Instructional Writing in English: Studies in honour of Risto Hiltunen (Pragmatics & Beyond New Series)

Instructional Writing in English

Pragmatics & Beyond New Series (P&BNS) Pragmatics & Beyond New Series is a continuation of Pragmatics & Beyond and its Companion Series. The New Series offers a selection of high quality work covering the full richness of Pragmatics as an interdisciplinary field, within language sciences.

Editor

Associate Editor

Anita Fetzer

Andreas H. Jucker

University of Lüneburg

University of Zurich

Founding Editors Herman Parret

Jef Verschueren

Robyn Carston

Sachiko Ide

Deborah Schiffrin

Thorstein Fretheim

Kuniyoshi Kataoka

University of Trondheim

Aichi University

Paul Osamu Takahara

John C. Heritage

Miriam A. Locher

Jacob L. Mey

University of Southern Denmark

Belgian National Science Foundation, Universities of Louvain and Antwerp

Belgian National Science Foundation, University of Antwerp

Editorial Board University College London

Japan Women’s University

University of California at Los Angeles

Universität Basel

Susan C. Herring

Indiana University

Masako K. Hiraga

St. Paul’s (Rikkyo) University

Georgetown University Kobe City University of Foreign Studies

Sandra A. Thompson

Sophia S.A. Marmaridou University of Athens

University of California at Santa Barbara

Srikant Sarangi

Teun A. van Dijk

Cardiff University

Marina Sbisà

University of Trieste

Universitat Pompeu Fabra, Barcelona

Yunxia Zhu

The University of Queensland

Volume 189 Instructional Writing in English. Studies in honour of Risto Hiltunen Edited by Matti Peikola, Janne Skaffari and Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

Instructional Writing in English Studies in honour of Risto Hiltunen

Edited by

Matti Peikola Janne Skaffari Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen University of Turku

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam / Philadelphia

8

TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Instructional writing in English : studies in honour of Risto Hiltunen / edited by Matti Peikola, Janne Skaffari, Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen.        p. cm. (Pragmatics & Beyond New Series, issn 0922-842X ; v. 189)   Includes bibliographical references and index. 1.  Didactic literature, English--History and criticism. 2.  English prose literature-1100-1500--History and criticism. 3.  English prose literature--Early modern, 1500-1700--History and criticism. 4.  English language--Rhetoric--Study and teaching.  I. Peikola, Matti. II. Skaffari, Janne. III. Tanskanen, Sanna-Kaisa. PR408.D49I57   2009 820.9'353--dc22 isbn 978 90 272 5424 5 (hb; alk. paper) isbn 978 90 272 9048 9 (eb)

2009015742

© 2009 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Co. · P.O. Box 36224 · 1020 me Amsterdam · The Netherlands John Benjamins North America · P.O. Box 27519 · Philadelphia pa 19118-0519 · usa

Table of contents

Acknowledgments

vii

In Honour of Risto Hiltunen (A poem by Bruce Mitchell)

ix

Tabula gratulatoria

xi

Approaching instructional writing in English Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen, Janne Skaffari and Matti Peikola

1

Teaching by stories: Ælfric’s instructive narratives Brita Wårvik

13

The WOMANual: Ancrene Wisse on instruction Janne Skaffari

35

Vague language in the medieval recipes of the Forme of Cury Ruth Carroll

55

Instructional aspects of the calendar in later medieval England, with special reference to The John Rylands University Library MS English 80 Matti Peikola

83

Authority and instruction in two sixteenth-century medical dialogues Irma Taavitsainen

105

“Proper to their sex”: Letter-writing instruction and epistolary model dialogues in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

125

vi

Instructional Writing in English

(Un)Becoming conduct: Cotton Mather’s Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and the Salem witchcraft crisis Kathleen L. Doty

141

“Instruction with delight”: The narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s early English children’s books Lydia Kokkola

161

Doing what the doctor said: Constructing an authoritative voice in William Buchan’s Domestic Medicine Ellen Valle

187

Instructional writing on English: What guides the textbook writer? Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

211

Index

233

Acknowledgments

We wish to thank the following people and institutions for their help in producing this volume in honour of Professor Risto Hiltunen. First of all, we thank the contributors, who responded to our invitation with eagerness, embraced the idea of instructiveness as an important feature of English writing across centuries and genres, and submitted the excellent chapters included in this volume. Thanks are also due to all our colleagues at the University of Turku for keeping Instructional Writing in English secret until Risto’s sixtieth birthday. For practical assistance, we thank Ellen Valle for her help with languagechecking, Mari-Liisa Varila for her meticulous help with desktop editing, and Ira Hansen for her secretarial assistance. The two anonymous reviewers invited by John Benjamins Publishing Company provided valuable comments on the manuscript, for which we are most grateful. We also wish to thank Professor Anita Fetzer, the editor of the Pragmatics & Beyond New Series, for accepting this volume for publication. This Acknowledgments section would not be complete without mentioning one more name: we thank our instructor, Professor Risto Hiltunen, for the inspiration and encouragement he has given each of us throughout our careers, and offer him this volume as a token of our appreciation for all he has done. 

The Editors

In Honour of Risto Hiltunen (Bruce Mitchell)

Þes sweotol sang singeþ ymb Turku and Risto Hiltunen arædne uþwitan : weorcful and notgeorn wærost hlaford in Turku Yliopisto tir mid bocerum wisdome weorþost. Wocore fægnaþ : Sirkka healsgebedda spedig læce arod Turo and Anna seo torhte · ealle togædre. Of Oxenforda dom : Risto geearnade lofrace gode hwilum Festschrift gehaten ellor. Wes þu hal, Risto.

Tabula gratulatoria

Pirjo Ahokas Karin Aijmer Veikko Anttonen Keith Battarbee & Ruth Carroll Doug Biber Laurel J. Brinton Alberto Carcedo Tim Caudery Geoffrey W. Chase Gunnel Cleve Liisa & Matti Dahl Luigi G. de Anna Gabriella Del Lungo Camiciotti Gerald Doherty Heidrun Dorgeloh Kathleen L. Doty Antje Ecksturm-Rudd Michael Foster Yves Gambier Harvey Green Peter J. Grund Marita Gustafsson & Eeva Laurén Kaisa Häkkinen Ira Hansen Marja-Liisa Helasvuo Ilkka Hirvonen Michael Hoey Jane Honka Anne Hudson Heli Hurme Mari Husu

Tuomas Huttunen Tarja Hyppönen Mitsunori Imai Marja-Leena Itälä Heini-Marja Järvinen Marjut Johansson Andreas H. Jucker Anna Kalmi Johanna Karhukorpi Carola Karlsson-Fält Kari Keinästö Matti & Terhikki Kilpiö Juhani Klemola Lydia Kokkola Janne Korkka Barbara Kryk-Kastovsky &   Dieter Kastovsky Joel Kuortti Merja Kytö Leena Kytömäki Veikko Laakso Chris LaLonde Päivi Lappalainen Timo Lauttamus Anttoni Lehto Marja-Liisa Lehto Pekka Leimu Tiina & Pekka Lintunen Arto Majapuro Sanna Mäkilä Ana E. Martínez-Insua

xii Instructional Writing in English

R. W. Mcconchie Raita Merivirta-Chakrabarti Riia Milovanov Bruce & Mollie Mitchell Maarit Mutta Timo Myllyntaus Minna Nevala Terttu Nevalainen Henrik Nikula Ilkka Norri Arja Nurmi Martti Arnold Nyman Michiko Ogura Anna Orhanen Minna Palander-Collin Matti Peikola & Kirsi Korpela Maija S. Peltola Javier Perez-Guerra Bo Pettersson & Marjut Kähkönen Päivi Pietilä Arja Piirainen-Marsh Gerald Porter Riitta Pyykkö Xiao-Jie Qin Marjatta Rännäli Helena Raumolin-Brunberg Randi Reppen Päivi Rintala Eeva & Matti Rissanen Kirsti Rosenqvist Bernard Rosenthal Sirkka Saarinen Maria Salenius Hannu Salmi Kirsti Siitonen Janne Skaffari Augustin Speyer Dietlinde Speyer Liisa Steinby John & Hilkka Stotesbury

Marketta Sundman Marianna Sunnari Eija Suomela-Salmi Leena Taanila-Hall Irma Taavitsainen J-P Taavitsainen Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen &   Marjo Kaartinen Leena & Olli Tarkka Heli Tissari Jorma Tommola Junichi Toyota Jukka Tyrkkö Jaana Vaahtera Jyri Vaahtera Vesa & Tuuli Väätäjä Sonja Vainio Jacqueline Välimäki Ellen Valle Elina Valovirta Krista & Heikki Varantola Mari-Liisa Varila Anna-Liisa Vasko Eija Ventola Toivo Viljamaa Keijo Virtanen Tuija Virtanen-Ulfhielm Christina von Nolcken Petri Vuorinen Eero Vuorio & Leena Anttila Brita Wårvik Hideki Watanabe Shinichiro Watanabe Jay & Susan Watson Barbara Wehr Kalevi Wiik Susan R. Williams Laura Wright Hilkka & Pentti Yli-Jokipii



Department of English, Åbo Akademi University Department of German, University of Turku English Philology, University of Oulu The Finnish Society for the Study of English Fulbright Center Humanistinen kirjasto Kielikeskus, Turun yliopisto The Nordic Association for English Studies Pohjoismainen filologia, Turun yliopisto Turun yliopiston pohjalainen osakunta ry. Turun yliopiston yleisen kirjallisuustieteen oppiaine Turun Yliopistosäätiö

Tabula gratulatoria xiii

Approaching instructional writing in English Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen, Janne Skaffari and Matti Peikola*

1.

Instructions and our instructor

Risto Hiltunen has played a pivotal role in the inception and continuous advancement of the study of historical discourse at Turku. Characterised by the close synchronic analysis of historical texts, the Turku approach emphasises the importance of contextual features for understanding discourse phenomena. The importance of the context for interpretation is manifest in how the setting and purpose of texts inevitably shape them in a number of ways (see Carroll et al. 2003: 7). While representing a wide variety of social, material, and institutional settings from the Middle Ages to the 21st century, the primary texts discussed in the chapters of this volume have a shared communicative purpose: in various ways, they are all concerned with instruction. The volume is partly motivated by the somewhat surprising dearth of collective studies surveying types of instructional writing and their contexts in English from a historical perspective. Another important reason why we have chosen instructional writing as the theme of this volume is because it allows us to pull together the various strands of Risto Hiltunen’s many research interests under one meaningful umbrella. Since instruction always involves – in one shape or another – the roles of instructor and instructed, it emphatically brings to the fore the idea of written texts as communicative events. This idea is a common underlying theme in many of Risto Hiltunen’s publications (see e.g. Hiltunen 1990, 1996, 1998, 2002; Hiltunen and Doty 2002, 2009). In the rest of this introduction, we first consider the history of instructional writing in English; we then discuss the factors that make texts instructive, and finally we examine the role of the audience

* The names of the editors appear in alphabetical order on the cover of this volume; in this chapter, they are listed in reverse alphabetical order. This strategy is intended to highlight the equal role played by all the editors in the production of this volume.



Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen, Janne Skaffari and Matti Peikola

in instruction. In each section we also make reference to the ten chapters of the volume, organized chronologically in terms of the material studied.

2.

Instructional writing and the history of English

The history of English writing is, to a considerable extent, the history of instructional writing in English. After the introduction of Christianity among the AngloSaxons in the late sixth century, the very need to produce texts was linked with the teachings of the Church. While Latin texts were necessary resources for training the clergy, there were also vernacular texts intended for instructing a wider audience. Well-known Old English homilies, for example, survive from the tenth century, many of them translations. The translation of religious texts goes back to Alfred the Great’s translation programme in the ninth century, aimed at the education of those unfamiliar with Latin. The output of this programme includes many important Old English translations, such as that of the instructional Pastoral Care. In the present volume, the earliest texts explored are religious: Ælfric’s Old English homilies, studied by Brita Wårvik in the first chapter below. However, not all writing with a more or less explicit instructional purpose or function was religious: laws too were written in the vernacular, as were for instance leechbooks and recipes. The scope of didactic writing in the centuries following the Anglo-Saxon era was broad, to the extent that it is tempting to suggest that “nearly all Middle English literature was written with instruction as its primary aim” (Morey 2005: 183). A boost to the provision of religious instruction in (Middle) English was given by the Lateran Council of 1215, which promoted the production of vernacular texts to educate the laity in matters of faith, with particular reference to confession (see e.g. Shaw 1985). The first half of the thirteenth century thus saw a remarkable rise in the number of English-language texts providing information and entertainment particularly for religious women. The second chapter in this volume is Janne Skaffari’s study of the most important religious work of the early Middle English period, Ancrene Wisse, while later Middle English material is discussed in Ruth Carroll’s chapter on culinary recipes and in Matti Peikola’s study of calendars as instructional components of manuscripts. As for other non-religious instruction in the Middle English period, it is notable that medical and scientific texts in English began to emerge in the fourteenth century, which Taavitsainen calls “[t]he vernacularisation boom” (2001: 189): Latin was giving way to English as the preferred language of writing. With the expansion of vernacular writing, after the Middle Ages more and more instructional texts were produced, representing a variety of genres. This is



Approaching instructional writing in English

made visible by the breadth of practical manuals that were published in and around the seventeenth century. Their topics ranged from letter writing to health, but the role of religion, prominent ever since the earliest vernacular English texts dating from the end of the first millennium, continued to be strong. The Early Modern English genres explored in the following chapters include medical dialogues (by Irma Taavitsainen), letter-writing manuals (by Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen), and ­Puritan conduct literature for women (by Kathleen L. Doty). The eighteenth century is represented by Lydia Kokkola’s chapter on instructive children’s fiction and Ellen Valle’s chapter on medical advice books. It comes as no surprise that present-day instructional writing is primarily non-religious. Book production is inextricably linked with the publishing business, eager to make a profit from all manner of textbooks and self-help guides, for which there seems to be an increasing demand on the market. Non-commercial instruction nevertheless persists as well, and remains a major feature of the texts issued for example by the public authorities. This volume concludes with a chapter related to present-day materials: textbooks used in foreign-language teaching (by Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio). Instead of the chronological organization introduced above, the ten chapters of this volume could be grouped thematically into at least the following three categories, the last of which remains somewhat amorphous: religious/moral (Wårvik, Skaffari, Doty, Kokkola), medical/health (Taavitsainen, Valle), and ‘practical/utilitarian’ (Carroll, Peikola, Tanskanen, Pietilä et al.). Naturally, these studies do not exhaust the entire scope of instructional writing in the history of English. To take a somewhat broader perspective, it is interesting to see how instructional writing is represented in historical corpora of English writing. Let us begin with the Helsinki Corpus of English Texts, undoubtedly the bestknown diachronic corpus of English-language texts. The contents of the Helsinki Corpus are classified according to a variety of criteria, including the function of the text (see e.g. Kytö 1996). The text types of the corpus – or rather, genres (as suggested for instance by Diller 2001) – are further grouped under six larger ‘prototypical text categories’, running from Old to Early Modern English. Two of these categories relate to instructional writing: ‘instruction religious’ and ‘instruction secular’.1  In the Old English period, religious instruction is represented by religious treatises, homilies, rules and prefaces; the Middle English section of the corpus contains representatives of the same genres, apart from religious prefaces, but in addition there are sermons – which make up the only genre of religious instruction in the Early Modern English part of the corpus. Secular genres include 1. The other four categories are ‘statutory’, ‘expository’, ‘narrative imaginative’ and ‘non-imaginative’; finally, there is a category X ‘unknown’ for other texts.





Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen, Janne Skaffari and Matti Peikola

medical handbooks, astronomical texts and handbooks, and philosophy in Old English; philosophy, medical, astronomical and other handbooks, and scientific texts on medicine in Middle English; and educational treatises and handbooks in early Modern English. As the post-medieval period is represented more extensively in another corpus – A Representative Corpus of Historical English Registers (ARCHER), fashioned as a continuation to the Helsinki Corpus – a look at the genres applied in it may provide more information on instructional writing in early and late Modern English, from the mid-seventeenth century onwards (for more information see e.g. Biber & Finegan 1997). The smaller group of speech-based register categories contains one clearly instructional genre, i.e. sermons. Of the written registers in ARCHER, legal, medical and scientific genres are likely to contain texts with an instructional purpose, although probably for a narrow class of professionals rather than a more general audience. Useful as such broad classifications are for scholars and students, they often conceal the variation between individual texts assigned to the same major category. The medical register, for example, is divided further into surgical treatises, other academic materials, and remedy books (see e.g. Taavitsainen 2001), which are not identical in terms, say, of learnedness and audience. Similarly, texts belonging to the same broad category may differ from each other with respect to instructiveness. Some texts, and moreover some genres, readily present themselves as examples of instructional writing, while in others the instructive element may appear less transparent.

3.

Dimensions of instructiveness

3.1

Instructiveness in language and production

Instructiveness or instructive function is not an unchanging and ahistorical property of texts, but is shaped contextually across three dimensions: 1. Instructiveness encoded in language: linguistic features signalling instruction in texts 2. Instructiveness in production: the intentions of the producers (writers, editors, publishers etc.) regarding the instructional purpose of their texts 3. Instructiveness in reception: readers’/consumers’ instructional use of texts. The contributions to this volume mostly explore the relationship between the first and second of these dimensions. Let us first examine these two dimensions in more detail, turning to the third in the following section. Producers’ ideas as



Approaching instructional writing in English

to the instructive purpose of their texts (dimension 2) are characteristically presented in prologues, prefaces, introductions, blurbs and other similar paratextual elements. In many cases, instructional intentions expressed through the producers’ voice(s) also appear explicitly in the language of texts, for example in the use of directive speech acts, imperatives, modals of obligation, and other devices that involve in various ways the reader(s) or addressee(s) in the discourse as targets of instruction (dimension 1). There need not be a one-to-one relationship between intended instruction and its explicit linguistic encoding. The relationship between the two dimensions may be illustrated through the traditional distinction often made between genres and text types, as being determined by language-external and language-internal features respectively (e.g. Taavitsainen 1997). In this framework, instructiveness in production (dimension 2) presents itself as primarily a characteristic of instructional genres, whereas instructiveness encoded in language (dimension 1) may rather be viewed as a text-type feature (cf. Werlich 1976, see also Wårvik and Skaffari this volume). In Longacre’s (1983) discourse typology the instructional function of a text is more important than the form it takes. Instruction as such does not appear in Longacre’s model at all, but discourse with an instructional function is subsumed under procedural discourse (“how to do it, how it was done, how it takes place”) and behavioural discourse (“how people did, or should behave”) (Longacre 1983: 3). The first and second dimensions both deal with the instructional function of texts. Depending on the historical period and the context of instruction, they may be realized in different degrees and combinations, resulting in a wide spectrum of instructional writing with various shades of explicit (direct/overt) and implicit (indirect/covert) instruction. Such variability obviously also reflects the multifunctionality of natural texts: the instructional function may not always be the primary function of a text or equally prominent in all its parts and sections. In Hiltunen and Nyman’s (1994) study of operating instructions as directive texts, for example, the authors observed that linguistic exponents of the texts’ overall directive intentions were typically present in certain chapters only. Possible relationships between the first and second dimension of instructiveness are illustrated in Figure 1. The horizontal axis represents the degree to which the instructive quality of a text has been explicitly encoded in its language (dimension 1). The vertical axis stands for the presence of the voice of the author/ writer/narrator etc. in terms of how explicitly the instructive purpose of the text is metatextually stated (dimension 2).





Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen, Janne Skaffari and Matti Peikola





&YQMJDJU
JOTUSVDUJWF

MBOHVBHF

&YQMJDJU
JOTUSVDUJWF
QVSQPTF





"
#





$
%


*NQMJDJU
JOTUSVDUJWF
QVSQPTF




*NQMJDJU
JOTUSVDUJWF

MBOHVBHF



Figure 1.  Dimensions of instructiveness

The main purpose of the model shown in Figure 1 is to help us to conceptualise instructiveness as a complex property of texts. To a certain extent the model may also be used as a classificatory tool, by locating the prototypical categories of instructional writing in its four main areas (A–D). Locating an individual piece of instructional writing precisely within the model, however, may run the risk of oversimplification; it may sometimes be more realistic to view a text as belonging to more than one area. In general, texts placeable in area A (explicit instructive purpose, explicit instructive language) are the most salient as regards their instructiveness. Such writing comprises for example various genres of didactic advice literature, where the instructive aim of a text is explicitly spelled out in the preface or prologue and which also employ instructive language to achieve this aim. Of the materials explored in the present volume, area A is most clearly represented by the Early Modern conduct books and health guides, discussed in their respective chapters by Doty and Valle. The Early Middle English rule for anchoresses studied by ­Skaffari similarly belongs to this area. Area B represents instructional writing where the didactic or other instructional purpose declared by the producer(s) is not paralleled by the employment of instructional language in the same way as in area A. Of the primary materials discussed in the present volume, the exercises analysed by Pietilä, Taanila-Hall and Vainio provide a good example of instructive writing placeable in this area. These texts are recognized as instructional primarily by their presence in school textbooks intended to be used instructively. The medieval calendars investigated by Peikola in his chapter make their instructional function explicit through the producers’ decision to place them in the preliminaries of books. Texts including elements from both areas A and B feature as primary material in several contributions. In the sermons of Ælfric of Eynsham explored by



Approaching instructional writing in English

Wårvik, for example, expository prose often prevails over passages of explicit instruction. The instructional function of the text is nonethelesss made overtly clear by the author in his prologue. Similarly, in the eighteenth-century children’s books studied by Kokkola the writer’s explicitly stated didactic aims are at times couched in moral axioms rather than being expressed through overt instruction which involves the projected reader. The exemplary letters that constitute a major part of the Early Modern letter-writing manual investigated by Tanskanen in her chapter likewise assume their instructive property through the manual writer’s statement that their function is to instruct rather than through their linguistic features per se. The didactic quality of the sixteenth-century medical texts in the chapter by Taavitsainen is also partly generated through genre expectations, such as the use of the dialogic form with its conventional participant roles of instructor and instructed. In contrast to areas A and B, areas C and D encompass texts where the instructional function has not been made explicit by the producer. One possible reason for this condition is the primary audience’s expected familiarity with the instructional function of the genre, so that no further explication is required. The Middle English culinary recipes discussed by Carroll are a case in point. As ­Carroll observes in her chapter, these texts were written for professionals, which possibly ties in with the lack of overt producers’ statement concerning their purpose. In terms of their language, however, the recipes represent an almost prototypical example of texts employing instructional features and thus clearly belong to area C in our model. Since texts of area D neither explicitly declare their instructional aim nor are manifestly characterised by linguistic features associated with instruction, their characterisation as pieces of instructional writing is problematic and possibly runs the risk of stretching the concept too far. The materials discussed by the contributors do not therefore feature texts that would be primarily assigned to this area. In practice, however, it is quite possible to envisage texts whose instructive quality is pragmatically constructed by their readers/addressees. Some medieval and early modern herbals, for example, consist of descriptions of the properties and virtues of alphabetically listed plants without providing authorial/editorial information on the purpose of the descriptions. It is likely that such texts were not simply regarded as encyclopaedia of herbal lore, but were often read instructively as guides to the practical medicinal application of the plants described therein.2 The recognition of the pragmatic element as part of what may constitute ­instruction takes 2. Mäkinen (2002: 245) calls this kind of writing “impersonal instruction”. See for example the anonymous herbal Hereafter foloweth the knowledge, properties, and the vertues of herbes, printed by Robert Wyer in 1540 (STC 2nd ed. 13175.6).





Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen, Janne Skaffari and Matti Peikola

us back to the third dimension of instructiveness mentioned at the beginning of this section: the readers’/addressees’ instructional use of texts and the audience of instructional writing more generally.

3.2 Instructiveness in reception: Audience Especially for historical texts, the third dimension is often very difficult to bring into the analysis. From the medieval and early modern periods, only scattered evidence survives concerning individual readers’ engagement with texts. Book ownership is to a limited extent traceable from wills and other inventories and from owners’ signatures, but identifying an owner for a book does not necessarily reveal anything about its reading process. Comments written in the margin of books provide a much better source of information on how readers reacted to what they read and how they understood the purpose of their reading. Although this resource is still very much underutilised, recent research into the marginalia of English books from the medieval to the modern period shows promising results for the study of their reception (e.g. Jackson 2001).3 The role of the audience, however, can be approached from a different perspective, namely that of the authors’ perceptions of their potential audience. This perspective connects the third dimension of instructiveness with the second one discussed in the previous section, i.e. instructiveness in production, and highlights the fact that for the writer of an instructional text the intended addressee is an important element in the writing process. The contributions to this volume approach the question of the intended audience from different viewpoints, depending on the explicitness with which the writers deal with the matter in their texts. Regardless of whether the audience is mentioned explicitly or left implicit in a text, its effect on the construction of the text is undeniable; as Carroll observes (this volume, p. 80), “the key to successful instructional writing is to know your audience”. The audiences of the instructional writing explored in this volume range from specific to quite general. Towards the specific end of the scale we find Ancrene Wisse (studied by Skaffari), the rule written for three sisters who had decided to become anchoresses, and the culinary recipes intended for the use of professional cooks (studied by Carroll). The conduct book discussed by Doty and the letterwriting manual discussed by Tanskanen are both clearly intended for the use of a

3. The UK Open University maintains an online Reading Experience Database 1450–1945 (RED), which currently (spring 2009) contains ca 25,000 records of readers’ engagement with a written or printed text (see http://www.open.ac.uk/Arts/RED/).



Approaching instructional writing in English

specific audience, namely women, while the instructive children’s fiction studied by Kokkola is targeted at children and their parents. Ælfric’s homilies, discussed by Wårvik, are designed for teaching a heterogeneous audience, learned and lay; a similar audience, including male and female religious as well as lay readers, is targeted by the calendars studied by Peikola. The medical advice book analysed by Valle is intended for a wide, lay audience, while the two medical dialogues studied by Taavitsainen differ from each other in terms of audience, one being targeted at a wider audience and the other at a more professional one. Finally, the audience of the texts discussed by Pietilä, Taanila-Hall and Vainio consists of textbook users, i.e. teachers and pupils. It is evident from the above survey that the audiences of the texts discussed in the present volume show great variation. Regardless of a text’s position on the scale, however, it is safe to claim that considerations of the audience have shaped the text during its construction; each audience has therefore had a role to play in the production process. Let us conclude this section by considering this role in terms of an aspect connecting several papers in this volume: women as the audience of instructional writing. A number of texts studied in the chapters of this book offer advice specifically to women, who are instructed on proper religious behaviour, the art of letterwriting or the duties of a woman at various stages of her life. Some texts address ­women and men equally, while others do not specify their audience from this perspective; however, at least medical advice books and instructive children’s fiction were undoubtedly read by women. A majority of the texts discussed in this volume thus mainly or partly address women, creating a link with Risto ­Hiltunen’s own research on texts in which women are either spoken to (e.g. Hiltunen 2002, 2003) or speaking (e.g. Hiltunen 1996, 2004; Hiltunen and Doty 2002, 2009; Rosenthal et al. 2009). In addition, through these texts we get a glimpse of the role of women during the history of instructional writing in English; although often absent from the actual writing process, women exerted their influence on the text being produced as its intended audience.

4.

Concluding remarks

The ten chapters in this volume explore material from more than a millennium and cover genres ranging from children’s fiction to medical advice. This is a testament to the fact that instructional writing in English is a vast area of study, both longitudinally and latitudinally, as well as an extremely interesting one. Both the scope of the volume and the length of the period studied make this book an apt offering for such a versatile scholar as Risto Hiltunen. The authors of the chapters,



10

Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen, Janne Skaffari and Matti Peikola

along with everyone in the Tabula gratulatoria, join us, the editors, in our congratulations to him on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday.

References Biber, Douglas and Finegan, Edward. 1997. “Diachronic relations among speech-based and written registers in English.” In To Explain the Present: Studies in the Changing English Language in Honour of Matti Rissanen [Mémoires de la Société Néophilologique de Helsinki 52], Terttu Nevalainen and Leena Kahlas-Tarkka (eds), 253–275. Helsinki: Société Néophilologique. Carroll, Ruth, Hiltunen, Risto, Peikola, Matti, Skaffari, Janne, Tanskanen, Sanna-Kaisa, Valle, Ellen and Wårvik, Brita. 2003. “Introduction.” In Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern [Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 119], Risto Hiltunen, and Janne Skaffari (eds), 1–12. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Diller, Hans-Jürgen. 2001. “Genre in linguistics and related discourses.” In Towards a History of English as a History of Genres, Hans-Jürgen Diller and Manfred Görlach (eds), 3–43. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter. Hiltunen, Risto. 1990. Chapters on Legal English: Aspects Past and Present of the Language of the Law [Annales Academiæ Scientiarum Fennicæ Ser. B 251]. Helsinki: Suomalainen tiedeakatemia. Hiltunen, Risto. 1996. “‘Tell me, be you a witch?’: Questions in the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692.” International Journal for the Semiotics of Law 9 (25): 17–37. Hiltunen, Risto. 1998. “Functions of speech in The Battle of Maldon.” Studies in Medieval English Language and Literature 13: 29–43. Hiltunen, Risto. 2002. “Voices in Ancrene Wisse: The rule as an interactive text.” In A Book of Ancrene Wisse, Yoko Wada (ed.), 37–58. Osaka: Kansai University Press. Hiltunen, Risto. 2003. “Telling the anchorite code: Ancrene Wisse on language.” In Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern, Risto Hiltunen and Janne Skaffari (eds.), 57– 76. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Hiltunen, Risto. 2004. “Salem, 1692: A case of courtroom discourse in a historical perspective.” In Approaches to Style and Discourse in English, Risto Hiltunen and Shinichiro Watanabe (eds.), 3–26. Osaka: Osaka University Press. Hiltunen, Risto and Doty, Kathleen L. 2002.“‘I will tell, I will tell’: Confessional patterns in the Salem witchcraft trials, 1692.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 3 (2): 299–335. Hiltunen, Risto and Doty, Kathleen L. 2009. “Formulaic discourse and speech acts in the witchcraft trial records of Salem, 1692.” Journal of Pragmatics 41 (3): 458–469. Hiltunen, Risto and Nyman, Sirkku. 1994. “Discourse in a technical-directive setting: The case of operating instructions.” In Text and Talk in Professional Contexts. Selected Papers from the International Conference “Discourse and the Professions”, Uppsala, 26–29 August, 1992 [ASLA:s skriftserie 6], Britt-Louise Gunnarsson, Per Linell and Bengt Nordberg (eds), 125–135. Uppsala: Association Suédoise de Linguistique Appliquée (ASLA). Jackson, H. J. 2001. Marginalia: Readers Writing in Books. New Haven/London: Yale University Press.



Approaching instructional writing in English

Kytö, Merja. 1996. Manual to the Diachronic Part of the Helsinki Corpus of English Texts: Coding Conventions and Lists of Source Texts. Third edition. Helsinki: Department of English, University of Helsinki. Longacre, Robert E. 1983. The Grammar of Discourse. New York: Plenum Press. Mäkinen, Martti. 2002. “On interaction in herbals from Middle English to Early Modern English.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 3 (2): 229–251. Morey, James H. 2005. “Middle English didactic literature.” In Readings in Medieval Texts: Interpreting Old and Middle English Literature, David F. Johnson and Elaine Treharne (eds), 183–197. Oxford: Oxford University Press. OED = The Oxford English Dictionary Online. < http://www.oed.com> Rosenthal, Bernard, Adams, Gretchen A., Burns, Margo, Grund, Peter, Hiltunen, Risto, Kahlas-Tarkka, Leena, Kytö, Merja, Peikola, Matti, Ray, Benjamin C., Rissanen, Matti, Roach, Marilynne K. and Trask, Richard B. (eds). 2009. Records of the Salem Witch-Hunt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shaw, Judith. 1985. “The influence of canonical and episcopal reform on popular books of instruction.” In The Popular Literature of Medieval England [Tennessee Studies in Literature 28], Thomas J. Heffernan (ed.), 44–60. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press. Taavitsainen, Irma. 1997. “Genres and text types in medieval and Renaissance English.” Poetica 47: 49–62. Taavitsainen, Irma. 2001. “Language history and the scientific register.” In Towards a History of English as a History of Genres, Hans-Jürgen Diller and Manfred Görlach (eds), 185–202. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter. Werlich, Egon. 1976. A Text Grammar of English [Uni-Taschenbücher 597]. Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer.

11

Teaching by stories Ælfric’s instructive narratives Brita Wårvik

Abbot Ælfric of Eynsham is well-known as a homilist, grammarian, theologian and teacher, but not usually as a story-teller. Though he tells many stories in his works, his primary purpose is not narration, but instruction. This study focusses on the strategies Ælfric employs in embedding stories in his preaching texts. His text-typological management reflects the teaching purpose of the homilies. Frequent references to sources guarantee the authority of the teaching and, simultaneously, indicate shifts between narration and instruction. Metatextual signals and interactive and evaluative elements function as sign-posts to the audience both as to the structure and as to the content of the homilies, most prominently at the beginnings of instructive passages.

1.

Introduction: Menn behofiað godre lare

Instruction may appear a straightforward label for the classification of texts into types, compared for instance with argumentation. The purpose of instruction can fairly unproblematically be defined as ‘to instruct’, that is, ‘to teach, educate, train in knowledge or learning’ (cf OED s.v. instruct v.). Such a purpose enables us to identify a variety of texts that we can label instructive: they range from text books, manuals and lectures to guidance session, advice forums and sermons, and may even include advertising and propaganda. Instruction appears as a functional text type in Werlich’s classic text typology: together with narration, description, exposition and argumentation it is one of the basic text types (Werlich 1976). In this typology, instruction is defined as “the type of textual communication in which the encoder tells himself [..] or others [..] what to do” (Werlich 1976: 40); “the encoder presents demands for a certain behaviour as his own demands or those of a more or less biased group to which he belongs” (Werlich 1976: 122).

14

Brita Wårvik

Instruction, however, turns out to be less straightforward when we look into other models. For instance, Longacre’s discourse typology does not include such a type at all, but instruction falls somewhere between procedural discourse, dealing with “how to do it, how it was done, how it takes place” (1983: 3) and behavioral discourse, telling us “how people did or should behave” (1983: 3). Instruction is similarly absent in most of the models presented in the overviews by Faigley and Meyer (1983) and Virtanen (1992). Whether the typology is based on purpose or context, or text-internal or situational criteria, instruction rarely appears as a type. However, the problems of modelling classifications of texts into typologies at an abstract, functional level pale into insignificance when we deal with real texts. Though we can probably agree that some texts serve the purposes of instruction, we may have different views of which texts are instructive and even more so what are good instructive texts, depending on whether we are teachers or students, or researchers studying those texts from a linguistic or pedagogical perspective, to name just a few alternatives. In this paper, my view-point is that of a linguist studying texts whose purpose has been explicitly identified as instructive by their author: to make more easily available the teachings of the author’s religion and to correct commonly believed errors in the doctrine. (1) Þa bearn me on mode ic truwige ðurh godes gife. þæt ic ðas boc of ledenum gereorde to engliscre spræce awende. na þurh gebylde micelre lare. ac for ðan ðe ic geseah and gehyrde mycel gedwyld on manegum engliscum bocum. ðe ungelærede menn ðurh heora bilewitnysse to micclum wisdome tealdon. and me ofhreow þæt hi ne cuðon ne næfdon ða godspellican lare on heora gewritum. buton ðam mannum anum ðe þæt leden cuðon. and buton þam bocum ðe ælfred cyning snoterlice awende of ledene on englisc. ða synd to hæbbene; For ðisum antimbre ic gedyrstlæhte on gode truwiende þæt ic ðas gesetnysse undergann. and eac for ðam ðe menn behofiað godre lare swiðost on þisum timan þe is geendung þyssere worulde. and beoð fela frecednyssa on mancynne ær ðan þe se ende becume. (ÆCHom I (Pref), 2.7–16) ‘Then it occurred to me, I trust through God’s grace, that I would translate this book from the Latin language into the English tongue; not on presumption of great learning, but because I saw and heard much error in many English books, which unlearned men, through their simplicity, have considered as great wisdom: and I regretted that they neither knew nor had the evangelical . The examples are cited from the Complete Corpus of Old English, with the SGML character entities expanded. References to the Old English texts follow the system in the corpus. The translations of examples from the First Series are adapted from Thorpe’s edition (1844–1846); other translations are mine.



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

doctrines among their writings, except those men only who knew Latin, and except those books that king Alfred wisely translated from Latin into English, which are to be had. For this cause I dared, trusting in God, to attempt this task, and also because people need good instruction, especially at this time, which is the ending of this world, and there will be many calamities among mankind before the end comes.’

The author is Ælfric, abbot of Eynsham, who lived and worked at the turn of the millenium (c. 950–c.1010) in the context of the Benedictine reform and Viking attacks in England (Godden 2004). The over 160 texts in English that have been identified as Ælfric’s make him the most productive author of vernacular prose in that period. His writings, most of which he wrote when he was still monk at Cerne Abbas, include homilies and sermons, saints’ lives and biblical translations, a grammar and an astronomical treatise, as well as pastoral letters (Gneuss 2002). In all of these we can detect what Joyce Hill has called “an irresistible urge to teach” (2001:160). This paper will concentrate on Ælfric’s preaching texts: the two series of homilies for the church year, entitled Catholic Homilies (ÆCHom I, ÆCHom II), and his other homilies (ÆHom, ÆHomM). Teaching was of course an important duty for the medieval church and preaching an important form of carrying out that duty (cf e.g. Baldwin 1928, Leclercq 1993, Menache 1990, Murphy 1974, O’Malley 1989, Owst 1961). However, though preaching texts form a considerable proportion of the extant Old English materials, rhetorical handbooks for preachers flourish only later with the artes praedicandi industry from the twelfth century onwards (O’Malley 1989, Regan 1983, Roberts 2002, Wenzel 2005). Models and guidelines for preaching and teaching naturally existed, and those known by Ælfric include Augustine’s De doctrina christiana and the Alfredian translation of Gregory’s Cura pastoralis, both of which he explicitly refers to in his writings, but as authorities and sources of knowledge, not as preaching manuals (Godden 2000, Parkes 1997). Though the influence of classical rhetorical tradition on medieval vernacular writing is ­obvious, there is little evidence of direct and formal instruction in rhetoric or . It is a simplification to refer to these texts as just preaching texts, as they may well have been used for private devotional reading as well as for preaching to a monastic or lay audience (cf Clayton 1985, Godden 1996). But irrespective of the method of transmission, all these texts have an instructive purpose.   It should also be noted that the labels sermon and homily are used as synonyms in this article, partly because the categories are not always clearly distinct in practice and partly because what Ælfric himself entitled Sermones Catholici have come to be called Catholic Homilies (according to Gatch 1978 the label has its origin in Thorpe’s edition of 1844–1846). On definitions of these terms, see Bataillon 1980.

15

16

Brita Wårvik

the use of rhetorical handbooks in Anglo-Saxon England (Reinsma 1977, Wright 2007). And, though they used Latin works as the authoritative basis for their ­writings, skillful vernacular authors, like Ælfric, did not slavishly follow their Latin sources or adopt the stylistic and rhetorical features directly from them, but adapted the sources for their own purposes (Anderson 2007, Godden 2000). Explicit statements, such as that cited in (1), are not the only evidence that Ælfric was very conscious of his teaching duty. His use of sources, his choice of themes, and the organization of the texts that he wrote all point to the importance of spreading orthodox learning (cf e.g. Biggs 2005, Clayton 1985, Godden 1985, 2000, Green 1989). As Ælfric was a serious orthodox believer, the most important factor was, of course, content, the correctness of the teachings, but he also took other factors into account to make his instruction effective. Just by looking at the form of the texts, we find that his choices support pedagogical purposes, when he chooses to write homilies and saints’ lives in English and not in Latin. And when he writes in Latin, he avoids the complexities of the then fashionable hermeneutic style (Lapidge 1975) and adopts a plainer alternative against the conventions of the genre in his Colloquy (Hill 1998) and the monastic customary, traditionally called Letter to the Monks of Eynsham (Jones 1999). In addition to concerns about content and form, Ælfric also expresses concerns for keeping his audience’s attention. In the preface to his second series of Catholic Homilies, he writes: (2) Ic gesette on twam bocum þa gereccednysse ðe ic awende. for ðan ðe ic ðohte þæt hit wære læsse æðryt to gehyrenne. gif man ða ane boc ræt on anes geares ymbryne. and ða oðre on ðam æftran geare; (ÆCHom II (Pref), 2.33) ‘I arranged in two books the texts that I translated, because I thought that it would be less tedious to hear, if one read one book in the course of one year and the other in the following year.’

We find similar concerns expressed in the homilies themselves, as in example (3). (3) We habbað nu gesæd sceortlice þis godspel anfealdum andgite, and we eac willað eow secgan þæt gastlice andgyt, æfter Agustinus trahtnunge, sceortlice swaþeah, þæt ge ne beon gehefegode. (ÆHOM 2, 59) ‘We have now briefly said the simple meaning of this gospel passage, and we want to tell you the spiritual meaning, according to Augustine’s commentary, briefly however, that you are not bored (made feel heavy).’

These statements and many more like them suggest that Ælfric made an effort to prevent his audience from finding his texts too tedious or heavy. In addition to offering variety and keeping the texts fairly short, Ælfric made use of the probably most basic way of making teaching more interesting, appealing and effective: telling stories.



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

To state that there are narrative passages in religious instruction is no news, when so much of the basic sources, most notably of course biblical texts and ­patristic writings, are stories. The use of exemplary stories to illustrate or prove a point for purposes of instruction, argumentation or entertainment is at least as old as the earliest works on rhetoric, and the term exemplum and the use of such exemplary stories are well-established already in classical rhetoric, from where they were adopted and adapted by Christian authors. However, it was not until the late twelfth century, parallel with the development of artes praedicandi, that the exemplum emerges as a separate genre and collections of exempla start to ­appear (d’Avray 1985, Roberts 2002, Wenzel 2005). Thus Ælfric naturally employed this ancient rhetorical strategy, referring to exemplary stories as bigspel or bysen, but as his career antedated the heyday of the medieval exemplum, his stories do not come from collections of exempla, compiled for the purpose of transmitting such stories, but from the Bible and other works that he considered authoritative (on Ælfric’s sources e.g. Biggs 2005, Godden 1978, 1996, 2000, Hill 2007). What students of Ælfric’s writings have found worth noting is that there are perhaps more stories in his texts than can be explained by the use of narrative sources only. Szarmach has characterized this frequent use of stories as “Ælfric’s narrative impulse[, which] means his presentation of the Bible primarily as a ­story, secondarily as text for analysis. As far as audience effect is concerned, the audience hears primarily narrative as narrative is heard, not, say, a sequence of embedded moral principles” (1989: 240). This narrative impulse is evident when we look at a rough division of Ælfric’s preaching texts into text types: of the 130 homilies, the vast majority (116–189%) include stories, 11 being totally narrative, and a minority (14) have no narrative parts (Table 1; all tables are in the Appendix). In total there are 194 narrative passages, varying from one to ten per sermon. Half of the homilies, 66, include only one narrative passage, while 30 include two and 16 include three narrative passages. Though Ælfric’s abundant use of stories has not escaped notice (Godden 1985, Szarmach 1989, Wilcox 1993, Woolf 1966), the ways in which he integrates stories in his instructive texts has not been studied. The focus in this article will be on the ways in which Ælfric indicates shifts from narrative parts of his text to instructive parts and vice versa, what could be called his text-typological management. While Ælfric’s use of sources has been thoroughly researched, his concrete ­methods of integrating passages from different sources into his texts have not . Narratives are here identified according to the basic criteria of temporal sequentiality and continuity of agent (cf Georgakopoulou 1997/2005, Longacre 1983, Virtanen and Wårvik 1987). This definition excludes ‘small’ stories (Bamberg and Georgakopoulou 2008), which in preaching texts can take the form of minimal references to well-known stories.

17

18

Brita Wårvik

been the target of source studies. In this article I concentrate on strategies at the local level of moving between text types and leave their relationship to the global structure of Ælfric’s preaching texts for later studies to investigate. This involves the obvious limitation that the strategies presented here are Ælfric’s and it remains for further studies to determine whether they are characteristic of him or whether they are general or genre-specific features of sermons.

2.

Enter narrative: Ic wolde eow ane lytle race gereccan

When we consider the structure of texts that belong to the genre of sermons, we find a fair amount of variation and overlapping with related genres, such as religious treatises and saints’ lives. Text-typologically, we could place these genres on a scale with saints’ lives at the narrative end and religious treatises at the ­instructive or argumentative end, with sermons at various points in between the extremes (for the scalar relationships between text types, cf Faigley and Meyer 1983, ­Virtanen 1992). Though Ælfric’s preaching texts display the whole s­pectrum of variation from purely instructive to totally narrative, they tend to cluster towards the narrative end of the scale of sermon types. A traditional and convenient way of classifying sermons structurally is the ­division into the ancient and modern kinds of sermons. The ancient kind, for which the term homily is also used, cites a passage and comments on it, while the modern kind (or university, school, or scholastic sermon) follows a more elaborate structure built around distinctions and themes (Spencer 1993: 228–247). In terms of text-types, the ancient homilies tend to be more narrative, while instruction and argumentation are more likely to dominate in a modern sermon. The terms ancient and modern are not period labels, but rather evaluative labels established in the artes praedicandi in which the ancient form was considered unorganized and the modern form the more sophisticated kind. By the date of their composition around 1000, Ælfric’s preaching texts by definition fall within the ancient period, and many of them are constructed according to the ancient form, but they definitely do not lack organization. In the following sections, we will look at one aspect of the local structural organization of Ælfric’s texts: his text-typological management, but as noted above, the global structure of the sermons falls outside the scope of this paper. Whether ancient or modern, a basic kind of sermon structure starts with the passage to be explained, typically a biblical passage (on sermon form, see Amos 1993, Gatch 1978, Kienzle 1993, Spencer 1993). The main part of the sermon ­explains this passage and presents its various meanings and interpretations. The



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

end of the sermon emphasizes the importance of the teaching, urges the audience to learn from it and sends them off with blessings. Ælfric frequently follows this basic structure and starts with a story, which he presents in English translation. In 102 of the 130 homilies in the present sample we find a story starting in the introduction to the homily, at or very close to the beginning of the text (Table 2). However, in only 26 of these homilies the story introduction appears as the initial element, while in most cases Ælfric starts the story after some other introductory element or elements (Table 3). In example (4), the Old English text launches directly into the story, with minimal presentation of the setting: (4) Se hælend ferde ofer þære galileiscan sæ þe is gehaten tyberiadis. and him filigde micel meniu: for ðon þe hi beheoldon þa tacna þæ he worhte. ofer ðam untrumum mannum; Þa astah se hælend. upon anre dune. and þær sæt mid his leorningcnihtum (ÆCHom I 12, 180.31–182.1) ‘The Saviour travelled over the Galilean sea that is called Tiberius, and a great crowd followed him, because they had seen the miracles that he had performed on the afflicted people. Then the Saviour ascended on a hill and there sat with his disciples.’

Other such initial stories present some more background as setting to the events, such as identifying the main character if this is likely to need introduction, as for instance St Martin in (5). (5) MARTINUS se wuldorfulla godes andetere wæs acenned of æþelborenum magum. on ðam earde þe is gehaten Pannonia. on þære byrig ðe is gecweden Sabaria. and he wæs siððan afed on Italia. þæt is Romana rice; His fæder wæs æðelboren. ærest cempa. and siððan cempena ealdor. on hæðenscipe wunigende. and his gemæcca samod; Ða gestryndon hi þone gecorenan godes cempan martinum. and he mærlice geðeah; Witodlice ða ða he tyn wyntre on ylde wæs. ða arn he to cyrcan buton his freonda foresceawunge fulluhtes biddende. (ÆCHom II 39.1, 288.1–7) ‘Martin the glorious confessor of God was born of a noble family, in the country that is called Pannonia, in the town that is called Sabaria, and he was afterwards brought up in Italy that is in the kingdom of Rome; His father was noble-born, first a soldier, and afterwards a commander of soldiers, living in heathenism, and his wife likewise; Then they begat the chosen God’s soldier Martin, and he thrived in glory; Truly when he was ten winters of age, then he ran to the church without his friends’ knowledge, asking for baptism.’

As Ælfric was highly concerned about the correctness of his teaching, he is careful in selecting his sources and he also makes that clear in his texts by including

19

20 Brita Wårvik

explicit references to his sources. In more than half of his homilies (77 of 130), Ælfric includes the source of the passage in the introductory sentences (Table 2). In a third (46) of the texts, Ælfric starts with the source of the passage, which is thus a more common initial element than the story introduction (Table 3). The homilies including narratives at the beginning then continue with the story itself, with various amounts of introduction or setting. Minimal setting for the story is given after the source reference in (6). (6) Matheus se eadiga godspellere awrat on þissere godspellican rædinge þæt se hælend nyþereode of anre dune. and him fyligde micel meniu; (ÆCHom I 8, 120.9) ‘Mathew the blessed evangelist wrote in this gospel text that the Saviour went down a hill and a great crowd followed him.’

When the story introduction is the initial element, the source of the story may be included in the introductory sentences. In (7), the source is just vaguely given as ‘books’ in the first sentence, while in (8), after introducing the main character, Pope Gregory, Ælfric presents the source in some detail. (7) Ðæs Hælendes eard wæs on Iudea lande, Galileiscre scire, þa þa he her on life wæs, on þære byrig Nazareth; ac he wæs geboren on þære byrig Bethleem, swa swa bec secgað. (ÆHom 18, 2) ‘The Saviour’s home was in the land of Jews, in the province of Galilee, when he was alive here, in the town of Nazareth; but he was born in the town of Bethlehem, as the books say.’ (8) Manega halige bec cyðað his drohtnunge and his halige lif. and eac historia anglorum ða ðe ælfred cyning of ledene on englisc awende. Seo boc sprecð genoh swutelice be ðisum halgan were; Nu wylle we sum ðing scortlice eow be him gereccan. for ðan ðe seo foresæde boc nis eow eallum cuð. þeah ðe heo on englisc awend sy; (ÆCHom II 9, 72.6–9) ‘Many holy books report his conduct and his holy life, and likewise the historia anglorum, which King Alfred translated from Latin into English. The book speaks clearly enough about this holy man; Now we want to tell you something about him briefly, because the aforementioned book is not known to all of you, even though it is translated into English.’

Source references are often (in 40 cases) combined with references to the situation of reading (aloud) or other metatextual comments on the sermon, as in (9) and (10). (9) We rædað gehwær on halgum gewritum þæt seo halige mæsse micclum fremige. ægðer ge ðam lybbendum. ge ðam forðfarenum. swa swa Beda se



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

snotera lareow awrat on historia anglorum be sumum ðegene. þisum andgite reccende; (ÆCHom II 24, 204.138) ‘We read everywhere in holy writings that the holy mass greatly profits both the living and the dead, as Bede the wise teacher wrote in historia anglorum about a thane, telling this tale.’ (10) Men ða leofostan hwilon ær we rehton eow ðone pistol þe se halga Hieronimus sette be forðsiðe þære eadigan Marian cristes meder. þurh þone he adwæscte ða dwollican gesetnysse þe samlærede men sædon be hire forðsiðe; Nu wylle we eow gereccan be ðam halgum godspelle þe man æt ðyssere mæssan eow ætforan rædde; (ÆCHom II 34, 255.1–4) ‘My dearest people sometime earlier we told you the epistle that the holy Jerome wrote about the death of the blessed Mary, Christ’s mother, through which he put out the heretical doctrines that imperfectly taught people told about her death. Now I want to tell you about the holy gospel that is read before you at this mass.’

Such metatextual elements occur at the beginning of about half of the homilies (68). They are, however, the most common initial element (Tables 2 and 3). In 58 cases they provide an introduction proper to the homily, giving some background to the story or the theme or purpose of the homily. Thus, the introduction in (11) elaborates on the settings, giving some geographical background to the story that follows, and in (12), the introduction identifies the theme of the day, that is, the person worshipped on that day. (11) MANEGVM IS CVÐ seo halige stow sancte michaeles on þære dune þe is gehaten garganus. seo dun stent on campania landes gemærum. wið ðære sæ adriaticum twelf mila on upstige fram anre byrig þe is gehaten sepontina. of þære stowe wearð aræred þyses dæges freols geond geleaffulre gelaþunge; Ðær eardode sum þurhspedig man garganus gehaten: of his gelimpe wearð seo dun swa geciged: (ÆCHom I 34, 502.1–8) ‘Many people know the holy place of St Michael on the mountain that is called Garganus. This mountain stands in the region of Campania by the Adriatic Sea, twelve miles upwards from a town that is called Sepontina. In that place was established the festival of this day throughout the believing church. There lived a very rich man called Garganus: because of his fortunes, the mountain got to be so called.’ (12) Godes gelaðung wurþað þysne dæig þam mæran apostole paule to wurðmynte. for þan ðe he is gecweden eallra ðeoda lareow þurh soþfæsre lare: wæs þeahhwæðere his martyrdom samod mid þam eadigan petre gefremmed; (ÆCHom I 27, 384.22)

21

22

Brita Wårvik

‘God’s church honours this day in honour of the great apostle Paul, because he is called the teacher of all nations for his true learning; however, his martyrdom happened together with the blessed Peter.’

Introductions focussing on the theme or purpose of the homily can show Ælfric’s plan for the collection of homilies, as in (13), or they can give us hints at the intended audience of the text, as in (14) (cf Amos 1993, Clayton 1985, Godden 1996, Swan 2007, Woolf 1966). (13) Mine gebroðru we wyllað eow gereccan sume cristes wundra. to getrymmincge eoweres geleafan; We sind gecnæwe þæt we hit forgymeleasodon on ðam dæge þe mann þæt godspel rædde. ac hit mæg eow nu fremian. swa micclum swa hit ða mihte; Ure drihten astah on scip. and him filigdon his leorningcnihtas; (ÆCHom II 27, 217.126–131) ‘My brethren, we want to tell you one of Christ’s miracles, to strengthen your faith. We are conscious that we neglected it on the day when the gospel was read, but it can profit you now as much as it could then. Our Lord embarked on a ship and his disciples followed him.’ (14) Mine gebroðra. We rædað nu æt godes ðenungum be ðan eadigan were IOB. nu wille we eow hwæt lytles be him gereccan. for ðan þe seo deopnys ðære race oferstihð ure andgit. and eac swiðor þæra ungelæredra; Man sceal læwedum mannum secgan be heora andgites mæðe. swa þæt hi ne beon ðurh ða deopnysse æmode. ne ðurh ða langsumnysse geæðrytte; Sum wer wæs geseten on þam lande þe is gehaten hus. his nama wæs IOB; (ÆCHom II 35, 260.1–7) ‘My brethren, we read now at God’s service about the blessed Job. Now I want to tell you something little about him, because the depth of the story surpasses our understanding and even more that of the unlearned. One shall talk to lay people according to the measure of their understanding, so that they are not disheartened by the depth nor bored by the length. A man lived in the land that is called Hus. His name was Job.’

The preceding examples represent the 102 stories occurring at the beginning of the homilies. However, there are more stories in the 116 homilies with narrative passages: Ælfric tells at least 92 stories that appear later within the homilies. In these internal narratives, Ælfric uses the same kinds of entrance strategies as at the beginning of his homilies, but in different proportions (Table 4). . At least, because it is impossible to state an exact number, when we cannot fully objectively identify passages constituting a complete story among the multitude of allusions to familiar stories and repetitions (sometimes paraphrased) of the passage of the day (cf Note 3). In the present study, these borderline cases have been excluded.



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

A third (32) of the internal stories have no other signals than those typically found at the beginning of a story: temporal and local setting and participants, in any combination, but not at such lengths as in the most elaborate settings at the beginning of a homily (like in example (5)). For instance, in (15), after explaining what the two robbers crucified together with Christ signify, Ælfric returns to narrative by introducing a new set of participants and in (16), he presents changes in time, place and participants to start another example story after he has explained the meaning of the initial story. (15) On ðisum twam sceaðum. wæron getacnode. seo Iudeisce ðeod. and þæt hæðene folc; Þæt iudeisce folc. nolde on crist gelyfan. ðone ðe hi mid hospe. on hengene fæstnodon. and þæt hæðene folc. on hine gelyfde. þreagende ða oðre. þearle mid geleafan; Seo halige Maria þæs hælendes moder. stod wið ða rode. ðearle dreorig. and Iohannes samod. hire swuster bearn; Ða clypode drihten. to his dreorian meder; (ÆCHom II, 14.1, 146.258–264) ‘By these two robbers were symbolized the Jewish people and the heathen folk. The Jewish folk did not want to believe in Christ, whom they contemptuously fastened on the cross, and the heathen folk believed in him, reproving the others greatly with their faith. The holy Mary, the Saviour’s mother, was standing by the cross, greatly mournful, and John, as well, her sister’s son. Then the Lord said to his mournful mother.’ (16) Sum hundredes aldor com to þam Hælende hwilon on oðre stowe, & cwæð ðus to him þa, Eala, ðu leofe Drihten, min cnapæ lið æt ham al on paralisim, & he yfele þrowæð. (ÆHomM 6 (Irv 1), 70) ‘A centurion came to the Saviour once at another place and said thus to him then: “O! Dear Lord, my son lies at home all paralyzed and he is suffering badly.’

Somewhat more than a third (34) of the internal stories begin with source references, which are similar to those found at the beginning of the homilies, but like narrative settings, less elaborate than the initial ones (similar to examples (6) and (7) rather than (8)–(10)). The remaining third (33) begin with metatextual comments. Some of them signal the return to a story either interrupted by instructive passages or in need of conclusion, for instance for the life of a character, as in (17). Other cases present the following stories explicitly as examples: in (18), Ælfric seems to be motivating his choice of the examples from among a multitude and in (19) he adds to the credibility of the ‘true’ example by citing his source (on Ælfric’s use of authoritative sources, see Godden 1978, Hill 1993, Wright 2007).

23

24

Brita Wårvik

(17) We willað eac eow gereccan be geendunge þæs arleasan godes wiðersacan iulianes; Sum halig biscop wæs: basilius gehaten se leornode on anre scole. and se ylca iulianus samod; (ÆCHom I, 30, 448.23–25) ‘We want to tell you about the end of the wicked adversary of God, Julian. There was a holy bishop, called Basil, who was learning at a school, together with the same Julian.’ (18) Gif we wyllað ealla ða wundra. and hælða awritan. þe we oncneowon gefremode þurh ðone wuldorfullan cyðere stephanum. ðonne wyrce we manega bec. ær ðan ðe we hi ealle gegaderion. and ðeah hi ne magon beon ealle gegaderode; Sind þeah sume þe ic forsuwian ne mæg; An æþelboren wif wearð micclum geswenct mid langsumere untrumnysse. and hire ne mihte nan læcecræft fremian; (ÆCHom II, 2, 14.74–79) ‘If we want to describe all the miracles and healings that we know to have been performed by the wonderful martyr Stephen, then we will create many books before we have collected all of them, and still they cannot all be collected. There are however some that I cannot pass over in silence. A woman of high birth was greatly afflicted by a long illness and she could not be helped by any skill of doctors.’ (19) Be ðam we magon secgan sume soðe bysne, swa swa Beda awrat, ðysum wordum secgende: He cwæð þæt sum forðmann wære on Myrcena lande, swyðe leof þam cyninge þe Kenred wæs gehaten. (ÆHom 20, 136) ‘About that we can cite a true example, as Bede wrote, saying in these words: He said that there was a rich man in Mercia, very dear to the king who was called Cenred.’

Looking only at the beginnings of stories, where narrative enters the text, ­obviously leaves out of consideration all the linguistic signals that characterize ­narrative and allow the recipient to identify it: past tense, continuity of participants ­(expressed by pronouns and other forms associated with given information), active public verbs (rather than stative and private verbs), and the variety of markers of temporal sequentiality, including in Old English the adverbial þa ‘then’ (such signals can be found in the beginnings of stories cited in examples (4), (5), (15) and (16)). Though these signals are crucial structuring devices inside the narrative, they have no part to play in the text-typological management at the entry and exit points of narrative passages. Ælfric’s text-typological management at the entry points involves the use of metatextual signals, source references and, at its very simplest, introductions to narratives. Through the use of these entry signals, Ælfric could show his audience when he was going to tell them a story even before, or at the latest when, he started the story.



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

3.

Enter instruction: On ælcum ðæra worda is sum ðincg digle

Having looked at Ælfric’s ways of beginning his homilies and starting the 194 stories in them, let us now turn to the other kind of text-typological shift and study Ælfric’s methods of indicating the beginning of instruction in the homilies. There are 177 instructive passages in our sample of preaching texts (Table 5). In the same way as there can be several narrative passages in one homily, the instruction in the text can be split into shorter passages. In 48 homilies we find the simple structure of one narrative passage followed by an instructive passage, while we find 129 instructive passages alternating with narratives in 57 homilies. In the instructive part, the preceding narrative may be repeated or rephrased sentence for sentence (or in other appropriate pieces) and each passage commented on separately, such as we find in (20), expounding the story of Abraham and Isaac. (20) We sceolon understandan on abrahame þone ælmihtigan fæder. and on Isaace his leofan sunu urne hælend crist. Be ðam cwæð se heofonlica fæder. þes is min leofa sunu ðe me wel licað. and we sceolon tocnawan on isaaces offrunge drihtnes ðrowunge. Be ðam cwæð se apostol paulus. þæt god fæder ne sparode his agenum bearne. ac for us eallum hine to deaðe sealde; Isaac bær ðone wuda to his agenum bærnete. and his fæder bendum ne wiðcwæð; Swa eac crist wæs gehyrsum his fæder oð deað. and him sylf his rode abær; (ÆCHom II, 4, 34.161–168) ‘We shall understand by Abraham the almighty father and in Isaac his dear son our Saviour Christ. About him the heavenly father said: This is my dear son who greatly pleases me and we shall recognize in Isaac’s sacrifice the Lord’s suffering. About him the apostle Paul said that God the father did not spare his only child, but gave him to death for all of us. Isaac carried the wood for his own burning and did not oppose his father’s binding. So too Christ was obedient to his father until death and himself carried his cross.’

The signals at the beginning of instructive passages are partly the same as at the start of narratives, but Ælfric seems to prefer metatextual and interactive signals at the narrative-instructive boundary (Table 5). In about 40% of the cases the instructive passage starts with a metatextual element, such as occur also at the beginnings of narratives, but even more frequent, employed in half of the cases, are comments, evaluations and exhortations, which are supported by a variety of grammatical devices, like tense, mood and person shifts. Source references are less frequent at this text-typological boundary, occurring at about a quarter of them. As at the beginnings of narrative passages, the instructive passages may be headed by combinations of signals of text-typological management.

25

26 Brita Wårvik

Examples (3) and (15) above illustrate Ælfric’s ways of starting the instructive part of the sermon with a metatextual element signalling the shift from narrative to instructive text. He uses this way of signalling the beginning of the instructive part at 76 of the 177 boundaries. Half (92) of the instructive passages start with signals that can be characterized as interactive or evaluating. They are fairly close to the metatextual signals, in some cases co-occurring and even merging with them. Some comments emphasize the point of the story, as in (21) the reference back to ‘such miracles’ brings up the original purpose of showing them and the contemporary purpose of telling them. Likewise the negative comment in (22) makes it clear that we can and should learn by example, even when the original actor did not profit from his experience. (21) Ða wearð gewidmærsod wide his hlisa on ælcere stowe ealles þæs eardes. Swylce wundra worhte se welwillenda Hælend her on þisum life, to geleafan trymminge, þæt þa mihton secgan þe gesawon his wundra, & we magon witan þe þa word gehyrað (ÆHom 18, 304–306) ‘Then was his fame widely reported in every place in the whole country. Such miracles did the benevolent Saviour perform here in this life, to strengthen the faith, that those may say who saw his miracles and we may know who hear the words.’ (22) Ðus clypode se earming mid orwennysse, and he hraðe þæs gewat to ðam ecum witum butan dædbote, mid ðam deoflum genyðerod. Ne fremode his gesyhð him sylfum nan þing, ac for oðrum mannum him wearð æteowed þæt, þæt þa beon gerihtlæhte þe ðas rædinge gehyrað, for ðan ðe ure dæda beoð ealle awritene, swa yfele, swa gode, on ecum gemynde, and us eft beoð æteowde on ðam endenextan dæge. (ÆHom 20, 199–202) ‘Thus did the wretch call out in despair and he soon after departed to the everlasting torments without penance, condemned with the devils. His vision did not profit him himself in any way, but for other people it was shown that those are rectified who listen to this lesson, because our deeds will all be written down, whether evil or good, in the everlasting record, and will be shown to us again on the last day.’

Other comments provide explanations, as in (23) and (24), and still others ask questions, more or less rhetorical ones, and give the answer, as in (25). (23) Cwæð þæt he mihte ða. ma ðonne twelf eoroda heofenlicra engla. æt his fæder abiddan. gif hit weorðan ne sceolde. swa swa witegan cwædon. and se hælend ðærrihte. þæt eare gehælde; Wise men tealdon an eorod to six ðusendum. and twelf eorod sind. twa and hundseofontig ðusend; (ÆCHom II, 14, 140.95–98)



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

‘He said that he could then ask his father for more than twelve legions of heavenly angels, if it should not happen as the prophets had said, and the Saviour suddenly healed that ear. Wise men have reckoned a legion as six thousand and twelve legions are seventy-two thousand.’ (24) Þas word he clypode be criste for ði. þe cristes fulluht ðwehð þone man ægðer ge utan ge innan; (ÆCHom II, 3, 20.55) ‘Those words he said about Christ because Christ’s baptism washes the person both without and within.’ (25) Hwæt ða ealle samod blissodon on godes herungum. swa micclum þæt ure earan earfoðlice mihton heora stemne aræfnian; Hwæt wæs on ðæra blissigendra heortan buton godes geleafa. for ðan þe stephanes blod agoten wæs? Hwæne mærsiað þas wundra mid heora seðunge. buton crist þe on soðre menniscnysse geboren wæs. and mid flæsce of deaðe aras. and mid flæsce to heofonum astah? Witodlice ðes halga cyðere. and his æftergengan wæron gewitan þyses geleafan. (ÆCHom II, 2, 16.166–168) ‘Really then everybody together rejoiced in praising God so much that our ears could hardly endure their noise. What was in the rejoicers’ hearts but faith in God because Stephen’s blood was shed? Whom do the miracles glorify with their testimony but Christ who was born in true human form and in flesh rose from death and in flesh ascended to heaven? Truly this holy martyr and his successors were witnesses of this faith.’

A few (13) of the instructive passages start with a clearly interactive signal, an exhortation, like ‘we shall understand’ in (20) above. Exhortations, or addresses to the audience, are, however, more common, because they occur in combination with other signals, such as the call for ‘my brethren’ to ‘understand’ after the anaphoric comment in (26). (26) Swa ageaf þes goda mann his wæstm gode þurh geðyld. for ðan þe he forbær godes swingele swiðe emlice. and siððan to edleanes æcre becom; Mine gebroðra understandað be ðisum. hwilce beladunge hæbbe we æt godes dome. gif we asleaciað fram godum weorcum. we ðe habbað ure hæle and æhta. nu þes lama wædla buton handcræfte godes beboda gefylde (ÆCHom II, 6, 59.195–199) ‘So did this good man give his property to God through patience because he endured God’s afflictions very patiently and came afterwards to the land of reward. My brethren, understand by this which excuse we have at God’s judgement if we slacken in doing good deeds, we who have our health and wealth, when this crippled beggar fulfilled God’s commands without the power of his hands.’

27

28

Brita Wårvik

At the beginning of 48 instructive passages, we find a reference to the source of the interpretation. Some of these occur together with metatextual elements, as in example (3), while others come close to evaluative comments, like (27). (27) Þas word sind digle. ac se trahtnere gregorius us geopenode þæt gastlice andgit; (ÆCHom I, 24, 338.16) ‘The words are mysterious, but the commentator Gregory opened for us the spiritual meaning.’

Similarly as the narrative passages can be identified by surface features typical of narratives, the instructive passages reveal themselves by the presence of characteristics that are typical of instruction, but not narrative. Most notably we find ­expressions of changes from the story world to the situation of preaching (or reading). Such are the use of the present tense instead of the past tense of narratives and the shift in person reference from the story characters to ‘us’ in examples (3), (20), (21) and (22), and the imperatives in (20) and (26). In addition to these, we find lexical items indicating a shift to explanation and interpretation, such as þæt gastlice andgyt in (3) and wæron getacnode in (15).

4.

Exit: Þes traht is langsum eow to rædenne

The homilies typically end with a direct address to the audience (hearers or ­readers) to learn from the teaching presented in the text, summarizing the main point, emphasizing true doctrine, urging the audience to pray and sometimes stating that there would have been more to tell and even apologizing for the length of the text. (28) Genoh is geleaffullum mannum to rædenne and to secgenne þæt þæt soð is. and feawa is ðæra manna ðe mage ealle ða halgan bec. ðe þurh godes muð. oððe ðurh godes gast gedihte wæron fulfremedlice þurhsmeagan; Læte gehwa aweg ða dwollican leasunga ðe ða unwæran to forwyrde lædað. and ræde gehwa oððe hlyste þære halgan lare ðe us to heofenan rice gewissað. gif we hi gehyran wyllað; (ÆCHom II 34, 259.127–130) ‘It is enough for believing people to read and say what is true, and few are those people who can fully explore all the holy books that have been composed through God’s mouth or through God’s spirit. Let everyone leave alone the foolish lies that lead the unwary to perdition, and let everyone read or listen to the holy teaching that guides us to the heavenly kingdom, if we want to hear.



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

As these homilies are medieval religious texts, they are not the author’s own ­creations in the modern sense of original compositions. Ælfric’s texts are translations and paraphrases, compiled from many sources. Thus any patterns and ­tendencies found in them are inevitably influenced by his sources, but the final compilation is nevertheless Ælfric’s own. Ælfric’s use of sources has been extensively studied (Godden 2000; cf also Anderson 2007, Biggs 2005, Cross 1969, Jones 1999, Szarmach 1989), but the influence of and borrowings from sources have not been considered in the context of Ælfric’s text-typological management, and they are excluded from the present study, as well. With this limitation in mind, we can still draw some conclusions. While the reliance on sources in these texts is characteristic of the period, the use Ælfric makes of source references as signals of text-typological management tallies with his concern for the correctness of his teaching and his respect of ­authorities. The frequent use of source references at the beginnings of the homilies and the stories inside the homilies may be due to the conventions of the genre as much as to Ælfric’s concern for the correct text, but the fact that such references occur also at the beginning of instructive passages suggests that he is not merely following the conventions of presenting the interpretations but he wants to make it clear that he mediates authoritative and orthodox teaching. Though source studies has been a major field for students of Ælfric’s works (and all early authors), the forms of source references and their functions in text-structuring need more investigation. The frequent use of metatextual elements and interactive signals in Ælfric’s homilies is hardly unexpected, as these are instructive texts, designed for teaching the correct doctrine to a probably heterogeneous audience (learned and lay) in different situations (public preaching and private reading). Whether such signals are conventional to this genre or not, they serve the purposes of structuring the text and keeping the recipients’ attention, both of which are essential for effective instruction. These signals have been studied by scholars interested in Ælfric’s and other medieval authors’ audiences, but their functions in text-structuring have not been a part of these studies (e.g. Amos 1993, Godden 1996, 2000, Hill 1993, O’Malley 1989, Regan 1983, Swan 2007). Though there are only small differences between the uses of signals of texttypological management at the various positions in the homilies, these differences suggest a pattern, which is in accordance with both the urge to teach and the narrative impulse observed in Ælfric’s writings (Hill 2001, Szarmach 1989; cited in Section 1 above). The presence of so many stories in the homilies is alone an indicator of the narrative impulse, and this tendency is foregrounded by the way Ælfric introduces the stories. It is not rare that he starts the homily directly with the story and

29

30

Brita Wårvik

inside the homilies, one in three stories starts without any separate introduction. We can also see the use of stories as one aspect of the instructive purpose: a good teacher illustrates his/her teaching with examples. However, the order of primacy between the examples and the instruction may in religious texts be the inverse of other kinds of teaching. Ælfric’s urge to teach is made very explicit by his use of metatextual, interactive and evaluative elements and by his references to sources. He uses these ­signals to welcome the audience to the homily and to guide them between ­narrative and instructive passages inside the texts. At the beginning of the homilies, ­ Ælfric typically establishes a starting point either from the situation of preaching or an ­authoritative source, or both. Once he has started, he keeps his audience on the right track, by marking the structure of the homily by those same signals, but ­giving more emphasis to interaction with the audience and evaluation of the ­content, particularly when moving from narrative to instructive passages. Let me finish with a citation from Ælfric, which illustrates his concern for his audience, and, if we change the reception format from the oral to the literate mode, is even appropriate here in this paper. (29) Þes traht is langsum eow to gehyrenne. ac we willað nu ure spræce her geendian (ÆCHom II 41, 308.138) ‘This exposition is long for you to hear and we want to end our speech here.’

References Primary sources Complete Corpus of Old English: the Toronto Dictionary of Old English Corpus, Angus Cameron and Roberta Frank (eds). University of Toronto Centre for Medieval Studies. The Oxford Text Archive.

Secondary sources Amos, Thomas L. 1993. “Early medieval sermons and their audience.” In De l’homélie au sermon: Histoire de la prédication médiévale [Publications de l’institut d’études médiévales. Textes, études, congrès 14], J. Hamesse and X. Hermand (eds), 1–14. Louvain-la-Neuve: Université Catholique de Louvain. Anderson, Rachel. 2007. “The Old Testament homily: Ælfric as biblical translator.” In The Old English Homily: Precedent, Practice and Appropriation [Studies in the Early Middle Ages 17], A. J. Kleist (ed.), 121–142. Turnhout: Brepols. d’Avray, David L. 1985. The Preaching of the Friars: Sermons Diffused from Paris before 1300. Oxford: Clarendon.



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

Baldwin, Charles Sears. 1928. Medieval Rhetoric and Poetic (to 1400) Interpreted from Representative Works. New York: Macmillan. Bamberg, Michael and Georgakopoulou, Alexandra. 2008. “Small stories as a new perspective in narrative and identity analysis.” Text & Talk 28: 377–396. Bataillon, Louis J. 1980. “Approaches to the study of medieval sermons.” Leeds Studies in English n.s. XI: 19–35. Biggs, Frederick M. 2005. “Ælfric’s Andrew and the Apocrypha.” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 104 (4): 473–494. Clayton, Mary. 1985. “Homiliaries and preaching in Anglo-Saxon England.” Peritia 4: 207–242. Cross, J. E. 1969. “Ælfric – Mainly on memory and the creative method in two Catholic Homilies.” Studia Neophilologica 41: 135–155. Faigley, Lester and Meyer, Paul. 1983. “Rhetorical theory and readers’ classification of text types.” Text 3: 305–325. Gatch, Milton McC. 1978. “The achievement of Aelfric and his colleagues in European perspective.” In Old English Homily and its Backgrounds, P. E. Szarmach and B. F. Huppé (eds), 43–73. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Georgakopoulou, Alexandra. 1997/2005. “Narrative.” In Handbook of Pragmatics. Gneuss, Helmut. 2002. Ælfric von Eynsham und seine Zeit [Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophische-Historische Klasse. Sitzungsberichte Jahrgang 2002, Heft 1]. München: Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Godden, Malcolm. 1978. “Ælfric and the vernacular prose tradition.” In Old English Homily and its Backgrounds, P. E. Szarmach and B. F. Huppé (eds), 99–117. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Godden, Malcolm R. 1985. “Ælfric’s saints’ lives and the problem of miracles.” Leeds Studies in English 16: 83–100. Godden, Malcolm R. 1996. “Experiments in genre: the saints’ lives in Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies.” In Holy Men and Holy Women: Old English Prose Saints’ Lives and their Contexts, P.E. Szarmach (ed.), 261–287. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Godden, Malcolm R. 2000. Ælfric’s Catholic Homilies. Introduction, Commentary and Glossary [Early English Text Society S.S. 18]. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Godden, Malcolm R. 2004. “Ælfric of Eynsham (c. 950–c.1010).” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Green, Eugene A. 1989. “Ælfric the catechist.” In De ore Domini: Preacher and Word in the Middle Ages [Studies in Medieval Culture 27], T. L. Amos, E. A. Green and B. M. Kienzle (eds), 61–74. Kalamazoo, MI: Western Michigan University, Medieval Institute. Hill, Joyce. 1993. “Reform and resistance: Preaching styles in late Anglo-Saxon England.” In De l’homélie au sermon: Histoire de la prédication médiévale [Publications de l’institut d’études médiévales. Textes, études, congrès 14], J. Hamesse and X. Hermand (eds), 15–46. Louvain-la-Neuve: Université Catholique de Louvain. Hill, Joyce. 1998. “Winchester pedagogy and the Colloquy of Ælfric.” Leeds Studies in English 29: 137–152. Hill, Joyce. 2001. “The Benedictine Reform and beyond.” In A Companion to Anglo-Saxon Literature, P. Pulsiano and E. Treharne (eds), 161–169. Oxford: Blackwell.

31

32

Brita Wårvik

Hill, Joyce. 2007. “Ælfric’s manuscript of Paul the Deacon’s homiliary: A provisional analysis.” In The Old English Homily: Precedent, Practice and Appropriation [Studies in the Early Middle Ages 17], A. J. Kleist (ed.), 66–96. Turnhout: Brepols. Jones, Christopher A. 1999. Ælfric’s Letter to the Monks of Eynsham. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kienzle, Beverly Mayne. 1993. “The typology of the medieval sermon and its development in the Middle Ages: Report on work in progress.” In De l’homélie au sermon: Histoire de la prédication médiévale [Publications de l’institut d’études médiévales. Textes, études, congrès 14], J. Hamesse and X. Hermand (eds), 83–101. Louvain-la-Neuve: Université Catholique de Louvain. Lapidge, Michael. 1975. “The hermeneutic style in Anglo-Latin literature.” Anglo-Saxon England 4: 67–11. Leclercq, Jean. 1993. The Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Culture (3rd rpt ed.). New York: Fordham University Press. [Original L’amour des lettres et le désir de dieu transl. by Catharine Misrahi] Longacre, Robert E. 1983. The Grammar of Discourse. New York: Plenum Press. Menache, Sophia. 1990. The Vox Dei. Communication in the Middle Ages. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Murphy, James J. 1974. Rhetoric in the Middle Ages: A History of Rhetorical Theory from Saint Augustine to the Renaissance. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. OED = Oxford English Dictionary Online. O’Malley, John W. 1989. “Introduction: Medieval preaching.” In De ore Domini: Preacher and Word in the Middle Ages [Studies in Medieval Culture 27], T. L. Amos, E. A. Green and B. M. Kienzle (eds), 1–11. Kalamazoo, MI: Western Michigan University, Medieval Institute. Owst, G. R. 1961. Literature and Pulpit in Medieval England. Oxford: Blackwell. Parkes, Malcolm B. 1997. “Rædan, areccan, smeagan: how the Anglo-Saxons read.” Anglo-Saxon England 26: 1–20. Regan, Catharine A. 1983. “Liturgy and preaching as oral context for medieval English literature.” In Performance of Literature in Historical Perspectives, D. W. Thompson (ed.), 147–175. Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Reinsma, Luke M. 1977. “Rhetoric in England: The age of Ælfric, 970–1020.” Communication Monographs 44: 390–403. Roberts, Phyllis B. 2002. “The ars praedicandi and the medieval sermon.” In Preacher, Sermon and Audience in the Middle Ages, C. A. Muessig (ed.), 41–62. Leiden: Brill. Spencer, Helen Leith. 1993. English Preaching in the Late Middle Ages. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Swan, Mary. 2007. “Constructing preacher and audience in Old English homilies.” In Constructing the Medieval Sermon, R. Andersson (ed.), 177–188. Turnhout: Brepols. Szarmach, Paul E. 1989. “Ælfric as exegete: Approaches and examples in the study of the Sermones Catholici.” In Hermeneutics and Medieval Culture, P. J. Gallacher and H. Damico (eds), 137–147. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Thorpe, Benjamin (ed.). 1844–1846. The Homilies of the Anglo-Saxon Church: the First Part, containing the Sermones Catholici or Homilies of Ælfric. London: The Ælfric Society.



Ælfric’s instructive narratives

Virtanen, Tuija and Wårvik, Brita. 1987. “Observations sur les types de textes.” In 8e Rencontre des professeurs de français de l’enseignement supérieur. Communications [Publications du Département des Langues Romanes 6], J. Härmä and I. Mäkinen-Schwanck (eds), 91–114. Helsinki: Université de Helsinki. Virtanen, Tuija. 1992. “Issues of text typology: Narrative – a ‘basic’ type of text?” Text 12: 293–310. Wenzel, Siegfried. 2005. “The arts of preaching.” In The Cambridge History of Literary Criticism, A. Minnis and I. Johnson (eds), 84–96. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Werlich, Egon. 1976. A Text Grammar of English. Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer. Wilcox, Jonathan. 1993. “Famous last words: Ælfric’s saints facing death.” Essays in Medieval Studies 10: 1–13. Woolf, Rosemary. 1966. “Saints’ lives.” In Continuations and Beginnings. Studies in Old English Literature, E.G. Stanley (ed.), 37–66. London: Nelson. Wright, Charles D. 2007. “Old English homilies and Latin sources.” In The Old English Homily: Precedent, Practice and Appropriation [Studies in the Early Middle Ages 17], A. J. Kleist (ed.), 15–66. Turnhout: Brepols.

Appendix Table 1.  The data text type

number of homilies

instructive narrative combined

  14   11 105

total

130

Please note that the categories in the following tables are not mutually exclusive and thus the cases in the categories may add up to more than the total number of cases. Table 2.  Introductions to the homilies elements included in the introductions story introductions source references metatextual elements

102   77   68

33

34

Brita Wårvik

Table 3.  Initial elements in the homilies initial elements

number of homilies

story introductions source references metatextual elements

  26   46   58

total

130

Table 4.  Internal stories introduced by story introductions source references metatextual elements

32 34 33

total internal stories

92

Table 5.  Instructive passages introduced by interactive or evaluative comments source references metatextual elements

  92   48   76

total instructive passages

177

The WOMANual Ancrene Wisse on instruction Janne Skaffari

Ancrene Wisse is the most remarkable piece of English writing from the early thirteenth century. It is an instructional text composed for anchoresses, female recluses, and its existence has been attributed to the need to provide vernacular teaching for women. The chapter examines explicit references to teaching and learning in the text of MS. Corpus Christi College, Cambridge 402; expressions of obligation and permission, direct address and other instructive features in the final part of the text; and the role of women as the recipients and mediators of this instruction. While constantly guiding the female reader with commands and prohibitions, Ancrene Wisse emphasizes gentleness in teaching and allows the anchoress to use her own judgment, especially in practical matters.

1.

Introduction

Ancrene Wisse may with confidence be regarded as the most remarkable piece of English writing from the early thirteenth century. It is a lengthy instructive text in a variety of early Middle English, composed for anchoresses, medieval women who chose to live a life of devotion and silence, secluded from society. The emergence of such a text in English – at a time when writing new texts in languages other than Latin was still infrequent – has typically been attributed to the need to provide vernacular instruction for women. Seventeen manuscripts contain Ancrene Wisse or fragments of it, and the text has also been translated into French and Latin (e.g. Millett 1996: 5). The large number of copies and versions signals the importance and popularity of the text in the textual landscape of medieval England. A key text of the early Middle English period, Ancrene Wisse (henceforth AW) seems to have attracted more scholarly attention than any other vernacular text from the first two centuries after the Norman Conquest of 1066. Indeed, one whole volume in the Annotated Bibliographies of Old and Middle English Literature (Millett 1996) has been dedicated to AW and the group of texts to which it

36

Janne Skaffari

­ elongs. The special nature of AW as an early vernacular text for and about womb en continues to attract a variety of approaches, be they linguistic, literary, cultural, textual or theological. The language of AW has been discussed in many studies, but the majority of these are not directly relevant for the present chapter. More important here are the pragmatic and discoursal perspectives on the text by, most importantly, Risto Hiltunen (2002; 2003), and explorations of the female audience and other questions related to medieval women, by such scholars as Robertson (1990), Petersen (2005) and Sauer (2004). Risto Hiltunen’s work on the language and discourse of AW has been the main inspiration for my paper. AW, by definition ‘[a] guide or set of instructions’ (MED s.v. wisse (n.)), has been called an “instructive” (e.g. Hiltunen 2002: 38; Hiltunen 2003: 65), “instructional” (e.g. Petersen 2005: 69) or even “disciplining” (Amsler 2001: 88) text; according to Leyser (1995: 212), it is “a vernacular penitent’s manual”, while Millett (2005: xxxvii) characterizes it as “a work of practical religious instruction”. The present chapter explores the instructional discourse of AW by examining its explicit references to teaching and learning and the ways in which teaching is supported, with special emphasis on women as participants in the instructional setting. The chapter therefore falls into two main parts, one focusing on instruction and the use of teaching-related expressions in context (Section 3), the other on women as the recipients of this teaching (4). These two main sections are preceded by a general description of AW and the texts with which it is associated (2). The study is based on the text of MS. Corpus Christi College, Cambridge 402, the copy closest to the original text although not the oldest of the surviving manuscripts (see e.g. Dahood 1984: 2–5). The quotations below are from Tolkien’s diplomatic edition (1962), the translations from White (1993).

2.

The context and structure of AW

The origins of AW have long been a matter of interest in early Middle English studies, although not much can be said about the topic with certainty. Millett (1996: 7–13) provides a successful summary of the many investigations into the who, when and where of AW and the problems involved, while the new edition of . In particular the vocabulary of AW has attracted much attention. My work on early Middle English lexis has been supervised by Risto, who offered me a first glimpse at the language of AW during my second year at university. Many of the examples in this chapter in fact contain interesting French loans, but unfortunately I cannot discuss this topic any further here. . A more recent edition by Millett (2005–06), which draws on the work of E. J. Dobson, has been consulted as well.



Ancrene Wisse on instruction

the text of the Corpus manuscript (Millett 2005: xi–xxvii) begins with an introduction to nineteen manuscripts, versions and translations of AW. The original text of AW does not survive. The important Corpus manuscript has been dated to c. 1224–1240 and originated somewhere in the West Midlands (Millett 2004: 6). The author of AW has remained anonymous, despite numerous attempts to unearth his name or at least his religious order and rank. Dobson (1976: Ch. VI) proposed that he was a canon at the Augustine (Victorine) Abbey of Wigmore in Herefordshire, and goes so far as to identify him as one Brian of Lingen, but this has not been universally accepted; Millett (2006: xvi–xix) writes that the current evidence points to a Dominican author. Any exact information about the original intended audience is similarly hard to come by. While the original readers of AW were three sisters of high rank who chose to become recluses, as stated in one of the manuscripts (MS. London, British Library, Cotton Nero A.xiv), the Corpus manuscript makes it clear that its revised text was intended for the use of another, broader audience of anchoresses (Millett 2004: 2–3). AW is part of a family of texts that can be called “the AW Group” (Millett 1996: 6; 2004: 1). It consists of two groups of texts, in addition to the book known as AW: the Katherine Group, consisting of three female saints’ lives, a treatise on the merits of virginity and the dangers of marriage (Hali Meiðhad), and an allegorical homily on heaven and hell (Sawles Warde), and the somewhat lesser known Wooing Group, comprising four devotional texts. They all originate in the West Midlands of the early thirteenth century, and copies of them survive in the same manuscripts: perhaps most importantly, the five texts of the ­Katherine Group are preserved together in MS. Oxford, Bodleian Library, Bodley 34, while the above-mentioned Nero manuscript contains Wooing material and AW (Millett 1996: 52–57). The variety of early Middle English surviving in the major manuscripts of AW and the Katherine Group was named ‘AB language’ by Tolkien (1929), a term still used – although not uncritically – by Middle English scholars today. In addition to linguistic features and manuscript history, the texts overlap in terms of content, style and approach. Two other features linking the texts – ­audience and instructiveness – merit further discussion below. The whole AW Group has been established as written for and dealing with women; in fact, female authorship has been suggested for the Wooing Group (see Millett 1996: 14–15). The specific type of female audience for AW, i.e. anchoresses, may also have made up part of the early readership of the rest of the AW Group. An anchoress was a woman recluse who would take vows much like a nun and then spend the rest of her life contemplating and praying in her cell, typically a small annex to a church; there were also male anchorites similarly living in anchorholds. As AW emphasizes, the anchoress was to be al dead to þe world

37

38

Janne Skaffari

(VIII. 111b/23). Robertson (1990: 14–25) discusses the popularity of anchoritic life in England around 1200. Almost two hundred anchorites from that time have been documented, most of them women. While it was financially not an easy option (most of the women were upper or ‘middle’ class), it was one of the very few life paths that women could choose from; Robertson remarks that women of the preceding Anglo-Saxon period had been less constrained and more autonomous than those of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Sometimes the only way for a woman to devote herself to religion was to become an anchoress. There were, of course, nunneries – which could provide education for the women in them – but such establishments were neither rich nor large in post-Conquest England. Even with a fair number of anchoresses in England, the audience of the various versions and translations of AW soon expanded beyond such readers to communities of male religious and to lay readers (Millett 2004: 3). The female audience of the time was perceived to need guidance in virtuous living and effectual devotions. Although religious texts were produced in Latin, they were of little use to women readers, who often lacked Latin skills and therefore needed vernacular literature: the English-language AW “included [women religious] in the kingdom of God” (Leyser 1995: 212). Composing new texts in English was, however, uncommon for generations after the Norman Conquest until well beyond the emergence of the AW Group, whose component texts make up a substantial part of the literature extant in the earliest varieties of Middle English. While the AW Group may be perceived as more or less instructive, the ten texts are not typically ‘rules’ like AW but rather provided good models and acceptable entertainment for women. Hali Meiðhad, “a guide to virginity” (Robertson 1990: 1), is the other piece in the AW Group that is most directly instructive; its approach to teaching women has most recently been discussed by Hostetler (2005). Even the structure of AW, the longest of the texts in the Group, underlines the instructional functionality of the text. AW falls into eight parts or books, as explained by the author at the end of his preface. These sections, taking up 117 leaves in the Corpus manuscript, are of uneven length; each part begins with a large initial letter in blue (or, once, red) and closes with a comment signposting the transition to the next section. In explicating the purpose and structure of each part of the text in this manner AW is actually not unlike what a good presentation is expected to be like today. The first seven parts contain devotional and religious guidance – their topics covering devotion (I), the senses (II), feelings (III), temptations (IV), confession (V), penance (VI) and the purity of the heart . The part, folio and line references are to Tolkien (1962). . Sauer (2004: 73) actually recognizes “the comparative ‘freedom’ of the anchoritic lifestyle”.

Ancrene Wisse on instruction



(VII) – while the final part (VIII) provides instructions on dress, behaviour and other ‘external’ matters. The author specifies in the preface that the outer rule of the anchoresses is provided in Part VIII and in the practical instructions on prayer, etc., in Part I. These two parts thus “frame” (Dahood 1984: 2) the bulk of the text, but they are not only subsidiary but subservient to the inner rule – the ‘internal’ guide to pure conscience and true faith – given in parts II to VII. The whole text being intended as instruction, we cannot draw any conclusions on the basis of the above list of topics alone as to which of the parts might be more direct about teaching or stating guidelines; instead, the content and language of the eight parts must be explored further.

3.

Explicit instruction

What makes instruction explicit or direct, or the opposite – implicit or indirect? Indirectly, a vast range of texts can provide instruction. A reader may learn useful ideas, be they practical, intellectual or spiritual, etc., from almost any text, even if an instructional aspect is not specified in the text itself – the text may be intended by its producer as for example a narrative. According to Werlich (1976: 41), “[t]he text base of an instructive text can be reduced to the length and structural constituents of the action-demanding sentence” (original italics); he gives Stop! and the negative Don’t move! as examples. Using imperatives – the utterly reduced form of instruction – is a clear indicator of teaching or guidance, and makes explicit the author’s conception of the text as instructive. While the use of an imperative form in a directive suggests that the addressee has an obligation to do something, the same effect can be created by the use of modal auxiliary verbs, for example Present-Day English must and should. Other linguistic ways to highlight points of instruction involve various words and phrases: My goal is to teach you to…, The lesson here is that…, and so on. The author, who chooses to use particular words and linguistic structures to convey the intended message, is in the context of the text an instructor, a teacher, and as such has a voice. It is certain that the original author of AW knew the three anchoresses personally (Dobson 1976: 1–5); hence the familiar and interesting style, which has been described for example as “eloquent, lively, and colloquial” (Millett 2004: 2), “vivid and rich” (Bennett & Smithers 1966: 223), and – as is useful in an instructional text – “almost always lucid” (Dahood 1984: 15). Despite these positive characteristics of the vernacular text, the numerous Latin quotations present in AW stress to the readers that the author is a preacher and an authority (Hiltunen 2002: 49), and suggest that the text belongs to a “serious, religious”

39

40 Janne Skaffari

genre (Hiltunen 2002: 51). It is such a voice – that of both a close acquaintance and an authority – that we can expect to be reflected in the language of AW.

3.1

Linguistic cues

AW abounds in imperative verb forms, making it impractical to focus on the very numerous instances of this indicator in the whole text. Instead, a lexical starting point was selected for exploring explicit teaching in the text, as the loci of unambiguous references to instruction and learning correspond to the attestations of lexical items belonging to the field of teaching. The sections of AW which were more interesting for the present study could thus be localized on the basis of lexical cues. The selected keywords or cues were the nouns lare, lesceun, meistre and read, and the verbs (i)learen, leornin, (i)teachen and tuhten, occurring altogether one hundred times in the text. Instances of the keywords do seem to cluster in some parts of AW. Part IV, on temptations, is a case in point: in particular leornin ‘receive instruction, learn’ and meistre ‘spiritual instructor’ are more frequent here than in the other parts, even if the numbers as such are small. While Part IV is the lengthiest section of AW, covering approximately a quarter of the whole text (folios 47b to 81a), it contains more than a third of the lexical cues, a somewhat larger share than might be expected. Other passages with a relatively large number of keywords are Part II, dealing with the five senses as well as speech and language, and the outer rule of Part VIII; the short preface is also interesting in this respect. Hiltunen (2003) has provided an insightful analysis of anchoritic communication on the basis of Part II, and the preface is the basis for a discussion of interactive discourse strategies in Hiltunen (2002). As the disproportionately long Part IV is somewhat unwieldy for a case study, the focus of Subsection 3.2 below will be on Part VIII, the ‘end

. There are naturally more words connected with instruction in AW than these fairly ­obvious ones. In fact, an attempt was made, involving the online Middle English Dictionary and the Concordance to Ancrene Wisse (Potts et al. 1993), to establish a broader range of relevant words and subsequently locate their uses in AW. The automatically truncated search terms used for Boolean searching within the MED entries were teach, instruct or learn in the Definition field and ancr in the Stencil field. These searches yielded more than two hundred items, most of them irrelevant. Many of the lexical words found were not directly related to instruction; there were also grammatical words, and items whose examples derived from another manuscript of AW. Such a large number of both hits and misses is interesting lexicographically, but for my purposes it was more useful to focus on just a few clearly relevant words. . Word frequencies are not the main concern here, but it may be noted that the eight keywords are attested from three to twenty-three times.



Ancrene Wisse on instruction

frame’ of AW. First, however, let us take a brief look at a particularly interesting pair of words, followed by an examination of the use of the selected keywords in the text as a whole. At the very beginning of the preface, the author makes a statement about the instructional core of AW: (1) þeo beoð rihte þe luuieð efter riwle. Ant ȝe míne leoue sustren habbeþ moní dei ícrauet on me after riwle. (i. 1a/11–12) ‘They are right who live according to a rule. And you, my dear sisters, have for many a day requested a rule from me.’

An interesting word of instruction appears in (1), showing that the anchoresses  – who did not belong to a religious order with a specific rule – nevertheless felt they needed a riwle, a set of clear and firm instructions to guide them in their chosen life. Incidentally, the Concordance to Ancrene Wisse (Potts et al. 1993) shows that the word riwle ‘rule’ is used 37 times in the Corpus manuscript, while wisse ‘guide’ is used only once, at the very beginning of the text – and is famously not recorded in other Middle English texts at all. In his discussion of both these terms and the authorial choices involved, Dobson (1976: 51–53) suggests that while the author did not try to avoid riwle in AW, it was not feasible to include the word in the title, with the heavy implications of the term for him as a member of his order (Augustinian, according to Dobson). The rare and somewhat ambiguous wisse was used instead. None of the other manuscripts provide a title for the text. Due to its uniqueness, wisse was not one of the words used to identify the loci of teaching. Four of the selected keywords are nouns. The most frequent of them, meistre, often occurs in connection with words for counsel or permission – including read ‘advice’, another of the keywords (see example (11) under 3.2 below) – and refers to the spiritual instructor of the recluses, whom they had to consult about various practical and religious matters. Its other meanings in the Corpus manuscript include ‘tutor’, ‘authority in a branch of learning’ or even ‘conqueror’ (MED s.v. maister (n.)). Another of the nouns, lare, refers in most cases to God’s or other holy teaching; but it may also mean teaching or knowledge more generally, or, on a couple of occasions, the teachings of the devil. Rarer than the other nouns, lesceun refers to lesson or information, or to a Biblical text read during a service. The subjects and (indirect) objects of the selected verbs of instruction indicate who does the teaching and learning in AW. For the most frequent keyword, learen ‘teach’, the subject may be ‘the Lord’, an apostle, a bride of God, or some other authority or model, the object for example ‘his chosen’ or ‘you’. For teachen, . The sometime title of editions, Ancren(e) Riwle, is merely “an editorial improvisation” (Millett 1996: 5), not found in the manuscripts.

41

42

Janne Skaffari

the subject may be personal – such as a pious man, the author or Christ – or impersonal, for example the outer rule or reading (see (2)). Both learen and teachen are moreover used as reporting verbs with names, such as St Jerome in (3). The relevant meaning of the infrequent tuhten is ‘discipline’, for which the subject/object pairs are father/child, husband/wife, and, interestingly, ‘you’/maid (see below for a discussion of maids). Not surprisingly, the characters who (are to) learn are in most cases the anchoresses, but this is not necessarily overtly specified in the actual sentence, as illustrated by (2) and (3): (2) Ofte leoue sustren ȝe schulen uri leasse. forte reden mare. Redunge is god bone. Redunge teacheð hu & hwet me bidde. & beode biȝet hit efter. (IV. 78a/14–16) ‘Often, dear sisters, you must pray less in order to read more. Reading is good prayer. Reading teaches how and what to pray, and prayer obtains it afterwards.’ (3) AS sein Ierome leareð. ne beo ȝe neauer longe ne lihtliche of sum þing allunges idel. for anan rihtes þe feond beot hire his werc. þe i godes werc ne swinkeð. & tuteleð anan toward híre. (VIII. 114b/10–13) ‘As St Jerome teaches, do not ever be long or lightly altogether idle, not doing anything; for immediately the fiend offers his work to her who does not labour at God’s work and whispers to her at once.’

Example (2) also displays another linguistic feature that suggests instructiveness: addressing readers directly. This is common in many texts of the AW Group: Hali Meiðhad, the Wooing Group – and AW itself (Hostetler 2005: 90). The author of AW addresses his audience directly throughout the text, as mine leoue sustren ‘my dear sisters’. This plural phrase occurs 56 times, and there are similar instances in the singular or without the possessive determiner; some singular uses without the determiner (leoue suster) are also attested in the text. Only one instance of ‘dear daughters’ is attested, which may suggest a persuasive emphasis on sisterly equality between the anchoresses, not their inferiority to men (such as the author) or God. Thirteen instances of ‘my dear sisters’ are preceded by ‘you’ (5× ȝe, 8× ow), making the address even more direct. In such cases the use of mine leoue sustren is appositive; but there are also vocative uses of the phrase.

. Probably the most important reporting verb is seggen ‘say’; the form seið ‘s/he says’ alone occurs 217 times. . This reference to deore dehtren (VIII. 113a/13) is an addition to the original AW and only attested in the Corpus manuscript (Millett 2005: xliii). It may have been prompted by the expanding audience of AW (Millett 2006: 284), but it does stand out due to its uniqueness.



Ancrene Wisse on instruction

Personal pronouns such as ‘you’ are frequent in AW, and of considerable linguistic and stylistic significance; Hiltunen (2002: 38) regards “[t]he recurrent use of first and second person pronouns” as evidence of the interactive character of AW. It is best to focus on the ‘I’ of the author and his ‘you’ for the anchoress(es).10 According to the concordance, there are 417 instances of the first person ich and almost the same number of instances of the second person plural ȝe (414); each of these two items is thus used on average 3.5 times on each leaf. The sum of second person singular forms (þu and tu) is somewhat smaller, 338; by comparison, the first person plural we is used much less often, only 152 times. While some of these items are attested in the author’s quotations from various sources, there are plenty of occasions on which ich does refer to the author himself, just as ȝe and ow often point to his audience, the leoue sustren. Two points are worth noting here. First, the tone of the text is collective, in the sense that in second-person constructions plural pronouns outnumber singular ones – the addressee is more often a group of people than an individual. The other point is that first-person pronouns are less frequent in this text than second-person ones. The orientation of the text thus seems to be toward the addressees; there is less focus on the author, even though his knowledge is what AW draws on. First and second person pronouns have been regarded as a sign of involvement for example by Biber (1988: 43), according to whom such features may be seen as more characteristic of speech than writing, and “non-informational and imprecise” speech at that. It has been suggested that at least some of the texts of the AW Group may have been read aloud to listeners – Millett, for example, makes this explicit by referring to the “readers and listeners” of the Group (1996: 15) – but there are many mentions in AW itself that it is to be read by the anchoress (rather than to her), justifying the assumption that this text was not, at least primarily or originally, ­intended for oral presentation. AW is, furthermore, informative and instructive, and sometimes extremely precise and strict about the instructions it provides.

3.2 Instruction in Part VIII Part VIII stands out from the other sections in terms of the lexical cues mentioned above: not only does it contain instances of many such words of instruction, but other relevant items also appear in it – for example, the verbs reden ‘read’ and hercnin ‘listen’, and the sole instance of scolmeistre. Moreover, in describing the contents of the book, the author writes in the preface that Part VIII will propose 10. Only the nominative forms of the personal pronouns were counted for this overview.

43

44 Janne Skaffari

how instruction is to be undertaken (i. 4b/15); this topic will be discussed further in Section 4 below. The second shortest section of AW after the preface, Part VIII covers seven themes: food and drink, possessions, clothes, handiwork, haircutting and bloodletting, the rule for the anchoresses’ maids, and instructing the maids. These are specified in the preface, but the boundaries between the topics in Part VIII do not seem to be marked unambiguously in the manuscript. The lengthiest subsections are those dealing with eating and drinking, which also covers communion and hospitality, and the rule for the servants. Less space is given to hair and blood, property, and work. The clothing section may serve as an example of these detailed instructions. It covers general style (“plain, warm and well made”; White 1993: 193) and materials (no soft linen), but also footwear (different in winter and in summer), headgear (the head should be covered), nightwear (“You must sleep in a robe and with a belt on”; ibid.) and accessories (no gloves or jewellery). While self-mortification is addressed as well – “Let no one… wear any iron, or hair, or hedgehog skins,… nor draw blood from herself with holly or brambles, without her confessor’s leave” (ibid.) – there is also some flexibility and a degree of comfort; the anchoress may for example decide the type of headwear and the amount of bedding and clothing she desires. The author pays considerable attention to the servants of an anchoress in Part VIII, as they played an important role in her life: they acted as mediators between her and the world, and their presence was useful in protecting her safety and honour and controlling her potentially risky solitude (Sauer 2004: 74–75). The maids’ rule and the subsequent discussion therefore receive lengthy treatment – one third of the final part. The contents of the rule resemble the anchoresses’ own rule: there are instructions on eating, prayer, speaking, sleeping, hair and clothes, and contact with other people, with warnings against disagreement. The maid does not really seem to have any freedom. As servant to her mistress, she is expected to become a kind of female religious herself: her outward appearance must indicate the life that she has devoted herself to, which is not worldly, and indeed her reward is not regular wages but the bliss of heaven. Just as the anchoress has vowed to be obedient and chaste and stay in one place, the life expected of her maids is not that different. The author notes, however, that in material things the mistress should be more generous to her servants than to herself. In this respect a servant’s life may – at least in theory – have been a little more comfortable at the dwelling of an upper-class recluse than elsewhere.11

11. The servant would sometimes even inherit her mistress’s abode (Sauer 2004: 73).



Ancrene Wisse on instruction

How are these instructions given in Part VIII? The instructive tone may be conveyed through the use of imperatives or of verb phrases that imply obligation or permission. The author of AW uses both; in addition, there are instances of direct address with noun phrases and second-person pronouns. A variety of colourful expressions add persuasiveness to the text. Three categories of verb phrases are particularly relevant here: those involving imperative forms (commands), negative imperatives (prohibitions) and modal verbs of either obligation or permission. It should be noted that the earlier forms of verbs that are classified as modal auxiliary verbs in Present-Day English did not necessarily have (exclusively) modal or grammatical functions in the early thirteenth century but could still carry some lexical meaning. Moreover, not all instances of such verbs apply directly to the expected actions of the anchoresses (but to their maids, or for example women or people in general). Commands, directives containing a positive imperative verb, are attested throughout the final part, as exemplified by (4) and (5): (4) ED gode men neomeð al þ[et] ow to nedeð. (VIII. 112b/18) ‘Take from good men all that you need…’ (5) Of þis boc redeð when ȝe beoð eise euche dei. (VIII. 117a/27–28) ‘Read from this book each day, when you are at leisure…’

Such expressions are nonetheless slightly outnumbered by prohibitions, with ne preceding the verb, such as in (6) and (7): (6) ne ne neome ed eanes to luðere disceplines. temptatiuns forte acwenchen. (VIII. 113b/7–8) ‘[N]or take at one time over-harsh disciplines to extinguish temptations.’ (7) Ne makie ȝe nane purses forte freondín ow wið. (VIII. 114a/17–18) ‘Do not make any purses to gain friends with…’

Modals of obligation are also often negated.12 Of the ‘modal’ verbs found in Part VIII, the most frequent is schulen, also attested e.g. as schal; see (8) and (9). The MED (s.v. shulen (v. 1)) explores the varied uses of this verb and translates its modal auxiliary meaning as ‘must’, ‘should’ and ‘ought to’, sometimes ‘shall’ or ‘will’; the forms may suggest obligation, but also for instance appropriateness or assertion. Obligation is the core function.13

12. Overall, negation is common in AW: the concordance lists ne as the seventh most frequent vernacular word form in the text. 13. The other relevant verbs, ah(en) and mot(en), are only attested a couple of times in Part VIII.

45

46 Janne Skaffari

(8) Ȝe schulen in an hetter ant igurd liggen. (VIII. 113a/28–113b/1) ‘You [pl.] must sleep in a robe and with a belt on…’ (9) ha schal libben bi ealmesse ase meaðfulliche as ha eauer mei. (VIII. 112a/20–21) ‘She must live on charity as moderately as ever she can…’

The modal of permission is mahen (10), also as mei (11). The same forms may also signal ability, as in (9) above. (10) A meoke surpliz ȝe mahen in hat sumer werien. (VIII. 114a/15–16) ‘In hot summer you [pl.] may wear a light gown.’ (11) þing þah þ[et] ha wurcheð ha mei þurh hire meistres read. for hire neode sullen. (VIII. 113a/10–11) ‘Things, though, that she makes she may, on her director’s advice, sell to meet her needs…’

It is perhaps not surprising that there should be more emphasis on forbidding certain actions to anchoresses – who were to live externally inactive lives of internal devotion – as opposed to ordering or allowing them to do something actively. An interesting feature of the verb constructions is observed by Petersen (2005: 72–75 et passim): the author uses them not only to give strict instructions but also to allow his audience to use their own judgment according to the situation at hand. She particularly refers to “backpedaling patterns” in the outer rule. Such ‘do X… but if you cannot, you may do Y’ structures are not uncommon, and match the expressly stated feature of the rules: the inner rule is “always the same without change”, but the outer one “may change variously in accordance with each one’s condition and nature” (White 1993: 3).14 The author addresses his audience directly six times, as ‘(my) dear sisters’, ‘you anchoresses’ and ‘dear daughters’ (see above). Interestingly, there is one further point (12) where the address switches from the more common plural to the singular, indicated by the noun phrase and the relevant pronouns and verb inflections: (12) Hwi þenne þu chirch ancre iwímplet openest þi neb to wepmonnes ehe. toȝeines þe sist men. spekeð þe apostle. ȝef þu þe ne hudest. ah ȝef þ[et] ei þing wriheð þi neb from monnes ehe… Toȝeines þe þe þus ne dest. spekeð þe apostle nawt toȝeínes oþre. (VIII. 114a/3–9)

14. Interestingly, some of the flexibility (often subject to the instructor’s consent) seems to have been added to the Corpus manuscript and does not derive from the original AW. This is rendered visible through the editorial conventions of Millett’s edition (2005).



Ancrene Wisse on instruction

‘Why, then, you church anchoress, do you wear a wimple [a nun’s headdress] and uncover your face to the eye of a man? The Apostle is speaking against you [sg.] who see men, if you [sg.] do not conceal yourself. But if anything covers your [sg.] face from a man’s eye… The Apostle is speaking against you [sg.] who act like this, not against the others…’

This moment of singular reference is an exception here, but the author does write elsewhere too about an anchoress doing this or that. His preference for plural forms may seem to make the anchoritic audience more of a community than separately enclosed women religious in fact were. Dobson (1976: 250–253) offers another explanation: the plurals are actually more personal, in that they are directed at a particular, familiar audience (i.e. the original three sisters), while the singulars are less specific and apply to any anchoress living in the solitude of her cell. The text is thus made more anonymous by switches between these two kinds of audience. The personal pronouns of AW (see 3.1 above) indicate that while the voice of the author is clearly heard through many pronominal first-person references, the focus is on the addressees. The same is seen, perhaps to an exaggerated degree, in the final part: the second person plural for the audience outnumbers the first person of the author four to one. Instances of the singular tu/þu, such as in (12), are very rare. The first person plural we is interestingly not used at all in Part VIII, although it is attested throughout the preceding sections. This may reflect a major difference between the inner and the outer rule: the author – unlike anchoresses – is not likely to (need to) live in a severely restricted space devoted to quiet meditation only, but does share the same religious (‘inner’) convictions. In Part VIII, as elsewhere in AW, the author makes use of various devices to make the text more interesting and persuasive. Comparisons, metaphors and proverbial expressions are not rare. For example, the actions of a recluse collecting material wealth – which is regarded as immodest and dangerous, even if it is for charity work – are compared to a tree: “Whenever greediness is the root of such gathering, all the boughs that grow from it are bitter with its bitterness” (White 1993: 192). Conversely, idleness is also risky: “Iron that lies still soon gathers rust; water that does not move quickly stinks” (White 1993: 195). As in other parts of the text, quotes from and references to the Bible or other sources are often made in order to lend more weight to the instructions, but an authority may be invoked even when it has no obvious link to the point being made: “It is a hateful thing, Christ knows, when complaints are made in the village about an

47

48 Janne Skaffari

anchoress’s ­ livestock” (White 1993: 192).15 Some humour can also be traced in Part VIII. Consider (13): (13) me haueð iherd ofte þ[et] deade speken wið cwike. ah þ[et] ha eten wið cwike ne fond ich ȝet n eauer. (VIII. 111b/23–24) ‘One has often heard that dead have spoken with the living, but that they have eaten with the living I have never yet found.’

This comment concludes a criticism of anchoresses who have meals with their visitors, which is not only too friendly and hospitable but also against the essential anchoritic principle, being dead to this world. The humour may be sharp, even somewhat twisted, but gets the point across. Kindness or understanding, however, is perhaps more prominent here: “I would rather you bore a harsh remark well than a harsh hairshirt” (White 1993: 194) may be taken to reveal something about the author’s own attitude towards his protégées. We shall return to this topic at the end of the following section.

4.

Teaching women

The question of gender obviously emerges when texts, and their producers and recipients, are studied by discourse analysts and sociolinguists today. It has long been recognized that the anonymous author of AW was a man, and while it is not news that the original intended audience consisted of women, the role of the audience has changed in research on AW. In his classic paper on the language of AW and Hali Meiðhad, Tolkien (1929: 116) did not find the audience an important factor for scholars to consider; more recently, however, as Millett (1996: 15–17) observes, it is precisely the question of women as audience that has received increasing attention, probably “sustaining academic interest in the study of the [AW] Group into the 21st century” (1996: 44). The presence of women in the text – as the original recipients, as the broader intended audience, as subject matter – has recently stimulated new, feminist readings of AW. As another new framework of reference, queer theory has provided one more approach to the text, although this is still rare (see, however, Sauer 2004). Studies of attitudes towards women as witnessed in AW often mention two terms: antifeminism and misogyny (for examples see Petersen 2005: 70). While it is not surprising that such terms appear in recent research, their use reflects a present-day or post-modern interpretation rather than the standards or expectations 15. Although “Christ knows” may be a more or less formulaic expression, it nevertheless indicates the author’s preferred source of support for his arguments.



Ancrene Wisse on instruction

of the medieval producer of the text and his recipients, and is therefore anachronistic. This problem has also been noted for example by Robertson (1990: 193), Millett (1996: 26) and Petersen (ibid.). More knowledge of or attention to the medieval context might make feminist analyses more plausible. That said, AW does present the woman (reader) as ideally obedient, asexual and silent. The last of these features merits more attention here, as speech – and the lack thereof – is connected to teaching. In his analysis of Part II, Hiltunen (2003: 68–74) describes how essential it was in anchoritic verbal behaviour to abstain from speaking as far as possible, and introduces a “Silence Principle” as the conversational and communicative practice that overruled the cooperative and politeness principles. He suggests that maximizing silence and minimizing speech is, according to AW, not only virtuous as such but increases the relative impact that words – when rarely spoken – eventually have on fellow humans and God alike. The prescribed code of language use, that of limited speech, thus offers the silent anchoress fairly concrete benefits. Despite the limitations of anchoritic life, there were advantages as well. Indeed, Robertson (1990: 23) argues that [a]n anchorhold … offered a woman a medieval version of Virginia Woolf ’s “room of one’s own,” because there a woman could find privacy, autonomy, and a chance for intellectual development unavailable even in the convent.

The choices for women in medieval English society, as noted in Section 2 above, were not many. Sauer (2004: 73) points out that an anchoress’s dwelling was an unusually private place for its time. It also made intellectual activity and learning possible by allowing a space for reading and thinking (meditation), at a time when education was not readily available in the outside world. AW itself is crucial in the education of anchoresses; on its final leaf, the author exhorts them to read from it every day (see (5) above). In his discussion of medieval ways of reading, Amsler (2001: 89) observes that it is texts – rather than relics or images – that inspire the anchoresses’ devotions: their reading can be described as active, a form of prayer and contemplation (see also (2) above). This must be the objective of the learning and improvement accomplished by the anchoress: a closer connection with God, and – ultimately – salvation. The sinful and talkative woman “must be transformed into the passive, silent Mary rather than into an active, abstract thinker”, according to Robertson (1990: 74). Putting intellect to worldly, even selfish use – such as trying to outsmart the person one is conversing with through the small window of the anchor­ hold – is not acceptable. Learnedness is not presented in AW as a worthy goal in itself, but has negative associations. As Hiltunen (2003: 60) notes, the author warns against loquaciousness: a meistre, a cleverly speaking ‘scholar’ who wants to

49

50

Janne Skaffari

appear wise, degenerates from the ideal state of being an anchoress.16 Preaching too is forbidden, as we see in (14): (14) Ne preachi ȝe to namon. ne mon ne easki ow cunsail ne ne telle ow. readeð wummen ane. (II. 17b/24–25) ‘Do not preach to any man – and no man should ask your counsel, or give you his. Advise women only.’

The preaching ban comes from St Paul, quoted in the text, and is apparently so obvious that it does not need further discussion. Giving counsel to women will be discussed below. After such restrictions on women’s communication and the emphasis on silence, it is rather surprising that the women for whom AW was written were not regarded as mere recipients of instruction. This becomes evident towards the very end of AW, in the outer rule, discussing the practicalities of life in the religious recluse’s house, particularly the relationship between the anchoress and her servants. Interestingly, the role of the anchoress is as good as reversed in the maids’ rule of Part VIII: after receiving a plethora of inner rules and outer advice from the author, she emerges as the active party who may lead and guide others. She resumes some of her original – fairly high – social standing, or could perhaps even be said to take on a role previously reserved for males in the book: the anchoress is to have control over the actions of her maids, their possessions and behaviour, granting them permission to do certain things (such as leaving the anchorhold on errands) and laying penance on them if they act inappropriately. Penance (penitence), as imposed by the anchoress, is mentioned three times in this short passage, until it is finally stated that confession is to be made by the maids to the priest – but only when needed, and with permission from the maid’s mistress. Although she obviously cannot be a confessor, schrifte, the anchoress is to the maid what the male meistre (‘director’, White 1993) is to her. Sauer (2004: 77) recognizes the dominance of the anchoress, describing her “as facilitator, as spiritual guide, and as elder” in relation to the servants. Indeed, despite the earlier instructions in Part VIII that the cell must not become a school nor the recluse a schoolteacher, the humble student eventually turns into something of an instructor herself at the end of AW, even if her audience is extremely limited: the outer rule is not only something that each anchoress reads by herself, but she is to read relevant passages of it to her maids as well. This is not to say that maids were automatically regarded as illiterate, since the rule specifies how to go about the maid’s devotions in case she cannot read (ne con o boke, VIII. 115b/9).

16. The MED (s.v. maister (n.)) here translates the noun as ‘religious instructor’.



Ancrene Wisse on instruction

The maid, furthermore, is allowed to teach another girl for whom learning among males would not be safe; what this teaching consists of is not made explicit. Instruction of this type noticeably breaks the silence prescribed for the anchoritic cell, but this problem is not discussed in Part VIII.17 The instructions on teaching the maids are briefer than the actual maids’ rule: (15) Ȝe ancres ahen þis leaste stucche reden to ower wummen euche wike eanes. aþet ha hit cunnen. Ant muche neod is þ[et] ȝe neomen to ham muche ȝeme. for ȝe mahen muchel beon þurh ham igodet. & iwurset. On oðer half ȝef þet ha sungið þurh ower ȝemeles. ȝe schule beo bicleopet þrof biuore þe hehe deme. & for þi as ow is muche neod. & ham ȝet mare. ȝeornliche leareð ham to halden hare riwle. ba for ow & for ham seolf. liðeliche & luueliche. for swuch ah wummone lare to beonne. luuelich & liðe. & selthwenne sturne. Ba is riht þ[et] ha ow dreden & luuien. ant þah þ[et] ter beo eauer mare of luue. þen of drede. þenne schal hit wel fearen. (VIII. 116b/16–27) ‘You anchoresses ought to read this last section to your women once each week until they know it. And it is very necessary that you pay much attention to them, for you can be greatly benefited by them and greatly harmed. In addition, if they sin through your heedlessness, you will be called to account for that before the High Judge. And therefore, as is very necessary for you and still more for them, diligently teach them to keep their rule, both for you and for themselves – gently and lovingly, for such ought women’s teaching to be: loving and gentle and seldom stern. It is right that they should fear and love you both, and also that there should be more of love than of fear. Then things will go well.’

Several opposites are visible in (15) – hate and love, harm and benefit, ‘you’ and ‘them’ – and while the excerpt contains an element of threat, underlining the anchoresses’ responsibility over their servants, it ends with a promise of success. The core of the teaching method is clearly visible: it is gentleness and love, with little punishment. This can be seen as suggesting the author’s ideas not just on how female servants should be trained and controlled, but also on how the whole book serves as instruction.

17. The maids’ silence, however, is mentioned: they should not disturb the anchoress’s peace, nor should possible visitors.

51

52

Janne Skaffari

5.

Concluding remarks

Ancrene Wisse is the foremost member of the early Middle English AW Group of devotional texts for women. The texts share the same or a similar readership, and an instructive purpose. This is evident for example from the persuasive, vivid language and the use of direct address in the AW Group. To succeed in his instructional task, the author of AW emphasizes the role of the recipients, the anchoresses, by his use of second person pronouns. The instructions given in the rule can be very detailed, and while they are conveyed as prohibitions, commands and other expressions of obligation, there are also permissions. In practical, external matters the anchoress is left some room to manoeuvre according to her own needs. Particularly towards the end, AW allows the anchoress to appear as the mistress of the household who has control over her own space – perhaps even as the ‘man of the house’. She is also responsible for the actions of her maid(s) and their education, in the sense that she is to transmit the relevant content of the rule to the servants. The method of instruction recommended in the manual is not unlike that applied by the author himself: teaching is to be done with gentleness and understanding, even if authority remains with the teacher. The anchoress is thus instructed to be silently devoted to God, but she is not stripped of all power, nor of all human interaction.

References Amsler, Mark. 2001. “Affective literacy: Gestures of reading in the later Middle Ages.” Essays in Medieval Studies 18: 83–109. Bennett, J. A. W. and Smithers, G. V. (eds). 1966. Early Middle English Verse and Prose. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Biber, Douglas. 1988. Variation across Speech and Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dahood, Roger. 1984. “Ancrene Wisse, the Katherine Group, and the Wohunge Group.” In Middle English Prose: A Critical Guide to Major Authors and Genres, A. S. G. Edwards (ed.), 1–33. New Brunswick, NJ: Ruther University Press. Dobson, E. J. 1976. The Origins of Ancrene Wisse. Clarendon Press: Oxford. Hiltunen, Risto. 2002. “Voices in Ancrene Wisse: The Rule as an interactive text.” In A Book of Ancrene Wisse, Yoko Wada (ed.), 37–58. Suita, Osaka: Kansai University Press. Hiltunen, Risto. 2003. “Telling the anchorite code: Ancrene Wisse on language.” In Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern [Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 119], Risto Hiltunen and Janne Skaffari (eds), 57–76. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins.



Ancrene Wisse on instruction

Hostetler, Margaret. 2005. “The characterized reader in Hali Meiðhad and the resisting reader of feminist discourse.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 6 (1): 87–111. Leyser, Henrietta. 1995. Medieval Women: A Social History of Women in England 450–1500. London: Phoenix. The Middle English Dictionary [MED]. 1956–2001. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Millett, Bella. 1996. Ancrene Wisse, the Katherine Group, and the Wooing Group [Annotated Bibliographies of Old and Middle English Literature II]. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer. Millett, Bella. 2004. “The Ancrene Wisse Group.” In A Companion to Middle English Prose, A. S. G. Edwards (ed.), 1–17. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer. Millett, Bella (ed.). 2005–06. Ancrene Wisse: A Corrected Edition of the Text in Cambridge, Corpus Christi College, MS 402, with Variants from Other Manuscripts, Vols. I–II [Early English Text Society 325–326]. With a glossary and additional notes by Richard Dance. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Petersen, Zina. 2005. “Institution and individual in conflict: The Early Middle English Ancrene Wisse and the authority of speech acts.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 6 (1): 69–86. Potts, Jennifer, Stevenson, Lorna and Wogan-Browne, Jocelyn (eds). 1993. Concordance to Ancrene Wisse: MS Corpus Christi College Cambridge 402. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer. Robertson, Elizabeth. 1990. Early English Devotional Prose and the Female Audience. Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press. Sauer, Michelle M. 2004. “Representing the negative: The lesbian void in medieval English anchoritism.” thirdspace 3 (2): 70–88. Tolkien, J. R. R. 1929. “Ancrene Wisse and Hali Meiðhad.” Essays and Studies XIV: 104–126. Tolkien, J. R. R. (ed.). 1962. Ancrene Wisse: Edited from MS. Corpus Christi College Cambridge 402 [Early English Text Society Original Series 249]. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Werlich, Egon. 1976. A Text Grammar of English. Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer. White, Hugh (transl.). 1993. Ancrene Wisse: Guide for Anchoresses. London: Penguin.

53

Vague language in the medieval recipes of the Forme of Cury Ruth Carroll

Although many modern readers find medieval recipes to be disturbingly vague, no study until now has gone beyond first impressions to investigate what exactly evokes this reaction. This quantitative study documents the vagueness and precision of the English medieval recipes found in the Forme of Cury collection. It starts from Channell’s (1994) tripartite typology of vagueness (Approximated Quantities, Vague Categories, and Placeholder Words), and finds that there is surprisingly little linguistic signaling of vagueness in medieval recipes. By considering three additional categories of vagueness (Flexibility, Superordinacy, and Omission), the paper then shows that much of the perceived vagueness of medieval recipes is due to Omission, which can be explained by the very different audience for which medieval recipes were written.

1.

Introduction I gave her my tried and true recipe for chili... and explained every detail carefully. This is why a friend beats a cookbook hands down: you can’t cross-examine a cookbook. (Colwin 1988: 11)

When modern readers look at medieval recipes, one of the first things they remark upon is the vagueness of the recipes. The lack of specification in them leads Vaasjoki to say they are “are peculiar reading” (2001), and Henisch to call them “disconcertingly unfamiliar” (1976: 142). While some such comments remain relatively objective, others “grumble” (in the words of Pullar (1970: 101)), using

. I am very grateful to all three editors, an anonymous reviewer, and Keith Battarbee for detailed comments on earlier versions of this paper.

56

Ruth Carroll

words like imprecise and even incomplete (for example, Görlach 2004: 125). However, until now there has been no thorough linguistic study evaluating statements such as these. No one has explored how or to what extent this vagueness is linguistically signaled, or systematically compared this aspect of medieval recipes with modern ones. The present article explores one medieval recipe collection in detail with regard to vagueness and precision expressed within it, and offers some preliminary comparisons with other medieval recipe collections and with present-day cookbooks. Complaints about the vagueness of medieval recipes reflect the common assumption that good writing requires precision and specificity. As Channell points out, many readers believe that all good writing should avoid “vagueness, ambiguity, imprecision, and general woolliness” (1994: 1). If this is to be demanded of all good writing, how much more so of good instructional writing! Although Channell then refutes the claim that good writing must necessarily be precise, calling this “rather too simple... and likely to be positively misleading as an instruction to those learning how to write” (1994: 1), she continues by saying, “What matters is that vague language is used appropriately,” tailored to the context in which it is used (1994: 3). Thus, many readers might argue that instructional texts comprise one of the contexts in which specificity is required and vague language is inappropriate. For example, a recent bestselling novel by Lauren Weisberger, The Devil Wears Prada, denounces a fashion magazine editor for issuing demands far too vague for most people to even consider trying to follow: to bring her a skirt (without any guidelines as to fabric or length), to buy the table that she saw in that store the other day (which store? what table?), and to get her a reservation at that wellreviewed restaurant (never mentioning that although she lives and works in New York, the restaurant she wants is in Washington, DC). The novel’s readers are invited to agree that these are unreasonably vague instructions, and that such a person would be a nightmare to work for. Is it not equally unreasonable, then, for a recipe to call for oynouns and erbes (how many onions? what kind of herbs?), or a quantite of wyne (a large quantity? a small one?)? Both these phrases are taken from a medieval recipe collection, the Forme of Cury. It is this sort of imprecision that goads Görlach, despite his acknowledgement that the requirements of recipe texts may vary from one culture to another, into asserting that the medieval text lacks “proper quantifications” (2004: 130).

. All passages quoted here from Görlach (2004) may also be found verbatim in an earlier publication (Görlach 1992).



1.1

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury

Contextualizing the vagueness of medieval recipes

There are two problems with criticizing recipes in this way. On the one hand, the criticism reflects a cultural (and temporal) bias (Carroll 1999). Hieatt and Butler, scholarly editors familiar with medieval recipes, describe Middle English recipes as “precise and discriminating in directions for seasoning and colouring”, although they concede that they are “terse” (1985: 8). It is proof of the cultural nature of textual norms that medievalists like Hieatt and Butler can call “precise” the same body of texts that a historical linguist like Görlach calls “imprecise” (in the same chapter in which he quotes this very passage from Hieatt and Butler (Görlach 2004: 125, 130)). Modern recipe readers are used to being given exact measurements. “Until you are experienced, we strongly urge you to make a fetish of the level standard measure,” write Rombauer and Becker in Joy of Cooking (1975: 589). But this level standard measure (the cup) was only introduced into North America at the end of the nineteenth century (Driver 2005), and has still never caught on in British cookery, where dry ingredients are measured by weight (apart from the use of spoon measures). Delia Smith’s twentieth-century warning, “you simply must weigh everything to be sure of success” (1989: 17, emphasis in the original) echoes Beeton’s 1861 assertion that kitchen scales are “amongst the most essential requirements of the kitchen”. As we shall see, even medieval recipes indicate quantity of ingredients by weight, although only rarely. The second problem with criticizing a recipe for imprecision is that it assumes that all recipes are written for the same function and for the same audience. Reconsider the outrageously demanding editor in The Devil Wears Prada. Nobody would have criticized her had she written herself a reminder the day before a trip and taped it to her bathroom mirror: “pack skirt”, without specifying which skirt she meant. And she would be perfectly justified in writing into her own day-planner, “book restaurant”, without naming the restaurant. Similarly, a recipe written as an aide-mémoire, by a cook for his or her own use, may be very imprecise indeed. Even recipes written for others will vary in precision according to the skills and experience of the audience. In my teaching I often ask my students to analyze a recipe by Delia Smith, and many of them are contemptuous of her explicit instruction to use “an oven glove to protect your hands” (Smith 1995: 133), finding it patronizing. Yet it is the very fact that Smith does not assume previous experience which endears her to her fans. Her warning about measurement quoted above was prefaced (in part), “If you’re a beginner”. In contrast, the experienced cook, Nigel Slater, concedes in his own cookbook, “I have to admit to rarely measuring anything” (1992: 12).

57

58

Ruth Carroll

Middle English recipes were not written to teach the uninitiated how to prepare food. An extreme view is that the function of the medieval recipe was not to instruct at all, but was mere propaganda. Just as glossy twentieth-century ­cookbooks may represent “the fantasy of female achievement”, so fourteenthcentury cookbooks, full of spicery and saffron, may represent a fantasy of lordly wealth. While some culinary historians do argue that one purpose of the medieval cookbook was to document “conspicuous consumption” (Scully 1995: 9, see also pp. 5, 25) or to testify to the skills of the cook (Attar 1987: 13), they also accept it as documentary evidence of the practices of the medieval noble kitchen. That recipe books may have served to assert a household’s wealth need not negate other simultaneous functions of these texts, including instruction. Henisch argues for the utility of these texts on the basis of “practical hints and knowledgeable asides” found in them (1976: 144). They were instruction, then, but not for the novice and therefore did not include detailed guidance, precise measurements, or elaborated descriptions of the final desired outcome. Unlike modern recipes, which are written for a wide audience, including people with varied abilities and experience at cooking, medieval recipes were “crib sheets for professionals” (Redon et al. 1998: 37; see also Scully 1995: 25). In the words of Henisch, “the [medieval] recipe lays all responsibility in the lap of the cook” (1976: 143). The Forme of Cury contains many instructions which assume good judgment on the part of an experienced cook. Recipe 25, for example, instructs the reader to Take hares and seeþ hem ... and whan þey buth ynowh, cast hem in colde water. In other words, simmer the hare until it’s done (however long that might take), and then plunge it into cold water to prevent further cooking. We are not told how to test whether it is ready (nor are we told explicitly why the cold water is necessary), just as three recipes earlier, it is assumed we will know how to decide whether our mawmenny (a dish familiar to the medieval cook, consisting of shredded poultry meat in a spiced wine and almond sauce) needs coloring added: . This phrasing was used in an Oxford seminar by Mary Beard. A less extreme version of this view is expressed by McKendry: “no cook tries out all the recipes in the books she so obsessively buys; but recipes are often read with pleasure, even if they are not used” ([1973] 1983: 8). . See Mooney (2004) for further evidence which may be gleaned from manuscripts themselves about the use of medieval utilitarian works, including recipes. . A recipe concordance shows seventeen medieval recipes for mawmenny, a number which does not include other recipes extant in “several manuscripts which C. B. Hieatt has in microfilms and transcripts” or any which have not yet been published in modern editions (Hieatt et al. 2006: ix, 57–58). Although disappointingly narrow in scope, this concordance does provide supporting evidence that few if any medieval English recipes were for unique new dishes.

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury



(1) colour it with saundres a lytel yf hit be nede (22) color it with sandalwood a little if it be needed

In this article, therefore, I will go beyond first impressions to document systematically the vagueness and precision of English medieval recipes. By including vague nouns and adjectives as well as vague quantifiers, this study straddles the division posited by Wang and Piao (2007) between studies of linguistic vagueness and pragmalinguistic vagueness. In the spirit of Hiltunen and Skaffari (2003), this research is based on a close reading of one single and complete text, a discourse linguistic study based not merely on decontextualized citations garnered from a corpus, but on the context of the whole. My text is the Forme of Cury (abbreviated below as FC).

1.2 The Forme of Cury The Forme of Cury is “the most famous and extensive” of the fourteenth-century recipe collections (Hieatt and Butler 1985: 20). It contains 205 recipes and is approximately 12,400 words long. It is extant, at least in part, in nine manuscripts, one of which, British Library Additional MS 5016, has been used as the sole or base manuscript for all editions of FC. Additional 5016 is a vellum roll ­containing a . Forme of Cury recipes are quoted from Hieatt and Butler (1985: 98–145), and cited by editorical recipe number. Recipes from all other collections are cited by page number of the edition. Recipe glosses in this article are my own; I tend to rely on cognate forms and leave the syntax as in the original, except where it might mislead. Archaisms in the glosses generally follow the Oxford English Dictionary headword spelling, while Middle English words used in the text will either follow the recipe from which they are quoted or the Middle English Dictionary headword spelling. . As noted below, this number represents a conflation of all the manuscripts; no single manuscript attestation of this collection contains all 205 recipes. British Library Additional MS 5016 contains 196. . Hieatt now describes three of the nine as “close relatives” rather than the same text (Hieatt et al. 2006: xiv). This ambiguity as to which versions are close relatives and which are mere variants of the same text is typical of discourse colonies (Hoey 2001; Carroll 2003, 2005–2006). Because the edition I rely upon (as revised in Hieatt 1988b) treats all nine manuscripts as versions of the same text, this paper does so as well. . The Additional manuscript was copied during the first half of the eighteenth century by Hearne to produce what is now Oxford Bodleian Rawlinson MS D 194, and subsequently edited and printed by Pegge in 1780 under the title, The Forme of Cury. In 1791 Warner republished Pegge’s version in Antiquitates Culinariae: Tracts on Culinary Affairs of the Old English, a volume which Hieatt and Butler describe as being more user-friendly than Pegge’s, but ­unfortunately

59

60 Ruth Carroll

version of the collection which was copied, according to Hieatt and Butler, around the end of the first quarter of the fifteenth century (1985: 24). FC is the only text in this manuscript, apart from a memorandum stating that the roll was presented to Queen Elizabeth in 1586. I have relied on Hieatt and Butler’s scholarly edition of FC (1985), as informed by Hieatt’s subsequent revisions (1988b). Theirs is a critical edition: it includes some emendations based on the other FC manuscripts, and notes some (but by no means all) variant readings in footnotes. An important point to note is that all the punctuation in the edition is editorial, and occasionally I have departed from Hieatt and Butler’s interpretations. In addition to the fact that the edition is a conflation of nine versions of the text, which in some places were quite substantially different (raising concerns about “the integrity of the collection” (Keiser 1988: 411)), it is also worth pointing out that the “text” itself was likely composed by more than one person, and certainly that the individual recipes could have had a vast number of different original authors. Thus, not all recipes will necessarily reflect the same authorial assumptions about a culinary textual ideal with regard to vagueness (see Carroll 2003 for a fuller exploration of the recipe collection as “text”, and Machan 1994 for one discussion of the problems of determining “author” and “text” for Middle English works more generally). While the majority of my analysis was done by hand, working through the text in its entirety in printed form, I also consulted my own computer-readable version of the text. This has the advantage of making it possible to confirm results, especially for quantitative data, as well as testing the claims of earlier researchers. Hazlitt ([1886] 1902) asserts that the Forme of Cury contains “no allusion to butter”, but a search for the string butter in fact produces five hits. Such searching must be done with care, however. Channell comments that identifying Placeholder Words (discussed below) was difficult because they are part of spoken language and so do not have standardized spellings. They are “difficult to research, since it is not easy to search a corpus for them” (1994: 157). In my case it is the entire language which is not standardized; variant spellings must always be searched for. Even for the word butter, the token count doubles once variant spellings are taken into account. In all, eight of the 205 recipes in the collection call for butter, one mentioning it three times. I begin my analysis by following a tripartite typology of vagueness developed by Channell (1994). Hers is a descriptive study of Standard British English, which also more flawed (1985: 22–23). Most recently, the manuscript was edited for the Early English Text Society in 1985 by Hieatt and Butler. Hieatt later concluded that the slightly earlier John Rylands University Library of Manchester English MS 7 would have been preferable as a base manuscript (Hieatt 1988b).

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury



was primarily based on naturally-occurring attested examples (both spoken and written), but supplemented by elicitation data, introspective data, and invented examples (1994: 23, 40–41). Channell’s study is well-known, and her typology has since been adopted by other researchers (see, for example, Jucker et al. 2003). Channell’s three main categories are Approximated Quantities, Vague Categories, and Placeholder Words, and these will each be addressed with regard to FC in Sections 2–4, below. I then move on in Sections 5–7 to consider three further categories of vagueness in recipes, which I have named Flexibility, Superordinacy, and Omission.10 In each section I will also briefly consider tokens of the opposite of vagueness: precision. Although I describe these as opposites, they should be seen as gradable rather than complementary antonyms. The phrase “a great quantity” is less vague than “a quantity”, but more vague than “250 ml” or “nine fluid ounces”.

2.

Quantities

Channell’s first category of vague language is Approximated Quantities. This is likely to be rare in medieval recipes, since quantification of any kind is rare. For example, a typical recipe contains no numbers and no measurements: (2)

Malaches of pork. Hewe pork al to pecys and medle it with ayren & “Malachis of pork”. Cut pork all to pieces and mix it with eggs and chese igrated. Do þerto powdour fort, safroun cheese grated. Add thereto poudre fort [seasoning], saffron & pynes with salt. Make a crust in a trap; bake it wel & pine nuts with salt. Make a crust in a cooking vessel; bake it well þerinne, and serue it forth. (162) therein, and serve it forth.

However, as alluded to above, it would be incorrect to say that medieval recipe writers “never” indicated quantities of ingredients.

10. Although these terms are obviously not new, this grouping of them as a supplement to Channell’s typology is my own. Flexibility in the form of either...or sentences has been treated as Vagueness by Zhang (1998: 17), who, however, classifies Superordinacy as Generality (1998: 16). Omission is excluded from Channell’s analysis as “suppression of reference or mention” (1994: 19), although Channell does agree that Omission is perceived by language users as vagueness. Omission is extremely problematic for a quantitative, analytical study, but it is relevant here because it answers the question motivating this paper, “What makes modern users perceive these recipes as overly vague?”

61

62

Ruth Carroll

2.1 Precise (specified) quantities Each manuscript of FC contains at least one recipe which uses recognizable units of measure: (3)

... ounces kanel ... take viii galones of god stale ale to on galon ... ounces cinnamon ... take 8 gallons of good stale ale to one gallon of hony (205) of honey

(4) Take a potell of wyne greke and ii pounde of sugur (22) Take a pottle of wine Greek [a sweet wine] and 2 pounds of sugar

British Library Harleian MS 1605 is the only FC manuscript to contain the recipe which Hieatt and Butler have numbered 205, for spiced wine (example (3)). Unfortunately, the beginning of the recipe is missing, so we do not know how many ounces of cinnamon were called for, but the instructions about the proportion of ale to honey are clear. This recipe also contains vague measurements, such as a lytel peper (“a little pepper”). Recipe 22, for mawmenny (example (4)), is found in all the FC manuscripts other than the Harleian one which includes 205 (Hieatt and Butler 1985: 93). The opening line of the recipe, quoted above, and seemingly present in all versions of the recipe (Hieatt and Butler 1985: 102), calls for a pottle (two quarts) of sweet wine and two pounds of sugar. Elsewhere in the recipe such measurements are not given: (5) Take flour of rys and medle with sum of the wyne (22) Take flour of rice and mix with some of the wine

It was evidently only the proportions of wine to sugar in the sauce that were of particular concern for this cook to document. Three of the manuscripts also contain a second recipe which incorporates quantification of ingredients, but is exceptional in two other ways. Firstly, it is written in French: (6) Pur fait ypocras. Troys vnces de canell & ii vnces de gyngeuer (199) To make hippocras. 3 ounces of cinnamon and 2 ounces of ginger

Secondly, hippocras is a spiced wine drink. Recipes for alcoholic drinks are rarely found in medieval culinary collections, but tend to occur among medicinal recipes, something which is also true of recipes for candied foods (Hieatt and Butler 1985: 31). Medieval compilers did differentiate between medicinal and culinary recipes, grouping culinary ones together (see Hieatt and Butler 1985: 158 for

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury



reference to two FC manuscripts which also contain non-culinary recipe collections), but the distinctions were drawn differently than they are today. Examples (3), (4), and (6) demonstrate that the medieval cook had the ability to measure ingredients when desired. The language does contain the vocabulary for it (FC contains the words quart, galones, potell, ounces, pounde, and additionally, in French, le pays dun denerer “a pennyworth” and quarter donce “quarter of an ounce”) and medieval wills show that households had measures such as gallon pots (Henisch 1976: 142). So we may infer that the lack of measurements in most medieval recipes is due to different textual norms and expectations rather than a lack of means or competence. Further evidence for medieval norms regarding quantification and measurement in recipes is found beyond this single recipe collection. When fourteenthand fifteenth-century English recipes do specify measures, it is often for alcohol (mead, wine, ale) or sweeteners (sugar and honey). This is true of examples (3) and (4), cited above, and (7) and (8), below: (7) Take a quart of hony Take a quart of honey (“Gyngerbrede”, British Library Harleian MS 279) (Austin [1888] 1964: 35)

It may also be that what triggers quantification is not so much these ingredients themselves as their use in recipes for spiced drinks and for candied foods, which, as already noted, were often treated somewhat differently from other culinary recipes. (8)

Take xiiii galouns of good fyn ale... half a quart of lyf hony ... Take 14 gallons of good fine ale... half a quart of raw honey... i penyworþ of poudir of clowis 1 pennyworth of powder of cloves (“Brakott”, British Library Royal MS 17.A.iii) (Hieatt and Butler 1985: 149)

(9) To make anneys in counfyte. Take ii unc of fayre anneys To make anise in comfit. Take 2 ounces of fair anise (British Library Harleian MS 2378) (Hieatt and Butler 1985: 151)

A broader study could test these hypotheses. What is clear is that although precise quantification of ingredients is rare in medieval recipes (six of the FC manuscripts contain only one single recipe with such quantification), it does occur. Another fifteen FC recipes indicate proportions, although not exact quantities: (10) Do þerto half wyne and half water (33) Add thereto half wine and half water

63

64 Ruth Carroll

(11) wiþ almost as myche verious as water (164) with almost as much verjuice as water (12)

Take almaundes and grynde hem. Take þe tweydel of wyne oþer Take almonds and grind them. Take half as much wine or the þriddell of vyneger; drawe vp the almaundes þerwith. (138) a third as much vinegar; mix up the almonds therewith.

Moreover, quantification is also used in eight recipes to indicate size.11 This is done either by reference to other common objects: (13) as grete as apples (158) as big as apples (14) as thynne as paper (171) as thin as paper (15) of þe length of a litel fyngur (196) of the length of a little finger

or using quantified measurements: (16) ii ynch deep (191) 2 inches deep (17) a foot brode (197) a foot broad

There are also some vague measurements such as grete “great”, smale “small”, and litel “little”. There is not space here to discuss the (admittedly few) instances in FC of vague temporal quantification (a while) and intensity (lat it not seeþ to fast “let it not boil too strongly”) or heat (esy fyre “slow fire”). Within the context of medieval recipes, many of which give no indication of quantity (as with recipe 162, quoted in its entirety as example (2)), even measurements like grete and smale might be considered as instances of detail, but following Channell I will classify them as non-numerical vague quantifiers (discussed in the next section).

2.2 Vague (approximated) quantities With regard to quantification, Channell distinguishes three kinds of vagueness: precise numbers followed by additional lexical material (five or six, eighty or so (1994: 42–43)), round numbers used for vagueness (half a dozen, six feet tall, hundreds (1994: 78–79)), and non-numerical vague quantifiers (some, lots (1994: 95)). 11. Additionally one recipe (68) tests doneness using the unit of a single “drop”.

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury



Quantifiers such as or so are never found after numerals in FC, although hedges like sumdell “somewhat” and almost do occur elsewhere (as seen already in example (11)).12 There are four recipes which offer an alternative quantification, like Channell’s five or six: (18) fyfe oþer sex of pigges mawes (184) five or six pigs’ stomachs (19) kyt aboue foure oþer sex wayes (116) cut above four or six ways (20) twyse or thryse (50) twice or thrice (21) half rost hym, oþer the þridde part (63) half roast him, or the third part [one third instead of half]

Whether round numbers are used for vagueness in FC’s recipes is hard to interpret, but it is possible that the choice of the number fourteen, rather than thirteen or fifteen, in fourtene nyte (205) meant that the length of time indicated was “approximately two weeks” rather than a specific number of days. It should also be noted here that as quantities get larger then they tend also to get rougher. If a recipe calls for a teaspoon and the cook uses a tablespoon, it may be a disaster, whereas if a recipe calls for four cups and a cook uses four cups plus an extra tablespoon, it is unlikely to make any noticeable difference. Thus, ii pounde of sugur (22) may well mean, “two pounds, give or take a few ounces”. Given the expertise of the cooks of the period it is also likely that their judgment would often override any precise quantifications given, something that still happens today. The recipe for American biscuits found on a can of Bakewell Cream currently sitting in my kitchen cupboard makes this explicit by saying, “Some flours may require a little more liquid to make a nice soft dough”. Channell’s third subset of vague quantifiers are those which are non-numerical. These are the most frequent kind of vague quantifier found in FC. There are two vague quantifiers signaling small amounts: a lytel, used 28 times in the text,13 and (a) fewe, used twice. There are five vague quantifiers which give no indication 12. In a longer study on a larger corpus it would be useful to include hedges (or more specifically, approximators) outside the context of numerals, but since FC contains so few types and tokens, I have followed Channell in largely omitting them from this analysis. The only one with more than three tokens is a litel “a little”, which is found eight times in imperative constructions (fry hem a litel “fry them a little”) and twice hedging adjectival past participles (a litel fryed “fried a little”). 13. A litel is also used to indicate a small size. Those instances have not been counted here.

65

66 Ruth Carroll

of whether the quantity is large or small: a pertye (used three times), a porcioun of (four times), a quantite of (twice), sum (of) (four times), and somdel (used once). Also, three recipes in FC call for ynowh “enough” of something. (22) Do þerto powdour of gynger and sugur ynowh (35) Add thereto powdered ginger and sugar enough

This may seem to many modern readers preposterous, but a very similar instruction occurs even in Joy of Cooking: (23) Season to taste by adding enough: Freshly ground black pepper (Rombauer and Becker 1975: 686).

To suggest a large (but vague) quantity, neutral quantifiers such as a quantitie are modified by gode “good” or grete “great”: (24) a gode quantite of vyneger and wyne (15) a good quantity of vinegar and wine

There are eighteen such tokens in FC. In all, there are sixty five tokens of nonnumerical vague quantifiers in the text (if we include the three tokens of ynowh), making this the most common kind of approximate quantifier and far more common than precise quantifiers. However, more common still are the ingredients listed with no quantification at all.

3.

Vague Categories

Channell’s second type of vague language is reference to categories which are not named explicitly, but rather are referred to using Vague Category identifiers, having the structure ‘Exemplar + Tag’. She uses as an example the phrase bread or something meaning “anything edible”(1994: 121–122).14 Drawing on the work of Barsalou (1983) and Cruse (1986), Channell identifies three conceptual categories:

14. Such tags are classified as ‘general extenders’ and contrasted with ‘specific extenders’ by Overstreet (1999: 51–52). This distinction is important because although FC only contains two tokens of general extenders used to represent vague categories (one other general extender type, &c, is only found at the close of recipes and represents Omission of final instructions or closing formulae), the text contains twelve tokens of specific extenders, discussed in Sections 5 and 6, below. Although Overstreet makes a compelling argument against analyses like that of Channell, which focus on the propositional meaning of extenders, Overstreet’s discourse analytical methodology is less suited to a text written in a dead language than it is to her own data, which consist of conversations by people she knows personally.



Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury

named common categories, common categories which lack a name (a lexical gap in the language), and ad hoc or ‘spur of the moment’ categories (1994: 122–123). Whether categories are “common” may be cultural. Certain medieval named categories are so broad as to seem over-vague to modern readers. Henisch notes, “It is difficult and perhaps unnecessary to distinguish herbs from vegetables in medieval cookery... indeed all kinds of edible plants were gathered together under an umbrella noun, wort” (1976: 110). This is discussed further below, in Section 6, “Superordinacy”. FC contains two tokens of vague category identifiers, both of which identify categories unnamed (in the medieval English context). One is found in the title of a recipe. In this study, titles have generally been omitted from consideration, on the grounds that names have unique semantic (and even phonological and syntactic) properties and should be studied differently from the rest of language (hence the field of onomastics). However the heading for recipe 182 is a description rather than a name: (25) Farsur to make pomme dorryse and oþere þynges (182) Force-meat to make pome-dorry and other things

The four recipes which follow 182, “Cokagrys”, “Hirchones”, Potte wys”, and “Sac wis”, all call for this stuffing, one explicitly calling it fars of pomme dorryes (185) and the others þe self (or same) fars. The conceptual category identified by the identifier pomme dorryse and oþere þynges in this case is either “dishes made with force-meat” or the extremely ad hoc “Pomme dorryse and the recipes I shall now write below”. The category called forth in the second token is that of thickeners: (26) alye it vp with flour of ryse, oþer with oþere thyng (19) thicken it up with flour of rice, or with other thing

Interestingly, the version of FC found in British Library Arundel MS 334 replaces the whole vague category identifier with a specific (and different) thickener: (27) alye it vp with amydun (19n) thicken it up with wheat starch

The National Library of Wales Peniarth MS 394 D version, in turn, omits the tag (oþer with oþere thyng) turning the recipe into one which calls specifically for rice flour. This brings us to the topic of allowable substitutes, discussed in Section 5, below, as Flexibility, but first we turn to the third of Channell’s categories, Placeholder Words.

67

68 Ruth Carroll

4.

Placeholder Words

Placeholder Words, expressions like thingummyjig, are not part of standard written language but are restricted to “real spoken English”, something that even modern corpora do not capture well (Channell 1994: 157). It is therefore unsurprising to learn that they do not occur in my written recipe text. What do occur, however, are circumlocutions or phrasings in place of single lexical items, likely motivated by the same sorts of triggers that lead to Placeholder Words; perhaps the proper word did not come to mind, or the writer feared that a technical term would be unfamiliar to the readers. Recipe 182 instructs the reader to (28)

take persel ygrounde and wryng it vp with ayren & a perty of flour, take parsley ground and grind it up with eggs and a portion of flour and let erne aboute þe spyt (182) and let run about the spit [on which meat is roasting]

In place of let erne aboute þe spyt, the writer might have used one of a number of Middle English verbs found in other culinary recipes meaning “baste”, “daub”, or “glaze”: dōren, droppen, embainen, endōren, flaumen, smēren, or indeed bāsten. In another example, where some Middle English writers use droppinge (Middle English Dictionary (MED, Kurath et al. 1952–2001) s.v. 2(b)), FC has þat þat fallith þerfro in the rostyng (54), “that which falls there-from in the roasting”. Such circumlocutions, however, are rare in the text. Of the examples I collected, all but the one were complex predicates such as make hem clene (61), do off the hulls with braying (74), and give it another hete (105n). The prevalence of complex predicates and light verbs in English moves sufficiently beyond the scope of vague language that it will not be dealt with further here. Moreover, the occasional avoidance of single (possibly technical) lexemes in the text is more than balanced by ‘‘jargon’’, as would be expected from an instructional text aimed at experts. Technical terms are used for animal parts (pōke “fish stomach” and pestel “chicken’s or pig’s leg”), plants (chibol(le “spring onions”, cŏnferīe “comfrey”), and for cooking implements (sārce “sieve” and trap(pe “cooking vessel (often lined with pastry)”). Verbs such as scalden, pāren, flēn, holen, broilen, and dīcen are also an important part of this technical vocabulary. Rarely are these terms are defined within the text; the reader is expected to understand them (see below for further discussion of jargon in FC). However, “recipes” 56 and 57 are in fact not recipes but definitions of loine and filet: (29) Nota. The loyne of the pork is fro the hippe boon to the hede (56) Note. The “loin” of the pork is from the hip-bone to the head

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury



If we stay strictly within Channell’s parameters, then, vague language of any sort is surprisingly rare in the Forme of Cury. Placeholder Words are not used at all. Vague category identifiers were only found twice in the text. Numbers are followed by quantifiers only four times, and there are no absolutely certain tokens of round numbers used for vagueness, although fourtene nyte could likely be interpreted in that way. By this analysis, non-numerical vague quantifiers are the only frequent instance of vague language in the text, and even they, with sixty five tokens spread across 49 of the 205 recipes, occur in fewer than a quarter of the recipes in the collection. How is it, then, that modern readers find these recipes to be “vague” and “imprecise”? I suggest that there are three other categories of vagueness manifested by the recipes of the Forme of Cury. I call them Flexibility, Superordinacy, and Omission. As will be shown, it is Omission which is most likely to influence the modern reader in classifying medieval recipes as vague, but Omission is also the hardest for a linguist to quantify.

5.

Flexibility

The Forme of Cury includes over 75 explicit instructions which allow the cook to vary the cooking instructions slightly, to choose between serving suggestions, or to substitute one ingredient for another. This is in addition to extra instructions which are only to be carried out to solve problems such as a dish having turned out too thick (32 calls for added wine in such a case); neither does this number include recipe variants such as the concluding sentence of recipe 7 (for turnip):15 (30) In the self wise make of pasturnakes and skyrwittes (7) In the same way make [this] of parsnips and water-parsnips

The most commonly allowed choice is between using grease and oil; the second most common is to list alternatives to capon meat: (31) Sithen take brawn of capouns, or of hennes (200) Then take meat of capons, or of hens

From a pragmatic viewpoint this instruction devolves a decision onto the cook in much the same way as the instances of vague language discussed above. Sometimes the choice is not merely a binary one, but a whole category of acceptable 15. Like the flexibility which this section does consider, this too has its reflex in modern cookbooks. Smith’s recipe for “Cucumber with soured cream and dill” concludes, This is also good made with some small, young courgettes (Smith 1989: 318).

69

70 Ruth Carroll

substitutes is mentioned, by means of a specific extender (to use Overstreet’s 1999 terminology): (32) Take the offall of capouns oþer of oþere briddes (61) Take the offal of capons or of other birds

Reasons for the choice of ingredients may be purely the preferences of the cook (or lord), (33) And if þou wilt, take for persel safroun (182) And if thou wilt, take for parsley saffron

religious requirements of the calendar (the calendar is discussed further in ­Peikola, this volume; for the restrictions it placed on cookery see Scully 1995: 89–91), (34)

If þey be in fyssh day, make on the same menere with water and If they be in fish day, make in the same manner with water and oyle, and if it be not in lent, alye it with ȝolkes of eyren (9) oil [rather than broth], and if it be not in Lent, mix it with egg yolks

or availability: 16 (35) Take obleys, oþer wafrouns, in dafaute of loseyns (26) Take obleys or wafers in default of noodles

One aspect that seems rarely to be left to the cook’s discretion, however, is coloring. Several recipes call for ingredients used as dyes – saffron will make the food yellow, sanders (sandalwood) or alkanet (Alkanna tinctoria) are used for red, for example. Recipe 69, for a multicolored dish, makes this explicit: (36)

If þou wilt haue rede, do þerto saundres. If þou wilt haue If thou wilt have red, add thereto sandalwood. If thou wilt have pownas, do þerto turnesole. If þou wilt haue blak, do þerto blode purple, add thereto turnsole. If thou wilt have black, add blood, ysode and fryed... (69) seethed and fried.

It is possible that the need for coloring may be left up to the cook’s judgment:

16. It is also possible that a cook might be influenced to alter a dish based on the medieval humors of the other dishes appearing with it on a menu. However, perhaps more likely would be that the cook would simply choose a different complementary dish rather than change a trusted recipe. For a short summary of the relationship between cooking and preventative medicine in the period, see Weiss-Amer (1992).

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury



(37) And if þou wilt, colour it wiþ alkenet yfoundyt (170) And if thou wilt, color it with alkanet dissolved

but the color itself is almost always specified. Of the thirty-one recipes using the verb cŏlŏuren, all but one specify either the color to be achieved or the dye to be used (or sometimes both: colour it red with saundres (197)). The sole exception is recipe 186, which instead refers back to an earlier recipe and uses a general extender to indicate that the coloring and serving is to be done as specified for the other dish: (38) fille hem full of þe same fars... colour hem, &c. (186) fill them full of the same stuffing... color them, etc.

Two recipes allow a choice between two specified colors, but one of these, recipe 185, also further specifies that items should be colored in the same way as an earlier dish: as pomme dorryes. The majority of specified alternatives in medieval recipes, then, are for substitutions of ingredients (for a fuller study of flexibility with regard to ingredients, see Lambert 1992). The remainder are serving suggestions (serve hole oþer ybroke “serve whole or broken” (35)) or directions for preparation (drye hem harde in an ovene oþer in þe sunne “dry them hard in an oven or in the sun” (197)). Similar alternatives can also be found in modern cookery books: (39) 2 cups cooked turkey or chicken (Rombauer and Becker 1975: 263) (40) This is equally good served cold – or reheated the next day (Smith 1989: 222) (41) Steam or, even better, bake them (Smith 1989: 224)

Joy of Cooking even includes a chart several pages long entitled, “Equivalents and substitutions for common ingredients” (Rombauer and Becker 1975: 593–598). On this basis it seems unlikely that Flexibility should be the reason readers consider Middle English recipes strikingly vague. However, a future study incorporating a quantitative comparison between Middle English and modern recipes could determine the extent to which the proportion of alternatives offered might differ in the two periods.

6.

Superordinacy

One example in the section above offered a much broader choice than the binary choice between capon meat and chicken meat. It is repeated here as (42): (42) Take the offall of capouns oþer of oþere briddes (61) Take the offal of capons or of other birds

71

72

Ruth Carroll

Overstreet calls this a “disjunctive specific extender” (1999: 4). Like a vague category identifier, it may be seen to denote an entire conceptual category, but unlike the vague identifier, the specific extender names the category, in this case “birds”. The example here may pragmatically be understood to mean that capons are the preferred ingredient, but that the offal of any bird may be an acceptable substitute. An adjunctive specific extender (with and), in contrast, devolves more responsibility onto the cook: (43) flour of canel, hoole clowes, quybibes hoole, and ooþer gode spices (65) flour of cinnamon, whole cloves, cubebs whole, and other good spices

Here the cook must decide what other gode spices should be added. Four types of adjunctive specific extenders are found in FC: and oþere erbes “and other herbs” (four times), and ooþer fisshe “and other fish” (twice), and and ooþer good powdours “and other good powders”, a variant on and ooþer gode spices, each of which occur once. There is also a similar phrase, but lacking ooþer, in recipe 161: Take peiouns, chykens, and smale briddes, “Take pigeons, chickens, and small birds”. Given that at least one medieval writer defines even partridges as “small birds” (Liber Cocorum, MED s.v. brid 1a(c)), it seems possible that this could have been emended by the editors to and ooþer smale briddes. If read without emendation, however, and smale briddes is a fine example of superordinacy, (cf. Scully 1995: 77), or reference to a category rather than to a specific member of the category. Superordinacy is seen often in medieval recipes: (44) Take yong gowrdes (10) Take young gourds (45) Take erbes (89) Take herbs (46) hoole spices (175) whole spices

While some recipes specify sage, parsley, or mint, FC recipes contain sixteen tokens of the superordinate erbes, “herbs”. Some superordinacy may be noted only by speakers of another language. Modern English speakers are as used as Middle English speakers to speak of eggs without specifying the bird they have come from, where Finnish speakers often naturally refer to kananmunat, “chicken eggs”. Henisch, writing in English, does not comment on the source of eggs when writing about medieval food, although she does note that milk “was supplied by sheep, goats, and cows, and while many recipes simply mention ‘milk’, some are more specific” (1976: 124). She supplies



Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury

examples which call for ewe’s milk or goat’s milk, but in FC those recipes which specify cow’s milk are most often contrasting it not with the milk of another animal but with the fast-day alternative, almond milk: (47) swete mylk of kyn or of almand (1) sweet milk of cow or of almond

Thirty eight recipes in FC include milk. All but two make clear whether they mean almond or cow’s milk, either explicitly or contextually. This, then, is a place where Middle English recipes are more specific than we might have expected, because of the cultural prevalence of almond milk. Linguistically we have already considered three different means of superordinacy: the adjunctive specific extender (and other fish), other superordinate terms (used outside extender phrases, such as gŏurd(e rather than cūcŏmer or coloquint(ide), and unmodified basic-level nouns which are ambiguous between two or more subordinate kinds, not all of which might be acceptable in the recipe. The latter are often not noticed by the casual reader, and frequently will not be of concern to the experienced cook, but can be a stumbling block for the novice cook. The novel Plainsong, by Kent Haruf, recounts a trip to the grocery store made by two boys who have been sent out by a neighbor to buy the ingredients for oatmeal cookies: When they were inside the store it was a good deal more complicated than they had thought it would be. On the shelves were two brands of brown sugar. Also, there were quick oats and regular oats and two measures of the cardboard barrels they came in. And with eggs, three sizes and two colors. (Haruf 1999: 146)

The cook knows that the color of the eggs is irrelevant whereas the color of the sugar is not. The casual reader might not read suger “sugar” or ayren “eggs” as superordinates. But once a particular recipe is seen to call for sugar of Cyprus, then the reader has cause to interpret previous unmodified references to sugar as vague. Eighty three different modifiers occur with nouns in FC, most of them modifying nouns which also sometimes occur as unmodified. Recipe 93 calls for chese “cheese”. Should that be wete chese “wet cheese”, as in recipe 94, or grene chese “green cheese” as in recipe 173? Perhaps it should be chese ruayn (174), cheese made from milk given by cows who have been fed on rowan. Recipe 116 specifies tendre chese, which the MED defines as being soft enough to crush (s.v. tender adj 5a), and the British Library Cotton Julius MS D viii version of FC reinterprets 94’s wete chese as a call for swete “sweet” chese. It is not only the nouns which may be vague. What are we to make of recipe 165, which calls for god chese “good cheese”? Thirty two of the eighty five tokens

73

74

Ruth Carroll

of the word broth in FC are modified with “good” (if we omit from the count those tokens in recipes where the broth has emerged as a product of earlier cooking within the recipe, the proportion is 32 of 45). “Good” is also found in the text alongside nouns denoting meat, fish, fruits, spices, yeast, bread, pastry, milk (both cow’s milk and almond milk), ale, and wine. Henisch suggests this is a glimpse of a losing battle between cooks and those who controlled the goods they worked with: “though careful emphasis was placed in recipes on the need for ‘good wine’ it seems likely that the fine, expensive imports were kept firmly under the butler’s eye and the native products considered quite satisfactory for this purpose” (Henisch 1976: 120–121). There are also cases of ambiguity between specification and underspecification. According to the MED, aisel may mean “vinegar”, including wine vinegar (made from grapes), but may also contrast with vyneger to mean “vinegar made from fruit other than grapes” such as cider vinegar (MED s.v. aisel). The word alegur was unambiguously specific, meaning “malt vinegar” (s.v. āl-ēgre). Thus the list of ingredients from recipe 117 (example (48)) is ambiguous between three readings. In the first, aysell and vyneger are synonyms, glossing each other. If this is the correct reading it is possible that one of the synonyms was added at some point in the text’s history by a scribe who felt that the other was not sufficiently well known. In the second reading, vyneger is a superordinate (with two choices of the kind of vinegar given). In the third, the cook is given a three-way choice between wine vinegar, cider vinegar, and malt vinegar: (48) a. b. c.

vyneger oþer aysell oþer alegur (117) vinegar (also called “eisell”) or malt vinegar vinegar (either fruit vinegar or malt vinegar) wine vinegar or cider vinegar or malt vinegar

Finally, we turn to consider the opposite of vagueness: precision. Much as today cooks have their own technical language, Middle English recipes were written using jargon. Some words are attested only in recipes or with reference to cookery. Carroll (1993: 58) notes that parboilen belongs to the technical register of cookery. The Middle English Dictionary also mentions lārden “to smear with grease”, fārse “seasoned stuffing”, noir “dark”, and barry “decorated with strips of metal foil”. There are also words which have certain senses particular to cookery. ­Carroll (1993: 59) points out that cookery writers differentiate boillen and sēthen in a way that other Middle English writers do not (a very similar observation is also made by Hieatt (1998: 139)). The MED notes that although the primary meaning of pointen is “to stab”, when used in a recipe it means “to sharpen the taste [of a dish] by adding vinegar”; similarly, foil (“sheet of metal beaten thin”) can also refer to thin sheets of pastry or even parings, for example of ginger. In all, the MED clas-

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury



sifies 227 words or senses as belonging specifically to the register of cookery. This list includes nouns, verbs (including participial usages and gerunds), adjectives, adverbs, and even phrasal combinations of the preposition to.17 Non-expert present day readers of medieval recipes may find themselves confused by this vocabulary, in some cases not recognizing it as technical and precise.18 Recipe 175 calls for white powdours, which may seem startlingly underspecified. However, it represents an Anglicization of blank powder, a common spice mixture made up of ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg (Austin [1888] 1964: 121). As Scully says, “The recipes may call for a particular spice mixture as an ingredient; they will not bother to instruct the reader on its composition” (1995: 9).

7.

Omission

Channell’s three categories of vague language are all marked by lexis that can be searched for in a computer-readable corpus. My three additional categories are less suited methodologically for identifying within a corpus. Tokens belonging to my category of Flexibility can be identified by searching for or and its variants, although each identified hit will need checking. To find tokens of superordinacy one must begin by identifying lexis which seems potentially vague, and confirming which instances are not further specified by adjectives or other phrases. My last category, Omission of information, is the hardest to identify and quantify (how can one count what is not there?). However, I believe it is the primary factor in present day readers labeling medieval recipes as vague. The omission of specified quantities for many ingredients has already been discussed above, in Section 2, but bears repeating as it is one of the most striking features which contributes to the modern evaluation of medieval recipes as vague: “early cookbooks rarely bothered to define quantities” (Tannahill 1973: 217). Also often omitted or at best vague are specification of cooking time, temperature, and even method.

17. It is not certain whether all 227 need have been marked as specific to cookery. Motle (adj.) (s.v.), for example, is defined generally as “parti-colored, variegated in color”, which might be thought to include the supposed cookery-specific sense, “streaked with different colors, marbled”. However, this is a lexicographic concern beyond the scope of the present paper. Although some lexemes or senses might be disputed, it remains clear that Middle English lexis did include a technical cookery register. 18. Other researchers whose analyses of vague language relied on technical and/or linguistic knowledge include Ullmann (specifically his fourth factor influencing vagueness), Crystal and Davy (their second factor), and Lehrer (in her work on the jargon of wine tasting). All are summarized by Channell (1994: 6–15).

75

76

Ruth Carroll

Consider recipe 110, Pykes in brasey, found in all FC manuscripts. The version found in Aberystwyth, National Library of Wales Peniarth MS 394D begins, (49)

Take powder of canell, wyne, venegir, & light bred and Take powder of cinnamon, wine, vinegar, & light bread and stere all togedir and drawe hit thorowe a straynour (110n) stir all together and draw it through a strainer

No indication of quantity or proportions for these ingredients is given.19 The recipe continues (or begins, in the other manuscript versions): (50)

Take pykes and vndo hem on þe wombes and waisshe Take pikes and cut them open on the bellies and wash hem clene, and lay hem on a roost irne. (110) them clean, and lay them on a roast-iron.

Five of the manuscripts then add the words, & rost hem, but four, including the base manuscript and the Peniarth MS quoted in (49), omit this instruction. Moreover, according to Hieatt and Butler’s edition, none of the nine FC manuscripts gives any indication as to how hot or high the fire should be, how close to the fire the fish should be, or how long they should be roasted for. It may be not until one is in the middle of cooking that one realizes that a recipe is vague not because of any linguistic choices, but because of the omission of potentially important information. Recipe 51, Tartlettes, calls for the cook to make a foile of dowhȝ and close the fars þerinne (“make a thin sheet of dough and enclose the force-meat therein”), but it is left up to the cook to decide what size or shape the resulting tarts should be. The old adage about reading a recipe all the way through before starting to cook applies not only to modern recipes but also to medieval ones such as this: (51) make a past... Þenne make þerof smale pelettes & fry hem... (116) make a paste... Then make thereof small pellets and fry them...

Unless the cook has read ahead he or she would be likely to roll and fry all the paste, but the recipe later instructs: (52) Þenne make of þat ooþer deel of þat past long coffyns (116) Then make of that other portion of that paste long pastry casings

19. Another medieval variant of this recipe (not in FC) specifies a quarte of wine and a litull vinegar, but gives no indication of how much bread or cinnamon to use (Austin [1888] 1964: 101).

Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury



Admittedly, the importance of detailed instruction varies according to the kind of cooking being done. It is often the case that measurement is more important in baking than in cooking stews or roasts. We have no surviving medieval recipes for bread (see, for example, Scully 1995: 9), but many for meat, pottage, and sauced dishes. And, as has been alluded to above, all writers must imagine who their readers will be and write to that audience, supplying information needed and skipping the obvious. If too much information is given, the reader may feel patronized (as in the case of Smith’s advice to use an oven glove) and more importantly in the medieval context, valuable writing material will be wasted. If too little information is given, the reader will be unable to follow the instructions, as in the case of the assistant to the unreasonable magazine editor. Again, cultural familiarity is an issue. The different role of the cook in society, the vastly different literacy rates, the lack of timepieces, and many other factors contribute to distance their world from ours, and to leave very different expectations for recipe texts. It is rare that we find points of overlap, but underspecification of seasoning (particularly the amount of salt required) may be one: “It is known that mention of salt was often omitted from culinary texts of all periods” (Redon et al. 1998: 39). As hard as it may be to quantify omission, it is also difficult to choose what to highlight in considering its opposite. I close this section with one surprising (to us) inclusion. The only recipe in FC that explicitly mentions the death of the animal to be cooked is a recipe for lamprey: (53) sle hem with vyneger oþer with white wyne & salt (130) slay them with vinegar or with white wine and salt

Other medieval recipes for lamprey (although not all of them) also include information about killing the fish: (54)

lete him blode in a vessell, and let him dy in þe same blode let him bleed in a vessel, and let him die in the same blood (‘‘Lamprey I-bake’’, British Library Harleian MS 4016) (Austin [1888] 1964: 98)

Recently I came across an article from Science News Online which may explain this inclusion. The article, on cooking and eating lamprey, includes a complaint from a chef that the fish was difficult to kill. “I tried to stun them, like you usually do a fish ... Nothing seemed to work. It was terrible.” The author concludes, “cooks who are squeamish would be advised to avoid live lamprey” (Raloff 1996).

77

78

Ruth Carroll

8.

Conclusion: Adapting medieval recipes for modern readers

As seen in my introduction, many present-day readers have been struck by the vagueness of medieval recipes. However, this vagueness is less a linguistic vagueness than a vagueness of omission. Using Channell’s classification of vague language, and searching the Forme of Cury text for Placeholder Words, Vague Category identifiers, round numbers used for vagueness, and non-numerical vague quantifiers, we find that the only frequent instance of vague language is non-numerical vague quantifiers, and that even these occur in fewer than a quarter of FC’s recipes. Flexibility, the specification of allowed alternatives, whether to ingredients or methods of preparation and serving, is found in fewer than half of FC’s recipes, and in similar contexts to the flexibility found in modern recipes. Superordinacy, the underspecification of ingredients, is another feature which the medieval recipe may in fact share with the modern recipe, the main difference being one of cultural expectations for what must or need not be clarified (or linguistic expectations based on whether a language has lexemes for superordinates or hyponyms). This study ended back at the consideration with which it began: the omission of information, particularly of specification of ingredient quantities, temperatures, and timings. This omission, unfortunately the feature hardest to quantify, must be the feature which most contributes to the modern reader finding medieval recipes alien. A glance at adaptations of medieval recipes for the modern kitchen shows the level of specification and detail to be the primary difference between the originals and the adaptations. “Often, recipes lack any quantities at all; this is one of the greatest obstacles to adapting them” (Redon et al. 1998: 37). Adaptations are longer than their originals, in part because they explain the procedures to be followed and make explicit some instructions which would be obvious to the experienced cook: (55) Before serving… remove the whole spices (Hieatt 1988a: 149).

However, the clearest difference and most obvious addition is the specification of quantity. Even quantities which prove to be variable and vague are given specified starting points or approximations. Hieatt’s 1988a adaptations of fifteenth-century English recipes give approximations for ingredient quantities, for cooking times, and for heat sources: (56) 1½ tsp salt (or more, to taste) (Hieatt 1988a: 121) (57) bake…until thoroughly heated and done (about 10 minutes) (Hieatt 1988a: 125)



Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury

(58) Bake in a medium oven (about 350°) (Hieatt 1988a: 205)

Similar suggestions of precision even for vague quantities are found in most medieval recipe adaptations: (59) 3–4 egg yolks (depending on how rich you want your pottage) (Black 1992: 101) (60) cook … for about 1 hour (Santich 1995: 84) (61) Cook about 5 inches (13 cm) away from a hot, preheated broiler (Redon et al. 1998: 132)

It must be borne in mind that this reflects not merely our modern expectations about what recipes should be like, but the amount of common ground that can be assumed to exist between the original author of the recipe and the reader. Whether the audience of the medieval recipes was an expert cook, a lord or lady dictating a menu, or someone aspiring to the status and wealth inherent in such use of fresh meat and exotic spicery, the reader was assumed to be contemporary with the author, familiar with the dishes being described. A present day cookery writer, like Slater, writing for his contemporaries, can remark, “grated cheese can be added for those who like it rich” (1995: 116), assuming his readers will know what kind of cheese to add, and that they will be able to judge how rich they want the finished product to be since they have eaten such dishes before. The modern reader of the medieval recipe may never have eaten eel and has probably never encountered a savory “blaumange”, and thus needs even more instruction than for the cooking of familiar dishes. We are not only unlikely ever to have had the notion of cooking porpoise pie but very unlikely to choose to do so even once the notion has been presented to us. Thus, Hieatt does not offer any adaptation of the recipe for that dish (1988a: 197).20 However, when she is confident that her readers are familiar with a dish, Hieatt feels less need to explain and specify.21 It is striking that within her modern adapted recipes there is one for venison pie which reads just like a medieval recipe: 20. Her explicit reason for not including this dish is the unavailability of porpoise as an ingredient (1985: 18). 21. Hieatt describes her audience as “those who enjoy cooking unusual recipes” (1985: 19). The book is published by Prospect Books, a small press marketed primarily towards readers who might be called foodies: keen enthusiasts of eating, cooking, and learning about food, usually amateurs rather than professional scholars or chefs. Although this book is marketed by the publisher as being “for scholars and cooks alike” (on the front flap of the dust jacket), and Hieatt is a respected medieval scholar, the section of the book I am referring to here, “Culinary Commentary and Adapted Recipes” (1985: 111), is intended primarily for cooks and amateur

79

80 Ruth Carroll

(62) just skin a chunk [of venison], sprinkle it with pepper and perhaps cinnamon, wrap in pastry, and bake. (Hieatt 1988a: 197)

Modern readers do expect quantities and specification in their recipes. This is partly because recipes are expected to instruct a wider audience today than they did in the medieval period, and may be used to introduce new ideas and tastes, rather than provide crib sheets of the necessary ingredients for familiar favorites. However, when a writer assumes familiarity and experience on the part of the reader, it is possible to omit a great deal of this specification, even to the extreme seen in (62). The key to successful instructional writing is to know your audience and observe the Gricean maxim of quantity: say neither too much nor too little.

References Attar, Dena. 1987. “A feminist cookbook?” In Turning the Tables: Recipes and Reflections from Women, Sue O’Sullivan (compiler), 7–19. London: Sheba Feminist. Austin, Thomas (ed.). [1888] 1964. Two Fifteenth-Century Cookery-Books. [Early English Text Society OS 91]. London: Oxford University Press. Barsalou, Lawrence W. 1983. “Ad hoc categories.” Memory and Cognition 11: 211–227. Beeton, Isabella. 1861. The Book of Household Management. London: S. O. Beeton. Black, Maggie. 1992. The Medieval Cookbook. New York: Thames and Hudson. Carroll, Ruth Ellen. 1993. Verbs of Cooking in Fourteenth-Century English: A Semantic Approach. Unpublished master’s dissertation. University of Oxford. Carroll, Ruth. 1999. “The Middle English recipe as a text-type.” Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 100: 27–42. Carroll, Ruth. 2003. “Recipes for laces: An example of a Middle English discourse colony.” In Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern, Risto Hiltunen and Janne Skaffari (eds), 137–165. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Carroll, Ruth. 2005–2006. “Assessing palaeographic evidence for discourse structuring in Middle English recipes.” Boletín Millares Carlo 24–25: 305–325. Channell, Joanna. 1994. Vague Language. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Colwin, Laurie. 1988. Home Cooking: A Writer in the Kitchen. New York: HarperCollins. Cruse, D.A. 1986. Lexical Semantics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Driver, Liz. 2005. “Weights and measures for historic recipes.” Culinary Chronicles: The Newsletter of the Culinary Historians of Ontario 45: 13–16. Görlach, Manfred. 1992. “Text-types and language history: The cookery recipe.” In History of Englishes: New Methods and Interpretations in Historical Linguistics, Matti Rissanen, Ossi Ihalainen, Terttu Nevalainen and Irma Taavitsainen (eds), 736–761. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.

culinary history buffs. Thus, in addition to omitting recipes for foods too difficult to secure (see footnote 20), Hieatt also excludes adaptations of recipes she considers too complicated for the modern home kitchen or unappetizing to the modern palate (1985: 18).



Vague language in the recipes of the Forme of Cury

Görlach, Manfred. 2004. Text Types and the History of English. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Haruf, Kent. 1999. Plainsong. New York: Vintage (Random House). Hazlitt, William Carew. [1886] 1902. Old Cookery Books and Ancient Cuisine. London: Elliot Stock. Henisch, Bridget Ann. 1976. Fast and Feast: Food in Medieval Society. University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press. Hieatt, Constance B. 1988a. An Ordinance of Pottage. London: Prospect Books. Hieatt, Constance B. 1988b. “Further notes on The Forme of Cury et al.: Additions and corrections.” Bulletin of the John Rylands University Library of Manchester 70: 45–52. Hieatt, Constance B. 1998. “Editing Middle English culinary manuscripts.” In A Guide to Editing Middle English, Vincent McCarren and Douglas Moffat (eds), 133–140. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Hieatt, Constance B. and Butler, Sharon (eds). 1985. Curye on Inglysch: English Culinary Manuscripts of the Fourteenth Century (Including The Forme of Cury). [Early English Text Society ss 8]. London: Oxford University Press. Hieatt, Constance B., Nutter, Terry and Holloway, Johanna H. 2006. Concordance of English Recipes: Thirteenth through Fifteenth Centuries. Tempe, Arizona: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies. Hiltunen, Risto and Skaffari, Janne (eds). 2003. Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern. [Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 119]. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. Hoey, Michael. 2001. Textual Interaction: An Introduction to Written Discourse Analysis. London: Routledge. Jucker, Andreas H., Smith, Sara W. and Lüdge, Tanja. 2003. “Interactive aspects of vagueness in conversation.” Journal of Pragmatics 35: 1737–1769. Keiser, George R. 1988. “Review: Curye on Inglysch.” Speculum 63: 410–412. Kurath, Hans, Kuhn, Sherman and Lewis, Robert E. 1952–2001. Middle English Dictionary. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Lambert, Carole. 1992. “Astuces et flexibilité des recettes culinaires médiévales françaises.” In Du Manuscrit à la Table, Carole Lambert (ed.), 215–225. Paris: Champion-Slatkine. Machan, Tim William. 1994. Textual Criticism and Middle English Texts. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. McKendry, Maxime. [1973] 1983. Seven Hundred Years of English Cooking. Edited by Arabella Boxer. London: Treasure Press. [Previously published by Weidenfeld and Nicolson as Seven Centuries of English Cooking.] Mooney, Linne R. 2004. “Manuscript evidence for the use of medieval English scientific and utilitarian texts.” In Interstices: Studies in Middle English and Anglo-Latin Texts in Honour of A. G. Rigg, Richard Firth Green and Linne R. Mooney (eds), 184–202. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Overstreet, Maryann. 1999. Whales, Candlelight, and Stuff Like That: General Extenders in English Discourse. New York: Oxford University Press. Pullar, Philippa. 1970. Consuming Passions: A History of English Food and Appetite. London: Hamish Hamilton. Raloff, Janet. 1996. “Food for thought.” Science News Online 150 (6). Redon, Odile, Sabban, Françoise and Serventi, Silvano. 1998. The Medieval Kitchen: Recipes from France and Italy. Translated by Edward Schneider. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.

81

82

Ruth Carroll

Rombauer, Irma S. and Becker, Marion Rombauer. 1975. Joy of Cooking (6th ed.). New York: Macmillan. Santich, Barbara. 1995. The Original Mediterranean Cuisine. Totnes, Devon: Prospect Books. Scully, Terence. 1995. The Art of Cookery in the Middle Ages. Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell Press. Slater, Nigel. 1992. Real Fast Food. London: Penguin Books. Smith, Delia. 1989. Delia Smith’s Complete Illustrated Cookery Course (new ed.). London: BBC Books. Smith, Delia. 1995. “Autumn lamb braised in Beaujolais.” In Delia Smith’s Winter Collection. London: BBC Books. Tannahill, Reay. 1973. Food in History. New York: Stein and Day. Vaasjoki, Susi. 2001. Food and Drink in Medieval England. Wang, Amy Y. and Piao, Scott. 2007. “Translating vagueness? A study on translations of vague quantifiers in an English-Chinese parallel corpus.” In Proceedings of the Corpus Linguistics Conference CL2007, Matthew Davies, Paul Rayson, Susan Hunston, and Pernilla Danielsson (eds). Weisberger, Lauren. 2003. The Devil Wears Prada. New York: Doubleday. Weiss-Amer [Adamson], Melitta. 1992. “The role of medieval physicians in the diffusion of culinary recipes and cooking practices.” In Du Manuscrit à la Table, Carole Lambert (ed.), 69–80. Paris: Champion-Slatkine. Zhang, Qiao. 1998. “Fuzziness – vagueness – generality – ambiguity.” Journal of Pragmatics 29: 13–31.

Instructional aspects of the calendar in later medieval England, with special reference to The John Rylands University Library MS English 80 Matti Peikola

In addition to serving as temporal conduct books for their readers, texts referred to as calendars in later medieval England often shared a paratextual instructive function as constituents of manuscripts. They were conceived as tabular or list-like texts placed at the beginning of the book, with the purpose of guiding the reader towards a particular mode of reading. To illustrate this function, this chapter investigates the calendar section of a mid-fifteenth century English New Testament in Manchester, The John Rylands University Library MS English 80. The study shows that in MS English 80 the calendar section promotes a specific liturgical mode of reading the book.

1.

Introduction

Priests and friars, wrote the poet John Audelay in the 1420s, “were chosun to be … a clene kalender þe sekelers [seculars] on to see” (Whiting 1931: 25). The meaning of “kalender” exemplified in this quotation (‘guide, model, example’) has been obsolete since the early seventeenth century, and it has never been one of the primary senses of the word in English (OED s.v. calendar n. 3; MED s.v. calender 3). In the OED (ibid.) the meaning is marked as figurative, but no further account is provided as to how it developed. The implication is, evidently, that . MED mentions both Old French calendier and Latin kalendarium as etymons of the Middle English calender, but the influence of the two languages on the development of the various Middle English senses is not specified. In the Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources, the MED sense calender 3 ‘guide, model’ is not recorded for kalendarium; thus it is possible that the Middle English usage has been influenced by French calendier (cf. n. 2 and 3).

84

Matti Peikola

the usage builds on some characteristics associated with the two closely related chief senses of calender in Late Middle English – the organization of the year into months and days, and the record of such organization in a written text (see OED s.v. calendar n. 1, 2.; MED s.v. calender 1, 2a). Chaucer’s poem “An ABC”, addressed to the Virgin Mary, provides a glimpse of a textual association possibly underlying such figurative usage. In the tenth stanza, “thei that in this world ben lighted with thi name” are referred to as “kalenderes enlumyned” (Benson 1987: 638). While “enlumyned” could stand for spiritual enlightenment, it also had the sense of illumination as a reference to the decoration of manuscript books with gold (MED s.v. enluminen 1b, 2b). Chaucer’s line thus seems to present the followers of the Virgin as spiritual models or examples by evoking the image of the medieval liturgical calendar with its illuminated initials (see Benson 1987: 638; David 1982: 150; for the role played by initials in the poem, see Pace 1979). The purpose of the present chapter is to follow this lead further by exploring ways in which the liturgical calendar and other related medieval texts, also characterisable as calendars, functioned as instructional texts, serving as a guide, model or example to their readers. In Section 2, I highlight two major aspects of this function – the behavioural and the paratextual; of these the latter is the main focus of the chapter. Section 3 supplements the paratextual dimension by providing a brief overview of the range of medieval books typically containing liturgical calendars. In Section 4, the instructional function of the calendars in a fifteenthcentury Middle English manuscript book is explored in detail.

2.

Instructional aspects of the calendar

2.1

The liturgical calendar as a conduct book

According to Chapman (2003: 91), “any calendar serves as a temporal conduct book, instructing the reader as to how days, months, and years are to be experienced” (see also Chapman 2002). This behavioural aspect may be viewed as a non-culture-specific characteristic, shared by all calendars that have been structured as texts indicating the organization of the year. Culture-specific knowledge . In MED, the line from “An ABC” is listed among the quotations illustrating calendar 2 ‘a table or chart of the year, a written calendar’. Chaucer’s poem is a translation of a French prayer in Guillaume de Deguilleville’s mid-fourteenth-century La pelerinaige de la vie humaine (see Benson 1987: 1076; Thompson 1993). The phrase “Kalenderes enlumyned” corresponds to “Kalendier … enluminé” in de Deguilleville’s text (as in Skeat 1899: 265).



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar

is required to understand how a particular calendar may have filled the function of “a temporal conduct book” proposed by Chapman. Let us first examine the medieval liturgical calendar from this perspective. The liturgical calendar is a table-formatted text in which the fixed feasts (especially those commemorating various saints) for each month of the church year are listed and graded (for their general characteristics see e.g. Hughes 1982: 276; Pickering 1980; Krochalis & Matter 2001: 439–441). In the calendar, the names of the saints would have served to remind the reader of an exemplary model of conduct associated with the saints’ lives, in a manner comparable to the function of images in medieval churches. In Lydgate’s Pilgrimage of the Life of Man, for example, the pilgrim character defends saints’ images because in them people may “rede, as in ther bookys, what they ouhte off ryht to sue [follow], and also what they shal eschewe” (Furnivall 1901: 560). For the pilgrim character, the images function “as merours, that represente ther [the saints’] trewe menyng and ther entente … that we sholde ha memorye, by hem, a kalender to make” (Furnivall 1901: 559–560). The same idea is evident in the description by the Lollard knight Sir John Oldcastle, in his confession of 1413, of images as “kalenderys to lewyd men, to represente & bryng to mynde the passyon of oure Lord Jesus Cryst, and martirdoom & good lyvyng of other seyntis” (Shirley 1965 [1858]: 439). In addition to providing the reader with a model of exemplary spiritual conduct, the liturgical calendar also had a more concrete guiding function in imposing a pattern of labour and leisure on people – a pattern which among other things included specific dietary regulations and catechetical obligations (e.g. Duffy 1992: 41–42; see also Carroll, this volume). The calendar would also govern people’s conduct through its various prognosticatory applications, for example by instructing readers as to favourable days for beginning a journey or for letting blood. Notes on such regulations were often explicitly recorded in calendars; there are also numerous short Late Middle English instructional texts (in prose and verse) treating these topics (e.g. Robbins 1939; Taavitsainen 1988: 141–145; Mooney 1997; Keiser 1998: 3618–3619, 3624, 3660; Voigts & Kurtz 2000).

2.2 The calendar as paratext The instructional function of the calendar as a text also seems to have encompassed another dimension in addition to the behavioural one: that of shaping

. Lydgate’s work is a translation from French, begun in 1426; its source text is the same from which Chaucer translated “An ABC”, viz. de Deguilleville’s La pelerinaige de la vie humaine (see Renoir & Benson 1980: 1885–1887).

85

86 Matti Peikola

and governing the mode of reading and reception of a book. According to Pfaff (1998: 5), a liturgical calendar is “capable of being used as a guide to the sanctoral cycle in the liturgical year”. In other words, it could function as a reader’s aid to the order of the liturgical texts in the section on the feasts of saints (the Sanctorale) contained in the same manuscript. This function resembles that of the table of contents, which explicitly imposes an order and identity on the texts contained in a book and thereby guides readers’ use and reception of the material (for some examples from Middle English texts see Gillespie 1989: 328–331 and Connolly 2007: 157–158; see also Murdoch 1984: 32). That contemporary readers perceived a conceptual affinity between a calendar and a table of contents may readily be demonstrated by the use of calender in Late Middle English to denote a table or list of contents (MED s.v. calender 2b). The well-known fifteenth-century literary scribe and compilator John Shirley, for example, used the word for the versified prologue-like lists of contents he habitually prefixed to some of his anthologies (see Connolly 2007: 158). In one such list, Shirley explicitly advises his readers to consult “this calender” first, before proceeding further in their reading, because the contents of the volume have been “compendyously” listed in it: (1)

O ye my lordes whan ye be holde this boke or list it to vnfould or [before] ye ye leues turne to rede looke this calender and then proced for ther is titled compendyously all ye storyes hole by and by eche after other in ther chapytles as yt sheweth pleyne by ther tytles (Connolly 1998: 208–209).

The instructional function of the calendar, as illustrated in example (1), is essentially paratextual, i.e. associated with those liminal devices and conventions, both within the book (peritext) and outside it (epitext), that mediate the book to the reader: titles and subtitles, pseudonyms, forewords, dedications, epigraphs, prefaces, intertitles, notes, epilogues, (Macksey 1997: xviii) and afterwords”.  . The list was originally part of a Shirley compilation from the early 1430s, the greater part of which now forms Cambridge Trinity College MS R.3.20. The opening section containing the list has subsequently been lost, but a mid-sixteenth-century copy by the antiquarian John Stow exists in British Library MS Additional 29729, ff. 177v–179r, from where it has been edited by Connolly (see Connolly 1998: 95–96; Connolly 2007: 158 and n. 15).



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar

As Genette points out in his foundational work on the subject, one of the pragmatic characteristics of the paratext is to convey to the reader – in more or less explicit form – the author’s and/or publisher’s ideas as to how the book should be read, for example as regards its genre or the order of the chapters in it (Genette 1997: 10–11, 209–229).

3.

Calendars in medieval books

The instructional function of the medieval calendar as paratext is concretely manifest in its typical placement at the beginning of manuscripts, often in a separate booklet together with other similar texts with a practical purpose. De Hamel (1998: 137) succinctly characterises the calendar as “a detachable and infinitely variable preliminary found in many classes of medieval book”. The most obvious classes comprise books intended for liturgical use by the clergy, such as the missal, and those for mainly quasi-liturgical/devotional use by the laity, such as the psalter and the book of hours (see further e.g. Alexander, Marrow & Sandler 2005: 193– 194; de Hamel 1994: 200–218; Krochalis & Matter 2001: 439, 449–452; Pfaff 1998). The popular use of the psalter and the book of hours as text-books in medieval reading education (primarily in Latin) must have meant that they were often the first books with which people became intimately familiar (for their educational use, see Moran 1985: 39–49; Brown 1995; Woods 1999; Orme 2006: 27–28, 58–59). With regard to the book of hours, de Hamel (1998: 137) notes that “for countless of our ancestors it was probably the only book they had ever even seen”. In addition to the liturgical and quasi-liturgical books, the calendar also less regularly made its way into many other kinds of manuscript. The tendency may be appreciated from the index volume to Medieval Manuscripts in British Libraries, where the non-liturgical books which contain a calendar have been divided into the following groups according to their subject-matter: astrological, astronomical/computistical, historical, legal, medical, and religious (Ker 1969–2002, V, 44). When viewed together with the liturgical books, the diversity of the material indicates that in later medieval England not only the male clergy but increasingly also female religious and lay readers of both sexes came into contact with books containing a calendar. Although calendars were an integral and established component of certain types of book, their production as detachable booklets even in those manuscripts implies that the possibility of individual design remained an important defining principle. It should be borne in mind that in later medieval England book production still characteristically took the bespoke form of a contract between a commissioner (patron/sponsor) and a master craftsman (stationer); the latter

87

88

Matti Peikola

acted as a middleman, subcontracting scribes and illuminators (e.g. Harris 1989; Christianson 1999). As a paratextual element in manuscript books, the calendar therefore rarely conveys authorial directions (cf. Genette 1997); instead, it is more likely to reflect the intentions of the commissioner and the craftsmen who produced it. A calendar section at the beginning of a manuscript may thus provide valuable evidence as to how and by whom a book was expected to be read and used. The section may be thought of as forming an instructional toolkit, as it were, for the reader to approach the texts of the manuscript in a certain way.

4.

The John Rylands University Library MS English 80 and its calendars

To find out how such a toolkit works in practice and what we can learn about the commissioners and readers of a medieval book by examining its preliminaries, the rest of this chapter will explore the paratextual instructive function of a set of prefatory calendars in a mid-fifteenth-century English manuscript – Manchester, The John Rylands University Library MS English 80. Subsection 4.1 contains a brief description of the manuscript and its calendar section; in Subsection 4.2 the function of the calendar section vis-à-vis the readers of the manuscript will be discussed.

4.1 The manuscript Manchester, The John Rylands University Library MS English 80 (henceforth MS Eng. 80) is a mid-fifteenth-century English New Testament in the so-called Later Version of the Wycliffite translation of the Bible. It has been written in two columns on good-quality parchment, predominantly in one professional textualis book-hand. The book contains a number of exquisitely made illuminated initials and border-elements in English fifteenth-century style. An inscription on f. 318r “Summa iii lī  x s  viii di”, made in a late-fifteenth/early-sixteenth-century hand, may be a record of the price of the purchase of the manuscript (new . The most comprehensive description of the manuscript is that of Ker (1969–2002, III, 406); a majority of the contents have also been listed in The Index of Middle English Prose, Handlist II (­Lester 1985: 8–10). A brief description is included in the edition of the Wycliffite Bible by Forshall & Madden (1850, I, lxii, number 157 “Ashburnham, 2”). I am grateful to The John Rylands University Library for allowing me to inspect the manuscript in situ and for the opportunity to obtain colour reproductions of select leaves. For recent general discussions of the Wycliffite Bible translation project and its texts, see Hudson (1988: 238–247); von Nolcken (1998); Lawton (1999: 454–482); de Hamel (2001: 166–189); Daniell (2003: 66–95); Peikola (2005); Dove (2007).



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar

or second-hand) or of the costs of its illumination. Today, the recorded sum (£3, 10 s., 8 d.) would have the purchasing power of more than £1500, which concretely suggests that MS Eng. 80 was a luxury item at its time (for the historical purchasing power of the pound, see Officer 2007; for book prices in medieval England, see e.g. Bell 1937). In addition to the books of the New Testament and their prologues, MS Eng. 80 contains six other texts. Five of these have been placed at the front as a preliminary section (ff. 1v–23r); the sixth is found at the end after the New Testament (ff. 272r–316v). The prefatory materials of the manuscript consist of the following items (henceforth texts 1–5): 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

a table of movable feasts (f. 1v); a liturgical calendar (ff. 2r–7v); a table for finding Easter (f. 8r); a table of lessons according to the use of Sarum (ff. 9r–22v); an explanation of the place-value system of Arabic numerals, with a table (ff. 22v–23r).

All five texts have been written in a single textualis hand in black and red ink; the same hand has also provided the rubrics for the texts. Although this hand is larger in size and less compressed than that found in the New Testament part of the manuscript, it is likely that the two in fact belong to one and the same scribe (see Ker 1969–2002, III, 40, who refers to “the hand … of ff. 1–271”). It would seem, therefore, that the preliminaries were planned together with the main part of the manuscript. As the dimensions of the written space are practically identical in texts 1–5, and the compartmental spaces for the various tables have been meticulously ruled in similar ink throughout, the materials convey an air of having been purposefully designed as a single prefatory section.

4.2 The calendars of MS Eng. 80 and their paratextual function In what way, then, was the combination of prefatory calendars in MS Eng. 80 intended to guide readers’ use and experience of the texts of the manuscript? Let us . The text at the end of the manuscript is an Old Testament lectionary in English according to the use of Sarum, where the lessons from the Old Testament for the liturgy of the Mass have been arranged together, separated by rubrics such as “þe pistil on þe iije wednesdai in aduent Isaie vijo. co.” (f. 272r). Since it was written in a different hand from that of the New Testament and there is a quire boundary between the texts, the lectionary may not have been part of the original design of the book (for the hands and the quiring of MS Eng. 80, see Ker 1969–2002, III, 406).

89

90 Matti Peikola

first consider the role of the two longest preliminary items: the liturgical calendar (text 2) and the table of lessons (text 4).

4.2.1 Text 2 – Liturgical calendar Text 2 differs from the usual liturgical calendars surviving from medieval England in being written entirely in English rather than Latin (see Figure 1). The choice of language probably reflects the fact that the main text of the manuscript (i.e. the New Testament) is in English, but the date of the manuscript and its envisaged English-speaking primary audience may also have had a role to play. In any case, even among the liturgical calendars found in manuscripts of the Wycliffite Bible, English is by no means the default language. It is also worth noting that the liturgical calendar of MS Eng. 80 is largely devoid of explicit astronomical or astrological/prognosticatory concerns. The so-called Egyptian days or dies mala, for example, considered to be particularly unlucky, were often specified in medieval calendars, but no information on them is found in MS Eng. 80 (cf. Pickering 1980: 15; Taavitsainen 1988: 53). There is likewise no verbal or pictorial information about the labours of the months or the signs of the zodiac dominating them (cf. Wieck 1988: 45–54; Henisch 1999). The only piece of verbal information directly relating to astronomical concerns is the entry “nyȝt & day euen lengþe” for the 11th of March (f. 3r).10 An image of balanced scales has been drawn in the margin beside the entry; another similar marginal image, without a corresponding verbal text, occurs in the month of September to mark the autumn equinox (f. 6r). The lack of astrological concerns in the liturgical calendar of MS Eng. 80 may be interpreted as a paratextual signal to the reader about the unimportance of this field to the theme (matere) of the manuscript. The purpose is clearly not to guide the reader towards contemplating the divinatory implications of the New Testament, as done for example by one of the main protagonists of Dives and Pauper, an early fifteenth-century commentary on the Decalogue:  . I am not aware of any study specifically addressing the question of language choice in liturgical calendars of later medieval England. Art historians and liturgical scholars usually tacitly assume them to be in Latin; they have so far attracted only minimal interest on the part of philologists. . Of the six liturgical calendars in the manuscripts of the Wycliffite Bible in the Bodleian Library, for example, three are in English (Laud misc. 388, Selden Supra 49, Selden Supra 51). The manuscripts with a Latin calendar are Fairfax 11, Rawlinson C.237, and Rawlinson C.259. . There is, however, a note concerning the beginning of the dog days in July: “Here bigynnen þe caniculer daies” (f. 5r). 10. In transcriptions from the manuscript, abbreviations have been silently expanded.



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar

we fyndyn in þe gospel þat onon [anon] as Crist was born of þe maydyn his sterre apperid in þe est in tokene þat iche man and womman is born vnder a certeyn sterre and vnder a certeyn constellacioun queche [which] is clepid his destenye, for al his lyuyng after folwyng is gouernyd þerby, as seyn þese astronomyenys  (Barnum 1976: 132).

Considering that MS Eng. 80 contains the full unabridged text of the New Testament, the presence of the liturgical calendar in it is by no means a self-evident feature. The Latin Bibles and New Testaments described in Medieval Manuscripts in British Libraries (Ker 1969–2002), for example, do not as a rule contain a liturgical calendar. A liturgical calendar like text 2, which is largely devoid of astronomical or prognosticatory materials, typically seems to have accompanied either official liturgical texts or texts intended to be read privately in emulation of liturgical practice. The presence of the liturgical calendar in a vernacular religious manuscript may thus have served to emphasise its affinity with conventional and orthodox devotional books in Latin, such as the psalter and the book of hours – books with which the manuscripts of the Wycliffite Bible also share other physical and presentational similarities (see de Hamel 2001: 183; Dove 2007: 58). Furnishing a manuscript of the legally suspect English biblical translation with a liturgical calendar may have helped to render the book more palatable to orthodox readers (and censors), as this contextualising move highlights the use of the text in a liturgical fashion – i.e. reading a specific section of the book at a specified time – as opposed to reading it in a linear way as a New Testament.

4.2.2 Text 4 – Table of lessons In MS Eng. 80, the primacy of the liturgical mode of reading is further supported by the presence of text 4 as the other major preliminary item. The very purpose of this text is to guide the reader to use the New Testament as a source for the liturgical lessons (pericopes) read at Mass, so that selected sections of the book are read at appropriate times of the ecclesiastical year. This is indicated in the opening rubric of the table, where the text is identified as “a rewle [rule] þat telliþ in whiche chapitris of þe bible ȝe may fynde þe lessouns pistlis & gospels þat ben red in þe chirche aftir þe vss of salisbiri” (f. 9r). The paratextual guiding function of this text is also emphasised in its final rubric on f. 22v which explicitly labels it as a calendar: “Þus endiþ þe kalendir of lessouns pistlis & gospels of al þe ȝeer” (see Figure 2; for the Wycliffite tables of lessons, see further Peikola 2005–6; Dove 2007: 58–65). The prefixed table of lessons thus effectively presents MS Eng. 80 as a New Testament lectionary rather than as the New Testament as part of the Bible. The Old Testament lectionary appended at the end of the manuscript fits seamlessly

91

92

Matti Peikola

into such a mode of reading. If the reader uses the manuscript as a lectionary in the manner paratextually instructed by text 4, the annual reading neither covers the whole New Testament nor proceeds in linear fashion from the beginning of the New Testament to its end. While this would not have presented a problem for most fifteenth-century readers (with the possible exception of some hardline Lollards), the resulting non-linear piecemeal reading experience was criticised in the next century by Protestants such as Thomas Cranmer, who in the calendar accompanying the Book of Common Prayer introduced a new arrangement of the lessons based on the idea of a linear and more comprehensive reading of the Bible (see Chapman 2003: 103–107).

4.2.3 Texts 1 and 3 – Table of movable feasts and table for finding Easter Texts 1 and 3 each occupy a single page (f. 1v and f. 8r respectively); together with the liturgical calendar placed between them they form the first quire (gathering) of MS Eng. 80, consisting of eight leaves (four sheets folded in two). Despite their apparent distance, the two texts are in fact closely connected in the physical structure of the manuscript: they form the inside of the outermost sheet of the quire. The outside of this sheet (f. 1r and 8v) was originally left blank by the scribe – probably to protect the liturgical calendar from physical wear and tear and to allow its circulation as a self-contained booklet. Their structural (codicological) affinity and identical lineation (37 lines) implies that texts 1 and 3 were designed together to fill the inside of the protective sheet which was wrapped around the liturgical calendar. In addition to their physical similarities, texts 1 and 3 are also closely connected in function. As the liturgical calendar (text 2) only lists those feasts whose dates are fixed and unvariable from one year to another (i.e. the Sanctorale), it was a logical solution to supplement it with texts enabling the reader to establish the date of Easter and other movable feasts of the ecclesiastical year (the Temporale). Since the readers of MS Eng. 80 were paratextually guided towards using the book as a source for the liturgical lessons for the whole year, they would obviously need to know the dates of the liturgical feasts in both the Sanctorale and Temporale. Texts 1 and 3 thus reinforce the liturgical mode of reading brought about by texts 2 and 4 as the major preliminaries of the manuscript. Taking various forms, texts related to the calculation of movable feasts are frequently found accompanying the liturgical calendar in late medieval manuscripts, as indicated for example by the material surveyed in Medieval Manuscripts in British Libraries (see also Mooney 1998: 37–38). In Middle English, they became increasingly common during the fifteenth century (see e.g. Rigg 1967; Means 1992; Keiser 1998, nos. 73–76; Connolly 2007: 158–159). Means (1992: 622) notes that this computistic Middle English material is characterised by an “overall



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar

c­ oncession to popularization”, whereby “[r]eferences to tables and charts (whether perpetual calendars or other tabular devices) are for the most part strictly avoided”. She contrasts the ethos of the earlier Latin computistic writers with that of the fifteenth-century adapters of the material into Middle English: while the former regarded the tabular material as self-explanatory, the latter by and large preferred to present the information in less technical forms, such as mnemonic verses and images (Means 1992: 623). Texts 1 and 3 of MS Eng. 80 stand apart from the general trend identified by Means in that they have been presented in tabular form and there is no metatext (canons) explaining how the tables are to be used. Instead, the texts seem to reflect the Latin computistic tradition, where an ability to read tabular information was taken for granted. Moreover, it is worth noting that although the two texts employ computistic concepts such as the golden number (for indicating full moons), the dominical (Sunday) letter and the leap-year, no explanations are offered as to what they mean or how they should be used.11 In text 1, the proximity of the Latin tradition is evident in the use of Latin for table headings and for some names of months, which may even suggest that the compiler of the calendar section in MS Eng. 80 adapted the text from a wholly Latin context. The same possibility applies to text 3, where the adaptation into Middle English consists merely of supplying short rubrics. That no headings have been provided for its columns further reduces the accessibility of the text for a reader who is not familiar with the textual conventions of computistic tables. One may wonder about the purpose of including a separate table for finding Easter (text 3) in MS Eng. 80 in addition to the table of movable feasts (text 1) which already features Easter Sunday among its feasts. It would seem that this decision simplified the readers’ task of establishing the date of Easter and their operating with the golden number and dominical letter. A reader of the manuscript relying on text 1 alone to find the day of Easter would have had either to obtain the golden number and dominical letter of the current year from an external source or to calculate them, for example by means of mnemonic verses of the kind discussed by Means (1992) (for the calculations involved see e.g. Hughes 1982: 277). In text 3, however, the golden number and dominical letter are given for each year from 1448 to 1520 AD; thus the late medieval reader did not need to consult another source or perform calculations to obtain the information. By providing the golden numbers and dominical letters for specific years, text 3 thus 11. For the use of the golden number and dominical letter in medieval calendars, see for example Pickering (1980: 6–10); Hughes (1982: 277–279); Wieck (1988: 157–158); Clemens & ­Graham (2007: 199–200). The computistic background to their use has been discussed for example by Stevens (1995) and Hill (2003).

93

94 Matti Peikola

considerably facilitates the use of text 1. This feature further supports the idea that the two texts were designed to be included together by the compiler of MS Eng. 80. Mooney (1998: 37) points out that a table of movable feasts was usually accompanied by a leap-year table (tabula bisectilis), from which the reader could obtain the golden number and the dominical letter of the current year. Although text 3 is not a leap-year table such as that included in the Latin Kalendarium of John Somer (see Mooney 1998: 35–37, 112–114), in terms of its function it clearly belongs to the same tradition.

4.2.4 Text 5 – Explanation of Arabic numerals Text 5 focuses on the basic concepts of (Hindu-)Arabic (ME “augrym”) numerals by explaining how their place-value system works. The table on f. 22v lists the Arabic forms of the numbers 1–109, 1000–1009, and 10000, identifying the digits from 1 to 9 as “figuris” and instances of 0 as “cifris” (see Figure 2). Presumably to help the reader in grasping the meaning of individual Arabic numerals, the Roman numerals corresponding to the tens from 10 to 90 and those for 100, 1000, and 10000 are also included in the table. From the verbal instruction on f. 23r the reader would learn that “þe first place in augrym noumbre is alwei on þe riȝt hond; which first place is euermore þe leeste noumbre”, and correspondingly that “þe noumbre þat is moost on þe lifthond & ferþist; þat is euermore þe grettist noumbre”. The text also alerts the reader to the functional distinction between zero and the other digits: “forsoþe þe roound cifre is no noumbre; but occupieþ a place: saue he makiþ þe figure strong” (ibid.). To a modern reader, the tabular literacy and computistic knowledge presupposed by texts 1 and 3 may seem to be at odds with the rather basic arithmetical instruction provided in text 5. It is probable that the contradiction is historically less real than it appears from a 21st-century standpoint: today the place-value system of Arabic numerals is taught in primary school, but the use of the golden number and dominical letter for routine calendar reckoning is no longer part of our living culture. Although Arabic numerals and their basic arithmetical operations had been introduced into Europe in the twelfth century (see e.g. Evans 1977; Murray 1978: 167–174), they retained an air of specialised knowledge for quite some time. The astronomically highly sophisticated Kalendarium of John Somer, for example – composed at Oxford in 1380 – contains a basic table ­ showing how to read Arabic numerals (see Mooney 1998: 35, 112–113). The table in the Kalendarium contains the Arabic numerals from 1 to 60 with their corresponding Roman forms. According to the canon of the table, the reason for including precisely this numeral range in it is that “the numbers set down in the kalendar rarely exceed sixty” (as translated by Mooney 1998: 112). In the same canon, the



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar

“usefulness” of Arabic numerals is associated with their ability “to express a large number in a small space” (ibid.). Acker (1994: 296) points out that there was at first “ecclesiastical distrust” of the new arithmetic involving Arabic numerals. As an early example he cites the thirteenth-century Ancrene Wisse, where “figures of augrim” are associated with the calculations of the devil’s accountant (as in Tolkien 1962: 110–111; for instructional discourse in the text see Hiltunen 2003; Skaffari, this volume). By the fifteenth century, however, the practical benefits of operating with Arabic numerals had been largely recognized – especially in the areas of commerce, royal government and astronomy/astrology – and there was a clear demand for vernacular texts teaching their use (see Murray 1978: 188–210; Brewer 1983; Acker 1994). In Middle English, these texts range from translations of entire Latin manuals or university texts to brief instructions or notes concerning the place-value system, such as text 5 of MS Eng. 80 (for a checklist of Middle English arithmetical texts see Acker 1993; see also Keiser 1998: 3637–3640).12 It is probable that many short Middle English pieces on the place-value system are derived from the fuller and more learned accounts provided in these treatises by way of simplification and summary; as Acker (1994: 297) points out, they have often been placed on flyleaves and blank leaves of manuscript books, reflecting their practical purpose for the reader. The place-value system was usually discussed at the beginning of medieval arithmetical treatises as a component of an operation known as “numeration” (for examples from Middle English texts see Steele 1922: 4–5, 34–35; Mooney 1993: 1043). As such, the concept of the place value was the basic thing to be learned by anyone wishing to use Arabic numerals for calculations, but there is evidence suggesting that it was in fact the most difficult one to teach successfully; various visual schemes were consequently developed to facilitate its teaching (Swetz 1987: 185). The table of Arabic numerals in text 5 possibly reflects such pedagogic concerns. In terms of its practical value in the context of MS Eng. 80, text 5 would most immediately have served the needs of the user of the table of lessons (text  4), where Arabic numerals are used in references to biblical chapters (see e.g. the references to John 5 and 6 in the first three entries shown in Figure 2). Texts 1–3 use Roman numerals throughout. Arabic numerals also occur sporadically in the New Testament part of the manuscript; for example on f. 25v the Eight Beatitudes (Mt. 5: 3–10) are numbered in the margin with this method, in the hand of the main scribe. 12. Several manuscripts containing explanations of the place-value system in Middle English have been listed in Acker (1993) and Keiser (1998: 3810–3811). Neither of the lists includes MS Eng. 80.

95

96 Matti Peikola

As no other copy of the almost hundred Wycliffite tables of lessons is to my knowledge accompanied by a text treating Arabic numerals, however, it would appear that the users of the tables were generally not expected to have difficulty in understanding what these numerals stood for. Had the commissioners – or the stationers, who arranged the copying of the tables of lessons – anticipated such difficulties among their readers, the obvious place to add an explanatory note would have been the opening rubric of the table, which also contains other helpful information for the reader. For example, in a number of Wycliffite tables of lessons the opening rubric guides the reader in the use of letters of the alphabet in the subdivision of biblical chapters. In MS Eng. 80 the opening rubric of text 4 notes that in the text of the New Testament the lessons have been “markid wiþ lettris of þe abc at þe bigynnynge of þe chapitris toward þe myddil or eende; aftir þe ordre as þe lettris stonden in þe a.b.c.” (f. 9r). It is possible that such explicit reference relates to the novelty of using letters of the alphabet for text-internal referencing in a vernacular context (for the rubrics, see further Peikola 2005–6: 360–365). In the light of the evidence, the inclusion of text 5 in MS Eng. 80 may thus have been a scribal decision to copy (or even translate from Latin) an available thematically suitable text at the end of a half-finished quire; not necessarily a conscious attempt to enhance the paratextual efficacy of the preliminary calendars for reading the book. It should be borne in mind, however, that although elementary instructive texts on Arabic numerals do not apparently occur in the calendar section of other manuscripts of the Wycliffite Bible, they certainly can be found in a calendrical or computistic context in other coeval English manuscripts. As already noted, this is the case for for example in the Kalendarium of John Somer.

5.

Conclusion

This chapter has explored the late-medieval calendar as an instructional text. We have observed that in addition to the behavioural instruction inherently associated with the calendar as a temporal conduct book, texts conceived as calendars also had a paratextual guiding function in many different types of medieval book. These tabular or list-like texts were often placed at the beginning of the manuscript in a separate booklet as preliminaries; their purpose was to provide the reader with guidance on the mode of reading/reception of the book to which they were prefixed. The detailed inspection of the calendar section of the John Rylands University Library MS English 80 has illustrated one specific instance of how such preliminaries worked in a fifteenth-century Middle English context, to guide the reader towards a specific mode of liturgical reading of the New Testament. The selection



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar

of calendars in MS Eng. 80 and the kind of instruction found in them suggests, on the one hand, that the expected primary readers of this professionally produced and expensive book were expected to be familiar with basic computistic concepts such as the golden number and the dominical letter. On the other hand, the use of the letters of the alphabet for referential purposes and possibly also the basics of Arabic numerals may have been more unfamiliar topics to its envisaged readers. As is often the case with medieval manuscripts, the commissioners, makers and early readers of MS Eng. 80 remain unknown to us. We cannot even be sure of the geographical locality in which the liturgical reading of the New Testament, as prompted by its calendars, was expected to take place. The presence of certain non-Sarum feasts in its liturgical calendar may eventually help us in pinpointing the location; at present, however, this information appears ambiguous, with possible leads to both the West Midlands and London.13 There is likewise very little concrete evidence to indicate that the anonymous medieval readers of MS Eng. 80 in fact made use of the book in the way instructed by its calendars. The only annotation in the preliminaries by a possibly medieval (pre-Reformation) reader occurs in the liturgical calendar (text 2), where the entry “Seint vrsula þeir guid” has been added below the original entry “Of xj. þousind virgins martris” for 21 October (f. 6v; see Figure 1). This annotation seems to emphasise the importance of the feast of The Eleven Thousand Virgins for the reader by singling out their leader (St Ursula) as a specific object of veneration. The decision may indicate that the reader was a female religious or a laywoman who had taken a vow of chastity. The added entry in text 2 suggests that of the preliminaries of MS Eng. 80 at least the liturgical calendar was actively used. It tells us, however, next to nothing about how this reader conceived the function of the text as a component of the manuscript. In the margins of the New Testament part of the manuscript, there 13. Of the three major uses in fifteenth-century England (Sarum, York, Hereford) the liturgical calendar of MS Eng. 80 largely follows the use of Sarum in its choice of the saints to be celebrated (see Henderson 1881). The inclusion in the calendar of the non-Sarum feasts of St Oswald, Bishop (February 28) and St Ethelbert, King and Martyr (May 20) may betray more precisely localisable liturgical or devotional preferences behind its making. Since the body of Oswald was buried at Worcester and that of Ethelbert at Hereford, the presence of their feasts may point towards a connection with the West Midlands (for these two English saints, see e.g. Farmer 1987: 147, 330–331). However, since the calendar also includes the feast of St Erkenwald (April 30), which had a specific association with the synod of London (see Reames 2006: 99), the evidence is not unambiguous. Unravelling the nature of the complex liturgical evidence presented by the liturgical calendar of MS Eng. 80 requires more comparative research than is possible here. I am obliged to Professor Nigel Morgan for discussing the localisation of the liturgical calendar of MS Eng. 80 with me. For the arguments presented here, I am solely responsible.

97

98 Matti Peikola

are numerous signs of readers’ active engagement with the text especially in the form of the manicule, i.e. a finger pointing at a passage felt to carry specific importance (for this device see Sherman 2008: 25–52). The subject most often picked out by the manicule deals with the veneration of idols; it is likely that these were added by post-Reformation readers, possibly in the same hand(s) that erased several instances of the word “pope” in the liturgical calendar and replaced them with “bischop” (e.g. on f. 6v for pope “kalixte”, i.e. Callistus; see Figure 1). The only probably medieval annotation in the New Testament is found on f. 197v, where “þe pestl of passion sonday” has been written in the margin, next to the passage in Hebrews 9 furnished with the referential letter “c”. The annotation spells out that the passage marked with “c” is the epistle lesson to be read at Mass on Passion Sunday. The later fifteenth/early sixteenth-century textualis hand used for the annotation is perhaps not the same as that in which the addition concerning St Ursula in the liturgical calendar was written. It nevertheless provides a small piece of evidence of the late medieval reading of the manuscript as a New Testament lectionary in the liturgical mode instructed by its calendars.



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar

Figure 1.  The John Rylands University Library MS English 80, f. 6v. The month of October in the liturgical calendar (text 2). Reproduced by courtesy of the University Librarian and Director, The John Rylands University Library, University of Manchester.

99

100 Matti Peikola

Figure 2.  The John Rylands University Library MS English 80, f. 22v. End of the table of lessons (text 4) and beginning of the explanation of the Arabic numerals (text 5). Reproduced by courtesy of the University Librarian and Director, The John Rylands University Library, University of Manchester.



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar 101

References Acker, Paul. 1993. “The Crafte of Nombrynge in Columbia University Library, Plimpton MS 259.” Manuscripta 37: 71–83. Acker, Paul. 1994. “The emergence of an arithmetical mentality in Middle English literature.” The Chaucer Review 28: 293–302. Alexander, Jonathan J. G., Marrow, James H. and Sandler, Lucy Freeman (eds). 2005. The Splendor of the Word: Medieval and Renaissance Illuminated Manuscripts at the New York Public Library. New York and London/Turnhout: The New York Public Library and Harvey ­Miller. Barnum, Priscilla (ed.). 1976. Dives and Pauper Vol. 1.1 [Early English Text Society Original Series 275]. London/New York/Toronto: Oxford University Press. Bell, H. E. 1937. “The price of books in medieval England.” The Library 4th ser. 17: 312–332. Benson, Larry D. (ed.). 1987. The Riverside Chaucer (3rd ed.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brewer, Derek. 1983. “Arithmetic and the mentality of Chaucer.” In Literature in FourteenthCentury England [Tübinger Beiträge zur Anglistik 5], Piero Boitani and Anna Torti (eds), 155–164. Tübingen: Gunter Narr. Brown, George Hardin. 1995. “The dynamics of literacy in Anglo-Saxon England.” Bulletin of The John Rylands University Library 77: 109–142. Chapman, Alison A. 2002. “The politics of time in Edmund Spenser’s English Calendar.” SEL Studies of English Literature 1500–1900 42: 1–24. Chapman, Alison A. 2003. “Now and then: Sequencing the sacred in two Protestant calendars.” The Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 33: 91–123. Christianson, C. Paul. 1999. “The rise of London’s book-trade.” In The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain Vol. 3, Lotte Hellinga and J. B. Trapp (eds), 128–147. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clemens, Raymond and Graham, Timothy. 2007. Introduction to Manuscript Studies. Ithaca/ London: Cornell University Press. Connolly, Margaret. 1998. John Shirley: Book Production and the Noble Household in FifteenthCentury England. Aldershot: Ashgate. Connolly, Margaret. 2007. “Practical reading for body and soul in some later medieval manuscript miscellanies.” Journal of the Early Book Society 10: 151–174. Daniell, David. 2003. The Bible in English: Its History and Influence. New Haven/London: Yale University Press. David, Alfred. 1982. “An ABC to the style of the Prioress.” In Acts of Interpretation: The Text in Its Contexts 700–1600. Essays on Medieval and Renaissance Literature in Honor of E. Talbot Donaldson, Mary J. Carruthers and Elizabeth D. Kirk (eds), 147–157. Norman, OK: Pilgrim Books. De Hamel, Christopher. 1994. A History of Illuminated Manusripts (2nd ed.). London: Phaidon Press. De Hamel, Christopher. 1998. “Books of hours: Imaging the word.” In The Bible as Book: The Manuscript Tradition, John L. Sharpe III and Kimberly Van Kampen (eds), 137–143. London and New Castle, DE: The British Library and Oak Knoll Press in association with The Scriptorium: Center for Christian Antiquities. De Hamel, Christopher. 2001. The Book: A History of the Bible. London/New York: Phaidon Press.

102 Matti Peikola

Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources. 1975– . Oxford: Oxford University Press, for the British Academy. (Compiled by R. E. Latham and D. R. Howlett.) Dove, Mary. 2007. The First English Bible: The Text and Context of the Wycliffite Versions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Duffy, Eamon. 1992. The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England c.1400–c.1580. New Haven/London: Yale University Press. Evans, G. R. 1977. “From abacus to algorism: Theory and practice in medieval arithmetic.” The British Journal for the History of Science 10: 114–131. Farmer, David Hugh. 1987. The Oxford Dictionary of Saints (2nd ed.). Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Forshall, Josiah and Madden, Frederic (eds). 1850. The Holy Bible Containing the Old and the New Testaments with the Apocryphal Books, in the Earliest English Versions Made from the Latin Vulgate by John Wycliffe and His Followers. 4 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Furnivall, F. J. (ed.). 1901. The Pilgrimage of the Life of Man Vol. 2 [Early English Text Society Extra Series 83]. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co. Genette, Gérard. 1997. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation [Literature, Culture, Theory 20]. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (Translated from French by Jane E. Lewin. Originally published in French in 1987.) Gillespie, Vincent. 1989. “Vernacular books of religion.” In Book Production and Publishing in Britain 1375–1475, Jeremy Griffiths and Derek Pearsall (eds), 317–344. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harris, Kate. 1989. “Patrons, buyers and owners: The evidence for ownerhsip and the rôle of book owners in book production and the book trade.” In Book Production and Publishing in Britain 1375–1475, Jeremy Griffiths and Derek Pearsall (eds), 163–199. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Henderson, W. G. 1881. Comparative Calendar of Sarum, York and Hereford Uses with Lists of Feasts Peculiar to Each Use, and General Index. N.p. Henisch, Bridget Ann. 1999. The Medieval Calendar Year. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Hill, Joyce. 2003. “Copying with conflict: Lunar and solar cycles in the liturgical calendars.” In Time and Eternity: The Medieval Discourse, Gerhard Jaritz and Gerson Moreno-Riaño (eds), 99–108. Turnhout: Brepols. Hiltunen, Risto. 2003. “Telling the anchorite code: Ancrene Wisse on language.” In Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern [Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 119], Risto Hiltunen and Janne Skaffari (eds), 57–76. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Hudson, Anne. 1988. The Premature Reformation: Wycliffite Texts and Lollard History. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hughes, Andrew. 1982. Medieval Manuscripts for Mass and Office: A Guide to Their Organization and Terminology. Toronto/Buffalo/London: University of Toronto Press. Keiser, George R. 1998. “Works of science and information.” In A Manual of the Writings in Middle English 1050–1500 Vol. 10, Albert E. Hartung (ed.), 3593–3967. New Haven: The Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences. Ker, N. R. 1969–2002. Medieval Manuscripts in British Libraries. 5 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press. (Vol. 4 co-authored with A. J. Piper.) Krochalis, Jeanne E. and Matter, E. Ann. 2001. “Manuscripts of the liturgy.” In The Liturgy of the Medieval Church, Thomas J. Heffernan and E. Ann Matter (eds), 433–472. Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, Western Michigan University.



Instructional aspects of the medieval calendar 103

Lawton, David. 1999. “Englishing the Bible, 1066–1549.” In The Cambridge History of Medieval English Literature, David Wallace (ed.), 454–482. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lester, G. A. 1985. The Index of Middle English Prose, Handlist 2: The John Rylands University Library of Manchester and Chetham’s Library, Manchester. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer. Macksey, Richard. 1997. “Foreword.” In Genette, Gérard, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation [Literature, Culture, Theory 20], xi–xxii. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Means, Laurel. 1992. ‘‘‘Ffor as moche as yche man may not haue the astrolabe’: Popular Middle English variations on the computus.” Speculum 67: 595–623. MED = Middle English Dictionary. Mooney, Linne R. 1993. “A Middle English text on the seven liberal arts.” Speculum 68: 1027– 1052. Mooney, Linne R. 1997. “English almanacks from script to print.” In Texts and Their Contexts: Papers from the Early Book Society, John Scattergood and Julia Boffey (eds), 11– 25. Dublin: Four Courts Press. Mooney, Linne R. (ed.). 1998. The Kalendarium of John Somer. Athens: The University of Georgia Press. Moran, Jo Ann Hoeppner. 1985. The Growth of English Schooling 1340–1548: Learning, Literacy and Laicization in Pre-Reformation York Diocese. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Murdoch, John E. 1984. Album of Science: Antiquity and the Middle Ages. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Murray, Alexander. 1978. Reason and Society in the Middle Ages. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Officer, Lawrence H. 2007. “Purchasing power of British pounds from 1264 to 2006.” Measuringworth.Com, August 2007. OED = Oxford English Dictionary Online. Orme, Nicholas. 2006. Medieval Schools from Roman Britain to Renaissance England. New Haven/London: Yale University Press. Pace, George B. 1979. “The adorned initials of Chaucer’s A B C.” Manuscripta 23: 88–98. Peikola, Matti. 2005. “The Bible in English.” In The Splendor of the Word: Medieval and Renaissance Illuminated Manuscripts at the New York Public Library, Jonathan J. G. Alexander, James H. Marrow and Lucy Freeman Sandler (eds), 77–81. New York and London/ Turnhout: The New York Public Library and Harvey Miller. Peikola, Matti. 2005–2006. “‘First is writen a clause of the bigynnynge therof ’: The table of lessons in manuscripts of the Wycliffite Bible.” Boletín Millares Carlo 24–25: 343–378. Pfaff, Richard W. 1998. “Why do medieval psalters have calendars?” In Liturgical Calendars, Saints, and Services in Medieval England, Richard W. Pfaff (ed.), 1–15. Aldershot: Ashgate. Pickering, F. P. 1980. The Calendar Pages of Medieval Service Books [Reading Medieval Studies 1]. Reading: Graduate Centre for Medieval Studies, University of Reading. Reames, Sherry L. 2006. “Lectionary revision in Sarum breviaries and the origins of the early printed editions.” Journal of the Early Book Society 9: 95–115. Renoir, Alan and Benson, David C. 1980. “John Lydgate.” In A Manual of the Writings in Middle English 1050–1500, Vol. 6, Albert E. Hartung (ed.), 1809–1920, 2071–2175. New Haven: The Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences. Rigg, A. G. 1967. “The letter “C” and the date of Easter.” English Language Notes 5: 1–5. Robbins, Rossell Hope. 1939. “English almanacks of the fifteenth century.” Philological Quarterly 18: 321–331.

104 Matti Peikola

Sherman, William H. 2008. Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Shirley, Walter Waddington (ed.). 1858. Fasciculi Zizaniorum Magistri Johannis Wyclif cum Tritico [Rolls Series 5]. Reprinted in 1965, Wiesbaden: Kraus Reprint. Skeat, W. W. (ed.). 1899. The Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer: Romaunt of the Rose, Minor Poems (2nd ed.). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Steele, Robert (ed.). 1922. The Earliest Arithmetics in English [Early English Text Society Extra Series 118]. London: Oxford University Press. Stevens, Wesley M. 1995. “Cycles of time: Calendrical and astronomical reckonings in early science.” In Cycles of Time and Scientific Learning in Medieval Europe, Wesley M. Stevens (ed.), 27–51. Aldershot: Variorum. Swetz, Frank J. 1987. Capitalism & Arithmetic: The New Math of the 15th Century. La Salle, IL: Open Court. Taavitsainen, Irma. 1988. Middle English Lunaries: A Study of the Genre [Mémoires de la Société Néophilologique de Helsinki 47]. Helsinki: Société Néophilologique. Thompson, John. 1993. “Chaucer’s An ABC in and out of context.” Poetica 37: 38–48. Tolkien, J. R. R. (ed.). 1962. The English Text of the Ancrene Riwle: Ancrene Wisse, Edited from MS. Corpus Christi College Cambridge 402 [Early English Text Society Original Series 249]. London/New York/Toronto: Oxford University Press. Voigts, Linda Ehrsam. 1989. “Scientific and medical books.” In Book Production and Publishing in Britain 1375–1475, Jeremy Griffiths and Derek Pearsall (eds), 345–402. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Voigts, Linda Ehrsam and Kurtz, Patricia Deery. 2000. Scientific and Medical Writings in Old and Middle English: An Electronic Reference. CD-ROM. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. von Nolcken, Christina. 1998. “Lay literacy, the democratization of God’s law, and the Lollards.” In The Bible as Book: The Manuscript Tradition, John L. Sharpe III and Kimberly Van Kampen (eds), 177–195. London and New Castle, DE: The British Library and Oak Knoll Press in association with The Scriptorium: Center for Christian Antiquities. Whiting, Ella Keats (ed.). 1931. The Poems of John Audelay [Early English Text Society Original Series 184]. London: Oxford University Press. Wieck, Roger S. 1988. Time Sanctified: The Book of Hours in Medieval Art and Life. New York: George Braziller in association with The Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore. Woods, Marjorie Curry. 1999. “Shared books: Primers, psalters, and the adult acquisition of literacy among devout laywomen and women in orders in late medieval England.” In New Trends in Feminine Spirituality: The Holy Women of Liège and Their Impact, Juliette Dor, Lesley Johnson and Jocelyn Wogan-Browne (eds), 177–193. Turnhout: Brepols.

Authority and instruction in two sixteenth-century medical dialogues Irma Taavitsainen

Contrasts between generations are in focus in some sixteenth-century medical dialogues. In some dialogues the roles are taken from wisdom literature: the debates are conducted between a wise old man and a foolish youngster. In others the roles of the interactants are strictly professional as an expert teacher discusses with a novice learner. I shall compare two texts written by William Bullein for different audiences. The focus is on the construction of authority and social roles by speech acts and interactional features. I shall discuss first and second person pronouns, address terms, direct and indirect requests, pleas, compliments, thanks and apologies, and pay attention to how the claims are mitigated and how social decorum is provided with politeness.

1.

Introduction: Aim, approach and method

Handbooks and textbooks form the core of instructive literature in the earlier periods of English writing. The dialogic form emerges in English vernacular educational writing in the late medieval period. William Bullein’s (see below) dialogues continue this tradition in the Early Modern English period, but the conventional frame of instructive dialogue is developed in different ways in different texts, and the range is wide. There is innovation, recreation, and edification by means of

. An earlier version of this paper with a focus on identity was read at the IPrA Conference in Riva del Garda, 2005. I am grateful to the audience for their comments. The research was supported by the Academy of Finland project number 113787 and Centre of Excellence funding for the Research Unit for Variation, Contacts and Change in English at the Universities of Helsinki and Jyväskylä. . My motivation for choosing this particular topic for the article is its link to Wisdom Literature, where the teacher is prototypically featured as a wise elderly man.

106 Irma Taavitsainen

entertainment, but there are also long monologic passages which contain moral preaching and occasional blunt questions. Linguistic stylistics is interested in finding out what linguistic features are used for various effects and functions. I shall combine this approach with historical pragmatics and make a qualitative analysis of two 16th-century teaching dialogues. The construction of identities is a major function of language use: in the private domain, individuals negotiate their social roles through interaction in various situations. Professional identities are different, as they represent the public domain and involve institutional and conventionalised roles, such as those of an expert and a novice, or a teacher and a learner. Learning a profession involves adopting a new identity, and this is accomplished largely by language, as specialised terminology and a new way of speaking must be acquired. According to the logocentric thought-style of scholasticism, references to authorities form an important part of teaching, providing evidence for and assuring the truth value of a given statement. My research question focuses on the scope of variation in medical teaching dialogues aimed at various audiences. I shall analyse the unfolding discourse in terms of speech acts and politeness, paying attention to linguistic features like first and second person pronouns, terms of address, direct and indirect requests, pleas, compliments and apologies, and I shall relate my observations to the different audiences of the texts. Roles and identities are fairly stereotypical in early dialogues, but interactive elements of natural language are used to varying degrees to make the dialogues more speech-like, to emphasise or mitigate the claims made, and to provide social decorum and a pleasant learning environment. Somewhat surprisingly, the observation by modern conversation analysts of continual changes in interpersonal relations and of identities being constructed according to subjective judgements made by interactants in the course of discourse are relevant here (see e.g. Schiffrin 1994), as the same processes take place in the written material, and identities, albeit fictional ones, are negotiated in the course of the dialogue.

2.

Material used in the study

My material consists of two early modern medical dialogues written by William Bullein (c. 1515–1576), a medical practitioner and one of the most important authors of health guides in the Early Modern English period. Health issues are of interest to lay people as well as medical practitioners, and some handbooks had a wide circulation among educated people. The texts are aimed at different audiences: one is written to convey information about health issues to a broad and heterogeneous readership, while the other is a handbook of surgery. Thus,



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues 107

the author and genre parameters remain constant, but the audiences are different. Such dialogues were published to meet the demands of an increasing market: the rising middle class, professionals of various educational backgrounds, and rich households; in general, handbooks of useful knowledge were owned and read by a heterogeneous readership, including professional people. Several underlying traditions come together in these dialogues. The main division is into two traditions: scholastic formulae with a question-answer pattern, and mimetic dialogues. In the first group, participant roles are not stated, whereas in the second the roles are explicit, and participants have names and present typified characters; Wisdom Literature belongs to this category (see below). Both types may ultimately be descendents of philosophical dialogues dating back to Greek literature, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, and the underlying traditions may intertwine and merge. The basic pattern of questions and answers is found in both, but the scheme can be elaborated by various speech acts. Question-answer patterns were modelled on Aristotelian treatises and, in the course of time, acquired an elaborate format in institutional language use, forming an intermediate between oral and written discourse. According to my earlier study, the two traditions of question-answer formulae and mimetic dialogues merge in handbooks of English medical literature; Bullein’s work provides the best examples of the new trend (see Taavitsainen 1999). Name

Year

Interlocutors

Audience

Contents

Bullein: The Gouernement of Health

1558/9

Iohn, Humfrey

General and heterogeneous

Basic principles and health advice

Bullein: Bulleins Bulwarke

1562

Sorenes, Chyrurgj

Professional

Surgical with recipes

William Bullein established a new way of writing instructive texts imitating speech-like features and introducing fictional characters. The Gouernement of Health (1558/9) is an early work belonging to this new trend. It is written as a dialogue between two characters combining various underlying traits from classical philosophical and scientific models in a mimetic dialogue. Bulleins Bulwarke of Defence Againste All Sicknes, Sorenes and Woundes (1562) is a compilation of several dialogues presented in useful short tracts, including examples such as an allegorical dialogue between Sickness and Health. The medical issues discussed in the two treatises vary: the first contains an overall survey of the basic doctrines of humoral medicine, while the second discusses a broad array of specialised topics in surgery, and also contains medical recipes. Some of Bullein’s texts have been

108 Irma Taavitsainen

recognized for their literary merits, transgressing the borderline between literary and non-literary writing.

3.

Learning is fun: The Gouernement of Health (1558–9)

3.1

Setting the scene

The Gouernement of Health is written in the form of a conversation between a wise old man and a foolish youngster, a stereotypical Wisdom Literature cast in the long tradition of instructive dialogues involving advice from a parent to a child or a teacher to a pupil. The best-known texts of the tradition are the secreta secretum writings, supposedly composed by Aristotle for teaching Alexander the Great. They contain health advice among other things, and several versions from late fifteenth-century England have been preserved. Bullein’s text may well have been influenced by this tradition, but his texts are very different from their predecessors. Participant relations are negotiated at the beginning of the dialogue. The protagonists are introduced by a contrast: an arrogant young man and a wise old man have come together and have a discussion. John’s opening turn consists of a declaration of his lifestyle, followed by praise of his own lifestyle and contempt for others’. Humphrey’s opening turn comments on John’s and labels it with the speech act verb (SAV) boast, then accuses him of extravagance. The accusation is indirect, with reference to classical learning, a device which is important in the construction of Humphrey’s role as a learned teacher. He names the vices of gluttony and lust, and then ascribes them to John. John perceives this as an insult. In the following, the speech acts and their additional features are specified.

. Bullein’s major achievement, The Feuer Pestilence (1564/95), represents the fictional end of medical dialogues. The frame is literary, and involves people escaping the plague by moving to the countryside. There are several interlocutors, each representing a different stereotype: a rich merchant infected with the disease, greedy lawyers, an atheist doctor working with the apothecary to make a profit, and rural people of various sorts. The medical parts of The Feuer Pestilence consist of recipes given in almost monologic form with occasional blunt questions (see Taavitsainen and Nevanlinna 1999).



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues 109

Passage 1. Iohn. Of al pleasures and pastimes mee thinke there is none like vnto good cheere, what shoulde a man doe but passe away the time with good fellowes, and make merrie, seeing we haue but a time to liue, cast away care, wherefore is meate and bellies ordained, but the one to serue the other? The flesh that we dayly encrease is our owne. Abstinence and fasting, is a mightie enemie and nothing pleasant to mee, and bee vsed of very fewe that loue themselues, but onely of beggers, and couetous sparers, which doe spare much, and spend little. Humfrey. I know well your goodly expence of time, Iwis it is no maruell, although you make your bellie your god, and boast of it. You see that all lustie reuellers, and continual banket makers, come to great estimation, as for example, Varius Haelyogabalus, which was dayly fedde with many hundred fishes and foules, and was accompanied with manie brothels, baudes, harlots and gluttons, and thus it doeth appeare by your abhorring vertue, that of right you might haue claimed a great office in Haeliogabalus court, if you had beene in those daies, but you haue an infinite number of your conuersation in these dayes, the more pitie.

DECLARATION OF LIFE STYLE

repetitive word pair subjective stance

PRAISE OF HIS OWN CARELESS LIFE STYLE

rhetorical question

rhetorical question

repetitive word pair subjective stance CONTEMPT FOR OTHERS stance contrasts

REPROACH

contrast I–you stance religious reference vivid language, sound play learned reference

INSULT

alliteration cumulative list of vices stance

expression of emotion (p. 1)

The turning point of the plot occurs in the passage cited below. The perlocutionary effect shows John’s hurt feelings: he reacts with a blunt What, an exclamatory question of surprise, not believing his ears, and the phrase good sir, seems to

110 Irma Taavitsainen

have a condescending tone, perhaps mock politeness. He requests that the old man leave him alone, and this section is formulated as a negative request with a reference to a proverb. The turn is all about negotiation of face, the desire of the participant to go unimpeded. The contrast between the roles is made explicit: ­Humphrey is described as “ancient and grave”, John as “young”; “wee be no matches”. John’s turn may be interpreted as a response in kind to the first insult (see Jucker and Taavitsainen 2000). Humphrey’s role as the wise man is emphasized in his response, which is delivered as a “universal” truth, but with an implicature: he is the wise man and John is the fool. The proverb itself works as an indirect accusation and insult, continuing the verbal contest between the protagonists. Such verbal duels contain ritual insults in texts such as Beowulf. At the same time, the quotation by Humphrey functions as an audience involvement feature: readers knew the phrase and could assume the role of the wise old man. The opposition continues with wise and fool, this time more explicitly identifying Humphrey as a wise man and John as a foole, and Humphrey continues by boasting of his experience, contrasting it to John’s inexperience; here, again, we have a response in kind. After this, Humphrey assumes a more friendly tone and introduces potential common ground. Humphrey expresses faith in John’s ability to change his lifestyle. He succeeds in appealing to John’s curiosity, and the dialogue continues by mutual consent. Passage 2. Iohn. What? good sir, I require

RESPONSE IN KIND

exclamatory question, mock polite address refusal to take the advice, request for freedom promise to bear no grudge characterization of the conversants as opposites

RESPONSE IN KIND

“universal” truth with indirect reference speculation about John’s ability to change his lifestyle

not your counsell, I pray you bee your owne caruer, and giue mee leaue to serue my fantasie. I will not charge you, you are very auncient and graue, and I am but young, wee be no matches. Hum. Good counsell is a treasure to wise men, but a verie trifle to a foole, if thou haddest seene those things which I haue seene. I knowe thou wouldest not be such a man, nor thus spend thy time.

APPEAL

(p. 1)

. See also Hiltunen (1995) about conflict talk in The Battle of Maldon.



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues

3.2 Negotiation of authority and learning John asks for proof of Humphrey’s wider experience. The verb see is the key here, with various shades of meaning from concrete to more abstract (see Turo Hiltunen 2005), and the negotiation itself is conducted by tossing its forms to and fro. The verb is repeated twice with focus on the exchange of personal pronouns, with the same referent. The effect is a shift of emphasis to the mutual construction of meaning. After this interlude, Humphrey bursts into an eloquent and sermon-like speech. This turn comprises a warning against gluttony and lust, the sins Humphrey has accused John of. Again, Humphrey’s learnedness is emphasised. He reverts to scholastic argumentation, making use of stock patterns and phrases which create an aura of learning, continuing the construction of a wise old man. The audience must have recognized the patterns, as they occur commonly in vernacular scientific writing of the period, as e.g. below, in the second dialogue. Passage 3. Iohn. What hast thou seene, that I haue not seene?

REQUEST FOR VERIFICATION

question expressing doubt

Hum. I haue seene many notable and grieuous plagues, which haue

DECLARATION OF EXPERIENCE

narrative of experience, paired adjectives alliteration cumulative list of consequences with negative adjectives a “universal” truth

WARNING

prediction

fallen vpon greedie gluttons, as wasting their substance, disforming their bodies, shortning their pleasant daies: and in this poynt to conclude with thee, whereas gluttonie remaineth, from thence is moderate diet banished: and those bellies that follow the lust of the eyes (in meates) in youth, shall lacke the health of all their bodies, in age if they liue so long.

(pp. 1–2)

3.3 Instruction and politeness Humphrey’s moralising opening speech is successful. His warning has the intended perlocutionary effect, and the dialogue enters a new phase, with John accepting Humphrey’s offer to give advice and even complimenting the old man. The dialogue assumes a more polite tone, with “I pray thee” and “if it please you”. In return, Humphrey addresses John with the polite Sir. John requests more

111

112 Irma Taavitsainen

i­ nformation, and Humphrey promises to tell him. Negotiation continues, as John demands more evidence and Humphrey assures John that his counsel is true and beneficial, adding a pious plea to God. In the passage below, the second-person pronouns vary. These could potentially be used to negotiate interpersonal relations, but the choice does not follow any clear patterns and I hesitate to ascribe too much meaning to the forms in this dialogue. In general, the use of you/ye and th(o)u was in a state of flux. Passage 4. Ioh. Mee thinke thou canst giue good counsell, thou seemest to be seene in phisicke. I pray thee, is it so great hurt to delight in plentie of banquets?

stance COMPLIMENT REQUEST

polite phrase (1st pers.)

Hum. Sir, if it will please you to bee somewhat attentiue, I will tell you. It is the verie graine whereof commeth stinking vomits, sausy faces, dropsies, vertigo, palsies, obstructions, blindnes, flixes, apoplexis, caters, and rheumes, &c.

APPEAL PROMISE WARNING

polite address, polite phrase (2nd pers.) cumulative list of hardships hyperbolic list

Ioh. Is it true that you haue said to mee?

REQUEST FOR CONFIRMATION

plain question

Hum. Would to God dayly experience did not trie it. I doe perfectly know it. And once thou shalt be a witnesse thereof, if thou come to age.

PIOUS WISH

Iohn. Then I beseech thee gentle

APPEAL

friend Humfrey, declare to mee, whie there is such diuision among Phisitions.

REQUEST

stance; firm reliance AFFIRMATION PROMISE polite phrase (1st pers.), polite address imperative form (direct request) (p. 2)

. There are several recent studies on the use of these pronouns in late Middle English and in Shakespeare’s works that show how complicated the situation was (see the articles in ­Taavitsainen and Jucker 2003). In teaching dialogues their use could be more straightforward, reflecting authority, distance and friendliness, but this pattern is not consistent. See also Walker (2007).



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues 113

The rest of the dialogue is purely didactic. The turns are very uneven, as ­ umphrey’s speeches grow in length and John’s role is to ask further questions. H Humphrey holds the floor with authoritative instruction, as someone who has seen and experienced the world and read his books. His knowledge is certain and he can provide an explanation to everything. Thus, Humphrey’s monologues are in accordance with the scholastic thought-style, with absolute certainty as the mode of knowing and reliance on ancient authorities as the source of knowledge (Taavitsainen and Pahta 1998). John’s questions serve to elicit knowledge. The simplest form is What is x?, but the core question is made more polite by adding interpersonal phrases. The most important groups of speech acts consist of requests. These occur in various forms, ranging from blunt direct commands to mitigated eloquence with terms of address and polite phrases corresponding to the modern English “please”. They are mostly in the 1st person singular (e.g. “I pray”, “I beseech you”), and secondperson oriented politeness is present in phrases like “if you please”. (1) Iohn. Thus I haue heard thy seuerall placing of the foure complections of bloud, Choler, Fleugme and Melancholie, and is there anie distinct hotenesse, coldnesse, moystnesse, and drinesse, in anie other creature besides man? tell me. Hum. Not onely in man, but in beastes, fish, foule, serpents, trees, hearbes, mettals, and euerie thing sensible and insensible, according to their natures, and bee equally mingled or tempered togither, ... (p. 13) (2) Ioh. I haue heard say that holsome aire is a great comfort to mans nature, but corrupt ayre doth much harme: I shall require you therefore to tell me of the good and the bad aire, that I may learne to vse the good, and refuse the bad. Hum. Galen in lib. de Sectis. saieth: ... (p. 29) (3) Ioh. Now thou hast spoken of the signes of the 4. complections, praie thee teach mee shortly, howe to knowe the elements. Hum. They be the foure beginners vnmingled and vntempered … (p. 7)

At times the polite speech acts are very frequent. The following passage is an extreme example, in which the attitude of the speaker and his willingness to learn are emphasised. John pays a compliment to Humphrey and presents an apology for his former behaviour. The response ignores the interpersonal aspects and Humphrey continues his didactic teaching:

. John has the floor for only about one eighth of the time (1,200 words / Humphrey’s 9,660 words).

114 Irma Taavitsainen

(4) Ioh. I pray thee friend Humfrey, what is phisicke? I woulde bee glad to learne some of thy knowledge, for thou hast a good order in talking, and seeme to be grounded of authority. Therfore I am sory that I haue co~tended with thee. I pray thee be not angry with my former talke. Hum. Hippocrates in his booke … (pp. 4–5)

Commissive speech acts (for speech act terminology, see Searle 1979) occur as well, mostly in the form of promises, e.g. “I will tell”. Expressives such as insults, compliments, apologies and thanks are also found (see above). These make the conversation sound more natural and help to create a pleasant learning environment. Sometimes there are responses to earlier answers. John expresses wonder and surprise, like a good student eager to learn more: (5) Ioh. What, might not men, beasts, fish or foule, hearbe or tree, bee of one element aswell as of foure? I pray you tell me. (p. 8)

In some places, the question-answer pattern is elaborated using inserted sequences and promises to pay attention and take heed, e.g. (6) Ioh. Why is phisicke of such great authoritie, or hath it bin in estimation among olde fathers, May that be proued of thy parte? Hum. Yea that I can. Ioh. If thou canst bring in any reuerent fathers that loued phisick, I will not despise, but greatly esteme it, and desire counsell in demaunding of a fewe questions. (p. 3)

The speech acts quoted above are expressions of polite behaviour in interpersonal management and form part of the narrative dialogue. The whole discourse develops into an interpersonal negotiation of giving and taking good advice, teaching and learning. New topics are regularly introduced by the discourse particle now followed by a summary of the previous topic and a request to enter another subject area. Polite comments concerning the usefulness of this knowledge may accompany the requests, and further questions are frequently used for clarification. These passages serve a metatextual function as well, as they sum up the contents of the previous passages and prepare the audience for what is coming next in the unfolding discourse.

. This is a common formula in Early Modern English and occurs in various genres, e.g. court room interaction. See Doty and Hiltunen (2002).



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues 115

(7) Ioh. Now thou hast taught me short rules of the partes and formes phisicall, I pray thee shewe me some pretie rules of the complections of men, and that I may aptly knowe them with their properties, elements, temperaments, and humours. (p. 6)

Authorities are frequently mentioned in The Gouernement. For example, the passage below deals with healthy and unhealthy places and names and quotes a dense network of authorities in support of the argument. This is learned discourse, with models in the medieval commentary tradition (Taavitsainen 2004). Humphrey displays his learning according to the old scholastic style of presenting the views of ancient authors and discussing their differences and similarities, e.g. Galen in lib. de Sectis. saieth: A wise phisicion ought to know… Auicen saith, to dwell vpon hils is cold. … And in the said book Auicen greatly commendeth pleasant riuers…(pp. 29–31). There are Latin quotes in Humphrey’s speech, with the obvious function of strengthening the aura of learning. An English translation accompanies the quote: (8) Hum. No, for Aristotle saith: Deus & natura nihil agunt frustra, God and nature hath doone nothing in vaine. And if any thing vpon the earth sencible were of one element, no sicknesse could hurte it, nor disease corrupt it, but euerie thing liuing vppon the earth, seeing it hath had beginning, it must needes haue ending … (p. 8)

3.4 Entertainment Bullein’s Gouernement of Health is exceptional and represents the fictional end of the continuum of medical dialogues (cf. note 2). In addition to the above-mentioned features, it introduces a more recreational element in its use of songs of “plaine verses” in rhyming couplets, which were easy for the audience to memorise. In the following, Humphrey explains his purpose and offers to teach his verses to John. The scene is made more lively by Humphrey’s polite request to John to take a seat, listen and learn (see Taavitsainen 2005). (9) Ioh. Now thou hast taught me short rules of the partes and formes phisicall, I pray thee shewe me some pretie rules of the complections of men, and that I may aptly knowe them with their properties, elements, temperaments, and humours. Hum. Vpon my Lute some time, to recreate myselfe, I ioine with my simple harmonie, many plaine verses. Among all other one small song of the foure complections: wilt thou heare it? take that chaire and sit downe, and I I [sic] will teach thee my song.

116 Irma Taavitsainen

Ioh. I thanke thee. Humfrey. The bodies where heat and moysture dwel, Be sanguine folkes as Galen tell, With visage faire and cheekes rose ruddy. The sleepes is much & dreames be bluddy. (p. 6)

These scenes of entertaining instruction are accompanied by the speech acts of thanking, expressed with the routine formula of the performative speech act verb serving as IFID I thanke thee, and paying a compliment to Humphrey: (10) Ioh. This is a good song, and I will learne it, for though it seeme not verie pleasant, yet I perceiue it is profitable. (p. 7)

To modern ears, this compliment does not sound altogether successful, but it may have had different connotations to contemporary audiences. The combination of docere et delectare is made explicit, and the special quality of the dialogue becomes further enhanced.

4.

Pious and moral instruction: Bullein’s Bullwark

4.1

Setting the scene

The subtitle in the Bullwark (1562) explains that the dialogue is “againste all Sicknes, Sornes, and woundes, that dooe daily assaulte mankinde”. The discussants are called “Sorenes” and a “Chirugj”. The roles are closer to doctor – patient discourse than Wisdom Literature, as Sorenes is “soreness” according to the medieval naming tradition. The “I” of the passage is sickness itself. He consults the surgeon: (11) HEther to yet stande I in doubt, although I be pained, how to name truly my desease I can not, although of it self it be definable, felte of me, and seen to vs bothe, and knowen onely to thee, what thinke you it is, I praie you tell me. (f. ix)

The opening is a prayer or pious wish by Sorenes, and an ethical consideration of the qualities of a good surgeon follow. The opening passage anchors the treatise to its target audience: Bulleins Bulwarke is written for a professional audience, perhaps for surgeons in training. The first person singular phrase “that I might learne” carries an identification to the reader and also to a very Chirurgian. Thus



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues 117

it acts as an involvement feature. The discussion is about the qualities of a good surgeon, and echoes the treatment of the subject in medieval medical treatises. Passage 5. GOD giue me grace, to beware of soche fellowes, as you haue spoken of before, whiche are an euill compainie, and that I might learne what a very Chyrurgian should bee, whiche in your conclusion, you haue commended, and what thynges he should doe in his office. [} Chyrurgj. }] HE must begin first in youth with good learning, & exercise in this noble art, he also must be clenly, nimble handed, sharpe sighted, prignant witted, bolde spirited, clenly apparailed, pitefull harted, but not womenly affeccionated: to wepe or trimble, whe~ he seeth broken bones, or bloodie woundes, neither muste he geue place to the crie of his sore paciente, for softe Chyrurgians maketh fowle sores. Of the other side, he maie not plaie the partes of a Butcher to cutte, rende, or teare, the bodie of manne kynde. For all though it be fraile, sore, and weake, yet it is the pleasure of God, to cal it his temple, his instrume~t and dwelyng place, and the Philosopher dooe call it Orbiculus, that is alittle worlde. Therefore seing euery craftes man doe take greate care, bothe daie and night in his vocacion, to helpe and amende dedde thinges, whiche bee insencible, as Shippes, houses, walles, bridges, and an infinite numbre of thinges, whiche mankynde dooeth make, and when it is old, doe renue it, and preserue it from ruyng, and vtter destruccion, although it be not perdurable: Should not therfore mankynde hymself, for his rewarde, bee diligently cured, amended, and renued,

PRAYER, pious wishes indication of readership: 1st pers. pron. associated with a surgeon professional ethics deontic modality

reference to the homo signorum doctrine, a complex parallel example

(f. viij)

. Similar passages are found in surgical texts of the Middle English period; for example, the following is from Lanfranc, Chirurgia magna 1, page 8 (see MEMT): of þe qualitees, maners, and kunnynge of a surgian nedeful it is þat a surgian be of a complexcioun weel proporciound, and þat his complexcioun be temperat Races seiþ, who-so is nouȝt semelich, is ympossible to haue good maners & Auicenne: euyle maners but folowen þe lijknes of an yuele complexioun A surgian muste haue handis weel schape, longe smale fyngris, and his body not quakynge, & al must ben of sutil witt, for al þing þat longiþ to siurgie may not wiþ lettris ben writen. He muste studie in alle þe parties of philofie & in logik, þat he mowe vndirstonde scripturis; in gramer, þat he speke congruliche; in arte, þat techiþ him to proue his proporciouns wiþ good resoun; in retorik þat techiþ him to speke semelich. Be he no glotoun, ne noon enuyous, ne a negard; be he trewe, vnbeliche, & plesyngliche bere he him-silf to hise pacientis; speke he noon ribawdrie in þe sike mannis hous …

118 Irma Taavitsainen

4.2 The negotiation and maintenance of authority The point of departure in Bullwark is very different from the conflict situation of the Gouernement, as the power relations are clear. However, the negotiation of authority is continually ongoing. This function is served by references to authorities and codeswitching into Latin, the language of learning. References to ancient Greek medical authorities are frequent: Galen is mentioned 14 times, Avicenna 8, Aristotle 6, Hippocrates 4 and Rasis and Diogines once. According to our previous study, this is a learned scale as texts for more heterogeneous audiences have less specific references (see Taavitsainen and Pahta 1998). In this treatise, physicians are mentioned nine times, philosophers twice, and authors and poets once, so that more general references are not altogether absent. Latin phrases and sentences abound in the dialogue between Sorenes and the surgeon. Codeswitching is used as a device to lend a more authoritative tone to the treatise, and the presence of this feature, along with the difference in the mimetic mode, is one of the major differences between the two treatises. Individual terms are sometimes given in Latin. In the following passage, codeswitching occurs within a sentence to emphasise a point: (12) Sixtly, if nature cause any apostumacion, by the reason of crises, that is of iudgement, Hoc est Iudicium, to auoide, expulse, or put out matter superfluous, in this case, thinke there willbe no meanes founde, to put it backe, without great daunger, and hurte to nature. [} Sorenes. }] WHy? Would it hinder anye thing in this case, to apply a repercussiue, or medicene, to driue it backe: shewe me some reason why it should not be? Or what hurte would come thereof, if it were doen? (f. xiij)

In most cases, the whole sentence is in Latin, conforming to the pattern of intersentential codeswitching (see Pahta 2004 and 2007), as in (13). (13) The worke of nature, and the ministracion of the Phisicion: for Claudius Galen saieth, that Natura est operatrix, Medicus vero eius minister. That is, nature is the worker, the Phisicion is but her minister. Therefore the Chyrurgicall Phisicion, is natures seruaunt. (f. viii)

The above quotation reveals a common strategy: Bullein gives the whole quotation in Latin first and then renders the translation or a paraphrase in English. There are several other examples as well. In addition to references to medical authorities and citations of Latin proverbs, quotations of classical sources are found. These are different, as they are not directly connected with health education. The following, for example, is a reference to the famous stereotype of the quarrelsome wife:



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues 119

(14) or quiete men leade happie liues with angree wiues, for whom there is no remeadie, but pacience perforce, quod Socrates, to Santippa. (f. 8v)

This quotation is comparable to the reference to Haelyogabalus found in The Gouernement. A third type of reference is to proverbs. The quotation below contains references to learned sources, proverbs and folk wisdom. These were entertaining elements, providing common ground and an opportunity for the audience to agree: (15) IF I be diseased of any soche Feauer, I do not intende to seke counsell at your handes, neither of Hipocrites, nor Galen. &c. But onely of Diogines, whiche loued to be a lone, & Socrates was taught pacience, but to conclude, no manne knoweth the grief of a straight shooe, but the wearer therof, but for asmuche as many handes make light worke, and many shoulders passe small of greate burdens, I care the lesser, hauing so many parteners. The remedy is this: when stormes be paste, faire weather come at laste. (f. 8v)

4.3 Religious and moral preaching Religious motifs pervade the text. Pious wishes are inserted, and some passages resemble short prayers (cf. the passages above). At times, the discourse achieves a sermon-like tone, as in the following example: (16) For if a manne would discende doune into his owne conscience, and see himself with in, he shall easely perceiue, the woordes written of saincte Iob the .xviii. Chapiter, in his moste lamentable and pitefull booke: saieth he, a man that is borne of a woman, liueth but a shorte tyme, and is filled full of miserie, and commeth vp, and falleth awaie like a flower, and in the ende passeth awaie like a shadowe, and neuer continue in one estate. For truly we daiely see, aduersitie followeth prosperite, bondage after libertie, pouertie, after riches, sicknes, after healthe, beside an infinite number of the passions, and afflictions of the minde. As zeale, strife, gelousie, loue, ioye, care. &c. And as the wise manne saieth, Omnia tempus habent, all thinges haue their tyme. And God hath geuen affliccion to the children of men, to be exercised in theim, emong whom, I for my synnes am plagued with this kinde of maladie, as thou seest me haue: I beseche God of his mercie, sende me healthe, and to as many as are sore. (f. ix)

Religious narratives provided common ground for the author and the audience, and although it is not explicitly stated, the whole dialogue can be associated with larger concerns and the contemporary belief that sicknesses were God’s punishment to mankind. Biblical stories are referred to in a concise form. They are not

120 Irma Taavitsainen

recounted at length: a reminder of the common ground is enough. A religious style predominates: (17) SOrenes, Sorenes. Thou saiest not well, for it is rather a tempting of God, then a beleuing in God, to looke or wishe for miracles, for faithfull men nedes none. And I trust thou art faithfull, therfore thou nedest no miracle, but rather consider this, Christ healed the bodies of Sicke menne, twoo maner of waies, the one by vertue of his heauenlie worde, whereby we be taught that he is God. The seconde he healed somtime with claie, with spitte. &c. […] For God hath ordained theim onelie to helpe his people, to this ende, that his people might serue him. Tobias healed his fathers iyes, with the gaule of a fisshe, an Angell prepared the medicen. Ezechias the kyng in the time of his Pestilence, was healed with a cluster of Figges. The greate Prophete Esaie, gaue him this medicen. Eliseus did cleanse through the virtue of a swete tree, the foule stinkyng waters, Christ in the Gospell, commaundeth the Apostles to carie oile with them, to heale the sicke. S. Luke the holy Euangeliste was a Phisicion, and some of the antiquites of his Phisicke, remaine vnto this daie. It is saied also that holie Esdras made a goodlie medicene, when the people were in captiuitie in Babilon, to clense them from their malancholie, and heauinesse of minde, whiche medicene is called after his name vnto this daie: these and soche like examples Sorenes, should moue thee to vse these meanes to helpe thee. (f. ix)

4.4 Speech acts and instruction The Bullwark shows a somewhat different pattern from the Gouernement. In general, explicit speech acts are rarer. Scholastic patterns are used in the opening position of metatextual passages announcing the topic of the ensuing passage; for example, in the following a very formal phrase is employed: (18) [} Sorenes. }] HItherto I haue heard, but onelie the diffinicions, of the names, or natures of impostumacions, but me thinke to talke of the cures, were more profitable, for onelie vnto that ende, doe I moue these questions vnto you. [} Chyrurgj. }] I Will speake somwhat of their cuers, but or I enter any further in this matter: I thinke it rather necessarie, to speake a little of thinges that be comen, and would bee prudently obserued in their cures … (f. xi)

Requests are the most frequent speech acts. Direct questions are occasionally found, mostly in the polite form and often accompanied by terms of address and second person pronouns. The learner’s stance is also made explicit:



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues 121

(19) [} Sorenes. }] What be apostimacons in quantitie, whiche of theim be greateste, and whiche of theim bee leaste, I would faine knowe, good Chyrurgj? [} Chyrurgj. }] AS touching their quantites, knowe you that the Chollerike, is lesse then … (f. x)

Pious wishes are frequent: (20) And God hath geuen affliccion to the children of men, to be exercised in theim, emong whom, I for my synnes am plagued with this kinde of maladie, as thou seest me haue: I beseche God of his mercie, sende me healthe, and to as many as are sore. (f. ix)

Commissives, warnings and assertions occur as well, and expressives are occasionally found – for example, both thanking and complimenting occur. In example (22), thanking is accompanied by an indirect compliment, a promise to take heed of the teaching. In example (23), the compliment is explicit and serves as an incentive for pious contemplation in an eloquent biblical style. In addition, there are exclamations with emotive content: (21) [} Sorenes. }] I Hartely thanke you, I shall by Gods grace, obserue your saiynges, and vse Gods instrumentes reuerentlie (f. ix) (22) [} Chyrurgj. }] THou haste spoken wisely, for al thing is in vain, where God doeth not put to his helping hande, and by his Prophete he saieth, call vpon me in the tyme of trouble, and I will helpe thee make thee whole, and deliuer thee. Behold, how many Lepers, sicke of Palsies, blooddie flixes, blindnesse, defenesse, possessed of euill spirites: yea, and death it self, all these haue God helped restored, and made perfecte, for there is Tempus occidendi, and Tempus sanandi with God, for he is euer occupied, either in punishing the wicked, or conforting of his elected. [} Sorenes. }] WOuld GOD, there were soche miracles now a daies, as was then. It were a greate comfort to an infinite number of suche as I am, … (f. ix)

In this dialogue, as in the first one, questions have an important function. The extract below illustrates the elicitation technique used by Sorenes in course of the conversation. The surgeon’s turns are long monologues, and therefore only the beginnings are given below: (23) [} Sorenes. }] Then I praie you, giue me a difinision, and a deuision, of an apostumacion. [} Chyrurgj. } APostumacion is a verie euill disease… Secondly … … These three maketh an apostumacion, [} Sorenes. }] How many kindes of apostumations be there? … [} Chyrurgj. }] THere be twoo, the one is hotte, and the other colde …

122 Irma Taavitsainen

[} Sorenes. }] What saiest thou then, of them that be Cholerike? [} Chyrurgj. }] APostumacions Chollerike, bee gentiller as touchyng their… (ff. ix–x)

Requests for more information can be placed on a politeness scale ranging from more blunt (see above) to more eloquent expressing willingness to learn and address terms, such as (24) What be apostimacons in quantitie, whiche of theim be greateste, and whiche of theim bee leaste, I would faine knowe, good Chyrurgj?

A passage full of different speech acts can be found towards the end, evaluating the contents of the dialogue and promising to provide more edification and teaching to those who have the capacity to receive it. The expressive speech act of leave-taking is also included. The tone is formal and learned. (25) YOU haue handeled your self, verie eloquentlie and freshelie inough to daie, also you haue giuen vs cuppes of knowlege, able to quenche the thruste of better men then we are. And I assure you, no man maie greatly wonder at it, seyng we are enuironed on euery side, with soche gentle humanitie, and brotherly loue of eche others. Wherfore, we praie vnto God, that for this your gift, he will prospere you and your cures, and longe preserue you in healthe, to the behoue of your countrie, and frendes. For you haue quenched our thrust, aboue expectacion, with worthie communicacion and medicins. But to giue you warnyng, I praie you haste hether to morowe, with as greate and quicke spede, as ye can passe, after ye haue visited your cures, to the intent ye maie paie vs your promise at full, not without many thankes. Now therfore, sith the of your parte time moueth you, to attende your cures, departe in good time, and remember vs. For we sore people, minde to repaire hether againe to morowe, to heare you although the weather be verie cold. [} Chyrurgj. }] GO ye on in the name of God, & doubt not, but that I am yours, and all theirs, whiche bee either sicke, or sore, to helpe them, to my power. (f. xviii)

5.

Conclusions

In my study I wanted to test what speech acts can tell us about the discursive construction of the teacher’s role and how authority is negotiated and maintained in early modern texts. My research questions related to the parameter of audience, and to variation between texts written for a wide and heterogeneous readership and those written for a professional audience. The two medical dialogues assessed



Authority and instruction in 16th-century medical dialogues 123

in this article are very different from one another, although the author and the genre are the same. The audience factor is therefore important. The dialogues are targeted at very different readerships, the first (and more entertaining) written for a wide literate (or semiliterate) audience with heterogeneous backgrounds, and the second intended for more restricted circulation. This latter text represents the learned end of the scale and, in addition to medical issues, deals with professional ethics and moral issues connected with religious education, and with the idea of sickness as God’s punishment to mankind. My method of analysis combined historical pragmatics, discourse analysis and linguistic stylistics. The analysis of a general teaching dialogue, the Gouernayle of Health, as a sequence of speech acts for the purpose of negotiating roles revealed a careful construction of participant relations, with a dramatic change in interpersonal relations. Entertaining elements are included in this dialogue, and interaction with the audience is common; for example, the request to sit down and pay attention to the songs encourages the audience to sit quietly like John and listen. In all, the scene creates a pleasant teaching situation. The handbook for professional medical practitioners is very different, with overtones of religious and moral preaching. Both dialogues exhibit features of the scholastic thought style, with authoritative quotes and commentary patterns. William Bullein mastered several styles of writing, and he is able to engage his audience even in our present-day world, centuries after it was written. I can only conclude with an appreciative assessment of his texts as “fascinating popular works, entertainingly written, containing many personal anecdotes, and representing fine examples of Elizabethan prose” (Besson 1990: 66–67).

References Primary sources Bulleyn, William. 1562. Bulleins Bulwarke of Defence Againste All Sicknes Sornes and Woundes. London: Ihon Kyngston, (The English Experience 350.) Facsimile. Amsterdam and New York: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum and Da Capo Press, 1971. Bullein, William. 1595. The Gouernement of Health. London: V. Sims.

. Some of the professional dialogues also pay attention to the construction of a pleasant learning environment, e.g. Thomas Gale introduces the frame of a pleasant morning and green fields (see Taavitsainen 2005).

124 Irma Taavitsainen

Secondary sources Besson, Alain. 1990. Thornton’s Medical Books, Libraries & Collectors: A Study of Bibliography and the Book Trade in Relation to the Medical Sciences. Aldershot: Gower. Doty, Kathleen and Hiltunen Risto. 2002. “‘I will tell, I will tell’: Confessional patterns in the Salem witchcraft trials, 1692.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 3 (2): 299–335. Hiltunen, Risto. 1995. “Conflict talk in The Battle of Maldon.” The New Courant 3: 41–48. Hiltunen, Turo. 2005. On the Uses of the Verb See in the Early Volumes of the Philosophical Transactions. Unpublished Pro gradu thesis, University of Helsinki. Jucker, Andreas H. and Taavitsainen, Irma. 2000. “Diachronic speech act analysis: The case of insults.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 1 (1): 67–95. Pahta, Päivi. 2004. ”Code-switching in medieval medical writing.” In Medical and Scientific Writing in English 1375–1500, Irma Taavitsainen and Päivi Pahta (eds), 73–99. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pahta, Päivi. 2007. “Flowers, cum multis aliis quae nunc praescribere longum est: On codeswitching in Early Modern English medical texts.” In Tracing English Through Time: Explorations in Language Variation, Ute Smit, Stefan Dollinger, Julia Hüttner, Ursula Lutzky and Gunther Kaltenböck (eds), 259–272. Vienna: Braumüller. Schiffrin, Deborah. 1994. Approaches to Discourse. Oxford: Blackwell. Searle, John R. 1969. Speech Acts. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taavitsainen, Irma. 1999. “Dialogues in Late Medieval and Early Modern English medical writing.” In Historical Dialogue Analysis [Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 66], Andreas H. Jucker, Gerd Fritz, and Franz Lebsanft (eds), 243–268. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Taavitsainen, Irma. 2004. “Transferring classical discourse forms into the vernacular.” In Medical and Scientific Writing in English 1375–1500, Irma Taavitsainen and Päivi Pahta (eds), 37–72. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taavitsainen, Irma. 2005. “Genres of secular instruction: A linguistic history of useful entertainment.” Miscelánea: A Journal of English and American Studies 29: 75–94. Taavitsainen, Irma and Jucker, Andreas H. (eds). 2003. Diachronic Perspectives on Address Term Systems [Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 107]. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Taavitsainen, Irma and Nevanlinna, Saara. 1999. “Pills to purge melancholy” – Nonstandard elements in A Dialogue Against Fever Pestilence.” In Writing in Nonstandard English [Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 67], Irma Taavitsainen, Gunnel Melchers and Päivi Pahta (eds), 151–169. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Taavitsainen, Irma and Pahta, Päivi (eds). 2004. Medical and Scientific Writing in English 1375– 1500. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Taavitsainen, Irma and Pahta, Päivi. 1998. “Vernacularisation of medical writing in English: A corpus-based study of scholasticism.” Early Science and Medicine, Special Issue, W. Crossgrove, M. Schleissner and L. E. Voigts (eds), 157–185. Walker, Terry. 2007. Thou and You in Early Modern English Dialogues: Trials, Depositions and Drama Comedy [Pragmatics & Beyond New Series 158]. Amsterdam/Philadelphia : John Benjamins.

“Proper to their sex” Letter-writing instruction and epistolary model dialogues in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

In the dialogue of correspondence, letters both respond to previous letters and anticipate new ones. This paper approaches the intertextuality that exists between letters from the perspective of letter-writing instruction, concentrating on one Early Modern English letter-writing manual, The Female Secretary by Henry Care (London 1671). The construction of the manual makes it particularly suitable for the analysis: many of the model letters in the manual are followed by a suggested reply, so that together they can be read as brief epistolary model dialogues. The paper examines the presence of aspects of intertextuality and dialogicality in these letters, thus shedding light on their role at the level of instruction.

1.

Introduction By these Grandees, signify their awful pleasures to their inferior Ministers, and Lovers kindly entertain each other with indearing Testimonies of Affection ­without danger of being spyed by jealous Eys, or dreading the treachery of Evesdropping ears; By these without noise, or publick notice without Blushing, or undertaking long Journeys, we Chide, congratulate, advise, dissuade, Importune, Intreat, Threaten, and in brief, may dispatch all the concerns of business or Civil(Care 1671: 137) ity, Commerce, or Conversation.

In this quotation from his letter-writing manual The Female Secretary (1671), Henry Care describes the importance of letters in the early modern period. Letters were the means by which early modern people were able to maintain their . The writing of this article was supported by the Academy of Finland (Project Number 106398).

126 Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

network of familial and business relationships; if they wanted to communicate with a distant family member or friend in relative secrecy or conduct some commercial activity, letters were at their disposal. Letter-writing skills were an important part in the education of men, and women, of the higher ranks (see e.g. Jagodzinski 1999: 76; Pollock 1993: 26). They could also make use of a selection of letter-writing handbooks, first available in Latin but later also in the vernacular. Letter-writing manuals in English started to appear during the second half of the sixteenth century, and the seventeenth century saw their number and popularity increase. Although literacy still remained low, especially among the lower ranks and particularly women (Cressy 1980: 128), the newly (and perhaps only partly) literate of the emerging middle classes were especially eager to improve their epistolary skills with the help of letter-writing handbooks (Jagodzinski 1999: 77; Robertson 1942: 8, 66). Women letter writers had to wait slightly longer for manuals intended specifically for their use, but towards the middle of the seventeenth century these started to become available. The present study deals with an exemplar of the emerging genre of letterwriting manuals for women, Henry Care’s The Female Secretary from 1671. After introducing Henry Care and his manual in Section 2, I discuss in Section 3 the more general instructions Care offers to letter writers, situating them in their historical context by comparing them with those from earlier and contemporary letter-writing manuals in English. In the dialogue of correspondence, letters can be seen as both responding to previous letters and anticipating new ones (Fitzmaurice 2002: 2). In Section 4 of the present paper, I explore the intertextuality that exists between the model letters in The Female Secretary. The construction of the manual makes it particularly suitable for the analysis: many of the model letters in the manual are followed by a suggested reply, so that together they can be read as brief epistolary model dialogues. I examine the presence of aspects of intertextuality and dialogicality in these letters, thus shedding light on their role at the level of instruction. The discussion in Sections 3 and 4 addresses the same general question of how women were instructed to write letters in a manner “proper to their sex”.

. On early modern women’s writing more generally, see e.g. Trill et al. (1997); on early modern women’s letter writing see e.g. Daybell (2001); Earle (1999); Gilroy & Verhoeven (2000). . Like many others in this collection, the present article too draws inspiration from Risto Hiltunen’s article “Telling the anchorite code: Ancrene Wisse on language” (2003), in which he describes how this Early Middle English text instructs its intended readers (three sisters who had decided to become anchoresses) on the proper verbal behaviour of an anchoress (see also Skaffari, this volume).



Letter-writing instruction in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary 127

2.

Henry Care and The Female Secretary

2.1

Who was Henry Care?

Henry Care was born in 1646 and died in 1688, just before the Glorious Revolution. He was a Restoration writer and polemicist; according to Schwoerer (2004) he was in fact one of the leading polemical writers in the ten years preceding the revolution of 1688. Care’s life and career have not been extensively studied by historians of Restoration England; Schwoerer (2004: 10) suggests as a possible reason for this the fact that Care was “on the losing side of the two controversies in which he engaged”. First, during the Exclusion Crisis, Care supported the exclusion of James, Charles II’s Roman Catholic brother, from the line of succession to the throne. He later changed sides and during the events leading to the Glorious Revolution supported James II’s Catholic policy of religious freedom. That Care actually wanted to advance religious liberty and toleration, as Schwoerer (2004: 228) believes, has not been a widely held view among historians, who have mainly considered Care as a turn-coat writing for money. If Care’s political writings have attracted the attention of only a few historians, a similar neglect can be observed as regards his nonpolitical writings, including instructional writing. His letter-writing manual is absent for instance from the survey by Robertson (1942), which covers most of the manuals published in England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and references to his work are equally difficult to find in more recent research discussing letter-writing manuals. The Female Secretary, the letter-writing manual which is the subject of the present paper, comes from Care’s early writing career, from a period long before his career as a publicist and propagandist, when he was trying to establish himself as a writer. The strategy he chose is interesting: he published books that dealt with women or were particularly addressed to women. As Schwoerer (2004: 265) notes, Care’s strategy shows that works about women were marketable and commercially viable in Restoration England. In 1670, Care published a translation of Henry Cornelius Agrippa’s De Nobilitate & Praecellentia Foeminei Sexus, with the English title of Female Pre-eminence: Or the Dignity and Excellency of that Sex, above the Male. The Female Secretary appeared a year later, in 1671.

2.2 The Female Secretary and its audience Goldberg (1990: 255; see also Robertson 1942: 59) notes that for the authors of the earliest letter-writing manuals in English, the letter-writer was almost invariably male; the model letters in these manuals include few if any examples ­specifically

128 Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

intended for the use of women correspondents. In 1638, sixty years after the publication of the first English manual on letter writing (William Fulwood’s The Enimie of Idlenesse, 1576), the first manual intended for the use of women was published, namely The Secretary of Ladies by Jacques du Bosque, translated from French by Ierome Hainhofer. When Care wrote his manual, the history of English letterwriting manuals thus already spanned a century, but the tradition of instructing female letter writers was considerably shorter. In light of the fact that Care wrote The Female Secretary for a specifically female audience, it is interesting to consider how he attempted to convince the readers of his authority as a writer of an instructional text for women. In other words, how did Care try to persuade his intended audience that they should indeed purchase and make use of his manual? Let us first consider the title page of the manual, where after the title of the book we find the following information: With Plain, yet more Exact and Pertinent Rules and Instructions for the Inditing and Directing Letters in general, than any Extant. By Henry Care, Translator of Female Pre-Eminence.

Care’s description of his manual as including plain but exact rules and instructions for letters as well as showing superiority over existing manuals is a marketing strategy familiar from many early modern English letter-writing manuals. Here for instance is Angel Day, the author of one of the earliest and most popular letter-writing manuals in English; this is what he has to say of his manual, The English Secretorie, on its title page: The English Secretorie. Or, plaine and direct Method, for the enditing of all manner of Epistles or Letters, aswell Familiar as others: distinguished by their diuersities vnder their severall titles, The like whereof hath neuer hitherto beene published.

Care’s description of the usefulness of his manual may thus be neither unique nor surprising, but the epithet he gives himself, “Translator of Female Pre-Eminence”, is interesting from the point of view of the niche Care had chosen for himself as a writer. By telling prospective buyers that he has already published a work, albeit a translation, about women, Care situates himself in a position of authority when it comes to books relevant to a female audience. Moreover, for those familiar with Female Pre-Eminence and its contents the epithet may read as a promise by Care to approach women’s letter writing from an equally positive perspective.

. Day’s The English Secretorie was in fact reprinted eleven times; its last edition is from 1635.



Letter-writing instruction in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary 129

If we then move on from the title page to the preface, we can reasonably expect to find more references to Care’s authority in the field of writing for women. The first thing to be said about the Preface, however, has to be the fact that it differs from earlier and contemporary manuals in that it does not start with a letter to the reader, in which authors typically discuss their reasons for publishing their manual as well as their expertise in the field of the manual. Care himself is well aware of the omission, for he starts his preface by noting that “an Epistle to the Reader before a Book of Letters, would probably seem as grand an Absurdity, as Mettal upon Mettal in Heraldry”. The preface continues in a similar style and manner. Care first states that For Publishing the present Pamphlet, the Author (if he thought himself oblig’d to give the world any Account), could produce Forty weighty reasons.

He then goes on to actually list some such reasons, for instance “the natural Itch of Scribbling”, “the pleasing vanity of seeing his Name in the Front of a Book for Folk to gaze at on a Stall” and “the refreshing Profit of the Copy”, but concludes that listing all of them would not be beneficial to the readers: … to reckon up all, would put the Readers to at least Two pence charge extraordinary; Let them satisfy themselves, He did it for divers good Causes & Considerations.

Towards the end of the preface we find a reference to Care’s intended audience: But to make all sure, he solemnly appeals by these presents from all Bearded Judges, and submits only to the Tribunal of the Fairer Sex; At their Honoured feet he flings himself, and this confused Pacquet, hoping they will imitate Heavens (Care 1671: Preface) Mercy no less than they do its other Excellencies. 

Care thus makes clear that his manual is intended for the use of women, but he also further specifies that it may not be useful to all women: He is not blown up to that pitch of Vanity to think these pitiful Presidents can be of any use to Ladies of Noble Birth and Education, the slightest of their extemporary discourses he acknowledges do infinitely excel his most studied expressions.  (Care 1671: Preface)

With this final comment, Care aligns himself with the authors of earlier and contemporary letter-writing manuals; it was a typical strategy for the authors of these handbooks to specify as their primary audience those that had had less education and/or practice in writing letters (Tanskanen 2003: 171–172). It is more difficult to say, however, whether such statements actually depict the authors’ true sentiments or whether they rather exemplify the rhetorical positioning required from them.

130 Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

3.

Explicit instruction in The Female Secretary: Directions for the Indicting, Writing, and Superscribing Letters

3.1

General considerations

In the following we take a look at the section of Care’s manual which contains explicit instruction on letter writing. This section is placed at the end of the manual, covering pages 136 to 155, and is divided into two distinct parts. The first part of the section (136–146) offers general advice on the composing of letters, while the second part focuses on subscription and superscription practices. Care opens this section, not unlike other authors of early modern letter-writing manuals, with a consideration of the importance of the letter as a means of communication: …this friendly entercourse of the Pen, hath been the principal means to promote Science in the World, and raise Mankind out of the depths of Ignorance and roughness of Barbarism to the greatest Gentilesses, courtships, and civilities; Insomuch, that Letters may not improperly be styled, the Souls Embassadors, the Minds Interpreters, the cement of Socitie, the Foundation and Superstructure of Friendship and conversation, the remedie of Absence, the chief Antidote of Oblivion, the general agents of all Inclinations and Passions, which lay the Plots, and carry on the Designs of united hearts at the greatest distances, which unlocks our breasts with silence, and Let in our friends though never so remote into our (Care 1671: 136–137) bosom… 

Care’s words leave little room for doubt as regards the significance of letters as a means of communication, regardless of whether the subject of a letter is scientific, familial or romantic. The idea that letters can carry the mind of the writer to the recipient and turn absence into presence is a recurring theme in earlier and contemporary letter-writing manuals (Nevala 2004: 35; Tanskanen 2003: 175). Care returns to the presence/absence distinction a while later, when he says that … every thing that can be discoursed of, or spoken to a friend present, may, (if discretion dare run the hazard of miscarrying) be written to him in his absence.  (Care 1671: 138)

. The placing of the section differs from most earlier and contemporary letter-writing manuals; if explicit instruction is offered in a manual, it is typically placed after the preface at the beginning of the manual. Not all manuals, however, include such a section: some manuals consist simply of a collection of model letters. The first English manual aimed specifically at women correspondents (du Bosque 1638), for instance, does not include any general instructions or explanations.

Letter-writing instruction in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary 131



While stating that whatever writers would wish to tell their friends in their presence can be communicated to them in writing, Care also draws attention to the fact that the safe delivery of letters should not be taken for granted; the writer should therefore consider the risks in the delivery of letters and weigh them against the sensitivity of the matters discussed in the letter. Interestingly, Care adds a further point on how exactly the letter writer should then tackle the distinction between speaking to friends and writing to them: Some have advis’d strongly to imagine the Person we write to, present; and then to set down in our Letter what we would say to him if he were by; … Yet I conceive there cannot but be expected much more exactness in a Letter where the writers Genius is supposed to have been assisted with leisure, and the Examen of (Care 1671: 139). his Eyes, than in transient verbal Discourse… 

For Care, therefore, a letter no more represents the “familiar speeche of the absent” that it did for Day (1586) and other authors of earlier letter-writing manuals. According to Care, the style in letters should not follow the style of speaking; instead, a letter should reflect the time and care that the writer has invested in its composition.

3.2 Explicit instruction In an instructive text, the writer tells others (or him/herself) what to do. According to Werlich, the typical sentences of an instructive text are action-demanding sentences (Werlich 1978: 40); in other words, imperatives and modals of obligation are used. Let us in this section consider Care’s use of such action-demanding sentences in his directions for writing letters. Examples (1), (2), (3) and (4) illustrate Care’s use of the imperative. In example (3), we first find an occurrence of the be to construction, used for giving instruction, followed by an imperative, while example (4) shows a third person imperative with let. (1) Pen not your Letter, as if you were drawing up a Statute, but avoid all Tautologies, unnecessary expressions and empty Inflations. (2) First mind your business exactly, then write down your Thoughts, and examine how they appear when cloath’d in words: Last of all, correct them, and (if Nature have not been very unkind unto you) you need not despair of writing accurately. (3) As the finishing of most works is the most distinct part of them, being that which crowns them with perfection, so are you to account it no small piece of your skill to come off handsomely in the close of your Letter, and avoid those

132 Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

abrupt thredbare Hackney conclusions; Thus I rest, So I remain, Thus I take my leave. (4) Let therefore Prudence guide our hand when ever we write, that we may do it suitable to the matter.

The modals of obligation ought, should and must are also used by Care as can be seen in examples (5), (6), (7), (8) and (9); must, interestingly, is here only used in negative constructions (cf. 10 below). In (9), we find another occurrence of the be to construction. (5) We ought also to beware our Periods be not so overstretched as to put our Correspondents out of breath, before they arrive at the end of a Sentence, and to have a special regard to the apt cadency of the words, that in the whole contexture of the Period, nothing found harsh or gaping, but run roundly and Enchant the Ear with an exact Harmony in the Close; To which purpose you should read it over aloud to your self, that so you may the better be able both to judge of, and amend it. (6) The Style and Phrase of a Letter ought not to be too Elaborate or Overstrain’d. (7) We must not treat our friends with Enigmas, nor perplex their Brains with dark ambiguities like a Delphick Oracle. (8) Nor must we treat Young Ladies with profound Discourses of Philosophy, or grate their delicate Eares with the harsh terms of Fustian Phrases of the schools. (9) You are always to remember, that Brevity is a necessary quality in Letters, which must not be Treatises, or Volumns, but Concise and Thrifty of words.

Before moving to Care’s instructions concerning superscriptions and subscriptions, let us briefly consider the actual contents of his general instructions. Examples (1) and (9) talk about a central compositional aspect of letters, namely their length: Care reminds letter writers that their letters should not be longer than is necessary for conveying the message. This is very similar to what for instance Day (1586) and Woolley (1675) also point out in their manuals (see also Tanskanen 2003: 178). Care’s instructions on the suitability of the style of a letter in relation to the matter discussed in it (examples 4, 6 and, slightly less explicitly, 2) also echo the wordings found in other early modern letter-writing manuals, as do the com. Hannah Woolley’s letter-writing manual is practically contemporary with Care’s and was also specifically intended for a female audience; it is thus very suitable for a comparison with The Female Secretary.



Letter-writing instruction in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary 133

ments concerning the significance of the quality of the recipient (examples 7 and 8) and the importance of a suitable closing (example 3) (Tanskanen 2003: 177, 181, 186). There is one particular piece of instruction in Care’s manual, however, which to my best knowledge is not found in other earlier or contemporary manuals. I am referring to example (5), in which Care speaks of the practice of reading letters aloud. In the context of a letter-writing manual, reading aloud is naturally part of the writing process, but it is tempting to see it as reflecting early modern epistolary reading practices more generally as well, especially as “enchanting the ear” is specifically mentioned. In other words, perhaps Care’s instruction is a reference to the fact that early-modern letters were not always intended for the eyes of the recipient alone (see Daybell 2005), but also for the ears of a slightly wider audience in that they might have been read aloud and shared. The “brief Directions” on letter writing by Care are given, as already mentioned, in the first part of the section including explicit instruction. In the second part, Care lists the forms of superscription and subscription that writers can use in their letters. As in other early modern letter-writing manuals, the social hierarchy is visible in the list of options available to letter writers, as well as in the instructions accompanying them; consider examples (10) and (11), which concern internal and external superscriptions (both are formed with a modal verb): (10) Also observe, that when you would shew much Respect, you must leave a great distance between such Title, and the first Line of your Letter. (11) The other Superscription, is the Direction on the outside of Letters when folded up, which when sent to Persons of Quality should be large folded, and a distance left between the first Line and the second according to the Respect you intend to pay them.

Care’s list of superscriptions begins with the form to be used when writing to the King, and even the font used here is considerably larger than in the rest of the list. Superscriptions suitable to letters to members of the nobility and gentry are then listed, followed by those meant for familiar letters. In the latter, the letter writer has more options, “which Ingenuity will properly apply” (Care 1671: 153); whereas the superscriptions to “persons of degree” are strictly regulated, in familiar letters the writer can choose among, for instance, To the incomparable, To the Glory of her Sex or To the fair hands of (external) and Dearest Dear, Fairest, Cruel Beauty or Sweet Madam (internal).

. Although Daybell’s article mainly deals with the sixteenth century, it does include some references to seventeenth-century correspondence as well.

134 Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

The subscriptions in Care’s list illustrate an equal attention to the rank and relative distance of the recipient, ranging from those fit for letters to “great Persons” (e.g. Your Graces most faithful and obedient Servant) to those meant for friends and family members (e.g. Your most affectionate Friend and Servant, Your faithful and loving wife). All in all, the explicit instruction on letter writing in Care’s manual mainly concentrates on aspects familiar from earlier manuals; letter writers should pay attention to the style of their letters to ensure that it is appropriate in relation to the matter discussed and – above all – to the rank and relative status of the recipient. Care also includes some more novel pieces of advice, particularly where he refers to how a letter should sound to the recipient and instructs letter writers to read their letters aloud. Let us next turn our attention to the model letters in The Female Secretary. In contrast to the explicit instruction discussed above, the letters do not show specific linguistic features characteristic of instruction; instead, they receive their instructional status by being included in the manual as models to be adapted by its users.

4.

Epistolary model dialogues and intertextuality in The Female Secretary

4.1

Topics of the model letters

Before discussing Care’s model letters in terms of their dialogicality and intertextuality, it is interesting to briefly consider the topics of the letters Care has chosen for inclusion in his manual. By looking at the selection we can get an idea of the topics Care considered central and useful for female letter writers, for it seems reasonable to think that he would have paid close attention to the usability of his model letters. There are altogether 84 model letters in The Female Secretary, covering pages 1 to 135. Their topics can be divided into three general categories, namely family matters, friendship and courtship. Starting with letters between family members, it is perhaps a little surprising that there are not many of these; in fact, there are only eight. The very first model letter in the manual belongs to this category, being A Letter of Advice from a discreet Countrey Gentlewoman to her Neece newly removed to London. The other letters between family members are from a wife to her husband, from a mother to her daughter and her answer, from a grandmother to her granddaughter and her answer, to a brother complaining of silence, and



Letter-writing instruction in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary 135

finally from a Gentlewoman to her Father, who privately against his will married a Person of mean Fortune. The other two categories are noticeably larger than the first. Letters between friends is the largest, with a total of 43 model letters. Younger women are instructed on how to write a letter to their friends at or from school, while more mature women are offered quite a sizeable selection of model letters. The letter writer is given advice, for instance, on how to invite her friend to the country or describe her visit to Tunbridge Wells; how to complain of her friend’s forgetfulness and silence, or demonstrate her continuing affection and friendship; how to inform her friends of the death of her husband, or write a letter of consolation to a friend who has lost a child. Letters relating to courtship are not quite as numerous as letters between friends, but there are 28 models in this category nonetheless. They range from letters of rejection addressed to unwanted suitors to letters which certify the writer’s never-ending affection. Most of the letters of the former type briefly but decidedly inform the recipient that his feelings are not returned, but there is one model letter which seems to be particularly clearly written in a manner which leaves no room for misinterpretation: it starts with “Sir! I received your pretty whining amorous Epistle” and closes with “from her who never intends to be Yours” (Care 1671: 9). Towards the other end of the continuum of courtship letters we can find examples of how letter writers are instructed to address suitors whose feelings are returned; some letters are sent with tokens of affection, such as a lock of hair, while others bear bad news, like the letter from A young Gentlewoman to her Lover, whose Father intends to bestow her on another. In addition to the three major categories discussed above, there are a couple of letters which cannot be classified as belonging to any of them. These include A procuring Madams insinuating Epistle to a very handsom, but poor young Gentlewoman, followed by the Gentlewoman’s answer, a letter requesting for help in a business matter, and a letter written on behalf of the bearer, asking the recipient to assist the bearer in his affairs. The fifth model letter falling outside the three main categories is a letter from A Lady to a Judge in behalf of a Friend, which, interestingly, is the only one in the manual which could be classified as an official letter. This almost complete exclusion of official model letters from The Female Secretary should not necessarily be regarded as implying that Care considered the writing of such letters to be beyond the capacity of his audience. Another explanation for the scarcity of official letters in Care’s manual could be the fact that models for such letters could be found in other manuals on offer; perhaps what Care’s selection of model letters shows is that there was in his opinion a demand for examples of various types of familiar letters.

136 Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

4.2 Intertextuality in the model letters of The Female Secretary In the dialogue of correspondence, letters are related intertextually to earlier and subsequent letters (Fairclough 1992: 103; Fitzmaurice 2002: 2). This section concentrates on “horizontal intertextual relations of a dialogical sort”, existing “between a text and those which precede and follow it in the chain of texts” (Fairclough 1992: 103). More specifically, the focus is on “manifest” intertextuality (Fairclough 1992: 104), i.e. instances in which other letters are explicitly present in a letter. In a study of the intertextuality in the correspondence of a seventeenth-century letter writer, Lady Katherine Paston, I found that the majority of the letters include manifest intertextual references to other letters, showing that it was important for the writers to make explicit the connections between the letters in a chain of correspondence. The references studied included acknowledgement of receipt, references to the recipient’s previous letter, references to the writer’s previous letter, references to letters written by a third party and references to future letters (Tanskanen 2004). By analysing these intertextual references in the model letters in The Female Secretary, we will be able to see how much attention the practice of mentioning other letters in a letter receives at the level of letter-writing instruction. As mentioned in the introductory section, the construction of The Female Secretary makes it particularly suitable for an analysis of intertextuality: several of its model letters are in fact followed by a suggested reply, so that together they can be read as short epistolary model dialogues. It is of course perfectly possible to discover intertextual references in the other, “stand-alone” model letters as well, but let us start with the letters which are overtly dialogical. There are altogether fifteen such dialogues in Care’s manual. In the table of contents, the suggested replies are simply titled The answer; there is no information given as to their topic, which has to be deduced from the preceding letter, i.e. the first part of the dialogue. A couple of the letters initiating the dialogue (i.e. the first part of the dialogue) include a reference to another, future letter, more particularly to the expected answer. In one letter, the writer “not without some Impatience attends your Answer”; in another, a lady in the country asks her friend in London to “give an account what you have observed there”. These references, however, are far less frequent than those found in the answers (i.e. the second part of the dialogue); in fact, all fifteen suggested replies include a reference to the letter they are answering. As was the case with Lady Katherine Paston’s correspondence as well (Tanskanen 2004: 262), actual acknowledgements of receipt are present in only a minority of the replies (five out of the fifteen). In the remaining ten replies the previous letter is not directly mentioned, but its contents are referred to. One reply, for example, talks of the news delivered by the previous letter, while another speaks of the plea-



Letter-writing instruction in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary 137

sure of seeing the artful writing in the previous letter. Some replies refer to a task given to the writers by the previous letter; these include for example the reply by the lady in London to her friend in the country, or a reply from a daughter to her mother defending the use of beauty spots. In addition to the fifteen epistolary dialogues, The Female Secretary contains eleven model letters which are answers to letters not included in the manual; in other words, they show only the second half of a dialogue. These letters receive a longer description in the table of contents: examples include A Gentlewomans Answer to her Servants first Address, An Answer to a charge of Inconstancy, An Answer to a Letter overlavish in Praises. Although these letters appear in the manual without the letter initiating the dialogue, all of them include a reference to the previous letter. There are, however, some differences in the frequencies of these references if compared to those in the “full” dialogues. In the majority of these answers (seven out of the eleven), the writer acknowledges the receipt of the letter which the current letter is answering, whereas in the full dialogues this type of reference only occurred in the minority of the letters. The remaining four letters illustrate the practice preferred in the full dialogues, i.e. a reference to the contents of the letter they are answering. To conclude the analysis, it is necessary to take a look at the rest of the model letters in The Female Secretary in order to see if intertextual references also occur in letters which are not part of an overt dialogue or suggested replies to letters not present in the manual. It is quite telling that the very first model letter in the manual, a stand-alone one, starts with a reference to a previous letter: Deerest neece! Your long expected Letter over joy’d us with the welcom News of your safe Arrival; who before not only Languisht for want of your facetious Company, but were apprehensive of some disaster that might befall you in your Journey…  (Care 1671: 1)

A considerable proportion of the stand-alone model letters include a reference to another letter: of the 43 such letters, manifest intertextual references can be found in 19 letters. Although the frequency of references in this category of letters is not as high as in the other categories discussed above, their existence shows that in Care’s opinion explicit connections between letters were an important feature of letter-writing. The dialogicality of correspondence can be made explicit by manifest intertextual relations, and we have seen that such references are used by Care in his model letters in The Female Secretary. Just as in the selection of real letters by a seventeenth-century letter writer (Lady Katherine Paston), other letters are explicitly present in the majority of the models offered in the handbook. Intertextual

138 Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

references are a particularly noticeable feature in letters from epistolary dialogues, regardless of whether or not both parts of the dialogue are actually presented in the manual, but they also occur in stand-alone letters.

5.

Proper to their sex: Concluding remarks

The aim of this study has been to shed light on how Henry Care instructed his audience of female correspondents in the art of letter writing. The Female Secretary includes both explicit instruction on the composing of letters and implicit instruction in the form of the model letters which form the bulk of the manual. The structure of The Female Secretary differs from many other letter-writing manuals in that the section including explicit instruction is placed at the end of the manual, almost as an afterthought. We have seen in the discussion on the explicit instruction offered by Care that it closely follows those presented in other manuals by concentrating on aspects of style and particularly the importance of the status of the recipient. We can therefore perhaps see Care’s structural decision of beginning with the model letters as an indication of their relative significance in comparison with the explicit instruction that would have been available in other manuals as well. On the title page of The Female Secretary Care declares that the model letters in the manual are suitable for any occasion, but when we looked at the topics of the letters we were able to observe that the clear majority of them focused on topics suitable for familiar letters; models of official letters are few. Again, it would be tempting to suggest that models of the latter type would have been readily available in the numerous other manuals on offer, and that Care’s concentration on more familiar letters could be the result of his careful consideration of the needs of his audience. The analysis of intertextuality in the model letters of The Female Secretary revealed that references to other letters are present in a majority of them. Keeping track of letters sent and received was no doubt important for early modern letter writers, as the safe delivery of letters could not absolutely be guaranteed. By including such references in his model letters, Care draws his readers’ attention to the practice of mentioning other letters in their letters, thereby making explicit the dialogical nature of letter writing.



Letter-writing instruction in Henry Care’s The Female Secretary 139

References Primary sources Care, Henry. 1671. The Female Secretary, or, Choice New Letters wherein each degree of Women may be accommodated with Variety of Presidents for the expressing themselves aptly and handsomly on any Occasion proper to their sex. London: Printed by Thomas Ratcliffe and Mary Daniel, for Henry Million.

Secondary sources du Bosque, Jacques. 1638. The Secretary of Ladies. Translated out of French by I. H. (Ierome Hainhofer). London. Cressy, David. 1980. Literacy and Social Order: Reading and Writing in Tudor and Stuart England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Day, Angel. 1586. The English Secretorie [English Linguistics 1500–1800. A collection of facsimile reprints, selected and edited by R.C. Alston. No 29, 1967]. Menston: Scolar Press. Daybell, James. (ed.). 2001. Early Modern Women’s Letter Writing. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Daybell, James. 2005. “I wold wyshe my doings myght be … secret”: Privacy and the social practices of reading women’s letters in sixteenth-century England. In Women’s Letters across Europe, 1400–1700: Form and Persuasion, Jane Couchman and Ann Crabb (eds), 143–161. Aldershot: Ashgate. Earle, Rebecca. (ed.) 1999. Epistolary Selves: Letters and Letter-Writers 1600‑1945. Aldershot: Ashgate. Fairclough, Norman. 1992. Discourse and Social Change. Cambridge: Polity Press. Fitzmaurice, Susan M. 2002. The Familiar Letter in Early Modern English: A Pragmatic Approach. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Gilroy, Amanda and Verhoeven, W. M. (eds). 2000. Epistolary Histories: Letters, Fiction, Culture. Charlottesville/London: University Press of Virginia. Goldberg, Jonathan. 1990. Writing Matter: From the Hands of the English Renaissance. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Hiltunen, Risto. 2003. Telling the anchorite code: Ancrene Wisse on language. In Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern, Risto Hiltunen and Janne Skaffari (eds), 57–76. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Jagodzinski, Cecile M. 1999. Privacy and Print: Reading and Writing in Seventeenth-Century England. Charlottesville/London: University Press of Virginia. Nevala, Minna. 2004. Address in Early English Correspondence: Its Forms and Socio-Pragmatic Functions. Helsinki: Société Néophilologique. Pollock, Linda. 1993. With Faith and Physic: The Life of a Tudor Gentlewoman, Lady Grace Mildmay 1552–1620. New York: St Martin’s Press. Robertson, Jean. 1942. The Art of Letter Writing: An Essay on the Handbooks Published in England during the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. London: University Press of Liverpool and Hodder & Stoughton. Schwoerer, Lois G. 2004. The Ingenious Mr. Henry Care, London’s First Spin Doctor. Stroud: Tempus.

140 Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen

Tanskanen, Sanna-Kaisa. 2003. “‘Best patterns for your imitation’: Early modern letter-writing instruction and real correspondence”. In Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern, Risto Hiltunen and Janne Skaffari (eds), 167–195. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Tanskanen, Sanna-Kaisa. 2004. Intertextual networks in the correspondence of Lady Katherine Paston. Journal of Historical Pragmatics 5 (2): 255–269. Trill, Suzanne, Chedgzoy, Kate and Osborne, Melanie (eds). 1997. Lay by Your Needles Ladies, Take the Pen: Writing Women in England, 1500–1700. London: Arnold. Werlich, Egon. 1976. A Text Grammar of English. Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer. Woolley, Hannah. 1675. The Gentlewoman’s Companion: or, A Guide to the Female Sex. London.

(Un)Becoming conduct Cotton Mather’s Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and the Salem witchcraft crisis Kathleen L. Doty

This essay examines Cotton Mather’s Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion (1692) in the context of seventeenth century conduct books and the social and religious values of the Massachusetts Bay colony. His instructions for the virtuous comportment of women contrast with another book he wrote in 1692, ­Wonders of the Invisible World, which describes the behavior of women making accusations of witchcraft and women who were accused of witchcraft. The analysis focuses on the rhetorical structure and didactic language of both texts, showing how they mirror each other in their portraits of virtuous and ungodly women. The potential of women for either submission or rebellion is explored in light of the sanctions of church and state.

1.

Introduction

One of the most enduring genres of instructional writing in early modern England and colonial America is the conduct book. As the word conduct suggests, these books offer guidelines and precepts for living an ethical and, in most cases, Christian life. Conduct books are usually written for a designated group of readers, such as women, men, parents, or children. Conduct literature is important for understanding the historical and cultural eras in which they are written because they provide a clear codification of social mores and idealized expectations of proper behavior. Cotton Mather’s Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion, published in March of 1692, has been called the first American conduct book for women (Newton 1994: 63) and serves as a representative example of seventeenth-century conduct literature. Additionally, it provides a view into the religious context as well as some basic Puritan beliefs. At the time of the publication of Ornaments for the Daughters

142 Kathleen L. Doty

of Zion, Mather was a respected and well-known Puritan minister in Boston, Massachusetts. Many readers may be familiar with Cotton Mather through his writings on the Salem witchcraft trials in 1692, but fewer may know that he was a prolific author of sermons, pamphlets, conduct books, and diaries. Babette Levy credits Mather with 468 printed items, as well as unpublished notebooks, letters, and other manuscripts (1979: 169). Some of his sermons that were later reprinted as tracts on proper conduct include A Family Well-Ordered or An Essay to Render Parents and Children Happy in One Another (1699) and Addresses to Old Men, and Young Men, and Little Children in Three Discourses. This paper will examine the rhetorical structure and language of Mather’s Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion (hereafter referred to as Ornaments). The paper also gives attention to his well-known work on the Salem witchcraft trials, The Wonders of the Invisible World (1693), which, in its portrayal of behavior in women that is dangerous and unbecoming, stands in stark contrast to that of proper and virtuous living in Ornaments.

2.

American conduct literature in the seventeenth century

In her guide to American conduct books, Learning to Behave, Sarah E. Newton surveys conduct literature written before 1900 and presents its four main characteristics. She defines a conduct book as “a text that is intended for an inexperienced young adult or other youthful reader, that defines an ethical, Christian-based code of behavior, and that normally includes gender role definitions” (1994: 4). The four characteristics she outlines help distinguish conduct books from other types of advice texts such as etiquette books or manuals on education, civility, or child-rearing (8). First, the conduct book will state or imply its aim. For instance, Mather gives a subtitle to his Ornaments which explicitly summarizes his aim: “Or The Character and Happiness of a Virtuous Woman: in a discourse which directs the Female Sex how to express the fear of God in every Age and State of their Life; and obtain both Temporal and Eternal Blessedness.” The second characteristic is that the text focuses on character formation and proper conduct of life, while the third feature, instruction in gender roles, supports prevailing ideologies about proper conduct for females and males. Again, Mather’s title and subtitle directly state that his text will describe the virtuous woman who is godfearing in all her ages. The fourth and final characteristic concerns the stance the author takes toward his or her readers. I will examine Mather’s rhetorical strategies and didactic language in more detail below, but generally writers of conduct books present themselves as teacher, mentor, or advisor, using a sincere tone of truth and trustworthiness. As a genre, conduct literature is clearly didactic and so



Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 143

makes use of exhortation, maxims, admonitory language, biblical scriptures, role models, dramatic examples, and anecdotes (Newton 1994: 10–11). Conduct literature written specifically for women was common in seventeenth century England and various works no doubt influenced later writers in the colonies. Suzanne Hull surveys the large number of conduct books for women in sixteenth and seventeenth century England on a range of topics: needlework, education, marriage, and midwifery, as well as devotional books, a group that encompasses printed prayers, sermons, polemics, and religious treatises (1982: 31–61; 91–103). Newton argues that Cotton Mather’s Ornaments was probably inspired by Richard Allestree’s The Ladies Calling (1673), one of the many English books brought to American shores by colonial settlers who shared his religious-based ideals for female behavior (1994: 63). Allestree’s text (the second half of his The Gentlemen’s Calling) discusses women’s traditional virtues (modesty, meekness, compassion, affability, piety) and roles (wife, mother, etc.) with a strong Christian emphasis. Another English import popular in the colonies was George Saville Halifax’s The Lady’s New-Year’s Gift: or, Advice to a Daughter (1688), which offered the usual advice for female piety alongside more pragmatic advice about how to deal with “the spiteful World,” a world that included weak, cruel or drunken husbands (Newton 1994: 181). The popularity of conduct books in general continued to grow in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and those written in America began to define and perpetuate attitudes about American womanhood (and manhood). Some American authors of conduct literature in this later period include William Penn, William A. Alcott, and Benjamin Franklin, while other works by writers from England and the continent such as Hannah More, Lady Sarah ­Pennington, Jonathan Swift, Daniel Defoe, and Richard Steele, were reprinted in the colonies and readily available (Newton 1994:2–3). Now, in the twenty-first century, the appeal of and interest in conduct literature directed at women remains strong, with the shelves of bookstores filled with books providing instruction to women on health, beauty, sex, fitness, child-rearing, and so forth. The current popularity in America of self-help guides is simply a wave in the constant flow of instructional books for women from the middle ages to the present.

2.1 Religious and social context of Massachusetts, 1692 It might be thought that the conduct book par excellence in the American colonies in the seventeenth century would be the Bible itself. In many ways this is true, since the various conduct books written by Americans at this time draw extensively on biblical teachings. Equally powerful at the time were the sermons given by various Puritan ministers, as they too offered guidance for moral conduct and,

144 Kathleen L. Doty

more significantly, the way of salvation from an eternity in Hell. Indeed the religious context in which conduct books were written and read is significant, and while a full discussion of Puritan doctrine is beyond the scope and purpose of this paper, two Puritan beliefs highlight the social function of conduct books. First, following changes brought about by the Reformation and their own mostly Calvinistic theology, Puritans believed that an individual could – and should – contemplate one’s self and his or her relations with God. Salvation was a matter between human and God, without the need for a priestly intermediary. Puritan ministers were certainly guides to their congregations and viewed as sources of wisdom, but they had no mystical access to the deity. Both women and men could experience and ponder God’s power and thus they were spiritually equal (Saxton 2003: 19–20). Likewise, both men and women were equally born in sin and in need of salvation. However, beliefs about the differences between the sexes influenced ideas about morality and behavior. For example, women were important “helpmeets” in the hierarchy of the family: the father was the main authority, the wife subservient to the husband, and children and servants subservient to parents and masters. This familial hierarchy mirrored the hierarchal relationship between God and the individual. Reading the Bible and Christian conduct literature served as important ways for the Puritan woman to reflect on her nature and social role and to develop piety and virtue. The Puritans’ emphasis on reading the Bible helped to change notions about literacy and education for women. Following the Reformation, it can be argued that in some ways Protestantism improved the status of women because it encouraged literacy for both men and women. Everyone should read the scriptures. In the American colonies the Puritans supported education for girls and boys, though they were schooled separately (Saxton 2003: 25). Girls were taught to read and, in many cases, to write. If literate, girls would be able to read and study for religious purposes, and they could use their diaries or journals to record their inner reflections and self-examinations, carried out in the Puritan tradition of “intense and ruthless honesty” (Saxton 2003: 25). However, many educated Puritan men, Cotton Mather among them, understood that educated women might not always defer to male authority. He encouraged female intellectual activities but only as long as they didn’t challenge the dominant religious view or proper social relations between the sexes. He wanted women to use their intelligence to serve God and the work of God-fearing men (Saxton 2003: 63). We will see how these values of literacy are reflected in Ornaments in the discussions below. The second point concerns the Puritans’ conception of the soul. The soul was seen as feminine and as such was characterized – in line with their gendered social world view – as insatiable, vulnerable, and yearning for Christ (Reis 1995: 15). These traits made it more susceptible to the devil’s seduction, an idea further com-



Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 145

pounded by the belief that the devil attacked the soul through an attack on the corporeal body. Since the female body was weaker than the male body, women were more easily breached by the devil. Reis and other scholars suggest that the Puritans’ “earthly perception of women’s bodies and souls corresponded to their otherworldly belief concerning Satan’s powers” (1995: 17), resulting in the high percentage of women accused and convicted of witchcraft in Salem. As some scholars have pointed out, Puritan society viewed women as paradoxically both more susceptible to the Devil and to salvation. Ruth Bloch argues that Mather thought women more receptive to religious conversion because of a female response to the “difficulties both of Subjection and of Child bearing” (qtd. in Bloch, 2003: 146). Below we will see how the ideas about witches’ bodies and behaviors contrasted with ideals about those of the virtuous woman.

3.

Cotton Mather’s Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion

3.1

Structure and rhetoric

The facsimile version of Mather’s text used for this study contains 116 pages, as well as an unnumbered two-page preface. Given the social function of conduct books and Cotton Mather’s status as an esteemed and influential Puritan minister in the Massachusetts Bay colony, it makes sense that he should base his book for women on a Biblical scripture, Proverbs 31:30: “Favour is deceitful, and Beauty is vain, but A WOMAN THAT FEARETH THE LORD, She ‘tis that shall be praised” (Mather’s italics, capitalization, and spelling retained in all examples). His text follows the format of many sermons of the times: the verse from Proverbs is discussed according to doctrine with specific applications laid out for the audience. This part takes up the first 80 pages. The second part consists of four sections, each devoted to the appropriate virtues and behaviors of women in their four stages of life: the virtuous maid (p. 80–85); the virtuous wife (p. 86–99); the virtuous mother (p. 99–110); the virtuous widow (p. 110–116). Turning more closely to the first section, let us look at the rhetorical strategies Mather used in constructing his text. Mather begins his lengthy explication of the

. The popularity of Mather’s text is evidenced by its longevity: the first edition was published in Boston in 1692, with a second edition appearing in London in 1694. A third final edition was printed in Boston in 1741. The facsimile used for this paper is from the third edition. Only minor changes in spelling, punctuation and capitalization were made for the third edition, and in her introduction to Mather’s text, Cowell asserts that there were few differences between the two American editions (1978: xix).

146 Kathleen L. Doty

verse from Proverbs by pointing out that it offers both negative and positive elements: favor and beauty are deceitful and vain, but the fear of God is commendable. Women who fear God will not value favor or beauty over him. Mather offers a deeper reflection on the language and meaning of the verse through analysis and discussion in six conclusions. The first three conclusions concern the character of a virtuous woman as follows: (1) she shall accept any favor or beauty that God may bestow upon her with humility and without a “proud imagination, and into an Humour, conceited of herself or contemptuous towards others” (Ornaments 11); (2) she shall not engage in dancing, the painting of her face, or excessive adornment; (3) as the fear of God is the most important virtue, she must have deep belief and experience of God and avoid all actions that may offend him. The next part, on happiness, is summed up in the phrase “She shall be praised” (Ornaments 31). The three conclusions given are that: (1) fear of God will result in praise by others; (2) wisdom comes from the fear of God and makes the woman praiseworthy; (3) benefits will come from being a God-fearing woman (discussed in the section titled “Application”). This structure is both conventional and predictable for its time, yet Mather’s book does contain elements that are more surprising to a contemporary reader, or at least less conventional. For instance, in addition to biblical examples of women’s achievements and proper comportment (Mary, Bathsheba, Rachel, et al.), Mather presents celebrated women in history such as Empress Eudocia, Queens ­Elizabeth and Katherine, and Pythagoras’ daughter as emblems of virtue, women who were “Wise unto Salvation” (37). He even begins his text with a challenge to “the most absurd Sect in our Days” that prohibits women from speaking in church. He points out that women have been contributing writers of sacred texts, making “a most Laudable use of Pens” (4): (1) We have not only seen Women doing Service for the Tabernacle by such Ingenious Writings as we find mention’d in the Catalogues of Beverovicius, Hottinger, and Voetius; or such as that most accomplished Lady, Ann Maria Schurman, has in our Age addressed the World withal; for even the Books published by that Sex, were enough to make a Library far from contemptible; nor has even the New-English part of the American Strand been without Authoresses that would challenge a Room in such a Library. (Ornaments: 3–4)

This quotation (with original spelling, punctuation, and italics) is then followed by a lengthy discussion of significant biblical women. The inclusion of such comments and examples highlights one aspect of Cotton Mather’s stance: as noted above in Section 2.1, he wanted women to be literate and knowledgeable about the Bible. By pointing out that women were significant participants in the biblical tradition and



Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 147

that there is a tradition of women writers throughout the ages, Mather elevates the status of women and makes an appeal to the female reader’s reason and emotions. He encourages his readers to participate in a tradition of women who were both virtuous and used their intellectual capabilities in rational pursuits. Through the words of Proverbs and his explication of them, Mather has set up the rhetorical basis of his book: admonition and fear. Mather will instruct the female reader through admonishments about behavior coupled with lessons about what should be feared: the devil and devilish ways, loss of faith and a proper relationship with God, and societal rejection if she does not adhere to proper female roles. The main strategies Mather uses to appeal to the readers are, first and foremost, the authority of the Bible and Christian doctrine, and second, illustrative examples from history. The stance Mather takes as author is, not surprisingly, one of a wise counselor, one who has the best interests of females at heart, and who uses earnest language and examples to persuade his female readers while at the same time reinforcing his role as male teacher. Moving to the section in Ornaments on the four stages of a woman’s life, we can see how Mather reinforces a particular vision of proper conduct for women. Introducing his description of the virtuous maid, Mather writes: (2) …Women are to be advised unto; namely, to maintain, the fear of God, in every Condition of Life, into and through which the, Will of God may carry them … Let there be set before you the Portraiture of, a virtuous Woman, in each of those four States; and let it be your study to Answer that Portraiture by the fear of God in all. (80)

Given the repetition of the words fear and God, there’s no mistake that the portrait about to be given is one framed by religious belief. Mather’s image of the virtuous maid has six features: devotion, purity, modesty, industry, discretion, and obedience. She reveals her devotion through daily reading of the Bible, shunning the popular romances of the day, as they are “as Vicious as they are foolish” (Ornaments: 82); her chastity and modesty are visible by her avoidance of “wanton Creatures” and that she “chooses to be seen rather than heard,” but if she is forced to speak, “she still is a Eulalia, or, A well spoken One” who gives “goodly Words” (Ornaments: 83). The young maid is to learn all the usual domestic skills, and if she has additional time, she may take up the study of music and language, but of course will “not be proud of her Skill” in such accomplishments and will instead be like Ruth in the Bible (Ornaments: 84). In the last two qualities of a virtuous maid, discretion and obedience, Mather offers advice on the single life and the married state. He counsels the young girl that it is better to remain single than hastily marry a bad husband just for the sake of marriage. If single, she should “convince all the World, that her present Circumstances are of Choice rather than

148 Kathleen L. Doty

Force; and the longer she is in them, the more she does consecrate herself unto the Lord” (Ornaments: 84). Mather adds, rather humorously, that it is “better to have no Husband, than to have such a Buzzard as could be caught by any Cassandra’s (sic) (or Women that set Men on Fire)” (Ornaments: 85). Perhaps one reason that Mather counseled against hasty marriages is that he was aware of the problem of husbands who abuse their wives. The last page of the next section on the virtuous wife is a forceful rebuke against men who beat their wives. (Massachusetts Bay colony, it should be noted, was one of the few colonies that had a written law against wife beating.) By characterizing an abusive husband as a “Devil,” “Fiend,” “Beast,” and “Rascal,” Mather displays his disdain for such men (Ornaments: 98–99). He wishes women deliverance from “such Monsters of Husbands,” but at the same time advises women who unfortunately have such husbands to “bear it patiently; and know thou shalt have Rewards hereafter for it, as well as Praises here” (Ornaments: 98). Mather also implies that some wives may be to blame, since being virtuous is the most likely defense against abuse and the “Candidness of her Behaviour be her Charm against the Assaults” (Ornaments: 98). In addition to his own words against the abuse of wives, he refers his readers to various verses in the Bible, ancients such as Cato, and church doctrine that teach against the beating of wives. Running over 14 pages, Mather’s description of the virtuous wife is the longest part of the section on the stages of a woman’s life. He carefully draws a portrait of the wife who shows constant and deep love for her husband, who fears him and avoids his displeasure, who creates a peaceful and thrifty household, who is faithful to her husband, and who endeavors to prevent her husband from falling into any temptation or sin. This section is notable for the many examples of virtuous wives; the great majority is from the Bible (Rachel, Rebecca, Sarah, Susannah, Deborah et al.) but he also provides illustrative stories from history. He describes the devotion of Prince Edward’s wife, who sucked the poison out of his wounds, of Herpine, who bore her husband on her back for 1300 English miles to recovery, of Clara Cerventa, who tended her diseased husband and sold her jewels to maintain him. Mather writes that when learning about these women, the virtuous wife “applauds the Example and would follow it” (Ornaments: 88). Mather begins the section on the virtuous mother by acknowledging that upon marriage women are ordinarily expected to bear children. However, he immediately discusses the situation of a wife who is “deny’d the Blessing of children” (Ornaments: 99). In such situations, he counsels the woman to pray to God for fruitfulness; if the woman remains infertile, she is to come to understand that barrenness will allow her to experience instead a “Spiritual Fulness,” causing her to become “more fruitful in all the good Works of Piety and Charity” (Ornaments: 100). Once the woman who is not a mother is addressed, Mather can



Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 149

move his focus to the characteristics of a virtuous mother. His six-part discussion begins with recommended behaviors upon discovery of pregnancy such as avoiding anything that may harm the “Treasure” lodged in her, reading of scriptures that may help allay her fears of childbirth (Isaiah and Psalms as the favorites), and to avoid excesses in eating and drinking. Throughout her pregnancy the virtuous mother-to-be continues her work in faith and charity. Perhaps because loudness is to be avoided by women in all stages of their lives, Mather instructs his readers not to suffer loudly when in labor but to “moderate her Complaints in the Hour” (Ornaments: 104). He reminds readers that the pains of childbirth for women have been “brought by Sin,” a reference to the biblical story of Adam and Eve in Genesis wherein one result of eating the forbidden fruit is that women are destined to suffer pain in childbearing. Once the woman has successfully delivered a child, she is to be like a Judith, a woman who praises God. Mather devotes the fourth part to the importance of nursing one’s own children, as it is a manifestation of her care for their bodies. He even calls it a “Calamity” if a mother does not nurse her children (Ornaments: 105). In the next section, Mather reminds women that their biggest concern is to bring up children in the “Nurture and Admonition of the Lord!” (Ornaments: 106). The virtuous mother is to nurture them by setting an example of virtue for them; she should be a teacher of prayers, reading, and writing; she keeps authority over her children so that they will fear her as well as love her (much as she, as wife, both fears and loves her husband who is in authority over her). In sum, she must bring up her children so that she can show others her “well educated Children as her Jewels” (Ornaments: 108). The final section addresses the “disasters” a mother may face: sin by her children and a common fact of life in the colonies – infant or child mortality. In the case of the former, Mather counsels the woman to call upon her own patience and piety and to use the sins of her children as a time to reflect upon her own errors. In the face of the death of a child, the woman is told not to be overwhelmed but to be a “moderate Mourner,” remembering that her children are as “meer Loans from God, which he may Call for when he please” (Ornaments: 109). Once again, the grieving mother is reminded that she should refrain from excess weeping or crying aloud and that she should remember “thy Work shall be rewarded” (Ornaments: 109), presumably in the afterlife. In the last paragraph Mather admits that there is a danger that the virtuous mother may become a widow before she dies, thus providing a transition to the final section of Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion. Mather opens the description of virtuous widows by acknowledging that the high numbers of widows in every village and town suggest that most wives will at some time “taste the sad, sowr, tear-ful Cup of Widowhood” (Ornaments: 110). After properly burying her deceased husband, the virtuous widow is to spend her days in grief and mourning, in meditations on God and the afterlife, and in

150 Kathleen L. Doty

­ ffering charity to neighbors and the poor. A young widow is allowed to marry o again, but she is counseled to select a man who is proper for her and, if her new husband has children, to be a good step-mother. Upon reaching old age, the widow is to long for death and the day when “the Lord Jesus will send his Angels to fetch her unto the Regions of everlasting Light and Life” (Ornaments: 115–116). This section, too, offers examples from the Bible for the widow to emulate, and Mather continues his emphasis on the proper behavior for women: a widow should not make an excessive show of her sorrow and should continue in supplications and prayer every day. Time that used to be spent with her husband is now to be spent in meditation on her God. Finally, as we shall see below in Section 4, the widow is to avoid all appearance and behavior that may associate her with the idea of an old witch.

3.2 The Language of Ornaments In the twentieth century Mather’s Ornaments has mostly received critical attention from historians, who use the text for differing theses about women’s status in colonial America or Mather’s personal attitudes toward women (Cowell xiii; cf. Saxton 2003; ). Rarely has its language been studied from a linguistic perspective, though a few stylistic studies of Mather’s sermons and other writings exist (Manierre 1961; White 1963). This section seeks to address the absence of linguistic analysis by briefly describing three features of Mather’s language from a speech act perspective. As John R. Searle points out in Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language, a critical aspect of linguistic communication is that the hearer recognizes the speaker’s intentions and thereby understands the meaning (1969: 43; 48). In the case of conduct books such as Ornaments, the intentionality of the author and text are transparent: Mather provides overt instruction on how the female reader can behave virtuously in all stages of her life. Conduct books provide the “dos and don’ts” of a proper life, encoding societal expectations and values. The specific linguistic features that are most important in creating such didactic meaning and understanding by the reader are: (1) Commands/imperative verbs; (2) direct address to the reader; (3) deictics. These features, obviously, interact with the rhetorical aspects of Mather’s text discussed in the previous section.

3.2.1 Commands/imperative verbs As discussed above in Section 3.1, the first part of Ornaments gives a careful explication of Proverbs 31:30, much like a full biblical exegesis, that extends for 46 pages. When Mather reaches the section called “Application,” he offers seven



Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 151

“counsels,” a series of exhortations on moral actions and behaviors to which all women should aspire. He begins the first counsel with a statement that highlights the persuasive nature of his text: “The first Thing unto which I would persuade you, is, to pray most instantly, constantly, importunately that the fear of God may be planted in your Soul” (49). Here Mather’s command is implicit in the infinitive form to pray. The section outlining the seven counsels is notable for its use of commands with imperative verbs. Representative examples include: (3) …recollect the Mercies which you have newly received of God; and examine whether you have been so zealous, watchful, fruitful before God… (51) (4) Interweave a Conscience of Duty, into all your Motions… Let every Meal, every Sleep, every Visit, and all your Domestick Business, though it be but the Rocking of a Cradle, be done with an Eye to this…. (51) (5) First, Get a lively Sense of your own Spiritual Death, Sinfulness and Wretchedness. Behold your selves hunted and haunted by the Avengers of Sin… Take a view of your own Condition….Think on the terrible Wants and Woes of your Souls. (69) (6) Receive him with the Wish of your Souls, to be by him furnished and provided with all manner of Good…Receive him freely, fully, firmly, hoping to live on him, to him, and with him World without End. Fall down like Mary in the Garden cry out, Rabboni, O my Lord! My Lord! (76)

Modals suggesting obligation sometimes combine with main verbs, as in “…you should use good Caution against those that would seduce you from the fear of God” (52) or “But may you be always upon your Guard, against the false Teachers in these Days” (53). Mather also makes use of modals without a personal subject: (7) As your Speech ought always to be true … So your Speech ought likewise to be rare, like Silver… (55)

The rhetorical effect of combining the non-personal subject with the verb phrase, instead of writing “you must do….” or “I order you to, …”, mitigates the direct orders that lie beneath. The content of examples 3–6 is also noteworthy for its reiteration of the Puritan fondness for reflection and introspection.

3.2.2 Direct address and deictics In addition to the use of imperative verbs, which assume that the omitted subject is the female reader, Mather uses the second person pronoun you to address her directly. The examples above (3–7) show how you and your create a female reader who is both pious and malleable. But when Mather reaches the end of the Application section, his final admonition introduces the next four sections describing

152 Kathleen L. Doty

the stages of a woman’s life. He writes, “Let there be set before you the Portraiture of a virtuous Woman, in each of those four states; and let it be your study to answer that Portraiture by the fear of God, in all” (80). This sentence is the last time he uses the second person pronoun you. In each of the four sections on maids, mothers, wives, and widows, Mather does not address the reader with you. Instead, he uses the phrase a virtuous maid/wife/mother/widow, she or her to create his image of the virtuous female. The omission of you in these four sections gives them a slightly formal tone, with a more distant voice speaking to a general reader. Perhaps Mather thought these sections could be read aloud or that they could be perused by a reader in any order at any age. By omitting the you, the virtues receive the emphasis, rather than the reader herself. Though it may seem at first glance that the second part of Ornaments would be more overtly instructional, it is rather that this short section (not even half as long as the first) presents descriptive portraits of a virtuous woman throughout her life. Without the direct address you, the language creating these pictures is less didactic and instead guides the reader to contemplate and reflect upon the virtues themselves. Mather’s portraits implicitly urge his readers to study and learn from their example. Mather makes use of deictic words as a textual device to emphasize the rhetorical structure of Ornaments. Each of the four sections follows a specific organizational pattern; for example, in the Maid section Mather outlines the six qualities of virtue introduced with Such is…that; this phrase is followed by examples of positive actions to pursue and negative ones to avoid. For example, the second virtue of purity: (8) II. Such is her Purity, that while she will not suffer the least Behavior or Expression to proceed from her, which may favour obscenity; so neither will she permit, much less invite, the Dalliances of any wanton Creatures which may design any Thing besides what is Honourable on her; (82)

This pattern continues through the six virtues and after the final virtue of obedience, Mather writes, “This is a virtuous Maid!” (85). The use of the deictic this functions textually rather than extra-linguistically, since it refers to the just enumerated qualities of the young girl. Mather uses the deictic phrase this is in each of the four sections as a concluding sentence that reiterates and reinforces the qualities just delineated.

4.

The other side of virtue: The Salem witch

The witchcraft trials in Salem in 1692 comprise only a short chapter in American history. But the critical examination of the events is voluminous and wide-



Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 153

r­ anging, including studies on gender and the trials, the influence of wars with Native Americans on the crisis, and explanations for the outbreak itself (cf. Karlsen 1989; Norton 2003; Kamensky 1997). Here I will focus only on the language and rhetoric of one text on witchcraft by Cotton Mather, Wonders of the Invisible World, and its intersections with Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion. Linguistic studies of the Salem trials have grown quickly in the past decade, beginning with Risto Hiltunen’s seminal article, “‘Tell me, be you a witch?’: Questions in the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692,” published in 1996. Subsequent articles have closely examined the linguistic features of the Salem defendants and magistrates (cf. Rissanen 1997; Archer 2002; Doty and Hiltunen 2002) and the practices of scribes who recorded the trials (Doty 2007; Hiltunen and Peikola 2007), among other topics. The majority of these works have utilized the written material of the trials collected in Boyer and Nissenbaum’s 1977 three-volume work The Salem Witchcraft Papers. Little if any attention has been given to the linguistic study of other texts written around the time of the crisis by participants or commentators such as Cotton Mather. Cotton Mather’s Wonders of the Invisible World (referred to as Wonders below) was written in August 1692, not long after the publication of Ornaments in March, and printed in Boston by October, with another imprint produced in London with a February 1693 date. A lengthy work, based in part on a sermon Mather gave on August 4, it carries the subtitle, “Observations as well Historical as Theological, upon the Nature, the Number, and the Operations of the Devils.” While the text does raise questions and discuss debates about the nature of witchcraft and the devil, Wonders devotes substantial attention to the Salem trials themselves by describing the trials of five persons accused of witchcraft: George Burroughs, Bridget Bishop, Susanna Martin, Elizabeth How, and Martha Carrier. All five refused to confess to witchcraft and, because only those who confessed were spared the gallows, they were hanged. Mather selected these individuals to be exemplars of the ongoing trials and they highlight one troubling aspect of the crisis: the predominance of women among the accused and executed (78%). . When I was a visiting Fulbright scholar in Turku, Finland in 1995, Risto offered to let me read a draft of this article. Our many conversations on the Salem witchcraft trials and other topics that year led to a decision to write some articles together. Our delightful collaboration has lasted for over a decade and has resulted in four joint conference presentations, three published articles, with another currently under review, and many stimulating conversations, trans-Atlantic telephone calls, and e-mails. I am honored to be his co-author, friend, and contributor to this volume. . For a full discussion of the relationship between confession and execution, see Doty and Hiltunen 2002.

154 Kathleen L. Doty

In contrast to the portrayals of virtuous women in Ornaments, Mather’s Wonders provides descriptions of women behaving in the most unbecoming manner. Mather summarizes the testimonies against the four women, revealing aspects that damn them to their eventual execution: anger, disobedience, spiteful tongues, and consorting with the devil. Beginning with Bridget Bishop, an old woman of around 60, Mather describes how she was accused of being a witch based on actions such as displaying anger and quarreling with a neighbor, “frivolous and foolish errands,” threatening a man, and “Gross Lying in the Court,” among others (Wonders: 223–228). Bishop is an interesting figure in the group Mather described, as she was twice widowed and hence received her deceased husbands’ properties. Additionally, she had had past encounters with the judicial system in Massachusetts (Rosenthal 1993: 83). She was known to speak ill of people publicly, and she did not shy away from confrontation with neighbors. In many ways she is the antithesis of Mather’s image of a proper wife or widow who exhibits visible piety and charitable conduct to all. Similarly, the next two married women, Elizabeth How and Martha ­Carrier, are described by Mather in unflattering ways. Elizabeth How was from the nearby town of Ipswich, and she had been under the suspicion of witchcraft ten years earlier but released without charge. Mather notes that she wanted to join the church at Ipswich, but “she was deny’d an Admission into that Holy Society, partly through a suspicion of witchcraft, then urged against her” (Wonders: 237). He admits that many of the accusations against How were trivial: cattle and oxen dying or taken ill and barrels of drink going bad. Yet Mather omits other details about her life that provide a view of her virtues: she cared for her two daughters and blind husband dutifully; those offering petitions in defense of How described her as faithful, honest, and ready to forgive her accusers; and her 94-year-old father-in-law characterized her as a dutiful, Christian wife (Rosenthal 1993: 104). Mather also fails to record her memorable words to the charges against her at Salem: “If it was the last moment I was to live, God knows I am innocent of any thing in this nature” (Boyer & Nissenbaum 1977: 434). Like Elizabeth How, Martha Carrier went to the gallows asserting her innocence, with Cotton Mather among the witnesses who watched. She, too, received harsh words from him in Wonders. He ends the section devoted to Carrier with the following: (9) Memorandum. This Rampant Hag, Martha Carrier, was the Person, of whom the Confessions of the Witches, and of her own Children among the rest, agreed, That the Devil had promised her, she should be Queen of Hell. (244)

This supposed Queen of Hell was in her forties, a poor wife and mother to five children, living in Andover with her husband, Thomas, a servant she had married

Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 155



after bearing his illegitimate child. Mather may not have known of her scandalous background, but he characterizes her (through the testimony given by her accusers) as angry, with threatening words, a most “malicious” person (243). He describes the various depositions against her including the usual arguments and disagreements with neighbors, the “bewitchments” (illnesses) of animals and children, but also the fact that many of the accusers in the room were sent into fits and contortions when she looked at them. Mather notes that one of those offering a deposition against Carrier stated that Carrier was present at a witches’ meeting in Salem and that they partook of bread and wine, a well-known mockery of holy communion (Wonders: 244). Mather even takes the time to mention that, although not produced at the trial, three of her children had earlier confessed that their mother had made them witches. However, it should be noted that by July and August, it was widely know that to confess was to save one’s life. Also, Carol F. Karlsen points out that according to one witness, Carrier’s sons incriminated themselves only after they were “tyed… Neck and Heels till the Blood was ready to come out of their Noses” (1989: 101). Mather is just as harsh in his description of Susanna Martin, who was a 70–year-old widow from nearby Amesbury. She had been accused of witchcraft in 1669 but was discharged without a trial, so she was an obvious suspect during the 1692 outbreak. Mather presents the testimony of William Brown that Martin ruined his “most Pious and prudent wife” by making her ill (234); another man testified that she gave “foul words” against him and he was never able to prosper as a result. At the end of the section on Martin, Mather adds a personal comment: (10) Note, this Woman was one of the most Impudent, Scurrilous, wicked creatures in the world; and she did now throughout her whole Trial discover herself to be such an one. Yet when she was asked, what she had to say for her self? her Cheef Plea was, that she had led a most Virtuous and Holy Life! (236)

Mather’s words and his exclamation mark suggest that he is amazed at the effrontery of such behavior, since he has recorded the very ways in which she was far from virtuous. At her trial, Martin is asked about the people who were thrown into fits when she looked at them: (11)

Magistrate. Pray, what ails these People? Martin. I don’t know. Magistrate. But what do you think ails them? Martin. I don’t desire to spend my Judgment upon it. Magistrate. Don’t you think they are Bewitch’d? Martin. No, I do not think they are.

156 Kathleen L. Doty

Magistrate. Tell us your thoughts about them then. Martin. No, my thoughts are my own when they are in, but when they are out, they are anothers. Their Master – Magistrate. Their Master? who do you think is their Master? Martin. If they be dealing in the Black Art, you may know as well as I. Magistrate. Well, what have you done towards this? Martin. Nothing at all. Magistrate. Why, tis you or your Appearance. Martin. I cannot help it. Magistrate. Is it not Your Master? How comes your Appearance to hurt these? Martin. How do I know? He that appeared in the shape of Samuel, a Glorify’d Saint, may Appear in any ones shape.  (Wonders: 229–30)

Since he took the time to reproduce it in Wonders, Mather must have found this exchange quite provocative. After all, Martin refers to a Puritan belief about Samuel in the Bible, and she refuses to provide the magistrate, a man of authority, with the answers he desires. Her behavior and comportment are far from those prescribed in Ornaments for old widows: caretaking and teaching of the young, living a righteous life, and longing for death and eternal life with Jesus. Susanna Martin, however, does seem to Mather to embody the very thing he decries near the end of Ornaments: (12) but by an hoary head found in the Way of Righteousness it is that she now challenges the Honour of, a Saint, even from those abusive Tongues, which use to traduce for a Witch, every old Woman, whose Temper with her Visage is not eminently good. (115)

In his description of the accusations against these four women and their behaviors during their trials, Mather seems to accept without question the validity of the claims against them. As a believer in the existence of the devil and his powers over the susceptible and weak, Mather is naturally credulous. He reserves criticism for the accused women themselves rather than the accusers or the process of the trials. Because Mather held strong religious beliefs about the nature of the devil and of witches, he was able to excuse the actions of many of the young women involved. The ideal of a young maid was one who was both silent and modest in her physical bearing. Yet we know from the Salem trial records that the young women (the majority between the ages of 10 and 20) who made accusations of witchcraft were behaving in most immodest ways. There was much drama in the courtroom:



Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 157

the accusers cried out loudly, they interrupted the magistrates and proceedings, they fell to the floor, writhing and sometimes making strange sounds, while in other instances showing an inability to speak at all. They displayed places on their necks, arms and legs where they had been bitten, pinched, or choked. These physical manifestations of affliction were understood by the onlookers as proof that the bodies and souls of the girls had been ensnared by the devil. Jane Kamensky characterizes the words and actions of the accusers as a spectacular display of the devil’s inverted “topsy-turvy world,” wherein the civil authority of male magistrates was overturned by young women, who in most cases came from lower classes or were servants (1997: 171). It was a rare situation for such women to be the central attraction and to have their words and experiences carry enough power to be given careful attention. In Wonders, Mather includes only brief references to the physical antics of the young female accusers. For instance, in the trial of Susanna Martin, Mather writes that the accusers were subjected to “Cruel and Frequent Fits” in her presence (Wonders: 229). In the description of Martha Carrier’s trial, he notes that her mere look at the accusers “laid the Afflicted People for Dead” (241). He did, however, write more fully about the physical aspects of possession in other works on witchcraft, notably “A Brand Pluck’d Out of the Burning,” a lengthy discussion of the possession of Mercy Short. But he was more forthcoming about the speech of both the accusers and the accused in Wonders. Recall that Mather writes in Ornaments that one of the virtues of a female is that she be silent, be seen but not heard: “So your Speech ought likewise to be rare, like Silver” (55). He continues to admonish women not to speak too soon or too much, reminding them of the scriptures pointing out that it is the “Whore that is clamorous, and the Fool, that is full of Words” (Wonders: 55). Mather counsels strongly against engaging in any scolding, fury, vile names, boasting or bragging (56). Yet in Wonders, he refers to such behaviors in both the accused and the accusers. He exhibits a conflict about women and language discussed by Kamensky: the speech of those accused of witchcraft damned them and was taken as proof of their guilt, while at the same time the speech (or the silence) of the accusers was seen as preternatural but credible (1997: 163; Chapter 6 passim). Nonetheless, the women accusing others in the Salem meeting house were engaging in the same negative behaviors as those condemned in witches: speaking out brazenly, comporting their bodies in immodest ways, and, as manifest in their afflictions, exhibiting their contacts with the devil.

158 Kathleen L. Doty

5.

Conclusion

Cotton Mather’s Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion must have received a welcome reception in Salem when it appeared around the beginning of the outbreak of witchcraft accusations in 1692. Its idealized portrait of virtuous conduct in women surely contrasted sharply with the tumultuous events and the behavior of all the women involved – young and old, single, married, or widowed. Perhaps Mather’s ministerial voice and his biblical and historical erudition provided comfort or reassurance to readers. By using the principle of exhortation, presented through admonitory language, scriptures, and examples and models of illustrious women, as well as the rhetorical base of fear and admonition, Mather sought to instruct his readers in a virtuous life. But how successful was he? One characteristic of seventeenth century conduct books is that they provided instruction in gender roles which support prevailing social ideologies. As shown in Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion, there are advantages and costs to either adherence to gender roles or failure to fulfill them properly. What does virtuous living gain a woman? Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion suggests, first, that virtue leads to salvation through a proper, fearful relationship with God. Second, virtue creates desirability, since conduct books detailing how to be a virtuous woman are constructing a desirable man at the same time. A virtuous man will naturally desire a virtuous woman and vice versa. Third, a virtuous life will garner acceptance and approval of the larger society, whether that society is religious or secular. And what are the costs to women of transgression, of misbehavior? Certainly the picture drawn in Wonders of the Invisible World is that one’s relationship with God will be lost and could be replaced by a miserable life in the devil’s snare. The witch is the inversion of virtue. Further, if women do transgress, they must not be allowed to continue in their misbehaviors. In Salem, the accused women who would not confess were hanged. Once that occurred, social order was restored and the afflicted young women would return, Cotton Mather hoped, to their proper and virtuous lives. The two books examined in this paper, while presenting different images of women’s behaviors, share an underlying conundrum: Cotton Mather’s language and structure hint that his instructions may not always be enough to persuade his readers. He uses admonition and fear as the rhetorical basis for both books, yet these features may not have their intended effects. Why? Because civil and religious sanctions against certain behaviors in women are always present. If a reader is not convinced by words alone to live properly, then sanctions could be brought against her if she misbehaves. The common feature in the portrait of women in Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion, for instance, is one of control: throughout



Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion and Salem witchcraft crisis 159

their lives women must always control their own actions and emotions (anger, desire, sorrow, etc.), and, at the same time, they must submit to the control of father, husband, or God. If deemed a miscreant, a woman could, for instance, be shunned by her community, or she may be expelled from the church. The most significant and extreme sanction is that a woman may be accused of witchcraft. If this happens, then the powers of the state (more accurately, colony, in 1692) are always available to bring to bear against the transgressor. The Puritan position that the state’s authority over the individual mirrors that of God’s authority is nicely summed up in the words of magistrate John Hathorne to Bridget Bishop during her examination: “You may threaten, but you can do no more than you are permitted” (Boyer and Nissenbaum, 1977: 84). Bishop’s assertive reply to him, “I am innocent of a witch,” encapsulates the dilemma for women as they faced men, the church, and the state in Puritan society: submission or rebellion.

References Archer, Dawn. 2002. “‘Can innocent people be guilty?’: A sociopragmatic analysis of examination transcripts from the Salem witchcraft trials.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 3 (1): 1–30. Bloch, Ruth H. 2003. Gender and Morality in Anglo-American Culture, 1650–1800. Berkeley: University of California Press. Boyer, Paul and Nissenbaum, Stephen (eds). 1977. The Salem Witchcraft Papers: Verbatim Transcripts of the Legal Documents of the Salem Witchcraft Outbreak of 1692. New York: DaCapo Press. Doty, Kathleen L. 2007. “Telling Tales: The role of scribes in constructing the discourse of the Salem witchcraft trials.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 8 (1): 25–41. Doty, Kathleen and Hiltunen, Risto. 2002. “‘I will tell, I will tell’: confessional patterns in the Salem witchcraft trials, 1692.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 3 (2): 299–335. Hiltunen, Risto. 1996. “‘Tell me, be you a witch?’: Questions in the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692”. International Journal for the Semiotics of Law IX: 17–37. Hiltunen, Risto and Peikola, Matti. 2007. “Trial discourse and manuscript context: Scribal profiles in the Salem witchcraft records.” Journal of Historical Pragmatics 8 (1): 43–68. Hull, Suzanne W. 1982. Chaste, Silent and Obedient: English Books for Women, 1475–1640. San Marino, CA: Huntington Library. Kamensky, Jane. 1997. Governing the Tongue: The Politics of Speech in Early New England. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Karlsen, Carol F. 1989. The Devil in the Shape of a Woman: Witchcraft in Colonial New England. New York: Vintage Books. Levy, Babette M. 1979. Cotton Mather. Boston: Twayne Publishers. Manierre, William R. H. 1961. “Verbal Patterns in Cotton Mather’s Magnalia.” Quarterly Journal of Speech Vol. XLVII: 403–13. Mather, Cotton. 1692. Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion. (A facsimile reproduction with an introduction by P. Cowell, 1978). Delmar, NY: Scholars’ Facsimiles & Reprints.

160 Kathleen L. Doty

Mather, Cotton. 1692. Wonders of the Invisible World. Rpt. in Narratives of the Witchcraft Cases, 1648–1706, G. L. Burr (ed.), 1946: 209–251. New York: Barnes & Noble. Newton, Sarah E. 1994. Learning to Behave: A Guide to American Conduct Books Before 1900. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Norton, Mary Beth. 2003. In the Devil’s Snare: The Salem Witchcraft Crisis of 1692. New York: Vintage Books. Reis, Elizabeth. 1995. “The Devil, the Body, and the Feminine Soul in Puritan New England.” Journal of American History 82: 1 June: 15–36. Rissanen, Matti. 1997. “‘Candy no Witch, Barbados’: Salem witchcraft trials as evidence of early American English.” In Language in Time and Space. Studies in honour of Wolfgang Viereck on the occasion of his 60th birthday. (Zeitschrift für Dialektologie und Linguistik - Beihefte, Heft 97), H. Ramisch and K. Wynne (eds), 183–193. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Rosenthal, Bernard. 1993. Salem Story: Reading the Witch Trials of 1692. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Saxton, Martha. 2003. Being Good: Women’s Moral Values in Early America. New York: Hill and Wang. Searle, John R. 1969. Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. White, Eugene E. 1963. “Cotton Mather’s Manuductio ad Ministerium,” Quarterly Journal of Speech Vol. XLIX: 308–19.

“Instruction with delight” The narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s early English children’s books Lydia Kokkola

John Newbery (1713–1767) is considered to be one of the most influential ­writers and publishers of English children’s literature. Prior to Newbery, children’s books treated instruction and pleasure as oppositional elements. Drawing on the ideas of Locke, Newbery developed entertaining ways of addressing children on scientific, moral and other matters which acknowledged their lack of experience without condescension. Newbery also found a new way of addressing the children’s parents which flattered their middle class sensibilities and instructed them on how to behave in society. This paper identifies the key features of Newbery’s instructional narrative voice in his first volume, A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, and concludes with a discussion of similar features in The Newtonian System of Philosophy.

1.

Introduction

Delectando monemus – ‘instruction with delight’ – was the motto of the influential writer and publisher of children’s literature in English, John Newbery (1713– 1767). In the first significant study of the history of children’s literature written in English, Harvey Darton (1958: 7) referred to Newbery as “the Conqueror”, and ironically compared the date of Newbery’s first children’s book – A Little Pretty Pocket-Book (1744) – with the Norman conquest of 1066. Between 1744 and 1802, Newbery’s firm and its successors published 400 titles for young readers, most of which were original (Bator 1983: xiv). In doing so, they opened up the commercial world of children’s books. Darton’s formidable successor, John Rowe

. A more accurate translation would be “we teach with delight”, but I adopt the translation Newbery provides.

162 Lydia Kokkola

Figure 1.  The opening page of A Little Pretty Pocket-Book

Townsend – whose Written for Children is now in its sixth edition – also places Newbery centre stage in the history of children’s literature. As a result, Newbery’s position as the father of children’s literature in English is almost universally acknowledged. Even those unfamiliar with the history of children’s literature are likely to recognise Newbery’s name from the prestigious award issued by the American Library Association (ALA). The Newbery award was established in 1922 to recognise a distinguished contribution to American children’s literature. This not only acknowledges Newbery’s status in the history of children’s literature, but also his transatlantic appeal. Literally thousands of copies of his works were sold in America during his own lifetime. They were often imported by Isaiah Thomas of Worcester, Massachusetts. Thomas noted that copyright laws did not exist between the two countries, and so after the War of Independence, he reproduced and adapted Newbery’s texts to suit his audience and published them under his own name (Thomas & McCorison 1970: 69, Townsend 1996: 20, Becking 2007: np). As the name of ALA’s award as well as the comments of literary historians indicate, the centrality of Newbery’s production in the history of children’s litera. Percy Muir (1954) is one of the few detractors on the importance of Newbery. He discusses a number of Newbery’s contemporaries and suggests that Newbery was part of trend rather than an original voice. However, a careful reading of historians of children’s literature such as Townsend and Darton shows that they do acknowledge that Newbery was not alone, but the sales figures suggest that he was by far the most successful. For my arguments, this will suffice.



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 163

ture in English can be taken as given (see also Bator 1983, O’Malley 2003, Fergus 2007). This makes the rarity with which contemporary scholars comment on the texts themselves surprising. This paper returns to Newbery’s production in order to evaluate the works in light of their assumed influence on the instructional narrative voice, that is, the attitudes and manner with which the (adult) narrator of the text addresses the (child) reader. Darton (1958) and Townsend (1990, 1994, 1996) claim that Newbery’s way of combining instruction with delight is precisely what makes his works stand out in the history of children’s literature written in English. Prior to Newbery, instruction was considered a goal in its own right; a pill that did not need to be sweetened. Since Newbery has been attributed with developing a style of narration that has affected children’s literature for a period spanning four centuries, a discussion of the features of that style seems long over due. As scholars of children’s literature have long known, books for children have to appeal to adults or they will not be published, sold or bought. Recent discussions of the Harry Potter phenomenon indicate that the general public is unaware of the fact that children’s literature very rarely addresses child readers alone. Even books which, in the most limited sense of the term, ‘address’ the child (e.g. they are marketed and/or packaged for children or, in the case of older texts like those discussed in this article, formally ‘address’ children in the paratexts) are not necessarily primarily written for children. This can be seen from the way they ‘address’ the child in the wider sense of the term as it is used in narratology (Wall 1991). That is, in the attitudes and suppositions about the reader which are implicit in the text. As I shall demonstrate later in this paper, texts which purport to address the child reader are often more concerned about appealing to adult readers. As a result, they present ideas in a manner that is incomprehensible to the purported age range or even make jokes at the child’s expense. This is still common today. Indeed, books which engage in such “single address” (i.e., they only address children), such as Roald Dahl’s The Twits or the Sweet Valley High series are primarily a post second world war phenomenon (Wall 1991). Books which have single address tend to be denigrated by adults, even when, like the Sweet Valley series, they draw on adult views of how adolescents should behave. Newbery addresses both adults and children. His decision to address the child reader as a person of equal value, albeit not equal experience, also meant making changes to the way in which he addressed (and instructed) the adults reading his books. I have two main aims in this paper. The first is simply to draw attention to two key works by Newbery, and the second is to examine the nature of his instructional voice. Two features of his tone of address are of particular importance, both of which are related to the matter of status, and both of which show a marked change from earlier books for children. The first is how he addresses the child as an equal, combining instruction with delight. The second is how he adapts

164 Lydia Kokkola

his address to the children’s parents to accommodate changes in society. Lenzer (2001) notes that child-raising practices are central elements in maintaining class distinctions. I will argue that Newbery’s address to parents is specifically middle class, and that his forms of address and subject matter reveal a great deal about class tensions in the mid-eighteenth century. The child addressed in his works is not of noble birth, but part and parcel of larger social change that was taking place. Newbery is instructing middle class parents on the behaviour which is expected of them. In order to see how Newbery’s works mark the changing views of his era, it is necessary to have some sense of the kinds of children’s literature that existed prior to 1744.

2.

Literature for children prior to Newbery

Prior to the mid-eighteenth century, there were basically two sources of reading material for children: the educational texts specifically intended for them and texts which were not originally intended for them but which they read anyway. Whilst the former clearly speak down to children as they instruct them on matters such as good manners and the “Joyful Deaths” (Janeway 1676: A2r) of Christian children, the latter were either classics such as Robinson Crusoe (which proved so popular that abridged versions were produced) or adaptations from folklore, mythology, fables and fairy tales. In addition to these narrative texts, we also find primers for teaching children to read and chapbooks. All these traditions are worthy of further investigation if we are to understand how different the didactic voice of Newbery’s narrators were, and also how he drew on these earlier texts. The early Puritans saw great value in teaching young children to read, primarily in order to enable them to read the Bible. Accordingly, children began with works such as the New England Primer. This volume, which was available in a variety of editions during the first half of the eighteenth century, contains a series of woodcuts and rhyming pairs intended to teach Christian conduct and the alphabet. Starting with “In Adam’s fall, We sinned all” and working its way through to “Zaccheus he, Did climb a tree His Lord to see” (in Townsend 1990: 8), the primer also provides a moral commentary. Thieves will be bitten by dogs and those who fail to learn their lessons should be whipped. Certain features of this primer are to be found in Newbery’s works: the numerous woodcuts, the combination of a primer with texts for more advanced readers and the clear moral message. The differences will be discussed below. Once children were able to read independently, the Puritans acknowledged that there was still a need to provide texts that were more accessible than the Bible. In addition to the more formal catechism, a number of texts were produced



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 165

which were intended to enable children to understand how to incorporate Christianity into their daily lives. James Janeway’s volume A Token for Children, being an Exact Account of the Conversion, Holy and Exemplary Lives, and Joyful Deaths of Several Young Children is a prototypical example which was still being reprinted in the nineteenth century. A Token for Children begins with a preface which appears to address the child reader directly and exhorts him or her to behave well so as to avoid eternal damnation. Whilst statements such “O children, if you love me, if you love your Parents, if you love your Souls, if you would [e]Scape Hell Fire, and if you would go to Heaven when you dye, do you go and do as these good Children” (Janeway 1676: A11v) ostensibly address the young child reader, the book primarily addresses adults. For parents living in an era of high infant mortality, Janeway’s presentation of angelic children assured of eternal bliss in heaven offered solace. For less than saintly child readers, the text contained wondrously gory deaths to revel in. Janeway’s work was continued in the nineteenth century with the writings of Martha Sherwood, particularly her series of stories, The History of the Fairchild Family. In these books, the three ‘unruly’ children are taught a series of lessons in Christian morality by their father. These include exciting events such as being punished for a minor squabble by being taken to see the gibbet of a man who was hung for killing his brother. This work was still in print in the early twentieth century as a work for children (today it is printed as a text for scholars of the history of children’s literature). Thus in Janeway’s and Sherwood’s works alone, we can see a constant presence of ‘instruction with threats of damnation’ spanning an impressive four centuries. To put it bluntly, a narrative which threatens its reader with damnation and/or physical violence assumes that the author is of higher status than the reader. The child reader of these Puritan texts is implicitly inferior to the adults involved in the production and dissemination of these works. Against this backdrop, Newbery’s desire to provide ‘instruction with delight’, thereby adopting a form of address which is more equally balanced in terms of power, must truly be regarded as innovative. Yet, as I will soon demonstrate, Newbery also drew on the Puritan hellfire and brimstones style of writing because this was an accepted norm. There was also a tradition of texts that were read by children but which were not originally intended for them. These included works such as The Fables of ­Aesop and Reynard the Fox; the only texts the philosopher John Locke endorsed other than the scriptures. In addition, children also read numerous ballads and folk tales which came directly from the oral tradition. The literary fairytale, on the other hand, was a somewhat later arrival (Zipes 1993). Initially it grew out of the French courtly tradition and later developed a life of its own variously engaging in cultural commentary or nationalistic endeavours (ibid.). Newbery moved

166 Lydia Kokkola

in l­iterary circles where familiarity with these new trends came early as can be evidenced from his publication of Perrault’s stories in Tales from Mother Goose (1765). These fairy and folk tales tended to present a world where virtue is rewarded, and where class differences are not insurmountable. At the time Newbery produced A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, the category of texts children had made their own had swollen to include Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678), Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (1719), and Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726). Although not accessible to younger children, or children still learning their letters, these tales of journeys into strange lands opened up acceptance of fantasy in fiction more generally (Townsend 1990, 1996). And so although there were then, like now, critics who frowned upon such frivolity in works for children, a lighter touch had certainly asserted its right to existence. Newbery’s indebtedness to Swift is evident in his production of The Lilliputian Magazine; it is also worth noting that he published his own editions of the three classics listed above (see Fergus 2006 & 2007 for discussions of their popularity amongst young readers). Finally, there was the third tradition: the chapbook. These little books containing abbreviations of great works of literature or fables were peddled in great numbers although dismissed by the pious for their immorality and the educated for being “useless trumpery” (Locke in Thwaite 1966: 6). Despite such criticisms, or perhaps because of such criticisms in addition to their price and availability, these books flourished. Thus when Newbery began to produce his little books for children, the physical form was not only inspired by the small hands of the anticipated owners, but also by these inexpensive precursors.

2.1 The similarity of Newbery’s production to its predecessors Newbery’s output clearly draws on all the traditions outlined above in terms of its content as well as form. For admirers of Janeway, he produced histories of “the Lives, Actions, Travels, Sufferings and Deaths” of “Apostles and Evangelists” as well as “Martyrs and primitive fathers of the church”, first issued as a single volume in 1755, and later in separate volumes in 1763 & 1764 respectively. Additional religious tracts included A History of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, as well as simplified or abridged versions of the New Testament or the whole Bible. For those interested in adventure, he produced “a set of Pocket Maps of Several Empires, Kingdoms, and States of the Known World”, an expensive work retailing at 4 shillings in black and white or 5 shillings sixpence for colour. The plots of most of Newbery’s longer narratives also bear close resemblance to other commercially successful works of the day. His most well known work,



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 167

The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes (1766), is a prototypical example. This narrative is often attributed to Oliver Goldsmith, although Townsend (1994: 14–19) questions the accuracy of such claims. In the story, the eponymous, orphaned protagonist starts out in life so poor she only owns one shoe. Through hard work, learning her letters and the right disposition, she overcomes her misfortunes, marries Sir Charles and spends the rest of her days doing charitable works for the poor (see Crain 2006 for a more detailed analysis of the narrative and Fergus 2006 for a discussion of its appeal). In line with middle class beliefs, Goody’s rags to riches story implies that education is the key to social mobility. Some of Newbery’s best selling works were those that responded to the other main educational trend of the era: ‘scientific didacticism’. This trend, defined as “the use of scientific subjects for [the] moral and religious instruction of children” (Rauch 1989: 14), aimed at encouraging religious faith through awe of the natural world. The most famous of Newbery’s works in this area, The Newtonian System of Philosophy Adapted to the Capacities of Young Gentlemen and Ladies (ostensibly written by Tom Telescope) will be discussed in more detail in Section 5 below. Newbery’s output also includes studies of flora and fauna as well as histories of England and the Roman Empire. There are also alphabet books as well as more frivolous books of riddles and rhymes. As this brief overview suggests, Newbery’s output was very heterogeneous. The similarity that is claimed for this work lies in the type of didactic voice used, that is, the ways in which Newbery adapted scientific ideas in order to make them comprehensible without treating the child reader as a lesser person for lacking knowledge. Newbery’s didactic voice combined instruction with delight for children, and reached out to their parents in ways that had not been tried before. It is precisely this voice that has led to the claim that A Little Pretty Pocket-Book was the first children’s book to be published in English (Darton 1958, Townsend 1990, 1994, 1996). This has been misinterpreted as meaning that no-one else was producing works with a similar mixture of delectando monemus. Fortunately, in her introduction to the facsimile of Newbery’s volume, Thwaite (1966) provides a useful overview of other works intended specifically for the pleasure of children produced prior to 1744. The most significant of these were produced by Mrs. Mary Cooper, a widow who was successfully managing her late husband’s publishing business in Paternoster Row, not far from Newbery’s premises (Thwaite 1966: 15). Her rewritings of traditional tales, alphabet books with rhymes, proverbs and descriptions of the seasons intended for child readers bear great resemblance to those produced by Newbery. Her songbook by Nurse Lovechild was produced a few months before A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, and some five years before Newbery’s extensive series of books by Nurse Truelove. Questions of plagiarism aside,

168 Lydia Kokkola

Newbery’s texts sold better. Their widespread appeal and longevity makes them representative of what appealed to adult and child readers of the day.

3.

Newbery the man and his work

John Newbery was a model of what the middle classes could achieve. He grew up in a farming family, but received an education and became an extremely successful, wealthy business man. Newbery’s wealth primarily came from two apparently unrelated business enterprises: in additional to producing and selling books and newspapers, he was also a seller of quack medicines. He established a successful local circulating library, a wholesale drapery and, in 1743, he opened a book shop in the St. Paul’s district of London. Within a year, Newbery had begun publishing children’s books and so the shop is often considered to be the first children’s book shop in the world (Darton 1958, Townsend 1994). A key reason for Newbery’s success lay in his supervision of all stages of production including illustrating, typesetting, printing, publishing and advertising. Many of the original Newbery texts were also written by him (some appearing under pen names such as ‘Giles Gingerbread’, ‘Tommy Trapwit’ or ‘Woglog the Giant’), but he also supervised the writing of other volumes by talented ghost writers such as Oliver Goldsmith. Current scholarship swings back and forth over how much of each of the texts can be ascribed to which author. For this reason, my references to “Newbery’s” books do not necessarily signal authorship in its strictest sense; for my purposes, their popularity is more significant than their authorship. To give a more rounded view of this early publishing magnate, one should note that Newbery was fully integrated into the literary circles of the day. He published and employed several notable literary figures including Smollett and Dr Johnson. He was also well read. One author whose works appealed greatly to Newbery was the philosopher John Locke. . As an astute advertiser, Newbery built connections between the various parts of his enterprise by including advertisements for various products within the texts. The most commonly cited example is the death of Margery Two-Shoes’s father who was “seized with a violent Fever in a Place where Dr. James’s Powder was not to be had” (Goody Two Shoes: 78). Dr. James’s Powder gained an excellent reputation; Horace Walpole went so far as to claim that “he had such faith that he believed he would take it if the house were on fire” (Townsend 1994: xii). It was used with equal effectiveness to treat King George III of an attack of mania in November 1788. This mixture of phosphate of lime and oxide of antimony, along with Daffy’s Elixir and ­Greenough’s Tincture for Teeth may have provided the cornerstone of Newbery’s personal wealth, but fortunately were not his greatest legacy to the world.



3.1

Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 169

The great Mr. Locke

A Little Pretty Pocket-Book opens with a letter in which Newbery offers explicit advice on child-rearing practices for the newly emerging middle class parent based on the ideas of “the great Mr. Locke” (Pocket-Book: 56). In his Treatise upon Education (which is usually referred to by its subtitle Some Thoughts Concerning Education) (1692), Locke argued that learning “must never be imposed as a task, nor made a trouble” (Section 148). Locke’s arguments are primarily based upon observations of how motivation and pleasure affect the ability to learn. In his key passage, he argues that children should be cozen’d into a knowledge of the letters; be taught to read, without perceiving it to be any thing but a sport, and play themselves into that which others are whipp’d for. Children should not have any thing like work, or serious, laid on them; neither their minds, nor bodies will bear it. It injures their healths; and their being forced and tied down to their books in an age at enmity with all such restraint, has, I doubt not, been the reason, why a great many have hated books and learn(Locke 1692: Section 149) ing all their lives after. 

In other words, pleasure was part and parcel of the means by which traditional educational goals could be achieved. Locke was by no means endorsing amusement for its own sake; Newbery clarifies this point when commenting on parents who would pamper their children. However, Locke strongly favoured the development of educational toys. In the sections which follow the one quoted above, this noted philosopher and commentator on principles of government outlines his design for an educational card game for preliterate children. Newbery not only manufactured the game, he also advertised it in A Little Pretty Pocket-Book under ‘The great Q Play’. Cynics could note that Newbery was simply identifying and enlarging a niche in the market. He certainly was an astute businessman who saw the commercial potential in producing toys and books that combined pleasure and education. The commercial success of Newbery’s endeavours in no way detracts from their significance. On the contrary, the sales of his products indicate that they resonated very deeply with a new philosophy of education and emerging ideas about childhood. For this reason, we can assume that his books confirmed the ideologies of middle class parents of the mid-eighteenth century. This change in how the child was perceived has been commented on by numerous historians of childhood and children’s literature. Penelope Mortimer went so far as to suggest that Locke “invented the child” (1980: 102), but perhaps it would be fairer to claim that he encapsulated a changed view of the child that had begun to emerge. For although even the most patient parents of any era

170 Lydia Kokkola

have ­undoubtedly experienced moments when their children appear to display evidence of Original Sin, parents from the mid-eighteenth century onwards were more likely to subscribe to the Romantic view that the child entered the world tabula rasa (Natov 2003). The Romantics viewed the child as being purer than the adult: children’s limited time on earth meant that they had had less time to become corrupted by the worldliness of the world than adults. In the English tradition, this view is often illustrated by Blake’s celebration of childhood in Songs of Innocence (1789) and denigration of adulthood in Songs of Experience (1794), which suggest that experience of the world leads to suffering and loss. Wordsworth’s (1807) depiction of the child in ‘Ode: Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood’ provides another key Romantic image. In Wordsworth’s poem, children arrive on earth trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home; Heaven lies about us in our infancy

In other words, for Wordsworth, the child is closer to heaven and nature. In France, Rousseau’s Émile ou de l’Education (Emile or The Education) (1762) combined ideas about the purity of the child with enlightenment ideas on the value of rational thinking. (See Natov 2003 for a detailed overview of the development of the Romantic view of the child from the eighteenth century until today.) As even this cursory glance demonstrates, the key texts about the nature of childhood had not been written when Newbery produced his A Little Pretty Pocket-Book (1744). Thus Newbery’s texts can best be understood as part of the general trend that paved the way for the Romantics’ idealisation of childhood. They mark a significant change from Janeway’s superior attitudes and the centrality of Original Sin in child rearing practices. The key feature of this trend was that the child was no longer viewed as a miniature adult, but rather as an individual with interests and needs which differed slightly from the adult populace. This has become so central to our ways of thinking that we tend to think of children and adults as ‘natural’ categories rather than socio-historical constructions. Newbery certainly sensed these changes in attitude towards the child. The commercial success of his books indicates how widespread these views had become; his resulting change indicates the increased social mobility of his era. My study of Newbery’s works begins with an examination of his most commonly cited work: his first volume, A Little Pretty Pocket-Book: Intended for the Instruction and Amusement of Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly (1744), which is usually only referred to by its much shortened title A Little Pretty PocketBook. No complete copy of the 1744 edition is known to exist today, although



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 171

comparisons between a number of incomplete editions indicate that very few changes were made. Thwaite (1966: 45) uses the size of the block cuts to suggest that the earliest editions may have been printed on even smaller pages than the later editions which have survived. The earliest complete edition known to exist dates from 1767, and so the references in this text are given to the facsimile of that edition published in 1966 and edited by Brian Alderson. Original copies of Goody Two Shoes and The Newtonian System of Philosophy are available, but my references are to an edited volume which is not a facsimile (Bator 1983). To reduce confusion, references to the primary works are made through abbreviations and attributed to Newbery regardless of debates surrounding their actual authorship.

4.

A Little Pretty Pocket-Book: An overview

A Little Pretty Pocket-Book is, as its title indicates, a pretty little book which is small enough to fit in one’s pocket; like its predecessor the chapbook, it is the perfect size for small hands. Measuring approximately 7 cm by 10 cm, it was bound in blue, green and red Dutch floral paper and had gilded edges (see Darton 1958: 137 for a fuller discussion of Newbery’s bindings). The price for the book alone was sixpence. Given that the average labourer’s daily wage at this time was less than a shilling (twelve pence) a day (Botham and Hunt 1987: 387), this purchase indicates a major outlay even for middle class parents. Noblett points out that the relatively high price of the product actually made items more desirable to “the emerging middle classes who were hungry for status, learning and culture, and who insisted on the very best for their children” (1980: 37). Thus Newbery’s original ways of appealing to both children and adults are also evident in the physical form of the book: small, but desirably expensive. If the indulgent parents wished to spend a further tuppence, they could acquire either a pincushion or a ball. These black and red balls for boys and pincushions for girls would “infallibly make Tommy a good boy and Polly a good Girl” (Pocket-Book: 53) because the children would be punished by having a pin placed on the black side of their toy, but good behaviour would be rewarded with a pin on the red side. In his personal letters to Pretty Miss Polly and Little Master Tommy at the beginning of the book, Jack the Giant Killer promised to send them a penny every time they managed to get 10 pins on the red side. But if the situation ever arose that there were only pins on the black side, Jack promised to send a rod so that the offending child would be beaten once for each pin to be found on the black side. In this way, one can see that Newbery was drawing on the tradition of writers like Janeway, but as we shall shortly see, these threats of physical violence are softened with humour and a respect for the child’s autonomy.

172 Lydia Kokkola

These letters to children are important for understanding the new kind of didactic voice that Newbery did much to develop. Their particular qualities are all the more visible because the whole book is prefaced by a letter “To the parents, guardians and nurses in Great Britain and Ireland” from “their most obedient Servant, the Author” (Pocket-Book: 54). This allows the critic to examine the differences between the ways in which children and adults are addressed with great precision. But before I take up such detailed matters, a more general overview of the contents will prove helpful. A Little Pretty Pocket-Book is, as Thwaite dubs it, “very much of a medley” (1966: 38). After the first, conventionally numbered, twenty pages containing the title page, an engraving illustrating Delectando monemus (See Figure One above) and the three letters, A Little Pretty Pocket-Book really begins. The numbering of the pages gives way to the use of the alphabet, as the pages are titled “The great A Play” followed by the “The little a Play” and so on for 52 pages until all the capitals and lower case letters of the English alphabet have been introduced. From “The great R” to “The little w” the letters become characters in the rhymes and are rehearsed. However, this is not a book which is solely intended to instruct children on the use of letters: the illustrations and other texts on the page have nothing to do with the alphabet. Each of the alphabetised pages contains a small woodcut (approx. 3 cm × 4.5 cm) illustrating a particular game. The boys who play the various games never seem to move fast enough to dislodge their tricorn hats (except in the game of Hop-Hat), and even the wind blowing the flags and kites does not ruffle the tails of their coats. On the rare occasions girls appear, their stiff brocades help them maintain excellent posture as they dance, pray, study or receive visitors. The only other activity in which girls can participate is bestowing charity. Today the images do seem stiff and simple, but they would doubtless have provided valuable clues as to how to play unfamiliar games for the child readers of the day. The use of woodcuts, as opposed to engraving, kept down the costs in what must have been a relatively risky commercial adventure. Indeed the financial success of Newbery’s business can be seen in his willingness to invest in engravings for his later works for older children such as The Lilliputian Magazine (from 1751). And although Newbery did not employ Titian, Raphael or Michael Angelo as is claimed on cer. Janeway also included a letter “To all Parents, School-masters and School-Mistresses, or any that have any hand in the Education of Children” (1676: A3r) as well as “A Preface Containing Directions to Children” (1676: A6r). Thus Newbery appears to have adopted a fairly standard device. However, Janeway’s preface contains the threatening phrases I have already quoted, and the tone of the letter to parents is very similar in the way it points out parents’ obligations to raise their children as Christians.



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 173

Figure 2. Boys playing baseball

tain title pages, he was one of the first to employ engravers to illustrate children’s books (see Noblett 1980: 37). Underneath the woodcut is a rhyme explaining how the game is played, and a moral or rule of life pointing out some valuable lesson that can be learned from this game. It must be admitted that some of the connections between the activity and the moral stretch the contemporary readers’ imagination to the limit: kite flying will apparently inspire one’s adoration of God, and a game in which a chain of boys tie themselves into knots is supposed to enable one to learn not to talk more than is strictly necessary. These concluding morals can be understood as a nod towards parents who had grown up with books like The New England Primer, which also contained rhyming morals. In addition to instructing children on reading and morals, Newbery offers instruction on ball games and rainy day fun. One does not need to be an expert in children’s folklore to note how remarkably many of the games Newbery describes are still played today (e.g. Blind man’s

174 Lydia Kokkola

Buff, badminton and leap frog). A Little Pretty Pocket-Book also contains the first known mention of base-ball, although the description which follows more closely resembles the English game of rounders than it does the better known American game. The moral of this particular text compares the game with the events going on in the new world at that time. Thus Britons for Lucre Fly over the Main; But, with Pleasure transported, Return back again.

When Newbery’s book flew over the Main in order to be published by Isaiah Thomas, the Britons became sailors of unspecified nationality. This is by no means the only occasion on which A Pretty Little Pocket-Book comments upon contemporary political events. Towards the end of the volume, the revision of the alphabet contains the rhyme: Great Q, and R, Are both come from far, To bring you good News About the French War.

What these texts clearly signal is that children are expected to know about world events, or if they do not know, the text invites them to ask the adult who is listening to them read aloud to explain. The need for this kind of dialogue is specified in the letter to adults at the beginning of the book, and is one of the features of Newbery’s writing that differs from his predecessors. Whereas Janeway feels the need to overtly point out each moral implication, Newbery trusts the child readers’ curiosity and willingness to fill in the gaps he has deliberately created. If this fails, parents must teach their children to ask questions. The games and revision of the alphabet are then followed by four well known fables (Pocket-Book: 113, 115, 117 &119) interspersed with letters to Tommy or Polly from “your old/sincere/hearty/affectionate friend, Jack the Giant-Killer” (Pocket-Book: 114, 116, 118 & 120) driving home the moral point made by the fable. Here again we see a difference from earlier forms. Although the book contains overt didactic elements, the narrative voice is situated outside the text, within the realm of the fantastic. These letters also provide models for children learning to write their own letters to follow, and so proffer another kind of ‘instruction with delight’. By this point, the children are assumed to be fairly fluent readers and the remaining text is far more complex. There is “A Poetical Description of the Four Seasons” written in the form of heroic couplets in which the seasons are per-



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 175

sonified in fairly complex imagery, an address to Plutus and Cupid by Time and a number of proverbs. Presumably, the 1744 edition ended here, but by 1767 a further six pages had been added bringing the total number to 96. These final pages advertise other little books produced by Newbery. A Little Pretty Pocket-Book is very much a product of its era; this partly accounts for its success, and also its demise (see Noblett 1980). As Thwaite wryly notes “No high literary merit can be claimed for A Little Pretty Pocket-Book” (1966: 35). It is a mish-mash of genres which would probably have been forgotten were it not for its historical status. Yet precisely because it does blend genres and readers, it enables us to see how Newbery addresses his child readers and their parents.

4.1 Dual address in A Little Pretty Pocket-Book In her classic study, The Narrator’s Voice, Barbara Wall (1991) attempted to find a way in which one could clearly distinguish children’s literature from literature for adults. Although her concerns are not particularly relevant to our current enquiry, her solution pertains precisely to the feature which Newbery is said to have introduced: direct address to the child. She concluded that for a work to be classified as a work of children’s literature, it needed to address children directly in a manner which is not condescending but which acknowledges children’s lack of experience. She accepted that children’s literature “may also be for adults” but stressed that children’s literature could not be defined in terms of content, but in terms of style: “It is not what is said, but the way it is said, and to whom it is said, which marks a book for children” (Wall 1991: 2). Wall stresses that much of the literature that is marketed for children even today does not address the child reader as being an equal (by which we mean ‘equal’ in terms of value, not knowledge, experience or social power). Instead works often employ what she refers to as double address. These works deploy a narrative voice which only ostensibly addresses the child whilst actually communicating with the adult sitting beside the child or even at his or her expense. Wall’s discussion centres around examples where jokes about the children’s naiveté and lack of comprehension are passed between the author and the parent, but Janeway’s condescension functions in a similar manner. When Janeway appears to address children directly, in statements such as “You may now hear (my dear Lambs) what other good Children have done” (Janeway 1676: A6r), and his threats of damnation if they do not: “they which Lye, must go to their Father the Devil into everlasting burning” (Janeway 1676: A7v), he adopts a position that signals his assumed superiority. He has given himself the right to judge, praise and/or admonish the “dear Lambs”. In other words, prior to Newbery, texts for children addressed their

176 Lydia Kokkola

readers in ways that foregrounded the difference in status between the adult narrator and the child reader. Newbery attempted to reduce this imbalance. Wall does not discuss Newbery, yet her demand that children’s literature should directly address the child reader resonates to the spirit of what Newbery was attempting to do, and how his works differ from Janeway, Swift, Aesop and the other works outlined above. By providing “instruction with delight”, Newbery gave rise to forms of writing which directly address the child reader. This is not to say that Newbery was so radical as to attempt single address (texts which solely address child readers), but rather that he simultaneously addressed both adults and children in a manner which was respectful of the former’s sensibilities and expectations about what constitutes a suitable book for children and the latter’s lack of experience. This is the mode of address Wall terms ‘dual address’; a text which addresses both adults and children in a manner befitting their years of experience. This may now seem so self evidently necessary that it is difficult to comprehend that prior to Newbery the few works that were deliberately written for children did not do so. In the letter of explanation following the fable of the boy who cried wolf, Jack the Giant-killer rams home the moral of the story, concluding “I hope you’ll remember this, my Dear, and resolve in yourself never to tell a Lie; for if you do, I shall be very angry” (Pocket-Book: 118). This is as violent as Jack’s threats ever become; it is noticeably less frightening than being sent to the Devil “into everlasting burning” (Janeway 1676: A7v). Significantly, the threat of anger in Newbery’s book does not come directly from the omniscient (adult) narrator of the rhymes, but rather from a fictional character, Jack. Thus even this anger is muted by wittily ascribing the adult’s anger to someone who does not exist. The joke is shared with the child; it is certainly not directed to parents at the child’s expense. Elsewhere, children are encouraged to behave well so that they will be loved, admired or gain social prestige through material rewards such as a coach and six or a gold watch once they are adults. In other words, the moral exhortations are indeed sweetened in the manner Locke proposed to encourage children through praise rather than through fear. Wall points out that adult writers are “always speaking to children in the presence of other adults, and [are] always needing to take account of the presence” (1991: 13). Earlier I suggested that these letters from Jack the Giant-killer placed immediately after the fables fulfil adult expectations of what children should read, but the moral is softened. When Janeway threatens children with the fires of hell, the threat is made in his own adult voice. When Newbery threatens children with a beating (for 10 bad deeds in a row), the power of this remark is diffused by the fact that the ‘person’ making these threats is a fictional character. In this way, Newbery’s “my Dear” is far less condescending than Janeway’s “my dears” or “my



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 177

lambs”: children genuinely seem to be “dear” to Newbery. This willingness to address the child as an equal is no small matter. If compared with the way in which Newbery addresses adults, the point is made even more clearly. In his letter to parents, Newbery outlines his theory of child-rearing, starting with his advice on how to care for a child’s body (appropriate types of food and exercise) and moving on to the Lockean system of education. He advocates that parents should ensure that children understand everything they read and that “No Sentence should be passed over without a strict examination of the Truth of it” (Pocket-Book: 58). Newbery admits that this might appear to “retard the Boy in his Progress” (ibid.), but assures the concerned parent that the child will soon become familiar with this practice providing the questioning is done in a manner that encourages enquiry rather than inhibiting it. Above, I quoted the rhyme about the French War; this marks an instance when the adult is supposed to check that the child knows about on-going political events. Newbery also cautions parents against becoming overly indulgent, and berates those who try to please their children the wrong way: I doubt not but every Parent, every Father and Mother, would gladly contribute what they could towards the Happiness of their Children; and yet it is surprising to see how blind they are, and how wide they mistake the Mark.  (Pocket-Book: 59)

His argument is that indulgent parents do not prepare their children to deal with “calamity”, primarily because they over-protect the child and give in to “his passions”. The finger wagging manner with which he chastises “over fond” parents who would give in to crying children rather than teaching them the virtues of patience and the benefits of requesting things in the proper manner comes remarkably close to the advice poured out by today’s advocates, Dr. Phil and Super Nanny. He also endorses what is, in effect, a ‘time-out zone’, rather than “chiding, whipping or severe Treatment” (Pocket-Book: 60). Although Newbery refers to himself as “Their most obedient Servant” (­PocketBook: 54), his tone is anything but servile. He uses a standard form of address that indicates that he is of the same status as his readers, but then makes a move which indicates he considers himself to be superior. He is even willing to risk sales of his books to children who do not request them in the correct manner when he concludes his diatribe by stating “And therefore, I say again, Children should never have any Thing they cryed for; no, not on any Consideration whatsoever” (PocketBook: 62). In his condemnation of parents who would give way to what today we would call the ‘nag factor’, Newbery clearly sets himself up as an authority who has the right to talk down to his audience. His voice is clearly that of a superior addressing someone of lower status rather than a conversation between peers.

178 Lydia Kokkola

This is remarkable because these are the very people he cannot afford to offend; he is addressing those who buy his books. This would be foolhardy arrogance, not to mention commercial suicide, if Newbery were not expressing beliefs that were widely expressed and accepted at the time. (See Darton [1958: 141] for a comparison between Newbery and Rousseau.) Given how didactic Newbery can be when addressing adults, his willingness to adopt a totally different voice when addressing children seems all the more noteworthy. When addressing children in A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, he does not present himself as a superior, but rather someone who is trying to explain to a person with less knowledge and life experience rather than someone who has less status. The distinction is small, but not insignificant. Wall (1991: 15) picks up on this point arguing that a good writer for children should ‘write down’, that is, present information in a manner that respects children’s lack of knowledge and experience without implying that they are somehow inferior as persons. A Little Pretty Pocket-Book is, frankly, so slim in content that it is hard to assess how well it manages to adapt ideas so as to make them accessible to young readers. For this we need to examine one of Newbery’s scientific books.

5.

A philosophy of tops and balls

In keeping with the educational trends of the day, Newbery also produced books educating children in the natural sciences. From the late 1740s onwards, he published a series of books known as The Circle of Sciences. The precise number of these six-penny volumes is hard to gauge, not least because certain titles moved in and out of the series. The basic goal of this endeavour was in keeping with Puritan ideals. As Rauch explains “Compared to dry religious tracts, books about the ‘universe’ and ‘creation’ seemed an ideal way to attract the interest and attention of young minds and, in the process, to impress upon them a sense of wonder about God” (1989: 14). Rauch’s study shows how, prior to the publications of Charles Lyell and Charles Darwin in the nineteenth century, religion and science were inextricably intertwined. And, following the teachings of Locke, the “principle Aim throughout our LITTLE CIRCLE [is] to strew … the Path to Knowledge, as it were, with Roses” (in Townsend 1997: 83). These texts are considerably more advanced than A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, and are also illustrated more finely with copperplate engravings as well as less expensive woodcuts for less important images. Their size, however, is the same. Newbery’s triumph in the field of natural sciences is Tom Telescope’s The Newtonian System of Philosophy Adapted to the Capacities of Young Gentlemen and



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 179

Ladies (sometimes referred to as Tom Telescope’s Philosophy of Tops and Balls). Newbery’s volume is likely to have been inspired by Francesco Algarotti’s Neutonianismo per le dame (eng. Newtonianism for the Ladies, or dialogues on light and colours, 1737). Algarotti’s best selling work comprises of six dialogues which take place over five days in a villa near Lake Garda. During the course of the dialogues, a marchioness is introduced to Newton’s theory of gravity and the structure of light. The setting allows for some experiments and examples using objects found in the vicinity such as the fountain (which refracts light). The dialogues were completed in 1736 whilst Algarotti was visiting London. His work was introduced to fashionable London society through Lady Mary Wortley Montagu and Sir John Hervey (Mazzotti 2004). Given the social and literary circles in which he moved, Newbery must have heard of Algarotti’s volume, although whether or not he actually read it cannot be confirmed. Nevertheless, the idea of making Newtonian principles accessible to ‘lesser’ minds (women and children), not to mention the formal structure of the text (six lectures) and the use of everyday objects (picture galleries and fountains for Algarotti; tops and balls for Newbery), it seems likely that Newbery was inspired by Algarotti. Tom Telescope’s lectures are given to a group of young nobles who have gathered in the home of the Countess of Twilight during the school holidays. At first the aristocratic adolescents suggest a variety of ways in which they could entertain themselves (by playing the games described in A Little Pretty Pocket-Book). Then Master Telescope describes the fun they have at his school discussing “natural philosophy” (the natural sciences and geometry), and the youngsters agree that this sounds like excellent entertainment. The band of friends are not initially allowed access to the proper scientific instruments, and so the first lecture is given in the parlour. The quality of the lecture is such that, later on, the youngsters are joined by adults and the appropriate equipment is made available, although the subject is always related back to everyday experiences. Before we examine the content, several features of the lecture format used in the text are worthy of note. First of all, the group of interested young persons . The expression “Adapted to the Capacities” in the title signal exactly the element of ‘talking down’ to children that Wall considers to be a defining feature of children’s literature. . Abbé Pluche’s Spectacle de la nature (1732–1751) is a contemporary encyclopaedia for children in nine volumes which is also structured in the form of dialogues between a count, a countess and their young visitor (see Keopp 2006 for a fuller discussion). By 1800, this work had been reproduced in at least 57 French and 22 English editions, not to mention the numerous translated excerpts that appeared in The Bee, or Universal Weekly prior to the publication of the fully translated works (Keopp 2006: 154 & 158). Thus, despite Newbery’s antipathy towards the French, he is very likely to have drawn on this as a source as well.

180 Lydia Kokkola

whom young Telescope addresses are nearly all members of the gentry. The young baronet, Sir Harry, keeps interrupting and, once it has been established this is unacceptable, he receives some fairly sharp comments from the untitled Telescope. Tom explains the relationships between memory and the senses by describing an infant gazing into a looking glass to illustrate his point: The whole company were pleased with this familiar demonstration: but Sir Harry asked how he came, of all things, to make use of a looking glass? Because, Sir, says he, it is an object with which some people are the most intimately acquainted. – As Sir Harry is an egregious fop, this reply produced a loud laugh, and Master Telescope was looked upon to be a Wit as well as a Philosopher; however, I am inclined to think the expression was accidental, and not intended to hit Sir Harry, because I know his good sense would not permit him to treat an elder and superior in that manner – The laughter being subsided, our Philosopher thus (Newtonian: 64). proceeded his Lecture. 

The youngsters visit the Marquis of Setstar’s observatory and are themselves visited by the Duke of Galaxy. This distinguished personage puts the youngsters into a flurry of confusion until Telescope reproves them. He points out that although everyone is worthy of civility, “worthiness of character” is something which does not automatically come with a title: “Birth and fortune are merely accidental” (Newtonian: 41). Elsewhere, the narrator states that the great should not be envied for their worldly goods “but for the means and opportunities they have of enquiring into the secrets of Nature, and contemplating the wonderful works of God” (Newtonian: 56). Given that Telescope is untitled, and yet far more knowledgeable than his titled peers, the underlying message is surely appealing to the new middle class readers for whom it was intended (see Keopp 2006 for a discussion of similar values in Pluche’s Spectacle de la nature 1732–51). The lecture format enables a kind of Socratic dialogue to take place as the listeners occasionally interrupt Tom to ask for clarification, pose questions, express amazement or simply add a humorous element. In her discussion of Newtonianism for the Ladies, Mazzotti (2004) points out that the use of dialogue served to suggest that philosophical matters could be a suitable topic for conversation. The increased emphasis on the nuclear family along with increased leisure and prosperity led to perception of the role of the woman as entertainer, with witty conversation considered a primary virtue. Thus training in the art of conversation was as important as learning about scientific phenomena. In this way, Newbery was promoting an instructional voice beyond the texts examined here, a voice which marked class status. The topics of the six lectures are very varied. Telescope covers subjects such as the solar system, the atmosphere, meteors, mountains, rivers, springs, the sea,



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 181

animals, vegetables, minerals, ‘men’ and their five senses. Each topic is introduced through physics experiments using such everyday equipment as the spinning top (to explain impact of gravity and friction), mirrors and balls. Tom illustrates the spinning and orbiting of the planets with a coach wheel driving around a circular drive. In this way, Newbery develops a didactic voice which ‘talks down’ to children in the sense that it respects their lack of knowledge, but which does not condescend. That is, it does not at any point imply that either the fictional child audience within the text or child reader are foolish for knowing less than the great Telescope. He provides necessary information without condescension: The planets, as I have already observed, are bodies that appear like stars, but they are not luminous; that is, they have no light in themselves, tho’ they give us light; (Newtonian: 37) for they shine by reflecting the light of the sun. 

Here he glosses the unusual term ‘luminous’ which makes the idea more comprehensible, but does not treat the recipients as foolish for not knowing this term nor for not knowing the differences between stars and planets. However, Tom does teach them to respect knowledge by rebuking Tom Wilson for revealing his ignorance in an arrogant manner and he refuses to speak when interrupted by Sir Harry shortly prior to the segment about the looking glass quoted above. Telescope’s rebukes help to clarify what is expected of the child reader. In line with Newbery’s letter to parents in A Little Pretty Pocket Book, Tom is very willing to answer questions which are posed correctly. Even when some of the ladies press him to elaborate on issues he would rather leave aside for another lecture, he answers to the best of his ability because the questions are asked respectfully. This suggests that children should not feel foolish for not knowing things. On the contrary, they are overtly encouraged to ask questions providing they listen to explanations from those wiser than themselves in the meta-story which surrounds the lectures: At this instant up started Master Long, and told her Ladyship, if she had done, he would be glad to ask a question: Sir, says she, with a smile, it was you made the compliment, I should be glad to hear your question, for, I dare say, it will be a sensible one. I wish you may find it so, replied he; but what I want to have an account of is this same Jack with a Lanthorn, which so haunts my Lord (Newtonian: 49) Marquis’s park. 

Lady Caroline and Master Long model appropriate forms of questioning, Master Long recieves praise for having an enquiring mind, and the text encourages children to examine the world around them in great detail and to think for themselves about phenomena such as the rising vapours of Ignis Fatuus, more commonly known as Will O’ the Wisp or Jack with a Lanthorn.

182 Lydia Kokkola

The use of toys and other familiar objects “align[s] science with play and fun and mak[es] the marvels of science an understandable part of the daily life of the child” (Smith 2005: np). Practical applications of what the children learn (e.g. the importance of fresh air for the sick) are provided. Later, the youngsters are introduced to scientific equipment such as telescopes, barometers and vacuums and instructed on their use and value. (This includes a rather gory description of an experiment on a rat. The rodent is nearly asphyxiated but earns its freedom as a result.) Rauch (1989: 14) claims that The Newtonian System of Philosophy is the most important early work of scientific didacticism (but see Koepp’s [2006] discussion of Pluche’s Spectacle de la nature for a broader viewpoint). Newbery’s marriage of science and Christian beliefs is a love-match. Tom’s reflection on the universe as seen through a telescope lead him to exclaim how immensely great, how wonderfully glorious, is the structure of this universe, which contains many thousand worlds … all intended to magnify the Almighty Architect … The fervour and piety with which he delivered this, silenced all his companions, and gave infinite satisfaction to the Marchioness. Master Wilson, who had before been very impertinent, began now to consider himself a fool in comparison to our Philosopher; and as Master Telescope had mentioned the solar system, he begged that he would explain it to him. (Newtonian: 36) That I will with pleasure, replied the Philosopher … 

The unruly Master Wilson is tamed by his encounter with Telescope’s superior knowledge, and embarks on a quest for religious enlightenment through scientific education. When compared with the threats of writers like Janeway before and Sherwood afterwards, Newbery’s gentle approach to capturing the child’s soul and guiding it in the desired direction must be considered original.

6.

Concluding remarks When Samuel Johnson criticized Hester Thrale for “putting Newbery’s books into children’s hands as too trifling to engage their attention,” she urged in rebuttal “the numerous editions and quick sale of Tommy Prudent or Goody Two-Shoes: ‘Remember always (said he) that the parents buy the books, and that children (Fergus 2006: 243) never read them.’”

Contrary to Dr. Johnson’s assumptions, Jan Fergus’s studies of schoolboy reading (2006, 2007) convincingly demonstrate that Newbery’s works were every bit as popular with youngsters as they were with the parents who bought them. As the



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 183

above discussion has shown, they resonated to the spirit of the enlightenment era, and found new ways to address and entertain youngsters as they were trained in rational thought, moral fortitude and Christian beliefs. This education was very much part of the emerging middle class values of the day. Praise of Newbery as a pioneer is inevitably Anglocentric. It raises the significance of Lockean philosophy above that of Erasmus, Montaigne and Rollin. As Cynthia Koepp adroitly argues, Newbery’s contemporary in France, Abbé Pluche, was engaged in similar activities with similar levels of commercial success. However, Pluche’s address seems to have been less specifically designed for a dual audience of adults and children. Instead, Pluche seems to have found an instructional voice which took lack of knowledge into account, but did not distinguish between adult and child readers so specifically. In this sense, Newbery’s works still stand out as having a marked impact on the character of children’s books published in later centuries. Newbery’s texts address both adults and children. He was certainly concerned about pleasing his adult readers in a manner that seems to emphasise class differences but he was also able to address child readers without embarrassment or the need to put the child in his or her place. To be sure, the texts seem somewhat stiff and not all his remarks would be considered appropriate today, but the success of his venture signals a change. And it was this change that is still celebrated in the Newbery Award nearly four centuries later.

References Bator, Robert (ed.). 1983. Masterworks of Children’s Literature. New York: The Stonehill Publishing Co. Becking, Sarah H. 2007. “Isaiah Thomas and The Only Sure Guide to the English Tongue.” Botham, Frank W. and Hunt, Edward H. 1987. “Wages in Britain during the industrial revolution.” Economic History Review XL (3): 380–399. Crain, Patricia. 2006. “Spectral Literacy.” In Children and Children’s Books in Early Modern Europe, 1550–1800, Andrea Immel and Michael Witmore (eds), 213–242. London/New York: Routledge. Darton, Harvey. 1958. Children’s Books in England: Five Centuries of Social Life (2nd ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fergus, Jan. 2006. “Solace in Books: Reading Trifling Adventures at Rugby School.” In Children and Children’s Books in Early Modern Europe, 1550–1800, Andrea Immel and Michael Witmore (eds), 243–259. London/New York: Routledge. Fergus, Jan. 2007. Provincial Readers in Eighteenth-Century England. Oxford: Oxford University Press USA.

184 Lydia Kokkola

Immel, Andrea and Witmore, Michael (eds). 2006. Children and Children’s Books in Early Modern Europe, 1550–1800. London/New York: Routledge. Janeway, James. [1671] 1676 [Wing J478]. A Token for Children, being an Exact Account of the Conversion, Holy and Exemplary Lives, and Joyful Deaths of Several Young Children. Koepp, Cynthia J. 2006. “Curiosity, Science, and Experiential Learning in the Eighteenth Century.” In Children and Children’s Books in Early Modern Europe, 1550–1800, Andrea Immel and Michael Witmore (eds), 153–180. London/New York: Routledge. Lenzer, Gertrud. 2001. “Children’s Studies: Beginnings and Purposes.” The Lion and the Unicorn 25 (2): 182–183. Locke, John. [1693] 2007. Treatise upon Education. Some Thoughts Concerning Education. Mazzotti, Massimo. 2004. “Newton for Ladies: Gentility, Gender and Radical Culture.” British Journal for the History of Science 37: 119–146. Mortimer, Penelope. 1980. “Thoughts Concerning Children’s Books.” In Only Connect: Readings on Children’s Literature, Sheila Egoff, Gordon T. Stubbs and Ralph F. Ashley (eds), 101–105. Toronto/New York: Oxford University Press. Muir, Percy. 1954. English Children’s Books 1600–1900. London: Batsford. Natov, Roni. 2003. The Poetics of Childhood. New York/London: Routledge. Newbery, John / Tom Telescope. [1761] 1983. “The Newtonian System of Philosophy.” In Masterworks of Children’s Literature, Robert Bator (ed.), 27–72. New York: The Stonehill Publishing Co. Newbery, John. [1765] 1983. “The History of Little Goody Two Shoes.” In Masterworks of Children’s Literature, Robert Bator (ed.), 73–111. New York: The Stonehill Publishing Co. Newbery, John. [1744, 1767] 1966. A Little Pretty Pocket-Book. [facsimile of the 1767 edition]. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc. Noblett, William. 1980. “John Newbery: Publisher Extraordinary.” In Only Connect: Readings on Children’s Literature, Sheila Egoff, Gordon T. Stubbs and Ralph F. Ashley (eds), 28–38. Toronto/New York: Oxford University Press. O’Malley, Andrew. 2003. The Making of the Modern Child: Children’s Literature in the Late Eighteenth Century. New York/London: Routledge. Rauch, Alan. 1989. “A World of Faith on a Foundation of Science: Science and Religion in British Children’s Literature: 1761–1878.” Children’s Literature Quarterly 14 (1): 13–19. Smith, Rita. 2005. “Ye Olde Science.” Recess! Thomas, Isaiah and McCorison, Marcus A. (eds). 1970. The History of Printing in America with a Biography of Printers & an Account of Newspapers. Barre, Mass.: Imprint Society. Thwaite, M. F. 1966. “John Newbery and his First Book for Children.” In John Newbery: A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, Brian W. Alderson (ed.), 1–49. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc. Townsend, John Rowe. 1990. Written For Children: An Outline of English-Language Children’s Literature (fifth edition). Harmondsworth: Kestrel Books, Penguin. Townsend, John Rowe. 1994. John Newbery and his Books: Trade and Plumb-Cake for Ever, Huzza! Metuchen, N. J./London: The Scarecrow Press, Inc. Townsend, John Rowe. 1996. Written For Children: An Outline of English-Language Children’s Literature (6th ed.). Harmondsworth: Kestrel Books, Penguin.



Narrator’s voice in John Newbery’s children’s books 185

Townsend, John Rowe. 1997. “John Newbery and Tom Telescope.” In Opening the Nursery Door: Reading, Writing and Childhood 1600–1900, Mary Hilton, Morag Styles and Victor Watson (eds), 80–90. New York/London: Routledge. Wall, Barbara. 1991. The Narrator’s Voice: The Dilemma of Children’s Fiction. Houndmills/London: Macmillan. Zipes, Jack. 1993. The Trials and Tribulations of Little Red Riding Hood (2nd ed.). New York: Routledge.

Doing what the doctor said Constructing an authoritative voice in William Buchan’s Domestic Medicine Ellen Valle

Medical advice-books for lay readers have always been popular. One particularly influential such work was William Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, first ­published in 1769. Buchan’s work combined two functions which previously had often been separate: guides to a healthy life, i.e. how to avoid illness, and ‘curatives’, i.e. how to cure an illness once contracted. Both types construct an authoritative voice. Buchan’s authority is based explicitly on a scientific, ‘modern’ medical foundation. I focus on the following questions: How is an authoritative voice constructed in the text? How does the author position himself visà-vis the professional community? How are reader and patient positioned in the text? Finally, do these features help to explain the popularity of the work?

1.

Introduction

Medical advice-books for lay readers – from medieval works on health and disease to present-day medical advice websites on the Internet – have always been popular, particularly at times and in places where professional medical services are not available. One of the most influential such works was William Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, first published in 1769 but more widely read in its second edition from 1785 and in many subsequent editions. The work was popular and widely distributed not only in Britain but more particularly in North America, due to the scarcity of professional medical services in the expanding western territories. By the end of the nineteenth century it had been reissued, under slightly varying titles, in over 140 different editions and reprintings and had been translated into numerous languages (Murphy 1991: 9). . The Wellcome Library online catalogue lists 18th and 19th century editions in almost all European languages, including interestingly Welsh.

188 Ellen Valle

During earlier periods, advice-books on health and illness tended to fall into two categories: guides to a healthy life, i.e. how to avoid illness (‘longevity guides’), and ‘curatives’ or herbals, instructing the reader on how to cure or at least relieve an illness once contracted. In discourse terms, both types normally construct an authoritative voice, although in the former the authority may be religiously or philosophically rather than medically based. Buchan’s work was one of the first to combine the two functions, and the authoritative voice is based explicitly on a scientific, ‘modern’ medical foundation (Murphy 1991: 7–9). There are a number of questions of interest to the discourse linguist in this type of text. In the article, I focus on the following questions: – How is an authoritative (scientific, professional) voice constructed in the text? – How does the author position himself vis-à-vis the professional community? – How are the reader and the patient positioned in the text? – Do these discourse features help to explain the popularity of the work? I first discuss Buchan’s book in general terms and outline its organization (Section 2). I then enter upon a rhetorical analysis of the separate parts of the text (Section 3), and a more detailed analysis of one particular linguistic feature: Buchan’s use of modal auxiliary verbs (Section 4). This is followed by a discussion of Buchan’s text in terms on the one hand of the instructive genre/text type, on the other of directive speech acts (Section 5). The structure of the article thus differs somewhat from the traditional academic format, in that a theoretical frame of reference is introduced in the last section rather than the first. The primary focus is on the text rather than the theory. References to Buchan’s text are to chapters rather than page numbers, to facilitate use of the unpaginated on-line version. I likewise use word counts rather than page counts in giving relative frequencies, since the pages are not those of the print original. The text used in this study is the second edition (1785), available online. The text was downloaded in Microsoft Office Word 2003; it was formatted for convenience in A4 page size with 2 cm margins, in 11-point Arial and single-spaced. In this format it is 256 pages long (204655 words).



2.

Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 189

General organization of the text

Domestic Medicine consists of four parts: 1. The ‘Front Matter’, consisting of four relatively short texts (total 6993 words) 2. Part I: Of the General Causes of Diseases. Chapters 1–11 (42008 words) 3. Part II: Of the Knowledge and Cure of Diseases. Chapters 12–55 (155663 words) 4. The Appendix, consisting of an Introduction; a list of Simples, in alphabetical order; a list of Medicinal Preparations (organized by type, in alphabetical order); and a Glossary of medical and other terms. The bulk of the text consists of Parts I and II (so termed by the author). The two parts have different functions, belong to different textual and rhetorical traditions, and are organized according to different principles. Part I, entitled “Of the General Causes of Diseases”, is in the tradition of the ‘longevity guide’, advising the reader on how to live well and remain healthy. It consists of eleven chapters, beginning with a chapter on the rearing and care of children: their food, clothing, exercise etc. This chapter in fact begins with a discussion of “Diseased Parents” and their unwelcome legacy to the next generation. Chapter 2 deals with three different life styles – the Laborious, the Sedentary and the Studious – and the effect of these life styles on health. Chapters 3–6 deal with some of the traditional “nonnaturals”; food, air, exercise, sleep. Chapter 7 deals with the important subject of “intemperance”, and Chapter 8 with a subject which is particularly close to Buchan’s heart, i.e. “cleanliness”. Chapter 9, “Of Infection”, is the only one to deal with a medical subject as such. Chapter 10 deals with “the passions”: Anger, Fear, Grief, Love and “Religious Melancholy”. Chapter 11, finally, deals with “the common evacuations” – stool, urine and perspiration, i.e. some of the traditional nonnaturals; but it also includes sections on such topics as wet clothes, wet feet, damp beds and houses and other typical eighteenth-century threats to health. Thus the reader is given advice on every aspect of the right way to live in order to ensure both health and longevity, consistently with the . This is my own umbrella term, allowing me to deal with this part of the work as a whole; the titles of the individual parts are Buchan’s. . The six categories of “nonnaturals” are air; food and drink; motion and rest; excretions and retentions; sleep and wakefulness; and the emotions. These are contrasted to the “naturals”: the body and organs, the humors etc. “The nonnaturals, therefore, can be thought of as agents capable of disrupting the body’s disposition “by nature” toward health.” Many eighteenth-century guides to a healthy life were organized in terms of the nonnaturals (Broman 2003: 466, n. 6).

190 Ellen Valle

most up-to-date medical knowledge, but in terms familiar to Buchan’s anticipated middle-class readers. The author assumes that readers will be living in relatively comfortable houses with servants, will be able to control their living conditions, and will be able at least to some extent to control their emotions. He also assumes that they are willing to make changes in their way of life based on good advice – in other words, that they are able to act rationally. In contrast, Part II of Domestic Medicine is organized according to the principle of the pathology in question. It consists of 55 chapters, beginning with one on the general “Knowledge and Cure of Diseases”. This is followed by a series of twelve chapters on “fevers”: Chapter 13 deals with “Fevers in General”, followed by a series of chapters on various types of fever and what today would be called infectious diseases. There are a multitude of named fevers, such as intermitting; acute continual; slow or nervous; malignant, putrid or spotted; miliary, and remitting. The rest of Part II does not seem to be organized according to any particular nosological principle. It deals with various diseases, illnesses, pathological conditions and symptoms, ranging from Cholera Morbus, Jaundice, Scurvy and Gout to Toothache, Earache and nosebleeds (discussed under “Involuntary Discharges of Blood”, along with “bloody urine” and “coeliac passion”). There is a long and detailed chapter on Nervous Diseases, including Melancholy, Flatulencies, the Nightmare, Low Spirits, and Hysteric Affections along with several others; this is followed by another long chapter on Disorders of the Senses. Chapter 46 deals with poisons and Chapter 47 with “The Venereal Disease” (subdivided into several diseases and conditions). Chapter 48 deals with the Diseases of Women (including such “diseases” as Menstrual Discharge, Pregnancy, Childbirth and Barrenness), and Chapter 49 with Diseases of Children. The next three chapters deal with surgery and with dislocations and fractures which can be corrected by surgery. Finally, Chapters 53 and 54 deal with what would today be called “first aid” or emergency treatment (“Cases which require immediate Assistance”). Part II ends with a seemingly disconnected chapter on “Cautions concerning Cold Bathing, and drinking the Mineral Waters”. The last part of Domestic Medicine is the Appendix, again following a different rhetorical tradition and organized according to a different principle. Buchan himself lists three components: 1. A List of Simples and of such Medicinal Preparations as ought to be kept in Readiness for private Practice. 2. The Method of preparing and compounding such Medicines as are recommended in the former Part of the Book, with the Addition of several others of a similar Nature.



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 191

3. Remarks on the Doses, Uses, and Manner of applying the different Preparations. These are preceded by an extended Introduction, and followed by a glossary of medical terms which Buchan assumes may be unfamiliar to the reader.

3.

Rhetorical analysis: Constructing an authoritative voice

3.1

Front matter: Authorial self-positioning as scientist and professional physician

The Front Matter consists of a dedication to Sir Joseph Banks, a short Foreword and longer Preface to the second edition, and a general Introduction. It is here that the author begins to position himself explicitly with regard to the professional medical and scientific community, and to establish his authority. The dedication, excluding the formal superscription and subscription, is only seven lines long; nevertheless this brief text plays a part in this self-positioning. Banks is addressed on the one hand as President of the Royal Society, i.e. the formal leader of the English scientific community, on the other as a man of great scientific distinction by his own merits; one who had resolution to encounter the dangers of unknown seas and distant climes, in pursuit of useful Science; and whose constant object has been to render that Science subservient to the happiness and civilization of Society.

Buchan also manages to fit in a reference to Sir John Pringle, previous President of the Royal Society, patron of the first edition, and a distinguished physician himself. While the dedication, as befits the genre, positions the writer as subservient and humble vis-à-vis the addressee, nevertheless it implies that he considers himself in some ways the equal of these two men. The Foreword continues this work of self-positioning. The first half of the text describes the various changes and improvements that have been made since the first edition. In the second half Buchan complains about the prejudice and misuse he has endured from his professional colleagues: The Author is sorry to observe, that the jealousies and fears of the Faculty have prompted many of them to treat this Work in a manner altogether unbecoming the professors of a liberal science: notwithstanding their injurious treatment, he . The reference is to Banks’ voyage with Captain Cook on the Endeavour, 1768–1771, on which he collected several thousand natural history specimens and observations.

192 Ellen Valle

is determined to persist in his plan, being fully convinced of its utility; nor shall interest, or prejudice, ever deter him from exerting his best endeavours to render the Medical art more extensively beneficial to MANKIND.  (Foreword; italics in original)

To add insult to injury, many physicians have pirated his work, offering it “mangled and mutilated” as their own. It is in the longer Preface and Introduction that Buchan really lets himself go. The main function of both texts is to establish Buchan’s authority to address the public, despite the petty and narrow-minded jealousies of his fellow-physicians. His authority for the advice he offers the reader is based, first of all, on a sound, modern scientific foundation; secondly, on his many years’ successful experience as a practising physician. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly – and in typical Enlightenment fashion – his authority is derived from Nature, in association with reason and common sense: THOUGH many reckon it doubtful whether medicines are more beneficial or hurtful to mankind, yet all allow the necessity and importance of a proper regimen in diseases. Indeed the very appetites of the sick prove its propriety. No man in his senses ever imagined that a person in a fever, for example, could eat, drink, or conduct himself in the same manner as one in perfect health. This part of medicine, therefore, is evidently founded in Nature, and is every way consistent with reason and common sense. Had men been more attentive to it, and less solicitous in hunting after secret remedies, Medicine had never become an object of (Preface; italics added) ridicule. 

Buchan seeks selflessly to put himself out of business by advocating sound preventive practices: The observations concerning Diet, Air, Exercise, &c. are of a more general nature … The man who pays a proper attention to these, will seldom need the physician; and he who does not will seldom enjoy health, let him employ as many physicians (Preface) as he pleases. 

. Buchan was in fact attacked by the medical profession for recklessly revealing professional secrets. The attacks were usually justified by the writers on scientific or academic grounds, rather than ones of professional or business advantage (Smith 1985: 276). . Buchan’s addressee in Domestic Medicine is both gendered and hierarchically ordered, despite the fact that much of his advice is intended for mothers and children’s nurses. The book is presumably to be read by the male head of the family and household, who will convey the advice to his wife; she in turn will transmit it in the form of instructions to the female servants working under her.



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 193

Although he gains support from the “learned Dr. Arbuthnot” and the “ingenious Dr. Huxham”, who have advocated a similar preventive regimen, in general he is positioning himself in opposition to the medical profession, who neglect prevention and over-medicate the patient. The medical writers whom he exempts from this censure, along with Arbuthnot and Huxham, are un-English: the Italian Ramazini, the German van Swieten, the Swedish Rosen and in particular the French Tissot, whose ideas are closest to his own. The longest part of the Front Matter is the Introduction. Here Buchan constructs his scientific authority and his secular, anticlerical stance; he also once more re-establishes his self-separation from the medical profession, or at least from other, less competent physicians. Most of those who study medicine do so not out of love for science but as a trade, to enable them to make a living; for this reason, medical science has advanced less since the “revival of learning” than other branches of natural philosophy. Physicians conceal and keep secret their knowledge out of narrow self-interest; they are also often afraid of change or innovation in medical practice, partly out of fear of ostracism by the professional community, partly to protect their own vested interests. This dishonesty is disastrous both for the growth of medical science and – what is worse – for the patient, who gets bad medical care. A significant drawback from the patient’s point of view is that out of narrow-minded self-interest physicians ignore the importance of regimen in preventing disease. On the other hand, medicine should always be an empirical science: “The man who adds one single fact to the stock of medical observations, does more real service to the art than he who writes a volume in support of some favourite hypothesis”. Buchan thus explicitly positions himself in the debate between empirical, i.e. inductive, Baconian ways of doing science and more theoretical (“speculative”) ones, which was central to English natural science from the seventeenth century to well into the twentieth (and which was also a sign of national character vis-à-vis certain other European nations, such as the French and the Germans, who practiced “less wholesome” scientific methods). Finally, it is unfortunate that medicine – unlike law, natural history, science and religion – is not considered a necessary part of the education of a gentleman. Naturally a gentleman does not need to become a physician himself; but possessing the basic knowledge would protect men of sense and learning from the “destructive influences of Ignorance, Superstition and Quackery”. There is an implied element of social class: the gentleman who knows something about the basic principles of medicine will be able to protect his family from the ignorant . On the common eighteenth-century use of polite epithets in association with personal references see Valle (2004).

194 Ellen Valle

and superstitious practices of the servants who do the actual work of child care and nursing the sick. Thus Buchan establishes his authority as a medical advice-giver. He is both a scientist and an experienced practical physician; above all he is a disinterested, honest gentleman and a man of common sense – the great eighteenth-century virtues: To assist the well-meant endeavours of the humane and benevolent in relieving distress; to eradicate dangerous and hurtful prejudices; to guard the ignorant and credulous against the frauds and impositions of quacks and impostors; and to shew men what is in their own power, both with regard to the prevention and cure of diseases, are certainly objects worthy of the physician’s attention. These were the leading views in composing and publishing the following sheets. They were suggested by an attention to the conduct of mankind, with regard to Medicine, in the course of a pretty long practice in different parts of this island, during which the Author has often had occasion to wish that his patients, or those about them, had been possessed of some such plain directory for regulating their conduct. How far he has succeeded in his endeavours to supply this deficiency, must be left for others to determine; but if they be found to contribute, in any measure, towards alleviating the calamities of mankind, he will think his labour very well (Introduction) bestowed. 

3.2 Authorial self-positioning and construction of an authoritative voice in the body of the text In the body of the text, Buchan uses various rhetorical and linguistic devices to position himself as an authoritative voice. These include frequent references to his own experience as a physician; references to other writers, on the other hand, are infrequent. In this section, I discuss Buchan’s rhetorical self-positioning in the body of the text as an authoritative voice. I look at Parts I and II separately. While they are both instructive texts, their different functions, derived in part from different rhetorical traditions – Part I instructs the reader on how to live in order to remain healthy, Part II on what to do if one nevertheless falls ill – are served by different linguistic devices.

3.2.1 The authorial voice: Part I In Part I of Domestic Medicine, first of all, Buchan uses the first-person plural pronoun (we, us, our) 156 times (0.37% of the total word count). Sometimes the pronoun refers to humankind in general (all examples in this section are from Chapter 1):



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 195

(1) MANY people imagine, that the food which they themselves love cannot be bad for their children. But this notion is very absurd. In the more advanced periods of life we often acquire an inclination for food, which when children we could not endure.

Sometimes it refers to the author together with readers (often with the verb consider): (2) If we consider the body of an infant as a bundle of soft pipes, replenished with fluids in continual motion, the danger of pressure will appear in the strongest light. Nature, in order to make way for the growth of children, has formed their bodies soft and flexible.

Sometimes the pronoun positions readers (together with the author) as representatives of a particular social or cultural group. This may be European, “civilized” culture, or it may be fashionable “modernity” – both often presented in a negative light, contrasted to the more “natural” way of doing things among primitive peoples or in earlier times: (3) How little deformity of body is to be found among uncivilized nations? So little indeed, that it is vulgarly believed they put all their deformed children to death. The truth is, they hardly know such a thing as a deformed child. Neither should we, if we followed their example.

Usually, however, the first-person plural pronoun (combined with a ‘linguistic’ speech act) refers to the author: (4) WHEN we say that mothers are not always in a condition to suckle their own children, we would not be understood as discouraging that practice. Every mother who can, ought certainly to perform so tender and agreeable an office.

The first-person singular pronoun (I, me, my) occurs in Part I a total of 74 times. Again, Buchan uses this form for various functions: to refer to his experience as a physician, to his scientific principles, or to his own personal practice and recommendations. Often these personal principles or experience are given as evidence for the inadequacy of general practice. For instance: (5) IN several parts of Britain, the practice of rolling children with so many bandages is now, in some measure, laid aside; but it would still be a difficult task to persuade the generality of mankind, that the shape of an infant does not entirely depend on the care of the midwife. … A friend of mine, who was several years on the coast of Africa, tells me, that the natives neither put any clothes upon their children, nor apply to their bodies bandages of any kind,

196 Ellen Valle

but lay them on a pallet, and suffer them to tumble about at pleasure; yet they are all strait, and seldom have any disease. (6) THE following is my plan, and I cannot recommend a better to others. When my mind is fatigued with study, or other serious business, I mount my horse, and ride ten or twelve miles into the country, where I spend a day, and sometimes two, with a cheerful friend; after which I never fail to return to town with new vigour, and to pursue my studies or business with fresh alacrity.

Thus we have an author who is personally involved in his text, who is very much present as an authority guaranteeing the reliability of the information and instructions due to his wide professional knowledge and experience as well as his personal wisdom. He uses this authority to tell the reader, in no uncertain terms, what are the right and wrong ways to live in order to remain healthy and keep one’s children so as well. He uses declarative clauses, with little or no hedging, and can be quite judgmental: (7) LABOURERS are often hurt by a foolish emulation, which prompts them to vie with one another, till they overheat themselves to such a degree as to occasion a fever, or even to drop down dead. Such as wantonly throw away their lives in this manner, deserve to be looked upon in no better light than self-murderers.

He is particularly judgmental toward modern fashion, which he sees as destructive of good health. Here health becomes not merely a matter of physical wellness but of morality and of civic adequacy: (8) INACTIVITY never fails to induce an universal relaxation of the solids, which disposes the body to innumerable diseases. When the solids are relaxed, neither digestion, nor any of the secretions, can be duly performed. In this case, the worst consequences must ensue. How can persons who loll all day in easy chairs and sleep all night on beds of down fail to be relaxed? Nor do such greatly mend the matter, who never stir abroad but in a coach, sedan, or such like. These elegant pieces of luxury are become so common that the inhabitants of great towns seem to be in great danger of losing the use of their limbs together. It is now below any one to walk, who can afford to be carried. … It is not necessity, but fashion, which makes the use of carriages so common. There are many people who have not exercise enough to keep their humours from stagnation, who yet dare not venture to make a visit to their next neighbours, but in a coach or sedan, lest they should be looked down upon. Strange, that men should be such fools as to be laughed out of the use of their limbs, or to throw away their health, in order to gratify a piece of vanity, or to comply with a ridiculous fashion!



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 197

In fact, Part I of Buchan’s Domestic Medicine constructs healthy living as an issue of morality at least as much as one of health; to live unhealthily is somehow also to live immorally. Smith (2002: Ch. 4 passim) speaks of an eighteenth-century bourgeois discourse of virtue, in connection with life-style in general and health in particular. Where earlier the discourse would have taken place in a theological context of sin (the body is a temple; to offend against the body is to offend against God), in the eighteenth century it is one of morality. Buchan’s authority in Domestic Medicine is to a great extent derived from his understanding of Nature (often personified as female) and of what is natural or unnatural – again, in contrast to what is dictated by modern fashion or by misguided medical science. The words Nature / (un)natural occur 73 times: (9) NATURE knows no use of clothes to an infant, but to keep it warm. All that is necessary for this purpose, is to wrap it in a soft loose covering. Were a mother left to the dictates of Nature alone, she would certainly follow this method. But the business of dressing an infant has long been out of the hands of mothers, and has at last become a secret which none but adepts pretend to understand.

In contrast to this frequent appeal to Nature, Buchan refers to science in Part I only three times, once negatively and twice positively. A closer look, however, shows that even these low figures are misleading. In the two positive references, “science” is represented not as a source of the physician’s authority but as a form of therapeutic relaxation for the patient, and has the general meaning of “knowledge” or “pursuit”: (10) MUSIC has a very happy effect in relieving the mind when fatigued with study. It would be well if every studious person were so far acquainted with that science as to amuse himself after severe thought, by playing such airs as have a tendency to raise the spirits, and inspire cheerfulness and goodhumour. (11) Thus travelling, the study of any art or science, reading or writing on such subjects as deeply engage the attention, will sooner expel grief than the most sprightly amusements.

The only time Buchan refers to (medical) science in the narrow sense, the context is extremely negative: (12) Nothing tends more to destroy the credit of physic than those bold prognosticators, who, by the bye, are generally the most ignorant of the faculty. The mistakes which daily happen in this way are so many standing proofs of human vanity, and the weakness of science.

198 Ellen Valle

The word physician is used in Part I 21 times, sometimes positively, sometimes negatively or neutrally, but rarely as a source of authority. The word medicine is used 26 times, but only twice in sense of profession; normally it is used in the sense of a remedy given to the patient, usually negatively; Buchan’s firm position is that modern medical science relies too much on medicines rather than prevention and following nature. Finally – and importantly – the authorial figure in Part I of Domestic Medicine, while claiming the authority to instruct us, is careful to give his reasons for the instructions. He tells us what to do in no uncertain terms; but he rarely does so without justifying and substantiating those instructions. The reasons he gives are based in part on experience, in part on common sense, and in part on medical knowledge (often formulated in terms of humoural medicine). In that sense, Domestic Medicine approaches a persuasive text rather than a purely instructive one.

3.2.2 The authorial voice: Part II Part II, Of Diseases, is the longest part of the work. It would also probably have received the most carefully close reading by contemporary and nineteenth-century readers; Part I would often have been read as today we read diet books and other self-improvement texts: as a fantasy of a better life, a better self, perhaps with good intentions of taking the writer’s advice, but without necessarily any permanent effect on how we actually live. Part II, in contrast, would have probably been consulted by readers faced with a sick child or other family member, often out of reach (economically or geographically) of any professional medical help. Thus the writer’s authority takes on quite a different role. The author’s experience, and his professional knowledge, are again more important as a source of authority than medical science as such, although less markedly than in Part I. This is also reflected by pronoun use. The pronoun we occurs a total of 318 times, or 0.20% of the total word count; this is just slightly over half of the 0.37% of Part I. On the other hand, we is now used almost exclusively to refer to the author: (13) We shall only add, that in this disease emollient clysters are peculiarly useful. (Ch. 16)

There are a mere handful of instances in which it is used to refer either to human beings in general, or possibly to author + readers: . Murphy (1991: 11) cites an article by Charles Rosenberg, according to whom “Buchan’s book … differed importantly from its forerunners in that it was meant to be read as well as used (italics in Murphy). I suggest that this would have been true primarily of Part I, less so of Part II.



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 199

(14) In the commercium literarium for the year 1735, we have the history of an epidemical miliary fever, which raged at Strasburgh …; from which we learn the necessity of a temperate regimen in this malady, and likewise that physicians are not always the first who discover the proper treatment of diseases. (Ch. 21)

The use of the first person plural pronoun helps to construct an authoritative voice of the physician-author, and makes it more likely that the reader will follow his advice. The author is much less interested in this part of the work in creating a sense of human identity or fellow-feeling in the reader. The first person singular pronoun occurs 291 times, or 0.19% of the total word count, almost exactly the same as in Part I. While both the singular and plural pronoun refer to the author, there is an interesting difference between their functions: where we refers almost always to the author as writing subject, used with textual speech act verbs (add, mention, say), the first person pronoun tends to refer to him as a professional, practicing physician: (15) I lately saw an instance of a confirmed phthisis occasioned by a small bone sticking in the bronchae. (Ch. 18)

In Part I, in contrast, it is often used to refer to the author’s involvement (opinions and feelings), as well as in the editorial function (the author as writing subject). This is another difference between the two parts of the text, stemming from different traditions and fulfilling different discourse functions. What is particularly interesting is that in Part II the judgmental author, concerned for the moral fibre of both the individual and society, has largely (though not entirely) disappeared. Gone are such evaluative adjectives as foolish and elegant. Diet, regimen and exercise, and even certain vicious practices, are now practical issues, which affect the course of the disease favourably or otherwise:10 (16) Exercise may likewise, in many cases, be considered as a medicine. Sailing, or riding on horseback, for example, will be of more service in the cure of consumptions, glandular obstructions, &c. than any medicine yet known. In diseases which proceed from a relaxed state of the solids, the cold bath, . In this it differs from Part I, where the plural pronoun serves a much wider range of functions (see p. 382–383). 10. A partial exception is Chapter 55, “Cautions Concerning Cold Bathing, and Drinking the Mineral Waters”. This chapter does not deal directly with illness or disease; travelling to places such as Bath, and drinking the waters, was a highly fashionable pursuit among the upper and middle classes in Buchan’s time. Thus the life-style instructor of Part I to some extent makes a reappearance.

200 Ellen Valle

and other parts of the gymnastic regimen, will be found equally beneficial. (Ch. 12) (17) THE effects of intoxication are often fatal. No kind of poison kills more certainly than an overdose of ardent spirits. Sometimes by destroying the nervous energy, they put an end to life at once; but in general their effects are more slow, and in many respects similar to those of opium. Other kinds of intoxicating liquors may prove fatal when taken to excess, as well as ardent spirits; but they may generally be discharged by vomiting, which ought always to be excited when the stomach is overcharged with liquor. (Ch. 54)

What we have in Part II is the authoritative physician, speaking from a position based on years of practical experience in alleviating the sufferings of sick people, rather than the “wise teacher” concerned with changing his reader’s habits with a view to prevention. In both parts the writer constructs a position of authority, but the grounds on which this authority is based differs somewhat. This difference is further supported by the use of modal auxiliaries, as we shall see in Section 4. First, however, I look briefly at the last part of Buchan’s book, the Appendix.

3.3 A traditional genre brought up to date: The Appendix The central part of the Appendix follows the tradition of the herbal, of which the chief Early Modern exemplar in English is Nicholas Culpeper’s work from 1652, The English Physitian. It is only here, for instance, that Buchan extensively uses the imperative mood (used fairly systematically by Culpeper), typically in the actual instructions for preparation of a remedy: (18) Take jelly of starch, four ounces; linseed oil, half an ounce. Liquify the jelly over a gentle fire, and then mix in the oil.

But he also uses declaratives, often with the modal may: (19) In the dysentery or bloody flux, this clyster may be administered after every loose stool, to heal the ulcerated intestines and blunt the sharpness of corroding humours. Forty or fifty drops of laudanum may be occasionally added; in which case, it will generally supply the place of the Astringent Clyster.

In many ways it is the Appendix which is the most traditional part of Domestic Medicine, and which would have fulfilled the expectations of readers, to whom it would have been familiar. Its authoritative voice, expressed through use of the imperative mood, would have given a sense of security and comfort to parents concerned for their sick families.

Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 201



The final item in the book is a glossary of terms used in the book; this glossary was added in the second edition of the work. At the beginning, Buchan explains why a glossary is needed, at the same time explicitly defining his intended audience: (20) ALTHOUGH terms of art have been sedulously avoided in the composition of this treatise, it is impossible entirely to banish technical phrases when writing on medicine, a science that has been less generally attended to by mankind, and continues therefore, to be more infected with the jargon of the schools, than perhaps any other. Several persons having expressed their opinion, that a Glossary would make this work more generally intelligible, the following concise explanation of the few terms of art that occur has been added in compliance with their sentiments, and to fulfil the original intention of this treatise, by rendering it intelligible and useful to all ranks and classes of mankind.

The glossary which concludes the whole book includes a number of anatomical, physiological and medical terms which might not be expected to be familiar to the lay reader (e.g. peritonaeum, cutaneous, syncope, miliary eruption). Some of these are now archaic, such as Fungus: Proud flesh. Some are general terms used in specialized meanings (crisis). Some refer to a humours-based medicine (e.g. temperament, atrabilarian). Humour itself is not listed, despite its relatively frequent occurrence in the text. But the glossary also includes a large number of words which, though of classical provenance, probably would not be considered unfamiliar or ‘learned’ at the end of the eighteenth century (adult, nervous, saliva).11 Here we see Buchan reaching out to a less educated readership.

4.

Modal auxiliaries in Domestic Medicine

One of the most striking aspects of Buchan’s language is his frequent use of modal auxiliaries, in particular in deontic functions. In the text as a whole, the single most common modal is may, with 1598 occurrences; its function is often complex, seemingly combining a deontic function (permission) and a dynamic one, corresponding to the modern use of can. The epistemic function (possibility), which is the most common function of may in present-day academic and scientific writing (Hyland 1998: 115–116; Biber et al. 1999: 491), seems to be much less 11. Adult and saliva go back to Early Modern English, although the latter would probably be used less commonly than spittle. Nervous is defined by Buchan as “irritable”; in this sense, it is used for the first time, according to the OED, in 1740 in George Cheyne’s longevity guide, An Essay on Regimen (OED online s.v. nervous, sense 9.a).

202 Ellen Valle

common, particularly in Part II. The second most frequent modal is will, which is used epistemically, predicting the outcome of a regimen or treatment; it is in fact the only systematically used epistemic modal verb. This is apparently one of the linguistic tools whereby Buchan establishes an authoritative voice: given the appropriate regimen, the individual will remain healthy; following the proper treatment, the patient will recover. These statements are almost never hedged. The three deontic modals of obligation (ought, should, must) have a total of 2051 occurrences. Individually, there are 748 occurrences of ought, 705 of should and 598 of must; Buchan evidently prefers not to give a clear ‘instruction’, preferring to place the final responsibility on the caretaker. The modal shall is used 126 times, of which 86 have the subject we; it is mainly used as a metatextual signpost or a future-marker. The modal can, interestingly, is used predominantly in negative constructions and contexts: (21) No one, who has not had an opportunity of observing them, can imagine what absurd and ridiculous practices still prevail in the nursing and management of infants, and what numbers of lives are by that means lost to society. (22) Mothers who do not … enjoy the benefit of free air and exercise, can neither have wholesome humours themselves, nor afford proper nourishment to an infant.

The modals, however, are not evenly distributed in the three main parts of the text. The precise distribution of the modals is shown in Table 1.

Table 1.  Modal verbs in order of total frequency. Boldface indicates those modals whose distribution corresponds approximately to that expected according to the proportion of that section out of the text as a whole. Modal

Front matter (3%)

Part I (21%)

Part II (76%)

Total

may will ought should must would can might shall could Total

  17 (1%)   41 (5%)    9 (1%)    7 (1%)   12 (2%)   32 (8%)   24 (7%)   11 (8%)    3 (2%)    5 (10%) 161 (3%)

  161 (10%)   139 (18%)   170 (23%)   155 (22%)    60 (10%)   165 (41%)   119 (32%)    54 (39%)    25 (20%)    18 (34%) 1066 (19%)

1420 (89%)   612 (77%)   569 (76%)   543 (77%)   526 (88%)   205 (51%)   224 (61%)    74 (53%)    98 (78%)    29 (56%) 4300 (78%)

1598   792   748   705   598   402   367   139   126    52 5527



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 203

Thus modal verbs as a whole are distributed relatively evenly throughout the three parts of the text, as is one individual modal, shall. This is presumably due to the fact that shall is used almost exclusively as a text-deictic signpost, without epistemic, deontic or dynamic function: (23) It would greatly exceed the limits of this part of our subject, to specify the diseases peculiar to persons of every occupation; we shall therefore consider mankind under the general classes of Laborious, Sedentary, and Studious.

Of the individual modals, the most frequent one, may (with more than twice as many occurrences as the next most common will), has a skewed distribution in all parts of the text: it is underrepresented in the Front Matter and Part I, and overrepresented in Part II. Will, ought and should are evenly represented in Parts I and II, while must has its expected frequency in the Front Matter. Must, on the other hand, is underrepresented in Part I and over­represented in Part II. Finally, would, can, might and could – all among the less common modals generally – are overrepresented in the Front Matter and in Part I, and underrepresented in Part II. What do these figures mean, and how (for what purpose) are the modals actually used? I first look at the single most frequent modal, may. Here are some examples from Part I (‘complex’ refers to a combination of deontic and dynamic functions): (24) Children are always sickly in the fruit season, which may be thus accounted for: Two thirds of the fruit. (Ch. 1; epistemic) (25) Indeed, if a child be not permitted to make any use of its legs till a considerable time after the birth, and be then set upon them with its whole weight at once, there may be some danger; but this proceeds entirely from the child’s not having been accustomed to use its legs from the beginning. (Ch. 1; epistemic) (26) Their diet may be frequently varied, provided always that sufficient regard be had to simplicity. (Ch. 1; complex) (27) CHILDREN who are kept within doors all day, and sleep all night in warm close apartments, may, with great propriety, be compared to plants, nursed in a hot-house, instead of the open air. Though such plants may by this means be kept alive for some time, they will never arrive at that degree of strength, vigour, and magnitude, which they would have acquired in the open air. (ibid; complex/epistemic) (28) THE iliac passion, the cholic, and other complaints of the bowels, are often occasioned by the same causes as the erisipelas; but they may likewise proceed from flatulent and indigestible food. (Ch. 2; epistemic)

204 Ellen Valle

In Part II, the functions of may are partly similar, but purely epistemic uses are less frequent, reflecting the more strongly instructive nature of this part of the work: (29) MEDICINES are no doubt useful in their place, and, when administered with prudence, they may do much good. (Ch. 12; epistemic) (30) MANY cooling liquors, which are extremely grateful to patients in a fever, may be prepared from fruits, as decoctions of tamarinds, apple-tea, orangewhey, and the like. (Ch. 12; complex) (31) BETWEEN the paroxysms the patient must be supported with food that is nourishing, but light and easy of digestion, as veal or chicken broths, sago gruel with a little wine, light puddings, and such like. His drink may be small negus, acidulated with the juice of lemons or oranges, and sometimes a little weak punch. He may likewise drink infusions of bitter herbs, as camomile, wormwood, or water-trefoil, and may now and then take a glass of small wine, in which gentian root, centaury, or some other bitter, has been infused. (Ch. 12; complex)

It is in fact this complex function of the modal auxiliary that seems most typical of Buchan’s text in Part II. It also often co-occurs with must, as in example (31). This probably does not mean that may is distinct from must, but rather that the deontic force of may is strengthened by its proximity to the more powerful deontic modal. Throughout the text, the author is instructing – or rather advising – the reader as to appropriate action, at the same time giving the latter permission to act. (At this point these terms are used in their everyday, commonsense meanings; for a discussion of the specific characteristics of advising as a speech act, see Section 5.) The other modals I shall discuss here are ought, should and must, which with a combined total of 2051 occurrences account for the largest number of modals. These might be expected to have primarily deontic functions, but in fact must in particular is frequently used epistemically. As in the case of may, this occurs more often in Part I. Some examples: (32) But when both parties are deeply tainted with the scrophula, the scurvy, or the like, the effects must be still worse. (Ch. 1) (33) The whole atmosphere of a large town is one contaminated mass, abounding with various kinds of infection, and must be pernicious to health. (Ch. 9) (34) When low fevers, in which it is difficult to support the patient’s spirits, prevail, what must be the effect of a funeral peal sounding five or six times a day in his ears? (Ch. 10)

The other two modals are used almost entirely for deontic functions. Again, ­Buchan is advising rather than instructing:



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 205

(35) Every mother who can, ought certainly to perform so tender and agreeable an office [breastfeeding]. (Ch. 1) (36) All houses, unless where the ground is exceeding dry, should have the first floor a little raised. Servants and others, who are obliged to live in cellars and sunk stories, seldom continue long in health: Masters ought surely to pay some regard to the health of their servants, as well as to their own. (Ch. 11)

As shown in the table above, must is under-represented in Part I and over-represented in Part II. Some examples from Part II: (37) The diet must be light, but nourishing. (Ch. 12) (38) When fainting is the effect of too strong or acrid purges or vomits, the patient must be treated in all respects as if he had taken poison. (Ch. 54)

The following example illustrates the use of several modals, of varying deontic force: (39) THE patient should be laid in bed, with his head low, and being covered, should have his legs, thighs, arms, and his whole body rubbed strongly with hot flannels. Hungary water, volatile salts, or strong smelling herbs … may be held to his nose. His mouth may be wet with a little rum or brandy; and, if he can swallow, some hot wine, mixed with sugar and cinnamon, which is an excellent cordial, may be poured into his mouth. A compress of flannel dipt in hot wine or brandy must be applied to the pit of his stomach, and warm bricks, or bottles filled with hot water, laid to the feet. (Ch. 54)

Must is also used epistemically in Part II: (40) If there be any degree of fever, this conduct must increase it, and if there be none, this is the ready way to raise one. (Ch. 12) (41) These may sometimes have the desired effect, but must always be attended with danger. (Ch. 14)

All in all, the modal auxiliaries clearly play a significant role in constructing interaction between author and readers in Domestic Medicine. What is offered here is merely a preliminary and partial survey; the subject deserves more detailed analysis, looking at the precise contexts and functions in which the modals are used by Buchan and his contemporaries, in advice books and other instructive genres.

206 Ellen Valle

5.

Discussion and conclusions

5.1

Theoretical approaches

Medical discourse has generally been studied from two general theoretical perspectives, of which only one lends itself to diachronic or historical research.12 The first focuses on spoken medical discourse in an institutional setting, usually in encounters between physicians and patients rather than among physicians themselves;13 this work has often made use of conversation analysis as the chief methodological tool. With this approach, a historical or diachronic perspective seems almost by definition impossible.14 There are numerous studies of this type; a recent example is Heritage and Maynard (2006). In these studies, the focus is often on the discrepancy of power between the relatively powerful physician and the relatively powerless patient. The other main perspective is more relevant for historical and diachronic studies. This is the one focusing on medical writing, often though not always as a form of written scientific discourse. In a diachronic/historical context, this approach is represented for instance by the “Scientific Thought Styles Project” at the Department of English of the University of Helsinki (e.g. Taavitsainen 2006; Taavitsainen et al. 2006). A somewhat different frame of reference underlies the large body of work of Françoise Salager-Meyer (e.g. 1998, 1999). If medical discourse is seen as a form of scientific discourse, the focus is primarily on interaction among physicians as members of a scientific/professional discourse community rather than between physician and patient. Neither of these approaches seems sufficient to explain a work like Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, which is a written text constructing interaction between expert professional and non-expert patient or caretaker. One way, which may offer better support, is to view Buchan’s work as an instructive text, of the type described by Hiltunen (2003), using the closely contextualized approach characteristic of the “Turku school” (see the Introduction and individual articles in Hiltunen and Skaffari (eds) 2003). That is what I have done in Section 3.

12. I am excluding studies dealing for instance with the development of medical terminology and other work lacking in a discourse-oriented perspective. 13. One exception is the pioneering work by Prince et al. (1983), one of the earliest studies of hedging as a feature of scientific discourse. 14. It might be possible to study physician-patient encounters as described for instance in published or otherwise surviving physicians’ case notes and reports, or in the letters and diaries of patients; one such study is Lane (1985).



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 207

More specifically, Buchan’s work can be approached in terms of a familiar eighteenth-century genre, the advice book. We can then make use of speech act theory as an analytical tool, in particular advice acts as a type of “control acts” (the others are directives and requests) (Vine 2004: 23–35 passim). Relevant factors include relative status of speaker and hearer, benefit to S and H from the action, expectation of compliance, and right of refusal. An advice act is one which assumed to be beneficial to H but not necessarily to S, and where H has the right of refusal; S may or may not have higher status. (A detailed discussion is offered in Vine 2004: 20–37 passim and Locher 2006: Ch. 1 and passim.) All of these conditions are present in the case of Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, either contextually or as constructed in the text, but not necessarily in a simple or direct manner. In the remainder of this section, I examine aspects of Buchan’s text from the point of view of the advice speech act.

5.2 Advice acts in Buchan’s text The first question has to do with the relative power of S and H, in this case the author and the reader. William Buchan was a professional physician, a university graduate and a middle-class male Scot.15 The audience which he constructs in his text is also middle-class and presumptively male, but may in reality also have been of either higher (aristocratic) or lower (upper working-class) status (as well as female); while social class, in Buchan’s time and later, is very important in Britain, nevertheless professional status is more important in constructing medical authority (thereby inducing or supporting compliance). This helps to account for the frequency with which Buchan supports his advice with his own professional experience, often reported in the first person singular, and explains why construction of an authoritative voice is so central in the work. It may also account, somewhat paradoxically, for Buchan’s recurrent disclaiming of the medical profession collectively and its practices, especially in the Front Matter but also elsewhere in the text; if the author is willing to say that his colleagues are wrong, his readers may be more willing to accept his advice. The second issue has to do with benefit and compliance. Patient compliance is a perennial problem in clinical medicine, especially in chronic conditions such as diabetes and hypertension, where the medication regimen is lifelong and inconvenient, and in cases where a radical change of lifestyle may be necessary, 15. A ‘physician’ was by definition a university-educated ‘gentleman’ (and until the end of the nineteenth century, also male). The health-care field included a wide range of professions and occupations (apothecary, surgeon etc.), differing in education and in professional and social status.

208 Ellen Valle

such as addiction or obesity. How can the physician ensure that the patient will comply with the advice given? On the other hand, compliance is certainly in the reader’s interest and to his/her benefit, more directly so than in the case of other eighteenth-century advice books (for instance on childrearing, polite manners or good language); but only in the case that the reader accepts the advice. Again, it is important to construct an authoritative voice in addressing the reader. In face-toface encounters, physicians use various means, both linguistic and nonlinguistic, to construct professional authority and credibility, beginning in our own time with the white coat and the ubiquitous stethoscope; Buchan can only resort to language. The construction of an authoritative voice thus becomes of the utmost importance. And the fact that Buchan is so successful in doing so may be one reason – along with the fact that his advice is so often good – contributing to the remarkable success of his work. The idea of the advice act as central to the work may also help to explain the frequent use of may and the avoidance of more strongly deontic modals and other forms, such as the imperative, which one might otherwise expect in an instructive text. The author has to construct professional credibility and authority; on the other hand, he needs to make it clear that what he is offering is advice, not directives. By using may, he is offering the reader the opportunity to make use of his expertise; whether the latter actually does so is up to him or her. He puts the onus of compliance on the reader; by doing so, he involves him or her in the text – and at the same time strengthens greatly the force of the text. We should think ourselves fortunate that Buchan’s advice is so often good; otherwise many of our progenitors, six or seven generations back, might have had worse reproductive success than they actually did.

References Primary sources Buchan, William. 1785. Domestic Medicine, 2nd edition.

Secondary sources Biber, Douglas, Johansson, Stig, Leech, Geoffrey, Conrad, Susan and Finegan, Edward. 1999. Longman Grammar of Spoken and Written English. Harlow: Pearson Education Limited.



Authoritative voice in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine 209

Broman, Thomas H. 2003. “The medical sciences.” In The Cambridge History of Science, Volume 4: Eighteenth-Century Science, R. Porter (ed.), 463–484. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heritage, John and Maynard, Douglas W. (eds). 2006. Communication in Medical Care: Interaction between Primary Care Physicians and Patients. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hiltunen, Risto. 2003. “Telling the anchorite code: Ancrene Wisse on language.” In Discourse Perspectives on English: Medieval to Modern, Risto Hiltunen and Janne Skaffari (eds), 57– 76. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Hyland, Ken. 1998. Hedging in Scientific Research Articles. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Lane, Joan. 1985. “‘The doctor scolds me’: The diaries and correspondence of patients in eighteenth century England.” In Patients and Practitioners: Lay Perceptions of Medicine in PreIndustrial Society, Roy Porter (ed.), 205–248. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Locher, Miriam A. 2006. Advice Online: Advice-Giving in an American Internet Health Column. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins. Murphy, Lamar Riley. 1991. Enter The Physician: The Transformation of Domestic Medicine, 1760–1860. Tuscaloosa/London: University of Alabama Press. Prince, E. F., Frader, J. and Bosk, C. 1982. “On hedging in physician-physician discourse.” In Linguistics and the Professions, J. Di Pietro (ed.), 83–97. Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Salager-Meyer, Françoise. 1997. “Diachronic evolution of intertextual referencing in medical discourse (1810–1995).” Interface: Journal of Applied Linguistics 2: 95‑116. Salager-Meyer, Françoise. 1999. “Referential behavior in scientific writing: A diachronic study (1810–1995).” English for Specific Purposes 18: 279–305. Smith, Ginnie. 1985. “Prescribing the rules of health: Self-help and advice in the late eighteenth century.” In Patients and Practitioners: Lay Perceptions of Medicine in Pre-Industrial Society, Roy Porter (ed.), 249–282. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smith, Woodruff D. 2002. Consumption and the Making of Respectability, 1600–1800. New York/London: Routledge. Taavitsainen, Irma 2006. “Thought-styles and metadiscourse in six hundred years of medical writing.” In Advances in Medical Discourse Analysis: Oral and Written Contexts, Maurizio Gotti and Françoise Salager-Meyer (eds), 431–456. Bern/Berlin: Peter Lang. Taavitsainen, Irma, Pahta, Päivi and Mäkinen, Martti. 2006. “Towards a corpus-based history of specialized languages: Middle English medical texts.” In Corpus-based Studies in Diachronic English, Roberta Facchinetti and Matti Rissanen (eds.), 79–94. Bern: Peter Lang. Valle, Ellen. 2004. “‘A nice and accurate philosopher’: Interactivity and evaluation in a historical context.” In Academic Discourse: New Insights into Evaluation. Gabriella Del Lungo Camiciotti and Elena Tognini Bonelli (eds), 55–80. Bern: Peter Lang. Vine, Bernadette. 2004. Getting Things Done at Work: The Discourse of Power in Workplace Interaction. Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins.

Instructional writing on English What guides the textbook writer? Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

The article examines two series of English textbooks used in Finnish upper secondary schools, to see how much they reflect the ideas of three potentially powerful trend-setters: The Common European Framework of Reference for Languages (CEFR), the national core curriculum, and the matriculation examination. The main impetus for the study was the fact that speaking skills, or oral pragmatic competence, are emphasized in both the CEFR and the core curriculum, but they are not included in the matriculation examination. The first analysis reveals a washback effect of the matriculation examination on the textbooks, and the second finds that oral pragmatic instruction is not only rare, but it tends to be indirect and may therefore not reach student awareness.

1.

Introduction

Textbooks play an important role in determining what is taught and learned in a classroom. In the foreign language classroom textbooks are particularly important, as they may well constitute the only materials the learners have in the target language. English is of course an exception as it has become an international language; even Finnish schoolchildren can nowadays hear it and see it written on a daily basis if they want to. In Finland, as in many other European countries, foreign language instruction has undergone major changes in recent years. Communicative language teaching has replaced older, more traditional methods, and speaking skills seem to have become a recognized target in language learning. However, it is not selfevident that mere exposure to the foreign language, or even participation in oral practice, is enough to ensure increased competence in speaking. Most language learners probably need more than that; they need to be made aware of how the foreign language works and what is involved in communication in that language. Indeed, the usefulness of explicit teaching of pragmatic skills, e.g. conversational

212 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

strategies, has been documented (House 1996). Understandably, this is where textbooks have a great deal of responsibility. One would expect textbook writers to follow the guidelines set by important educational documents. In the Finnish context, the two major authorities in foreign language teaching are The Common European Framework of Reference for Languages (CEFR) and the national core curriculum. Both consider oral pragmatic competence in foreign languages to be extremely important. In spite of this, the matriculation examination, taken by all Finnish upper secondary school students at the end of their school career, does not include an obligatory speaking test. How does this discrepancy manifest itself in foreign language textbooks?

2.

Context of the study

In this article we focus on two textbook series, looking at the extent to which they have been influenced by three other ‘texts’: The Common European Framework of Reference for Languages: Learning, Teaching and Assessment (Council of Europe 2001), the Finnish national core curriculum, and the nationwide matriculation examination. In the following sections, these three potential sources of influence are presented and discussed.

2.1 The Common European Framework of Reference for Languages The Common European Framework of Reference for Languages: Learning, Teaching and Assessment (hereafter referred to as CEFR) is the latest stage in a process initiated by the Council of Europe in 1971 as a collaborative effort to “improve the quality of communication among Europeans of different language and cultural backgrounds” (CEFR 2001: xi). It offers a common basis for European language syllabi, curriculum guidelines, examinations and textbooks in modern languages. Its ultimate aim is to enhance mobility within Europe, as shared criteria for language proficiency will facilitate the recognition of modern language qualifications acquired in different countries (CEFR 2001: 1). The primary function of CEFR, however, is not to lay down objectives and methods for language professionals, but rather to raise questions and provide a common basis for educational development in the various European countries (CEFR 2001: xi); it is thus essentially descriptive rather than prescriptive. The CEFR description of communicative language competence includes linguistic, sociolinguistic and pragmatic competences. Linguistic competences comprise lexical, phonological and syntactical knowledge as well as dimensions of



Instructional writing on English 213

language as a system. Sociolinguistic competences apply to sociocultural conditions of language use: for instance social conventions such as rules of politeness and the recognition of social status. Pragmatic competences cover the functional use of linguistic resources, including fluency and propositional precision; the mastery of discourse skills (situational flexibility, turntaking, thematic development, cohesion and coherence); interaction schemata; and the identification of text types and forms. The interactions and cultural environments in which these skills are constructed have a major impact on the development of these competences (CEFR 2001: 13, 123–130). For assessment purposes, CEFR provides a six-level scale. The three main categories – (A) Basic User, (B) Independent User, and (C) Proficient User – are each divided into two subcategories, from (A1) Breakthrough level to (C2) Mastery Level (CEFR 2001: 23). Illustrative descriptors are provided for each common reference level on a global scale, as well as separately for the skills of listening, reading, spoken interaction, spoken production and writing, and specifically for qualitative aspects of spoken language use (CEFR 2001: 24–29). In the Finnish context the level that is expected to be reached by students finishing their upper secondary studies in A English (B2.1) is determined by the national core curriculum, which is described in the following sub-section.

2.2 The national core curriculum The educational system in Finland consists of preschool education, basic education, general and vocational upper secondary education, and higher education. Compulsory basic education begins the year a child turns seven and lasts for nine years. After basic education, more than half of the age group continue their studies in general upper secondary education. This level is two to four years in duration; for the great majority, general upper secondary education takes three years to complete. The national core curriculum for upper secondary school does not include detailed instructions on the content of teaching; its purpose is rather to provide guidance in formulating more detailed curricula at the local level. The national core curriculum is drawn up by the Finnish National Board of Education, which determines the aims and core contents of different subjects, subject groups and cross-curricular themes. The national curriculum also sets forth the main principles of cooperation between home and school, and the objectives of student welfare services (Finnish National Board of Education 2006). Although the national core curriculum for upper secondary school is a lengthy document, only a few pages are devoted to foreign languages. The curriculum establishes the aims and briefly describes the content of teaching, both

214 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

generally and specifically for each course. The aims of teaching are slightly higher for English than for other languages, but the content of the courses is the same for all A-languages. An A-language is a language starting in grades 1–6 of basic education, most commonly in the third grade (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 229). In 2007, for example, more than 99% of those who graduated from upper secondary school had studied English as their A-language (Tilastokeskus 2007). As the textbooks dealt with in this study are designed for teaching A-English in upper secondary school, we next outline the aims and content of teaching that these books are meant to reflect. According to the national core curriculum, by the end of upper secondary school students should achieve level B2.1 in all four skills in English – listening, reading, speaking and writing (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 100). Level B2.1 is based on the B2, or Vantage, level of the Common European Framework (CEFR 2001: 23), but the B2 level of the framework has been adapted to better suit the needs of the Finnish educational context. As a detailed description of the B2.1 level is not relevant for the purposes of this article, suffice it to emphasize that the target level is the same for all skills. This is confirmed by the national core curriculum, which explicitly states that in every course students should have opportunities for listening, reading, speaking and writing, although the four skills may be differentially emphasised. The importance of grammar and vocabulary is also highlighted (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 100–101). In Alanguages, “the most demanding forms of communication” are taught (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 101; our translation). In addition, teachers should draw attention to the differing ways of communicating in Finnish and English, as well as to the cultural differences that explain these customs. Students should also become aware of how their values and thinking are culturally shaped. Lastly, the core curriculum states that learning skills should be taught in every course, and encourages the advancement of self-assessment techniques (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 101). The national core curriculum specifies themes for each of the eight courses, and thus also the general contents of each book in the textbook series. Courses 1–6 are compulsory, courses 7 and 8 optional. In practice, however, if one wants to succeed in the matriculation examination all the courses are necessary, as the examination is based on all eight courses (Finlex 2005). The themes for the Alanguage courses in upper secondary school are as follows: (1) The young and their world, (2) Communication and leisure, (3) Education and work, (4) Society and the surrounding world, (5) Culture, (6) Science, economics and technology, (7) Nature and sustainable development, and (8) Shared world and internationalisation (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 101–103; our translations). In addition to these themes, most courses place special emphasis on certain skills.



Instructional writing on English 215

Course 1, for example, stresses conversation, expressing one’s opinion and “essential speech communication strategies” (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 101; our translation). During course 2 speech communication is practised in diverse ways, and writing skills are developed through communicative tasks. Special attention is paid to confidence in expressing oneself. In course 3 the emphasis is on the written and oral skills needed in study and work environments. Course 4 emphasises reading comprehension and speaking at a comparatively demanding level. Writing skills are also practised by composing texts for different purposes. In course 5 the students prepare and present a fairly extensive project on a culture-related topic. In course 6 the stress is on understanding complex language and practising reading strategies. The optional courses 7 and 8 do not highlight any particular skills; their aim is the comprehensive improvement of the students’ language proficiency (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 102).

2.3 The matriculation examination The Finnish matriculation examination is a typical high-stakes national schoolleaving examination, taken at the end of general upper secondary education. In the spring of 2007 alone, 26,148 candidates registered for the A-English examination (Matriculation Examination Board 2007b). The matriculation examination plays a central role in assessing the quality of upper secondary school education and the students’ maturity. Perhaps even more importantly, the examination functions as a vital part of the selection mechanism for tertiary education (Ylioppilastutkintoasetustyöryhmä 1994: 1). The preparation and administration of the tests, and the final assessment of the exam papers, are the responsibility of the Matriculation Examination Board. The examination is held every spring and autumn at the same time in all upper secondary schools in Finland (Matriculation Examination Board 2008). To receive the matriculation examination certificate, the student must pass at least four exams in a maximum of three consecutive examination periods. Only the test in the candidate’s mother tongue is obligatory. The others can be chosen from among the following: the second national language, a foreign language, mathematics, and one or more tests in the general studies battery of tests (sciences and humanities). The candidates may also take optional tests (Matriculation Examination Board 2008). The foreign language test comprises “sections for listening and reading comprehension and sections demonstrating the candidate’s skill in written production in the language in question” (Matriculation Examination Board 2008). The examination consists of two distinct components, a listening comprehension test and a written test; these are held on separate dates (Matriculation Examination

216 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

Board 2007a: 1). The written part of the exam is further subdivided into three sections: Reading Comprehension, Grammar and Vocabulary, and Composition. In the listening test, both multiple-choice questions and open-ended questions are used. The questions may be either in Finnish or in English, and the candidates must submit answers in the language specified. The multiple-choice questions offer three to four alternatives. Both multiple-choice and open-ended questions are also used in the written part of the exam. In addition, the following task types are employed: multiple-choice gap filling, ‘productive’ gap filling, summary in Finnish, translation into Finnish or English, and composition (Matriculation Examination Board [1996–2005]).

3.

Concepts and terminology

As noted in the Introduction, our study was largely motivated by the fact that the matriculation examination in Finland does not include an obligatory speaking test, even though both the CEFR and the national core curriculum emphasize the importance of oral skills in foreign language teaching. In this section we introduce some central terms and concepts, and place the study in its theoretical context. In second language acquisition (SLA) studies, the development of the learner’s communicative skills, in both speaking and writing, has been of major interest since the introduction of the concept of communicative competence (Hymes 1972, Canale 1983). The definitions of the different components of communicative competence have varied to some extent, but there is common agreement that grammatical competence alone is far from enough for successful communication: language learners also need sociolinguistic, discoursal and strategic competence. These three competences, together defining the ability to use the target language naturally and appropriately, are in fact often referred jointly to as pragmatic competence. The realm of pragmatics constitutes a great challenge for language learners: they may inadvertently send the wrong message or misunderstand their interlocutors simply because of differences in pragmatic rules and conventions between their own culture and that of the target language. Interlanguage pragmatics, a field of study which focuses on these issues, can be said to examine non-native speakers’ acquisition, comprehension and production of linguistic action patterns in a second language (L2), including discourse regulation. The theoretical and empirical foundation of interlanguage pragmatics lies in general and particularly crosscultural pragmatics (Kasper and Blum-Kulka 1993: 3–4). In spoken language, interlanguage pragmatics extends beyond monolingual pragmatics. Assigning meaning to an utterance is an active and dynamic procedure. The meaning of an utterance is not derivable from the words as such or alone



Instructional writing on English 217

but is constructed by the hearer, often as an unconscious process of hypothesisformation and testing (Thomas 1996: 203). Successful communication is never self-evident even between two native speakers; in cross-cultural communication the task is even more challenging. In addition to lexical and syntactic choices, a conversation transmits metamessages in various ways, including interactional aspects as well as speech qualities such as intonation, rhythm and stress, pauses and speaker voice quality, and paraverbal and non-verbal features (Salo-Lee 1995: 160). These features add metamessages to L2 linguistic patterns, although they do not play a similar role in a native speaker’s pragmatic competence due to implicit L1 acquisition. Pragmatic failure occurs when the addressee is unable to interpret the implied meaning of an utterance. Cross-cultural pragmatic failure, then, takes place when an L2 speaker is unable to conform to the pragmatic conventions of the target culture. It is not necessarily due to the non-native speaker’s linguistic deficiency; the failure often lies in a communicative style that fails to achieve interactional and interpersonal goals (Nikula 1996: 31). For most speakers the pragmatic rules of the mother tongue are as unconscious as the syntactic ones. In interlanguage pragmatics it is possible to distinguish between sociopragmatic and pragmalinguistic failure. Second language learners suffer from sociopragmatic failure when due to cross-cultural differences the speaker neglects a cultural action required by the situation, for instance an apology or a compliment (Chapman 1997). Pragmalinguistic failure takes place when an utterance is grammatically correct but functionally confusing or contextually inappropriate: an inappropriate semantic or syntactic transfer from the native language (L1) may for instance occur when the same linguistic structures exist in both languages but fulfil a different pragmatic purpose (Nikula 1996: 32). Oral pragmatic failures undermine cross-cultural communication more than grammatical or lexical errors, because pragmatic failures are seldom recognised as language problems. Instead, they are interpreted as reflecting on the character of the speaker, who may then be considered rude, uncooperative, shy or overbearing. In fact, fluent L2 speakers with extensive vocabulary and good mastery of grammar are in even greater danger of being misinterpreted, since their seemingly effortless use of the foreign language may lead the interactant to expect the L2 learner to also adhere to the unconscious norms of the language (Nikula 1996: 31).

4.

The textbooks studied

The two textbook series for upper secondary schools analysed in this article were Culture Café and In Touch. These series are both based on the new national core

218 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

curriculum, which came into force on 1 August 2005. The Culture Café and In Touch series each comprise eight textbooks, one for each course. Each Culture Café and In Touch book is an independent unit, containing texts and exercises that follow the themes prescribed by the national core curriculum.

4.1 Culture Café Each Culture Café book is divided into four or five themes, which usually include two texts each. In addition there is an ‘Appetizer’, which leads up to the theme. Books 1–6 also contain a section called the ‘Recipe Book’, which gives hints on many aspects of learning English. The topics dealt with in the ‘Recipe Book’ include writing a composition, reading books, and giving an oral presentation. In books 7 and 8 the ‘Recipe Book’ has been replaced by a section entitled ‘Revision’, aimed at preparing for the matriculation examination. Each book also includes a ‘Self Service’ section, with additional exercises which students can do independently. An answer key is provided for these exercises. All the books in the Culture Café series contain vocabularies for the texts and alphabetical word-lists. They also each contain a section entitled ‘Today’s Specials’, offering practical tips for making learning and communication easier; these are often accompanied by references to the ‘Recipe Book’. There are small portfolio symbols, referring to a language portfolio that the student can compile during the course, and ‘Net Tips’, steering the student toward further information available on the Internet. Finally, the books contain quite a few ‘Fortune Cookies’, offering recreation and cultural knowledge. In addition to the textbooks, there is also a ‘Net Café’ at the publisher’s home­ page at www.otavanoppimateriaalit.net/culturec. Net Café offers quizzes and links, and separate exercises for each course. Moreover, there is a special ‘Teachers’ Corner’, providing additional information for teachers (Otava 2006). Customarily, the series also includes tests, teacher’s guides and audiotapes. In fact, Culture Café 1, 2, 3 and 7 include a student’s CD. The Culture Café series includes a separate grammar book, entitled Grammar Rules! (Silk, Mäki and Kjisik 2003). For this reason the student’s books do not contain any grammar sections, but merely suggestions for teachers as to what part of grammar should be covered in each course.

4.2 In Touch The In Touch series was designed slightly earlier than Culture Café. Indeed, In Touch was the first series based on the new national core curriculum for upper secondary schools (WSOY 2007). The structure of the In Touch books is very



Instructional writing on English 219

similar to that of Culture Café. Each book consists of approximately four units, followed by ‘Grammar’ and ‘Refresh’ sections. The ‘Grammar’ section consists of grammar rules and exercises. ‘Refresh’ in turn offers a revision of the words and structures learnt during the course, comparable to Culture Café’s ‘Self Service’ section. ‘Refresh’ also includes a key to the exercises. The In Touch books also contain ‘appetizers’, now entitled ‘Get Going’, as well as introductions preceding the main texts and listening comprehensions. All the In Touch books include wordlists, presented first unit by unit and then alphabetically. The In Touch exercises have been categorised under eleven titles. Although these are referred to as ‘task types’ in the table of contents, they do not refer to specific task types as such, but rather to the main focus of the exercise. For instance, exercises labelled ‘Understanding the Text’ include a wide variety of task types, from multiple choice to summarising the main content of the passage. The following titles are used: ‘Understanding the Text’, ‘Talking about the Text’, ‘Working with Words’, ‘Listening and Understanding’, ‘Practise your Pronunciation’, ‘Function Junction’, ‘Quick Fix’, ‘Idioms’, ‘Freehand’, ‘From Finnish into English’, and ‘Write On’. ‘Function Junction’ introduces communication strategies, often focusing on how to behave politely in the English-speaking world. Every ‘Function Junction’ also includes an oral exercise which gives students a chance to practise their newly learnt skills. ‘Quick Fix’ deals with areas that are problematic specifically for Finns. ‘Freehand’ and ‘Write On’ both contain writing tasks, but the ‘Freehand’ tasks are shorter. Besides the exercises, the In Touch series offers additional information and resources. There are ‘Tool Box’ hints, covering topics such as how to use a dictionary, or the differences between active and passive vocabulary. The In Touch books also include ‘Culture Tips’ and words that are hyperlinked; the In Touch home­ page offers more information on these hyperlinked words. Some In Touch books also include special task types and tips, most notably the ‘Exam Tips’ and ‘Exam Focus’ exercises in In Touch 7 and 8. Generally speaking, all the exercise types and the different kinds of tips occur in all the books. In addition to the textbooks and the homepage, the In Touch series includes materials for teachers, test packs and audiotapes. In Touch 1, 2, 4 and 8 also contain a student’s CD/CD-ROM-disc. Unlike Culture Café, the In Touch series does not have a separate grammar book; the series, however, includes a book called Back-up English, meant for those who want to revise their English before upper secondary school (WSOY 2007).

220 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

4.3 Material analysed for this study The analysis reported in this article was based on the exercises in the English textbooks Culture Café and In Touch. The reason for the exclusion of the actual texts in the chapters was that detecting ‘washback’ in tasks is far easier than finding it in texts. (This term will be defined below.) Moreover, due to practical constraints, the amount of material had to be limited. We were interested in spoken language and oral pragmatic features in the textbooks; it was evident that these would not be found in the texts, which predominantly represent the conventions of written language. For the oral pragmatics study, the student’s textbooks were examined in their entirety.

5.

Textbook washback of the Finnish matriculation examination

In this section, the focus will be on the Finnish matriculation examination and its washback effect. More specifically, we examine how the English textbooks used in Finnish upper secondary schools are affected by the absence of an oral component in the exam. The section is divided into three subsections, of which the first briefly presents the concept of washback. After that we present our methods and materials, while the focus in the third subsection is on our findings and the possible role of washback in explaining them.

5.1

Washback and textbook washback

Washback can be defined as the “influence of testing on teaching and learning” (Cheng and Curtis 2004: 3). The term washback is used specifically in reference to language testing; in general education the notion of impact is often employed to refer to the effects of testing, but in a broader sense than is encompassed by washback (Hamp-Lyons 1997: 297). In washback research per se one is thus concerned with language testing, although research in the field of general education is in many ways very similar. Different terms, however, may be employed, such as curriculum alignment or measurement-driven instruction. As Alderson and Wall (1993: 117) state in their groundbreaking article, the term ‘washback’ – unlike ‘curriculum alignment’ or ‘measurement-driven instruction’ – is neutral, although washback can be either positive or negative. A positive washback effect emerges when a test is used for achieving educational goals (Heyneman 1987: 260). In constructing a test, one should bear in mind the objectives of the course and use the testing format that best matches the objectives to produce positive washback



Instructional writing on English 221

(Brown and Hudson 2002: 49). Authenticity is generally seen as the most efficacious way of promoting positive washback. Performance tests are claimed to have the best washback, as teaching for them at the same time prepares the candidates for real-life communicative situations beyond the test (McNamara 1996: 23). Negative washback in turn consists of a test’s undesirable effect on teaching. The most serious such negative consequence of testing is considered to be the narrowing of the curriculum: “[w]hat is tested is what is likely to be taught and what is not tested is likely to be ignored” (Kellaghan and Greaney 1992: 57). It is worth pointing out that teaching to the test is not good or bad in the abstract (Mehrens and Kaminski 1989: 14). As Takala (1985: 26) wittily puts it, “the testing tail wagging the teaching dog” does not need to be a problem as long as the tail is compatible with the dog. Whether concentrating students’ efforts on items that will be tested is good or bad depends on whether one considers the test valid and significant. If one agrees that the test represents meaningful learning, then testing can be a productive tool in encouraging educators to focus on valued skills (Herman and Golan 1993: 24). It has been suggested, for example, that if performance tests could be designed to be so closely linked with the aims of teaching that the two were almost indistinguishable, teaching to the test would become a virtue (Cheng and Curtis 2004: 16). Nevertheless, one should bear in mind that washback is not an inherent quality of a test, and thus what may produce positive washback in one context may cause harmful effects elsewhere. The term textbook washback was first used in 1994 by Hiu Por Lam in his article ‘Methodology washback – an insider’s view’ (Lam in Bailey 1999: 7). Textbook washback refers to the influence examinations have on textbooks. Noteworthily, the influence may also be reverse: textbooks may affect exams (Bailey 1999: 30). Although teaching materials have been identified as one of the areas that are susceptible to washback (Sprat 2005: 26), there has been as yet a very limited number of studies with textbooks as their main concern. According to Bailey (1999: 30), textbook washback “may be particularly important, or at least most noticeable” when there is a change in an existing exam or a new exam is introduced. In this regard, textbook washback is no different from other types of washback. Noting a change in a textbook as a result of a new exam is obviously easier than observing the influence of an existing exam. That textbooks have not received more attention in washback research is surprising, given that the textbook is “an integral component of the educational process” (Davies 1999: 337) and that “the authority of knowing” has been observed to rest with teachers and textbooks (Wideen et al. 1997: 441). It has also been suggested that the mediating role of publishers and textbook writers together with teachers explains the indirectness and unpredictability of washback (Andrews, Fullilove and Wong 2002: 221). Bailey (1999: 32) underscores the occurrence of two distinct

222 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

phases in the interface between textbooks and washback. First, new texts are generated by textbook writers; second, teachers employ the texts to instruct students. In discussing textbook washback, one must bear in mind the differences between teaching and learning. Although materials can contribute to learning in some way, they will not determine its entire content.

5.2 Materials and methods The purpose of our study was to investigate whether the matriculation examination does actually exert the negative washback that large-scale tests in multiple-choice format are generally asserted to have. The Culture Café and In Touch textbook series were analysed to determine whether any evidence of a narrowing of the curriculum was to be found. As the matriculation examination does not include an oral component, the lack of oral exercises was considered a possible indication of curricular narrowing due to the examination. The core curriculum was also examined, to allow differentiating between washback from the matriculation examination and the role of the curriculum itself. The national curriculum and the matriculation examination are interconnected; thus any changes in the curriculum should also be reflected in the examination (Ylioppilastutkintoasetustyöryhmä 1994: 7). Obviously, the study cannot answer questions about what actually happens in the classroom. Rather, our purpose was to investigate whether textbooks offer an equal amount of practice in all four skills, or whether the absence of an oral component in the matriculation exam narrows down the curriculum at textbook level. Our hypothesis was that there would be fewer oral exercises in the courses right before the examination. The analysis was conducted in spring 2006 as part of research for an MA thesis (Vainio 2006). The exercises in the textbooks were classified according to whether they focused on listening, reading, speaking or writing. An exercise was labelled according to the skill on which it primarily focused, allowing the calculation of the relative share of each of the four skill areas. For the sake of simplicity, grammar and vocabulary tasks were excluded in calculating the relative share of each skill. In classifying the exercises, special attention was given to pronunciation tasks. The number of pronunciation exercises in each book was counted, as the initial analysis suggested that pronunciation might be one of the areas where the examination narrows down the scope of teaching. Improved pronunciation skills result in a better score in an oral test, but do not help in other kinds of tests. Thus there might not be sufficient motivation to practise pronunciation in the courses just prior to the examination. Pronunciation exercises were naturally classified as oral exercises, but their number was also counted separately.



Instructional writing on English 223

5.3 Results and discussion In the matriculation examination, only three of the four skills are tested. Table 1 gives an overview of the percentage of exercises in the textbooks focusing on each skill. Grammar and vocabulary exercises were ignored in the calculations; thus listening, reading, speaking and writing tasks together account for 100% of the exercises. Table 1 shows that the average percentages for both textbook series are very similar: around 17% of the tasks concentrate on listening and 30% on reading. In the case of writing and speaking, the difference between the series is four percentage points. In any case, speaking exercises comprise the largest group in both textbook series. The speaking exercises, however, are not evenly distributed over the eight courses. As can be seen in Table 2, the highest number of speaking exercises in both series occurs in books 1, 2 and 3. This finding is supported by the publishers’ homepages. According to the Culture Café homepage, speech production plays a central role “in the first courses” (Otava 2007; our translation), while the In Touch homepage notes that oral communication is an area of special emphasis in courses 1 and 2 (WSOY 2007). That Culture Café 3 has as many as 32 speaking exercises is partly due to chapter 10, which includes four texts followed by two speaking exercises each. The intention is for each student to read only one text; thus most students would not actually complete all eight speaking exercises. However, even if only two speaking exercises rather than eight were counted for chapter 10 in Culture Café 3, the book would still include 26 speaking exercises. The In Touch books include a special exercise category, called ‘Practise your Pronunciation’. This category, however, is employed only in the first five books of the series. In Touch 6 includes a page of tongue twisters, and there is an exercise called ‘Pronunciation Pitfalls’ in book 8, but these are not labelled as ‘Practise Table 1.  The distribution of exercises on different skills in the Culture Café and In Touch series Textbook series

Listening

Reading

Speaking

Writing

Culture Café In Touch

17% 16%

29% 30%

39% 35%

15% 19%

Table 2.  The number and percentage of speaking exercises Course

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

Culture Café   In Touch  

27 47% 21 42%

29 46% 22 49%

32 44% 20 39%

20 36% 15 28%

18 33% 15 29%

16 33% 17 35%

18 34% 10 29%

17 35% 13 26%

224 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

your Pronunciation’ exercises (In Touch 6: 49, In Touch 8: 86). In Touch 1 contains three ‘Practise your Pronunciation’ exercises, whereas books 2–5 comprise two pronunciation exercises each. These pronunciation exercises focus for example on word stress, silent letters, shifting stress, and similar-sounding words. The Culture Café books do not contain a separate category for pronunciation exercises, but there are some pronunciation tasks where students are asked to listen and repeat certain words and phrases. The tasks focus for instance on the distinction between [p] and [b], the various sibilants in English, and linking. The matriculation examination seems to exert some washback on the number of speaking exercises, but it is hard to judge whether the change in the number of speaking exercises is due to washback from the matriculation exam or to some other cause. In many cases, the national core curriculum offers a rival explanation. As the curriculum and the examination are intertwined, it is difficult to say which is cause and which effect. Generally speaking, only when textbooks clearly differ from the recommendations of the national core curriculum can one be fairly certain that the departure from the curriculum is caused by washback from the examination. Thus, although the number and percentage of speaking exercises was higher in the first three courses than in the other five, it would be rash to attribute this to washback from the matriculation examination. After all, the emphasis on speaking in the textbooks for the first courses is no coincidence, but stems from the national core curriculum, where oral skills are emphasised in courses 1 and 2, briefly referred to in courses 3 and 4, but not mentioned at all in the last courses (Finnish National Board of Education 2003: 101–102). One may of course consider the role of the matriculation examination in designing the national core curriculum. It can be suggested that the curriculum emphasises speaking in the first two courses because they come long before the final examination, which does not have an oral component; but naturally there may also be other reasons for the emphasis on oral skills in the first courses. For example, the position of the first courses as a transitional phase from lower secondary school – where speaking plays a major role – to upper secondary school is worth considering. Moreover, learning to speak before learning to write is after all the natural order of language acquisition. The matriculation examination may not in itself account for the differences in the number of oral exercises, but that the exam affects the curriculum is apparent. For example, the national core curriculum could hardly emphasise speaking skills in the last two courses instead of the first two or three. This would be paradoxical, considering that speaking skills are not tested in the final exam. In sum, there is some washback affecting the positioning of speaking exercises in the textbooks. There is a fairly clear difference between the first three courses and the others, but this difference can be explained either by the national core curriculum, the ma-



Instructional writing on English 225

triculation examination, or a combination of the two. The last explanation seems most plausible. In any case, ‘narrowing of the curriculum’ is too strong an expression in referring to the number of speaking exercises in the textbooks. Speaking skills are not ignored at any point; they are merely practised less frequently in the last courses. Washback can perhaps be seen more clearly in the number of pronunciation exercises than in the number of oral exercises in general. In the national core curriculum for the upper secondary school, pronunciation is mentioned only in an appendix on the Common European Framework levels. As pronunciation is not mentioned anywhere else in the curriculum, we can conclude that its role is not seen as very central in language acquisition. Perhaps this is why the textbooks do not include many pronunciation exercises. The national core curriculum, however, does not explain why there are even fewer pronunciation exercises in the final courses. The general lack of attention to pronunciation explains the scarcity of pronunciation exercises in the textbooks, but washback seems the most plausible explanation for their even smaller number in the last courses. Accurate pronunciation is not a skill valued in the matriculation examination. Our findings suggest that the matriculation examination is not the only force that drives the textbooks; far from it. Speaking exercises are offered in all courses, even though oral skills are not tested in the final exam. Nonetheless, it should be kept in mind that the classroom situation may be very different. Although there is not much washback at the textbook level, in the classroom the washback effect is probably visible. Especially in the last courses the matriculation examination is likely to guide the actions of both teachers and students. What is important is that the textbooks themselves do not restrict the processes of teaching and learning by focusing on the examination alone.

6.

Oral pragmatic instruction in Finnish upper secondary school English textbooks

6.1

Oral pragmatics in language teaching

In SLA, pragmatics comprises speech acts, conversational structure, conversational implicature, conversational management, discourse organization, as well as sociolinguistic aspects of language use (Bardovi-Harlig and Mahan-Taylor 2003). Pragmatic competence operates beyond word and sentence level and is language-specific. However, as its significance to successful communication is not perceived by language learners before relatively advanced stages of communicative competence, pragmatics poses a challenge for SLA instruction. This applies

226 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

to EFL teachers as well: Kasper and Rose (1999: 86) found that although both native and non-native teachers recognise more grammatical than pragmatic errors in speech, only native teachers consider pragmatic violations as the more serious hindrance for communication. Oral pragmatics has been neglected in foreign language teaching curricula, both in classroom teaching and teacher training programmes at universities (Bardovi-Harlig and Mahan-Taylor 2003). The present Finnish national core curriculum for upper secondary schools, based on CEFR guidelines, includes oral pragmatics as part of instruction of English as the first foreign language. To give some examples of target level pragmatic competence, a Finnish upper secondary school graduate can – intervene appropriately in discussion, exploiting appropriate language to do so – initiate, maintain and end discourse appropriately with effective turntaking – use stock phrases (e.g. ‘That’s a difficult question to answer’) to gain time and keep the turn whilst formulating what to say – interact with a degree of fluency and spontaneity that makes regular interaction with native speakers quite possible without strain for either party – adjust to the changes of direction, style and emphasis normally found in conversation [and] vary formulation of what he/she wants to say. (CEFR 2001: 124–129) Bardovi-Harlig and Mahan-Taylor (2003) found that even advanced L2 students, regardless of their L1 background or level of English proficiency, are dispersed on the scale of pragmatic proficiency. It has been assumed that cultural information is conveyed implicitly through teacher-student interaction in language classrooms; this is now referred to as an indirect teaching approach (Kasper and Rose 1999: 96). However, even when language learners have a pragmatically competent EFL teacher, exposure to sociopragmatically appropriate input alone is not necessarily sufficient for acquiring L2 pragmatic knowledge. Schmidt (1993: 26) points out that intake comprises only what students notice of the linguistic input, whereas understanding relates to how this knowledge is organised into a linguistic system. Without direct pragmatic instruction, it is not certain that all language learners would discern the interlanguage pragmatic elements necessary for transmitting their communicative intent, much less construct a systematic pragmatic framework on their own. Explicit pragmatic instruction assists pragmatic development, both in production and comprehension (Kasper 1997). Direct teaching of pragmatic features also compensates for the untypical discourse of language classrooms that is rarely



Instructional writing on English 227

encountered in authentic speaking situations: the teacher is an authority figure, whereas learners act as a group. Consequently, EFL classroom linguistic input contains a narrower range of speech acts, a lack of politeness marking, shorter and less complex openings and closings, monopolization of discourse organization and management by the teacher, and, subsequently, a limited range of discourse markers and use of affective particles in teacher talk (Kasper and Rose 1999: 96). The direct instruction of pragmatic aspects increases pragmatic awareness and sensitivity to pragmatically different options.

6.2 Research question and tools The present Finnish national core curriculum for upper secondary school English as the first foreign language follows the CEFR guidelines (CEFR 2001). In English oral proficiency, the Finnish National Board of Education (2003: 100) requires that Finnish upper secondary school graduates can communicate in a manner typical of the language and its culture. Consequently, the core curriculum contains oral pragmatics, but speaking is the only one of the four communicative skills that is excluded from the final examination. Authors of English textbook series must select which linguistic aspects to prioritise to fulfil the requirements of the national core curriculum while not overburdening students preparing for the matriculation examination with too much undue information. They also must decide how much focus to give to oral pragmatics and whether the pragmatic material in the textbooks is explicit or implicit. We examined the occurrence of oral pragmatic features in these textbook series, either as direct metapragmatic information in text or indirect inclusion of oral pragmatic elements, typically in oral exercises where the focus lies in other areas of speaking skills, such as lexical or phonological aspects (Taanila-Hall 2006). The textbook authors’ view on oral pragmatics shows in the quantity and quality of the pragmatic features they choose to introduce. We have examined how many occasions there are for a student in the course of eight textbooks to become acquainted with oral English pragmatic features and if the opportunity has been used to increase L2 metapragmatic awareness.

6.3 Results and discussion Culture Café and In Touch alike treat oral pragmatic elements both explicitly and implicitly. A direct explicit approach presents a theoretical explanation to connect the pragmatic feature in question to a larger pragmatic context. Pragmatic theory may also be complemented by a list of phrases normally used in the

228 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

Table 3.  The types of direct and indirect pragmatic references in two Finnish upper secondary school English textbook series Culture Café

In Touch

Total

references %

references %

references %

Theory Theory + List of Phrases Theory + Exercise Theory + List + Exercise DIRECT APPROACH

 1  4  8  5 18

   5   20   40   25   90

 1  0  6  2  9

   7    0   40   13   60

 2  4 14  7 27

   6   11   40   20   77

List of Phrases Exercise List of Phrases + Exercise INDIRECT APPROACH

 1  1  0  2

   5    5    0   10

 0  0  6  6

   0    0   40   40

 1  1  6  8

   3    3   17   23

PRAGMATIC REFERENCES TOTAL

20

100

15

100

35

100

specific pragmatic context. At times, the textbooks also provide an opportunity to practise the same pragmatic feature in an exercise, facilitating the integration of theory. The indirect approach indicates implicit input, without a mention of a pragmatic framework. Table 3 shows that oral pragmatic elements occur 35 times in the sixteen textbooks of the two textbook series, averaging 2.2 mentions per textbook. In practice, nearly all references are found in the first three textbooks with the main focus on speaking skills, following the guidelines of the national core curriculum. The only exception is In Touch 4, which contains two exercises with pragmatic phrase lists without theoretical pragmatic context. There would be ample space for oral pragmatic references in the latter part of the series where students should have achieved a higher level of communicative competence and therefore a better appreciation of the significance of oral pragmatic aspects in successful communication. The most common context for oral pragmatic features in the textbooks is in the form of an exercise: 80% of all references were in connection with an exercise, either with a theoretical framework (60% of total references) or without it (20% of total references). A list of phrases was provided for pragmatic mentions in 51% of all cases; 37% in connection with an exercise and 14% as isolated phrase lists for future use to be applied in speech acts. Practically all indirect pragmatic references were placed in oral exercises with an emphasis on other aspects of oral communicative skills, such as lexis or flu-



Instructional writing on English 229

ency. With the focal point elsewhere, the pragmatic aspect may easily be lost on the student and it is debatable whether these references reach L2 learners’ pragmatic awareness without teacher intervention. Nearly all indirect references also contain a list of pragmatic phrases. Without a mention of the English pragmatic context, the phrase list may appear solely as a list of lexical choices, and the meaning of each item is derived as a translation from L1, instead of understanding the pragmatic implications of different alternatives. The analysis of pragmatic reference types reveals a basic difference between the two textbook series. Culture Café places more emphasis on a theoretical framework: practically all of its pragmatic references were direct, whereas In Touch provided a theoretical explanation for approximately half of its pragmatic mentions. Culture Café, true to its name, provides the student with a considerable amount of culturally related information in a separate section at the end of the textbooks, whereas In Touch disperses isolated pragmatic mentions in chapters and exercises. The pragmatic handbook section of Culture Café enhances the idea that English does not differ from Finnish only lexically and syntactically, but also socially and culturally. The length and depth of these texts allows for more pragmatic coverage than the brief but concise explanations of In Touch, which presents practically all oral pragmatic references in the context of an exercise, half of them backed up with a theoretical pragmatic framework. This assists intake of a specific pragmatic feature by immediate practice, which places theory in a comprehensible context. Also half of all pragmatic mentions provide a relevant phrase list. On the other hand, nearly every second oral pragmatic reference is indirect, appearing as an isolated incident without any mention of a larger pragmatic context. We have looked at the oral pragmatic references in two series of upper secondary school English textbooks. Although the majority of pragmatic occurrences in both book series referred to an explicit oral pragmatic framework, it is questionable whether indirect mentions should even be considered oral pragmatic features when, without a spotlight on the pragmatic aspect, they are not likely to reach student awareness. Overall, the number of references (20 in Culture Café, 15 in In Touch) is too low to cover the wide field of oral pragmatics, especially since 40% of the mentions in In Touch were indirect. Culture Café places more emphasis on creating an oral pragmatic framework, leaving only 10% of pragmatic references without a theoretical context. Without further instruction, there will be serious flaws in Finnish upper secondary school graduates’ communicative skills: the oral pragmatic references are too few to ensure automatised oral competence of the B2.1 Independent User Vantage level provided by the national core curriculum.

230 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

7.

Conclusion

According to the findings of the present analysis, the influence of the two documents, The Common European Framework of Reference for Languages and the national core curriculum, on English textbooks used in the upper secondary schools in Finland does not seem to be particularly strong, as far as oral pragmatics is concerned. It seems that the matriculation examination, which does not include a compulsory speaking test, may have a stronger effect on the textbooks. Of course, there may be other reasons for the scarcity of oral (and especially pronunciation) exercises in the last English courses prior to the matriculation examination, but washback of the examination is a very likely factor. The references to oral pragmatics in the textbooks are few in relation to the scope of eight textbooks. Furthermore, nearly a quarter of the pragmatic mentions are indirect, appearing to an L2 student more as lexical choices than nuances of oral pragmatics.

References Primary sources Benmergui, Raquel, Lampinen, Anni, Leinonen-Nuorgam, Sanna, Mäki, Jaakko, Päkkilä, Teijo and Silk, Riitta. 2004. Culture Café courses 1–8. Keuruu: Otava. Davies, Mikael, Mäkelä, Ann-Mari, Nikkanen, Lynn, Sutela, Tuula, Säteri, Leena and Vuorinen, Petri. 2004. In Touch courses 1–8. Porvoo: WSOY.

Secondary sources Alderson, J. Charles and Wall, Dianne. 1993. “Does washback exist?” Applied Linguistics 14: 115–129. Andrews, Stephen, Fullilove, John and Wong, Yama. 2002. “Targeting washback – a case study.” System 30: 207–223. Bailey, Kathleen M. 1999. Washback in Language Testing. (TOEFL Monograph Series, 15.) Princeton: Educational Testing Service. Bardovi-Harlig, Kathleen and Mahan-Taylor, Rebecca. 2003. “Introduction to Teaching Pragmatics.” Brown, James Dean and Hudson, Thom. 2002. Criterion-Referenced Language Testing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Canale, Michael. 1983. “From communicative competence to communicative language pedagogy.” In Language and Communication, Jack C. Richards and Richard W. Schmidt (eds), 2–26. New York: Longman. CEFR = Council of Europe. 2001. Common European Framework of Reference for Languages. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.



Instructional writing on English 231

Chapman, David. 1997. “Computer Mediated Communication and Japanese Immersion: investigating the potential.” On-Call 11 (1): 12–18. (Accessed April 22, 2007). Cheng, Liying and Curtis, Andy. 2004. “Washback or backwash: A review of the impact of testing on teaching and learning.” In Washback in Language Testing: Research Contexts and Methods, Liying Cheng, Yoshinori Watanabe and Andy Curtis (eds), 3–17. Mahwah: Lawrence Erlbaum. Davies, F. I. 1999. “Textbooks.” In Concise Encyclopedia of Educational Linguistics, Bernard Spolsky (ed.), 337–343. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Dörnyei, Zoltan and Thurrell, Sarah. 1992. Conversations and Dialogues in Action. Hemel Hempstead: Prentice Hall. Edwards, Melinda and Csizér, Kata. 2004. “Developing Pragmatic Competence in the EFL Classroom.” Finlex. 2005. Valtioneuvoston asetus ylioppilastutkinnosta. Finnish National Board of Education. 2003. Lukion opetussuunnitelman perusteet 2003 (National Core Curriculum for Upper Secondary Schools 2003). Helsinki: Opetushallitus. Finnish National Board of Education. 2006. “General upper secondary education.” Hamp-Lyons, Liz. 1997. “Washback, impact and validity: Ethical concerns.” Language Testing 14: 295–303. Herman, Joan L. and Golan, Shari. 1993. “The effects of standardized testing on teaching and schools.” Educational Measurement: Issues and Practice 12 (4): 20–25. Heyneman, Stephen P. 1987. “Uses of examinations in developing countries: Selection, research, and education sector management.” International Journal of Educational Development 7: 251–263. House, Juliane. 1996. “Developing pragmatic fluency in English as a foreign language: routines and metapragmatic awareness.” Studies in Second Language Acquisition 18 (2): 225–252. Hymes, Dell H. 1972. “On communicative competence.” In Sociolinguistics, J. B. Pride and Janet Holmes (eds), 269-293. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Kasper, Gabriele. 1997. “Can pragmatic competence be taught?” University of Hawaii: Second Language Teaching & Curriculum Center. Kasper, Gabriele and Blum-Kulka, Shoshana (eds). 1993. Interlanguage Pragmatics. New York: Oxford University Press. Kasper, Gabriele and Rose, Kenneth R. 1999. “Pragmatics and SLA.” Annual Review of Applied Linguistics 19: 81–104. Kellaghan, Thomas and Greaney, Vincent. 1992. Using Examinations to Improve Education: A Study in Fourteen African Countries. Washington: The World Bank. Matriculation Examination Board. [1996–2005]. English: Pitkä oppimäärä. Unpublished exam papers. Matriculation Examination Board. 2007a. Kielikokeen määräykset ja ohjeet. Matriculation Examination Board. 2007b. Ylioppilastutkinto 2007: Tilastoja ylioppilastutkinnosta.

232 Päivi Pietilä, Leena Taanila-Hall and Sonja Vainio

Matriculation Examination Board. 2008. “The Finnish matriculation examination.” McNamara, Tim. 1996. Measuring Second Language Performance. London: Longman. Mehrens, William A. and Kaminski, John. 1989. “Methods for improving standardized test scores: fruitful, fruitless, or fraudulent?” Educational Measurement: Issues and Practice 8 (1): 14–22. Nikula, Tarja. 1996. Pragmatic Force Modifiers: A Study in Interlanguage Pragmatics. Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä. Otava. 2007. Culture Café. Salo-Lee, Liisa. 1995. “Kulttuurienvälisten viestintätaitojen oppiminen: ‘Prosessipuhuminen’ keinona tehokkaaseen vieraskieliseen suulliseen ilmaisuun. (Learning Intercultural Communicative Skills: ‘Process speaking’ as a means to effective L2 oral expression).” In Kieli & kulttuuri oppimisessa ja opettamisessa (Language & Culture in Learning and Teaching), Liisa Salo-Lee (ed.), 152–162. Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä. Schmidt, Richard. 1993. “Consciousness, learning and interlanguage pragmatics.” In Interlanguage Pragmatics, Gabriele Kasper and Shoshana Blum-Kulka (eds), 21–42. New York: Oxford University Press. Spratt, Mary. 2005. “Washback and the classroom: The implications for teaching and learning of studies of washback from exams.” Language Teaching Research 9: 5–29. Taanila-Hall, Leena. 2006. Pragmatic Features in Finnish High School English Textbooks. Unpublished Master’s Thesis. University of Turku. Takala, Sauli. 1985. “Criterion-referenced testing in foreign language teaching.” In Language Testing in School: AFinLA Yearbook 1985, Viljo Kohonen and Antti J. Pitkänen (eds), 9–32. Tampere: The Finnish Association for Applied Linguistics. Thomas, Jenny. 1996. Meaning in Interaction. An Introduction to Pragmatics. London: Longman. Tilastokeskus. 2007. Lukiokoulutuksen päättäneiden kielivalinnat 2007. Vainio, Sonja. 2006. Does Multiple-Choice Testing Lead to Multiple-Choice Teaching? Textbook Washback of the Finnish Matriculation Examination in English. Unpublished Master’s Thesis. University of Turku. Verschueren, Jef. 1999. Understanding Pragmatics. New York: Arnold. White, Ron. 1997. “Going Round in Circles: English as an International Language, and CrossCultural Capability.” Wideen, Marvin F., O’Shea, Thomas, Pye, Ivy and Ivany, George. 1997. “High-stakes testing and the teaching of science.” Canadian Journal of Education 22: 428–444. WSOY. 2007. “In Touch ja lukion opetussuunnitelman perusteet.” Ylioppilastutkintoasetustyöryhmä. 1994. Ylioppilastutkintoasetustyöryhmän muistio. Helsinki: Yliopistopaino. Yule, George. 1996. Pragmatics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Index

A academic writing  201 address term  122 addressee see audience adjective  59, 75, 111, 199 admonitory language  143, 158 advice book  9, 187, 188, 207, 208 advice literature  6 advisor  142 see also teacher Ælfric of Eynsham 6, 9, 13, 15–20, 22–26, 29, 30 Catholic Homilies (Sermones Catholici)  15, 16 Colloquy  16 Letter to the Monks of Eynsham  16 Aesop  165, 176 see also fable Agrippa, Henry Cornelius: De Nobilitate & Praecellentia Foeminei Sexus  127 Algarotti, Francesco  179 Neutonianismo per le dame (Newtonianism for the Ladies)  179, 180 Allestree, Richard: The Gentleman’s Calling  143, The Ladies Calling  143 alphabet  96, 97, 164, 167, 172, 174 Ancrene Wisse  2, 8, 35–52, 95, 126n Anglo-Saxon see Old English answer see question appendix  189, 190, 200, 201 Arbuthnot, John  193 Aristotle  107, 108, 115, 118 artes praedicandi  15, 17, 18 Audelay, John  83 audience anticipated  166, 190 children as  161–179, 181–185 experts as  68, 79 female  35–38, 87, 97, 128, 130, 134, 138, 147, 151, 207

intended  2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 22, 37, 48, 79, 87, 126, 129, 132, 133, 142, 167, 192, 201 lay  15n, 29, 38, 87, 187, 201 learned  9, 29 male  9, 38, 87, 127, 144, 192n, 207 men as  141 mothers as  148, 149, 192 parents as  9, 108, 141, 164, 169–177 professional  4, 8, 9, 58, 79n, 107, 116, 122, 123 role of  2, 4, 7–9 target  116 women as  9, 35, 37, 38, 48, 49, 119, 126–130, 141, 143, 144–149, 152, 154–156, 158, 159 Augustine: De doctrina christiana  15 authorities, used in instructional writing 15, 29, 106, 113, 115, 118, 147 authority, constructed in instructional writing  47, 111, 118, 128, 129, 177, 188, 191, 192–194, 196–198, 200, 207, 208 Avicenna  118 B Bailey, Kathleen M.  221 Banks, Sir Joseph  191 Bardovi-Harlig, Kathleen  226 Biber, Douglas  43 Bible as conduct book  143 instructive use of  17, 18, 47, 143, 145, 146, 148, 150 Proverbs  145–147, 150 reading  92, 144, 147, 164 stories  119 Wycliffite translation of  88, 90, 91, 96 biblical style  121 Blake, William: Songs of Experience  170, Songs of Innocence  170 blurb  5 Book of Common Prayer  92 book ownership  8 book price  88, 89, 171

234 Instructional Writing in English

book production  3, 87, 88, 168, 178 see also publishing book of hours  87, 91 see also primer du Bosque, Jacques: The Secretary of Ladies  128, 130n Buchan, William  187, 189, 190–195, 197–202, 204, 205, 207, 208 Domestic Medicine  187–208 Bullein, William  105–108, 118, 123 Bulleins Bulwarke  107, 116 The Feuer Pestilence  108n The Gouernement of Health  107, 108, 115, 118–120 Bunyan, John: The Pilgrim’s Progress  166 Butler, Sharon  57, 59n, 60, 62, 76 C calendar  6, 70, 83–98 Care, Henry  125–138 Female Pre-eminence  127 The Female Secretary 125–138 Channell, Joanna  55, 56, 60–69, 75, 78 chapbook  164, 166 Chapman, Alison A.  84, 85 Chaucer, Geoffrey  84, 85n “An ABC”  84 child-rearing  142, 143, 149, 169, 177, 189 children’s book  7, 9, 161–183 citation  18, 23, 118 see also authorities, quotation classroom  211, 222, 225–227 closing  66n, 133, 227 command  45, 52, 113, 150, 151 The Common European Framework of Reference for Languages (CEFR)  211–214, 216, 226, 227 competence communicative  215–217, 220, 225–232 pragmatic  212, 213, 216, 217, 225, 226 sociolinguistic  212, 213, 216 conceptual category  66, 67, 72 conduct book  6, 8, 84, 85, 96, 141–144, 150, 158 conversation, as instruction  108, 114, 121 cookbook  55, 58, 69, 75, 80 see also recipe collection Cooper, Mary  167 corpus  3, 14n, 59, 68, 75 correspondence see letter writing counsel  47, 50, 151 counselor  147

Culpeper, Nicholas: The English Physitian  200 curriculum  211–215, 221, 222, 224–227, 230 curriculum alignment  220 see also washback D Dahl, Roald: Sweet Valley High series  163, The Twits  163 Day, Angel  128, 131, 132 The English Secretorie  128 Daybell, James  133 declarative clause  196, 200 de Deguilleville, Guillaume: La pelerinaige de la vie humaine  84n, 85n dedication  86, 191 Defoe, Daniel: Robinson Crusoe  164, 166 deixis  150–152, 203 deontic function 117, 201–205, 208 see also modal auxiliary devotional text  37, 52, 87, 91, 143 diachronic research  3, 206 dialogic form  7, 105 dialogicality  137 dialogue, didactic epistolary model  125–138 medical  9, 105–123 mimetic  107 scientific  179, 180 didactic writing see instructional writing diet book  198 Diller, Hans-Jürgen  3 direction  57, 71, 88, 130, 131, 133, 172n see also instruction discourse behavioural  5, 14 community  206 medical  206 procedural  5, 14 scientific  206 discourse community  206 E Early Middle English  2, 35–38 Early Modern English  3, 4, 105, 106, 114n, 128, 201n education children’s  164–166, 169, 170, 178 in Finland  213–215 of laity  2 reading  87, 164



women’s  38, 49, 52, 126, 144 Enlightenment  170, 183, 192 epistemic function  201–205 see also modal auxiliary epistle see letter, letter writing exemplum  17 see also narrative, story exercise  6, 218, 219, 222–225, 227–230 exhortation  27, 143, 151, 158, 176 F fable  166, 174 see also Aesop first-person pronoun see pronoun foreword  86, 191 Forme of Cury  55–80 French  35, 62, 63, 83n–85n, 128, 165, 179n, 193 front matter  189, 191, 193, 202, 203, 207 see also preliminaries Fulwood, William: The Enimie of Idlenesse  128 G Galen  113, 115, 116, 118, 119 gender  142, 144, 153, 158, 192 Genette, Gérard  87 genre and paratext  87 appendix as  200, 201 conduct literature as  142 conventions  16, 29 defined  5 expectations  7 of sermons  18 glossary  189, 191, 201 Görlach, Manfred  56, 57 grammar  15, 25, 40, 45, 214, 216–219, 222, 223, 226 Gregory: Cura pastoralis  15 guidance  38, 39, 58, 96, 143, 213 guideline curriculum  212, 226–228 ethical  141 for preaching and teaching  15 guide calendar as  84–86 health  6, 106, 188, 189 longevity  188, 189, 201n self-help  3, 143

Index 235

H Hali Meiðhad  37, 38, 42, 48 Halifax, George Saville: The Lady’s New-Year’s Gift  143 handbook see also manual as instructive literature  105 for preachers  15 letter-writing  126, 129 medical  106, 107, 123 rhetorical  15, 16 Haruf, Kent: Plainsong  73 heading  67, 93 see also rubric, subtitle, title Henisch, Bridget Ann  55, 58, 67, 72, 74 herbal  7, 188, 200 Hieatt, Constance B.  57, 58n, 59n, 60, 74, 76, 78, 79, 80n Hiltunen, Risto  1, 5, 9, 36, 40, 43, 49, 59, 126n, 153, 206 Hippocrates  114, 118 historical pragmatics  106, 123 homily  2, 3, 9, 13, 15–22, 25, 28–30, 37 see also preaching, sermon Huxham, John  193 I ideology  142, 158, 169 illustration see image image, didactic use of  85, 93, 172, 173, 178 imperative  5, 28, 39, 40, 45, 65, 112, 131, 150, 151, 200, 208 imprecision see vagueness initial, in manuscript books  38, 84, 88 institutional language  107 institutional setting  206 instruction arithmetical  94–96 as text type  13, 39 authoritative  113 behavioural  9, 13, 14, 39, 84, 85, 96, 126n, 142, 147, 149–151, 161, 163–165, 176, 219 definitions of  13, 14 entertaining  115, 116, 123, 161 foreign language  212 explicit (direct, overt)  5, 7, 39, 69, 130, 131, 134, 138, 150, 169, 226, 227 implicit (indirect, covert)  5, 39, 138 measurement-driven  220

236 Instructional Writing in English

see also washback moral  116, 119, 123, 143, 151, 164, 165, 167, 173, 174, 176, 197 non-commercial  3 on letter-writing  125–138 oral pragmatic  225–227 paratextual  86, 87, 92 practical  3, 36, 39 religious  2, 3, 17, 30, 36, 38, 39, 119, 120, 123, 167 secular  3, 4 utilitarian  3, 58n vague  56 vernacular  2, 3, 35, 36, 95, 96, 105, 111, 126 instructional writing audience of  8–9 see also audience effective or successful  16, 29, 52, 56, 80 genres of  2–4 in English, history of  2–4 in historical corpora  3–4 marketing of  3, 79n, 107, 127, 128, 169 prototypical categories of  6 use of authorities in  15, 29, 106, 113, 115, 118 instructiveness dimensions of  4–9 as property of texts 6–8 instructor  1, 7, 39, 41, 50 see also teacher interactive signal  25–27, 29, 30 interlanguage pragmatics  216, 226 intertextuality  125, 126, 134, 136, 138 introduction  5, 19–22, 24, 30, 33, 34, 189, 191–194, 219 see also metatext, preface introductory element, in narrative  19, 20 involvement audience  110, 117 author’s  199 J Janeway, James  165, 166, 170, 171, 172n, 174–176, 182 A Token for Children  165 jargon see technical language Johnson, Samuel  168, 182 K Kasper, Gabriele  226 Katherine Group  37

L Lanfranc: Chirurgia magna  117n language learning see second language acquisition Late Middle English  84–86, 112n Latin  2, 16, 35, 38, 39, 83n, 87, 90, 91, 93–96, 115, 118, 126 laws  2 learning  19, 28, 40–42, 106, 108, 113, 114, 169 leechbook  2 letter as means of communication  130 between family members  134 between friends  135 didactic, in children’s books  169, 171, 172, 174, 176, 177 model (exemplary)  7, 126, 134–138 relating to courtship  135 letter writing instruction on  125–138 manuals  7, 8, 124, 126–130, 132, 133, 134, 138 skills  126 lexical choice  217, 229, 230 lexicography  40n, 75n lexis see vocabulary literacy  30, 50, 77, 94, 126, 144, 183 Locke, John  161, 165, 166, 168, 169, 176–178, 183 Treatise upon Education (Some Thoughts Concerning Education)  169 Lollards  85, 92 Longacre, Robert E.  5, 14 Lydgate, John: Pilgrimage of the Life of Man  85 M Mahan-Taylor, Rebecca  226 manual see also handbook arithmetic  95 letter-writing  7, 8, 124, 126–130, 132, 133, 134, 138 on education  142 manuscript Aberystwyth, National Library of Wales Peniarth 394D  67, 76 Cambridge Corpus Christi College 402  35–38, 41, 42n, 46n Trinity College R.3.20  86n London, The British Library Additional 5016  59, 60



Additional 29729  86n Arundel 334  67 Cotton Julius D.viii  73 Cotton Nero A.xiv  37 Harley 279  63 Harley 1605  62 Harley 2378  63 Harley 4016  77 Royal 17.A.iii  63 Manchester, The John Rylands University Library English 7  60n English 80  88–100 Oxford, The Bodleian Library Bodley 34  37 Fairfax 11  90n Laud misc. 388  90n Selden Supra 49  90n Selden Supra 51  90n Rawlinson C 237  90n Rawlinson C 259  90n Rawlinson D 194  59n Mather, Cotton  141–158 Ornaments for the Daughters of Zion  141–143, 145–153, 156–158 The Wonders of the Invisible World  141, 142, 153–158 Means, Laurel  92, 93 medical advice book  9, 187, 188 medical writing  206 mentor  142 metatext  5, 13, 20, 21, 23–26, 28–30, 33, 34, 93, 114, 120, 202 Middle English  2–4, 57–60, 68, 71–75, 83, 92, 93, 95, 96, 117 see also Early Middle English, Late Middle English Middle English Dictionary (MED)  36, 40n, 41, 45, 50n, 53, 59n, 68, 72–74, 83, 84, 86 middle class  126, 168, 183, 190, 199n, 207 Millett, Bella  36, 37, 43, 48, 49 mitigation  106, 151 modal auxiliary  5, 39, 45, 46, 117, 131–133, 151, 188, 200–205, 208 see also deontic function, epistemic function, obligation, permission mood  25, 200 see also imperative Mooney, Linne R.  58n, 94

Index 237

N narrative  17, 18, 22, 23–25, 28, 30, 39, 119, 164, 167 see also story narratology  163 Natov, Roni  170 New England Primer  164, 173 Newbery, John  161–183 A Little Pretty Pocket Book  161, 162, 166, 167, 169, 170–178, 181 The Circle of Sciences  178 The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes  167, 168n, 171, 182 The Lilliputian Magazine  166, 172 The Newtonian System of Philosophy  161, 167, 178–182 Newton, Sarah E.  142, 143 noun  40, 41, 59, 73–75 numeral  65, 89, 94–97, 100 O object (grammatical)  41, 42 obligation  5, 35, 39, 45, 52, 131, 132, 151, 172, 202 see also deontic function Old English  2–4, 14n, 15, 16, 19, 24, 38 Oldcastle, Sir John, confession of  85 opening  62, 91, 96, 108, 111, 116, 120, 227 operating instruction  5 oral pragmatics  225–227, 230 orality  30, 107, 165 Overstreet, Maryann  66n, 70, 72 Oxford English Dictionary (OED)  13, 59n, 83, 84, 201n P paratext  5, 85–88, 96, 163 see also appendix, blurb, calendar, dedication, foreword, front matter, glossary, heading, introduction, preface, preliminaries, prologue, subtitle, title, title page participant relation  108, 123 participant role  7, 107 Paston, Lady Katherine  136, 137 perlocutionary effect  109, 111 permission  41, 45, 46, 50, 52, 201, 204 see also deontic function Perrault, Charles: Tales from Mother Goose  166 persuasive text  45, 47, 151, 198 Plato  107 Pluche, Abbé  183 Spectacle de la nature  179n, 180, 182 politeness  49, 106, 110, 111, 113, 122, 213, 227

238 Instructional Writing in English

power  118, 175, 206, 207 pragmalinguistic failure  217 preaching  15, 28, 29, 30, 50, 119, 123 see also homily, sermon precision  55–57, 59, 61, 74, 79, 213 see also vagueness preface  3, 5, 6, 16, 38–41, 43, 44, 86, 129, 130n, 145, 165, 172n, 191, 192 see also introduction preliminaries  6, 88, 89, 92, 96, 97 see also front matter primer  164, 173 see also book of hours Pringle, Sir John  191 private reading  15n, 29, 91 production of speech  223 of written texts  2, 4–9, 165–167 see also book production professional author(ity)  191, 196, 198, 199, 207, 208 professional community  188, 193 prohibition  35, 45, 52 prologue  5–7, 86, 89 pronoun  24, 43, 45–47,106, 111–113, 120, 151, 152, 194, 195, 198, 199, 207 prose  7, 15, 85, 123 proverbial expression  47 proverb  110, 118, 119, 167, 175 psalter  87, 91 public domain  106 publishing  3, 79n, 87, 107, 127, 129, 161, 162, 167, 168, 174, 218, 221, 223 see also book production Puritan belief  144, 145, 156, 159, 164, 165 quantifier  59, 64–66, 69, 78 question  26, 106–114, 120, 121, 174, 180, 181 quotation  39, 43, 47, 110, 115, 118, 119, 123 see also authorities, citation R reader see audience reading aloud  20, 43, 132–134, 152, 174 reading community  38, 47 see also audience reception  8, 30, 86, 96, 158 recipient see audience recipe culinary  2, 7, 8, 55–80

medical  62, 107, 108n recipe collection  56, 59, 60, 63 see also cookbook register  4, 74, 75 religious text  2, 18, 29, 30, 38, 91, 143, 166 see also Bible, devotional text remedy book  4 Reynard the Fox  165 rhetorical positioning  129, 194 rhetorical strategy  17, 145–147 rhetorical tradition  15, 189, 190, 194 Rombauer, Irma S. & Becker, Marion Rombauer: Joy of Cooking  57, 66, 71 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques  170, 178 Emile ou de l’Education  170 Royal Society  191 rubric  89, 91, 93, 96 see also heading, subtitle, title rule  3, 6, 8, 38, 41, 44, 46, 47, 50, 52, 91, 128, 216, 217, 219 S Salager-Meyer, Françoise  206 Salem witchcraft trials  145, 152–157 Sawles Warde  37 scholastic argumentation  111, 115, 120 scholastic formula  107, 120 scholastic thought-style  106, 113, 123 school textbook  6, 217–219, 229 school see education Schwoerer, Lois G.  127 scientific community  191 scientific didacticism  167, 182 scientific writing  2, 111, 178–182, 201 scribe  74, 86, 88, 89, 92, 95, 96, 153 Scully, Terence  75 Searle, John R.  114, 150 second language acquisition (SLA)  211, 216, 217, 224, 225, 226 second-person pronoun see pronoun self-positioning, authorial  191–200 sermon  3, 4, 6, 15, 18, 19 , 26, 142, 143, 145, 153 see also homily, preaching Sherwood, Martha  165 The History of the Fairchild Family  165 Shirley, John  86 silence  35, 49–51, 134, 135, 157 Slater, Nigel  57, 79 Smith, Delia  57, 69n, 77



Socrates  107, 119 Somer, John: Kalendarium  94, 96 speech  43, 49, 106, 107, 115, 157, 215, 217, 223, 226 speech act  107, 122, 195, 199, 207 advice  207, 208 apology  114, 217 commissive  114, 121 compliment  114, 121, 217 directive  5, 188 expressive  114 insult  108–110 promise  114, 121 request  113, 115, 123, 207 thanking  116, 121 warning  111, 112, 121 speeches  111, 113 spoken language  60, 213, 216, 220 subtitle  86, 116, 142, 153 stance author’s  142, 146, 147, 193 learner’s  120 story, didactic use of  13, 16–30, 148, 165–167, 176 see also narrative stylistics  106, 123, 150 subject (grammatical)  41, 42, 151, 202 Swift, Jonathan  143, 166, 176 Gulliver’s Travels  166 T table  84n, 85, 86, 89, 91-95, 100, 136, 219 teacher, in foreign language education  214, 218, 219, 221, 225–227, 229 teacher, role of  30, 39, 52, 105, 106, 108, 122, 142, 147, 149, 200 see also instructor teaching see also instruction arithmetic  95 children  164, 174, 177 foreign language  211–230 in dialogue form  106, 112, 123 in the medieval church  15, 16, 19, 28–30 medical  106–123 linguistic indicators of  39–42 women  35, 36, 38, 48–52 technical language  68, 74, 75 tense  24, 25, 28 see also verb text type  3, 5, 13, 17, 18, 33, 188, 213 text-typological management  13, 17, 18, 24, 25, 29

Index 239

textbook  3, 6, 13, 87, 105, 211, 212, 214, 217–225, 227–230 textual convention  93 textual norm  57, 63 textual tradition  189 thought-style  106, 113, 123, 206 title  41, 67, 86, 133, 142, 171, 179n, 219 see also heading, rubric, subtitle title page  128, 138, 162, 173 Tolkien, J. R. R.  36, 37, 48 Townsend, John Rowe  161–163, 167 tract  107, 142, 166, 178 translation  2, 14, 15, 19, 29, 35–38, 82, 84, 85, 88, 91, 95, 96, 115, 118, 127, 128, 161, 179, 187, 214–216, 223, 229 treatise Aristotelian  107 arithmetical  95 educational  4, 169 religious  3, 18, 37, 143 medical  107, 117, 118 surgical  4 turn (in dialogue)  108, 110, 111, 113, 121 V vague language  55–80 vagueness  55–57, 59–61, 64, 65, 69, 75n, 78 see also precision verb  24, 39–43, 45, 46, 68, 71, 75, 108, 111, 116, 133, 150, 151, 188, 195, 199, 202, 203 see also imperative, modal auxiliary vernacular writing  2, 15 see also instruction verse  85, 93, 115 vocabulary  63, 68, 75, 214, 216–219, 222, 223, 228 voice (in discourse) authoritative  40, 188, 191–208 author’s  5, 39, 47, 152, 158 narrator’s  5, 163, 164, 167, 172, 174–181, 183 producer’s  5 W Wall, Barbara  175, 176, 178, 179n washback  211, 220–222, 224, 225, 230 Weisberger, Lauren: The Devil Wears Prada  56, 57 Werlich, Egon  5, 13, 39, 131 wisdom literature  105, 107, 108, 116 Wooing Group  37, 42 Woolley, Hannah  132

240 Instructional Writing in English

Wordsworth, William: “Ode: Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood”  170 writer intentions of  4, 7, 8, 77 of children’s literature  161, 165, 168, 171, 182 of conduct books  142, 143 of culinary recipes  61, 68, 74, 79 of letters  126–128, 130, 131, 133, 134, 136–138 of textbooks  211, 212, 221

medical  193 voice of  5 women as  126, 134, 136, 137, 146, 147 writing  43, 56, 107, 123, 149, 174, 176, 213–216, 223 see also academic writing, instructional writing, letter writing, medical writing, scientific writing, vernacular writing writing process  8, 9, 133 written language  68, 220

Pragmatics & Beyond New Series A complete list of titles in this series can be found on www.benjamins.com 190 Finch, Jason, Martin Gill, Anthony Johnson, Iris Lindahl-Raittila, Inna Lindgren, Tuija Virtanen and Brita Wårvik (eds.): Humane Readings. Essays on literary mediation and communication in honour of Roger D. Sell. xi, 156 pp. + index. Expected September 2009 189 Peikola, Matti, Janne Skaffari and Sanna-Kaisa Tanskanen (eds.): Instructional Writing in English. Studies in honour of Risto Hiltunen. 2009. xiii, 240 pp. 188 Giltrow, Janet and Dieter Stein (eds.): Genres in the Internet. Issues in the theory of genre. ix, 290 pp. + index. Expected October 2009 187 Jucker, Andreas H. (ed.): Early Modern English News Discourse. Newspapers, pamphlets and scientific news discourse. 2009. vii, 227 pp. 186 Callies, Marcus: Information Highlighting in Advanced Learner English. The syntax–pragmatics interface in second language acquisition. 2009. xviii, 293 pp. 185 Mazzon, Gabriella: Interactive Dialogue Sequences in Middle English Drama. 2009. ix, 228 pp. 184 Stenström, Anna-Brita and Annette Myre Jørgensen (eds.): Youngspeak in a Multilingual Perspective. 2009. vi, 206 pp. 183 Nurmi, Arja, Minna Nevala and Minna Palander-Collin (eds.): The Language of Daily Life in England (1400–1800). 2009. vii, 312 pp. 182 Norrick, Neal R. and Delia Chiaro (eds.): Humor in Interaction. 2009. xvii, 238 pp. 181 Maschler, Yael: Metalanguage in Interaction. Hebrew discourse markers. xiv, 248 pp. + index. Expected August 2009 180 Jones, Kimberly and Tsuyoshi Ono (eds.): Style Shifting in Japanese. 2008. vii, 335 pp. 179 Simões Lucas Freitas, Elsa: Taboo in Advertising. 2008. xix, 214 pp. 178 Schneider, Klaus P. and Anne Barron (eds.): Variational Pragmatics. A focus on regional varieties in pluricentric languages. 2008. vii, 371 pp. 177 Rue, Yong-Ju and Grace Zhang: Request Strategies. A comparative study in Mandarin Chinese and Korean. 2008. xv, 320 pp. 176 Jucker, Andreas H. and Irma Taavitsainen (eds.): Speech Acts in the History of English. 2008. viii, 318 pp. 175 Gómez González, María de los Ángeles, J. Lachlan Mackenzie and Elsa M. González Álvarez (eds.): Languages and Cultures in Contrast and Comparison. 2008. xxii, 364 pp. 174 Heyd, Theresa: Email Hoaxes. Form, function, genre ecology. 2008. vii, 239 pp. 173 Zanotto, Mara Sophia, Lynne Cameron and Marilda C. Cavalcanti (eds.): Confronting Metaphor in Use. An applied linguistic approach. 2008. vii, 315 pp. 172 Benz, Anton and Peter Kühnlein (eds.): Constraints in Discourse. 2008. vii, 292 pp. 171 Félix-Brasdefer, J. César: Politeness in Mexico and the United States. A contrastive study of the realization and perception of refusals. 2008. xiv, 195 pp. 170 Oakley, Todd and Anders Hougaard (eds.): Mental Spaces in Discourse and Interaction. 2008. vi, 262 pp. 169 Connor, Ulla, Ed Nagelhout and William Rozycki (eds.): Contrastive Rhetoric. Reaching to intercultural rhetoric. 2008. viii, 324 pp. 168 Proost, Kristel: Conceptual Structure in Lexical Items. The lexicalisation of communication concepts in English, German and Dutch. 2007. xii, 304 pp. 167 Bousfield, Derek: Impoliteness in Interaction. 2008. xiii, 281 pp. 166 Nakane, Ikuko: Silence in Intercultural Communication. Perceptions and performance. 2007. xii, 240 pp. 165 Bublitz, Wolfram and Axel Hübler (eds.): Metapragmatics in Use. 2007. viii, 301 pp. 164 Englebretson, Robert (ed.): Stancetaking in Discourse. Subjectivity, evaluation, interaction. 2007. viii, 323 pp. 163 Lytra, Vally: Play Frames and Social Identities. Contact encounters in a Greek primary school. 2007. xii, 300 pp. 162 Fetzer, Anita (ed.): Context and Appropriateness. Micro meets macro. 2007. vi, 265 pp. 161 Celle, Agnès and Ruth Huart (eds.): Connectives as Discourse Landmarks. 2007. viii, 212 pp.

160 Fetzer, Anita and Gerda Eva Lauerbach (eds.): Political Discourse in the Media. Cross-cultural perspectives. 2007. viii, 379 pp. 159 Maynard, Senko K.: Linguistic Creativity in Japanese Discourse. Exploring the multiplicity of self, perspective, and voice. 2007. xvi, 356 pp. 158 Walker, Terry: Thou and You in Early Modern English Dialogues. Trials, Depositions, and Drama Comedy. 2007. xx, 339 pp. 157 Crawford Camiciottoli, Belinda: The Language of Business Studies Lectures. A corpus-assisted analysis. 2007. xvi, 236 pp. 156 Vega Moreno, Rosa E.: Creativity and Convention. The pragmatics of everyday figurative speech. 2007. xii, 249 pp. 155 Hedberg, Nancy and Ron Zacharski (eds.): The Grammar–Pragmatics Interface. Essays in honor of Jeanette K. Gundel. 2007. viii, 345 pp. 154 Hübler, Axel: The Nonverbal Shift in Early Modern English Conversation. 2007. x, 281 pp. 153 Arnovick, Leslie K.: Written Reliquaries. The resonance of orality in medieval English texts. 2006. xii, 292 pp. 152 Warren, Martin: Features of Naturalness in Conversation. 2006. x, 272 pp. 151 Suzuki, Satoko (ed.): Emotive Communication in Japanese. 2006. x, 234 pp. 150 Busse, Beatrix: Vocative Constructions in the Language of Shakespeare. 2006. xviii, 525 pp. 149 Locher, Miriam A.: Advice Online. Advice-giving in an American Internet health column. 2006. xvi, 277 pp. 148 Fløttum, Kjersti, Trine Dahl and Torodd Kinn: Academic Voices. Across languages and disciplines. 2006. x, 309 pp. 147 Hinrichs, Lars: Codeswitching on the Web. English and Jamaican Creole in e-mail communication. 2006. x, 302 pp. 146 Tanskanen, Sanna-Kaisa: Collaborating towards Coherence. Lexical cohesion in English discourse. 2006. ix, 192 pp. 145 Kurhila, Salla: Second Language Interaction. 2006. vii, 257 pp. 144 Bührig, Kristin and Jan D. ten Thije (eds.): Beyond Misunderstanding. Linguistic analyses of intercultural communication. 2006. vi, 339 pp. 143 Baker, Carolyn, Michael Emmison and Alan Firth (eds.): Calling for Help. Language and social interaction in telephone helplines. 2005. xviii, 352 pp. 142 Sidnell, Jack: Talk and Practical Epistemology. The social life of knowledge in a Caribbean community. 2005. xvi, 255 pp. 141 Zhu, Yunxia: Written Communication across Cultures. A sociocognitive perspective on business genres. 2005. xviii, 216 pp. 140 Butler, Christopher S., María de los Ángeles Gómez González and Susana M. Doval-Suárez (eds.): The Dynamics of Language Use. Functional and contrastive perspectives. 2005. xvi, 413 pp. 139 Lakoff, Robin T. and Sachiko Ide (eds.): Broadening the Horizon of Linguistic Politeness. 2005. xii, 342 pp. 138 Müller, Simone: Discourse Markers in Native and Non-native English Discourse. 2005. xviii, 290 pp. 137 Morita, Emi: Negotiation of Contingent Talk. The Japanese interactional particles ne and sa. 2005. xvi, 240 pp. 136 Sassen, Claudia: Linguistic Dimensions of Crisis Talk. Formalising structures in a controlled language. 2005. ix, 230 pp. 135 Archer, Dawn: Questions and Answers in the English Courtroom (1640–1760). A sociopragmatic analysis. 2005. xiv, 374 pp. 134 Skaffari, Janne, Matti Peikola, Ruth Carroll, Risto Hiltunen and Brita Wårvik (eds.): Opening Windows on Texts and Discourses of the Past. 2005. x, 418 pp. 133 Marnette, Sophie: Speech and Thought Presentation in French. Concepts and strategies. 2005. xiv, 379 pp. 132 Onodera, Noriko O.: Japanese Discourse Markers. Synchronic and diachronic discourse analysis. 2004. xiv, 253 pp. 131 Janoschka, Anja: Web Advertising. New forms of communication on the Internet. 2004. xiv, 230 pp. 130 Halmari, Helena and Tuija Virtanen (eds.): Persuasion Across Genres. A linguistic approach. 2005. x, 257 pp.