Nuns’ Literacies in Medieval Europe: The Antwerp Dialogue

By Julie Somers

Against the backdrop of the beautiful convent of the Grauwzusters in Antwerp, Belgium the third and final interdisciplinary conference on ‘Nun’s Literacies’ took place June 4 – 7, 2013. Brought together by the pursuit to uncover the literary culture of medieval nuns, scholars (including me!) from a variety of countries presented their research on the texts nuns wrote, read and exchanged ranging from the eighth to the sixteenth centuries. Connected by the thread of textual transmission, many papers spoke to the rich networks that medieval nuns cultivated which in turn revealed various reading practices throughout the centuries.

Convent of the Grauwzusters

Several of the papers focused on the book culture of Birgittine nuns. Anne Mette Hansen (Københavns Universitet) presented ‘Nuns’ Prayers in the Birgittine Abbey of Maribo’ and Eva Sandgren (Upppsala Universitet) spoke on the ‘Birgittine Diffusion of Design: The Circulation of Ideas of Form in some Birgittine Convents’, while a third paper by Mary Erler (Fordham University), kindly presented by Veronica O’Mara, discussed the ‘Transmission of Birgittine Images from Flanders to England’. All three papers concentrated on the transmission of books and the influence of contacts with other Birgittine houses on the physical appearance of images and texts.

There were also a number of papers on the book culture of Franciscan tertiary sisters in the sixteenth century with a presentation by Almut Breitenbach (Georg-August-Universität Göttingen) and Stefan Matter (Universität Freiburg) titled ‘Image, Text and the Sisters’ Minds: Franciscan Tertiaries Rewriting Stephan Fridolin’s “Schatzbehalter”’. Sabrina Corbellini (Universiteit Groningen) spoke about ‘Literacy, Books and Reading in Communities of Tertiaries: the Informieringheboeck by Jan de Wael (1510)’, while Alison More (Radboud Universiteit Nijmegen) presented her paper ‘Identity, Preaching and Literacy: The Emergence of a Textual Identity in Houses of Franciscan Tertiary Women’. Each presentation brought to light the individual choices made by women in regard to reading preferences, whether through adaptation or reception of a text.

Further exploring the networks of nuns’ textual transmission, Anne Jenny-Clark’s (Universite de Lille, 3) presentation on ‘The Noble Women’s Chapter of Sainte-Waudru’s Collegiate in Mons (Hainaut): The Transmission of Books between Canonesses’ traced the textual evidence of books passed down by canonesses to other female members of the chapter. Melissa Moreton (University of Iowa) discussed ‘Exchange and Alliance: The Sharing and Gifting of Books in Women’s Houses in Late Medieval Italy’ where she examined the alliances formed within and between women’s houses through the activity of book exchange.

As the conference title suggests, the literacy of medieval nuns was a primary topic and Helene Scheck (University of Albany) in her paper ‘Aristotle at Gandersheim’ considered the books likely available to nuns in tenth-century Gandersheim, Germany, and their influence on women’s learning and literacy. Similarly, Julie Smith (University of Sydney) spoke of the foundational texts that shaped the reading practices of Clarissan nuns in the thirteenth century in her paper ‘Faciat eas litteras edoceri: Literacy and Learning in the Clarissan formae vitae’. Blanca Gari (Universitat de Barcelona) uncovered the vernacular reading development of nuns in Spain during the thirteenth through the fifteenth centuries in her presentation, ‘What did the Catalan Nuns Read? Women’s Literacy in the Monasteries of Catalonia, Valencia, and Mallorca’.

Finally, the scribal activity of medieval nuns was examined by Veronica O’Mara (University of Hull) in her presentation on ‘Investigating the Texts in Nuns’ Manuscripts in Late Medieval England’ where she compared devotional texts written and/or composed by women in the late fifteenth century while Patricia Stoop (Universiteit Antwerpen) discussed the ‘The Teaching of the Young: The Middle Dutch Sermon Collections from the Cartusian Convent of Sint-Anna-ter-Woestijne near Bruges’, where she explored the formation of a female scribal redactor and her influence on manuscripts used for the teaching of young sisters. Further, I, Julie Somers (Universiteit Leiden) presented ‘The Butcher, the Baker and the Manuscript Maker: Nuns’ Role in Twelfth-Century Textual Production’ where I focused on the physical features of manuscripts produced by nun-scribes in twelfth-century Germany.

Detail of Folio 61r, The Burnet Psalter (MS 25), University of Aberdeen

In all, four days of enlightening and wonderfully presented papers, this conference brought together international scholars with the purpose of furthering our understanding of nuns’ literacies in the middle ages. It was a wonderful experience to participate in this conference and develop my own network through academic exchange with the great group of delegates who attended. To learn more, summaries of all the presentations and the program with a full list of titles are available on the website. Also, a published volume of the papers presented will be forthcoming from Brepols Publishers. The first volume, ‘The Hull Dialogue’ is already available for purchase.

The first conference on ‘Nuns’ Literacies in Medieval Europe’ took place at the University of Hull from 20–23 June 2011, the second was hosted by the University of Missouri-Kansas City from 5–8 June 2012, and the third was organized at the Ruusbroec Institute of the Universiteit Antwerpen from 4–7 June 2013.

Malcolm B. Parkes, Palaeographer (1930-2013)

By David Ganz

David Ganz is Visiting Professor of Palaeography at the University of Notre Dame and a Research Associate of Darwin College Cambridge.

M.B. Parkes in his Oxford study

Malcolm Parkes, FSA, died on 10 May 2013 at the age of eighty-three. He had been a Fellow of Keble College from 1965 to 1997, teaching Old and Middle English. He also taught palaeography to generations of Oxford graduate students, in recognition of which he was appointed to a personal Chair in Palaeography at the University. A student of Neil Ker, the finest English manuscript scholar since Humfrey Wanley (first keeper of the Harley Collection, now at the British Library, in the early eighteenth century), Parkes’ thesis was on the development of Secretary script and drawing on it, in 1969 he wrote the authoritative account of English cursive book hands.

His terminology and analysis have shaped countless editions of Middle English texts. His book Pause and Effect: An Introduction to the History of Punctuation in the West, was a superbly lucid treatment of a standard feature of all manuscripts that had seldom been explored, memorable for its plates showing how the same passage was punctuated in different ways at different dates and how that revealed the various ways in which it was understood. His Lyell lecture series entitled ‘“Their hands before our eyes”: a closer look at scribes’, not only offered a substantial prosopography of English scribes and the manuscripts they copied, it also revealed how palaeography could develop from giving names to different scripts to exploring the process of copying and the ways in which scribes envisioned the scripts which they chose to write.

All of his books had exemplary glossaries, demonstrating a precision of terminology derived from a deep understanding of how best to put into words what a palaeographer sees and how he understands it. His distinction between Letter Shape and Letter Form, and his notions of Decorum and Chiaroscuro, offer new and better ways of understanding script. And his lavishly illustrated Catalogue of the Manuscripts of Keble College set a very high standard for the cataloguing of manuscripts. His work with Ian Doyle on the earliest manuscripts of The Canterbury Tales remains a classic, as does his lecture on ‘The Scriptorium of Wearmouth-Jarrow’ and his convincing dating of the Oxford manuscript of the Chanson de Roland (which some French scholars found hard to acknowledge as a book copied in England, and perhaps even in Oxford). His article on Compilatio and Ordinatio set experts on scholastic theology and Chaucer scholars looking at the same manuscripts.

But above all he had the gift of the trenchant maxim. His first lectures on punctuation, for example, were titled ‘What’s the Point?’; and his explanation of the Rule of Gregory included the English comic song the Hokey Pokey (‘You put the hair side in, you put the flesh side out, in out in out shake it all about…’) His recognition that scribal discipline depended on a particular sense of monastic discipline, his suggestion that Peter Gumbert’s analysis of ruling could be called ‘The Rake’s Progress’, showed the creative of a master of Gaia Scienza. Where else does one learn ‘It is easy to imitate another’s letter-forms, it is much more difficult to imitate their spaces’?

There are many fine anecdotes to be shared. For example how he would talk manuscripts through the night and how he locked himself out of his Volvo (which was large enough to hold a complete set of the Codices Latini Antiquiores) in Reims. He explained to a passing gendarme: “Je suis un maître cambrioleur anglais, formé à Oxford” (I am an English master burglar, trained in Oxford). Best of all is the story of how he once fell asleep in lecture which he was giving, woke rapidly but did not know what the lecture was about, so he leaned over the shoulder of an earnest American student, read the last line of her notes aloud, and carried on. Like all great teachers, he had a sense of the theatre.

Malcolm had an international reputation and was elected to the Comité international de paléographie latine in 1986 and as a Corresponding Fellow of the Medieval Academy of America in 1992; as visiting Professor, he taught in Konstanz, Minneapolis and Harvard. He was tremendously generous with his time, patiently and carefully helping countless pupils and colleagues to express themselves more clearly and effectively. His work is a reminder that, in the age of digital palaeography and its supposedly scientific advances, there is no substitute for constant contact with manuscripts, and for an ability to do more than describe them. Tables of page sizes may enable us to distinguish books from different centres, but we are entitled to ask why a particular scribe or patron chose a particular format to copy a particular text. Sadly books are for reading, not just for looking at the scripts or the pictures.

Never content with descriptive palaeography, Malcolm Parkes asked many new questions and succeeded in answering them in ways that made the study of manuscripts at once more insightful and more exciting. At his funeral a Keble College Book of Hours which he had catalogued lay open on his coffin. Sit sibi terra levis.

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Postscriptum by Medievalfragments – A commemoration of M.B. Parkes by another scholar, David Rundle (Oxford), can be read here. To get a sense of Parkes’ strengths, scope and eye for detail, read his Robert F. Metzdorf Memorial Lecture (1987) here. A list with many of his publications is found here.

A Look at Last Week’s Medieval and Early Modern ‘Words, Words, Words’

By Jenneka Janzen

It’s taken for granted that learning or working in another language requires some use of a bilingual dictionary. Our favourite online dictionary or translation app relies on established tradition and innovative technology in organizing and presenting information. What does this tradition look like? What were some of its past technologies?

Last Friday, May 31^st, I attended Words, Words, Words: Medieval and Early Modern Dictionaries at Leiden University. Organized as part of a larger Leiden-Oxford Twin Cities week-long event, the colloquium featured several excellent speakers on Western wordlists and glossaries spanning from the 8^th century through the 17^th century.

The first lecturer was Ed van der Vlist, Curator of Manuscripts at the Koninklijke Bibiotheek Den Haag, who presented a number of medieval manuscripts or fragments featuring Dutch-Latin word-lists. One, Den Haag, KB, 131 F8, (XIV^½, Holland) started as a list of Latin synonyms, but began to replace the synonyms with Dutch words. This suggests the list’s intended function as a reference tool designed to clarify difficult or unfamiliar words by providing simpler alternatives. Perhaps, van der Vlist suggested, the author realized the futility of replacing one unknown Latin word with another unfamiliar Latin word, and instead decided to employ his native tongue. Interestingly, this wordlist includes several Dutch words not witnessed in any other text.

A wordlist including Dutch in the Leiden University Collection. Photo courtesy Julie Somers.

Leiden University’s Rolf Bremmer demonstrated how, despite appearing a rather ‘dry’ genre, glossaries are of unique value. With a tradition at least as old as c. 2300 BCE, they are among the earliest witnesses of vernacular in the West, and offer clues to the subjects and texts studied where they were made. Bremmer helpfully outlined different uses for a glossary (i.e. reading in an unfamiliar language, clarifying now-obsolete words in your own language, and understanding jargon), as well as five possible categories: scattered interlinear or marginal gloss; continuous interlinear gloss; glossae collectae; alphabetical glossaries; and class/subject glossaries. He then provided enlightening (and very entertaining) examples of each type. One example (Leiden, VLQ 106, f. 10r) from Northern France c. 900, provides marginal translation of Anglo-Saxon terms for several different types of female elves. Another, the famous Vespasian Psalter (London, British Library, Cotton Vespasian A. I, c. 820), is the earliest extant biblical translation into English.

The Vespasian Psalter, f.30v–31, 8th c., Kent. Note the Old English interlinear gloss.

Paul Hoftijzer of Leiden University and the Bibliotheca Thysiana  provided an intriguing history of the first English-Dutch dictionaries within the context of the extremely close, and sometimes antagonistic, relationship between the two powerful Early Modern empires. He explained how the first English-Dutch dictionary was compiled by Henry Hexham, an English military man living in the Netherlands, in 1647/8. Hexham intended his dictionary for the use of students and merchants, but had a greater vision of promoting, through mutual understanding, unity between the Protestant English and Dutch against their Catholic enemies. A subsequent bilingual dictionary was published in 1691 by Willem Sewel, an Amsterdam author, scholar, and translator. Unlike Hexham, Sewel’s work was unmotivated by ideology. His comprehensive dictionary enjoyed multiple editions over the next century. Several copies can be found in the Leiden University Special Collections.

A Sewel English-Dutch dictionary in the Leiden University collection. Photo courtesy Julie Somers.

The keynote speaker was Rosamond McKitterick of Cambridge University. A (or the) leading expert in Carolingian written and intellectual culture, she introduced us to a number of Carolingian wordlists in the Leiden University Library. One particular example was especially impressive: Leiden, VLQ 69 is a broad compendium of encyclopaedic knowledge, including a 48-set glossary compiled in St Gall c. 800. She demonstrated an intriguing co-relation between the subjects contained in the manuscript, and the known contents of St Gall’s contemporary library. McKitterick then introduced us to St Gall’s Winithar, a scribe of unknown origins whose hand appears in at least seven extant manuscripts and several charters starting c. 760. Winithar is no mere copyist, but rather a designer of books and compiler of information according to the interests and needs of his brothers. His work includes Codex Sangallensis 238, a 493 page wordlist in quasi-alphabetical order. McKitterick demonstrates that Winithar is an early proponent of a pronounced late 8th-century trend towards the compilation of knowledge and interest in words that is a key feature of Carolingian intellectual pursuit.

Winithar’s AB-alphabetical wordlist. St. Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 238, p. 2.

Admittedly, I’ve spent little time prior to this colloquium considering dictionaries, wordlists, or glossaries. They are, however, a fascinating insight into the interests and needs of readers across time and space. Further, the various physical presentations of information on the page demonstrate noteworthy technological developments in organizing and expressing knowledge, a topic that many (from codicologists to computer programmers, for instance) will no doubt find engaging.

(On the topic of technological advances in the presentation of knowledge: Words Words Words was opened by Kurt de Belder, Director of Leiden University Library, who presented a number of new technological initiatives designed to ramp up availability of digital materials for research and teaching. Successful recent projects at Leiden University Library (such as Early Dutch Books Online, developed in partnership with University of Amsterdam and the Koninklijke Bibliotheek Den Haag) anticipate larger digital material database projects currently underway with other top Dutch universities.)

Uncovering the Secrets of Leiden University Library: BPL 193 and its Owners

By Marjolein de Vos

Marjolein, a student of Leiden University’s MA in Book and Digital Media Studies, is currently an intern on the ‘Turning over a New Leaf’ project.

For my internship project “Cataloguing the Twelfth Century Western Medieval Manuscripts in Leiden’s University Library” I get the amazing opportunity to study around 250 manuscripts from the Bibliothecae Publicae Latini (BPL) collection. Every codex or fragment is, of course, very special and over 800 years old. For my project I focus on studying the script features in order to determine the age and the country in which the manuscript was produced. However, each manuscript holds a whole history of users that also opened the pages and learned from them. I find it fascinating to think about what roads this manuscript wandered before it came to rest in the vaults of Leiden’s University Library.

I believe that every manuscript deserves intensive studying to uncover all its secrets and provenance. Although I wish could carry out provenance research for every codex from the BPL collection that I study, there is simply not enough time. However, when I came across BPL 193 (12^th century, Unknown origins [Germany?]) I decided to do a simple search for the ownership inscription on folio 1 verso since the secondary literature I am using for this project did not mention anything about it. BPL 193 is a composite manuscript, containing Sallust’s (86-35 BC) Bellum Catilinarium and Bellum Iugurthinum (in two separate parts by two hands). Furthermore, it has some nice mappae mundi on the first few folios.

Mappa Mundi with ownership inscription. Leiden University Library, BPL 193, f. 1r.

Among these maps we find the ownership information. It turned out that BPL 193 was possibly owned by the Dutch writer and politician Philips of Marnix, Lord of St. Aldegonde (1540-1598). For some time, he was accredited with the authorship of the Dutch national anthem. His library held around 1600 volumes, including 28 medieval manuscripts. In July 1599 his library was auctioned and it appears that a certain “Helias Putschius” purchased BPL 193 in this period. This is the second inscription in this manuscript  (visible above) and could refer to Elias of Putschen (1580-1606), a Dutch historian, philologist and poet. In 1599 he was studying in Leiden and possibly bought the Sallust manuscript then.

Putschen’s later life reveals why he had an interest in BPL 193. In 1602 he published an edition of the collected works by Sallust, printed by Raphelengius and Plantin in Leiden. What role BPL 193 played exactly in the development of this printed edition, is something that remains a matter of speculation. Still, it is fascinating to think that this particular manuscript may have played a part in the creation of this print edition. It appears that after Putschen, the codex either was sold at an auction to Leiden University or donated to the library’s collection.

Leiden University Library BPL 193, initial detail, f. 3r

BPL 193 is just one manuscript, and what I discussed here covers only a fraction of its lifespan. There are so many more incredible life stories of manuscripts to be told and not only from the Leiden collections. There is much to learn from these books about history and culture. It gives me much pleasure to be able to contribute to manuscript research with my internship project and I hope that the information that I collect will be used for further research.

Sources:

Brouwer, Catalogue of the library of Philips van Marnix van Sint-Aldegonde (Nieuwkoop: De Graaf, 1964)

Molhuysen, Codices Bibliothecae Publicae Latini (1912)

I Love Paris in the Springtime… A User’s Guide to the BnF

By Irene O’Daly

Say the words Bibliothèque nationale de France to any manuscript researcher and it tends to invite a series of anecdotes – usually horror stories about long days trawling through blurry microfilms, refusals of access to manuscripts, and its somewhat unique bureaucratic arrangements. So, while I was excited about the prospect of spending a few days researching in Paris this month, I was also feeling a little nervous about whether I would actually get to see the manuscripts I wanted to examine, and whether I would come out sane at the other end. Luckily, things went better than I expected they would and I thought making some notes on the experience might be of help to other researchers preparing to brave the experience.

First, before you go it’s recommended to fill out a ‘pre-admission’ form. I received a prompt automatic response with a registration number, which, if nothing else, is something useful to brandish when you eventually get to the Library’s admissions desk. I also emailed the Manuscripts Department with a description of my research and a list of the manuscripts I wished to consult, Although I didn’t receive a reply, it was useful to be able to say that I had made contact.

The majority of the manuscripts at the BnF are housed at the Richelieu site (5 Rue Vivienne). Within ten minutes walk from the Louvre (though the picturesque grounds of the Palais Royale) it’s a beautiful building.

Daily commute through the gardens of the Palais Royal © wikipedia.org

A general reader’s ticket is issued for 3 days, 15 days, or a year. If, like me, you’re there for a week, it’s possible to get a three-day ticket, then renew it, which works out much cheaper than paying for the 15 day pass. The manuscripts reading room (Galerie Mazarine) is upstairs in the building. At this point, things get a little complicated. You present yourself at the desk at the manuscript reading room and hand over your card. You’re given a red plastic plaque with a number on it, and a locker key with a different number on it. You’re also given a blue paper slip, which essentially serves as your temporary card allowing you to leave and re-enter the reading room as you need. You put your belongings in the locker and then go back into the manuscript room and find the desk with the same number as on the red plastic plaque. At this point, dazzled by all the numbers and the stunning decoration of the room, you proceed to request the manuscripts that you want to see.

Manuscript Reading Room © http://www.bnf.fr

I had identified prior to the trip which manuscripts were online, and looked up the catalogue numbers of those which had been microfilmed. I decided to request some items that hadn’t been microfilmed first, then to take the time to look at microfilms each day prior to requesting permission to view the originals. Of course, leaving the manuscript room requires returning the red plaque, the blue slip, and the locker key, before heading downstairs to the main reading room (Salle Ovale), to get a different blue slip and a new red plaque assigning a place at a microfilm machine. The microfilm service is incredibly efficient (maximum of five requests a day) and they bring the reels your desk. While it’s never pleasant to go through reels of black and white images of manuscripts, it is a good way to determine how vital it is to examine the manuscript in person.

Salle Ovale BnF © http://www.wikipedia.org

Armed with the knowledge that I had garnered as much information as possible from the microfilms, I headed back up to the manuscript room each day and requested permission to see the originals from the central desk in the room. The information needed to support the request varied depending on the librarian on duty. Sometimes I was required to provide extensive information on my studies, qualifications, what codicological and palaeographical information I needed, what folios I was interested in. Sometimes it was sufficient to simply say that I had seen the microfilm and it wasn’t sufficient for my research, without further elaboration. If the manuscript is in the ‘Grand Reserve’ it’s necessary to fill out a purple form providing additional information for examination by the Chief Conservator. Once the request is made, it takes some time to receive confirmation (often provided in person by one of the librarians from the stacks, but also sent by email). When confirmation is received, you still have to submit the request form (at the entry desk) – but at that point, it doesn’t matter whether you request it that day, or whenever best suits.

I found the library’s set-up a bit baffling, but the staff were generally very helpful and patient with my French and perpetual confusion between request-slip types and desk plaques. Fueled by the incredibly sugary vending machine coffee, I felt I eventually got the hang of how to make the requests (and how to work the retro microfilm machines). In defence of the access policy of the BnF’s manuscript section, I was refused permission to see only one of over twenty manuscripts requested (as its binding was in bad condition). While the process of gaining access takes time, it’s a reminder that getting to see this material is a privilege in the first place, and one I’m very lucky to have had.

The Last of the Great Chained Libraries

By Jenny Weston

On a beautiful sunny day last week, the Turning Over a New Leaf project team decided to take a day off from the office to visit a spectacular chained library in the small town of Zutphen (located in the eastern part of the Netherlands). Built in 1564 as part of the church of St Walburga, it is one of only five chained libraries in the world that survive ‘intact’—that is, complete with the original books, chains, rods, and furniture.

Needless to say, it was a rather surreal moment for all of us to step into the little room to see the dark-wood lecterns, upon which were placed (in neat rows, side-by-side) beautiful 15th- and 16th-century books, secured in place by metal chains.

Chained Library in Zutphen

Looking closer, it is possible to see just how the chained-library system works. Each book is fitted with a metal clasp, usually on the back cover, and then a metal chain is attached and strung through a long metal rod. The rod is then locked in place either to a lectern (or to a bookcase, depending on the library).

Book chained to a long metal rod in Zutphen

During the later middle ages, more and more people were interested in reading, and chained libraries provided an excellent resource for those who could not afford to purchase books themselves. The system of locking the books to the room, thus allowed the public free access to read, while at the same time safe-guarding the library’s valuable collection from potential thieves.

The team checking out some books in the upper library of Zutphen (photo courtesy of Julie Somers)

(For more photos of Zutphen, see Erik Kwakkel’s recent Tumblr post).

Perhaps one of the world’s most famous examples of a chained library is that of Hereford Cathedral in England. Constructed in the early 17th century, it is one of the largest surviving examples of a chained library with over 220 manuscripts (including the famous eighth-century Hereford Gospels).

Chained Library in Hereford, England

The layout of this library differs slightly from Zutphen, as the books are chained to a bookcase, as opposed to a lectern. Although the view might have been ‘less-than-inspiring’, the reader could choose from a wider number of books.

What I find especially neat (and slightly terrifying) is the effect of the chains dangling down in front of the books—almost like some scary metal veil. (I wonder how many readers have experienced book-themed nightmares after visiting this library).

I would like to also briefly mention the beautiful Malatestiana Library in Cesena, Italy. This library was commissioned and constructed between 1447 and 1452 by the Lord of Cesena (Malestesta Novello) who wished to have a public space for reading. The library was attributed to the Friars of St. Francis and its construction greatly added to the library’s original collection—expanding it from 50 books to over 340.

Malatestiana Library, Cesena Italy

The library is designed almost like a church with pews where readers could sit and read. The books are tucked inside the small lecterns in front:

Books chained to the lecterns in the Malatestiana Library

Recently, the library’s collection has been documented by the ‘Open Catalogue of the Malastestiana Library‘ project, which is now available online (with lots of manuscript images)!

What I find so interesting about the chained library is the rather fascinating dichotomy between the idea of ‘locking the books down’ in order to create a free, open, and shared space for an entire community to engage in reading. Despite the slight air of ‘mistrust’ (in a perfect book utopia, chains would not be needed), there is still a strong sense of community that underlines the creation of such libraries.

In Zutphen, for example, sixty keys to the front door of the library were issued, not only to the canons, but also to the townspeople—creating easier access to the books. The Malaestiana Library was also the dream of a nobleman, who wished to build a library open for everyone, and keys to the library were given to both the monks, as well as town officials.

So despite the rather austere measures enacted to prevent book-theft, these chained libraries were very much the product of a collective desire to share books with the entire community—truly the world’s first public libraries.

A Hidden Medieval Archive Surfaces

By Erik Kwakkel (@erik_kwakkel)

On my Tumblr I recently posted two entries devoted to a remarkable discovery made in the Book History class I am co-teaching with Paul Hoftijzer for the Book and Digital Media Studies programme at Leiden University. It concerns 132 notes, letters and receipts from an unidentified court in the Rhine region, jotted on little slips of paper. They were hidden inside the binding of a book printed in 1577, which is part of the Bibliotheca Thysiana, a seventeenth-century library in Leiden, established by Johannes Thysius (d. 1653). The gems were discovered by during our class while students were systematically going through the binding remains in the library. The tiny slips made headlines in Dutch and Belgian printed media and featured in a popular news show on Dutch national radio. Why are they so special?

The hidden archive and the bookbinding it came from

The slips are first of all remarkable simply because such small written objects rarely survive from medieval society. Due to their limited dimensions they tend to fall in between the proverbial cracks of the transmission process. There are few places where such objects can slumber undisturbed for centuries. Their low survival rate is also connected, however, to the fact that they were meant to be thrown out after use. In fact, this is what actually happened, although through the process an early-modern bookbinder unintentionally saved them. When a printed book from 1577 was to be fitted with its binding, the binder grabbed the 132 paper slips from his equivalent of a blue recycling bin and moulded them, likely wet, into cardboard boards. This is when their long journey to our modern period started, as stowaways hitchhiking on sixteenth-century printed matter. Thysius bought the volume second-hand and had likely no idea of the hidden treasures it contained.

Title page of the book that contained the archive

The collection also stands out because of its sheer size. As I briefly explained in an earlier blog, recycling medieval written material was a frequent occurrence in the workshop of early-modern (as well as medieval) binders. However, the very high volume of leaves the binder used is exceptional. What is so striking about the paper slips is that they tell us everyday things that we normally rarely hear about in historical sources. Take the note from 4 December 1461 sent to a chamberlain by a steward, asking “Could you please send me 6 guilders, because we need it?” It concerns internal mail from within the unknown household, likely delivered by a servant: the back reveals a fold and the designation “chamberlain”. We can almost hear him dash through the house, note in hand. A number of slips are receipts from payments: for work done by a carpenter, for the purchase of wheat for the horses of guests, and alike. Messages like these bring us as close to real medieval society as you can get. They are the medieval voices we normally don’t hear, that tell the story of what happened “on the ground”.

Note from steward to chamberlain (front)

Note from steward to chamberlain (back)

My favorite slip is a tiny note written by (or on behalf of) Count Philip (d. 1508), who held court near the river Rhine. On 31 May 1486 he sent his servant to Heidelberg with a most charming request. “Could you please get me some wild roses?”, he writes, adding “But make sure to also include some that are not yet flowering.” It is a small miracle that we still have this 527-year-old paper slip, which is the equivalent of our yellow sticky note. (How many post-it notes do you keep after use?) Judging from the back, where we encounter part of a seal and an address, the note was cut from a letter. In other words, the paper used for this request was recycled twice: once in 1486, when the note was written; and once in 1577, when it was made into a board for a bookbinding.

Note from 1486 requesting for wild roses

That such a twice-recycled object still exists and that it provides such detailed information about real people asking for real things, turns the archive into both a valuable medieval source and an exciting object to work with. Holding the request for wild roses in your hand really makes you think about how the flowers will have been used, who looked at them, and what conversations were held in the room where they were placed. Students will continue to hunt for fragments in Bibliotheca Thysiana and one of them will write his MA thesis on the hidden archive. The voices it contains will hopefully be allowed to speak more and louder.