of the Magi, identifiable by their runic inscriptions.32 The pairing has been interpreted variously as presenting messages of redemption and exile; revenge and judgement; and good and bad 28 29

30 31 32

Þiðrekssaga af Bern, ed. Guðni Jónsson (Reykjavik, 1954), 2:112–15; trans. Edward R. Haymes, The Saga of Thidrek of Bern, Garland Library of Medieval Literature 58 (New York, 1988), pp. 53–54. Michaela Helmbrecht, “A Winged Figure from Uppåkra,” Fornvännen 107, no. 3 (2012), 176– 77; Torun Zachrisson, “Volund was Here: A Myth Archaeologically Anchored in Viking Age Scania,” in Old Norse Mythology: Comparative Perspectives, ed. Pernille Hermann, Stephen A. Mitchell, Jens Peter Schjødt, and Amber J. Rose (Cambridge, MA, 2017), pp. 142, 148–52. Þrymskviða, lines 11, 16, ed. Anthony Faulkes, A New Introduction to Old Norse, 3 parts, 5th ed. (Exeter, 2011), 2:138. Þiðrekssaga, pp. 112–13. Leslie Webster and Janet Backhouse, eds., The Making of England: Anglo-Saxon Art and Culture (London, 1991), pp. 101–103.

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rulership.33 With the poem Deor, the casket provides an antecedent for this legendary subject-matter in northern England, establishing its circulation before Scandinavian settlement in the mid-9th century. This demonstrates that the narrative was well-known prior to the 12th or 13th century and could be applied to Christian artistic contexts, where Christian tradition and Germanic legend could be integrated to inspire contemplative readings of narrative scenes that may not initially appear closely related.34

Anglian Iconographic Models

While analyses of the Leeds cross tend to focus on its Scandinavian visual influences, most of its imagery appears to emerge from earlier Anglian traditions of carving frontal ecclesiastical figures within clearly defined panels. It is considered to belong to a series of models along the Wharfe valley – at Otley, Ilkley and Collingham – with the implication that sculpture from these sites demonstrates the transition to a Scandinavian phase of carving in Yorkshire, evinced in the plant-scrolls and dished haloes of the figures.35 Bailey, recognizing the Anglian origins of these features, proposed that their appearance on monuments from the four sites was potentially facilitated by Roman roads running through the Wharfe valley.36 These similarities suggest a possible transmission of design templates, carving equipment, or even craftsmen between the sites, a notion further supported by their close proximity: the relatively short distances of no more than 20 miles (32.19 km) between any of them would enable uncomplicated travel along the River Wharfe, regardless of whether Roman roads were utilized. The relationship of the Leeds figures to others in the valley is most clearly demonstrated by an ecclesiastical figure carved on Face A of a mid- to late 9thcentury cross-shaft fragment from Ilkley (Fig. 6.4).37 This frontal, three-quarter length figure’s curled halo is the common link between Ilkley and Leeds: at Leeds, it is found on the ecclesiastical figure on A, the nimbed figure at the 33

34 35 36 37

Leslie Webster, “The Iconographic Programme of the Franks Casket,” in Hawkes and Mills, Northumbria’s Golden Age, pp. 232–33; James Lang, “The Imagery of the Franks Casket: Another Approach,” in Hawkes and Mills, Northumbria’s Golden Age, pp. 251–52; Richard Abels, “What Has Weland to do with Christ? The Franks Casket and the Acculturation of Christianity in Early Anglo-Saxon England,” Speculum 84, no. 3 (2009), 550–51. Webster, “Iconographic Programme,” pp. 229–30. Lang, “Continuity and Innovation,” p. 146; Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture, p. 77. Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture, pp. 77–79, 189. Coatsworth, Western Yorkshire, pp. 171–72.

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Figure 6.4 Ilkley (3) cross-shaft fragment, All Saints Church, Ilkley, West Yorkshire. Mid to late 9th century. Face A detail, lower panel: nimbed figure.

top of C, and the figure below it holding the book. The curled halo developed at Ilkley and replicated at Leeds provides the three Leeds figures with a sense of unity, differentiating them from the two secular figures in the lower panels of A and C. Significantly, that at the top of C combines curling hair with a dished nimbus, an attribute of the Ilkley figure, suggesting those responsible for the Leeds cross were familiar with earlier Anglian iconographic traditions. While it would be unreasonable to suggest that the Leeds figures are direct descendants of those at Ilkley, their stylistic similarities nevertheless imply a connection between the locations, which is further supported by the analogous plant-scrolls carved on monuments from each site. Likewise, an interlace panel on A at Leeds has earlier Anglian origins, with distortions to its pattern indicating the use of templates.38 The corresponding vine-scrolls, figural imagery, and interlace motifs at Leeds and Ilkley strongly suggest a link between the two sites that would facilitate the transmission of theological concepts, iconographic models, and possibly individual sculptors. 38

Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture, p. 180; Coatsworth, Western Yorkshire, p. 201.

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The Roman roads linking these Wharfe valley sites may indeed explain the formal stylistic and theological relationships of the Ilkley and Leeds designs. The archbishop of York’s estate at Otley also encompassed Ilkley, and included the area along the River Wharfe and on both sides of Roman road 72.39 This divided into another branch, 729, leading south and connecting Ilkley with York and Addingham, where the Archbishop fled after the Scandinavian conquest of York.40 Roman road 712, beginning in Manchester and passing through Leeds, likely continued northeast to join roads 72 or 729, and would eventually reach Ilkley, implying that the sites were potentially accessible via these routes.41 This is a significant factor when considering the visual and theological connections between the monuments carved at both sites, with the Roman road network providing a traversable route between them, potentially facilitating the transmission of iconographic models and theological concerns. Yet, if the roads linking the sites were not utilized, the maximum distance of 18 miles (29 km) between Leeds and Ilkley would not preclude such exchanges. The figural iconography of the Leeds cross thus appears to emerge from a context reliant on earlier Anglian carving traditions, while incorporating a new motif potentially imported from Scandinavia to draw parallels between seemingly dissimilar Christian and heroic legendary narratives, which together anticipated Christ’s second coming.

Scandinavian Iconographic Models

Beyond Insular contexts, the most comparable sculptural depiction of Weland the smith’s flight to that at Leeds is preserved on the Gotlandic picture-stone Ardre VIII, previously dated by Sune Lindqvist to the 8th century, and included 39

40

41

Ian N. Wood, “Anglo-Saxon Otley: An Archiepiscopal Estate and its Crosses in a Northumbrian Context,” Northern History 23 (1987), 20–23; Elizabeth Coatsworth, “The Cross in the West Riding of Yorkshire,” in Catherine E. Karkov, Sarah Larratt Keefer and Karen Louise Jolly, eds., The Place of the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2006) p. 17; Ivan D. Margary, North of the Foss Way-Bristol Channel, Roman Roads in Britain 2 (London, 1955), pp. 104–106. The numbers of the Roman roads correspond to those assigned by Margary in the Roman Roads in Britain series, and are still in use by the Roman Roads Research Association. Margary, North of the Foss, pp. 104–105, 134; Wood, “Anglo-Saxon Otley,” 23; Symeon of Durham, Incipit epistola Simeonis monachi ecclesiae Sancti Cuthberti Dunelmi ad Hugonem decanum Eboracensem de archiepiscopis Eboraci, ed. Thomas Arnold, Symeonis monachi opera omnia, 1, Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores 75 (1882, repr. Kamenz, 1965), p. 225. Margary, North of the Foss, p. 99.

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Figure 6.5 Ardre VIII picture-stone, detail: Weland scene. c.800–1099

among his Group C and D stones.42 The motif is found on the lower third of the stone (Fig. 6.5), accompanied by other diagnostic iconographic details, including the forge and two headless bodies, recalling a more complete visual representation of the Weland narrative. Unlike the composition at Leeds, however, these carvings lack sufficient details to indicate how the smith obtained his wings. On the understanding that the stone was dated to the 8th century, Lang recognized the analogous compositions at Ardre and Leeds, but argued that the Ardre scheme’s earlier date minimized the temporal gap between the figure depicted on the Franks casket, and that of the 10th-century Leeds cross.43 The two analogous schemes imply that there was a known and accepted iconography for the episode, which may have arrived with Scandinavian settlers on perishable media, such as textiles or wood.44 Bailey, likewise assuming the Gotlandic carvings to be of 8th-century date, claimed that although 42

43 44

Per Widerström, “Sune Lindqvist’s Categorization of Picture Stones,” in Karnell, Gotland’s Picture Stones, p. 11; Lisbeth M. Imer, “The Viking Period Gotlandic Picture Stones. A Chronological Reivison,” in Karnell, Gotland’s Picture Stones, p. 115; Sigmund Oehrl, Die Bildsteine Gotlands: Probleme und Neue Wege ihrer Dokumentation, Lesung und Deutung (Friedberg, 2019), 1:14. Lang, “Sigurd and Weland,” p. 91. Bailey, Viking Age Sculpture, p. 106.

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they represent the only stone sculpture from pre-Viking Scandinavia, the similarities between these and the English carvings do not imply a direct connection between the two regions, because the Gotlanders migrated eastwards, rather than west toward Britain and Ireland.45 Nevertheless, the monuments’ shared iconographic details have considerable implications for both modern and contemporary early medieval understandings of the transmission of visual languages, their translation into or between different cultural contexts, and the intended symbolic significance(s) that may have arisen as a result of these phenomena. In a more recent analysis of the Ardre scheme, for example, Lilla Kopár focussed on the literary variant being represented, rather than the images themselves. This enabled her to argue that it represents a pre-Christian version of the myth that emphasized the smith’s supernatural, transformative powers, an element she believes would have been unfamiliar to, or rationalized by, Anglo-Scandinavian audiences in the Northern Danelaw.46 While such a version of the tale might have existed, neither the literary nor visual evidence appear to support a supernatural metamorphosis of the smith: the variant recorded in Deor makes no explicit references to the method of Weland’s escape, and descriptions of his flight in Völundarkviða are equally vague. Only Þiðrekssaga provides an explanatory account of the smith’s flight, but this appears to represent a rationalized version of the event, with the smith constructing a flying machine. Furthermore, the Ardre carving lacks enough detail to confirm a magical variation of the tale existed, and other, more detailed representations of the escape, including that at Leeds, show the smith escaping by means of a manufactured device. Another fundamental difference between the Leeds and Ardre schemes is that the Ardre carving depicts the winged figure within a clear sequential narrative, an aspect absent from the Leeds depiction. New archaeological evidence has come to light, however, which may provide an alternative approach to the Weland iconography shared by the Leeds and Ardre monuments that is less reliant on the textual sources for confirming or rejecting details of the visual representations, but can inform the study of their iconographic import in other ways. The chronology of the Gotlandic picture-stones’ production has recently been reassessed, resulting in revisions to the dating of several stones, particularly those in Lindqvist’s Groups C and D (which includes Ardre VIII).47 Lisbeth Imer has argued that the picture-stones 45 46 47

Ibid., p. 76. Kopár, Gods and Settlers, pp. 20–21. For full discussions of the picture-stones’ dating, see Lisbeth Imer, “Gotlandske billedsten– dateringen af Lindqvists Gruppe C og D,” Aarbøger for nordisk oldkyndighed og

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in Lindqvist’s Groups C and D are dateable on stylistic and typological grounds to the 9th and 10th centuries (rather than the 8th), and the differences between the groups are not chronological, but regional.48 This chronological revision thus places the production of the Ardre picture-stone in the 9th to 10th centuries, which consequently impacts our understanding of it as a visual counterpart for the Weland scheme at Leeds. It suggests the possibility, for instance, that the Ardre carvings were approximately coeval with those at Leeds, further diminishing the temporal gap between the 8th-century Weland depiction on the Franks Casket and the 10th-century one at Leeds. Rather than forming a precedent for the Leeds motif, this indicates that the smith’s flight may have been concurrently produced in the medium of stone in Scandinavia and the Northern Danelaw, supporting the notion that the motif was potentially translated to this medium from a portable one. Moreover, this suggests that the motif was deemed acceptable for public display in both of these cultural contexts, with its translation to a monumental Christian stone sculpture at Leeds instilling it with new theological significance(s). While the Ardre composition confirms the motif’s potentially coeval existence in the same medium (albeit in different cultural contexts) and its introduction into the Anglo-Scandinavian pictorial repertoire, it does not function in the same manner as the conceptual rendition of the motif portrayed at Leeds. Although Bailey acknowledged the potential introduction of motifs into the Northern Danelaw on textiles and wood, he placed less emphasis on an equally portable medium: metal. With further archaeological excavations conducted since the 1980 publication of his monograph, the influence of this medium for the translation of the winged smith motif to stone should be reconsidered, particularly in the light of the 2011 discovery of a gilded copper alloy mount at Uppåkra, Sweden (Plate 6.1), dated stylistically to the mid- to late 10th century.49 It offers a convincing visual parallel for the Leeds motif, and features a human figure, viewed from above, and attached to a pair of wings and tail through bindings at the shoulders and legs, with a strap across his back forming a harness. The placement and detail of the bindings on the mount differ from those on the Leeds cross, but the two models share the same general arrangement.

48 49

historie (2004), 47–111; Imer, “Viking Period Gotlandic Picture Stones,” pp. 115–18; Oehrl, Die Bildsteine Gotlands, 1:17–21. Imer, “Viking Period Gotlandic Picture Stones,” pp. 117–18; Oehrl, Die Bildsteine Gotlands, 1:20–21. Helmbrecht, “Winged Figure,” pp. 171, 175.

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Copper-alloy mount from Uppåkra, winged man. Mid- to late 10th century

Michaela Helmbrecht compared the mount to two contemporary pieces: a pendant from Tissø, Denmark and a mid-10th-century sword scabbard chape from Birka, Sweden, but discussed none in relation to the Leeds cross.50 Of these, the pendant from Tissø more closely resembles the Uppåkra mount, and ultimately, the Leeds carving, with its figure shown from an aerial viewpoint, and attached to a pair of wings and tail through a series of bindings. Yet, unlike the Leeds and Uppåkra schemes, that from Tissø replaces the human head with that of a stylized bird, rotated 180° to be seen frontally. The second piece from Birka shows an analogous winged figure holding an unidentifiable object horizontally above his head. Despite slight variations, it is clear that the motif of figure and flying apparatus was circulating in Scandinavia in portable media concurrently with the erection of the Leeds cross, and the production of the Ardre stone. Kopár, however, observed an obvious difference between the portable depictions of the smith and that at Leeds: the absence of the woman. As with the Ardre depiction, this led her to focus on the literary variant being represented, arguing that it is uncertain whether the mount’s figure represents a different version of the Weland myth, or indeed a different character altogether.51 50 51

Ibid., p. 174. Kopár, Gods and Settlers, pp. 16–17.

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Helmbrecht likewise pursued literary connections, acknowledging that the Uppåkra mount may belong to a wider Viking-age perception of bird disguises and transformations that proliferate in Old Norse literature, but ultimately interpreted the figure as Weland on the basis that the unobtrusive row of droplets beneath the left wing references the episode recorded in Þiðrekssaga, where Niðhad commands Egill to shoot Weland down.52 Taking this association further, Torun Zachrisson claimed that the variant of the legend preserved in Þiðrekssaga originated in Skåne, the region of Sweden where the Uppåkra mount was discovered.53 Although the episode in Þiðrekssaga may appear to conform to the Uppåkra figure, its absence from the much earlier variants in Deor and Völundarkviða must be taken into account. Additionally, the row of droplets is found in the same area as two horizontal lines crossing the right wing, and the possibility that the droplets arose from an error in the casting process cannot be excluded. Given the re-dating of the Ardre stone, its relationship to the Leeds cross, the implied transmission or translation of visual languages between areas of Scandinavian settlement in the 9th and 10th centuries, and the impact these factors may have had on early medieval perceptions of the motifs, the motif of the winged figure depicted on the Uppåkra mount should perhaps be recontextualized in a manner that places less emphasis on identifying it with particular legendary characters or episodes. These various literary discrepancies notwithstanding, the proliferation of the winged figure motif in metalwork from multiple Scandinavian regions and its presence on the Ardre stone attest that it was an iconography wellestablished in the Scandinavian visual repertoire, and was produced in multiple media and locales during the 10th century. The metalwork pieces provide a potential mechanism for the image’s introduction into the Northern Danelaw, and its translation from metal to stone has further implications for how it would be viewed and understood. Metalwork mounts, such as that from Uppåkra, would have been personal objects, worn or carried by their owners with their minute details only noticeable on close inspection of the piece, something generally limited to the owner or carrier, unless another was invited to view it. Transferring such an image to a stone cross, a public monument, increases its size and accessibility, widens its potential audience, and instils the scene with additional meanings, which could vary from each viewer to the next, in contrast to the exclusively limited personal associations and beliefs held by the wearer or bearer of a small metal object. Although somewhat ambiguous, the Scandinavian metalwork pieces provide explicit evidence that the winged 52 53

Helmbrecht, “Winged Figure,” pp. 176–77. Zachrisson, “Volund Was Here,” pp. 147–55.

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figure motif was circulating in a portable medium, which was potentially used to transmit the scheme to sculpture carved in the Northern Danelaw. Here, the winged figure motif was deliberately selected for inclusion in the iconographic programme of the Leeds cross, enabling it to accrue new Christian symbolic significances that expressed complex ideas surrounding the ascension, and its relationship to the last judgement. Summary The figural iconography of the Leeds cross therefore relies on earlier Anglian traditions, combining this visual language with motifs likely imported from Scandinavia to produce an iconographic programme that functioned like those of earlier Anglian monuments, enabling parallels to be drawn between seemingly dissimilar narratives. The use of schematic figures on the Leeds cross to express complex theological concerns encompassing the ascension resembles the Christ in Majesty and evangelist portraits carved on the Ilkley cross, which supply eschatological commentary. Like the designers of the Franks Casket and Ilkley cross, those responsible for the Leeds cross assumed viewers’ familiarity with certain narratives, expressed through conceptual motifs, and their abilities to contemplate connections between the individual motifs and the ideas they subsequently articulated. Rather than illustrating the complete erosion of Anglian religious artistic networks and their associated traditions, the Viking-age cross produced at Leeds expresses continuity with these earlier iconographic, exegetical, and homiletic traditions, while simultaneously re-interpreting and altering them. This was achieved by integrating a Scandinavian iconographic model with Anglian elements, derived from earlier Wharfe valley monuments, most notably those at Ilkley. The introduction of this conceptual motif representing Weland the smith, and its translation from portable, perishable media to a new, public, and monumental form increases the scope of its audience and imparts it with new meanings. Moreover, the (re)introduction of this figure into a Christian context modifies its symbolic significance, as well as that of the ecclesiastical and saintly figures it accompanies. A holistic reading of the iconographic programme at Leeds demonstrates that this motif was integrated into a Christian context to comment on Christ’s ascension, thereby maintaining earlier Anglian iconographic traditions related to Christ’s second coming. As the final major event in Christ’s earthly life, the monumental presentation of the ascension would enable the viewer to contemplate the theological significance of this moment, and the eschatological events it precedes. The combination of visual

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languages on the Leeds cross thus resulted in an iconographic programme presenting Christian theology in an unconventional manner by employing a motif emerging from recently established artistic networks generated by the arrival and settlement of Scandinavians in the late 9th century. Bibliography Abels, Richard, “What Has Weland to do with Christ? The Franks Casket and the Acculturation of Christianity in Early Anglo-Saxon England,” Speculum 84, no. 3 (2009), 549–81. Arnold, Thomas, ed., Symeonis monachi opera omnia, Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores 75, 2 vols (1882–85, repr. Kamenz, 1965). Bailey, Richard N., “The Chronology of Viking-Age Sculpture in Northumbria,” in Lang, Anglo-Saxon and Viking Age Sculpture, pp. 173–204. Bailey, Richard N., Viking Age Sculpture in the North of England (London, 1980). Bedingfield, M. Bradford, The Dramatic Liturgy of Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2002). Bradley, S.A.J., ed./trans., Anglo-Saxon Poetry (1982; repr. London, 1995). Brown, George Hardin, “The Ascent-Descent Motif in ‘Christ II’ of Cyneuwulf,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 73, no. 1 (1974), 1–12. Browne, George Forrest, “The Ancient Sculptured Shaft in the Parish Church at Leeds,” JBAA 41, no. 2 (1885), 131–43. Christie, Janet B.T., “Reflections on the Legend of Wayland the Smith,” Folklore 80, no. 4 (1969), 286–94. Coatsworth, Elizabeth, “The Cross in the West Riding of Yorkshire,” in The Place of the Cross in Anglo-Saxon England, ed. Catherine E. Karkov, Sarah Larratt Keefer and Karen Louise Jolly (Woodbridge, 2006) pp. 14–28. Coatsworth, Elizabeth, Western Yorkshire, CASSS 8 (Oxford, 2008). Cramp, Rosemary, “The Anglian Tradition in the Ninth Century,” in Lang, Anglo-Saxon and Viking Age Sculpture, pp. 1–32. Cramp, Rosemary, “Tradition and Innovation in English Stone Sculpture of the Tenth to Eleventh Centuries,” in Studies in Anglo-Saxon Sculpture, ed. Rosemary Cramp (London, 1992), pp. 79–94. Doviak, Amanda, “What has Sigurd to do with Christ? Re-Assessing the Nature of Anglo-Scandinavian Sculpture in the North of England,” in Peopling Insular Art: Practice, Performance, Perception. Proceedings of the Eighth International Insular Art Conference, ed. Cynthia Thickpenny, Katherine Forsyth, Jane Geddes and Kate Mathis (Oxford, 2020), pp. 167–77.

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Dronke, Ursula, ed., The Poetic Edda, 3 vols (Oxford, 1997). Faulkes, Anthony, ed., A New Introduction to Old Norse, 3 parts, 5th ed. (Exeter, 2011). Hawkes, Jane, and Susan Mills, eds., Northumbria’s Golden Age (Stroud, 1999). Haymes, Edward R., ed./trans., The Saga of Thidrek of Bern, Garland Library of Medieval Literature 58 (New York, 1988). Helmbrecht, Michaela, “A Winged Figure from Uppåkra,” Fornvännen 107, no. 3 (2012), 171–78. Hurst, David, ed./trans., Forty Gospel Homilies: Gregory the Great (Kalamazoo, MI, 1990). Imer, Lisbeth M., “Gotlandske billedsten–dateringen af Lindqvists Gruppe C og D,” Aarbøger for nordisk oldkyndighed og historie (2004), 47–111. Imer, Lisbeth M., “The Viking Period Gotlandic Picture Stones. A Chronological Reivison,” in Karnell, Gotland’s Picture Stones, pp. 115–18. Jónsson, Guðni, ed., Þiðrekssaga af Bern, 2 vols (Reykjavik, 1954). Karnell, Maria Herlin, ed., Gotland’s Picture Stones: Bearers of an Enigmatic Legacy (Visby, 2012). Kopár, Lilla, Gods and Settlers: The Iconography of Norse Mythology in AngloScandinavian Sculpture (Turnhout, 2012). Krapp, George Philip, and Elliot van Kirk Dobbie, eds., The Exeter Book (New York, 1936). Lang, James T., “Sigurd and Weland in Pre-Conquest Carving from Northern England,” Yorkshire Archaeological Journal 48 (1976), 83–94. Lang, James T., ed., Anglo-Saxon and Viking Age Sculpture and its Context: Papers from the Collingwood Symposium on Insular Sculpture from 800 to 1066, BAR British Series 49 (London, 1978). Lang, James T., “Continuity and Innovation in Anglo-Scandinavian Sculpture: A Study of the Metropolitan School at York,” in Lang, Anglo-Saxon and Viking Age Sculpture, pp. 145–72. Lang, James T., “The Imagery of the Franks Casket: Another Approach,” in Hawkes and Mills, Northumbria’s Golden Age, pp. 247–55. Margary, Ivan D., North of the Foss Way-Bristol Channel, Roman Roads in Britain 2 (London, 1955). Oehrl, Sigmund, Die Bildsteine Gotlands: Probleme und Neue Wege ihrer Dokumentation, Lesung und Deutung, 2 vols (Friedberg, 2019). Webster, Leslie, “The Iconographic Programme of the Franks Casket,” in Hawkes and Mills, Northumbria’s Golden Age, pp. 227–46. Webster, Leslie, and Janet Backhouse, eds., The Making of England: Anglo-Saxon Art and Culture (London, 1991).

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Widerström, Per, “Sune Lindqvist’s Categorization of Picture Stones,” in Karnell, Gotland’s Picture Stones, pp. 10–12. Wood, Ian N., “Anglo-Saxon Otley: An Archiepiscopal Estate and its Crosses in a Northumbrian Context,” Northern History 23 (1987), 20–38. Zachrisson, Torun, “Volund was Here: A Myth Archaeologically Anchored in Viking Age Scania,” in Old Norse Mythology: Comparative Perspectives, ed. Pernille Hermann, Stephen A. Mitchell, Jens Peter Schjødt, and Amber J. Rose (Cambridge, MA, 2017), pp. 139–62.

Chapter 7

Transmitting Sacred Authority through Stone: The Clematius Inscription and Cologne’s Cult of the Holy Virgins Cher Casey Introduction The Clematius Inscription (Fig. 7.1), mounted within the chancel of the Holy Virgins’ Church in Cologne, Germany, holds great importance for the martyrs’ cult.1 Dating to the late 4th or early 5th century, this stone is hailed by some as the oldest textual evidence associated with Cologne’s famed (and largely legendary) saints – that is, the 11,000 virgins that followed St Ursula on a pilgrimage from England to Rome.2 On their journey home, the women were martyred in Cologne by a malicious foreign army who had seized the city. Following their deaths, these virgins transformed into a sacred army, defended the city, and thus secured their title as Cologne’s civic patrons – an honour they retain to this day. The 11,000 virgins is a cult of epic proportions; not only does it boast the largest head count of any Christian martyred group, but from the 12th century onwards it possessed the bodily relics, the physical ‘proof’ to support the cult’s lofty claims.3 These sacred bones quickly saturated Cologne and the Rhineland 1 Beginning in the mid-seventeenth century this church became known as the Church of St Ursula. Here, it will be referred to by its medieval name. 2 Wilhelm Levison, “Das Werden der Ursula-Legende,” Bonner Jahrbücher 132 (1927), 3; Joseph Klinkenberg, “Studien zur Geschichte der Kölner Märterinnen,” Bonner Jahrbücher 89 (1890), 105–13; E.A. Stückelberg, in “Die Clematianische Inschrift eine Fälschung,” Basler Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Altertumskunde 20 (1922), 368–71, suggests that the stone was a 12thcentury forgery used to authenticate the Holy Virgins. Most scholars dispute this theory accepting that the stone dates to the late antique period. 3 The bones believed to belong to Cologne’s Holy Virgins were excavated from the agar Ursulanus, a Roman cemetery in Niederich near to the Church of the Holy Virgins, beginning in 1106. Elsewhere, I have explored the freestanding textile skull reliquaries, including their sacred, material, ornamental, historical, and anatomical aspects: Cher Casey, “Stitching Sanctity and Sculpting Bones: The Materiality of Cologne’s 11,000 Holy Virgins and their Textile Skull Reliquaries”, 2 vols (PhD thesis, University of York, 2021). The works of Anton Legner are notable for drawing attending to the virgins’ many textile reliquaries: Anton

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a

b Figure 7.1 The Clematius stone: (a) The inscription, c. early 5th century. South wall of the choir, Church of the Holy Virgins, Cologne, Germany. Limestone. 49–51 cm × 71 cm × 10 cm; (b) Detail of surface

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before being disseminated widely across Europe.4 Naturally the fervent veneration of Cologne’s virgin martyrs followed. Many individuals and groups participated in the cult’s development, legitimization, and promotion – the ebb and flow of which lasted between the 10th and 12th centuries, and was reignited by the Jesuits in the mid-17th century.5 From the Holy Virgins’ early Christian cult origins, and throughout subsequent centuries, the Clematius Stone has remained a central element. Although a puzzling object, it caught the attention of scholars as early as the 17th century, who were primarily concerned with dating the inscription, and so situating the Legner, “Kölnische Hagiophilie. Die Domreliquienschränke und ihre Nachfolgeschaft in kölner Kirchen,” Kölner Domblatt 51 (1986), 195–274; Anton Legner, “Vom Glanz und vor der Präsenz des Heiltums – Bilder und Texte,” in Reliquien: Verherung und Verklärung, Skizzen und Noten zur Thematik und Katalog Austellung der Kölner Sammlung Louis Peters im Schnütgen Museum, ed. Anton Legner (Cologne, 1989), pp. 22–148; Anton Legner, Kölner Heilige und Heiligtümer. ein Jarhtausend europäischer Reliquienkultur (Cologne, 2003); Gudrun Strake-Sporbeck recently investigated the skull reliquaries from St Gereon in Cologne, and has revealed many similarities to skulls of the Holy Virgins: Gudrun Strake-Sporbeck, “Et aliorum plurimorum sanctorum reliquie, Textilie Ausstattung und Religuienfassung im Stift St. Gereon,” Colonia Romanica 31, Die kostbaren Hüllen der Heiligen – Textile Schätze aus Kölner Reliquienschreinen Neue Funde und Forschungen (2016), 97–112. Apart from these few, most scholars have investigated the figural wooden bust reliquaries: e.g., Oscar Karpa, Kölnische Reliquienbüsten der gotischen Zeit aus dem Ursulakreis 1, Rheinische Verein für Denkmalpflege und Heimatschutz 27 (Düsseldorf, 1934); Ulrike Bergmann, “Kölner Bilderschnitzwerkstätten vom 11. bis zum Ausgehenden 14. Jahrhundert,” in Schnütgen Museum. Die Holzskulpturen des Mittelalters (1000–1400), Schnütgen-Musuem, ed. Ulrike Bergmann (Cologne, 1989), pp. 19–63; Ulrike Bergmann, “Die Gotischen Reliquienbüsten in St. Kunibert,” Colonia Romanica 7 (1992), 131–46; Ulrike Bergmann, “Eine Kölnische Ursulabüste im Dom,” Kölner Domblatt 57 (1992), 305–309; Joan A. Holladay, “Relics, Reliquaries, and Religious Women: Visualizing the Holy Virgins of Cologne,” Studies in Iconography 18 (1997), 67–118; Scott Montgomery, St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologne – Relics, Reliquaries, and the Visual Culture of Group Sanctity in Late Medieval Europe (Bern, 2010); Regina Urbanek, Die Goldene Kammer von St. Ursula in Köln: zu Gestalt und Ausstattung vom Mittelalter bis zum Barock (Worms, 2010). 4 Frank Günter Zehnder, Sankt Ursula: Legende, Verehrung, Bilderwelt (Cologne, 1985), pp. 83–94; Reinhild Stephan-Maaser, “Jungfrauen auf Reisen. Reliquienhandel und Translationen Entlang der Strecke Brügge – Novgorod,” in Transit Brügge – Novgorod. Eine Straße der Europäischen Geschichte Austellung Katalog Ruhrlandmusuem Essen, ed. Ferdinand Seibt (Essen, 1997), pp. 216–23; Legner, Kölner Heilige und Heiligtüme, pp. 266–400; Montgomery, St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins, pp. 83–98, 137–64; Janusz Nowiński, “Prezentacja Tkaniny Herbowej z Ladu z XIII w. Oraz Thanin Dekorujacych Relikwie Glów Towarzyszek Św. Urszuli w Zamku Królewskim w Warszawie,” Builetyn Historii Sztuki 2 (2014), 303–10. 5 Anton Legner, “Reliquenpräsenz und Wanddekoration,” in Die Jesuitenkirche St. Mariae Himmelfahrt in Köln, ed. Udo Mainzer, Beiträge zu den Bau- und Kunstdenkmälern im Rheinland 28 (Düsseldorf, 1982), pp. 269–96; Urbanek, Die Goldene Kammer von St. Ursula in Köln, pp. 88–124.

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Holy Virgins within the history of early Rhineland Christianity.6 By contrast, this discussion explores the stone’s authority and its potency as a transmitter of sacred ‘information’ during the medieval period. It will be argued that the stone amassed power through a myriad of factors, including its textual content and composition, the materiality of etched stone, and its physical relationship to its natural and built environment. With its established authority, the stone was then employed to authenticate and legitimize the Holy Virgins in the mid12th century, a particularly arduous period during which the cult’s survival was threatened.

The Inscription of the Clematius Stone

Situated between two pillars in the south choir wall of the cult’s titular church in Cologne (Fig. 7.3), the inscription reads (Fig. 7.1a): Frequently admonished by divine visions of flames and by virtue of the most majestic heavenly martyred virgins, the virtuous Clematius coming from the East, in fulfilment of a vow, restored this basilica on his land from the foundation up. It should be known that if the body of anyone other than the holy virgins is deposited in the majestic basilica, built on the site where the holy virgins spilled their blood in the name of Christ, he will be punished by eternal hellfire.7 Compositionally, it reads in a chiasmus flow with parallel phrasing. The verse opens and closes with mentions of fire, first as elements of visions that urged Clematius to construct the church, then as a punishment to those who dishonour the virgins. The theme of martyrdom is also situated in mirroring phrases, initially to identify the virgins as martyrs, followed by the corporal reality of their deaths: their blood which saturated the earth below. The middle of the 6 For a comprehensive synopsis of the scholarly debates surrounding the Clematius inscription, see Joseph Kremer, “Studien zum Frühen Christentum in Niedergermanien” (PhD diss., Rheinischen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Bonn, 1993), pp. 153–84. 7 “Divinis flammeis visionib(us) frequenter admonit(us) et virtutis magnae maiiestatis martyrii caelestium virgin(um) imminentium ex partib(us) orientis exsibitus pro voto Clematius v(ir) c(larissimus) de proprio in loco suo hanc basilicam voto quod debebat a fundamentis restituit. Si quis autem super tantam maiiestatem huiius basilicae, ubi sanctae virgines pro nominee XPI sanguinem suum fuderunt, corpus alicuiius deposuerit exceptis virginib(us), sciat se sempiternis tartari ignib(us) puniendum.” Trans. Montgomery, St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins, p. 10.

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text highlights Clematius’ church construction, within which the epigraph now stands. The structure is mentioned again as the physical marker and commemorative donation for the virgins’ sacrifice. The warning against mixing ‘foreign’ bones with those of the virgins also identified the presence of the virgin’s relics at this site – the mention of which is the inscription’s cradled core. The epigraph provides a surprising amount of information, considering this is the cult’s first-known textual source. It introduces Clematius, a foreigner from the “orient” (orientis) who commissioned the re-construction of the virgins’ basilica situated on his property. The land beneath the church is acknowledged as marking the location of the group’s mass martyrdom. The stone also confirms the existence of an earlier church on the same site that was similarly dedicated to the martyrs. The second half of the text emphasizes the cult’s exclusivity, and establishes that contamination of these sacred relics with less holy bones is a punishable offense. As such, the stone can be understood to serve multiple functions: it documents the building’s construction, commemorates the patron, signposts the virgins’ martyrdom, and instructs on proper veneration. The earliest mention of the inscription is found in the Sermo in Natali (SS Virginum XI Millium),8 a feast day sermon delivered on 21 October 922. Mid-way through the sermon, when speaking about the martyred women, the author calls attention to the epigraph: “their memorials are preserved over there, carved/engraved in stone(s).”9 He then states that he feels “the words [of the stone] ought to be included [in this sermon]”, and proceeds to read the first two phrases of the inscription, concluding with the words “from the foundation up.”10 The text invoked in the sermon matches that found on the extant epigraph, confirming that this stone, or possibly an earlier inscription with the same text, existed in 922. It is significant that the author did not paraphrase the inscription. Instead he quoted it for the congregation, and by doing so, evoked the potency of these ‘ancient’ words. Reading the content activated the text, imbued the virgins’ narrative with authority, and made it relevant to the contemporary audience.

8

9 10

Sermo in Natali, 6–7; Latin transcription in Klinkenberg, “Studien [1890],” pp. 121–22; trans. Pamela Sheingorn and Marcelle Thiébaux, The Passion of Saint Ursula; and, The Sermon on the Birthday of Saint Ursula, Peregrina Translations Series, 2nd ed. (Toronto, 1996), pp. 49–51. “Cuius monumenta lapidibus istic servantur incisa.” Klinkenberg, “Studien [1890],” p. 121; trans. Cher Casey. “Operi verbis eisdem putavimus inserenda.” Klinkenbert, “Studien [1890],” p. 121; trans. Sheingorn and Thiébaux, The Passion, p. 50.

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The sermon also demonstrates that the Clematius inscription was understood to have provided textual and material proof of the virgins’ existence and martyrdom. By stating that “their memorials are preserved over there, carved/ engraved in stone(s),” the author of the sermon explicitly calls attention to the epigraph’s materiality as ideal for preserving the virgins’ memory. When discussing veneration of the Holy Virgins outside Cologne, primarily in their homeland of Britain, the Sermo stated: Indeed, in the midst of the most consistent evidence, they had fixed inscriptions (signorum) for the monuments, which in several places distinguished these saints, saints who are at the same time honoured and celebrated through their relics.11 This tradition – memorializing the virgins with inscriptions, as initiated by Clematius – has infiltrated areas far beyond Cologne. As a glorified signorum, the engraved Clematius stone can be understood as a visible ‘document,’ which embodied exceptional durability and permanence; the medium of the epigraph was employed precisely to serve as the authoritative method of record keeping and preservation. Inscribed stones held a privileged status as both an artefact and a textual account – a cultural tradition that experienced particular prestige in ancient Rome.12 The Clematius stone is an example of extraordinary craftsmanship; the remarkable depth of the incised letters, their uniformity, its evenly spaced words and lines, straight rows and immaculate alignment present a highly polished ‘document’ (Fig. 7.1b). An epigraph of this description required a lengthy planning process and the involvement of skilled hands. Compositions similar in nature to the Clematius inscription were usually the collective efforts of several individuals; the words and phrases were carefully selected, edited, and organized to fit the size and function of the cut and dressed stone. Only after completing these extensive preparatory steps would the incising of the letters begin. This labour-intensive process was thus only entrusted to scriptor titulorum – highly-trained stonemasons.13 Such attentive compositional planning 11 12 13

“Horum etiam medii convenientissimis hoc ipsum adstruunt signorum indiciis; apud quos pleraque loca sanctis his cernunter honorata simul et illustrata reliquiis.” Klinkenbert, “Studien [1890],” p. 122; trans. Sheingorn and Thiébaux, The Passion, p. 52. Alison Cooley, “The Afterlife of Inscriptions: Reusing, Rediscovering, Reinventing & Revitalizing Ancient Inscriptions,” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies. suppl. 75 (London, 2000), pp. 1–9. L.J.F. Keppie, Understanding Roman Inscriptions (London, 1991), pp. 13–15.

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and preparation ensured the inscriptions were not simply viewed as documentary records but that they possessed aesthetic value.14 The act of carving words into stone elevated and activated their content. The lengthy process of preparing and creating an epigraph expressed the message’s authority. Finally, mounting the stone within a wall ensured its content would be accessible for generations to come.

Contextualizing the Clematius Inscription

When compared with contemporary inscriptions, the Clematius stone gains agency both within the virgins’ cult and also as a participant in the wider visual and material culture of early Christian and medieval Europe. As explored by the German scholar Wilhelm Levison in the 1920s, the textual content of the Clematius stone displays words and phrases similar to other ‘official’ Rhineland inscriptions, both ancient and medieval.15 His findings identify this object as a local product, one that compositionally drew from, and conformed to, existing inscriptions, but might have also served as a model for future works. Within the broader framework, the cultural tradition of epigraphs, particularly those marking sites associated with martyrs, stems directly from early Christian Rome. One notable, and possibly near contemporary example, is the Damasus inscription (Fig. 7.2), now placed at the southwest entrance to the basilica of Sant’Agnese Fuori le Mura (Saint Agnes Outside the Walls) in Rome. This inscription, one of several epigraphs commissioned by Pope Damasus (r.366–384), recounts the miraculous events that occurred at the martyrdom of St Agnes – a young virgin of 12 or 13, who was publicly slain under Diocletian’s orders.16 Although larger in size than the Clematius stone, this epigraph was similarly executed with exceptional craftsmanship, a visual symbol that expresses the lofty prestige and cost with which it was created. The thick, deeply incised Roman capitals are ornamented with flaring serifs (Fig. 7.2b). Together with the black pigment added to the letters, this epigraph is both highly legible and visually impressive. 14 15 16

Ibid., p. 12. Levison, “Ursula-Legende,” pp. 11–21. Marianne Sághy, “Pope Damasus and the Beginnings of Roman Hagiography,” in Promoting the Saints: Cults and Their Contexts from Late Antiquity until the Early Modern Period, ed. Balázs Nagy, Marcell Sebők, Ottó Gecser, József Laszlovszky, Katalin Szende (New York, 2010), pp. 6–8.

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a

b Figure 7.2 Damasas Stone: (a) The inscription, c. late 4th century. Sant ‘Agnese fuori le mura, Rome. Marble; (b) Detail of surface

In addition to their visual similarities, these two epigraphs are united in marking the sacred sites associated with virgin martyrs. The basilica of Sant’Agnese was constructed on top of, or perhaps more precisely built into, a subterranean network of catacombs. The face of the hillside was carved out in order to make space for the structure and to situate the high altar in close proximity to the tomb of St Agnes. In much the same way that this site fuses the sacred burial ground with architecture (all of which are recorded in Damasus’ stone), so too does the Clematius stone mark a structure that was intrinsically and physically linked with the sacred soil below.

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Locating the Clematius Stone

Alongside the Clematius stone’s medium, its location within the church is also a feature worthy of investigation. Following the church’s expansion in the late 13th century, the inscription was mounted on the south wall of the choir directly beneath the eleventh glazed window (Fig. 7.3).17 It is important to bear in mind, however, that predating this placement the epigraph’s precise location within the church remains unknown. The Sermo’s author expressed familiarity with the stone and its contents, and even referenced the stone as “over there” (istic).18 This indicates that the stone is likely to have occupied an area within view of the speaker, and so might have stood in a location similar to that which it currently inhabits. Today, the stone is situated within the chancel occupying a position relative to the altar and the liturgical proceedings. It additionally shares the same sacred space as the stained glass, paintings, and wall decorations, as well as the shrines and relics.19 Those permitted to occupy the chancel – the clergy, female canons, and possibly pilgrims circulating the high altar20 – were therefore granted visual access to the stone. This select audience also included the Holy Virgins whose relics were encased within the altar, the wall niches, and in-between the choir’s double walls. The inscription’s position on the south wall additionally made the stone visible to the resident nuns who would have occupied the north gallery during mass.21 This location thus situates the stone as an active participant within this sacred environment: it bears witness to the proceedings that take place therein and continually presents its potent message to those within the space. The stone is architecturally framed between a thin engaged column to the left and a large cluster column to the right. It is fit with precision between these two structural agents, which might suggest that the stone’s dimensions were 17 18 19 20

21

Montgomery, St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins, p. 51. Latin source, see Klinkenberg, “Studien [1890],” p. 121. For more on the relationship between these relics and stained glass, see Scott Montgomery, “Sacra Conversatione: Dialogues between Reliquaries and Windows,” Journal of Glass Studies 56 (2014), 253–70. Klaus Militzer, “The Church of St Ursula in Cologne: Inscriptions and Excavations,” in Cartwright, The Cult of St Ursula, pp. 30–31; regarding access to the chancel, see Clemens Kosch, Kölns romanische Kirchen, Architektur und Liturgie im Hochmittelalter, 2nd ed. (Cologne, 2005), p. 80. Militzer, “The Church,” p. 30.

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Figure 7.3 Clematius stone in situ. South wall of choir, Church of the Holy Virgins, Cologne, Germany

taken into account when constructing its immediate area; yet, considering this particular measurement was replicated for the size of each bay within the chancel, it is possible that the stone played a larger role in determining the space’s standard of measurement. This object, which celebrates the ‘ancient’ renovated church, but was also believed to have originated during its construction, thus might have been seen as an active consultant in the construction of the expanded medieval church. In this regard, it is possible that the first church renovations, carried out by Clematius, were believed to have a continued symbolic importance within the architectural construction of the later medieval and contemporary, post-war reconstructions.22 As demonstrated by its location, display, and engagement with neighbouring elements, the stone can thus be understood as claiming multiple avenues of agency. Further investigation of its placement and legibility, however, reveal a notably more restricted viewing experience. Although the stone presents a clear Roman script that reveals evidence of red paint, a tactic to promote 22

For more on the symbolic importance of measurements in medieval architecture, especially the significance of copies of sacred structures, see Richard Krautheimer, “Introduction to an ‘Iconography of Mediaeval Architecture’,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 5 (1942), 1–33, esp. 12–13.

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legibility, several factors complicate the visual engagement and the actual viewing experience. The epigraph occupies an elevated placement on the wall, approximately 2 ft (61 cm) above eye-level, which requires viewers to stand within close proximity to read its contents. Moreover, from at least the 13th century, the thick column to the right of the stone has presented a physical barrier that obstructs the stone’s visibility to those outside the chancel – namely, those spectators standing in the nave. The ideal reading experience would have therefore required viewers to stand directly in front of the stone and raise their eyes. These factors indicate that not everyone, even within this restricted space, was intended to experience a ‘satisfying’ interaction with the inscription. The presence of the stone within the chancel might therefore have served a symbolic role – a well-known object that offered the potential for accessibility. Including excerpts from the stone’s inscription within a sermon, as demonstrated in the Sermo in Natali, would have, therefore, increased its accessibility to those who could not see and/or read the object themselves. The Ager Ursulanus and Its Tituli Following the Sermo in 922, the Clematius stone’s reputation as a transmitter of authority grew. Mention of the inscription, as well as the ‘historic’ figure of Clematius, appeared in both versions of the Virgins’ vitae – Passio I (969–76)23 and Passio II (c.1100) – which were composed in the late 10th and revised at the end of the 11th century.24 All of these notable textual mentions occurred before 1106 – a game-changing year for the cult. When expanding Cologne’s city walls, a large Roman cemetery was discovered northwest of the Church of the Holy Virgins. The area was deemed the ager Ursulanus (the Field of Ursula) and, after a vision of two virgins appeared before the excavators, the plethora of skeletons unearthed on site was identified as belonging to the thousands of martyred women.25 During a particularly active excavation phase between 23

24

25

Latin transcription in Levison, “Ursula-Legende,” pp. 142–55. To the best of my knowledge this passion has not been translated into any other languages. Levison summarized, in German, the original Latin text. It survives in six manuscripts dating from the 11th to 17th century, which are listed: Levison, “Ursula-Legende,” pp. 140–41; for updated study with minor corrections, see Kristen Hoefener, “From Pinnosa to St Ursula – The Development of the Cult of Cologne’s Virgins in Medieval Liturgical Offices,” in Cartwright, The Cult of St Ursula, pp. 61–91. Latin transcription in Joseph Klinkenberg, “Studien zur Geschichte der Kölner Märterinnen,” Bonner Jahrbücher 93 (1892), 154–63; trans. Sheingorn and Thiébaux, The Passion, pp. 15–37; the second passion texts exist in far larger quantities than the first; the count and location can be found in Levison, “Ursula-Legende,” pp. 91–96. Levison, “Ursula-Legende,” pp. 107–39.

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1155–64 that was overseen by the Benedictine monastery of Deutz, tituli – stone inscriptions marking the graves of the deceased – were also excavated at this site.26 Like the corporal relics, the stone tituli supplied the cult with significant physical ‘evidence’ that both strengthened and promoted the martyred virgins. Yet, the ‘authority’ ascribed to the tituli differed from that of the relics in that they labelled the bones, and so supplied textual ‘evidence’ supporting the identity of the relics. This overwhelmingly convincing evidence backfired when tituli inscribed with male names were found mixed among skeletons of the Holy Virgins. From the cult’s earliest origins, the virgins had always been deemed a female-only cohort; therefore, the discovery of male names sparked scepticism and greatly threatened the cult’s legitimacy. The challenging task of situating the tituli and their male proponents within the cult was ascribed to Elisabeth of Schönau, a visionary nun. Through divine visionary encounters – which were transcribed in Liber Revelationum Elisabeth de Sacro Exercitu Virginum Coloniensium (1156), a widely-circulated text that documented her visions of the Holy Virgins – Elisabeth revealed that the men were the virgins’ devoted relatives, as well as high ranking royalty and religious figures who joined them at different stages along their pilgrimage, but all of whom were martyred and buried alongside the women in Cologne.27 Elisabeth declared that one such man, James, inscribed the tituli immediately following the mass martyrdom.28 As such, these tituli were put forth as relics on two accounts: commemorative documentation of the virgins and male companions, and secondary relics that were buried with the bodies for hundreds of years. The tituli supplied names for the martyrs, which had been unknown for centuries. They presented a new form of sacred material, an unbroken chain that joined 12th-century Cologne with its ‘ancient’ past in much the same way that the Clematius Stone united the faithful with an earlier period of veneration. Elisabeth mentions Clematius in the Liber Revelationum, yet it was Thiodericus, a Benedictine ‘custos’ (custodian) from Deutz who fully utilized the 26 27

28

Winfried Schmitz and Erkhard Wirbelauer, “Auf antiken Spuren? Theoderich, das Benediktinerkloster in Köln-Deutz und die Legende der heiligen Ursula,” Colonia Romanica 14 (1999), 67–76. For Latin translation of Elisabeth’s Book of Revelations, see: F.W.E. Roth, Die Visionen der hl. Elisabeth und die Schriften der Aebte Ekbert und Emecho von Schönau, Nach den Originalen Handschriften herausgegeben (Brünn, 1884), pp. 123–38; trans. Anne L. Clark, Elisabeth of Schönau: The Complete Works (New York, 2000), pp. 213–33. Liber Revelationum, 9, in Roth, Die Visionen, p. 218; trans. Clark, Elisabeth of Schönau, pp. 127–28.

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stone’s authoritative power. Thiodericus claimed to have been on-site when the tituli were discovered, and together with other monks, proclaimed that the stones were extracted with “our own hands” (manibus nostris eruimus).29 These discoveries were heavily scrutinized and even the abbot managing the excavations voiced how “the discoverers of the holy bodies might have craftily had those titles inscribed for profit.”30 Considering this, Thiodericus was under direct pressure to defend the finds, and so composed the now-lost Deutzer Codex (1164),31 in which he categorized and documented these tituli. Within this manuscript, Thiodericus offered the lengthy list of 250 names that were revealed by the tituli. He then concluded his document by quoting the complete text of the Clematius inscription. Among the stone’s many messages, it particularly warned against mixing ‘foreign’ (corpus alicuiius deposuerit exceptis virginib[us]) relics with those of the Holy Virgins. Thiodericus’ bold inclusion of these well-known words denounced any accusations of such unlawful activity and sealed his account with a proclamation of power. Conclusion The stone’s inclusion with the Deutzer Codex could additionally remind readers of the powerful medium of carved stone. Like the ‘truth’ carved into the celebrated epigraph, the stone tituli conveyed ancient ‘information’ and drew attention to the medium of stone with its innate power of preservation. The authority of engraved stone was harnessed here; however, the 29 30 31

For Thiodericus’ excavation accounts and tituli documentation see Oswald Holder-Egger, ed., MGH SS 14 (Hannover, 1883), pp. 652–64; Victor de Buck, ed., Acta Sanctorum Octobris 9, Acta Sanctorum 14 (Brussels, 1858), pp. 86, 243–245; trans. Cher Casey. “Habebat quipped suspicionem de inventoribus sanctorum corporum, ne forte lucrandi causa titulus illos dolose conscribe fecissent.” Roth, Visionen, p. 125; trans. Clark, Elisabeth of Schönau, p. 215. This codex is composed of four parts: a record of deaths from Detuz Abbey; a fraternity list; a chronicle of the abbots; and an account and list of the Ursulanus tituli. The codex was lost, rediscovered in 1941, and disappeared again after the Second World War. For a concise, yet thorough, history of Theodoric’s Codex, see Schmitz and Wirbelauer, “Auf antiken Spuren?,” pp. 72–74; see also Monica Sinderhauf, Die Abtei Deutz und ihre innere Erneuerung: Klostergeschichte im Spiegel des verschollenen Codex Thioderici, Veröffentlichungen des Kölnischen Geschichtsvereins 39 (Vierow bei Greifswald, 1996), pp. 262–76. The codex was transcribed by Hermann Crombach and Philippus Bebius, Vita et martyrium S. Ursulae et sociarum undecim millium Virginum (Cologne, 1647), pp. 489–94. For notes regarding this transcription, see Franz Xaver Kraus, “Notizen aus und über den Codex Theodorici aus der Abtei Deutz,” Jahrbücher Des Vereins von Alterthumsfreunden im Rheinlande 41 (1866), 43–49.

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Clematius inscription, together with the tituli, was transferred from stone to parchment – a more ‘convenient’ method of preservation and circulation. This phenomenon additionally occurred with the inclusion of the Clematius stone in the Sermo – both spoken and written – the Virgins’ vitae, and Elisabeth of Schönau’s visions. These sources duplicated the material in a socially consolidated and organized arrangement while retaining the authority intrinsically embodied within engraved stone. As such, the Clematius inscription stands as a compelling object within the cult of the Holy Virgins. Its powerful message and authoritative medium memorialize Cologne’s female martyrs and the man responsible for resurrecting their cult. Its words activate the presence of the virgins, their martyrdom, and the successive veneration at this particular site. The stone simultaneously validates the ‘historical’ aspects of the cult and activates the virgins’ attendance within the contemporary sacred space. It served as a tangible object, a relic from the past that collapsed temporal gaps between the virgins’ martyrdom, the church’s earlier reconstruction, and the present viewers. It emphasizes the significance of location, place, and space with an all-encompassing and dynamic effect. Together with its aesthetic presentation, the Clematius stone harnessed the material power embodied by inscribed stone. Thus, from the 10th century onwards, the inscription became a central object associated with the cult. It secured a primary reference point, and was to be repeatedly quoted and paraphrased within numerous subsequent narrative accounts of the virgins’ martyrdom. Each transcription confirmed and enriched the stone’s potency, while simultaneously ensuring the mobility of the stone’s message beyond the wall of the church within which it remains enshrined. Bibliography Bergmann, Ulrike, “Kölner Bilderschnitzwerkstätten vom 11. bis zum Ausgehenden 14. Jahrhundert,” in Schnütgen Museum. Die Holzskulpturen des Mittelalters (1000–1400), Schnütgen-Musuem, ed. Ulrike Bergmann (Cologne, 1989), pp. 19–63. Bergmann, Ulrike, “Die Gotischen Reliquienbüsten in St. Kunibert,” Colonia Romanica 7 (1992), 131–46. Bergmann, Ulrike, “Eine Kölnische Ursulabüste im Dom,” Kölner Domblatt 57 (1992), 305–9. Cartwright, Jane, ed., The Cult of St Ursula and the 11,000 Virgins (Cardiff, 2016).

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Casey, Cher, “Stitching Sanctity and Sculpting Bones: The Materiality of Cologne’s 11,000 Holy Virgins and their Textile Skull Reliquaries”, 2 vols (PhD thesis, University of York, 2021). Clark, Anne L., trans., Elisabeth of Schönau: The Complete Works (New York, 2000). Cooley, Alison, The Afterlife of Inscriptions: Reusing, Rediscovering, Reinventing & Revitalizing Ancient Inscriptions, Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies, suppl. 75 (London, 2000). Crombach, Hermann, and Philippus Bebius, Vita et martyrium S. Ursulae et sociarum undecim millium Virginum (Cologne, 1647). de Buck, Victor, ed., Acta Sanctorum Octobris 9, Acta Sanctorum 14 (Brussels, 1858). Hoefener, Kristen, “From Pinnosa to St Ursula – The Development of the Cult of Cologne’s Virgins in Medieval Liturgical Offices,” in Cartwright, The Cult of St Ursula, pp. 61–91. Holder-Egger, Oswald, ed. Inde ab Anno Christi Quingentesimo Usque ad Annum Millesimum et Quingesntesimum, MGH SS 14 (Hannover, 1883). Holladay, Joan A., “Relics, Reliquaries, and Religious Women: Visualizing the Holy Virgins of Cologne,” Studies in Iconography 18 (1997), 67–118. Karpa, Oscar, Kölnische Reliquienbüsten der gotischen Zeit aus dem Ursulakreis 1, Rheinische Verein für Denkmalpflege und Heimatschutz 27 (Düsseldorf, 1934). Keppie, L.J.F., Understanding Roman Inscriptions (London, 1991). Klinkenberg, Joseph, “Studien Zur Geschichte Der Kölner Märterinnen,” Bonner Jahrbücher 89 (1890), 105–13. Klinkenberg, Joseph, “Studien zur Geschichte der Kölner Märterinnen,” Bonner Jahrbücher 93 (1892), 154–63. Kosch, Clemens, Kölns romanische Kirchen, Architektur und Liturgie im Hochmittelalter, 2nd ed. (Cologne, 2005). Kraus, Franz Xaver, “Notizen aus und über den Codex Theodorici aus der Abtei Deutz,” Jahrbücher Des Vereins von Alterthumsfreunden im Rheinlande 41 (1866), 43–49. Krautheimer, Richard, “Introduction to an ‘Iconography of Mediaeval Architecture’,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 5 (1942), 1–33. Kremer, Joseph, “Studien zum Frühen Christentum in Niedergermanien” (PhD diss., Rheinischen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Bonn, 1993). Legner, Anton, “Reliquenpräsenz und Wanddekoration,” in Die Jesuitenkirche St. Mariae Himmelfahrt in Köln, ed. Udo Mainzer, Beiträge zu den Bau- und Kunstdenkmälern im Rheinland 28 (Düsseldorf, 1982), pp. 269–96. Legner, Anton, “Kölnische Hagiophilie. Die Domreliquienschränke und ihre Nachfolgeschaft in kölner Kirchen,” Kölner Domblatt 51 (1986), 195–274. Legner, Anton, “Vom Glanz und vor der Präsenz des Heiltums – Bilder und Texte,” in Reliquien: Verherung und Verklärung, Skizzen und Noten zur Thematik und Katalog

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Austellung der Kölner Sammlung Louis Peters im Schnütgen Museum, ed. Anton Legner (Cologne, 1989), pp. 22–148. Legner, Anton, Kölner Heilige und Heiligtümer. ein Jarhtausend europäischer Reliquienkultur (Cologne, 2003). Levison, Wilhelm, “Das Werden der Ursula-Legende,” Bonner Jahrbücher 132 (1927), 1–164. Militzer, Klaus, “The Church of St Ursula in Cologne: Inscriptions and Excavations,” in Cartwright, The Cult of St Ursula, pp. 29–39. Montgomery, Scott, St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins of Cologne – Relics, Reliquaries, and the Visual Culture of Group Sanctity in Late Medieval Europe (Bern, 2010). Montgomery, Scott, “Sacra Conversatione: Dialogues between Reliquaries and Windows,” Journal of Glass Studies 56 (2014), 253–70. Nowiński, Janusz, “Prezentacja Tkaniny Herbowej z Ladu z XIII w. Oraz Thanin Dekorujacych Relikwie Glów Towarzyszek Św. Urszuli w Zamku Królewskim w Warszawie,” Builetyn Historii Sztuki 2 (2014), 303–10. Roth, F.W.E., Die Visionen der hl. Elisabeth und die Schriften der Aebte Ekbert und Emecho von Schönau, Nach den Originalen Handschriften herausgegeben (Brünn, 1884). Sághy, Marianne, “Pope Damasus and the Beginnings of Roman Hagiography,” in Promoting the Saints: Cults and Their Contexts from Late Antiquity until the Early Modern Period, ed. Balázs Nagy, Marcell Sebők, Ottó Gecser, József Laszlovszky, Katalin Szende (New York, 2010), pp. 1–17. Schmitz, Winfried, and Erkhard Wirbelauer, “Auf antiken Spuren? Theoderich, das Benediktinerkloster in Köln-Deutz und die Legende der heiligen Ursula,” Colonia Romanica 14 (1999), 67–76. Sheingorn, Pamela, and Marcelle Thiébaux, trans., The Passion of Saint Ursula; and, The Sermon on the Birthday of Saint Ursula, Peregrina Translations Series, 2nd ed. (Toronto, 1996). Sinderhauf, Monica, Die Abtei Deutz und ihre innere Erneuerung: Klostergeschichte im Spiegel des verschollenen Codex Thioderici, Veröffentlichungen des Kölnischen Geschichtsvereins 39 (Vierow bei Greifswald, 1996). Stephan-Maaser, Reinhild, “Jungfrauen auf Reisen. Reliquienhandel und Translationen Entlang der Strecke Brügge – Novgorod,” in Transit Brügge – Novgorod. Eine Straße der Europäischen Geschichte Austellung Katalog Ruhrlandmusuem Essen, ed. Ferdinand Seibt (Essen, 1997), pp. 216–23. Strake-Sporbeck, Gudrun, “Et aliorum plurimorum sanctorum reliquie, Textilie Ausstattung und Religuienfassung im Stift St. Gereon,” Colonia Romanica 31, Die

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kostbaren Hüllen der Heiligen – Textile Schätze aus Kölner Reliquienschreinen Neue Funde und Forschungen (2016), 97–112. Stückelberg, E.A., “Die Clematianische Inschrift eine Fälschung,” Basler Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Altertumskunde 20 (1922), 368–71. Urbanek, Regina, Die Goldene Kammer von St. Ursula in Köln: zu Gestalt und Ausstattung vom Mittelalter bis zum Barock (Worms, 2010). Zehnder, Frank Günter, Sankt Ursula: Legende, Verehrung, Bilderwelt (Cologne, 1985).

Chapter 8

Images of Identity at the Edge of Empires: The Visual Concept of Power in Medieval Georgia in the Second Half of the 10th Century Nino Simonishvili

Oshki Monastery: An Introduction

Situated at the junction of Europe and Asia, medieval Georgia was a natural geographic corridor between the East and West for centuries. Major trade and transit routes passed through this area, all falling within the orbit of the Silk Road. Artistic exchanges occurred within transformative networks and interactions between Christian and non-Christian communities, causing constant re-definitions of the boundaries of identity; the geopolitical configuration of the territory generated the diversified social dynamics of images. This discussion will explore the processes and effects of this cross-cultural exchange in the region using the sculpted donor images of the main church at Oshki Monastery to illustrate the transmission and translation of Byzantine visual models assimilated into a local context.1 It will examine how particular 1 Oshki Monastery is located in the south-western region of Georgia, formerly the principality of Tao-Klarjet’i, a border region of Byzantium (now part of northwestern Turkey). After the 7th- and 8th-century period of Arab rule, Tao-Klarjet’i, like other parts of Georgia, was left devastated and deserted. At the end of the 8th century the region enjoyed a revival under the leadership of the princely house of Bagrationi, who left the areas conquered by the Arabs and found refuge in Tao-Klarjet’i, moving the capital of the eastern Georgian kingdom K’artl’i (in Byzantine sources, Iberia) from Tbilisi to Artanuji, the capital of Tao-Klarjet’i. David Khoshtaria, Klarjetis eklesiebi da monastrebi [Churches and Monasteries in Klarjeti] (Tbilisi, 2005), pp. 25–28. They supported a large-scale monastic rebuilding campaign initiated by St Grigol Khandzteli (759–861), a representative of the noble family and Church dignitary. Grigol Khandztelis scxovreba [The Vita of Grigol Khandzteli], in I. Abuladze, ed. Zveli qartuli agiografiuli literaturis zeglebi, 1 [Monuments of Ancient Georgian Hagiographical Literature] (Tbilisi, 1963), pp. 248–319. During the 9th and 10th centuries, the Bagrationi rulers were regarded by the Byzantine court as reliable allies against the threat of Arab domination. Korneli Kekelidze, Atonis literaturuli skolis istoriidan [From the History of the Literary School of Athos], 2nd rev. ed., in Iveroni-1000 [Iviron-1000] (Tbilisi, 1983), p. 30; Vasili Kopaliani, Saqartvelos da bizantiis politikuri urtiertoba 970–1070 clebshi [Political Relations of Georgia and Byzantium in 970–1070] (Tbilisi, 1969), pp. 23–25; Mark Withow, The Making of Byzantium, 600–1025 (Berkeley, CA, 1996), pp. 363–65.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004501904_012

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elements and their semantic layers of meaning are re-arranged into a new and original composition, which acted as an instrument of identity creation for the donors.

Oshki Monastery and the Bagriatoni Donor Portraits

Celebrated for its innovative architecture and splendid sculptural decoration, the main church of the monastery, dedicated to John the Baptist is widely recognized as one of the most significant monuments of medieval Georgian architecture (Figs 8.1–8.2).2 The church’s architectural importance is matched by its historical significance. Arising within the context of the Georgian feudal state’s foundation and the beginning of the country’s unification, the church became a symbol of a new royal and national identity. It was constructed under the patronage of two brothers of the Bagrationi ruling family, who gained power with Byzantine support as reliable allies against Arab expansion: Davit magistros (Latin: magister officiorum; master of ceremonies), the future kuropalates (Latin: cura palatii; the one in charge of the palace, r.966–1001), and his brother Bagrat, eristavt-eristavi (Duke of Dukes, d.966). They appear in three pairs of sculpted portraits in the building’s most significant exterior and interior spaces. The donation relief on the exterior wall of the south-east chapel shows lifesized figures of the two brothers dressed in ceremonial Byzantine robes, each wearing a flat crown decorated with jewels and offering a model of the church to the Deesis group (Fig. 8.3). The donor to Christ’s left also has a Byzantine imperial pendilia hanging from either side of the crown. Georgian inscriptions executed in purple pigment identify the donors.3 The second donor images 2 Oshki appears to have been a sizable monastery and a royal administrative centre. Aside from the main church, a few monastic buildings are partially preserved: the ruins of the refectory, with adjacent seminary and scriptorium. Despite the lack of material evidence, the refined nature of the architecture of the church, its carved sculpture, and wall painting are distinguished by an innovative character and a richness of artistic vocabulary, which suggests the existence of a royal workshop at the court, and that the monastery was destined from its foundation, to be a powerful cultural centre of national significance. See Wachtang Djobadze, Early Medieval Georgian Monasteries in Historic Tao, Klarjet’i and Ṧavšhet’i (Stuttgart, 1992), pp. 92–141. 3 On the donors’ identities see Ekvtime Takaishvili, 1917 clis arqeologiuri eqspedicia samxret saqartveloshi [The Archaeological Expedition of 1917 to the Southern Provinces of Georgia] (Tbilisi, 1960), pp. 51–52. For the inscriptions, see Djobadze, Early Medieval, pp. 131–41. Since the accompanying inscriptions do not request commemoration of the donors, the rulers were alive. This is confirmed by their rectangular haloes. Wachtang Djobadze, “The Donor Reliefs

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Figure 8.1 South façade, Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976

Figure 8.2 Detail, south façade, Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976

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Figure 8.3 Donation panel on the south-east exterior wall, Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976

are located inside the church where bust-length portraits of the brothers, who wear highly ornate costumes and the same rectangular crowns as on the exterior, flank a niche in the south-west pier beneath the dome (Plate 8.1). Each holds a royal sceptre terminating in an equal-armed cross against his right shoulder.4 Behind both rulers is a supplicatory inscription: that to Davit’s right is to the Virgin, and that on Bagrat’s right is to John the Baptist. Excluding Bagrat’s crown, which has no pendilia, there is no distinction between the brothers’ faces, crowns, or gestures that indicates their hierarchical status. There is an important difference in the accompanying inscriptions, however: Davit is ranked by his Byzantine title, magistros, while Bagrat is proclaimed king, not eristavt-eristavi as on the exterior relief.5

and The Date of the Church at Ošhki,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 69 (1976), 43; Djobadze, Early Medieval, p. 115. Due to the current lamentable condition of the donor panel further discussion of the sculpted images relies mostly on previously published photos and drawings. 4 The closest parallel for this iconographic motif is found in a contemporary 10th-century reliquary in Cortona (963–69), depicting Constantine the Great. Nikolaos Oikonomides, “The Concept of ‘Holy War’ and Two Tenth-Century Byzantine Ivories,” in Peace and War in Byzantium. Essays in Honor of George T. Dennis, ed. Thomas S. Miller and John Nesbitt (Washington, DC, 1995), figs. IV–V. 5 Djobadze, “The Donor Reliefs,” p. 55.

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Niche preserving polychromy in the southwest pier under the dome containing donor images, Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976

The third set of sculpted donor images is carved on two large stone stelae: the first presents Davit in an orans gesture, below the Virgin and Child (Fig. 8.4); on the second, Bagrat, similarly disposed, is depicted below John the Baptist, who wears a fur garment (Fig. 8.5). The stelae were originally erected below the horseshoe arch between the dome-supporting south-east pillar and the south wall.6

6 The two stelae were discovered built inside the church in 2003 after a remaining wall of the village mosque was dismantled. Today they are preserved in the Archaeological Museum in Erzurum. Valeri Silogava, Oshki 10s. memorialuri tazari [Oshki, 10th-c. Memorial Church] (Tbilisi, 2006), pp. 168–71, fig. 19.

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Figure 8.4 Sculpted image of Davit and the Virgin holding Christ. Stone stele. Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976

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Figure 8.5 Sculpted image of Bagrat and John the Baptist. Stone stele. Church of St John the Baptist, Oshki, Georgia. 963–976

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The sculpted décor of the Church of John the Baptist has been the subject of a number of studies.7 While these have focussed mostly on the donor portraits on the exterior wall of the south-east chapel and those, on either side of the niche inside the church, those carved on the two stelae have not yet been the subject of a special study.8 This discussion, therefore, will examine the meaning and function of the donor images on the stelae within the historical, social, and political context of their production. The front and lateral faces of the Oshki stelae display several Georgian inscriptions with extant traces of red paint, which record diverse functions (explanatory, building, memorial).9 They give the date on which the church’s construction commenced as 25 March 963, the Feast of the Annunciation, and name three individuals: the donor brothers, and their father Adarnase kuropalat (d.961). They also record Bagrat’s death in 966. Based on this epigraphic evidence and that on the sandstone reliefs earlier discovered by Ekvtime 7 Takaishvili, The Archaeological Expedition, pp. 32–58; David Winfield, “Some Early Medieval Figure Sculpture from North-East Turkey,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 31 (1968), 38–57; Djobadze, “The Donor Reliefs,” pp. 39–62; Wachtang Djobadze, “Observations on the Architectural Sculpture of Tao-Klarjeti. Churches Around One Thousand A.D.,” in Studien zur spätantiken und byzantinischen Kunst. F.W. Deichman gewidmet, ed. O. Feld and U. Peshlow, 2 (Bonn, 1986), p. 86; Wachtang Djobadze, “Four Deesis Themes in the Church of Ošhki,” Oriens Christianus 72 (1988), 168–82; Antony Eastmond, Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia (University Park, PA, 1998), pp. 20–30, 228–30; Antony Eastmond and Lynn Jones, “Robing, Power, and Legitimacy in Armenia and Georgia,” in Robes and Honor. The Medieval World in Investiture, ed. S. Gordon (New York, 2001), pp. 173–77; Dora Piguet-Panayotova, “The Church of Ošhk’i. Architectonics and Ornaments,” Oriens Christianus 86 (2002), 103– 44; Dora Piguet-Panayotova, “The Church of Ošhk’i. Architectonics and Ornaments,” Oriens Christianus 87 (2003), 175–219; Leila Khuskivadze, “Oshkis skulpturul vedrebata taviseburebis shesaxeb” [On the Peculiarities of Sculptural Deesis in Oshki], Georgian Antiquities 3 (2003), 59–83; Natela Aladashvili, “Oshkis tazris ‘vedrebis’ reliefi da misi mimarteba bizantiur skulpturastan,” [Deesis Relief from Oshki and its Relation to the Byzantine Sculpture], Georgian Antiquities 4–5 (2003), 63–76; Natela Aladashvili, “Oshkis tazris (Xs-is II nax.) skulpturuli dekori da misi programis damokidebuleba monastris tanadroul istoriul vitarebastan,” [Sculptural Decoration of the Oshki Church and Relations of its Programme to the Contemporary Historical Situation], Academia. Journal of Human Sciences 6–7 (2006), 35–40; Silogava, Oshki, pp. 172–86; Nino Simonishvili, “Images of Identity at the Crossroads: A Comparative Study of Medieval Georgia,” Center 29 (2009), 129–31; Nino Simonishvili, “Syncretism of Royal Images in Medieval Georgia: The Sculpted Program of St. John the Baptist the Church of Oshki (963–976),” in The Medieval Mediterranean between Islam and Christianity: Cross-pollinations in religious art, architecture, and material culture, eds. Sami De Giosa and Mikolaos Vryzdis (forthcoming). 8 For the stelae’s preliminary iconographical observation, and inscriptions, see Silogava, Oshki, pp. 168–71; Irene Giviashvili and Irakli Koplatadze, Tao-Klarjeti (Tbilisi, 2004), p. 169. 9 The stelae are of different sizes: Davit’s is longer (H. 1.57 m × W. 0.64 m; 61.8 × 25.2 in) than Bagrat’s (H. 1.30 m × W. 0.59 m; 59.19 × 23.2 in), Silogava, Oshki, pp. 168–71.

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Takaishvili, 963–73 is considered to be the date of the church’s construction.10 As set out below, from the Byzantine perspective, several compositional elements of the stelae and their accompanying inscriptions offer a clue to understanding their meaning.

Byzantine Political Theology and Its Iconographies

Conflation of the divine and imperial carried particular resonance in 10thcentury Byzantium, when a return to the state’s Roman roots took an increasingly central role in imperial discourse, particularly after Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus (945–59) ascended to the throne. On the one hand, the Macedonian emperors (867–1056) established legitimacy by emulating Old Testament models, and associated their new royal line with King David and his formation of a new royal dynasty. As part of this political concept, the image of Constantine the Great also underwent a systematic revival and became directly associated with the ruling family. Constantine Porphyrogenitus took these associations further by establishing a genealogical relationship between the Macedonian line and Constantine the Great. Defence of dynastic legitimacy and hereditary succession was propagated among domestic aristocrats and foreign enemies, the lower classes, and wider social groups.11 Apart from written texts, political theology also influenced the fine arts by creating a visual concept of court art. A crucial element in the visual expression of imperial power was the Virgin’s role in elevating the new ruler; representations of the Virgin were linked to the concept of dynastic legitimacy.12 Another characteristic of 10th-century imperial political iconography was the convergence of art and war. During the 9th and 10th centuries, the military elite, particularly drawn from the provinces and borderlands, came to 10

11

12

While Takaishvili, in Archaeological Expedition, p. 37, argued that the inscription suggests that the church’s construction continued for 10 years (963–73), Silogava (Oshki, pp. 173– 86), points out that the inscription given in singular form relates to Davit, who was alive during the final phase of church construction, suggesting that construction lasted for 10 years after Bagrat’s death in 966. Athanasios Markopoulos, “Constantine the Great in Macedonian Historiography. Models and Approaches,” in New Constantines: The Rhythm of Imperial Renewal in Byzantium, 4th– 13th Centuries, ed. P. Magdalino (Aldershot, 1994), pp. 164–70; Athanasios Markopoulos, “Roman Antiquarianism: Aspects of the Roman Past in the Middle Byzantine Period (9th–11th centuries),” in Proceedings of the 21st International Congress of Byzantine Studies, ed. Elizabeth Jeffreys (London, 2006), pp. 177–97. Bissera V. Pentcheva, Icons and Power: The Mother of God in Byzantium (University Park, PA, 2006), pp. 37–59.

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dominate the government and control the empire’s administration, leading to a militarization of society.13 Nikephoros II Phokas (r.963–69) and John I Tzimiskes (r.969–76), who could not claim their legitimacy through birth, reactivated the earlier Roman concept of election through military triumphs. Tension between hereditary power and military authority resulted in a new iconography, which promoted the visual representation of this new concept of imperial rule. An important part of this was the militarization of images of warrior saints, associating ideas of military power and protection with the Mother of God.14 The imperial concept of victory fostered the development of compositions showing the Virgin surrounded by warrior saints dressed in military garb. The iconography originates from scenes of the Deesis depicted in court art from the second half of the 10th century.15 One of the most important subjects of militarized art was the cross – a sign of victory. By taking a relic of the True Cross into battle, the Byzantine emperor modelled himself after Constantine, evoking the memory of the first Christian emperor’s glorious victory at the Milvian Bridge. The True Cross protected the Emperor and Empire symbolizing Christ’s Passion, and his Anastasis.16 Inscriptions, like images, were believed to provide additional power to the sign of the cross. The inscription of the Lavra Cross of St Athanasios from Mount Athos is linked to the name of Nikephoros II Phokas,17 and the reliquary cross in the Museum of Art and History, in Geneva (dated to 959–60), identifies 13 14

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16 17

John Haldon, Warfare, State and Society in the Byzantine World, 565–1204 (London, 1999), p. 29. Michael McCormick, Eternal Victory: Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium and the Early Medieval West (New York, 1986), pp. 171–74; Oikonomides, “Concept of ‘Holy War’,” pp. 83–84; Pentcheva, Icons, pp. 61–103; Robert S. Nelson, “‘And So, With the Help of God’: The Byzantine Art of War in the Tenth Century,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 65–66 (2011–12), 169–91. Oikonomides, “Concept of ‘Holy War’,” pp. 69–77, figs. I–III; Nelson, “‘And So, with the Help of God,’” pp. 86–88, fig. 15; Pentcheva, Icons, pp. 82–83. The mid-10th-century ivory triptych at Palazzo Venezia offers the earliest extant example and is replicated in the Harbaville Ivory triptych in the Louvre. Ioli Kalavrezou, “The Harbaville Triptych,” in The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D.843–1261, ed. Helen Evans and William D. Wixom (New York, 1997), pp. 133–34, cat. 80. Oikonomides, “Concept of ‘Holy War,’” pp. 64–67; Holger Klein, “Sacred Relics and Imperial Ceremonies at the Great Palace of Constantinople,” in Visualisierung von Herrschaft, ed. F.A. Bauer, BYZAS 5 (2006), 89–96; Pentcheva, Icons, p. 75. According to Andre Grabar, the inscription on the 10th-century Lavra Cross, produced during the reign of Nikephoros II Phokas, is a reference to contemporary events in Byzantium and the imperial propaganda of the military campaigns against the infidels: Andre Grabar, “La précieuse croix de la Lavra de Saint–Athanase au Mont-Athos,” Cahiers Archeologiques 19 (1969), 99–125, figs. 1–2. See also, Nelson, “‘And So, with the Help of God’,” pp. 178–80.

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General Leo Phokas, Nikephoros’s brother, as the donor and provides a textual equivalent to visual depictions of imperial ideology.18 The military potency of the True Cross could evidently be enhanced by the addition of other relics. The acquisition and possession of important relics, mostly related to the Holy Land and Christ’s Passion, were used to demonstrate a ruler’s divine approval, thus stabilizing and enhancing his power.19 The importance of relics is attested by several inscribed 10th-century reliquaries, such as the Limburg Staurotheke, holding a fragment of True Cross and other precious relics20 and the reliquary of the True Cross preserved at the church of San Francesco, Cortona.21 The reliquaries’ inscriptions proclaim an ideology of imperial military victory. Multi-layered meanings in visual and textual messages permitted such artworks to function in military and religious contexts.22 One of the most significant features in this regard is the inclusion of war iconography in the Deesis scene, which expresses visually the concept that victory is granted by Christ through the intercession of the Virgin and John the Baptist. The visual record testifies vividly to the immediate and widespread response generated by this new iconography. By the 10th century the art of war flourished, especially at the frontiers of Byzantium, as witnessed by the concentration of images of warrior saints in different regions of Georgia. The military and political instability that created and characterized these frontiers provided a fundamental impetus for the production of these images and shaped their militarized iconographies. Excluding common images of the Virgin surrounded by warrior saints and their individual representations in explicit military attire on Georgian chased icons, images of paired warrior saints on horseback appear as aggressive soldiers slaying the historic and legendary adversaries of Christianity. Moreover, the popular image of St George introduced a new visual 18 19

20 21 22

Laskarina Bouras, “The Reliquary Cross of Leo Domestikos tes Dyses,” in Byzantium and the Classical Tradition, ed. M. Mullett and R. Scott (Birmingham, 1981), pp. 178–87, figs. 18–19. Liz James, “Bearing Gifts from the East: Imperial Relic Hunters Abroad,” in Eastern Approaches to Byzantium. Papers from the Thirty-third Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, ed. Antony Eastmond (Aldershot, 2001), pp. 119–32. Interest in the relics intensified when Nikephoros II Phokas’ and John I Tzimiskes’ military campaigns in Syria temporarily restored access to the Holy Land, stimulating pilgrimage to the east and the trade in relics. See Clive Foss, “Pilgrimage in Medieval Asia Minor,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 56 (2002), pp. 129–51. Bissera V. Pentcheva, “Containers of Power: Eunuchs and Reliquaries in Byzantium,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 51 (Spring 2007), 108–20, figs. 1–5. Oikonomides, “Concept of ‘Holy War’,” pp. 77–86, figs. IV–V; Nelson, “‘And So, with the Help of God,’” pp. 183–86, figs. 13–14. Nelson, “‘And So, with the Help of God’,” pp. 179–186.

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formula: the saint is often depicted killing the pagan emperor Diocletian, symbolizing a unified image of victory over the enemy.23

The Oshki Stelae and Their Socio-Political Context

We turn now to situate the sculpted donor images on the Oshki stelae within this context of the Byzantine imperial court’s political iconography, and in the light of the fact that the construction dates of the church encompass the reigns of Nikephoros II Phokas (963–69) and John I Tzimiskes (969–76). The arrangement of the visual and textual elements of Davit’s stele suggests contemporary imperial references (Fig. 8.4). As mentioned, a half-length figure of Davit is disposed in an orans gesture and presented beneath the Virgin, shown without a halo and holding the Christ Child.24 The Child holds a scroll in his left hand, while his right is raised in benediction, with an elongated finger pointing towards a cross incised on the border. The cross has a stepped base and is identified, by an accompanying Georgian inscription, as the True Cross.25 The disposition of the figures on the central horizontal axis, and emphasis on their interconnected gestures, helps us interpret the message conveyed by this design: Davit’s supplication for the Virgin’s intercession is channelled through Christ’s gesture to the victorious Cross. The True Cross’s red colour and its accompanying inscription signify Christ’s victory over death at the Crucifixion.26 The syntax of this visual vocabulary is textually reiterated: Jesus Christ, with the intercession of the Holy Virgin and power of the True Cross and supplication of Saint John the Baptist and grace of all Holy Righteous and Martyrs, exalt and honour Thy slaves, our kings, 23

24

25 26

E.g., Giorgi Chubinashvili, Gruzinskoe Chekannoe Iskusstvo [Georgian Repoussé Work] (Tbilisi, 1959), figs. 34–35, 40–44; Tatiana Sheviakova, Monumentalnaia Zhivopis’ Rannego Srednevekovia Gruzii [Early Medieval Georgian Monumental Painting] (Tbilisi, 1983), figs. 28, 42; Natela Aladashvili, Monumental’naya Skul’ptura Gruzii [The Monumental Sculpture of Georgia] (Moscow, 1977), figs. 56, 94. It should be noted that the figure of the Virgin without a halo has an affinity with the 6th-century Georgian Davati stele, where the full-length, standing Virgin is also represented without a halo, holding the half-length infant Christ at her breast. Kitty Machabeli, Adreuli shua saukeneebis qartuli qvajvrebi [Early Medieval Georgian Stone Crosses] (Tbilisi, 2008), p. 17, schema 6, p. 31, fig. 25. Silogava, Oshki, p. 169. Davit’s late 10th-century processional cross, by the goldsmith Asat, displays his name with the rank of kuropalates and features the same visual concept: the Mother of God paired with the Crucifixion: Chubinashvili, Gruzinskoe Cekannoe Iskusstvo, fig. 85.

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Adrnese Curopalates, Bagrat Eristavt-eristavi on the Day of Judgement on Thy right side…. And glorified be the reign of David and give him long life with safety and victory over the enemies.27 The formula of this inscription coincides with those accompanying the artworks that proclaim the ideology of imperial military victory.28 This is an important message connecting the True Cross and the Virgin, which emphasises her privileged relationship to the ruler and as the emperor’s companion on the battlefield. The combined visual and textual signs legitimize Davit’s rule on the basis of his military success. The whole design recalls an artistic concept of the current imperial model of rule. In fact, the ideological and artistic responses to new political iconography at the imperial court would have been a particularly relevant reaction in the context of the close links between the Oshki donors and the powerful Phokas family. The 10th century witnessed the Byzantine Empire’s eastwards expansion, as it sought to neutralize and capture the Arab strongholds located behind the frontiers of Cilicia, Cappadocia, and western Armenia. The military success that characterized this period was almost entirely attributed to the Phokas family. Nikephoros Phokas’ appointment as military commander along with a number of young generals, including his brother, Leo Phokas, and John Tzimiskes, began to turn events in Byzantium’s favour. His capture of Crete in 961 was an event of enormous significance for the empire.29 In 963 Byzantium celebrated the defeat of their main enemy: the sack of Aleppo. Nikephoros’ reputation was so greatly enhanced that after the unexpected death of Romanos II in 963, he was able to seize the throne and subsequently married Romanos’ widow, Theophano, to secure his legitimacy. Nikephoros’ role as a bringer of victory is 27 ი ესუ ქრისტე, მეოხებითა წმიდისა ღმრთისმშობელისაითა და ძალითა ძელისა ც

ცხორებისაითა და ვედრებითა წმიდისა იოვანე ნათლისმცემელისაითა და ყოველთა წმიდათა, მართალთა და მარტვილთა მადლითა, დიდებულნ და ღირსყვენ დღესა მას განსჯისასა მარჯუენით შენსა მონანი შენნი, მეფენი ჩუენნი, ადრნერსე კურაპალატი, ბაგრატ ერისთავთა ერისთავი. და დიდებულ-მცა არს მეფობაი დავითისი, და მიანიჭე სიმრავლით დღეგრძელებაი და მტერთა მიმართ მძლეობაი. Silogava, Oshki, p. 72. The inscription is placed on the left-hand side

28

29

of the stele; trans. Silogava, Oshki, p. 170. The same idea is expressed by the verbs utilized on the Lavra cross: κερατιοῦμεν (thrown down [the enemies]), and the reliquaries of the True Cross in Limburg: συντρίβομαι βαρβάρων (crush [barbarians]) and Cortona: τροποῦται (puts to flight): Nelson, “‘And So, with the Help of God’,” pp. 179–85. Christos G. Makrypoulias, “Byzantine Expeditions against the Emirate of Crete c. 825–949,” in Proceedings of the Sixth International Congress of Graeco-Oriental and African studies, ed. V. Christides and T. Papadopoullos, Graeco-Arabica 7–8 (1999–2000), pp. 347–62.

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constantly emphasized in contemporary sources. The official imagery on his coinage also drew attention to the Virgin as Victoria; the Mother of God and the general both held the imperial sceptre, legitimizing his rule based on his success in battle.30 Following the capture of Crete, Nikephoros conquered Cilicia and Cyprus and prepared for further expansion into Syria, the campaign being launched from 965 by the Byzantine forces then installed in Tarsus. In October 965 Nikephoros was able to return the True Cross and its relics that had been lost to the Arabs (c.883) and gave them to the church of Hagia Sophia. His translation of Christian relics to Constantinople could be considered a means of access to the empire’s founder, Constantine the Great.31 Nikephoros’ success culminated in 969 when Antioch was conquered. The Empire grew substantially in size and military capacity.32 Development of a specific military ethos that proclaimed the role of the fighting man and an exclusively military (rather than a civilian-influenced) hierarchy was widely emphasized in contemporary sources and propagated by the emperors’ admirers and followers.33 Byzantine military campaigns on the eastern frontier contextualize the close relationship between Georgia and Constantinople. The Georgian aristocracy became an important element within the dominant Byzantine military elites during the reign of Nikephoros II Phokas and John I Tzimiskes. The close relationship between Byzantine and Georgian spiritual leaders also provides an insight into a Byzantine political network. A vita of John and Euthymios, who co-founded the Iviron monastery on Mount Athos with the warrior monk Tornikos, explains that Georgian troops participated in battles on the eastern frontier.34 Nikephoros gave Tornikos the high-ranking title of 30 31

32 33 34

Pentcheva, Icons, pp. 33–35, fig. 29. Nicole Thierry suggests that the frescoes in the Pigeon House church, Çavusin, Cappadocia, commemorated Nikephoros’ triumph in the military campaigns of 964–65, culminating with the capture of Tarsus and an important relic of the Cross, which was kept there: Nicole Thierry, “Un portrait de Jean Tzimiskese en Cappadoce,” Travaux et Momoires 9 (1985), pp. 477–78. A number of sources attest Nikephoros’ devotion to relics, and it is very likely that he particularly venerated the relics of the True Cross. He sent at least one to Athos, presumably containing a fragment of the True Cross, and almost certainly possessed the True Cross reliquary in Cortona, whose ivory case contained an inscription celebrating his victories. Rosemary Morris, “The Two Faces of Nikephoros Phokas,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 12, no. 1 (1988), 109. William Garrood, “The Byzantine Conquest of Cilicia and the Hamdanids of Aleppo, 959–965,” Anatolian Studies 58 (2008), 127–40. Morris, “The Two Faces,” pp. 99–100. For the English translation of the vita, see: The Lives and Legends of the Georgian Saints, ed./trans. D.M. Lang, 2nd rev. ed. (New York, 1976), pp. 156–58.

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patrikios (patrician). In 969 or the first half of the 970s, Tornikos joined John and Euthymios on Mount Athos. All three Georgian monks were closely associated with Nikephoros’ spiritual father, St Athanasios of the Monastery of Great Lavra, Mount Athos. Documents concerning the early years of the Great Lavra and the life of its founder, St Athanasios, attest a long, friendly relationship between Athanasios and the Georgian community at Iviron monastery on Mount Athos.35 The holy man Michael Malenios (Nikephoros’ uncle) and the emperor’s spiritual advisor, Athanasios, seem to have played a key role in ensuring that the Georgians were welcome visitors at Nikephoros’ court. Nikephoros’ commitment to the ascetic practices made fashionable by St Michael and St Athanasios, and the emperor’s own early intention to become a monk, suggest the growing influence of holy men in affairs of state through their positions as spiritual fathers to the aristocracy.36 In 969 John I Tzimiskes came to the throne by murdering his predecessor Nikephoros II Phokas. John was acclaimed emperor and married Theodora, a daughter of Constantine VII, which associated him with the Macedonian dynasty. Tzimiskes tried to gain supporters against possible criticism of his usurpation of the throne, by confirming and increasing the privileges of the Athonite monks. He tried to protect Athanasios from attacks by other monastic groups on Athos. It is significant that he did so via the good offices of John the Iberian due to his influential position in the monastic life of Athos.37 It was Tzimiskes’ intention to continue the brilliant military campaigns of his predecessor.38 To secure his reputation and right to rule, Tzimiskes also showed his devotion to the Virgin, enhancing his imperial claim through numismatic 35

36

37 38

See Morris, “The Two Faces,” pp. 101–102; Rosemary Morris, Monks and Laymen in Byzantium, 843–1118 (Cambridge, 2002), p. 81. John the Iberian’s (Georgian) influential position in the monastic life of Athos is evident from the Testament of St Athanasios, who appointed him epitropos (lay protector) to administer the Great Lavra. He shared responsibility with the patrician Nicephoros Ouranos and was granted lifetime tenure of the office, to be succeeded by his son, Euthymios, after his death. John Thomas and Angela Constantinides Hero with Giles Constable, eds., Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’ Typika and Testaments (Washington, DC, 2000), p. 275. Morris, “The Two Faces,” pp. 101–102; Denis F. Sullivan, “Siege Warfare, Nikephoros II Phokas, Relics and Personal Piety,” in Byzantine Religious Culture. Studies in Honor of AliceMary Talbot, ed. Denis F. Sullivan, Elizabeth A. Fisher, and Stratis Papaioannou (Leiden, 2011), p. 407. Morris, “The Two Faces,” p. 114; Thomas, et al., Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, p. 208. A.M. Talbot and D.F. Sulivanm, ed./trans., The History of Leo the Deacon. Byzantine Military Expansion in the Tenth Century (Washington, DC, 2005), p. 3.

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imagery that depicted him receiving a divine blessing from the hand of God and the Virgin with her hand on his crown.39 In the light of this contemporary Byzantine context, we can now return to Davit’s Oshki stele. It is obvious that the Georgian political and religious network at the top of the Byzantine aristocracy utilized visual expressions of power, which explain the concept of rulership developed on Davit’s stele. What is unusual in the context of analogous Byzantine pictorial models is the translation of ideologically linked messages into the medium of carved stone. To seek iconographic and visual parallels for this artistic device we must turn to earlier medieval Georgian stone stelae-crosses carved with figural reliefs (Fig. 8.6).40 A full and nuanced reading of the exported Byzantine royal concept’s multilayered meaning in a different context and different media depends upon an understanding of the ideologies underpinning local royal authority and the circumstances surrounding members of the dynasty mentioned in the inscriptions. Here, the inscribed references to the rulers’ ranks seem to have been crucial. The inscriptions accompanying the Oshki donor images enables us to establish that the donors were alive when their images were carved on the donation panel and on the south-western pier niche.41 Given Bagrat’s death in 966,42 the earliest chronological limit for the production of Davit’s stele is 966. Davit appears here as the sole ruler  – the inscriptions proclaim him as king rather than magistros,43 the Byzantine title he held at the time of the 39 40 41 42

43

Pentcheva, Icons, p. 35, fig. 30. See above n. 24. For the function, design, and meaning of the early medieval Georgian stone-stelae, see Machabeli, Early Medieval, pp. 26–38. The inscriptions accompanying these two donor images do not include commemorative records. The inscription on Bagrat’s stele read: (upper frame) “Jesus Christ, glorify the soul of Adrnese Curopalates” (იესუ ქრისტე, ადიდენ სულითა ადრნესე კურაპალატი); (left frame) “Holy Baptist, intercede before the Lord for the soul of Bagrat Eristavt-eristavi” (წმიდაო ნათლისმცემელო, მმეოხ ეყავ წინაშე ღმრთისა სულსა ბაგრატ ერისთავთა ერისთავისასა); (right frame) “Holy Baptist, support and intercede before the Lord for David, our king” (წმიდაო ნათლისმცემელო, მეოხ და მფარველ ეყავ წინაშე ღმრთისა დავითს, მეფესა ჩუენსა). For the English translation, see Silogava, Oshki, p. 170. For Georgian inscriptions, ibid., pp. 77–78. Inscriptions on Davit’s stele read: (by the image of Davit): “David, slave of the Lord, our King, son of Adrnese Curopalates, be glorified by the Lord, amen” (დავით, მონაი ღმრთისაი, მეფეი ჩუენი, ძე ადრნერსე კურაპალატისაი, ადიდენ ღმერთმან, ამენ); (left frame): “Holy Virgin, intercede before Thy Son and our Lord for David, our king” (წმიდაო ღმრთისმშობელო, მეოხ ეყავ წინაშე ძისა შენისა და ღმრთისა ჩუენისა დავითს, მეფესა ჩუენსა). For the English translation, see Silogava, Oshki, p. 169. For Georgian inscriptions, ibid., pp. 68–70.

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Figure 8.6 The Davati stele. 6th century

church’s construction and which is documented in the other donor images. It is accepted that Davit received the rank of kuropalates when his involvement with the Byzantine Empire reached its peak, with the aid he sent to Basil II in 979 during his battle against Bardas Skleros.44 This suggests that the stele

44

In the Parkhali Gospel (copied in 973), Davit is still ascribed the rank of magistros (National Center of Manuscripts, H-1453, fol. 237r). A manuscript copied in Oshki in 977 (Mount Athos, Iviron Monastery Library, MS Ath. 9, fol. 379r) attests Davit’s earliest mention in the rank of kuropalates in the colophon of Tornik, attached to the manuscript in 979. Silogava, Oshki, p. 184; Elene Metreveli, Narkvevebi atonis kulturul-saganmanatleblo keris istoriidan [Essays on the History of the Cultural-Historical Center at Athos] (Tbilisi, 1996), p. 10.

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was made between 966 and 973/979.45 The question now arises as to why the textual references to Davit’s rank on the stele exclude his title magistros? Does the stele convey a particular message in a specific context? How does its political iconography relate to the visual syntaxes of the donation panel set up between 963 and 966 when Bagrat was still alive, and where Davit is proclaimed magistros? Scholars have already acknowledged that the Oshki panel presents the earliest monumental composition of the Deesis to include the donors.46 Less attention has been paid, however, to the political aspect of the layout of the donation panel’s decoration, with the scene’s complex meaning dependent upon its political context and its specific iconography. Here, Christ’s unusual gesture adds a triumphal character to the Deesis composition,47 associating it with such scenes on 10th-century ivory triptychs, where Christ is conceptually modelled as the emperor; the Deesis thus presents an allegorical manifestation of the imperial court.48 The donors’ inclusion in the Oshki Deesis composition evokes a strong association with the dual military and religious meanings of the Deesis in contemporary Byzantine imperial war iconography. However, their placement in the hierarchical arrangement of the composition, the donor’s dress, and titles clearly indicate their subordinate position in Byzantine hierarchy. Davit’s Byzantine title, his position on the honoured side of the Virgin on the donation panel, and below the image of the Virgin on his stele can be viewed as key markers of his identity and superiority within the Byzantine hierarchy. Conversely, the Bagrat-Baptist group’s inferior position on Christ’s left in the donation relief carries significant meaning in the context of contemporary Byzantine political theology. In Deesis scenes associated with the imperial court, John the Baptist stands on the more important, right-hand side of Christ, indicating his significance for the emperor.49 In this way the imperial pendilia on Bagrat’s crown can be seen as a symbolic articulation of power, addressed to the local audience, which declares legitimate Georgian kingship and reconnects the dynasty with the previous monarchy. Together, 45 46 47 48 49

Davit’s glorifying inscription on the east façade of the church of Otkhta Ekelsia (dated to the late 980s) proclaims him kuropalat. Takaishvili, Archeological Expedition, p. 75. Djobadze, “The Donor Reliefs,” pp. 41–42; Winfield, “Early Medieval,” pp. 39–40. Christ’s gesture on the Donation panel evokes the Traditio Legis, the act of investing Peter and Paul with the new law. Christopher Walter, “Two Notes on the Deesis,” Revue des Etudes Byzantines 26 (1968), 332–33. In Byzantium John the Baptist was chosen as intercessor to confer legitimacy upon the Macedonian dynasty. Ioli Kalavrezou, “Helping Hands for the Empire: Imperial Ceremonies and the Cult of Relics at the Byzantine Court,” in Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204, ed. H. Maguire (Washington, DC, 1997), p. 72.

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the image of Bagrat presented below John the Baptist on his stele, the royal pendilia on his crown on the donation panel, and the inscription ranking him as king on the pier niche emphasized the legitimacy of his royal status in a local context. As mentioned above, a nuanced reading of this emphasized the presentation of royal legitimacy, dependent upon an understanding of the ideologies underpinning local royal authority. We have now to turn to more distant sources to find its roots in early medieval Georgian history. During their conflicts with the Roman and Byzantine empires, Sassanian Iran had established their hegemony over the eastern Georgian kingdom (K’artl’i) and over the course of 150 years they abolished indigenous kingship (c.580). To build stronger alliances along the eastern frontier, the Byzantine Emperor bestowed the rank of kuropalates upon the first of several “presiding princes” to administer eastern Georgia. From this time onwards the heads of the ruling princely dynasty were usually ranked kuropalates.50 Following the Arab occupation of eastern Georgia in the second half of the 7th century the decentralized state was divided into many small administrative-political units whose rulers vied with each other for power and land in order to extend and demonstrate their legitimacy over their rivals. The greatest success was achieved by the Bagrationi dynasty that migrated to the southwest and created the kingdom of Tao-Klarjet’i located in close proximity to Byzantium. During the 9th century internal problems among the Arabs enabled these nobles to regroup, enabling a branch of the Bagrationi family to monopolize the position of “presiding princes” with the support of Byzantium and re-establish local kingship in 888. Despite the revitalization of the monarchy, the Bagrationi dynasty failed to maintain the integrity of their kingdom. They established two separate branches: Tao and Klarjet’i, which frequently struggled with each other and neighbouring rulers. The branch of Tao itself was also split between the rulers of Upper and Lower Tao and a line of kuropalates and a line of kings. Inside the Georgian political hierarchy, the king of ‘the Kartvelians’ (Georgians) was regarded as the head of the Bagrationi dynasty. The ‘Kartvelian Kings’ claimed the right to be the legal heirs to the kings and “presiding princes” of K’artl’i. In Byzantium, on the contrary, the current kuropalates was regarded as superior to the ‘Kartvelian Kings’. The Empire skilfully manipulated the court

50

See Leri Tavadze, “Title of Kourapalates in Tao-Klrjeti Bagrationi Royal House (Political Situation of Kartvelian Kingdom in the 9th–10th Centuries),” in Proceedings of the Institute of Georgian History, Iv. Javakhishvili Tbilisi State University, Special issue: To the Splendid Hermitage Places of Klarjeti (Tbilisi, 2012), pp. 67–68.

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titles and consistently refused to grant a high concentration of power into the hands of members of the dynasty.51 Weaving together this historical background with the political iconography of the donation panel demonstrates that the consolidation of local power by the brothers was most certainly achieved with the help of Nikephoros Phokas in recognition of their significant military and political services. After Nikephoros’ ascent to the throne, their close link to the imperial court and the emperor’s personal support encouraged the regional rulers to conceptualize a model of kingship that utilized the symbols of the imperial hereditary model of royal authority. The struggles of supremacy between the separate branches inside the family must have required a more forceful presentation of legitimacy through visual and textual means. The image of Bagrat presented below John the Baptist on his stele, the royal pendilia on his crown on the donation panel, and the inscription ranking him as king on the pier niche reconnected the dynasty with the past monarchy and visualized the declaration of legitimate Georgian kingship. The image of Bagrat presented below John the Baptist on his stele underlined his hereditary legitimacy already documented on the church walls. At the same time the Bagrat-Baptist group’s arrangement on Christ’s left side on the donation panel nevertheless recognizes his subordinate position in the Byzantine hierarchy. After the death of his brother in 966, Davit was a sole ruler and his growing military success and self-confidence required a different visual expression of his ambition. Following the new political iconography of the imperial court, his stele thus presented a different concept of rulership that proclaimed the role of the fighting man whose royal legitimacy was emphasized through images of the True Cross and the Virgin. It cannot have been a coincidence that the new concept of imperial rule presented on Davit’s stele emerged alongside the growing political desire for the unification of the various kingdoms of Georgia under one rule. Internal problems in Byzantium arising after the death of John I Tzimiskes in 976 ensured Davit’s international prestige, especially after he supported Basil II (975–1025) during the rebellion of Bardas Skleros in 976–979.52 51

52

For the restoration of the Georgian kingship and the Byzantine political manoeuvres in Georgian princedoms see Mariam Lordkipanidze and Zurab Papaskiri, “‘Axali samefo samtavroebis carmoqmna saqartveloshi da mati adgili saertashoriso urtiertobebshi’, Sashinao diplomatia (IXs. da Xs-is I naxevarshi),” [Emergence of New Princedoms in Georgia and Their Place in International Relations. Internal Diplomacy (9th–first quarter of the 10th century), in Essays on the History of Georgian Diplomacy (Tbilisi, 1998), pp. 191–193; Tavadze, “Title of Kourapalates in Tao-Klrjeti”, pp. 71–93. The 12,000 soldiers provided by Davit turned the tide in Basil’s favor, for which he was entrusted with several Byzantine territories in far eastern Anatolia. See Stephen H. Rapp,

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Having no children of his own, Davit adopted his kinsman, the young prince Bagrat, heir to the Bagrationi throne of eastern Georgian kingdom, and occupied K’artl’I for his foster son in 976.53 In this context, it is apparent why the textual references to Davit’s rank on the stele exclude his Byzantine title; a careful orchestration of text and image underlined his royal claim within the Georgian political hierarchy as well as his growing international ambition. Summary Here, the donor images on the stelae from Saint John the Baptist church in Oshki have been examined as a system of symbols that were transferred and reused in different political and artistic contexts. While drawing on concepts of power developed in contemporary Byzantine sources and imitating the imperial medium of ivories, it is clear that the local Georgian rulers preferred to use relief carvings that showcased the skills of local masters. This intermedia exchange may bear further significance; as mentioned, the images on the Oshki stelae evoke 6th to 7th century medieval Georgian stelae-crosses produced during a period where ‘presiding princes’ ruled, after the monarchy in eastern Georgia was dismantled. The stone stelae-crosses from this period contained elements of power imagery and acted as public monuments, mirroring contemporary political and social structures. The Georgian feudal nobility erected the stelae as votive monuments, and displays of their social prestige and place in the feudal hierarchy.54 In this context the donor images carved on the Oshki stelae, accumulated multiple layers of meaning and can be regarded as political messages sent to invoke the memory of the predecessors, to legitimize the claim of the Oshki donors as the legal heirs of the kings and ‘presiding princes’ of the Eastern Georgian Monarchy.

53

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Jr. Caucasia and the Second Byzantine Commonwealth: Byzantinization in the Context of Regional Coherence (An NCEEER working paper, University of Washington, 2012), p. 5. Davit’s adoptive son Bagrat could claim K’artl’i through his father, the western kingdom of Abkhazia through his mother and the southwestern lands of Tao-Klarjet’i through Davit. In 1008 Bagrat was enthroned as the first all-Georgian king. See Rapp, Caucasia and the Second Byzantine Commonwealth, p. 6, with further references. Kitty Machabeli, “Early Medieval Stelae in Georgia in the Context of East Christian Art,” in Ancient Christianity in the Caucasus, ed. T. Mgaloblishvili (London, 1998), pp. 83–96; Machabeli, Early Medieval, p. 32.

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Bibliography Abuladze, I., ed. Zveli qartuli agiografiuli literaturis zeglebi, 1 [Monuments of Ancient Georgian Hagiographical Literature] (Tbilisi, 1963). Aladashvili, Natela, Monumental’naya Skul’ptura Gruzii [The Monumental Sculpture of Georgia] (Moscow, 1977). Aladashvili, Natela, “Oshkis tazris ‘vedrebis’ reliefi da misi mimarteba bizantiur skulpturastan,” [Deesis Relief from Oshki and its Relation to the Byzantine Sculpture], Georgian Antiquities 4–5 (2003), 63–76. Aladashvili, Natela, “Oshkis tazris (Xs-is II nax.) skulpturuli dekori da misi programis damokidebuleba monastris tanadroul istoriul vitarebastan,” [Sculptural Decoration of the Oshki Church and Relations of its Programme to the Contemporary Historical Situation], Academia. Journal of Human Sciences 6–7 (2006), 35–40. Bouras, Laskarina, “The Reliquary Cross of Leo Domestikos tes Dyses,” in Byzantium and the Classical Tradition, ed. M. Mullett and R. Scott (Birmingham, 1981), pp. 178–87. Chubinashvili, Giorgi, Gruzinskoe Chekannoe Iskusstvo [Georgian Repoussé Work] (Tbilisi, 1959). Djobadze, Wachtang, “The Donor Reliefs and The Date of the Church at Ošhki,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 69 (1976), 39–62. Djobadze, Wachtang, “Observations on the Architectural Sculpture of Tao-Klarjeti. Churches Around One Thousand A.D.,” in Studien zur spätantiken und byzantinischen Kunst. F.W. Deichman gewidmet, ed. O. Feld and U. Peshlow, 2 (Bonn, 1986), pp. 81–100. Djobadze, Wachtang, “Four Deesis Themes in the Church of Ošhki,” Oriens Christianus 72 (1988), 168–82. Djobadze, Wachtang, Early Medieval Georgian Monasteries in Historic Tao, Klarjet’i and Ṧavšhet’i (Stuttgart, 1992). Eastmond, Antony, Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia (University Park, PA, 1998). Eastmond, Antony, and Lynn Jones, “Robing, Power, and Legitimacy in Armenia and Georgia,” in Robes and Honor. The Medieval World in Investiture, ed. S. Gordon (New York, 2001), pp. 173–77. Foss, Clive, “Pilgrimage in Medieval Asia Minor,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 56 (2002), 129–51. Garrood, William, “The Byzantine Conquest of Cilicia and the Hamdanids of Aleppo, 959–965,” Anatolian Studies 58 (2008), 127–40. Giviashvili, Irene, and Irakli Koplatadze, Tao-Klarjeti (Tbilisi, 2004). Grabar, Andre, “La précieuse croix de la Lavra de Saint–Athanase au Mont-Athos,” Cahiers Archeologiques 19 (1969), 99–125.

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Haldon, John, Warfare, State and Society in the Byzantine World, 565–1204 (London, 1999). James, Liz, “Bearing Gifts from the East: Imperial Relic Hunters Abroad,” in Eastern Approaches to Byzantium. Papers from the Thirty-third Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, ed. Antony Eastmond (Aldershot, 2001), pp. 119–32. Kalavrezou, Ioli, “Helping Hands for the Empire: Imperial Ceremonies and the Cult of Relics at the Byzantine Court,” in Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204, ed. H. Maguire (Washington, DC, 1997), pp. 53–79. Kalavrezou, Ioli, “The Harbaville Triptych,” in The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D.843–1261, ed. Helen Evans and William D. Wixom (New York, 1997), pp. 133–34, cat. 80. Kekelidze, Korneli, Atonis literaturuli skolis istoriidan [From the History of the Literary School of Athos], 2nd rev. ed., in Iveroni-1000 [Iviron-1000] (Tbilisi, 1983). Khoshtaria, David, Klarjetis eklesiebi da monastrebi [Churches and Monasteries in Klarjeti] (Tbilisi, 2005). Khuskivadze, Leila, “Oshkis skulpturul vedrebata taviseburebis shesaxeb” [On the Peculiarities of Sculptural Deesis in Oshki], Georgian Antiquities 3 (2003), 59–83. Klein, Holger, “Sacred Relics and Imperial Ceremonies at the Great Palace of Constantinople,” in Visualisierung von Herrschaft, ed. F.A. Bauer, BYZAS 5 (2006), pp. 79–99. Kopaliani, Vasili, Saqartvelos da bizantiis politikuri urtiertoba 970–1070 clebshi [Political Relations of Georgia and Byzantium in 970–1070] (Tbilisi, 1969). Lang, D.M., ed./trans., The Lives and Legends of the Georgian Saints, 2nd rev. ed. (New York, 1976). Lordkipanidze, Mariam, and Zurab Papaskiri, “‘Axali samefo samtavroebis carmoqmna saqartveloshi da mati adgili saertashoriso urtiertobebshi’, Sashinao diplomatia (IXs. da Xs-is I naxevarshi),” [Emergence of New Princedoms in Georgia and Their Place in International Relations. Internal Diplomacy (9th–first quarter of the 10th century), in Essays on the History of Georgian Diplomacy (Tbilisi, 1998), pp. 191–93. Machabeli, Kitty, “Early Medieval Stelae in Georgia in the Context of East Christian Art,” in Ancient Christianity in the Caucasus, ed. T. Mgaloblishvili (London, 1998), pp. 83–96. Machabeli, Kitty, Adreuli shua saukeneebis qartuli qvajvrebi [Early Medieval Georgian Stone Crosses] (Tbilisi, 2008). Makrypoulias, Christos G., “Byzantine Expeditions against the Emirate of Crete c. 825– 949,” in Proceedings of the Sixth International Congress of Graeco-Oriental and African studies, ed. V. Christides and T. Papadopoullos, Graeco-Arabica 7–8 (1999– 2000), 347–62. Markopoulos, Athanasios, “Constantine the Great in Macedonian Historiography. Models and Approaches,” in New Constantines: The Rhythm of Imperial Renewal in Byzantium, 4th–13th Centuries, ed. P. Magdalino (Aldershot, 1994), pp. 159–70.

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Markopoulos, Athanasios, “Roman Antiquarianism: Aspects of the Roman Past in the Middle Byzantine Period (9th–11th centuries),” in Proceedings of the 21st International Congress of Byzantine Studies, ed. Elizabeth Jeffreys (London, 2006), pp. 177–97. McCormick, Michael, Eternal Victory: Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium and the Early Medieval West (New York, 1986). Metreveli, Elene, Narkvevebi atonis kulturul-saganmanatleblo keris istoriidan [Essays on the History of the Cultural-Historical Center at Athos] (Tbilisi, 1996). Morris, Rosemary, “The Two Faces of Nikephoros Phokas,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 12, no. 1 (1988), 83–116. Morris, Rosemary, Monks and Laymen in Byzantium, 843–1118 (Cambridge, 2002). Nelson, Robert S., “‘And So, With the Help of God’: The Byzantine Art of War in the Tenth Century,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 65–66 (2011–12), 169–91. Oikonomides, Nikolaos, “The Concept of ‘Holy War’ and Two Tenth-Century Byzantine Ivories,” in Peace and War in Byzantium. Essays in Honor of George T. Dennis, ed. Thomas S. Miller and John Nesbitt (Washington, DC, 1995), pp. 62–86. Pentcheva, Bissera V., Icons and Power: The Mother of God in Byzantium (University Park, PA, 2006). Pentcheva, Bissera V., “Containers of Power: Eunuchs and Reliquaries in Byzantium,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 51 (Spring 2007), 108–20. Piguet-Panayotova, Dora, “The Church of Ošhk’i. Architectonics and Ornaments,” Oriens Christianus 86 (2002), 103–44. Piguet-Panayotova, Dora, “The Church of Ošhk’i. Architectonics and Ornaments,” Oriens Christianus 87 (2003), 175–219. Rapp, Stephen H. Jr. Caucasia and the Second Byzantine Commonwealth: Byzantinization in the Context of Regional Coherence (An NCEEER working paper, University of Washington, 2012). Sheviakova, Tatiana, Monumentalnaia Zhivopis’ Rannego Srednevekovia Gruzii [Early Medieval Georgian Monumental Painting] (Tbilisi, 1983). Silogava, Valeri, Oshki 10s. memorialuri tazari [Oshki, 10th-c. Memorial Church] (Tbilisi, 2006). Silogava, Valeri and Kakha Shengelia. Tao-Klarjeti (Tbilisi, 2006). Simonishvili, Nino, “Images of Identity at the Crossroads: A Comparative Study of Medieval Georgia,” Center 29 (2009), 129–31. Simonishvili, Nino, “Syncretism of Royal Images in Medieval Georgia: The Sculpted Program of the Church of Saint John the Baptist in Oshki (963–976),” in Medieval Eurabia: Religious Crosspollinations in Architecture. Art and Material Culture during the High and Late Middle Ages (1000–1600), ed. Sami Luigi de Giosa and Mikolaos Vryzdis (forthcoming).

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Sullivan, Denis F., “Siege Warfare, Nikephoros II Phokas, Relics and Personal Piety,” in Byzantine Religious Culture. Studies in Honor of Alice-Mary Talbot, ed. Denis F. Sullivan, Elizabeth A. Fisher, and Stratis Papaioannou (Leiden, 2011), pp. 395–409. Takaishvili, Ekvtime, 1917 clis arqeologiuri eqspedicia samxret saqartveloshi [The Archaeological Expedition of 1917 to the Southern Provinces of Georgia] (Tbilisi, 1960). Talbot, A.M., and D.F. Sullivan, ed./trans., The History of Leo the Deacon. Byzantine Military Expansion in the Tenth Century (Washington, DC, 2005). Tavadze, Leri, “Title of Kourapalates in Tao-Klrjeti Bagrationi Royal House (Political Situation of Kartvelian Kingdom in the 9th–10th Centuries),” in Proceedings of the Institute of Georgian History, Iv. Javakhishvili Tbilisi State University, Special issue: To the Splendid Hermitage Places of Klarjeti (Tbilisi, 2012), pp. 63–100. Thierry, Nicole, “Un portrait de Jean Tzimiskese en Cappadoce,” Travaux et Momoires 9 (1985), 477–84. Thomas, John, and Angela Constantinides Hero with Giles Constable, eds., Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’ Typika and Testaments (Washington, DC, 2000). Walter, Christopher, “Two Notes on the Deesis,” Revue des Etudes Byzantines 26 (1968), 311–36. Winfield, David, “Some Early Medieval Figure Sculpture from North-East Turkey,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 31 (1968), 38–57. Withow, Mark, The Making of Byzantium, 600–1025 (Berkeley, CA, 1996).

Chapter 9

Abul-Abbas and All That: Visual Dynamics between the Caliphate, Italy and the West in the Age of Charlemagne John Mitchell Introduction1 For the past century there has been a shadowy elephant, or rather several elephants, in the rooms of the visual arts in Carolingian Francia, in 8th-century Lombard Italy, and even in Anglo-Saxon England. These beasts are the elusive exterior others that students have invoked to explain dramatic developments in the visual arts in Anglo-Saxon England and Lombard Italy, and subsequently the extraordinarily inventive outputs of workshops and scriptoria serving elite institutions and patrons in Carolingian Francia. One contributing factor was the visual heritage of the late Roman Christian empire, which furnished patterns for controlling cultural strategies in the ambitious new European polities north and south of the Alps – movements that have sometimes been referred to as renaissances. Arguments also have been made for the impact of Coptic practice on the arts of early medieval western Europe, although never through to general conviction;2 Byzantium has long been seen as having provided a resource and pattern for artists and patrons throughout the early medieval West.3 Good cases have been made for the 1 For help of various kinds with this paper, my thanks to Basema Hamarneh, Richard Hodges, Thomas Kind, Marcus Ritter, Efthymios Rizos, Hiltrud Westermann Angerhausen, and especially to Bea Leal. 2 Coptic: Ernst Kitzinger, “Anglo-Saxon Vine-scroll Ornament,” Antiquity 37 (1936), 67–71; Harry Bober, “On the Illumination of the Glazier Codex – a Contribution to Early Coptic Art and its Relation to Hiberno-Saxon Interlace,” in Homage to a Bookman: Essays on Manuscripts, Books and Printing. Written for Hans P. Kraus on his 60th Birthday, ed. H. Lehmann-Haupt (Berlin, 1967), pp. 31–49; Martin Werner, “The Madonna and Child Miniature in the Book of Kells, Part I,” Art Bulletin 64, no. 1 (1972), 1–23; Martin Werner, “The Madonna and Child Miniature in the Book of Kells – Part II,” Art Bulletin 64, no. 2 (1972), 129–39. Contra: Joseph Raftery, “Ex oriente …,” JRSAI 95, no. 1–2 (1965), 193–204. 3 Otto Demus, Byzantine Art and the West (London, 1970).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004501904_013

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impact of contemporary Byzantine practice on painting in papal Rome in the 7th and early 8th centuries and in Lombard courtly circles in the mid-8th century. Similarly in the Vienna Coronation Gospels, produced for Charlemagne’s court sometime around 800, the evangelist portraits are hard to account for without a direct Byzantine exemplar – an antecedent of the early 10th-century gospel book preserved in the Stavronikta monastery on Mount Athos.4 Nonetheless, despite numerous recorded diplomatic contacts between Constantinople and western courts, and the documented presence in the west of Byzantine luxury wares like silken fabrics, there is little direct material evidence for the widespread influence of Byzantine artistic practice on western European visual culture in this period.5 The almost complete absence of surviving Byzantine painting, book illumination, and glyptic art from the later 8th and early 9th centuries has not helped the situation. It is telling that Otto Demus, in the chapter on Carolingian art in his survey of Byzantine impact on the West in the Middle Ages does not illustrate a single direct comparison between contemporary Carolingian and Byzantine works.6 Here, it is noteworthy that the Islamic (Umayyad and Abbasid) caliphate has never figured large among these contributing influences on the visual arts of the early medieval West. However, alongside Byzantium, it was the other significant political and cultural force in the eastern Mediterranean, and by around 700 the Arab courts were commissioning architecture and art to rival anything in Byzantium and western Europe.

4 Rome: Per Jonas Nordhagen, “Italo-Byzantine Wall-painting of the Early Middle Ages. An 80-year Old Enigma in Scholarship,” in Per Jonas Nordhagen, Studies in Byzantine and Early Medieval Painting (London, 1990), pp. 138–45; John Osborne, Rome in the Eighth Century. A History in Art (Cambridge, 2020). Lombard Italy: Hjalmar Tjorp, “Il Problema della decorazione originaria del Tempietto Longobardo di Cividale del Friuli,” Quaderni della Famiglia Artisti Cattolici Ellero 18 (1959), 1–47; Hjalmar Tjorp, “Lo sfondo storico-iconografico dell’immagine di Cristo nel Tempietto Longobardo di Cividale,” Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia 28 (2015), 73–93. For 9th-century developments, see e.g., Vienna Coronation Gospels: Vienna, Schatzkammer, Inv. XIII 18, fols. 15r, 76v, 117v, 178v: Wilhelm Köhler, Die karolingischen Miniaturen III. Die Gruppe des Wiener Krönungsevangeliars. Metzer Handscriften (Berlin, 1961), pls. 18, 20, 22, 24; Sabine Haag and Franz Kirchweger, eds., Das Krönungsevangeliar des heiligen römichen Reiches (Vienna, 2014), pls. 17, 20, 22, 24; Stavronikita, MS 43, fols. 10v, 11a, 12v, 13r: Stylianos Pelekanides, Hoi Thesauroi tou Hagiou Orous – The Treasures of Mount Athos 4 (Athens, 1991), pls. 348–49, 352–53. 5 Michael McCormick, Origins of the European Economy: Communications and Commerce AD 300–900 (Cambridge, 2001), pp. 852–72. 6 Demus, Byzantine Art, pp. 50–78.

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Contacts with the Caliphate

In 802, an elephant arrived at Aachen, Abul-Abbas, a spectacular gift for Charlemagne from the Abbasid Caliph, Harun al-Rashid.7 Was this elephant an isolated luxury item, a rare diplomatic gift, or did it form part of a wider engagement with the material culture of the Arab caliphate? Contacts between the western and south-eastern Mediterranean were, to a degree, open in the later 7th and 8th centuries, and Michael McCormick has documented over 50 cases of contact between the 7th and 10th centuries, the majority diplomatic or ecclesiastical, with many involving pilgrimage.8 Direct references to trade are very few, although it is likely that the majority of ships making passage between western Europe and the caliphate were engaged in trading operations, and that pilgrims and churchmen on official missions regularly travelled on merchant ships.9 The Anglo-Saxon monk, Willibald, provides the most dramatic example of travel in the Arab Near East in the period. During 724–27, he travelled freely in the caliphate, visiting Jerusalem, Damascus and other cities multiple times.10 In her account of his life and travels, Huneberc, who had it from Willibald himself, describes how at Tartus, on the Syrian coast, an old man told him and his companions that he had “often seen men coming from those parts of the world, fellow countrymen of theirs.”11 Willibald was exceptionally well-travelled, but not unique in an age of surprising mobility. Indeed, there is evidence for trade connections, at least in specialised goods, between the Islamic south-eastern Mediterranean and the West in the first half of the 8th century.12 Bede, on his deathbed in Northumbria, famously distributed pepper and incense from his casket to the priests of Jarrow.13 Pepper, cinnamon, ginger, and costus from India, and balsam and incense from southern 7

8 9 10

11 12 13

For Abul-Abbas, see Einhard, Vita Caroli 16, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, MGH SRG 25 (Hanover, 1911), pp. 19–20; Lawrence Nees, “Charlemagne’s elephant,” Quintana: Rivista do Departamento de Historia de Arte, Universidade de Santiago de Compostela 5 (2006), 13–49. McCormick, Origins, pp. 852–972. Ibid., pp. 237–44, 270–77. Huneberc of Heidenheim, Vitae Willibaldi Eischstetensis, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, MGH, SS 15/1 (Hanover, 1887), pp. 86–106; Thomas F.X. Noble and Thomas Head, eds., Soldiers of Christ. Saints and Saints’ Lives from Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (London, 1995), pp. 141–64; McCormick, Origins, pp. 129–34. Noble and Head, Soldiers of Christ, pp. 152–3. McCormick, Origins, pp. 237–44, 618–38. Bede, De obitu Baedae, ed. Charles Plummer, Venerabilis Baedae Opera Historica (Oxford, 1896), pp. lxxvi, clxiii.

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Arabia and the Horn of Africa, are known to have been available in elite circles throughout the West in the 8th century, and their availability seems to have increased in the following century.14 Incense played a major role in the enhanced dramatization of the liturgy of the Carolingian Church,15 and there seems little doubt that incense and the other spices were imported via the caliphate.16 Similarly, textiles, particularly silks, were inordinately prized in Italy and north-western Europe, and imported in great quantity from the eastern Mediterranean, from Byzantium and probably in even greater amounts from the caliphate.17 In the same vein, McCormick has tracked the trajectories of relic-assemblages at Sens and Chelles in the Merovingian and Carolingian periods and demonstrated how relics obtained from the caliphate (the Holy Land, Egypt, and Iraq), increased steadily over this period, in contrast to declining acquisitions from Italy and Byzantium.18 Similarly, documentary reference to, and deposits of, Arab coins in Europe provide a picture of tangible connections and transactions across the Mediterranean.19

Architectural and Artistic Contacts

Given the evidence for the movement of individuals and commodities between the Arab Near East and Italy and beyond in the later 7th and 9th centuries, the question arises, did these communications have an impact on architectural and artistic practice? There is a range of parallels between visual cultural production in western Europe and the Islamic Near East in this period that suggest that Arab practice may have been drawn on for imitation in the West. 14 15

16 17 18 19

Friedrich August Flückiger and Daniel Hanbury, Pharmocographia. A History of the Principal Drugs of Vegetable Origin met with in Great Britain and British India (London, 1879), p. 522; Plummer, Venerabilis Baedae, p. lxxvi n. 2; McCormick, Origins, pp. 708–19. Josef A. Jungmann, Missarium Sollemnia. Eine genetische Erklärung der römischen Messe (Freiburg, 1962), 1:98–122; Cyrille Vogel, “La réforme liturgique sous Charlemagne,” in Karl der Grosse, Lebenswerk und Nachleben, 2: Das geistige Leben, ed. Bernhard Bischoff (Düsseldorf, 1965), pp. 217–32; McCormick, Origins, pp. 716–9; Hiltrud WestermannAngerhausen, Mittelalterliche Weihrauchfässer von 800 bis 1500 (Petersberg, 2014), pp. 38–41. For the Arab incense trade, see Sterenn Le Maguer, “The Incense Trade in the Islamic Period,” Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 45 (2015), 175–84. McCormick, Origins, pp. 620, 718. For production regions of spices, see Lionel Casson, The Periplus Maris Erythraei (Princeton, NJ, 1989). McCormick, Origins, pp. 719–28. Ibid., pp. 283–318, esp. pp. 314–8. Ibid., pp. 319–87.

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One possible index of communication is the phenomenon of the palace chapel, a place of worship incorporated into the design of a palace complex. The custom of embedding a mosque near the residential apartments in Umayyad palaces, established by the 8th century, may have influenced a similar development in western courts. Such mosques are preserved at Kufah, Qasr al-Hayr alSharqi, Anjar, Khirbat al-Minya, Khirbat al-Mafjar, Mshatta, Amman, Harran, and Ukhaydir.20 Although various churches and chapels are recorded at the imperial palace in Constantinople from the 5th century, and churches are documented around royal and elite residences in eastern Byzantine and European centres between the 4th and 7th centuries,21 in western Europe the embedded palace chapel seems to have become a regular feature of royal and princely residences only in the 8th century in Lombard Italy. Paul the Deacon mentions a chapel dedicated to the Saviour at Liutprand’s (712–44) palace in Pavia, and a church dedicated to St Anastasius at his summer palace at Corteolona, while the so-called Tempietto Longobardo at Cividale, from the 750s, is thought to have served a similar function for the gastald, the king’s representative. In the southern Lombard duchy, Arechis II (756–87) built a chapel dedicated to the Saviour in the palace at Benevento, and subsequently incorporated an upperlevel chapel, now San Pietro a Corte, into his new palace-complex at Salerno.22 20

21

22

K.A. Cameron Creswell, Early Muslim Architecture, 1, pt. 1–2: Umayyads A.D. 622–750, rev. ed. (Oxford, 1969), 1.1:fig. 14 (Kufah); 1.2:figs 569, 576 (Qasr al-Hayr al-Sharqi); Barbara Finster, “Researches in Anjar: 1. Preliminary Report on the Architecture of Anjar,” Bulletin d’Archéologie et d’Architecture Libanaises 7 (2003), 209–44, figs. 1, 11, 23–24; Creswell, Early Muslim Architecture, 1.2:fig. 540 (Anjar); fig. 448 (Khirbat al-Minya); fig. 629; R.W. Hamilton, Khirbat al Mafjar (Oxford, 1959), pl. CIX (Khirbat al-Mafjar); Creswell, Early Muslim Architecture, 1.2:fig. 630 (Mschatta); fig. 688 (Harran). R. Janin, Géographie écclesiastique de l’empire byzantin 1(3). Le siège de Constantinople et le patriarcat œcuménique, 3: Les églises et les monastères (Paris, 1969), pp. 232–6 (Theotokos of the Pharos); pp. 413–15 (John the Baptist at the Hebdomon); pp. 161–71 (Theotokos of the Blachernae). Pavia: Paul The Deacon, Pauli Historia Langobardorum 6.58, ed. Ludwig Bethmann and Georg Waitz, MGH, SS 3/48 (Hanover, 1878), p. 86. Corteolona: Ibid., pp. 185–86; Cate Calderini, “Il palazzo di Liutprando a Corteolona,” Contributi dell’Istituto di Archeologia 5 (1975), 174–203, pl. XVIII. Cividale: Hans Peter L’Orange and Hjalmar Torp, “Il Tempietto Longobardo di Cividale,” Acta ad Archaeologiam et Artium Historiam Pertinentia VII, 2 (1977), 226–29. Benevento: Hans Belting, “Studien zum beneventanischen Hof im 8. Jahrhundert,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 16 (1962), 186. Salerno: Paolo Peduto, Rosilla Fiorillo, and A. Corolla, Salerno. Una sede ducale dalla Langobardia meridionale (Spoleto, 2013); Belting, “Studien zum beneventanischen Hof,” 185–88; John Mitchell, “Artistic Patronage and Cultural Strategies in Lombard Italy,” in Towns and their Territories between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Gian Pietro Brogiolo, Nancy Gauthier, and Neil Christie (Leiden, 2000), p. 362. Gian Pietro Brogiolo argues for a tradition of Lombard palace chapels before Liutprand, in the first years of the 7th century at Monza

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Charlemagne adopted the idea at Paderborn in 775, possibly at Ingelheim, and most impressively at Aachen in the 790s, as did Louis the Pious and Louis the German at Frankfurt.23 While previous Christian courts in the West must have had access to a suitable place of worship, the provision of a chapel communicating directly with the public and residential spaces of a ruler’s palace seems to have been introduced in this period. Awareness of Arab practice could have sparked the idea. Indeed, Charlemagne’s axial station on the western gallery at Aachen may have owed something to the Arab maqsura, the caliphal box located directly in front of the mihrab, present at Damascus and possibly at Anjar from the first half of the 8th century.24 Charlemagne’s passion for bathing, his choice of Aachen with its thermal springs for his semi-permanent residence, and his habit of holding court in the water may also reflect Arab practice.25 Although the Roman tradition

23

24

25

and Verona: Gian Pietro Brogiolo, “Die Paläste der langobardischen Könige und Herzöge,” in Karl Charlemagne der Grosse. Orte der Macht. Essays, ed. Frank Pohle (Dresden, 2014), pp. 130–39. Paderborn: Sveva Gai, “Die Pfalz Karls des Großen in Paderborn,” in Stiegmann and Wemhoff, 799. Kunst und Kultur, pp. 183–96. Sveva Gai and Birgit Mecke, Est locus insignis … Die Pfalz Karls des Grossen in Paderborn und ihre bauliche Entwicklung bis zum Jahre 1002. Die Neuauswertung der Ausgrabungen Wilhelm Winkelmanns in den Jahren 1964–1978 (Mainz, 2004); Matthias Untermann, “Frühmittelalterliche Pfalzen im ostfrankischen Reich,” in The Emperor’s House. Palaces from Augustus to the Age of Absolutism, ed. Michael Featherstone, Jean-Michel Speiser, Gülru Tanman, and Ulrike Wulf-Rheidt (Berlin, 2015), pp. 114–16, fig. 6. Ingelheim: Günther Binding, Deutsche Königspfalzen von Karl dem Grossen bis Friedrich II. (765–1240) (Darmstadt, 1996), pp. 99–114; Holge Grewe, “Die Königspfalz zu Ingelheim am Rhein,” in Stiegemann and Wemhoff, 799. Kunst und Kultur, pp. 142–51. Aachen: Matthias Untermann, “‘Opere mirabili constructa’. Die Aachener ‘Residenz’ Karls des Grossen,” in Stiegermann and Wemhoff, 799. Kunst und Kultur, pp. 152–64. Frankfurt: E. Orth, “Frankfurt,” in Die Deutschen Königspfalzen, 1, Hessen, ed. Lutz Fenske and Thomas Zotz (Göttingen, 1985), pp. 160–67, fig. 19; Untermann, “Frühmittelalterliche Pfalzen,” pp. 116–18, fig. 10. Robert Hillenbrand, Islamic Architecture: Form, Function and Meaning (Edinburgh, 2000), pp. 48–53. Damascus: Finbarr Barry Flood, The Great Mosque of Damascus (Leiden, 2001), pp. 120–21, 149–55, 169–71. Anjar: Finster, “Researches in Anjar,” p. 229, figs. 23–24. Aila Santi, “Anjar in the shadow of the church? New insights on an urban experiment in the Biqā Valley”, Levant 50, no. 2 (2018), 267–80, has observed that the maqsura is a secondary feature in the mosque to Anjar; however, it could well have been inserted early, before 750, when the Umayyads were deposed from the caliphate. Einhard, Vita Caroli 22, p. 27, in Lewis Thorpe, ed., Einhard and Notker the Stammerer, Two Lives of Charlemagne (Harmondsworth, 1969), p. 77. On Charlemagne and bathing, see Horst Bredekamp, Der schwimmende Souverän. Karl der Grosse und die Bildpolitik der Körpers (Berlin, 2014), pp. 27–39. King Liutprand’s scheme to construct marble-clad thermal buildings at his summer residence at Corteolona may indicate an antecedent for this at the Lombard court: Ernst Dümmler, ed., Poetae Latini Aevi Carolini, MGH, I (Hanover,

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of steam-baths seems to have continued at the Byzantine court, and can be traced in elite ecclesiastical contexts throughout the Middle Ages, the practice generally fell into decline at the end of antiquity.26 However, the Ummayad court in the early 8th century accorded bathing a central role in the rituals of formal reception and entertainment. Palaces were regularly equipped with major baths complexes consisting of an audience hall and adjoining sauna.27 Another widespread feature pointing to common thinking and practice is the explosion of foliate ornament in the West in the later 8th and 9th centuries, particularly evident in Carolingian ivory carving and manuscript illumination, and on carved stone fittings of churches across Europe.28 Did the increasing emphasis placed on foliate imagery in the early Arab tradition influence this development?29 Furthermore, the stone chancel screens introduced across Europe in this period, particularly in central and northern Italy, are richly carved with overall abstract configurations and stylized vines, almost never with figural imagery. It is tempting to see a connection here with the Arab aniconic tradition. An interesting comparison can be made between one of the best-preserved ensembles from 9th-century Italy, in San Leone at Leprignano (Capena), Lazio, and the qibla wall of the 8th-century mosque at al-Fudayn, Mafraq, in northern Jordan, covered with densely worked stucco.30 There are some individual survivals which may point in the same direction. The unique round towers around the great hemicycle of Charlemagne’s palace at Ingelheim recall the convention of articulating elite settlements with

26 27 28

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1881), p. 106; Calderini, “Il palazzo di Liutprando,” pp. 178–9; Brogiolo, “Die Paläste,” p. 138. The remains of a steam bath from the third quarter of the 8th century has been found at the Lombard royal monastery of San Salvatore/Santa Giulia in Brescia: Gian Pietro Brogiolo, “Dalla corte regia al monastero di San Salvatore. Le sequenze di scavo,” in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 487–8, figs. 47–8. Bryan Ward-Perkins, From Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages: Urban Public Building in Northern and Central Italy AD 300–850 (Oxford, 1984), pp. 135–41. F. Yegül, Baths and Bathing in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge, MA, 1992), pp. 339–49. Carolingian ivory carving: Adolph Goldschmidt, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen aus der Zeit der karolingischen und sächsischen Kaiser, 1 (Berlin, 1914); manuscript illumination: Wilhelm Köhler and Florentine Mütherich, Die karolingischen Miniaturen, 8 vols. (Berlin, 1933– 2013); sanctuary screens: Corpus della scultura altomedioevale (Spoleto, 1959–). Oleg Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament (Princeton, NJ, 1992). Leprignano: Josalita Raspi Serra, “Le Diocesi dell’alto Lazio: Bagnoregio, Bomarzo, Castro, Civita Castellana, Nepi, Orte, Sutri, Tuscania,” Corpus della scultura altomedievale 8 (Spoleto, 1974), pp. 154–56, pl. CXXX, fig. 210. Al-Fudayn: Abdemajeed Rjoub and alHousan Abdelqader, “Architecture of Heritage Mosques in Mafraq Province,” International Journal of Architectural Heritage 7, no. 4 (2013), p. 468, figs. 6–7; Bea Leal, “Non-figural Wall Painting in the Early Islamic Period,” in Marazzi and Cuomo, La pittura parietale aniconica e decorative, fig. 9.

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half-round engaged towers – not so much defensive as demonstrative – at sites like Anjar, Qasr al-Hayr al Gharbi, and Mschatta, in the Umayyad regions.31 A water conduit which runs under three towers at Ingelheim suggests that these may have served as latrines, as was sometimes the case at the Arab palaces.32 Another possibly diagnostic feature of a very different kind is the gilt bronze monumental inscription used widely in the Roman world, but abandoned after the early 4th century in Rome, and the 5th century in Constantinople. The principal instances of gilded metal dedicatory inscriptions in the West, between late antiquity and the mid-16th century, occur in the southern Lombard principality at Salerno, and the monastery of San Vincenzo al Volturno in the late 8th and early 9th century, and then north of the Alps at the monastery of Corvey.33 However, the type was also revived in the Umayyad caliphate, where the setting for a gilt-bronze dedicatory inscription, dated to 109 (727 AD), is preserved on the lintel of a structure identified as a caravanserai, at Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi.34 This could be an instance of a particular classical revival, introduced in the Arab Near East, subsequently picked up in the southern Lombard principality, at a time when emergent polities across the Mediterranean world and northern Europe were looking to Roman example to create new visual languages in a climate of intensely competitive state formation. In the same vein, the rectangular dedicatory inscription which Abbot Ceolfrith set up in 685 at his new church of St Paul at Jarrow, is anomalous within western Europe but does have parallels in Umayyad dedicatory 31

32 33

34

Anjar: Creswell, Early Muslim Architecture, 1.2: fig. 540; Robert Hillenbrand, “Anjar and Early Islamic Urbanism,” in The Idea and ideal of the Town between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Gian Pietro Brogiolo and Bryan Ward-Perkins (Leiden, 1999), pp. 59–98, figs. 1–3. Qasr al Hayr al-Sharqi and Mschatta: Creswell, Early Muslim Architecture, 1.2: figs. 569, 630, pls. 92, 118d; Johannes Cramer, Barbara Perlich, and Günther Schauerte, Qasr al-Mschatta: Ein frühislamische Palast in Jordanien und Berlin, 1 (Petersberg, 2016), figs. 2, 13, 47, 59, passim. Ingelheim: Binding, Deutsche Königspfalzen, pp. 109–11, fig. 15; Grewe, “Die Königspfalz zu Ingelheim,” pp. 147–48, fig. 2. Desert palaces (e.g., Mschatta): Cramer, et al. Qasr alMschatta, 1:119–30. John Mitchell “Literacy Displayed: The Use of Inscriptions at the Monastery of San Vincenzo al Volturno in the Early Ninth Century,” in The Uses of Literacy in Early Medieval Europe, ed. Rosamond McKitterick (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 205–15; John Mitchell and Inge Lyse Hansen, San Vincenzo al Volturno, 3: The Finds from the 1980–86 Excavations (Spoleto, 2001), pp. 39–40, 43–50, figs. 2:14–39. Markus Ritter, “Umayyad Foundation Inscriptions and the Inscription of al-Walid from Khirbat al-Minyah: Text, Usage, Visual Form,” in Khirbat al-Minya: der Umayyadenpalast am See Genesareth, ed. Hans-Peter Kuhnen (Rahden, 2016), pp. 68, 70, 78, cat. 13. See Creswell, Early Muslim Architecture, 1.2: 506–7, pl. 85c; Daniel Schlumberger, Qasr el-Heir el Gharbi (Paris, 1986), pl. 49d.

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inscriptions.35 Similarly, the Umayyad practice of marking entrances with double- or triple-engaged half-colonnettes may be reflected at Jarrow’s sister foundation, Monkwearmouth. There the paired balusters flanking the western porticus of the 7th-century church of St Peter find analogues in the main entrance and internal doors of the early 8th-century rural palatial complex, Qasr al-Walid, south of Amman (Fig. 9.1a–b).36 In the light of these architectural correlates, we can now turn to consider the possible transmission between the Near East and the western Mediterranean of some particular material practices and motifs: gypsum stucco, marbling, and painted compositions.

Gypsum Stucco

Gypsum stucco presents a tangible point of contact between Arab and western architectural embellishment. Initially used in Sassanian Persia, stucco became a stock medium of Umayyad practice.37 In the later 8th century it was widely deployed in Lombard northern Italy, essentially a new technology, and subsequently was adopted by Carolingian craftsmen and patrons.38 A strong case has been made for Umayyad usage, best preserved at Khirbat al-Mafjar, inspiring the sophisticated stucco embellishment at Santa Maria in Valle at Cividale, San Salvatore, Brescia, and other sites in the region.39 A comparison of the 35 36

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John Higgitt, “The Dedication Inscription at Jarrow and its Context,” Antiquaries Journal 59 (1979), 343–74, pl. 60; Ritter, “Umayyad Foundation Inscriptions.” Jacques Bujard, Denis Genequand, and Wilfried Trillen, “Umm al-Walid et Khan az-Zabib, deux établissements ommeyades en limite du desert jordanien,” in Conquête de la steppe et appropriation des tèrres sur les marges arides du Croissant fertile, ed. B. Geyer (Lyon, 2001), pp. 189–218; Denis Genequand, “Trois sites ommeyades de Jordanie centrale: Umm al-Walid, Khan al-Zabib et Qasr al-Mschatta (travaux de la Fondation Max van Berchem 1988–2000),” in Residences, Castles, Settlements, ed. Karin Bartl and Abd al-Razzaq Moaz (Rahden, 2008), pp. 125–52. Jens Kröger, Sasanidischer Stuckdekor (Mainz, 1982); Ignacio Arce, “The early Islamic stucco techniques and the Parto-Sassanian tradition,” in Lo Stucco: Cultura, Tecnologia, Conoscenza, ed. Guido Biscontin and Guido Driussi (Venice, 2001), pp. 107–23; Rina Talgam, The Stylistic Origins of Umayyad Sculpture and Architectural Decoration (Wiesbaden, 2004). Christian Sapin, ed., Le stuc: Visage oublié de l’art médiéval (Paris, 2004). Isabella Vaj, “Il tempietto di Cividale e gli stucchi omayyadi,” in Cividale Longobarda: Materiali per una rilettura archeologica, ed. Silvia Lusuardi Siena (Milan, 2002), pp. 175– 204; Bea Leal, “The Stuccoes of San Salvatore, Brescia, in their Mediterranean Context,” in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 241–43. Khirbat al-Mafjar: Hamilton, Khirbat al Mafjar.

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c

b d Figure 9.1 Architectural features: (a) Paired balusters of west portal entrance, St Peter’s, Monkwearmouth, Co. Durham. Late 7th century; (b) Paired columns, Qasr al-Walid, Jordan. 8th century; (c) Hollow stucco colonette, St Benedikt, Mals. Late 8th century; (d) Hollow stucco colonette, Little iwan, Khirbat al-Mafjar, West Bank. First half of 8th century

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hollow open-work colonettes in the late 8th-century church of San Benedikt at Mals, north of Verona, with shafts flanking the windows of the so-called ‘little iwan’ at Khirbat al-Mafjar (Fig. 9.1c–d), clearly shows the connection between the two traditions.40 Close comparisons can also be drawn between Islamic stucco decoration at Khirbat at al-Mafjar and the great entrance hall to the palace at Amman, and relief stucco-work from the oratory built at Germigny des Prés around 806 by Theodulf, bishop of Orléans.41 Here, as in Lombard north Italy, it appears that Theodulf and his craftsmen not only looked to Arab practice for the material, gypsum, and for the general idiom, but also for motifs. Marbling A similar engagement with Umayyad practice can be found in the painted imitation of polychrome marble. This is a recurring feature of the decoration of elite churches in Lombard and Carolingian Italy: already in the 760s crypt of San Salvatore, Brescia, and deployed at many other sites, to spectacular effect throughout the monastery of San Vincenzo al Volturno in the early 9th century.42 The convention was seized upon by the Frankish invaders in the 770s, and was deployed almost immediately by Abbot Fulrad, in his new ringcrypt at St-Denis (775), near Paris.43 A painted dado with panels of veined 40 41

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Mals: Nicolò Rasmo, Karolingische Kunst in Sudtirol (Bozen, 1981), pp. 45–46, 57–60, pls. 57, 84–85, cat. S1, 71–73, 90, 99; Sapin, Le stuc, p. 186, fig. 161; Leal, “The stuccoes,” pp. 230– 32, figs. 11, 13. Khirbat al-Mafjar: Hamilton, Khirbat al Mafjar, pl. LIII, 1. Germigny-des-Prés: May Vieillard-Troiekouroff, “Tables de canons et stucs carolingens,” in Stucchi e mosaic alto medioevali: Atti dell’ottavo Congresso di studi sull’arte dell’alto medioevo, 1 (Milan, 1962), pp. 154–78, fig. 21,9; Sapin, Le stuc, p. 173, fig. 146. Khirbat al-Mafjar: Hamilton, Khirbat al Mafjar, pls. LIII, 1, LXVIII, 1. Fabio Scirea, “Dipingere il marmo nella Langobardia,” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome – Moyen Âge 130, no. 1 (2018), 213–43. Brescia: Gaetano Panazza, “Gli scavi l’architettura e gli affreschi della Chiesa di S. Salvatore in Brescia,” in La Chiesa di S. Salvatore in Brescia. Atti dell’VIII Congresso di studi sull’arte dell’alto Medioevo (Verona-Venezia-Brescia, 1959) (Milano, 1962), pl. L; Gian Pietro Brogiolo, “Archeologia e architettura delle due chiese di San Salvatore,” in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 35–87, fig. 41a; Scirea, “Dipingere il marmo,” pl. 7b. San Vincenzo al Volturno: John Mitchell and Bea Leal, “Art of Many Colours: the Dados of San Vincenzo and Issues of Marbling in the Post-Roman World,” in Sodalitas: Studi in memoria di Don Faustino Avagliano, ed. Cesare Crova, Mariano Dell’Omo, and Federico Marazzi (Montecassino, 2016), pp. 721–55. Michael Wyss, “Enduits peints du haut Moyen Âge mis au jour à Saint-Denis,” in Edifices et peintures aux IV–XI siècles, ed. Christian Sapin (Auxerre, 1994), p. 66, fig. 4.

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marbling from an 8th-century phase of a church at Amay (Liège) has also been recently excavated.44 Similarly, one of the most striking characteristics of the painted decoration of the walls of the great audience halls of the Umayyad palaces is the inventive deployment of polychrome marbling. These painted schemes of decoration are preserved at Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi (constructed under Caliph Hisham in the 720s and 30s),45 Resafa,46 Balis (an early 8th-century palace on the Euphrates),47 Khirbat al-Mafjar (730s–740s),48 and at the palace hamam of Qusayr ʿAmra (built for Prince al-Walid ibn-Yazid before he acceded to the caliphate in 743).49 At Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi and at Balis the marbled dadoes extended up to above door-height, and at Khirbat al-Mafjar marbling articulated the decorative scheme of the great audience hall at various levels. Of course, an old Roman tradition of imitating polished marble in paint lies behind both the Umayyad and Lombard/Carolingian experiments. The question is whether these two traditions drew independently on ancient Roman practice or whether one provided an intermediate impetus for the other. The fact that painted marbling seems to have fallen out of favour in the West by the 6th century and the presence in both early Islamic and Lombard/Carolingian marbling of motifs which did not form part of the common early Roman repertoire, suggest that the spectacularly inventive Umayyad branch of this tradition may have impacted on the strong revival of the idiom in the west. A striking comparison can be drawn between the dadoes of the c.820 annular crypt of the principal basilica at San Vincenzo al Volturno, and one at Qusayr ʿAmra, from the 730s (Fig. 9.2a–b).50 Both are composed of elaborate rotae, spinning perspectival discs formed of concentric segmented bands, 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

Magali Souris, “Early Medieval Wall Paintings from the Collegiate Church of Amay (BE),” in Marazzi and Cuomo, La pittura parietale aniconica e decorative. Daniel Schlumberger, “Les fouilles de Qasr el-Heir el-Gharbi (1936–38),” Syria 20, fasc. 3 (1939), 195–238, pls. XXXVII,2, XXXVIII,3, XXXIX,4; Schlumberger, Qasr el-Heir el Gharbi, p. 14, pls. 56a, 57. Katharina Otto-Dorn, “Grabungen im umayyadischen Rusafah,” Ars Orientalis 2 (1957), 125– 26, pl. 2, fig. 7; Tilo Ulbert, Resafa II: die Basilka des Heiligen Kreuzes in Resafa-Sergiopolis (Mainz, 1986), p. 92, fig. 57. Thomas Leisten, “For Prince and Country(side): The Marwanid Mansion at Balis on the Euphrates,” in Bartl and Moaz, Residences, Castles, Settlements, pp. 379–80, figs. 9–13. Oleg Grabar, “The Paintings,” in Hamilton, Khirbat al-Mafjar, pp. 316–17, 319, 322, figs. 3–34, pls. XIII, LXXII, LXXIV, LXXV, XCVII. Claude Vibert-Guigue and Ghazi Bisheh, Les peintures de Qusayr ʿAmra (Beirut, 2007), pls. 22a, 23a, 24a, 26, 29, 31, 34, 53–54, 98e, 112b–e, 114a, 118, 130e. The painted walls at Qusayr ʿAmra are currently undergoing a comprehensive programme of cleaning and conservation by the Istituto Central di Restauro in Rome, gradually restoring the interior to its original magnificence.

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a

Figure 9.2 Dadoes: (a) Dado, annular crypt, San Vincenzo Maggiore, San Vincenzo al Volturno. c.820; (b) West aisle wall, reconstruction, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter of 8th century

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interspersed with dense rectangular fields of imitation opus sectile in one case, and with fictive quarter-sawn veined marbling in the other (Pl. 9.1a–b).51 Dadoes featuring painted discs above complex panels of fictive veined marbling were similarly deployed in some of the principal rooms in the contemporary desert palace at Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi.52 Here, the idiom appears to have been inherited from earlier practice in the eastern Roman provinces. A close antecedent for the scheme at Qusayr ʿAmra, from around 300, is the dado of the so-called Imperial Chamber in the Great temple of Ammon at Luxor, on the Nile.53 However, dadoes featuring large polychrome segmented discs in fictive opus sectile do not seem to have been used in the Roman west in contexts that would have been accessible to Italian artists in the 8th and 9th centuries. The masters responsible for the dadoes at San Vincenzo were probably trained in an aulic tradition of painting which originated in the southern Lombard courts at Benevento and Salerno in the later 8th century.54 To judge from the similarity of the dadoes at San Vincenzo and Qusayr ʿAmra it seems likely that this southern Lombard court art looked to late Umayyad or early Abbasid practice for ideas and some elements of its formal repertoire. A further particular point of contact is to be seen in a detail in the axial corridor of the annular crypt of San Vincenzo Maggiore, from c.820. Here the dado is composed of reticulate panels, containing elaborate trellises with superimposed diagonal rhombuses. A peculiar feature is the manner in which the main diagonal bands, white and parti-coloured red/blue, intersect, cutting through one another – as if they were two inter-slotting straps (Pl. 9.1a).55 51

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San Vincenzo: Richard Hodges and John Mitchell, The Basilica of Abbot Joshua at San Vincenzo al Volturno (Montecassino, 1996), figs. 4:2, 12–14, 16–17, 21–22, 24, 26–27, 29, 44–48; Richard Hodges, Sarah Leppard, and John Mitchell, San Vincenzo Maggiore and its Workshops (London, 2011), figs. 3.8–9, 11, 13, 16, 18, 30, 34–37, pls. 3.11–13, 19–20, 22, 33–36; Qusayr ʿAmra: Vibert-Guigue and Bisheh, Les peintures, pls. 26, 29, 31, 34, 118. Schlumberger, Qasr el-Heir el Gharbi, pl. 57a, f. Michael Jones and Susanna McFadden, Art of Empire. The Roman Frescoes and Imperial Cult Chamber in Luxor Temple (New Haven, CT, 2015), figs. 6.11–14, 20, A.1, 4. John Mitchell, “Arichis und die Künste,” in Für irdischen Ruhm und himmlischen Lohn, ed. Hans Rudolf Meier, Carola Jäggi, and Philipp Büttner (Berlin, 1995), pp. 47–64; Hodges and Mitchell, The Basilica, pp. 113–17; Hodges, et al., San Vincenzo Maggiore, pp. 88–91. Hodges and Mitchell, The Basilica, pp. 101–3, figs. 4:49–52; Hodges, et al., San Vincenzo Maggiore, pp. 77–79, 86–87, figs. 3.38–41, pls. 3.38–40; Scirea, “Dipingere il marmo,” pl. 10b. Possibly related conventions with cut, jointed bands are to be found in dadoes in Salvatore at Brescia, in the lower chamber of the tower at Torba, and in the so-called ‘aula biabsidata’ on the Isola Comacina, Como. Brescia: Panazza, “Gli scavi,” p. 217, pl. G, fig. 104; Scirea, “Dipingere il marmo,” pl. 7c–d. Torba: John Mitchell and Bea Leal, “Wall Paintings in S. Maria foris portas (Castelseprio) and the Tower at Torba: Reflections and Reappraisal,” in Castelseprio e Torba: sintesi delle ricerche e aggiornamenti, ed. Paola

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a

b Plate 9.1

Design Motifs: (a) Dado panel, north corridor, annular crypt, San Vincenzo Maggiore, San Vincenzo al Volturno. c.820; (b) Detail, dado, west aisle wall, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter of 8th century; (c) Detail, dado, axial corridor, annular crypt, San Vincenzo Maggiore, San Vincenzo al Volturno. c.820; (d) Mosaic pavement, north aisle of hall, Qasr Shuqayra al Garbiyya, Jordan. Second quarter 8th century

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The same convention is present in a mosaic pavement in a recently excavated, elite Umayyad residence at Shuqayra al-Garbiyya, in Jordan, probably from the second quarter of the 8th century (Pl. 9.1d).56 The motif appears to have been used also in the mosaic pavement of the early 8th-century hamam inside the north gate at Anjar.57 There is no evidence that this motif was inherited from Roman practice. All this is not to say that Lombard Italian artists, and their Frankish pupils, consistently and slavishly imitated and reproduced exempla from the Levant. Above all it was the enhanced role that painted marbling played in the decoration of elite residences in the caliphate that would have impacted most strongly on the visual strategies of patrons and artists, leading to a renewed fascination with this idiom in Italy and Western Europe.

Painted Compositions

Further evidence for possible western contacts with the Umayyad and early Abbasid caliphate can be traced in the work of painters executing prestigious commissions in Lombard Italy. The church of San Salvatore, Brescia, was founded in 753 by Duke Desiderius, later king, and his wife Ansa, and reconfigured in the early 760s as their dynastic funerary basilica; at this time it was richly stuccoed and painted with scenes from the Life of Christ and the passions of saints whose relics were venerated there.58 One painted panel shows the burial of a haloed figure (Fig. 9.3a).59 The composition’s right-hand side is dominated by a large foreshortened stone sarcophagus, with an elaborate architectural setting behind. An arcade recedes in diminishing perspective, and supports a gallery from which at least one figure, possibly more, seems to look down on the scene of entombment – one hand is preserved on the parapet’s edge. A compelling underlying parallel to this composition can be found in one of the most famous and enigmatic painted

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Marina De Marchi (Mantua, 2013), p. 329, fig. 23. Isola Comacina: Scirea, “Dipingere il marmo,” pl. 11c. Basema Hamarneh, “The Mosaic Pavement of the Umayyad Residence of Shuqayra alGharbiyya between Tradition and Innovation,” Musiva et Sectilia 14 (2017), 117–52, fig. 11. Creswell, Early Muslim Architecture, 1.2: pl. 78Cb. Panazza, “Gli scavi;” Brogiolo, “Archeologia e architettura.” Panazza, “Gli scavi,” pp. 84–5, figs. 87–88, pl. E2; Monica Ibsen, “Sistemi decorativi per la basilica di Ansa e Desiderio,” in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, p. 158; John Mitchell, “The Painted Decoration of San Salvatore di Brescia in Context,” in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 168, 180–81, figs. 14–15.

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a

b Figure 9.3 Narrative scenes: (a) Burial of saint (Panel S21), San Salvatore, Brescia. 760s. Drawing: after Panazza, 1962; (b) Bathing scene, west aisle wall (reconstructed), Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter of 8th century

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fields in the Umayyad audience hall at Qusayr ʿAmra (Fig. 9.3b). This shows a statuesque woman, standing over an elegant rectangular stone water-tank.60 She is watched by a crowd of onlookers from a gallery, supported by a smaller arcade. The receding angled arcades with their upper galleries of viewers are very similar in both compositions, and the Brescia sarcophagus shares the same relationship to its architectural setting as the foreshortened water-basin at Qusayr ʿAmra, with the pious women replacing the focal Umayyad bather. The two scenes are essentially variants of the same compositional formula. It is possible that both derive from a common late antique/early Byzantine invention; however, direct evidence for an earlier version has not survived. There are also some striking points of convergence between the heads of painted figures at San Salvatore, Santa Maria in Valle, and at Qusayr ʿAmra (Fig. 9.4a–b). Diagnostic features include the formation of the brow, the dark sweeping eyebrows and curling areas of light and shadow below the eyes, the nose with curling trifoliate nostrils, and the mouth delineated by a gently concave horizontal line with angled strokes sweeping down at either end.61 Again, this might be explained by common derivation from an earlier, late Roman/ early Byzantine model.62 However, the points of similarity between these mid-8th-century Lombard heads and those at Qusayr ʿAmra some 20 years earlier may indicate a more direct contact between the two traditions.

Pictorial Narrative

A further aspect of the painted programme at Brescia to be considered in this Umayyad perspective concerns narrative composition. The various episodes are characterized by a pronounced dramatic intensity, in which bystanders respond to the main action. In the burial of the female saint, three veiled women lean over the sarcophagus, anointing the corpse for burial, in complete concentration (Fig. 9.3a).63 The women’s emotional engagement with 60

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L. Martin Almagro, Luis Caballero, Juan Zozasa, and Antonio Almagro, Qusayr ʿAmra. Residencia y baños omeyas en el desierto de Jordania (Madrid, 1975), pls. XVI, XVIII–XX; Garth Fowden, Qusayr ʿAmra. Art and the Umayyad Elite in Late Antique Syria (Berkeley, CA, 2004), pp. 227–47, figs. 57, 60; Vibert-Guigue and Bisheh, Les peintures de Qusayr ʿAmra, pls. 28, 34a, 35, 115a–b, 118, 142a. L’Orange and Torp, “Il Tempietto Longobardo,” pls. III, VI, XCIX, C, CXVII, CXIX; Panazza, “Gli scavi,” fig. 110. Torp, “Il problema,” and “Lo sfondo,” sees an earlier Byzantine pictorial tradition as lying behind the Cividale paintings. Panazza, “Gli scavi,” south wall 31, pp. 84–85, figs. 87–88, pl. E2; Ibsen, “Sistemi decorativi,” south wall 21, p. 128; Mitchell, “The painted decoration,” p. 180, figs. 14–15.

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their task is palpably described: in the attitudes of the figures, clustered and bunched, in the dramatic white lighting and shading of their faces, and in the way that an elaborate, asymmetrical architectural setting heightens the drama. Spectators depicted observing the scene from the arcaded gallery, hands gripping the parapet in excitement, enforce the action of the women, and elicit the viewer’s involvement. A panel on the south wall, which has been identified as the Sack of Carthage by the Vandals and the capture of Santa Giulia, is among the most dramatic of the compositions in San Salvatore (Fig. 9.4d).64 In the left half, three men hurry to the right, their faces alive with touches of line, light, and shadow. The figures’ compressed energy and the tightly encircling ring of towered walls make the three men seem a crowd. Outside the city, Giulia is led away by a soldier. The striking juxtaposition and contrast between the hurrying men carrying off their booty, their hands dramatically placed and ostentatiously lighted, and the saint calmly enduring capture and martyrdom, make for a powerfully engaging image, which draws the observer into the psychological dynamic of the action. The critical role played by observant bystanders in the actions depicted is well exemplified in a scene from Christ’s ministry on the south wall.65 The composition is dominated by a standing haloed figure, presumably Christ, with a second person prostrate at his feet; the other principal feature is an ornate basin, possibly a well or a pool, with a third figure behind. At the top of the panel the clustered heads of witnesses gaze intently down on the proceedings, again drawing the viewer into active participation in the narrative. This interest in dramatic visual story-telling can also be traced in the southern Lombard duchy, in the approximately contemporary painted decoration of Santa Sofia at Benevento, a personal foundation of Duke Arechis II.66 These compositions have extraordinary verve; figures are shown engaging with one another in an intensely physical way or reacting strongly to the actions of others. On one side of the northern apse, Gabriel rushes in to announce the birth of a son to Zaccharias, who inclines his head sharply, turning back to receive the angel’s greeting; on the other, Zaccharias is shown again, struck dumb, gesturing with eloquent long fingers to four men who emerge from an arch 64 65 66

Panazza, “Gli scavi,” south wall 32, pp. 85–7, figs. 89–93, pl. E2; Ibsen, “Sistemi decorativi,” south wall 22, p. 158; Mitchell, “The painted decoration,” pp. 182–83, figs. 21–23. Panazza, “Gli scavi,” south wall 16, pp. 80–81, fig. 85, pl. E2; Ibsen, “Sistemi decorativi,” south wall 12, p. 156; Mitchell, “The Painted Decoration,” pp. 193–94, fig. 42. Hans Belting, Studien zur beneventanischen Malerei (Wiesbaden, 1968), pp. 175–93, ills. 61–65; Ferdinando Bologna, La pittura italiana delle origini, 2nd ed. (Rome, 1978), pp. 26–27, pls. 1–3; Marcello Rotili, Benevento romana e longobarda: l’immagine urbana (Naples, 1986), pls. 42–45.

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a

b

Figure 9.4 Figural style: (a) Detail, head of bather, bathing scene, west aisle wall, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter 8th century; (b) Head of saint, Tempietto Longobardo, Cividale. Second quarter of 8th century; (c) Sack of Carthage and capture of Santa Giulla, San Salvatore, Brescia; (d) Detail, sack of Carthage (Panel S22), San Salvatore, Brescia

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d

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(Luke 1:11–22) (Fig. 9.5a). In the southern apse, on the left, is the Annunciation; the archangel energetically announces his message to the Virgin, who retreats at his advance, while below to the right two witnesses fall back in awe. On the right side is the Visitation, where Mary grasps Elizabeth’s chin, who, with her mantle flying, throws her arms around Mary with extraordinary vehemence. Two maids attend, one recoiling from the violence of the embrace (Fig. 9.5b). In the following century, Carolingian artists developed this type of composition, in which a number of principal and secondary actors dramatically enact a narrative. Scenes are crowded with figures, well beyond what is called for by the story, as points of identification and empathetic entry, to draw the viewer into the action.67 Such compositions are well represented in carved ivory panels of the middle and second half of the 9th century,68 and the illustrations to the Utrecht Psalter provide an outstanding example of the genre.69 Two mid-9th-century ivory reliefs show the dynamics of these Carolingian narrative compositions: the cover of a c.850 Gospel Book from Metz, with the Annunciation, the Adoration of the Magi, and the Massacre of the Innocents;70 and a panel with the risen Christ meeting the two disciples on the road to Emmaus.71 In the first, fast-moving actors confront a calm protagonist, who stills and focuses the action, against a carefully orchestrated back-drop of courtly architecture. In the second, Christ and the two disciples engage in vigorous debate; jutting profile heads, stretched hands, hunched shoulders and turning bodies establish a compelling visual rhetoric. This propensity for intensely packed human story-telling, which is one of the most striking features of Carolingian art, was founded on a tradition of narrative composition from the 8th-century Lombard courts. The origins of these developments are not immediately obvious. However, it is worth considering again whether Umayyad courtly art influenced this intensely affective Lombard pictorial idiom. 67 68 69

70 71

Robert Deshman, “Servants of the mother of God in Byzantine and medieval art,” Word and Image 5 (1989), 61–66. See examples in Goldschmidt, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen, 1. Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, MS. 32. Ernest T. DeWald, The Illustrations of the Utrecht Psalter (Princeton, NJ, 1932); Koert van der Horst, Willliam Noel, and Wilhelmina C.M. Wüstefeld, The Utrecht Psalter in Medieval Art: Picturing the Psalms of David (Westrenen, 1996). Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, MS. Lat. 9393; Goldschmidt, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen, 1: 40, cat. 72, pl. XXIX. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters Collection, Inv. 1970. 324.1; Peter Barnet and Nancy Y. Wu, The Cloisters: Medieval Art and Architecture (New York, 2012), p. 23.

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a

b Figure 9.5 Scenes of Engagement: (a) Zaccharias naming John the Baptist, Santa Sofia, Benevento. 760s; (b) Mary and Elizabeth at Visitation, Santa Sofia, Benevento. 760s

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There is a distinctive element of intense psychological expression and engagement in the figural arts of the early caliphate. This is present in the stucco figures of the central court at Qasr al-Hayr al-Gharbi, men and women gesticulating, often in informal attitudes of emphatic torsion and emphasis, and also in the jumbled bodies and grotesquely expressive heads of some extraordinary fragmentary paintings from the same palace.72 Similarly, compositions in the bath hall at Qusayr ʿAmra are notable for the intense engagement of their protagonists. This is to be observed in the enigmatic bathing episode, in which onlookers pay avid attention to the central figure from their balconies (Figs 9.3b, 9.6a), and in scenes in which hunters spear and cut down wild asses with focussed energy. Above all, this aspect is apparent in extraordinary scenes of couples, with cloaks flying, rushing together to meet and fervently embrace in the spaces between the windows of the east aisle (Fig. 9.6b). In human/animal paragone, these are accompanied by a lion leaping on a horse in similar ecstatic abandon.73 The driving intensity of these scenes recalls the notorious posthumous reputation of Qusayr ʿAmra’s patron, Prince al-Walid al Yazid, for demonstrative, passionate, and even violent expression in human interaction and intercourse. On one occasion, in sheer delight at a celebrated singer’s performance, he is said to have to have jumped up from his throne and covered the man with kisses before tearing off his own clothing and presenting it to the startled performer.74 The intense narratives of the actions depicted on the walls of the audience chamber at Qusayr ʿAmra offer a striking visual correlative to a court culture informed by such behaviour.75 72 73 74 75

Schlumberger, Qasr el-Heir el Gharbi, pp. 14, 16, pls. 68, 70, 82–83. Almagro, et al., Qusayr ʿAmra, pls. XVIII, XXXI; Vibert-Guigue and Bisheh, Les peintures, pp. 28, 51, 53, pls. 115b, 118, 130e. Robert Hillenbrand, “La Dolce Vita in early Islamic Syria: the evidence of the Later Umayyad palaces,” Art History 5 (1982), 12–13, 19–20, passim; see also Fowden, Qusayr ʿAmra, pp. 142–74. The surviving narratives of al-Walid’s life are contained in the histories of authors writing long after his death, in a climate generally hostile to the Umayyad dynasty. However, the extent and detail of the traditions they recount suggest that they were founded on not entirely fabricated memories of the late Umayyad courts. Steven Judd has argued, contrary to accepted opinion, that al-Walid followed a rational and systematic line of action in his accession to power, that he developed a cogent new ideology of absolute caliphal authority, and that he had a sophisticated theological understanding of his relationship with God, holding that whatever his behaviour, his actions would be divinely sanctioned by virtue of his office. Judd broadly accepts the reports of the caliph’s excessive drinking, and his exuberant pursuit of women and passion for poetry and sometimes violently expressive behaviour, seeing these as practices regularly followed  – out of the public eye – by the Umayyad rulers and their courts: Steven Judd, “Reinterpreting al-Walid. b.

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a

Figure 9.6 Scenes of engagement: (a) Detail of figures on gallery, bathing scene, west aisle wall, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan, second quarter 8th century; (b) East aisle wall, Qasr ʿAmra, Jordan. Second quarter 8th century

b

Yazid,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 128, no. 3 (2008), 439–58. Mattia Guidetti has associated the depictions of dramatic bodily presence and actions at Qusayr ʿAmra with a tradition described by al-Razi (854–925/35), of decorating bath buildings with images of this kind to promote the relaxation of the body in its animal, psychological, and physical nature: Mattia Guidetti and Gianclaudio Macchiarella, “Problemi di ermenutica nell’iconografia umayyade: Qusayr ʿAmra e Khirbat al Mafgar,” in Immagine e ideologia. Studi in onore di Arturo Carlo Quintavalle, ed. Arturo Calzona, Roberto Campari, and Massimo Mussini (Milan, 2007), pp. 57–58; Franz Rosenthal, The Classical Heritage in Islam (London, 1992), p. 266.

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Conclusion It could be argued that both Lombard and Frankish craftsmen and their patrons in Italy and transalpine Francia, and Arab craftsmen in the Bilad alSham, were independently deriving similar ideas and designs from much earlier Roman or Byzantine archetypes. However, the coincidence, at sites in the early medieval West and in the south-eastern Mediterranean Arab hinterland, of compositions and design details which are unknown from the surviving record of Roman and Byzantine production would seem to indicate that these were new inventions, new variations on earlier conventions. The appearance of these features at Arab sites preceded their introduction in Italy and Francia, suggesting that here the transmission of ideas and patterns was principally from the caliphate to the courts and monasteries of Lombard Italy and then to Carolingian centres. These critical diagnostic features include the hollow open-work stucco colonettes at Khirbat al-Mafjar, Brescia and Mals, the complex perspectival discs in the dadoes at Qusayr Amra and San Vincenzo al Volturno, and the intersecting diagonal bands at Shuqayra al-Garbiyya and at San Vincenzo. Equally eloquent of contemporary communication and transference is the introduction of elaborately marbled dadoes and dramatic and psychologically engaged pictorial narratives in both the Umayyad caliphate and Lombard Italy, striking elements that were to become signature features of figural composition in Carolingian Francia. If this Umayyad aulic culture did indeed provide a pattern for artists tasked with creating new visual images for the Lombard courts, the critical contacts and communications must have taken place in the second quarter or middle of the 8th century, late in the reign of Liutprand or under Ratchis or Aistulf, or possibly under Desiderius in the very first years of the new Abbasid rule. The documentary evidence gives tantalising glimpses of communication, probably the tip of an iceberg of unrecorded journeys. The ambassadorial relations initiated by the Frankish king, Pippin III, with the caliphal court at Baghdad, in 764–66, may represent, at the highest level, a wide and established practice of long-distance inter-cultural communication.76 76

McCormick, Origins, p. 874. The archaeological evidence for contacts between the early caliphate, Italy, and northern Europe has not been addressed here. However, fragments of 9th-century polychrome lustreware bowls from Iraq found at Fulda and San Vincenzo al Volturno and an eastern-central Asian nephrite sword-chape from San Vincenzo demonstrate these connections at elite levels. Babette Ludowici, “Frühmittelalterliche islamische Fayence aus Fulda,” Germania 72 (1994), 612–13; Babette Ludowici, “Islamische Lüsterfayencefragmente aus der Domgrabung in Fulda,” Mitteilungen des deutschen archäologischen Instituts Abteilung Kairo 51 (1995), 190–93; Thomas Kind, “Das Kloster

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The Umayyad caliphate had become the most powerful polity in the wider Mediterranean arena and the level of its material and cultural production was setting new standards.77 The new cultural paradigms developed in the Fertile Crescent offered a brilliant, Roman-derived visual language, a formal rhetoric of new imperial rule, an obvious model and resource for other contemporary rulers aiming to construct cultural apparatuses to help realize their own ambitions. The 8th-century Lombard kings, like their much more powerful Arab counterparts, were aiming to expand and consolidate their territorial control at the expense of a distant and contracting imperial Byzantine presence and other relatively weak polities, including the papal duchy of Rome. Subsequently, the powers that really capitalized on and exploited these artistic connections with the Arab world were Charlemagne, who indexically received the elephant, Abul-Abbas, a token of his diplomatic contacts with Baghdad, and his successors. However, it was Italy that lay at the centre of contact and communication between western Europe and the Arab Near East, and much of the early visual evidence for these connections is from this region. Bibliography Almagro, L. Martin, Luis Caballero, Juan Zozasa, and Antonio Almagro, Qusayr ʿAmra. Residencia y baños omeyas en el desierto de Jordania (Madrid, 1975). Arce, Ignacio, “The early Islamic stucco techniques and the Parto-Sassanian tradition,” in Lo Stucco: Cultura, Tecnologia, Conoscenza, ed. Guido Biscontin and Guido Driussi (Venice, 2001), pp. 107–23. Barnet, Peter, and Nancy Y. Wu, The Cloisters: Medieval Art and Architecture (New York, 2012). Bartl, Karin, and Abd al-Razzaq Moaz, eds., Residences, Castles, Settlements (Rahden, 2008). Belting, Hans, “Studien zum beneventanischen Hof im 8. Jahrhundert,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 16 (1962), 141–93. Belting, Hans, Studien zur beneventanischen Malerei (Wiesbaden, 1968). Bethmann, Ludwig, and Georg Waitz, eds., Pauli historia Langobardorum, MGH, SS 3/48 (Hanover, 1878).

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Fulda im 9.–10. Jahrhundert in archäologischer Sicht. Siedlungsstruktur und Alltagskultur,” in König Konrad I. Herrschaft und Alltag, Begleitband zur Ausstellung, ed. Gregor K. Stasch and Frank Verse (Fulda, 2011), pp. 83–102; Mitchell and Hansen, San Vincenzo al Volturno, 3:319–20, 411–12, figs. 10:134, 17:1–3, pl. 17:1. Richard Ettinghausen, Oleg Grabar, and Marilyn Jenkins-Madina, Islamic Art and Architecture, 650–1250 (New Haven, CT, 2001), pp. 3–101.

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Binding, Günther, Deutsche Königspfalzen von Karl dem Grossen bis Friedrich II. (765–1240) (Darmstadt, 1996). Bober, Harry, “On the Illumination of the Glazier Codex  – a Contribution to Early Coptic Art and its Relation to Hiberno-Saxon Interlace,” in Homage to a Bookman: Essays on Manuscripts, Books and Printing Written for Hans P. Kraus on his 60th Birthday, ed. H. Lehmann-Haupt (Berlin, 1967), pp. 31–49. Bologna, Ferdinando, La pittura italiana delle origini, 2nd ed. (Rome, 1978). Bredekamp, Horst, Der schwimmende Souverän. Karl der Grosse und die Bildpolitik der Körpers (Berlin, 2014). Brogiolo, Gian Pietro, “Archeologia e architettura delle due chiese di San Salvatore,” in Brogiolo and Morandini Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 35–87. Brogiolo, Gian Pietro, “Dalla corte regia al monastero di San Salvatore. Le sequenze di scavo”, in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 418–502. Brogiolo, Gian Pietro, “Die Paläste der langobardischen Könige und Herzöge,” in Karl Charlemagne der Grosse. Orte der Macht. Essays, ed. Frank Pohle (Dresden, 2014), pp. 130–39. Brogiolo, Gian Pietro, and Francesca Morandini, eds., Dalla corte regia al monastero di San Salvatore – Santa Giulia di Brescia (Mantua, 2014). Bujard, Jacques, Denis Genequand, and Wilfried Trillen, “Umm al-Walid et Khan azZabib, deux établissements ommeyades en limite du desert jordanien,” in Conquête de la steppe et appropriation des tèrres sur les marges arides du Croissant fertile, ed. B. Geyer (Lyon, 2001), pp. 189–218. Calderini, Cate, “Il palazzo di Liutprando a Corteolona,” Contributi dell’Istituto di Archeologia 5 (1975), 174–203. Casson, Lionel, The Periplus Maris Erythraei (Princeton, NJ, 1989). Cramer, Johannes, Barbara Perlich, and Günther Schauerte, and Ghāzī Bīshah, Qasr al-Mschatta: Ein frühislamische Palast in Jordanien und Berlin, 1 (Petersberg, 2016). Creswell, K.A. Cameron, Early Muslim Architecture, 1, pt. 1–2: Umayyads A.D. 622–750, rev. ed. (Oxford, 1969). Demus, Otto, Byzantine Art and the West (London, 1970). Deshman, Robert, “Servants of the mother of God in Byzantine and medieval art,” Word and Image 5 (1989), 61–66. DeWald, Ernest T., The Illustrations of the Utrecht Psalter (Princeton, NJ, 1932). Dümmler, Ernst, ed., Poetae Latini Aevi Carolini, MGH, I (Hanover, 1881). Ettinghausen, Richard, Oleg Grabar, and Marilyn Jenkins-Madina, Islamic Art and Architecture, 650–1250 (New Haven, CT, 2001). Finster, Barbara, “Researches in Anjar:  1. Preliminary Report on the Architecture of Anjar,” Bulletin d’Archéologie et d’Architecture Libanaises 7 (2003), 209–44.

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Flood, Finbarr Barry, The Great Mosque of Damascus: Studies on the Makings of an Umayyad Visual Culture (Leiden, 2001). Flückiger, Friedrich August, and Daniel Hanbury, Pharmocographia. A History of the Principal Drugs of Vegetable Origin met with in Great Britain and British India (London, 1879). Fowden, Garth, Qusayr ʿAmra. Art and the Umayyad Elite in Late Antique Syria (Berkeley, CA, 2004). Gai, Sveva, “Die Pfalz Karls des Großen in Paderborn,” in Stiegemann and Wemhoff, 799. Kunst und Kultur (Paderborn, 1999), pp. 183–96. Gai, Sveva, and Birgit Mecke, Est locus insignis  … Die Pfalz Karls des Grossen in Paderborn und ihre bauliche Entwicklung bis zum Jahre 1002. Die Neuauswertung der Ausgrabungen Wilhelm Winkelmanns in den Jahren 1964–1978 (Mainz, 2004). Genequand, Denis, “Trois sites ommeyades de Jordanie centrale: Umm al-Walid, Khan al-Zabib et Qasr al-Mschatta (travaux de la Fondation Max van Berchem 1988– 2000),” in Residences, Castles, Settlements, ed. Karin Bartl and Abd al-Razzaq Moaz (Rahden, 2008), pp. 125–52. Goldschmidt, Adolph, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen aus der Zeit der karolingischen und sächsischen Kaiser, 1 (Berlin, 1914). Grabar, Oleg, “The Paintings,” in Hamilton, Khirbat al-Mafjar, pp. 294–326. Grabar, Oleg, The Mediation of Ornament (Princeton, NJ, 1992). Grewe, Holge, “Die Königspfalz zu Ingelheim am Rhein,” in Stiegemann and Wemhoff, 799. Kunst und Kultur, pp. 142–51. Guidetti, Mattia, and Gianclaudio Macchiarella, “Problemi di ermenutica nell’iconografia umayyade: Qusayr ʿAmra e Khirbat al Mafgar,” in Immagine e ideologia. Studi in onore di Arturo Carlo Quintavalle, ed. Arturo Calzona, Roberto Campari, and Massimo Mussini (Milan, 2007), pp. 53–64. Haag, Sabine, and Franz Kirchweger, eds., Das Krönungsevangeliar des heiligen römichen Reiches (Vienna, 2014). Hamarneh, Basema, “The Mosaic Pavement of the Umayyad Residence of Shuqayra al-Gharbiyya between Tradition and Innovation,” Musiva et Sectilia 14 (2017), 117–52. Hamilton, R.W., ed., Khirbat al Mafjar. An Arab Mansion in the Jordan Valley (Oxford, 1959). Higgitt, John, “The Dedication Inscription at Jarrow and its Context,” Antiquaries Journal 59 (1979), 343–74. Hillenbrand, Robert, “La Dolce Vita in early Islamic Syria: the evidence of the Later Umayyad palaces,” Art History 5 (1982), 1–35. Hillenbrand, Robert, “Anjar and Early Islamic Urbanism,” in The Idea and ideal of the Town between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Gian Pietro Brogiolo and Bryan Ward-Perkins (Leiden, 1999), pp. 59–98.

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Hillenbrand, Robert, Islamic Architecture: Form, Function and Meaning (Edinburgh, 2000). Hodges, Richard, and John Mitchell, The Basilica of Abbot Joshua at San Vincenzo al Volturno (Montecassino, 1996). Hodges, Richard, Sarah Leppard, and John Mitchell, San Vincenzo Maggiore and its Workshops (London, 2011). Holder-Egger, Oswald, Vitae Aliaeque Historiae Minores, MGH SS 15/1 (Hanover, 1887). Holder-Egger, Oswald, Einhardi vita Karoli Magni, MGH SRG 25 (Hanover, 1911). Ibsen, Monica, “Sistemi decorativi per la basilica di Ansa e Desiderio,” in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 141–67. Janin, R., Géographie écclesiastique de l’empire byzantin 1(3). Le siège de Constantinople et le patriarcat œcuménique, 3: Les églises et les monastères (Paris, 1969). Jones, Michael, and Susanna McFadden, Art of Empire. The Roman Frescoes and Imperial Cult Chamber in Luxor Temple (New Haven, CT, 2015). Judd, Steven, “Reinterpreting al-Walid. b. Yazid,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 128, no. 3 (2008), 439–58. Jungmann, Josef A., Missarium Sollemnia. Eine genetische Erklärung der römischen Messe, 2 vols (Freiburg, 1962). Kind, Thomas, “Das Kloster Fulda im 9.-10. Jahrhundert in archäologischer Sicht. Siedlungsstruktur und Alltagskultur,” in König Konrad I. Herrschaft und Alltag, Begleitband zur Ausstellung, ed. Gregor K. Stasch and Frank Verse (Fulda, 2011), pp. 83–102. Kitzinger, Ernst, “Anglo-Saxon Vine-scroll Ornament,” Antiquity 37 (1936), 67–71. Köhler, Wilhelm, Die karolingischen Miniaturen, 3: Die Gruppe des Wiener Krönungsevangeliars. Metzer Handscriften (Berlin, 1961). Köhler, Wilhelm, and Florentine Mütherich, Die karolingischen Miniaturen, 8 vols (Berlin, 1933–2013). Kröger, Jens, Sasanidischer Stuckdekor (Mainz, 1982). Leal, Bea, “The Stuccoes of San Salvatore, Brescia, in their Mediterranean Context,” in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 221–45. Leal, Bea, “Non-figural Wall Painting in the Early Islamic Period,” in Marazzi and Cuomo, La pittura parietale, forthcoming. Leisten, Thomas, “For Prince and Country(side): The Marwanid Mansion at Balis on the Euphrates,” in Bartl and Moaz, Residences, Castles, Settlements, pp. 377–94. Le Maguer, Sterenn, “The Incense Trade in the Islamic Period,” Proceedings of the Seminar for Arabian Studies 45 (2015), 175–84. L’Orange, Hans Peter, and Hjalmar Torp, “Il Tempietto Longobardo di Cividale,” Acta ad Archaeologiam et Artium Historiam Pertinentia VII, 2 (1977), 226–29. Ludowici, Babette, “Frühmittelalterliche islamische Fayence aus Fulda,” Germania 72 (1994), 612–13.

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Ludowici, Babette, “Islamische Lüsterfayencefragmente aus der Domgrabung in Fulda,” Mitteilungen des deutschen archäologischen Instituts Abteilung Kairo 51 (1995), 189–93. Marazzi, Federico, and Marianna Cuomo, eds., La pittura parietale aniconica e decorative fra tarda antichità e alto medioievo: Territori, tradizioni, temi e tendenze (Cerro al Volturno, 2021). McCormick, Michael, Origins of the European Economy: Communications and Commerce AD 300–900 (Cambridge, 2001). Mitchell, John, “Literacy Displayed: The Use of Inscriptions at the Monastery of San Vincenzo al Volturno in the Early Ninth Century,” in The Uses of Literacy in Early Medieval Europe, ed. Rosamond McKitterick (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 205–15. Mitchell, John, “Arichis und die Künste,” in Für irdischen Ruhm und himmlischen Lohn, ed. Hans Rudolf Meier, Carola Jäggi, and Philipp Büttner (Berlin, 1995), pp. 47–64. Mitchell, John, “Artistic Patronage and Cultural Strategies in Lombard Italy,” in Towns and their Territories between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. Gian Pietro Brogiolo, Nancy Gauthier, and Neil Christie (Leiden, 2000), pp. 347–70. Mitchell, John, “The Painted Decoration of San Salvatore di Brescia in Context,” in Brogiolo and Morandini, Dalla corte regia al monastero, pp. 168–201. Mitchell, John, and Inge Lyse Hansen, San Vincenzo al Volturno, 3: The Finds from the 1980–86 Excavations (Spoleto, 2001). Mitchell, John, and Bea Leal, “Wall Paintings in S. Maria foris portas (Castelseprio) and the Tower at Torba: Reflections and Reappraisal,” in Castelseprio e Torba: sintesi delle ricerche e aggiornamenti, ed. Paola Marina De Marchi (Mantua, 2013), pp. 311–44. Mitchell, John, and Bea Leal, “Art of Many Colours: the Dados of San Vincenzo and Issues of Marbling in the Post-Roman World,” in Sodalitas: Studi in memoria di Don Faustino Avagliano, ed. Cesare Crova, Mariano Dell’Omo, and Federico Marazzi (Montecassino, 2016), pp. 721–55. Nees, Lawrence, “Charlemagne’s elephant,” Quintana: Rivista do Departamento de Historia de Arte, Universidade de Santiago de Compostela 5 (2006), 13–49. Noble, Thomas F.X., and Thomas Head, eds., Soldiers of Christ. Saints and Saints’ Lives from Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (London, 1995). Nordhagen, Per Jonas, “Italo-Byzantine Wall-painting of the Early Middle Ages. An 80-year Old Enigma in Scholarship,” in Per Jonas Nordhagen, Studies in Byzantine and Early Medieval Painting (London, 1990), pp. 138–45. Orth, E., “Frankfurt,” in Die Deutschen Königspfalzen, 1: Hessen, ed. Lutz Fenske and Thomas Zotz (Göttingen, 1985), pp. 131–456. Osborne, John, Rome in the Eighth Century. A History in Art (Cambridge, 2020). Otto-Dorn, Katharina, “Grabungen im umayyadischen Rusafah,” Ars Orientalis 2 (1957), 119–33.

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Panazza, Gaetano, “Gli scavi l’architettura e gli affreschi della Chiesa di S. Salvatore in Brescia,” in La Chiesa di S. Salvatore in Brescia. Atti dell’VIII Congresso di studi sull’arte dell’alto Medioevo (Verona-Venezia-Brescia, 1959) (Milano, 1962), pp. 5–228. Peduto, Paolo, Rosilla Fiorillo, and A. Corolla, Salerno. Una sede ducale dalla Langobardia meridionale (Spoleto, 2013). Pelekanides, Stylianos, Hoi Thesauroi tou Hagiou Orous – The Treasures of Mount Athos, 4 (Athens, 1991). Plummer, Charles, ed., Venerabilis Baedae Opera Historica (Oxford, 1896). Raftery, Joseph. “Ex oriente …,” JRSAI 95, no. 1–2 (1965), 193–204. Rasmo, Nicolò, Karolingische Kunst in Sudtirol (Bozen, 1981). Ritter, Markus, “Umayyad Foundation Inscriptions and the Inscription of al-Walid from Khirbat al-Minyah: Text, Usage, Visual Form,” in Khirbat al-Minya: der Umayyadenpalast am See Genesareth, ed. Hans-Peter Kuhnen (Rahden, 2016), pp. 59–83. Rjoub, Abdemajeed, and al-Housan Abdelqader, “Architecture of Heritage Mosques in Mafraq Province,” International Journal of Architectural Heritage 7, no. 4 (2013), 461–78. Rosenthal, Franz, The Classical Heritage in Islam (London, 1992). Rotili, Marcello, Benevento romana e longobarda: l’immagine urbana (Naples, 1986). Santi, Aila, “Anjar in the shadow of the church? New insights on an urban experiment in the Biqā Valley”, Levant 50, no. 2 (2018), 267–80. Sapin, Christian, ed., Le stuc: Visage oublié de l’art médiéval (Paris, 2004). Schlumberger, Daniel, “Les fouilles de Qasr el-Heir el-Gharbi (1936–38),” Syria 20, fasc. 3 (1939), 195–238. Schlumberger, Daniel, Qasr el-Heir el Gharbi (Paris, 1986). Scirea, Fabio, “Dipingere il marmo nella Langobardia,” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome – Moyen Âge 130, no. 1 (2018), 213–43. Serra, Josalita Raspi, “Le Diocesi dell’alto Lazio: Bagnoregio, Bomarzo, Castro, Civita Castellana, Nepi, Orte, Sutri, Tuscania,” Corpus della scultura altomedievale 8 (Spoleto, 1974), pp. 154–56. Souris, Magali, “Early Medieval Wall Paintings from the Collegiate Church of Amay (BE),” in La pittura parietale aniconica e decorative fra tarda antichità e alto medioievo, ed. Federico Marazzi and Marianna Cuomo (Cerro al Volturno, 2021), 183–96. Stiegemann, Christoph, and Matthias Wemhoff, eds., 799. Kunst und Kultur der Karolingerzeit. Karl der Grosse und Papst Leo III. In Paderborn. Beiträge zum Katalog der Ausstellung Paderborn 1999 (Mainz, 1999). Talgam, Rina, The Stylistic Origins of Umayyad Sculpture and Architectural Decoration (Wiesbaden, 2004). Thorpe, Lewis, ed., Einhard and Notker the Stammerer, Two Lives of Charlemagne (Harmondsworth, 1969).

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Tjorp, Hjalmar, “Il Problema della decorazione originaria del Tempietto Longobardo di Cividale del Friuli,” Quaderni della Famiglia Artisti Cattolici Ellero 18 (1959), 1–47. Tjorp, Hjalmar, “Lo sfondo storico-iconografico dell’immagine di Cristo nel Tempietto Longobardo di Cividale,” Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia 28 (2015), 73–93. Ulbert, Tilo, Resafa II: die Basilka des Heiligen Kreuzes in Resafa-Sergiopolis (Mainz, 1986). Untermann, Matthias, “‘Opere mirabili constructa’. Die Aachener ‘Residenz’ Karls des Grossen,” in Stiegermann and Wemhoff, 799. Kunst und Kultur, pp. 152–64. Untermann, Matthias, “Frühmittelalterliche Pfalzen im ostfrankischen Reich,” in The Emperor’s House. Palaces from Augustus to the Age of Absolutism, ed. Michael Featherstone, Jean-Michel Speiser, Gülru Tanman, and Ulrike Wulf-Rheidt (Berlin, 2015), pp. 107–26. Vaj, Isabella, “Il tempietto di Cividale e gli stucchi omayyadi,” in Cividale Longobarda: Materiali per una rilettura archeologica, ed. Silvia Lusuardi Siena (Milan, 2002), pp. 175–204. van der Horst, Koert, Willliam Noel, and Wilhelmina C.M. Wüstefeld, The Utrecht Psalter in Medieval Art: Picturing the Psalms of David (Westrenen, 1996). Vibert-Guigue, Claude, and Ghazi Bisheh, Les peintures de Qusayr ʿAmra. Un bain omeyyade dans la bâdiya jordanienne (Beirut, 2007). Vieillard-Troiekouroff, May, “Tables de canons et stucs carolingens,” in Stucchi e mosaic alto medioevali: Atti dell’ottavo Congresso di studi sull’arte dell’alto medioevo, 1 (Milan, 1962), pp. 154–78. Vogel, Cyrille, “La réforme liturgique sous Charlemagne,” in Karl der Grosse, Lebenswerk und Nachleben, 2: Das geistige Leben, ed. Bernhard Bischoff (Düsseldorf, 1965), pp. 217–32. Ward-Perkins, Bryan, From Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages: Urban Public Building in Northern and Central Italy AD 300–850 (Oxford, 1984). Werner, Martin, “The Madonna and Child Miniature in the Book of Kells, Part I,” Art Bulletin 64, no. 1 (1972), 1–23. Werner, Martin, “The Madonna and Child Miniature in the Book of Kells, Part II,” Art Bulletin 64, no. 2 (1972), 129–39. Westermann-Angerhausen, Hiltrud, Mittelalterliche Weihrauchfässer von 800 bis 1500 (Petersberg, 2014). Wyss, Michael, “Enduits peints du haut Moyen Âge mis au jour à Saint-Denis,” in Edifices et peintures aux IV–XI siècles, ed. Christian Sapin (Auxerre, 1994), pp. 63–69. Yegül, F., Baths and Bathing in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge, MA, 1992).

Chapter 10

Ecce Videns Arabes Se: Revisiting the Question of Islamic Influence at Le Puy Cathedral Elisa A. Foster

Introduction1

In the mid-13th century, French Dominican preacher Étienne de Bourbon provided a commentary on a case of “local sacrilege” in the town of Le Puy-en-Velay (Haute-Loire). There, in an isolated region of central France, he reports that Muslims living in the West (Sarraceni occidentales) bring gifts to the blessed Virgin of Le Puy – a significant object of Christian pilgrimage – so that she may protect their fields against lightning and storms.2 Given Le Puy’s significant distance from centres of Islamic-Christian contact across the Mediterranean, Muslim presence there may initially seem unusual. It is further complicated by the clergy of Le Puy Cathedral having performed a significant role in the effort to wrest Jerusalem from Muslim control in the First Crusade. Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy (d.1098) was a central figure in this campaign, serving as a papal legate following Pope Urban II’s call to arms at the Council of Claremont (1095). A highly influential leader, Adhémar’s fame grew after his death, preserved in the works of Raymond d’Aguilers, a canon of Le Puy and chaplain to the powerful

1 This chapter has been the product of a long-standing interest in Arabic and pseudo-Arabic inscriptions that began when I was a graduate student. Many people have been extremely helpful throughout the process, especially Pamela Patton. I would also like to thank the Samuel H. Kress Foundation and Brown University for providing funding for my visits to Le Puy to examine the doors and the cathedral as well as The Henry Moore Foundation for their support as I finished this project. 2 “Ibi etiam, ut audivi, ipsi Sarraceni occidentales mittunt aliquando munera, ut beata Virgo eos liberet a fulgoribus et tempestatibus et agros suos.” (There also, as I have heard, western Muslims sometimes bring gifts, so that the blessed Virgin rescues their fields from lightning and storms.) Étienne de Bourbon, Anecdotes historiques, légendes et apologues tirés du Recueil inédit d’Étienne de Bourbon, dominicain du XIIIe siècle (Paris, 1877) no. 320, du don de force, p. 269. This peculiar practice subsequently appeared in the Speculum morale, supposedly written by Vincent of Beauvais. Vincent of Beauvais, Speculum morale, 3.21.3, in Speculum quadruplex sive Speculum maius, 3 (1624; repr. Graz, 1964–65), p. 1087.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004501904_014

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Figure 10.1

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Western façade, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 11–12th century, reconstructed 19th century

Count Raymond Saint-Gilles of Toulouse, who also figures prominently in his accounts of the Crusades.3 Despite Le Puy Cathedral’s substantial stake in the First Crusade, Étienne’s commentary on the Muslim presence in Le Puy is perhaps most intriguing given that the cathedral has long been cited as an unusual case of Islamic-inspired architecture in Romanesque France (Fig. 10.1).4 While the question of what determines an “Islamic” aesthetic is often asked of many Iberian monuments, Le Puy’s French identity has somewhat limited its study.5 Emile Mâle first 3 Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem, trans. John Hugh Hill and Laurita L. Hill (Philadelphia, PA, 1968); Colin Kostick, “The Afterlife of Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy,” Studies in Church History 45 (2009), 120–29. 4 Vladimir P. Goss, “Western Architecture and the World of Islam in the Twelfth Century,” in The Meeting of Two Worlds: Cultural Exchange between East and West during the Period of the Crusades, ed. Vladimir P. Goss and Christine Verzár Bornstein (Kalamazoo, MI, 1986), p. 367. 5 Cynthia Robinson and Leyla Rouhi, eds., Under the Influence: Questioning the Comparative in Medieval Castile (Leiden, 2005); Cynthia Robinson and Simone Pinet, eds., Courting the Alhambra: Cross-disciplinary Approaches to the Hall of Justice Ceilings (Leiden, 2008); Jerrilynn D. Dodds, “Islam, Christianity and the Problem of Religious Art,” in The Art of Medieval Spain A.D. 500–1200, ed. Jerrilyn D. Dodds, Charles Little, Serefin Moralejo, and

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Cloister, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century

singled out Le Puy for its apparent alterity, declaring that its black-and-white striped façade and nave covered by octagonal domes presented “une confuse impression d’orient,” demonstrating what he described as Sassanid and Arabic architectural influences.6 Of particular interest were the alternating voussoirs in the 12th-century cathedral cloister, which he argued provide a striking visual similarity to the Great Mosque of Córdoba (Fig. 10.2). Yet this motif, also appearing on French Romanesque monuments such as the Church of the Madeleine, Vézelay, and the nearby Church of Notre Dame du Port, Clermont-Ferrand, can be variously interpreted. Indeed, Jerrilynn Dodds has argued that these monuments’ voussoirs referred to the Crusades rather than Islam, a point further

John Williams (New York, 1993), pp. 27–37; Jerrilynn D. Dodds, “Artistic Ambivalence in the Age of Iberian Crusades,” in Crusading on the Edge: Ideas and Practice of Crusading in Iberia and the Baltic Region, 1100–1500, ed. T.K. Nielsen and I. Fonnesberg Schmidt (Turnhout, 2016), pp. 299–331. 6 Emile Mâle, “La mosquée de Cordoue et les églises de l’Auvergne et du Velay,” Revue de l’art ancien et moderne (1911), 81–89; Emile Mâle, “Les influences arabes dans l’art roman,” Revue des deux Mondes (1923), 311–40, esp. p. 325.

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discussed below.7 Instances of cross-cultural artistic influence at Le Puy also extend beyond the Islamic world; the cathedral is decorated with a series of 12th- and 13th-century wall paintings rendered in what has been deemed a “provincial Byzantine” style.8 So although the question of Islamic influence is still prominent in studies of the cathedral, it is difficult to argue for exclusively ‘Islamic’ aesthetic appropriation at Le Puy. Despite the loose connotations of Islamic-inspired features, interest in the Cathedral of Le Puy’s unusual architectural elements continued to be a point of argument throughout the 20th century. Following Mâle, Ahmad Fikry published a lengthy study on Islamic influence at Le Puy, noting that, among other features, the cathedral’s octagonal squinch-supported domes are rare in French Romanesque, but they do appear in medieval Islamic monuments, such as the Great Mosque of Kairouan.9 Oleg Grabar later agreed that Le Puy presents a unique case of Islamic influence in France that cannot be readily explained by usual methods of transmission.10 Conversely, Marcel Durliat and Xavier Barral i Altet have argued that these seemingly Islamic features may instead represent a more localized tradition that likely arrived in France by Italian exchange routes, or demonstrate evidence of a shared visual language derived from Roman sources.11 These disagreements notwithstanding, the question of Muslim craftmanship has dominated studies of Le Puy, but with recent scholarly interest in the cathedral waning, this curious instance of Islamic artistic appropriation has not been seriously examined since Barral i Altet’s study nearly 15 years ago.12 Despite such focused interest in Le Puy Cathedral’s unusual architectural motifs, the most convincing evidence for Islamic influence is an Arabic inscription bordering a pair of late 12th-century wooden doors on the cathedral’s west 7

8 9 10 11

12

Jerrilynn D. Dodds, “Remembering the Crusades in the Fabric of Buildings: Preliminary Thoughts about Alternating Voussoirs,” in Remembering the Crusades: Myth, Image, and Identity, ed. Nicholas Paul and Suzanne Yeager (Baltimore, MD, 2012), pp. 99–124. See below, pp. 229–35. Otto Demus, Romanesque Mural Painting (New York, 1970), p. 96. Ahmet Fikry, L’art roman du Puy et les influences islamiques (Paris, 1934). Oleg Grabar, “Islamic Architecture and the West: Influences and Parallels,” in Islamic Visual Culture: 1100–1800, 2: Constructing the Study of Islamic Art (Aldershot, 2006), p. 385. Marcel Durliat, “L’art dans le Velay,” Congrés archéologique du Puy 133 (1975), 14; Marcel Durliat “Les coupoles de la cathédrale du Puy et leurs origines,” Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 120, no. 3 (1976), 494–524; Xavier Barral i Altet, “Sur les supposées influences islamiques dans l’art roman: l’exemple de la Cathédrale Notre-Dame du Puy-en-Velay,” Cahiers de Saint-Michel de Cuxa 35 (2004), 115–18. Barral I Altet, “Sur les supposes influences,” pp. 115–18.

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Wooden doors, known as the Infancy Doors, Western Porch of Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189

porch (Plate 10.1).13 Several translations of this have been offered, and most agree that it consists of mal-formed Arabic characters, containing common expressions of gratitude and admiration for God (Allah), rather than explicit Islamic doctrine. Art-historical interpretations of this inscription have been further influenced by Mâle’s initial assessment of Muslim craftsmanship at Le Puy. In his belief that Muslims, and only Muslims, could have been responsible for the inscription, Mâle asserts a false equivalency between language and religion, proclaiming, “L’IsIam ici révèle sa presence, et si on pouvait douter d’abord, on n’en a plus le droit maintenant.”14 Similarly, Walter Cahn, who generally dismisses the discussion of Islamic influence at Le Puy as overexaggerated in his 13 14

Walter Cahn, “Les portes romanes en bois,” in La Cathédrale du Puy-en-Velay, ed. Xavier Barral i Altet (Paris, 2000), pp. 260–61. “Here the presence of Islam is evident and any doubts we may have had are henceforth dismissed.” Mâle, “Les influences arabes,” p. 325.

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seminal study on wooden doors in the Auvergne region, agrees with Mâle on this point, suggesting that the “open display of praise in honor of an alien God” would have been disquieting to the primary audience at Le Puy.15 Because studies of Arabic inscriptions used outside Islamic contexts have primarily concerned Iberia, Byzantium, and Sicily, the French example of Le Puy provides a rare opportunity to explore this question beyond its usual borders and to contribute to the growing knowledge of such use in medieval Europe.16 Given the persistent reading of Le Puy Cathedral’s otherness, this discussion will revisit the Arabic inscription used on this monument. Rather than looking at isolated elements of Islamic artistic influence and attempting to locate models, the ideological and visual uses of Arabic inscription at the cathedral are considered here more holistically. This approach will demonstrate that the cathedral’s inscription helped connect it to both a biblical Jerusalem of the past and a future, Heavenly Jerusalem, an interpretation reinforced through the memory of legendary crusading figures associated with Le Puy-en-Velay. The layers of meaning inherent in Le Puy Cathedral’s so-called Islamic aesthetic thus suggest complex and under-explored connections between France and the Mediterranean in the pre-modern era, both real and imagined.

Picturing Text: Interpretations and Applications

Given the complexity of visualizing Arabic inscriptions in the medieval West, the use and definition of pseudo-Arabic should also be addressed. A form of ornamentation derived from Arabic characters but without linguistic meaning, pseudo-Arabic is known both in and outside Islamic art and architecture, developing from the 9th century onwards.17 In medieval and Renaissance Christian artworks, pseudo-Arabic is found across media, on liturgical vessels, 15 16 17

Walter Cahn, The Romanesque Wooden Doors of Auvergne (New York, 1974), p. 17. The literature on the use of Arabic inscription across medieval Mediterranean cultures is extensive. See further bibliography, below, n. 17 and n. 18. Richard Ettinghausen, “Kufesque in Byzantine Greece, the Latin West and the Muslim World,” in A Colloquium in Memory of George Carpenter Miles, American Numismatic Society (New York, 1976), pp. 28–47. For further explanation of the term “pseudoArabic”, see Rosamond Mack, Bazaar to Piazza: Islamic Trade and Italian Art, 1300–1600 (Berkeley, CA, 2002), p. 51; Robbert Woltering, “Pseudo-Arabic”, in Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics, Managing Editors Online Edition: Lutz Edzard, Rudolf de Jong. Available at: http://dx.doi.org.10.1163/1570-6699_eall_EALL_SIM_000025. Accessed 2021 September 25. The term “Kufesque” was first used by George C. Miles, “Byzantium and the Arabs: Relations in Crete and the Aegean Area,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 18 (1964), 1–32.

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textiles, and especially the Virgin’s veil.18 It is sometimes called pseudo-kufic, referring to a stylized Arabic script with sharply angular characters that often end with a floriated tail, as is the case at Le Puy. The meaning of pseudo-Arabic and Arabic inscription outside an Islamic context has been subject to multiple, sometimes contradictory, interpretations. Such inscriptions tend to be viewed as: a marker of Islamic provenance (in which the text was understood as language); an apotropaic sign of protection and power; an archaicizing and exotic motif; and an aesthetic decoration independent of any semantic meaning.19 Despite these generalisations, Arabic and pseudo-Arabic text clearly solicited various interpretations according to audience and location and must therefore be evaluated on an individual basis and no singular meaning can be prescribed, even within the same space. Moreover, these meanings can be and were altered; as Robert Nelson argued, perception of Arabic inscriptions in a Byzantine context changed over time, so that what was once a perfectly acceptable use later became blasphemous.20 Arabic and pseudo-Arabic inscriptions that appear in non-Islamic contexts are perhaps most abundant throughout medieval Iberia, and these might be linked more closely to Le Puy in terms of distance and models. Although the Iberian peninsula’s history of Islamic rule renders them distinct, they nevertheless stand as useful comparanda. Importantly, Tom Nickson and Abigail Balbale have examined whether Arabic inscriptions found in Christian and Jewish contexts really would have been read by their primary audiences, even if some did have the linguistic knowledge to do so, a question we must

18

19 20

Studies begin with S. Denys T. Spittle, “Cufic Lettering in Christian Art,” Archaeological Journal 111 (1954), 138–54; for more recent studies, see, e.g., Vera-Simone Schulz, “From Letter to Line: Artistic Experiments with Pseudo-script in Late Medieval Italian Painting, Preliminary Remarks,” in The Power of Line: Linea III, ed. Marzia Faietti and Gerhard Wolf (Munich, 2015), pp. 144–161; Silvia Pedone and Valentina Cantone, “The Pseudo-Kufic Ornament and the Problem of Cross-Cultural Relationships between Byzantium and Islam,” Opuscula Historiae Artium 62 (2013), 120–36; Isabelle Dolezalek, Vera Beyer, and Monica Juneja, “Contextualising Choices: Islamicate Elements in European Arts,” The Medieval History Journal 15, no. 2 (2012), 231–42; Alexander Nagel, “Twenty-five Notes on Pseudoscript in Italian Art,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 59–60 (2011), 229–48. Other important studies include William Tronzo, “The Mantle of Roger II of Sicily,” in Robes and Honor: The Medieval World of Investiture, ed. S. Gordon (New York, 2001), pp. 241–53; Alicia Walker “Meaningful Mingling: Classicizing Imagery and Islamicizing Script in a Byzantine Bowl,” Art Bulletin 90, no. 1 (2008), 32–53; Robert S. Nelson, “Letters and Language: Ornament and Identity in Byzantium and Islam,” in The Experience of Islamic Art on the Margins of Islam, ed. Irene A. Biermann (Ithaca, NY, 2005), pp. 61–88. Pedone and Cantone, “The Pseudo-Kufic Ornament”. Nelson, “Letters and Language,” pp. 61–88.

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also ask of the Le Puy inscription.21 Similarly, Jeremy Johns and Alicia Walker have discussed Arabic and pseudo-Arabic architectural inscriptions used in Byzantium and the Norman Kingdom of Sicily, both pointing to the significance of audience, ritual action, and the inscriptions’ placement as key determinants in their supposed legibility and role as visual references to power structures.22 Most recently, Clare Vernon has considered many examples of pseudo-Arabic inscription used in the Italian city of Bari, both portable and monumental, arguing that this motif was partially inspired by Crusader booty.23 The Crusades’ impact upon pseudo-Arabic inscriptions, particularly in a Christian context, is especially significant when considering Le Puy, and will be discussed further below.24 The problem of pseudo-Arabic at Le Puy is that it occupies the space between non-sensical pseudo-Arabic and mal-formed, but somewhat legible, Arabic. The Le Puy inscription’s long history of translation and transliteration illustrates this َّ ٰ َ Adrien de Longpérier initially translated it as La ilah ‫ ٱ‬situation. illa Allah (‫) لا إ� �ل�هَ إ� لا � �ل�ل�ه‬, or “There is no God but Allah,” the Muslim profesِ ِ sion of faith.25 This was dismissed by Fikry, who instead read the inscription as Ma sha’ Allah (‫ )�م�ا �ش���ا ء ا �ل�ل�ه‬or “This is what Allah desired,” though Longpérier’s translation is still repeated in more recent literature.26 In 1938, Georges Marçais proposed al-Mulk lillah (‫)ا �ل���م�ل�ك �ل�ل�ه‬, or “The Kingdom [Sovereignty] is God’s”, a common calligraphic expression appearing on textiles and ceramics throughout the medieval Islamic world.27 Marçais argued for a North African 21

22

23

24 25 26 27

Tom Nickson, “Remembering Fernando: Multilingualism in Medieval Iberia,” in Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, ed. Antony Eastmond (Cambridge, 2015), pp. 170–86, esp. p. 175; Abigail Balbale, “From Legible Text to Magical Pattern,” Bard Graduate Center Lecture, 11 March 2014. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=-DzOT6CKLNE. Accessed 2020 March 28. Jeremy Johns, “Arabic Inscriptions in the Cappella Palatina: Performativity, Audience, Legibility and Illegibility,” in Eastmond, Viewing Inscriptions, pp. 124–47; Alicia Walker, “Pseudo-Arabic ‘Inscriptions’ and the Pilgrim’s Path at Hosios Loukas,” in Eastmond, Viewing Inscriptions, pp. 99–123. Clare Vernon, “Pseudo-Arabic and the Material Culture of the First Crusade in Norman Italy: The Sanctuary Mosaic at San Nicola in Bari,” Open Library of Humanities 4, no. 1 (2018), 36. Available at: https://olh.openlibhums.org/articles/10.16995/olh.252/. Accessed 2020 March 3. See pp. 229–35. Adrien de Longpérier, “De l’emploi des caractères arabes dans l’ornementation chez les peoples Chrétiens de l’occident,” Revue Arquelogique 2 (1846), 696–706. Fikry, L’art roman, p. 262; Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 16. Georges Marcais, “Sur l’inscription arabe de la cathédrale du Puy,” Comptes rendus de l’academie des inscriptions et belles-lettres (1938), 153–62. Cahn, who describes the inscription as pseudo-Arabic, cites Marçais’s translation as “All Power to God.” Marçais’s original

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or Fatimid origin for the inscription, implying a Muslim source, but also noted that the inscription contains some errors, including missing and reversed words.28 Epigraphic errors do also exist within an Islamic context and so the mistakes might actually suggest careful copying from the source.29 Indeed, as was common practice for many Islamic inscriptions, this instance at Le Puy was most likely copied from another work of art – a portable object such as a manuscript, textile, or ceramic – but this method does not imply that the craftsman was unaware of the inscription’s content, or indeed, the reverse.30 Despite some fluidity in orthography – and indeed the transcriptions offered for the Le Puy inscription are quite different when considering the variation of the Arabic characters – it is clear that the inscription is not specifically Qur’anic, but rather contains generic blessings to Allah and in this, Marçais’s translation appears the most convincing. Regardless of the inscription’s exact reading, it is important to remember that its transmission – both to medieval and modern audiences – is largely visual. Moreover, if the Le Puy inscription is considered to be “Arabic” – however mal-formed – its message cannot be described as overtly or singularly “Islamic” in anything but its language (Arabic), which is not exclusive to Islam.31 The incorrect use of Arabic grammar and orthography here could signal the craftsman’s unease with the written language, regardless of religion. Unlike cases in Byzantium, Sicily, or Iberia, extant examples of Arabic epigraphy in medieval France are rare.32 Apart from Le Puy, the door of the former Priory of Sainte-Croix, Lavoûte-Chilhac, is the only other instance of a quasi-legible Arabic inscription in Auvergne, and has been argued to be the work of the same artisan.33 Within this region, pseudo-Arabic inscriptions are also known on the wooden doors of the nearby churches of Chamalières-sur-Loire and

28 29 30 31 32 33

French reads “La souveraineté est à Allah.” See also Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 16; Katherine Watson, French Romanesque and Islam: Andalusian elements in French Architectural Decoration c. 1030–1180 (Oxford, 1989), p. 66. Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 16. Sheila Blair, Islamic Inscriptions (New York, 1998); Mohammad Yusuf Siddiq, Epigraphy and Islamic Culture: Inscriptions of the Early Muslim Rulers of Bengal (New York, 2016). For more on this phenomenon, see Eva R. Hoffman’s classic essay, “Pathways of Portability: Islamic and Christian Interchange from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century,” Art History 24, no. 1 (2001; first pub. 2003), 17–50. Dodds, “Islam, Christianity and the Problem of Religious Art,” pp. 27–37. Watson, French Romanesque and Islam, p. 65. Beyond these isolated examples, the impost of a cloister capital in the north gallery in Moissac contains a pseudo-Arabic inscription, as does a carved lintel at Saint-Pierre-de-Rhèdes. Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, pp. 132–43.

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Blesle.34 Cahn argued that this suggests a Muslim workshop in the region, but such arguments presume that Arabic and pseudo-Arabic epigraphy could only have been executed by Muslim craftsmen.35 As such, the inscription is best understood not only through the study of its form, but as a part of a larger visual narrative appearing on the Le Puy doors.

Biblical ‘Arabic’? The Inscription in Context

The doors in question are each composed of two vertical panels, carved in low relief. They did not provide access to the cathedral interior; rather, they served as entrances to the now badly-deteriorated painted Chapels of St Gilles and St Martin, respectively.36 The doors also suffered from substantial weathering, but the basic iconographic program is still legible. Traces of the doors’ original paint remains, in a warm palette of vermillion, pink, and brown with white highlights to distinguish figures.37 The doors leading to the Chapel of St Gilles, referred to as the Infancy Doors, originally displayed eight scenes of the nativity and infancy of Christ, and the six surviving scenes are labelled with Latin tituli below: the Annunciation to the Shepherds, the Adoration of the Magi, the Magi Journeying to Herod’s Court, the Magi before Herod, the Massacre of the Innocents, and the Presentation in the Temple.38 Surrounding these scenes and encompassing the outer frame of the door is a large border of Arabic inscription in stylized kufic script. A second, long Latin inscription, reading: Gaudzfredus me f[e]cit: Petrus edi[ ficavit] (Plate 10.2), also appears on the vertical batten. It identifies the master craftsman as Gauzfredus, about whom little is known, and the doors’ patron as Petrus, believed to be either Pierre III (1145–56) or Pierre IV of Solignac (1159–89(?)), both of whom served as Bishop of Le Puy. Beside the Infancy Doors stands a second pair, equal in style and composition (Fig. 10.3). These depict narrative episodes from Christ’s Passion, also accompanied by Latin tituli: the Resurrection of Lazarus, the Entry into Jerusalem, the Last Supper, the Arrest of Christ, Christ before the High Priest, the Carrying of the Cross, the Crucifixion, the Three Maries at the Tomb, the 34 35 36 37 38

Ibid., pp. 138–40. Ibid. Both spaces are now badly deteriorated and no longer publicly accessible due to centuries of reconstruction at the cathedral. Bernard Galland, Martin de Framond, and Dominique Brunon, Le Puy-en-Velay: l’ensemble cathédrale Notre-Dame (Paris, 2005), p. 18. Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 24. Ibid., pp. 35–42.

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Plate 10.2

Detail, Infancy Doors with Latin inscription on the batten and Arabic inscription. Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189

Ascension, and the Descent of the Holy Spirit.39 No Arabic border is present here; an interlaced pattern appears in its stead. The doors can be read as presenting a single narrative vertically from bottom to top, but each panel also could have been viewed as a self-contained work. This traditional layout has been compared to the doors of Santa Maria im Kapitol, and numerous 12th-century models from Italy, Austria, and Croatia.40 Beyond these European models, the mid-11th-century door of the maristan of 39 40

Ibid., pp. 43–51. Ibid., pp. 23, 51; Cahn cites comparative works at Pisa, Monreale, Spalato, Carinthia, and the Abruzzi. Barral I Altet, in La Cathédrale, pp. 258–60, also suggests St Michael,

Ecce Videns Arabes Se

Figure 10.3

231

Wooden doors, known as the Passion Doors, western porch of Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189

Qalāʾūn (Cairo) also bears some similarities to the Le Puy doors in terms of material, low relief sculptural program, and general composition, although it does not contain obvious narrative imagery.41 These diverse comparanda illustrate the wide 11th- and 12th-century adoption of a multi-panelled sculpted portal composition that cannot be connected with a particular stylistic or regional influence with any degree of certainty. At Le Puy, the key to understanding the doors lies in a dual reading of text and image, and text as image. The simultaneous reading of Arabic as a border within a larger visual narrative is an instructive approach, as past investigations of the cathedral’s doors have not considered the inscription’s role within the iconographic programme it frames. Reading Arabic epigraphy and biblical

41

Hildesheim, San Zeno, Verona; Bonaun of Pisa and Barisanus of Trani, St Mary im Kapitol, Cologne and Gurk Cathedral. “Notre Dame Cathedral of Le Puy-en-Velay – Wooden Doors,” Qantara: Mediterranean Heritage. Available at: https://www.qantara-med.org/public/show_document.php?do_id =932&lang=en. Accessed 2020 Feb 10.

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Plate 10.3

Detail of the Magi before Herod, Infancy Doors, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, before 1189

narrative as a single unit thus provides a promising method for understanding how the inscription was perceived by Christian pilgrims encountering the doors via the western porch. The scene of the Magi before Herod on the Infancy doors offers a particularly poignant example of verbal and visual symbiosis with which to evaluate this thesis. The Latin inscription above this scene reads, “Ecce videns Arabes se / vus turbatur Erodes” (Behold, upon seeing the Arabs, Herod was disturbed) (Plate 10.3).42 In this context “Arabes” refers to the Magi, biblical kings from the East, not Muslims. In addition, the tri-lobed arch under which Herod sits is distinct from the rest of the framed narratives. Though it is a rather common architectural form, when paired with the textual reference to “Arabes,” this feature might have provided a visual cue signifying an Islamic land, and simultaneously a biblical one, namely Herod’s Jerusalem. These tituli function similarly throughout the narrative scenes on the Infancy doors and are perhaps most complex in the scene of the Magi Journeying to 42

Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 40.

Ecce Videns Arabes Se

Plate 10.4

233

Magi Journeying to Herod’s Court, Infancy Doors, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. 12th century, 1189

Herod’s Court (Plate 10.4). The Latin titulus implores Jerusalem (Sion) through direct address: “Pande syon puerum cujus / jam vidimus astrum” (Sion, reveal the child to us that we have seen already in the star). While not all viewers of the Le Puy inscription would have been able to read this phrase, it is likely that the cathedral’s clerics were instrumental in selecting the narrative scenes and their accompanying Latin texts. “Sion” or “Jerusalem” is thus evoked forcefully and directly for the beholders of this scene. Turning to the panel’s visual component, two mounted riders dominate the plane, each exaggerating the gesture of their hand and arm to the upper right. The rider to the right follows the arm beyond the frame, directly towards the floriated tails of the kufic border. These tails find a visual corollary with vegetal ornamentation occupying the scene’s other corners, which is also mingled among the foreground upon which the horses tread. In particular, four leaf-like patterns found within a lunette at the scene’s centre are nearly identical to the kufic inscription surrounding it and thus function together with the Latin text to provide both visual and textual references to Jerusalem (Plate 10.5). Arabic script, especially in an ersatz form, has been long associated with the biblical East in medieval art; such use is certainly not unique to Le Puy. Richard Ettinghausen argued that the primary meaning of many verified kufic inscriptions is often lost because they are so difficult to read, so it is the aura of the inscription – which could be interpreted differently by Muslim and Christian

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Plate 10.5

Detail of floriated kufic border and vegetation. Magi Journeying to Herod’s Court. Infancy Doors, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne, 12th century, 1189

audiences – that carries the most force.43 This effect would have been similar to the pseudo-Arabic inscription surrounding the celebrated late 11th-century Arca Santa of Oviedo, an object that pilgrims from Le Puy may have encountered en route to Santiago de Compostela. Much like the Infancy doors at Le 43

Richard Ettinghausen, “Arabic Epigraphy: Communication or Symbolic Affirmation,” in Near Eastern Numismatics, Iconography, Epigraphy and History, ed. George Carpenter Miles and Dickran Kouymjian (Beirut, 1974), pp. 297–317; Richard Ettinghausen, “Muslim Decorative Arts and Painting – Their Nature and Impact on the Medieval West,” in Islam and the Medieval West, ed. Stanley Ferber (Binghamton, NY, 1975), p. 14.

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Puy, the Arca also contains a Christian biblical narrative with several Latin inscriptions surrounded by pseudo-Arabic border, which Julie Harris argued evoked Eastern manufacture, rather than any Islamic context.44 A reading of Arabic inscription as a visual allusion to the time of Jesus does not, however, discount its other readings as deriving from an Islamic context, even if the linguistic translation was difficult to discern. For example, if using Cahn’s proposed 1189 terminus ante quem for the doors’ construction, we must consider that they may have been erected around the time of the Siege of Jerusalem under Saladin (1187). Even if constructed before this event, the atmosphere in the Holy Land was tense in the preceding years. Using Arabic inscription as biblical, rather than Islamic, text upon the Le Puy doors thus reclaims Jerusalem for Christians. The scenes of the Magi and Herod on the Infancy doors offer a particularly interesting understanding of the East as a non-specific quality that evoked an exotic and antique culture, while simultaneously reminding viewers that Jerusalem remained at risk in the present.45

Latin and Arabic Inscription: Form and Function

The Le Puy inscription also appears to have a quite distinct function from Arabic inscriptions found in similar architectural settings. In Islamic regions, monumental inscriptions, especially those on doors or facades, often serve a dedicatory purpose and include information regarding the patron, materials, and date of the monument.46 As discussed above, at Le Puy, this pronouncement is inscribed in Latin, not Arabic, reading Gaudzfredus me f[e]cit: Petrus edi[ ficavit]. Though their date is not inscribed, the Infancy Doors proclaim both patron and presumed artisan clearly in Latin upon the central batten, much as it might have appeared in Arabic in an Islamic context. The clarity and accessibility of this part of the inscription is both essential and intentional. Conversely, the kufic inscription remains hidden in plain sight as both decorative border and text; even if the text were understood, critical information about the doors is omitted. It was most likely a case of imitation rather than genuine knowledge of the language; that is, the artist who created the doors may not have, despite popular belief, practised Islam or even spoken Arabic. 44 45

46

Julie Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa of Oviedo,” Art Bulletin 77, no. 1 (1995), 83–93. April Jehan Morris discussed this dual reading of the “East” as one of threat and desire in 12th-century France as a result of ongoing conflict in the Holy Land: April Jehan Morris, “Imag[in]ing the ‘East’: Visualizing the Threat of Islam and the Desire for the Holy Land in Twelfth-Century Aquitaine” (PhD diss., The University of Texas at Austin, 2012). Blair, Islamic Inscriptions, p. 16.

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The distinct functions of the Latin and Arabic inscriptions on these doors thus underscore the legibility intended in each instance. As such, when considering both the textual and visual aspects of the Infancy doors’ narrative programme at Le Puy, it becomes clear that the Arabic inscription was applied without a genuine understanding of its usual architectural purpose. Instead, the Arabic inscription on the Infancy Doors appears to be integrated within the visual elements of each scene, rather than superficially applied as a decorative border. Given the intentionality and complexity of using the inscription there, its absence on the Passion Doors must also be explained. Perhaps the Arabic used on the Infancy Doors is incidental, a template simply inserted into the program. But this does not account for the visual and textual complexity of the doors’ inscriptions in both Latin and Arabic, nor does it account for the oversight of their construction by Petrus, who surely would have influenced the design, given the prominence of his name upon the doors. Instead, the vegetal scrolls used on the Passion Doors could have been a more overt allusion to the Passion itself, perhaps as a reference to the Crown of Thorns.47 While this demands further study, it suggests an explanation for the difference between the two doors – one that follows the same visual logic as its opposing narrative scenes.

At the Threshold: The Golden Gate of Le Puy

Beyond the inscription itself, references to biblical Jerusalem are also borne through a closer examination of the doors’ physical placement within the western porch. Logistically, pilgrims could have approached the cathedral from two directions: laterally from the north, via the road leading to the Hotel-Dieu, now called the Rue de pélerins, or from the west along the Rue des tables, where souvenirs, badges, and other objects of the pilgrims’ trade were sold. This deep porch led to a set of stairs that provided the singular western access point into the cathedral at the third and fourth bays through the porte dorée, or the Golden Gate (Fig. 10.4). Surely this was intended to reference the eponymous counterpart in Jerusalem; however, medieval descriptions of this door are scant, and it has been replaced by an iron grill today. According to 17th- and 18th-century descriptions, the porte dorée was indeed gilded and covered by copper plates. Other doors at the cathedral complex survive in better 47

For more on the re-interpretation of Islamic art in Christian contexts see, Eva R. Hoffman, “Christian-Islamic Encounters on Thirteenth-Century Ayyubid Metalwork: Local Culture, Authenticity, and Memory,” Gesta 43, no. 2 (2004), 129–42.

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Figure 10.4

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Western entrance, known as the porte dorée, Cathedral of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, Auvergne. Iron grill replaced original door. 12th century, with restorations in 1780 and the 19th century

condition and were decorated with metal ornaments and leather, suggesting the sumptuous style of the former porte dorée.48 The door was also flanked by antique porphyry columns (still in situ), a reference to the doors’ biblical antecedent in Jerusalem and the pontifical favour granted to the cathedral during the Middle Ages.49 48 49

Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 2. Philippe Malgouyres, “Dévotion mariale et faveur pontificale: A propos des colonnes de porphyre du portail occidental de la cathédrale du Puy,” Bulletin de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de France (2004–5), 335–38.

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By the 12th century, western Christian writers associated the Golden Gate in Jerusalem with Christ’s entry into the city and thought it dated to the time of either Solomon, David, or Herod.50 This gate was larger than the porte dorée at Le Puy, consisting of double rounded gateway on the exterior and with two more doors to the interior, it nevertheless suggests another way in which Le Puy evoked Jerusalem on its façade, through both material and liturgical function. Descriptions of the gate from this period vary, but according to Daniel, a Russian Orthodox priest who visited Jerusalem in 1106, the doors were “plated with gilded copper.”51 The copper plates on the Le Puy doors would have thus materially referenced the Jerusalem gate’s brilliant exterior surface, which stood at the threshold of the sacred church. It is also possible that the porte dorée served a special function during Palm Sunday processions. Several 12th-century sources attest to the Golden Gate’s importance during Palm Sunday liturgies in Jerusalem, when the normally closed doors would open in reference to Christ’s entry.52 While it is unclear when Palm Sunday processions began at Le Puy, according to an 18th-century processional, Christ’s entry into Jerusalem was staged ante portam auream (at the Golden Gate).53 This act was likely rooted in medieval tradition, given surviving records of other processions that took place at Le Puy from the 13th century.54 Taken in this wider architectural and liturgical context that must have evoked an image of biblical Jerusalem, the border inscription on the Infancy Doors thus may be formally Arabic, but would have been understood contextually as a Christian motif.

50 51 52 53 54

See, Milner, pp.  249. See also Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, 3 (Cambridge, 1993), p. 108. Pringle, Churches of the Crusader Kingdom, 3:104. Ibid., pp. 104–106. See Milner, p. 251. Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 2. For the Palm Sunday Procession see, Le Puy, Bibliotheque Municipale, Fond Cortial, MS 170. Records of medieval processions at Le Puy survive in partial form in a 16th-century copy of a 14th-century ceremonial from Le Puy, entitled Incipit liber ordinaries secundum usum Aniciensis ecclesie (T. 586). This was transcribed and edited in Jean-Baptiste Payrard, “Ancien cérémonial de l’église angélique du Puy,” Tablettes Historiques de la Haute Loire et du Velay (1872/1873–1876/1877). This text was published in pieces serially over the years listed. Providing page numbers for each volume year has made for an overly complicated citation and I have cited it as written here in previously published works. If more information is required, a link to the text can be accessed at: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/ bpt6k97498250/f479.item.

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Conclusion

In reading the Arabic inscription at Le Puy Cathedral as either alien or as inconsequential, the default response for over a century, the desire to evade any potential questions regarding its meaning perhaps reveals more about modern discomfort with an Arabic inscription upon a Christian monument, rather than a real medieval concern. The interpretation of this inscription as somehow the subversive act of a Muslim craftsman is clouded by the historian’s knowledge and awareness of the fact that it is an unusual case of Arabic inscription; it cannot be perceived in the same manner as a medieval viewer. This perspective is also distorted by an insistence to categorize medieval art forms in religious terms: Arabic inscription as “Islamic” being the foremost example here. Labels that determine hegemonic influence, rather than conscious artistic choice, such as “Byzantine,” “Islamic,” or “Christian,” have hindered our understanding of cultural relationships during the Middle Ages and have precluded a wider understanding of aesthetic appropriation during this period. These categories and Le Puy’s geographical isolation within central France, have inhibited its inclusion among such studies, and have also precluded the study of the cathedral alongside Eastern motifs and artefacts that transcend cultural or religious specificity, which is well-documented across the Mediterranean and has led to theories for a shared visual language in this region.55 Indeed, the question of aesthetic influence at Le Puy remains difficult to determine, especially in terms of reception. While the linguistic content of Le Puy Cathedral’s Arabic inscription might be legible to scholars of Islamic art and architecture, from the medieval viewer’s perspective, many forms of Arabic epigraphy may have been difficult to decipher, even by those who read the language fluently.56 This difficulty gained widespread attention in international media in 2017 with the discovery of a Viking textile argued to be inscribed with “Allah” in kufic script, which was subsequently disputed and determined to be a sort of pseudo-Arabic by scholars of Islamic art and archaeology.57 Indeed, the Le Puy inscription’s legibility has been something of a red herring for its study, and ultimately demonstrates the privileged position of linguistic translation 55 56 57

Grabar, “Shared Culture”. Sheila Blair, “Legibility versus Decoration in Islamic Epigraphy: The Case of Interlacing,” in World Art: Themes of Unity in Diversity, ed. Irving Lavin, 2 (University Park, PA, 1990), pp. 329–31. See, among other media sources, “Viking textile did not feature word ‘Allah’, expert says,” The Independent, 17 October 2017. Available at: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/ world/europe/allah-viking-burial-fabrics-false-kufic-inscription-clothes-name-woven -myth-islam-uppsala-sweden-a8003881.html. Accessed 2020 Feb 10.

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over visual aesthetics when assessing text-based forms. In particular, interest in Eastern-inspired elements of the cathedral architecture have been myopically understood in terms of style and form, rather than within their contexts as parts of an evolving decorative program. They produce a multiplicity of meanings for each viewer – visual, textual, and ideological – which changed according to Le Puy’s historical connections to the Holy Land. While the Arabic inscription at Le Puy may have been the product of a Muslim-Christian workshop in Auvergne, it has been demonstrated here that it would have been understood by its primary audience as a biblical allusion, when viewed within the context of the narrative reliefs it frames. The simultaneous translation of the inscription as textual and visual sign connects past and present; Arabic as the contemporary language of Islam, and Arabic as symbol of the biblical past. Read first as object – and despite its technical linguistic message – the Arabic inscription at Le Puy thus may not have alluded to Islamic provenance, but rather to Jerusalem – past, present, and future. Bibliography Balbale, Abigail, “From Legible Text to Magical Pattern,” Bard Graduate Center Lecture, 11 March 2014. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-DzOT6CKLNE. Barral i Altet, Xavier, “Sur les supposées influences islamiques dans l’art roman: l’exemple de la Cathédrale Notre-Dame du Puy-en-Velay,” Cahiers de Saint-Michel de Cuxa 35 (2004), 115–18. Blair, Sheila, “Legibility versus Decoration in Islamic Epigraphy: The Case of Interlacing,” in World Art: Themes of Unity in Diversity, ed. Irving Lavin, 2 (University Park, PA, 1990), pp. 329–31. Blair, Sheila, Islamic Inscriptions (New York, 1998). Cahn, Walter, The Romanesque Wooden Doors of Auvergne (New York, 1974). Cahn, Walter, “Les portes romanes en bois,” in La Cathédrale du Puy-en-Velay, ed. Xavier Barral i Altet (Paris, 2000), pp. 260–62. de Bourbon, Étienne, Anecdotes historiques, légendes et apologues tirés du Recueil inédit d’Étienne de Bourbon, dominicain du XIIIe siècle (Paris, 1877). de Longpérier, Adrien, “De l’emploi des caractères arabes dans l’ornementation chez les peoples Chrétiens de l’occident,” Revue Arquelogique 2 (1846), 696–706. Demus, Otto, Romanesque Mural Painting (New York, 1970). Dodds, Jerrilynn D., “Islam, Christianity and the Problem of Religious Art,” in The Art of Medieval Spain A.D. 500–1200, ed. Jerrilyn D. Dodds, Charles Little, Serefin Moralejo, and John Williams (New York, 1993), pp. 27–37.

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Dodds, Jerrilynn D., “Remembering the Crusades in the Fabric of Buildings: Preliminary Thoughts about Alternating Voussoirs,” in Remembering the Crusades: Myth, Image, and Identity, ed. Nicholas Paul and Suzanne Yeager (Baltimore, MD, 2012), pp. 99–124. Dodds, Jerrilynn D., “Artistic Ambivalence in the Age of Iberian Crusades,” in Crusading on the Edge: Ideas and Practice of Crusading in Iberia and the Baltic Region, 1100–1500, ed. T.K. Nielsen and I. Fonnesberg Schmidt (Turnhout, 2016), pp. 299–331. Dolezalek, Isabelle, Vera Beyer, and Monica Juneja, “Contextualising Choices: Islamicate Elements in European Arts,” The Medieval History Journal 15, no. 2 (2012), 231–42. Durliat, Marcel, “L’art dans le Velay,” Congrés archéologique du Puy 133 (1975), 41–44. Durliat, Marcel, “Les coupoles de la cathédrale du Puy et leurs origines,” Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 120, no. 3 (1976), 494–524. Eastmond, Antony, Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World (Cambridge, 2015). Ettinghausen, Richard, “Arabic Epigraphy: Communication or Symbolic Affirmation,” in Near Eastern Numismatics, Iconography, Epigraphy and History, ed. George Carpenter Miles and Dickran Kouymjian (Beirut, 1974), pp. 297–317. Ettinghausen, Richard, “Muslim Decorative Arts and Painting – Their Nature and Impact on the Medieval West,” in Islam and the Medieval West, ed. Stanley Ferber (Binghamton, NY, 1975), pp. 5–26. Ettinghausen, Richard, “Kufesque in Byzantine Greece, the Latin West and the Muslim World,” in A Colloquium in Memory of George Carpenter Miles, American Numismatic Society (New York, 1976), pp. 28–47. Fikry, Ahmet, L’art roman du Puy et les influences islamiques (Paris, 1934). Galland, Bernard, Martin de Framond, and Dominique Brunon, Le Puy-en-Velay: l’ensemble cathédrale Notre-Dame (Paris, 2005). Goss, Vladimir P., “Western Architecture and the World of Islam in the Twelfth Century,” in The Meeting of Two Worlds: Cultural Exchange between East and West during the Period of the Crusades, ed. Vladimir P. Goss and Christine Verzár Bornstein (Kalamazoo, MI, 1986), pp. 361–76. Grabar, Oleg, “Islamic Architecture and the West: Influences and Parallels,” in Islamic Visual Culture: 1100–1800, 2: Constructing the Study of Islamic Art (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 381–88. (originally published in Ferber, Islam and the Medieval West, pp. 60–66). Harris, Julie, “Redating the Arca Santa of Oviedo,” Art Bulletin 77, no. 1 (1995), 83–93. Hill, John Hugh, and Laurita L. Hill, trans., Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem (Philadelphia, PA, 1968). Hoffman, Eva R., “Pathways of Portability: Islamic and Christian Interchange from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century,” Art History 24, no. 1 (2001; first pub. 2003), 17–50.

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Hoffman, Eva R., “Christian-Islamic Encounters on Thirteenth-Century Ayyubid Metalwork: Local Culture, Authenticity, and Memory,” Gesta 43, no. 2 (2004), 129–42. Johns, Jeremy, “Arabic Inscriptions in the Cappella Palatina: Performativity, Audience, Legibility and Illegibility,” in Eastmond, Viewing Inscriptions, pp. 124–47. Kostick, Colin, “The Afterlife of Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy,” Studies in Church History 45 (2009), 120–29. Mack, Rosamond, Bazaar to Piazza: Islamic Trade and Italian Art, 1300–1600 (Berkeley, CA, 2002). Mâle, Emile, “La mosquée de Cordoue et les églises de l’Auvergne et du Velay,” Revue de l’art ancien et moderne (1911), 81–89. Mâle, Emile, “Les influences arabes dans l’art roman,” Revue des deux Mondes (1923), 311–40. Malgouyres, Philippe, “Dévotion mariale et faveur pontificale: A propos des colonnes de porphyre du portail occidental de la cathédrale du Puy,” Bulletin de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de France (2004–5), 335–38. Marcais, Georges, “Sur l’inscription arabe de la cathédrale du Puy,” Comptes rendus de l’academie des inscriptions et belles-lettres (1938), 153–62. Miles, George C., “Byzantium and the Arabs: Relations in Crete and the Aegean Area,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 18 (1964), 1–32. Morris, April Jehan, “Imag[in]ing the ‘East’: Visualizing the Threat of Islam and the Desire for the Holy Land in Twelfth-Century Aquitaine” (PhD diss., The University of Texas at Austin, 2012). Nagel, Alexander, “Twenty-five Notes on Pseudoscript in Italian Art,” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 59–60 (2011), 229–48. Nelson, Robert S., “Letters and Language: Ornament and Identity in Byzantium and Islam,” in The Experience of Islamic Art on the Margins of Islam, ed. Irene A. Biermann (Ithaca, NY, 2005), pp. 61–88. Nickson, Tom, “Remembering Fernando: Multilingualism in Medieval Iberia,” in Eastmond, Viewing Inscriptions, pp. 170–86. Payrard, Jean-Baptiste, “Ancien cérémonial de l’église angélique du Puy,” Tablettes Historiques de la Haute Loire et du Velay (1872/1873–1876/1877). Pedone, Silvia, and Valentina Cantone, “The Pseudo-Kufic Ornament and the Problem of Cross-Cultural Relationships between Byzantium and Islam,” Opuscula Historiae Artium 62 (2013), 120–36. Pringle, Denys, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, 4 vols (Cambridge, 1993). Robinson, Cynthia, and Leyla Rouhi, eds., Under the Influence: Questioning the Comparative in Medieval Castile (Leiden, 2005).

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Robinson, Cynthia, and Simone Pinet, eds., Courting the Alhambra: Cross-disciplinary Approaches to the Hall of Justice Ceilings (Leiden, 2008). Schulz, Vera-Simone, “From Letter to Line: Artistic Experiments with Pseudo-script in Late Medieval Italian Painting, Preliminary Remarks,” in The Power of Line: Linea III, ed. Marzia Faietti and Gerhard Wolf (Munich, 2015), pp. 144–61. Siddiq, Mohammad Yusuf, Epigraphy and Islamic Culture: Inscriptions of the Early Muslim Rulers of Bengal (New York, 2016). Spittle, S. Denys T., “Cufic Lettering in Christian Art,” Archaeological Journal 111 (1954), 138–54. Tronzo, William, “The Mantle of Roger II of Sicily,” in Robes and Honor: The Medieval World of Investiture, ed. S. Gordon (New York, 2001), pp. 241–53. Vernon, Clare, “Pseudo-Arabic and the Material Culture of the First Crusade in Norman Italy: The Sanctuary Mosaic at San Nicola in Bari,” Open Library of Humanities 4, no. 1 (2018), 36. https://olh.openlibhums.org/articles/10.16995/olh.252/. Walker, Alicia, “Meaningful Mingling: Classicizing Imagery and Islamicizing Script in a Byzantine Bowl,” Art Bulletin 90, no. 1 (2008), 32–53. Walker, Alicia, “Pseudo-Arabic ‘Inscriptions’ and the Pilgrim’s Path at Hosios Loukas,” in Eastmond, Viewing Inscriptions, pp. 99–123. Watson, Katherine, French Romanesque and Islam: Andalusian elements in French Architectural Decoration c. 1030–1180 (Oxford, 1989). Woltering, Robbert, “Pseudo-Arabic”, in Encyclopedia of Arabic Language and Linguistics, Managing Editors Online Edition: Luts Edzard, Rudolf de Jong. Accessed at: http://dx.doi/10.1163/1570-6699_eall_EALL_SIM_000025.

Chapter 11

Ingrediente Domino In Sanctam Civitatem: The Golden Gate in Jerusalem and Its Echoes in 12th-Century Christendom Lesley Milner At the top of the road, towards the east, climb towards the Golden Gate. When you have climbed up, you find yourself in a large space and that is where you go to get to the Golden Gate. Through this Gate no one passes, because it is walled-up. And no one goes through except when they open it two times a year and go through in procession. Once a year on Palm Sunday, because Jesus Christ went through it on that day and was welcomed as he processed, and once a year on the Feast of the True Cross, because through it the Holy Cross was brought back into Jerusalem when the Roman Emperor Heracles won it back from the Persians. And by that gate he returned it to the city of Jerusalem in procession.1

∵ 1 Chapter Title: “Ingrediente Domino in sanctam civitatem, Herbraeorum pueri resurrectionem vitae pronuntiantes, Cum ramis palmarum: Hosanna, clamabant, in excelsis.” (As the Lord entered the holy city, the Hebrew children hailed the resurrection of life with palm branches: crying ‘Hosanna in the highest!’). Responsory at the entry into the church on Palm Sunday. Ordinal of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, in Charles Kohler, Mélanges pour servir à l’histoire de l’Orient Latin et des Croisades (Paris, 1906), pp. 286–403, 361. Epigraph: “Al cief de cel pavement, par déviers soleil levant, ravale on uns degrés à aler as portes Oires. Quant on les a avalés si treuve on un grant place, ainsi c’on viegne as portes Oires  … Par ces portes ne passoit nus, ainsi estoient enmurées. Et se n’i passoit nus [fort seulement] que, ii fois en l’an, c’on les desmuroit; et i aloit on a pourcession [c’est a savoir le jor de Pasque Florie, porce que Jhesus Criz i passa cel jor et fu recoilis à proces-sion]; et le jour de le fiestre Sainte Crois Saltasse, pour che que par ces portes fu raportée la sainte Crois en Jherusalem, quant li emperes Eracles de Rome le conquesta en Perse; et par cele porte le remist on en le cite de Jherusalem. Et ala on à pourcession encontre li.” Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, publiée, pour la première fois, d’après les manuscrits de Bruxelles, de Paris et de Berne, avec un essai de classification des continuateurs de Guillaume de Tyr, pour la Société de l’histoire de France, ed. L. de Mas Latrie (Paris, 1871), p. 189; trans. Lesley Milner.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004501904_015

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Introduction Soon after Saladin reconquered Jerusalem, a western chronicler, Ernoul, undertook the task of describing the city as it had been during the 88 years that it was Christian. His accounts of its sacred buildings are condensed to the point of being perfunctory, but this passage devoted to the Golden Gate stands out. He describes the ceremonies associated with it, demonstrating the regard in which it has held by 12th-century Christians. Modern visitors, like their 12th-century counter-parts, can look down on Jerusalem from the summit of the Mount of Olives, and now, as in the 12th century, the dome of the 7th-century Dome of the Rock dominates the view. However, once the eye has identified and recognized the Golden Gate, punctuating the encompassing walls of Jerusalem, this building establishes itself as a visual focal point on the steep zig-zag journey down the hill. At the bottom, in the valley of the river Kidron, known as Jehosaphat, another steep climb up to the city awaits. But still the Golden Gate beckons, its double arch now becoming more distinctive and its sumptuous carved decoration clearer as the visitor draws near. In a seminal paper Paul Crossley investigated how a church’s altars were more than “spectacles marking out a liturgical topography…. They generated, as meditational centres, what might be called sequential patterns of thought, triggers for the ordered exercise of intellect and memory.”2 While the Golden Gate has featured in a number of important studies of Jerusalem and its liturgical topography,3 its role as the key staging post in the annual Palm Sunday procession, and particularly the way that its architectural characteristics equipped it for this role, deserve further study, in order for us to understand it as a ‘meditative mnemonic’ for 12th-century Christians, in Jerusalem and across Western Christendom.

2 Paul Crossley, “The Man from Inner Space: Architecture and Meditation in the Choir of St Laurence in Nuremburg,” in Medieval Art: Recent Perspectives: A Memorial Tribute to Reginald Dodwell, ed. Gale R. Owen-Crocker and Timothy Graham (Manchester, 1998), pp. 165–82. 3 Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, 4 vols (Cambridge, 1993), 3:103–104; Cyril Mango, “The Temple Mount AD 614–638,” in Ruby and Johns, Bayt al-Maqdis (Oxford, 1992), 1:1–16; John Wilkinson, “Column Capitals in al-Haram al-Sharif,” in Raby and Johns, Bayt Al-Maqdis, 1:125–31; Iris Shagrir, “Adventus in Jerusalem: the Palm Sunday Celebration in Latin Jerusalem,” Journal of Medieval History 41, no. 1 (2015), 1–20.

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The Golden Gate

Academic debate persists about the date of the Golden Gate (Fig. 11.1). Scholars agree that it originated as a Roman double-arched city gate, probably constructed in the 1st century AD, and that it was rebuilt on its original footings as a double-arched structure in the 7th century.4 However, Cyril Mango asserts that it was a late-Byzantine Christian undertaking, observing that it is precisely aligned with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, whereas John Wilkinson believes that it is an Islamic structure, created as part of the Umayyad Caliph Abd al-Malik’s transformation of Temple Mount, including the creation of the Dome of the Rock.5 The Golden Gate is a double gateway leading to an entrance vestibule set in the east wall of the Haram/Temple Mount. Overall, it measures 16 m (52.5 ft) long (N/S), and 30 m (98.4 ft) deep (E/W). Its eastern façade (facing away from Jerusalem) is 17 m (55.78 ft) high and its western façade (facing the Haram/ Temple area) is 12 m (39 ft) high (Fig. 11.2).6 Externally, the two façades broadly match each other. Both have double arches carried on pilasters at the side and

Figure 11.1

East façade, the Golden Gate, Jerusalem. 7th century AD

4 Pringle, Churches of the Crusader Kingdom, p. 107. 5 Mango, “The Temple Mount,” pp. 1–16; Wilkinson, “Column Capitals,” pp. 125–31. 6 Mango, in “The Temple Mount,” p. 7, observed, “alas the Golden Gate has never been subjected to a proper archaeological investigation.”

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Figure 11.2

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West façade, the Golden Gate, Jerusalem. 1856–60

a central column, all topped with Corinthian capitals.7 These arches consist of heavy, moulded voussoirs. Against all the rules of classical architecture, the voussoirs continue on either side of the arches to form a frieze. The sculptural decoration on both façades consists of three bands of finely carved ornamentation, surmounted by a carved hood moulding. The entrances of the Golden Gate were finally blocked with ashlar masonry between 1537–41, when the Islamic ruler Sultan Suleiman rebuilt Jerusalem’s city walls. This is how they remain today. The gate’s interior equals the exterior in splendour (Fig. 11.3). First, its most important characteristic must be established. In most traditional gateways of multiple gates, be they Roman triumphal arches or city gates, or medieval or Byzantine gates, the interior passages are independent of each other, divided by longitudinal walls.8 In the Golden Gate, however, the two passages are 7 The column on the east façade is no longer visible. 8 One exception is the 3rd-century arch of Septimius Severus at Leptis Magna. Instead of having one axial route through its interior space, it has two, the result of open arches on all four sides. This may be because it was set up over a major cross-road. John Bryan Ward-Perkins, “Severan Art and Architecture at Leptis Magna,” The Journal of Roman Studies 38, no. 1–2 (1948), 59–80.

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Figure 11.3

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Interior, the Golden Gate, Jerusalem. 1898–1914

divided only by two columns, creating an open space within the structure. The vestibule thus consists of six bays, divided by segmental transverse arches carried on two central columns with Ionic capitals and rectangular wall pilasters. Overall, it measures 24 m long (E/W) and 10.5 m wide (79 × 34.4 ft). The four western bays are covered with pendentive saucer domes carried on depressed arches, while the two eastern ones were enlarged to allow the pendentives to carry hemi-spherical domes.

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Nineteenth- and early 20th-century interior views show the space from west to east, providing a record of the interior’s richness.9 Sumptuous materials are used; the columns subdividing the space are marble monoliths, with elaborately carved capitals. The pilasters are carved to give a panelled appearance, reminiscent of fluting, while their heavy Corinthian capitals support an equally heavy and finely decorated cornice. The Golden Gate was described in the 11th century before the Christian take-over of Jerusalem by an Islamic visitor from Persia: Along the east wall, in the middle of the sanctuary, is a large gateway of stone so finely hewn that one would say it has been made of a single block. It is 50 ells high and 30 wide, is carved in designs and has two beautiful doors leading into it. Between the doors is not one foot of wall space. These doors are elaborately made of iron and Damascene brass with rings and studs. They say these doors were made by Solomon for his father David. Going inside through these two doors and facing east, you find to your right two doors called Gate of Mercy and the other Gate of Repentance. It is said that it was at these very doors that God accepted David’s repentance. On this spot is a beautiful mosque that was once decorated with all sorts of carpets.10 This description establishes that the gate was, to all intents and purposes, the same one visible today. Furthermore, a possible explanation is provided, both for its unusual interior arrangement and for the fact that its doors were kept closed. Näşir-I Khusraw’s statement, “on this spot is a beautiful mosque,” suggests that its internal space acted as a room for prayer as well as a passageway. Two important differences between the medieval Golden Gate and that which we see today must not be neglected. First, in the Middle Ages it retained its early splendid gates. Secondly, the description shows that it was taller than it was wide, and must therefore have had a higher storey above the entrance

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For instance, photograph (negative: glass, dry plate), Interior of the Golden Gate/ American Colony, Jerusalem, 1898–1914, LC-M36-387, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, DC, 20540 USA; London, Victoria and Albert Museum, SD.394. John Fulleylove, Interior of the Golden Gate Jerusalem (Pencil Drawing), 1901. Available at: http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O143818/interior-of-the-golden-gatedrawing-fulleylove-john/. Accessed 2020 April 7. Näşir-I Khusraw, Diary of a Journey through Syria and Palestine by Näşir-I Khusraw in 1047 AD, ed./trans. Guy Le Strange, Palestine Pilgrims Text Society (London, 1888), p. 32.

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portals than at present. A 14th-century description of the gate by Nicholas of Poggibonsi makes this plain: The gate is very large and there are two gateways, one beside the other…. Above the arches there is a little house with a window above the gate: the gate faces towards the east and all its gates are made of iron, embossed with large nails; but now they have lost their nails because Christians pull them out when they can because they have powerful properties. The wood inside the gate is of cypress.11 In 1483, Erhard Reuwich drew the Golden Gate as ruinous above the first storey,12 a fact confirmed by his contemporary, Felix Faber, who noted that its upper storey or “tower” (turris), as he described it, was in ruins.13 So, the building was originally at least two-storied. The present structure above the groundfloor porch was re-created by Sultan Suleiman in 1537–41. At that point, the shallow saucer vaults over the two eastern bays were replaced by the higher domes whose open oculi allowed light into the interior.

Liturgical Topography before 1099

The topographical area lying to the east of Jerusalem’s city walls has always been profoundly important to Christians (Fig. 11.4). They inherited the Jewish belief, following the prophecies of Zechariah (14:2–4) and Joel (3:1–2, 12), that at the end of the world, in the Valley of Jehosaphat the Messiah would arrive on the Mount of Olives and enact the last judgement. For this reason, the valley

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Nicolò di Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare: “La detta porta si è molto grande, e sono due porte, allato l’una all’altra…. Sopra gli archi si è una casetta, con una finestra sopra alla porta, la porta si è volta verso il levante e tutte sone di ferro, e di grossi chiovi bollate, ma ora molti ne sono tratti de chiovi, che i Cristiani ne tragono, quando possono, però che anno grande virtude; il legno dentro della porta si è d’arcipresso.” A. Bacchi della Lega, ed., Libro d’Oltramare di Fra Niccolò di Poggibonsi (Bologna, 1881), pp. 191–92; trans. Lesley Milner. Panorama of Jerusalem, wood cut from a drawing made in situ by Erhard Reuwich, in Bernhard von Breydenbach, Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (Mainz, 1486). Image available at: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/338300. Accessed 2020 April 12. Felicis Felicis, Evagatorium: “portam magnam orientalem, cujus turris altitudo dejecta est et rupta, per quam Dominus Jesus in die palmarum intravit, sedens in asino.” in Konrad Dieterich Hassler, ed., Fratris Felicis Fabri Evagatorium In Terrae Sanctae, Arabiae Et Egypti Peregrinatoniem, 2 (Stuttgart, 1843), p. 368.

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was a burial place for Christians and Jews, and the Golden Gate looked (and still looks) east over a graveyard.14 Since this eastern Gate allows entry into the Temple and city from the Mount of Olives, it was thus identified as the Messiah’s entry point into Jerusalem at the end of the world, and understood to fulfil the prophecies by admitting Christ when he was welcomed by crowds into the city on the day that became known as Palm Sunday. This was described by the four evangelists, who agree that Jesus entered the city from the east. Although none identify the gate he used by name, Mark and Luke state that he entered directly into the Temple. Since the Golden Gate was the only one to allow direct entry into the Temple from the east of the city, it would be reasonable for Christian commentators to claim that it was the gate through which Christ rode.15 By the 7th century it was referred to as the Golden Gate, as a sermon for Palm Sunday (attributed to Bede) demonstrates: “On this day Christ entered Jerusalem through the Golden Gate and the children of the Hebrews ran to him. Some threw palm branches in his path and others their clothes.”16 So, as Christ’s entry point into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, the Golden Gate was present within the minds of medieval Christians in the centuries before Christians subjugated Jerusalem in 1099. As early as the 4th century, Christians in Jerusalem were re-enacting the event in an annual liturgical procession on Palm Sunday: the bishop and all the people rise from their places, and start down from the summit of the Mount of Olives. All the people go before him with palms and antiphons, all the time repeating, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ The babies and the ones too young to walk are carried on their parents’ shoulders. Everyone is carrying branches, either palm or olive … 14

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For instance, Lethbald of Autun, upon reaching the Mount of Olives, asked to die in the place where Jesus ascended to heaven; while visiting the Holy Sepulchre, the pilgrim Theodericus de Rulant asked God to let him die there. Ora Limor, “Placing an Idea: The Valley of Jehoshaphat in Religious Imagination,” in Between Jerusalem and Europe: Essays in Honour of Bianca Kühnel, ed. Renana Bartal and Hanna Vorholt (Leiden, 2015), p. 288; Raoul Glaber, Histoires, ed. Mathieu Arnoux (Turnhout, 1996), pp. 254–57; John Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims: Before the Crusades (Jerusalem, 1977), pp. 272–73; Caesarius of Heisterbach, Distinctio undecima: De morientibus 11.24, ed. Joseph Strange, Dialogus miraculorum, 2 (Cologne, 1851), p. 291. See also Jonathan Sumption, Pilgrimage: An Image of Medieval Religion (London, 1975), pp. 128–36. Matthew 21, John 12:12–19; Mark 11:1–11, Luke 19:28–44. Bede, Homilia 3.105, In Die Palmarum: “Hodie Christus Ierusalem per portas aureas intravit et occurrerunt ei pueri Hebraeorum. Alii ramos jactabant in viam, alii vestimenta.” PL 94:507; trans. Lesley Milner.

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Figure 11.4

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Map of Jerusalem, Frederick Catherwood, 1835

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They go on foot all the way down the Mount to the city, and all through the city to the Anastasis.17 At this time, the Golden Gate was not a key staging post in the processions. The emperor Constantine had established churches on Mount Golgotha and it was here that Christians gathered. The Temple area was now derelict, fulfilling Christ’s prophetic words, “There shall not be left a stone upon a stone.”18 The Golden Gate evidently existed, but in a ruinous state,19 and so the Palm Sunday liturgical procession entered Jerusalem by another city gate. As we have seen, the Golden Gate certainly existed under Muslim rule, and annual Palm Sunday services were allowed to continue,20 but as the whole of Temple Mount, including the Golden Gate, was transformed into an Islamic centre of worship it was inaccessible to Christians and their processions. In the West, Palm Sunday processions were also enacted annually. For instance, the instructions for Benedictine Palm Sunday processions are evinced in the Customary of the Cluniac abbey of Farfa, written about 1010. The huge procession left the abbey church and progressed to a church just outside the abbey walls. On its return, it made a staged halt while the antiphon Gloria laus et honor was sung, with the response Rex Christe, re-enacting Christ’s welcome from the crowds at the city gate.21 The Customary does not specify where this stage should occur, but the late 11th-century Benedictine customary of Christ Church Canterbury instructs that the procession should leave the monastery and city and on returning, halt at the city gate, where the Gloria laus is to 17

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Jerome, Peregrinatio ad loca sancta: “Et statim leuat se episcopus et omnis populus, porro inde de summo monte Oliueti totum pedibus itur. Nam totus populus ante ipsum cum ymnis uel antiphonis respondentes semper: Benedictus, qui uenit in nomine Domini. Et quotquot sunt infantes in hisdem locis, usque etiam qui pedibus ambulare non possunt, quia teneri sunt, in collo illos parentes sui tenent, omnes ramos tenentes alii palmarum, alii oliuarum…. Et de summo monte usque ad ciuitatem et inde ad Anastase per totam ciuitatem totum pedibus omnes,” ed. Paul Geyer, Itinera Hierosolymitana, Saeculi IV–VIII, CSEL 39 (Vienna, 1898). pp. 83–84; trans. John Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels (Warminster, 2006), p. 152. Mark 13:2: “Non relinquetur lapis super lapidem.” See further, Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels, p. 7. In 570 the Piacenza pilgrim reported that “the threshold and posts … still stand” (cohaerit portae speciosae, quae fuit fuit temple, cuius liminares et tabulatio stat). Mango, “The Temple Mount,” p. 7. Shagrir, “Adventus in Jerusalem,” p. 6. “Adpropinquantibus monasteriumeant ex ipsis sex, quibus armarius annuerit, et vestiantur capiis ad Gloria laus canendum. Procesio omamentum quemadmodum venit, ita stet per ordinem.” Bruno Albers, ed., Consuetudines Farfenses. Consuetudines monasticae, 5 vols (Stuttgart, 1900), 1:44.

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be sung. Then they must proceed, making another formal halt at a gate into the monastery.22 Before the 12th century, therefore, there was a liturgical topography associated with Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, in both Jerusalem and the West. However, the Golden Gate was not yet a staging point in the Jerusalem processions, and did not provide a prototype for the Gloria laus ceremony in the West. All this was to change after the Christian occupation of Jerusalem in 1099.

Liturgical Topography after 1099

Once the Latin Church was established in Jerusalem, a major reorganisation of the city occurred. In particular, the Haram/Temple Mount was transformed into a Christian place of worship, and the Dome of the Rock became the Church of Our Lady, also referred to as the Templum Domini.23 It was at this point that the Golden Gate became the key staging post for the Palm Sunday processions. An account by Albert of Aix shows that this was already taking place in 1108: [King Baldwin I] entered on that holy and festive Day of Palms through the gate which looks towards the Mount of Olives, through which Lord Jesus entered riding on a donkey, the king with his men, and along with certain splendid legates from the king of the Greeks.24 A full account of the Palm Sunday processions from this period is preserved in the 12th-century Ordinal of the Austin Canons, who served the church of the

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Lanfranc, Decreta pro Ordine S. Benedicti, in B. Lanfranci Cantuariensis Archiepiscopi Opera Omnia, PL 150 (Paris, 1880), pp. 456–57. John Giebfried, “The Crusader Rebranding of Jerusalem’s Temple Mount,” Comitatus: A Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 44 (2013), 77–94. Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana 12.7: “Ipsa sancta et celebri die palmarum per portam que respicit ad montem olivarum, per quam Dominus Iesus asello sedens intravit, ipse cum suis, et una cum quibusdam magnificis legatis regis Grecorum.” Susan B. Edgington, ed., Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana (Oxford, 2007), pp. 834–35.

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Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.25 This shows two changes made in the route.26 Firstly, instead of starting on the summit of the Mount of Olives, the procession, carrying the relic of the True Cross, gathered at the village of Bethany before sunrise and proceeded from there. Bethany was the village where Christ raised Lazarus, and from where he began his own journey to Jerusalem, later commemorated by Palm Sunday. Secondly, the procession now entered Jerusalem through the Golden Gate, and it was here that the most important staging post was held. After a formal halt or station in the Valley of Jehosaphat, the procession ascended the slope to the Golden gate: Then the sub-cantor and the master of the school, accompanied by the boys go up on top of the gate through which the Lord Jesus entered when he came and there they wait until the procession has assembled inside. When they have gathered together the cantor alone begins this antiphon Gloria laus et honor. And the chorus below responds Rex Christe … when these are finished, the boys or the patriarch begin the responsory Ingredientes Domino.27 These instructions are revealing; first, it is evident that the boys who sing the Gloria laus et honor climb to the top of the gate; secondly, it suggests that at least part of the procession made the formal station inside the gate. Clearly, the 25

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Ordinal of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Barletta, Archivio della Chiesa del Santo Sepolcro, unnumbered manuscript) was produced for the patriarch and the religious community of the Holy Sepulchre, and contains the yearly ritual cycles and major processional celebrations. Shagrir argues that: “It seems safe to assume that it is a thirteenthcentury copy of twelfth-century manuscripts, and that it reflects the rituals and ceremonies of the twelfth century up to 1187 and perhaps of the years 1229–44.” Shagrir, “Adventus in Jerusalem,” p. 5. See also, Kohler, Mélanges, pp. 286–403; Sebastián Salvadó, “Rewriting the Latin Liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre: Text, Ritual and Devotion for 1149,” Journal of Medieval History 43, no. 4 (2017), 403–20. As Shagrir observed, according to the 10th-century Typikon of the Anastasis, the Palm Sunday procession had been lengthened by that date to include the churches at the top of the Mount of Olives, where the patriarch blessed the palms and olive branches. From there it descended to Bethany, then went westward toward the Tomb of the Virgin at Gethsemane, thence to the Church of the Probatic Pool, and back to the Holy Sepulchre, finishing at the Anastasis, where it began. Shagrir, “Adventus in Jerusalem,” p. 9. “Portam auream cantando de sollempnitate antiphonas…. Tune subcantor et magister scole et pueri cum ipsis ascendunt super portam per quam dominus Jesus adveniens intravit, et ibi expectant donec ingressi congregentur. Quibus congregatis, solus cantor incipit hanc antiphonam Gloria, laus et honor. Et chorus inferius respondent Rex Christe. Et soli pueri cantant versum et ceteros. Quibus finitis, pueri incipiunt, vel patriarcha, resp.” “Ingrediente Domino. Ordinal of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre”, in Kohler, Mélanges, p. 316; trans. Lesley Milner.

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design of its interior, consisting of open space (rather than narrow passages), greatly facilitated this stage, allowing the Golden Gate to act as a meditational centre, a “trigger for the ordered exercise of intellect and memory.”28

Echoes of The Golden Gate

The South Entrance of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem The 12th century saw the creation of a number of formal entrances whose characteristics can be identified as deliberate meditative mnemonics designed to prompt memory of the Golden Gate. The first is the splendid entry into the south transept of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem (Fig. 11.5). After 1099, a pressing concern for crusaders was to mark their stamp on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which they made the seat of the Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem and put in the care of Austin canons. Early in the 1130s, work started on transforming the buildings to the east of the Rotunda, which contained Christ’s tomb. Transepts were constructed with a new choir. The third major feature was an entrance to the church in the south transept façade, which is generally dated to before the new church was consecrated in 1149, but was certainly finished by the time the crusaders were expelled from Jerusalem in 1187.29 Viewed alongside the Golden Gate, their similarities show that it is a deliberate copy of the gate, especially when considering that the Golden Gate originally had an upper floor. Scholars have already shown the degree to which it depends on the Golden Gate. As Jaroslav Folda states, “For the entry portal, the architect no doubt drew on the design of a local Jerusalem city gate, the Golden Gate.”30 Folda suggests that both entries share mutual characteristics because they have common eschatological associations. He asserts that at the second coming, the Golden Gate would allow entry to Christ in the same way Christians are allowed entry into the church. However, the shared features of the two 28 29 30

Crossley, “The Man from Inner Space,” p. 170. Alan Borg, “Observations on the Historiated Lintel of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 32 (1969), 25–40. Jaroslav Folda, “The Crusader Church of the Holy Sepulchre: Design, Depiction and the Pilgrim Church of Compostela,” in Tomb and Temple: Re-imagining the Sacred Buildings of Jerusalem, ed. Robin Griffith-Jones and Eric Fernie (Woodbridge, 2018), p. 99; see also, Jaroslav Folda, “The South Transept Façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem: An Aspect of ‘Rebuilding Zion’,” in The Crusades and their Sources: Essays Presented to Bernard Hamilton, ed. John France and William G. Zajak (Aldershot, 1998), p. 242.

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Figure 11.5

South façade, Church of the Holy Sepulchre. 12th century

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entrances accrue additional significance when viewed in the context of the 12th-century Palm Sunday ritual in Jerusalem. On Palm Sunday, the Austin canons left the Church of the Holy Sepulchre by the south entrance and returned to it by the same entrance. So, it is not unexpected that its features should have deliberately recalled the key staging post of the day: the Golden Gate. Indeed, another aide-memoire prompted recollection of the day’s liturgical procession. A sculpted frieze on the lintel of the entrance’s west door recorded Christ’s journey into Jerusalem. It consciously shows that his route begins in Bethany, the sequence starting here with Christ’s miraculous raising of Lazarus. Alan Borg demonstrated that this was an uncommon choice for 12th-century sculptural portrayals of the events of Holy Week.31 Thus, the entrance could act as a ‘meditative mnemonic’ to prompt tired minds into action at the end of a long day. The frieze records a number of stages in Christ’s journey, including the Golden Gate, before the final scene, the last supper, which occurred in the Upper Room on Mount Zion, a location that the canons would process to on Maundy Thursday. In one important respect the South Porch of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre differs from the Golden Gate. It is not a true porch with its own independent interior space; it is no more than a façade with (originally) two entrances. Clearly, the crusaders wished to evoke the Golden Gate at the entrance to the Holy Sepulchre Church without incurring the expense of actually recreating it. This is not the case in the design of the second 12th-century echo of the Golden Gate, the vestiarium at Canterbury cathedral. The Vestiarium of Canterbury Cathedral The building known as the vestiarium is a double gateway attached to the south side of the choir at Canterbury cathedral (Fig. 11.6).32 Consisting of two storeys, it is a gateway with a single chamber above, which functioned as a vestiarium, a room that conserved the churches altar treasures and vestments.

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Borg, “Observations,” pp. 25–40. Peter Fergusson recalled 12th-century interest in the buildings on Temple Mount, but did not investigate the Golden Gate as a forerunner of the Canterbury arch: Peter Fergusson, “Modernization and Mnemonics at Christ Church, Canterbury: The Treasury Building,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 65 (2006), 62–63; see also Christopher Wilson, “Canterbury Cathedral’s Mystery ‘Marble’: A Double Imposture Unmasked,” in Canterbury Cathedral Priory in the Age of Becket, ed. Peter Fergusson (New Haven, CT, 2011), pp. 156–60.

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Figure 11.6

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The east porch into the monastery of Christ Church, Canterbury. 12th century

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It was built between the monastic enclave and the monks’ graveyard between 1150 and 1170.33 Its similarities to the Golden Gate in Jerusalem are striking. First, it is a double gate, and while Roman city gates were often double, as shown, this plan was far less common for the entrances to Christian churches or monasteries. Secondly, and perhaps most significantly, its interior arrangement, like the Golden Gate, contains two passageways that are not separated from each other by a wall, but by a single column, creating a fluid space consisting of four bays. This, too, is unusual in 12th-century gateway design (Fig. 11.7). Finally, the Canterbury gate emulates the Golden Gate in the richness and exuberance of its interior and exterior decoration. For instance, on both façades, the chunky shafts that support the arches are made of the luxury material that 12th-century viewers would have believed to be onyx marble.34 Within the gateway, columns and capitals are finely decorated, key stones are carved out of another luxury material (blue lias limestone), and this rich space was originally made all the more impressive by the presence of painted decoration.35 Why should this monastic east gateway at Canterbury have been intentionally designed to prompt memories of the Golden Gate in Jerusalem in the minds of those using it? One possible reason lies in its role as the liminal intervention between earth and heaven, because it was the formal entry for funeral processions into the monastic graveyard. This has already been the subject of academic investigation;36 now, its role in the monastic Palm Sunday liturgy warrants attention. As shown, by the time the Canterbury gateway was constructed, Palm Sunday processions were enacted annually at the monastery since the late 11th century. However, between 1096 and 1126, the cathedral’s 11th-century choir was replaced by a huge, new choir, which greatly extended the building towards the east. This necessitated repositioning the monks’ graveyard further to the east, and the creation of the new gateway leading into it, that discussed here. It would seem likely, therefore, that it was through this gateway that the 33 34 35 36

The building appears on a 12th-century drawing of Christ Church, Canterbury contained within the c.1170 Eadwine Psalter (Cambridge, Trinity College Library, MS R. 17.1, fols. 284r, 285v). Wilson, “Canterbury Cathedral’s Mystery ‘Marble’,” pp. 156–60. Fergusson, “Modernization and Mnemonics,” p. 65, n. 8. Lesley Milner, “The Canterbury Vestiarium: Why Did it Combine the Roles of Treasury and Cemetery Arch?,” in Medieval Archaeology and Architecture at Canterbury, ed. Alixe Bovey, BAA Conference Transactions 35 (Leeds, 2013), pp. 217–28; Fergusson, Canterbury Cathedral Priory, pp. 156–60; Fergusson, “Modernization and Mnemonics,” pp. 62–63.

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Figure 11.7

The interior of the east porch into the monastery of Christ Church, Canterbury. 12th century

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Palm Sunday procession, advancing from the graveyard to the east, entered into the monastic complex and made a formal halt here. Interesting here is the record of the Palm Sunday ceremonies at Chartres cathedral, where the procession exited the city to the Church of St Cheron, and on returning, made a formal stage at the cemetery, where Gloria laus was performed. After passing through the city gates, the procession returned to the cathedral.37 The connections between Chartres and the monastery at Christ Church, Canterbury in the early 12th century were close. Canterbury’s Archbishop Lanfranc of Bec taught Ivo, bishop of Chartres (1111–15). Ivo, in turn, was a close associate of Lanfranc’s successor, Anselm (r.1093–1109). It is therefore reasonable to suggest that in Canterbury, as in Chartres and Jerusalem, the Palm Sunday procession returned to the monastery through the cemetery; made a formal staging post there, which occurred at the subject of this discussion, the gateway situated between the graveyard and the monastery; and that the Canterbury gateway was deliberately designed to evoke memories of Jerusalem’s Golden Gate. The Porte Dorée of the Cathedral Of Le Puy38 The final 12th-century example of a formal Palm Sunday entry seems, at first, a dim echo of the Golden Gate. However, certain factors connected with its use and background are sufficiently persuasive to warrant its inclusion here. The porte dorée of the cathedral of Le Puy is the central of its three west doors created in the 12th century, and its architectural resemblance to the Golden Gate is slim (Fig. 10.4). Furthermore, its documented appellation of porte dorée goes no further back than 1693.39 However, there is no reason to doubt that this was its name throughout its existence, especially when other factors are taken into account. The Cathedral of Le Puy had unusually close connections with Jerusalem. Its bishop, Adhémar of Monteil, was the papal legate on the First Crusade (1095–99). He was regarded as dux of the army. Although dying at Acre a year before the crusaders arrived in Jerusalem, he was credited with a key part in its capture by appearing in a vision to one of the crusaders and warning that success would ensue only if the Christian army followed Christ’s Palm Sunday example and entered the city in humility. Consequently, the soldiers attacked 37

38 39

Shagrir, “Adventus in Jerusalem,” pp. 11–12; Margot Fassler, “Adventus at Chartres,” in Ceremonial Culture in Pre-Modern Europe, ed. Nicholas Howe (Notre Dame, IL, 2007), pp. 30–34, 49–50; Craig Wright, “The Palm Sunday Procession in Medieval Chartres,” in The Divine Office in the Latin Middle Ages: Methodology and Source Studies, Regional Developments, Hagiography, ed. Margot Fassler and Rebecca Baltzer (Oxford, 2000), pp. 344–71. For further discussion of Le Puy, see above, Foster, pp. 223–36. Walter Cahn, The Romanesque Wooden Doors of Auvergne (New York, 1974), p. 2.

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barefoot and overcame the Islamic defenders.40 Anne Derbers has suggested that the 12th-century fresco cycle in the cathedral’s south transept, which shows Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, recognizes Adhémar’s role, especially since the scene is complemented by those opposite, which show Solomon entering Jerusalem and building the Temple.41 Like the Golden Gate in Jerusalem, the porte dorée at Le Puy was rarely used as a formal entry, with the exception of the annual Palm Sunday procession. Le Puy’s topography meant that the procession climbed a steep slope to the cathedral entry, thus re-enacting Christ’s entry into Jerusalem and the contemporaneous ceremonies in Jerusalem. Just as the Jerusalem Christians made a station in the Valley of Jehosaphat, so the Le Puy procession made a station at the foot of the steps, and then the second station ante portam aureum, a splendid doorway framed by two porphyry columns.42 Another reminiscence of the Golden Gate was the set of doors which originally closed this entrance at Le Puy. They were described in 1693 as being “covered with sheets of copper,” and in 1776 as being made of chiselled bronze.43 As we have seen, in the 11th century, the doors of the Golden Gate in Jerusalem were described as “elaborately made of iron and Damascene brass with rings and studs.”44 In 1106 they were described as being plated with gilded copper which was wonderfully wrought, and on the outside they were plated with iron.45 As late as the 14th century, the doors were renowned, with Nicholas of Poggibonsi’s description already noted: its gates are of iron and embossed with large nails; but many of the nails have now been extracted by the Christians who pull them out when they can because they have powerful properties.46

40

41 42 43 44 45 46

On Adhémar, see James A. Brundage, “Adhémar of Puy: The Bishop and His Critics,” Speculum 34 (1959), 201–12; Anne Derbes, “A Crusading Fresco Cycle at the Cathedral of Le Puy,” Art Bulletin 73, no. 4 (1991), 572–74; Ralph of Caen, Gesta Tancredi in expeditione Hierosolymitana, in Recueil des historiens des croisades. Historiens occidentaux, 3 (Paris 1866), pp. 673–74. Derbes, “A Crusading Fresco Cycle,” pp. 572–74. Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 2. Ibid. Näşir-I Khusraw, Diary of a Journey, p. 32. Pringle, Churches of the Crusader Kingdom, p. 106. Nicolò di Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare: “la porta si è volta verso il levante e tutte sone di ferro, e di grossi chiovi bollate, ma ora molti ne sono tratti de chiovi, che i Cristiani ne tragono, quando possono, però che anno grande virtude; il legno dentro della porta si è d’arcipresso.” Bacchi della Lega, Libro d’Oltramare, pp. 191–92; trans. Lesley Milner.

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Conclusion It is unfortunate that neither the doors of the Golden Gate nor those of the porte dorée still exist; we know of them by description only. However, the two entrances that flank the porte dorée in Le Puy contain 12th-century wooden doors. The southern one has long attracted scholarly attention because its border surprisingly has Pseudo-kufic script surrounding it, which continuously repeats the words Al-Mulk lillāh (All power to Allah).47 As Walter Cahn observed, such Islamic references constituted “an unreflecting association of Eastern styles with the sanctuaries of the Holy Land.”48 Even if the porte dorée doors themselves did not contain Islamic script, the words on the southern flanking doors would be visible to those partaking in the Palm Sunday station ante portam aureum and would act as “triggers for the ordered exercise of intellect and memory.”49 Such triggers cannot happen without transmitters. Minds could not be prompted to recall the Golden Gate without returning travellers’ descriptions of the building and the ceremonies associated with it, many of which still exist.50 These allowed for – in Crossley’s words – “the orchestration of imagery and space”,51 and enabled ecclesiastical entrances far from Jerusalem to act as meditational mnemonics, designating the sacred topography not only of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, but also of the 12th-century Christian’s route to salvation. Bibliography Albers, Bruno, ed., Consuetudines Farfenses. Consuetudines monasticae, 5 vols (Stuttgart, 1900–12). Arnoux, Mathieu, ed., Raoul Glaber, Histoires (Turnhout, 1996). Bacchi della Lega, A., ed., Libro d’Oltramare di Fra Niccolò di Poggibonsi (Bologna, 1881). Borg, Alan, “Observations on the Historiated Lintel of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 32 (1969), 25–40.

47 48 49 50 51

Cahn, Romanesque Wooden Doors, p. 16. See also Foster, above, pp. 223–36. Ibid., p. 18. Crossley, “The Man from Inner Space,” p. 170. For instance, Theodoric, Guide to the Holy Land, trans. Aubrey Stewart, 2nd ed. (New York, 1986), pp. 34–35; John of Würzburg, Description of the Holy Land, trans. Aubrey Stewart (London, 1890), p. 19. Crossley, “The Man from Inner Space,” p. 177.

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Brundage, James A., “Adhémar of Puy: The Bishop and His Critics,” Speculum 34 (1959), 201–12. Cahn, Walter, The Romanesque Wooden Doors of Auvergne (New York, 1974). Crossley, Paul, “The Man from Inner Space: Architecture and Meditation in the Choir of St Laurence in Nuremburg,” in Medieval Art: Recent Perspectives: A Memorial Tribute to Reginald Dodwell, ed. Gale R. Owen-Crocker and Timothy Graham (Manchester, 1998), pp. 165–82. de Mas Latrie, L., ed., Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, publiée, pour la première fois, d’après les manuscrits de Bruxelles, de Paris et de Berne, avec un essai de classification des continuateurs de Guillaume de Tyr, pour la Société de l’histoire de France (Paris, 1871). Derbes, Anne, “A Crusading Fresco Cycle at the Cathedral of Le Puy,” Art Bulletin 73, no. 4 (1991), 561–76. Edgington, Susan B., ed., Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana (Oxford, 2007). Fassler, Margot, “Adventus at Chartres,” in Ceremonial Culture in Pre-Modern Europe, ed. Nicholas Howe (Notre Dame, IL, 2007), pp. 13–62. Fergusson, Peter, “Modernization and Mnemonics at Christ Church, Canterbury: The Treasury Building,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 65 (2006), 50–67. Folda, Jaroslav, “The South Transept Façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem: An Aspect of ‘Rebuilding Zion’,” in The Crusades and their Sources: Essays Presented to Bernard Hamilton, ed. John France and William G. Zajak (Aldershot, 1998), pp. 239–57. Folda, Jaroslav, “The Crusader Church of the Holy Sepulchre: Design, Depiction and the Pilgrim Church of Compostela,” in Tomb and Temple: Re-imagining the Sacred Buildings of Jerusalem, ed. Robin Griffith-Jones and Eric Fernie (Woodbridge, 2018), pp. 95–123. Geyer, Paul, ed., Itinera Hierosolymitana, Saeculi IV–VIII, CSEL 39 (Vienna, 1898). Giebfried, John, “The Crusader Rebranding of Jerusalem’s Temple Mount,” Comitatus: A Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 44 (2013), 77–94. Hassler, Konrad Dieterich, ed., Fratris Felicis Fabri Evagatorium In Terrae Sanctae, Arabiae Et Egypti Peregrinatoniem, 2 (Stuttgart, 1843). Kohler, Charles, Mélanges pour servir à l’histoire de l’Orient Latin et des Croisades (Paris, 1906). Le Strange, Guy, ed./trans., Diary of a Journey through Syria and Palestine by Näşir-I Khusraw in 1047 AD, Palestine Pilgrims Text Society (London, 1888). Limor, Ora, “Placing an Idea: The Valley of Jehoshaphat in Religious Imagination,” in Between Jerusalem and Europe: Essays in Honour of Bianca Kühnel, ed. Renana Bartal and Hanna Vorholt (Leiden, 2015), pp. 280–300. Mango, Cyril, “The Temple Mount AD 614–638,” in Raby and Johns, Bayt al-Maqdis, pp. 1–16.

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Milner, Lesley, “The Canterbury Vestiarium: Why Did it Combine the Roles of Treasury and Cemetery Arch?,” in Medieval Archaeology and Architecture at Canterbury, ed. Alixe Bovey, BAA Conference Transactions 35 (Leeds, 2013), pp. 217–28. Pringle, Denys, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, 4 vols (Cambridge, 1993). Raby, Julian, and Jeremy Johns, eds., Bayt Al-Maqdis: ʿAbd al-Malik’s Jerusalem, 2 vols (Oxford, 1992). Recueil des historiens des croisades. Historiens occidentaux, 3 (Paris 1866). Salvadó, Sebastián, “Rewriting the Latin Liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre: Text, Ritual and Devotion for 1149,” Journal of Medieval History 43, no. 4 (2017), 403–20. Shagrir, Iris, “Adventus in Jerusalem: The Palm Sunday Celebration in Latin Jerusalem,” Journal of Medieval History 41, no. 1 (2015), 1–20. Stewart, Aubrey, trans., John of Würzburg, Description of the Holy Land (London, 1890). Stewart, Aubrey, trans., Theodoric. Guide to the Holy Land, 2nd ed. (New York, 1986). Strange, Joseph, Dialogus miraculorum, 2 vols (Cologne, 1851). Sumption, Jonathan, Pilgrimage: An Image of Medieval Religion (London, 1975). von Breydenbach, Bernhard, Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (Mainz, 1486). Ward-Perkins, John Bryan, “Severan Art and Architecture at Leptis Magna,” The Journal of Roman Studies 38, no. 1–2 (1948), 59–80. Wilkinson, John, Jerusalem Pilgrims: Before the Crusades (Jerusalem, 1977). Wilkinson, John, “Column Capitals in al-Haram al-Sharif,” in Raby and Johns, Bayt Al-Maqdis, pp. 125–31. Wilkinson, John, trans., Egeria’s Travels (Warminster, 2006). Wilson, Christopher, “Canterbury Cathedral’s Mystery ‘Marble’: A Double Imposture Unmasked,” in Canterbury Cathedral Priory in the Age of Becket, ed. Peter Fergusson (New Haven CT, 2011), pp. 156–60. Wright, Craig, “The Palm Sunday Procession in Medieval Chartres,” in The Divine Office in the Latin Middle Ages: Methodology and Source Studies, Regional Developments, Hagiography, ed. Margot Fassler and Rebecca Baltzer (Oxford, 2000), pp. 344–71.

Part 3 Transmission and Translation: Medievalists and Medievalisms

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Introduction to Part Three Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey The five essays of this section each tackle issues of increasing salience in the historiography of medieval studies. What we really know and understand about some of the most popular objects, places, texts, and infamous events from the early medieval Insular world face serious reconsideration, and their treatment in the historiographical record and museum settings are also critiqued, beginning with Ireland’s account of the infamous Sir William Betham. He has hitherto been regarded as a peripheral figure in manuscript studies, despite his considerable contribution to the collection, initial recording, and research of certain key manuscripts and shrines – including the Book of Dimma and the Miosach among others – which is outlined for the first time here. Somewhat conversely, Bhreathnach’s essay, like that of McIntire in Part II, takes a place about which much is considered ‘known’ in the public sphere – namely Tara, Co. Meath – to trace, contextualise, and evaluate the layers of myth that have grown up around it. Similarly, in the light of postcolonial discourses, Killilea explores possibly the most popular translation of the best-known poem in Old English: Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf. She demonstrates that Heaney’s rewriting of the figures of both Grendel and his mother highlights the complex relationship between text and translation, and the potential influence of the translation in (forging) political discourse. This paradigm is further problematised in Andrews’s adoption of a pan-temporal, global approach to the decolonisation of peoples, lands, and history-writing. In drawing comparisons between Domesday Book and the Dawes Rolls, Andrews importantly demonstrates the value in looking beyond traditional Western, linear chronologies, and establishing deeper understandings of the ‘colonised’ on their own terms, rather than through the lens of the coloniser. Following this outward-looking, colonial deconstructivism, this section, and indeed, the volume, concludes with Cross’s essay contextualising the emergence and development of three of England’s ‘world museums’, and the ways in which the men behind them did – and did not – consider objects of local and national, ‘Anglo-Saxon’ history as fitting within that remit. Complementing Hawkes’ essay in Part I, Cross’s critical reassessment of 19th- and 20th-century attitudes toward early medieval objects demonstrates that perceptions of the medieval continue to evolve, and thus forms a fitting conclusion to the volume.

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Chapter 12

Cacophony in C: Custodian, Curator and Collector. Sir William Betham’s Collecting and Redistribution of Medieval Manuscripts Aideen M. Ireland Introduction Of English origin, (Sir) William Betham rose to be Ulster King of Arms in Ireland, while serving simultaneously as curator of medieval records in Dublin Castle. Author of the two-volume Irish Antiquarian Researches (1826–27),1 and owner of a private collection of antiquities and Irish manuscripts, Betham was revered as a genealogist, criticized as a linguist, regarded as a crank by many contemporaries, but ultimately, he was devoted to the custody of the medieval records under his control. Yet, he infamously forced open the sealed shrine of the Cathach of St Colum Cille to reveal the early medieval manuscript within, and sold materials in his possession. Straddling the first half of the 19th century, liking or loathing him, no assessment of developments within genealogical or antiquarian studies in Ireland may be made without mentioning William Betham.

Manuscript Collection

Betham’s busy professional and family life notwithstanding, in 1826 and 1827 he published two volumes dealing with ancient Irish manuscripts such as the Leabhar Dhimma, the Caah, and the Meeshac in the first volume, and the Book of Armagh in the second. In the Introduction to the first volume he discussed ancient manuscript shrines: The great anxiety of the ancient Irish for the preservation of their copies of the Holy Gospels is strikingly evinced by the religious care and veneration with which they enclosed them in cases of the most durable wood; generally yew or oak, which soon acquired a sanctity of character as the 1 Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 2 vols (Dublin, 1826–27).

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depositories of holy writ, and were then placed in boxes of brass or copper, plated with silver richly gilt, embossed with scriptural devices, the effigies of saints and bishops and ornamented with settings of polished chrystals [sic.], amethysts, lapis lazuli, and other gems. Many of these evidences of early Irish piety still exist in excellent preservation. I have seen four boxes, two of which I possess; another was given to the Museum of Trinity College, Dublin [the Shrine of the Book of Mulling]…. The fourth box is called the Caah.2 Tracing the shrines and manuscripts through Betham’s publication provides us with a clear understanding of the biographies of these objects and the man with whom some resided for part of the 19th century. Book of Dimma3 The Book of Dimma is a small, portable gospel book dated to the second half of the 8th century and, although the name Dimma appears three times in the manuscript, the scribe was Dianchride:4 his name later erased in favour of Dimma.5 The shrine containing it, which carries a Latin inscription, dates to the 12th and the 14th/15th centuries (Fig. 12.1, Plate 12.1).6 Betham related that the shrine had been kept in the monastery at Roscrea, Co. Tipperary, until the Dissolution, when it passed out of clerical possession.7 It was apparently found by boys hunting rabbits in 1789 in the Devil’s Bit Mountain, Co. Tipperary, among rocks, “carefully preserved and concealed.” The boys tore off the silver plate and prised out some of the lapis lazuli decoration but “feared to touch the side of the shrine on which they found the representation of the Passion.”8 This report is generally regarded as untrue,9 but the shrine and contents were eventually sold by Dr Harrison of Nenagh, Co. Tipperary, to Henry Monck Mason,10 who exhibited the gospel and its opened 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Ibid., 1:20–21. Dublin, Trinity College, MS A. IV. 23. John Gillis and Bernard Meehan, “Examining the Book of Dimma, the Scribe Dianchride and the Gospel of John,” in Moss, et al., An Insular Odyssey (Dublin, 2017), p. 86. Ibid., p. 112. George Otto Simms, “Early Christian Manuscripts,” in Treasures of the Library, Trinity College Dublin, ed. Peter Fox (Dublin, 1986), p. 49. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:20–21. Margaret Stokes, Early Christian Art in Ireland (1887, repr. Dublin, 1911, 3rd ed. 1928), p. 21. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:45. Patrick Long, “Mason, Henry Joseph Monck,” Dictionary of Irish Biography (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 407–409.

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Figure 12.1

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Drawing of the Shrine of the Book of Dimma, Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. VI

shrine to the Society of Antiquaries of London and the Royal Irish Academy.11 Betham purchased it for £150,12 and, although he subsequently refused to sell it to Sir Thomas Phillipps for £250,13 he listed it in an auction in London in 1830, 11 12 13

Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1: 43–44. Ibid. P. Beryl Phair, “Sir William Betham’s Manuscripts,” Analecta Hibernica 27 (1972), 98.

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Illustration of the Evangelist Mark, Book of Dimma, p. 30. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. II

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where it remained unsold.14 Betham noted that the top of the shrine had “been repaired by its late possessor,”15 presumably Monck Mason – who had made further additions in the form of jewels and, as recorded by George Otto Simms, also “heavily restored the surface” of the back.16 In 1836 Betham eventually sold the manuscript and its shrine to Trinity College Dublin for £150 – not in 1842 for £200 as has been argued.17 The Miosach18 Another manuscript shrine in Betham’s possession was that of the Miosach. This comprised an original wooden box covered with metal plaques, the latest work dating to the 16th century (Fig. 12.2), while the earlier work resembled the box of the Cathach shrine.19 The Miosach had been in the possession of Revd Mr Barnard of Fahan, Co. Donegal (later Bishop of Limerick);20 Betham did not state when he acquired it, but Charles Vallancey described it as being in private possession in Collectanea de Rebus Hibernicis of 1784,21 and Betham recorded that Barnard’s library was posthumously sold in 1806 to Mr Valence, the bookseller, then to a Mr Jones from whom Betham purchased it.22 By the time Betham described the shrine, he noted that its contents were lost: It appears that this box, like the Caah and Corp nua,23 has been held in such veneration, that it was closed up, and its contents kept a holy secret, under penalty of incurring some severe punishment; for when it came into the hands of those, who had more curiosity than veneration for it

14

15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

Ibid. For auction of books and manuscripts by Edward Evans of London (1830), see: 6 July 1830, Alexander Nicholson, FSA, Sir William Bethan, John Fawcett, actor, Catalogue of valuable books and prints  … valuable manuscripts, … curious autographs, play bills, R.H. Evans, BL: S.C.E.30(7); BL MSS; P.R.1.a.39; BN: ∆49917 deR; CMP: c138-8; GC pt. pr.; H: B1705.606.20, TS74.15; N; Y: X348.E92. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:49. Simms, “Early Christian Manuscripts,” pp. 49, 51. Ibid., p. 49; P. Beryl Phair, “Betham and the Older Irish Manuscripts,” JRSAI 92 (1962), pp. 75, 77. For Betham/Phillipps correspondence, see Dublin, Trinity College Library, Misc. VIII. NMI, Irish Antiquities Division (hereafter NMI, IAD), 2001.84. Françoise Henry, Irish Art in the Romanesque Period (1020–1170 A.D.) (London, 1970), p. 93. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:213–14. Charles Vallancey, Collectanea de Rebus Hibernicis 4 (Dublin, 1784), 11, quoted by Betham. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:219–20; Sinéad Sturgeon, “Barnard, Thomas,” Dictionary of Irish Biography (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 278–79. Dictionary of Irish Biography: Corp Naomh, a bell shrine now in Dublin, NMI, IAD, R 2836.

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Figure 12.2

Drawing of the top of the Miosach shrine. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. IX

as a religious or historical relic, it was very injudiciously and violently opened, much injured, and possibly its contents demolished.24 In a complete mis-reading of Betham’s text,25 Françoise Henry suggested that it was Betham who occasioned this damage: he seems to have prised the box open with a chisel in such a way as to break it. He never disclosed what he found inside, and he seems to have had the box remade by using the unbroken plaques of bronze and getting copies of these made to replace the broken ones.26

24 25 26

Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:218. Ibid., 1:218–19. Henry, Irish Art (1020–1170 A.D.), p. 93.

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Betham subsequently gave the “reconstituted object” to the Duke of Sussex.27 It was later acquired by Lord Dunraven who gave it to St Columba’s College in Rathfarnham, Co. Dublin, which in turn presented it to the National Museum of Ireland.28 It is clear that the shrine of the Miosach was not sold at the London auction of Betham’s possessions in 1830.29 The Cathach30 When it came to the shrine of the late 6th-century Cathach (Fig. 12.3), Betham recorded in his Irish Antiquarian Researches that: The fourth box is called the CAAH and came into the possession of the late Sir Neal O’Donel, Bart. on the death of the last male descendant of the branch of that ancient and princely family which followed the fortunes of King James II. It contains an ancient vellum MS. of part of the New Testament, said to have belonged to St. Columbanus [sic.], who was of the O’Donel family. On a future occasion it is my intention to give a more full description of this curious and interesting relick [sic.], with plates of the box, of the inscription and, I should be well pleased to be able to add, of the MS. itself.31 A mere 88 pages later he modestly recorded, his application to its present possessor, Connel O’Donell, Esq. for permission to examine it, and to describe the box and its contents. I cannot sufficiently commend the politeness and liberality with which that gentleman instantly complied with my request, by confiding the box to my care, not only with ample licence to open and examine its contents but making it his particular request that I should do so, rightly considering that a full description of such a piece of family antiquity, would rather tend to enhance than depreciate its value…. the box was opened and examined

27 28 29 30 31

Ibid.; see Phair, “Betham’s Manuscripts,” p. 98. Henry, Irish Art (1020–1170 A.D.), p. 93; David Murphy, “Quin, Edwin Richard Windham Wyndham,” Dictionary of Irish Biography (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 348–49; NMI, IAD – 2001.84. Phair, “Betham’s Manuscripts,” p. 98; Edward Evans of London in 1830 – auction of books and manuscripts. Dublin, RIA, MS 12 R 33. c.560–600, vellum. Available at: https://www.ria.ie/cathach-psalter -st-columba. Accessed 2019 August 27. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:21.

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Figure 12.3

Drawing of the top of the Cathach shrine. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. VII

in the presence of Sir Capel Molyneux, Mr O’Donell, and myself, without any extraordinary, or supernatural occurrence.32 The manuscript and its shrine (a metal-covered wooden box in which the manuscript had been encased, and dated by an Irish inscription to the mid- to later 11th century),33 had been in France where the shrine – which had been repaired in the 14th century  – was itself placed in a silver shrine decorated with the arms of the O’Donel, in 1723.34 In the 16th century Manus O’Donel, a kinsman of Colum Cille, had written in the saint’s Life that “the Cathach is the name of the book…. It is in a silver gilt box which must not be opened.”35

32 33 34 35

Ibid., 1:109, 110. Betham’s spelling of the surname ‘O’Donel’ is inconsistent; the variant spellings are each authors’ own. Henry, Irish Art (1020–1170 A.D.), p. 89. Dáibhí Ó Cróinín, “The Cathach and Domhnach Airgid,” in Cunningham and Fitzpatrick, Treasures of the Royal Irish Academy Library, p. 6; Michael Herity and Aidan Breen, The Cathach of Colum Cille. An Introduction (Dublin, 2002), p. 12. Françoise Henry, Irish Art in the Early Christian period (to 800 A.D.) (London, 1965), pp. 58–59.

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On the shrine’s return to Ireland in the 19th century, Betham was asked to provide a pedigree by Sir Neal O’Donel of Newport, Co. Mayo, so that, as chief of the family, he could claim it and its contents.36 For this service, Betham charged him £1,000 but it was then, and is now, believed that the claim he drew up was fraudulent.37 Anne Plumptre, the author, stayed with Betham at Montpelier near Blackrock, Co. Dublin, in 1815 where she viewed the recently completed joint pedigree of O’Donel and Tyrconnel: in which was a painting of the celebrated relic belonging to the O’Donnel, … the Cathach as it is called, or Casket, in which is supposed to be deposited the ancient legend of Saint Columba, or Columbkille. Indeed the writings, the illuminations, the binding of the work and everything belonging to it, present admirable specimens of Irish talents and industry.38 While Betham claimed that he had been empowered by Connel O’Donel (brother of the late Neal) to open the shrine, believing it to contain the bones of St Colum Cille,39 Dame Mary O’Donel had previously taken out a Bill of Complaint against Betham in Chancery in London for unauthorized access to the contents of the shrine.40 The case was heard in Dublin in the first half of 1814,41 but what papers there were, were lost in the destruction of the Public Record Office of Ireland in 1922. Suffice to record that Betham was accused of opening the shrine illegally, but whether he opened it fully or simply tested for contents by means of an inserted wire is unclear.42 When opened, sometime before 1826, the shrine was found to contain not bones, but a wooden box “very much decayed”, and some leaves of a Latin psalter – the manuscript of the Cathach.43 As Dáibhí Ó Cróinín noted: 36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43

Ó Cróinín, “The Cathach and Domhnach Airgid,” p. 6; Herity and Breen, The Cathach, p. 13. Rupert S. Ó Cochláin, “The Cathach, Battle Book of the O’Donnells,” The Irish Sword 8 (1968), 172; Michael Herity, “The Return of the Cathach to Ireland,” in Seanchas. Studies in Early and Medieval Irish Archaeology, History and Literature in Honour of Francis J. Byrne, ed. Alfred P. Smyth (Dublin, 2000), p. 460. The 1813 pedigree has been temporarily withdrawn by its owner from the RIA. For a copy, see Dublin, NLI, Genealogy Office, MS 169. Anne Plumptre, Narrative of a Residence in Ireland During the Summer of 1814 and that of 1815 (London, 1817), pp. 208–209. Herity and Breen, The Cathach, p. 13. Phair, in “Betham and the Older Irish Manuscripts,” p. 76, identified her as Neal’s mother; Ó Cochláin, “The Cathach,” p. 173; Ó Cróinín, “The Cathach and Domhnach Airgid,” p. 6. Dublin, NAI, SR 3/4/1, Rolls Office, Chancery Bill Book, 1814–15. Ó Cróinín, “The Cathach and Domhnach Airgid,” p. 6; Ó Cochláin, “The Cathach,” p. 172; Phair, “Betham and the Older Irish Manuscripts,” p. 76. Ó Cróinín, “The Cathach and Domhnach Airgid,” p. 6.

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Sadly neither Betham nor anyone else appears to have thought it worthwhile either to preserve the wooden box or the leather-covered board (the original cover of the Cathach?), nor even to measure, describe or draw them. They are now irretrievably lost.44 Providing more background detail, Henry recounted that: Sir William, after many difficulties, opened the box and found in it a manuscript whose pages were stuck together by damp. He unstuck them. Later the manuscript was deposited in the Royal Irish Academy and its pages were remounted.45 Betham himself recognized the contents of the manuscript as “a copy of the ancient vulgate translation of the Psalms, in Latin, of fifty-eight membranes.”46 It was acquired on deposit by the RIA, along with its shrine, in 1843;47 since 1929 the latter has been held in the NMI.48 In 1826 Betham took the Cathach, the Book of Dimma, and the Miosach to London to show them to, among others, the Duke of Sussex,49 to whom he also dedicated his Irish Antiquarian Researches,50 writing on his return in July: “I exhibited my precious relics in London to many of the learned who have unanimously surrendered the palm of honourable antiquity to Ireland.”51 The Book of Armagh52 Betham did not recount when he first came into possession of the Book of Armagh but in Irish Antiquarian Researches he begged leave:

44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Ibid. Henry, Irish Art (to 800 A.D.), p. 59. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:110 (contradicting himself at p. 21); Henry, Irish Art (to 800 A.D.), p. 60. Ó Cróinín, “The Cathach and Domhnach Airgid,” p. 4; RIA, Council Minutes 9, p. 70 under 2 May 1853. RIA, Minute Book of Polite Literature and Antiquities 8, p. 248 under 8 May 1929; NMI, IAD, R 2835. Phair, “Betham and the Older Irish Manuscripts,” pp. 75, 77. Phair refers to “three boxes,” p. 77. Presumably only the shrine of the Cathach (not the manuscript) was taken to London. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:1. Phair, “Betham’s Manuscripts,” p. 13. Dubin, Trinity College Library, MS 52.

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to express my grateful acknowledgement to his Grace the Archbishop of Dublin, through whose kindness and condescension I first became acquainted with the existence of the Book of Armagh, and obtained permission to investigate its contents, and lay them before the public.53 From the early 18th century the manuscript was in the possession of the Brownlow family, and, having been accessed by Betham, seems also to have been borrowed by Monck Mason.54 It is unknown whether Betham attempted to purchase it, but it failed to sell at a Dublin auction in 1831.55 By 1846 it was still in the possession of the Brownlow family, one of whom deposited it in the RIA. In 1852 it was noted that Sir Thomas Phillipps could not afford to buy it,56 so, in 1853, with sale in mind, the manuscript was displayed by William Brownlow of Abbeyleix, Queen’s County, at the Dublin Exhibition, with Betham presiding over the opening in his role as Ulster King of Arms.57 It was subsequently purchased by Dr William Reeves.58 The Book of Armagh dates to the early 9th century (Fig. 12.4); its scribe, Ferdomnach, died in 846.59 It is believed to be “the largest manuscript in the pocket-book category … roughly a third the size of the luxury volumes.”60 It is also “the earliest surviving Latin New Testament on Irish soil,”61 as well as “the oldest manuscript with Irish language content preserved in Ireland, containing

53 54 55

56 57 58 59

60 61

Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 2:*322. Andrew O’Brien and Linde Lunney, “Reeves, William,” Dictionary of Irish Biography (Cambridge, 2009). Available at: https://dib-cambridge-org. Accessed 2020 April 12. Dr Revd William Reeves, “On the Book of Armagh,” PRIA 2 (1891–93), 93–99. On 26 May 1831 it was put up for public auction in the sale room of Edward Maguire of Suffolk Street, Dublin. Available at: https://www.confessio.ie/manuscripts/dublin#1. Accessed 2019 August 27; Reeves, “On the Book of Armagh,” pp. 97–99. Reeves noted that the sale took place on 7 June, p. 98. A copy of the catalogue has not been traced. Available at: https://www.confessio.ie/manuscripts/dublin#1. Accessed 2019 August 27. Official Catalogue of the Great Industrial Exhibition, (in connection with The Royal Dublin Society) (Dublin, 1853), no. 1965, p. 156. The Miosach and the Cathach were also displayed: nos 1959, 1961, pp. 115–16; Phair, “Betham’s Manuscripts,” p. 7. Reeves, “On the Book of Armagh,” pp. 94–96. Michelle P. Brown, “Hagiography or History? Early Medieval Approaches to Establishing Origin and Provenance for Insular Copies of Scripture,” in Moss, et al., An Insular Odyssey, p. 37. Timothy O’Neill, The Irish Hand: Scribes and their Manuscripts from the Earliest Times (Cork, 2014), p. 20. Colleen M. Thomas, “Monastic Dress and the Appearance of Sanctity,” in Moss, et al., An Insular Odyssey, pp. 210–11. Simms, “Early Christian Manuscripts,” p. 51.

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Figure 12.4

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Drawing of the Four-Symbols Page, Book of Armagh, fol. 32v. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 2 (Dublin, 1827), pl. X

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glosses on the Patrician documents and ‘Tírechán’s Annotations’ on the Life of Patrick.”62 Betham noted its “fine preservation”: “it is everywhere perfect” except where it had suffered attrition.63 It too had been bound in boards covered in leather (now black, but previously red) and he recorded its silver decoration, the remains of a cross. He regretted that he had no time to provide an image of its (latest) shrine in Irish Antiquarian Researches: a 15th-century leather satchel with a brass lock.64 It passed into the collections of Trinity College Dublin in 1892.65 The original shrine along with those for the Books of Durrow and Kells, is now lost.66 Betham translated the Confession of St Patrick and the Letter to Coroticus contained in the Book of Armagh into English,67 thus demonstrating his knowledge of medieval Latin, hardly surprising for a record keeper and herald. Book of Uí Mhaine68 Betham acquired the late 14th-century Book of Uí Mhaine (fomerly called the Leabhar Uí Dhubhagáin, or the Book of the O’Kellys) in 1814.69 It is a manuscript containing traditional Irish history and learning. It appears not to have been kept in a box; sections were borrowed but not returned, indicating it was loose.70 Its prior ownership unknown, in the 17th and 18th centuries it was in the possession of the Ó Ceallaigh family. By the early 19th century it belonged to Betham who sold it in 1823 to the Duke of Buckingham, who, in turn, sold it to Lord Ashburnham. It was acquired by the RIA, as a Stowe manuscript, for £150 in 1883.71 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71

Caoimhe Ní Ghormáin, “Medieval and Early Modern Irish Manuscripts in the Manuscripts and Archives Research Library,” in The Old Library: Trinity College Dublin, 1712–2012, ed. W.E. Vaughan (Dublin, 2013), p. 55. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 2:251. Ibid., 2:251–52; Brown, “Hagiography or History?,” p. 25. Available at: https://www.confessio.ie/manuscripts/dublin#1. Accessed 2019 August 27. Stokes, Early Christian Art, p. 77. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 2:417–32, 433–42; Phair, “Betham and the Older Irish Manuscripts,” p. 76. Dublin, RIA, MS D ii 1, cat. 1394 A.D. Available at: https://www.ria.ie/library/catalogues/ special-collections/medieval-and-early-modern-manuscripts/book-ui-mhaine-book-hy. Accessed 2019 August 27. Whether Betham knew Irish at this date is unclear. John Carey, “Compilations of Lore and Legend: Leabhar na hUidre and the Books of Uí Mhaine, Ballymote, Lecan and Fermoy,” in Cunningham and Fitzpatrick, Treasures of the Royal Irish Academy, p. 22. Carey, “Compilations,” p. 22. RIA, Council Minutes 20, pp. 227–52 under 26 Oct. 1883.

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This would appear to be the first manuscript purchased by Betham, an acquisition coming closely on his first examination of the shrine of the Cathach. Perhaps that had piqued his interest in acquiring a collection, albeit with a manuscript in Irish. “Connell’s Book” It was not only Early Christian and medieval manuscripts that Betham acquired, however. In 1851 in the first volume of the Transactions of the Kilkenny Archaeological Society, the Kilkenny-based J.G.A. Prim, wrote about records and their custodians retelling the history of one particular record. This was “Connell’s Book”, so-named after its first recorded owner, Alderman Richard Connell, who had “presented the City [Kilkenny] with a book, bound in large folio, of all the city charters translated into English, and the names of all mayors, sheriffs, and other officers.”72 He wrote: I have identified [it] pretty clearly, in the possession of Sir William Betham, Ulster King-of-Arms, who, with that courtesy and kindliness of disposition which have ever characterised his bearing towards all inquirers after historic or antiquarian lore, has permitted the Secretaries of this Society to have access to the book, and make such extracts as they deemed necessary. Sir William was made a present of the volume twenty years ago, but does not recollect by whom. It answers fully to the description given of Connell’s Book, in the record of its presentation in 1693.73 It is likely that Betham acquired this volume to assist him in his genealogical work. He is not known, otherwise, to have acquired manuscripts in English. In addition to acquiring manuscripts, however, it is clear that Betham also commissioned them, employing the scribal family of Ó Longáin to copy texts in Irish and Latin for him, probably between 1837 and 1846.74 We know that Betham could read Irish by the 1820s because he tells us so, writing that “I have 72 73 74

John G.A. Prim, “Missing Records. No. II. Muniments of the Corporation of Kilkenny,” Transactions of the Kilkenny Archaeological Society 1 (1849–51), 429. The book has not been traced. Prim, “Missing records,” p. 431. Pádraig Ó Macháin, “Irish Manuscripts in the Nineteenth Century,” in Cunningham and Fitzpatrick, Treasures of the Royal Irish Academy, p. 169; Proinsias Ó Drisceoil, Seán Ó Dálaigh: éigse agus iomarba (Cork, 2007), p. 271; RIA, Catalogue of the Betham Collection in the Royal Irish Academy, 5 vols; Richard Sharpe, “The Manuscripts of Míchéal Ó Longáin that were Sold to Sir William Betham,” in Leabhar na Longánach: the Ó Longáin Family and their Manuscripts, ed. Pádraig Ó Macháin and Sorcha Nic Lochlainn (Cork, 2018), pp. 266–67.

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with great attention read a great number of Irish MSS, … for the purpose of collecting words for a second edition of my Irish dictionary.”75 When he finally sold his manuscripts to the RIA in 1851 for £1,000 (having proposed the sale in 1847),76 his Irish-language manuscripts numbered over 100, with many dating to the 18th and 19th centuries,77 and included about 50 compiled by members of the Ó Longáin family.78 Earlier Betham had acknowledged the assistance of Edward O’Reilly for help in translating the Irish of Tireachán’s “collection concerning St Patrick” from the Book of Armagh, a very old dialect of the language,79 and it is also recorded that the Academy scribe, Owen Connellan, was a protégé of Betham.80

Dispersal of the Collections

How Betham managed to finance his purchases and commissions is unknown,81 but the outlay on manuscripts, ancient manuscripts and their shrines, and prehistoric artefacts (often of gold) must have been considerable. His wife does not seem to have been independently wealthy, and even with his genealogical commissions his (reputed) annual salary of £75.13.00 does not seem sufficient to have enabled a lavish purchasing habit.82 Was the auction of his collection that took place in 1830 (although the items failed to sell), inspired by sheer 75

76 77

78

79 80

81 82

Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1:30. An “Irish dictionary” has not been traced. Perhaps Betham was referring to, Sir William Betham, The Gael and Cymbri; or an Inquiry into the Origin, Religion, Language, and Institutions of the Irish Scoti, Britons, and Gauls, and of the Caledonians, Picts, Welsh, and Bretons (Dublin, 1834). RIA, Council Minutes 7, pp. 193–94 under 3 May 1847; pp. 228–32 under 29 Nov. 1847. RIA, Council Minutes 8, pp. 255, 256 under 7 July 1851. O’Curry was tasked with cataloguing them: RIA, Council Minutes 8, pp. 255, 256 under 7 July 1851; C. Graves to E. Clibborn re. purchase of Betham’s MSS, NLI, MS 5941, 19 Feb. 1849. In 1854, further Betham manuscripts were purchased for £5 (RIA, Council Minutes 9, pp. 123–25 under 4 Aug. 1854). Sharpe, “The Manuscripts of Míchéal Ó Longáin,” p. 268. Richard Sharpe, “Appendix 2: Manuscripts of the Betham Collection as Appearing in the Ó Longáin Valuation-List (1847) Arranged According to their Pre-sale Roman Numerals and Betham Bindings,” in Ó Macháin and Nic Lochlainn, Leabhar na Longánach, pp. 347–58. Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 2:*317. Siobhán Fitzpatrick, “Seasamh Ó Longáin and the Royal Irish Academy,” in Ó Macháin and Nic Lochlainn, Leabhar na Longánach, p. 120. The catalogues of Betham’s Irish manuscripts in the Academy were compiled by Eugene O’Curry, Owen Connellan, Seasamh Ó Longáin, and J. O’Beirne Crowe, RIA, RR 67/E/15–19. “Betham, Sir William, Obituary,” Gentleman’s Magazine 40 (Dec. 1853), 632–35. In 1812 the Rt Hon. Earl O’Neill paid £582.12.02 (5/5/= per foot) for the compilation and registration of the family pedigree, see: Phair, “Betham’s Manuscripts,” p. 6; for the Binson genealogy Betham charged five guineas in 1828, see: Eileen O’Byrne, “Betham and Lodge,”

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economic necessity or a wish to purchase an even more desirable item? Was a profit inevitable? Whatever the reason, the value of money and the cost of living must be taken into account in trying to gauge his wealth. Betham died on 26 October 1853, and on 31 October James F. Ferguson of the Exchequer Record Office in the Four Courts, in Dublin, wrote to Herbert Hore of Wexford opining that his “loss will be severely felt. I do not allude to him now in his official character but as the ever ready & ever zealous advocate of any work that was calculated to advance religion, morality or literature.”83 At the time, his estate was valued at £1,841.09.03 of which “Household goods & Books, Plate etc.” were valued at £538.04.06.84 The Betham sons, however, hoped to sell their father’s heraldic books for £10,000,85 and in 1854 his collection (said to include over 2,000 manuscripts and books),86 was dispersed. Much of it, undoubtedly, consisted of abstracts of official documents often used for genealogical purposes. As Beryl Phair has recorded: “He sorted, he indexed, he purchased, he copied – Irish, English, French, German, and other MSS.”87 The books, private correspondence, and miscellaneous manuscripts from his library were sold at a London auction in 1860,88 with most of his genealogical and heraldic manuscripts being bought by private collectors, especially Sir Thomas Phillipps. Others were acquired by the British Museum, the College of Arms in London, and by the Office of the Ulster King of Arms (now in the Genealogy Office in Dublin).89 Finally, although purchase of the library was sanctioned in January 1855,90 the authorities in Dublin Castle along with the Treasury in London agreed to purchase Betham’s books for £1,500 in 1860. The sum was then reduced to £1,000.91 Betham was professionally, and jealously, obsessed with the care, custody, and curation of records. He was privately fanatical about acquiring and

83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91

in Apects of Irish Genealogy, ed. M.D. Evans, 2 (Dublin, 1996), p. 174. Some of the monies must have been paid to Betham’s collaborators and assistants. NAI, 2008/157/2/1/6. NAI, 1130/1/1/ v, administration was extracted on 15 Nov. 1853; NAI, T 8408, will dated 30 Oct. 1817. NAI, 1130/1/1/ v. Phair, “Betham and the Older Irish Manuscripts,” p. 78: RIA, MR/14/I/5/8 – auction catalogue. Phair, “Betham and the Older Irish Manuscripts,” p. 78. RIA, SR 12 B (2) 19 – auction catalogue. “Betham, Sir William, Obituary,” pp. 632–35; NAI, M 3101, 1860 catalogue annotated in the 19th and 20th centuries. NAI, Chief Secretary’s Office Letter Book, 14/9/1854–1/10/1857, p. 262 under 29 Jan 1855. NAI, Chief Secretary’s Office Registered Papers, 1860/14762: 1860/18295. The ultimate file CSORP 1895/7419 is “not found.”

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interrogating records, yet, with few exceptions, he was rarely willing to sell. He commissioned, created, curated, copied, and retained records, yet in his Irish Antiquarian Researches he displayed no excitement or emotional attachment to the book shrines or the manuscripts they contained (Plate 12.2). Acquiring generally one superb piece per decade, Betham seems to have turned his interests away from manuscripts and their shrines to the collection of prehistoric artefacts instead. Commissioning manuscripts in Irish, he attempted to sell them at the onset of old age  – perhaps as a form of pension for his eventual widow. Conclusion Betham was a collector of prehistoric artefacts, Early Christian manuscripts, and their medieval shrines. He also collected later manuscripts and commissioned copies. The manuscript shrines must have been the ultimate status object. What drove such a collecting mania? Perhaps he was the consummate acquisitor, but did he regard his acquisitions as a financial return or as embodying an emotional attachment to a past with which he had no connection? By at least 1814 Betham began to collect manuscripts, and this is just one of the many paradoxes marking his collecting of early medieval material. The starting-point could have been inspired by his love of the medieval manuscripts under his charge in Dublin Castle or, equally, by the research and creation of splendid pedigrees. Or was it his involvement with the Cathach, its shrine, and the O’Donel family that started him off on this route? It is clear that by the early 1820s he was in possession of the Book of Dimma, the Book of Uí Mhaine, and the shrine of the Miosach; he acquired Connell’s Book in the next decade. The correspondence of Séan Ó Dálaigh to John Windele in 1846 shows that Betham possessed a copy of the Book of Ballymote, while in 1847, a member of the Ó Longáin family made him a copy of the Book of Lismore.92 There is also an enigmatic reference to his possession of a 1732 manuscript which contained songs, but this is now untraced.93 While Betham sold the Book of Uí Mhaine in 1823, he retained the Book of Dimma and the Miosach but only because they failed to sell at auction in 1830. There is no evidence that he acquired further Latin manuscripts or their shrines. Certainly, Early Christian manuscripts, even without their shrines, had no bearing on his professional life. Betham bought only the best (excluding the Cathach, which was not for sale), although there 92 93

Ó Drisceoil, Seán Ó Dálaigh, pp. 149–50, 271. Ibid., pp. 205, 215.

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Plate 12.2

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Drawing of the ‘In Principio’ initial page, Book of Dimma, p. 105. Sir William Betham, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 1 (Dublin, 1826), pl. V

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is no evidence that he tried to buy the Book of Armagh at auction in 1831. Did he buy the book shrines, the manuscripts, or both? He never offered his Early Christian manuscripts or their shrines to the RIA, of which he was a Member; rather, he sold the Book of Dimma to Trinity College Dublin. Betham certainly attempted to sell items in his collection but often failed. He refused to sell to Sir Thomas Phillipps, yet he gave away the shrine of the Miosach to the Duke of Sussex. One auction of his possessions held during his life-time, in 1830, saw the Book of Dimma and the shrine of the Miosach failing to sell, and both were “bought in” by Walker Betham for £193.04.00.94 Interestingly the auction was held in London – one must ask why. Betham was not short of private display space. In 1831 he moved the Office of the Ulster King of Arms to the Record Tower in Dublin Castle, leaving him free to fill his home in Blackrock with his own personal and prized possessions. So, if space was not a problem, did Betham sell from economic necessity? This is unlikely, as no other auctions of his possessions took place during his lifetime, although there were some private sales. However, his antiquarian collection would have been easier to display than the larger (and more vulnerable) shrines and manuscripts. There is also the question of how Betham kept/curated/displayed his acquisitions? Did he peruse his Early Christian and later manuscripts from time to time? Did he handle their shrines with devotion? We know that he was certainly interested in their content, for he edited the Patrician texts from the Book of Armagh; why, is unclear. Did he allow access to his manuscripts and shrines? There is no record that they were exhibited publicly or researched privately by others. After the mid-1820s publication of Irish Antiquarian Researches, Betham never again wrote about Irish manuscripts or their shrines; thereafter his publications tended to focus on antiquarian artefacts and etymology. Papers belonging to Betham relating to his antiquarian researches “(including MS of ‘Irish Antiquarian Researches,’ part 2)”, and literary compositions, found in the Record Tower, were moved to the Public Record Office of Ireland where they were destroyed in 1922.95 Betham’s collection of early manuscripts further raises the question of how he regarded the concept of the medieval? Or was it the case that, because he was surrounded by it every day, he ceased to think about it at all? The Office 94 95

Phair, “Betham’s Manuscripts,” p. 98. Herbert Wood, A Guide to the Records Deposited in the Public Record Office of Ireland (Dublin, 1919), p. 288. In 1905, the RIA deposited Betham’s genealogy collections with the Office of the Ulster King of Arms, noting that it did not, thereby, forfeit ownership (RIA, Council Minutes 24, pp. 328–30, 331–33 under 6 Nov 1905).

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of Arms was created in 1552, hardly medieval, but old enough to be interesting.96 Betham created, curated, and purchased manuscripts not necessarily of the medieval period – and, like a medieval Irish lord, he commissioned manuscripts from scribes as a patron. Betham was polite to scholars, but rude and unhelpful to colleagues and certain antiquaries especially those involved with the Irish Record Commission or the committees in the RIA. He reserved special ire for the Irish Record Commissioners, officials in Dublin Castle, public officials generally and later for Members of the Academy. Professional jealousy clouded his judgement and an unreconstructed interest in Ireland’s past led him down many false routes. Yet, his enthusiasm for all things Irish is unarguable, and without his (admittedly puzzling) interest in, and transmission of, the manuscripts that have become revered relics of early medieval Ireland, we would know far less about their origins and biographies than we do now. Acknowledgements The genesis of this article was a paper presented to the “Transmissions and Translations in the Medieval World” conference held in the University of York in 2018. The author must give thanks to the organisers Amanda Doviak and Megan Henvey for the invitation to speak. For much fruitful and stimulating discussion the author’s most grateful thanks go to Dr Elizabeth Alexander, Cher Casey, and Professor Jane Hawkes. Grateful thanks go to Dr Bernadette Cunningham for assistance with the correspondence of Seán Ó Dálaigh, and for the superb illustrations thanks must go to Dr Conor Lucey. Bibliography Betham, Sir William, Irish Antiquarian Researches, 2 vols (Dublin, 1826–27). Betham, Sir William, The Gael and Cymbri; or an Inquiry into the Origin, Religion, Lan­ guage, and Institutions of the Irish Scoti, Britons, and Gauls, and of the Caledonians, Picts, Welsh, and Bretons (Dublin, 1834). “Betham, Sir William, Obituary,” Gentleman’s Magazine 40 (Dec. 1853), 632–35.

96

Susan Hood, Royal Roots  – Republican Inheritance. The Survival of the Office of Arms (Dubin, 2002), p. xiii.

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Brown, Michelle P., “Hagiography or History? Early Medieval Approaches to Establishing Origin and Provenance for Insular Copies of Scripture,” in Moss, et al., An Insular Odyssey, pp. 24–41. Carey, John, “Compilations of Lore and Legend: Leabhar na hUidre and the Books of Uí Mhaine, Ballymote, Lecan and Fermoy,” in Cunningham and Fitzpatrick, Treasures of the Royal Irish Academy Library, pp. 17–31. Cunningham, Bernadette, and Siobhán Fitzpatrick, eds., Treasures of the Royal Irish Academy Library (Dublin, 2009). Fitzpatrick, Siobhán, “Seasamh Ó Longáin and the Royal Irish Academy,” in Ó Macháin and Nic Lochlainn, Leabhar na Longánach, pp. 117–38. Gillis, John, and Bernard Meehan, “Examining the Book of Dimma, the Scribe Dianchride and the Gospel of John,” in Moss, et al., An Insular Odyssey, pp. 86–113. Henry, Françoise, Irish Art in the Early Christian period (to 800 A.D.) (London, 1965). Henry, Françoise, Irish Art in the Romanesque Period (1020–1170 A.D.) (London, 1970). Herity, Michael, “The Return of the Cathach to Ireland,” in Seanchas. Studies in Early and Medieval Irish Archaeology, History and Literature in Honour of Francis J. Byrne, ed. Alfred P. Smyth (Dublin, 2000), pp. 454–64. Herity, Michael, and Aidan Breen, The Cathach of Colum Cille. An Introduction (Dublin, 2002). Hood, Susan, Royal Roots – Republican Inheritance. The Survival of the Office of Arms (Dubin, 2002). Long, Patrick, “Mason, Henry Joseph Monck,” Dictionary of Irish Biography (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 407–409. Moss, Rachel, Felicity O’Mahony, and Jane Maxwell, eds., An Insular Odyssey: Manu­ script Culture in Early Christian Ireland and Beyond (Dublin, 2017). Murphy, David, “Quin, Edwin Richard Windham Wyndham,” Dictionary of Irish Bio­ graphy (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 348–49. Ní Ghormáin, Caoimhe, “Medieval and Early Modern Irish Manuscripts in the Manuscripts and Archives Research Library,” in The Old Library: Trinity College Dublin, 1712–2012, ed. W.E. Vaughan (Dublin, 2013), pp. 55–64. O’Brien, Andrew, and Linde Lunney, “Reeves, William,” Dictionary of Irish Biography (Cambridge, 2009). https://dib-cambridge-org. O’Byrne, Eileen, “Betham and Lodge,” in Apects of Irish Genealogy, ed. M.D. Evans, 2 (Dublin, 1996), pp. 169–79. Ó Cochláin, Rupert S., “The Cathach, Battle Book of the O’Donnells,” The Irish Sword 8 (1968), 156–77. Ó Cróinín, Dáibhí, “The Cathach and Domhnach Airgid,” in Cunningham and Fitzpatrick, Treasures of the Royal Irish Academy Library, pp. 1–8. Ó Drisceoil, Proinsias, Seán Ó Dálaigh: éigse agus iomarba (Cork, 2007).

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Official Catalogue of the Great Industrial Exhibition, (in connection with The Royal Dublin Society) (Dublin, 1853). Ó Macháin, Pádraig, “Irish Manuscripts in the Nineteenth Century,” in Cunningham and Fitzpatrick, Treasures of the Royal Irish Academy Library, pp. 57–68. Ó Macháin, Pádraig, and Sorcha Nic Lochlainn, eds., Leabhar na Longánach: The Ó Longáin Family and their Manuscripts (Cork, 2018). O’Neill, Timothy, The Irish Hand: Scribes and their Manuscripts from the Earliest Times (Cork, 2014). Phair, P. Beryl, “Betham and the Older Irish Manuscripts,” JRSAI 92 (1962), 75–78. Phair, P. Beryl, “Sir William Betham’s Manuscripts,” Analecta Hibernica 27 (1972), 3–99. Plumptre, Anne, Narrative of a Residence in Ireland During the Summer of 1814 and that of 1815 (London, 1817). Prim, John G.A., “Missing Records. No. II. Muniments of the Corporation of Kilkenny,” Transactions of the Kilkenny Archaeological Society 1 (1849–51), 427–32. Reeves, Dr Revd William, “On the Book of Armagh,” PRIA 2 (1891–93), 77–99. Sharpe, Richard, “The Manuscripts of Míchéal Ó Longáin that were Sold to Sir William Betham,” in Ó Macháin and Nic Lochlainn, Leabhar na Longánach, pp. 259–332. Sharpe, Richard, “Appendix 2: Manuscripts of the Betham Collection as Appearing in the Ó Longáin Valuation-List (1847) Arranged According to their Pre-sale Roman Numerals and Betham Bindings,” in Ó Macháin and Nic Lochlainn, Leabhar na Longánach, pp. 347–58. Simms, George Otto, “Early Christian Manuscripts,” in Treasures of the Library, Trinity College Dublin, ed. Peter Fox (Dublin, 1986), pp. 38–56. Stokes, Margaret, Early Christian Art in Ireland (1887, repr. Dublin, 1911, 3rd ed. 1928). Sturgeon, Sinéad, “Barnard, Thomas,” Dictionary of Irish Biography (Cambridge, 2009), pp. 278–79. Thomas, Colleen M., “Monastic Dress and the Appearance of Sanctity,” in Moss, et al., An Insular Odyssey, pp. 194–212. Vallancey, Charles, Collectanea de Rebus Hibernicis 4 (Dublin, 1784). Wood, Herbert, A Guide to the Records Deposited in the Public Record Office of Ireland (Dublin, 1919).

Chapter 13

Through a ‘Celtic’ Mist: The Translation of Sacred Places into Theatre Spaces in Medieval and Early Modern Ireland Edel Bhreathnach

Prologue: Setting the Scene One day after the fall of the kings when Conn was in Tara, he ascended the royal rampart of Tara early in the morning before sunrise and his three druids in front of him, i.e. Máel, Bloc and Bluicne, the poets Eochaid, Corb and Cessarnn and Conn himself … On his arrival on the rampart from which he usually used to watch, he found a stone there under his feet. He leapt on the stone then and stamped on it and the stone cried out under his feet so that it was heard throughout all of Tara and the plain of Brega. Conn asked his poet about this stone and why it had cried out under his foot. After fifty-three days the poet told him that this was Fál and he prophesized that the number of roars it called out was the number of Conn’s descendants who would rule over Ireland. Conn asked him to name these kings but he was unable to do so. While they were there then, they noticed a great fog around them and they did not know where they were going because of the intensity of the darkness that descended on them. They heard the sound of a horseman coming towards them. ‘Great is our woe’, said Conn, ‘if this fog should bring us into unknown lands’. Indeed, Conn and his entourage were brought to an unknown land by Lug, the medieval literary representation of the god of craftsmen, kingship and war, who named all the kings descended from Conn who would hold the kingship of Ireland.1

This summarized extract from Baile in Scáil (The Phantom’s Frenzy), probably originally compiled in the 9th century and re-worked in the 11th to boost the Uí 1 Kevin Murray, ed., Baile in Scáil, Irish Texts Society 58 (Dublin, 2004), pp. 50–51, paras 1–5 (summary).

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Néill dynasty’s claim to the kingship of Ireland,2 captures how Tara’s archaeological landscape became an imaginary theatrical setting for medieval sagas, saints’ lives, political movements, and modern pageants, a role it continues to play to the present day. Of all places in Ireland, Tara could be viewed as a site of memory, invented and reinvented, emblematic of a nation, a cultural construct that is fluid, dynamic, and contested.3 The objective of this essay is to trace how a mainly prehistoric archaeological complex mutated into a medieval stage-set that formed a tradition transmitted through centuries, and how each of its new uses added a contemporary layer of meaning to a place already crowded with actors and their shadowy ghosts. To explore the theatrical setting of Tara in early medieval Irish literature, it is necessary first to describe its archaeology and offer an interpretation of its anthropological significance, as understood from the literature and comparative studies.4 The Hill of Tara is a low ridge located in the south-central part of Co. Meath, between the towns of Dunshaughlin and Navan (Fig. 13.1). The place name ‘Tara’, an anglicized version of the Irish name Teamhair, was believed in the Middle Ages to mean ‘a place with a view’ due to the extensive panoramic views from the hill. Teamhair actually originates from the idea of ‘cutting off’ or ‘separating’ a piece of land as a sacred space and is probably related to the Latin templum and the Greek temenos, both words for a temple or a sacred space. The name occurs throughout Ireland and seems to be associated with hilltop cult sites. Tara, Co. Meath is pre-eminent and often designated as Teamhair na Rí (Tara of the Kings).5 Despite its modest height of 155 m (509 ft), the hill offers expansive views to the north and west. The ridge runs N/S and is about 2 km (1.24 miles) long and 0.75 km (.04 miles) wide, with gentle slopes on all but the western side, 2 Murray, Baile in Scáil, pp. 4–5. 3 David C. Harvey, “‘National’ Identities and the Politics of Ancient Heritage: Continuity and Change at Ancient Monuments in Britain and Ireland, c.1675–1850,” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 28, no. 4 (2003), 473–87; Siân Jones, “Discourses of Identity in the Interpretation of the Past,” in The Archaeology of Identities: A Reader, ed. Timothy Insoll (London, 2007), pp. 44–58. 4 The Discovery Programme’s ‘Tara Research Project’ has, since 1991, produced much significant scholarship on the subject: Conor Newman, Tara: An Archaeological Survey, Discovery Programme Monographs 2 (Dublin, 1997); Edel Bhreathnach, ed., The Kingship and Landscape of Tara (Dublin, 2005); Roseanne Schot, Conor Newman, and Edel Bhreathnach, eds., Landscapes of Cult and Kingship (Dublin, 2011); Roseanne Schot, A Survey of Tara (Dublin, forthcoming). 5 Dónall Mac Giolla Easpaig, “Significance and Etymology of the Placename Temair,” in Bhreathnach, Kingship and Landscape, pp. 423–48; Nollaig Ó Muraíle, “Temair/Tara and Other Places of the Name,” in Bhreathnach, Kingship and Landscape, pp. 449–77.

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Figure 13.1

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Location of the Hill of Tara, Co. Meath

where the ground falls away more steeply.6 The hill and its surrounding environs form one of the richest archaeological landscapes in Ireland; it contains the remains of approximately 150 recorded monuments, spanning over 5000 years from the Neolithic, around 3300 BC, to the medieval period. The visible monuments include a passage tomb, mounds and barrows, circular enclosures, standing stones, a processional avenue, and sacred springs, while the others survive as low-profile or buried features, identified through aerial photography, topographical survey (including airborne lidar survey), geophysical prospection, and archaeological excavation (Fig. 13.2). Most of the prehistoric monuments were used for burial and for religious and communal gatherings and ceremonies, from at least the centuries before the introduction of Christianity into the medieval period. Tara and its monuments were associated with an exceptional kingship (Plate 13.1). During the early medieval period (600–1020s) kings claiming the title ‘king of Tara’ held a powerful symbolic office, and a dominant political and military status on the island. From anthropological and pre-Christian religious 6 Edel Bhreathnach and Roseanne Schot, Tara Management Conservation Plan (Unpublished Draft, National Monuments Service, 2018).

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Figure 13.2

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Survey image of the monument known as Treduma Nessa (‘The Triple Rampart of Ness’) at Tara

perspectives, it seems that Tara was regarded as the centre of the world (axis mundi) and its priestly king was perceived as the ‘king of the world.’ This universal idea reflects societies’ beliefs about places where the human and divine worlds met, where prophecies were proclaimed, and where kings and their priests convened sacred ceremonies. Parallel concepts influenced the architecture and layout of monuments at other Irish ‘royal’ sites including Emain (Navan Fort), Co. Armagh, Cruachu (Rathcroghan), Co. Roscommon, and Uisneach, Co. Westmeath. This, in summary, is our current understanding of Tara’s archaeology and function, and the basis on which early literature about the place emerges in the late 6th/early 7th century AD. By that point Tara, its kingship, and its monuments clearly had potent religious and political significance that the recently converted Christian Irish learned class and Church had either to suppress or to embrace. Fortunately, they decided on the latter and by doing so used their new literary skills to transmit surviving traditions and concepts through a range of written texts including genealogies, hagiography, regnal poems, sagas,

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Plate 13.1

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Aerial image of the Hill of Tara. The monuments known as Ráith na Ríg (‘The Fort of the Kings’), Tech Cormaic (‘Cormac’s House’), the Forrad (‘The inauguration mound’), and Duma na nGíall (‘The Mound of the Hostages’) are included in the image

and topographical lore. At the heart of most of these were dramatic stories and powerful personae dramatis that established a tradition which has been revisited and manipulated even to the present day.7

From Prehistoric Sacred Site to Symbol of Early Medieval Royal Power

St Patrick at Tara The earliest texts featuring Tara reflect momentous developments in Irish society: the acceptance of a new religion, shifts in dynastic power and territorial claims, and socio-economic changes. Such texts incorporate a propagandizing element composed to boost the claims of certain dynasties or of the new religion, Christianity, and Tara was the locus chosen for their dramatic encounters. On this stage the prehistoric monuments are mere props, occasionally 7 Muireann Ní Bhrolcháin, An Introduction to Early Irish Literature (Dublin, 2009).

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mentioned, while the landscape’s sacred associations survive, preserving precious insights into an earlier belief system that explain the place’s architecture and that of other royal sites in Ireland.8 Probably the most influential and spectacular scenes set at Tara are narrated in the 7th-century dossiers on St Patrick in Muirchú moccu Machtheni’s Vita Sancti Patricii and Bishop Tírechán’s Collectanea de sancto Patricio, the former narrative being the most dramatic. This involves the saint’s encounter with the non-believing king of Tara, Lóigaire mac Néill, and his priestly caste, the druids, in which Patrick triumphs, and the old religion is effectively defeated.9 As Thomas O’Loughlin demonstrated in detail, Muirchú’s account is a multilayered text, “a sacred narration”, that relates the Irish Church’s origins through the prism of St Patrick, portrayed in the Pauline tradition as an ‘apostle’ to the Irish; here, Muirchú used the Old and New Testaments, and his own perception of the old religious order.10 If Muirchú elevated Patrick to a heroic apostle, he cast Tara and its surrounding landscape as a menacing and dark theatrical backdrop. He describes the kingdom of Brega, where Tara was located, as “the greatest kingdom among these people (nationum harum), the head of all paganism and idolatry.”11 Indeed, the kingdom had a concentration of significant ancient and religious landscapes, including the megalithic tombs of the Boyne Valley, the ceremonial landscape of Tailtiu (Teltown, Co. Meath), and massive hilltop enclosures (Tlachtga, the Hill of Ward, Co. Meath; Mullach Aite, the Hill of Lloyd, Co. Meath; Ocha, Faughan Hill, Co. Meath).12 Muirchú’s Tara was also the land of Brega’s ‘druid-prophets’; it is likely that any institution of authority ruling this kingdom, and especially Tara, was primarily sacerdotal prior to the conversion period. The crowded court of Lóigaire mac Néill assembled for a pagan feast of worship, is a cacophony of incantations, magic rites, and other superstitious acts of idolatry, which Muirchú clearly transferred from the 8 9 10

11 12

Charles Doherty, “Kingship in Early Ireland,” in Bhreathnach, Kingship and Landscape, pp. 3–31. Muirchú, Vita sancti Patricii, ed./trans., Ludwig Bieler, The Patrician Texts in the Book of Armagh, Scriptores Latini Hiberniae 10 (Dublin, 1979), pp. 84–99, 130–33. Thomas O’Loughlin, “Reading Muirchú’s Tara-event within its Background as a Biblical ‘Trial of Divinities’,” in Celtic Hagiography and Saints’ Cults, ed. Jane Cartwright (Cardiff, 2003), pp. 123–35; Thomas O’Loughlin, “Reading Muirchú’s Life of St Patrick as a ‘Sacred Narration’,” Cambrian Medieval Celtic Studies 76 (Winter, 2018), 35–51. Muirchú, Vita sancti Patricii 1.13.2: “ubi erat regnum maximum nationum harum, quod erat [caput] omnis gentilitas et idolatriae.” Bieler, Patrician Texts, pp. 82–83. Ger Dowling, “Exploring the Hidden Depths of Tara’s Hinterland: Geophysical and Landscape Investigations in the Meath-Dublin North Region, Eastern Ireland,” Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 81 (2015), 1–25.

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Old Testament Book of Daniel (Daniel 5), likening Tara to Babylon and Lóigaire to Nebuchadnezzar.13 This feast coincides with the Christian Easter, which Patrick decided, rather provocatively, to celebrate by lighting the Paschal fire in Brega “and it shone in the night and was seen by almost all the people who lived in the plain.”14 This act transgressed a taboo whereby no fire was to be lit that night before one was lit at Tara, on pain of death. Here, Muirchú dramatically plays with a likely historic taboo and associates Tara with darkness and death, as opposed to Patrick’s shining fire and, of course, the hope generated by Christ’s resurrection. Muirchú’s skill in dramatizing the event is most evident in the colourful dialogue recounted at this point in the text as exemplified in this theatrical confrontation:15 THE KING: Who is the man who has dared to do such a wicked thing in my kingdom? He shall die. THE ELDERS: We do not know. THE DRUIDS: King, may you live forever! Unless the fire which we see, and which has been lit this night before a fire was lit in your house, is extinguished on this same night, it will never be extinguished. It will even rise above all fires of our customs, and he who has kindled it and the kingdom that has been brought upon us by him who kindled it on this night will overpower us all and you, and will seduce all the people of your kingdom, and all kingdoms will yield to it, and it will spread over the whole country and will reign in all eternity.

13

14 15

Muirchú, Vita sancti Patricii 1.15.2, Bieler, Patrician Texts, pp. 84–85. Contra Muirchú, who exhibits some confusion here, Balthasar, who dies shortly after the feast, is the king described in Daniel 5; Nebuchadnezzar, his father, is discussed at the feast as having fallen from favour. Muirchú, Vita sancti Patricii 1.15.4: “qui in nocte reffulgens a cunctis pene per plani[tiem] campi habitantibus uissus est.” Ibid., pp. 86–87. Muirchú, Vita sancti Patricii 1.15. 5–6: “Rex: ‘quis est qui hoc nefas ausus est facere in regno meo? Pereat ille morte.’ Et respondentibus omnibus nesciisse illum qui hoc fecerit magi responderunt: ‘Rex, in aeternum uiue! Hic ignis quem uidemus quique in hac nocte accensus est antequam succenderetur in domu tua nissi extinctus fuerit in nocte hac qua accensus est, numquam extinguetur in aeternum, insuper et omnes ignes nostrae consuitudinis supergradietur, et ille qui incendit et regnum superueniens a quo incensus nocte in hac superabit nos omnes et te et omnes homines regni tui seducet, et cadent ei omnia regna et ipsum inplebit omnia et regnabit in saecula saeculorum’.” Ibid., pp. 86–87. Dramatic layout devised by Edel Bhreathnach.

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Patrick triumphed over Lóigaire and his druids, who were inevitably doomed, as was non-Christian Tara, which Muirchú set in a dark, taboo-ridden pagan past: this place was not blessed by the saint nor did he found a church there. Nevertheless, Tara’s pagan past and the customs associated with its prehistoric sacral kingship were selectively transmitted from a society that was slowly leaving them behind. The manner and extent to which this transfer occurred in early medieval Ireland has been a matter of debate among scholars for decades, some arguing that early Irish literature is so heavily influenced by Christianity that very little survives from the earlier tradition, while others suggest that the introduction of literacy and Christianity led to a vibrant native, vernacular, learned culture that successfully absorbed popular beliefs and more formal non-Christian traditions into its literature.16 The taboos linked to the kingship of Tara are a case in point; they formed part of a religious expression of divine order presented in actions and rites that made sense to a given society or community: they were the secular made sacred.17 Movement in and out of Tara’s ceremonial complex was circumscribed by taboos, as this was how the elite privileged to enter the sacred site were distinguished from the rest of the populace. This was a fundamental element of maintaining order: the priest-king had to adhere to the prescriptions and prohibitions associated with his office, and the landscape and monuments at Tara functioned as markers to assist him in his role as king of the cosmos.18 Taboos related to movement around Brega and Tara appear in Muirchú and in other early sagas along with fire taboos and the movement of the sun. When Lóigaire and his court see Patrick’s Paschal fire, they decide to go toward it: “and towards the end of the night [they] went out from Tara to the burial place of the men of Fíacc [when Patrick had lit his fire]; they turned the faces of the men and horses to the left, as was befitting them.”19 The saga-cycle of the heroic boy-king Conaire Mór explains the meaning of the king’s departure from Tara. When Conaire Mór was proclaimed king, the host of the otherworld that had accompanied the boy to Tara subjected him to the prohibition that “the sun 16 17 18 19

Kim McCone, Pagan Past and Christian Present in Early Irish Literature, Maynooth Monographs 3 (Maynooth, 1990); Elva Johnston, Literacy and Identity in Early Medieval Ireland, Studies in Celtic History 33 (Woodbridge, 2013). Evan M. Zeusse, “Taboo and the Divine Order,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 42 (1974), 482–504. Conor Newman, “Procession and Symbolism at Tara: Analysis of Tech Midchúarta (Banqueting Hall) in the Context of the Sacral Campus,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 26, no. 4 (2007), 415–38. Muirchú, Vita sancti Patricii 1.16.2: “in fine noctis illius perrexit Loiguire de Temoria ad ferti uirorum Feec, hominum et equorum facies secundum congruum illis sensum ad leuam uertentes.” Bieler, Patrician Texts, pp. 86–7.

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should neither set nor rise on him in Tara.”20 It should also be recalled from the passage in Baile in Scáil quoted above, that Conn, his druids, and poets were walking on the ramparts of Tara before sunrise. In the doom-laden tale of Conaire Mór’s death, Togail Bruidne Da Derga (The Destruction of Da Derga’s House), one of the prohibitions21 imposed on Conaire as he became king was, “You shall not go righthandwise round Tara and lefthandwise round Brega.”22 This taboo must, in some way, relate to Lóigaire and his men turning their faces and those of their horses to the left as they departed Tara. Writing in the 7th century, Muirchú was closer to the practice of these customs, and may even have had first-hand knowledge of them, while the slightly later 8th- to 9thcentury vernacular sagas imply that these were becoming somewhat formulaic, especially in relation to the generic customs associated with the kingship of Tara. Their transmission to a learned, written culture diluted a key element of a non-Christian society’s maintenance of order, divine and secular. A new religion was now embedded in Irish society, which shared some remarkably similar aspects with the old beliefs, if not recognized as such. Máel Sechlainn, King of Tara at Óenach Tailten It should be remembered that the title rex/rí Temro (king of Tara) remained a potent accolade for any king ambitious enough to seek it. From the 7th to the early 11th century it was held by the northern and southern Uí Néill dynasties who succeeded in alternating between each other, either by consent or by the sword, for that period. While kings of other provinces, particularly Munster, occasionally attempted to seize the title, it was with the reign of Brian Bórama (Ború; d.1014) that the long-standing political order of three and a half centuries of Uí Néill appropriation of Tara was permanently disrupted. Their response to Brian’s challenge of their assumed sovereignty over Tara and by default, Ireland, was the creation of a literary cycle promoted by the king of the southern Uí Néill and Brian’s great rival, Máel Sechlainn mac Domnaill (d.1022) and his court poet, Cúán ua Lothcháin (d.1024).23 20 21 22 23

“na funfed 7 na taurcebath grian fairsium i Temair.” Lucius Gwynn, “De Śil Chonairi Móir,” Ériu 6 (1912), 135, see also 140. The terms for these prohibitions are variously airmit and geis. For the complexity of this aspect of Irish sagas, see Thomas M. Charles-Edwards, “Geis, Prophecy, Omen, and Oath,” Celtica 23 (1999), 38–59. “Ní thuidchis deaseal Temra & túaithbiul m- Breg.” John T. Koch and John Carey, eds., The Celtic Heroic Age. Literary Sources for Ancient Celtic Europe and Early Ireland and Wales, 2nd ed. (Malden, 1995), p. 159, para. 16. Clodagh Downey, “The Life and Work of Cúán ua Lothcháin,” Ríocht na Midhe 19 (2008), 55–78.

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In reality, rightful inheritance of the kingship of Tara was expressed by Máel Sechlainn’s revival of the great assembly known as Óenach Tailten (The Fair of Tailtiu) in 1007 – held at another important archaeological complex, not far from Tara: Teltown. This was celebrated by Cúán ua Lothcháin in his poem, A chóemu críche Cuind chain (O nobles of the land of comely Conn).24 The actual event seems to have been carefully choreographed by Máel Sechlainn, as the ceremonies included Ferdomnach’s installation as Colum Cille’s successor, and abbot of the monastery of Kells. Of interest here, however, is how Cúán ua Lothcháin uses his poetic skill to transmit a corpus of traditions about a place – encapsulated in the term dindshenchas (lore of places) for this genre of literature  – for both historical and political reasons. The opening stanza declares the poet’s scholarly intention to transmit the traditions associated with Óenach Tailten in his work: O nobles of the land of comely Conn, listen a while for a blessing, until I tell you the ancient lore of the founding of the fair of Tailtiu.25 This formulaic opening stanza, calling for silence at the beginning of a performance, is typical of dindshenchas poems, suggesting the poet recited his verses publicly in 1007. His first story tells of Tailtiu, a woman of the Fir Bolg, one of the mythical peoples to have settled in Ireland, who, having felled a vast wood, collapsed as a result of her toil. Her dying wish was that the men of Ireland should hold her funeral games (cluiche caíntech) on the anniversary of her death. As it happens, that fell occurred in August at harvest-time when the great festival of Lugnasad, originally dedicated to the god Lug, was celebrated: About the calends of August she died, on a Monday, on the Lugnasad of Lug; round her grave from that Monday forth is held the chief fair of noble Erin.26 24 25 26

Cúán ua Lothcháin, A chóemu críche Cuind chain, in The Metrical Dindshenchas, ed. Edward Gwynn, pt 4 (1924; repr. Dublin, 1991), pp. 146–63. Cúán ua Lothcháin, A chóemu críche Cuind chain, lines 1–4: “A chóemu críche Cuind chain / éitsid bic ar bennachtain;/ co n-écius duíb senchas sen suidigthe óenaig Thalten.” Ibid., pp. 146–47. I have updated Gwynn’s translation. Cúán ua Lothcháin, A chóemu críche Cuind chain, lines 45–48: “Im kalaind Auguist atbath, / día lúain, Loga Lugnasad; / imman lecht ón lúan ille / prím-óenach hÉrenn áine.” Ibid., pp. 150–51.

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Like that of Tara, the landscape of Tailtiu/Teltown was transformed by Cúán into a stage, probably with a focal point  – real or imaginary  – at a genuine archaeological monument, believed to be Tailtiu’s grave. He continues in this theatrical vein, imagining how his audience is seated: No man going into the mound of the women, nor woman into the mound of the shining, fair men, but each in due order by rank in his abode at the lofty fair.27 Unlike Tara, Tailtiu was blessed by Patrick and had holy protectors: Though Tailtiu was a sanctuary for the flock, God gave friends to protect, Patrick, Brigit, white Becán, Mac Eirc, Eithne, Adamnán.28 As at Tara, the king sat surrounded by his subjects, the kings of Muman, Connacht, Laigen, and Ulaid in their correct places: A royal chamber for mighty Munster to the left of the kings of Tara; the three parts of Connacht, not confined, on the mounds of the men of Ólnecmacht.29 This arrangement is a literary trope used frequently in texts describing the king of Tara’s court, and is also used to describe the layout of any royal court, major or minor.30 Cúán, who was probably familiar with both Tara and Tailtiu’s landscapes, lists some monuments, and by naming them creates a form of transmission that prompted a backstory: 27 28 29 30

Cúán ua Lothcháin, A chóemu críche Cuind chain, lines 157–60: “Cen techt fer i forud mban, cen mná i forud fer find-glan, / acht cách fria chárus ó thaig / inna árus ard-óenaig.” Ibid., pp. 150–51. Cúán ua Lothcháin, A chóemu críche Cuind chain, lines 157–60: “Cíambad termond Tailtiu ar thrét / tuc Dia cairde chomét, / Pátraic, Brigit, Becán bán, / Mac Eirc, Eithni, Adamnán”. Ibid., pp. 158–59. Cúán ua Lothcháin, A chóemu críche Cuind chain, lines 109–12: “Ríg-imscing dom Mumain múaid / fri rígu Temrach atúaid; / teoru Connacht, cen nach cacht, / for forud fer nÓlnecmacht.” Ibid., pp. 154–55. Clodagh Downey, “Dindṡenchas and the Tech Midchúarta,” Ériu 60 (2010), 1–35.

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The Pillarstone of Grop, the Pillarstone of Gar, the Pillarstone of the Sick men, the Leper’s Pillarstone beside the mounds, the stones of counting, the Wheel of Fál Fland, the Pillarstone of Colmán, the cairn of Conall.31 Dindshenchas was a genre that allowed the learned classes to codify a whole corpus of information – some of it ancient, some of it fabricated, a fraction historically true – around the names of places and monuments.32 Codification of this traditional lore mainly during the 11th and 12th centuries remained part of the learned classes’ output throughout the medieval period, as witnessed by dozens of manuscript copies and textual re-workings, mainly in prose. This collective literate memory was a handbook of historical and mythological knowledge triggered by natural and manmade features in the landscape. Cúán comes to the critical point in the final section of his long poem. Having created the backdrop – the origins and history of Óenach Tailten, the seating arrangements of main actors and the audience, the visible props, the activities at the fair – he lauds his patron, Máel Sechlainn, the king of Tara, using exaggerated metaphors: The king of Tara, chosen thus, Máel Sechlainn of secure Slemain, the river Euphrates rising on high, the single champion of Europe. Dignity of the noble West, come to my aid, Cormac úa Cuind, comes to us to the royal mound, offspring of Domnall son of Donnchad.33 31 32 33

Lia Gruip, lia Gair, lia lobur, / lia in chlaim i tóeb na forud, / clocha ríme, roth Fáil Flaind, / coirthe Colmáin, carn Conaill. Cúán ua Lothcháin, A chóemu críche Cuind chain, pp. 154– 55, lines 121–4. Edel Bhreathnach, “The World of Medieval Irish Learning,” in Princes, Prelates and Poets in Medieval Ireland: Essays in Honour of Katharine Simms, ed. Seán Duffy (Dublin, 2013), pp. 398–405. Cúán ua Lothcháin, A chóemu críche Cuind chain, lines 197–204: “Rí Temra togaide de, / Maelsechlainn Slemna slane, / sruth nEufrait eirge i n-ardda / cen-mílid na hEorpa. // Orddan íarthair domuin duind / dam chobair, Cormac úa Cuind, / chucund i forud flatha / do chlaind Domnaill Dondchada.” Gwynn, Metrical Dindshenchas, pp. 160–61; trans. Edel Bhreathnach.

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Cúán identifies Máel Sechlainn with the mythical king of Tara, Cormac mac Airt, grandson of Conn, who is regarded in the literature as a wise judge whose rule was based on the fundamental precept of fír flatho (the truth of the prince). And if Muirchú likened Lóigaire to Nebuchadnezzer, metrical and prose texts that were probably composed during Cúán’s era, and certainly prior to the mid-12th century, which describe and illustrate Cormac’s royal hall (tech midchúarta) at Tara liken Cormac to Solomon. This hall is a fictional construct (Fig. 13.3) that is imagined as resembling Solomon’s house: There came to the king [Cormac] Gauls and Romans, Franks and Frisians, and Lombards and Scots, Saxons and Welsh and Picts; for all came to him with gold and silver, and horses and four-wheeled chariots. They all came to Cormac, for there was none in his time that was more famous than he in his bounty, and in honour, and in knowledge, except Solomon son of David.34 Even if Tara was deserted in reality, in Cúán ua Lothcháin’s words it was toga na tulach (the noblest of hills), and any king wishing to rule Ireland now had to take control of its kingship, with that office’s imagined past memorialized by the hill’s spectacular monuments and by association, those of Tailtiu.

From Medieval Lordly Sovereignty to the Sovereignty of a Nation-State

The Power of Bardic Poets Máel Sechlainn mac Domnaill’s dynasty of Clann Cholmáin were unable to hold the title ‘king of Tara’ and as the 11th century wore on kings of other provincial dynasties – the Uí Briain of Munster, Uí Chonchobair of Connacht, Uí Chennselaig of Leinster, and Meic Lochlainn of the North – pushed them aside to claim the now more lofty title, ‘king of Ireland.’ Additionally, any ambitious king sought to control Ireland’s real capital, Dublin, for its wealth and position 34

Suidigud Tigi Midchúarda: “cach oen dosaiged in ríg. Gaill 7 Romáin. Frainc 7 Frési. Longbaird 7 Albanaig. Saxain 7 Bretnaig 7 Cruithnig. ar dosaigtis na huili seo. co n-ór 7 co n-argut. 7 echaib 7 cetarriadaib. Ticis uili co Cormac. ar ni rabi na amsir bud amru andás i n-aeriuch 7 i n-airmitin. 7 i fiss acht mad Solom mac Dauida.” Suidigud Tigi Midchúarda, ed. Richard Irvine Best, Osborn Bergin, and Michael A. O’Brien, The Book of Leinster, formerly Lebar na Núachongbála, 1: Manuscript Studies – Diplomatic Editions (Dublin, 1954), p. 117.3681–88. It is unclear which biblical passage was inferred here, although it could have been 1 Kings: 5–8.

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Figure 13.3

The tech midchúarta, the so-called ‘Banqueting Hall’ of Tara, following a diagram in the 12th-century manuscript, the Book of Leinster, Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 1339

as a gateway to the world. But what of Tara and Tailtiu, their ancient traditions, and the use of these traditions to claim sovereignty over the island? In a possible effort to sustain the tradition, the Uí Máel Sechlainn dynasty named a daughter of Murchad, Ua Máel Sechlainn, later wife of the powerful Toirdelbach Ua Conchobair, after the eponymous goddess of Tailtiu; her death is recorded in 1127.35 The same Toirdelbach revived Óenach Tailten in 1120 as part of his campaign to obtain the kingship of Ireland. Activity around Tara is scarcely noted during this period of rivalry between provincial kings. Occasionally, a king on a military campaign would proceed to Tara, presumably as a show of strength and to claim the symbolic sovereignty associated with the hill. For example, Domnall Ua Lochlainn, a king of the northern dynasty of Cenel nÉogain, having taken the hostages of the north, proceeded to Tara 35

AU, s.a. 1127.

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Figure 13.4

307

Great Seal of Henry II, 1150–89

in 1104, and undertook a scorched earth campaign in the midlands. Yet, when peace needed to be negotiated between Domnall and his rival Muirchertach Ua Briain, the dialogue was conducted in Dublin by the abbot of Armagh in 1105, reflecting Dublin’s actual importance, rather than the imaginary, ideal power of Tara.36 Late 12th-century Anglo-Norman and English intrusions inevitably affected concepts of authority and sovereignty in Ireland. Irish kings and their courtiers, especially the poets, lawyers, and clergy, had to reckon with an external institution and its version of authority and sovereignty which, in the case of Henry II and his son John, lord of Ireland – and many monarchs elsewhere – is represented visually by Henry’s great seal (Fig. 13.4). As Nicholas Vincent noted, Henry’s seal illustrates the military and judicial role of kings: on one side, it shows the king on horseback riding into battle (protecting his kingdom from attack), and the other portrays him enthroned in majesty, with the orb of dominion and the sword of justice, ruling his people as God’s chosen instrument on earth.37 Of course, the seals of Irish kings, for which evidence survives from the 13th century, incorporated the image of the equestrian lord with his sword aloft, riding into battle defending his kingdom, but none were depicted

36 37

AFM, s.a. 1104, 1105. Nicholas Vincent, “Magna Carta: from King John to Western Liberty,” in Magna Carta: History, Context and Influence, ed. Lawrence Goldman (London, 2018), pp. 25–40.

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as seated, crowned, or holding an orb or sword of justice.38 The use of seals in Ireland was undoubtedly inspired by early Anglo-Norman (English or continental) templates, as was Irish kings’ adoption, from the 12th century onwards, of some forms of administrative documents, most specifically the issuing of charters.39 The epitaph inscribed on Henry II’s tomb in 1189, as related by Ralph of Diss, evoked the power of Alexander the Great, echoing Gerald of Wales’s description of the king as “our Alexander of the West” (Alexander noster occidentalis).40 This attribution was not unique. In Irish literature, the 12thcentury propaganda text written for the aspirant king of Ireland, Muirchertach Ua Briain (d.1119), praised his famous ancestor Brian Bórama in lofty prose, likening Brian to an “ever-victorious Octavian” (an tOctauin aobhda ilbuadach), “a second Alexander” (an tAlaxandar … tánaiste), “the happy, wealthy, peaceable Solomon of the Gaeighil” (rob é an Solamh sona, saidbhir, siodamail na nGaoidel), “the David of Erinn” (Dauit … na hErenn), and “the magnificent, brilliant Moses” (rob é an Maoisi mórdha minettrocht).41 The learned of Ireland and Anglo-Norman England were also engaged in creating foundational myths based on re-working much older material: in Ireland this material was the basis for Lebor Gabála Érenn (The Book of the Invasions of Ireland);42 in Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Brittaniae (History of the kings of Britain) was also a 12th-century foundational myth that drew on earlier sources such as Gildas, Bede and Nennius. This was an influential text that promoted the career of Arthur as the ideal king, a British version of the Irish Cormac mac Airt and his court, whose capital he located at Urbs Legionum (City of Legions), the Iron Age and Roman complex of Caerleon near Newport in Wales.43 As the medieval period progressed, and Irish society dealt with cultural, economic, and political fluctuations, the professional classes versed in vernacular culture – curators of the 38 39 40 41 42 43

E.C.R. Armstrong, Irish Seal-Matrices and Seals (Dublin, 1913), figs. 1–2. Marie Therese Flanagan, Irish Royal Charters: Texts and Contexts (Oxford, 2005). Colin Veach, “Henry II and the Ideological Foundations of Angevin Rule in Ireland,” Irish Historical Studies 42 (2018), 1; J.S. Brewer, J.F. Dimock, and G.F. Warner, Giraldi Cambrensis Opera, 5 (London, 1867), p. 189. James Henthorn Todd, ed., Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh. The War of the Gaedhil with the Gaill (London, 1867), pp. 204–205. John P. Carey, The Irish National Origin-Legend: Synthetic Pseudo-History (Cambridge, 1994); John P. Carey, Lebor Gabála Érenn: Textual History and Pseudohistory (Dublin, 2009). Aaron Thompson, trans., Geoffrey of Monmouth. History of the Kings of Britain, rev. J.A. Giles (Cambridge, Ontario, 1999), pp. 161–65. Available at: www.yorku.ca/inpar/geoffrey _thompson. Accessed 2020 January 14.

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tradition of Cúán ua Lothcháin – and their patrons created a canon of literature, bardic poetry, that psychologically bolstered and maintained old claims to sovereignty of the land and protected old kingdoms, or evolving lordships, from old enemies and new. The lord and his poet were portrayed as lovers mutually dependent on one another, but the relationship was more functional than often depicted by the poets who had “primacy in counsel”, which Marc Caball argued, “surely positioned poets centrally in terms of political debate.”44 They could praise and legitimate a lord’s rule by evoking senchas (traditional lore), but they could also satirize, a prerogative providing them with a potent power of vilification. Throughout the canon of late medieval poetry Tara, and those long associated with the place, were employed in various modes to assert Irish lords’ authority and to coax them to take up arms against their enemies to maintain the honour of their ancestors. This form of political coercion is exemplified by the 13th-century poet Gilla Brighde Mac Con Midhe, who attempted to persuade Domhnall Mór Ó Domhnaill (d.1241) of the northern dynasty of Ceinéal Conaill to unite with his own people of Ceinéal Eoghain – the O’Neills of Tyrone – against the Foreigners, the Anglo-Normans. He argues that both dynasties share common ancestry and hangs this reasoning on their authority over Tara: Which are the four families of Teamhair from among the progeny most noble in history (seanchas), from among the fresh, curly-headed progeny of Conn, to whom Ireland from sea to sea is a natural right? … Conall, Eoghan of the fair of Tailtiu, are the two households of Teamhair in the north; they are an unquenched glowing ember; with them, the two brothers, resides every quality. As for the progeny of Aodh Sláine and the Sons of Colman, there is a debility upon the branches of Teamhair; nothing separated the noble band from their ancient prosperity but the Foreigners about Teamhair in the south.45 44 45

Marc Caball, “Language, Print and Literature in Irish, 1550–1630,” in Ohlmeyer, Cambridge History of Ireland, p. 414. Giolla Brighde Mac Con Midhe: “Caidhead ceithre teallaigh Teamhra / dán toich Éire ó thuinn go tuinn / don tsíol is saoire re seanchas, / do shíol naoidhe cheannchas Cuinn?

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The allusion to “Foreigners about Teamhair in the south” (acht Goill re taoibh Teamhrach teas) references the 13th-century domination of the territory around Tara by the Anglo-Norman lords de Lacy, de Verdun, and de Geneville. As the real Tara, Tailtiu, and their ceremonial landscapes were on the whole unattainable and under Anglo-Norman, and later English, authority, the poets employed a conceit whereby an imagined Tara was transported to their patrons’ courts, which then became the real Tara. A fine example of this is found in the poem composed by Aonghus Ruadh Ó Dálaigh (d.1309) to praise both his patron Aodh Ó Conchobhair as a lord and the new house he had constructed at Cloonfree, Co. Roscommon: Is it you once more, Rath of Tara? You have changed your form of many shapes, you found favour in your previous shape, though you are descended from ancient hosts…. You have appeared in Cloonfree on the verdant slope of the fair-smoothed grass, o four-ridged, wide, courtly, fragrant, round-topped rath of Conn. Once you were named after Conn, from the abode of Lóigaire! I prefer that you are named after Aodh, o polished, resplendent one of the long battlements!46 Aodh’s reign as lord of Connacht was not triumphant; he was involved in a long-running civil war among various branches of the O’Conors, his house at

46

… // Conall, Eoghan aonaigh Tailltean, / dá theallach Teamhrach a-tuaidh; / is iad an ghrís bheo gan bháthadh, / leo ‘na ndís bráthar gach buaidh. // Síol Aodha Sláine is Clann Cholmán, / ar craobhaibh Teamhra a-tá ceas; / nír sgar an droing saoir re seanrath / acht Goill re taoibh Teamhrach teas.” The Poems of Giolla Brighde Mac Con Midhe, ed. N.J.A. Williams, Irish Texts Society 51 (Dublin, 1980), pp. 12–13, verses 1, 4–5. “An tú arís, a ráith Teamhrach? / do-chláochláis cruth ildhealbhach; / fúarais gnáoi ’san riocht roimhe, / gé ’táoi ar sliocht na seanchuire…. // Do-thógbhais ceann a gClúain Fráoich / ar leirg úaine an fheóir fhionnmháoith, / a ráith cheathardhruimneach Chuinn / leathanbhruighneach bhláith bheandchruinn. // Do hainmnighthe eacht oile / ó Chond thú, a threabh Láoghaire! / fearr liom hainmniughadh ó Aodh, / a shliom bhairrliubhar bhárrcháomh!” E.C. Quiggin, “O’Conor’s House at Cloonfree,” in Essays and Studies Presented to William Ridgeway, ed. E.C. Quiggin (Cambridge, 1913), pp. 336–37, verses 1, 3–4. Quiggin’s translation has been updated.

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Cloonfree was burned, and he was killed in 1309 by his rival Aodh Bréifneach. Yet, in an elegy on Aodh’s death, his poet laments the loss of flaith Teamhra (a prince of Tara), whose death was undeserved especially as his body was left behind by his bodyguard: leacht fhir Theamhrach thoir (the grave of the man of Tara lies in the east).47 In an ironic twist, Aodh Bréifneach was killed at the instigation of the Anglo-Norman lord of Mayo, William De Burgh, with a view to securing the lordship, and almost three centuries later the poet Tadhg Dall Ó hUiginn (d.1591) praised Seán Mac William Burke (d.1580), lord of Mayo and Seneschal of Connacht appointed by the English government in 1575, evoking Tara’s authority and its imagined transfer to the west as a result of the heroic deeds of Seán’s ancestor: In those days, of which ye have heard, the star of the Plain of Champions brought the gates of Bregian Tara to Loch Mask on Magh Tuireadh.48 New Ideologies and Old Traditions As the English crown’s political grip on Ireland strengthened during the 16th and 17th centuries, with religious wars resulting from the Reformation and Counter-Reformation, the purveyors of senchas once more had to recalibrate their medieval learning to accommodate the evolving cultural and political philosophies of sovereignty, popular representation, and the concept of the nation-state.49 This provided them with an opportunity to create a new backdrop around Tara influenced by contemporary monarchies – English or continental, Catholic or Protestant – and the creation of representative assemblies and constitutions. Contemporary texts on these matters were written in the vernacular, Latin, and English from an array of perspectives,50 the best known 47 48 49

50

“Comhla thighe Teamhrach Breagh / go Loch Measc ar Magh Tuireadh / tug réadla Chláir na gCuradh, / ’sna láibh céadna ad-chualabhar.” Damian McManus, “An Elegy on the Death of Aodh Ó Conchobhair (d. 1309),” Ériu 51 (2000), 69–91, verse 21d. Eleanor Knott, ed./trans., The Bardic Poems of Tadhg Dall Ó Huiginn (1550–1591), 2 vols, Irish Texts Society 22–23 (London, 1922 and 1926), 1:127, verse 46; 2:84, verse 46. Breandán Ó Buachalla, “James our True King: the Ideology of Irish Royalism in the Seventeenth Century,” in Political Thought in Ireland since the Seventeenth Century, ed. D.G. Boyce, R. Eccleshall, and V. Geoghegan (London, 1993), pp 7–35; Brendan Kane, “A World of Honour: Aristocratic mentalité,” in Ohlmeyer, The Cambridge History of Ireland, pp. 482–505. Valuable overviews of this period are provided in Caball, “Language, Print and Literature”; Bernadette Cunningham, “Language, Literature and Print in Irish, 1630–1730,” in Ohlmeyer, Cambridge History of Ireland, pp. 434–57; Kane, “A World of Honour,” pp. 482–505.

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in Irish being the early 17th-century chronicle, the Annals of the Four Masters, compiled by the Franciscan Mícheál Ó Cléirigh and a team of fellow scholars, and Foras Feasa ar Érinn (Compendium of knowledge about Ireland), completed by Geoffrey Keating, a Catholic priest.51 Ó Cléirigh and his collaborators were firmly grounded in the senchas tradition, but he had spent time on the Continent and was one of the prominent Irish Franciscans working from St Anthony’s College, Leuven in the Spanish Netherlands with other friars in St Isidore’s College, Rome. They were deeply absorbed in Counter-Reformation ideologies and theology, while simultaneously attempting to seek financial and military support from Spanish kings and the papacy for campaigns in Ireland throughout the 17th and early 18th centuries.52 Sovereignty was transmitted through monarchy and Cormac mac Airt, the king who had a premonition about Christianity, ordered that the history, laws, and morals of the land be compiled into the Teagosc na Rígh (Advice of Kings) and in the so-called Psalter of Tara. Cormac, as king of Tara, was the supreme authority, ruling all lesser kings and determining the division of territories and the taxes due from them. The Four Masters claimed that this system survived from prehistory to the early 17th century despite the reality of Ireland’s situation at the time: It was Cormac who composed Teagusc Na Righ, to preserve manners, morals, and government in the kingdom. He was a famous author in laws, synchronisms, and history, for it was he that established law, rule, and direction for each science, and for each covenant according to propriety; and it is his laws that governed all that adhered to them to the present time.53 Although Catholic and educated on the Continent in French seminaries, Keating, author of Foras Feasa ar Érinn, was of Old English stock descended from Anglo-Normans who had become acculturated to some extent, but who had participated in corporate institutions in towns such as Drogheda and Kilkenny and in the parliament in Dublin during the late medieval period. Royal authority and local power in Ireland were subject to ever-evolving interpretations from the Plantagenets to the Tudors. One might argue that Keating’s 51 52 53

Bernadette Cunningham, The World of Geoffrey Keating (Dublin, 2000); Bernadette Cunningham, The Annals of the Four Masters: Irish History, Kingship and Society in the Early Seventeenth Century (Dublin, 2010). For the Irish Franciscan order’s significance in the history of early modern and modern Ireland, see Edel Bhreathnach, Joseph MacMahon, and John McCafferty, eds., The Irish Franciscans 1534–1990 (Dublin, 2009). Cunningham, Annals of the Four Masters 266.1, p. 117. Italics added.

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Plate 13.2 ‘Mystical Tara’

vision of Cormac mac Airt’s rule at Tara was closer in status to the English crown and the language of the common good (res publica) as pursued in medieval Ireland, than the traditional senchas vision of the Four Masters.54 The ancient assembly of Feis Temro (Feast of Tara), which had not been celebrated since the conversion period, was the centralizing institution for Keating: Now the Feis of Tara was a great general assembly like a parliament, in which the nobles and the ollamhs of Ireland used to meet at Tara every third year at Samhain, where they were wont to lay down and to renew rules and laws, and to approve the annals and records of Ireland. There, too, it was arranged that each of the nobles of Ireland should have a seat according to his rank and title. There, also, a seat was arranged for every leader that commanded the soldiery who were in the service of the kings and the lords of Ireland. It was also the custom at the Feis of Tara to put to 54

Peter Crooks, “The Structure of Politics in Theory and Practice, 1210–1541,” in The Cambridge History of Ireland, 600–1550, ed. Brendan Smith (Cambridge, 2018), pp. 441–68.

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death anyone who committed violence or robbery, who struck another or who assaulted another with arms, while neither the king himself nor anyone else had power to pardon him such a deed. It was also their custom to pass six days in feasting together before the sitting of the assembly, namely, three days before Samhain and three days after it, making peace and entering into friendly alliances with each other.55 With the translation of Forus Feasa ar Érinn into English and Latin, its wide circulation in manuscripts, and the printing of an English translation in 1723, Keating’s compendium became a standard reference book for subsequent national – and nationalist – histories of Ireland as late as the 1970s. His narrative incorporated ‘historic’ staged events at Tara, re-enforced Tara’s status as the seat of high-kingship, and along with the Annals of the Four Masters (which was not translated or printed until the mid-19th century), historicized mythical kings such as Conn Cétchathach and Cormac mac Airt, and St Patrick’s encounter with Lóigaire and his druids. It was not until George Petrie and John O’Donovan produced their works on the actual monuments on the hill and in the surrounding environs that the archaeology of the complex was brought to the fore.56 Yet, despite 180 years of antiquarian and scientific archaeological work on Tara, the old tales of theatrical Tara linger. One only has to glance at current tourist literature! (Plate 13.2) Bibliography Armstrong, E.C.R., Irish Seal-Matrices and Seals (Dublin, 1913). Best, Richard Irvine, Osborn Bergin, and Michael A. O’Brien, eds., The Book of Leinster, formerly Lebar na Núachongbála, 1: Manuscript Studies  – Diplomatic Editions (Dublin, 1954). Bhreathnach, Edel, ed., The Kingship and Landscape of Tara (Dublin, 2005). Bhreathnach, Edel, “The World of Medieval Irish Learning,” in Princes, Prelates and Poets in Medieval Ireland: Essays in Honour of Katharine Simms, ed. Seán Duffy (Dublin, 2013), pp. 398–405. 55 56

Geoffrey Keating, Foras Feasa ar Éirinn: The History of Ireland, ed. D. Comyn and P.S. Dinneen, 4 vols, Irish Texts Society (London 1902–14). George Petrie, “On the History and Antiquities of Tara Hill,” Trans. RIA 18 (1839), 25–232. John O’Donovan was a major contributor to Petrie’s paper as he had mapped the hill as part of the Ordnance Survey in 1836.

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Bhreathnach, Edel, Joseph MacMahon, and John McCafferty, eds., The Irish Franciscans 1534–1990 (Dublin, 2009). Bhreathnach, Edel, and Roseanne Schot, Tara Management Conservation Plan (Unpublished Draft, National Monuments Service, 2018). Bieler, Ludwig, ed./trans., The Patrician Texts in the Book of Armagh, Scriptores Latini Hiberniae 10 (Dublin, 1979). Brewer, J.S., J.F. Dimock, and G.F. Warner, Giraldi Cambrensis Opera, 5, Rolls Series 21 (London, 1867). Caball, Marc, “Language, Print and Literature in Irish, 1550–1630,” in Ohlmeyer, Cambridge History of Ireland, pp. 411–33. Carey, John P., The Irish National Origin-Legend: Synthetic Pseudo-History (Cambridge, 1994). Carey, John P., Lebor Gabála Érenn: Textual History and Pseudohistory (Dublin, 2009). Charles-Edwards, Thomas M., “Geis, Prophecy, Omen, and Oath,” Celtica 23 (1999), 38–59. Crooks, Peter, “The Structure of Politics in Theory and Practice, 1210–1541,” in The Cambridge History of Ireland, 600–1550, ed. Brendan Smith (Cambridge, 2018), pp. 441–68. Cunningham, Bernadette, The World of Geoffrey Keating (Dublin, 2000). Cunningham, Bernadette, The Annals of the Four Masters: Irish History, Kingship and Society in the Early Seventeenth Century (Dublin, 2010). Cunningham, Bernadette, “Language, Literature and Print in Irish, 1630–1730,” in Ohlmeyer, Cambridge History of Ireland, pp. 434–57. Doherty, Charles, “Kingship in Early Ireland,” in Bhreathnach, Kingship and Landscape, pp. 3–31. Dowling, Ger, “Exploring the Hidden Depths of Tara’s Hinterland: Geophysical and Landscape Investigations in the Meath-Dublin North Region, Eastern Ireland,” Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 81 (2015), 1–25. Downey, Clodagh, “The Life and Work of Cúán ua Lothcháin,” Ríocht na Midhe 19 (2008), 55–78. Downey, Clodagh, “Dindṡenchas and the Tech Midchúarta,” Ériu 60 (2010), 1–35. Easpaig, Dónall Mac Giolla, “Significance and Etymology of the Placename Temair,” in Bhreathnach, Kingship and Landscape, pp. 423–48. Flanagan, Marie Therese, Irish Royal Charters: Texts and Contexts (Oxford, 2005). Gwynn, Edward, ed., The Metrical Dindshenchas, pt 4 (1924; repr. Dublin, 1991). Gwynn, Lucius, “De Śil Chonairi Móir,” Ériu 6 (1912), 130–43. Harvey, David C., “‘National’ Identities and the Politics of Ancient Heritage: Continuity and Change at Ancient Monuments in Britain and Ireland, c.1675–1850,” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 28, no. 4 (2003), 473–87.

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Johnston, Elva, Literacy and Identity in Early Medieval Ireland, Studies in Celtic History 33 (Woodbridge, 2013). Jones, Siân, “Discourses of Identity in the Interpretation of the Past,” in The Archaeology of Identities: A Reader, ed. Timothy Insoll (London, 2007), pp. 44–58. Kane, Brendan, “A World of Honour: Aristocratic mentalité,” in Ohlmeyer, Cambridge History of Ireland, pp. 482–505. Keating, Geoffrey, Foras Feasa ar Éirinn: The History of Ireland, 4 vols, ed. D. Comyn and P.S. Dinneen, Irish Texts Society (London, 1902–14). Kemble, John Mitchell, trans. A Translation of the Anglo-Saxon Poems of Beowulf, with a Copious Glossary, Preface and Philological Notes (London, 1837). Knott, Eleanor, ed./trans., The Bardic Poems of Tadhg Dall Ó HUiginn (1550–1591), 2 vols, Irish Texts Society 22–23 (London, 1922 and 1926). Koch, John T., and John Carey, eds., The Celtic Heroic Age. Literary Sources for Ancient Celtic Europe and Early Ireland and Wales, 2nd ed. (Malden, 1995). McCone, Kim, Pagan Past and Christian Present in Early Irish Literature, Maynooth Monographs 3 (Maynooth, 1990). McManus, Damian, “An Elegy on the Death of Aodh Ó Conchobhair (d. 1309),” Ériu 51 (2000), 69–91. Murray, Kevin, ed., Baile in Scáil, Irish Texts Society 58 (Dublin, 2004). Newman, Conor, Tara: An Archaeological Survey, Discovery Programme Monographs 2 (Dublin, 1997). Newman, Conor, “Procession and Symbolism at Tara: Analysis of Tech Midchúarta (Banqueting Hall) in the Context of the Sacral Campus,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 26, no. 4 (2007), 415–38. Ní Bhrolcháin, Muireann, An Introduction to Early Irish Literature (Dublin, 2009). Ó Buachalla, Breandán, “James our True King: the Ideology of Irish Royalism in the Seventeenth Century,” in Political Thought in Ireland since the Seventeenth Century, ed. D.G. Boyce, R. Eccleshall, and V. Geoghegan (London, 1993), pp 7–35. Ohlmeyer, Jane, ed., The Cambridge History of Ireland, 1550–1730 (Cambridge, 2018). O’Loughlin, Thomas, “Reading Muirchú’s Tara-event within its Background as a Biblical ‘Trial of Divinities’,” in Celtic Hagiography and Saints’ Cults, ed. Jane Cartwright (Cardiff, 2003), pp. 123–35. O’Loughlin, Thomas, “Reading Muirchú’s Life of St Patrick as a ‘Sacred Narration’,” Cambrian Medieval Celtic Studies 76 (Winter, 2018), 35–51. Ó Muraíle, Nollaig, “Temair/Tara and Other Places of the Name,” in Bhreathnach, Kingship and Landscape, pp. 449–77. Petrie, George, “On the History and Antiquities of Tara Hill,” Trans. RIA 18 (1839), 25–232.

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Quiggin, E.C., “O’Conor’s House at Cloonfree,” in Essays and Studies Presented to William Ridgeway, ed. E.C. Quiggin (Cambridge, 1913), pp. 333–52. Schot, Roseanne, A Survey of Tara (Dublin, forthcoming). Schot, Roseanne, Conor Newman, and Edel Bhreathnach, eds., Landscapes of Cult and Kingship (Dublin, 2011). Thompson, Aaron, trans., Geoffrey of Monmouth. History of the Kings of Britain, rev. J.A. Giles (Cambridge, Ontario, 1999). Todd, James Henthorn, ed., Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh. The War of the Gaedhil with the Gaill (London, 1867). Veach, Colin, “Henry II and the Ideological Foundations of Angevin Rule in Ireland,” Irish Historical Studies 42 (2018), 1–25. Vincent, Nicholas, “Magna Carta: from King John to Western Liberty,” in Magna Carta: History, Context and Influence, ed. Lawrence Goldman (London, 2018), pp. 25–40. Williams, N.J.A., ed., The Poems of Giolla Brighde Mac Con Midhe, Irish Texts Society 51 (Dublin, 1980). Zeusse, Evan M., “Taboo and the Divine Order,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 42 (1974), 482–504.

Chapter 14

Beyond the Pale: Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf as Postcolonial Translation Alison Elizabeth Killilea Since the initial 1999 publication of Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf translation with Faber,1 it has remained one of the most popular editions of the poem for scholars, students, and the general public alike. As Jana K. Schulman and Paul F. Szarmach noted, it “bridge[d] the gap between the ivory tower where most who study Beowulf reside and the lay readers drawn to the poem because of Heaney’s reputation.”2 In the 20 years since Heaney’s translation was published, the Old English poem has become an “internationally marketable and colonizable product”, having “acquired new cultural capital” as seen in the release of numerous film, television, comic, and novel adaptations.3 Indeed, the 2019 release of a second Norton Critical Edition is witness to the translation’s status as an accomplished piece of poetry and an accessible introduction to a work of early medieval literature.4 Although widely praised, Heaney’s Beowulf translation was not without criticism, much of which centred on its idiom, the Northern Hiberno-English of Heaney’s home county of Derry in Northern Ireland and its politicization of the Old English poem. The apparent commentary on the difficult past between Britain and Ireland is perhaps especially forceful coming from someone who clearly expressed that he was not British in his refusal to be included in an anthology of British poets; in his reply to Penguin Books, Heaney penned a poem which included the lines, “be advised my passport’s green. / No glass of ours was ever raised / to toast the Queen.”5 Yet, Nicholas Howe accused Heaney of trying to “graft himself” onto the English literary tradition by translating 1 Seamus Heaney, trans., Beowulf (London, 1999). 2 Jana K. Schulman and Paul F. Szarmach, “Introduction,” in Schulman and Szarmach, Beowulf at Kalamazoo, p. 1. 3 E.L. Risden, “The Cinematic Commoditization of Beowulf: The Serial Fetishizing of a Hero,” in Beowulf on Film, ed. Nickolas Haydock and E.L. Risden (Jefferson, NC, 2013), pp. 66–67. 4 Seamus Heaney, trans., Beowulf: A Verse Translation, ed. Daniel Donoghue (London, 2019). All line references to Heaney’s translation will be taken from this publication. 5 Heaney, quoted in Floyd Collins, Seamus Heaney: The Crisis of Identity (Newark, DE, 2003), p. 122.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004501904_019

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Beowulf, and attempting to make an Irish poem out of one that is English,6 an assessment which, considering the complex colonial past between Ireland and Britain, may be considered somewhat tone-deaf. Others, such as Joseph McGowan, disagreed with this sentiment, and viewed Heaney’s use of Hiberno-English dialect as an almost necessary response to “nine centuries of English dominance over Irish affairs, life, and language,”7 a postcolonial and revisionist answer from a country which had the English language and culture “grafted upon” itself. A number of scholars, including Ashok Bery, Inge B. Milfull and Hans Sauer, and Conor McCarthy, have considered the postcolonial approach that Heaney took with his translation and this discussion consolidates and builds on these arguments.8 Reading the translation as a deliberate and pointedly postcolonial rewriting allows further exploration of both Grendel and Grendel’s mother. Exploring Heaney’s popular poetry, such as “The Border Campaign” (2001), Grendel’s status as representative of the Irish is strengthened – overcoming previous hesitation in the scholarship – and the problematic aspects of his violence can be viewed alongside his alignment with the Irish rather than in opposition to it.9 This discussion also considers a character who has been largely absent from the debate; reconsidering Heaney’s translation and presentation of Grendel’s mother reveals a more layered and sophisticated postcolonial analogy than if we are to consider Grendel alone. Using Heaney’s “bog poems” (which range from 1969 to 2006) as points of intertextual comparison, and by approaching Grendel’s mother from a Kristevan standpoint it is argued here that as a gendered figure in the long tradition of Ireland’s anthropomorphism, she represents the betrayed Irish landscape. As can be argued for translations (and especially adaptations), it is often the Grendel-kin who have inspired the most creativity, their representations shifting from text to text, from Wackerbarth’s “foul demon[s]” and Arnold’s “monstrous witch[es]” to the sympathetic and misunderstood figures of John Gardner’s Grendel and the hyper-sexualized temptresses of Graham Baker’s

6 Nicholas Howe, “Scullionspeak,” in Schulman and Szarmach, Beowulf at Kalamazoo, p. 356. 7 Joseph McGowan, “Heaney, Cædmon, Beowulf,” New Hibernia Review 6, no. 2 (2002), 40. 8 Ashok Bery, Cultural Translation and Postcolonial Poetry (New York, 2007); Inge B. Milfull and Hans Sauer, “Seamus Heaney: Ulster, Old English and Beowulf,” in Bookmarks from the Past: Studies in Early English Language and Literature in Honour of Helmut Gneuss, ed. Lucia Kornexl and Ursula Lenker (Frankfurt, 2003), pp. 81–142; Conor McCarthy, Seamus Heaney and Medieval Poetry (Cambridge, 2008). 9 See discussion below, pp. 321–5.

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(1999) and Robert Zemeckis’ (2007) adaptations.10 For many translators and adaptors, and arguably the composer(s) of the poem, the antagonists or monsters of the story often symbolize something else. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen defines the monster’s body as a cultural body: The monster is born … as an embodiment of a certain cultural moment – of a time, a feeling, and a place…. The monstrous body is pure culture. A construct and a projection … Like a letter on the page, the monster signifies something other than itself.11 The monster as metaphor for cultural anxiety is not a new notion, of course, and there are countless notable examples of culturally constituted monsters from literature and film: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, for instance, can be understood to represent the fear of scientific discovery in the Georgian period.12 Perhaps more analogous to this study are the invading Martians of H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds, which can (and are intended to) be read as the destructive force of British colonialism. Indeed, Wells’ novel “asks his English readers to compare the Martian invasion of Earth with the Europeans’ genocidal invasion of the Tasmanians, thus demanding that the colonizers imagine themselves as the colonized, or the about-to-be-colonized,”13 an interesting parallel to the insider/outsider dynamics also seen in Heaney’s Beowulf. When it comes to translations and adaptations, while the monsters or antagonists may remain constant, the cultural fears and anxieties differ; as Weinstock notes, we inevitably make our own monsters with the ingredients we have on hand, so the recipe keeps changing – even when the monsters themselves have been passed down from generation to generation.14

10

11 12 13 14

A. Diedrich Wackerbarth, trans., Beowulf, an Epic Poem Translated from the Anglo-Saxon into English Verse (London, 1849), line 2073; Thomas Arnold, trans. Beowulf: A Heroic Poem of the Eighth Century (London, 1876), line 1259; Graham Baker, Beowulf (Los Angeles, 1999); Robert Zemeckis, Beowulf (Burbank, CA, 2007). Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Minneapolis, MN, 1996), p. 4. Brian N. Duchaney, The Spark of Fear: Technology, Society and the Horror Film (Jefferson, NC, 2015), p. 11. John Rieder, Colonialism and the Emergence of Science Fiction (Middletown, CT, 2008), p. 5; see also: H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds (1898; repr. Harmondsworth, 1973), p. 11. Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock, “Invisible Monsters: Vision, Horror, and Contemporary Culture,” in The Ashgate Research Companion to Monsters and the Monstrous, ed. Asa Mittman and Peter Dendle (Aldershot, 2012), p. 275.

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Such is the case for Grendel and Grendel’s mother, who have served as ciphers for the cultures which re-appropriate and reproduce them, symbolizing and embodying different cultural fears, concerns, and desires. As Hugh Magennis notes, “each translator produces an individual take on Beowulf and presents a particular interpretation. All translation, as with reading, is interpretation, by nature always partial and incomplete, and also singular.”15 This individuality and singularity is especially noticeable in Heaney’s translation; his use of Hiberno-English individualizes and separates his translation, but also acts as a catalyst for reading the poem in a politically charged and revisionist manner. In this reading, Grendel and his mother’s treatment is particularly important, given Heaney’s translations of them into symbols of the disenfranchised Irish and of Ireland itself. Heaney’s hesitation when it came to translating Beowulf, as outlined in his Introduction to the Verse Translation,16 was undoubtedly influenced by the fraught politics between Britain and Ireland, and as Chris Jones notes, “demonstrates how sensitive the linguistic politics of Anglo-Saxon in Ireland has been, and how deeply ingrained that sensitivity can remain.”17 This is perhaps made even more contentious by Beowulf’s linked history with British nationalism and the translation criticism surrounding the poem since the Victorian era, much of which focussed on the idea of “Englishness.”18 Indeed, Howe’s assessment that Heaney was trying to “graft himself” onto the English tradition shows that Heaney’s hesitations surrounding the translation were not unfounded. While Howe’s accusations of the translation as revisionist are essentially true, it may be more accurate to describe it as grafting an English poem onto the Irish literary tradition, and essentially “re-present[ing] and re-position[ing] Beowulf in a new cultural setting.”19 As with Aimé Césaire’s Une Tempête and 15 16 17 18

19

Hugh Magennis, Translating Beowulf: Modern Versions in English Verse (Cambridge, 2011), p. 2. Heaney, Beowulf: Verse Translation, pp. xxxii–xxxiii. Chris Jones, Strange Likeness: The Use of Old English in Twentieth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2006), p. 183. Prosser Hall Frye, “The Translation of Beowulf,” Modern Language Notes 12, no. 3 (1897), 79–82. Since the 19th century, Beowulf, and the wider medieval corpus, has been variously appropriated and misused for nationalist and racist purposes, as seen in the adoption of medieval imagery by groups like the KKK, the Schutzstaffel, the Sons of Odin, and in the insignia carried by the Unite the Right protestors at the Charlottesville riots in 2017. See Jonathan Hsy and Julie Orlemanski, “Race and Medieval Studies: A Partial Bibliography,” postmedieval 8 (2017), 500–31; Maria Jóse Mora and Maria José Gómez-Calderón, “The Study of Old English in America (1776–1850): National Uses of the Saxon Past,” The Journal of English and Germanic Philology 97, no. 3 (1998), 322–23. Magennis, Translating Beowulf, p. 162.

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Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea, Heaney’s Beowulf disrupts the narrative ownership of an historically prominent – and loaded – English work. Indeed, as Heaney notes, his approach to translating the poem, is – using metaphors relating to Viking raiding and settlement of Britain and Ireland – the “Settlement approach”; “you enter an oeuvre, colonize it, take it over – but you stay with it, and you change it and it changes you a little bit … I stayed with Beowulf.”20 The first hint at Heaney’s colonisation and re-appropriation of the poem comes in the Introduction, with the powerful description of Hrothgar’s embattled keep, or “bawn:” Every time I read the lovely interlude that tells of the minstrel singing in Heorot just before the first attacks of Grendel, I cannot help thinking of Edmund Spenser in Kilcolman Castle, reading the early cantos of The Faerie Queene to Sir Walter Raleigh, just before the Irish would burn the castle and drive Spenser out of Munster back to the Elizabethan court.21 Howell D. Chickering reads this analogy, which situates Hrothgar as the colonising English and Grendel as the dispossessed Irish, as “deeply confused”; “Surely Heaney can’t mean that he takes his Elizabethan Irish forebears to have been monsters from the race of Cain, nor the exploitative English planters to have been wise rulers like Hrothgar.”22 Heaney’s alignment of Grendel with the Irish is, as argued here, very much intentional. Just as Wells did with The War of the Worlds, Heaney plays with insider/outsider constructs to create a nuanced, but historically meaningful experience, a point which will be explored in more detail. The connection between Grendel and the disenfranchised Irish is pushed even further when Heaney describes Grendel as “a mixture of Caliban and [a] Hoplite [soldier]”.23 For Edwin Morgan, the descendant of Cain is compared to Shakespeare’s villainous Iago,24 while for Heaney, it is the debased and deformed slave of Prospero and son of the Algerian witch, Sycorax, in The Tempest. The comparison to Caliban is especially provocative, his figure having

20 21 22 23 24

Seamus Heaney and Robert Hass, Sounding Lines: The Art of Translating Poetry: Seamus Heaney and Robert Hass in Conversation, The Doreen B. Townsend Center for the Humanities Occasional Papers Series (Berkeley, CA, 2000), p. 1. Heaney, Beowulf: Verse Translation, p. xxxix. Howell D. Chickering, Jr, “Beowulf and Heaneywulf,” in Schulman and Szarmach, Beowulf at Kalamazoo, p. 318. Heaney, Beowulf: Verse Translation, p. xxx. Edwin Morgan, trans., Beowulf (Berkeley, CA, 1952), pp. xxxiii–xxxiv.

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stood “for countless victims of European imperialism and colonization.”25 It is also significant to note that Heaney quotes one of Caliban’s lines to sum up the art of poetry, “Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not”, an act which hints at sympathy or compassion towards the figure.26 The tendency to read The Tempest from a postcolonial standpoint is particularly noteworthy when considering Heaney’s translation, and Caliban’s status as colonized Other may be viewed alongside that of Grendel.27 Heaney’s translation of certain phrases further aligns Grendel with the colonized, and particularly the colonized Irish. For example, “moves beyond the pale” (line 1352), Heaney’s translation of wræclastas træd, elsewhere translated as “trod in exile paths”,28 is “resonant with meaning from colonial Ireland,”29 the “pale” being that area centred on Dublin under English rule during the Middle Ages and beyond, and still referred to as such. McCarthy interprets its usage as “in exile” or “beyond the safe haven of civilized settlement,” as well as giving the “sense of the Danes being besieged, for if Grendel is exiled beyond the pale, the Danes are equally hemmed in inside it.”30 What McCarthy does not point out, is, again, Grendel’s possible alignment with those historically outside the pale, the Irish, those with whom Heaney’s sympathies demonstrably lie. It is possible that McCarthy avoids this connection to evade linking Grendel and the Irish when Heaney used demonising language and terminology – such as “monster” (line 433) and “demon” (line 647) – to describe his character. The connection seems clearer when considering Heaney’s poem “The Border Campaign”, in which he compares an Irish Republican Army (IRA) attack in County Derry with the “savagery in Heorot, its reflection placid / In those waterlogged huge pawmarks Grendel left / On the boreen in the marsh” (lines 9–11).31 Milfull and Sauer concede that “since Heaney in this scene uses boreen ‘country lane’, a loanword from Gaelic, by implication he makes Grendel move in an Irish landscape”,32 evidently suggesting that Grendel literally, rather than symbolically, moves in this landscape, and offering Grendel’s defeat as a 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

Alden T. Vaughan and Virginia Mason Vaughan, Shakespeare’s Caliban: A Cultural History (Cambridge, 1996), p. 145. Seamus Heaney, “On Poetry and Professing,” in Finders Keepers: Selected Prose 1971–2001 (London, 2002), p. 69. For a discussion of postcolonial re-imaginings of Caliban, see Vaughan and Vaughan, Shakespeare’s Caliban, pp. 144–171. See, e.g., Howell D. Chickering Jr, trans., Beowulf: A Dual Translation (New York, 1977), p. 127. McCarthy, Seamus Heaney, p. 97. Ibid. Seamus Heaney, “The Border Campaign,” in Electric Light (London, 2001), p. 18. Milfull and Sauer, “Seamus Heaney,” p. 125.

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“glimmer of hope for Northern Ireland”.33 I would argue, however, that Grendel not only moves in an Irish landscape, but intentionally and pointedly represents the Irish natives, reinforced by, and also reinforcing, the clearly analogous alignment of Grendel in Heaney’s translation of Beowulf two years earlier. Of course, his alignment of Grendel with the IRA here adds an extra layer of complexity to our view of the figure. While on the one hand this alignment appears to humanize Grendel, and associate him with the Irish republicans, it also appears as a damning comment on what Heaney implies is a savage and monstrous attack. While Heaney is not justifying anti-colonial violence along the same lines as Frantz Fanon or even James Connolly, for instance, “The Border Campaign” (and indeed, Heaney’s Beowulf ) may be read as a commentary on how English conquest of Ireland has forced monstrous acts of violence from the disaffected Irish.34 In this reading, Grendel is a created evil; excluded from society he has become disaffected and antagonistic, a terror to those in Heorot. While his attacks are savage, as are those by the IRA, they are not borne out of a monstrous race, but are rather those of the oppressed seeking retribution. One issue with viewing Heaney’s Grendel as representative of the colonized Irish is his demonisation. While the Grendel-kin have historically been translated in demonising terms, Heaney’s translation arguably exaggerates this monstrosity. He inserts phrases like “maddening for blood” (line 724), and translates “þa his mod ahlog” (then his heart laughed), as “and his glee was demonic” (line 730). In his approach to Heorot, Grendel is described in animalistic terms; “com … Grendel gongan”, (Grendel came walking, lines 710–11), is translated as “Grendel came greedily loping,” and “mynte … manna cynnes, sumne besyrwan”, (intended to trap some man; lines 712–14), as “hunting for a prey”. While Grendel’s exaggerated demonisation may intuitively seem to detract from the argument that he is representative of the Irish, when contextualized within British representations of the Irish, it arguably does the opposite. As Bery points out, the description of Grendel as “warped in the shape of a man” (lines 1351–52) could “easily be the kind of phrase that an English colonist might have used to describe as what some saw as the wild sub-human Irish”, comparing it in particular to Charles Kingsley’s 1860 description of the Irish as 33 34

Ibid., p. 127. According to Robbie McLaughlan, James Connolly, Irish republican and socialist leader, theorized that “the oppressive violence of the state requires a radical socialist response which is equally as violent, in a way that intellectually pre-empts Fanon’s famous maxim that ‘decolonization is always a violent phenomenon’.” Robbie McLaughlin, “Connolly, Gandhi and Anticolonial (non)Violence,” Irish Studies Review 24, no. 4 (2016), 431.

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“human chimpanzees.”35 While the idea of Grendel standing in for the Irish is certainly provocative, I would argue that here, Heaney plays with perspective and traditional colonizer/colonized constructions. As Homi Bhabha notes, it is typical of the colonising nation “to construe the colonized as a population of degenerate types on the basis of racial origin, in order to justify conquest and to establish systems of administration and instruction.”36 In order to justifiably commit grievous acts of violence against the colonized nation, the colonizer “lay[s] down the principle that the colonized subject is not a fellow man,” but rather a “beast of burden.”37 As a means to justify the conquest of Ireland, English literature needed to demonstrate that the Irish were a savage and debased people. As William of Newburgh commented in his Historia rerum Anglicarum, Ireland’s “natives are uncivilized, and barbarous in their manners, almost totally ignorant of laws and order,”38 and indeed, as is evidenced in Punch Magazine (Fig. 14.1), where an Irishman is depicted as Shakespeare’s Caliban. As with Kingsley’s description of the Irish as “human chimpanzees” and “white chimpanzees”,39 the 12th-century historian constructs an image of monstrous deviancy, one which must be curtailed by the English. Heaney, writing in this instance from within the English tradition, assumes an English perspective and writes Grendel in the same fashion that the English had written the Irish, not as “human creatures, but heathen or rather savage and brute beasts.”40 Of course, by aligning Grendel with the Irish, Heaney humanizes Grendel’s character, while simultaneously othering the Irish. His position as an Irishman, however, results in a subtle, yet pointed criticism of the Danes and

35 36

37 38

39 40

Frances E. Kingsley, Charles Kingsley, His Letters and Memories of His Life (London, 1890), p. 236. Available at: https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=inu.30000035011075&view=1u p&seq=1. Accessed 2020 April 13. Bery, Cultural Translation, p. 127. Homi Bhabha, “The Other Question: Difference, Discrimination and the Discourse of Colonialism,” in Out There: Marginalization and Contemporary Culture, ed. Russell Ferguson, Martha Gever Trihn T. Mihnha, Félix González-Torres, and Cornell West (Cambridge, MA, 1990), p. 75. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Richard Philcox (New York, 2005), p. l. Quoted in John Patrick Mantaño, The Roots of English Colonialism in Ireland (Cambridge, 2011), p. 36. Similarly, Gerald of Wales described the Irish as “a most filthy race, a race sunk in vice, a race more ignorant than all other nations of the first principle of faith … their want of civilization, shown both in their dress and mental culture, makes them a barbarous people”. Giraldus Cambrensis, The Topography of Ireland, trans. Thomas Forester (Toronto, 2000), pp. 75, 69. It is important to note here that Gerald comments from an Anglo-Norman perspective, addressing not the English but their Norman conquerors. Kingsley, Charles Kingsley, p. 236. Andrew Trollope, quoted in Nicholas Canny, Making Ireland British: 1580–1650 (Oxford, 2001), p. 133.

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Figure 14.1 John Tenniel, “The Irish ‘Tempest’”, Punch, 19 March 1870, p. 111. Note: “Rory of the Hills” is a reference to a poem by Charles Kickham, an Irish revolutionary and member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood

therefore of the English colonisation of Ireland, also giving us cause to question the poem’s insider/outsider dynamic. While Grendel is certainly demonized in the translation, language which may possibly be construed as sympathetic towards his character can also be found throughout; in his fight with Beowulf, we are told that “Hygelac’s kinsman kept him helplessly locked in a handgrip” (lines 811–12), the word “helplessly” here an addition to the Old English. Echoing what Morgan did in his translation almost 50 years previously, Heaney uses sympathetic and emotive language in the scene after Grendel’s fight; he “skulked away, exhausted in spirit and beaten in battle, bloodying the path, hauling his doom to the demons’ mere” (lines 843–45). Similarly, Beowulf’s speech after the matter seems unusually severe: “My plan was to pounce, pin him down in a tight grip and grapple him to death – have him panting for life, powerless and clasped in my bare hands,

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his body in thrall” (lines 962–65).41 Compared to other translations of this passage, Heaney employs extremely emotive language; his translation of lifbysig, “fighting for life” as “panting for life,” and his addition of “powerless” creates a much more helpless Grendel, arguably more sympathetic than in the original Old English of the poem. The addition of “pounce” in Beowulf’s dialogue likewise contributes to Grendel’s pitiable construction by casting Beowulf as a more menacing and merciless character, and one who likely reflects the ruthless colonising forces. Magennis also remarks on Heaney’s blurring of human and monster, describing Shield Sheafson’s rise to power as “a wrecker of meadbenches, rampaging among foes” (line 5), and noting his construction into a “destructive and disturbing warrior (even perhaps, with overtones of Grendel about him)”.42 While Chickering found it difficult to believe that Heaney, comparing Kilcolman castle to Heorot, could be making an analogy which compares the “wise” Hrothgar to the “exploitative English planters,” the language surrounding Shield certainly implies that he is descended from a more violent and destructive figure than the Old English suggests. While a number of studies have explored Heaney’s presentation of Grendel, postcolonial analyses of the translation have largely ignored Grendel’s mother. Heaney’s treatment of her is notable for the extent to which he demonizes and bestializes her character. While it can be argued that she has been systematically demonized by translators since the Victorian era,43 Heaney’s representation of Grendel’s mother is certainly one of the most damning, translating ides aglæcwif (line 1259) as “monstrous hell-bride,” grundwyrgen[ne] (line 1518) as “that swamp-thing from hell,” merewif mihtig (line 1519) as “the tarn-hag,” and Grendles magan (line 1391) as “troll-dam.”44 It is also notable that Heaney 41

42 43

44

Cf. Talbot Donaldson’s unsympathetic rendering: “I thought quickly to bind him on his deathbed with hard grasp, so that because of my hand-grip he should lie struggling for lie – unless his body should escape”. Talbot Donaldson, trans. A Norton Critical Edition of Beowulf, ed. Joseph F. Tuso (New York, 1975), p. 17. Magennis, Translating Beowulf, p. 184. See Alison Elizabeth Killilea, “The Monster in the House: Grendel’s Mother and the Victorian Ideal,” Sibéal 1, no. 1 (2015), 10–22; M.W. Hennequin, “We’ve Created a Monster: The Strange Case of Grendel’s Mother,” English Studies 89 no. 5 (2008), 503–23; Christine Alfano, “The Issue of Feminine Monstrosity: A Reevaluation of Grendel’s Mother,” Comitatus 23, no. 1 (1992), 1–16. Cf. John Mitchell Kemble’s translations of each respective term; “a woman, a wretched woman”; “she-wolf of the abyss”; “mighty sea-woman”; “Grendel’s kinsman”: John Mitchell Kemble, trans. A Translation of the Anglo-Saxon Poems of Beowulf, with a Copious Glossary, Preface and Philological Notes (London, 1837). It is important, however, to note that monstrous translations of such Old English terms are usual here. See Killilea, “The Monster in the House”; Hennequin, “We’ve Created a Monster”; and Alfano, “The Issue of Feminine Monstrosity”.

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translates heo (simply “she”) as “hell-dam” (line 1292). As Helen Phillips argues, Heaney turns Grendel’s mother into a “bestial but frightening manifestation of disgust and sexual frenzy,”45 making her femininity a key component of her monstrosity.46 While Heaney appears to show some sympathy for Grendel, there is no evidence of this for his mother; where the poet shows some empathy in phrases like yrmþe gemunde (mindful of misery; line 1259), and sorhfulne sið (sorrowful journey; line 1278), Heaney rendered them as “brooded on her wrongs” and “savage journey”, turning Grendel’s mother’s grief into something negative and unnatural. Heaney’s construction of Grendel’s mother is particularly interesting when contextualized and theorized in light of his other poetry, and also with the idea of the Abject in mind. Phillips’ statement, claiming that Heaney constructs Grendel’s mother as a “bestial  … manifestation of disgust and sexualized frenzy” recalls Kristeva’s theory of Abjection, defined as those things that threaten a breakdown in society or which lead to the loss of distinction between subject and object. In particular, we can define as abject those things which remind us of our own mortality – “defilement, sewage, and muck … the skin on the surface of milk … the corpse” – and which we therefore exclude and reject.47 Most importantly, it is often associated with nature and the primal,48 that which precedes the Symbolic Order (the social world of linguistic communication, law, and ideology, as defined by Jacques Lacan).49 The abject is, therefore, often associated with the maternal and the Other.50 Identifying Grendel’s 45 46 47 48

49 50

Helen Phillips, “Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf,” in The Art of Seamus Heaney, ed. Tony Curtis (Dublin, 2001), p. 275. Demonisation of femininity and female sexuality is an especially common theme throughout adaptations, notably Michael Crichton’s Eaters of the Dead (New York, 1976), and Baker’s (Los Angeles, 1999) and Zemeckis’ (Burbank, CA, 2007) films. Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (1941, repr. New York, 1982), pp. 2–3. See Sherry B. Ortner, “Is Female to Male as Nature is to Culture?,” in Women, Culture, and Society, ed. M.Z. Rosaldo and L. Lamphere (Stanford, CA, 1975), p. 72. Ortner discusses in detail this alignment of feminine and the maternal with nature, noting that woman is identified with and symbolic of “something that every culture devalues, something that every culture defines as being lower than itself,” that “something” being nature. The association between the female and nature reaches back to classical times; Val Plumwood notes that in the Timaeus, Plato associated nature with emotions, animals, landscape the wilderness, and with the feminine and reproduction: Val Plumwood, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature (London, 1993), p. 80. Jacques Lacan, Écrits: The First Complete Edition in English (New York, 2006), p. 278. The Other may be defined as that which is not the subject, that which is not the norm, or that which is not the dominant in society; the concept has often been associated with women in feminist theory and with the colonized in postcolonial theory. See Simone de

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mother with nature, and importantly its aspects which can be described as abject, can be seen throughout Heaney’s translation; as noted above, she is associated with the natural landscapes of the “swamp” and “tarn”, and her maternal and primal roles are emphasized in bestial terms such as “dam”, the verb “pounced” as a translation of ofsæt (sat upon; line 1545) added to line 1294.51 Identification of Grendel’s mother as abject in Heaney’s translation is strengthened by exploring Heaney’s wider publications. Referencing Patricia Coughlan, Phillips notes the appropriation of her figure into one of Heaney’s own “destructive mother-goddess[es]” and “bog queen[s].”52 Coughlan notes that Heaney’s poetry tends to display two opposing representations of women: one as the passive female figure, and the other, the “woman who dooms, destroys, puzzles and encompasses the man, but also assists him to his selfdiscovery: the other stereotype, but merged intriguingly with the spouse.”53 In his “bog poems”, among others, Heaney appears to invoke the magna mater, the Great Mother, in the form of a fertility goddess who is “land-cum-spousecum-deathbringer,”54 a maternal- and primal-type figure again drawing to mind images of the Kristevan abject. In “The Tollund Man”, this “female energy [is] conceived as both inert and devouring”:55 the goddess, or the bog, “tighten[s] her torc on him / And open[s] her fen” (lines 13–14) – a violent and sexualized vision of the earth – and in “Kinship”, Ireland’s bogland is similarly described as an “insatiable bride” (line 89).56 In Heaney’s Beowulf, similar language is used in relation to Grendel’s mother, depicting her as a “ravenous”, “gluttonous”, “hell-bride” (lines 1278, 1498, 1259), and “swamp-thing”, which recalls terminology used in “The Grauballe

51 52 53 54 55 56

Beauvoir, The Second Sex, trans. Constance Borde and Sheila Malovany Chevallier (1949, repr. New York, 2010), esp. pp. 26–27 and Edward Said, Orientalism (New York, 1979). For a discussion on the Abject and its association with the maternal and the Other, see Kristeva, Powers of Horror, pp. 32–55. Magennis (Translating Beowulf, p. 184), points out the blurring of monster and human in the description of Shield, here in the use of the word “pounce,” which was also used of Beowulf himself in line 962. Phillips, “Seamus Heaney,” p. 275; Patricia Coughlan, “‘Bog-Queens’: The Representation of Women in the Poetry of John Montague and Seamus Heaney,” in Gender in Irish Writing, ed. Tony O’Brien Johnson and David Cairns (Milton Keynes, 1991), p. 99. Coughlan, “‘Bog Queens’,” p. 99. Ibid., p. 101. Ibid., p. 104. Seamus Heaney, “The Tollund Man,” in Wintering Out (London, 1972), p. 47, and Seamus Heaney, “Kinship,” in North (London, 2001), pp. 33–39.

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Man”, whose protagonist’s foot shrank like a “wet swamp root” (line 12).57 Echoing the primal sexuality of his bog queens, Heaney’s translation of Beowulf and Grendel’s mother’s fight is charged with sexual undertones. The mere itself, like the bog of “The Tollund Man” gains its own womb-like characteristics through producing “lake-birth[s]”, Heaney’s translation of wægbora on line 1440, a “wave-bearer”.58 Whether or not this language and depiction of Grendel’s mother is intentionally reminiscent of the bog bodies, Heaney’s vocabulary is striking when compared to that of his earlier poetry. Juxtaposing Heaney’s representation of primal female figures in earlier poems with that of the Grendel-kin in Beowulf reveals a number of interesting parallels and correlations. In poems such as “Bogland”, “Rite of Spring”, “Undine”, and “The Tollund Man”, as Coughlan outlined, Heaney casts the earth as female, and often the earth and female as representative of Ireland. “Bog Queen”, in particular, marries the idea of the feminine as Irish with the masculine as English.59 Ireland, as the “Bog Queen”, is seen as peaceful until she is betrayed and removed from the earth without permission – “the plait of my hair / a slimy birth-cord / of bog, had been cut” (lines 50–52) – just as Grendel’s mother is peaceful until her son is killed.60 Likewise, speaking of “The Tollund Man”, Heaney compares the sacrifice to the magna mater to that of “Irish political martyrdom” made for Ireland’s Mother Goddess icon, most commonly referred to as Kathleen Ní Houlihan.61 For Heaney, “her authority has been usurped by a violent male cult”, much in the same way that Frank Battaglia views Grendel’s mother’s death as the “championing of a new order antagonistic to goddess worship”.62 This feminising of the earth and of Ireland, specifically, and the masculinisation of England, play into a wider colonial and postcolonial discourse. As Ashis Nandy points out in the context of Indian colonisation, colonial vilification 57 58

59 60 61 62

Seamus Heaney, “The Grauballe Man,” in North, pp. 28–29. The “sexualisation” of the scene with Beowulf and Grendel’s mother is not something introduced by Heaney. See Jane Chance, “The Structural Unity of Beowulf: The Problem of Grendel’s Mother,” in New Readings on Women in Old English Literature, ed. Helen Damico and Alexandra Hennessey Olsen (Bloomington, IN, 1990), pp. 248–61. Carlanda Green, “The Feminine Principle in Seamus Heaney’s Poetry,” Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 14 (1983), 3. Seamus Heaney, “Bog Queen”, in North, pp. 25–27. Seamus Heaney, “Feeling into Words,” in Preoccupations: Selected Prose, 1968–1978 (London, 1980), p. 57. Frank Battaglia argues that Grendel’s mother is Gefion, evident in the form of the strong neuter noun geofon, which refers to the sea as well as the goddess who has power over it: Frank Battaglia, “The Germanic Earth Goddess in Beowulf?,” The Mankind Quarterly 31 (1991), 415.

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involved the assimilation of cultural hierarchies and sex hierarchies in which the indigenous peoples are feminized and emasculated.63 In an Irish context, the Irish “were considered the bestial, feminine other, or the opposite of the English norm of civilized masculinity.”64 In both British and Irish representations, Ireland appears as female, from Hibernia to Kathleen Ní Houlihan, and Erin to An tSeanbhean Bhocht (phonetically: Shan van Vocht, The Poor Old Woman). While in imperial discourse, Ireland’s femininity was associated with weakness, passivity, and dependence, later Irish discourse repeated, both overtly and covertly, the imperial gendering of the Irish as feminine, but in rejecting colonialism’s (and Irish nationalism’s) equation of femininity with inferiority and subordinate status they suggested a profound, though incomplete, departure from the axiomatics of imperialism.65 It is interesting to note the complex view of Ireland as woman in Irish discourse. Although the equation of femininity with inferiority and subordination was rejected by some (such as by Celtic Revival authors), as Catherine Nash notes, “Irish nationalists in turn deployed gendered ideas of national character in ways which also defined the nation as female but which claimed a fierce virility for Irish men.”66 While Ireland remained female, the Gaels were represented as a hyper-masculine ideal who would fight for the long-suffering and dependent Ireland. Ireland’s cultural representation as feminine is clear in Heaney’s poetry, and while not necessarily negative, viewing Ireland as earth goddess and bog queen remains significantly othering, and it continues to be perceived as a figure that must be fought for and possessed. Much like the early discourse regarding colonisation, Ireland is eroticized and written in terms of the human body; in the early 1600s, Luke Gernon described the country as “The Nymph of Ireland … at all points like a young wench that hath the sickness for want of occupying”.67 63 64 65 66 67

Ashis Nandy, The Intimate Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self under Colonialism (Oxford, 1988), pp. 4–11. Barbara A. Suess, Progress & Identity in the Plays of W.B. Yeats, 1892–1907 (New York, 2003) p. 65. Marjorie Howes, Yeats’s Nations: Gender, Class, and Irishness (Cambridge, 1996) p. 18. Here, Howes is speaking specially about the poetry of W.B. Yeats, although this “reclamation” of colonial ideas can be seen in other aspects of Irish literature. Catherine Nash, “Embodied Irishness: Gender, Sexuality and Irish Identities,” in In Search of Ireland: A Cultural Geography, ed. Brian Graham (London, 1997), p. 114. Quoted in Nash, “Embodied Irishness,” p. 112.

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To a different effect, this eroticized landscape is echoed in Heaney’s poetry, including his Beowulf translation.68 This understanding of Grendel’s mother as colonized Ireland is intrinsically linked with Grendel as representing the dispossessed Irish. Grendel, as Gael, viciously attacks the colonising Danes (here read as the English); in his failure, Grendel’s mother, symbolizing Ireland, is discovered, her womb-like mere is penetrated, and the ancient occupiers of the land “beyond the pale” are overcome. For Heaney, Grendel and Grendel’s mother both represent aspects of Ireland viewed through the outside perspective of the English. Since the beginnings of its translation history, Beowulf has been, to use Magennis’ terms, re-presented and re-positioned in ways which reflect diverse personal, historical, and cultural contexts. This is often achieved, as in Heaney’s translation, through the figures of Grendel and Grendel’s mother, whose bodies, “like a letter on the page … [signify] something other than [themselves].”69 Heaney takes these characters, and through the text, with its use of carefully selected Hiberno-English phraseology, and through paratexts (his Introduction and interviews surrounding his translation) and intertexts (his preceding and succeeding poetry), transforms Beowulf into a postcolonial commentary on Ireland’s settlement by Britain. By further pushing the analogy that scholars like McCarthy, Millfull and Sauer, and Bery touch on, but do not delve into (perhaps for fear of suggesting the Irish are monstrous progeny of Cain) we can explore the idea of a forced ‘monstrous’ savagery against a ‘civilized’ English savagery. This forced monstrosity also fits into with the insider/outsider construct with which Heaney plays; writing from within the English canon, he adopts a colonial English perspective on the Irish as degenerate Calibans who, like Grendel, must be curtailed. In a more complex discourse in which Ireland is anthropomorphized in colonial English and Irish traditions, Heaney also transforms Grendel’s mother into the Irish landscape. She becomes one of his “land-cum-spouse-cumdeathbringer[s],”70 an abject figure reduced to a primitive representation of a 68

69 70

It must be noted that before Heaney’s translation, Beowulf, and more specifically the mere and the fight with Grendel’s mother, were read in terms of the abject maternal and gendered spaces. See Paul Acker, “Horror and the Maternal in Beowulf,” PMLA 121, no. 3 (2006), 702–16; James Hala, “The Parturition of Poetry and the Birthing of Culture: The Ides Agæcwif and Beowulf.” Exemplaria 10 (1998), 29–50; Renée Trilling, “The Problem of Grendel’s Mother Again,” Parergon 24, no. 1 (2007), 1–20; Alison Elizabeth Killilea, “Smash the Matriarchy!: Fear of Feminine Power Structures in Beowulf Adaptations,” SELIM: Journal of the Spanish Society for Medieval English Language and Literature 21 (2015–16), 57–80. Cohen, “Monster Culture,” p. 4. Coughlan, “‘Bog Queens’,” p. 101.

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land which must be fought for and possessed, and who, like the “Bog Queen,” is forcefully taken. Heaney, in the traditions of Rhys and Césaire, colonizes and takes over (to use his own metaphor) a work of English literary canon, effectively disrupting accepted notions of literary ownership and creating a work which is simultaneously a translation and a rewriting, and which has also become one of the most popular and enduring editions of Beowulf. Bibliography Acker, Paul, “Horror and the Maternal in Beowulf,” PMLA 121, no. 3 (2006), 702–16. Alfano, Christine, “The Issue of Feminine Monstrosity: A Reevaluation of Grendel’s Mother,” Comitatus 23, no. 1 (1992), 1–16. Arnold, Thomas, trans. Beowulf: A Heroic Poem of the Eighth Century (London, 1876). Battaglia, Frank, “The Germanic Earth Goddess in Beowulf?,” The Mankind Quarterly 31 (1991), 415–46. Bery, Ashok, Cultural Translation and Postcolonial Poetry (New York, 2007). Bhabha, Homi, “The Other Question: Difference, Discrimination and the Discourse of Colonialism,” in Out There: Marginalization and Contemporary Culture, ed. Russell Ferguson, Martha Gever Trihn T. Mihnha, Félix González-Torres, and Cornell West (Cambridge, MA, 1990), pp. 71–87. Canny, Nicholas, Making Ireland British: 1580–1650 (Oxford, 2001). Chance, Jane, “The Structural Unity of Beowulf: The Problem of Grendel’s Mother,” in New Readings on Women in Old English Literature, ed. Helen Damico and Alexandra Hennessey Olsen (Bloomington, IN, 1990), pp. 248–61. Chickering, Howell D. Jr, trans., Beowulf: A Dual Translation (New York, 1977). Chickering, Howell D. Jr, “Beowulf and Heaneywulf,” in Schulman and Szarmach, Beowulf at Kalamazoo, pp. 305–21. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” in Monster Theory: Reading Culture, ed. Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (Minneapolis, MN, 1996), pp. 3–25. Collins, Floyd, Seamus Heaney: The Crisis of Identity (Newark, DE, 2003). Coughlan, Patricia, “‘Bog-Queens’: The Representation of Women in the Poetry of John Montague and Seamus Heaney,” in Gender in Irish Writing, ed. Tony O’Brien Johnson and David Cairns (Milton Keynes, 1991), pp. 88–111. Crichton, Michael, Eaters of the Dead (New York, 1976). de Beauvoir, Simone, The Second Sex, trans. Constance Borde and Sheila Malovany Chevallier (1949, repr. New York, 2010). Donaldson, Talbot, trans., A Norton Critical Edition of Beowulf, ed. Joseph F. Tuso (New York, 1975).

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Duchaney, Brian N., The Spark of Fear: Technology, Society and the Horror Film (Jefferson, NC, 2015). Fanon, Frantz, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. Richard Philcox (New York, 2005). Forester, Thomas, trans., Giraldus Cambrensis, The Topography of Ireland, ed. Thomas Wright (Toronto, 2000). Frye, Prosser Hall, “The Translation of Beowulf,” Modern Language Notes 12, no. 3 (1897), 79–82. Green, Carlanda, “The Feminine Principle in Seamus Heaney’s Poetry,” Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 14 (1983), 3–13. Hala, James, “The Parturition of Poetry and the Birthing of Culture: The Ides Agæcwif and Beowulf.” Exemplaria 10 (1998), 29–50. Heaney, Seamus, Wintering Out (London, 1972). Heaney, Seamus, Preoccupations: Selected Prose, 1968–1978 (London, 1980). Heaney, Seamus, trans., Beowulf (London, 1999). Heaney, Seamus, Electric Light (London, 2001). Heaney, Seamus, North (London, 2001). Heaney, Seamus, Finders Keepers: Selected Prose 1971–2001 (London, 2002). Heaney, Seamus, trans., Beowulf: A Verse Translation, ed. Daniel Donoghue (London, 2019). Heaney, Seamus, and Robert Hass, Sounding Lines: The Art of Translating Poetry: Seamus Heaney and Robert Hass in Conversation, The Doreen B. Townsend Center for the Humanities Occasional Papers Series (Berkeley, CA, 2000). Hennequin, M.W., “We’ve Created a Monster: The Strange Case of Grendel’s Mother,” English Studies 89 no. 5 (2008), 503–23. Howe, Nicholas, “Scullionspeak,” in Schulman and Szarmach, Beowulf at Kalamazoo, pp. 347–58. Howes, Marjorie, Yeats’s Nations: Gender, Class, and Irishness (Cambridge, 1996). Hsy, Jonathan, and Julie Orlemanski, “Race and Medieval Studies: A Partial Bibliography,” postmedieval 8 (2017), 500–31. Jones, Chris, Strange Likeness: The Use of Old English in Twentieth-Century Poetry (Oxford, 2006). Kemble, John Mitchell, trans. A Translation of the Anglo-Saxon Poems of Beowulf, with a Copious Glossary, Preface and Philological Notes (London, 1837). Killilea, Alison Elizabeth, “The Monster in the House: Grendel’s Mother and the Victorian Ideal,” Sibéal 1, no. 1 (2015), 10–22. Killilea, Alison Elizabeth, “Smash the Matriarchy!: Fear of Feminine Power Structures in Beowulf Adaptations,” SELIM: Journal of the Spanish Society for Medieval English Language and Literature 21 (2015–16), 57–80. Kingsley, Frances E., Charles Kingsley, His Letters and Memories of His Life (London, 1890).

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Kristeva, Julia, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (1941, repr. New York, 1982). Lacan, Jacques, Écrits: The First Complete Edition in English (New York, 2006). Magennis, Hugh, Translating Beowulf: Modern Versions in English Verse (Cambridge, 2011). Mantaño, John Patrick, The Roots of English Colonialism in Ireland (Cambridge, 2011). McCarthy, Conor, Seamus Heaney and Medieval Poetry (Cambridge, 2008). McGowan, Joseph, “Heaney, Cædmon, Beowulf,” New Hibernia Review 6, no. 2 (2002), 25–42. McLaughlin, Robbie, “Connolly, Gandhi and Anticolonial (non)Violence,” Irish Studies Review 24, no. 4 (2016), 430–40. Milfull, Inge B., and Hans Sauer, “Seamus Heaney: Ulster, Old English and Beowulf,” in Bookmarks from the Past: Studies in Early English Language and Literature in Honour of Helmut Gneuss, ed. Lucia Kornexl and Ursula Lenker (Frankfurt, 2003), pp. 81–142. Mora, Maria Jóse, and Maria José Gómez-Calderón, “The Study of Old English in America (1776–1850): National Uses of the Saxon Past,” The Journal of English and Germanic Philology 97, no. 3 (1998), 322–33. Morgan, Edwin, trans., Beowulf (Berkeley, CA, 1952). Nandy, Ashis, The Intimate Enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self under Colonialism (Oxford, 1988). Nash, Catherine, “Embodied Irishness: Gender, Sexuality and Irish Identities,” in In Search of Ireland: A Cultural Geography, ed. Brian Graham (London, 1997), pp. 108–27. Ortner, Sherry B., “Is Female to Male as Nature is to Culture?,” in Women, Culture, and Society, ed. M.Z. Rosaldo and L. Lamphere (Stanford, CA, 1975), pp. 66–87. Phillips, Helen, “Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf,” in The Art of Seamus Heaney, ed. Tony Curtis (Dublin, 2001), pp. 263–85. Plumwood, Val, Feminism and the Mastery of Nature (London, 1993). Rieder, John, Colonialism and the Emergence of Science Fiction (Middletown, CT, 2008). Risden, E.L., “The Cinematic Commoditization of Beowulf: The Serial Fetishizing of a Hero,” in Beowulf on Film, ed. Nickolas Haydock and E.L. Risden (Jefferson, NC, 2013), pp. 66–80. Said, Edward, Orientalism (New York, 1979). Schulman, Jana K., and Paul F. Szarmach, eds., Beowulf at Kalamazoo: Essays on Translation and Performance (Kalamazoo MI, 2014). Schulman, Jana K., and Paul F. Szarmach, “Introduction,” in Schulman and Szarmach, Beowulf at Kalamazoo, pp. 1–11. Suess, Barbara A., Progress & Identity in the Plays of W.B. Yeats, 1892–1907 (New York, 2003). Trilling, Renée, “The Problem of Grendel’s Mother Again,” Parergon 24, no. 1 (2007), 1–20.

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Vaughan, Alden T., and Virginia Mason Vaughan, Shakespeare’s Caliban: A Cultural History (Cambridge, 1996). Wackerbarth, A. Diedrich, trans., Beowulf, an Epic Poem Translated from the Anglo-Saxon into English Verse (London, 1849). Weinstock, Jeffrey Andrew, “Invisible Monsters: Vision, Horror, and Contemporary Culture,” in The Ashgate Research Companion to Monsters and the Monstrous, ed. Asa Mittman and Peter Dendle (Aldershot, 2012), pp. 275–89. Wells, H.G., The War of the Worlds (1898; repr. Harmondsworth, 1973).

Chapter 15

From Dawes to Domesday: Recovering Genealogies of Settler Colonialism Tarren Andrews Next to thirty thousand years, five hundred years look like nothing.1

∵ Introduction2 Patrick Wolfe has asserted that settler colonialism is a set of structures intended, either directly or indirectly, to eliminate Indigenous peoples and make territories available to settlers. In his words, “settler colonizers come to stay: invasion is a structure not an event.”3 Within this paradigm, elimination may take the form of genocide, but just as often it does not; settler colonizers prefer instead to “kill the Indian to save the man.”4 Settler colonizers, then, practice genocide in the form of mass murder, but more specifically, elimination in the form of “a whole range of cognate biocultural assimilations.”5 In other words, settler colonialism is defined as a set of structures imposed by an invading force intended to eliminate, eradicate, and assimilate Indigenous bodies and epistemologies. Despite the geographic and temporal distance between 1 Leslie Marmon Silko, The Almanac of the Dead (New York, 1991), p. 222. 2 This project was developed at the University of Colorado, Boulder which occupies land whose original and rightful stewards include the Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Ute Nations. It is the historic and ongoing displacement of these and 48 other contemporary Native Nations that enables me to live and work in the greater Boulder area. 3 Patrick Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native,” Journal of Genocide Research 8, no. 4 (2006), 388. 4 Richard H. Pratt, “The Advantages of Mingling Indians with Whites,” in Americanizing the American Indians: Writings by the “Friends of the Indian,” 1880–1900, ed. Francis Paul Prucha (Lincoln, NE, 1978), p. 260. 5 Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism,” p. 388.

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the early medieval English people impacted by the Domesday Inquests, and Indigenous North American peoples affected by the Dawes and related Acts, reframing discussions of settler colonialism as an activity that Europeans practiced on one another before enforcing it on Indigenous peoples complicates traditional points of view and makes it clear that these European histories are also very much Native American histories.6 Wolfe’s theorizing of settler colonialism starts with Euro-American contact in the late 15th century, but settler colonialism can be understood, as will be the case here, as having been honed as a craft in early medieval Europe. There are a few points of entry for this investigation, some of which have already been identified. For example, Robin Fleming argues that “the adventus Anglorum, the ‘coming of the English,’ as Bede called it, should be seen as a long historical process rather than a single historical event.”7 Whether or not it was intentional, Fleming’s rhetoric here closely mirrors Wolfe’s words.8 Both classify these respective “arrivals” as long processes rather than singular events, illustrating a continuum of settlement experiments that all contribute to the genealogy of colonial logics – from Roman, to early English, to Norman, and beyond. This discussion undertakes a comparative study of cognate colonial processes, the Domesday Inquest and the Dawes Severalty Act of 1887, which began the systematic census of Native peoples in the United States, surveyed and then decimated communal land holdings, and eventually seeded notions of blood-quantum for Indigenous peoples throughout North America.9 While Domesday Book does not account for blood nor function primarily for land allotment in this way, it emerged in a similar moment of colonial history insofar as it ‘historied’ – meaning ‘legalized’ – settler colonial structures at a point in time when ‘storying’ – a form of resistance discussed in depth below – was threatening the legitimacy of newly instituted governments. George Garnett argues that the Conquest of 1066 “shares [many characteristics] with modern

6 Throughout this essay, Indigenous with a capital ‘I’ refers to a contemporary political sense of the word, defined by the peoples, cultures, and/or epistemologies that have consciously identified themselves as such; indigenous with a lowercase ‘i’ indicates adjectival use of the word to describe groups that we currently understand to be from – but not necessarily original to – a particular space or place. 7 Robin Fleming, Britain after Rome: The Fall and Rise, 400 to 1070 (London, 2011), p. 40. 8 Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism,” p. 388. 9 General Allotment Act of 1887, 25 United States Supreme Court (hereafter U.S.C.) 331–33 (“Dawes Act”, 1887). Available at: https://www.ourdocuments.gov/doc.php?flash=false&doc =50. Accessed 2020 August 30.

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regime change.”10 This relatively recent description of William’s invasion makes important connections between the past and present, but remains Eurocentric in its approach. This essay argues that an Indigenous perspective allows us to see the Norman invasion not just as conquest or colonization but more accurately as proto-settler colonialism.11 From this perspective, the settler logics that operationalized the Inquest are the same as those at work in the Dawes legislation. As such, a comparison of these two historical events recovers a genealogy of settler colonialism that spans time and space, relying on theories of Indigenous temporal sovereignty to disrupt Euro-Western notions of history and chronology.

Reorienting Ourselves in Time: Indigenous Experiences and Temporal Sovereignty

Any study of Indigenous peoples’ histories must begin by accepting the validity of Indigenous temporal sovereignty – a mode of becoming that eschews conceptions of settler time in favour of Indigenous temporal legacies and experiences. A temporally sovereign approach to Domesday and Dawes not only reconciles the temporal and geographic distance between the two events, but also privileges Indigenous experiences of settler colonialism as the primary metric for understanding the events and their legacies. Mark Rifkin claims that “Indigenous temporalities may conflict with, or simply be heterogeneous to, settler time.”12 He defines settler time as a singular, linear conception of individual and collective experience employed by settler societies to create and maintain power, knowledge, and legality. It insists on a particular kind of temporal experience, and therefore a particular kind of history. This history not only “freezes Indigenous persons and peoples into a simulacrum of pastness” but also envelopes Indigenous experience into a trajectory of time and space that is not a functional or accurate representation of our epistemologies.13 As a result, Indigenous peoples have had to subvert and reinvent our cultural relationship to time in an effort to be rendered ‘translatable’ by non-Indigenous people and systems. This process of imposing Euro-Western conceptions of 10 11 12 13

George Garnett, The Norman Conquest: A Very Short Introduction, Very Short Introductions 216 (Oxford, 2009), p. 6. Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism,” pp. 387–98. Mark Rifkin, Beyond Settler Time: Temporal Sovereignty and Self-Determination (Durham, NC, 2017), p. 16. Ibid., p. 7.

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time can be understood as “historying” – the process by which experiences are enfolded into settler timescapes in order to be legalized and legitimized.14 To resist the marginalization of historying, Indigenous temporal sovereignty relies on “storying” to re-assert the validity of temporally heterogeneous and plural experiences.15 Storying is the method by which Indigenous peoples engage in continuing processes of becoming in their own spacetimes. In the academy, and in settler colonial timescapes generally, storying is hierarchically juxtaposed against historying, often as a means of delegitimizing Indigenous knowledge and experience. In settler colonial paradigms, storying renders Indigenous ways of being, “culture,” rather than, “law” (in both the legal and scientific senses), and forecloses the potential of storying to further Indigenous becoming.16 A temporally sovereign approach rejects this hierarchy and recognizes the utility of storying as a mode of self-determination and its validity as an academic methodology. The incongruity between settler time and Indigenous experience, historying and storying, is an important distinction because it summarizes the epistemological differences between Indigenous and Western approaches to medieval studies. Arguments against a comparative reading of the Domesday Inquest and Dawes could cite anachronism related to the temporal and spatial distance between the events and their respective cultural milieu. The problem here is not one of right or wrong, but rather of relationality. Both an assertion that Domesday and Dawes cannot be compared and that they are intimately related are correct in their respective temporal orientations. The dissonance created by the correctness of these diametrically opposed assertions might be understood in terms of Slavoj Žižek’s concept of parallax, defined as: the illusion of being able to use the same language for phenomena which are mutually untranslatable and can be grasped only in a kind of parallax

14 15 16

Michel-Rolph Troulliot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (New York, 1995). For further discussion, see Kerri Keller Clement, “What is a Country Without Horses? Robert Yellowtail and Horse Herd Restoration on the Crow Reservation, 1934–1944,” Montana: The Magazine of Western History 70, no. 3 (2020), 37–55. Zoe Todd, (@zoestodd), “1. So the Theft of My Wonderful Colleague, @kahente’s, Daughter’s Name by a Non-Indigenous Film Production Raises the Issue of How Western/Euro-American Folks Understand ‘culture’ + the Erasure of Indigenous Laws.” Twitter, text, Dec. 17, 2018, https:// twitter.com/ZoeSTodd/status/1074624197639487488. Accessed 2020 July 31.

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view, constantly shifting between two points between which no synthesis or mediation is possible.17 Here, temporal sovereignty becomes a particularly useful framework to reorient Indigenous relationships to temporal parallax, and habits of storying and historying. Jodi Byrd (Chickasaw), translates the relationship between parallax theory and Indigenous experience by pointing out that, within the parallax gap, colonialist discourse functions as a distortive effect within critical theory as it apprehends ‘Indianness,’ where shifts across space and location serve to distort further whatever trace of the Real lingers and make it even less likely to link such moments back to their discursive colonialist core.18 Settler time structures attempt to resolve parallax through historying, by collapsing the Real into an experiential mean that is then presented as the Truth of an event. The power of settler colonialism is in part derived from this creation of a singular narrative that avoids the recognition of historic and ongoing coloniality. In contrast, Indigenous epistemologies and concepts of spacetime find strength in the plurality of experience, or rather “temporal multiplicity.”19 From Origin Stories to histories, Indigenous communities across the world hold in tension the simultaneity of past, present, and future.20 To resist settler time, then, is to enact temporal sovereignty over experiences and assert the legitimacy of Indigenous time. This recovers ways of being in, and looking at, the world that have been erased by fabricated attachments to linearity and lineage. It follows that an Indigenous reading of Domesday Book not only performs a comparison of the Inquest and Dawes Act, but rather enacts a radical temporal sovereignty that actualizes an Indigenous timescape, allowing a more accurate account of the genealogies of settler colonialism that infect Indigenous pasts, presents, and futures. 17 18 19 20

Slavoj Žižek, The Parallax View (Boston, MA, 2006), p. 4. Jodi A. Byrd, The Transit of Empire: Indigenous Critiques of Colonialism (Minneapolis, MN, 2011), p. 30. Rifkin, Beyond Settler Time, p. 33. This claim is not intended to suggest that all Indigenous experience can be understood as ubiquitous in a pan-‘Indian’ way, but rather acknowledges that many Origin Stories from Indigenous nations around the world – as diverse as they are – reflect engagement with non-linear, plural experiences of time. See Daniel Heath Justice, Why Indigenous Literatures Matter (Waterloo, 2018), pp. 1–70.

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The Dawes Act

In order to illuminate the relationship between the Dawes Act and the Domesday Inquest, it is important to understand the Dawes Act’s far-reaching impacts on Native people in the United States. Recent, or rather colonial, Native American history can be understood in the following temporal categories: Contact, Decimation, Relocation and Removal, Reservations, and Allotment.21 Each of these eras defines a new strategic employment of settler colonial structures to dispossess Indigenous peoples of our relations with the land and with one another. While Contact, Decimation, and Relocation and Removal were all traumatic, arguably the most impactful era of Indigenous-Colonial Relations is that of Allotment, which began in 1887 with the Dawes Severalty Act.22 Much in the same way that Domesday Book and its Inquest are not singular texts or events, so too is the Dawes Act a multivalent set of documents, laws, and processes. Three Acts and a Commission form the foundations of Dawesrelated legislation: the original Dawes Act (1887), which was first amended in 1891; the Dawes Commission (1893); the Curtis Act (1898); and finally, the Burke Act (1906), which legally sanctioned all Dawes-related censuses, surveys, allotments, and dispossessions – or inquests.23 Beginning with the Dawes Severalty Act of 1887,24 it is important to note that it was not a treaty; it was not negotiated with, agreed to, nor signed by the Native peoples it impacted. Neither did it establish reservations, which were already in place, but rather sought to control Indigenous ways of being within those (supposedly sovereign) reservation boundaries. Tribes that had moved 21 22

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For in-depth discussions of these eras see Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States, ReVisioning American History (Boston, MA, 2014). An Act to Provide for the Allotment of Lands in Severalty to Indians on the Various Reservations (General Allotment or Dawes Act 1887). Statutes at Large 24 (hereafter, General Allotment Act (1887)). Available at: https://www.ourdocuments.gov/doc.php ?flash=false&doc=50. Accessed 2020 August 3. Dawes Severalty Act Amendments of 1891, 25 U.S.C. 331 (1891); Curtis Act, ch. 517, 30 Stat. 495 (1898); Burke Act, 25 U.S.C. 349 (1906). Dawes-related legislation is still ongoing; see the American Indian Probate Reform Act of 2004, 25 U.S.C. 2201 et seq. (2004). Available at: https://www.ourdocuments.gov/doc.php?flash=false&doc=50. Accessed 2020 August 3. On the impacts of the Dawes Act, see Mishuana Goeman, Mark My Words: Native Women Mapping Our Nations (Minneapolis, MN, 2013), pp. 124–26; Audra Simpson, Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life Across the Borders of Settler States (Durham, NC, 2014), p. 223, n. 43, n. 45; Mark Rifkin, The Erotics of Sovereignty: Queer Native Writing in the Era of Self-Determination (Minneapolis, MN, 2013), pp. 46–49; Byrd, Transit of Empire, pp. 128– 31; Teresa Zockodnik, “Reaching Toward a Red-Black Coalitional Feminism: Anna Julia Copper’s ‘Woman versus the Indian,’” in Suzack, et al., Indigenous Women, pp. 115–21.

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to reservations generally maintained pre-contact community structures, practised communal use of land and resources, and upheld existing modes of governance. Essentially, Native peoples continued to be just as Indigenous as we always were, albeit in different places. This resilience presented a problem for the United States settler government, as it prevented further acquisition of territory and resources. The Dawes Act was intended to eradicate this resistance by accelerating assimilation efforts. The bill states that any Indian who accepted the allotment and “adopted the habits of a civilized life” would be granted citizenship of the United States.25 These allotments were to be held in trust by the US government for 25 years, after which time they would be subject to relevant property taxes. Any land not partitioned out to tribal members was then sold at cost to white settlers, even if it was within the boundaries of land guaranteed to the tribe by treaty. The purpose, then, was to eliminate shared-use and communal epistemologies in favour of private property ideologies, with the added benefit of yoking Native peoples into US Citizenship if they proved themselves to have sufficiently assimilated. Many families lost their allotments after they came out of trust because they had remained subsistence farmers, were unable to pay the tax, and so were forced to sell at massive losses, thereby completing the longue durée of the settler land-grab. The Dawes Act received amendments in 1891 for pro-rata distribution and provisional inheritance laws.26 In 1893, under the looming threat of highly organized Cherokee governance and resistance, the Dawes Commission was created and tasked with surveying the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole tribes who had originally been exempt from the Act’s provisions. The Commission began by taking a census of Indian Country – which at the time referred to Oklahoma, but is now a common term for any tribally controlled land – with the added consideration of blood-quantum, a fraction intended to indicate the amount of an individual’s “Indian blood.”27 This process was confusing to Native people because, unsurprisingly, we had never conceived of ourselves fractionally. Blood-quantum requirements continue to fulfil their purpose of erasure, as it is the nature of fractions to become so small that they are inconsequential. Furthermore, the Dawes Commission enforced single-tribal-affiliation, meaning that an individual could not identify as part

25 26 27

General Allotment Act, sec. 6 (1887). The Dawes Act Amendments of 1891, 25 U.S.C. 331 (1891). These revisions allowed allotment sizes to be decreased based on the size of the reservation. For many federally- and state-recognized tribes these records continue to dictate who is, and is not, granted formal membership.

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of more than one tribe, often forcing people to abandon family members and extended kin groups.28 In 1898 this census data and the people who comprised it were made subject to the Curtis Act, which not only applied the Dawes Act provisions and its amendments to those tribes originally excluded, but also prohibited American Indians from self-reporting blood-quantum.29 It was now up to Indian agents and federal employees (who were often not Native) to determine whether or not someone was ‘Indian enough’ to register for allotment, meaning that many Native people attempting to register were wholly excluded based on the whims of settler government officials. Finally, in 1906, the Burke Act reformed the provisions of fee simple patents – a deed provided by the government that lifted “all restrictions as to sale, incumbrance, or taxation of said land” – and citizenship as laid out in the original Dawes Act.30 It authorized the Secretary of Interior to individually determine whether any “Indian allottee is competent and capable” before issuing a fee simple patent and citizenship.31 Essentially, the government did not want to release the land it held in trust to any tribal member without first verifying that the individual had been sufficiently assimilated, or eliminated, to use Wolfe’s term. This process of census and allotment continued with vigour until the 1934 Indian Reorganization Act, also known as the Indian New Deal, stopped allotment in the continental United States and reformed some of these policies.32

Settler Siblings: Domesday and Dawes

This narrative of the Dawes Act legislation is primarily interested in what Mishauna Goeman (Seneca) and Aileen Moreton-Robinson (Goenpul) have termed the “logics of settler colonialism.”33 That is to say, it is concerned with 28 29 30 31 32 33

The data collected from this process is known as the Dawes, or “Final,” Rolls. Available at: https://www.archives.gov/research/native-americans/dawes/tutorial/intro.html. Accessed 2020 August 3. General Allotment Act (1887); Curtis Act (1898). Available at: https://www.ourdocuments .gov/doc.php?flash=false&doc=50. Accessed 2020 August 3. Burke Act, 25 U.S.C. 349 (1906). Burke Act, 25 U.S.C. 349 (1906). This process continues today. In many cases, “full-blood” allotment holders are subject to federal competency hearings before selling or otherwise changing their land’s status. Indian Reorganization Act, 25 U.S.C. 465 (1934). This act made small efforts to restore sovereignty and tribal governance, but did not return any land stolen under Dawes. Mishuana Goeman, “Land as Life: Unsettling the Logics of Containment,” in Native Studies Keywords, ed. Stephanie Nohelani Teves, Andrea Smith, and Michelle H. Raheja (Tucson,

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why and how this legislation bolsters settler colonial structures. To recall the earlier discussion of temporal sovereignty, a centring of settler colonialism is not a marginalization of Indigeneity, but rather a political stance asserting the value of, and to, Indigenous scholars looking at the entanglements of colonialism across time and space. A comparative analysis of the Domesday Inquest and Dawes legislation reveals structural similarities between the two processes, suggesting that Domesday can be understood as an early attempt at settler colonialism. An assessment of the possible processes and impacts of the Domesday Inquest and the Dawes Act illuminates the traces that they leave behind on/in bodies, in documents, stories, maps, and memories. From these we can reconstruct the genealogy of settler colonialism, revealing Dawes and Domesday to be settler siblings. Framing Domesday in this way makes early medieval England an important point of investigation for Indigenous scholars who study the development and ongoing legacies of settler colonialism.34 Unlike other kinds of close reading, a comparative analysis of censuses and surveys inherently relies on what is unwritten. To analyse Domesday Book and its Inquest, the Dawes Act and the Dawes Rolls, we cannot simply compare lists of names, property holdings, and blood-quantums, but must look past the data to reconstruct the processes that generated and continue to exploit this information. Of course, the difficulty with Domesday, as opposed to Dawes, is the relative lack of documentation – oral or textual – about the proceedings of the Inquest itself and the subsequent impacts on the people and places that were rendered ‘data’. Recent Domesday scholars, such as Carol Symes, undertake the complex task of reconstructing its Inquest from surviving materials, which often comprise minor documents found in tertiary archives. Symes argues that Domesday Book should not be read as a single point of reference, but rather as a sun of sorts around which other important documents – “Domesday satellites” – orbit. Reading these intermediate documents recovers voices previously considered peripheral to the Inquest, and suggests that this process was often subversive, creating opportunities for individuals and communities “to manipulate the inquest’s documentation to serve their own needs.”35 She identifies three phases of documentation that contrib-

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AZ, 2015), pp. 71–89; Aileen Moreton-Robinson, The White Possessive: Property, Power, and Indigenous Sovereignty (Minneapolis, MN, 2015), pp. i–31. For a more in-depth review of Indigenous futurisms as a decolonial practice, see, Renata Ryan Burchfield et al., “‘Spiralling Time’ of Climate Change,” in Routledge Companion to Contemporary Art, Visual Culture, and Climate Change, ed. T.J. Demos, Emily Eliza Scott, and Subhankar Banerjee (London, 2021), pp. 182–93. Carol Symes, “Doing Things beside Domesday Book,” Speculum 93, no. 4 (October 2018), 1054.

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ute to the final product that is Domesday Book: (I) the oaths taken by relevant magistrates testifying to property and land holdings; (II) libelli – intermediate textual documents – transcribed from the oaths; and (III) formal briefs that were crafted from the libelli and eventually transferred into Domesday Book itself. These briefs, she argues, were referred to far more often than Domesday Book in the legal and personal disputes that arose in the post-Conquest period. Domesday’s lack of wear, when compared to the extensively damaged and limited number of extant briefs, supports this claim. These intermediary phases can be read as examples of storying that are locally powerful, but ultimately subject to the settler colonial process of historying. As Symes and other Domesday scholars argued, many of the Domesday Satellites were recorded over time, sometimes started before the official Inquest and often carried on after.36 They clearly represent a local account of property holdings and change in community structures over time. However, in the same way that Indigenous communities in the United States had laws and governances that existed before the United States government imposed censuring, these medieval modes of self-determined storying were buried under the weight of historying.37 Documents such as the Dawes Rolls continue to ‘legalize’ community membership and map the land in ways that were and are antithetical to Indigenous epistemologies and laws. The force of these settler colonial structures fuses Indigenous self-determination with colonial law until the former is asphyxiated by the latter. Discrepancies between the intermediary documents and final accounts in Domesday Book point to a similar process of erasure. Symes cites one such example that is particularly relevant here, in which the monks of Evesham: decided, soon after the Conquest, to keep track of local abuses and seizures of property by the Conqueror’s agents … it records which named English landholders had been displaced by which specific Normans from which specific allotments in the neighborhood of Westbury-on-Severn.38

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David Roffe, Decoding Domesday (Woodbridge, 2007); Colin Flight, The Survey of the Whole of England: Studies of the Documentation Resulting from the Survey Conducted in 1086 (Oxford, 2006). When considering Indigenous storying, we are not limited to oral accounts, but to extratextual documents as well, including wampum belts, beading projects, and manipulations of natural landscapes. Symes, “Doing Things,” p. 1097.

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These briefs, once translated into Domesday Book, did not include mention of the displaced English landholders. The “official” document lists only the Norman property owners. In this sense the briefs are examples of efforts to story the English experience of the Norman conquest before Domesday usurps it through historying. Domesday Book, then, can be understood as a predecessor to the Final Rolls, both government productions that circumvent and erase the storied experiences of their subjects. In the same way that the Rolls do not account for self-determined identities and relations, Domesday does not give a voice to those dispossessed by Norman invaders. As she herself acknowledges, Symes’s recent work adds a variety of theories about Domesday and its Inquest. Each of these stories represents a slightly different temporal orientation, which can supplement a temporally sovereign analysis of the logics of the Dawes Act and Domesday Inquest. This relational approach begins to uncover a patrimony of settler colonial logics as they have been revised through space and time from early medieval England to 19th-, 20th-, and 21st-century America. There are some immediately obvious similarities and differences between Domesday and Dawes. The most important point of divergence is that Dawes forced Native peoples to adopt private property practices, while Domesday did not; this was already a normalized ideology in pre-Conquest England. The primary similarity is that both are processes of census and survey that benefit nascent nation-states. V.H. Galbraith’s theory that the Domesday Book was a kind of feudal register compiled for the express purpose of inventorying the Conqueror’s new territories has been reinforced more recently by a variety of scholars in Domesday Now: New Approaches to the Inquest and the Book.39 Galbraith’s theory supports the colonial logic that knowledge, and specifically data, is power.40 If you know what you have, you have a better chance of knowing what can be done with or to it. Dawes is another notable example of this logic because it resulted in a rather useful data set recording how many Indigenous people were in the United States at the time, and where they all lived. This information is still used today to determine tribal affiliations and as part of determining federal recognition. Unlike Galbraith, David Roffe theorized that the Inquest was ordered to see what could be mustered in terms of military power.41 Roffe’s argument echoes the summation of Domesday’s purpose included in the House of Lords’ 1873 39 40 41

David Roffe and K.S.B. Keats-Rohan, eds., Domesday Now: New Approaches to the Inquest and the Book (Woodbridge, 2016). V.H. Galbraith, The Making of Domesday Book (Oxford, 1961). David Roffe, Domesday: The Inquest and the Book (Oxford, 2000).

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Return,42 and by Ian Taylor, who argued that Little Domesday seems to show limited interest in “long-term legal and fiscal objectives.”43 Taylor argues that a close examination of Little Domesday suggests that William likely ordered a singularly focussed survey of the region most vulnerable to invasion and least settled by Norman rule. It is compelling to imagine William’s knowledge of the available East Anglian resources engendered a sense of ease, subsequently conflated with relief when the need to muster those resources did not arise. This feeling of security may have shaped the ways in which the Great Domesday surveys were conducted. The settler strategy of surveying that which is least known continued with Dawes. The initial Act excluded tribes known to the United States government to be “most civilized” and, therefore, most under control. The settler colonial logics of these parallel decisions engage a process of ownership that Moreton-Robinson theorizes: “possessive logics are operationalized within discourses to circulate sets of meanings about ownership of the nation, as part of common sense knowledge, decision making, and socially produced conventions.”44 The surveying of territories and bodies that are seen as the most tertiary to nation-state control produces a narrative of knowing, and therefore owning, on the part of the state. In addition to the ways Domesday and Dawes reflect settler ways of knowing as a key component of the logics of possession, the idea that Domesday functioned as a Norman land-grab maps neatly onto the well-documented land runs precipitated by Dawes legislation. Despite convincing evidence that Domesday did allow some land-grabbing to occur, other scholars disagree, and their work offers the opportunity to address the variety of settler logics at work in both Domesday and Dawes. Ann Williams’s study of Abington Pigotts leads her to conclude that, “post-Conquest incomers knew well how to exploit the complexities of personal commendation and tenurial dependency, but in doing so they were utilizing rather than overriding pre-Conquest custom.”45 This conclusion revises previous assumptions that Norman customs of land tenure completely, and rather immediately, erased Old English laws. Understanding this theory in light of Wolfe’s discussion of settler colonialism as a long-term assemblage and accumulation of structures, rather than a single event, reveals 42 43 44 45

John Lambert, ed. England and Wales (Exclusive of the Metropolis): Return of Owners of Land 1873 (London, 1875), p. 13. Ian Taylor, “Domesday Books? Little Domesday Reconsidered,” in Roffe and Keats-Rohan, Domesday Now, p. 143. Moreton-Robinson, The White Possessive, p. xii. Ann Williams, “Hunting the Snark and Finding the Boojum,” in Roffe and Keats-Rohan, Domesday Now, p. 167.

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that the logics of land-grabs are not always about immediate dispossession, but rather executed through a longer process of gaslighting.46 Williams’s conclusion that Normans used pre-Conquest customs to obtain land tenure and ownership is also enveloped in the methods by which Dawes was disseminated to individual tribal nations.47 Although the law took effect in 1887, it was actively enforced on a tribeby-tribe basis in the following decades. Indian agents who had lived on reservations, often near or even with tribal communities, were tasked with implementing survey and census procedures at various times. These Indian agents commonly relied on their emic knowledge of tribal customs and previous experiences with things like treaty negotiation to make the conditions of the Act seem palatable to Native peoples. In this way, Indian agents engaged in a kind of elimination that relied on a manipulation of tribal epistemologies to slowly, but steadily, dismantle Indigenous familial and governmental structures. Goeman refers to this process as the “logics of containment.”48 These settler logics employ legal means to shift Indigenous definitions of, and relationships with, land. Although pre-Conquest people did not necessarily have a relationship to land in the same way that Indigenous people did and still do, the logic behind shifting definitions of land and land use is fundamental to the execution of a settler colonial state. A large of part of land-grab manipulation for Native peoples included the intermarrying of non-Native people. Sometimes this was voluntary, other times it was not. White men, especially, took Native women as wives during allotment as a way to get land, often a good distance away from the woman’s home community.49 This, in large part, is why there were so many amendments concerning inheritance. The institution of blood quantum meant that without revisions to the original legislation, the mixed-blood descendants of these unions struggled to maintain land ownership. In this way, Indigenous displacement and cultural elimination continued in the generations after allotment by removing women and children from Indigenous kin groups, and keeping them away via constantly changing inheritance laws. This is the primary logic of elimination. Settler colonialism does not need to engage in genocide if it can 46 47 48 49

Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism,” pp. 388–98. Williams, “‘Hunting the Snark’,” p. 167. Goeman, “Land as Life,” p. 72. Much of my knowledge about this comes from family stories. My great-great-grandmother, for instance – who raised my grandfather who, in turn, raised me – was taken from her family by an Irish rancher when she was 16 years old. She married him and then registered for an allotment. He acquired 160 acres of land for free as a result of this arrangement.

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find less directly murderous ways to acquire territory.50 Intermarriage proved to be a particularly effective way to transfer territory from Native women to white men, while simultaneously depriving countless generations of community and cultural educations. K.S.B. Keats-Rohan’s revisions to the prosopography of Domesday reveals similar strategies of remaking not just kinship groups, but also more expansive social structures to support post-Conquest settlement. In her case-study examining formation of the honour of Richmond, this more generous approach to prosopography led her to conclude that for “all tenants-in-chief … authority and wealth derived from English antecessores and was embedded in local society, without which it could not have been sustained.”51 This is true, too, of children who inherited allotment land. While they often grew up outside tribal communities, by virtue of Native kinship, they maintained a certain in-group status among Native peoples, while simultaneously enjoying many benefits of settler society. Here, temporal sovereignty again becomes an important factor in the stories of both post-Conquest and post-Dawes people/s. Entries from 1085–88 in MS E of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,52 show that there was unrest amongst the English people – lay, aristocratic, and ecclesiastical – who had been displaced by Norman settlers.53 One entry, often referred to as “The Rime of King William,” purports to be a eulogy of sorts. It satirizes many of William’s policies, and draws attention to his greed: The king was so very stark And seized from his subject men many a mark Of gold, and more hundreds of pounds of silver That he took by weight, and with great injustice From his land’s nation with little need.54 This suggests that there was resistance among the English such that it permeated into the monastic settings where day-to-day life was documented in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. But this resistance did not last with any particular 50 51 52 53 54

Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism,” p. 399. K.S.B. Keats-Rohan, “A Question of Identity,” in Roffe and Keats-Rohan, Domesday Now, p. 196. Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Laud Misc. 636: the Peterborough Chronicle. Michael Swanton, ed./trans., The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (London, 1996), pp. 215–25. Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 1086/7: “Se cyng wæs swa swiðe stearc, ⁊ benam of his underþeoddan manig marc goldes ⁊ ma hundred punda seolfres. Det he nam be wihte ⁊ mid micelan unrihte of his landleode, for littelre neode.” Swanton, Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, pp. 220–21.

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vigour, leaving pre-Conquest England and its inhabitants in the past, a fantasy for scholars and white nationalists, alike.55 In a linear, settler colonial temporal orientation, time marches on, and with every passing generation English “authority and wealth” was weakened by temporal distance, as the stories of these long-ago relatives were buried under layers of history, property laws, Norman titles, and the weight of settler colonial violence as it spread to nearly every corner of the world. Conclusion Similarly, in the face of this settler colonialism, allotment children lost much of their culture – language, ceremonies, and knowledges. But it was, is, and always will be true that a sense of temporal plurality allows revitalization of their ways of being in the world. Indigenous stories and epistemologies are not chronologically confined to the past. Indigenous futures are not linearly determined by their presents, but rather imbricated in a complex set of stories that remind them how to be Indigenous. The allotment children who lost their language found it again through these stories.56 The stories of ceremonies were given to and woke generations after they had fallen asleep. In the decadesand centuries-long process of buying back the land stolen in the Allotment Era, stories can refresh knowledge(s) of what it means to live with that land. Cultural revitalization is not just resistance to settler colonialism; it is an inevitability in temporally sovereign timescapes that understand past, present, and future as existing in simultaneity – Indigenous stories are not just memories, but seeds that continue to germinate and feed Indigenous peoples fighting for recognition, sovereignty, and decolonization. To see Domesday as part of a settler colonial story not only recognizes the role of temporal sovereignty in decolonization, but also empowers Indigenous scholars to look back at Europe and return a gaze that has done so much damage, not seeking vengeance, but inviting participation to produce a decolonial future that is better for all.

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For a discussion of resistance and William’s responses, including the reorganization of the English Church see Frank Stenton, Anglo-Saxon England, 3rd ed. (Oxford, 1971), pp. 581–687. In some nations the language was woken up after having gone completely dormant: see Wesley Leonard, “When is an ‘Extinct Language’ not Extinct? Miami, a Formerly Sleeping Language,” in Sustaining Linguistic Diversity: Endangered and Minority Languages and Language Varieties, ed. Kendall A. King, Natalie Schilling-Estes, Lyn Fogle, Jia Jackie Lou, and Barbara Soukup (Washington, DC, 2008), pp. 23–33.

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Bibliography Burchfield, Renata Ryan, Salma Monani, Danika Medak-Saltzman, and Willi Lempert, “‘Spiralling Time’ of Climate Change,” in Routledge Companion to Contemporary Art, Visual Culture, and Climate Change, ed. T.J. Demos, Emily Eliza Scott, and Subhankar Banerjee (London, 2021), pp. 182–93. Byrd, Jodi A., The Transit of Empire: Indigenous Critiques of Colonialism (Minneapolis, MN, 2011). Clement, Kerri Keller, “What is a Country Without Horses? Robert Yellowtail and Horse Herd Restoration on the Crow Reservation, 1934–1944,” Montana: The Magazine of Western History 70, no. 3 (2020), 37–55. Dunbar-Ortiz, Roxanne, An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States, ReVisioning American History (Boston, MA, 2014). Fleming, Robin, Britain after Rome: The Fall and Rise, 400 to 1070 (London, 2011). Flight, Colin, The Survey of the Whole of England: Studies of the Documentation Resulting from the Survey Conducted in 1086 (Oxford, 2006). Galbraith, V.H., The Making of Domesday Book (Oxford, 1961). Garnett, George, The Norman Conquest: A Very Short Introduction, Very Short Introductions 216 (Oxford, 2009). Goeman, Mishuana, Mark My Words: Native Women Mapping Our Nations (Minneapolis, MN, 2013). Goeman, Mishuana, “Land as Life: Unsettling the Logics of Containment,” in Native Studies Keywords, ed. Stephanie Nohelani Teves, Andrea Smith, and Michelle H. Raheja (Tucson, AZ, 2015), pp. 71–89. Justice, Daniel Heath, Why Indigenous Literatures Matter (Waterloo, 2018). Keats-Rohan, K.S.B., “A Question of Identity,” in Roffe and Keats-Rohan, Domesday Now, pp. 169–96. Lambert, John, ed., England and Wales (Exclusive of the Metropolis): Return of Owners of Land 1873 (London, 1875). Leonard, Wesley, “When is an ‘Extinct Language’ not Extinct? Miami, a Formerly Sleeping Language,” in Sustaining Linguistic Diversity: Endangered and Minority Languages and Language Varieties, ed. Kendall A. King, Natalie Schilling-Estes, Lyn Fogle, Jia Jackie Lou, and Barbara Soukup (Washington, DC, 2008), pp. 23–33. Moreton-Robinson, Aileen, The White Possessive: Property, Power, and Indigenous Sovereignty (Minneapolis, MN, 2015). Pratt, Richard H., “The Advantages of Mingling Indians with Whites,” in Americanizing the American Indians: Writings by the “Friends of the Indian,” 1880–1900, ed. Francis Paul Prucha (Lincoln, NE, 1978), pp. 260–71. Rifkin, Mark, Beyond Settler Time: Temporal Sovereignty and Self-Determination (Durham, NC, 2017).

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Rifkin, Mark, The Erotics of Sovereignty: Queer Native Writing in the Era of SelfDetermination (Minneapolis, MN, 2013). Roffe, David, Domesday: The Inquest and the Book (Oxford, 2000). Roffe, David, Decoding Domesday (Woodbridge, 2007). Roffe, David, and K.S.B. Keats-Rohan, eds., Domesday Now: New Approaches to the Inquest and the Book (Woodbridge, 2016). Silko, Leslie Marmon, The Almanac of the Dead (New York, 1991). Simpson, Audra, Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life Across the Borders of Settler States (Durham, NC, 2014). Stenton, Frank, Anglo-Saxon England, 3rd ed. (Oxford, 1971). Suzack, Cheryl, Shari M. Huhndorf, Jeanne Perreault, and Jean Barman, eds., Indigenous Women and Feminism: Politics, Activism, Culture (Vancouver, 2010). Swanton, Michael, ed./trans., The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (London, 1996). Symes, Carol, “Doing Things beside Domesday Book,” Speculum 93, no. 4 (October 2018), 1048–1101. Taylor, Ian, “Domesday Books? Little Domesday Reconsidered,” in Roffe and KeatsRohan, Domesday Now, pp. 137–54. Troulliot, Michel-Rolph, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (New York, 1995). Williams, Ann, “Hunting the Snark and Finding the Boojum,” in Roffe and Keats-Rohan, Domesday Now, pp. 155–67. Wolfe, Patrick “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native,” Journal of Genocide Research 8, no. 4 (2006), 387–409. Žižek, Slavoj, The Parallax View (Boston, MA, 2006). Zockodnik, Teresa, “Reaching Toward a Red-Black Coalitional Feminism: Anna Julia Copper’s ‘Woman versus the Indian,’” in Suzack, et al., Indigenous Women, pp. 115–25.

Chapter 16

‘Anglo-Saxon’ Artefacts in English ‘World’ Museums, 1851–1906 Katherine Cross Introduction In 1853 the Trustees of the British Museum, London, declined to purchase the Faussett collection of artefacts excavated from early medieval cemeteries in Kent and, in doing so, lost the opportunity to receive William Wylie’s complementary collection, excavated at Fairford, Gloucestershire. As a result, these two significant collections of early medieval archaeology found new homes in the collection of Joseph Mayer in Liverpool, and at the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, respectively.1 The British Museum’s decision caused considerable controversy, especially since a Royal Commission of 1850 had advocated the establishment of a ‘national antiquities’ collection at the Museum and the appointment of a new curator, which resulted in the delayed arrival of Augustus Wollaston Franks as “additional Assistant” to oversee the incorporation of these antiquities into the Museum’s collection in 1851.2 In 1855 the Trustees showed a change of heart toward British archaeology by agreeing to purchase the personal collection of Charles Roach Smith, who had championed the Faussett collection and vocally derided their rejection of it.3 Roach Smith scathingly proclaimed that one reason for their refusal was the Trustees’ belief that these collections “would be very likely to find a place in some provincial museum.”4 But neither the Ashmolean nor the Liverpool museum could be described as purely regional in scope: both had broader aspirations, and would 1 Arthur MacGregor, “Antiquity Inventoried: Museums and ‘National Antiquities’ in the Mid Nineteenth Century,” in The Study of the Past in the Victorian Age, ed. Vanessa Brand (Oxford, 1998), pp. 127–33; Michael Rhodes, “Faussett Rediscovered: Charles Roach Smith, Joseph Mayer, and the Publication of Inventorium Sepulchrale,” in Southworth, Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries, pp. 25–64. 2 Marjorie Caygill, “Franks and the British Museum – the Cuckoo in the Nest,” in Caygill and Cherry, A.W. Franks, p. 60. 3 David M. Wilson, The British Museum: A History (London, 2002), pp. 133–34. 4 Charles Roach Smith, Collectanea Antiqua: Etchings and Notices of Ancient Remains Illustrative of the Habits, Customs and History of Past Ages, 3 (London, 1857), pp. 268–69.

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proceed to gather objects from across the world. The outcome of this series of negotiations in the 1850s was that collections of artefacts identified as dating from the ‘Anglo-Saxon’ period of England’s history,5 and explicitly promoted as ‘national antiquities’, permanently took their places in three institutions with more universal ambitions: the British Museum, the Ashmolean Museum, and the Liverpool Museum. This discussion explores how curators and public interpreters envisaged the relationship between such ‘national antiquities’ and their wider collections – and the wider world – as they forged new paths for their museums in the second half of the 19th century. In the current context of calls to “decolonize the museum” and repatriate artefacts, the origins of modern museum collections in the activities of 19th-century collectors are under scrutiny.6 The acquisition of early medieval artefacts from Britain and Ireland may seem innocuous compared to British predatory actions elsewhere. Nevertheless, the movement of objects from Wales, Scotland, and, especially, Ireland to English museums, and from regional contexts of discovery to London, has been seen as an ongoing expression of English colonialism, and of metropolitan dominance, on a more local scale.7 More significantly for this discussion, the meanings embodied by these objects in museum displays relate to current critiques: through their juxtaposition with colonial artefacts, ‘national antiquities’ played a role in the presentation of power relations through museological modes of interpretation.8 As the statements that Roach Smith and the British Museum Trustees made at the time of acquisition demonstrate, the rejection or acceptance of ‘national antiquities’ was bound up with visions of the museum’s broader purpose, 5 Throughout, ‘Anglo-Saxon’ denotes nineteenth-century attitudes to/attributions of the objects. See also ‘national antiquities’. 6 Alice Procter, The Whole Picture: The Colonial Story of the Art in our Museums and why we need to talk about it (London, 2020); Sumaya Kassim, “The Museum Will Not Be Decolonised,” Media Diversified (15 November 2017). Available at: https://mediadiversified.org/2017/11/15/ the-museum-will-not-be-decolonised/. Accessed 2020 June 20. 7 E.g., Paul Bignell, “Tug-of-War Starts Over Lindisfarne Gospels’ Future,” Independent (28 February 2008). Available at: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/tug-ofwar-starts-over-lindisfarne-gospels-future-786547.html. Accessed 2020 April 14; Aideen M. Ireland, “The Broighter Hoard: Mythology, Misrepresentation and Mystery,” in Place and Space in the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton, Jane Hawkes, and Heidi Stoner (New York, 2018), pp. 87–102. 8 For discussion of the presentation of colonial artefacts within British museums, and the claims to knowledge and expertise therein, see: Tim Barringer and Tom Flynn, eds., Colonialism and the Object: Empire, Material Culture and the Museum (Abingdon, 1998); Bernard Cohn, Colonialism and its Forms of Knowledge: The British in India (Princeton, NJ, 1996); Sarah Longair and John McAleer, eds., Curating Empire: Museums and the British Imperial Experience (Manchester, 2012).

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according to which the importance of these British archaeological artefacts was weighed against existing collections, contemporary acquisitions, and desired future directions. Most research into these processes has focussed either on individual collectors and their interests, or on the history of particular museum collections. Such studies have illuminated the development of European museums as institutions, and provided valuable information on provenance for those researching the artefacts they contain. The Faussett collection, for instance, has been explored as a particularly rich example in the history of archaeology, representing some of the earliest excavations in the modern discipline, then being ‘rediscovered’ by Roach Smith in the 1840s as Victorian antiquarian interest in the period grew, and now constituting a continuing research resource that has received a digital update in the University of Oxford’s Novum Inventorium Sepulchrale.9 Histories of collectors and collecting have been situated within broader developments in Victorian medievalism and Anglo-Saxonism. Howard Williams, for example, has presented Wylie’s Fairford Graves collection and its accompanying interpretive catalogue within their contemporary intellectual contexts, highlighting in particular the nationalist vision promoting the Anglo-Saxon roots of Englishness.10 The flourishing of Anglo-Saxon studies within universities at this time, the growth of local and national archaeological societies, and a developing association between English identity and an imagined Anglo-Saxon ancestry, undoubtedly all contributed to the establishment of early medieval collections within English museums.11 However, as Robert McCombe has pointed out, despite antiquarian and popular enthusiasm, no museum of national history emerged in England as it did in other European countries.12 Museums acquired and interpreted early medieval collections within broader programmes of knowledge creation, which diverged from the scholarly community’s ideas of Anglo-Saxon objects’ significance. These collections were first envisaged as ‘national antiquities’, and their excavation, collection, and accession revolved around this status – but

9

10 11 12

See, e.g. Sonia Chadwick Hawkes, “Bryan Faussett and the Faussett Collection: An Assessment,” in Southworth, Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries, pp. 1–24; Rhodes, “Faussett Rediscovered”; For Novum Inventorium Sepulchrale, see: http://inventorium.arch.ox.ac.uk/. Accessed 2020 April 14. Howard Williams, “Anglo-Saxonism and Victorian Archaeology: William Wylie’s Fairford Graves,” Early Medieval Europe 16 (2008), 49–88. MacGregor, “Antiquity Inventoried”. Robert McCombe, “Anglo-Saxon Artifacts and Nationalist Discourse,” Museum History Journal 4, no. 2 (2011), 159–60.

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curators had to justify their inclusion and, increasingly, relate them to their museums’ other collections. This discussion, therefore, explores the implications of displaying (or holding) ‘Anglo-Saxon’ collections, envisaged as ‘national antiquities’ at their time of accession within the British, Liverpool, and Ashmolean Museums. In each case, (new) museum curators were required to position the ‘national’ within their presentations of the ‘world’, but this was not straightforward. The ‘national antiquities’ – in these cases derived principally from archaeological excavations – did not necessarily resemble traditional ideas of what a museum should contain, either in terms of spectacle or as exemplary artworks. Their presentation within prestigious museums contributed to a shift in how these institutions imagined themselves, from displaying curiosities towards becoming more ‘scientific’ establishments which aimed at completeness and the clear categorisation of their holdings according to Linnean principles, and onwards to the aim of educating the public.13 Furthermore, the close association of early medieval and ethnographic collections in all of these museums reflected new developments within the discipline of archaeology.14 However, the specifics of institutional organization in each museum led to different interpretive positions. The variable impact of the emergent interest in ethnography on the process of situating early medieval collections thus provides an essential, additional perspective in understanding how ‘Anglo-Saxon’ objects were, and continue to be, framed within English museums.

Augustus Wollaston Franks and the British Museum

Although Hans Sloane’s founding collection included some early medieval artefacts, the British Museum began to acquire such material as a matter of policy only from 1851 following the Faussett debacle. In the midst of this, and conflicting visions of what the ‘national’ museum should contain, the Trustees bowed to pressure from antiquarians to preserve ‘national antiquities’. The appointment of Franks as the curator responsible for such holdings eventually resulted in the 1866 establishment of the Department of British and Medieval Antiquities and Ethnography of which he was the Keeper. Here, early medieval acquisitions formed part of a broader chronological collection of ‘national 13 14

Edward P. Alexander and Mary Alexander, Museums in Motion: An Introduction to the History and Functions of Museums, 2nd ed. (Lanham, MD, 2008), pp. 5–11; Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (Abingdon, 1995), pp. 75–79. Bruce Trigger, A History of Archaeological Thought, 2nd ed. (London, 2006), pp. 166–210.

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antiquities’ that were categorized as British and as illuminating the history of the island – although the ‘medieval’ collections were more European in character because, according to Franks, “in the middle ages art was far more universal than at an earlier period.”15 Justifications for acquiring British antiquities alluded to expectations of foreign visitors, yielding an element of international competition, since museums of national history and archaeology were already established in other European cities.16 The Trustees, however, perhaps saw such competition as more convincingly served by the British Museum’s ability to collect monumental treasures from across the world, particularly from classical Greece and Rome, and these civilizations’ perceived predecessors in the ancient Near East and Egypt.17 As a result, Franks continued to face barriers in acquiring objects for the British collection.18 The Trustees’ lack of interest in British archaeology was, Roach Smith scathingly complained, founded on the idea that these objects “were not works of high art!”, and he identified precisely the problem when he scoffed that the Trustees could hardly complain “that our Saxon or Norman ancestors were not Greeks or Romans.”19 This was the issue: as Chris Wingfield has described, a “contradictory ideology” was at work among the British Museum’s Trustees which allowed them to see themselves as “inheritors of an ancient tradition of civilization.”20 To present the history of Britain through an ethnic or national identification with early medieval peoples risked confusing this narrative of the British Empire as the heir of classical civilizations.

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18 19 20

Augustus W. Franks, “The Collection of British Antiquities in the British Museum,” Archaeological Journal 9 (1852), 11. Margarita Diaz-Andreu, A World History of Nineteenth-Century Archaeology: Nationalism, Colonialism, and the Past (Oxford, 2008), pp. 358–60; Thomas D. Kendrick, “The British Museum and British Antiquities,” Antiquity 28 (1954), 139; Katherine Cross, “Barbarians at the British Museum: Anglo-Saxon Art, Race, and Religion,” in Empires of Faith in Late Antiquity: Histories of Art and Religion from India to Ireland, ed. Jaś Elsner (Cambridge, 2020), pp. 398–401. Tony Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums, Colonialism (London, 2004), p. 75; Chris Wingfield, “Placing Britain in the British Museum: Encompassing the Other,” in National Museums: New Studies from Around the World, ed. Simon Knell, Peter Aronsson, and Arne Bugge Amundsen (London, 2011), pp. 125–26. Marjorie Caygill, “‘Some recollections of me when I am gone’: Franks and the Early Medieval Archaeology of Britain and Ireland,” in Caygill and Cherry, A.W. Franks, pp. 169–72. Charles Roach Smith, “The Faussett Collection of Anglo-Saxon Antiquities,” [Remarks upon the Refusal of the Trustees of the British Museum to Purchase the Collection, London, 1854], reprinted in Smith, Collectanea Antiqua’, 3:187–88. Wingfield, “Placing Britain,” p. 125.

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These two approaches to identification with the past also represented alternative means of engaging with archaeological artefacts. Roach Smith dismissed the Trustees’ view on the grounds that “viewing antiquities only as works of high art, is exhibiting a low sense of the object the historian has in view in studying them.”21 Recalling this controversy, the Faussett collection’s later curator (at Liverpool), Charles Tindal Gatty, reflected that “they did not consider the objects were sufficiently classical, and the Trustees themselves were not ethnographical.”22 The early medieval antiquities, along with the associated prehistoric and, to some extent, Romano-British items, thus possessed a value distinct from the British Museum’s established collections of antiquities, particularly its Greek and Roman artworks. The early medieval material provided historical and anthropological information about Britain’s inhabitants in the early post-Roman period, rather than conveying aesthetic principles.23 The perception that the nature of these collections differed from those elsewhere in the Museum was reflected in an institutional arrangement which grouped national antiquities with ethnography – diverse artefacts from nonEuropean cultures, defined in a British Museum guide of 1899 as pertaining to “the scientific study of the manners and customs of particular peoples and of their development from savagery towards civilization.”24 Ethnography had, until 1836, been classed as Natural History, was separated from Antiquities only in 1921, and was removed to the Museum of Mankind in 1969.25 Therefore, from 1866 Franks was responsible for building up new collections of both ‘national antiquities’ and ethnography. He increased the ethnographic collections tenfold, including the acceptance of Henry Christy’s personal collections, which encompassed not only prehistoric archaeology but also comparative material relating to “the industry of modern savages.”26 Christy’s work had contributed to developing theories of cultural evolution and their application to archaeology, as presented in the 1865 works of John Lubbock and Edward Tylor, who were both associates of Franks.27 These theories had clear relevance for unifying Franks’ new department the following year, although Franks appears not 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

Smith, “The Faussett Collection,” pp. 187–88. Charles T. Gatty, The Mayer Collection in the Liverpool Museum, Considered as an Educational Possession (Liverpool, 1877), p. 13. Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory, p. 75 refers to similar themes in a wider debate over principles of display at the British Museum in the 1850s. J.C.H. King, “Franks and Ethnography,” in Caygill and Cherry, A.W. Franks, p. 147. Caygill, “Franks and the British Museum,” p. 61; Wilson, British Museum, pp. 282–83, 379. Pitt Rivers’ account of the collection, quoted in Wingfield, “Placing Britain,” pp. 128–29. Peter J. Bowler, “From ‘Savage’ to ‘Primitive’: Victorian Evolutionism and the Interpretation of Marginalized Peoples,” Antiquity 66 (1992), 725–26; Wingfield, “Placing Britain,” pp. 129– 30; John Lubbock, Pre-Historic Times, As Illustrated by Ancient Remains, and the Manners

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to have fully adopted them.28 However, contemporary interpretations of the collection most explicitly linked anthropology to prehistoric material, rather than to the Roman or early medieval archaeology of Britain. The early medieval material provided information about the culture of ‘our ancestors’, but parallels tended to be between British discoveries and continental examples, creating a cultural genealogy specific to northern Europe, not universal to humankind. Throughout this period, as the British Museum’s post-war curator Thomas Kendrick emphasised a century later, British artefacts were dwarfed by new acquisitions such as the Lycian marbles and the Assyrian sculptures from Nimrud. Kendrick reflected that this situation was beneficial, since it taught humility and avoided undeserved, overweening national pride.29 This was, as various commentators have stressed, a collection for the nation rather than of the nation.30 Against this background Franks had nevertheless expanded the collection of early medieval archaeology, and made some important accessions, including the Franks Casket (Fig. 16.1), the Trewhiddle Hoard, and items from the Taplow burial.31 Yet, it was only with the 1939 discovery of the ship-burial in Mound One at Sutton Hoo, Suffolk – with its rich collection of Byzantine antiquities, high quality domestic vessels, and personal items of elite social display and prestige – that the early medieval collection acquired its highlight assemblage, and treasures which were considered truly worthy of the national collection (Fig. 16.2a–b). Equally, the display of early medieval archaeology, and even the Sutton Hoo assemblage itself, within the world-famous institution of the British Museum lent these artefacts a prestige and fame they might otherwise not have achieved. The discovery, excavation, and donation by Mrs Edith Pretty of the Sutton Hoo finds to ‘the nation’, thus provided the much-needed star pieces for the early medieval collections.32 They formed the

28 29 30

31 32

and Customs of Modern Savages (London, 1865); Edward B. Tylor, Researches into the Early History of Mankind and the Development of Civilization (London, 1865). Wingfield, “Placing Britain”; Kendrick, “British Museum and British Antiquities,” p. 141. Kendrick, “British Museum and British Antiquities,” pp. 136, 140–41. E.g. McCombe, “Anglo-Saxon Artifacts,” p. 147. Cf. the statement of the British Museum’s Director, Edward Maunde Thompson, in 1899: “It represents the Empire. It is not a London Museum, it is not an English Museum, it is a ‘British Museum’, and as such we naturally have to look after its interests, and make our collection as perfect as possible, to represent every portion of the British Empire.” Edward Maunde Thompson, Celtic Ornaments found in Ireland. Return to an order of the Honourable the House of Commons dated 1 May 1899 (London, 1899), p. 4. Caygill, “‘Some recollections’,” pp. 160–63, 172–73. Martin Carver, The Sutton Hoo Story (Woodbridge, 2018).

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Figure 16.1

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Franks Casket, Northumbria, whalebone, early 8th century

focus of research for decades afterwards, and today constitute the centrepiece of the early medieval gallery. The exceptional nature of the Sutton Hoo assemblage enabled it to be presented as a discovery of national importance: they were celebrated for their singularity as a historical find, rather than for their representative nature in an evolutionary or typological scheme. Ultimately, moreover, Sutton Hoo’s central role led the collections and gallery away from a national narrative and into a broader vision of early medieval Europe. The artefacts within the assemblage displayed links to Sweden, Merovingian Francia, and Byzantium, and since its 2014 redisplay, the early medieval gallery is entitled ‘Sutton Hoo and Europe’. While the artefacts from England lie at the centre of the gallery, the overall display presents a European vision within a museum that aims to encompass the world. During his time as Keeper, Franks had established and developed the collections of prehistoric archaeology, ethnography, and ‘British antiquities’ from the Roman to medieval periods, thus expanding the remit of the British Museum beyond great civilizations to the ‘scientific’ study of cultures. However, no overarching interpretive scheme united all of the categories under his care, and the display of British artefacts appears to have been guided by geography and chronology, rather than a more universal, typological approach. This historical

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a Figure 16.2

Objects from Sutton Hoo, Suffolk, early 7th century: (a) Gold buckle, gold and niello. (b) Sceptre, whetstone and bronze

presentation allowed the early medieval material to contribute to a narrative of national origins, but without seriously challenging the centrality of ancient cultures to British imperial identity.

b

Joseph Mayer and the Liverpool Museum

The Faussett collection, rejected by the British Museum, found a home in Liverpool, having been purchased by the local goldsmith Joseph Mayer at Charles Roach Smith’s urging. Mayer added the early medieval artefacts to his considerable personal collection, and displayed it within his own museum,

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re-named the ‘Museum of Foreign and National Antiquities’ in 1867.33 Mayer and Roach Smith both saw the purchase as the preservation of the collection for the nation, with the Liverpool collector stepping in where the British Museum had let Britain down. Roach Smith emphasised how Mayer’s intervention actually provided better conditions than the British Museum could have offered, not only by keeping the Faussett collection together but also in providing the funds to publish Faussett’s excavation diaries in full, edited by Roach Smith, as Inventorium Sepulchrale.34 In 1867 Mayer closed his museum and presented his collection to the city of Liverpool; added to the earlier donation of the Earl of Derby’s (primarily) natural history collections, the Liverpool Free Public Museum was formed35 – the forebear of today’s World Museum (renamed in 2005). Mayer had seen his original Egyptian Museum as a taste of the British Museum in the North,36 and Roach Smith had high hopes for this new institution as a competitor to London: Let the Corporation of the City of Liverpool at once come forward and occupy the place repudiated by the managers of the Anti-British Museum, and establish an institution strictly devoted to NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES.37 Such claims to equivalence indicated that the Liverpool Museum was not established as “some provincial museum”, but had greater ambitions – which were, in practice, more universal than Roach Smith’s vision. Building on the Earl of Derby’s collection, as well as Mayer’s, the Museum’s curators capitalized on Liverpool’s maritime colonial connections, gathering material from around the world; in the second half of the 19th century, the curator Thomas Moore encouraged the acquisition of material through sea-captains, 33 34

35 36 37

Margaret Gibson, “Joseph Mayer 1803–1886,” in Joseph Mayer of Liverpool, 1803–1886, ed. Margaret Gibson and Susan M. Wright (London, 1988), pp. 8–10; it was earlier the Museum of Antiquities (1862–67) and originally the Egyptian Museum (1852–62). Bryan Faussett, Charles Roach Smith, and Joseph Mayer, Inventorium sepulchrale: an account of some antiquities dug up at Gilton, Kingston, Sibertswold, Barfriston, Beakesbourne, Chartham, and Crundale, in the county of Kent, from A.D. 1757 to A.D. 1773 (London, 1856), p. i, v–vi; Smith, “The Faussett Collection,” pp. 188–89. Claire Loughney, “Colonialism and the Development of the English Provincial Museum, 1823–1914” (PhD thesis, University of Newcastle upon Tyne, 2006). Gibson, “Joseph Mayer,” p. 8. Smith, Collectanea Antiqua, p. 269.

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sailors, and colonial administrators, particularly natural history specimens from West Africa.38 In this context, Mayer’s donation shifted the emphasis of Liverpool Museum’s acquisitions away from natural history, towards ethnography, and in 1874 Charles Tindall Gatty was appointed curator of these materials. Mayer’s donation encompassed material much more diverse than the Faussett collection, although in 1857 he had acquired complementary ‘Anglo-Saxon’ artefacts, also from Kentish cemeteries, from the antiquarian W.H. Rolfe.39 Along with these supposedly ‘national antiquities’, Mayer donated a larger collection of late antique and medieval ivories (only a few of which were British), prehistoric stone tools (from across Europe and Asia), a broad range of pottery, a few manuscripts, Mexican, Peruvian, and African artefacts, and, the original and still the main draw, Egyptian archaeology.40 The objects in his collection did not relate particularly to the local area,41 but were gathered according to Mayer’s own aim for a collection “illustrative of the Arts of the different nations … to connect Ancient and Modern Art.”42 Like Franks, Gatty was responsible for a collection comprising ancient and medieval antiquities, and modern ethnography, although with a more aesthetic focus. The acquisition and interpretation of the early medieval collections from Kent at first framed them firmly as ‘national’. The Faussett collection’s status as an assemblage of ‘national antiquities’ had animated the debate of 1853– 54, and the historian Thomas Wright interpreted the collection as artefacts of national history in an 1854 public lecture at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall, which accompanied the exhibition of the artefacts by the Historic Society and the British Archaeological Association.43 Wright presented the artefact types and their archaeological contexts in detail, drawing distinctions between the material culture of the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes. He emphasized that “the study of the interesting objects before you is one of national importance,” and that 38 39 40

41 42 43

Loughney, “Colonialism and the English Provincial Museum,” pp. 173–79. Gibson, “Joseph Mayer,” p. 12. Zachary Kingdon, Ethnographic Collecting and African Agency in Early Colonial West Africa: A Study of Trans-Imperial Cultural Flows (New York, 2019), p. 24. Much of the material is surveyed in Margaret Gibson and Susan M. Wright, eds., Joseph Mayer of Liverpool, 1803–1886 (London, 1988); there is a list of published catalogues on pp. 227–28. Although Mayer had collected and displayed an archaeological collection from nearby Meols: Arthur MacGregor, “Collectors, Connoisseurs and Curators in the Victorian Age,” in Caygill and Cherry, A.W. Franks, p. 15. Joseph Mayer quoted in Gibson, “Joseph Mayer,” p. 20. Thomas Wright, A Lecture on the Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries of the Ages of Paganism: Illustrative of the Faussett Collection of Anglo-Saxon Antiquities, now in the Possession of Joseph Mayer (Liverpool, 1854).

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Faussett’s collection should be considered “a national monument”.44 Mayer, too, in an 1867 address to the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, opined that “as Englishmen, the antiquities of our own country should hold to us the very first position”; in a reversal of the British Museum Trustees’ position, he mourned the loss of Englishmen’s talent, time, and effort to foreign archaeology that could have been devoted to researching the past of their own nation.45 Ten years after Mayer gave his address, Gatty read a lecture to the Liverpool Art Club on the collection’s value “as an educational possession”. He emphasised that the Anglo-Saxon artefacts’ “chief merit to us is this: they are our own national antiquities,” which provided information supplementary to history and as the products of those “whose blood flows in our veins.”46 Interpreters may have particularly emphasised the objects’ significance for national identity because the Faussett and Rolfe collections came from excavations in Kent; they could not be framed as local to the city. Although Wright alluded to excavations and finds across England, there were (and would be) no equivalent discoveries of material from the early Anglo-Saxon period in the vicinity of Liverpool. Wright, Mayer, and Gatty, however, all emphasised the chronological distance from Faussett’s original excavations in order to highlight the advance of archaeological science in their own time and through the work of Liverpool men. Where Wright had stressed the value of archaeology in supporting historical evidence (such as Bede’s ‘ethnological’ division of the Anglo-Saxons into three peoples),47 Mayer emphasised the scientific value of archaeology in creating new knowledge and highlighted the role of his collections in clearing away “legendary rubbish” and “rebuilding” a new history of Britain in the early Middle Ages.48 The term ‘Anglo-Saxon’ itself was criticized by Mayer, who saw this “wondrous title … of which they had never heard” as a distancing device, employed by those who mistakenly thought “our English ancestors were so barbarous a race that we must be distinguished from them even in name.” Yet, he asserted, Faussett’s research had thoroughly “proved our ancestors no barbarians.”49 As he donated the collections to the city of Liverpool, Mayer emphasised their role in illuminating national history through an appreciation

44 45 46 47 48 49

Wright, Lecture on the Antiquities, p. 23. Joseph Mayer, Address to the Members of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire (Liverpool 1867), p. 7. Gatty, The Mayer Collection, pp. 14–15. Bede, HE 1.15, pp. 50–51. Mayer, Address to the Historic Society, p. 14. Ibid., pp. 8–9.

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of their makers’ sophistication and artistry – thus rehabilitating his and his visitors’ “ancestors”. However, these national treasures were stored within an ethnological collection, which itself was situated within a museum that predominantly displayed natural history. Gatty had emphasized the educational value of the Anglo-Saxon material to the student of history and art, but the broader interpretive context within what became the ‘World Museum’ was that of comparative anthropology, increasingly based on a model of cultural evolution. Wright, Mayer, and Gatty all used their lectures to promote this disciplinary approach, which both integrated the disparate elements of the Mayer collection, and demonstrated that they were at the cutting-edge of archaeological research. More programmatically than at the British Museum, prehistoric archaeology and modern anthropology were presented as complementary. Gatty used material evidence from the early periods of Britain’s history to place his own civilization in a relationship of superiority with colonial cultures, through its (in his view) greater antiquity and thus higher stage of cultural development. “Here is one nation highly civilised, and there is another still barbarous; what have they in common? I will show you,” he announced with a flourish.50 Within the Liverpool Museum, this interpretive scheme developed into an explicitly racialized organization, first with the new Ethnographical Gallery in 1895, and culminating in the 1906 reorganization of all the cultural collections.51 The Museum’s director, Henry Ogg Forbes, categorized all new accessions “under the three great ethnic divisions of the globe, namely, the Caucasian (white), the Mongolian (yellow), and the Melanian (black),” and rearranged the galleries following this model, with one group on each floor. The Caucasian galleries, also described as “those of the civilised races”,52 and into which the British antiquities were categorized, were centred on the ground floor of the Museum, near the entrance, and so prioritised for the visitor.53 Moreover, this racial organization linked the British antiquities in one gallery to the impressive Egyptian remains in the next hall. Thus, the ‘national’ collections were presented as part of the developments of ‘Caucasian’ civilization (despite there being few links between British and Egyptian artefacts).54 50 51 52 53 54

Gatty, The Mayer Collection, p. 18. Kingdon, Ethnographic Collecting, pp. 247–55. Liverpool Museum Annual Report (1901), quoted in Louisa Tythacott, “Race on Display: The ‘Melanian’, ‘Mongolian’ and ‘Caucasian’ Galleries at Liverpool Museum (1896–1929),” Early Popular Visual Culture 9 (2011), 137–38. Tythacott, “Race on Display,” p. 139. On the classification of Egyptian material as ‘Caucasian’, see Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory, p. 60.

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The association was emphasised by the comparative anthropological material from other parts of the world being housed on the upper and lower floors of the Museum. However, the early medieval past sat uncomfortably within these broader schemes. In his 1877 address, Gatty had demonstrated for his Art Club audience the principles of cultural evolution in archaeology, but the specimens he displayed as examples were stone tools and “bronze implements” from prehistoric Britain and many countries and cultures around the world, intended to demonstrate “the features common to the human family” as they reached different stages at different points in time.55 A few years later, he curated an exhibition on ‘Prehistoric Antiquities and Ethnography’ as complementary sources of knowledge – again, excluding Mayer’s early medieval collections.56 Gatty had suggested that the archaeologist of these periods could also draw on anthropological parallels in the absence of sufficient written evidence, for “there is a point in the stories of all nations where history begins gradually to fall back upon archaeology. Savages do not record their history.”57 In Gatty’s view, the Roman and Anglo-Saxon periods were Britain’s turning-points from prehistory to history, and thus from savagery to civilization. Yet, in his final remarks, and despite recognizing the possibilities of ethnological parallels, Gatty chose to situate the early medieval material as ‘historical’ rather than ‘anthropological’ in quality. With the 1906 redisplay, the British antiquities’ categorization within the ‘Caucasian’ galleries raised similar problems. The by now popular association of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ race with modern English identity, as had been emphasised by Mayer, perhaps discouraged parallels with contemporary colonized peoples. Yet, while their research value may have lain in the completeness of the ‘Anglo-Saxon’ collections and excavation diaries, it was really only the Kingston Down brooch that presented itself as a suitable highlight object for display. Faussett’s original drawing (Plate 16.1) shows the exceptional nature of the brooch, but it was within the Liverpool Museum that interpretation began to focus on it as an art object, rather than a historical document.58 In this way, certain exceptional early medieval antiquities could fit into the broader presentation of the ‘Caucasian’ collections in the 1906 reorganization which, Tythacott has argued, encouraged viewers to appreciate these items 55 56 57 58

Gatty, The Mayer Collection, pp. 18–19. Kingdon, Ethnographic Collecting, p. 24; Charles T. Gatty, Catalogue of the Mayer Museum: Prehistoric Antiquities and Ethnography, Part 2 (Liverpool, 1882). Gatty, The Mayer Collection, pp. 16–17. McCombe, “Anglo-Saxon Artifacts,” pp. 158–59.

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Drawing of Kingston Down brooch, 1856

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as works of art, in contrast to the ‘ethnographical’ objects in the ‘Melanian’ and ‘Mongolian’ galleries.59 Some early medieval artefacts thus contributed to the Museum’s presentation of a racial hierarchy, although they more broadly constituted a point of tension in models of cultural evolution, and so became increasingly side-lined. Their previous association with national history had been subsumed into a larger presentation of European culture as ‘civilization.’

Arthur Evans and the Ashmolean Museum

On receiving the Fairford Graves collection from Wylie in 1865, the Ashmolean found itself in a different position to the two other museums.60 The Ashmolean collections already contained a considerable number of artefacts from Britain dating from prehistoric, Roman, and Anglo-Saxon periods including, most famously, the Alfred Jewel, a tear-shaped gold, rock crystal, and enamel æstel, or pointer, bearing the 9th-century king’s name. The Jewel has been a major draw for visitors to the Museum since its donation in 1718 and remains a highprofile object, despite its small size (6.2 × 3.1 × 1.3 cm), as well as being undeniably ‘Anglo-Saxon’ (Plate 16.2).61 In 1858, probably in response to contemporary discussions, the local Oxford antiquary James Parker suggested in an open letter to the Keeper that the Ashmolean should become a Museum of English History, or a Museum of National Antiquities.62 The museum and university authorities did not take up Parker’s suggestion, perhaps because of the more diverse nature of the collections, or because of broader disagreements about the museum’s organisation. Nevertheless, the Ashmolean in the second half of the 19th century needed direction – and leadership.63 The Ashmolean’s acquisition of William Wylie’s collection from Fairford could certainly have contributed to the mission of building a national museum. Wylie saw his collection as deserving of the “honour and importance of claiming and preserving national monuments as national treasures,” in a phrase echoing Wright’s assessment of the Faussett collection.64 Wylie’s accompanying book Fairford Graves – published by Parker’s father, who 59 60 61 62 63 64

Tythacott, “Race on Display,” pp. 138–39. R.F. Ovenell, The Ashmolean Museum 1683–1894 (Oxford, 1986), p. 224. David A. Hinton, A Catalogue of the Anglo-Saxon Ornamental Metalwork, 700–1100, in the Department of Antiquities, Ashmolean Museum (Oxford, 1974), pp. 29–48, no. 23. Ovenell, Ashmolean Museum, pp. 216–17. Ibid., pp. 234–44; Greville Chester, Notes on the Present and Future of the Archaeological Collections of the University of Oxford (Oxford, 1881). William Wylie, Fairford Graves (Oxford, 1852), p. 37; above, n. 43.

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Plate 16.2 Alfred jewel. 9th century

himself later became Keeper of the Ashmolean – presented an Anglo-Saxonist narrative of English origins as a statement of contemporary national identity, as elucidated in Williams’s close reading.65 However, the acquisition of the grave-goods from Fairford, which is around 25 miles (40.2 km) east of Oxford, should be considered in the context of other early medieval artefacts excavated in the local area and also gifted to the Ashmolean, including those from Brighthampton, Standlake and Yelford, Ducklington, Long Wittenham, Dyke Hills, and Frilford.66 The Ashmolean, therefore, was rapidly amassing early medieval material related to Oxford and the Upper Thames Valley. Moreover, the Museum was at the forefront of new discoveries in the field, and continued to be: in 1883, the Keeper funded an excavation at Wheatley;67 by the early 65 66

67

Williams, “William Wylie’s Fairford Graves”. Ovenell, Ashmolean Museum, p. 224; list of Oxfordshire sites at: https://web.archive .org/web/20160424100416/http://www.ashmolean.org/ash/amps/leeds/AS_Oxfordshire/ anglo_saxon_oxfordshire_index.html. Accessed 28 July 2020. Further details in Arthur MacGregor, Ellen Bolick, and Katherine Mratimer, Summary Catalogue of the Anglo-Saxon Collections (Non-Ferrous Metals), BAR British Series 230 (Oxford, 1993). MacGregor, et al., Summary, p. 248.

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20th century, the Ashmolean was undertaking its own excavations organised by E.T. Leeds. Early medieval collections at the Ashmolean were never restricted to Oxfordshire, but this focus on collecting from, and excavating in, the local area served to build a collection of regional antiquities, with national significance. Despite this difference from the Liverpool museum, where the collections comprised little local material, the Ashmolean could hardly be dismissed by Roach Smith as “some provincial museum,” either.68 It was, after all, the first public museum in Britain, and held some items accepted as having high cultural value through rarity or exotic origins, including artefacts from Captain Cook’s voyages.69 A reimagining as a national museum would not have been sufficiently prestigious, nor true to the Museum’s origins in the early 17thcentury collections of John Tradescant and Elias Ashmole. The growing prehistoric, Romano-British, and Anglo-Saxon collections were to find their place within something grander. In 1884, Arthur Evans, son of the antiquarian John Evans and close friend of Franks, assumed the title of Keeper, and established his plans for the new Ashmolean as “a Home for Archaeology in Oxford.”70 In his inaugural address, Evans presented his vision for the Ashmolean, disentangling the competing regional and national pulls on the museum’s direction. The uniting principle was to be that the Ashmolean housed archaeological collections, and – crucially, in Evans’s vision – promoted the modern development of the discipline.71 Like Franks, Mayer, and Gatty, Evans saw archaeology and anthropology as inextricably bound together: he wanted to study archaeology alongside contemporary anthropology, believing that early medieval Europeans – “his forefathers” – could be compared to, in his words, “the savage races of the most distant Continents.”72 Evans, unlike his counterparts in Liverpool, directly suggested that ethnographic parallels assisted in the interpretation of Anglo-Saxon furnished “warrior” burials, as well as prehistoric remains. Yet there was to be a new anthropological museum in Oxford (the future Pitt Rivers Museum, which opened in 1886), and Evans was obliged to transport the Ashmolean’s ethnographic collections there, in return for receiving archaeological material from the Natural History Museum into 68 69 70 71 72

Above, n. 5. Arthur MacGregor, ed., Tradescant’s Rarities: Essays on the Foundation of the Ashmolean Museum, 1683, with a catalogue of the surviving early collections (Oxford, 1983); John Shute Duncan, Introduction to the Catalogue of the Ashmolean Museum (Oxford, 1826). Arthur J. Evans, The Ashmolean Museum as a Home of Archaeology in Oxford: An Inaugural Lecture given in the Ashmolean Museum, November 20, 1884 (Oxford, 1884). Ibid., pp. 5–6. Ibid., pp. 8–9.

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the Ashmolean. Evans bewailed this division, believing that “no boundary line exists” between the disciplines; ultimately, he drew the line by separating the civilized from the primitive,73 and upon ancestral identification with the people of the early medieval past: The records, unwritten though they be, that concern directly our own history as part of the great European family of peoples, are fairly ours; the relics of more remote and savage quarters of the globe may fairly be resigned to those who treat of Man, the Animal, in his more universal aspect.74 ‘Anglo-Saxon’ collections, the majority constituting grave-goods from excavated cemeteries, thus belonged in the museum not merely as ‘national antiquities’ but as a stage in the history of European civilization and culture. He summed up his vision for the museum: It is the function of the Ashmolean Museum to house a representative collection, illustrating the progress of arts and industries in our quarter of the globe, from the rudest palaeolithic implement to the most consummate masterpiece of Hellenic and Italian genius.75 Evans held similar opinions to his counterparts at the British Museum and in Liverpool about the comparability of contemporary non-European cultures and British and European archaeology. However, with the ethnographic collections removed from the Ashmolean, these comparisons ceased to play a role within the displays (retaining only some examples from Tradescant’s original ‘Ark’). At the same time, this separation meant that Anglo-Saxon material could be viewed as simultaneously ‘ethnographical’, ‘historical’, and ‘artistic’. The Ashmolean’s positioning of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ and other early medieval material, then, differed from the other ‘world’ museums discussed here. As well as the early separation of the ethnographic collections, by the time Evans took the helm, the Museum already contained a substantial collection of British

73

74 75

Ibid., pp. 7–8; Francis Larson, “Anthropological Landscaping: General Pitt Rivers, the Ashmolean, the University Museum and the Shaping of an Oxford Discipline,” Journal of the History of Collecting 20 (2008), 85–100. Available at: https://web.prm.ox.ac.uk/ rpr/index.php/article-index/12-articles/726-anthropological-landscaping.html. Accessed 2020 May 29. Evans, Ashmolean Museum, p. 11. Ibid., p. 29.

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antiquities, and so there was no need to justify their acquisition. Indeed, Evans claimed that whatever efforts we may henceforth make to atone for our neglect of other branches, it is to our very considerable collections of Saxon antiquities that we owe what reputation the Ashmolean possesses as a Museum.76 This material had been collected with a sense of its connection to the contemporary identities of the Museum’s curators and visitors. Yet, while Evans recognised that these collections constituted “that aspect of Antiquarian lore which most closely concerns ourselves as Englishmen,” and which “are connected with Oxford as a local centre,” he had a grander view of their significance within the museum.77 These artefacts – as well as the prehistoric collections, particularly ‘Celtic art’ – were envisaged by Evans as contributing to the Museum’s presentation of “the progress of arts and industries in our corner of the globe.”78 Here, the ‘national’ significance of the British archaeological collections became secondary both to a broader interpretive scheme and to a more localised emphasis. These competing pulls on the early medieval artefacts’ significance are demonstrated by Evans’s presentation of some of the ‘Saxon’ collections which the Museum possessed or which he hoped to acquire. Beginning with the Alfred Jewel, he stressed that this celebrated object “is itself an heirloom of the whole Teutonic race, and is known and valued not in our own island alone, but throughout Germany and the Scandinavian lands.”79 He finished by announcing his desire to obtain from the Bodleian the St Giles bracteate: though he introduced it as being of “the greatest local interest,” this was primarily in the evidence it provided for connections to Scandinavia and “to the early trade connexions, through Pontic routes, between Byzantium and the North-West.”80 While Evans recognized the importance of local and national identifications with the early medieval past, and emphasised the same idea of Teutonic heritage, he took every opportunity to emphasise the wider connections between European cultures. Finally, Evans displayed a sword-pommel to his audience in 1884, which may probably be identified as the Windsor pommel (Fig. 16.3).81 He invited his 76 77 78 79 80 81

Ibid., p. 26. Ibid., pp. 25–6. Ibid., p. 29. Ibid., p. 26. Ibid., pp. 26–27. Hinton, Catalogue of the Anglo-Saxon Ornamental Metalwork, pp. 63–64, no. 36.

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Figure 16.3

Windsor Pommel, Berkshire. Silver, silver alloy, and gold. 8th or 9th century

audience to consider it, not only as an ethnographic specimen providing information about their ancestors, but as a work of art in its own right: Looked at from the point of Art alone, many of these Old English jewels are of extraordinary value. In delicacy of manipulation, in intricacy of ornament, they have never been surpassed; and those of you who care to patiently examine the microscopic knotwork of snaky coils on the golden sword-hilt in the case before you, will be inclined with me to turn their thoughts to that primæval ‘cave’ on the crest of Ashdown, which, as folks do tell, was once the smithy of Wayland the Wise Smith.82 In presenting early medieval metalwork within the Ashmolean’s newly redefined collection, Evans called, not on ethnographic parallels, but on Old English literary heritage and regional landmarks. Evans referred to the Neolithic burial site at the foot of White Horse hill known as Wayland’s Smithy since at least the 10th century, thus creating an imaginative connection that linked the Windsor Pommel, too, to the local archaeological landscape. In doing so, he suggested that the Anglo-Saxons had transformed a primitive site into a place of mysterious creativity. This object was part of his father, Sir John Evans’s, personal collection, which Arthur donated to the Museum in 1909, thus providing a major component of the early medieval collections. However, the description matches the Windsor pommel so closely that it seems likely Arthur was already exhibiting 82

Evans, The Ashmolean Museum, p. 27.

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it in the Ashmolean when he gave his address, or at least for this lecture. Evans held the Keepership at a moment of transition for Museum acquisitions. He continued the excavations at Wheatley, and later mentored E.T. Leeds in his Museum-directed excavations of early medieval cemeteries, as well as continually seeking financial support from the Ashmolean for his own celebrated endeavours at Knossos. In donating his father’s personal collections, much of which was gathered through the antiquarian art market as well as John Evans’s own, personally financed, archaeological investigations, Arthur Evans was able to concentrate on his own work on Minoan archaeology. This period, then, saw the Ashmolean shift from a Museum which primarily housed the collections donated by a series of individuals and thus reflecting these figures’ diverse and idiosyncratic interests, towards strategies of acquisition directed by the Museum in the promotion of archaeological research. Conclusion Within museums showcasing the scientific study of cultures and the achievements of great civilizations, ‘national antiquities’ presented something of a problem. At the British Museum, such collections were for a long time an embarrassment or, at best, a side-show; in Liverpool, they sat uneasily between the ethnological parallels to prehistory and the artistic achievements of ancient Egypt, medieval, and modern Europe; and at the Ashmolean they required new means of interpretation to link the local past to wider narratives. At key moments in the three museums’ development, when curators attempted to rationalise their collections and coherently organize them, the ‘national antiquities’ did not quite fit. Much of the pressure to acquire early medieval material came from English antiquarians concerned for national identity and the preservation of ‘ancestral’ heritage but, once acquired, ‘Anglo-Saxon’ collections competed with alternative ideologies within these museums. The idea of national heritage rooted in early medieval ethnicity conflicted with the presentation of the British as heirs of ancient civilizations. On the other hand, the illustration of theories of cultural evolution could suggest a degree of similarity between Anglo-Saxon ancestors and contemporary colonized peoples, which became increasingly problematic for English interpreters as these models became explicitly racialized. The precise resolution (or, more often, balance) of such tensions differed in each museum. These intellectual framings are, of course, only part of the story, for in none of these museums did any one narrative come to dominate. The combination of particular eclectic collections, the investments of

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different groups in distinct elements, and the positions of curators, museum administrators, intended and actual visitors, further complicated the messages conveyed by early medieval material. Such paradoxes and contradictions influencing the interpretation of early medieval objects meant that they could not be reduced to simple tokens of contemporary national identity. These cases may be seen as another example of how museums, in Annie Coombes’ phrasing, turn objects into “sites for the proliferation of contradictory and therefore productive knowledge.”83 The incorporation of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ artefacts within museums that during the 19th century were developing universal ambitions, rather than within museums concerned primarily with national history, therefore, facilitated multiple comparisons and connections, and left space for divergent interpretations of these objects. Bibliography Alexander, Edward P., and Mary Alexander, Museums in Motion: An Introduction to the History and Functions of Museums, 2nd ed. (Lanham, MD, 2008). Barringer, Tim, and Tom Flynn, eds., Colonialism and the Object: Empire, Material Culture and the Museum (Abingdon, 1998). Bennett, Tony, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (Abingdon, 1995). Bennett, Tony, Pasts Beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums, Colonialism (London, 2004). Bignell, Paul, “Tug-of-War Starts Over Lindisfarne Gospels’ Future,” Independent (28 February 2008). https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/tug-of -war-starts-over-lindisfarne-gospels-future-786547.html. Bowler, Peter J., “From ‘Savage’ to ‘Primitive’: Victorian Evolutionism and the Interpretation of Marginalized Peoples,” Antiquity 66 (1992), 725–29. Carver, Martin, The Sutton Hoo Story (Woodbridge, 2018). Caygill, Marjorie, “Franks and the British Museum – the Cuckoo in the Nest,” in Caygill and Cherry, A.W. Franks, pp. 51–114. Caygill, Marjorie, “‘Some recollections of me when I am gone’: Franks and the Early Medieval Archaeology of Britain and Ireland,” in Caygill and Cherry, A.W. Franks, pp. 160–83. Caygill, Marjorie, and John Cherry, eds., A.W. Franks: Nineteenth-Century Collecting and the British Museum (London, 1997). Chester, Greville, Notes on the Present and Future of the Archaeological Collections of the University of Oxford (Oxford, 1881). 83

Annie E. Coombes, “Museums and the Formation of National and Cultural Identities,” Oxford Art Journal 11, no. 2 (1988), 63.

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Cohn, Bernard, Colonialism and its Forms of Knowledge: The British in India (Princeton, NJ, 1996). Coombes, Annie E., “Museums and the Formation of National and Cultural Identities,” Oxford Art Journal 11, no. 2 (1988), 57–68. Cross, Katherine, “Barbarians at the British Museum: Anglo-Saxon Art, Race, and Religion,” in Empires of Faith in Late Antiquity: Histories of Art and Religion from India to Ireland, ed. Jaś Elsner (Cambridge, 2020), pp. 396–433. Diaz-Andreu, Margarita, A World History of Nineteenth-Century Archaeology: Nationalism, Colonialism, and the Past (Oxford, 2008). Duncan, John Shute, Introduction to the Catalogue of the Ashmolean Museum (Oxford, 1826). Evans, Arthur J., The Ashmolean Museum as a Home of Archaeology in Oxford: An Inaugural Lecture given in the Ashmolean Museum, November 20, 1884 (Oxford, 1884). Faussett, Bryan, Charles Roach Smith, and Joseph Mayer, Inventorium sepulchrale: an account of some antiquities dug up at Gilton, Kingston, Sibertswold, Barfriston, Beakesbourne, Chartham, and Crundale, in the county of Kent, from A.D. 1757 to A.D. 1773 (London, 1856). Franks, Augustus W., “The Collection of British Antiquities in the British Museum,” Archaeological Journal 9 (1852), 7–15. Gatty, Charles T., The Mayer Collection in the Liverpool Museum, Considered as an Educational Possession (Liverpool, 1877). Gatty, Charles T., Catalogue of the Mayer Museum: Prehistoric Antiquities and Ethnography, Part 2 (Liverpool, 1882). Gibson, Margaret, “Joseph Mayer 1803–1886,” in Gibson and Wright, Joseph Mayer, pp. 1–27. Gibson, Margaret, and Susan M. Wright, eds., Joseph Mayer of Liverpool, 1803–1855 (London, 1988). Hawkes, Sonia Chadwick, “Bryan Faussett and the Faussett Collection: An Assessment,” in Southworth, Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries, pp. 1–24. Hinton, David A., A Catalogue of the Anglo-Saxon Ornamental Metalwork, 700–1100, in the Department of Antiquities, Ashmolean Museum (Oxford, 1974). Ireland, Aideen M., “The Broighter Hoard: Mythology, Misrepresentation and Mystery,” in Place and Space in the Medieval World, ed. Meg Boulton, Jane Hawkes, and Heidi Stoner (New York, 2018), pp. 87–102. Kassim, Sumaya, “The Museum Will Not Be Decolonised,” Media Diversified (15 November 2017). https://mediadiversified.org/2017/11/15/the-museum-will-not -be-decolonised/. Kendrick, Thomas D., “The British Museum and British Antiquities,” Antiquity 28 (1954), 132–42. King, J.C.H., “Franks and Ethnography,” in Caygill and Cherry, A.W. Franks, pp. 136–59.

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Kingdon, Zachary, Ethnographic Collecting and African Agency in Early Colonial West Africa: A Study of Trans-Imperial Cultural Flows (New York, 2019). Larson, Francis, “Anthropological Landscaping: General Pitt Rivers, the Ashmolean, the University Museum and the Shaping of an Oxford Discipline,” Journal of the History of Collecting 20 (2008), 85–100. Longair, Sarah, and John McAleer, eds., Curating Empire: Museums and the British Imperial Experience (Manchester, 2012). Loughney, Claire, “Colonialism and the Development of the English Provincial Museum, 1823–1914” (PhD thesis, University of Newcastle upon Tyne, 2006). Lubbock, John, Pre-Historic Times, As Illustrated by Ancient Remains, and the Manners and Customs of Modern Savages (London, 1865). MacGregor, Arthur, ed., Tradescant’s Rarities: Essays on the Foundation of the Ashmolean Museum, 1683, with a catalogue of the surviving early collections (Oxford, 1983). MacGregor, Arthur, “Collectors, Connoisseurs and Curators in the Victorian Age,” in Caygill and Cherry, A.W. Franks, pp. 6–33. MacGregor, Arthur, “Antiquity Inventoried: Museums and ‘National Antiquities’ in the Mid-Nineteenth Century,” in The Study of the Past in the Victorian Age, ed. Vanessa Brand (Oxford, 1998), pp. 127–33. MacGregor, Arthur, Ellen Bolick, and Katherine Mratimer, Summary Catalogue of the Anglo-Saxon Collections (Non-Ferrous Metals), BAR British Series 230 (Oxford, 1993). Mayer, Joseph, Address to the Members of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire (Liverpool 1867). McCombe, Robert, “Anglo-Saxon Artifacts and Nationalist Discourse,” Museum History Journal 4, no. 2 (2011), 159–60. Ovenell, R.F., The Ashmolean Museum 1683–1894 (Oxford, 1986). Procter, Alice, The Whole Picture: The Colonial Story of the Art in our Museums and why we need to talk about it (London, 2020). Rhodes, Michael, “Faussett Rediscovered: Charles Roach Smith, Joseph Mayer, and the Publication of Inventorium Sepulchrale,” in Southworth, Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries, pp. 25–64. Smith, Charles Roach, “The Faussett Collection of Anglo-Saxon Antiquities,” [Remarks upon the Refusal of the Trustees of the British Museum to Purchase the Collection, London, 1854], reprinted in Smith, Collectanea Antiqua’, pp. 187–88. Smith, Charles Roach, Collectanea Antiqua: Etchings and Notices of Ancient Remains Illustrative of the Habits, Customs and History of Past Ages, 3 (London, 1857). Southworth, Edmund, ed., Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries: A Reappraisal (Stroud, 1990). Thompson, Edward Maunde, Celtic Ornaments found in Ireland. Return to an order of the Honourable the House of Commons dated 1 May 1899 (London, 1899). Trigger, Bruce, A History of Archaeological Thought, 2nd ed. (London, 2006).

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Tylor, Edward B., Researches into the Early History of Mankind and the Development of Civilization (London, 1865). Tythacott, Louisa, “Race on Display: The ‘Melanian’, ‘Mongolian’ and ‘Caucasian’ Galleries at Liverpool Museum (1896–1929),” Early Popular Visual Culture 9 (2011), 137–38. Williams, Howard, “Anglo-Saxonism and Victorian Archaeology: William Wylie’s Fairford Graves,” Early Medieval Europe 16 (2008), 49–88. Wilson, David M., The British Museum: A History (London, 2002). Wingfield, Chris, “Placing Britain in the British Museum: Encompassing the Other,” in National Museums: New Studies from Around the World, ed. Simon Knell, Peter Aronsson, and Arne Bugge Amundsen (London, 2011), pp. 123–37. Wright, Thomas, A Lecture on the Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries of the Ages of Paganism: Illustrative of the Faussett Collection of Anglo-Saxon Antiquities, now in the Possession of Joseph Mayer (Liverpool, 1854). Wylie, William, Fairford Graves (Oxford, 1852).

Index Aachen, Germany 188, 191 Abbasid 187–88, 199, 202, 212 Abd al-Malik, caliph (685–705) 246 Abington Pigotts, England 348 Abul-Abbas 186, 188, 213 Abraham. See Sacrifice of Isaac A chóemu chríche Cuind chain 302–5 Acre, Israel 262 Addingham, England 135 Adhémar, bishop of Le Puy (d. 1098) 220, 262–63 Adomnán, abbot of Iona (628–704) 44, 92, 303 Adarnase Bagrationi (d. 961) 168, 173 Ælfric, abbot of Eynsham (d. c.1010) 128 Ager Ursulanus 155–57 Agnus Dei 92–93 Aimé Césaire, poet (1913–2008) 321–22, 333 Aistulf, of Lombardy (d. 756) 212 Albert, of Aix, chronicler (fl. 1120s) 254 Aleppo, Syria 173 Alexander the Great 308 Alfred jewel 369, 373; pl. 16.2 al-Fudayn Mafraq, Jordan 192 al-Walid ibn-Yazid (706–44) 197, 210, 210n.75 Alvítr 126 Amay, Liège 197 amber 43–44 Amman, Jordan 190, 194, 196 Anastasis. See Christ / Resurrection angel 69, 92–4, 110 Angle/ian 121, 123–24, 132–35, 141, 364 Anglo-Norman/s 307, 308, 309, 310, 311, 312. See also Norman/s Anglo-Saxon 14, 15, 32, 51, 52, 53n.16, 54, 55, 59, 62, 66, 70, 88–89, 93–95, 121, 128, 186, 188, 269, 321, 354–76 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 350 Anglo-Saxonist 370 Anglo-Scandinavian 123–24, 131, 137–38 Anjar, Lebanon 190, 191, 193, 202 Annals of the Four Masters 312, 314 Annunciation to Shepherds. See Christ Annunciation to the Virgin. See Christ

Ansa, of Lombardy 202 Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury (r. 1093–1109) 262 Antioch, Turkey 174 antiquities 271, 354–61, 363, 365–67, 371, 373 Aodh Bréifneach, king of Connacht (d. 1350)  311 Aodh Ó Conchobhair, king of Connacht (d. 1309) 310–11 Aonghus Ruadh Ó Dálaigh, poet (d. 1309)  310 Arab/s 162n.1, 163, 173, 174, 179, 187, 188, 189, 191–93, 194, 196, 212, 213, 232 Arabic 222–40 Arca Santa, Oviedo 234–35 archaeology 9, 19, 108–9, 239, 294, 296, 314, 354, 356–61, 364–67, 371, 372, 375 Arechis II, of Lombardy (756–87) 190, 205 Armagh, Ireland 76–78, 81, 83, 95; fig. 4.1 Armenia 173 Arthur, king of Britain 308 Ashdown, England 374 Ashmole, Elias, collector (1617–92) 371 Ashmolean Museum 354–55, 357, 369–75 Asser, bishop of Sherborne (d. c. 909) 104 Augustine, of Canterbury (d. 604) 32, 106 Augustine, of Hippo (354–430) 69, 89, 92 Austria 230 Baghdad, Iraq 212, 213 Bagrat Bagrationi (d. 966) 163–81; pl. 8.1; figs 8.3, 8.4 Baile in Scáil 293–94, 301 Baldwin I, of Jerusalem (1060s-1118) 254 Balis, Syria 197 baptism 32, 33, 127 barbarian/-ic 19, 24, 25, 51–52, 106, 365 Bari, Italy 227 Bernard, Bishop of St David’s (fl. 1115–48)  100, 105–6 Basil II (r. 975–1025) 177, 180 Beadohild 126, 128, 131 Bede, monk (d. 735) 42, 92, 95, 188, 251, 308, 338, 365

382 Benedict Biscop, abbot of Wearmouth-Jarrow (628–90) 92 Benevento, Italy 190, 199, 205 Beowulf 41, 269, 318–33 Betham, Sir William (1779–1853) 269, 271–90 Bethany, Israel 255, 255n.26, 258 Birka, Sweden 139 Bilad al-Sham (Islamic Syria) 212 Bodleian Library, Oxford 373 book-covers 21, 208 Boyne Valley, Ireland 298 bracteates 14, 373 Brega, Ireland 293, 298, 299, 300, 301, 311 Brescia, Italy 194, 196, 202–5, 212 Brian Bórama (Boru), high king of Ireland (941–1014) 301, 308 Brighthampton, England 370 Britain, British 7, 29, 51–53, 55, 62, 93, 137, 150, 308, 318–19, 320–22, 332, 355, 358, 362, 375 British Archaeological Association  364 British Museum 10, 286, 354–76 brooches 3, 9–12, 14–18, 20, 21, 24, 31, 36, 62, 367; pls 1.1a-b, 3.2, 16.1; figs 1.1a, 1.2, 1.4 book shrines 269, 271, 272–75, 276, 277–80, 283, 284, 287, 289; figs 12.1, 12.2, 12.3 buckles 31; fig. 16.2a burials 9, 10, 18, 29, 31–32, 43, 44–45, 110, 112, 360, 371, 374 Burke Act (1906) 342, 344 Byrhtnoth, ealdorman of Essex (d. 991) 45 Byzantine/ium 14, 21, 24, 121, 162–63, 165, 167–81, 186–87, 189, 190, 192, 204, 212, 213, 223, 225, 226, 227, 228, 239, 246, 247, 360–61, 373 Caerleon, Wales 308 Caesarius of Arles (470–542) 44 Cain, son of Adam 322, 332 Caliban 322–23, 325, 332 caliphate 121, 186–213 Calvary. See Golgotha Canterbury, England 101, 106, 115 Cappadocia, Turkey 173 Carolingia/n 14, 15, 17, 121, 186–213 categorization 367

Index Caucasian 366–367 Celt/ic 51, 52, 53n.16, 54, 55, 62, 75, 293, 373 Cenel nÉogain (Cenél Eogain) 306, 309 Ceolfrith, abbot of Wearmouth-Jarrow (642–716) 193 Charlemagne, Charles the Great (c.747–814)  16–17, 187, 188, 191, 192, 213 Chelles, France 189 Cherokee 343 Chickasaw 341, 343 Choctaw 343 chrism 33 Christ 7, 33, 34, 36, 37, 38, 40, 46, 89, 92–94, 127, 163, 171, 172, 178, 229, 244, 251, 254; fig. 8.5 Adoration of the Magi 132, 208, 229 Advent 127 Annunciation to Shepherds 229 Annunciation to the Virgin 168, 208 Arrest 229 Ascension 69, 126–28, 141, 229–30 Bearing the Cross 92, 229 Crucifixion 34, 37, 68, 69–70, 92–93, 172, 229 Descent of the Holy Spirit 230  Entry to Jerusalem 121, 229, 238–40, 251, 253–5, 258, 263, 264 before the High Priest 229 Infancy 229 Journey of the Magi 229, 232–33; pls 10.4, 10.5 Last Judgement 127–28, 141, 250 Last Supper 229, 258 Life of 202 Magi before Herod 229, 232, 235; pl. 10.3 in Majesty 127, 128, 141; fig. 6.3a Massacre of the Innocents 208, 229 Nativity 229  Passion 34, 37, 92, 170–71, 229, 236, 272 Presentation in the Temple 229 Raising of Lazarus 229, 255, 258 Resurrection 170, 229, 299 Road to Damascus 208  Second Coming 69, 127–28, 135, 141, 251, 256 Visitation 208; fig. 9.5b Women at the Sepulchre 229

Index Christ II 126–27 Christ Church, priory, Canterbury 253, 260, 262; figs 11.6, 11.7 Christy, Henry, banker and collector (1810–65) 359 Chronicle of Ireland 77–78, 77n.10 Church 7, 33, 51, 52, 62, 74, 75, 76, 189, 254, 296, 298 churches 190 Sant’Agnese Fuori le Mura, Rome 151, 152 Canterbury Cathedral 121, 258–62; figs 11.6, 11.7. See also Christ Church, priory Christ Saviour, Benevento 190 Christ Saviour, Pavia 190 Germigny des Prés, France 196 Hagia Sophia, Istanbul 174 Holy Virgins, Cologne 145, 148–49, 153–55 Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem 244n.1, 246, 251n.13, 253, 255, 256–58; fig. 11.5 Llanddewi Brefi 103, 105, 107; fig. 5.2 Madeleine, Vézelay 222 Notre Dame, cathedral, Chartres 262 Notre Dame, Le Puy-en-Velay 121, 220–40, 262–63; pl. 10.1; figs 10.1, 10.2 chapels  229 Notre Dame du Port, Clermont-Ferand  222 Palatine Chapel, Aachen 190–91 St Anastasius, Corteolona 190 St Benedict, Mals 196, 212; fig.9.1c St Cheron, Chartres 262 St David’s cathedral, Powys 100, 101, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 114; fig. 5.1 chapels  101, 18, 109–10, 111–12, 113–14; figs 5.1, 5.3 St-Gilles, Chamalièrs-sur-Loire 228–29 St John the Baptist, Oshki 121, 162–68, 181; figs 8.1, 8.2 St Patrick’s chapel, St David’s 109–11, 113 St Patrick’s (Church of Ireland) Cathedral of St Patrick 78 St Paul’s, Jarrow 92, 193–94 St Peter’s, Monkwearmouth 92, 194; fig. 9.1a St-Pierre, Blesle 229 Sainte-Croix, Lavoûte-Chilhac 228

383 San Leone, Leprignano 192 San Pietro a Corte, Salerno 190 San Salvatore, Brescia 194, 196, 199 n.55, 202–5, 212; figs 9.3a, 9.4c–d San Vincenzo Maggiore, San Vincenzo al Volturno 193, 196, 197, 199, 212; pl. 9.1a, c; fig. 9.2a San Vitale, Ravenna 59 Santa Costanza, Rome 59; fig. 3.3a Santa Maria im Kapitol, Cologne 230 Santa Maria in Valle, Cividale 190, 194, 204; fig. 9.4b Santa Sofia, Benevento 205–8; fig. 9.5a–b Santiago cathedral, Compostela 234 Tempietto Longobardo. See Santa Maria in Valle Templum Domini (Church of Our Lady), Jerusalem 254 Church councils, Claremont (1095) 220 Cilicia, Turkey 173, 174 civilization 325n.38, 358, 359, 361, 366, 367, 369, 372, 375 Clann Cholmáin 305 classification 1, 3, 20, 24, 76 Clematius, of Cologne, senator 122, 148, 149, 150, 154, 155, 156 cloisonné 29, 39, 56, 62; pls 2.1, 3.1a Clones, Ireland 76, 78, 80, 81, 83, 95; fig. 4.1 Cloonfree, Ireland 310, 311 coins 9, 10–12, 14–18, 20, 21, 24, 35, 43, 174, 175–76, 189; pls 1.1d, 2.2; figs 1.1b, 1.2, 1.3, Cologne, Germany 122, 145–58 colonial/ism 2, 4, 53n.16, 269, 307–14, 318–33, 337–51, 355, 363, 364, 366–67, collecting 3, 269, 271–90, 354–76 Conaire Mór, high king of Ireland 300–1 Conn Cétchathach, high king of Ireland (r. c.123–57) 293, 301, 302, 305, 309, 310, 314 Connacht, Ireland 303, 305, 310, 311 Conquest (Norman) 338, 346, 347 Constantia, daughter of Constantine I (321–c. 354) 59 Constantine 1, the Great (r. 306–337)  165n.4, 169, 170, 174, 253 Constantine III 24. See also Heraclius (612–41)

384 Constantine VII, Porphyrogenitus (945–51)  169, 175 Constantinople (Turkey) 11, 174, 187, 190, 193 Cook, Captain James, sailor (1728–79) 371 Cormac mac Airt, high king of Ireland 305, 308, 312–14 Cormac úa Cuind, poet 304 Corvey, France 193 Coswig, Saxony 20 Counter-Reformation  311, 312 Creek 343 Croatia 230 crosses  21, 32, 42, 45, 62, 63, 68, 170, 172. See also sculpture high 7, 74, 76, 78, 81–95 Lavra cross 170, 170n.17, 173n.28 of Lothair 21 pectoral/pendant 3, 7, 29–46 sign of. 32, 33, 38, 42, 170 Staffordshire Hoard cross fig. 2.1 True Cross 170, 171, 172–73, 174, 174n.31, 180, 244, 255 Trumpington cross 29–31; pl. 2.1 Wilton cross 34; pl. 2.2 Crown of Thorns 236 Crusades/ers 220–22, 225, 227, 251, 256, 258, 262 crux gemmata 21, 34, 68 crux usualis 32, 33, 38, 42, 45 Cúán ua Lothcháin, poet (d. 1024) 301–5, 309 Cult of St Ursula and the Holy Virgins 122, 145, 148, 149, 151, 155–56, 158 Cult of the Holy Virgins  145–58 Curtis Act (1898) 342, 344 Cynewulf, poet 38n.40, 45, 126 Cyprus 174 dado 196–97, 199, 212 Damascus, Syria 188, 191 Damasus I, pope (r. 366–84) 151 Danes. See Vikings Danelaw, Northern 123–24, 137, 138, 140–41 David, Old Testament king 68, 169, 238, 249, 305, 308 Davit Bagrationi (r. 966–1001) 163–81; pl. 8.1; figs 8.3, 8.4, 8.6 Dawes Act (1887) 338, 341–51 Dawes Commission (1893) 342, 343

Index Dawes Rolls 269, 337–51 Deisis (Deesis) 163, 170, 171, 178–80; fig. 8.3 De Locis Sanctis 92 Deor 128–31, 133, 137, 140 Derry, Ireland 318 Desborough Mirror 55; fig. 3.1 Descent of the Holy Spirit. See Christ Desiderius, of Lombardy (c.720–86)  202, 212 De Templo 92 Deutz, Germany 156 Deutzer Codex 157–58 Dewisland. See St David’s dindshenchas, poetry 302–5 Diocletian, emperor (c. 244–311) 151, 172 display 1, 3, 29, 269, 354–76 Domhnall Mór Ó Domhnaill (d. 1241) 309 Domnall, king of Meath (d. 799) 304 Domnall Ua Lochlainn, king of the Cenél Eogain (1048–1121) 306–7 Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem 245–46, 254. See also churches/Templum Domini Domesday Book 269, 337–51 Domesday Inquest 338, 340–42, 345–47 Domitian (AD 81–96) 12, 16; fig. 1.3 Donnchad, king of Meath (d. 797) 304 doors 224–40, 249, 263–64; pls 10.1, 10.2, 10.3, 10.4, 10.5; fig. 10.3. See also sculpture Dream of the Rood 68n.34 Drogheda, Ireland 312 druids 293, 298–301, 314 Dublin, Ireland 271–72, 275, 279, 281, 283, 286–87, 289–90, 305, 307, 312, 323 Dubhtach, bishop of Armagh (c.450–513)  80 Ducklington, England 370 Dunshaughlin, Ireland 294 Dyfrid of Caerleon, bishop (d. c.600) 106 Dyke Hills, England 370 Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne (d. 721)  52n.7 Early Irish literature 293–314 Easter 299 Edmund Spenser, poet (1552–99) 322 Egbert, archbishop of York (d. 766) 44 Egill 132 Egypt/ian 88, 189, 358, 363–64, 366, 375

Index Eligius of Noyon (588–660) 44 Elisabeth of Shönau, nun (1129–64) 156–58 England / English 7, 15–16, 29–46, 52, 53n.16, 55, 89, 93, 103, 121, 123–24, 128, 132, 133, 137, 145, 186, 269, 271, 283–84, 286, 307–8, 312–13, 318–27, 330–33, 338, 345–47, 350–51, 354–76. See also Anglo-Saxon epistemology 337, 339–51 Erhard Reuwich, artist (fl. 1480s) 250 Ernoul, chronicler (fl. 1187) 244–45 Eschaton 127–28 ethnography / ethnographic 357, 359, 361, 364, 366–67, 369, 371–372, 374 Étienne de Bourbon (1180–1261) 220–21 Euro-American 338 Euro-Western 339 Evangelists 251 portraits 187; pl. 12.1 symbols 70, 128, 141; fig. 6.3b Evans, Sir Arthur, archaeologist and curator (1851–1941) 369–75 Evans, Sir John, archaeologist (1823–1908)  371, 374, 375 The Faerie Queene 322 Fairford (graves), England 354, 355, 356, 369–70 fál 293, 304 Farfa, Italy 253 Fatimid 228 Faussett, Bryan, antiquary (1720–76) 354, 356, 357, 359, 362–65, 367, 369 Feast of the True Cross 244 Feast of Tara (Feis Temro) 313 Felix. See Life of Guthlac Ferdomnach, scribe (d. 846) 281, 302 Fíacc, Bishop of Sléibte 300 Fir Bolg 302 foliate ornament 62, 192, 233, 236; pl. 10.5. See also plant-scroll Foras Feasa ar Érinn 312, 313 Forbes, Henry Ogg, botanist and curator (1851–1932) 366 Frankenstein 320 Frankfurt, Germany 191 Franks, Augustus Wollaston, antiquary and curator (1826–97) 354, 357–61, 364, 371

385 Franks Casket 132, 136, 138, 141, 360; fig. 16.1 Freya 132 Friesland, Netherlands 15 Frilford, England 370 Fulrad, Abbot of San Denis (710–84) 196 Galloon, Ireland 76, 81, 83, 95; fig. 4.1 garnets 39–40, 56, 62, 66 Gatty, Charles Tindall, antiquary and curator (1851–1928) 359, 364, 365, 366–67, 371 Gauzfredus, craftsman 229 gems 10, 18, 21–24, 34, 41–42, 68, 272; pl. 1.1 Geoffrey of Monmouth, chronicler (d. c. 1155)  308 Georgia 121, 162, 162n.1, 163, 171, 174, 179–81 Gerald of Wales (Giraldus Camrensis), chronicler (c.1146–c.1223) 100–15, 308, 325n.38 Germany 10, 373 Germanic 10, 20, 55, 133 Gildas, chronicler (500–70) 308 Gilla Brighde Mac Con Midhe, poet (c.1210–72) 309 glass, millefiori 56, 66 vessels 20–21 Glencolumbkille, Ireland  114 Glendalough, Irealand 114 Goenpul 344 gold-and-garnet 29, 34, 37, 39–42, 56 Golden Gate, Le Puy 236–8, 262–64; fig. 10.4 Jerusalem 121, 237–38, 244–64; figs 11.1, 11.2, 11.3 Golgotha, Jerusalem 35, 253 Gormgal, abbot of Armagh and Clones (d. 806) 78 Gotland, Sweden 135–37 Great Britain 29 Greece 358 Gregory I, the Great, pope (c.540–604) 34, 115, 126–27 Grendel 269, 319–21, 322, 323–27, 328, 332 Grendel-kin 319, 324, 330 Grendel’s mother 269, 319–21, 327–30, 332–33 Gruffydd ap Cynan, King of Gwynedd (r. 1081–1137) 104 Guistillianus 103

386 Hand of God. See Manus Dei Haram. See Temple Mount Harran, Turkey 190 Harun al-Rashid, caliph (766–809) 188 Heaney, Seamus, poet (1939–2013) 269, 318–33 Heavenly Jerusalem  225 Helena, daughter of Constantine I (d. 360)  59 Hellenic 372 Hen Fynyw. See Old Menevia Henry I, emperor (919–36) 17 Henry II, king of England (1133–89) 307, 308; fig. 13.4 Heraclius, emperor (613–32) 24, 35, 244 Herod Antipas, tetrarch (20BC–AD39) 238 Hiberno-English 318, 319, 321, 332 Hisham, caliph (691–743) 197 Historia regum Brittaniae 308 Historia rerum Anglicarum 325 Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire  364, 365 Holy Land 171, 189, 235, 240, 264 Holy Week 258 Hrothgar 322, 327 Huneberc of Heidenheim, nun (fl. 760–780)  188 Hygelac 326 Iago 322 Iberia 221, 225, 226, 228 iconography 3, 7, 9, 10–25, 68–70, 76, 81–95, 123–42, 169–74, 176–82, 229–40 icons 171 identity 3, 31, 42, 45, 75, 163–81, 221, 226–29, 238–40, 354–76 Ilkley, England 133, 135 India 188 Indian 330, 337, 341, 343–44 Indian Reorganization (New Deal) Act (1934)  344 Indigenous North American peoples 337–51 Ingelheim, Germany 191, 192, 193 inscriptions 9–17, 122, 145–58, 163–65, 171–73, 193–94, 224–40, 264, 272, 278; pls 8.1, 10.1, 10.2, 10.3, 10.4, 10.5; figs 7.1a-b, 7.2a-b, 7.3, 8.3, 8.4, 10.3

Index interlace 56–57, 59, 62–63, 66, 68, 134, 230, 374 Invicta Roma. See Roma Invicta IRA 323, 324 Iran 179 Iraq 189, 212n.76 Ireland, Irish 51, 52, 55, 74–95, 103, 107, 108, 110, 114, 137, 271–90, 293–314, 318–34, 355 Isaac. See Sacrifice of. Islamic 121, 187, 188, 189, 196, 197, 221–40, 246, 247, 249, 253, 263, 264 Italy 21, 70n.43, 121, 186–213, 230 Italian 55, 199, 202, 223, 227, 372 Itinerarium Cambriae 106, 107 Ivo, bishop of Chartres (fl. 1111–15) 262 Jehosaphat, Jerusalem 245, 250, 255, 263 Jerusalem, Israel 103, 121, 188, 220, 225, 232, 233, 235, 236–37, 238, 240, 244–64; fig. 11.4 jewellery 29, 31, 32, 34, 36, 37, 39, 41 Jews 251 John I Tzimiskes (r. 969–76) 170, 172, 173, 174, 175–76, 180 John the Baptist 165, 166, 171, 172, 178–81; fig. 8.5 John, Lord of Ireland (1177–85) 307 John of Tynemouth (fl. c.1350) 113 Julian, the Apostate (331/2–63) 59 Jutes/ish 53, 364 Kells, Ireland 302 Kendrick, Thomas Downing (1895–1979)  51–53, 53n.15, 55, 59, 62, 360 Khirbat al-Mafjar, West Bank 190, 194, 196, 197, 212; fig. 9.1d Khirbat al-Minya, Galilee 190 Kilcolman Castle, Ireland 322, 327 Kilkenny, Ireland 284, 312 kingship  295–314 Kingsley, Charles, writer (1819–75) 324–25 Kingston Down brooch 367; pl. 16.1 Klein Roschaden, Germany 17 knotwork. See interlace Kufah, Iraq 190 kufic 226, 233, 235, 239, 264; pl. 10.5

Index Lanfranc, archbishop of Canterbury (1005×1010–89) 262 Lacnunga 39, 42 Lebor Gabála Érenn 308 Leechbook III 42 Leechbook of Bald 42, 44 Leeds, England 135 Leeds, Edward Thurlow, archaeologist (1877–1955)  371, 375 Leinster, Ireland 305 Leo Phokas, General (fl. 900–909)  171, 173 Le Puy-en-Velay, Haute Loire 220, 221, 225, 234, 239, 263. See also churches Leuven, Netherlands 312 Liber Revelationum Elisabeth de Sacro Exercitu Virginum Coloniensium  156 Life of Alfred 104 Life of Gruffydd ap Cynan 104 Life of St Caradoc 103 Life of St Columba 44 Life of St David 100–15 Life of St Guthlac 41 Life of St John and St Euthymios 174–75 Life of St Patrick 77, 77n.10, 78, 283, 298–301 Life of St Rumwold 112 liturgy 3, 121, 153, 189, 238–40, 244–45, 244n.1, 250–52, 253–55, 258–62 Liutprand, king of Lombardy (712–44) 190, 191n.25, 212 Liverpool Art Club 365, 367 Liverpool Museum/s 354, 355, 362–69, 371 Liverpool Free Public Museum 363 Lóigaire mac Neill, king of Tara (r. 428–58)  298–301, 305, 310, 314 Loki 132 Lombardy/ic 21, 24, 121, 186–87, 190, 193, 194, 196, 197, 199, 202, 204, 205, 208, 212, 213, 305 London, England 273, 277, 279, 280, 286, 289, 355, 363 Long Wittenham, England 370 Louis the German (806×810–76) 191 Louis the Pious (778–840) 14, 16–17, 191 Lubbock, John, banker and archaeologist (1834–1913) 359 Lug, god 293, 302 Lugnasad 302 Luxor, Egypt 199

387 Mabinogion 111 Máel Sechlainn mac Domnaill (d. 1022)  301–5, 306 Mals, Italy 196, 212 Manchester, England 135 manuscripts 155n.23, 177n.44, 192, 228, 255n.25, 269, 271–90, 314 Book of Armagh (Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 52) 77, 271, 280–83, 285, 289; fig. 12.4 Book of Dimma, Laebhr Dhimma (Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS A.IV. 23) 269, 271, 272–75, 280, 287, 289; pls 12.1, 12.2 Book of Durrow (Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 57) 51, 62, 283; pl. 3.3 Book of Kells (Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 58) 51, 283 Book of Leinster (Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 1339) 306; fig. 13.3 Book of Lismore (Cork, University College Library) 287 Book of Mulling (Dublin, Trinity College Library, MS 60) 272 Book of Uí Mhaine, Leabhar Uí Dhubhagáin (Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, MS D. ii. 1) 283–84, 287 Cathach, Caah (Dublin, Royal Irish Academy, MS 12 R 33) 269, 271, 272, 275, 276, 277–80, 284, 287 Connell’s Book 284–85, 287 Coronation Gospels (Vienna, Schatzkammer, inv. XII 18) 187 Durham Gospels (Durham, Cathedral Library, MS A.II.17) 69 Exeter Book (Exeter, Cathedral Library, MS 1) 126, 128 London, British Library, Cotton MS Vespasian A.XIV 102, 107, 108n.36 Lindisfarne Gospels (London, British Library, Cotton MS Nero C. IV) 51, 52n.7, 66, 67–69, 70; pl. 3.4 Metz Gospels (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, MS Lat. 9393) 208 Utrecht Psalter (Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, MS 32) 208 Vercelli Book (Vercelli, Biblioteca Capitolare di Vercelli, MS CXVII) 128

388 Manus Dei 89, 93, 176 maqsura 191 marbling 194, 196–202, 212 Marchélpot, France 14, 24 maristan of Qalā’ūn, Cairo 230–31 Martyrology of Oengus 78 Martyrology of Tallaght 92 Mason, Henry Joseph Monck, writer (1778–1858) 272, 275, 281 Massacre of the Innocents. See Christ material agency 9–25 Mayer, Joseph, antiquary (1803–86) 354, 362–69, 371 medallions 9, 10–11, 17–18, 24; fig. 1.5 Meic Lochlainn 305 Melanian 366, 369 memory 33, 37–38, 42–46, 150, 170, 181, 225, 245, 256–258, 264, 294–314 Menevia. See St David’s Merovingia/n 9, 12, 21n.51, 21n.54, 24, 189, 361 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 12, 14, 21 Míchaeál Ó Cléirigh, chronicler (c.1590–c.1643) 312 mihrab  191 mimesis 7, 33, 37–46 Miosach (Meeshac) 269, 271, 275–277, 280, 287, 289; fig. 12.2 monastery, monastic 52, 75, 100–01, 103, 107, 111, 114, 121, 123, 156, 162–81, 187, 191n.25, 193, 196, 253–54, 258–62, 272, 302, 350 Mongolian 366, 369 Moore, Thomas, botanist and curator (1821–87) 363 Morgan, J.P., banker and collector (1867–1943) 12 mosaics 55, 57, 59, 88, 202; figs 3.2, 3.3, 9.1d Moses, Old Testament prophet 308 mosques 166n.6, 190, 192, 222, 223, 249 Mount Athos, Greece 170, 174–75, 187 Mount of Olives, Jerusalem 245, 250, 251, 253, 254, 255, 255n.26 Mount Zion, Jerusalem 258 Mschatta, Amman, Jordan 190, 193 Muirchú moccu Machtheni 78, 298–301, 305

Index Muirchertach Ua Briain, king of Munster (c.1050–1119) 307, 308 Mullach Aite (Hill of Lloyd) 298 Munster, Ireland 301, 303, 305, 322 Murchad, king of Dublin (d.1070) 306 museums 354–76 Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, Cambridge 29 Museum of Art and History, Geneva 170 Museum of English History 369 Museum of Foreign and National Antiquities, Liverpool 363 Museum of Mankind, London 359 Museum of National Antiquities 369 Museum of Trinity College, Dublin 272 Muslim/s 220–21, 223, 224, 227, 228, 229, 232, 233, 239–40, 253 Näşir-I Khusraw, writer (fl. 1047) 249 National Museum of Ireland, Dublin 277, 280 nationalism 321, 331, 356, 360, 365–66, 375 Native 338–51 Natural History Museum, London 359 Natural History Museum, Oxford 371 Navan, Ireland 294 Navan Fort (Emain), Ireland 296 Near East 121, 188, 189, 193, 194, 213, 358 Nennius, chronicler (b. 769) 308 Newport, Wales 308 Nicholas of Poggibonsi, friar (fl. 1345–50)  250, 263 Niederbreisig, Germany (brooch) 12, 14; fig. 1.4 Nikephorus II Phokas (r. 963–69) 170, 171n.19, 172, 173–75, 180 Nimrud, Iraq 360 Niðhad 128, 131, 140 Nonnita. See St Non Norman 100, 105, 108, 110, 227, 307, 308–12, 325n.38, 338, 339, 346–49, 350, 351, 358. See also Anglo-Norman North America 338 Novum Inventorium Sepulchrale 356 O’Donovan, John (1806–61) 314 object biography 1, 10, 19–20 Ocha (Faughan Hill), Ireland 298 Óenach Tailten 301–5, 306

Index Oklahoma, USA 343 Old English 39, 53 n.16 laws 348 literature 38, 40, 374 poetry 38, 40–42, 43, 44–45, 126–27, 128–31, 133, 137, 318–34 Old Menevia 104–5, 107, 108; fig. 5.2 Old Norse, literature 128–32, 137, 140 Oshki, Georgia 121, 162–81 Otley, England 133, 135 Ottonian  14, 17, 21 Oxford, England 354, 369, 370, 371, 373 Paderborn, Germany 191 pagan 42, 51, 52, 62, 123, 126, 172, 298, 300 Palm Sunday 238–40, 244–45, 251, 253–56, 258–62, 263, 264 Parker, James, antiquary (1832/3–1912) 369 Parker, John, archaeologist (1774?–1850)  369–70 Parousia 68, 69 Passio (I–II) 155 Paul the Deacon, chronicler (d. 799) 190 Penitentials 44 Persia/ns 194, 244, 249 Petrie, George (1790–1866) 314 Pfahlheim, Germany 24 phenomenology 29–46 Pierre III, bishop of Solignac (1145–56) 229, 236 Pierre IV, bishop of Solignac (1169–89?)  229, 236 pins 31, 110 Pippin III, of Francia (714–68) 212 Pitt Rivers Museum, Oxford 371 plant-scroll 133–4, 186n.2, 192 Porth Mawr (Whitsands Bay) 109, 110 post-colonial 319–33 prayer 7, 68, 249 Pretty, Edith, landowner (1883–1942) 360 Psalter of Tara 312 Qasr al-Hyr al-Gharbi, Syria 193, 197, 199, 210 Qasr al-Hayr al-Sharqi, Syria 190 Qasr al-Walid, Jordan 194; fig. 9.1b Qasr Shuqayra al Garbiyya, Jordan 202, 212; pl. 9.1d

389 Qur’an 228 Qusasyr ‘Amra, Jordan 197, 199, 202–4, 210, 212; pl. 9.1b; figs 9.2b, 9.3b, 9.4a, 9.6 qibla 192 Raleigh, Sir Walter, poet (1552–1618) 322 Ralph of Diss, chronicler (c.1120–c.1202)  308 Ramsey Island, Wales 101, 108, 110, 113n.65; fig. 5.1 Ratchis, king of Lombardy (r. 744–749)  212 Rathcroghan (Cruachu), Ireland 296 Raymond d’Aguilers, canon of Le Puy (fl. 1096–99) 220–21 Raymond Saint-Gilles, Count of Toulouse (1041×1042–1105) 221 Reformation 311 relics 100, 103, 105, 112–14, 145–47, 149, 153, 156–57, 171, 174, 189, 202, 276, 279, 290, 372 reliquaries 21, 145n.3, 170–71, 173n.28, 174n.31, 275–76, 275n.23, 277–80. See also book shrines Resafa, Syria 197 rings 21, 24; pl. 1.1c–d Roach Smith. See Smith Rolfe, William Henry, collector (1779–1859)  364, 365 Roma Invicta 9, 10–12, 24 Roman 7, 9–25, 51, 53, 55, 57, 59, 62, 111, 133, 135, 145n.3, 151, 154, 155, 169, 170, 179, 191, 193, 197, 199, 202, 204, 212, 213, 223, 244, 246–47, 260, 305, 308, 338, 359, 360, 361, 367, 369 emperor/s 9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 17, 24, 35, 170, 172, 244, 253 empire  9–25, 59 Romano-British 359, 371 Rome 9–25, 52, 80, 92, 95, 106, 145, 150, 151, 187, 193, 213, 358 imperial 7, 9, 12 personification 9, 10–12, 24; fig. 1.1 Rhygyfarch ap Sulien, bishop of St David’s (1057–99) 100–15 Rhys, Jean, writer (1890–1979) 322, 333 Rogationtide 128 Royal Commission (1850) 354

390 Sacrifice of Isaac 7, 83–95; pl. 4.1; fig. 4.5 Saint David’s, Wales 100–15; figs 5.1, 5.2 saints 74, 95, 170, 171, 202, 204–5, 272, 294 Agnes (Agnese) 151–52 Athanasios 170, 175 Brigit 303 Columba (Colum Cille) 44, 51, 271, 278, 279, 302 Columbanus 277 David 3, 7, 8, 100–15 George 171 Kevin 114 Michael (Malenios) 175 Non 102, 112, 113 Patrick 77, 78, 102, 107, 111, 283, 285, 297–301, 303, 314 Rumwold 112 Sidoine 88 Tigernach 78, 80–81, 95 Ursula 122, 145, 155 Saladin, sultan (1137–93) 235, 245 Salerno, Italy 190, 193, 199 Samhain 313 Samson of Dol (d. 565) 106 Sanctus, Welsh king 102 San Vincenzo al Volturno, Italy 193, 196, 197, 199, 212; pl. 9.1a, c; fig. 9.2a Saxon/s 52, 62, 103, 305, 358, 364, 373 Scandinavia/n  121, 123–24, 128, 132–33, 135–41, 373 Scotland 53n.16, 80, 88n.29, 89, 355 sculpture 69–70, 74–76, 78, 79–95, 121, 123–43, 162–81 Arboe, cross 93n.45, 94n.49 Ardre, picture-stone (VIII) 135–140; fig. 6.5 Armagh, cross 78, 81–83, 88–95; pl. 4.1a; fig. 4.2 Bradbourne, cross  69–70 Camus, cross  93n.45 Castledermot, cross  93n.45 Clematius, inscription  122, 145–58; figs 7.1, 7.3 Clones, cross  81, 88–95; pl. 4.1b; fig. 4.2 Collingham, crosses 133 Damasus, inscription 151, 152; fig. 7.2 Donaghmore, cross (Tyrone)  93n.45, 94 Durrow, cross 93

Index Galloon, crosses (East and West) 88–95; pl. 4.1c–d; fig. 4.4 Graiguenamanagh, cross  93n.45, 94n.49 Ilkley, crosses 127, 128, 133–34, 141; figs 6.3a–b, 6.4 Kells, crosses 93n.45 Killary, cross  93n.45, 94 Leeds, cross  124–42; figs 6.1, 6.2 Le Puy, Infancy doors 224–40; pls 10.1, 10.2, 10.3, 10.4, 10.5 Passion doors 229–30, 236; fig. 10.3 Monasterboice, Tall cross 93n.45 Moone. cross 93n.45, 94 Newent. cross 88n.29, 89n.31; fig. 4.5b Oshki, Deisis (donor portraits) 163, 170, 171, 178; fig. 8.3 stelae  166–69, 172–73, 176–81; figs 8.4, 8.5, 8.6 Otley, crosses 133 Reculver, column fragment  88n.29; fig. 4.5d Sandbach, cross (North) 70 tituli, Cologne 122, 155–57, 158 tituli, Le Puy 229, 232 Wirksworth, sarcophagus cover 70 The Seafarer 41 Seán Mac William Burke, lord of Mayo (d. 1580) 311 Seminole 343 Seneca 344 Sens, France 189 Sermo in Natali 149–50, 153, 155, 158 Shakespeare, William (1564–1616) 322, 325 Shelley, Mary, writer (1797–1851) 320 Shield Sheafson 327, 329n.51, Shropham, Norfolk 15, 16 signum crucis 32 Sicily 225, 227, 228 Skåne, Sweden 140 Smith, Charles Roach, antiquarian and archaeologist (1807–90) 354, 355, 356, 358, 359, 362, 363, 371 Sol Invictus 14 Solomon, Old Testament king 238, 249, 263, 305, 308 sovereignty 301, 305–307, 309, 311–312, 339–51 Standlake, England 370

Index

391

stucco 55, 192, 194–96, 202, 210, 212; fig 9.1c style 29, 45, 51–66, 123–24, 133–35, 135–41, 162–69, 186–223, 229, 237–40 Suleiman, sultan (1494–1566) 247, 250 Sulien, bishop of St David’s (d. 1090/91)  103, 104 Sutton Hoo, England 360–62 buckle  fig. 16.2a sceptre  fig. 16.2b shoulder clasps  56–57, 66; pl. 3.1 Syria 171n.19, 174, 188

transition 32, 45, 133–42 translation 1–4, 9–25, 29–46, 51–70, 83–95, 100–15, 176, 227–40, 269, 280, 293–312, 318–34 transmission 1–4, 7, 83–95, 100, 108–15, 121–22, 123–42, 145–58, 162–81, 186–213, 293–314, 318–34, 337–51 Trewhiddle Hoard 360 Tylor, Edward, anthropologist (1832–1917)  359 Þiðrekssaga af Bern 128, 131–32, 137, 140

Tadhg Dall ÓhUiginn, poet (d. 1591) 311 Tailtiu, goddess 302, 303, 306 Taplow (burial), England 360 Tara (Teamhair), Ireland 3, 269, 293–314; pl. 13.1, 13.2; figs 13.1, 13.2, 13.3 Tarsus, Turkey 174, 174n.31 Tartus, Syria 188 Teagosc na Rígh 312 Teltown (Tailtiu), Ireland 298, 302, 303, 305–306, 309, 310 Temple, of Jerusalem 251, 253, 263 Temple Mount (Haram), Jerusalem  246, 253, 254 Teutonic 53, 373 textiles 136, 138, 145n.3, 189, 226, 227, 228, 239 Thames Valley 370 Theodora, empress (wife of Tzimiskes b. c.946) 175 Theodore, archbishop of Canterbury (602–90) 32 Theodulf, bishop of Orléans (750–821) 196 Thiodericus, custos of Deutz (d. c.1164)  156–57 Tírechán, bishop 76, 78, 283, 298 Tissø, Denmark 139 tituli. See sculpture Tlachtga (Hill of Ward), Ireland 298 Togail Bruidru Da Derga 301 Topographia Hibernica 106 Toirdelbach Ua Conchobair, king of Connacht (1106–56) 306 Tornikos, John, patrikios (d. 985) 174–75 Tradescant, John (the Younger), collector (1608–1662) 371, 372 transformation 9–25, 45, 246

Uí Briain 305 Uí Chennselaig 305 Uí Chonchobair 305 Ua Máel Sechlainn (d. 1127) 306 Uí Néills 293–94, 301, 309 Uisneach (Hill of), Ireland 296 Ukhaydir, Iraq 190 Ulster, Ireland 76, 305 Ulster King of Arms 271, 281, 284, 286, 289 Umayyad 187, 190, 191n.24, 192, 193–94, 196–97, 199, 202, 204, 208, 210n.75, 212, 213, 246 United States, of America 338, 342, 343, 344, 346, 347, 348 Uppåkra, Sweden 138, 140 Uppåkra mount 138–40; pl. 6.1 Urban II, pope (1120–87) 220 Vallis Rosina 103, 105, 106, 107. 108 Viking/s 103, 239, 322 vine-scroll. See plant-scroll Virgin Mary 165, 169, 170, 171, 174, 175, 176, 178, 180, 208; fig. 8.4 and Child 166, 172–73, 186n.2; fig. 8.4 Mother of God 170, 172n.26, 174 veil 226 Visitation. See Christ Vetus Rubus. See Vallis Rosina Völundarkviða 128, 131, 137, 140 Wales 100–15, 355 Wayland’s Smithy, England 375 Weland, the Smith 121, 126–28, 128–33, 374; figs 6.1b Wells, H.G., writer (1866–1946) 320, 322 West Africa 364

392 Wheatley, England 370, 375 Whithorn, Scotland 80 Wiesbaden-Dotzheim, Germany 10, 11 Willibald, bishop of Eichstätt (700–787) 188 William I, of England (c.1028–87) 339, 348, 349, 350 William of Newburgh, chronicler (1136–98)  325 Windsor pommel 373, 374; fig. 16.3 World Museum/s 354–76 Liverpool 363

Index Wright, Thomas, antiquarian (1810–77) 364 Wylie, William, antiquary (d. 1887) 354, 356, 369 Yelford, England 370 York, England 101, 135 Zaccharias, Annunciation to 205–8; fig. 9.5a