A “prity one”: Frances Wolfreston’s copy of Thomas Heywood’s The English Traveller (1633)

The early modern reader Frances Wolfreston (1607-1677) has attracted a considerable amount of attention from scholars in recent decades. “Frances wolfreston her bouk,” she often wrote in her copies of seventeenth-century publications. Intriguingly, Wolfreston sometimes left short critical remarks in her books, rare and invaluable assessments of literature from a woman in early modern England.

If you’re reading this, you might know that these books aren’t all in the same place, which poses a challenge (or travel opportunity) to those who want to know more about Wolfreston’s reading habits. Dispersed among many research libraries, her collection includes the only surviving 1593 copy of Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, which Johan Gerritsen discussed in pioneering 1964 article, as well as a Folger copy of Chaucer’s Workes (which Sarah Werner discusses here), a UPenn Q3 copy of Shakespeare’s Othello (which Werner also wrote about here), a book called The Schoole of Vertue at the University of Illinois and a copy of Mary Wroth’s Urania at Illinois State (both of which Sarah Lindenbaum wrote about here), and Boston Public Library copies of  The Merchant of VeniceThe Taming of the ShrewEastward Hoe, and A Pleasant Conceited Comedy, Wherein is Shewed, How a Man May Choose a Good Wife from a Bad (jointly discussed here by Lindenbaum, Lori Humphrey Newcomb, and Jay Moschella). In some cases, she indicates where she bought her books, or from whom. If you want to know more about these and other “bouks,” Paul Morgan’s 1989 article is an essential source, for it includes a list of 106 printed books owned by the Wolfreston family, with 95 of them inscribed by Frances.

This week, I came across Wolfreston’s copy of Thomas Heywood’s  The English Traveller at the Huntington Library in San Marino, CA (RB 64122). The catalog specified that this particular copy featured the book plate of Robert Hoe and that its binding was signed “Matthews.” Upon opening it, however, I was delighted to find both an autograph and a brief critical assessment from Wolfreston, who was 26 years old when The English Traveller was published. This was two years after she married the landowner Francis Wolfreston (as many have noted, this story isn’t one without a little name confusion; the Wolfrestons had children named Francis, too). Lindenbaum has told me that this copy of The English Traveller was included in a Sotheby’s sale of 1856 and that there are several other Wolfreston-Hoe books at the Huntington Library, though this Heywood playbook’s whereabouts have been obscure. On the first page of the play’s text, you can clearly read “francis wolfrest[on] / her bouk” (sig. A4r), and below the play’s prologue on the facing page, “prity one” (sig. A3v).

wolfreston_2wolfreston_1

By “prity,” Wolfreston may have meant something along the lines of cleverly done, ingenious, or artful (OEDadj. 1b) quite likely mingled with “pleasing; attractive or charming” (adj., 2b). To be sure, the fathers and sons in this tragicomedy ultimately reconcile, though a character named Mistress Wincott does die of grief after an secret affair with Young Geraldine’s best friend Dalavill (scandalously, Young Geraldine had been attracted to Mistress Wincott the whole time, with Mr. Wincott completely oblivious). Perhaps Wolfreston was won over by the comic subplot, which features – I kid you not – a scene in which drunken revelers collectively hallucinate a shipwreck inside another character’s home. Have I convinced you to read The English Traveller?

If you won’t take my word for it, know that Wolfreston generally had good things to say about Heywood’s works. She left an approving remark in the playwright’s Second Part of the Iron Age, and in her copy of A Pleasant Conceited Comedy, she wrote “a exeding prity on[e].” I should add that although scholars sometimes group Othello with The English Traveller on accounts of the plays’ common domestic themes, Wolfreston saw a distinction between them. Shakespeare’s play was “a sad one” and Heywood’s a “prity one.” (By the way, see Werner’s thoughtful reflections on Othello as, or as not, a “sad book.”) In this case, a reader’s annotations offer not only a declaration of ownership or a flash judgment, but commentary about tragicomedy, a dramatic genre that pointed in different directions. Following a thoughtful suggestion from Lindenbaum, I also was able to track down what could be Wolfreston’s copy of another Heywood playbook at the Huntington Library: The Foure Prentises of London (RB 54919). Its title page is missing, however, and though I looked carefully I found no inscriptions. Hopefully we come across more of this interesting woman’s “bouks.”

 

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c17 Quarto Playbooks at Northwestern

In keeping with the “Renaissance Books, Midwestern Libraries” project I’ve been running this summer, today I’m going to discuss a couple more early printed items in Northwestern’s Special Collections library.

The subject of this post is dramatic quartos. Scanning a spreadsheet of our Special Collections holdings, I’ve counted a modest, but respectable total of 24 playbooks published in quarto between 1620 and 1660. (There are a number of later c17 playbooks too, but I’m keeping the window narrow for now.) This collection include works by Francis Beaumont, George Chapman, John Fletcher, Philip Massinger, Thomas Middleton, and James Shirley, among others. Shirley is the best-represented playwright in Northwestern’s playbook collection by a good margin; of the 24 items here, 10 feature Shirley’s name on their title pages.

Printed in 1640 by Thomas Cotes for William Cooke, The Humorous Courtier is one among several of these Shirley playbooks. This is a Caroline-era comedy of courtship in which Duke Foscari contends for the hand of the Duchess of Mantua along with a gaggle of pompously eloquent, misogynistic, and foolish suitors. (Naturally, since he is a duke, he woos in disguise.) An especially interesting feature of this playbook is the prefatory catalog of 20 Shirley plays available in print at the time of this book’s issue:

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Charles Deering McCormick Library of Special Collections, shelfmark 822.4 S55hu

Such catalogs were becoming more common at this time and served a growing audience for printed drama in light of the closing of the theaters (also in 1640). Since Cooke published other works by Shirley, he obviously had something to gain by including this list. 9 of these titles can be found at Northwestern, along with The Opportunitie, not listed here but also published by Cooke in 1640. (For those wondering, The Opportunitie was entered in the Stationers’ Register to Andrew Crooke and William Cooke on April 25, 1639, about 3 months before The Humorous Courtier was entered to Cooke.)

Published three years earlier by Crooke in 1637, The Gamester is a triple-plotted Shirley comedy that treats of sex, gambling, and dueling. This is one of Northwestern’s more interesting quarto playbooks on account of its “used” condition. If you can’t already see what I’m talking about just by looking at the title page, keep scrolling…

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Charles Deering McCormick Library of Special Collections, shelfmark 822.4 S55g

Although prefatory material was not uncommon in printed drama at this time, the Gamester quarto of 1637 does not feature any.  To remedy the situation, perhaps, an early reader tipped in (between sig. A1 and A2) their own “Persons of the Comedy”:

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Charles Deering McCormick Library of Special Collections, shelfmark 822.4 S55g

These markings show us how one reader attempted to bridge the gap between this Shirley quarto and other playbooks with useful character lists or other paratextual materials. Rather than forcing readers to jump into the play without any foreknowledge of the characters, this inscribed copy offers a guide to the “Persons” (“Hazard,” or “Mr. Barnacle”) and, in some cases, their relationships to each other (“louer of Violante,” “Nephew to Barnacle,” “Cousen to Wilding”). You can see that some inscriptions have been cropped at the bottom, most likely when the book was bound.

If we look at the title page’s verso, there is further evidence of book use. First of all, it looks like the same reader has traced the title through the leaf and written it again — strangely — in a half-backwards script. (These markings we can call “pen trials.”) Below this, however, are fragments of a verse and what could be the name of our reader here. Deferring as usual to the more gifted paleographers out there, I transcribe thus:

Cloris farwell for if with y
I longer stay ….

Will Macey[?]
Thomps[?]

Searching EEBO for “Cloris farewell,” I turned up what seem to be a few versions of a song. John Wilson’s Select ayres and dialogues for one, two, and three voyces, to the theorbo-lute or basse-viol (1659, Wing W2909) includes a song attributed to Henry Lawes that begins, “Cloris, farewell, I now must go, / for if with thee I here doe stay…” (O2r). The music appears here, too. There are other “Cloris” songs in this volume, and a search through EBBA turns up quite a few others. Published shortly after Wilson’s book, Thomas Jordan’s  A royal arbor of loyal poesie (1663, Wing J1058) includes a song entitled “The Broken Contract,” which appears with “Tune, Cloris farewell, I needs must go” (2D4r).

In addition to these two, I found a similar verse in a miscellany published in 1694 by Jacob Tonson (Wing D2237). The book’s extended title is The Annual miscellany, for the year 1694 being the fourth part of Miscellany poems: containing great variety of new translations and original copies by the most eminent hands. Yale’s copy is available to EEBO subscribers, and I found this relevant section (copied here according to fair use):

waller

Because they include the phrase “I longer stay,” one might suspect that the lines inscribed in Northwestern’s copy of The Gamester could be a recollection of Edmund Waller’s version of this song. However, because we’re dealing with lines that appear to have been circulating freely for many decades in manuscript and print, we cannot definitively say that our reader is copying from any particular source. A better question might be: why would a reader inscribe these lines in this particular playbook, as opposed to another? What is it about The Gamester?

As for the person responsible for the Cloris lines, the title-tracing, and the “Persons of the Comedy” (“Will[iam] Macey,” perhaps?) there is more searching to be done that would refine this investigation. But until then, know that Northwestern has a fair number of early quarto playbooks, and quite a few of them by James Shirley.

A 1595 Geneva Bible at Northwestern . . . and water damage

In this post, I’ll give you all a look into the Humanities Without Walls project I’m piloting this summer, “Renaissance Books, Midwestern Libraries.” (With a little luck, this’ll be the first of several installments.) Thanks to the instrumental help of my research assistants Hannah Bredar, Erin Nelson, and Nicole Sheriko, as well as the constant aid of librarians and faculty at Northwestern and elsewhere, I’m proud to say that thus far the project has almost tripled number of Northwestern’s early print holdings (from 1473 to 1700) represented in the ESTC. When we began there were only 188 items registered, and now there are 555. With a couple months of the summer ahead of us, as well as a good portion of Fall term allotted to the project, we aim to raise this number even higher, bringing Northwestern’s Special Collections holdings digitally to the view of scholars searching today’s most extensive bibliographic catalog for early printed books. Ideally, a second round of funding will allow the project to expand into our eighteenth-century holdings and out to other institutions as well.

100_3776A particularly interesting item that I had to page at Special Collections (meaning it was a “hard case,” unmatchable to an ESTC record by online catalog consultation alone) is this raggy old Geneva Bible, published by Christopher Barker in 1595. I photographed the Bible like this because its front matter and final few leaves have been lost, as have many leaves and portions of leaves throughout its entirety. (Northwestern’s catalog reads: “NUL copy incomplete: t.p. and numerous pages missing at beginning and end, many pages mutilated.”) Looking at the ESTC records in the hopes of a match, I could not identify an edition of Barker’s Geneva Bible of 1595 that fit perfectly with this item. That could mean one of a few things. First, it could be me: I might just need to devote more time to the volume in the hopes of matching it with the variant details listed in the ESTC. Second, though, it could be that this is an extant state of a particular edition that has yet to be recorded. This can sometimes be the case. That the date on the “NEWE TESTAMENT” title page is not dated 1594 made this seem a possibility; the title page is dated 1595 here. (STC 2161 has”Newe” and is dated 1594.) Third, there may not yet be enough criteria available in the ESTC that survives in this very fragmentary Bible to verify it as belonging to any particular record.

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But let’s take a look at the really interesting part of this book: its messy survival condition. I defer to Aaron Pratt when it comes to early printed Bibles, but this particular one interested me enough for me to write a few things here about its history and provenance. As you can see in the photos I’ve included, certain early owners of the book inscribed their names in it and crossed out the names of previous owners; this is a common practice among Renaissance readers. I held the leaves this way to show how the manuscript annotations, pen-trials, and markings in this book add to an already-rich typographical texture  (see the cartographic woodcut on the mangled verso, as well as the woodblock initial beginning Matthew).

100_3775Especially interesting about this book is the provenance it preserves through a nineteenth-century owner’s note slipped into the first few leaves. According to the note, inscribed sometime between 1865 and 1873, the book was probably purchased by Samuel Winsor and Rhoda Delano Winsor of Duxbury, MA shortly after their marriage in 1746. Here, we get not only an account of the former owners of the book, but the means by which the pages were made yellow and damaged (as you can see in another photo I’ve included here, the vellum binding covering the book has also suffered a gaping hole). It’s not too often that we get this level of detail about a book’s use, neglect, and “injury”:

It is not age that caused
the leaves to turn so yellow
but during the Winter of 1857
it was packed in a trunk with
clothing, the trunks stored in
a basement in Washington. St Boston;
the water pipes burst, were not
attended to, when every thing became
filled with dampness & injured this book.

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Having once lived not very far from Washington Street in Boston, and having stored my clothing and books in the basement there, I can definitely sympathize with the Winsors! Strangely though, as you can see in the photo above, this portion of the inscription is crossed out. We find out at the bottom of the inserted leaf that the person responsible for the inscription is “the daughter of Job & Betsy Winsor Sampson, who was the daughter of Sam & Rhoda Winsor.” This was either Betsy or Judith, and knowing this helps us to date the inscription. (Ancestry.com provided a substantial amount of help here in clarifying identities and relationships mentioned in this account.)

So, altogether, what I report here is a small portion of this HWW project that concerns a particular book’s provenance and water-damage history. But stories like these, as Andrew Stauffer repeatedly has said, constitute the hidden histories of books both in Special Collections libraries and in the library stacks. They show how Renaissance books accumulate eighteenth- and nineteenth-century histories as well. Maybe one day I’ll dig into the history of this Bible’s passage from Massachusetts to Evanston — unless someone out there wants to do it first, that is. Until then, there will be numerous other stories, family-related and otherwise, to uncover about men and women and their lives with Renaissance books.

Photos here are published courtesy of the Charles Deering McCormick Library of Special Collections at Northwestern University; this item is shelfmark 220.52 1595. Renaissance Books, Midwestern Libraries is supported directly by the Alice Kaplan Institute for the Humanities, The Graduate School, and Weinberg College of Arts and Sciences at Northwestern University. This program is also supported by the Humanities Without Walls consortium, based at the Illinois Program for Research in the Humanities at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. The Humanities Without Walls consortium is funded by a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.

*** Update 2:24 PM CT on 7-9-14: On Twitter, Aaron Pratt explained that this artifact is in fact STC 2166.

A 1549 Giolito Anthology at Northwestern

The Giolito anthologies are a series of volumes of collected lyric poetry published in Italy during the mid-16th century. The poems in these books are deeply indebted to Petrarch, and one can find in them conventional images and language that were becoming increasingly common in Renaissance lyric. Scholars have given the volumes their name on account of their publisher, Gabriel Giolito, who ran an enormously successful and wide-reaching publishing institution in Renaissance Italy. The presses operated mainly out of Venice, but the trade reached well into France.

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Title page of Rime diverse di molti eccellentiss. auttori nuovamente raccolte. (Venice, 1549). McCormick Library of Special Collections, Northwestern University Library, 851.08 D668r v.1

The poems contained in these volumes have been known widely among critics as being, well, pretty bad – they are commonly referred to as the work of “minor poets.” Recently, however, JoAnn Della Neva has argued that these Giolito anthologies exerted a profound, if underacknowledged, influence upon the literary efforts of 16th century France. (Joachim Du Bellay’s sonnet collection Olive is a particularly useful example of this.) By extension, these volumes can be seen to have had an effect on emerging poetic traditions in England, which one can begin to find in numerous English poetic anthologies (Tottel’s Miscellany of 1557 being only one of many published in London before 1600).

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Verses by Laura Terracina to the volume’s editor, Lodovico Domenichi. In Rime diverse di molti eccellentiss. auttori nuovamente raccolte. (Venice, 1549), R4r. McCormick Library of Special Collections, Northwestern University Library, 851.08 D668r v.1

Part of the interest in the Giolito anthologies comes from their compilatory nature and rather unusual printing history. Following Salvatore Bongi’s Annali di Gabriel Giolito de’ Ferrari, Diana Robin has laid out a useful set of appendices that organizes the anthologies’ bibliographical data by publication date or people’s names, along with descriptions of the 15 volumes in the Newberry Library. (Her book is entitled Publishing Women and has a special eye to the women contributors in the volumes; it was released in 2007).

I’ve looked at a few of the Newberry volumes researched by Robin, but I also found a surviving Giolito anthology in the McCormick Library of Special Collections at Northwestern. There is only one up here, published in 1549 (and, in Robin’s appendix, the 3rd edition of volume 1, or 1c), but it features some interesting elements and annotations that tell us something about how the Giolito volumes could be used. Already, one can find a printed index to the poets in the volume, which is especially helpful because the poems are not grouped sequentially by individual author. Note the initial woodblock representing Actaeon pursued by his dogs after seeing the naked Diana, a figure invoked repeatedly by Renaissance sonneteers:

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Index of poets included in the volume. In Rime diverse di molti eccellentiss. auttori nuovamente raccolte. (Venice, 1549), 2A4r. McCormick Library of Special Collections, Northwestern University Library, 851.08 D668r v.1

The Northwestern volume has interesting features beyond the index, though. An early owner inscribed the volume’s tailside foredge with “Rime Diuerse.” While we can’t derive a whole lot of information from this, it may be suggestive of the way the book was stored on a shelf (likely, before it received its marbled binding). Because no number follows “Rime Diuerse,” perhaps this particular owner possessed this volume and none of the other Giolito anthologies (two other first editions and two second editions were available in 1549, when this book saw print).

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Exterior binding and foredge, Rime diverse di molti eccellentiss. auttori nuovamente raccolte. (Venice, 1549). McCormick Library of Special Collections, Northwestern University Library, 851.08 D668r v.1

If we open up the book, there are further traces of use in a number of early reader’s annotations. (You can already begin to see this on the title page, pictured above (one can easily make out “Raymondi” to the right of the ornament.) Here, a reader disagreed with the editor Domenichi’s attribution of a sonnet to Pietro Bembo. “questo sonetto / non è del / Bembo” [This sonnet isn’t by Bembo.]

bembo not
Rime diverse di molti eccellentiss. auttori nuovamente raccolte. (Venice, 1549). McCormick Library of Special Collections, Northwestern University Library, 851.08 D668r v.1

Bembo is featured very prominently in the volume; in fact, his name in the index stands out in a much larger type than those used for the “lesser” poets. But this reader’s marginal comment is interesting in that it expresses concern about correct authorial attribution in a literary genre (that is, the c16 lyric anthology) that generally seems to strain against it. (This point I gather from Wendy Wall’s great book The Imprint of Gender.) At least, later in England, poetic anthologies were characterized by unrepresentative titles and authorial attributions, interventions by editors and printers, and the inclusion of “uncertain authors.” From here, one might investigate if this reader is actually onto something, or if the attribution is sustained or corrected in later or other editions. But that’s beyond the scope of this post, which is simply to point out an interesting item at Northwestern’s Special Collections Library.