1“State Papers of Henry the Eighth,” vol. i. 589.2We have Caxton’s own confession in his preface to “The Book of Æneydos,” or the Æneid of Virgil, where, in soliciting the late-created poet-laureat in the University of Oxford, John Skelton, to oversee his prose translation of the French translation, he notices the translations of Skelton of “The Epistles of Tully,” and the “History of Diodorus Siculus,”out of Latin into English, and as “one that had read Virgil, Ovid, Tully, and all the other noble poets and orators tome unknown.”
1“State Papers of Henry the Eighth,” vol. i. 589.
2We have Caxton’s own confession in his preface to “The Book of Æneydos,” or the Æneid of Virgil, where, in soliciting the late-created poet-laureat in the University of Oxford, John Skelton, to oversee his prose translation of the French translation, he notices the translations of Skelton of “The Epistles of Tully,” and the “History of Diodorus Siculus,”out of Latin into English, and as “one that had read Virgil, Ovid, Tully, and all the other noble poets and orators tome unknown.”
EARLY LIBRARIES.
Thereprobably was a time when there existed no private libraries in the kingdom, nor any save the monastic; that of Oxford, at the close of the thirteenth century, consisted of “a few tracts kept in chests.” In that primeval age of book-collecting, shelves were not yet required. Royalty itself seems to have been destitute of a royal library. It appears, by one of our recently published records, that King John borrowed a volume from a rich abbey, and the king gave a receipt to Simon his Chancellor for “the book called Pliny,” which had been in the custody of the Abbot and Convent of Reading. “The Romance of the History of England,” with other volumes, have also royal receipts. The king had either deposited these volumes for security with the Abbot, or, what seems not improbable, had no established collection which could be deemed a library, and, as leisure or curiosity stimulated, commanded the loan of a volume.
The borrowing of a volume was a serious concern in those days, and heavy was the pledge or the bond required for the loan. One of the regulations of the library of the Abbey of Croyland, Ingulphus has given. It regards “the lending of their books, as well the smaller without pictures as the larger with pictures;” any loan is forbidden under no less a penalty than that of excommunication, which might possibly be a severer punishment than the gallows.
Long after this period, our English libraries are said to have been smaller than those on the Continent; and yet, one century and a half subsequently to the reign of John, the royal library of France, belonging to a monarch who loved literature, Jean le Bon, did not exceed ten volumes. In those days they had no idea of establishing a library; the few volumes which each monarch collected, at great cost, were always dispersed by gifts or bequests at their death; nothing passed to their successor but the missals, theheures, and theofficesof their chapels. These monarchsof the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, amid the prevailing ignorance of the age, had not advanced in their comprehension of the uses of a permanent library beyond their great predecessor of the ninth, for Charlemagne had ordered his books to be sold after his death, and the money given to the poor.
Yet among these early French kings there were several who were lovers of books, and were not insensible of the value of a studious intercourse, anxious to procure transcribers and translators. A curious fact has been recorded of St. Louis, that, during his crusade in the East, having learned that a Saracen prince employed scribes to copy the best writings of philosophy for the use of students, on his return to France he adopted the same practice, and caused the Scriptures and the works of the Fathers to be transcribed from copies found in different abbeys. These volumes were deposited in a secure apartment, to which the learned might have access; and he himself passed much of his time there, occupied in his favourite study, the writings of the Fathers.1
Charles le Sage, in 1373, had a considerable library, amounting to nine hundred volumes. He placed this collection in one of the towers of the Louvre, hence denominated the “Tour de la Librarie,” and entrusted it to the custody of his valet-de-chambre, Gilles Malet, constituting him his librarian.2He was no common personage, for great as was the care and ingenuity required, he drew up an inventory with his own hand of this royal library. In that early age of book-collecting, volumes had not always titles to denote their subjects, or they contained several in onevolume,3hence they are described by their outsides, their size, and their shape, their coverings and their clasps. This library of Charles the Fifth shines in extreme splendour, with its many-coloured silks and velvets, azure and vermeil, green and yellow, and its cloths of silver and of gold, each volume being distinctly described by the colour and the material of its covering. This curious document of the fourteenth century still exists.4
This library passed through strange vicissitudes. The volumes in the succeeding reigns were seized on, or purchased at a conqueror’s price, by the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France. Some he gave to his brother Humphrey, the Duke of Gloucester, and they formed a part of the rich collection which that prince presented to Oxford, there finally to be destroyed by a fanatical English mob; others of the volumes found their way back to the Louvre, repurchased by the French at London. The glorious missal that bears the Regent’s name remains yet in this country, the property of a wealthy individual.5
Accident has preserved a few catalogues of libraries of noblemen in the fourteenth and fifteenth century, more pleasant than erudite. In the fourteenth century, the volumes consisted for the greater part of those romances of chivalry, which so long formed the favourite reading of the noble, the dame and the damoiselle, and all the lounging damoiseaux in the baronial castle.6
The private libraries of the fifteenth century were restricted to some French tomes of chivalry, or to “a merrie tale in Boccace;” and their science advanced not beyond “The Shepherd’s Calendar,” or “The Secrets of Albertthe Great.” There was an intermixture of legendary lives of saints, and apocryphal adventures of “Notre Seigneur” in Egypt; with a volume or two of physic and surgery and astrology.
A few catalogues of our monastic libraries still remain, and these reflect an image of the studies of the middle ages. We find versions of the Scriptures in English and Latin—a Greek or Hebrew manuscript is not noted down; a commentator, a father, and some schoolmen; and a writer on the canon law, and the mediæval Christian poets who composed in Latin verse. A romance, an accidental classic, a chronicle and legends—such are the usual contents of these monastic catalogues. But though the subjects seem various, the number of volumes were exceedingly few. Some monasteries had not more than twenty books. In such little esteem were any writings in the vernacular idiom held, that the library of Glastonbury Abbey, probably the most extensive in England, in 1248, possessed no more than four books in English,7on religious topics; and in the later days of Henry the Eighth, when Leland rummaged the monasteries, he did not find a greater number. The library of the monastery of Bretton, which, owing to its isolated site, was among the last dissolved, and which may have enlarged its stores with the spoils of other collections which the times offered, when it was dissolved in 1558, could only boast of having possessed one hundred and fifty distinct works.8
In this primitive state of book-collecting, a singular evidence of their bibliographical passion was sometimes apparent in the monastic libraries. Not deeming a written catalogue, which might not often be opened, sufficiently attractive to remind them of their lettered stores, they inscribed verses on their windows to indicate the books they possessed, and over these inscriptions they placed the portraits of the authors. Thus they could not look through their windows without being reminded of their volumes; and the very portraits of authors, illuminated by the light of heaven,might rouse the curiosity which many a barren title would repel.9
To us accustomed to reckon libraries by thousands, these scanty catalogues will appear a sad contraction of human knowledge. The monastic studies could not in any degree have advanced the national character; they could only have kept it stationary; and, excepting some scholastic logomachies, in which the people could have no concern, one monkish writer could hardly ever have differed from another.
The monastic libraries have been declared to have afforded the last asylums of literature in a barbarous era; and the preservation of ancient literature has been ascribed to the monks: but we must not accept a fortuitous occurrence as any evidence of their solicitude or their taste. In the dull scriptorium of the monk, if the ancient authors always obtained so secure a place, they slept in comparative safety, for they were not often disturbed by their first Gothic owners, who hardly ever allude to them. If ancient literature found a refuge in the monastic establishments, the polytheistical guests were not slightly contemned by their hosts, who cherished with a different taste a bastardised race of the Romans. The purer writers were not in request; for the later Latin verse-makers being Christians, the piety of the monks proved to be infinitely superior to their taste. Boethius was their great classic; while Prudentius, Sedulius, and Fortunius, carried the votes against Virgil, Horace, and even Ovid; though Ovid was in some favour for his marvellous Romance. The polytheism of the classical poets was looked on with horror, so literally did they construe the allegorical fables of the Latin muse. Even till a later day, when monkery itself was abolished, the same Gothic taste lingered among us in its aversion to the classical poets of antiquity, as the works of idolaters!
Had we not obtained our knowledge of the great ancients by other circumstances than by their accidental preservation by the monks, we should have lost a wholeantiquity. The vellum was considered more precious than the genius of the author; and it has been acutely conjectured that the real cause of the minor writers of antiquity having come down to us entire, while we have to lament for ever the lacerations of the greater, has been owing to the scantiness of the parchment of a diminutive volume. They coveted the more voluminous authors to erase some immortal page of the lost decades of Livy, or the annals of Tacitus, to inscribe on it some dull homily or saintly legend. That the ancients were neglected by these guardians appears by the dungeon-darkness from which the Italian Poggio disinterred many of our ancient classics; and Leland, in his literary journey to survey the monastic libraries of England, often shook from the unknown author a whole century of dust and cobwebs. When libraries became one source of the pleasures of life, the lovers of books appear to have been curious in selecting their site for perfect seclusion and silence amid their noble residences, and also in their contrivances to arrange their volumes, so as to have them at instant command. One of these Gothic libraries, in an old castle belonging to the Percys, has been described by Leland with congenial delight. I shall transcribe his words, accommodating the reader with our modern orthography.
“One thing I liked extremely in one of the towers; that was aSTUDYcalledPARADISE; where was a closet in the middle of eight squares latticed ‘abrate;’ and at the top of every square was a desk ledged to set books on, on coffers within them, and these seemed as joined hard to the top of the closet; and yet by pulling, one or all would come down breast-high in rabbets (or grooves), and serve for desks to lay books on.”
However clumsy this invention in “Paradise” may seem to us, it was not more so than the custom of chaining their books to the shelves, allowing a sufficient length of chain to reach the reading-desk—a mode which long prevailed when printing multiplied the cares of the librarian.
All these libraries, consisting of manuscripts, were necessarily limited in their numbers; their collectors had no choice, but gladly received what occurred to their hands;it was when books were multiplied by the press, that the minds of owners of libraries shaped them to their own fancies, and stamped their characters on these companions of their solitude.
We have a catalogue of the library of Mary Queen of Scots, as delivered up to her son James the Sixth, in 1578,10very characteristic of her elegant studies; the volumes chiefly consist of French authors and French translations, a variety of chronicles, several romances, a few Italian writers, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Ariosto, and her favourite poets, Alain Chartier, Ronsard, and Marot. This library forms a striking contrast with that of Elizabeth of England, which was visited in 1598 by Hentzner, the German traveller. The shelves at Whitehall displayed a more classical array; the collection consisted of Greek, Latin, as well as Italian and French books.
The dearness of parchment, and the slowness of the scribes, made manuscripts things only purchasable by princely munificence. It was the discovery of paper from rags, and the novel art of taking copies without penmen, which made books mere objects of commerce, and dispersed the treasures of the human mind free as air, and cheap as bread.
1“Essai Historique sur la Bibliothèque du Roi,” par M. Le Prince.2This Gilles Malet, who was also the king’s reader, had great strength of character; he is thus described by Christine de Pise:—“Souverainement bien lisoit, et bien ponttoit, et entendens homs estoit;” “he read sovereignly well, with good punctuation, and was an understanding man.” She has recorded a personal anecdote of him. One day a fatal accident happened to his child, but such was the discipline of official duties, that he did not interrupt his attendance on the king at the usual hour of reading. The king having afterwards heard of the accident which had bereaved the father of his child, observed, “If the intrepidity of this man had not exceeded that which nature bestows upon ordinary men, his paternal emotion would not have allowed him to conceal his misfortune.”3The reader may form some idea of the discordant arrangement of a volume of manuscripts by the following entries:—“Un Livre qui commence de Genesis, et aussi traite des fais Julius Cesar, appelle Suetoine.” “Un Livre en François, en un volume, qui ce commence de Genesis, et traite du fait des Romains, de la vie des SS. Peres Hermites, et de Merlin.”4“Hist. de l’Académie Royale des Inscriptions,” tome i. 421, 12mo.5It has, within the last few years, been added to the British Museum.—Ed.6Damewas the lady of the knight; theDamoiselle, the wife of an esquire;Dameisel, orDamoiseau, was a youth of noble extraction, but who had not yet attained to knighthood.—Rocquefort, “Glossaire de la Langue Romane.”7Ritson’s “Dissertation on Romance and Minstrelsy,” lxxxi.8See an “Essay on English Monastic Libraries,” by that learned and ingenious antiquary, the Rev. Joseph Hunter.9Some of these extraordinary window-catalogues of the monastic library of St. Albans were found in the cloisters and presbytery of that monastery, and are preserved in the “Monasticon Anglicanum.”10Dibdin’s “Bibliographical Decameron,” iii. 245.
1“Essai Historique sur la Bibliothèque du Roi,” par M. Le Prince.
2This Gilles Malet, who was also the king’s reader, had great strength of character; he is thus described by Christine de Pise:—“Souverainement bien lisoit, et bien ponttoit, et entendens homs estoit;” “he read sovereignly well, with good punctuation, and was an understanding man.” She has recorded a personal anecdote of him. One day a fatal accident happened to his child, but such was the discipline of official duties, that he did not interrupt his attendance on the king at the usual hour of reading. The king having afterwards heard of the accident which had bereaved the father of his child, observed, “If the intrepidity of this man had not exceeded that which nature bestows upon ordinary men, his paternal emotion would not have allowed him to conceal his misfortune.”
3The reader may form some idea of the discordant arrangement of a volume of manuscripts by the following entries:—“Un Livre qui commence de Genesis, et aussi traite des fais Julius Cesar, appelle Suetoine.” “Un Livre en François, en un volume, qui ce commence de Genesis, et traite du fait des Romains, de la vie des SS. Peres Hermites, et de Merlin.”
4“Hist. de l’Académie Royale des Inscriptions,” tome i. 421, 12mo.
5It has, within the last few years, been added to the British Museum.—Ed.
6Damewas the lady of the knight; theDamoiselle, the wife of an esquire;Dameisel, orDamoiseau, was a youth of noble extraction, but who had not yet attained to knighthood.—Rocquefort, “Glossaire de la Langue Romane.”
7Ritson’s “Dissertation on Romance and Minstrelsy,” lxxxi.
8See an “Essay on English Monastic Libraries,” by that learned and ingenious antiquary, the Rev. Joseph Hunter.
9Some of these extraordinary window-catalogues of the monastic library of St. Albans were found in the cloisters and presbytery of that monastery, and are preserved in the “Monasticon Anglicanum.”
10Dibdin’s “Bibliographical Decameron,” iii. 245.
HENRY THE SEVENTH.
Therewas a state of transition in our literature, both classical and vernacular, which deserves our notice in the progress of the genius of the nation.
A prudent sovereign in the seventh Henry, amid factions rather joined together than cemented, gave a semblance of repose to a turbulent land, exhausted by its convulsions. A martial rudeness still lingered among the great; and we discover by a curious conversation which the learned Pace held with some of the gentry, with whom, perhaps, he had indiscreetly remonstrated, attempting to impress on their minds the advantages of study, that his advice was indignantly rejected. Such pursuits seemed to them unmanly, and intolerable impediments in the practice of those more active arts of life which alone were worthy of one of gentle blood; their fathers had been good knights without this idling toil of reading.
Henry the Seventh, when Earl of Richmond, during his exile in France from 1471 to 1485, had become a reader of French romances, an admirer of French players, and an amateur of their peculiar architecture. After his accession we trace these new tastes in our poetry, our drama, and in a novel species of architecture which Bishop Fox called Burgundian, and which is the origin of the Tudor style.1A favourer of the histrionic art, he introduced a troop of French players. Wary in his pleasures as in his politics, this monarch was moderate in his patronage either of poets or players, but he was careful to encourage both. The queen participated in his tastes, and appears to have bestowed particular rewards on “players”, whose performances had afforded her unusual delight; and among the curious items of her majesty’s expenditure, we find that many of these players were foreigners—“a French player, an Italian poet, a Spanish tumbler, a Flemish tumbler, a Welshman for making a ryme, a maid that came out of Spain and danced before the queen.”
This monarch had suffered one of those royal marriages which are a tribute paid to the interests of the State. Henry had yielded with repugnance to a union with Elizabeth the Yorkist; the sullen Lancastrian long looked on his queen with the eyes of a factionist. Toward the latter years of his life this repugnance seems to have passed away, as this gentle consort largely participated in his tastes. It was probably in their sympathy that the personal prejudices of Henry melted away. This indeed was a triumph of the arts of imagination over the warped feelings of the individual; it marked the transition from barbaric arms to the amenities of literature, and the softening influence of the mimetic arts; it was the presage of the magnificence of his successor. The nation was benefited by these new tastes; the pacific reign made a revolution in our court, our manners, and our literature.
We may date from this period that happy intercourse which the learned English opened with the Continent, and more particularly with literary Italy; our learned travellers now appear in number. Colet, the founder of St. Paul’s School, not only passed over to Paris, but lingered in Italy, and returned home with the enthusiasm of classical antiquity. Grocyn, to acquire the true pronunciation of the Greek, which he first taught at Oxford, domesticated with Demetrius Chalcondyles and Angelo Politian, at Florence. Linacre, the projector of the College of Physicians, visited Rome and Florence. Lilly, the grammarian, we find at Rhodes and at Rome, and the learned Pace at Padua. We were thus early great literary travellers; and the happier Continentalists, who rarely move from their native homes, have often wondered at the restless condition of those whom they have sometimes reproached as beingInsulaires; yet they may be reminded that we have done no more than the most ancient philosophers of antiquity. Our reproachers fortunately possessed the arts, and even the learning, which we were willing by travel and costs to acquire. “The Islanders” may have combined all the knowledge of all the world, a freedom and enlargement of the mind, which those, however more fortunately placed, can rarely possess, who restrict their locality and narrow their comprehension by their own home-bound limits.
The king, delighting in poetry, fostered an English muse in the learned rhyme ofStephen Hawes, who was admitted to his private chamber, for the pleasure which Henry experienced in listening to poetic recitation. It was probably the taste of his royal master which inspired this bard’s allegorical romance of chivalry, of love, and of science. This elaborate work is “The Pastime of Pleasure, or the History of Graunde Amour and la bell Pucell, containing the knowledge of the seven sciences and the course of man’s life.” At a time when sciences had no reality, they were constantly alluding to them; ignorance hardily imposed its erudition; and experimental philosophy only terminated in necromancy. The seven sciences of the accomplished gentleman were those so well known, comprised in the scholastic distich.
In the ideal hero “Graunde Amour,” is shadowed forth the education of a complete gentleman of that day. From the Tower of “Doctrine,” to the Castle of “Chivalry,” the way lies equally open, but the progress is diversified by many bye-paths, and a number of personified ideas or allegorical characters. These shadowy actors lead to shadowy places; but the abounding incidents relieve us among this troop of passionless creatures.
This fiction blends allegory with romance, and science with chivalry. At the early period of printing, it was probably the first volume which called in the graver’s art to heighten the inventions of the writer, and the accompanying wood-cuts are an evidence of the elegant taste of the author, although that morose critic of all poesy, honest Anthony à Wood, sarcastically concludes that these cuts were “to enable the reader to understand the story better.” This once courtly volume, our sage reports, “is now thought but worthy of a ballad-monger’s stall.”2“The Pastime of Pleasure” was even despised by that great book-collector, General Lord Fairfax, who, on the copy he possessed, has left a memorandum “that it should be changed for a better book!” The fate of books vacillates with the fancies of book-lovers, and the improvements of a later age. In the days of Fairfax, the gloom of the civil wars annihilated their imaginations.
But the gorgeousness of this romance struck the Gothic fancy of the historian of our poetry, magic, chivalry, and allegory! In the circumstantial analysis of Warton, the reader may pursue his “course of man’s life” through the windings of the labyrinth. It seems as if the patience of the critic had sought a relief amid his prolonged chronicle of obscure versifiers, in a production of imagination, the only one which had appeared since Chaucer, and which, to the contemplative poetic antiquary, showed him the infant rudiments of the future Spenser.
This allegorical romance is imbued with Provençal fancy, and probably emulated the “Roman de la Rose,” which could not fail to be a favourite with the royal patron, among those French books which he loved. Fertile in invention, it is, however, of the old stock; fresh meads and delicious gardens,—ladies in arbours,—magical trials of armed knights on horses of steel, which, touched by a secret spring, could represent a tourney. We strike the shield at the castle-gate of chivalry, and we view the golden roof of the hall, lighted up by a carbuncle of prodigious size; we repose in chambers walled with silver, and enamelling many a story. There are many noble conceptions among the allegorical gentry. She, whom Graunde Amour first beheld was mounted on her palfrey, flying with the wind, encircled with tongues of fire, and her two milkwhite greyhounds, on whose golden collars are inscribed in diamond letters,GraceandGovernance. She is Fame, her palfrey is Pegasus, and her burning tongues are the voice of Posterity! There are somegrotesque incidents, as in other romances; a monster wildly created, the offspring of Disdain and Strangeness—a demon composed of the seven metals! We have also a dwarf who has to encounter a giant with seven heads; our subdolous David mounts on twelve steps cut in the rock; and to the surprise of the giant, he discovered in “the boy whom he had mocked,” his equal in stature, and his vanquisher, notwithstanding the inconceivable roar of his seven heads!
Warton transcribed a few lines to show this poet’s “harmonious versification and clear expression;” but this short specimen may convey an erroneous notion. Our verse was yet irregular, and its modulation was accidental rather than settled; the metrical lines of Hawes, for the greater part, must be read rhythmically, it was a barbarism that even later poets still retained. He also affected an ornate diction; and Latin and French terms cast an air of pedantry, more particularly when the euphony of his verse is marred by closing his lines with his elongated polysyllables; he probably imagined that the dimensions of his words necessarily lent a grandeur to his thoughts. With all these defects, Hawes often surpasses himself, and we may be surprised that, in a poem composed in the court of Henry the Seventh, about 1506, the poet should have left us such a minutely-finished picture of female beauty as he has given of La Pucelle; Hawes had been in Italy, and seems with an artist’s eye to have dwelt on some picture of Raphael, in his early manner, or of his master Perugino, in his hard but elaborate style.
Her shining hair, so properly she dresses,Aloft her forehead, with fayre golden tresses;Her forehead stepe, with fayre browés ybent;Her eyen gray; her nosé straight and fayre;In her white cheeks, the faire bloudé it wentAs among the white, the reddé to repayre;Her mouthe right small; her breathe sweet of ayre;Her lippes soft and ruddy as a rose;No hart alive but it would him appose.With a little pitte in her well-favoured chynne;Her necke long, as white as any lillye,With vaynés blewe, in which the bloude ranne in;Her pappés rounde, and thereto right pretýe;Her armés slender, and of goodly bodýe;Her fingers small, and thereto right longe,White as the milk, with blewé vaynes among;Her feet propér; she gartred well her hose;I never sawe so fayre a créatúre.
Her shining hair, so properly she dresses,
Aloft her forehead, with fayre golden tresses;
Her forehead stepe, with fayre browés ybent;
Her eyen gray; her nosé straight and fayre;
In her white cheeks, the faire bloudé it went
As among the white, the reddé to repayre;
Her mouthe right small; her breathe sweet of ayre;
Her lippes soft and ruddy as a rose;
No hart alive but it would him appose.
With a little pitte in her well-favoured chynne;
Her necke long, as white as any lillye,
With vaynés blewe, in which the bloude ranne in;
Her pappés rounde, and thereto right pretýe;
Her armés slender, and of goodly bodýe;
Her fingers small, and thereto right longe,
White as the milk, with blewé vaynes among;
Her feet propér; she gartred well her hose;
I never sawe so fayre a créatúre.
The reign of Henry the Seventh was a misty morning of our vernacular literature, but it was the sunrise; and though the road be rough, we discover a few names by which we may begin to count—as we find on our way a mile-stone, which, however rudely cut and worn out, serves to measure our distances.
1Speed’s “History,” 995.2This forlorn volume of Anthony’s “Stalls” is now a gem placed in the caskets of black-letter. This poetic romance, by its excessive rarity,—the British Museum is without a copy,—has obtained most extraordinary prices among our collectors. A copy of the first edition at the Roxburgh sale reached 84l., which was sold at Sir M. M. Sykes’ for half the price; later editions, for a fourth. A copy was sold at Heber’s sale for 25l.It may, however, relieve the distress of some curious readers to be informed that it may now be obtained at the most ordinary cost of books. Mr.Southey, with excellent judgment, has preserved the romance in his valuable volume of “Specimens of our Ancient Poets,” from the time of Chaucer; it is to be regretted, however, that the text is not correctly printed, and that the poem has suffered mutilation—six thousand lines seem to have exhausted the patience of the modern typographer. [A more perfect and accurate edition, from that printed in 1555, was published by the Percy Society in 1845, under the editorship of Mr. Thos. Wright.]
1Speed’s “History,” 995.
2This forlorn volume of Anthony’s “Stalls” is now a gem placed in the caskets of black-letter. This poetic romance, by its excessive rarity,—the British Museum is without a copy,—has obtained most extraordinary prices among our collectors. A copy of the first edition at the Roxburgh sale reached 84l., which was sold at Sir M. M. Sykes’ for half the price; later editions, for a fourth. A copy was sold at Heber’s sale for 25l.It may, however, relieve the distress of some curious readers to be informed that it may now be obtained at the most ordinary cost of books. Mr.Southey, with excellent judgment, has preserved the romance in his valuable volume of “Specimens of our Ancient Poets,” from the time of Chaucer; it is to be regretted, however, that the text is not correctly printed, and that the poem has suffered mutilation—six thousand lines seem to have exhausted the patience of the modern typographer. [A more perfect and accurate edition, from that printed in 1555, was published by the Percy Society in 1845, under the editorship of Mr. Thos. Wright.]
FIRST SOURCES OF MODERN HISTORY.
Societymust have considerably advanced ere it could have produced an historical record; and who could have furnished even the semblance but the most instructed class, in the enjoyment of uninterrupted leisure, among every people? History therefore remained long a consecrated thing in the hands of the priesthood, from the polytheistical era of the Roman Pontiffs who registered their annals, to the days that the history of Christian Europe became chronicled by the monastic orders.1Had it not been for the monks, exclaimed our learned Marsham, we should not have had a history of England.
The monks provided those chronicles which have served both for the ecclesiastical and civil histories of every European people. In every abbey the most able of its inmates, or the abbot himself, was appointed to record every considerable transaction in the kingdom, and sometimes extended their views to foreign parts. All these were set down in a volume reserved for this purpose; and on the decease of every sovereign these memorials were laid before the general chapter, to draw out a sort of chronological history, occasionally with a random comment, as the humour of the scribe prompted, or the opinions of the whole monastery sanctioned.
Besides these meagre annals the monasteries had other books more curious than their record of public affairs. These were their Leiger-books, of which some have escaped among the few reliques of the universal dissolution of the monasteries. In these registers or diaries they enteredall matters relating to their own monastery and its dependencies. As time never pressed on the monkish secretary, his notabilia runs on very miscellaneously. Here were descents of families, and tenures of estates; authorities of charters and of cartularies; curious customs of counties, cities, and great towns. Strange accidents were not uncommon then; and sometimes, between a miracle or a natural phenomenon, a fugitive anecdote stole in. The affairs of a monastery exhibited a moving picture of domestic life. These religious houses, whose gate opened to the wayfarer, and who were the distributors of useful commodities to the neighbouring poor—for in their larger establishments they included workmen of every class—did not, however, maintain their munificence untainted by mundane passions. Forged charters had often sealed their possessions, and supposititious grants of mortuary donations silently transferred the wealth of families. These lords of the soil, though easy landlords, still cast an “evil eye” on the lands of their neighbour. Even rival monasteries have fought in meadows for the ownership; the stratagems of war and the battle-array of two troops of cudgelling monks might have furnished some cantos to an epic, less comic perhaps than that of “The Rape of the Bucket.”
In the literary simplicity of the twelfth to the fourteenth century, while every great monastery had its historian, every chronicle derived its title from its locality; thus, among others, were the Glastonbury, the Peterborough, and the Abingdon Chronicles: and when Leland, so late as the reign of Henry the Eighth, in his search into monastic libraries, discovered one at St. Neot’s, he was at a loss to describe it otherwise than as “The Chronicle of St. Neot’s.” The famous Doomsday Book was originally known as “Liber de Winton,” or “The Winchester Book,” from its first place of custody. The same circumstance occurred among our neighbours, whereLes grandes Chroniques de Saint Denyswere so called from having been collected or compiled by the monks of that abbey. An abstract notion of history, or any critical discrimination of one chronicle from another, was not as yet familiar even to our scholars; and in thedearth of literature the classical models of antiquity were yet imperfectly contemplated.
It is not less curious to observe that, at a time when the literary celebrity of the monachal scribe could hardly pass the boundaries of the monastery, and the monk himself was restricted from travelling, bound by indissoluble chains, yet this lone man, as if eager to enjoy a literary reputation, however spurious, was not scrupulous in practising certain dishonest devices. Before the discovery of printing, the concealment of a manuscript for the purpose of appropriation was an artifice which, if we may decide by some rumours, more frequently occurred than has been detected. Plagiarism is the common sin of the monkish chronicler, to which he was often driven by repeating a mouldy tale a hundred times told; but his furtive pen extended to the capital crime of felony. I shall venture to give a pair of literary anecdotes of monkish writers.
Matthew of Paris, one of these chroniclers, is somewhat esteemed, and Matthew of Westminster is censured, for having copied in his “Flores Historiarum” the other Matthew; but we need not draw any invidious comparison between the two Matthews, since Matthew the first had himself transcribed the work of Roger the Prior of Wendover. The famous “Polychronicon,” which long served as a text-book for the encyclopædic knowledge of the fourteenth century, has two names attached to it, and one, however false, which can never be separated from the work, interwoven in its texture. This famed volume is ascribed to Ranulph, or Ralph Higden of St. Werberg’s Monastery, now the Cathedral of Chester. Ralph, that he might secure the tenure of this awful edifice of universal history for a thousand years, most subdolously contrived that the initial letter of every chapter, when put together, signified that Ralph, a monk of Chester, had compiled the work. Centuries did not contradict the assumption; but time, that blabber of more fatal secrets than those of authors, discovered in the same monastery that another brother Roger had laboured for the world their universal history in his “Polycratica Temporum.” On examination, the truth flashed! For lo! the peccant pen of Ralph had silently transmigrated the “Polycratica”into the “Polychronicon,” and had only laid a trap for posterity by his treacherous acrostics!2
These universal chroniclers usually opened,ab initio, with the Creation, dispersed at Babel reach home, and paused at the Norman Conquest. This was their usual first division; it was a long journey, but a beaten path. Whatever they found written was history to them, for they were without means of correcting their aptitude for credence. Their anachronisms often ludicrously give the lie to their legendary statements.
Most of these monastic writers composed in a debased Latinity of their own, bald and barbarous, but which had grown up with the age; their diction bears a rude sort of simplicity. Yet though they were not artists, there were occasions when they were inevitably graphic—when they detail like a witness in court. These writers have been lauded by the gratitude of antiquaries, and valued by philosophical historians. A living historian has observed of them, that “nothing can be more contemptible as compositions; nothing can be more satisfactory as authorities.” But it is necessary that we should be reminded of the partial knowledge and the partial passions of these sources of our earlier modern history. Lift the cowl from the historiographers in their cells recording those busy events in which they never were busied, characterising those eminent persons from whom they were far removed; William of Malmesbury, not one of the least estimable of these writers, confesses that he drew his knowledge from public rumours, or what the relaters of news brought to them.3In some respects their history sinks to the levelof one of our newspapers, and is as liable to be tinged with party feelings. The whole monastery had as limited notions of public affairs as they had of the kingdom itself, of which they knew but little out of their own county.
No monastic writer, as an historian, has descended to posterity for the eminence of his genius, for the same stamp of mind gave currency to their works. Woe to the sovereign who would have clipt their wings! then “tongues talked and pens wrote” monkish. There was a proverb among them, that “The giver is blessed, but he who taketh away is accursed.” None but themselves could appeal to Heaven, and for their crowned slaves they were not penurious of their beatitude. They knew to crouch as well as to thunder. They usually clung to the reigning party; and a new party or a change of dynasty was sure to change their chronicling pen.Hall, the chronicler of Henry the Eighth, at the first moment when it was allowable to speak distinctly concerning these monkish writers, observed, “These monastical persons, learned and unliterate, better fed than taught, took on them to write and register in the book of fame the arts, and doings, and politic governance of kings and princes.” It seems not to have occurred to the chronicler of Henry the Eighth that, had not those monks “taken on them to write and register,” we should have had no “Book of Fame.” It is a duty we owe to truth to penetrate into the mysteries of monkery, but the monks will always retain their right to receive their large claims on our admiration of their labours.
There was also another class of early chroniclers throughout Europe; men who filled the office of a sort of royal historiographer, who accompanied the king and the army in their progress, to note down the occurrences they deemed most honourable or important to the nation. But incidents written down by a monk in his cell, or by a diarist pacing the round with majesty, would be equally warped, by the views of the monastery in the one case, or by a flattering subservience to the higher power in the other.
In this manner the early history of Europe was written; the more ancient part was stuffed with fables; and when it might have become useful in recording passages and personsof the writer’s own times, we have a one-sided tale, wherein, while half is suppressed, the other is disguised by flattery or by satire. Such causes are well known to have corrupted these first origins of modern history, a history in which the commons and the people at large had very little concern, till the day arrived, in the progress of society, when chronicles were written by laymen in the vernacular idiom for their nation.
1Archbishop Plegmund superintended the Saxon Annals to the year 891. The first Chronicles, those of Kent or Wessex, were regularly continued by the Archbishops of Canterbury, or by their directions, as far as 1000, or even 1070.—“The Rev. Dr. Ingram’s preface to the Saxon Chronicle.”These were our earliest Chronicles; the Britons possibly never wrote any.2We have a remarkable instance among the Italian historians of this period. Giovanni Villani wrote about 1330; Muratori discovered that Villani had wholly transcribed the ancient portion of his history from an old Chronicle of Malespini, who wrote about 1230, without any acknowledgment whatever. Doubtless Villani imagined that an insulated manuscript, during a century’s oblivion, had little chance of ever being classed among the most ancient records of Italian history. Malespini’s “Chronicle,” like its brothers, was stuffed with fables; Villani was honest enough not to add to them, though not sufficiently so not silently to appropriate the whole chronicle—the only one Dante read.—“Tiraboschi,” v. 410, part 2nd.3We have an elegant modern version of this monk’s history by the Rev. J. Sharpe.
1Archbishop Plegmund superintended the Saxon Annals to the year 891. The first Chronicles, those of Kent or Wessex, were regularly continued by the Archbishops of Canterbury, or by their directions, as far as 1000, or even 1070.—“The Rev. Dr. Ingram’s preface to the Saxon Chronicle.”
These were our earliest Chronicles; the Britons possibly never wrote any.
2We have a remarkable instance among the Italian historians of this period. Giovanni Villani wrote about 1330; Muratori discovered that Villani had wholly transcribed the ancient portion of his history from an old Chronicle of Malespini, who wrote about 1230, without any acknowledgment whatever. Doubtless Villani imagined that an insulated manuscript, during a century’s oblivion, had little chance of ever being classed among the most ancient records of Italian history. Malespini’s “Chronicle,” like its brothers, was stuffed with fables; Villani was honest enough not to add to them, though not sufficiently so not silently to appropriate the whole chronicle—the only one Dante read.—“Tiraboschi,” v. 410, part 2nd.
3We have an elegant modern version of this monk’s history by the Rev. J. Sharpe.
ARNOLDE’S CHRONICLE.
Veryearly in the sixteenth century appeared a volume which seems to have perplexed our literary historians by its mutable and undefinable character. It is a book without a title, and miscalled by the deceptive one of “Arnolde’s Chronicle, or the Customs of London;” but “the Customs” are not the manners of the people, but rather “the Customs” of the Custom-House, and it in no shape resembles, or pretends to be “a chronicle.” This erroneous title seems to have been injudiciously annexed to it by Hearne the antiquary, and should never have been retained. This anomalous work, of which there are three ancient editions, had the odd fate of all three being sent forth without a title and without a date; and our bibliographers cannot with any certainty ascertain the order or precedence of these editions. One edition was issued from the press of a Flemish printer at Antwerp, and possibly may be the earliest. The first printer, whether English or Flemish, was evidently at a loss to christen this monstrous miscellaneous babe, and ridiculously took up the title and subjects of the first articles which offered themselves, to designate more than a hundred of the most discrepant variety. The ancient editions appeared as “The names of the Baylyfs, Custos, Mayres, and Sherefs of the Cyte of London, with the Chartour and Lybartyes of the same Cyte, &c. &c., with other dyvers matters good and necessary for every Cytezen to understand and know;”—a humble title equally fallacious with the higher one of a “Chronicle,” for it has described many objects of considerable curiosity, more interesting than “mayors and sheriffs,” and even “the charter and liberties” of “the cyte.”
In conveying a notion of a jumble,1though the things themselves are sufficiently grave, we cannot avoid a ludicrous association; yet this should not lessen the value of its information.
A considerable portion of this medley wholly relates to the municipal interests of the citizens of London—charters and grants, with a vast variety of forms or models of public and private instruments, chiefly of a commercial description. Parish ordinances mix with Acts of Parliament; and when we have conned the oath of the beadle of the ward, we are startled by Pope Nicholas’ Bull. We have the craft of grafting trees and altering of fruits, as well in colour as in taste, close to an oration of the messenger of “the Soudan of Babylon” to the Pope in 1488. Indeed, we have many more useful crafts, besides the altering of the flavour of fruits, and the oration of the Mahometan to the representative of St. Peter; for here are culinary receipts, to keep sturgeon, to make vinegar “shortly,” “percely to grow in an hour’s space,” and to make ypocras, straining the wine through a bag of spices—it was nothing more than our mulled wine; and further, are receipts to make ink, and compound gunpowder, to make soap, and to brew beer. Whether we may derive any fresh hints from our ancestor of the year 1500 exceeds my judgment; but to this eager transcriber posterity owes one of the most passionate poems in our language; for betwixt “the composition between the merchants of England and the town of Antwerp,” and “the reckoning to buy wares in Flanders,” first broke into light “A Ballade of the Notbrowne Mayde.” Thus, when an indiscriminating collector is at work, one cannot foresee what good fortune may not chance to be his lot.
Warton has truly characterised this work as “the most heterogeneous and multifarious miscellany that ever existed;” but he seems to me to have mistaken both the design of the collector, and the nature of the collection. Some supposed that the collector, Richard Arnolde, intended the volume to be an antiquarian repertory; but as the materials were recent, that idea cannot be admitted; and Warton censures the compiler, who, to make up a volume, printed together whatever he could amass of notices and papers of every sort and subject. The modern editor of “Arnolde’s Chronicle” was perplexed at the contents of what he calls “a strange book.”
The critical decision of Warton is much too searching for a volume in which the compiler never wrote a singleline, and probably never entertained the remotest idea of the printer’s press. This book without a name is, in fact, nothing more than a simple collection made by an English merchant engaged in the Flemish trade. Nor was such a work peculiar to this artless collector; for in a time of rare publications, such men seemed to have formed for themselves a sort of library, of matters they deemed worthy of recollection, to which they could have easy recourse.2By the internal evidence, Arnolde was no stranger at Antwerp, nor at Dordrecht. Antwerp was then a favourite residence of the English merchants; there the typographic art flourished, and the printers often printed English books; and as this collection was printed at Antwerp by Doesborowe, a Flemish printer, we might incline with Douco to infer that the Flemish was the first edition; for it seems not probable that a foreign printer would have selected an English volume of little interest to foreigners, to reprint; although we can imagine that from personal consideration, or by the accident of obtaining the manuscript, he might have been induced to be the first publisher. Whoever was the first printer, the collector himself seems to have been little concerned in the publication, by the suppression of his name, by the omission of a title, by not prefixing a preface, nor arranging in any way this curious medley of useful things, which he would familiarly turn to as his occasions needed, and—if we may compare a grave volume with the lightest—was of that class which ladies call their “scrap-books,” and assuredly not, according to its fallacious title, aCHRONICLE.