Entries Tagged as 'Articles'

Sir Hans Sloane Collector of Manuscripts

Sloane

ARTICLE: Sir Hans Sloane: Collector, Marmoset-Owner and Chocolate-Populariser, by Mary Wellesley.

On April the 16th was the anniversary of the birth of Sir Hans Sloane (b. 1660, d.1753), whose collection of manuscripts is one of the four ‘founder-collections’ which established the British Museum by Act of Parliament in the year of his death, 1753.

Born in Ireland, Sloane was a physician and collector, who was elected to the Royal Society at the age of just 24. Perhaps Sloane’s most meaningful contribution to our national life, however, was the introduction and popularisation of Hot Chocolate in Britain. While in Jamaica with the Duke of Albermarle in the late 1680s, Sloane tried cocoa – a drink prized by local people. He found it ‘nauseous’ but discovered that by mixing it with milk, it became palatable.

On his return to Britain in 1689, he marketed the drink as a medicine. (That’s my kind of medicine.) Amongst Sloane’s papers are the notebooks of Samuel Bellingham which contain two 17th century chocolate recipes.

In addition to his contemporary interest in medicine, Sloane also collected medieval and early modern medical manuscripts, including a beautiful 15th century Italian herbal, Sloane MS 4016 and treatises on gynaecology and cosmetics written by a female professor at the University of Salamanca (copied in Sloane MS 420, Sloane MS 434, Sloane MS 783, Sloane MS 1124, and Sloane MS 249).

Ahead of his time, Sloane advocated inoculations, even on his own family and he believed in contributing to the public good. When he was appointed physician in charge of Christ’s hospital in 1694, he returned his salary yearly to the hospital to help needy inmates. He was an avid collector, collecting not only books and manuscripts, but also – in the words of John Evelyn – ‘Plants, Corralls, Minerals, Earth, shells, animals, Insects etc: collected by him with greate Judgement’.

He also had an impressive array of household pets, which included a blind Arctic Fox (whose cataracts he removed), several sea turtles, a porcupine from Hudson’s Bay, a one-eyed wolverine and a marmoset with overgrown incisors.

On his death, Sloane left a complex will. In the words of his friend Thomas Birch, he was anxious that ‘his collections might be kept together for the instruction and Benefit of others engaged in the same pursuits’. After some wrangling, his vision was achieved. When he died, Sloane’s collection was integrated into three other collections: one gathered by Sir Robert Cotton and two gathered by the 1st and 2nd Earls of Oxford, known as the Harley collections.

The result was the founding collection of the British Museum — the manuscripts of which transferred to the British Library in 1973, arriving at the current St Pancras site, a beautiful Grade I listed building, in 1997.

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A New Cutting by the So-Called Master of Monza

Master-of-Monza

ARTICLE: A New Cutting by the So-Called Master of Monza, by Peter Kidd.

In a previous post I reproduced some of the series of late 13th-century cuttings from a volume of saints’ lives, formerly attributed to a Spanish artist in the circle of the Master of the Beatus of San Andrés de Arroyo in La Spezia, but now re-attributed to a Lombard illuminator.

Since then, at least one more has come back on the market, from the Zeileis collection. The most detailed study of the manuscript and the artist is Giovanni Valagussa, Santi Lombardi di fine Duecento. Scritti per l’istituto germanico di Storia dell’ Arte di Firenze, Florence, 1997, pp. 23-34. He showed that the style could be related to Lombard works, including a fresco at Cremona, south-east of Milan, and especially a choirbook probably made for a church in Monza, a short distance north-east of Milan, as suggested by the fact that it includes the rare local saint St Theodolinda.

The Monza manuscript is now in Krakow, Poland (Bibl. Jagiellonska, Rps. akc 20/1951), in the catalogue of which the Monza origin is proposed, and hence the artist is named the Miniatore di Monza: Zofia Ameisenowa,Rękopisy i Pierwodruki Iluminowane Biblioteki Jagiellońskej, Wrocław, 1958, pp. 16-18, figs. 14-17.

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Palmira, la gatta siamese del deserto

Palmira

Palmira, a volte mi sembrava d’esserci già stato, per quanto avevo letto delle sue rovine, studiate le sculture nei vari musei del mondo, ma non mi sarei potuto rassegnare a non vederla sul vero.

La strada a colonne si vedeva quasi d’infilata, con i fusti color ruggine, contro i monti color ruggine e invece, a terra, la polvere color di cenere. Dall’altro lato le palme azzurre contro i colli che parevano soffici nei loro colori di gatto siamese. Allora le montagne che sapevano di gatto furono un nuovo fascicno di Palmira. E il cielo era sempre più chiaro nell’arsura del sole.

Tutto il panorama, nel suo perimetro antico, si abbracciava con un’occhiata, il Tempio di Bel, e la Via colonnata, l’Agorà, il Teatro: tutto era chiaro come in un plastico; e invece stava sotto gli occhi nella sua realtà e per un’estensione che non si riusciva a definire, perché non c’era una misura reciproca fra i monti e le colonne.

Quella che da lontano sembrava cenere non è polvere, ma sabbia che il contrasto con la pietra roggia faceva diventare grigia, quasi cerulea. Sabbia che ricopre di già quel che una volta era stato rimesso in luce, cosicché invano si cerca di capire come fosse l’esedra prima di arrivare all’Arco trionfale.

Per prima cosa volli vedere le tombe: bisognava camminare ed era bene scegliere le ore meno bollenti. Mentre ci avvicinavamo alla tomba detta dei Tre Fratelli, notavo, e mi era sfuggito in principio, che da quella parte la natura della montagna cambiava, perdeva il rosso, le rosicchiature; apparivano colline tondeggianti che facevano l’effetto di una negativa, in quanto che invertivano i colori come è solito vederli.

Dentro la torre, che aveva la porta coi battenti di pietra, c’è altri sarcofaghi e loculi da gente più povera, sovrapposti come scansie: scansie piene di morti. Naturalmente, sculture quasi non ce n’è più. Sono quelle che trovate a Costantinopoli, a Londra, a Parigi, in America. Il saccheggio di Palmira forse non ebbe paragoni.

Poi dal pianoterreno si sale, con un’elegante scaletta nello spessore del muro, al piano superiore dove si ripete la teoria delle scansie, e così via fino al tetto, se tetto vi era, o terrazza. Da cima a queste torri il panorama mantiene la sua struttura eccezionale: le torri, così qua e là, sembrano in movimento e che non si debbono mai ritrovare al solito posto.

Ed io pensavo a questo modo quasi fatale che hanno di cristallizzarsi, ad un certo punto, le più alte tradizioni plastiche: quasi fatale, perché dipende solo dall’altezza dell’ingegno se qui si assiste ad un’operazione da marmorari irreprensibile, e là si resta col fiato sospeso, quando quei cerchi concentrici, quelle striature papillari si producono a Gandara o in Agostino di Duccio.

Così mi ero seduto all’ombra di una colonna, investito a tratti da una folata di sabbia e di vento, ma fresco, sotto il sole ardentissimo e ormai a picco. Di tanto in tanto passava un cammello con un beduino accovacciato sopra. Attraversava le rovine con l’indolenza pari alla grazia che ha il cammello quando cammina: bestia che non si sa mai di quante bestie sia fatta. Ed ha la testa da uccello, e il collo da serpente, e le gambe come di trampoliere.

Una sola musica vorrei sentire io qua, sebbene non ci abbia a che fare, visto che ha perso da tempo anche il titolo che giustifica il mio desiderio. Nel piccolo teatro vorrei sentire la sinfonia dell’Aureliano in Palmira, che è poi quella del Barbiere.

Certo la musica di Rossini così scherzosa e liquida, perennemente fresca, qui in questo deserto rovente non troverebbe eco, la beverebbe tutta la sabbia, neanche un suono arriverebbe agli orecchi. Nulla di meno romano, di meno archeologico, di meno storicamente evocativo della tremenda punizione che Aureliano inflisse alla città, dopo che la seconda volta Zenobia s’era voltata.

Dunque è un desiderio insensato il mio e la Sinfonia del Barbiere è ormai quella del Barbiere e giustamente di Palmira se n’è cancellato anche il nome. Non importa. Quella sinfonia è l’ultimo appello poetico della distrutta Palmira: il resto è storia, archeologia, è sapere. La sinfonia non è sapere, e Palmira ci sta dentro allo stesso diritto che il Vesuvio nella Ginestra.

Cesare Brandi, Città del deserto, Roma 1958

Stanford scholar discovers Magna Carta scribe

NEWS: Stanford scholar discovers previously unknown Magna Carta scribe, by Angela Becerra Videgar (The Humanities at Stanford).

Using handwriting analysis, Stanford manuscript expert Elaine Treharne shows for the first time that one of the world’s most famous documents was written not by the king’s own scribes, but by a cathedral scribe outside the central court.

Eight hundred years ago, one of the world’s most important documents was born. Issued by King John of England in 1215, the Magna Carta (“Great Charter”) acknowledged the rights of citizens and set restrictions on the power of the king. The Magna Carta has influenced the structures of modern democracies, including the writ of habeas corpus of the U.S. Constitution.

Thanks to meticulous comparative handwriting analysis, Stanford literary scholar Elaine Treharne has uncovered new information about who wrote one of the last four surviving original versions of the 1215 Magna Carta, preserved at England’s Salisbury Cathedral.

Scholars have long thought that the Magna Carta was issued by the king in the Chancery, the king’s central court, written by his scribes there and then sent out to other locations in the shires, or counties, of England.

According to Treharne, her research suggests the Salisbury Magna Carta was not just received and preserved at Salisbury, but that the Salisbury Magna Carta was written at Salisbury by one of the cathedral’s own scribes. She recently co-published her findings with University of Glasgow historian Andrew Prescott.

Treharne, a professor of English at Stanford, says that knowing about this difference in authorship “changes the way we think about the transmission of texts in the Middle Ages from the court.”

Instead of the charter being something passive that the king produced and sent out from the central court to be put away in satellite locations, Treharne says versions of the charter “were written in the regions and then taken to the court for sealing by the king’s Great Seal.”

This reconfiguration of the Magna Carta‘s path signals “a much more proactive relationship between institutions and king,” the scholar says. “It makes us look again at the role of the church in relationship to the king. They become much more partners, really, in the production of texts.”

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Influential Illumination: BL Loans to Lens

BL-Lens

ARTICLE: Influential Illumination: British Library Loans to Lens, by Hannah Morcos.

Three of the British Library’s medieval manuscripts are currently on loan to an exhibition at Louvre-Lens. D’Or et d’ivoire: Paris, Pise, Florence, Sienne, 1250–1320 explores the artistic relations between Paris and Tuscany. Over 125 exhibits illustrate the creative exchanges taking place in architecture, sculpture, ivory carving, metalwork, and painting in the 13th and early 14th centuries. The British Library manuscripts offer three superb examples of the opulence and innovation of Parisian manuscript illumination in this period.

Two of the manuscripts are associated with the Sainte-Chapelle, the incredible royal chapel built by Louis IX of France (r. 1226–1270) to store his relics. The first, Harley MS 2891, is a missal with several historiated initials, and two glorious full-page miniatures of the Crucifixion and Christ in Majesty on diaper grounds.

The second Sainte-Chapelle manuscript, Add MS 17341, is a lectionary probably made for Philip IV (r. 1285–1314). It is almost an exact copy of a manuscript made twenty years earlier (now Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS lat. 17326). However, its artist displays a greater interest in naturalism and spatial illusion, whilst replicating the content and position of the illustrations in its exemplar. Over 260 exquisite historiated initials depict biblical scenes, the majority of which are ‘ladder initials’, encompassing multiple compartments.

The extraordinary illuminations in Add MS 17341 have been tentatively associated with the most celebrated of Parisian artists, Maître Honoré (fl. 1288–1318). The name of this influential illuminator is known from a note in a manuscript he illuminated of the Decretum Gratiani (Tours, Bibliothèque municipale, MS 558; miniatures from the manuscript can be found here). Maître Honoré’s name also features in a number of Parisian tax registers.

The large tax bills he paid reveal the significant sums this high-end illuminator demanded for his services. His style marks a key development in Parisian illumination, in particular his shading and use of colour. It has been suggested that the delicate and rounded features of his figures reflect the influence of Italian (Sienese?) painting. The innovations of Maître Honoré and his workshop were at the centre of a renaissance in Parisian illumination, and one which took inspiration from artistic styles beyond the confines of northern France.

Maître Honoré has also been linked to the third manuscript on loan to Louvre-Lens, Add MS 54180. It is another manuscript likely to have been made for the French king, Philip IV (r. 1285–1314). Add MS 54180 contains a copy of Brother Laurent’s La Somme le Roi, a moral compendium originally compiled in 1279 for Philip’s father, Philip III of France (r. 1270–1285). Two illuminated folios removed from Add MS 54180 are now Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum, MS 192 and MS 368.

For the exhibition’s curator Xavier Decrot, the three British Library manuscripts are ‘seminal in showing the importance of Paris as a centre for luxury production, and especially, the exceptional quality of the illuminators at this time, not only evident in liturgical manuscripts like the Missal and the Fourth Lectionary of the Sainte-Chapelle, but also in other types of book, such as the extraordinary version by Maître Honoré of Brother Laurent’s La Somme le Roi, probably the most beautiful manuscript produced in the period.’

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Charles Burney and his Manuscript Collection

Burney-collection

NEWS: Charles Burney and his Manuscript Collection, by Cillian O’Hogan.

In the first of an occasional series, we take a look at an important named collection of manuscripts at the British Library. One of the most significant gatherings of classical material in the British Library is to be found in the Burney collection of manuscripts.

This collection, comprising 525 volumes, was assembled by Charles Burney (b. 1757, d. 1817), classicist and bibliophile. Son of the famous historian of music Charles Burney and brother of the novelist Fanny Burney, he was also an avid collector of printed books, newspapers, and playbills, all of which were purchased by the British Museum after his death.

While the Burney manuscripts are best known for the fine classical manuscripts to be contained therein, this is only a small part of the collection. Burney also collected important manuscripts of the Bible and of the Greek and Latin Church Fathers, as well as a wide range of papers and letters belonging to classical scholars.

A more detailed guide to Burney, his life, and his manuscripts, can be found in a virtual exhibition on the Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts website.

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The Beginnings of the Codex

British-Library

ARTICLE: The Beginnings of the Codex, by Cillian O’Hogan.

Over the first few centuries A.D., a change occurred in how people created and consumed books in the Graeco-Roman world. In the early first century, books were on papyrus rolls. By late antiquity, the majority of books were produced as codices, not very different from the books we still use today, and parchment had supplanted papyrus as the writing support of choice. How and why this transition occurred is a question that continues to occupy the attention of anyone interested in the early history of the book.

There are three main phenomena that are clearly interrelated: the transition from roll to codex, the transition from papyrus to parchment, and the rise of Christianity. That last factor may come at first as a surprise, but with only a very few exceptions (and even they are disputed) all fragments of the New Testament from the first few centuries are taken from codices, not rolls. But literary texts (especially those written in Greek) continue to be written primarily on rolls until the fourth century.

Certainly, it seems that early Christians had a clear preference for the codex form. Does it perhaps mean that the rise of Christianity helped the codex to gain the upper hand, too? We still have too little evidence to tell this story as clearly as we would like, and we are always at the mercy of some new piece of evidence overturning everything we believed to be true. (The recently-discovered Peri Alupias of Galen, for instance, contains references to parchment codices at Rome in the late second century, providing further evidence for the use of the codex form at an earlier stage.)

It’s also important to note that the majority of our evidence for the early book comes from Egypt, and we should be cautious about generalising too much from this: Greek books in Egypt may have looked rather different from Latin books in Rome.

It’s against this backdrop that we present our latest addition to Digitised Manuscripts. Though only a very small fragment (85x50mm, about two-thirds the size of your average smartphone), Papyrus 745 (P. Oxy. I 30) is of particular significance for the early history of the book. It is the earliest fragment of a Latin codex yet known, and perhaps the earliest codex in any language, aside from wax tablets, such as the Posidippius codex (P. Oxy. 470, a Greek mathematical treatise, is listed on the Leuven Database of Ancient Books as being from the first century, but it is not clear where this date comes from – all studies I have seen report it as being of the third century.)

Found along with that great treasure-trove of texts at Oxyrhynchus, it is generally dated to the end of the first century or beginning of the second, primarily based on the script. Indeed, even Grenfell and Hunt, who first edited the fragment in 1898, remarked that the script was very similar to that of the De Bello Actiaco, an epic poem preserved on a papyrus found at Herculaneum (and thus to be dated before the eruption of Vesuvius in A.D. 79).

But the fact that the text was in codex form, and written on parchment rather than papyrus, led the first editors to deem it “not earlier than the third century”. A later study by Jean Mallon made clear that the fragment must date from around 100, on palaeographical grounds. Dating ancient book-hands precisely is very difficult, and in our catalogue entry we have dated the manuscript to “Late first-early second century”.

The text preserved on the manuscript is known as the De Bellis Macedonicis (On the Macedonian Wars), as from the small amount of text we have, it clearly refers to the wars between Rome and Macedonia in the third and second centuries BC. It was initially suggested that it was an extract from Pompeius Trogus’ lost Historiae Philippicae, though a recent study by Alexander Kouznetsov has suggested, based on the fragment’s prose rhythm, that it may be the work of Lucius Arruntius.

Where does this fragment fit into the story of the development of the codex? The fact that it is a parchment codex, and written in Latin, makes it more likely than not that it was created outside of Egypt (Bischoff believed it originated in Italy). We have roughly contemporary evidence for parchment codices from the poetry of Martial, and there is additional evidence (including perhaps from the New Testament, at 2 Tim. 4:13) of parchment notebooks being particularly popular with travellers, as they were more easily transportable than bookrolls.

Could we see the fragment then as supporting the hypothesis that the codex grew to prominence in Rome (in contrast to the bookrolls favoured in the East), and that our lack of additional early codices is due largely to the fact that the majority of our early books come from Egypt, and that the Latin-speaking West is seriously underrepresented in the evidence we have? It’s certainly possible. But we must be cautious.

With such a small fragment we have no way of knowing, for instance, how large the original page or bifolium would have been, let alone the size of the codex itself. (We can at least be certain that it’s a codex and not a bookroll because it is clearly the same text on both sides, and when bookrolls are reused, the text tends to be upside down on the verso relative to the recto.)

There is far more to say about this fragment, but that will have to wait for another day. This tiny scrap of parchment is invaluable for the glimpse it gives us of what codices looked like in the early Roman Empire, and while the discovery of additional early Latin books would greatly help us to understand more about book production in the first and second centuries, for the moment, the De Bellis Macedonicis is assured of its status as the earliest Latin codex in existence.

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Due miniature per Giorgio Morandi

Primo-Maestro-di-San-Domeni

ARTICLE: Anna Melograni, Due miniature per Giorgio Morandi, in Bollettno d’Arte, a. XCIX, 2014, fascicolo 21, pp. 123-142.

Il museo di Casa Morandi in via Fondazza a Bologna, dove il pittore abitò con le sorelle fino alla morte nel 1964, conserva tra gli oggetti non esposti, ma consultabili su richiesta, due miniature ritagliate di cui viene proposta una nuova attribuzione. I due fogli pergamenacei furono donati al pittore dall’amico e collezionista Luigi Magnani negli anni Cinquanta del secolo scorso, in due distinte occasioni. Si tratta di opere provenienti da codici liturgici emiliani che, con ogni probabilità, Magnani acquistò sul mercato antiquario bolognese. La prima, raffigurante la Pentecoste, si deve all’anonimo miniatore noto come Maestro di Seneca (o Primo Maestro di San Domenico) ed è databile al primo quarto del XIV secolo; la seconda, raffigurante una inusuale iconografia di Cristo creatore degli astri, va invece riferita a Bertolino de’ Grossi (prima metà del XV secolo). Inoltre, grazie al ritrovamento di alcune lettere, l’autrice ricostruisce il legame tra Magnani e Pietro Toesca, il maestro degli anni romani della specializzazione e della propria formazione nell’ambito della storia della miniatura.

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Book on a Stick

Book-on-a-stick

ARTICLE: Book on a stick, by Erik Kwakkel.

Both medieval manuscripts and their modern counterparts are designed to accommodate human readers. Our two hands can keep an open book under control with ease by applying gentle pressure on the outer margins of the pages. Release the pressure with your right hand and a page lifts up in the air, just enough to conveniently flip it.

With a rustling sound it travels from right to left, moved along by an impatient reader that is left in suspense for a second or two. The proportions of the page, too, are designed to accommodate consumption by human beings.

Our eyes can handle only a small number of consecutively placed words, no more than eight or so, depending on the size of the letter. As a consequence, medieval page design shifted to presenting a text in two columns rather than one, a transition that occurred over the course of the twelfth century ….

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The Evolution of a Royal Book

Royal-Book

ARTICLE: Collaboration and Customisation: The Evolution of a Royal Book, by Hannah Morcos.

As we draw to the end of Paris fashion week, let us turn to a manuscript that exudes the best of Parisian style. The haute couture of book illumination, this glorious Book of Hours showcases the work of the French capital’s most in-demand fifteenth-century illuminators.

It is the eponymous manuscript of the Egerton Master, whose mastery is elsewhere illustrated in the stunning two-volume Bible historiale that starred in our exhibition, Royal Manuscripts: The Genius of Illumination. The Egerton Master collaborated on several occasions with other fashion­able painters of the day. These included the Mazarine Master, who helped to complete the miniatures and decoration towards the end of this lavish manuscript, along with two lesser-known Parisian artists.

One of the more unusual characteristics of Egerton MS 1070 is the unique border decoration. Angels carry freshly unearthed branches of acanthus, roots intact, which extend up the vertical margins.

Following the original commission, this exceptional Book of Hours passed into the hands of a number of monarchs, including Henry VII, before entering the British Library’s collection (via a short residency at a Jesuit College in Krakow). Today the manuscript is identified by the name of one of its fifteenth-century owners, René of Anjou. ‘Le bon roi René’ (‘good king René’) was an influential European leader, patron of the arts and occasional author, whose many titles included duke of Anjou, duke of Lorraine and Bar, and count of Provence, as well as king of Naples, Sicily and Jerusalem.

When the book came into René’s possession, it was carefully customised to suit its new owner and assert his status. This is evident from the beginning of the book: two full-page miniatures depict firstly René’s coat of arms and, on the facing page, Jerusalem, the capital of his kingdom in the Holy Land. Painted by Netherlandish artist Barthélemy d’Eyck, they reflect the early stages of the close relationship between this artist and his patron.

Texts were also added to personalise the manuscript for René’s own private devotion, such as the prayer below which incorporates his name.

The additions also permeate into the borders: many of the angels find the burden of their flight eased by billowing sails, which carry René’s motto ‘En Dieu en soit’ (‘in accordance with God’s will’). As well as furthering his devotional appropriation of the book, they function as a graffiti artist’s tag, stamping René’s ownership in his own distinctive manner.

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Written on the Edge

ARTICLE: Written on the Edge, by Cillian O’Hogan.

When you think of a bookshelf, an image comes immediately to mind: books in an orderly row, arranged alphabetically, thematically, or perhaps by height or colour, but (usually!) standing upright, with spines facing outward. But it does not necessarily follow that books were always kept in this way.

In fact, our earliest visual evidence for bookshelves, or book storage, suggests that books were laid flat, sometimes on individual shelves, and often with fore-edge or lower edge facing outwards, rather than the spine. Some evidence that this continued to be the case, both in the Latin west and in the Byzantine world, is given by the existence of decorations, titles, or other writing, on the edges of manuscripts.

Writing on edges could potentially be of great use to scholars in reconstructing Byzantine libraries, or in assigning provenance. But the barriers to such research are daunting, not least since the details of such writing are not always recorded in catalogue entries.

Moreover, the text is often extremely difficult to read, because of the dirt that has accrued on the edges that have faced outwards in a library or study for centuries. And it is a challenge to photograph edges clearly, especially in manuscripts that have been rebound, such that the binding extends beyond the text-block and casts a shadow over the edges.

But it would be very interesting to know whether, for instance, the relative brevity or length of titles could give clues as to whether the manuscript was owned by a private individual (who may only have needed one copy of a Nomocanon) or by a monastic or imperial library.

In the hopes of making such a study easier, we provide here a brief list of Greek manuscripts in the British Library with writing on the fore-edge or lower edge. Unfortunately, not all of these edges can be seen online at present, but those not online have been transcribed where possible.

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A Humanist Printer for Humanist Readers

Venezia

ARTICLE: Aldus Manutius (1452? – 6 February 1515): A Humanist Printer for Humanist Readers. Aldine Editions at Cambridge University Library, by Laura Nuvoloni.

Tuesday 6 February 1515 was a sad day for the Venetian literati. Aldus Manutius, the ‘Prince’ of Renaissance printers, had died.

His death was not unexpected though. He had in fact complained of having been unwell for sometime in the letter dedicated to his former pupil Alberto Pio in his last book, the Lucretius of January 1515. The loss of such remarkable a printer and editor was nevertheless mourned by Venetian scholars, humanists and “bibliophiles”.

On Thursday 8 February it was mentioned in his diary by Marin Sanudo, the Venetian politician and chronicler: “Two days ago don Aldus Manutius the Roman died here in Venice; he was an excellent humanist and Greek scholar and was the son-in-law of the printer Andrea [Torresani] of Asolo. He produced very accurate editions of many Latin and Greek works with prefatory letters addressed to many, dedicating a number of little works to me, Marin Sanudo. He also wrote an excellent grammar … This morning, the body having been placed in the church of San Patrinian with books surrounding it, the funeral rites were held. An oration praising him was recited by Raphael Regio, public lecturer in humanita in this city”.

The 500th anniversary of his death is celebrated this year by libraries and institutions all over the world. Cambridge University Library joins in with a small exhibition of books published by Manutius between 1495 and 1515 (plus a couple of others) on display in the library Entrance Hall, from Monday 6 February to Saturday 7 March 2015, with an enlarged online version.

Drawn from the library holdings of incunabula and early sixteenth-century Aldine editions, the exhibition celebrates Aldus’s achievements as the most successful editor, printer and businessman in Renaissance Italy. The individual history of some of these books also illustrates his importance as a highly respected humanist, scholar, linguistic and grammarian who could converse at equal level with humanists of the stature of Pietro Bembo and Erasmus of Rotterdam.

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