“ut legi”: Sir John Mandeville’s Audience and Three Late Medieval English Travelers to Italy and Jerusalem
So perhaps one of us might have formed in his mind an image of a putative Jerusalem: however greatly different the actuality may be, as his mind has fashioned [its image] for itself so [Jerusalem] will seem to him . . . ; from known shapes he fashions a thing unknown.Alcuin of York1
La construction d’un récit de voyage se fait souvent dans un rapport de dependence avec desécrits antérieurs. Le récit a une mémoire, toile de fond faite de references et d’influences culturelles, tant de l’auteur que du lecteur ciblé.
[The construction of a travelogue is often done in a relationship of dependence with previous writings. The story has a memory, a backdrop made out of references and of cultural influences, both of the author and of the target reader.]Nicole Chareyron2 [End Page 201]
I. Mandevillean “solace,” Virtual Jerusalems, and the Erudite Traveler
Sir John Mandeville’s Book of Marvels and Travels (c. 1356) was the preeminent travel narrative in late medieval western Europe, surviving in about 300 manuscripts and fragments and many early prints.3 Mandeville’s Book enjoyed a long and varied afterlife, largely esteemed as a valuable source, and was read by the Pearl-poet, Geoffrey Chaucer, Christopher Columbus, Thomas More, and many others.4 Evidence from the English manuscripts suggests a diverse fifteenth-century audience, from the aristocratic to the clerical to the mercantile, and Mandeville’s Book seems to have been credited with a considerable degree of auctoritas.5 In contrast to Mandeville’s later reputation as a purloiner of others’ writings and an ironic pilgrim whose Book celebrates error, Mandeville’s Book was found in the libraries of learned and highly cultivated readers in fifteenth-century England: for instance, the Cambridge University senior proctor and bibliophile Thomas Markaunt (d. 1439) left a copy of Mandeville in Latin to Corpus Christi College, Cambridge (now Corpus Christi College, MS 275) amongst his bequest of [End Page 202] seventy-six volumes, almost all of which seem to have been in Latin and included works by Aquinas, Aristotle, Augustine, and Wyclif.6 Richard Lee (d. 1472), a London grocer and later lord mayor of London, had a French copy of Mandeville (now London, BL, MS Harley 1739). The London attorney Sir Thomas Urswick (d. 1479) had a copy of Mandeville in the library of his manor at Marks (Essex), along with copies of Froissart’s Chronicles and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.7 The Benedictine abbey at St Albans (Hertfordshire), from which Mandeville claims to have set off on his journey, held a manuscript of Mandeville’s Book, in English (now London, British Library, MS Egerton 1982). Meanwhile, other texts, including the Middle English purgatory vision The Gast of Gy (in Oxford, The Queen’s College, MS 383) and the ballad “Ser John Mandavelle and the Gret Souden” (in Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS e. mus. 160, fol. 111v), were attributed to Mandeville. The English Augustinian friar John Capgrave (1393–1464), writing his own guide for pilgrims to Rome, invoked Mandeville with great respect and apparent sincerity. According to Capgrave, Mandeville “made a book ful solacious on to his nacyoun” and was, alongside Plato, Livy, and Marco Polo, one of the “grete cryeris of wonderfull þingis”; here, Capgrave extols the Mandevillean “solace”—both recreational pleasure and spiritual edification—to be found in reading about foreign places.8
This article explores the kinds of “solace” found by readers of Mandeville’s Book who were also pilgrims to the Holy Land. Rather than focusing on the origins of Mandeville’s text, here I attend to its reception and audiences. My evidence shows how readers and travelers invested new meanings in Mandeville’s Book, which continued to inform actual journeys well over 100 years after its initial appearance. Educated and literate pilgrim-writers used Mandeville as a point of departure to build [End Page 203] their own textual repositories of memories of Jerusalem and the East, through the vital and personal appropriation of writing from the past. I bring this issue into focus by investigating the written uses to which Mandeville’s Book was put by three English pilgrims to Jerusalem: William Wey (d. 1476), Edmund Wighton (d. 1484), and Thomas Larke (d. 1530). Wey, Wighton, and Larke each experienced and mediated their actual travels through Mandeville’s “solacious” text. Their accounts of pilgrimage and their treatment of Mandeville as a source shed light on how this polyvalent text was understood by some members of its medieval audience, revealing accomplished, orthodox readers of Mandeville. Given that these readers were also travelers, such pilgrims’ accounts necessitate a return to the difficult but fundamental problems posed by Mary B. Campbell in her important study of medieval travel writing, about “the fraught project of translating one’s own actual travel into a written record.”9 As Campbell suggests, western European readers were immersed in “the vicarious knowledge of the actual world” through the widespread literary genre of travel writing; how then did they reconcile their travels with what they had read at home? How do we trace the relationship between the readerly knowledge of place acquired before the journey, and its rendering into text written afterwards?
Even by the time it appeared in the 1350s, Mandeville’s Book was desperately out of date as a practical travel guide to Palestine and the eastern Mediterranean.10 Mandeville’s sources for this region did not relate closely to the actual landscape or sites: his sources were from the crusader-era (the last mainland possession of the crusaders, the city of Acre, was taken by the Mamluks in 1291) or had been corrupted in many points through translation and revision.11 Neither Mandeville nor [End Page 204] any of Mandeville’s sources shows awareness of the Franciscan pilgrimage industry, which came to dominate the Jerusalem pilgrimage, via Venice, for western European pilgrims from the 1330s until the mid-sixteenth century. From 1342, when the Franciscan Custodia terrae sanctae was formally established by papal bull as the custodian of the Holy Places, almost all Latin pilgrims entered and toured the Holy Land under Franciscan auspices. The pilgrims sailed in galleys from Venice, calling at Dalmatian ports and Greek islands; landing at Jaffa; and, guided by Franciscans, touring Jerusalem and holy sites connected with Christ and the Virgin.12 The Franciscans had their headquarters on Mount Zion, just outside the Old City of Jerusalem; clerical pilgrims were received and lodged at Mount Zion and a library of literature relating to the Holy Land was assembled there.13 This standard, Franciscan-led route is the one taken by well-known pilgrims such as Bridget of Sweden in 1373; Henry Bolingbroke, earl of Derby (later Henry IV) in 1392–93; Margery Kempe in 1413–14; and many others. Such a route does not appear in Mandeville’s account, and it is hard to believe that, from the 1330s or 1340s, pilgrims would have valued or consulted the text for practical information about the way to Jerusalem.14 [End Page 205]
The journey to Jerusalem was expensive and risky, and indeed it proved fatal to many pilgrims. From 1453, when Constantinople fell to the Ottomans, access to the eastern Mediterranean became more difficult; the later fifteenth century is generally held to be a period of marked decline in the Jerusalem pilgrimage and one can discern, certainly from the 1460s, a waning in the actual number of English and French pilgrims undertaking the standard route from Venice via Jaffa. The journeys to Rome or Santiago de Compostela were shorter, easier, and as spiritually beneficial (in terms of indulgences) as the journey to Jerusalem, even as the idea of Jerusalem remained central to Christian imagery.15 Moreover, in the Latin West “virtual pilgrimage” became more widespread, a journey for which one did not need to leave one’s cloister or study.16 This did not mean that writing and, later, printing about pilgrimage waned; on the contrary, they burgeoned.17 As Robert Langton (1470–1524), a humanist pilgrim to Santiago, wrote, through “redynge” about someone else’s pilgrimage, one “shall seme rather to se [the pilgrimage] then rede it.”18 Moreover, it was quite normal for pilgrims who had actually made the journey to include descriptions of places that they had not visited: for instance, an English pilgrim to Jerusalem in the late fifteenth century included an account (derived in part from Mandevillean information) of Syrian pilgrimage sites but stated quite openly that “ne I nor none of my feloshippe ded visyte any off these last forewriten hooly placis.”19 [End Page 206]
This kind of versatile virtuality and the standardized, conventional form of Jerusalem’s representation has been noted many times in modern scholarship. Often reduced to a symbolically polygonal building (the Holy Sepulcher) and a crenelated fortification (the city’s walls), Jerusalem became, in the words of one recent study, “crystallized” in a “citational web” that was “almost completely detached from its point of origin.”20 In other words, the medieval copy of Jerusalem came to supplant the original reference. Such a reading of Jerusalem-as-copy owes a profound debt to the pioneering work of the art historian Richard Krautheimer, who identified the Church of the Holy Sepulcher as the preeminent copied structure in medieval Europe. Krautheimer developed a theory of sacred copying, a process that was highly conventional and yet “indifferent” to precision; he noted an “inexactness” in the Jerusalem copy, in which certain features would be copied closely but others would be added, adapted, or ignored. As Krautheimer wrote, “the mediaeval beholder expected to find in a copy only some parts of the prototype but not by any means all of them.”21 In place of exact replication, he suggested that we should be alert to the interpretative “vibrations” that the building caused in the medieval viewer; the copy stimulated, or vibrated with, a religious experience in which the viewer entered into a narrative space and adapted it on their own terms. To quote Krautheimer,
no mediaeval source ever stresses the design of an edifice or its construction, apart from the material which has been used. On the other hand the practical or liturgical functions are always taken into consideration; they lead on to questions of the religious significance of an edifice and these two groups together seem to stand in the centre of mediaeval architectural thought. . . . Evidently the design of an edifice or for that matter the construction were not within the realm of theoretical discussion. On the other hand the religious implications of a building were uppermost in the minds of its contemporaries.22
Krautheimer thus suggests that copies of Jerusalem or of the Holy Sepulcher were not made so their designers could put themselves into a public or explicit relationship with previous designs; rather, they were [End Page 207] copied for their audiences’ uses, for interpretation, to foster a liturgical memory or “vibration.”
Simulation and copying likewise sustained the western representation of Jerusalem and the Holy Land in textual accounts, although this process has received far less attention than that found in visual material. Mandeville’s Book is itself a “citational web” of sources and allusions, its Holy Land a vibrant intertext or, to use Iain Macleod Higgins’s term, “multi-text.”23 Mandeville’s polyvalent Book placed material from pilgrim guides, crusade manuals, natural histories, and miracle stories side-by-side to create a multilayered account of Christian perspectives on sacred space, and was one of several key descriptions of Jerusalem— alongside those of Burchard of Mount Zion and Odoric of Pordenone— consulted and adapted by pilgrims into the sixteenth century. Through this kind of copying of imagistic Jerusalems, we see a paradoxical replication of the “same thing”—Jerusalem—becoming further and further detached, or decentered, from its referent, the earthly Jerusalem; the Jerusalem we find in western European textual and visual imagery became the perfect simulacrum, a copy whose original had long since vanished, if it had ever existed.
Pilgrim-writers did not consult Mandeville either to imitate his journey or to copy his words wholesale. Their Holy Land is perhaps best thought of as a meme, a shared cultural representation that prospers through being copied and adapted, rather than through its relationship or likeness to an original. A term reclaimed for cultural history by the philosopher Hillel Schwartz, the “meme” (from the Greek mimema) literally means an imitated thing: memes are, according to Schwartz,
mnemonic strands by which we generate a familiar past. Memes pervade our travel diaries, proving that we were there. Memes are what tourists listen for to assure themselves that they have been in an other but authentic time—the creak of a castle drawbridge, the clang-clang-clang of a trolley. Memes are reconditioned in billions of picture postcards and in snapshots neatly aligned to postcard views.24 [End Page 208]
Prior to Schwartz, the word “meme” was coined by the scientist Richard Dawkins in his 1976 book The Selfish Gene, offering a way for Dawkins to combine the workings of memory and the workings of genetics (“it could . . . be thought of as being related to ‘memory,’ or to the French word même (i.e. same)”); according to Dawkins, “Examples of memes are tunes, ideas, catch-phrases, clothes, fashions, ways of making pots or of building arches.”25 Memes produce a lively, enlivened version of the past in present space and place; according to Schwartz, Living Museums (of which the city of Jerusalem, both medieval and modern, must count as a prime example) are key “memetic engineers, recombining our memes.”26 The poetics of memetic reportage can be seen throughout medieval representations of Jerusalem, not least in highly formulaic and repetitive medieval pilgrimage narratives, oscillating around the paradoxical poles of the eyewitness’s experience of the “original” and the “copy.”
The meme is a useful term and concept in what follows because of its intermediality, not limited or bounded by medium or discipline. The meme can move from text to architectural model to manuscript miniature to souvenir, for instance. Indeed, the idea of the meme seems perfectly suited to thinking about the representation and remediation of Jerusalem, as memes traverse levels of culture and other barriers, and memes are usually transnational; memes often achieve a material form (a work of art, a literary text, a built environment); memes are not authored—and are always repurposive—in that they have no one author, and are made to be translated; and memes mutate and are transformed during transmission, and, to some extent, evolve in a process parallel to natural selection, in which certain traits and ideas survive and others become extinct.
The meme, as coined by Dawkins, is analogous to the gene: it is an inherited trait or referent, passed on from one generation to the next. This is not, however, to propose a model of cultural change that refers back to an original or something akin to the medieval topos, a motif or commonplace that connotes an established iteration. Rather, the meme suggests a model of cultural representation in which the “same thing” (i.e., the representation of Jerusalem and its holy sites) is always mutating—and is therefore no longer the same thing; this is attuned to [End Page 209] medieval habits of literary borrowing and recycling old material to create a new text. The meme is useful in the context of the representation of Jerusalem precisely because it articulates an alternative form of knowledge to the hierarchical, evolution-driven language of a chain or line of “descent.” Such a terminology has characterized much manuscript-based inquiry in medieval studies and specifically has dominated studies of Mandeville, which have largely pursued an author-figure and the text’s origins.27 The meme proposes a model of cultural transmission based on audiences’ ongoing use and appropriation of the source, as opposed to the scholarly desire to return to the source as the “best” or “original” iteration. Memes have no one stable author, no unitary point of origins, and are not retrospective, but rather change with their audiences, causing people to do things; stimulating actions and changing behaviours; leading people to take a particular route, see a particular site, notice one thing but not another, find new meanings in an old source.
The meme has the capacity to be at once idea and thing, image and place; it is both “imaginary” and “real.” Virtual pilgrimage never entirely eclipsed the cherished trip to Jerusalem, and the explosion of commercial travel in the eastern Mediterranean in the late fifteenth century facilitated both pious and mercantile journeys. The relatively full records of the English Hospice of Saint Thomas in Rome (where English pilgrims were accommodated) show that the pilgrims’ most common professions (where noted) were sailor, priest, or scholar/student.28 We should therefore be alert to the fact that other activities—commercial sailing, for instance, or studies at a continental university—were not only compatible with pilgrimage but may also have facilitated a pilgrimage to Rome or Jerusalem within a larger journey. The records from the English Hospice in Rome mention, for instance, several Englishmen studying in Bologna, such as “Dominus Thomas Halsey of Lincoln, student of Bologna,” and “Magister Robert Fisher and Magister William Tate, students at Bologna,” who visited in 1504–5.29 It is not difficult to find similar well-educated and well-connected late medieval pilgrims [End Page 210] who made the journey from the British Isles to the Holy Land. Around 1454, a London physician named Richard traveled to Jerusalem, via Pavia and Venice; he wrote up his pilgrimage in Middle English alongside medical and astrological scientific texts (now London, Wellcome Library for the History and Understanding of Medicine, MS 8004, fols. 75r–83v). Later, William Lily (?1468–1522/23), an Oxford-educated humanist grammarian, traveled to the Holy Land in 1490 and, on his return journey, stayed in Rhodes in order to learn Greek, then visiting Rome, where he met a number of notable humanist patrons and scholars.30 Robert Blackadder (c. 1445–1508), a graduate of the universities of St. Andrews and Paris, Scottish royal administrator and archbishop of Glasgow, set off but died on the voyage from Venice to Jaffa.31 John Lloyd (c. 1475–1523), a musician at Henry VIII’s court, traveled to Jerusalem in 1519.32 The Tudor courtier Edward Stafford (1478–1521), duke of Buckingham, planned a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1520, for which he likely commissioned A Lytell Cronicle, an account of the Middle East translated from the French version of Haytoun of Armenia’s Fleurs d’histoires (1307), which itself had been a source for Mandeville’s Book.33 Perhaps the best-known example of the late medieval traveler and poly-math is the wit, surgeon, and lapsed Carthusian Andrew Boorde (c. 1490–1549), who studied at the universities of Glasgow, Orléans, Poitiers, Toulouse, Montpellier, and Wittenberg, observed the art of surgery in Rome, and undertook pilgrimages to Santiago (where he also studied at the university) and Jerusalem (which he reached via Venice, Naples, and Rome).34 [End Page 211]
These kinds of journeys provided a significant interface with Italy and, I suggest, with Italian humanists and with facets of Italian humanism; almost all English pilgrims to Jerusalem passed through Venice, and many traveled via important university cities such as Bologna, Ferrara, and Padua.35 As early as 1421/22, this was the case with an anonymous English pilgrim who commemorated his journey to Santiago, Rome, Venice, and Palestine in a Middle English poem in couplets.36 Amongst accounts of churches and shrines, descriptions of the relative attractiveness of women he encountered, and invectives against Saracens and Jews, he noted the “faire universite” (line 227) at Lisbon and in Catalonia visited “Leide the universite” (Lleida; line 355); in Italy he mentions the “noubull universite” (line 498) at Florence, “the Universite of Peruse” (line 541)—Perugia—and “the Universite of honor” (line 545) in Emilia—i.e., Bologna.37 For this kind of educated or cultivated traveler, the journey to Jerusalem was an encounter not only with the familiar lands of the devotional imagination but also with new worlds of learning, ideas, and books.
George B. Parks’s assertion that “the pilgrim claimed no other reason for his long journey than his soul’s salvation” is quite incorrect for these later medieval travelers.38 Pilgrimage was not just a teleological journey to divinity but also provided an ideal forum for empirical witnessing and opportunities for the testing of one’s curiosity. In cities such as Florence and Venice, interest in the sacred and historical geographies of the eastern Mediterranean dovetailed with mercantile interests in the region.39 Not only was there no tension between pilgrimage and humanism, but the two supported each other.40 It appears that in the [End Page 212] late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, to be a pilgrim-scholar became a trend amongst orthodox English humanists, and Mandeville’s Book was probably the preeminent textual preparation and accompaniment to their journey. I am not suggesting in this article that Mandeville or his Book can be termed “humanist,” although several scholars have charted such an intellectual trajectory in which medieval travel literature came to be valued by humanists as the very basis of “relatable experience”;41 certainly Mandeville’s Book, published at least a dozen times in Italian before 1500, was evidently circulating at erudite humanist courts in Milan and Modena and at the universities of Bologna, Ferrara, and Padua.42 In this article I suggest that, even as Mandeville’s Book was amenable to a wide variety of audiences, it was consulted by several readers/writers who can be described through some of the features of humanism and was used by them as a literary framework for accounts of journeys devotional, edifying, and mercantile.43 What unites the readers I study in this article is that they each made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, that they each sojourned in Italy, and that they each wrote an account of their travels that engaged closely with their reading of Mandeville’s Book. Mandeville was, therefore, part of the syllabus for the well-traveled, well-educated late medieval Englishman. [End Page 213]
II. “ut legi,” “ut audivi,” “ut dicitur”: William Wey and John Mandeville
William Wey (1405/6–76) was a scholar, reader, preacher, administrator, keen pilgrim, and dedicated writer about pilgrimage. Wey was born in Devon and educated at Exeter Cathedral and Exeter College, Oxford; he then became bursar at the recently founded Eton College (Berkshire), and later retired to the Augustinian priory at Edington (Wiltshire), on the edge of Salisbury Plain. His book, The Matter of Jerusalem, a volume in Latin and Middle English prose and verse, survives in one manuscript (now Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodley 565) along with a fourteenth-century manuscript map of the Holy Land (now Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Douce 389) consulted and indexed by Wey. Bodley 565 is almost certainly Wey’s holograph manuscript.44
Wey undertook three main pilgrimages, which are reported in detail in his Matter of Jerusalem: to Santiago de Compostela (1456), Jerusalem (1458), and again Jerusalem (1462). Afterwards, Wey retired to Edington, where he had a remarkable Jerusalem chapel and landscape built (described in further detail below, pages 231–32), as set out in his testament, the first item bound in MS Bodley 565 (fols. 2r–v). Wey’s was a world in which Jerusalem and the Holy Land were variously mediated and persistently memorialized through proxies—written accounts, maps, relics, liturgy, and imitative journeys.
In The Matter of Jerusalem, Wey presents himself as an empirical scholar and collector, at once curious and pious, deeply immersed in the material culture and textual traditions concerning Jerusalem pilgrimage. In crafting his book, he had consulted a range of authorities, sometimes quoting them at length and often drawing the reader’s attention to the breadth of his reading: he explicitly states that he had consulted Bridget of Sweden;45 Saint Jerome’s letter to Desiderius on the Pentateuch;46 Pope Leo the Great’s letter to Juvenal, bishop of Jerusalem;47 a [End Page 214] Life of St Basil;48 Robert Grosseteste;49 Peter Comestor50 (and through him Epiphanius); and Bede’s commentary on Luke.51 Wey draws the reader’s attention to his use of these distinguished sources, all of which are Latin and religious auctores. However, he kept quiet about the main source from which he borrowed, which was Mandeville’s Book of Marvels and Travels.52
A compact example will demonstrate how Wey worked closely with Mandeville’s Book. He included ten materiae—material causes, or reasons—for making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Within the ninth of his materiae, Wey included an account of the “Dry Tree,” or “Arbor sicca,” near the city of Hebron, in the hills beyond Jerusalem. This was a medieval pilgrimage site, well known from the itineraries of various medieval visitors. Wey’s Latin account of the Dry Tree is as follows:
Item prope Ebron, que distat a Bethleem undecim miliaria, est mons Mable, et ibi est arbor quercus, ut legi, quam Zarazeni vocant Dryp, et erat ki tempore Abraham, et vocatur arbor sicca; et quidam dicunt, quod erat abiaicio mundi et quod erat viridis et portabat folia usque ad mortem Christi, et tunc siccabatur; et quidam dicunt, quod princeps veniet ab occidente, qui cum adjutorio [End Page 215] Christianorum lucrabit terram Sanctam, et faciet missam dici sub illa arbore, et tunc erit arbor ilia viridis et portabit folia et fructus; et tunc multi Judeorum et Sarazenorum convertentur ad fidem nostram propter istud miraculum.53
[Item: near Hebron, which is eleven miles from Bethlehem, is Mount Mable, and there is an oak tree, so I have read, which the Saracens call Dryp, and it was there in the time of Abraham, and is called the “Dry Tree”; and some say that it existed from the beginning of the world and that it used to be green and had leaves until the death of Christ, and then it dried out; and some say that a prince will come from the West who, with the help of Christians, will take the Holy Land, and cause mass to be said under that tree, and then the tree will grow green and bear leaves and fruit; and then many Jews and Saracens will be converted to our faith because of that miracle.]
Various versions of the Dry Tree story, which can be traced back to Josephus, circulated in late medieval Europe; here, Wey repeats a version in which the biblical Oak of Mamre (Genesis 18) and the legendary Dry Tree of Alexander romances are fused.54 The only sources that make a similar conflation are Mandeville’s Book and Mandeville’s own source, the Liber de Terra Sancta of Pseudo-Odoric (early fourteenth century).
We might usefully compare Wey’s Latin account with the Middle English account given by Mandeville. Mandeville writes: [End Page 216]
And ii. Myle fro Ebron is þe graue of Loth þat was Abrahams broþer. And a litel from Ebron is þe mount Marbre, of which þat vale toke his name. And þer is a tree of oke þat þe Sarasyns clepiþ dirpe þat is of Abrahams tyme, þat men clepiþþe drie tree. And þei say it haþþe fro þe bigynnyng of þe world, and þat it was sometime grene and bare leeues vnto þat tyme þat oure lord deyde, and þanne it dried. And so dide alle trees in þe world or ellis þei fayled in here hertes or ellis þei faded, and ᵹit beþ many of þese in þe world. And somme prophecie seiþ þat a lord, a prince of þe west side of þe world, schal wynne þe lond of promyssioun, þat is þe holy land, wiþ help of cristene men, and he schal do synge a masse vndir þat drie tree and þanne schal þat tree wexe grene and bere fruyt and leeues. And þurᵹ þat miracle many Sarasyns and Iewis schal be turned to cristene feiþ. And þerfore þei do grete worschip þerto and kepen it riᵹt besily. And if alle it be drie, it beriþ a grete vertu, for certenliche he þat haþþerof a litel vpon hym it heeliþ the fallyng yuel, and many oþer vertues [hit hase and] þerfore it is yholde riᵹt precious.55
While the Middle English account includes various elements omitted in Wey’s Latin, and even though they are in different languages, the two accounts of the Dry Tree are syntactically almost identical, as marked here in bold type. British Latin manuscripts of Mandeville are lexically quite different from Wey’s Latin;56 the story’s ultimate Latin source, the account given by Pseudo-Odoric, is also very different.57 [End Page 217]
The example of the Dry Tree is just one microscopic element that demonstrates Wey’s reading of Mandeville. The closeness of his Latin to Mandeville’s Middle English shows that Wey used a Middle English version of Mandeville that he then abridged and translated into Latin.58 It is not surprising that the source was Middle English, given the prevalence of Mandeville in vernacular literary culture of the fifteenth century; however, the direction of Wey’s translation, from English to Latin, suggests a quiet assumption of Mandeville into the realm of religious or scholarly auctores. Wey, in fact, took swathes of his account of the Holy Land from Mandeville, although Mandeville’s text is never explicitly acknowledged. These borrowings include Wey’s ninth material cause for pilgrimage to the Holy Land and contain things of note in the Holy Land and accounts of Hebron, Jerusalem, and Mount Joy, which is an almost verbatim translation from Mandeville.59 Wey’s tenth and final material cause for pilgrimage, especially in its opening section on the relics of saints, is likewise an almost verbatim translation from Mandeville.60 [End Page 218] Further details of Wey’s account of the holy landscape can be traced directly to Mandeville’s account.61
Wey did not use Mandeville slavishly, but rather critically, as an editor: as is so often the case in medieval composition, from an old account he produced a new text. It is clear that he had various other texts to hand, including Bridget of Sweden and the Golden Legend, and it is likely that he also incorporated material that he had encountered during his two trips. Certainly, for his account of the journey from Jaffa to Jerusalem (fols. 19v–21v) and the pilgrimages on Mount Zion (fol. 25r) Wey used others sources and also added plenty of individuating, personal detail too. Nonetheless it is apparent from The Matter of Jerusalem that Wey returned from the Holy Land and wrote his account up by consulting, amongst others, Mandeville, who is not credited.
Akin to other Middle English formulae of citational distancing, such as Mandeville’s “men seyn,” Chaucer’s “quod he,” and Lydgate’s “as I rede,” Wey at several points used the clause “ut legi” (so I have read) and elsewhere the clauses “ut audivi” (so I have heard) and “ut dicitur” (so it is said).62 In most of these cases, Wey was repeating (but not [End Page 219] vouching for) miracles he had encountered in Mandeville but could not substantiate by his eyewitness journey to the Holy Land. Wey similarly included the related clause “ut dicitur” in his account of the columns, at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, said to weep for Christ’s death (Bodley 565, fol. 32v; 123; Defective, 30), and once more when describing the miraculous lamp outside Christ’s grave (Bodley 565, fol. 32r; Defective, 29), again drawing on material from Mandeville. He also used the similar clause “ut audivi” once, in his account of a mythical dragon on the island of Kos (here referred to by its Venetian name, Lango) (fols. 58v–59r), in his highly condensed version of a story given in Mandeville.
In all but two of the cases where he used the clauses “ut legi,” “ut audivi,” and “ut dicitur” Wey was referring to and repeating, apparently cautiously, material he had encountered in Mandeville’s Book.63 Wey’s engagement with Mandeville reveals a medieval editorial process in line with established literary habits of compilatio, ordinatio, and translatio: that is, the compilation and reordering of others’ texts to produce a new text, repeating and reporting others’ material without guaranteeing its accuracy. Yet this raises difficult issues about the nature and value of eyewitness authority in medieval travelers’ texts: after all, other details in his account, and a royal dispensation for his pilgrimage, show that Wey had certainly been to Jerusalem and seen the holy sites for himself. Why include details of sites—like the weeping columns—that he knew not to be an accurate reflection of the loci sancti he had seen? Upon his return to England Wey, to some extent, subordinated eyewitness experience to the dominant textual framework of Mandeville’s Book. In Wey’s Matter of Jerusalem, therefore, we see how Mandeville’s text was mined by Wey for information about his journey and provided him with a memetic textual form for recording parts of an actual journey. Yet we must also acknowledge how Mandeville’s Book, with its playful mixing of representation and misrepresentation, stimulated Wey’s own critical [End Page 220] citation of Mandeville, suggestive of an awareness of the limited authority of Mandeville’s Book as an eyewitness source.
III. “fro london to venys”: Sir Edmund Wighton at Sea with Mandeville
The example of William Wey shows that Mandeville’s Book was consulted and mined by an actual pilgrim for information about the Holy Land, but in Wey’s asides (“ut legi,” “ut audivi,” “ut dicitur”) one discerns a critical perspective on Mandeville’s reliability or accuracy. A rather different use of Mandeville, but one equally ambiguous about the nature of the information contained in the Book, is revealed in one Mandeville manuscript (now Manchester, Chetham’s Library, MS Mun. A.4.107, olim MS 6711). This manuscript was once owned by Sir Edmund Wighton, a London gentleman who traveled to Venice, the Levant, and the Holy Land in the late fifteenth century.64 Wighton’s Mandeville manuscript is an abridged fifteenth-century Middle English text, in which a large amount of material toward the end of the Book— dealing mostly with marvels, from the Indian crocodile to the rivers of paradise—has been omitted.65 What makes Wighton’s manuscript exceptional in the current context is the presence of notes on the rear fly-leaves that seem to record, amongst other things, Wighton’s actual travels in the Mediterranean.
Wighton’s intriguing memoranda appear after the end of Mandeville’s text. The first two of these describe the physical integrity of the book: “In thys bok ben vii quayrrys” and “ther ben in thys bok iv skore leffys and xviii leffys and more than halfe a leffe” (fol. 80v).66 Given the severely damaged state of these leaves and the notes that follow, these statements suggest that the book traveled with Wighton and, by thus recording its constituent leaves, he was able to check it did not lose its [End Page 221] integrity in an old binding or a then-unbound state (it has subsequently been rebound, in a modern binding).
The next notes on fol. 80v describe, in Wighton’s hand, an itinerary “from venys by the sea callyd mare medeteranneo.” The text is not easily decipherable but it can be securely established that Wighton describes a route from Venice via Dalmatia to the Holy Land, through various Greek islands, all the way to the Crimea (see Appendix). The first part of Wighton’s itinerary follows the traditional galley route from Venice to the Holy Land, as taken by hundreds of pilgrims. Almost all the places Wighton mentions were Venetian towns and/or established wayations on the pilgrimage route from Venice to Jaffa (at this point several of the Istrian towns as well as Corfu, Methoni, Crete, and Cyprus were Venetian colonies and Rhodes was held by the Knights of Saint John). However, Wighton’s itinerary then went off the pilgrimage route, to the Mamluk port of Haifa, then to Istanbul, and eventually to the Venetian trading post of Latana (now Azov/Aзob) in the Crimea.67 If this itinerary is read as a record of an actual voyage, Wighton would likely have visited Haifa with merchants rather than pilgrims, for Haifa was a very minor port, used only by Mamluk merchants and sailors.68 Wighton was almost certainly traveling with Venetians, suggested not only because most of the ports he visited were Venetian possessions or closely linked to the Venetian Republic; he also ended his itinerary with the word “trafigo,” a reference to the Venetian trafego commercial galleys that, from about 1462, connected Venice with North Africa and Syria.69 So Wighton seems to have traveled with his copy of Mandeville’s Book [End Page 222] not only as a pilgrim but in the company of Venetian merchants, probably involved in the spice trade, and reminding us that the identities of pilgrim and merchant were far from incompatible with each other.70
Even though Wighton owned a copy of Mandeville’s Book, his itinerary is, emphatically, not a reference to Mandeville’s journey as described in the preceding pages of the manuscript, but to a late-fifteenth-century voyage: Mandeville’s Book does not follow such a route and the narrative does not visit most of these places. Rather, Wighton’s route combined a standard, Franciscan pilgrimage route and a late-fifteenth-century voyage of mercantile adventure.71 Can we then see his itinerary as stimulated by but correcting the (erroneous) information contained in Mandeville’s Book? We cannot know Wighton’s intentions in writing down this itinerary, but his other notes in the book show that he was interested in excerpting Mandevillean information; subsequent memoranda (fol. 80r) refer back to Mandeville, in the form of notes on India, its giants, and the Indus River.72 Further memoranda refer to the history and geography of the Holy Land, and there are also indecipherable Latin prayers or mottoes.73 Wighton also wrote here an epitome of the widespread [End Page 223] story of “The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus,” which he had taken not from Mandeville but from the Gilte Legende, the Middle English translation of Jacobus de Voragine’s Golden Legend.74 It is possible that Wighton was interested in this story because he traveled near Ephesus, on the Ionian coast (now the region of southwest Turkey around Izmir).75
Wighton was a London attorney, from a minor family of Norfolk landowning gentry.76 Useful information about his background and his milieu can be gleaned from his will (written January 11, 1484, proved on March 14 the same year).77 Wighton came from the area around the village of Wighton (Norfolk), within two miles of the famous pilgrimage shrine at Walsingham. We know from his will that Wighton lived in the Aldgate area of the city of London, in the parish of Saint Katherine Cree. More pertinently in the current context, the will shows that Edmund Wighton took the title “Sir” not because of a knighthood but because he was “knyght of the sepulchre of Jerusalem.”78 This proves that he had visited Jerusalem as a pilgrim and been admitted there as a Knight of the Holy Sepulcher. This was a lay confraternity with its own chivalric ceremony, which culminated in the dubbing with a sword of [End Page 224] each pilgrim-knight.79 We can therefore surmise that the Middle Eastern memoranda in his copy of Mandeville refer to a journey made by Wighton via Venice and Haifa, which included a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
By the time of his death Wighton was well established in London’s urban elite, as evinced by his choice of executors: these included two Lord Mayors of London, Sir William Hariot (fl. 1481–82), and Robert Drope (d. 1487);80 the Chamberlain and common clerk of London William Dunthorn (d. 1490);81 and two other Londoners, the marbler (i.e., carver, sculptor) Henry Lorimer and the scrivener Thomas Barker.82 Dunthorn was active in London government at the same time as Richard Lee and Thomas Urswick, both of them owners of Mandeville manuscripts, and they too may well have known Wighton; it is clear that, in mid-fifteenth-century London, Mandeville was being read enthusiastically by the city’s mercantile governing class. This echoes the text’s audiences in Italian cities, where an educated and international [End Page 225] mercantile class, actively involved in trade with the eastern Mediterranean, was also interested in the sacred geographies of pilgrimage.
Wighton’s notes in this book are important because it is one of the only pieces of evidence we have to suggest that an English traveler took a copy of Mandeville with him on an actual journey.83 Indeed, Wighton’s copy of Mandeville may have been made with a practical journey in mind, inasmuch as a large amount of the “marvelous” material of the Far East was omitted from the end of Mandeville’s text. This lacuna comprises almost all of the material on Prester John and the prodigious landscapes of the East, such as the islands of Orelle and Argete, where dog-sized ants mine pure gold and silver; the account of the earthly paradise; the rivers to paradise; the rites of the Tibetans and their “pope”; and the palaces, customs, and idols beyond the lands of the Great Khan. What Wighton’s book certainly shows is a connection being made by an educated Englishman between Mandeville’s Book and travel not only to Jerusalem but to Venice and Venetian ports in the East. Moreover, Wighton’s memoranda bear out the hypothesis that, for such an educated gentleman, who had access to the libraries of the London Inns of Court, the pilgrimage to Jerusalem was also an opportunity for an edifying, “solacious” trip to Venice and its outposts in the eastern Mediterranean.84
An intriguing counterpart to Wighton’s Mandeville manuscript is found in another fifteenth-century English Mandeville (London, BL, MS Royal 17.C.XXXVIII). This illustrated book includes an itinerary through the alpine Brenner Pass to Florence (fol. 2r).85 The itinerary [End Page 226] include sites, Englished from their German or Italian names, on a well-established pilgrim route: in the Tyrol, from Innsbruck (“Isebrok”), Nassereith (“Nazarethe”), Matrei am Brenner (“Matroun”), Sterzing/Vipiteno (“Stracᵹyng”), Mühlbach/Rio di Pusteria (“Mulbak”), Bruneck/Brunico (“Pronek”), entering Italy through Serravalle All’adige (“Seruale”). This is followed by an itinerary through Italian cities—from Treviso (“Trevyse”) and Venice (“Venyse”) to Ferrara (“ffarar”), Bologna (“boleyn”), Loiano (“Lyoun”), Firenzuola (“Florence zolo”), and Scarperia (“Skarperie”), ending at “Florence.” On the next folio (fol. 3r) is a mariner’s windrose, with the late medieval Italian names for the winds. It is not certain that these leaves originally circulated with the book, which has been rebound and reorganized. It suffices to note in the present context that at least two English Mandeville manuscripts—this one and Wighton’s—seem to have accompanied actual travels to Italy and, in the case of Wighton, to the Holy Land too. In both cases, the fly-leaves were used to record the fifteenth-century routes in contrast to Mandeville’s earlier directions, which by this point had been superseded by travel along the established routes, via Venice, through Italy. Thus these two manuscripts of Mandeville’s Book appear to have been used by travelers to learn about the idea of travel, and then they were used to record their readers’ experiential movement.
IV. “I wryte as I herde therof . . . and sawe by wrytynge”: Thomas Larke and Sir John Mandeville
In 1506 an educated and well-connected cleric named Thomas Larke set off from Rye (Sussex) and, after disembarking at the Normandy port of Criel-sur-Mer, took a similar route to Wey and Wighton, traveling through France, Italy, Dalmatia, and the Greek Islands to Jerusalem. Larke was chaplain to the Tudor nobleman and Privy Councilor Sir Richard Guylforde (c. 1450–1506) of Kent.86 The voyage of Larke and [End Page 227] Guylforde was similar in many respects to that of William Wey, not least that they also met and traveled with Italian humanists. A Milanese nobleman named Cristoforo Pallavicino (Englished by Larke as “Christopher de Paluasyn”) traveled to and in the Holy Land with Larke and Guylforde;87 Larke and Guylforde had, en route, been received at Alessandria, between Turin and Genoa, by his kinsmen Geronimo Pallavicino and Agostino Pallavicino (“Jerom and Augustyn Pauyson”), members of a prominent and influential northern Italian family. As Larke made explicit in the first pages of the book he wrote about the journey, the Pallavicino family were kinsmen (“nyghe cosyns”) of Guylforde’s by marriage, and the journey therefore seems to have been a pilgrimage not only for spiritual benefit but to make contact with this erudite, wealthy, and powerful family of politicians and humanists.88
While William Wey and Edmund Wighton’s uses of Mandeville have gone unnoticed by modern scholars, the use of Mandeville in the account produced for Guylforde has been noted and described before.89 Larke’s borrowings from Mandeville represent a small but important part of his text, which also includes significant extracts from Bernhard von Breydenbach’s Latin Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (1483–84).90
In general, Larke consulted Mandeville in a discerning way, and imported information from Mandeville’s Book either for locations that he had not seen himself or for historical notes. Larke’s most extensive borrowings from Mandeville concern the details of the holy sites he [End Page 228] would have encountered during a standard pilgrimage: for instance, the location and ownership of Jerusalem;91 the location and history of Bethlehem and the story of the miraculous Campus Floridus;92 the history of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem;93 and significant elements of the account of Nazareth.94 But Larke’s borrowings also show his use of Mandeville for theological proof-texts, such as biblical citations on Jericho;95 the etymology of the River Jordan;96 the salt statue of Lot’s wife at Sodom;97 a discussion of the Jews’ contents of the Ark and the rock of Moriah;98 and the location of Galilee and notes on Chorazin.99 Other details may well have come from a copy of Mandeville (for example, the names of the Cities of the Plain or the account of the Golden Gate in Jerusalem) but these are such stock references in travel writing that it is hard to locate them with any precision.
There are plenty of individuating, personal moments in Larke’s account, and yet there are also sections where eyewitness experience was subordinated to other people’s words. Indeed, Larke’s text and his mode of collating information seem to be modelled on Mandeville’s: Larke’s text is, like Mandeville’s, a bricolage of other people’s writings (mainly Breydenbach’s and Mandeville’s), organized according to Larke’s own eyewitness testimony and his route through Europe, which is also a route through a body of reading. At some points, Larke’s text comes across as a pilgrimage to knowledge, and even to classical learning, references to which pepper his pilgrimage narrative: for example, at Padua he went to see “the toumbes of Antenore of Troye and of Tytus Lyuyus”; on the Venetian island of Kythira (“Cyrigo . . . somtyme called Citheria”) Larke records the birthplace of “Helena the Grekysshe Quene . . . rauysshed by Paris in the next yle by.” He also notes the birthplace of Saturn on Crete, backing it up with a Latin quotation from the Eclogue of Theodulus, a widespread Latin school-text.100 In no way was this kind of humanistic literary journey incompatible with Larke’s devout seeking [End Page 229] of pardons and indulgences via the pilgrimage, which remained, as he stated, the main purpose of the journey:
it is to be noted that euery holy place before rehersed in all this boke, beyng within the Holy Londe, where any myracle was shewed or any mystery was done by our blessyd Sauyour or any of his sayntes, or any mencyon made of any holy actes, there is at euery one of them .vij. yere and .vij. lentes of pardon; and at euery pryncypall holy place of the grete mysteryes is clene remys-syon de pena et culpa; and of thyse holy places, bycause they be so preuylegyd aboue other.101
Because Larke was using Mandeville in a highly selective way, and folded his borrowing from Mandeville into his text in a more nuanced manner than did Wey, it is more difficult to establish which version of Mandeville he consulted.102 But like Wey and Wighton, Larke traveled to Jerusalem as a pilgrim; read Mandeville; and then, like other fifteenth-century readers, used Mandeville as a memetic narrative frame with which to mediate his sacred journey. Larke was clearly a highly educated and well-read traveler, and Mandeville’s text clearly had a role within the “citational web” of “sacred copying” that informed his journey to the Holy Land.
V. Conclusions: Grand Tourists before the Grand Tour
Rosemary Tzanaki has described how the pilgrim Arnold von Harff of Cologne (1471–1505), traveling in the 1490s and writing an account of his own travels, adapted Mandeville’s Book, at once taking from Mandeville accounts of holy sites, marvelous wonders, and exotic alphabets. Tzanaki comments, “Von Harff, a real traveler, is quite deliberately reinventing himself as a fictional character.”103 It may be that to be a real [End Page 230] traveler was to co-opt the cultural authority of the fictional one: as we have seen in the cases of Wey, Wighton, and Larke, “real travel” involved reading and citation, the mnemonic vibration of reading and writing about places alongside the actual visiting of these places. Likewise Richard Torkyngton, whose account (London, BL, MS Add. 28561) of his 1517 pilgrimage to Jerusalem is based on Larke’s book, in turn repeating Mandevillean lore.104 Such an appropriation is entirely consonant with medieval habits of compilation and the wholesale borrowing from an auctore, but here it shows how Mandeville’s text came to constitute widely accepted textual coordinates of a pilgrimage, even if the experience of that pilgrimage presented contrary information: in short, Mandeville’s text constituted a meme that carried cultural ideas (and ideals) of Jerusalem, in changing and dynamic settings. The pilgrims would have found Mandeville’s information outdated and inaccurate, and yet his text continued to provide the coordinates of how their experience of the Holy Land was rendered into text.
Upon his return to England after his pilgrimages, William Wey had a remarkable Jerusalem chapel built at the Augustinian house at Edington. The specifications of the design of this chapel constitute the first item bound in his Matter of Jerusalem, describing an array of souvenirs (literally, mementoes, reminders) in different media: these included stained or painted cloths showing religious episodes (such as “owre lorde wyth a spade in hys hande”); decorated cloths with Holy Land scenes (“a clothe stayned wyth the tempyl of Jerusalem the mownt of Olyvete and bethleem”); ecclesiastical vestments; a paper crucifix (“a crucyfyx in pawper”) that came from Jerusalem; relics from the Holy Land including stones from Jerusalem and Bethlehem; a bell with a written prayer on it; a mappa mundi; parchment leaves showing the Holy Sepulcher and the Mount of Olives; several books, including Wey’s own Matter of Jerusalem, Saint Anselm, and the Vitae patrum; and various objects made out of planks, including the length of Christ’s sepulcher, the height and breadth of its door, the length of Christ’s foot, and the measurements of the holy mortice.
Wey’s chapel was not a flimsy copy or a cheap souvenir of his pilgrimages: it was the manifest culmination of his physical, spiritual, and imaginative journeys. Also included in the chapel were four “questions” [End Page 231] (“qwystenes”) about the Holy Sepulcher, which seem to represent Wey’s own theological and textual researches about the Holy Sites; similar questions are drafted twice in Wey’s book (called by him “dubia et responsiones”), and at least some of his questions are prompted by comparisons of material he found in Mandeville with what he saw on the ground in the Holy Land. These questions are evidence of Wey’s scholarly and critical impulse to research holy stories, rather than repeating or corroborating them—an impulse also seen in his researches into languages and measurements. The Edington chapel is perhaps best thought of as a kind of repository, a research center even, and it is no surprise that amongst the artifacts of his chapel were his books, a map, and written and painted documents and images: legible documents that called to mind the textual elements of his journey. Wey’s chapel at Edington is a full articulation of Jerusalem as a meme: a multimedia “proof” that Wey had been there, comprising allusive media that, paradoxically, showed how his journey was similar to others’. The chapel was not in any strict sense a “copy” of Jerusalem, but was rather a mediated version of the Holy Land that served its fifteenth-century audience’s needs and imaginations through the recombination of familiar texts and images; in this way, it did not seek to be “like” the Holy Land, but to improve on the Holy Land, backed up, as it was, by a range of proof-texts, from lofty Latinate texts to tangible, intimate relics. Wey’s chapel was clearly a significant undertaking; far from being seen as representative of a kitsch aesthetic and vulgar materialism, the Edington chapel offered an edifying space, a forerunner of the “Wunderkammern” assembled by later “grand tourists,” to instruct and to delight through the materials of travel. This is entirely consonant with the way in which early humanism came to redefine pilgrimage as an edifying tour, and “the whole world was a place where something was to be learnt.”105
To be a medieval pilgrim was, in many cases, to be a reader and writer, a collector and copier of stories. Remarkably, no fewer than six written accounts of the pilgrimage from Venice to Jaffa on which Wey sailed on May 17, 1458 exist: these comprise three Italian accounts,106 [End Page 232] one anonymous Dutch account,107 and one German account,108 in addition to Wey’s book.109 The pilgrims thus formed a significant group of literati who probably carried books with them; they may well have exchanged or purchased their books from a common stock and discussed their reading about travel with each other. Certainly, in the 1458 voyage we see the importance of textual consumption and textual production within the experience of pilgrimage, and both Wey and Capodilista had certainly read versions of Mandeville’s Book.
In uncovering the influence Mandeville’s Book had on late medieval travelers to the Holy Land, my reading reveals an overlooked late medieval appetite for, and use of, this kind of vernacular travel culture amongst well-connected and well-educated travelers. Indeed, Wey, Wighton, and Larke all demonstrate facets of, and proximity to, what might be called “early humanism.” Wey several times makes special mention of one of his notable traveling companions, Sir John Tiptoft, earl of Worcester (1427–70), who was, after Humphrey, duke of Gloucester (1390–1447), probably the most prominent humanist scholar in fifteenth-century England.110 Wey describes visiting the [End Page 233] Church of the Holy Sepulcher with Tiptoft, who sang the Mass of the Holy Cross, accompanied by an organ, at Calvary; Tiptoft, who commenced his studies at Padua following his pilgrimage in the Holy Land, was Wey’s traveling companion for a significant part of his journey, and it is clear that Wey and Tiptoft shared interests in bibliophilia and translation, as well as pilgrimage.
Moreover, during Wey’s career at Eton, the college had become one of the primary conduits of humanist-inflected education in England; Wey would have worked alongside William Waynflete (c. 1400–86), provost of Eton from 1443 to 1447; Waynflete left Eton to become bishop of Winchester, but visited Eton in 1448, 1449, 1450, 1451 (when the college presented him with a large fish), and 1455.111 On each of these occasions he is certain to have engaged with Wey, then the college’s bursar. Waynflete was a bibliophile with a huge library, and certainly by 1456, when he procured a translation of Jacobus de Cressolis’s De ludo scacchorum, his literary patronage demonstrates an engagement with continental humanism; he would go on to be a catalytic patron of humanism in England.112 Wey’s proximity to Waynflete is merely suggestive of a cultural proximity to continental humanism. During his 1462 journey to the Holy Land, Wey was at Venice from April 22 to May 26, and other travels in Italy included three days in 1462 at Padua; a significant section of his book is given over to describing Venice, and he also includes descriptions of the universities at Pavia and Bologna.
Wighton’s proximity to what we might call humanism is less clear, in part because he was less well connected than Wey and Larke and so we know less about his companions and associates. However, as a London attorney, he would have had ample access to continental books and learning, for which the Inns of Court were a significant conduit. Wighton’s connection to his executor, Robert Drope, is intriguing because Drope served as sheriff in 1469–70, during which year Richard Lee was lord mayor; as noted above, Richard Lee owned a Mandeville manuscript in French. Lee was a highly successful self-made man, and his son, John Lee, was a student at Oxford and then at Padua in the 1450s and 1460s and connected to a group of influential English humanists in Italy.113 [End Page 234]
Meanwhile, Larke’s engagement with humanist figures is much clearer, as probed in recent work by Rob Lutton, who has commented that an “orthodox reformism” underpins Larke’s guidebook; Lutton argues convincingly that Larke’s emphasis on “the personal experience of travel,” his inclusion of an account of the voyage home, and his relative inattention to saints’ shrines and relics all served to provide “a reformed and authoritative account of the Jerusalem pilgrimage at a time when the practice of pilgrimage was increasingly seen as vulnerable to attack from both orthodox and heterodox critics.”114 Larke’s journey to salvation in the Holy Land was complemented by his journey to learning and Italian humanism.
Wey, Wighton, and Larke each engaged with a culture of travel, a prototype of what is often referred to as “the grand tour,” traveling via Italy, in which activities of learning, reading, writing, and meeting foreign interlocutors sat alongside the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. They did so in such a way that was profoundly indebted to the Mandevillean “meme” of Jerusalem, an enduring narrative that shaped the textual form of the Jerusalem pilgrimage. Wey, Wighton, and Larke thus emerge as critical readers, creative compilers, and engaged eyewitnesses; yet their intellectual mode of travel should not be mistaken for “secularism,” as it is clear that for Wey and Larke the spiritual benefits of pilgrimage remained vital. These pilgrims’ physical pilgrimages to Jerusalem begot acts of writing, which merged elements of life-writing with intertextual borrowings from established accounts. It appears that Wey and Larke noticed the ambiguous, hybrid nature of Mandeville’s Book and bypassed its satirical, ironic, or heretical aspects; in effect they censored it by incorporating it into their devout pilgrimage narratives. At the same time, Mandeville offered the medieval pilgrim the most widely diffused and recognized narrative form and established compendium of information about Jerusalem, feeding an orthodox but “protohumanist” appetite for travel through the Mediterranean; eyewitness accounts of the Holy Sites; and reports of the distances, languages, routes, and alphabets involved in travel from Venice to Jerusalem.
In the three cases explored here, Mandeville was unacknowledged and, in Wey’s case, Latinized. Mandeville’s book clearly was not an uncomplicatedly “authoritative” volume, but rather provided the apparatus through which travelers framed their journeys. The accounts by [End Page 235] Wey, Wighton, and Larke help us understand a process of “travel writing” in which pilgrims drafted their accounts upon their return through a mixture of eyewitness memory and textual consultation. As experience was combined with textual precedent, memetic simulation and literary copying sustained the western representation of the Holy Land. In this way Mandeville’s Book shaped the experience of Italy and the eastern Mediterranean for readers and travelers many generations after it first appeared. The evidence explored here shows that we need to take Mandeville’s Book seriously as a constituent part of how people understood, experienced, and fashioned their world, without necessarily believing the Book to be “true.” For the learned, English traveler, travel writing was an exercise in literary criticism and compilatio, combining and recombining old accounts of famous places, finding a central place for Mandeville’s Book in the conception, comprehension, and navigation of the Mediterranean world.
Places in the itinerary of Sir Edmund Wighton. Manchester, Chetham’s Library, MS Mun. A.4.107
|Name as given by Edmund Wighton in MS Mun. A.4.107||Italian name if former Venetian or Genoese possession||Name as given by William Wey||Modern name|
|Candy||Regno di Candia||Candea||Crete|
|Kafe in Syrye||—||Cayphas||Haifa|
|porto sallyno larnaca||Porto delle Saline||portu Salinis||Akrotiri or Larnakaa|
|scafordkris in egas||Samotrachi in Egeo||—||Samothrace, in the Aegeanb|
|Nocosia in syprys||Lefkosia||Nicosetum||Nicosia, in Cyprus|
|Nygre pont||Negro Ponte||nigropont||Euboea|
a. The name seems to have been used to refer to several ports on the south coast of Cyprus, near the salt lakes.
b. The transcription and meaning of this place-name are insecure; it is possibly corrupted Greek, encrypting the words for vessel (Greek σϰάφος [skafos], Latin scapha) and the Aegean Sea. Alternatively, it may be a reference to the Venetian entrepôt of Yumurtalık, Turkey (Wighton’s “egas,” Armenian “Ayas,” Fra Mauro’s “Aiazo,” Italian “Laiazo”), and this too would fit with Wighton’s itinerary. Laiazo was a crucial trading port for the Venetians, and was the beginning of the silk route to Tabriz. The Compagnia dei Bardi was exempt from paying taxes here, and the city often appears in portolan charts with the Venetian flag flying from it. I am grateful to Filippo de Vivo and Monique O’Connell for discussions of these place-names.
c. Where is meant by this location is unclear. “Capadocia” could refer to eastern Turkey, which is labeled as such on many portolan charts. However, this name was sometimes used by fifteenth-century pilgrims for the important port of Beirut, which was one of the main stops on the trafego route; see, for example, Harff, Pilgrimage, 234; Brefeld, “An Account,” 151.
Wighton’s list also includes three references to the kinds of vessel taken between places: first, “in galleys” (a galley [Italian galera]: a large passenger boat of the kind used on the pilgrimage route between Venice and Jaffa); second, “by bark” (Italian barca: a small boat); and third, “trafigo” (Italian trafego: a specific type of larger vessel used from the 1460s on Venetian trade-routes in the eastern Mediterranean, between Venice and Alexandria, Beirut, and Gaza).115 This corroborates the sense that Wighton’s voyage combined elements of a pilgrimage journey in a galley with commercial or mercantile shipping. [End Page 237]
Much of the research for this article was supported by the Philip Leverhulme Prize (2011–13) and the preliminary work was undertaken during my tenure of the Walter Hines Pages Fellowship of the Research Triangle Park Foundation at the National Humanities Center. I am grateful to the two anonymous readers for SAC and to Sarah Salih who gave many useful suggestions on drafts of this piece. I am particularly grateful to Rob Lutton and to Matthew Coneys for discussions with me about Larke, Wey, and Mandeville. Various audiences have heard versions of this material and I am grateful to them for their feedback, specifically at conferences and lectures at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Duke University, the University of Huddersfield, the Huntington Library, King’s College London, and Oxford University.
1. Alcuin of York, De animae ratione, 101.642A–C, via Patrologia Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, full-text database, http://pld.chadwyck.co.uk/ (accessed April 6, 2016). For a discussion of this passage in terms of medieval mimesis, see Mary Carruthers, The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Medieval Images 400–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 119.
2. Nicole Chareyron,Éthique et esthétique du récit de voyageà la fin du MoyenÂge (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2013), 378.
3. Mandeville’s name is used here to denote the text’s author, although it is far from clear that such a person existed; this, however, is how the text presents itself, through its own declared narration by “I, ser John Mandeville.” The work had no stable title, and often no title was given, although modern scholars have tended to refer to The Travels of Sir John Mandeville. However, earlier titles often foregrounded the text’s marvelous nature: for example, Sr John Maundeuille de mervailles de mounde (London, British Library [BL], MS Harley 212). Latin versions very frequently used titles such as Itinerarium Iohannis Maundevyle (Leiden, Rijksuniversiteit Bibliotheek, MS Vulcan 96) or Itinerarium Iohannis Maundevile de mirabilibus mundi (BL, MS Royal 13 E.IX). As such I have used the title The Book of Marvels and Travels, which is the title used for Sir John Mandeville, The Book of Marvels and Travels, ed. and trans. Anthony Bale (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).
4. J. W. Bennett, “Chaucer and Mandeville’s Travels,” Modern Language Review 68 (1953): 531–34; C. W. R. D. Moseley, “ ‘Whet-stone leasings of old Maundevile’: Reading the Travels in Early Modern England,” in Mandeville and Mandevillean Lore in Early Modern England, ed. Laden Niayesh (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2011), 28–50.
5. On the diversity of Mandeville’s medieval audiences see Rosemary Tzanaki, Mandeville’s Medieval Audiences: A Study on the Reception of the Book of Sir John Mandeville (1371–1550) (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003); and Suzanne M. Yeager, “The World Translated: Marco Polo’s Le devisement dou monde, The Book of Sir John Mandeville, and their Medieval Audiences,” in Marco Polo and the Encounter of East and West, ed. Suzanne Conklin Akbari and Amilcare Iannucci (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 156–81.
6. See J. O. Halliwell, “Catalogue of Thomas Markaunt’s Library from MS C.C.C. 232,” Cambridge Antiquarian Society 32 (1899): 1–7.
7. Henry Summerson, “Urswick, Sir Thomas,” in Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, online ed., ed. Lawrence Goldman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), http://.www.oxforddnb.com/ (hereafter ODNB, accessed April 7, 2016).
8. John Capgrave, Þe Solace of Pilgrimes, ed. C. A. Mills, British and American Archaeo-logical Society of Rome Series (London: Oxford University Press, 1911), 1; this passage is discussed in relation to Mandeville by Tzanaki, Mandeville’s Medieval Audiences, 66. On Capgrave, see further Peter J. Lucas, “An Englishman in Rome: Capgrave’s 1450-Jubilee Guide, The Solace of Pilgrimes,” in Studies in Late Medieval and Early Renaissance Texts in Honour of John Scattergood, ed. Anne Marie d’Arcy and Alan J. Fletcher (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2005), 201–17, including a brief discussion (217) of the possibility that Capgrave passed through Paris on a “scholarly sojourn” on his way to Rome.
9. Mary B. Campbell, The Witness and the Other World: Exotic European Travel Writing, 400–1600 (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988), 2–3.
10. The previous consensus that Mandeville’s text was composed in French in France or Flanders is now far from secure, as several important studies have suggested an Anglo-French “original.” See M. J. Bennett, “Mandeville’s Travels and the Anglo-French Moment,” MÆ 75 (2006): 273–92; and Mark W. Ormrod, “John Mandeville, Edward III, and the King of Inde,” ChauR 46 (2012): 314–39. For the purposes of the current article, it suffices to note that later medieval English audiences referred to an author known as Mandeville, whose text they might have encountered in English, French, Anglo-French, or Latin.
11. Mandeville’s main source for the holy sites of the Holy Land was William of Bold-ensele’s Liber de quibusdam ultramarinis partibus (The Book of Certain Regions Overseas), written in the mid-1330s by William, a German Dominican who had undertaken an unauthorized pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1330. Other descriptions of the routes to Jerusalem were taken from Albert of Aix’s Historia Hierosolimitanae expeditionis (c. 1125) and Jacques de Vitry’s Historia orientalis (c. 1218).
12. See Nicole Chareyron, Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages, trans. W. Donald Wilson (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005); Benedetta Chiesi, Michel Huynh, and Marc Sureda i Jubany, Voyager au Moyen Âge (Paris: Réunion des musées nationaux, 2014).
13. See Josephie Brefeld, A Guidebook for the Jerusalem Pilgrimage in the Late Middle Ages (Amsterdam: Hilversum, 1994). This library at Mount Zion was moved to Saint Saviour’s in the Old City in the mid-sixteenth century but its holdings of pilgrimage literature have gone astray. However, at least one pilgrimage manuscript that seems to have been written there survives, now Versailles, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS Lebaudy L97 (olim 8°52); this manuscript, a collection of pilgrims’ texts, writings about the Holy Land, and adversarial literature on other faiths, explicitly states (fol. 216v) “A me vero transcriptus in Monte Sion, 1471, 24 Ianuarii” (truly written down by me at Mount Zion, January 24, 1471). On this manuscript see Régine Pernoud, Un guide de pèlerin de Terre Sainte au XVe siècle, Cahiers d’histoire et de bibliographie 1 (Mantes: Petit Mantais, 1940).
14. Tzanaki has briefly described interventions in some Mandeville manuscripts that may suggest practical pilgrimage. For instance, the Middle English “Metrical Version” (which survives in Coventry, City Record Office, Acc.325/1) includes the interpolation of 400 lines from The Stations of Rome, a fifteenth-century pilgrimage guide to Rome; likewise, the author of the Middle English “epitome” (found in BL, Add. MS 37049) “was most interested in the devotional aspects of the Book.” Another abridgment of Mandeville’s Book (in Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Ashmole 751) is “composed of extracts from the first third of the Defective Version,” i.e. dealing almost exclusively with pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Whilst it seems that such books were used for reading about pilgrimage it is not evident that they accompanied pilgrims on their journeys. See Tzanaki, Mandeville’s Medieval Audiences, 65.
15. See Christiane Deluz, “Jérusalem, ‘coeur et milieu de toute la terre du monde (Le Livre de Jean de Mandeville),’ ” in Le mythe de Jérusalem du Moyen Âge à la Renaissance, ed. Evelyne Barriot-Salvadore (Saint-Étienne: Publications de l’Université de Saint-Étienne, 1995), 91–100. As Tzanaki (Mandeville’s Medieval Audiences, 64–65) observes, in the “Metrical Version” of Mandeville’s Book, pilgrimage to Rome is suggested to be more beneficial than that to Jerusalem. Of Rome, the “Metrical Version” says “3e pilgrims 3at come to toun / Thai had more deuocioun / To seen 3e meruailis in 3at stage / Than to fulfillen thaire pilgrimage” (Metrical Version, ed. Seymour, lines 431–34 (page 14).
16. See Kathryn M. Rudy, Virtual Pilgrimages in the Convent: Imagining Jerusalem in the Late Middle Ages (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011).
17. See F. Thomas Noonan, The Road to Jerusalem: Pilgrimage and Travel in the Age of Discovery (University Park: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 21–25, 253–55. Noonan asserts the significance of print—e.g., “printed books helped to fashion the age of discovery” (9)—but it may be that printed books survived more than manuscripts; two of the three case studies in this essay are from pre-print sources.
18. See Two Pilgrimage Itineraries from the Late Middle Ages, ed. Brian Tate and Thorlac Turville-Petre (Santiago de Compostela: Xunta de Galicia, 1995), 95.
19. Josephie Brefeld, “An Account of a Pilgrimage to Jerusalem,” Zeitschrift des deutschen Pala¨stina-Vereins 101 (1985): 134–55 (151).
20. Alexander Nagel and Christopher S. Wood, Anachronic Renaissance (New York: Zone Books, 2010), 59.
21. Richard Krautheimer, “Introduction to an Iconography of Medieval Architecture,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 5 (1942): 1–33 (3).
22. Ibid., 1.
23. Iain Macleod Higgins, “Defining the Earth’s Center in a Medieval ‘Multi-Text’: Jerusalem in The Book of John Mandeville,” in Text and Territory: Geographical Imagination in the European Middle Ages, ed. Sylvia Tomasch and Sealy Gilles (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998), 29–54.
24. Hillel Schwartz, The Culture of the Copy: Striking Likenesses, Unreasonable Facsimiles (New York: Zone, 1997), 278.
25. Richard Dawkins, The Selfish Gene, rev. ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 192–93.
26. Schwartz, Culture of the Copy, 229.
27. The notable exception is Tzanaki, Mandeville’s Medieval Audiences, although her study only briefly touches on the use of the Book by pilgrims during their journeys (61–69); Tzanaki comments that especially in the Vulgate Latin version “the text is adapted to conform more to received Church ideals” (61).
28. See John Allen, ed., The English Hospice in Rome (Leominster: Gracewing, 1962).
29. Ibid., 125. Unfortunately, similarly rich records of English pilgrims to Jerusalem do not survive.
30. R. D. Smith, “Lily, William,” in ODNB. Other pilgrims did not make the journey to Jerusalem but combined a trip to the holy sites of Italy with edifying acts of cultural patronage; consider Anthony Woodville, Lord Rivers (c. 1440–83), who traveled to Rome, Venice, and other Italian holy sites in 1475. Woodville was both an enthusiastic pilgrim (not only to Italy but also to Bury St. Edmunds and Santiago de Compostela) and a very significant man of letters, having translated the Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers, the Proverbs of Christine de Pisan, and the Cordyal, all of which were printed by William Caxton. On Anthony Woodville see Jonathan Hughes, “Educating the Aristocracy in Late Medieval England,” History Today 49 (1999): 27–33.
31. Leslie J. Macfarlane, “Blackadder [Blacader], John,” in ODNB.
32. Roger Bowers, “Lloyd [Flude], John,” in ODNB.
33. STC, 13256. C. S. L. Davies, “Stafford, Edward, third duke of Buckingham,” in ODNB. The French source of this text, the Estoire, was translated into French by Jan de Langhe, who has been proposed as the author behind the fiction of “John Mandeville”; see John Larner, “Plucking Hairs from the Great Cham’s Beard: Marco Polo, Jan de Langhe and Sir John Mandeville,” in Akbari and Iannucci, Marco Polo, 133–55.
34. Elizabeth Lane Furdell, “Boorde, Andrew,” in ODNB; Boorde wrote a now-lost travel guide called The Itinerary of Europe.
35. See George B. Parks, The English Traveler to Italy: The Middle Ages (to 1525) (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1954), 337–82. Parks’s book remains an indispensable resource, although his separate categories of “Kings and Diplomats,” “Clerics and Pilgrims,” and “Students” necessarily impose artificial boundaries on travelers’ identities.
36. See Tate and Turville-Petre, Two Pilgrimage Itineraries.
38. Parks, The English Traveler to Italy, 380.
39. See Sean Roberts, Printing a Mediterranean World: Florence, Constantinople, and the Renaissance of Geography (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2013).
40. See Noonan, Road to Jerusalem, for the ongoing vitality of “medieval” travel literature, including Mandeville, in the early modern period. Quite how to define humanism in England in this era remains contentious, and any attempt at an absolute definition cannot help but be flawed; certainly, books, reading, and writing are central to any attempt to understand the currents of humanism between England and Italy in the fifteenth century. Roberto Weiss’s classic study, Humanism in England during the Fifteenth Century (Oxford: SSMLL, 1941), was largely a study of book collecting and literary patronage. Likewise, Charles G. Nauert asserts that “at a most basic level . . . humanists were students of ancient language and ancient literature”; Charles G. Nauert, “Human-ists, Scientists, and Pliny: Changing Approaches to a Classical Author,” American Historical Review 84 (1979): 72–85. Recently Daniel Wakelin has suggested that “if we attend to humanism as a practice, we can see the practice unfolding, even fleetingly, in the margins, or in other fugitive, curious places, such as prologues, ex libris notes, or military memoranda. If we look at this more microscopic level, then we will see humanist activity in English literature during the fifteenth century”; Daniel Wakelin, Humanism, Reading, and English Literature, 1430–1530 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 9.
41. See further Noonan, Road to Jerusalem, 26; Nancy Bisaha, Creating East and West: Renaissance Humanists and the Ottoman Turks (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 19–23.
42. BL, Add. MS 41329 was copied at Padua in 1469; New York, Pierpont Morgan Library, MS M.746 was copied at Ferrara. The book was printed at Bologna, Florence, Milan, and Venice (for a list of the printed editions see Josephine Waters Bennett, The Rediscovery of Sir John Mandeville [New York: Modern Languages Association, 1954], 376–81); on the Italian audience in the fifteenth century see Alda Rossebastiano, La tradizione manoscritta della versione del “Voyage d’oultremer” di Jean de Mandeville (Turin: CISI, 1992).
43. Elsewhere, the Travels of Marco Polo were enthusiastically taken up by Italian humanists in the mid-fifteenth century, “notably the circle of Toscanelli and Nicholas of Cusa” (quoting Larner, “Plucking Hairs,” 146); Pliny remained popular and was “retranslated” by several humanists (see Nauert, “Humanists, Scientists, and Pliny”). On the interweaving of devotional and mercantile geographical knowledge in early print and humanist education see Roberts, Printing a Mediterranean World.
44. References here are to the manuscript because of the lack of a reliable modern edition. Wey’s book was edited by George Williams and Bulkeley Bandinel, The Itineraries of William Wey (London: Roxburghe Club, 1857). Parts of it have recently appeared in translation in Francis Davey (ed. and trans.), The Itineraries of William Wey (Oxford: Bodleian Library, 2010).
45. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodley 565, fols.17r–18r; Wey’s first, second, and fourth material causes cite Bridget’s Revelations on pilgrimage.
46. MS Bodley 565, fol. 17v.
47. MS Bodley 565, fol. 18v: a long, almost verbatim quotation of Pope Leo’s letter on the role of place-pilgrimage in confirming faith through seeing the humanity of Christ in the places where he lived. See St. Leo the Great: Letters, trans. Edmund Hunt, The Fathers of the Church 34 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America, 1957), 227–32.
48. MS Bodley 565, fol. 17v. Wey’s citation is not from Voragine’s widely read life of Basil in the Golden Legend. Wey mentions how Basil traveled to Jerusalem, a detail that is also found in a slightly different form in Ælfric’s Old English version of the Life; Aelfric’s Lives of Saints, ed. Walter W. Skeat, EETS o.s. 76 (London: Trübner, 1881), 1:53–55.
49. MS Bodley 565, fol. 34r. The story concerns a pilgrim to the Holy Land; he is taken by his Saracen guide to a grove in which birds die during Passion Week and revive on Easter Day. Wey seems to be referring to Grosseteste’s De templum Domini (after 1235; also known as the Distincciones, or De articulis fidei); although it was widely read in the Middle Ages, it remains unedited and untranslated. Wey could well have encountered the story, not in Grosseteste, but in Latin in Robert Holcot’s widely read Convertimini, or in the vernacular in John Mirk’s Festial.
50. MS Bodley 565, fol. 34r, in which Comestor is referred to by Wey as magistro historiarum, the Master of Histories. The text is Comestor’s discussion of Epiphanius on Sennacherib’s siege of Jerusalem in the Historia scholastica.
51. MS Bodley 565, fol. 34v. The text is Bede, In evangelium Lucae, in Commentaries on the Scriptures, ed. J. A. Giles, The Complete Works of Venerable Bede, 8 vols. (London: Whitaker, 1844), 4.382. This is Wey’s citation of Bede’s exposition of the phrase “nemo propheta acceptus est in patria sua” (no prophet is accepted in his own country; Lk 4:24).
52. As Pnina Arad has shown, Wey was also familiar with some version of Rorgo Fretellus’s twelfth-century Liber locorum sanctorum, from which he took, without attribution, some of his itineraries and lists of distances. See Pnina Arad, “Pilgrimage, Cartography, and Devotion: William Wey’s Map of the Holy Land,” Viator 43 (2012): 301–22.
53. MS Bodley 565, fol. 32r.
54. On the botanical and archaeological aspects of the tree and the site, see F. Nigel Hepper and Shimon Gibson, “Abraham’s Oak of Mamre: The Story of a Venerable Tree,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly 126 (1994): 94–105; an oak tree at Ain Sebta (Hirbet es-Sibte—between Halhul and Hebron, Palestine) continued to be visited by English pilgrims into the nineteenth century, and acorns collected from the tree are still at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew (96). A Russian monastery was built at the site in the late nineteenth century and the tree withered and died; a younger oak tree flourished in its place, and this died in 2006, although shoots from its roots are said to be still living. An alternative site for Mambre, at Ramat al-Khalil, was probably also visited by medieval pilgrims. Mandeville and even Wey may have encountered another version of the story in Gervase of Tilbury’s Otia imperialia, which was certainly one of Mandeville’s sources of information, but Gervase’s version is very different from Mandeville and Wey’s: “It was called the valley of Mamre . . ., and Abraham dwelt there beside a terebinth or an oak tree, the roots of which are still to be seen. Josephus calls this oak Ogyges. This tree remained alive up until the time of Theodosius, and from it there sprang a shoot which grew into the tree which is there now. Though this tree is withered, it has medicinal properties. If you take a seed from it, your horse will not suffer from the flux; and straps are made from it, contact with which will be beneficial to a person or a horse as a remedy for the stomach cramps which are commonly called tranchees, or griping pains.” Gervase of Tilbury, Otia imperialia, ed. and trans. S. E. Banks and J. W. Binns, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 206–7.
55. The Defective Version of Mandeville’s Travels, ed. M. C. Seymour, EETS o.s. 319 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 25 (hereafter Defective).
56. The Harley version (as given in BL, MS Royal 13.E.IX, and published in The Metrical Version of Mandeville’s Travels, ed. M. J. Seymour, EETS o.s. 269 [London: Oxford University Press, 1973], 164) begins: “Et ad ii malaria de Ebro est sepulcrum Loth filii fratris Abrahe et prope Ebron nest mons Mambre de quo vallis nomen accepit. Ibi est vna arbor quercina quam saraceni Airpe vocant”; the Royal version (as given in Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS e. mus. 116, in The Bodley Version of Mandeville’s Travels, ed. M. C. Seymour, EETS o.s. 253 [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983], 46–47), begins: “Ibi habetur quercus qum Saraceni appellant Drip et est de tempore Abrahe. Hec est arbor qui vulgariter dicitur arbor sicca. Fama est ibidem quod arbor ista fuit ab inicio mundi et semper extitit viridis usque ad tempore passionis Cristi, et ex tunc remansit sicca.”
57. “A Ebron incipit vallis Mambre quae protenditur fere usque Jerusalem. None remote ab Ebro nest mons Mambre, et in ipso monte stat arbor, scilicet quercus arida, quae ab antiquitate sua special sibi nomen meruit habere in universe mundo, et vocatur arbor sicca. Sarraceni dicunt eam dirp. Haec creditor stetisse a tempore Abrahae, et quidem ab initio mundi virens, donect passionis Christi tempore siccaretur.” Odorici de Foro Iulii, “Liber de Terra Sancta,” Peregrinatores medii aevi quatuor, ed. C. M. Laurent (Leipzig: n.p., 1864), 145–58 (154).
58. The variants in Wey’s account do not map precisely onto any surviving Mandeville manuscript (had they done so, one might have located the Mandeville manuscript used by Wey). However, these variants are closest to the Middle English subgroups 4 and 5 of “defective” Mandeville manuscripts, most of which circulated in England in the mid-to-late fifteenth century. Wey’s account of the Dry Tree departs from Mandeville in three distinctive variants: first, the distance of eleven, rather than two, miles from Hebron; second, the rendering of Mount Mambre or Mamre as “Mable”; and third, the naming of the Dry Tree itself as “Dryp,” rather than Mandeville’s “Dirpe.” The distance of “eleven” (written out as “undecim” by Wey) is likely a misreading by Wey of the roman numeral “ii” as the arabic numeral “11.” From the thirteenth century, roman and arabic numerals had existed side-by-side, and were sometimes used in hybrid forms; see G. F. Hill, The Development of the Arabic Numerals in Europe, Exhibited in Sixty-Four Tables (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1915) on forms of arabic numerals. I have found no evidence of Mount Mambre being called Mount Mable other than in Mandeville manuscripts, so Wey likely took this locution from there (see, for example, BL, Add. MS 33758, fol. 13r [“mable”]; BL, Add. MS 37049, fol. 7v [“mabyl”]; Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodley Addit. C285, fol. 13v [“mable”]; Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Douce 109, fol. 14r [“Mable”]; Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Laud 699, fol. 14r [“Mable”]; Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Rawl. D 652, fol. 7v [“Mable”]; Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Tanner 405 [“Mable”]). The naming of the tree itself as “Dryp” reveals an identical set of readings. Mandeville’s name for the tree, “Dirp,” is probably a corruption, as Seymour suggests, of the ancient Greek word δρυς (drys), meaning any large tree or oak. Most Mandeville manuscripts record “Dirp,” “Dyrp,” or “Dyrpe,” but some have a similar metathesis to Wey’s “Dryp,” transposing the “r” and the vowel “i”/”y”; for example, BL, MS Harley 175, fol. 21r (“drip”); New Haven, Beinecke Library, MS Takamiya 63, fol. 20r (“drype”); Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Rawl. D 100, fol. 6r (“drype”). Wey possibly corrected the spelling better to accord with the Greek, of which he had at least a rudimentary knowledge, although such metathesis is not uncommon.
59. MS Bodley 565, fol. 32r; Defective, 22–25.
60. This comprises Wey’s brief description of the Dome of the Rock at Jerusalem, the Milk Grotto at Bethlehem, the translation of the body of Saint Anne, the self-refilling jar that drips water, and the holy lance and sponge at Constantinople (MS Bodley 565, fol. 32v; Defective, 9–11).
61. Wey’s account of the shaved heads of eastern Christian “schismatics” is not identical to Mandeville’s account of the Georgians, but is close enough to suggest that it is prompted by Mandeville’s description of the “Georgienz . . . [who] haueþ crownus schaue” (MS Bodley 565, fol. 38r; Defective, 49). Wey’s account of pilgrimages in the Valley of Jehoshaphat and on the Mount of Olives shows the clear influence of Mandeville, and some specific details were almost certainly taken by Wey from Mandeville, e. g., the Holy Cross lying across the River Kidron, the site where Mary handed Thomas her girdle, the site of Christ’s footprint in the stone from which he ascended to Heaven, and the tree on which Judas hanged himself, although Wey could have seen some of this material in Voragine’s Golden Legend, which he had also read.
62. For example, in his account of the Milk Grotto at Bethlehem, Wey writes that at the Church of Saint Nicholas “sancta Maria deposuit lac de mamillis suis super lapides rubeos, et, ut legi, remanent sigiia lactis super lapidem” (the Blessed Mary dropped some milk from her breasts on the red stones; and, so I have read, the marks of the milk remain on the stone) (MS Bodley 565, fol. 32v). This is taken almost verbatim from Mandeville. Mandeville wrote that “[At Bethlehem] is a chirche of seynt Nicholas whare oure lady rested here when heo was delyuered of childe. And for as myche þat sche hade to mochelle melk in here pappis þat greued here, sche melkid it out vpon þe reede stones of marbel so þat ᵹit may men se þe traces white vpon þe stones” (Defective, 26). Likewise, in his account of a miraculous jar (“ydriis”) at Constantinople that came from Cana in Galilee, Wey states “que, ut legi, semper stillet aquam et implete se omni anno semel” (which, I have read, always drips water and refills itself once each year) (MS Bodley 565, fol. 33r). Here, Wey is again adopting a narrative from Mandeville’s Book: that of the “idriouns” of Constantinople, described by Mandeville as “vessels of ston as it were of marbul, which men clepiþ idriouns, þat euermore droppiþ water and fulliþ hemself eche ᵹere aᵹen” (Defective, 11). Wey also used the ut legi formula in his account of the cleft in the rock at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher where the biblical clause “Et petre scisse sunt” (Mt 27:51) was made manifest (fol. 27r), again drawing very closely on information given in Mandeville.
63. Wey also used the phrase “ut dicitur” for his accounts of “Carkey” (the island of Chalki in the Peloponnese; MS Bodley 565, fol. 58v) with regard to a rumour about Saint Nicholas’s birth there, and of the image of the Virgin at Rome said to have been painted by Saint Luke; the origins of the former are obscure and the latter was prompted by Voragine’s Golden Legend.
64. Brief and incomplete descriptions are given in G. A. Lester, The Index of Middle English Prose Handlist II (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1985), 83–84; Neil Ker, Medieval Manuscripts in British Libraries, 5 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969–2002), 3:347.
65. The lacuna is at fol. 78v, and corresponds to Defective, 123 (line 30)–136 (line 18). The manuscript is damaged in places and these notes are not entirely legible, so what follows is based only on those parts of the notes that I have been able to decipher with confidence.
66. Likewise, at the end of the Mandeville text (fol. 79v) Wighton has written “4 score leuys & 2 leuys vn write,” again suggesting that the book was unbound, loosely bound, or rebound when he owned it.
67. In the mid-fifteenth century, at least three galleys were sailing to Azov each year, via Romania (Frederic Lane, Venetian Ships and Shipbuilders of the Renaissance [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1934], 253–57). Azov was a very significant Venetian entrepôt, the starting-point of the trade-route to Beijing.
68. The German pilgrim Ludolph von Suchem, visiting in 1350, described how the former Templar city at Haifa was “now utterly destroyed” (Ludolph von Suchem, Description of the Holy Land, ed. and trans. Aubrey Stewart, Palestine Pilgrims’ Text Society 12 [London: PPTC, 1895], 64). Some pilgrims note the origin of the Carmelite order at nearby Mount Carmel, but visits to the site were unusual (for example, the anonymous author of Versailles, MS Lebaudy L97 [fol. 154v], traveling in 1455, included “Mons Carmeli” as a place in his “peregrinationes Baruthi”; here, he wrote, “incepit Ordo Carmelitarum”).
69. See Benjamin Arbel, “The Last Decades of Venice’s Trade with the Mamluks: Importations into Egypt and Syria,” Mamlûk Studies Review 8 (2004): 37–86, which includes a list of the cargoes of galleys among Venice, Beirut, and Alexandria from 1496 to 1513 (73–79); Eliyahu Ashtor, Levant Trade in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 284, 504.
70. Frederic Chapin Lane, Venetian Ships and Shipbuilders of the Renaissance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1934), 134–36.
71. International commerce was an established part of the pilgrimage industry; for instance, in 1446, the Bristol merchant Robert Sturmy ran a cargo from Pisa to Jaffa on the cog “Anne,” aboard which were 160 pilgrims together with English wool, cloth, and tin. See Ashtor, Levant Trade, 366.
72. First, that “ther ben in yngde [i.e India] . . . strong men”: “mon [i.e. men] of xx fet of length” in the land of “yngde.” This is possibly from Mandeville’s account in the same manuscript of “geauntes of xxviii fote or xxx fote long” (fol. 77v). With more certainty, we can say that Wighton’s note on “yngde the more,” the Indus River and its “Elys” (eels) of “xxx fot of lengthe” directly quotes Mandeville, who describes how “men fynde eles of xxx fote long” in the River “Ynde”/Indus (fol. 47r). Wighton’s note goes on: “and that lond ys callyd Yngde fer the seyd <watir>,” apparently repeating Mandeville’s comment on India and the Indus that “hit is called Ynde for a water that renes thrugh hit that men calles ynde” (Manchester, Chetham’s Library, MS A.4.107, fol. 47r). The final two notes on this folio (fol. 80r) are a Latin prayer (“Item de die in diem laudabo de <.. .> saluator<is> meu<s>,” (day by day I praise my Saviour) and then a description of the distance “from London to venys [by] the sea.” This echoes the mileage details given in many pilgrimage guides including Mandeville’s; for his part, Wey included long lists in columns of the distances between towns on the route from Calais to Rome, from Ravenna to Venice, and from Venice back to Calais; he also included long prose descriptions of the distances between way-stations.
73. Memoranda (fol. 82v) refer to places and events in the Holy Land, apparently around Bethlehem and Jerusalem; other notes state that “ihesus crystus was xxxii yere of age . . . wanne he was put to hys passion” and seemingly that “ther was slayne in the cete of Jeru<sal>em and in the contre of Israell for crystys . . . men chyldryns,” and quote the number “cxliii milia” (143,000), perhaps referring to the Massacre of the Innocents.
74. Wighton’s hand clearly records “vii slepyrs” who “sleptyid in monte Sel<yone> ccc yerys iii skore yerys and ii yerys” (i.e. 362 years, as given in the Gilte Legende); Wighton gives the location as “Sellyone,” Mount Celion, given in the Gilte Legende as “Mount of Selyon.” The Gilte Legende: Volume II, ed. Richard Hamer, EETS o.s. 328 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 504–9.
75. By around Wighton’s time, the relics or ashes of the Seven Sleepers were being venerated in Rome (Mirabilia Romae, the Pilgerbuch of 1489); the city of Ephesus had been abandoned. The Pilgrimage of Arnold von Harff, ed. and trans Malcolm Letts, Hakluyt Society 94 (London: Hakluyt Society, 1946), 22, notes the relics in Rome, not in the Levant.
76. Wighton was practicing law in London by 1447, his name mentioned in two cases in this year (Court of Common Pleas, CP 40/745, rot. 190d, in which Wighton was attorney to the plaintiff, Walter Coton, in an allegation concerning the theft of a horse in Bishopsgate; Court of Common Pleas, CP 40/745, rot. 194d, in which Wighton acted for the defendant in an allegation concerning the theft of a silk cloth in London).
77. The National Archives, Kew (TNA), Prerogative Court of Canterbury, 21 Logge; via A2A. In his will, Wighton left gifts to the churches at Wighton and nearby Sculthorpe, and among his executors was one Richard Charles of Saxlingham (Norfolk), about six miles east of the village of Wighton; this suggests that whilst Wighton became a London gentleman, he retained a connection to his village of origin.
78. Wighton had assumed the title “Sir” by 1477, when he was named in a pardon of outlawry issued at Westminster against Edmund Spryngwell of [King’s] Lynn (Norfolk) (see Public Record Office, Calendar of the Patent Rolls: Edward IV, Edward V, Richard III A.D. 1476–1485 [London: HMSO, 1901], 28). It can therefore be suggested that he undertook his pilgrimage in the mid-1460s or early 1470s, between the advent of the trafego route and Wighton’s use of the title “Sir.”
79. “Knights of the Holy Sepulchre,” in The Catholic Encyclopedia, 15 vols. (New York: Robert Appleton, 1910), Vol. 7, via http://www.newadvent.org (accessed April 13, 2016). Nompar de Caumont, traveling in 1418–19, likewise describes the ceremony, which included swearing an oath of loyalty to the pope and the Holy Roman Emperor, not to make pacts with infidels, to defend Christianity, to aspire to reconquer the Holy Land, and to avoid vice; Le voyage d’outremer en Jherusalem, ed. Peter S. Noble (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1975), 93. Likewise Harff, in 1499, includes an account of the ceremony containing the detail that knights had to swear they were “well-born and of noble parents”; see Harff, Pilgrimage, 202.
80. Hariot was an alderman and served as sheriff from 1468 to 1469 and lord mayor from 1481 to 1482); Drope was an alderman and served as sheriff from 1469 to 1470 (when Richard Lee was Lord Mayor) and Lord Mayor from 1474 to 1475. See Caroline Barron, London in the Later Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 345–46.
81. See P. Tucker, “Dunthorn, William,” in ODNB. Dunthorn was a graduate of Peterhouse, Cambridge, and evidently a highly competent and diligent administrator (according to his epitaph, “second to none in manners, intellect, and learning”). In his role as common clerk he was responsible not only for keeping the city’s records but also for supervising its clerks. Dunthorn oversaw the compilation of the lavish Liber Dunthorn (now London Metropolitan Archives, COL/CS/01/010, MS “Liber Dunthorn”), a new London city custumal commissioned in 1474. Dunthorn was also closely linked to the London attorney John More (c. 1451–1530), father of the English humanist par excellence, the lawyer and philosopher Thomas More, whose Utopia also shows the influence of Mandeville; see Caroline M. Barron, “The Making of a London Citizen,” in The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, ed. George M. Logan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 1–21 (7).
82. Barker was admitted to the Scriveners’ Company on September 20, 1475; Francis W. Steer, ed., Scriveners’ Company Common Paper 1357–1628 (London: London Record Society, 1968), 23.
83. Another example may be BL, Add. MS 37049, an English epitome of a printed Mandeville, containing a map of a walled Jerusalem with about two dozen buildings; this book was very likely a pilgrimage guide, although there is no evidence that it accompanied any pilgrim as a vade mecum. See further M. C. Seymour, “The English Epitome of Mandeville’s Travels,” Anglia 84 (1966): 27–58.
84. On the libraries at Gray’s Inn and Lincoln’s Inn see Nigel Ramsay and James M. W. Willoughby, Hospitals, Towns, and the Professions, Corpus of British Medieval Library Catalogues 14 (London: British Library, 2009), 137–39, 133–34; on the context of small London institutional libraries see Julia Boffey, Manuscript and Print in London, c. 1475–1530 (London: British Library, 2012), 131–37.
85. The book is inscribed with the names, probably written c. 1500–50, of various members of the Osborne family (“Wylliam,” “Antyny,” “Harry,” “John,” and “Thomas,” whose names appear in the pen-trials on fol. 2r), and relating to the family of that name in Kelmarsh (Northamptonshire). John Osborne of Kelmarsh (d. 1581) had sons named Thomas, Maurice, John, William, and Richard (as named in his will [TNA, Prob. 11/63/364]), several of whom went to Cambridge University in the 1570s. After the Osborne family the book seems then to have been owned by the recusant Edward Bannester (fl. 1584), who wrote his name on fol. 1r. The book thus appears to have been bound as it is currently organized by the mid-to-late sixteenth century.
86. The original edition of Guylforde’s book is This is the begynnynge, and contynuaunce of the pylgrymage of Sir Richarde Guylforde Knyght (London: Richard Pynson, 1511); quotations here are taken from The Pylgrymage of Sir Richard Guylforde to the Holy Land, AD 1506, ed. Henry Ellis, Camden Society 61 (London: Camden Society, 1851), hereafter referred to as Pylgrymage. A framework of Larke’s biography can be found in Rob Lutton, “Pilgrimage and Travel Writing in Early Sixteenth-Century England: The Pilgrim Guidebooks of Thomas Larke and Robert Langton” (forthcoming); for information on Guylforde, see Rob Lutton, “Richard Guldeford’s Pilgrimage: Piety and Cultural Change in Late Fifteenth- and Early Sixteenth-Century England,” History 98 (2013): 41–78, in which Lutton identifies Guylforde’s scribe as Larke, and includes an account of contacts between Larke and Erasmus. I am very grateful to Rob Lutton for our conversations about late medieval pilgrimage and his generous sharing of drafts of his work with me; in particular, a panel with Philip Booth at the Leeds International Medieval Congress 2014 on “Pilgrimage Writing and Pilgrimage Practice in the Later Middle Ages” productively explored the issues around the current material.
87. This was probably Cristoforo Pallavicino (d. 1521) of Busseto near Piacenza. We know, from a 1522 inventory of the possessions of his wife Bonamaria Pusterla-Pallavicina, that she too owned a travel book (“uno libro del viaggio,” written in her own hand); see Katherine McIver, Women, Art and Architecture in Northern Italy 1520–1580 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 119–20.
88. On the Pallavicino family, see Lutton, “Richard Guldeford’s Pilgrimage,” 54.
89. Tzanaki, Mandeville’s Medieval Audiences, 68–69, comments that Larke’s borrowings from Mandeville took “nothing extraneous to a religious purpose”; see also Lutton, “Pilgrimage and Travel Writing.”
90. The source-text is Bernhard von Breydenbach, Peregrinatio in terram sanctam: Eine Pilgerreise ins heilige Land; Frühneuhochdeutscher Text undÜbersetzung, ed. Isolde Mozer (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010). For a stimulating discussion of Breydenbach’s text and its importance in the construction of knowledge about the Holy Land in the early modern period, see Elizabeth Ross, Picturing Experience in the Early Printed Book: Breydenbach’s “Peregrinatio” from Venice to Jerusalem (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2014).
91. Pylgrymage, 22; Defective, 40.
92. Pylgrymage, 35; Defective, 25–26.
93. Pylgrymage, 43; Defective, 33–35.
94. Pylgrymage, 51; Defective, 43–47.
95. Pylgrymage, 41; Defective, 41.
96. Pylgrymage, 42; Defective, 42.
97. Pylgrymage, 43; Defective, 42.
98. Pylgrymage, 45; Defective, 34.
99. Pylgrymage, 49; Defective, 45–46.
100. Pylgrymage, 6, 12–13, 14.
101. Ibid., 55.
102. Larke died at Southwell Minster (Nottinghamshire) with Cardinal Thomas Wolsey (d. 1530), in whose household he was by then serving. Intriguingly, one copy of Mandeville in French (BL, MS Harley 1739), has the bookplate “Southwell” in it (fol. 1r); this manuscript had previously been owned by the Lee family of London and Padua (Richard Lee owned the manuscript, and his son John was a student at Padua); see R. J. Mitchell, “English Students at Padua, 1460–75,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 19 (1936): 101–17. The manuscript could conceivably have passed to Larke via Padua, which he certainly visited, and thence to the Minster Library at Southwell. At this stage, this is merely a conjecture, as much more work remains to be done on establishing Larke’s library and the extent of his reading.
103. Tzanaki, Mandeville’s Medieval Audiences, 66.
104. Torkyngton, who was attached to the household of Sir Thomas Boleyn, also traveled in Italy, noting the university at Turin; the tomb of Lionel, son of Edward III, at Pavia; and the church (and delicious sweetmeats) of Venice.
105. Justin Stagl, A History of Curiosity: The Theory of Travel 1550–1800 (London: Taylor and Francis, 1995), 50.
106. By Gabriele Capodilista of Padua; the condottiere Roberto da Sanseverino of Milan; and Matteo Butigella, also of Milan, who accompanied Sanseverino. For Capodilista’s account, see Viaggio in Terra Santa di Santo Brasca (1480) con L’itinerario di Gabriele Capodilista (1458), ed. Anna Laura Lepschy (Milan: Longanesi, 1966); on his biography, Rosemary J. Mitchell, “Gabriele Capodilista,” Bollettino del Museo civico di Padova 50 (1961): 183–200. On Sanseverino and Butigella see Mario Cavaglià and Alda Rossebastian, eds., Felice et devoto ad Terrasancta viagio facto per Roberto de Sancto Severino (1458–1459) (Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso, 1999).
107. BL, Add. MS 10286, fols.137r–146r. The text has been transcribed in “Die Peregrinatie van Jherusalem,” in Verslagen en Mededelingen Koninklijke Vlaamse Academie (Gent: A. Siffer, 1897), 403–32. Brief extracts have been translated into modern Dutch in Ben Wasser, Dit is de pelgrimage van het Heilig Land en daaromtrent 1450–1650: Bloemlezing uit de reisverslagen van Jeruzalemgangers uit de Nederlanden, 1450–1650 (Hilversum: Verloren, 2014), 90, 93–96, 109, 231–32.
108. By Anton Pelchinger (d. 1465) of Tegernsee in Bavaria. His account is preserved in Vienna,Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, MS 3012. See Berthold Riehl, Studien zur bayerischen Malerei des 15. Jahrhunderts, Oberbayerisches Archiv für vaterla¨ndische Geschichte 49 (Munich: Verlag des Historischen Vereins von Oberbayern, 1895), 195–96, 98–104.
109. The ramifications of the relationship among these writers and their accounts lies outside the scope of this essay, and is the subject of ongoing current research by other scholars. Closest to Wey is his fellow traveler Capodilista who, as current research by Matthew Coneys is uncovering, worked closely with a manuscript of Mandeville, this time in Italian. See too Pnina Arad, “ ‘As if you were there’: The Cultural Impact of Two Pilgrims’ Maps of the Holy Land,” in Visual Constructs of Jerusalem, ed. Bianca Kuehnel, Galit Noga-Banai, and Hanna Vorholt, Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages 18 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), 307–16.
110. Tiptoft’s military and political career, and his sudden fall and execution, have tended to eclipse his learning and humanistic endeavors. On this aspect of Tiptoft see R. Weiss, “The Library of John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester,” Bodleian Quarterly Record 8 (1935–37): 157–64; David Rundle, “The Butcher of England and the Reform of Learning: John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester and England’s Role in the Renaissance,” paper presented at the Bibliographical Society, February 17, 2015.
111. See Virginia Davis, William Waynflete: Bishop and Educationalist, Studies in the History of Medieval Religion (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1993), 48–50.
112. Ibid., 85–93.
113. Mitchell, “English Students at Padua.”
114. Lutton, “Pilgrimage and Travel Writing.”
115. Indeed, Thomas Larke mentions how, during a storm at Corfu, “the best passengers . . . lefte and forsoke oure galye, and gate theym selfe into one of the sayd galeys of Traffigo . . . for theyr better spede and more suerte.” See Pilgrymage, 72.