Detours of academic research - Saint Edmund and his reintegrated body

Academic research does not progress in a straight line. This is knowledge than any academic will accumulate in the course of their career, and it is not necessarily a bad thing. At this point I'm halfway through my PhD, and in those years I have been active as a researcher there have been several detours from my main research trajectory. In some cases, such detours have led me to very fruitful results, as when I tried to map the occurrences of the word "decus" in royal hagiography. Other times, these detours have been a complete waste of time, for instance when I spent an entire workday trying to find the origin of a Latin proverb only marginally relevant to my work, without any success at all. In the following blogpost, I want to share a minor detour which in the end put me on the right track, from my current research.

These past days I've been working extensively on the liturgical material for the feast of Edmund Martyr. His cult and the literature of that cult is one of the three case studies for my PhD thesis, and that means examining and translating a lot of material. At this point, I'm working my way through the chants for Matins in the office for Edmund, as transmitted in MS Pierpont Morgan 736, a manuscript from Bury St Edmunds dated to c.1130. This manuscript has, to my knowledge, not been edited, and I have therefore had to transcribe the entire thing myself, which has been something of a baptism by fire in paleography. The process has been very educational, and it has taken a long time. It has also needed a lot of revising, and sometimes my transcriptions have not been correct in the first place. Trying to find out what the original handwriting actually says, is precisely something that precipitates detours.

Antiphons of the second nocturne of the office for Saint Edmund

Photograph of a photocopy

MS Pierpont Morgan 736, f.94r

Today, my challenge was an antiphon from the second nocturne in the office for Saint Edmund. Antiphons are brief chants performed after each psalm during Matins. Each psalm can have its own individual antiphon. In some cases, the antiphons are taken from a common repository known as the commune sanctorum, the common of saints. In other cases, such as in the office for Edmund, the antiphons are composed specifically for that saint.

Since antiphons are musical pieces and sometimes have notation, as seen above, it is sometimes challenging to decide whether the space between strings of letters indicate a change to a new word, or whether it indicates a liturgical elongation, i.e. a word made longer through song (as when you sing "can't" as "caaaan't" and write it "ca an't"). This problem tricked me many times during my first round of transcribing, because I was not used to this phenomenon.

The antiphon I'm talking of here is the one marked as #57 in the picture above. Its text tells about the translation of the body of Edmund which was incorrupt and entire, despite Edmund being beheaded by the Danes. The text goes like this:

Translato thesauro signum divinum incorrupti et redintegrati corporis enituit vena tantum resplenduit sanguinea quo daret indicium illo sanctum pertulisse martyrium

[In the translation of this treasure, as a divine sign the incorrupt and reintegrated body shone and a bloody vein radiated so much as to give an indication of this holy one who had suffered martyrdom. (My rough translation)]

Translation of Edmund's corpse, guarded by the wolf

MS Harley 2278, John Lydgate's life of Edmund and Fremund, England, between 1434 and 1439

Courtesy of British Library

The problem for me was that I had not been careful enough when transcribing, and I had been fooled by the space which is set between "redinte" and "grati", making one word seem like two. When I was sitting down to translate this I hit one major obstacle, namely the fact that "redinte" is not a word in the Latin lexicon, at least not according the comprehensive but incomplete database of William Whitaker's Words. "Grati" was not a problem as such, since it is a possible form of "gratia", which can be translated as "favour", "goodwill" or "gift", but it did not help at all when "redinte" could not be translated.

After racking my brain a bit and still not realizing that the two words were actually one, I googled the line "redinte grati corpori", hoping that there would be some text or other that contained the same combination of words. The search did not yield any direct hits, but it did send me to a digitized version of Augustine's De genesi ad literam, a commentary on the book of Genesis. This particular version which I was lead to, is the third volume of an edition of Augustine's works, edited in Lyons in 1586. The phrase which led me to this particular book was "redintegratus corporibus", the renewal or revival of the bodies. This made me finally realize what was going on in the liturgical manuscript.

Augustine's use of this phrase has most likely no connection at all to the use of "redintegrati corporis" in the office for Saint Edmund. It is of course possible that the composer or composers of these chants was/were familiar with Augustine's commentary on Genesis, and it is even possible that they had that particular book in mind when putting this antiphon together. But without any more tangible proof of such a connection, I hesitate to make any such conclusions. Instead, the fact that a similar phrase to the one in the antiphon is found in Augustine, is a useful reminder that such detours in research can end in surprising and at the same time helpful results.

Similar blogposts:

Methodology of negatives

Edmund's hedgehog iconography

The finding of Edmund's head in a twelfth-century satirical poem

Time in medieval liturgical thought

 

The Humility of Snails, part 3 - Houses of the Humble

Snail wheeled by a fox (?)
Cambrai, MS 102, c.1290
With thanks to Damien Kempf

Last year, inspired by a blogpost by Sarah J. Biggs at British Library's medieval blog, I wrote a two-part essay about snails in medieval marginalia (here and here). These fantastic gastropods have captured the imagination of modern scholars for generations, and many suggestions have been proffered in the attempt to explain what they meant to their audience. I was dissatisfied with a lot of the suggestions as they sometimes seemed to be too geographically specific to explain a widely disseminated phenomenon, and sometimes seemed to be presented without any solid foundation in research. 

I mean, how the hell do you explain this?
MS Neuchâtel A28, Flemish book of hours, Bruges, c.1500
With thanks to Sjoerd Levelt

As a thought experiment, I offered a scholarly new explanation for what these snails represented, namely that they were symbols of humility, reminding the reader through different situations what was expected from a good Christian. I furthermore tied this symbolism into the mendicant sanctity that came into vogue in the 13th century and continued through the 14th, a model of sanctity based on good works, self-abnegation, and humility, to name some of the key virtues of this saint-paradigm. Through an examination of the snails in a handful of medieval manuscripts, I came to the inconclusive conclusion that the idea of the snail as a symbol of humility made very much sense in a number of religious or religiously informed books from the period 1290-1430.

St Lawrence, and a marginal snail
MS Neuchâtel A28, Flemish book of hours, Bruges, c.1500
With thanks to Johan Oosterman

I was content with such a result. In the field of medieval history, the scarcity of material allows very seldom for conclusive proof, and very often the best we can hope for is a plausible conjecture that can stand the test of time. I was therefore greatly and pleasantly surprised, when I was notified of a 15th-century poem that proved that snails did serve as a symbol of humility in the Middle Ages.

The poem in question is a long political meditation by John Lydgate (1371-1451) called The Truce of 1444. It was brought to my attention by Jenni Nuttall (who has a great blog), and can be found together with a number of other poems from the period collected and edited by Thomas Wright in Political Poems and Songs relating to English History (also thanks to Jenni Nuttall for this link). Lydgate wrote this poem as a political meditation following the truce between France and England of May 1444, which stipulated a two-year armistice, which later was extended to five years, and saw the bethrotal between Margaret of Anjou and King Henry V. Although the title given to the poem - at least in Wright's edition - refers to the truce, the poem itself is more a meditation on politics in general, seemingly an exhortation for people outside the court not to meddle in the politics of the court. Lydgate himself was no stranger to politics. As a monk of Bury St Edmunds, he had prepared his Livesof SS Edmund and Fremund for the young King Henry VI's visits at the monastery in 1333-34. Lydgate had furthermore written extensively on kingship and chivalry in other texts.

However, the tone of the poem suggests a more politically withdrawn monk who has become wary of the world of courtly politics. The text is interspersed with several moralistic animal fables and similes, and referring to the prudence of ancient men like Cato and Socrates, and advicing the lowly to be still lest they face the wrath of princes. One of these animal fables is of particular interest to us as it treats a lobster's attack on a snail:

I sauh a krevys, with his clawes longe,

Pursewe a snayl, poore and impotent;
Hows of this snayl, the wallys wer nat stronge,

A slender shelle, the sydes al torent.

Whoo hath no goold, his tresour soone spent;

The snaylis castel but a sklendir coote;

Whoo seith trouthe, offte he shalle be shent;

A good be stille is offte wel wourth a groote.

This short fable - concluded with one of the repeated lines in the work - is a tale of oppression and abuse of power by the mighty, while the snail represents the lower estates, the poor, and quite likely the humble. Although the word humble is not used, the poor and powerless snail stands in contrast with the long-clawed lobster in a way much similar to the humble snail and the powerful knight in so many marginal illuminations. This is not to say that Lydgate's lobster is a symbol specifically of chivalry, it is more likely representing all kinds of secular power. Nor is it to say that Lydgate draws on the marginal snail for his inspiration, we don't know if Lydgate even knew this (though it is very likely that he did). The reason this use of the snail is interesting to my case, is that the snail is here used as a symbol of those who suffer from abuse of power, the lowly, those who do not belong in the secular court. In short, the snail is the opposite of military might. We do not know whether such a representation of the snail was widespread in medieval Europe, or whether it was in any way connected to the tradition of marginal snails - we simply lack the decisive evidence for such claims. However, Lydgate's use of the snail is symbolically in tune with the snail as a representation of humility as hypothesised by myself in the two previous blogposts. It is therefore reasonable to claim that within the symbolic range of the snail in the Middle Ages, could be found the snail as representative of humility. 

Humility (perhaps) under attack
MS. W.45, The Fieschi Psalter, Flemish, 13th century
With thanks to  @bxknits, courtesy of Walters Art Museum

Literature

Edwards, A. S. G., "John Lydgate's Lives of Ss Edmund and Fremund: Politics, Hagiography and Literature", printed in Bale, Anthony, Saint Edmund King and Martyr: Changing Images of a Medieval Saint

Wagner, John A., Encyclopedia of the Hundred Years War

Wright, Thomas (ed.), Political Poems and Songs Relating to English History

University of Alberta's Lydgate project: http://www.ualberta.ca/~sreimer/edmund/edmund.htm

University of Michigan's Middle English Dictionary: http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med/


Post Scriptum: A big thank you to all who have helped me with suitable images, insights, feedback and help in the process of these blogposts. 

Names of the Hedgehog

and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof.

- Genesis 2:19

Linguistics is one of my many passions and I find great pleasure in learning new words or learning how words have come about. One of the great things about being a Medievalist is the opportunity the subject-matter gives you to come across and learn new words when elving into a past age and its texts. In the course of my thesis work I have come across several great words, both in English and in Latin, and this blogpost is dedicated to the words used to describe one particular animal: the hedgehog.

Edmund's martyrdom

Old English

The oldest of the texts I will deal with in this blogpost is Life of St. Edmund by Ælfric of Eynsham (c.950-c.1010). This text is a hagiography of king Edmund of East Anglia who was killed by Vikings in 869 and it is written in Old English. In the story King Edmund is captured by the Viking chieftain Hingwar who wants him to become his underking and reveal the whereabouts of the royal treasure. The king, a Christian, refuses to become the subject of a pagan and steadfastly resists the tortures brought about by the Vikings. Hingwar orders his men to pierce the king with arrows, a martyrdom like that of St. Sebastian. In describing this episode Ælfric employs a very effective comparison, effective both because it is precise and because its hyperbolic nature increases the shock-effect of the brutality of martyrdom: Edmund, pierced by arrows, resembles an ígl, a hedgehog. The passage concludes as follows:

he eall wæs besæt mid heora scotungum swilce igles byrsta, swa swa Sebastianus wæs.

(he was covered with arrows in the manner of a hedhehog, as was Sebastian)

This particular passage will be a recurring feature of this linguistic expedition since this is the story in which I have found most of the names of the hedgehog, and indeed it is the story that put me onto this idea in the first place.

The name in question here is, as mentioned, ígl, a name that can, according to the Old English dictionary also be rendered as ígil or íl. Interestingly this particular name can be recognised as the root of the modern Swedish word for hedgehog: igelkott.

 Hedgehogs from the Aberdeen bestiary, c.1200

Latin

Like all other animals of the Middle Ages, real or mythical, the hedgehog was interpreted allegorically or "in mystical terms" in the bestiaries where it was made a didactic example for men to learn from. In the bestiary of MS Bodley 764, written between 1220 and1250 and translated and abbreviated by Richard Barber, the author first describes the creature's habits and way of life. He commends it for its cleverness and claims that they gather grapes directly from their vine with their spines, a myth that probably dates all the way back to Roman times. When he turns to the didactic part of the text, the mystical interpretation, the author is quite severe and says that the hedgehog is "a sinner full of vices like spines, skilled in wicked cunning, and in deceits and robberies. He cheats others of the fruit of their labours and takes their food for himself." Like the sinner who fears the judgement of God, it is claimed, so the hedgehog hides among rocks.

This unfavourable reputation owes probably much of its severity to the Vulgate where Jerome mistook the Hebrew word for owl, kippoz, for kippod, hedgehog. In Bible passages such as Isaiah 34:11 and Zephaniah 2:14 the hedgehog thus becomes a symbol of desolation and deserted places, said to inhabit the places that will be destroyed in the vengeance of God.

In Latin the hedgehog is known by the name irenaceus or erinacius. According to the author of the MS Bodley 764 bestiary the animal was also known by the name echinus and this rendition, perhaps a vulgarisation, we will find vestiges of in vernacular texts.

 Hedgehogs from the MS Bodley 764

Middle English

In one of the secondary sources I've been working with, I have been referred to three Middle English texts in which the hedgehog is named. Each of these texts is a version of the story of St. Edmund and they all employ the classic simile when describing the pierced King Edmund. I have also come across another Middle English text in which the hedgehog features poetically, a poem by William Dunbar, but here the matter does not pertain to the life of Edmund of East Anglia.

The oldest of the three hagiographic texts is the South English Legendary. This book is a collection of saints' lives rendered in verse and composed in the latter half of the 13th century somewhere close to Gloucester. Here the vernacular word for hedgehog resembles very much the Old English word and we see here one of the stations in the word's trajectory towards modern Swedish. In the words of the compiler of the legend, King Edmund was [a]s ful as an illespyl is of pikes al about.

John Lydgate (c.1370-1449/50), a monk at Bury-St-Edmunds, wrote the poetical rendition of the lives of Edmund and his cousin Fremund as a gift for the child-king Henry VI. The king stayed at Bury from Christmas 1433 to April 23, St. George's day, the following year and was given this didactic present, presumably aimed at shaping the young monarch to become a good and righteous Christian. In this work we may detect that the evolution of the language has favoured the name most resembling the Latin word. John Lydgate states that Edmund [r]assemble an yrchoun fulfillid with spynys thikke /As was the martyr seint Sebastyan.

A similar usage we can also find in the third text, the Gilte Legende. This opus is a mid-15th-century hagiographical collection translated from the French work Legende doree, which in turn is a translation of Jacobus the Voragine's 13th-century Legenda Aurea. Although more or less contemporary with John Lydgate the saint's martyrdom is rendered differently, owing perhaps to a difference in sources or the fact that Lydgate wrote in rhyme royal. According to the author of the Gilte Legende King Edmund appierid fulle of arowys lyke as an urchyn fulle of pryckis.

In conclusion of this linguistic excursion we must turn to a work by William Dunbar (1460?–1513x30), The Tretis of the twa mariit wemen and the wido. This poem is Dunbar's longest opus and one of the first to be printed. It is a comical work recounting a conversation between the three titular women.The subject is the trials of marriage and in a passage dealing with a husband's kisses the husband's cheeks are compared to the pines of a hedgehog: He schowis one me his schewill mouth & schendis my lippis / And with his hard hurcheone scyne sa heklis he my chekis.

St Sebastian by Andrea Mantegna

With Dunbar we come to a close as he stood on the threshold of Modern English and the English Renaissance. As we have seen the hedgehog has furnished authors with poetic and didactic material - and the simile of Edmund can be said to be both - throughout the Middle Ages. Due to its recurring role we have here been able to follow the evolution of its name in a long-spanning, but of course vastly incomplete, trajectory. The names I have presented above are not the only names awarded the hedgehog in Medieval times, but they serve nonetheless as a nice overview.