A new year and a new article to go with it

The fantastic editors of The Chaucer Review do not mess around: when they say a January issue is coming out, they mean it. The new issue (53.1) came out within the first few days of the new year—I noticed it yesterday afternoon—and contains my article “‘In fourme of speche is chaunge’: Final –e in Troilus and Criseyde II.22–28.” (A PDF is available on the Publications page of this site.) Here’s the abstract:

This article posits that the fourth stanza of the proem to Book Two of Troilus and Criseyde, a passage that reflects on linguistic change, calls attention to such change by deploying the already-antiquated but still-recognized final -e. The discussion considers first how Chaucer positions language change in Troilus, including the envoy (V, 1793–98), before addressing the careful construction of II, 22–28. Chaucer thus highlights discrepancies between written and oral forms of language as well as geographic and temporal differences. A consideration of the extant manuscripts of the poem demonstrates the attention Chaucer’s early copyists paid to his deliberate use of written, but silent, final -e.

I’m very happy to see this work in print: it’s been developing for quite some time. The idea first came to me over six years ago, in the autumn of 2011, while I was the TA for Jamie Fumo’s class on Chaucer’s courtly literature. At the top of Professor Fumo’s handout on Middle English pronunciation, she included this stanza as an epigraph—a very appropriate quotation when introducing so many undergraduates to this wonderfully strange language. As we moved through vowel pronunciation and the familiar-but-tricky issue of final -e, I flipped back to this passage. Something caught my eye, something seemed off. For the rest, you’ll have to read the article.

My thanks to Susanna Fein, David Raybin, and Christopher Michael Roman at The Chaucer Review for the opportunity. And all best to everyone for 2018.


(Cambridge, Corpus Christi College MS 61 frontispiece)

Gollancz and Tennyson

Readers of my fortnight-old post on Gollancz’s Pearl will recall a brief discussion of the inclusion of an epigraphic quatrain from then Poet Laureate, Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Appearing on the page just after the Holman Hunt frontispiece, it reads:





As I noted before, this quatrain is printed in ALLCAPS in all the editions, and I suspect that the consequent epitaphic effect is no doubt intended. There is certainly a tension between the polished stone gleaming in the “lyric coronet”, now safe from that moul that marreȝ a myry iuele, and the graven quality of the words. But there’s more at work here.

Before I saw the light and became a medievalist, I spent part of my wayward youth as a would-be Romanticist. I worked most of the time on mid-nineteenth-century print culture, especially the phenomenon known as the literary annuals or gift-books, those luxury tomes largely intended as seasonal presents for marriageable young ladies of acute sensibility. (If you’ve read Middlemarch, Ned Plymdale gives Rosamund Vincy a copy of The Keepsake.) The books were popular for their pairing of high-quality reproductions of fine art (new steel-plate engraving and steam press technology aiding mass print runs) with poems and short stories commissioned from famous writers including Scott, Wordsworth, Mary Shelley, and others. While the literary annuals have their share of small-R romance, they are also heavily informed by the aesthetic that a Victorian character on That Mitchell and Webb Look summed up as “portraits of ill children praying.” Or, for the more visually-inclined, the 1824 Forget-Me-Not opened with this funereal frontispiece:

1824 FMN Frontispiece

Gollancz was born a little late to have experienced even the tail-end of the annuals craze: many of the most prominent titles ended their runs in the mid-1840s and nearly all were gone by 1860. He would likely have encountered them nonetheless, for they were very well-made, included a lot of artistic reproductions from Turner, Reynolds, and the like, and literature from great poets and authors of the age. On top of this, owners were unlikely to part with them, given their expense: many annuals retailed for about £1 or so—quite a sum at the time. Many were kept in families and handed down from one generation to the next. Tennyson was certainly familiar with literary annuals, having written for a number of them in the 1830s, including The Golden Treasury and The Gem.

According to a little bit of research I did in connexion with the Tennyson quatrain, Tennyson’s library, now housed at the Lincolnshire County Council’s Tennyson Research Centre (see the Catalogue here, items AT/1764 and AT/1765 on p. 17), contains two copies of the Gollancz first edition. One is a thank-you copy, numbered 49 of 50 printed; the fly-leaf is inscribed to the poet from the editor: “To Lord Tennyson with most grateful regards. I. Gollancz.” This is rather graceful, compared to the public thanks he offers in the Preface to the first edition:

“Finally, it is my privilege to express my profound thanks to the Laureate for having guerdoned my labour with the most coveted of distinctions; graced with the imprimatur of his honoured name, ‘Pearl’ will, I feel sure, find kindly welcome in many an English home.”

Gollancz may have missed his true calling: he would have made an excellent editor of the literary annuals.

The second copy is the more interesting for it demonstrates the tactical branding (cf. “imprimatur”) that Gollancz had in mind as he prepared his first edition. Read: he knew what he was doing. The TRC’s Catalogue provides the title to the volume in brackets, for, while the Holman Hunt frontispiece is present, the title page is not, which leads the catalogue to wonder parenthetically if this was a proof copy, which the dates certainly do suggest. The rough dating of the copy is determined by a letter tucked into it that is dated 18 November 1890 from Gollancz to Hallam Tennyson. It asks Tennyson the Younger, who lived with his father as his personal secretary, to interest Lord Alfred in the poem. The lines that were to become the poetical guerdon are written in pencil on the back of this copy’s Holman Hunt frontispiece in Hallam Tennyson’s hand. While I’m reluctant to speculate cynically, it may be that the aging Tennyson saw something in the enterprising scholar’s request that reminded him of Charles Heath’s and the other gift-book editors’ annual solicitations and rattled off a few lines very much in that spirit.

Elsewhere in the edition, Gollancz forges links with Tennyson’s oeuvre, whether out of genuine feeling, canny marketing to guarantee a “kindly welcome in many an English home”, or—quite likely—a mix of both. On the first page of his Introduction, he positions Pearl as anticipating or presaging Tennyson’s great elegy: “its artistic form indicates the peculiar position this old ‘In Memoriam’ occupies in the evolution of modern English poetry.” (The 1921 edition substitutes early for old and gets a little less Darwinian: “in the progress of English poetry.”) In his explanatory notes, he twice draws parallels between passages in Pearl and the lament for Clough. For instance, Gollancz highlights the parallel between the commonplace of new growth from the corpse in Pearl 25–36 and In Memoriam XVIII (“And from his ashes may be made / The violets of his native land.”). The more interesting—and certainly more complicated—weaving with Tennyson’s work appears in the first edition only. In space between the title page the preface, just after the Tennysonian quatrain, Gollancz includes a dedication page. It reads:

Gollancz 1891 Dedication Page

The quotation is from the fifth stanza of Tennyson’s Maud, a tale of lost love and an angelic apparition that restores purpose to the mourner’s life. The complication of course comes from the fact that, in Maud, the deceased heroine and her apparition are aged sixteen years and thus the lost love is of a decidedly romantic nature—no ambiguity about the luf-daungere there. (Also the Pearl-dreamer has no Crimean War to head to after waking from his dream on the cold huyl-side.)

We might assume that Gollancz has chosen this epigraph to complement the quatrain even as it compliments the author of the lines, but I perhaps some generosity of interpretation is in order here. The rather careerist entry for Sir Israel in the DNB concludes by commenting on his well-known affection for children that endeared him to many friends and acquaintances. He came from a large family and had many nieces and nephews. My cursory glances over ancestry websites show a numbers of relatives born right around the time of the preparation and publication of the first edition of Pearl. Mabel Gollancz, the daughter of his brother, Alexander, was born in 1890, for example. However, I was unable to discover how long she lived or the fate of her sister Winifried (b. 1891). (Of their brother Victor we have much more information. He was, among many other things, Orwell’s first publisher.) I’m terribly curious—with no hint of the nefarious—about the particular personal goings-on, if any, that would prompt the scholar to include this dedication. But, then, in so doing I may be guilty of precisely the same sort of biographical projection that Gollancz undertakes when he insists that the poet elegizes his own daughter in Pearl. (Israel Gollancz himself would not marry until 1910, at the age of 37; he had two children with his wife Alide [née Goldschmidt], Marguerite [!!!] and Oliver. Both, it is happily noted, lived long lives.)

I hope, too, that this sentimental note supplies a counter to the some of the cynicism above. It is obvious from every sentence in both editions that Gollancz loved Pearl deeply. His express purpose in publishing his edition—and including a modern English translation—was to make the poem more accessible and to get it to more readers, beyond those with connexions to the British Academy or subscribers to Furnivall ventures or the Early English Text Society. If he considered playing upon the tastes of consumers—tastes conditioned by decades of anthologies that paired steel-plate engravings with “poetical illustrations” to reflect and exemplify the sensibilities of the readers and owners as much as to educate, entertain, and inform them—then so be it. What matters most is that more and more readers did, in the end, encounter and come to love Pearl, some maybe loved it even as much as Gollancz.


On First Looking into Gollancz’s Pearl


(Yes, I realise the title isn’t as mellifluous as its inspiration, but then I’m no stout Cortez.)

I read Pearl for the first time in the autumn semester of 2008 in Sarah Stanbury’s TEAMS edition as part of Jamie Fumo’s excellent Dream Visions course at McGill. (The course was life-changing for me, but more on that at a later date.) This was my first full-and-proper encounter with the poem; I’d read about it here and there, most memorably in Tom Shippey’s Tolkien: Author of the Century, where he discusses the similarities between the earthly paradise that the mourner-dreamer visits and Lothlórien—between two rivers, the otherworldly colours, the freshness of the place, the timelessness. (Shippey is also interested in the parallels between the Pearl-poet and Tolkien as writers from the West Midlands, but more on that too, perhaps, at a later date.) In Stanbury’s introduction—a wonderful initiation for reader coming to this difficult text for the first time—we’re given an overview of the critical readings and, briefly, the editorial history of the poem. As part of this discussion, she explains that her own editorial practice follows that of Sir Israel Gollancz (1891, rev. 1897; 2nd ed. 1921) rather than Vantuono (1984): she aims at emendation to restore a generally regular metre where supposed scribal change or error has marred it. Whereas the plupart of Pearl  scholars today use Andrew & Waldron’s 1979 edition, I prefer E.V. Gordon’s posthumous 1953 edition and use it as my base text in all my work on this best of poems. All this to say that, in contemporary Pearl studies, at least where the ‘poem itself’ is concerned, Gollancz’s book does not come up too terribly often.

When most latter-day Pearl scholars deal with Gollancz, I reckon they think of one of the two giants of the great Allegory-or-Elegy debate, with Schofield as the Titan of Allegorisis. This Great Debate was, thankfully, settled some time ago, and the Gollanczian party won out, though not because of the accuracy of Sir Israel’s insistent autobiographical argument. (More on this below, to be sure.) While the Gollancz edition has been superseded, there are still valuable grains to be gleaned from it. Too frequently, we read about old editions and the arguments advanced in their introductions or notes, maybe at best turning to the specific pages to check a citation. Perhaps more often, trusting the recent editor to have got it right, we plug in the (usually dismissive if not derogatory—how benighted, our forebears!) quotation or citation and move on. I’ve certainly been guilty of this. However, as part of my recent work on Pearl and Holy Name devotion and an ongoing project on overlooked translations of Pearl, I recently picked up Gollancz’s 1921 2nd edition of Pearl. (I also consulted the 1891 first edition online, which you can access here. I quote from the 2nd edition, except where noted.) I didn’t go through the whole volume. Instead, I read the introduction, finding a few items of real use for both projects, and then turned to the appendix, Boccaccio’s Olympia. What follows here are some reflections on what I found there, both of academic and human (or humanistic or humanising) interest.

(Gollancz himself is a fascinating figure in early Medieval Studies. It should not be overlooked, I think, that, in a profession dominated by protestant men of Anglo-Scots-Irish descent, he was the son of a London rabbi. You can read his obituary in the London Times here.)

One of the pieces of joy in Gollancz’s edition is the frontispiece which the editor had done. He apparently requested or inspired (or, if one parses the Victorian “induce” [xxx] correctly, needled and commissioned) his dear friend William Holman Hunt, the pre-Raphaelite artist, to produce a silverpoint illustration of the Pearl-maiden standing on her side of the river with the New Jerusalem seen in the distance. The illustration was produced for the 1891 first edition. The original image was sold in 2010 for £74,000 and again at Christie’s in 2012 for over £91,000, including Mrs. Edith Holman Hunt’s signed copy of the first edition. You can read about the history of the artwork here. And for your viewing pleasure  (note the double rainbow):


Holman Hunt Pearl

This is not the only gem of Victorian England to grace the edition, however. Sir Israel also solicited a prefatory quatrain from the Poet Laureate, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, then in the penultimate year of his life. It reads:





In all the editions (first, revised, and second) this quatrain is printed in ALLCAPS, and I suspect that the consequent epitaphic effect is no doubt intended. There is, of course, a tension between the polished stone gleaming in the “lyric coronet”, now safe from that moul that marreȝ a myry iuele, and the graven quality of the words.

Like many other late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Pearl scholars—Schofield, Osgood, Garrett, and Wrenn—Gollancz makes sweeping gestures to English literary history in his discussion of the poem, invoking the would-be Great Masters of Yesteryear. (Or yesterday, in the case of Tennyson.) There is, as I mentioned above, the effort to cast the anonymous dream vision as a proto-In Memoriam. Likewise, he invokes Spenserian heroic portrayal as a parallel to the Pearl-poet’s form of romance candour. (In one essay, Wrenn suggests the Elizabethan poet had in fact read SGGK.) What is perhaps the most striking about Gollancz’s plotting of the Pearl-poet on the line of what he calls “the evolution of modern English poetry” (1891; xi) is his deliberate capital-R Romanticising of the man behind the Cotton Nero poems. As part of the fanciful biography that he provides, Gollancz imagines a young Pearl-poet clambering over rocks on the Cumbrian shore and contemplating the wild sea; he suggests that “like a later and greater poet, he must already as a youth have felt the subtle spell of Nature’s varying aspects in those West Midland parts; he too loved to contemplate even in his childhood,

‘. . . Presences of Nature in the sky

And on the earth! . . . Visions of the hills

And souls of lonely places!’

Wordsworth’s country may perhaps justly claim our poet as one of its sons” (xli). Imagine The Prelude in alliterative long line!

The “Imaginary Biography,” which runs nearly five and a half pages (xl-xlvi), is the longest section of the Introduction. Right or wrong (note: it’s wrong), it forms the backbone of Gollancz’s argument contra Schofield’s allegorical reading and so informs the Pearl-as-elegy reading that underpins so much modern criticism. Gollancz is no fool; he acknowledges that he is engaging in speculation.

But though he be nameless, the poet’s personality is so vividly impressed on his work that one may be forgiven the somewhat hazardous task of attempting to evolve an account of his earlier life from mere conjecture and inference. Such an attempt, though fanciful, at all events serves to link together certain facts and impressions, and with this reservation cannot but prove helpful. If documentary evidence is ever discovered, hypothetical conjecture will no doubt be put to a very severe test. (xl-xli)

Now, even without the discovery of hard documentary evidence confirming the identity of the Pearl-poet, I think we can say that Gollancz’s conjectures can be found to be severely wanting. Nevertheless, as many wise voices (Alexandra Gillespie, Ann Meyer, me) have argued, such speculation is still a worthwhile undertaking: it exercises the imagination and opens criticism to fresh considerations; the possibilities it puts forward are just as valuable to future scholarship once they are no longer considered viable; it is lively and it is fun (and we need more of that).

As with any biography, real or imagined, there are highs and lows in the one Gollancz creates for the poet. He sees him as a contemporary of, but superior to (!), Chaucer, born around 1340 or so and, as I’ve alluded to above, growing up further north than more-recent, linguistic scholarship has confirmed: Gollancz has the poet as a native of Lancashire, just south of the Tweed, rather than a son of the Cheshire-Staffordshire border region. Wherever the boy grew up, the biographer places him in a fine home to which his father was attached, “amid the gay scenes that brightened life in some great castle” (xli). This upbringing, which would accord with the accounts found in studies such as Richard Firth Green’s Poets and Princepleasers, is used to explain his extensive knowledge of courtly culture, from the ins-and-outs of the hunt to his deep reading of secular literature.

Gollancz’s biography stands at odds with most modern considerations of the poet for its insistence that he was a layman:

[T]he intensely religious spirit of the poems, together with the knowledge they undoubtedly display of Holy Writ, makes it probable that the youth may have been destined for the service of the Church. He must have studied sacred and profane literature at some monastic school, or at one of the universities. It is evident that theology and scholasticism had formed an important part of his education. But the author of ‘Pearl’ was certainly no priest. (xlii)

The reason behind Gollancz’s insistence, of course, is his ardent belief that the poem is autobiographical, that “[h]is grief found expression in verse” (xliv). (To explain the daughter, Gollancz needs to provide the poet with a wife, which he does. The poet apparently married a few years before he penned Sir Gawain. “[H]is wedded life was unhappy; the object of his love had disappointed him, and had perhaps proved unfaithful” [xliii]. The poet, we’re told, is speaking through Gawain in the misogynistic tirade at the Green Chapel. Also, this marital disappointment explains the omission of the girl’s mother from Pearl [see xliii-xliv, n. 1] and, I might add, why the Pearl-maiden is said to be closer to the mourner þen aunte or nece.) The autobiographical interpretation is now rightfully passé. And even the death of any specific patron’s loved one is no longer deemed a necessary condition for the poem. As Tolkien writes, “even a feigned elegy is an elegy.” But Gollancz’s insistence that the Pearl-poet was a layman, perhaps one with university or clerical training, is not so far from some latter-day arguments. In the nearly nine decades since since Gollancz died, scholars have advanced many arguments wherein the poet is a secular figure, even a noble one: Michael Bennett put forward Sir John Stanley as the author of Sir Gawain; Ann Meyer posits Gloucestershire links with the Despensers and Newtons; Simone d’Ardenne, Tolkien’s one-time student, first suggested a connexion with the Green Count of Savoy; and there are the various arguments for John or Hugh Massey, John Donne, and the clerks of the Duke of Clarence, Roger Mortimer, or an ecclesiastical court.

Following the lengthy biography, Gollancz enters into another bit of speculation, one that is perhaps slightly less fanciful than the Wordsworthian childhood romp or the trouble in paradise of the previous section. Here, we get an argument for Chaucer’s friend, the “philosophical” Ralph Strode, as the author of the poems in the Pearl manuscript. This theory, so far as I can tell, originates with Gollancz. (The editor was, it seems, something of a Strode fanboy; he also wrote the philosopher’s entry for the DNB.) The theory is based largely on the now-familiar Merton catalogue entry that Leland discovered: “Radulphus Strode, nobilis poeta fuit et versificavit librum elegiacam vocatum Phantasma Radulphi.” This Phantasma is of course lost, but it is tempting to want to believe Gollancz here—especially for a guy who is working on a book tentatively title Elegiac Dream Visions. Gollancz draws on elements of Strode’s (reported) biography to link him to the Pearl-poet’s poems—an Oxford-educated man who debated Wyclif, widely travelled on the Continent and in the Holy Land, and, if the Two Strodes Theory is false, a London-dweller who could have witnessed the return of the Feast of St Erkenwald—but he also acknowledges the limits of such speculation: the Ralph Strode who lived in London died in 1387, which is only a year after the Erkenwald revival and, moreover, shortens the date range for the Cotton Nero poems considerably; little to nothing is known of Strode’s early life, including where he came from. Still, Gollancz optimistically plays into the gaps and closes his Strodian speculation with a deft-if-whimsical move, linking Chaucer’s philosopher friend back to the Romantic figure he’d so imaginatively crafted: “The question still remains unanswered,

‘           . . . Who and what he was—

The transitory Being that beheld

This Vision; when and where and how he lived.’”

Beside indulging in fin-de-siècle academese and the other small delights found in the edition, one of the best rewards of turning to Gollancz is reading Boccaccio’s Olympia, which the editor appends to his 1921 edition. He had issued a stand-alone volume of his translation in 1913. There is very little in the way of commentary, except to explain the allegorical significance of the speakers in the eclogue and to give some critical and publishing history for the poem. In terms of modern Pearl criticism, it was Schofield who first argued for Boccaccio’s Latin elegiac vision as a direct source for the Middle English poem in 1904, which he was of course using to push his non-autobiographical, pure-allegory reading—all this despite Olympia being very much an autobiographical poem. Boccaccio wrote it after the death of his daughter Violante c. 1358. Gollancz, ever against Schofield (whom he nevertheless calls a dear friend), does not accept that the Pearl-poet knew of Boccaccio’s poem and instead argues that the parallels in the two works are due to “the poets’ common knowledge, ideas, and belief” (244). I don’t know enough about the circulation of Boccaccio in England in the late-fourteenth century to really weigh in on this, but we do know that Chaucer was reading and translating the Teseida and Il Filostrato in the early to mid-1380s, so I don’t see why an eclogue or two shouldn’t have been circulating as well.

My Latin is admittedly not spectacular, but it’s good enough to note that Gollancz’s translation is heavy-handed in a number of places. In his short introduction, he tries to dismiss one of the parallels Schofield makes between the poems by laughing it off as mistranslation. Schofield had identified the lovely arboreal setting of both visions as an important theme—but, then, where else does an eclogue take place?—but Gollancz isn’t having any of it: he writes that when Schofield says that “the poet [read: ‘shepherd’, ‘singer’, or ‘speaker’] . . . falls asleep on the ground in a leafy arbour” the American scholar is clearly misinterpreting ex molli cespite recumbans, for, Sir Israel assures us, the phrase refers to “a soft pillow, and not the ground” (245). A pillow stuffed with horsefeathers, Izzy! This reading, which leads, in Gollancz’s translation, to Silvius (the Boccaccio figure) giving his shepherd underlings orders “from downy bed”, completely ignores dozens of lines both before and after in which birds sing and flutter from tree to tree, the setting sun streaks the sky and pours through chinks in the canopy, and the shepherds’ hound Lycos scampers through the underbrush. What is more, our translator elsewhere obscures meaning to accord with this nonsensical bedroom setting: he has Silvius send his servant after the dog, “Therapon, do thou unbar the door!”, which, though subtle, again suggests an indoor setting and is not at all in line with stabuli tu solve repagula nostri, clearly indicative of a sheepfold (because shepherds, because eclogue).

As the brief quotation above might suggest, Gollancz’s translation is antiquated, deliberately no doubt, but seems even more so 105 years later. Direct influence or no, I’d like to put Olympia in conversation with Pearl in class, but I will certainly use a more modern translation. (Janet Smarr’s 1987 text appears to be the go-to.) Pace Gollancz, it offers many interesting parallels to Pearl and in a much more economic package: the Latin runs to a total of 285 lines. Olympia’s explanation of her heavenly reward, which is couched in a curious syncretic Classical allegory where Pallas is the Virgin and the self-sacrificing Athenian king Codrus is Christ, reads like a combination of one of the Pearl-maiden’s early efforts to help her father and the climactic vision of salvific blood pouring out of the Lamb and running through the streets of the New Jerusalem. The apocalyptic elders are there, too, in the guise of crownèd satyrs singing their new song.

Quite a lot going on, to be sure, and I think there’s plenty of exploring of the allusions and parallels to be done—both in the classroom and on the page. I will confess that Boccaccio’s Olympia is, like too much else in the orbit of Pearl, one of those things I’d read about in introductions, articles, and footnotes but had never read, and I suspect this might be the case for many others. I’m very much the richer for having now done so, and I think that my scholarship of Pearl will be improved, too. If you haven’t read it, please do; I’d love to talk about it. (The Smarr translation may be hard to find: it’s unavailable on Amazon and AbeBooks; the U of T and McGill each have a copy or two, but smaller university libraries like Regina and Acadia don’t have it. You might be stuck with Gollancz or a newer, less-scholarly but likely not so heavy-handed one such as David Slavitt’s.)

Gollancz includes excerpts of two letters by Boccaccio alongside his translation. One is from a letter to Petrarch about a visit the younger poet paid to the laureate’s daughter, Francesca, at Venice where he met Petrarch’s granddaughter. Boccaccio tells how delighted he was with the little girl, how charming and sweet she was, and how much she reminds him of his deceased daughter (he does not name Violante):

Your little Eletta is the very image of my lost one. She has the same laugh, the same joyous eyes, the same bearing and gait. . . . Had their dialect been the same, they would have spoken the same words—the same simple artless words. . . . Ah me! How often, while I . . . listened to her sweet prattle did the memory of the little daughter reft from me bring tears to my eyes! How often, when no one observed, did I sigh my tears away! (253, 255)

The touching story here is complemented by the second, shorter epistolary excerpt in which Boccaccio explains to Martin de Signa that his fourteenth eclogue is written about his departed daughter, whom he does identify by name. The autobiographical aspect of Boccaccio’s work—the Freudian pun is very much intended here—no doubt appealed to Gollancz, but I think it is worth considering alongside Pearl, even when we discount that the poet was himself a grieving father, for it shows the consoling power that the making of such texts can hold.

Given what we know of Gollancz’s affection for children, I think it quite likely that he was moved by Boccaccio’s personal grief and his poetic efforts to mourn. I think, further, that his attraction to Pearl (stemming in part from his assumption and subsequent insistence that the poem was autobiographical) flowed from a corresponding sympathy. He really felt these poems and was moved by them. If his critical writing isn’t enough to demonstrate this—those with a cynical bent can’t help but smirk at some of his phrases—then one page from his 1921 edition might do so. Between his short introduction to Olympia and Boccaccio’s letters, Gollancz includes a sonnet:


Olympian! From thy laurel that ne’er fades

A tender leaf athwart our pathway falls,

And, fragrant with sweet violet, recalls

The dearest blossom in thy love-lit glades.


Far from thy Roses, with desire imbrued,

Far from thy Garden, where with wanton lays

Plague-haunted dames and gallants sped their days,

A floweret all too frail thy tears bedew’d.


Not Fiammetta, but thy angel-child

Led thee foot-sore the Hill-top to ascend,

The high Olympus of the undefiled.


There Beatrice on Violante smiled,

And told of fair Eletta, thy child-friend,

And played with Pleasant Pearl, so wise and mild.



This might not be superb poetry, but it comes from a place of genuine feeling and honest response. I remain curious about the unnamed children, standing just out of view, that Gollancz may have had in mind as he read Pearl, worked on his edition and translations, or penned the lines above. More importantly, the sonnet is a counterpoint to so much dry and lifeless criticism, and it would be a relief to see a bit more of this from time to time. Like speculation, it’s good for the mind, it’s lively, and it’s a source of joy.

Eastern Adventures

I’ve recently returned from a twelve-day junket to the Maritimes and Montreal, the last of my travels for the foreseeable future. The impetus for the trip was to present at Material Matters, the 10th annual conference of the Atlantic Medieval Association. I was also invited to return to Acadia University (where I did my MA… a decade ago…) to guest lecture in Kevin Whetter’s Canterbury Tales class. From there, I spent a night in Halifax with my friend Kait Pinder, a brilliant Canadianist at Mount Allison, before taking the train to Montreal to visit McGill friends and spend some time in the Rare Books and Special Collections looking at books of hours. But more on these things below.

The Material Matters conference was most excellent indeed. Highlights included Fabian Zuk (Université de Montreal) reading us the oldest piece of Old French (or paleo-French) poetry, “Buona pulcella fut eulalia”; Melissa Furrow (Dalhousie) discussing a single page of Edward III’s schoolboy exercise book; and Inga Behrendt (Eberhard Karls Universität-Tübingen) giving an impromptu piano performance off her powerpoint.

piano performance

In my paper, “West Midlands Devotion and the Beauchamp Missal (Oxford, Trinity College MS 8)”, I examined how Sir William Beauchamp’s mass book (c. 1390) offers a window onto his personal piety and the development of the cult of the Holy Name of Jesus in the West Midlands, the region where Beauchamp was most influential. I suggested that while Beauchamp is associated with the so-called Lollard Knights, his training as a priest (he was at Oxford from 1358 to 1361) should not be overlooked when considering his personal devotions. And his mass book seems to say so, too: several historiated capitals in his missal underscore the sacerdotal role.

Halifax Trip Conf Slide

Going back to Acadia and Wolfville, Nova Scotia, is always a great pleasure and this time was no exception. (It had been six years: far too long.) I was very glad to reconnect with old friend and former professors, to sit and work in the Just Us coffee shop, where most of my MA thesis was written, and to enjoy pints at the Library Pub and Paddy’s. I even performed a couple songs at Paddy’s Open-Mic Monday. Guest lecturing in Kevin Whetter’s Canterbury Tales class was very fun as well. We had a lively discussion of The Miller’s Tale—of quitting, crossing class boundaries, the deception of signs and language, and the value of a good joke. While I was at Acadia I was also invited to introduce two sections of Richard Cunningham’s first-year students to Chaucer and the idea of the fabliau. These classes were also very welcoming and engaged. There’s nothing like showing students images of manuscripts for the first time. Lots of fun all around.

I was fortunate enough to take the overnight Via Rail train from Halifax to Montreal (thanks, SSHRC Connect grant!). This allowed me to get in some important additional research at McGill’s Rare Books and Special Collections. I’d looked at some of these materials last December and wanted to do some follow up work. This was well rewarded, for I found a very interesting pairing of prayers in one of their mid fifteenth-century missals. This codex includes prayers to Jesus as well as the Five Wounds, paired devotions that developed in the late-fourteenth century. Texts linked to both devotions are found, for instance, in Oxford, University College 97, a manuscript linked to Sir William Beauchamp’s now-lost library. I’m excited to work with this McGill manuscript further. Eventually, that is.

Right, back to this pile of applications.


Devotion to the Holy Name Lecture

After a wonderful summer living on a couple of boats at the Toronto Island Marina, I’ve jetted off to Regina, Saskatchewan, where I’m giving a lecture at the University of Regina’s Campion College on Friday, September 8th. The lecture is at 3.30 PM in the Campion auditorium.

This talk, titled “‘in the ston a newe nam writen’: Devotion to the Holy Name in Late-Medieval England”, presents some of the work that’s come out of the first year of my postdoctoral fellowship at U of T’s Centre for Medieval Studies. In particular, the second half of the lecture features a discussion of materials I examined during a research trip to the Bodleian in June. (The week of research in Oxford was supported by a bursary from the Society for the Study of Medieval Languages and Literatures, aka Medium Ævum.)  This discussion is the first airing of an important discovery I made in the course of my research, which I will be exploring in more detail in my paper at the Atlantic Medieval Association conference, Material Matters, at the end of the month.

Campion Lecture Title Slide

Here is the blurb from the lecture poster:

When is a name more than a name? Can the utterance of a name settle the mind, heal wounds, and combat evil? For devout English people in the Late Middle Ages, the Holy Name of Jesus could do all this—and more. Often touted as a means of personal connexion to the Lord, the cult of the Holy Name developed in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries into a wide-ranging social phenomenon that, by the Reformation, would occupy high strata of society. This talk explores the rise of the devotion in late-medieval England, with a particular focus on the earliest known copy of the votive mass for the Holy Name, the so-called Beauchamp missal. The lecture also explores the artistic, textual, and literary manifestations of the Holy Name devotion, including works by the Gawain-poet and Chaucer.

CfP: ICMS at Kalamazoo – Charles d’Orleans

Charles d’Orléans: Forms and Genres:

Although he is one of the chief poetic innovators of the mid-fifteenth century in both English and French, Charles d’Orléans is too often a neglected figure: articles on his work remain few and far between; his poems are rarely anthologized; and most students, including many in graduate school, have never heard of him. An inheritor of Machaut, Froissart, and Christine de Pizan on one side of the Channel and of Chaucer, Gower, and Lydgate on the other, Charles spent twenty-five years in Lancastrian captivity cultivating a rich literary voice that incorporates and transforms the traditions of his homeland and those of English hosts. This session asks participants to consider the many genres and forms with which Charles engaged—how he perpetuated, altered, or synthesized them. Papers could address, for instance, his use of the French ballade or roundel structures, or how he deployed a narrato-lyric fusion in his English Forunes Stabilnes. Others might investigate his inheritance of the Boethian imagery of imprisonment, his manipulations of fin ‘amors tropes, or his adoption of continental and insular dream-vision traditions.

This papers session will consist of three 20-minute papers or four 15-minute papers (depending on submissions), with 30 minutes reserved for questions and discussion.

Please send 300-word abstracts and the ICMS Participant Information Form to Boyda Johnstone (bjohnstone1@fordham.edu) by 15 September 2017.