Religion Around John Donne 9780271084480

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religion around

John Donne

JOSHUA ECKHARDT The Pennsylvania State University Press University Park, Pennsylvania

Religion Around vol. 4

p e te r ive r k auf ma n, Founding Editor Books in the Religion Around series examine the religious forces surrounding cultural icons. By bringing religious background into the foreground, these studies give readers a greater understanding of and appreciation for individual figures, their work, and their lasting influence.

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Eckhardt, Joshua, author. Title: Religion around John Donne / Joshua Eckhardt. Other titles: Religion around. Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University Press, [2019] | Series: Religion around | Includes bibliographical references and index. Summary: “Explores the ways in which the religious controversies and beliefs that surrounded John Donne were circulated in late Elizabethan and early Stuart England”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2019000514 | ISBN 9780271083377 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Donne, John, 1572–1631—Religion. | Donne, John, 1572–1631— Library. | Books—England—Religious aspects—History—17th century. | Manuscripts, English—Religious aspects—History—17th century. Classification: LCC PR2248.E25 2019 | DDC 821/.3—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019000514 Copyright © 2019 The Pennsylvania State University All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802–1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-­free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi z39.48–1992.

Contents

Acknowledgments {vii} Note on Texts and Conventions  {xi} Introduction {1}

1 Religion Around Donne’s Poems in a Family Library  {11}

Interlude: Mirreus, Crants, and Graius Go to the Library  {49}

2 Religious Works Around Donne’s Inscriptions  {57}



3 Religious Verse Around Donne’s Verse  {91}



4 Religious Prose Around Donne’s Prose  {105}



5 Religious Books Around Donne’s Works  {129}

Notes {153} Bibliography {169} Index {189}

Acknowledgments

Writing a book about old books can leave you in debt to virtually everyone who has preserved them and provided access to them. I acknowledge part of the debt in my citations by naming the institutions that currently house the artifacts and consistently welcome readers to consult them. One of these institutions, the American Antiquarian Society, welcomed me not only to its reading room but also to its scholars’ house. Another, the Huntington Library, provided me with funds for travel and housing. At the Huntington, Steve Tabor and Vanessa Wilkie endured many questions about the Bridgewater Library and Ellesmere manuscripts. Other librarians elsewhere have also provided invaluable access to their original sources. Renae Satterly went out of her way so that I could consult Donne’s books at Middle Temple Library; Emily Naisch did the same with Izaak Walton’s books at Salisbury Cathedral Library. John Overholt helped me navigate Houghton Library holdings from a distance; in the reading room, his colleagues showed me the fore-­edges of a series of composite volumes, gloriously reunited on a cart. Christopher Smith of Chichester Cathedral Library and Maria O’Shea at Marsh’s Library confirmed the order of items in Sammelbände and, where allowed, their shelf-­marks as well. Librarians all over Oxford and Cambridge also granted me access to their holdings and information, in both university and college libraries. I record my individual debts to them in the notes and, throughout the book, I try to turn attention to some of their predecessors, the earlier caretakers of the sources for this study. Nevertheless, the following chapters and citations leave out many others who also helped me produce them. Virginia Commonwealth University’s Humanities Research Center and English Department

funded several necessary trips to libraries. Near those libraries, friends have graciously provided room and board: Chris, Anne, Peter, Tom, Alun, Carol, and, most frequently, Dan. Without your generosity and ideal locations, I could have done only a small fraction of the research that has gone into this book, if I could have done it at all. I certainly would not have written the book without Peter Iver Kaufman. When Peter started the Religion Around series, he could not have imagined how literally a book historian would take the title phrase that he devised. He nevertheless invited one to write the book on Donne for the series after only one meeting. He never wavered in his enthusiastic support for my plan to survey the religion around Donne in manuscript collections, composite volumes of booklets bound together, and early modern libraries and bookshops. Audiences at several conferences and symposia generously engaged early drafts of this book, specifically at the University of Pennsylvania Medieval-­Renaissance Seminar; Lincoln College, Oxford (under the auspices of The Oxford Edition of the Sermons of John Donne with support from the Arts and Humanities Research Council); the Centre for Early Modern Studies, also at Oxford; the Renaissance Society of America (in panels sponsored by either the Renaissance English Text Society or the John Donne Society); and the Modern Language Association (again under the banner of the Donne Society). Several of my colleagues and students have twice read and discussed early (and abandoned) drafts of the introduction in the HRC’s premodern reading group at VCU. Tracy McLawhorn and Gary Stringer provided innumerable facsimiles of Donne manuscripts. David Colclough and Dennis Flynn encouraged and supported the project from an early stage. Julian Neuhauser designed the first database for my photographs of Bridgewater Library shelf-­marks. Erin McCarthy and Daniel Starza Smith read and commented on drafts. John Lee edited part of chapter 3 under the title “Publication,” in A Handbook of English Renaissance Literary Studies (Wiley-­Blackwell, 2017), 295–309. Arthur Marotti has done the same for part of chapter 4 as “Deaths Dvell in Sammelbände,” in New Ways of Looking at Old Texts (Renaissance English Text Society, forthcoming). Both publishers have magnanimously permitted me to include these essays, in slightly revised form, in this volume. Kathryn Yahner at Penn { viii }  A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

State Press located two anonymous peer reviewers who were willing and able to give this book a generous reception. They made a number of worthwhile suggestions for revision. So too have a member of the Press’s Editorial Committee and the Press’s managing editor, Laura Reed-­Morrisson. I have tried to adopt nearly all of their suggestions. I thank the readers, the Press, and all those listed above for helping to improve this book. Finally, I thank my mom and dad for providing an education, particularly in religion. This book is for them. Any proceeds, however, go to the people who surround me with small collections of books and papers: Sarah, Silas, Ira, and Levi.

A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s   { ix }

Note on Texts and Conventions

The quotations in this book preserve original spelling insofar as digital type and house style allow. For instance, I have removed the “long s” but retained the use of u/v in the originals. The quotations also reproduce the capitalization, superscript text, underlining, and cancellations in the original sources. Some of the quotations contain asterisks, carets, macrons, left square brackets, and equals signs. Most of these symbols approximate the marks made by a scribe or a compositor, whether that person intended to abbreviate a word (as in the case of macrons), to hyphenate a word (using what looks like an equals sign), or to separate a word or phrase from writing nearby (for instance, with a left square bracket). But I have added some marks that are not in the originals. Wherever I have expanded an abbreviation or added any letters, I have done so within square brackets, with two major exceptions: I’ve regularized the titles of printed books, and I’ve occasionally changed or added a final punctuation mark at the end of a quotation. I have made these concessions to standard practice in the United States with grave misgivings, and with the caveat that readers should not mistake book titles for semidiplomatic transcripts, or the punctuation at the end of a quotation for that of the original source. When I am not quoting a source, I capitalize proper names but not loose affiliations: Catholics and Calvinists but not puritans or protestants. Likewise, I use the lowercase when referring to the would-­be presbyterians of England, as opposed to the actual Presbyterians of Scotland. The citations of original printed sources are inconsistent for a reason. Some identify specific copies of books and others do not. In the former case, citations typically include library shelf-­marks because the chapters make claims about the early owners of the particular copies at

those locations. In the latter case, citations feature, instead, the names of the stationers who financed and sold the editions. This is because the final chapter of this book turns attention to the producers and sellers of these editions. Some citations feature both a bookseller’s name and a shelf-­mark. These fulsome references represent both an edition and an individual copy because both appear in the chapters, in the contexts of both a bookshop and a library.

{ xii }  N o t e o n T e x t s a n d C o n v e n t i o n s

introduction

Raised a Roman Catholic in protestant England, John Donne became its most scribally published poet and, after converting, one of the Church of England’s better-­published preachers as well. He could not have done it alone. And in the case of his poetry, he hadn’t wanted to do it at all. Donne circulated most of his poems exclusively among friends and patrons in late Elizabethan and early Stuart England. He allowed relatively few of his poems to be printed.1 Despite this, and in part because of it, his readers and collectors made thousands of surviving manuscript copies of his poems—thousands more than they preserved of any contemporary poet’s works. Against his wishes, they made Donne the most popular manuscript poet of early modern England.2 People also hand-­copied some of his prose writings, especially his sermons, but in much smaller numbers.3 They could easily buy some of them, since Donne had allowed stationers to publish certain prose works in print. And they could simply go to hear others: Donne published his sermons orally himself, in pulpits ranging from parish churches to royal courts. Serving as a royal chaplain-­in-­ordinary, Donne preached to both the Chamber (upstairs) and the Household

(below) every April and Lent, in the courts of first James VI and I and then Charles I.4 In the summers, Donne delivered sermons at his livings beyond London (Keyston, near Huntingdon; Sevenoaks in Kent; and, later, Blunham in Bedfordshire). On a diplomatic mission, Donne preached even farther afield: first in Heidelberg (before King James’s daughter, Princess Elizabeth, and her husband the Elector Palatine, Frederick V), and then at The Hague. He read most of his sermons in pulpits in and around his hometown of London, though. As a reader in divinity, he preached regularly at Lincoln’s Inn, the Inn of Court to which he already belonged. He read occasional sermons at Paul’s Cross, the open-­air pulpit in St. Paul’s Churchyard.5 More than anywhere else, he preached inside the cathedral, as dean of St. Paul’s. At the other end of Fleet Street, he came to deliver regular sermons at the parish church of St. Dunstan-­in-­the-­West, serving as vicar.6 At both St. Dunstan’s and St. Paul’s, Donne published sermons orally, while booksellers published some of his printed works just outside in the churchyards. Londoners could both hear Donne’s sermons and buy a few of them in affordable quartos not far from the churches he served. If they wanted to read the dean’s poems during his lifetime, however, they needed to resort to manuscripts. Many did. Donne’s poetry survives because of their efforts. Even the prose works that he sent to press would no longer exist if not for the people who reproduced and stored them. We can read Donne’s work only through theirs, and this book aims to do just that. It surveys the religion around Donne in the manuscript collections, composite volumes, private libraries, and bookshops of some of the people responsible for reproducing and preserving his works. Each of these people fashioned unique contexts for Donne. None of them collected only Donne’s works, after all. Virtually all of them collected others’ writing as well. In the process, they gathered diverse texts together, whether in shops, on shelves, or within bindings. In this way, they surrounded Donne’s writings with others’, much of it religious in character. They physically placed religion around Donne, at least as they saw him in their collections of texts and books. Because they did, Religion Around John Donne can explore the religious texts that collectors actually put around Donne’s poems and sermons. { 2 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

This book can also show some of the religion that Donne placed around himself. Donne collected books too, and the books’ subsequent owners have preserved many of them. Donne inscribed books in ink, lightly marked up their margins in pencil, and may even have had some bound together. Books from his library allow the second chapter of this study to get quite close to him, by reading from copies of religious works that he personally marked. Following Donne’s own pen and pencil marks, the chapter surveys some of the attacks on separatists and Catholics, and a few of the defenses of the Church of England, that Donne personally read. It thus zooms in on the religion right around Donne in his library, and in his hands. The second chapter cannot, however, feature more than a small fraction of the books that Donne must have read and used in his writing. Donne cited far more works than survive marked in his hand. Take his use of Augustine, for example. Katrin Ettenhuber and the other editors of The Oxford Edition of the Sermons of John Donne have demonstrated that Donne quoted Augustine more than any other church father. Their annotated editions, and Ettenhuber’s intertextual study of Donne’s citations of Augustine, therefore rightly refer throughout to Augustine’s works, regardless of the fact that the actual copies of patristic sources that Donne used do not seem to have survived.7 This book, by contrast, relies exclusively on evidence from collections of surviving artifacts. Instead of the normal sort of intertextuality, produced by one author quoting another, it focuses on an often overlooked kind of “ ‘proximate’ or ‘material intertextuality,’ ” produced by a collector of texts, whether “in book form” or in the shape of a library.8 The second chapter approaches Donne as just such a collector. It focuses in particular on books that Donne may have had bound together in composite volumes called Sammelbände. This chapter thus turns attention to parts of the religion around Donne that he was more inclined to mock than cite, such as William Covell’s defenses of the Church of England. The chapter then proceeds to the subsequent owners of Donne’s books, following those books from Donne’s library to others’. This may make the second chapter seem to lose its focus on Donne. But it actually returns the book’s attention to the collectors of the writings that Donne left behind. This is one way of acknowledging that any of i n t r o d u c t i o n   { 3 }

Donne’s writing that survives, even if it’s in his own hand, has come to us by other hands as well. The artifacts’ subsequent owners have already mediated any apparently immediate access that we can have to the author at the center of this book. They have also already contextualized him, effectively anticipating and sometimes influencing the efforts of modern students and scholars to do the same. Much, if not all, historical research contextualizes its subject. And, when they contextualize, scholars rarely act alone. They tend to consult, or at least submit to the influence of, many others when they explore and propose historical contexts: their fellow experts, their teachers, leading publishers. This book does the same; it simply insists on consulting first some of the people who first contextualized Donne. Throughout, this study focuses on texts that early modern readers gathered together with something that Donne wrote, whether a poem, a sermon, or just an inscription on the title page of a printed book that he evidently owned. To put this another way, this study seeks religion that has been actually, physically “around” Donne and his writing. I was given the title for the John Donne installment in the Religion Around series, and I take it literally. This book, then, shows religious contexts through bibliographical ones, and defines context principally as what’s physically with (con-­) a text. It’s a book history (even though it also deals with some unbound documents that might not technically qualify as books). Like most any other history of religion or literature, a book history draws its evidence from books: even historians who never use rare books tend to use modern, scholarly ones. But a book history draws that evidence from more than the books’ contents. It considers not only what a book says but also what a book is, and how it got that way. It studies not only the authors of books but also their other producers and users, not only the subject matter of those books but also their physical matter: the paper, the ink, the stitching and binding, the owners’ inscriptions, and readers’ marks. A book history can offer plenty of information about literary history or religious history. It just also keeps in view the particular artifacts on which it relies, and some of the labor that has gone into making, modifying, and preserving them. A book history can demonstrate plenty about broad social contexts. It simply shows those { 4 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

contexts as certain people could perceive them and grasp them at the time—in bookshops, on shelves, and in volumes of diverse contents. Donne’s popularity with readers, and the astounding effort that those readers put into reproducing his work, invite this bibliographical approach. It might not work as well for just any author. Moreover, the Religion Around series calls for a distinctive approach to Donne because the series began with Religion Around Shakespeare, written by the series’ founding editor, Peter Iver Kaufman. Donne and Shakespeare lived in the same city over many of the same years. Much, if not all, of Kaufman’s book therefore describes the religion around Donne as well as around Shakespeare. This book would run the risk of redundancy if it approached the subject in the same way that Kaufman does. Instead, it strikes out in a direction that suits Donne and his works in particular. Shakespeare’s poems did not circulate widely in manuscript; Donne’s most certainly did.9 Shakespeare’s writings for public performance did not have the support of the Church; Donne’s, again, did. This book therefore turns early and often to Donne’s poems in manuscript, and later to a few of his more widely published sermons. Throughout, it focuses on the religious texts that have physically accompanied Donne and his writing: the religion around Donne. Even without Kaufman’s inaugural volume, though, a new book on Donne’s religious contexts could run the risk of merely repeating its predecessors. Dennis Flynn has already written an influential book on the Roman Catholic religion of Donne’s family and youth. Jeff Johnson has already contributed one on Donne’s theology, drawn largely from his sermons. Jeanne Shami devoted a book to the contexts of Donne’s late Jacobean sermons in particular. And Achsah Guibbory focused much of her book about Donne on the religious contexts of his prose and verse.10 This list of important Donne books could go on. Another, related list could feature those of religious historians, including Lori Anne Ferrell, Kenneth Fincham, Peter Lake, Diarmaid MacCulloch, Michael Questier, Ethan Shagan, Nicholas Tyacke.11 Many readers of this book will have already read earlier books by these scholars. People who ­haven’t may choose to read them first, with good reason. Nevertheless, I have tried to write this book for both experts and nonexperts alike—by attending to both basic features of the religion and i n t r o d u c t i o n   { 5 }

overlooked collections of material evidence. Experts will find in this book the same sorts of Christians that they already know well, in general—the papists and separatists, the Calvinists and conformists. The details, however, ought to be new to most readers. To some potential readers, it may seem odd to pick up a book about religion and find oneself reading about old books. It shouldn’t, though, especially in the case of a religion that has long focused on an old book. Nevertheless, readers of religious histories may be more accustomed to thinking about expressive activities than about receptive ones: an author writing, a preacher preaching, a prisoner answering questions, a congregation gathering secretly in the woods. This book features each of these activities, but it takes seriously the fact that we know about them only because people reproduced and preserved the words of others. It therefore includes the reproducers and preservers of texts in its account of religion, along with less expressive activities that rarely make it into religious histories: hastily recording depositions, carefully copying a sermon by hand, shopping for books, sending them to the binder, reading with a pencil ready to mark up the margins. It does so partly because, for many people, religion has included making and using manuscripts and books. Indeed, for some, religion has occasionally had more to do with reception than with production—with attending to the text at hand, and abiding with what is already written—than it has had to do with expressing much else. Without a little book history, religious history would overlook a lot of religion. Even readers who are already accustomed to book history, though, may balk at certain features of this book. It does not confine itself to either manuscripts or printed books, for instance. Rather, it makes a point of engaging both media, partly because this is what Donne and his readers did, and partly because scholars have recently insisted on doing the same.12 The book does not focus only on authors, or members of the Stationers’ Company, or readers. It engages all of them. It draws on subdisciplines that scholars sometimes keep separate (codicology, analytical bibliography, textual criticism, provenance research), but it does so very selectively, using these methods only long enough to identify another aspect of the religion around Donne. Moreover, the book does not try to exhaust the study of any one of the volumes or libraries { 6 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

that it considers. Quite the opposite: it shows merely a representative sample of the religious texts that have physically surrounded Donne and his writing, in the hope that others will consult or reconsider these or other collections of textual artifacts for themselves. A book history dependent on a large private library also opens itself up to the charge of elitism. By focusing on the people who made and collected manuscripts and books, this book necessarily devotes much of its attention to those who had the resources to do so. It therefore could easily exclude those who lacked such resources. The first chapter confronts this problem head on, by using a particularly elite collection of books and manuscripts: the Bridgewater Library and Ellesmere manuscripts. The Egerton family and the earls of Bridgewater owed their titles, their social privilege, and therefore their ability to build such a fine library and archive to the legal career of Sir Thomas Egerton, first Viscount Brackley and lord chancellor. Egerton did not inherit those titles or any others. He worked for them, providing valuable legal service to the Crown. As the opening chapter explains, Egerton led the prosecutions against several prominent Jesuits and other Roman Catholics. He also participated in legal proceedings against sectarians who had secretly printed a series of radical religious pamphlets. Egerton received and stored the depositions of religious prisoners on both ends of the religious spectrum. The Egerton family, therefore, didn’t just happen to have privilege that many religious outsiders lacked. The family received that privilege largely and precisely because Egerton provided the legal work that the Crown required in order to prosecute and, in several cases, execute religious dissidents. Although he was just doing his job, Egerton raised his family’s status partly on the backs of certain Catholics and separatists. Remarkably, the records of Egerton’s legal work still remain with the majority of the books that he and his heirs collected, at the Huntington Library in California. Indeed, the Bridgewater Library qualifies as “the oldest large family collection in England to survive intact into modern times.”13 Combined with certain Ellesmere manuscripts, this noble family library can remind or convince readers of the cost that others paid in order to enable the Egertons (and, now, us) to survey such a broad, largely intact collection of printed and handwritten books and papers. i n t r o d u c t i o n   { 7 }

Egerton left his books and papers, along with the king’s promise of an earldom, to his son John and his daughter-­in-­law Frances Stanley (who had become his stepdaughter as well). True to his word, King James created the couple the first Earl and Countess of Bridgewater. John and Frances Bridgewater rank high among Donne’s early readers and collectors. They gave Donne’s manuscript poems perhaps their most beautiful physical setting, featuring gold leaf on every single leaf of paper, and the countess’s initials (“F B”) stamped into parchment covers, also in gold: the letters flank a small, now smudged painting of red and blue.14 The family seems to have given no other contemporary poet such elaborate treatment. The same stamped initials also appear (without the gold) on the countess’s copy of Donne’s printed Devotions vpon Emergent Occasions.15 The Bridgewaters collected Donne’s sermons too. Donne personally gave John several of his first printed sermon quartos; the earl inscribed each, “IBridgewater ex dono ­Authoris,” signifying that it had been a gift from the author.16 They acquired others on their own, in both print and manuscript. Frances wrote her initials on one of Donne’s printed sermons.17 Either they or their son, John the second earl, had their manuscripts of Donne’s sermons bound together with other handwritten booklets in a composite volume now held at Cambridge University Library. This miscellany bears similarities to another one at the Huntington, as chapter 4 explains.18 These two huge manuscript books are full of others’ sermons and prose as well. The sermon manuscripts that they gathered together help demonstrate that John and Frances Bridgewater counted Donne as just one of several preachers whose sermons they were collecting in earnest. They also offer rich physical examples of the religion around John Donne, if only in one unique volume at a time. The Egertons left much more evidence than this of the religion that they placed around Donne. Frances had her London library cataloged between 1627 and 1632, in an exceedingly rare account of an early modern English woman’s books.19 Her library catalogue shows the religion around Donne as a well-­read noblewoman could see it on her shelves and hold it in her hands. After she could do so no longer, her widowed husband and their son continued to use, augment, and rearrange her books. They bound some of the thinner ones together. They wrote { 8 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

shelf-­marks, also called press-­marks, in most of the family’s volumes, later expanding and replacing them as the library grew.20 These press-­ marks make it possible to reconstruct, partially, which books shared shelf space with one another, at which points in the family library’s development. They also help demonstrate what a book history can offer a religious history centered on Donne, by showing the religious texts and objects that people physically placed around his. After the first two chapters introduce books collected by the Egerton family and Donne himself, this study proceeds to the libraries and composite volumes of other collectors of Donne’s works and books: the people who bought books that Donne had owned secondhand, such as Robert Ashley and John Selden; a few of the people who collected his poems in manuscript; the stationers who offered his works for sale alongside their other productions, including John and Richard Marriott; Donne’s first biographer, Izaak Walton; and the fellow clergymen whom Donne left behind in the Church of England, or just beyond its boundaries, stretching from his friend Bishop Henry King to Bishop John Moore and even to the puritan Mather family of New England. While the book gets quite close to Donne, by way of books that touched his own hand and his own pen or pencil, it therefore also proceeds rather far: across the seventeenth century, across the Atlantic, and across the religious spectrum that animated both. The goal is not to cover this entire religious spectrum. On the contrary, the goal is to perceive it only as either Donne or one of his readers verifiably could have seen it, in the miniature religious spectra that they devised for themselves in and with the books that they made, collected, and preserved. As they selected books for their libraries, or sent them to the binder to be bound together, Donne and his readers were literally placing religion around themselves and around the authors of the texts that they collected. When stationers offered Donne’s works for sale in their bookshops, they were doing so too. So were the manuscript collectors who copied or bound his poems or sermons together with others’. Each of their collections offers a unique sampling of the religion that has physically surrounded Donne and his works. This book therefore surveys the religion around Donne in each of these kinds of collection. It is organized by type of collection rather i n t r o d u c t i o n   { 9 }

than by chronology. It begins and ends with a private library, starting with that of the Egerton family and concluding with Izaak Walton’s much smaller collection. In between, it narrows the focus, first to Sammelbände of printed books bound together, and then to other composite volumes, miscellanies of manuscript texts, and volumes of Donne’s collected poems. As the focus narrows toward the middle of the book, it returns periodically to the Bridgewater Library in order to pay closer attention to some of its individual volumes. As the focus widens again toward the end, volumes that have already appeared in earlier chapters reappear, reconsidered in the contexts of their publishers’ bookshops and, finally, Walton’s library. Each of these collections of texts offers yet another unique sampling of the religion around Donne in a particular place and time. Donne might have been able to witness some of these material contexts (for instance, the 1620s London bookshops), but he would not have been able to see all of them. Nevertheless, he certainly understood how he and his contemporaries constructed such material contexts: how they physically reproduced, circulated, and combined texts. In order to demonstrate this, each chapter begins with a passage, written either by or about Donne, that touches on the subjects of binding or collecting, lending or studying, books in both print and manuscript. These introductions briefly suggest that, although each chapter reaches particular material contexts that Donne could not have seen, he was well aware of the general means by which the collectors of his writings and books were building them. Just like a good reader of this book, Donne would not have been surprised that people were surrounding his books and works with others, but he could hardly have foreseen, in detail, all the religion around him.

{ 10 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

1 religion around donne’s p o e m s i n a fa m i l y l i b r a r y

Op e n B ooks In one of his often-­quoted meditations on church bells, John Donne figured “mankinde” conventionally as the work “of one Author” but also as “one volume.” In this metaphor, all of humanity amounts to a single book, created by the author of humankind. Donne explained that “when one Man dies, one Chapter is not torne out of the booke, but translated into a better language.” Death does not remove anything from God’s creation; it only translates and improves it. And “God emploies seuerall translators”: age, sickness, war, justice. Anything that ends a human life is working for God in an infinitely busy team of translators. Such a large staff would seem to produce a lot of loose papers. Indeed, “his hand shall binde vp all our scattered leaues againe, for that Librarie where euery booke shall lie open to one another.”1 God is not only authoring texts and supervising translations; he is also binding manuscripts and building a library. In his library, books will somehow each remain “open to one another,” showing or communicating to one another their new and improved contents.

Donne’s metaphor, of course, uses merely the idea of library books to imagine a heaven in which souls, like those imaginary books, “lie open to one another.” This book does the opposite. It makes no claims about heaven or souls, but it has lots to say about actual library books. It even attempts to “open” several volumes from the same library—and several different parts of composite volumes—in order to relate them “to one another” in a modest, partial enactment of just the vehicle of Donne’s metaphor. For instance, the particular copy of Donne’s Devotions vpon Emergent Occasions just quoted features, stamped onto its front and back parchment covers, the initials “F B,” identifying it as the property of Frances Bridgewater or, more properly, Frances Stanley Egerton, first Countess of Bridgewater. Having already opened the countess’s copy of Devotions to Donne’s famous meditation on the passing bell that “calls vs all,” a reader can open some of her and her family’s other books to passages that relate to, and contextualize, it. The countess’s manuscript of ­Donne’s verse includes one of his poetic representations of passing bells in the poem that is there called “The will.” Whereas Donne was seriously preparing for death in Devotions vpon Emergent Occasions, the speaker of his poem facetiously writes a will because he is dying of love: “To him for whome the passing bell next tolles, / I giue my physick bookes.” In this fictional will, he ironically bequeaths his medical books to the next person whose sickness is announced with a church bell. The passing bell means that the patient is about to pass into the next life, and so will not be able to keep the inheritance for long. Moreover, medical books might no longer help someone who’s that close to death. But “love” has invited such “∧disproportion” because love made the speaker adore a woman who secretly “had 20 more” lovers. Similarly, the speaker of this poem leaves his “ingenuitie & opennes / to Iesuytes” and his “money to a Capuchin”: a Catholic monk who has taken a vow of poverty. Love, he explains, has taught him “to giue to such as haue an incapacitie.” Just as his beloved had no capacity to receive his affections, a Capuchin friar cannot accept money, and Jesuits, the members of the Society of Jesus, allegedly have an incapacity for openness and ingenuity.2 Thus Donne’s love poem involves both religious polemic and religious practice. It mentions the Church of { 12 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

England’s practice of visiting the sick with a passing bell, the Order of Capuchin Friars’ vow of poverty, and the Jesuits’ alleged dissimulation. Each of these three distinct religious institutions emerged from the Roman Catholic Church within twenty years of one another, between 1520 and 1540—only a few generations before Donne referred to them. The Capuchins formed first. Donne’s reference to them might be flippant, but it charges them only with what they had openly accepted: voluntary poverty. The Church of England emerged next, when Henry VIII broke from the Roman Catholic Church and announced himself head of a new national church. Donne’s passing reference to the Church of England’s passing bells acknowledges the state church’s treatment of the dying without criticizing it. But Jesuits endure a harsh attack in this poem. Saint Ignatius Loyola founded the Society of Jesus shortly after reformers began separating from the Catholic Church. Nevertheless, its members did little to counteract the reformed church in England until 1580, when the English-­born Jesuit priests Edmund Campion and Robert Parsons secretly returned to their home country. Donne’s uncle, Jasper Heywood, soon followed them and set up his Jesuit operation near Donne’s boyhood home in London. While Donne’s representations of the Jesuits may not have been charitable or completely accurate, they were not uninformed. Donne had grown up related to one of the very few Jesuits to reach England. With Frances Bridgewater’s Donne books lying open to their passages on passing bells, modern readers at the Huntington can open other books from her family’s library that help explain them. When she was compiling her personal library, the countess must have known that she was also contributing to a larger family library that would eventually include the books and manuscripts of several generations. She had grown up with such a library.3 She shared books with both her husband, John, first Earl of Bridgewater, and their son and heir, John, Viscount Brackley. At her death, she left her books to them. Perhaps when her books joined theirs, they met several others that further contextualize Donne’s representations of church bells. For instance, the Bridge­water Library has two copies of Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall in English and two copies of the book’s Elizabethan predecessor in Latin. Two of these four books bear distinctive handwritten pressmarks, R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 13 }

making clear that the family owned them in the seventeenth century.4 The other two are bound together with several other religious books in a Sammelband: a compilation of several booklets in one binding.5 All of these volumes feature parchment covers with gilt tooling, and handwritten short titles on the spines. In their Bridgewater bindings, they look almost like a set, and they look to have been valued rather highly. Constitvtions and Canons prescribes the ringing of bells for the very sick and recently deceased: “And when any is passing out of this life, a Bell shall be tolled, and the Minister shall not then slacke to doe his last duetie. And after the parties death (if it so fall out) there shal be rung no more but one short peale, and one other before the burial, and one other after the buriall.”6 That’s four bells: one for the sick, another for the dead, a third for the funeral, and a fourth for the completion of burial. In both the prose devotion and the poem, Donne was referring to the first of these four bells, the passing bell: the only one that a person could possibly hear rung for oneself. Eventually, the passing bell would be followed by the death knell, then another single toll at the start of the funeral, and finally a last peal “after the buriall.” Just before these orders to “Ministers to visite the sicke,” Constitvtions and Canons also offers some context for Donne’s reference to Roman Catholics in his poem. It tells ministers how they must treat domestic English Catholics who recuse themselves from communal worship in the Church of England. First, ministers are “solemnly to denounce Recusants and Excommunicats.” Recusants are those who have been “obstinate refusing to frequent diuine Seruice established by publike authoritie within this Realme of England.” Although people might have recused themselves from divine service for any number of reasons, the term “Recusants” applied principally to Roman Catholics, and only occasionally to sectarian critics of the Church of England. Indeed, the next section of Constitvtions and Canons calls recusants “Popish,” a derogatory reference to Catholics’ allegiance to the pope. Some of the Jesuits whom Donne mentioned in “The will” would have qualified as recusants. So too would some of their hosts, friends, and mentees. Yet presumably most Catholic recusants had little or no contact with the few Jesuits to reach Elizabethan England. Regardless, “euery sixe moneths” recusants were to be “denounced and declared Excommunicate.” { 14 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Ministers were to excommunicate recusants “openly in time of Diuine Seruice vpon some Sunday.” So twice a year, during the big Sunday church service, ministers were to name and denounce the local Catholics who refused to attend it. Excommunication might sound final. But the next section of Constitvtions and Canons shows that it didn’t have to be. This section directs “Ministers to conferre with Recusants.” It explains that a preacher who has “any Popish Recusant or Recusants in his Parish . . . shall labour diligently with them from time to time, thereby to reclaime them from their errours.” Ministers who did not qualify as preachers were to find preachers who could persuade Catholic recusants to attend church. If they could find no preacher for the task, then the bishop would need to find one, or else meet with the recusant himself. Turning the page back to the instructions to “Ministers to visite the sicke,” Constitvtions and Canons enjoins a minister to “instruct and comfort” the sick “according to the order of the Communion booke.” This communion book must be “the booke of Common prayer,” which ministers are told, on the facing page, to follow also at baptisms and burials.7 Indeed, most editions of the Book of Common Prayer include the orders for baptism, for communion, for the visitation of the sick, and for the burial of the dead. The Bridgewater Library at the Huntington has a number of editions of the Book of Common Prayer as well. One of these is a very small, pocket-­sized edition from 1596. It bears an early version of the Egerton family’s coat of arms stamped in gold on its parchment covers. Inside, the first earl (or someone working for him) inscribed a pressmark, which the second earl (or someone working for him) later expanded. Huntington readers can open this book to find the script, so to speak, that ministers were to follow when visiting the sick—with the equivalent of stage directions. After asking for peace on the house that he is entering, the minister would kneel and say, “REmember not Lord our iniquities, nor the iniquities of our forefathers, spare vs good Lord, spare thy people whome thou hast redeemed with thy most precious blood, and be not angrie with vs for euer.” After making this plea and three more requests for mercy, the minister would begin the prayer that Jesus taught his disciples to pray in the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 6: “Our father which art in heauen, R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 15 }

hallowed be thy Name, &c.” Near the end of the prayer, the sick person, and any others present, would begin to read responsively: Answere. But deliuer vs from euill. Amen. Minister. O Lord saue thy seruant. Answere. Which putteth his trust in thee.8 Once the Lord’s Prayer ends with the word “Amen,” the minister and sick parishioner continue to pray, using a verse from Psalm 86, which asks the Lord to save the servant who trusts in him. Even this short extract demonstrates that the Book of Common Prayer consists of scripture, especially the Psalms, selected and reorganized (or sampled and remixed) to tell people what to pray and say and do on any number of occasions. The Book of Common Prayer’s close relationship to the Bible, and especially to the Psalms, is made manifest in some of the Bridgewater Library’s other copies. For example, the second earl inscribed pressmarks (or had them inscribed) in a “fully loaded” Bible.9 The huge folio volume includes, bound together, 1607 editions of the Book of Common Prayer, the Geneva Bible, and The VVhole Booke of Psalmes versified by Thomas Sternhold and John Hopkins. Three different complete translations of the Psalms appear in this Sammelband. One ends the prayer book: the Book of Common Prayer typically concludes with the Psalms, since it calls for its users to reread all 150 of them every month. A second translation appears in its usual place in the Bible. And Sternhold and Hopkins offer a third version, especially suited for singing in church, and perhaps in households as well. In this composite volume, one can turn directly from the Book of Common Prayer to its biblical sources. For instance, in Matthew 6, Jesus tells his disciples how to pray (“in secret” and without “much babling”). He then gives them words to repeat in prayer: the very words repeated at visitations of the sick and throughout the Church of England’s official prayer book.10 { 16 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

In the same Bible, one can turn next to the source for the words that immediately follow the Lord’s Prayer in the visitation of the sick. In Psalm 86, “Dauid,” the headnote confidently proclaims, asks God for mercy: “Preserue thou my soule, for I am mercifull: my God saue thou thy seruant, that trusteth in thee. Be mercifull vnto me, O Lord: for I cry vpon thee continually.”11 When visiting a sick parishioner, a minister would repeat only half a verse of Psalm 86. He would not repeat the psalmist’s bold demand that God be “mercifull vnto me” “for I am mercifull.” This may seem like a telling omission. But the Book of Common Prayer makes highly selective use of the Psalms throughout. And the minister and parishioner would have employed logic very much like that of the psalmist when they prayed the Lord’s Prayer: “forgiue vs our debts, as we also forgiue our debters.” Not entirely unlike the psalmist who asked for mercy because he had shown mercy, Christ’s disciples are to ask God to forgive them “as” they forgive others. This sounds as if God will forgive them only if, and insofar as, they forgive. Lest there be any doubt about this, Christ, back in Matthew 6, explains: “For if yee doe forgiue men their trespasses, your heauenly Father will also forgiue you. But if ye doe not forgiue men their trespasses, no more will your father forgiue you your trespasses.”12 God will apparently forgive only those who forgive others. Those could be scary words to recite, especially if the passing bell had just tolled and a minister was praying the Lord’s Prayer with “you.” The Book of Common Prayer routinely appears bound together with Bibles, and it is easy to see why. The English Bible didn’t always tell early modern Christians what to do, at least not at any particular day and time. The Book of Common Prayer did. The Bible, on its own, contains stories and songs and letters and instructions for rituals that Christians were not going to follow. The Book of Common Prayer, though, gave English Christians instructions for rituals that they had to follow. It also told them what parts of the Bible to read when. It assigned different biblical readings for every morning and evening. In addition, it told people what words to pray before and after these biblical readings. The Book of Common Prayer operated, then, like a playbook for a drama that people reenacted every day in churches and homes throughout the country. But this playbook did not contain R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 17 }

all the players’ lines. Rather like an actor’s handwritten part or roll, it featured just some of the lines interspersed with the Church’s equivalent of cues: biblical references that told ministers and other readers where to find the readings for the day. This kept the drama changing. It also took advantage of the Bible’s navigability in order to chart new courses through it every morning and evening, and for every feast and fast. Rather than be cast adrift in a vast printed Bible, conforming English Christians used the Book of Common Prayer as their compass and guide. Together with the Bible, then, the Book of Common Prayer united much of the country in a contemporary collective performance of translated ancient literature. It strove to include nearly all English people in this drama. But some would not play along. The first people to refuse were those, like Donne’s own family members, who held to the Roman Catholic faith of their parents. Ironically, the others who objected to the prayer book regarded it as too Catholic. These five Huntington volumes “lie open to one another” pretty well. The Church of England’s official instructions for passing bells provide a relevant context for Donne’s verse and prose on the subject, in both “The will” and the Devotions. They also tell us what it meant when the people of a parish heard a passing bell. By contrast, the Church’s order for the visitation of the sick tells us what people would hear only beside a deathbed. The Book of Common Prayer thus brings readers closer to the religion around people who knew one another in a single parish and a single home. Donne’s Devotions do something similar by describing the events around his sickbed in such detail, when he wondered whether the passing bell might have been rung for him. By laying these books “open to one another,” modern Huntington readers can reconstruct a nice cultural context for some of Donne’s most beloved prose and one of his less obviously religious poems. But, in so doing, they can also do something more. They can show how people in a given place, in an actual home, could have discerned that cultural context. And they can see not only a broad national context but also a local, familial, and even bibliographical one—something not only of England and its Church and culture but also of the Egerton family and its library. The rest of this chapter attempts to do likewise, turning first to Frances Bridgewater’s copy of Donne’s poem “A Letanie.” This copy of { 18 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

the poem may have been surrounded by actual litanies from the time that it joined the countess’s other books. The catalogue of her London library lists multiple copies of the Book of Common Prayer, prayer books that routinely included a litany.13 As her books joined those of her husband and son and father-­in-­law, her copy of Donne’s “Letanie” would have gotten surrounded by even more litanies, including a number of Roman Catholic ones. Together, the Bridgewater prayer books offer a remarkable perspective on the early modern development of religion in England in general—including the development of the English litany, in fine. By opening a few of these prayer books up to their litanies, readers can recognize some distinguishing features of the Roman Catholic and English churches. They can also see where, in the spectrum of early modern English religion, Donne and some of his early readers placed his “Letanie.” After sampling Donne’s “Letanie” and the Egertons’ prayer books, this chapter turns to another poem in Frances Bridgewater’s manuscript book of Donne’s verse: his fifth satire, addressed partly to her father-­in-­law, Sir Thomas Egerton. With the book open to this poem, the chapter proceeds to manuscripts that Egerton generated and received in his capacity as Elizabeth I’s attorney general. Their appearance suggests that these legal papers were probably not kept on the shelves of the family library; their subject matter might suggest the same. They generally lack early modern bindings and shelf-­ marks. Furthermore, they record the investigations and prosecutions of Roman Catholic recusants as well as members of separatist sects. Some of the legal papers refer to books that the authorities showed to their alleged producers in prison and used as evidence to prosecute and execute them. The Bridgewater Library still retains some of the very same copies of printed books that the investigators showed to inmates, with the offending passages ominously marked. Together, these papers and books record the Elizabethan government’s surveillance and persecution of people on both ends of the early modern religious spectrum in England. If the Church of England accurately claimed to have paved a via media between the extremes of Catholic Rome and Calvinist Geneva, the subjects of Egerton’s legal records had been pulled over by the early modern equivalent of the highway patrol.14 Brought together R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 19 }

in the Bridgewater Library and Ellesmere manuscripts, the records of late Elizabethan Catholics and separatists provide a remarkable material context for Donne’s fifth satire, revealing just how risky a poem it was for Donne to address to Egerton. By including both prayer books and legal records, this chapter elaborates on the interplay between religious practice and polemic that it has already begun to show in Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall. Again, that book instructed ministers to visit both the sick and the recusant. In visiting the sick, ministers were following the strong suggestion that Christ himself made in Matthew, when he promised to return “in his glorie” to tell those on his right, “I was sicke, and ye visited me,” and those on his left, “I was naked, and ye clothed me not: sicke, and in prison, and ye visited me not.” In visiting the recusant, ministers were occasionally following that next piece of implicit advice: “I was in prison, and ye came vnto me.” As the end of this chapter demonstrates, Egerton and especially his colleagues “came vnto” quite a few people “in prison”—people whose religious views did indeed make them “the least” in the kingdom.15 But they were hardly obeying the spirit of Christ’s words in doing so, because they were visiting people whom they had imprisoned, whom they were keeping in prison, and whom they were working to execute—all in the name of a religion that demands that one comfort prisoners and even love one’s enemies. By proceeding from the Church of England’s care of the sick to its crackdown on domestic critics, the chapter attends to both religious devotion and religious difference, both prayer and persecution. In so doing, it shows how the Church offered either a good end or a bad one, either abundant life or certain death, to various English Christians, depending on their relative conformity.

B ri dg ewat e r L i tani es Donne began his poem “A Letanie” with stanzas addressing the “Fathr,” the “Sonne,” the “Holie Ghost,” and all three of them together as the “Trinitie.” Both the Roman Catholic and the English churches began their litanies in more or less the same way. After these opening stanzas, { 20 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

though, Donne’s litany begins to looks a little Catholic, as it turns attention to “The virgin.” For that faire Blessed Mother Maid The virgin whose flesh redeemd, in that shee Cherubin which Vnlockt Paradice & made our clayme for Innocence, & disseasd Synne | whose wombe was a strange heaven for∧ther God cloathd himself & grew Our zealous thanks wee power According to this, the Blessed Virgin Mary “redeemd.” She “Vnlockt Paradice” and “made / our clayme for Innocence, & disseasd Synne.” Sin, in this phrase, may be not diseased but disseised: dispossessed, deprived, or perhaps even ousted.16 In this possible reading, the Virgin Mary legally dispossessed sin, in addition to opening heaven and possibly even redeeming sinners. Claims like these could sound suspiciously Catholic. The stanza concludes by affirming Mary’s roles as intercessor and mediatrix—roles that many early modern protestants were either deemphasizing or denying altogether. Addressing God, this copy of the poem reads, as her deeds were * her our helpes, so are *our| prayers; nor can she sue in vaine, whoe hath such titles vnto you.17 The original transcription thus says that, as the Virgin Mary’s deeds helped us in the past, so “our prayers” help us now. But someone has added an alternate word in the left margin, signaling the change by adding a pair of asterisks and underlining our. This effectively revises these lines to read: “as her deeds were / our helpes, so are her prayers.” Mary’s contested intercessory role hangs on that pronoun. Perhaps too does the efficacy of believers’ own prayers. Are her prayers or our prayers our helps? Is Mary praying for us? Are our prayers of any use without hers? In the earlier part of the stanza, Mary seems to have played a mediating role even in redemption. At the end of the stanza, Mary cannot R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 21 }

“sue / in vaine” because of the “titles” that she holds in relation to God. She can take suits to God, interceding on others’ behalf, and apparently God does not deny those suits. The original copy of this stanza made strong enough claims for the Virgin Mary’s role as an intermediary. The revised copy strengthened those claims. When she called for scholars to stop neglecting Donne’s poetic litany, Annabel Patterson rightly placed the poem in the context of the litanies used in worship, stretching from the fourth century to Thomas Cranmer’s English adaptation of the form.18 This chapter answers Patterson’s call by placing the poem in the same context that the Egerton family did: the context of the sixteenth-­century litanies and prayer books that they brought together in their library. The earliest of the Bridgewater prayer books are Latin psalters and books of hours, published by the Catholic Church when England was still a part of it. A psalter printed in 1506 in Paris, and shelf-­marked by (or for) the first earl, features a Latin litany. It directs Catholics to ask for mercy on us (“Miserere nobis”) from God the Father (“Pater”), God the Son (“Fili”), God the Holy Spirit (“Spiritus sancte”), and then the Holy Trinity (“Sancta trinitas”). Having addressed all three persons of the Trinity both individually and at once, the litany then addresses the Virgin Mary three times. It calls her first “Sancta maria,” then “Sancta dei genitrix” (holy mother of God), and finally “Sancta virgo virginum” (holy virgin of virgins). After each address, the litany asks Mary to pray for us: “Ora pro nobis.” It makes the same request of several angels (“Sancte michael,” “Sancte gabriel,” “Sancte raphael”), and then of all the holy angels and archangels as a group. It asks John the Baptist (“ioha[n]nes baptista”), and then all the patriarchs and prophets, to pray as well. It calls for “Sancte petre” and “Sancte paule” to join the effort, along with all the other apostles and evangelists. The litany requests the prayers of “Scte stephane” and all the “martires,” then “Scte siluester” and all the pontificates, confessors, and doctors. The list goes on.19 Other Catholic prayer books in the Bridgewater Library feature very similar Latin litanies. The second earl (or someone working with him) added a pressmark to a 1527 book of hours from Paris. This book begins its litany with the same petitions to the Trinity for mercy. It then asks Mary and the angels for intercessory prayer, before addressing other { 22 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

saints.20 The prayers to individually named saints that fill these Roman Catholic litanies would not last much longer in reformed lands. But they did not leave England right away. After Henry VIII broke England’s allegiance to the Roman Catholic Church, the Church of England that he thus established continued to prescribe prayers to saints in litanies and primers. For instance, the Church of England’s 1542 Prymer in Englyshe, and Latyn merely translates the old Catholic litany without removing or downplaying any of its saintly intermediaries. After asking the “father,” “sonne,” and “holye ghoost” for “mercye,” the Henrician litany keeps turning English people’s prayers to Mary: Saynte Marye praye for vs. Holye mother of God, praye for vs.| Holy mayden of maydens praye for vs Then, after the “Aungels and archaungels,” the litany keeps the country requesting prayer from “Saynte Ihon Baptyst” and “Saynte Peter” and “Saynte Paule.”21 As with all of the earlier litanies in the Bridgewater Library, the list of saints’ names goes on so long that it is easy to see why the word litany would come to signify a tedious list in post-­Catholic countries. Before proceeding to the later prayer books that would make this litany look long-­winded, it is worth acknowledging how it could have seemed vital to Roman Catholics. For Catholics, each line of a litany could offer hope as it joined the prayers of the living with those of yet another saint. Each saint could then intercede anew on behalf of both the living and the dead, acting as an intermediary between them and God. Moreover, Catholic litanies could be sung in public processions. If they were long and repetitive, that was no more a problem for Catholics than was a long performance of soul-­affirming music, or a parade long enough to come right by one’s own home. But after England’s break from Rome, English people were less likely to encounter a litany in a public procession (despite Thomas Cranmer’s early hopes), and more likely to encounter it within the doors of a church or the covers of a printed book. In a book, a litany of R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 23 }

saints’ names can be visually shocking. Amid pages of relative typographical variety, a Catholic litany immediately stands out. Its columns of repeated words (“Ora” or “Pray,” “Saint” this and “Saint” that) look, well, repetitive. And in a post-­Catholic country, saints could look like they were getting in the way. The next few English prayer books in the Bridgewater Library can help demonstrate why. In 1544, shortly after printing its translation of the traditional Catholic litany full of individual saints’ names, the fledgling Church of England published a small book called An Exhortation vnto Prayer. This octavo includes a totally new “Letanie.” The Virgin Mary gets fewer lines in this one. She is still addressed and still asked to pray: “Holy virgyn Mary, mother of god our sauiour Iesu christ. Pray for vs.” So too are all the “Patryarkes, & Prophetes Apostles, and Martyrs, Co[n]fessours and virgyns and all the blessed company of heuen.” The new litany asks all these saints, together, to “Pray for vs.” But it names none of them individually, except Saint Mary. Said aloud, the prayers to saints in this new litany would last only a few moments. Printed on the page, the litany lacks the apparent redundancy of its predecessors. After the brief prayers to saints, this early English litany asks for deliverance from a series of troubles and sins. “From all euyl & mischief . . . Good lorde deliuer vs.” “From blyndnes of hert, fro[m] pryde. . . . from enuy, | hatred, and malice, & all vncharitablenes. Good lorde delyuer vs.” Expounding upon the Lord’s prayer, the new litany asks God to deliver us from all sin great and small, from natural disasters and “sodaine death,” and even from political and theological sins. But someone has deleted one of the items in the Bridgewater copy: “From al sedicion & priuey conspyracy, from the tyranny of the byshop of Rome, and all his detestable enormities, from all false doctryne and heresy, from all hardnes of hert and co[n]tempt of thy word & co[m]mau[n]deme[n]t. Good lorde delyuer vs.”22 A reader crossed out the one part of the litany where the Church of England called “the byshop of Rome” a tyrant. It’s a striking deletion, especially since it’s the only one in the book. Why would someone make it, and who could have done so? Of course, virtually all Roman Catholics, who necessarily maintained allegiance to the pope, would have objected to this harsh denunciation of their spiritual father. And Catholics would not have { 24 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

had to object to anything else in this litany. They might have missed the saints’ names. They might have even opposed the new English church. But they could nevertheless assent to everything else in this prayer, because the new English litany was basically a minimalist version of the older Catholic one. It dispensed with the saints, but it kept much else: the Trinity, the appeals for mercy and deliverance. And it added very little. If they could just skip that unchristian jab at the pope, some Catholics could have said amen to this litany, in the right setting. Yet any Catholics who did pray the new litany would have been conforming to a new church and therefore either dissimulating or putting their Catholic faith at risk, if not both. Even people willing to do so could have bristled at the litany’s denunciation of the pope. Some protestants, even, may have preferred to skip the prayer’s one statement of protest, especially coming just after the plea for deliverance from “malice, & all vncharitablenes.” It may be impossible to determine conclusively who crossed out the line about the pope, but the most obvious candidate is the man who inscribed the book as his own: Thomas Egerton. When the book was printed, Thomas was four years old, the illegitimate son of a nobleman, Sir Richard Egerton, and a servant girl, Alice Sparke. Raised in the household of Thomas Ravenscroft, Egerton went to Brasenose College, Oxford, and then Lincoln’s Inn for legal training. There he fell in with a group of Catholics who attracted the attention of the government. Because of this association, he had to produce a certificate of conformity to the Church of England and delay the start of his legal career. But once that career got under way, it was brilliant. Egerton married his stepfather’s daughter, Elizabeth, and the couple produced two sons, including the heir who would marry Frances Stanley and, remarkably, become the first Earl of Bridgewater. If Thomas Egerton struck out the litany’s line about the pope, did he do so as a Roman Catholic, before he had to conform to the Church of England? Or did he do so afterward, as a member of the Church of England? Was he critically rejecting such talk in the middle of a prayer? Or was he simply trying to keep his litany up to date, since Elizabethan litanies had dispensed with the line on the pope? Although plenty of other possibilities remain, each of these is fascinating. R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 25 }

Later Henrician primers adopted the changes introduced by this litany. One of them, printed the next year, in 1545, likewise asks Mary for her prayers, but only once: “Holy virgyn Mari, mother of God oure sauiour Iesu Christ: Pray for vs.” It also addresses all the other saints at once, without naming any of them: “All holy Patriarkes, & Prophetes, Apostles, & Martyrs, Confessours & virgyns, and all the blessed company of heauen: Pray for vs.”23 The Church of England was still asking saints to pray, but it was asking only one of them by name, and it was doing so more hastily than ever. When the Book of Common Prayer appeared in 1549 and 1552, it featured a litany, but Mary and the saints were nowhere to be found in it. After the usual invocations of Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and Trinity, every line in the Edwardian litany addresses the “Good lorde” directly.24 With the arrival of the Book of Common Prayer, the saints had been completely removed from the English litany. It’s easy to understand why they had to leave. The saints had long endorsed and forwarded the prayers of Catholics, advocating on their behalf. But for reformers, the saints had become obstacles, not intermediaries. Reformers claimed to have found, in the printed Greek New Testament and the vernacular translations that soon followed, something wonderful that the Catholic Church and its litany of saints had obscured. In English they called it grace, along with mercy and forgiveness. Catholics were, of course, quite familiar with such concepts. But reformers thought that the Catholic Church had gotten them all wrong. They believed that God’s forgiveness was so complete that a forgiven believer could, and should, go boldly and directly to God in prayer. To them, praying instead to saints suggested that God’s grace was not sufficient to save sinners. It suggested that they also needed saints’ help, and a lot of good works. Reformers therefore saw praying to saints as not only unnecessary but also counterproductive and deceptive. According to them, the practice had tricked Catholics into putting their faith in human works, rather than in divine ones. It had thus produced the false doctrine of works righteousness, and impeded faith in the only true source of righteousness: God’s unearnable forgiveness. The saints returned to England for a few years. Queen Mary I, a staunch Roman Catholic, assumed the throne. And Catholic primers { 26 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

returned with her, with all of the named saints and appeals for them to “praye for vs.”25 But the saints were not going to stay long. Elizabeth I succeeded her half sister and swung back the religious pendulum. She revised and revived the Book of Common Prayer. So again the Church of England prayed the litany directly to the Trinity, reaffirming the reformers’ insistence on the sufficiency of God’s grace and removing the saints’ intercessory role from the state church in England more or less for good. With some of the Egerton family’s sixteenth-­century prayer books open to their litanies, the context, and therefore the meaning, of ­Donne’s litany becomes clearer. The Church of England had claimed to chart a via media, a middle way, between the extremes of Roman Catholics and continental reformers, such as German Lutherans and Genevan Calvinists. But, in the case of the litany, Donne charted a middle way between the Catholic Church and the Church of England itself. Like the English church in its litany, Donne addressed only the Trinity in his; he did not go so far as to pray to any saints or angels. Yet like the Catholic Church, Donne insisted on keeping “the virgin,” “Angels,” “Patriarchs,” and others in the litany. He even affirmed the Virgin Mary’s role in intercessory prayer. He just did not go quite far enough to enact it by praying to her in this poem—or, on the other hand, quite far enough to exclude her and the rest of the saints from it. The eventual place of the Bridgewater copy of Donne’s litany, in the family library, tells us something about what Donne was doing when he composed the poem—but only at a certain remove. More immediately, it tells us about the place that a particular copy of Donne’s works came to assume in a particular aristocratic library. To be sure, recognizing Donne’s place in the Bridgewater Library requires that we turn to other parts of Frances Bridgewater’s manuscript collection of Donne’s poems, and open up more of her and her relatives’ books.

“Al l Hi s .  .  . Bookes, P r i m e r s” Donne addressed part of his fifth and final verse satire to Elizabeth I and her Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, Sir Thomas Egerton. The poem attacked the corruption of the “officers” of the Star Chamber and other R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 27 }

legal courts. In the midst of its attack, Donne’s speaker asks the queen whether she is aware of the corruption: Greatest, & fairest Empress, know you this? Alas, no more then Thames calm head doth know Whose meads her Armes drown, or whose corne oreflowe No, Elizabeth could no more know of the corruption in the law courts than the head of a river is responsible for the flooding that happens downstream. Having tersely cleared the queen of any responsibility, Donne addresses her Lord Keeper, Egerton, whom Donne had recently begun to “serve”: You Sr whose righteousnes shee loves, whom I By having leaue to serve, am most richly, for service paid, authorized now begin To know & weed out this enormous Synm. As he discovered this corruption, Egerton was uprooting it. Donne represented the corruption in the words of Catholic litanies. Likening judges to gods, he claimed that suitors can approach them only by means of “Angells”: gold coins depicting the angel Saint Michael. “Iudges are gods; hee who made & said them so / Meant not, men should be forced to them to go / by means of Angells”—that is, coins offered in bribes. when Supplications wee send to God, to Dominations, Powers, Cherubins, & all Heauens Courts | If wee should pay seed as heere, daylie bread would bee scarce to kings This unique copy of the poem states that, if the heavenly angels demanded as much “seed” as judges demand of base, earthly “angels,” we would not have enough left to provide even our kings with daily bread. Tucked into a prepositional phrase is a rather Catholic-­sounding { 28 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

presumption: that when we send supplications to God, we also send them to dominations, powers, cherubins, and all the heavenly courts listed in Roman Catholic litanies. Directly after this invocation of Catholic litanies, Donne likened legal corruption to a pursuivant, a heraldic officer who invades the home of someone suspected of praying such Catholic litanies or using Catholic prayer books: copes x

would it not anger A Stoick, a Coward, Yea a Martyr, to see a Pursevant com in & call All his clothes, Bookes Primers & all his plate Challices, & mystake them away, And aske a fee for comming.26

Even a stoic or a martyr would get angry if a pursuivant invaded his home and deemed all the “clothes” in the house to be “copes,” a word added in the left margin, making sense of the passage. Copes are liturgical vestments for Roman Catholic priests. In the scene evoked by Donne’s rhetorical question, the pursuivant also claims that all of his victim’s books are “Primers”: Roman Catholic prayer books. The officer even regards all the plate in the house as “Challices,” liturgical vessels for use in the Roman Catholic Mass, and specifically its celebration of the Eucharist (otherwise called Holy Communion). As if it were not bad enough to confiscate a family’s goods under false pretenses, the pursuivant then demands that his victims pay him “a fee for comming”! Not even a coward could endure that final insult. Elizabethan persecution of Catholics encouraged even the scared to speak out. This is a powerful scene, especially for Donne to write to Egerton. Both men had grown up as Catholics. Egerton had twice been suspended from Lincoln’s Inn for “observing the Catholic faith” in 1569–70. Years later, in 1577, he was cited for not attending divine service. Once he reconciled with the Church of England, in that same year, Egerton began a promising and soon powerful legal career. Before long, he accepted the post of solicitor general and began co-­leading the investigations and prosecutions of Roman Catholics. Together with R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 29 }

Elizabeth’s attorney general, John Popham, Egerton prosecuted several Catholics, including, in 1585, Henry Percy, eighth Earl of Northumberland. Northumberland was the father of Donne’s friend Thomas, who would soon become the ninth earl.27 Upon the eighth earl’s death in the Tower, whether by suicide or murder, his title went to his son. The ninth earl would later deliver Donne’s letter, announcing his elopement, to his new, unwilling father-­in-­law: Sir George More, who had also become Egerton’s brother-­in-­law. This letter would effectively end Donne’s vaguely defined service with Egerton.28 It is easy to imagine Donne sending his fifth satire to Egerton. But we can only imagine this, because no known manuscript of the poem bears any evidence of Egerton’s use or ownership. No copy survives among Egerton’s own papers or books, for instance. But one copy of the poem did eventually reach the library that Egerton had started: the one in Frances Bridgewater’s manuscript collection of Donne’s poems. When the countess’s personal library joined her father-­in-­law’s, the lines that Donne had composed for him finally found a permanent place among their addressee’s books, not far from his papers. When they did, a few remarkable things happened. First, Donne’s satirical mention of Catholic primers got surrounded by actual Catholic primers. As this chapter has already shown, the library that Egerton began came to include a remarkable collection of sixteenth-­ and seventeenth-­century prayer books over the next few generations. Together, these Latin and English prayer books effectively chart the early modern course of Christianity in England. One of them, a 1553 Hours of the Blessed Virgin Mary, published by the Catholic Church, bears Thomas Egerton’s signature: “Tho. Egerton Lincoln.”29 That last word, “Lincoln,” refers to Lincoln’s Inn, the law school and legal society where Egerton’s Catholicism came under government scrutiny, the same Inn of Court that Donne would later join. So when Donne wrote Egerton about a pursuivant who claimed that all a household’s books were primers, he was addressing a fellow Lincoln’s Inn man, and a new patron, who already owned at least one such primer. Either Egerton’s son, the first Earl of Bridgewater, or someone helping him arrange his library later inscribed a pressmark on this primer (“T:1”). He wrote one on his wife’s book of Donne’s poems as { 30 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

well (“R:8”), and another on her copy of Donne’s Devotions (“R:5”). So perhaps at Ashridge, the former monastery in Hertfordshire that Egerton had purchased as a country house, a reader could have looked up from Donne’s lines in the Ellesmere manuscript to see just the sort of Catholic primers that his imaginary pursuivant was seeking, possibly including some that had been part of the monastery, and almost certainly including one owned by the lines’ addressee.30 These two books may have been just two cabinets or presses away from each other: the primer in a bookcase or cupboard designated “T,” just two over from the set of shelves that bore two Donne volumes labeled “R.” The two volumes still occupy shelves in the same library at the Huntington, where a modern reader can still “open” both books “to one another.” Thomas Egerton’s own book of hours, and the other Catholic primers that had entered the family library by the time of his son and grandson, make for a remarkable material context for Donne’s lines on contraband primers. A second set of materials long kept by the Egerton family demonstrates why its primers sit so provocatively around its copy of Donne’s satire. The manuscripts that Sir Thomas Egerton collected in his legal work feature several that concern Catholic recusants, Jesuits, and seminary priests. The earliest of the legal documents date from the years in which Egerton reconciled with the Church of England and joined the legal team that would prosecute the realm’s most notorious Catholic martyrs. His manuscripts include, for instance, a summary, endorsed and annotated in Egerton’s own hand, of the first major trial against Catholics that he witnessed as a member of the Crown’s legal team: the 1581 trial of Lord Vaux, Tresham, Catesby, and others, for harboring Edmund Campion.31 Egerton, of course, also kept records of Catholic trials in which he took a more active role. He retained, for example, records of his prosecution of Mary Queen of Scots, most notably including a draft of the petition for her execution, apparently corrected in both Burghley’s hand and his own.32 He kept copies of the indictments against the Babington Plot conspirators and Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel, as well.33 Egerton led the prosecution of each of these Roman Catholics, securing a death sentence for every one, although Arundel was merely kept in prison until he died. R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 31 }

Egerton’s legal work against Catholic recusants extended well beyond such high-­profile cases, and well beyond the courtroom, as other Ellesmere manuscripts make clear. For instance, in a letter written to Burghley in 1587, Egerton summarized the charges that had for years kept Sir John Southworth, a Lancashire Catholic, imprisoned and heavily fined, with all his lands and leases seized. In the same letter, Egerton reiterated the terms of Southworth’s conditional release, including a “Contynuance of his Conformytye in Comm ynge to dyvyene service.”34 Southworth had to go to church: the state church. Five years after this release, Southworth was again in trouble with the law, this time at the hands of people whom Egerton knew well. A letter among the Ellesmere manuscripts explains. In it, Egerton’s longtime patron Henry Stanley, fourth Earl of Derby, asked a justice of the peace, Richard Brereton of Worsley, to search Southworth’s house for both people and books. He wanted Brereton to deliver to him any “suche Iesuite Semynarie Preiste vnknowne or suspected p[er]son” that he might find in the house. Along with them, he wanted the justice to bring any “suche wrytinges, pamphelletts, pap[er]s or other suspic[i]ous∧or sup[er]stitious thinges, as yo[u] shall fynde.”35 Brereton’s report lists first all the people in Southworth’s household and then all the things. The inventory of goods begins with clothing, some apparently innocuous items (such as “a dublet”) and others decidedly not: “a gowne wthout a pocket, and yet devyses secretlye to kepe l[ett]res in.”36 Was Brereton not only confiscating valuable goods but also doing more or less what Donne said pursuivants did, by claiming that their victims’ clothes have a secret, Catholic purpose? The next leaf of the inventory lists the most “sup[er]stitious thinges” that Brereton found, Catholic books and primers: “It[e]m thirteene bookes wherein is conteyned much papistrie / It[e]m eleven other bookes of papistrie.” After enumerating at least twenty-­four Catholic books, the “Inventorie” begins listing specific Catholic volumes. Rhemes testam[en]te  an apologie of the Englishe Semynaries,  a treatise of Schisme shewing that all catholickes must absent themselves from hereticall conventicles to witt theire praye[rs] { 32 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

and s[er]mons  A discou[er]ie of Iohn Nicholls A defence of the censure given vpon tow bookes written against Edmund campyon priest.37 This is a fascinating list of books to find among both Egerton’s books and Donne’s fifth satire. Consider first the resonance between it and Donne’s lines to Egerton. Brereton had, after all, made the list when he was doing precisely what Donne described in the satire. He was acting as a pursuivant. He was searching someone else’s house for suspicious and superstitious items. If he wasn’t exactly calling all of Southworth’s books primers, he was representing each of the ones that he enumerated as full of “papistrie.” This means that when Donne wrote Egerton his lines about an imaginary pursuivant who flippantly deems all a household’s books Catholic, Egerton had already received, via a close associate, the report of just such a pursuivant, who had done more or less the same thing. Donne was, in other words, comparing Egerton’s enemies in the field of law (corrupt officers) to a pursuivant whose work Egerton clearly knew, and may even have appreciated. Donne’s decision to do so was therefore either canny or uncanny. If uncanny, Donne was unwittingly addressing his complaints about pursuivants to one of the very men to whom those pursuivants reported. If canny, though, Donne must have suspected, or even known, that Egerton had been complicit in such persecution of Catholics; in that case, Donne would have been cleverly couching an objection to his patron’s involvement in ostensible praise. Each possibility is stunning. Donne’s poem is not the only text in the Bridgewater Library that resonates with Brereton’s list of Southworth’s books. Egerton and his family acquired several volumes similar to those that Brereton represented as Catholic contraband. The first book that Brereton specified was a “Rhemes Testamente”: the recent English translation of the New Testament produced by English Catholics abroad at Rheims in France. Egerton’s family owned a 1582 “Rhemes [New] Testamente” early enough for his son, the first Earl of Bridgewater, to assign it a shelf-­ mark. Their copy bears an earlier manuscript inscription that seems to have been written by a Catholic.38 Although in the 1520s and ’30s English Catholics, most notably Sir Thomas More, had opposed William R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 33 }

Tyndale’s translation of the Bible into English, by the 1580s their successors had resorted to fighting fire with fire. From the perspective of the English Catholics who produced it abroad, schismatic English Bibles finally called for Catholic English Bibles. In the possession of a repeat offender like Southworth, such a Catholic Bible counted as evidence of the owner’s secret, obstinate religious practice. In the possession of the conforming prosecutor’s family, though, it apparently did not. The next two books on Brereton’s list, the “apologie” and the “treatise,” were by the Catholics who had been responsible for producing the Rheims New Testament: Cardinal William Allen and the primary translator, Gregory Martin. The last two books that Brereton specified were by Robert Parsons, of the Society of Jesus. The portion of the Bridgewater Library now at the Huntington does not contain copies of any of these particular titles. But it does have other books by Parsons and Allen, two of them printed around the same time as the Egertons’ copy of the Rheims New Testament. The one by Allen features several shelf-­marks in the hand of the first earl (or that of someone working for him).39 Parsons’s book may feature one too, obscured by a modern bookplate.40 Either Egerton or his son evidently acquired precisely the sort of Catholic books that got Southworth back into trouble. An early reader radically expanded the title in the Egertons’ copy of Allen’s book. The cardinal had originally titled it A Trve Sincere and Modest Defence of English Catholiqves. But the reader added a preface to the title, effectively renaming the book: “A false, Sediceoos, & Imodest offense Sett ovt by Englishe Trators (abroade & svme at home) Groaning for the Gallows, vnder Cvllor & Shaddowe off A TRVE, SINCERE, AND MODEST DEFENSE, OF ENGLISH CATHOLIQVES.” The manuscript addition gives the lie to the printed title. Then, at the bottom of the title page, the same reader wrote that the book was “To bee redd & vsed for ye Service of God, Q Elyzabethe, & the peace of Englande, & for No other pvrpose, Or Cavse.”41 This disclaimer insists that readers only use this bad Catholic book for the good of the English state. It demands that they read it critically and with resistance. Bill Sherman has described all this, along with the “vehemently Protestant notes throughout the text” and even the red silk thread sewn through the margins where these notes appear. Did Egerton make these notes, as if to distinguish { 34 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

his use of Catholic books from that of others? No, Sherman learned, thanks to a note that Frank Brownlow added to the book at the Huntington. Brownlow identified the marginalia as “in the hand—and spelling—of Richard Topcliffe, pursuivant, torturer, Queen’s servant, &c.”42 Topcliffe’s marginal notes skip most of the opening chapters of Allen’s book. In those early sections, Allen made clear that he wrote the book in response to Sir Robert Cecil’s “late pamphlet, intituled The execution of Iustice.” In this pamphlet, Cecil had defended the justice of executing the Jesuit priest Edmund Campion in 1581. Allen argued that “many priests and other Catholiqves in England have bene persecvted, condemned, and executed, for mere matter of religion.” He claimed that Campion and the other priests and Catholics whom England had condemned and executed “vvere neuer yet guiltie of anie such crimes” as alleged. He complained of “inivst persecution, intollerable seuerity and cruelty tovvardes Catholiques in England,” far worse than anything “Protestantes” had received under Queen Mary. And he insisted “that ovr priests and Catholiqve brethren have behaved them selues discretlie, and nothing seditiouslie.”43 That did not stop Topcliffe from looking for seditious statements in Allen’s book, though. He found them where Allen turned to the subject of the “excommvnication and deprivation of princes for heresie and falling from the Faith.” About such princes Allen had written, “as soone as one is denounced or declared an excommunicate, al his subiects be discharged of their obediem[n]ce.” Once a pope excommunicates a ruler, such as Queen Elizabeth, her subjects can cease their obedience to her. Topcliffe marked the passage with a manicule—a marginal drawing of a hand—with a long, pointy index finger. As support for his controversial claim, Allen translated and summarized the “Counsel of Laterane” on the subject. There, Topcliffe drew another manicule, along with this marginal notation: “The decree of that Counsell in what cayse a Sovereinge lords Subiets be dischardgd of ther dewty & Ther lande to bee possess by Catholikes.” Topcliffe recognized that Catholics could reclaim not only a heretical sovereign’s subjects but also her “lande.” Allen then turned to scripture’s examples of kings who were deposed. Topcliffe kept up with another manicule and the note: “That kks may bee deposed by preestes & proffites as Ivdges.” In scripture God used priests and prophets to depose kings; he used R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 35 }

war, too. Likewise, Allen considered “Warre for the Catholique religion both lauful & honorable.” And he thought “the Prophet and Priests must direct” those who engage in war. Under another manicule, Topcliffe summarized: “the preestes mvst direct the mvrderers.”44 Allen could claim that Catholics were guilty of no sedition and were persecuted “for mere matter of religion.” But, at least in the hands of a pursuivant like Topcliffe, the author’s own words undermined the claim. From Topcliffe’s perspective, Allen’s book proved absolutely “Sediceoos.” It rejected the queen’s authority to preside over spiritual matters, effectively delegitimizing the Church of England. It claimed that her rightful place was under the authority of the pope. It argued that once the pope excommunicated her, she effectively lost any claim on her subjects and even her lands. Her subjects could violently depose her. Indeed, they should follow the lead of priests in doing so. Topcliffe’s copy of Allen’s book is not his only appearance in the Bridgewater Library. He also inscribed a huge Latin Bible that Sir Francis Drake had “taike[n]” from Santo Domingo.45 His name also recurs in a few of the depositions of imprisoned recusants held in April 1593. Topcliffe only occasionally joined the examinations of Catholic prisoners.46 Other investigators took a more consistent part, such as the justice of the peace Richard Young. Whereas Topcliffe attended seven of the depositions, Young participated in the interrogations of all fifty-­eight Catholic prisoners recorded in the Ellesmere papers.47 After spending much of April 1593 examining recusants in prison, Young was apparently looking for more to arrest in May.48 That month he found the Catholic priest William Harrington in the quarters of Donne’s brother, Henry. Both went to prison. Henry died of the plague in Newgate. Harrington was executed.49 Neither Henry Donne nor William Harrington seems to appear in the Ellesmere manuscripts. But the pursuivant who effectively ended their lives—Richard Young—does. So when Donne wrote his satire for Egerton, he was wittingly or unwittingly writing about a pursuivant to a government lawyer with inside knowledge of the very same pursuivant who had taken away his own brother, never to be seen again. In the likely but uncertain event that Egerton read a copy of Donne’s satire, he certainly could have realized what Donne was doing, even if { 36 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Donne himself did not. So too could one of Egerton’s descendants, or any perceptive user of his family’s library. Donne was representing the corruption that Egerton ostensibly opposed in terms of the hunting for Catholics that Egerton had already condoned and may have even supported. Surrounded by the sort of Catholic books that Elizabethan pursuivants sought, along with Egerton’s legal records on some of the books that they found, the Bridgewater copy of Donne’s fifth satire finds a chilling material context. In it, Donne’s metaphorical pursuivant meets the records and the loot of actual pursuivants, including the one who made Donne’s brother a martyr.

“Al l t h e Recusants” and “Al l the Sectaries Rem e n y n g i n the P r esones a B ottes Lo ndo n” But Richard Young was hunting down and interrogating not only Catholic recusants. He was doing the same to “sectaries,” the members of unofficial, radical sects. Sir Thomas Egerton collected their depositions as well. In fact, the special committee of justices that produced the fifty-­eight Catholic depositions cited above produced forty-­four depositions of forty-­three imprisoned sectaries in the same month. The committee interrogated “sectaries” on 2, 3, 4, and 5 April before turning its attention to “Recusant” prisoners on 6 April.50 On that day, the same four investigators saw six sectaries and eight Catholics. The same anonymous scribe hastily took dictation on full sheets of paper that he folded and arranged in the same way. He distinguished Catholics by adding a single word under the dates of their examinations: “Recusant.” Another scribe later reaffirmed the distinction when he wrote out two separate summaries of the month’s depositions. He called one of these “A breffe not[e] of All the Recusantes that Ar in the presones a bottes london.” He called the other “A breffe not of all the settaries Sectaries remenyng in the presones a bottes london.”51 Historical researchers have understandably maintained the scribes’ distinction between “Recusantes” and “Sectaries,” usually focusing on just one of the two groups at a time. For obvious reasons, the Catholic Record Society published transcripts of only the Catholic depositions in R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 37 }

Egerton’s papers. Likewise, the book series Elizabethan Nonconformist Texts reproduced only the records of separatist prisoners nearby. Of course, it makes perfect sense for experts on Catholicism to publish only the records of Catholics, and for scholars of nonconformity to do the same for their own historical subjects. But anyone interested in the religion around Donne, rather than just to one side of him, will want to consider the records of both the “Recusantes” and the “Sectaries” together, as they were produced and have been stored ever since. While these two groups of unruly English Christians occupied opposite ends of the religious spectrum in England, the government brought them together in prison, on the gallows, and in Egerton’s papers. Moreover, no records of any other religious groups accompany these manuscripts. The depositions oscillate between sectaries and recusants but they never extend to any other form of Christianity, much less to any other religion. These particular papers give no indication that the government was concerned with any of the “stranger churches” designated for reformed immigrants from Italy, France, or the Netherlands. And they certainly feature no Lutherans, no Eastern Orthodox Christians, no Jews, no Muslims, no Hindus, or anyone else. At least in Egerton’s records, the religion around Donne included just a few western European forms of Christianity. Therefore the religious persecution that Egerton’s manuscripts record amounted to one kind of Christians persecuting a few other kinds of Christians—in violation of their own religion’s central command to love their enemies and neighbors alike. The April 1593 depositions make relatively clear what the committee had been asking prisoners on either side of the religious mean. For instance, on 6 April, the committee questioned two approximately forty-­year-­old men who lived within a short walk of each other, in and around the Inns of Court. One was a Catholic recusant; the other was a sectary. The Catholic, “Iohn Robertson” (according to his own capable signature) “of the Inner temple . . . lodged in Garnestes rentes in Lincolns Inne feld.” Robertson answered “ffirst that he hath bene in prison a yere and a quarter.” He had been “examyned thrice”: one time “before the Commission[er]s” and twice before the “deane of wesm[inster]” and “Mr Yonge and others.” In the second “Item he sayeth he is indicted for recusancye a yere since.” In the next, he lists { 38 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

his “lands of inheritanc[e].” With Robertson’s legal record and financial worth established, the investigators proceeded to interrogate him about his religious activities. First, “being demanded whether he hath at any tymes received or relived any Semenarie preistes or Iesuites,” he said that “he hath not to his knowleg.” In the next “Item he sayeth he was never reconciled to the Romish Church.” Having neither harbored Catholic infiltrators nor reconciled with the Catholic Church, Robertson hardly seems to have posed a threat. Why, then, was he still in prison? He “refuseth to be reformed and to come to Church.” So, while not much of a Catholic, Robertson was also no conforming member of the Church of England. One last question, then: had he conferred with a member of the Church of England, or would he be willing to do so? He had had conference with the “deane of Westm[inster]” but “he is soe setled that he . . . cannot be removed . . . wth quietnes of mynde . . . and conscience.”52 Understandably, Robertson could not in good conscience attend the state church that had put him in prison simply for not attending. He chose the government’s prison over its church. Another man interrogated that day, William Weaver, worked as a “Sho maker” and resided on “Grayes Inne lane.” He had been “in prison . . . a month” after “beinge taken in the wood nere Islington.” Back on 4 March, pursuivants had arrested him and more than fifty others at a secret outdoor worship service north of London. He had already been “examyned once” but “not indicted to his knowlege.” In the next “Item,” Weaver answered that he had “bene of his oppinions a bout a yere and a half and some what more.” He then told investigators where he had joined “thassemblies” of the separatists: “twice or thrice at the wood wher they were taken and at sometymes at St Nicholas lane and once at le Nicholas Lees howse in Cowe lane.” He also named the man who had “drawen” him to the assemblies: “Rob[er]t Bodkin,” a tailor who also lived on Gray’s Inn Lane. Although Weaver may seem to have been selling out his friend, the authorities already knew Bodkin quite well, so naming him may have changed little, and could have been an attempt to avoid divulging new names. The investigators soon asked more questions about the assemblies. In response to one, Weaver answered that he “never drewe” anyone to the clandestine gatherings. Replying to the next, he said that “if ther R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 39 }

nomber had greatly increased yet he thinketh that they ment nothing against the peace or the state.” The interrogators clearly took issue with growing unofficial assemblies. Weaver also affirmed that he had entered into some sort of covenant with the sectaries, promising them that he would “walke wth them . . . soe longe as they . . . followed the ordinance of Christ.” And he ended by stating that he “refuseth as yet to come to Churche.” Weaver understandably would not attend the official church that had imprisoned him simply for attending an independent one. Whether owing to his education or his condition at the hands of his captors, Weaver signed by scratching a “W” with four shaky pen strokes. In the middle of the interrogation, investigators asked Weaver their scariest question. Whatever the exact wording of the question, Weaver answered it by admitting that he “sawe one of Barrowes bookes in the said Rob[er]t Bodkins howse.”53 After two reprieves, authorities finally succeeded in hanging Henry Barrow, along with his usual co-­author, John Greenwood—on the very same day that they were asking Weaver whether he had any experience with any of Barrow’s books. Not satisfied with executing the authors, the commissioners wanted to know more about their readers. What made the books written by Henry Barrow and John Greenwood worth the effort to suppress them with arrest, imprisonment, interrogation, and execution? The answers lie nearby, in other manuscripts and books that Sir Thomas Egerton collected. Just a few weeks before the special commission began the April interrogations, closer colleagues of Egerton’s had been examining Barrow, Greenwood, and others about certain secretly printed books. Sir John Popham, the chief justice of the Court of Queen’s Bench, took down these March depositions in a hurried scrawl. On 11 March, he and Sir Edmund Anderson, lord chief justice of the Common Pleas, interrogated Barrow. They showed him a few printed books, including one titled A Collection of Certain Letters and Conferences Lately Passed Betvvixt Certaine Preachers & Tvvo Prisoners in the Fleet. The Bridgewater Library at the Huntington still retains the very copy of this book that the lord chief justices showed to Barrow. Its title page bears the handwritten titles of other books by Barrow, in a hand that resembles Popham’s in the deposition.54 According to Popham in the deposition, Barrow admitted that the text “was collected by hym and Iohn Grenwod.” Barrow { 40 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

also confessed that he and Greenwood “delyvered and sent forth” the book, but he could not recall to whom: “hys memory ys so decayed, neyther doth he know who pt p[ri]nted them.” His decayed memory could recall having seen “these Bookes at two seu[er]all tymes sythes they were p[ri]nted, in other mens or wemens handes,” but he could recall the identity only of a woman who had already died. Did he know how many copies had been printed? No, “he never hurd how many had ben p[ri]nted off them nor hath enquyred of any such matter.” What was the cause of making and gathering these writings? “[T]he cause why they were sett down and thus collected was to testefy alwayes to the world what | was the treuth off their iuse [?] and confere[n]s wth those p[rea]chers.”55 In Barrow’s words, he and Greenwood set down and collected the texts in the book only to testify to the truth of what transpired between them and the preachers who visited them in prison. Popham and Anderson already had Greenwood in custody and interrogated him on the same day.56 Popham may have been the person who marked up several questionable passages in the copy of the book that he showed to Barrow, adding underlining and marginal squiggles. A Collection of Certain Letters and Conferences begins with a conference between Barrow and Reverend Thomas Sperin in jail. It’s the sort of conference that Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall would soon, under King James, require state preachers and ministers to have with recusants and excommunicants. Sperin opened the first conference by telling the imprisoned Barrow that the bishops had sent him. But Barrow rejected the authority of the bishops. Sperin defended them, showing respect for both their learning and the authority granted them by her majesty, Elizabeth I. But Barrow thought that their power came from somewhere else: “I shewed their vnlawfull Antichristian Beastlike power & authoritie, as also their barbarous hauock they exercised in the Church, confounding & subuerting all Gods ordinances, & setting vp their owne deuises in stead thereof.” Barrow likened the bishops both to the Antichrist and to beasts, probably alluding to the beasts of Revelation. Both inhuman and apocalyptically evil, the bishops had subverted God’s law and replaced it with their own devices, wreaking havoc on the Church. Someone, probably Popham, underlined the reckless charge. Sperin R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 41 }

reiterated that the bishops’ authority came from the prince; for him, this meant that it also came from God. But for Barrow that would be impossible: “The Prince cannot make lawfull that which God forbiddeth, namely to haue & exercise both ecclesiasticall & ciuile authoritie.”57 Barrow was effectively denying English monarchs the authority to have established the Church of England. Roman Catholics, such as Cardinal Allen, made similar attacks. But Barrow was making it from the opposite flank. English conformists could dismiss Catholic versions of this argument as atavistic or slavishly popish, but they could hardly do the same for someone who wanted neither the pope nor the queen, but independent congregations, to run the church. No matter how diametrically opposed to Catholics, Barrow was likewise denying the queen’s authority over spiritual matters. Yet, from Barrow’s perspective, it was not his sectarian congregation but the Church of England that was posing effectively the same problem as the Catholic Church, no matter how opposed the two might otherwise appear. One of the reasons why was the Book of Common Prayer, which he called “your Idole Seruice-­booke.”58 Barrow was calling the official English prayer book an idol, a false god. That wouldn’t be a compliment coming from anyone. Coming from a separatist, it might have qualified as the worst criticism imaginable. What made the Book of Common Prayer an idol, in Barrow’s view? For one thing, it misled people into idolizing angels and saints: “bar. You giue vnto Angells & dead Saintes in your Church & solemnlie indict an Eaue, a day, on the one a fast, on the other a solemne feast, with an especiall vvorship deuised of purpose vnto peculiar Saintes & Angells, the day proclaimed and kept holie. Call you not this Idolatrie, do you not now worship Saintes & Angells?” It wasn’t enough for Barrow that the Book of Common Prayer removed the saints from its litany, because it nevertheless retained, from Roman Catholic prayer books, several feast and fast days in honor of certain angels and saints. From his perspective, observing such holy days required worshipping creatures instead of their creator. Of course, Sperin, the state clergyman visiting Barrow, insisted that English Christians were not actually worshipping angels and saints on these holidays. And, of course, Barrow therefore considered Sperin “a man vvithout sence or shame.” He proceeded to tell { 42 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

him flatly, “you vvorship the Image of the Beast.”59 Either Popham or a colleague added one of his distinctive squiggles in the margin, identifying the passage as pertinent to their investigation. Would a Book of Common Prayer that had removed saints’ names from the Church calendar, as well as from its litany and other prayers, have satisfied the sectaries? No; Barrow and Greenwood found fault even with the prayer book’s most common and scriptural prayer, the so-­called Lord’s Prayer. According to them, “yt could not be called the Lords prayer, because he neuer prayed yt.” Another state clergyman visiting the two in jail, Mr. Cooper, objected: “It may be called the Lords prayer in respect he taught yt his Disciples.” For Greenwood, this made it the disciples’, not the Lord’s. Greenwood didn’t even think it was a prayer; he thought it was just doctrine: “Doctrine is one thing, and prayer is an other. Prayer is a powring fourth of our hearts vnto the Lord, according to our present wam[n]ts; Doctrine is an instruction of others.” Greenwood and Barrow would not prohibit anyone from using “the verie wordes” that the Lord taught his disciples to pray, “all or anie part of them in prayer,” as long as they used them “by explication, or application, according to our present occasions.” They were going to have to explain this to their visitors: Explication & application is meant thus: as when I desire that the Pope & such Ministers of poperie might be suppressed I say, Do this Lord for th’aduancement of thy kingdome. Let thy Kingdome come &c. And without this explication or application to say ouer the vvhole vvordes conteyning all things that can be praid, were but abuse of that forme of prayer, seing they that so praye cannot vnderstand what he (that is the mouth of all) asketh, for we cannot | pray for all thing at once, but that which is within the compasse of our faith; otherwise yt is but babling.60 Barrow and Greenwood considered the Lord’s prayer to be “babling,” even though (back in Matthew 6) the Lord had instituted the prayer in order to keep his followers from “babling.” They would be willing R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 43 }

to pray with some of the words that Christ gave his disciples, but only when they could use those words specifically, explicitly applying them to their current circumstances. They could not agree in prayer with someone who was using only the words given in scripture and the prayer book. In order to gain their assent, the leader of the prayer would have to apply the words to their particular circumstances—for instance, by asking for God’s kingdom to come in some specific way, such as by suppressing “the Pope” and his “Ministers.” Now, that was a prayer to which Barrow and Greenwood could agree. But they could not possibly pray for God’s kingdom to come in any vague, general sense. They could not therefore recite the common prayer merely as printed, or attend the state church that required people to do so. Views such as these made Greenwood just as much of a focus for the justices as his co-­author Barrow. They asked him the same questions that they asked Barrow on the same day, and received much the same answers.61 The interrogators did not stop with these examinants. About a week after questioning its co-­authors, Popham and Anderson started interrogating the book’s producers. Egerton joined his colleagues for these examinations, since their publishing activities left the suspects vulnerable to felony charges. Egerton signed his own name to their depositions, along with Edward Stanhope, the chancellor of the diocese. In one of the examinations, Robert Stookes admitted to having worked directly with Barrow and Greenwood to “gete” the book “prynted”: he personally funded the printing and sent “the copy therof” to “Robert Bulle.”62 Corroborating Stookes’s account, Robert Bowle also named the men who worked the press and corrected the type.63 Three days later, Richard Young arrested one of these men, the corrector or copyeditor, Arthur Billet.64 In Dort, Billet’s partner had “prynted about fyve hundred” copies. Bowle there put approximately two hundred of these copies in Stookes’s “clokebag.” Stookes then “brought them into England, and delyvered sundry off these Books to one nychas lye [Nicholas Lee] to be sold.”65 Together, the justices’ copy of A Collection of Letters, along with the depositions that they took when they presented the book to its imprisoned producers, offers a fascinating account of the production, distribution, and unwelcome reception of a clandestine book. These documents also { 44 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

demonstrate some of the religious diversity that the late Elizabethan Church refused to condone. The justices asked each of these prisoners, and others, about additional printed books. Only one of these other volumes remains in the Bridgewater Library at the Huntington: Barrow’s A Plaine Refvtation of M. G. Giffardes Reprochful Booke. When Egerton and his colleagues acquired this volume, they examined both Barrow and Greenwood one last time. Faced with a copy, each prisoner confessed to having written different parts of it.66 Egerton’s copy of the book also features notes on passages that he and his colleagues must have considered worth investigating, although it’s not yet clear who wrote the marginalia. On the book’s title page, someone added its secret place of publication—“Dort”—a fact that investigators had uncovered in their interrogations. Elsewhere in the book, beside Barrow’s argument that the Church of England does not conform at all to the biblical model of the true church, the annotator wrote: “A most impious & iniurious sclamnder of ye church of Englam[n]d.”67 Where Barrow promises to demonstrate that England’s “Parish assemblies” cannot be “true established Churches of Christ,” the annotator judged the effort to be “Vanitye it selfe.”68 He underlined Barrow’s charge that the Church of England’s “worship is superstitious, deuised by men, idolatrous, according to that patched popish portesse their seruice booke.” For Barrow, the Book of Common Prayer was neither reformed nor biblical enough. It was still “popish”: a porteous, or portable breviary, “patched” together from bits of residual Catholicism. But here he was merely introducing his comments on the prayer book. When he returned to the topic later in the book, he again called it a “great Idoll” and said that “the best parte of yt” amounted to “a piece of swynes flesh.”69 The annotator marked both passages, and kept marking provocative statements throughout the volume. Egerton and his colleagues had what they needed to convict both of the book’s authors for violating the statute prohibiting the publication of texts that could provoke rebellion. With Barrow and Greenwood taken care of, Young could return to another sectarian author, John Penry. Just like those of Barrow and Greenwood, Penry’s depositions, along with several of his writings, ended up in Egerton’s hands.70 Young had arrested Penry along with a R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 45 }

few others, including Billet, the corrector of A Collection of Certain Letters and Conferences.71 When Young and the other April commissioners first questioned him, Penry admitted to having produced two printed books in Scotland, one of them a translation of a work of Genevan Calvinism. But he refused to say whether he had published any other books.72 Nearly six weeks later, Young and others, including Egerton, put Penry through a second examination. By this time, they had acquired several books to show him, including one “bounden in fforrell”: he sayeth that the other booke bounden in fforrell conteyninge ^ havinge these words first written on the first leaffe, viz a colliecc[i]on of dyu[er]s thinges ^ Iesu Crist dechre a diewede. was written by hym wthin these twoo or three yeares paste, some p[ar]te of yt in Scotlande, & somep[ar]te in Englande.73 Forel can refer to a book’s covers in general or more specifically to parchment covers made to look like vellum. The word describes perfectly the parchment covers of Penry’s notebook, which does indeed open with the bewildering phrase, “Iesu Crist dechre a diwed.”74 With the authorship of the notebook confirmed, a scribe copied some of “Penryes wordes owt of the book,” citing them by folio numbers. Those numbers direct the reader to Penry’s original words. For his first extract, the investigator copied Penry’s note on Richard Young’s mass arrest of sectaries in the woods of Islington: “There are of vs all most fowre score in prison: men and women younge and olde in the prisons abowt London. Of wch number there were 56 taken the last lordes day being the 4 of March, hearinge the worde of god trulye taught.”75 By following the scribe’s citation to the corresponding part of Penry’s notebook, a modern reader can find the one-­of-­a-­kind source for this text, with an investigator’s watchful mark scratched into the left margin.76 After copying this down, the scribe turned the next leaf, discerned some of the following provocative words, and dutifully copied them down as well: “There are many still abroad. . . . [S]treames of blood, { 46 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

are like to be spilt for this cause, except other order be taken &c.”77 Such sentiments could sound plenty rebellious to government agents. By selecting these two passages, the justices’ scribe skipped over Penry’s claims about the sectaries’ sufferings in jail, and who was responsible for them. Penry claimed that in prison the sectaries had to “ly” in “hunger cold nak[e]d n[e]s,” denied “meat dr[in]k fyer” and even “bedding.” Penry blamed first the “bishop of London” for this treatment, calling him a “blody man.” He also, in words that are particularly difficult to read, referred cryptically to perhaps the bishop’s “abletter” and “assisa[n]c.”78 Who were the bishops’ abettors or assistants? Penry seems to have named two of them a little further on. There, after arguing that not even the most notorious captors of ancient Rome and early modern England had treated prisoners with such cruelty, Penry named the bishop of London (“Bishop Elmer [Aylmer]”), along with “D Stanhop [and] Iustic Yong.”79 Stanhope was chancellor for the diocese of London; after watching Penry admit to writing this notebook, he signed the deposition, along with Egerton.80 Young was, of course, the Middlesex justice of the peace, understandably despised by both sectaries and Catholic recusants alike. He signed every one of Penry’s depositions.81 A week and a half later, Penry had his last interrogation, this time with just Young.82 The justice presented him with a copy of one more printed book, and Penry admitted that it too was his: “Iohn Penry saieth that hee wrote a booke in Scotlande aboute three yeares paste entituled a Treastise touchinge Reformac[i]on, wch was now shewed vnto him.” Young must have shown Penry one of the Bridgewater Library copies of A Treatise Wherein is Manifestlie Proved, That Reformation and those that Sincerely Fauor the Same, are Vnjustly Charged to be Enemies, vnto hir Maiestie, and the State.83 And, probably after Penry acknowledged it as his own, a scribe must have written out the “fyrst Inditemt” against the author. This indictment lists passages “In the Prynted boke,” starting with one that begins “What hath England aunsweared? Surelie wth an impudent forehead she hath said, I will not come nere the holie one.”84 The Huntington copy of Penry’s Treatise features marginalia that lead the reader directly to the very same words in print. In them, Penry’s representation of England keeps speaking. She says, “I haue already R e l i g i o n A r o u n d D o n n e ’ s P o e m s   { 47 }

receaued al the Gospels, and al the ministeries that I meane to receaue. I haue receaued a reading Gospel, and a reading ministery, a pompous Gospel, and a pompous ministery: a Gospel and a ministery that strentheneth the hands of the wicked in his iniquity, a gospel and a ministrey that will stoupe vnto me and bee at my beck either to speake or to be mute when I shal thinke good.”85 Underlined in the printed book and copied out in the indictment, these words make clear Penry’s view that England had forced the Gospel and the ministry to succumb to its own self-­interested control. England preferred a merely “reading Gospel” and a merely “reading ministery” chained to the printed book. It refused to receive any further revelation or allow any further reformation. Five days after capably signing the deposition that proved his authorship of these words, Penry was hanged. With the confiscated books and depositions of martyred sectaries lying “open to one another,” one can see part of the religion around John Donne that even he may not have been able to see. The satirical lines that Donne wrote to Egerton make clear that he knew what pursuivants like Richard Young had been doing to Catholics. Those same lines also suggest that he either did not know, or did not care, that Young was treating certain sectaries just as badly. In other words, Donne’s satirical depiction of someone like Young was understandably one-­sided. In Donne’s poem, the pursuivant claims to find things that only Catholics would have: “copes,” “Challices,” and the “Primers” that feature the saints in their litanies. Young could have found, or plausibly claimed to have found, such items on the Catholic priest William Harrington and Donne’s brother, Henry. But Young could not have found such things on sectaries like Penry, Barrow, or Greenwood. They considered any such element of worship idolatrous. They therefore produced and used a very different kind of religious book. Donne clearly knew how Catholics prayed the litany, and what pursuivants like Young had been doing to Catholics. But he showed no concern about, or knowledge of, the fact that the very same pursuivant was treating sectaries with just as much cruelty—at least not in the poem he wrote to Egerton, or on the pages to which this chapter has left open Frances Bridgewater’s book of Donne’s poems.

{ 48 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

i n t e r l u de Mirreus, Crants, and Graius Go to the Library

If readers turn back a few leaves in the Bridgewater manuscript of Donne’s poems, they can see Donne surveying the religion all the way around him. In his “Satyre 3,” Donne briefly considered the religious views of Christians who—like Penry, Barrow, and Greenwood—thought that the true church was in Calvinist Geneva and not in England. He also considered those who thought that it was in Rome, and those who located it at home in England. Donne famously devised a satirical character to represent each of these religious persuasions. The rest of this study uses Donne’s characters as a form of shorthand, or as a key, to recognize the various religious threads that run through early modern English writing, as well as through this study of it. After announcing his conflicted emotions and his determination neither to “laugh, nor weep” at “Sinnes,” the speaker of “Satyre 3” decides to try “railing” against them. He addresses a Christian who’s thinking of enlisting in a war of religion, and argues that such military service would actually serve a Christian’s only real enemies: the “diuell,” the “worlds selfe,” and “flesh.” Satires typically feature more negative critiques than positive encouragements. But this poem does

offer some advice: “Seek true Religion, Oh where?” The rhetorical question introduces a series of fictional characters, most (but not all) of whom bear satire’s conventional Latin names. The first of these characters, “Mereus” (as his name is spelled in Frances Bridgewater’s copy), looks for religion in Rome. Mereus, Thinking her vnhowsed heare, and fledd from vs Seeks her at Roome, There, because hee doth knowe, that shee was there a thousand yeares agoe; Hee loves her raggs, So, as wee heare obey, The State Cloth, where the Prince sate yesterday. Mereus thinks that true religion has departed from England but might still be in Rome. From the perspective of Donne’s speaker, though, this amounts to loving only “raggs”: an unattractive and pointless fetish. Loving Catholic rags is like paying homage to the queen’s temporary canopy after she and her entourage have already left it behind on a summer progress. With true religion thus gendered female, and each of his religious characters gendered male, Donne took the conceit to the other, Calvinist end of the religious spectrum. His next character, Crawle (in the countess’s copy), is the only one with a non-­Latin name. This may suggest that Crawle’s religion lacks historical roots and even learning. In any event, this character will not be taken in by Mereus’s Catholic “loves.” Crawle to such braue loves, will not be enthralled, But loves her onlie, whoe at Geneva is called, Religion playne, symple, sullen, & young, Contemptuous yet vnhansom; as among Lecherous humors, there is one wch iudges, no wenches holesom, but course Country drudges. Crawle prefers the Calvinist religion of Geneva. There, religion is “playne” and “symple,” unadorned and unsophisticated; “sullen, & young,” somber, if not sorrowful, and brand new, as religions go; { 50 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

“Contemptuous yet vnhansom,” irreverent and feisty but, finally, unattractive. Contemptuousness might be attractive in some, but not in a church. At least for Donne’s satirical speaker, Calvinists are like lechers who think that only dull women from the country, “course Country drudges,” can be wholesome. Having apparently rejected both the Roman and Genevan churches, Donne turned his satire to the Church of England. That’s the preference of the English conformist Graius. Graius stayes still at home heere, & because Some puacher, vile, ambitious bawdes, & lawes, still new, like fashions, bid them think that shee wch dwelleth wth vs, is onlie parfect, hee Embraceth her whom his Godfather will, Tender to him, being tender; As wards still take such wiues as the Gardians offer, or paye valies.1 The scribe responsible for the countess’s copy of this poem misread, or at least mistranscribed, the word preacher as “puacher.”2 Were the letters simply difficult to read? Or was their meaning also difficult to fathom? Donne had written that preachers were “vile, ambitious bawds.” He did so at a time when ambition was a sin and a bawd was a pimp. The claim was audacious, even to put in the voice of a satirical speaker. Donne had also written that the Elizabethan laws requiring conformity to the state church were as new as “fashions.” He represented Graius, the conforming English Christian, as a ward of the state or a foster child who marries whomever his guardian chooses for him, even if the guardian is merely choosing the greatest available dowry (again the scribe misread a word: “valies” should be values). Donne’s speaker thus mocks passive acceptance of the Church of England as well as Calvinism and Catholicism. What religious options were left to him in late Elizabethan England? According to Donne’s poem, only two, and they deserved even less consideration. One of them, represented by “Careles Phrigias,” rejects all religions, “because all cannott be good.” Phrigias is like someone I n t e r l u d e : M i r r e u s , C r a n t s , a n d G r a i u s   { 51 }

who, “knowing some women whoores, dares marry none.”3 So agnosticism offers no better option. What about some sort of ecumenism or universalism? Gracchus loves all as one, & thinks yt soe, as women doe, in diuers Countries goe in diuerse habits, yet are still one kinde, So doth; so is Religion, & this blynd= nes to much light breeds. Gracchus thinks that, just as women dress differently in different countries and yet all remain women, religions appear different in different places and yet all remain “one kinde.” They’re all good. But, according to Donne’s speaker, too much light can be blinding. The universalist attempts to take in more revelation and doctrine than any one person, or any one people, can handle. So the poem’s addressee and reader cannot choose multiple religions, or none: “vnmoved thou / of force must one, & forc’d but one alowe / and the right.” Although the poem does not tell them which is “the right” religious option, it does offer several more positive pieces of advice. It tells them to “Ask thy father wch is shee” and to “Lett him aske his” father. It tells them to “belieue mee this”: it’s not the “worst” thing, or nothing, to seek the “best” religion. It also tells them to “doubt wisely”: “in strang way, / to stande enquiring right is not to staye, / To sleepe or runne wrong is.” One must not sleep or run in the wrong direction; doing so would be “to staye” or, in the original, to stray. But one may “stande enquiring right,” at least temporarily, before beginning a metaphorical hike up, and around (and around), the “high hill” on which “trueth dwells.” The speaker urges his hearers to “striue” in the same way “before age” makes “thy mynde rest, for non can work in yt night.” He tells them to do more than decide, or to “will,” to do this, because that “ymplyes delay”: “now doe.” He tells them to “Keep the trueth” that they have “found.” Nevertheless, he discourages them from trusting political or even theological leaders in this effort. Donne’s speaker asks his addressee what he will do on “the last daye”: “O will it then serve thee / To saye { 52 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

a Phillipp, or a Gregory / A Harry, or a Martin taught thee this?” The obvious answer to the rhetorical question is no: it will not help on Judgment Day to say that you were just doing what Philip II of Spain or Pope Gregory XIII told you to do. It would not be any better to point to Henry VIII or Martin Luther instead. “Is not this excuse for, meere contraries / equally strong? cannot both syde say soe?” Both Catholics and reformers, on both sides of the religious divide, can make the same “excuse.” You can rightly obey the leaders of church and state only if you recognize the limits of their power: “That thou mayest rightlie obey power, her bounds know.” Once you go out of those “bounds,” power’s “nature & name is chaungde.” To obey a power beyond its jurisdiction amounts to “Idolatry.” Power is again like “streames,” and its subjects are like “flowers.” The flowers that remain rooted near the source of power, at “the rough streames calme head, thryue & prove well.” With plenty of water and plenty of calm, plants thrive at the water’s source. “But having lefte their rootes, & themselues giuen / To the Streames tyramnous rage, Alas,” those flowers “are driven / thorough mylls, rocks & woods, & at last almost / consumed, in going in the Sea, are lost.” Souls “perish” in the same way if they “more choose men vniust / power from God claymed, then God himself to trust.” Humans either trust God, the source of all his creatures’ power, or they effectively idolize the power that unjust men have claimed from God, and lose their souls in the process.4 Donne’s satirical survey of the religion around him offers categories that help explain the religious books and papers that have long surrounded it in the Bridgewater Library. In other words, the three main fictional characters of “Satyre 3” can represent each of the historical figures mentioned in the first chapter. Crawle the Calvinist might have attended the secret worship service in the woods at Islington, or purchased a sectarian book at Nicholas Lee’s house and suffered in prison with one or more of its authors. Mereus the Catholic could have met them in prison, after having his primer or Rheims Testament confiscated, possibly in a great country house like Sir John Southworth’s. Graius probably walked freely to and from divine service, happy to use the Book of Common Prayer and grateful for the assistance of a minister like Reverend Sperin in times of sickness and death. He may have been unaware of religious prisoners. But then again, Graius can I n t e r l u d e : M i r r e u s , C r a n t s , a n d G r a i u s   { 53 }

also represent conformists with intimate knowledge of the “presones a bottes london.” Richard Young may have been a Graius. And although Sir Thomas Egerton had not simply accepted the religion tendered to him, he gave his heirs incentive to do so. So Graius may also represent the Earl and Countess of Bridgewater, who preserved and augmented Egerton’s library and papers. As the previous chapter has shown, they made that library capacious enough to include books and other documents that cover the full spectrum of early modern English religion, at least as Donne imagined it late in Elizabeth I’s reign, and as they saw it under (and between) the early Stuarts. The Bridgewater Library and Ellesmere manuscripts still retain Crawle’s smuggled sectarian books and Mereus’s prayers to saints among records of their persecution and prosecution. Together, they therefore also retain evidence of how one Graius came to acquire some of his family’s books and enjoy the freedom to survey the religion around him and one of his favorite authors in his family library. These three satirical characters can represent most of the religious figures who appear in the rest of this book as well. Many of the religious writers and texts around Donne located true religion in the one of the same places that those fictional characters did: whether in Rome, in England, or in a more reformed land such as Geneva. Accordingly, the rest of this book refers to these three characters throughout, using them to identify the main threads woven through the study. For instance, when a subsequent chapter introduces a Catholic book or poem, it also recalls Donne’s Catholic character in the third satire, using the original spelling, “Myrius” or “Mirreus.” Likewise, when it turns to a text by a Calvinist or separatist, it alludes to Donne’s character “Crawle”—only the rest of the book typically uses the name that Frances Bridgewater’s scribe garbled, “Crantz” or “Crants.”5 The normative “Graius” similarly reappears throughout the following chapters: in private libraries, in Sammelbände of slender books bound together, and in London bookshops. Much of the surviving religion around Donne was produced or preserved by a Graius. The characters that Donne devised to see the religion around him, in other words, help us see the same in the rest of this book. When Donne named and mocked those characters, he could have been { 54 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

responding to the religion around him both in his society and in his own early collection of books. As the next chapter shows, Donne clearly read lots of writing by Catholics and reformers, including many of their representations of one another. As the chapter introduces a few of the religious books that he read, it represents their authors and subjects as Mirreus, Crants, or Graius. Subsequent chapters do the same, spotting Donne’s religious characters in the libraries built by several of his readers as well. Many of these libraries were built by people like Graius, several of whom even preached and presided in the Church of England. But, as the fourth chapter will show, some of Donne’s readers left the Church. Some of them, like the book collectors and puritan ministers of the Mather family, were more like Crants.

I n t e r l u d e : M i r r e u s , C r a n t s , a n d G r a i u s   { 55 }

2 religious works around donne’s inscriptions

Don n e ’s H a n d i n Sammelbände Donne imagined another collection of books in another verse satire. The poem appears a few leaves before Mereus and Graius do in Frances Bridgewater’s manuscript book of Donne’s poems. In it, the speaker tells his bothersome addressee to “Leaue mee, & in this standing, woodden Chest, / consorted with theise few Bookes lett mee lye.” A standing wooden chest sounds like a pretty lowly, even humbling, setting for reading. The speaker confirms that it is indeed: “with theise few Bookes lett mee lye / In prison, & here be Coffind’ when I dye.” His library or study is narrow and humble enough to serve as a prison cell or even a coffin. Despite its close confines, the closet or carrel features an impressive array of reading material: Here are Gods Conduits graue devines, & heere Natures Secretary, the Philosopheer: & iolly Statesmen, wch teach how to tye the synews of a Citties, mystique Body;

Here gathering Cronicles, & by them stand giddy fantastique Poets of each land.1 That’s a wide range of genres and authors to represent in just a “few Bookes”: the works of theologians, philosophers, political theorists, historians, poets “of each” and every “land.” Perhaps some of the books included the works of multiple authors. Donne might have been simply imagining a library when he wrote these lines. Nevertheless, the surviving books that he owned can provide some hints about what books he was certainly capable of imagining, because he held them and inscribed them as well. For instance, by the time Donne wrote this verse satire, he could have already signed his name, in what looks like an early form of his signature, in the edition of Ovid now held at St. John’s College, Cambridge.2 Donne might have been still developing his signature when he added an unusual version of it, along with his personal motto, to the annotated folio edition of Horace recently discovered at Wadham College, Oxford.3 Could these surviving copies of Ovid and Horace have represented two of the “giddy fantastique Poets” whom Donne imagined in his humble study? Can other books that Donne owned tell us anything about the “graue devines,” or religious writers, that accompanied him in his study, whether before he wrote this satire or at any time in his life? Yes, in general, the extant books that Donne used can tell us a lot about the religion around him. This chapter therefore looks to a few of the religious texts that surround Donne’s briefest writings: his inscriptions and marginal marks in printed books, in his own hand. Religion Around John Donne, in other words, considers the religious texts that verifiably surrounded a rather wide range of Donne’s writing: not only his poems and sermons but also the mottos and signatures that he handwrote in the printed books that he acquired. This chapter considers, then, the religion around Donne as a reader, or at least as an inscriber and marker of books. It features harsh criticisms of both Roman Catholics and sectaries alike, as well as defenses of the Church of England. William Covell wrote two such books that Donne inscribed. Donne mocked one of them by composing a Latin epigram on it. Covell was playing the part of Graius. And Donne, in mocking him, was arguably { 58 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

again poking fun at an Englishman who uncritically accepted the state church. In another book that Donne owned, another Graius, Oliver Ormerod, also criticized both Catholics and sectaries, both Mirreus and Crants alike. Ormerod attacked the two at once, though, coining the counterintuitive term “Puritan-­papisme.” In Donne’s library, the religion around him stretched across the channel to the continent as well. Although this was especially true in the books that he acquired in other languages, it is also evident in some of the English books he owned. Ormerod began his book by comparing English “Puritanes” to German “Anabaptists.” In another English book that Donne marked, the Catholic convert Nicolas Vignier thoroughly rejected a Catholic cardinal’s grand claims for the pope’s authority. Here was one Mirreus arguing against another. Principally in these books, but also in others, this chapter shows some of the range of religious positions and polemics that surrounded Donne in his library. It lets some of these religious figures speak for themselves, as Donne saw them in his collection of books, and not just as he represented them in his verse. The chapter does not attempt a thorough account of the hundreds of existing books that may have passed through Donne’s hands. Sir Geoffrey Keynes started providing that account, and Hugh Adlington (among others) has continued the invaluable project. Readers who would like to keep reading about Donne’s library have good reason to seek out the published lists of all the books that Donne may have owned, along with Adlington’s forthcoming monograph on the subject.4 This chapter’s small contribution to the study of Donne’s library focuses not only on religion but also on Sammelbände, composite volumes made of multiple slender books bound together. Sammelbände are the foreseeable result of printing and collecting books that, practically speaking, were too thin to bind individually. Each Sammelband considered here contains at least one booklet that Donne clearly used, and usually more than one. In some of them, Donne has written his name and personal motto in ink. In others, he could be responsible for rather consistent pencil marks in the margins. It’s possible that Donne not only owned all the books inside some of these volumes but also arranged for them to be bound together. These Sammelbände, in other words, might preserve Donne’s own groupings of books within his library. r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 59 }

But other users have clearly left marks in many of these booklets as well. They could be responsible for all of the marginalia in some tracts. They could even have had some of Donne’s books bound together with others that Donne never saw. This ambiguity might pose a problem in another sort of study, focused exclusively on Donne’s interaction with books, or in a book about the religion of Donne rather than the religion around him. But it presents no problem for a study of the religious books that surrounded both Donne and his readers. In fact, it’s an advantage, because it enables us to attend to both. This chapter begins by getting quite close to the religion around Donne himself, in books that clearly touched his hand and are still around to touch our hands. It then turns to other books, in the same Sammelbände, for which the evidence of Donne’s ownership is scant or ambiguous. One reason to proceed in this fashion is simply to get the facts straight, and not to overstate claims about Donne’s library. Another reason, though, is to turn attention from Donne’s library to others’ libraries, and thereby to recognize how the builders of these libraries have already preserved and reconstructed Donne’s religious contexts. The chapter ends with several collectors of Donne’s books—only, here, they’re principally collectors of books that Donne owned rather than books he wrote. The chapter thus focuses first on the religion right around Donne, within his arm’s reach, before panning out to see the religion around him more broadly—all the while staying within the reach of some of his contemporaries.

A Sammelband at Cam b r i d g e Uni ve rsit y Library While the Egertons collected Donne’s works, Donne seems to have collected the only printed book written by his onetime patron. Sir Thomas Egerton’s 1609 Speech of the Lord Chancellor of England addressed the land rights, in England, of King James’s Scottish subjects born after his accession to the English Crown. A copy of the speech at Cambridge University Library has long been bound together with three books that Donne clearly owned in limp vellum or parchment (or perhaps “forel”).5 The tract by Egerton does not feature the signature or personal motto that Donne used to claim ownership of books. Keynes { 60 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

accordingly included it in his list of “Books from Donne’s Library” on the grounds of the binding, the “pencil markings in the margins,” and the marginal notes in ink, “probably in Donne’s hand.”6 The inked notes provide the most promising evidence of Donne’s ownership. Some of the pencil marks do match those of other books that Keynes numbered among Donne’s. But Donne’s marginalia tended to be rather slight: just a short dash or an x. Lots of other readers used similar marks. And at least one other reader wrote in pencil in this book, with handwriting that looks nothing like Donne’s. That person could have made the slight marks that look like Donne’s as well. As for the binding, Donne was hardly the only person in early modern England who could get books bound in parchment without boards; it seems to have been one of the cheaper available ways to bind books. But few people formed their letters and words so much like Donne did within five or so years of this book’s publication. While it’s easy to find discrepancies between the inked marginalia in Egerton’s speech and Donne’s handwriting from other periods of his life, it’s also easy to find very close matches in two of Donne’s letters dated 1614.7 If Donne actually did write the marginal notes in this copy of Egerton’s Speech, then it broke his usual pattern and therefore offers a remarkable example of his annotating and carefully reading a text. When he decided to mark a book, Donne usually turned to a quill and inkwell only to inscribe its title page. Twice he penned an original poem about the book in ink on the page facing the title.8 Beyond those early leaves, though, he typically preferred the newer technology of the graphite pencil.9 Lots, but not all, of his books suggest that he preferred to keep his pencil sharp: his little lines tend to stay quite fine. As he read, he added short dashes—some horizontal, some diagonal—and squiggly brackets. He rarely if ever wrote words in the margins. Nevertheless, this copy of Egerton’s Speech has lots of words in ink: cross-­references to later pages of the speech and to other books in English and Latin. They seem to offer a rare vision of Donne reading closely—scrutinizing the work of his old boss, drawing on his training in the law and his reading in theology. Indeed, they offer such rare evidence of Donne reading that they might make an expert on Donne’s library doubt that he wrote them at all, and go only so far as to claim that they’re “probably in Donne’s hand.” r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 61 }

No matter who is responsible for annotating and binding it, this copy of Egerton’s Speech now shares a binding with a book that complements it perfectly: John Monipennie’s Certayne Matters Concerning the Realme of Scotland, Composed Together. This quarto Donne did claim. Printed in the year that James VI of Scotland assumed the English throne, the book offered his new subjects a digest of facts about his original kingdom. Egerton’s speech, printed six years later, addressed the rights of those subjects born in Scotland after his English reign had begun. The two books about Scotland therefore occupy the same Sammelband quite sensibly. Together, they show English people learning about their new monarch’s original kingdom and the effect that his reign could have on their country. Their authors wrote little about religion in these two books. The owners of these copies, on the other hand, surrounded them with religion. This arguably began when Donne claimed this copy of Certayne Matters by writing his Italian motto along the top of the title page. Although a binder later trimmed most of it off, a modern reader can still make out most of the quotation from Petrarch that Donne copied there: “Per Rachel ho seruito, & no[n per Lea].” For Rachel I served, and not for Leah. This motto deserves special attention at the start of a chapter on Donne’s library (especially in a study of religion). This is partly because the motto recurs throughout Donne’s library, but it is mostly because the motto is packed with religious significance. In the original love poem that Donne was quoting, Petrarch was alluding to Genesis 29, where Jacob discovers that his master of seven years, and father-­in-­law of one night, has tricked him into marrying the wrong sister. Scholars have long figured that Donne was reusing Petrarch’s line allegorically, with Rachel representing the desirable contemplative life and Leah symbolizing the active life in which Donne had found himself, despite his intentions. In this standard interpretation of the motto, Donne would have been recalling, on each new or used book that he acquired, his original and enduring love of the contemplative life that these very books facilitated—and regretting the commitments that kept him from his books. But this is hardly the only possible interpretation of Donne’s motto. And the interpretation of a metaphor need not dispel the significance of { 62 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

its vehicle. Regardless of its allegorical meaning, Donne’s motto always invokes Leah and Rachel, their father’s trickery, and their husband’s preference for one over the other. Jacob’s preference did not change, and this set in motion a series of major consequences. Leah suffered in her polygamous marriage. The Lord, in sympathy, blessed her with children. This made Rachel envious enough to require her maidservant Bilhah to bear children for Jacob. That, in turn, made Leah competitive enough to do the same to her maidservant, Zilpah. Rachel finally bore two sons of her own, dying in childbirth. And the twelve sons whom all four women bore to Jacob established the twelve tribes of Israel. Donne may have been simply asserting his ownership of books by writing his motto on their title pages. And his motto may have put him more in mind of his own life, or of Petrarch’s, than of anything ancient or scriptural. Nevertheless, he selected out of Petrarch a line dense with ancient scripture. The motto invokes the (in some cases adoptive) mothers of the progenitors of the twelve tribes of Israel. It is spoken in the voice of Israel himself, exasperated and irate with Laban. Donne chose, from Petrarch’s verse, a quote packed with religious meaning, evocative of the very beginning of the Abrahamic religions. And Donne kept doing it—rehearsing Jacob’s outrage and hinting at the massive consequences of his father-­in-­law’s duplicity—on title page after title page. Donne thus arguably made even his nonreligious books religious, whenever he made them his own. Donne wrote the same Italian motto across the top of William Covell’s Briefe Ansvver to John Burges, now bound into the same Sammelband. Like Egerton’s and Monipennie’s, in the same volume, Covell’s book concerns the new king, but it turns attention to religion. Burges had offended the king when he preached against the imposition of certain religious ceremonies—just when King James’s bishops were preparing to reaffirm those ceremonies in the first edition of Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall. If Burges had hoped that the king of Presbyterian Scotland was going to reduce the ceremony of the Church of England, he was wrong. James sent him to the Fleet prison until the chastened preacher sent him a manuscript of his offensive sermon along with a couple of submissive but unrepentant letters. When Constitvtions and Canons did appear in print, it required that r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 63 }

ministers “subscribe” to articles that Burges could not accept without qualification. He explained why in an “Apologie” or defense. Covell was responding to Burges’s apology. His Briefe Ansvver quotes Burges throughout, interrupting him with Covell’s own long refutations. Covell assumed the role of “Graius” in this book—or, more precisely, of one of the preachers who tell Graius just to conform to the Church of England. Burges, for his part, was playing “Crants”: someone who preferred the less hierarchical Presbyterian form of church government in King James’s native Scotland.10 Indeed, in the first passage marked in Donne’s copy of the book, Covell suggested that “no cause” had been less profitable to the likes of Burges and Crants than “this of the Church gouernement.”11 According to Covell, “that faction . . . all stroue for a Presbitery,” a Calvinist and Scottish form of church government that placed power in a body of elders and therefore offered a sharp contrast to the episcopal form of church government in England, with its hierarchy of bishops and other prelates. Given their designs for presbyterian church government in England, Burges and his “faction” hoped for the impossible when the Scottish king assumed his second throne: “at the first comming of our most gracious soueraigne to this kingdom many were filled with a vain hope, doubtles deceiued by such men, who either vnderstood not the state of this commonwealth or had little care of the happy prosperity of this Church.”12 Would-­be presbyterians like Burges either did not understand England’s legal structure or simply did not care about its established church. At least that’s how someone like Graius saw the situation. Burges, on the other hand, admitted that both Scottish and English forms of church government could be permissible, even if only in theory: “I doe thinke and beleeue, touching the gouernment of the Church by Bishops, as with vs in Englam[n]d, or by ruling Elders, as in other Churches of God, that neither of them was prescribed by the | Apostles of Christ; neither of them is repugnant to the word of God, but may well and profitably bee vsed, if more fault bee not in the persons, then in the callings themselues.” 13 Christ’s original followers did not prescribe either the English or the Scottish form of church government, of course. So neither is “repugnant” to the Bible. Both are permissible, but only as long as the recipients of such clerical positions are more or less without “fault.” Burges { 64 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

left it to his readers to figure out which clerical position was more open to abuse from a clergyman with major faults: that of a lofty bishop or that of a single congregation’s humble elder. Someone left a little pencil mark beside Burges’s distinction— possibly Donne, possibly the same person who wrote notes in pencil in Egerton’s Speech. When the book was closed, that pencil mark made a mirror image on the facing page, inadvertently directing readers to Covell’s flabbergasted reply. “It seemeth stram[n]ge to my vnderstanding,” objected Covell, “that you should now confesse neither” form of church government “to be commaunded,” “neither to be repugnant to Gods word,” after such long and intense disagreement over the issue: “after such bitter inuectiues against the authority of Bishops; After so confident commendation of the gouernment by Elders maintained, as onely warrantable and inioyned out of Gods word; fancies wherwith ye haue filled the Church for this fifty yeares.”14 Since Elizabeth had assumed the throne, according to Covell, Burges and his faction had been arguing that the Bible prescribes elders, not bishops, and filling people’s heads with fantasies of replacing the bishops with elders. So it seemed strange that he should then admit that the Bible commands neither, as if those fifty years of religious polemic and discord had been for nothing. Burges had objected not only to the general authority but also to the particular policies of the bishops, especially their requirement that ministers make the sign of “the Crosse” at baptism, and wear the “Surplesse,” a white linen vestment or gown, during worship. Just like the different forms of church government, Burges did not go so far as to call either the surplice or the sign of the cross “vnlawfull.” But he did think that they could prove “inexpedient” at least “in some men and places.” And he thought that “no mans ministery” was “likely to do so much good, as some mens sodaine vse of them might doe hurt.” Suddenly starting to don the surplice or sign the cross could do harm—more harm, in some places, than any man’s ministry could do good. Burges had already lost his first job in the Church of England over these issues, and he was about to lose his last job in the Church over them as well. He then went to the continent, closer to the source of true religion, according to Donne’s fictional character Crants.15 r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 65 }

For Burges and Crants, English bishops too much resembled Roman Catholic bishops, even Catholic cardinals. And, according to the Catholic book that concludes this Sammelband, which Donne also inscribed, a Catholic cardinal was the very picture of pride. The French Catholic convert Nicolas Vignier opened his critical reply to the Italian cardinal Caesar Baronius with this jab at his office: “were a Painter desirous to draw the picture of Pride, his best course were to represent a Cardinall.”16 Painting an allegorical image of pride, an artist could just paint a cardinal like Baronius (or William Allen, for that matter). Baronius had encouraged Pope Paul V to excommunicate the Venetians in a brief letter, and the pope followed his advice in a bull dated 14 April 1606. Vignier published the texts of both missives, separating them with his own refutation of Baronius’s rationale. Here was a Mirreus attacking a Mirreus. Baronius and Vignier may have agreed on where the true church sat; they did not agree, however, regarding the power of that church’s supreme pontiff. Baronius had argued that Saint Peter’s office, which the pope had inherited, was “twofold: To Feed and to Kill: for the Lord said vnto him Feede my sheepe: and he heard a voice from heauen, Kill and Eat.” In this context, killing was a metaphor for merely excommunicating the Venetians. Vignier had little problem with the first part of the pope’s office, for starting in “Ioh.21.15,” Christ does indeed repeatedly tell Peter to feed his sheep. But Vignier could hardly fathom the audacity of claiming a scriptural license to “Kill,” even if only figuratively.17 He called this theological innovation “Diuinitie not drempt of by our Predecessors.”18 Yes, in the book of Acts, “Peter heard a voice from heauen, Kill and eat. What if he did? He heard also from *Christs own mouth, Put vp thy sword into they sheath; for he that striketh with the sword shall perish with the sword.” Peter received two commands, one telling him to kill and the other telling him not to. How can Peter’s successor decide which directive to obey with respect to Venice? The answer, according to Vignier, lies in the words around the original command, “Kill and eat.” In the book of Acts, Peter sees a vision of a sheet or vessel lowered from heaven, containing beasts and birds that Jewish law forbade him to consume. There it is clear, at least to early modern Christians if not yet to Peter, that the Lord is { 66 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

telling him to kill and eat the unclean animals in order to abolish the distinction between Peter and the Gentiles, in order to unify them. In Vignier’s words, “that sheet and vessell which Peter beheld, is a resemblance of the Church of Christ. . . . There be within the continent of the Church, liuing creatures of euery kind vnder heauen: foure-­footed, flying, creeping things, cleane and vncleane (that is to say, which as yet Peter did not know) Iewes and Gentiles.”19 Peter saw beasts and birds “of euery kind” in his vision, mingled together; those creatures came to represent, in the fullness of time, the inclusivity and diversity of the church. “The beasts of diuers kinds are types of the different degrees of man. And to speake more plainly. The sheet is the Church. The liuing creatures in it be the Gentiles. Peter saw the Church tied and knit vnto the foure Euangelists, and all nations contained therein.” The creatures shown in the sheet represent the Gentiles, along with Jews. The vision represents their coming unity in the church. “What is heere, Baronius, that concerneth that Office of killing?” Where, in this vision of intercultural unity, do you see anything having to do with killing or even excommunicating the people united in the church? “By this voice, and this vision Peter is commanded to go vnto the Gentiles and feed them with the holesome and liuely food of the Gospell. This is with you to kill and slay.”20 Peter’s vision encouraged him to feed the Gentiles by eating what they eat, together with them, in the service of Christian unity. But you, Baronius, would have the pope “kill” or excommunicate Christians in the service of disunity. Within only the three or four books that he clearly marked in this Sammelband, we can see some of the religion around Donne the reader: Roman Catholics debating the scriptural authority of the pope on the continent, and English Christians debating the ceremonies ordered by the new king at home—among several issues that James VI and I brought with him from Scotland. A Mirreus was debating another Mirreus abroad; a Graius was ironically defending the king of Scotland from a Crants, who preferred the Scottish church to the English one. This volume includes other books that also show the religion around Donne, although perhaps more broadly, since they do not bear his motto or signature. One of these quartos offers a court sermon preached by John King, who had served as Sir Thomas Egerton’s r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 67 }

chaplain when Donne was also enjoying Egerton’s patronage.21 Another records William Symonds’s sermon to the Virginia Company of London. With it, Symonds began the occasional series of company sermons that Donne would unwittingly conclude years later.22 The first item in the Sammelband is by another clerical supporter of the Virginia Company, William Crashaw, preacher to the Inner and Middle Temples (and father of the poet Richard Crashaw). The elder Crashaw’s quarto, The Iesvites Gospel, provided an English translation and long refutation of a contemporary Latin poem on the Blessed Virgin. Donne could have acquired any or all of these books, and it’s fascinating to imagine him collecting, and possibly even compiling, the works of preachers he could have met in the Egerton household, the Inns of Court, or ­Virginia Company circles. But the available evidence does not prove that Donne owned the books in this Sammelband that he did not inscribe, and it does make clear that other people did own them. The King sermon bears pencil markings that look nothing like Donne’s. The Crashaw quarto has some pencil marks that do resemble Donne’s—before others that do not. Donne could have made some of the Crashaw marginalia, but not all of them. The Symonds sermon is clean except for the inked numbers on the title page that indicate its place in the Sammelband. One of these numbers matches the hand responsible for the index at the front of the volume, which is clearly not Donne’s. In order to stick (for now) to the religion that verifiably surrounded Donne himself, we need to pass over the other tracts in this Cambridge Sammelband (again, for now), in favor of others elsewhere that Donne obviously used, such as those in another Sammelband (in another Cambridge, featuring another book by William Covell).

A Sammelband at Houg hton L i b r ary Donne not only acquired Covell’s Ivst and Temperate Defence of Richard Hooker’s Ecclesiastical Policy; he also wrote a poem about it. On the otherwise blank verso page facing its title page, Donne handwrote an original epigram and subscribed it with his own stylized signature: { 68 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Ad Autorem. Non eget Hookerus tanto tutamine; Tanto Tutus qui impugnat sed foret Auxilio I:Donne23 John Shawcross later translated Donne’s neo-­Latin quip like this: Hooker is not in need of so much defence; but he who attacks may be supported by so much assistance.24 Hooker does not need Covell’s Defence. Hooker’s critic, by contrast, might actually benefit from all the undue attention that Covell has shown him. In his epigrammatic book review, Donne thus suggested that Covell’s book might prove counterproductive and that it had never been needed in the first place. Donne’s Latin couplet provides a fantastic glimpse into the poet’s engagement with one of the books and some of the religious debates around him. Without it, some modern readers might take the two Covell books that he owned as evidence of Donne’s support for Covell and Hooker alike. But in his Latin epigram, Donne clearly distinguished between the two. Without necessarily endorsing Hooker’s monumental work on church polity, Donne represented it here as in need of no defense—or at least not the sort of defense that Covell offered. For, by engaging them in argument, Covell acted as if Hooker’s critics were worthy of engagement. Donne didn’t think that they were. Who had criticized Hooker, and how? On his title page, Covell claimed to be defending him against “an vncharitable Letter” written by “certain English Protestants (as they tearme themselues).” These so-­called protestants had been “crauing resolution, in some matters of doctrine, which seeme to ouerthrow the foundation of religion, and the Church amongst vs.” In his preface, Covell records that the letter “was published . . . in the yeare 1599.”25 He also offers the title that it took in book form: A Christian letter of certaine English Protestants, vnfained fauorers of the present state of religion, authorised, and professed in England; vnto that reuerend, and learned man, M. Richard Hooker.26 Its anonymous authors thus claimed to support “the present state of r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 69 }

religion” in the Church of England, but nevertheless objected to several passages in one of the Church’s grandest theological products: Hooker’s five books (to date) on ecclesiastical polity. They suspected one passage of Arianism (the heretical notion that God the Father created God the Son in time, rather than begetting him eternally). They disagreed with another related passage, in which Hooker claimed that the Bible does not literally state that the Father and Son are coeternal. Covell defended both the letter and the spirit of Hooker’s work against these and several other criticisms, dropping some hints about his opponents along the way. He praised Hooker for having “laboured in a waighty cause, with reasons, against those, whom the Magistrats seuerity could not easily suppresse.” He said that Hooker “hath made no other shew of supporting popery, but only by resisting Puritans.” And he argued that his critics were therefore wrong to charge that Hooker “hath beaten against the heart of al true | Christian doctrine, professed by her Maiestie, & the whole state of this Realme: as though (which you desire the world might beleeue) the hart of Christian religion, were only amongst such, whom the affectation of singularity hath tearmed the name of Puritans.” There, he said it. Covell called Hooker’s detractors “Puritans”—twice. They weren’t just “Protestants (as they tearme themselues)”; they were “Puritans.” It was “Puritans” who had charged Hooker with running afoul of accepted Christian doctrine, and even with “supporting popery.” But Hooker had not supported Roman Catholicism, Covell countered; he had merely resisted radical “Puritans.” Furthermore, he did so “with reasons,” rationally laboring “against those, whom the Magistrats seuerity could not easily suppresse.” Hooker deserves respect for the respectful means by which he countered his opponents; “Puritans,” on the other hand, might deserve “the Magistrats seuerity.”27 Any “Puritans” who got ahold of Covell’s book could easily have recognized the threat in these words. After all, Covell had written them only about a decade after Barrow, Greenwood, and Penry had suffered “the Magistrats seuerity.” But this particular copy of the book does not seem to have caused any fear. Its earliest verifiable user, Donne, apparently considered Hooker’s critics of little consequence, and left few or no marks in the book beyond his Latin epigram. At least one later { 70 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

reader engaged the book more extensively, leaving marginal notes and a page-­long review at the back, praising Covell for having “written it in the spirit of Meekness . . . being a Lover of Peace, Union & Harmony in the Church, and of Loyalty in the State.”28 The sentiment, the language, and the handwriting of this later reader offer a sharp contrast to Donne’s witty dismissal at the other end of the book. Covell was again playing the role of Graius here, in defense of the state church against people more or less like Crants: Calvinists, in Donne’s poem, or “Puritans” in Covell’s own words. Although “Puritans” could certainly be Calvinists, and vice versa, the two terms do not always work as synonyms, and the only other tract that Donne inscribed in the Houghton Library Sammelband can help demonstrate why. That other quarto is Oliver Ormerod’s The Pictvre of a Puritane: Or, A Relation of the opinions, qualities, and practices of the Anabaptists in Germanie, and of the Puritanes in England. Ormerod’s Pictvre takes the form of a dialogue. In it, “The Englishman” and “The Germaine” meet on the road, openly reminiscent of the two disciples who meet the risen Christ on the road to Emmaus in Luke 24. In Ormerod’s appropriation of the Gospel story, the foreigner momentarily adopts Christ’s ostensible ignorance of recent events, provoking the native Englishman to ask rhetorically: “Art thou onely a stranger in England, and hast not knowne the thinges which are come to passe therein in these daies? hast thou not heard of a Scismaticall and vndiscreete companie, that resemble the Anabaptists in Germanie?” The Englishman will gladly tell the German all about them, if the German will first tell him about the so-­called re-­baptizers of his own country. The international visitor agrees, telling his new companion that “About sixe yeares after that Martin Luther began to preach the Gospel, the Deuil (to disturbe this worke) stirred vp certain rash-­pates and giddy-­headed preachers, that misliked not onely the Doctrine of the Pope, but of Luther also.” The Englishman interjects with a longwinded account of Queen Elizabeth’s settlement of religion in his own country. Just as he had done some thirty years before in Germany, “the Deuill (to disturbe this worke)” in England “stirred vp certaine hot-­brained, inconsiderate & | importune Preachers, who neither liked of the Pope, nor of the present estate of the Church, for want of some puritie, as they fancied.” These preachers r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 71 }

“spake very homely against the book of common prayer, and against the rites and ceremonies of the Church of England.” Likewise, according to the German: “The Anabaptists disliked the Church of Germanie, because it was not so perfect, nor serued so fitly for the planting of puritie, as they thought requisite. And for this cause M.e Caluin doth not vnfitly resemble them to | the Puritanes in former ages.”29 There’s Ormerod’s first one-­two punch: English puritans resemble German “Anabaptists” and Jean Calvin himself criticized the Anabaptists by calling them none other than “Puritanes.” It was thus not only satisfied members of the Church of England who objected to the puritans; it was also one of their favorite theologians. It was not only Graius but even Crants the Calvinist who rejected them. Ormerod was rhetorically positioning his opponents beyond the pale. Repeatedly, Ormerod’s Englishman quotes and cites “T.C. a chiefe founder of the Puritan-­factiom[n].” He also names “Cartwright” as one of several authors of a “booke of discipline” (“Anno. 1599”), and recommends that the German pick up a copy of “Master Cartwrights last reply” when he gets to London, if he can locate a copy.30 In each instance, he must have been referring to Thomas Cartwright. Cartwright had long tried to import to England a form of church government featuring presbyters or elders instead of prelates. He had also suffered for the cause. In the 1570s, it had cost him first a chaired position, and then a fellowship, at Cambridge. In the early 1590s, it had landed him in jail—when Henry Barrow was there too. After his own well-­publicized conference with Barrow in prison, Thomas Sperin arranged for Cartwright to have a try talking sense into the younger, more radical member of the “Puritan-­factiom[n].” The meeting did not go well. Cartwright refused to meet Barrow a second time. Barrow, from then on, considered Cartwright a traitor to his own religious movement, and to his own followers.31 Cartwright regained his freedom (gradually) and retained his place in the Church of England (or, as Barrow saw it, in Babylon). Barrow would rather lose his life than succumb to any Babylon. And so he did. Over the final decade of his more sustainable life, Cartwright must have gotten used to attacks on his writings like Ormerod’s. But he died before he could have seen the one that Donne acquired. According to it, { 72 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Cartwright had argued that “the ciuill Magistrate hath not to ordaine ceremonies partaining to the Church.” With this move, Ormerod introduced one of his book’s major arguments: “that our Sectaries doe shake hands both with the Anabaptists & the Papists.”32 A claim this counterintuitive would require some explaining. So, after his first two characters had established “82 sem[m]blance[s]” between German and English religious radicals (and demonstrated how well their more normative countrymen could get along), Ormerod proceeded to a set of three additional dialogues between a couple of less amenable interlocutors: a “Protestant” and a “Puritane.” In these final dialogues, Ormerod tried to expose the puritan and his leader Cartwright as too extreme for the moderate and winning protestant (not entirely unlike how Cartwright himself had found Barrow too radical in prison). For readers willing to go along with him, Ormerod would thereby exclude the puritan even from the company of the protestant. He tried to do this by giving these last dialogues the inventive title “Puritano-­papismus: or A Discouerie of Puritan-­papisme.”33 Of course, the representative puritan finds the charge of papism ridiculous. After all, he and his fellow sectaries “defie the Pope and his Religion: we say that he is Antichrist, because he aduaunceth himselfe aboue all that is called God.” For example, when princes enter the pope’s presence, “after obeysance done in three seuerall distances,” they “fall downe before him and kisse his feete.”34 Ah ha, counters the good protestant, if you had your way, English princes would soon have to do the same to their ministers: “If the Doctrine of your consistorians and disciplinarians might take place, our Kinges of England (I feare) would in short time bee brought to the like slauerye: for doe not they teach that Princes ought to submit themselues to the Seniors of the Church, and that they ought to be content to bee ruled and gouerned, to bee punished and corrected, to bee excommunicated and absolued by their direction, and at their pleasure?” For proof that this hidden papism lies deep within the puritan, Ormerod again quotes Cartwright, as he often does. “Christian Princes must remember (saith T.C.) to subiect themselues vnto the Church, to submit their Scepters, to throwe downe their Crowne before the Church; yea to licke the dust of the feete of the Church.”35 In Cartwright’s plan, wouldn’t English kings r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 73 }

have to idolize radical ministers every bit as much as you say European princes idolize the pope? Ormerod was advancing an ambitious argument, absurd on its face. He was saying that the most radically progressive part of his society shared a surprising hidden agreement with its most radically conservative part, at the other end of the religious spectrum. Despite their manifest differences, the puritan and the papist alike sought to submit kings to the Church. Both, therefore, threatened the king’s sovereignty. They were both effectively traitors, if only in training. Mirreus and Crants would eventually end up in the same ideological place, opposing Graius and the king. One of the argument’s key ingredients was a tacit agreement between the protestant and the puritan that papists are bad, idolaters even. For both interlocutors, it was obviously bad to be called a papist. It would have been bad even to “shake hands” with a Catholic. Yet that is exactly what the puritan did, according to Ormerod’s protestant, by inadvertently demanding for his own ostensibly humble ministers popelike power over kings. When he inscribed his copy of the book, Donne must have recognized that The Pictvre of a Puritane was not a flattering one, and that it was finally the puritan’s resemblance to a Roman Catholic—in a word, his “Puritan-­papisme”—that made the picture so unflattering. Like many others that he owned, this book would have confirmed for Donne that the religion around him stretched, in either direction, toward two routinely maligned extremes, widely regarded as intolerable: puritanism and papism, Crants and Mirreus. Normative English Christians like Graius eschewed both. Some of the other books now bound together with this one could have supported this sense of the religious scene, whether for Donne or whoever collected the tracts together. Donne’s copies of Ormerod’s Pictvre and Covell’s Defense are bound together with several other booklets that Donne might have owned (but that other people certainly did) in a binding that he (like many of his contemporaries) could have ordered. It’s fascinating to entertain Keynes’s assertion that Donne made at least one pencil mark in every one of these books and even had them bound together: Sutcliffe’s Svbversion of Robert Parsons, a Jesuit; an imprisoned Jesuit’s Ansvvere to another piece of anti-­Catholic writing; { 74 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

the 1604 Articles of Peace between James I and Philip III of Spain; Roger Fenton’s Ansvvere to William Alablaster, the famous English convert to Roman Catholicism (usually spelled Alabaster); part of a Catholic bishop’s response to William Perkins’s warning against anything resembling Catholicism; a sermon by Thomas Holland in praise of Elizabeth I; and Adam Hyll’s Defence of the Article: Christ descended into Hell.36 Together, these books offer an excellent survey of the religion around Donne’s city and country. So it would be exciting to identify widely convincing evidence of Donne’s involvement in the volume as a whole. Keynes was well aware, however, that not everyone agreed with his conclusion that “all these tracts have Donne’s characteristic markings” and “must have been bound for him.”37 It can be disappointing to consider the possibility that Donne was not responsible for compiling a Sammelband, whether this one or another. But it shouldn’t stay disappointing for long, at least not for readers willing to take an interest in the people around Donne, in particular those who acquired Donne’s books secondhand. The later owners of Donne’s books offer plenty of interest in their own right. They also offer perfectly valid focal points for the religion around Donne—if not right around Donne in his library, then only a little farther away, around Donne as he appeared in the libraries of his fellow citizens.

Secon dhan d B ooks Donne knew that most of his books would be sold off. He stipulated in his will that they should be, with the proceeds to go to his heirs. There were to be some exceptions among the books, however: “such Bookes only being excepted as by a Scedule signde wth my hand I shall give away.”38 The same hand that had inscribed so many of his books was going to direct some of them to friends and loved ones. The rest, though, would soon be out of reach. Donne likely knew the London market for secondhand books, where much of his library would probably go. He must also have known how transitory the traces of books’ earlier owners could become once they’d passed through that market. After all, he had acquired used books, and in some cases he had r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 75 }

personally contributed to the partial erasure of their provenance. Donne “disguised” the name of the previous owner of his interleaved French translation of Guicciardini, for instance, “altering the letters in ink and adding his terminal cipher.”39 In order to write his own motto over it, he “partially erased” the name of an earlier owner of a copy of the sermons of the Italian reformer Ochino (the product of Ochino’s escape to Geneva, when he had been ordered to report to the Inquisition in Rome).40 And in his interleaved but largely unused copy of Nicholas Hill’s digest of Philosophia, someone deleted an earlier motto and carefully placed a slip of paper bearing Donne’s signature over someone else’s: the obscured motto and signature belong to his friend and fellow writer, Ben Jonson.41 Someone with the initials “G.P.” similarly hid Donne’s previous ownership of a 1573 edition of Paracelsus’s Chirvrgia magna (or Great Surgery). The book’s new owner lightly crossed out Donne’s motto and signature. He (or perhaps she) also recorded valuable information about the used-­book trade, stating that the folio was “bought in Duck Lane 13. 10br. 1633 precium. 7s. 6d.”42 This indicates that Donne’s Paracelsus was available for sale just two years after his death, and only a few blocks directly north of the cathedral where he had been dean, in an area that would become well known for used booksellers, if it hadn’t already. (Duck Lane was later renamed Duke Street and then Little Britain.) G.P. might not have had the opportunity, or the funds, to acquire another book from Donne’s library: his initials h ­ aven’t been reported in any other books currently associated with Donne. Other London book collectors had the means to acquire more of Donne’s books. Robert Ashley got more than seventy of them. About a decade later, he founded the library of the Middle Temple, leaving it the approximately thirty-­seven hundred books that he had accrued in his chambers there. Ashley thus kept together nearly a quarter of the extant books that Donne evidently owned. Or, to be more precise, he saw to it that they were kept in the same rooms. There, they came to make up less than 2 percent of his own collection, spaced out on different bookcases in the early years of the library’s institutional phase.43 Several of Donne’s books at the Middle Temple are in Sammelbände. Some of these, like the Sammelbände at Houghton Library and Cambridge { 76 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

University Library, provide little unambiguous evidence that Donne compiled them, in their current form. Others, though, offer more. One volume at the Middle Temple, for instance, features three works, printed over a twenty-­year period, by the Flemish Hebraist and professor at Frankener, Johannes Drusius (also called, in his native language, Jan van den Driesche). Donne inscribed the first tract in ink (Drusius’s “anthology of proverbs from the Bible and other religious literature”).44 He could have made the pencil marks in the second (Drusius’s authoritative account of the proper pronunciation of the Hebrew divine name). But Donne left no mark on the third booklet in the volume (a response to the Jesuit Nikolaus Serarius).45 Again, Donne certainly could have collected these three books together. But Ashley could have too. And of the two men, it’s clear who was the greater book collector and therefore the one more capable of bringing together multiple works by the same author. Much the same can be said for another, closely related Sammelband at Middle Temple. Although the volume contains the works of three different authors, its contents certainly belong together. The Sammelband begins with Donne’s copy of Serarius’s Trihæresivm, on what the Jesuit considered the heresies of the Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes. Serarius, a professor at Mainz, aligned these three so-­ called sects with three branches of ancient Greek philosophy and, by extension, with Roman and reformed variants of Christianity.46 The two books bound with Serarius’s engage it directly. Both came from professors in the reformed Netherlands. One was Joseph Scaliger’s Elenchus Trihæresii Nicolaii Serarii. The other was Drusius’s De Tribvs Sectis Iudæorum.47 These three books together represent an important seventeenth-­century controversy over the Hasidaeans (mentioned in the books of the Maccabees).48 They show two leading intellectuals from reformed lands (more or less like Crants) opposing a Jesuit (a Mirreus). Someone in seventeenth-­century London recognized the importance of the controversy over the Hasidaeans and compiled in one volume several of the primary sources in which it played out. That person might have been Donne. After all, he wrote his motto and signed the first book in the volume. He could have been claiming the entire compilation. Yet again, though, Robert Ashley could also be r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 77 }

responsible for collecting these three works together. And he certainly demonstrated a greater capacity for collecting books than Donne did. We know that this Sammelband was part of Ashley’s library; we can’t be certain that it was part of Donne’s. At least one other Sammelband at Middle Temple looks a little more likely to have been Donne’s. This volume features the works of a single author: Christoph Helwig, the Lutheran Hebraist. Again, only the first item in the volume bears Donne’s motto and signature. By contrast, though, pencil markings occur throughout all four of the tracts in this volume, and they remain visually quite consistent. More telling, someone has handwritten the name of the author and first work on the fore-­edge of the volume, writing across all four booklets. (Early modern book collectors regularly shelved books with the spines facing back, and added fore-­edge lettering to show the books’ contents.) Under the handwriting on the fore-­edge (“Heluic’ / de / parap: / Chald: / etc”) appears a rather distinctive symbol.49 Keynes called it a “triangular blob” in Donne’s copies of “Ochino” and “Polanus” (Amandus Polanus’s huge compendium of reformed theology).50 The symbol is pointy at the top and rounded on the bottom: a triangle atop a semi­ circle. Whoever made it seems to have kept the point of a finely cut quill stationary while sweeping the rest in an arc, like a compass making a quarter turn. Keynes must have noticed another of these marks in another book that passed from Donne’s library into his own, identified on the fore-­edge as “T: Aqui: / Concio. / P: 2.” (This was the second part of the German Dominican Johann Coppenstein’s Dispositiones Concionum, drawn principally from Thomas Aquinas’s commentaries on Matthew and John.)51 But Keynes might not have had the opportunity to notice that a similar “triangular blob” occurs on the fore-­edge of the Helwig Sammelband at Middle Temple. It’s possible that someone other than Donne was responsible for writing, and adding these pointy symbols, on the fore-­edges of all four of these books, but Donne is the only person known to have ever owned all of them. Perhaps he did not only read these books but also shelved them with their fore-­edges and authors’ names showing, so that he could easily identify and retrieve Polanus’s Syntagma of reformed theology, Ochino’s sermons after escaping Rome, or Helwig’s expertise on Hebrew. { 78 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Ashley preferred what Donne read to what he wrote. Although he collected dozens of books that Donne had owned, in multiple languages, he admitted no more than one of Donne’s writings into his library. The only book by Donne to join the Middle Temple Library before the twentieth century was Psevdo-­Martyr, Donne’s tract arguing that English Catholics should take the Oath of Allegiance to King James.52 Donne’s polemical tract appears in the first catalogue of the library, in the volume recording works of “Controversiall and scholasticall divinity.” When the catalogue was handwritten, in 1684, most, but not necessarily all, of the books at the Middle Temple Library had come from Ashley’s own collection.53 So it’s probable, but not provable, that Ashley acquired this, and only this one, book by Donne. In the likely event that he did, he would have been deciding that Donne’s contribution to the public debate over the Oath of Allegiance was worthy of the library that his fellow Middle Templars would eventually share. He does not seem to have collected Donne’s later print publications, though. From his day until ours, the books that Donne owned have vastly outnumbered the ones he wrote at Middle Temple. John Selden took possession of at least nineteen books that Donne had owned, and probably more. He added his own motto to several of them, in hasty Greek, without bothering Donne’s earlier inscriptions. One of the books that still bears Donne’s motto and signature is bound near the middle of a Sammelband: Jérémie Périer’s Histoire of the siege of Ostend, featuring a fold-­out map of Flanders (with a depiction of a compass that the poet must have noticed). The next book in the composite volume is the Continvation of Périer’s account.54 These two octavos by Périer, printed in the same city and in the same year, both retain stab-­stitch holes: holes in the gutter margin remaining from the string that booksellers used to keep the folded, unbound sheets of a book together for sale. The stab-­stitch holes of the two adjacent Périer books line up exactly, strongly suggesting that they have stayed together from the bookshop to the Bodleian, even as they passed through the hands of Donne and Selden. When Donne inscribed the first Périer book, he was probably claiming its Continvation as well. It’s possible that Donne also purchased all the other books in the Sammelband and had them bound together without inscribing them (or r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 79 }

without reinscribing them after the binder trimmed off his previous inscriptions). But it’s more likely that Selden compiled this volume in the process of building a library more than twice the size of Ashley’s, and more than twenty-­five times the size of Donne’s. It’s even more probable that a Bodleian librarian had the books bound together. While Ashley was building his private library at the Middle Temple, Selden was doing much the same nearby, in and around the Inner Temple. He donated his Hebrew manuscripts and some books to the university library that Thomas Bodley had revived at Oxford. He left approximately eight thousand additional books for his executors to place. After the Inner Temple turned them down, so did Donne’s legal society, Lincoln’s Inn. The Middle Temple declined as well, evidently deciding that Ashley’s books were more than enough to have to accommodate. Finally, the rest of the library went to the Bodleian, requiring the construction of an annex to Duke Humfrey’s reading room.55 Like Ashley, Selden selected continental books from Donne’s collection: nothing extant in English. Also like Ashley, he tended to surround them with even more continental books. There’s a chance, a very slim one, that this Sammelband preserves a part of Donne’s library, but it’s certain that it preserves a very small part of Selden’s. Likewise, while it’s only possible that Selden ever saw these books in their current order, it is clear that Bodleian librarians and readers have long encountered this particular array of printed books, stretching from Jérôme Bignon’s Traicté on the election of popes, through Bertrand Avignon’s presentation to the theology faculty of the Sorbonne on his conversion to “la verité de l’euangile,” to Johann Wolder’s Synopsis of heresies.56 The Bodleian had already acquired two other books from Donne’s library before receiving Selden’s donation. It owned one of them, written by Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti, as early as 1605, when it appeared in the library’s first printed catalogue.57 The Bodleian could have made its next acquisition from Donne’s library after his death. The 1635 appendix to the Bodleian catalogue includes Donne’s copy of a work by the Benedictine Carl Stengel.58 By this time, the library had also cataloged several books written by Donne. The 1620 catalogue features Donne’s first printed book (another copy of the same work that Ashley collected), Psevdo-­Martyr—paired with Thomas Fitzherbert’s refutation { 80 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

of Donne’s tract.59 By 1635, the library had acquired two of Donne’s sermons, his Devotions, and his Iuuenilia.60 Like Ashley, Selden seems to have collected only one book that Donne wrote. He chose a posthumous publication: Six Sermons.61 Among contemporary poets, Selden evidently preferred Drayton, Browne, Jonson, Spenser, and Sidney— and he liked Middle English verse best of all.62 Selden therefore also appears to have had more use for the books that Donne bought than the ones he had written. For that reason, at the Bodleian also, Donne’s acquisitions outnumbered his writings, but not for long. Other books from Donne’s library must have reached their next owners as gifts. One says as much: a Latin anthology at Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, bears Donne’s motto and signature along with this additional inscription in a later hand: “Ex dono Iohannis Donne Armigeri” (through the gift of John Donne, Esquire—or, more literally, one entitled to bear arms).63 The “Scedule” of books that Donne intended to give away at his death would provide invaluable evidence of his personal library, if it ever surfaces (and if Donne actually lived long enough to draft it in the first place). Donne’s younger friend Henry King could certainly have appeared on such a schedule; as Donne’s executor, he could have handled it too. King later became bishop of Chichester, making him the most likely conduit of Donne’s books to Chichester Cathedral. The cathedral library currently has four books bearing Donne’s inscription, only one of which is bound on its own.64 Another is bound together with a book that no one thinks Donne owned. Donne’s copy of Rodolfo Cupers’s tract on the universal church now follows a book that Henry Mason gave as a gift. Mason had served as chaplain to Henry’s father, Bishop John King, and became a prebend at St. Paul’s Cathedral when Henry did.65 A member of the King family could have put together these books, both gifts from close friends in the Church. So could a cathedral librarian. Two other Sammelbände at Chichester Cathedral have been considered Donne’s, even though he inscribed only one book between the two volumes: Jeremias Wilde’s book-­length eulogy for ants. Next in this volume comes a virtually unused copy of its only explicitly religious book, Christoph Binder’s Theses de Bonis Ecclesiae: Ante Legem, Svb Lege, Ac Sub Evangelio. Binder’s Lutheran distinctions between law r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 81 }

and gospel remain partially obscured in unopened leaves. Concluding the volume is a book of Arabic fabulæ and adages, annotated in Latin.66 Donne’s claim to this last book rests principally on the pencil marks in the margins. His claim to the volume’s most overtly religious book, Binder’s Theses, relies entirely on the binding. So does the case for Donne’s ownership of the largest Chichester Sammelband associated with him. Donne wrote no words, and used no ink, on any of the ten tracts inside. But Mary Hobbs identified, in nine of them, “Donne’s characteristic neat sloping pencil lines in the margins, with occasional small brackets.” She also recorded that the spine features a “list of abbreviated titles . . . separated by a small inked shape.”67 Insofar as that inked shape and the lettering on the spine match those on other volumes that Donne clearly owned, we can consider this Sammelband Donne’s own little collection of books. Likewise, insofar as the “sloping pencil lines” resemble Donne’s elsewhere, we can expand our survey of the religion around him, as a reader, to include a number of interesting features of this composite volume: the Reformed theologian Daniel Tossanus’s work on predestination, together with his letters to Serarius (one of whose books Donne, again, clearly owned); a book on the work of the German Jesuit Jacob Gretser (four of whose books Donne owned); and the Répentance of Jean Haren, the friend of Calvin’s who had converted to Rome.68 But for anyone unconvinced that the pencil lines in the margins, and the shapes on the spine, can be confidently identified as Donne’s, these works will seem to be part of the religion around Donne at some remove, in his culture, and perhaps even among his friends, but not necessarily in his library. Churchmen, and in particular bishops like King, would become major collectors of the books that Donne had both owned and written. Later in the seventeenth century, Edward Stillingfleet, bishop of Worcester (and antagonist to John Locke), collected four books that Donne had inscribed, and several more that he could have marked in pencil. Two of the inscriptions occur in a Sammelband, and one of them leads the volume off: Daniel Plancius’s tract on the Council of Constance and the protections, or lack thereof, that the council provided to alleged heretics, notably John Huss.69 The other booklet Donne inscribed occupies the middle of the volume: Jacques Leschassier’s { 82 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

argument for la liberté of l’Eglise Gallicane, the Gallican, or French, Church. For Leschassier and other Gallicans, asserting the liberty of their state church required limiting, or denying altogether, the pope’s power in temporal matters.70 Hugh Adlington has shown that Donne marked passages in this copy that he also quoted and cited in Ignatius his Conclaue, Donne’s prose satire on Saint Ignatius Loyola and the Jesuit order that Loyola had founded. Donne’s inscribed copy of this Gallican tract thus preserves a remarkable instance of documentary intertextuality, showing passages that Donne marked in pencil and then quoted in print. According to Adlington, Donne did the same with another booklet in this Sammelband, even though he did not write his name or motto in the book. Adlington identified “Donne’s characteristic pencil marks throughout” the archbishop of Rouen’s La défence de pères Jésuites. One of these pencil marks appears beside the author’s claim that the Jesuits have, among their ranks, two hundred thousand scholars, “deux cent mille escoliers.”71 Donne reported in Ignatius that the Jesuits “sometimes haue maintained in their Tents 200000 schollers.”72 Again, a book from the Sammelband that Stillingfleet owned seems to show Donne reading, and annotating in pencil, what he then relayed in ink to the press. Adlington has also attributed to Donne at least some of the pencil marks in a few other booklets in this Sammelband. Two of these tracts joined Leschassier’s in the Gallican cause. In one of them, the avocat du roy Louis Servin defended the French church from Jesuits.73 In another, Nicolas Le Jay did the same, focusing on one Jesuit in particular, Cardinal Robert Bellarmine—one of Donne’s principal targets in Ignatius.74 Another, more closely related pair of French tracts preserves the Jesuit side of a debate with Pierre Du Moulin, a Huguenot minister who had spent time in England.75 Another pamphlet in this Sammelband defends Lancelot Andrewes’s endorsement of the Oath of Allegiance from the “torturæ” inflicted on him by Jesuits. This book, written by the Arminian philologist and Church of England clergymen Richard “Dutch” Thomson, came out a little too late for Donne to have used it in writing his book on the subject, Psevdo-­Martyr. So no citation connects it to Donne; neither does an inscription. Only the pencil marks and the binding support its inclusion in his reconstructed library.76 r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 83 }

In addition, the Stillingfleet Sammelband includes five booklets that show no sign of Donne’s hand, not even pencil marks that could be his. Of course, Donne probably purchased and certainly read more books than he annotated in pencil or inscribed in ink. Who hasn’t? He could even have ordered the construction of this composite volume. Likewise, though, someone else could have acquired several books from Donne’s library and grouped them together with other books of the same size and from the same years. Binders had largely stopped using the parchment featured on the covers of this Sammelband by the time Bishop Stillingfleet was building his library of some six thousand printed books, and ten thousand total volumes, in the latter half of the seventeenth century.77 This makes him an unlikely candidate to have ordered the binding (and indicates that the volume’s subsequent owners, the bishop of Armagh and then Narcissus Marsh, are even less likely to have arranged its contents). This doesn’t mean that Donne compiled the Sammelband, however. He died a few years before Stillingfleet was even born. So his books must have passed through at least one other person’s hands en route to the bishop. Two more Sammelbände, now at Cambridge University Library, provoke similar questions about other subsequent owners of books from Donne’s library. One of these composite volumes has already appeared at the start of this chapter: it’s the one that features Donne’s verified copies of Covell (the response to Burges) and Vignier (his critique of Baronius’s endorsement of excommunicating the Venetians). The other pertinent Sammelband at CUL features Donne’s mottos and signatures, almost completely trimmed away by a binder, in three books that defend the establishment of religion near the end of Elizabeth’s reign. In the second tract in the volume, Thomas Rogers anonymously argued in favor of the Thirty-­Nine Articles.78 In the next, Matthew Sutcliffe, dean of Exeter, launched one of his attacks on Job Throckmorton, a likely author of the Martin Marprelate tracts, which had so incensed the authorities featured at the end of the previous chapter.79 Directly after that tract comes Gabriel Powel’s reply to an early Jacobean appeal to Parliament from nonconformist ministers. While he certainly preferred such “factious Brethren” to “Papistes,” Powel also urged them to reconsider their position and to reconcile { 84 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

with the state church.80 In each of these three books, one could see someone like Graius defending the Church of England. In the last, by Powel, one could see him doing so against people like Crants. Donne clearly owned each of these defenses of the English church. He owned a fourth book in the volume as well (Francis Bacon’s defense of the legal proceedings against Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, after Essex attempted a coup against Elizabeth I).81 Much of the evidence of his ownership fell on the binder’s floor. It is therefore entirely possible that the binder trimmed off any trace of his motto and signature in the volume’s other two items as well. One of them is an early (1604) edition of Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall, the book of instructions for English ministers that Burges could not accept—and that Donne, in his ministry, had to.82 It would be wonderful to find conclusive evidence that this was Donne’s own copy of the manual that he used as a vicar and dean. The same can be said for this volume’s copy of William Barlow’s 1604 report on the Hampton Court conference, in which King James and the ministers of his new national church settled a number of religious issues.83 But none of Donne’s marks remains on these two tracts, and the binding that keeps them together is not contemporary with Donne. The binder responsible for it may have been keeping together tracts that Donne himself had collected and even arranged. But he must have been working for someone else, who would also have been perfectly capable of collecting and arranging contemporary pamphlets for a Sammelband. One candidate would have been John Moore, bishop of Ely. Bishop Moore amassed the largest library discussed in this chapter, including more than thirty thousand printed books and manuscripts.84 Surely, a book collector working on that scale—or one of his many suppliers— could have put four of Donne’s books with two other English books that had been printed within the same eight-­year span. It’s also possible that someone working for King George I, or Cambridge University Library, did so. On Moore’s death, the king purchased Moore’s library and gave it to the university. Because of the king’s involvement, CUL still refers to Moore’s books as the Royal Library. The same can be said of the Sammelband that introduced this chapter, the one featuring Egerton’s Speech of the Lord Chancellor. It too is part of the Royal Library r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 85 }

at Cambridge. It too could have been compiled by someone working for Cambridge, or for George I, or for Bishop Moore, rather than Donne. Unlike the other major collectors of books from Donne’s library, Bishop Moore also acquired the sort of book that most distinguishes Donne: a manuscript of his poems.85 Featuring just twenty-­eight of Donne’s poetic works (plus a few by others), the bishop’s slender folio offers a much smaller collection than, for instance, Frances Bridge­ water’s gilt quarto of 123 Donne poems (which also includes some of his prose works, as well as poems by others).86 The Moore manuscript lacks all but two of the poems already discussed in this book. It doesn’t have Donne’s poetic litany or the satires addressing religion and Sir Thomas Egerton. It does have Donne’s first two satires, though, beginning with his description of the “standinge wooden Chest” full of books.87 It also includes a copy of the bitter love poem in which Donne’s speaker bequeaths his “Phisick bookes” to “him for whom the Passing bell next tolles.”88 Having surveyed a small part of Donne’s library in this chapter, one wonders whether Donne could have been thinking of his 1573 Paracelsus when he wrote of “Phisick bookes.” Having surveyed a much smaller part of Moore’s library, we might wonder whether the bishop ever read these lines and recognized the other books on his shelves that Donne actually did relinquish in his actual will. Regardless of whether he realized it, Moore had brought together several of Donne’s shortest writings—his inscriptions in books—with some of his most distinctive: his scribally published poems. The next chapter returns to manuscript collections of Donne’s poems, placing the sort of books that most distinguish Donne at the center of this book. At the end of a chapter on Sammelbände, it’s worth acknowledging that either Moore or CUL had this manuscript of Donne’s poems bound together with a few other items. Moore’s copies of Donne poems immediately follow a prose work, copied in another hand and composed “by an vnknowne Author,” titled “A Relation of diuers Occurenses, as they happened, in ye beginning of King Iames his Raigne.”89 Later printed under the title The Five Yeares of King Iames, this tract focuses largely on the “Occurenses” of the Overbury affair, the Jacobean court scandal that resulted in the conviction of Robert and Frances Carr, Earl and Countess of Somerset, for having Sir Thomas Overbury poisoned in prison after he { 86 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

objected to their controversial plan to marry.90 The “Relation” makes for an interesting pairing with Donne’s poems. After he orchestrated Overbury’s fall, Carr (then Viscount Rochester) needed someone to replace him, and he offered patronage to Donne. Donne left behind little evidence of service to Rochester beyond the epithalamion that he wrote for his marriage.91 The wedding poem does not appear in the Moore manuscript, but a poem attributed to Overbury does. Overbury’s poetical work “A Wyfe” (beginning, “Each woman is a breife of womankinde”) arguably features the sort of marital advice that ended up provoking his murder. In this manuscript’s short text of the poem, Overbury praises marriage and promotes contentedness in marriage before briefly turning attention to the “euerlastinge” “guilte” of “wandringe luste.”92 Anyone capable of writing these words could easily have run afoul of a master who was plotting to nullify his mistress’s first marriage and marry her himself. And the “Relation” shows exactly how Overbury did so. The “Relation” may not seem to have much to do with the religion around Donne. After all, it addresses the court, not the Church. And it’s modeled on the histories of Tacitus. Nevertheless, the Tacitean author of the “Relation” decided that the antagonist of the story would be Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton, “a Papist” (or a Mirreus) who had “chaungeth his opinion of Religion in outward apparance, and to ye intent to reap vnto himselfe more honors.”93 Northampton was thus corrupting the royal court with his religion, or at least with vices that the author of the “Relation” identified with his crypto-­Catholicism. On the other side of the tract’s moral ledger were people who had no need to misrepresent their religion. One of these was Prince Henry, “[t]he hope of England,” whose untimely death “filled all the kingdome wth lamentac[i]ons.” The “hope” that much of “England” placed in Henry had everything to do with religion. So did the hope that the country placed in his sister’s wedding to “the Palsgrave of the Rhyne,” Frederick V.94 Donne had written an epithalamion for this wedding as well.95 (It does not appear in the Moore manuscript either.) At least in the eyes of its most ardent supporters, the marriage secured an international alliance against Roman Catholics. Both Henry and Frederick make appearances elsewhere in this composite volume of manuscript booklets. In Bishop Moore’s small r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 87 }

poetry collection, Overbury’s “Wyfe” immediately follows an “Elegye” for Prince Henry composed by Edward Lord Herbert of Cherbury (the poem begins, “Must he be euer dead?”).96 Anyone who read these two manuscripts together could have recognized Herbert’s poem as one of the “lamentac[i]ons” for the prince mentioned in the “Relation.” Like the next poem in the collection, by Overbury, it features a key figure of the prose tract, and provides an example of some of the sentiments that it describes. The “Relation” qualifies as a “secret history”; it is full of the speculation and rumor that are conventional to the genre.97 Bound together with it, the Herbert and Overbury poems offer a little corroborating evidence for some of the tract’s claims. Alongside the “Relation,” the Herbert poem also shows another aspect of the religion around Donne. It shows the religion of those who mourned the prince, and who viewed favorably his sister’s alliance with Frederick. And it shows that people placed such religion around Donne’s works in more than one way—sometimes by binding, sometimes by copying, others’ works among his. Indeed, someone bound these two English manuscripts together with two Latin works: the “Secretissima Instructio” (of 1620) and the “Altera Secretissima Instructio” (of 1626). These tracts ostensibly reveal the Machiavellian plots of Frederick V and his advisors, exposing secret (but also fictional) communications that might lead his protestant subjects to distrust him.98 Like the “Relation,” these two installments in the “Secretissima Instructio” series might seem to have more to do with politics than with religion. But they engage politics during a war of religion, which many of James’s English subjects wanted him to enter, in support of his daughter, his son-­in-­law, and the true church. These Latin tracts represent, in other words, some of the continental wartime religion around Donne, both during his ministry and even after his death, at least in this composite volume of Bishop Moore’s manuscripts. Each of the printed books surveyed in this chapter shows the religion around Donne too. Some definitely show the religion right around him: they still bear his handwriting. Many of these concern the religion in his home country, in and around the state church that eventually { 88 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

made him a priest and a dean—Covell’s and Ormerod’s defenses of the Church, for instance. Others of the books, though, may show the religion around Donne at a further remove. Several lack conclusive evidence of his ownership. And many concern religion on the continent. All this too, of course, constitutes the religion around Donne, only perhaps in a broader sense: religion in Europe, or religion in books that did not necessarily reach him personally but certainly did reach his country and even his city, in the hands of his fellow citizens and his successors in the Church of England, from Bishop John King to Bishop John Moore. Reading books from Donne’s library requires reading books from their libraries too, just as reading Donne’s writing entails reading collections of texts and books made by others. The rest of this book addresses those books.

r e l i g i o u s w o r k s a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s i n s c r i p t i o n s   { 89 }

3 religious verse around donne’s verse

Quæ scripta manu sunt, veneranda magis In a Latin verse letter to a friend, Donne recorded one of the things that could go wrong when books changed hands in early modern London. His friend, the medical doctor and poet Richard Andrews, had borrowed a book from him. He must have left it where his children could reach it, because they tore it up. So Andrews had the book, or at least its damaged parts, handwritten. Donne acknowledged receipt of the new, one-­of-­a-­kind volume by writing his friend a poem, making clear that there were no hard feelings. In fact, Donne argued, Andrews and family had actually improved the book. PArturiunt madido quæ nixu præla, recepta; Sed quæ scripta manu sunt, veneranda magis.1 Robin Robbins began the most recent translation of the poem like this:

Those the presses give birth to in damp labour are accepted, But those handwritten are more to be revered. Readers merely accept the products of the printing press, birthed with effort on wetted paper (a necessary component in early printing). They revere manuscripts, though. You can tell by the way they treat the same work in both media. They will leave a book “on shelves abandoned to book-­wormes and ashes” if it is “coloured only with the blood of the press.” If that book comes “written with a pen,” though, it “is reverently received, / And flies to the principal bookcase of ancient fathers.” In Donne’s original, a printed book gets forsaken on “pluteos”— the Latin noun (pluteus, -­i) used for both a bookshelf and the board on which a corpse is laid. The word makes a library of printed books sound like a morgue. There moth and dust destroy (blattis, cinerique). But if that same book is written with the reed or pen of a scribe (calamo scriptus), it flies to the “scrinia” (scrinium, -­ii), the bookcases or chests reserved for church fathers. Whereas printed books are laid to rest on library shelves, manuscripts fly like souls to join the saints. Accordingly, wrote Donne, the book Andrews borrowed and returned to him handwritten “Was not to me so prized . . . before.”2 He valued it more once it had become a manuscript. It’s almost as if the book had died and risen again. When he wrote this poem, Donne was affirming his friendship with a fellow book borrower, a fellow parent, and a fellow poet. And he did so by making witty use of the reverence shown manuscripts, as opposed to printed books. Printed books are born to die. But manuscripts are made for the heavenlike bookcases reserved for religious tomes. It is ironic that this paean to manuscripts survives only in printed books, especially since it comes from a book that was printed largely from manuscript texts that do survive. We can’t know which book Donne lent Andrews in print and got back in manuscript. But we can see how people have variously handled and treated most of Donne’s poems in both media, since they preserved so many copies in each.

{ 92 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Remarkably, they even preserved a few of the manuscripts used to collect and edit Donne’s poems for print (many other printed books were produced from only a single manuscript, discarded after use). The editors of The Variorum Edition of the Poetry of John Donne have determined that their earliest predecessor—the anonymous editor of the first printed edition—began work with multiple distinct manuscript sources of many poems. They have also found that, after printing was under way, that first editor used another manuscript of Donne’s poems, evidently designed as the model for a printed edition.3 This final source had a lot more poems attributed to Donne than could appear in the edition that was already being printed. The extra poems provided one reason for the stationer John Marriott to invest in a second edition within two years of the appearance of the first. Nevertheless, the editor of the second edition did not include all the extra poems. He selected only some of them. In the vast majority of cases, he chose correctly, admitting poems that Donne editors still consider his, and rejecting those that they can confidently attribute to other poets. The editor made a few mistakes, though. This chapter focuses on one of them: the inclusion, in Donne’s works, of a defiantly Catholic poem that Donne could not possibly have written. The sonnet demonstrates an important part of the religion around Donne, both in his own time and, later (because of this mistake), in his works. First, it displays the resistant Elizabethan Catholicism that Donne certainly would have recognized in the England of his day. Then it shows something that probably would have surprised him: that such defiant Catholicism had been attributed to him after a quite public career in the Church of England, and even by one or two collectors of his poems who personally knew him rather well. Once these collectors had added this Catholic sonnet to Donne’s works, it wouldn’t leave his corpus for a quarter of a century, retrospectively imposing on Donne religious views that modified the character of many of his actual compositions. In the years since the poem was removed from the Donne canon, Donne scholars have understandably had little to say about it. A study of the religion around Donne offers the perfect occasion to reconsider it.

r e l i g i o u s v e r s e a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s v e r s e   { 93 }

He n ry Con stab l e ’s Sonne t i n I ts Original Co nt exts Henry Constable undoubtedly composed the sonnet “To our blessed Lady” (or, in some copies, just “To our Ladye”). It appears, under the longer heading, in a Harley manuscript of religious texts as one of seventeen “Spirituall Sonnettes To the honour of God: and hys Sayntes. by H: C:.”4 It recurs, with the abbreviated heading, in another manuscript that expands the author’s initials—a separate quire, produced by Henry Stanford, a household tutor to the “staunchly Catholic” Paget family and the powerful Carey family. Stanford’s small Constable gathering features “Certain Spirituall Sonnetts to the honner of God and his Sainctes: With Nyne other directed by particuler deuotion to :3 blessed Maryes: By Hen. Conestable Esquire.”5 The attributions in these two manuscripts establish Constable’s authorship with complete certainty. Or, rather, they do now. Although the Harley manuscript’s Constable poems were printed in 1815, one of them kept getting misattributed to Donne for another eighty years.6 And while the Berkeley Castle manuscript did receive a brief entry in a late nineteenth-­century catalogue, it attracted little or no additional notice until it showed up in the online Catalogue of English Literary Manuscripts (CELM, for short).7 No other complete set of Constable’s spiritual sonnets seems to survive from the early modern period. The full set did not undergo scribal publication. But one poem from the sequence did. By the 1620s and ’30s, collectors of manuscript verse had started publishing one of the poems, on one of the “3 blessed Maryes,” on its own, apart from the rest of Constable’s spiritual sonnets and without the author’s name. The poem begins addressing the Blessed Virgin Mary as the “Queene of queens”: In that (O Queene of queens) thy byrth was free from guylt, which others doth of grace bereave when in theyr mothers wombe they lyfe receave: God, as his sole-­borne daughter loved thee. In Constable’s description of original sin, guilt takes grace away from fetuses in the womb. The Blessed Virgin Mary, however, was full of { 94 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

grace and therefore uniquely free of such guilt at her birth, and even before her birth. Mary was therefore not only born but also conceived without sin. So the sonnet opens with a concise endorsement of the controversial concept of the immaculate conception, a belief that a Catholic convert such as Constable would have had occasion to embrace, and that a convert to the Church of England such as Donne would have had an incentive to abandon, or at least deemphasize. The first quatrain concludes by calling Mary the daughter of God the Father. This leads to the next element of the conceit: Mary as the spouse of God the Spirit. To matche thee lyke thy byrthes nobillitye, he thee hys spyryt for thy spouse dyd leave: of whome thou dydd’st his onely sonne conceave, and so was lynk’d to all the trinitye. As the octave concludes, so too does the demonstration of Mary’s three unique relationships to the three persons of the Trinity, as daughter to the Father, spouse to the Spirit, and mother to the Son. At the volta, the sonnet abruptly addresses earthly queens, recalling the first line’s invocation of Mary as queen of all such queens: Cease then, O Queenes that earthly crownes do weare to glory in the pompe of worldly thynges: if men such hyghe respect vnto yow beare Which daughters, wyves, & mothers ar of kynges; What honour should vnto that Queene be donne Who had your God, for father, spowse, & sonne.8 Insofar as God deserves more glory than his creature, his queen deserves more honor than any other queen. Lesser queens should therefore accept so little honor and glory that their great queen in heaven can receive her just deserts. Constable’s rhetorical question effectively rebuked a virgin queen for supplanting the Virgin Mary. Elizabeth I and her subjects could have discerned in the poem the suggestion that she did not r e l i g i o u s v e r s e a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s v e r s e   { 95 }

even qualify as the wife or mother of a king, much less as a woman who understood her place with respect to the Blessed Virgin. In its original contexts—in Elizabethan England, in Constable’s sequence of spiritual sonnets, and in authoritative manuscripts—the sonnet signaled Roman Catholic resistance to the English queen and her national church.

T h e E f f ect o f Constab l e ’s R e l i g i ous V e rs e   on  Don ne ’s Manuscript verse collectors soon removed Constable’s sonnet from its original contexts. Some of them copied it into manuscript verse miscellanies. The scribe who produced the miscellany that “Margrett Bellasys” inscribed gave the poem the heading “Vpon the virgin Mary” and placed it among verse by Richard Corbett, William Strode, Thomas Carew, Donne, and others.9 Strode’s distant cousin, Daniel Leare, did much the same in his miscellany, dubbing the poem “A Sonnet on the virgin.”10 Each of these two verse collectors was gathering together, and helping to publish, poems by multiple contemporary authors. They were also surrounding Constable’s endorsement of the immaculate conception with poems by Church of England clergymen. Other collectors immersed Constable’s sonnet in miscellaneous collections that featured an even greater proportion of Donne poems. William Parkhurst (Sir Henry Wotton’s secretary in Venice and later Master of the Mint) copied and gathered it among a great many important Donne texts, in addition to those of Ben Jonson, Strode, and others, before Parkhurst’s papers were bound together.11 The anonymous compiler of a fine verse miscellany full of Donne poems placed the Constable sonnet right before Donne’s “A Letanie” and “Of the Crosse.”12 These collectors situated Constable’s unattributed sonnet right next to Donne poems in miscellanies that feature the works of several poets. Their miscellanies could have suggested that Donne had composed the embattled encomium to the Blessed Virgin. Other collectors strengthened this suggestion by surrounding the sonnet with Donne texts in manuscript books largely devoted to his { 96 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

works. These Donne collectors each gave it a heading that includes the phrase “On the blessed Virgin Mary.” The anonymous compiler of a fine “1620” manuscript of Donne’s verse, now held at Houghton Library, followed an excellent series of his religious poems with the sonnet, before turning to his love poems.13 An oblong octavo of ­Donne’s works at the Beinecke Library at Yale, whose compiler also remains anonymous, placed the poem between Donne’s “La Corona” and “A Letanie.”14 By including it in manuscripts full of Donne’s poems, these collectors made the poem look like Donne’s. The scribe responsible for another Houghton Library Donne manuscript drew the obvious conclusion when he added Donne’s initials to his or her copy of the poem: “On the blessed / Virgin Mary. I. D.”15 Scribally published without attribution among Donne’s religious poems, Constable’s sonnet finally became one of them. These manuscript collectors were participating in a large-­scale effort to publish Donne’s poems in manuscript. Altogether, collectors produced thousands of copies of Donne’s individual poems across scores of manuscript books. Some of them were publishing Constable’s unattributed or misattributed sonnet along with them and, in so doing, altering the apparent character of Donne’s religious poetry. To see how this one poem could affect Donne’s collected works, reconsider Frances Bridgewater’s manuscript collection of Donne’s poems—the one introduced at the beginning of this book. The scribe responsible for producing the Bridgewater manuscript copied the Constable sonnet right beneath the last lines of Donne’s poem “Vppon the Annuntiation & Passion / falling vpon one day Anno Dmm  / 1608.”16 Churches rarely commemorate Gabriel’s annunciation to Mary on the same day as Good Friday. But the Church of England did in 1608, and Donne entertained the paradox. The speaker describes the distinct biblical events that his soul sees on this fast/feast day. She (the soul) sees the Virgin Mary at the center of both events. She sees at once the Virgin Mother stay Reclus’d at home, publique at Golgotha Reioic’d & sadd shees seene at once, & seene at almost fiftie, & at scarce fifteene r e l i g i o u s v e r s e a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s v e r s e   { 97 }

The speaker’s soul sees Mary aged both fifteen and nearly fifty, both rejoicing and mourning, both in private, having just learned that she will bear a son, and in public, witnessing his execution: A Sonne at once is promis’d her, & gone, Gabriell giues Christ to her, hee her to John. Not fullie a mother, shees in Orbitie, At once receaver, & the legacie.17 Gabriel promises a son who is already, suddenly “gone.” The angel gives her Christ and Christ in turn gives her to John, asking his beloved disciple to take over caring for his beloved mother. She suffers the loss of a child—“Orbitie”—before even becoming “fullie a mother.” The poem’s representation of Mary contains nothing necessarily objectionable to either the Catholic or the English church. At the same time, though, it contains nothing that necessarily disagrees with Constable’s representation of Mary in the next poem in the Bridgewater manuscript. And Constable’s sonnet offers plenty to offend the Church of England, and plenty to rouse resistance among Catholics in England. Knowledgeable modern readers can now easily distinguish Donne’s and Constable’s representations of the Virgin Mary. But the Countess of Bridgewater, and virtually anyone else who read her manuscript in an Egerton household, had no apparent reason to suspect that Donne had not written both of these poems. They would have seen Donne addressing the Virgin Mary’s widely accepted roles in the Annunciation and Crucifixion in one poem and then her contested conception in another—then rebuking England’s virgin queen. Readers of the Bridgewater manuscript could also have drawn comparisons to Donne’s representation of Mary in the poem that follows these two, “A Letanie” (already discussed in chapter 1). Again, in its stanza on the Virgin Mary, the speakers of “A Letanie” pour out thanks for that “faire Blessed Mother Maid / whose flesh redeemd.” Encountering this poem on its own, a conforming English reader could explain that Mary provided Christ’s flesh, which only then, combined with his divinity, could have “redeemd” anyone. But for anyone reading it right after Constable’s embrace of Mary’s own immaculate conception, these { 98 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

lines could also seem to come from an early, or perhaps persistently, Catholic strain in Donne’s writing. So could subsequent lines. They call Mary a “shee Cherubin.” They claim that she “Vnlockt Paradice” and “made / our clayme for Innocence, & disseasd Synne.” The revised text of the poem affirms in the present tense that “her . . . prayers” are “our helps.”18 It also says that Mary cannot “sue / in vaine.” So she can apparently still offer suits and prayers to God in order to help those living on earth. The revised stanza, as a whole, therefore reaffirms the mediating and intercessory roles that Roman Catholics continued to assign the Virgin Mary, regardless of reformers’ denials. For this reason, the poem must have seemed pretty Catholic, especially to readers who thought that it had been written by the same poet who composed Constable’s sonnet on the immaculate conception. In the following poem in the Bridgewater manuscript, “Good Fryday,” Mary appears even more briefly, but still controversially. The speaker suggests that he keeps riding westward, and not facing east toward Jerusalem as he should on that day, because he dares not turn to view “That Spectacle of too much waite for mee.” these

If on th—se things I durst not look, durst I vpon his miserable mother cast my eye; whoe was Gods partner here, & furnisht thus half of that Sacrifice wch ransomd vs19

Readers in the Church of England may not have had any reason to disagree with the claim that Mary provided the human “half” of the “Sacrifice” that “ransomd vs.” But following a politicized endorsement of the immaculate conception, it could make them suspect that they were reading the work of a Catholic inclined to elevate Mary’s role in salvation—or at least of a convert to the national church who had written the poem before relinquishing his Catholicism. Each of these four consecutive poems features the Virgin Mary. Whether by accident or by design, they combine to present Donne as affirming not only her intercessory role but also her immaculate conception. They show Donne endorsing not only her post-­Reformation but also her Counter-­Reformation role. And they show him reproaching r e l i g i o u s v e r s e a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s v e r s e   { 99 }

the virgin queen for daring to occlude the Blessed Virgin. If Donne has ever looked to anyone like a resistant Catholic, he did in this manuscript. Indeed, in certain parts of the Bridgewater manuscript, Donne looks like Mirreus. Donne mocked Mirreus’s Catholicism in his satires earlier in the volume. But he mocked everyone else’s religious views in the poem too, without settling on any religious position. With the Bridgewater manuscript opened to its presentation of his religious poems, Donne appears to have embraced that Catholicism, without shrinking from its political implications. Even though they rank as particularly early collectors of Donne’s works, who knew him personally, the Countess of Bridgewater and her family could easily have entertained the possibility that Donne had written Catholic verses during Elizabeth’s reign. After all, Donne had lost his service position with the countess’s father-­in-­law, Sir Thomas Egerton, during that time, partly because of his Catholic background. Donne eloped with Egerton’s niece, Anne More, so his new father-­in-­ law, Sir George More, persuaded Egerton to dismiss him and jail him. Sir George must have refused to support the match, at least partly, because of Donne’s “social and economic status.” As Steven May has pointed out, “the husbands of Anne’s four sisters were (or became) knights.”20 But More’s refusal also had to do with religion. Donne began the process of informing More of the wedding by sending a letter via Henry Percy, ninth Earl of Northumberland. The earl, of course, did not want for “social and economic status.” Yet, in Dennis Flynn’s words, Northumberland “was a scion of executed Catholic traitors (as such regarded with suspicion by all who, like More, were fervent supporters of Tudor government and the established religion).”21 Northumberland thus emphasized ­Donne’s Catholic connections at just the time that Donne lost his professional connection to Egerton. Egerton’s descendants therefore could have recalled or recounted Donne as a Catholic, and perhaps even an audacious one. They therefore could have found it easy to imagine this Church of England divine once writing a sonnet that endorses an exclusively Catholic belief and reproaches the queen of England. The compiler of the largest surviving manuscript of Donne’s poetry, the O’Flahertie manuscript, included the Constable sonnet as well. This is the expansive collection that the producers of the first printed { 100 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

edition of Donne’s poems acquired late in the process of printing that edition. This handwritten book of poems was designed as a model for a printed edition. It begins with a table of contents divided by genre and headed “The Poems of D. I. Donne / not yet imprinted” and “finishd this 12 of October 1632.”22 As Erin McCarthy has suggested, the maker of this manuscript book opened it with Doctor Donne’s “Diuine Poems” in order to emphasize his public role as preacher, divine, and dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral.23 The volume starts with “A LETANY” and proceeds to “Good fryday, 1613. Riding towards Wales” and “Of the Crosse.” Then, following the misattributed sonnet “On the blessed Virgin Mary,” it has “The Resurrection, Imperfect” and “Vpon the Annunciation and Passion / falling on one day. An. Do: 168.”24 The O’Flahertie manuscript thus features the Constable sonnet in the midst of some of the same poems that surround it in Frances Bridgewater’s collection, although closer to two that do not mention Mary. Ironically, the maker of this manuscript placed Constable’s fierce anti-­Elizabethan Catholicism in a section of poems that remind readers of Donne’s career in the Church that Elizabeth herself had stabilized. Gary Stringer and the other editors of The Variorum Edition of the Poetry of John Donne have shown, in impressive textual detail, that the editor or editors of the first two editions of Donne’s poems used this manuscript, initially in modifying the first edition and finally in amending and rearranging its texts for an expanded second edition. Production on the 1633 quarto must have already proceeded too far to make more than a few small textual changes to it based on the O’Flahertie manuscript.25 Its texts could be augmented and reorganized for the 1635 octavo, though. McCarthy has proposed that the stationer who financed these editions, John Marriott, separated examples of the same genre in the 1633 quarto in order to make it resemble a manuscript miscellany.26 Paradoxically then, the first printed edition of Donne’s poems is arranged more like a manuscript miscellany than is the O’Flahertie manuscript, and the O’Flahertie manuscript is designed more like the published poems of a celebrated author than is the first printed edition. McCarthy has also argued that Marriott adopted but reordered the O’Flahertie manuscript’s generic sections in order to suggest a biography and even r e l i g i o u s v e r s e a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s v e r s e   { 101 }

a conversion narrative.27 So Marriott, or an editor working for him, moved the “Diuine Poems” to the end of the second edition and put in their place, in the front of the 1635 octavo, what he now called I.D.’s “SONGS AND SONETS”—modifying the O’Flahertie scribe’s wording “Sonnets and Songs” and possibly recalling Richard Tottel’s popular poetry anthology Songes and Sonets (1574).28 This reordering suggested that Donne’s love poems belong to his wayward youth, and his “Diuine Poems” to his mature years in ministry. Thus the ordering of the second edition hinted that Constable’s politicized embrace of the immaculate conception belonged not to Donne’s Catholic youth but—confoundingly—to his final years in the Church of England. To be sure, Marriott’s arrangement of poems merely suggested a biography, which his readers could easily overlook or doubt. But even readers unconcerned with biography would have seen Constable’s sonnet as an addendum to Donne’s “HOLY SONNETS.” Either Marriott or his Donne editor placed under this heading the sequence of seven sonnets titled “La Corona” and, thereafter, an expanded group of sixteen numbered “Holy Sonnets.”29 He placed next, under the same sort of rule (or line) that divides the “Holy Sonnets,” the poem “On the blessed Virgin Mary.” The poem’s verse form, rhyme scheme, and placement make it look like another religious sonnet by Donne—and perhaps even a conclusion to his “Holy Sonnets.” At the same time, though, both its individual heading and its stanza breaks distinguish this sonnet from the others. The printer, Miles Flesher or Fletcher, or one of his compositors presented each of Donne’s actual sonnets as a single block of text, with each line justified on the left. By contrast, the compositor divided the Virgin Mary sonnet into three stanzas, with a couple of lines indented in each. Despite the visual distinctions introduced in the print shop, the subject matter of the Constable sonnet imposed a new, perplexing conclusion on Marriott’s revised collection of Donne’s religious sonnets. In his first edition of Donne’s poems, Flesher had printed the sonnet sequence “La Corona” and then twelve numbered “Holy Sonnets”—without Constable’s poem. In this earlier, 1633 arrangement, the Virgin Mary emerges in “La Corona,” specifically in a sonnet on the “ANNUNCIATION.” She first appears, in other words, at Christ’s { 102 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

sinless conception—not her own. Addressing the “faithfull Virgin,” the speaker explains that Christ yeelds himselfe to lye In prison, in thy wombe; and though he there Can take no sinne, nor thou give, yet he’will weare Taken from thence, flesh, which deaths force may trie.30 Neither can Christ take on sin, “nor” can “thou,” Mary, “give” him sin. A conforming English reader could have questioned this claim that Mary could give no sin. Was Donne telling Mary that she could not give sin because he believed her to be sinless? The question should not have troubled anyone for long. Virtually all Christians have regarded Christ as sinless. It necessarily follows that his mother could not give him sin. It does not necessarily follow that she had no sin—at least not in the 1633 quarto of Donne’s poems. In this first printed edition, Mary passes from view after Christ’s “NATIVITIE.”31 Her womb and Christ’s conception figure in the book, but her own conception never comes up. In the second printed edition of Donne’s poems, though, Mary reemerges at the end of Marriott’s expanded collection of Donne’s religious sonnets. Constable’s sonnet brings up the Virgin Mary again, this time focusing on her conception rather than her son’s, and on her mother’s womb rather than her own. Any readers who suspected early or residual Catholicism in “La Corona” would have found such suspicions confirmed in the conclusion of Marriott’s expanded collection of Donne’s religious sonnets. And, collectively, they would have continued to do so for the next 260 years, as subsequent editors continued to print Constable’s sonnet as Donne’s. Although David Main had refuted Donne’s authorship and correctly reassigned the sonnet to Constable in 1881, Charles Eliot Norton included it as Donne’s in the 1895 Grolier Club edition of Donne’s poems, which James Russell Lowell had prepared.32 Not until the next year did E. K. Chambers, citing Main, print an edition of Donne’s poems that identified the sonnet as one of several “SPURIOUS POEMS . . . so clearly not his that it does not seem worth while to print them in full.”33 In 1912 Herbert Grierson followed suit, printing the entire r e l i g i o u s v e r s e a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s v e r s e   { 103 }

sonnet in an appendix of “POEMS WHICH HAVE BEEN ATTRIBTUED TO JOHN DONNE IN THE OLD EDITIONS AND THE PRINCIPAL MS. COLLECTIONS, ARRANGED ACCORDING TO THEIR PROBABLE AUTHORS.” Above the poem he correctly judged that it was “Probably by Henry Constable.” In his introduction to the canon, Grierson reported that the sonnet appears not only in important Donne manuscripts and printed books, but also in the Harley manuscript of Constable’s spiritual sonnets.34 Only with Grierson’s deservedly influential intervention did Donne, if only as a poet, stop looking so much like Mirreus, and start (or resume) looking more like Graius. In his biography and in the history of religion, Donne had clearly converted to the Church of England long ago. In the history of literature and especially of editing, though, Grierson converted Donne. Grierson’s correction has set subsequent criticism apart from earlier understandings of Donne. Much of the critical discourse on Donne over the past century has concerned his relationship to the Roman and English churches. A sonnet that so fervently embraces a belief that only Catholics shared would surely have influenced the discourse. Scholars, such as Louis Martz, who focused on the influence of Catholic traditions on Donne, would have found incredibly strong support in this sonnet.35 Others who, like Barbara Lewalski, analyzed distinctly protestant elements in his writing, would have had some explaining to do. Indeed, Lewalski began the case studies in her magisterial book Protestant Poetics with Donne’s least distinctly protestant poems. And she ended the monograph calling for scholarship on an opposing Catholic tradition, citing none other than Henry Constable as an exemplar.36 Had Constable’s sonnet still been in the Donne canon, she might have had to begin her chapter on a master of protestant poetics by explaining away an instance of the literary style’s polar opposite in his works.

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4 religious prose around donne’s prose

Catalogus librorum Shortly after the Bodleian Library published its first Catalogvs Librorvm (listing among its holdings a book that Donne had once owned), Donne seems to have expanded the title for the “Catalogus librorum satyricus” that he had recently written as a joke.1 In his facetious catalogue, Donne listed mostly imaginary books. He offered their names to a reader, or rather a nonreader, who spends his time “at court.” The courtier clearly has no time for reading, but he does have an incentive to appear learned. So, rather than try, and certainly fail, to compete with others’ knowledge of accepted authorities, Donne advised him to “cite from these other authorities” in the list of books that Donne had devised. That way, “your audience—who before seemed to know everything—may, with reverence for you, hear about new authors.”2 You will always seem to have read books that they ­haven’t, because the books do not exist. A new, early manuscript of Donne’s “Catalogus” recently turned up in a tin box in Westminster Abbey. The archivist who discovered it, Matthew Payne, and Daniel Starza Smith have demonstrated that it

constitutes the earliest extant artifact of the satirical work, and bears an early state of the text. Accordingly, they argue that the only other authoritative manuscript of the “Catalogus” shows evidence of revision. The earlier draft, for instance, has only one heading, between the prose introduction and the book list proper: “Catalogus libr:.”3 The apparently revised version at Trinity College, Cambridge, bears a longer title over the entire work: “Catalogus Librorum[m] Aulicorum[m] incomparabilium & non vendibilium[m]”: a list of books courtly, incomparable, and unsaleable. There’s nothing like these books. They’re priceless, in fact. Donne’s book list gets under way with names that have already appeared in earlier chapters. The first is “Nicholaj Hill Angli”: Nicholas Hill, Englishman.4 Chapter 2 mentioned briefly the copy of Hill’s digest of ancient philosophy that both Jonson and, after him, Donne owned: Philosophia Epicurea, Democritiana, Theophrastica. In his epigrammatic parody of the Aeneid, Jonson referred flippantly to “those Atomi ridiculous, / Whereof old Democrite, and Hill Nicholas, / One said, the other swore, the world consists.”5 Donne, for his part, began his “Catalogus” with two new titles for Hill, about those same “Atomi ridiculous”: “Nicolas Hill, On Distinguishing the Sex and Hermaphroditism of Atoms; The same, On their Anatomy, and How to Aid in their Births when they are buried.” It may not seem “ridiculous” to have sworn that “the world consists” of atoms; it does seem ridiculous, though, to try to discern their genders and help them through labor. The next item in Donne’s list of fake books attacks the notorious pursuivant Richard Topcliffe. Topcliffe had occasionally joined the commissioners who visited the religious prisoners surveyed in chapter 1. He wrote no books to include in any actual library. Donne accordingly invented a title for him: “The Imitator of Moses. The Art of Preserving Clothes beyond Forty years by the English Author Topcliffe.” Why would Donne associate Topcliffe, an infamous torturer, with the preservation of clothing (or with Moses)? Do the clothes already featured in the first chapter suggest an answer? In his verse satire, Donne mentioned “clothes” as one of the things that a pursuivant would confiscate, in order to charge falsely that they were all “copes,” or Roman Catholic vestments for Mass. The pursuivant Richard Brereton had indeed listed clothes, including a gown with secret pockets, in his inventory of the { 106 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

goods at the Southworth estate. Was Donne claiming that Topcliffe kept such Catholic clothes, possibly since the last time a Catholic had reigned in England (and as long as Moses had wandered in the wilderness), in order to plant them on his victims? Donne placed more religion around his satirical “Catalogus,” directing several attacks against other anti-­Catholics. His next title mocks John Foxe, compiler of the mammoth compendium of biographies, or hagiographies, of martyrs: “The art of writing out, within the circumference of a penny, all true things in John Foxe.” Foxe’s book of martyrs is very large; a penny is very small: Donne was calling Foxe a liar. He aimed abroad as well: “Martin Luther, On shortening the Lord’s Prayer.”6 As he did in his verse satires, Donne blamed Luther here, rather than Erasmus or Henry VIII, for extending the Pater noster. The joke shows Luther, the proponent of sola scriptura, who had minimized the numbers of both the books of the Bible and the sacraments of the protestant church, ironically lengthening its most canonical prayer: “for thine is the kingdom,” etc. Another early German reformer receives harsher criticism in the “Catalogus,” as he usually does elsewhere. Donne effectively renames Andreas Karlstadt’s influential book against the mandatory celibacy of priests: “On a desire for a wife after vows, by Carlstadt.” In another fake book title, Donne updated the charge of lust for a contemporary minister: “The Spiritual Art of Enticing Women, or Egerton’s Sermons Beneath Undergarments.” Stephen Egerton (not to be mistaken for a member of the noble Egerton family) had already been imprisoned for nonconformity when he tried to help Thomas Sperin talk Barrow and Greenwood into conforming. As we saw in chapter 1, the effort failed. Another imaginary book title points out the incongruity of another puritan in a loftier clerical position than Egerton could attain: “On the Suitability for a Bishopric of a Puritan, by Doctor Robinson.” Perhaps Donne was referring to Henry Robinson, who had become bishop of Carlisle shortly before Donne must have written this.7 For Donne, the idea of a “Puritan” bishop was oxymoronic, if not hypocritical: how could one possibly seek to purify the Church of the hierarchy that he has now ascended? Most of the religion around the “Catalogus” parodies the evangelical side of r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 107 }

things—whether that word refers to Luther’s evangelische movement in Germany or the evangelical designs that Bishop Robinson and Stephen Egerton had for the Church of England. The “Catalogus” also serves as a helpful companion to a few of the books that Donne owned, or may have owned, in the Cambridge Sammelbände introduced at the end chapter 2. Donne’s handwriting appears in a book by Francis Bacon in that volume: Bacon’s Declaration of the treason and legal proceedings against Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex. In his “Catalogus,” Donne assigned two fake books to “The Brazen Head of Francis Bacon.” He called one of them “The Lawyers’ Onion, or the Art of Weeping during trials.” The title charges Bacon with dishonest histrionics, suggesting that he could make himself cry in the courtroom. In Bacon’s real printed book, Sir Thomas Egerton, Donne’s former patron, subscribed a number of the “Confessions and other Euidence.” William Barlow, the royal chaplain who had attended Essex during the trial, signed the last such document printed in the book.8 The Cambridge Sammelband includes a book by Barlow, without an inscription from Donne.9 One entry in the “Catalogus”—“An Encomium of Doctor Shaw, Chaplain to Richard III, by Doctor Barlow”—shows what sort of royal chaplain Donne considered Barlow. In the outdoor pulpit of Paul’s Cross, Dr. Ralph Shaw had long ago called the young heirs to the throne illegitimate, thereby supporting Richard’s controversial claim to the throne. In the very same spot, Barlow preached on Essex’s wrongdoing, in support of his royal patron, Elizabeth I. Donne would not have wanted anyone in Elizabethan England to push this analogy, or therefore the political implications of the “Catalogus,” too far.10 Next in the catalogue, Donne turned to Matthew Sutcliffe, dean of Exeter. In real life, Sutcliffe wrote the Answere to John Penry’s co-­ conspirator Job Throckmorton, and Donne wrote his own motto and name on a copy of the book.11 In Donne’s imaginary world of books, Sutcliffe also wrote “What not? or a confutation of all errors in Theology, as well as in the other sciences, and the mechanical arts, by all men, dead, living, and to be born, put together one night after supper, by Doctor Sutcliffe.”12 For Donne, Sutcliffe worked too confidently, too broadly, and too quickly, even when working in “Theology.” Without { 108 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

showing any respect for Sutcliffe’s radical interlocutor, this fake book title extended the religious satire of the “Catalogus” to a Graius like the dean of Exeter. On their own, Donne’s inscriptions in books can make him look simply proud to own them; his marginal pencil marks can appear attendant and respectful. The “Catalogus,” though, demonstrates the irreverence with which Donne could treat their authors. The titles that he made up, in other words, help show how resistant a reader of actual books Donne could be. The scribes responsible for the two manuscript copies of Donne’s “Catalogus” made them in roughly the same way. Each took a sheet of paper, folded it twice to make four leaves, and copied Donne’s satire on its own. The maker of the manuscript now at Westminster Abbey did nothing else to it: the document remains an unbound fascicle of four leaves. The owner (or owners) of the copy at Trinity College, Cambridge, on the other hand, combined it with a growing number of other manuscript booklets. Katrin Ettenhuber has attributed the resultant miscellany to Samuel Wright, who served as secretary to Lancelot Andrewes, librarian of Pembroke College, and registrar for Matthew Ward. These positions kept Wright near the center of a circle of leading ceremonialist clergymen in the Church of England. In this milieu, and in Wright’s manuscript miscellany, Donne’s jokes about nonconformists took on an association with the their powerful rivals in the established Church. Wright’s miscellany ends with a partial table of contents, listing only the texts that now conclude the book. This list suggests at least two possibilities. One is that Wright kept these final gatherings separate from the others. Another, which Ettenhuber has proposed, is that he added the other gatherings to these incrementally. In any case, Wright listed first “Donn’s Catalog lib.” Next he named the texts that still follow the “Catalogus” on three gatherings made from the same paper stock. One of these quires features two English poems, misattributed to Richard Corbett and Donne, and then a pair of Latin works on the “Militia Chri[st]iani” by someone named “D.r Ayer.” The English poems were actually the work of Ben Jonson and John Fletcher: Donne and Corbett had become so popular in manuscript verse miscellanies that they regularly received credit for having written even more poems than they actually had. The next gathering featured a Latin account, written by r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 109 }

Matthew Wren, of a feast at Winchester, where Andrewes may already have become bishop. The final gathering has a Latin epitaph on a medical doctor in Cambridge, William Butler, and a Latin poem on James I’s visit to Cambridge. Wright’s table of contents accounts for each of these texts, strongly suggesting that he once assembled them together as a group, without the manuscripts that now precede them. In this early arrangement, Wright used Donne’s “Catalogus” to introduce a small bilingual miscellany. There, it resonated in particular with Wren’s account of the “Convivium” at Winchester, where, as bishop, Lancelot Andrewes would lead the official charge against the nonconformists whom Donne mocked.13 Wright produced and collected other manuscripts that demonstrate how Andrewes opposed nonconformists. He made a beautiful copy of the sermon that Andrewes preached on Easter 1618, with its “sustained invective against the Scottish Puritans.”14 He demonstrated the same care with Andrewes’s 1620 Easter sermon.15 Both manuscripts have been bound together with Wright’s original miscellany, and much else, in a modern binding. The volume now begins with a manuscript copy of Matthew Wren’s 1627 sermon, bearing the hand of King Charles I: “Lett this Sermon bee printed / Charles R:.”16 Whenever they were bound together, these sermons by Wright’s employers put a lot more religion around Donne. They surrounded his fake book titles and private jokes about nonconformists with actual booklets that show how their producers worked against those nonconformists; they published anti-­Calvinist theology first from the pulpit and then from the press, in Wren’s case with the express endorsement of the king. In so doing, Andrewes and Wren would do much to shape the religion around Donne during his career in the Church of England. Donne’s own sermons, of course, also show the shape of the religion around him during his career. Those sermons rarely appear alone. The sermons’ other producers surrounded them with other writing. So did the sermons’ collectors. Following their lead, the rest of this chapter explores some of the religious writing that accompanies Donne’s sermons, first in manuscript and then in print. Since the first Earl and Countess of Bridgewater collected and combined Donne’s sermons in both media, they return in this chapter—introducing their local vicar, { 110 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Thomas Moore (not to be confused with Donne’s relative, Saint Thomas More). In a series of sermons that he preached at the Bridgewater estate, Moore surveyed the religion around him, focusing on domestic critics of the Church of England. Donne did something similar in another sermon that the Bridgewaters collected in manuscript, this one preached to the court of Queen Anne: he warned against both Catholic and Calvinist preferences in religion, again criticizing both Mirreus and Crants, though not by name. Addressing the queen’s court as a royal chaplain, however, Donne was no longer inclined to mock Graius. Once the chapter reaches the Egertons’ printed Donne sermons, it broadens its attention to other collectors of the same. Some of these collectors knew Donne, among them the first printer of Donne’s sermons, Thomas Jones, and Donne’s first biographer, Izaak Walton. Some of the collectors considered in this chapter, though, could not have known him. This is because the chapter goes as far afield as the late seventeenth century in both England and New England, considering Sammelbände compiled by a nonjuring clergyman, John Fitzwilliam, and the Congregationalist Mather family. Both compiled volumes featuring Donne’s final sermon (which begins the following chapter as well). Together, the readers and collectors featured in this chapter surrounded Donne with a wide range of religion, much of it conformist and emphatic in its support of the Church of England, but some of it exiled from that Church, for two very different reasons.

S e rmon s Aro und D onne ’s i n Eg e rton Manu scripts The Egerton family had their manuscripts of Donne’s sermons bound together with other handwritten booklets in a composite volume of quartos. The thick miscellany is now held at Cambridge University Library.17 The family collected lots of sermons in manuscript, but seems to have compiled only one other huge miscellany of them: a taller folio volume now at the Huntington Library.18 Although the Huntington manuscript contains no Donne texts, much else joins these two composite volumes. They bear the same armorial stamps and similar blind tooling on their leather covers. They feature matching tables of r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 111 }

contents, initially made in one hand and then corrected in that of John, Viscount Brackley and, later, second Earl of Bridgewater. Hugh Adlington has accurately and brilliantly described the Ellesmere manuscript at Cambridge.19 As any Donne editor would, he focuses first on the eight Donne sermons that the volume contains. Donne had composed and preached each of these works between 1617 and 1622, before Thomas Jones started printing Donne’s sermons, one at a time, also in quarto. A single scribe copied the four sermons that Donne had preached at Lincoln’s Inn on one paper stock.20 Another hand reproduced two of the other Donne sermons on another sort of paper.21 Two more copyists used two additional stocks of paper for the sermons that Donne preached, respectively, to Queen Anne and for the wedding of Margaret Washington.22 That amounts to eight early Donne sermons in four different hands, and on four distinct stocks of paper, in the Ellesmere manuscript now at Cambridge. The diversity of the book’s contents makes it especially impressive that Adlington reveals a certain logic at work in the sermon selections. He points out that, of the nineteen sermons in the volume, three take their biblical texts from the Psalms, three from the Gospel of Luke, three from John, three from Colossians, and three from the same verse in the book of James. What’s more, not one of these groupings of three sermons had clearly been written by a single preacher. Donne had preached two of the sermons on John, but the third has not been attributed to anyone. Donne was responsible for one sermon on Luke, but the popular London preacher Josiah Shute preached another, and the third is anonymous. Donne composed one of the sermons on Colossians. Shute preached another—on Col. 3:15. And a preacher by the name of Thomas Moore had written a sermon on the verse just before that one: Col. 3:14. (The Ellesmere manuscript at Cambridge features not the full text of this particular sermon by Moore but only a listener’s notes on it.) Moore served as the vicar at Great Gaddesden, near Ashridge, the Egertons’ country house in Hertfordshire. He even preached at that house, in the family’s chapel, on more than one occasion. Thomas Moore also wrote two of the three separate sermons on James 5:16. The first earl wrote a heading on the last of these sermons, which deals with the last part of the verse: “Mr Tho. Moore his { 112 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

thirde sermon upon s.º Iames. v& 16.”23 This annotation, identifying the sermon as Moore’s third on James 5:16, would lead one to suspect that Moore had written the preceding two sermons on this verse as well. He does seem to have written one of them. It focuses on the middle of the verse and is copied in the same hand. Since the scribe responsible for these two sermons did not include chapter and verse, John Brackley, the eventual second earl, scrawled them under the biblical quotations.24 The other sermon on James 5:16, though, is clearly the work of a different scribe.25 Furthermore, on the contents list that he amended at the start of the volume, the second earl added that this particular sermon was “by another Author.” The first two earls’ notes on these sermons tell us even more about reception than they do about authorship: both father and son cared to make authorial attributions of sermons, they specified the biblical texts of those sermons, they amended notes on their authors and sources, and at least one of them had the manuscripts bound and indexed. As Adlington acknowledges, the thematic connections that he sees in the Ellesmere manuscript at Cambridge leave several things out: four Donne sermons whose biblical texts do not recur in the volume, and eight nonsermonic prose tracts by others. Some of the latter obviously concern religion (“Of Prædestination” and “Reasons for the suppressing of Arminiansme”), but most do not (such as the “Discourse of Horsmanship” and the “Character of Holland”).26 The volume qualifies, therefore, as a miscellany, in part because even the sermons that Adlington highlights were not bound in an order that emphasizes their relationships to one another. Therefore the Egertons, and anyone who might have helped them collect these quarto manuscripts, apparently did not order the booklets in the volume, nor did they exclude from the collection texts that deviate from its predominant subject matter. Nevertheless, at least the first earl demonstrated in this miscellany a special interest in the sermons of Donne, Shute, and Moore, and in sermons that address particular books of the Bible. And his son did not disregard his father’s old religious tracts. On the contrary, the second earl proved a conscientious inheritor and caretaker, even an editor, of these sermon manuscripts. r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 113 }

The Egerton family’s other prose miscellany full of sermons, at the Huntington, bears similarities to their manuscript book at Cambridge. Like its quarto volume at Cambridge, the family’s collection of manuscript sermons in folio includes a few other things as well. Some of its nonsermon items nevertheless engage religious subjects, such as the set of (again) three treatises on “ye Remission of Sinnes,” “ye power of ye keyes,” and “ye sufferings of Christe.”27 The volume also features a “Catalogue of English Martyrs, &Writers.”28 Other parts of the book seem less explicitly religious: the “Aduertisement to his Matie of his Iourney into Scotland,” dated 1616, the “Instructions” for coronations and other “Ceremonies” of state, and “Lord Wimbleton’s Action upon ye Coast of Iourney into Spaine.”29 While most of the sermons in the Huntington volume are not obviously related to one another, three of them explicate the same verses of the Bible: 1 Corinthians 11:18–19. Thomas Moore must have composed all three of these sermons. The earliest of the set bears a note, possibly in the hand of the first earl, that reads, “In Ashridge Chappell. / Iuly. 29º. /1627./.”30 The Egertons did not so much go to hear this sermon preached as have it delivered to their home, by their local vicar. The sermon ends with the preacher promising to continue at another time: “And soe much for this tyme.”31 The next sermon in the series, copied in the same hand, begins by referring to what the preacher had already “dispatcht, the last day.” The sequel concludes with the intention to finish the series in a third sermon: “I hope we shall conclude the next Tyme, and giue full Answere to that mayne Obiection. In the meane tyme &c.”32 Moore preached the conclusion of the sermon series in the same place as the first: “Att Ashridge / 19•. Aug. 1627.”33 According to a Book of Common Prayer owned by the Egertons (with musical notation carefully written into the liturgy for morning and evening prayer, and for the litany), these dates fell on Sundays.34 So the local vicar preached in the chapel of the Egertons’ country house on Sundays, at least three times within a four-­week period. In the first of these sermons, Moore set out his biblical text: “1. Cor. 11. 18 et 19./ ffor first of all when yee come togeather in the Church, I heare there are dissensions amonge you, and I beleiue itt to be true in some part. ffor there must be heresies also amonge you that they wch are { 114 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

approoved amonge you may be knowne.”35 The Apostle Paul had heard that there were “dissensions” in the fledgling church at Corinth. He could believe the report, in part, because he also believed that heresies were necessary to reveal those Corinthians who had been “approoved.” With that Bible verse read aloud at the Egerton family chapel in Hertfordshire, Moore began a series of at least three sermons on heresies and the Church. In one of these sermons’ more dramatic passages, Moore breaks into dialogue, imagining first an interlocutor who has no problem with the Church but doesn’t believe that it does him any good. This imagined churchgoer explains his situation: “S:r for my p[ar]te I loue the Church well but I finde noe good by itt.” He has attended church for “manie yeeres” and “seldome or neur mist.” Nevertheless, he finds “noe amendm[en]t” of his life, “noe increase of piety & religion”: “I am as ill as afore I eur vsed itt, Indeed my vnderstandinge is but shallow and my memory short I can neither Comprehend well nor remember (and god forgiue me for’t) I doe not come wth any good desire att all nor wth that resoluc[i]on that befittes a good Churchman; had not I as good staie away?” The preacher answers, “No”: “If thie knowledge & memory be as weake & shallow for the thinges of the world as they are for these heavenlie thinges, if thou beest noe bettr att them then att these, then assure thie selfe tis a naturall weakenes, and god will call thee to an Accompt for noe more then hee has given thee, hee will looke wth much mercy and Compassion vpon those thy wantes.”36 Moore assures the first speaker of God’s mercy, on the strict condition that the apathetic conformist was being honest about his abilities. If his abilities prove as inadequate for worldly affairs as for spiritual ones, then “tis a naturall weakenes” of God’s own making, and God will therefore have mercy on it. A benevolent creator wouldn’t judge you for lacking what he did not create in you. Once Moore has answered this imagined interlocutor, another one interjects, saying, Aye, but: “Ey but I doe not onlie finde this in my selfe that I am noe bettr and gett noe good by itt, but I see that others are as ill, and runne on still in all Course of sinne.” Going to church doesn’t stop people from sinning. In fact, the opposite appears to be the case: “Those that vse the Church most are given to sweareinge & lyinge & drinkinge & deceyving & noe man woorse then they bee. Their cominge r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 115 }

to Church does not helpe them neither, and this discourages me much had not I yet as good be away?” Again, Moore answers, “Nott.”37 Similar exchanges occur with three more critics, and these take Moore to the end of the time allotted to his first sermon in the series. A week or two later, Moore began the next sermon in the series with a summary of the five critics whom he had introduced and answered in his last. He reminds the auditory that the preceding sermon featured one man who “found no good by” going to church and then another who finds regular churchgoers to be “the worst” sinners. The other three critics, though, had found fault with ministers: “A third findes fault, wth the faults of the Minister, to badd to serue God, in an inferiour place to the Altar; findes fault wth his morales.” One preacher had faulty morals. “A 4th his Intellectuales, and disability to preach; that hee cannot doe that, in any fashion at all.” Another preacher couldn’t preach. “A 5th has no Sermon, and therefore Cannot come.” Another doesn’t preach. In the previous sermon, Moore says, “wee Answer’d all these in their seu[er]all Orders.” As Moore rehearsed and answered these apparently common criticisms of the Church, he was moving in one direction across the religious spectrum. He started with an apathetic churchgoer and ended up with an impassioned dissenter. He went from critics of fellow parishioners to critics of ministers. The latter valued sermons highly and therefore could be very disappointed in poor or, especially, absentee preachers. Moore’s lineup of five interlocutors might remind some readers of the five religious characters in Donne’s third verse satire. But Moore was about to add a sixth character, and he had covered far less of the religion around him than had Donne in his poem. Moore had proceeded only from “Graius” to “Crants” (or, as the name appears in the Bridgewater Library’s copy of the satire, “Crawle”). Like Graius, Moore’s first interlocutor had thoughtlessly accepted the church that was “Tender[ed] to him, being tender.” Moore’s last few questioners seemed, in their focus on sermons and bad preachers, to prefer a “Religion playne, symple,” like Crants—focused on the word and therefore rather bare of sacrament. In his poem, Donne surveyed a wider range of religious types with his five characters, starting with Mereus, who seeks the true church at { 116 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Rome “because hee doth knowe, / that shee was there a thousand yeares agoe.” Moore was just about to get to someone like him: “Hee replies, Yor Religion’s not good, nor yor Churches orthodoxe. / If I come att the Church, I must incurre her Censure, and displeasure, that hath power to bind all the Churches in the world. The holy Sea hath forbidd itt, and sent Bulls and Bills of excomm unicac[i]on against it; the Keyes hange att her girdle, and I am her Proselite, of the Romish Religion, as my prdecessors were. I may not come at the Church.”38 Moore’s caricature of a Catholic explains that the “holy Sea”—the See of Rome—has “forbidd” him to attend “yor Churches.” The Roman Catholic Church has the power to bind and loose on earth and in heaven; she has the “Keyes” to the kingdom hanging “att her girdle.” Quite like Donne’s Mereus, Moore’s impassioned Roman Catholic sees the true church as feminine. He warned his auditory that this critic “will ask vs more tyme.” Indeed, the Catholic recusant would take up most of this sermon and the next. Moore’s imaginary debates with recusants on both ends of the religious spectrum resonate not only with Donne’s verse satire but also with a passage in one of Donne’s sermons, in the Egertons’ other manuscript miscellany (at Cambridge University Library). In it, Donne addresses Queen Anne and her household, and discusses where to find Christ, if you have lost him: “Thou must not so linck him in heaven, as that thou canst not haue imm ediate accesse to him wthout Intercession of others, Nor so beyond Sea, as to seeke him in a forraigne Church, either where the Church is but an Antiquaries Cabinett full of rags and fragments of Antiquitie, but nothing fitt for that vse, for which it was made at firste.” As he had done in his third satire, Donne here again represents the Roman Catholic Church with “rags.” But this time, he is addressing the sentiment to a “church papist.” As Peter McCullough has demonstrated, the queen quietly professed a Roman Catholic faith while outwardly conforming to the Church of England.39 Like Donne’s satirical character Mirreus, therefore, Anne sought true religion in the Roman Church. Yet unlike Moore’s caricature of a recusant, Anne openly attended the Church of England. Donne, a former Catholic himself, warns her against doing so in this sermon. He calls the Catholic Church an antiquary’s cabinet, full of broken and obsolete contents. He cautions against praying to intermediaries or saints, r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 117 }

insisting that one can have “imm ediate accesse” to God in prayer. In this particular copy of the sermon passage, praying to saints is tantamount to “linck[ing]” Christ in heaven in such a way that he can be accessed only through “others.” Donne had a corresponding criticism for other sorts of Christians. Just as people should not seek Christ in an antiquated church, they also must not restrict him to a church with the opposite problem: “where it is so new a built house with bare walls, that it is yet vnfurnished of such Ceremonies, as should make it comely and reverend.” Just as in his satire, Donne here represents other reformed churches as too young, simple, and unattractive. Of course, he’s cleaned up the gesture for the sermon genre and for a royal court; he’s truncated it as well. He has also switched roles. No longer the satirizing outsider, or the agnostic intent on finding religious truth somewhere, Donne embodies here the role of the state preacher whom he had criticized so fiercely in his poem. According to his younger self, Donne has taken up with the “vile, ambitious bawdes” in the Church of England. Since writing that poem, he had apparently continued to see the religion around him in much the same terms, ranging from Roman Catholics to low-­church (or new-­church) reformers—from Mirreus to the Calvinist Crants. But he had softened, if not eliminated, his criticism of the English church. Addressing a queen consort who privately shared some of Mirreus’s views, he told her plainly, “Christ is at home with thee, and there is the neerest waie to find him.”40 England had become the queen’s home, and its state church had therefore become the nearest way to find Christ. Donne had made a religious home in that church, more or less with Thomas Moore of Great Gaddesden, and his high-­ranking collectors the Egertons. He was telling Anne that she should too.

Deaths Dvell i n Sammelbände The Egertons collected quartos of Donne’s earlier sermons in manuscript, and of his later sermons in print. Following convention, the scribes who made their sermon manuscripts did not identify themselves, while the stationer responsible for first printing Donne’s { 118 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

sermons did. Thomas Jones had entered the Stationers’ Company as a freeman by patrimony; his father Richard had entered the same company as a mere “brother,” suggesting that he had come from beyond England, but perhaps only as far away as Wales.41 The younger Jones started investing in Donne’s sermons by having just one quarto printed at a time. Preparing them for sale, he had the individual sermons merely stab-­stitched through the margins (rather than through the fold). This simple method of stitching kept the gatherings intact while allowing their buyers to decide whether and when to bind them together with other quartos.42 Once he had produced three Donne books, Jones offered them stab-­stitched together in a set called Three Sermons with a new title page. After publishing a fourth, he rereleased the lot as Foure Sermons. Accordingly, with the production of his fifth Donne sermon, Jones marketed the complete collection as Fiue Sermons Vpon Speciall Occasions.43 Jones therefore modeled and authorized the stitching together of Donne sermon quartos for his customers. At different times, book buyers at Jones’s shop in the Strand, near St. Clement’s Church, were able to choose one, more than one, or all of the Donne sermons that he had produced. Perhaps Jones even offered custom arrangements of Donne sermons. Donne’s first biographer, Izaak Walton, could have been one of Jones’s customers, and he might have acquired a unique arrangement of Jones’s Donne quartos. Not unlike Jones, Walton had entered his own guild, the Ironmongers’ Company, as a freeman. He had first apprenticed under his new brother-­in-­law, a prosperous linen draper, in the London parish of St. Dunstan-­in-­the-­West, where Donne would eventually become Walton’s vicar and friend. Having begun with no more than a grammar school education, Walton came to own “half a shop” in Chancery Lane, “just around the corner” from St. Dunstan’s, where he sold cloth and garments.44 His guild made him “batchelor in foins,” an honor that came with an official fur-­trimmed costume.45 A composite volume at Pembroke College, Cambridge, includes a copy of each of Jones’s Donne sermons, bound together in an unusual order without any of Jones’s omnibus title pages, in between two more Donne sermon publications. The Sammelband opens with Donne’s last sermon, Benjamin Fischer’s second edition, this time spelled Deaths r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 119 }

Duell.46 Then, after Jones’s five Donne sermons, come Donne’s Six Sermons, produced by the printers to the University of Cambridge (the same edition that Selden acquired).47 The Cambridge printers seem to have been trying to outdo Jones’s Five Sermons with their Six. Walton might have signed his name to Deaths Duell before it was trimmed and bound: the upper right-­hand corner bears writing that could read “Iza.” His full signature survives in Six Sermons. So he almost certainly owned this last printed book, and he may have owned the others as well. The Egertons compiled their own Sammelband of four Donne sermons: Deaths Dvell plus three Jones publications. They had their copies of these sermons bound with an Egerton family armorial stamp on the covers. One of their Jones sermons seems to be the one that the Countess of Bridgewater had catalogued individually in 1627.48 Two others bear the inscription of her husband: “IBridgewater ex dono Authoris,” or, in English, a gift from the author.49 Donne apparently presented these two sermon quartos to the first earl, the son of his former patron, and a fellow Lincoln’s Inn man. Of course, he could not have given Bridgewater the sermon that was printed shortly after his own death. If not the first earl or countess, then one of their descendants must have acquired Deaths Dvell in time for it to be bound with the others and stamped with a late version of the family arms, featuring a crown over the original lion.50 These Sammelbände comprise only printed sermons by Donne. They were compiled by people who knew him personally and took a significant interest in his work during his own lifetime. In order to see what other religious texts surrounded their printed Donne sermons, we would have to look beyond these Sammelbände to other volumes that they produced or acquired, as this study has been doing with the Bridgewater Library, and as the next chapter will do for both Jones’s bookshop and Walton’s library. Other Donne collectors, though, allow us to uncover contexts for Donne’s sermons within single volumes. Several of these collectors were clergymen, who had good reason to gather together a range of examples of the genre central to their vocation as preachers. At least one of Donne’s printed sermons, Deaths Dvell, found its way into the Sammelbände of preachers who occupied opposite poles of the religious spectrum in the seventeenth-­century { 120 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

English-­speaking world. For instance, the transatlantic Mather family featured this sermon at the start of one of their many Sammelbände (now at Houghton Library). The Mathers qualify as a model family of New England Congregationalists. They were Crantses, in other words. On the other side of both the Atlantic and the religious divide, John Fitzwilliam placed Deaths Dvell at the other end of a Sammelband (now at Magdalen College, Oxford). Fitzwilliam had become the client of a bishop and a chaplain to Charles II’s brother, James, Duke of York, who converted to Catholicism. Fitzwilliam was a Graius, then, who was serving a Mirreus with royal blood. Nevertheless, Fitzwilliam ended up leaving the Church of England, albeit for very different reasons than the Mathers had for leaving. Fitzwilliam and the Mathers both took Deaths Dvell, written by a rather late convert to that church, with them as they left it, into religious contexts that Donne could hardly have foreseen. Donne’s last sermon may qualify as the one most likely to end up in a Sammelband. It was certainly one of the most collectible, partly for the frontispiece of Donne in his burial shroud, which could be cut out and pasted elsewhere. Beyond its image of the deceased dean, other features made the sermon quarto desirable. Although a London book buyer could choose from the works of scores of preachers, and even among a wide array of funeral sermons, where else could one find a “DOCTORS OWNE FVNERALL SERMON,” as Fisher’s title page advertised? Furthermore, Deaths Dvell was neither printed nor sold in a collection of sermons until 1660. And no manuscript of the sermon survives. So for nearly thirty years, anyone who wanted a copy had to acquire it individually, and anyone who wanted to preserve a printed copy basically had to bind it to something else. Death’s Dvell currently leads off a Sammelband owned by the Mather family, immediately following a handwritten index of the volume’s twenty-­one or twenty-­three items (depending on how you count them). Following Donne’s “OWNE,” one of the Mathers placed a run of English sermons, most of them for funerals and virtually all of them at least involving mortality as a theme. A pair of them, by Robert Wilkinson, addresses Prince Henry, just before his death, and then, just after, Prince Charles.51 Others memorialize earls, a baron, all levels of the gentry (a baronet, knights, esquires, gentlemen and -­women), r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 121 }

commoners, children of various social classes, and other preachers. The preachers themselves display doctorates, master’s degrees, and bachelor’s degrees in divinity.52 Altogether, the contents of this Mather family volume feature a broad spectrum of English social classes, excepting only the very most and very least privileged members of the society. And the sermons’ consistent theme—death—emphasizes that everyone, regardless of rank, dies. The publication dates in this volume range from 1614 to 1658. At the beginning of the chronological range, in 1614, Richard Mather had had his “spiritual conviction” as an eighteen-­year-­old in Lancashire; he would soon be ordained and start preaching. Near the middle of this period, in 1633, he was suspended from the Church of England for nonconformity, and specifically for not wearing the surplice. Not long after this, he took his young family on a perilous journey to New England, where he would establish and pastor an independent church at Dorchester, in Boston. By the end of the chronological period, in 1658, Richard and five sons had survived Richard’s wife of more than thirty years, Katherine. Four of those sons had graduated from Harvard and become preachers; three of them were preaching back in England or Ireland, about to find the Restoration entirely disappointing.53 The funeral sermons bound together in this Sammelband could have been quite useful to the Mather family preachers. They might have helped them mourn the death of the family matriarch. And they certainly could have helped them write any number of the funeral sermons that they had to preach. How many saints did they have to bury across New England, England, Ireland, and perhaps even the Netherlands? Whatever the answer to that rhetorical question, the Mathers apparently thought that they needed a lot more funeral sermons than this Sammelband contains. The family must have compiled at least twenty composite volumes of funeral sermons alone, not counting the large numbers of Sammelbände that they designated for other sorts of sermons. Another volume at Houghton Library features nearly two dozen funeral sermons with publication dates ranging from 1616 to 1661, and a handwritten table of contents in the same hand featured in the volume with Deaths Dvell. It also includes an inscription on the fore-­edge, legible when the volume is closed: “Sermons / F1.” That { 122 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

abbreviation, “F1,” must stand for funeral volume 1.54 Another Houghton Library Sammelband of funeral sermons reads “F / Sermons / 2” on the fore-­edge.55 In fact, Houghton Library has several volumes of the Mathers’ Sammelbände of funeral sermons, but not all of them. The one that begins with Deaths Dvell was originally volume 9. Houghton Library also has volumes 12 and 13 from the series.56 So, even though Houghton Library may have only seven Sammelbände of the Mathers’ funeral sermons, the volume numbers inscribed on their fore-­edges strongly suggest that the original collectors bound together at least thirteen volumes of the genre. Another item, held elsewhere, shows that they had even more. The American Antiquarian Society, which once owned most of these Houghton Library volumes, retains a Sammelband that has the following inscription on its fore-­edge: “F / Sermons / V 20.”57 This means that the Mathers’ composite volumes of “F[uneral] Sermons” originally ran to at least twenty volumes, probably encompassing more than four hundred English funeral sermons printed between the second and seventh decades of the seventeenth century. These sermon quartos, in other words, cover every decade of Richard Mather’s ministry, first in the north of England and then in New England. This does not necessarily mean that he collected them on his own, or at all. His sons Samuel, Nathaniel, and Increase individually went to England in the 1640s and ’50s. Any of them would have had reason to collect sermon quartos, both new and used. Increase purchased sermons on another trip to England in 1688–91.58 And the funeral sermon Sammelbände retain no obvious evidence that any of these Mathers ever handled any of them. The first Mather to leave clear evidence of his engagement with these volumes might have been Cotton Mather, who was only a young boy when the most recent of the sermon quartos was printed. The first two volumes in the series feature, on the first title page, the simple inscription “Matheri” or “Mathers.”59 So does volume 9; the inscription appears atop Donne’s title page.60 The hand responsible for these inscriptions looks quite similar to the one identified as Cotton Mather’s at both the American Antiquarian Society and the University of Virginia.61 Donne’s last sermon may have pride of place in one of the Mathers’ Sammelbände. But it appears to have been just one of r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 123 }

hundreds of examples of old funeral sermons that the Mathers bound together and numbered as a distinct series of composite volumes. John Fitzwilliam could have crossed paths with Samuel Mather upon the eldest son’s return to England. Samuel became chaplain at Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1650, which Fitzwilliam entered the following year. But the two diverged after that, in both geographic and religious terms. Mather was bound to have a tough time in the Restoration: he was forbidden to preach, deprived of his living, ejected from another place, and briefly incarcerated, but he never quit. Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, was the sort of clergyman who could do well in the Restoration.62 And his Sammelband can help show why. The quartos that Fitzwilliam compiled demonstrate his interest in, and even solidarity with, high-­ranking churchmen, nobility, and royalty, especially in 1678 and ’79, when most of these tracts were printed. The Sammelband begins with sermons by bishops and an archbishop to the House of Lords.63 It proceeds to sermons for the king by royal chaplains and deans.64 By the dates of these sermons, Fitzwilliam had started serving as chaplain to James, Duke of York, Lord High Admiral, and brother to Charles II. He owed these positions, at least in part, to the patronage of Bishop George Morley (who, incidentally, had once collected some of Donne’s verse in manuscript).65 Also by this time, the Duke of York had converted to Roman Catholicism and Titus Oates had started rumors of a “popish plot” to kill the king. People started taking those rumors more seriously when the judge to whom Oates first told his story, Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey, was murdered. Fitzwilliam concluded his Sammelband with a funeral sermon for Godfrey, followed by Donne’s now rather old Deaths Dvell. Donne’s sermon is the only tract in the volume published before the 1670s, thirty-­odd years earlier. The Sammleband includes one older composition, although it had been printed in 1675: a sermon by Aelfric, here titled A Testimony of Antiquity: Shewing the Ancient Faith of the Church of England, Touching the Sacrament of the Body and Blood of the Lord, Here Publickly Preached, and Also Received in the Saxons Time, Above Seven Hundred Years Agoe.66 Donne and, of all people, Aelfric disrupt this volume’s focus on the mid-­to late 1670s. Why? Might Fitzwilliam have slipped Donne in here to do a little more of what Aelfric does: { 124 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

suggest the long-­standing stability of the Church of England, in the face of rumored, uncertain threats? Fitzwilliam’s selections in this volume arguably show support for the Crown, the Parliament, and the Church—at least through the publication dates featured in this volume of his large library. Certainly, Fitzwilliam’s setting emphasizes that Donne preached his last sermon “before the Kings Maiesty.”67 He may have been offering Donne as something of a past master, and his sermon as a highlight, of a church worth defending in part because of its loyalty to the Crown. He placed Deaths Dvell with the Godfrey funeral sermon, at the end of his Sammelband, not just because they’re both funeral sermons but also because one demonstrates the severity of the current threat to the Church of England, and the other shows the past glory and loyalty of that church. Fitzwilliam’s defense of the national church led him to leave it. Shortly after King James II made him a canon in the Chapel Royal at Windsor, in 1688, the revolution occurred. It required him to choose between pledging his allegiance to William and Mary, on the one hand, and keeping the oath that he had already sworn to James, on the other. Along with many other nonjurors, Fitzwilliam remained true to his word and submitted to the consequences: suspension, deprivation, and early retirement. When he died at the end of the century, approximately 840 of his books went, with an endowment, to Magdalen College, while his body went to Donne’s old parish church, St. Dunstan-­in-­the-­West.68 Although they too had left the Church of England, and likewise compiled thick Sammelbände of its printed sermons, the Mathers, of course, did so for very different reasons. Richard Mather had left the state church just a year after his family’s copy of Deaths Dvell was printed, basically for refusing to comply with some of its more ceremonial requirements for ministers. To whatever extent his sons returned to the official English Church, they must have done so in hopes that, under Cromwell, it would reform. Indeed, the scope of their Deaths Dvell Sammelband arguably agrees with their religious politics, as does the slight attention that the volume pays to royalty. The two sermons placed after Donne’s, which addresses Charles I as king, come from a time when Charles was just a prince: Robert Wilkinson’s Paire of Sermons, the first preached to Prince Henry and the next to Prince r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 125 }

Charles, shortly after Henry’s death.69 When Wilkinson preached the first of these two sermons, Prince Henry had been the great hope of Jacobean reformists from London to Henricus, Virginia, the new colonial city named in the prince’s honor. By the time he preached the second sermon, their hopes had been dashed. If Wilkinson had placed any such hopes in Henry, and thought that Charles might fulfill them, he could not have thought so for long. By featuring no royalty more prominently than Prince Henry in this Sammelband, the Mathers may have left some evidence of their regard for the English monarchy and perhaps even for its Church. In chronological terms, the volume basically goes from Prince Henry to Oliver Cromwell, and can seem to turn away with the protectorate’s failure. The collection certainly looks like one made by Congregationalists who were interested only in English rulers who would reform the Church of England—especially when it’s contrasted to a Sammelband put together by someone like Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, refused to pledge allegiance to English monarchs only when that became necessary in order to keep his vow to their predecessor. And he left his position in the Church of England in defense of the Church’s right to make and keep such vows. So while Fitzwilliam and the Mathers both left the state church, they exited on opposite ends of it, in both religious and political terms. Their Deaths Dvell Sammelbände therefore show some of the mid-­and late seventeenth-­century limits of the Church that Donne had entered earlier in the century. In just these two complex volumes, Donne himself can show how a former Roman Catholic ended his life in the Church of England; the Mathers, how Congregationalists left it, prepared to assist in its reformation or not at all; and Fitzwilliam, how even a staunch defender of the Church would prepare to step down rather than continue to serve it in a compromised form. Neither Donne nor Thomas Moore could likely have foreseen the dilemma that would eventually force Fitzwilliam and other nonjurors out of the Church of England. But they could hardly have been surprised by the Mathers’ reasons for leaving it. Moore must have thought that, in his sermon series at Ashridge, he had argued against most any criticism that a separatist like Richard Mather could have made against the Church. Donne similarly would have seen Mather as another Crants. { 126 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

He would have regarded the church that Mather founded abroad as too “new a built house with bare walls, that it is yet vnfurnished.” Given the opportunity, Donne might even have made up a fake book title for Mather in another revision of his “Catalogus.” Some of the early readers of Donne’s fake book list would have appreciated another jab at nonconformists, in particular those in the orbit of Lancelot Andrewes, bishop of Winchester. In order to find someone who could have appreciated the religion that Fitzwilliam placed around Donne, though, it would help to return to someone who, like him, orbited a later bishop of Winchester.

r e l i g i o u s p r o s e a r o u n d d o n n e ’ s p r o s e   { 127 }

5 religious books around donne’s works

Deaths Duell i n Walton’s Life Izaak Walton, in his influential biography of Donne, told the story of his last sermon. Although Donne had been too ill to leave his newlywed daughter’s home in Essex, he had no intention of missing “his old constant day” for preaching, the first Friday in Lent. When he got to London, he looked like death: “many of his friends (who with sorrow saw his sicknesse had left him onely so much flesh as did cover his bones) doubted his strength to performe that taske: And therefore perswaded him from undertaking it, assuring him however, it was like to shorten his dayes.” His friends could not dissuade him from his “sacred Work,” though. “And when (to the amazement of some beholders) he appeared in the Pulpit, many thought he presented himselfe, not to preach mortification by a living voice, but mortality by a decayed body, and dying face. And doubtlesse many did secretly ask that question in Ezekiel, Doe these bones live?” Rising in the pulpit, skin and bones, Donne amazed the congregation. He looked like he could preach without saying a word, by physically embodying “mortality.” His appearance

led the auditory to ask the question the Lord asks the prophet Ezekiel, “Doe these bones live?” Lacking the faith of the prophet, though, they answered the question themselves, in the negative: “Doe these bones live? Or can that soule organise that tongue to speak so long time as the sand in that glasse will move towards its center, and measure out an houre of this dying mans unspent life? Doubtlesse it cannot.” Yet it did. After “some faint pauses in his zealous Prayer,” Donne willed himself to begin. He delivered the biblical text that he had chosen for the sermon, “To God the Lord belong the issues from death” (Ps. 68:20). He then preached, his “teares” and “hollow voice” making people think “the Text Prophetically chosen, and that D. Donne had preacht his owne Funerall Sermon.”1 Walton was closely following the wording of his copy of Deaths Duell—likely the same book now bound at the front of the composite volume of Donne’s printed sermons at Pembroke College, Cambridge. This particular quarto offers the perfect complement to Walton’s copy of the first printing of his biography of Donne, quoted above: the life story prefaces the huge 1640 edition of Donne’s LXXX Sermons held at Salisbury Cathedral Library. The title page of Deaths Duell advertised it as “The Doctors Owne Fvneral Sermon.” And in the sermon proper, Donne himself had brought up Ezekiel and the valley of bones: “God seemes to have carried the declaration of his power to a great height, when hee sets the Prophet Ezechiel in the Valley of drye Bones, and sayes; Sonne of Man can these Bones live? as though it had beene impossible, and yet they did; The Lord layed Sinewes vpon them, and flesh, and breath into them, and they did live.” Donne introduced Ezekiel not to marvel at the reanimation of bones so much as to minimize it—at least in contrast to the resurrection for which Donne hoped, long after his and his auditory’s bones would have turned to dust. In comparison to this expected resurrection, that one in Ezekiel would pale, for “in that case there were Bones to bee seene, something visible, of which it might be sayd can this thing live?” Sure, it was a miracle, but God had something to work with; he could point to the bones and ask whether they could live. Donne wanted his auditory to think of death in a more advanced state, when bones have undergone complete disintegration and dispersal: “in this death of Incineration, and dispersion of dust, we see nothing that we call { 130 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

that Mans; If wee say, can this dust live? Perchance it cannot, it may bee the meere dust of the Earth, which never did live, never shall. It may bee the dust of that mans worme, which did live, but shall no more. It may bee the dust of another Man, that concernes not him of whom it was ask’d.” Ezekiel could identify human bones, but we cannot when we’re looking only at dust. So the correct answer to an updated version of God’s question to Ezekiel might be no: perhaps this dust cannot live because it never lived in the first place, or was just the dust of a worm. “This death of Incineration and dispersion, is to naturall Reason, the most irrecoverable death of all.” Yet “vnto GOD the LORD, belong the issues of Death,” even in this apparently unrecoverable state. The creator of it all is capable of “recompacting this dust into the same Body, and remaining the same Body with the same Soule.” He therefore “shall in a blessed and glorious Resurrection. give mee such an issue | from this death, as shall never passe into any other death, but establish mee into a life that shall last as long as the Lord of Life himselfe.”2 Donne professed a belief in the resurrection of the body while his own body was breaking down, knowing full well that it would continue to break down until its remains were untraceable to anyone on earth. Walton shared this belief. He was thinking of these words from Deaths Duell when he wrote the last two sentences of his life of Donne: “His mind was liberall, and unwearied in the search of knowledge, with which his vigorous soule is now satisfied, and employed in a continuall praise of that God that first breathed it into his active body, which once was a Temple of the holy Ghost, and is now become a small quantity of Christian dust. But I shall see it re-­inanimated.”3 At the start of this final passage, Walton reminded his readers of one of the themes of his biography of Donne: Donne’s “unwearied . . . search of knowledge.” This search for, or perhaps through, knowledge reappears throughout the life story. As he recounted Donne’s activities after preaching his last sermon, Walton noted the day on which “he took his last leave of his beloved Studie.”4 He claimed that Donne had spent a lot of time there, typically waking up by 4:00 in the morning, rarely leaving his chamber before 10:00, and employing “that time constantly (if not more) in his Studie.” Those early-­morning labors bore fruit, much of which seems to have turned to dust as well. According to Walton, r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 131 }

Donne compiled a massive commonplace book, full of quotations and notes on his reading: “he left the resultance of 1400. Authors, most of them analyzed with his own hand.”5 Scholars have come to doubt many of Walton’s claims, and no such commonplace book survives in Donne’s hand. Nevertheless, in the process of tracing his references and phrasing to their likeliest sources, the current editors of Donne’s sermons have found it quite plausible that he compiled and used such a commonplace book.6 Walton also claimed that Donne had “marked” the works of the Jesuit cardinal Robert Bellarmine “with many waighty Observations under his own hand,” having judged him “the best defender of the Roman cause.” According to Walton, Donne “bequeathed” his copy of Bellarmine’s work “at his death as a Legacy to a most deare friend.”7 Acknowledging that Walton is “notoriously inaccurate over dates and details,” Mary Hobbs argued that he was referring to a three-­volume edition of Bellarmine’s Disputationes that survives at Chichester Cathedral Library, bearing the arms of Donne’s friend Sir Thomas Roe.8 Hobbs speculated that Roe gave the book to Donne, and that Donne gave it to Henry King, who transferred it to the cathedral he served as bishop. Walton has for centuries been responsible for conjuring images of Donne’s books and study. The edition of Bellarmine at Chichester seems to be one of the few pieces of extant evidence to support one of his claims about Donne’s library, as long as the claim is seriously qualified: Walton said that Donne had marked up his Bellarmine by age twenty, ten years before the one at Chichester was printed. Even if he did not always get his facts straight, Walton confirms that Donne surrounded himself with religion in his study, claiming that he spent several hours, every day but Saturday, in the religious context that he had designed for himself there.

Re l i g i on A ro und D onne i n Lond on Bo o ksh o ps Of course, Walton could see much more clearly the books in his own study, and the religion that he placed around Donne there. In the process of acquiring books, he must also have seen the religion that { 132 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

stationers and booksellers placed around the books by Donne that they sold in their commercial bookshops. This chapter looks at some of the combinations of books that Walton was likely to see at these commercial sites. This section offers a brief survey of the London bookshops where stationers sold Donne’s printed prose works. The result is a miniature version of the sort of work that Peter Blayney and especially Zachary Lesser have done on the book trade, although this one features different stationers and less detail.9 The booksellers who marketed Donne fashioned distinct religious contexts for him. One bookshop surrounded Donne with his more puritanical colleagues in the Church of England. Another hid the works of a Jesuit martyr nearby. Much of the religion around Donne in shops, though, was conformist. This was the case in the most important set of bookshops to sell Donne’s works, those owned by John and Richard Marriott, who published Walton’s works as well. The final section of the chapter focuses on Walton’s library and the books that he gave to others. It shows him working with the Marriotts to provide religious contexts for Donne and building his own, rather private contexts for his former pastor, both on his shelves and in his will. Together, these two remaining sections of the book reconstruct and locate several collections of printed books that Walton probably saw and in many cases helped produce: the religion around Donne as Walton witnessed and influenced it. For instance, Walton could have purchased his copy of Deaths Duell directly from Benjamin Fisher’s shop in Aldersgate Street (a short walk north from St. Paul’s Cathedral).10 There, he could have noticed that Fisher was marketing Donne’s farewell to the world along with one or two others. While Fisher was determining that two editions of Deaths Duell would satisfy demand, he was establishing a market for at least four editions of another book—actually, a pair of octavos full of impassioned advice for fathers and sons. He advertised one as Sir Walter Raleigh’s Instrvctions to His Sonn: and to Posterity. Multiple editions came complete with an engraved portrait of Raleigh (looking much more alive than Donne looked nearby, posed in his burial shroud). Raleigh, a royal favorite of Elizabeth I, had spent much of James I’s reign imprisoned in the Tower of London and secured his fame with a r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 133 }

dramatic confession on the gallows. In this little book, he left behind, for his son and others, advice on choosing friends, on choosing a spouse, and on much else—even, especially at the end, religion. Fisher appended to Raleigh’s Instrvctions to His Sonn another, apparently complementary, book: The Dutifull Advice of a Louing Sonne to His Aged Father. Fisher did not provide the name or even the initials of its author, much less a portrait, and perhaps for good reason. The son implored the old man to “seriously consider in what tearmes you stand,” invoking both “the honour of God” and “your dutie to his Church.” A reader of this book who did not inquire into the author’s identity might have thought that the son was urging his father to fulfill his duty to the Church of England. But a reader who learned that Robert Southwell had written this Advice would realize that he was referring to a different church altogether. Southwell had returned secretly to his native England as a Jesuit priest. The danger of his mission, to promote the Roman Catholic Church in England, did not allow him to visit his father, who had come to terms with the Church of England. This meant, from Southwell’s perspective, that his father had abandoned his “dutie” to the true church, and that his soul now stood in dangerous “tearmes.” Shortly after Sir Thomas Egerton prosecuted other Catholics, who were duly martyred, Sir Edward Coke did the same to Southwell. Issued together, Fisher’s editions of Raleigh and Southwell make for a remarkable juxtaposition. They pair a creature of Queen Elizabeth’s with one of her more disloyal subjects: a Jesuit intent on subverting her settlement of religion. Raleigh and Southwell were both charismatic figures, poets who had undertaken daring adventures and ended their lives at the behest of the state. Here, in Fisher’s pair of octavos, they were sending family members of other generations advice that they might not otherwise be able to communicate before the deaths that would ensure their lasting fame. In terms of religion, they make for a sharp contrast. Directly after Raleigh takes his leave of his son, praying that “God direct thee in all his wayes,” Southwell begins begging his father to “alter” his “course” and “enter into the field of Gods church.”11 Certainly, Raleigh hoped that his sons’ “wayes” would follow a different “course” from the one Southwell recommended just a few pages later. Although Raleigh had been a skeptic (arguably more like Donne’s satirical character { 134 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Phrygius, who abhorred all religions, than like Graius), Raleigh’s son could have followed his father’s advice in the church that Queen Elizabeth had settled.12 Southwell’s father, by contrast, could not follow his son’s advice in any church but the one that Elizabeth’s own father had abandoned. Fisher’s hot-­selling publication thus offered a covert Mirreus immediately after a Phrygius who was nevertheless treating his own son like Graius. Southwell’s presence in Fisher’s bookshop would have been easy for his customers and business partners to overlook. Many would have seen the portraits of Raleigh and Donne, popular manuscript poets, soberly preparing for death more or less in the Church of England, and in edifying English prose. But Southwell was back there too, hidden unacknowledged behind the courtier, pleading in coded language with his father to return to the Roman Catholic Church. Walton probably saw religion around Donne in other, nearby bookshops as well. He acquired, for instance, the one Donne sermon that Philemon Stephens and Christopher Meredith had produced a few years earlier, while Donne was still alive: the funeral sermon for Lady Danvers, George Herbert’s mother, in a copy now held at Prince­ton.13 At Stephens and Meredith’s shop, at the sign of the golden lion in St. Paul’s Churchyard (just beside Paul’s Gate), customers and fellow booksellers saw a lot of religious books.14 Several of the books that the partners published and sold alongside Donne’s sermon represent the more Calvinist or evangelical wing of the Church of England. Some of these, such as Robert Abbot’s sermon The Danger of Popery, maintained the usual defense against Catholics. Stephens and Meredith had another Abbot book printed as well, Bee Thankfull London and Her Sisters, a sermon “Applyed in particular to these times.” Abbot was bishop of Salisbury and the older brother of the archbishop of Canterbury. Both brothers maintained their Calvinism in their high offices.15 Stephens and Meredith published Robert Horne’s sermons too. Horne, the former rector in Ludlow, had resisted wearing the surplice and signing the cross in baptism—the usual signals of nonconformity in the state church.16 Horne applied one of his sermons “to the times,” to reuse Abbot’s words: A Caveat to Preuent Future Ivdgements: Or, An Admonition to All England; More Especially London and Other Places Where the Death of Plague Hath Lately Beene.17 Apparently specializing in r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 135 }

topical sermon quartos from the Calvinist or even puritanical end of the Church, Stephens and Meredith also produced Thomas Gataker’s An Anniuersarie Memoriall of Englands Deliuery from the Spanish Inuasion. Gataker had held the lectureship at Lincoln’s Inn before Donne accepted it. He owed the post to the patronage of James Montagu, bishop of Winchester, who joined the Abbots in supporting the careers of Calvinist, evangelical, or “godly” clergy.18 Stephens and Meredith published other genres by clergy with similar views. The two partners also released multiple editions of Nicholas Byfield’s exposition of the Apostles’ Creed. Byfield had been an anticeremonilist but conforming preacher in Chester and Isleworth.19 Stephens and Meredith also had Thomas Goodwin’s survey of ancient Hebrew rites reprinted and titled Moses and Aaron. Around this time, Goodwin was reprimanded for either neglecting the surplice or shortening the worship service, if not both. Walton acquired a copy of his book, whether from the producers’ own bookstall at St. Paul’s or another location.20 Anyone (even another bookseller) who picked up Walton’s copies of Goodwin and Donne from their source at St. Paul’s would have seen, around these books, a strong showing from the nonconforming and Calvinist camps in the Church of England. Stephens and Meredith populated their shop with the likes of Graius and Crants, blurring the line between the two. The religion around Donne rarely if ever looked as anticeremonialist and puritanical as it did at the sign of the golden lion in Paul’s Churchyard. Walton could also have surveyed the religion around Donne at Thomas Jones’s bookshop at the sign of the black raven near St. Clement’s Church (also called St. Clement Danes). Donne had lived in the parish of St. Clement’s. He preached his wife’s funeral sermon there. He wrote the epitaph, and he ordered the monument that accompanied her remains at the church.21 When Donne moved to the deanery at St. Paul’s, Jones relocated his bookshop to St. Clement’s and started producing the new dean’s sermons. When Donne took up the living of St. Dunstan’s (just two-­tenths of a mile up Fleet Street from St. Clement’s), Jones started packaging his Donne productions in sets of three, then four, and finally five. As mentioned in the previous chapter, Walton could have purchased his copies of Jones’s Donne sermons (now at { 136 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Pembroke College, Cambridge) directly from Jones’s shop. There he would have seen any of Jones’s three editions of Devotions vpon Emergent Occasions.22 Walton clearly knew Donne’s Devotions; he wrote about the book in his life of Donne. Nevertheless, no extant copy of Devotions has been linked to him. Walton would have seen religious books written by others at Jones’s bookshop as well. For instance, Jones produced multiple editions of James Warre’s The Touch-­Stone of Truth. Jones’s title page promised that his book so plainly confirmed the truth of scripture and confuted error that even a person of “the meanest capacitie” could “by helpe of this Booke . . . argue with any Papist and confute him by Scripture.” The book did so with lists of proof texts, biblical passages that pertain to a number of possible topics of discussion, ranging from the omnisufficiency of scripture to the ultimate topic of debate between protestants and Catholics, the uncompromising yet routine claim that “The Pope is that Whore of Babylon, and Antichrist.”23 People were not to read Warre’s book, exactly; they were to use it in order to find Bible passages useful for interconfessional debate, and victory. Jones’s customers would also have noticed an English translation of Bartholomäus Keckermann’s rather systematic introduction (or, to use the word in the book, “manuduction”) to theology. The title that Jones gave the duodecimo, Heavenly Knowledg Directing a Christian to ye Assurance of his Salvation in this Life, emphasizes Keckermann’s Calvinism, evoking the typically Calvinist concern with assurance of salvation. The preface, for its part, demonstrates Keckermann’s anti-­Catholicism, addressing Catholics and denigrating their theology. The main body of the work then begins explaining the basics of the faith. Jones marketed both Warre’s and Keckermann’s books for their practical value in a society that censured Catholicism and permitted Calvinism, to a point, in its official church. Owners and users of Jones’s productions could win a debate with a Catholic like Mirreus. They might even join Crants in his search for assurance of salvation. But they could probably do so in the Church of England, along with Graius, the mature Donne, and the translator of Keckermann’s book, Thomas Vicars.24 Having established himself as the main purveyor of Donne’s religious prose, Jones worked temporarily with a fellow stationer, John r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 137 }

Marriott, to produce the first complete edition of Thomas May’s translation of Lucan’s Pharsalia.25 Taking responsibility for Pharsalia may have been more promising than producing more Donne books, or too costly for Jones to stay atop the Donne trade.26 As we’ve seen, when another Donne sermon became available, Stephens and Meredith produced it. Jones kept rereleasing Warre’s guide to debating Catholics, however (an overlooked part of the context for that classic of English republicanism, May’s Lucan).27 By the time he produced his next Warre edition, Jones had again relocated his shop, this time to the east end of the churchyard of St. Dunstan’s, where Donne would remain vicar for a few more months, until his death.28 If Jones still had copies of Donne’s Fiue Sermons in stock, he could have been making St. Dunstan’s the place to get Donne’s works. The stationer (not the preacher) Richard More had long ago established its churchyard as the source for Donne’s anti-­Jesuit satire, Ignatius his Conclaue, rereleasing the book during Donne’s tenure there.29 Jones could have offered Donne’s printed sermons alongside both More’s latest edition of Ignatius and the church where Donne was delivering new sermons. Patrons might have been able to experience a Donne sermon in both media—oral performance and printed text—only for a limited time, though. Jones’s short-­term partner, John Marriott, had long kept his shop at St. Dunstan’s as well. The “son of a Northamptonshire yeoman,” Marriott had started his career as an apprentice to stationers in Fleet Street and St. Paul’s Churchyard. He began publishing in his own name at the same sign under which he had held his first apprenticeship: “the white Flower-­de-­luce, neere Fetter Lane end in Fleetstreete.” Soon after gaining his freedom, he got his own apprentice, secured a royal license to publish a medical book, and started a family with his wife, Elizabeth.30 Marriott long maintained a partnership with John Grismand, co-­publishing the sermons of Samuel Ward, the poems of George Wither and Michael Drayton, and Lady Mary Wroth’s Urania.31 With the death of his vicar, Marriott decided to get in on the market for Donne’s works, starting with the poems, followed shortly thereafter with his own editions of Ignatius.32 As discussed in chapter 3, the editor of Poems, By J. D. initially acquired two or three distinct manuscript collections of Donne’s poems. Then, after securing his right { 138 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

to publish the texts with the Stationers’ Company, Marriott got Miles Flesher started typesetting and printing them. Another stationer may have had the same idea: the O’Flahertie manuscript of Donne’s poems looks very much like a model for a printed edition, and, as the editors of The Variorum Edition of the Poetry of John Donne have demonstrated, production of Marriott’s first edition of Donne’s poems must have begun without the benefit of the O’Flahertie manuscript, and ended with access to it.33 Gary Stringer has therefore suggested that another stationer may have been planning to have Donne’s poems printed but then learned of Marriott’s exclusive right to do so, and arranged for Marriott to use his more expansive Donne manuscript.34 There’s no telling who was responsible for making the O’Flahertie manuscript. Might Jones have produced it in a bid to retain or reclaim his role as the book trade’s number one source for Donne books in print? Were Stephens and Meredith, or perhaps Fisher, thinking of taking over that distinction? Were any of these stationers acting alone, or working with an editor—possibly Donne’s executor, Henry King, or even Izaak Walton? Would any of these people have been especially likely to make a deal with Marriott? Jones had already worked with him on Pharsalia, and Marriott had already published a sermon by Henry King. Whatever the answer to these questions, Walton certainly got involved in Marriott’s edition of Donne’s poems—and, thereafter, in a great number of Marriott publications. He wrote one of the elegies placed at the end of each of the early editions of Poems, By J. D. He also wrote the verse that appears under the frontispiece of Donne, first in the expanded second edition.35 Walton gathered information for a life of Donne that Sir Henry Wotton had planned to write.36 He then wrote the biography himself, after Wotton’s death. That’s “THE LIFE AND DEATH” of Donne that appears at the beginning of the edition of LXXX Sermons, quoted at the start of this chapter. Marriott’s eldest son, Richard, co-­produced this massive folio of Donne’s sermons and sold it alongside his father’s productions in St. Dunstan’s Churchyard. Having cornered the print market for Donne’s poems and anti-­Jesuit satires in the 1630s (and then run into some trouble with John Donne Junior), the Marriotts were making their first of two enormous joint investments in Donne’s sermons. After the father co-­produced another large r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 139 }

folio of Donne sermons, either he or his son gave Walton a copy of their final release of Donne’s Poems: a copy at Houghton Library records that it was given to Walton by one of the Marriotts on 7 November 1650.37 Walton also acquired Richard Marriott’s editions of Donne’s Letters and Essayes in Divinity.38 He chose Wotton as his next biographical subject, and again contributed his biography to a John Marriott publication: Reliquiæ Wottonianæ. Richard Marriott soon thereafter published the work for which Walton would become best known, The Compleat Angler or, The Contemplative Man’s Recreation. Being a Discourse of Fish and Fishing. By this point, the Marriotts had been working with Walton for twenty years, relying on him for original prefatory material and turning him into a published author whose works would be well read for a long time—in many quarters, better read than Donne’s. Richard Marriott would continue working with Walton for three more decades. Together, over the course of half a century, Walton and the Marriotts did much to determine the religion around Donne, in Donne’s absence. They did so, first and foremost, at the Marriotts’ bookshops, in the yard of Donne’s former church. The Marriotts made their shops the place where people could acquire Donne’s works in print, across multiple genres in both verse and prose. Anyone who perused their publications in one of their shops at St. Dunstan’s would have seen their unique line of religious products, among others. John Marriott made several deals to sell the productions of fellow stationers, and evidence suggests that he dealt in volumes from old libraries, as well as in books from continental book fairs.39 Among such rotating inventory, the Marriotts’ shops must have constantly featured the works in which they long invested capital, such as the poetry of Francis Quarles. Quarles’s poems had long been a mainstay of the book trade at St. Dunstan’s. In fact, when Donne, Walton, and others went to and from the church proper, they could easily have passed by Quarles’s poetic paraphrases of Jonah, Esther, Job, Lamentations (which Quarles called Sions Elegies), and the Song of Songs (titled Sions Sonets). After years of watching his fellow booksellers at St. Dunstan’s establish the market for Quarles, John Marriott had entered it in 1629 with a new romance, Argalus and Parthenia.40 The next year, he secured the rights for a couple of Quarles books that had been produced by a fellow stationer, and { 140 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

brought out his own collection of Quarles’s Divine Poems, encompassing most of the texts that had previously been on offer at St. Dunstan’s.41 In the next few years, he funded new works by Quarles: The Historie of Samson, Divine Fancies, Emblemes, and several more. Marriott thus took over and expanded the Quarles market. He produced a lot more Quarles than he did Donne. He therefore surrounded Donne with Quarles’s biblical and meditative poetry. A shopper who paged far enough into Poems, By J. D. to see Donne’s paraphrase of Lamentations would have been at least as likely to notice Quarles’s more widely reproduced version of the same book of the Bible. Quarles’s use of Christian meditation may have also resonated, for some readers or browsers, with Donne’s religious poetry. More generally, Quarles’s adherence to the Church of England sat appropriately near Donne’s performed sermons in the 1620s and his printed works in the following decades. At least at Marriott’s shops, both Quarles and Donne looked to be treating customers like Graius. They were bidding them think that the Church nearby, and all around, was perfectly acceptable, if not the only perfect one. Just as important, Marriott was producing the works of rather few nondramatic poets at this time (even though he had invested a great deal in multiple editions of Wither’s and Drayton’s poems earlier in his career). In other contexts and collections, Donne and Quarles might look like just two of a great host of devotional poets who wrote in early modern England. Nevertheless, anyone who acquired their early printed poems from the source at St. Dunstan’s would likely have seen them together, as the two major poets whose work the shop owner was constantly promoting. A counterexample might help qualify and demonstrate this claim. In addition to Donne’s Poems, Marriott had Miles Flesher print second editions of two poetical works, plus a book of sermons, by another clergyman, Robert Gomersall.42 Although Gomersall’s sermons and religious verse clearly complemented Marriott’s other offerings, they must not have sold very well. No one published anything else by Gomersall. And the Marriotts still had unsold copies of their first two Gomersall publications throughout the 1650s. The father transferred them to the son in 1651, and Richard transferred them to his occasional partner, r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 141 }

Humphrey Moseley, in 1659. If Gomersall’s works made up much of the religion around Donne at Marriott’s bookshops, it was because people were leaving lots of copies there unsold. Quarles’s more numerous biblical poems, on the other hand, appeared there in multiple editions. John transferred far more of Quarles’s titles to his son in 1651. Instead of sticking around, these had been sold and reprinted. Most of the reprints seem to have sold as well. By 1659, Richard transferred only one remaining Quarles title to Moseley.43 Quarles provided a great deal of the religion around Donne in the Marriotts’ shops at St. Dunstan’s, until his works finally sold out. Other hot sellers contributed to the religious context of the Marriotts’ shops. In fact, Donne was not the only former member of the clerical staff at St. Dunstan’s whose writings John Marriott published in great quantities. Henry Valentine started preaching at St. Dunstan’s, with Donne’s approval, in the summer of 1626. At the end of that year, he delivered a high-­profile sermon at Paul’s Cross, the outdoor pulpit in St. Paul’s Churchyard. Marriott had a single edition of that sermon printed, and added it to his offerings of books by Quarles and others.44 He apparently had no reason to republish the book. A few years later, though, he and Valentine recorded a hit. By this time, Valentine had moved to his own vicarage (at St. Nicholas, Deptford) and married Izaak Walton’s niece, Sarah Grinsell, who must have grown up in St. Dunstan’s parish. Valentine stuck with his original publisher, back at the couple’s old church, for his second book, titled Private Devotions. Marriott entered the title in the Stationers’ register in 1631 and had already produced a fifth edition before the end of 1633.45 Marriott was clearly selling a lot of copies of Valentine’s devotional book when he published a new short work of his: an elegy on Valentine’s old boss in the first edition of Donne’s Poems, By J. D. Valentine’s elegy on Donne appears right before the one by Walton, his relative by marriage and former fellow parishioner. During their years together at St. Dunstan’s, Valentine would have contributed to the religion around Donne inside the parish church, particularly in his lectures, delivered orally in the pulpit that the two preachers shared. After both had left St. Dunstan’s, though, Valentine’s Private Devotions made up part of the religion around Donne as Marriott was representing him to the book market at his shop. { 142 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

Marriott’s title page states that Valentine’s book is “Digested into SIX LETANIES.” The first litany in the book of prayers is “THE L ­ ETANIE of Confession.” It begins with passages of scripture and a refrain: “Behold I was shapen in wickednesse, and in sin hath my mother conceived me. Lord be mercifull to me a sinner.” After this passage from Psalm 51 comes a verse from Saint Paul, modified for an even greater sinner (1 Cor. 13): “When I was a childe I spake as a childe, I understood as a childe, I thought as a childe, & as yet have not put away childish things from me. Lord be mercifull to me a sinner.” In order to keep the confession going through the stages of the representative sinner’s life, Valentine had to write mostly original material: “When I grew up, the lusts of the flesh grew too strong for me.” Devout users of the book admit not only what they have done but also what they have left undone: “I have either omitted good duties, or done them sleightly and wearily.” In this, Valentine and his more sympathetic readers were rephrasing key parts of the Book of Common Prayer, not only its litany, but also the confession of sin that begins morning prayer (or matins). A little later in the book, Valentine’s readers started elaborating on the confession of sin in the Lord’s Prayer, with its demand that Christ’s followers forgive sin: “I have not loved mine enemy, nor blessed him that cursed me, nor done good to him, that meant or did mee hurt: I have not given him such pardon as I begged from thee for my selfe. Lord be mercifull to me a sinner.”46 Sold near one another at Marriott’s shop, Valentine’s litanies may have resonated with Donne’s litany. Nevertheless, anyone who recognized both could also have recognized glaring differences between the two. Donne’s litany was one poem in a diverse collection; Valentine’s litanies were prose petitions in a consistent book of devotions. Not much of Donne’s book can be prayed; virtually all of Valentine’s can. And it must have been, given the number of editions it went through. Marriott produced other religious books as well. Just before Donne arrived as vicar, he had Augustine Matthewes print a third edition of a book by the Suffolk minister John Mayer, The English Catechisme Explained. Or, A Comentarie on the Short Catechisme Set Forth in the Booke of Common Prayer. Anyone who had “questions” or “doubts” about the official prayer book that Donne and Valentine used in the church could pick up Mayer’s explanations right outside, direct from the stationer.47 r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 143 }

In the same year, Matthewes also printed for Marriott the second edition of Mayers Catechisme Abridged. Marriott brought his former vicar into even closer proximity to Mayer’s orthodox religion after Donne died. He offered the fifth edition of Mayer’s abridged catechism alongside his first two iterations of Donne’s Poems and Ignatius. The subtitle of this book continued at length, urging potential buyers that it could help them fulfill “A duty to which all we of the Church of England are bound.” Marriott marketed his other Mayer book as The English Catechisme Explained. Or, A Commentarie on the Short Catechisme Set Forth in the Book of Common Prayer. Devoted to teaching and explaining, Mayer’s books were also devoted to the state church, and to facilitating the devotion of its members. Mayer’s ideal reader was Graius. So was Marriott’s best customer. Much of the religion around Donne at the Marriotts’ shops, in other words, was orthodox (according to the Church of England), and dedicated to elucidating orthodoxy for the laity. Although one of the poems that the Marriotts published mocked the preachers who pointed Graius to the Church of England, many of their best-­selling authors treated Marriotts’ customers like Graius, pointing them in the very same direction. Presented together, the Marriotts’ religious writers urged and helped readers like Graius to understand the Book of Common Prayer and the Bible in English, to pray expanded versions of the prayers therein, and to meditate on retellings of the stories and songs in scripture. Donne may have appeared rather Catholic elsewhere. He certainly seemed to be critical of reformers and conformists, in addition to Catholics and most everyone else, in the Marriotts’ editions of his verse satires. Nevertheless, the religion around Donne at the Marriotts’ shop made him look like what he had indeed become: a vicar and a dean in the Church of England, surrounded by conformist religion like that of Valentine, Mayer, and Quarles.

Don n e i n Walton’s Wor ks and L i b r a ry As a friend of Donne’s, a family member of Valentine’s, and an author published by the Marriotts, Walton must have known quite well what sort of religion surrounded Donne’s books, and his own, at his { 144 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

publishers’ shops outside his parish church. He could easily have kept up with the Marriotts’ religious offerings even after he moved from St. Dunstan’s to Clerkenwell in 1643 or ’44 (and the Marriotts moved across the churchyard to a shop under the dial, by 1646).48 According to the English Short Title Catalogue and the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Walton probably wrote the preface to their 1645 edition of Quarles’s book of eclogues, The Shepheards Oracles.49 Shortly after the Marriotts produced a flurry of Donne books between 1649 and 1651, Walton contributed a prefatory poem to their single edition of Edward Sparke’s “Pious REFLECTION ON PRIMITIVE DEVOTION: As to the FEASTS and FASTS of the CHRISTIAN CHURCH, Orthodoxally Revived.” The heading of Walton’s poem makes clear that he was working closely enough with Marriott (and perhaps also with his printer or author) to have gotten “sight of the first sheet of his Book,” more or less hot off the press. (This would seem to have been the sheet that begins the main text: sheet C. A compositor mistakenly gave one page on this sheet the signature “A 4”—an understandable error on the first sheet of a printing job.) In his poem, Walton was “much pleas’d” that the author was “printing [his] choice Poems” and “Disquisitions,” even if he had merely “begun” to do so. Sparke’s prose, in particular, would teach “poor Christians” about “Primitive Devotion.” Primitive devotion might sound like a safe way to describe one’s religion at the end of the English Civil Wars, given their victors’ claims to be returning to the earliest forms of Christianity, stripped of Catholic accretions. But Walton’s next words remind readers that he had committed himself to the losing side of those wars, and especially to the religious ceremonies that the Church had temporarily lost in them: “Each Saints day / Stands as a Land-­mark in an erring age / to guide fraile mortals in their pilgrimage.”50 In the “erring age” of the civil wars, saints’ days had gone underground. But here in Sparke’s book, those feasts and fasts had reemerged as landmarks for the now “poor” ceremonialist pilgrim. If Walton ever acquired the rest of the octavo by Sparke—or, for that matter, anything by Quarles, Valentine, Mayer, or even Gomersall—his copies of their books have not yet surfaced. Over the long course of their work together, Richard Marriott presented Walton with several gift books that do survive, though. Nearly a decade after giving him his r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 145 }

last edition of Donne’s Poems, the younger Marriott gave Walton his new edition of ten old, Caroline court sermons on the parable of the wheat and the tares by Peter Heylyn. Perhaps, on the eve of the restoration of monarchy, sermons preached to the royal court had a renewed appeal. (Walton owned and inscribed a used copy of Heylyn’s first book, Microcosmus, as well, now kept at Salisbury Cathedral.) Marriott also contributed to Walton’s significant personal collection of Anthony Farindon’s sermons. So did the author himself. Exeter College, Oxford, has Walton’s copies of Farindon’s XXX Sermons, Forty Sermons, and Fifty Sermons. The first volume was given to him by his “worthy friend, the author”; the second came from “Mr Marryot.”51 Marriott’s editions of Heylyn’s and especially Farindon’s sermons, then, contributed to the religion around Donne not only at his shop but also in the personal book collection of one of his best-­selling authors. As Marriott and Walton continued to work together, largely on compiling books about angling, they also amassed the original writings necessary to put Anglican religion around Donne in a single volume. After publishing Walton’s biographies of Donne and Wotton as prefaces to their works, Marriott released Walton’s Life of John Donne as a book on its own. For his next biography, Walton told the life story of the eminent English theologian Richard Hooker (whose master work Donne thought needed no defense, in his Latin epigram on Covell). Although Walton had moved away from London, Marriott published this biography, on its own, as well (and a fellow stationer soon placed it at the front of a volume of Hooker’s works).52 As steward to Bishop George Morley, Walton had moved his family to Worcester, and then, after his wife’s death, his children to Winchester. He kept working with Marriott, despite the move (he was probably enabled to do so by the bishop of Winchester’s house in Chelsea) and despite the Great Fire of 1666, which slowed Marriott’s publishing activity and effectively closed his bookshop.53 Walton next wrote the life of the poet and country parson George Herbert. Marriott duly produced that new Walton book too (and another stationer likewise issued it at the front of Herbert’s works).54 Marriott seized upon this as an opportunity to rerelease, as a set, all four of the biographies that Walton had written to that point. In the omnibus volume, customers received not only all of the life writings of { 146 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

one of Marriott’s most successful authors, but also a new, retrospective presentation of the religion around Donne. In this single-­volume context, Donne was joined by his friends Wotton and Herbert, along with the magisterial Hooker. The Lives thus presented poets and clergymen with little or no unorthodox or dissenting religion among them, except for Walton’s brief mentions of Donne’s early Catholicism. Walton joined Marriott in distributing the 1670 edition of Lives. The title pages of both of the books that Marriott published that year claim that they would be sold not by just one but “by most booksellers.” Marriott must have expected to place the new editions in a number of bookshops. For his own part, Walton inscribed at least twenty-­eight recorded copies of the 1670 Lives as gifts for particular recipients. That amounts to more than he evidently gave away of any other edition of his writing. Most of these copies are currently “untraced.” Walton sent one of them to John Fitzwilliam, fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford.55 As the previous chapter demonstrated, Fitzwilliam had a copy of Donne’s final sermon bound with several religious imprints of the late 1670s. It’s now a little easier to see what Fitzwilliam was doing with Donne, from this chapter’s perspective on Walton. He wasn’t the only person surrounding Donne with the religion of the ’70s, in other words. His friend Walton was doing so too, and sending the results directly to him. A few years later, Walton sent Fitzwilliam a presentation copy of his next, and final, biography. This one does survive among Fitzwilliam’s books at Magdalen College. Marriott had published it too. (And, yet again, another stationer republished the life story in an edition of the subject’s works.) The subject was Robert Sanderson, bishop of Lincoln.56 Sanderson had been a royal chaplain and therefore, when the Crown came under threat, a royalist. He had kept using the Book of Common Prayer even when it became inconvenient, if not dangerous, to do so, during the civil wars and protectorate. He became a bishop only after the revolutionary government came to an end and monarchy returned. Sanderson’s ceremonialism and royalism might have been difficult for some people to square with his Calvinist theology and his toleration of nonconformists: Walton, in any event, left the latter features of Sanderson’s religion out of his biography entirely.57 He did so despite the fact that his longtime patron Morley was, like Sanderson, r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 147 }

both a Restoration bishop and a Calvinist.58 Although he clearly revered both of these Calvinist prelates, Walton may have been more comfortable with their ceremonialism and royalism than with any theology that they shared with Calvin. Perhaps Marriott was too. At least by the end of their long careers together, which spanned wars that they probably blamed on nonconformists, Walton and Marriott do not seem to have been interested in giving anyone like Crants a place in the religion with which they were associating Donne in the Lives. This doesn’t necessarily mean that Walton objected to Crants’s favorite theologian, though. In addition to serving a Calvinist bishop, Walton owned a copy of Thomas Norton’s translation of Calvin’s Institution of Christian Religion. To be sure, the presence of such an influential theologian’s work in one’s library does not necessarily make one an adherent. Walton also acquired a religious book at the other end of the religious spectrum, which is even less likely to represent his own views: a translation of a Roman Catholic examination of Huguenot theology, made by none other than Henry Constable, the Catholic convert who had written the sonnet of the Blessed Virgin Mary that got misattributed to Donne.59 Constable’s place on Walton’s shelves does not indicate that Walton gave Catholicism any space in his own religious beliefs. (Of course, Walton owned at least one copy of that Catholic sonnet by Constable too; he probably thought that Donne had written it in his early days.) Walton’s copies of Calvin and Constable made up part of the religion around Donne too, both in general, in the culture, and in fine, in Walton’s library. Walton surrounded Donne, as represented in his little working library, with several more religious texts. The first of these to be printed was a 1565 Antwerp edition of Saint Bede the Venerable’s History of the Church of Englande, now held by the Franciscan Friars in London.60 The first of these works to be dated in Walton’s hand was by the moderate Calvinist theologian William Perkins. The copy of Perkins’s Whole Treatise of the Cases of Conscience at Salisbury Cathedral bears the inscription “Izak: Walton—1620.”61 By the next year, Walton owned Sidney’s and Golding’s translation of the Huguenot Philippe de Mornay’s A Worke Concerning the Trunesse of Christian Religion; the Salisbury copy features his signature, a deleted line of text, and the date “Iuly: 5: 1621.” Walton { 148 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

recorded that the Salisbury copy of Philippus Camerarius’s The Living Librarie was “given mee by my very good ffrend mar Henry ffeild Iuly 29 1634.” From 1640 to 1662, Walton recorded the dates of the births and deaths of his family members in a Book of Common Prayer. He kept using the family copy of the official prayer book from St. Dunstan’s to Worcester, and copied into it the epitaph that he wrote for his wife.62 Over the half century that he published with the Marriotts, Walton added to his private library, spreading it across two or three separate locations. In his will of 1683, he bequeathed books that were then in Droxford, Winchester, and Farnham Castle. The castle belonged to the bishop of Winchester. Walton ordered most of the books that he was keeping at Farnham to be sent his to son, Izaak, who was a canon at Salisbury. Most of the volumes that he kept at Winchester and Droxford, though, would not have to travel so far, if at all: he gave the bulk of them to his daughter, Anne, whose husband, William Hawkins, was both a prebend at Winchester and rector at Droxford. In his will, Walton began the book bequests by giving “to doctor Hawkins doctor donns Sermons; which I haue hear’d preacht and read with much content.” Next, he divided between his children a couple of books by the “cautious reformer” Richard Sibbes: “to my son Izaak I giue docr Sibbs his soules Conflict, and to my doughter his brewsed Reide; desiring them to reade them so, as to be well aquanted with them. and I also giue to her all my bookes at winchester and droxford.” Sibbes had served as the preacher at Gray’s Inn while Donne preached at nearby Lincoln’s Inn. He raised independent funds to support other godly preachers (without a charter, which eventually doomed the effort), but he nevertheless conformed to the Church of England, thereby demonstrating the extent to which the Church could accommodate a careful, compliant reformer.63 Sibbes and Donne might have been further apart theologically than geographically. Nevertheless, the Church of England had room for both. So did the Inns of Court. Walton did too, in the short list of religious writers he considered most important for his grown children “to reade” and “to be well aquanted with.” Walton gave at least one more book to Anne, subtracting it from the bequest to his son: “And I giue my dafter docr Halls works which be now at ffarnham.” Joseph Hall, the bishop of Exeter and then Norwich, lived r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 149 }

to find that his Calvinism was no defense against either the Parliament or the iconoclasts of the civil wars.64 His works came out in multiple gigantic volumes full of treatises, sermons, and meditations. Walton gave his copy of the enormous book, along with lots of others, to Anne, even though her brother, her husband, and even her husband’s curate, John Darbyshire, might have seemed more obvious recipients. After all, they were preachers and did indeed receive other volumes in the will: “I giue to m.r Iohn darbishire the Sermons of m.r Antony ffaringdon, or of do.r Sanderson, which my executor thinks ffit.”65 Anthony Farindon also suffered during the civil wars. He lost his church and came to depend on the benevolence of individuals to provide for his family. His colleague from Windsor, John Hales, provided much of this support, though he too was coping with deprivations. In a letter prefacing Hales’s Golden Remains, Farindon delighted to report that, although “in his younger days he was a Calvinist,” Hales had at the Synod of Dort “bid John Calvin good-­night.” Walton owned a copy of Golden Remains, given to him by the publisher, and he endeavored, but failed, to complete the biography of Hales that Farindon had begun.66 He wrote in his copy of Farindon’s XXX Sermons that it had been given to him by the author, and that he gave it to Mr. Derbyshire in 1682. Walton was clearly at no loss for churchmen who could use the religious books that he had collected; he simply expected his daughter to use them too. Walton’s will thus offers another example of the religion around Donne—a fitting one with which to conclude. It qualifies as the last religious context that Walton would design for his friend and former vicar, after a long career of influencing the religion that surrounded him outside their old church, in his own library, and (as the presentation copies that he distributed show) in many other libraries. Like the five subjects of his “Lives,” the five authors Walton named in his will begin and end with Donne and Sanderson; the core of the group is different, though. No longer meeting the needs of stationers and the book market, Walton was deciding which books to single out for his children’s homes and churches. He recommended to them only the work of preachers. These preachers all conformed to the Church of England, accepting if not embracing its episcopal hierarchy, while collectively demonstrating the theological range that the Church accommodated. { 150 }  r e l i g i o n a r o u n d j o h n d o n n e

That range stretched from a moderate reformer, to Calvinist bishops, to a gently anti-­Calvinist prelate. To be sure, in his will Walton was trying to place religion around his children. But he was placing it around Donne, too, one last time. He was producing just one of the many religious contexts that Donne and his works experienced, both in Walton’s sphere of influence and in others’. As we’ve already seen from his fellow Morley client, John Fitzwilliam—and from the Mathers and Bishop Moore—Walton wouldn’t have the last word on the religion around Donne. He was only speaking his last word on the subject.

r e l i g i o u s b o o k s a r o u n d   d o n n e ’ s w o r k s   { 151 }

Notes

A bbrevi at i o ns Add. BL Bod. CELM Chich. CUL EEBO EMMO Folger Hough. Hunt. Magd. Marsh’s Mert. Mid. ODNB Sarum STC, ESTC, Wing TCC USTC

Additional, used for the Additional manuscripts held at the BL and CUL British Library, London, England Bodleian Library, Oxford, England Catalogue of English Literary Manuscripts, 1450–1700, edited by Peter Beal, www​.celm​-­­ms​.org​.uk Chichester Cathedral Library, England Cambridge University Library, Cambridge, England Early English Books Online, eebo​.chadwyck​.com Early Modern Manuscripts Online, https://​emmo​.folger​.edu/ Folger Shakespeare Library, Washington D.C. Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts Huntington Library, San Marino, California Old Library, Magdalen College, Oxford, England Marsh’s Library, Dublin, Ireland Mertoun Estate, St. Boswells, Melrose, Roxburghshire, Scotland Middle Temple Library, London, England Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, oxforddnb​.com Salisbury Cathedral Library, England English Short Title Catalogue, estc​.bl​.uk Trinity College, Cambridge, England Universal Short Title Catalogue, ustc​.ac​.uk

I nt ro d u ct i o n 1. Sullivan, Influence of John Donne, 55–96; Sullivan, “Donne’s Seventeenth-­ Century Readers.” 2. CELM assigns the manuscripts of Donne’s poems the DnJ numbers 1–3997.5. The prevalence of decimal points in these numbers means that at least 4,249 copies of individual Donne poems survive in early modern manuscripts. By

contrast, for the poems of early modern England’s next most scribally published poet, William Strode, CELM reaches only StW number 1,467. See the “Master List of Poems” compiled for “Digital Donne: The Online Variorum.” 3. In CELM, the sermons run from DnJ 3997.8 to 4053, and the rest of the prose from DnJ 4054 to 4097. 4. McCullough, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 1:xix–xxiii; Colclough, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 3:xvii, xxiii–xxv. 5. Morrissey, Politics and the Paul’s Cross Sermons, 1–34. 6. Colclough, “Donne, John.” 7. See Ettenhuber, Donne’s Augustine; McCullough, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 1:xxxviii–xxxix; Colclough, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 3:xliii; Ettenhuber, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 5:lv; Lund, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 12:xliv, l–li. 8. Knight, Bound to Read, 82. 9. For William Shakespeare’s nondramatic poems, CELM reaches only ShW number 35.5, and only ShW 129 in recording manuscript copies and extracts of any of Shakespeare’s works. 10. See Flynn, Donne and the Ancient Catholic Nobility; Johnson, Theology of John Donne; Shami, John Donne and Conformity; Guibbory, Returning to John Donne. 11. See, for instance, Ferrell, Government by Polemic; Fincham and Tyacke, Altars Restored; Lake, with Questier, Antichrist’s Lewd Hat; MacCulloch, Reformation: Europe’s House Divided; Shagan, Popular Politics. 12. McKitterick, Print, Manuscript; Knight, Bound to Read. 13. Tabor, “Bridgewater Library,” 40. 14. Hunt. MS EL 6893. 15. Donne, Devotions vpon Emergent Occasions (Hunt. 53917). 16. Donne, Encænia (Hunt. 59075); Donne, First Sermon Preached to King Charles (Hunt. 59076); Donne, Sermon, Preached to the Kings Mtie (Hunt. 60137). 17. Donne, Sermon vpon the xv. Verse (Hunt. 59074). 18. CUL MS Add. 8469; Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2. 19. Mert. MS EL 6495. A reproduction resides at the Huntington with the same shelf-­mark. Heidi Brayman has transcribed the catalogue and identified many of its entries in Reading Material, 258–81. 20. Beal, Dictionary, 65, 378; Petroski, Book on the Bookshelf, 31, 56, 137. Cha p t er 1 1. Donne, Devotions vpon Emergent Occasions (Hunt. 53917), 412–13. 2. Hunt. MS EL 6893, fols. 18v–19v. This copy of the poem unfortunately lacks the stanza on Dutch Calvinists and Roman Catholics in general. 3. Tabor, “Bridgewater Library,” 43. 4. Church of England, Capitvla sive Constitvtiones Ecclesiasticæ (Hunt. 54001); Church of England, Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall (Hunt. 60237).

{ 154 }  N o t e s t o P a g e s 1 – 1 4

5. Church of England, Capitvla sive Constitvtiones Ecclesiasticæ (Hunt. 59591); Church of England, Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall (Hunt. 59593). 6. Church of England, Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall (Hunt. 60237), sig.M1v. 7. Ibid., sigs. L4v–M2r. 8. Church of England, Booke of Common Prayer (Hunt. 62289), sig. N2r. 9. Ferrell, Bible and the People, 114. Steve Tabor introduced this phrase to me. 10. Church of England, Book of Common Prayer (Hunt. 97052); Whittingham, Bible (Hunt. 97051), sig. 4F5r; Sternhold, VVhole Booke of Psalmes (Hunt. 97053). 11. Whittingham, Bible (Hunt. 97051), sig. 2R5r. 12. Ibid., sig. 4F5r–v. 13. Mert. MS EL 6495; Brayman, Reading Material, 258–81. 14. For particularly pertinent accounts of the via media, see Scodel, Excess and the Mean; and Shagan, Rule of Moderation. 15. Whittingham, Bible (Hunt. 97051), sig. 4H3v. 16. I thank David Colclough for this suggestion, among many others. 17. Hunt. MS EL 6893, fol. 131v–v. 18. Patterson, “Man Is to Himself.” 19. Catholic Church, Psalterium cum Hymnis (Hunt. 124062), fols. 119v–120r. 20. Catholic Church, Hore Beatissime Virginis Marie (Hunt. 62243), fols. 132r–133r. 21. Church of England, Prymer in Englyshe, and Latyn (Hunt. 62259), sig. G7r–v. The book may have entered the Bridgewater Library quite late. Its inscriptions do not seem to have come from the first few generations of Egertons. 22. Church of England, Exhortation vnto Prayer (Hunt. 59686), sig. B2r–v. This copy bears the signature “Tho. Egerton” along the top of the title page. On the facing page, it features press-­marks in the hands responsible for the first two or three major shelf-­marking campaigns of the Bridgewater Library. 23. Church of England, Primer, in Englishe, and Latyn (Hunt. 62311), sigs. G1v–G2r. 24. Church of England, Book of the Common Praier (Hunt. 62284), fols. 173v–175v. 25. Catholic Church, Vniforme and Catholyke Prymer (Hunt. 62266), sig. c1v. 26. Hunt. MS EL 6893, fols. 72v–73v. 27. Knafla, Law and Politics, 13. 28. Folger MS L.b.526; Hester, Sorlein, and Flynn, John Donne’s Marriage Letters, 15; EMMO. 29. Catholic Church, Horae B. Virginis Mariae (Hunt. 108687), title page. 30. Tabor, “Bridgewater Library,” 43. 31. Hunt. MS EL 2663 (in Ellesmere Papers, box 80); Petti, Recusant Documents, 5–9. 32. Hunt. MS EL 1191 (in Ellesmere Papers, box 35); Petti, Recusant Documents, 24–29. 33. Hunt. MSS EL 1197, 1196 (in EL 6162, a bound volume); Petti, Recusant Documents, 23–24, 32–33.

n o t e s t o p a g e s 1 4 – 3 1   { 155 }

34. Hunt. MS EL 2083 (in Ellesmere Papers, box 67); Petti, Recusant Documents, 29–30. 35. Hunt. MS EL 2088 (in Ellesmere Papers, box 67); Petti, Recusant Documents, 37. 36. Hunt. MS EL 2090, fol. [3r] (in Ellesmere Papers, box 67); Petti, Recusant Documents, 40. 37. Hunt. MS EL 2090, fol. [4r] (in Ellesmere Papers, box 67); Petti, Recusant Documents, 40. 38. “Ihs. + Maria / Memento. Stephanj petoris. / Pater Carisse.” Nevv Testament of Iesvs Christ (Hunt. 96512), flyleaf. 39. Allen, True Sincere and Modest Defence (Hunt. 60060). 40. Parsons, First Booke (Hunt. 69058). 41. Allen, Trve Sincere and Modest Defence (Hunt. 60060), title page. 42. Sherman, Used Books, xvii–xx. 43. Allen, True Sincere and Modest Defence (Hunt. 60060), sig. *2r; 1, 18, 34, 59. 44. Ibid., 89, 86, 87, 93, 103–4. 45. Biblia Sacra (Hunt. 112999), sig. ❧ iir. See Sherman, Used Books, 77–78. 46. Hunt. MSS EL 2122, fol. 42r (“Mr Topley”), EL 2123, fols. 43v–44r (signed “Ryc: Topclyffe” in his own hand), EL 2137, fols. 67r–68r (“Mr Topcliff” inserted interlinearly), EL 2140, fol. 72r–v (signed “Ryc: Topclyffe:” in his own hand), EL 2141, fol. 73r (“Mr Topcliff”), and EL 2142, fols. 74r–75r (“Mr Topcliff”); Petti, Recusant Documents, 46–48, 68, 73–75. 47. Hunt. MSS EL 2118–20, 2122–44; Petti, Recusant Documents, 42–82. 48. For a wider-­ranging view of the role that prisons played in defining religious conformity, mostly in regard to Catholics, see Lake, with Questier, Antichrist’s Lewd Hat, 187–228. 49. Morris, “Martyrdom.” 50. Hunt. MSS EL 2101–20; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 316–68; Petti, Recusant Documents, 42–46. 51. Hunt. MSS EL 2157, 2158; Petti, Recusant Documents, 82–90; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 382–86. EL 2157 summarizes the examinations of all fifty-­ eight of the Catholics examined between 6 and 24 April, plus one more. EL 2158 summarizes only twenty-­nine of the examinations of sectaries, omitting any who were released on bail or questioned after 6 April. 52. Hunt. MS EL 2118; Petti, Recusant Documents, 42. 53. Hunt. MS EL 2117; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 367–68. 54. Barrow, Collection of Certain Letters (Hunt. 60620). 55. Hunt. MS EL 2091 (in Ellesmere Papers, box 67); Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 223–25. Everyone has trouble reading the questionable word in Popham’s phrase, “the treuth off their [?] and conferens wth those p[rea]chers.” Collier transcribed it as “speche and conferens,” Carlson as “cause [case?] and conferens.” But the first character looks nothing like Popham’s angular initial c forms or his long descending s strokes. To be sure, it doesn’t look quite like his minuscule i or majuscule I either, or even the final stroke in “viij” at the end of EL 2092. So I may not have

{ 156 }  N o t e s t o P a g e s 3 2 – 4 1

improved upon the work of my predecessors here. Collier, Egerton Papers, 170–71. 56. Hunt. MS EL 2092 (in Ellesmere Papers, box 67); Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 85–86. 57. Barrow, Collection of Certain Letters (Hunt. 60620), 2. 58. Ibid., 5. 59. Ibid., 55. 60. Ibid., 65–66. 61. Hunt. MS EL 2092; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 85–86. 62. Hunt. MS EL 2094; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 310–12. 63. Hunt. MS EL 2093; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 308–9. 64. Hunt. MS EL 2114; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 347–48, 501. 65. Hunt. MS EL 2094; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 310–12. 66. Hunt. MSS EL 2098, 2099; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 87–89, 226–29. 67. Barrow, Plaine Refvtation (Hunt. 60336), sig. Aiv. 68. Ibid., sig. Aiiv. 69. Ibid., sig. Aiiir; 8–9. 70. Hunt. MSS EL 483, 2113, 2146–56; Peel, Notebook of John Penry; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 356–57, 503; Penry, Treatise Wherein is Manifestlie Proved (Hunt. 60619). 71. Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 501. 72. Hunt. MS EL 2113; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 356–57. 73. Hunt. MS EL 2146, fol. 81r; Peel, Notebook of John Penry, vii. 74. Hunt. MS EL 483, fol. 1r. 75. Hunt. MS EL 2154. 76. Hunt. MS EL 483, fol. 34v; Peel, Notebook of John Penry, vii, 45–46. 77. Hunt. MS EL 2154. For the source, see EL 483, fol. 35v, and Peel, Notebook of John Penry, viii, 47. 78. Hunt. MS EL 483, fol. 34v; Peel, Notebook of John Penry, 46. 79. Hunt. MS EL 483, fol. 35v; Peel, Notebook of John Penry, 46. 80. Hunt. MS EL 2146. 81. Hunt. MSS EL 2113, 2146, 2147. 82. Hunt. MS EL 2147. 83. Penry, Treatise Wherein is Manifestlie Proved (Hunt. 60619). The Egertons collected an additional copy of this book, once item “7” in a Sammelband, but now bound separately (Folger, STC 19612). 84. Hunt. MS EL 2150a. 85. Penry, Treatise Wherein is Manifestlie Proved (Hunt. 60619), fol. 2v. I nt erlu d e 1. Hunt. MS EL 6893, fols. 65r–66r. 2. Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 3:92, 121, 131.

n o t e s t o p a g e s 4 1 – 5 1   { 157 }

3. Hunt. MS EL 6893, fol. 66r. 4. Ibid., fols. 66v–67r. 5. Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 3:92, 95, 120–21. Cha p t er 2 1. Hunt. MS EL 6893, fol. 63r. 2. Ovid, Fabvlarvm (St. John’s College, Cambridge, Dd.17.5); Keynes, “More Books from the Library,” 32–33; St. John’s College Library, “Autograph of John Donne.” Several other readers have added their names and notes to this book, women as well as men. One of them claimed the book by mimicking the cipher in Donne’s signature and writing a phrase that reused, and misrepresented, his name: “Daniel: Evans: his booke. Wittnes Arthur IDonne” (the italics here indicate Donne’s handwriting). Evans transformed John Donne, the previous owner, into Arthur Donne, an imaginary friend and witness of Evans’s ownership. 3. Horace, Q. Horatii Flacci Poetæ (Wadham College, Oxford, D.15.17); Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 63. This much cleaner book nevertheless also bears the marks of multiple users. 4. Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 258–79; Keynes, “More Books from the Library”; Keynes, “Note 419”; Pearson, “Unrecorded Book”; Hobbs, “More Books from the Library”; Woudhuysen, “Two More Books”; Adlington, “More Books from the Library”; Adlington, “Seven More Books”; Adlington, John Donne’s Books. 5. Egerton, Speech of the Lord Chancellor (CUL Bb*.11.42[E][7]). 6. Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 268. 7. Folger MSS L.b.537 and (especially) L.b.539; EMMO. 8. He did so in Scaliger, Opvs Novvm (CUL Keynes.I.7.3) and Covell, Ivst and Temperate Defence (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[7]). See Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 8:12, 31–32, 292–94. 9. Beal, Dictionary, 291–92; see also Petroski, Pencil, 36–49. 10. Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 3:92, 95, 121, 131–32. 11. Covell, Briefe Ansvver (CUL Bb*.11.42[E][3]), sig. *1r. 12. Ibid., sig. *2r. 13. Ibid., 32–32 (sig. E4r–v). 14. Ibid., 33. 15. Ibid., 32 (sig. E4r); Allen, “Burges [Burgess], John.” 16. Vignier, Excommunication of the Venetians (CUL Bb*.11.42[E][11]), 5 (sig. A4r). 17. Ibid., 1 (sig. A2r). 18. Ibid., 6 (sig. A4v). 19. Ibid., 8–9 (sigs. B1v–B2r). 20. Ibid., 10 (sig. B2v). 21. King, Sermon Preached at White-­Hall (CUL Bb*.11.42[E][9]). This book contains pencil markings in a hand other than Donne’s.

{ 158 }  N o t e s t o P a g e s 5 2 – 6 8

22. Symonds, Virginia (CUL Bb*.11.42[E][8]). 23. Covell, Ivst and Temperate Defence (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[7] Lobby XII.3.13), sig. A1v. 24. Shawcross, Complete Poetry of John Donne, 166–67; Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 8:12, 31, 292. 25. Covell, Ivst and Temperate Defence (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[7] Lobby XII.3.13), 4 (sig. B2v). 26. Ibid., 5 (sig. B3r). 27. Ibid., 11–12 (sigs. C2v–C3r). 28. Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e Lobby XII.3.13, interleaf between items 7 and 8. 29. Ormerod, Pictvre of a Puritane (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[2] Lobby XII.3.13), sigs. B2v–B4r. 30. Ibid., sigs. B4r, C1r, D1r–v. 31. According to Barrow, it had been from “Maister Cartwrigtht and others of his knowledge” that “wee haue receiued the truth of these things, and haue been taught.” Yet Cartwright and his ilk “vtterly, against their consciences, forsake vs in our sufferings, and will not come out of Babilon, for feare of their liues.” Paule, Life of . . . Iohn Whitgift, 50–51; Carlson, Writings of John Greenwood, 219–20, 234–37. 32. Ormerod, Pictvre of a Puritane (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[2] Lobby XII.3.13), sigs. D1v–D2r. 33. Ibid., sigs. M1v, M2v. 34. Ibid., sig. M3v. 35. Ibid., sig. M4r. 36. Sutcliffe, Svbversion of Robert Parsons (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[1] Lobby XII.3.13); Philalethes, Ansvvere Made by One of Ovr Brethren (Hough. *EC.D7187. Zz607e[3] Lobby XII.3.13); Articles of Peace (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[4] Lobby XII.3.13); Fenton, Ansvvere to William Alablaster (Hough. *EC.D7187. Zz607e[5] Lobby XII.3.13); Bishop, Second Part of the Reformation (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[6] Lobby XII.3.13); Holland, ‘Η ΠΑΝΗΓΥΡΙ’Σ (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e[8] Lobby XII.3.13); Hyll, Defence of the Article (Hough. *EC. D7187.Zz607e[9] Lobby XII.3.13). 37. Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 261; Bennett, “Tracts from John Donne’s Library.” 38. National Archives, Kew, MSS PROB 1/5 and SP 11/159; Bald, John Donne: A Life, 563–67; Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 262. 39. Guicciardini, Piv consigli et avvertementi (Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz576g Lobby XII.3.12); Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 270. 40. Ochino, Prediche (CUL Keynes.B.5.40); Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 273. 41. Hill, Philosophia (Mid. L [Donne]); Brown, “ ‘Hac ex consilio meo,’ ” 837–38; Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 270–71. 42. Paracelsus, Chirvrgia magna (Hough. 5. 5. 346. 2.) (title page only); Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 273. I thank John Overholt for his help in locating this item. For the amount G.P. paid for the full book (seven shillings and

n o t e s t o p a g e s 6 8 – 7 6   { 159 }

six pence), Sir Edward Dering, more than a decade earlier, purchased three smaller books by (probably Christopher) Sutton. He paid the same for three blank account books, and for each of several other goods and services: six pairs of gloves, two pairs of knit linen stockings, a single pair of worsted stockings, three hundred feet of elm, cut, and sixty loads of dung, removed. Kent History and Library Centre MS U350 E4, fols. 6v, 8v, 11v, 14r, 17r, 30r; Yeandle, “Sir Edward Dering,” 17, 28, 38, 46, 61, 78, 154. 43. Ferris, “Ashley, Robert”; Middle Temple Library, “History of the Library”; Baker, “Common Lawyers and the Inns,” 459–­60. 44. Drusius, Miscellanea Locvtionvm Sacrarvm (Mid. L [Donne] Drusius [1]); Fuks, Hebrew Typography, 71 (entry 86). 45. Drusius, Tetragrammaton (Mid. L [Donne] Drusius [2]); Drusius, Ad Minerval Serarii Responsio (Mid. L [Donne] Drusius [3]). 46. Serarius, Trihæresivm (Mid. L [Donne] Serarius [1]). 47. Scaliger, Elenchus Trihæresii Nicolaii Serarii (Mid. L [Donne] Serarius [2]); Drusius, De Tribvs Sectis Iudæorum (Mid. L [Donne] Serarius [3]). 48. For a helpful explanation of this controversy, drawing on the same sources collected in this volume, see Schmidt, “Ancient Jewish ‘Sects.’ ” 49. Helwig, Tractatvs Historicus; Synopsis Historiæ Universalis; Epelenchus; and Systema Controversiarum Theologicarum (respectively, Mid. L [Donne] Helwig, items 1, 2, 3, and 4). 50. Keynes, “More Books from the Library,” 35; Ochino, Prediche (CUL Keynes.B.5.40); Polanus, Syntagma Theologiae Christianae (CUL Peterborough.O.6.18). 51. Coppenstein, Dispositiones (CUL Keynes.B.5.39). 52. Donne, Psevdo-­Martyr (Mid. L [Donne]). 53. Mid. MS MT.9/LCA/16 (“Eighth Seate—B Side”; “Controversiall and scholasticall divinity”), entry 40. I thank Renae Satterly, librarian of the Middle Temple, and Barnaby Bryan, assistant archivist, for their help with this reference, and with the Middle Temple’s Donne collection in general. 54. Périer, Histoire Remarqvable et Veritable and Continvation (respectively, Bod. 8º B 45 Art.Seld., items 7 and 8). 55. Toomer, John Selden, 1:9–10, 2:793–94; Roberts, “Extending the Frontiers,” 315–21. 56. Bignon, Traicté Sommaire; Avignon, Declaration; Wolderus, Hæreseologiæ Synopsis—these three books are, respectively, Bod. 8º B 45 Art.Seld., items 1, 4, and 10. 57. Paleotti, De nothis spuriisque fillis (Bod. 8º P 1 Jur.); Bodleian Library, Catalogvs Librorvm Bibliothecæ Pvblicæ (BL C.46.e.15), 569; Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 59. 58. Stengel, Sacrosancti Nominis Iesu (Bod. 8º B 114[2] Th.); Bodleian Library, Appendix (BL 011901.e.21.[2.]), 177. 59. Donne, Psevdo-­Martyr (Bod. 4º D 25 Th.); Fitzherbert, Supplement to the Discussion (Bod. 4º B 50 Th.); Bodleian Library, Catalogvs Vniversalis Librorvm (BL 620.c.1), 169.

{ 160 }  N o t e s t o P a g e s 7 6 – 8 1

60. Donne, Sermon (Bod. 4º I 17 Th.); First Sermon Preached to King Charles (Bod. 4º I 12[2] Th.); Devotions (Bod. 8º T 12[2] Th.); Iuuenilia (Bod. 4º C 11[2]); Bodleian Library, Appendix (BL 011901.e.21.[2.]), 61. 61. Donne, Six Sermons (Bod. 4º D 6[2] Th.Seld.). 62. Toomer, John Selden, 1:11–22. 63. Godefroy, Auctores Latinæ (Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, Bb.4.2); Keynes, Bibliography of John Donne, 264. I thank Nicholas Rogers for information about this book, and an anonymous peer reviewer for help with the translation. 64. Balduin, Passio Typica (Chich. KA.01.06). 65. Freher, Rerum Bohemicarum (Chich. KC.04.07a&b); Cupers, Tractatus de Sacrosancta Universali Ecclesia (Chich. KC.04.07c); Smith, “Bishop Henry King’s Library,” 137. 66. Wilde, De Formica; Binder, Theses de Bonis Ecclesiae Luqmamn, Fabulæ—these three books are Chich. KD.04.03a, b, and c, respectively. 67. Hobbs, “More Books from the Library,” 590–91. 68. Tossanus, Doctrina de Praedestinatione; Zeämann and Dornberger, Gretserus Triumphatus; and Haren, Répentance—these three books are Chich. KB.02.14a, b, and e, respectively. I thank sublibrarian Christopher Smith for his help locating and describing this volume. For related books featuring Donne’s motto and signature, see Serarius, Minerval Divinis Hollandiæ; Gretser, Libri Dvo; Gretser, Libri Duo de Benedictionibvs; Gretser, Mysta Salmvriensis; and Gretser, Svmmvla Casvvm, all at the Middle Temple Library, bearing the shelf-­mark “L (Donne).” 69. Plancius, Dissertatio, De Fide Haereticis (Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband [1]); Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 60. 70. Leschassier, De la Liberté Ancienne (Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband [7]). 71. Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 58–59. 72. De Harlay, Défence de pères Jésuites (Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband [13]), 13 (sig. A7r); Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 58; Donne, Ignatius his Conclaue (STC 7027), sig. A10r. I thank Maria O’Shea for sharing the order of the books in the Stillingfleet Sammelband with me. 73. Servin, Epistola (Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband [5]); Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 60. 74. Le Jay, Tocsin: au Roy (Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband [3]); Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 58. 75. Viseur, Dix-­sept Questions ou Demandes (Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband [11]); Gontery, Action de Graces (Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband [9]); Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 63, 58; Armstrong, Bibliographia Molinaei, 520–21. 76. Thomson, Elenchus Refutationis Tortuae Torti (Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband [12]). 77. Pearson, English Bookbinding Styles, 20, 150–54; Till, “Stillingfleet, Edward”; Benson, “Libraries in University Towns,” 118. 78. Rogers, Faith, Doctrine, and Religion (CUL Syn. 7.60.26[2]).

n o t e s t o p a g e s 8 1 – 8 4   { 161 }

79. Sutcliffe, Ansvvere vnto a Certaine Calumnious Letter (CUL Syn. 7.60.26[3]). 80. Powel, Consideration of the Deprived (CUL Syn. 7.60.26[4]), 10. 81. Bacon, Declaration of the Practises (CUL Syn. 7.60.26[6]). 82. Church of England, Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall (CUL Syn. 7.60.26 [1]). 83. Barlow, Svmme and Svbstance (CUL Syn. 7.60.26[5]). 84. Meadows, “Moore, John”; Nelles, “Libraries, Books, and Learning,” 33–­34; Benson, “Libraries in University Towns,” 105. 85. CUL MS Ee. 4. 14, fols. 61–78; CELM DnJ Δ 46. 86. Hunt. MS EL 6893; CELM DnJ Δ 24. 87. CUL MS Ee. 4. 14, fol. 68v; Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 3:xxxiii, 5, 23–24. 88. CUL MS Ee. 4. 14, fol. 62r; McLawhorn, “Critical Edition,” 96, 132–33. 89. CUL MS Ee. 4. 14, fols. [i], 1. 90. Five Yeares of King Iames (Wing W2886). 91. Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 8:133–43. On Donne’s relationship with Rochester, see Bald, John Donne: A Life, 272–74, and Patterson, Reading Between the Lines, 195. 92. CUL MS Ee. 4. 14, fol. 72r. The poem begins on fol. 71v. 93. Ibid., fol. 4r. 94. Ibid., fol. 19r–v. 95. Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 8:108–14. 96. CUL MS Ee. 4. 14, fols. 70v–71r. 97. Millstone, Manuscript Circulation, 174–78. 98. CUL MS Ee. 4. 13; Cambridge University Library, Catalogue of the Manuscripts, 2:124; Malcolm, Reason of State, 71. C ha p t er 3 1. Donne, Poems, by J. D. (Texas A&M PR 2245 .A1 1635b), 278. 2. Robbins, Complete Poems of John Donne, 118–20. 3. The original sources for the first printed edition (A, according to Variorum sigla) include CUL MS Add. 29 (C2); Trinity College Dublin MS 877, part 2 (DT2); and National Library of Wales MS Dolaucothi 6748 (WN1). The source that apparently arrived in the middle of printing is Hough. MS Eng. 966.5 (H6, the O’Flahertie MS). See Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 2:lxxvi– lxxix, 8:23. 4. BL, Harley MS 7553, fol. 34r; CELM CoH 103. 5. Berkeley Castle MS Select Books 85, 5; May, “Stanford, Henry”; May, Henry Stanford’s Anthology; May, “Stanford’s ‘God Knows What.’ ” 6. Park, Heliconia, vol. 2; Main, Treasury of English Sonnets, 259n1; Chambers, Poems of John Donne, 2:302, 304. 7. Eaves, Descriptive Catalogue, 319; CELM CoH 100. 8. Grundy, Poems of Henry Constable, 185; BL, Harley MS 7553, fol. 34r.

{ 162 }  N o t e s t o P a g e s 8 4 – 9 5

9. BL, Add. MS 10309, fol. 152v. 10. BL, Add. MS 30982, fol. 8r. 11. Record Office for Leicestershire MS DG7/Lit.2, fol. 286r; Redford, Burley Manuscript, 172, 372–76. 12. BL, Stowe MS 962, fols. 114r–119v. 13. Hough. MS Eng. 966.6, fol. 148r (p. 295). 14. Beinecke MS Osborn b114, 161–62. 15. Hough. MS Eng. 966.7, fol. 25r. 16. Hunt. MS EL 6893, fols. 130r–131r. 17. Ibid., fol. 130r. 18. Ibid., fol. 132r–v. 19. Ibid., fol. 137r–v. 20. May, “Donne and Egerton,” 458. 21. Flynn, “Donne’s Wedding,” 473. 22. Hough. MS Eng. 966.5, [i]. 23. McCarthy, “Print Logic and Authority.” 24. Hough. MS Eng. 966.5, 1–18. 25. Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 2:430–31; Stringer, “O’Flahertie Manuscript of Donne’s Poems.” 26. McCarthy, “Print Logic and Authority.” 27. McCarthy, “Poems, by I. D. (1635).” 28. Donne, Poems, by J. D. (Texas A&M PR 2245 .A1 1635b), 1; Hough. MS Eng. 966.5, 245. 29. Donne, Poems, by J. D. (Texas A&M PR 2245 .A1 1635b), 327–42. 30. Donne, Poems, by J. D. (Texas A&M PR2245 .A1 1633), 28. 31. Ibid., 29. 32. Main, Treasury of English Sonnets, 259n1; Norton, Poems of John Donne, 2:157. 33. Chambers, Poems of John Donne, 2:302, 304. 34. Grierson, Poems of John Donne, 1:401, 427. 35. Martz, Poetry of Meditation, esp. 211–48. 36. Lewalski, Protestant Poetics, 253–82, 427. Cha p t er 4 1. Donne, Poems, by J. D. (Texas A&M PR 2245 .A1 1633), 351–52; Bodleian Library, Catalogvs Librorvm Bibliothecæ Pvblicæ (BL C.46.e.15), 569; Adlington, “More Books from the Library,” 59; Smith, Payne, and Marshall, “Rediscovering John Donne’s Catalogus.” 2. Brown, “ ‘Hac ex consilio meo,’ ” 842, 859. I use Brown’s translation throughout. 3. Westminster Abbey MS 63; Smith, Payne, and Marshall, “Rediscovering John Donne’s Catalogus.” 4. TCC MS B.14.22, fol. 83r–v.

n o t e s t o p a g e s 9 6 – 1 0 6   { 163 }



5. Jonson, Workes (BL G.11630), 816; Simpson, Courtier’s Library, 55–56. 6. Brown, “ ‘Hac ex consilio meo,’ ” 861. 7. Ibid., 861–63; Clark, “Robinson, Henry.” 8. Bacon, Declaration of the Practises (CUL Syn. 7.60.26[6]), sigs. L4r–M2r, M4r–N1v, N4r–O4v, Q1r–Q3v; Kirby et al., Sermons at Paul’s Cross, 381–406; James, “Preaching the Good News.” 9. Barlow, Svmme and Svbstance (CUL Syn. 7.60.26[5]). 10. Simpson, Courtier’s Library, 74–75. 11. Sutcliffe, Ansvvere vnto a Certaine Calumnious Letter (CUL Syn. 7.60.26[3]); Collinson, “Throckmorton, Job.” 12. Brown, “ ‘Hac ex consilio meo, ’ ” 863. 13. TCC MS B.14.22, fol. 98r. 14. Ibid., fols. 15–33; Ettenhuber, “ ‘Best Help God’s People Have,’ ” 266. 15. TCC MS B.14.22, fols. 34–47; see Klemp, “ ‘Betwixt the Hammer and the Anvill.’ ” 16. TCC MS B.14.22, front flyleaf. 17. CUL MS Add. 8469. 18. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2. 19. Adlington, “Donne’s Sermons.” 20. CUL MS Add. 8469(9, 21a–b, 24). 21. CUL MS Add. 8469(16–17). 22. CUL MS Add. 8469(4, 10). 23. CUL MS Add. 8469(22). 24. CUL MS Add. 8469(14). 25. CUL MS Add. 8469(20). 26. CUL MS Add. 8469(2–3, 5–6). 27. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2(9.1–9.3). 28. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2(4). 29. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2(1, 10–11). 30. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2(6), verso facing fol. 1r. 31. Ibid., fol. 13r. 32. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2(8), fols. 1r, 20r. 33. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2(2). 34. Church of England, Booke of Common Prayer (Hunt. 62295–6), sig. B1r. 35. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2(6), fol. 1r. 36. Ibid., fol. 6r. 37. Ibid., fol. 7v. 38. Hunt. MS EL 34/C/2(8), fol. 1r. 39. CUL MS Add. 8469(4), fol. 12v; McCullough, Sermons at Court, 169–82. 40. CUL MS Add. 8469(4), fol. 12v; McCullough, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 1:53–54. 41. Melnikoff, “Richard Jones (fl. 1564–1613),” 166n6. 42. Birrell, “Seventeenth-­Century Publishers”; Pratt, “Stab-­Stitching.” 43. Donne, Three Sermons Vpon Speciall Occasions (STC 7057); Foure Sermons Vpon Speciall Occasions (STC 7042); Fiue Sermons Vpon Speciall Occasions (STC 7041).

{ 164 }  N o t e s t o P a g e s 1 0 6 – 1 1 9

44. Kellendonk, John and Richard Marriott, 46. 45. Martin, “Walton, Izaak.” 46. Donne, Deaths Duell (Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62[1]). 47. The rest of the volume contains items 2–7: Donne, Sermon vpon the xx. Verse (Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62 [2]); Encænia (LC.I.62 [3]); Sermon vpon the Eighth Verse (LC.I.62[4]); Sermon, Preached to the Kings (LC.I.62 [5]); First Sermon Preached to King Charles (LC.I.62 [6]); Six Sermons upon Severall Occasions (LC.I.62 [7]). 48. Donne, Sermon vpon the xv. Verse (Hunt. 59074); Mert. MS EL 6495; Hunt. MS EL 6495 (photocopy); Brayman, Reading Material, 258–81. 49. Donne, Encænia (Hunt. 59075): the first earl dated his inscription “20 Iunij 1623,” not even a month after Donne must have preached the Ascension Day sermon, according to Church of England, Booke of Common Prayer (Hunt. 62292), sig. B1r; Donne, First Sermon Preached to King Charles (Hunt. 59076). 50. Donne, Deaths Dvell (Hunt. 59073). 51. Donne, Deaths Dvell (Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t6[1]); Wilkinson, Paire of Sermons (Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t6[2]). Neuman records Increase Mather’s purchase of an eleven-­volume series of Wilkinson sermons in 1691. Jeremiah’s Scribes, 53–54. 52. Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t6 contains sermons by Toy, Ferebe, Gataker, Reading, Calamy, Reynolds and Whitlock, Chambers, Walker, Eaton, Rose, Jenkyn, Chaffinge, Fvller, Petley, and Williamson—all included in the bibliography. 53. Hall, “Mather, Richard.” 54. Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t4. The volume begins with Robert Mossom’s sermon for the funeral of young John-­Goodhand Holt. 55. Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t8. The contents in this volume range from 1622 to 1663, and begin with Edward Reynolds’s funeral sermon for Lady Mary Langham. 56. Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723v begins with Thomas Pierce’s 1659 funeral sermon for Edward Peyto and includes quartos printed as early as 1630. Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t9 ranges from 1614 to 1659, opening with Richard Vines’ sermon for the funeral of the third earl of Essex. 57. American Antiquarian Society, Mather Library, pamphlet volume 792. The Sammelband begins with William Sclater’s Death’s Summons, which someone has redated by turning the last digit in the year of publication, 1640, to a “6.” Other quartos in the volume range from 1612 to 1653. The evidence for the AAS’s previous ownership of most, if not all, of the Houghton Library Sammelbände can be found in the manuscripts collection of AAS Archives, octavo vol. 19.15. This handwritten catalog shows that, before selling them, the AAS catalogued the Mathers’ first volume of funeral sermons as pamphlet vol. 761, the Mathers’ F2 as pamphlet vol. 772, F9 as pamphlet vol. 764, F12 as pamphlet vol. 775, and F13 as pamphlet vol. 774. 58. Neuman, Jeremiah’s Scribes, 53–54. 59. Mossom, Plant of Paradise (Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t4[1]); Reynolds, Churches Trivmph (Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t8[1]).

n o t e s t o p a g e s 1 1 9 – 1 2 3   { 165 }

60. Donne, Deaths Dvell (Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t6[1]). 61. American Antiquarian Society, Mather Family Papers, Mss. Boxes M, box 2, folders 3 and 7; University of Virginia, Albert and Shirley Small Special Collections Library MS 38–632, McGregor Autograph Box, folders 21–25 and 36. 62. Brunton, “Fitzwilliam, John.” 63. Thomas, Sermon Preached; Sancroft, Sermon Preach’d; Lamplugh, Sermon Preached—respectively, Magd. a.12.13, items 1, 2, and 3. 64. Sprat, Sermon Preached; Tillotson, Sermon Preached; and Lloyd, Sermon Preached before the King at White-­Hall—respectively, Magd. a.12.13, items 4, 5, and 6. Two other sermons to the king appear later in the Sammelband as items 9 and 14: Stillingfleet, Sermon Preached Before the King, and Pierce, Seasonable Caveat. The volume also contains the sermons by Sprat, Stillingfleet, Womock, Lloyd, Croft, and Barrow that are listed in my works cited. 65. Westminster Abbey MS 41, fols. 14r–15r, 30v–33v, 67v–79v. 66. Aelfric, Testimony of Antiquity (Magd. a.12.13[11]). 67. Donne, Deaths Dvell (Magd. a.12.13[17]). 68. Brunton, “Fitzwilliam, John”; Magdalen College, Oxford, “Books That Tell Stories.” 69. Wilkinson, Paire of Sermons (Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t6[2]). C ha p t er 5 1. Donne, LXXX Sermons (Sarum R.1.14), sigs. B5v–B6r. 2. Donne, Deaths Duell (Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62[1]), 17–18 (sig. D1r–v). For the latest edition of this sermon, based on an earlier edition of the quarto, see Colclough, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 3:225–49, 467–86. 3. Donne, LXXX Sermons (Sarum R.1.14), sig. C1r. 4. Ibid., sig. B6r. 5. Ibid., sig. B4v. 6. McCullough, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 1:160; Colclough, Oxford Edition of the Sermons, 3:280, 284, 404; Ettenhuber, Donne’s Augustine, 41, 66, 81, 94, 103. 7. Donne, LXXX Sermons (Sarum R.1.14), sig. A6r. 8. Bellarmine, Disputationes (Chich. KB.03.05–07); Hobbs, “Donne’s Bellarmine,” 435; Smith, “Bishop Henry King’s Library,” 138. 9. See Blayney, Texts of “King Lear”; Lesser, Renaissance Drama. 10. Fisher appears briefly, a few years younger than he does here, in Blayney, Texts of “King Lear,” 302. 11. Raleigh, Sir Walter Raleigh’s Instrvctions (STC 20644), 99; Southwell, Dutifull Advice (STC 156a), 1–2, 9–10. 12. Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 3:92, 95, 122, 131–22. 13. Donne, Sermon of Commemoration (Princeton RHT 17th-­202). 14. For the precise location, see Blayney, Bookshops in Paul’s Cross, 39–41, but also 32 and fig. 1.

{ 166 }  N o t e s t o P a g e s 1 2 3 – 1 3 5



15. Lock, “Abbot, Robert.” 16. Bradley and Wright, “Horne, Robert.” 17. See also Horne, Shield of the Righteous (STC 13825). 18. Usher, “Gataker [formerly Gatacre], Thomas”; McCullough, “Montagu, James.” 19. Byfield, Rvle of Faith (STC 4233, 4233.3); Ball, “Byfield, Nicholas.” 20. Bevan, “Some Books,” 261. 21. Colclough, “Donne, John”; Stringer, Variorum Edition of the Poetry, 8:187. 22. Donne, Devotions vpon Emergent Occasions (STC 7033); Donne, Devotions (STC 7034); Donne, Devotions (STC 7035 and 7035a). 23. Warre, Touch-­Stone of Truth (STC 25090a), 4, 66. 24. Keckermann, Heavenly Knowledg (STC 14897), sigs. A4r, B10v; Wright, “Vicars, Thomas.” 25. Lucan, Pharsalia (STC 16887). 26. Worshipful Company of Stationers MS Liber D, 121, 136, 211; Arber, Transcript of the Registers, 4:159, 174, 245; Lucan, Pharsalia (STC 16888). 27. Norbrook, Writing the English Republic, 23–62. 28. Warre, Touch-­Stone of Truth (STC 25091). 29. Donne, Ignatius his Conclaue (STC 7027 and 7028). 30. D[avies], Select Second Husband (STC 6342); Kellendonk, John and Richard Marriott, 3–4, 75. 31. Kellendonk, John and Richard Marriott, 21–27, 81–102; Blayney, Texts of “King Lear,” 299–300. 32. Donne, Ignatius his Conclaue (STC 7029 and 7030). 33. Hough. MS Eng. 966.5. 34. Stringer, “O’Flahertie Manuscript of Donne’s Poems.” 35. Donne, Poems, by J. D. (Texas A&M PR2245 .A1 1633), 382–84; Donne, Poems, by J. D. (Texas A&M PR 2245 .A1 1635b), frontispiece, 397–99; Donne, Poems, by J. D. (STC 7047), frontispiece, sigs. Cc5r–6r. 36. Bevan, “Walton and His Publisher,” 345–46; Bevan, “Henry Valentine, John Donne,” 190. 37. Donne, Poems by J. D. (Hough. EC.D7187.633pe (B) Lobby XII.2.8); Donne, Fifty Sermons (Wing D1862). 38. Donne, Essayes in Divinity (CELM *WtI 154); Donne, Letters (Sarum T.4.51). 39. Kellendonk, John and Richard Marriott, 6. 40. Worshipful Company of Stationers MS Liber D, 175; Arber, Transcript of the Registers, 4:209; Quarles, Argalus and Parthenia (STC 20526). 41. Worshipful Company of Stationers MS Liber D, 200, 208; Arber, Transcript of the Registers, 4:234, 242; Quarles, Divine Poems (STC 20533). 42. Gomersall, Poems (STC 11993); Gomersall, Sermons on St Peter (STC 11994); Kathman, “Gomersall, Robert.” 43. Kellendonk, John and Richard Marriott, 200–201, 208–9. 44. Valentine, Noahs Doue (STC 24576). 45. Worshipful Company of Stationers MS Liber D, 218; Arber, Transcript of the Registers, 4:252; Valentine, Private Devotions, 5th ed. (ESTC S126432). See also

n o t e s t o p a g e s 1 3 5 – 1 4 2   { 167 }

Valentine, Private Devotions, 11th ed. (STC 24576.7); Valentine, Defosiwneu Priod (Wing V23A). 46. Valentine, Private Devotions, 7th ed. (STC 24576.3), 8–9, 11, 22. 47. Keene, “Mayer, John.” 48. Bevan, Compleat Angler, 3; Kellendonk, John and Richard Marriott, 11. 49. Martin, “Walton, Izaak.” 50. Sparke, Scintillula Altaris (Wing S4806, S4807), sigs. B2v, [C]4r. 51. See CELM *WtI 166–68 and *WtI 185, the untraced copy of Adam Littleton’s Sixty One Sermons that Marriott gave to Walton. 52. Walton, Life of Mr. Rich. Hooker (Wing W670); Hooker, Works (1666; Wing H2631). 53. Walton, Lives (1670; Wing W671); Walton, Life of Mr. Rich. Hooker, 6 (sig. A3v). Each of the four biographies in Lives was printed with its own series of signature and page numbers. Bevan, Compleat Angler, 6; Kellendonk, John and Richard Marriott, 14. 54. Walton, Life of George Herbert (Wing W669); Herbert, Temple, 10th ed. (Wing H1521). 55. Walton, Lives (CELM *WtI 88). CELM numbers the recorded, inscribed copies of this edition *WtI 75–103. Walton evidently kept one of these for himself (Sarum P.4.50); see CELM *WtI 82. 56. Walton, Life of Dr. Sanderson (Magd. g.6.25); Sanderson, XXXV. Sermons (Wing S637). I thank Anne Chester for locating the Magdalen copy for me. 57. McGee, “Sanderson, Robert.” 58. Spurr, “Morley, George.” 59. Constable, Catholike Moderator (Christ Church, Oxford, e.7.21[6]). I thank David Stump for timely information about this book. 60. Williams, Directory of Rare Book and Special Collections, 183b. 61. Jinkins, “Perkins, William.” 62. Church of England, Book of Common Prayer (BL C.61.k.5.[1.]); CELM *WtI 136. 63. National Archives, Kew, MS PROB 1/47; Dewar, Compleat Angler, facsimile inserted between xliv and xlv; Dever, “Sibbes [Sibs], Richard”; Dever, Richard Sibbes. 64. McCabe, “Hall, Joseph.” 65. National Archives, Kew, MS PROB 1/47; Dewar, Compleat Angler, facsimile inserted between xliv and xlv. 66. Hales, Golden Remains, sig. A4v; CELM *WtI 173. See also *WtI 6–7, 11; and Patterson, “Farindon, Anthony.”

{ 168 }  N o t e s t o P a g e s 1 4 3 – 1 5 0

Bibliography

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Preached at the solemne internment of the corps of the Right Honourable Robert Earle of Warwick. London, 1658. Wing C262. Hough. *AC6 M4208. Zz723t6(10). Calvin, Jean. The Institution of Christian Religion. Translated by Thomas Norton. London, 1582. STC 4421. Sarum O.1.38. Cambridge University Library. A Catalogue of the Manuscripts. Vol. 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1857. Camerarius, Philippus. The Living Librarie. Translated by John Molle. London, 1621. STC 4529. Sarum T.3.14. Carlson, Leland, ed. The Writings of John Greenwood and Henry Barrow, 1591–1593. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1970. Catholic Church. Horae B. Virginis Mariae ad Vsum Romanu[m]. Leiden, 1553. Hunt. 108687. ———. Hore Beatissime Virginis Marie. Paris, 1527. STC 15954. USTC 184677. Hunt. 62243. ———. Psalterium cum Hymnis S[e]c[un]d[u]m Vsum et Co[n]suetudinem Sarum et Eboracen[sis]. Paris, 1506. STC 16258. USTC 143192. Hunt. 124062. ———. An Vniforme and Catholyke Prymer in Latin and Englishe. London, [1555]. STC 16060. Hunt. 62266. Chaffinge, Thomas. The Ivst Mans Memoriall . . . To The Pretiovs and Immortall Memory of the Right Honourable and truely Noble Lord, William Earle of Pembroke. London, 1630. STC 4931. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(18). Chambers, E. K., ed. The Poems of John Donne. 2 vols. London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. Chambers, Richard. Sarahs Sepvltvre, Or A Fvnerall Sermon, preached for the Right Honourable and vertuous Lady, Dorothie Countesse of Northvmberland. London, 1620. STC 4953. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(13). Church of England. The Book of the Common Praier. London, 1549. STC 16269. Hunt. 62284. EEBO 132:01. ———. The Book of Common Prayer. London, 1607. STC 16332. Hunt. 97052. EEBO 1996:01. ———. The Booke of Common Prayer. London, 1596. STC 16321a. Hunt. 62289. EEBO 2097:06. ———. The Booke of Common Prayer. London, 1605. STC 16329a. Hunt. 62292. ———. The Booke of Common Prayer. London, 1607. STC 16332.2. Hunt. 62295–6. ———. The Book of Common Prayer. London, 1639. STC 16415 or 16416; BL C.61.k.5.(1.). ———. Capitvla sive Constitvtiones Ecclesiasticæ. London, 1597. STC 10066. Hunt. 54001. ———. Capitvla sive Constitvtiones Ecclesiasticæ. London, 1599. STC 10067. Hunt. 59591. ———. Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall. London, 1604. STC 10069. Hunt. 59593. ———. Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall. London, 1604. STC 10070. Hunt. 60237.

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———. Encænia. London, 1623. STC 7039. Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62(3). ———. Essayes in Divinity. London, 1651. Wing D1861. CELM *WtI 154. Sotheby’s, Pirie sale, lot 295; untraced. ———. Fifty Sermons. London: for M[iles] F[lesher], J. Marriot, and R. Royston, 1649. Wing D1862. ———. The First Sermon. London, 1625. STC 7040. Hunt. 59076. ———. The First Sermon. London, 1625. STC 7040. Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62(6). ———. The First Sermon Preached to King Charles. London, 1625. STC 7040. Bod. 4º I 12(2) Th. ———. Fiue Sermons Vpon Speciall Occasions. London: for Thomas Iones, and are to bee sold at the signe of the Blacke Rauen in the Strand, 1626. STC 7041. ———. Foure Sermons Vpon Speciall Occasions. London: for Thomas Iones, and are to be sold at his shop in the Strand at the Blacke Rauen neere Saint Clements Church, 1625. STC 7042. ———. Ignatius his Conclaue. London: for Richard Moore, and are to be sold at his shop in S. Dunstones Church-­yard, 1611. STC 7027. ———. Ignatius his Conclaue. London: for Richard More, and are to be sold at his shop in S. Dunstans Church-­yard, 1626. STC 7028. ———. Ignatius his Conclaue. London: for Iohn Marriott, and are to be sold by W. Sheares at the Harrow in Britains Bursse, 1634. STC 7029. ———. Ignatius his Conclaue. London: for Iohn Marriott, and are to be sold by W. Sheares at the Harrow in Britains Bursse, 1635. STC 7030. ———. Iuuenilia: or, Certaine Paradoxes and Problemes. London, 1633. STC 7043. Bod. 4º C 11(2). ———. Letters. London, 1651. Wing D1864. Sarum T.4.51. ———. LXXX Sermons. London, 1640. STC 7038. Sarum R.1.14. ———. Poems, by J. D. London: for Iohn Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in St Dunstans Church-­yard in Fleet-­street, 1633. STC 7045. Texas A&M PR 2245 .A1 1633. “Digital Donne: The Online Variorum,” donnevariorum​ .tamu​.edu, A. ———. Poems, by J. D. London: for John Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in St Dunstans Church-­yard in Fleet-­street, 1635. STC 7046. Texas A&M PR 2245 .A1 1635b. “Digital Donne: The Online Variorum,” donnevariorum​ .tamu​.edu, B. ———. Poems, by J. D. London: for John Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in St Dunstans Church-­yard in Fleet-­street, 1639. STC 7047. ———. Poems, by J. D. London: for John Marriot, and are to be sold by Richard Marriot at his shop by Chancery lane end over against the Inner Temple gate, 1650. Wing D1869. Hough. EC.D7187.633pe (B) Lobby XII.2.8. ———. Psevdo-­Martyr. London, 1610. STC 7048. Bod. 4º D 25 Th. ———. Psevdo-­Martyr. London, 1610. STC 7048. Mid. L (Donne). ———. A Sermon of Commemoration. London, 1627. STC 7049. Princeton RHT 17th-­202.

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———. A Sermon, Preached to the Kings Mtie. at Whitehall, 24. Febr. 1625. London, 1626. STC 7050. Hunt. 60137. ———. A Sermon, Preached to the Kings Mtie. at Whitehall, 24. Febr. 1625. London, 1626. STC 7050. Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62(5). ———. A Sermon vpon the Eighth Verse of the First Chapter of the Acts of the Apostles. London, 1624. STC 7052. Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62(4). ———. A Sermon vpon the xv. Verse of the xx. Chapter of the Booke of Ivdges. London, 1622. STC 7053. Bod. 4º I 17 Th. ———. A Sermon vpon the xv. Verse of the xx. Chapter of the Booke of Ivdges. London, 1622. STC 7053. Hunt. 59074. EEBO 1446:17. ———. A Sermon vpon the xx. Verse of the v. Chapter of the Book of Ivdges. London, 1622. STC 7054. Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62(2). ———. Six Sermons upon Severall Occasions. Cambridge, 1634. STC 7056. Bod. 4º D 6(2) Th.Seld. ———. Six Sermons upon Severall Occasions. Cambridge, 1634. STC 7056. Pembroke College, Cambridge, LC.I.62(7). ———. Three Sermons Vpon Speciall Occasions. London: for Thomas Iones, and are to be sold at his shop in the Strand at the Black Rauen neere St. Clements Church, 1623. STC 7057. Drusius, Johannes. Ad Minerval Serarii Responsio. Franeker, 1606. USTC 1017851. Mid. L (Donne) Drusius (3). ———. De Tribvs Sectis Iudæorum. Franeker, 1605. USTC 1010637. Mid. L (Donne) Serarius (3). ———. Miscellanea Locvtionvm Sacrarvm. Franeker, 1586. USTC 422462. Mid. L (Donne) Drusius (1). ———. Tetragrammaton. Franeker, 1604. USTC 1010682. Mid. L (Donne) Drusius (2). Eaton, Richard. A Sermon Preached at the Fvneralls of that Worthie and Worshipfvll Gentleman, Master Thomas Dutton of Dutton, Esquire. London, 1616. STC 7468. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(15). Egerton, Thomas. The Speech of the Lord Chancellor of England. London, 1609. STC 7540. CUL Bb*.11.42(E)(7). Ettenhuber, Katrin, ed. The Oxford Edition of the Sermons of John Donne. Vol. 5, Sermons Preached at Lincoln’s Inn, 1620–1623. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Farindon, Anthony. Fifty Sermons. London: for Richard Mattiott, 1674. Wing F432. Exeter College, Oxford, P 205. ———. Forty Sermons. London: for Richard Marriott; and are to be sold at his shop under St. Dunstan’s Church in Fleet-­street, 1663. Wing F432A. Exeter College, Oxford, P 205. ———. XXX Sermons. London: for Richard Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in Saint Dunstan’s Church-­yard, Fleetstreet, [1657]. Wing F435. Exeter College, Oxford, P 205. Fenton, Roger. An Ansvvere to William Alablaster his Motives. London, 1599. STC 10799. Hough. *EC.D7187.Zz607e(5) Lobby XII.3.13.

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Ferebe, George. Lifes farewell. Or A Fvnerall Sermon Preached . . . At the Funerall of Iohn Drew Gentleman. London, 1615. STC 10818. Hough. *AC6 M4208. Zz723t6(5). Fitz-­Geffry, Charles. Deaths Sermon Vnto the Liuing. Delivered at The Funerals of the Religious Ladie Philippe, late Wife vnto the Right Worshipfull Sr. Anthonie Rovs of Halton in Cornwall Knight. London, 1620. STC 10940. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(3). Fitzherbert, Thomas. A Supplement to the Discussion of M. D. Barlowes Ansvvere to the Iudgment of a Catholike Englishman. [Saint-­Omer,] 1613. STC 11021. Bod. 4º B 50 Th. The Five Yeares of King Iames. London, 1643. Wing W2886. Freher, Marquard. Rerum Bohemicarum. Hannover, 1602. Chich. KC.04.07a&b. Fvller, William. The Movrning of Mount Libanon . . . A Sermon preached at Hodsocke . . . In commemoration of the Right Honourable and Religious Lady, the Lady Frances Clifton, Daughter to the Right Honourable the Earle of Cumberland. London, 1628. STC 11468. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(19). Gataker, Thomas. Abrahams Decease . . . Delivered at the Fvnerall of that Worthy Seruant of Christ, M r. Richard Stock, Late Pastor of All-­Hallowes Bread-­street. London, 1627. STC 11647. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(7). ———. An Anniuersarie Memoriall of Englands Deliuery from the Spanish Inuasion. London: for Philemon Stephens and Christopher Meredith, at the Golden Lion in Pauls Churchyard, 1626. STC 11648. ———. Ieroboams Sonnes Decease: A Fvnerall Sermon. London, 1627. STC 11663. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(9). ———. Two Funeral Sermons. London, 1620. STC 11679. Hough. *AC6 M4208. Zz723t6(6). Godefroy, Denis. Auctores Latinæ Linguæ in Unum Redacti Corpus. [Lyon,] 1595. USTC 158411, 451480. Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, Bb.4.2. Gomersall, Robert. The Leuites Revenge. London: [for John Marriott], 1628. STC 11992. ———. Poems. London: for Iohn Marriot, 1633. STC 11993. ———. Sermons on St Peter. London: for Iohn Marriot, 1634. STC 11994. ———. The Tragedie of Lodouick Sforza Duke of Milan. London: [for John Marriott], 1628. STC 11995. Gontery, R. P. Action de Graces. 1612. Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband (9). Goodwin, Thomas. Moses and Aaron. London, 1626. STC 11953. Sarum P.5.7. Gretser, Jacob. Libri Duo de Benedictionibvs, et Tertivs de Maldictionibvs. Ingolstadt, 1615. Mid. L (Donne). ———. Libri Dvo; De Modo Agendi Iesuitarum. Ingolstadt, 1600. USTC 668691. Mid. L (Donne). ———. Mysta Salmvriensis. Ingolstadt, 1614. Mid. L (Donne). ———. Svmmvla Casvvm Conscientiae De Sacramentis. Ingolstadt, 1611. USTC 2015811. Mid. L (Donne). Grierson, Herbert J. C., ed. The Poems of John Donne. 2 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1912. Reprint, 1963.

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Rose, William. Balaams Better Wish. London, 1647. Wing R1940. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(16). Sacrobosco, Cristóbal de. Defensio Decreti Tridentini. Antwerp, 1604. USTC 1506037. Mid. L (Donne) Sacroboscus (1). ———. De Investiganda Vera ac Visibili Christi Ecclesia. Antwerp, 1604. USTC 1506026. Mid. L (Donne) Sacroboscus (2). Sancroft, William. A Sermon Preach’d to the House of Peers. [London], 1678. Wing S568. Magd. a.12.13(2). Sanderson, Robert. XXXV. Sermons. London, [1681]. Wing S637. Scaliger, Joseph-­Juste. Elenchus Trihæresii Nicolaii Serarii. Franeker, 1605. USTC 1010630. Mid. L (Donne) Serarius (2). ———.Opvs Novvm de Emendatione Temporvm. Paris: Apud Sebastianum Niuellium, 1583. USTC 170688. CUL Keynes.I.7.3. Sclater, William. Death’s Summons, and the Saints Duty. London, 1640. STC 21849. American Antiquarian Society, Mather Library, pamphlet volume 792 (1). Serarius, Nikolaus. Minerval Divinis Hollandiæ. Mainz, 1605. USTC 2002007. Mid. L (Donne). Servin, Louis. Epistola m. Arthvsii de Cressonnieriis Britonis Galli. Tours, 1611. USTC 6016833, 6808058. Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband (5). Shawcross, John, ed. The Complete Poetry of John Donne. Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor, 1967. Simpson, Evelyn Mary, ed. The Courtier’s Library. London: Nonesuch, 1930. Songes and Sonets. London: Apud Richardum Tottell, 1574. STC 13866. Southwell, Robert. The Dutifull Advice of a Louing Sonne to His Aged Father. London: for Beniamin Fisher, dwelling in Alders-­gate street at the signe of the Talbot, 1633. STC 156a. Sparke, Edward. Scintillula Altaris. London: for Richard Marriot, and are to be sold at his Shop in St. Dunstan’s Church-­yard in Fleetstreet, 1652. Wing S4806, S4807. Sprat, Thomas. A Sermon Preached At The Anniversary Meeting Of The Sons of Clergymen. London, 1678. Wing S5055. Magd. a.12.13(7). ———. A Sermon Preached Before the King at White-­Hall. London, 1678. Wing S5056. Magd. a.12.13(4). Stengel, Carl. Sacrosancti Nominis Iesu Cultus et Miracula. Augsburg, 1613. USTC 2153157. Bod. 8º B 114(2) Th. Sternhold, Thomas. The VVhole Booke of Psalmes. London, 1607. STC 2522.3. Hunt. 97053. EEBO 1339:05. Stillingfleet, Edward. A Sermon Preached Before the King at White-­Hall. London, 1679. Wing S5654. Magd. a.12.13(9). ———. A Sermon Preached on the Fast=Day, November 13. 1678. At S t Margarets Westminster, Before the Honourable House of Commons. London, 1678. Wing S5652. Magd. a.12.13(8). Stringer, Gary A., gen. ed. The Variorum Edition of the Poetry of John Donne. 5 vols to date. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995–.

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Sutcliffe, Matthew. An Ansvvere vnto a Certaine Calumnious Letter. London, 1596. STC 23451. CUL Syn. 7.60.26(3). ———. The Svbversion of Robert Parsons. London, 1604. STC 23469. Hough. *EC. D7187.Zz607e(1) Lobby XII.3.13. Symonds, William. Virginia. A Sermon Preached at White-­Chappel. London, 1609. STC 23594. CUL Bb*.11.42(E)(8). Thomas, William. A Sermon Preached Before the Right Honourable, The Lords Assembled in Parliament. London, 1678. Wing T982. Magd. a.12.13(1). Thomson, Richard. Elenchus Refutationis Tortuae Torti. London, 1611. STC 24032. Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband (12). Tillotson, John. A Sermon Preached at White-­Hall. London, 1679. Wing T1233. Magd. a.12.13(5). Tossanus, Daniel. Doctrina de praedestinatione. Hanau, 1609. USTC 2093064. Chich. KB.02.14a. Toy, John. A Sermon Preached . . . at the funerall of M ris Alice Tomkins, wife unto M r Thomas Tomkins one of the Gentlemen of his Majesties Chappell Royall. London, 1642. Wing T1996. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(4). Valentine, Henry. Defosiwneu Priod. London: i Richard Marriot yn monwent Eglwys S. Dunstan, 1655. Wing V23A. ———. Noahs Doue. London: for Iohn Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in Saint Donstans Church-­yard, 1627. STC 24576. ———. Private Devotions. 5th ed. London: for John Marriot, [1633]. ESTC S126432. ———. Private Devotions. 7th ed. London: for John Marriot, [1635]. STC 24576.3. ———. Private Devotions. 11th ed. London: for John Marriot, [1640]. STC 24576.7. Vignier, Nicolas. Concerning the Excommunication of the Venetians. London, 1607. STC 24719. CUL Bb*.11.42(E)(11). Vines, Richard. The Hearse of the Renowned, the Right Honourable Robert Earle of Essex. London, 1646. Wing V554. Hough. *AC6 M4208 Zz723t9(1). Viseur, Robert. Dix-­sept Questions ou Demandes du Ministre Dr Moulin. Amiens, 1611. USTC 6807996. Marsh’s Stillingfleet Sammelband (11). Walker, William. A Sermon Preached at the Fvnerals of the Right Honourable, William, Lord Rvssell, Baron of Thornhaugh. London, 1614. STC 24964. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(14). Walton, Izaak. The Compleat Angler. London: for Rich. Marriot, in S. Dunstans Church-­yard Fleetstreet, 1653. Wing W661. ———. The Life of Dr. Sanderson. London, 1678. Wing W667. Madg. g.6.25. ———. The Life of George Herbert. London: for Rich: Marriott, sold by most booksellers, [1670]. Wing W669. ———. The Life of John Donne. London: for R. Marriot, and are to be sold under S. Dunstans Church in Fleet-­street, 1658. Wing W668. ———. The Life of Mr. Rich. Hooker. London: for Rich. Marriott, and are to be sold at his shop under the Kings-­head Tavern, over against the Inner-­Temple gate in Fleetstreet, 1665. Wing W670. ———. The Lives of Dr. John Donne, Sir Henry Wotton, Mr. Richard Hooker, Mr. George Herbert. London: for Richard Marriott. Sold by most booksellers, 1670. Wing W671. Sarum P.4.50.

{ 182 }  B i b l i o g r a p h y

———. The Lives of Dr. John Donne, Sir Henry Wotton, Mr. Richard Hooker, Mr. George Herbert. London, 1670. Wing W671. CELM *WtI 88. Warre, James. The Touch-­Stone of Truth. London: Aug. Mathewes, and are to be sold by Thomas Iones at the east end of Saint Dunstans Church, 1630. STC 25091. ———. The Touch-­Stone of Truth. London: Aug. Mathewes, and Io. Norton, and are to be sold by Thomas Iones at the blacke Rauen, in the Strand, 1624. STC 25090a. Whittingham, William. The Bible. London, [1607]. STC 2199. Hunt. 97051. EEBO 1567:01. Wilde, Jeremias. De Formica. Amberg, 1615. USTC 2042831. Chich. KD.04.03a. Wilkinson, Robert. A Paire of Sermons. London, 1614. STC 25661. Hough. *AC6 M4208.Zz723t6(2). Williamson, Thomas. A Comfortable Meditation of Humane Frailtie, and Divine Mercie: In Two Sermons. London, 1630. STC 25738. Hough. *AC6 M4208. Zz723t6(21). Wolder, Johan. Hæreseologiæ Synopsis. Wittenberg, 1609. USTC 2136311. Bod. 8º B 45(10) Art.Seld. Womock, Laurence. Go Shew Thy Self to the Priest: Safe Advice For a Sound Protestant. London, 1679. Wing W3344. Magd. a.12.13(10). Wotton, Sir Henry. Reliquiæ Wottonianæ. London: for R. Marriot, G. Bedel and T. Garthwait, 1651. Wing W3648. Zeämann, Georg, and Michael Dornberger. Gretserus Triumphatus. Lauingen, 1610. USTC 2067568. Chich. KB.02.14b. Seco nda ry So u rc es Adlington, Hugh. “Donne’s Sermons in Manuscript Compilations: The Case of the Ellesmere MS.” Forthcoming. ———. John Donne’s Books: Reading, Writing, and the Uses of Knowledge. Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming. ———. “More Books from the Library of John Donne.” Book Collector 61 (Spring 2012): 55–64. ———. “Seven More Books from the Library of John Donne.” Book Collector 67 (Autumn 2018): 528–33. Allen, Elizabeth. “Burges [Burgess], John (1563–1635).” ODNB. Armstrong, Brian G. Bibliographia Molinaei: An Alphabetical, Chronological, and Descriptive Bibliography of the Works of Pierre Du Moulin (1568–1658). Geneva: Librarie Droz S.A., 1997. Baker, J. H. “Common Lawyers and the Inns of Court.” In The Cambridge History of Libraries in Britain and Ireland, vol. 1, edited by Elisabeth Leedham-­ Green and Teresa Webber, 448–60. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Bald, R. C. John Donne: A Life. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970. Ball, Bryan W. “Byfield, Nicholas (1578/?9–1622).” ODNB. B i b l i o g r a p h y   { 183 }

Beal, Peter. A Dictionary of English Manuscript Terminology, 1450–2000. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. ———. In Praise of Scribes: Manuscripts and Their Makers in Seventeenth-­Century England. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998. Bennett, R. E. “Tracts from John Donne’s Library.” Review of English Studies 13 (July 1937): 333–35. Benson, Charles. “Libraries in University Towns.” In The Cambridge History of Libraries in Britain and Ireland, vol. 2, edited by Giles Mandelbrote and K. A. Manley, 102–21. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Bevan, Jonquil. “Henry Valentine, John Donne, and Izaak Walton.” Review of English Studies, new ser., 40 (May 1989): 179–201. ———. “Izaak Walton and His Publisher.” Library, 5th ser., 32, no. 4 (1977): 344–59. ———. “Some Books from Izaak Walton’s Library.” Library, 6th ser., 2, no. 3 (1980): 259–63. Birrell, T. A. “The Influence of Seventeenth-­Century Publishers on the Presentation of English Literature.” In Historical and Editorial Studies in Medieval and Early Modern English, edited by Mary-­Jo Arn and Hanneke Wirtjes, 163–73. Groningen: Wolters-­Noordhoff, 1985. Blayney, Peter W. M. The Bookshops in Paul’s Cross Churchyard. London: Bibliographical Society, 1990. ———. The Texts of “King Lear” and Their Origins. Vol. 1, Nicholas Okes and the First Quarto. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982. Bradley, E. T., and Stephen Wright. “Horne, Robert (1564/?5–1640).” ODNB. Brayman Hackel, Heidi. Reading Material in Early Modern England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Hunt. PR428.A8 B73 2005. Brown, Piers. “ ‘Hac ex consilio meo via progredieris’: Courtly Reading and Secretarial Mediation in Donne’s The Courtier’s Library.” Renaissance Quarterly 61 (2008): 833–66. Brunton, D. A. “Fitzwilliam, John (d. 1699).” ODNB. Clark, Margaret. “Robinson, Henry (1551/?2–1616).” ODNB. Colclough, David. “Donne, John (1572–1631).” ODNB. Collinson, Patrick. “Throckmorton, Job (1545–1601).” ODNB. Dever, Mark E. Richard Sibbes: Puritanism and Calvinism in Late Elizabethan and Early Stuart England. Macon: Mercer University Press, 2000. ———. “Sibbes [Sibs], Richard (1577?–1635).” ODNB. Dewar, George, ed. The Compleat Angler. London: Freemantle, 1902. Dubinskaya, M. P. “A Book from John Donne’s Library.” Kollektstii-­knigiavtografy 1 (1989): 95–102. Eaves, Isaac Herbert J., ed. Descriptive Catalogue of the Charters and Muniments in the Possession of Rt. Hon. Lord Fitzhardinge, Berkeley Castle. London: C. T. ­Jeffries and Sons, 1892. Ettenhuber, Katrin. “ ‘The Best Help God’s People Have’: Manuscript Culture and the Construction of Anti-­Calvinist Communities in Seventeenth-­ Century England.” Seventeenth Century 22, no. 2 (2007): 260–82.

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———. Donne’s Augustine: Renaissance Cultures of Interpretation. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Ferrell, Lori Ann. The Bible and the People. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008. ———. Government by Polemic: James I, the King’s Preachers, and the Rhetorics of Conformity, 1603–1625. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998. Ferris, John. “Ashley, Robert (1565–1641).” ODNB. Fincham, Kenneth, and Nicholas Tyacke. Altars Restored: The Changing Face of English Religious Worship, 1547–c. 1700. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Flynn, Dennis. “Donne’s Wedding and the Pyrford Years.” In The Oxford Companion to John Donne, edited by Jeanne Shami, Dennis Flynn, and M. Thomas Hester, 471–82. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. ———. John Donne and the Ancient Catholic Nobility. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995. Fuks, L., and R. G. Fuks-­Mansfeld, eds. Hebrew Typography in the Northern Netherlands, 1585–1815. Leiden: Brill, 1984. Guibbory, Achsah. Returning to John Donne. Farnham: Ashgate, 2015. Hall, Michael G. “Mather, Richard (1596–1669).” ODNB. Hobbs, Mary. “More Books from the Library of John Donne.” Book Collector 29, no. 4 (1980): 590–92. ———. “ ‘To a Most Dear Friend’—Donne’s Bellarmine.” Review of English Studies, new ser., 32 (November 1981): 435–38. James, Anne. “Preaching the Good News: William Barlow Narrates the Fall of Essex and the Gunpowder Plot.” In Paul’s Cross and the Culture of Persuasion in England, 1520–1640, edited by Torrance Kirby and P. G. Stanwood, 345–88. Leiden: Brill, 2014. Jinkins, Michael. “Perkins, William (1558–1602).” ODNB. Johnson, Jeffrey. The Theology of John Donne. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1999. Kathman, David. “Gomersall, Robert (bap. 1602, d. 1643/?4).” ODNB. Keene, Nicholas. “Mayer, John (bap. 1583, d. 1664).” ODNB. Kellendonk, Frans. John and Richard Marriott: The History of a Seventeenth-­Century Publishing House. Amsterdam: Katholieke Universiteit Nijmegen, 1978. Keynes, Geoffrey. A Bibliography of John Donne. 4th ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973. ———. “More Books from the Library of John Donne.” Book Collector 26 (Spring 1977): 29–35. ———. “Note 419: More Books from the Library of John Donne.” Book Collector 27 (Winter 1978): 570–72. Klemp, P. J. “ ‘Betwixt the Hammer and the Anvill’: Lancelot Andrewes’s Revision Techniques in the Manuscript of His 1620 Easter Sermon.” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America 89, no. 2 (1995): 149–82. Knafla, Louis A. Law and Politics in Jacobean England: The Tracts of Lord Chancellor Ellesmere. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977. Knight, Jeffrey Todd. Bound to Read: Compilation, Collection, and the Making of Renaissance Literature. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013.

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Lake, Peter, with Michael Questier. The Antichrist’s Lewd Hat: Protestants, Papists, and Players in Post-­Reformation England. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002. Lesser, Zachary. Renaissance Drama and the Politics of Publication: Readings in the English Book Trade. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Lewalski, Barbara. Protestant Poetics and the Seventeenth-­Century Religious Lyric. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979. Lock, Julian. “Abbot, Robert (1559/?60–1618).” ODNB. MacCulloch, Diarmaid. Reformation: Europe’s House Divided, 1490–1700. London: Allen Lane, 2003. Magdalen College, Oxford. “Books That Tell Stories: John Fitzwilliam’s Library.” 31 August 2015. http://​www​.magd​.ox​.ac​.uk​/libraries​-­­and​-­­archives​ /treasure​-­­of​-­­the​-­­month​/news​/fitzwilliam/. Malcolm, Noel. Reason of State, Propaganda, and the Thirty Years’ War: An Unknown Translation by Thomas Hobbes. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2007. Martin, Jessica. “Walton, Izaak (1593–1683).” ODNB. Martz, Louis L. The Poetry of Meditation: A Study in English Religious Literature of the Seventeenth Century. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1962. “Master List of Poems in Seventeenth-­Century Sources.” “Digital Donne: The Online Variorum,” donnevariorum​.tamu​.edu. May, Steven W. “Donne and Egerton: The Court and Courtship.” In The Oxford Companion to John Donne, edited by Jeanne Shami, Dennis Flynn, and M. Thomas Hester, 447–59. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. ———. “Henry Stanford’s ‘God Knows What.’ ” English Manuscript Studies, 1100–1700 16 (2011): 70–81. ———. “Stanford, Henry (c. 1552–1616).” ODNB. McCabe, Richard. “Hall, Joseph (1574–1656).” ODNB. McCarthy, Erin. “Poems, by I. D. (1635) and the Creation of John Donne’s Literary Biography.” John Donne Journal 32 (2013): 57–85. ———. “Print Logic and Authority in the O’Flahertie Manuscript (H6) of Donne’s Poems.” Paper presented at the John Donne Society Annual Conference, Louisiana State University, 22 February 2014. McCullough, Peter. “Montagu, James (1568–1618).” ODNB. ———. Sermons at Court: Politics and Religion in Elizabethan and Jacobean Court Preaching. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. McGee, J. Sears. “Sanderson, Robert (1587–1663).” ODNB. McKitterick, David. Print, Manuscript, and the Search for Order, 1450–1830. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. McLawhorn, Tracy. “A Critical Edition of Donne’s ‘The Indifferent,’ ‘Love’s Usury,’ ‘The Will,’ ‘The Funerall,’ ‘The Primerose,’ and ‘The Dampe,’ and Digital Edition of ‘To His Mistress Going to Bed.’ ” PhD diss., Texas A&M University, 2013. Meadows, John. “Moore, John (1646–1714).” ODNB. Melnikoff, Kirk. “Richard Jones (fl. 1564–1613): Elizabethan Printer, Bookseller, and Publisher.” Analytical and Enumerative Bibliography 12, nos. 3–4 (2001): 153–84.

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Sherman, William H. Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008. Smith, Daniel Starza. “Bishop Henry King’s Library at Chichester Cathedral.” In Art, Literature, and Religion in Early Modern Sussex: Culture and Conflict, edited by Matthew Dimmock, Andrew Hadfield, and Paul Quinn, 121–45. London: Routledge, 2016. Smith, Daniel Starza, Matthew Payne, and Melanie Marshall. “Rediscovering John Donne’s Catalogus librorum satyricus.” Review of English Studies 69 (June 2018): 455–87. Sotheby’s. “Property from the Collection of Robert S. Pirie, Volumes I and II: Books and Manuscripts.” 4 December 2015. http://​www​.sothebys​ .com​/en​/auctions​/2015​/property​-­­collection​-­­robert​-­­s​-­­pirie​-­­books​ -­­manuscripts​-­­n09391​.html. Spurr, John. “Morley, George (1598?–1684).” ODNB. St. John’s College Library. “Autograph of John Donne (1572–1631).” https://​www​ .joh​.cam​.ac​.uk​/library​/special​_collections​/early​_books​/donne​.htm. Stringer, Gary A., ed. “Bibliographical Description of the O’Flahertie Manuscript of Donne’s Poems.” “Digital Donne: The Online Variorum,” donnevariorum​.tamu​.edu. Sullivan, Ernest W., II. The Influence of John Donne: His Uncollected Seventeenth-­ Century Printed Verse. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1993. ———. “John Donne’s Seventeenth-­Century Readers.” In The Oxford Handbook of John Donne, edited by Jeanne Shami, Dennis Flynn, and M. Thomas Hester, 26–33. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. Tabor, Stephen. “The Bridgewater Library.” In Pre-­Nineteenth-­Century Book Collectors and Bibliographers, edited by William Baker and Kenneth Womack, 40–50. Detroit: Gale, 1999. Till, Barry. “Stillingfleet, Edward (1635–1699).” ODNB. Toomer, G. J. John Selden: A Life in Scholarship. 2 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Usher, Brett. “Gataker [formerly Gatacre], Thomas (1574–1654).” ODNB. Williams, Moelwyn I. A Directory of Rare Book and Special Collections in the United Kingdom and the Republic of Ireland. London: Library Association, 1985. Woudhuysen, H. R. “Two More Books from the Library of John Donne.” Book Collector 32 (Autumn 1983): 349. Wright, Stephen. “Vicars, Thomas (1589–1638).” ODNB. Yeandle, Laetitia. “Sir Edward Dering, 1st Bart., of Surrenden: Dering and his ‘Booke of Expences,’ 1617–1628.” http://​www​.kentarchaeology​.ac​ /authors​/020​.pdf.

{ 188 }  B i b l i o g r a p h y

Index

Abbot, Robert (bishop of Salisbury), 135–36 Adlington, Hugh, 59, 82–83, 112–13, 163n1 Aelfric, 124 Alabaster, William, 75 Allen, William (cardinal), 34–36, 42, 66 American Antiquarian Society Mss. AAS Archives, 165n57 Mather Family Papers, 166n61 Mather Library, pamphlet volume 792, 123 Anderson, Sir Edmund, 40–41, 44 Andrewes, Lancelot (bishop of Winchester), 83, 109–10, 127 Andrews, Richard, 91–93 Anne (queen of England, Scotland, and Ireland), 111–12, 117–18 Aquinas, Thomas, 78 Armstrong, Brian, 161n75 Ashley, Robert, 76–81 Augustine (bishop of Hippo Regius), 3 Avignon, Bertrand, 80 Aylmer, John (bishop of London), 47 Bacon, Francis, 85, 108 Baker J. H., 160n43 Bald, R. C., 159n38, 162n91 Barlow, William (bishop of Lincoln), 85, 108 Baronius, Caesar (cardinal), 66–67, 84 Barrow, Henry, 40–45, 48–49, 70, 72–73, 107 Beal, Peter, 94, 153n2, 154n3, 154n9, 154n20, 162n85, 162n86, 167n38, 168n51, 168n55, 168n62, 168n66

Bede (the Venerable), 148 Beinecke Library MS Osborn b114, 97 Bellarmine, Robert, 83, 132 Bellasys, Margarett, 96 Bennett, R. E., 159n37 Benson, Charles, 161n77 Berkeley Castle MS Select Books 85, 94 Bible Colossians, 112 I Corinthians, 114–15, 143 James, 112–13 John, 112 Luke, 71, 112 Matthew, 15–17, 20, 43, 78 Psalms, 16–17, 112, 143 Bignon, Jérôme, 80 Billet, Arthur, 44, 46 Binder, Christoph, 81–82 Birrell, T. A., 164n42 Bishop, William, 159n36 Blayney, Peter, 133, 135n14 Bodkin, Robert, 39–40 Bodleian Library, 79–81, 105 8º B 45 Art. Seld., 79–80 Bodley, Thomas, 80 Bowle, Robert, 44 Brayman, Heidi, 154n19, 155n13, 165n48 Brereton, Richard, 32–34, 106–7 British Library Add. MS 10309, 96 Add. MS 30982, 96 Harley MS 7553, 94–95 Stowe MS 962, 96 Brown, Piers, 105–9

Browne, William, 81 Brownlow, Frank, 35 Burges, John, 63–66, 84–85 Butler, William, 110 Byfield, Nicholas, 136 Calvin, Jean, 72, 82, 148, 150 Campion, Edmund, 13, 31, 33, 35 Capuchins, 13 Cambridge University Library, 85–86 Bb*.11.42(E), 60–68, 85–86 MS Add. 29, 93n3 MS Add. 8469, 8, 111–13, 117–18 MS Ee. 4. 13, 88–89 MS Ee. 4. 14, 86–88 Syn. 7.60.26, 84–85, 108–9 Camerarius, Philippus, 149 Carew, Thomas, 96 Carlson, Leland, 37–41, 44–46 Carr, Robert (earl of Somerset), 86–87 Cartwright, Thomas, 72–74 Catholic Church, Roman books of hours, 22–23, 30 litanies, 22–23 primer, 26–27 psalter, 22 Rheims Testament, 33, 53 Cecil, Sir Robert, 35 Cecil, William (Lord Burghley), 31–32 Chambers, E. K., 103 Charles I (king of England, Scotland, and Ireland), 2, 110, 125–26 Charles II (king of England, Scotland, and Ireland), 124 Chichester Cathedral Library, 81–82, 132 KB.02.14, 82 KB.03.05–07, 132 KC.04.07, 81 KD.04.03, 81–82 Church of England An Exhortation vnto Prayer, 24 Book of Common Prayer, 15–19, 26–27, 42–45, 53, 72, 114, 143–44, 147, 149 Constitvtions and Canons Ecclesiasticall, 13–16, 63–64, 85 litanies, 23–27 primers, 23–24, 26 Coke, Sir Edward, 134

{ 190 }  I n d e x

Colclough, David, 2–3, 131–32, 155n16 Constable, Henry, 94–104, 148 Corbett, Richard (bishop of Oxford and Norwich), 96, 109 Covell, William, 58–59, 63–66, 68–71, 84, 89, 146 Cranmer, Thomas (archbishop of Canterbury), 23 Crashaw, William, 68 Cromwell, Oliver, 125–26 Cupers, Rodolfo, 81 Danvers, Magdalen [Herbert], 135 Darbyshire, John, 150 De Harlay, Francois, the Elder, 83 Dering, Sir Edward, 160n42 Devereux, Robert (second earl of Essex), 85, 108 Devereux, Robert (third earl of Essex), 165n56 Donne, Anne [More], 100 Donne, Henry, 36–37 Donne, John “Catalogus,” 105–9 “De Libro Cum Mutuaretur,” 91–93 Deaths Dvell, 118–32 Devotions vpon Emergent Occasions, 11–12, 18, 31, 81, 137 LXXX Sermons, 129–32 Foure Sermons, 119 Fiue Sermons, 119–20, 138 “Good Fryday,” 99, 101 “Holy Sonnets,” 102 Ignatius his Conclaue, 83, 138, 144 Iuuenilia, 81 “La Corona,” 97, 102–3 “A Letanie,” 18–22, 27, 96–99, 143 “Of the Crosse,” 96, 101 Poems, by J.D., 101–3, 138–42, 144, 146 Psevdo-Martyr, 79–80, 83 “Satyre 2,” 57–58, 86 “Satyre 3,” 49–55 “Satyre 5,” 27–30, 36–37 Six Sermons, 81, 120 “The Resurrection, Imperfect,” 101 Three Sermons, 119 “Vpon the Annuntiation & Passion,” 97–98, 101 “The will,” 12–13, 18

Donne, John, Jr., 139 Drake, Sir Francis, 36 Drayton, Michael, 81, 138, 141 Drusius, Johannes, 77 Du Moulin, Pierre, 83 Egerton, Elizabeth [Ravenscroft], 25 Egerton, Frances [Stanley] (countess of Bridgewater), 8, 12–13, 18–19, 30, 54, 86, 98–101, 110, 120 Egerton, John (first earl of Bridgewater), 8–9, 13–14, 30–31, 33, 54, 100–101, 110, 120 Egerton, John (second earl of Bridgewater), 8–9, 13–16, 22, 112–13 Egerton, Sir Thomas, 7–8, 19, 25, 27–31, 36–38, 40, 44–48, 54, 60–62, 67–68, 85, 108, 134 Egerton, Stephen, 107–8 Elizabeth I (queen of England and Ireland), 27–28, 75, 84, 95–96, 100, 108, 133–35 Elizabeth (queen of Bohemia and Electress Palatine), 2, 87–88 Ettenhuber, Katrin, 3, 109–10, 166n6 Farindon, Anthony, 146, 150 Feild, Henry, 149 Fenton, Roger, 75 Ferrell, Lori Anne, 5, 155n9 Fincham, Kenneth, 5 Fischer, Benjamin, 133–35 Fitzherbert, Thomas, 80–81 Fitzwilliam, John, 121–27, 147, 151 Flesher, Miles, 102, 139, 141 Fletcher, John, 109 Flynn, Dennis, 5, 100 Folger Shakespeare Library MS L.b.526, 30 MS L.b.537, 158n7 MS L.b.539, 158n7 Foxe, John, 107 Frederick V (elector Palatine), 2, 87–88 Gataker, Thomas, 136 George I (king of Great Britain and Ireland), 85 Godfrey, Sir Edmund Berry, 124 Golding, Arthur, 148

Gomersall, Robert, 141–42, 145 Gontery, R. P., 161n75 Goodwin, Thomas, 136 Greenwood, John, 40–45, 70, 107 Gregory XIII (pope), 53 Gretser, Jacob, 82 Grierson, Herbert J. C., 103–4 Grinsell, Sarah, 142 Grundy, Joan, 94–95 Guibbory, Achsah, 5 Guicciardini, Francesco, 76 Hales, John, 150 Hall, Joseph, 149–50 Haren, Jean, 82 Harrington, William, 36 Helwig, Christoph, 78 Henry VIII (king of England and ­Ireland), 53 Henry Frederick (prince of Wales), 87–88, 121, 125–26 Herbert, Edward (first Baron Herbert of Cherbury), 88 Herbert, George, 135, 146–47 Heylyn, Peter, 146 Heywood, Jasper, 13 Hill, Nicholas, 76, 106 Hobbs, Mary, 82, 132, 158n4 Holland, Thomas, 75 Hooker, Richard, 68–70, 146–47 Hopkins, John, 16 Horace, 58 Horne, Robert, 135 Houghton Library *AC6 M4208 Zz723t4, 122–23 *AC6 M4208 Zz723t6, 121–23 *AC6 M4208 Zz723t8, 123 *AC6M4208 Zz723t9, 123 *AC6 M4208 Zz723v, 123 *EC.D7187.Zz607e Lobby XII.3.13, 68–75 MS Eng. 966.5 (O’Flahertie), 3, 100–102, 139 MS Eng. 966.6, 97 MS Eng. 966.7, 97 Howard [Devereux, Carr], Frances (countess of Somerset), 86–87 Howard, Henry (earl of Northampton), 87 Howard, Philip (earl of Arundel), 31 I n d e x   { 191 }

Huntington Library MS EL 34/C/2, 8, 111, 114–18 MS EL 483, 45–47 MS EL 1160–94, 31 MS EL 2000–2099, 32–33, 40–41, 44–45 MS EL 2101–58, 37–40, 45–47 MS EL 2663, 31 MS EL 6162 (including EL 1196, 1197), 31 MS EL 6495, 8, 19, 120 MS EL 6893, 8, 12–13, 20–22, 27–30 , 48–58, 97–101 Rare Books 59073–59076, 8 Rare Books 59588–59594, 14 Rare Books 66292–66294, 165n49 Rare Books 62295–62298, 114 Rare Books 97051–97053, 16–17, 20, 120 Huss, John, 82 Hyll, Adam, 75 James II and VII (king of England, Scotland, and Ireland), 124–25 James VI and I (king of Scotland, England, and Ireland), 2, 62, 67, 75, 85–86, 88 Jesuits, 7, 12–14, 31, 35, 74, 77, 82–83, 132–34, 138–39 Johnson, Jeffrey, 5 Jones, Thomas, 112, 119–20, 136–39 Jonson, Ben, 76, 81, 96, 106, 109 Karlstadt, Andreas, 107 Kaufman, Peter Iver, 5 Keckermann, Bartholomäus, 137 Kellendonk, Frans, 165n44, 167n30, 167n31, 167n39, 167n43, 168n48, 168n53 Kent History and Library Centre MS U350 E4, 160n42 Keynes, Sir Geoffrey, 59, 61, 75 King, Henry (bishop of Chichester), 81–82, 132, 139 King, John (bishop of London), 67–68, 81, 89 Knafla, Louis A., 155n27

{ 192 }  I n d e x

Knight, Jeffrey Todd, 154n8, 154n12 Lake, Peter, 5, 156n48 Leare, Daniel, 96 Lee, Nicholas, 39, 44, 53 Le Jay, Nicolas, 83 Leschassier, Jacques, 82–83 Lesser, Zachary, 133 Lewalski, Barbara, 104 Locke, John, 82 Lowell, James Russell, 103 Loyola, Ignatius, 13, 83 Lucan, 138–39 Luther, Martin, 53, 71, 107–8 Luqmamn, 82 MacCulloch, Diarmaid, 5 Magdalen College, Oxford, Old Library a.12.13, 124–27 Main, David, 103 Marsh’s Library Stillingfleet Sammelband, 82–84 Marriott, John, 93, 101–3, 133, 139–49 Marriott, Richard, 133, 139–42, 145–49 Martin, Gregory, 34 Martz, Louis, 104 Mary I (queen of England and Ireland), 26–27 Mary II (queen of England, Scotland, and Ireland), 124 Mary Stuart (queen of Scots), 31 Mason, Henry, 81 Mather family, 121–27 Mathewes, Augustine, 143–45 May, Steven, 100, 162n5 May, Thomas, 138 Mayer, John, 143–44 McCarthy, Erin, 101–2 McCullough, Peter, 117–18, 154n4, 154n7, 166n6 McKitterick, David, 154n12 Melnikoff, Kirk, 164n41 Meredith, Christopher, 135–36, 138 Mertoun Estate EL 6495, 8, 19, 120 Middle Temple Library L (Donne) Drusius, 77

L (Donne) Helwig, 78 L (Donne) Serarius, 77 MS MT.9/LCA/16, 79 Monnipennie, John, 62 Montagu, James (bishop of Winchester), 136 Moore, John (bishop of Ely), 85–89, 151 Moore, Thomas, 110–18, 126 More, Sir George, 30 More, Richard, 138 More, Sir Thomas, 33–34 Morley, George (bishop of Winchester), 124, 146–48, 151 Mornay, Philippe de, 148 Moseley, Humphrey, 142 National Archives, Kew MS PROB 1/5 (Donne’s will), 75, 81 MS PROB 1/47 (Walton’s will), 149–51 MS SP 11/159 (copy of Donne’s will), 75 National Library of Wales MS Dolaucothi 6748, 162n3 Neuman, Meredith, 165n51, 165n58 Norton, Charles Eliot, 103 Norton, Thomas, 148 Oates, Titus, 124 Ochino, Bernardino, 76, 78 Ormerod, Oliver, 59, 71–74, 89 Overbury, Sir Thomas 86–88 Ovid, 58 Paleotti, Gabriele, 80 Paracelsus, 76, 86 Parkhurst, William, 96 Parsons, Robert, 13, 34, 74 Patterson Annabel, 22 Paul V, Pope, 66 Payne, Matthew, 105–6 Pearson, David, 158n4, 161n77 Peel, Albert, 45–47 Pembroke College, Cambridge LC.I.62, 119–20, 130, 136–37 Penry, John, 45–49, 70, 108 Percy, Henry (eighth earl of Northumberland), 30

Percy, Thomas (ninth earl of Northumberland), 30, 100 Périer, Jérémie, 79 Perkins, William, 75, 148 Petrarch, 62–63 Petroski, Henry, 154n20, 158n9 Petti, Anthony, 31–33, 36–39 Philalethes, Andreas, 159n36 Philip II (king of Spain), 53 Philip III (king of Spain), 75 Plancius, Daniel, 82 Polanus von Polansdorf, Amandus, 78 Popham, Sir John, 30, 40–44 Powel, Gabriel, 84–85 Pratt, Aaron, 119n42 Quarles, Francis, 140–42, 145 Questier, Michael, 5, 156n48 Ralegh, Sir Walter, 133–35 Ravenscroft, Thomas, 25 Record Office for Leicestershire, Leicester, and Rutland MS DG7/Lit.2, 96 Redford, Peter, 163n11 Richard III (king of England), 108 Robbins, Robin, 91–93 Robertson, John, 38–39 Robinson, Henry (bishop of Carlisle), 107–8 Roe, Sir Thomas, 132 Rogers, Thomas, 84 Sanderson, Robert, 147–48, 150 Scaliger, Joseph, 77, 158n8 Scodel, Joshua, 155n14 Selden, John, 79–81, 120 Serarius, Nikolaus, 77, 82 Servin, Louis, 83 Shagan, Ethan, 5, 155n14 Shakespeare, William, 5 Shami, Jeanne, 5 Shaw, Ralph, 108 Shawcross, John, 69 Sherman, William H., 34–35 Sibbes, Richard, 149–50 Sidney, Sir Philip, 81, 148 Smith, Daniel Starza, 105–6 Society of Jesus. See Jesuits.

I n d e x   { 193 }

Southwell, Robert, 134–35 Southworth, Sir John, 32–34, 53 Sparke, Alice, 25 Sparke, Edward, 145 Spenser, Edmund, 81 Sperin, Thomas, 41–43, 107 Stanhope, Edward, 44, 47 Stanley, Henry (fourth earl of Derby), 32 Stengel, Carl, 80 Stephens, Philemon, 135–36, 138 Sternhold, Thomas, 16 Stillingfleet, Edward, 82–84, 166n64 Stookes, Robert, 44 Stringer, Gary, 93, 100–101, 139, 157n2, 158n5, 158n8, 158n10, 159n24, 162n87, 162n91, 162n95, 166n12, 167n21 Strode, William, 96 Sullivan, Ernest W., II, 153n1 Sutcliffe, Matthew, 74, 84, 108–9 Sutton, Christopher, 76n42 Symonds, William, 68 Tabor, Stephen, 154n13, 154n3 (chap. 1), 155n9 Tacitus, 87 Thomson, Richard “Dutch,” 83 Throckmorton, Job, 84, 108 Toomer, G. J., 160n55, 161n62 Topcliffe, Richard, 34–36, 106–7 Tossanus, Daniel, 82 Tottel, Richard, 101 Trinity College, Cambridge MS B.14.22, 106–10 Trinity College Dublin MS 877, part 2, 162n3 Tyacke, Nicholas, 5 Tyndale, William, 33–34

{ 194 }  I n d e x

University of Virginia MS 38–632, McGregor Autograph Box, 123 Valentine, Henry, 142–45 Vicars, Thomas, 137 Vignier, Nicholas, 59, 66–67, 84 Virginia Company of London, 68 Viseur, Robert, 161n75 Walton, Anne, 149–51 Walton, Izaak, 119–20, 129–51 Walton, Izaak, Canon, 149–151 Ward, Matthew, 109 Ward, Samuel, 138 Warre, James, 137 Weaver, William, 39–40 Westminster Abbey MS 41, 124 MS 63, 105–6, 109 Wilde, Jeremias, 81 Wilkinson, Robert, 125–26 William III and II (king of England, Scotland, and Ireland and prince of Orange), 124 Wither, George, 138, 141 Wolder, Johann, 80 Worshipful Company of Stationers and Newspaper Makers MS Liber D, 140–42, 167n26 Wotton, Sir Henry, 96, 139–40, 146–47 Woudhuysen, H. R., 158n4 Wren, Matthew (bishop of Ely), 109–10 Wright, Samuel, 109–10 Wroth, Lady Mary [Sidney], 138 Young, Richard, 36–37, 44–48, 54

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