History of Universities: Volume XXII 1

History of Universities

VO L U M E X X I I / 1

2007

History of Universities is published bi-annually Editor: Mordechai Feingold (California Institute of Technology) Managing Editor: Jane Finucane (Trinity College, Dublin) Editorial Board: R. D. Anderson (University of Edinburgh) L. W. Brockliss (Magdalen College, Oxford) C. Toniolo Fascione (University of Rome, Tor Vergata) W. Frihoff (Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam) N. Hammerstein (University of Frankfurt) D. Julia (Institut Universitaire Européen, Florence) M. Nelissen (Leuven) H. de Ridder-Symoens (Ghent) S. Rothblatt (University of California, Berkeley) N. G. Siraisi (Hunter College, New York) A leaflet ‘Notes to OUP Authors’ is available on request from the editor. To set up a standing order for History of Universities contact Standing Orders, Oxford University Press, Saxon Way West, Corby, NN18 9ES; email: [email protected]; tel: 01536 741017.

History of Universities VO L U M E X X I I / 1 2007

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford OX2 6DP Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York © Oxford University Press 2007 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2007 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Data available Typeset by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by Biddles Ltd, king’s Lynn, Norfolk ISBN 978–0–19–922748–8 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Contents

Articles ‘Consilio hominum nostrorum’: A Comparative Study of Royal Responses to Crisis at the University of Paris, 1200–1231 Spencer E. Young

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The Uses of Orthodoxy and Jacobean Erudition: Thomas James and the Bodleian Library Paul Nelles

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Paratus sum sententiam mutare: The Influence of Cartesian Philosophy at Basle Wolfgang Rother

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Hoffmann and Stahl. Documents and Reflections on the Dispute Francesco Paolo de Ceglia

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The Eighteenth Century Confronts Job Bertram Eugene Schwarzbach

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Review Essays Academic Charisma and the Old Regime Kristine Louise Haugen

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Celebrating the quincentenary of the University of Wittenberg (1502)? Helga Robinson-Hammerstein

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Oxford and Cambridge College Histories: an endangered genre? Robin Darwall-Smith

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Contents

Reviews Elena Brambilla, Geneologie del sapere: Università, professioni giuridiche e nobiltà togata in Italia (XIII–XVII secolo) (Paul F. Grendler)

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Koen Goudriaan, Jaap van Moolenbroek, and Ad Tervoort (eds), Education and Learning in the Netherlands, 1400–1600. Essays in Honour of Hilde de Ridder-Symoens (Jason Harris)

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Volker Remmert, Widmung, Welterklärung und Wissenschaftslegitimierung, Titelbilder und ihre Funktionen in der Wissenschaftlichen Revolution (Angelo De Bruycker)

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Antonio Poppi, Presenza dei Francescani Conventuali nel Collegio dei Teologi dell’Università di Padova. Appunti d’Archivio (1510–1806) (Ginevra Crosignani)

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Jan Schröder, Recht als Wissenschaft. Geschichte der juristischen Methode vom Humanismus bis zur historischen Schule (1500–1850) (Joseph S. Freedman)

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Michael Kempe, Wissenschaft, Theologie, Aufklärung. Johann Jakob Scheuchzer (1672–1733) und die Sintfluttheorie (Monika Gisler)

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Bibliography

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‘Consilio hominum nostrorum’: A Comparative Study of Royal Responses to Crisis at the University of Paris, 1200–1231 Spencer E. Young

The emergence of the University of Paris has attracted considerable scholarly attention and the lineaments of its development are widely known. Not least among the factors that encouraged the expansion of the schools into a studium generale was its benign location. Paris, according to Guillaume le Breton, offered an ‘admirable pleasantness of place, [a] superabundance of all goods, [and] freedom and special rights of defense’.1 The singular excellence of the Parisian university, especially in arts and theology, also quickly became a symbol for advertising French royal ascendancy – the translatio studii – and became a source of prestige for the entire realm. By the latter half of the thirteenth century, the chronicler Guillaume de Nangis would claim that learning, along with chivalry and faith, constituted one of the three parts of the fleur-de-lis.2 While the rhetoric of royal support for the schools certainly flourished even in the earliest era of the medieval university, modern scholarship has shown that in the early thirteenth century, French royal support was still more rhetoric than reality, the king more suitably described as an image of illustrious patronage than a genuine bestower of such. Moreover, it was not until approximately the reign of Philip the Fair (1285–1314), that the expertise of the schoolmen began to be exploited expertly by the crown, providing the king with an important voice of possible support in political matters.3 It was also during the fourteenth century that members of the university increasingly turned towards the French Parlement to defend their liberties and privileges, thereby establishing a stronger bond of mutual support between crown and school.4 By contrast, the relationship between the king and the university in the early thirteenth century shows that the schoolmen had yet to find a significant place in French political society. While Guillaume le Breton could justly praise the positive effects on the schools of the

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king’s building projects – Philip having borne the cost of the new wall on the left bank which provided added security for scholars and encouraged the erection of new, more cost-efficient housing for foreign students – in terms of administrative appointments, the English crown’s beneficence greatly outshone that given by Philip Augustus, though the latter did have at least a dozen masters in his service.5 In terms of scholarly privileges and liberties, the papacy was the more influential source of support for the nascent University of Paris, providing scholars with assistance in acquiring benefices, appointing them as papal judges delegate, and actively supporting the masters’ cause in their intermittent quarrels with local ecclesiastical authorities over the right to grant the licence to teach.6 As a consequence of this last point, the relationship between the pope and the university has garnered much of the scholarly attention devoted to these early years. While the French crown certainly did not quite deserve such high praise as Guillaume le Breton seemed alacritous to give, it is nevertheless important not to underestimate the importance of royal patronage during this formative phase of the University of Paris. In fact, a closer look at the few documented instances of royal intervention at the university reveals points of interest pertaining to both the history of medieval universities and the history of medieval governance. The most effective way to illuminate this relationship is to track how the French crown dealt with the schools when problems did flare up, a not infrequent occurrence. Not surprisingly, given the rhetoric, the French crown, notwithstanding its limited actual favour, was still generally supportive of the nascent university against its local adversaries. Yet, the origins of this favourable approach have not received much detailed scrutiny. What prompted the crown to show favour to members of the university when they had a limited presence at the royal court, and were often a source of civil unrest? How might the incident of 1229, when Blanche de Castille broke with tradition and ordered the provost to retaliate against recalcitrant scholars, fit into the picture? A study of these questions can help scholars of both medieval universities and medieval government better understand the intersection of politics and education in this early period. The development of a pro-university royal policy touches upon both fields, giving us greater insight into the rise of the University of Paris and the growth of systematic royal governance in the thirteenth century. While the schools at Paris had grown in importance throughout the twelfth century, one traditional dating for the beginning of the University

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of Paris is 1200.7 Although other compelling arguments may be made about what constituted an actual universitas in Paris and when the required privileges came into existence, 1200 is a significant moment for the development of the university because Philip’s decree of that year represents the earliest extant formal royal acknowledgement of the students’ clerical privileges.8 The circumstances surrounding this declaration are not unfamiliar but are nevertheless worthy of some extended discussion. According to the chronicle of Roger of Hoveden, the troubles began when a German student of noble origin, and one of three individuals supported by various factions of the chapter of Liège for their vacant bishopric, sent one of his servants to buy some wine at a local tavern.9 While there, the servant became involved in a mêlée and was severely beaten, causing several German students to band together and return to the tavern, exacting their revenge upon its owner. When a number of Parisian citizens appealed to Thomas, the provost of Paris, he responded by attacking the German scholars at their residence, killing the bishop-elect of Liège and several of his retinue. Furious at this turn of events, the students appealed directly to the king for redress. Instead of backing his provost, however, Philip Augustus took up the scholars’ cause by giving royal assent to their clerical privileges – the privilegium canonis, the right to be protected from physical violence, and the privilegium fori, the right to be subject to ecclesiastical rather than civil justice.10 The church had affirmed the privilegium fori for scholars at Paris at least as early as the pontificate of Celestine III, when he had made clear the scholars’ right to ecclesiastical jurisdiction in a letter written most likely to the bishop of Paris.11 Defending this same privilege, Philip roundly condemned the provost’s actions and placed Thomas, and as many of his men as he could capture, in perpetual custody. Since others had fled from Paris, and could not be found, Philip ordered that their property (homes and gardens) be destroyed.12 As for those in custody, the king granted them the possibility of release only should they defend themselves successfully via public ordeal by water. Even in the event that this ordeal should vindicate Thomas, he was expressly forbidden from ever again holding another post as provost or bailiff, and would have to abjure the French realm. At any rate, according to Roger, Thomas died while trying to escape his imprisonment.13 A temporary resolution of the peace, however, was not Philip’s principal objective. He understood that this was not merely an isolated or unusual incident, and that violence involving scholars was liable to happen from time to time. Only a few years earlier, in 1192, a group of

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scholars had become involved in an especially vicious brawl with a group of monks from the nearby monastery of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. After one of the scholars had died from the fighting, the abbot of Saint-Germain had come under suspicion of wrongdoing, though he was eventually cleared of any responsibility for the fatality.14 The king therefore wished to ensure that, should hostilities arise again between town and gown, the civil authority would not further exacerbate the situation by violating the scholars’ right to ecclesiastical jurisdiction. To accomplish this aim, he set in place regulations that would govern how the civil authority could act in order to avoid any escalation of violence or infringement of privilege. For the part of the Parisian citizenry, Philip proclaimed that anyone witnessing any injury done to a scholar by a layperson was bound to report it to the authorities. If the scholar was attacked by weapons, any witnesses were obligated to seize the malefactor(s) and bring them to royal justice, which would then pursue the matter through legal inquiry.15 If the person(s) in custody were to be found guilty, the royal authorities would immediately punish the accused according to the severity of the injury, notwithstanding any denial or request by the malefactor(s) to undergo trial by duel or by water.16 The decree of 1200 also outlined a series of procedures to follow should any scholar run afoul of civil justice. No scholar was to be arrested or tried by the civil authority. If the scholar had committed a serious crime, he could be apprehended but then had to be placed in ecclesiastical custody. If the hour was late, and ecclesiastical justice therefore unavailable, the provost was to put him in the temporary custody of a scholarly house until he could be handed over.17 In all cases, the provost was not to lay a hand upon the offending scholar unless for purposes of self-defense. To enforce these responsibilities, every future provost was put under mandate to take a public oath on behalf of the citizenry – in a Parisian church and in the presence of the scholars – that he would respect these privileges.18 The concessions to the scholars were doubtless onerous to the crown and Philip’s decision to support them is a source of some initial surprise. Throughout his reign, Philip had frequently been successful in extending royal authority in nearby lands, and had increased the number of provosts in order to accommodate these territorial expansions.19 Moreover, Philip later saw fit, in 1210, to introduce some modifications to the procedures outlined in the decree of 1200, giving the civil authorities a little more latitude in cases where a scholar was caught in the act of committing a serious crime, such as murder or rape.20 While it does

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not appear that one single incident prompted the crown to make such a change, the decree indicates that the king was ‘troubled’ by continued student disturbances, and also implies that the local authorities had not been rigorously observing the command not to seize clerics for wrongdoing, perhaps due to the frequency of student crime.21 At the very least, Philip’s modifications do suggest that the incidence of scholarly crime was reasonably high and posed a legitimate threat to public security. The conflict that precipitated the king’s actions in 1200, however, had occurred during an inauspicious political climate for severity towards the local church, and this prevailing mood, as much as anything, may have conditioned Philip’s decision to protect the scholars at the expense of his provost or the dictates of public order.22 In a general sense, the Becket affair in England over ecclesiastical crime was still recent history, with Becket’s position having been publicly advocated by several Parisian masters, including the highly influential Peter the Chanter.23 On a more personal level, the controversy over Philip’s marital issues had come to a head earlier that year. The king would not dismiss Agnès de Méran as his wife and restore Ingeborg, whom he had famously set aside in 1193 on a tenuous charge of consanguinity, as rightful queen.24 As a consequence, Innocent III had directed the archbishop of Lyon to place France under interdict, which had gone into effect in January, lasting until September of that year. In order to counteract the consequences of the interdict, Philip had been reaching out to church authorities in his lands for support.25 But in Paris, the bishop Eudes de Sully, Philip’s own cousin, had taken the side of the pope. The Parisian scholars themselves were also very much beholden to the pope, and a coup against them could not have ameliorated Philip’s standing with the local church. The circumstances, then, afforded the king a fortuitous opportunity to try to gain their support. By reinforcing the scholars’ privilegium fori, Philip thought to gain a greater chance of currying local ecclesiastical favour. For this paper, however, the process by which Philip arrived at this decision to affirm the scholars’ liberties is of greater interest than the possible motives behind his actions. In the decree of protection that he issued in July of 1200, Philip revealed that his pronouncement on the matter came after, or perhaps from, the counsel of his advisors (consilio hominum nostrorum), whom he had consulted, presumably, ‘for the future security of the scholars at Paris’.26 This phrase, though small, was hardly a mere formality. Recourse to consilium was a notable trend in Philip’s reign and had developed into an important feature of his governance.27 Although the decree does not give us any information about

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who specifically he may have consulted on this occasion, it is not implausible that he could have discussed the matter with some former scholars. As noted above, at least a dozen of the king’s clerks bore the title of magister and many of these had probably received their education at Paris.28 While at this time the English crown employed more Parisian-trained scholars in its administration than did the French crown, Philip’s actions were clearly quite accommodating to the university, and hardly indiscriminate or impulsive, suggesting that he still provided some measure of favour to the schools.29 The advice of former masters may have been instrumental for persuading the king to heed the demands of the studium. Alternatively, Philip’s communications may have been with his trusted inner circle of advisors, who helped him with many important matters, though they were not publicly recognized as such until 1213 by an anonymous chronicler.30 In any case, the king’s recourse to counsel for making this decision demonstrates that Philip’s response to the events of 1200 was the result of a deliberate defence of the scholars’ privileges against the encroachment of secular jurisdiction. While a more extensive educational policy designed to assist royal aims may not have been implemented until almost a century later, Philip’s actions ought to be regarded as an incipient form of a conscious policy towards the schools. The decree also stands as a further witness to the rising importance of counsellors for royal governance. The most recognizable fruit of this course of action was the crown’s relatively supportive stance towards the university throughout Philip Augustus’s reign. And, although the king did not figure prominently in many of the university’s administrative disputes in the ensuing years,31 it is possible that he at least offered support for their cause when the masters suspended lectures as a protest against the Parisian episcopal election of 1220.32 In turn, the king’s decree of 1200 offered some precedence for the more involved relationship that was to develop in later years.33 Guillaume le Breton’s claims, then, cannot be entirely dismissed as merely royalist rhetoric. The crown did indeed endeavour to offer the scholars a secure place to study and live. The scholars, in turn, reciprocated the favour by giving the French realm the added prestige of being the heir to the intellectual excellence of Athens and Rome.34 Not long after Philip Augustus’s death, however, relations between the University and the crown experienced a sour interlude. One incident occurred in 1225, when the papal legate Romano Frangipani destroyed the university’s seal, and subsequently threatened anathema to anyone

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who tried to make a new one for the university. The legate’s actions provoked an immediate response by the university.35 According to one chronicler, members of the university followed Romano to the episcopal palace and attempted to injure him.36 Louis VIII dispatched royal authorities to protect the legate from harm and defuse the hostilities. While the authorities were successful in this aim, one member of the legate’s retinue eventually died from the fighting, prompting Romano to excommunicate all scholars who had participated in the attack. While the matter was later settled by the legate himself, and there seems to have been no student complaint about the royal intervention, a much greater conflict was forthcoming, after the death of Louis VIII, and after Romano Frangipani’s influence on the French crown had continued to grow. The Great Dispersion of the University of Paris, a well-publicized event among contemporaries and familiar to medieval historians, represents the most notable instance of any strain on the relationship between university and crown. The event also offers a helpful point of comparison between successful and unsuccessful educational policy in the early thirteenth century, and for discerning what was most important for ensuring the enduring existence of a flourishing school. The circumstances leading up to the strike began shortly before Ash Wednesday of 1229, when a number of Parisian students took advantage of the holiday to go to the nearby Faubourg of Saint-Marcel.37 According to the account given by Matthew Paris, they became involved in an argument with a local tavern proprietor over the price of wine.38 The dispute soon escalated into a brawl between the scholars and several townsmen, only ending with the clerics’ retreat back to Paris. This initial confrontation, however, would beget greater violence on the following day when the scholars returned to Saint-Marcel, armed with swords and with several more among their number. Once there, they incited a skirmish that ended in a fierce display of violence as the students proceeded ‘through the streets . . . bitterly attacking anyone they came upon, whether man or woman, and abandoning the wounded half-dead’.39 Outraged by the attack (perhaps not the first time a similar incident had occurred there), the prior of Saint-Marcel lodged a complaint directly to the papal legate and the bishop of Paris, both of whom subsequently deferred the matter to the crown.40 The French queen, Blanche de Castille, heard the complaint with sympathy and, as a result, only aggravated the situation when, ‘with womanly insolence and . . . a violent inclination of mind’, she approved, ‘on that very spot’, a counterattack upon the scholars responsible for the disturbance. Under the queen’s mandate that

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‘they punish the authors of this violence, sparing none’,41 the townsmen gathered and retaliated by attacking a number of scholars who, on top of being unarmed, had not even been involved in the prior altercations. Two scholars, one of Flemish origin and the other of Norman origin, died from this assault, prompting the masters of the university to lodge a protest against the queen and the papal legate. When their protest went unheeded, the masters decided to leave the city. Livid that ‘the transgression of certain contemptible clerics had spilled over into a prejudice against the entire university . . . , and that justice had been denied to them by the queen and the legate, as well as by the bishop, the universal departure of masters and scholars was made, ceasing the teaching of teachers and the learning of learners, with not a single famous man among them remaining in the city’.42 The departing scholars even accused the queen of having engaged in an infamous sexual liason (infamem concordiam) with the papal legate, Romano Frangipani.43 The official declaration that the scholars themselves issued on March 27, 1229 confirms the general sense of aggrievement that precipitated their departure. They expected a complete satisfaction for the ‘most atrocious injuries’ that they had suffered and threatened to cease lectures for six years, or even longer, if their demands were not met within a month of Easter of that year.44 No successful overture was made towards the scholars, however, and they followed through on their threat to leave Paris. Moreover, despite the reaffirmation in August of 1229 of Philip Augustus’s decree of protection, the scholars were either unwilling to accept the crown’s gesture, or simply not confident that royal authority would respect their privileges.45 It is also possible that the nascent universitas, sensing an opportunity to assert its corporate will, was unwilling to renege on the initial threat to leave the city for six years. As a result, the scholars did not agree to return to Paris until over two years later, after Gregory IX had intervened on their behalf, confirming their privileges with the bull Parens scientiarum, and further promising to enforce their liberties at the local level.46 Although Matthew’s account of the events leading up to the dispersion ought to be read with considerable discernment, especially considering his generally unsympathetic attitude towards Blanche de Castille (against whom he claimed, among other things, that she dominated her husband Louis VIII) a focus on several aspects of this case is important for understanding what may have prompted such an anomalous response by the crown, and one that could have irreparably damaged crownuniversity relations. Even though records only remain for a few severe

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cases, we know that student violence was a consistent source of aggravation for the crown. Yet, this is the sole extant instance of intervention by the French crown that openly opposed the university’s privileges of protection.47 What might account for Blanche de Castille’s disregard for the legal procedures for dealing with scholarly malfeasance instituted by her father-in-law, Philip Augustus? While any attempt to answer this question must rely on some measure of speculation, several details do help describe Blanche’s signal departure from precedent and the law. Elements of her biography can inform us of her prior experience with the schools and close scrutiny of all available documentation can help us make some fruitful comparisons with Philip Augustus. Blanche de Castille had come to France in 1200, during the time of the interdict, and shortly after the fracas which precipitated Philip Augustus’s decree of protection. She married Louis VIII on May 23 of that year, one day after, and as part of, the conclusion of a peace treaty between France and England.48 Her maternal grandmother was the famed Eleanor of Aquitaine and her father was Alphonso VIII, king of Castile. Coming of age in Paris, she certainly had had considerable exposure to scholars and schools before the incidents of 1229. While she and her husband matured at Paris, they were familiar with a number of Parisian scholars who frequently served as their tutors. Indeed, their most notable tutor was Amaury de Bène, whose alleged pantheism earned him a formal censure in 1206, a posthumous excommunication in 1210 by the university, and another condemnation at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215.49 Blanche’s Spanish provenance is also of considerable interest. The most famous legislation affecting Spanish universities – the Siete Partidas – exempted university students and masters from trial by civil courts, but also included an exception made for ‘serious offences’.50 Although the Siete Partidas were not promulgated until the middle of the century and therefore postdate the great dispersion of Paris, they were almost certainly consistent with attitudes that existed in Spain beforehand. More directly relevant to Blanche’s experience before 1229 was the university her father founded at Palencia, where she spent the first twelve years of her life. Although the beginning of the University of Palencia is traditionally dated to 1208/9, after Blanche had left for France, it was established from an existing episcopal school of considerable importance.51 Blanche undoubtedly had some knowledge of its operation, both as an episcopal school and, later, as a university. Unfortunately, while the University of Palencia was intended as a studium generale, we have no

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evidence of any formal extension of privileges to scholars until a council that took place at Valladolid in 1228, where the cardinal bishop of Sabine, Jean d’Abbéville, a former secular master of theology at Paris, was in attendance.52 Judging by the council’s decrees, Jean d’Abbéville’s experience with the studium at Paris clearly influenced its proceedings. Among other things, the council granted a five-year dispensation from residence for clerics studying at the school, a privilege already granted to Parisian theologians by Honorius III.53 Of greater significance, the council promoted a method of dealing with criminous clerics similar to that instituted at Paris. The legislation declared any officer of secular justice to be guilty if he seized a cleric for wrongdoing, without the mandate of an ecclesiastical judge.54 Blanche’s only other significant dealing with the University of Paris occurred in 1251, during her regency while Louis IX was on crusade.55 Here we find another protection to the scholars in an oath sworn to the crown by university members.56 This oath obligated both citizens and Parisian scholars to work to maintain the peace in the city, and was prompted by the outbreak of violence inflicted upon the city by the Pastoreaux.57 Indeed, the oath was sufficiently binding that any scholar who refused to take it was to lose his membership in the university. Scholars agreed that they would report any violators of the peace to the bishop of Paris, his official, or the chancellor of the university. They were allowed to make such a report in secret and were promised that their identity would not be divulged. Scholars also promised that they would not seek the liberation of any scholar who was guilty of serious crimes unless they believed he was worthy of release. Furthermore, the oath outlined procedures for the release of scholars who had been arrested. The slight concession offered by the university in this case, however, is clearly attributable to the immediate threat that the Pastoreaux posed to them. For, only two years later, the university ordered another strike to protest the violation of their privileges by local authorities.58 Significantly, Louis IX’s brother, Alphonse de Poitiers, acting on the king’s behalf, pursued the scholars’ cause and punished the malefactors severely.59 There is little, then, in what we know about Blanche’s biography or prior experience with scholars that can provide a legislative precedent for her actions. Although she was relatively new to such administrative responsibilities, having become queen in 1223 and only assuming preeminence upon the untimely death of her husband in 1226, she had had considerable interaction with the schools and scholars by the time of

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the incident of 1229, and was therefore not ignorant of the scholars’ privileges. Moreover, her familiarity with Amaury de Bène had probably given her some experience with the political world of the university, and her maturation at Paris had certainly exposed her to some of the threats posed by the large number of scholars in Paris and their outbreaks of violence, thereby engendering a low level of tolerance for the university’s criminal elements.60 As a result, she had perhaps already considered dealing with the university harshly should such a problem arise. This antipathy was probably only further compounded by the type of counsel she may have consulted, when compared with that which directed Philip Augustus to act in favour of the scholars when faced with a similar threat. A direct comparison of the two events is therefore helpful for discerning the difference between their respective actions towards the scholars. As noted above, Philip attributed his reinforcement of the scholars’ privileges to the advice he had received from counsel. The decision to protect the scholars’ clerical privilege was a considered one and, due to the relative frequency of violence caused by scholars, probably not made without some reservation. Yet the counsel he received influenced his decision to affirm the scholars’ right to ecclesiastical jurisdiction. This also implies that several important figures connected to Philip possessed considerable esteem for the potential aid the schools could give to the realm, especially during a time of tumult between king and pope. By contrast, Blanche’s actions indicate a lack of similar recourse to formal counsel, and certainly to counsel that was favourable towards the university. When hostilities arose between the scholars and the townsmen of Saint-Marcel, initial efforts at resolving the dispute followed the procedures that Philip Augustus had instituted. The pursuit of justice was immediately placed in ecclesiastical hands, first to the local prior and then to the bishop and papal legate. This indicates that the students’ privileges were customarily respected. Only when the bishop and the legate failed to intervene did the matter come, as a consequence of their deferral, to the crown. Matthew Paris’s charges that Blanche acted while ‘agitated by a violent inclination of mind’, and that she made the decision ‘on that very spot’ also carry considerable meaning.61 Whereas Philip appealed to his advisors before proceeding, Matthew portrays Blanche as not having solicited any counsel for direction as to how she should proceed. Since the principal source for Matthew’s account was students who had left Paris as part of the dispersion, the emphasis upon the abrupt nature of

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the queen’s decision may reflect an awareness on their part that Blanche had neglected to seek counsel before she acted, and that her decision made ‘on that very spot’ was a source of bitterness and, perhaps, surprise. Indeed, the queen’s only consultation in the matter seems to have come from the papal legate Romano, whose acute hostility to the university was well known. Moreover, her son Louis IX was still too young at this point to intercede, though he would do so effectively just a short time later. When the bishop of Paris, the former master Guillaume d’Auvergne, did not intervene, the university lost its only possible advocate. Apparently without soliciting any advice from a countervailing voice in support of the university, Blanche proceeded to disregard the established procedure for regulating student violence. According to the foregoing, then, the most important difference between the two incidents was the role that the monarch ascribed to counsel. With counsel, the monarch could strike an effective balance between competing jurisdictions. Without it, the crown was more prone to short-sighted actions. In the context of the early thirteenth century, it is clear just how important the privileges of protection were for students. Many medieval students travelled long distances to attend the best schools and sought such terms as would ensure their safety while abroad. When the mechanisms for that protection broke down, students were quick to vacate their host town in protest. By 1229, the cessation of lectures was an entrenched student tactic, having been employed at Bologna,62 Oxford,63 and even Paris when, as noted above, the university had shut down in 1221 for several months as a result of the masters’ protest against the installation of Guillaume de Seignelay as Bishop of Paris.64 If a particular city would not protect the students, others were eager to take its place, as the reactions of Henry III and the University of Toulouse to the dispersion of 1229 attest.65 While it is probable that the scholars only expected to vacate Paris for a short time, and had no desire to leave the city permanently (the majority of them had not left the royal demesne, but had departed to Reims, Beauvais, and Angers, all of which were regalian bishoprics), it is clear that within such a context, Blanche’s actions could have had various negative long-term consequences for the university there.66 Had she received counsel from someone more favourable to the university’s interests, perhaps the entire disruption could have been avoided. In this case, counsel could have helped to remind Blanche of her manifold responsibilities, particularly towards the university. For this reason, it is no surprise that when Gregory IX successfully resolved the conflict he also addressed the young king

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Louis IX separately, urging him to follow the example set by his grandfather Philip Augustus, showing favour and kindness to the scholars, ensuring that their privileges would be observed, and even soliciting their assistance on the important matter of rent costs.67 By purposefully invoking the memory of Philip Augustus, the pope thus appealed to the young king to renew the conditions that had existed previously, perhaps even when he had been a student there himself, and to govern in a manner established at least decades before Blanche had acceded to the throne. Louis IX was to restore the time when Paris offered scholars an ‘admirable pleasantness of place, [a] superabundance of all goods, [and] freedom and special rights of defense’,68 and a time when, by virtue of consilium, the king saw fit to provide for ‘the future security of scholars’.69 University of Wisconsin-Madison Department of History 3211 Mosse Humanities Building 455 N Park St Madison, Wisconsin 53706

REFERENCES 1. Oeuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, historiens de Philippe-Auguste, ed. Henri François Delaborde (2 vols, Paris, 1882–85), i. 230. Cited in John W. Baldwin, ‘Masters at Paris from 1179 to 1215: A Social Perspective’, in Robert L. Benson and Giles Constable with Carol D. Lanham (eds), Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, Mass., 1982), 140. Guillaume le Breton attributes this excellence to the support that Philip Augustus and Louis VII had given to the schools and scholars at Paris. 2. Guillaume de Nangis, Gestae sanctae memoriae Ludovici regis Franciae, ed. M. Daunou, in Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France (hereafter referred to as RHGF ) (24 vols, Paris, 1738–1904), xx. 320–1. Discussed in Baldwin, ‘Masters at Paris’, 162–3. 3. The most significant examples of this are his feuds with Boniface VIII and subsequently with the Templars. See William J. Courtenay, ‘Learned Opinion and Royal Justice: The Role of Paris Masters of Theology during the Reign of Philip the Fair’, forthcoming in Joel Kaye, E. Ann Matter and Ruth Mazo Karras (eds) Law and the Illicit in Medieval Society (Philadelphia, 2007). 4. See Serge Lusignan, ‘Vérité Garde le Roy’: La construction d’une identité universitaire en France (XIIIe – XVe siècle), (Paris, 1999). 5. On Philip Augustus’s building projects, see Oeuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, i. 240–1. Noted in Baldwin ‘Masters at Paris’, 140–1. On the king’s administrative appointments for scholars, see Baldwin,

14

6.

7.

8.

9.

10. 11. 12.

13.

14.

15.

History of Universities ‘Masters at Paris’, 156–7; Baldwin, ‘Studium et Regnum: The Penetration of University Personnel into French and English Administration at the turn of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’ in Revue des Études Islamiques, 44 (1976), 199–215. On the licensing issue, see Alan E. Bernstein, ‘Magisterium and License: Corporate Autonomy against Papal Authority in the Medieval University of Paris’, Viator, 9 (1978), 291–307. Although some scholars have shown considerable interest in the several conflicts at the schools in this period, others have stressed that conflict was the exceptional, rather than the customary, impetus for university reforms and legislation. See Stephen C. Ferruolo, The Origins of the University: The Schools of Paris and their Critics, 1100–1215 (Stanford, 1985); Ferruolo, ‘The Paris Statutes of 1215 Reconsidered’ in History of Universities, 5 (1985), 1–14; and Jacques Verger, ‘A propos de la naissance de l’université de Paris: contexte social, enjeu politique, portée intellectuelle’ in Les Universités Françaises au Moyen Age, (Education and society in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, Vol. VII, Leiden, 1995), 1–36. It is historiographically significant that in their massive collection of documents relating to the University of Paris, Heinrich Denifle and Emile Châtelain made Philip Augustus’s decree the first listed document. All documents antedating the decree were placed in the introduction. See Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. Heinrich Denifle and Emile Châtelain (4 vols, Paris, 1899–1897) (hereafter referred to as CUP). According to Guillaume le Breton, this royal acknowledgement was also made by Louis VII. If this is the case, it still remains significant that Philip Augustus upheld the students’ clerical privileges after the events of 1200. For Roger of Hoveden’s account, see Chronica Magistri Rogeri de Hoveden, ed. William Stubbs (4 vols, Rolls Series, Vol. LI, London, 1871), iv. 120–1. Stubbs identified the student as Henry de Jacea. Robert Génestal, Le privilegium fori en France du décret de Gratien à la fin du XIVe siècle (2 vols, Paris, 1921–24). CUP, Introduction, i. #15, 12. Chronica Magistri Rogeri de Hoveden, iv. 120–1. ‘Rex quidem Francie iratus, fecit domus illorum demoliri, et vineas et arbores illorum fructiferas exstirpari’. Chronica Magistri Rogeri de Hoveden, iv. 121. ‘Praepositus autem ille, cum per multos dies in carcere regis detentus fuisset, per fugam evadere proposuit; et cum per murum dimitteretur, fractus est funis, et ipse ab alto corruens in terram, exspiravit’. Etienne, the bishop of Tournai, related the details of this incident in a letter to the Cardinal Bishop of Ostia. The letter absolves the abbot of St. Germain of any guilt concerning the incident, noting that he proved his innocence in the presence of the Lord of Reims and a multitude of clerics. See CUP, i. Introduction, #47, 47. CUP, i. #1, 59. ‘Si alicui scolari ab aliquo laico injuriam fierialiquis viderit, quod super eo testimonium perhibebit veritati; nec se subtrahet aliquis ne videat. Et si contigerit quod aliquis scolarem percusserit, nisi super se

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16.

17.

18. 19. 20.

21.

22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

15

defendendo, si scolaris maxime armis percutiatur, aut fuste, aut lapide, omnes laici qui viderint bona fide comprehendent illum malefactorum vel malefactores et tradent justicie nostre, nec se subtra[h]ent ne videant vel comprehendant vel testimonium veritati perhibeant. Sive autem malefactor captus sit super ipsum forifactum, sive non, nos legitimam inquisitionem faciemus et fidelem, sive per clericos sive per laicos seu per quascumque personas; et prepositus noster et justicie nostre idem facient’. CUP, i. #1, 59–60. ‘Et si intelligere potuerimus per bonam inquistionem, vel justice nostre intelligere potuerint, quod ille cui imponitur fecerit illud forifactum, statim inde faciemus justiciam sive justicie nostre hoc facient secundum qualitatem et modum forifacti, non obstante eo, quod malefactor ille factum negabit, vel quod dicet se paratum esse deffendere se per monomachiam, vel purgare per judicium aque’. CUP, i. #1, 60. ‘Ad hec in capitale Parisiensium scolarium pro nullo forifacto justicia nostra manum mittet; sed si visum fuerit illud esse arrestandum, per justiciam ecclesiasticam arrestabitur et arrestatum custodietur, ut de illo capitali fiat quod per ecclesiam fuerit legitime judicatum. Quod si tali hora fuerint scolares arrestati a preposito nostro, quod non possit ecclesiastica justicia inveniri vel statim haberi, faciet prepositus noster in aliqua scolaris domo eosdem sine omni injuria sicut supra dictum est custodiri, donec justicie ecclesiastice tradantur’. A copy of the oath in the vernacular can be found at CUP, i. #67, 122–3. The contents of the oath confirm the practices outlined in the decree. John W. Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus: Foundations of French Royal Power in the Middle Ages (Berkeley, 1986), 44–5. CUP, i. #13. This decree gave the provost the right to seize a cleric if ‘eum inveneritis ad presens forisfactum multri, homicidii adulterii, raptus vel alicuius magni criminis huiusmodi vel sanguinis effusi per baculum vel lapidem vel per arma moluta, vel nisi eum deprehenderitis extra horam in domo alicuius, qui eum domum suam prohibuerit coram bonis testibus’. CUP, i. #13, 72–3. The decree opens ‘Quoniam molestum est nobis et graviter sustinemus quod vos dampna et gravamina sepius incurritis, clericos eo modo quo non debetis capiendo . . . ’ For these details about the political context, see Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus, 186. On this point, see also John W. Baldwin, ‘A Debate at Paris over Thomas Becket between Master Roger and Master Peter the Chanter’, in Collectanea Stephan Kuttner, Studia Gratiana 11 (1967), 119–32. The irony, of course, being that Agnès herself was within the forbidden degrees of consanguinity. For a broader overview of Philip’s overtures to French churches, see Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus, 176–88. CUP, i. #1, 59. ‘De securitate autem scolarium in posterum Parisius consilio hominum nostrorum hoc ordinavimus . . . ’ For more on consilium in Philip’s reign, see Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus, 124–5. Here, Baldwin also contrasts the ‘restrictive

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28. 29.

30.

31.

32.

33. 34.

35.

History of Universities nucleus’ of Philip’s close advisors with the much larger royal entourage of the English kings. See also Williston Walker, On the Increase in Royal Power in France under Philip Augustus (Leipzig, 1888), 60–1. See Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus, 122. It is also probable, however, as Stephen C. Ferruolo writes, that some measure of royal favour for the schools existed prior to this incident. See Ferruolo, ‘Parisius-Paradisius: The City, Its Schools, and the Origin of the University of Paris’, in Thomas Bender (ed.), The University and the City: From Medieval Origins to the Present (New York, 1988), 22–43. Moreover, while one historian has remarked that as late as Louis IX’s reign it was not the king himself, but rather ‘pro-royalist’ scholars and jurists, who made use of scholastic culture for the promotion of dynastic propaganda and the extension of royal power, one wonders how these scholars could have developed such favourable royalist feelings if royal patronage were really so meagre. See Manuel Alejandro Rodriguez de la Peˇna, ‘Rex Scholaribus Impendebant: The King’s Image as Patron of Learning in Thirteenth Century French and Spanish Chronicles: A Comparative Approach’, The Medieval History Journal, 5(1), (2002), 21–36. Peña is quite correct, however, to point out that it was not until Philip the Fair that the French crown was able to exploit the university most effectively in pursuit of its own aims. See Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus, 123. This inner circle was comprised of Brother Guérin, Barthélemy de Roye, and Henri Clément. The identification comes from the Anonymous Chronicler of Béthune. Some historians have argued that Philip Augustus, in an effort to restrict the influence of civil law in the French realm, was the stimulus for the ban on teaching civil law at the University of Paris enacted by Honorius III’s bull Super speculam in 1219. See Walter Ullman, ‘Honorius III and the Prohibition of Legal Studies’, The Juridical Review 60 (1948), 177–86. It is more probable, however, that this prohibition was the result of a declining civil law program there in the years prior to Super speculam. See Gérard Giordanengo, ‘Résistances intellectuelles autour de la Décrétale Super Speculam’, in Le Moine, le Clerc et le Prince (Histoire et Société: Mélanges offerts à Georges Duby, Vol. III, Aix-en-Provence, 1992), 141–55. Oeuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, i. 329–30. For more on the strike, see n. 64. In his account of this strike, Guillaume le Breton takes care to note that the new bishop of Paris, Guillaume de Seignelay was odious (odiosus) to both the king and the university. Philip III also reaffirmed these privileges in January of 1276. See CUP, i. #466, 538. See Edouard Jeauneau, Translatio Studii: The Transmission of Learning: A Gilsonian Theme, (Toronto, 1995). The theme of translatio studii was also used in contemporary chronicles, especially the one by Guillaume de Nangis cited above. Honorius III had ordered the University to stop using the seal of the cathedral canons of Notre Dame in 1221; see CUP, i. #41, 98–9 and #45, 102–4. The University had then started to use a seal of its own, which Cardinal

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36. 37.

38.

39. 40.

41.

42.

43.

44. 45.

17

Romano destroyed. For more on this incident, see Pearl Kibre, Scholarly Privileges in the Middle Ages: The Rights, Privileges, and Immunities, of Scholars and Universities at Bologna, Padua, Paris, and Oxford (Cambridge, Mass., 1962), 91. On the importance of the seal for the university’s development as a corporation, see Gaines Post, ‘Parisian Masters as a Corporation, 1200–1246’, Speculum, 9 (1934), 421–45. See RHGF, xix. 724–5 and Kibre, 91. Saint-Marcel was located on the left bank, south of Sainte-Geneviève. See Adrien Friedmann, Paris: Ses rues, Ses paroisses du Moyen Âge à la Révolution: origine et évolution des circonscriptions paroissiales (Paris, 1959), 72. The town of Saint-Marcel is described in the documents both as a villa and as a burgh. See Matthew Paris, ‘Chronica Majora’, ed. Henry Richards Luard (7 vols, Rolls Series, Vol. LVII, London, 1872–84), iii. 166–9. Matthew claims to have derived his account from several masters and scholars who had fled to England during the Dispersion. Matthew Paris, 167. ‘Et procedentes per plateas, quoscunque invenerunt viros aut mulieres acriter invadunt, et plagis impositis semivivos relinquunt’. The bishop had full jurisdiction to intercede at this point but surprisingly chose instead to leave the matter to the queen. See Noël Valois, Guillaume d’Auvergne, Évêque de Paris (1228–1249). Sa vie, et ses ouvrages (Paris, 1880), 49. This refusal to intervene prompted his later rebuke by Gregory IX. Matthew Paris, 167. ‘At illa muliebri procacitate simul et impetu mentis agitata, prepositis civitatis et quibusdam ruptariis suis dedit ilico in mandatis, ut sub omni celeritate armati ab urbe exeuntes, hujus violentiae auctores, nulli parcentes, punirent’. Matthew Paris, 168. ‘Indignum enim sibi videbatur, quod tam levi nacta occasione, quorundam contemptibilium clericulorum trangressio in praejudicium totius redundaret universitatis; sed poenam daret in ultione, qui culpam perpetravit in transgressione. Sed cum tandem omnimoda eis justitia tam a rege et legato, quam ab episcopo civitatis, denegata fuisset, facta est universalis discessio magistrorum et scolarum dispersio, cessante doctorum doctrina et discipulorum disciplina, ita quod nec unus famosus ex omnibus in civitate remanserit’. According to one chronicler, the scholars went to Reims, Angers, Orléans, England and ‘in alias mundi provincias’. From ‘E Speculo Historiali Vincenti Bellovacensis’ in RHGF, xxi. 72. Matthew cites the following Goliardic verse, though he does label it ‘ridiculous’. ‘Heu moriumur strati, vincti, mersi, spoliati;/ Mentula legati nos facit ista pati.’ CUP, i. #62, 118. Denifle and Châtelain point out that Easter of that year fell on April 15. See CUP, i. #66, 120–2 for the reaffirmation of this decree. It is a source of considerable interest whether this reaffirmation was made by Louis IX himself, as the document indicates and Guillaume de Nangis later wrote, or by Blanche, acting in his name as regent. If by the former, as Jacques

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46.

47.

48.

49.

50.

History of Universities Le Goff asserts, then it is of especial importance that the young king acted ‘en prenant le contre-pied’ to his mother. See Le Goff, Saint Louis (Paris, 1996), 95, 112–6. If by the latter, it offers compelling evidence that the queen acknowledged that her previous intransigence towards the scholars had been a mistake. For reasons which shall become clear below, I tend to support Le Goff. For, if the scholars really felt that they could trust Blanche and that she was willing to provide redress, it is likely that this would have been sufficient for them to return before papal intervention. Parens Scientiarum, the papal bull which ensured these protections, and also gave the scholars a number of guidelines, is found in CUP, i. #79, 136–9. For Gregory’s mandates that local ecclesiastical authorities respect the privileges given to the scholars in Paris, see CUP, i. #81, 139–40 and #94, 147 to Odo, abbot of Saint-Germain-des-Prés; CUP, i. #85, 142 to Henry, Archbishop of Reims, Godfrey, Bishop of Amiens and Hugh of Burgundy; CUP, i. #88, 144 and #93, 147 to Guillaume d’Auvergne, Bishop of Paris; CUP, i. #92, 146 to the Dean and Chapter of St. Marcel where the initial brawl took place. Ferruolo is right to highlight the significance of these bulls. See Ferruolo, ‘Parisius-Paradisius’, 36. When scholars ceased lectures in 1253, in the aftermath of a violent altercation with the civil authorities, Alphonse de Poitiers, regent for his brother Louis IX, intervened on the university’s behalf and severely punished those who had violated the scholars’ privileges. See CUP, i. #219, 242–4; Hastings Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, ed. F.M. Powicke and A.B. Emden, (3 vols, Oxford, 1936), i. 377; Kibre, 103. Other town and gown clashes in the thirteenth century are noted in CUP, but there is no indication that the crown actively supported the civil authority’s violation of the scholars’ rights. There has been relatively little scholarship on Blanche since Élie Berger, Histoire de Blanche de Castile, reine de France (Paris, 1895); though a few recent biographies seem to have initiated a reversal of the trend. These include Régine Pernoud, La Reine Blanche (Paris, 1972); Gérard Sivéry, Blanche de Castille (Paris, 1990); and Philippe Delorme, Blanche de Castille. Epouse de Louis VIII, mère de Saint Louis (Paris, 2002). In general, they have sought to rehabilitate somewhat Blanche’s prevailing negative reputation. See J.M.M.H. Thijssen, ‘Master Amalric and the Amalricians: Inquisitorial Procedure and the Suppression of Heresy at the University of Paris’, Speculum 71 (1996), 43–65. In 1210, several of Amaury’s alleged followers were burned and his own body was removed from the consecrated cemetery where he has been buried. In his biography of Blanche, Sivéry speculates that the condemnation of Amaury came about because ‘certains hommes au pouvoir’ were fearful of his close relationship with the prince. See Sivéry, 28. Guillaume le Breton alleges that Philip Augustus also had a part in ordering those who were involved in the sect to be burned. See Oeuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, I, 232–3. Daymond Turner, ‘The University in the Siete Partidas’, Romantic Notes 11 (1969), 447–51.

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51. See Rashdall, ii. 65–8. 52. The text of this council can be found in Enrique Flórez (ed.), España Sagrada: Teatro geográfico-histórico de la Iglesia de España, (51 vols, Madrid, 1747–1849), xxxvi. 216–27. For Jean d’Abbéville’s biographical information, see Palémon Glorieux, Répertoire des maîtres en théologie de Paris au XIIIe siècle (Paris, 1933), 272–3. 53. See CUP, i. #32, 90–3. The privilege of dispensation from residence did not gain great efficacy until near the end of the thirteenth century with Boniface VIII’s Cum ex eo constitution, which defined clerical absence for study as a worthy cause. See Leonard E. Boyle, O.P., ‘The Constitution Cum ex eo of Boniface VIII: Education of Parochial Clergy’, Mediaeval Studies 24 (1962), 263–302. 54. España Sagrada, xxxvi. 224–5. ‘Et se la josticia seglar prendiere clerigo, non lo fallando en el fecho malo, sien mandado del Juis de la Eglesia, será culpado’. This is a very confusing passage in Spanish, probably owing to mistranscription in the España Sagrada which is well-known for containing errors. I owe much thanks to Ivy Corfis for her assistance with the texts from this council. 55. Blanche did preside at a disputation held at the University of Paris in 1240 over charges of blasphemies contained in the Talmud. However, this incident did not concern any rules or regulations pertaining to the functioning of the university. See Hyam Maccoby (ed. and trans.), Judaism on Trial: JewishChristian Disputations in the Middle Ages (Rutherford, N.J., 1982), 22. 56. CUP, i. #197, 222–4. See also Kibre, 101–3. 57. The Pastoreaux was an anti-clerical sect led by a certain Paganus. Their violent demonstrations against the clergy in a number of French cities were a source of considerable concern to the French crown. See Kibre, 101–2. 58. The mendicant friars, whose numbers and influence at the University had been growing steadily, refused to comply with the threat of secession, an action which precipitated the secular-mendicant crisis of the 1250s. For more on the basic issues behind the crisis, see A.G. Traver, ‘Rewriting History? The Parisian Secular Masters’ Apologia of 1254’, History of Universities 15 (1997–1999), 9–45. Still useful are M.-M. Dufeil, Guillaume de St-Amour et la polémique universitaire parisienne, 1250–1259, (Paris, 1972), and Decima L. Douie, The Conflict Between the Seculars and the Mendicants at the University of Paris in the Thirteenth Century, (New York, 1954). 59. See note 47. 60. Régine Pernoud suggests this possibility. See Pernoud, 179. 61. Matthew Paris, 167. See note 41. 62. By this time, students in Bologna had also already vacated that town on several occasions (in 1204, 1215, 1222, and 1228), and in some cases founded new universities (e.g. Padua). See Rashdall, I, 167–72. 63. Reacting to King John’s approval to execute two scholars, students at Oxford had suspended lectures in 1209 and subsequently dispersed throughout England, with some even leaving for Paris. For more on this event, commonly known as the Suspendium Clericorum, see Rashdall, iii. 33–4.

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History of Universities

64. This problem stemmed from the fact that the original choice for the position was a certain master, Galterus Cornutus. Galterus had received the majority support of the Parisian chapter as well as the confirmation of the archbishop of Sens. However, the chancellor and certain other canons opposed Galterus’s appointment. When master Galterus’s appeal to Rome failed, Guillaume de Seignelay received the position. Although Galterus succeeded Pierre de Corbeil in the archbishopric of Sens in 1222, the chancellor’s actions renewed the scholars’ hostilities. Moreover, Guillaume de Seignelay continued to pursue an antagonistic relationship with the scholars throughout his tenure as bishop of Paris. Guillaume le Breton’s chronicle of these events is in Oeuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, i. 329–30. 65. For Henry III’s invitation to study in England, see CUP, i. #64, 119. The University of Toulouse offered a home for Parisian scholars where they would be free to study without the prohibitions on Aristotle, though it is possible that this invitation never circulated. For the invitation, see CUP, i. #72, 129–31. For the argument that the invitation was simply a rhetorical exercise and never actually circulated, see Yves Dossat ‘Les premiers maîtres à l’Université de Toulouse: Jean de Garlande, Helinand’, in Les Universités du Languedoc au XIIIe siècle (Toulouse, 1970), 179–293. 66. It is equally important to point out that the university’s cessation of lectures was not without adverse consequences for the masters either. While the terms of Gregory IX’s bull Parens scientiarum, which listed all of the university’s privileges, seemed to be a victory for the nascent corporation, their prolonged absence from the city also gave the mendicants a greater foothold in the Parisian schools. The friars’ refusal to join the university’s strike set a precedent for future deviation from university decisions, ultimately leading to the acrimonious secular-mendicant conflict of the 1250s. See also note 58. 67. CUP, i. #82, 140–1. ‘progenitorum tuorum sequutus exemplar exhibens te scolaribus favorabilem et benignum, privilegium clare memorie Philippi Regis avi tui eis innoves et observes, et facias ab aliis observari. Hospitiorum quoque taxationem per duos magistros et duos burgenses ad hoc de consensus magistrorum electos juramento prestito fideliter faciendam, sive, si burgenses non curaverint interesse, per duos magistros, sicut fieri consuevit, eis sine difficultate concedas, cum alias nimis cara hospitia conducere cogerentur’. In this letter Gregory also makes reference to counsel he had received ‘de fratrum nostrorum consilio’. 68. See note 1. 69. See note 26.

The Uses of Orthodoxy and Jacobean Erudition: Thomas James and the Bodleian Library Paul Nelles1

What was the Bodleian library for when it opened its doors in 1602? This question has gone more or less unasked: a university library explains itself. Scholarship on the Bodleian has long focused on the internal history of the library and the personality of its founder, Sir Thomas Bodley.2 It is only very recently that serious attention has been given to the immediate constituency for the library at Oxford3 and the wider complex of books, libraries, and scholarship of which the Bodleian was part.4 Regardless of Bodley’s own motives in founding the library – personal, intellectual, religious – as an institution the Bodleian had a life, as well as a librarian, of its own. How did the library function within the sphere of its community of users? What was its status as a public library both at Oxford and nationally? And what was its position within the spider’s web of religious, political and cultural motivations which entangled early Stuart rule? In considering many such questions, we may have recourse to the Bodleian’s wonderful embarrassment in the form of its first librarian, Thomas James. A scholar and rabid anti-papist, James frequently occupies an awkward position in treatments of the library. Though James was Bodley’s chosen librarian, modern discomfort with his extreme antiCatholicism – he eagerly chased down Jesuits in the Oxfordshire countryside – has allowed him to be gently excused from many accounts of the library’s history. Considered unbecoming of the worthy intentions of the library’s founder, James’s stridently polemical outlook fits poorly with modern ideas of the disinterested nature of a university library. Few, however, have looked beyond the bombast to consider the nature and purpose of James’s scholarship.5 The scholarly work James carried out as Bodley’s librarian affords a rare glimpse of the interaction of libraries, manuscripts, printed books, and the readers who used them.

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Despite the ample publicity the Bodleian has enjoyed since its inception James remains a well-kept secret among historians of the early modern library and the history of bibliography. Actively involved in establishing and running the library from at least 1598, James devoted considerable time and energy to acquiring books and arranging them in the library. The two catalogues of the library’s holdings he saw through the press in 1605 and 1620 were widely regarded as models of the form for much of the seventeenth century.6 James further laboured over a series of remarkably detailed hand-written finding aids for the use of Bodleian readers,7 providing a series of alphabetized topical indices to the library’s books which included not only authors and titles, but frequently page numbers as well.8 And it was James’s idea to secure the arrangement with the Stationer’s Company which made the Bodleian the first copyright deposit library in England.9 Throughout his career at the Bodleian James engaged in a number of scholarly initiatives which drew on Bodleian resources. Though sometimes less than successful, James’s scholarship nonetheless vividly illuminates the sense of cultural purpose of the library. Over three decades, James’s scholarly interests rarely deviated from a path of inquiry which sought to explore the textual tradition of the Fathers and medieval English authors through examination of the insular manuscript legacy. The high point of James’s scholarly endeavours came in 1610, when James headed a well-funded project based in the Bodleian collating select Latin fathers. In James’s scholarship the Bodleian emerges as a store-house of Protestant learning and a bulwark against Roman Catholicism or, in the language of the period, ‘popery’. For the most part James was supported by Bodley in these initiatives. While Bodley’s vision of the library – to which we will return – was more expansive, Bodley was by no means hostile to James’s religious orientation.10 Both Bodley and James were sons of Marian exiles, and both were Calvinists. Before returning to England and entering Oxford upon Elizabeth’s succession, Bodley had received his early education at the Genevan Academy. Later, as a long-serving diplomat on the continent, Bodley was witness to some of the major episodes in the political and religious upheaval of the second half of the sixteenth century. In Denmark in 1583 he negotiated on behalf of Henry of Navarre and the Huguenots; made ambassador to the Netherlands in 1588, he would remain bitterly anti-Spanish for the remainder of his life. Though never mentioned directly by Bodley, his decision to re-found the public library at Oxford must surely have been informed by his long sojourn in the

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Low Countries, where he remained until 1597. There, he likely observed with interest the considerable resources invested by the new Dutch state in its university at Leiden. The Leiden University Library was public, opening its doors in 1587; its catalogue was printed in 1595.11 Returning to England in early 1597, by February 1598 Bodley had offered to finance a public library at Oxford; it began admitting readers in 1602; its catalogue went to press in 1605. There is of course little purpose to be served in reducing institutions to a bundle of confessional principles. It is considerably more appropriate, however, to place the early modern library within the compass of a number of vectors of influence in which religion plays a part: institutional culture, modes of scholarship, the material culture of the book itself. Focus on Thomas James allows us to concern ourselves not so much with the history of the Bodleian library, but with the way in which the Bodleian intersected with a particular moment of Jacobean erudition, continental scholarship, and the new status of the library as an instrument of religious and political policy.

Thomas James, Church History and the Ecclesiastical Record

Little is known of James’s background. He was schooled at Winchester College under its Warden Thomas Bilson, who likely exerted considerable influence upon James’s formation. At Oxford James followed in Bilson’s footsteps at New College, and he would remain in contact with Bilson for much of his life. He would later refer to Bilson as ‘one of the profoundest Scholars, and of deepest judgement that ever England yielded’.12 On James’s own testimony it was Bilson who first led James to patristic studies,13 and it comes as no surprise that as Bishop of Winchester Bilson was later a supporter of James’s patristic collation project.14 A fellow of New College from 1593 to 1602, James graduated BA in 1595 and achieved the MA in 1599. Anti-Roman sentiment was a constant feature of Oxford theology in these years, and like many others James was attracted to the circle of John Rainolds. From 1588 Rainolds had held the anti-papal lectureship created by Sir Francis Walsingham, and three times a week during term delivered lectures attacking both English and continental papists; the

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Jesuit controversialist Robert Bellarmine was a favoured target. James and Rainolds appear to have remained close: James was among those to whom Rainolds bequeathed volumes from his ample library upon his death in 1607.15 At James’s Oxford, concerns within the Faculty of Theology were centred on the defence of Protestantism against Roman Catholicism rather than on defining divergent doctrinal positions within the English Church itself. For Oxford elders such as Rainolds, Rome continued to present a real and pressing challenge.16 Though his theological studies at Oxford remain to be chronicled, well before James became Doctor of Divinity in 1614 he had become convinced that modern Roman Catholics continued the long tradition of falsification and obfuscation which had characterized the history of the Roman church. A profound student of manuscripts, an able textual scholar, and an acute reader of the church Fathers, James marshalled library resources at Oxford and elsewhere in order to engage Roman Catholic theologians and church historians on their own ground. Firmly convinced of the antiquity of the doctrines of the English church and the purity of the English manuscript tradition, James devoted much of his scholarly life to harnessing textual resources in pursuit of theological and ecclesiological justification of English Protestantism. In so doing James reveals something of the complex nature of religious orthodoxy in an age of religious controversy. While never for a moment doubting the truth of his own position, James became something of a connoisseur of contemporary Roman Catholic scholarship, which he adroitly used to his own ends. Though his position as Bodley’s librarian was unique, James was nonetheless representative of a recognizable strain of contemporary English Protestantism. Three areas of concern common in the English church lie at the core of James’s historical and textual endeavours. First, James was convinced that the historical roots of the modern English church were to be found in a pure Saxon ecclesiastical community which had conformed to the primitive church as described in the writings of the Fathers and the early councils. As we shall see presently, James’s abiding interest in the Fathers was manifest already in 1600, and would culminate in the grand if ultimately ill-fated patristic collation project begun in 1610. Before the Jacobean era, however, English interest in the Fathers for the most part had manifested itself in controversial theology.17 In his famous ‘Challenge’ sermon of 1559, John Jewel had charged Catholic scholars with proving the truth of their doctrines and practices out of the writings of the Fathers of the first six (five was the

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generally accepted number among Protestants) centuries of the Church. Oxford scholars in exile readily replied. One recusant respondent in Louvain, Thomas Harding, argued that Jewel’s evidence on the marriage of St Paul, derived from Ignatius, the first-century Bishop of Antioch, was based on a corrupt textual tradition. Harding instead pointed to ‘ancient copies . . . and specially . . . that of Maudelen Colleges library in Oxford’ for an alternative reading.18 Already in the 1560s, therefore, debate over the testimony of the Fathers hinged on the interpretation of key texts and, frequently, their authenticity. The Fathers gradually began to play a more positive role within the English church. Patristic interpretation of scripture in particular came to inform Anglican scriptural theology, deployed against both Rome and Puritan biblicism at home. James’s near contemporary at Oxford, Richard Hooker – like James a student of Rainolds – advanced even stronger claims for use of the Fathers in delineating the structure and governance of the primitive church.19 The year that James left Winchester College, its Master Thomas Bilson mounted a vigorous defence of iure divino episcopacy based on the example of the apostles and primitive Christianity.20 By 1600, Andrew Willet in his Synopsis Papismi called for a full exposition of patristic bible commentaries, claiming that they would prove once and for all the false nature of papist doctrine. Thus by the early seventeenth century the use of the Fathers had emerged as a pivotal, though not uncontroversial, element within Anglican theology as the conformity of the contemporary reformed church with the primitive church was increasingly emphasized.21 It was within this context that James was drawn to patristic studies. Such would become his eventual reputation in the field that in 1613 James seemed the logical choice of candidate to double-check Jewel’s patristic scholarship and compile the scholarly apparatus for a projected edition of Jewel’s minor theological writings.22 Second, James saw a vital historical continuity between the establishment of Christianity in the British Isles and the contemporary English church.23 This view of the reformed church goes back at least as far as John Foxe, who in the Book of Martyrs had documented the trials and tribulations of the ‘true church’ which had survived underground and invisible through centuries of papal corruption and outright persecution. Yet Foxe’s notion of the ‘saving remnant’ had been subject to revision as the strong national church which emerged under Elizabeth sought roots not in a history of dissenting factions, but in a visible ‘true church’ which, though living through times of darkness, nonetheless in

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many ways still conformed to reformed principles. Thus, the visible church not only included the primary heretical sects and protoProtestants of the middle ages – the Waldensians, the Albigensians, Wyclif, Lollards, Huss and others all obdurately opposed to Rome – but also included more mainstream critics of papal power such as Jean Gerson and Bernard of Clairvaux. Jacobean historians of the medieval church such as James Ussher and John Prideaux saw in all of this evidence of an independent institutional church committed to lawful ministry and, moreover, episcopal church governance. James contributed to this strain of English ecclesiastical scholarship with his work on Wyclif. In 1608 he published two texts attacking monasticism then attributed to Wyclif based on manuscripts in the Bodleian and at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. Probably more influential was his Apologie for John Wickliffe, in which James shows Wyclif, ‘out of diverse works of his in written hand, by Gods especial providence remaining in the Publike Library at Oxford’, to have been in accord with reformed teachings on matters such as faith, the sacraments, and the importance of Scripture. He also argued that Wyclif, a ‘resolved, true, Catholic, English Protestant’, provides prime evidence for the visibility of the true church.24 This view of the visibility of the church in the middle ages informed both historical scholarship and theological debate throughout the first decades of the seventeenth century, culminating in the Treatise of the Perpetuall Visibilitie, and succession of the True Church in all Ages published in 1624 by George Abbot, by then well into his second decade as Archbishop of Canterbury.25 At his death in 1629, James left in manuscript a vast treatment of the subject dedicated to Abbot which promised to ‘show the general history of the Protestant Churches more or less visible at all times and in all places’. As with his Apologie for Wyclif, the work has a ‘controversial’ organization, with separate sections devoted to issues such as the use of images in worship, clerical marriage, and so on. Apart from the preface, the bulk of the treatise consists of references to a myriad of titles – complete with page numbers – of books ‘for proof of any point controversed’.26 It is more than likely that all these books were to be found in the Bodleian. The third important element of James’s scholarly world is his antipopery. Almost all of James’s published writings – particularly those devoted to textual scholarship – are directed against papist corruption and deception. Anti-popery was intimately tied to the historical vision of the church shared by James and others. Not restricted to the Puritan

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fringe of English Protestantism, anti-popery constituted the stock in trade of many mainstream church figures as well.27 According to this view, attempts by the Bishop of Rome to control and corrupt Christian religion had been adroitly seen off within the early church: the church of the Fathers had not been subject to papal jurisdiction and at times could be seen to have been aggressively anti-Roman. Yet through deceit and treachery the pope had usurped Christ’s rightful place at the centre of the church over the course of the middle ages. The pope (now Antichrist) used all means possible to increase his power: he withheld the true teachings of Scripture; he appealed to popular superstition through liturgical hocus-pocus and abuse of the sacraments; and he invented traditions founded neither in Scripture nor the writings of the Fathers. From this perspective it was at the Council of Trent that the views of the popish minority came to dominate the church as a whole. Thus, while early Protestants had merely broken with Rome, the contemporary reformed church was engaged in a pitched battle with a united Roman Catholic church supported by foreign Catholic princes and receiving instructions directly from the pope. The particularity of James’s anti-popery lies in his conviction that papist corruption of the church had not been limited to the abuse of doctrine, the sacraments, and church government, but extended to the falsification, corruption, and destruction of ecclesiastical records and the textual heritage of the church. With the Council of Trent this pattern of forgery and destruction had been enshrined as official church policy, evident to all in the printed Index librorum prohibitorum and the Index expurgatorius. This perspective informed both his scholarship and his activities as Bodley’s librarian. James saw a necessary and crucial link between the English church, which had maintained its purity throughout the dark centuries of papist control of the continental church, and the insular manuscript legacy. Put plainly, because born of a pure church English manuscripts provided a more faithful record of the history of the church than any to be found on the continent. There was no doubt a certain logic to James’s argument. Half a century earlier the Magdeburg Centuriators, also vociferous critics of papal textual falsification, had made much the same claim about German libraries and manuscripts.28 This vision would lie at the core of James’s intellectual life for close to three decades. It is to be situated squarely within the mainstream of ecclesiastical thought at Oxford and in the English church more broadly in the early years of the seventeenth century. James can be located within the moderate tradition of Calvinist episcopalianism

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which exerted much influence at Oxford in the early Stuart period. His conception of the history of the church and his unique vision of the value of the insular textual legacy directly influenced his views on the nature and purpose of books and libraries.

True witnesses: James and medieval manuscripts

In 1600, James published a union catalogue of manuscripts held in Cambridge and Oxford colleges. This catalogue, modestly presented but endowed with great riches, allows us to see James at work and introduces us to the methods and preoccupations which would animate the rest of his career. The Ecloga Oxonio-Cantabrigiensis, which bears the rather appropriate motto (borrowed from Paul), ‘Non quaero quod mihi utile est, sed quod multis’ (I seek not what is useful for myself, but for the many), attempted to take stock of the universities’ book resources, left in disarray after the Reformation. It represents a landmark in the nascent discipline of palaeography. It was the first catalogue of manuscripts to appear in print in Britain, and the first printed union catalogue of manuscripts in Europe.29 In its comprehensiveness and its commitment to a standard of palaeographical description which sought to replicate exactly what was found in the manuscripts themselves it had few precedents. It won James the praise of scholars such as William Camden, who used the Ecloga to locate manuscripts previously unknown to him. Camden also asked James to transcribe Oxford manuscripts – one in a long series of such requests from a wide variety of scholars and churchmen.30 Ussher exclaimed: ‘Of printed books all make use: of manuscripts you are in a manner the only man among us that make search for the furthering of God’s cause’.31 A published catalogue of medieval manuscripts might not seem the most propitious undertaking for a young scholar hungry for advancement in 1600. Yet James’s interest in the medieval manuscript tradition was by no means an isolated phenomenon. James himself viewed his work in the tradition of Boston of Bury (Henry Kirkestede), the itinerant fourteenth-century author of a medieval union catalogue of British manuscripts. He also saw himself continuing the investigation of English libraries begun by Leland and Bale in the wake of the dispersal of the great monastic collections in the early Reformation.32 James’s outlook

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was broadly shared by the great Elizabethan hunters of medieval manuscripts. For collectors such as Parker, Burghley, Dee, Cotton, Lumley, Cope, Allen and Savile of Banke, gathering medieval manuscripts was but the first stage in a wider historical investigation of the history and authority of the religious settlement sought by Elizabeth.33 Thus in 1560 Parker had seemed the logical source of information for Flacius Illyricus and the Magdeburg Centuriators, who addressed him in a letter enquiring after English medieval sources for use in their great polemical survey of the history of the church. Parker, in turn, had looked to Bale for advice.34 Parker’s own vast collection, built up for the most part in the decade before his death in 1575, was the direct result of his commission by Elizabeth in 1568 to search out the remains of the monastic collections in order to furnish historical and documentary justification for the constitutional and theological claims of the new Anglican church. Parker and others sought to show through the magnitude of their amassed evidence that Anglican ecclesiastical principles had already resided in the primitive Saxon Church.35 In the Ecloga, James would make use of two of these collections, those of Cope and Lumley. First Oxford, then Cambridge, college by college, library by library, volume by volume, and text by text, James documented the manuscript worth of the Oxbridge collections. While James no doubt consulted existing library lists where possible, the Ecloga was based on a direct examination of the manuscripts. Many of the college libraries did not have catalogues; for others, the catalogues had become obsolete due to the re-organization of the collections.36 James inventoried all college libraries separately, listing volumes individually and describing distinct texts within each volume. Each college, together with the university library at Cambridge, was assigned an individual heading. The manuscript volumes in each library are numbered consecutively in a column headed ‘Volumen’. The numbers used in itemizing the volumes do not correspond to college press-marks, but are rather intrinsic to the Ecloga itself. Finally, the title of each text within a particular manuscript volume is itemized separately, numbered in a column headed ‘Tractatus’. In all, James catalogued nearly 3,000 codices: 1,325 in Oxford and 1,498 in Cambridge.37 In the chronological table of ecclesiastical writers James furnished for users of the Ecloga, the libraries of Oxford and Cambridge were revealed to contain manuscripts bearing on a millennium and a half of Church history, from Josephus and Clement of Alexandria in the first century to Gerson, Walden and Walsingham in the fourteenth.

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No doubt James hoped that the Ecloga would aid in the conservation of medieval manuscripts still remaining at Oxford and Cambridge. These collections were by no means stable, even in 1600. For many of the college libraries James provides the only record for much of their former medieval holdings. For the New College collection, which James as a fellow of the college presumably knew well, he listed 285 volumes. The actual number of volumes consulted by James has been estimated to be closer to 340. By 1624, of the New College volumes itemised in the Ecloga 93 were no longer in the library. A good number were used as account wrappers or beam-linings, and were no doubt put to other uses as well.38 A handful of the New College manuscripts eventually made their way into the Bodleian, part of a pattern of migration which we will subsequently consider in greater detail. In the second part of the Ecloga, containing an extensive system of indices and cross-references, James included references to the manuscript holdings of two important post-Reformation collectors, Sir Walter Cope and Lord Lumley.39 It is most likely that James had explored these collections after the first part of the Ecloga had gone to the printer.40 Cope was to become an early donor to the Bodleian, bequeathing a large corpus of manuscripts in 1602. Manuscripts from both the Cope and Lumley collections are numbered by James. ‘Quare in bibl. privata Luml. vol. 26’, he advises the reader wishing to consult Lumley’s copy of Abbo of Fleury’s De vita et passione S. Edmundi Regis; Cope’s collection is referred to even more obliquely as ‘Bib. Gualt. C.’ or even ‘G.C.’.41 James referred to no fewer than 215 of Cope’s manuscripts in the Ecloga.42 His inclusion of two important private collections in the Ecloga greatly augmented the already considerable utility of the work. Clearly James was no mere interloper in the contemporary world of libraries and manuscripts, as he must have been given considerable freedom to roam through both collections. It is difficult to imagine the enormous labour involved in identifying so great a number of medieval manuscripts at the close of the sixteenth century. Many of the manuscript volumes James consulted would have been only partially identified in the college collections themselves. Where there were additional texts interior to the volumes, these would in many cases have been entirely unidentified. James had recourse to only a handful of resources: Johannes Tritheim’s De scriptoribus ecclesiasticis, a late-fifteenth-century bio-bibliographical catalogue of ecclesiastical authors; Conrad Gesner’s Bibliotheca universalis, the standard bibliographical reference work of the sixteenth century; the Catalogus

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testium veritatis of Flacius Illyricus, which sought to establish a chain of authentic witnesses to the ‘true church’ from primitive christianity to the sixteenth century; Bale’s catalogue of British writers; and the Bibliotheca Sancta of Sixtus Senensis, a kind of catalogue raisonné of all authors who had commented upon scripture.43 In cases where the author or title was unknown James cited the incipit of the text, aware that the identity of many of these ‘anonymous’ texts might eventually be established. In keeping with the philological purpose of the enterprise James claimed to have copied the title of each text as it was found in the manuscript itself, even when he knew it to be corrupt or in outright error.44 In a final appendix to the Ecloga, James provided an object lesson in the uses to which it might be put. Among the numerous patristic texts he encountered in compiling the work, he set down and collated manuscripts of two texts, the De unitate Ecclesiae of Cyprian, for which James had four manuscripts, and Augustine’s De fide, for which he had two manuscripts. In both cases James collated his manuscripts against recent Paris editions, which he identified. He printed the results of his labours, a list of variant readings suggested by the manuscripts. We can here consider his treatment of Cyprian. James collated the 1593 Paris edition of Cyprian’s De unitate Ecclesiae with the four manuscripts of this text (three at Oxford, one at Cambridge) itemized in the Ecloga. As in his later patristic work James collated each manuscript in its entirety rather than simply scanning for controversial passages or areas of obvious error. He listed the readings of the printed text which disagreed with his manuscripts and provided variant readings and the number of manuscripts in which each reading occurred. He also identified his manuscripts by location. He arrived at the following conclusions. He had found thirty-eight passages in which all his manuscripts agreed on a reading which differed from that of the printed text. These were to be corrected. He found a further thirty-eight passages in which three of his manuscripts agreed on a reading different from that of the printed text. These were highly suspect passages, and were also to be corrected from the manuscripts. He found sixty-two passages where two of his manuscripts agreed on a variant reading: suspicions were raised, but no emendation was to be made. He found a further fifty-one passages where only one of his manuscripts provided a variant. These were ‘lightly suspected’, and similarly would not be emended.45 His sole purpose was to establish an authoritative text; the printed text, he said, was corrupt either through additions, omissions, or printer error.46

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Despite its sober philological character James firmly positioned the Ecloga within the context of the paper war which raged between Catholic and Protestant scholars over the sources of church doctrine. In his vitriolic dedication to the Anglican hierarchy, heavily larded with antipopery, James presented the Ecloga as a gateway for Protestant scholars to an untainted manuscript tradition of patristic texts. The texts inventoried in the Ecloga would furnish ammunition against Catholic charges of gross Protestant corruption of their manuscripts for doctrinal purposes and criticisms of the philological inferiority of Protestant manuscripts. James provided a patchwork citation of scurrilous passages from Roman Catholic pens to illustrate the nature of the charges: ‘Forgery is the natural role of heretics’ (Baronio); ‘they are easy and habitual liars and gross forgers’ (Bellarmine); ‘they deserve death’ (Baronio); ‘they swallow lies for truth’ (Bellarmine); ‘they do not represent the Catholic argument in good faith’ (Baronio); ‘the books of the Jews and the Turks are in better condition than those of the heretics’ (Bellarmine); and so on. The case, James argued, was quite the opposite. The Catholic side had blatantly falsified their manuscripts and in fact papist manuscripts were in far worse state than those in Protestant libraries. Even worse, the papists did not limit themselves to expunging readings and providing false emendations in printed editions, but had also burned manuscripts which provided true readings contrary to their purpose.47 James was convinced that reformed doctrines would be confirmed by authentic texts. The way forward, therefore, was to set about the business of establishing the true record of the Christian church. James was not alone in this view. Charges of corruption and falsification of the textual record had long constituted part and parcel of the controversial literature of the sixteenth century.48 In response to Harding’s attack on his ‘Challenge’ sermon Jewel had noted that Harding adduced a good number of passages taken from ‘Authorities of Scriptures, Councils, and Doctors, both Greek, and Latin, and many ancient. . . . The places are noted: the words are clear . . . and, as it is supposed, all the world is not able to answer it’.49 Yet, Jewel maintained, Harding had achieved all of this only by distorting and twisting his sources. Of the ‘ancient Fathers’ cited by Harding, Jewel argued, some were ‘counterfeited: some untruly alleged: some corruptly translated: some perversely expounded: some inaptly, and guilefully applied: their words sometimes abridged: sometimes enlarged: sometimes altered: sometimes dissembled’.50 The example of Thomas Bilson was likely of far greater importance for James. Bilson had argued that it was the reformed English church,

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not the church of Rome, which was ‘wholly and truly Catholic’ according to the commands of Scripture and as ‘the ancient fathers expressly witness’. Bilson further claimed that certain passages in the Fathers, the False Decretals, bulls asserting Roman pre-eminence in the medieval church, and scores of other texts adduced by the papists were all counterfeit: ‘Sirs, the more you forge, the less you gain’.51 Well after retiring as Bodley’s librarian James would testify that it was Bilson’s scholarship that had first led him to the systematic study of manuscripts. James described how Bilson’s suggestion that printed editions of Augustine offered a corrupt reading of a passage bearing on the contentious issue of apostolic tradition triggered a realization of the value of manuscripts in providing witness to the traditions of the church. Though the force of Bilson’s argument is not in fact dependent on the differences between infinitive and subjunctive forms of a single verb, nonetheless when James found that manuscripts in the New College library supported Bilson’s suggested emendation this discovery ‘drew my studies to the contemplation of the MSS, and made me take a wearisome journey to Cambridge, and elsewhere, to compile my Ecloga’.52 The fires of controversy over papist falsification continued to burn brightly in the first decade of the seventeenth century. To a certain extent there was some justification for the preoccupation with forgery and falsification. Using the tools of textual criticism, early modern scholars were slowly discovering the abundance of late antique classical and patristic apocrypha. They were well aware that ancient authors as diverse as Galen and Augustine had been forced to pen auto-bibliographies for the express purpose of authenticating their corpus in the face of widespread circulation of false texts in their own lifetimes. The endemic nature of medieval forgery had also become apparent. In addition, fresh forgeries continued to pass onto the academic marketplace; one of the greatest patristic scholars of the sixteenth century, Erasmus, forged a treatise on martyrdom which he attributed to Cyprian.53 All of this was real and not imagined. The mental leap from forgery to falsification was but a small step within the charged confessional atmosphere of the period. Armed with evidence of present-day Catholic suppression and altering of texts from the Index librorum prohibitorum and the Index expurgatorius and further justified by notorious medieval forgeries such as the Donation of Constantine and the False Decretals, Protestant polemicists imagined centuries of papist textual meddling.54 As we’ve seen through James, Catholic scholars returned fire with fire. They saw in the church’s long battle against heresy – from Arianism to the

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Albigensians to Lutherans and Calvinists – a justifiable campaign against the falsification of church texts by heretics. A brief sampling of contemporary English charges of papist forgery conveys something of a sense of the world of smoke and mirrors inhabited by James. In 1604 the Cambridge divine William Perkins put it rather bluntly: it was impossible, he wrote, for any papal theologian to prove that the modern Roman faith corresponded to the authentic Catholic church through recourse to genuine texts of the councils and the Fathers construed according to their true meaning.55 Perkins’s argument was grounded in the assumption that papist claims to the contrary could only be the product of reliance upon forged or deliberately corrupted texts or by twisting the meaning of patristic authors and conciliar acts. As proof, Perkins provided a long catalogue of forged or partially corrupted texts. He even pressed James himself into service, drawing on James’s collation of Cyprian in the Ecloga.56 Perkins’s student William Crashawe similarly sought to expose papist textual corruption. Like James, Crashawe was convinced that the corruption of ecclesiastical authors was a deliberate papist policy orchestrated directly from Rome. Crashawe, preacher to the Inner and Middle Temples, put his ‘case’ thus: My accusation against the Romish Church is that they have razed the records, and falsified the monuments of men’s writings, altering the books of learned men after they are dead, adding and taking out at their pleasures: and namely, taking out such words, sentences, and whole discourses, as make against them, and adding the contrary, even whatsoever they can imagine to make for them: so that the crime is no less than corruption and forgery in the highest degree.57

The proof of the pudding for Crashawe was to be found in the Index expurgatorius, the ‘deformed monster’ whose purpose was ‘to corrupt the writings, and raze the records of the world, to make all authors become the Pope’s Proctors’.58 Furthermore, it was not just recent authors who were censored and purged, but much of the textual record of the church had been subject to outright falsification. Should his readers require further evidence, Crashawe steered them in the direction of James’s Ecloga: ‘An industrious writer of this age, and this our Church, (whose labours in the judgement of the learned tend to the best purposes, and such a one as Possevine the Jesuit would be glad to have a Papist) hath given them a sensible taste of this already’.59 Crashawe documented Roman Catholic censorship of the Commentary to Matthew and John of the moderate German Franciscan Johann Wild,

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or Ferus (1495–1554). After his death, Ferus’s writings had been placed on the Index; the affair had caused a controversy within the Roman church when the otherwise blameless Miguel de Medina was imprisoned for defending Ferus’ orthodoxy. In a display of bibliographical pyrotechnics Crashawe inspected no fewer than nine editions of the work from six separate publishing centres: three editions from Paris, two from Antwerp, and one each from Lyon, Louvain, Mainz, and Rome. He published the results of his collation of the Antwerp edition of 1556 (which he held up as the ‘true copy’ of the work) against the Roman edition of 1577 (the ‘false’ version). Line by line, Crashawe detailed the additions and omissions of the 1577 text, showing where censors had introduced changes to bring the text into line with ‘papist’ doctrine. Crashawe continued his tirade against Roman censorship of modern authors in his unpublished A Discoverye of Popishe Corruption; he offered to expose ‘5000 places corrupted . . . in the authors that wrote within these 200 years’.60 Much like James, Crashawe sought to salvage what remained of the uncorrupted textual tradition of the church. To this end he amassed a personal library which by 1615 would contain at least 200 manuscripts and some 4,000 printed books, a vast number for a private collector of modest means.61 In 1611 he published a miscellany of medieval devotional prayers from his library, seeking to demonstrate that Protestant teachings had existed in popular form well before the Reformation.62 He later consulted James himself concerning the publication of a projected anthology of 23 medieval and post-medieval anti-papal texts from his collection.63 James’s accusations of papist forgery in the Ecloga did not go unnoticed in the Catholic world. Recognizing the potential international audience for the work, James’s printer John Norton advertised the Ecloga at the Frankfurt book fair, one of only three English imprints to appear in the Autumn catalogue of 1600.64 The salvoes launched by James were met with return fire from two Jesuit stalwarts of Catholic controversial theology, Antonio Possevino and Jakob Gretser. By far the most visible response came from Possevino. In his Apparatus sacer of 1606 Possevino reprinted James’s chronological table of the more than 250 authors itemized in the Ecloga, thus placing these English manuscripts alongside those from the great continental collections at Rome, Florence and Munich. Needless to say, Possevino also attacked James’s anti-papist fulminations.65 Such an attack from one of the most prominent antiProtestant polemicists of his generation gave James a notoriety he had

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not hitherto enjoyed. Upon the arrival of the Apparatus in London in 1606, James was so eager to read it that Bodley sent it up to Oxford unbound.66 Gretser’s attack on the Ecloga vividly illustrates the world of religious polemic which encircled James. Gretser was at the forefront of a new wave of Catholic polemical scholarship following in the wake of the controversial tradition established by Bellarmine. Gretser oversaw the publication and dissemination of Bellarmine’s work in northern Europe and routinely responded to Bellarmine’s Protestant critics. In 1603 he took issue with James in a treatise defending the suppression and expurgation of texts. Though Gretser did his level best to portray James as a mad Calvinist, he nonetheless met James’s criticisms head on. In particular, he took issue with James’s charge that Catholic censors had placed authors such as Augustine, Cyprian, Chrysostom, or Cyril on the Index librorum prohibitorum and the Index expurgatorius. ‘Calmly, Calvinist, calmly’, Gretser counselled, countering that it was the misleading glosses, rubbish, lies and abuses of the heretics that were being censored, not the fathers themselves. Nor was Gretser to be outdone by James’s unfurling of Cyprian manuscripts collated at Oxford and Cambridge. Gretser, himself a prodigious editor of patristic and medieval authors, possessed an intimate knowledge of German collections. He consequently wheeled out his own manuscript – a codex perantiquus – from the ducal library at Munich to bolster the reading of a passage in Cyprian supporting Roman dominance in the early church disputed by James. Gretser rested his case with confidence: ‘truly have I dispatched the absurdities of this Calvinist’.67 James was urged to respond to such charges by Bodley, who advised him that ‘your cause is good . . . and so is your will, I am sure, and likewise your means, by reason of your library’.68

The Church Fathers and Jacobean Erudition

Gretser’s attack on Thomas James came in 1603, the same year that James VI of Scotland ascended to the English throne. While the visit of the new king to Oxford in 1605 has attained a certain notoriety, the impact of the new intellectual climate of King James’s reign upon the Bodleian, its founder, and its librarian has been little explored.69 In

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the first years of his reign the new James I of England initially sought a rapprochement with the Roman Catholic world, a policy which held little appeal for many within the English church. Yet after the Gunpowder Plot of 1605 and with the controversy over the Oath of Allegiance the king himself entered into polemical exchange with Catholic critics of English Protestantism. By the end of the first decade of his reign the king was drawing fire from leading continental theologians criticising his conciliar theory, his attack on papal power, and his defence of iure divino kingship. Between 1610 and 1613 Jesuits such as Robert Bellarmine, Jakob Gretser, Francisco Suarez and Martin Becanus mounted a concerted attack on the king’s religious policy and political theory.70 For all concerned – James I and his English apologists together with their Roman Catholic opponents – recourse was routinely made to the writings of the Fathers and the acts of the councils. Not unsurprisingly, within this heated environment concerns of textual corruption and falsification mounted steadily. It is within this new political setting that we can place James’s grand plan to collate the Latin Fathers. In an undated broadsheet likely intended to summon financial support for the project, his Humble Supplication . . . for reformation of the ancient Fathers Workes, James returned to some of the themes visited in his Ecloga of 1600. Premised on the notion that Catholic editions of the Fathers and councils had been ‘manifoldly corrupted and depraved . . . to the maintenance of Popery and superstition’, James proposed a six-strong team of students of Divinity who would work (four or five hours a day, six days a week) with the most recent Catholic and Protestant editions of a given text. The team would hunt down as many manuscript copies of each text as they could find. The variant readings would be copied into a clean notebook; once completed, this ‘index’ of variant readings would be published, ‘to show the corruptions of the printed copies of either Papists or Protestant editions, which have been very lamentably abused in this kind by too much trusting of the Papists’.71 While as we will see plans for the project – with the full participation of Bodley – were afoot already by 1605, the collation would only begin in 1610, when with the financial support of Bancroft and the church hierarchy James oversaw a group of not six but twelve scholars working in the Bodleian library. James was by no means alone in looking to collaborative scholarship as the basis for advancement of the English Protestant cause in these years. As early as 1604 Richard Field, chaplain to James I, issued a call for official sponsorship of religious learning. Like James and others

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Field was acutely aware that the Protestant side lagged far behind the Catholics in the domain of organized ecclesiastical scholarship. Field could not help but detect papist trickery at work even here: In our times, they of the Romish faction by fair promises, and sweet and sugared words, draw unto them the choicest wits they find amongst us, they observe wherein each man is most likely to excel, and employ him accordingly, some in writing, some in reading, some in preaching, some in disputing, they have some for school divinity, some for positive, some for the study of the Fathers and courses of antiquity.72

Catholic predominance in patristic studies and church history was therefore considered part of the wider papist campaign against Protestantism: Protestant scholars were wooed to the Catholic side through preferment and patronage. ‘But with us all these things are neglected’, Field lamented, even further contributing to the ‘evil cause’. Preaching before the king, Field appealed directly for patronage of scholarship in England. He had no doubts that should ‘helps and encouragements’ be provided, ‘this national Church will yield men more than matchable with the greatest of the adverse faction’.73 James no doubt modelled his proposal for collating the fathers upon the scriptural translation project which eventually produced the Authorised Version.74 The two initiatives were similarly motivated. The King James Bible was itself the result of a suggestion made by John Rainolds at the Hampton Court Conference of 1604, where Rainolds had argued that existing translations were ‘corrupt and not answerable to the truth of the Original’.75 Rainolds’s own brother, the Jesuit William Rainolds, had already been involved in the English Catholic translation of the New Testament printed at Douai in 1582.76 In the case of the Authorized Version, around four dozen translators, working in six groups at Oxford, Cambridge and Westminster, began work around 1605. Oxford scholars included Rainolds (who died in 1607) with the team working on the Old Testament (Oxford had been assigned Isaiah to Malachi) and Henry Savile and George Abbot with the New Testament group (Gospels, Acts and Revelation). Thomas James had himself been invited to join the Oxford team, no doubt at Rainolds’s behest. His appointment, however, was blocked by Bodley, worried that the translation project would steal precious time away from James’s library duties.77 The translation was overseen from London by Archbishop Bancroft, later the eventual sponsor of James’s patristic enterprise. The entire translation was reviewed by Thomas Bilson, who saw the text

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through the press for its first 1611 edition. The result was a text expressive of the historical consciousness of the contemporary English church, rich in archaisms and employing a conservative vocabulary already sanctioned by tradition and usage.78 Another institutional initiative of the period further illuminates the general environment in which James’s patristic interests matured. Chelsea College, founded for the purpose of producing anti-papal polemic on a grand scale, was sponsored by the king himself.79 The foundation-stone for the new college of controversial divinity was laid by the king in 1609, and the college was incorporated the following year. Like James’s collation project Chelsea College was motivated by an erudite anti-popery with the backing of the church establishment – Archbishop Bancroft headed up support for both initiatives. As one anonymous observer later noted, one of the purposes of the college was to provide a cohesive and co-ordinated front to defend the English church against the perceived Catholic onslaught: ‘it was necessary to unite our forces, and to appoint special men, that without other distraction might attend the cause of religion and the state, being furnished with directions, instructions, counsel, books, presses . . . and other necessaries’.80 One of Chelsea College’s early fellows, Robert Abbot, also worked with James in collating the Fathers; other fellows included Thomas Morton (Dean of Winchester) and the former chaplain to the king Richard Field (by now Dean of Gloucester). The first Provost of the college was William Sutcliffe, who had penned several attacks on Bellarmine – his De vera Christi ecclesia had appeared the same year as James’s Ecloga. Sutcliffe and James were obviously in close contact. When James’s collation project was finally launched in 1610, Sutcliffe may well have imagined the two initiatives combining forces, advising James that ‘those . . . to be employed in this business are to be fully instructed in all points of controversy, that they may make use of their labours’.81 Five years later the two men were still scheming to advance their prospective endeavours.82 From the available evidence – consisting entirely of an exchange between James and Bodley in 1605–1606 of which only Bodley’s letters remain – it is evident that both Bodley and perhaps the king himself were early supporters of the patristic project. It is worth looking closely at this episode, as it sheds considerable light not only on James’s project to collate the Fathers, but also on the status of the Bodleian Library in the early years of Stuart rule. As is well known, King James made an official visit to the Bodleian in August 1605, a visit celebrated in the usual way with speeches and commemorative poems. During the course of the

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visit he made a promise to donate books from the royal collections to the new library. While such a donation would have presented a real coup for the library, it fits well with the established pattern already adopted by Bodley and James of soliciting donations from wealthy collectors. Bodley succeeded in obtaining a warrant for the books from the privy council in November of 1605. The warrant gave him carte blanche in selecting books for the library from the royal collections; Bodley reports that in the warrant the king allowed ‘for the choice of any books that I shall like, in any of his houses or libraries’.83 Bodley doggedly pursued the promised donation over the course of the following year. Despite the king’s enthusiasm for the library at Oxford, the donation was held up for almost a year, until finally blocked in late October 1606 by Peter Young, chief almoner of the Royal household.84 Young may well have had ambitions of his own for the royal collections; a bookish man, he had served as tutor to the young James Stuart in Scotland and his son, Patrick Young, would later become royal librarian. What is clear, however, is that in Bodley’s mind the royal bequest and the patristic collation were of a piece. A letter to Thomas James dated February 25, 1606 reveals the extent of Bodley’s early involvement with the patristic project. He informed James from London that he had repeatedly sought to dine with the Archbishop in order to discuss ‘our collation’ – pun no doubt intended – in order to engage the Archbishop’s support for the project. He further outlined to James his views on how the collation was to be carried out: that it was to be conducted by scholars with a knowledge of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin; that these should be vetted by the university; that each manuscript should be assigned its separate ‘mark and note or cipher’ so that it might be easily identified in the collation; and (shrewdly) that all the manuscripts collated should be available in the Bodleian, so ‘that every man may come and see, with what sincerity we have dealt in all our collations, and take a sight of our copies in one self place’.85 The first order of business therefore, Bodley explained, was to gather together all the manuscripts. The royal books at Whitehall, of which, in Bodley’s view, ‘it cannot be otherwise . . . but that the greater part of them should be of divinity and, as I should imagine, of the Fathers’,86 were to be the centrepiece of the entire project. Once they had the royal manuscripts, work would begin; Bodley did ‘not intend to lose any time from going in hand with what we have projected’. Furthermore, Bodley calculated that the patristic project could itself be used as leverage to hasten the royal gift: There are besides other points of moment to be thought on, which when I have perused these books of his Highness I will propose and conclude with all the

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speed I may. For one thing you must think on, that if the king should delay the having away of his books, after once I shall have taken their view, and delivered him a catalogue, of those that I have chosen, the pretence which I must make of undertaking speedily the Collation of the fathers, must be the motive which I will use to get my dispatch.87

When it finally became clear that the Bodleian would receive no books whatsoever from the royal collections, Bodley informed James that without ‘the gift of his [the king’s] manuscripts, I doubt I shall not undertake that Collation of the Fathers’. It was likely Bodley’s withdrawal of his support for the patristic project following the collapse of the royal gift which stalled the collation for over three years. Whether the patristic project held the same allure for the king as it did for Bodley and Thomas James is unknown. Nonetheless the entire episode provides a valuable glimpse of the prevailing sense of the library’s purpose in these years. The scale of the royal bequest would seem to indicate that the king viewed the Bodleian as much more than an Oxford library. That is, he seems to have considered it an institution that was public in a way the royal collection simply was not. Did the king regard the Bodleian as a quasi-national library? If not, why contemplate the removal of so many royal books to Oxford? Bodley’s argument that the books collated should be made permanently available for consultation in the Bodleian suggests that he himself thought of the library as ‘public’ in this way. That is, it was public not only in the sense that it was open to all Oxford graduates and (with some restrictions) members of the wider community of scholars, but also in the sense that it served the public purpose. Bodley’s comments tacitly place the Bodleian in the same category as the major continental repositories of manuscripts at Paris, Rome, Madrid, Munich and Vienna. We should not imagine Bodley to have been deluded in his views; the Bodleian library was indeed among a handful of libraries which contributed to the stabilization of manuscript collections in the early modern period.88 For both Thomas James and Bodley, the public library at Oxford seemed the natural location for what would have been a remarkable concentration of resources: a grand scholarly project based on royal manuscripts with the patronage of king and archbishop. The ability of the Bodleian to secure copyright deposit from the Stationers’ Company in 1610 can also be viewed in this light. It was this sense of national purpose in which the interests of church and state were seen to converge that united the otherwise disparate viewpoints of the scholar-king, the worldly founder, and the librarian-cum-theologian. The sharp shift in the religious and political climate in 1609–10 which drew both the king and the English church into a voluminous paper war

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with continental Catholic scholars no doubt accounts for the resurgence of interest in James’s patristic project. In 1610 James finally received funding for his grand enterprise, with the direct involvement of Archbishop Bancroft and the Vice-Chancellor of the university. He was able to employ twelve scholars to collate the Latin Fathers, in the first instance Cyprian, Ambrose, and Gregory. The project vividly demonstrates the method and scope of James’s textual scholarship and it further illuminates the sharp confessional purpose which underwrote many of his undertakings. It also reveals the extent to which James engaged with the Catholic world at the level of scholarly practice and institutional initiative. By 1610, Thomas James, Bancroft, and perhaps still Bodley himself viewed the Bodleian as the natural home for a philological project bearing on the early history of Christianity in defence of the English church against its Catholic opponents. In addition to Bancroft, James’s project derived financial support from a broad range of the Anglican hierarchy. While the exact nature of the funding for the collation is unclear, from the extant letters addressed to James it is evident that funds were provided by the Bishops of London (John King), Durham (William James), and York (Tobias Matthew), and probably from the Bishop of Salisbury (Robert Abbot) as well.89 There were likely many additional backers; James also received funds, for example, from Sir Arthur Throckmorton, a member of the Gloucestershire gentry, and from the religious controversialist and fellow of Chelsea College Thomas Morton.90 Perhaps representative of a wider pattern of patronage, Bilson promised to match the contributions of the other bishops.91 Such high-level support for James’s patristic project underscores the increasing importance of the Fathers to Anglican theology and ecclesiology in this period. Though losing none of the confessional edge of the earlier generation, patristic interests for the first time in England surfaced in textual scholarship, which had long remained a continental prerogative. In the years James and his team collated the Latin Fathers, another Oxford scholar, Henry Savile, published his edition of the Greek text of Chrysostom.92 The work James carried out has been well studied by Neil Ker.93 In 1610–11, James and the young scholars under him collated the 1589–91 Rome edition of Gregory, the 1607 Paris edition of Cyprian, and the 1603 Paris edition of Ambrose. James’s schedule was punishing. Though Bodley supported the project James was not relieved of any of his library duties. He thus devoted four hours a day to collating the Fathers and six to attending to readers in the library.94 Studying both the manuscripts James collated and, in the case of Gregory and Ambrose, the printed editions in

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which variants were recorded, Ker has shown that James stuck closely to the program lucidly expounded in the Humble Supplication. There, James had stated that from the collected manuscripts four of the ‘most ancient and approved books’ were to be chosen, each of which would be compared with the printed text. Variant readings were to be noted in the margins of one of the printed editions. In the case of passages of acute doctrinal importance, every known manuscript was to be copied, ‘though they be never so many’. Echoing Bodley’s earlier call for the public availability of the collated manuscripts, James stated that the manuscripts used in the collation were to be preserved in college or cathedral libraries or in the two university libraries ‘so that if any Papist shall question the readings thereof he may see the copies whether it be so or no’.95 James accordingly assigned each of his four manuscripts an identifying letter, recorded at the head of each text in the printed edition and in the body of the manuscript text. Variants were recorded in the margin of the printed text, with the source for each reading indicated by letter. The whole thing was recopied into a clean notebook, with the location of each manuscript noted in both the printed text and the notebook. From the point of view of early modern textual scholarship the important feature of James’s patristic studies is his collation of each manuscript in its entirety. While this practice had been adopted sporadically in the sixteenth century, it was by no means standard technique.96 In usual practice only passages in egregious error were corrected, sometimes with manuscript evidence adduced. The proof of James’s practice stands in the annotated copies of Cyprian and Ambrose studied by Ker and the lists of variant readings published by James as he harvested the fruit of the collating project well into the 1620s. Of equal value for its clear exposition of the practice followed in the collation project is one of the early reports on the endeavour, the Treatise of the Corruption of Scripture. In part five of that work, ‘A Remedie against all manner of Popish Corruptions’, James set down the principles of textual scholarship for patristic texts. He first delineated the ways by which texts had come to be corrupted. Their sorry state was due primarily to the ignorance, negligence, or outright falsification of the medieval scribes who had copied such works. Printers had then compounded these errors by failing to consult the best manuscripts, a situation only worsened by errors of compositors and correctors alike, again either due to negligence or ‘of set purpose’. Lastly, there was outright Catholic falsification of patristic texts for doctrinal purposes.97 Polemic apart, the Treatise is nothing short of a manifesto of state-ofthe-art textual criticism.98 It sets out at greater length and in more detail

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the principles James had already articulated in his Ecloga of 1600. Addressing the manuscripts, James suggested that those written ‘in the Lombard or Saxon letter’ or those without points and abbreviations were normally the oldest. The entire text was to be collated, and not simply select passages. All variants were to be recorded, ‘be they good or bad, seem they right or wrong’. Emendations were to be made only after careful consideration. No changes were to be introduced into the text unless supported by manuscript testimony. Where all manuscripts agreed, the reading was to be adopted, even when it differed from a seemingly superior reading supplied by the printed text. Variant readings were to be listed either in the margin or at the end of the text; the role of the collator was to choose the best of them without suppressing the other readings.99 In plain English and without digression, James expounded a complete division of the process of recensio from the art of emendatio. The latter, rarely certain, was entirely dependent upon the careful execution of the former. James issued separately a list of variant readings of Gregory.100 Only a few pages long, its purpose was to show the extent of papal falsification of the text of Gregory’s Pastoralia. Yet more than one close observer of the collation project thought that the readings revealed little more than the superiority of manuscripts over printed texts. James’s most acute critic would appear to have been Bodley himself. Though not an active scholar, Bodley had received excellent training in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin at the Genevan Academy and was familiar with the world of continental scholarship which James lived and breathed. He charged that James should have taken two or three examples of variant readings and shown ‘that some of those corruptions are in points of moment, or in matter of controversy; which is only averred, and not confirmed’. Bodley further pointed out that though James’s collation would no doubt produce a more accurate text, in most instances the sense of the text would likely remain unchanged. Bodley harshly concluded that the collation ‘will hardly be esteemed in the opinion of the learned’, and would ‘not be reputed for any special validity’.101 Even much more sympathetic supporters such as Thomas Morton, who praised James for freeing Gregory ‘from the Romish rust which has eaten into Antiquity’, voiced similar complaints. Morton’s point was that the two editions collated by James, one from the Vatican press in Rome and the other from Protestant Basle, were mostly in accordance. Morton justifiably demanded ‘how then shall we impute wilful corruptions unto the Romanists?’.102 The criticisms of Bodley and Morton reveal the degree to which the world of falsification and forgery James inhabited was in many ways a

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philological fiction. James may well have replied to Morton by arguing, as he did in his broadsheet Supplication, that Protestant editors had themselves been duped by papist forgeries.103 James likely imagined that the conformity of the Basle and Vatican editions could be explained by the reliance of the Basle editors on falsified Catholic editions or manuscripts already corrupted in the Middle Ages. Or, as he in fact argued in the preface to the Bellum Gregorianum, he might have countered that doctrinally innocuous variants simply confirmed his case: ‘no wonder the Roman pontiffs adulterate the writings of others, when they treat even their own writings in such a manner’.104 Convinced that the Index librorum prohibitorum and the Index expurgatorius were but the visible tail of a long tradition of censorship and textual corruption, James assumed that readings which departed from those found in authentic manuscripts could only have been the product of papist policy. Just as was the case of the thirty-eight ‘highly suspect’ passages of Cyprian James itemized in the Ecloga, while the philological value of James’s collation of Gregory, Augustine, and Ambrose is more than evident, it is difficult to see the pattern of doctrinally motivated tampering so obvious to James. Despite his sophisticated understanding of the vagaries of textual transmission, James was simply not equipped to view divergent manuscript traditions as the product of scribal error alone. Or rather, when he did encounter distinct textual traditions, he immediately attributed these to confessional meddling. In James’s intellectual world a stemma codicum had but two branches, one representative of the true church, the other of papist mendacity. James was convinced that English manuscripts would prove philologically superior to printed editions of patristic texts based on continental exemplars. This, indeed, would have been true of almost any manuscript given the vagaries of sixteenth-century editorial practice. But James believed that insular manuscripts, rooted as they were in a purer ecclesiastical tradition, would prove superior to the manuscripts available to Catholic scholars. The entire enterprise was thus ideologically as well as materially dependent upon English libraries and manuscripts. In collating the Fathers James used manuscripts from private collections, from the college and university libraries of Oxford and Cambridge, and from Lambeth Palace. Driven by an acute awareness of continental institutional initiatives, James warned of ‘a dangerous practice in Rome’: In the Vatican Library, there are certain men maintained only to transcribe Acts of the Councils, or copies of the Fathers works. These men . . . imitate the letter of the ancient copies, as near as can be expressed. And it is to be feared, that in

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copying out of books, they do add, and take away, alter and change the words, according to the pleasure of their Lord the Pope. And so these transcripts may within a few years, (by reason of their counterfeiting the ancient hands) be avouched for very old manuscripts; deluding the world with a show of antiquity. The danger is the greater, because there may be an Index Expurgatorius (for aught that we know) for purging the manuscripts, as well as the printed books.105

Was this simply Protestant paranoia? The answer must be yes, but let us briefly view the continental library world through James’s eyes. The refoundation of the Vatican Library by Sixtus V in 1588–9 furnishes the egregious example, with its strikingly decorated reading rooms, its scriptores, and its press. The Escorial Library, prize of the Spanish crown, was another well-publicized collection with serious funding and a serious Counter-Reformation agenda. Descriptions of both institutions were available in print, and the manuscript resources of both libraries were routinely marshalled by Catholic scholars. Perhaps more threatening, because more like the Bodleian, was the Ambrosiana Library founded by Federico Borromeo in Milan in 1607. Borromeo had been an intimate of the Vatican Library, and was involved in both the Clementine revision of the Vulgate and the Editio Romana of the councils of the church, both editorial projects which James watched carefully. What was more, the library was armed with a college of doctores, and the college constitutions published in 1610 mapped out a plan of studies intended to augment the majesty of the Holy Church through the cultivation of studies oriented around scholastic theology, scripture, polemic, and ecclesiastical history. To James, this must have been as a red flag to a bull. There is no doubt that James saw himself on a broad European stage, locked in a battle between scholars, books and libraries over the nature of the true church.

Oxford, Orthodoxy, and Europe

The collation of the Fathers concluded rather unspectacularly towards the end of 1612, its financial resources depleted. Some mourned its passing: Samuel Ward lamented that its completion would ‘much settle men’s minds in the matter of Antiquity’.106 Yet the backers of the project likely felt that the promised return on their investment would never materialize. Even if James had succeeded in publishing his lists of textual

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variants in their entirety – Bodley early on estimated that these would have run to four or five folio volumes107 – the audience for such a work would have been small and few would have found James’s arguments concerning deliberate papist falsification convincing. Nonetheless the patristic project reveals a good deal about the world of books and scholarship of which the Bodleian was part. One of the most striking features of James’s many endeavours is his complex relationship with contemporary Catholic learning. Though attacking the premises and conclusions of Catholic scholars, at every turn James routinely appropriated their findings. On most technical issues of scholarship James and his Catholic opponents in fact had much in common. We’ve already glimpsed this with the use James made in his Ecloga of the Bibliotheca sancta of Sixtus of Sienna. The Bibliotheca was an explicitly anti-Protestant work, and had been dedicated to Pius V (Michele Ghisleri) by Sixtus. Before becoming pope Ghisleri had been head of the Inquisition, overseeing the publication of the notoriously harsh Rome Index of 1559. Sixtus lavishly praised Ghisleri’s efforts in cleansing Catholic authors, particularly the Fathers, whose writings, he charged, had been ‘soiled by the excrement of the heretics of our age, and corrupted by their poisonous remarks’.108 Nonetheless in the Ecloga James used Sixtus in an entirely positive fashion to identify authors and authenticate texts. James’s reliance upon the Bibliotheca sancta is indicative of the degree to which Catholic and Protestant textual critics worked in tandem to purify the textual record of the church. Both sides used identical techniques – study of the manuscripts, the application of linguistic, chronological and doctrinal analysis to determine authenticity – to remarkably similar ends. This congruity was not lost on James and his contemporaries. Indeed, deploying arguments made by one’s opponents was a favoured polemical technique. James’s work as Bodley’s librarian reflects a similarly complex engagement with the Catholic world. Of interest here is James’s use of continental bibliographical scholarship, both Protestant and Catholic. The evidence for this is indirect, but is nonetheless indicative of the general orientation of the Bodleian in its first two decades. It comes in the form of bibliographical works to be found in the two printed Bodleian catalogues of 1605 and 1620 (see appended table). The library was in possession of most of the major works of European bibliographical scholarship of the previous century. One slight surprise is the lack of Gesner’s Bibliotheca universalis in its first, 1545 edition, though the subject index, the 1548 Pandectae, was in the library, as was

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the later 1583 abridged edition of the work. This is likely indicative of the relative scarcity and continued demand for this foundational work more than half a century after it had first appeared. We also see that the library had both Tritheim’s De scriptoribus ecclesiasticis and Bale’s bibliography of British writers. The major Catholic bibliographers are also to be found: Sixtus Senensis, Possevino, Bellarmine. James likely used the latter works for both controversial and more straightforwardly bibliographical purposes. We catch a glimpse of both in his use of Possevino in evaluating the eleventh-century chronicle of Marianus Scotus. James wrote to Ussher that ‘it is too true [as] Possevino observeth, that there are whole pages thrust into Marianus’s works; he saith by heretics: he lieth like a varlet, the cui bono will show us that’.109 One of the most interesting features of the Bodleian’s collection is its large number of indices of prohibited and expurgated books published by Catholic authorities in Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, and Germany. Well over a dozen such works are listed in the 1620 catalogue. The many copies of the Index librorum prohibitorum were likely used as acquisition guides. That is, James appears to have used the Index to the direct inverse of its original purpose: not as a check-list of works to be condemned, but rather as a bibliographical finding tool. Such was the great utility of the Index that in 1627, well after retiring from the library, James published a ‘union catalogue’ of different editions of the Index. James explained that the work would serve as a handbook of Latin and vernacular writers proscribed by Rome. Furnished with such a guide, theology students would be well armed to venture into bookshops to buy the books they required for their studies.110 Yet James’s main purpose was to aid the Bodleian curators in purchasing books for the library. In James’s Index each author was assigned a class number, from first to third. The first class indicated a ‘condemned author, that is, one orthodox and pious in religion’, whose entire corpus of works had been placed on the index. Those in the second class were Catholic authors whose works had been proscribed or expurgated. In the third class were anonymous texts. Those works which the Bodleian already possessed were indicated with an asterisk. In essence James’s Index thus furnished an elaborate want-list for the library. James described its purpose to Ussher in 1625 as ‘chiefly for the use of our public library, that we may know what books, and what editions to buy; their prohibition being a good direction to guide us therein’.111 Others no doubt used James’s Index in precisely this fashion – the late-seventeenth-century librarian of Lambeth Palace, Paul Colomiès, owned a copy of the work.112

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The copies of the Index expurgatorius served a different purpose. As we have seen, James continually fulminated against popish censorship. The Index expurgatorius not only confirmed James’s view of Catholic textual corruption but also provided the means for detecting papist tampering. In order for censorship to be effective in the case of books already in circulation, in the Index expurgatorius Catholic censors printed those passages which were to be expunged by the vendors or owners of a particular book. These excerpts, frequently lengthy, provided James with a ready-made check-list of passages likely to have been deleted from printed editions of many texts. The Index expurgatorius, then, furnished a useful tool for countering a nefarious Catholic practice. James also appears to have used the Index expurgatorius as a kind of anthology when he did not have direct access to a copy of the complete text of a particular work. His Manuduction unto Divinity, which sought in part to prove the fallacy of Catholic teaching from the sources of Catholic doctrine itself, frequently adduces evidence from the Index expurgatorius.113 It is also clear that he used the work as a tool for avoiding expurgated texts.114 This was likely the rationale for James’s own projected edition – which he may well have taken over from Rainolds – of an Index expurgatorius: to provide Protestants with a detailed guide to authors falsified by Catholic censors.115 The well-stocked arsenal of continental Protestant scholarship in the Bodleian is ample evidence of the use made of the Index. This aspect of the library is not surprising, though the depths of the Bodleian’s holdings of early continental Protestant imprints remain to be plumbed. What we will consider here, however, are Bodleian imprints from presses in Catholic lands. The printed catalogues of 1605 and 1620 provide a rather distinct set of snapshots of the priorities of the library in its early formation. Amidst a library of some 5,600 volumes by 1605 and in light of its rather global purchase policy, any attempt to evaluate the collection in such qualitative terms remains fraught with difficulty. What is clear, however, is the degree to which the library was furnished with works of traditional patristic and medieval authors and contemporary Catholic learning. In theology, Catholic scholarship is present in editions of the Fathers and the councils, of scholastic and neo-scholastic texts, and of modern theological works. In 1605 the Bodleian had the 1579 edition (in eight volumes, with three volumes of appendices) of the corpus of writings of the lesser Fathers produced in Paris by Marguerin de la Bigne, the Bibliotheca patrum. By 1620, the library also possessed the second Paris

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edition of 1589 (in nine volumes), the Paris version of 1609 (eight volumes) and the masterful Cologne 1618 edition, largely the work of an international team of Jesuit scholars, organized on chronological principles. Individual editions of many Fathers from both Protestant and Catholic presses were also in the library. Jerome’s works were present in the nine-volume Basle editions of both 1516 and 1526 prepared by Erasmus, as well as the Antwerp edition, also in nine volumes, of 1579. In the case of Augustine, the library held no fewer than four editions of his Opera, in nine or ten volumes each: Basle 1521 and 1569, Antwerp 1577, and Paris 1586. Other, slightly less authoritative ‘Fathers’ were also present, such as Bonaventure in the Rome 1588 edition (seven volumes). More obscure works of Catholic patristic scholarship were in the Bodleian as well: the 1605 (sic, for 1601?) Brescia volume of Epistolae SS Patrum per locos communes, in five volumes, of Juan Lopez; the 1560 Paris anthology of Liturgiae SS Patrum Graecorum, and the 1571 Cologne edition of Liturgica Latinorum (two volumes). The library also had the 1585 Venice edition of the Church Councils (five volumes), and the 1604 Ingolstadt edition of the Council of Constance. Modern Catholic theology was no less present: not only controversial or contentious writers such as Bellarmine (seventeen titles in the 1620 catalogue, including the four-volume Ingolstadt 1601 edition of his Opera) or Baronio (twelve titles, including the Annales), but others such as Melchior Cano and Cornelius Vacarius (Rhetorica ecclesiastica, Cologne 1575), who only with considerable effort could have been made to serve controversial ends. Scholastic theology is present in both early editions of the central scholastic authors and recent works of commentary representative of the second scholastic. The library’s extensive collection of scriptural commentary illustrates these tendencies well. In Genesis alone, for example, the library possessed not only the standard reformed (Melanchthon, Luther, Calvin, Musculus and Peter Martyr) and patristic (Augustine, Jerome, Origen, Theodoretus) commentaries, but also medieval (Procopius, Bede, Hugh of St Victor, the Glossa ordinaria in the new Lyon 1589 edition, six volumes), scholastic (Alfonso Tostado) and neoscholastic (the Jesuit Pererius) commentators as well. The library also had an extensive collection of texts and commentaries in Canon law. While a good many of these texts could be put to controversial purpose, this was surely not their sole use for Bodleian readers. At Oxford, the Bodleian was by no means exceptional in such informed engagement with continental Catholic scholarship.116 Evidence from Oxford college libraries in the last quarter of the sixteenth century reveals

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that the Bodleian’s continental collection was not an isolated phenomenon. Even in the 1550s, the Fathers had continued to provide the backbone of the theological collections of many libraries, and from evidence supplied by Ker, it would appear that collections of the Fathers in college libraries remained almost constant at Oxford across the great confessional sea-changes of mid-century.117 Interest in traditional ecclesiastical learning nonetheless intensified with the Elizabethan settlement. University College purchased the 1569 Basle edition of Augustine in 1586; Magdalen bought the nine volumes of the Bibliotheca patrum around the same time. In addition to such outright purchases, many college libraries received frequent bequests of patristic works. Scholastic theology and philosophy was also experiencing a revival. Magdalen purchased the twelve-volume 1593 edition of Aquinas in 1595, as did Merton a year later. Both colleges also bought the 1596 Venice edition of the biblical commentaries of Alfonso Tostado; John Rainolds gave a copy of the same work to Queen’s in 1597. Though the bequest of a wealthy recusant, Sir Thomas Tresham, the books acquired by St John’s in 1598 and the years following were by no means out of synch with what was purchased elsewhere at Oxford. Tresham donated a good collection of the Fathers, including but by no means limited to the Bibliotheca patrum; medieval authors such as Bede as well as scholastic authors such as Aquinas and Tostado; and modern Catholic authors such as Suarez and Baronius. These features of use and engagement with continental Catholic scholarship repeat themselves in outline elsewhere in Britain. Possevino illustrates these tendencies well. Both his Apparatus sacer and his Bibliotheca selecta of 1593 – a bibliographical encyclopedia of doctrinally approved learning – enjoyed a broad English readership. Luigi Balsamo has examined no fewer than 114 copies of Possevino’s Bibliotheca selecta in British libraries. Many of these belonged to some of the great private and institutional collections of the late Elizabethan and early Stuart period: Lumley, archbishops Whitgift and Bancroft, the University of St Andrews. Indeed King James had his copy sumptuously bound. Many copies no doubt once belonged to some of the leading controversialists of the day; St John’s College, Cambridge, now holds the copy of the Bibliotheca selecta owned by Thomas Morton, the supporter (and critic) of James’s patristic project encountered earlier. Nonetheless, Oxford would seem to have been particularly drawn to Possevino. Of the copies located by Balsamo, nearly half are to be found at Oxford; of these, somewhat less than a third are in the Bodleian.118

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No fewer than twenty-five copies of various sixteenth-century editions of the Index librorum prohibitorum and Index expurgatorius still remain in seven Cambridge colleges. Christ’s College alone holds eleven different editions of the Index of prohibited books, and two copies of the 1599 Strasbourg Index Expurgatorius.119 In English cathedrals, thirty-eight copies of twenty-three sixteenth- and seventeenth-century editions of the same two works still exist in fourteen libraries.120 No doubt many more copies have exited both college and cathedral collections. The library of Richard Bancroft, the principal supporter of James’s patristic project, contained a good number of Catholic volumes. His successor George Abbot had a not dissimilar collection. The combined collections which arose at Lambeth Palace in the first half of the seventeenth century contained some 1,084 volumes of Catholic theology and controversy out of a library of over 9,000 volumes, a figure which does not include editions of patristic and medieval authors issued by Catholic presses.121 In the libraries of English bishops in the period 1600–1640, similar patterns are evident. Many of the bishops were educated in the Oxford of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Their libraries included not only the major continental reformers, but also the Fathers and good collections of Roman liturgical texts. As at the Bodleian, the bishops’ libraries held many medieval devotional writers and contemporary Catholic authors.122 All of this provides ample evidence that the Bodleian was by no means exceptional in the orientation of its holdings. On the contrary, the amassing of an abundance of Catholic scholarship in the Bodleian in its first decades reflected activities elsewhere in Britain. As at the Bodleian, the main purpose of this corpus of works was to stoke the fires of controversy. Already in 1597, the Bishop of Durham had recommended to Archbishop Whitgift that Catholic controversial literature should be met with a coordinated response from ‘the Universities, Cathedral Sees, and Churches (together with other learned men at large)’, as quickly as possible. He even suggested that the sale of ‘popish books’ should be forbidden until a response had been printed.123 Yet as we have already seen, ‘popish books’ were used positively as well as polemically. In the extensive bibliography supplied by Simon Birckbek in his Protestants evidence taken out of good records, a late work of erudite anti-popery, Baronio, Bellarmine, Possevino and other works of Catholic controversial literature, including no fewer than nine editions of the Index expurgatorius, are all carefully itemized. While attacking the popish church Birckbek repeatedly ransacked these works to bolster his own argument

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that the doctrines of the Church of England had been openly taught and visibly upheld since the beginnings of Christianity. He drew upon a host of sources, Protestant and Catholic, English and continental. Among his English sources are many works by James himself. In compiling his catalogue he travelled ‘as far as Oxford, there to visit those famous private and public libraries, where I became an eyewitness of diverse parcels of Evidence, whereof I made use in this Treatise’.124 The Bodleian must surely have provided the greatest trove of materials by far, and it was perhaps there that Birckbek encountered many of the Catholic authors which pepper his treatise. If he made use of James’s hand-written finding aids, he would have found much of his work already done for him.125

James and the Bodleian manuscripts

While the intermingling of manuscripts and printed books on the Bodleian shelves has frequently been remarked upon, the sheer volume of manuscripts acquired by the library in a relatively short period of time has largely passed without comment. By 1605 James had amassed over 500 manuscript volumes; by the time he left the employ of the library in 1620, that number had risen to more than a thousand. The 1605 printed catalogue, for example, itemizes no fewer than 39 manuscript volumes of works attributed to Augustine, and 20 volumes to Gregory. In the 1620 catalogue, the number of anonymous manuscripts alone runs to nine full columns. Though a number were acquired by outright purchase, for the most part manuscripts came into the library by donation. The pattern of donations from wealthy private collectors has been customarily attributed to Bodley’s standing and influence. While there is a good deal of truth in this, acquisitions during the library’s first two decades nonetheless reveal traces of James’s guiding hand. In his suggestive study of patterns of survival of texts from predissolution libraries Neil Ker has noted the predominance of patristic and medieval historical texts which appear in the major collections of the second half of the sixteenth century.126 The Bodleian proved an attractive locus for many such texts from the libraries of the great postReformation collectors. From Sir John Fortescue the library acquired (in 1601–1602) Greek Chrysostom and Basil manuscripts; and from Sir Robert Cotton (1603) manuscripts of works by Origen, Augustine,

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Lactantius, a Latin Gospel in uncial, and texts of the medieval devotional authors Rolewinck and Jacobus de Voragine. Thomas Allen donated (1601–1602) works by Wyclif, Boethius, Lull, and Bede. Walter Cope’s large donation (1601–1602) included texts by Ambrose, Augustine, Cassian, Eusebius, Prosper, Bonaventure, Bede, Aelfric, and Alcuin.127 How was consensus on items to be donated achieved? There is too much of a pattern here for James not to have been involved. And what of the large donations from the cathedral libraries of Exeter (dozens of manuscripts in 1601) and Windsor (over sixty manuscripts in 1612) similarly rich in patristic texts? What advice and encouragements did dean and chapter receive from the author of the Ecloga? In 1620, when disposing of the manuscript copy (in eleven volumes) of his edition of Chrysostom, Henry Savile placed it with the Bodleian.128 Savile had earlier made significant donations to the library, mainly of medieval scientific texts. The choice of the Bodleian, rather than his own college library at Merton (of which he was principal and whose library Savile had refurbished in 1598–99) for the papers of a patristic project so closely identified with Savile himself is significant. Still more striking is the fortune of the manuscripts used in the course of the patristic collation project. Of the fifty-six volumes used by James and his team in collating the Fathers in 1610–12, fully twenty-three already belonged to the Bodleian. That is, over the previous decade James would appear to have purposefully collected manuscripts for the patristic collation project. We have already seen Bodley and James scheming to acquire royal books for the project in 1605 and 1606, so this is not entirely surprising. Furthermore, while many of the manuscripts borrowed from other libraries were returned, at least seventeen remained in the library. These include manuscripts from Salisbury and Lambeth as well as items from Balliol, Merton, and Queen’s colleges previously itemized in the Ecloga.129 This raises the question of the relationship of the Ecloga with the Bodleian. Did it function in part as a finding list for the new university library? By 1600, James was already established as Bodley’s librarian. James himself donated several volumes to the library in 1601, among which can be counted college manuscripts listed in the Ecloga. Other manuscripts from college libraries would surface later in the century – though as we will see there are good reasons for believing that they had been in the library from the beginning. An important clue to this puzzle is furnished by James’s annotated copy of the Ecloga still in the Bodleian. Most of these annotations concern accessions into the library, taking the form of Bodleian

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pressmarks. The annotations are recorded in the detailed alphabetical author index. The Ecloga is not systematically annotated, and by far the bulk of the annotations concern patristic authors: Ambrose, Augustine, Basil, Cyril, Eusebius, Gregory, Jerome, Isidore, Gregory of Nazianzus, and Origen among others. Some authors have only one or two pressmarks added, while Ambrose, Gregory or Jerome are more densely annotated. There is no reason to think that the annotations are related to the collation project of 1610–12; the most heavily annotated author by far is Augustine, not one of the authors collated by James and his team. James appears to have used very early Bodleian pressmarks in annotating the volume. While several reappear in the 1605 printed catalogue, other pressmarks correspond to neither the 1605 nor the 1620 catalogue, and were likely changed as the library rapidly expanded and James reorganized the collection prior to 1605. It is thus unclear from James’s hand-written pressmarks alone whether it is a codex described in the Ecloga that has in fact come into the Bodleian or another copy of the same manuscript. Nonetheless in some instances manuscripts given Bodleian pressmarks by James are clearly materially identical to those in the Ecloga. In other cases it is evident that James recorded the accession of an exemplar quite distinct from any described in his catalogue of Cambridge and Oxford manuscripts. James’s annotations usually run to the formula: ‘Ox. in bib. pub.’ followed by the pressmark. In the case of Aldhelm, for example, the seventh-century Anglo-Saxon Latin poet and ecclesiastical author, in the Ecloga James had documented exemplars of his De laude virginitatis in the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and in the Cope and Lumley collections. Aldhelm had written both prose and verse versions of the text, and James in the Ecloga had specified that all these exemplars were in verse – though the Cope exemplar was in fact a copy of the prose text. Aldhelm was among those manuscripts Cope donated to the library in 1602, the only Bodleian exemplar of the prose version. In the margin of the alphabetical index James records its Bodleian pressmark: ‘prosa. Oxon. in bib. pub. a.11.10’.130 In this case, then, James is recording the accession of the Cope codex described in the Ecloga. This is also the case in other instances – including college manuscripts. At least one of these was recorded among James’s official donations in 1601, as in a collection of Ambrose (MS Bodl. 238) which in the Ecloga James had enumerated as New College 250.131 Most other press-marks assigned by James can be identified with exemplars not enumerated in the Ecloga. This is the case of two collections of Augustine (MS Bodl. 150 and 201) which formed part of

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the donation by the Dean and Chapter of Exeter of 1602.132 The same is true of a manuscript donated by Sir Robert Cotton in 1603 which includes texts by Ambrose and Cyril (MS Bodl. 630).133 Most of the annotations which can be identified with actual Bodleian manuscripts are thus associated with volumes which came into the library between 1601 and 1603: in the case of those we have considered here, in the Cope, James, Exeter, and Cotton donations. Given the date of the donations and the unique series of press-marks used, James likely made his annotations between 1601 and 1605, when new press-marks for several of the volumes were used in the printed catalogue. The annotated Ecloga thus largely documents the accession of donations of particular interest to James himself. James might have reasonably assumed that the Ecloga represented a fair overview of the availability of manuscript texts in England. In that case, it would make perfect sense to employ the Ecloga as a want-list for the Bodleian. In addition to recording donated manuscripts there is at least one instance where James records volumes in other libraries – in this case Ambrose manuscripts at Eton.134 Given the large number of Augustine manuscripts in the Bodleian by 1605 and the very densely annotated entry for Augustine in James’s copy of the Ecloga, at the very least it was used to control the accession of manuscripts into the library.135 But it may well have been used by James as a check-list in soliciting donations in the first place. In any event, James obviously employed the Ecloga rather creatively in the early years of building up the Bodleian manuscript collection. James likely used the Ecloga more creatively still. We should consider here the presence in the Bodleian of many college manuscripts never registered as official donations to the library. The evidence overwhelmingly suggests that James simply stole these volumes. In the case of Merton manuscripts alone, for example, there are two manuscripts of Gregory and no fewer than five of Ambrose now in the Bodleian. These manuscripts do not appear in either the 1605 or 1620 printed catalogues, and nor did James indicate their presence in the library in his annotated copy of the Ecloga. They first surface in library inventories in the 1650s.136 Given their contents, James was surely involved in the removal of these manuscripts from Merton College library. It is probably too much to think of the Ecloga as a shopping list drawn up by James for the express purpose of stocking the Bodleian. But it is more than likely that James appropriated these manuscripts while preparing the Ecloga, later bringing them into the Bodleian. Or he may have

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returned to college libraries once building Bodley’s collection had begun in earnest or once the patristic collation project was underway and selected manuscripts of particular interest. James’s orthodoxy, his firm belief not only in the truth of English reformed doctrine but also in the antiquity and continuity of its teachings and practices led him again and again to develop tools and propose projects to further the interests of the English church. While James was certainly not alone in advocating such views, he would appear to have been alone in his insistence that the response required a thorough knowledge of the holdings of English libraries and the exploitation of their manuscripts. With greater leisure upon retiring as librarian in 1620, James repeatedly attempted to revive his project to collate the Fathers. His efforts intensified in 1625–6, when he published further fruits of the collation project of 1610–12 and appealed again for official backing for the enterprise.137 Yet the political moment had passed: with crown and church pre-occupied with domestic concerns, continental entanglements held little allure. His almost constant frustration with the lack of support for ecclesiastical scholarship in England is caught in a plea to Ussher: If I was in Germany, the estates would defray all charges; cannot our estates supply what is wanting? If every churchman that hath an hundred pounds per annum and upward, will lay down but a shilling for every hundred towards these public works, I will undertake the reprinting of the Fathers, and setting forth of five or six volumes of orthodox writers, comparing of books printed with printed, or written; collating of popish translations in Greek, and generally whosoever shall concern books, or the purity of them.138

James also wished to establish ‘a quasi college’ to print medieval manuscripts censored or purged by Rome. For this James set some twenty or thirty scholars to transcribing texts by Wyclif, William of St-Amour (a thirteenth-century critic of the mendicant friars) and others, all funded out of his own pocket. James attested that he had given himself over ‘to the reading only of manuscripts, and in them I find so many, and so pregnant testimonies either fully for our religion, or against the papists, that it is to be wondered at; religion of papists then, and now, do not agree’. In James’s mind, this project would supplant the struggling Chelsea College.139 James summarized his theological views a few years before he died. The English reformed tradition could be derived from three principal sources: out of traditional Catholic teaching itself; out of the Fathers;

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and out of the manuscripts. He viewed this as ‘a threefold cord, which, in my conjecture, cannot easily be broken’. James argued that his manuscripts ‘are ancient, but not many’ and that ‘they cannot well be excepted against by the common adversary, being written long before Luther, Hus, Wicklife, or Waldo, as the character plainly sheweth’. For the most part using Bodleian manuscripts, those surveyed in the Ecloga, and loans from Ussher and others, James stated that he could, if pressed, provide further manuscript evidence out of Cotton’s library: ‘And if they were not old enough, it would be easy for me to evict the true antiquity of our religion, out of that great treasure of books, amassed together by that judicious Knight, Sir Robert Cotton, the truest Philobiblos of our age in his kind’.140 From sources spanning the entire history of Christianity James marshalled support for reformed doctrines such as the sufficiency of scripture and a married clergy and against Catholic teaching on images, relics, and saints. He provided an elenchus of manuscripts cited and a bibliography of printed works quoted. The result stands very much as a synthesis of the combination of Anglican theology and textual scholarship which characterised James’s career. But it also serves as a marker of the religious and cultural context within which the public library at Oxford and its librarian functioned. From its inception the Bodleian was much more than an Oxford or even a university library. For James and others it played a central role upon both the English and continental religious and political stage. The contemporary observer who viewed the Bodleian Library and Chelsea College alike through lenses heavily tinted with anti-popery was surely not alone in his sentiments: whereas Chelsea College would defend ‘the true Christian, ancient, and apostolic faith’, the Bodleian, whose riches were considered to exceed those of even the Vatican library, served as ‘a very lively fruit of the true religion of Jesus Christ’.141 In a similar vein Francis Mason in his treatise on English bishops asked for divine aid in preserving the Bodleian, ‘that treasury of learning and languages lately erected’, as ‘an armoury for defence of thy Church: and as a quiver full of arrows to shoot at thy enemies; let it flourish and continue for ever, to the advancing of thy gospel, and to the utter overthrow of Antichrist’.142 Yet even with the waning of anti-papism the Bodleian continued to be accorded national significance. This is best glimpsed in the prominence given the library during the interregnum, when many of the ‘improvers’ who sought to reform English learning considered the Bodleian one of the few existing institutions capable of rising to the challenge. When John Dury remarked in his Reformed Librarie-Keeper

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that the Bodleian was ideally suited to further ‘the advancement of learning, if rightly improved and traded withal for the good of scholars at home and abroad’,143 he was unwittingly transposing the views of that earlier ‘reformer’ of the English library, Thomas James. Carleton University Department of History 1125 Colonel By Drive Ottawa ON Canada K1S 5B6

Table 1: Bibliographical Aids and Other Finding Devices in the Bodleian Library, 1605–1620 Bibliography: 1538, Leipzig. Tritheim, Johann. De scriptoribus ecclesiasticis. 1548, Zurich. Gesner, Conrad. Pandectae. 1559, Basle. Bale, John. De scriptoribus maioris Britanniae. 1583, Zurich. Gesner, Conrad. Bibliotheca cum appendice Simleri. 1586, Cologne. Sixtus Senensis. Opera. 1591, Lyon. Senensis, Sixtus. Bibliotheca sancta. 1593, Venice. Possevino, Antonio. Bibliotheca selecta. *1597, Lyon. Flacius, Mathias Illyricus. Catalogus testium veritatis. 1599, Vicenza. Possevino, Antonio. Apparatus ad philosophiam. 1606, Venice. Possevino, Antonio. Apparatus sacer. *1607, Mainz. Andreas, Valerius. Catalogus clarorum Hispaniae scriptorum. *1608, Ingolstadt. Bellarmine, Robert. Recognitio librorum omnium Roberti Bellarmini ab ipso auctore edita. *1608, [Geneva]. Flacius, Mathias Illyricus. Catalogus testium veritatis. *1613, Cologne. Bellarmine, Robert. De scriptoribus ecclesiasticis. Library catalogues: *1595, Augsburg. Hoeschel, David. Catalogus Graecorum codicum qui sunt in bibliotheca reip. Augustanae Vindelicae. *1602, Ingolstadt. Catalogus graecorum manuscriptorum codicum, qui asservantur in inclyta . . . Ducis Bavariae . . . Bibliotheca. Sale catalogues: 1600, Frankfurt. Catalogus universalis pro nundinis Francofurtensibus. *1602, Venice Indice de libri che si trovano nella Libraria de M Damian Zenaro. *1604, Lyon. Catalogus librorum qui reperiuntur Lugduni in aedibus haeredum Gulielmi Ravillii. *s.a.: Catalogus librorum qui apud Cornelium Nicolae venales reperiuntur Index expurgatorius: *Lisbon 1581 *Madrid 1582

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Table 1: Continued *Lyon 1586 *Rome 1601 Salamanca 1601 *Strasbourg 1609 *Hanau 1611 *Madrid 1612 Index librorum prohibitorum: *Louvain 1550 Venice 1581 *Lisbon 1581 *Madrid 1583 *Venice 1597 *Paris 1599 *Hanau 1611 *
present in 1620 catalogue only

REFERENCES 1. I would like to thank Mordechai Feingold, Kristine Haugen, and Jean-Louis Quantin for their comments and criticisms. Research for this article was undertaken with the support of the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. 2. The indispensable works on the early history of the Bodleian are W.D. Macray, Annals of the Bodleian Library,(2nd ed., Oxford, 1890) and Ian Philip, The Bodleian Library in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (Oxford, 1983). Abbreviations: BLR
Bodleian Library Record; HUO 3
James McConica (ed.), The Collegiate University (History of the University of Oxford, Vol. III, Oxford, 1986); ODNB
Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. In quoting from primary sources I have modernized spelling and punctuation; titles remain un-modernized. 3. Mary Clapinson, ‘The Bodleian Library and Its Readers, 1602–1652’, BLR 19/1 (2006), 30–46. 4. John Barnard, ‘Politics, Profits and ?Idealism: John Norton, the Stationers’ Company, and Sir Thomas Bodley’, BLR 17/6 (2002), 385–430; R.A. Beddard, ‘The Official Inauguration of the Bodleian Library on 8 November 1602’, The Library 7th series, 3/3 (2002), 255–83. 5. On James, see Julian Roberts’s article in the ODNB, and the sketch of James’s formation and interests in J.N.L. Myres, ‘Thomas James and the Painted Frieze’, BLR 4 (1952–3), 30–51. G.W. Wheeler edited two very useful collections of letters to James: Letters of Sir Thomas Bodley to Thomas James (Oxford, 1926), and Letters Addressed to Thomas James, first Keeper of Bodley’s Library (Oxford, 1933). On James’s scholarship see N.R. Ker, ‘Thomas James’s Collation of Gregory, Cyprian and Ambrose’, BLR 4

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6.

7. 8.

9. 10.

11.

12.

13. 14. 15. 16.

17.

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(1952–3), 16–30, and two articles by Richard W. Clement, ‘Thomas James’s Ecloga Oxonia-Cantabrigiensis: An Early Printed Union Catalog’, The Journal of Library History 22 (1987), 1–22, and ‘Librarianship and Polemics: The Career of Thomas James (1572–1629)’, Libraries and Culture 26 (1991), 269–82. Thomas James, Catalogus librorum bibliothecae publicae (Oxford, 1605); James, Catalogus universalis librorum in Bibliotheca Bodleiana (Oxford, 1620). See G.W. Wheeler, The Earliest Catalogues of the Bodleian Library (Oxford, 1928); Clapinson, ‘The Bodleian Library and Its Readers’, 39–41. See e.g. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Lat. th.d.25, James’s hand-written finding aid for theology books. Date and place of publication is not given, only the author’s name in abbreviated form, Bodleian press-mark and (occasionally) page numbers. While the index was thus capable of being used independently in leading readers to books, it was likely intended to be employed in conjunction with the printed catalogue. See Philip, Bodleian Library, 27–30; and most recently Barnard, ‘Politics, Profits and ?Idealism’, 399–400. On Bodley himself see W.H. Clennell, ‘Bodley Before the Bodleian’, BLR 17/6 (2002), 371–84; D.J.B. Trim, ‘Sir Thomas Bodley and the International Protestant Cause’, BLR 16/4 (1998), 314–34; and Beddard, ‘The Official Inauguration of the Bodleian Library’, esp. 273–6. The articles by Beddard and Trim very neatly outline Bodley’s formation and confessional orientation. Both Clennell, ‘Bodley Before the Bodleian’, 381 and David Vaisey, ‘The Legacy of Sir Thomas Bodley’, BLR 17, no. 6 (2002), 422, draw attention to the possible influence of Leiden. On the library itself, see Elfriede Hulshoff Pol, ‘The Library’, in Leiden University in the Seventeenth Century: an Exchange of Learning, ed. Th. H. Lunsingh Scheurleer and G.H.M. Posthumus Meyjes (Leiden, 1975), 395–459. Thomas James, An Explanation or Enlarging of the ten Articles in the Supplication of Doctor James, lately exhibited to the Clergy of England (Oxford, 1625), 25; cf. Myres, ‘Thomas James’, 49. James, Explanation, 26; cf. Myres, ‘Thomas James’, 50. See Bilson to James, 2.XI.1610, in Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 14. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Wood D 10, fol. 12v. The volumes included a Hebrew Bible and Thomas Morton’s Apologia Catholica. See Mordechai Feingold’s article on Rainolds in the ODNB; S.L. Greenslade, ‘The Faculty of Theology’, in HUO 3, 332; Jennifer Loach, ‘Reformation Controversies’, in HUO 3, 389 ff. See S.L. Greenslade, The English Reformers and the Fathers of the Church (Oxford, 1960); idem, ‘The Faculty of Theology’, in HUO 3, 321–4; Henry Chadwick, ‘Tradition, Fathers and Councils’, in S. Sykes and J. Booty (eds), The Study of Anglicanism (London, 1988), 91–105; and Jean-Louis Quantin, ‘The Fathers in Seventeenth-Century Anglican Theology’, in Irena Backus (ed.), The Reception of the Church Fathers in the West (Leiden, New York, Cologne, 1997), 987–1008.

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18. Harding, A rejoindre to M. Iewels Replie (Louvain, 1567), f. 170v, quoted in Loach, ‘Reformation Controversies’, in HUO 3, 385–86. For Jewel’s own methods of scholarship, see John E. Booty, John Jewel as Apologist of the Church of England (London, 1963), 104–25. 19. John K. Luoma, ‘Who owns the Fathers? Hooker and Cartwright on the Authority of the Primitive Church’, The Sixteenth Century Journal 8 (1977), 45–59. 20. Thomas Bilson, The perpetual gouernement of Christes Church (London, 1593); see Peter Lake, Anglicans and Puritans? Presbyterianism and English Conformist Thought from Whitgift to Hooker (London, 1988), 93–7. 21. Willet, Synopsis papismi (London, 1600), sig. B3r-v; on Willet see Anthony Milton, Catholic and Reformed: The Roman and Protestant Churches in English Protestant Thought 1600–1640 (Cambridge, 1995), 14–16; and 270 ff. on patristic studies generally. 22. Thomas Draper to James, 7.IV.1613, in Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 32–3; Draper donated several manuscripts to the Bodleian in 1601. 23. I follow here Anthony Milton, Catholic and Reformed, Chapter Six; and Milton, ‘The Church of England, Rome, and the True Church: The Demise of a Jacobean Consensus’, in Kenneth Fincham (ed.), The Early Stuart Church, 1603–1642 (London, 1993), 187–210. 24. Thomas James, An Apologie for John Wickliffe, shewing his conformitie with the now Church of England (Oxford, 1608), 25. See also Thomas James (ed.), Two short treatises, against the orders of the begging friars, compiled by . . . John Wickliffe ([Oxford?],1608). On the fortunes of Wyclif in the reformation, see Margaret Aston, ‘John Wycliffe’s Reformation Reputation’, Past and Present 30 (1965), 23–51; and Anthony Kenny, ‘The Accursed Memory: The Counter-Reformation Reputation of John Wyclif’, in Anthony Kenny (ed.), Wyclif in his Times (Oxford, 1986), 147–68, esp. 167–8 on James. 25. George Abbot, A Treatise of the Perpetuall Visibilitie, and Succession of the True Church in all Ages (London, 1624). 26. Oxford, Queen’s College MS 249 (pagination in James’s hand), 51; see also 77 for ‘A Catalogue of the writers that have testified or reported of our Religion, in the most part of the points controversed with the times wherein they lived . . . ’. 27. Peter Lake, ‘Anti-popery: the Structure of a Prejudice’, in R. Cust and A. Hughes (eds), Conflict in Early Stuart England (London and New York, 1988), 72–106; Milton, Catholic and Reformed, passim; and Milton, ‘A Qualified Intolerance: the Limits and Ambiguities of Early Stuart AntiCatholicism’, in Arthur F. Marotti (ed.), Catholicism and Anti-Catholicism in Early Modern English Texts (London, 1999), 85–115, who cites the relevant earlier literature. 28. See Paul Nelles, ‘The Renaissance Ancient Library Tradition and Christian Antiquity’, in R. de Smet (ed.), Humanists and their Libraries (Brussels, 2002), 151–71. 29. Thomas James, Ecloga Oxonio-Cantabrigiensis (London, 1600). The motto ‘Non quaero quod mihi utile est, sed quod multis’ is adapted from 1

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30.

31. 32.

33.

34.

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Corinthians 10,34. On the Ecloga see Paul Lehmann, Erforschung des Mittelalters (Stuttgart, 1959), i. 307–10; Richard W. Clement, ‘James’s Ecloga’. William Camden to James, two undated letters, in Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 19–20. The correspondence addressed to James is peppered with requests for transcriptions – to which James would appear to have readily acquiesced. James Ussher to James, 23.IV.1608, in Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 59. James, Ecloga, ‘Ep. ded.’, sig. A2r: ‘Aggredior enim post veteres Bostonum, Lelandum, Balaeum, magnos illos Antiquarios opus hocce; aggredior ducente Deo. Rem sane arduam et longe imparem viribus meis, quam ut susciperem, moverunt me rationes multae, vicerunt duae, utilitas rei et necessitas operis’. For an overview of the English bibliographical tradition (and further bibliography) see Richard Sharpe, ‘The English Bibliographical Tradition from Kirkstede to Tanner’, in Charles Burnett and Nicholas Mann (eds), Britannia Latina (London, 2005), 86–128; on Leland see most recently James P. Carley and Pierre Petitmengin, ‘Pre-Conquest Manuscripts from Malmesbury Abbey and John Leland’s Letter to Beatus Rhenanus Concerning a Lost Copy of Tertullian’s Works’, Anglo-Saxon England 33 (2004), 195–223. On the early Elizabethan collectors still useful is C.E. Wright, ‘The Dispersal of the Monastic Libraries and the Beginnings of Anglo-Saxon Studies. Matthew Parker and his Circle: a preliminary study’, in Transactions of the Cambridge Bibliographical Society 1 (1949–53), 208–37; Wright, ‘The Dispersal of the Libraries in the Sixteenth Century’, in Francis Wormald and C.E. Wright (eds), The English Library before 1700. Studies in its History (London, 1958), 148–75. See also the perceptive comments on patterns of survival in N.R. Ker, ‘The Migration of Manuscripts from the English Medieval Libraries’, in Ker, Books, Collectors and Libraries. Studies in the medieval heritage, ed. Andrew G. Watson (London, 1985), 459–69; and a helpful synthesis in J.C.T. Oates, Cambridge University Library. A History, (2 vols, Cambridge, 1986), i, 70–88. For others, see Andrew G. Watson, ‘The Manuscript Collection of Sir Walter Cope (d. 1614)’, BLR 12 (1985–88), 262–97 (though Watson’s description of Cope’s motives as those of a virtuoso needs to be filled out somewhat); Sears Jayne and Francis R. Johnson, The Lumley Library: the Catalogue of 1609 (London, 1956); Julian Roberts and Andrew Watson, John Dee’s Library Catalogue (London, 1990), and for a consideration of its context, William H. Sherman, John Dee: the Politics of Reading and Writing in the English Renaissance (Amherst, 1995); Colin Tite, The Manuscript Library of Sir Robert Cotton (London, 1994). See N.L. Jones, ‘Matthew Parker, John Bale, and the Magdeburg Centuriators’, Sixteenth Century Journal 12 (1981), 35–49; and the lists of sources and historical writers in Timothy Graham and Andrew G. Watson (eds), The Recovery of the Past in Early Elizabethan England. Documents

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35.

36.

37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43.

44.

45.

46.

History of Universities by John Bale and John Joscelyn from the Circle of Matthew Parker (Cambridge, 1998). See May MacKisack, Medieval History in the Tudor Age (Oxford, 1971); A.J. Frantzen, Desire for Origins: New Language, Old English, and Teaching the Tradition (New Brunswick and London, 1990), 27–61. See the results of Clement, ‘James’s Ecloga’, 5–11, who compares the Ecloga with the 1589 shelf-list of Corpus Christi College, Oxford. On medieval Cambridge inventories see Peter D. Clarke, The University and College Libraries of Cambridge (Corpus of British Medieval Library Catalogues, Vol. X, London, 2002). See Clement, ‘James’s Ecloga’, 13. ‘The Medieval Library’, in John Buxton and Penry Williams (eds), New College Oxford 1379–1979 (Oxford, 1979), 338–39. For James’s exploitation of Cope’s manuscripts in the Ecloga, see Watson, ‘Cope’, esp. 267–8, 279–91 (for a list of those manuscripts indexed by James). Part one of the Ecloga was printed at London by George Bishop and John Norton. Part two, signed by James July 17 1600, was printed by Arnold Hatfield. James, Ecloga, Part 2, 1; passim. See Watson, ‘Cope’. Details of these works are provided in the appended table. For a concise guide to early modern continental bibliographical literature see Luigi Balsamo, La bibliografia (2nd ed., Florence, 1992); and for a compendious survey, Alfredo Serrai, Storia della bibliografia (11 vols, Rome, 1988–2001). James, Ecloga, Part 2, sig. A1v: ‘Insuper sciendum est in titulis librorum assignandis adhibitam a me summam diligentiam ut premerem vestigia antiquorum Ms. et exprimerem etiam errores, naevos et vitia eorum; ignoscat mihi Lector, volui in istis temere nihil mutare. Deinde animadvertendum est Anonymorum rationem nullam habitam fuisse in secundo libro, in primo noto principia tantum, secutus Trithemium, Sixtum Senensem, Balaeum. Inter Anonymos multos bonos auctores latere non dubito. Adhuc notandum est libros mutilos principio, medio vel fine (quod nimis profecto frequenter evenit) a me notatos fuisse, hoc ne lectores in fraudem inducantur, censura apposita indicabit. Aliae censurae vel notae plearaeque sunt veterum, ex iis poterit studiosus lector metere fructum aliquem’. James mentions Gesner and Flaccius on 142. James, Ecloga, Part 2, 124: ‘Inveniuntur ex hoc labore meo 38. loca. et in his quaedam sententiae gravioris momenti, in quibus variant uno consensu, a libris impressis manu exarati codices, quae sunt certo corrigenda. 38. loca, discrepantia a 3. Ms. corrigenda item, ex vehementi suspicione. 62. loca a 2. Ms. differentia, suspecta valde. 51. loca, in quibus unus codex manuscriptus ab omnibus aliis, tam scriptis quam excusis, dissentiens habetur, leviter suspecta, vel potius libera ab omni corruptionis suspicione. Haec mea est de tota controversia sententia, quam lubens volens, facio iuris iudiciique aliorum’. James, Ecloga, Part 2, 116.

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47. James, Ecloga., sig. A2r-v: ‘Scribunt nostri, utilissimum fore laborem et operam nonnullorum, partim in edendis, partim in conferendis vetustissimis codicibus: subscribunt adversarii huic sententiae; utinam tam vere et ex animo, quam prompte et ex tempore. Vere enim Papistas recidit quod immeriot nobis obiiciunt: “Proprium est haereticorum partus supponere, proclive ac familiare mentiri, magni plagiarii, merentur mortem, mendacia pro veritate obtrudunt, non bona fide referunt argumenta Catholicorum, Iudaeorum et Turcarum libri, melioris conditionis quam haereticorum. Decet ut sint calumniis ac mendaciis instructi, res utilissima eorum mendacia detegere”. Ita semper id nobis imputant, quod patraverunt ipsi, mendaciis tam crassis et inverecundis, ut impudentiora non putem Haeresiarcham Primogenitum Sathanae a Polycarpo dictum fingere potuisse. Quae enim frons, quae mens illis, qui audent ista de corruptis sanctorum Patrum sententiis, quamvis falsissima blaterare? quorum censurae, quasi per gradus, omnia antiquitatis venerandae scripta commaculant? quorum audaciam in deformandis veterum scriptis et auctoritatibus, speciosae antiquae membranae unius aut alterius obducto nomine, vident homines iudicio praediti, videbit posteritas atque mirabitur. . . . Vexant Patres, antiquos, novos, everrunt; imo evertunt Scripturam, historiam ubicunque eis adversatur, adulterant et deprimunt. Neque haec solum in libris impressis audent nefaria sacrilegia committere, sed conantur eadem etiam in libris Manuscriptis, “ad hos enim quoque purgatio pertinet”, nec purgatio solum, sed ignis; procedunt enim nimis profecto frequenter contra istos non purgando solum sed igniendo etiam’. James’s quotation is a pastiche of statements culled from Baronio and Bellarmine. 48. See the insightful treatment by Pierre Petitmengin, ‘De adulteratis patrum editionibus. La critique des textes au service de l’orthodoxie’, in Emmanuel Bury and Bernard Meunier (eds), Les Pères de l’Eglise au XVIIe siècle (Paris, 1993), 17–31, esp. 23 ff.; and with particular attention to English patristics, Jean-Louis Quantin, ‘Réceptions soupçonneuses: Le text patristique au temps des confessions’, in Laetitia Ciccolini et al. (eds), Réceptions antiques: Lecture, transmission, appropriation intellectuelle (Paris, 2006), 131–51. 49. John Jewel, A Replie unto M. Hardinges Answeare (London, 1565), sig. ¶2r. 50. Jewel, Replie, sig. ¶2v. 51. Thomas Bilson, The True Difference Betweene Christian Subjection and Unchristian Rebellion (Oxford, 1585), sig. A6r, 76; further charges of papist forgery and textual obfuscation are scattered throughout the work. 52. James, An explanation, 26. Cf. Bilson, The True Difference, 582–6; Augustine, De Genesi ad litteram 10,23. Bilson’s aim was to prove that Augustine’s understanding of apostolic tradition encompassed practices also attested by scripture, and that what Augustine meant by ‘apostolic tradition’ was not necessarily unwritten. At issue was infant baptism: Bilson wished to argue that Augustine’s claim that infant baptism was an apostolic tradition did not mean that scriptural testimony for baptism excluded infant baptism. For the specific circumstances see Quantin, ‘Réceptions soupçonneuses’, 146.

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53. See the splendid overview of Anthony Grafton, Forgers and Critics: Creativity and Duplicity in Western Scholarship (Princeton, 1990); 43–5 on Erasmus. 54. On this issue see further Quantin, ‘Réceptions soupçonneuses’. 55. William Perkins, Problema de Romanae fidei (Cambridge, 1604), 1: ‘Impossibile esse, ulli per orbem Pontificio Theologo, e genuinis Conciliorum Patrumque monumentis, et ex genuino illorum sensu, ostendere, Fidem Ecclesiae Nunc-Romanae, in quibus dissentit ab Ecclesiis Evangelicis, vere Catholicam esse’. 56. Perkins, Problema de Romanae fidei, 14. 57. William Crashawe, Falsificationum Romanarum et Catholicarum restitutionum (London, 1606), sig. ¶3v. 58. Crashawe, Falsificationum Romanarum, sig. B1r-v. 59. Crashawe, Falsificationum Romanarum, sig. C1v. 60. London, British Library, Royal MS 17. B. IX, fol. 3v (not seen), cited by W.H. Kelliher, ‘Crashawe, William’, in ODNB. 61. See P.J. Wallis, ‘The library of William Crashawe’, Transactions of the Cambridge Bibliographical Society 2 (1956), 213–28; R.M. Fisher, ‘William Crashawe’s Library at the Temple 1605–1615’, The Library 5th ser. (1975), 116–24. 62. William Crashawe, Manuale Catholicorum. A Manuall For True Catholickes (London, 1611); cf. Milton, Catholic and Reformed, 290. 63. William Crashawe to James, undated, in Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 26–7. From Crashawe’s mention of the upcoming dispersal of his library, the letter is to be dated after 1613. 64. For the details of this, see Barnard, ‘Politics, Profits and ?Idealism’, 394. Norton would begin acting as Bodley’s book agent in 1601; it may thus well have been James who led Bodley to Norton (or vice versa?). 65. Antonio Possevino, Apparatus sacer (Venice, 1606); I have consulted Apparatus sacer (Cologne, 1608), 112–14. 66. Bodley to James, 7.I.1606, in Letters of Sir Thomas Bodley to Thomas James, 155. 67. Jakob Gretser, De iure et more prohibendi, expurgandi et abolendi libros haereticos et noxios (Ingolstadt, 1603); I have used the edition of Gretser, Opera omnia (Regensburg, 1738), xii, 124–5: ‘Placide, Calvinista, placide. Nomina vel unum librum unius ex quatuorpraedictis patribus, qui in ullo Indice prohibitorio aut expugatorio interdicatur. Nomina, aut frontem exporrige, ut calumniatorum nota inuratur. Non Augustinus, non Cyprianus, non Chrysostomus, non Cyrillus, sed haereticorum glossemata, nugamenta, mendacia et convicia, modo nominatis Patribus a mendacibus haereticis superaddita, prohibentur et proscribuntur, et, ut expurgentur et sempiterna oblivione obruantur, ab Indicibus, tam Hispanicis, quam Neapolitanis, Romanis, Portugallensibus (quos tu citas) praecipitur. . . . Nec illud praeteribo, me in Bavarica Bibliotheca incidisse in membranaceum manu exartum optimae notae exemplar Cypriani. Inspexi locos, quos Calvinista accusat, cum editionibus Catholicorum contuli. Deprehendi codicem illum

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68. 69. 70.

71.

72. 73. 74.

75. 76.

77. 78. 79.

80.

81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86.

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perantiquum, sententia quidem, si non verbis aut ordine verborum, cum Pameliana editione consentire . . . . Verum misso ineptiente isto Calvinista’. Bodley to James, 7.I.1606, in Letters of Sir Thomas Bodley to Thomas James, 155. See the suggestive comments in John Barnard, ‘Politics, Profits and ?Idealism’. See Charles H. McIlwain’s introduction to The Political Works of James I (Cambridge, 1918); Manfred Ebert, Jakob I. von England (1603–1625) als Kirchenpolitiker und Theologe (Hildesheim, 1972); and the revisionist account by W.B. Patterson, King James VI and I and the Reunion of Christendom (Cambridge, 1997), esp. 97–120 and for further bibliography. The Humble Supplication of Thomas James Student in Divinitie, and keeper of the publike Librarie at Oxford, for reformation of the ancient Fathers Workes, by Papists sundrie wayes depraved (London, s.a.). Field, A Learned Sermon preached before the King (London, 1604), sig. B8r-v. Field, Learned Sermon, sig. B8v. See J. Isaacs, ‘The Authorized Version and After’, in H. Wheeler Robinson (ed.), The Bible in its Ancient and English Versions (Oxford, 1940), 196–234; Charles C. Butterworth, The Literary Lineage of the King James Bible (Philadelphia, 1941), esp. 206–22; A.C. Partridge, English Biblical Translation (London, 1973), 105–38; the popular treatment by Adam Nicolson, God’s Secretaries: the Making of the King James Bible (New York, 2003), contains much useful information. Quoted in Isaacs, ‘The Authorized Version’, 197. Jean-Paul Dufour, ‘La version autorisée dite aussi Bible du roi Jacques’, in Jean-Robert Armogathe (ed.), Le Grand Siècle et la Bible (Paris, 1989), 363, appears to be alone in noting the congruence. See Bodley to James, 26.X.1604, in Letters of Thomas Bodley to Thomas James, 113. Partridge, English Biblical Translation, 115ff. See D.E. Kennedy, ‘King James I’s College of Controversial Divinity at Chelsea’, in D.E. Kennedy (ed.), Grounds of Controversy: three studies in late 16th and early 17th century English Polemics (Melbourne, 1989), 97–126. Anonymous, A briefe Declaration of the Reasons that moved King James . . . and the State, to erect a Colledge of divines, and other Learned men at Chelsey (London, 1645), 2; quoted in Kennedy, ‘King James I’s College’, 103. Matthew Sutcliffe to Thomas James, 13.II.1610, Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 55. Matthew Sutcliffe to Thomas James, 5.II.1615, Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 56. Bodley to James, 6.XI.1605, in Letters of Sir Thomas Bodley, 154. Bodley to James, 20.X.1606, in ibid., 163–4. Bodley to James, 25.II.1606, in ibid., 155–7 Bodley to James, 6.X.1606, in ibid., 162–3.

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87. Bodley to James, 25.II.1606, in ibid., 157. 88. The problem has yet to be fully explored; see for now Pierre Petitmengin, ‘Collections de manuscrits et bibliothèques européennes vers 1600’, in Luce Giard and Christian Jacob (eds), Des Alexandries I. Du livre au texte (Paris, 2001), 275–87. 89. Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 3, 38, 39, 46. 90. Ibid., 47, 56. 91. Ibid., 14. 92. S.L. Greenslade, ‘The Printer’s Copy for the Eton Chrysostom, 1610–13’, Studia patristica 7 (1966), 60–4. 93. Ker, ‘Thomas James’s Collation of Gregory, Cyprian and Ambrose’. Ker does not refer to The Humble Supplication. See also Petitmengin, ‘De adulteratis patrum editionibus’, 26–8; and Quantin, ‘The Fathers’, 999–1000. 94. Bodley to James, 5.VII.1610, in Letters of Sir Thomas Bodley, 192–3. 95. James, The Humble Supplication. 96. See Anthony Grafton, Joseph Scaliger: A Study in the History of Classical Scholarship, (2 vols, Oxford, 1983–1993) i, 45–100. 97. Thomas James, A Treatise of the Corruption of Scripture (London, 1611), Part V, 6–7. 98. As already noted by Ker, ‘James’s Collation’, and Petitmengin, ‘Editions adultérées’. 99. Treatise, Part V, 8–9. 100. Thomas James, Bellum Gregorianum siue Corruptionis Romanæ in operibus D. Gregorii M. (Oxford, 1610). 101. Bodley to James, 30.X.1610, in Letters of Sir Thomas Bodley, 198–9. 102. Thomas Morton to James, 4.XII.1610, in Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 47–8. 103. Quoted above: see page 37. 104. James, Bellum Gregorianum, sig. A2v: ‘Quid mirum si Pontifices Romani adulterent scripta aliorum, cum sic tractent scripta etiam suorum’. 105. James, Treatise of the Corruption of Scripture, ‘An Appendix to the Reader’, sig. A4r. 106. Samuel Ward to James, 26.I.1612/13, in Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 64. 107. Bodley to James, 25.II.1606, in Letters of Sir Thomas Bodley, 156. 108. Sixtus Senensis, Bibliotheca sancta (Venice, 1566), sig. 2r. 109. James to Ussher, 15.II.1624, in The Whole Works of the Most Rev. James Ussher (17 vols, Dublin, 1847–64), xv, 266. 110. Thomas James, Index generalis librorum prohibitorum a pontificiis, una cum editionibus expurgatis vel expurgandis juxta seriem literarum et triplicem classem (Oxford, 1627), sig. *4v-5r. See George Haven Putnam, The Censorship of the Church of Rome (2 vols, New York and London, 1906; repr. New York, 1967), ii, 369–75. 111. James to Ussher, 8.II.s.a., in The Whole Works of . . . James Ussher, xv, 263. 112. London, British Library, 618.a.15, bound with the Lyon 1586 edition of the Index expurgatorius, also owned by Colomiès.

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113. James, A Manuduction or Introduction unto Divinitie: containing a Confutation of Papists out of Papists throughout the important Articles of our Religion (Oxford, 1625). 114. James to Calandrine (Ussher’s secretary) 23.V.1624, in The Whole Works of . . . James Ussher, xv, 214: ‘The Collection out of Stella I have, but no Stella itself, and that I will not trust an ordinary Carrier with, the Lyon’s Addition and the Index Expurgatorius of Spain will satisfy your longing therein: some of the first places are amended according to the Prescript of that unholy Inquisition, but farther they proceed not: all the rest (and in one place a whole leaf or two) are to be expunged, but untouched in that of Lyons’. 115. John Rainolds to James, 9.VI.s.a., in Letters Addressed to Thomas James, 50–1. 116. See the overview of Luigi Balsamo, ‘Vicende censorie in Inghilterra tra ‘500 e ‘600’, in Ugo Rozzo (ed.), La censura libraria nell’Europa del secolo XVI (Udine, 1997), 31–52. 117. N.R. Ker, ‘Oxford College Libraries in the Sixteenth Century’, in Books, Collectors and Libraries, 379–436, esp. 418ff.; to be read with Ker, ‘The Provision of Books’, in HUO 3, 441–519. 118. Balsamo, ‘Vicende censorie in Inghilterra’, 49–51. Balsamo’s book-length study of the fortune of Possevino in England appeared only after the present article went to press; see Luigi Balsamo, Antonio Possevino S.J. bibliografo della Controriforma e diffusione della sua opera in area anglicana (Florence, 2006). 119. H.M. Adams, Catalogue of Books Printed on the Continent of Europe 1501–1600 in Cambridge Libraries (Cambridge, 1967), 572. 120. David J. Shaw et al. (eds), The Cathedral Libraries Catalogue: books printed before 1701 in the libraries of the Anglican cathedrals of England and Wales, (2 vols, London, 1998), ii. 121. A. Cox-Johnson, ‘Lambeth Palace Library, 1610–1664’, Transactions of the Cambridge Bibliographical Society 2 (1955), 105–26. 122. David Pearson, ‘The Libraries of English Bishops, 1600–40’, The Library, 6th ser., 14 (1992), 221–57, esp. 223–9. 123. Quoted in Milton, Catholic and Reformed, 39. 124. Simon Birckbek, The Protestants Evidence, taken out of good Records (London, 1635), sig. a5v. The work is a follow-up to the Featley-Fisher controversy of 1624. 125. See Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Lat. th.d.25, ‘Clavis Theologica sive Directorium Bibliothecae Bodleianae ad instructionem eorum omnium qui ad infinitos librorum Thesauros . . . pervenire cupiunt . . . ’, dated 1606 in James’s hand. This is purely a key-word index (e.g., 40, headings for ‘Civibus’, ‘Circumcisio’, ‘Civilis’, Civitas’, ‘Claves’, ‘Claustrates’, ‘Clementia’, ‘Clerici’, and so on), which for the most part favours singleword entries over bulky theological ‘places’. 126. N.R. Ker, ‘The Migration of Manuscripts from the English Medieval Libraries’, in Books, Collectors, and Libraries, 463–5.

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127. See the chronological list of donations in R.W. Hunt (ed.), A Summary Catalogue of Western Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, (7 vols, Oxford, 1953), i, 79 ff. 128. Greenslade, ‘The Eton Chrysostom’. 129. Ker, ‘James’s Collation of Gregory, Cyprian and Ambrose’, 23–9. 130. Oxford, Bodleian Library 4o 13a Art. (Ecloga), ‘Liber secundus’, 1, handwritten pressmark in James’s hand ‘a.11.10’; in the 1605 catalogue this bears the pressmark ‘a.11.14’. 131. Oxford, Bodleian Library 4o 13a Art. (Ecloga), 4–5, hand-written pressmark in James’s hand to Ambrose, De bono mortis and (pseudo-Ambrose) De lapsu virginis is ‘a.10.4’, not used in the 1605 catalogue. The only Bodleian manuscript containing both texts is MS Bodl. 238, formerly belonging to New College. Cf. Summary Catalogue 2050. 132. Oxford, Bodleian Library 4o 13a Art. (Ecloga), 10–14, hand-written pressmarks in James’s hand to Augustine, ‘A.8.9’ (MS Bodl. 201) and ‘A.8.10’ (MS Bodl. 150). 133. Oxford, Bodleian Library 4o 13a Art. (Ecloga), 5, hand-written pressmark in James’s hand to Ambrose, Pastoralia and 28, an addition to the entry for Cyril recording Cyril’s Epistola ad Augustinum de morte Jeronimi, ‘a.4o3’ (MS Bodl. 630). Cf. Summary Catalogue 1953. 134. Oxford, Bodleian Library 4o 13a Art. (Ecloga), 5. 135. My discussion here of James’s annotations to the Ecloga is provisional; I am preparing a more detailed study of the volume. 136. These are Bodl. MSS 688, 696, 751, 752, 700, 757, 689; cf. Summary Catalogue 2502, 2512, 2518, 2522, 2528–30. 137. See The Humble and Earnest Request of Thomas James, Dr of Divinity, and Subdeane of Welles, to the Church of England; for, and in the behalfe of Bookes touching Religion (s.a., s.l.); An Explanation or Enlarging of the ten Articles in the Supplication of Doctor James, lately exhibited to the Clergy of England (Oxford, 1625); Specimen corruptelarum Pontificiarum: in Cypriano, Ambrosio, Gregorio M. auctore operis imperfecti et in Iure Canonico collatione facta cum MSS. variis (London, 1626). 138. James to Ussher, 15.II.1624, in The Whole Works of . . . James Ussher, xv, 267. 139. James to Calandrine, 23.V.1624, in The Whole Works of . . . James Ussher, xv, 214–15. 140. Thomas James, Manuduction, or Introduction unto Divinitie, sig. A2r-v. 141. Thomas Cooper, The Art of Giving (London, 1615), 90–1. 142. Francis Mason, Of the Consecration of the Bishops in the Church of England (London, 1613), 4–5. 143. John Dury, The Reformed Librarie-Keeper (London, 1650), 25. See further Paul Nelles, ‘Books, Libraries and Learning from Bacon to the Enlightenment’, in Peter Hoare (ed.), The Cambridge History of Libraries in Britain and Ireland, (3 vols, Cambridge, 2006), ii, 23–35.

Paratus sum sententiam mutare: The Influence of Cartesian Philosophy at Basle Wolfgang Rother

I

Renaissance critique of the scholastic curriculum led, in the sphere of philosophy, to a rediscovery of its sources and relieved the Princeps Philosophorum of the scholastic ballast gathered throughout the Middle Ages. Subsequently, there was a multiplication of Aristotle studies and Aristotle editions – with the consequence of a new Aristotelian scholastic to be noticed particularly at Protestant universities. A first wave of turning away from Aristotle was marked by Petrus Ramus, who was very influential at the universities in the Calvinistic territories far into the seventeenth century.1 Finally, this turning away from Aristotle was completed by a turning towards Cartesian philosophy, which fell on fertile ground especially where Ramism was already introduced as an alternative to Aristotelianism and was thus easily introduced into courses of philosophy. But those processes of detachment did not run linearly; alternatives did not exclude themselves a priori. Thus at many seventeenthcentury Protestant universities, there were eclectic hybrids such as Aristoteleo-Ramism, Aristoteleo-Cartesianism as well as RameoCartesianism – and these hybrids not only succeeded one another but also existed sometimes simultaneously. The penetration of Cartesianism at Basle was preceded by an institutional modification. The abolition of the Professio Organi Aristotelis in 1659 enriched the Aristoteleo-Ramist eclecticism, which has been dominant for a quite long time, by a further element, so that one could speak now of an Aristotelian-Rameo-Cartesian eclecticism. A manifestation of this threefold eclecticism was, within the field of the logical propaedeutics, the introduction of a combined textbook in 1660, i.e. Franco Burgersdijk’s Aristoteleo-Ramist Institutiones Logicae together

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with Adriaan Heereboord’s Praxis Logica which – although it cannot be classified as purely Cartesian – in certain aspects was influenced by Descartes. With this multiple eclecticism the scholastics were definitely discharged: this issue expressed itself in the critique of the disputation as a method of philosophizing. There were explicit discussions of Cartesian natural philosophy in different subject areas such as mechanics and cosmology, of Descartes’s theory of matter particles as well as of metaphysical topics such as the Cogito, the dualism and the proofs of the existence of God. The spokesman of this benevolently critical reception of Descartes was Professor Samuel Werenfels (1657–1740), well known as theologian and exponent of the so-called ‘reasonable orthodoxy’.2 The first direct reference to Descartes dates from 1665; in the first thesis of his M.A.-disputation Paulus Tsernatoni defended the Aristotelian principle of contradiction together with the Cartesian Cogito as ‘Principium Philosophandi’.3

II

Basle University, one of the more important universities in the Calvinistic territories, was rather quickly penetrated by Ramism in the late sixteenth century. This fact was to a significant extent due to Ramus’s stay at Basle (1568/69) and to his close personal relations to Basle professors, in particular to Theodor Zwinger (1533–1588) and Johann Thomas Freigius (1543–1583). But the originally pure Ramism was soon replaced by an Aristoteleo-Ramist eclecticism.4 The most influential exponent of this eclecticism was Ludwig Lutz (1577–1642) who held the Professio Organi Aristotelis from 1611 to 1642; his textbooks stayed in use after his death, the Artis Logicae Praecepta until 1659,5 the Artis Rhetoricae Praecepta much longer, since in 1661 there appeared a new Basle edition of this manual.6 The institutional conditions of philosophy teaching at Basle were favourable for the logical Aristoteleo-Ramism supported by Lutz. Until 1659 there were two chairs of logic at the university, one in the first form,7 i.e. the Professio Logicae, and one in the second form, the so-called Professio Organi Aristotelis. The textbook in the first form was the Artis Logicae Praecepta, in the second form Aristotelian logic was taught with the Greek-Latin edition commented by Lutz;8 another

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manual provided by Lutz was the Organi Aristotelis Thetica & Aphoristica Expositio,9 which probably served mainly as an instrument for repetition. Although the Artis Logicae Praecepta was conceived as a Ramist textbook, Lutz stressed in the dedication that it was intended to serve as an introduction to the study of the Organon Aristotelis (‘ad meliorem fructuosioremque Organi Aristotelici audientiam’).10 In its first part, ‘De inventione’, Lutz summarizes the substance of Ramus’s Dialectica;11 in its second part, he gives a summary of Porphyry’s Isagoge and of Aristotle’s logical writings united under the title Organon; and in the ‘Tabula synoptica’ added to this edition, Lutz founded the Organon in a Ramist mould.

III

As a result of Lutz’s lasting influence as an academic teacher and as the author of successful textbooks, an Aristoteleo-Ramist ‘scholastic’ was established at Basle. Already immediately after Lutz’s death (he died on 10th July, 1642), these ‘scholastic’ tendencies were openly criticized. The critique was aimed at the duplication of logic teaching, in particular against the Professio Organi. In the records of the Basle Faculty of Philosophy it is noted,12 that the Regenz, i.e. the academic senate, asked for a statement from the Faculty of Philosophy on the question of how the Professio Organi could be arranged more usefully for the students. The philosophers’ reaction was disapproving: in their faculty meeting of 24th November 1642 they decided to reply to the Regenz that the Professio Organi was a very noble and a very old chair and that there was no cause to transform it into another chair. Over and above that, Professor Lutz’s seriousness and loyalty in his teaching left nothing to be desired, as witnessed by his diligence, his competence and his publications. The philosophers were not willing to abandon the second chair of logic; so they found themselves compelled to resist the attack on the chair of Aristotelian logic with all their might. But they absolutely agreed to the reformation of the logic course in the first form. They proposed to adopt a new ‘docendi modus’ and submitted new guidelines to the Regenz.13 These guidelines not only showed distinct anti-scholastic features: they were thoroughly inspired not only by Ramism but also by a Cartesian spirit of critique. They emphasized the claim of clarity and

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demanded the liberation of logic from thorny, irrelevant and pedantic queries (‘quaestiuncula’) as well as from absurd farces (‘tricae’). The ‘praecepta logicae’ were to be limited to what the ‘usus logicae’ required, that is, logic teaching should not focus on the ‘praecepta’, but on exercise (‘exercitatio’) and on examples (‘exempla’), which were to be chosen for the purpose of throw light in the ‘praecepta’. Under no circumstances should the examples be obscure or beyond the comprehension (‘captum’) of the audience, rather they should be ‘perspicua, familiaria et viva quasi’. Only sixteen years after this ‘Reformatio Professionis Organi Aristotelici’ the chair was definitely abolished. The discussions on the removal of the chair were initiated by the death of its then holder, Professor Christoph Beck (1626–1658).14 This time the members of the faculty seem to have immediately agreed to the abolishment of the Professio Organi Aristotelis, that is to the fusion of the first- and second-form logic chairs; they proposed to replace the Professio Organi with a chair of history, which was considered much more useful and necessary. Moreover, they proposed to reform the remaining logic course. The reasons for the removal of the Professio Organi and its replacement by a chair of history were stated in a paper which was submitted to the City Council of Basle. As this document is an interesting manuscript source in many respects, its most important section is first quoted and then commented in the following: [ . . . ] since Organum Aristotelis is nothing other than a Logica written by the wise man Aristotle. In our university we actually have a chair of logic besides the Organum, where up to now only an introduction to the Organum has been treated and read, but in future from that chair a perfectly distinct logic could be read and explained to the students, a logic which is focused on practice or exercise and in which at the same time the nucleus and so to speak the marrow of the Organum Aristotelis is to be found (as it is nowadays available thanks to God’s grace). Thus the abolition of the Organum could be usefully and sufficiently substituted. As we cannot deny, it is an old tradition to read and to explain the text of the Organum Aristotelicum itself to the students. But it should be taken in account that this custom derives from popery, where Aristotle’s books were higher estimated than the Holy Word of God itself. And not only philosophy – what would be acceptable in view of the fact that Aristotle was the noblest philosopher – but almost immediately also the whole theology was taken and read from Aristotle’s writings as well as from those of other (!) confused, over-subtle and futile

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scholastics together with the articles of the Roman popes and under neglect of other more useful und necessary studies, of languages, history and the Holy Divine Scripture itself. And although this could have been changed in the Reformation, in those days logic studies have not yet reached such perfection as it has nowadays thanks to God’s grace and to the works of learned and sharp-witted people. As everybody will see, rather from their works than from the Organum Aristotelis – since those are more familiar, more distinct and more important than this – one can learn and ensure logical practice (which is in every respect essential and which merely and only should be looked upon within this discipline). For this reason most of the universities, in particular those of Reformed Evangelic religion in Southern and Northern Germany use this more distinct, perfect and practice-related logic instead of the aforesaid Organum.15 From this statement follows that the intended removal of the Professio Organi was less a correction of a curricular duplication than the discharge of Aristotelianism connected with Catholicism. The reading of the Aristotelian Organon is qualified as a practice derived from popery. This involves the imputation that in catholic scholasticism Aristotle’s writings took priority over the Holy Scripture, with the unfortunate result that Aristotle not only dominated philosophy – a fact which could be accepted by Protestants without further ado –, but also theology. This break with the catholic tradition of ‘Panaristotelianism’ is raised to the dictates of Protestant Reformation; it is considered necessary to compensate what the Reformation omitted and in this way to complete and finish the Reformation (‘And although this could have been changed in the Reformation, in those days logic studies have not yet reached such perfection as it has nowadays thanks to God’s grace and to the works of learned and sharp-witted people’.) The Praxis Logica mentioned in the document as a work of which the use at Reformed German universities proved a success, was Adriaan Heereboord’s writing of the same name,16 a disputation manual inspired by Cartesian thought. In the course of the reorganization of logic teaching, this textbook was printed together with Franco Burgersdijk’s Institutiones Logicae for didactic use (Pro usu Studiosorum in Academiâ Basileensi).17 The statement’s emphasis on logical clarity, practice and exercise can be identified as the postulate of a Cartesian logic.18 The Cartesian critique of (Rameo-)Aristotelian-scholastic logic, however, met with protest in Basle. Opposition to this critique was articulated in a counterstatement drawn up by the theologian Johann

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Rudolf Wettstein (1614–1684),19 who succeeded Ludwig Lutz as Professor Organi Aristotelis and who held the chair from 1643 to 1654. Wettstein’s ‘Consilium de non abroganda Professione Organi Aristotelici’ is a plea for a thorough and exhaustive logic teaching. He repudiates the critical topos of logic as useless scholastic subtleties by declaring logic ‘most necessary and most useful’. For Wettstein, the advantage and the use of logical propaedeutics for all sciences – theology, jurisprudence, medicine and philosophy – are obvious. The ‘logos’, he writes, is the principle and the fundament of all knowledge (‘principium et subiectum omnis sapientiae’), that is ‘the knowledge of God, of justice, of healthiness and of good and evil in the world’. Moreover Wettstein refuses to accept the connection between Aristotelianism and catholic scholastic assumed in the faculty’s statement by relying upon an argument which in some way seems to anticipate an Enlightenment topos, i.e. the argument of separation of theology and philosophy: The best master of logic, says Wettstein, is Aristotle, and in the same way as the Holy Scripture is the only and utmost authority in theology, Aristotle is in philosophy. However, the days of Aristotelian scholastics at Basle were numbered. With the abolition of the Professio Organi, Lutz’s commented edition of and manual on Aristotelian logic disappeared from the university, and with the reformation of the first form logic course his Artis Logicae Praecepta, which had served as a textbook since 1620, disappeared, too. On 16th August 1659 the Regenz decreed that Franco Burgersdijk’s Institutiones Logicae should be republished by the printing office of Henric-Petri at Basle together with Adriaan Heereboord’s Praxis Logica.20 At the same time, Burgersdijk’s Institutionum Logicarum Synopsis was intended to be reprinted for the final form logic lessons of the Basle Gymnasium.21

IV

But anyone who expected that logic would begin to flourish after the reforms of 1659 – reforms which indisputably were inspired by the critical spirit of Cartesianism – found himself disappointed. The reasons for the practical absence of any logic teaching at Basle were by no means doctrinal, but were merely personal and accidental: Samuel Burckhardt (1633–1705), the holder of the reorganized and now unique logic chair, suffered from a mental disease and was thus only partly available. From

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about 1667 he no longer taught at all. The Basle logic courses seem not to have been offered for several years. From 1670 to 1673 Samuel Burckhardt was replaced by Johann Rudolf Wettstein (1647–1711), but regular substitute professors were not employed before 1684. So it is not at all surprising that logic played merely a very subordinate part in the disputations; and that theses from Burgersdijk’s textbook were defended only sporadically. The fruits of the 1659 reforms were harvested only more than twenty years later – at a time when the Institutiones Logicae seem to have been already out of use. Although the faculty records do not make any note of the introduction of new logic textbooks, the printed disputations suggest that other works on logic had begun to be read by the mid-1680s at latest. They included the Logique de Port-Royal, a Latin translation of which was available from 1666,22 while towards the end of the century, Jean Le Clerc’s Logica, sive Ars Ratiocinandi was manifestly in use.23 Many Basle logic disputations adopt the division of the subject sanctioned by the Logique de Port-Royal: theories of notion, judgment, conclusion and method,24 but not always without critique, as a thesis by Jacob Bernoulli shows.25 Nicolaus Gürtler (1654–1711), for instance, discusses the theory of notion in his theses ‘pro cathedra’; its relevance consists in the classification of ideas and their identification as true or false, clear or obscure, distinct or confused ideas; true ideas are clear and distinct, but not always perfect, and the only way of investigating truth is meditation.26 There exist several disputations on judgment such as those by Jacob Bernoulli (1654–1705), Emanuel König (1658–1731), and Johann Bernoulli (1667–1748).27 And Johann Rudolph Beck, who mainly discusses method, concludes with the admonition to avoid ‘all precipitation and anticipation’ and, again, with the requirement of clear and distinct ideas.28 Finally, Jacob Bernoulli’s remarkable disputation on the theory of conclusion deserves a more detailed account. Bernoulli wants to demonstrate the parallelism of logical and algebraic ratiocination.29 He suggests a formalized logical calculus indicating the notions by the letters ‘a, b, c, x, y, z’, the affirmations by ‘’, the negations by ‘–’, and introducing other symbols for equality (‘aequalitas’) and inequality (‘inaequalitas’).30 Thus he achieves an algebraic formalization of the figures of the syllogism.31 The short treatise concludes with a quotation by Malebranche that ‘algebra is the true logic’.32 But as the annexed Theses Miscellaneae illustrate, Bernoulli is aware of the fact that algebraic formalization of logic is no panacea against error if it is not accompanied by the Cartesian maxim of evidence: Men’s errors do not arise from

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their bad ratiocination (‘malè ratiocinentur’) but from their judgments on matters which are not evident and reasonable (‘malè judicent de rebus non evidenter perspectis’).33 In his lecture Methodus Ratiocinandi Jacob Bernoulli submits a practical application of this theory of logicalalgebraic parallelism: He not only explains the hydrostatical experiment on the weight of air – described in his Dissertatio De Gravitate Aetheris34 – in terms of physics: he also formalizes the experiment identified as a syllogism in a logical-algebraic way – this time with reference to the ‘Princeps Geometrarum Cartesius’.35

V

The reform of 1659 which introduced Adriaan Heereboord’s Praxis Logica as a textbook was not just the replacement of a logic manual, but hit at the very heart of the university, since it was ultimately directed against the disputatio as the essential method of teaching. The ars disputandi, doubtless influenced by Melanchthonian and, in catholic milieus, Jesuit conceptions of higher education,36 was a prominent feature of academic erudition in the Early Modern Era. Since the Middle Ages the didactical methods of academic instructions had consisted of both lectio and disputatio. So the dialectical discussion, defense and refutation of theses were an integral part of university teaching.37 Since lecturing skills were an exclusively professorial requirement, but both teachers and students were expected to be well conversant with the art of disputation, the latter was much more important for the conception of erudition and academic learning. This led to a shift of accent within the methods of teaching, with the result that the disputatio became a distinct priority. The ideal of the scholar was the ‘good disputant’ who knew to discern the true from the false thanks to his analytical skills.38 Within the context of philosophy teaching, method was mainly comprehended as the right method of disputing, and this was considered essential for learning and scholarship: ‘All erudition [ . . . ] consists in the science of disputation’.39 The Cartesian critique of the abuses of disputation – a critique going back to Descartes’s general reservations against disputations in his sixth Discourse and at the end of his Second Replies40 – and of its scholastic subtleties was formulated in Adriaan Heereboord’s Praxis Logica which was used as a textbook at Basle University since 1660.

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Heereboord laid down basic material and formal rules for the disputation in order to avoid its misuse. He discusses disputation together with meditation. Both methods are applied to the treatment of complex themes; he defines meditation as a solitary discourse (‘tractatio solitaria’) and disputation as a sociable discourse (‘tractatio socia’).41 According to Heereboord, matters of disputation (‘materia disputationis’) have to fulfill certain requirements: 1) the subject must never exceed the disputants’ comprehension, 2) it has to be an issue which is in fact a controversial one, and 3) finally the matter should be useful and serious and be directed to the research of truth.42 As to the ‘forma disputandi’, Heereboord puts forward logical and ethical guiding principles inspired by Cartesian philosophy and directed against the scholastic practice of disputation: A basic requirement for both sides is the good intention (‘animi bona intentio’); they are admonished not to dispute for glory’s but for truth’s sake. In order to do so, the disputants should be endowed with a clear and pure reason, free of any prejudice (‘animus purus, & liber ab omni praejudicio’). The disputants’ virtues are conciseness (‘brevitas’) and – completely in accordance with the Cartesian maxim of evidence – lucidity (‘perspicuitas’); rhetorical circumlocution and long declamations are to be avoided in any case; obscure arguments (‘obscura locutio’) are absolutely disallowed, the arguments are to be expounded concisely and clearly (‘breviter & clare’).43 While Heereboord only wanted to bound the misuses of disputation, Samuel Werenfels calls them radically in question by considering them nothing but mere logomachy.44 He regards the disputants’ logomachy as a very grave disease (‘morbus gravissimus’) which has been attacking the ‘Respublica literaria’ for a long time and against which he wants to prescribe an efficient remedy.45 Although it is true that this severe malady can be diagnosed in scholars of each faculty, the philosophers are suffering most from it, so that one could ask whether in this science there has ever been anything else than logomachy.46 Only some ‘Recentiores Philosophi’ – among those especially Descartes is brought into prominence – have banished logomachy from philosophy, for they are in the habit of speaking clearly, and they follow geometry: thus have they succeeded in abolishing the ambiguities of words (‘ambiguitates vocum’).47 Werenfels gives a classification of this disease which did not only cause the formation of sects in philosophy but also the schism of Christianity to such an extent that verbal dispute turns into physical violence which appears in the cruelty of those who do not fight with arguments but with real arms (‘qui non verbis sed ferro flammisque cum adversariis suis disputant’).48 He thoroughly examines the causes of

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logomachy which he divides into two classes: those which can be ascribed to language, and those the disputants are guilty of.49 A whole chapter is devoted to the symptoms of logomachy, followed by an account of the remedies and the suitable precautionary measures.50 Among the ‘Remedia specialia’ against logomachy, Werenfels recommends first of all to take care of our own recovery, that is to do what Descartes suggests and to give up our prejudices; only if we have done this we can care about the healing of other people.51 Finally Werenfels portrays the Cartesian ideal of the philosopher in his Idée d’un philosophe, a short text of four pages first published in 1716 in his collected dissertations.52 This pamphlet had a lasting influence, since it was included as the article ‘Philosophie’ in the Encyclopédie, though in a somewhat abbreviated and modified form effected by César Chesneau Dumarsais; thus it had an astonishing career in the French Enlightenment.53 For Werenfels the ‘philosophe’ is a man who has ‘perfected his natural reason’. This perfection requires a process of healing (‘guerir’), in the course of which mind has undergone the treatment suggested by Descartes,54 that is to give up ‘all prejudices of childhood’, to recognize the relativity of national customs and conventions, and to get rid of the authority founded on certain authors or books as well as of many ‘false maxims’ arising from the passions. After the mind has passed this curative process, it may turn towards philosophy and wisdom (‘sagesse’).55 The philosopher’s peculiar activity is reflection and meditation (‘il medite’), and the things he deals with are not only the books but any item than can become an object of reasoning: ‘il étudie le Monde aussi bien que les livres’56 – this is very probably an allusion to Descartes’s postulation on reading the ‘book of the world’.57

VI

What have been indicated thus far are only the implicit references to Cartesian philosophy, and the outlines of a more general and unspecific influence of Cartesianism at Basle; in the following the direct discussions and explicit reception of Descartes shall be examined. With regard to the Cartesian mechanics expounded in the second part of the Principia Philosophiae, Werenfels’s De Regulis Communicationis Motus of 1686 should be mentioned.58 In this dissertation he discusses

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the Cartesian rules of impetus.59 Werenfels begins his examination with a reference to Aristotle, ‘Peripateticorum Princeps’, for whom motion is the fundamental affection of the natural body, so that without comprehension of motion there is consequently no comprehension of nature.60 But Werenfels rejects the Aristotelian doctrine of the four kinds of motion – i.e. substantial, quantitative, qualitative and local motion (‘motus ad substantiam, quantitatem, qualitatem & ad Ubi’) –, since the first three kinds are not actually motions but general modifications; with Descartes,61 Werenfels acknowledges only the local motion (‘motus localis’), from which all kinds of motion could be derived. He quotes Descartes’s definition of motion as the transmission of a matter particle or body to the immediately adjoining bodies.62 After this Werenfels turns to velocity, referring to John Wallis’s definition according to which it is an affection of motion in which the space passed through is related to time;63 therefore the faster body is that one which passes through the same distance in a shorter time or through a longer distance in the same or a shorter time; and the slower body is that one which passes through the same distance in a longer time or through a shorter distance in the same or a longer time. Another factor in the determination of velocity is the body’s weight which is inversely proportional to its velocity.64 And Werenfels follows also Descartes’s doctrine that any motion depends solely upon the ‘Primus Motor’, that is upon his free will, which has disposed certain and constant laws and rules.65 Next, Werenfels inquires about the actual laws and rules, and answers with a literal quotation of the seven Cartesian rules of impetus developed in the Principia Philosophiae.66 Although he sings the praises of Descartes (‘ingens illud hujus seculi in Philosophiae lumen’),67 on the technical level he remains distanced and he continues by subjecting the Cartesian rules to a critical examination. He reproaches Descartes for proceeding from two false hypotheses: first, Descartes would attribute to rest the same actuality as to motion, that is, he would not consider motion and rest opposed ‘privativè’ but merely two different modes of body. Thus Descartes would believe that a body in motion could not move a larger resting one, since in the larger body was a larger force of resistance against motion (‘vis ad motui resistendum’). This Cartesian hypothesis, says Werenfels, is at variance with experience and reason, because rest is not a positive entity (‘positivum quid, aut rem’) but a ‘mere privation of motion’, and hence in rest there is no force of resistance at all, since resistance cannot be without any action.68 Secondly Descartes was wrong in hypothesizing that the determination of motion

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(‘determinatio motus versus plagam aliquam’) is to be distinguished from motion itself, since motion and its determination cannot be separated in a way that if the one would be maintained the other could change.69 After having refuted these two Cartesian hypotheses Werenfels insists on the ‘golden rule’ of inertia, shared also by Descartes, according to which any body remains if possible in the state where it is.70 This refutation of the two false hypotheses forms the background to the ensuing detailed discussion of all seven rules of impetus with the result that the second, third and fifth rule prove true whereas the first, fourth and sixth are rejected as false and the seventh judged as party right and partly wrong.

VII

From his theory of the motion of matter Descartes derives the divisibility of matter into infinitely small particles.71 Two years after his critical examination of Descartes’s theory of motion Werenfels dealt with atomism in his dissertation – now entitled in good Cartesian manner Meditatio – De Atomis (1688).72 Here, he begins by discussing the position of those who deny the existence of atoms on the basis that this would be inconsistent with extension as the nature of body, since extension would imply infinite divisibility. Then he scrutinizes the position of those who argue for the existence of atoms and thus contest extension as the nature of body.73 Werenfels refuses both positions and neither denies extension nor the existence of atoms.74 Is it not incoherent (‘absurdissimum’), he asks, to speak about ‘indivisibilia seu atomi’, when the body, conceived as ‘res extensa’, is infinitely divisible (‘dividi potest in infinitum, aut, ut vos loquimini, indefinitum’)?75 Referring to Descartes’s theory of innumerable particles Werenfels ends by arguing for the existence of atoms and their infinite number in each body.76 Werenfels defines atom as a unique and simple thing bare of any thinking (‘cogitatio’), of any length, breadth, depth and shape, but capable of motion, rest, position and touch; so that length, breadth and depth arise from the indefinite mass (‘congeries’) of the atoms.77 Although the infinite number of atoms, says Werenfels according to Descartes but without quoting him, cannot be grasped by our finite understanding, this is by no means an argument against the actuality of atoms.78

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VIII

Another issue of the Aristoteleo-Cartesian discussion was cosmology. Descartes rejected Aristotle’s doctrine of the world’s finiteness; according to him the world or the whole of the corporeal substance was indefinite in its extension, for if one assumed a limit, one could nonetheless identify as actually conceivable an indefinitely extended space beyond this limit. So space contains, says Descartes, an indefinitely extended corporeal substance (‘substantiam corpoream indefinitè extensam [ . . . ] contineri’).79 As early as 1674 the mathematician Peter Megerlin (1623–1686)80 was the first to discuss this Cartesian theory at Basle. Although he conceded that the world was of an enormous size, it was not, as Descartes says, indefinite (‘stupendae magnitudinis’, ‘non tamen est infinitus: contra Cartesium’).81 In 1683 Werenfels defended the thesis that Aristotle erred concerning the ‘principium mundi’, whereas Descartes was wrong concerning its ‘fines’.82 One year before, he had dedicated his De Finibus Mundi to this theme.83 The writing is staged as a conversation between three persons: Daedalus pleads for the Cartesian theory; Polymathes supports the Aristotelian standpoint and Philalethes represents a seeking-critical position which can be identified as Werenfels’s. In the course of the conversation Polymathes finally succeeds in convincing Daedalus of the world’s finiteness. But for Werenfels this is by no means Aristotle’s triumph over Descartes. The real winner is the anti-dogmatic and critical-eclectic figure of Philalethes, i.e. the ‘friend of truth’: ‘So see how much I am a lover of truth’, I can be persuaded by evident arguments (‘demonstrationes evidentissimae’), but nonetheless I am willing to change my opinion (‘paratus sum sententiam mutare’), if it turns out to be wrong, although nothing is more difficult, says Werenfels, than to dismiss an opinion once formed.84

IX

When Paulus Tsernatoni defended Descartes’s Cogito in 1665, he did not do this as a genuine Cartesian but as a typical eclectic who stood outside the philosophical controversy on method, being in agreement both with Aristotle’s principle of contradiction and Descartes’s principle

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of Cogito.85 Maybe Johann Rudolf Beck (1657–1726) was an authentic Cartesian; when he applied for the Basle chair of rhetoric in 1678 (that time without success; he became professor of logic only in 1695), he defended the Cogito.86 On the occasion of the application for the same chair, Johann Jacob Harder (1656–1711), who finally obtained the professorship, rejected the Cartesian first principle.87 While these were more summary references to Descartes which did not necessarily involve an actual reading of his works, Theodor Zwinger (1658–1724), his student Johann Ludwig Frey (1682–1759), and Samuel Battier (1667–1744) proved to have a profound knowledge of Cartesian metaphysics. Zwinger, who was professor in Basle from 1684 until his death in 1724 and who taught successively oratory, physics, anatomy and botany, and theoretical and practical medicine, is one of the outstanding representatives of experimental philosophy; as early as 1685 he gave private Collegia experimentalia for his students.88 In 1696 Samuel Battier met Malebranche in Paris; in Basle he held the chair of Greek from 1705 until 1744.89 In his De Natura Mentis Humana of 1699 Frey, under the presidency of Zwinger, who was then professor of physics, rejected the Aristotelian definitions of mind as entelechy of the organic body (‘actus, ’ g corporis organici’) or as the principle of life (‘principium quo vivimus’).90 And he considered inappropriate the description of mind as incorporeal and indivisible substance, since such negative descriptions only point out what the entities are not, instead of elucidating what they actually are. With Descartes, he gained his positive definition of mind from its attributes, i.e. the faculties of understanding, doubting and affirming (‘intellegere, dubitare, affirmare’). When the mind understands, it is thinking; when it doubts, it is thinking; and when it affirms, it is thinking, too. So in any mental activity thinking (‘cogitatio’) is included. Since thinking thus is the nature and the essence of mind, it is best defined as thinking substance (‘Res sive substantia cogitans’).91 Frey calls thinking the absolute attribute of mind being exclusively peculiar to it. Thus nothing is included in the notion of thinking which is included in the notion of extension (‘substantia extensa’), whereas everything to be affirmed of the body (‘corpus’) is to be negated of the thinking.92 This essential difference between mind and body is the starting point of Samuel Battier’s De Mente Humana of 1697 (together with the continuation of 1701).93 Although thinking (‘substantia quae cogitat’) and extension (‘substantia quae extensa intelligitur’) are two different and separated substances, in man they do exist in union (‘connexae’), since

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man is a being composed of the different substances body and mind: he is an ingeniously constructed machine (‘artificiosa machina’).94 Using the same materialist metaphor of homme machine already to be found in Descartes’s sixth Meditation,95 Theodor Zwinger specifies this theory in his De Vita Hominis Sani of 1699: Man’s body is a hydraulic-pneumatic machine.96 Among these two substances man is compounded of, the thinking substance is the peculiar und particular one: only due to mind is man actually man.97 Then Battier discusses – in line with Descartes’s second Meditation – the being of human mind to which belongs firstly and foremost its existence, which cannot be doubted,98 because we do not know anything else more certain and earlier than the existence of our mind.99 Even though we may doubt the existence of everything, including God, mind’s existence can be demonstrated just by this doubt itself. The existence of mind is the foundation of any understanding and knowledge.100 Secondly, an integral part of mind’s being is – as Battier declares referring the content of the sixth Cartesian Meditation – his distinction from the body,101 and thirdly the mind is always connected with the body; in man both substances are united.102 The clamp that holds this union together is God, thanks to whose will alone man exists.103 It is remarkable that Battier’s dissertations, although their Cartesian argumentation is evident, are devoid of any reference to Descartes’s Meditations, which he evidently used, or to his Traité de l’homme, which at that time was available in Latin as well as in French.

X

Another issue of Descartes’s philosophy discussed at Basle was his proofs of God’s existence. Here we meet again Samuel Werenfels, who in 1699, having been appointed professor of dogmatic theology, published an anonymous Judicium De Argumento Cartesii Pro Existentia Dei.104 For Werenfels, the proposition that God exists, and that he never deceives me in the things I recognize clearly and distinctly, is the fundament of the whole Cartesian philosophy.105 Werenfels accepts the proof ‘à posteriori’ developed in the third Cartesian Meditation and demonstrating that mind cannot obtain the idea of God from itself but from a cause which formally possesses perfection, but he remarks that Christoph Wittich in particular has pointed

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out that it is very difficult to enforce this argument and to defend it against atheists.106 Werenfels rejects the ‘argumentum à priori’ of the fifth Cartesian Meditation which intends to prove that God exists in fact of necessity because the idea of God involves his existence. Why does Descartes make every effort, Werenfels asks, to prove the proposition ‘God exists’? Since this proposition is, he argues, an axiom which cannot be proved (‘axioma indemonstrabile’), for the predicate is clearly (‘clarè’) included in the idea of the subject, it does not require more evidence than the propositions ‘A triangle has three angles’ or ‘The whole is more than a part of it’. Why is ‘God exists’ to be proved while nobody denies that a triangle has three angles? After all, Descartes himself seems to have doubted the appropriateness and relevance of the argument.107 Werenfels sees his critique confirmed by the doubts articulated by Descartes himself in his fifth Meditation as well as in his First Replies,108 where he concedes that at first sight (‘primâ specie’) the proof ‘à priori’ seems to be a sophism.109 Then Werenfels demonstrates in a long and exhausting discourse that the ‘argumentum à priori’ really is a sophism. He considers convincing only the ‘argumentum à posteriori’, which concludes the existence of the cause ‘from the existence of the effect’, since this cause is God who has given us this idea by inspiration (‘qui hanc nobis ideam indiderit’).110 – The thesis that Descartes’s proof ‘à priori’ is a sophism is already to be found among the ‘Corollaria’ of Werenfels’s De Regulis Communicationis Motus of 1686.111 But it is defended by Johann Jacob Wolleb (1671–1741) in his theses ‘pro cathedra’ of 1696.112 In the same sense Werenfels’s anonymous work was countered by Johann Heinrich Schweizer (1646–1705) of Zurich in a writing published under the pseudonym ‘Benignus Ericus Arborator’, with a probably false place of publication.113 Schweizer rejects the reproach of sophism and insists that it is necessary to prove the axiom ‘God exists’, because the human mind has been damaged by different disabilities and infirmities.114

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As we have seen, the infiltration of Basle University by Cartesianism happened without much ado. Three elements may have been essential

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to this trouble-free development: Firstly, the influence of Petrus Ramus is to be mentioned. This led quite early to a critical and distanced attitude towards Aristotelianism which, however, never turned into antiAristotelianism, but resulted in a tolerant eclecticism. The outstanding figure of this eclecticism was the influential Professor Ludwig Lutz. Secondly, this eclecticism prevented a clash of doctrines. Cartesianism did not meet with stiff opposition, because it was not considered an antithesis to an Aristotelian scholastic (which in fact did not exist at Basle), but simply as a philosophical doctrine which added a further element to an eclecticism established long ago. And thirdly, it is undoubtedly due to the irenic, levelheaded and moderate personality of Samuel Werenfels that Cartesianim itself never stiffened into a new scholasticism which somehow could have provoked opposition. Basle Cartesianism was rather a method and a critical instrument to avoid any dogmatic tendency: ‘I certainly admit that nothing is more difficult than to change an opinion once conceived in mind, [ . . . ] nonetheless I am willing to change my opinion – paratus sum sententiam mutare –, as soon as either you or anybody else will convince me that I was erroneous: this is what I promise solemnly to you and to everybody who seeks for truth.’115 Universität Zürich Philosophisches Seminar Zürichbergstrasse 43 CH–8044 Zürich Switzerland REFERENCES 1. See Mordechai Feingold, Joseph S. Freedman, Wolfgang Rother (eds), The Influence of Petrus Ramus. Studies in Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century Philosophy and Sciences (Basle, 2001). 2. Werenfels studied philosophy and theology at Basle and pursued an academic career there. In 1684 he was appointed substitute professor of logic, in 1685 ordinary professor of Greek and in 1687 of oratory. After gaining his doctorate in theology, he was successively professor of dogmatics (1696–1703), in the Old Testament (1703–1711) and in the New Testament (1711–1740). – For Werenfels see e.g. Peter Ryhiner, Vita Venerabilis Theologi Samuelis Werenfelsii, SS. Theol. Doct. et in Acad. Basil. Professoris In Virorum Doctorum Panegyri Die XVI. Maji A. MD CC XLI. (Basle, 1741); Karl Barth, ‘Samuel Werenfels (1657–1740) und die Theologie seiner Zeit’, in Evangelische Theologie 3 (1936), 180–203; Wolfgang Rother, Die Philosophie

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3. 4.

5.

6.

7. 8.

9. 10. 11.

History of Universities an der Universität Basel im 17. Jahrhundert. Quellen und Analyse (Ph.D. thesis, Zurich, 1980), 241–6; Wolfgang Rother, ‘Werenfels, Samuel’, in Schweizer Lexikon (6 vols, Lucerne, 1993), vi. 632; Freyr Roland Varwig, ‘Barocker Wissenschaftsdiskurs zwischen formalisierter Sinnkonstitution und negativer Hermeneutik. Zur Aktualität von Samuel Werenfels’ de logomachiis eruditorum (1692)’, in Susanne Beckmann, Sabine Frilling (eds), Satz – Text – Diskurs. Akten des 27. Linguistischen Kolloquiums, Münster 1992 (Tübingen, 1994), i. 261–72; Rudolf Dellsperger, ‘Der Beitrag der “vernünftigen Orthodoxie” zur innerprotestantischen Ökumene. Samuel Werenfels, Jean-Frédéric Ostervald und Jean-Alphonse Turrettini als Unionstheologen’, in Heinz Duchhardt, Gerhard May (eds), Union – Konversion – Toleranz. Dimensionen der Annäherung zwischen den christlichen Konfessionen im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Mainz, 2000), 289–300; Wolfgang Rother, ‘Gelehrsamkeitskritik im späten 17. Jahrhundert. Samuel Werenfels’ Dissertatio de logomachiis eruditorum und Idée d’un philosophe’, in Theologische Zeitschrift 59 (2003), 137–59; Camilla Hermanin, Samuel Werenfels. Il dibattito sulla libertà di coscienza a Basilea agli inizi del Settecento (Florence, 2003). See note 85. See Wolfgang Rother, ‘Ramus and Ramism in Switzerland’, in Feingold, Freedman, Rother (eds), The Influence of Petrus Ramus, 9–37; Rother, ‘Die Hochschulen in der Schweiz’, in Helmut Holzhey, Wilhelm SchmidtBiggemann, Vilem Mudroch (eds), Grundriss der Geschichte der Philosophie. Die Philosophie des 17. Jahrhunderts (Basle, 2001), iv. 447–74 (at 449–56), 602–3. Ludwig Lutz, Artis Logicae Praecepta: Pro usu Tyronum Philosophiae in Academiâ Basileensi (Basle, [1620]). For use in the Basle Gymnasium there was an abridged version, the Artis Logicae Rudimenta: Pro usu Gymnasii Literarii Balileensis (Basle, [before 1625]). Artis Rhetoricae Praecepta: Pro usu Tyronum Philosophiae in Academiâ Basileensi (Basle, [1620?]). Another edition: Basle, 1661. For the use in the Basle Gymnasium there was an abridged version, the Artis Rhetoricae Rudimenta: Pro usu Gymnasii Literarii Basileensis (Basle, [before 1625]). The Basle faculty of philosophy consisted of two forms, each attended by the students for one-and-a-half years. Aristotelis Organum, Graece & Latine; Commentario analytico & paraphrastico, Tabulis quinetiam synopticis perpetuis, illustratum, ac Discentium usibus accomodatum (Basle, 1619). In the left column is the Greek text, in the right column the Latin translation by Julius Pacius, at the bottom the paraphrase and commentary by Lutz. Then with a separate title page: Organi Aristotelis nova per Tabulas analyticas perpetuas Expositio (Basle, [1619]). Organi Aristotelis Thetica & Aphoristica expositio; materia pro logicis exercitationibus futura (Basle, 1636). Artis Logicae Praecepta, 4. There are several Basle editions of Ramus’s Dialectica bearing the title Institutionum Dialecticarum Libri Tres (1554) and Dialectica Audomari

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12. 13.

14. 15.

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Talei Praelectionibus Illustrata (1569, 1572, 1577, and 1585). A further edition was the one published by the Basle Ramist Johann Thomas Freigius, Dialecticae Institutiones [ . . . ] item Aristotelicae Animadversiones (1575). See Rother, ‘Ramus and Ramism in Switzerland’, 21–4. In the following the ‘Decreta Facultatis Philosophorum’, Universitätsarchiv R 3,1, fol. 183–5, are recapitulated. The guidelines for the Organon course are recorded in the ‘Decreta Facultatis Philosophorum’, Universitätsarchiv R 3,1, fol. 183–5 and in the ‘Acta et Decreta’ of the Regenz, Universitätsarchiv B l/II, fol. 8–9 and B 2, fol. 308–9 under the title ‘Reformatio Professionis Organi Aristotelici’. See the ‘Acta et Decreta’ of the Regenz of 14th and 22nd January 1659, Universitätsarchiv B 1/II, fol. 58–58’ and B 2, fol. 369–70. ‘[ . . . ] dieweil Organum Aristotelis nichts anderes ist alß eine Logica, von dem weisen Mann Aristotele beschrieben. Nun haben wir in E. Bl. Universität, ohne und neben den Organo eine Professionem Logicam, in welcher zwar bißher nur ein manuduction, und anleitung zum Organo ist tractiert, und verlesen worden, künftiges aber könte in derselbigen eine volkommene deütliche, und auf die praxin, oder Übung gerichtete Logica, in deren zugleich der kern, und gleichsamb das marck Organi Aristotelis gefunden wurde (wie man das deren jetziger Zeit, durch Gottes gnad wohl haben kan,) der jugend vorgelesen und erkläret und damit der abgang Organi nutzlich und zur genüge ersezet werden. Es ist zwar, wie wir nicht in abrede sein können, ein altes herkommen, daß der Text des Organi Aristotelici selber der jugend vorgehalten und erkläret wirdt. Darbey aber ist wohl zu beobachten, daß dieser gebrauch ursprünglich herkomme auß dem Pabstumb, alda man von des Aristotelis büchern bald mehr, alß von dem H. wort Gottes selbsten gehalten und nicht allein die Philosophey, welches doch zu verantworten, in betrachtung Aristoteles der fürnembste Philosophus gewesen, sondern auch bald die gantze Theologey auß den Schriften Aristotelis wie auch anderer verwirter, spitzfindiger, und unnützer Schullehrerern zusampt den Satzungen, der Römischen Päbsten, mit hindansetzung anderer weit nützlicherer und Nötigerer Studien, der Sprachen, der Historien, und der h. Göttlichen Schrifft selbsten, hergenomben und gesagen. Und obwohl solches in der Reformation, hette können geändert werden, ist doch auch dazumahlen das Studium Logicum noch nicht in solcher volkommenheit gewesen, in welche es heüt bey tag, durch Gottes gnad, und gelehrter scharpffsinniger Leüthen arbeit gebracht worden: auß welcher ihrer arbeit man jetzunder wir es männiglich gestehen wirdt, die praxin Logicam (an deren alles gelegen und auff welche in dieser disciplin lediglich und allein sol gesehen werden,) weil näher, deütlicher, und wichtiger alß aus dem Organo Aristotelis, erlehrnen und vergewissern kan. Daher die meisten Universitäten, sonderlich Reformierter Evangelischer Religion, in Hoch
und Nider Teütschland sich heützutag, anstat des gedachten Organi, einer deütlicheren, volkommeneren, und auf die praxin sich beziehenden Logica gebrauchen.’ (‘Senatus Academici Amplissimum Magistratum Supplicatio, qua petitur

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17. 18.

19. 20.

21.

22.

23.

24.

History of Universities vacantis Professionis Organi Aristot. in historicam mutatio, indigitata alterius Professionis Logicae residuae reformatione ao. 1659 5. Feb. rectore Jo. Jac. a Brunn, Medic. Pract. Professore’, Universitätsarchiv C 2, fol. 23–5). First edition: Adriaan Heereboord, ‘ c . . . a Logica, Seu Explicatio [ . . . ] Synopseos Logicae Burgersdicianae: Accedit eiusdem authoris Praxis Logica (Leyden, 1650); for the Basle edition see note 20. See note 20. For Descartes, true logic depended on use, exercise and practice. Cf. his ‘Lettre de l’auteur a celuy qui a traduit le livre [Abbé Claude Picot]’, in Œuvres de Descartes, ed. Charles Adam, Paul Tannery (11 vols, Paris, 1996), ix/2. 13–4: ‘[ . . . ] il doit aussi estudier la Logique: non pas celle de l’escole car, elle n’est, à proprement parler, qu’une Dialectique qui enseigne les moyens de faire entendre à autruy les choses qu’on sçait [ . . . ]; mais celle qui apprend à bien conduire sa raison pour découvrir les veritez qu’on ignore; & pource qu’elle depend beaucoup de l’usage, il est bon qu’il s’exerce long temps à en pratiquer les regles touchant des questions faciles & simples [ . . . ]’. Italics by W.R. ‘Consilium de non abroganda Professione Organi Aristotelici et instituenda Professione Historica’, Universitätsarchiv B 2, fol. 376–81. Franco Burgersdijk, Institutionum Logicarum Libri Duo. Pro usu Studiosorum in Academiâ Basileensi (Basle, 1660; 1st edn, Leyden, 1626). Adriaan Heereboord’s Praxis Logica, Ad Seriem & Ordinem Synopseos Burgersdicianae Instituta, Et ex variis Authoribus congesta is on 451–99. Institutionum Logicarum Synopsis, Sive Rudimenta Logica. In quibus praecipuè definitiones, divisiones, & regulae, ad artem Logicam pertinentes, per quaestiones & responsiones, breviter & dilucidè proponuntur (Basle, 1660; 1st edn, Leyden, 1632). First French edition: La Logique ou L’Art de penser (Paris, 1662); first Latin version: Logica, sive Ars dirigendi cogitationes (Utrecht, 1666), all later editions bear the title: Logica, sive Ars cogitandi, among them one Basle edition (1749). First edition: Logica, sive Ars Ratiocinandi (Amsterdam, 1692), mentioned for Basle as early as 1693 by Emanuel König (Praeses, ‘cognominatus Avicenna’), Bartholomäus Wegelin (Respondens), Dissertationem Philosophicam De Judicio Logico [ . . . ] Publicae Disquisitioni proponit [ . . . ] D. XXIII. Octobr. An. M. DC. XCIII. (Basle, 1693), thes. VI. See e.g. the following dissertations: Nicolaus Gürtler, Peter Werenfels (Respondens), Theses Sequentes Philosophicas [ . . . ] Sede Oratoria Vacante Proponit Publice Examinandas Calend. Februar. An. M DC LXXXIV (Basle, 1684), cf. Theses Logicae 1–38; Emanuel König (‘cognominatus Avicenna’), Nicolaus Tonjola (Respondens), Dissertationem Philosophicam De Methodo Inveniendi & Docendi [ . . . ] Publico Eruditorum examini offert [ . . . ] In diem 11 Mens. Septembr. M DC LXXXV (Basle, 1685); JeanAntoine Gautier, Theses Ex Universa Philosophia Depromptae [ . . . ] Ad diem 7. Martij Anni M. DC. XCIII. (Basle, 1693), cf. thes. III–XIII (Ex Logicâ); Joh. Rudolf Beck, Joh. Georg Mayer (Respondens), Positiones

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25.

26.

27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34. 35.

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Hasque Philosophicas Ventilandas & Discutiendas Proponit [ . . . ] Ad Diem 13. Octob. Anno M. DC. XCIII. (Basle, 1693); Emanuel Zäslin, Joachim Lüdin (Respondens), Specimen Logico-Philosophicum [ . . . ] Die 13. Novembris An. M DC XCIII. (Basle, 1693). Jacob Bernoulli (Praeses), Johann Bernoulli (Respondens), Parallelismus Ratiocinii Logici Et Algebraici [ . . . ] Unà cum Thesibus miscellaneis [ . . . ] Ad diem 9. Septembris Anni M. DC. LXXXV (Basle, 1685), in Die Werke von Jakob Bernoulli, Vol. 1, ed. Joachim Otto Fleckenstein (Basle, 1969), 263–72, quoted thes. misc. 4, Die Werke, 268: ‘Author artis cogitandi malè in exemplum proprietatis circuli affert aequalitatem radiorum, cap. 6. part. 1.’ Gürtler, Theses Philosophicae, thes. log. 8–21. – While Gürtler, who at that time gave private lessons in theology and philology at Basle, did not get the Basle chair of rhetoric, he was appointed in 1685 professor of philosophy and rhetoric at Herborn. Later he taught theology at Hanau, Bremen, Deventer and Franeker. Cf. Hans Georg Wackernagel et al. (eds), Die Matrikel der Universität Basel (5 vols, Basle, 1975), iv. 18. Jacob Bernoulli, Ludwig Christian Mieg (Respondens), Theses Logicae De Conversione Et Oppositione Enunciationum, Cum Adnexis Miscellaneis [ . . . ] Ad diem XII. Februarij Ann. M. DC. LXXXVI. (Basle, 1686), in Die Werke, 275–84; Emanuel König (Praeses, ‘cognominatus Avicenna’), Bartholomäus Wegelin (Respondens), Dissertationem Philosophicam De Judicio Logico [ . . . ] Publicae Disquisitioni proponit [ . . . ] D. XXIII. Octobr. An. M. DC. XCIII. (Basle, 1693); Johann Bernoulli (Praeses), Hieronymus Burckhardt (Respondens), Propositiones Logicae de Propositionibus [ . . . ] cum Appositis Positionibus Miscellaneis [ . . . ] Ad d. 27. Novembris. M DC XCIII (Basle, 1693). On the title page a lecture of Bernoulli is announced: ‘Die 24. ejusd. h. x. Praeses habebit specimen Lectionis de Praejudiciis eorumque Remediis.’ Beck, Positiones Philosophicae, thes. X. Jacob Bernoulli, Parallelismus Ratiocinii Logici Et Algebraici. Ibid., thes. 1 and 5–7, Die Werke, 263. Ibid., thes. 15, Die Werke, 267. ‘Concludimus cum celeberrimo Authore Scrutinii veritatis, qui Lib. VI. cap. V, ita infit: Algebra est vera Logica, ad detegendam veritatem, omnemque menti, quantae capax est, extensionem dandam utilis.’ Ibid., thes. 17, Die Werke, 267. This is, however, a rather free paraphrase of the beginning of Book VI, Chapter V bearing the title ‘Des moyens d’augmenter l’étenduë & la capacité de l’esprit. Que l’Arithmétique & l’Algèbre y sont absolument nécessaires’, Malebranche, Recherche de la vérité Livres IV–VI, ed. Geneviève Rodis-Lewis (Œuvres complètes de Malebranche, Vol. II, Paris, 1963), 282. Jacob Bernoulli, Parallelismus Ratiocinii Logici Et Algebraici, thes. misc. 3, Die Werke, 268. Jacob Bernoulli, Dissertatio De Gravitate Aetheris (Amsterdam, 1683), (16), in Die Werke, 318–400. Jacob Bernoulli, Methodus Ratiocinandi, sive Usus Logicae In praeclaro aliquo Phaenomeno Physico enodando [ . . . ] IX. Calend. Aprilis

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36.

37.

38.

39.

40.

41. 42. 43.

History of Universities M. DC. LXXXI. Publicâ Praelectione ostensus (Basle, 1686), in Die Werke, 285–301. The formalized description begins on page 13 (Die Werke, 297) with the words: ‘Accedimus ad alterum solvendi modum, instituendum per Artem Analyticam, Algebram alias dictam.’ Descartes is mentioned on page 14 (Die Werke, 297), the formalization is on pages 14–8 (Die Werke, 298–300). In the copy of the Basle University Library four manuscript illustrations of the experiment and a Schema Calculi are appended (in Die Werke, 290, inserted in the text). See Philipp Melanchthon: ‘Leges Academiae Witenbergensis de studiis et moribus auditorum’ (1546), in Carolus Gottlieb Bretschneider (ed), Corpus Reformatorum (28 vols, Halis Saxonum, 1834–60), x. no. 43, 994 (Sexta). – ‘Ratio Atque Institutio Studiorum’ (1586), in Ratio Studiorum et Institutiones Scholasticae Societatis Jesu per Germaniam olim vigentes, ed. Georg Michael Pachtler (4 vols, Berlin, 1887–94), ii. 25–217, at 100–7 (De Disputationibus), and in Ratio atque institutio studiorum Societatis Iesu (1586 1591 1599), ed. Ladislaus Lukács (Monumenta Paedagogica Societatis Iesu, Vol. V, Rome, 1986), 1–158, at 71–7 (De Disputationibus). Cf. Hanspeter Marti, ‘Disputation’, in Gert Ueding (ed.), Historisches Wörterbuch der Rhetorik (Tübingen, 1992-), ii. 873–5; Hanspeter Marti, ‘Philosophieunterricht und philosophische Dissertationen im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert’, in Artisten und Philosophen. Wissenschafts- und Wirkungsgeschichte einer Fakultät vom 13. bis zum 19. Jahrhundert, ed. Rainer Christoph Schwinges (Basle, 1999), 207–32. See e.g. Johann Conrad Dannhawer (Dannhauer), Idea boni disputatoris et malitiosi sophistae (2nd edn, Strasbourg, 1632), 24 (1st edn, 1629). Dannhawer presupposes that nature has provided man with the ‘facultas disputatoria’ (7) and defines the disputant as ‘Analyticus omnium controversiarum in omni scibili occurrentium, ad discernendum verum à falso’ (49). The contrasting background for his portrayal of the good disputant is the sophist, to whom Dannhawer dedicates the main part of his work (Sectio II: ‘De malitioso sophista’, 129–379). Johann Adam Scherzer, Vade mecum Sive manuale philosophicum (Leipzig, 4th ed. 1675; repr.: Stuttgart–Bad Cannstatt, 1996), pt. 5, 2 (repr. 884). Scherzer’s most influential work is typical for the teaching of philosophy in the second half of the seventeenth century; cf. Walter Sparn, ‘Johann Adam Scherzer’, in Grundriss der Geschichte der Philosophie. Die Philosophie des 17. Jahrhunderts, iv. 521. Cf. Descartes, Discours de la méthode, pt. 1, in Œuvres, vi. 69: ‘Et ie n’ay iamais remarqué non plus, que, par le moyen des disputes qui se pratiquent dans les escholes on ait découuert aucune verité qu’on ignorast auparauant [ . . . ]’. – Secundae Responsiones, in Œuvres, vii. 157: ‘Quae ratio fuit cur Meditationes potius quàm, ut Philosophi, Disputationes, vel, ut Geometrae, Theoremata et Problemata, scripserim . . . ’ Heereboord, Praxis Logica, § XXXIII, 471. Ibid., § XXXVI, 474. Ibid., § XL, 475–81.

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44. There were even ‘dissertations’ or ‘disputations’ (the title changed) De Logomachiis Eruditorum under Werenfels’s presidency, published between 1688 and 1692. – Further editions: Dissertatio De Logomachiis Eruditorum. Accedit Diatribe De Meteoris Orationis (Amsterdam, 1702), 1–268; Dissertationum Volumina Duo, Vol. 1 (Amsterdam, 1716), 1–268; Opuscula Theologica, Philosophica et Philologica (Basle, 1718), 449–576; [ . . . ] Editio altera (2 vols, Lausanne and Geneva, 1739), ii. 1–116; [ . . . ] Editio nova aucta et emendata (3 vols, Basle, 1782), 1–130. There also was an English translation as early as 1711: A Discourse of Logomachys: or Controversys about Words, so common among Learned Men. To which is added, a Dissertation concerning Meteors of Stile, or False Sublimity. (London, 1711). See Rother, ‘Gelehrsamkeitskritik im späten 17. Jahrhundert’, 139–56. 45. Werenfels, De Logomachiis, cap. I, § 1. 46. Ibid., cap. II, § 6. 47. Ibid.,. cap. II, § 8. 48. Ibid., cap. III–IV, quoted. cap. IV, § 2. 49. Ibid., cap. V–VII. 50. Ibid., cap. VIII–X. 51. Ibid., cap. IX, § 5. 52. Samuel Werenfels, Idée d’un philosophe, first published in: Dissertationum Volumina Duo (2 vols, Basel, 1716), ii. 371–6 (all quotations from this edition); further editions: Opuscula (1718), 790–2; Opuscula (1739), ii. 195–7; Opuscula (1782), iii. 221–4. – Cf. Rother, ‘Gelehrsamkeitskritik im späten 17. Jahrhundert’, 156–9. 53. I wish to thank Simone Zurbuchen, University of Fribourg, for this suggestion concerning the French career of Werenfels’s essay. Cf. Andrew W. Fairbairn, ‘L’idée d’un philosophe, le texte et son auteur’, in La philosophie clandestine à l’âge classique. Actes du colloque de l’Université Jean Monet Saint-Etienne du 29 septembre au 2 octobre, eds. Antony McKenna, Alain Mothu (Paris and Oxford, 1997), 65–77; Jochen Schlobach, ‘Philosophes’, in Michel Delon (ed.) Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment, (Chicago and London, 2001), 1020–3 (originally in French: Dictionnaire européen des Lumières [Paris, 1997]). 54. Cf. Descartes, Principia Philosophiae, pt. 1, LXXI, in Œuvres, viii/1. 35–6. 55 Werenfels, Idée d’un philosophe, 373. 56. Ibid., 374. 57. Descartes, Discours de la méthode, pt. 1, in Œuvres, vi. 10. 58. Samuel Werenfels (Praeses), Ludwig Christian Mieg, Dissertatio Physico Mechanica De Regulis Communicationis Motus [ . . . ] An M.DC.LXXXVI. D. 15 April. (Basle, 1686). 59. See Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XLVI–LII, in Œuvres, viii/1. 68–70. 60. Werenfels, De Regulis, thes. I. 61. Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XXIV, in Œuvres, viii/1. 53. 62. Werenfels, De Regulis, thes. II: ‘translatio unius partis materiae, sive unius corporis, ex vicinia eorum corporum, quae illud immediatè contingunt &

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64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78.

79. 80.

History of Universities tanquam quiescentia spectantur, in viciniam aliorum’. Literally quotation of Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XXV, in Œuvres, viii/1. 53. Werenfels, De Regulis, thes. III: ‘affectio motus, ex comparatione longitudinis, seu spatii illius, quod motu transigitur & temporis, seu spatii illius in quo motus transigitur, resultantem, utpote quae, quo tempore quanta longitudo transigitur, determinat’. Ibid. Ibid., thes. IV–V; cf. Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XXXVI–XXXVII in Œuvres, viii/1. 61–2. Werenfels, De Regulis, thes. V; cf. Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XLVI–LII, in Œuvres, viii/1. 68–70. Werenfels, De Regulis, thes. V. Ibid., thes. VI. This argument is to be found already in Samuel Werenfels, Lukas Wiertz (Respondens), Thesium Ex Variis Philosophiae Partibus Selectarum farraginem [ . . . ] Publicè doctis examinandam proponit Ad diem 18 Decembris An. M DC LXXXIII. (Basle, 1683), Ex Physica, thes. 5: ‘Male Cartesius aliquam quieti resistentiam tribuit, atque adeò perperam statuit: tantundem realitatis esse in quiete atque in motu.’ See also Gautier’s dissertation of 1693, Theses Ex Universa Philosophia, thes. XXXI: ‘Quies verò motus tantùm privatio.’ Werenfels, De Regulis, thes. VII. Ibid., thes. VIII; cf. Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XXXVII, in Œuvres, viii/1. 62. Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XXXIV–XXXV, in Œuvres, viii/1. 59–60. Samuel Werenfels (Praeses), Amadeus Lefort, Meditatio De Atomis earumque in quolibet corpore Multitudine Innumerabili [ . . . ] D. 31 Augusti M. DC. LXXXVIII (Basle, 1688). Ibid., thes. I. Ibid., thes. II. Ibid., thes. VI. Ibid., thes. XII; cf. Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XXXIV, in Œuvres, viii/1. 59–60. Werenfels, Meditatio De Atomis, thes. XXV. Ibid. thes., XXVIII; cf. Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XXXV, in Œuvres, viii/1. 60: ‘Et quamvis, quomodo fiat indefinita ista divisio, cogitatione comprehendere nequeamus, non ideò tamen debemus dubitare quin fiat: quia clarè percipimus illam necessariò sequi ex naturâ materiae nobis evidentissimè cognitâ, percipimusque etiam eam esse de genere eorum quae à mente nostrâ, utpote finitâ, capi non possunt.’ Descartes, Principia, pt. 2, XXI, in Œuvres, viii/1. 52. Peter Megerlin taught mathematics in Basel from 1674 to 1686. In Basle, he got into troubles because of his defense of Copernicus. He was not allowed to publish his Systema Mundi Copernicanum Argumentis Invictis Demonstratum et Conciliatum Theologiae in Basle, so it appeared in Amsterdam in 1682. For Megerlin see Rudolf Staehelin, ‘Der Mathematiker und Astronom Peter Megerlin und seine Conflicte mit der Theologie seiner

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81.

82.

83. 84. 85.

86.

87.

88. 89. 90.

91. 92. 93.

94.

95

Zeit. Ein Beitrag zur Kirchen- und Kulturgeschichte des 17. Jahrhunderts’, in Jahrbücher für protestantische Theologie, 10/3 (1884), 368–94; Rother, Die Philosophie an der Universität Basel, 131–8, 201–2; Rother, ‘Zur Geschichte der Basler Universitätsphilosophie im 17. Jahrhundert’, in History of Universities, 2 (1982), 169–70; Rother, ‘Megerlin, Peter’, in Schweizer Lexikon, iv. 507. Peter Megerlin, Theodor Zwinger (Respondens), Theses Mathematicae Miscellaneae [ . . . ] Die XX. Januar. Anno M DC LXXIV. (Basle, 1674), quoted thes. XV. Werenfels, Thesium Ex Variis Philosophiae Partibus Selectarum farrago, Ex Physica, thes. 11: ‘Circa principium mundi Aristoteles, circa fines ejus Cartesius erravit.’ Samuel Werenfels, De Finibus Mundi Dialogus (Basle, 1682). Ibid., sig. C 4 recto. Paulus Tsernatoni, Theses Philosophicae [ . . . ] Occasione Laureae Magisterialis Capessandae [ . . . ] Die 19. Septemb. M DC LXV (Basle, 1665), thes. I: ‘Principium Philosophandi tametsi aliud aliis placeat, acreque sit de eo certamen; nihilominus pro Methodorum varietate recte & illud, Impoßibile est idem esse & non esse, & hoc, Ego cogitans existo, dici potest primum. Quia illis prius & notius non datur, & caetera inde pendent.’ – After his studies at Heidelberg Tsernatoni (or Csernatoni) from Transylvania matriculated at Basle University in August 1665 and took his M.A. on 21st September of the same year (two days after the disputation). Cf. Die Matrikel der Universität Basel, iii. 589. Joh. Rud. Beck, Christoph Burckhardt (Respondens), Themata Philosophica [ . . . ] Pro Vacante Profess. Rhetorica [ . . . ] Ad 28. diem Mensis Ianuarij An. M DC LXXXVIII. (Basle, 1678), quoted annex. 3: ‘Cogito, ergo sum, principium esse, exercitii causâ defendam.’ Johann Jacob Harder, Johann Jacob Huber (Respondens), Theses Miscellaneae [ . . . ] Vacante Sede Rhetorica [ . . . ] Ad Diem 7. Januar. M DC LXXVIII. (Basle, 1678), quoted thes. metaphys. 9: ‘Cogito, Ergo existo, non est primum principium.’ For Zwinger see Rother, Die Philosophie an der Universität Basel, 248–53; Rother, ‘Zwinger, Theodor III’, in Schweizer Lexikon, vi. 801. For Battier see Rother, Die Philosophie an der Universität Basel, 262–4. Theodor Zwinger (Praeses), Joh. Ludwig Frey (Mag. Cand., Author), Dissertationem Hanc Philosophicam Quae Est De Natura Mentis Humanae [ . . . ] D. 25. Julii Anni 1699 (Basle, 1699), quoted thes. I. Ibid. Ibid., thes. II. Samuel Battier (Praeses), Samuel Bringolff (Defendens), Dissertatio De Mente Humana [I.] [ . . . ] Ad d. 22. Nov. 1697. (Basle, 1697); Samuel Battier (Praeses), Abraham de Champ-Renaud (Defendens), Dissertationis De Mente Humana Continuatio [ . . . ] Ad d. 16. Decembr. 1701. (Basle, 1701). Battier, Dissertatio De Mente Humana [I.], 4, thes. 3.

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95. Descartes, Meditatio sexta, in Œuvres, vii. 84: ‘si considerem hominis corpus, quatenus machinamentum quoddam’; 85: ‘considerans machinamentum humani corporis’; see also in Meditatio secunda, 26: ‘totamque hanc membrorum machinam’. 96. Theodor Zwinger (Praeses), Daniel Brandmüller, Dissertatio Academica De Vita Hominis Sani [ . . . ] Pro consequendo Magisterii Philos. Gradu, Ad D. XVIII. Aug. M DC IC. (Basle, 1699), see § IV: ‘Corpus itaque humanum vivens atque sanum [ . . . ] nihil aliud est, quàm Machina quaedam hydraulico-pneumatica’. 97. Battier, Dissertatio De Mente Humana [I.], 4, thes. 4. 98. See also Gautier’s dissertation of 1693, Theses Ex Universa Philosophia, thes. XV: ‘De existentiâ mentis nostrae, seu principij in nobis cogitantis dubitare non possumus’. 99. Battier, Dissertatio De Mente Humana [I.], 5, thes. V: ‘Nil certius atque prius novimus quàm existentiam mentis nostrae’. 100. Ibid.: ‘atque proin merito existentia mentis nostrae pro basi omnis scientiae à Philosophis assumitur’. 101. Ibid., 5–7, thes. 6–7. 102. Ibid., 7, thes. 8; see Descartes, Meditatio Sexta, in Œuvres, vii. 81: ‘me non tantùm adesse meo corpori ut nauta adest navigio, sed illi arcitissime esse conjunctum & quasi permixtum, adeo ut unum quid cum illo componam’; 86: ‘& quamvis toti corpori tota mens unita esse videatur’; 88: ‘naturam hominis ut ex mente & corpore compositi’. 103. Battier, ibid., 8, thes. 8 – beginning with the question: ‘Vinculum verò unionis hujus quaeris? ecquod quaso possit esse aliud praeter voluntatem Dei?’ –, and the continuation, Dissertationis De Mente Humana Continuatio, 9–13, thes. 9–10, esp. 9, thes. 9. 104. Judicium De Argumento Cartesii Pro Existentia Dei Petito Ab Ejus Idea (Basle, 1699), no longer anonymous in Dissertationum Volumina Duo (1716) and in the editions of the Opuscula (1718, 1739, 1782). 105. Ibid., thes. I. 106. Ibid., thes. III. See Christoph Wittich, De Actuali Dei Providentia Disputationes XXII (Leyden, 1672–3). 107. Werenfels, Judicium, thes. IV–VI. 108. Descartes, Meditatio Quinta, in Œuvres, vii. 66; Primae Responsiones, in ibid., 120. 109. Ibid., thes. V. 110. Ibid., thes. XVII. 111. Werenfels, De Regulis, coroll. IV: ‘Primum Cartesii argumentum, quo Dei existentiam probare conatur, sophisma est.’ 112. Johann Jacob Wolleb, Daniel Schönauer (Respondens), Manipulus Thesium Quem [ . . . ] Vacante Professionis Rhetoricae Sede [ . . . ] proponit [ . . . ] D. 16. Novembr. M. DC. XCVI. (Basle, 1696), thes. VIII: ‘Ipsumque illud Ens perfectissimum, cujus ideam quandam ab ipso mihi inditam esse convictus sum, ob hac ipsum necessariò existere, & idearum mearum omnium, meique ipsius & causam & originem esse.’ – The theologian

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Wolleb applied – without success – for the vacant chair of rhetoric. He then pursued a career as a pastor. Cf. Die Matrikel der Universität Basel, iv. 187. 113. [Johann Heinrich Schweizer] Epistola Apologetica ad Deoduraeum Gentangulum, in qua Argumentatio Cartesii pro Existentia Dei, contra Judicium Reginense asseritur & vindicatur (Ulmae [Zurich?], 1700). 114. Ibid., 8. 115. Werenfels, De Finibus Mundi, sig. C 4 recto: Fateor quidem nihil esse difficilius, quàm sententiam mutare semel in animo conceptam, [ . . . ] nihilominus paratus sum sententiam mutare, quandocunque vel vos vel alius quispiam erroris me convincet: id quod vobis omnibusque veritatis studiosis sanctissimè polliceo.

Hoffmann and Stahl. Documents and Reflections on the Dispute Francesco Paolo de Ceglia

Preliminary Remarks: A Dispute Shrouded in Mystery

Friedrich Hoffmann (1660–1742)1 and Georg Ernst Stahl (1659–1734),2 both physicians and experts in experimental sciences, were amongst other things, authors of two of the most famous and controversial medical systems of the first half of the eighteenth century. After a youthful flirtation with iatrochemistry, Hoffmann embraced an articulate doctrine of iatromechanics. In this he was influenced by Robert Boyle (1627–91), whom he knew personally. Stahl, on the other hand, remained a staunch upholder of animism all his life, the doctrine of which he had already clearly expounded while still a student at Jena. Both professors at the Alma Regia et Electorali Academia Fridericiana in Halle – the former primarius, the latter secundarius – they were divided by intellectual divergences. Yet there is something paradoxical about the dispute in which they were involved. Though recorded in important works on the history of medicine, it has nevertheless taken on something of the guise of a historiographical mystery: a belief that most scholars cherish but are unable to detail or substantiate with documentary evidence.3 So far only one text has ever been adduced by historians as the documentary basis for the dispute: Hoffmann’s treatise De differentia doctrinae stahlianae a nostra, in pathologicis et therapeuticis.4 Yet was it really the primarius who wrote and published the De differentia? Jacques-Jean Bruhier d’Ablaincourt (1685–1756), the French translator of Hoffmann’s Medicina rationalis systematica, speaking of a letter that the professor sent to him, informs the reader: ‘He advised . . . that he did not consider as his another work published under his name, yet without his knowledge and against his will, [which was] taken from lessons he had held for his students on Stahl’s theory’.5 The fact that the De

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differentia was not entirely autograph, though not mentioned in the most recent bibliography, was well-known at the time of the compilation of the Opera omnia. Indeed, the editors of the first Supplementum, in which the Medicus politicus and the De differentia are published, classified them as ‘opera spurio-legitima’. In any case, the De differentia cannot be adduced as documentation in reconstructing the controversy for another, more important, reason: it is a mere comparison, and a partial one moreover, of the two positions, and not a chronicle of events. As such it is too conciliatory and so does not fully account for the nature of the ‘stand-off’ between the two colleagues as narrated elsewhere. What do we know of the relations between the two? It is difficult to say. It seems that it was Hoffmann who put forward Stahl’s name for the second chair in Medicine at Halle. The two had been students together at Jena and, according to those who have reconstructed Stahl’s life, Hoffman was well aware of his colleague’s merits and so wanted him to fill the post. Perhaps he had no interest in choosing an older, more experienced professor, who might have robbed him of some of his prestige; so the list of candidates was not very long. Moreover, Stahl really desired the post, as is revealed in the letter which, if we are to believe Hoffmann, he sent to the latter proposing his nomination.6 ‘Whoever comes to Halle leaves either a Pietist or an Atheist’. The aphorism is an ironic illustration of the cultural climate of the university town.7 In the heart of Pietist Germany a university was founded at Halle in 1694 with the aim of providing a higher education for the Prussian intellectual elite.8 The teaching staff at the Fridericiana comprised famous and controversial names in both cultural and religious circles, including Christian Thomasius (1655–1728), August Hermann Francke (1663–1727), Johann Franz Buddeus (1667–1729), and Christian Wolff (1679–1754). Both Hoffmann and Stahl were Pietists and had for several years been in contact with exponents of the local religious community, especially Francke. In the following years both would be ‘piously’ involved in the community, for instance by helping cure the sick at the Waisenhaus (orphanage) and working for the Freitische (institutes providing free board)9. Their religious choices were a factor in their appointment at the university.10 There was a rumour circulating at the time. It is Stahl’s biographer, Johann Samuel Strebel, who refers to it, albeit through clenched teeth, since his partiality to the hero of his Life is beyond all reasonable doubt. According to Strebel, Hoffman initially invited Stahl’s elder brother, Georg Konrad Stahl, to apply for the post, though in the end, for

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unknown reasons, it was the younger Stahl who obtained it.11 Georg Konrad was a young physician with excellent references, no less than his brother: he could boast, above all, service in the ‘Kreis’, the small administrative circle of Jerichow. Moreover, his Europäischer Ingenieur, published under the pseudonym of Martius, had been loudly acclaimed. This work, reprinted several times, was an engineering treatise on fortifications in which a knowledge of physics and mathematics were admirably exhibited.12 Finally, the most persuasive credential for the primarius would have been that Georg Konrad was an advocate of iatromechanics.13 If Strebel’s information is correct, Hoffmann’s behaviour would seem consistent. Indeed, during their years spent at Jena, the younger Stahl had already distanced himself intellectually from his colleague and had openly criticized works by Hoffmann, such as the De autocheiria and the De cinnabari antimonii, both published in 1681. So there had already been disagreements between Hoffmann and Stahl, often of a puerile nature.14 No mention is made in any other document held in the archives of Halle University of this shift from Georg Konrad to Georg Ernst, which poses serious problems as to its veracity.15 Whatever happened, the fact that Hoffmann called of his own accord his former fellow student continues to seem unlikely, and so many historians have sought an alternative version to this popular belief. Rather than suggesting a solution, the rumour of the exchange seems to express the difficulty of reconstructing events that often seem incoherent.16 In any case, it seems that Georg Ernst sent a letter to his former colleague Friedrich. Since their relations were already tense, it must have cost the primarius a lot, in terms of amour propre, to forget the past and invite the aspirant to take a seat beside him, though it must have also cost Stahl a lot to ask a favour in the name of a friendship that perhaps had never existed. We cannot exclude the possibility that, before writing to Hoffmann, Stahl may have followed other leads.17 There are no explicit first-hand accounts of the relations between Hoffmann and Stahl in their initial years at Halle. Though, as we shall see, the years from the end of the seventeenth to the beginning of the eighteenth century marked a definitive rupture. We shall briefly mention the second phase of the dispute, though we shan’t dwell on it for reasons of thematic coherence. Consulting archival documents and reading between the lines of published works, certain events emerge which have so far been ignored. As we know, in 1709 Hoffmann became LeibMedicus, that is, one of the King’s personal physicians. Misfortune

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would strike soon after. In 1712, for reasons as yet unclear, he left the post and returned to Halle. According to his biographers, ‘Neid und Haß’ – envy and hatred – had induced him to leave the capital,18 though this is not actually the case, since he was in fact obliged to leave. And the accusation which forced his departure was a serious one: he supposedly caused the death of the heir to the throne, Friedrich Wilhelm’s second son, who was also called Friedrich Wilhelm, Prince of Prussia. No Life of the physician mentions this fact, however. It was studiously avoided by Hoffmann’s eighteenth century biographers, who didn’t want to sully the immaculate image of their primarius, and was never retrieved by the historiography on the subject.19 Once back in Halle, he published what he himself called ‘eine gantz innocente’ – ‘a perfectly innocuous’ – Disputatio de medicamentis insecuris.20 The text was impugned by his adversary at court, Andreas von Gundelsheimer, and so caused the primarius even more trouble, eventually leading to the revocation of the title of Leib-Medicus. In a short time, the roles between Hoffmann and Stahl had been reversed, and fortune finally smiled on the secundarius, who was nominated Leib-Medicus in the same year (1712), without having to take up residence at court. In 1715, on Gundelsheimer’s death, Stahl was summoned to the Prussian court as first Leib-Medicus on the former’s recommendation.

In Search of the Trojan Horse

In the statutes of the Fridericiana, disputes between members of the teaching staff, especially written ones, were forbidden for reasons of decorum.21 This obstacle, however, was not insurmountable: it hadn’t precluded Hoffmann from engaging in a heated debate with Christian Thomasius.22 One simply had to be cautious, for instance by publishing one’s works without indicating the editor, publication date or name of one’s adversary. Often pamphlets were published anonymously, or attributed to a third party, which allowed one to save face. Sometimes a pupil was attacked in order to inflict a blow on the master; at others, entire passages from the adversary’s work were cited, yet he was never explicitly identified. Though this didn’t prevent contemporaries from recognising the actors in the drama, it makes the historian’s task today all the more difficult.23

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The real clash between Hoffmann and Stahl (that is, not the watered down version) took place, at least in Halle, in a semi-private manner. It was a dispute between two experts with radically different visions, not only of medical practice, but above all of human physiology and Nature in general. It was a clash between the proud founding members of two different schools of thought, which arose not because of first principles, but rather in the margins of a question of medical semiotics: is there a difference between a rapid (celeris) pulse-rate and a frequent (frequens) one? For Stahl the answer was affirmative, for Hoffman negative. A semiotics of the pulse-rates had already had an important place especially in the Galenic tradition. Yet its centrality now derived from the fact that the choice between equating or not equating a rapid pulserate with a frequent one had much broader implications and reflected the two physicians’ most intimate convictions on the nature of heat, fever, and disease in general. Indeed, in some ways, it was the whole of their physio-pathological edifice that was being called into question. A document expressly dedicated to the initial phases of the ‘contest’ is a section of Hoffmann’s unpublished autobiography concerning the Adversitäten which he encountered in his relations with Stahl. The passage, which has never been published, recounts episodes that published works could not. We should heed the testimony, albeit with caution: In his lectures and dissertations, he [Stahl] never neglected to ambush and attack constantly, with acrimony and recourse to ludicrous expressions, anyone who referred to mechanical medicine. Such manifestations of hostility reached the point of boiling over into a public controversy. As if this were not enough, certain ill-disposed characters helped make a tense situation even worse, and were content whenever they managed to sow the seeds of discord amongst colleagues. In the beginning the subject of the dispute was the pulse-rate. Having identified a clear difference between a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one, he built his new theory of fevers upon this doctrine [for instance, Exercitatio medico pratica de febre petechiali seu purpurata, 1685]. I, for my part, in a purely incidental manner, showed in a dissertation that, in actual fact, there is no difference between a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one, and that the frequency is rather to be understood as a consequence (affectio) of the celerity in the continuous motions [Disputatio physico-medica de causis caloris naturalis et praeternaturalis in corpore nostro, 1699]. In reply, in a dissertation on the nature of fevers [Disputatio medica qua febris in genere historiam . . . proponet, 1701, or more likely, Disputatio medica inauguralis de febris pathologia in genere, 1702] he attacked my doctrine in such a cutting way that in order to explain more fully my reasons I found myself obliged to treat the matter in an inaugural dissertation on pulse-rates [Dissertatio inauguralis pulsuum theoria et praxin, 1702] . . . And since, in an appended epistle to the candidate, I censured the bad

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habits of those scholars who would not admit of any dissent and who considered themselves wise, he felt himself implicated, and taking the matter in hand, prepared a special work entitled [Excusatio respondens examini pulsuum celeris et frequentis, eorumque constans distinctio, qua demonstratur, quod argumenta adversus illum iterum publico scripto provata, thesin non feriant, 1702]. This hinged on two points. 1) As was his wont, he played the part of the moralist, using obscure expressions, while he surreptitiously accused me of this and that. 2) He then tried to demonstrate, with absolutely inconsistent arguments, his doctrine according to which there is an immense difference between a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one, thereby seeking to confute my doctrine. To this end, he took some passages from my writings and dissertations that seemed to conflict with the doctrine and explanation which I had expounded in the dissertation on pulse-rates. In response, I wrote a work entitled [Excusationi respondenti examini pulsuum celeris et frequentis, caput II. de pulsu celeri et frequenti, dissertationis de pulsuum theoria et praxi cum placido responso opponitur et controversia omnibus peritis et doctis ad expendendum commendatur, 1702]. Now, since I sent all the writings in question to Court, he received thence a severe rebuke. This measure prostrated him not a little and so his enmity towards me was sharpened.24

The manuscript does not cite the works in question, the titles of which I have added. Hoffmann’s words, though partial, clearly reveal what does not emerge from a watered-down account such as De differentia. For instance, by shedding light on a passage from Medicina rationalis systematica, which has so far been neglected by historians, they reveal the extent to which even the published works are brim-full of allusions and nods and winks that often escape the modern reader’s attention: I prefer not to recount here the bitter controversy in which some time ago an illustrious gentleman involved me in a quite unexpected manner because I had written that in medical practice a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one could be taken as one and the same thing. Judging my assertion as an explicit refutation of his doctrine of the fevers, he took the trouble to write a whole work in support and defence of his thesis, according to which there is a substantial difference between a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one. I, for my part, in my Dissertation on the nature and use of pulse-rates [Dissertatio de pulsuum natura genuina differentia et usu in praxi is the title that Dissertatio inauguralis pulsuum theoria et praxin, 1702, would have in the 1738 edition, and so also in the Opera omnia, VI, 237–44] as well as in my apology [Excusationi respondenti examini pulsuum celeris et frequentis, 1702] made it clearly known, unless I am mistaken, before anyone else, that in the motions there is an immense difference between celerity and frequency, since the former is to be considered in reference to intensity and time, the latter in reference to the rhythm of the motions themselves, though it does not inhere in their essence. When one speaks,

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however, of a motion in which one movement is always followed by another, as in the pulse-rate, the question to pose is this: does the frequency not perhaps depend on the celerity of each motion? Is it not a feature distinct from this celerity? Such is what I affirmed, not without reason.25

The last of the dissertations on pulse-rates, Excusationi respondenti examini pulsuum celeris et frequentis, published anonymously in 1702,26 is attributed merely en passant to Hoffmann by only two of his biographers, Rambach27 and Götten, both of whom were contemporaries of the physician. Nevertheless, it is fairly easy to attribute this text to Hoffmann, since the author refers to works by the primarius as if they were his own. Of the two sources, only Götten mentions the dispute for which the pamphlet was written, though his account of events is brief and cryptic. The biographer ignores – or pretends not to know – Stahl’s name, indicating him generically as a certain scholar, ‘ein gewisser Gelehrter’.28 As was often the case in reference to such disputes, the adversary’s name is never explicitly mentioned. All the other information on this phase of the controversy has to be retrieved from the texts at the centre of the debate, each of which refers back, in a more or less explicit manner, though not always in a linear sequence, to the preceding ones.

The Dispute Over Pulse Rates

Having used the passage from Hoffmann’s autobiography as a Trojan Horse to penetrate the physicians’ self-imposed veil of silence, we are now in a position to attempt a reconstruction of the history of the dispute. While still very young, Stahl had elaborated a doctrine that placed tonic motion at the centre of physiological activity. It was an essential constricting and relaxing movement of the fleshy parts: a vital exercise, the aim of which is to propel the humours towards and, above all, through these parts, as well as to facilitate the expulsion of unnatural and abnormal solids found in these liquids.29 On the basis of this, he identified in fever – which for him, as indeed for most of his contemporaries, was a spastic syndrome30 – the principal activity by which an organism, exacerbating the tonic motion, and therefore increasing the circulation of the blood, raises the body heat, on the one hand, and favours excretion and secretion, on the other. The former effect attenuates excessive matter and keeps the meatus through which it is filtered wide open, while the

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latter refines and expels it. In this perspective the soul fulfils the role of an ideal repository of information acting on the body in such a way that its physio-pathological functions are carried out. As Stahl would later claim, his position on fevers had already been stated definitively in Exercitatio medico-practica de febre petechiali seu purpurata, written well before his arrival at Halle. Fever, he had concluded, was a beneficial activity, and this he author felt (rightly or wrongly) was the most innovative aspect of his teaching. At this point a considerable doubt may arise. Does the intestine agitation of the blood, from which heat and local motion arise, depend on the morbid cause as agent (effectiva) or impelling (impulsiva) cause? Or would it not be more correct to say that the soul agitates the mediated subject [the blood] with greater intensity; that is, it deliberately excites the fever so that the harmful substance is drawn up and down in order not to have a fixed and tranquil abode wherein to exercise its pernicious effects, until . . . it is ready to be dissolved and evacuated?31

Whence does febrile heat derive? Following the dictum of a text written a few years later, in which Stahl drew up a balance of his labours, we may summarize: ‘1) The blood is generally heated through an intestine motion of friction; 2) the heat increases with an increase in the intensity of this intestine motion; 3) the heat-generating capacity of this intestine motion depends on local, or progressive, motion; 4) even the increase of this heat depends on an increase in progressive motion’.32 Actually, the first two assumptions were not a novelty. And we see that Stahl was well aware of this in declaring that heat – as Descartes attested – should be understood primarily as ‘a very rapid vortical motion of extremely tenuous corpuscles around their axis, thus adhering to a site and not a place, immanent and not progressive’.33 The last two propositions, however, for which Stahl claimed exclusive right in his theory, were not so anodyne for contemporary science. In his judgement the circulatory, or progressive, motion of the blood, if increased by the soul in order to induce excretion and secretion, indirectly increases the friction and rotation of the blood corpuscles around their axis, and thus body heat tout court. So we cannot detect a thermal increase except in the extent to which there is an acceleration of circulatory motion.34 The macro-phenomenon, that is the motus progressivus, controlled directly by the soul, indirectly affects the micro-phenomenon, the motus intestinus. Whatever the relations between the two colleagues, the end of the seventeenth century marked a definitive breach.35 The Disputatio physico-medica de causis caloris naturalis et praeternaturalis in corpore

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nostro, published by Hoffmann in 1699, though not formally addressed to Stahl, who was not mentioned by name, nevertheless challenged his doctrine. The primarius stated his case against the doctrine in unequivocal terms. Stahl had declared himself convinced that there was a significant difference between a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one: the former connected to the longer or shorter length of each impulse, the latter to the rhythm with which these impulses follow one another. While a rapid pulse-rate is the principal and incontrovertible sign of a fever, a frequent pulse-rate is ambiguous, since it can also be found in non-pathological conditions. On the contrary, Hoffmann exhorted: Let us now examine the theory of those who maintain that febrile heat derives from a more intense progressive motion of the blood . . . These persons conclude that since in a feverish state . . . the pulse is particularly rapid and frequent, together with an intense respiration, the blood circulates more quickly through the arteries and veins of the body. Now, in order to ponder and examine with care the whole issue, we must first say something about pulse-rates, on which the whole question depends. It is well known that a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one are to be evaluated, and this is an almost unanimous opinion, as feverish and that they provide . . . an essential and pathognomonic sign. Nevertheless, it is also clear that, when referring to a temporal sequence, the terms ‘celerity’ and ‘frequency’ may be considered as the same thing.36

The author was conducting an examen of his adversary’s medical theory. The Latin term, often employed by the primarius, must have irritated Stahl, who would use it to indicate each of the attacks perpetrated against him – with a pedantic and professorial tone, he claimed – by his colleague. It was clear that Hoffmann was using the problem of pulse-rates in order to discuss the doctrine of the fevers and with it the physiological presuppositions on which it was based. Stahl attributed such importance to a rapid pulse-rate, since he considered it the main propeller, in pathological circumstances, of a more energetic impulsion of the blood and so of a greater friction between the corpuscles, as well as between the corpuscles and the heart and artery walls, and therefore of febrile heat. The aetiological centrality of a rapid pulse-rate thus constituted the premise which made sense of Stahl’s fundamental thesis, whereby the progressive motion of the blood increases intestine motion: for him, a frequent pulse-rate did not present characteristics that would allow it to have an equally important pathognomonic function. As Stahl would explain in later works, a frequent pulse-rate is to be found in concomitance with the soul’s passions, such as fear or terror, in which state the body heat remains unchanged.37 Hoffmann was expressing reserve about

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the semiotic primacy of a rapid pulse-rate, and thereby doubting that an increase in progressive motion was the unique cause of febrile heat: My opinion is as follows: in all morbid, feverish or inflammatory heat, the circulation of the blood around the body is not uniform, nor is it always rapid, but rather, the greater the quantity of blood, the slower and more sluggish the circulation. I have already said that if the passages are free, the blood is fluid and the impulse energetic and rapid. I would like to add that if the motions of the systoles and diastoles are in just and reciprocal proportion, the mass of blood circulates more rapidly and an intense heat is generated, which nevertheless is not feverish nor preternatural. When, on the other hand, the passages are not free and the systoles and diastoles of the heart and vessels do not alternate in a perfect and rhythmical manner, then the circulation of the blood is not uniformly more rapid . . . Now we need instead to demonstrate that in those diseases associated with heat and with excessive, enormous or preternatural ardour, the blood does not circulate uniformly throughout the body, but on the contrary, its motion is impeded in certain parts.38

In empirical terms, Hoffmann recorded a rise in body heat even in circumstances in which the progressive motion of the blood did not seem to be increased. Taking a stance which was diametrically opposed to that of Stahl, he asserted that preternatural body heat was not necessarily the result of a more rapid circulation; on the contrary, it was often the result of an obstruction, which made the more active particles, inhibited in their progressive motion, compensate for this impairment by a greater intestine motion. While for Stahl the essence of fever resided in an increase in circulatory motion, for Hoffmann it was not so different from a stagnation of the blood and consequent inflammation. From a purely semiotic perspective, for Hoffmann there was no correlation between body heat and pulse-rate which was, instead, so crucial for his rival’s theory. As Stahl soon realized, the dispute, formally de pulsibus, was swiftly becoming de calore.39 Though sceptical in the face of his colleague’s tendency to oversimplify, Hoffmann did not deny on principle that progressive motion could play a role in heating the humours. The way, or degree, in which it acts in pathological conditions, however, is not so different from the way in which it acts when the body is healthy. In Medicina rationalis systematica, the masterpiece of his maturity, he would express more fully the positions stated only tentatively in 1699: There are two kinds of intestine motion sustained by the progressive motion of the blood. The first is that which produces heat, the second gives fluidity to the humours and obtains the right and intimate admixture of the solid parts

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with the fluid. Since the strong and continuous contraction of the heart and arteries forces the blood against the artery walls, its sulphurous parts heat up through intestine motion and friction, transmitting the heat thus acquired to the whole body . . . There are two further kinds of intestine motion of the humours that do not depend, however, on the progressive motion of the blood, but rather on its stasis, or slowing down. These are the motions of fermentation and transmutation.40

The author attached enormous responsibility for an increase in febrile and inflammatory heat to fermentation and transmutation. This is why, in accordance with statements made by Franciscus Le Boë (aka Sylvius, 1614–72), he located the source of many chronic illnesses in the duodenum, where acidic, bilious and viscous undigested foods stop and ferment.41 In brief, whilst Stahl concentrated his attention especially on the macro-phenomenon (motus progressivus), Hoffmann emphasized the importance of the micro-phenomenon (motus intestinus): ‘It is false that the heat of the blood and of our body depends on the more rapid circulation of the blood; rather is it produced by the internal movement of the blood and increased reflexive motion of the ether in the blood’.42 Though Hoffmann was not very clear on the argument, in his words it was the motus intestinus that seemed to be the cause of the motus progressivus: ‘Once the impulse of heart and arteries becomes stronger and more rapid, the fluidity of the blood increases, as does its heated intestine motion, and especially while the paroxysm lasts, . . . the progressive motion too becomes more rapid . . . The coctio of the ancients consists in this correction’.43 Once the disputatio was ended, the examen was taken up again. In the same year (1699) Hoffmann published Dissertatio physico-medica de natura morborum medicatrice mechanica in which, amongst other things, he ascribed to their illustrious predecessors the theory, which Stahl had perhaps too lightly claimed as his own, according to which fever was to be understood as the organism’s beneficial response to the attack of a pathogenic agent: ‘Thus Campanella rightly said that fever is the body’s medicine, a potent remedy and protection that removes the pernicious morbid causes: as if Nature were fighting against disease . . . even the esteemed Sydenham concords with this assumption’.44 Stahl would often return to the question, which he had taken to heart: It has been objected that Campanella well before me maintained that fever is useful . . . with the same candour I have never denied that Sydenham understood fever as the work of Nature the Healer and that van Helmont himself thought of this before him. Nevertheless . . . if someone seeks to affirm that there is a

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relation between my thesis and the assertions of the above-mentioned authors, then they should, first of all, demonstrate that these authors are in agreement over the question, and that what they say is in harmony with my doctrine, or at least has something much more significant in common with it . . . 45

The comparison with Campanella was what Stahl particularly desired to stave off.46 The Italian philosopher, he judged, had not been able to prove his assertions, nor did he attribute to excretion and secretion that operative centrality without which the phenomenon of fevers remained incomprehensible. Moreover, though accused of ‘Campanellism’, he admitted with affected candour that he had never read anything by Campanella. Perhaps this is true, though the rhetorical force of the admission might suggest a degree of dissimulation. In order to pose as a foil to Hoffmann he was wont to project an image of himself as an Arcadian observer of Nature rather than an assiduous habitué of libraries. Whatever the true story, Stahl would only fill the literary lacuna a few years later, according to his public pronouncements: ‘This happens, not for physical or anatomical reasons, that is to say, caused by igneous spirits, as Campanella thinks (I have read this in his book, which I obtained a few weeks ago), but rather it has a mechanical cause’.47 The dispute seemed to end here. No reply appeared in 1699, nor in the two years immediately following, during which time the disputants published various works on fevers without directly dealing with problems connected to the semiotics of pulse-rates. As to what happened in their personal relations, we do not know.

An Intermezzo on Fevers

In order to understand better the significance of the dispute, I would like to pause for a moment over certain aspects of the physio-pathological systems edified by the two contenders, especially the aetiology of fevers elaborated by each.48 Stahl’s soul, as already mentioned, is an ideal centre of co-ordination for physio-pathological activities, a hypostasization without extension of the information which, at various levels, must operate through the body in order to carry out the vital processes.49 Stahl’s position was far from that of the vitalists; indeed, he never speaks of the life of the body, but rather of life in the body. Matter, which is merely passive, is not living

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but it is vivified; it is the instrument and tree of life. Life, which some consider ‘materiarum aut in materiis’, carries out its task ‘in materias’.50 The soul penetrates into every recess of the body and tends to its maintenance. Yet the soul is not co-substantial with the body, but can rather be said to glide over it. Once it has been stated that life, in order to be maintained, requires certain actions to be carried out, a principle that guarantees their execution must be found. From a heuristic point of view, Stahl’s soul is the result rather than the premise of his physiology. As in Aristotle, the immaterial principle is the vital telos that cannot be expressed by matter. It confers on matter, in itself passive, the information on the basis of which to act. In Scholastic terms, as some eighteenth century critics noted, the soul is the form which, undergoing a process of hypostasization, becomes an unextended substance. This result had already been touched upon more than once in Aristotle’s writings.51 On an empirical level, with an aetio-pathological simplification audacious even for his time, Stahl indicates plethora as the immediate morbid cause in most cases, since it slows down, alters or stops circulation: blood accumulates in vessels or in the porous regions of the body, causing what he technically calls ‘decubitus’.52 This causes an alteration in the corporeal humours and a dangerous spissescentia sanguinis. The portal vein, more than the rest of the vascular system, is the channel in which the circulation of the humours finds the greatest difficulty. Stases arise because of the large amount of blood that the spleen pours into this increasingly narrow vessel, and because of the lack of valves that would impede dangerous forms of regurgitation. As a consequence, the humours linger there and occasionally, though rarely, they stop, becoming corrupted in a short time. This is why Stahl calls the portal vein the ‘gateway of all disease’.53 According to Stahl, in order to counteract this tendency, the soul, acting on tonic motion – to simplify, intensifying progressive motion through an increase in the celeritas of the pulse-rate – raises the body heat, which in turn produces excretion and secretion.54 Fever, which involves the solidae molles partes (solid-soft parts) of the body is therefore the expression of the soul’s excretive intentio. Symbolically, it is the epiphany of the genius naturae, the tutelary spirit (in other words, infraconscious rationality) that animates the body and fights disease.55 Even in those few cases in which fever is not caused by plethora, it is always the reaction to an excess, a superabundance or an unjustified presence.56 ‘As an active, though material, principle, and thus not equivalent to Stahl’s soul, ether made its appearance’, Johann Hermann Baas

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commented over a century ago.57 For Hoffmann, who postulates rather than demonstrates the materiality of ether, it functions as a sort of ‘impetum faciens’ and is thus not so remote from Stahl’s anima. For Stahl, however, the soul acts teleologically and is possessed only by humans (and perhaps in less sophisticated form by animals). Ether mechanically animates ‘all sublunar things’ thereby closing the gap between ‘organicum’ and ‘mechanicum’ opened up by the animist.58 True, for Hoffmann matter is active, but only insofar as ether gives it ‘motion and vigour’:59 The query into the nature of cerebral and nervous liquid, which should preside over our sensations as well as over tonic and vital motion, has already been presented. In short, one can say that it is constituted by an extremely subtle material fluid that has an excellent expansive activity and virtue, giving motion and vigour to all sublunar things existing in nature. It is none other than the universal aero-ethereal fluid.60

For Hoffmann, when a fever occurs the blood abandons the external parts and is transmitted from the periphery to the centre, where it exerts greater pressure and so makes the systoles and diastoles mechanically more energetic. Then, from the centre the blood rushes to the surface parts, where it cannot be excreted because vessels and pores are constricted by spasms. In fever there is thus a dual motion: spasmodic, from the outside to the inside, and vital and excreting, from the inside to the outside. The former is pernicious, since it carries deep into the body all the noxious impurities that should be eliminated. The latter, in itself beneficial, is that which the physician should treat in order to bring the body back to a healthy state. This ‘oscillating model’ of opposing motions is typical of Hoffmann’s way of explaining pathological dynamics. Unlike Stahl, who consistently locates the (empirical) cause of fever in the blood, for Hoffmann the origin of fevers is almost always ‘nervous’, since it depends on an improper distension of the fibres, which causes spasms (solidism): a wound in the nerve tunica, for example, generates the same feverish symptoms.61 This is the so-called doctrine of the strictum et laxum, which was derived from the ancient methodical medicine, and, thanks to Giorgio Baglivi’s (1668–1707) interpretation as well, has been revived at different times under such various guises as the Hoffmann’s idea of tonic and atonic conditions, John Brown’s (1735–88) theory of sthenic and asthenic states, François-J.-V. Broussais’s (1772–1838) theory of irritation as a cause of disease, and Giovanni Rasori’s (1766–1837) doctrine of stimulus and contrastimulus.62 Tone,

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whether normal or preternatural, should thus be re-interpreted in terms of the nervous system: It is amazing that there are some who . . . doubt that while the systole, which is a contracting motion, takes place in the arteries, the blood is impelled through the veins, and from there to the heart. But when they have realized this, then how can they ignore that tonic motion, about which they make such a fuss, consists in an alternation between contraction and relaxation and is not proper to muscles and fibres only, but also, indeed above all, to channels, which are interwoven with nervous tunica and elastic fibres . . . ? They should also know that the nature of these very simple vital motions is such that one always follows and stimulates the other, so that a systole produces a diastole and a diastole a systole.63

For Stahl a spasm is a ‘psycho-haematological’ concept, for Hoffmann a ‘nervous’ one. For both it is an exacerbation of tonic motion: for the former, concerning particularly the muscular and fibrous parts, for the latter, concerning the parts through which the ethereal-elastic fluid passes, especially the veins in case of fevers. Finally – and as we shall see, this is perhaps the most important point – for Stahl each motion depends on the soul’s (infra-conscious) volition. So the necessary mechanical correlation between systole and diastole, which we encounter in Hoffmann, is missing. For the secundarius nothing in the organism is mechanical, not even the motion of the heart.64 The difference between the two professors’ ways of conceiving fevers is outlined by Hoffmann himself in the De differentia: 1) For Stahl feverish motions are healthy in themselves, whereas for Hoffmann they are completely irregular, so that some are beneficial and some are pernicious. 2) Stahl maintains that these extraordinary motions derive from an intentional principle that guides them, whereas Hoffmann’s opinion is that they are produced in a purely mechanical way and have merely physical, that is bodily, causes. 3) Stahl does not study the parts of the body, more especially the nervous system, where these motions take place. His attention is focused on the soul’s purpose in creating the motions, whereas Hoffmann dwells on the causes that induce fever, which reside in a spastic contraction of the nervous system. 4) Stahl is convinced that the cause of fevers is to be found in the excessive quantity of blood in the body, whereas Hoffmann believes that this excess is only incidental to the creation of feverish states, the main cause of which is a process acting virtually like a poison on the nervous system. 5) For Stahl the soul seeks to fulfil its purpose by increasing the motion of the blood; in his opinion any attempt therefore to reduce body temperature,

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for example by blood-letting, is to be rejected as contrary to the principal agent’s actions. For Hoffmann, since fevers have different causes, blood-letting, like every other therapeutic practice, is to be evaluated case by case.65

The Dispute Rekindled

It was only in 1701 that Stahl returned to the subject of pulse-rates in his Disputatio medica qua febris in genere historiam . . . proponet. Despite the apparent lack of distinction on a practical level between a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one, he was unmoveable in according to each a specific semiotic identity: A frequent pulse-rate is such a common occurrence that we may find it even in perfectly healthy persons, after running, swimming, after a meal or any other temporary heating of the whole body. In preternatural terms, we find it in heart palpitations. In unnatural conditions, it may be recorded as habitual, indeed essential in a state of terror or fear in men who are otherwise healthy. A rapid pulse-rate, on the other hand, is proper to and essential for fevers . . . and is not wrongly designated as their pathognomonic sign.66

In January 1702, on the occasion of the conferral of doctoral titles on their students, the two professors again came into conflict. It is likely that each knew the other would sharpen his weapons for the occasion. Indeed, Stahl said that he would intervene only ‘because in these days a fresh debate on the subject is proposed’.67 The animist published a personal apology, Medicina medicinae necessaria. Immediately after he produced a mordant, and more than usually cryptic, Propempticon inaugurale de ‘paralogismo’ proportionis figurae pororum secretorium,68 to accompany the doctoral thesis of his disciple Johann Nicholas Heunisch. The role played by this work was of great importance, even though Stahl’s version of the facts plays it down.69 Stahl launched a warning: It is to be regretted that in such a delicate matter as the care of a man’s life and health not only does one indulge in rash games of fantasy, but as by an agreed signal, these are embellished as in a contest. So, day by day, new comments are proffered which are as inconsistent as dreams; such comments shroud truth and simplicity in a haze . . . Such men have abandoned so early the dust of the schools that they have not mastered the indispensable tools to help them comprehend the relations and the functions, so to speak, of things.70

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As was common in the disputationes of the period, the candidate Heunisch acted as a mouthpiece through which the praeses could freely praise himself and lash out at the third party. In a kind of excusatio non petita the candidate set forth his intentions: I perceive, o praeses, that whatever has so far been proposed or said by myself, in my official capacity, on medical theory, against vacuous opinions, has almost never been intended to counter the teachings of a specific person. I have acted against this or that doctrine with a greater verbal moderation than that deserved by the often unprecedented exuberance of the circumstances and the issues at hand. Meanwhile, conscious and desirous to do so, I have acted publicly, not privately; and I challenge anyone to affirm the contrary.71

If the fear that his contemporaries might believe there was a private quarrel running parallel to the public one was such as to justify a peremptory declaration of this kind, then rumours were probably already circulating along the corridors of the Fridericiana. Hoffmann as always showed great rhetorical poise.72 Dissertatio inauguralis pulsuum theoriam et praxin was the title he chose for the work defended ‘pro doctoris gradu’ by his candidate Johann Deodat Blumentrost in January 1702.73 The work was presented as an attempt to prune the abstract classifications de pulsibus elaborated by the classical tradition (based especially on Galen). Though this tradition showed admirable theoretical endeavours, by ignoring the circulation of the blood, it had misinterpreted many clinical signs. At certain points, however, the text once again had the appearance of an examen of that constans distinctio between a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one which had been reaffirmed by Stahl in those very days. Or at least, it was taken as such. In the Disputatio medica qua febris in genere historiam . . . proponet Stahl had declared that teaching practitioners the difference between the two pulse-rates in question would be ‘absurdum’: it was so patently obvious that serious practitioners would be able to recognise it for themselves.74 Offended, Hoffmann took up these words almost to the letter, saying that all his contemporaries now considered a rapid and a frequent pulse-rate ‘pro uno pulsu’;75 nevertheless, some people – he continued – went around saying that the difference was such and such, and that any medical practitioner would consider ‘absurdum’ those who sought to deny it.76 The chapter dedicated to the relation between the two pulserates was particularly full and articulate; as before, the author was careful to distinguish between two perspectives: on the one hand, the theory, which inevitably required conceptual separation between the affectiones

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of the pulse-rate, on the other, the practice, in which it was impossible to distinguish them clearly: The motion of the heart and arteries is always articulated in systoles and diastoles. Thus the number of pulsations in a limited interval increases and is found to be greater if the arterial systoles and diastoles are quicker, more rapid and intense; that is, if they take place in a shorter period of time. The same thing is to be seen in a pendulum, in which the more numerous the oscillations in a given interval, the shorter, and so more rapid, they are. It is to be noted, however, that the celerity of a single arterial impulse cannot in itself be easily felt, since it lasts a very short time. For this reason the medical practitioner Sylvius correctly writes in Book I, Chapter XXVI of his Praxis medica that, once the mind has reflected on the pulse-rate, the celerity can undoubtedly be conceived, though it cannot be felt or perceived with the fingers.77

The celeritas of the pulse-rate is inferred from its frequentia: this was an impugnment of Stahl’s assumptions that Hoffmann had already advanced, but this time he desired to go further. The last part of the text sounds like a veritable accusation. Indeed, in the epistle to the candidate and his noble lineage, loosening the snares of the contention imposed upon him by academic decorum, the praeses impatiently stigmatised: In short, the student of Nature and physician does not investigate first causes since he will never be able to fathom them. What is the essence of motion? What is the intimate nature of the soul? What is the reason for the plastic force of the seed? He devotes himself merely to inquiring into direct causes, and so the effects and reciprocal reactions of corporeal agents on one another . . . Nevertheless, one stands amazed, or rather is pained by the fact that amongst learned men there are still some who are resolutely averse to such principles, due to some incomprehensible obstinacy in their character. In place of such principles, they energetically defend – and do not always do so in a decorous manner – merely abstract and generic or metaphysical notions, or else moral causes, which are partly unintelligible and partly have all the appearance of petitio principii. Now, since those who have had a more refined education cannot approve of such an approach, the persons in question express themselves with disdain and sarcasm, and, what is worse, they treat the masters of these recalcitrant students with indignation, offending, burdening and mistreating these innocent with false accusations.78

Despite this outburst, Hoffmann’s haughtiness was meant to be poise: he embodied the institution and expected others to remember it. Fearful lest the affair infringe upon his respectability, he too tried to stave off any rumours on the private histrionics that might have accompanied the public controversy: ‘I, who teach mechanical principles, never ambush,

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attack or jeer at opinions contrary to mine, neither in public nor in private, neither covertly nor openly. Rather, I defend my ideas with great modesty, allaying any doubts, as my writings teach and as those who follow my courses may testify. Moreover, I have never discussed such principles in private, since I have been obliged to do so in public’.79 Stahl’s disputatio inauguralis was echoed by Hoffmann’s dissertatio inauguralis. Presumably the two texts were not only in the presence of the contenders, in turns outraging and outraged, but also in front of the entire teaching staff. The altercation was assuming proportions too great to allow either disputant willingly to keep silent.

Apologia

Stahl had not got even, not least because his adversary had had the last word. If he didn’t act quickly, Hoffmann’s text would be interpreted as truth-bearing, as the final word on the matter, indisputable because undisputed. Stahl’s reply was not long in coming: the undated Excusatio respondens examini pulsuum celeris et frequentis appeared a few months later, in the same year (1702). The target, evident in the title itself, was Hoffmann’s examen. Lengthy passages from the primarius’ text were quoted without citing the source, which was nevertheless clear to the contemporary reader. When juxtaposed, according to Stahl, these passages showed inconsistencies and lacunae.80 ‘Confusio’ was the term with which Stahl labelled the theoretical speculations of the author who had sought to discredit him. Even more prolix than usual, Stahl took care not only to exhibit his supposedly contested credentials as a devotee of logic, mathematics, physics, chemistry and anatomy, but also to parade the merits, whether real or presumed, of his research on the aetiology of fevers. From a doctrinal perspective there was nothing new: the animist confined himself to brushing up a handful of concepts, while he expatiated in a kind of apology (taken up almost verbatim a few years later in the Vindiciae, at the beginning of the Theoria medica vera). The pathognomonic primacy of a rapid pulse-rate over a frequent one was reaffirmed with a marked attention towards the mechanical modes of heat production, unusual for someone like Stahl, who so often declared himself adversus physicos. The explanation was plausible, though while it gave a possible answer

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to perplexities of a theoretical order, it left the problem of an empirical perceptibility of a rapid pulse-rate unsolved. This continued to be, at least formally, the quod erat demonstrandum or – even more difficult in the disembodied dimension of a written text – the quod erat monstrandum. Stahl introduced an important observation to which he was nevertheless unable to give due weight, as one might have hoped, in the mare magnum of his discourse, and indeed he abandoned it shortly afterwards: The same thing is also true for the uneven pulse-rate of fevers, which is such because of its mere frequency or succession, and not because of the duration of the individual pulsations. In other words, the pulsations occur in a single and rapid impulse, but their succession varies, so that often one beat follows another without an appreciable pause. In other cases, however, two, three or even four beats follow one another with intervals that vary considerably.81

It was just this notion of ‘mora’ or ‘intervallum’ between the impulses which, had it been duly exploited, would have given an energetic turnabout to the dispute. Stahl would have been able to substantiate his assertion that the duration of each systole – whether cardiac or arterial (the ‘pulsus’ perceived by the physician is the arterial diastole, that is the cardiac systole) – is not necessarily the same as that of the subsequent diastole. Indeed the soul can communicate ‘celeres impulsus’ to the heart, leaving ‘morae seu intervalla’ between them, in which case the pulse-rate is rapid but not frequent. Not even a hypothetical situation, in which there is an almost continuous succession of long impulses ‘sine notabili mora intercedente’, can be ruled out. In this case the pulserate would be frequent but not rapid. From an animistic perspective, detecting a pulse-rate that is not simultaneously rapid and frequent does not pose problems: the contraction corresponds to the soul’s action, especially on the heart, while the slackening of the impulse represented by the diastole is a kind of abstention from work.82 The vital principle can, in other words, intervene punctually (systoles), letting the purveyance of the blood take place in the residual intermediate time (diastoles), which can be either long or short. The centre, the heart, dictates the law; the periphery, the arterial system, tries to harmonize with it.83 The disunity between celerity and frequency is not so easy to admit from Hoffmann’s theoretical perspective, in which a more rigid mechanical model of the alternation between systoles and diastoles prevails: The propulsion of liquids comes about for the following reasons: the contraction always causes a diastole and the diastole in turn a systole. Nevertheless, this occurs in such a way that the contraction always comes first, since it is the

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most active motion. Thus, for example, the contraction of the heart produces a diastole of the arteries and this causes a systole of the arterioles . . . The first contracting motion, which is the virtual cause and origin of the others, is not only observed in the circulation of the blood, but also in the other channels through which the humours flow. For example, the contraction of the pharynx, which is endowed with many muscles, causes the descent into the stomach of food that has been swallowed.84

What is described here is a kind of ‘accordion effect’: harmonizing the rhythm between contractions and dilatations, it invests not only the cardio-circulatory system but the whole body (especially the parts fed by nerve fluid). Though Hoffmann, like almost all medical practitioners and theorists of his day, admits that the systole is the ‘maxime activus’ moment of the containing cavity (heart or arteries), he sees the diastole as the result of the activity of the humours contained in it. The succession of contractions and dilatations is, so to speak, the effect of the opposition between two pistons propelling in different directions with an alternating cadence. The great elastic power of the heart, arteries and other channels depends . . . on the extremely subtle expansive fluids that reach them through the nerves and blood vessels . . . The vital motion is dual: of systoles and diastoles. There is thus a double expansive force that is the cause of both . . . The greater the outward pressure – caused by the inflow of blood – in the artery walls, the greater the resistance of the ‘elater’ of the fibres, which are animated by the fluids they receive. Thus, once the impulse has ceased, the fibres return to their original state and go toward the innermost part. It is indeed well known, thanks to the study of mechanics, that the ‘elater’ is always equal to the corporeal force that compresses or opposes it.85

Systoles and diastoles have the same duration, since, contrary to Stahl’s understanding, each is an ‘activity’ in its own right. That is not sufficient, however. They are propelled by the same motor, the universal aeroethereal substance that drives all motion. So even while in certain circumstances an imbalance may occur, there is only one motor cause for impulses in both directions. It is plausible that such a fluid is found and operates, not altogether diversely, in the blood and nerve liquid that compress the organ-receptacle, on the one hand, and the humours that dilate it, on the other. In his Dissertatio inauguralis pulsuum theoriam et praxin, Hoffman uses the image of a pendulum to illustrate how an alternation between the two impulses occurs:86 the systole can last only as long as the diastole. This is why, for him, rhythm (frequency) expresses duration (celerity); hence it is impossible for a rapid pulse-rate

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not to be frequent too. It was thus the consecutio of mechanic causality between systoles and diastoles that impeded the primarius from seeing the disunity between the two types of pulse-rate, which Stahl, arguing on the basis of the soul’s punctual interventions, managed to conceive without difficulty. While Hoffmann in his Dissertatio inauguralis reserved his most polemical tones and ruthless whiplashes for the final epistle, Stahl in his Excusatio alternated disquisitions on the nature of fevers with tirades against his adversary in less of a spirit of fair play. Piqued, he exclaims at the end of a reprimand: ‘These [defamers] only have in mind an utter disdain and envy of others, the desire to contradict them, to connive to sully their good name, self-complacency, arrogance, pride and an overweening desire for success’.87 Hoffmann, who was always attentive to formal composure, couldn’t allow this tone. Probably before he sent an official complaint to the court denouncing the lamentable situation, he prepared and published in a few days a short anonymous pamphlet, Excusationi respondenti examini, pulsuum celeris et frequentis, the title of which was an unequivocal reference to his adversary’s work.88 Hoffmann, perhaps already savouring the measures that would be taken against Stahl, remained unperturbed. Consistent with his public image, he seemed to have forgotten the whiplashes he had inflicted upon his colleague and donned the mask of the betrayed and incredulous friend: Already twice had I been unfortunate, when for an innocent and completely benign disagreement and a calm exposition of my opinions, I was involved in public discussions, which is something I try to avoid at all costs. In point of fact, the illustrious gentleman, so dear to me, imagined that my dissertation, defended two years ago, on the natural and preternatural causes of bodily heat and my dissertation defended last month on the theory and practice of pulserates were a confutation of his doctrine of the fevers . . . Thus, he immediately attacked me as if I were an enemy to be routed, with an asperity of style and intention to wound, publishing within a few days a lengthy text dedicated specifically to the subject. In truth, at first I was very sorry to be treated so unjustly by the very person for whom, more than any other, I felt close ties of goodwill and harmony.89

The conflict was not to last much longer. Shortly afterwards Friedrich I’s admonition put an end to the debate, temporarily at least.90 As the party who had denounced the fact and who had had the last word, Hoffmann felt victorious. What had secured this victory – albeit through authoritative intervention rather than scientific debate – was not so much

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the simple doctrine of the pulse-rates as the presuppositions of mechanical philosophy that upheld it, such as the mechanical causal relation between systoles and diastoles. The specific facts at the heart of the controversy would undergo a kind of ‘damnatio memoriae’: while everyone would remember the hostility between the two, no one would be able to reconstruct its dynamics. Even the De differentia, which bears witness to the author’s fidelity to his youthful tenets, never explicitly mentions the question of pulse-rates.91

Conclusion

In what way does the quaestio de pulsibus throw light on the relations between Hoffmann and Stahl? In other words, did conflicting positions emerge which would not have done so had the two physicians worked elsewhere? Can we maintain that the dispute incarnates, so to speak, the ‘spirit’ of the Pietist Fridericiana? Did the religious choices of the two protagonists influence the debate? It is difficult to answer these questions, especially since the documentation is still incomplete. For some historians, by asserting the centrality of the soul in the administration of human life, Stahl was the champion of Pietist medicine. Nevertheless, in order to explain his choice of theoretical system in his works, for instance Theoria medica vera, he does not usually have recourse to religious arguments. Such arguments are however used by some of his mechanist adversaries, at times with a merely rhetorical purpose, even though the latter are considered ‘laymen’. Indeed, authors such as Lorenz Heister (1683–1758) and Leibniz, perhaps in order to obviate accusations that might be directed against their respective approaches to medicine and philosophy, don’t hesitate to accuse Stahl of atheism or materialism.92 Moreover, many Pietists were former pupils of Stahl, or showed themselves as his followers in their writings: this is the case especially for works written in German, which is a good indication of the target audience. Nevertheless, it would not be legitimate to take their words for those of the master, as some historians have done.93 So is it necessary to resort to Pietism as the foundation of Stahl’s thought, or is it sufficient to identify a uniquely intellectual heuristic, whether adequate or not, that could lead to the same theoretical results?

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It is not absurd that the soul should build its own dwelling place. Rather, this comes from the wisdom attributed to it by God . . . 94 This force, architect of such a noble temple, has been judged most wise by all philosophers. The temple will thus have been built by a substance. This is the form of the seed . . . Now, in growth and the reparation of lost parts of the body, such a work is carried out by the soul itself . . . Since it builds the heart, it knows what life is, since it prepares the parts, it knows their purpose and use.95

The above quotation is not from Stahl, but from Julius Caesar Scaliger (1484–1558), in his Exotericae exercitationes and commentary on Aristotle’s Historia animalium, which were published long before Stahl’s Theoria medica vera. And though there are differences between the two authors, my point here is that once Scaliger is taken into account, Stahl’s position no longer seems an isolated one. Stahl knew Scaliger’s works, which were widespread in seventeenth and eighteenth century German culture,96 but that does not necessarily mean that he was influenced by them. Nevertheless, we cannot ignore the fact that, apart from the author of Theoria medica vera, others had elaborated a similar animistic theory, albeit in widely differing cultural contexts and before even the birth of Pietism: Scaliger was not alone, but was part of a long and heterogeneous tradition of animistic physiology.97 Moreover, the fact that Stahl’s animism was appreciated and sustained in, for instance, Catholic circles, under the form of a vitalisme animique, more than a century after its elaboration, would seem to demonstrate its ‘elasticity’ and the sympathy it aroused in religious or spiritual contexts, but also that its connection to Pietism was not indispensable.98 Stahl’s medical system is based on the premise that ‘organic’ matter – as he was wont to call it – is in itself passive and, due to its mucus-fatty composition, chemically unstable; it is thus prone to rapid putrefaction. A veritable paradoxon physiologicum nevertheless occurs in the human body: despite its propensity to alteration, it does not decompose, apart from in exceptional cases. Anticipating the famous definition given by F. Xavier Bichat (1771–1802),99 life for Stahl is non-death, that is, the non-corruption of the body. The physician must, therefore, postulate an agent which is other than the body, and which deflects organic matter from its otherwise inexorable course of instability and decay. This can only be achieved by identifying an entity which is able to confer motion on matter, as the only safeguard against corruption. Such an agent is not to be found in the conceptual equipment of the mechanists, who could only offer incomplete explanations, banally maintaining that motion is life, and not one of life’s instruments. They would not even

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take the trouble to discover the origin of such a motion, or at best they would say that it resides in God, using terms which Stahl could only judge to be blasphemous and unscientific.100 Stahl was a physician, not a philosopher, much less a theologian. His religious sentiment was an intimately lived one, but was not used as a linchpin in his medical theories. An adherence to Pietism involved the man, not necessarily the scientist or polemicist. In addition, he declared himself averse to the popular trend of his day for religious apologies: All this is well shown by the example of some pamphlets published over the last two centuries in defence of the truth of religion. Actually, while some prefer peace and modesty, persuaded that religious truths are self-evident and have no need of further embellishment with words, there are others who do not cease to re-write, or rather re-copy, things that have been hashed and rehashed hundreds of times already.101

Stahl is perhaps an Aristotelian in spite of himself, to the extent that he seeks a single principle to explain the integrated complex of physiopathological functions. Galen’s faculties, van Helmont’s archaei, Willis’s ferments all fragmented the information present in the body, attributing it to relatively independent centres. Stahl, on the other hand, in looking for a single ‘switchboard’ for all vital algorithms, realized that the soul could fill this role. Its identification as the vital principle thus derives from a specific requirement of his physiology, perhaps originally of his natural philosophy. It cannot be denied that Pietist Weltanschauung influenced his ideas to a certain extent, just as Catholicism perhaps acted on Scaliger’s ideas. It seems, however, that this religious fervour was more responsible for the spread of animism than for its elaboration. Stahlian medicine was thus taken by many to be a bastion of pietas against the attacks of Mechanism, which was often associated with atheism.102 Hoffmann, too, was a Pietist, though, unlike Stahl, he was the author of numerous theological works.103 The monumental theoretical system which he conceived and reworked over time was nevertheless more indebted to the natural philosophy of Robert Boyle than to the religious doctrines of Philipp Jakob Spener (1635–1705).104. He borrowed from the English scholar the often contradictory image of a passive matter ‘abstracte et in mente considerata’, which was able to acquire a sort of tendency toward motion and self-organisation when mixed with ether, that deus ex machina of an almost divine nature.105 Less exalted, but also less criticized than his colleague’s,106 Hoffmann’s teachings were exported wholesale to cultural and religious contexts which were very

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different from those of Pietist Halle, and were often associated or confused with Boerhaave’s teachings.107 True, in the De differentia arguments of a theological flavour are introduced. Hoffmann declares that Stahl’s doctrine is impious for the evil consequences that its coherent development implies. To think, as Descartes does, that matter is in itself passive means that God is the only true agent. This leads to aberrations of Occasionalism, which confuses the prerogatives of the Creator with those of his creatures, or else engenders a lack of ontological differentiation between God and the world, such as was to be found as in Spinoza. Moreover, it denies the actions of spiritual entities on material bodies and even excludes the possibility that the Devil acts on and can reside in them.108 Nevertheless, we must remember that De differentia is a late work, which says little on the quaestio de pulsibus. Moreover, it attempts to be systematic, and so analyses the consequences de fide of its adversary’s doctrine, though in just one paragraph of the 188 that make up the text.109 Certainly touchiness of character and personal animosity, differences on matters of faith, clashes for the appointment of the university chairs, the need to share the ‘limelight’ at the Faculty of Medicine all played an important part, together with strictly scientific motives, in the genesis and treatment of the quaestio de pulsibus. Perhaps if the two protagonists had not accumulated tensions, the public dispute would never have occurred. The conflict between Hoffmann and Stahl was based on scientific divergences and is therefore to be interpreted in a medical context and – to the extent that their scientific knowledge had its roots in much deeper intellectual presuppositions – in the light of a clash between two different natural or, one might say, metaphysical, philosophies. Theological issues stricto sensu do not emerge in the questio de pulsibus. The positions de fide of the disputants, whether relevant or not to the debate, remained outside it. Hoffmann would have recourse to them only many years later, whereas Stahl, to whose writings an evangelical vehemence is often attributed, abstained. At least in the events reconstructed here, the two behaved like physicians and Pietists, not like Pietist physicians. Università degli Studi di Bari Dipartimento di Scienze Filosofiche Piazzo Umberto I, 1 Bari, Italy

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REFERENCES 1. For Hoffmann’s life see the classic biographies of Schulze and Rambach: Johann Heinrich Schulze, Commentarius de vita Friderici Hoffmanni (Halle, 1740), in Friedrich Hoffmann, Opera omnia physico-medica . . . (6 vols, Geneva, 1740–54), henceforth Opera omnia, i. pp i–xvi; German translation by Johann Heinrich Schulze, Lebenslauf D. Friedrich Hofmanns, in Friedrich Hoffmann, Vernünftige Abhandlung von den fürnehmsten Kinderkrankenheiten (Frankfurt, 1741), 223–292; French translation by Jacques-Jean Bruhier, Memoires pour servir à la vie de Monsieur Friedrich Hoffmann, in Friedrich Hoffmann, La médecine raisonnée (9 vols, Paris, 1739–43), iii. pp xxiii–cxxvi; Friedrich Eberhard Rambach, Kurze Nachricht von dem Leben und Schriften Herrn D. Friedrich Hofmans (sic) (Halle, 1760). Very useful, because shrewder, is another contemporary source: Gabriel Wilhelm Götten, Friedrich Hoffmann, in Das jetztlebende gelehrte Europa (3 vols, 2nd edn Braunschweig, 1735–40) ii. 93–147. See also Hans-Heinz Eulner, Hoffmann, Friedrich, in Neue Deutsche Biographie (Berlin, 1953– ) ix. 416–18, which is brief yet full of bibliographical references; then Almut Lanz, Arzneimittel in der Therapie Friedrich Hoffmanns (1660–1742) . . . (Braunschweig, 1995), 2–16. Finally, see the entry on Hoffmann in the classic Dictionary of Scientific Biography, which does not, however, dedicate much space to his life: Guenther B. Risse, Hoffmann, Friedrich, in Charles Gillespie (ed.), Dictionary of Scientific Biography (New York, 1970–80) vii. 459–61. The most valuable, though not the most biographically interesting, work on Hoffmann is still Karl Eduard Rothschuh, ‘Studien zu Friedrich Hoffmann (1660–1742)’, ‘Ersten Teil: Hoffmann und die Medizingeschichte. Das Hoffmannsche System und das Aetherprinzip’, Sudhoffs Archiv, 60 (1976), 163–93; ‘Zweiter Teil: Hoffmann, Descartes und Leibniz’, Sudhoffs Archiv, 60 (1976), 235–70. 2. The literature on Stahl’s life is much more comprehensive than that on Hoffmann’s. See the most important and original sources: Bernard Joseph Gottlieb, ‘Bedeutung und Auswirkungen des hallischen Professors und klg. preuß. Leibarztes Georg Ernst Stahl auf den Vitalismus des XVIII. Jahrhunderts, insobesondere auf die Schule von Montpellier’, Nova Acta Leopoldina, New series, 12 (1943), 423–502. This contribution contains a very useful analysis of the critical literature on Stahl. Lester S. King, Stahl, Georg Ernst, in Charles Gillespie (ed.), Dictionary of Scientific Biography, xii. 599–606. The most up-to-date research is to be found in: Irene Strube, Georg Ernst Stahl, (Leipzig, 1984); Francesco Paolo de Ceglia, Introduzione alla fisiologia di Georg Ernst Stahl (Lecce, 2000); Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, Pietismus, Medizin und Aufklärung in Preußen im 18. Jahrhundert. Das Leben und Werk Georg Ernst Stahls (Tübingen, 2000); Kevin Chang, The Matter of Life. Georg Ernst Stahl and the Reconceptualizations of Matter, Body and Life in Early Modern Europe, Ph.D. Thesis (Chicago, 2002). 3. The only writer who substantiates, at least partially, his interpretations of the motives for the dispute with documentary evidence seems to be Sprengel. See

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Kurt Sprengel, Versuch einer pragmatischen Geschichte der Arzneykunde (5 vols, Halle, 1792–1803) v. 9–47; 118–48. The more recent critical contributions of Henschel, in the nineteenth century, and King, in the twentieth century, though perspicacious from a theoretical point of view, ignore the personal motives that triggered off the dispute and the dynamics of its evolution. See August Wilhelm Henschel, ‘Georg Ernst Stahl und Friedrich Hoffmann von ihrem wissenschaftlich medizinischen Standpunkte aus verglichen und gewürdigt’, Zeitschrift für Natur- und Heilkunde, 5 (1828), 251–93; Lester S. King, ‘Stahl and Hoffmann: A Study in Eighteenth Century Animism’, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences, 19 (1964), 118–30. 4. The edition to which the criticism always refers is the posthumous one collected in the Pars secunda of the first Supplementum of Hoffmann’s Opera omnia, published by the De Tournes brothers in Geneva in 1749. Actually it is a new edition, identical in all its parts, of an edition published in Frankfurt in 1746, which was prepared by Salentin Ernst Eugen Cohausen (1703–79), professor of medicine at the University of Trier and court physician in Koblenz. The work published in Frankfurt, which was not widely circulated, was soon forgotten and replaced in the memory of bibliophiles and scholars by the more prestigious Geneva edition. See Friderici Hoffmanni gloriae fama posthuma, ex scripto hactenus inedito, nempe Commentarius de differentia inter ejus Doctrinam medico-mechanicam, et Georgii Ernesti Stahlii medico-organicam, cum Praefatione Salentini Ernesti Eugenii Cohausen (Frankfurt, 1746). When I perused the work for the first time, I found a discordant fact. In Hoffmann’s bibliography in an Addendum to Dreyhaupt’s Beschreibung and Rambach’s Kurtze Nachricht the date and publication of the De differentia are given as London 1739. See Johann Christoph von Dreyhaupt, Beschreibung des Saal-Creyses (Halle, 1755), Zweyter Theyl, Part. Spec. Lib. 23, 636–40; the reference is on 240. See also Friedrich Eberhard Rambach, Kurze Nachricht, 37. It could have been a mistake, since no other source mentions the edition and it is not indexed in German libraries. However, a more careful inquiry has now confirmed the discrepancy. The book is very rare, only a few copies have been discovered, amongst which the copy held in the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek of Vienna has been consulted: Friedrich Hoffmann, Disquisitio doctrinae stahlianae tam in pathologicis quam in therapeuticis, (London, 1739). As was common practice in polemical pamphlets, the copy does not give the editor’s name. This fact might throw some doubt on the place of publication, added to which I have been unable to find a copy of the Disquisitio in British libraries. The text is the same as that in the Opera omnia, though in place of Cohausen’s introduction, there is an unsigned preface, presumably by the editor, defending Hoffmann against the accusation on ‘indelicately’ publishing the work after Stahl’s death. So the De differentia was initially published in London in 1739, though this is a little known fact; indeed, in the Opera omnia it is stated that the text was copied directly from the manuscript. The ‘second editio princeps’ was published in 1746 and reprinted in 1749.

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5. Jacques-Jean Bruhier, Préface du traducteur, in Friedrich Hoffmann, La médecine raisonnée, vi. pp v–lvii, especially p. xxx. 6. The fact that Hoffmann recommended Stahl can be found in almost all the Vitae of both, except for the biographies of Hoffmann by Rambach and Götten, neither of whom mention Stahl. Geyer-Kordesch, in her invaluable monograph on Stahl, writes that her archival research uncovered no documents that demonstrate Hoffmann’s interest in Stahl, and so she would tend to be sceptical. She therefore identifies as the source of this information Johann Samuel Strebel, Stahl’s eighteenth-century biographer, who mentions it in his De viri . . . illustris Georgii Ernesti Stahl . . . (3 vols, Ansbach, 1758–59), i. 91. See Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, Pietismus, Medizin und Aufklärung in Preußen im 18. Jahrhundert, 101–102. Though such a doubt is not unjustified, the primary source is not actually Strebel but Hoffmann himself. The first edited text in which mention is made of the part played by the primarius in the affair would seem to be the Vita compiled by his faithful disciple Johann Heinrich Schulze (1687–1744), who on this point reproduces verbatim the words in the master’s autobiography. Johann Heinrich Schulze, Commentarius de vita Friderici Hoffmanni; cf. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. Boruss. Quart. 108, 90r. 7. Cf. Heinz Schwabe, ‘Halam tendis, aut pietista aut atheista mox reversurus’, in Wolfram Kaiser and Arina Völker (eds), Georg Ernst Stahl (1659–1734), Hallesches Symposium 1984 (Halle, 1985), 49–58. 8. See John Robert Holloran, Professors of Enlightenment at the University of Halle. 1690–1730, Ph.D. Thesis, (University of Virginia, 2000), 91–124. 9. On the ‘pastoral’ role of medicine and other topics, see Richard L. Gawthrop, Pietism and the Making of Eighteenth-Century Prussia (Cambridge, 1993), 169–75; Sandra Pott, Medizin, Medizinethik und schöne Literatur. Studien zu Säkularisierungsvorgängen vom frühen 17. bis zum frühen 19. Jahrhundert (Säkularisierung in den Wissenschaften seit der Frühen Neuzeit, Vol. I, Berlin and New York, 2002), 51–60. For instance, Hoffmann’s students volunteered to care for sick orphans and schoolchildren from charitable institutions, especially during the epidemic of 1698–99. See Werner Piechocki, ‘Die Krankenpflege und das Klinikum der Franckesschen Stiftungen’, in Francke-Komitee (ed.), August Hermann Francke: Das humanistische Erbe des großen Erziehers (Halle, 1965), 52–9. 10. See Wilhelm Schrader, Geschichte der Friedrichs-Universität zu Halle (2 vols, Berlin, 1894–95), 57, 284; Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, ‘Die Medizin im Spannungsfeld zwischen Aufklärung und Pietismus: Das unbequeme Werk Georg Ernst Stahls und dessen kulturelle Bedeutung’, in Norbert Hinske (ed.), Halle. Aufklärung und Pietismus (Heidelberg, 1989), 255–74; Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, Pietismus, Medizin und Aufklärung in Preußen im 18. Jahrhundert, 96–107; Jürgen Helm, ‘Das Medizinkonzept Georg Ernst Stahls und seine Rezeption im Halleschen Pietismus und in der Zeit der Romantik’, Berichte zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte, 23 (2000), 167–90. 11. See Johann Samuel Strebel, De viri . . . illustris Georgii Ernesti Stahl, i. 91–92, note k.

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12. Georg Konrad Stahl, Europäischer Ingenieur (Nürnberg, 1687); reprinted in 1695, 1719 and 1754. 13. See Georg Konrad Stahl, Dissertatio inauguralis de aeris in praxi medica usu (Halle, 1694). 14. Stahl, for example, recounts that during his years in Jena a colleague – probably Hoffmann – had devised an anagram with the letters of his name (Georgius Ernestus Stahlius): ‘Turges livor? Heus! Tange sis’, (‘Gall swells you? Come on then and strike back!’). Georg Ernst Stahl, Excusatio respondens examini, pulsuum celeris et frequentis, eorumque constans distinctio, qua demonstratur quod argumenta adversus illam, iterum publico scripto prolata, thesin non feriant [Halle, 1702]. Actually, for the anagram to work one would have to add an ‘S’. 15. I have not been able to investigate in depth in the Geheimes Staatsarchiv, Preußischer Kulturbesitz in Berlin. The careful research carried out by Geyer-Kordesch, however, would tend to exclude the possibility of finding any important documentation on Stahl there. In his autobiography, Hoffmann, speaking of Georg Ernst, recalls: ‘Diesen Mann hatte ich eintzig und allein hieher zu meinen Collegen befördert, weil ich ihn in Jena als er da studiert gekannt und er mir zwejmahl publice bej der InauguralDisputation und der De cinnabari antimonii opponiert’. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. Boruss. Quart. 108, 89v–90r. It is likely that, had the primarius really wanted Georg Konrad as his first choice, he would have mentioned it in his autobiography, if for no other reason than to discredit further Georg Ernst. 16. The question remains: why was Stahl ‘senior’ invited to Halle in July 1694 to present a dissertation on De aeris in praxi medica usu for the inauguration ceremonies of the university – it is specified ‘loco speciminis inauguralis’ – if he was neither professor there, nor to be given a chair? 17. We cannot exclude that Stahl may have played several cards at once in order to sensitize more than one influential person as to the outcome. His former mentor Georg Wolfgang Wedel (1645–1721), his political protector Johann Ernst von Sachsen-Weimar (1664–1707), his intellectual patron Adrian Slevogt (1653–1726) and the spiritual leader August Hermann Francke (1663–1727): all these men could have been used as mediators in negotiations for the Chair. But this is mere conjecture. 18. See Gabriel Wilhelm Götten, Friedrich Hoffmann, in Das jetztlebende gelehrte Europa, 99. 19. The events can only be reconstructed on the basis of unpublished sources. The versions are conflicting. The official records do not exculpate the LeibMedicus. See Universitätsarchiv Halle, Rep. 3, Nr. 287 (the dossier is dated 13 October 1713 – 3 February 1714). Hoffmann, for his part, in his unpublished autobiography, describes the envy and pettiness of certain persons at Court (in Berlin). He thus locates the origins of his misfortunes in a veritable conspiracy hatched against him by Andreas Gundelsheimer (1668–1715), first physician at Court, whose therapy, according to Hoffmann, was too inflexible, since it did not take into account the differences between

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patients. See Friedrich Hoffmann, ‘Particularia vitae et familiae meae’, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. Boruss. Quart. 108, 92r. Gundelsheimer, nevertheless, had managed to gain a good name for himself as a healer of cases of intermittent fever. Before Hoffmann joined him in Berlin, the primarius had even dedicated his Idea fundamentalis medicinae universae to Gundelsheimer in 1707. After Hoffmann’s arrival at court their relations changed however. Probably what sparked off their antagonism was Hoffmann’s disapproval (in 1708) of a cure based on theriac invented by Gundelsheimer. Indeed, in order to reinforce his accusations, Hoffmann asked the opinion of a physician not at Court, who officially confirmed his position against his colleague’s. The affair, in which Stahl too was involved, gained him Gundelsheimer’s permanent enmity. At the end of the same year a similar Streit broke out between them, this time over the use of emetics. Stahl was again involved and wrote a piece in which he defended Gundelsheimer. See Georg Ernst Stahl, Dissertatio inauguralis medica de motus sanguinis a crasi et viis non pendentibus vitiis prudenter tractandis (Halle, 1709). The situation worsened on the death of the young Friedrich Wilhelm, Prince of Prussia, when a kind of grotesque drama was played out at court, in which everyone tried to blame everyone else. Hoffmann spun a web of relations in order to blacken his adversary’s name. Thus a personal quarrel turned into a public indictment, and Stahl was one of the physicians called upon to express an official opinion. After the trial Hoffmann was obliged to sign a document in which he retracted his accusations against Gundelsheimer and promised never to bring up the matter again, ‘so ward resolvirt mich wieder an meine Professione nach Halle zu weisen’. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. Boruss. Quart. 108, 95r. 20. Friedrich Hoffmann, Disputatio de medicamentis insecuris (Halle, 1713). 21. See Wilhelm Schrader, Geschichte der Friedrichs-Universität zu Halle, ii. Cap. I, § 1. 22. Rambach recounts that for a time Thomasius attended Hoffmann’s lectures, especially on physics. See Friedrich Eberhard Rambach, Kurze Nachricht, 10. For Götten, Thomasius had a genuine interest in Hoffmann’s work. See Gabriel Wilhelm Götten, Friedrich Hoffmann, in Das jetztlebende gelehrte Europa, 129–31. The relations between Hoffmann and Thomasius must have become tense after the ‘pupil’ began to propose unusual interpretative theories and hypotheses. It would seem that Hoffmann’s Theoremata physica convellentia fundamenta novae hypotheseos: omnia corpora naturalia constare ex materia et spiritu . . . (Halle, 1694) was conceived against Thomasius, even though he is never mentioned by name. Like the other work published later by Hoffmann during the same dispute, Scriptum brevis et modesta responsio, it would not be included in the more ‘poised’ Opera omnia. In the Theoremata a compendious attack was launched, which took as its cue a methodological principle neglected by the opponent: ‘In Philosophia ratio saltim concludit ex principiis, quae sensibus sunt obvia, in Theologia ex revelationibus’ (unnumbered pages, fifth page; the italics are original). Thomasius’ assertion

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that fire, air and light were not corporeal substances but spiritual realities was contested. Moreover, Hoffmann refuted the assumption that concrete matter was merely passive; he would identify, and censure, the same assumption in Stahl’s writings. As Hoffmann himself recounts in Modesta responsio – a short work written soon after as part of the same ‘sparring match’ with his adversary – the situation quickly deteriorated: the two protagonists, well aware of the ban on such disputations imposed by the statutes, agreed to an oral debate. Thomasius did not turn up, however. Instead he published a polemical pamphlet, even though Hoffmann, only two days before, had dissuaded him from doing so through the interpolations of an amicus (who might even have been Stahl). The title of Thomasius’ pamphlet is Sincerus veritatis indagator, Viro Celeberrimo auctori novae philosophiae elastico-corpuscolaris, fundamenta verae, antiquissimae et ex philosophia Mosaica desumtae hypotheseos . . . (Halle, 1694). It should be noted, moreover, that in all the catalogues I have checked, the pamphlet, published anonymously and with only an indication of the target of the controversy (sic: Hoffmann), is mistakenly attributed to Hoffmann, not to Thomasius. The work was a theological, not philosophical, attack against Hoffmann’s mechanical medicine. Embittered, Hoffmann published the above-mentioned Ad Celeberrimi cujusdam Viri fundatoris novae philosophiae spiritualis scriptum brevis et modesta responsio cum vindicatione philosophiae experimentalis mechanicae (Halle, s.d., but the sixth page has a reference to Fundamenta medicinae which would date the publication to 1695). Thomasius was labelled an ignoramus who knew nothing about philosophy and yet had presumptuously sought to take on a specialist. According to Rambach and Götten, the two were formally admonished by the King. See Friedrich Eberhard Rambach, Kurze Nachricht, 30; Gabriel Wilhelm Götten, Friedrich Hoffmann, in Das jetztlebende gelehrte Europa, 131. For Hoffmann, however, the Court Rescript was only aimed at Thomasius. See Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. Boruss. Quart. 108, 89v. It should be noted that Schulze, in his Lebenslauf, makes no mention of the quarrel. 23. On the practice of ‘Streit-schrift’, see Martin Gierl, Pietismus und Aufklärung: Theologische Polemik und die Kommunikationsreform der Wissenschaft am Ende des 17. Jahrhunderts (Göttingen, 1997). 24. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Ms. Boruss. Quart. 108, 90v–91r. 25. Friedrich Hoffmann, Medicina rationalis systematica (4 vols in 9 tomes, Halle, 1718–39); in Opera omnia, i.–iii. from which the quotations have been taken; French translation by Jacques-Jean Bruhier, La médecine raisonnée; Jacques-Jean Bruhier (trans.) Observations intéressantes sur la cure de la goutte et du rhumatisme (Paris, 1747), and by Marc-Antoine Eidous, Traité des fièvres (3 vols, Paris, 1746); partly translated into English by William Lewis, A System of the Practice of Medicine, revised and completed by Andrew Duncan (2 vols, London, 1783). The passage in question is: Therapia, Sectio I, Cap. XII, § VII, Tomus III, 366. An excellent summary of the Medicina rationalis systematica is to be found in Ingo Wilhelm

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26.

27. 28. 29.

30.

31.

32. 33.

History of Universities Müller, Iatromechanische Theorie und ärztliche Praxis im Vergleich zur galenistischen Medizin (Stuttgart, 1991). Excusationi respondenti examini, pulsuum celeris et frequentis, caput II. de pulsu celeris et frequentis, dissertationis de pulsuum theoria et praxi cum placido responso opponitur et controversia omnibus peritis et doctis ad expendendum commendatur, (Literis Henckelianis, without further indications). The piece is not included in the Opera omnia. See Friedrich Eberhard Rambach, Kurze Nachricht, 32. See Gabriel Wilhelm Götten, Friedrich Hoffmann, in Das jetztlebende gelehrte Europa, 133. See Georg Ernst Stahl, De motu tonico vitali (Jena, 1692), D3(v); French translation by Théodose Blondin, in Georg Ernst Stahl, Œuvres médicophilosophiques de G. E. Stahl, (6 vols, Paris, 1859–64), vi. 475–548; on the subject see Kevin Chang, ‘Motus Tonicus: Georg Ernst Stahl’s Formulation of Tonic Motion and Early Medical Thought’, Bulletin of the History of Medicine, 78 (2004), 767–803. See Georg Ernst Stahl, ‘De febre seu febribus in genere’, in [Johann Juncker (ed)] Theoria medica vera . . . , (Halle 1708; 2nd edn Halle, 1737), the quotations are taken from this edition. [Ludwig Choulant (ed.)] Theoria medica vera (2 vols, third and final Latin edn, Leipzig, 1831–5), ‘Pathologia’, Pars II, Sectio IV, 701–18; partial German translation by Wendelin Ruf, Stahl’s Theorie der Heilkunde (Halle, 1802 [Preface by Kurt Sprengel]); by Karl Wilhelm Ideler, Georg Ernst Stahl’s Theorie der Heilkunde (Berlin, 1831–32); French translation by Théodose Blondin, Œuvres médico-philosophiques de G. E. Stahl, ii–v. Georg Ernst Stahl, Exercitatio medico-practica de febre petechiali seu purpurata (Jena, 1685), pages unnumbered, eleventh page; reprinted in 1706 and 1714. Georg Ernst Stahl, Excusatio respondens examini, pulsuum celeris et frequentis, 32. Ibid., 11. One might well ask how such a conviction about the nature of heat could be compatible with Stahl’s phlogiston theory. Abbri has clearly demonstrated that, contrary to general opinion, the identification of phlogiston with the chemical element of fire is not present in the animist’s works, but is a theoretical choice adopted by his French followers. See Ferdinando Abbri, Le terre, l’acqua, le arie. La rivoluzione chimica del Settecento (Bologna, 1984), 28. In this regard, Partington recalls that Stahl often adduces one of the ‘minor’ experiments of the father of Italian iatromechanics, Giovanni Alfonso Borelli (1608–79): a metal bar, when struck repeatedly by a hammer, first heats up and then becomes incandescent. See James Riddick Partington, A History of Chemistry (4 vols, London, 1961–70) ii. 668–69. In any case, the identification of heat with the motus verticillaris, which Stahl probably derives from Descartes, had ancient origins. Cf. for example, Arist., De coelo, I, 2; Seneca, Quaest. Nat., II, 24. See also Kevin Chang, ‘Fermentation, Phlogiston, and Matter Theory.

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Chemistry and Natural Philosophy in Georg Ernst Stahl’s Zymotechnia Fundamentalis’, Early Science and Medicine, 7 (2002), 31–64. 34. From early on Stahl ascribed great significance to the study of the progressive motion of the blood. He vehemently attacked Thomas Willis’s (1621–75) theory that life and heat were generated by a small vivifying flame in the heart. In many of his works he claims to be the first to have taught (from 1684) that the blood, passing through the lungs, rather than cooling down, heats up through attrition. In the medical tradition, on the contrary, Hippocrates retained that the lungs were like a radiator that could moderate vital heat. See Hipp., De carnibus, VII, 584. Aristotle agreed. See Arist., De juventute et senectute, de vita et morte, IV, 469B 6–20; De respiratione, VI, 473a 3–14. Finally, Galen gave coherence to the theory of bodily heat as the main instrument of the soul and Nature: inhaling cools the innate heat by introducing air into the lungs, while exhaling expels all excess heat. See Gal., De usu partium, VI, 1. For Stahl the formal contribution of air to breathing was obvious, though not the way in which it functioned in material terms. He retained that such a contribution should be sought in phlogiston – the only time he uses the term in the whole of the Theoria medica vera – even though it was only present in the air in small quantities. The animist nevertheless considered the question of little importance to the ars medica and so he preferred not to investigate it further. See Georg Ernst Stahl, Theoria medica vera, Physiologia, Sectio II, Membrus I, § XIX, 313. Though at the time of the dispute Stahl probably didn’t know it, someone had got there first: Giovanni Alfonso Borelli, measuring the temperature of the heart cavity and that of the other organs during the vivisection of a deer, had definitively confuted the classical theory of ‘innate’ heat distributed throughout the body starting from the heart, the sun of the microcosm. Cf. Giovanni Alfonso Borelli, De motu animalium (2 vols, Rome, 1680–81) ii. 167–82. When one of his opponents averted Stahl to the Italian physician’s contribution, he objected that Borelli, while having discovered the fact, was not able to give it the physiological significance it deserved, neither a priori nor a posteriori. See, for example, Georg Ernst Stahl, De scriptis suis ad hunc diem schediasmatibus vindiciae quaedam et indicia (Halle, 1707) in Theoria medica vera, 133–89, especially § XLV, 153. Partington attributes the paternity of the theory that breathing heats the blood to John Mayow (1643–79). See James Riddick Partington, A History of Chemistry, ii. 585–87; 659. 35. There had perhaps already been a difference of opinion between Stahl and Hoffmann in the summer of 1698 on the occasion of the nomination of Heinrich Heinrici (1673–1728) as professor extraordinarius, which had been opposed by the former and sustained by the latter. See Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, Pietismus, Medizin und Aufklärung in Preußen im 18. Jahrhundert, 104–5; Wolfram Kaiser, ‘Der Lehrkörper der Medizinischen Fakultät in der halleschen Amtszeit von Georg Ernst Stahl’, in Wolfram Kaiser and Arina Völker (eds), Georg Ernst Stahl (1659–1734), 59–66.

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36. Friedrich Hoffmann, Disputatio physico-medica de causis caloris naturalis et praeternaturalis in corpore nostro (Halle, 1699), in Operum supplementum, Supplementum secundum, Pars prima, 72–78, especially 76–77. 37. See, for example, Georg Ernst Stahl, Disputatio medica qua febris in genere historiam . . . proponet (Halle, 1701), 17. 38. Friedrich Hoffmann, Disputatio physico-medica de causis caloris, 77. 39. Georg Ernst Stahl, Excusatio respondens examini, pulsuum celeris et frequentis, 51. 40. Friedrich Hoffmann, Medicina rationalis systematica, Pathologia generalis, Prolegomena, Cap. III, § VIII, in Opera omnia, ii. 155. By fermentatio Hoffmann means a process of resolutio, or ‘chemical simplification’, especially of foods; by transmutatio, the physical-organic change of one substance into another (such as the food ingested into blood or milk) or an alteration due to the action of a specific agent (such as a small quantity of yeast on a large amount of flour, a small quantity of vinegar on a large amount of wine, a small quantity of corrupt humours on all the healthy ones), ibid. 41. See Friedrich Hoffmann, Duodenum multorum malorum sedem . . . (Halle, 1708), in Opera omnia, vi. 188–95, in which it is underlined: ‘Debetur haec potius immortalis memoriae medico Sylvio’. 42. Friedrich Hoffmann, Fundamenta medicinae ex principiis naturae mechanicis in usum philiatrorum succincte proposita (Halle, 1695), in Operum supplementum, Supplementum primum, Pars secunda, 1–45; English translation by Lester S. King, Fundamenta medicinae, (London and New York, 1971), Caput IV, § 52, 18. See Friedrich Hoffmann, Medicina rationalis systematica, Physiologia, Cap. IV, § LII, in Opera omnia, i. 22. 43. Friedrich Hoffmann, Dissertatio physico-medica de natura morborum medicatrice mechanica (Halle, 1699) in Operum supplementum, Supplementum secundum, Pars prima, 551–62, especially § X, 556. At §§ XVII–XXII the work contains in a nutshell the arguments against animism found in many of Hoffmann’s other works, such as the De differentia. It was written at the time of Leibniz’s publication of his objections to Johann Christoph Sturm’s (1635–1703) Idolum naturae . . . (Altdorf, 1692). The latter was a ‘Cartesian, Boylian and Spinozian’ who sustained the notion of the passivity of matter. Hoffmann sent his De natura medicatrice mechanica to Leibniz with an accompanying letter, now lost. This was the beginning of an epistolary exchange between the two. It is impossible to exclude the possibility that Hoffmann – whose position on the aptitude of matter for motion is not always clear – may have written the text in order to ingratiate himself with the philosopher, by showing that he too attacked those who sustained the passivity of matter (i.e. Stahl). 44. Friedrich Hoffmann, Dissertatio physico-medica de natura morborum medicatrice mechanica, 556. 45. Georg Ernst Stahl, De scriptis suis ad hunc diem schediasmatibus vindiciae quaedam et indicia, § LXVIII, 162.

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46. In actual fact, Campanella’s statements on the nature of fevers are so generic that they have been considered the source of many divergent eighteenthcentury theories, including Hoffmann’s theory of fevers! See Salvatore De Renzi, La storia della medicina in Italia (4 vols, Naples, 1845–48), iv. 230–31. 47. Georg Ernst Stahl, Illustri et magnifico viro Domino Lucae Schroeckio . . . cogitationes suas medicina medicinae necessaria (Halle, 1702), 26. 48. On Stahl’s and Hoffmann’s physiology respectively see François Duchesneau, La physiologie des Lumières. Empirisme, Modèles et Théories (The HagueBoston-London, 1982), 1–64. 49. For some historians, by attributing to this immaterial principle a vivifying function, he mended the rift between soul and life opened up by Cartesian philosophy. See Francisque Bouillier, Du principe vital et de l’âme pensante. Examen des diverses doctrines médicales et psychologiques sur les rapports de l’âme et de la vie (Paris, 1862), p. ix. Two aspects need to be specified, however: first, nineteenth-century French critics attribute too much importance to Stahl’s anti-Cartesian polemic; second, Descartes himself is not such a dualist as is generally thought. In any case, what makes the intelligence of Stahl’s work difficult to grasp is above all the lack of an explanation of the notion of soul. This soul has little to do with the spiritual being of the theologian, for they share scarcely more than a name. Stahl’s is a minor, vegetative and animal soul which finds itself endowed with intellective capacities by accident. It is not the Cartesian res cogitans; if it occasionally seems so, then this is due more to the author’s inability to develop his system coherently than to a deliberate choice on his part. Those who would like to associate it with Descartes’s homme, should look, not to his res cogitans but to his spirits; it is their functions which are carried out by Stahl’s soul. See Francesco Paolo de Ceglia, Soul Power. Georg Ernst Stahl and the Debate on Generation, in Justin E. H. Smith (ed.), The Problem of Animal Generation in Modern Philosophy (Cambridge, 2006), 262–84. 50. Georg Ernst Stahl, Theoria medica vera, Physiologia, Sectio IV, § XXXIV, 383. 51. See Polycarp Gottlieb Schacher, De anima rationali, an sit corporis vitali principio? (Leipzig, 1705); Johann Daniel Longolius, Systema stahlianum de vita et morte corporis humani ab incongruis medicorum mechanizantium opprobriis vindicatum . . . (Bautzen, 1732), 3–4. 52. See Georg Ernst Stahl, De decubitu humorum (Halle, 1711). The morbid cause is not necessarily an excess of the humours, but sometimes a foreign substance that needs to be eliminated from the body. 53. See Georg Ernst Stahl, De vena portae porta malorum hypochondriacosplenetico-suffocativo-hysterico-haemorrhoidarum (Halle, 1698); German translation Abhandlung von der Goldenen Ader [ . . . ] (Leipzig, 1729), reprinted in 1733 and 1737; French translation Considérations sur la dyscrasie veineuse, précédées de la traduction du Traité de Stahl intitulé ‘De vena portae . . . ’ (Paris, 1860); see also Albert Lemoine, Le vitalisme et l’animisme de Stahl (Paris, 1864), 45–6.

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54. On the therapeutic function of fevers sustained by Stahl and his school see Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, ‘Fevers and other fundamentals: Dutch and German medical explanations c. 1680 to 1730’, Medical History, Suppl. 1 (1981), 99–120. 55. See Georg Ernst Stahl, Dissertatio medica inauguralis de tertiana febris genium universum manifestante . . . , (Halle, 1715). 56. See Francesco Paolo de Ceglia, ‘The Blood, the Worm, the Moon, the Witch. Epilepsy in Georg Ernst Stahl’s Pathological Architecture’, Perspectives on Science, 12 (2004), 1–28. 57. Johann Hermann Baas, Grundriß der Geschichte der Medicin (Stuttgart, 1876), 482. 58. On the (unclear) relation between the human and animal soul in Stahl see G. E. Stahl, De frequentia morborum in homine prae brutis (Halle, 1705). Lester S. King has likened Hoffmann’s notion of ether to that of the Neoplatonic anima mundi. See Lester S. King, Introduction, in Friedrich Hoffmann, Fundamenta medicinae, pp. ix–xxv. The comparison is not new. See, for example, Conrad J. Barchusen, Historia medicinae . . . (Amsterdam, 1710), 524–7. There are, however, some interpreters who see in Hoffmann the ill-concealed influence of Leibniz, which led him to believe that the ether particles had a certain ‘idea’ of the modes and aims for which they were in motion. See Heinrich Haeser, Lehrbuch der Geschichte der Medicin . . . (3 vols, Jena, 1845), i, 673. On the various interpretations of Hoffmann’s ether see the essay by Rothschuh, who rejects the comparison both with anima mundi and with the doctrine of the monads. See Karl Eduard Rothschuh, ‘Studien zu Friedrich Hoffmann (1660–1742)’. 59. Actually, Hoffmann’s statements on the activity of matter and the role of ether changed over time. I shall be dealing with this subject in a forthcoming book. 60. Friedrich Hoffmann, Commentarius de differentia, § LVIII, 445. 61. See Ibid., §§ CXVI–CXVII, 467–68. 62. See Jean-Eugène Dezeimeris, ‘Des principes du méthodisme, considérés comme source de la doctrine physiologique’, Journal complémentaire du dictionnaire des sciences médicales, (1824), 3–17, 80–88. 63. Friedrich Hoffmann, Medicina rationalis systematica, Therapia, Sectio I, Cap. XII, § III, Tomus III, 364–65. 64. See Georg Ernst Stahl, Theoria medica vera, Physiologia, Sectio I, Membrum IV, Art. III, §§ XVII–XIX, 231–32. Even George Cheyne (1643–1743) maintained the necessity of a vital ‘spiritual’ principle. In accordance with Stahl, he rejected the distinction between voluntary and involuntary motion, demonstrating that an Englishman, a certain Townshend, could stop his heartbeat at will. See George Cheyne, English malady (London, 1733), p. 307. The case was to become an exemplary one for those who sought to attribute physiological functions to the soul. See William Porterfield, Treatise on the eye, the manner and phaenomena of vision (2 vols, Edinburgh, 1759), ii. 153; François Boissier de Sauvages, Physiologiae elementa, (Amsterdam, 1755), 142.

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65. See Friedrich Hoffmann, Commentarius de differentia, § CXXXIV, 474. 66. Georg Ernst Stahl, Disputatio medica qua febris in genere historiam, 17. In these same years Stahl would often return to the question of pulse-rates. 67. Georg Ernst, Disputatio medica inauguralis de febris pathologia in genere (Halle, 1702), 26. 68. Georg Ernst Stahl, Propempticon inaugurale de ‘paralogismo’ proportionis figurae pororum secretorium (Halle, 1702). The language of the pamphlet is at times incomprehensible, perhaps because of Stahl’s desire to encode his messages for a restricted group of ‘experts’. For example, on p. 6, when discussing Hoffmann’s theory of the relation between the varying sizes of both the pores and the particles that pass through them, Stahl argues that the theory is unacceptable, except in one case, which he encodes as ‘s. m. p. l. p. g. m.’. I have been unable to decipher these abbreviations. 69. Stahl tends to omit any reference to De febris pathologia in genere, and confines himself to indicating De febris in genere historia, against which Hoffmann published De pulsuum theoria et praxi. See Georg Ernst Stahl, Excusatio respondens examini, pulsuum celeris et frequentis, 49–50. 70. Georg Ernst Stahl, Disputatio medica inauguralis de febris pathologia in genere, 3–4. 71. Ibid., 26. 72. Hoffmann expresses himself in a plain and syntactically straightforward Latin. His style is not particularly elegant, though it is almost always clear. His is a ‘physiologia simplex et perspicua’. See Albrecht von Haller, Bibliotheca anatomica (2 vols, Zurich, 1774–77), i. 733. He proceeds, within the limits imposed upon him by his subject matter, more geometrico. Seeking to be deductive at all costs, at times the expository line of his arguments lapses into affectation, while it nevertheless conserves a degree of communicative efficacy. See Charles Daremberg, Histoire des sciences médicales (2 vols, Paris, 1870), ii. 951. The quotations in Hoffmann’s works are numerous and apposite; the most frequently mentioned author is undoubtedly Hippocrates. See Iain Malcom Lonie, ‘Hippocrates the Iatromechanist’, Medical History, 25 (1981), 113–50. There are many others: unlike Stahl, whose reading was generally quite limited, Hoffmann always measures himself against the best known names of his day in medicine, physics and chemistry, in a constant play of bibliographical references. 73. Johann Deodat Blumentrost was Laurentius Blumentrost’s brother. Years later Laurentius would become president of the Academy of Sciences in St Petersburg and would propose and obtain Hoffmann’s nomination as a member of the Academy. This is a useful opportunity to clear up a historical misunderstanding concerning Stahl’s trip to Russia. Many historians erroneously claim that the trip never took place. Stahl was called upon for the first time in 1725 to save Peter the Great’s life. Herman Boerhaave (1668–1738) was also asked for his medical opinion. See Wilhem M. Richter, Geschichte der Medicin in Russland (3 vols, Moscow, 1813–17), iii., 87–9; Jacob von Stählin, Anecdotes originales de Pierre le Grand . . . (Strasbourg-Paris, 1787), 280–82. Unfortunately, the tsar died only a few

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77. 78. 79. 80.

81. 82.

History of Universities days after the dispatch-rider left St Petersburg and so it was necessary to send another to Berlin to stop Stahl from leaving. The next year a second occasion arose: in the summer of 1726 the physician was invited to the capital by Peter’s widow, Catherine I, who actually enjoyed excellent health according to the chronicles. Not everyone at Court was enthusiastic about Stahl’s visit: Hoffmann’s circle, for example, had tried to dissuade the sovereign from inviting him. The ailing person this time was Prince Menschikov, whom Stahl was able to cure, thereby gaining himself great honours and Catherine’s gratitude. He received a third invitation, this time from Peter II, in 1728. By now nearly seventy, the physician declined on the grounds, justified or not, of failing health. The best known source for Stahl’s mission is the death notice written by the jurist Johann Peter von Ludewig, Georg Ernst Stahl, Königl. Maj. Ersten Leib-Medici Tod am 14. Mai 1734, in Gelehrte Anzeigen (3 vols, Halle, 1743), 916–18. The writer, with whom Stahl was vaguely acquainted, refers to two trips, one to Denmark, the other to St Petersburg, both on the sovereigns’ request. Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, for example, even though she is familiar with this source – having identified in the Merseburg Staatsarchiv Peter II’s letter of invitation and Friedrich Wilhelm I’s regretful refusal, both dated 1728 – concludes that no trip ever took place. See Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, Pietismus, Medizin und Aufklärung, 22–24. Though it is true that Stahl could not or would not accept Peter II’s invitation, this was the third invitation from the Russian Court, after those in 1725 and 1726. It is possible to reconstruct the events from the official Russian documents. See Materialy dlia istorii Imperatorskoi Akademii nauk (10 vols, S. Petersburg, 1885–1900), i. 271; 273; 282; especially vi., 90–91. See Georg Ernst Stahl, Disputatio medica qua febris in genere historiam, 16. On Hoffmann’s reactions to the reading of Stahl’s reflections, see Excusationi respondenti examini, pulsuum celeris et frequentis, 6. See Friedrich Hoffmann, Dissertatio inauguralis pulsuum theoriam et praxin . . . (Halle, 1702), 7, reprinted in 1714; and in 1738 with the title Dissertatio de pulsuum natura genuina differentia et usu in praxi. The latter title appears in the Opera omnia, vi. 237–44. Ibid., 10. Lorenzo Bellini (1643–1704) and Günther Christoph Schelhammer (1649–1716) are soon after cited on the same issue. Ibid., 29. Ibid., 30. The impertinence with which Stahl adduces the passages from Hoffmann led Goetz to recognise that: ‘in quem autem proprie universa haec tractatio directa sit, paucissimos forsan latebit . . . ’. Johann Christoph Goetz, Scripta D. Georg. Ern. Stahlii . . . aliorumque ad ejus mentem diserentium, serie chronologica . . . , (2nd edn, Nuremberg, 1729), 50. Georg Ernst Stahl, Excusatio respondens examini, pulsum celeris et frequentis, 35. ‘Systole, seu contractio cordis, . . . diastole vero magis omissio motus . . . ’. Georg Ernst Stahl, Theoria medica vera, Physiologia, Sectio I, Membrum IV, § IV, 228.

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83. Stahl’s system is not, however, cardio-centric. The notion of tonic motion allows for the decentralisation of the somatic seat of humoural propulsion. See Walter Pagel, Harvey’s Biological Ideas. Selected Aspects and Historical Background (Basel-New York, 1967), 137–8; Kevin Chang, ‘Motus Tonicus: Georg Ernst Stahl’s Formulation of Tonic Motion and Early Medical Thought’. 84. Friedrich Hoffmann, Commentarius de differentia, § LV, 444. 85. Friedrich Hoffmann, Medicina rationalis systematica, Philosophia corporis umani vivi et sani, Liber I, Sectio I, Cap. III, §§ XIX–XXI, in Opera omnia, i., 34 (my italics). ‘Elater’ describes the tendency to expand. See Charles Webster, ‘The Discovery of Boyle’s Law, and the Concept of the Elasticity of Air in the Seventeenth Century’, Archive for the history of exact sciences, 2 (1965), 441–502. 86. For example: ‘Unde pulsus perpulchre comparari potest cum pendulo’ and ‘non secus ac videmus in pendulis’. See Friedrich Hoffmann, Dissertatio inauguralis pulsuum theoriam et praxin, 9, 10. 87. Ibid., 31. 88. Another piece on the same subject preceded it by several months. Only a brief reference is made to it, however, since even the author considered it of little relevance to the dispute. Friedrich Hoffmann, Dissertatio inauguralis medica de salubritate febrium (Halle, 1702). In this short work Hoffmann once again attributes the theory of fevers as the body’s beneficial response to pathological aggressions to Campanella, Sydenham and van Helmont. He also stresses the futility of the distinction between a rapid pulse-rate and a frequent one for the medical practitioner. 89. Excusationi respondenti examini, pulsuum celeris et frequentis, unnumbered pages, but the fifth page. 90. I could not trace the document in Halle; it may be in the Geheimes Staatsarchiv, Preußischer Kulturbesitz in Berlin. 91. The ill-will would continue to smoulder under the ashes. A few years later, between 1707 and 1708, another controversy flared up after the death of a young ‘virgo’ suffering from hysterical spasms, who had been prescribed an inappropriate therapy. The public debate was between Pankraz Wolff (1674–1726) – the first of Hoffmann’s former pupils to hold a Chair in Medicine, and author of the thoughtful Defensio auri fulminantis . . . (Leipzig, 1707) – and Michael Alberti (1682–1757) – Stahl’s protégé and author of, amongst other things, De paedantismo medico . . . [1708]. It was instantly clear that the pupils spoke on behalf of their mentors, who, mindful of recent events, perhaps did not want to cause a scandal. The whole question of the ‘casus beatae virginis’ will be the subject of my forthcoming publication. 92. See Lorenz Heister, De medicina mechanica praestantia prae stahliana (1738). In Compendium medicinae practicae (Amsterdam, 1743), 1–70; Georg Ernst Stahl and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Negotium otiosum seu Skiamachia adversus positiones fundamentales Theoriae medicae verae a viro quodam celeberrimo intentata, sed armis conversis enervata (Halle, 1720); French translation by Théodose Blondin, Œuvres médicophilosophiques de G. E. Stahl, vi. 2–362; another (partial) French translation

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93.

94. 95. 96. 97.

98. 99.

100. 101. 102.

History of Universities has been published by Sarah Carvallo, La controverse entre Stahl et Leibniz sur la vie, l’organisme et le mixte. Doutes concernant la Vraie Théorie Médicale du célèbre Stahl, avec les répliques de Leibniz aux observations stahliennes (Paris, 2004); partial English translation in Lelland J. Rather and John B. Frerichs, ‘The Leibniz-Stahl Controversy (I). Leibniz’ Opening Objections to the Theoria medica vera’, Clio medica. 3 (1968), 21–40, and ‘The Leibniz-Stahl Controversy (II). Stahl’s survey of the Principal Points of Doubt’, Clio medica, 5 (1970), 53–67. Johann Friedrich Blumenbach sought to distinguish Stahl’s positions from those of his pupils: ‘Das waren meist gute fromme Seelen, deren sich überhaupt zu der Zeit eine Menge nach Halle zog. Nun weiß man aber, daß die guten frommen Seelen nicht eben immer in hellen grossen Köpfen wohen, und so waren auch wirklich unter den eigentlichen Stahlianern viele am Geiste dürftige eingeschränkte Menschen, die ihres Lehrers hohen Sinn durchaus nicht fassen konnten, sich aber dafür treulich an den Buchstaben seines Gesetzes hielten, und im Dunkel desselben noch wer weis was heilig mystisches zu finden meynten’. Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, Medicinische Bibliothek (3 vols, Göttingen, 1783–88), ii. 306. Julius Caesar Scaliger, Aristotelis historia de animalibus. Iulio Caesare Scaligero interprete . . . (Toulouse, 1619), 595–96. Julius Caesar Scaliger, Exotericarum exercitationum liber . . . (Paris, 1557), 13r. See Peter Petersen, Geschichte des Aristotelischen Philosophie im Protestantischen Deutschland (Leipzig, 1921), 258. See Francisque Bouillier, Du principe vital et de l’âme pensante, 114–15; Jacques Roger, Les sciences de la vie dans la pensée française au XVIIIe siècle (Paris, 1963), 429. The physiology of writers such as Thomas Feyens (1567–1631), Johann Sperling (1603–1658) and Daniel Sennert (1572–1637) had an ‘animist’ leaning too. See the interpretation given in Théodose Blondin, Du vitalisme animique . . . In Œuvres médico-philosophiques de G. E. Stahl, iii. pp. i–ccxlii. ‘La vie, c’est l’ensemble des fonctions qui résistent à la mort’. Xavier Bichat, Recherches physiologiques sur la vie et la mort (1800) (41685–1756 edn, Paris, 1822), 3. See, for instance, Georg Ernst Stahl, Theoria medica vera, Physiologia, Sectio IV, § XXXIII, 383; Physiologia, Sectio V, § XXII, 405–6. Georg Ernst Stahl, De scriptis suis ad hunc diem schediasmatibus vindiciae quaedam et indicia, § V, 140. Pupils such as Michael Alberti, Christian Friedrich Richter (1676–1711), Christian Weisbach (1684–1715) and Johann Storch (1681–1751), just to mention a few, loaded their master’s doctrine with meanings which he would never haven given it (at least not explicitly), publishing commentaries, paraphrases, summaries and works of clearly Stahlian inspiration, stuffed with religious reflections. Unlike Stahl, most of them had had an academic training in theology before studying medicine. And so they

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103.

104.

105.

106.

107.

108. 109.

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transformed – though how deliberately it is hard to say – their master’s doctrine into a medicina theologica. See, for instance, Michael Alberti, Specimen medicinae theologicae . . . (Halle, 1726). See Francesco Trevisani, Descartes in Germania. La ricezione del cartesianesimo nella Facoltà filosofica e medica di Duisburg. 1652–1703 (Milan, 1992). Note the speech given on the occasion of his joining the board of teachers at the Fridericiana: Friedrich Hoffmann, De atheo convincendo ex artificiosissima machinae humanae structura (Halle, 1693), in Opera omnia, V. 125–30; German translation by J. J. Hecter in Betrachtung des menschlichen Cörpers nach der Anatomie und Physiologie (Halle, 1734). Hoffmann’s exact words are: ‘Materia abstracte et in mente considerata mere est passiva, quando autem concreta, formata et prout existit in mundo et creata consideratur, non pure passiva est, sed magis activa et diverso respectu agit vel patitur’. Friedrich Hoffmann, Theoremata physica, § 4 (unnumbered pages, fourth page). On Boyle see Antonio Clericuzio, ‘Notes on Corpuscular Philosophy and Pneumatical Experiments in Robert Boyle’s New Experiments Physico-mechanical, touching the Spring of the Air’, in Wihelmus N. A. Klever (ed.), Die Schwere der Luft (Wiesbaden, 1997), 109–16; Antonio Clericuzio, ‘The mechanical philosophy and the spring of air. New light on Robert Boyle and Robert Hooke’, Nuncius, 13 (1998), 69–75. Even though the success of Hoffmann’s doctrine was notable, it cannot be compared with that encountered by Stahl’s teaching, regarding which Storch speaks of ‘Stahliomania’. See Johanna Geyer-Kordesch, ‘Die Theoria medica vera und Georg Ernst Stahls Verhältnis zur Aufklärung’, in Wolfram Kaiser and Arina Völker (eds), Georg Ernst Stahl (1659–1734), 89–98. An example is: Robert James, The Modern practice of physic, as improv’d by . . . H. Boerhaave and F. Hoffman . . . being a translation of the aphorisms of the former, with the commentaries of Dr. Van Swieten . . . and of such parts of Dr. Hoffman’s works as supply the deficiencies of Boerhaave (London, 1746). Seex Friedrich Hoffmann, Commentarius de differentia, § XXXVIII, 437–38. De differentia was probably written around 1724. A series of references in the text supports this hypothesis. The most convincing one is the reference to a dissertation by Hoffmann dated 1723, Dissertatio inauguralis medica de venae sectione prudenti administratione (Halle, 1723), as ‘ante annum edita’, in other words, as published the previous year. See Friedrich Hoffmann, Commentarius de differentia, § CLXXX, 495. It is not known why the author decided to write the text only then. It is significant, however, that De differentia was completed the year following Christian Wolff’s (1659–1754) expulsion. Wolff, culturally close to Hoffmann, was expelled from the Fridericiana in 1723. Stahl himself was called upon to express himself against Wolff, since he was a member of the commission set up

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The Eighteenth Century Confronts Job Bertram Eugene Schwarzbach

This title is borrowed from Frank E. Manuel who, in his The Eighteenth Century Confronts the Gods,1 had the idea, inspired perhaps by Jean Seznec’s earlier study,2 of describing the failure – our judgement – of the scholars and philosophers of a century that was notoriously insensitive to religion to understand the religion of the ancient Greeks and Romans, even though they knew classical mythology intimately, since the Ovid and Virgil of their school days. This failure is both unsurprising and paradoxical. If one characterizes the eighteenth century, as popular treatments always do, by those of its writers who were most antagonistic to the religion of their society and especially to its institutional forms: Voltaire, Diderot, d’Alembert, La Mettrie, d’Holbach, Thomas Paine and, at the very end of the century, by the Jacobins who tried to dechristianize France in 1793, one would expect them to be sufficiently detached from Christianity to give the pagans a fair and even searching hearing. In fact, these philosophers and activists were not the only expression of the Enlightenment, any characterization of which would be incomplete were Newton, Leonhard Euler and Albrecht von Haller among the scientists, and Dryden, Robert Lowth, Marie Huber, John Wesley and the Swedenborgians among the writers and philosophers excluded or merely neglected. And yet Manuel’s paradox applied to the conventionally religious writers as well as to the more iconoclastic philosophers, albeit rather differently. The former should at least have understood something about the religious experience and quest that could be projected upon the pagans, but their Christian religious experience did not prove helpful. No one in Manuel’s survey nor in our reading of texts with which he dealt superficially or not at all really appreciated the ancient Greeks’ and Romans’ religious experience, or the role of the gods in the social and political life of Greece, Rome and their colonies. Generally religious eighteenth-century historians, like theologians of earlier periods, attempted to squeeze the pagan gods

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into traditional Christian categories of false gods (impostors) or demons, while the less religious writers tended towards the euhemerist hypothesis which argued that the pagans’ gods had been mortals deified by grateful contemporaries for their heroic or beneficent actions. It would be anachronistic to expect eighteenth-century histories of religious sensibility to anticipate the methods and repertoire of Robin Lane Fox’s Pagans and Christians,3 but Manuel still had reason to be disappointed in their lack of perspicacity. We thought that it might be instructive to study an analogous paradox, the rather limited appreciation of the book of Job by men (and a woman) of the French Enlightenment, pious and iconoclastic, despite the sensitivity to Job’s dilemma of squaring the misfortunes of this world with god’s justice, what Leibniz called the problem of theodicy.4 We shall not even pretend to discuss all the theologians who had occasion to comment upon the book of Job or to mention it in their sermons. Jonathan Lamb has treated the ‘Job controversy’ in England so exhaustively in the context of a study of the creation of a ‘rhetoric of suffering’5 that we need say very little about the English scene. Our remarks here will also have only minimal overlap with Bronislaw Baczko’s in his Job, mon ami,6 which deals with the idea of the deprivation of happiness. We are more interested in the history of Bible study and criticism, and in how people read this dreadfully difficult, most religious but yet least Jewish of the sapiential books of the Bible, about which Catholic, Protestant and Jewish criticism might have reached a consensus. In fact, as we shall show, to no one’s surprise, all the Bible critics of the period read Job in the light of their own philosophical positions, as we all tend to do, and, in most cases, ideology or orthodoxy influenced their criticism but, in one case where such a result was to be expected, it in fact did not!

Hebrew studies and philology – general lines of enquiry and many open questions

We shall be dealing with the French scene after a brief discussion of Spinoza, who does not belong in the same gallery as the other translators and biblical philologists who will interest us here, but whose Tractatus theologico-politicus (1670) proved to be very influential. They

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learned their Hebrew as adults, from grammars and lexicons, and came to that language from Greek, Latin and either Catholic or Reformed theology while Spinoza came to Hebrew the way that all Jewish boys of his time came to it, as an introduction to Jewish life whose religious manifestations were, except for rare translations into Portuguese or Judeo-Spanish, conducted in that language, and whose intellectual manifestations were still written in Hebrew, though many classical philosophical texts were written in Arabic and the Zohar and many halakhic texts were written in Aramaic. Instead of reading the Bible with Reuchlin’s or Sancte Pagnino’s lexicons, or with Sebastien Münster’s translation and commentary at hand, as Christians of his period might have done if they wanted to approach the Hebrew text, Spinoza surely read it with the traditional commentaries that he cites in the Tractatus, Rabbi Shlomo ben Isaac of Troyes, i.e., RaShI (1040–1104), Abraham Ibn Ezra (1089–1164) and David Kimhi (1160–1235), and he is occasionally indebted to Ya’akov ben Hayyim Ibn Adoniah’s introduction to Daniel Bomberg’s 1524–25 Venetian rabbinical Bible and subsequent editions as well as to the £ykwbn hrwm, the Guide for the perplexed by the most rationalistic of the Jewish philosophers, Moshe ben Maimon (1135–1204). Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Kimhi and, for some books, among which is Job, Gersonides, were not necessarily the commentators of Spinoza’s choice. They were the commentators that Ya’akov ben Hayyim chose to include in his edition of the Bible. In fact, he generally chose the most philological of the medieval Jewish commentaries that had become classical because their literal interpretations had been sufficiently appreciated by generations of Jewish readers for them to have executed the many manuscript copies that can still be found in the great libraries of the world. Thus the predilection of generations of Jewish students of Bible for philological exegesis contributed to Spinoza’s reading of the Bible, and especially to his idea that it could be read philologically.7 It was as an adult, after acquiring Hebrew and his knowledge of Jewish philosophy, that he learnt Latin, European philosophy and what he knew of Christian theology, Catholic and Reformed.8 Of the several figures who will interest us here, two knew no Hebrew while the others were ‘Christian Hebraists’9 of one sort or another who had come to Hebrew later in life than did Spinoza, when their studies of Greek, Latin and theology were complete or nearly so. And they came to Hebrew philology with heavy Christian baggage. In some cases they hoped to use Hebrew convert Jews and in others to explain elements of their Christian heritage, as John Lightfoot (1602–75) had done in

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England, when he discussed Talmudic parallels to passages in the Gospels and Epistles,10 and as Richard Simon (1636–1712) had done when he demonstrated parallels between the Catholic and Jewish liturgies in the Comparaison des cérémonies des Juifs et de la discipline de l’église11 or, exceptionally, again like Simon who, though he left no corpus of exegesis, sought to explain the Bible better on its own terms than most of the Fathers had done because the latter had indulged in allegories and ‘mystagogies’ for lack of Hebrew philology. Some Christian Hebraists, most notably Simon and Étienne Fourmont (1683–1745) in France, tried to answer questions regarding the history, transmission and inner consistency of the Hebrew Bible, while others, like Jean Leclerc, Charles Le Cène and especially Augustin Calmet, tried to use their Hebrew, such as it was, for apologetic purposes, or even to bring the Christian message to Jews, sometimes in their own language, by demonstrating to them that their own sacred texts contained prophecies of Jesus’s birth and passion, as Christian apologetics had claimed since the editing of the Gospel according to Matthew, as well as elements of Christian theology, because the Council of Trent had decided that all Christian doctrine was to be found both in the Fathers and in the Bible. Seventeenth-century France and even eighteenth-century France retained much of the Counter-Reformation’s hostility to Jews and to all things Jewish, so it would have been normal to disguise any reasonably disinterested curiosity regarding things Hebrew or Aramaic, or Arabic or Coptic with the excuse that knowing those languages would help defend the faith against the Jews and Moslems, and in fact all of the ‘Christian Hebraists’ that we have read did so on one or more occasions, most notably in inaugural lectures, whether in good faith or as a necessary exercise to protect their freedom to study Hebrew and rabbinics. Thus all those apologies for the study of Hebrew need not be taken too seriously. Peter van Rooden speaks about a failure of ‘Christian Hebraism’ because none of these excuses for learning and teaching Hebrew seems to have been satisfied.12 As we define it, however, ‘Christian Hebraism’ was merely Christians studying and teaching Hebrew and Jewish studies for the diverse and sometimes contradictory reasons just mentioned, and it did not fail to perpetuate itself. Hebrew studies became much more professional in the course of the eighteenth century in Holland and Germany and, as the need for religious reasons to justify their study had receded, the qualification ‘Christian’ was no longer very helpful and even cast doubt upon the reliability of a scholar’s work. In addition, learned apologetics seem to have become more sophisticated, and many

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of the naïve arguments from the Hebrew that early Christian Hebraists and even Calmet in the early eighteenth century could propose were no longer plausible. This does not imply that all Bible scholars who had learnt Hebrew had, by the nineteenth century, abandoned the hope of finding support for Christian theology in the Old Testament. Some still do. In the period that we shall be studying here, the burden of Christian identification still remained, and was in part expressed in the choice of commentators to be cited, in the choice of text to be treated, and in the amount of Christian theology that was to be sought in the Old Testament and thus in Job, too, but we shall also see here a progressive emancipation from dogmatic constraints upon philology. The implicit argument will be that such an emancipation would often be expressed by a decreasing scruple about exploiting rabbinic exegesis and about citing the testimony of ancient rabbis. Reading rabbinic exegesis was still, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a necessary condition for progress, not because the rabbis had valid historical traditions regarding the composition of biblical books much less about the dramatis personnæ of Job, but because some of them, like Ibn Ezra and Kimhi, brought a very high level of philological sophistication and expertise to their commentaries, having been brought up in lands under Moslem domination where they learned Arabic, and they learned Aramaic in their Talmudic studies which they could apply to the targumim. The late André Caquot once admitted, in the course of a Collège de France lecture on one or another of the more difficult poetical chapters of the Old Testament, that, like all other professional scholars confronted with a crux, he would look at Ibn Ezra and Kimhi before turning to modern authors, because the former were so expert and intelligent. For any grammatical anomaly that one can identify in the texts, Ibn Ezra and Kimhi had already recognized it and cited other verses containing the same anomaly. That preference for these two Jewish commentators ought to have been even stronger in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries because the ‘moderns’ had fewer lexicographical resources to substitute for or to complement rabbinic lexical traditions than they do now, probably no more than the Greek, Latin and Syriac versions of the texts which represent rather late exegetical traditions, while they lacked the lexicographic and grammatical resources of Ibn Ezra and Kimhi who, with their Aramaic and Arabic, could find still comprehensible cognates for rare Hebrew words. The general lines of the study of Hebrew in France have been sketched in an article on an eighteenth-century Scottish Catholic, Alexander

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Geddes, who went to Paris to prepare for holy orders and was initiated into Hebrew studies there13 and, for the early French Renaissance, in Lyse Schwarzfuchs’s catalogue of sixteenth-century Paris editions containing any Hebrew typography.14 There was no continuity between the rare instances of Christians who knew Hebrew in Medieval France – Hugh of Saint-Victor (died in 1141) and Nicolas de Lyre (died after 1349) are the only examples that Beryl Smalley could find,15 though Robert Grosseteste in thirteenth-century Oxford and London and Alphonso Tostatus, bishop of Avila in the fifteenth century also knew some Hebrew – and Hebrew studies in the sixteenth century, in part because the expulsions of the fourteenth century (1306, 1311, 1322 and 1394) cut off contacts with Jews who could have simplified initiation to Hebrew, and in part because few Christians were attracted to Hebrew studies. Reading between the lines of Richard Simon’s correspondence and some of Étienne Fourmont’s manuscripts, it appears that Jews were held in such disrepute that one had to be something of a renegade to study their language despite its obvious pertinence to theological study. The first sixteenth-century French Hebraists were remarkable because, without a tradition of the study of that language, they discovered that they wanted to learn it or needed to know it for their own purposes. Hebrew was introduced to the humanists and theologians in the German orbit with Johannes Reuchlin’s Rudimentis hebraicis16 which, despite some errors and misconceptions,17 was a detailed grammar and lexicon written in the international language of the period, and to the Strasbourg humanists and theologians, Martin Bucer and Wolfgang Capiton, by Konrad Pellikan about the same period, and from there the study of Hebrew spread to Basel and Geneva where enough progress had been made for Pierre-Robert Olivétan to translate the Hebrew Bible with the aid of Sebastien Münster’s Latin translation and commentaries.18 However Hebrew seems to have come to Paris a bit later and somewhat differently. The Dominican, Agostino Giustiniani (1470–1536), bishop of Nebbio, in Sicily, spent three years in Paris, from the autumn of 1518 until 1522, before going to England upon the invitation of Henry VIII. One may assume that rather than being an autodidact like Pellikan and the Germans who learned Hebrew from Reuchlin’s grammar, he had learnt Hebrew in Italy from contacts with practising Jews of various degrees of expertise, or from Jews who had learnt some Hebrew before a conversion to Catholicism that rendered them more socially acceptable and more trustworthy masters. Giustiniani had published a quadrilingual Psalter, Hebrew, Greek, Arabic and ‘Chaldean’, i.e. Aramaic19 while still

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in Italy, and continued to publish in Paris with an edition of Moshe Kimhi’s grammar, Sdwqx §wSl ykrd rps (1520) and, the same year, a translation of Maimonides based on an old Hebrew translation by Yehuda Al-Harizi, Dux seu Director dubitãtium.20 We assume that Giustiniani taught Hebrew in Paris, but we do not know who studied under him during his three years there. Eight years after Giustiniani left Paris, in 1530, François Ier founded the Collège des lecteurs royaux to teach what the Sorbonne did not deign to teach, mathematics, Greek, physiology, and Hebrew. Among the first professors of Hebrew, who appear to have functioned simultaneously, Agazio Guidacerio and Paolo Canossa (Paul Paradis) were born within Jewish communities in Italy and had converted to Catholicism at some time in their career, almost surely before coming to teach in Paris, and thus, like Giustiniani, they were initiated into Hebrew by contact with Jews. The third professor of Hebrew, François Vatable, unlike Giustiniani, Guidacerio and Paradis, seems to have learned Hebrew in France, possibly from Giustiniani. The second generation of royal professors may have been at least partially French trained, possibly by the royal professors just mentioned, since we are not aware of any other dispensary of instruction in the Hebrew language in France, although there was enough Hebrew printing in Lyon, mainly editions of Sancte Pagnino’s grammar and lexicon, before any Parisian publisher dared produce such typographically complex projects,21 to suggest that there were both local customers and a corps of compositors and proof-readers who knew at least the rudiments of Hebrew, but our biographical information about all of them, except Pagnino, who was trained in Italy and had taught in Rome before travelling to Avignon and Lyon22, is so skimpy that travel in Italy or in any of the states in Germany where they could have had contact with learned or not so learned Jews cannot be excluded. In any event, there were relatively many royal professors in the course of the sixteenth century, possibly because the normal span of life was so much shorter than it is now that if they were well advanced in their scholarly careers in order to be appointed, many if not most would not have lived long enough to serve very long, and their principal activity seems to have been the composition of Hebrew ‘alphabets’ and fairly elementary ‘grammars’ to teach the pronunciation of Hebrew and the rudiments of its structure. If books had to be typographically recomposed when there was a renewed demand for them, it could not have cost much more to commission a new alphabet or grammar from a royal professor of

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Hebrew than to recompose an earlier edition. We have just discovered a hitherto unknown royal professor, Ambrosius Friche because he identified himself as such on the title-page of an Alphabetum, seu Elementarium ebraicus Palmonii.23 Mme Schwarzfuchs has not identified any other publication that can be attributed to him. There were a few other authors of grammars. Jean Chéradame who was a royal professor of Greek rather than Hebrew and published Xvm ¢l 'h yrbv 'rql vdtS ydk twlvwpw qwdqyd. Rudimenta quædam Hebraicæ grammaticæ,24 Nicolas Clénard (1495–1542) who had studied in Louvain and made his career in Belgium and Spain but published in Paris – fourteen editions of his Hebrew 1533 grammar, Tabula in grammaticen Hebræam – and Jean de Drosay, ‘doctor and regent in law’ at the University of Caën and student of the royal professor Alain Restauld de Caligny, himself a student of Guidacerio, who published a Grammaticæ quadrilinguis partitiones,25 were the most notable among them. There was also an Angelo Camini, pensionaire of the Collège des Italiens in Paris, who wrote a comparative grammar of Semitic languages, ymr' §Sld 'qwdqd. Institutiones linguæ Syriacæ, Assyriacæ, atque Arabicæ collatione.26 The most gifted of the royal professors was surely Jean Mercier, royal professor from 1547? to 1570, who was born in Uzès, in the Gard, and studied law in nearby Avignon where he could have had contact with Jews as, a century later, Nicolas-Claude Fabri de Peiresc (1580–1637) in fact did27 because, being papal territory, Avignon had not been affected by the fourteenth-century expulsions of Jews from France. Throughout the sixteenth century there was a surprising amount of Hebrew printing in Paris, the alphabets and grammars just mentioned, two handsome books of the Bible, tyS'rb rps. Primus liber legis Mosaicæ, qui Genesis à Græcis inscribitur 28 and twmS hl' rps. Secundus liber legis Mosaicæ,29 which were published by Christian Wechel (active between 1531 and 1553) though we do not know who was their admirable scientific editor. There were also the in-4 and in-8 Bibles published by Robert Estienne (active as a printer of Hebrew between 1528 and 1550) between 1539 and 1544, and, after the mid-century the Aramaic grammar of Mercier 30 and his translations, into Latin, of course, of the Targumim of several of the shorter prophetic books,31 studies of Jewish mysticism by Guillaume Postel, and finally several books by Bishop Gilbert Genebrard, royal professor from 1569 to 1591, on how to read rabbinic literature. With the exception of Mercier’s work and Camini’s comparative grammar, the French Hebraists produced no real advances in scholarship.

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These were Hebrew books by Christians, in fact for Christian beginners, in contrast to the vast output of the Venetian, Mantuan, Ferraran, Cremonan and Tridentine Hebrew publishers and the Jewish publishers – Ottoman law prohibited Moslems from printing books – in Constantinople who produced books by and for learned Jews. The scene in seventeenth-century France is more distinguished. Jean Morin published the first edition of a Samaritan manuscript, the Samaritan Pentateuch, in the sixth volume of Guy-Michel Le Jay’s ten-volume polyglot Biblia 1. Hebraica, 2. Samaritana, 3. Chaldaica, 4.Græca 5. Syriaca, 6. Latina, 7. Arabica.32 There is testimony to the presence of a Jew named Alpen or Halphen in Saumur in 1667 where he taught Hebrew to Catholics studying at the Oratorian college,33 but that is too late for him to have taught either Louis Cappel (1585–1658) or Samuel Bochart (1599–1667). Cappel taught at the Reformed academy in Saumur, wrote a treatise demonstrating that the Hebrew vowelpoints were modern, Arcanum punctationis revelatum,34 which correctly demystified the Hebrew biblical text, and a Critica sacra35 which has not yet been studied for its contribution to criticism but was admired by such a fine connoisseur as the late Harry D. Goshen-Gottstein.36 It is not yet obvious to us what Cappel added in his Arcanum to Eliayahu Ashkenazi’s trsmh trsm,37 though even diffusing its arguments among Christians would of itself have been an important contribution, nor what arguments susceptible to generalization were made in the Critica Sacra, or what theory of Scriptural inspiration he adopted that could be squared with the not completely reliable biblical text that his criticism had revealed. François Laplanche’s giant thesis, L’Écriture, le sacré et l’histoire38 is less helpful than one might have hoped on these points. Bochart was a pastor in Caen, author of remarkably learned but uncritical treatises of biblical archæology, the ethnography of the Bible,39 and the beasts of the Bible,40 and taught Hebrew to the future bishop of Avranches, Pierre-Daniel Huet (1630–1721). None of these Christian Hebraists can be suspected of denying Christian doctrine or attacking the authority of the Bible. The same cannot be said of Richard Simon whose work remains rather ambiguous. One can only assume that he learned the rudiments of Hebrew while still in his native Normandy from one or more of the Latin manuals or even from one of the Hebrew grammars written by Moshe Kimhi, David Kimhi, Abraham de Balmes and Eliyahu Ashkenazi which had been translated into Latin, because there should have been no Jews to initiate him into that language since no Jews were authorized

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to reside there. (But none were authorized to reside in Saumur either, yet apparently Halphen did.) In Paris Simon became the librarian of the Congrégation de l’Oratoire, opposite the Louvre, where he catalogued the very rich collection of manuscripts that that order had received, mostly from Achille de Harlay de Sancy who had purchased some of them in Italy and others during a brief service as Louis XIII’s ambassador to the Sublime Porte.41 One may further suppose that Simon also catalogued or at least familiarized himself with the Oratoire’s even richer collection of Hebrew books many of which seem to have been offered by de Harlay. (The few manuscript catalogues of the Oratory’s library that we have seen are surely incomplete. A recent inventory of Hebrew books in the Mazarine library – most were acquired shortly after 1789, when convent and college libraries were expropriated and their books allocated to the various newly nationalized libraries like the SainteGeneviève, the Mazarine, the Arsenal and, of course, the former royal library – that calls attention to their provenance gives a better idea of the wealth of that collection.42) During his period in the Oratoire Simon studied the Bible with Jona Salvador, a Jew from Pignerol who had come to Paris to purchase a tobacco monopoly. In any event, quite independently of Spinoza who only figures in the Préface although in subsequent books Simon is at pains to refute him, Simon analysed the Hebrew Bible with special attention to its transmission, and developed a theory that held that many of the Pentateuch laws derived from ancient alliances between God and the Israelites, while much of the narrative material was written and subsequently glossed by semi-inspired scribes, ‘écrivains publics’, and even those relatively late texts had suffered omissions, transpositions and palæographic errors. Before the title page could be drawn from the press, his Histoire critique du vieux testament 43 was prohibited and publicly burnt by the executioner to satisfy an indignant Bishop Bossuet,44 but there is no doubt about the title since Bossuet mentions it, it figures on the first page of the text, in an Amsterdam 1680 pirate edition, and because Simon published re-editions of the text in Rotterdam under that title. Simon’s work was highly indebted to Ibn Ezra, Kimhi and to several Jewish Renaissance figures, and probably to Cappel – his debt to Cappel remains to be studied – and especially to Eliyahu Ashkenazi,45 and was surprisingly independent of even the most authoritative Catholic sources. He would judge the opinions of Church Fathers by their proximity to the texts about which they wrote and by their knowledge of Hebrew which, with the honourable and admired exceptions of Origen and Jerome, was nearly null. The book created

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a scandal by its cavalier treatment of the Fathers’ and the Church’s teaching regarding the age and composition of the biblical books, by its opinions regarding the composition and reliability of the biblical texts and, one feels from his adversaries’ attacks, by his debts to Jewish scholars. A recent rereading of chapters of the Histoire critique discovered the great efforts that Simon made to demonstrate that his positions were not incompatible with Catholic orthodoxy, which suggests that he anticipated that at first glance they might have been thought to be incompatible, and that he preferred to be in general conformity with Catholic doctrine than to be in opposition to it. In any event, and contrary to what was generally thought to be true, Simon’s books, mostly published in Rotterdam by Reinier Leers, were widely bought in France.46 How widely and well they were read, and whether Simon’s claim to have remained within the extreme limits of orthodox Catholic doctrine was convincing are of course separate questions which remain to be answered. Simon’s younger, reformed contemporary was Jean Leclerc of Geneva. He became reasonably competent in Hebrew but we do not know how or from whom he learned the rudiments of the language before entering the Geneva Académie which prepared pastors, much less by whom, nor how well or in what depth it was taught in the Académie. In 1685, after Reinier Leers brought out a new edition of Simon’s Histoire critique, Leclerc set out to refute it in his Sentimens de quelques théologiens de Hollande47 because the Histoire critique certainly had an anti-reformed polemical edge. The Sentimens is a fascinating book with many interesting hypotheses, notably that the Pentateuch was written by the priest sent to the former Northern Kingdom of Israel to teach the newly implanted pagans the local religion (II Kings xvii.24–29). Leclerc’s subsequent work, a translation of the Hebrew Bible into Latin, with commentaries, is a much more conservative effort. He does not seem to have read rabbinical commentaries on the Bible, or at least not systematically, and, while one can speak about Simon’s ambiguous relations with Jews and Judaism,48 we know nothing about Leclerc’s relations with Jews even though he lived among them in Amsterdam, and nothing about his relations, personal or bookish, with Jewish scholars. Eighteenth-century France is much less interesting for its Hebrew studies. There were two fine Hebraists, Étienne Fourmont, royal professor of Arabic and royal interpreter and librarian for Oriental languages, and the Benedictine, Pierre Guarin. Fourmont left us three

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polemical brochures which show respect for rabbinic exegesis and profound disdain for Christian allegorical and figurative interpretations of the Bible, a manuscript Hebrew grammar,49 and very many manuscripts on Bible and Jewish studies, apparently the basis of his courses.50 In general, he follows Richard Simon’s methods and arrives at his conclusions without, however, formally accepting Simon’s theory of ‘écrivains publics’, semi-authorized scribes and chroniclers who transmitted the sacred texts with glosses and other additions, which, though Fourmont did not say it, was much more specific than the evidence warranted. Fourmont’s lectures on the Old Testament, mostly the Psalms, have been preserved among his papers in eight volumes in the Bibliothèque nationale de France manuscript collection.51 They have not yet been thoroughly studied but certain traits are obvious. He tries to impose a strophic pattern on the Psalms and the canticles he treats, repeating verses or fragments of verses when necessary, emending the texts and repeating verses or hemistiches to force them to correspond to his analysis. He cites the Jewish commentators who appear in the rabbinical Bibles, tries to date each psalm or canticle, and compares them with other poetical biblical texts when possible. Some psalms refer to Jesus according to his interpretation, but that is rare so it would seem that Fourmont is not fundamentally an apologist who strayed into Hebrew studies. His exegetical manuscripts should be studied more closely to see how he squared the circle of literal exegesis and apologetics in order to determine whether the apologetic aspect of his work is fundamental or a veneer to disguise the philology with its citations of Jewish exegesis. His manuscripts are highly technical and assume auditors who know their Hebrew well, a public whose existence is a surprise to us. Pierre Guarin (1678–1729), librarian of the Saint-Germain monastery, left us a grammar that anticipated Gesenius in its thoroughness, and a Hebrew lexicon52 that he did not live to complete. We have not identified any comparative material in his grammar even though the pertinence of such material should have been obvious in view of the work in comparative Semitic grammar and lexicography by Mercier, Camini and especially by Johann Hottinger.53 If his grammar and lexicon have a religious bias we have not yet detected it, and we have never seen either book cited in any French text dealing with Bible. A certain Louis Jouard de la Nauze (1696–1773) published a brilliant article, ‘Remarques sur l’antiquité de l’origine de la cabale’ in the Mémoires de l’Académie royale des inscriptions et belles-lettres 54, which was all

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wrong in detail but entirely correct in method, seeking the earliest attestations to the Zohar and the Sefer ha-yezirah in rabbinical literature. He could have known Giulio Bartolocci and Giuseppe Imbonatti’s rps tyrq. Bibliotheca magna rabbinica,55 and Adrian Reeland’s Analecta rabbinica,56 bilingual anthologies of rabbinic literature as well as a few more specialized exposés of rabbinic opinions, for example, Antonius Hulsius’s hdwhy £v #hl byr sive Theologiæ iudaicæ pars prima de messia,57 but almost certainly not enough to be confident that the earliest attestations he found are in fact the earliest that exist. Much less helpful, in fact retrogressive, was the Hebrew grammar by François Masclef (1663–1729), Grammatica hebraïca a punctis aliisque inventis massorethicis libera,58 who tried to create a reading of Hebrew independent of the pronunciation and grammar traditional among Jews.59. The result was heuristic and obscured various grammatical structures common to Hebrew and other Semitic languages, surely more of a handicap than an aid to an understanding of the language. Guarin criticized it vehemently. The only competent Hebrew scholar to emerge from Masclef’s school was François Houbigant (1686–1784), who would translate and edit the Hebrew Bible with many emendations, Biblia hebraica cum notis criticis . . . ,60 as though he preferred, on principle and wherever possible, any reading other than the massoretic one. His editing technique should be compared with that of Johann Heinrich Michaelis who had already published a critical edition of the Hebrew Bible,61 and both should be compared to the critical edition that Benjamin Kennicott would bring out in 1776–80.62 Other Hebraists of this period included Jean-Marie Olonne, dit JeanMarie de Saint Joseph, author of a giant Lexicon hebraico-chaldaicolatino-biblicum63 and Bernard Lamy who published an Apparatus Biblicus siva Manductio ad sacram Scripturam tum clarius, tum facilius intelligendum, 64 and an Introduction à la lecture de l’Écriture sainte.65 He is supposed to have been well acquainted with halakhic literature.66 Jean Astruc is a figure of enormous importance for Bible studies because, in his Conjectures sur les mémoires originaux dont il paraît que Moïse s’est servi pour composer le Livre de la Genèse,67 he systematized and made explicit what had already been discreetly and more generally suggested in Simon’s Histoire critique du Vieux Testament, that Genesis and the first chapters of Exodus were a collection of texts from various ancient sources, whence their inconsistencies. Astruc may have known

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some Hebrew but was certainly not a philologist. However his criterion for splitting Genesis into documents was the choice among the several possible names of God which each document made quite consistently. We will hear echoes of that analysis in the discussions of Job. Finally, there is the strange testimony of Fourmont, who should have known what he was talking about. In a manuscript,68 he depreciates the novelty of Simon’s Histoire critique du Vieux Testament because Simon’s thesis that écrivains publics wrote and revised the Pentateuch, and by generalization, the other biblical books, had been anticipated by Isaac Abravanel in his introduction to Joshua, by Andreas Massius, and by Brian Walton in the prolegomena to his polyglot Bible,69 claiming that ‘de longtemps il n’y avait point de professeur à la Sorbonne qui n’en parlat comme lui’. We cannot confirm this although, were it true and not too exaggerated, it might explain some of the liberties that the pathologically orthodox Augustin Calmet occasionally took in his Commentaire littéral.70 There were a few more figures in French Bible studies that we can identify but they are of no pertinence to what we are about to describe. Jacques Lelong (1665–1721) worked with Fourmont and wrote an estimable bibliography of Bibles, including Hebrew Bibles, Bibliotheca sacra, seu Syllabus omnium ferme Sacræ Scripturæ editionum ac versionum.71 Louis de Poix, Jérôme d’Arras, Sérafin de Paris and their brother ‘capucins Hebraïsants’, inspired by the theories of the abbé Guillaume de Villefroy who was a royal professor of Hebrew, developed a ‘figurative’ theory that claimed that the Psalter has a single subject, the passion of Jesus, and must be ubiquitously interpreted so as to refer to it.72 Houbigant criticized that theory vehemently. In résumé, we do not yet know what real progress was made in lexicography from Reuchlin to Sancte Pagnino to Sebastien Münster to Pierre Guarin, nor what advances were made in identifying the structure of the Hebrew language (grammar) and especially in recognizing that the Scriptures are composed of texts with different grammars. If real progress was indeed made, it remains to be demonstrated that it contributed to the exegesis of Job. Simon, at least, realized that orthographic practice had varied during the period of manuscript transmission of the biblical texts, but he did not extend that insight to the composition of the biblical books. The dominant figure in French eighteenth-century Bible studies was surely the assiduous Benedictine, Augustin Calmet, a thoroughly orthodox figure and a poor Hebraist, but a man of the Enlightenment despite his orthodoxy or rather where his orthodoxy

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left him some degree of intellectual freedom. And then there were the ‘clandestine philosophers’ and Voltaire who wrote against the Bible with much more vigour and imagination than philological precision because none of them, except Nicolas-Antoine Boulanger, knew any Hebrew and, to judge from some of his etymologies in LANGUE HÉBRAÏQUE of the Encyclopédie, he knew very little. One can only speculate about the influence they might eventually have exerted upon Bible studies in France if the failure of the Revolution and then of Napoleon to perpetuate a lay government had not led to the restoration of the monarchy in 1815 and a return of a conservative and doctrinaire Church.73 But the ‘philosophes’ seem to have had one disciple among serious Bible scholars, Alexander Geddes, in Scotland and then in England. He was such an idiosyncratic figure that he had none.

Baruch Spinoza (1633–1677)

In his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus of 1670,74 Spinoza proposed a‘conjecture’ – this is the word that Jean Astruc would adopt in 1753 to excuse his decomposition of Genesis into four principal source-documents and numerous other more fragmentary documents – that there was indeed a historical Job, but that he had not been a Jew.75 Spinoza supported his conjecture with the opinion of Abraham Ibn Ezra,76 which he conceded was not adequately proved, to the effect that Job is a book translated into Hebrew from some unspecified language. It recounts the history of a gentile, his opinions about God’s justice and those of his gentile friends. Then Spinoza proceeded to deduce that such a book was admitted to the Scriptural canon to show that gentiles, too, had sacred books and authentic revelations. These friends were also representatives of all humanity, to judge from the text’s identification of their countries of origin as Shu’ah, Na’amah, Buz and Teman (i.e. Yemen), which, except for the latter, at the extreme south of the Arabian Peninsula, are unknown if not invented toponyms that suggest the four extremities of the world known to the author and to his readers.77 This argument may well have been inspired by the rabbis’ homiletic claim that God had granted prophecy to the gentiles as well as to the Jews so that the former might not plead ignorance of what God expects of his creatures (see Rashi on Num. xii.5). It attributes to the mishnaic rabbis Spinoza’s own

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insistence, and that of several Reformed theologians a generation and more later,78 that God’s revelation must be accessible to all men and women without mediation of priests or philologists. It is amusing to see Spinoza support theses from the Bible, as religious philosophers in the Jewish and Christian traditions have always sought and found their own theses in the Bible, because, unlike them, he did so while denying its authority.79 In this case, Spinoza uses what remains after he has excluded from the biblical text what he considers to be incompatible with the thesis he wants to defend. In fact, for Spinoza, the book of Job is a literary object written by an author other than the historical Job, who showed legendary patience under the harshest trials. Spinoza concedes neither the wager between God and Satan, which is the pretext for the trials of Job and thus for the book’s argument, nor the miraculous nature of these trials. The latter is consistent with his philosophy which, already at that stage of his career, admitted no suspensions of the laws of nature.80 History suggested to a poet the appropriate dialogues between Job and his friends, just as Thucydides explained81 that he would set out the discourses of Greek politicians which he had not heard, or could not recall in complete detail, according to what their authors should have said under the circumstances, given their interests and prejudices. (Spinoza does not make that comparison.) In particular, he claims that the poetry of Job bears a resemblance to that of the gentiles. He does not identify the poetic model to which he is referring but, to judge from his example of the description of the celestial council, and his identification of Satan with Hesiod’s Momus, son of Nyx (Theogony 214), we deduce that for him poetry is distinguished from philosophy by its fictional or parabolic presentation. He further claims not to choose among the various rabbinic opinions which held that the book of Job recounted the history of a real person who lived in the time of Abraham, Moses, or another,82 or, as an anonymous rabbi claimed, that Job never existed and that the story was merely a parable, 'l bwy' hyh lSm qr 'rbn 'lw hyh,83 confirmed by the opinions of R. Shimon ben Lakish and R. Resh Lakish in T. J. Sotah,84 or, as Maimonides had claimed, an allegory.85 Spinoza’s assimilation of Job to pagan poetry is consistent with this final line of interpretation. Curiously, the pain that Job experienced because of the death of his children and the depletion of his fortune in a society where honour, dwbk, is etymologically related to the word for wealth,86 and his agony of suffering from a disease as shameful as it was painful do not touch this philosopher, do not prevent him from reducing this book to a schema

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which occludes suffering in an abstract formula, ‘[Job was a] man with a very stable character who began by enjoying prosperity, was then assailed by terrible calamities and was finally restored to a state of great joy’. As we shall see in the discussion of Mme du Châtelet, when a stoic considers Providence, the intervention of God in the affairs of men, the problem of theodicy, which had been recognized for ages, which would be formalized by Leibniz and would traumatize Voltaire and Candide, does not arise.

Richard Simon (1638–1712)87

The discussion of Job that interests us here is not to be found in the Histoire critique du Vieux Testament but in his Critique de la Bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques.88 This is a posthumous publication, edited by Étienne Souciet, that is mostly a criticism of LouisElliés Dupin’s anthology of Patristics. It also includes a long critique of Augustin Calmet’s Commentaire littéral . . . Genèse (Paris, 1707) that Simon apparently had hoped to publish in a transparent rabbinic disguise and under a rabbinical pseudonym,89 and some material dealing with Old Testament books which may have been older, the remnants of his 1678 edition that he never had occasion to exploit. Simon’s discussion of Job in the second chapter devoted to that book has however minimal pertinence to Dupin. It refers to Bishop Pierre-Daniel Huet’s Demonstratio evangelica90 and to Spinoza’s comments upon Job that had appeared in the Tractatus Theologico-Politicus. As has been remarked above, there is reason to believe that Simon only saw the Tractatus after the Histoire critique was nearly complete. The two chapters of the Critique de la Bibliothèque that discuss Job are therefore necessarily later than the Histoire critique du Vieux Testament. It seems that Souciet published a faithful text, merely adding notes to refute theses he could not accept. It should be noted in passing that it is not too surprising that a respectable Jesuit like Souciet should have published this work despite his reservations. Simon always respected several of the seventeenth-century Jesuit exegetes whose commentaries reflected the nuanced Jesuit doctrine with respect to the inspiration of the Scriptures, and that respect was apparently prudently reciprocated. In 1702 Étienne Ganeau, who also published the Jesuits’ Mémoires de

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Trévoux (1701–1767) and their Dictionnaire de Trévoux (1704) in which, it is now known, Simon participated anonymously,91 published Simon’s translation of the New Testament, Le Nouveau Testament de nôtre Seigneur Jésus-Christ, traduit sur l’ancienne édition latine, avec des remarques litérales et critiques (Trévoux, 1702). Had Bossuet not succeeded in suppressing this translation with its critical notes, French Catholicism would have had to confront New Testament criticism in the eighteenth century rather than in the twentieth. Part of Simon’s contribution to the criticism of Job is bibliographical. In a period without union catalogues to locate manuscripts and rare editions as well as good bibliographical instruments, a critical bibliography of any subject was, in itself, a valuable contribution. Simon claims to have read two rabbinic commentaries, which review the diversity of rabbinic interpretations of Job: the XpSm bhw' of Shimon ben Tzemah, and an unnamed one, necessarily Joseph Ibn Yahya’s Smx Swrp twlygm. He knows the opinions of Abraham Ibn Ezra first hand, very likely from one of the ‘rabbinical Bibles’. Though he mentions many of the Greek and Latin Fathers, Jerome is the only one whose opinion really interests Simon, and he shows that Jerome contradicted himself regarding the metre of the verse in Job,92 and was therefore not a reliable transmitter of an authentic tradition in this regard; neither he nor the rabbis possessed an authentic exegetical tradition. He is more interested in the several contemporaries and near contemporaries, the wellknown Hugo Grotius, Spinoza, and Huet, and two little-known Hebraists, Philippe Codurc or Codurque (c.1580–c.1660)93 and the Jesuit, François Vavasseur (1605–1681),94 all of whom used critical methods or at least addressed the problems of dating and describing the language of Job non-dogmatically. As we shall see, Simon did not hesitate to quote and approve the opinion of a notorious Calvinist translator, Sébastian Châteillon. While Simon was well aware of polemical implications of biblical science, and particularly those of his own work, confessional disputes do not seem to have been his principal objective. Simon, like all his learned contemporaries, was educated in grammar, which meant, in those days, the rhetorical and linguistic analysis of Greek and Latin literary works,95 so that for him, the discovery of what the author of Job wanted to say passed through an analysis of the form and language of his book. Codurc had asserted that the author of Job had used more than a hundred Syriac or Arabic words, and had drawn ‘plusieurs sentences’ from Psalms and Proverbs,96 and had even found enough parallels to Job in the book of Isaiah97 to suppose that

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the same author wrote both of them, or at least that the book of Job was written in the period of the last prophets. Hugo Grotius, in his Annotationes (1644) had already discovered in Job certain expressions that, he claimed, were close to expressions in Daniel, Ezra and the targumim. Simon apparently made his own study of the language of Job and concurred with Grotius and Codurc, thus: Je n’ose pas assurer avec Mr. Huet, que Moïse en est l’auteur, que les locutions arabes et syriaques dont il [le livre de Job] est rempli, viennent de la licence que prennent ordinairement les poëtes, qui affectent d’employer différents dialectes dans leurs ouvrages par une espèce de grandeur de style, et pour faire plus d’impression sur le peuple, ce qu’il [Huet] confirme par l’exemple d’Homère. Il y a bien plus d’apparence que l’auteur de ce livre s’est servi de ces sortes d’expressions, parce qu’elles étaient en usage de son tems: on ne trouve point ces fréquens arabismes et syriacismes, pour parler avec saint Jérôme, dans les cantiques de Moïse, qui cependant sont écrits d’un style fort poétique et très sublime.98

This is hard to parse or rather it is hard to determine from these litotes what Simon does assert. Earlier in his text he had identified the genre of the book of Job by claiming that it was written in the ‘stile de ces anciens moscelim [£ylSwm, cf. Num. xxi.27; xxiii.7, 18; xxiv.3, 15, 20, 21, 23; Ezek. xvi.44, etc.] c’est-à-dire dans un stile coupé et sententieux’.99 Simon’s reference in the above citation to Huet’s use of Homer as an example of the linguistic diversity that may be found within the work of a single author may not have been innocent. Although his Conjectures académiques, ou Dissertation sur l’Iliade would only be published posthumously, in 1715,100 the observation of the abbé François Hédelin d’Aubignac (d. 1679) that different episodes of the Iliad are written in different Greek dialects, suggesting to him that that great poem was in fact a collection of ‘rhapsodies’, was already known through Charles Perrault’s exposition in his Comparaison des anciens et modernes (1698). It is possible that it had also circulated long before, by word of mouth, among the more erudite members of the academies, because d’Aubignac was a prominent scholar.101 It is typical of the abstraction of Simon’s expositions that he does not cite here any other books written by the moscelim, nor any of the Arabic and Syriac locutions he claims that Jerome claimed to have identified; much less does he verify or refute Jerome’s claim. Simon seems – it is hard to pin him down – to have agreed with Vavasseur who had suggested (according to Simon’s summary) what would have been dangerous to assert: that the book of Job was written

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by an orator or a poet rather than by a person describing his own misfortunes, ‘mais toute la suite du discours fait connoître, que quoyque le fond du livre soit une véritable histoire, l’ouvrage entier est plûtôt d’un orateur ou d’un poëte, que d’une personne qui décrit elle-même ses misères, et les grands maux qu’elle souffroit. C’est ce que, le Père Vavasseur, sçavant et eloquent jésuite, a insinué dès le commencement de son commentaire sur Job.’102 This is to say that Job is a literary work based on historical fact, as Spinoza had claimed, using an author’s language and literary conventions, and not a text entirely dictated by God, who should have been inerrant with regard to both science and doctrine, and should have spoken to the Israelites in a pure, literary Hebrew as he did in the Pentateuch. (Admitting an author’s freedom of expression corresponds to Auvray’s description of the Jesuits’ humanist thesis, that men received inspiration from God but transmitted it in their own language.103) In view of those linguistic results, Simon was inclined to accept the opinion of Jerome, who claimed that it is quite likely that whoever wrote the book of Job lived in Babylonia during the period of the first exile, 586–539 B.C.E.,104 when, he further asserted, the Jews’ language had degenerated from its ancient purity.105 Simon does not insist upon the degeneration of Hebrew, a judgement based upon a depreciation of the rabbinical idiom which is capable of both precision and nuance, but he recognizes a linguistic difference between Job and the canticles in the Pentateuch, and he adds, this time following Huet, that wherever the historical Job had lived, the author of the book of Job had set his story in ancient times, the better to demonstrate the providence of God. If the setting of the book is literary rather than historical, by extension, it is not necessary to construe everything in the book regarding Job himself, nor the imagery and metaphors its author drew from the natural sciences of the period, as the complete truth, and this despite the book’s canonical status. Implicitly, if Job is an inspired book, which Simon neither asserts nor denies, its story need be neither completely true nor completely invented, whatever its thesis may be. Simon cites with approval the opinion of unnamed ancient Greek authors that ‘il n’a pas été nécessaire . . . que l’auteur du livre de Job marquât à la tête de son ouvrage le tems auquel il a été écrit, parce que n’ayant eu en vûë que d’exciter ses lecteurs à la vertu, en représentant les grands combats de ce saint homme, cette exactitude ne faisoit rien à son dessein’;106 the author wished to represent as an example Job’s struggle to understand or merely to submit to the will of God. Simon could not accept the claim that the story of Job was the complete fiction that the opinion in Baba

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bathra had held it to have been, ‘tant de faits particuliers, qui circonstancient cette histoire, ne permettent pas de croire que tout ce qui y est rapporté est parabole’. He remarks the concurrence of ‘R. Moïse’ – that no identification of Maimonides was deemed necessary suggests the high regard in which Simon and the readers he envisaged held that halakhist and philosopher – but still refused to accept, even upon his authority, the opinion that Job was entirely parabolic.107 He cites the concurring ‘judicious’ opinion of Châteillon: ‘Ceux qui croyent que cette narration ou dispute n’est qu’une fiction, n’ont aucune raison de le faire: car si l’on nie que ce soit une véritable histoire, il faut rejetter en même tems toutes les autres. C’est une chose absurde, dit-on, que Dieu s’entretient familièrement avec un homme comme si Dieu ne s’étoit pas entretenu avec Noë, avec Abraham, et avec les autres patriarches. Si l’on m’oppose [ . . . ] que ces Patriarches étoient du nombre de ces hommes que Dieu avoit choisis spécialement pour être à luy, et que Job étoit d’Iduménée; je répons que Dieu n’a rejetté aucun peuple en particulier, et qu’il aime ceux qui vivent bien, de quelque nation qu’ils soient’. Enfin Chastillon ajoute qu’il luy semble que Job a vêcu long-tems après Moïse, et il s’appuye sur quelques passages, qu’il conjecture avoir été pris des Pseaumes, il n’ose cependent rien décider parce qu’il se pourroit faire que ce qui est dans ces Peaumes eût été pris du livre de Job.108

But when Huet characterizes as ‘madness’ the opinions of those rabbis of the Talmud, ‘talmudistarum insania’, who believed that the story of Job was an invention because he did not want to detract from the truth of anything in the biblical texts, Simon takes exception.109 Jerome’s thesis, that the function of the book was to console the people of God in their captivity with an example that was both real and touching, was too precise to tempt Simon, although it complemented the analysis of the language of Job that Simon did accept. He required better reasons than a saint’s hypothesis to assert a particular allegorical interpretation, and he refused to accept any of the naïve historical identifications, validated by verbal associations, of the age in which the author lived, such as that of ¶wv, Utz, Job’s country of residence, with ¶wv who was Abraham’s nephew (Gen. xxii.21), or any of the several other proposals in T.B., Baba bathra 15a-b, and in T. J., Sotah v.8. He thus declined to accept the Bible uncritically as a historical source. And in fact he shows, from the diversity of their opinions, that the rabbis, not to speak of later authors and his contemporary critics, possessed no reliable tradition regarding the author and date of composition of Job. He argues that even the text is touched by uncertainties, and that they

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are at least as old as the Greek version compiled in the second century B.C.E. This version contains scholia, confusions, in particular between Job and a Jobab (bbwy) who was either the person who figures in the genealogy of Yoktan (Gen. x.29), the king who reigned over Edom (Gen. xxxvi.33), or the Canaanite king defeated by Joshua (Josh. xi.1),110 as well as a genealogy of Job and a speech by his wife that do not appear in the massoretic text.111 He adds maliciously that the Church did not retain these additions while retaining, quite inconsistently, the Greek additions to Esther and Daniel.112 As a result, ‘On n’a rien de certain sur ce livre et que tout ce qu’on a dit jusques à présent ne consiste que dans des conjectures dont la plupart ne sont appuyées que sur l’imagination de ceux qui les avancent’.113 A further contribution to a comprehension of the book is the suspicion that the language of biblical poetry, excluding the Pentateuch, is too heteroclite to yield a date. It was typical of Simon to accept an incomplete knowledge of the history of the Bible, and to show such prudence in proposing hypotheses regarding the meaning of texts. The latter was possibly a necessary precaution become habitual, even in books published pseudonymously abroad, as this Critique de la Bibliothèque was surely designed to have been, because of Simon’s precarious position in French society: he was a learned priest with a very acerbic pen, expelled from his order and without a well-placed patron. One cannot therefore know the limits of the independence of his interpretation of Job nor indeed of any other book of the Bible. He thus remains for us an enigmatic figure. He may have been less iconoclastic than seekers of precursors for the men (and women) of the Enlightenment like Paul Hazard114 and Ernst Cassirer115 used to think, as he shows himself to have been in rejecting the more extreme theses regarding the book of Job. Nonetheless, he was certainly a critic who had good intuitions regarding the Hebrew language, and the composition and transmission of the books of the Bible. Finally, as his discussion of Job shows, he was willing to live with much uncertainty regarding the Bible.

Jean Leclerc (1657–1736)116

A more audacious Bible critic than Simon, whom he refutes in his Sentimens de quelques théologiens de Hollande, Leclerc tried to decide,

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in his ninth letter, among several competing theses regarding the nature of the book of Job and the period of its composition. He would have preferred to believe that there had been a historical Job because Ezek. xiv.14 and James v.11 mention him, but, he adds, because it is a poetical book, one must determine whether it contains a poeticized version of the real speeches that Job and his friends delivered, as Huet was willing to admit, or whether ‘l’Auteur n’a point ajouté quelques circonstances à l’Histoire, et n’a pas fait dire à Job et à ses Amis, des choses à quoi ils ne pensèrent jamais’.117 The setting of the book strikes him as suspect: ‘[C]ette vie [des enfants de Job] toute occupée en festins et en sacrifices ne paroît pas conforme à la manière de vivre des Orientaux, qui étoient extrêmement appliqués au travail’.118 As for the scene in the celestial court: Je ne sai [sic] Monsieur, si ces circonstances [le démon qui s’entretient avec Dieu, le feu qui descend du ciel tuer les 7 000 brebis de Job et leurs bouviers] vous paroissent fort vrai-semblables, & si vous croyez que le Démon converse ainsi avec les enfans de Dieu, quels qu’ils puissent être, & avec Dieu lui-même: mais il semble que si l’on peut attribuer quelque vrai-semblance à cela, c’est celle que l’ont doit garder dans les Tragédies, où il suffit de ne rien supposer qui soit tout à fait impossible.119

The second dialogue of Satan and God seems to him to be unacceptable from an ethical point of view because God agrees to inflict suffering upon Job for no other reason than to win a bet.120 Finally, ‘on ne peut non plus se persuader qu’avec beaucoup de peine, que Dieu ait fait d’une nuée d’aussi longs discours, que ceux que l’Auteur lui fait faire’.121 Leclerc concludes, ‘Toutes ces circonstances sentent extrêmement la Parabole’.122 He is quite far from Simon’s as yet unpublished and thus unknown remarks because he takes the liberty of judging the plausibility and truth of elements of the book. But when was the book of Job written? Leclerc recognizes on the one hand the stylistic conformity of the prose chapters of Job with the style of the Pentateuch, and on the other hand a certain number of Aramaic expressions (in Job xii.23; xv.4, 12; xvi.8; xvii.1; xxii.16; xviii.2; xxi.22)123 and ‘imitations’ of verses in the Psalter (Job vii.10/Ps. ciii.16; Job vii.17/Ps. viii.5; Job xv.35/Ps. vii.15; Job xix.13/Ps. xxxi.12 and xxxviii.12; Job xxii.19/Ps. cvii.42).124 These would be imitations rather than reminiscences because ‘l’imitation n’est pas si belle que l’original, qui exprime ordinairement les choses d’une manière plus nette et plus naturelle que la copie’, which is to say that Job was composed after the

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Psalter was consolidated or at least after many of the Psalms were written and had become known (not Leclerc’s qualification). He then observes that the £yhl' ynb, sons of God (or of the Gods) who compose the celestial court (Job i.6) are analogous to £yhl' rb, an angel mentioned in Dan. iii.25 and, more generally, he claims that referring to angels as £yhl' ynb is to use an expression that only occurs in Daniel.125 Leclerc concludes, Il y a au contraire [de l’opinion de Huet] si peu de différence entre le style du Pentateuque, et celui des derniers Livres de l’Écriture, qu’il n’est pas concevable qu’ils aient été écrits, comme on le suppose ordinairement, mille ans après le Pentateuque. Car encore qu’il ne soit pas arrivé d’aussi grands changemens dans la Langue Hébraïque que dans les autres, à cause du peu de commerce que les Hébreux avoient avec les étrangers,126 il est néanmoins sans doute plus arrivé dans l’espace de mille ans, qu’il n’y a de différence entre le style de ces livres. . . . Ainsi lors qu’on dira que l’Auteur de ce Livre ne peut qu’avoir vécu au commencement de la captivité, on ne dira rien qui ne soit conforme au style de cet ouvrage.127

This is not terribly clear but, if one parses it carefully, Leclerc seems to be saying that Job was composed during or after the first exile, as the authors that Simon cited had argued, but, because of the similarities of language, the Pentateuch could not be much older than Job and some of the later prose books! This is more daring than any of Simon’s hypotheses concerning the composition of the Pentateuch, but is consistent with Leclerc’s theory that the Pentateuch was composed by the Israelite priest sent from Babylon to teach the newly arrived Samaritans the local religion (II Kings xvii.24–28), a legend whose historical basis is now generally denied.128 Despite Leclerc’s radical theses regarding the composition of the Pentateuch, his approach to the text of Job is conservative. He does not suggest that the introduction and conclusion, which are in prose, come from one document while the dialogues between Job and his consolers, which are in verse, in a much more difficult Hebrew and never mention God’s wager with Satan, from another. He does not suggest that the poem regarding wisdom (Job xxvii.12–28) or Elihu’s speeches (Job xxxii.2xxxvii) are extraneous – these are obvious propositions which are still defended by some critics – nor does he propose to move about some of the verses to produce more coherent arguments. In other words, Leclerc had not yet, in 1685, applied to Job the analytical methods and the search for sources that both he and Simon, in their different ways, had proposed for the Pentateuch, and which could have bolstered his hypothesis that,

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whatever its historical basis, Job was composed by a much later and rather imaginative author.

Charles Le Cène (1647–1703)129

A Huguenot who chose exile in London and finally in Holland after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes (1685), proponent of religious tolerance, possibly because his own Socinian tendencies rendered him vulnerable to attack and thus sensitive to others’ vulnerability, Charles Le Cène completed a translation of the Bible just before his death. Published by his son in Amsterdam almost forty years later, La Sainte Bible, contenant l’ancien et le nouveau testament 130 is a fascinating work because Le Cène, like Alexander Geddes almost a hundred years later,131 and Samuel Cahen a hundred and thirty years later,132 tried, in his translation and notes, to exploit the full resources of the Bible studies of his day and either to demonstrate their compatibility with a Christian reading of the Bible, or to read the Bible in such a way that it might be compatible with their results. The materials in question certainly included Leclerc’s Sentimens and Simon’s Histoire critique du vieux testament, even if Le Cène could not have read the discussion of Job in the Critique de la Bibliothèque ecclésiastique. What follows is drawn from Le Cène’s ‘Avertissement sur le livre de Job’, 381–92, where, after a careful review of all opinions regarding the date of composition, he continues in the ‘grammatical tradition’ of the precursors described by Simon, by studying the language of Job. In particular he produces a list of eleven ‘chaldéïsmes’, which is to say, expressions in Aramaic (‘On y trouve des manières de parler, qu’on ne trouve que dans Esdras, Daniel et dans les paraphrases chaldaïques’),133 and six verses which resemble verses in Psalms, Isaiah, Micah and Proverbs,134 a wider repertoire of borrowings or reminiscences than what Leclerc had proposed. Le Cène then sketches the thesis proposed by the anonymous tana of Baba Bathra 15a: that there had never been such a person as Job and that, consequently, the story of the book of Job could only be a parable. However, he proves himself to be as conservative as Leclerc by rejecting that thesis. He cites first the detailed setting of the narrative: stories identified as parables by the Bible itself, such as Jesus’s parables or Yotam’s (Judg. ix.8–15), have more generalized settings and explicit comparisons or

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similitudes.135 Furthermore, to be a parable, ‘[i]l faut être trop allégorique pour ne pas dire trop visionnaire pour s’imaginer que ce qui est dit qui arriva à Job, représentoit l’histoire de la nation Israélite’,136 whereas Job is hardly fantastic, but can even be considered probable, relative to the stories about Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Pharaoh and Joshua. His second argument is that Job must have been a historical person since he is mentioned, without reference to his trials and misfortunes, in Ezek. xiv.14, together with Noah and Daniel, as a righteous man.137 Finally, Le Cène was not convinced by Jerome’s reading of Job as an allegory of a prosperous Israel reduced to servitude and misery and then restored to its initial prosperity and independence, though he may not have been convinced for the preceding reasons. Le Cène describes the book as a translation made from the Arabic long after it was written,138 and dates the book, if not necessarily the translation, to the period of the patriarchs. He further considered it to be a true story told: en la langue des hommes, comme parlent leurs [ceux des Juifs] docteurs, ou par une manière humaine d’expression, comme parle St. Paul, Rom. vi.19.139 En quoi le livre de Job n’a rien de particulier, puis qu’on voit que l’Écriture employe souvent de pareilles descriptions et de semblables peintures ou emblèmes toutes les fois qu’elle parle à ce peuple grossier [aux Juifs] de Dieu, des Anges, de Satan et de leurs actions140 on voit des peintures très approchantes dans les visions mystiques de Jacob, Gen. xxviii, de Michée, I Rois xxii.17, 18, 19, d’Isaïe, Is. vi, de Zacharie, Zach. iii, de S. Jean, Apoc. xii, etc., et dans les prédications de Jésus Christ lui-même, Matt. xxii.43, 44, 45.141

Nonetheless, the scene in the celestial court, chapters i and ii, is clearly ‘figurative’ and because of the resemblances to the relatively late biblical books which he had adduced, the Hebrew translation is considerably later. Applying the principle of parabolic speech, Le Cène permits himself certain nonliteral translations: the £yhl' ynb of chapter i become ‘personnes de qualité’, thus: ‘Mais il arriva un de ces jours que des personnes de qualité étant venues se présenter devant Dieu, Satan entra parmi eux. Dieu dit alors à Satan, d’où venez-vous ? Et Satan répondit à Dieu en ces termes: de parcourir la terre et de m’y promener’ (Job i.6–7 and cf. ii.1), eliminating the angelology of Job, like a Rudolf Bultmann avant la lettre.142 As for Job xxi.33, lxn ybgr, which Jerome had identified with the Cocytus, one of the five rivers of Hades,143 Le Cène renders it as ‘Les mottes de la vallée du torrent’, suppressing, with more justification this time, the (pagan) mythological element which had been

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introduced by Jerome. He does not realize, or refuses to admit, that the bhr of Job ix.13 is the sea monster slain by Yaweh (cf. Job xxvi.12, Ps. lxxxix.11 and Isa. li.9). He similarly does not take into account the role of the sea in the mythological background that the author of Job exploits. He cannot, however, always escape mythological references. He understands that the xyrb Sxn of Job xxvi.12–13 is an extraordinary creature and adds a gloss to that effect: ‘Il [Dieu] fend la mer par sa puissance, & transperce ses superbes flots par son adresse. Il a orné les Cieux de son vent, sa main a formé la Baratelle monstre marin’ (Vulgate: ‘coluber tortuosus’).144 Just as Le Cène had tried to eliminate the celestial court by depriving it of its semi-divine members, he also tried to banalize the terrestial world. Behemoth and Leviathan, which are clearly models of the immense and incomprehensible forces of nature that only God can vanquish, are identified with the ‘cheval marin’ (the hippopotamus?) and the crocodile, respectively.145 (We should, perhaps, not be too severe about these traditional identifications because Le Cène almost certainly never saw a hippopotamus or a crocodile, and may well have imagined them to be almost as terrifying as mythological monsters are supposed to be.) Of course biblical language is often metonymic or hyperbolic, and in those cases the translator faces the alternative of rendering the sense of an expression or the literal sense of its words. When he came to Job ix.9, Le Cène followed both impulses, identifying three constellations without translating their names literally while rendering a rational sense for a fourth, ‘Il [Dieu] a fait la grande Ourse & l’étoile nommée Cœur du Scorpion & les Pléiades & les parties secrètes du Midi’. The latter is his translation of §mt yrdx, literally, the chambers or rooms of Yemen, or of the south, even though, in the logic of the other constellations mentioned in the verse, the expression should designate a constellation in the southern sky, even if one no longer knows to which aggregation of stars it refers.146 Le Cène’s reduction of the mythology of Job is intentionally incomplete, despite his Socinian tendencies. Contrary to Sa’adia who, according to Ibn Ezra, ad Job i.6, took Satan to be a mortal, Le Cène retained semi-divine attributes for him in order to confirm the role that Christian theology had assigned him in the Fall legend. At least we imagine that that was Le Cène’s motivation because no passage in the New Testament, much less the Old, identifies Satan as a fallen angel (cf. Jude 6 which does not name any of the fallen angels), much less as Eve’s tempter. Like a good Socinian, Le Cène preferred to rely upon the Bible rather

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than on Patristic exegesis, so the Satan of Job had to be a malevolent angelic tempter. One finds, in Le Cène’s translation, disguised by biblical imagery, both a rational narrative, and, as illustrated in the citation below, an attempt at extracting an extenuating message: La suite et la vérité de l’histoire demandoient qu’on représentast le dessein trèssage de Dieu d’éprouver Job, et de faire connoître sa constance et sa vertu. . . . Dieu vouloit faire connoître sa haine [celle de Satan] et ses efforts contre les gens de bien, et en particulier contre Job . . . il vouloit qu’on ne doutast jamais . . . de sa providence dans la dispensation et dans la modération des tentations qu’il permet qui arrivent; et comme cela est si élevé et si surprenant que nous ne pouvons ni le comprendre, quelque attention d’esprit que nous y apportions, ni beaucoup moins le voir de nos yeux, puis qu’il ne tombe pas sous nos yeux, il falloit qu’il fust représenté . . en la langue des hommes.147

This may be admirable in principle, if one assumes that the messages and narratives of the Bible are necessarily rational and historically valid, or regrettable because Le Cène’s procedure assumes that biblical language is exclusively emblematic and not intrinsically sacred, but is particularly unfortunate in its application to Job because the book ends with a theophany, including the hyperbolic descriptions of Behemoth and Leviathan, that proposes to demonstrate that the ethical and rational categories of men to which he wants the book to conform cannot contain or circumscribe God. Le Cène’s reading of Job is thus both more rationalistic and more conservative than Simon’s and Leclerc’s.

Augustin Calmet (1672–1757)148

Augustin Calmet was a Benedictine abbot of generally conciliatory disposition but fanatically orthodox, very learned, but uncritical of his sources and even totally unscrupulous in the defence of the faith. He defended the thesis that the history of Job was entirely true and in no way a parable, except for the scenes in the celestial court, ‘Tout ceci n’est qu’une espèce de parabole, où l’on représente Dieu comme un monarque’, even though, by its form, the book resembled a Greek tragedy.149 This was a thesis that M. Z. Segal could still defend, albeit

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with some reservations, in 1955.150 When, in the eighteenth century, one wanted to understand Bible rather than merely extract from it edifying verses or verses that support doctrine, he still had no other technique than a comparison, book by book, with known, i.e. Greek and Latin, literary forms. That the Bible might have been different from what a grammarian knew about literature from his study of the Greek and Roman models was not yet systematically envisaged, at least not in France. Calmet’s introduction is not a model of consistency but he defends the thesis that Job was an Edomite or an Arab, and that the Hebrew author who told his story made these foreigners speak Hebrew and even attributed to them occasional references to Jewish history. So even Calmet admitted that the book of Job is a literary exercise. Calmet’s book of Job emerges in complete conformity to Catholic doctrine. Because the Holy Spirit spoke through the mouths of Job and his four friends quite as clearly as it did when addressing Job directly in the book’s final theophany, Job and his friends had to be defended against the accusation of having entertained impious thoughts, ‘nos adversaires ajoutent qu’on voit dans les discours de Job des emportemens, & dans ceux de ses amis, des erreurs, et des excès, plus propres à ruiner la piété, qu’à édifier les fidèles’.151 He makes a heroic effort to explain why Job vii.21, yk ynwv t' rybvtw yvSp 'St 'l hmw bkS' rpvl htv, does not deny the immortality of the soul, and why Job vii.9, hlvy 'l lw'S drwy §k ¢lyw §gv hlk does not deny the possibility of resurrection.152 The several other passages where it might seem that Job exceeded the bounds of personal rectitude or propriety in his criticism of God (for example, Job vi.3; x.14; ix.22, 23; xii.20, 24; xxxv.2, 3) are softened in Calmet’s commentary. In fact, they may already have been attenuated in the Vulgate;153 they certainly are in the de Sacy translation that Calmet used. For example, ydS ycx, Shaddai’s arrows (Job vi.4) are translated, ‘des flèches très perçantes ou en trèsgrand nombre’,154 using without acknowledgement Spinoza’s argument that a name of God was often used as an intensifying modifier, and Job vi.2 comes out as ‘comparez seulement les maux que je souffre avec mes plaintes’. Even though Calmet identifies Job’s malady with syphilis (la vérole), he preserves Job’s piety by explaining, without the least Scriptural support, that Job contracted the dread disease while exercising charity, visiting and treating the sick, rather than through debauchery.155 Unlike Le Cène, Calmet has no scruple about seeing the book of Job populated with angels, good and evil (ad Job i.6 and xxxiii.23),156 though he is still tempted to reduce some of the angels to mere messengers, which

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is the primary sense of ¢'lm, because there are so many, of both types, in the Bible, and especially in the New Testament. Job xxxiii.23, £' wrSy £d'l dyghl •l' ynm dx' ¶ylm ¢'lm wylv Sy, is a prophecy of the resurrection, as is xix.25.157 These verses are completed by xii.6f and xxi.7f which, in his interpretation, describe posthumous punishments and rewards. Job xix.25, £wqy rpv lv §wrx'w ,yx yl'g ytvdy yn'w, represents Jesus Christ; Job xxxi.33, yvSp £d'k ytysk £' ynwv ybxb §wmXl, refers to original sin,158 and certain ancient interpreters whom Calmet cites without criticism held that Job xxvii.2, l' yx ySpn rmh ydSw yXpSm rysh, announced the Trinity,159 while he does assert that Job ii.1 ‘nous marque la continuation de la malice du diable’.160 Nevertheless, even Calmet admitted161 that the book of Job contained parallels to other biblical books. Although he does not have the category of sapiential books to which both Job and Proverbs would belong, which would lead the reader to expect a shared body of maxims, he found parallels, in most cases to what were, according to even the most traditional chronology, rather late biblical books.162 He discovered that the names of God most frequently used in Job (£yhl' ,hl' and ydS)163 as well as the literary style approach the usage and style of the Proverbs.164 In so far as it is possible, Calmet, too, rationalizes Job: Behemoth and Leviathan are the elephant and the crocodile, respectively,165 and he admits that the identification of lxn (xxi.33) with the Cocytus, as well as those of the constellations, is due to Jerome, and that the cure of Job at the conclusion of his trial is not at all miraculous. Thus Calmet anchors his very Christian Job in Israelite literature and makes the book as rational as is consistent with Catholic apologetics. This should not surprise anyone, or rather he would not have expressed it that way. For him, the Old Testament was a collection of profoundly though not always explicitly Christian books. This is in contradiction to our point of departure where it was supposed that Job was neither a Jewish nor a Christian book, and that it could therefore be the subject of nonsectarian study. But Calmet, like de Sacy and his collaborators on the Port-Royal translation, did not want to produce that kind of Bible study even where he and they could. For him as for de Sacy, the entire Bible was inseparable from Catholic theology. It remained for Voltaire to popularize the distinction between a Jewish Old Testament and a Christian New Testament which was already implicit in Richard Simon’s Histoire critique.

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Gabrielle-Émilie Le Tonnelier de Breteuil, marquise du Châtelet-Lomont (1706–1749)

Mme du Châtelet was a largely self-taught mathematician and physicist because her sex excluded her from formal higher education.166 Her translation of Newton’s Principia167 demonstrated that she had learnt as much as anyone in the period knew, because she succeeded in completing proofs that the master had only sketched or left entirely to the reader.168 She was also a pretty good Latinist, enjoyed performing plays in the charming theatre that Voltaire had built in the attic of her château at Cirey, and was enough of a musician to learn operatic roles from score and to sing them. She had the independence of character to scandalize the court with her décolletés and, according to legend, she was a fine horseman and fencer. Her commitment to the scientific and literary life did not prevent her from leading a lively, worldly life, decking herself out in ribbons, lace and jewellery, attending the opera, the theatre and, when she was in Paris, the salons, where she regularly lost money at the gaming tables. Her amorous career was quite vigorous and varied before she initiated her liaison with Voltaire, with whom she retired to her rural château. While that liaison lasted she juggled a husband and several other lovers. She was an avowed Leibnizian and, according to legend, a vigorous atheist. We tend to think that that part of the legend of Mme du Châtelet is exaggerated because in the Institutions de physique,169 the manual of physics she wrote for her son and published anonymously in 1740, and in her translation of Newton, she still retained an important role for God. And during her years with Voltaire at Cirey, around 1742, she wrote a commentary on the Old and New Testaments in the form of successive ‘Examens’ of all the books of the Bible which, for lack of a general title, we have called the ‘Examens de la Bible’. In this work she tried to show that the Bible is ridiculous when it is not absurd (in the strict sense of being contradictory), cruel, unbelievable, or misinformed. This is an alert, intrepid, piquant, often burlesque commentary, which was too daring to be printed in her lifetime. Voltaire described it briefly and not quite consistently to two friends whose discretion was assured, but, though he published other anti-biblical tracts, his own and those of various contemporaries, he made no effort to publish the ‘Examens de la Bible’, possibly to avoid embarrassing Mme du Châtelet’s husband and children. Even in the nineteenth century, when it was rediscovered, this commentary was still too insolent to be

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published, or at least we imagine that that is why Adrien Jean Quentin Beuchot, who had seen it, and who published Voltaire’s complete works (Paris, 1829–1834), desisted. Three copies of this work have been identified, and a critical edition should appear in 2007. Mme du Châtelet’s discussion of Job occupies pages 385–99 of the first volume of the manuscript that serves as the base text of that edition. Mme du Châtelet does not seem to have read Spinoza’s Tractatus, any of the religious and Bible criticism of the English Deists except for that of Thomas Woolston,170 which is not pertinent to Job, nor any of the ‘clandestine philosophers’.171 Given the fact that Calmet, Le Cène, Ibn Ezra, Rashi, and almost all interpreters, Jewish and Christian, whom she could have known directly or through citations by Calmet insisted that the history of Job was true, she took them at their word and took the liberty of studying Job as they read that book. Her idea of commenting upon Job is to jest about its ever so implausible setting, even from a strictly religious point of view. It was not suitable for Mme du Châtelet’s God to bet with his underlings. She also jested about the mythology underlying several of the speeches and the final theophany, and even about the thesis of the book because, being a stoic, she was prepared to accept any strokes of misfortune that were reserved for her. The death of a year-old son in August/September 1734, though it caused her great sorrow, hardly left a mark on her correspondence: only two of the surviving letters mention his death or even his existence.172 Similarly, she did not complain of the risks of pregnancy at the advanced age of fortythree. (As a matter of fact, Mme du Châtelet died as a result of that childbirth, and if she complained about her fate upon her deathbed, or about that of her infant daughter who had already died, no witness has mentioned it.) She believed that Job had no reason to complain about the reversal of his fortune, his malady and the death of his children and employees, all of that being in the order of things. He therefore had no special grievance against God and his speeches and those of his friends were pointless.173 Here is her burlesque version of the beginning of the book: Dieu un jour en goguette, vit Satan au milieu des Enfans de Dieu. Les Enfans de Dieu veulent dire les anges, et Satan, le Diable. Dieu s’amuse à causer avec Satan et luy demande d’où il vient; apparemment qu’il n’en sçavoit rien; Satan luy répondit qu’il venoit de faire le tour de la terre. Eh bien, lui dit Dieu, n’astu pas vu mon serviteur Job, qui n’a pas son égal sur la terre ? Satan luy répondit, que c’étoit là un beau miracle, qu’il combloit Job de biens et qu’il n’étoit pas étonnant qu’il luy fût attaché.

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Mme du Châtelet identifies the scientific errors in Job concerning the emission of light (xxxviii.24) and the creation of shadows (xxxviii.19),174 and geography: ‘Le verset 23 [du chapitre 37] est comique; le voici: “L’or vient de l’Aquilon et la louange trompeuse vient au seigneur” ’175, and, ‘Au chapitre 28, verset 6, il dit qu’il y a un pays dans lequel les “pierres sont des saphirs et dont le sable est des grains d’or [ . . . ]” Je ne crois pas que ce pays-là ait encore été découvert’.176 (Candide was to discover it).177 She concludes that ‘Le Saint-Esprit est un mauvais physicien’, and she admits that she prefers Kepler and Newton as guides to physics. She has, however, some respect for Eliphaz because he ‘(et par conséquent le Saint Esprit qui le faisoit parler) étoit leibnizien car voici comment il s’exprime, chapitre 5, verset 6, Nihil in terrâ sine causa sit. Il ne se fait rien sur la terre sans cause’.178 She imagines, despite Calmet’s reasonable explanation, that the author of Job accepted Greek legends because she found in the book references to three constellations known to the Greeks, Arcturus, Orion, and Hyades (Job ix.9 and xxxviii.31) as well as a reference to the Cocytus, so its text could not have been written (exclusively) at the instigation of the JudeoChristian God.179 In her more philosophical moments, Mme du Châtelet, like Job, expected the acts of God to satisfy the criterion of justice, but she denied the thesis of the book, that Job’s demand that one justify to his satisfaction the acts of God never crossed the line into blasphemy, so that in fact: ‘le Diable avoit si bien gagné son procès’.180 She makes debater’s points against the book that rapidly become tedious. But, in a more serious vein of criticism, she regrets that Job’s children and servants had to suffer, ‘[Dieu] ne ressuscitera pas les 1ers [les troupeaux], ainsi les pauvres enfans moururent dans la fleur de leur âge pour une mauvaise plaisanterie entre Dieu et Satan’.181 She generalizes Job’s argument that his punishment was out of proportion to any faults he may have committed: ‘mais [Dieu] devoit un peu considérer, que les peines de l’enfer sont cent fois plus injustes que tout ce qu’il a fait souffrir à Job’,182 because, unlike Voltaire in his later writing concerning the Bible, she does not distinguish very clearly between the theology of the Old Testament, which does not prescribe eternal torments for the damned, and post-Tridentine Catholic theology, which asserted the eternal damnation of the souls that are not ‘saved’. Mme du Châtelet read Calmet assiduously, and the ‘Examens de la Bible’ are often a commentary on Calmet rather than on the Bible. Contrary to Calmet, she discovered heresies everywhere in Job, ‘Que

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ne tue-t-il d’un coup l’innocent qu’il persécute au lieu de rire de ses peines et de l’insulter?’ (xix.22–23);183 ‘[Dieu] trompe les princes de la terre et les fait marcher inutilement par des routes égarées’ (xii.24);184 ‘Quand l’homme est mort une fois, qu’il ne reparoit plus, et qu’il ne [reverdit] pas comme l’arbre’ (xiv.10);185 ‘Je vais m’endormir dans la poussière (c’est à dire mourir), et quand vous me chercheres vous ne me trouveres plus’ (vii.21).186 Finally, Elihu says that Job argues that ‘ce qui est juste ne vous [à Dieu] plait pas, et quel avantage en tires-vous si je pêche?’ (xxxv.2–3).187 As for the thesis of Job, as we identify it, that just as the power of God transcends the comprehension of men, his justice transcends their ethical categories, Mme du Châtelet does not understand it at all. She understands the definition of Divine omnipotence, but transcendence is not in her philosophical vocabulary, just as, to judge from her commentaries upon the gospels, the cohabitation of the human and the Divine in the person of Jesus is incomprehensible to her. She is incapable of seeing, in the phenomena proposed by God in the final theophany as demonstrations of his power, anything but phenomena that are either scientifically explicable and thus banalities, or silly. In the one case they do not prove that God transcends the categories of ethics, and in the other they are unworthy of him, and, as a logical analysis demonstrating the failure of the argument implicit in the theophany, it is difficult not to concur.

Charles-François Houbigant (1686–1783)

An Oratorian like Richard Simon, Houbigant had a very long and respectable career. Again like Simon, he was a competent Hebraist, but in his case, this is more surprising, since Houbigant had the misfortune to have learnt Hebrew from François Masclef whose idiosyncratic, heuristic notion of Hebrew pronunciation had debilitating consequences for the study of Hebrew in France. Despite this handicap, Houbigant functioned well enough to publish a careful edition of the Bible that indicated variants and proposed emendations, Biblia hebraica cum notis criticis.188 He was a fierce critic of the ‘jeunes capucins hébraïsants’, apologists like himself, but apologists who followed the ‘figuriste’ method of the abbé Jacques-Joseph Duguet according to which the Psalms were

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ubiquitously and exclusively ‘figures’ of Jesus and his passion.189 We deduce from that controversy that Houbigant preferred to read (and believe) his Bible XSph yp lv, in its most direct and philological sense, because he, like Calmet and many other Christians of the period, thought that certain biblical prophecies, but not all of them, referred to Jesus in the most transparent fashion, and that it was therefore neither necessary nor desirable to have recourse to allegorical or figurative interpretations to constrain the rest of the Bible to refer to Jesus as well. To complete this sketch of Houbigant’s career it should be added that he took very seriously his obligation to preach the gospel to Christians whose faith was weak and of course, to non-catholics, whence his Conférences de Metz entre un juif, un protestant et deux docteurs de Sorbonne where, as one might expect in this type of literature, the Sorbonne professors’ victory is acknowledged by the other participants.190 Houbigant’s translation of the Old Testament into French antedates 1761, because an autograph copy figures in a catalogue of the Oratoire’s manuscripts edited in that year.191 Three of the four volumes – the volume containing the later prophets is missing – are now in the Bibliothèque nationale de France.192 Houbigant’s biographer, Jean-Félicissime Adry, writing after the ardours of revolutionary dechristianization had subsided, was astonished that the royal censor (and professor of Hebrew) of the period, Simon Lourdet, had refused to authorize publication of the translation,193 because the piety and orthodoxy of Houbigant had never been questioned. We shall see that the censor had good reason to exercise prudence. The comparison with the Hebrew text of Job that we shall now undertake displays a Hebraist at work, seeking solutions, and, contrary to Calmet’s practice, not necessarily dogmatically correct solutions, to the redoubtable problems of Job’s language. In general, Houbigant’s translation is comprehensible, verse by verse, but lacks logical connection between verses and thus coherence and a general sense for Job’s speeches and those of his friends. (Actually the Hebrew is often so hard that it gives the same impression.) This defect should not have escaped Houbigant in view of the more or less correct résumés that preface each chapter in standard editions of the Vulgate and in several of the French translations that he could have consulted. One can only conclude that he was not ready to sacrifice the accuracy of his translation to a general idea of each chapter or of the entire book. This demonstrates scientific scruples that are not often encountered in the work of an apologist. The justifications for considering the main lines of Houbigant’s method, even though it had absolutely no diffusion in eighteenth-century France,

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are first that his critical edition of the Bible played a sufficiently important role in the history of Bible studies for one to want to know much more about him, his real objectives and his biases, than Adry’s sketch suggests, and secondly that it is an opportunity to demonstrate upon still another example that the image of orthodox Bible studies that readers inevitably construct for themselves as a dogmatic and naïve symmetrical image of the better known heterodox Bible studies of Voltaire, Mme du Châtelet and various other philosophes is ill-conceived.194 There was more diversity among the conservative Bible students than one might have thought, and sometimes even a measure of intellectual independence and nonconformity. Houbigant’s translation is remarkably idiosyncratic. Most of his transcriptions correspond to ordinary Jewish pronunciation of Hebrew,195 while some follow Masclef’s system.196 A Chouraqui avant la lettre, – Houbigant transcribes relatively many words, ‘h ash’, ‘kesil’ and ‘cima’, the signs of the zodiac, Sv ,lysk and hmyk,197 the names of ancient – instruments of music, ‘kinnor’ and ‘h ouab’ (xxi.12, and it is not at all evident why he omits the g of ugav) and plants,198 animals,199 and stones,200 rather than identifying them. This is a sign of prudence in view of the extent of his, and his contemporaries’ knowledge of Oriental languages, which, despite the efforts of Camini, Johann Hottinger and other predecessors at producing comparative Semitic grammars and lexicons, remained limited.201 Houbigant prefers to transcribe the epithet for God, ‘Shaddai’, ydS, which is, once more, a sign of prudence because finding a French equivalent for this epithet different from the translations of the several others that appear in the Scriptures would have been difficult. However Houbigant does translate hl' and £yhl' simply as ‘Dieu’, in the singular, and ‘Dieux’, respectively, the latter always, contrary to Jerome’s practice (e. g., Gen. i.1, ‘Deus creavit . . . ’), with a plural agreement, except in Job xxviii.23 which may have been a slip of the pen or quill.202 The tetragrammaton, which is rare in Job (xii.9 and xlii.7, neither of which appears in a speech attributed to one of Job’s friends, in keeping with the fiction that they, if not necessarily Job, were not Israelites) is always translated ‘Dieu’ despite Ex. vi.2, where it is presented as a proper noun, and despite the Protestant Bibles that, since Olivétan (1535) transliterated it as Jehova. Its agreements are in the singular. ynd', adonai (xxviii.28) is translated ‘Monseigneur’,203 which is correct enough except for being a singular where the Hebrew uses ‘a plural of majesty’ as Rashi describes it in another context (Gen. xx.13 and cf. Gen. xxxv.8), and for carrying too many Catholic, ecclesiastical nuances to be appropriate.

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In general, Houbigant follows the massoretic text without visible scruples, and he even notes, in regard to several verses, that he prefers it to the Vulgate which deviates from it. See for example Job xiii.7 and 9, where ‘la Vulgate a un autre sens’,204 xiv.20, where ‘la Vulgate a un sens contraire’,205 and xvi.3 where ‘la Vulgate dit autrement’,206 f 17r, 19v, 21v, 26r, 27v, 28r (Job xxiv.19, ‘La Vulgate a ici un sens fort extraordinaire’ and xxiv.23, ‘La Vulgate a un sens fort opposé’). This independence in the choice of texts is in itself surprising for the period, since the Council of Trent had declared the Vulgate authoritative, and especially for Houbigant, whose notes in his Hebrew-Latin Bible are generally hostile to the massoretic text. On the other hand, his division of Job into chapter and verse does not correspond entirely to the model in Hebrew Bibles.207 For Job vii.19, Houbigant recognizes that the text is a scribal emendation (£yrpws §wqt),208 ylv for the impious ¢ylv, as Rashi and Ibn Ezra had observed, and he translates the underlying text, ‘Pourquoi te suis-je à charge’209 and cf. Job xxxii.3,210 where Houbigant follows Rashi, ‘Les rabbins prétendent que c’est ici un des 18 endroits corrompus et qu’il y avoit Dieu au lieu de Job et que le sens est que les amis de Job avoient condamné Dieu’. (Neither Ibn Ezra nor the massora parva, ad loc., recognizes this as a scribal emendation, but txnm yS, a commentary by Abraham Norzi, does, ad Zach. ii.12.) Neither does Houbigant show any reluctance to follow the Jewish commentators available in the rabbinic Bibles. For Job i.22, §tn 'lw £yhl'l hlpt, ‘Dans tout cela Ijob ne connoit aucun peché, et n’attribue rien à Dieux [sic] qui fust de mauvais goust’,211 he follows Ibn Ezra, £vX wl §y'S rwbd wypm 'cy 'l, §ynvhw. For Job iii.8, §tywl rrv, he translates ‘à renouveller leur deuil’, following the Targum Yerushalmi, cited by Ibn Ezra, that derives §tywl from hywl, a funeral procession, and he adds a marginal note, ‘à [la] l[ettre] à reveiller Leviathan’.212 For Job xi.20213 he follows Rashi, and for Job xvii.6, tpt, he translates ‘tambour’,214 following Ibn Ezra. (Here Houbigant and Ibn Ezra seem to have been wrong.215) For Job xx.10,216 he follows Ibn Ezra once more, and for Job xx.16,217 he follows Rashi once more. His nearly pornographic translation of Job xxi.10, ‘sa vache conçoit et ne repousse point la semence dehors’,218 follows Rashi and Ibn Ezra. For Job xxx.24,219 xxxvii.9 (£yrzm = constellations),220 and xxxv.8,221 he follows Ibn Ezra, while for Job xxx.24 he follows Rashi.222 For Job xxxi.10, ytS' rx'l §xXt, he gives an incomprehensible ‘que ma femme soit mouluë par un autre’,223 which is quite literal except for the exchange of a passive mode for the active mode represented in the massoretic

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vocalization; he would have done better to follow Ibn Ezra who recognized §wxXl to be a euphemism for sexual union. All told, not bad for a Hebraist whom one imagined, on the strength of the annotations to his printed Bible, like Calmet, to be invincibly hostile to Jews and Jewish learning. Again contrary to Calmet and to what one would expect of such a monument of orthodoxy, Houbigant makes no effort to discover Catholic theology in Job, nor to attenuate the verses in Job’s speeches and in those of his friends, that seem to contradict it. He translates xxi.26, ‘[i]ls [les justes et les méchants] sont également couchez sur la poussière, et les vers les couvrent également’.224 His translation of Job xiv.10–12, ‘Mais l’homme, quand il est mort et détruit, quand il est expiré, où estil? C’est comme les eaux de la mer qui s’en sont allées, et comme un fleuve qui s’est desséché. L’homme est tombé [bkS]; il ne se lèvera point jusqu’à ce qu’il n’y ait plus de cieux; non, les hommes ne seront point éveillés de leur sommeil,’225 does not disguise a denial of the resurrection. His translation of Job ix.21, ‘J’aurai beau estre parfait; je ne connoistrai plus mon ame, et je mépriserai ma vie’,226 does not weaken Job’s claim that God is a malevolent genie. Job xix.25, ytvdy yn'w £wqy rpv lv §wrx'w yx yl'g, ‘Je scai que celui qui doit faire mon rachat, est en vie, et qu’il se tiendra debout le dernier sur la poussière comme vainqueur’,227 is curious because of the use of the word ‘rachat’ for hlw'g,228 rather than ‘salut’, and because of the absence of a marginal note identifying ‘celui qui doit faire [son] rachat’ with Jesus. Was it just too obvious to mention ? In the translation of Job xxxv.6 and 7, ‘Si tu peches, qu’opereras-tu contre lui? Tu auras de beau multiplier tes prévarications; que feras-tu? Si tu es juste, que lui donnes-tu?’,229 Houbigant suggests a Divine indifference to human conduct which would not be out of place in Ecclesiastes, Spinoza, or César Chesneau du Marsais’s clandestine tract, the Examen de la religion.230 Houbigant, like Le Cène, prefers to reduce the mythological content of Job. We have already noted his treatment of Job iii.8. Job ix.13, yrzv bhr, becomes ‘les plus superbes sont contraints de se plier sous lui’;231 Job xxvi.12, 13, wxwrb .bhr ¶xm wtnwbtbw £yh vgr wxkb xrb Sxn wdy hllx ,hrpS £ymS, ‘Il fend la mer dans sa puissance, et son intelligence frappe et dompte les flots orgueilleux. Son souffle rend au ciel sa beauté, sa main a formé le serpent qui fuit comme la barre de la porte’,232 proof that he did not recognize or more likely did not want to recognize the mythological status of the three beasts, Leviathan, Rahav and Nahash bariah (see Isa. xxvii.1). (Ibn Ezra, too, understated

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them, so Houbigant was wrong in good company.) Houbigant did not understand that the incomprehensible £yvSr, with its ‘suspended’ v, of Job xxxviii.13 and 15, was a substitute for the redoubtable £ypSr,233 malevolent spirits, so he translates ‘chasser les impies’,234 but that is an excusable error because not one of the Targum, Rashi, Ibn Ezra, or Gersonides suspected it. Houbigant translates Behemoth of Job xl.15 as ‘éléphant’235 and Leviathan in Job xl.25/xli.1 as ‘baleine’, with a marginal note, ‘Leviathan ou crocodile’.236 Contrary to Voltaire, who, after 1762, sought, and often found, ‘older, darker shapes’ behind the Bible,237 Houbigant was as insensitive as Le Cène or Mme du Châtelet to anything incompatible with a rationalistic reading of Job. The heritage of the prolix Port-Royal translation238 is all too visible in Houbigant. He explains texts in his translation, and develops verses whose prepositions or conjunctions are lacking in the Hebrew text. For example, the laconic Job xii.16, hgSmw ggS wl, comes out ‘Il possède la force et l’existence immuable; il est le maistre également de celui qui trompe, et de celui qui est trompé’. In Job xv.2 he translates a single word, £ydq, from the East (wnXb £ydq 'lmyw), ‘de remplir son ventre d’un vent chaud et brulant’ and he adds in a note, ‘Vent d’orient pour marquer la colère et l’impatience qu’il [Eliphaz] impute à Job’.239 In Job ix.15, §nxt' yXpSml ,hnv' 'l ytqdc £' rS', Houbigant shares the negative of the first hemistich with the second to render the rhetoric more explicit. In Job ix.20, £t ,ynvySry yp qdc' £' ynSqvyw yn', ‘Si je veux faire passer pour juste, ma propre bouche me condamnera [alors qu’il m’interrogera]; et quelque intégrité que je puisse avoir, il me rendra pervers’,240 and in Job xii.18, £yklm rswm £hyntmb rwz' rs'yw ,xtp, ‘[i]l délie les chaînes données par les rois, [et puis quand il lui plaist,] il leur attache sur les reins une ceinture [honorable]’,241 where we have added square brackets about Houbigant’s insertions with respect to the Hebrew text. In Job xxi.3 he adds a ‘si vous voulez’.242 To make sense of a difficult verse, Job xiv.6, hvS wmwy rykSk hcry dv ,ldxyw wylvm, ‘[r]etire-toi de lui afin qu’il cessera de vivre puis qu’il attend la fin de la journée comme l’ouvrier gagé’, Houbigant translates the Hebrew dv, until, by ‘afin que’,243 which is such an elementary error that it must have been an intentional choice. The result of what were obviously the best of intentions is an inelegant, heavy translation that is rarely if ever eloquent. Consider what Houbigant did with three of the most famous verses of the book of Job: Job xii.10, yx lk Spn wdyb rS', ‘Il tient à la main l’âme de tout ce qui vit, et tout l’esprit qui anime le corps de l’homme’,244 Job xiv.1,

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zgr vbSw £ymy rcq hS' dwly £d', ‘L’homme est né de la femme n’a que peu de jours à vivre et y est rassasié d’afflictions’,245 Job xv.14, hS' dwly qdcy ykw ,hkzy yk Swn' hm, ‘Qu’est l’homme pour se croire pur [¢z], et pour que le né de la femme prétende se justifier’.246 Whoever wants a moving and coherent Job would do well to turn to the translation of Sébastian Châteillon (or Castallion).247 Châteillon was far from being Houbigant’s equal as a Hebraist, but he was a much superior prose artist.

Voltaire (1696–1779)

Voltaire had a weakness for the sapiential books of the Bible, whence his verse paraphrase of Ecclesiastes (Précis de l’Ecclésiaste, 1756).248 But the book of Job hardly spoke to him, even though he, like Alexander Pope, was particularly sensitive to the necessity of discovering an argument that could explain the suffering of men and women from cruel diseases, wars and despotic governments which shortened their days and filled their years with bitterness. In the first major expansion of the Dictionnaire philosophique (1764) in 1767, Voltaire added an article, JOB, in which he delivered a burlesque attack on the parable of the man who loses his wealth and his health as too banal. He argued, not unreasonably, that wealth and political authority were more redoubtable trials of a men’s ethical character than poverty and disease, and he deplored consolers like Job’s, who offer words rather than material and medical assistance. (Imagining that effective medical assistance could have been offered before modern times is a bit astonishing, but in Voltaire’s writings and in Diderot’s Rˆeve de d’Alembert with its Dr. Bordeu, the modern image of the scientist/sage medical doctor is already emerging and Voltaire merely cast it back, anachronistically, some two millenia.) It seems that the parable was not sufficiently plausible for him to concern himself about the injustice done to Job and, incidentally, about the collateral damage to his children and to his servants. In the final expansion of the Dictionnaire philosophique, in 1769, Voltaire added a second article, JOB, which is quite different in its interest in the history and interpretation of the biblical text. He proposed that

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Job had been written by an Arabian contemporary of Moses because Eliphaz, one of Job’s consolers, is identified as coming from Teman, Yemen, and because the author of the book displays a knowledge of astronomy, in this case names of the signs of the zodiac that were still in use in Voltaire’s day, that was incompatible with the complete ignorance of science which he honestly though surely incorrectly attributed to the pre-exilic biblical Jews. Unless one dates Ps. cxlvii.4, ‘[God] who counts the stars and calls each by name’ after the exile, the pre-exilic Jews as well as the author of Job named stars and/or constellations. That is science in the sense of having a canon of information, both true and false, about the stars, the beasts and plants, the trades and the men of exotic lands, if not science in the sense of predictive mathematical formulæ. ‘Scientific’ elements can be found in other books of the Bible if not in such concentration as in Job, but Voltaire did not realize that. Given his premises, Job is not a Jewish book. This is consistent with the doubtless intentional absence of references to the Israelite God and to Israelite religious practice. It would also explain the unexpected omission of Israelite history of military defeats by economically and technologically more advanced neighbours, exactions by their victors, their exile and return, and the reconstruction of their polity. On the basis of that same observation, that Job speaks of astronomy of which the biblical Jews were ignorant, Voltaire claims that Job is older than Genesis. This is possible only if one ignores the Aramaisms and resemblances to Psalms and Proverbs, and other biblical books that Leclerc, Le Cène and even Calmet had adduced or admitted. The polemical stake in dating Job to the legendary period of Sanchuniathon and Thaut, whose books were alas lost, and its attribution to a gentile, was that both permitted Voltaire to exploit Job to defend the thesis that he had learnt from his Jesuit masters at Louis-le-Grand: that there had been a universal monotheism before and independent of the Jews and their Bible, a monotheism which eventually degenerated into polytheism.249 Obviously, this is silly Bible criticism in the service of a simplistic and ill-conceived thesis, contradicting the more serious Bible criticism that Voltaire would produce later in his career, where he arrived at a vague but still prescient idea of the late and gradual emergence of monotheism among the Jews as a borrowing from their more advanced neighbours, a monotheism which gradually supplanted the unreasonable myths and discouraged the cruel rites of the ancient Hebrews. Despite his scholarly blunders and his invention of ancient history for lack of reliable archaeological information, Voltaire was seeking support for an ideology which unified men rather than separating the

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Jews (and the Christians) from the rest of humanity. This tells us much more about Voltaire than about Job, except that Voltaire implicitly directs his reader to one of that book’s essential qualities: its author’s choice of writing a universal parable rather than a Jewish parable in which gentile readers would have to substitute themselves for Jews in order to see themselves in its terms. The process of self-substitution for biblical Jews, in St Paul, among seventeenth-century Huguenots, and in other Christian sects, has had sorry consequences for the latter’s descendants, but much as one would like to compliment Voltaire, it is not obvious that he generalized his frequent observation that Jews were burnt at the stake by Christians singing their (the Jews’) Psalms,250 to Christians seeing themselves as the new Jews.

Other philosophers

There was also a philological commentary on Job written by Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1734) where the Hamburg philosopher’s eventual rationalism was not yet expressed.251 In England the treatise of the future bishop of Oxford and London, Robert Lowth, De sacra poesi Hebræorum (Oxford, 1753), analysed a handful of verses from the third chapter of Job. Lowth particularly admired the abrupt juxtapositions of terms, without prepositions or conjunctions to make the sense precise, which he took to be an example of the aesthetic of sublimity to which he and his readers were attracted. (Curiously, Voltaire admired Lowth’s book despite the profound differences between their aesthetic sensibilities.)252 It is hard to imagine more contrasting appreciations of Job’s poetry than Lowth’s and Houbigant’s, but Lowth did not try to make sense of the philosophical arguments of Job and his friends, and did not tackle any of the harder chapters of Job. One can only wonder whether his admiration for the sublimity of the book would have withstood the frustration of not understanding large groups of verses, even when all the vocabulary is known, or especially in that case. Voltaire’s bête noire, Bishop William Warburton of Gloucester, also wrote about Job, insisting as was his wont, as did Voltaire regarding the Old Testament more generally, that the book of Job does not defend the theses of the immortality of the soul nor of posthumous reward and punishment.253 (His argument is circular: these two theses are indeed

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valid, and if the Old Testament did not expound them explicitly, it was because posthumous reward and punishment was an esoteric doctrine taught discreetly to enlightened Israelites until Christian theology declared it openly.) He was confuted by the Rev. Charles Peters who, like Calmet, argued that the book of Job supported Christian doctrine. A fine and complete treatment of Lowth, Warburton and Peters can be found in Lamb so there is no point in expatiating upon them here. There is also an eloquent and well-known discussion of the book of Job by Kant in his Über das Mi␤lingen aller philosophischen Versuche in der theodizee, 1791.254 Unfortunately for the coherence of this paper, Lowth, Warburton, Peters and Kant were not interested in the dating of Job, nor the relation of its poetry to the language of other biblical books. No-one that we have been able to identify had the imagination to apply Simon’s and Astruc’s source analytic techniques to Job, and Houbigant was the only person sufficiently courageous and intrepid to try to make sense of the entire book or at least to explain all of the Hebrew, word for word. It was, and remains, easier to interpret philosophically a text like Job that nobody really understands. REFERENCES 1. Frank E. Manuel, The Eighteenth Century Confronts the Gods (Cambridge, Mass., 1959). 2. Jean Seznec, La Survivance des dieux antiques. Essai sur le rôle de la tradition mythologique dans l’humanisme et dans l’art de la Renaissance (London, 1939). 3. Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians (New York, 1987). 4. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Essais de théodicée sur la bonté de Dieu, la liberté de l’homme et l’origine du mal (Amsterdam, 1710). 5. Jonathan Lamb, The Rhetoric of suffering: reading the book of Job in the eighteenth century (Oxford, 1995) and ‘The Job controversy, Sterne, and the question of allegory’, Eighteenth-century studies 24/1 (1990), 1–19. 6. Bronislaw Baczko, Job, mon ami. Promesses du bonheur et fatalité du mal (Paris, 1997). 7. In fact there were Renaissance rabbinic commentaries on Job like ry'm bwy' by Méïr ben Isaac Arama (ca. 1460, Saragosse – 1545, Thessalonica), Thessalonica, s. n., 280 [1520]; ,twlygm Smx ,bwy' ,ylSm ,£ylyht Swryp h"d ,'rzv ,l'ynd by Joseph ben David ben Shlomo Ibn Yahya (1440–1524), Bologne, 5285 [1525]; bwy' rps Swryp by Isaac ben Shlomo ha-Kohen, Constantinople, Eliezer ben Gershom Soncino, 305 [1545]; qrc XpSm rpsw XpSm bhw' rps, by Shim’on ben Zemah

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8.

9.

10.

11. 12. 13.

History of Universities Duran (1361–1444) et Ovadia ben Ya’akov Sforno (1475–1550), respectively, ed., Joseph Molkho, Venice, Juan di Gara, s. d. [ from the colophon, 350
1590]; qqwxm tqlx rps by Moshe ben Hayyim Alsheikh (ca. 1508–1600), Venice, Juan de Gara, 363 [1603] that were printed separately and so might have been less accessible to a young student like Spinoza. As an adult he may have studied some of them but they do not seem to have left nominative traces in his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, and Philippe Cassuto (see infra, note 8) has not identified them. It may be interesting to study those commentaries on Job and identify the evolution of Jewish exegesis from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance. Yirmiyahu Yovel, Spinoza et autres hérétiques, trans. Éric Beaumartin and Jacqueline Lagrée (Paris, 1991), 20–22, supposes rather than documents Spinoza’s early education, ‘une éducation juive traditionnelle, étudi[ant] l’hébreu et les Écritures, le Talmud et la philosophie juive, mais également [ayant] lu par ailleurs des ouvrages à contenu laïque tels que livres de mathématiques, de physique et d’astronomie rédigés en hébreu’. Spinoza continued to frequent the Keter Torah yeshiva directed by R. Saul Levi Morteira, does not seem to have broken his relations with his former teacher, Menasseh Ben Israël, before his excommunication and did not yet know Latin when he drafted the Tractaus theologico-politicus. Geneviève Brykman, La Judéïté de Spinoza (Paris, 1972), confirms that Spinoza read Ibn Gabirol, Maimonide and Hasdai Crescas among the Jewish philosophers, and Abraham Ibn Ezra and Levi ben Gerson (Gersonides) among the exegetes. Philippe Cassuto, Spinoza et les commentateurs juifs (s. l., Publications de l’Université de Provence, 1998), p. 8, remarks that, at his death, Spinoza possessed Bomberg’s second rabbinical Bible, i. e., the Venice 1524–25 edition, and he does not succeed in identifying a commentator unavailable in that edition who left a trace in the Tractatus. François Vatable may have been the first to declare himself both a scholar of Hebrew and a Christian if not yet a ‘Christian Hebraist’. See the titlepage of the Robert Estienne, 1539 edition of Isaiah prepared by Vatable where he proudly declared himself yrcwn Sy', as though he embraced the paradox of being both a Christian and of knowing enough Hebrew to edit a book of the Bible. Actually, with the model of the fine Bomberg editions at hand it was not that hard to accomplish, though it required compositors and proof readers who knew Hebrew. Horae hebraicæ et talmudicæ impensae: I. in chorographiam aliquam terræ israeliticæ; II. in Evangelium S. Matthæi (Cambridge, 1658) and similar volumes for the other gospels and for the epistles. Second edition of his translation of Leon of Modena, Cérémonies et coutumes qui s’observent aujourd’hui parmi les Juifs (Paris, 1681). At a lecture before the Paris Institut d’étude des textes littéraires several years ago. Schwarzbach, ‘Geddes in France’, in The Bible and the Enlightenment. A Case Study: Alexander Geddes 1737–1802, ed. William Johnstone (Journal

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14. 15. 16. 17.

18.

19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31.

32.

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for the Study of the Old Testament. Supplement Series 377, London, 2004), 78–118. Lyse Schwarzfuchs, Le Livre hébreu à Paris au XVIe siècle. Inventaire chronologique (Paris, 2004). See Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, Ind., 1964), chapters 3 and 6. Johannes Reuchlin, Rudimentis hebraicis (s. l [Pforzheim], s. d. [1506]). See Sophie Kessler-Mesguich, (forthcoming in 2007) ‘Early Christian Hebraists’ in Magne Sæbø (ed.), Hebrew Bible / Old Testament. The History of its interpretation (Göttingen, 1996– ), ii. See ‘Les premiers hébraïsants chrétiens français de la Renaissance et leur usage de la littérature juive médiévale’, in Daniel Tollet (ed.), Les Églises et le Talmud. Ce que les Chrétiens savaient du judaïsme (XVIe–XIXe siècles) (Paris, 2006), 43–55. Psalterium, Hebreum, Grecum, Arabicum, & Chaldeum: cum tribus Latinis interpretationibus & glossis (Genoa, 1516). Rabbi Mossei Aegypti Dux seu Director Dubitatium aut Perplexorum . . . (Paris, s. d. [Introduction dated 1520]). Sancte Pagnino, Hebraices institutiones (Lyon, 1526) and subsequent editions, and Sdqh §wSl rcw'. hoc est Thesaurus linguæ sanctæ, sive Lexicon hebraicum (Lyon, s. d. [1529]). See Anna Morisi Guerra, ‘Sancti Pagnini, traducteur de la Bible’, in Les Églises et le Talmud, 35–42. Ambrosius Friche, Alphabetum, seu Elementarium ebraicus Palmonii (Paris, 1567). Basel, J. Froben, 1522 (Paris, Gilles de Gourmont, 1523). Jean de Drosay, Grammaticæ quadrilinguis partitiones (Paris, 1544). Angelo Camini, ymr' §Sld 'qwdqd. Institutiones linguæ Syriacæ, Assyriacæ, atque Arabicæ collatione (Paris, 1554). See Peter N. Miller, ‘The Mechanics of Christian-Jewish Intellectual Collaboration in Seventeenth-Century Provence: N.-C. Fabri de Peiresc and Salomon Azubi’, in Allison P. Coudert and Jeffrey S. Schulson (eds), Hebraica Veritas? Christian Hebraists and the Study of Judaism in Early Modern Europe (Philadelphia, 2004), 71–101. tyS'rb rps. Primus liber legis Mosaicæ, qui Genesis à Græcis inscribitur (Paris, 1535). twmS hl' rps. Secundus liber legis Mosaicæ (Paris, 1536). Jean Mercier, ydSkh qwdqyd lv twxwl. Tabulæ in chaldæam grammaticen (Paris, 1550). Chaldaea interpretatio Proverbiorum Salomonis (Paris, 1561); Chaldaea interpretatio Ecclesiastae (Paris, 1562); Syriaca paraphrasis libelli Ruth (Paris, 1565). Biblia 1. Hebraica, 2. Samaritana, 3. Chaldaica, 4. Graeca, 5. Syriaca, 6. Latina, 7. Arabica. Quibus textus originales totius Scripturae sacrae, quorum pars in editione Complutensi, deinde in Antverpiensi regiis sumptibus extat,

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33. 34.

35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46.

47.

History of Universities nunc integri, ex manuscriptis toto ferè orbe quaesitis exemplaribus, exhibentur, ed. Guy-Michel Le Jay (10 vols, Paris, 1645). See Schwarzbach, ‘Le Témoignage de Jona Salvador sur les Juifs de Paris au XVIIe siècle’, Revue des Études juives 155/3–4 (1996), 469–78. Louis Cappel, Arcanum punctationis revelatum, sive de Punctorum vocalium et accentuum apud Hebraeos vera et germana antiquitate diatriba (Leiden, 1624). Louis Cappel, Critica sacra, sive de variis quae in sacris veteris Testamenti libris occurrunt lectionibus libri VI (Paris, 1650). M. Goshen-Gottstein, ‘Foundations of biblical philology in the seventeenth century, Christian and Jewish dimensions’, in Jewish thought in the seventeenth century, eds I. Twersky and B. Septimus (Harvard Judaic Monographs VI, Cambridge, MA, 1987), 42–53. Eliayahu Ashkenazi, trsmh trsm (Venice, 1538 and Basel, 1539). François Laplanche, L’Écriture, le sacré et l’histoire (Amsterdam and Maarsden, 1986). Samuel Bochart, Geographiæ sacræ pars prior seu Phaleg seu De dispersione gentium et terrarum divisione (Caen, 1646). Samuel Bochart, Hierozoïcon, sive Bipertitum opus de animalibus Sacræ Scripturæ (London, 1663). See Francis Richard, ‘Achille de Harlay de Sancy et ses collections de manuscrits hébreux’, Revue des Études Juives 149/4 (1990), 417–47. The inventory is an internal document of the Bibliothèque Mazarine that can at present only be consulted there. [Richard Simon, Histoire Critique du Vieux Testament (Paris, 1678)]. Very few exemplars of the first edition survive, one, Bishop Pierre-Daniel Huet’s annotated copy, in the BnF, a second, Bishop Charles Maurice Le Tellier’s, with the edict of suppression copied in the place of the title page, in the Sainte-Geneviève Library, and a third, of unidentified provenance, in the Mazarine Library. There should also be an exemplar still in Great Britain, but this has not yet been located. See Schwarzbach, ‘Les Sources rabbiniques de la critique biblique de Richard Simon’, in Jean-Robert Armogathe (ed.), Le Grand siècle et la Bible (Bible de tous les temps 6, Paris, 1989), 207–31. See the bibliography of his publications in Paul Auvray, Richard Simon 1638–1712. Étude bio-bibliographique avec des textes inédits (Paris, 1974), 181–9. We have seen the Histoire critique du Vieux Testament and others of Simon’s Histoires critiques in various old library catalogues including that of the very strict Bishop Inguimbert of Carpentras. Calmet, about whom more infra, had no scruple about quoting Simon, though usually as an author to be refuted. Miss Valérie Neveu, who has discovered books that had belonged to Simon in the Bibliothèque municipale de Rouen, confirms our observation that his books were to be found in many if not most rich ecclesiastical libraries. Jean Leclerc, Sentimens de quelques théologiens de Hollande (Amsterdam, 1685).

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48. Simon wrote a Factum (1670) that saved the Jews of Metz from expulsion or worse after a Jew from the outlying town of Boulay, Raphaël Lévy, was accused of abducting and murdering a Christian boy so that they could use the child’s blood for ritual purposes. (Simon could not save Lévy because he had already been burnt to death despite the flagrant contradictions in the testimony against him when Jona Salvador solicited Simon’s intervention.) Simon subsequently intervened (unsuccessfully) when a Jewish boy in Turin was baptised by some Christian children playing near a creek and the local Church authorities held the baptism to have been valid and refused to return the boy to his family. But Simon could also describe his relations with Salvador with, ‘je l’ai traité de juif’, which is very disdainful. 49. See Schwarzbach, ‘L’Étude de l’hébreu en France au XVIIIe siècle: La Grammaire d’Étienne Fourmont’, Revue des Études juives 151/1–2 (1992), 43–75. 50. See Schwarzbach, ‘Etienne Fourmont, philosophe in disguise?’, Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 102 (1973), 65–119. 51. N. A. F. 8950–57. 52. Grammatica hebraica et chaldaica (2 vols, Paris, 1724–6) and Lexicon hebraicum et chaldæo-biblicum (Paris, 1746). 53. Johann Heinrich Hottinger, Etymologicum orientales sive Lexicon harmonicum E‘⌸TÁ⌫⌳⍀TTON (Frankfurt, 1661); Thesaurus philologus, seu Clavis Scripturæ (Zurich, 1659); Smegma orientale sordibus barbarismi (Heidelberg, 1658); and Erotematum linguæ sanctæ libri duo (Zurich, 1647). 54. Louis Jouard de la Nauze , ‘Remarques sur l’antiquité de l’origine de la cabale’, Mémoires de l’Académie royale des inscriptions et belles-lettres 9 (1731), 37–53. 55. Giulio Bartolocci and Giuseppe Imbonatti, rps tyrq. Bibliotheca magna rabbinica de scriptoribus, & scriptis hebraicis, ordine alphabetico hebraicè & latinè digestis (4 vols, Rome, 1675–1693). 56. Adrian Reeland, Analecta rabbinica (Utrecht, 1723). 57. Antonius Hulsius, hdwhy £v #hl byr sive Theologiæ iudaicæ pars prima de messia (Breda, 1653). 58. François Masclef, Grammatica hebraïca a punctis aliisque inventis massorethicis libera (Paris, 1716). 59. Rather than read Hebrew with its letters and their accompanying super- and sub-linear vocalizations, an apparently two-dimensional array which seemed too complicated, and to avoid reading Hebrew as the despicable rabbis read it, Masclef proposed to read it like Latin or French or even rabbinic Hebrew, which was never vocalized, thus a unidimensional string of characters. To accomplish this he arbitrarily attributed a vowel, and only one, to each of the matres lectionis – in fact these four letters are sometimes consonants but when they represent vowels the vav can represent either a holam or a shuruk, i. e. an o or a u, and a yod either a hirik or a tzereh, i. e. an i or an e, and a final he any of three vowels, a kamatz, a segol or a tzere, while the aleph is

188

60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67.

68. 69 70. 71. 72.

73. 74.

75. 76.

History of Universities still more ambiguous – and then an arbitrary vowel (derived from its conventional name) to each consonant not followed by one of the matres lectionis. This system did not permit distinguishing the consonantal use of the aleph, he, vav and yod from their use as matres lectionis, nor distinctions among certain binyanim, fundamental structures of verb transformations in Semitic languages, nor distinction in the gender agreement of verbs in the past tense (according to the use of that conjugation in rabbinic and modern Hebrew; it does not always designate a past tense in Biblical Hebrew), second person singular, or between noun’s possessive forms in the second person singular (masculine or feminine), or between certain pronouns. Masclef’s system was thus grossly inadequate, not only because it lacked attestations, but because it hid distinctions which exist in Biblical Hebrew. Biblia hebraica cum notis criticis . . . (4 vols, Paris, 1753). Sdqh yrps vbr'w £yrSv sive Biblia Hebraica (Halle and Magdeburg, 1720). Vetus testamentum Hebraicum, cum variis lectionibus (Oxford, 1776–80). Jean-Marie de Saint Joseph, Lexicon hebraico-chaldaico-latino-biblicum (Avignon, 1758). Bernard Lamy, Apparatus Biblicus sive Manductio ad sacram Scripturam tum clarius, tum facilius intelligendum (Grenoble, 1687). Bernard Lamy, Introduction à la lecture de l’Écriture sainte (Lyon, 1693). See Arnold Ages, ‘Les Études bibliques de Lamy’, in Armogathe (ed.), Le Grand siècle et la Bible, 183–92. [Jean Astruc], Conjectures sur les mémoires originaux dont il paraît que Moïse s’est servi pour composer le Livre de la Genèse (Bruxelles [Paris], 1753), reissued with an introduction and notes by Pierre Gibert (Paris, 1999). BnF, N. A. F. 8945, f 365. Biblia Sacra Polyglotta (6 vols, London, 1657–69). Augustin Calmet, Commentaire littéral sur tous les livres de l’Ancien et du Nouveau Testament (23 vols, Paris, 1707–1717). Jacques Lelong, Bibliotheca sacra, seu Syllabus omnium ferme Sacræ Scripturæ editionum ac versionum (Paris, 1709). [Louis de Poix, Jérôme d’Arras et Séraphin de Paris], Nouvelle version des Psaumes faite sur le texte hébreu; avec des argumens & des notes, qui en développent le double sens litéral, & le sens moral. Par les auteurs des Principes discutés (Paris, 1762). See François Laplanche, La Bible en France entre mythe et critique (XVIe–XIXe siècle) (Paris, 1994), chapters 6 and 7. The literature dealing with the Tractatus is enormous. We shall cite only John Sandys-Wunsch’s ‘Spinoza, the first biblical theologian’, Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentiche Wissenschaft 93 (1981), 327–42, which interprets the Tractatus in a sense that corresponds to our reading of that work. Other points of view can be found through Sandys-Wunsch’s bibiography. Baruch Spinoza, Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, x.8. Ibn Erza ad Job ii.11; cf., Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, vii.16.

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77. Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, iii.7. Even Job’s country, Uz, is unknown or nearly so. Gen. xxii.21 mentions an ¶wv who is one of Abraham’s nephews, born somewhere in Mesopotamia, while Lam. iv.21 addresses the ‘daughter of Edom who resides in the land of ¶wv’, thus south-east of Israel, and the names Eliphaz and Zophar occur in the genealogies of Esau, in Gen. xxxvi.11, while the third, Bildad, may be a deformation of Bedad, another of Esau’s descendants according to Gen. xxxvi.35, so these three and possibly all four would come from the south or more properly, would have been associated by readers of the time with the lands south-east of Palestine. But if the identification of Bildad the Shuhite with Bedad is correct, it intentionally confuses the genealogy and geography because Shu’ah (same consonants) is one of Abraham’s sons by his concubine Ketura, whom he sent ‘eastward, to the land of the East’ (Gen. xxv.2 and 6) so that they might not claim Isaac’s inheritance of Palestine. 78. See De l’examen de la religion, ed. Sergio Landucci (Oxford, 1996), p. 20–22. 79. As Antonio says, ‘The devil can quote Scripture for his purpose’ (The Merchant of Venice I.3), which is applicable in the sense that citing Bible while denying its authenticity, or citing it selectively, contrary to its main lines and principal arguments, is diabolically perverse. On this subject, our late master, Samuel P. Eilenberg, used to describe invention in mathematics as ‘carefully calculated cheating’, extracting from a set of hypotheses and definitions precisely what one had chosen to introduce into it. 80. Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, vi. 81. Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, I.i.22. 82. See T. B., Baba bathra 15a-b, and cf. T. J., Sotah v.8, which Spinoza was not likely to have known. 83. Baba bathra, loc. cit. 84. .wyh 'l wyrwsyyw hyh 'wh 'l'. . .twyhl dytv 'lw hyh 'l bwy' dwmvl lwky hyh wylv w'b ylwly'S rmwl 'l' ?wylv wbtkn hmlw (Job never existed and was not to exist . . . rather he had existed but the misfortunes [described in the book] did not befall him. Then why were they attributed to him? To tell us that had they befallen him he would have been able to withstand them). 85. Maimonides, More nevukhim, III.23.48a-51b. 86. As in Num. xxiv.11–12; Judg. xviii.21; Ezek. xxiii.41 and Ps. xlv.14; cf. Gen. xiii.2. 87. The best book on Simon is that of Paul Auvray, Richard Simon 1638–1712. Étude bio-bibliographique which associates Simon with the Catholic exegetical traditions of his time. For a discussion of his affinities with Jewish sources, see Schwarzbach, ‘Les Sources Rabbiniques de la Critique Biblique de Richard Simon’. Also see Jacques Le Brun, s.v., in Dictionnaire de la Bible, ed. Jacques Briend and Édouard Cothenet (fasc. 71, Paris, 1996), col. 1353–83. 88. Richard Simon, Critique de la Bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques et des Prolégomènes de la Bible publiez par M. Élies Du Pin . . . Avec des Remarques, ed. Étienne Souciet (4 vols, Paris, 1730), iii. 489–518.

190 89. 90. 91. 92. 93.

94.

95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100.

101.

102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116.

117.

History of Universities Simon, Critique de la Bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques, ii. 451–510. Pierre-Daniel Huet, Demonstratio evangelica (Paris, 1680). Michel Le Guern, ‘Le “Dictionnaire” de Trévoux (1704)’, Cahiers de l’Association internationale des études françaises 35 (1983), 51–68. Simon, Critique de la Bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques, iii. 512–3. Les Livres de Job et de Salomon, les Proverbes, l’Ecclésiaste et le Cantique des cantiques (Paris, 1647) and Libri Job versio nova ex Hebræo cum scholiis (Paris, 1651). Codurc was born a Huguenot but abjured in 1639. Simon mentions neither fact, perhaps because they were so well known, or because he did not consider Codurc’s confessional status to be pertinent to a judgement upon his work. Simon does not indicate which of the prolific Vavasseur’s treatises he is summarizing, probably Jobus brevi commentario et metaphrasi poetica illustratus (Paris, 1679). See Ernst Robert Curtius, European literature and the Latin middle ages, trans., Willard R. Trask (New York, 1953), 42–54. Simon, Critique de la Bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques, iii. 516. Ibid., iii. 506. Ibid., iii. 513–4. Ibid., iii. 492. François Hédelin d’Aubignac, Conjectures académiques, ou Dissertation sur l’Iliade, ouvrage posthume, trouvé dans les recherches d’un savant (Paris, 1715). See Schwarzbach, ‘How to read in the eighteenth century . . . the Bible and other books’, Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 308 (1993), 323–48. Simon, Critique de la Bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques, iii. 502. Auvray, Richard Simon 1638–1712, 175. Simon, Critique de la Bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques, iii. 514–15. Ibid., iii. 515. Ibid., iii. 502. Ibid., iii. 507. Ibid., iii. 508–9. Ibid., iii. 510. Ibid., iii. 500–2. This had already been observed by Origen and Jerome. Simon, Critique de la Bibliothèque des auteurs ecclésiastiques, iii. 500. Ibid., iii. 518. Paul Hazard, La Crise de la conscience européenne 1680–1715 (2 vols, Paris, 1961), ii. p iii. Ernst Cassirer, The Philosophy of the Enlightenment, trans., Fritz C. A. Koelln and James P. Pettegrove (Boston, 1961), 182–90. See Annie Barnes, Jean Leclerc (1657–1736) et la République des lettres (Paris, 1938), and Maria-Cristina Pitassi, Entre croire et savoir. Le Problème de la méthode critique chez Jean Le Clerc (Leiden, 1987). Leclerc, Sentimens de quelques théologiens de Hollande, 177–8.

The Eighteenth Century Confronts Job 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123.

124.

125.

126. 127. 128.

129.

191

Ibid., 178. Ibid., 179. Ibid., 180. Ibid., 181. Ibid., 180. In Job xv.12 and xviii.2 there are Aramaic suffixes, but that is frequent in many books of the Bible, even in the Pentateuch, and Leclerc apparently thinks that the rare verb Xmq is Aramaic rather than Hebrew, but otherwise we cannot identify the Aramaic elements that he claims to have discovered. We cannot identify the parallels that he adduces in Job viii.10 and Ps. ciii.16 or in Job xix.13 and Ps. xxxvii.12, though parallels in Job to Ps. ciii.16 could be suggested. Leclerc should have added that the angels Gabriel and Michael, ‘un des premiers princes’ of Dan. ix.21 and x.13, as well as the ‘princes’ (rS) of Persia and Greece in Dan. x.13 and 20, suggest that the author of Daniel, like the author of Job, believed in the existence of a celestial court somewhat like the one described in Job i and ii. We would like to know why Leclerc omitted such an obvious parallel as Gen. vi.2 and 4, which mention £yhl' ynb, or the £yl' ynb of Ps xxix.1. It may have been that for him, as for several of the classical Jewish commentators like Onkelos (actually an unknown to whom a targum is attributed), Rashi, Ibn Ezra and Nahmanides, who were embarrassed by the anthropomorphism implicit in the literal sense of the expression, or by the idea that God could have, or needed, a court and courtiers, £yl' ynb were to be identified with the sons of mighty men, without the slightest trace of divinity. It is useless to try to substantiate or refute this hypothesis from Leclerc’s commentary on the Pentateuch, Genesis sive Mosis prophetæ liber primus . . . (Amsterdam, 1693), because it is a much more conservative work than the Sentimens de quelques théologiens de Hollande, and if Leclerc did not recant the radicalism of his youth in his 1693 translation and commentary – the relationship between the Sentimens de quelques théologiens de Hollande and the later Bible commentaries have not yet been elucidated – , he hides it well. Leclerc’s commentary on Job, Veteris testamenti libri hagiographi: Jobus, Davidis psalmi (Amsterdam, 1731), also remains to be studied for its advances or regressions with respect to the Sentimens de quelques théologiens de Hollande. The source of this notion, which one finds in many authors of the period, and most notably Voltaire, is Josephus, Contra Apion I.12. Leclerc, Sentimens de quelques théologiens de Hollande, 183–4. See Jean-Pierre Rothschild, ‘Halakah, histoire et «réalité»: Le cas samaritain’, Les Cahiers du judaïsme 9 (hiver-printemps 2001), 2–13, and M. Mor, ‘Samaritan history. 1. The Persian, Hellenistic and Hasmonean period. 2. The Samaritans and Bar-Kokhba’, in A. D. Crown, ed., The Samaritans (Tübingen, 2001), 1–31. See Jeroom Vercruysse, ‘La Bible hérétique de Charles Le Cène’, in Yvon Belaval and Dominique Bourel (eds), La Bible des Lumières (Bible de tous les temps 7, Paris, 1986), 649–56, and Schwarzbach, ‘How to read in the eighteenth century. . .’.

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130. La Sainte Bible, contenant l’ancien et le nouveau testament (Amsterdam, 1741). 131. See Schwarzbach, ‘Geddes in France’. 132. See Schwarzbach, ‘Samuel Cahen’s Bible Commentary’, in Ilana Y. Zinguer and Sam W. Bloom (eds), L’Antisémitisme éclairé. Inclusion et exclusion depuis l’époque des Lumières jusqu’à l’affaire Dreyfus (Leiden, 2003), 175–210. 133. Job vi.1, 18; viii.7, 11; iii.2; xii.23; xv.4, 12; xvi.8; xxii.16; xvii.1; xviii.2 and xxi.22: Charles Le Cène, ‘Avertissement sur le livre de Job’, in La Sainte Bible, 387b. 134. Job xv.27/Ps. xvii.10; Job xv.31/Is. lix.4; Job xxi.5/Micah vii.16; Job xxxi.21/Is. x.32; Job xxxiv.14/Ps. civ.29; Job xxxviii.10/Prov. viii.29: Le Cène, ‘Avertissement sur le livre de Job’, 387b. 135. Le Cène, ‘Avertissement sur le livre de Job’, 388b. 136. Ibid., 389a. 137. Ibid., 389a. 138. Ibid., 392b. 139. Cf. Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, ii.19.43. 140. That books addressed to the Jews had to be linguistically adapted to their cultural and intellectual level is what is called the accommodation theory, and it was invoked by both Catholic and Protestant theologians in order to escape passages of the Old Testament whose literal sense contradicted their theology or their literary taste. 141. Le Cène, ‘Avertissement sur le livre de Job’, 391a. 142. I have been told that students in some Protestant seminaries used to sing, to the melody of Felix Mendelssohn’s famous carol, ‘Hark! The herald angels sing, / Bultmann is the latest thing. / Or that is what they would sing, / Had he not / Demythologized the lot!’ 143. Virgil, Æneid, VI.132, 297, 323; Horace, Carminum II.xiv.18, etc. 144. See Marvin Pope, Job. The Anchor Bible (Garden City, N. Y., 1965): ‘His hand pierced the fleeting serpent’. 145. Most of the ancient translators and interpreters – Abraham Ibn Ezra is the honourable exception because he realized that Behemoth if not Leviathan had to be a mythical beast (bwSyb hlwdg hnmm §y' ,hlwdg hmhb £S, ad Job xl.15) – made similar identification, though more frequently with the elephant for Behemoth, but for different reasons. 146. Pope, Job, 70, does not believe that §mt yrdx refers to a constellation. 147. Le Cène, ‘Avertissement sur le livre de Job’, 391a. 148. We cite the first edition of his Commentaire littéral . . . Job (Paris, 1712). This is a Bible in French and Latin with a very extensive commentary and ‘dissertations’ on points of doctrine or, occasionally, biblical archaeology. For further information about the Commentaire littéral, see our ‘Dom Augustin Calmet, homme des Lumières malgré lui’, Dix-huitième siècle 34 (2002), 451–63, and (forthcoming) John Rogerson, ‘Augustin Calmet (1672–1757)’, in Magne Sæbø (ed.), Hebrew Bible / Old Testament. The History of its interpretation, ii. §34.2, where he identifies unexpected differences between the

The Eighteenth Century Confronts Job

149. 150.

151.

152. 153. 154. 155. 156. 157. 158. 159. 160. 161. 162. 163. 164.

193

Commentaire littéral and Calmet’s subsequent Dictionnaire historique, archéologique, philologique, chronologique, géographique et littéral de la Bible (Paris, 1721). Calmet uses, with modifications, the French translation known as the ‘Version de Mons’ (because of the false address on the title page) or the ‘Port-Royal’ translation because it was executed by Isaac Le Maistre de Sacy (1613–1684) and several collaborators in the circle of Jansenist intellectuals associated with the convent of Port-Royal des Champs. In this study we have not considered this translation, which was not to be read apart from its notes because they are an exercise in edification and quite indifferent to the philology of the texts they translate/interpret. One may indeed study de Sacy and his collaborators as representative voices of French seventeenth-century piety and religious consciousness, but hardly as an attempt to balance fidelity to the text of Job with an acceptable notion of its thesis, much less as an example of Enlightenment philosophy struggling to understand Job. Calmet, Commentaire littéral . . . Job, p. xiii. M. Z. Segal, 'rqmh 'wbm (4th ed., Jerusalem, 1955), iii. 663. Le Cène tried to determine whether Job was not a ‘tragi-comédie’, another precise Greek form, which would have contributed to understanding the book’s theses. Calmet, Commentaire littéral . . . Job, p. xv. Here, as in many other points in Calmet’s commentary, one would give much to identify his adversary or adversaries, because Julian, Celsus and Porphyrius among the ancient adversaries of Christianity, and Vanini and Spinoza among the modern ones, do not seem to have denied that Job anticipated Catholic theology, while the deluge of anti-biblical polemics was still in the future, and few among them were to deal with Job. Calmet, Commentaire littéral . . . Job, ad Job vii.9 and 21. Actually, Job. xxxv.3 is stronger in the Vulgate than in the Hebrew. Calmet, Commentaire littéral . . . Job, ad Job vi.4. Calmet, Commentaire littéral . . . Job: ‘Dissertation sur la maladie de Job’. See also Calmet, Commentaire littéral . . . Job, p. xvi. Ibid., p. xvi. Ibid., p. xiii. Ibid., p. xvi. Ibid., ad loc. Ibid., p. xiv. Job iii.2/Jer. xx.14; Job xxi.7/Jer. xii.1; Job xxviii.12, 13, 20/Baruch iii.14, 15, 19. Calmet, Commentaire littéral . . . Job, p. vii. Job xiii.5/Prov. xviii.28; Job xxxviii.28/Prov. i.7; Job xv.16 and xxxiv.7/ Prov. xxvi.6; Job xv.34/Prov. xv.27; Job xx.7/Prov. x.7; Job xxv.5 and xxi.32/Prov. ix.18, xi.18, xv.16; Job xxvi.6/Prov. xv.11; Job xxxviii.4, 8/Prov. xxx.4 and viii.26,27: Calmet, Commentaire littéral . . . Job, p. iv-v, xiv.

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165. But he is no model of consistency. Ad Job iii.8 he describes Leviathan as a ‘monstre marin ou crocodile’ and then as a ‘grand poisson de rivière ou de mer’. 166. In any case, the most recent advances in mathematics and physics were not yet taught in the French universities; the abbé Nollet did lecture and perform experiments before a general public in the Collège d’Harcourt, but we do not know how advanced and how mathematical his work there was. 167. Isaac Newton, Principes mathématiques de la philosophie naturelle (2 vols, Paris, 1756 and 1759). 168. See Judith P. Zinsser, ‘Translating Newton’s Principia: The marquise du Châtelet’s revisions and additions for a French audience’, Notes Proc. R. Soc. London 55/2 (2001), 229–45, and Gérard Emch and Antoinette S. Emch-Dériaz, ‘On Newton’s French Translator: How faithful was Madame Du Châtelet?’ in Émilie Du Châtelet, rewriting Enlightenment Philosophy and Science, Judith P. Zinsser and Julie Candler Hayes (eds.), Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 2006 /1 226–51. 169. [Gabrielle-Émilie Le Tonnelier de Breteuil du Châtelet], Institutions de Physique (Paris, 1740). 170. Thomas Woolston, Six discourses on the miracles of our saviour Jesus Christ (London, 1727–1729). 171. Here we reluctantly disagree with Ira O. Wade, The Clandestine organization and diffusion of philosophic ideas in France 1700 to 1750 (Princeton, 1938), 183–5, and with Pomeau, 159–84. 172. Les Lettres de la marquise Du Châtelet, ed. Theodore Besterman (Geneva, 1958), nos. 20 and 21. 173. Émilie du Châtelet, ‘Examens de la Bible’, i.386. 174. Ibid., i.394. 175. Ibid. 176. Ibid., i.392. 177. Voltaire, Candide, ou l’Optimisme, Chapter 17. 178. Émilie du Châtelet, ‘Examens de la Bible’, i.389. 179. Ibid., i.390. 180. Ibid., i.398 and cf. 388, 390, 393. 181. Ibid., i.399. 182. Ibid. 183. Ibid., i.390. 184. Ibid., i.391. 185. Ibid. 186. Ibid. 187. Ibid. 188. Biblia hebraica cum notis criticis et versione latina ad notas criticas facta (Paris, 1753). We shall not compare the Latin translation of Job in this Bible with the French translation which we are discussing here, because their divergences seem to be so significant that they should be studied in the larger context of Houbigant’s entire translation and of other original Latin

The Eighteenth Century Confronts Job

189.

190. 191.

192. 193. 194. 195. 196.

197.

198. 199.

200.

195

translations of the Hebrew Bible, like those of Sebastian Munster (1534–5), Sebastian Châteillon (1554), Sancte Pagnino (1569–73) and finally Jean Leclerc (1693–1731), as well as the other French translations of the Hebrew text, notably Olivétan’s and Châteillon’s. As noted above, the Port-Royal translation is a translation of the Vulgate, not of the Hebrew text, and so its authors did not confront the problems that Houbigant encountered. Charles-François Houbigant, Examen du Pseautier des RR. PP. capucins (The Hague and Paris, 1762). The offending Psalter is the Nouvelle version des Pseaumes. [Charles-François Houbigant], Conférences de Metz entre un juif, un protestant et deux docteurs de Sorbonne (Leiden, 1750). Oratorii parisiensis Catalogo inscriptus (1761), BnF, Nouv. acq. lat. 1527, ‘No. 130, La Sainte Bible traduite sur l’Hébreu par le P. Houbigant, P. de l’Oratoire, et nouvelle version du N. Testament, MSC autographe, 5 vol. infol.’. This catalogue indicates that there had been ‘Notes critiques sur l’Ancien Testament par le même, MSC autog., 8 vol. in-4’ which would surely have been fascinating, explanations of Houbigant’s choices as translator and editor of the Hebrew text, but they seem to have disappeared long ago. FF 24730–32. Henceforth: ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant. J.-F. Adry, ‘Notice sur la vie et les ouvrages tant imprimés que manuscrits, du P. Houbigant’, Magasin encyclopédique, May 1806, 123–49. See Schwarzbach, ‘L’Encyclopédie’, in Belaval and Bourel (eds.), Le siècle des Lumières et la Bible, 759–77. – outz’ for ¶wv – Houbigant generally transcribes the v as For example, ‘h – an h –, ‘Ijob’’s country. For example, ‘Melac’ (i.14; ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 1v) and ‘melakim’ (iv.18; ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 5r) for ¢'lm, malakh, and £yk'lm malakhim, respectively (ange and anges, as he indicates in his note ad loc.) because a mem is followed by a segol (e), and a lamed by a patah (a) when they are not followed by one of the matres lectionis. Houbigant’s note to xi.9, ‘[Sv] C’est l’arcturus ou l’ourse. Ce mot vient d’un verbe qui signifie rassembler [Swv]’ in Joel iv.11 according to David Kimhi, £ySrSh rps, s. v., but Ludwig Kohler and Walter Baumgartner, Lexicon in Veteris Testamenti libros (Leiden, 1985), s. v., correct the text of Joel, reading wSwx for wSwv and translate ‘to restore’] ‘parce que c’est un rassemblage de plusieurs estoiles. [lysk] C’est à dire le fou. C’est Orion. [hmyk] Ce sont les Plaiades [sic] qui sont devant les genoux du taureau’ (‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 10r). For instance, xwlm, melo’ah, in his system, ‘moloh’ (xxx.4, ‘Job’, trans. Houbigant, f 33r). For instance, £yr, rém (xxxix.9) in his system, ‘rim’, with a marginal note, ‘Licorne ou Rinocerot’ (‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 46r) and £ynnr, renanim (xxxix.13) in his system, ‘renanim’, with a marginal note, ‘autruches ou paons ou faisans’ (f 46v). For instance twm'r, ramoth, and Sybg, gavish (xxviii.18), become, in his system, ‘ramoth’ with a marginal note, ‘corail ou autre pierre qui se trouve

196

201.

202.

203. 204. 205. 206. 207.

208.

209. 210. 211. 212. 213. 214. 215.

History of Universities dans les lieux hauts’ – his mineralogy was not too reliable – and ‘gabish’, with the marginal identification, ‘pierre bossuë comme perle ou etc’ but he does translate £hS and ryps as onyx and sapphire, respectively (xxviii.16, ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 31r). – ouab” (Job xxi.12) as an ‘Instrument inconnu; proHoubigant identifies “h pre aux chants amoureux. Dans Ezech. ch. 33 le mot de –houabim signifie les amours; et les amoureux dans Jérémie 4. Cet instrument à ce qu’on croit estoit composé de plusieurs flutes.’ (‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 24r). The Kohler-Baumgartner Lexicon identifies a Sanskrit cognate of ‘kinnor’, kinar¯ı, a staff-zither that still exists on the Indian subcontinent, but Houbigant could not have known that in 1761 since very few Europeans – Roberto de Nobili, in 1606, the Carmelite Jean-Louis Pons, who brought Sanskrit manuscripts to Paris around 1730, and Johann Philipp Wesdin, in 1790, were the rare exceptions – knew any Sanskrit, and no important texts were translated before the study by Sir William Jones in 1786 showed the relationship of Sanskrit with European languages. He translated the Sakuntala in 1789, and the first Sanskrit dictionary in a European language was published by Wesdin in Rome in 1790. Samuel Briggs, Francis Brown and Charles Driver, A Hebrew and English lexicon of the Old Testament (Oxford, 1951), claims that ydS, from the Akadian, sadu, cf., the Hebrew, hdS, sadeh, field, represents the god or gods of the fields, chthonic gods, which Houbigant might have guessed, while hl' and £yhl' are claimed to come from the Akadian, ilu elu, in which language they represent the celestial gods. These etymologies have not been retained in Koehler-Baumgartner, Lexicon, s. v. ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f  31v. Ibid., f 14v. Ibid., f 16v. Ibid., f 18v. The division of the Old Testament into chapters is not massoretic; it was introduced from Latin Bibles into Hebrew Bibles in the Venice 1517 Bible of Felix Pratensis, and verses were first counted in Hebrew Bibles in the Venice 1524–5 Bible of Ya’akov ben Hayyim Ibn Adoniah, though the distinction of verses is a feature of the cantilations which date to the tenth century at the latest and represent a still older reading tradition. ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, ad. loc.: marginal note, ‘On lit présentement h– ali à moi, mais les massoretes conviennent qu’on lisait autrefois h– aleka, à toi; c’est un des 18 endroits que les rabbins ont changés’. ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 8v. Ibid., f 36v. Ibid., f 2r. Ibid., f 3v. Ibid., f 13r. Ibid., f 19v. See Koehler-Baumgartner, s. v.

The Eighteenth Century Confronts Job 216. 217. 218. 219. 220. 221. 222. 223. 224. 225. 226. 227. 228.

229. 230.

231. 232.

233. 234. 235. 236. 237. 238. 239.

240. 241. 242. 243. 244. 245. 246.

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‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 22v. Ibid., f 23r. Ibid., f 24r. Ibid., f 34r. Ibid., f 43r. Ibid., f 40v. Ibid., f 35v. Ibid., f 34v. Ibid., f 24v. Ibid., f 16r. Ibid., f 10v. Ibid., f 22r. This can be justified by Lev. xxv which uses different forms of that root to refer to the pecuniary transaction restituting a field or a house to the family of its original owner, or restoring a slave’s freedom (and cf. Ruth iii.9, 12–13). ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 40v. César Chesneau Du Marsais, Examen de la religion, ou, Doutes sur la religion dont on cherche l’éclaircissement de bonne foi, ed. Gianluca Mori (Oxford, 1998), Chapters 10 and 11. ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 10r. Ibid., f 29r. The root, xrb, as a verb, means to escape, and as a noun, xyrb or £yxyrb, it refers to an architectural element that held panels and especially doors and gates together, bolts or sliding bars, as in Ex. xxvi.26–29 and xxxvi.31–34, and Deut. iii.5. Cf. Ps. lxxviii.48. This was suggested by our late master, André Caquot, and of course, makes better sense than Houbigant’s translation. ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 44v. Ibid., f 47v. Ibid., f 48r. The expression is due to Jane Harrison, describing the traces in Homer and later texts of archaic Greek myths and religious practices. See our analysis of this translation in Sæbø (ed.), Hebrew Bible / Old Testament. The History of its interpretation, ii. §22.3. ‘Job’, trans., Houbigant, f 16v. The association of £ydq with a hot, dry wind is not entirely incomprehensible. In Ex. xiv.21 God employs an easterly wind to dry the sea so the Israelites may pass on foot, and in Jonah iv.8 it is again an easterly wind that dries up the prophet’s shade tree. Ibid., f 12v. Ibid., f 14r Ibid., f 24v. Ibid., f 15v. Ibid., f 13v. Ibid., f 15v. Ibid., f 17r.

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247. La Bible nouvellement translatée . . . (Basel, 1555). See our remarks on this translation in Sæbø (ed.), Hebrew Bible / Old Testament. The History of its interpretation, ii. §22.2. 248. There is also a Précis du Cantique des cantiques of the same year. See Marie-Hélène Cotoni, ‘Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot’, in Belaval and Bourel (eds), La Bible des Lumières, 780–8. This did not prevent Voltaire from describing the Song of Songs as an indecent book; for polemical reasons rather than because the anthologist (in his notebooks) and author of licentious verse could have been shocked. For comprehensive treatments of Voltaire’s Bible criticism, see Schwarzbach, Voltaire’s Old Testament criticism (Geneva, 1971), and Cotoni, in René Pomeau (ed.), ‘Écraser l’infâme’ (Voltaire en son temps, iii; Oxford, 1994), Chapter 13. 249. The education of Voltaire by the Jesuits of Louis-le-Grand in this tradition that was simultaneously exegetic and philosophical was discovered and described by René Pomeau, La Religion de Voltaire (Paris, 1956), Part I, Chapter 2. Maimonides offers a similar genealogy of pagan beliefs in the More nevukhim III.29 and cf. his commentary on the Mishnah ‘Avodah zara’, iv.6. 250. Despite his reputation as an antisemite, one finds in Voltaire’s writings the theme of the Jew persecuted by Christians who sing his psalms or otherwise imagine that they have replaced him in God’s better graces. See Dieu et les hommes, ed. Roland Mortier in Voltaire, Œuvres complètes, ed. Besterman, Kölving, et al. (Oxford, 1968 – ), lxix. 434, 437; Sermon du R. Akib, passim; Examen important, iii and xvi, Œuvres complètes, lxii. 192, 243; Questions de Zapata 3 and 4, Ibid., 381–2; Dîner du comte de Boulainvilliers, Œuvres complètes, lxiiia. 361–2; TOLERANCE II, Questions sur l’Encyclopédie, forthcoming, Œuvres complètes; Notebooks, i., Œuvres complètes, lxxxi. 51, 112, 345; La Bible enfin expliquée, forthcoming, Œuvres complètes, Genèse, note 115. 251. See Christoph Bultmann in Sæbø (ed.), Hebrew Bible / Old Testament. The History of its interpretation, ii. §36. 252. See supra, n. 5, and see also David Allan, ‘Opposing Enlightenment: Reverend Charles Peters’s Reading of the natural history of religion’, Eighteenth-Century Studies 38/2 (2005), 301–21. 253. William Warburton, The Divine legation of Moses, VI.II.2 (2nd ed, London, 1738), ii.2, 455–555. 254. We can do no better than refer to the fine discussion in Peter Addinall, Philosophy and biblical interpretation. A study in nineteenth-century conflict (Cambridge, 1991), 284–6.

Review Essay

Academic Charisma and the Old Regime Kristine Louise Haugen

William Clark, Academic Charisma and the Origins of the Research University (Chicago, 2006), 662pp. At last, the history of universities has its Les mots et les choses. In this attractive and ambitious book, William Clark presents a story at once broad and focused. His canvas is the German university, from the origins to the nineteenth century; the subject of his portrait is the German professor, who often threatens, like a Quattrocento sitter, to leap out of the frame and confront us in the flesh. The professor, Clark argues, took on a recognizably modern incarnation in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. His intellectual life was now adorned by a publication record, a specialized academic field, and squadrons of emulous students. At the same time, the professor’s institutional world changed dramatically. Most visibly at the universities of Göttingen, Halle, and Jena, the state took on a sharply increased authority in academic affairs, chiefly by requiring regular documentation of the professor’s teaching and publications. One might have expected the average academic to wither under the conditions of life as a micromanaged civil servant. But the German professoriate flourished, producing the classicists C. G. Heyne, F. A. Wolf, and Gottfried Hermann, not to mention Kant, Schelling, Hegel, and the orientalist A. W. Schlegel. The ‘academic charisma’ of Clark’s title not only suggests the explosive intellectual power of these generations. It also encapsulates the paradox on which Clark’s analysis pivots: that the superstar intellectuals of nineteenth-century Germany, who are credited with transforming so many disciplines, rose to fame both by fulfilling their job descriptions and by appearing to exceed them radically. Clark’s argument is well calculated to raise a frisson of recognition, perhaps even a fit of nervous laughter, from the twenty-first-century inhabitants of the research university. Particularly in North America, whose colleges one by one

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adopted the German university model during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Clark’s narrative will certainly be received not only as a historical analysis, but as a telling origin story about ourselves. Academic Charisma, in other words, is destined to enjoy a wide readership, and historians concerned with universities should welcome the attention that Clark will draw in their direction. Much in the same way that Michel Foucault’s works have provoked waves of new and fruitful research on those other symbolically freighted nineteenth-century institutions, the insane asylum and the mass prison, Clark’s contribution will remain a reference point in our discussions for many years.

The Argument

Clark structures his story around a strongly defined cultural turning point, or Wende, some of whose elements may already be clear. In sharp contrast to the irruptive developments around 1800—which for convenience we might call Clark’s Telos-Zeit—the medieval and early modern university appear as a fairly continuous, not to say sleepy, ancien régime. In this, and in locating the seat of institutional change in the discipline of classical philology, Clark has accepted a traditional narrative—indeed, a nineteenth-century narrative, emanating from well-known works by Friedrich Paulsen in the sphere of institutional history and by Wilamowitz and Rudolf Pfeiffer on the internal history of classical studies.1 Clark’s innovation lies in his imaginative and far-reaching social history of the Wende, during which, he argues, the daily life and community stature of the professor were deeply transformed. The major areas of change, which also furnish (roughly speaking) the subjects of Clark’s chapters, were as follows. The intellectual life of the university abandoned oral forms of discourse, such as the lecture, the disputation, and the oral examination for the degree, in favour of written forms. Thus, professors were expected to publish, and students were required to submit written research for the degree. Even the manifestly oral setting of the seminar meeting was supposed to be documented in reports to the ministry. Meanwhile, where administrative matters were concerned, documentation became extensive, indeed bureaucratic. New forms of representing the university—which is primarily to say new forms to be filled out with an aching hand—now proliferated. For example, the teaching evaluation, conducted by officials of the education ministry, now compared colleagues point for point via a chart not unlike an Excel spreadsheet. In 1789, the tabular report prepared by the visitor to Wittenberg noted that the professor of poetry ‘complains of hypochondriac spells’, observing also that the professor of theology ‘has no extra benefits and needs none’ (361–62). Examples like these, culled from the archives with Clark’s exquisite eye for detail, regularly buffet the reader between

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the short sharp shock of history and the more prolonged, indeed structural shock of autobiography. The professorial chair became a far more meaningful element in its holder’s personal identity, through the demise of two earlier hiring practices. The TelosZeit of Clark’s history abolished, first, the older system of ‘musical chairs’, in which a single individual might successively teach many subjects for steadily increasing salary and prestige: one moved, most often, from languages through rhetoric or philosophy and (in the optimal case) onward to theology. This disciplinary fluidity implies, for Clark, that the early modern university was experienced by its inhabitants less as a collection of scholarly experts than as a more diffuse ‘moral community’ (37, 47). Secondly, the nineteenth century discouraged the system of dynastic chairs that had arisen, in northern Europe, as a consequence of the Reformation and the advent of the married professor. In the extreme case of Basel, Clark points out, members of the Burckhardt family had held no less than eight of the eighty chairs awarded in the entire seventeenth century (43). In the nineteenth-century German university, by contrast, one held a chair in a field that was strongly felt to be one’s own. One was also liable to be courted by rival institutions precisely for one’s specialized expertise. In turn, the experience of students became far more specialized. Thanks to the birth of the research seminar, they were now officially responsible for learning how to do particular things in a particular field under a particular professor. And the demands went further: to earn the doctorate, the advanced student must compose and publicly defend a dissertation, and to qualify for a university teaching post, he must produce a further work of research (the recently defunct Habilitation). The wonderful and terrifying example of the classicist F. W. Ritschl, suddenly offered a post as Privatdozent in Halle on condition that he finish both dissertation and Habilitation in the next few months, reveals the ingenious half-measures and desperate improvisations that the new requirements sometimes called forth. Postponing his half-finished dissertation (on the life and writings of Agathon) to keep in reserve as his Habilitation, Ritschl now raced to compose and print an entirely new dissertation, a set of hastily gathered textual emendations relating to Greek toponyms and literary history (232–6). This too, Clark points out, had become a standard genre for Halle students under Ritschl’s teacher Carl Reisig. Other widespread forms of student work constituted collaboration on the professor’s own research: here, the paradigmatic case was the collection of textual fragments (that is, quotations from lost ancient works) out of lateantique encyclopedias and commentaries. Finally, beyond the technical character of the students’ work, the formation they received was understood to be entirely professional. They were uniformly destined for jobs as Gymnasium teachers or, for the lucky few such as Ritschl or Nietzsche, university teachers. In decided contrast to nineteenth-century England (for example), German classics students did not envisage careers in the civil service; far less did they envisage lives in a free-floating intelligentsia as journalists, librarians, or courtiers. The birth of the

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modern professor, on Clark’s reading, was thus also the birth of the Doktorvater, as the formalized reproduction of professional competence suddenly made its way into university records. As an account of academic life in the early nineteenth century, this picture is both plausible and (surely deliberately) evocative of the present. Naturally, many other questions about Clark’s period could easily be asked. What happened in other fields—for example, in philosophy, where the generation of Schelling and Hegel enjoyed a fearsome institutional autocracy? What of the theologians, who (as Sebastiano Timpanaro showed) had been engaged in probing historical and linguistic research, above all on the texts of the New Testament and the Hebrew Bible, for at least a century before 1800?2 These, however, are subjects that would have required an even more voluminous book than Clark’s, and we can surely expect to see them investigated by others, to the extent that they have not been explored already. A more fundamental question about Clark’s project arises from its chronological and geographic scope. The second point is, perhaps, the easier to appreciate: manifestly, Clark’s story from beginning to end is a German one. But occasionally Clark also draws comparisons and contrasts with the English universities—celebrated for their energetic resistance to change, even in the reforms grudgingly accepted in the middle nineteenth century—and also with the educational system of the Jesuits, especially in France. These illustrative passages might lead some readers to infer that Clark has, in fact, written a history of the European university tout court. But it would be mistaken, as well as an injustice to Clark, to judge his work in that light. That the universities of Italy go effectively undiscussed in Academic Charisma—they were the oldest universities in Europe, they attracted legions of foreign students in the medieval and early modern periods, they played host to extremely important humanists and philosophers (not to mention lawyers and physicians), and more recently they have been intensively studied by historians—shows clearly enough that Clark’s aim was never to produce a historical survey of the university in Europe, nor even a total history of the German university. Rather, his contribution is a subtle and theoretically informed historical analysis, or interpretation, of the university on a scale that no one has come close to attempting before. Its historiographical posture, to use Clark’s own evocative words, is one compounded of ‘irony and nostalgia’ (20)—in principle, an eminently useful approach to what we might call the history of academic lifestyles. Again, where chronology is concerned, early modernists will recognize quickly that Clark has not set out to investigate their period with the same intensity and imagination he has lavished on his Telos-Zeit, either with respect to intellectual life at large or in the kinds of activities that took place in universities. (Medievalists, a fortiori, will recognize the same—but the discussion of that period falls under their authority.) In part, this limitation arises from a simple matter of scale: the material at hand for early modern Germany alone would have

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been immense. But Clark’s historiographical approach also, one suspects, mitigated against a more sustained exploration of the world of Melanchthon, Lipsius, Gruter, Conring, and Pufendorf. Firstly, insofar as narratives of broad cultural turns customarily turn on a very clear historical break—that is, insofar as the modern is legitimated as a topic, and even defined, by a claim to radical novelty— their narrators gain little, and perhaps risk much, by searching for complicating detail in the period that came before. That is to say, the premodern must be and remain premodern if the modern itself is to be saved as a category. Secondly, and in part as a consequence, Clark seems surprisingly uninterested in offering causal explanations for his Wende. The ‘enlightened Prussian bureaucracy’ seems to be cast in a recurring role in the drama of the Telos-Zeit, as do repeated hints that the so-called old system had simply become too old, but beyond this the reader is left to uncertainty and conjecture. Lastly, Clark’s choice of sources tends to favour his Telos-Zeit at the heavy expense of earlier periods, in terms both of those sources’ profusion and of their interest. Focusing, rightly, on official documentation as a crucial and novel characteristic of the period around 1800, Clark has also written his story of the earlier period almost exclusively out of official documentation—a procedure that was virtually guaranteed, on his own account, to yield sparse and fleeting insights. Where Ritschl’s dissertation of 1829 counted as a bureaucratic submission, and Clark can thus explore it at revealing length, we hear no parallel discussion of early modern works of scholarship— or indeed of the question why before the rise af Prussia, professors conducted scholarship in universities at all.

Quaestiones disputandae

Both the intellectual content and the political setting of the early modern university, then, remain open for discussion. This state of affairs presents an opportunity which, one hopes, many of Clark’s readers will exploit in the coming years. How might Clark’s sympathetic historical imagination, as well as his bracing focus on the social being of the professor, guide us to reconfigure what we know about early modern intellectual history? Who were the early modern predecessors of Wolf, Ritschl, and the hypochondriac Wittenberg professor of poetry? In what follows, I submit two observations about the ancien régime that might help us to enrich Clark’s story, not only as a matter of empirical exhaustiveness but also, and primarily, in the wider texture of that story, its shape and feeling. First, many of the practices Clark ascribes to the universities of the Telos-Zeit were already well-known, indeed usual and customary, in the earlier period. One thinks especially of the early modern star professor (internationally coveted,

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intellectually riveting, and liable to extract punishing concessions from his institution and its state sponsor); of the ubiquity of manuscript and printed scholarly writing done in universities by students and professors; and finally of the system of personal apprenticeship and guidance that formed new scholars in the communities established by their elders. In other words, it looks as if large parts of Clark’s story about the Telos-Zeit really concern the officialization, or more specifically the documentation, of habits many centuries old—a commonsense explanation of the Prussian period which we find already proposed in Paulsen’s still valuable short survey published, for the Chicago World’s Fair, in 1893.3 Conversely, one might point to an area of historical change that ought to form a further dimension in the story of what happened around 1800. One of the fundamentally distinguishing features of early modern intellectual life is that the university in no way held a monopoly on the pursuit of scholarship and innovation. In this respect, the early modern institutions contrast sharply with the German university by the late nineteenth century, when Paulsen could observe that ‘in France and in England the leading spirits are outside the pale of the university, in Germany they are within it’.4 So how might we generalize about the life of the universities in the earlier period when they enjoyed a regular traffic, in people and ideas, with that wider intellectual community we call the Republic of Letters? Just what did it mean to be a professor when one’s scholarly life might well have been conducted from some other professional base? Again, at a time when historical and textual scholarship were often pursued in the furtherance of explicit political and ecclesiastical ends, can we trust in the impression of Clark and others that work in the universities held little interest for the state except by way of censure and suppression? Finally, when we consider the Republic of Letters—along with the slow dissolution of that lively world by the late eighteenth century—we are on the threshold of a different, perhaps more tragic understanding of the institutional Wende that Clark has mapped. Insofar as the age of the research seminar and the doctoral dissertation truly was a period of novelty, it may also have been felt, conversely, as a period of lateness or loss. An early modernist, then, might understand Clark’s book as answering an important question that emanates from the past, not the present: what were the contours of German scholarly life during and after the end of the Republic of Letters?

The Early Modern Academic in His Splendour

The professor as rock star was already a fixture in the universities of the twelfth century. Students travelled great distances to hear the medieval professors; their

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lectures circulated widely in manuscript copies; and their membership in religious orders meant that each enjoyed a natural, and frequently truculent, fan base. The nicknames of the medieval professors—‘The Angelic Doctor’ (Aquinas), ‘The Organized Doctor’ (John Bassol, the Doctor Ordinatissimus), ‘The Doctor Who Won’t Back Down’ (Alexander Hales, the Doctor Irrefragibilis)—suggest their fans’ deep desire to think of these intellectuals as human beings, as well as the professors’ success at projecting personality over long distances. The passage of centuries did not diminish the allure of professorial celebrity, for its aspirants or for their audiences. Petrus Ramus, according to his student and biographer Nicolas Nancel, devised his polarizing system of dialectic while cooling his heels in his first, relatively modest teaching job at the Collège du Mans in Paris: by means of his new art, Ramus hoped ‘to become more famous, and, through long and continuous work, to increase his success’.5 The strategy succeeded brilliantly. Ramus attracted large and rapt audiences after becoming principal of the Collège de Presles, where he used twelve scholarship boys as research assistants; after a series of anti-Ramist pamphlets had increased his celebrity, he went on to a chair at the Collège Royal. But political and confessional strife cut short Ramus’ career, and other publicity-seeking intellectuals, perhaps nearly as clever as Ramus, were never so lucky to begin with. In the seventeenth century, the 29-year-old Adriaan Beverland was banished from Leiden, following a stint in the university prison, for publishing a deliberately provocative treatise On Original Sin in which he revived Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim’s interpretation of Adam and Eve’s transgression as the world’s first act of sex. In the course of this work, which he studded with classical quotations, Beverland also managed to mention that he had prepared a long and scholarly manuscript On Ancient Prostitution (De prostibulis veterum).6 After decamping to England, he died unemployed and mad, perhaps from syphilis. Again, in the sixteenth century, the attention-seeking Nicodemus Frischlin, born on the anniversary of Vergil’s death and once the object of multiple job offers from German universities, managed gradually to alienate every patron he had once assiduously cultivated; after a series of uproars, Frischlin died in prison at the age of 44.7 From Zedler’s encyclopedia, we learn that roses spontaneously grew from Frischlin’s grave. Still, in the optimal case, as Ramus’ career suggests, the university and the intellectual could benefit one another impressively, at least for a certain length of time. But the balance of power between individual and institution was often lopsided. To land the most famous scholars, universities competed nationally and internationally, leading many professors to embark on peripatetic and ever more lucrative sequences of jobs: Niccolò Leoniceno, Pietro Pomponazzi, Marc-Antoine Muret, and Justus Lipsius come to mind, among many others. Other professors leveraged outside job offers into improved conditions at home, as when the elder Johann Buxtorf, courted by Saumur and Leiden, induced the

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University of Basel to raise his salary; Basel also offered him a promotion from the chair of Hebrew to a chair of theology, which he declined. The effect of star power was particularly visible in the efforts of new (or refounded) universities to attract respected scholars. Thus the University of Leiden, founded in 1575, immediately hired the Roman historian and political philosopher Justus Lipsius; later, J. J. Scaliger took his first and only professorial post at Leiden, where he was not required to lecture at all. Again, during the reconstruction of Heidelberg following the Thirty Years’ War, the well-connected Samuel Pufendorf was recruited in 1661 (he moved on to the new foundation of Lund in 1670), while an offer was also made to Spinoza (he declined). Meanwhile, universities plotted to retain stars by hiring in their friends: Leiden attempted to hire Isaac Casaubon as a companion for Scaliger, and André da Gouveia, recruited to Coimbra from the Collège de Guyenne, brought with him an entourage of nine that included George Buchanan. Like a brilliant early modern court, then—those of Lorenzo de’ Medici, Rudolph II, and Christina of Sweden come to mind—the early modern university not only gained international fame through its intellectual stars, it also understood the combined effect of its stars as a matter of burgeoning geometrical proportion. On the other hand, if some intellectuals treated their universities as infrastructures for an essentially personal prestige, others, saddled with large superegos, also took seriously the task of acting as the university’s public face. This happened particularly in the Dutch Republic and in Germany. So Melanchthon, famous as a theologian and a magnet for students as a lecturer, also delivered frequent and thoughtful orations on ceremonial occasions in Wittenberg; Lipsius, late in his life and by this time reconverted to Catholicism, was faced with the publication of a Lutheran oration he was supposed to have given in Jena in 1574 (contemporaries believed it had been forged by Melchior Goldast).8 That these genuine intellectual celebrities represented the university in public, to its own members and to others, suggests that on this as on other grounds, we must qualify Clark’s understanding of the early modern institution as a ‘moral’ rather than a primarily intellectual community. In daily life, too, the famous professors were treated as a breed apart. And indeed they often acted that way, imperious and magnanimous by turns. Those who lived close to royal houses or aristocrats were perhaps particularly likely to demand deference and adulation. When Gabriel Harvey received permission to kiss Elizabeth I’s hand during a royal progress in 1578, he chronicled the heady experience in some 400 lines of overheated Latin hexameter (‘that right hand contained more nectar and honey than did the lips of Danaë, Venus, or Helen’); clearly, his poem was not meant to be read by the queen alone.9 In other habits, too, professors showed a contented expectation of being courted and made much of. Among their scholarly peers, when they were invited to write a genteel Latin inscription in an associate’s album of friends (album amicorum), they were liable instead to produce from a ready stack a printed

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sheet containing prefabricated verses and an engraved portrait of themselves. Many, such as Buchanan and Christian Wolff, even published autobiographies in the apparent expectation that these would be read. It was students, however, who performed the most labour-intensive ceremonies in the cult of the professor. Muret’s were said to have slept with him. Others, beginning with Martin Luther’s, sat up by candlelight to record their mentors’ table talk in lurid detail.10 And young people who were not yet quite in favour tried various expedients to strengthen their hands. In Oxford, Humfrey Wanley became a dogsbody and all-purpose informant for the incessantly scheming Arthur Charlett; a Tübingen hopeful named Albert Kuhn deposited sheaves of Greek poems into the hands of a gratified Martin Crusius.11 (It should be noted that both Wanley and Kuhn laboured under severe personal disadvantages that made their presence in the university a matter of indulgence to begin with: Wanley had refused to acknowledge the Hanoverian succession in England, while Kuhn was an Augustinian monk.) After the star professor had passed to his reward, finally, his students typically committed to print his letters, orations, and unpublished scholarly works, often appending a fulsome Life. But the pious business of memorialization also sparked bitter rivalries among the disciples, particularly since the professor’s chair now represented a vacant job. The right to deliver the official funeral oration was the subject of especially frenzied machinations, comparable, perhaps, to the delicate manoeuvering that surrounds the production of many Festschriften today.12 Lastly, students vied over the departed professor’s library, most keenly for books annotated in the professor’s own hand; J. G. Graevius of Leiden University went even farther, demonstrating to his students the ideal contents of a scholar’s study by reading over with them the auction catalogue of his teacher Nicholas Heinsius’ books, many of which had passed into his own hands.13 Did the early modern professors deserve this star treatment? In many cases, they clearly did—and not only through the dozens of recommendation letters they were obliged to write for students each year. Star scholars published a great deal. But moreover, their publications and their research gave them distinct intellectual identities, which we should attempt to describe on a much more fine-grained scale than the fluid system of professorial chairs would suggest. Certain scholars had even broader intellectual ambitions than their job descriptions would have implied, such as the polymath G. J. Vossius, the professor of ‘eloquence and history’ at Leiden; the great bibliographer D. G. Morhof, successively professor of poetry, ‘eloquence and poetry’, and history; or Otto Mencke, editor of the all-encompassing book review journal known as the Acta eruditorum, but simultaneously professor of moral philosophy at Leipzig. Such men bear direct comparison with the seventeenth century’s legion of lesserknown encyclopedists, universalists, and exponents of what Meric Casaubon (the beleaguered son of Isaac) called ‘generall learning’.14 Other professors pursued research considerably more specialized than their job titles, if often in

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more than one subfield. Johann Meursius, professor of history and Greek at Leiden, turned, after a precocious scholarly youth spent largely on textual criticism, into a researcher with primary interests in Byzantine Greek, legal history, and the ritual and festivals of classical Athens. David Hoeschelius, rector of the Gymnasium at Augsburg, issued numerous textual editions of patristic and Byzantine ecclesiastical writers, including the editio princeps of Photius’ Library.15 And Johann Scheffer of Strasbourg, who spent most of his professional life at Uppsala, published on Swedish history, ancient military history, and ancient philosophy and mythography (he was at first professor of ‘eloquence and politics’, subsequently university librarian and honorary professor of natural and civil law). In a word, the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in northern Europe possessed a readily identifiable cadre of classical scholars whose fields of work—if not their institutional settings—made them far more like than unlike Clark’s protagonists in the Telos-Zeit. If the early modern chair was in some sense a formality, the thousands of pages of published research that these scholars produced were assuredly not. At the same time, the chair system did correspond to the intellectual identities of individual professors insofar as their progress through it can often be seen as a journey toward the chairs where, in terms of their research, they actually belonged. So Janus Cornarius from Zwickau began his career by teaching Latin and Greek grammar at Wittenberg, but after qualifying as a physician and spending many years as a roving scholar outside the universities (he worked, among other places, in Basel with Erasmus), he progressed to chairs of medicine at Marburg and Jena. Conversely, some correlation between a professor’s official post and his research production seems to have been considered the optimal case. Erasmus Schmidt, a Wittenberg professor of the early seventeenth century whose energy matched his apparent opportunism, had actually begun his teaching career with a brief and evidently distasteful period as a schoolmaster in Hungary; after returning to Wittenberg, he was successively adjunctus in philosophy, professor of Greek, and finally professor of mathematics. The noteworthy part of this story is that Schmidt’s publications, as listed by Zedler, closely tracked the fields in which he was teaching: a Pindar commentary (corresponding to Schmidt’s Greek chair) was later followed by works on comets, the great conjunction of 1623, and on calendrics (all corresponding to his chair of mathematics). But further, we find evidence that Schmidt craved an even better chair: a concordance of the Greek New Testament, published in the year of his death, was accompanied by an unpublished commentary on the entire New Testament with a new translation. Quite clearly, we are looking at an unsuccessful bid for the Wittenberg chair of theology. Other academics who did manage to snare the local theology chair—which was in general lucrative as well as prestigious—were liable to discover a previously dormant zest for their new field of official expertise. The classicist Daniel Heinsius quite suddenly began to show an interest in theology upon receiving the chair in

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Leiden; another classicist, Richard Bentley, announced an ambitious New Testament edition at a moment when the Regius professorship of theology in Cambridge looked likely to become vacant (Bentley captured it in 1717). Similarly Christian Wolff, after having switched from teaching mathematics to teaching theology, represented in his autobiography that he had only ever been interested in mathematics as a methodological propaedeutic to theology—a claim that probably exhibits more ingenuity than strict veracity. When we are speaking about the most successful and prominent early modern professors, then, it appears that although their research formed the main part of their intellectual identities, their chairs could also play a significant part, and indeed could shape their research in turn.

Public Speech and the Burning of the Midnight Oil

In Clark’s account, the German university was dominated by oral forms of discourse until the late eighteenth century—forms that appeared, even to contemporaries, to have long outworn their welcome. Clark reports, for example, the laments of Johann Chladenius and J. D. Michaelis from the second half of the eighteenth century over the ‘decadence’ of oral disputations in contemporary Erlangen and Göttingen, respectively (88–9). He duly records the hyperactive bustling of teenaged students intent on taking notes in overcrowded lecture halls (86–88). In short, Clark shows us an archaic institution that came to be judged, with increasing impatience, by Enlightenment minds. It is a picture that holds direct ramifications for intellectual history. On Clark’s account, the Telos-Zeit established an indispensable condition for serious research: the institutional requirement that professors and students write. Does this picture of a sudden change hold true? The diary of Martin Crusius (1526–1607) is one of the many printed sources that demonstrate it cannot.16 As the Tübingen professor of Latin, Greek, and rhetoric, as well as a scholar in regular contact with other Grecists, theologians, court personnel, and astronomers, Crusius lived in a world of rapidly accumulating paper, much of which still survives in his manuscript Nachlass in Tübingen.17 Even more specifically for our purpose, story after story from Crusius’ diary shows that ‘oral’ discourse in the university was not at all as it might first appear. Far beyond the university, as we know, this was also generally the case in Quattrocento Italy and in post-Erasmian northern Europe: among humanists at large, painstakingly written essays and treatises were ubiquitously given the names of oral and rhetorical forms, resulting in an unwieldy mountain of paper masquerading variously as orationes, declamationes, disputationes, lectiones,

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and dialogi.18 If we are to approach a real understanding of that peuple ethnographique, the early modern professoriate, official descriptions of the university must be compared with individual contemporaries’ accounts of their paper-strewn daily lives. In Crusius’ Tübingen, disputations were written down and even distributed in advance. The candidate’s teacher may well have given advice at this stage. For Crusius, receiving a written disputation meant a chance to think in advance about the questions (‘objections’) he might pose. A noble young Austrian, Abraham Höltzl, sent me a disputation on ethics, ‘On Human Happiness in This World’, which he will defend tomorrow. (19 Feb. 1602; 3:397) Dr. [Michael] Ziegler [the professor of medicine] brought me a double disputation on astronomy, which his students the Hohenfeld brothers will defend on the 10th and the 18th of August. (3 Aug. 1599; 2:324) For two and a half hours, I attended a disputation on astronomy. Dr. Ziegler presided, and Otto Hohenfeld was the respondent. I objected to some of the arguments, particularly the claim that the earth is a single terraqueous globe. (10 Aug. 1599; 2:328)

If there was any aleatory element in the unfolding of a disputation, it was the unpredictable appearances of members of the princely family of Württemberg, who sometimes preempted any objections from Crusius (‘the order did not reach me’, 2:340). Likewise, undergraduates not only wrote down their declamations in advance (on topics set out by Crusius), they also brought him the declamations for ‘correction’ and approval. The same went for poems and any other speech to be delivered in public. From 7:00 a.m. until 10:00, I corrected declamations and endorsed them. (3 Feb. 1599; 2:170) From 5:00 a.m. until 9:30 I corrected declamations. (15 June 1599; 2:297) At 3:00 p.m. my students declaimed. (18 June 1599; 2:298) At 3:00 p.m. I set out a topic for declamation. (20 June 1599; 2:299) I read through a poem by Johann Christopher Assumus, which he will deliver to congratulate a certain candidate receiving the M.A. The poem was fine. I advised him only that for the names of pagan gods, he ought to substitute Christian names, and so on. He imitates Vergil well. (1 Feb. 1599; 2:170)

Not only are we far, in these instances, from a culture of spontaneous oral discourse—a conclusion that should surprise no one who considers contemporaries’ deep appreciation for elegant, classical, and painstakingly turned Latin style. We are also witnessing something rather more interesting: Professor Martin Crusius and his associates engaged in the business of teaching. Their sixteenth-century students were evidently immersed in a regime familiar to us but undiscussed by Clark—namely, homework. Crusius applied similarly high standards to his own speeches in public, which is to say he agonized over them. Long stretches of his diary detail his

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preparations for an August 1599 speech given during an Act for creating new M.A.s. (He began writing it in June.) When the speech was finally delivered, Crusius apparently followed standard practice in reading it out word for word: he reported that the performance took ‘six Bogen and more than one hour’ (2:331). Crusius had far less time to prepare the funeral oration he delivered in early 1602 for his patron in the ruling family, Heinrich von Landau; he worked on it daily for two weeks and submitted his text in advance to the university senate for formal approval (3:388–398). Here again, the greatest drama of the occasion was caused not by the speaker, but by the guests. Crusius’ speech was scheduled to begin at 8:00 a.m., but the rector magnificus was mistaken about the hour and turned up with his aristocratic party around 9:00. Meanwhile Crusius, for the sake of the many students who had already gathered at 8:00, had begun to talk at 8:15. The latest arrivals, Crusius noted in icy tones, were a few of his professorial colleagues, who sauntered in at 9:30. If they secretly hoped to miss Crusius’ oration altogether, they failed, for he continued until 9:45—a total of 90 minutes. More plausibly, we might point to a genuine culture of spontaneous oral discourse in the university sermon and the lecture. These may well have been delivered purely from an outline, at least some of the time. But sermons and lectures were also liable to be written down in manuscript and ultimately printed. In this way, the professor’s teaching might contribute directly to his publication record—and also to the edification of the students of his peers, who routinely lectured from printed commentaries, modified or unaltered.19 Perhaps more usually, the manuscript lectures survived in the professor’s Nachlass, thus remaining locally available for academics to consult, recycle, or print.20 Crusius, too, furnishes suggestive examples. His habit, to keep from becoming more bored than necessary in church, was to make simultaneous notes or translations of the sermons in Greek, as an example to his students (who also wrote down the sermons) and to keep his own attention from wandering in a visible way.21 Despite the rather desperate circumstances of his Greek sermons’ genesis, Crusius grew to become unmistakably proud of them; at the age of 73, in 1599, he could tell his companions at a dinner that he had amassed ‘nearly 6,000 sermons, nearly all in Greek, which I have written out with my own hand. I will continue, to spite the Devil’ (2:330). Manifestly Crusius viewed these sermons as a written legacy, and his pride in them evidently did not depend on any immediate prospect of their taking an oral form; he even equipped the set of sermons with a manuscript subject index (‘to date’), indicating that he expected them to be consulted for raw material by himself or his successors (2:170). One potential use for the translations might have been as part of that broader campaign of spreading Lutheran doctrine among the Greeks that had moved Crusius along with associates in the court, in 1573, to send the Orthodox patriarch of Constantinople a Greek translation of the Augsburg Confession.22 Indeed, the massive horde was never printed, although Crusius possibly hoped one of his

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students or grandsons would later take on the editorial task. Crusius himself began a similarly pious project based on the sermons of the late and celebrated theologian Jacob Andreä: I am preparing to write a book, in Greek and Latin, on the five sects of the Christians (Papists, Lutherans, Zwinglians, Schwenckfeldians, and Anabaptists) out of the sermons that I noted down from the mouth of Jacob Andreä in Esslingen in 1567. I will also consult his printed German sermons on this subject, and I will translate all of their main points. (3:397)

Finally, Crusius decided late in life to convert a longstanding and popular lecture course into a complete commentary on Homer. According to his biographer Melchior Adam, Crusius’ lectures on the poet had been outstandingly well attended since he first arrived in Tübingen—so much so that a second auditorium had to be opened for Crusius’ extra hearers, a kind of early modern version of the simultaneous telecast.23 But despite active negotiations with a printer (3:393ff.), the Homer commentary was never printed either; Adam, writing in 1615, knew that it still existed in manuscript. Similar stories could certainly be multiplied, across many countries and many centuries.24 But we have seen that the sermon and the lecture were inextricably connected with the written word in their origins and in their hoped-for destiny, even as they also marked the defining and cyclical occasions of the university’s corporate life. None of this, of course, is to mention the reams of paper that surrounded the early modern professor in the form of correspondence, textbooks, book-fair catalogues, handy guides to various subjects (Crusius was particularly taken with a manuscript Index Historicus, or subject list of passages in ancient and modern authors, by Friedrich Mosellanus), and above all his own library. Books even haunted the dreams that Crusius habitually recorded in Greek: A woman carried from my attic, on her head, two large old books written by hand, among other things. These were seized from her as belonging to me (although I did not realize that myself; but she was being denounced as a thief). She was arrested and detained, offering no defence. . . . She departed without speaking. (24 September 1598; 2:114)

It is easy to sympathize with the dream-Crusius’ bemusement at not recognizing the contents of his own library—or even, perhaps, at not recognizing what he had written himself. In waking life, the professor’s life with books sometimes featured suspense and excitement, as when Crusius eagerly checked each new book-fair catalogue to look for books by himself (2:39, 2:216), or when he received the individual sheets of David Hoeschelius’ Photius edition as they came from the press (2:115, 3:157). Other installments were interminable and repetitive, such as correcting printer’s proofs (2:170–71) or asking one’s friends by letter to return the books one had lent them (2:240, 2:310). And Crusius turned printed books into the cornerstone of a household ritual by delegating his grandsons to read aloud to him during lunch and supper: Melchior Adam reported that at these times Crusius preferred ‘new books that came from the

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book fair or elsewhere; or if there were no new books, then chiefly patristic theology of a historical or polemical cast, which he obtained from various libraries, and which he had already read in youth and throughout his life’.25 The accumulation of an admirable personal library—we have modern editions or facsimiles of the library catalogues of Pufendorf, Theodor Canter, and Joseph Scaliger, among others—was only the most bulky and monumental phase of the professor’s traffic in the written word.26 Finally, what of the publishing of academic work? As Crusius’ example has shown, not everything the professor wrote ended up between boards, by design or through misfortune. But from the sixteenth century onward, an informal climate of expectation made it seem both suitable and advisable for professors to publish. Not all of them did so, of course. But the star professors—those who enjoyed reputations on a national and a European level—were distinguished precisely by their frequent and imposing excursions into print. And some used their academic appointments to work for years on projects of punishing scope, such as Janus Gruter’s collection of Roman inscriptions (1602–3)—an endeavour suggested to Gruter by Joseph Scaliger, whose equally enormous Thesaurus temporum (1606) aimed to reform the entire discipline of historical chronology through a wide comparison and reconstruction of difficult texts.27 Claude Saumaise, a protegé of both Gruter and Scaliger, was ultimately defeated by the edition of the Palatine Anthology of Greek epigrams that he began, at the age of 19, in Gruter’s Palatine Library at Heidelberg.28 But in maturity Saumaise produced large works of terrifying erudition, such as his treatise On Climacteric Years and Ancient Astrology (carving a combative path through the field of ancient astrological medicine) and his folio commentary on the all-encompassing Polyhistor of Julius Solinus.29 If a publication list was not a strict requirement for an early modern professorial post, in the case of these highly successful academics it was clearly a primary selling point. Indeed, by the later seventeenth century, candidates for an academic job were expected not only to prove their competence, for example by delivering a job talk, or disputatio pro loco (Otto Mencke gave two in Leipzig, in 1665 and 1666).30 The public competition, or duel, for a chair had already been an institution across Europe for many centuries. Candidates were also expected to propose research—which is to say, publications—that they intended to carry out in the post. An arresting piece of evidence from England reveals the standards that obtained in the higher regions of the national church and the more active regions of the universities. In 1700, the English bishop and orientalist Humphrey Prideaux wrote a detailed letter of advice to the twentyone-year-old Simon Ockley, whom Prideaux and his friend Henry James hoped to make a lecturer in Hebrew at Ockley’s old Cambridge college. The master plan was for Ockley eventually to become professor of Arabic when that chair became vacant. At the moment, Prideaux explained, Ockley faced one obstacle: a job interview, to be conducted by the learned and hot-tempered Richard Bentley, now the master of Trinity College and a classical scholar of fearlessly

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interventionist intellectual habits. Prideaux advised the candidate, first, to take along the university librarian, John Laughton, presumably in order to keep Bentley’s conversation within the bounds of civility (broadly construed). Prideaux then, in effect, told Ockley what to say. As Hebrew lecturer, Ockley would carefully study the Mishnah, along with several Jewish commentaries; to understand these, in turn, Ockley would consult Constantijn L’Empereur’s Clavis talmudica (1634). Ockley’s ultimate aim would be to publish a complete Latin translation of the Mishnah, using the partial printed translation by William Guise, and also consulting ‘a sort of translation’ made by Isaac Abendana, available in manuscript in the Cambridge University library. But Ockley was to warn Bentley that this project would take a long time. Meanwhile, with a view to the Arabic professorship, Ockley should master Arabic proverbs, and he must also learn Arabic paleography by studying manuscripts in the university library; Prideaux suggested one manuscript in particular, containing the ‘fables’ or Assemblies of al-Hariri, because a section of the text had already been printed in Jacob Golius’ expanded edition of Erpenius’ Arabic grammar (the better for Ockley to decipher the hand). In other words, Prideaux not only assumed that Ockley must qualify himself for the Hebrew lectureship through a clear plan of publication and research. He also looked forward to the time when Prideaux would be called on to demonstrate his fitness for the Arabic chair—perhaps by proposing the first complete edition of al-Hariri.31 Among seventeenth-century philological scholars, then, the prevailing ideal of regular and original scholarly publication was a clear precursor to the conditions that obtained in Hermann’s and Ritschl’s Germany. If the ideal was often not fulfilled—Ockley, in the end, printed only a language textbook and a series of English translations, despite gaining both the Hebrew lectureship and, in 1711, the Arabic chair—we cannot say that the ensuing centuries have effected a thoroughgoing revolution in this regard.

Professorial Replication in the Age of Piecework, or, Cottage Industriousness

The encouragement Simon Ockley received also opens our way to explaining how the early modern professor came into being—in the intellectual, not just the institutional sense. Not only was Ockley set on a project that Prideaux knew would challenge his capacities. It was also palpably a real project, whose completion would have been genuinely welcomed by scholarly readers across Europe. Where philological scholarship is concerned—that is to say, when we examine the closest ancestors of the famous classicists of Göttingen and Halle—the early modern university had no formal structure for teaching and

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learning. Curricula were organized not by method, but by content: textual criticism or historical problemata might form part of a lecture on Aristophanes (for example), or then again they might not. Much less did antiquarian or textual scholarship figure, so far as we know, in early modern homework. As a result, mature scholars were left to their own devices in the matter of guiding young protégés, and the most successful teachers were those who urged their students to undertake original, adult-sized work. The most precocious scholars began publishing before they were out of their teens, clearly with encouragement from older mentors and associates: Joseph Scaliger may have been the most galvanizing of all early modern professors in this regard, as his younger admirers Daniel Heinsius, Hugo Grotius, and Johann Meursius each published at least one classical textual edition by the age of 20. (Meursius had published or contributed to six.) The textual edition in general was a favoured starting point for younger scholars, as it ideally required them to learn some palaeography and always challenged them to make careful judgments about linguistic usage and style. Yet the textual edition was also a self-contained project, which students could realistically hope to finish by applying some diligence and thought to a finite stock of material. A more conventional age for publishing one’s first textual edition was the early to middle twenties, roughly the period when we expect a B.A. or M.A. thesis today. And in the case of an edition by a particularly favoured student, the professor could contribute some notes of his own, which undoubtedly helped the edition to sell. (Such notes also indicate, very often, that the professor had once meditated making an edition of the same text himself.) The collection of textual fragments was another enterprise that struck contemporaries as suitable for young scholars. In the first instance, this demanded only a superhuman endurance for reading printed scholia, encyclopaedias, and dictionaries, underlining quotations from lost classical authors as one went; in the best case, the young person would go on to consider the textual soundness of his quotations and to make arguments about the lost works from which they came. Thus J. G. Graevius’ son Theodor had already substantially completed an edition of Callimachus with fragments when he died, in 1692, at the age of 22; Richard Bentley likewise spent part of his twenties on a mammoth (and uncompleted) design to publish the surviving fragments of all Greek poets whatsoever. Translations from oriental languages, or from difficult Greek texts, were a further kind of project that challenged the young scholar but also resulted in a widely useful publication. Here we might think not only of Humphrey Prideaux’s plans for the young Simon Ockley, but also of translations by the young Willem Canter, Joseph Scaliger, Daniel Heinsius, and Johann Meursius, as well as G. J. Vossius’ son Dionysius, who died at 21 having prepared a translation of Maimonides’ On Idolatry (a section of the Mishneh Torah). Scholars typically did not embark on long historical treatises or reference books until they had passed their twenties, although, with a truly alarming precocity, the

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younger Johann Buxtorf published his Chaldaic and Syriac Dictionary at 23. (Buxtorf Jr. had begun attending the local Gymnasium at 4 and been created M.A., by his father, at 16.) Nonetheless, even this dictionary project had its contemporary parallels in the thick manuscript word lists prepared by other young scholars in their attempts exhaustively to master Greek and oriental languages. In a word, the formation of young scholars took place in an atmosphere of risk and possibility that the most successful clearly found intoxicating: in the absence of any officially designated period for training and qualification, they leaped with relish directly into adulthood. If the early careers of the few were marked by intensive, personalized, and rapid publications of this kind, we also know that publication on a less ambitious level was institutionalized for advanced students long before Clark’s Telos-Zeit. The German universities in particular were known, from the early seventeenth century onward, for urging young people to print the diatribae, dissertationes, and disputationes they had prepared and delivered when taking the M.A. or simply when leaving the university. As R. J. W. Evans has pointed out, the official performance of such treatises as multiplayer ‘disputations,’ with the student as ‘respondent’ (respondens) and the professor ‘presiding’ (praeses), also corresponded to a marked fluidity of authorship.32 The intellectual activity of many professors, indeed, can most readily be followed for long stretches through the dissertations supposedly written by their students. In many other cases, the student surely did most or all of the work. But what impresses the reader of Clark’s book in particular is that even despite the open secret of the dissertations’ uncertain authorship, the German universities had firmly established the custom of printing them and attributing them to students. The early modern institution, in other words, officially demanded more work and research than some students were willing or able to accomplish. Yet Clark gives us scant mention (204–7) of the enormous number of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century dissertations that can be read in libraries inside and outside Germany—and whose profusion is clearly signalled on page after page of the standard biobibliographical dictionaries of Jöcher and Zedler.33 Instead, Clark devotes attention to the satirical or fake dissertations—On Scholars Who Hastened Their Deaths Through Overmuch Study (1704–5), On Scholars Who Neglect Personal Grooming (1717), and the most famous of all, J. B. Mencke’s On the Charlatanry of the Learned (1713–15)—that arose from the academic milieu in the years around 1700 like an autoimmune rash (212–20). Many thoughtful people have already discussed these texts, individually and in the aggregate, but the fresh attention that Clark draws to them is welcome, as is the bibliographical appendix in which he presents his discoveries (495–99)—even if it is hard to make out just how the fake dissertations, wickedly funny as they are, fit into Clark’s wider story about the history of the university, except as a kind of vague and non-localized symptom of professorial decadence.34 Let it be added, simply, that the even more numerous surviving dissertationes of the conventional kind

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should also fire the curiosity of the cultural historian. One would like very much to know the contents of tantalizingly titled orations such as ‘A Theological Disputation On the Words We Customarily Recite Before Administering Baptism, Which Are Commonly Called the “Exorcism”’ (Rostock, 1613), ‘A Philological Dissertation on the Syrian Courtesans/Prostitutes of Ancient Rome’ (Wittenberg, 1660), ‘A Politico-Historical Disputation on the Courtier’ (Jena, 1661), ‘Lawsuits for Harm Involving Priests’ (Jena, 1676), and ‘A Legal Dissertation on Mitigating Punishment for the Crime of Sodomy’ (Frankfurt a. O., 1739).35 Some academics, it appears, whether students or professors, were optimistic enough about the university’s future to try injecting contemporary life into it, and to do so in a highly public setting. It is harder, of course, to trace the kinds of professional preparation students received when we venture beyond their publications to their daily lives. But here, once again, the favoured few—those who went on to become star professors themselves—seem to have shared crucial and distinctive experiences in common. First, they enjoyed sustained contact with at least one charismatic senior scholar, whether in a private class held in the home of a professor or through one-on-one conversation and correspondence. Laurentius Rhodomannus, the gifted editor who also had a redoubtable sideline in original Greek verse, recalled in later years the coup de foudre that transfixed him when he first read Diodorus Siculus in the library of his teacher Michael Neander, to which he was granted untrammelled access while a Gymnasium pupil in Ilefeld.36 (He and Neander went on to collaborate on many publications, including a volume containing an anonymous Argonautica by Rhodomannus which some unwary readers took to be the editio princeps of an ancient Greek poem.37) And beyond receiving relatively spontaneous mentoring of this kind, young people often acted as research assistants to a professor or other patron. We know that such work was regarded not only as a paying job but also as a relative distinction for the young person involved, and we know that the number of senior scholars who employed research assistants on a personal basis was large: a partial list confined to famous names would include Angelo Poliziano, Pier Vettori, Nicolas Fabri de Peiresc, Nicholas Heinsius, J. F. Gronovius, James Ussher, and Edward Cave. Other senior scholars took advantage of the opportunities afforded by their institutions, whether universities, churches, or libraries, to gather research teams of people who, strictly speaking, had jobs of their own: institutional impresarios of this kind included Matthias Flacius Illyricus, Cesare Baronio and Leone Allacci of the Vatican Library, Edward Bernard of Oxford and Richard Bentley of Cambridge, and Bernard de Montfaucon and Jean Mabillon of the Benedictines of St.-Maur. This free recourse to assistants not only harmonizes with what we know more broadly about early modern conventions of openly collaborative intellectual work, whether we think of the document factory that was the Roman curia, of scholarly printing houses like Aldo Manuzio’s and the Plantijn press, of historical research

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teams like those that produced the Magdeburg Centuries and Baronio’s Annales, of the polite exchange of information, ideas, and practical favours that individual scholars carried on through correspondence, or of groups devoted to the production of authoritative texts, like the Polyglot Bible of Alcalá, the Coimbra commentaries on Aristotle, and the patristic editions of the Benedictines. In the biographies of individual scholars, it often explains too what went on intellectually during their late teens and their twenties, specifically in cases where they did not begin early to publish in their own names. For example, the young and brilliant Gottfried Jungermann, a Greek scholar who died at age 29 as the chief corrector of the scholarly Wechel press in Hanau, never held a university post but lived with his parents until his middle twenties, on the one hand preparing an edition of Longus’ pastoral novel that appeared when Jungermann was 25, but on the other hand surely collaborating in some way with his father, the senior law professor in Leipzig and advisor in the court of Anhalt. Meanwhile, the mature habits of many scholars who lived to be more senior vividly suggest the experiences of their own youth. So the classicist J. G. Graevius, originally from Saxony, got his first academic job at Deventer, where his senior colleague, Ghisbert Cuiper, freely offered Graevius’ services to his friends such as Nicholas Heinsius (‘I beg you again, please send your observations, but not without notes . . . our Graevius can put it all into order for you’).38 Decades later, when Graevius had moved to Utrecht, he himself showed a serene confidence in assigning large tasks to his students, for example his successor in the Utrecht chair, Pieter Burmann. Working arrangements like these, in which the young person ideally received some valuable training and patronage relations to counterbalance his headaches, surely account in many cases for the ‘dynastic chairs’ that Clark takes as evidence of a certain unseriousness in the early modern universities. When we look at the individuals who actually were serious, the custom of sustained personal guidance and training sometimes brought it about (though by no means always) that a professor’s biological reproduction and his intellectual reproduction took place in the same young person. No one, surely, would suggest that Johann Buxtorf Jr. was unqualified for the Hebrew chair at Basel on the grounds that Johann Buxtorf Sr. had already held it. Even in nineteenthcentury Prussia, it remained legal for sons to succeed fathers in their chairs, precisely in recognition that the son could well be the professor’s most rigorously instructed pupil of all. And beyond the personal tuition of the few, we can point to the universities’ role in professionalizing the far greater number of people who aimed not to become original scholars, but rather to publish, in Latin or in the vernaculars, on history, politics, or theology. The manuals of history, theology, and patristics that were designed to help them write quickly—not to mention the seventeenth century’s ubiquitous encyclopaedias and compendia—were often composed by university professors as a kind of continuing education initiative or, so to speak, extension course. These relatively unassuming printed sources functioned as the mentors, or resident experts, for hundreds of early modern

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clergymen, schoolmasters, journalists, and educated people in general. The most visible progeny of such books were the pamphlet wars that regularly swept every European country, on theological, historical, and political controversies, with substantially varying degrees of coherence.

On the Plurality of Worlds: The University and the Republic of Letters

These considerations about the use-value of early modern learning lead us to a more general observation—indeed, an observation that has given rise to innumerable books and articles in recent decades. In the old regime, learning was pursued and applied by people in a multitude of social and professional settings, including but also extending far beyond the university. The ‘republic of letters’, as we call this phenomenon particularly for Protestant Northern Europe, encompassed not only professors but also diplomats, clergymen, librarians, learned secretaries and tutors, journalists, and the occasional merchant. As far as we can tell, all of these people undertook scholarship with some sense that it was appropriate to their station, as well as out of a personal affinity. Their self-made and often international communities—particularly those discovered by travellers in their youth and cemented by the exchange of learned correspondence—have been persuasively presented as a defining structure of early modern intellectual life, one that created a sympathetic audience for scholarship at the same time as it provided crucial material assistance for the individual scholar.39 At times, contemporaries’ claims for the utility of their studies perhaps exceeded the reality, as in the case of the habitually self-congratulating Nicolas Fabri de Peiresc.40 And at times, their vision of their social world as a polite utopia of scholarly favours graciously granted and received was hard put to account for the contrarian, the narcissistic, and the bellicose among their number.41 Nonetheless, it is clear that—in a way that eventually ceased to be the case—early modern professors were only a subset of active early modern intellectuals, not just in a general sense but often even in their own field of research. For thoughtful contemporaries, this situation raised two questions: first, why were professors in a university to start with, and second, what was scholarship for? In answer to the first question, life in a university was not necessarily as isolating as the inward-looking festivals and rituals of the early modern institution might suggest; against relatively claustrophobic settings such as Basel or Rostock, we can and should set altogether more lively scenes like that of Leipzig. In the late seventeenth century, Leipzig showed with a special clarity how a university, its city and its region might feed and reinforce one another’s cultural lives, most visibly in the cases of well-established families whose members

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moved in and out of the university over generations.42 To take some famous cases: G. W. Leibniz, the son of a professor of moral philosophy at Leipzig, took degrees at the university in 1662, 1664, and 1665, a step that set him apart from many contemporary students who studied at Leipzig but transferred to Jena for their degree examinations, which were said to be far easier.43 After a quarrel with the Leipzig law faculty in 1666 and a speedy transfer to Altdorf for his doctorate in law, Leibniz embarked on a series of court jobs and foreign journeys, eventually becoming the official librarian and historiographer to the Dukes of Braunschweig-Lüneburg. He did not, in other words, live as an academic. Yet Leibniz always remained in touch with associates in Leipzig, who treated him as a kind of guiding spirit and non-resident expert. Particularly proud of his longstanding relationship with Leibniz was Otto Mencke, the indefatigable impresario of the book-review journal known as the Acta eruditorum and also— what we too often forget—the professor of moral philosophy at the University of Leipzig. The massive, collaboratively produced Acta is surely the richest guide we possess to the multifarious, often very strange learning valued by northern German professors in the years around 1700: Leibniz contributed a steady stream of long reviews and original articles, beginning with the Acta’s first volume in 1682, yet as Hubert Laeven has shown, the bulk of the journal’s book reviews were the work of professors from Leipzig as well as Wittenberg, Jena, and other north German universities, later including Halle.44 Nonetheless, the Acta reviewed as many foreign books as the gregarious Mencke could extract from his far-flung correspondents and friends, and it regularly translated articles into Latin from the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society in London. The decidedly cosmopolitan orientation of the Acta, then, reveals the world-view and aspirations of the more dynamic members of the professoriate, who also sent their students on long study trips to the Netherlands, France, and England armed with precious letters of recommendation. Young and mobile intellectuals also passed through Leipzig on their way elsewhere, leaving lasting impressions. Christian Wolff taught there from 1702 to 1706, contributing also to the Acta eruditorum, before moving on to Halle. Meanwhile Wolff’s Halle colleague, Christian Thomasius, had been born in Leipzig as the son of Jacob Thomasius, the philosophy professor who had been Leibniz’s teacher. Even more allergic than Leibniz to their home city at an early age, Christian Thomasius left to study law at Frankfurt an der Oder, but eventually returned to Leipzig, where he lived from 1684 to 1690. Here, while working as a criminal defence lawyer and Privatdozent, Thomasius launched the journalistic and philosophical projects that brought him an early fame, from a dissertation on bigamy (1684) through his Courtly Philosophy (Introduction ad philosophiam aulicam, 1688) to his suave and much-admired Monatschrift of 1688 and 1689. We can see that in this Leipzig milieu, where the book trade clearly acted as a magnet for intellectuals who could support themselves financially by some

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other means, the university featured in various ways as an base for individual scholars. They might credential themselves there early (as for Leibniz and Wolff), they might use the university as their permanent professional post (as for Otto Mencke and his son Johann Burckhard Mencke, who became professor of history), or they might exploit a circle of university associates while keeping a minimal involvement with the university for their own part (Christian Thomasius). Intellectually, this was a setting where local, personal contacts meshed easily with internationalist ideals and aspirations, and where scholarship was taken for granted as a legitimate activity, one speculates, in part because it was not an all-or-nothing option that an individual must undertake wholesale or else turn his back on completely. Yet if scholarship was taken for granted, it also remained eminently possible for informed contemporaries to ask what scholarship was for—and even to skewer those of its exponents they believed were unworthy. In the rising chorus of those who complained that scholarship had lost its way, the most memorable attacks in fact came from insiders: none other than Johann Burckhardt Mencke, the son of Otto and his successor as editor of the Acta eruditorum in Leipzig, composed one of the eighteenth century’s most famous jeremiads against professorial malfeasance, On the Charlatanry of the Learned (De charlataneria eruditorum, 1713–1715). It is to Wilhelm Kühlmann that we owe the insight that, for the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century satirists of ‘pedantry,’ scholarship was indeed supposed to have a purpose, which the guilty parties were said to have never learned or simply ignored. In an important study which should have figured in Clark’s bibliography and in his narrative, Kühlmann argued that the German Enlightenment habit of ridiculing benighted professors was not, strictly speaking, an Enlightenment habit at all.45 Rather, it owed its roots and its justification to a far older belief that scholarship ought to benefit the state and present-day society, a belief that Kühlmann traces to the political philosophy of Justus Lipsius. Additional genealogies for this ideal of useful knowledge could surely be proposed. But Kühlmann is persuasive in pointing to the satirists’ incessantly invoked criteria of relevance and of utility—criteria that often blended, in polemical practice if not in strict logic, with a demand for personal politeness and suavity on the part of the scholar (in the form of Galanterie and the je ne sçay quoi).46 And so the question arises whether we can find any professors who themselves believed their scholarship was for the benefit of the state. If we can, we must complicate Clark’s story, insofar as it does not inquire seriously about the universities’ broader relation to the state before the TelosZeit—and insofar as it implies a generalized professorial quiescence and isolation in the period before the bureaucrats staked their claim. Even before the eighteenth century, when professors like Thomasius and Wolff began lecturing in the vernacular and emphasizing practical subjects like mathematics, German academics viewed their work as useful. As Anthony Grafton argued in an important article that Clark also should have taken into

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consideration, the polyhistors of the seventeenth-century universities were far from inhabiting a crumbling tower of dead erudition, at least by their own lights. Their overwhelming concern with Latin prose style remained meaningful in an age when northern European courts valued Latin, and when Latin represented the only possible medium of international communication for those who chose not to use French. As to their frequently voiced ambition to achieve and set forth universal systems of knowledge, the encyclopaedias and systematizations they produced tended to be more superficial than original, yet these by no means excluded the new: Conrad Schurzfleisch, a professor at Wittenberg, managed to understand both Leibniz and Descartes not as threatening revolutionaries, but as entirely normal intellectuals comparable to himself.47 And all of this is before we consider the numerous professors who actually enjoyed court appointments as Khunrath or Informator to the local prince, or who were effectively commissioned to write on theology, law, or history in a way that answered to local priorities. Even Leibniz, who escaped employment in a university, did not escape research commissions of this kind: his Codex juris gentium diplomaticus of 1693, a collection of documents relevant to Leibniz’s theory of international law, was accompanied by a history of the princely family of Braunschweig-Lüneburg and an (unfinished) history of the territory of Braunschweig. Some patrons in the court were evidently well pleased with far less complicated works, for example Johannes Kepler’s treatise On the Six-Cornered Snowflake (1611), or Janus Cornarius’ Drinking Parties among the Ancient Greeks and the Modern Germans (1548), dedicated to an official at Zwickau at a moment when Cornarius was between university jobs at Marburg and at Jena.48 And even in the Dutch Republic, in the absence of a court, the idea of public utility could be a powerful influence on the way professors presented their work. Thus the elder Pieter Burmann, inaugurating a lecture course on Terence in the autumn of 1711, proposed that the moral and aesthetic tone of Utrecht’s public festivals would be considerably heightened if he, Burmann, were allowed to stage Terence comedies in Latin with genteel undergraduates as the actors (‘they could get an even bigger audience than my lectures’).49 In sum, the subjects of academic study were routinely presented as useful, if often in a rather vague and prospective way; the professors were likely on firmer ground when they envisaged a definite audience outside the university, not only to receive their works but also to judge. In nineteenth-century Germany, and particularly in the prestigious field of classical philology, it is difficult to detect any idea of utility, just as it would be risky to imagine any substantial audience for professors’ works outside the universities themselves. The most celebrated case in which a state official took a personal interest in a professor’s scholarship—namely, Wilhelm von Humboldt’s pleasing enthusiasm for the new system of poetic metre expounded by Gottfried Hermann—was driven by a passionate shared aesthetic experience, specifically the revelatory shock of Hermann’s new account of poetic ‘rhythm’ (as against the traditional system of counting feet).50 If Humboldt, as Prussian education

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minister, was concerned to shore up Hermann’s institutional position at Leipzig and, more generally, to promote the production of future Hermanns, it might be right to call the result he hoped for something like ‘knowledge for its own sake’—or, at most, knowledge that led to personal enrichment rather than public action. Humboldt personally carries little weight in Clark’s story, which focuses instead on the daily and local effects of a largely impersonal education bureaucracy. Yet surely, in the case of knowledge for its own sake, the bureaucratic environment of Clark’s Telos-Zeit constitutes an even more bracing piece of evidence, as well as an even deeper contrast to the earlier period. The institutionalized demand for research, and the institutionalized set of prescriptions the researcher must fulfil, evidently rested on a profound working assumption that scholarship in itself possessed value, and that scholarship therefore ought to be carried out. The state’s overwhelming, sometimes mildly ridiculous degree of interest in the universities—documented in so many telling cases by Clark— also marked a Romantic-era abandonment of the principle that had, at least fitfully and hopefully, been ventilated before, namely that universities and professors operated in the state’s interest. At this point scholarship, despite its new claims to the personal and spiritual transformation of the learner, had become from another point of view unabashedly decorative. And the audience for that decoration continued to diminish: again looking only at classical philology, the multifarious changes in that discipline over the course of the nineteenth century tended to guarantee ever more surely that, with a few exceptions, the only possible readers for a professor’s book would be his fellow professors.51 Nietzsche infamously showed that it was possible in the nineteenth century, as it is possible now, to ask what so much research was for. And the great importance of Clark’s study lies, finally, just here: in our time, questions about the value of humanities research are, almost axiomatically, provoked by the existence of the research university itself.

Division of Humanities and Social Sciences Caltech 101–40 Pasadena, CA 91125

REFERENCES 1. See Friedrich Paulsen, Geschichte des gelehrten Unterrichts auf den deutschen Schulen und Universitäten vom Ausgang des Mittelalters bis zur Gegenwart (3rd edn., 2 vols. Leipzig, 1919–21), and on classical scholarship, Rudolf Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship from 1300 to 1850 (Oxford, 1976) and Ulrich von WilamowitzMoellendorff, History of Classical Scholarship [1921], trans. A. Harris (Baltimore, 1982).

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2. See Sebastiano Timpanaro, The Genesis of Lachmann’s Method, ed. and trans. G. W. Most (Chicago, 2005). 3. See Friedrich Paulsen, The German Universities: Their Character and Historical Development, trans. E. D. Perry (New York, 1895) (first printed in W. Lexis (ed.), Die deutschen Universitäten; für die Universitätsausstellung in Chicago 1893, unter Mitwirkung zahlreicher Universitätslehrer (2 vols, [Berlin, 1893]), i. 90–2. 4. Paulsen, The German Universities, 61; see also 12. Further, Manuel Baumtiach, “Lehrer oder Gelehrter? Der Schulmann in der deutschen Altertumswissenscheft des 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhunderts, in ‘Disciplining classics/Altertumswissenschaft als Beruf’, ed. G. W. Most (Göttingen, 2002), 115–41. 5. See Peter Sharratt, ed. and trans., ‘Nicolaus Nancelius, Petri Rami Vita’, Humanistica Lovaniensia 24 (1975), 161–277, at 178 (translation adapted). 6. See Rudolf de Smet, ‘The Realm of Venus: Hadriani Barlandi [H. Beverland] De Prostibulis Veterum, MS Leiden BPL 1994’, Quaerendo 17/1 (1987), 45–59 and de Smet’s Hadrianus Beverlandus (1650–1716): Non unus e multis peccator (Brussels, 1988). 7. On Frischlin’s career, see the plausible interpretation of Samuel Wheelis, ‘Publish and Perish. On the Martyrdom of Philipp Nicodemus Frischlin’, Neophilologus 58/1 (1974), 41–51. 8. See Philip Melanchthon, Orations on Philosophy and Education, ed. S. Kusukawa, trans. C. Salazar (Cambridge, 1999) and Martin Mulsow, ‘Gelehrte Praktiken politischer Kompromittierung. Melchior Goldast und Lipsius’ Rede De duplici concordia im Vorfeld der Entstehung der protestantischen Union’, in Die Praktiken der Gelehrsamkeit in der frühen Neuzeit, ed. H. Zedelmaier and M. Mulsow (Tübingen, 2001), 307–47. 9. Gabriel Harvey, ‘Epilogus, de Regiae Manus Osculatione’, in his Gratulationum Valdinensium libri quatuor (London, 1578). 10. Particularly for the seventeenth century, see Richard G. Maber, ‘L’anecdote littéraire aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles: les Ana’, in A. Montandon (ed.), L’Anecdote, (Clermont-Ferrand, 1990), 99–108. 11. For Wanley, see Stanley Gillam, ‘Humfrey Wanley and Arthur Charlett’, Bodleian Library Record 16/5 (1999), 411–29; for Albert Kuhn or Kun, see Martinus Crusius, Diarium, ed. W. Goz et al. (3 vols  index, Tübingen, 1927–61), e.g. ii. 150, ii. 170, ii. 216, ii. 240, etc. 12. See e.g. Nicholas Heinsius to Laurentius Theodorus Gronovius, The Hague, 21 Dec. 1671, in Sylloges epistolarum a viris illustribus scriptarum tomi quinque, ed. P. Burmann, (5 vols, Leiden, 1724–7), iii. 549. J. F. Gronovius—Heinsius’ longtime friend, the Leiden professor of Greek, and the addressee’s father—is gravely ill, and Heinsius urges Gronovius junior on no condition to let the theologian Cocceius deliver the funeral oration. ‘One of your father’s friends, like [J. G.] Graevius or someone else’ would be more suitable. If Cocceius can’t be blocked in any other way, Gronovius junior ought to insist that the question go before the academic senate.

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13. See e.g. M. H. Hoeflich, ‘Bibliography in the Seventeenth Century: J. G. Graevius’ Lectures’, The Library, 5th ser. 32 (1977), 48–52. 14. For ‘general learning’ as an ideal of active scholars who published relatively little, see Meric Casaubon, Generall Learning: A Seventeenth-Century Treatise on the Formation of the General Scholar, ed. R. W. Serjeantson (Cambridge, 1999); see also Mordechai Feingold, ‘The Humanities’, in N. Tyacke, The Seventeenth Century (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. IV, Oxford, 1997), 211–357. 15. On the tortuous history of Photius scholarship up to Hoeschelius’ editio princeps of 1601, see Luciano Canfora, Il Fozio ritrovato: Juan de Mariana e André Schott (Bari, 2001). 16. Martin Crusius, Diarium. 17. See Thomas Wilhelmi, Die griechischen Handschriften der Universitätsbibliothek Tübingen: Sonderband Martin Crusius (Wiesbaden, 2002), and for a broad account of Crusius’ scholarly life, Anthony Grafton, ‘Martin Crusius Reads His Homer’, Princeton University Library Chronicle 64/1 (2002), 63–86. 18. Discussions of humanist rhetoric are legion; for the German scene, the most relevant and comprehensive single account is Jacques Chomarat, Grammaire et rhétorique chez Erasme, (2 vols, Paris, 1981). 19. The scale of the early modern commentary enterprise is suggested, for example, by David A. Lines, Aristotle’s Ethics in the Italian Renaissance (ca. 1300–1650): The Universities and the Problem of Moral Education (Leiden, 2002), which also contains an extensive bibliography of secondary works. For an example of the tacit recycling of printed commentaries, see Kristine Louise Haugen, ‘A French Jesuit’s Lectures on Vergil, 1582–83: Jacques Sirmond between Literature, History, and Myth’, Sixteenth Century Journal 30/4 (1999), 967–985. 20. For example, some sixty years after James Duport delivered a series of Cambridge lectures on the Characters of Theophrastus, they were finally printed to accompany a new edition of the text in 1712 (an attribution puzzle also arose, as the manuscript of the lectures consulted by the new editor, Peter Needham, was believed by its owner to be the work of Thomas Stanley). See Theophrasti Characteres ethici, ed. P. Needham (Cambridge, 1712). 21. See the discussion in Grafton, ‘Martin Crusius Reads His Homer’, 64–5. 22. See G. E. Zachariades, Tübingen und Konstantinopel. Martin Crusius und seine Verhandlungen mit der griechisch-orthodoxen Kirche (Göttingen, 1941), and on the scholarly proselytizing activities directed at the Greeks by the members of several European confessions, Agostino Pertusi, Storiografia umanistica e mondo bizantino (Palermo, 1967). 23. Melchior Adam, ‘Martinus Crusius’, in Vitae Germanorum philosophorum, qui seculo superiori, et quod excurrit, philosophicis ac humanioribus literis clari floruerunt (Frankfurt a.M. and Tübingen, 1615), 487. 24. The most extensively studied manuscript lectures are probably those of Angelo Poliziano; see the thoughtful discussion and review of the literature

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25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31. 32.

33.

History of Universities in Lucia Cesarini Martinelli, ‘Poliziano professore allo studio fiorentino’, in La Toscana al tempo di Lorenzo il Magnifico: politica, economia, cultura, arte, (3 vols, Pisa, 1996), ii. 463–81. Adam, ‘Martinus Crusius’ (n. 25), 493: ‘Quare sub prandij & coenae tempus a nepotibus anagnostis, quoscunque vel ex nundinis vel aliunde potuit nancisci libros nouos, praelegi sibi curauit: aut si nouos habere nullos posset, antiquos praesertim historicos & polemicos Theologicos, ex varijs bibliothecis petitos, etiam quos iam olim in iuuentute ac constante aetate legisset: & ex singulis, quod ipsi solenne, locos communes collegit’. See Fiammetta Palladini, La Biblioteca di Samuel Pufendorf: Catalogo dell’asta di Berlin del settembre 1697 (Wiesbaden, 1997), J. A. de Gruys, ed., The Auction Catalogue of the Library of Dirk Canter: A facsimile edition (Utrecht, 1985), and H. J. de Jonge, ed., The Auction Catalogue of the Library of J. J. Scaliger (Utrecht, 1977). Janus Gruter, Inscriptiones Antiquae totius orbis Romani (Heidelberg, 1602–3); Joseph Scaliger, Thesaurus temporum (Leiden, 1606). For discussion, Anthony Grafton, Historical Chronology (Joseph Scaliger: A Study in the History of Classical Scholarship, Vol. II, Oxford, 1993), 491–743 (on the Thesaurus temporum) and 503–6 (on Gruter’s Inscriptiones); on Scaliger’s contribution to Gruter’s work, see further W. P. Gerretzen, Het alfabet als zoekinstrument: een beschouwing over de geschiedenis van de alfabetische index (Leiden, 2003). See Robert Aubreton, ‘La tradition de l’Anthologie palatine du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle’, part 1, Revue d’histoire des textes 10 (1980), 1–52, esp. 35–52. Claude Saumaise, De annis climactericis et antiqua astrologia diatribae (Leiden, 1648) and Plinianae exercitationes in Caii Iulii Solini Polyhistora: item . . . Polyhistor ex veteribus libris emendatus (Paris, 1629). For Mencke’s disputationes pro loco, see Hub. Laeven, The ‘Acta Eruditorum’ under the Editorship of Otto Mencke, trans. L. Richards (Amsterdam, 1990), 31–2. Humphrey Prideaux to Simon Ockley, Norwich, 2 Sept. 1700 (British Library, MS Add. 23204, fol. 6ro - 6vo). See R. J. W. Evans, ‘German Universities after the Thirty Years War’, History of Universities 1 (1981), 169–90, esp. 175–6, and Gertrud SchubartFikentscher, Untersuchungen zur Autorschaft von Dissertationen im Zeitalter der Aufklärung (Berlin, 1970). See Christian Gottlieb Jöcher, Allgemeines Gelehrten-Lexikon (11 vols, Leipzig 1750–51; repr. with supplementary volumes, Hildesheim 1960–61) and Johann Heinrich Zedler, Universal-Lexicon aller Wissenschafften und Künste (68 vols, Halle and Leipzig, 1732–54), <www.zedler-lexikon.de>. The electronic catalogue of the Herzog August Bibliothek (Wolfenbüttel), when queried on the Gattungsbegriff ‘Dissertation’ and the phrase ‘Resp.’ for the years 1600 to 1750, returns more than 4000 titles.

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34. To his bibliography should be added, at minimum, Wilhelm Kühlmann, Gelehrtenrepublik und Fürstenstaat. Entwicklung und Kritik des deutschen Späthumanismus in der Literatur des Barockzeitalters (Tübingen, 1982), Wolfgang Martens, ‘Von Thomasius zu Lichtenberg. Zur Gelehrtensatire der Aufklärung’, Lessing-Jahrbuch 10 (1978), 7–34, and Anthony Grafton, ‘The World of the Polyhistors: Humanism and Encyclopedism’, Central European History 18/1 (1985), 31–47. 35. Eilhard Lubin (praes.) and Israel Lorentius Praetorius (resp.), De verbis quae administrationi baptismi apud nos praemitti solent, et quae vulgo Exorcismum vocant disputatio theologica (Rostock, 1613); Jer. Hofmann (praes.) and Joach. Ern. Giesler (resp.), Disputatio philologica de ambubajis (Wittenberg, 1660); Severus Christoph Olpius (praes.) and Jonas Albert von Meusbach (resp.), Disputatio Politico-Historica De aulico (Jena, 1661); Joh. Georg Simon (praes.) and Justus Georgius Falckenreich (resp.), Actiones injuriarum sacerdotem concernentes (Jena, 1676); Chr. Fr. Graeven (praes.) and Fr. Aug. Brown (resp.), Dissertatio iuridica de mitigatione poenae in crimine sodomiae = Von Milderung der Strafe beym Laster der Sodomiterey, 1739 (Frankfurt a. O., 1750). All of these titles are drawn from the catalogue of the Herzog August Bibliothek. 36. Laurentius Rhodomannus (ed.), Diodori Siculi Bibliothecae historicae libri xv, de xl (Hanau, 1604), sig. **2ro. 37. Michael Neander (ed.), Argonautica. Thebaica. Troica. Ilias parva. Poematia graeca auctoris anonymi, sed pereruditi (Leipzig, 1588). The volume included (ancient) poems by Apollodorus alongside Rhodomannus’ anonymous contributions. 38. For Graevius, Cuiper and Heinsius, see the Sylloge epistolarum, ed. P. Burmann, Cuiper to Heinsius, s.l. [Deventer], a.d. Kal. Nov. 1675, ii. 689: ‘Etiam atque etiam rogo, Commentarium in Apotheosin & Observationum libellos, non tamen sine notis, remittas, ea absolvere, atque ita hyemis taedia fallere constitui; poteris Graevii nostri opera uti, qui omnia recte ut curentur, providebit’. Cuiper’s rush was premature; the publication to which Heinsius was contributing was Cuiper’s Apotheosis vel consecratio Homeri, sive Lapis antiquissimus in quo poetarum principis Homeri consecratio sculpta est (Amsterdam, 1683). 39. See especially Ann Goldgar, Impolite Learning: Conduct and Community in the Republic of Letters, 1680–1750 (New Haven, 1995), Paul Dibon and Françoise Waquet, Johannes Fridericus Gronovius pèlerin de la République des lettres: recherches sur le voyage savant au XVIIe siècle (Geneva, 1984), and Hans Bots and Françoise Waquet (eds.), Commercium litterarium: Forms of Communication in the Republic of Letters (Amsterdam, 1994). 40. See Peter N. Miller, Peiresc’s Europe: Learning and Virtue in the Seventeenth Century (New Haven, 2000). 41. See Anthony Grafton, ‘Jean Hardouin: The Antiquary as Pariah’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 62 (1999), 241–67 and Jean-Louis Quantin, ‘Anglican Scholarship Gone Mad? Henry Dodwell (1641–1711)

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42. 43. 44.

45. 46.

47. 48.

49. 50.

51.

History of Universities and Christian Antiquity’, in C. Ligota and J.-L. Quantin (ed.) History of Scholarship (Oxford, 2006), 306–56. See the invaluable survey of Georg Witkowski, Geschichte des literarischen Lebens in Leipzig (Leipzig and Berlin, 1909). See Detlef Döring, Der junge Leibniz und Leipzig (Berlin, 1996), 90. For Leibniz’s authorship of contributions from 1682 until 1706—the contents of the Acta were printed without attribution—see Hub. Laeven, The ‘Acta Eruditorum’ under the Editorship of Otto Mencke, 1682–1707, trans. L. Richards (Amsterdam, 1990), 380; on the reviewers in general, 139. Kühlmann, Gelehrtenrepublik und Fürstenstaat (n. 36 above). See also, in the context of a more focused argument about erudition and poetry, Gunter E. Grimm, Literatur und Gelehrtentum in Deutschland. Untersuchungen zum Wandel ihres Verhältnisses vom Humanismus bis zur Frühaufklärung (Tübingen, 1983). Grafton, ‘World of the Polyhistors’. Johannes Kepler, Strena, seu, De nive sexangula (Frankfurt a. M., 1611); Janus Cornarius, De conviviorum veterum Graecorum, & hoc tempore Germanorum ritibus, moribus ac sermonibus (Basel, 1548), reprinted in Thesaurus Graecarum Antiquitatum, ed. Jacob Gronovius (2nd ed., 13 vols., Venice 1732–1737), ix. Pieter Burmann, Oratio pro Comoedia, Publice in auspiciis Academicarum Recitationum, quibus Terentii Fabulae explicantur, habita (Utrecht, 1711). See Wilhelm von Humboldts Briefe an Gottfried Hermann (Weimar, 1929). The final version of Hermann’s system was presented in his enormous textbook, the Elementa doctrinae metricae (1816). See Anthony Grafton, ‘Polyhistor into Philolog: Notes on the Transformation of German Classical Scholarship, 1780–1850’, History of Universities 3 (1983), 159–92.

Review Essay

Celebrating the quincentenary of the University of Wittenberg (1502)? Helga Robinson-Hammerstein

Peter Freybe (ed.), ‘Recht lehren ist nicht die geringste Wohltat’. Wittenberg als Bildungszentrum, 1502–2002. Lernen und Leben auf Luthers Grund und Boden (Wittenberger Sonntagsvorlesungen, Evangelischer Predigerseminar, Wittenberg, 2002), 168 pp. Hermann-H. Rupieper (ed.), Beiträge zur Geschichte der Martin-LutherUniversität , 1502–2002. Herausgegeben von Hermann-J. Rupieper im Austrag der Rektoratskommission für das Universitätsjubiläum (Halle, 2002), 696 pp. Jubilees of the founding of universities might ideally be treated as welcome opportunities to reflect and to attract grants for major research projects that study motivation, social circumstances, reasons for the flourishing and dissemination of knowledge or its decline, marking the beginnings and progress of the learned institutions. Conferences that bring together international specialists to offer comparative studies can provide a platform from which permitted selfcongratulation is transmuted into serious, stimulating scholarship. The International University Rectors’ conference, the Coimbra Group, and several other international organisations concerned with compatibility, reform and modernization of the traditional institutions all over Europe have indicated their appreciation of such research as an essential precondition of judicious measures to be taken. Without such historical information there cannot be any meaningful process of reformation. Investigating the history of universities has become more crucial than at any earlier period in the long life of the institution. The year 2002, the five-hundredth anniversary of the founding of the university of Wittenberg in Electoral Saxony, seemed to offer an ideal opportunity

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to start a comprehensive research project, especially into the early years of the Academia Vitebergensis, recruiting experts to form the nucleus of a team of researchers. One might have expected to see predominantly specialists of the history of universities (in the widest possible sense), the studia humanitatis, the Reformation, and the Enlightenment contributing to such a project. The later developments, right up to the present, need not have been neglected either, since no comprehensive evaluation of the significance of the university of HalleWittenberg had ever been attempted to date, apart from the inadequate officially sponsored collection of articles published in Halle in 1977: Hans Hübner (ed.), Geschichte der Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg, 1502–1977. Prior to 2002 several papers on the early years of Wittenberg were published in international journals, collections and monographs. Unfortunately, there are only brief references to these issues in the official publications of 2002, and there have also not been any comprehensive compilations since 2002.1 The significance of the foundation of the university at Wittenberg has long been recognised in international comparative works like A History of the University in Europe ii., where Willem Frijhoff rates it as ‘the institution that soon afterwards launched a great religious movement that became a powerful current for reform of the universities. Yet, this university proudly proclaimed in its title, Academia Vitebergensis, that it belonged to a tradition, straddling the darkness of medieval scholasticism, that attached itself to the true sources of learning drawn from Greek and Latin Antiquity’.2 This brief observation calls for further exploration by a team of church historians (with theological sensibilities), social/economic historians and those of the history of universities (who must always draw on multiple disciplines). It is futile to speculate whether such a project was contemplated or why it did not get off the ground to mark the jubilee as a time of stock-taking and reflection true to the humanist clarion call – ad fontes. It was certainly not for lack of sources. The Wittenberg archives that have so much to offer are still under-utilized. Crucial desiderata in relation to Wittenberg university include a re-issue of the Urkundenbuch der Universität Wittenberg ed. Walter Friedensburg (2 vols, Magdeburg, 1926–7). Its first part deals with the period from 1502 to 1611. The second part covers the span from 1611 to 1813. Revisions are necessary, but it is an excellent starting point for the study of its impact at various stages of the development of the university of Wittenberg. The quincentenary of the university might also have been used as an opportunity to extend and revise Friedrich Israel’s opus entitled Das Wittenberger Universitätsarchiv, seine Geschichte und seine Bestände, nebst Register der Urkunden des Allerheiligenstifts und den Fundationsurkunden der Universität Wittenberg (Halle, 1913). A comprehensive bibliography collecting together all serious international research on both Wittenberg and Halle would have been a bonus.3 Two things are obvious from the two official publications to be reviewed here: firstly, that early modern historians from various disciplines have not collaborated

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in an interdisciplinary research project on the early history of Wittenberg and, secondly, that research interests do exist, but that they concentrate on other problems, by-passing even the early Enlightenment at Halle. The first official publication, a slim volume, not easy to obtain, reproduces six expanded lectures given at the Evangelisches Predigerseminar which survives as the transformed rest of the Academia Vitebergensis established in 1502. These Sunday lectures at Wittenberg are coordinated under the main title that sees Wittenberg as a centre of learning (Bildungszentrum). The simple cover incorporates the signals appropriate to the jubilee of the founding of the institution. It shows the seal of the university with Frederick the Wise as founder at the centre and the circumscription: ‘under my rule this [university] opened its gates and began to teach’. At the top appears a quotation from Luther’s Table Talk announcing that the right teaching is no inconsiderable benefit. At the foot of the cover there is a copper engraving of 1755 documenting a festive procession in Wittenberg. The scholarly value of the contributions varies, but all are in their own way appropriate to the occasion. Jos Vercruysse, S.J. presents a sketch of the relationship of humanism and reformation from the perspective of Flemish outsiders – Luther’s, Melanchthon’s and Karlstadt’s contemporaries – represented by individual observers as well as the University of Leuven, which condemned the new teaching of Wittenberg. The choice of examples is somewhat eclectic but persuasive. Stefan Oehmig provides an overview of Wittenberg as a ‘university and student town’ on the basis of well-considered and thoroughly researched archival data about social stratification, income and general living conditions influenced the influx of students over several centuries. He takes a closer look at the second half of the sixteenth century. Insights are drawn from statistical information as well as various official reform efforts and instructions by the University Council. He evaluates such publications as Der Universitet zu Wittenberg Ordenung. Von kleidung, geschmuck, bekostigung der Hochzeiten, Gastereien etc. Mit einer Lateinischen vermanung des Herrn Rectoris, printed at Wittenberg by Georg Rhau in 1546. He examines the beneficial influence the foundation of the Leucoria had on the growth of Wittenberg while not forgetting to pay due attention to the sources of conflict between town and gown. Andreas Gössner complements these findings with his examination of grants and scholarships. He covers aspects of financial support as well as the provision of accommodation in the Collegium Augusteum – with the Konviktorium attached to it – primarily in the eighteenth century, as the material aspects of the electoral policy to further the proper education and training of civil servants and Lutheran pastors. The highlight of this small collection of papers is undoubtedly the contribution by the doyen of the history of printing, Helmut Claus, who discusses Wittenberg as a centre of book production. The presses were indispensable for the workings of the university and they were no doubt encouraged by its needs. The fascinating report traces the development and specialisation of some twenty

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print workshops. The author provides reliable information and evaluations and his assessment of the state of research should be taken to heart by potential sponsors of research projects. His verdict is that much work has been done but no comprehensive monograph exists as yet. Helène Feydy, a Germanist, deals with Luther as a linguistic virtuoso. Her conjectures about his singing and speaking voice as the ‘Wittenberg Nightingale’ feed into the exploration of animal metaphors and their symbolism in rhetorical tradition, starting with an analysis of Hans Sachs’ encomium. Hans-Peter Hasse’s lecture analyses the educational policy of the Elector Augustus, his fundatio of 1555, the crisis of 1574 and the reforms of Wittenberg university from 1576 to 1580. This policy was dictated by the need for the consolidation of the state with the university as the instrument of centralisation. The latter inevitably prompts the question why no study of Frederick the Wise’s university policy has been included here. Why is there no discussion of the communication of ideas and the adaptation of the studia humanitatis and their relevance as indicators of the need for earlier reforms at the university itself? It may have been too much to expect of this limited series of lectures at the Wittenberg Predigerseminar, but an acknowledgement of the significance of such explorations might usefully have been included to enable the historian to decide whether these problems have been sufficiently understood elsewhere or are in urgent need of attention. It seemed reasonable to expect more discussion of research issues connected with the founding and the early years of the Wittenberg university in the official publication of the ‘Martin-Luther Universität Halle-Wittenberg, 1502–2002’. This is certainly what the composite picture on the cover leads one to expect. The cover is decorated with Albrecht Dürer’s copper engraving of Frederick the Wise, the Saxon Elector and founder of Wittenberg university, and the Luther statue of the Wittenberg monument. One therefore expects at least some of the latest research on the university policy of the elector and maybe something on Luther as a university teacher who, together with Philip Melanchthon, belonged to the small number of scholars that remained true to their original calling as ‘university men’ all their lives. This, however, does not form part of current research interests. These lie somewhere else, as we shall see. The contributions are arranged into several distinct sections. The first of these does indeed relate to the university of Wittenberg, but only one of the three papers actually deals with teaching at the university in the sixteenth century. This is an accomplished piece of research by Jürgen Helm on Philip Melanchthon and academic medicine. The relationship of medicine and the Reformation is certainly the key concern of early modern researchers at present.4 The second article strikes out in a different direction. It is an analysis of the important library collected together and donated to Wittenberg University Library by Johann August von Ponickau (1718–1802). It comprised some 12,000 volumes of Saxonica, about 4,000 Miscellanea, 30,000 ‘little occasional books’ as well

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as numerous pamphlets, charters, manuscripts, coins, seals and maps. The library was split up in 1817. The third article concentrates on yet another type of historical reconstruction. It analyses the negotiations that led to the integration of parts of the Saxon university of Wittenberg with the Prussian university of Halle, 1815–1817. There is one other paper, that by Manfred Lemmler on German language and literature, in the section on ‘University Institutes’, that actually starts with Wittenberg in 1502, but referring to the universities of Wittenberg and Halle separately, it presents a longue durée account of development between 1502 and 1945 in the relevant schools. If one takes the title of the book seriously, one should not be so surprised at the limited evidence of early modern research. It announces contributions to the history of the Martin-Luther-University of Halle-Wittenberg. In 1502 Wittenberg university was established as Academia Vitebergensis, as already mentioned. Only in 1933 was the current designation conferred upon the University of Halle to which the appropriate parts of the university of Wittenberg had been attached in 1817. Halle university as such owed its origin to the endeavours of the Elector of Brandenburg, who issued its charter in 1694. According to the subtitle this commemorative volume publishes research relevant to the jubilee celebrations of ‘the university’, a construct that had no common history until 1817. The jubilee committee, faced with an extraordinary conundrum, solved it by paying very scant attention to the real importance of Wittenberg university in the age of the Reformation and Halle university in the age of Enlightenment. The majority of the contributions are case studies relating to developments in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. They are all convincing in themselves as examples of historical analytical narratives on the basis of rich pickings of original materials, mostly from the Halle archives. The second section is devoted to historical assessments of the problems and achievements of eight selected institutes (schools). Seven of the eight papers reproduced here are solid, informative explorations of the chosen topics. They fulfil the expectations formulated in their titles, in faithfully chronological discussions. The first paper is a discussion of fate and fortunes of the historicalphilological schools in Halle in 1875 (then called Vereinigte Friedrichs Universität) in the context of Prussian university policy. The subsequent articles explore the economic/political sciences (Staatswissenschaften) from the middle of the nineteenth century to the Second World War (2), the two surgicalophthalmogolical clinics in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (3), German Language and Literature (already cited) (5), the short-lived School of Journalism from 1926–1939 (6), Sports Sciences (7) and finally Ancient History in the twentieth century (8). Only one contribution – article five in this section – breaks the prescribed institutional mould and ventures into a more problem-oriented analysis. This is the paper by Michael Viebig on the procuring of corpses for the anatomical institute in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Social analysis is matched with an examination of the aims and aspiration of teaching

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medicine at the university. The concentration on ‘institutes’ in this section appears to preclude any thorough, detailed, comprehensive evaluation of the Enlightenment rationalism for which Halle was justly renowned throughout Europe. One might, however, be forgiven for expecting due attention to the Enlightenment in the third section, which is dedicated to the exploration of the development of scholarship (Wissenschaftsentwicklung). The f ive articles that constitute the section (on what principle?) convince for what they are: case studies with a great deal of detailed information. The transformation of chemistry to become a university discipline at the end of the eighteenth century receives adequate attention. This is followed by a case study of the issues discussed in the correspondence, previously largely unexplored, of Leonard Euler (1707–1783), mathematician at the centre of a network of scholars. He visited Halle only once, but the letters he received – the ones he wrote have been lost – throw light on the study of mathematical science as a university discipline. Christian Thomasius and Christian Wolff, the leading Enlightenment scholars, get a look-in here. It is not the fault of the author of this article, Andreas Kleinert, that the vibrancy and excitement of the Halle Enlightenment rationalism and its wider German and, largely through Wollf’s influence on the university curriculum, European significance gets pushed into the background. When such restrictions are placed on a topic, it cannot do justice to the necessary comprehensive intellectual and conceptual enquiry of the famous ‘Halle School’ of philosophy of the early Enlightenment. Fortunately, interested historians can find much enlightenment in other recent publications that are concerned with Christian Thomasius’s creation of the Law Faculty at Halle as well as his contribution to formulating the ideas that promoted the founding of the university there in 1694. He, a true polymath, became professor of philosophy at Halle,5 and Christian Wolff contributed substantially to university studies there from 1707. He is remembered as the founder of economic and public administration as academic disciplines. (In the jubilee volume these Staatswissenschaften are analysed only from the mid-nineteenth century to the Second World War.) He looked on the university as an institution with obligations to educate professionals. As professor of mathematics, physics and natural philosophy he consolidated them as philosophical disciplines, lecturing and writing in German. At the time Halle was strongly committed to Pietism. The rationalist Wolff launched a fulminating attack on it with his lecture ‘On the practical philosophy of the Chinese’. He proclaimed the severance of philosophy from religion, which inevitably resulted in his dismissal by the Prussian King Frederick William in October 1723. Wolff found a more welcoming university environment at Marburg and was eventually recalled to Halle by the more enlightened Prussian ruler, Frederick the Great, in 1740. Wolff’s influence on the intellectual life and the academic orientation of universities is incalculable.6

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The remaining papers in this section of the jubilee volume are also fairly tightly restricted to specific historical reconstructions. One of these deals with the examination of Johann Joachim Winkelmann’s two year sojourn at Halle as a student, 1738–1740, an experience that is said to have strongly influenced his intellectual formation as explorer of classical art and its historical context. The author’s verdict is that they were ‘keineswegs unfruchtbare and vertane Jahre auf einer ebenso kahlen wie skurrilen Universitätsbühne’. The second last article traces the fate and fortunes of medieval history as a university research and teaching discipline. It concentrates primarily on the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, including the intervention of the GDR’s ruling party, the SED (Sozialistische Einheitspartei Deutschlands) in the teaching of the subject. Elsewhere its author, Walter Zöllner, has published substantial research on the significance of history at the Leucoria, a most worthwhile enquiry, since Wittenberg at the insistence of Luther and especially Melanchthon was the first university to recognize the value of the study of history as part of a serviceable curriculum to form the educated humanist.7 This is largely set aside here, since the purpose of the assignment is to cover the vast expanse of the two hundred years from the nineteenth century to the present. The last article in this section summarizes ideas inspired by Leopold Zunz’s visit to Halle. The visit and the correspondence it sparked off were the prolegomena to the development of Jewish Studies (Wissenschaft vom Judentum) at the University in 1820, three years after its establishment as Königliche Vereinigte Friedrich-Univerität Halle-Wittenberg. This opens up a significant vista, but is so far only a very small portion of a worthwhile field of exploration.8 The fourth section, entitled Studentenschaft, adjusts to an even narrower focus, since the German word does not necessarily refer to students in general but may be read as designating more specifically the student confraternities. The first article presents a review of the cultural history of Halle student confraternities (Corps) at the time of the Empire, when the individual student as a member of the confraternity was – in his ‘study-free time’ – subjected to the strict timetable of the association to which he had committed himself body and soul. This timetable regulated eating, drinking and fencing. The norm of ‘togetherness’ – comradeship that tied ‘brother to brother’ – defined as well as restricted all other social contacts. High ideals and noble virtues – empty rhetoric – were inculcated to the elimination of individuality and the dedication of the confraternity as a whole to the service of the emperor. The easy switch from this state of mind to unreflected nationalism prompts the author, Torsten Lehmann, to characterize the style of feasts and excursions as indications of ignorance and the loss of any sense of reality (Realitätsverlust). The article delineates these activities with a fair measure of critical distance, free of hectoring as well as glorification. This is also a feature of the next paper, which presents an assessment of how one confraternity, Neoborussia, responded to the prohibition of fencing by the state (staatliches Mensurverbot) between 1848 and 1936, but the time-span is again

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too long to allow much more than the accumulation of information on tactics of evasion and ‘compliance’. The last contribution in this section provides more than the title might suggest. It is a rigorous assessment of the relationships between Russian students, the significance of the strike at the Halle university clinics 1912/13 (Klinikerstreik) and the complex issue of the foreigner question (Ausländerfrage) before the First World War. The source base is provided by the exploration of articles in student newspapers and exhaustive work in the university archives. The paper presents the findings of the VW-sponsored research project.9 It deals with reasons for and expectations of academic migration of Russian students who made Halle their primary destination. The statistical information is welcome as an accumulation of distilled source materials. The method adopted here shows that quantitative procedures facilitate, but do not readily translate into quantitative assessments. At the end the Fazit makes an attempt to assess some findings: Catholic and Protestant Russian students tended to concentrate on agricultural studies, the Jewish-Russian students, whose studies were greatly restricted in their homeland, gravitated into medicine. German student journalism (dominated by ‘free students’, i.e. those who did not belong to confraternities) had no part in the official chauvinist-anti-Russian character assassination, although the authors of this paper, Hartmut Rüdiger Peter, Andreas de Boor, Mario Klotzsche, have to admit that Halle students as a whole were not immune from influences of current social stereotypes. Professors and other teaching staff observed strict academic neutrality, which apparently made them look like ‘model’ liberals. The restriction of the admission of foreign students was not a Halle decision but formed part of government policy laid down for all Prussian universities. Sections five and six, roughly a third of the whole volume, are dedicated to case studies of aspects of university development from the Weimar Republic to the collapse of the GDR. Although all cases are well researched in their own terms, some offer more persuasive conclusions than others. The study by Jan Gerber seeks to establish what official university celebrations reveal about the self-perception of the role of the university in society. The object of the paper is the methodical analysis of the main celebrations of the university, the Reichsgründungsfeiern, in the Weimar Republic in the wider frame of celebrations of the national state. The questions are formulated in line with the studies by Sabine Behrenbeck and Alexander Nützenadel,10 Monika Wienfort,11 and Roger Chartier.12 Celebrations are treated as indicators of group attitudes, expectations and political orientation. The author endeavours to explore the true significance of the university’s refusal to change its dies academicus, 18 January, that was celebrated as the day of vaterländischen Gedenkens und geistiger Erhebung. This day, commemorating the foundation of the German Reich, became the essential ‘Selbstverständigungs- und Selbstvergewisserungsritual’ of the university: in other words the ceremonies provided the vital focus of re-assuring oneself as a university in the ‘hostile’ environment of the Weimar

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Republic. The university seems to have opted out of the democratization process of the Weimar Republic. The ruling Social Democrat Party (SPD) referred to these rituals as monarchist clamour (Klamauk) of the eternally backwardoriented (ewig Gestrigen). Rightwing conservative citizens (Bürger), however, took – rather tellingly – an immense interest in these university celebrations. From 1928/29 onwards they became highly suspect to the Prussian state government, since other Prussian universities displayed and propagated similar anti-republican, anti-democratic ideas. The rectors protested that their intentions were misrepresented in the press, arguing that the celebrations were organised as an antidote to the corrosive tendencies of Weimar politics. When official commemorations of the Weimar Constitution were to be negotiated, the student corporations objected on political grounds while the academic staff refrained from openly expressing anti-democratic convictions. They had begun to tolerate, or rather to put up with, the republic, but did not actively support the constitution. On the other hand, students of the university association of 1920, the Hochschulring, began to coordinate corporations, and the so-called ‘free students’ began to form a firm block for ‘deutsche Art und deutsches Wesen’ against the destructive forces of ‘internationalism’. The example of the Halle university celebrations reveals the ease with which the legitimacy of the Weimar Republic could be undermined by a determined student body. This contrasts intriguingly – but not entirely implausibly when one considers the war- and peace-making experiences of the students and their professors – with the moderation displayed by the ‘free student’ press before the First World War that is highlighted in the article on the university’s reaction to Russian migration of Halle. Both articles are highlights of the commemorative publication as a whole. A brief reconstruction of the career of the historian Hans Herzfeld at Halle during the Weimar Republic and the Third Reich to 1938 is followed by an examination of the number and qualifications of the men who became honorific members and senators of the university from 1920 to 1945. This ties in with a report on the activities of Johannes Weigelt as ‘Führerrektor’ of the university from 1936 to 1945. It pays attention to his service to the armaments industry and his lines of contact with state security, especially concerning the persecution of the ‘Gestaltkreis’. The latter was objectionable to the elite of the Third Reich as a circle of professors who had come together to discuss ‘philosophical problems of holistic morphology’. The paper by Franz Hirschinger examines – all too cursorily here – the role played by the Halle medical faculty in the Nazi regime’s euthanasia programme, the extermination of ‘lebensunwertes Leben’, 1939–1945. This is an excerpt of his Halle doctoral dissertation of 2000, the revised publication of which can be consulted.13 The section on Halle university in the first years after the defeat of the Third Reich, from the Soviet occupation to the GDR, offers short informative reports on the way political conditions affected the work in some of its institutions. In the first of these reports it is impossible to catch more than brief glimpses of

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the actual problematique of the denazification and rehabilitation processes in general and at the Theological Faculty. The next two papers are careful reconstructions of firstly, the rising of 17 June 1953, in which students were prominently involved, and, secondly, the persecution by the Ulbricht regime of the historian Günter Mühlpfordt, a member of the SPD, to his dismissal (1957) and his Berufsverbot (1958). He was accused of propounding bourgeois theories because he refused to denounce the ‘West German imperialist historians’. The most significant contributions in this section are the last two. The first of these focuses on the ‘enemy from within’ hysteria during the SED regime, which resulted in official and unofficial surveillance of the activities of university institutes such as theology and medicine, and in a special way also the natural sciences. This resulted in the stunting of academic discourse and research, and the fencing off from Western projects. The verdict of the last paper is: the State Security System was completely successful and the SED-state was no longer threatened by participation in advanced international research projects in the natural sciences. There is no denying that the official publication has not fallen into the common jubilee trap of self-glorification, rather it represents a florilegium of current research interests, and as such it is valuable. By the same token, early modern specialists of the history of universities will wish to express their conviction that scholarly evaluation of the specific importance of Wittenberg as the Reformation university and Halle as one of the foremost university of the early Enlightenment might have added substantially to the value of the publication. This observation does not intend to dismiss or downgrade the value of the work that is being done, especially that on the dark days of the twentieth-century university situation. More than anything else, however, it is important to reassess and adapt evaluative methodologies that assist researchers in reconceptualizing the actual contributions of universities in former ages. Historians at the beginning of the twenty-first century cannot afford to opt out of engaging in qualitative research, because this is part of the process of understanding, exploring meanings, and doing justice to people and events in the past in order to get closer to the significance of what really happened.

Department of History, Trinity College Dublin, Dublin 2, Ireland.

REFERENCES 1. Some seminal publications are worth listing here (they find merely cursory mention in the introduction to the official publication by Hermann-J. Rupieper). Heiner Lück (ed.), Martin Luther und seine Universität. Vorträge

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3.

4.

5.

6.

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anlässlich des 450. Todestages des Reformators. (Im Auftrag der Stiftung Leucoria und der Martin-Luther Universität Halle-Wittenberg, Cologne/ Weimar/Vienna, 1998). Dieter Stievermann, ‘Friedrich der Weise und seine Universität’, in Sönke Lorenz (ed.), Attempo oder wie stiftet man eine Universität? Die Universitätsgründungen der sogenannten zweiten Gründungswelle im Vergleich (Stuttgart, 1999), 175–209. Stefan Oehmig (ed.), Wittenberg. Stadt, Universität, Reformation (Weimar, 1995). Stefan Oehmig, ‘Wittenberg und die europäische Rechtswissenschaft. Forschungsstand und Perspektiven am Vorabend des 500. Gründungsjubiläums der Universität Wittenberg, in Heiner Lück and Bernd Schildt (eds), Recht – Idee - Geschichte. (Cologne/Weimar/Vienna, 2000). Peter Freybe et al., “Gott hat noch nicht genug Wittenbergisch Bier getrunken.” Alltagsleben zur Zeit Martin Luthers (Wittenberger Sonntagsvorlesungen, Wittenberg, 2001). Sachiko Kusukowa, A Wittenberg University Library Catalogue of 1536 (Cambridge, 1995). Willem Frijhoff, ‘Patterns’, in Hilde De Ridder-Symoens (ed.), Universities in Early Modern Europe (1500–1800) (A History of the University in Europe, Vol. II, Cambridge, 1996), 43. Frijhoff confirms his outlook by reference to Nicolas Marschalk’s Commencement Address Delivered at the University of Wittenberg, January 18, 1503, ed. and trans. E.C. Reinke and G.G. Krodel (Valparaiso, 1967), 8, and the still indispensable monograph by Maria Grossmann, Humanism at Wittenberg, 1485–1517 (Nieuwkoop, 1975). This is not to dismiss but to supplement Thomas Klein (ed.), ‘Ein halbes Jahrhundert Forschung zur neueren Geschichte Sachsen-Anhalts (1940–1992): Eine Bestandsaufnahme’, in Sachsen-Anhalt, 18, 1994, 211–52, who also adverts to earlier general bibliographies on German universities. Ole Peter Grell & Andrew Cunningham (eds.), Medicine and the Reformation (London, 1993). This contains an excellent article by Sachiko Kusukawa, ‘Aspectio divinorum operum: Melanchthon and astrology for Lutheran medics’, 33–56. Ralf-Dieter Hofheinz, Philipp Melanchthon und die Medizin im Spiegel akademischer Reden (Herbolzheim, 2001). Jürgen Helm himself is a most assiduous contributor on the subject in medical historical journals, e.g. ‘Die Galenrezeption in Philipp Melanchthons “De anima” (1540/1552)’, in Medizinhistorisches Journal 31 (1996), 298–321, and ‘ “Medicinam aspernari impietas est”. Zum Verhältnis von Reformation und akademischer Medizin in Wittenberg’, in Sudhoffs Archiv 83 (1999), 22–41. See Martin Kühnel, Das politische Denken von Christian Thomasius. Staat, Gesellschaft, Bürger (Berlin, 2001). Friedrich Vollhardt (ed.), Christian Thomasius (1655–1728). Neue Forschungen zur Frühaufklärung (Tübingen, 1997). Jean École et al. (eds), Christian Wolff. Gesammelte Werke. (3 series, Hildesheim/New York, 1962- ). European Journal of Law 4(2) (1997) is a special issue on Christian Wolff. Werner Schneider (ed.), Christian Wolff, 1679–1754. Interpretationen zu seiner Philosophie und deren Wirkung. Mit einer Bibliographie der Wolff-Literatur. (Hamburg, 1986). Entry ‘Christian

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7.

8.

9. 10.

11.

12.

13.

History of Universities Wolff’, in Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, http://plato.stanford.edu/ entries/wolff-christian/, consulted October 2006. Walter Zöllner, ‘Geschichte und Geschichtswissenschaft an der Universität Wittenberg’, in Heiner Lück and Bernd Schildt (eds), Recht – Idee – Geschichte, 373–452. A short English version of this article may be of interest: Guiseppe Veltri, ‘Leopold Zunz’s Brief and fruitful Visit to Halle. Part I: Introduction’, in EAJS-Newsletter 10 (2001), 6–9. See my forthcoming review of Hartmut Rüdiger Peter, Schnorrer, Verschwörer, Bombenwerfer, in History of Universities XXI (2), 2006. Sabine Behrenbeck and Alexander Nützenadel (eds), Inszenierungen des Nationalstaates. Politisches Feiern in Italien und Deutschland seit 1860/71 (Cologne, 2000). Monika Wienfort,’Kaisergeburtstagsfeiern am 27. Januar 1907. Bürgerliche Feste in den Städten des Deutschen Kaiserreichs’, in Manfred Hettling and Paul Nolte (eds), Bürgerliche Feste. Symbolische Formen politischen Handelns im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen, 1993), 157–91. Roger Chartier, ‘Phantasie und Disziplin. Das Fest in Frankreich vom 15. bis 18. Jahrhundert’, in Richard van Dülmen and Norbert Schindler (eds), Volkskultur. Zur Wiederentdeckung des vergessenen Alltags (16. – 20. Jahrhundert) (Frankfurt am Main, 1984), 153–76. Franz Hirschinger, “Zur Ausmerzung freigegeben”. Halle und die Landesheilanstalt Altscherbitz, 1933–1945 (Cologne/Weimar/Vienna, 2001).

Review Essay

Oxford and Cambridge College Histories: an endangered genre? Robin Darwall-Smith

Geoffrey Tyack, Modern Architecture in an Oxford College: St. John’s College 1945–2005. Oxford University Press, Oxford. 2005. xii  142 pp. David Reynolds (ed.), Christ’s: A Cambridge College Over Five Centuries. Macmillan, London 2005. xvi  266 pp. Clare Hopkins, Trinity: 450 Years of an Oxford College Community. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2005. xxii  500 pp. The first issue of History of Universities, in 1981, contained a review article by Mordechai Feingold provocatively titled ‘Oxford and Cambridge College Histories: an outdated genre?’. A quarter of a century on, the genre is clearly not outdated, but on the other hand the criticisms levelled by Feingold at the traditional laudatory College history, far too reliant on lists of Great Old Members, processions of Heads of College and quaint Fellows, praise of the Boat Club’s successes on the river, and descriptions of the buildings, have struck home. Vivian Green’s The Commonwealth of Lincoln College, hailed by Feingold as an example of the way forward for a College history, has inspired some excellent successors, including, for example, John Jones’s history of Balliol, Christopher Brooke’s of Gonville and Caius, John Twigg’s of Queens’, the joint effort of Peter Cunich, David Hoyle, Eamon Duffy and Ronald Hyam on Magdalene, Cambridge, and, in a special category, Pauline Adams’s history of Somerville, still by far the best history of any women’s College in Oxbridge. All these ‘new’ College histories combine careful examination of the original sources with, at their best, an examination of the College as a whole, a care not to be side-tracked, and a determination not to hero-worship (accompanied, indeed, by a willingness to engage with the less distinguished periods of a

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College’s history, even, in some cases, in the twentieth century). Undoubtedly the bar has been raised for the modern College historian. I can write these words with some feeling, because I myself am writing a new history of University College, Oxford, and collaborating in another one of Magdalen College, Oxford. In 2005 three Oxbridge Colleges had significant anniversaries to celebrate: Christ’s College, Cambridge, became 500 years old, while the slightly younger foundations of St. John’s and Trinity Colleges, Oxford, both celebrated their 450th birthday. All three Colleges marked these anniversaries with handsome publications. How, therefore, do these three books match up to the challenges set by their predecessors? We should consider the historiography of each College. All three of them were represented in the series of College histories produced by Robinsons a century ago, since which time Trinity has had a short summary history, and Christ’s a more extended account of its early years. St. John’s has fared a little better through the existence of W. H. Stevenson and H. E. Salter’s The Early History of St John’s College Oxford of 1939, and W. C. Costin’s The History of St John’s College Oxford 1598–1860 of 1958. Nevertheless, neither book is wholly satisfactory. Stevenson and Salter produced not so much a coherent history as an antiquarian miscellany — albeit a valuable one — of material about the early history of the College, while Costin’s history is unfortunately a good example of the self-laudatory and slightly dull College history which has largely fallen from favour today. For St. John’s, Geoffrey Tyack’s book has no pretensions to be a continuation of Costin’s, but instead focuses in detail on a particular aspect of the College, namely the buildings erected there since 1945. St. John’s has been busy during this time, for it has seen four major projects on its central site so far, namely the Dolphin Quadrangle, designed by Sir Edward Maufe in 1947, the ‘Beehive’ in North Quadrangle, designed by Michael Powers in 1957/8, the Sir Thomas White Building designed by Sir Philip Dowson of Arup Associates in 1967–75, and the Garden Quadrangle, designed by Sir Richard MacCormac in 1989–93. In each case, Tyack provides a lucid and lavishly illustrated account of the background to each project, including discussions of the rejected designs for each project, and an account of their actual construction — a particularly convoluted tale in the case of the Sir Thomas White Building. Thus far, Tyack’s book might appear excessively parochial, and of little interest to the reader with no links to St. John’s. This would be an unfair conclusion. It helps that Tyack, in his useful Oxford: An Architectural Guide (Oxford, 1998), has already given us his personal overview of Oxford’s architecture, so that, arguably, he has already supplied a wider context himself. However, even within this book, Tyack regularly travels beyond the walls of St. John’s, to discuss other work by the architects chosen, as well as other buildings in Oxford and Cambridge, so that the reader ends up with a good idea of what is happening elsewhere.

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Tyack himself makes explicit this larger picture, when he writes towards the end of his book: An ‘architectural promenade’—to borrow a phrase from Le Corbusier—through the postSecond World War buildings of St. John’s presents the history of modern architecture in microcosm, from the cautious conservatism of the immediate post-war years in the Dolphin Quadrangle to the self-confident modernist experiment of the Beehive; and from the assured and uncompromising modernism of the Sir Thomas White Building to the allusive fin-de-siècle subtlety of the Garden Quadrangle. (117)

Admittedly, Tyack has chosen his College well, for St. John’s has been unusually lucky in its modern architecture: rather too many Colleges in Oxford and Cambridge might prefer to draw a veil over some of their more recent buildings. Two important reasons for this emerge from Tyack’s book. First of all, a major increase in the financial prosperity of St. John’s has meant that it has been able to demand the best, both as regards architects and materials. Few other Colleges in Oxford or Cambridge could have had the resources to commission something as opulent as the Garden Quadrangle. Secondly, it is evident that, at St. John’s since 1945, there have been Fellows who take an active interest in architecture, especially the great architectural historian, Sir Howard Colvin, and Tony Boyce, the College’s Bursar since 1987. In particular, Colvin evidently led a group of Fellows who, in the mid-1950s, audaciously persuaded St. John’s to dispense with the traditionalist Sir Edward Maufe — an Honorary Fellow of the College, to boot — when planning how to finish the North Quadrangle and to commission the ‘Beehive’, one of the most daring buildings in Oxford since 1945. It is true that Tyack’s book will be of most use to the architectural historian, but there are valuable lessons for the College historian as well, for Tyack is of interest, even candid, in shedding light on the decisions which led to the choice of building, and the progress of each project. The account of the Sir Thomas White Building is a particularly engrossing tale of how the architect’s plans were modified again and again, and this might be interesting for those who think this building the least satisfactory of those covered in this book. For all its apparently limited scope, therefore, Tyack’s book has much to tell us about a College’s history since 1945, and is well worth reading on that account. St. John’s has another book up its sleeve, for a biographical register of all its members up to 1660 is nearing completion. One hopes that St. John’s will feel encouraged to commission a new history of the College, preferably one which can replace both Stevenson and Salter and Costin, as well as cover the years after 1860. For its 500th anniversary, Christ’s College chose to commission a single book which would cover its whole history. It is, however, very definitely not a College history as such. David Reynolds, the editor of the volume nails his colours firmly to the mast when he declares, ‘These essays not . . . a heavy chronological plod through five centuries of College archives’ (p. xv). Instead ‘this book offers

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some snapshots from the album of one Cambridge college’ (p. ix). One does wonder what College histories he has been reading: the ones mentioned above have moved far beyond the world of that ‘heavy chronological plod’. Instead, Christ’s has assembled a very eminent team — all Professors — of current and former junior and senior members, each to tackle an aspect of the College’s history which stirs their interest. A few linking passages are provided by the editor to lead one from one essay to another. The essays themselves are very disparate as regards scope and content, moving between detailed discussions of individual moments or men, and rather breathless scamperings across long periods of time, whilst the narrative links pick up what pieces they can. Barrie Dobson’s account of the foundation of the College gets the book off to a good start, but it has to rush at the end to take in an all-too-brief account of the Reformation. Quentin Skinner titles his essay ‘The Generation of John Milton’, but in fact most of it is devoted to shedding light on College life in the 1620s and 1630s through a detailed analysis of the private account books of one of the early seventeenth-century tutors of Christ’s, Joseph Mead. After this minutely detailed study, the late Roy Porter, in ‘Science versus Religion?’, offers a whirlwind tour of the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, in which more or less the only aspect of the eighteenth century to be covered is an account of William Paley. In ‘The age of Reform’, John Burrow gives a series of portraits of the great men of Christ’s in the nineteenth century. Next, Barry Supple, in ‘The two World Wars’, offers a straightforward account of College in the years 1914–50. The post-war College is dealt with in two essays which choose only to spotlight certain individuals, so that the College itself fades somewhat into the background. David Cannadine, in ‘The Era of Todd, Plumb and Snow’, gives biographical portraits of three of the most eminent post-war Fellows of Christ’s, two of whom, Alex Todd and J. H. Plumb, became Masters, while the third, C. P. Snow, became a novelist of some repute (not least for The Masters, his lightly fictionalised account of a Mastership election at Christ’s). Finally, in ‘Souvent me souvient’, Simon Schama has written a little memoir of his student life at Christ’s. It is a pleasant enough read, but it feels like a somewhat self-indulgent and self-regarding immigrant from another book, such as Corpuscles, Brian Harrison’s enjoyable anthology of reminiscences garnered from former members of Corpus Christi, Oxford. Not infrequently – and not unreasonably – the contributors have sought out aspects of the history of Christ’s which fit in with their own special interests, rather than attempt to engage with the nature of the actual institution itself. A collection of self-contained essays on aspects of College history in itself is not necessarily an object of criticism: interesting collections of essays, for example, were assembled by E. E. Rich for the quincentenary of St. Catharine’s College in 1973 and by D. E. D. Beales and H. B. Nisbet for the quatercentenary of Sidney Sussex College in 1996. These books, being explicitly collections of

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essays, make no pretense of offering histories of their respective Colleges. The Christ’s volume, however, by including these linking passages, produces a rather unhappy hybrid between a collection of essays and a narrative history. Certain topics ignored in the main essays are therefore slotted in with some haste, such as a thin sketch of College servants on pages 139–42. Paradoxically, the St. Catharine’s and Sidney Sussex volumes, with their less grandiose aim, have more consistency of tone and detail. There remains therefore a strong feeling of an opportunity wasted, and of a work which falls between several stools. Not only is it not quite a narrative history and not quite a collection of essays, but in addition, although the book’s contents, set out in large print in widely spaced lines, are not quite heavyweight enough to give it some academic ‘clout’, it is not quite glossy enough to be a kind of coffee-table book. It is pleasing that the College managed to persuade so many eminent members to participate in this pious gesture, but one suspects that someone less eminent but with a better understanding of institutional history might have made a better job of commemorating the College’s anniversary. Such a suspicion is strengthened by the example of the President and Fellows of Trinity College, Oxford, who, for their 450th anniversary, commissioned a full-length history from their archivist of many years, Clare Hopkins. Hopkins has produced a work which is presumably the kind of ‘chronological plod’ derided by David Reynolds, but in fact ‘plod’ is one of the very last words which one would use of her excellent and entertaining book. The subtitle of her book is the key to her success: Hopkins is acutely aware that a ‘College community’ is more than the Head and Fellows, and more even than the students. Rather too many College histories of the past (to say nothing of some volumes of the History of the University of Oxford ) have not taken much account of College servants. Hopkins does a great service in bringing this unsung part of the College into sharper relief. The dust jacket of her book is her manifesto: it is a splendid group photograph, taken in the College’s anniversary year, of everyone who is part of the Trinity community, be they Fellow, student or member of staff (Hopkins herself, for those interested, is in the front row third from the left). For Hopkins, nothing in the College is unworthy of her minutely researched study. At the same time, she wisely observes certain boundaries. In the history of Magdalene College, Ronald Hyam observed: ‘It is of course a moot point whether the historian of a college should seek to claim any institutional credit for the achievements of its Old Members’ (230). Hopkins agrees with Hyam, for she tackles the question of the Great Old Member in a very elegant way. In her introduction, she writes ‘In case one should be disappointed, I must explain at the outset that the lives of the great and good of Trinity’s alumni are not chronicled in this book’ (p. ix). To keep happy those who do seek out the great and good, she offers an appendix listing all the names of Old Members of Trinity who are included in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. This is as

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reasonable a litmus test of fame as can readily be found, and will provide the enthusiastic Old Member with a happy excuse to spend time in a library or on the internet looking them all up. This is an excellent idea which I have no hesitation in declaring it my intention to borrow. In her text, therefore, she only discusses eminent Old Members when they are relevant to her story. An excellent example is supplied by John Henry Newman, arguably the most important Trinity man of the early nineteenth century. Hopkins wisely sees that there is no point in producing a miniature and second-hand survey of Newman’s long career, but instead discusses only his undergraduate years. Fortunately, there is much to say even about this period in his life: as well as recording some interesting reflections of College life in his letters home, Newman also suffered from an early example of exam panic when he collapsed in Finals. Even while Newman was sitting the Fellowship exam for Oriel, it took his sensible and sensitive tutor, ‘Tommy’ Short, to calm him down and get him through. But, once Newman has left for Oriel, Hopkins has no more to say about him. This carefully limited treatment of Newman is actually more useful for the Newman scholar, because the context for his undergraduate years has been so clearly delineated. Meanwhile the history of Trinity has been enriched by a portrait of one of the most significant Fellows of his generation in action, dealing with a brilliant but highly-strung student. Thanks to this approach, Hopkins is able to paint a portrait of the kind of institution which Trinity has been during its first four and a half centuries, how it has changed, what it meant to be a member of it, and who were the people who really mattered in its life. She is often fortunate in her sources, but she exploits them well. Ralph Kettell, President in 1599–1643, for example, left so many personal papers in the archives that the early seventeenth century springs vividly to life in a way which will leave other College historians deeply envious, and Hopkins uses them with great aplomb. Furthermore, Hopkins is not in the business of writing a panegyric to Trinity. She is quite capable of showing that Trinity in the later nineteenth and early twentieth century could be snobbish, hearty and rather philistine. At the centre of this world stood Herbert Blakiston, President of Trinity for most of the first third of the twentieth century. Whilst greatly respecting Blakiston’s abilities and his devotion to his College, Hopkins is not afraid to be honest about his racism and misogyny—qualities, unfortunately, displayed from time by other members of the College during these years. Hopkins overcomes another dilemma at the end of her book, for it is very easy for the final chapter of a College history either to dissolve into misty-eyed eulogy or to degenerate into a list of the research projects of the current Fellowship. Hopkins keeps narrative down to a minimum, but, thanks to her ability to see the College as a whole, focusses instead on what may come to be seen as the most important change in Oxford (if not Cambridge) Colleges in our time, namely the increasing numbers of professionally qualified staff (not

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servants, please note) who are taking over many administrative duties once performed by Fellows in the days before they were harried by demands from on high to publish or be damned. Hopkins is the first College historian to examine this change in College life and culture in any detail, and her final chapter is much to be recommended on this ground alone. While there is much of importance for the academic reader, Hopkins does not forget that it is Old Members who will buy most copies of her work, so that her book is also a most entertaining read — nothing less like a ‘plod’ could be imagined. I recommend the reader to turn to pages 404–6 for an account of a disastrous Royal visit in 1960, as an example of how Hopkins can tell a good story. Occasionally she even gently teases the Old Member, as when she opens her discussion of sport at Trinity in the nineteenth century with the words: ‘So now let us take a moment to welcome those readers who have looked up ‘Boat Club’ in the index’ (217). She also offers as good an account of the great TrinityBalliol rivalry as one may find anywhere, nailing down the origins of Balliol’s infamous ‘Gordouli’ song. If I have one criticism, it is that Hopkins’s book rarely strays outside the walls of the College to consider the wider context. This is always a great temptation for the College historian, as anyone who has written or is writing a College history will know. Nevertheless, the question remains how wide such a context should be. Hopkins has important and new things to say about the history of Trinity, and too many réchauffé contextual passages about Oxford or Britain in general would dilute the immediacy of her work. Hopkins is also lucky, in that hers is the first major College history to appear since the eight volumes of the History of the University of Oxford were at last completed, so that the academic reader, at least, can look there for information about the wider context. Nevertheless, it would not have harmed her otherwise excellent account of the unhappy Presidency of John Percival, the whizzkid headmaster of Clifton brought in as a troubleshooter in 1878, to have included an observation that other Colleges, such as University and Jesus, were also appointing public school headmasters as their heads, with equally dismal results. Readers familiar with Victorian Oxford would have known these comparisons, but Old Members of Trinity might have found it interesting to realize that their College did not suffer alone. This, however, should not be seen as a major criticism. Hopkins has produced a work which fully deserves a position alongside the best College histories of our day, and one hopes that old members of Trinity College appreciate how lucky they are. By comparison, old members of St. John’s should feel as if they have had a delicious aperitif, which leaves them wanting something more, but if any old members of Christ’s pick up their history enticed by the grand names on the cover, and eventually put it down rather disappointed, I would quite understand. There is actually an important lesson to be learned from these three books. It is generally accepted that the writing of an architectural history requires a

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certain element of specialization from the practitioner. It thus made good sense for the architectural historian Geoffrey Tyack to write about the post-1945 architecture of St. John’s, for he has fulfilled his brief admirably. Unfortunately it is still not fully recognized that books about Oxbridge Colleges work best when they are written by people, be they archivists like Hopkins or historians like Green, who take the subject seriously. In Hopkins’s case, she has so deep an understanding of the nature of Trinity, that she can persuade readers to feel, while they are in her care, that a study of its history really matters. The contributors to the Christ’s College volume, for all their eminence in other areas, seem to lack that essential understanding, and the results are clear. Once upon a time, perhaps, it was possible for a scholar to turn his (and it usually was his) hand to a College history without trying too hard. Such a scholar might regard such a work as a mere divertissement alongside his major activities, or perhaps a coda to them. That will not do today. Indeed, if one looks at other College histories — there is no point in naming names here — it is notable that in almost every case, the most eminent scholars do not produce the best histories, unless they have some grounding in institutional or educational history and are prepared to treat the project seriously. Fortunately, the history of education and the history of scholarship are becoming increasingly recognized and appreciated, so that it is now possible to consider a College history as a legitimate scholarly venture. Unfortunately, the College history now faces new threats. At a time when new standards are being set in producing well-written and well-researched College histories, some Colleges are suddenly showing an unfortunate terror of the genre. There is a fashion for producing light-hearted coffee-table books, which are anthologies of interesting stories and merry reminiscences, stronger on pretty pictures than content. Such books are fun enough in their own right, but they should be seen — and enjoyed — as supplements to ‘proper’ College histories, rather than substitutes. Sadly, some Colleges appear to be adopting the latter policy, afraid, it would seem, that their Old Members might be frightened of ‘real’ books with scary footnotes. There is a second danger, which was highlighted in a letter to the Times Literary Supplement of 4 April 2003. An author was commissioned to write a new history of Southampton University, but, after he submitted his text to the authorities there, discovered that it had been comprehensively rewritten: all hints of mistakes made or internal disagreements suffered were removed, and much of the author’s account of the university’s early history was replaced with passages about the recent histories of different faculties. The author, not unreasonably, withdrew his name from the book, commenting that the final version, ‘a new variety of suspect history’, was ‘not designed for reading, but valuable to vice-chancellors as gifts to important visitors.’ It is therefore a source of encouragement that Trinity commissioned Hopkins’s book: not only does it show that histories can be written which can both satisfy

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the scholar and entertain the Old Member, but its author has been given the freedom to be candid (a freedom which has not been abused). One hopes that this example will encourage other Colleges to hold their nerve.

University College Oxford

Reviews

Elena Brambilla, Geneologie del sapere: Università, professioni giuridiche e nobiltà togata in Italia (XIII–XVII secolo). Con un saggio sull’arte della memoria (Milan, 2005), 384 pp. This is a dense and complex book by a distinguished Italian historian well known for her studies of civic institutions in Lombardy during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It is based on wide reading in printed primary and secondary sources, and on the occasional use of archival sources. Whatever Brambilla publishes commands respect and must be considered thoughtfully. However, this book advances some unconvincing arguments. The book consists of three parts, not always closely related. Part one studies the formation of the colleges of civil and canon law at the University of Bologna in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Through a close analysis of wellknown acts and decrees of popes and emperors for the university, she argues that there was a conflict between church and state, canon law and civil law, from the beginning. For example, she sees the first general congregation of the Dominicans, which established a Dominican studium generale of arts and theology, as creating an ‘anti-studio’. To make a long story short, she sees a church-state, clerical-lay, conflict at the heart of the origins of the University of Bologna, the proto-typical Italian university. She also offers information about colleges of legists in university towns in later centuries. Part two, previously published, demonstrates the connection between the techniques of the art of memory and the transmission of university knowledge and is not controversial. The longest and most important part of the book is an analysis of the relationship between church and state in universities and religious colleges in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. The conflict between church and state found at the beginning of universities reached a climax at this time, as the church mounted an assault on the civic university. In this section Brambilla weaves some of her previous publications together into a whole with a controversial interpretation. The argument begins with the premise that the period 1350 to 1550 was an age of communal and civic domination of both pre-university and university education. (This was not true on the pre-university level, because the vast majority of pre-university schools were private, not chartered or controlled by communal governments). But then a large and harmful change occurred. After 1560

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the Counter Reformation church began to dominate Italian education. Brambilla argues that the papacy and the Jesuits combined to create ‘pontifical universities’ which undermined and competed successfully with the civic universities of Italy founded in the Middle Ages. This happened in two ways, Brambilla believes. In 1552 Pope Julius III conferred on Jesuit colleges the authorization to confer doctorates of arts and theology. At the same time, Jesuit colleges expanded from lower-level schools which taught grammar, rhetoric, and humanities classes to boys aged about ten to sixteen, to upper-level institutions teaching philosophy and theology. The result was that the Jesuit colleges became ‘the Italian universities of the Counter Reformation’ (265), and the Jesuit colleges (and those of other religious orders) ‘became the new universities of the Catholic reconquest’ (268). These ‘pontifical universities’ displaced the civic universities in importance and awarding degrees. Brambilla does not offer any evidence in support of the argument because there is none. So far as is known, only the Collegio Romano awarded a few doctorates in theology, and then to members of the Society. So far as scholars have been able to discover, other Jesuit colleges seldom if ever awarded degrees. Moreover, Italian university faculties of theology awarded many more doctorates of theology in the last third of the sixteenth century than before. They did not suffer from competition from non-existent Jesuit ‘pontifical universities’. Finally, the authority to award doctorates in arts and theology was of no importance to the vast majority of university students, because they sought doctorates in law and medicine. Jesuit universities could not and did not confer degrees in law and medicine. And the only teaching that they did in law was the very occasional course in canon law, as at the Jesuit Brera school in Milan. They never taught medicine or civil law. Brambilla also sees the canon law degree subsuming or becoming more important than the civil law degree (294–5). This is mystifying. She is correct in that law degrees were essential to clergymen who wanted to advance in the church and its bureaucracy. They almost always obtained degrees in both civil law and canon law (in utroque jure), not canon law only, because the civil law degree was more important. Adding the canon law degree required only a few months more study. Italian universities recognized this by reducing by about half the number of canon law professorships over the course of the sixteenth century. Brambilla also argues that when the Jesuits received authorization to award degrees in arts and theology, every Jesuit college of the Society, especially those in political capitals and university cities, began to transform itself into an ‘ecclesiastical university of philosophy and theology’ (248). On the contrary, only a small minority of Jesuit schools in Italy added the three-year cycle of logic, natural philosophy, and metaphysics, which offered limited competition with universities. For example, in the 1570s the Jesuits had twenty-eight Italian schools, of which only five (one for every Jesuit province) taught the three-year philosophical cycle, and two others taught a single philosophy course.1

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Brambilla even brings up the hoary myth, favored by the Venetians around 1600, that the papacy and the Jesuits were agents of Spain. Why? Because the papacy was under the influence of Philip II, and the founding Jesuits were mostly Spanish in origins. Alas for her theory, there is abundant evidence that popes fought against Spanish influence. Moreover, from 1573 through the suppression of the Society in 1773, there was only one Spanish father-general, Tirso González de Santalla, from 1687 to 1705. Italians dominated the leadership of the Society, which had its own difficulties with the Spanish crown. Since the author criticizes this reviewer by name several times, it is appropriate to respond at least once. Brambilla criticizes me for diminishing the differences between the lay and communal humanistic schools of the high Italian Renaissance, i.e., 1450 to 1550 (which she also calls ‘humanist-Erasmian’ schools: what influence did Erasmus have on Italian schools?), and the ‘confessional’ schools of the Counter Reformation (240). I argued that there was continuity because the basic curriculum was the same. Both taught Latin grammar and the Latin classics (Cicero, Vergil, Terence, etc.) and a limited amount of Greek. Although the Jesuits added religious studies to the classical curriculum, the overwhelming part of the school day was devoted to teaching and learning pagan classical texts. In addition, John O’Malley has pointed out that Jesuit schools ‘taught this program not as a propaedeutic to theology . . . but as a program complete in itself that would provide laymen with the learning and skills they needed to be successful in this world’. O’Malley also notes that Jesuit schools consciously tried to make themselves part of the city community. They ‘mounted programs to enhance the city that burst the walls of the classroom’. They believed that the studia humanitatis ‘were the apt instrument for producing men dedicated to the public good’.2 In other words, the Jesuits were much more than the agents of the Counter Reformation and subverters of civic universities that Brambilla makes them out to be. Brambilla also criticizes unnamed American historians who favour ‘a long Renaissance’ from the Trecento to 1700, and do not perceive the differences between the Renaissance and the Counter Reformation (240). I cannot think of any American historians who extend the Italian Renaissance to 1700. On the contrary, I have argued several times in print that the Italian Renaissance began with the maturity of Petrarch and his immediate followers (about 1350 to 1374) and ended in the early seventeenth century, about 1610. The author is correct on one point: many young men desiring higher education and university degrees attended universities for only a short time or not at all. In the late sixteenth century and especially in the seventeenth, some men studied arts for a year or two in Jesuit colleges, then went to the university to obtain doctorates in law or medicine. Others obtained their degrees from local colleges of law and medicine with the authority to grant degrees without attending university at all. Brambilla demonstrated this for Lombardy in a well-known and excellent article of 1982. There is no doubt that universities suffered from the competition from a combination of religious order schools, especially the

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academies for noble youths of the Jesuits and other religious orders, and local colleges of law and medicine with the power to award degrees. Moreover, degrees became increasingly venal, as Brambilla correctly points out. But these were broad movements in Italian society with multiple causes. Jesuit colleges and the papacy were not solely responsible. Brambilla is trying to fit universities into a broad framework of a centurieslong educational struggle between church and state in which the church won and assumed prerogatives of the state. Thus, in her view, Italian universities founded in the Middle Ages were reduced to a secondary position from the decade of the 1560s to the end of the eighteenth century. Italian universities certainly had troubles, some of their own making. But they were not swept aside between 1560 and 1800 and replaced by ‘pontifical universities’. They still had distinguished scholars who did original research; they taught an enormous number of students and awarded many degrees. The big difference was that universities no longer had a higher education monopoly, as they had earlier, and this was the result of many factors, not simply a campaign of papacy and Jesuits.

Paul F. Grendler Professor of History Emeritus, University of Toronto 110 Fern Lane Chapel Hill, NC 27514 REFERENCES 1. See Paul F. Grendler, ‘Italian Schools and University Dreams’ in Thomas M. McCoog, S. J. (ed.) The Mercurian Project: Forming Jesuit Culture 1573–1580 (Rome and St. Louis, 2004), 483–522 (488–99). For the entire Society, see the classic study of Ladislaus Lukács, S. J., “De origine collegiorum externorum deque controversiis circa eorum paupertatem obortis 1539–1608’, Archivum Historicum Societatis Iesu, 29 (1960), 189–245; 30 (1961), 3–89. 2. John W. O’Malley, S. J., ‘Concluding Remarks’, in Manfred Hinz, Roberto Righi, and Danilo Zardin (eds.) I Gesuiti e la Ratio Studiorum (Rome, 2004), 509–21 (514, 515).

Koen Goudriaan, Jaap van Moolenbroek, and Ad Tervoort (eds), Education and Learning in the Netherlands, 1400–1600. Essays in Honour of Hilde de Ridder-Symoens (Leiden, 2004), xiv  378 pp, 14 illus. The complex, varying, and expanding educational environment within which humanism first flourished has been explored with increasing sophistication in recent decades, and nowhere more so than in the Netherlands. By combining a

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research agenda committed to archival reconstruction with the latest technological advances in fields such as prosopography, Dutch and Belgian historians have set high standards for the international scholarly community. This book offers an insight into the various strands of their most recent research, but focusing their energies upon the shared theme of ‘education and learning’. It is fitting, therefore, that the volume is dedicated to Professor Hilde de Ridder-Symoens on the occasion of her departure from the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam to accept the chair in Early Modern History at the University of Ghent. Her pioneering studies of intellectual and educational culture have consistently stimulated a broadening of perspective in the fields of university history and early-modern society, and the impact of her work is everywhere evident in this collection, which is correspondingly European in scope though rooted in the history of the Netherlands. At the heart of the sixteen essays gathered here lies an awareness of something which the editors have termed a ‘change of discourse’ (8) – by which they mean the intermittent infusion of humanist style, preoccupations, and methodology into the curriculum and writings of teachers and students in the Netherlands during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The editors have made no attempt to martial the efforts of contributors towards an overall interpretation of early-modern education, but they have identified several shared features in these articles which are worth stressing at the outset. Most striking is that the authors have divested themselves of ‘the traditional association of biblical humanism with the Modern Devotion’ (9), and, with this, the characterization of Northern Humanism by religious rather than civic origins and goals. They offer no simplifications or firm conclusions as to what extent and in what ways Dutch (or Northern) humanism might be distinctive. Rather, they successfully situate the variegated development of the new ‘discourse’ within micro-contexts and groups that travelled and engaged in an educational world filled with multifaceted individuals – mundane figures as well as celebrities. The picture they present is less amenable to summary, and perhaps less dramatic than the broader strokes of previous historiography, but their description is correspondingly more rich and populous, and above all more rigorously accurate. The book is arranged roughly in chronological order and begins, appropriately, with the Modern Devotion. Hildo van Engen analyses the career of the theologian Jan van Galecop, a second-generation ecclesiastical supporter of the movement. As both a skilled theologian trained at the Sorbonne and an associate of Jean Gerson, and subsequently Pierre d’Ailly, Galecop was a significant patron of the semi-religious life at the Council of Constance, where Dominican opposition was ultimately suppressed. Yet Galecop was also an influential proponent of the enclosure of Third Order convents, and may have been an accomplice to their controversial adoption of the rule of St Augustine. Several other articles in the collection examine individual careers in order to explore broader cultural developments. Bart Ramakers chooses as his focus the career and writings of Matthijs de Castelein, a Flemish priest and rhetorician, in order

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to assess broader patterns of educational level in East Flanders. His analysis sets the educational contributions of De Castelein within the context of local educational patterns, examining the degree to which he acted as a mediator between older and newer forms of learning. Samme Zijlstra (whose article was posthumously completed from notes by the editors) targets the peregrinatio academica through the lens of two brothers from Friesland, Hans and Johannes Roorda. Through close inspection of correspondence, the politico-religious contours of the period, and financial affairs, Zijlstra is able to produce a careful and insightful reconstruction of the factors that shaped the careers of the two young students. He offers a microscopic investigation into the personal motives that lay behind the broader migration patterns that are more familiar to historians, and a sensitive evocation of the world of Catholic renewal from the perspective of the individual. A similar instance of familial progress through academia is documented by Antheun Janse in his discussion of the Wassenaar family in the first half of the fifteenth century. Reconstructing the political circumstances that shaped the decisions of a nobleman as regards the education of his children, situated within the broader trend of an increased taste for legal education among the nobility, Janse shows how individual case studies can offer yardsticks to measure the contours of wider developments. Jaap van Moolenbroek turns the focus on individuals towards a more wellknown case, that of Wessel Gansfort, but opens a new perspective on his subject by exploring the connections between Wessel and the so-called monastic academia at Aduard. Wessel used the abbey as a forum to disseminate his ideas about theology and the arts, and ensured that the Cistercians in the abbey ceased to take post-prandial readings from the Dialogus miraculorum of Caesarius of Heisterbach – a book which ran counter to Wessel’s controversial ideas about purgatory. The importance of the setting in which intellectual activity was performed recurs as a theme throughout this book. Koen Goudriaan directs his attention towards the Gouda circle of humanists, the local off-shoot of Erasmus’ friendship with Cornelius Aurelius and Willem Hermansz. He is struck by the monastic setting within which these scholars were able to pursue their common interests, but unable to export them further afield without noble patronage. He questions IJsewijn’s description of the group as a small academy, and notes the dominance of stylistic rather than theological or biblical concerns within the group. In a sense his article is a companion to Jaap van Moolenbroek’s analysis of the monastic dimension to Wessel Gansfort’s career. The investigation of case studies is taken in a rather different direction by Ad Tervoort, who analyses the book catalogues of two Leiden schoolmasters in the late fifteenth century. Identifying the contents of their collections on the basis of rare detail given in their wills, Tervoort proceeds to reconstruct the social and intellectual background and status of schoolmasters in Holland during this period, deftly moving towards identification of them as ‘the modest vanguard of an intellectual movement that would soon achieve supremacy’ (153). Nowhere is the methodology of the book better exemplified or expressed than in this adroit

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movement from the local and particular to the accretion that results in historical change. A rather different sort of investigation is directed towards the impressive book catalogue of the convent of St Anne in Delft. The authors, Sabrina Corbellini and Gerrit Verhoeven, present a collection in search of an owner, systematically ruling out various suggestions of provenance and narrowing in on the question as to whether the books might have belonged, at least in part, to Joachim Hopperus, counsellor of Philip II, whose library was confiscated in 1573. Without offering definite conclusions, the authors make a convincing argument that the collection may represent a miscellany of confiscated books, perhaps of various provenance. Peter van Dael also pursues a bibliographical investigation, focusing on the tradition of catechetical publishing in the sixteenth century. The particular focus is on two works by Peter Canisius, but van Dael carefully demonstrates the continuity of the tradition, including the treatment of iconography, throughout the late medieval and early modern period. In keeping with the literary and bibliographic theme, Marijke Spies examines the variant editions of Cornelius Crocus’ comedy Ioseph, tracing one instance of the fortunes of Erasmian humanism at the hands of the counter-reformation censors, and examining the implications for humanist education in the mid-to-late sixteenth century. The relationship of literary activities to the broader educational culture in the Low Countries is explored further in the contribution of Arjan van Dixhoorn. Developing many of the themes treated in Ramakers’ study of Matthijs de Castelein, he analyses the Chambers of Rhetoric as institutions which provided adult education and intellectual life outside the universities and Latin schools. Yet he also shows that a level of interaction occurred between the Chambers of Rhetoric and Latinate institutions. His analysis allows him to propose a much earlier date (1530s) for the influence of humanism upon the rhetoricians, at least in the case of Amsterdam and Haarlem. His analysis, pace Bourdieu, of the ‘intellectual field’ (202) in which educational institutions interacted demonstrates the fruits which can be produced from broader contextualisation within the history of education in general. The context is pushed further into the realm of cultural and, indeed, social history by Karel Davids, who provides a remarkably detailed discussion of the levels and kinds of instruction given to bookkeepers during the sixteenth century. He sets the development of formal instruction in bookkeeping in the Northern Netherlands in the context of the social disruption caused by war and migration, as well as the transformation of municipal law and circumstance that it brought about. For example, the guild structure of Antwerp was not replicated in the municipal licensing arrangements negotiated by southern exiles in the north. Prosopographical connections such as these are further explored by Arnoud-Jan Bijsterveld, who draws on a wealth of statistical evidence to address the question of the value of education for rural deans in the old diocese of Liège from 1400 to 1570. Examining appointment practices and the manner in which the increasingly well-educated deans operated

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in their positions, Bijsterveld concludes that they were overqualified for jobs which they attained primarily through patronage and network-connections. This presents an important question about the impact of an improving or expanding educational system upon a society which had a comparative shortage of highlyintellectual careers. Madelon van Luijk pursues similar questions in relation to the magistracy in Leiden in the mid-fifteenth century, examining the increased use of legal consilia by urban governments and the self-perpetuating difficulties that these could produce. Her focus on the rising profile of university-trained lawyers within the magistracy is nuanced by questions of urban pride and intellectualization. Mario Damen turns the focus towards the political goal of centralization pursued by the Dukes of Burgundy, again rather pointedly questioning the role of academics in the broader administrative changes which provided them with employment. Were they the driving force behind legal reforms or were they the beneficiaries of a political initiative? This broader sense of the social function of educational developments is rounded off by Ilja Veldman’s analysis of the way in which universities and learning itself were promoted through paintings and images, particularly drawing upon Crispijn de Passe’s Academia of 1612, a work which modelled itself on student alba amicorum, emphasising the virtues of learning and education in general. This collection thus offers a fitting contribution to the history of universities and education at a time when reform is on the agenda across Europe. No-one has better focused attention upon these issues than Hilde de Ridder-Symoens, to whom the volume is dedicated, and by whom it was inspired. As a historian of European-wide eminence, she has co-ordinated international efforts towards the task of cultivating historical awareness of the character and development of educational institutions, while devoting much time to negotiating the terms of the forthcoming changes in the structure and social position of the universities across Europe. The combination of erudition, historical judgement, and practical administrative experience has consistently revealed itself in the breadth of perspective with which de Ridder-Symoens has approached the history of universities, and the legacy of that work is evident in these articles, many of which acknowledge her writings as their point of departure. It is particularly impressive to see in this book the contributions of scholars from disciplines as diverse as ethnology and art history, alongside historians and archivists. Likewise, the inclusion of several impressive articles from younger scholars bodes well for the future, particularly in their sensitive use of theoretical models without loss of historical perspective. It is all the more encouraging to note that the contributors are primarily based in the Netherlands, when one reflects on the fact that the occasion for publication was Hilde de Ridder-Symoens’s departure to Belgium, where she has consolidated her contribution to university history at the Universiteit Gent. Despite its synoptic approach to the various levels and contexts of university history, this book still, of course, suffers from the lack of synthesis inherent in all such collections; but the depth of material recovered

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and the sophistication of the interpretative tools employed are a testimony to the richness of the field in the Netherlands, and the potential for other countries emulate this model of local depth through international contextualization.

Jason Harris Department of History University College Cork Ireland

Volker Remmert, Widmung, Welterklärung und Wissenschaftslegitimierung, Titelbilder und ihre Funktionen in der Wissenschaftlichen Revolution (Wolfenbütteler Forschungen, Band 110, Wiesbaden, 2005), 267 pp. Certainly it is nothing new to say that seventeenth-century mathematics is one of the foundations of the so-called Scientific Revolution. This feature has already been nuanced in recent historiography, and it is beyond any doubt that from the end of the sixteenth century, the social and epistemological status of the mathematical sciences increased steadily. Consensus grew regarding the view that the mathematical sciences could be used to make statements about the physical world; mathematical sciences should be used in the plural because, in early modern Europe, mathematics had a different, broader meaning from what we call mathematics today. This book demonstrates how the two dominant characteristics of the Scientific Revolution of the seventeenth century, transformations in underlying views about natural enquiry and the world-picture, and shifts in the hierarchy of the scientific disciplines, found a visual representation in and were accomplished by the frontispieces of contemporary mathematical treatises. The originality of Remmert’s research is thus not to be found in the choice of topic, but in the type of sources it uses. With this book, Remmert deals with considerable ease with the juncture of distinct disciplines: history, history of art, book history and history of science. It is a very nicely edited book, containing more than a hundred illustrations, many page-sized, a few even in colour. Volker Remmert associates the notion Scientific Revolution not so much with a well-defined period, but with ‘an essential phase in the coming about of scientific disciplines’. He confines the enquiries to three subjects: patronage (chapter seven), the debate on the Copernican world-picture (chapters two and three) and strategies to legitimize the mathematical disciplines, particularly astronomy (chapters four, five and six). Such a thematic curtailment is necessary for two reasons: so as not to drown in the overwhelming amount of source material, and in order to steer clear of mere cataloguing. A catalogue of the type

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which this would produce, describing all frontispieces of scientific books, does not yet exist, and this was one of the methodological problems Remmert had to face. At the same time, this book challenges historians who hold the still common opinion that visual source material offers only a different line of approach to conclusions which are already established. He shows in the second chapter, through the relationship between Clavius, Jesuit biblical exegesis, and antiCopernicanism, that one can obtain new insights also through scientific analysis of visual source material (i.e. seventeenth-century frontispieces). This second chapter is probably the most intriguing. On the title-page of Christopher Clavius’ Opera Mathematica, a book about pure and applied mathematics published at the end of his life, we notice a peculiar combination of mathematics and theology: Clavius uses four engravings referring to passages in the Bible as antiCopernican arguments, employing theological arguments in an astronomical debate. How to reconcile this with Clavius’ well-known advocacy of the mathematical disciplines as being synonymous with science? Remmert tries to demonstrate that the anti-Copernican consensus of the Jesuits is founded not so much on the authority of the theologians (as one would expect), but on the authority of the leading Jesuit mathematician Clavius. Remmert’s claim is explicit: Clavius, with this title-page in particular, was instrumental in the 1616 condemnation of Copernican theory. The second subject of this book is the legitimatization strategies brought into play by the early modern mathematicians to elevate both the social and the epistemological status of their discipline. Chapter four does not contain many new insights, but does illustrate through tangible examples how title-pages emphasize the usefulness of mathematics in trade and warfare. Although such images were rather formulaic, this emphasis on the immediate usefulness of the mathematical sciences for society is an important feature of mathematician’s rhetoric. This argument was much easier to depict than the other strategy of legitimatization, which emphasizes the propaedeutic function of mathematics and the use of mathematical techniques in chronology and, indirectly, in medicine. Moreover, to understand this kind of title-page, one did not need any foreknowledge. Obviously, these reached a wider audience than the title-pages regarding the Copernican debate, which were much more difficult to interpret. Title-pages making use of the trade and warfare argument were meant mainly for mathematical treatises dealing with subjects relating to fortification, navigation or arithmetic, intended for officers and merchants. The standard argument in favour of the power of mathematics is the depiction in these title-pages of the notorious legend of Archimedes’ burning-mirror, a ‘curiosum’ with which he is said to have destroyed an enemy fleet at a distance. One of the major problems in the historical interpretation of the significance of these title-pages is our inability to gauge their reception. There are almost no sources available on their precise (and perhaps heterogeneous) impact.

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Remmert claims it is unproven (e.g.) that the explicit and skilful references to the context of war and trade were inserted for commercial reasons; he considers them to be part of a broader strategy to legitimize mathematics as an autonomous discipline. The question remains whether such a contemporary overarching frame of interpretation can be assumed. Very interesting is Remmert’s explanation of the Atlas-Hercules-symbolism, as used in the title-pages of early modern astronomical treatises. The founder of this teacher-disciple-symbolism is Tycho Brahe, himself a pivotal figure in the transition from Ptolemaic to Copernican astronomy. Atlas and Hercules are both politicized figures, recognizable to aristocratic ‘readers’ of the image. Atlas symbolizes the old astronomy; Hercules the new. Both have many positive qualities and enjoy equal status. The new astronomy, personified in Hercules, is not to be feared, and certainly does not aim to break with tradition. Old and new go hand in hand. The fusion of Galileo with Copernicus is another important symbolic coupling, discussed by Remmert in the third chapter. Visual legitimatization not only implies the defence of new methods, theories or instruments. With the telescope adopted for astronomical observations, it also implies the promotion of astronomy as an ancient, venerable discipline dealing with cosmological questions without any interference from philosophy or theology. One of the strategies used for this purpose was the depiction of a canon of prominent astronomers: a visual representation is an effective mode of communication, and a canon implies a tradition. Remmert rightly cautions against a monolithic approach to books. One book can have different ‘consumers’: the reader of the text, the reader of the paratext, the observer of the title-page and the collector. These four consumers do not have to come together as one person. This reflects in some cases the different places where books (and title-pages) were held: the libraries of the men of learning, university libraries and museum libraries, each in their own way give a book a certain meaning. Reception and intention can differ from each other as well. Title-pages can offer various frames of meaning simultaneously. They attempt to gain the consumer’s confidence (i.e. strategies of legitimatization) or, artfully or explicitly, honour a dignitary, a tool that allows the author to enter into a patron-client-relationship. More difficult to establish is the dialogue that can exist between various title-pages (of different books). Remmert makes it clear that title-pages did not exist purely for ornamental purposes; they had a distinct (and layered) function and the right to exist beside the textual part of the book. Title-pages deserve more attention in the historical reconstruction of the so-called Scientific Revolution and the reception history of new ideas. This book deals exclusively with title-pages in the area of mathematics and therefore allows only a glimpse of their role in the enormous expansion of science throughout the seventeenth century. Although on many occasions it could have been more concise, it does contain a few loose ends that need to be wrapped up. To give an example, in the conclusion of chapter six,

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Remmert remarks almost incidentally on the emergence of ‘national scientific traditions’. The most striking conclusion of this book probably lies in this paradox: how to explain that a process which was so mindful of tradition and legitimatization became historically known as a revolution? This paradox Remmert only observes; he does not claim to solve it.

Angelo De Bruycker Catholic University Leuven Department of History Blijde-Inkomststraat 21/5 3000 Leuven Belgium

Antonio Poppi, Presenza dei Francescani Conventuali nel Collegio dei Teologi dell’Università di Padova. Appunti d’Archivio (1510–1806), (Padua, 2003), 222 pp. Poppi’s research interests centre on the contribution of the Franciscan scholars to the ‘studium’ of St Anthony of Padua and the Faculty of the Arts at the University of Padua. In order to describe the impact of Franciscan culture on the college, Popp has examined forty manuscript volumes of the College of Theologians at the University of Padua, from 1510 to the Napoleonic suppression of the Faculty of Theology in 1806. They include Statutes, nominees to collegial positions, records of doctorates, incomes and expenditures, etc. In spite of the number of volumes preserved in the Archivio del Bo, these records are incomplete and the author himself warns the reader against expecting ‘surprising novelties or revolutionary information’ (9). Overall they provide a colourful, although fragmented, picture of ordinary academic life over three centuries, with conflicts amongst members of the faculty, discussions over incomes and taxation and the constant struggle for an equidistant position between ecclesiastical and political influence. However, these records do show the presence of outstanding Franciscan scholars, as well as theologians, belonging to other religious Orders (such as Jesuits, Barnabites, Somaschans, etc.) and even to the secular clergy. Through selected material on the didactic activities and organizational work of the Franciscan Conventuals, the essay offers a detailed reconstruction of the history of the Theological Faculty, where members of the Order held important positions both as members of the ‘studium’ and as professors of Metaphysics and Scotist Theology.

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As already mentioned, records pertaining to the sixteenth century are full of gaps (the author admits that manuscript ‘n. 423’, the only one which might have provided details on the scholars’ personal and professional activity, is corrupted, showing extensive alterations from the original). Yet traces are preserved of the profound changes undergone by the Faculty of Theology at this time. Records show an augmentation of the members of the college, as well as of the percentage of members of the diocesan clergy who would eventually form the majority. Professors incorporated in the Faculty of Arts, holding the Chair of Metaphysics, Theology, Scriptures and several other subjects, were granted the exclusive right to present candidates for doctorates. Because the Republic provided stipends to these so called ‘public teachers’, this enabled the government to exert a deeper control on the activity of the college: the first step of the Venetian government towards assuming overwhelming institutional power over the University, slowly undermining the authority of the Bishop, on whom the college formally depended, to the point of virtual insignificance, and seriously challenging its independence. In 1636, the Senate of the Republic established that privileges connected with doctoral titles were to be recognized only among those who had gained their titles at the University of Padua, making it the only college legally recognized by the Venetian State. However, the privileged status conceded to the University appears to have been instrumental to the aim of gaining full control over its prestigious cultural environment. Although the reason is not clear, it is a fact that during the years 1652–63 the Conventuals ceased to monopolize the Chair of Metaphysics, breaking a two-hundred-years tradition: a decision taken by the Senate and reluctantly accepted by the Conventuals. During the following century the influence of the Republic on the activity of the College became problematic. Directions to the rectors from the reformers of the college were restrained by neither custom nor the principles contained in the Statutes of the University. For example, the faculty granted to theologians of exonerating poor students from doctorate taxation – carefully and rarely used until this time – was taken over by the Venetian government itself. Even admittance to the theological doctorate ceased to be a prerogative of the College of Theologians. In 1709, bachelors of the convent of St. Anthony of Padua were ordered to attend lectures given by the ‘public teachers’ on Metaphysics and Scotist Theology. A couple of years later, the Senate insisted that the guardian of the ‘studium’ should carefully supervise the fulfilment of its legislative dispositions. Informed, in 1715, that some Conventuals had received a doctorate from a foreign college, the Senate ordered the rectors to withdraw from the said Franciscans the benefits deriving from membership of the ‘studium’, and decreed that they would be punished according to the law. In 1716, members of the religious Orders who were already teachers and wanted their titles publicly recognized, were granted this opportunity via a private examination by public theologians (i.e., ‘public teachers’ of Theology) in Padua, or other authorized persons in Venice. In 1739, those privileges enjoyed by

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masters of the religious Orders who did not take doctorates in the University of Padua were suspended. As a consequence, the college witnessed a rush towards doctorates, which did not, however, correspond with an increase of the College’s prestige and activity. This phenomenon was still evident in the second part of the eighteenth century, and was driven by a demand for doctorates coming mostly from Franciscan members of the community. Thus, the years 1763–1806 saw numerous Franciscans present as candidates for doctorates in Padua. The autonomy of the College of Theologians was virtually eliminated by the beginning of the nineteenth century. A memorial presented in 1765 by the College of Theologians to the Magistrate of Padua, stated that the institution had lost its appeal since a doctoral degree obtained there provided little advantage to students coming from abroad and hoping to obtain ecclesiastical benefits from the Bishop. In 1781 the College granted its first doctorate to a student who had not taken religious orders, and within a few years, the College of Theologians was merged with the College of the Lawyers. What further emerges from Poppi’s study is that the Faculty of Theology of the University of Padua was for the most part an examination body, rather than a teaching body. Only a minority of the College of Theologians actually had teaching duties: their main task in the University was to act as promoters of candidates to doctorates in Theology. When Napoleon suppressed the Faculty in 1806, he put an end in Padua to a system, inaugurated by the Council of Trent and of great social and cultural significance for Early Modern Europe, which made teaching to doctoral level the responsibility of the religious Orders and their seminaries.

Ginevra Crosignani Division of Humanities Caltech 101–40 Pasadena, CA 91125

Jan Schröder, Recht als Wissenschaft. Geschichte der juristischen Methode vom Humanismus bis zur historischen Schule (1500–1850). (München, 2001), 327 pp. Jan Schröder begins his monograph with a very short preface and a brief introduction. He then proceeds to divide the body of the work into three parts: 1. The continuation of medieval tradition and early departures therefrom (1500–1650); 2. the discovery of ‘constructive reason’ (konstruktive Vernunft) and of history (1650–1800); 3. the establishment of ‘positive jurisprudence’ (positive Rechtswissenschaft). Each part is further divided into two sections; the first devoted to legal sources (Rechtsquellenlehre) and the second to method (Methodenlehre).

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In each of these three sections on legal sources Schröder begins with a discussion of the concept of law (during the period 1500–1650, 1650–1800, and 1800–1850, respectively), and then discusses individual types of legal sources and how these types of legal sources relate to one another. Each of the three sections on method is further divided into three chapters, devoted to 1. legal argumentation, 2. legal interpretation, and 3. ‘theory of how one arrives at law in a scholarly/scientific manner’. Schröder notes that part one of his book focuses on the entire scope of European continental law, the second emphasizes German law slightly more than the broader scope of European law, while part three focuses on German law. In discussing the concept of law as understood during the period 1500–1650, Schröder emphasizes that justice (Gerechtigkeit), ‘material correctness’ (materielle Richtigkeit), and ‘purpose’ (Zweckmässigkeit) combined to serve as the foundation of law during this period. Schröder then proceeds to discuss individual sources of law during this period, which he divides into three basic categories: 1. natural law (Naturrecht / ius naturale) and ‘law of nations’ (Völkerrecht / ius gentium); 2. positive law, including ‘statutes’/ ‘statutory law’ (Gesetze) and ‘customary law’ (Gewohnheitsrecht); 3. ‘equity’ (Billigkeit / aequitas). In discussing natural law, Schröder notes that it is not yet distinguishable from ethics during this period. Natural law is supposed to bring about Christian order; statutes are ultimately considered as divine in character. It is more important that customary law stand in harmony with natural law and with divine law than with statutory law. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, equity was frequently considered as an extension or correction of natural law in particular cases. Statutory law by itself was not deemed adequate. In discussing the relations between 1., 2., and 3. above, Schröder also discusses the relationship between sub-categories of positive law, i.e., municipal law, provincial law (Landrecht), and imperial law. In discussing method, Schröder notes that argumentation (topica / Topik) was a part of logic and philosophy (philosophische Logik) during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Yet legal writings on the subject-matter of argumentation as well as juridical logic textbooks from this period are also extant. Schröder cites many such sources in discussing the basic categories of philosophical and legal argumentation (25–48). Especially interesting is his discussion of those arguments based on the common opinion (communis opinio) of experts, the origins of which he traces back to medieval canon law. Schröder’s discussion of legal interpretation during the 1500–1650 period – presented within the framework of the sub-categories of ‘declarative,’ ‘restrictive,’ and ‘extensive’ interpretation – is well organized, detailed, and very informative (56–74). He notes that independent writings on legal interpretation began to appear during the fifteenth century; He briefly discusses a number of sixteenth century writings on this subject-matter and regards Valentin Wilhelm Forster’s Interpres (published 1613) as a broadly based synthesis of those writings. Schröder states that sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century writings on legal

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interpretation had two basic functions (1.-2.): 1. arriving at a broader understanding of a given law and 2. finding the exact meaning of the words contained within that law. During this period, these two functions co-existed within a rationalistic framework: all laws must be rational and have some clear purpose. Schröder then turns to discussion of how sixteenth- and early seventeenthcentury authors believed that order should be given to academic disciplines. He notes that order was discussed by some ancient Mediterranean authors, was neglected by medieval authors and then became an important topic of discussion – usually focusing on the concept of method (methodus) – within many philosophical and legal writings from the mid-sixteenth century onwards. In the course of mentioning a substantial number of such writings, Schröder makes the following general point: method was not intended to lead towards the discovery of new laws but instead was supposed to provide means to identify existing laws as well as existing knowledge thereof. Schröder begins part 2 of this monograph – which focuses on the period between 1650 and 1800 – by making the following general point. From the middle of the seventeenth century onwards, two separate, coexisting yet disparate concepts of law evolved (1.-2): 1. positive law, understood to mean the arbitrary will and authority of the lawgiver and 2. natural law understood as created by God yet focusing primarily on human nature and human reason. During this period, the parameters of natural law were expanded to the level of an academic discipline which comprised law universally. As a consequence, the ‘law of nations’ (ius gentium) disappeared from legal writings after 1650, only to be replaced by international law towards the end of the eighteenth century. On the other hand, positive law no longer was required to have its basis in reason or ethics. Within the realm of positive law, divine law gave way to human law, while customary law became subordinated to statutory law. Equity ceased to be regarded as a source of law after the mid-seventeenth century. Positive law became increasingly dominant over natural law during this period. Within the framework of positive law, provincial law gradually gained priority over municipal law. Schröder begins his discussion of method during the period between 1650 and 1800 by observing that argumentation lost much of its previous importance within writings on philosophy and rhetoric as well as within writings on jurisprudence. Christian Thomasius (1655–1728) is mentioned as a prominent early critic of the use of argumentation within philosophical and legal writings. Nonetheless, eighteenth-century legal writings continued to make use of two forms of argumentation: arguments based on similarity (Ähnlichkeitsschluß; argumentum a simili) and arguments based on contrariness (Gegenschluß; argumentum a contrario). Arguments from common opinion lost most of their earlier importance yet did not disappear completely during this period. While the role of argumentation became significantly smaller during this period, hermeneutics evolved into a significant methodological discipline. Schröder

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discusses the important contributions of Christian Thomasius — during the 1690s — to this evolution. During the period between 1650 and 1800, hermeneutics was applied to positive law but not to natural law; the latter was considered as a complete discipline having no need for interpretation (137–8). Schröder also briefly discusses the distinction – introduced in the year 1612 by Francis Suarez — between ‘authentic,’ ‘common’ (usuale), and ‘doctrinal’ interpretation (75–77). This three-fold distinction continued to be used well into the eighteenth century (139). From the late seventeenth century onwards, doctrinal interpretation was considered as either grammatical or logical (140). Schröder regards logical (doctrinal) interpretation as the foundation of hermeneutics during the eighteenth century; he discusses it in considerable detail (143–161). During the 1650–1800 period, writings on natural law endeavored to use reason in order to create comprehensive systems which were capable of resulting in new laws. In this connection, Schröder mentions writings by Hobbes and Pufendorf as well as by Christian Wolff and his school. In the realm of positive law, however, attempts to arrive at such systems met with little success. Schröder also notes that the rationalistic method used during this period not only effected positive as well as natural law, but also resulted in the establishment of higher academic standards in law and led to the introduction of many new legal concepts and legal principles. Schröder begins part 3 of this monograph — which is devoted to German jurisprudence during the period between 1800 and 1850 — by noting the dominance of the ‘historical school of law’ (historische Rechtsschule) during the first half of the nineteenth century. Schröder focuses thereupon in his discussion of law during this period, utilizing writings by its founder, Friedrich Carl von Savigny (1779–1861) and other representative authors. These authors did not accept natural and positive law as separate and coexisting; positive law and customary law became the two principal sources of law. Positive law was no longer understood — as it was during the previous period — as derived from the will of the legislator, but rather as having its origin from the people (in customary law) and as evolving rationally and organically through history as interpreted by means of academic jurisprudence. Argumentation theory appears to have ceased to exist as such within German legal writings of the early nineteenth century (209–210). Schröder devotes considerable attention (210–244) to hermeneutics in general — and to legal hermeneutics in particular — during this period. Among the many points discussed here is the following. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Savigny and many of his contemporaries adopted an ‘exegetical’ form of hermeneutics according to which authors were — at least to some extent — supposed to be interpreted in their historical context. Yet Savigny and many other authors subsequently distanced themselves therefrom from about the year 1840 onwards.

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Schröder summarizes the evolving use of legal hermeneutics from c. 1500 to c. 1850 as follows (242). Hermeneutics was primarily based from c. 1500 to c. 1650 on ethics and reason, from c. 1650 to c. 1800 on the will of the law giver with the use of reason, and from c. 1800 to c. 1850 on the use of historical texts. Generally speaking, within the realm of legal interpretation there was less and less latitude as these three-and-a-half centuries progressed. Schröder states that the most notable feature of legal methodology during the early nineteenth century (part 3 chapter 3) is the idea that jurisprudence can be the source of positive law. He discusses two principal methods used in German jurisprudence during that period in order to create positive law: induction and analogy. Schröder traces this use of induction within German jurisprudence back to the adaption thereof within Kantian logic (251). This induction was considered as incomplete and abstract; analogy was considered as the process which consisted of induction followed by deduction. Schröder distinguishes analogy arising through deduction from statutory analogy (Gesetzanalogie) and legal analogy (Rechtsanalogie) (253–255). Referring back to parts 1 and 2 of this monograph, the following two points can be made. First, Schröder’s discussion of ‘the rediscovery of scholarly/ scientific order in the sixteenth century’ (Die Wiederentdeckung der wissenschaftlichen Ordnung im 16. Jahrhundert) (81–7) should be placed within the context of recent medieval scholarship on academic (i.e. ‘scholastic’) philosophy. That scholarship has focused almost exclusively on works written prior to the year 1350. Fifteenth-century academic philosophy has been largely unstudied by modern scholars to this day. Once (or, if) text-based studies of fifteenth-century philosophical texts — especially in the areas of logic and metaphysics — become available, this may require us to re-evaluate the extent to which sixteenth-century authors rediscovered scholarly / scientific order. Second, Schröder’s excellent discussion of the relationships between different kinds of legal sources during the period between 1500 and 1650 (17–22) as well as during the period between 1650 and 1800 (110–116) does not include examination of canon law. Canon law is mentioned obliquely in a few cases within this monograph. Writings focusing on the similarities as well as the differences between civil law and canon law were published during the early modern period. Some discussion of canon law within the framework of this monograph might have provided some interesting additional insights into its role within the evolution of legal methodology during this same period. Yet these two comments are not meant to detract from the following general assessment: Schröder has produced an outstanding work of scholarship with this monograph. It is superbly organized; the manner in which he writes and presents his material is awe-inspiring. His command of primary source materials is exemplary. One final point can be mentioned. Schröder states in his introduction to this monograph (3) that there are two fundamentally distinct approaches to legal subject matter. One approach is to examine how one should interpret the

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meaning of legal maxims (Rechtssätze). The other approach is to examine those same legal maxims logically; this logic can comprise anything from arguing with the use of topics pertaining to individual situations (as done in the sixteenth century) to constructing new legal principles or legal concepts (as done in the nineteenth century). Schröder notes that study of legal methodology in our time would be facilitated if teachers and students of law would understand — and remain attentive to — the historical origins of these two approaches. Here Schröder has provided an excellent example of how and why his own monograph should be valuable for the study of law today. It deserves to be used for that same purpose on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. This monograph provides — for historians and for other academics who are not legal scholars — an excellent window through which one can begin to gain a general understanding of European Continental Law. Hopefully Recht als Wissenschaft. Geschichte der juristischen Methode vom Humanismus bis zur historischen Schule (1500–1850) will be translated into English.

Joseph S. Freedman College of Education Alabama State University Montgomery, Alabama / USA

Michael Kempe, Wissenschaft, Theologie, Aufklärung. Johann Jakob Scheuchzer (1672–1733) und die Sintfluttheorie (Epfendorf, 2003), 477 pp. In 1681 the Anglican cleric Thomas Burnet published his Telluris Theoria Sacra, a history and theory of cosmology providing a scientific interpretation of Scripture. Burnet’s theory explains systematically how God started the historical process by releasing a destructive flood from beneath the earth’s surface. Burnet saw the biblical flood as the total destruction of the earth, the end of the state of innocence, which left man struggling in an unpredictable, hostile environment. Burnet’s theory was warmly received by the naturalists of the Early Enlightenment. Among them was Swiss physician and naturalist Johann Jakob Scheuchzer (1672–1733) from Zurich, who devoted his life to the study of the natural world, decoding the signs placed in nature by the Creator. He left a vast number of papers – manuscripts, edited works, collections, and depictions – a sample that permits a valuable insight into this era. Four years ago, the German historian Michael Kempe presented an elaborate work on Scheuchzer’s work, a Ph.D. thesis accepted from the University of Constance in 2000. Kempe presents a thorough analysis of Scheuchzer’s written

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legacy. He highlights Scheuchzer’s effort to depict a world governed by the concept of oeconomia naturae, created in harmony, mundus optimus, for the benefit of human beings (the ‘design argument’). Kempe approaches his subject by focusing on matters of debate: theories of the origin and the significance of fossils, and conceptions of the Great Flood. His evidence suggests that these problems were discussed in the context of a broad theoretical framework, drawing not on established disciplines such as theology and science, but rather, in a time when ‘geologists were historians’ (as Rhoda Rappaport aptly put it)1, on the prolific alliance of natural history and theology. This emergent physicotheology prepared the ground for further accomplishments during the century. Kempe divides Scheuchzer’s work into four categories: 1) popularization of the scientific work of the Newtonian and Leibnizian natural philosophy; 2) several collections, most significantly of fossils; 3) scientific approaches to the Holy Scripture; 4) the description of Natural History in Switzerland. From these works, he develops the central thesis that the intellectual and practical activities of the Early Enlightenment naturalists constituted a complete change of worldview, replacing a pessimistic or negative perception of the world and humankind with a profound optimism (Weltbildwandel). Scheuchzer describes the postdiluvian world as a comfortable residence. The great flood was no longer an annihilation, but rather purification and renovation of the earth, a second creation. Re-interpreting the flood enabled Scheuchzer to detach disastrous events like earthquakes or landslides from their earlier interpretation as divine punishment for moral depravity. Consequently, he became one of the first scientists to reject the interpretation of natural disasters as omens foretelling further natural catastrophes or calamities like wars or epidemics. Natural disasters were no longer seen as a sign of divine anger but as parts of a stable and enduring natural order. In this sense, Scheuchzer transcended Burnet’s worldview: The world was no longer a ruin, destroyed by Noah’s flood, the mountains no longer remnants of a broken world; quite the contrary: the world was now a balanced system of harmony and design: the mountains a wise and purposeful invention of the Creator. Clearly, Scheuchzer did not carry out his scientific endeavour on his own. A man of letters, an important figure in the European ‘Republic of letters’, he was in contact – mainly via correspondence – with some of the most illustrious persons of the continent. Kempe outlines most compellingly how these natural philosophers built a scientific network that allowed them not only to communicate their ideas and hypotheses, but also to exchange their collected samples of plants, fossils, and even rare books. We learn from such correspondence – long neglected as a primary source by historians of science – of the difficulties of publishing, as censorship was very rigorous in some areas, including Scheuchzer’s Zurich. It was in fact through his exchanges with naturalist colleagues that Scheuchzer developed his deluvian concept. He called on natural philosophy to explain the story of Genesis, claiming to base his theories on the book of scripture as well

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as on the book of nature. However, the Bible’s status as the source of ultimate knowledge lost in importance beside a more complex and thorough investigation of nature through fieldwork. Scheuchzer did not take Moses as a sacred prophet, but as the first historian. Accordingly, the deluge was considered as an ancient natural disaster. Central to the deluvian concept was the interest in fossils. Today we understand fossils as mineralized or otherwise preserved remains or traces of animals, plants, and other organisms. Formerly, they were understood as natural games (lusus naturae), put in the earth by the Creator during creation. As Kempe explains, Scheuchzer and his colleagues, particularly the Londoner John Woodward eventually detected the nature of the fossils as petrified samples of once living creatures. Noah’s flood gave them the answer to the puzzling question of why fossil shells and mussels were found even in the highest Swiss mountains. They took the fossils as proof of a world that had existed before the great deluge. With the biblical flood, the world vanished completely (being ruled by a deity who suspended natural laws for a short period). As soon as these laws regained their power, the fossils were deposited in accordance with Newtonian laws of gravity. Kempe has succeeded in elucidating Scheuchzer’s belief in a decodable divine plan with sophistication and in extensive detail. Scheuchzer’s Geogony (the theory of the formation of the earth) modified Burnet’s theory, attempting to demonstrate that the postdiluvian world did not differ in all things from the antediluvian: that the world after the flood was not necessarily a fallen one, God having given humanity a second chance, and even invited humans to improve the world with scientific and technological instruments. This view was evidently the harbinger of an exploration of nature that has continued to our days.

Monika Gisler Swiss Seismological Service ETH Zurich Zürich Switzerland REFERENCE 1. Rhoda Rappaport, When Geologists were Historians, 1665–1750 (Ithaca, NY, 1997).

Bibliography

Publications on University History since 1977: A Continuing Bibliography Edited by Marc Nelissen Produced with the co-operation of the International Commission for the History of Universities

Preface This issue contains 872 references to books and articles on the history of universities in the world. We can offer bibliographical lists for Austria, Belgium and The Netherlands, The British Isles, Bulgaria, Canada, The Czech Republic, Germany, Hungary, Italy, Poland, Switzerland, and The United States, together with some additional references for Estonia, France, Japan, Lithuania, Portugal and Russia. We are especially happy to see a major update for the Czech Republic. The reports are grouping publications about the universities in a given country, and often also publications on other universities that have appeared in the same country. The editor is most grateful to all contributors for their continuing help. The following have contributed reports for this issue (membership of the International Commission for the History of Universities is indicated by an asterisk): Kurt Mühlberger* (Austria – 76 items) Anuschka De Coster (Belgium and The Netherlands – 86) Robert A. Anderson (The British Isles – 75) Georgeta Nazarska (Bulgaria – 7) Diana Wood and Wyn Millar (Canada – 18) Jiˇrina Urbanová and Petr Svobodn[ (Czech Republic – 123) Marie-Luise Bott*, with the help of Stefan Ehrenpreis (Germany – 166) László Szögi* (Hungary – 53) Maria Teresa Guerrini and Simona Salustri (Italy – 166) Veronika Kiku (Poland – 30)

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Suse Baeriswyl (Switzerland – 13) Marcia Synnott (The United States – 38) Individual contributions were received from Julian Deahl (4), James Farge* (2), Manfred Heinemann (2) and Natalia Tikhonov (13). Anyone who wishes to contribute (or to renew their former co-operation in this project) by supplying bibliographical references about a specific university or a broader geographic region, is welcome to contact Marc Nelissen at the address below. Apart from this, contributions from individuals are truly welcome, and should be addressed to Drs. Marc Nelissen, Bibliography editor – History of Universities, University Archives K.U.Leuven, Mgr. Ladeuzeplein 21, B-3000 Leuven, Belgium, e-mail [email protected]

Austria Additions to Earlier Lists For 1989 Heiss, Gernot and others, Willfährige Wissenschaft. Die Universität Wien 1938 bis 1945 (Österreichische Texte zur Gesellschaftskritik, 43), Vienna, 1989 [Vienna]. For 1994 Gröger, Helmut and Cristian S. Constantinescu, ‘Constantin von Economo’s Theory of Primary Control of Sleep by the Central Nervous System’, Neurology, 44 (Suppl. 2), 1994: 302–303 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmut, ‘Helene Deutsch’, in Oskar Frischenschlager (ed.), Wien, wo sonst! Die Entstehung der Psychoanalyse und ihre Schulen, Vienna – Cologne – Weimar, 1994, 84–89 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmut, ‘Zur Gründungsgeschichte des Wiener Psychoanalytischen Ambulatoriums’, Sigmund Freud House Bulletin, 18.1B, 1994: 3–23 [Vienna]. Hödl, Günther, Um den Zustand der Universität zum Besseren zu reformieren: aus acht Jahrhunderten Universitätsgeschichte, Vienna, 1994, 182 p. [Austria]. For 1995 Gröger, Helmut, ‘Ernst Freiherr von Feuchtersleben (1806–1849). Poet, Essaywriter, Psychiatrist’, in Med medicino in literaturo: Prvi Pintarjevi Dnevi; sreTanje medikohistorikov Alpe-Jadran; Ljubljana 14.–15. 10. 1994, Ljubljana, 1995, 257–261 [Vienna – Proceedings of First Pintar’s Days Between Medicine and Literature Ljubljana, Slowenien, 14.–15.10.1994]. Schiferer, Ruediger, Helmut Gröger and others, Alfred Adler. Eine Bildbiographie. Mit bisher unbekannten Original-Dokumenten und zum größten Teil unveröffentlichten Abbildungen, Munich – Basle, 1995 [Vienna].

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For 1997 Gröger, Helmut and Eberhard Gabriel (eds.), Zur Geschichte der Psychiatrie in Wien, Vienna – Munich, 1997, 109 p. (engl. Version: On the history of psychiatry in Vienna) [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmut, ‘Das Problem der Beleuchtung in der Endoskopie und seine Bewältigung’, in Das Wiener Endoskopiemuseum, Eröffnungssymposium 1996 (Schriften der Internationalen Nitze-Leiter-Forschungsgesellschaft für Endoskopie, 1), Vienna, 1997, 58–66 [Vienna]. For 1998 Gröger, Helmut, ‘Die Rolle der Mediziner in der Freiheitsbewegung des Jahres 1848 in Wien’, in Der Reichstag von Kremsier 1848–1849 und die Tradition des Parlamentarismus in Mitteleuropa, Kremsier, 1998, 189–196 [Vienna]. For 1999 Gröger, Helmut, ‘Zur Entwicklung der Psychiatrie in der Wiener Medizinischen Schule’, in B. Keintzel and E. Gabriel (eds.), Gründe der Seele. Die Wiener Psychiatrie im 20. Jahrhundert, Vienna, 1999, 30–48 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmut, ‘Heinrich Obersteiner’, in Neue Deutsche Biographie, ed. Historische Kommission bei der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Berlin, 1999, 19, 399–400 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmut, ‘Die Konsequenz des Nationalsozialismus für die Wiener medizinische Schule’, in R. W. Rosner and W. G. Pohl (eds.), Naturwissenschaft und Politik – Brennpunkte im 20. Jahrhundert, Vienna, 1999, 47–56 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmut and Stacher Georg, ‘The Medical Profession in Vienna and the Nazi Regime’, in G. Stacher, W. Creutzfeld and G. J. Krejs (eds.), A Period of Darkness – The University of Vienna’s Medical School and the Nazi Regime. Contributions to a Symposium held in conjunction with the 11th World Congress of Gastroenterology, Vienna, Austria, 1998, special issue of Digestive Diseases, 17, 1999: 286–290 [Vienna]. For 2000 Gröger, Helmut, ‘Die Entwicklung der Endoskopie in der Wiener Schule der Laryngologie. Von der Laryngoskopie zu den Anfängen der Ösophagoskopie’, in Meilensteine der Endoskopie, 2. Symposium der Internationalen NitzeLeiter-Forschungsgesellschaft für Endoskopie. Wien, 17.–18. Jänner 1997, Vienna, 2000, 34–42 [Vienna] (henceforth Meilensteine der Endoskopie). Gröger, Helmuth, ‘Karl Landsteiner and Medical Science in Vienna Around 1900. The Significance of Laboratory Medicine for Clinical Medicine’, in W. R. Mayr and D. W. M. Schwartz (eds.), 26th Congress of the International Society of Blood Transfusion, Vienna, Austria, July 9–14, 2000. Plenary and State-of-the-Art Lectures, special issue of Vox Sanguinis, 78 (suppl. 2), 2000: 3–6 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmut, ‘Ösophagoskopie und Gastroskopie in der Schule der Chirurgie Theodor Billroths’, in Meilensteine der Endoskopie, 261–272 [Vienna].

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For 2001 Gröger, Helmut, ‘Zur ätiologischen Forschung in der Medizin in Wien um 1900, zur Zeit Karl Landsteiners’, Wiener klinische Wochenschrift, 113, 2001: 776–780 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmuth, ‘Zur Ideengeschichte der Erb- und Rassenhygiene. Neuropsychiatrie’, Organ der Österreichischen Gesellschaft für Psychiatrie und Psychotherapie, 15, 2001: 85–91 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmuth, ‘Karl Landsteiner’, Wiener klinische Wochenschrift, 113, 2001: 770–775 [Vienna]. For 2002 Gröger, Helmut, ‘Zur Geschichte der Ösophagoskopie. Die Wiener Entwicklung und ihr Einfluss im 19. Jahrhundert’, in Wiens Rolle in der Geschichte der Gastroenterologie, 3. Symposium der Internationalen Nitze-LeiterForschungsgesellschaft für Endoskopie, Wien 9. September 1998, Vienna, 2002, 45–62 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmuth, ‘Leopold von Dittel (1815–1898): Die Urologie der Wiener medizinischen Schule’, in D. Schultheiss, P. Rathert and U. Jonas (eds.), Wegbereiter der Urologie. 10 Biographien, Berlin – Heidelberg, 2002, 1–17 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmut, ‘Lesky, Erna, geb. Klingenstein’, in B. Keintzel and I. Korotin (eds.), Wissenschafterinnen in und aus Österreich. Leben – Werk – Wirken, Vienna, 2002, 465–468 [Vienna]. Gröger, Helmuth, ‘Die Sammlung anatomischer und geburtshilflicher Wachsmodelle als Lehrsammlung’, in Manfred Skopec and Helmut Gröger (eds.), Anatomie als Kunst. Anatomische Wachsmodelle des 18. Jahrhunderts im Josephinum in Wien, Vienna, 2002, 125–149 [Vienna]. For 2003 Gröger, Helmut, ‘Lesky, Bedeutende Ärzte der Wiener medizinischen Schule mährisch-jüdischer Herkunft’, in E. Kordiovsk[, J. Starek and H. Teufel (eds.), XXVI. Mikulovské sympozium 2000 [XXVI. Nikolsburger Symposion 2000], Moravstí ≈idé v rakousko-uherské monarchii (1780–1918) [Mährische Juden in der österreichisch-ungarischen Monarchie (1780–1918)], Brno, 2003, 345–352 [Vienna]. For 2004 Schwarz, Karl, ‘Gerhard May – vom volksdeutschen Vordenker in Slowenien zum bischöflichen Wegweiser der Evangelischen Kirche in Österreich’, Südostdeutsches Archiv, 46/47, 2003/2004: 39–64 [Vienna]. Schwarz, Karl, ‘Die Prager Professoren Gustav Adolf Skalsk[ und Ludwig Wahrmund und die Reform des Eherechts’, in ZdenLk Ku3era and Jan B. Lámek (eds.), Docete Omnes Gentes. Sborník pˇríspLvku˚ z Mezinárodní Konference, porˇádané Husitskou Teologickou Fakultou Univerzity Karlovy v Prapském Karolinu 2. a 3. rˇíjna 2003 na Téma Teologické VzdLlání v Pojetí Modernistu˚ [Theologische Bildung in der Auffassung der Modernisten – gestern, heute und morgen], Brno, 2004, 94–104 [Vienna].

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Belgium and The Netherlands Additions to Earlier Lists For 2000 Katgert-Merkelijn, J. and Jos Damen, Jan Oort, astronomer (Kleine publicaties van de Universiteitsbibliotheek Leiden, 35), Leiden, 2000 [Leiden]. Oomes, R. M. Th. E., Pi in de bibliotheek: over Ludolph van Ceulen en de berekening van het getal Pi (Kleine publicaties van de Universiteitsbibliotheek Leiden, 36), Leiden, 2000 [Leiden – L. v. C. (1540–1610) taught mathematics at the Leiden School of Engineering, 1600–1610]. Veen, Theo J., ‘Twee onder Ulrik Huber verdedigde oefendisputaties (1664–1665)’, It beaken: meidielingen fan de Fryske Akademy, 62.4, 2000: 235–244 [Franeker – Ulricus Huber (1636–1694); Abrahamus Offerman (ca. 1645–); Anthonius de Huybert (mid 17th c.)]. For 2001 Eredics, Péter and Katalin Beke, ‘De Hongaarse boeken van Johannes Cloppenburg (1592–1652)’, in Berry Dongelmans, Josien Lalleman and Olf Praamstra, Kerven in een rots: opstellen over Nederlandse taalkunde,

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The British Isles Additions to Earlier Lists For 1990 Brunton, D. C., ‘The transfer of medical education: teaching at the Edinburgh and Philadelphia medical schools’, in R. B. Sher and J. R. Smitten (eds.), Scotland and America in the age of the Enlightenment, Edinburgh, 1990, 242–258 [Edinburgh/Philadelphia]. Ennis, R., Manchester College: a short history, Oxford, 1990 [Oxford]. Rix, K. J. B., ‘A short history of medical degrees in the University of Aberdeen’, Scottish Medical Journal, 35, 1990: 120–121 [Aberdeen]. For 1991 Currie, J., ‘Tracing alumni in Edinburgh University records’, Scottish Genealogist, 38, 1991: 1–3 [Edinburgh]. McLaren, C. A., ‘The College and the community, 1600–1860’, in J. S. Smith (ed.), Old Aberdeen: bishops, burghers and buildings, Aberdeen, 1991, 57–78 [Aberdeen – King’s College]. Wilson, D. B., ‘P. G. Tait and Edinburgh natural philosophy, 1860–1901’, Annals of Science, 48, 1991: 267–287 [Edinburgh]. For 1992 Thomas, J., ‘The Elphinstone monument at King’s College, Aberdeen: its construction in the sixteenth century and reconstruction (1909–31)’, Aberdeen University Review, 54, 1992: 315–333 [Aberdeen – founder’s monument]. For 1994 Jenkins, G. H., ‘The finest old university in the world’: the University of Wales, 1893–1993, Cardiff, 1994 [Wales]. Simpson, A. D. C., ‘James Hamilton’s “lying in” hospital at Park House and the status of midwifery instruction in the Edinburgh Medical School’, Book of the Old Edinburgh Club, n.s., 3, 1994: 131–141 [Edinburgh]. For 1996 Barnes, S. V., ‘Lessons in stone: architecture and academic ethos in an urban setting’, in D. N. Mancoff and D. J. Trela (eds.), Victorian urban settings: essays on the nineteenth century city and its contexts, New York, 1996, 214–229 [Manchester]. Hargreaves, J. D., ‘The added values of learning’, in T. Brotherstone and D. Withrington (eds.), The city and its worlds: aspects of Aberdeen’s history since 1794, Glasgow, 1996, 82–91 [Aberdeen].

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For 1997 Beavan, I., ‘Marischal College and its earliest library catalogue’, Bibliothek, 22, 1997: 4–19 [Aberdeen – 17th c.]. Kenny, A., A life in Oxford, London, 1997 [Oxford – philosopher]. MacQueen, H., ‘The foundation of law teaching at the University of Aberdeen’, in D. Carey Miller and R. Zimmermann (eds.), The civilian tradition and Scots law: Aberdeen quincentenary essays, Berlin, 1997, 53–72 [Aberdeen – 15th–16th c.]. McFarlane, K. B., Letters to friends, 1940–66, Oxford, 1997 [Oxford – historian]. For 1998 Alter, P. (ed.), Out of the Third Reich: refugee historians in post-war Britain, London, 1998. Bennett, B. and J. Treglown (eds.), Grub Street and the Ivory Tower: literary journalism and literary scholarship from Fielding to the internet, Oxford, 1998. Fawcett, A. P. and N. Jackson, Campus critique: the architecture of the University of Nottingham, Nottingham, 1998 [Nottingham]. Girdwood, R. H., ‘On being a medical student in the 1930s’, Scottish Medical Journal, 43, 1998: 26–28 [Edinburgh]. Ignatieff, M., Isaiah Berlin, a life, London, 1998 [Oxford – philosopher]. For 2000 Freshwater, P. B., ‘Collecting beyond the book: Edinburgh University Library and the earliest university museums’, University of Edinburgh Journal, 39, 1999–2000: 237–242 [Edinburgh – 18th–19th c.]. Burk, K., Troublemaker: the life and history of A. J. P. Taylor, London, 2000 [Manchester/Oxford – historian]. McLaren, C. A., ‘Visiting the charter chest: the early records of the University and King’s College Aberdeen’, in D. Ditchburn and T. Brotherstone (eds.), Freedom and authority: Scotland c.1050–c.1650, East Linton, 2000, 190–202 [Aberdeen]. Stewart, M. A., ‘Principal Wishart (1692–1753) and the controversies of his day’, Records of the Scottish Church History Society, 30, 2000: 60–102 [Edinburgh]. For 2001 Beavan, I., ‘ “Neatness and order”: the diaries and papers of William Knight, Professor of Natural Philosophy, Marischal College, 1823–44’, Northern Scotland, 2001: 129–139 [Aberdeen]. Eddy, M. D., ‘Geology, mineralogy and time in John Walker’s University of Edinburgh Natural History lectures (1779–1803)’, History of Science, 39, 2001: 95–119 [Edinburgh]. Hull, A., ‘Hector’s house: Sir Hector Hetherington and the academization of Glasgow hospital medicine before the NHS [National Health Service]’, Medical History, 45, 2001: 207–242 [Glasgow]. Pearce, M., University builders, Chichester, 2001.

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Bulgaria Additions to Earlier Lists For 1988 Manafova, R., ‘Universitetskata avtonomia: vavezhdane I otstojavane (1888–1912)’, Istoricheski pregled, 11, 1988: 20–35 [University Autonomy: Involvement and Defence]. Manafova, R., ‘Wissenschaftliche Leistungen und internationale Beziehungen der Gelehrten der Sofioter Universität (1888–1912)’, Bulgarian Historical Review, 2, 1988: 18–32.

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France Additions to Earlier Lists For 2002 Sot, Michel, Etudiants africains en France (1951–2001): cinquante ans de relations France-Afrique, quel avenir?, Paris, Karthala, 2002. For 2004 Decherf, Jean-Louis, ‘De bibliotheek van de Katholieke Universiteit van Rijsel/ La bibliothèque de l’université catholique de Lille’, De Franse Nederlanden, 29, 2004: 185–194 [Rijsel]. For 2005 Barrera, Caroline, ‘La première vague d’étudiants étrangers de la faculté de droit de Toulouse: les réfugiés polonais (1830–1868)’, Revue des Sciences politiques, 54, 2005: 45–55. Bibliographie d’Histoire de l’éducation française. Titres parus au cours de l’année 2002 et supplements des années antérieures, special issue of Histoire de l’éducation, 107–108, 2005: 192 p. [Subject index; p. 80–83 on Universities]. Farge, James, ‘Les procès de Louis de Berquin: Épisodes dans la lutte du Parlement de Paris contre l’absolutisme royal’, Histoire et Archives, 18, 2005: 49–77 [Paris]. Khayat, Lynda, ‘Les étudiants juifs étrangers à Strasbourg au tournant des années trente’, Archives juives. Revue d’histoire des Juifs de France, 38.2, 2005: 124–135. Publications 2006 Bras-Chopard, Armelle Le, ‘Quelle mixité des sexes dans l’enseignement supérieur?’ Administration et éducation, 110, 2006. Farge, James K., ‘Les lecteurs royaux et l’Université de Paris’, in André Tuilier (ed.), Histoire du Collège de France. 1. La création 1530–1560, Paris, Fayard, 2006, 209–228 [Paris]. Farge, James (ed.), Students and Teachers at the University of Paris: The Generation of 1500. A Critical Edition of Bibliothèque de l’Université de Paris (Sorbonne), Archives, Registres 89 and 90 (Education and Society in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, 25), Leiden, Brill, 2006 [Paris – 1480–1515].

Germany Additions to Earlier Lists For 1990 Schmigalla, Hans (ed.), Zur Geschichte der klassischen Altertumswissenschaft der Universitäten Jena, Budapest, Kraków, Jena, Friedrich-Schiller-Univ., 1990.

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Hungary Additions to Earlier Lists For 2001 Osváth, Zsolt, A felvételi rendszer változásai a források tükrében 1871–1949, Budapest, 2001 [Changes of the entrance examinations at the Budapest University of Technology. Collection of sources]. For 2002 Tarrósy, István (ed.), Higher education in Hungary. Heading for the third millennium, Budapest, 2002. For 2004 Felkai, László, Portrék a dualizmus korának kultuszminisztereirol, Budapest, 2004 [Portraits of the Ministers of Education in the period of Dualism]. For 2005 Albert, Dávid (ed.), Székelyudvarhely református és katolikus diáksága 1670–1871, Szeged, 2005 [The Calvinist and Catholic students in Székelyudvarhely/Odorheiu Secuiesc 1670–1871].

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Italy Additions to Earlier Lists For 1998 Baldacci, Giuseppe, ‘L’Università degli Studi di Catania in epoca Borbonica’, in Enrico Iachello (ed.), I Borbone in Sicilia (1734–1860), Catania, Maimone, 1998, 68–73 [Catania]. Novarese, Daniela, ‘Da Gandía a Messina: un nuovo modello universitario in Europa?’ in P. Ruiz Torres and Marino Peset (eds.), Doctores y Escolares. II Congreso internacional de historia de las Universidades hispanicas, Valencia, Universitat de Valencia, 1998, 2, 173–186 [Messina].

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Japan Krämer, Hans Martin, Neubeginn unter US-amerikanischer Besatzung? Hochschulreform in Japan zwischen Kontinuität und Diskontinuität, Berlin, Akademie Verlag, 2006, XII, 317 p.

Lithuania Svirkas, Morkus and Irena Bal3iene (eds.), Akademijos laurai: [arba laipsniu teikimo ir daktaro, licenciato, magistro ir bakalauro laipsniu siekian3iuju Vilniaus Jezaus Draugijos Akademijoje knyga, suramyta ir sudaruta 1650 metais], Vilnius, 1997. Nikpentaitis, Alvydas, Klaipedos ir karaliau3iaus kramtu XVI-XX a. istorijos problemos, Klaipeda, 2001.

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Portugal Lobo, Rui, Santa Cruz e a Rua da Sofia. Arquitectura e urbanismo no século XVI, Coimbra, dARQ. Departamento de Arquitectura, Faculdade de Ciências e Tecnologia da Universidade de Coimbra, 2006 [Coimbra].

Russia Wartenweiler, David, Civil Society and Academic Debate in Russia 1905–1914, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1999.

Switzerland Additions to Earlier Lists For 1988 Andrzejewski, Marek, ‘Die Polen auf den Hochschulen in der Schweiz, 1870–1945. Forschungsstand und Forschungsbedürfnis’, Revue Suisse d’Histoire, 38.4, 1988: 403–408. For 2003 Modestin, Georg, ‘Ein treuer Diener seiner Herren. Der Lausanner Jurist Pierre Creschon zwischen bischöflicher Hexenjagd und städtischem Ratsalltag (15. Jh.)’, Zeitschrift für schweizerische Kirchengeschichte, 97, 2003: 57–69. For 2004 Ammann-Doubliez, Chantal and Kathrin Utz Tremp, ‘Der Freiburger Stadtschreiber Petermann Cudrefin (1410–1427) und sein Testament’, Freiburger Geschichtsblätter, 81, 2004: 7–57. Biland, Susanna, Der Hochschulrat der Universität Freiburg (1949–1967) (Religion–Politik–Gesellschaft in der Schweiz, 34), Fribourg, 2004.

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The United States Additions to Earlier Lists For 1993 Wills, Jeffrey (ed.), The Catholics of Harvard Square, Petersham, MA., Saint Bede’s Publications, 1993. For 2005 Benton, Andrew K., Pepperdine University: strengthening lives for purpose, service, and leadership, Exton, Penn., Newcomen Society of the United States, 2005. Brodie, H. Keith H. and Leslie Banner, The research university presidency in the late twentieth century: a life cycle/case history approach, Westport, Conn., Praeger Publishers, 2005. Byrne, Dara N. (ed.), Brown v. Board of Education: its impact on public education, 1954–2004, Brooklyn, N.Y. – New York, Word For Word Pub. Co. – Thurgood Marshall Scholarship Fund, 2005 (introduction by Juan Williams).

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