Music Education in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (Publications of the Early Music Institute)

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music

Explores the practice of music education before Bach

Susan Forscher Weiss is Chair of Musicology, The Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University. Cynthia J. Cyrus is Associate Dean and Professor of Musicology at the Blair School of Music at Vanderbilt University.

Publications of the Early Music Institute Paul Elliot, editor

MusicEMARmec.indd 1

Music Education in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance

Music Education in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance explores the teaching and learning of music in the early centuries of the Western art music tradition. The authors of these essays seek to understand the methods and philosophies of various teachers, as well as what students learned and how the act of learning is embedded in the broader context of music and music-making in this period. Gender, social status, and the role of the church are considered along with the educational rationale and motivations of medieval and early modern pedagogues. From England to Italy, these essays provide an expansive view of the beginnings of music pedagogy as a tradition. Opening the way and suggesting further avenues of inquiry, Murray, Weiss, Cyrus, and their contributors add invaluable nuance to the place of education in our current master narratives of music history.

Music Education in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance

Russell E. Murray, Jr., is Professor of Music History and Literature and Associate Chair of the Department of Music at the University of Delaware.

Murray, Weiss, and Cyrus

INDIANA

University Press

Bloomington & Indianapolis www.iupress.indiana.edu 1-800-842-6796

Jacket illustration: Lady Musica from Reisch, Margarita Philosophica Nova. Boston Public Library, Rare Books and Manuscripts Division, G 404. 17. Used by permission.

Indiana

Edit ed by Russell E. Murray, Jr., Susan Forscher Weiss, and Cynthia J. Cyrus

The contributors are Charles M. Atkinson, Colleen Baade, Susan Boynton, Cynthia J. Cyrus, Kristine K. Forney, Anthony Grafton, John Griffiths, James Haar, Gordon Munro, Russell E. Murray, Jr., Jessie Ann Owens, Dolores Pesce, Peter Schubert, Pamela F. Starr, Gary Towne, Susan Forscher Weiss, and Blake Wilson.

5/14/10 5:05 PM

Music Education in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance •

Publications of the Early Music Institute Paul Elliot, editor

•

Music Education in the Middle Ages and •the Renaissance• Edited by

Russell E. Murray, Jr., Susan Forscher Weiss, and Cynthia J. Cyrus Indiana University Press Bloomington & Indianapolis

This book is a publication of Indiana University Press 601 North Morton Street Bloomington, IN 47404-3797 USA www.iupress.indiana.edu Telephone ordersâ•… 800-842-6796 Fax ordersâ•… 812-855-7931 Orders by e-mailâ•… [email protected] © 2010 by Indiana University Press All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The Association of American University Presses’ Resolution on Permissions constitutes the only exception to this prohibition. â†œ∞ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

Manufactured in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-inPublication Data Music education in the Middle ages and the Renaissance / edited by Russell E. Murray, Jr., Susan Forscher Weiss, and Cynthia J. Cyrus. p. cm. — (Publications of the Early Music Institute) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-253-35486-0 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Music—Instruction and study—History—500–1400. 2. Music— Instruction and study—History—15th century. 3. Music—Instruction and study—History—16th century. I. Murray, Russell Eugene. II. Weiss, Susan Forscher. III. Cyrus, Cynthia J. MT1.M98165 2010 780.71—dc22 2010007346 1 2 3 4 5 15 14 13 12 11 10

To my wife Lysbet and my daughter Diane keen proofreaders and patient listeners Russell

To my husband Jim, our children, grandchildren, and all my students for inspiring me to explore the many aspects of musical learning past and present Susan

To John and Helen Cyrus, models of a lifetime spent in learning Cynthia

Contents

· Acknowledgmentsâ•‡ ·â•‡ ix

· Introduction: Reading and Writing the Pedagogy of the Pastâ•‡ ·â•‡ Russell E. Murray, Jr., Susan Forscher Weiss, and Cynthia J. Cyrusâ•‡ ·â•‡ xi

· Perspective 1

1 Some Introductory Remarks on Musical Pedagogyâ•‡ ·â•‡ James Haarâ•‡ ·â•‡ 3

Part 1 Medieval Pedagogy

2 Guido d’Arezzo, Ut queant laxis, and Musical Understandingâ•‡ ·â•‡ Dolores Pesceâ•‡ ·â•‡ 25

3 Some Thoughts on Music Pedagogy in the Carolingian Eraâ•‡ ·â•‡ Charles M. Atkinsonâ•‡ ·â•‡ 37

4 Medieval Musical Education as Seen through Sources Outside the Realm of Music Theoryâ•‡ ·â•‡ Susan Boyntonâ•‡ ·â•‡ 52

Part 2 Renaissance Places of Learning

5 “Sang Schwylls” and “Music Schools”: Music Education in Scotland, 1560–1650â•‡ ·â•‡ Gordon Munroâ•‡ ·â•‡ 65

6 A Proper Musical Education for Antwerp’s Womenâ•‡ ·â•‡ Kristine K. Forneyâ•‡ ·â•‡ 84

7 Juan Bermudo, Self-instruction, and the Amateur Instrumentalistâ•‡ ·â•‡ John Griffithsâ•… 126

· Perspective 2

8 The Humanist and the Commonplace Book: Education in Practiceâ•‡ ·â•‡ Anthony Graftonâ•‡ ·â•‡ 141

Part 3 Renaissance Materials and Contexts 9 Musical Commonplaces in the Renaissanceâ•‡ ·â•‡ Peter Schubertâ•‡ ·â•‡ 161 10 Music Education and the Conduct of Life in Early Modern England: A Review of the Sourcesâ•‡ ·â•‡ Pamela F. Starrâ•‡ ·â•‡ 193 11 Vandals, Students, or Scholars? Handwritten Clues in Renaissance Music Textbooksâ•‡ ·â•‡ Susan Forscher Weissâ•‡ ·â•‡ 207

Part 4 Music Education in the Convent 12 The Educational Practices of Benedictine Nuns: A Salzburg Abbey Case Studyâ•‡ ·â•‡ Cynthia J. Cyrusâ•‡ ·â•‡ 249 13 Nun Musicians as Teachers and Students in Early Modern Spainâ•‡ ·â•‡ Colleen Baadeâ•‡ ·â•‡ 262

Part 5 the Teacher 14 Isaac the Teacher: Pedagogy and Literacy in Florence, ca. 1488â•‡ ·â•‡ Blake Wilsonâ•‡ ·â•‡ 287 15 Zacconi as Teacher: A Pedagogical Style in Words and Deedsâ•‡ ·â•‡ Russell E. Murray, Jr.â•‡ ·â•‡ 303 16 The Good Maestro: Pietro Cerone on the Pedagogical Relationshipâ•‡ ·â•‡ Gary Towneâ•‡ ·â•‡ 324

· Perspective 3 17 You Can Tell a Book by Its Cover: Reflections on Format in English Music “Theory”â•‡ ·â•‡ Jessie Ann Owensâ•‡ ·â•‡ 347

· List of Contributorsâ•‡ ·â•‡ 387

· Indexâ•‡ ·â•‡ 391

Acknowledgments

This book results from a collaborative effort on the part of many individuals, all of whom, if they could, would thank the many people who provided them with help, encouragement, and the occasional helpful citation. While we cannot possibly acknowledge these people individually, we offer a general thanks on our contributors’ behalf. As for ourselves, we wish to acknowledge the many people who have played a role in our shared project. We owe our greatest debt to the authors themselves, whose commitment, determination, and patience is matched by the quality of their contributions to this volume. It has been our great pleasure to work with these scholars throughout this long and complex project. We have learned from their research, and have been inspired by their commitment. Our work has been made all the easier by the care that they have taken in preparing their essays, and we can only hope that we have presented their work to its best advantage. The initiation of this project in the form of a three-day conference, its continuation in an online bibliography, and its culmination in this volume were all supported by a generous Collaborative Research Grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities, and we would like to thank the Endowment, and specifically Elizabeth Arndt, whose indefatigable work on our behalf and her unwavering interest in our work were both enormously helpful and deeply gratifying. We have also been supported by our various chairs and deans at the University of Delaware, the Peabody Institute, and Vanderbilt University, and we owe special thanks to the Peabody Institute and the Johns Hopkins University for their hosting of the original conference, and to the Blair School of Music of Vanderbilt University for a generous subvention to partially defray publication costs. In addition to the institutional support we have received, we also owe an enormous debt to a number of colleagues who have provided advice and en-

xâ•… ·â•… Acknowledgments

couragement along the way, most notably Allan Atlas, Patrick Macey, Honey Meconi, Cristle Collins Judd, and Craig Wright, each of whom provided support and wise counsel at various stages of this endeavor. We are fortunate to have such generous colleagues who—along with a host of others, too numerous to be named here—have all contributed in small but crucial ways. We are also indebted to all the libraries and their staffs for their generous help in securing the many images reproduced in this volume. Of course, this book would never have seen the light of day without the hard work of many people at Indiana University Press. We are especially indebted to our editor, Jane Behnken, whose excitement at our initial proposal and continuous work on our behalf were a source of strength, particularly when the inevitable glitches and delays tried our patience. We also wish to thank Jane’s assistants, Katherine Baber and Sarah Wyatt Swanson, and our project editor June Silay, for keeping track of all those details that so easily slip through the cracks, along with David L. Dusenbury for his assiduous copyediting and Paula Durbin-Westby for her expert indexing. Finally, we would like to thank the anonymous readers of our initial proposal: their many helpful comments have made this a stronger work. Virginia Woolf famously noted that a writer needed “a room of one’s own” in order to create. While we often think of that room in the physical sense, it is just as often the room created by the patient love of family and friends that makes the writer’s work possible. The three of us owe our final thanks to our friends and families, who provided the much-needed grounding and space for us to take on this task. Our work is richer for their presence in our lives. Russell E. Murray, Jr. Susan Forscher Weiss Cynthia J. Cyrus 16 July 2009

Introduction

Reading and Writing the Pedagogy of the Past• Russell E. Murray, Jr., Susan Forscher Weiss, and Cynthia J. Cyrus

• This collection of essays addresses questions of how music was taught and learned in the past. The answers to these questions not only inform our understanding of musical literacy and musical learning in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, but can help guide our investigations of the subject in other eras. In past scholarship, many of the most valuable observations on musical learning in this period have been found in the margins of other kinds of studies: biographies, institutional or regional histories, source studies, iconographical research, history of theory, investigations of compositional and performance practices, and so on. This volume places the issue of musical learning at the center of investigation. In order to bring these questions into better focus, we have limited the chronological and the geographic scope of this collection to music in the Western European art tradition in the period dating from the Middle Ages to approximately 1650. Even within these limited parameters the authors explore a variety of topics and methodologies, providing a sampling of strategies for approaching the questions that will, we hope, spur further scholarly pursuits in this area. The result is thus as much prescriptive of further study as it is descriptive of the present state of inquiry. From their various perspectives, the essays in this volume address five basic issues that seem central to the investigation of music teaching and learn-

xiiâ•… ·â•… Introduction

ing. The first and perhaps most obvious question is one of method—the heart but not the sum total of the term “pedagogy.” What were the pedagogical methods used by various teachers? How did they parallel or depart from those of other teachers and even other disciplines? How much variation was there in the accepted methods of teaching, and how self-aware were teachers of their own pedagogical stances? A second question is repertorial—both intellectual and material: what did the student learn? In part, this involves fitting the act of learning into the broader context of music and music-making in the period. It may also invite comparisons to other repertoires or even other kinds of pedagogical endeavors of the time. Also of importance is the question of the materials used for learning and teaching. While some materials, such as treatises, seem uniquely pedagogical, what other materials served pedagogical ends? The third is a question of identity. Who were the teachers, and who were the learners? How did their social role, gender, or professional status shape the course and outlines of their musical education, and how, in turn, did that education play a role in their own identities? The fourth overarching question is one of place. Where and when was music learned? Beside the physical locations associated with the formal and informal institutions of learning, we need to address the cultural locations of class and gender. The question also suggests the need to understand the place of the activity itself and its place within the lifespan of the learners. Finally, the authors address the question of educational rationale: why was music learned? What were the motivations of the learners and the teachers? How was their activity supported and encouraged by the institutions and social structures of the time? What was the value of music learning within the culture? While no individual author can focus on every issue in a given chapter, in the aggregate these case studies create a broad portrait of musical pedagogy that embraces all of these issues, often in intriguing combinations. The authors, in addressing musical questions, employ a wide cross-section of material and methodology from the social sciences and humanities, among them art history and cultural history; history of medicine, science, and technology; economic history; linguistics, and the history of the book. What unites these scholars is an interest in the ways in which knowledge and the materials of learning were passed from one individual to another. By presenting such a wide range of topics and methodology, we hope to establish useful approaches to studying the educational practices of the

Introductionâ•… ·â•… xiii

period. Comparing the materials and techniques of our colleagues in the humanities and social sciences brings us closer to defining the parameters of our own field. The end result is a more coherent picture of musical learning within the larger socio-cultural context of education in general. In short, the editors see this project as the beginning of a discussion that we hope will inform investigations of the past for decades to come; for the question of how music was passed on from one individual to another is fundamental to the understanding of music’s place in that culture. The volume is framed by three essays of a broader nature, intended to provide a context for the more focused investigations and thus referred to as “perspectives.” While not intended as introductions to general areas of investigation, they nevertheless touch on issues that can be viewed as both centripetal and as points for outward expansion. James Haar’s essay provides a context for much of what follows, posing salient questions about the development of pedagogical thought over the course of the Renaissance, and focusing on the somewhat messy, but ultimately illuminating synthesis of pedagogical ideals found in the first of Ludovico Zacconi’s pratticae. Anthony Grafton takes the reader outside of the purely musical realm, exploring the ways in which the typical student in the Renaissance approached the use of classical texts, teasing out the strategies that they used to assess, understand, and remember the information under consideration. His exploration of the theory and practice of the commonplace reminds us that the study of music took place within the larger context of instruction of literary studies, and that epistemological and methodological concerns of one field could easily find a home in others. Finally, Jessie Ann Owens’s closing essay brings us back to the material world, focusing our attention on the physical materials used by teachers and learners, and providing us with a useful reminder that these objects had special meaning to their users, and that we can learn a great deal by knowing the positions that they occupied in the pedagogical world. These three essays present strands that can be followed in the work of our other authors; yet the varied approaches taken by the others go beyond the categories suggested by Haar, Grafton, and Owens, and are organized in an independent scheme, suggesting more specific affinities. We begin with three case studies from the Middle Ages. Dolores Pesce returns to one of the touchstones of musical pedagogy, Guido’s system of solmization. Questioning the simple, skill-based reading we have given Guido’s approach, she suggests a larger, Boethian context combining sense and intellect into a coherent

xivâ•… ·â•… Introduction

pedagogical whole. Charles Atkinson likewise questions the simple view we have of the basis of medieval musical pedagogy, showing that the methodology of the time partook of a rich blend of ancient sources and the traditions of grammatical instruction. Susan Boynton’s work echoes the extra-musical context suggested by Pesce and Atkinson, describing the use of some nondidactic materials such as customaries and glossed hymnaries as a source for understanding the act of teaching across the period. The second section of the volume deals with the places of learning. Gordon Munro and Kristine Forney look at the roles of institutions over the course of time, responding to new social realities. Munro charts the development of music schools in Scotland as they respond to the secularization of musical institutions under the Protestant regime, while Forney chronicles the somewhat extraordinary opportunities provided to young women in Antwerp to learn sacred and secular music within the context of the church and the home, along with the important musical role played by the teaching guilds of the sixteenth century. John Griffiths shows how objects with multiple uses (pedagogical, theoretical, and performance) can serve as important sources for understanding both formal and informal education, entering the world of the urban amateur as he created his own school of self-study. The authors of the third section look at larger strategies for teaching, and evidence for differing attitudes toward pedagogy. Peter Schubert extends Anthony Grafton’s discussion of commonplace books by looking at the ways that musicians compiled musical commonplaces, and used them as the basic material for their composition. Pamela Starr looks at attitudes toward music and by extension, its teaching, in early modern England, gleaning evidence from conduct and courtesy manuals of the day. Susan Weiss makes the case that marginalia and annotations, often treated as at least an aesthetic hindrance, provide important clues for the understanding and reception of musical thought, and insights into the development of theoretical ideas. The locale of musical learning intersects with the social categories of individuals who were granted musical instruction, and the rationale for that instruction can therefore vary quite widely depending on the needs of the student. Nowhere is this truer than in the convent. Cynthia Cyrus and Colleen Baade explore the education of the female religious in two different national traditions. Cyrus’s purview is the Nonnberg Abbey in Salzburg, where she traces the move toward a more literate approach to musical learning in the post-Tridentine period, and its impact on the musical practice of the women. Baade extends our understanding of the level of training received by nuns

Introductionâ•… ·â•… xv

in the more prestigious convents, and reveals the importance of both family dynamics in the perpetuation of musical culture and the roles of women as teachers in this large musical society. Our final section brings us to where we might rightfully have begun— with the teacher of music. The meeting of teacher and student is, of course, the ultimate vantage point in our study of pedagogy—the place where theory, practice, philosophy, and practicality meet. Blake Wilson demonstrates that the ideals of pedagogy were often intimately woven into the daily practice of musicians and music lovers, and that not all schooling occurred in a formal setting. With the growing literacy of the larger population, their interactions with musicians and composer provided surprising chances to teach and learn. Russell Murray returns to Haar’s focus on Zacconi, here reading his second Prattica of 1622 for evidence of a pedagogical program in his approach to teaching counterpoint, comparing it to the pedagogical imperatives expressed in his numerous stories of the teaching habits of many of the musicians he had encountered in his life. But perhaps the clearest statement of teaching philosophy is found in Pietro Cerone’s sprawling El melopeo y maestro, and Gary Towne’s painstaking reading of that text fleshes out Cerone’s philosophy, providing us with perhaps the clearest picture of the individual teacher. In the end, our study of institutions and individuals, as well as of sources and their uses, points us toward the most fundamental of questions, and that has to do with the basis of knowledge that stood behind all teaching in this period. Teachers of any discipline had implicit understandings of the ways of knowing and of teaching. This philosophy of teaching is recoverable from the writings that were left behind, as well as from the materials used and how they were employed. It is especially important to understand that the teaching of music was not separate from other areas of knowledge, and that many of the same conditions held consistent in all fields. It is therefore our task to outline these philosophical and pragmatic underpinnings and to relate them to the larger context of education in the Middle Ages and Renaissance. While our scope is broad, its focus remains firmly fixed on recognizable figures and materials from the musicological tradition. The major figures discussed are familiar from the musicological literature: Isaac, Morley, Cerone, Pontio, Zacconi, Scaletta, Bermudo, and a variety of other theorists, teachers, students, printers, and patrons. While each author has developed his or her own methodological approach to the materials, a common thread or a series of threads established early in the process link their arguments and the materials. Student notebooks, manuscripts, and prints with marginalia, traditional

xviâ•… ·â•… Introduction

theory-treatises, and musical anthologies all play a part in our efforts to decode the teaching strategies of our predecessors. Together, the chapters presented here focus our attention on an often ignored part of musical life. While the results of pedagogical practice—the music itself—is justifiably of primary concern, there is likewise a need to explore the learning and teaching that led to the creation of these musical works. Our goal here is to study the ways in which music was learned by performers and composers, professionals and amateurs, men and women, singers, instrumentalists, and hearers of music in the historic past. By identifying the methods and materials of musical pedagogy, we come that much closer to understanding the subtleties of the musical discourse that preceded and surrounded musical creativity in the Middle Ages and thereafter. In her 1997 book, Composers at Work, Jessie Ann Owens noted that “musical education remains an area badly in need of further investigations.” Although she cited a number of scholars working in the area of musical literacy in the Early Modern era, there existed at that time no comprehensive scholarly source on the subject of musical pedagogy. Our own interest in the subject began with a symposium held at the opening roundtable of the 14th Congress of the International Musicological Society in Bologna, in 1987. A wide range of topics was addressed, from music curricula and treatises to what was being taught within the university and in surrounding schools, dance halls, and in private lessons. Another area of discussion focused on the nature of the manuals or other texts used to teach music. The central question posed by Craig Wright, the session chair, was how the earliest manuscript materials should be viewed: is it better to view them as mere reflections of what was taught (essentially transcriptions of university lectures) or as prescriptive sources of pedagogy? This led to a parallel discussion of the innumerable books of musical learning that appeared following the advent of printing—everything from children’s primers to manuals for amateurs learning the rudiments of music or how to play instruments such as the cittern. Finally, we concluded that it is one matter to know what materials were used in musical instruction and quite another to know what actually went on in music lessons, be they in the classroom or on a one-toone basis, within or outside a school or institution. These general questions became, then, the core of the investigations presented in this book. In the intervening years, a few studies have appeared, but have received little attention in the discipline as a whole. Bernarr Rainbow addressed this

Introductionâ•… ·â•… xvii

problem directly in “The Challenge of History,” in which he highlighted the need for historical awareness as an integral component of music education. He attempted to arrive at a deeper understanding of and justification for music education by concentrating on its application in two historic periods— antiquity and the Middle Ages. Rainbow is also the author of Music in Educational Thought and Process, which traces the development of music education from 800 bc to 1985, and more recently of Four Centuries of Music Teaching Manuals, 1518–1932.1 Within the field of musicology, a number of scholars have addressed issues of education in the context of larger studies. Examples can be found in Craig Wright’s work on music at Notre Dame, in Anna Maria Busse Burger’s study of memory and music, in John Kmetz’s study of German partbooks, and in John Butt’s exploration of education and performance. Klaus Niemöller has looked at music in Latin schools in Germany, while Edith Weber has looked at what was taught in humanist and Protestant schools. More recently Michael Long, among others, has looked at teaching in medieval Italy, and Kate van Orden has explored the connection of music and literacy for children in France in the sixteenth century. And finally, a recent collection of essays edited by Susan Boynton and Eric Rice illuminates the role of education in the lives of young singers in the Middle Ages and Renaissance.2 In recognition of this growing interest in historical approaches to musical pedagogy, we organized a three-day conference with the generous support of the National Endowment for the Humanities. This conference, Reading and Writing the Pedagogies of the Renaissance: The Student, the Study Materials, and the Teacher of Music, 1470–1650, was held in June 2005 at the Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University. All of the contributions to this volume grew out of papers presented there, and the conversations and collaboration that the conference engendered have enriched all of our individual contributions to this book. Work in other disciplines, of course, has much to teach us about general educational practices of the Middle Ages and Renaissance. Some scholars in related fields take as their focus a broad array of educational strategies. Addressing topics that range from in-home education through apprenticeship to the various kinds of schools and universities, scholars such as Nicholas Orme, Paul Grendler, Anthony Grafton, James van Horn Melton, Rebecca Bushnell, and others have provided a solid cultural backdrop for educational practice. Hints of themes such as emerging notions of childhood, shifts of methods and approaches to scholarship and learning in sixteenth-century

xviiiâ•… ·â•… Introduction

practice, the impact of humanism, and the financial and intellectual import of education have emerged as serious topoi over the last two to three decades. We have encouraged our authors to invoke a broad range of cross-disciplinary experts, as the historical study of music is situated in a broader institutional context for the education of children and adults in the historical past. A more extensive survey of the scholarly literature has been provided in MIML: Musical Instruction and Musical Learning, a searchable bibliography on how music was taught and learned, circa 1450–1650.3

Notes 1.â•‡ Bernarr Rainbow, “The Challenge of History,” Philosophy of Music Education Review 3 (1995): 43–51; Music in Educational Thought and Practice: A Survey from 800 BC (Aberystwyth: Boethius, 1990; repr. Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2006); Four Centuries of Music Teaching Manuals, 1518–1932 (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2009). 2.â•‡ Craig Wright, Music and Ceremony at Notre Dame of Paris, 500–1550 (Cambridge: CamÂ�bridge University Press, 1989); Anna Maria Busse Berger, Medieval Music and the Art of Memory (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005); John Kmetz, “The Piperinus-Amerbach Partbooks: A Study in Sixteenth-Century Musical Pedagogy,” in The Sixteenth-Century Basel Songbooks, Publikationen der Schweizerischen Musikforschenden Gesellschaft, ser. 2, vol. 35 (Bern: Haupt, 1995): 83–124; John Butt, Music Education and the Art of Performance in the German Baroque (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994);Â€Klaus Wolfgang Niemöller, Untersuchungen zu Musikpflege und Musikunterricht an den deutschen Lateinschulen vom ausgehenden Mittelalter bis um 1600 (Regensburg: Bosse, 1969); Edith Weber, “L’enseignement de la musique dans les écoles humanistes et protestantes en Allemagne: théorie, pratique, pluridisciplinarité,” in Enseignement de la musique au moyen age et à la renaissance (Luzarches, France: Éditions Royaumont, 1987): 108–29; Michael Long, “Singing Through the Looking Glass: Child’s Play and Learning in Medieval Italy,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 61 (2008): 253–306; Kate van Orden, “Children’s Voices: Singing and Literacy in Sixteenth-Century France,” Early Music History 25 (2006): 209–56; Susan Boynton and Eric Rice, eds., Young Choristers 650–1750 (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2008). For a more comprehensive listing of such sources consult the MIML database described below. 3.â•‡ MIML: Musical Instruction and Musical Learning, designed and edited by Cynthia J. Cyrus with Susan Forscher Weiss and Russell E. Murray, Jr., and hosted by the Jean and Alexander Heard Library at Vanderbilt University: http://miml.library.vanderbilt.edu/ (first posted April 2006).

Perspective 1

1 Some Introductory Remarks on Musical Pedagogy• James Haar

• It is a privilege and a pleasure to be asked to open a volume such as this; so I thought when I was invited to write this piece, and so I still think. But when I sat down to begin writing these remarks I realized, after some stale and unprofitable early attempts, that it might be something of a chore as well. Even before looking at the range of subject matter in the titles of this volume, I recognized that musical pedagogy is a large and varied field and that the Early Modern period with its mix of medieval and classicizing elements—a mixture so markedly characteristic of the musical arts—is not short and compact but long and untidy. How to begin a discussion of what suddenly seemed so big and unwieldy a subject? Several issues were paramount: terminology, in particular the word “pedagogy,” and location and time frame. For a specific location I chose to concentrate on Italy (aware that other chapters are focused on musical education not only in Italy, but also in Germany, Spain, England, and the Low Countries). For the former, I turned to trusted sources of etymology, such as Greek, Latin, and English dictionaries. From the classical sources I learned that a pedagogue was, in ancient times, a person (often a male slave) charged with the education and governance of children, chiefly boys.1 Ignoring the gender warning flags (for I knew that the education of women would fig-

4â•… ·â•… James Haar

ure prominently in this volume), I went on to the Oxford English Dictionary, which added that a pedagogue is “a schoolmaster, teacher, preceptor (now usually hostile, with implication of pedantry, dogmatism, or severity).”2 The noun pedagogy is, according to the same source, associated with introductory training. As for music, to the ancients the word indicated lyric poetry and its setting in song. I like this not just because the word music is Greek in origin, nor even because the classical tradition was important in Renaissance pedagogy, but rather for the word’s relation to the Muses, to Apollonian elements in art, and ultimately to the concept of the liberal arts within which music was included. There are of course many ways to define music.3 For this term as well as for pedagogy we need not restrict ourselves to what the ancients, or even the august editors of the OED, thought. I will try to avoid suggestions of hierarchical ranking: flute lessons, the sociological background of hip hop, and the theoretical substratum of Ars Nova polyphony are all valid elements in musical pedagogy. What I will take from the dictionary definitions is a recognition of the importance of providing an education in music to children—which is where I will begin my remarks—as well as the validity of considering music as a science and a liberal art, however much various cultures including our own have, with reason, stressed the primacy of musical performance. Training in instrumental performance was, throughout the period of our concern here, mostly an individual practice, often a father-son relationship that resembled guild apprenticeship. We know of many instances of the success of this instruction, as well as occasional examples—that of Benvenuto Cellini is a famous one—of the resentment it caused.4 Playing “genteel” instruments, especially keyboards and the lute, was an instruction-aided goal for aristocratic amateurs in what was otherwise a professional and definitely a non-aristocratic calling. Not all or even many children were taught to play an instrument. By comparison, a much larger number learned to sing; it is not too much to say that instruction of the young in music centered on singing. What did this consist of? Fillipo Villani tells us that Francesco Landini, the greatest musician of late fourteenth-century Florence, who was blind from early childhood, decantare pueriliter capit, that is, began as a child to “repeat in singing,” doubtless meaning that he learned to sing by repeating what his teacher sang to him, perhaps simple songs but also melodic formulas such as psalm tones.5 Not only the blind boy Landini but probably most children began to sing before

Figure 1.1. Bonaventura da Brescia, Breviloquium musicale (Brescia, 1497), sig. Aiii verso (Bologna, Museo Internazionale, A 57).


they learned to read—imitating adult song in general, but under a teacher learning the elements of trained vocal utterance as well as the basic features of the musical system. It seems likely that children learned to read music soon after, if not at the same time as, they learned to read texts. Elementary musical textbooks from our period, for which I will use the frequently encountered term cantorino—the young singer—were probably not designed to be read by the students themselves, though older children could certainly have done so. Their emphasis on learning about music through reading its notational symbols suggests on the other hand that musical instruction stressed reading at a very early stage. The Breviloquium musicale of Bonaventura da Brescia, first published in 1497 and often reprinted (as Regula musicae planae), intended by the author for the “poor and simple religious” but surely used for teaching children, is a cantorino typical of its time, dealing with the elements of cantus planus.6 It begins with the Guidonian hand, illustrated with square notes—one for each syllable on or between lines drawn on the fingers along with clefs—the whole not only illustrating the solmization series but prefiguring the staff-clef system, shown at the base of the hand (see figure 1.1). These are explained in the text but were doubtless gone over visually, with the children tracing them on their own left hands, memorizing their sequence, then leaving the lesson with a personal copy of the basic elements of music, sound and sight, printed invisibly—or perhaps visibly, if they took notes—on their hands. As the hand is further explained, clefs are defined in a way which at first seems unnecessarily wordy but is both clear and thorough: every letter-name is a clef identifying the note, something of importance for those who had recently learned their letters; every separately designated clef is a fa, whether C, F, or B♭ (thus the C clef indicates both C-fa and B-mi). There is no mention of the G clef since it is not normally seen in plainchant. B-fa and B-mi are separately discussed; this must have been the most difficult element in the hand, needing repeated and varied explanation. Bonaventura shows his erudition in a passage probably not read to children, in which he reveals that his musical system is based on Pythagorean tuning.7 Mutations, for many of us the most difficult element in the hexachordal system, are explained in the Breviloquium musicale with admirable clarity and economy, once again in reference to the Guidonian hand. The only normal mutations are those to and from solmization syllables attached to the notes. Thus G sol re ut has six possibilities: three upward (sol-re, sol-ut, re-ut) and

Some Introductory Remarks on Musical Pedagogyâ•… ·â•… 7

three down (re-sol, ut-sol, and ut-re), representing changes from natural to soft, natural to hard, soft to hard hexachords (this last an “imperfect” mutation because of its mi-fa problem) and their reverse motions. Only B-fa–B-mi has no possible mutations since it represents not one but two pitches. A discussion of intervals, taken one-by-one from unison to octave, seems pedantic until one sees that each is illustrated by musical examples which were doubtless written by the teacher or copied out by the students themselves on slates, to read and sing, learning them in the usual way by singing scalewise successions, then unmediated intervals.8 Having mentioned the solmization types of fourths and fifths—doubtless also memorized by the students—Bonaventura can proceed directly to the eight modes, each briefly described and illustrated by examples calling for newly learned expertise in singing melodies that are surprisingly full of skips and the athletic rise-andfall of line. He gets briefly through imperfect, perfect, and pluperfect modal ranges—material that is often tedious to read but essential in learning accuracy in modal identification.9 Bonaventura’s economy does not serve him as well in his account of modal mixture and commixture,10 which students could not have grasped without further illustration. The remainder of the Breviloquium musicale is devoted to the psalm tones, giving their intonations, tenors, and finals, but not, oddly, their varied terminations, which might have been too detailed for the purposes of an introductory book. By way of a closing statement, Bonaventura tells his students that in chanting the Mass and Office they should sing nocturnal Responsories loudly to wake up the sleepy; Introits, with trumpet-like sound to get the attention of the faithful; most Mass chants, calmly and smoothly. This advice, surprising in the context of the book, is attributed to Guido d’Arezzo, who is not (otherwise) known to have said anything of the kind. Except for a few details, Bonaventura’s little book aims to present the essentials of a musical system of unchanging stability—or at least one that was unchanged since the time of Guido. Though directed at clerical novices it would have served any beginners and all children, who could well have learned to read music as they learned their letters, the local vernacular, and basic Latin. Changes in musical style did not affect the elements of music in the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries; but by mid-century Bonaventura’s work must have seemed out of date: reprints of it, frequent up to ca. 1540, become rare and then stop altogether. Some idea of what was taught children and novices toward the end of our period, however, is given by the Cantorino of Adriano Banchieri, published in Bologna in 1622.11


Much of the material in the Cantorino is, details aside, nearly the same as that covered by Bonaventura. The two books differ in appearance mainly because Banchieri includes much more music, forming something like a pocket Liber usualis. He uses both the four-line (red) staff and square black notation normal for printing chant (canto plano) and white mensural notation for canto fermo. This latter, which is what his book is chiefly devoted to, is chant which includes some figural (mensural) values and is to be regarded as the basis—literally—for counterpoint improvised or written over it. Counterpoint itself is not dealt with since principianti (beginners) are not ready to deal with it.12 The most striking difference between Bonaventura and Banchieri is that the latter substitutes for the Guidonian hand, so central to the earlier writer’s pedagogical method, a shorter and simpler hand (see figure 1.2) ranging from A re to g sol re ut, fourteen notes in place of the classic twenty.13 Banchieri, citing the Aristotelian axiom that it is idle to do with more what can be done equally well with less, says rather surprisingly that the full Guidonian hand is needed for study of canto figurato, counterpoint with its four vocal ranges; the shortened diagram includes the total compass of the eight modes, all that is necessary for those singing in unison (and for children, he might but does not add, singing at the octave). It is clear, though he does not say so, that for Banchieri the octave modal scales are more important than the hexachords, even though he maintains the use of Guidonian solmization.14

• Instruction at a more advanced musical level must have taken various forms, often perhaps consisting of individual tutelage. It surely included counterpoint and details of the mensural system, the latter probably taught after many of them were no longer in use.15 If the teacher was an active composer, his pupils may have been, at least in an informal sense, apprentices. One wonders whether a composer as prolific and in-demand as Orlando di Lasso might at times have had a small workshop, members of which could have Figure 1.2. ( facing) Adriano Banchieri, Cantorino, utile a novizzi, a Chierici secolari e regolari, principianti del Canto Fermo alla Romana (Bologna, 1622), 26 (Bologna, Museo Internazionale, C 74).


written bits and pieces of music, even an occasional motet pars or Magnificat verse, done in imitation of the master’s style and forming part of his published work.16 At any rate, composition was surely undertaken through study and, in a hopeful sense, emulation of real music. Manuscript and, beginning in the closing years of the fifteenth century, printed treatises emphasizing or at least including substantial sections devoted to practical music could certainly take a student to the point of beginning to compose. The books would have been particularly useful if they were in the hands of capable and experienced teachers. Gaffurius’s Practica musicae was one of the most successful of these books, far more widely read than were his volumes devoted to musical theory, the “science” of music. Books on the latter subject did, however, continue to be read and to be written. Whether or not they were used by university students, as fourteenth-century music treatises certainly were, there was a market for instructional books dealing with ancient and modern theoretical issues. I would like very much to dwell on this category of musical pedagogy, which is not as much studied as it deserves to be—but space does not permit. By the mid sixteenth century writers on music were combining theoretical and practical elements into single works. Notable examples are the Dodecachordon (1547) of the Swiss musical humanist Glareanus, using ancient Greek theory to justify an expansion of the traditional modal system; the Antica musica ridotta alla moderna prattica (1555) of Nicola Vicentino, with its adaptation of the classical Greek genera to modern polyphony; and, most influential of all, the Istitutioni harmoniche (1558) of the Venetian Gioseffo Zarlino, which might be subtitled “The importance of the senario (that is, the series one-to-six) in the theory and practice of music.”17 Students in the field that has come to be known as “history of theory” have paid close attention to the theoretical novelties in these works, but far more notice has been taken of their sometimes more conventional practical contents. I think this emphasis is misplaced, resulting in a superficial view of the musical thought of the period—but that too is a subject for a different study. Zarlino was the dominant figure in later sixteenth-century writing on music, but his careful balance between theory and practice was gradually lost as theorists either specialized more or else aimed at encyclopedic universality, while the rapid and dramatic changes in musical style in the period began to preoccupy writers of practical musical texts to an increasing extent. Some were content to produce tame digests of Zarlino’s work; others turned to handbooks of vocal and instrumental performance, emphasizing the ap-


parently growing richness and popularity of ornamental passaggi.18 A few chose to write large books incorporating rules and instructive language into a discursive, sometimes almost conversational framework, mixing axiomatic material with anecdotes and personal opinions. This can sometimes lead to tedious verbosity but it can also be surprisingly rewarding, like the post-lesson conversation of a garrulous but experienced and informed teacher. In this category the longest and in some ways most remarkable work of musical pedagogy is Cerone’s El melopeo y maestro (1613).19 I find this sort of book at once tiresome and fascinating. For our subject it has the potential for providing information that humanizes and enriches pedagogy as no formally constituted textbook can. The rest of these remarks will be devoted to an examination of another such idiosyncratic book, the Prattica di musica of Lodovico Zacconi (1592).20 Zacconi (1555–1627) was born and died in Pesaro on the Adriatic coast of central Italy.21 He joined the Augustinian order and became a priest, but seems to have taken frequent leaves from his ecclesiastical duties. He spent six years in Venice, and shorter periods in Mantua, at a Habsburg court in Graz, and Munich, where he knew Lasso in the closing years of the latter’s life. He learned to play the organ, to sing polyphonic music, and to play the lute and gamba, but probably did not advance beyond amateur status as a performer. He may have studied with Andrea Gabrieli and Ippolito Baccusi, but seems to have written music only for didactic purposes. He was not a trained linguist nor a creative thinker, and he seems to have avoided the whole field of musica theorica. We might define him as a reasonably well-informed observer of the musical life of his time, with a notable interest in the history of music through the whole of the sixteenth century, and possessing enough competence to enable him to make his way professionally at a modest level. Neither composer nor virtuoso performer nor creative theorist, he might in brief be summed up as a musicologist avant la lettre. What sets Zacconi apart is his urge to communicate everything he has learned about music, and his ability to do so in unusually vivid language. His treatise is uneven in quality and untidy in organization; but if one reads him with a certain patience there are many rewards on the way. Books II through IV of the Prattica are relatively orderly, dealing respectively with the mensural system, proportions, and the twelve modes or tuoni harmoniali—the latter not to be confused, says Zacconi, with the eight psalm tones, which he calls aeri da salmeggiare.22 These topics correspond with books II, IV, and I of Gaffurius’s Practica musicae, whose third book is


devoted to counterpoint. Reading Zacconi’s Prattica back-to-front, then, one would expect the first book to be about counterpoint, possibly prefaced by a brief introduction on the origin and powers of music.23 This turns out not to be the case, though polyphonic music is what Zacconi is focused on. The first book is instead concerned with teaching his readers, who presumably knew the most basic elements of music but might need a review, how to become better musicians and more literate composers. In this respect, his book is on the one hand unique, and on the other is allied with the cantorino tradition; in any event it merits closer inspection here. The intensely personal tone of Zacconi’s writing is apparent from the start. In the first five chapters (fols. 1–5) he spends more time explaining why he is writing the book than laying out its subject matter. Zacconi has seen too many people “departing from the rules and correct paths” of music; he aims to keep his readers on the right track. Disposing of Boethian cosmic theory in a couple of sentences, he announces a “presupposition” that “sounding music” will be his theme. There are for Zacconi two kinds of music, canto chorale or plainchant, and canto figurale or mensural polyphony; only the second is to be considered. Mensural theory is indeed treated, in the second book; counterpoint is not—at least, not in any systematic way. A kind of explanation for this is given in chapter 4 (fols. 3v–4v), in which Zacconi defines some terms as he means to use them. A theorico, formerly one devoted to the science of harmonics, is now “one who has mastered the science of composition”; only if he sings is he also a musico. A prattico arranges notes, prepares music on the written page, becoming a musico if he performs it as well. A cantore sings, reading but not composing or writing music. Thus his Prattica di musica (chap. 5, fols. 4v–5) is to be a study of music as it has been written according to established rule; though touching on the activities of composer and singer, it is neither a counterpoint treatise nor a singing manual. In these early chapters Zacconi appears undecided as to what this first book should actually be, veering between the personal communication he obviously enjoys writing, and more orthodox introductory content. Thus chapters 6 through 8 (fols. 5–7) describe music as the sole art dedicated to pleasing people, producing only good effects and hence attractive both to its practitioners and its listeners. Giving one of what is to be a whole series of yanks at his authorial helm, he turns in chapter 9 to listing theorists described as antichi, with expected names such as Pythagoras, Boethius, and St. Augustine. Composers designated as antichi are, surprisingly, not Orpheus or Terpander but the following: “Jusquino, Giovan Motton, Brumello, Henricus


Isaac, Lodovico Senfelio” (fol. 7). Following them is a list of vecchi, two of whom were still alive when Zacconi was writing: “Adriano Vuilarth, Morales, Ciprian Rore, il Zerlino, il Palestina.” No theorists contemporary with these composers are mentioned. The next three chapters contrast the music of the antichi, depending for its effect on the invention and artistic use of fughe, that is, imitative procedures, with the vecchi, who added to this some new vaghezze—not defined, but presumably new harmonic color and, as Zacconi later makes clear, the use of ornamental passaggi. At this point no moderni are named or described, but we may assume that they carried on and developed modern charms without sacrificing contrapuntal skills; despite his admiration of contemporary vaghezze, Zacconi remains essentially conservative in outlook.24 But in his view people must move with the times; thus, even singers can no longer be called good just by being “secure”: they must sing con gratia, & accentuatamente, that is, using the techniques and styles already in practice, and to be demonstrated in print in a few years’ time, of Giulio Caccini.25 Zacconi’s lists of composers have been noted by a number of scholars. Though not exceptional in themselves, they cannot be dismissed as mere name-dropping. Throughout the Prattica Zacconi cites, often including musical examples, the work of many of the composers on his lists, going as far back as the contents of Petrucci’s Odhecaton and ranging from small details to a complete Mass, Palestrina’s Missa L’homme armé, published in 1570.26 Whether he owned a number of music prints, ranging from the beginnings of printed polyphony to his own time, we cannot be sure and may be entitled to doubt—surely Zarlino, for example, had much greater ready access to music, though in comparison to Zacconi he cites it more sparingly. But Zacconi surely saw a lot of music, and he may have copied out many passages which struck his fancy, holding them available for later use.27 In paying real and respectful attention to the music of several generations of earlier composers, Zacconi, who clearly thought that one must understand the past for its own sake and in order to grasp fully the achievements of the present, qualifies as a pedagogue of a historical breadth and generosity that is unusual in his time. A series of short chapters (13–16, fols. 8–9v) is devoted to another change of direction, to what Zacconi calls the intrinsic and extrinsic effect of music. In a passage of extraordinary acuity (chap. 13, fols. 8–8v), he says that the intrinsic quality of music is the arrangement of numeri sonori (a Zarlinian term) in the mind of the composer. It becomes extrinsic after it is written down, and hence can be seen by others, and even more so when it is performed, and thus heard by others; but the piece as imagined by the composer is a thing


apart from its performance. Though he occasionally criticizes composers as a class, Zacconi clearly respected and perhaps came close to idolizing them; he took to a new degree the respect for the composer that is evident in the work of Glareanus and Zarlino, and wanted to inculcate this admiration in his readers. For music to become extrinsic in the first degree, it had to be notated. Zacconi is full of admiration for the notational system of his time; indeed his whole pedagogical method is based on notation. He would like to have given its history, but here his limited knowledge restricted him to a few remarks (chaps. 15–16) about early notational signs and the achievements of Guido d’Arezzo. A rather disappointing set of chapters on the scientia of music follows (chaps. 17–22, fols. 9v–12v). By scientia he does not mean the old Quadrivial science of music, explicitly kept out of his book, but rather a kind of expertise and refinement in both composition and performance. Zacconi cannot find language for generalizing about this subject, the acquisition of compositional and vocal technique, though he can see and hear its successful results. The best he can recommend here is discovery of the good through trial and error, followed by a stern rejection of the bad. As we shall see, he does better when speaking of observable detail in the making and performing of music. Chapter 23 (fols. 12v–13v) returns once more to ancient music and its inventors, vigorously dismissed as fable, proceeding dalle cose incognite all’ occulte; & dalle dubbiose all’ oscure. In ancient times, people may have sung poetry in an artless way, like modern shepherds in the fields or those who sing Dante, Petrarch, and Ariosto in the streets. Real music, meaning mensural polyphony, is not known to be older than the time of Ockeghem, who is said to be Josquin’s teacher. Enough of this nonsense! says Zacconi, it is time to begin discussing the music of today. In chapter 24 (fols. 13v–15) Zacconi does indeed begin—and at the beginning. Guido’s innovations are again mentioned, as is his invention of the hand for pedagogical use, so that “not only men but even children have been able to learn.”28 We turn the page to find the hand (see figure 1.3), and indeed the very hand used by Bonaventura da Brescia a hundred years earlier—not, of course, printed from the same woodblock but identical in all but the tiniest details. Like Banchieri, Zacconi finds the hand suitable for the study of polyphony with its four vocal ranges. At this point a series of chapters, really a cantorino for adults, describes the elements of music: staff, clefs, metric signs, notes, rests, dots—all “necessary” elements of music; buone voci, vaghi accenti,

Figure 1.3. Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica, utile et necessaria si al compositore per comporre i canti suoi regolarmente, si anco al cantore per assicurarsi in tutte le cose cantabile (Venice, 1596), vol. I, chap. 24, fol. 14v (Newark, University of Delaware Library Special Collections).


belle pronuncie, & gl’ornamenti are not necessary (nor are they notated), but they add to the charm of music and the repute of performers. For the moment we will skip past these pages to chapter 59 (fols. 51–51v), titled Del novo & moderno modo d’insegnare a cantare. Zacconi begins by affirming the use of the complete hand for learning about polyphony and how to compose. For those who simply want to learn to sing, all that is needed are the seven letters A–G, still bearing their solmization syllables. Each type of voice learns a single octave: bass, A–a; tenor, c–c'; alto, a–a'; soprano, c'–c''. Familiarity with the octave above or below one’s range allows for singing melodies exceeding an octave. This, it is said, can be learned quickly and easily. Zacconi’s innovation seems to me less good than that of Banchieri, which is designed to accommodate the eight modes (see above). Its implied though unstated novelty is that it emphasizes octaves over hexachords (as well as the linkage, observable in traditionally scored polyphony, between bass and alto, tenor and soprano). The Guidonian hand was not yet cut off, but by 1590 it was clearly beginning to tremble. In recounting the elements of music Zacconi connects them all with notation, trying to show its rationality—one might almost say its inevitability. Everything has a reason, and Zacconi adduces reasons almost as if answering questions from a child. Why, for instance, does the staff have five lines, or strings (corde)? Because this number will accommodate an eight-note scale (scala); notice the renewed stress on the octave (chap. 26, fols. 15v–16). How many clefs are there, and why are they drawn the way they are? Three, one for each location (F, C, G) of ut; since they must be placed on a string, not a (passive) space, they must make their precise location clear, and are drawn accordingly (chap. 27, fols. 16v–18). The nature and meaning of mensural indications and the primacy and meaning of Tempo (c, C) are thoroughly addressed (chaps. 28–33, fols. 18–22); Zacconi carefully avoids comparing real and relative time, and relegates triple time to the category of proportions—more signs of incipient modernity. Turning to notes, Zacconi shows the eight mensural values—maxima to semicroma (chaps. 34–35, fols. 22–24)—and dwells on their use in filling out the tempo or tactus (tatto). The hexachord syllables when sung turn written notes, silent if unaccompanied by language, into “figures filled with sound”; like an alphabet, they suffice for all of music (chaps. 38–40, fols. 26–27v). Zacconi seems curiously unconcerned about mutations, merely pointing out that to obtain an octave one just blends hexachords.29 This may be a sign that he was tiring of cantorino simplicity; though he explains dots and rests (chaps.


Figure 1.4. Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica, utile et necessaria si al compositore per comporre i canti suoi regolarmente, si anco al cantore per assicurarsi in tutte le cose cantabile (Venice, 1596), vol. I, chap. 55, fol. 44 (Newark, University of Delaware Library Special Collections).

41–42, 47, fols. 27v–28v, 34–36), he begins to move into more advanced territory, introducing ligatures, full and half coloration, and minor color (chaps. 43–46, fols. 28v–34). What Zacconi wants to turn to, as book I proceeds, is how singers can use mastery of the elements of music—chiefly, musical notation—to achieve good effects. Thus in speaking of B fa-mi (chaps. 48–51, fols. 36–40v) he begins at the beginning but moves into more interesting territory, showing among other things where E la-mi in a piece with a flat signature is sung fa, and where mi. Zacconi mentions sadness and happiness as polarities in musical expression, but although he says that flats produce dolcezza, and naturals asprezza, he does not—I repeat, does not—equate minor and major (these terms are not so much as mentioned) with sadness and joy. An excursus on the diesis, with a Marchettan third-of-tone interval and ventures into the chromatic and enharmonic genera (chaps. 50–51, fols. 38v– 40v), taking on Vicentino and Zarlino as it goes, is not very felicitous. Here Zacconi may have been out of his depth. More successful, if at the same time another abrupt change of direction, is a chapter on syncopation (chap. 52, fols. 40v–41v). In avuncular fashion, Zacconi cautions inexperienced singers not to try figure sincopate alone; they will at first need to sing them con una forza accentuate until they feel more secure and can proceed smoothly.


This, like many of Zacconi’s scattered observations, is all but timeless in character. There follows a series of chapters on difficulties a singer may encounter: odd rhythms, such as sudden short bursts of triplets, illustrated by a clutch of examples from Josquin, Isaac, Obrecht, and Layolle (chap. 53, fols. 42–43); abrupt mi-fa successions, and extravagant melodic leaps, with examples ranging from Josquin to Giaches Wert (chap. 54, fols. 43–44); odd passages using small note values and rests, before which il timido e poco sicuro cantore si spaventa (chap. 55, fol. 44). More difficult than all of these can be passages written contra tatto (against the tactus). Zacconi provides one, presumably of his own composition, challenging singers to get it right. I give it to the reader (see figure 1.4) to try, barring it by the semibreve and remembering that it must come out in complete semibreves.30 Zacconi moves into still more difficult problems, including performance of canons whether or not provided with resolutions (chap. 56, fols. 44v–47) and compositions that can be inverted, retrograded, or affected by proportional signs (chap. 57, fols. 47–50v), creating complexities that can “often bead the brow of even a good singer.”31 Perhaps judging at this point that his readers might be getting discouraged, Zacconi says that everyone is inclined by nature to sing; but as with learning to speak well, one has to learn to sing harmoniously and in company (chap. 58, fol. 50v). The first step is to learn the letter names and solmization syllables according to Zacconi’s new method (chap. 59, fols. 51–51v; see above). Next, one should copy out ascending and descending scales, practicing mutations on them (chap. 60, fols. 51v–53v). Here we see Zacconi, clearly not a master of organization, reverting to the cantorino level. Who should become a singer? In chapters 61 and 62 (fols. 53v–55v), Zacconi tells us that singers should be refined, gentle young people—chiefly male. The old should give it up unless they are composers or others who are “learned” in music. Women should be trained to sing rarely and only in order to praise God. It might be prudent to refrain from editorializing here; I would only remind my readers that Zacconi was a cleric who was active at the full tide of the Catholic Reformation. He concludes the chapter by advising singers not to use facial and bodily gestures, to avoid an artificial tremolo and anything suggesting showing-off or disapproval of other singers. Chapters 64 and 65 (fols. 57–58) deal with how singers should deliver the text. Here Zacconi shows a lack of interest in the sets of rules given by other sixteenth-century theorists such as Zarlino. He contents himself with what


was, for his time, a commonsense piece of advice: singers should enunciate text as if they were reading it aloud. Most of the remainder of book I is devoted to improvised ornamental passaggi or the art of gorgia (chap. 63, fols. 55v–57; chap. 66, fols. 58–76; chaps. 77–78, fols. 82v–83v). Zacconi, one of the first to write on this practice, gives page after page of examples, apologizing for their primitive character as he does so and dropping a number of helpful hints: stay in time; practice formulas on the five vowels; learn to execute a succinto & vago vibrato, and then apply it in all passaggi; share use of gorgia among voice parts.32 Zacconi manages to cram a few more admonitions and bits of advice into miscellaneous chapters as book I draws to a close. Among the more interesting is a list of qualities a maestro di cappella must have: he should know the modes or tuoni; he must hear errors and identify and correct the offending voices; and, most importantly, he must keep the tactus even (chap. 67, fols. 76–77). In the midst of this Zacconi lets fall the extraordinary, dare I say prescient, remark that ordinary musicians are often better at all of this than are composers, who sometimes have a kind of durezza or grossezza that keeps them from hearing acutely.33 Pausing to speak of what kind of voices produce the best musical results (chap. 68, fols. 77–78), Zacconi says he prefers the voce di petto or chest tone to the voce di testa or head tone, in what seems to me a quite early use of voice teachers’ language. He mentions the voce obtusa, one that does not speak clearly, as unfortunately common in untrained singers but occasionally useful to lend balance (one wonders what size choir Zacconi was thinking of). Avoid singers who are falsi (untrue) in pitch—especially those who go flat. As maestro (chap. 69, fols. 78–78v), give your singers the final and principal notes of the mode before starting, since a good beginning is vital and one does not want there to be a bisogna di ritornar da comminciare (need to go back and begin again). When starting a new piece (in, say, the same mode as the one just finished), raise or lower the pitch so as to make a fresh start. Do not let the singers shout, when they are performing in church. Again it can be hard to remember that all of this was written more than four hundred years ago. Zacconi has more to say, but his remarks become increasingly disjointed; he appears to sweep up the workroom floor as he brings the first book to a close. And I must similarly bring my remarks to a close; but just as Zacconi reminds his readers that there are a lot of good things to come in his three remaining books, so I urge you all to stay attentive as you read the many interesting studies that follow this brief introduction.


Notes 1.â•‡ A Lexicon Abridged from Liddell and Scott’s Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford: Clar� endon Press, 1958), 511; John T. White, The White Latin Dictionary (Chicago: Follett, 1955), s.v. “pedagogus.” 2.â•‡ The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary on Historical Principles, 3rd edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964), s.v. “pedagogue.” 3.â•‡ See the thoughtful entry on the word, by Bruno Nettl, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edition, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 2001) 17: 325–37. Curiously, the New Grove contains no entry on pedagogy, musical or otherwise. 4.â•‡ Benvenuto Cellini, Opere, ed. Bruno Maier (Milan: Rizzoli, 1968), Vita I, chap. 5: 55: “Cominciò mio padre a’nsegnarmi sonare di flauto e cantare di musica; e con tutto che l’età mia fussi tenerissima . . . io ne avevo dispiacere inistimabile, ma solo per ubbidire sonavo e cantavo.” 5.â•‡ Philippi Villani, De origine civitatis Florentie et de eiusdem famosis civibus, ed. �ï¿½ï¿½� Giu� liano Tanturli (Padua: Antenore, 1997), 150. Cited by Alessandra Fiori, Francesco Landini (Palermo: Epos, 2004), 24. 6.â•‡ Two facsimiles exist: Regula musica plana (Milan: Bollettino Bibliografico Musicale, 1936); Regula musica plana (New York: Broude Brothers, 1973). An English translation by Albert Seay was published in 1979; see Bonaventura da Brescia, Rules of Plain Music (Colo� rado Springs: Colorado College). For reprints of Bonaventura’s volume, see Åke Davidsson, BibÂ�liographie der musiktheoretischen Drucke des 16. Jahrhunderts (Baden-Baden: Heitz, 1962), 17–18. Davidsson (pp. 10–22) lists an often-reprinted book called Musices compendium ad faciliorem instructionem cantum choralem discantium . . . qui Cantorinus intitulata (Venice: Simon de Luere, 1509). 7.â•‡ Seay, Rules of Plain Music, 9. Bonaventura is author of a longer treatise, the Brevis Collection Artis Musicae, ed. Albert Seay (Colorado Springs: Colorado College, 1980). 8.â•‡ In many respects, Bonaventura’s method here and elsewhere is close to that of FranÂ�chinus Gaffurius’s Practica musicae (Milan: Ioannes Petrus de Lomatio, 1496), book I. Both Gaffurius and Bonaventura depend ultimately on the work of Marchettus of Padua (Lucidarium, ca. 1317–1318). 9.â•‡ Bonaventura gives the number of notes above and below the chorda, a tone a third above each modal final, as a determinant of plagal versus authentic (Seay, Rules of Plain Music, 26). This seems to be an early reference to terminology that is usually associated with mid sixteenth-century theorists such as Glareanus. 10.â•‡ Seay, Rules of Plain Music, 225–26. 11.â•‡ Adriano Banchieri, Cantorino, utile a novizzi, a Chierici secolari e regolari, principianti del Canto Fermo alla Romana (Bologna: Heredi di Bartol[omeo] Cochi, 1622; facs. Bologna: Forni, 1980). In his preface, Banchieri says that he compiled the book for use of members of his Olivetan order, but decided “farne alcune copie per uso universale di qual si voglia giovinetto Religioso principiante.” 12.â•‡ Banchieri’s Il principiante fanciullo (Venice: Bartolomeo Magni, 1625), which I have not seen, might make an interesting to comparison with his Cantorino. 13.â•‡ Banchieri, Cantorino, 26; see pp. 27–30 for his explanation of the system. 14.â•‡ Banchieri adds the seventh syllable ba-bi in his Cartella musicale (Venice: Giacomo Vincenti, 1614). 15.â•‡ For an example, see James Haar, “Lessons in Theory from a Sixteenth-Century Composer,” in Altro Polo: Essays on Italian Music in the Cinquecento, ed. Richard Charteris (Sydney: Frederick May Foundation, 1990), 51–81. 16.â•‡ An occasional single piece ascribed to a little-known musician shows up in Lasso prints. Lasso himself may have written at least one madrigal for a volume by one of his teach�

Some Introductory Remarks on Musical Pedagogyâ•… ·â•… 21 ers in Italy. See James Haar, “A Madrigal falsely ascribed to Lasso,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 28 (1975): 126–29. 17.â•‡ Zarlino did write several essentially theoretical works (Dimostrazioni harmoniche, 1571; Sopplimenti musicali, 1588). Zarlino’s senario, the numbers 1 to 6, includes the Pythago� rean ratios 2:1 (octave), 3:2 (fifth), 4:3 (fourth), plus two others: 5:4 (major third) and 6:5 (minor third) in a system of just intonation. 18.â•‡ For Zarlino’s influence on other theorists, a subject that to my knowledge has not been studied thoroughly, see Claude Palisca, “Zarlino,” New Grove Dictionary, 27: 753. On manuals dealing with the art of passaggi see Howard Mayer Brown, Embellishing SixteenthCentury Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), esp. vii–xiv. 19.â•‡Gary Towne surveys many aspects of Cerone as teacher in his contribution to this volume (chap. 16). Cerone, who was active in Spain and Italy, also wrote an elementary book, Le regole più necessarie per l’introduttione del canto fermo (Naples: Gio. Battista Gargano e Lucretio, 1609). 20.â•‡ Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica, utile et necessaria si al compositore per comporre i canti suoi regolarmente, si anco al cantore per assicurarsi in tutte le cose cantabile (Venice: Gi� rolamo Polo, 1592; repr. Bartolomeo Carampello, 1596). In 1622 Zacconi published a seconda parte of the Prattica (Prattica di musica seconda parte. Divisi, e distinti in Quattro Libri [VenÂ� ice: Alessandro Vicenti, 1622]), concerned chiefly with new developments in counterpoint. Both volumes are available in facsimile (Bologna: Forni, 1967). I should note that Russell Murray has recently worked on anecdotal aspects of Zacconi’s work, concentrating on the seconda parte (1622) of the Prattica. He delivered a paper on this subject at the 1999 annual meeting of the American Musicological Society in Kansas City; and see also his contribution to the present volume, “Zacconi as Teacher: A Pedagogical Style in Words and Deeds.” 21.â•‡ On Zacconi see Gerhard Singer in The New Grove Dictionary, 27: 707–708. Infor� mation about him is derived mostly from an unpublished autobiography that survives in Pesaro (Bibl. Oliveriani, ms 563). For a summary of this work, see Friedrich Chrysander, “Lodovico Zacconi als Lehrer des Kunstgesanges,” Vierteljahrsschrift für Musikwissenschaft 7 (1891): 337–96; 9 (1893): 249–310; 10 (1894): 531–67. See specifically 10 (1894): 533–49 for the biographical information. 22.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica (1592), IV, chap. 16 (fols. 202v–203). 23.â•‡Gaffurius’s Practica musicae, nearly one hundred years old by the time Zacconi wrote, was still influential; Zacconi had surely read it. He must also have read Zarlino, whom he had met (and was not well received by) in Venice; but for him Zarlino was prob� ably a rival rather than a model. 24.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica (1622), IV, chap. 23 (p. 278) mentions with favor Monte and MarÂ� enzio, whom he must have considered as moderni even though both were dead well before 1622. 25.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica (1592), I, chap. 12 (fol. 8): “Per il che possiamo senz’altra conclu� dere, che essendo i cantori quelli i quali con le buone Musiche raddoppiano gl’effetti che essendo le Musiche moderne fatte con buonissimo regole, & cantate da buonissimi cantori, patroni de gli accenti vaghi, & delle gratiose maniere, che le habbiano molto piu forza che non haveano l’antiche già che i cantori di quel tempo, non attendevano ad altro che a cantar bene le loro cantilene, & a non fallarle: perche in quello consisteva tutto il loro honore, & la lor gloria: come anco hoggi giorno la gloria, & l’honore di un buon cantore non solo consiste nell’esser sicuro cantante: ma anco nel cantar con gratia, & accentuatamente.” 26.â•‡ For the reference to the Odhecaton, see Zacconi, Prattica (1592), I, chap. 79 (fols. 83v–84). The Palestrina mass is given in full (except for the Patrem), with resolution of the tenor’s prolatio notation, in vol. II, chap. 38 (fols. 115v–122). 27.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica (1622), III, chap. 33 (pp. 161–62), recommends this practice of scoring and copying such passages into notebooks as useful for aspiring musicians. See

22â•… ·â•… James Haar James Haar, “A Sixteenth-Century Attempt at Music Criticism,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 36 (1983): 197–98. 28.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica (1592), I, chap. 24 (fol. 14): “Però volendoli ogni difficultà torre s’imaginò che con questo modo, non solo gli huomini fatti; ma gli fanciulli ancora l’have� riano potuta imparare.” 29.â•‡ Returning to the subject of mutations later in the same book (chap. 60, fols. 51v– 53v), Zacconi is still casual about them, although he does give some useful examples. 30.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica (1592), I, chap. 55 (fol. 44). 31.â•‡ “. . . fanno assai volte sudar la fronte a qualche buon cantore” (fol. 47). 32.â•‡ Chrysander, “Lodovico Zacconi,” 337–96, focuses on Zacconi’s gorgia (see note 20, above, for a full citation). 33.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica (1592), I, chap. 67 (fol. 76): “E ben vero che uno piu dall’ altro ha l’udito pronto & acuto, che però si vede ch’alle volte anco chi non compone rimette prima di un compositore; ma quella tanta grossezza d’udito che si chiama durezza in chi compone, si parte dal proprio naturale, et da gl’ascoltanti piu tosto vien giudicata ignoranza.”

Part One

Medieval Pedagogy•

2 Guido d’Arezzo, Ut queant laxis, and Musical Understanding• Dolores Pesce

• Guido d’Arezzo (b. ca. 991/2; d. after 1033) is associated with the invention of a singing method that uses the syllables ut, re, mi, fa, sol, and la, a method we now call solmization.1 In our modern application of this concept, we sing a new melody using the text syllables themselves. Is that what Guido intended? How did a singer in Guido’s time use this device? Were older methods of learning discarded? My purpose in this essay is to examine what Guido actually said about solmization syllables in his Epistola ad Michahelem (Letter to Michael), to speculate on what he left unsaid, and ultimately to shed light on what “musical understanding” meant to him. Simply put, the syllables, viewed in the context of their self-contained six-note segment, embody all essential pitch principles. In directing his singers to internalize the proprietas or property of every pitch by means of this vehicle, Guido called into play both sensory perception and intellect. Boethius had defined a musicus as someone who understood the principles of music and who could judge composition and performance, while a performer was a mere practitioner.2 This distinction was carried over into mid-ninth-century Carolingian writings, but with some ambiguity. Because the Church needed performers of chant (i.e., cantors), performance could no

26â•… ·â•… Dolores Pesce

longer be relegated to a second seat. Given his task, Guido had little use for the speculative inquiries of the musicus, for he needed to train boys to sing chant as efficiently as possible.3 As a result, understanding had to serve the act of singing. Guido wrote four treatises: the Micrologus (after 1026),4 the Regule,5 the Prologus (a prologue to an antiphoner),6 and the Epistola (before 1033).7 He used the Latin word sensus only twice, once in the Micrologus and once in the Prologus. The Prologus passage is relevant for this study: “In our times, of all men, singers are most foolish. For in every art, exceedingly more numerous are the things that we learn through our sensus than those that we have learned from a teacher” (Prologus, 1–3).8 Sensus has a range of lexical meanings, divided roughly into the categories of corporeal and mental, with the latter being further subdivided into moral and intellectual.9 The moral aspects do not seem relevant to the present discussion. Appropriate translations for the corporeal are “perception, feeling, sensation,” and for the intellectual aspect of the mental, “sense, understanding, mind, reason.” Although Guido’s use of sensus in the Prologus does not clearly indicate the roles of feeling versus thinking, the Regule (ll. 8–10) contain other relevant evidence: Great is the gap between musicians and singers; the latter talk about what music comprises, while the former understand these things. For he who does what he does not understand is termed a beast.10

So, Guido clearly derided a singer who remained the “unknowing” cantor. He wanted a singer to be independent of a teacher and, ultimately, to be able to sight-sing any melody. To this end he promoted, in all four of his treatises, notational and pitch-training devices that superseded the rote learning methods on which musicians had hitherto relied. In his Micrologus, Regule, and Epistola, Guido stated that one must learn the pitch system of seven letters and reinforce this with an understanding of their location on the monochord. The next step was to learn intervals. In the earlier two treatises, Guido said that one should hammer out the intervals on the monochord until they are impressed on the memory. He implied that if one has learned intervals well in the abstract, retaining them in the memory, then the sounding of a new melody at the monochord would be consciously or unconsciously perceived as a succession of intervals rather than of isolated pitches, thus aiding the ear. Sensory perception rather than thinking seems

Guido d'Arezzo, Ut queant laxis, and Musical Understandingâ•… ·â•… 27

Example 2.1. Hymn Ut queant laxis, as presented by Guido in the Epistola.

foremost in this stage of training, although Guido’s wording in the Micrologus does not rule out an intellectual component.11 Guido refined his instructional method in the Epistola when he recommended that one learn the proprietas or “property” of every tone through an associational device such as the hymn Ut queant laxis (see example 2.1).12 Ut re mi fa sol la are the respective first syllables of the first six lines of this hymn. For each phrase one memorizes the starting pitch’s property—that is, its quality based on the configuration of tones and semitones around it. Then one matches a new melodic phrase to one of the hymn’s phrases. In so doing, one gets one’s bearings for a given tone within a nexus of tones. Thus, learning a new song would still require memorizing its specific succession of intervals, but now geared to a focal point. In the earlier Micrologus, Guido certainly understood the concept of a focal point when he explained that one could recognize a mode by hearing the tones immediately preceding the final (chap. 11). But it was not until the Epistola that he articulated a precise and novel approach to teaching a pitch’s “property.” Not incidentally, Guido no longer prescribed learning the six melodic intervals in and of themselves on the monochord. Immediately following Ut queant laxis, he offered a didactic exercise Alme rector (see example 2.2). It allows one to practice intervals in relationship to a given tone, in a systematic order—for example, an ascending second, third, fourth, and fifth from D, and so forth.13 Guido apparently intended this more abstract, systematic exercise to complement the associative learning of a tone’s property as offered by Ut queant laxis. The other component of Guido’s approach that solidified between the writing of the Micrologus and the Epistola was a notation that used color to


Example 2.2. A didactic exercise Alme rector, as presented by Guido in the Epistola.

distinguish two vital pitches, F and C, both of which have a semitone below them.14 These colors allow a singer to discern visually when a semitone appears in a phrase of a new melody, reinforcing his awareness of the “property” of the tone that governs that phrase. Thus, Guido’s new singing method consisted of the a priori learning of a tone’s “property” (using Ut queant laxis and Alme rector), which is then applied by association with Ut queant laxis at the time of hearing or sightreading a new melody, and reinforced in the latter case by the visual aid of colored lines. Guido’s method required that a singer train his senses to perceive correctly, and then reflect upon what is transmitted. Both the associative Ut queant laxis and the more abstract exercise Alme rector can instill in a singer “tone-consciousness,” so that the singer can apply his previous knowledge to a new situation rather than start from scratch. At the moment of sight-reading or hearing a new song, the singer perceives and recognizes the property of a tone and thus acts knowingly, although this knowledge is not of the detailed acoustical-theoretical sort that was fostered by Pythagorean writers.15 It arises, instead, primarily through a combination of sensory and intellectual experience—a sensus that is both corporeal and mental. Thus, the musicus/cantor distinction is blurred: Guido’s “musician” is a thinking pracÂ�titioner. Returning to example 2.1, we now explore how exactly Guido tells us to use Ut queant laxis:16


Table 2.1. Descents and Ascents from Each Starting Pitch of Ut queant laxis.

ut re mi fa sol la

C ascent of a fourth D descent of a second, ascent of a second E descent of a third, ascent of a third F descent of a third, ascent of a third G descent of a fourth, ascent of a second a descent of a third

And thus do you see that this melody begins in each of its six phrases with six different pitches? If someone, thus trained, knows the beginning of every phrase so that he can without hesitation immediately begin any phrase he chooses, he will easily be able to sing the same six pitches according to their properties wherever they appear. Also, when you hear any neume that has not been written down, consider which of these phrases is better adapted to its ending, so that the final pitch of the neume and the beginning of the phrase may be of the same pitch.17

Guido explicitly says: learn the phrases of the hymn, each of which starts on a different pitch. Then, match the final pitch of the new melody to the opening pitch of one of the hymn’s phrases. Guido’s wording—“consider which of these phrases is better adapted to the new melody’s ending”—rests on an assumption that one should know what goes on within the hymn’s phrase, that is, how the intervals are situated around the starting pitch. Then, given that one knows that phrase of Ut queant laxis well, one can more easily learn the new melody, which would presumably have the same arrangement of intervals around its final pitch. However, interpreting Guido literally is problematic. Table 2.1 shows the actual descents and ascents from each starting pitch of the hymn, with ut positioned on C. The phrase beginning on D lacks an adequate amount of surrounding interval motion to differentiate it from G—both ascend only a second, whereas it takes an ascent of a third to distinguish them. One has to consider D in relationship to the whole six-note segment (ut–la) in order to understand its tonal property. Therefore, a less literal interpretation of Guido’s words would be: match the final pitch of the new melody to the opening pitch of one of the hymn’s phrases because they share the same arrangement of intervals within the six-note segment. A possible scenario in practice would be: take a new melody that ends on D. Sing all of Ut queant laxis, then start over and stop when you get to the first tone of the second phrase. Think about how that tone “feels” or is situated with respect to the intervals around it. Now sing


your new melody and make sure that it ends with the same “feel.” This seems a reasonable interpretation of how Guido intended Ut queant laxis to serve associative learning. One can take this discussion a step further and reflect on the degree to which Guido retained traditional associative melodies such as Primum querite as a means of identifying the mode of a chant.18 To that end, a largely undiscussed passage in the Epistola is of interest. Following the letter in which Guido informs his friend Michael about his method of using Ut queant laxis, we find an overview of Guido’s pitch theory. After he presents intervals and related tones, Guido takes the phrase Tu Patris sempiternus es Filus from the Te Deum and presents it at four different pitch levels. He states: “In accordance with the fact that these pitches have a different arrangement of tones and semitones, one may thus sing that melody in various modes according to the property of every single sound.”19 Thus, he reintroduces proprietas or “property,” which he had first broached when discussing the intervallic quality of each starting tone of the Ut queant laxis phrases. But he has now linked that concept to mode: If one changes a melody to a different pitch, one changes the proprietas, and therefore, one changes the mode. The next connection is also of interest: So, it ought to be considered carefully regarding every song according to which kind of property it sounds, whether at the beginning or at the end, although we are accustomed to speak only of the end. Certain neumes have been invented, by whose shape we are accustomed to observe this, as for example: Primum querite regnum Dei. Secundum autem simile est huic. For, when after some chant has ended, you see that this neume agrees well with that ending, you recognize at once that that chant ending is in the first mode.20

This seems to be a retreat into a tried and true method of modal recognition—match your melody to one of the eight well-known melodic formulas and you thus know its mode. But Guido here links the formulas to the preceding discussion of proprietas: you recognize the “property” of the new song by matching up the melody with a designated melody that reveals the same property, and in turn the mode. He thus points out a complementary relationship between this associative method of modal identification familiar to singers and his intervallic way of thinking related to proprietas; he encourages using the modal formulas with some recognition of the principles behind them—that is, in an informed way.


We come full circle, then, to the issue of “understanding.” A Guidonian singer would begin his interval training by gaining an aural memory of how Ut queant laxis flows. But to use it effectively, he would have to understand its core information: that within the totality of the six-note configuration ut–la, a given tone has a contextual identity—a property—that can be abstracted and matched to a new melody that ends on that same tone. We return to the earlier hypothetical scenario: Take a new melody that ends on D. Sing all of Ut queant laxis, then start over and stop when you get to the first tone of the second phrase. Think about how that tone “feels” or is situated with respect to the intervals around it. Now sing your new melody and make sure that it ends with the same “feel.” Intellect and senses combine in this experience. We can extrapolate from what Guido explicitly says to this model of musical understanding.21 One final point takes us back to the Primum querite formulas and their lingering importance in Guido’s theory within the Epistola. He had integrated them into his theory of pitch property instead of discarding them altogether. He could perhaps be considered conservative for doing so, but I prefer to think of this as a practical pedagogical solution. By retaining a feature of traditional training, he was able to adapt what his singers already knew, rather than start from scratch with a new method. Undoubtedly Guido encouraged a greater reliance on intervallic hearing and reading in the Epistola than he had in the Micrologus. He may have envisioned an eventual learning state in which the melodic formulas were unnecessary. In the meantime his preference, as expressed to Brother Michael, was that his singers use his Ut queant laxis melody, which neatly and succinctly embodies all pitch properties in one device. Leading to a musical understanding that is born of sensory perception and intellect, it constitutes Guido’s legacy to music pedagogy up to the present day. In closing, I want to bring into focus how Guido’s approach to informed singing fits into the wider context of medieval speculative philosophy, for his concerns with the senses and intellect as mutual guides to musical understanding are broadly reflective of the debates of his day. Beginning in the ninth century and with a second wave in the eleventh, thinkers debated how to understand the Eucharist, that is, whether the bread and wine are the body and blood of Christ in veritate (in truth) or merely in figura (symbolically). On one side of the argument, the physical implied the spiritual, and did not need interpretation; God’s Word, available through Scripture, supplied the link between the two. On the other side, some writers recognized that sen-


sory data were the starting point for all genuine understanding, but that the mind played the crucial role in reaching that understanding. So, in the case of the Eucharist, the bread and wine are apprehended as such exteriorly by the senses; but they assume spiritual significance as the body and blood of Christ only interiorly, that is, the mind interprets them as symbols.22 Outside the question of the Eucharist, the relative roles played by the senses and the intellect figured in the more general discussions of language and meaning that channeled into Abelard’s philosophy of language in the twelfth century.23 Boethius was important to these discussions since he had translated and commented on Aristotle’s De interpretatione, which, with BoethÂ�ius’s commentary, formed the basis for Abelard’s own commentary. Boethius, who was known throughout the Middle Ages, comments on the interrelationship of language with sense, imagination, and understanding. He states: For intellections rest on the foundation of sense and imagination, like a fully colored painting on the backdrop of a pencil sketch. In other words, they provide a substratum for the soul’s perceptions. When a thing is seized by the sense or imagination, the mind first creates a mental image of it; later, a fuller understanding emerges as the hitherto confused pictures are sifted and coordinated.

He continues: But these very products of the mind generate intellections in their wake: For instance, if one sees a sphere or a square, one grasps its shape in the mind. But one also reflects on the likeness while it is in the mind, and, having experienced this mental process, readily recognizes the object when it reappears. Every image mediated by the senses is capable of generating a likeness of this type. The mind, when it engages in understanding, reasons through such forms.24

Boethius’s discussion resonates with the interpretation offered here of how Guido intended his singers to reach musical understanding. Guido provided his singers with aids by which they could internalize a sense of a pitch’s proprietas or property: Ut queant laxis and Alme rector. This stage resembles Boethius’s “grasp[ing] its shape in the mind.” Then, when the singer sightreads or hears a new song, he or she perceives and recognizes the property of the tone on which the song ends as being similar to the property of one of the tones that have been ingrained in the mind’s memory. This stage resembles


Boethius’s “readily recognizing the object when it reappears, for every image mediated by the senses is capable of generating a likeness of this type.”25 Guido’s singer thus sings knowingly, fueled by a combination of sensory perception and intellect. When Guido instituted his pedagogical approach based on Ut queant laxis, he offered for those of his time, and of the future, a concrete realization of Boethius’s last phrase in the above citation: “The mind, when it engages in understanding, reasons through such forms.”26

Notes 1.â•‡ An overview of solmization is found in Andrew Hughes and Edith Gerson-Kiwi, “Solmization,” in Grove Music Online. See Oxford Music Online: www.oxfordmusiconline .com/subscriber/article/grove/music/26154 (accessed 25 September 2008). 2.â•‡ Gottfried Friedlein, ed., Anicii Manlii Torquati Severini Boetii De Institutione Arithmetica Libri Duo, De Institutione Musica Libri Quinque (Leipzig: Teubner, 1867), 223–25; trans. Calvin M. Bower, in Fundamentals of Music (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), 50–51; and in Oliver Strunk and Leo Treitler, eds., Source Readings in Music History (New York: W. W. Norton, 1998), 142–43. 3.â•‡ Guido commented in both the Micrologus and Epistola that he did not wish to present musical matters that were of little benefit to singing. In the Micrologus, he turned to the “science” of music only in the last chapter, entitled “How the nature of music was discovered from the sound of hammers.” The Epistola ends with a reference to Boethius, “whose book is useful to philosophers only, not to singers.” See Dolores Pesce, Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule rithmice, Prologus in antiphonarium, and Epistola ad michahelem: A Critical Text and Translation with an Introduction, Annotations, Indices, and New Manuscript Inventories (Ottawa: Institute of Mediaeval Music, 1999), 531. Lawrence Gushee comments, “The pragmatic emphasis of the Micrologus is not, in my opinion, a new phenomenon, but the resolution of ambiguous views of the positions of musicus and cantor that had existed since Aurelian at least.” See his “Questions of Genre in Medieval Treatises on Music,” in Gattungen der Musik in Einzeldarstellungen: Gedenkschrift Leo Schrade, ed. Wulf Arlt, Ernst Lichtenhahn, and Hans Oesch (Bern and Munich: Francke, 1973), 409; see also pp. 368–72, 407–408. Another important study on the subject of musicus and cantor is Erich Reimer, “Musicus und Cantor: Zur Sozialgeschichte eines musikalischen Lehrstucks,” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 35 (1978): 3–32. 4.â•‡ For the Micrologus, see Guido d’Arezzo, Micrologus, ed. Joseph �ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ Smits van Waesberghe, Corpus Scriptorum de Musica 4 ([Nijmegen, Netherlands]: American Institute of Musicology, 1955); see also Hucbald, Guido, and John on Music: Three Medieval Treatises, ed. Claude V. Palisca, trans. Warren Babb (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978), 57–83. The Micrologus usage is less relevant to the present discussion: “Nec mirum regulas musicam a finali voce sumere, cum et in grammaticae partibus pene ubique vim sensus in ultimis litteris vel syllabis per casus, numeros, personas, tempora discernimus” (van Waesberghe, CSM 4: 145). Sensus here seems to suggest “meaning.” 5.â•‡ Pesce, Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule, 327–403. 6.â•‡ Ibid., 405–35. 7.â•‡ Ibid., 437–531. 8.â•‡ Ibid., 406–407: “Temporibus nostris super omnes homines fatui sunt cantores. In omni enim arte valde plura sunt que nostro sensu cognoscimus, quam ea que a magistro didicimus.”

34â•… ·â•… Dolores Pesce 9.â•‡ Charlton T. Lewis, A Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), 1670–71. Charles Du Fresne Du Cange, Glossarium mediae et infimae latinitatis (Graz: Akademische Druck-U. Verlagsanstalt, 1954) defines sensus as intellectus, while intellectus, in turn, includes sensory perception and mental understanding, as well as moral consciousness. 10.â•‡ Pesce, Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule, 330–33: “Musicorum et cantorum magna est distantia; isti dicunt, illi sciunt, que componit musica. Nam qui facit quod non sapit, diffinitur bestia.” 11.â•‡ Guido discusses monochord divisions and the resulting intervals in the Micrologus, chaps. 3–6. In chap. 4, referring to the six intervals, his directive is: “Since all melody is formed by so few formulas [clausulae], it is most helpful to commit them firmly to memory, and, until they are completely perceived and recognized in singing, never to stop practicing them, since when you hold these as keys, you can command skill in singing—intelligently, and therefore more easily” (Babb, Hucbald, Guido, and John, 61). The original here is: “Cumque tam paucis clausulis tota harmonia formetur, utillimum est altae eas memoriae commendare, et donec plene in canendo sentiantur et cognoscantur, ab exercitio numquam cessare, ut his velut clavibus habitis canendi possis peritiam sagaciter ideoque facilius possidere” (van Waesberghe, CSM 4: 105–106). Babb thus translates sagaciter as “intelligently,” but its root sagax allows for quick perception by either the senses or intellect. Guido’s corresponding discussion in the Regule occurs in lines 30–118; see Pesce, Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule, 336–53. 12.â•‡ Pesce, Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule, 466–67 and appendix C. The hymn Ut queant laxis as Guido described it now appears in chant-books for the Nativity of St. John the Baptist on 24 June, with its phrases starting successively on the pitches C, D, E, F, G, and a. The text was associated with eight different liturgical melodies through the twelfth century, but none matches the Guidonian profile. Although there is no conclusive evidence, scholars infer that Guido composed the melodic version of the hymn as we know it. See in particular Jacques Chailley, “Ut queant laxis et les origines de la gamme,» Acta musicologica 56 (1984): 48–69. 13.â•‡ Pesce, Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule, 472–75 and appendix C. The rubrics found next to each phrase inform us whether or not the intervallic configuration of that particular phrase can be found at more than one starting pitch. See discussion of related tones in ibid., 20–22. 14.â•‡ Guido discussed the idea of colored notation in the Prologus; see ibid., 418–31. 15.â•‡ In his discussion of monochord divisions, Guido promoted a basic understanding of string ratios. See Micrologus, chaps. 3–6, and 20. The Pythagorean number information could add another level of meaning for some people and Guido acknowledged the utility of learning it, but not in the context of singing. 16.â•‡ What follows is an elaboration of ideas presented in Pesce, Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule, 19–20, 23–26. 17.â•‡ Ibid., 468–69: “Vides itaque, ut hec symphonia senis particulis suis a sex diversis incipiat vocibus? Si quis itaque uniuscuiusque particule caput ita exercitatus noverit, ut confestim quamcumque particulam voluerit, indubitanter incipiat, easdem sex voces ubicumque viderit secundum suas proprietates facile pronuntiare poterit. Audiens quoque aliquam neumam sine descriptione, perpende que harum particularum eius fini melius aptetur, ita ut finalis vox neume et principalis particule equisone sint.” 18.â•‡ Byzantine intonation formulas (enechemata), with nonsense “words” set to them as identifications of the individual modes, are found in all Carolingian tonaries until the mid-eleventh century, and in some cases as late as the twelfth. These formulas end with long melismas on the “words” noenoeane for the authentic modes and noeagis for the plagal modes. Model antiphons beginning Primum querite provided another way to identify mode; of unknown origin, they were introduced with the intonation formulas and ultimately displaced them. These antiphons ended with the same melismas as the intona-

Guido d'Arezzo, Ut queant laxis, and Musical Understandingâ•… ·â•… 35 tion formulas. See Michel Huglo, “Tonary” (§ 2), in Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online: www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/28104 (accessed 25 September 2008). 19.â•‡ Pesce, Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule, 496–97: “Et secundum quod ipse voces diversam habent tonorum et semitoniorum positionem, sic variis modis secundum uniuscuiusque proprietatem eam pronuntiet.” 2ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ 0.â•‡ Ibid., 498–500: “Igitur curiose est intendendum de omni melo, secundum cuiusmodi proprietatem sonet, sive in principio sive in fine, quamvis de solo fine dicere soleamus. Quedam enim neume reperte sunt, quarum aptitudine hoc solemus advertere, utpote: Primum querite regnum Dei. Secundum autem simile est huic. Cum enim finito aliquo cantu hanc neumam in eius fine bene videris convenire, statim cognoscis quia cantus ille finitus sit in primo modo . . .” 21.â•‡ See Klaus-Jürgen Sachs, “Tradition und Innovation bei Guido von Arezzo,” in Kontinuität und Transformation der Antike im Mittelalter: Veröffentlichung der Kongreßakten zum Freiburger Symposion des Mediävistenverbandes, ed. Willi Erzgräber (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1989), 237–38. Sachs argues that, since Guido urges the singer to seek proof of intervals through monochord measurements (in the Micrologus and Regule), he has not discarded the Pythagorean tradition, but instead echoes the Boethian division into sensus and ratio, “die beiden partes iudicii der armonica vis.” On the other hand, Sachs takes Guido’s use of sensus in the sentence quoted earlier from the Prologus (ll. 1–3) to mean an amalgamation of the senses and intellect. 22.â•‡ The Eucharistic debate between the ninth and twelfth centuries is discussed by Brian Stock in a chapter entitled “The Eucharist and Nature,” in The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (PrinceÂ�ton: Princeton University Press, 1983). See esp. pp. 259–73, where Stock discusses two ninth-century writers, Paschasius Radbertus and Ratramnus of Corbie, who respectively supported the idea of the bread and wine as a “mark of truth” and as a symbol. 23.â•‡ The Cambridge Companion to Abelard, ed. Jeffrey E. Brower and Kevin Guilfoy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), includes a chapter on Abelard’s “philosophy of language,” by Klaus Jacobi. 24.â•‡ These translations of Boethius’s commentary on Aristotle, Commentarii in Librum Aristotelis Peri ermeneias, are taken from Stock’s chapter, “Language, Texts, and Reality,” in The Implications of Literacy, 366–72. 25.â•‡ Mary Carruthers, in The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), discusses how a mnemonic structure can have heuristic value as an elementary device for retaining and recollecting materials, yet not necessarily hermeneutic value as an interpretation of their meaning. She mentions how in the fourteenth century, Robert of Basevorn used the solmization syllables to create a division into six of the theme “Ego vox clamantis in deserto, parate viam Domini,” in which the six syllables are the first words of the six subdivisions (p. 105). According to Carruthers, “This is a most revealing application of the technique called ‘solmization,’ for it shows that Robert of Basevorn understood that the device was primarily a mnemonic, and could thus be utilized in non-musical contexts” (p. 106). The present essay argues that Guido envisioned his syllables being used in a more meaningful way than Carruthers’s specific statement about solmization allows, because, viewed in their entirety within the sixnote segment, they “embody” all essential pitch principles. Carruthers’s more general point about how mnemonics work brings in the concept of “likeness” discussed above: “‘rules’ were thought to be, as Aristotle says, built up from repeated memories, the principle being to recognize and organize likeness, even in things never seen before. This is not mnemonic in the restricted sense that moderns tend to understand it, but in the larger sense of how all learning takes place” (p. 106).

36â•… ·â•… Dolores Pesce 26.â•‡ As suggested above, the written enters into this discussion of musical learning when Guido prescribes using colored staff lines to accentuate where semitones occur in a melody’s unfolding. This visual aid reinforces a singer’s awareness of the property of the tone that governs a phrase, and thus plays into the signification of tonal property. It remains unclear, however, whether Guido required the written component at an early stage of learning, or whether he may have considered the oral use of Ut queant laxis and Alme rector to be sufficient.

3 Some Thoughts on Music Pedagogy in the Carolingian Era• Charles M. Atkinson

• Given that many musicologists hold academic positions, and given the academic culture we have all grown up in, pedagogy is a topic with which we are all familiar. Moreover, many of the primary sources we work with—especially if our research is oriented toward intellectual history—have some didactic purpose. One might therefore assume that an examination of music pedagogy in a well-researched period such as the Carolingian era would be a relatively easy task. That proves to be an incorrect assumption. The mere fact that one occupies oneself with music as a part of the intellectual history of the Middle Ages does not mean that one actually knows what was taught on that subject in monastic and cathedral schools in the eighth and ninth centuries. We can know what was recommended to be taught, and we can gain some idea of what teaching materials were available—but finding out what was actually taught about music in Carolingian schools is no easy matter. The present study will briefly address each of these issues in order to gain some insight into the nature and character of music instruction during the Carolingian era. Most readers of this essay will be at least somewhat familiar with what Charlemagne and his “Minister of Education,” Alcuin of York (ca. 735–804), thought should be the subject matter taught in schools of the Frankish Kingdom. Two capitularies issued by Charlemagne document the importance he

38â•… ·â•… Charles M. Atkinson

attached to the founding of schools and give us information as to their functions. The first of these is the Admonitio generalis issued by Charlemagne to the Frankish clergy in 789 (see text I).1

Text I. Admonitio generalis: Et ut scolae legentium puerorum fiant. Psalmos, notas, cantus, compotum, grammaticam per singula monasteria vel episcopia et libros catholicos bene emendate [thus in three mss; emendent in one, emendatos in ten others]; quia saepe, dum bene aliqui [aliquid in three mss] Deum rogare cupiunt, sed per inemendatos libros male rogant. Et pueros vestros non sinite eos legendo vel scribendo corrumpere; et si opus est euangelium, psalterium et missale scribere, perfectae aetatis homines scribant cum omni diligentia. (Ed. Alfred BorÂ�etius, MGH Leges II, vol. I: Capitularia Regum Francorum, no. 22, chap. 72, p. 60.) In its seventy-second chapter, this document states that in every monastery and diocese there should be schools for teaching boys to read, and implies that they should be given instruction in “Psalms, written characters, chants, calculation, and grammar” (psalmos, notas, cantus, compotum, grammaticam).2 It goes on to emphasize the necessity of having accurate texts of religious works, making the statement that “catholic books”—presumably bibles, psalters, and liturgical books—“should be carefully emended.”3 The importance of these books in the spiritual life of a monastery or congregation is underscored by the statement that “all too often men desire to ask some grace of God aright but ask it ill, because the books are faulty.” Hence, young clerks should not be allowed to corrupt these texts, “either in reading aloud or in copying,” and the making of new copies of books such as the evangel, psalter, or missal should be done by a grown man, not a boy, working with care.4 The second Carolingian document to urge the formation of schools is the capitulary De litteris colendis, issued circa 795.5 It offers an eloquent rationale for teaching (see text II). It has seemed to us and to our faithful councilors that it would be of great profit and sovereign utility that the bishoprics and monasteries of which Christ has deigned to entrust us the government should not be content with a regular and devout life, but should undertake the task of teaching

Some Thoughts on Music Pedagogy in the Carolingian Eraâ•… ·â•… 39

Text II. Karoli epistola de litteris colendis: Notum igitur sit Deo placitae devotioni vestrae, quia nos una cum fidelibus nostris consideravimus utile esse, ut episcopia et monasteria nobis Christo propitio ad gubernandum commissa praeter regularis vitae ordinem atque sanctae religionis conversationem etiam in litterarum meditationibus eis qui donante Domino discere possunt secundum uniuscuiusque capacitatem docendi studium debeant impendere . . . Quamvis enim melius sit bene facere quam nosse, prius tamen est nosse quam facere. (Ed. Alfred Boretius, Karoli epistola de litteris colendis (780–800), MGH Leges II, vol. I: Capitularia, no. 29, pp. 78–79.) those who have received from God the capacity to learn . . . Doubtless good works are better than great knowledge, but without knowledge it is impossible to do good.6

As even this brief excerpt suggests, the scope of teaching advocated in De litteris colendis is broader than that in the Admonitio generalis. Here, the door is opened to virtually all of ancient learning, with a more complete understanding of the Bible as the primary goal (see text III):7 Text III. Karoli epistola de litteris colendis: Hortamur vos litterarum studia non solum non negligere, verum etiam humillima et Deo placita intentione ad hoc certatim discere, ut facilius et rectius divinarum scripturarum mysteria valeatis penetrare. Cum autem in sacris paginis schemata, tropi et cetera his similia inserta inveniantur, nulli dubium est quod ea unusquisque legens tanto citius spiritualiter intellegit, quanto prius in litterarum magisterio plenius instructus fuerit. (Ed. Alfred Boretius, MGH Leges II, vol. I: Capitularia, no. 29, p. 79.)

We urge you not only not to neglect the study of [ancient] literature, but indeed to learn it eagerly, with humble and devout attention to God, so that you may be able to penetrate more easily and correctly the mysteries of the divine scriptures. Since figures of speech, tropes and the like may be found within the sacred pages, there can be no doubt that anyone reading them can more quickly understand them spiritually to the extent to which he has first been fully instructed in the mastery of [non-spiritual] literature.


With an exhortation such as this it is hardly any wonder that Carolingian schoolmasters would ultimately seize the opportunity to teach sophisticated ancient works, such as the last book of Martianus Capella’s De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii and Boethius’s De institutione musicae. But first their students had to learn the basics, and the most basic discipline of all was learning to read and write according to the rules of grammar. An early medieval tract on education, De commendatione cleri, which is preserved in the Vatican Library (Pal. lat. 1252), says that from the springtime of his seventh year until the end of his fourteenth, “when the light of reason begins to shine,” a boy should make grammar his chief object of study, with music and arithmetic at its side.8 We know from Alcuin’s plan for the school at Tours that it had one division for Bible study, a second for the liberal arts, and a third devoted specifically to grammar.9 It thus comes as no surprise to read what John Contreni has written about the place of grammar in Carolingian education: “For the sixty or so authors of the Carolingian world . . . as well as several generations of unknown masters and their disciples, proper use of language was paramount. To mispronounce a word in the liturgy or to use the wrong case ending, as Gunzo of Novara learned, was to reveal oneself as uneducated.”10 But one might well ask, what about the other artes, such as music? Fortunately, we are not without resources here. We know from ninth-century library catalogues, such as those at Reichenau and St. Gall, that monasteries had available to them handbooks on specific disciplines, such as Donatus’s Ars grammatica and Boethius’s Arithmetica and Musica, as well as encyclopedic works, such as Cassiodorus’s Institutiones divinarum et humanarum lectionum, Isidore of Seville’s Etymologiae, and Martianus Capella’s De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii.11 Theodulf of Orléans’ poem De libris quos legere solebam et qualiter fabulae poetarum a philosophis mystice pertractentur (ca. 800) provides an excellent guide to the authors that were to be read in school,12 and Hrabanus Maurus’s De institutione clericorum (816–819) is a fairly detailed handbook for the training of clergy.13 But how do we know what was actually taught in the schools? Our two best sources of information here are first, the manuscripts that were scored for reading aloud, as Leonard Boyle has pointed out,14 and second—and perhaps most important—those texts that received glosses or commentaries by Carolingian schoolmasters. A third source for music would be those treatises, such as the ninth-century Scolica enchiriadis and the early eleventh-century


Text IV. Martianus Capella, De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii, book III (ed. Willis, p. 71): §§ 268–69: Hactenus de iuncturis; nunc de fastigio videamus. qui locus apud Graecos περι`â•› προσω˛â†œδιω˜â†œν appellatur. hic in tria discernitur: unÂ� aquaeque enim syllaba aut gravis est aut acuta aut circumflexa; et ut nulla vox sine vocali est, ita sine accentu nulla. et est accentus, ut quidam putaverunt, anima vocis et seminarium musices, quod omnis modulatio ex fastigiis vocum gravitateque componitur, ideoque accentus quasi adcantus dictus est. omnis igitur vox Latina simplex sive composita habet unum sonum aut acutum aut circumflexum; duos autem acutos aut inflexos habere numquam potest, graves vero saepe. Dialogus de musica of Pseudo-Odo, that present the fundamentals of music progressively ordered in dialogue form.15 To provide some idea of what the ninth-century schoolboy might actually have heard from the Magister scholarum, I should like to discuss three sets of glosses: two on Martianus Capella, one of which treats grammar and one that treats harmonic theory, and one on Boethius, treating the modes. I have chosen to present them in this order, in keeping with the chronology presented by Marie Elizabeth Duchez. In a series of articles published during the 1970s and 1980s, Duchez posited three stages in the reception of ancient texts and their assimilation into musical discourse by scholars in the Carolingian era.16 The first of these stages begins in the later eighth century, with the reception of and commentary upon texts on grammar (e.g., Donatus, Martianus Capella, Isidore of Seville); the second stage is ushered in by commentaries on book IX (De harmonia) of Martianus Capella’s De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii; and a third is represented by the reception of Boethius’s De institutione musica. Mariken Teeuwen has pointed out that the tradition of glossing the texts on harmonic theory in Martianus’s and Boethius’s works seems to begin at about the same time,17 but the general progression outlined by Duchez still holds up in its broad outlines. (See text IV.) The first text appears in book III of De nuptiis, the introduction to Martianus’s treatment of prosodic accents, de fastigio. Upon introducing this topic, Martianus says that it is called in Greek περι`â•› προσω˛â†œδιω˜â†œν (i.e., De prosodia), and that it is divided into three aspects. He continues, saying:


Every single syllable is either grave, acute, or circumflex; and just as there is no utterance [vox, here meaning “syllable”] without a vowel, so too there is none without an accent. As some assert, accent is the soul of utterance and the seedbed of music (seminarium musices), because every melody is composed of elevation or depression of the voice. Thus accentus is called ad-cantus, so to speak [i.e., “for the purpose of song”].18

As one might expect of a passage that has at least one phrase of Greek, along with several Latin words and phrases whose meanings were not entirely obvious, this passage inspired a lively response on the part of medieval commentators. Its musical implications are underscored particularly forcefully by a passage from Leiden F. 48,19 a commentary that was formerly attributed to Martin of Laon.20 (See gloss I. In the glosses here: the base text appears in normal type, interlinear glosses in italics within angle brackets, and marginal glosses in italics within square brackets.) Gloss I. Leiden, UB, Voss. lat. F. 48 (s. IX, ca. 850), fol. 22v: (268) Hactenus de iuncturis; nunc de fastigio videamus. qui locus apud Graecos peri prosodion appellatur. hic in tria discernitur: unaquaeque enim syllaba aut gravis est aut acuta aut circumflexa; et ut nulla vox sine vocali est, ita sine accentu nulla. et est accentus, ut quidam putaverunt, anima vocis et seminarium musices <matheries musices: id est, musicae artis>. [Tonus id est cantus id est emissio vocis. accentus autem exaltatio vel depositio eius unde accentus quasi ad cantus dicitur.] In the sentence beginning et est accentus . . . , the anonymous commentator glosses the word anima (soul) with pulcritudo (pulchritude or beauty); and seminarium musices becomes for him the matheries musices, id est musicae artis: “the very stuff or substance of music, that is, of the musical art.” He concludes with a marginal commentary on the theory of accent introduced by the term, tonus: “Tonus, that is cantus, which is the projection of the voice. Accent is its elevation or deposition; whence accent is called ad cantus [‘for the purpose of song’], so to speak.” In this passage it is hard to tell whether music or grammar is the primary referent, so complete is the interweaving of elements from the two disciplines. Let us now move into the domain of music as a harmonic discipline and examine two examples of the treatment it received in the hands of Carolingian


commentators, starting with book IX, De Harmonia, of Martianus Capella’s De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii. Two of the core manuscripts for the commentary connected to Martin of Laon (Leiden F 48 and Besançon 594), both dating from the ninth century,21 have a rather extensive marginal comment opposite sections 932 to 935 of Martianus’s text. The text itself reads as in gloss II. Gloss II. Besançon, Bibliothèque Municipale, 594 (s. IX, 3rd quarter); fol. 78: [Primo materiam in animo simul cum gravitate aut etiam cum acumine. Ergo si libet tibi, ut ex gravioribus tropis alterum formes, praeparandum est opus aut fistula aut fidibus et caetera, aut etiam voce, similiter fide acutis.] First [you compose] the (melodic) material in your mind, with both depth and height together. Thus, if you wish to form another (melody?) from the lower tropes—if the work has to be prepared for an organ or stringed instrument, etc., or even for the voice—you must likewise form it for the stringed instrument from the higher tropes.

What the glossator seems to say in this reading is that if one adapts a melody to instruments or composes a new melody, one must employ both low and high pitches.22 This would support Martianus’s words in section 932, which one sees in text V(a):23 Text V(a). Martianus Capella, De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii, book IX (ed. Meibom, Antiquae musicae auctores septem Graece et Latine [AmsterÂ� dam, 1652], II: 180): § 932: Hi sunt igitur soni, qui modulationem aptè & cum ratione componunt. Constat autem omnis modulatio ex grauitate soni uel acumine. Grauitas dicitur quae modi quadam emissione mollescit; Acumen uerò, quod in aciem tenuatam gracilis et erectae modulationis extenditur. These, therefore, are the sounds with which melody [modulatio] is aptly and rationally composed. Every melody consists of depth or height of sound. That which is called depth soothes by a certain relaxation of the mode; height is that which is projected in the sharp compression of a high, thin melody.24


This reading is supported, or at least not contradicted, by the glosses of both John Scottus and Remigius on section 932. John simply explains the words mollescit (= dulcescit, “sweetens”), acumen (= altitude, “height”), in atiem (= in acumen vocis, “in the sharpness of the voice”), and erectae (= acute, “high”).25 Remigius glosses the sentences of section 932 as follows (see gloss III): Gloss III. Commentary of Remigius of Auxerre from Lutz, ed., Remigii Autissiodorensis Commentum in Martianum Capellam, II: 332: Constat autem omnis modulatio ex grauitate soni id est ex inaequalibus, uel acumine. Omnis modulatio ex inaequalibus constat. Si enim aliter fuerit, iam non erit modulatio. Grauitas dicitur quae modi id est soni quadam emissione id est descensione, remissione vel productione mollescit dulcescit, remittitur. Every melody consists of depth or height of sound that is, of unequal [varying] sounds.26 If it were not so, it would not be a melody. Depth soothes sweetens, lowers, by a certain relaxation i.e., descent, lowering or stretching out of the mode i.e., of the sound.

Remigius interprets the word modus in the lemma as “sound,” not “trope,” and makes no reference to a melodic adaptation or new composition such as that found in the Anonymous commentary. But there is yet another passage in Martianus with which this gloss can be associated. It is section 935 of De nuptiis, in which Martianus sets out the fifteen tropes or transposition scales for the first time. This section appears in text V(b). Text V(b). Martianus Capella, De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii, book IX (ed. Meibom, Antiquae musicae auctores septem Graece et Latine [Amsterdam, 1652], II: 184): § 935: Tropi vero sunt XV, sed principales quinque, quibus bini tropi cohaerent. id est, Lydius, qui cohaerent ΥΠΟΛΥΔΙΟΣ et ΥΠΕΡΛΥΔΙΟΣ. Secundus Iastius, cui sociatur ΥΠΟΙΑΣΤΙΟΣ et ΥΠΕΡΙΑΣΤΙΟΣ . Item Aeolius, cum ΥΠΟΑΙΟΛΙΩ et ΥΠΕΡΑΙΟΛΙΩ . Quartus Phrygius cum duobus ΥΠΟΦΡΥΓΙΩ et ΥΠΕΡΦΡΥΓΙΩ . Quintus Dorius cum ΥΠΟΔΩΡΙΩ et ΥΠΕΡΔΩΡΙΩ .


There are fifteen tropi: five principal ones, and a pair of tropi attached to each of them. There is the Lydian, with which the hypolydian and the hyperlydian are conjoined; the Ionian, with which the hypoionian and the hyperionian are conjoined; the Aeolian, and with it the hypoaeolian and the hyperaeolian; the Phrygian, and with it the hypophrygian and the hyperphrygian; and the Dorian, with the hypodorian and the hyperdorian.

In her book Harmony and the Music of the Spheres, Mariken Teeuwen relates gloss II to the theory of the fifteen tropes, translating the commentary as follows: First [you compose] the (melodic) material in your mind, at the same time for both the high region and the low region. Thus, if it pleases you to form a different (melody) out of the lower modes—the work has to be adapted for a flute or stringed instrument et cetera, or even for the human voice—then [you can make] the same (melody) for a high string.27

If Teeuwen’s interpretation and translation are correct, this comment might possibly be one of the earliest references to two-part parallel organum. My translation results from my assumption that the comment is upon section 932, and that modus in Martianus’s text (as given here) is taken as an alternate for sonus—rather than tropus—which is how it appears in the Paris manuscript (BNF, lat. 8671) of the same commentary. Unfortunately, there is no cue in either Leiden F 48 or Besançon 594 to indicate the section of the main text to which this comment pertains. Moreover, nothing like it appears in the commentaries of John Scottus and Remigius of Auxerre for either section 932 or 935. For the present, the comment must remain a tantalizing mystery— perhaps the medieval equivalent of “The Lady or the Tiger.” This example is a reminder that discovering what was taught about music in Carolingian schools is not a simple matter, and it has other implications as well. The case of gloss II is one in which our own knowledge does not extend as far as that of the students to whom this passage was taught. Inasmuch as their teacher (the glossator) would have presented it to them as he intended, for them the proper referent of the gloss in question was undoubtedly not a mystery. And if it was, in fact, being used as a note of instruction on the composition of two-part organum, it shows us that in certain instances the glosses could go beyond explicating the classical text and into the realm of contemporaneous practice. The interface between classical text and contemporaneous musical practice is further emphasized in our last example, from the glosses on Boethius,


De institutione musica, book IV. This is a gloss appearing in the ninth-century manuscript clm 14523 of the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, a source from the monastery of St. Emmeram, reproduced as gloss IV.28 Gloss IV. Commentary in Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, clm. 14523 (s. IX, St. Emmeram), on Boethius’s “wing diagram” illustrating “Modi, quos eosdem tropos vel tonos nominant,” ed. Bernhard and Bower, Glossa maior III, appendix I, 365: Diagram in Friedlein, ed., Anicii Manlii Torquati Severini Boetii De institutione musica libri quinque [Leipzig, 1867], 343, descriptio II (fig. D21 in Bower, Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius: Fundamentals of Music [New Haven: Yale University Press], 156): hypermixolydius. . . . (D21): Autenti proti primitus incipit in parhypate meson genere diatoni diapente proportione. Deinde in hypate meson descendit transito semitonio. Deinde in lychanos hypaton tono transit, post hoc iterum redit tono in hypate meson. Deinde remigrat iterum in lychanos hypaton per tonum et inde se deflectit in proslambanomenos duobus tonis et dimidio. Plagis proti incipit ubi autenti desinit, i. in proslambanomenos, et inde cadit tono inferius. Ex hinc iterum surgit in proslambanomenos et vadit inde in lychanos hypaton chromatico genere. Post hoc transit in proximum hemitonium ad hypate meson a lychanos hypaton eiusdem generis, i. chromatici, tono distans, et exinde redit iterum ad lychanos hypaton chromatice, et inde flectens in proslambanomenos desinit. [My stresses in the preceding. Translated into pitches (but ignoring the chromatic genus), this becomes: Protus autentus: F E D E D A Plagis proti: A G A D E D A] Commenting on Boethius’s “wing diagram” of the modes or tones in book IV, chapter 16, this author states that: “The beginning of the Autentus protus starts on the parhypate meson in the diatonic genus in the diapente proportion.” He continues his description by saying that it then descends by semitone to the hypate meson, then by tone to the lychanos hypaton, following which it returns to the hypate meson. It moves back to the lychanos hypaton by tone, and then descends to the proslambanomenos by two tones and a semitone. FolÂ�lowing this the glossator gives a similar description of the plagis proti. I


have rendered his descriptions of both in Pseudo-Odo’s letter notation at the bottom of gloss IV. Clearly, this gloss has nothing to do with the ancient Greek tonoi as described in Boethius. It is important nevertheless: first, because of the terminology it employs—Autentus proti and plagis proti—and second, because it describes these by means of melodic incipits. Both are important components of a new theory of tonus in the Carolingian era, that of the so-called church tones or modes. The theory and practice of these would become one of the most important preoccupations of Carolingian schoolmasters and choirmasters in the years to come. What I hope to have shown in this essay is that both grammatical and musical texts of antiquity, as exemplified here in the works of Martianus Capella and Boethius, did indeed become objects of study in Carolingian schools. Starting with manuscripts from the first part of the ninth century, we see that Carolingian schoolmasters such as Martin of Laon and Remigius of Auxerre, made concentrated attempts to understand and explain concepts such as accentus, seminarium musices, sonus, tropus, etc., on their own terms, as they had been understood in antiquity. At the same time, their commentaries could not help but reflect—and in turn influence—the milieu in which they were written and the directions in which musical thought was heading. As these glosses show, I believe, the study of grammar and the study of music in Carolingian schools were closely intertwined. Both informed each other and both were to prove important ingredients in the musical ferment of the Carolingian period and beyond.

Notes This chapter is based on my presentation at the Baltimore conference, Reading and Writing the Pedagogies of the Renaissance: The Student, the Study Materials, and the Teacher of Music, 1470–1650, at the Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University, 2–4 June 2005. It is expanded in my book, The Critical Nexus: Tone-System, Mode, and Notation in Early Medieval Music, American Musicological Society Studies in Music 6 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 1.â•‡ Alfred Boretius, ed., Admonitio generalis (789), MGH, Leges II, vol. I: Capitularia Regum Francorum, no. 22, 52–62. On Alcuin’s possible role in its conception, see Hartmut Möller, “Institutionen, Musikleben, Musiktheorie,” in Neues Handbuch der Musikwissenschaft 2, ed. Hartmut Möller and Rudolf Stephan (Laaber: Laaber Verlag, 1991), 136–40. 2.â•‡ There is a problem with the text at this point in the document. Strictly translated, the beginning of the second sentence of the text should read: “Emend well the psalms, notes, chants, calculation, grammar through the individual monasteries or bishoprics and catholic books”—a reading that has troubled several scholars, myself included. John Contreni, “The

48â•… ·â•… Charles M. Atkinson Carolingian Renaissance: Education and Literary Culture,” The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. II (ca. 700–ca. 900), ed. Rosamond McKitterick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 709–57, makes a tacit emendation of his own, combining the first two sentences (see 726). In his translation, the first part reads: “Let there be schools for boys, teaching the reading of Psalms, Tironian notes, chant, reckoning and grammar,” which has the advantage of capturing the broader sense of the Latin verb lego–legi–lectum. Although it has been taken as early evidence for musical notation (for example, in Kenneth Levy, “Charlemagne’s Archetype of Gregorian Chant,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 40 (1987): 1–30; see esp. 11–12; and Levy, “From Aural to Notational: The Gregorian Antiphonale Missarum,” Etudes grégoriennes 28 (2000): 5–19; see esp. 13), or as a reference to Tironian notes, as in Contreni’s translation above, the word notas in the principal manuscript of the Admonitio is qualified by a gloss connecting it with the notarius, a secretary, implying that the boys should also be taught how to write (cf. David Hiley, Western Plainchant: A Handbook [Oxford: Clarendon, 1993], 364). For a somewhat different reading of this passage see James Grier, “Adémar de Chabannes, Carolingian Musical Practices, and the Nota Romana,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 56 (2003): 43–98, see esp. 63–65. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations in this essay are my own. 3.â•‡ This reference to emended books may be an allusion to the Institutiones of Cassiodorus. In section 2 of the preface, Cassiodorus says that “the recruits of Christ, after they have learned the Psalms, should study the divine text in corrected books [in codicibus emendatis].” He continues: “The books should be corrected to prevent scribal errors from being fixed in untrained minds.” Later he devotes an entire chapter (bk. I, chap. 15) to the care with which the emendation of the scriptures should be made, saying that “this type of correction, in my opinion, is the most beautiful and glorious task of learned men” (istud enim genus emendationis, ut arbitror, valde pulcherrimum est et doctissimorum hominum negotium gloriosum). The Latin text, with my emphasis, is from R. A. B. Mynors, Cassiodori Senatoris Institutiones (Oxford: Clarendon, 1937), 4, 42; the translation is by James W. Halporn, Cassiodorus: Institutions of Divine and Secular Learning and On the Soul (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2004): 106, 139. 4.â•‡ The translations into English here are from François Louis Ganshof, “Alcuin’s Revision of the Bible,” in The Carolingians and the Frankish Monarchy, trans. Janet Sondheimer (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1971), 28–40, here 29. 5.â•‡ Alfred Boretius, ed., Karoli epistola de litteris colendis (780–800), MGH, Leges II, vol. I: Capitularia Regum Francorum, no. 29, 78–79. Cf. Leopold Wallach, Alcuin and Charlemagne: Studies in Carolingian History and Literature, Cornell Studies in Classical Philology 32 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1959), 202–204. Wallach thinks that it was written ca. 794–800, and that its chief author was Alcuin. Cf. also Donald Bullough, “Europae Pater: Charlemagne and his Achievement in the Light of Recent Scholarship,” The English Historical Review 85 (1970): 59–105. The document was initially addressed to Baugulf, Abbot of Fulda, but was later issued as a circular letter under the title De litteris colendis. 6.â•‡ Translation from Leo Treitler, “Reading and Singing: On the Genesis of Occidental Music-writing,” Early Music History 4 (1984): 135–208; reprinted in With Voice and Pen: Coming to Know Medieval Song and How it was Made (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 365–428. The passage is on pages 135 and 365 respectively. 7.â•‡ On this document see in particular Günther Glauche, Schullektüre im Mittelalter, Münchener Beiträge zur Mediävistik und Renaissance-Forschung 5 (Munich: Arbeo Gesellschaft, 1970), 17; and Contreni, “The Carolingian Renaissance,” 726. Glauche feels that this passage is a call not just for the study of literature (litterae), but of the liberal arts altogether. 8.â•‡ Città del Vaticano, Pal. lat. 1252, quoted from Lynn Thorndike, “Elementary and Secondary Education in the Middle Ages,” Speculum 13 (1940): 405.

Some Thoughts on Music Pedagogy in the Carolingian Eraâ•… ·â•… 49 9.â•‡ Franz Brunhölzl, “Der Bildungsauftrag der Hofschule,” Karl der Grosse: Lebenswerk und Nachleben, vol. 2: Das geistige Leben, ed. Bernhard Bischoff (Düsseldorf: L. Schwann, 1965), 28–41, see esp. 30. In a letter to Charlemagne from late 796 or early 797 (Alc. epist. 121 in MGH, Epist. Kar. Aevi, IV: 176–77), Alcuin states: “Ego vero Flaccus vester secundum exhortationem et bonam voluntatem vestram aliis per tecta sancti Martini sanctarum mella scripturarum ministrare satago; alios vetere antiquarum disciplinarum mero inaebriare studeo; alios grammaticae subtilitatis enutrire pomis incipiam; . . .” In another letter, an unknown bishop (Arno?) tells Alcuin that he should oversee instruction, and names grammar, reading, and study of the Bible as subjects (Alc. epist. 161 in MGH, Epist. Kar. Aevi, IV: 260, ll. 13ff.). In Brunhölzl’s view, such witnesses tell us that Alcuin’s poem 26 also depicts the court school itself. 10.â•‡ Contreni, “The Carolingian Renaissance,” 726. Gunzo made a visit to St. Gall in 965 in the company of Otto I. He was derided by a young monk (possibly Ekkehard II) for using the accusative instead of the ablative case at one point in his conversation. He took his revenge in a letter to the monks at Reichenau, belittling his St. Gall critic and demonstrating his own learnedness. On this see Max Manitius, Geschichte der lateinischen Literatur des Mittelalters, vol. 1: Handbuch der klassischen Altertumswissenschaft, vol. 9, sec. 2, pt. 1 (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1911): 531–36; the letter is summarized on pp. 533–34. 11.â•‡ See the entries for these libraries in Paul Lehmann, Mittelalterliche Bibliothekskataloge Deutschlands und der Schweiz (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1918), vol. 1. 12.â•‡ MGH Poet, I: 543–44; cf. Glauche, Schullektüre, 11–12. 13.â•‡ Detlev Zimpel, ed., De institutione clericorum libri tres, Freiburger Beiträge zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte 7 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1996). 14.â•‡ Leonard Boyle, O.P., “Vox paginae“: An Oral Dimension of Texts, Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia, Storia e Storia dell‘Arte in Roma Conferenze 16 (Rome, 1999); Boyle, “Tonic Accent, Codicology, and Literacy,” in The Centre and its Compass: Studies in Medieval Literature in Honor of Professor John Leyerle, ed. Robert A. Taylor et al. (Kalamazoo: Western Michigan University, 1993), 1–10; Boyle, “The Friars and Reading in Public,” in Le vocabulaire des écoles des Mendiants au moyen âge, ed. Maria Candida Pacheco. CIVICIMA: Etudes sur le vocabulaire intellectuel du moyen âge IX (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), 8–15. 15.â•‡ On the Scolica enchiriadis as a pedagogical text, see Max Haas, “Die Musica enchiriadis und ihr Umfeld: Elementare Musiklehre als Propaedeutik zur Philosophie,” Musik und die Geschichte der Philosophie und Naturwissenschaften im Mittelalter, ed. Frank Hentschel, Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters 62 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 207–26. 1ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½�ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ 6.â•‡ Marie Elizabeth Duchez, “La représentation spatio-verticale du caractÃ¨re musical grave-aigu et l‘élaboration de la notion de hauteur de son dans la conscience musicale occidentale,” Acta Musicologica 51 (1979): 54–73; Duchez, “La représentation de la musique: Information d’action et expression structurelle dans la représentation de la musique occidentale traditionnelle,” Actes du XVIIIe Congrès des Sociétés de Philosophie de langue française, Strasbourg, Juillet 1980 (Paris: C.N.R.S., 1980), 177–82; and Duchez, “Description grammaticale et description arithmétique des phénomÃ¨nes musicaux: le tournant du IXe siÃ¨cle,” Sprache und Erkenntnis im Mittelalter: Akten des VI. Internationalen Kongresses für mittelalterliche Philosophie (Bonn, 1977), Miscellanea Mediaevalia 13, no. 2 (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 1981): 561–79. 17.â•‡ In her dissertation on the ars musica in ninth-century commentaries on Martianus Capella (Harmony and the Music of the Spheres, Mittellateinische Studien und Texte 30 [Leiden: Brill, 2002], 162–83, esp. 182–83), Teeuwen notes that the oldest layer of glosses to both Martianus Capella’s De nuptiis and Boethius’s De musica can be dated to the second third of the ninth century. As pointed out by Louis Holtz (Donat et la tradition de l’enseigneÂ� ment grammatical, Etude sur l’Ars Donati et sa diffusion [IVe–IXe siÃ¨cle] et édition critique:

50â•… ·â•… Charles M. Atkinson Documents, Etudes et Repertoires publiés par l’Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes [Paris: C.N.R.S., 1981], 320–26), the transmission and glossing of Donatus’s Ars grammatica begins even earlier in the century. 18.â•‡ On this passage see Matthias Bielitz, Die Neumen in Otfrids Evangelien-Harmonie: Zum Verhältnis von geistlicher und weltlicher Musik des frühen Mittelalters, sowie zur Entstehung der raumanalogen Notenschrift, Heidelberger Bibliotheksschriften 39 ([Heidelberg]: Universitätsbibliothek Heidelberg, 1989), 100–103. 19.â•‡ Description and bibliography in Claudio Leonardi, “I Codici di Marziano Capella,” Aevum 34 (1960): 67–68; and in Teeuwen, Harmony, 88–98, and pl. 1. 20.â•‡ Cf. Leonardi, “I Codici,” 13–14; Cora Lutz, “Martinus Laudunensis,” Catalogus translationum et commentariorum [hereafter CTC]: Mediaeval and Renaissance Latin Translations and Commentaries. Annotated Lists and Guides, ed. Paul Oskar Kristeller, F. E. Cranz, et al. (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1971), 370–71; John Contreni, Addenda to CTC 3 (1975), 451–52; Jean Préaux, “Le commentaire de Martin de Laon sur l’oeuvre de Martianus Capella,” Latomus 12 (1953): 437–59; and Teeuwen, Harmony, 33–41 and 148–50, but 88–98 for description and bibliography of Leiden, Universiteitsbibliotheek, Voss. Lat. F. 48. Both Contreni and Teeuwen express strong reservations as to the putative authorship of Martin. Teeuwen hypothesizes that the commentary, which she refers to as “anonymous,” may have been the product of a group of scholars collected at the courts of Louis the Pious (reg. 813/14–840) and Charles the Bald (reg. 840–877); see Teeuwen, Harmony, 148–50. I refer here to the earlier attribution to Martin of Laon primarily because Leonardi—following Préaux (“Le commentaire de Martin de Laon”), Lutz, and others—employs that designation in his manuscript descriptions. 21.â•‡ Cf. Leonardi, “I Codici,” 13–14; Lutz, “Martinus Laudunensis,” CTC 2 (1971), 370–71; Contreni, Addenda to CTC 3 (1975), 451–52; and Teeuwen, Harmony, 88–98, for description and bibliography of the Leiden manuscript, and 98–103 for description and bibliography of the Besançon manuscript. Leiden, Universiteitsbibliotheek, Voss. Lat. F. 48 was written ca. 850, probably in Auxerre, according to the sources listed in Teeuwen (Harmony, 88–89). Besançon, BibliothÃ¨que Municipale, ms 594, dates to the third quarter of the ninth century, and was apparently copied at the abbey of Saint-Claude in Saint Oyan (Teeuwen, Harmony, 98–99). 22.â•‡ Cf. Teeuwen (Harmony, 304–305, and 315). My translation results from my assumption that the comment is upon section 932, and that modus in Martianus’s text (see text V(a) here) is taken as an alternate for sonus—rather than tropus—as it appears in the Paris manuscript (BNF, lat. 8671) of the same commentary. Unfortunately, there is no cue in either Leiden F 48 or in Besançon 594 to indicate the section of the main text to which this comment pertains. 23.â•‡ Martianus Capella, ed. Marcus Meibom, Antiquae musicae auctores septem Graece et Latine (Amsterdam: Apud Ludovicus Elzevirium, 1652), II: 180. I use Meibom here because his text for this section of the treatise is the same as that found in the two manuscripts. Related to this and the following discussion, consider the gloss on Boethius, De institutione musica I,8, which presents the definition of sonus, as it appears in the eleventh-century manuscript Paris, BNF lat. 16201: Sonus casus vocis dicitur, i. exitus vel emissio vel processio de gravi in acutum, vel de acuta in gravem, vel talis vocis terminatio, que sit apta melo (Michael Bernhard and Calvin Bower, ed., Glossa maior in institutionem musicam Boethii, VeröffentlichÂ� ungen der Musikhistorischen Kommission 9–11 [Munich: Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1993–1996], I: 164, gloss I,8,3). 24.â•‡ William Stahl, Martianus Capella and the Seven Liberal Arts, 2 vols. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1971/1977), 2: 361, translates the last two sentences as follows:

Some Thoughts on Music Pedagogy in the Carolingian Eraâ•… ·â•… 51 “Moreover, all musical movement (modulatio) consists of lower- or higher-pitched tones. A low pitch has a soothing effect because of the slackening of its sound; a high pitch, on the other hand, is due to the tightening and raising of the music to a thin and shrill sound.” 25.â•‡ Cora Lutz, ed., Iohannis Scotti Annotationes in Marcianum (Cambridge, Mass.: Medieval Academy of America, 1939), 206. I have emended her reading of “mollescat dulcescat” to “mollescit dulcescit” following the readings of both Dick and Willis, as well as her own of Remigius. 26.â•‡ On equal and unequal sounds as necessary components of melody, cf. the gloss on Boethius, De institutione musica I,3 that appears in two tenth-century manuscripts from Einsiedeln (mss 298 and 358). For the lemma Quocirca soni quoque partim sunt aequales, partim vero sunt inaequalitate distantes (“Therefore, some sounds are also equal, while others stand at an interval from each other by virtue of an inequality”), they offer the following gloss (see Bernhard/Bower, Glossa maior I,125, gloss I,3,150): equales soni inequales __ _____________ __ __ Astiterunt reges terre et (Antiphona I ad Matutinum in Feria VI in Parasceve; Corpus antiphonalium Officii 3, 1506. “Astiterunt” is recited on G, “terre et” on b-flat, G, and F). 27.â•‡ Teeuwen, Harmony, 304–305, and 315. 28.â•‡ The same text appears in the upper margin of fol. 178 in the manuscript Munich, Bay. Staatsbibl., clm 14272, as a gloss to the Alia musica. Cf. Chailley, Alia musica, 210–11.

4 Medieval Musical Education as Seen through Sources Outside the Realm of Music Theory• Susan Boynton

• As Dolores Pesce’s and Charles Atkinson’s contributions to this volume demonstrate, treatises on music theory and the other liberal arts, along with their commentary traditions, can tell us a great deal about the character of musical learning in the Middle Ages. For the most part, however, these texts do not offer much insight into the social context and institutional setting of practical musical training, the roles and responsibilities of teachers, the practical organization of instruction or the times and places in which it took place. For such pragmatic aspects of medieval musical education one must often turn to materials outside the corpus of music theory, such as customaries and glossed hymnaries, that offer insight into our pedagogical past. Monastic customaries constitute the single most important source for reconstructing the process by which students in the central Middle Ages learned to read and sing. Varied in length and scope, these texts contain a wealth of information on all aspects of life in a monastery, including innumerable details on the performance of the liturgy.1 Customaries are not “snapshots” of monastic life, in that they may offer recommendations for the

Medieval Musical Education Outside Music Theoryâ•… ·â•… 53

organization of a monastery rather than recording the reality of any single institution. Nevertheless, the account of monastic communities in many customaries is so detailed as to appear to be descriptive as well as prescriptive. For the present purpose of studying medieval musical education, customaries reflect teaching methods that seem to have been common to a great number of different institutions, as is suggested by a comparison with didactic texts of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Monastic customaries show that the musical education of child oblates was an integral part of their larger monastic formation, which consisted of learning appropriate behavior by imitating the older monks. The divine office, which occupied most of the hours of each day, afforded oblates and novices the opportunity to learn not only how to sing and to read, but also how to hold themselves, as well as how to bow and to process. Another aspect of the liturgy that had to be learned was the order in which monks sang and read, which was based on a hierarchy determined by the date of entry into the monastery.2 Moreover, performing in the liturgy required so much study and rehearsal that it formed the core of monastic education.3 Customaries offer extensive information on monastic teaching schedules, the pedagogical methods employed, and the roles of monastic officers responsible for training children to perform in the liturgy. Teachers worked closely with the child oblates in several daily sessions during which the chant was learned by ear, first by listening and then by repeating after their teachers, as is stated in a Cluniac customary written by Ulrich of Zell in the late 1070s: “the boys sit in chapter, and learn the chant from someone singing it before them.”4 Reading and singing were taught by the same person, frequently the armarius, or librarian. The armarius corrected the liturgical books, looked after the library, and was ultimately responsible for the education of oblates as well as for the organization of the liturgy. However, the armarius was too busy to administer all of the requisite teaching, so child oblates were trained first by an assistant before the armarius listened to their chants and readings. It is apparently for this reason that the early eleventh-century customary from Fleury refers to “a librarian who is also the teacher” (armarius qui et scolae praeceptor vel librarius),5 but it was actually the assistant to the cantor who taught the chant: For assistance [the precentor] is given a brother of demonstrable talent who is called the succentor. For the master of the school is the guardian of the children. Careful in every study of chants and in daily practice, he arranges the definitions of the tones and differentiae of the psalms, and is accustomed to propel to the chapter those who treat the divine office negligently.6

54â•… ·â•… Susan Boynton

Table 4.1. Manuscript sigla of eleventh-century continental hymnaries with Latin glosses.

1 F F2 N Su B M1 M2 D G C H Si

Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms Chigi C.VI.177 (1050–1060, Farfa) Farfa, Biblioteca del Monumento Nazionale, ms A.209 (end of the eleventh century, Farfa) Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms Vat. lat. 7172 (ca. 1050, Narni) Montecassino, Archivio dell’Abbazia, ms 420 (second half of the eleventh century, Subiaco) Brescia, Biblioteca Queriniana, ms H.VI.21 (first half of the eleventh century, Santa Giulia of Brescia) Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms Rossi 205 (1064–1080, Moissac) Oxford, Bodleian Library, ms D’Orville 45 (last quarter of the eleventh century, Moissac) Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, ms lat. 103 (ca. 1050, St. Denis) Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, ms lat. 11550 (1030–1060, St. Germaindes-Prés) Amiens, Bibliothèque Centrale Louis Aragon, ms 131 (ca. 1040–1050, Corbie) Huesca, Archivo de la Catedral, ms 1 (third quarter of the eleventh century, Languedoc or Aquitaine) London, British Library, ms Add. 30851 (ca. 1050, Silos)

As Margot Fassler has shown, in the Liber tramitis (which reflects customs at the abbey of Cluny between 1027 and 1048), the role of the armarius is expanded to absorb functions previously fulfilled by the cantor. Thereafter, as far as one can tell from customaries, the duties of the armarius and cantor appear to have been combined.7 The close connection between librarians and teachers may account for the annotation of liturgical hymnaries with glosses to help students understand and memorize hymn texts as they learned the melodies. Elementary education consisted of learning to read and sing the psalms and hymns. An early prescription for this first phase of training appears in the Murbach Statutes of 816, preliminary acts to the synod of Aachen that described the school reforms of Abbot Atto of Reichenau. These statutes stipulated that students should begin with the psalms, hymns, and canticles, proceed to the Benedictine rule, and from there to the scriptures and patristic writings.8 Study of the liberal arts (including the theory of music) could begin only after mastery of these fundamental texts had been achieved. The hymns’ role in monastic education is reflected in the variety of glosses on the hymns that were transmitted in manuscripts of the eleventh


century and later (see table 4.1).9 Glosses on the psalms and canticles in this period seem to have fulfilled a pedagogical function as well, but they tend to be lengthier texts derived from patristic psalm-commentaries, and do not reflect the same diversity of approaches as the hymn glosses, nor do they vary as much by geography as the hymn glosses. The glosses in the twelve manuscripts listed here can be grouped into several general categories pertaining to lexicon, grammar, syntax, encyclopedic knowledge, scriptural references, meter, textual criticism, style, doctrine, and liturgical theology.10 F1, F2, N, and Su contain substantially the same set of lexical glosses along with some grammatical ones.11 The northern Italian manuscript B transmits a distinctive set of glosses that are primarily lexical, with a few grammatical and theological glosses. The two hymnaries of Iberian provenance (H and Si) are distinct from the other manuscripts, each containing a unique set of lexical and grammatical glosses. The two hymnaries from Moissac (M1 and M2) transmit essentially the same lexical and grammatical glosses as well as a few longer encyclopedic glosses. DGC contain the most complex tradition, including all gloss types and some categories not found in the other manuscripts.12 As the first Latin poetry that monks learned, hymns presented new challenges of vocabulary, syntax, and word order, and glossators found diverse means by which to meet these challenges. (See appendix: Glosses on Primo dierum omnium.) A synoptic transcription of glosses on just the first two strophes of Primo dierum omnium, the hymn for the office of Matins on Sundays in winter, furnishes examples of almost all the types of commentary used to explain hymn texts in eleventh-century manuscripts. The first gloss precedes the text of the hymn proper, acting as an introduction to the rhetorical construction of the hymn, attributing it to Ambrose of Milan and identifying the underlying symbolism of Sunday as the Lord’s Day, which allegorically signifies the Resurrection. The glosses on primo and quo are all grammatical in nature, identifying the use of the ablative and the implied superlative in the word primus. Lexical glosses provide more common equivalents for relatively unusual words. Here, the lexical glosses on words such as extat, conditus, conditor, pulsis, procul, torporibus, and otius constitute a basic vocabulary lesson and also manifest the tendency to exploit common words for the purpose of introducing synonyms. For instance, the word pulsis is glossed variously with fugatis, eiectis, preiectis, abiectis, and expulsis, in some cases with two different terms in the same gloss. A more complex type of linguistic gloss is known as a syntactical gloss because it points to or explicates an aspect of a text’s syntax. Syntactical glosses


are represented here by a passage that points out the link between the first two strophes of the hymn (because the first strophe in its entirety is a dependent clause) and rephrases it in prose by recasting the word order: “This versicle is joined to those above. For such is its sense, but the order of words is: On the first of all days on which the world was made, or on which Christ arose, and liberated us from death, let us all rise, having driven torpors far away, that is, having repelled laziness and sleepiness from us.” This kind of syntactical gloss is found only in the three Northern French manuscripts D, G, and C. Another type of commentary found only in these three manuscripts is the theological gloss, which includes interpretations of the kind applied to biblical exegesis. A tropological or moral interpretation of the hymn’s meaning gives rise to the gloss “all the faithful” on the personal pronoun nos. The passage beginning “One who hastens to the Divine Office about to be celebrated” can be seen as a form of liturgical theology, associating the meaning of the hymn with act of performing the night office. The subsequent gloss, found only in C, refers both to the allegorical association of Sunday with the Resurrection and to its eschatological sense as a weekly prefiguration of the Last Judgment. Similarly, the gloss on the word “prophet” is exegetical in character, citing several psalm verses in allusion to King David, who was thought in the Middle Ages to be the author of the entire book of Psalms.13 Interpreting the psalmody of the office typologically, as a nocturnal quest for God following the example of David, the gloss cites psalm 118 in an echo of the Rule of Benedict.14 The variety of purposes and genres represented within this small sample of glosses shows the complexity of the various manuscript traditions and suggests that the hymns were subject to commentary on various levels of study. While glossed manuscripts of Latin school texts have traditionally been considered direct witnesses to medieval teaching methods,15 their pedagogical function has been called into question. Some scholars, particularly specialists in the glossed manuscripts of Anglo-Saxon England such as Michael Lapidge, have challenged the assumption of a close connection between glossed manuscripts and the actual practice of teaching.16 Others, such as Gernot Wieland, maintain that the glosses were references for teachers.17 Liturgical manuscripts are fundamentally different from the literary manuscripts that have been the focus of this debate, and therefore the distinctions between the categories of classbook and library book developed by Lapidge and Wieland do not apply to chant-books such as hymnaries with Latin glosses. Hymnaries were a record of a monastery’s hymn repertoire for the use of the monas-


tic official in charge of chant. The fact that the armarius/cantor directed the scriptorium as well as teaching singing supports the theory that the glosses in hymnaries served a pedagogical purpose or at least reflect the methods used by teachers. Glossed hymnaries could have been used by students for individual study as well. Prescriptions for liturgical training in monastic customaries from the eleventh and early twelfth centuries indicate some use of hymnaries and other books in private study. A Cluniac customary from the 1080s, and an early twelfth-century one from Fruttuaria, both provide for silent reading practice, or the memorization of psalms and hymns, during the celebration of Mass.18 The latter text also mentions the use of books by some oblates during their lesson: “no one looks at the book there, except a boy who is so old that he cannot learn otherwise; and if there are two of them, they take a board, put it between them, and place the book on top of it.”19 Novices, who could arrive at the monastery with literacy skills, could make even more extensive use of books. The Fruttuaria customary notes that novices were lent a psalter and hymnary which they could keep for up to a year, presumably to facilitate their memorization of the psalms and hymns.20 After memorization during the initial stages of liturgical training, the hymns also formed a component of more advanced grammatical education.21 The various didactic functions of the hymns are reflected by the presence of a wide range of glosses in eleventh-century liturgical manuscripts, attesting to the central role of language and literacy training in liturgical education, and the important place of liturgical texts in the study of grammar.

Appendix Glosses on the first two strophes of Primo dierum omnium, from H, M 2 , Su, F 1, F 2 , B, D, G, and C. Primo dierum omnium quo mundus extat conditus uel quo resurgens conditor nos morte uicta liberat

[1 [2 [3 [4

On the first of all days on which the created world exists and on which the creator, rising again, liberates us, death having been vanquished,

pulsis procul torporibus surgamus omnes ocius et nocte queramus pium sicut prophetam nouimus.

[5 [6 [7 [8

and by night let us seek the holy one with torpors driven far away, let us all quickly rise just as we know the prophet (did).

In hoc hymno quem sanctus Ambrosius pulchra satis serie composuit, in prima sui

In this hymn, which St. Ambrose composed in quite beautiful wording, in its


parte exortationem habet, non petitionem. Est autem de die resurrectionis Domini compositus, quem diem dominicum uocamus, quia in ipso Dominus diabolum destructa morte triumphauit, atque suum releuauit atro de funere corpus. Hortatur autem nos in hac die resurrectionis Domini, lętis animis et expeditis gressibus occurrere, et ad laudem Dei surgere {DGC}

first part there is an exhortation, not a petition. And it is composed about the Resurrection, which we call the day of the Lord, since on that very day the Lord triumphed over the Devil, death having been destroyed, and unveiled his body from black death. And he exhorts us on this day of the Resurrection of the Lord to hasten with cheerful minds and ready steps and rise to the praise of God.

1] PRIMO: scilicet die {B}; Primus superlatiui gradus est et ideo hic iungitur genitiuo {G D}

1] THE FIRST: That is, day; Primus is a superlative and therefore here it is joined to the genitive

2] QUO: die {H}; in {B}; id est in quo {DGC} EXTAT: est {B}; id est omnis machina rerum {DG} CONDITUS: creatus {B}; factus {DGCM2} QUO: id est in quo {DCG}

2] WHICH: day; on [the day]; that is, on which EXISTS: is; that is, every engine of things

3] CONDITOR: factor {H}; creator {B}; id est Christus per quem facta sunt omnia {DGC}

3] CREATOR: maker; creator; that is, Christ, by whom all things have been made

4] NOS: omnes fideles {H} MORTE: id est eripit a dominio diaboli, qui ad mortem captiuum tenebat genus humanum uicta [id est superata {DC}] {G}; in diabolo principe mortis qui mors et inferus appellatur {DGC}

4] US: all the faithful DEATH: that is, having conquered [death], he wrested us from the dominion of the Devil, who was holding the human race captive in death; in the Devil, the prince of death, who is called death and infernal

5] PULSIS: fugatis, eiectis {H}; preiectis {M2}; abiectis {Su}; eiectis id est abiectis {FB}; id est expulsis {DCG} PROCUL: longe {M2B}; a longe {HDGC} Hic uersiculus ad superiora coniungitur. Est enim talis sensus, sed uerborum ordinatio: Primo omnium dierum quo mundus est factus uel in quo Christus surrexit, et nos a morte liberauit, surgamus omnes procul pulsis torporibus id est pigriciis et somnolentia a nobis repulsis {C}

5] DRIVEN OUT: put to flight, ejected; thrown out; ejected, that is thrown out; that is, expelled FAR AWAY: far; from afar This versicle is joined to those above. For such is its sense, but the order of words is: On the first of all days on which the world was made, or on which Christ arose, and liberated us from death, let us all rise, having driven torpors far away, that is, having repelled laziness and sleepiness from us

CREATED: created; made WHICH: that is, on which


TORPORIBUS: pigriciis {HB}; pigritia {M2}; id est pigritia {F}; in pigritia {Su}; fastidiis {DG}; fastidiis, tediis {C}

TORPORS: laziness; aversions; aversions and weariness

6] SURGAMUS: Qui ad celebrandum diuinum offitium uel obsequium festinat, necesse est ut a se omnem somnolentiam et torporem repellat. Aliter Dominum quem querit, inuenire non poterit {GD}; Dominicus dies plenus sacramentis est enim in conditione rerum primus omnium dierum, quia in illo factus est, et sicut doctores dicunt mundus finietur in ipso. Octauum enim est in ordine dierum in quo Christus a mortuis significat autem illius diei gaudium qui non habet finem in quo omnes resurgemus. Unde vi. psalmus pro octaua scribitur: Domine ne, quia totus de illa ultima generali resurrectione cantatur. Qui ad celebrandum diuinum obsequium surgere festinat necesse est ut a se omnem somnolentiam et torporem repellat. Aliter Deum quem querit inuenire non poterit {C}

6] LET US ARISE: One who hastens to the Divine Office about to be celebrated or to obedience, must cast out all somnolence and slowness from himself. Otherwise the Lord whom he seeks, he will not be able to find; Sunday is full of sacraments, for it is in the foundation of things, the first of all days, since it is on that day that the world was made, and similarly the learned say that the world will end on that same [day]. For [the fact that] it is the eighth in the order of days on which Christ [rose] from the dead signifies the joy of that day which has no end, on which we shall all rise again. Whence the sixth psalm is written in place of the eighth: “Lord, lest you,” since it is entirely sung concerning that last general resurrection. One who hastens to the Divine Office about to be celebrated must cast out all somnolence and slowness from himself. Otherwise the Lord whom he seeks, he will not be able to find QUICKLY: that is, rather rapidly; rather speedily; rapidly, speedily

OCIUS: uel otius {M2}; id est citius {FSu}; citius {B}; celerius {DG}; celerius, uelocius {C} 7] NOCTE: in uigiliis noctis {GD} QUERAMUS: id est per orando {H}; inuestigemus {GD} PIUM: Deum {M2B}; Dominum {HGD}; scilicet Dominum {C}

7] BY NIGHT: in the vigils of the night LET US SEEK: that is, through praying; let us search out HOLY: God; the Lord; that is, the Lord

8] SICUT: dixisse {H} PROPHETAM: Dauid: Media nocte surgebam {H}; id est Dauid {GDC}; Dauid sanctus propheta ubique maxime introducitur Dominum in nocte qu”sisse, sicut ipse dicit, Memor fui nocte nominis tui Domine, et item, Media nocte surgebam. {GD}; Dauid sanctus ubique introducitur maxime Dominum in nocte

8] JUST AS: he is said to have said PROPHET: David: “I arose in the middle of the night”; that is, David; The holy prophet David is said everywhere to have sought the Lord at night, just he himself says, “Lord, I was mindful of your name at night,”1 and also, “I was rising in the middle of the night”2; holy David is said everywhere to have sought the Lord


quesisse sicut ipse dicit: Memor fui in nocte nominis tui, et item Media nocte surgebam, et inuocat Extollite manus uestras in sanctam, et item Memor fui tui super stratum meum, unde et beati Gregorii de quodam legimus qui postquam aliquantulo sopore corpus reficisset circa mediam pene noctem surgebat, et uigilans orabat. Qui tandiu hoc fecit donec facta est uox a Deum dicens quid peccatum suum ei Dominus dimisset {C} NOVIMUS: fecisse {M2}; scimus {GD}; quesisse {B}; scilicet quesisse {C}

at night, just as he himself says: “I was mindful of your name at night,” and again, “I was rising in the middle of the night,” and he invokes “Raise your hands to the holy,”3 and again “I remembered you on my bed,”4 whence we also read of St. Gregory about a certain person who, after he had refreshed his body with sleep for a little while, arose around the middle of the night and, keeping vigil, was praying. He did this so long that a voice was heard from God saying that the Lord released him from his sin WE KNOW: [him] to have done; we know; to have sought; that is, to have sought

Notes to Appendix 1.â•‡ Psalm 118.55. 2.â•‡ Psalm 118.62. 3.â•‡ Psalm 132.2. 4.â•‡ Psalm 62.7.

Notes 1.â•‡ The most recent overview of the customaries as a genre is Isabelle Cochelin, “Evolution des coutumiers monastiques dessinée à partir de l’étude de Bernard,” in From Dead of Night to End of Day: The Medieval Cluniac Customs, ed. Susan Boynton and Isabelle Cochelin (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), 29–66. 2.â•‡ See Susan Boynton and Isabelle Cochelin, “The Sociomusical Role of Child Oblates at the Abbey of Cluny in the Eleventh Century,” in Musical Childhoods and the Cultures of Youth, ed. Susan Boynton and Roe-Min Kok (Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press, 2006), 3–24. On the hierarchical structure of monastic communities, see Isabelle Cochelin, “Étude sur les hiérarchies monastiques: le prestige de l’ancienneté et son éclipse à Cluny au XIe siècle,” Revue Mabillon n.s. 11 (2000): 5–37. 3.â•‡ See Susan Boynton, “Training for the Liturgy as a Form of Monastic Education,” in Medieval Monastic Education, ed. Carolyn Muessig and George Ferzoco (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 2000), 7–20. 4.â•‡ “Pueri sedent in capitulo, et per aliquem praecinentem cantum addiscunt” (Patrologiae, ed. J.-P. Migne [Paris: Migne, 1853], 149: 687). 5.â•‡ Anselme Davril and Lin Donnat, ed., Consuetudines Floriacenses Antiquiores (Siegburg: Schmitt, 1984), 17. 6.â•‡ Ibid., 15: “Huic frater probabilis ingenii solatio datur qui succentor nuncupatur. Nam scole magister est acceptor infantum. In omni studio cantilenarum et cotidiana cura tonorum diffinitiones et psalmorum distinctiones providus disponit et divinum officium negligenter tractantes propellare in capitulo solet.” 7.â•‡ Margot Fassler, “The Office of the Cantor in Early Western Monastic Rules and Customaries: A Preliminary Investigation,” Early Music History 5 (1985): 29–51; Peter Dinter, Liber tramitis aevi Odilonis abbatis (Siegburg: Schmitt, 1980), 238–39.

Medieval Musical Education Outside Music Theoryâ•… ·â•… 61 8.â•‡ Actuum praeliminarium synodi primae aquisgranensis commentationes sive Statuta Murbacensia (816), in Consuetudines Saeculi Octavi et Noni, ed. Josef Semmler (Siegburg: Schmitt, 1963), 442: “[. . .] ut scolastici, postquam psalmi, cantica et hymni memoriae commendata fuerint, regula, post regulae textum liber comitis, interim uero historiam diuinae auctoritatis et expositores eius necnon et conlationes patrum et uitas eorum legendo magistris eorum audientibus percurrant. Postquam uero in istis probabiliter educati fuerint, ad artem litteraturae et spirituales se transferant flores.” 9.â•‡ See Susan Boynton, “The Didactic Function and Context of Eleventh-Century Glossed Hymnaries,” in Der lateinische Hymnus im Mittelalter: Überlieferung-ÄsthetikAusstrahlung, ed. Andreas Haug, Monumenta Monodica Medii Aevi: Subsidia IV (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2004), 301–29. 1�ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ 0.â•‡ For a complete account of the typology, see Susan Boynton, “Glosses on the Office Hymns in Eleventh-Century Continental Hymnaries,” The Journal of Medieval Latin 11 (2001): 1–26. The categories are loosely based on Gernot Wieland, The Latin Glosses on Arator and Prudentius in Cambridge University Library MS Gg.5.35, Studies and Texts 61 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1983), 16–189. 11.â•‡ F1 and F2 , both from the abbey of Farfa, are more closely related to each other than to N and Su, but the four central Italian manuscripts can be characterized as a distinctive textual tradition. 12.â•‡ For complete descriptions of the manuscripts, see Susan Boynton, “Eleventh-Century Continental Hymnaries Containing Latin Glosses,” Scriptorium 53 (1999): 200–51; Susan Boynton and Martina Pantarotto, “Ricerche sul breviario di Santa Giulia (Brescia, Biblioteca Queriniana, ms H VI 21),” Studi medievali 42 (2001): 301–18. 13.â•‡ The medieval attribution of all the Psalms to David is a venerable tradition established already in Judaism: see, for instance, Esther M. Menn, “Sweet Singer of Israel: David and the Psalms in Early Judaism,” in Psalms in Community: Jewish and Christian Textual, Liturgical, and Artistic Traditions, ed. Harold W. Attridge and Margot E. Fassler (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 61–74. Most Christian commentators on the Psalms also associated the figure of David with the entire book of Psalms, an assumption that is attested in the third century, when the psalms were taking on increased importance in Christian worship, a role that was greatly enhanced by the influence of desert monasticism. For a brief discussion of this development, see James McKinnon, “The Book of Psalms, Monasticism, and the Western Liturgy,” in The Place of the Psalms in the Intellectual Culture of the Middle Ages, ed. Nancy van Deusen (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999), 43–58. 14.â•‡ The gloss combines psalm 118.62 as found in Regula Benedicti XVI.4 with psalm 118.55, which is not cited in the Rule. 15.â•‡ A. G. Rigg and Gernot Wieland, “A Canterbury Classbook of the Mid-Eleventh Century (the ‘Cambridge Songs’ Manuscript),” Anglo-Saxon England 4 (1975): 113–30; Martha Bayless, “Beatus quid est and the Study of Grammar in Late Anglo-Saxon England,” in History of Linguistic Thought in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Vivien Law (Amsterdam: BenÂ� jamins, 1993), 67–110. 16.â•‡ Michael Lapidge, “The Study of Latin Texts in late Anglo-Saxon England: the Evidence of Latin Glosses,” in Latin and the Vernacular Languages in Early Medieval Britain, ed. Nicholas Brooks (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1982), 99–140. 17.â•‡ Gernot Wieland, “The Glossed Manuscript: Classbook or Library Book?” AngloSaxon England 14 (1985): 153–74. 18.â•‡ “Ordo Cluniacensis per Bernardum scriptorem saeculi XI,” in Vetus Disciplina Monastica, ed. Marquard Herrgott (Paris: Osmont, 1726), 204: “Solis pueris conceditur in choro legere ad missam, cum in crastino debent esse duodecim lectiones, aut cum praevident aliquam lectionem collationis, vel huiusmodi; aut si aliquis eorum est novitius, poterit psalmos suos firmare ad utramque missam, dum tacet conventus” (Boys alone are allowed

62â•… ·â•… Susan Boynton to read in choir at mass when there are going to be twelve lessons the next day, or when they prepare some lesson for the collation, or something of this kind; or if an of them is a novice, he shall be able to study his psalms at both masses, while the community is silent). Consuetudines fructuarienses, 1: 21: “Infans qui in refectorio legit non debet cum aliis in scolis canere causa prouidendae lectionis, et ad missam potest legere, quod nulli aliorum tunc licet nisi pueris nouiter psalmos uel ymnos discentibus” (The child who reads in the refectory must not sing with the others in choir on account of the reading to be prepared, and he can read at mass, which is not permitted to any of the others at that time except for boys learning psalms or hymns for the first time). 19.â•‡ Consuetudines fructuarienses, 2: 150–51: “Nullus ibi aspicit in librum, nisi tam magnus puer sit, qui aliter discere non possit, et si duo sunt, apprehendunt tabulam et inter se ponunt et librum desuper mittunt.” 20.â•‡ Consuetudines fructuarienses, 2: 265. 21.â•‡ See Boynton, “The Didactic Function,” and “Glossed Hymns in Eleventh-Century Continental Hymnaries” (Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 1997).

Part Two

Renaissance Places of Learning•

5 “Sang Schwylls” and “Music Schools”: Music Education in Scotland, 1560–1650 Gordon Munro

• In August 1560 the Scottish Parliament abolished the Mass and adopted a Calvinist confession of faith. Reformation ideals had been circulating in parts of the kingdom since the fifteenth century, but heretics were dealt with swiftly.1 It was not until 1559 that the Reformers’ efforts were galvanized with the return to Scotland of the formidable Calvinist, John Knox. In the midst of political turmoil, his fiery preaching at Perth and St. Andrews led to rioting and, within months, the Scottish Reformation was concluded. Cathedrals, abbeys, and parish churches alike were purged of all things that were deemed to be “merely” delightful and decorative, including artwork, stained glass, organs, and polyphonic music. The effects of the Reformation were immediate and, for music and music education, disastrous: with no further need for choristers and organists, song schools were made redundant. Of an estimated fifty-eight pre-Reformation song schools, only two continued functioning in the aftermath of the Act of 1560: one in Edinburgh and the other in St. Andrews.2 The survival of these schools, in towns that had been primary centers of Reformation activity, suggests that it had never been the Reformers’

66â•… ·â•… Gordon Munro

intention to do away with song schools altogether, though that is in fact what happened in the rest of the kingdom. The Reformers’ education policy was outlined in their first Book of Discipline (1560),3 but it made no specific provision for the teaching of music. Indeed, Reformed attitudes toward music were ambivalent. James Melville, nephew of the leading Reformer Andrew Melville, enjoyed taking part in musical activities at St. Leonard’s College, St. Andrews, in the 1570s, but later wrote that it “was the grait mercie of my God that keipit me from anie grait progress in singing and playing on instruments; for, giff I haid atteined to anie reasonable missure thairin, I haid never don guid utherwayes.”4 One of the Reformers’ main objectives was greater access to education. Many parish schools, “writing,” “Latin,” and grammar schools survived the Reformation and, in the twenty years after 1560, there was a proliferation of new schools.5 Yet in the same period, only six song schools opened (including that at the Chapel Royal).6 The Reformation had dealt a body-blow to music education in Scotland. The new Protestant regime required for its music nothing more than simple metrical psalm tunes, and the obligatory participation of a largely illiterate congregation necessitated a precentor to lead the singing. In those few towns with song schools, the precentor and master of the school were one and the same, and always male.7 The precentor/song school master also carried out other church and burgh duties, including reading the scriptures before the sermon, acting as clerk to the kirk session,8 and keeping the registers of births, deaths, marriages, and of the poor. Some even acted as bailiffs, collecting fines imposed by the kirk session on local sinners, including thieves and fornicators.9 Accordingly, the appointment of a song school master was normally carried out by the burgh council, and ratified by the kirk session.10 This marks a significant shift in governance from the exclusively ecclesiastical institutions of the pre-Reformation period. Masters might be censured by either civic or kirk authority if the need arose. Kirk sessions were naturally concerned that masters should live godly lives; burgh councils were more interested in their talents as musicians and teachers. The two qualities did not always go hand in hand: kirk sessions frequently rebuked song school masters/precentors for their negligence or, indeed, scandalous behavior.11 The leading of the congregational psalmody was the principal duty of all precentors, and of their charges, the song school pupils. Most precentors (especially in rural or remote areas) were unlikely to have been able to do anything more than lead the congregation in simple unison, but singing the

“Sang Schwylls” and “Music Schools”â•… ·â•… 67

psalms in four-part harmony was not unknown12 and seems to have been encouraged in urban parishes where the song school pupils formed what were, in all but name, choirs. In Ayr, in 1583, the song school master and his pupils were required to “sing in the Kirk the fo[u]r partis of music.”13 “Choirs” also existed in Glasgow, Aberdeen, St. Andrews, and Stirling; other large towns very likely followed suit. In some cases, choir stalls—“dowbill sett” (double seat) or “commodious seattis”—were specially constructed to accommodate the singers beneath the pulpit.14 This evidence suggests that, despite the Reformers’ antipathy toward ornate music, they were not against choral music in itself. Nevertheless, the nation’s musical accomplishment declined to a deplorable level in the years after the Reformation: in the words of an act of Parliament of 1579, “the art of musik & singing . . . is almaist decayit and sall schortly decay without tymous remeid be prouidit.” This so-called act of “tymous remeid,” one of the first of James VI’s personal rule, legislated for urgent action to reverse the deterioration. It required all councils “of the maist speciall burrowis of this realme . . . And . . . patronis and prouestis of the collegis . . . To erect and sett vp ane sang scuill with ane maister sufficient and able for instructioun of the yowth in the said science of musik.”15 The act initiated a process of reform which was to last well into the seventeenth century: five new song schools opened within four years of the 1579 act;16 and by 1633, at least twenty-five song schools (or music schools, as they later became known) had been established. Most, if not all, burghs without a song school made provision for music education in their grammar schools. King James continued his policy of promoting music by making sizeable gifts toward the maintenance of song schools in Elgin and Musselburgh; and his consort, Queen Anne, supported the music school in Dunfermline, an ancient seat of royal residence.17 Each new song school was run by a master and, depending on its size, one or two assistant teachers, called “doctors.” We have no accurate records of the number of pupils attending song schools, but an isolated reference from 1582 to the school in the Fife town of Kirkcaldy mentions twenty pupils.18 While most grammar schools educated boys only, some song and music schools also taught girls.19 In addition to their teaching salaries (paid by the burgh council; fees for such duties as precenting were paid by the church), masters and doctors were entitled to charge their pupils quarterly fees, called “schollage.” The level of schollage was set by the council and varied according to the subjects

Singing, Reading & Writing

“Music” or Singing & unnamed Music & Instrumental Instrumental subject Writing Music Music

1593 Edinburgha 6s 8d 10s 13s 4d â•‡â•‡â•‡ * 20s 1597 Ayrb 6s 8d 13s 4d (spinet) 1600 Glasgowc 5s (master) 20d (doctor) 1609 Dundeed 6s 8d 13s 4d 26s 8d 1615 Lanark e â•‡ ** 1618 Paisleyf 6s 8d 1620 Stirling g 6s 8d 1623 Dunfermlineh 6s 8d 1626 Stirlingi â•‡ ** 1626 Glasgowj 10s (master) 40d (doctor) 1627 Dunfermlinek 10s 1636 Old Aberdeenl 13s 4d 20s 26s 8d 1639 Linlithgowm 10s (20s†) 1641 Old Aberdeenn 6s 8d 13s 4d 20s 26s 8d 26s 8d 1646 Old Aberdeeno 6s 8d 13s 4d 20s 26s 8d 26s 8d 1646 Glasgowp 30s 40s 1647 Dundeeq 16s 8d 30s 46s 8d † 1656 Elginr 6s 8d 12s 13s 4d‡ 1662 Stirling s â•‡ ** 1675 New Aberdeent 30s 1680 Banffu 6s 8d 1/2 crown (+ arithmetic) 1694 Dundeev 14s (+Â€ arithmetic) 1700 Stirlingw â•‡ **

Reading & Date Place Reading Writing Singing Discanting

Table 5.1. Quarterly schollage for tuition at song/music schools in Scotland, 1593–1700.

Notes: No information is extant before 1593. The common unit of account in Scotland was the merk (= 13s 4d). To aid comparison, sums of merks have been converted into pounds, shillings, and pence. * For reading, writing, singing, and “sett[ing]” (= writing?) music, schollage to be set at the master’s discretion. ** Schollage to be set at the master’s discretion. † Higher schollage to be charged for pupils who are not the children of burgesses. ‡ Schollage for children who live outside of the town (“landward bairnes”). a M. Wood and R. K. Hannay, eds, Extracts from the Records of the Burgh of Edinburgh 1589–1603 (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, for the Corporation of the City of Edinburgh, 1927), 106. b J. H. Pagan, Annals of Ayr in the Olden Time 1560–1692 (Ayr: Alex. Fergusson, 1897), 75. c J. D. Marwick, Charters and Other Documents Relating to the City of Glasgow ad 1175–1649 (Glasgow: printed for the Corporation of Glasgow, 1894), 1: cxciii. d A. Maxwell, The History of Old Dundee Narrated out of the Town Council Register with Additions from Contemporary Annals (Edinburgh: David Douglas; and Dundee: William Kidd, 1884), 337. e R. Renwick, ed., Extracts from the Records of the Royal Burgh of Lanark with Charters and Documents Relating to the Burgh ad 1150–1722 (Glasgow: Carson & Nicol, 1893), 122. f R. Brown, The History of the Paisley Grammar School (Paisley: Alexander Gardner, 1875), 43. g R. Renwick, Extracts from the Records of the Royal Burgh of Stirling ad 1519–1666 (Glasgow: Publications of the Glasgow Stirlingshire and Sons of the Rock Society, 1887), 153. h A. Shearer, ed., Extracts from the Burgh Records of Dunfermline in 16th and 17th Centuries ([Dunfermline]: Carnegie Dunfermline Trust, 1951), 140. i Renwick, Stirling Burgh Records, 1519–1666, 160. j J. D. Marwick, ed., Extracts from the Records of the Burgh of Glasgow ad 1573–1642 (Glasgow: Publications of the Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1876), 354. k Shearer, Dunfermline Burgh Records, 157. l A. M. Munro, ed., Records of Old Aberdeen (Aberdeen: Publications of the New Spalding Club, 1899), 1: 64–65. m J. Ferguson, Ecclesia Antiqua, or, The History of an Ancient Church (St Michael’s, Linlithgow) (Edinburgh and London: Oliver & Boyd, 1905), 251. n Munro, Records of Old Aberdeen, 2: 15–16. o C. S. Terry, “The Music School of Old Machar: From the Manuscripts of Professor C. Sanford Terry edited with an introduction by Harry M. Willsher,” in The Miscellany of the Third Spalding Club (Aberdeen: Publications of the Third Spalding Club, 1940), 2: 233. p J. D. Marwick, ed., Extracts from the Records of the Burgh of Glasgow ad 1630–1662 (Glasgow: Publications of the Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1881), 96. q Maxwell, History of Old Dundee, 339. r W. Cramond, comp., and S. Ree, ed., The Records of Elgin 1234–1800 (Aberdeen: Publications of the New Spalding Club, 1908), 2: 368. s Renwick, Stirling Records, 241. t J. Stuart, ed., Extracts from the Council Register of the Burgh of Aberdeen 1643–1747 (Edinburgh: Publications of the Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1872), 293. u W. Cramond, comp., The Annals of Banff (Aberdeen: Publications of the New Spalding Club, 1893), 2: 174. v E. Smart, History of Perth Academy (Perth: Milne, Tannahill & Methven, 1932), 134. w A. F. Hutchison, History of the High School of Stirling (Stirling: Eneas MacKay, 1904), 246


studied at the school, and from one school to another. Table 5.1 summarizes schollage rates and subjects taught during the seventeenth century. Reading was probably taught in all Scottish schools, even if not specifically listed in indentures—the promotion of literacy (with, of course, the ultimate goal of reading the scriptures) was the single greatest educational advance of the post-Reformation era. Other subjects taught at song and music schools were writing, arithmetic (in some places), singing, “music,” and instrumental music. Children of the landed gentry (“landward bairnes”) were required to pay higher fees, often twice as much as burgh children. Therefore schollage, dependent on the number and social status of pupils, could greatly enhance a music teacher’s salary; non-payment was rectified swiftly by the council.20 There are few extant references to the actual school buildings, but those in Old Aberdeen may have been typical: the “three Rs” (reading, writing, and arithmetic) were taught in the downstairs room of the school; the upper room was reserved for those learning vocal and instrumental music.21 Many song school buildings were situated in churchyards. The school day lasted eight or nine hours, beginning at 6 or 7 am and ending at 6 pm with breaks of one hour in the morning (9–10 am) and two hours at lunchtime (12–2 pm). Stipulated daily activities included the saying of prayers and the catechism, Bible reading, and the singing of psalms.22 Metrical versions of psalms, spiritual songs, and “the xii Articles of the Christian Fayth” formed an important part of the curriculum in post-Reformation song schools, not least because of their effectiveness as a means of disseminating scripture and doctrine. Simple four-part psalm and canticle harmonizations by David Peebles (fl. 1530–1576, d. before 1592), Andrew Kemp (fl. 1560–1570), and others circulated in manuscript form from the 1560s onward. Peebles’s 106 settings were collected by Thomas Wood (fl. 1560–1592) in two sets of partbooks that are now scattered among various libraries.23 Kemp’s fortyfour settings are recorded in Duncan Burnett’s Music Book.24 Settings by John Angus, John Black, Alexander Smith, “Sharp,” Andrew Blackhall, and John Buchan also survive.25 Significantly, most of these composers (with the exception of Peebles, Angus, and Sharp) are known to have been connected with song schools during the latter part of the sixteenth century. They would certainly have used their own psalm-settings in the churches where they precented, and in the schools where they taught.26 More ambitious polyphonic music would have been taught and sung in the larger song schools, especially those attached to former collegiate churches, and at the Chapel Royal.27 Ten imitative psalms “in reports”


(mostly anonymous), and three five-voice anthems by Andrew Blackhall (b. 1535/6, d. 1609) are extant.28 These pieces are likely to have been performed in the churches where the composers worked, and almost certainly in the attached song schools. In a diary entry for 1574, James Melville (nephew of the leading reformer Andrew Melville) records that around the age of eighteen he was being taught by one Alexander Smith, “wha haid been treaned upe amangis the mounks in [St. Andrews] Abbay. I lerned of him the gam, plean-song, and monie of the treables of the Psalmes [i.e., as well as the tunes of the psalms, which were the tenor part of four-part harmonizations].”29 The “gam” refers, of course, to the rudiments of music; but it is also interesting that Smith was still teaching plainchant fourteen years after the Reformation. This is not an isolated reference to an apparently anachronistic subject. The following extract from a poem by John Burel describes the festivities upon the triumphal entry of James’s consort, Anne of Denmark, to Edinburgh in May 1590.30

Ye might haif hard on euerie streit Trim melodie and musick sweit.

19

Thocht Philamon his braith had blawin, For musick quho wes countit king, His trumpal tune had not bene knawin, Sic sugrit voycis thair did sing, For thair the descant did abound With the sweit diapason sound.

20 Tennour, and trebill with sweit sence, Ilkane with pairts gaif nots agane, Fabourdoun fell with decadence, With priksang, and the singing plane: Thair enfants sang and barnelie brudis, Quho had bot new begun the mudis. 21 Musiciners thair pairts expond, And als for joy the bells wer rung,

harmony the interval of an octave each one; possibly a description of imitation counterpoint improvised on chant mensural music; plainchant “broods” of children (i.e. song school pupils) “who had only just begun the moods (i.e. modes) of mensural notation”


The instruments did corrospond Vnto the musick quhilk wes sung: All sorts of instruments wer thair, As sindry can the same declair.

22

Organs and Regals* thair did carpe, With thair gay goldin glittring strings, Thair wes the Hautbois and the Harpe, Playing maist sweit and pleasant springs: And sum on lutis did play and sing, Of Instruments the onely King.

23 Viols and Virginals were heir, With Girthorns maist iucundious, Trumpets and Timbrels maid gret beir, With Instruments melodious: The Seistar and the Sumphion,† With Clarch Pipe and Clarion. 24

which

lively dance tunes

gitterns; joyous drums; din cittern “Clar[sa]ch”? (i.e. harp); trumpet

Thir notes seemd heuinly sweit and hie, And not like tunes terrestriall, Appollo thair appeird to be, Thair sound wes so celestiall: O Pan amang sick pleasant plais, Thy rustik pipe can haue na prais.

* “Regals . . . with . . . strings” infers a clavichord-like instrument, rather than an organ.31 † “Sumphion” is a Scots rendering of “symphonia,” which can denote several different types of instruments, including drums, bagpipes, as well as hurdy-gurdy and other string keyboard instruments.32

Stanzas 19 and 20 mention descant, “faburden,” “pricksong,” and plainchant. These subjects, along with figuration and countering, were taught to preReformation choristers in both England and Scotland.33 Although parts of this poem are modeled on an earlier work by Gavin Douglas, The Palice of Honour (ca. 1501, which also mentions descant, diapason, faburden and pricksong),34 and allowing for some poetic licence (evident in the frequent use of alliteration), Burel seems to be familiar with his musical terminology, and


the poem suggests these subjects were still being taught in 1590. All of them require the singing and study of plainchant—clearly, this was not anathema in the new Calvinist Scotland, provided the chants were sung outside church and, presumably, without their Latin texts. These skills are also discussed in an anonymous Scottish manuscript treatise, “The Art of Music,”35 which was compiled during the late 1570s, possibly coeval with the 1579 act of “tymous remeid.” It contains three sections (mensural music, counterpoint, and proportional music) modeled closely on the last three books of Gaffurius’s Practica musice (Milan, 1496), with borrowings from other authors. Most of the copious musical examples are anonymous, some of Scottish authorship; many are based on plainchant, and even the eight traditional psalm tones are discussed, although the author admits that they have not been used in the “reallm of Scottland send [= since] the yeir of god ane thowsand fyvehundret fyvftie and aucht yeiris [1558].” This passage (fol. 102v) continues, “Thairfoir to draw tham heir [i.e. to discuss the eight psalm tones] at mair len[g]th It is nocht expedient becauss thay ar not vsit,” which implies that although the eight psalm tones were no longer being used after 1558, nevertheless the techniques described in the treatise were still in use around the time of its compilation. Several seventeenth-century Scottish manuscripts, compiled by song/ music school masters or children of the nobility, also contain sections on the rudiments of music. Andrew Melville, doctor and, later, master of the music school in Aberdeen (1617–1640), compiled a commonplace-book into which he copied William Bathe’s singing primer A Brief Introduction to the True Art of Musicke (1584), of which no copies are now extant. His manuscript also contains sections of Ravenscroft’s A Briefe Discourse (1614).36 The music books belonging to Lady Anne Ker (ca. 1605–1667) and John Squyer (compiled ca. 1696–1701), and Robert Edward’s commonplace-book (begun ca. 1635) include tables of time-values, rests, and other musical symbols, a great staff with clefs and note names, and “The Gam-Vt, or Scale of Musick,” as well as practical advice on performance.37 (Lady Anne Ker’s music-book instructs the reader “to remember that in signeing [sic] the more notes ye singe with one breath the better.”) Robert Edward also copied into his commonplace-book diagrams of the subdivision of the “larg” (i.e., maxima) and even examples of ligatures, as well as part of a Latin music treatise, “De musicæ elementis primis” (fols. 55r– 51r, entered upside-down in relation to the rest of the manuscript). This is, in fact, an incomplete copy of the music instruction section of the Pædagogus by J. T. Freigius (Basel, 1582), which he adapted from a (now lost) De musica by


Conrad Stuber.38 Other Scottish manuscripts which contain sections on the rudiments of music include the seventeenth-century additions to the quintus volume of Thomas Wood’s partbooks, and the music books compiled by Edward Millar (fl. 1624–1643, music teacher in Edinburgh, and master of the choristers at the Chapel Royal) and the “weill expert” Louis de France (fl. 1675–1691, music teacher in Edinburgh, Aberdeen, and Glasgow).39 The title page of the first book of secular music printed in Scotland, Songs and Fancies, published by John Forbes in Aberdeen (1662), proudly announces that it contains “a briefe Introduction of Musick, As is taught in the MusickSchole of Aberdene by T.D. Mr. of Music.” The “briefe Introduction,” with “Exposition of the Gamme” is in fact an almost verbatim (but unacknowledged) transcription of Thomas Morley’s A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke (1597; 2nd edition, 1608), preceded by an illustration of the Guidonian hand.40 “T. D.” became “Thomas Davidson” in the second edition (1666). Davidson succeeded Andrew Melville (his brother-in-law) as master of the music school in New Aberdeen (1640–ca. 1674).41 If the didactic elements of this book were used in the music school, no doubt the songs were too, themselves a retrospective collection of sixteenth-century Scots partsongs and early seventeenth-century English lute songs. Furthermore, to judge from the book’s apparent popularity (it went through a second edition in 1666 and a third in 1682), we may infer that it was widely used in other Scottish music schools, alongside the pedagogical publications of Bathe, Morley, and RavensÂ� croft, to name but three English instructional books which had made their way north of the border. The earliest reference to the term “music school” (as opposed to “song school”) occurs in 1575 in Aberdeen.42 For a time the terms were interchangeable: the transition from “song” to “music” school, like the establishment of the schools themselves following the act of “tymous remeid,” was a gradual process. “Music school” became the more prevalent term around the 1630s. A central purpose of song/music schools was the training of youngsters to assist in leading church psalmody; but the gradual change of name is significant and reflects a steady shift in the curriculum to include the teaching of instrumental music. John Black, who taught at the Aberdeen school (1546–1587) when it was described as a “music school,” wrote consort music which he would doubtless have used in his teaching. His compositions include a “lesson” upon the tune of psalm 50, and two further instrumental “lessons” upon psalm tunes (both found in “The Art of Music”) have been attributed to him.43


The few surviving indentures of instrumental tuition in music schools mention only keyboard and plucked string instruments (spinet, virginals, lute, and cittern); wind and bowed string instruments are conspicuous by their absence.44 Yet, if we are to believe John Burel, Anne of Denmark was greeted by musicians playing a very varied assortment of instruments in 1590. Tuition on organ, viol, and possibly shawm and flute, is likely to have been available in those towns with prestigious music schools (including Aberdeen, Glasgow, and Edinburgh) from the mid to late sixteenth century onwards. David Cuming was master of the music school in Edinburgh (1586–1593) and would have taken a leading role in the extravagant musical arrangements to welcome Anne of Denmark to the city, as described in John Burel’s poem (see above).45 The keyboard composer Duncan Burnett (fl. 1614–1652) was master of the music school in Glasgow (in 1614, and from 1638). The contents of his music book—keyboard pieces by William Kinloch (fl. ?1568–1582), William Byrd, and Burnett himself, consort music, and psalm-settings by Andrew Kemp—would have formed a significant part of Burnett’s teaching material.46 During the seventeenth century, music secured its place in what was perceived to be a rounded education for the children of upper-class families, and many employed private music teachers.47 (Duncan Burnett, himself related to the aristocratic family of the Burnets of Leys in Aberdeenshire, was for a time employed by Sir John Maxwell of Pollok, and possibly taught music to the children of James, First Earl of Abercorn.)48 However, the children of the gentry patronized the local music school and this served to raise the prestige of the burgh. It is recorded that the lack of a public music teacher in Stirling (in 1699) “hinders many of the gentrie from sending their childring to be here educat, to the noe smal prejudice of this burgh.”49 Some burghs went to considerable expense to attract the sons of wealthy landowners: Ayr’s burgh accounts record a payment of £18 for “lodging Robert Dalyell’s two sons on their visit anent [= concerning] the Music School.”50 The lack of a functioning music school in Glasgow in 1638 was shamefully reported as a “grait discredit [to] this citie.”51 Following the act of “tymous remeid,” which entrusted the promotion of music education to the “maist speciall” burghs of the realm, the establishment and support of a music school had clearly become an object of civic pride. Under the terms of the act, it became incumbent upon burghs to secure the services of well-qualified music teachers and, on at least two occasions (in 1593 and 1631), musicians of the Chapel Royal were employed to examine potential music school masters.52


In the late sixteenth century there was a dearth of skilled music teachers. The best of them are therefore found moving from one town to another on the promise of better terms of employment.53 Some councils even resorted to head-hunting, as in Stirling, where the bailies “layed out for intelligence in the most parts of the Kingdom for fitt persones to exerce that office.”54 As a result, pay and conditions gradually improved across most of the kingdom (see below). An important factor in a master’s decision to move to another burgh seems to have been the council’s willingness to limit, or suppress, rival music teaching. Private teachers could seriously reduce a public music teacher’s income (through lost schollage), and contemporary records provide many examples of councils keen to retain their music teacher (or attract a new one) by guaranteeing his monopoly in the town.55 After their appointment, masters were subject to continuing inspections (“visitations”) by ministers and members of the kirk session or presbytery. Schools in Aberdeen were visited quarterly.56 Visitations could be anxious times for schoolmasters as they had to justify their continued employment, not only through the merits of their teaching, but also with regard to their doctrine and discipline—teachers were not simply required to teach music, but also “meaners, and wertew.”57 One council even seems to have tried bribing the music school pupils: in return for their cooperation and good behavior during a visitation, they were offered four pounds of “plumdemus” (damson plums).58 But sometimes bribery did not work. School pupils (then as now) were capable of gross indiscipline and even violence. In December 1612, pupils of the music school in New Aberdeen seized the school with “hagbuttis,59 pistollis, swords and lang wapynnis” and caused “great deidis of oppressioune and ryottis.”60 The culprits were expelled and fined; the teachers were condemned for their lack of discipline.61 The council deplored the fact that the school is “taken almost yearly.” The cause of the annual mutiny was a council edict dating back to 1574, which banned school holidays “in the dayes dedicated to superstitioun in Papistrie.”62 Minor indiscipline continued and the council eventually relented, granting several days’ “play” in lieu of the traditional Christmas holiday.63 Music school pupils were also known to disrupt church services64 and even funeral wakes. Due to the “great insolencie of scholars” at wakes (which were often large and riotous events in any case), Aberdeen council set limits on the number of pupils attending; but even this failed to curb their disorderly behavior, and eventually their presence was banned altogether.65

“Sang Schwylls” and “Music Schools”â•… ·â•… 77 350

300

250

200

£ Scots per annum

150

100

50

1650

1640

1630

1620

1610

1600

1590

1580

1570

1560

0

Figure 5.1. Song/music school masters’ basic wages, 1560–1650.

This ban seriously affected the Aberdeen music school master’s income, since funeral wakes were very lucrative. Income from additional work such as wakes and civic entertainments varied considerably from town to town, and this may have been another factor contributing to the propensity of music school masters to move from one area to another. In addition to their wages and outside income, some school masters also received perquisites, including free house rent and victual.66 Masters’ wages varied from place to place. Figure 5.1 charts the rise and fall of basic salaries from 1560 to 1650. Allowing for the effects of inflation, the chart describes a general increase in salaries toward the end of the sixteenth century—evidence of song/music school masters’ recently acquired professional status (following the act of “tymous remeid”). By now, most music school masters were earning a basic salary at least equal to that of a skilled craftsman,67 and these earnings would have been substantially augmented by schollage and other additional income. The chart shows that basic wages continued to rise (dramatically in some cases) during the first thirty to forty years of the seventeenth century, but tailed off during the 1640s, the period of civil war. Significantly, wage highpoints are contemporary with important historical events, suggesting that each in turn stirred up the nation’s musical life. James VI and I returned to Scotland in


1617; the publication of the first harmonized psalters in Scotland (between 1625 and 1635) involved music school masters; and, in the early 1630s, Charles I’s advocacy of episcopacy and his Scottish coronation in Edinburgh (1633) inspired a revitalization of the Chapel Royal. Each of these three events is likely to have caused civic and ecclesiastical authorities to review the remuneration rates of their musician employees, with the intention of improving the quality of local musical activity. Thus, the history of Scottish music education during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is closely bound up with that of church and state. PreReformation “sang schwylls”68 were attached to churches: teachers were mostly musicians in holy orders, and the schools existed solely for the cultivation of liturgical chant and polyphonic music. After a period of great instability following the Reformation, song schools were reopened and effectively secularized by being brought under burgh control. But the schools retained some ecclesiastical connections: masters and pupils were still required to sing in church, albeit a very different kind of music; and church authorities maintained educational and doctrinal standards. Schools (of all types) existed for the cultivation of “godly citizens.”69 James VI’s act of “tymous remeid” secured the future of music education in Scotland. The masters of music schools (as they began to be called more widely) attained professional status. By the middle of the seventeenth century, music school masters were well-paid and highly regarded individuals within their communities. They were well educated: many had university degrees, and some went on to become ministers.70 Some were even trained abroad, like Patrick Davidson, master of the music school in New Aberdeen (1601–ca. 1634), who studied in Italy (but who, intriguingly, was forced to leave that country “upon the Account of a young Princess, who was much in love with him”).71 Almost all music school masters and doctors were made burgesses of the towns where they worked, which indicates a recognition of their important contribution to the fabric of burgh life in early modern Scotland.

Notes 1.â•‡ Thirty Ayrshire Lollards were remitted to James IV for punishment in 1494. Between 1528 and 1558, twenty-one Scots Lutheran martyrs were burned at the stake and many more were exiled; Michael Lynch, Scotland: A New History (London: Pimlico, 1991), 186. 2.â•‡ The (conservative) estimate of fifty-eight schools assumes that song schools, however small, were attached to all twelve cathedrals and all forty-six collegiate churches in Scotland, but does not take account of those attached to abbeys and other institutions;

“Sang Schwylls” and “Music Schools”â•… ·â•… 79 see Donald Elmslie Robertson Watt, “Ecclesiastical Organization about 1520” and “Collegiate Churches,” in Atlas of Scottish History to 1707, ed. Peter G. B. McNeill and Hector L. MacQueen (Edinburgh: Scottish Medievalists and Department of Geography, University of Edinburgh, 1996). Payments were made to the master of Edinburgh’s song school in 1560 and 1564; Robert Adam, ed., Edinburgh Records: The Burgh Accounts (Edinburgh: printed for the Lord Provost, Magistrates and Council, 1899), 306, 481. Alexander Smith is described as doctor “of the Sang Scole in the Abbay [of St. Andrews]” in May 1560; David H. Fleming, ed., Register of the Minister[,] Elders and Deacons of the Christian Congregation of St Andrews . . . 1559–1600 (Edinburgh: Publications of the Scottish History Society, 1889), 39. Andrew Kemp was master of the song school in St. Andrews shortly after the Reformation, according to Thomas Wood’s marginal note in the first copy of the altus volume of his partbooks; GB-Lbl Add. ms 33933, p. 134. 3.â•‡ James K. Cameron, ed., The First Book of Discipline (Edinburgh: St. Andrew Press, 1972). 4.â•‡ Robert Pitcairn, ed., The Autobiography and Diary of Mr James Melvill, Minister of Kilrenny, in Fife, and Professor of Theology in the University of St Andrews (Edinburgh: Publications of the Wodrow Society, 1842), 29. 5.â•‡ See John Durkan, “Distribution of Lowland Schools before 1633,” in Atlas of Scottish History to 1707, ed. Peter G. B. McNeill and Hector L. MacQueen (Edinburgh: Scottish Medievalists and Department of Geography, University of Edinburgh, 1996). 6.â•‡ A statute of 1565 mentions the “preceptor [= master] of the bairns” of the Chapel Royal; James Beveridge and Gordon Donaldson, eds., Registrum Secreti Sigilli Regum Scotorum (Edinburgh: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1957) vol. 5, pt. 2, 15 (no. 2528). (The Chapel Royal operated in Stirling Castle until 1612 when it moved to Holyrood Palace, Edinburgh.) The other song schools were located in New Aberdeen, Dundee, Old Aberdeen, Glasgow, and Perth; Gordon Munro, “Scottish Church Music and Musicians, 1500–1700” (Ph.D. diss., University of Glasgow, 1999), 81, 122, 80, 213, 123. 7.â•‡ Women seldom feature in this history, except in documents relating to private music tuition among the middle and upper classes. There is a unique reference to the temporary appointment of a female precentor in Elgin in 1681, who served as “maister” of the music school following the death of the previous incumbent—her husband; William Cramond, comp., and Stephen Ree, ed., The Records of Elgin 1234–1800 (Aberdeen: Publications of the New Spalding Club, 1908), 2: 407. During the seventeenth century, women were occasionally permitted to keep “venture” schools (for girls), and music was sometimes taught by them as part of the curriculum, for example, Christian Cleland taught singing, playing, dancing, sewing, embroidery, and French in Edinburgh in 1662; see Marguerite Wood, ed., Extracts from the Records of the Burgh of Edinburgh 1655–1665 (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1940), 220, 296. 8.â•‡ This body is the lowest, parish level of Presbyterian church government, made up of the minister and elected elders of the congregation. 9.â•‡ For example in Banff, 1692, and Elgin, 1697; see William Cramond, comp., The Annals of Banff (Aberdeen: Publications of the New Spalding Club, 1891), 1: 165, and Cramond and Ree, Records of Elgin, 1: 352. 10.â•‡ Disputes between the two bodies over the appointment of a precentor were rare; see Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 139–40, for one such instance. 11.â•‡ See Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 87, 124–25, et pass. 12.â•‡ Upon the famous return of the exiled minister John Durie to Edinburgh in 1582, a 2,000-strong crowd is reported to have sung psalm 124 in harmony; Millar Patrick, Four Centuries of Scottish Psalmody (London: Oxford University Press, 1949), 61. 13.â•‡ John H. Pagan, Annals of Ayr in the Olden Time 1560–1692 (Ayr: Alex. Fergusson, 1897), 75.

80â•… ·â•… Gordon Munro 14.â•‡ See Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 83, 132, 169–70, 213. 15.â•‡ Thomas Thomson, ed., The Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland (Edinburgh: H. M. General Register House, 1814), 3: 174. Here and elsewhere in this essay, italicized letters within words (in quotations from manuscript) indicate letters which are to be supplied by contraction signs in the original document. 16.â•‡ In Cupar, Kirkcaldy, Haddington, Leith, and Ayr; see Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 132, 49, 167, 216. 17.â•‡ In 1594, James VI gifted lands and revenues to Elgin town council for the specific support of a preceptor “qualified to teach music”; Cramond and Ree, Records of Elgin, 2: 447. In 1589, he granted 300 merks (= £200) to Andrew Blackhall in Musselburgh for the upkeep of a music school. I am indebted to the late Dr. John Durkan for this information from his book to be published by the Scottish History Society, Early Schools and Schoolmasters in Scotland, 1560–1633; see also Neil Livingston, The Scottish Metrical Psalter of ad 1635 (Glasgow: MacLure and MacDonald, 1864), 21. In 1610, Queen Anne mortified the large sum of £2,000 for the support of Dunfermline’s schoolmasters, both grammar and music; Peter Chalmers, Historical and Statistical Account of Dunfermline (Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood & Sons, 1859), 2: 417ff. 18.â•‡ Lachlan Macbean, The Kirkcaldy Burgh Records with the Annals of Kirkcaldy, the Town’s Charter, Extracts from Original Documents and a Description of the Ancient Burgh (Kirkcaldy: The Fifeshire Advertiser Office, 1908), 71–73. 19.â•‡ Pagan, Annals of Ayr, 75. 20.â•‡ John Stuart, ed., Extracts from the Council Register of the Burgh of Aberdeen 1570– 1625 (Aberdeen: Publications of the Spalding Club, 1848), 359. 21.â•‡ William Orem, A Description of the Chanonry, Cathedral, and King’s College of Old Aberdeen in the years 1724 and 1725 (Aberdeen: J. Chalmers & Co., 1791), 111. 22.â•‡ See Alexander MacDonald Munro, ed., Records of Old Aberdeen (Aberdeen: Publications of the New Spalding Club, 1899), 1: 64–65; William Walker, ed., Extracts from the Commonplace Book of Andrew Melvill, Doctor and Master in the Song School of Aberdeen, 1621–1640 (Aberdeen: John Rae Smith, 1899), xxxvi; John Stuart, ed., Extracts from the Council Register of the Burgh of Aberdeen 1643–1747 (Edinburgh: Publications of the Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1872), 293; William Chambers, ed., Charters and Documents Relating to the Burgh of Peebles with Extracts from the Records of the Burgh ad 1165–1710 (Edinburgh: Publications of the Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1872), 68, 386; and Robert Renwick, ed., Extracts from the Records of the Burgh of Peebles 1652–1714 (Glasgow: Publications of the Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1910), 30. 23.â•‡ Cantus (first copy, TWC 1) GB-Eu ms La.III.483 Cantus (second copy, TWC2) GB-Eu ms Dk.5.14 Quintus (TWQ) EIRE-Dtc ms 412 Altus (first copy, TWA1) GB-Lbl Add. ms 33933 Altus (second copy, TWA 2) US-Wgu Tenor (TWT) GB-Eu ms La.III.483 Bassus (first copy, TWB1) GB-Eu ms La.III.483 Bassus (second copy, TWB 2) GB-Eu ms Dk.5.15 The second copy of the Tenor partbook remains untraced. Only one copy of the Quintus partbook has come to light: it may not have been duplicated. 24.â•‡ GB-En ms 9447. 25.â•‡ See MB 15, nos. 13–27, ed. Kenneth Elliott. 26.â•‡ For further information, see Gordon Munro, “The Scottish Reformation and its Consequences,” in Our awin Scottis use: Music in the Scottish Church up to 1603, ed. Sally Harper, Studies in the Music of Scotland 1 (Glasgow and Aberdeen: Universities of Glasgow and Aberdeen, 2000). The complete extant repertoire of Scottish psalmody will be

“Sang Schwylls” and “Music Schools”â•… ·â•… 81 published in a forthcoming volume of the series Musica Scotica, ed. Kenneth Elliott and Gordon Munro. 27.â•‡ Psalm 21, sung “according to the art of musique [= in polyphony],” and a seven-part setting of psalm 128 were performed at the baptism of James VI’s first son, Prince Henry, at the Chapel Royal in 1594; Charles Rogers, History of the Chapel Royal of Scotland (Edinburgh: Publications of the Grampian Club, 1882), lxxxiii, lxxxv. 28.â•‡ See Kenneth Elliott, ed., Ten Psalms in Reports for Four & Five Voices, Musica Scotica Miscellaneous Pieces Series (Glasgow: Musica Scotica, 2002) and MB 15, nos. 10 and 11. See also Jamie Reid-Baxter, “‘Judge and Revenge my Cause’: The Earl of Morton, Andro Blackhall, Robert Sempill and the Fall of the House of Hamilton in 1579,” in Older Scots Literature, ed. S. Mapstone (Edinburgh: John Donald, 2005). 29.â•‡ Pitcairn, Diary of James Melvill, 29. 30.â•‡ John Burel (fl. 1590–1601) was an Edinburgh merchant and poet. His The Discription of the Queenis Maiesties Maist Honorable Entry into the Tovn of Edinbvrgh appears in Papers Relative to the Marriage of King James the Sixth of Scotland, reproduced in J. T. Gibson Craig, ed., Papers Relative to the Marriage of King James the Sixth of Scotland (Edinburgh: Publications of the Bannatyne Club, 1828), vol. 1. I am indebted to Dr. Jamie Reid-Baxter for information on Burel, and advice on this poem in particular; see his article “Politics, Passion and Poetry in the Circle of James VI: John Burel and his surviving works,” in A Palace in the Wild: Essays on Vernacular Culture and Humanism in Late-Medieval and Renaissance Scotland, ed. Luuk A. J. R. Houwen, Alasdair A. MacDonald, and Sally L. Mapstone (Leuven: Peeters, 2000) and his forthcoming Complete Works of John Burel (Edinburgh: Scottish Text Society). Given Burel’s apparent acquaintance with music, perhaps he himself had at one time been one of the “barnelie brudis, / Quho had bot new begun the mudis” (see stanza 20). 31.â•‡ See “Rigols” and “Clavicembalo” in Graham Strahle, An Early Music Dictionary: Musical Terms from British Sources, 1500–1700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 32.â•‡ See Howard Mayer Brown, “Symphonia (ii)” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edition, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 2001), 24: 801. 33.â•‡ See Jane Flynn, “The Education of Choristers in England During the Sixteenth Century,” in English Choral Practice, 1400–1650, ed. John Morehen, Cambridge Studies in Performance Practice 5 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 182. These skills are listed in Bishop William Elphinstone’s revised foundation statute for King’s College, Aberdeen in 1505; Cosmo Innes, ed., Fasti Aberdonenses: Selections from the Records of the University and King’s College of Aberdeen 1494–1854 (Aberdeen: Publications of the Spalding Club, 1854), 60. “Square-note” (also cited by Flynn) is not listed as a skill to be learned in pre-Reformation Scottish song schools. “Pricksong” refers to the study of mensural notation, and figuration to the rhythmic singing of chant as a basis for improvisation. “Faburden,” descant, and countering are different methods of improvising upon a plainsong cantus firmus. 34.â•‡ See Priscilla Bawcutt, ed., The Shorter Poems of Gavin Douglas (Edinburgh: Scottish Text Society, 1967; 2nd edition, 2003). The Palice of Honour was reprinted in Edinburgh in 1579 (Edinburgh: John Ross)—Burel may have worked from this edition. 35.â•‡ GB-Lbl Add. ms 4911; see Kenneth Elliott, “Music of Scotland 1500–1700” (Ph.D. diss., University of Cambridge, 1959), 265–73, and Judson Dana Maynard, “An Anonymous Scottish Treatise on Music from the Sixteenth Century, British Museum, Additional Manuscript 4911” (Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 1961). 36.â•‡ See David McGuinness, “Syncopation in English Music, 1530–1630: ‘gentle daintie sweet accentings’ and ‘unreasonable odd Cratchets’’’ (Ph.D. diss., University of Glasgow, 1994), 38; and Helena Mennie Shire, “Andro Melvill’s Music library: Aberdeen 1637,” Edinburgh Bibliographical Society Transactions 4, no. 1 (1955).

82â•… ·â•… Gordon Munro 37.â•‡ Andrew Melville’s Commonplace-Book, GB-A ms 28; John Squyer’s Music-Book, GB-Eu ms La.III.490; Lady Anne Ker’s Music-Book, GB-En ms 5448; Robert Edward’s Commonplace-Book, GB-En ms 9450. See Elliott, “Music of Scotland,” for detailed accounts of these and other sources of sixteenth and seventeenth-century Scottish music. 38.â•‡ Johann Thomas Freigius (1543–1583), a pupil of Glarean, taught Stuber (ca. 1550–ca. 1605) at Freiburg University in the early 1570s. See Anthony F. Carver, “Stuber, Conrad” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edition, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 2001), 24: 618. According to the entry for this manuscript in the National Library of Scotland Catalogue of Manuscripts Acquired Since 1925 (Edinburgh: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1989), 7: 160, the music treatise is attributed to Conrad von Zabern, but this is probably a misreading of “Conradus stuberus” which appears on fol. 54v. (I am grateful to Miss Katy Cooper for drawing my attention to this manuscript’s entry in the Catalogue of Manuscripts.) 39.â•‡ Thomas Wood’s Partbooks, quintus volume, EIRE-Dtc ms 412; Louis de France’s Music-Book, GB-Eu ms La.III.491. For further information on Louis de France, see Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 104–105, 188–92, 230–32. Edward Millar’s Music-Book (dated 1626, now lost) has been described by William Cowan in “Bibliography of the Book of Common Order and psalm book of the Church of Scotland, 1556–1644,” Papers of the Edinburgh Bibliographical Society 10 (1913): 53–100; Edward Millar’s Commonplace-Book (dated 1643, also known as the McAlman Manuscript), GB-En ms 9477. Again, see Elliott, “Music of Scotland,” for detailed accounts of these sources. 40.â•‡ See Charles Sanford Terry, “John Forbes’s ‘Songs and Fancies’,” Musical Quarterly 22, no. 4 (1936): 402–19. The sole surviving copy of the 1662 edition is housed in US-SM. 41.â•‡ See Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 100–103. 42.â•‡ William Meldrum is styled “magister scole musice”; John Maitland Thomson, ed., Registrum Magni Sigilli Regum Scotorum (Edinburgh: H. M. General Register House, 1886), 4: 633 (no. 2360). 43.â•‡ MB ix, no. 30; MB xv, nos. 81 and 82. 44.â•‡ In 1675 an Edinburgh music school master taught, privately, the viola da gamba— described even then as a musical instrument “not ordinar”; Louise B. Taylor, ed., Aberdeen Council Letters (London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1961), 5: 317. See W. Forbes Gray and James H. Jamieson, A Short History of Haddington (facs. repr., Stevenage: SPA Books, 1944), 130; Pagan, Annals of Ayr, 75; Cramond and Ree, Records of Elgin, 2: 398; Wood, Edinburgh Records, 1655–1665, 220; David Robertson, comp., South Leith Records: Compiled from the Parish Registers for the years 1588 to 1700; and from Other Original Sources (Edinburgh: Andrew Elliot, 1911), 11. 45.â•‡ Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 162–63. 46.â•‡ Duncan Burnett’s Music-Book is discussed in Elliott, “Music of Scotland.” Music by Burnett appears in Kenneth Elliott, ed., Early Scottish Keyboard Music . . . Together with a Short Selection of Scots Airs for Cittern and for Violin (London: Stainer & Bell, 1958; 2nd edition, 1966) and Kenneth Elliott, ed., Early Scottish Music for Keyboard (Glasgow: Musica Scotica, forthcoming). 47.â•‡ This fact is proven by the number of Scottish music manuscripts owned or compiled by members of the nobility; see Elliott, “Music of Scotland.” 48.â•‡ See Elliott, “Music of Scotland,” 352; and Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 221–22. 49.â•‡ Quoted in Andrew Fleming Hutchison, History of the High School of Stirling (Stirling: Eneas MacKay, 1904), 246. 50.â•‡ George S. Pryde, ed., Ayr Burgh Accounts 1534–1624 (Edinburgh: Publications of the Scottish History Society, 1937), 220. 51.â•‡ James D. Marwick, ed., Extracts from the Records of the Burgh of Glasgow ad 1573– 1642 (Glasgow: Publications of the Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1876), 388; quoted in Elliott, “Music of Scotland,” 352.

“Sang Schwylls” and “Music Schools”â•… ·â•… 83 52.â•‡ Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 37–38, 144–45. 53.â•‡ See Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 195 et pass. 54.â•‡ Hutchison, High School of Stirling, 246. 55.â•‡ For example in Kirkcaldy (1582), Edinburgh (1618), Old Aberdeen (1665–1698), and South Leith (1692); see Macbean, Kirkcaldy Burgh Records, 71–72; Marguerite Wood, ed., Extracts from the Records of the Burgh of Edinburgh 1604–1626 (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, for the Corporation of the City of Edinburgh, 1931), 163–64; Munro, Records of Old AberÂ� deen, 1: 123, 160, 164; 2: 62, 79–80; and Robertson, South Leith Records, 181. 56.â•‡ H. F. Morland Simpson, ed., Bon Record: Records and Reminiscences of Aberdeen Grammar School (Edinburgh: Ballantyne Press, and Aberdeen: D. Wylie & Son, 1906), 79; Munro, Records of Old Aberdeen, 2: 38. 57.â•‡ John Stuart, ed., Extracts from the Council Register of Aberdeen 1398–1570 (Aberdeen: Publications of the Spalding Club, 1844), 370. See also Shona Maclean Vance, “Godly Citizens and Civic Unrest: tensions in schooling in Aberdeen in the era of the Reformation,” European Review of History 7, no. 1 (2000): 123–37. 58.â•‡ Munro, Records of Old Aberdeen, 1: 217. 59.â•‡ That is, harquebus—“an early kind of portable firearm”; see the Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “hackbut.” 60.â•‡ Simpson, Bon Record, 41–42. 61.â•‡ Stuart, Aberdeen Council Register, 1570–1625, 313–14. 62.â•‡ John Stuart, ed., Selections from the Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery and Synod of Aberdeen (Aberdeen: Publications of the Spalding Club, 1846), 16. 63.â•‡ John Stuart, ed., Extracts from the Council Register of the Burgh of Aberdeen 1625– 1642 (Edinburgh: Publications of the Scottish Burgh Records Society, 1871), 274. 64.â•‡ Elgin kirk session requested the masters of the grammar and song schools to “disciplin their disciples that trublit the kirk” in November 1599; the following month the session conceded ten days’ play to the scholars, and again in 1604; see Cramond and Ree, Records of Elgin, 2: 75, 130. 65.â•‡ Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 95–96. 66.â•‡ “Victual” here refers to staple foods such as wheat, peas, beans, meal, etc.; Miscellany of the Maitland Club, 2: 41. 67.â•‡ See Munro, “Scottish Church Music,” 369–73. This comparison is based on the findings of Alex J. S. Gibson and Christopher Smout in Prices, Food and Wages in Scotland 1550–1780 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 361. 68.â•‡ This is a curious and, admittedly, rare spelling from a document of 1537 referring to the song school in Aberdeen; Cosmo Innes, ed., Fasti Aberdonenses, 413. 69.â•‡ See Vance, “Godly Citizens,” 125. 70.â•‡ An example, albeit from the late sixteenth century, is William Struthers, “a man of some learning”: he was music school master in Glasgow from 1577, and later became a minister in Glasgow and Edinburgh; John Durkan, “Early Song Schools in Scotland,” in Notis musycall: Essays on Music and Scottish Culture in Honour of Kenneth Elliott, ed. Gordon Munro et al. (Glasgow: Musica Scotica, 2005), 129. 71.â•‡ C. E. Guthrie Wright, Gideon Guthrie: A Monograph Written 1712 to 1730 (Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood & Sons, 1900), 122–23.

6 A Proper Musical Education for Antwerp’s Women• Kristine K. Forney

• In recent years, scholars have uncovered diverse—and contradictory—evidence about the social mores and attitudes that shaped women’s values and activities at various societal levels and geographic locales throughout Europe. The Low Countries, and especially the commercial center of Antwerp, provide a rich case study with which to trace changing values throughout the sixteenth century, from the onset of the Reformation through the CounterReformation, toward a musical education for Antwerp’s women. Archival and literary evidence, iconographic depictions, and extant musical sources enhance our view of the music young women were encouraged to study, what music they liked to perform, and the level of achievement they could meet. In addition to solo music for voice, keyboard, and strings for entertainment— largely secular genres—devotional songs figured prominently in the musical training of northern girls, for whom some musical ability was generally expected. Although Neoplatonic thought praised music along with feminine beauty as valued attributes for young women, contradictions do arise. Two instructional manuals for young women can be particularly associated with Antwerp. The first is De institutione feminae christianae (Antwerp, 1523) by the Spanish-born humanist Juan Luis Vives, who settled in Bruges after teaching in England. This tract, written for the English queen Catherine

A Proper Musical Education for Antwerp's Womenâ•… ·â•… 85

of Aragon while Vives was teaching at Oxford, was issued in more than forty editions and was available to young schoolgirls in Dutch, French, Italian, German, Spanish, and English. Vives believed that the sexes were fundamentally equal in their ability to learn and that an education was the key to avoiding lust and evil pleasures. He followed earlier conservative writers, however, in warning that dancing and music inflamed the passions; therefore, women should not make a public display of either.1 As for singing, he suggests only “honest, serious, and decent” songs.2 Giovanni Michele Bruto, a member of the Italian community in Antwerp, also wrote an influential treatise on education for women; in it, he quoted the legend of the sirens to warn against the ravishing but dangerous combination of musical ability and beauty—one that might invite comparison to a whore. Bruto admits that “most men are of the opinion that to a gentlewoman of honor and reputation, it is a grace and ornament if she becometh expert to sing and play upon divers instruments”; still, he promotes total abstinence from music for women, leaving the vice to “people who are riotous and idle.”3 These warnings were sounded even louder in Italy, where attitudes were generally more conservative: Pietro Aretino declared in 1537 that “the knowledge of playing instruments, of singing, and of writing poetry, on the part of women, is the very key which opens the doors to their modesty,”4 and Cardinal Pietro Bembo admonished his young daughter in 1541 that “playing an instrument is a thing for vain and frivolous women.”5 Despite these cautions, historian Ludovico Guicciardini’s famous study of the Low Countries reveals that music-making permeated Flemish burgher life. He claimed that “Belgians are indeed true masters . . . of music; they have studied it to perfection, having men and women sing without learning, but with a real instinct for tone and measure, they also use instruments of all sorts which everyone understands and knows.” In Antwerp, “one can see at almost every hour of the day weddings, dancing, and musical groups . . . there is hardly a corner of the streets not filled with the joyous sounds of instrumental music and singing.”6 Guicciardini provides a detailed and highly opinionated assessment of the women of the Low Countries and especially Antwerp (given in full as document 1 in appendix A), claiming that views about them were very liberal and that these women were involved not only in managing their houses, but also in their husbands’ businesses. He found the women of Antwerp, however, too domineering for his tastes, suggesting that the women governed everything and struck all bargains, which, “coupled with

86â•… ·â•… Kristine K. Forney

Figure 6.1. Cornelius de Zeeuw, Family Portrait (1564) (Münster, Landesmuseum).

the natural desire that women have to rule, makes them too imperious and troublesome.” We will see that the spirit of Antwerp’s women was not easily dampened by the admonitions of Vives and Bruto—or even Erasmus, who will be discussed later. Guicciardini’s gender-inclusive remarks about music-making are supported by rich evidence linking Antwerp women with the keyboard instruments for which the city was so famous. Virginals appear in household inventories,7 and one popular type of virginal built there—the so-called “mother and child,” or double virginal, was clearly designed as a household teaching instrument.8 I have discussed elsewhere several paintings that very realistically depict Antwerp-built virginals, with their peculiar hexagonal shape, each played by a young girl or woman.9 These include portraits of well-known bourgeois families in Antwerp: the Van Berchems, painted by Frans Floris in 1561, with a matriarchal figure at the virginal; the Moucheron family, depicted by Cornelius de Zeeuw in 1563 with a young daughter at the keyboard; and the “Wedding of the Painter Joris Hoefnagel” (ca. 1571), painted by Frans Pourbus the Elder and showing a woman playing virginal accompanied by a lute.10 Another little-known family portrait painted by de Zeeuw (figure 6.1) offers more evidence for our study: the family is identified by crests in


Figure 6.2. Detail of Cornelius de Zeeuw, Family Portrait (1564) (Münster, Landesmuseum).

the background as the merchant Hendrick van den Brouck with his wife Catharina van Wesembeke, posing with his brother and three children.11 In this painting, the youngest son holds a music book with a Dutch-texted monophonic line, very probably a psalm (figure 6.2),12 while his ten-year-old sister accompanies him on a hexagonal virginal in the style of those built by Antwerp’s Joes Kareest. De Zeeuw’s care with details in this painting, including the rich tapestry, clothing, the identifiable emblems on the instrument as well as the music book, suggests a realistic setting. We shall return shortly to the issue of what the young girl might be playing. These paintings raise questions about a bourgeois girl’s opportunities for musical studies, about the level of achievement she might have attained, and about the repertoire she might perform. Some young girls from well-to-do merchant families had the benefit of private tutoring. The Antwerp archives preserve several such contracts. For example, in 1560 the Genoese merchant Antonius Picquenoti Salvago hired Jan de Nackere (alias van Rumst), organist of St. Andrews Church, to instruct his two daughters, Cornelia and Marie, in music, presumably on the spinet and lute.13 Another contract, given as


document 2 in appendix A, confirms that schoolmaster Jan van den Bossche was hired in 1577 by the Milanese merchant Gian Battista Compostin to tutor his daughter in reading, writing, rhetoric, arithmetic, and in playing the harpsichord. This contract further specifies that young Franchoise was to learn a repertoire of dances including allemandes, galliards, passemezzi, rondes, and branles. These basic skills enabled a merchant-class girl to assist her future husband in the daily workings of his business and to entertain his clients with her musical talents (see appendix A, document 2). Already in the late Middle Ages, Netherlandish merchants had recognized the importance of universal elementary-level reading and writing skills for their children; they developed two school systems—one communal, the other independent—which provided a basic primary education to the city’s boys and girls. In 1522, with the Reform quickly taking hold across northern Europe, the Antwerp school teachers—men and women alike—formed the guild of St. Ambrose, which was carefully governed by local church authorities. Guicciardini praised the city’s teacher’s guild for providing an excellent education, noting “there are enough schools . . . to teach the youth bonnes lettres . . . there are also here . . . various schools in which one teaches the French language to girls as well as to boys.”14 Teachers gave instruction in reading, writing, arithmetic, Dutch, and French, while some specialists taught Spanish, Italian, and music. For example, François Werneix, an organist living near the English Bourse, was certified in 1577 to teach Dutch, French, reading and writing, as well as singing and playing.15 Other musician-guild members included Symoen Moens, a sixty-year-old teacher of various subjects who also joined the St. Lucas guild of harpsichord builders in 1552;16 Hans van den Bossche, the harpsichord tutor previously mentioned who also authored an arithmetic book;17 and Jacomyna van Aerde, a schoolmistress who taught Dutch, reading, writing, and singing.18 We will see shortly that other teachers in Antwerp were influential in shaping the attitudes of Antwerp’s youth toward music. The records of the schoolteachers’ Guild of St. Ambrose confirm that its members regularly held elaborate musical services at its altar in the Church of Our Lady; the guild generally employed the choir master, organist, bell ringer, carilloneur, choirboys, and between eleven and sixteen singers for performance of a polyphonic mass on the feasts of St. Ambrose (4 April) and St. Martha (24 July). Figure 6.3 reproduces a typical pay-record from the guild, this one from 1537–1538, noting seventeen singers for the mass as well as payments to the organist and to Heer Christophel for celebrating the

Figure 6.3. Pay record (1537–1538), Rekenboeck van de gulde de schoolmeesters, Guild of St. Ambrose, Antwerp (Antwerp, Kathedraalarchief).

Figure 6.4. Een bequaem Maniere om Ionghers soetelijck by sanck te leeren (Antwerp, 1571), title page (Rare book collection, Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique).


mass. Payments are noted as well for festivities on St. Ambrose day and for St. Thomas’s eve. From at least 1570 on, the guild celebrated a yearly requiem on the feast of St. Thomas of Canterbury (29 December) with at least sixteen singers, and also adopted a new patron, St. Cassionus, whose feast day (13 August) was celebrated with the city wind band and a bass instrument. There was apparently a harpsichord at their altar, which was repaired and tuned on several occasions, and organ was used regularly as well.19 The membership of the guild, from 1575 on, was nearly equal in numbers of men and women,20 each specializing in particular subjects and in the instruction of either boys or girls. Table 6.1 in appendix B summarizes the extensive musical celebrations of the schoolteachers’ guild from 1522–1600. With this level of music patronage by Antwerp’s teachers, how then did music figure into the basic curriculum of Antwerp’s communal schools? An ordinance of 1560, given as document 3 in appendix A, specifies the goals of the guild, noting that “the children, boys and girls alike, shall learn to read and write, to speak various languages including Dutch or French, Spanish or Italian, English, High German, Latin, Greek, and arithmetic; the girls to learn to sew, the boys to play on instruments.” Despite this sexist division of studies, girls too were encouraged to learn vocal and instrumental music, especially dances. Throughout northern Europe, the strengthening Reform movement gave rise to new forms of devotional music. In Antwerp, both the communal schools and the special Sunday schools, established in 1546 by Emperor Charles V to educate the city’s orphans and poor—boys and girls alike—were required to teach the catechism, and they apparently did so through music. A booklet issued in 1571 by Franciscus Sonnius, Bishop of Antwerp, reflects a Counter-Reformation attempt to compete with the widely disseminated teachings of Calvin and Luther. Titled “A suitable manner for youth to learn sweetly through song” (Een bequaem Maniere om Ionghers soetelijck by sanck te leeren, figure 6.4), this one-gathering booklet included metric, monophonic settings of the Lord’s Prayer (T’Ghebet des Heeren, figure 6.5), the Ave Maria (Die Enghelsche groete, figure 6.6), the Credo (Het Gheloove, figure 6.7), and the Ten Commandments (Die thien gheboden, figures 6.8–11), all in the vernacular. (See table 6.2 in appendix B.) Through this small book, Antwerp’s youth easily committed to memory the basic Christian doctrine, and possibly acquired some musical literacy while doing so. Sonnius had been a participant at the Council of Trent from 1546 to 1551, and worked zealously to combat Calvinism through a number of pedagogical publications.21 As Bishop of Antwerp, Son-

Figure 6.5. T’Ghebet des Heeren, opening, from Een bequaem Maniere (Antwerp, 1571) (Rare book collection, Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique).


Figure 6.6. Die Enghelsche groete, opening, from Een bequaem Maniere (Antwerp, 1571) (Rare book collection, Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique).

nius had a list compiled of heretical books in Latin, French, and Dutch—the Index expurgatorius, issued by Christopher Plantin, the newly appointed archtypographer to Emperor Philip.22 Sonnius further convened in 1571 the Council ofâ†œMechelin: this body decreed that each parish must establish a school that used textbooks in dialogue form—alterum teutonice, alterum latine—and students were required to learn the Lord’s Prayer, the Credo, and the Ten Commandments, sung in the vernacular—in other words, the core contents of Een

Figure 6.7. Het Gheloove, opening, from Een bequaem Maniere (Antwerp, 1571) (Rare book collection, Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique).


Figure 6.8. Die thien gheboden (ierste, tweede), from Een bequaem Maniere (Antwerp, 1571) (Rare book collection, Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique).

bequaem maniere. Another edict allowed priests to give a short sermon in the vernacular before the Holy Sacrament.23 This was in keeping with the Council of Trent’s proclamation that, while the mass shall not be said in the vernacular, the mysteries of the sacrifice should be explained to congregants.24 Both Lutheran and Calvinist doctrine included musical settings of these basic religious texts. A setting of the Ten Commandments appeared in 1526 in a Strasbourg cantique composed by Wolfgang Dachstein; this formed the melodic basis for Calvin’s setting, Oyons la Loy que de sa voix.25 Antoine Sau-

Figure 6.9. Die thien gheboden (derde, vierde, vijfde), from Een bequaem Maniere (Antwerp, 1571) (Rare book collection, Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique).

Figure 6.10. Die thien gheboden (seste, sevenste, achtste), from Een bequaem Maniere (Antwerp, 1571) (Rare book collection, Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique).

Figure 6.11. Die thien gheboden (negenste, thienste), from Een bequaem Maniere (Antwerp, 1571) (Rare book collection, Brussels, Bibliothèque royale de Belgique).


nier, a Swiss pastor who became the principal of schools in Geneva, set his “spiritual song” (chanson spirituelle), Adore un Dieu, le pere tout-puissant, to the timbre of Claudin Sermisy’s Au boys de dueil;26 this contrafactum was first published in 1533 and was widely distributed in France, Switzerland, and the Low Countries well into the seventeenth century.27 Clément Marot’s metrical version of the Ten Commandments, Leve le cueur, ouvre l’aureille, was first printed in 1545, but rather than replacing, it joined Saunier’s Adore un Dieu in Huguenot chansonniers.28 Luther published two settings—a long and short version—of the Commandments; each expressed in four textual lines and set to the same four musical phrases. Although the Ten Commandments were essential to the education of children, whether Protestant or Catholic, singing them in a rhymed, metrical setting seems to have been first associated with the Reform, and in one case in 1561, with the image-breaking in Montauban, in southwestern France.29 The Ten Commandments are set in the metrical rhymed couplets to a two-part melodic formula in a lilting, dance-like triple meter. Since the Flemish text lines are not the same length, there are several slightly melismatic passages. There were certainly precedents for singing other liturgical texts in the vernacular to popular tunes. From the earliest publication of Flemish psalmsettings (Souterliedekens) by Symon Cock in 1540,30 psalms were sung to wellknown secular melodies, including Dutch folk songs, French chansons, and dance tunes. A group of “songs of praise,” mostly canticles, appears in the last book of the polyphonic Souterliedekens by Clemens non Papa, issued in 1557 by Tielman Susato. These additional texts that follow the last psalms include Flemish versions of the Pater noster, Ave Maria, two versions of the Credo, and all the canticles, mostly sung to secular tunes, many from the 1544 Antwerp Liedboek (see table 6.3). Indeed, the Pater noster, Ave Maria, and two Credos were all to be sung to the same tune: Het ghinghen drie ghespeelÂ� kens, a story of three young musicians who wandered barefoot into the forest amidst the sleet and snow.31 Scholars agree that the Souterliedekens, or Flemish psalm-settings, served both Catholics and Protestants alike. Erasmus confirms that the psalms and other prayers were sung in Flemish before the Reform, as early as 1480 in the houses of the lay sisterhoods, or Beguines.32 And while the Ten Commandments setting by Saunier and a French setting of the Pater noster were banned by the Council of Toulouse in 1540 as heresy, the Souterliedeken publications never suffered this fate.33 The tunes in Sonnius’s songbook, required instruction for all Antwerp students and teachers,


seem not to have been drawn from these earlier models,34 but may well have a secular musical basis. The Flemish texts in Een bequam vary from the Clemens publication and therefore do not fit the timbres suggested there. The Ave Maria (or Enghelsche groet) from Sonnius’s book, however, evokes the melodic contour of Marot’s Salutation angélique, with similar phrase-openings and cadential formulas. The religious climate changed after the brief Calvinist rule of Antwerp between 1581–1585; a new ordinance of 1588 stipulated that all students were to learn the Pater noster, Benedicite, and Confiteor in Latin, and “each morning, should kneel and sing or read the Veni sancte spiritus with a versicle and collect, and each evening as they leave, sing a song in praise of the Virgin (Laudes diva virginum) or the hymn Christus qui lux es et dies in Latin” (document 4 in appendix A). Schoolchildren certainly knew songs for the Virgin from the popular Marian Salve or lof service that was held nightly in the Antwerp Cathedral.35 The Advent hymn Christe qui lux es et dies was sung polyphonically from 1530 on in Antwerp, and used also as a timbre for the Te Deum text in the Clemens’s Souterliedeken collection previously cited (see table 6.3);36 no music was provided for the tune in the print, suggesting it was known to all. Students were also expected to sing the Pentecost sequence Veni sancte spiritus, which they had undoubtedly heard in monophonic and polyphonic settings. The publication of the small religious tract Een bequam maniere gave way to more elaborate pedagogical books: one in particular from 1591 provides four-part musical settings of the same and additional texts, as shown on table 6.2 in appendix B. Die Christelycke Leeringhe was issued in several versions—with and without music—by Rutgeert Velpius in Brussels. His preface made clear that this book was a memorization aid for the catechism; he explained that the songs should replace the “harmful” ones heard in shops, on the streets, and from the bell towers. He noted that the main tune is in the Superius, and students should first read, then sing the Pater noster and Ave Maria, followed by one of the other six prayers. He suggested that when this was done six times a week, children and families would learn, through sweet song, to be good, Christian, God-fearing people. One of the key figures in setting a music curriculum for Antwerp’s children was Franciscus Donckers, a canon at the cathedral and scholaster of the city’s schools. Donckers was described in the Antwerpsch Chronykje as a bigoted and cruel man who had no tolerance for Protestants among the teachers.37 He ordered that persons who died without confession and taking of


Communion should be hung on gallows as “food for ravens.” Ironically, he himself died suddenly on 4 February 1572 without last rites, and some favored this fate for him. The inventory of Doncker’s goods notes many music books among his possessions.38 (See table 6.4 for a list of his music books.) These include six volumes bound together of Clemens’s masses (from those issued individually by the Phalèse press); a chant-book (Liber musicus scriptus antiquus); four volumes of Musyck boexken in four parts (almost certainly the four volumes of Souterliedekens by Clemens’s disciple Gherardus Mes, published by Susato in 1552), and a print of three-part music by Gérard de Turnhout, choirmaster at the Antwerp cathedral from 1562–1571. Given his musical interests, it seems likely that Donckers, with supreme authority over the Antwerp schools and a music collector himself, and Turnhout, as a composer and head of the Cathedral musical establishment, may have masterminded this musical publication of sacred monophonic songs.39 Gérard de Turnhout’s Sacrarum ac aliarum cantionum trium vocum (Leuven, 1569) is of particular interest here, for it is a pedagogical volume including twenty Latin motets, two chansons spirituelles, and eighteen chansons, which, according to Turnhout’s preface, he wrote in the time he “could snatch from . . . daily tasks” as choirmaster at the Antwerp Cathedral.40 The three-voice motets may well have served the Antwerp Cathedral just after the 1566 plundering of its library;41 indeed, the archives of the Cathedral’s Confraternity of Our Lady note regular payments for the evening lof service to a duo or trio from the 1540s on. While few works from Turnhout’s collection have a specific liturgical function, this repertoire could have served for a variety of services sponsored by the confraternities,42 as well as for home devotions. Indeed, the dedication of this collection to Antwerp merchant and city notary Adrian Dyck praises the recipient’s knowledge and love of music, and suggests: “May you find it [this book] a solace to your home, and that a most urbane one.”43 The collection includes table blessings and hymns of thanksgiving44 as well as a setting of the very popular chanson spirituelle, Susann’ un jour, to be discussed later in this study. The voicing in the Turnhout collection varies, but most pieces include soprano- and alto-range voices, possibly suggesting the involvement of women or boys. It is commonly accepted that publications of bicinia and tricinia were intended for teaching purposes,45 and this volume provides for both upright Christian training and musical instruction. More evidence that bicinia and tricinia were meant as pedagogical works for young women is found in an Antwerp music book by Jean de Castro: Sonets avec une chanson . . . a deux parties (Antwerp: Phalèse, 1592; repr. 1610).


Castro dedicated this collection to Marguerite and Beatrice Hooftmans, daughters of a prominent Antwerp merchant. In the dedication he claimed that the two-part music was a “proper and appropriate” gift to “refresh your spirits, worn and fatigued from your private and domestic duties, taking up at times the lute, at times the spinet . . . deigning to lend your sweet voices to these songs, so that you will be rightly called (by those of your station) Marguerite and Beatrice in music unsurpassable.”46 (The complete text and translation of the dedication appears as document 5 in appendix A.) It is notable as well that these two accomplished women had skills on lute and keyboard as well as singing. The musical education of Antwerp’s youth was surely influenced by Adrian Scholiers, succentor of the Antwerp Cathedral, headmaster of its Latin school, and master of the schoolteachers’ guild in 1556–1557. Scholiers, like Donckers, was an avid collector of music books: one volume he owned included twenty-one music titles of polyphony (only the Bassus part books are extant) dating from 1551 to 1560.47 The original binding in brown calfskin is stamped in gold on the front “Succentor,” and on the back “Adriani. Scolastici.” Among the notes on the flyleaf is one that reinforces the view that music was not an idle pastime but one that served God. Succentor Musica non lasciviae: sed laudando Deo Ad excitandis ad virtutem Ingenijs Mitgandesques curarum molestijs coelitus donate est. Music is not given for idle pleasures but to the praise of God, by kindling virtue, the wits, and lessening the cares of sorrows.48

While this inscription clearly specifies music that is not lascivious, most of the titles are chanson collections for three or four voices, published variously by LeRoy and Ballard, du Chemin, and Fezandat—all of Paris—Granjon of Lyons, and Susato in Antwerp. Only the last few titles in the volume support the inscription: these include Pseaulmes LXXXIII de David (Beringen, 1554), with four-voice settings of many prayers, including the Ten Commandments, by Louis Bourgeois; and Proverbes de Salomon (Le Roy and Ballard, 1558), fourvoice chansons. Also bound in the volume are the only known publications— a book of motets and one of chansons—by the elusive composer Barthélemy Beaulaigue,49 who reportedly was a fifteen-year-old choirboy at the Cathedral of Marseilles. While Scholiers may have been taken in by the excitement sur-


rounding this child prodigy and aspiring church musician, modern scholars now believe the claims to be a hoax created by publisher Robert Granjon and Guillaume Guéroult of Lyons.50 Beyond a basic religious education through music, controlled by the church authorities and the schoolteachers’ guild, the young women of successful merchant families were expected to have social skills in singing and playing instruments for family music-making and to entertain their husbands’ clients. I have written previously about the extant records from Antwerp’s School of the Laurel Tree, headed by schoolmaster Peter Heyns.51 These registers demonstrate that young women, aged thirteen to sixteen from divergent social and economic backgrounds, studied reading, writing, arithmetic, French, Dutch, classical and modern literature, the domestic arts of sewing, knitting, and lace-making, as well as music. The pay records from the 1580s list all extra fees, including textbooks, singing lessons, and harpsichord-tuning services. Records show that at least sixteen young women—the daughters of merchants of leather, wool, nails, wine, fish, as well as sugar bakers, studied music at the Laurel Tree. Students had their harpsichords tuned at least twice a year, and in one case, four times, at a cost of three stuivers per tuning.52 The fees for singing lessons were substantially higher: Maeyken Scheppers, daughter of a merchant from Bruges, paid eighteen stuivers for each half month of lessons.53 Among the textbooks listed in student records is the Tragédie d’Abraham, which undoubtedly refers to the neoclassical play L’Abraham sacrifiant, by Théodore de Bèze.54 The introduction to this popular play alludes to musical performances of the choruses throughout. Although no tunes are provided, the text structures match those found in the French metrical psalter on which Bèze collaborated with Marot, and the songs themselves are reminiscent of psalm texts, suggesting they might have been intended to be sung to the wellknown psalm tunes. For example, the first chorus, The Song of Abraham and Sara, derives from psalms 8, 135, and 136. Another text cited frequently in the Laurel Tree records was La guirlande des jeunes filles, by schoolmaster Gabriel Meurier; this book was first published in 1580 and reprinted many times. Its two-column format, in Dutch and French, was meant to instruct in languages, but, as noted earlier, the dialogue and multiple-language format was required for all textbooks in Antwerp from 1571 on. In the dialogue on amusements, reproduced as document 6 in appendix A, eight girls discuss some technical aspects of keyboard playing. Lucie asks if anyone can do divisions and finger them properly. They note that the


instrument is out of tune and missing strings, after which they turn their attention to the clavichord and proceed to tune it, loosening one string by a half step and raising another by the same interval. The dialogue continues with a discussion of which kind of chanson they should sing: one student cautions against lascivious songs, but she admits she likes “rustic” chansons. Their dialogue presumes some reasonably advanced knowledge of keyboard improvisation and of instrument care. This text also promotes good Christian values in the discussion about singing a chanson. Françoise admonishes the group to “guard against singing a lascivious or worldly chanson,” and Lucie suggests a pious song. But Françoise, who also suggested a pretty song, says she prefers a rustic song and they soon tire of the game. The dialogue implies that the girls knew both worldly and pious songs; indeed, the writings of Erasmus, some years earlier, point to the growing problem of young girls and music: It is customary now among some nations to compose every year new songs which young girls study assiduously. The subject matter of the songs is usually the following: a husband deceived by his wife, or a daughter guarded in vain by her parents; or a clandestine affair of lovers. These things are presented as if they were wholesome deeds, and a successful act of profligacy is applauded. Added to pernicious subject matter are such obscene innuendoes, expressed in metaphors and allegories, that no manner of depravity could be depicted more vilely. Many earn a livelihood in this occupation, especially among the Flemish. If laws were enforced, composers of such common ditties would be flogged for singing these doleful songs to the licentious. Men who publicly corrupt youth are making a living from crime, yet parents are found who think it a mark of good breeding if their daughters know such songs.55

La guirlande is but one of many pedagogical dialogue books from the era; although their primary purpose was to teach languages, with French and Dutch texts set side by side, the topics of the conversation books often turned to entertainment, music, and upright values.56 Henri Vanhulst has recently shown a similar topic under discussion in La montaigne des pucelles/Den Maeghden-Bergh, a 1599 publication by the Leiden schoolmistress Magdaleine Valéry.57 In it, the Maistresse cautions her student, Emerence, against playing dances on the keyboard, claiming they are too worldly and not in praise of God. She suggests instead playing devotional songs (quelque Canticque/Pseaume ou honneste Chanson/eenighe Lofsanck, Psalm oft eerlicke Liedeken), noting that one hears daily the Psalms of David on organ. A dis-


cussion ensues of music in the Old Testament and particularly the psalms, after which the teacher proclaims that music is a powerful force that can move hearts to praise God. Later in the text, Philippe notes that because his daughter willingly sings chansons spirituelles, he will send a spinet for her to practice them on.58 It seems clear that young girls were encouraged to play devotional music, rather than secular songs and dances, on their keyboard instruments. Lyons poet-musician Eustorg de Beaulieu (ca. 1495–1552) confirms that pious songs were not only meant to be sung, but also to be played. A letter of 1543 invites Clément Marot to visit Beaulieu, where he played sacred songs and psalms in Marot’s translation: I still have my clavichord On which I play the sacred songs crystallized by you: Which in my opinion were your finest achievement. Often too I take my harp from its hook, And I hang it around my neck To play Psalms and Chansons on it To the tunes that God taught me . . .59

Beaulieu confesses to the errors of his youth in the preface to his Chrestienne resjouyssance, claiming he “too often sang abominable [worldly] songs. . . . And I even studied them with too great an interest and played them on many musical instruments, even though it greatly dishonored God and the said art which is so honest and praiseworthy.” Some echoed the Platonist ideal of the power of music ennobling the spirit, including the Calvinist music publisher Tielman Susato. In the preface to Susato’s Dutch-texted Musyck boexken (1551), which included settings of the Souterliedekens by Clemens non Papa, Susato claims to have left out “those songs whose unfair words encourage vice,” continuing: Avoid all unfair and indecent words, which put this noble art to shame and which could tarnish and corrupt the young . . . because music is an exceptional heavenly gift, created by God and given to humanity, not intended for dishonest or rash misuse, but mainly to praise Him thankfully, to eschew melancholy, to dispel trouble, to alleviate heavy minds, and to gladden worried hearts.60

The secular songs in this collection do include a number of courtly love songs —mostly lover’s laments—but also many zotte liedeken, or songs drawn from the Flemish folklore that ridicule human folly, which can be read, Timothy


McTaggart claims, as “an attack on dissolute ways or an incitement to join in.”61 While Susato’s own songs are fairly inoffensive, other, more lewd texts did find their way into this collection. What repertoire then did Antwerp’s young girls perform on their keyboard instruments? Did they learn the indecent French and Flemish songs that filled the publications from the city’s presses? Or did they rise to the challenge of playing uplifting, pious music? We have little evidence to answer these questions, as there was no keyboard music published in the region until after 1600. I have shown elsewhere that young musicians (or their tutors) might have followed the guidelines for preparing keyboard intabulations laid out in the widely disseminated treatise Musica getutscht by Sebastian Virdung. This instruction book, which demonstrates how to intabulate a vocal work into French lute and German keyboard tablature, was published in Antwerp in French (1529) and two Flemish editions (1554, 1568).62 These Antwerp editions substitute the secular Flemish song Een vrolic wesen by local composer Jacques Barbireau for Virdung’s own sacred Lied based on three Marian responsories. The resulting intabulation of Een vrolic wesen is considerably more idiomatic to keyboard than was the Virdung original.63 Rather than encouraging readers to play his own intabulation from the treatise, they are invited to transcribe another composition into the tablature using Virdung’s work as a model.64 There is, however, one source that reinforces the repertoires and values we have discussed: the Susanne von Soldt manuscript (GBLbm Add. ms 29485) is a collection of thirty-three keyboard pieces copied by a Flemish scribe and signed by the twelve-year-old Susanne von Soldt in 1599.65 Susanne was born in England to Flemish merchant-class parents who fled Antwerp after the Spanish fury of 1576. Alan Curtis believes this manuscript was copied on the continent, since the dances included were very popular there in the 1570s and 1580s, including the Pavane d’Anvers. It is notable that this repertoire (listed in table 6.5) fits nicely the dance types mentioned in the contract discussed earlier for the young girl who studied allemandes, galliards, passemezzi, rondes, and branles. One of the most widely circulated dances is the Galliarde quÿ passa, which underwent many intabulations for lute and cittern as well as keyboard, all of them based on Filippo Azzaiolo’s four-voice romantic serenade, Chi passa per questa strada.66 Two dances can be associated with England, however, where young Susanne lived: Pavana Bassano and Galliarde Bassani are likely arrangements of dances by wind-player Augustine Bassano, active in England.67


The manuscript further presents ten psalm-settings—among the earliest keyboard arrangements of the psalms and the oldest known from the Dutch psalter.68 The melodies used stem from the Genevan psalter and are clearly audible, set unadorned in the top voice.69 They are simple, four-part, blockchord settings with an all-too-frequent cadential cliché—indeed, the style is more appropriate to accompany singing the psalms than as solo instrumental music. Curtis notes that some of these settings are of high musical value—in particular Psalm 130, Wt de diepte o Heere, with its familiar dropping-fifth opening, includes elaborate figurations.70 Some of the Genevan melodies derive from Gregorian chant; for example, Susanne would have heard the well-known Easter sequence Victimae paschali laudes while playing her version of Psalm 80, Ghij herder Israels wylt hooren. This melodic basis was surely preferable for our pious girl than the tune more frequently associated with this psalm in the Souterliedeken repertoire: Den lustelijcken Mey, included in the 1544 Antwerp songbook.71 H. Colin Slim has shown one other keyboard intabulation of this psalm using the tune Den lustelijcken mey, in a very secular painting of Apollo and the Muses, redacted circa 1555–1560 by Maarten van Heemskerck.72 In addition to the psalm-settings, several selections in the manuscript provide a moralizing theme that is appropriate for our young Susanne. The Almande de la Nonette sets one of the most popular tunes of the era: the story of a young girl who does not wish to become a nun.73 By the time our pious Susanne was playing this dance, however, she surely knew it as well by one or more of the religious contrafacta the tune had spawned, including a Geuzen song of the rebellious Flemish and Dutch noblemen who fought to preserve religious rights during the Eighty Years’ War (1568–1648).74 She could also have known the tune through its many intabulations for lute and cittern, most published by Phalèse in Leuven.75 Another dance tune that circulated in Susanne’s time as a Geuzen song was the Almande Brun Smeedelyn; based on a well-known Flemish song (Bruynsme delijn ghy zijt seer hups en fijn), it was intabulated for cittern and issued in several four-part consort arrangements.76 But considering that Susanne’s family fled the Low Countries during the war against the Spanish, she might well have known this tune as well by its rebellious contrafactum.77 Susanne’s manuscript also included an arrangement of the Dutch tune Tobyas om sterven gheneghen, the text of which draws on the biblical story of Tobit or Tobias, who prayed for death rather than believe he had broken a commandment by stealing a young goat. Part of the Protestant Apocrypha,


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Figure 6.12. Comparison of Lasso’s Susanne un’ jour and keyboard arrangement (British Library, Add. ms 29485).

this story underscores the value of prayer in daily life as well as parental respect and the reward of good work, all of which are valued principles for the young.78 The longest and most elaborate work in Susanne’s manuscript is a setting of Orlando di Lasso’s well-known chanson spirituelle of feminine chastity, Susanne ung jour, based on the story of Susanna and the Elders—likewise considered to be apocryphal by the Protestants—a work celebrating our Susanne’s namesake. This chanson was in wide circulation by the time it was


copied into Susanne’s manuscript, but its first publication was not only in Paris (LeRoy and Ballard, 1560) but simultaneously in Antwerp, where it was a unique addition to the 1560 edition of Le quatroisiesme livre, issued by Susato.79 In this keyboard arrangement, the familiar cantus firmus is buried in the inner parts, as it is in the original five-part chanson, but the voicings of the vocal model are largely preserved, as running scalar passages decorate the melodic lines throughout and written-out trills elaborate each cadence. Figure 6.12 compares the first seven measures of the vocal model with the keyboard arrangement; giving us a sense of the level of musical achievement that a young Renaissance girl such as Susanne von Soldt might have attained in her keyboard studies. Throughout this study, we have seen how music served as a pedagogical tool to shape the values and principles of young northern women, through both singing and playing instruments, a perspective that is strongly supported by iconographic evidence. We have also noted, however, that the prevailing attitudes toward women and learning in the Low Countries were considerably more liberal than in other parts of Europe, notably Italy. While the onset of the Reformation brought a renewed expectation of propriety and piety for girls—Protestant and Catholic alike—the social forces around them presented contradictory influences. Guicciardini viewed the young women of Antwerp as strong-minded and willful, and they certainly were significant consumers of the newest music that appeared in print. Whether the music they studied consisted of devotional chansons spirituelles or bawdy Flemish songs, merchant-class women were apparently musically literate and even capable of making arrangements, performing divisions, and improvising. More than this, the teachers of Antwerp were significant consumers of polyphonic music, and most had at least basic music training through which they could impart their lessons. We should wish for so much from our students and schools today.

Appendix A: List of Documents Document 1 Louis Guicciardini, La description de tous les Pais-Bas (Antwerp: Plantin, 1582): pp. 51–52: Les Belges sont aussi les vrais Maistres & restaurateurs de la Musique: ce sont eux qui l’ont remise sus, & reduite à sa perfection: L’ayans


si proper & naturelle, que homes & femmes y chantent comme leur instinct par mesure; à cecy avecq grand’ grace & melodie: tellement qu’ayans depuis conjoing l’art à ce naturel il sont telle prevue, & par la voix, & par instrumentz de toutes sortes, que chacun voit & sçait . . . pp. 53–54: Quant aux femmes de ce pays outré ce qu’elles sont (comme j’ay dict) belles, & propres, & bien avenantes, sont encore fort gentils, courtoises, & gracieuses en leur actions: veu que commençans dés leur enfance à converser (selon la coustume du Pays) librement avec chacun, par ceste frequentation elles deviennent plus hardies en praticquant les compaignies, & promptes à parler & en toute chose; mais avecq ceste si grande liberté & license, elles gardent severement le devoir de leurs honnestetez, allans non seullement par ville pour le mesnagement, & affaires de leur maisons; ains encore aux champs, avec peu de suite, sans pour cela encourir blasme, ny en donner occasion de soupcon. Elles sont sobres, & et fort actives & soigneuses, se meslans non tant seulement des affaires domestiques (desquels les hommes par deça ne s’empeschent, & soucient pas beaucoup) ains vont aussi achepter & vendre & merchandises & biens; & se mectent & a la main & la langue és affaires propres aux hommes: & cecy avec telle dexterity, esprit, & diligence, qu’en pluseiurs endroictz (si comme en Hollande & Zeelande), y joint le desir, & convoitise que les femmes ont de commander, les rend sans doubte part trop inperieuses, & maistrisantes, & souventesfois excessivement fieres, & desdaigneuses. p. 165: Les femmes ont en Anvers plus de privilege qu’en autre part de ce pays: entant que par toutes les autres contrées, & villes, les femmes sont obligées aux debtes de leurs marys, comme les marys à ceux de leurs femmes. . . . Mais en ceste ville d’Anvers, si la femme ne fait trafic de merchandise, ainsi que sont plusieurs part deça, elle n’est tenuë aux debtes de son mary. . . . Il est vray que la femme ne peut s’obliger, si elle n’est autorisée de son mary, saulf celles qui exercent librement le trafic de merchandise, & qui achepent, & vendent hors de leur boutique.

Document 2 Tutorial contract between Jan van der Bossche and Gian Battista Compostin, 2 January 1577 (Antwerp, Stadsarchief, Notarissen 525, fol. 27): Sr. Jehan Baptista Compostin, geboren tot Milanan . . . ende Jan van der Bossche, schoolmeester. . . . Den voirscreven Jan van den Bossche . . . sal


wesen Françoise Compostin te leerene lesene, scryven ter redelickiewys . . . oick te leeren den nomberen van cyfferen ende opde clavicimable spleen vyf of sesse vierscheyden allemanden, dry oft vier vierscheyden galliarden ended rye passeneden, dry oft vier ronden oft branden . . .

Document 3 1560 Ordinance of the Guild of St. Ambrose (Antwerp, Archief van de OLVKathedraal, Scholastria 25, fol. 75): . . . de kinderen oft yonghers zoo wel knechtkens als meyskens instituceren ende leeren lesen ende schryvan alderhande tale ende sprake die sy kunnen oft weten het zy duyts oft wals spaensch oft italiaens Enghels hoochduyts latyn gricx ende alle andere hoedanich syn sullen moghen oock rekenen ende cyferen de meyskens te leeren naeyen de yonghers spelen op instrumenten ende in alle cyville manieren ende doctrinen ynstrueeren . . .

Document 4 1588 Ordinance of the Guild of St. Ambrose (Antwerp, Archief van de OLVKathedraal, Scholastria 25, fol. 25v): Item oock smorgens inder scolen gecomen voesende singen oft lessen Veni sancte spiritus op haere knien met een versikel ende a collecte . . . ende dergelycks tsavonts al eer sy uytgaen Laudes Diva virginum ofte Christus qui lux es et dies int latyn oft eenen Pater noster ende Ave maria voor de ongeleerde.

Document 5 Sonets avec une chanson, contenant neuf parties l’une suivant l’autre . . . a deux parties (Antwerp: Phalèse & Bellère, 1592): A verteuse et discrettes jeunes damoyselles, Marguerite et Beatrice Hooftmans seurs Germains. Ne pouvant (verteusses & discrettes Damoyselles) pour autre meilleur moyen que par l’industrie de l’estant au quell il a pleu à ce bon Dieu m’appeller vous faire paroir le grand desir que j’ay tousjours eu & aurai ma vie durante à vous faire quelque service aggreable, a faict que me suis aventuré vous consacrer ce mien labeur (qui de soy ne marmite beaucoup à cause de sa


petitesse vous estre offert) qui sont Chansons, Stanses, Sonets, Epigrammes à deux parties tant seulement par moy mis en Musicque, lesquelles m’ont semblébien propres & convenables vous presenter, pour avecque icelles à la fois recreer voz Esprits lassé & recreuz de voz affaires privées & domestique, vous priant tantost prenant le Luth, tantost l’Espinette en voz blanches, polies & delicates mains, deigner marier voz doucettes voiz à l’harmonie d’icelles, ce que causera & à bon droit qu’on vous appellera Marguerite & Beatrice (je parle de celles de vostre qualité) en la Musicque les non pareilles. Au surplus à fin d’eviter la notte d’importunité feray fin à ceste vous priant que cestuy mien petit ouvrage soit defendu de l’ombre de voz bon graces, à celle fin qu’il puis voler asseurement par les perilleux destroits de ce present siecle, priant le Souverain vous donner en santé, longue & heureuse vie. De oz bonnes grace humble Serviteur, Jean de Castro. To the virtuous and gentle young maidens, Marguerite and Beatrice Hooftmans, cousins german. Unable (virtuous and gentle maidens) by any better means than by exercising the profession to which it has pleased God to call me, to show you the great desire I have always had and will have forever to render you a pleasant service, I have therefore ventured to dedicate to you this little work (which in itself is so small as to be unworthy to be offered to you). These are Chansons, Stanzas, Sonnets, and Epigrams that I have set to music for only two parts, which seemed to me proper and appropriate to present to you. With them you may refresh your spirits, worn and fatigued from your private and domestic duties, taking up at times the lute, at times the spinet in your white, polished and delicate hands, deigning to lend your sweet voices to these songs, so that you will be rightly called (by those of your station) Marguerite and Beatrice in music unsurpassable. In order not to seem importunate, I conclude this address, praying you to keep my little work in your good graces, so that it can confidently fly through the perilous straits of our era, and praying to God to give you long, happy and healthy lives. Your good graces’ humble servant, Jean de Castro. (Translation by Jeanice Brooks.)

Document 6 Gabriel Meurier, La guirlande des jeunes filles en françois & flamens. Het ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½Krans�ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ ken der jonghe Docters in Fransoys ende Duytsch (Antwerp: J. van Waesberghe, 1580):


Chapter XVI: Diverse jeux Corneille: Allons jouer sur l’epinette. Laet ons op de klaversimable gaen spelen. Let us play on the spinet. Lucie: Scavez vous fredoner & passager des doits? Cont ghy crillen ende loopkens metter vingheren doen? Do you know how to do divisions and move the fingers? Alison: L’instrument est discordé, & n’y a corde ni cordon. T’instrument is ontstelt, ende daer en is snare noch snaerken op. The instrument is out of tune, and there are no strings. Françoise: Jouons donc sur le manicordion. Laet ons dan op de klavecoorde spelt. Let’s play then on the clavichord. Corneille: Lentez ceste corde demi ton. Leeght dese snare eenen halven toon. Loosen this string a half tone. Emerence: Retendez cete autre un ton. Stelt dese andere eenen toon hoogher. Tighten this one a tone higher. Lucie: Qui chantera une chanson? Wie salder een liedeken singen? Who will sing a chanson? Corneille: Moi, si me voulex preter l’oreille. Ick, wildy my ghehoor gheven. Me, if you wish to lend me an ear. Françoise: Gardez vous bien de chanter chansons lascives & mondaines. Wache u wel oncuyssche, ende wereltsche liedekens te singhen. Guard against singing a lascivious or worldly chanson. Simonette: Que chanterons nous puis? What sullen wy dan singhen? What can we sing then? Françoise: Une belle chanson. Een fraey Liedeken. A pretty song. Lucie: Chantons quelque cantique spirituel. Laet ons eenich geestelijc liedeken singen. Let’s sing a spiritual song. Françoise: Le chant rural me plait mieux. Den boeren sanck behalt my best. A rustic song pleases me more. Corneille: J’en suis laste, ébatons nous à quelque autre jeu. Ick bens moede. Laet ons met eenich ander spel vermaken. I’m tired of this. Let’s amuse ourselves with another game.


Appendix B: Tables Table 6.1. Music patronage by the St. Martha and St. Ambrose Guild, 1522–1600. x = payment made to singers, but amount is not specified ? = no payment noted for this year + = musicians in addition to the numerical total [ ] = total derived from context in documents

YEAR

FEAST

SINGERS

1522 1523 1524 1525 1526 1527 1528 1529 1530 1531 1532 1533 1534 1535 1536 1537 1538 1539 1540 1541 1542–1547 1542 1543

St. Lazarus 16 St. Ambrose 14 Requiem 14 St. Ambrose 16 St. Martha [16] St. Martha 17 St. Martha 11 St. Martha 13 St. Martha 16 St. Martha 14 St. Martha 14 St. Ambrose 14 St. Martha 14 St. Ambrose â•‡ x St. Martha 16 St. Ambrose â•‡ x St. Martha â•‡ x St. Ambrose â•‡ x St. Martha â•‡ x St. Ambrose â•‡ x St. Martha 13 St. Ambrose â•‡ x St. Martha 13 St. Ambrose â•‡ ? St. Martha 14 St. Ambrose â•‡ x St. Martha 17 St. Ambrose 17 St. Martha 16 St. Ambrose 17 St. Martha 18 St. Ambrose 17 St. Martha 16 St. Ambrose 16 St. Martha 15 [Records lacking for St. Martha] St. Ambrose 13 St. Ambrose [20?]

(Zielmisse)

(+ choirboys) (+ choirboys)


YEAR

FEAST

SINGERS

St. Ambrose 14 1544 1545 St. Ambrose 18 1546 St. Ambrose 16 1547 St. Ambrose [21] 1548 St. Ambrose [23] St. Martha 17 1549 St. Ambrose [22] St. Martha 19 1550 St. Ambrose 20 St. Martha 19 1551 St. Ambrose 19 St. Martha 21 1552 St. Ambrose 19 St. Martha 22 1553 St. Ambrose â•‡ ? St. Martha 19 1554 St. Ambrose 22 St. Martha 21 1555 St. Ambrose 20 St. Martha 21 1556 St. Ambrose 20 St. Martha 17 1557 St. Ambrose 21 1558 St. Ambrose 21 1559 St. Ambrose 18 St. Martha 18 1560 St. Ambrose 18 St. Martha 17 1561 St. Ambrose 21 St. Martha 21 1562 St. Ambrose 21 St. Martha 18 1563 St. Ambrose 20 St. Martha 18 1564 St. Ambrose 22 St. Martha 22 1565 St. Ambrose 21 St. Martha 22 1566 St. Ambrose 20 St. Martha 19 1567 St. Ambrose 20 St. Martha 18 1568 [Records lacking] 1569 St. Ambrose 16

(+ choirboys) (+ choirboys) (+ choirboys)

(+ choirmaster) (+ choirmaster)

(+ Gérard de Turnhout and choirboys) (continued on next page)


Table 6.1. (continued)

YEAR

FEAST

SINGERS

1570 St. Ambrose 21 St. Martha 21 St. Thomas 21 1571 [Records lacking] 1572 St. Ambrose 19 1573 St. Ambrose â•‡ x St. Thomas â•‡ x 1574 St. Ambrose 18 St. Thomas 16 1575 St. Ambrose 17 St. Thomas 15 1576 St. Ambrose [17] 1577 St. Ambrose [15] 1578 St. Ambrose 12 St. Thomas 14 1579 St. Ambrose 18 St. Thomas 18 1580 St. Ambrose 12 St. Thomas 13 1581–1585 [No music payments recorded] 1586 St. Ambrose â•‡ x 1587 St. Ambrose [11] St. Thomas [12] St. Cassianus â•‡ x 1588 St. Ambrose [10] St. Cassianus â•‡ x 1589 St. Ambrose 10 St. Cassianus 12 1590 St. Cassianus 15 1591 St. Ambrose 12 St. Cassianus 15 1592 St. Ambrose 12 St. Cassianus 13 1593 St. Thomas â•‡ x St. Cassianus â•‡ 9 1594 St. Ambrose 11 St. Cassianus â•‡ 9 1595 St. Ambrose [10] St. Cassianus 12 1596 St. Ambrose [10] St. Cassianus 10 1597 St. Ambrose [10] St. Cassianus 10

(+ Gérard de Turnhout and choirboys)

(+ Gérard de Turnhout and choirboys)

(+ bass player; motet with organ) (motet with organ) (motet with organ) (motet with organ) (choirboys with organ) (choirboys with organ) (choirboys with organ)

(motet with organ)


YEAR

FEAST

SINGERS

1598 1599 1600

St. Thomas â•‡ x St. Ambrose 12 St. Cassianus 12 St. Ambrose â•‡ ? St. Cassianus 11 St. Ambrose 12 St. Cassianus â•‡ 6

Table 6.2. Musical catechisms from Antwerp.

Een bequaem Maniere om Ionghers soetelijck by sanck te leeren, tghene dat alle kersten menschen moeten weten (Antwerp: Weduwe van Ameet Tavernier, tot behoef ende cost van Antoni Thielens, 1571). Contents: T’Ghebet des Heeren (Our Father) Die Enghelsche groet (Hail Mary) Het Gheloove (Creed) Die thien gheboden (Ten Commandments) Text of Die thien geboden in rhyme: Boven al bemindt eenen Godt, By zynen name niet en sweert ijdelijc noch en spot, Viert die heylighe daghen alle gader, Eert vader ende moeder, Met wille oft met wercken enslaet niemant doot; En steelt oock niet al zijdy bloot, Schout overspel en alle oncuyscheyt, En gheest gheen getuych der valsheyt, En begheert ooch niemants bedde ghenoot, Noch niemants goet tzyn cleyn oft groot. Die Christelycke Leeringhe in zoete ende lichte Muzycke met vier partyen (Brussels: Rutgeert Velpius, 1591). Superius. Contents: Het Ghebet des Heeren (Our Father) Die Engelsche groete (Hail Mary) Het Gheloove (Creed) Die thien Gheboden (Ten Commandments) Die acht Salicheden (Eight Beatitudes) Die Gheboden in ryme (Ten Commandments in rhyme) Die Seven Sacramenten (Seven Sacraments) Van de Duechden (On the Virtues) Van den Sonden (On the Sins)


Table 6.3. Canticles, other texts, and timbres from Souterliedekens III (Susato, 1557).

Den lofsanck Esaye (Isaiah 12, for Monday Lauds) Timbre: Het was een clercxken ghinc ter scholen Ezechias lofsanck (Isaiah 38.10–20, for Tuesday Lauds) Timbre: Ghi lustighe amoureuse geesten Den lofsanc van Anna (1 Samuel 2.1–10, for Wednesday Lauds) Timbre: Alle myn ghepeyns doet mi soe wee (Antwerp Liedboek, no. 3) Moyses ende der kinderen van Israel sanck (Exodus 15.1–19, for Thursday Lauds) Timbre: Die mey staet vrolyck in sinen tyt met loouerkens ombehangen Des prophete Abracucx ghebet (Habakkuk 3.2–19, for Friday Lauds) Timbre (dance tune): Het quam een ruyterken wt boschayen (Antwerp Liedboek, no. 30) Moyses lofsanck (Deuteronomy 32) Timbre: O bloeyende iuecht Den lofsanc der drie kinderen: Anania, Azaria, and Mizael (Daniel 3.57) Timbre (dance tune): Const ic die Maneschyn bedecken Den lofsanc Zacharie (Luke 1.68–79, Benedictus) Timbre: Een oudt man sprack een tonck meysken aen (Antwerp Liedboek, no. 19) Den lofsanc der glorioser maget ende moeder ons Heeren (Luke 1.46–55, Magnificat) Timbre: Conditor alme siderum Symoens lofsanck (Luke 2.29–32, Nunc dimittis) Timbre: Iesu salvator seculi Den lofsanck Augustini ende Ambrosij (Te Deum) Timbre: Christe qui lux (tune not given) other texts: (all sung to the timbre: Het ghinghen drie ghespeelkens goet, in Antwerp Liedboek, no. 39) Den Pater noster (Vader ons die bist in hemelryck) Den Ave Maria (Maria vol van gracien) Die articulen des kersten gheloofs Credo in Deum (Ick gheloof im God vader almachtich) Credo in spiritum (Ick gheloof in God den heylighen ghest)


Table 6.4. Books belonging to Franciscus Doncker, scholaster in Antwerp (d. 1572).

Sex thomi missarum clementis non papa in uns volumine [= mass-volumes by Clemens non Papa from these:] Missa Virtute magna, 4vv (Leuven, 1557, 1558) Missa En espoir, 5vv (Leuven, 1557, 1558) Missa Ecce quam bonum, 5vv (Leuven, 1557, 1558) Missa Gaude lux donatiane, 5vv (Leuven, 1557, 1559) Missa Caro mea, 5vv (Leuven, 1557, 1559) Missa Languir my fault, 5vv (Leuven, 1557, 1558, 1560) Missa Misericorde, 4vv (Leuven, 1556, 1557, 1563) Missa Pastores quidnam vidistis, 5vv (Leuven, 1559) Missa A la fontaine du prez, 6vv (Leuven, 1559) Missa Quam pulcra es, 4vv (Leuven, 1559) Liber musicus scriptus antiquus [= unspecified chant-book] Libri musicus trium vocum M. Gerardi a Turnhout [= Sacrarum ac aliarum cantionum trium vocum (Leuven, 1569)] Vier musyckboeken met vieren [= Het eerste, tveeste, derde Musyck Boexken met vier (Antwerp, 1551) OR Souterliedekens V–VIII, Musyck Boecken 8–11 met vier by Gherardus Mes (Antwerp, 1561), incomplete]


Table 6.5. British Library Add. ms 29485 (Susanne van Soldt ms).

Dances Pavana Bassano Pavane dan Vers [d’Anvers] De quadre pavanne Pavane Prymera De frans galliard Galliarde quï passe [based on Azzaiolo’s Chi passa per questa strada] Galliarde Bassani De quadre galliard Almande de symmerman Almande de La nonette Almande Brun Smeedelyn Almande prynce Almande de amour Almande trycottee Almande Allemande Loreyne Brande Chanpanje Brabanschen ronden dans ofte Brand Psalm Settings Psalm 9: Heer ich Wil U Wt‘s Herten gront Psalm 16: Bewaert mij Heer Weest Psalm 23: Myn God Voet mij myh Herder ghepressen Psalm 36: Des boosdoenders Wille seer quaet (and Psalm 68: Staet op Heer toont U onversacht) Psalm 42: Als een Hert gejaecht Psalm 50: Godt die der goden Heer is sprechen sal Psalm 51: Ontfarmt U over jij arme Sondaer (and Psalm 69: Ich bydde U Helpt mij o God) Psalm 80: Ghij Herder Israels Wylt hooren Psalm 100: Ghij Volcheren des aertrijcx Psalm 103: Myn siele Wylt den Herre met Lof Psalm 130: Wy di diepte o Heere Other Susanna Vung Jour (based on Lasso’s Susanne un jour, a5) Tobyas om sterven gheneghen Preludium One untitled work


Notes This chapter elaborates on ideas presented in my earlier study of music and women, “Nymphes gayes en abry du Laurier: Music Instruction for the Bourgeois Woman,” Musica discliplina 49 (1995): 231–67. 1.â•‡ In particular, Vives seems to follow Paolo Cortese, De cardinalatu libri tres (1510); see especially the chapter “De vitandis passionibus deque musica adhibenda post epulas” (How passions should be avoided, and music used after meals). On this treatise, see Nino Pirrotta, “Music and Cultural Tendencies in Fifteenth-Century Italy,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 19 (1966): 127–61. 2.â•‡ Juan Luis Vives, De institutione feminae christianae, bk. 1, chap. 10: “S’elle chant, que ce soit doulcement, & chansons honnestes, graves & decentes.” 3.â•‡ Bruto, La institutione di una fanciulla nata nobilmente (Antwerp: Plantin, 1555), also published in French and in an unauthorized English version which is generally attributed to Thomas Salter, A mirrhor mete for all mothers, matrons and maidens (London: Edward White, 1579). Bruto wrote this as an epistolary address for the daughter of Sylvester Cattaneo, an Italian merchant in the north. 4.â•‡ Pietro Aretino, Lettere, 1: 105; cited in Alfred Einstein, The Italian Madrigal (PrinceÂ� ton: Princeton University Press, 1949), 1: 94. 5.â•‡ Delle lettere di M. Pietro Bembo; cited in William F. Prizer, “Cardinals and Courtesans: Secular Music in Rome, 1500–1520,” in Italy and the European Powers: The Impact of War, 1500–1530, ed. Christine Shaw (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 253–54. 6.â•‡ Lodovico Guicciardini, Descrittione di tutti i Paesi Bassi (Antwerp, 1567); this quote cited from a London edition, The Description of the Low Countries (London, 1593), 142–43. 7.â•‡ For example, the estate of Jouffr. Heylwige Bachgrach, widow of Jooris Kesseler, included a virginal (Antwerp, Stadsarchief, Notarissen 465, 1576, fol. 205). 8.â•‡ For images of several double virginals from Antwerp, made by Martinus van der Biest (1580) and Hans Ruckers (1581), see Jeremy Montagu, The World of Medieval and Renaissance Instruments (London: David & Charles, 1976), 125–27; the Ruckers virginal is in the Metrropolitan Museum of Art, image available at www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/ renk/ho_29.90.htm (accessed 11 June 2008). 9.â•‡ Edwin Ripin has been able to link these instruments to Antwerp through their decorations and mottoes in “Joes Kareest’s Virginal and the Flemish Tradition,” in Keyboard Instruments: Studies in Keyboard Organology, 1500–1800, ed. Edwin Ripin (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1971; repr. New York: Dover, 1977), 67–75. 10.â•‡ I have discussed these, with images provided, in my “Nymphes gayes,” esp. 156– 60. 11.â•‡ This identification is confirmed by Angelika Lorenz, in an article formerly posted at www.lwl.org/LWL/Kultur?landesmuseum/kdm/1819jahrhundert/1998_2001/2000_04/ index2_htm (accessed 12 October 2007). The painting is now held in the Münster Landesmuseum; the museum purchased this artwork from the private collection of Jack Gold, Surrey, in a Sotheby sale of 12 July 1972. 12.â•‡ While the music appears faked in this book, the text seems to begin “Den Heer.” I have not been able to identify which psalm text this might be. 13.â•‡ This is noted in an inventory of the Salvago house, which had a spinet (“espinette dict clavisymbele”) and a lute; given in Léon de Burbure, “Uittreksels uit de Archieven der Stad en der Kerken van Antwerpen, 1100–1796” (ms, Antwerp, n.d.), 3: 3, drawn from the Notarissen 465 collection of inventories. 14.â•‡ Guicciardini, Descrittione, 167–68. 15.â•‡ Antwerp, Archief van de OLV-Kathedral (AKA), Capsa 14, Dominorum 26 (Scholastria 1540–1629), fol. 11v: “François Werneix poortere geboren van Voerme in Vlanderen

122â•… ·â•… Kristine K. Forney oudt Lij jaren woenende by d’Engels huys sal leeren duyts, françois, lessen ende scryven, singen ende spleen . . . geadmitteert penul. May anno Lxxij.” 16.â•‡ Ibid., fol. 10: “Symon moons oudt Lx jaren gheboren van tsavonteyloo by Bruessele en poortere deser stadt, woonende inde coppen ganck, leerende duytsch, wals, lessen, schryven, rekenen ende cyfferen.” Moens is registered as a clavicembalemaker, as noted in P. Rombauts and T. Van Lerius, Liggeren . . . der Antwerpsche Sint Lucasgilde, 2 vols. (AnÂ� twerp: Bagerman, 1846–1876), 1: 179. 17.â•‡ “Hans van den Bosche oudt xviij jaren gheboren poortere, woonende met syn ouders inde Coepoortestrate . . . leerende alleene rekenen, schryven, cyfferen, ende boeckhouden,” in AKA, Capsa 14, Dominorum 26, fol. 9. 18.â•‡ Ibid, fol. 45r: “Jacomyna van aerde . . . duyts, lessen, scryven, ende singhen.” 19.â•‡ AKA, Rekenboeck van de gulde de schoolmeesters, 1570–1600. Payments are noted in 1591 to the city players (fol. 167r), in 1587 for singing the motet with the organ (fol. 132r), and in 1598 for a double motet (fol. 263r). 20.â•‡ In 1576, for example, there were eighty-eight schoolmasters and seventy schoolmistresses (ibid.). 21.â•‡ The first was in Socratic dialogue, issued while a canon at Utrecht in 1554. 22.â•‡ Index expurgatorius libroum (Antwerp: Plantin, 1571). 23.â•‡ Carlo de Clercq, “Kerkelijk Leven,” in Antwerpen in de XVIde eeuw (Antwerp: Mercurius, 1976), 57–63. 24.â•‡ Chapter VII: “The virtue of the Sacraments,” in The canons and decrees of the sacred and oecumenical Council of Trent, ed. and trans. James Waterworth (London: Dolman, 1848), available at http://history.hanover.edu/texts/trent/trentall.html (accessed 11 June 2008). 25.â•‡ Melody in Johannes Zahn, Die Melodien der deutschen evangelischen Kirchenlieder (Hildescheim: Olms, 1963). 26.â•‡ See Dorothy Packer, “Au boys de dueil and the Grief-Decalogue Relationship in Sixteenth-Century Chansons,” Journal of Musicology 3 (1984): 21, 23. 27.â•‡ Sensuyvent plusieurs belles & bonnes chansons que les chrestiens peuvent chanter en grande affection de cueur. Adore un Dieu was the first piece in the volume; see Packer, “Au boys de dueil,” 19–54. 28.â•‡ Calvin’s settings, Oyons la Loy que sa voix and Nous a donnée le createur, and his Creed, Je croy en Dieu le Pere, were printed in Aulcuns pseaulmes et cantiques mys en chant (Strasbourg, 1539). Both ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ borrow their music, the song of the commandments from a Strasbourg cantique, probably composed by Wolfgang Dachstein and published by Kopphel in 1526, and the Credo from a melody by Matthaus Greitter in Teutsch Kirchenampt (1525). 29.â•‡ Packer, “Au boys de dueil,” 42. According to Packer and Samuel F. Pogue ( Jacques Moderne: Lyons music printer of the sixteenth century, Travaux d’humanisme et Renaissance 101 (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1969), 238–39), Moderne issued a small book in octavo and of only four folios entitled Chanson nouvelle. Composee sur les dix commandements de Dieu extraicte de la saincte scripture (ca. 1530–1540). 30.â•‡ Souter liedekens ghemaect ter eeren Gods, op all die Psalmen van David (Antwerp: Symon Cock, 1540). 31.â•‡ Het Antwerps Liedboek. 87 melodieen op teksten uit „Een Schoon Liedekens-Boeck“ van 1544, 2 vols., ed. K. Vellekoop et al. (Amsterdam: Vereniging voor Nederlandse MuziekÂ� geschiedenis, 1975), no. 39. No music is given in the Souterliedekens print for this tune, suggesting that it was well known. 32.â•‡ Pierre Bayle, Oeuvres diverses I (The Hague, 1727); quoted in Bernet Kempers, “Die ‘Souterliedekens’ des Jacobus Clemens non Papa. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des niederländischen Volksliedes und zur Vorgeschichte des protestantischen Kirchengesanges. Literaturverzeichnis,” Tijdschrift der Vereeniging voor Noord-Nederlands Muziekgeschiedenis 12, no. 4 (1928): 264–66.

A Proper Musical Education for Antwerp's Womenâ•… ·â•… 123 3ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ 3.â•‡ See Henri Vanhulst, “ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ Les éditions de musique polyphoniques et les traits musicaux mentionés dans les inventaires dressés en 1569 dans les Pays-Bas espagnols sur ordre du duc d‘Albe,” Revue belge de musicologie 31 (1977): 60–71. 34.â•‡ Packer, “Au boys de dueil,” 42–43 notes a Catholic collection of cantique spirituelle from 1700, destined for “les missions et les catechisms,” which included a version of Saunier’s Adore un Dieu. 35.â•‡ See my “Music, Ritual and Patronage at the Church of Our Lady, Antwerp,” Early Music History 7 (1987): 1–57. 36.â•‡ Het sevenste Musyck Boexken (Souterliedekens IV) (Antwerp: Susato, 1557). 37.â•‡ Antwerpsch Chronykje (p. 237), cited in Caroline Bouland, The Guild of St. Ambrose, or Schoolmaster’s Guild of Antwerp, 1529–1579, Smith College Studies in History 36 (Northampton, Mass.: Smith College, 1951), 38. 38.â•‡ Léon de Burbure, 2: 330. Antwerp Stadarchief, Inventaire de mobilier et livres delaissés par le chanoine, escolatre et scelleve de l’éveque, Francois Doncker. In addition to the music books described, Doncker had a copy of De Imitatione Christi, attributed to Gerson, and also works of Clément Marot. 39.â•‡ The booklet was produced at the expense of Antonis Thielens, who had served previously as editor for a music book issued by Christopher Plantin: Valentini Greffi Enger Pannonii, Harmoniarum musicarum . . . prima pars (Antwerp, 1569). 40.â•‡ For a modern edition of this collection, see Gérard de Turnhout, Sacred and Secular Songs for Three Voices, ed. Lavern Wagner, Recent Researches in the Music of the Renaissance 9–10 (Madison: A-R Editions, 1970). 41.â•‡ On the rebuilding of the Cathedral’s music collection after 1566, see Forney, “Music, Ritual, and Patronage,” 32–40. 42.â•‡ Of the Latin works, four are based on the Canticle of Canticles; five are drawn from various liturgical texts, and others are devotional in nature, including several table blessings and the all-time favorite chanson spirituelle, Susann’ un jour. 43.â•‡ The dedication is translated in the preface by Lavern Wagner to Turnhout, Sacred and Secular Songs, 10. 44.â•‡ These include settings of the two well-known Clément Marot texts: O souverain pasteur (prière avant le repas) and Per’ eternal (prière après le repas), set as well as Clemens non Papa and Tielman Susato, among others. 45.â•‡ See Peter Bergquist, ed., Orlando di Lasso: The Complete Motets. XI: ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ Liber motettarum trium vocum (Munich, 1575); Novae aliquot, ad duasv oces cantiones (Munich, 1577), Recent Researches in the Music of the Renaissance 103 (Madison: A-R Editions, 1995); and Lawrence Bernstein, “French Duos in the First Half of the Sixteenth Century,” in Studies in Musicology in Honor of Otto E. Albrecht, ed. John W. Hill (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1980), 43–87. 46.â•‡ This print is edited by Ignace Bossuyt as part of the Jeann de Castro Opera omnia (Leuven: University Press, 1993). I would like to thank Jeanice Brooks for providing me with her translation of this dedication. 47.â•‡ The volume is in the British Library, with the shelfmark K.8.1.4. 48.â•‡ The inscription is not grammatically correct, suggesting that perhaps one of the Latin students added it to the volume, rather than Scholiers himself. I would like to thank Alejandro E. Planchart for his assistance with this text. 49.â•‡ Mottetz nouvellement mis en musique a 4, 5, 6, 7, & 8 parties (Paris: Granjon, 1559); Chanson nouvelles . . . a4 (Paris: Granjon, 1559). 50.â•‡ Frank Dobbins, Music in Renaissance Lyons, Oxford Monographs on Music (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 252–53. 51.â•‡ Forney, “Nymphes gayes.” On Heyns see also Maurits Sabbe, “Peeter Heyns en de nimfen suit den Lauwerboom,” Bijdrage tot de Geschiedenis van het Schoolwezen in de 16e eeuw (Antwerp: Vereninging der Antwerpsche Bibliophilen, 1929).

124â•… ·â•… Kristine K. Forney 52.â•‡ Antwerp, Plantin Moretus Museum, M394, Rekenboek Peter Heyns, 1576–1582; and M 240, Rekenboek Peter Heyns, 1580–1584. 53.â•‡ Ibid.; sample entries are reproduced in Forney, “Nymphes gayes.” 54.â•‡ This play was first published at Geneva in 1550, and reprinted many times, including an edition in 1580 at Antwerp by Soolmans. 55.â•‡ Christiani matrimonii institutio, in Opera omnia, V: 717–18; cited in Clement A. Miller, “Erasmus on Music,” The Musical Quarterly 52 (1966): 347–48. 56.â•‡ One of the most famous teaching dialogues from the Low Countries is Seer gemeyne Tsamencoutingen/Collocutions bien familiers, published in 1543 by the Brussels schoolmaster Jehan Berthout. In the book’s first chapter, we find evidence of young boys singing duos in the mass, as discussed above, and of the general musical knowledge assumed of the young; only at the very end does the dialogue confirm that girls too learned singing and other musical skills. On this dialogue, see René Lenaerts, Het Nederlands Polifonies Lied in de Zestiende Eeuw (Mechelen: Het Kompass, 1933), 153–59. 57.â•‡ Henri Vanhulst, “La musique et l’éducation des jeunes filles d’après La montaigne des pucelles/Den Maeghden-Bergh de Magdaleine Valéry (Leyde, 1599),” in Recevez ce mien petit labeur: Studies in Renaissance Music in Honour of Ignace Bossuyt, ed. Mark Delaire and Pieter Bergé (Leuven: University Press, 2008), 269–78. 58.â•‡ I would like to thank Prof. Vanhulst for providing me a copy of his article prior to its publication. 59.â•‡ “J’ay oultre encore mono jeu de Manicorde Oú les Chansons Divines par toy confictz: Oú as ouvré à mon gré mieulx qu’onq feis. Soiuvent aussi je pren du croc ma harpe, Et je la pendz à mon col en escharpe Pour y jouer et Psalmes et Chansons Selon que Dieu m’a instruict en leur sons.” Letter from Eustorg de Beaulieu to Clément Marot, Thierrens, May 1543; cited in Dobbins, Music in Renaissance Lyons, 51. 60.â•‡ Translation by Eugene Schreurs in the preface to the facsimile editions of Het ierste Musyck Boexken (Antwerp: Susato, 1551), ed. Eugeen Schreurs and Martine Sanders (Peer, Belgium: Alamire, 1989), Superius, p. 6. 61.â•‡ Timothy McTaggart, “Susato’s Musyck Boexken I and II: Music for a Flemish MidÂ�dle Class,” in Music Printing in Antwerp and Europe in the 16th Century,” Colloquium Proceedings, Antwerp, 23–25 August 1995, Yearbook of the Alamire Foundation 2 (Leuven and Peer: Alamire, 1997), 307–32. 62.â•‡ See Livre plaisant, 1529 & Dit is een seer Schoon Boecxke, 1568, with an introduction by John Henry van der Meer, Early Music Theory in the Low Countries 9 (Amsterdam: Knuf, 1973); and Sebastian Virdung, Musica getutscht: A Treatise on Musical Instruments, ed. and trans. Beth Bullard, Cambridge Musical Texts and Monographs (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 63.â•‡ I have published a comparison of this intabulation and the original song in my “Nymphes gayes,” 173–74. 64.â•‡ Bullard edition of Virdung, Musica getutscht, 14 (see above, note 62). 65.â•‡ She was baptized on 20 May 1586, according to Alan Curtis, ed., Nederlandse Klaviermuziek uit de 16e en 17e eeuw, Monumenta Musica Neerlandica 3 (Amsterdam: Vereniging der Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis, 1961), x–xi. 66.â•‡ This work was first published in Il primo libro de villotte . . . a quarto voci (Venice: Gardano, 1557) and reprinted many times thereafter. The vocal version was never published, as far as I know, in the north. 67.â•‡ The inclusion of this pavane/galliarde set, not known in printed intabulations, possibly calls into question the preparation of this manuscript in the Low Countries. Arrangements of a pavane/galliard set by A. Bassano for keyboard and lute appear only in English manuscripts, according to Denis Arnold and Fabio Ferraccioli, in David Lasocki et al., “Bassano,” in Grove Music Online. See Oxford Music Online: www.oxfordmusiconline

A Proper Musical Education for Antwerp's Womenâ•… ·â•… 125 .com/subscriber/article/grove/music/53233pg1 (accessed 8 June 2008). I have not been able to check the music of the Susanne van Soldt manuscript against these other sources. 68.â•‡ The settings are based on the Dathenus translation, De Psalmen Davids, published in Rouen, Ghent, and Heidelberg in 1566. Alan Curtis, ed., Dutch Keyboard Music of the 16th and 17th Centuries (Amsterdam: Vereniging voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis, 1961), xxvii. 69.â•‡ See Piere Pidoux, Le Psautier Huguenot du XVIe siècle, vol. 1: Les mélodies (Basel: Bärenreiter, 1962). 70.â•‡ Curtis, Dutch Keyboard Music, ix. 71.â•‡ Het Antwerps Liedboek. 87 melodieen op teksten uit “Een Schoon Liedekens-Boeck” van 1544, 2 vols., ed. ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ Kees Vellekoop et al. (Amsterdam: Vereniging voor Nederlandse Muziekgeschiedenis, 1975), 1: 28–29. Den lustelycke mey was used for monophonic settings of this psalm (Symon Cock, 1540) as well as polyphonic ones, including that by Jacobus Clemens non Papa, in Souterliedekens II (Antwerp: Susato, 1556), given here as psalm 79, Ghi die condt Israel. 72.â•‡ H. Colin Slim, “On Parnassus with Maarten van Heemskerck: Instrumentaria and Musical Repertoires in Three Paintings in the U.S.A., Part II,” Musica disciplina 52 (1998): 181–232. 73.â•‡ John Wendland, “Madre non mi far Monaca: The Biography of a Renaissance FolkÂ� song,” Acta musicologica 48 (1976): 185–204. 74.â•‡ Wendland gives the various versions, including the Geuzen song Maraen, hoe moogt gy spies en lans verheffen tegen God, published much later in the famous Nederlandsche Gedenck-clanck (Valerius, 1626). One of the most popular contrafacta of the Allemande nonette was Von Gott will ich nicht lassen, on which Bach wrote a chorale; according to Wendland, “Madre non mi far Monaca,” 191, this text was first published in Frankfurt in 1572 and widely disseminated in Lutheran song books. 75.â•‡ Howard M. Brown, in Instrumental Music Printed before 1600: A Bibliography (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1965), lists six intabluations: four for lute issued by Phalèse (156312, 15687 15747, and 15846), and two for cittern (15784, published in Strasburg; and 1582 5 by Phalèse). 76.â•‡ In his Instrumental Music Printed before 1600, Brown gives four sources, including two cittern arrangements published by Phalèse (15696, 15703). The tune was first printed in the famous Susato Danserye (1551) for four-part ensemble, but without its title. 77.â•‡ The contrafactum was entitled Een nieu liedeken vande Berchse soldaten, hoe sy de stadt aen Parma vercochten, sung to the tune of Bruynsmadelijn. The text is available at www .dbnl.org/tekst/_geu001geuz01_01/_geu001geuz01_01_0153.htm (accessed 8 June 2008). 78.â•‡ The tune on which this is based is in G. A. Bredero’s Groot Lied Boeck of 1622, but was clearly in circulation well before that publication. 79.â•‡ On this Lasso edition, see my “Orlando di Lasso’s ‘Opus 1’: The Making and Marketing of a Renaissance Music Book,” Revue belge de musicologie 39–40 (1985–1986): 33–60. Kenneth Levy’s study on the Susanne complex does not recognize this Antwerp publication, in “Susanne un jour: The History of a 16th-Century Chanson,” Annales musicologiques 1 (1953): 375–408.

7 Juan Bermudo, Self-instruction, and the Amateur Instrumentalist• John Griffiths

• The pedagogy of learning to play musical instruments embodies techniques, intellectual systems, and values that reveal a great deal about the cultural context in which instruction takes place. The advent of printing in the sixteenth century provided the opportunity for a new kind of music book and a new system of learning instrumental performance. Early in the history of music printing, the pedagogical possibilities of the new medium were recognized by the Valencian courtier Luis Milán and applied by him to El maestro (The teacher), his 1536 anthology of music for vihuela, the Spanish guitar-shaped lute.1 In advertising that his book would follow “the same manner and order that a teacher would bring to a beginning student: showing him progressively from the beginning everything of which he might need to know,” Milán established the role that tablature books came to play in musical self-instruction— not in the intellectual comprehension and appreciation of music, but in the mechanical dimension of music performance. From a contemporary point of view, manuals of this kind thus tell us a great deal about the otherwise undocumented practices of music teaching and music teachers in the Early Modern period. Twenty years after El maestro, the Franciscan friar Juan Bermudo published a much more extensive treatise on musical instruments and instru-

Juan Bermudo, Self-instruction, and the Amateur Instrumentalistâ•… ·â•… 127

mental music, his Declaracion de instrumentos musicales (1555).2 This was the first sixteenth-century Spanish book concerning instrumental music whose primary objective was not to transmit a performance repertoire but to educate instrumentalists in matters beyond musical practice. It was not an anthology of tablature, but a treatise on many aspects of the history, science, and art of music, formulated with a clear educative aim for instrumentalist readers of diverse backgrounds, both amateurs and professionals.3 In contrast to El maestro, self-instruction using Bermudo’s text leads principally to instrumentalists’ deepening of their musical understanding. At the same time, Bermudo gives very practical advice on many matters that help us connect his theoretical concerns to the commonplace reality from which we construct music’s social history. My interest in this study is to focus on Bermudo’s contribution to our understanding of learning to play musical instruments as one of the day-to-day musical experiences of Renaissance urban life. Intertwined with this practicality, of course, is Bermudo’s unequivocal intention of offering the instrumentalist a pedagogical pathway toward achieving the status of the Boethian musicus.4 The essence of Bermudo’s advice for instrumentalists is that they should learn by assimilating techniques derived from vocal music. This reinforces the undeniable centrality of vocal polyphony in sixteenth-century musical thinking and the close interconnection between vocal and instrumental music. Bermudo views the appropriation of vocal polyphony by vihuelists and keyboard players as a natural and normal part of an integrated musical world. I wish to emphasize this point in an attempt to neutralize the propensity to see instrumental and vocal music as distinct branches—as part of the ongoing process of restoring the balance that existed between instrumental and vocal music in Renaissance musical experience. Regarding instrumental music as either peripheral or subsidiary is a legacy of modern historiography and does not accord, at least in quantitative terms, with what I understand to have been the soundscape of Renaissance cities and towns. It also helps us to understand what Bermudo is talking about if we do not consider instrumentalists to be a completely distinct category of musician. No doubt some of Bermudo’s readers would have included clerics who frequently heard or participated in the singing of vocal polyphony, but whose domestic recreation included playing the clavichord or vihuela. William Byrd likewise epitomizes the professional Renaissance musician who traversed both areas. We thus need to keep in mind that many master polyphonists were also lutenists or keyboard players, that many musicians primarily known to us as

128â•… ·â•… John Griffiths

lutenists were composers of fine vocal polyphony, and that in urban societies, many people’s experience of vocal polyphony was principally through the solo instrumental medium.5 With nearly every new document that surfaces in my archival investigations in Spain and Italy, the place of instrumental music moves closer into vocal territory, and the old line separating the center from the periphery becomes increasingly blurred. The ever-sharpening picture reinforces the centrality of instrumental music and practice in sixteenth-century musical culture, and the breadth of its social penetration: whether used at court or domestically, for recreation or entertainment, or as a pedagogical or compositional tool, the lute and other plucked instruments were a central part of the sixteenth-century soundscape. This radiated outward from the very center of mainstream musical activity, assisted by the lute’s multiple roles as a transmitter of vocal polyphony, a vehicle for spiritual and moral education and so for self-improvement, and as a personal symbol of cultural achievement. Not only did many nobles throughout Europe aspire to the model of Castiglione’s lute-playing courtier, but the combination of class interaction and the printing press empowered the literate urban professional classes to emulate these same models from a few rungs further down the social ladder. My exploration and Bermudo’s text, then, revolve around the pedagogy that assisted the expansion of courtly musical practices into the urban sphere. In the geographical areas that interest me most, the penetration of courtly art music into urban society appears to have been quite significant. I estimate, for example, that Spanish violeros may have built over a quarter of a million instruments during the course of the sixteenth century,6 and we learn from surviving printing contracts that instrumental music was printed in extraordinarily large editions of 1,200 to 1,500 copies—print runs that surpass any other known kind of Spanish book production.7 Both pieces of evidence point to widespread instrumental practice in urban society, demonstrated through a correspondingly high level of consumption of musical materials. My contribution to the discussion of Renaissance musical pedagogy is thus primarily concerned not with the training of a professional elite, but pedagogy directed at amateurs. And because this phenomenon coincides with the advent of printing, it also concerns self-instruction. As implied above, Renaissance self-instruction literature is likely to mirror the real practice of master-to-student teaching, but there are many available models and we cannot be sure. The absence of adequate documentation of unwritten pedagogical practice is thus a severe limitation toward achieving


anything like a holistic view of past instrumental pedagogy. We can but acknowledge the role of unwritten pedagogical practice, even though we cannot resuscitate the voices of the many teachers who gave one-to-one instruction or who worked in the numerous privately operated music schools in cities and large towns. We know very little about what they did, and the methods they used. At the same time, there is probably a certain degree of congruence between oral and print pedagogies, and we can only be reassured by the indications given by writers such as Luis Milán who confirm their desire to replicate real-life practice in their published manuals. Learning an instrument requires the acquisition of physical, mechanical skills, as well as the assimilation of the key stylistic elements of the music that is being learned, unless this can be taken for granted as a priori knowledge. Sixteenth-century students of solo instruments who had not had the experience of singing vocal polyphony are likely to have needed some guidance with musical style. In contrast to the dominant instrumental pedagogy of the last 250 years, Renaissance instrumental pedagogy in Spain and Italy focuses substantially on musical style and assumes that good technique will follow automatically. The printed vihuela books, although aimed at the beginner as well as the accomplished player, pay little more than lip service to mechanical matters.8 None of them include specifically technical exercises, although brief technical exercises are interpolated in numerous Italian lute manuscripts, generally working manuscripts that belonged to individual owners.9 The development of tablature notation is intimately connected to the proliferation of lute music and also, to a lesser degree, to the proliferation of keyboard instruments. In effect, playing by numbers brought the performance of sophisticated polyphonic music within reach of the musically illiterate, and the pedagogical challenges that concern us were defined as much by the notation as the music itself. Tablature is not difficult to learn and in addition to its simplicity, it is graphically compact and an ideal way of writing music in score. It is probably no accident that the invention of tablature coincided with the emergence of music printing, and authors and publishers were quick to exploit the enormous social potential: some three hundred tablature books were issued during the sixteenth century. For the first time, high quality music was within reach of the bourgeoisie: a broad sector of society with limited musical experience gained easy access to art music in an easily intelligible format. No doubt, some of the great charmers of the era would have known the odd piece of Josquin, Arcadelt, or Francesco, and with only the flimsiest musical knowledge acquired through tablature editions, would


have been able to feign an inflated level of cultural refinement in order to approximate Castiglione’s model courtier. Returning now to Juan Bermudo, I wish to consider one short passage from the Declaración de instrumentos that is well known to instrumental scholars, a pithy 400-word coda to his discussion of intabulation technique on fol. 99v, at the end of chapter 71: “Some concluding advice on intabulations.”10 It is worth revisiting in the present context because of its pedagogical import. In one of his rare moments of succinctness, following chapters of laborious and detailed explanation of intabulations, Bermudo cuts to the chase as if to say: “now if you really want to be a good vihuelist, here’s what you have to do.” It is a simple and rational recipe, based on instrumental emulation of vocal polyphony. Mechanical skills are completely ignored. Instead, Bermudo advises his reader to learn through intabulating (moving progressively from the simple to the complex), to absorb the compositional technique of vocal composers, and to use this knowledge for creating one’s own works (fantasia extemporization), the pinnacle of sixteenth-century instrumental achievement. In preceding chapters on intabulations, Bermudo teaches how to copy polyphony into score, how to place the music to achieve the best match between music and instrument, and how to translate the mensural notation into tablature. He does not advocate simply playing by numbers, but stresses implicitly that the process of self-instruction involves becoming intimately familiar with the music through copying and analysis. In this respect, he reveals an affinity to Vincenzo Galilei in his concern for the integrity of the vocal model and the use of intabulated polyphony for study possibly more than for performance.11 Bermudo’s insistence on first making a score, in order to be able to predict problems likely to arise in intabulating, differs from contemporaries such as Bartolomeo Lieto, who recommends intabulating each contrapuntal voice directly from the bass upward without the intermediary stage of making a score.12 Other musicians, such as Cosimo Bottegari, who were first and foremost interested in producing intabulations to use as solo songs—by singing one of the original voices and converting the remaining voices into a simple accompaniment—do not operate with a pedagogical imperative and are more pragmatic than fastidious.13 The alternative that became both easy and common due to the explosive upsurge in tablature printing in the 1540s was, of course, to buy a book of tablature prêt a porter. Bermudo first instructs players to seek out and intabulate music composed in two parts:


The music with which you should begin to intabulate will be villancicos (first duos, then in three parts) of homophonic music in which all the voices usually sound at once. Intabulating these requires little effort because, as the notes in each voice have the same value, the ciphers in each bar will be equal in number. For those who might wish to take my advice: these intabulations are not for performing because they are not artful music, so do use them to train your ear. Homophonic villancicos do not have strong enough musical foundations to develop and cultivate good taste in invention. Use them, therefore for practice and for learning how to intabulate; they are not worth more.14

Even if Bermudo is dismissive of these simple pieces, the student stands to learn not only the mechanics of intabulation, but also the fundamentals of counterpoint. Although never mentioned explicitly, Bermudo takes for granted the pedagogical benefit accruing from copying the music into score and intabulating it: this part of the process is possibly the most important of all in terms of the assimilation of compositional style and technique. Whatever the musical quality of these two-voice works, they are also good technical exercises as they demand accurate finger placement, controlled plucking, and linear fluidity. Very few two-part villancicos of the kind that Bermudo recommends survive in polyphonic sources, and not a single example was included in any of the vihuela books published during the sixteenth century.15 The closest piece is a setting in Fuenllana’s Orphénica lyra of Si amores me han de matar, which is attributed to Mateo Flecha; but this duo turns out to be identical to the tenor and bass voices of an anonymous five-part setting in the so-called Cancionero de Uppsala.16 It is impossible to determine which of the versions might have given rise to the other: the five-part version could have been created by adding voices to the duo, or Fuenllana could simply have extracted the lowest two voices from the five-voice work, although this scenario seems less likely to me. Not homophonic (as Bermudo recommended), Si amores me han de matar is of the same imitative style as most of the other two-part music conserved in the printed vihuela tablatures, settings of the Benedictus, Pleni, and Et resurrexit from masses by Josquin and Mouton, along with other liturgical fragments by Morales and Guerrero. The three-part homophonic villancicos to which Bermudo refers are likely to be works such as those in the old style by Juan del Encina and other composers who figure alongside him in sources such as the Cancionero de Palacio, as well as later pieces in the same style. Playing intabulated three-


part homophonic works taught players to understand triadic harmony and chordal progressions and cadential formulas long before the development of a vocabulary to explain them. Triads were possibly understood as physical hand-positions as much as theoretic constructs of superimposed intervals, although it is likely that by Bermudo’s time players of plucked instruments practiced a form of basso continuo, either reading from the bass part or entirely by ear.17 The second step in Bermudo’s method refers to the new style of imitative three-part villancicos that emerged in Spain during the second quarter of the century: Having derived some kind of benefit from the above villancicos, the player should seek out the villancicos of Juan Vásquez which are of high quality, and works by an interesting author named Baltasar Téllez. The works of this studious and wise composer possess four qualities that warrant reporting here: firstly because they are attractive and each voice can be sung in its own right . . . as if it might have been written to be sung alone. From this I infer the second quality: that their attractiveness makes them easy to sing and play. Thirdly, they should have many well-placed suspensions as these sound good on the vihuela. The last condition is that the music should have a narrow range and the voices should not be far from one another when each homophony is sounded.18

The printed vihuela books include large number of this kind of villancico, including many that embody exactly the qualities for which Bermudo praised the works of Baltasar Téllez. The greatest number of surviving works of this kind are the three-voiced villancicos by Vásquez, included in his Villancicos i Canciones of 1551.19 From three-part music, Bermudo moves to works of greater sophistication in four voices, music of greater length and complexity. He speaks of this music with great reverence—of its inexplicable beauty, a source of wisdom and spiritual edification. In this light, as well as for their range of solutions, he also extols Morales, Josquin, and Gombert for the variety displayed in text setting. The prominence he affords these three accords with the prevalence of their works in the surviving instrumental sources, not only the Mass sections that he recommends, but also large numbers of motets, chansons, madrigals, and Spanish secular works that make up such a high proportion of the repertoire. His closing remark about the music of Gombert no doubt arises from the composer’s thicker textures and more pervasive imitation:


Among the Masses of the eminent musician Cristóbal de Morales you will find much music to intabulate, music of so many good qualities that I am incapable of describing it. He who lends himself to this music will not only gain wisdom, but also contemplative devotion. Only few composers possess these qualities, and attain variety in text setting. And among these few, the above-named author is one. Among the foreign music you might find, do not forget that of the great Josquin, who founded music. The most recent that you should intabulate is the music of the excellent Gombert. Due to the difficulty of intabulating it satisfactorily on the vihuela, for being so overflowing, I put it in last place.20

Having laid out this ground plan, Bermudo gives little further guidance. Making intabulations according to the methods he elucidates in the preceding chapters produces arrangements that sit well under the fingers because they make good use of open strings and the standard vocabulary of chord configurations. His further advice deals only with a few secondary smallscale matters, such as how to deal with unisons between polyphonic voices. Vincenzo Galilei gives much more painstaking detail in Il Fronimo about maintaining polyphonic integrity in intabulations. Otherwise, there is a high level of agreement between these two authors whose pedagogical principles are closely aligned. They share the view, for example, that it is advantageous that lutenists be able to read and comprehend mensural music. In content, however, Galilei addresses his treatise to more accomplished players, perhaps a reflection of a more sophisticated Florentine readership, unless this is an impression that stems from his use of classical master-pupil dialogue format. The conclusion of Bermudo’s chapter establishes the tight nexus between intabulation and instrumental composition, and the need to have fully assimilated all of the preceding steps before attempting to create one’s own music. This is one of the most frequently quoted sentences from the entire treatise: Beginners err greatly in trying to impress with their own fantasies. Even if they were to know counterpoint (at least as well as the aforementioned composers) they should not be in such a hurry, so as not to do it with bad taste.21

The point is clear, vocal music is the instrumentalist’s model; however, we might be equally critical of Bermudo for not going far enough. It seems as though his pedagogy is one of imitation by absorption. He gives no direct, concrete guidance on how to proceed from intabulation to fantasia: whether it is by direct imitation, by analogy, by osmosis, or simply by drinking from


the fountain of knowledge. As Philippe Canguilhem has observed, Galilei has a similar difficulty explaining satisfactorily in Fronimo how amateur players built the bridge between intabulation and fantasia.22 The most detailed attempt to teach fantasia improvisation is, of course, Santa María’s Arte de tañer fantasia of 1565.23 Using highly systematic pedagogy, Santa María’s offers the most comprehensive and effective method for learning how to extemporize imitative counterpoint. Despite its great excellence, the one vital element that Santa María eschews along with every other sixteenth-century writer I have consulted, is that of musical structure. While Santa María reveals very clearly how to make all variety of imitative entries, he did not go so far as to offer a strategy for composing a fantasia. Perhaps there did exist an unarticulated belief that the only way for the instrumentalist to assimilate the rhetorical, poetic, and narrative dimensions of contemporary musical discourse was, in fact, through intabulations. The congruence between Bermudo’s writings and those of other authors who ventured to discuss early instrumental music suggests him to be an accurate reporter of established pedagogical practice. If we put him into a broader context, he aims at the curioso tañedor or “inquisitive player,” and offers a more intellectualized approach to playing than would have been the experience of those who taught themselves by way of published tablature anthologies. At the same time, Bermudo offers these players the opportunity to learn skills that will help them move outside the confines of what was available in print. Beyond Bermudo, however, and beyond the theoretical literature, there is other evidence about the way that lutenists and keyboard players acquired musical knowledge. Musical sources still contain a great deal of additional information that can be interpreted within our discussion of pedagogical practice. On the one hand, instrumental parodies of vocal works such as Vincenzo Galilei’s Fantasia sopra Anchor che col partire—as one emblematic example—offer a window onto the nexus between intabulation and fantasy; and at the same time, lute manuscripts in particular are full of brief, fragmentary pieces that were probably intended to be memorized and incorporated into improvised works during performance. Named clausula, final, tirata, and so forth, they are highly suggestive of a practice of extemporized composition that relied, at certain strategic points, on the ability to invoke preexisting memorized materials, especially openings, cadential formulas, and codas. Some Italian lute manuscripts from the late sixteenth century contribute significantly to a growing body of evidence that supports the notion of extem-


porized fantasia involving the real-time assembly of works using certain prefabricated components.24 Some of these materials possibly record the activity of their compilers as either teachers or pupils, and are likely to help us further illuminate pedagogical practice, perhaps bringing us closer to understanding unwritten practices relating both to compositional process and the way that urban amateurs became musicians.

Notes 1.â•‡ Luis Milán, Libro de Musica de vihuela de mano. Intitulado El maestro. El qual trahe el mesmo estilo y orden que un maestro traheria con vn discipulo principiante: mostrandose ordenadamente desde los principios toda cosa que podria ignorar para entender la presente obra (Valencia: Francisco Diaz Romano, 1536). 2.â•‡ Juan Bermudo, Comiença el libro llamado declaracion de instrumentos musicales . . . (Ossuna: Juan de Leon, 1555; repr. as Documenta Musicologica 11, ed. Macario Santiago Kast ner [Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1957]). 3.â•‡ Bermudo has been studied by numerous scholars over the last half century. �ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ Par ticularly significant are the contributions made by John Ward, “Le problème des hauteurs dans la musique pour luth et vihuela au XVIe siècle,” in Le Luth et sa Musique, ed. J. Jacquot (Paris: CNRS, 1958), 171–78; Robert Stevenson, Juan Bermudo (The Hague: Martinus Nij hoff, 1960); Maria Teresa Annoni, “Tuning, Temperament, and Pedagogy for the Vihuela in Juan Bermudo’s Declaración de instrumentos musicales (1555)” (Ph.D. diss., Ohio State University, 1989); Wolfgang Freis, “Becoming a theorist: the growth of the Bermudo’s Declaración de instrumentos musicales,” Revista de Musicología 18 (1995): 27–112; and Paloma Otaola, Tradición y modernidad en los escritos musicales de Juan Bermudo: del Libro primero (1549) a la Declaración de instrumentos musicales (1555) (Kassel: Reichenberger, 2000). Recently, Dawn Espinosa has published a parallel Spanish–English version of Bermudo’s discussion of the vihuela as Journal of the Lute Society of America 28–29 (1995–1996), and my own practical manual, Tañer vihuela según Juan Bermudo (Zaragoza: InstitucioÌ†n Fer nando el CatoÌ†lico, SeccioÌ†n de Música Antigua, 2003), is an attempt to produce a manual for modern players based on Bermudo’s pedagogy. 4.â•‡ The first book of Bermudo’s treatise is entitled “Alabanças de MÃºsica” (In praise of Music) and is written in the tradition of a classic laus musicae, heavily dependent upon Boethius. Chapters 2 and 3, for example, are devoted to the Boethian divisions of music, while chapter 5 explains the differences between the Boethian tri-fold categorization of musicians, lamenting the paucity in contemporary Spain of musicians worthy of the title of musicus: “En nuestra España ay infinidad de cantantes, muchos Buenos cantores, y pocos mÃºsicos” (In Spain today, there are infinite singers, many good composers, and very few musicians) (Declaración, fol. 5v). 5.â•‡ On this topic see particularly Howard M. Brown, “The Importance of Sixteenth Century Intabulations,” in Proceedings of the International Lute Symposium Utrecht 1986, ed. Louis Peter Grijp and Willem Mook (Utrecht: STIMU Foundation for Historical Perfor mance Practice, 1988), 1–29; Hélène Charnassé, “La réception de la musique ‘savante’ dans le monde des amateurs: les receuils de cistre au XVIe siècle,” in Atti del XIV Congresso della Società Internazionale di Musicologia: Transmissione e recezione delle forme di cultura musicale, ed. A. Pompilio et al. (Turin: Edizione di Torino, 1990) 3: 59–67; and more recently John Griffiths, “The Lute and the Polyphonist,” Studi Musicali 31 (2002): 71–90. 6.â•‡ This figure is estimated by assuming, conservatively, that the 170 violeros known to have been active in Spain during the sixteenth century might represent only one tenth

136â•… ·â•… John Griffiths of those who really existed, and that each of them worked for an average of twenty years producing ten instruments per year: 170 × 10 × 20× 10 = 340,000. 7.â•‡ See John Griffiths, “Printing the Art of Orpheus: Vihuela Tablatures in SixteenthCentury Spain,” in Early Music Printing and Publishing in the Iberian World, ed. Iain Fenlon and Tess Knighton (Kassel: Edition Reichenberger, 2006), 181–214. 8.â•‡ The prefatory matter of these books is examined in John Ward, “The ‘Vihuela de mano’ and its Music, 1536–1576” (Ph.D. diss., New York University, 1953). 9.â•‡ Many examples are noted in Victor Coelho, The Manuscript Sources of Seventeenthcentury Italian Lute Music (New York: Garland, 1995). 10.â•‡ “De ciertos avisos para la conclusión del cifrar.” 11.â•‡ Vincenzo Galilei, Fronimo Dialogo di Vincentio Galilei fiorentino nel quale si contengono le vere et necessarie regole del Intavolare la Musica nel Liuto (Venice, 1568); repr. as Fronimo Dialogo di Vincentio Galilei nobile fiorentino sopra l’arte del bene intavolare et rettamente sonare la musica . . . (Venice: Scotto, 1584), trans. and ed. Carol MacClintock, Musicological Studies and Documents 39 (Neuhausen-Stuttgart: American Institute of Musicology & Hanssler-Verlag, 1985). See also the recent monograph by Philippe Canguil hem, Fronimo de Vincenzo Galilei (Paris: Minerve, 2001). 12.â•‡ Bartolomeo Lieto Panhormitano, Dialogo quarto di musica dove si ragiona sotto un piacevole discorso delle cose pertinenti per intavolare le opere di musica . . . (Naples: Matteo Cancer, 1559). 13.â•‡ Cosimo Bottegari, Il libro de canto e liuto / The Song and Lute Book, ed. Dinko Fabris and John Griffiths (Bologna: Forni, 2006); modern edition: The Bottegari Lutebook, ed. Carol MacClintock (Wellesley: Wellesley College, 1965). 14.â•‡ “La MÃºsica que aveys de començar a cifrar: serán unos villancicos (primero dÃºos, y despues a tres) de MÃºsica golpeada, que, commÃºnmente dan todas las bozes junctas. Para cifrar estos quasi no ay trabajo: porque (como los puntos que dan unos con otros sean de ygual valor) las cifras en los compases vernán yguales en nÃºmero. Quien quisiere tomar mi consejo: destas cifras no se aproveche para tañer: porque no es MÃºsica de cudicia, y no se haga el oydo a ellas. Los villancicos golpeados no tienen tan buen fundamento en mÃºsica: que sean bastantes para edificar, y grangear buen ayre de fantesía. Pues tómense para ensa yarse, o imponerse el tañedor en el arte de cifrar: que no son para más.” 15.â•‡ Three such pieces are copied in F:Peb, Chansonnier Masson 56, fols. 72v–75, ed ited in Vilancetes, cantigas e romances do século XVI, ed. Manuel Morais, Portugaliae Musica Serie A, 47 (Lisbon: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, 1986), 30–31. 16.â•‡ Miguel de Fuenllana, Libro de Musica de Vihuela intitulado Orphenica lyra (Seville: n.p., 1554), fol. 2. The anonymous five-voice setting is in Villancicos de diversos autores, a dos, y a tres, y a quatro, y a cinco bozes (Venice, 1556), edited in Maricarmen Gómez, El Cancionero de Uppsala (Valencia: Generalitat Valenciana, 2003), 340–44. 17.â•‡ One possible interpretation of Luis Zapata’s famous anecdote from the 1530s or 1540s concerning the playing of Luis de Narváez who was “of such great musical ability that over four polyphonic voices in a book was able to improvise another four” (“de tan extraña habilidad en la mÃºsica que sobre quatro voces de canto de organo de un libro echaba en la vihuela de repente otras quatro”) is that the vihuelist was playing what was later called basso continuo (Miscelánea, chap. 15, in Pascual de Gayangos, Memorial Histórico Español 9 [Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1859], 95). 18.â•‡ “Después que por estos villancicos estuviere el tañedor en alguna manera in struydo: busque los villancicos de Ivan vazquez que son MÃºsica acertada, y las obras de un curioso mÃºsico que se llama Baltasar Tellez. Las obras de este estudioso y sabio author tienen quatro condiciones, para que en este lugar dellas haga memoria. La primera, son graciosas, que cada una por si se puede cantar, y con tanta sonoridad que parece averse hecho aposta para cantarse sola. De adonde infiero la segunda condición, que serán fáciles

Juan Bermudo, Self-instruction, and the Amateur Instrumentalistâ•… ·â•… 137 de cantar, y tañer: pues que son graciosas. La tercera es, que tienen muchas falsas bien dadas: lo qual suena en la vihuela muy bien La ultima condición es, que es MÃºsica recogida ni anda en muchos puntos, ni se aparta mucho una boz de otra al dar del golpe.” 19.â•‡ Juan Vásquez. Villancicos i Canciones, ed. Eleanor Russell, Recent Researches in the Music of the Renaissance 104 (Madison: A-R Editions, 1995). 20.â•‡ “En las missas del egregio mÃºsico Christoval de Morales hallaréys mucha MÃºsica que poner: con tantas, y tan buenas qualidades que yo no soy sufficiente a explicarlas. El que a esta MÃºsica se diere, no tan solamente quedará sabio: pero devoto contemplativo. Pocos componedores hallareys, que guarden las qualidades, y differencias de las letras. Y entre los pocos, es uno el sobredicho autor. Entre la mÃºsica estrangera que hallareys buena para poner: no olvideys la de el gran mÃºsico Iusquin que començó la mÃºsica. Lo Ãºltimo que aveys de poner sea MÃºsica del excelente Gomberth. Por la difficultad que tiene para poner en la vihuela, por ser derramada: la pongo en el Ãºltimo lugar.” 21.â•‡ “Mucho yerran los tañedores, que començando a tañer: quieren salir con su fante sía. Aunque supiesse contrapunto (sino fueße tan bueno como el de los sobredichos mÃºsicos) no avían de tañer tan presto fantesía: por no tomar mal ayre.” 22.â•‡ Canguilhem, Fronimo de Vincenzo Galilei, chap. 3: “De la mise en tablature a la fantaisie: l’example d’Anchor che col partire,” 95–121. Galilei’s limitation is the impossibility of moving from a discussion of the process of intabulation to the conceptual appropriation of formal and compositional strategies from one genre into the other. 23.â•‡ Tomás de Santa Maria, Libro llamado arte de tañer fantasia (Valladolid, 1565); trans. Warren. E. Hultberg and Almonte C. Howell as The Art of Playing Fantasia (Pitts burgh: Latin American Literary Review Press, 1991). 24.â•‡ This is discussed further in the preface of John Griffiths and Dinko Fabris, eds., Neapolitan Lute Music: Fabrizio Dentice, Giulio Severino, Giovanni Antonio Severino, Francesco Cardone, Recent Researches in the Music of the Renaissance 140 (Madison: A-R Edi tions, 2004).

Perspective 2

8 The Humanist and the Commonplace Book: Education in Practice• Anthony Grafton

• At the core of learning, in early modern Europe, was a single complex set of practices. Scholars described it, often, in organic terms. Every student learned from Seneca that we “should follow . . . the example of the bees, who flit about and cull the flowers that are suitable for producing honey, and then arrange and assort in their cells all that they have brought in.” Seneca grounded this plea for the creative exploitation of multiple sources, naturally, with a well-chosen quotation: “These bees, as our Virgil says, ‘pack close the flowing honey, and swell their cells with nectar sweet.’” Yet as he also taught, extensive borrowing from others, when carried out correctly, meant the transformation, and not the reproduction, of the sources used: “we could so blend these several flavors into one delicious compound that, even though it betrays its origin, yet it nevertheless is clearly a different thing from that whence it came.”1 When Macrobius later explained to readers of his Saturnalia that he had done this in his own work, he appropriated Seneca’s image and played with it, insisting that such bees produce a distinctive new form of honey; Macrobius thereby offered his more learned readers

142â•… ·â•… Anthony Grafton

the thrill of recognizing the exact nature of the practice Seneca had recomÂ� mended.2 In the Early Modern period, one literary technology in particular embodied this ideal of the beehive: the notebook, in all its gloriously complex and indecipherable forms. And this was, of course, a classical revival. The humanists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries knew that the elder Pliny had dictated endless excerpts to his secretaries, who in turn had organized them into the 160 commentarii which the younger Pliny had described as of extraordinary value, and that these practices had underpinned the rich erudition of one of their favorite books, the elder Pliny’s Natural History.3 More importantly, they appreciated that great ancients had seen the making of good notes as a form of mental discipline. As Macrobius wrote, “the actual practice of arrangement, accompanied by a kind of mental fermentation, which serves to season the whole, blends the diverse extracts [in a notebook] to make a single flavor.”4 No wonder that Brutus had spent the eve of the decisive battle of Pharsalus excerpting Polybius, or that Augustus had excerpted examples of good behavior from histories and sent them off to those whose conduct needed improvement. It has long been known that the ideas and practices of humanism helped to transform music in the Renaissance. Theorists used the methods of humanist philology to reconstruct the qualities of ancient music, with all its dramatic effects. They also drew on the methods of classical rhetoric to give an account of how music in their own time affected individual listeners.5 Composers and singers, meanwhile, set the poetry of humanists from Petrarch onward to music. Sometimes, as in the performances of the Florentine Camerata, theory even helped to generate new musical practices, with dramatic effects. And one feature of Renaissance musical practice in particular demands comparison with the literary methods that every educated person mastered in school. The Renaissance, in music, was the great age of the musical commonplace book: the anthology that circulated, first in manuscript and then in hundreds of editions in print, reshaping musical lives and tastes just as the humanist school reshaped literary lives and tastes. This essay is meant to offer a general account of commonplacing, as thousands of young men and a smaller number of young women encountered it in school, mastered it, and applied it throughout their lives. Along with several of the strictly musicological chapters in this volume, it raises a question like that which Michael Baxandall long ago raised about Renaissance art:6 To what extent did the skills that every educated person made part of his or her mental toolbox help to shape the musical tradition

The Humanist and the Commonplace Bookâ•… ·â•… 143

and the way in which it was stored, processed, and accessed in the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries? Commonplacing, after all, seemed anything but commonplace in the Renaissance. Some of the ancients who most closely resembled the humanists— above all that sharp-witted and ironic polymath, Aulus Gellius—had turned the notebook itself into a literary genre. “Whenever I had taken in hand any Greek or Latin book,” he noted in his prologue, “I used to jot down whatever took my fancy, of any and every kind, without any different plan or order, and such notes I would lay away as an aid to my memory, like a kind of literary storehouse.”7 Gellius’s completed commentarii, he claimed, followed the random order of the original notes he drew them from. By the end of the 1420s, when Nicholas of Cusa excitedly announced that he had discovered a complete text of the Attic Nights, he noted with special interest that this preface— which had circulated in the Middle Ages at the end of book 20—came at the beginning of the work.8 Guarino of Verona, the great teacher of the Este court in Ferrara, emended the text and put it into wider circulation.9 And he also revived the Gellian ideal as part of the core of modern classical education. Guarino instructed his star pupil, Leonello d’Este, that whenever he read, he should have ready a notebook . . . in which you can write down whatever you choose and list the materials you have assembled. Then, when you decide to revise the passages that struck you, you will not have to leaf through a large number of pages. For the notebook will be at hand like a diligent and attentive servant to provide what you need.

He also noted that he built on ancient precedent here: “The ancient teachers and students considered this practice so important that many of them, including the elder Pliny, reportedly never read a book without taking notes on its more interesting contents.”10 Guarino’s son Battista adopted his father’s practice, which he recommended in his own treatise on education, making clear the level of grueling attention to detail that commonplacing required. The teacher’s son Battista made clear what this discipline implied. Every word or turn of phrase, every fact or anecdote of interest must be recorded in systematic collections: “But they should hold fast to the practice of always making excerpts of what they read, and they should convince themselves of the truth of Pliny’s dictum, that ‘there is no book so bad that it is totally useless.’”11 And in fact, the notebook answered a new need. The humanist scholar had to master the classics well enough to reproduce their style with satisfying


consistency and accuracy. If he failed, after all, he risked the sort of humiliation that befell Poggio Bracciolini, when Lorenzo Valla wrote a dialogue in which Guarino’s cook and stable boy—themselves barbarous Germans— read one of his works aloud and dissected its solecisms, one by one.12 The modern humanist had, ideally, to read, digest, and make into his own flesh and blood the texts of the ancients—to become a living library, like Peter Kien, the hero of Elias Canetti’s terrifying novel Die Brandung. More than one achieved this goal—as Justus Lipsius, a master of the notebook method, showed that he had when he offered to recite the text of Tacitus, from start to finish, with a dagger held to his throat, to be plunged in if he made a mistake. Only system, method, and hundreds of pages of notes could enable ordinary mortals to become memory artists on this level. By the sixteenth century, note-taking had become part of the educational routine, and textbooks incorporated detailed protocols for it. The intellectual basis for the art was well established. Everyone knew that, as Aristotle and Cicero had explained, any given subject could be divided into what were imagined, literally, as “common places”—the headings where the topics and arguments proper to it could be found. Rudolf Agricola devoted an influential little book to summarizing the “places” or “heads” of argument. A generation later, what most of the ancients had devised as mental preparation for public oratory, techniques for writing invaluable materials and formulating powerful arguments on the wax tablets of an individual’s memory, had transformed itself into a spatially oriented form of information storage and retrieval.13 Erasmus gave the idea of the commonplace book its final, decisive shape in his widely read and revealingly titled manual, On Copiousness in Words and Ideas. There he explained that the commonplaces of argument included not only categories, but also sententiae—a category that soon expanded to include not only general statements, but also historical examples and apologues and much else. The collecting of quotations now had a firm logical justification. In Erasmus’s hands, it also took on an epic scale: “Anyone who wants to read through all types of authors (for once in a lifetime all literature must be read by anyone who wishes to be considered learned) will collect as many quotations as possible for himself.” The student, he explained, should devise a complex, all-inclusive set of headings and subheadings, under which he could enter his extracts: Then, after having chosen yourself headings, as many as will be adequate, arrange these in the order you want, then add to each its parts, then under these subheadings you will at once note the loci communes or sententiae,


whatever you meet with in any author and particularly in the better ones: exemplum, casus novus, sententia, joke or marvel, proverb, metaphor or parable. This method will have the result of fixing in your mind what you read, and will accustom you to use the wealth of your reading. For there are some people who keep many things as it were laid up for use, but when they come to speak or write they are remarkably poverty-stricken and bare. And in this way you will have, whenever occasion demands, a whole apparatus for speaking, ready pigeon-holed, from which you can draw.14

The commonplace book—like a well-plowed, sown, and irrigated field— guarÂ�anteed high returns for its owner, and ensured that no seed would go to waste. These precepts were anything but dead letters: schoolmasters systematically put them into practice. At Rivington School, the sixteenth-century statutes instructed the masters that “the eldest sort must be taught how to refer every thing they read to some common place, as to virtue, vice, learning, patience, adversity, prosperity, war, peace &c. for which purpose they must have paper books ready to write them in.” At Eton College, even less was left to chance. Every Saturday afternoon, the boys had to “Show their books for Phrases collected that weeke, and their writing bookes.” And at the other end of Christian Europe, when the Jesuit Jeremias Drexel wrote an influential treatise on commonplacing, he gave it the revealing title Aurifodina (Goldmine). Even more revealing was the image on the title page, which contrasted miners digging arduously for the mineral gold with a single scholar who adds even more of the genuine, intellectual gold of excerpts to his notebook. Sir Philip Sidney was, for once, repeating a commonplace that he had learned as a boy when he advised his brother on how to study works of history: But that I wish herein is this, that when you read any such thing, you straight bring it to his head, not only of what art, but by your logical subdivisions, to the next member and parcel of the art. And so, as in a table, be it witty words, of which Tacitus is full, sentences, of which Livy, or similitudes, wherein Plutarch, straight to lay it up in the right place of the storehouse, as either military, or more especially defensive military, or more particularly defensive by fortification, and so lay it up. So likewise in politic matters.15

Naturally, not all learned men succeeded in disciplining themselves to write down everything they read. But those who failed to do so recognized that they were at fault. The influential Strasbourg rhetorician Johannes Sturm told his students mournfully that “I haven’t done this, and I am sorry that I


didn’t do it, and I wish my teachers had told me to do so. I could be more helpful to you now than I am.” The great Huguenot philologist Isaac Casaubon filled almost sixty notebooks, now in the Bodleian Library, with notes on texts and conversations. More than once he took time to warn himself that these records underpinned all scholarly writing: “Remember to set down everything you read in books of excerpts. This is the only way to aid your failing memory. As the proverb has it, One knows as much as his memory holds.”16 Francis Bacon noted that his own “paper-books” followed complementary systems: one “like a Marchant’s wast booke where to enter all maner of remembrance of matter . . . w[i]thout any maner of restraint; another with Kalenders or Titles of things . . . for better help of memory and judgm[en]t,” while others, which he called “title books,” held matter selected from the rest and copied, in part by a servant.17 Casaubon, a scholar with many children, did his own copying. But he followed a similar method, using some of his notebooks for records of texts he had encountered, in chronological order—not to mention the ghost stories that his friend Lancelot Andrewes told him—and turning others into genuine commonplace books. Yet these notes, rich though they were, recorded only a fraction of what he had learned, and summarized, in the margins of his books—many of which, once he moved from Paris to London, were no longer at his disposal.18 The form of reading that one mastered at school, in other words, was different from reading as we know it now: it was reading as cross-pollination, a rigorous and demanding exercise. One learned to carry it out in conditions of strenuous attentiveness. One practiced it, ideally, in conditions of quiet and isolation. Above all, one did it pen in hand, marking the apposite passages in one’s books and copying them out systematically for rapid retrieval. When Jan Amos Comenius, the seventeenth-century Czech educational reformer, showed schoolboys an image of a reader at work in his study, he naturally incorporated the act of writing into the picture and its accompanying text: The Study is a place where a student, a part from men, sitteth alone, addicted to his studies, whilst he readeth Books, which being within his reach, he layeth open upon a Desk and picketh all the best things out of them into his own Manual, or marketh them in them with a dash, or a little star in the Margent.

The reader sat forward, his fierce attention to the book before him materially embodied in the sharpened quill or bent nib with which he took down everything that mattered most.19


Naturally, scholars devised text retrieval schemes of the most wildly varied kinds. Celio Calcagnini, a Ferrarese scholar dear to Erasmus for his belief in church reform and delightfully cryptic epigrams, declined to emulate his friend Pandolfo Colenuccio, who used color-coded inks to identify the subjects of the passages he underlined. Nor did he find it necessary, as he explained, to draw “little towers, pointing hands, or tiny columns” in the margins of his books, in order to call attention to points of interest. Instead, he made notes, in separate notebooks or in the margins of the pages, a practice that enabled him to review many entire books in half an hour.20 His copy of Dioscorides in Latin, preserved in the Princeton University Library, confirms this description: Calcagnini filled it, end to end, with neatly written notes of many kinds.21 His energy and ability to find what was salient failed him, he confessed, only once, when he tried to make notes on the elder Pliny’s Natural History, that great rag-and-bone shop of ancient art, technology, and science which was itself, as everyone knew, the precipitate of its author’s brilliantly systematic note-taking. As Calcagnini put it, “without question, I did something absurd, since I ended up copying out all of Pliny.”22 Others offered mechanical devices that made it easier to lay out and retrieve what one read. Late in the sixteenth century, John Foxe the martyrÂ� ologist produced a printed model commonplace book, offering, in its second edition of 1572, no fewer than 768 topics already laid out with spaces for the reader to fill in. Sir Julius Caesar, an influential lawyer and Member of Parliament in the decades around 1600, not only filled in his copy with hundreds of closely-written entries, but also enriched Foxe’s list of headings with almost 700 more of his own.23 He thus created, in William Sherman’s words, not only a detailed record of six decades of reading, but also “a powerful tool that anticipated the kind of indexed archive now being delivered to anyone with a networked computer by Google and its associates.”24 A hundred years later, Vincentius Placcius offered the public a “Scrinium literatum,” a device first conceived by the British projector Thomas Harrison, as Noel Malcolm has now shown. This organized the reader’s notes, taken not in books but on a system of file cards or slips, on metal hooks in a cabinet where they were almost mechanically retrievable and could be rearranged and supplemented ad infinitum.25 The bees and beehives of an older system of analogies had made way for efficient, modern machinery—a natural extension of the traditional methods of the humanist school to meet and direct the floods of information that threatened to overwhelm scholars in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.26


Even Placcius did not match the imagination or ambition of the Venetian Giulio Camillo. Camillo—as a friend of Erasmus’s, Viglius Zuichemus, reported with astonishment—built a wooden amphitheatre, large enough for at least two people to enter it and “marked with many images and full of little boxes.” The seven planetary Gods of Olympus and the myths associated with them divided the rows of the theatre into an allegorical encyclopedia in which every subject matter, or locus, could be immediately found. At each point, the user—who would occupy the space normally allotted to the stage—could find “a mass of papers” which contained “whatever about anything is found in Cicero.” The user would thus be able not only to comprehend the universe, but also—a far more saleable accomplishment in period terms—to talk about his findings in perfect Latin prose. “Whoever is admitted as spectator,” Zuichemus remarked, “will be able to discourse on any subject no less fluently than Cicero”—though Camillo himself, it turned out, “stammers and speaks Latin with difficulty, excusing himself with the pretext that through continually using his pen he has nearly lost the use of speech.”27 In Camillo’s hands, the commonplace book bloomed like a vast mad orchid, becoming a threedimensional model of the human mind itself. No wonder that the proper way to make and fill such books continued to occupy serious thinkers until the Enlightenment, when Locke dedicated a treatise to the subject, or that so many of the most prominent early modern writers—Montaigne and Donne, Jonson and Milton, Voltaire and Jefferson—produced them. In the world of learning, the routines of commonplacing had effects— and underwent transformations—that could not easily have been predicted from their original role in elementary education. In theory, commonplace books were private and individual. Each one should contain the precipitate of a single person’s systematic reading, and should represent a hermeneutical autobiography. In practice, the distance between private and public rapidly disappeared, as printed aids to composition appeared that had many of the characteristics and uses of the commonplace book. Erasmus insisted that each student must read his own way through the classics and make his own collections of turns of phrase and historical examples. But the very work in which he explained how to make notebooks, On Copiousness, offered sprawling lists of examples that readers could plunder as they wished: hundreds of ways to say “Thank you for the letter” in good Latin, for example, and dozens more for saying “So long as I live, I shall remember you.” His Adages, which appeared in 1508, offered potted essays on thousands of subjects, each inspired by a pithy and quotable ancient saying.


These books became bestsellers on a pan-European scale; just about half of the books found in the libraries of students who died while at Cambridge (as many did in the sixteenth century) were textbooks by Erasmus. And they informed anyone who could read a bit of Latin that when he wished to advise that peace was preferable to war, he should say “War is pleasant, to those who haven’t tried it,” that when he wanted to point out that attacking a powerful antagonist was unwise, he should say “Don’t poke the fire with a sword,” and that when he wanted to counsel against precipitate decisions, he should simply quote the emperor Vespasian: “Hasten slowly.” When Erasmus misrendered the jar that Pandora opened, according to Hesiod, as a box, his mistake became proverbial, thanks to endless reuse by writers who first encountered the story as schoolboys, in his Adages, in every European language except Italian.28 Multiple systematic indices—another practice learned from ancient literary bees like Pliny and Gellius—made the riches of these works easily accessible, despite their deliberately unsystematic form.29 Other textbook authors, less idealistic than Erasmus, assembled similar materials more systematically. Henricus Arning, for example, compiled a work entitled Marrow of the Transitions Most Used in Orations for Gymnasium students in Livonia. It offered not guidance in wandering the endless Hercynian forests of Latin literature but model exordia, transitions, and conclusions, in which the student could fill in the blanks as any occasion demanded: “Though our ancestors ordained many splendid things, none of these was more splendid, more useful, more prudent, more carefully adapted to preserve scholarship, more efficiently designed to promote the studiousness of the young, more brilliantly appropriate to preserving the authority of ranks and orders, than .”30 Theodor Zwinger provided intending scholars with excerpts from over 500 authors, laid out to form a Theatre of Human Life more than 5,000 folio pages long. More and more sophisticated indices made it unnecessary even to read such works through. The commonplace book, in short, not only served as an educational tool, but also became a published genre in its own right—one that occasionally threatened to become the early modern counterpart to such websites as Schoolsucks.com. The pervasiveness of such compilations—and the universal expectation that good students would produce more of them—had a powerful impact on habits of reading and argument. Any regime of commentary tends to atomize texts, to break them up into little units that can be coherently discussed. But the commonplace method heightened this tendency. It schooled even thinkers of the highest originality to think of the works they read not as coherent


wholes, but as quarries, from which the modern reader could assemble any sort of mosaic. No wonder, then, that so many early modern texts pullulate with facts, examples, quotations, and anecdotes pulled from their contexts, misrepresented as personal experience and misapplied to the most diverse ends. After all, any given writer compiled his work, over time, often from his own notebooks, the composition of which lay years in the past, or the compilations of other men entirely.31 Did contemporaries not realize that commonplacing was, itself, a commonplace? That accessible printed substitutes enabled idealistic and consistent writers to dispense with taking their own notes, and simply mix and match existing ingredients? Of course they did. From the fifteenth century on, in fact, those who revealed their dependence on notebooks found themselves challenged, confounded, and humiliated. Angelo Decembrio, the Milanese humanist whose De politia litteraria, a set of dialogues modeled on the Attic Nights, described the literary world of Guarino’s Ferrara, brought an old schoolmaster on stage who had used notebooks to master all of Virgil. He challenged all-comers to cite any line from Virgil’s corpus, and promised that he would reply with the next one. “Urbem,” intoned the young poet Tito Vespasiano Strozzi, “quam dicunt Romam, Meliboee, putavi”—and forced the schoolmaster to reply “Stultus ego.” But he, of course, had already become senile—the natural fate, as Decembrio remarked, of those who spent too much time with the young.32 Erasmus attacked more glamorous prey. He devoted the opening pages of his satire on the Ciceronians—the Italians who tried to write a prose in which every word, phrase, and fact came from the corpus of Cicero—to an imaginative account of how one of them had ruined his health in his obsession to capture the textual world of Cicero on paper. The Ciceronian Nosoponus declares that he has compiled three great notebooks: an alphabetical list of every word in Cicero, so large that two men can barely lift it; an alphabetical list of every phrase in Cicero, even larger than the first; and a list of all the metrical feet that occur at the beginnings and ends of Cicero’s sentences. He documents Cicero’s usage by compiling not just every word, but every appearance of it, making careful distinctions between the different senses it had in different contexts. He refuses to use not just any word which Cicero had not, but any form of it which did not figure in the Ciceronian corpus. And he prepares to use these materials by eating only ten currants and three coriander seeds coated with sugar for dinner, immuring himself â•ƒ“ in a library in the inmost part of my house with thick walls, double doors and windows, and all


the cracks stopped carefully with pitch and plaster so that by day scarcely a ray of light can break through or a sound”—and spending the whole night on a single sentence. He even prepares for Latin meditation in the same way. Boulephorus, his antagonist, makes fun of Nosoponus in many ways, remarking that “if I should prepare to work on Cicero to that extent at night my wife would burst open the door, would tear the books, and would burn the pages that are absorbed in Cicero. And what is even more intolerable, while I was working on Cicero, she would find another lover.” But his chief point is more elegant. The ancient painter Zeuxis, he points out, had to paint a picture of Helen for the citizens of Croton. To make it “a perfect and lifelike example of womanly charm,” he did not use a single model, “but from all who offered themselves to him he chose several who were more excellent than the rest in order that he might select from each what was most comely.” Did this not suggest that seeking a model of eloquence from Cicero alone was misguided? No, replied Nosoponus: “If Zeuxis had found a virgin of such beauty as Cicero, perhaps he would have been content with a single model.”33 His statement, of course, condemned him. For it showed that for all his mastery of Cicero’s vocabulary, he had failed to see that Cicero himself was an eclectic stylist, who recommended in his treatise On Invention that orators emulate Zeuxis. The master of the notebook method revealed that his command of the texts was actually lifeless, that he had not understood them fully and could not read them in a productive way. Worse still, he failed to understand that the world had changed since Cicero’s time—something that Cicero himself clearly had understood when he made his productive adaptations from Greek originals. Richard West made the same point more pithily in 1638: Their Braines lye all in Notes; Lord! How they’d looke If they should chance to loose their Table-book!34

Yet Erasmus himself was liable to the same criticism—as Mutianus Rufus, a German friend of his, pointed out, when he remarked that Erasmus’s Aphorisms had been over-praised: they were only a device that enabled ignorant schoolboys to pretend they were learned.35 What made a great scholar’s notebooks different from those of an ordinary product of Latin school was, first of all, their sheer extent—and the first-hand way in which he had compiled them. Guillaume Budé, the great French lawyer and contemporary of Erasmus who inspired the creation of what became the Collège de France, mastered the entire corpus of Greek by his own efforts. And he did so with notebooks—notebooks on a heroic,


Herculean scale. Seven of these survive, in private hands in Geneva. Closely written, two thousands pages long, these fragments of what must originally have been an immense literary honeycomb confirm that Budé worked just as hard as academic legend says (when a servant entered his study to tell him that his wife thought he should know the house was on fire, he replied, “Kindly remind Mme Budé that domestic affairs are her concern” and went on working). They also show that he took the enterprise of notebook-keeping with deep seriousness. Text after text, word after word is not only copied out, but analyzed, in terms of its potential application. And the content of these entries is as revealing as their form, as a single sample shows. When he found the adjective demoboros, “devourer of the people,” in Homer’s Iliad, he immediately noted that one could apply it to a king who exploited or enslaved his subjects. Budé’s notebooks clearly formed an integral part of his lifelong effort to create a Christian form of humanism. Even as he read his texts, he imagined their application, not randomly but purposefully—and thus made possible the composition of his great treatise On the Passage from Paganism to Christianity.36 In hands like Budé’s, commonplacing became a creative art—a way to make the classics useful for modern purposes. No one emulated his practices more effectively than Justus Lipsius, the liar, heretic, and plagiarist who also became a master teacher of everything from military tactics to Stoic philosophy—not to mention the many connections between them. In 1589, he issued his Politica, a manual of politics in six books that would go through fifteen editions in Latin between 1589 and 1599 alone (it eventually went through fifty-four editions) and was translated into Dutch, French, English, Polish, Spanish, Hungarian, and other languages. Even the most professional politicians—like the hard-bitten Spanish cavalryman Bernardino de Mendoza— might take time off between efforts to assassinate Queen Elizabeth in order to translate the text (in his case, into Spanish). No wonder, for Lipsius made his work a systematic training in all the skills that early modern monarchs and their ministers needed: how to raise armies, quell dissent, impose discipline, trick an enemy (licitly or illicitly), and deal with religious dissenters. In each case, Lipsius made his points not by proposing arguments of his own but by setting out mosaics of quotations from authoritative texts—in such a way as to mix traditional ingredients into an up-to-date, even ultra-modern creation. Should a state, he asked, tolerate religious dissent? To begin with, he explained, one must distinguish between public and private dissent. Then one can lay out the opinions of the ancients in a coherent and useful way:


I say that they sin publicly, who both entertain wrong opinions about God and the traditional rites and induce others to do so by making disturbances. Privately, who entertain the same wrong opinions, but keep them to themselves. As to the first, the question is, should such men get off scot free? No! “Let them be punished by you lest you be punished in their place!” (Cyprian) Especially if they create disturbances. “Better that one perish than that unity perish.” (Augustine) “The penalty for profanation of religions varies from place to place, but there always is one.” (Seneca) There is no room for clemency here. “Burn, cut, so that a member perish rather than the whole body.” (Cicero)37

When challenged—as Lipsius was by the Dutch irenicist Dirck Coornhert, who objected to this apparently fierce demand that heretics be beheaded and burnt—he replied, calmly, that his opponents, even if already old men, needed to go back to school. They had failed to see that his texts did not mean what they seemed to. The phrase “burn and cut” merely recommended a necessary form of surgery—as was clear from the original context in which Cicero had used the phrase in his Philippics. Lipsius’s dazzlingly clever version of the commonplace book—a model demonstration of both how one could pull texts from their contexts to serve new purposes, and claim to be merely carrying out a harmless, erudite form of compilation when challenged—attracted the interest of some of the most learned and original writers in Europe. Ben Jonson underlined his own copy of the Politica to death, and recycled material from it in a curious work of his own, Timber, or Discoveries, which also resembled a commonplace book given finished form—the book as honeycomb.38 No case reveals the miseries and splendors of the notebook method more vividly than that of Flacius Illyricus, the southern Slav who created a research team in Magdeburg, which in turn compiled the first Protestant church history. This immense enterprise—the first grant-supported effort at historical teamwork since ancient times—employed no fewer than “seven students,” as Flacius explained, endowed with reasonable learning and judgment, with fixed grants. They carefully go through the authors assigned to them and make excerpts from them, paying close attention to the goals established with great care in our Method. They carry out what amounts to an anatomy of the authors, and copy everything out in its place [that is, its commonplace], and do so always taking up one century at a time.


A passionate Protestant and, as this last passage shows, an observer of the new science practiced by Vesalius, Flacius was also a traditional humanist, and made clear his own allegiance to the standard fable of the bees: Next we support two Masters of Arts, men of outstanding maturity, learning and good judgment. They are presented with the materials that the hard-working little bees have already collected from flowers in various places. Their job is to assess, outline, and arrange the materials that have already been assembled, which should form part of the text, and finally to work them up into a coherent historical narrative.

The resulting text—a century by century history of the church—was organized not as a linear narrative but as a honeycomb, each cell containing information about church doctrine, liturgy, or poor relief at a given time—an extraordinarily original form of historical writing.39 But Flacius’s project—and the metaphors that he gaily flung together as he described it to potential donors—did not meet with universal enthusiasm. In Wittenberg, for example, the followers of Melanchthon, who despised him, seized upon the new and unbecoming metaphor of a public anatomy. “Flacius’s anatomies of historical books,” the Wittenbergers cracked, “are well known, and much resented by those whose libraries have experienced them”—an allusion to the fabled culter Flacianus which Flacius supposedly used to gather his materials. Worse still, by bringing into play the corporeal metaphor of the bees, Flacius and his allies unleashed the scatological imaginations of their opponents—never something in short supply in the German professoriate. The Wittenberg critics used an elaborate organic metaphor against the Institutum. The seven inspectors, they joked, formed the belly of the beast. The inspectors, like the liver, separated chyme from blood, and sent the excrementary byproducts along to the masters of arts, as if to the intestines. As to Flacius and the other inspectors—they must either be the brain or the heart of the enterprise: “Since Flacius is nothing in history, except the impresario of the money, we can more fittingly compare him to the heart. But clearly, if your heart is a great ass, it isn’t very heartening to have it.”40 The College’s elaborate table of organization, then, was nothing more than an adaptation of the human anatomy and physiology that its members had probably seen demonstrated for them on a chart. Like a human body, too, the College in the end produced nothing but excrement. The literary honeycomb had a double edge—as Flacius, who liked mixing his metaphors, might well have remarked. Nonetheless, the notebook


played many vital roles in the practice of scholars’ daily lives and learned work. It was not just a teaching aid for aspiring Latinists, but a hermeneutical tool and a locus of research training in its own right. And it lived on at least until the Enlightenment—when the British musical theorist Roger North, setting out to compile an account of the origins and nature of music and to draw up a musical “grammar” and “syntax,” began by composing what he called a “marginall index”: a list of topics which served as headings, under which he compiled thoughts and information. “In the collecting of notes,” he explained, “I have cast them into chapters and sections”—an unromantic account of composition that would have seemed eminently familiar and no less reasonable to Guarino, Erasmus, and Milton—and thousands of others. He was certainly not alone.41

Notes This chapter draws on my keynote address, “How Renaissance Students Learned to Read the Classics: Visions, Techniques, Memories,” given as part of the conference Reading and Writing the Pedagogies of the Renaissance: The Student, the Study Materials, and the Teacher of Music, 1470–1650, at the Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University, 2–4 June 2005. It also draws, in part, on my lecture “Commonplace Books and the Practices of Learning in Early Modern Europe,” presented at the James Marshall and Marie-Louise Marie Osborn Collection at the Beinecke Rare Book Library of Yale University, on 12 September 2001. 1.â•‡ Seneca, Epistulae morales, 84.3–6. For this and other central sources of the commonplace tradition see G. W. Pigman III, “Versions of Imitation in the Renaissance,” Renaissance Quarterly 33 (1980): 1–32; Ann Moss, Printed Commonplace-Books and the Structuring of Renaissance Thought (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996); Earle Havens, Commonplace Books: A History of Manuscripts and Printed Books from Antiquity to the Twentieth Century (New Haven: Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscript Library, distributed by the University Press of New England, 2001), 13–16. 2.â•‡ Macrobius, Saturnalia, 1 praef. 5. 3.â•‡ Pliny the Younger, Epistulae, 3.5.10. 4.â•‡ Macrobius, Saturnalia, 1 praef. 6. 5.â•‡ See, e.g., Claude Palisca, Humanism in Italian Renaissance Musical Thought (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985); Ann Moyer, Musica Scientia: Musical Scholarship in the Italian Renaissance (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991); Raffaele Lippo Brandolini, On Music and Poetry = De musica et poetica: 1513, ed. Ann Moyer (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2001). 6.â•‡ See Baxandall’s classic studies, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-Century Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972; 2nd edition 1988), and Giotto and the Orators (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972). Both offer rich insight into the humanists’ ways of compiling and using information, especially about the Latin language. 7.â•‡ Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae, praef. 2. 8.â•‡ Remigio Sabbadini, Le scoperte dei codici latini e greci ne’ secoli xiv e xv, ed. Eugenio Garin (Florence: Sansoni, 1967), II: 24–25. Poggio wrote: “Agellium scilicet truncum et mancum et cui finis sit pro principio.”

156â•… ·â•… Anthony Grafton 9.â•‡ See generally Peter K. Marshall, “Aulus Gellius,” in Texts and Transmission: A Survey of Latin Classics, ed. Leighten D. Reynolds (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983), 176–180; and, for the wider context, Hans Baron, “Aulus Gellius in the Renaissance: His Influence and a Manuscript from the School of Guarino,” in From Petrarch to Leonardo Bruni (Chicago: Published for the Newberry Library by the University of Chicago Press, 1968), 196–215, though Baron’s ascription of the Newberry ms to Guarino is to be treated with reserve; Guarino da Verona, Epistolario, ed. Remigio Sabbadini, 3 vols. (Venice, 1915–1919), III: 307; Sabbadini, La scuola et gli studi di Guarino Guarini Veronese (Catania, 1896), repr. in Sabbadini, Guariniana, ed. M. Sancipriano (Turin: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1964), 118–19. 10.â•‡ Guarino, Epistolario, II: 269–70. 11.â•‡ Battista Guarino, “A Program of Teaching and Learning,” in Humanist Educational Treatises, ed. and trans. Craig Kallendorf (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002), 295; original on 294: “Sed omnino illud teneant, ut semper ex iis quae legunt conentur excerpere, sibique persuadeant, quod Plinius dictitare solebat, ‘nullum esse librum tam malum ut non in aliqua parte prosit’” (Ep. 3.5.10). 12.â•‡ Rudolf Pfeiffer, “Küchenlatein,” Philologus 86 (1931): 455–59, repr. in Pfeiffer, Ausgewählte Schriften, ed. Winfried Bühler (Munich: Beck, 1960), 181–87. 13.â•‡ See esp. Moss, Printed Commonplace-Books, the excellent summary in Havens, Commonplace Books, and Joan Marie Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of the Commonplaces (New York: Pageant Press, 1962). 14.â•‡ Erasmus, De duplici rerum ac verborum copia, ed. Betty Knott, Opera omnia 1.6 (Amsterdam: North-Holland, 1988), 260–61. 15.â•‡ The Correspondence of Sir Philip Sidney and Hubert Languet, ed. S. A. Pears (London: W. Pickering, 1845), 201. 16.â•‡ Bodleian Library ms Casaubon 16, fol. 5v: “Quicquid legis in Excerptorum libros referre memineris: haec unica ratio labenti memoriae succurrendi. Scitum enim illud est, Tantum quisque scit, quantum memoria tenet.” Cf. Thomas Fuller’s remark of 1642: “Adventure not all thy learning in one bottom, but divide it betwixt thy Memory and thy Notebooks . . . A Common-place-book contains many Notions in garrison, whence the owner may draw out an army into the field on competent writing.” Quoted by Peter Beal, “‘Notes in Garrison’: The Seventeenth-Century Commonplace Book,” in New Ways of Looking at Old Texts, ed. William Hill (Binghamton, N.Y.: Renaissance English Text Society, 1993), 131–47, at 132. 17.â•‡ Beal, “‘Notes in Garrison’,” 145. 18.â•‡ Mark Pattison, Isaac Casaubon, 1559–1614, 2nd edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1892), 429. 19.â•‡ Jan Amos Comenius, Orbis sensualium pictus, trans. C. Hoole (London: Mearne, 1672), 200–201. 20.â•‡ Celio Calcagnini, Opera aliquot (Basel: Froben, 1544), 26. 21.â•‡ Pedanius Dioscorides, De re medica, ed. M. Adriani (Florence, 1518); Princeton UniÂ� versity Library R126 .D6 1518q. 22.â•‡ Calcagnini, Opera, 26. 23.â•‡ British Library ms Add. 6038; see William Sherman, Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), chap. 7. 24.â•‡ Sherman, Used Books, 148. 25.â•‡ Noel Malcolm, “Thomas Harrison and his ‘Ark of Studies’: An Episode in the History of the Organization of Knowledge,” The Seventeenth Century 19/2 (October 2004): 196– 232. 26.â•‡ Ann Blair, “Reading Strategies for Coping with Information Overload, ca. 1550– 1700,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64 (2003): 11–28; and her “Note-Taking as an Art of Transmission,” Critical Inquiry 31 (2004): 85–107. 27.â•‡ Opus Epistolarum Des. Erasmi Roterodami, ed. P. S. Allen, H. M. Allen, and H. W.

The Humanist and the Commonplace Bookâ•… ·â•… 157 Garrod, 12 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1908–1958), 9: 479; see Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), and Lina Bolzoni, La stanza della memoria (Turin: G. Einaudi, 1995). 28.â•‡ Erwin Panofsky and Dora Panofsky, Pandora’s Box: The Changing Aspects of a Mythical Symbol (New York: Pantheon Books, 1956). 29.â•‡ Ann Blair, “Annotating and Indexing Natural Philosophy,” in Books and the Sciences in History, ed. Marina Frasca-Spada and Nick Jardine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 69–89. 30.â•‡ Heinrich Arningk, Medulla variarum earumque in orationibus usitatissimarum connexionum (Altenburg: Ottonem Michaelem, 1652), 11; Walter Ong, “Commonplace Rhapsody: Ravisius Textor, Zwinger and Shakespeare,” in Classical Influences on European Culture, ad 1500–1700, ed. Robert R. Bolgar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 111–18. 31.â•‡ Ann Blair, “Humanist Methods in Natural Philosophy: The Commonplace Book,” Journal of the History of Ideas 53 (1992): 541–51; and Ann Blair, The Theater of Nature: Jean Bodin and Renaissance Science (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997). 32.â•‡ Angelo Decembrio, De politia literaria, ed. Norbert Witten (Munich: K. G. Saur, 2002), 5.58, 394–95. 33.â•‡ Erasmus, Dialogus Ciceronianus, ed. Pierre Mesnard, Opera omnia 1.2 (Amsterdam: North-Holland, 1971); Izora Scott, Controversies over the Interpretation of Cicero as a Model for Style (New York: Columbia University, 1910). 34.â•‡ See Beal, “‘Notes in Garrison’” (note 16, above). 35.â•‡ Mutianus Rufus, Briefwechsel, ed. Carl Krause (Kassel: A Freyschmidt, 1885), 392. 36.â•‡ Anthony Grafton, Commerce with the Classics (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997), 169–72. 37.â•‡ Anthony Grafton, Bring Out Your Dead (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001), 237. See Ann Moss, “The Politica of Justus Lipsius and the Commonplace Book,” Journal of the History of Ideas 59 (1998): 421–37. 38.â•‡ For a facsimile, see Robert Evans, Jonson, Lipsius, and the Politics of Renaissance Stoicism (Wakefield, N.H.: Longwood, 1992). 39.â•‡ De ecclesiastica historia quae Magdeburgi contexitur narratio (Wittenberg: n.p., 1558), [sig. A iiij verso]–B[recto]. On Flacius’s enterprise and its outcome, see Heinz Scheible, Die Entstehung der Magdeburger Zenturien (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1966); Marina Hartmann, Humanismus und Kirchenkritik: Matthias Flacius Illyricus als Erforscher des Mittelalters (Stuttgart: Thorbeck, 2001); and Greg Lyon, “Baudouin, Flacius, and the Plan for the Magdeburg Centuries,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64 (2003): 253–72. 40.â•‡ De ecclesiastica historia, sig. F–Fv. 41.â•‡ Roger North, The Musicall Grammarian 1728, ed. Mary Chan and Jamie Kassler (CamÂ�bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 65.

Part Three

Renaissance Materials and Contexts•

9 Musical Commonplaces in the Renaissance• Peter Schubert

• Renaissance readers, writers, and speakers were well-trained in textual recycling, and one of their most powerful and pervasive tools was the “commonplace book”—a collection of notes from reading and other sources that the compiler might want to recall, and reuse, at a later date. While the structure and purpose of these volumes varied enormously, they were distinguished from random collections of quotations (in theory at least) by being gathered under conventional headings called loci communes or “common places.” . . . The headings could be tailored to an individual’s personal or professional needs, suggested by teachers, or bought in blankbooks with printed headings and decorative borders—and readers who did not have the patience or the resources to gather their own entries could even buy a book with the quotations already printed or written in.

Although the tradition of commonplace books in Renaissance literary education has received serious attention, its place in music is less well known.1 This may be because we have only two treatises that contain collections of musical examples explicitly called commonplaces. The first, by Francisco de Montanos, is the Arte de musica teorica y pratica (1592); the second, which draws heavily on the first, is the famous El melopeo y maestro by Pedro Cerone (1613).2 Each author prints many four-voice musical examples that the young

162â•… ·â•… Peter Schubert

composer is to use “as his own.” These collections, which are the focus of this study, are like the many printed phrase-books in which a young writer would find pithy sayings (sententiae) from classical authors to use in the process called imitatio.3 For examples of good Latin usage, or for poetic models, the compiler would turn to Cicero or other Latin authors; for material for sermons, to the Bible or the Church Fathers; for theological arguments, to sententiae from Luther and Melanchthon.4 By calling their musical examples “commonplaces,” Montanos and Cerone introduce music into this tradition of textual recycling. While the making of commonplace books has already raised fundamental questions about the organization of thought into different levels of abstraction, and about plagiarism and intellectual property, we now have to consider whether and how music can be treated in the same way as legal precedent, stories, and proverbs. In this study I will apply contemporaneous principles of commonplace organization to the musical examples in these collections, to show that imitative sections of polyphonic pieces in which voices enter successively with the soggetto (what we have traditionally lumped together as “points of imitation”), are actually several distinct presentations of thematic material. And finally, just as readers noted the rhetorical devices they found as they ran through the letters of Cicero, in the final section of this study we will take Cerone’s advice and look to the opening-points of the motets in Palestrina’s First Book of Four-Voice Motets for these types of thematic presentation.5

Notebooks The commonplace book is the primary tool of the “notebook and heading method,” in which a writer or speaker jots down for future use particularly good bits he finds in his reading.6 The most durable emblem of this practice is Seneca’s famous image of the bees: “We should follow, men say, the example of the bees, who flit about and cull the flowers that are suitable for producing honey, and then arrange and assort in their cells all that they have brought in; these bees, as our Vergil says, ‘pack close the flowing honey, / and swell their cells with nectar sweet.’”7 Petrarch, concerned with the dangers of plagiarism in imitation, repeated Seneca’s metaphor of the bees, being careful to distinguish modeling or imitation from mere quotation or reproduction.8 Some authors of music treatises advocated the same kind of notebook collecting. Jessie Ann Owens describes Johann Frosch’s advice: “Near the end of the chapter, Frosch recommended that the student study the compositions

Musical Commonplaces in the Renaissanceâ•… ·â•… 163

of good composers and select the best phrases to be assembled in a collection ‘so that when the need for them will come to you, you will have them ready, which you will adapt to your ways and in time insert into your own song.’”9 Lodovico Zacconi is another who recommended copying excerpts from “serious authors” and working out new parts to them.10

Published Music Collections Cristle Collins Judd is the first musicologist to have examined music treatises in light of the commonplace tradition, although the treatises she looks at do not explicitly associate themselves with commonplace tradition. She examines those sections of treatises that deal with mode, where musical examples (or references to pieces) from repertoire are grouped under modal headings. Like literary commonplace book compilers, who favored the best authors, her theorists looked to respected composers and usually credited them with their contributions, since their names would carry authority. However, demonstrating “the ways in which Glarean’s framing of examples broadly reflects the precepts of Erasmus’s De copia,”11 she notes that Glarean also includes inferior music because he wants “to contrast the examples of such superior symphonetae as Josquin with the less beautiful songs of others, to aid the reader in judgments.”12 Mode is not the only source of headings for musical examples. Joachim Burmeister’s catalogue of rhetorical devices is organized as a series of headings under which are placed references to musical examples from respected composers (mostly Lassus).13 Adriano Banchieri’s cento cadenze are apparently to be copied directly or modeled after,14 and Girolamo Diruta reprinted a selection of fifty of Gabriel Fattorini’s 320 accadenze, varied accompaniments to a short cantizans cadential motion.15 Like notebook collections, none of these examples is ordered in any explicit way, and thus none meets one of the criteria for commonplace books. Instead of relying on famous composers, some authors of music treatises (like Banchieri and Fattorini) printed their own examples. Although these might be lacking in the authority of examples by “superior symphonetae,” they offer the advantage of responding to a particular pedagogical need in a more economical format than citing a whole piece, as Glarean did. Erasmus confirms that some of the things collected need not be the product of reading, but may be made up: “There is a class of sententiae, not that, indeed, devised by writers, but by us for the purpose of the present work.”16 The musical


examples in the two commonplace treatises under consideration here are likewise not credited, and thus are not cited for their authority.17 In addition, these two published collections differ from those mentioned above in that they are labeled as, and organized as, commonplace books, and employ a variety of headings.

Making a Literary Commonplace Book In order to appreciate the significance of Montanos’s calling his musical examples commonplaces, it is necessary to examine some of the many meanings of the terms that coexisted in the sixteenth century. We can get a good idea of these meanings from Erasmus’s De Copia (1512), a work which is acknowledged to be an important influence on the commonplace books that came after it. His principles will help us interpret the rich associations that are packed into our music treatises. In his discussion of collecting examples from one’s reading, Erasmus says: . . . whoever has resolved to read through every type of writer (for he who wishes to be considered learned must do that thoroughly once in his life) will first collect as many topics (locos) as possible. He will take them partly from classes of vices and virtues, partly from those things that are especially important in human affairs, and that are accustomed to come up most often in persuasion; and it will be best to arrange these according to the principle of affinity and opposition. For those that are related to one another automatically suggest what should follow, and the same thing is true of opposites. Suppose, for example, the first general classification (primus locus) is Piety and Impiety. Under the former heading will be placed the several particular kinds. First there is piety toward God; second, toward the fatherland . . . The next title (titulus) might be, if it seems suitable, Fidelity; you may divide this into its particular kinds (species).18

Here locus, which seems to be synonymous with titulus, refers to general topic headings that are to be subdivided, and under which examples will be filed. After listing other such headings, with their opposites for easy memorization, Erasmus continues: “These can be run through all the places” (Haec per omnes locos tractari possunt).19 Here the meaning of locus is different. It has origins in the commonplaces of Aristotle’s Topics, where it refers to questions that one asks about a subject in order to make arguments or to destroy those of one’s opponent.20 These categories of inquiry, which include definition, genus, property, and accident, can be applied to arguments about any subject.


Thus when your opponent asserts something, you can investigate whether he has made a mistake in defining it, whether he has confused property and accident, or whether he has included it in the wrong genus. The list of such lines of inquiry gets longer when they are used in rhetorical debate. Cicero’s list includes “definition, enumeration of parts, etymology, conjugates, genus, species, similarity, difference, contraries, adjuncts, antecedents, consequents, contradiction, cause, effect, comparison.”21 Erasmus chooses a topic, piety, to run through the places. He says that we should inquire: “First, what piety is [definition]; how it differs from the other virtues [difference, contraries]; what is peculiar to it [property]; in what ways it is preserved or violated [adjuncts]; by what things it is strengthened [cause] or corrupted; what it profits man [effect].”22 These investigations will broaden the field, making it easier to locate useful examples in one’s reading. Returning to the source of headings, he says, “those general classifications selected apart from the vices and virtues are partly exempla and partly commonplaces.” His examples of the former consist of bald facts, particularities like “extraordinary longevity, . . . sudden changes in fortune, sudden death, voluntary death, unnatural death, . . . subtlety of intellect, extraordinary physical strength . . .”23 Exempla also include historical occurrences like the death of Socrates, or natural phenomena like the mating habits of elephants.24 For Erasmus, it seems that commonplaces, in contrast to exempla, are more elaborate propositions or arguments. With this, locus has acquired yet a new meaning, one different from the topic headings and lines of inquiry we saw above. Moss notes that the commonplace as a proposition is a new development in the early sixteenth century: “The examples of commonplace-headings listed by Erasmus take the form of propositions (‘sententiae’) or comparisons (‘comparativa’) susceptible of debate . . . By calling them ‘loci communes’, Erasmus has brought the notebook, or, rather, commonplace-book, firmly into the ambit of rhetorical and dialectical discourse . . .”25 Likewise, for Melancthon, “commonplaces, now indistinguishable from general heads, ‘capita’ or ‘tituli’, are much more tightly related to the world of things.”26 His headings include “Tyrant, Rebellion, Mercy, Cruelty, Peace, War . . .”27 These are clearly what Erasmus meant by “things that are especially important in human affairs.” This type of commonplace is usually formulated as a complete sentence: “It makes a very great difference to what studies you become accustomed as a boy . . . He gives twice who gives quickly. His own conduct determines the fortune of every man . . . war attractive to the inexperienced . . .”28 Many of these commonplaces are in fact his famous adages.


Erasmus’s method can work from the bottom up or from the top down. The latter method begins with headings, and under these headings one places things found in one’s reading. He gives instructions for constructing imaginary “nests” in which to classify one’s findings: Then after you have collected as many headings as will be sufficient and arranged them in the order you wish, and have placed the appropriate divisions under each, and to the divisions have added the commonplaces or sententiae, then whatever you come across in any author, especially if it is very noteworthy, you will immediately mark down in its proper place whether it be a fable, an apologue, an exemplum, a strange occurrence, a sententia, a witty or otherwise unusual expression, an adage, a metaphor, or a parable. This method will also have the effect of imprinting what you read more deeply on your mind, as well as accustoming you to utilizing the riches of your reading . . . Finally, whenever the occasion demands, the stuff of speech will be ready to hand, as if safe nests had been built, whence you can take what you wish.29

He reminds us not to assemble too much under a single heading: “But, lest a disorderly mass of materials produce confusion, it will be useful to divide more general classifications into several subdivisions . . .”30 We should not assume that compilers had all the headings ready in advance, as labels on prefabricated cells in a literary honeycomb, when they started “utilizing the riches” of their reading. They could also start at the bottom of the hierarchy with an exemplum, a fact, phenomenon, or specific case involving a historical figure. Erasmus uses the story of the death of Socrates to show how several commonplaces can be derived from an exemplum. “Moreover, the death of Socrates provides not only an exemplum that death should not be feared by the good man, since Socrates drank the hemlock with such a cheerful countenance, but also that virtue is liable to injury from envy and is not safe when surrounded by evil men . . .”31 We can work from the top down or vice versa because commonplaces and exempla are both composite items: Erasmus takes different episodes from the Death of Socrates and draws further commonplaces from each of them. Each commonplace can have more than one exemplum under it, and any exemplum can have more than one commonplace derived from it. The fact that the term locus can be used both for the items collected and the headings under which those items are collected is illustrated by the history of Erasmus’s famous Adagia. This collection, which contains some commonplaces from De Copia, is so enormous that Erasmus considered or-


ganizing it with headings, but did not, thinking that part of its appeal was the entertaining mishmash of variety. In describing the origins of the book, he says he “accumulated at random from a few days’ reading some sort of collection of adages (sylvam aliquam adagiorum) . . .”32 In the commentary on “The labors of Hercules,” he elaborates: I saw too that it would be possible to introduce some sort of order, if I had put forward as many headings as possible, following the principle of like and unlike, opposite and closely akin, and had assigned each proverb to some supposed proper class. But this I deliberately did not do, for several reasons. Partly because in miscellaneous materials of this kind it seemed to me somehow right and proper that there should be no order; partly because I saw that if I had crammed everything that expressed the same opinion into the same class (so to call it), the resulting uniformity would be a source of tedium for the reader, who would cry out periodically in his disgust Twice served cabbage is death and Corinthus son of Jove is in the book; partly because I was daunted by the size of the task. Why not tell the truth? I saw clearly that that could not be done without rewriting the whole book afresh from head to heel . . .33

The Herculean task of arranging the adages under headings was taken up by compilers, who did not fear repeated servings of cabbage. Moss calls this procedure “commonplacing,” and cites its almost immediate application: “The Adagia were indexed for the Venetian edition of 1508, presumably under the direction of Erasmus himself. The system is closely related to the one he recommended shortly later in De Copia. General heads are arranged by opposites and association . . . for example: ‘Divitiae’; ‘Paupertas’; ‘Munerum corruptela’; ‘Forma, deformitas’ . . .” (wealth, poverty, corruption by money, form, deformity).34 In sum, the term “commonplace” can refer both to the heading and to the thing collected under it; it can be a single abstraction or a more composite proposition, proverb, lesson, or maxim; it can be drawn out of an exemplum or it can be used to label a box to put exempla in; and it can refer to different angles from which we question an argument.

Musical Commonplace Books Can music be treated the same way as the headings, propositions, and sententiae described above? Judd answers no, arguing that music is not a legitimate member of the commonplace tradition. Although treatises like Heyden’s and Glarean’s contain examples grouped under headings (the names or numbers


of the modes), and thus might deserve to be called commonplace books, she does not grant them that status because the medium to be collected is music, not words. “The Munich partbooks and Tschudi’s Liederbuch share certain features of commonplace books, but cannot be commonplace books per se because while modal indicators can function as loci they must, of necessity, stand outside the loci communes tradition.”35 The medium of music is different from the medium of the headings: “Erasmus is writing about writing (words) and there are a number of ways in which his prescriptions for gathering and framing may and may not apply to musical notation or to other iconic or symbolic representations. The notebook Erasmus describes is a model for production in kind.”36 However, we know that in addition to the self-styled commonplaces of Montanos and Cerone there existed other commonplace books that collected non-verbal items like symbols or emblems.37 Such items can be collected, but they cannot be placed at different levels in a hierarchy.38 The musical example, like the emblem, will be a specific exemplum at the lowest level. Yet the headings above a given example may be divided and subdivided. Because Montanos calls his musical examples commonplaces (lugares communes) and groups them under headings, he invites the reader to think along the lines of categorizing, subdividing, and even adding more examples. So, to truly participate in the commonplace tradition, we must run music “through the places,” asking questions that lead to new headings under which we could collect more examples. What will these questions be for music, which has no semantic content? Definition, genus, cause, effect, and so on, cannot be applied very well. Nor, in the case of Montanos, can we apply modal commonplaces (almost all his examples are Dorian, and he says that they may be transposed).39 Rather, we can use “places” that are based on formal structure. Adding subheadings under Montanos’s headings is the project of the following pages.

Montanos Montanos thinks his Arte de Musica theorica y pratica consists entirely of commonplaces. The book’s index is headed: Tabla de los lugares mas essenciales contenidos en este seys tratados de musica (Table of the most essential places contained in these six treatises on music). The sixth treatise, called Tratado ultimo de los lugares communes (Last treatise, on commonplaces), begins with a rundown of the contents of the previous five. Unlike Glarean’s examples from


Josquin, which are not meant to be stolen wholesale, Montanos says that commonplaces are for everyone to use as his own. This is expressed in the following sententia: loca communia sunt illa, quibus generaliter ut propria utuntur, which appears in italics and is translated into the vernacular as well: lugares comunes son aquellos, de los quales generalmente usan como proprios (“commonplaces are those things one generally uses as one’s own”).40 This sentence shows that the student is not to feel bad about copying them. After he has summarized the contents of the previous five tratados (adding a few things that he had passed over earlier so as not to burden the beginner), only then does he embark on the many musical examples that he has gathered under his headings: Montanos’s Commonplace Headings 1.â•‡ entradas with one passo 2.â•‡ entradas with two passos 3.â•‡ fabordones for “natural voices” 4.â•‡ fabordones for equal voices 5.â•‡ commonplaces for when the text calls for widely spaced voices 6.â•‡ commonplaces for when the text calls for closely spaced voices 7.â•‡ phrygian cadences (with the semitone in the tenorizans voice) 8.â•‡ sustenida cadences (with the semitone in the cantizans voice) 9.â•‡ fenecimientos (cadential extensions)41 10.â•‡ commonplaces for equal voices

The first two distinguish how many head-motives there are in the opening; the next two are fabordones divided by register; the fifth and sixth are for text painting; the next three are types of cadence; and the last is for equal voices, but not fabordones. Some of these, like the cadences and fabordones, are commonly found in treatises, but the fifth and sixth commonplaces for “when the text calls for widely spaced” and “closely spaced consonances” are unique to this treatise. The musical example of the former sets the text esto circa nos (“stay close to us”), and the distance between outer voices never exceeds a tenth; for the latter, the text is viam longissimam (“the longest way”), and the outer voices are between a twelfth and a nineteenth apart.42

Points of Imitation The openings (entradas) will be the focus of the rest of this study. Introducing these, Montanos says “A good discourse can be expected from a good beginning according to the knowledge of the composer,” implying that his openings


Example 9.1. Montanos no. 23, Cerone no. 2.

provide such good beginnings.43 He arranges them under only two headings: those in which each voice sounds the same melodic fragment (passo—the word refers to what we now call a head-motive), and those that begin with two voices sounding two different melodies right away (that is, two different melodies or passos). In order to understand these headings, we must refer to Montanos’s advice in the section of Arte called “treatise on composition,” that once you can compose a duo, you can make a four-voice piece out of it by repeating it in another pair of voices, adding continuations to the first duo.44 The term “duo” here means two melodies sounded together as a combination, producing a characteristic succession of vertical intervals. Obviously all four-voice Renaissance polyphony is replete with duos, but Montanos explicitly bases fourvoice composition on those two-voice combinations that repeat.45 Although Montanos’s principle of repeating the duo applies whether the opening duo is imitative or non-imitative, it is easiest to see how the duo functions as the basis for four-voice composition by looking closely at the entradas with two passos.

The entrada with two passos In example 9.1, the two passos appear first in the soprano and tenor (the soprano has one passo, the tenor the other). I refer to this as a non-imitative (NIm) presentation because there is no imitation within the duo. This duo, with the vertical-interval succession that is particular to it (8-6-3-5-6 boxed in the example), is repeated a fourth lower by the alto and bass. Meanwhile the soprano and tenor continue “with good intervals,” that is, enriching the sound by adding two different notes to the bare E octave that begins the


Table 9.1. Cerone’s commonplaces with two passos. Montanos’s nos. in column 6 R = order of pcs. reversed

2nd duo Cerone Free 1st duo varied by Comment

Montanos

â•‡ 1 AS -8 22 â•‡ 2 TS -4 23 â•‡ 3 TB ic10 +3/ +12 pc. other than octave, 4th, or 5th 24 â•‡ 4 ST ic10 +3/ -8 pc. other than octave, 4th, or 5th 19 â•‡ 5 AS -8 20 â•‡ 6 AS -8 21 â•‡ 7 ST ic8 1/ -8 T = A 16 â•‡ 8 BA â†œ4 17 â•‡ 9 TB â†œ8 18 10 AS ic5 -4/ -8 10 11 ST ic12 +5/ -8 11 12 AS -8 13 13 TA â†œ5/ -4 Vert. ints. compounded 12 14 TA ic12 +8/ -5 pcs. other than octave, 5th, or 4th 15 15 BS â†œ1 S = A, T = B â•‡ 4 16 BA â†œ4 â•‡ 5 17 AB â†œ4 â•‡ 6 18 x AT different time relation; R â•‡ 7 19 SA -8 â•‡ 8 20 AS -5 T & A overlap â•‡ 9 21 AT â†œ8/ +1 T = B, vert. ints. compounded â•‡ 1 22 AS -5 â•‡ 2 23 BT ic8 +8/ 1 T = A 24 BS ic8 +4/ -5 â•‡ 3 25 BT â†œ8 later 3rd entry of one passo 26 x TB 2 different points; R 27 x SA different time relation 28 AS -8 29 x SA different time relation 30 x TS melodic inversion & rhythmic alteration 31 BT â†œ8 32 x TA different time relation 33 x TB 2 different points; R 34 BT â†œ8



second duo.46 This conforms to Zarlino’s prescription for vertical sonorities, and illustrates composing against a two-voice soggetto.47 The “seamlessness” that characterizes Renaissance style is assured in this example by the smooth melodic continuations in the soprano and tenor, particularly the tied note in the soprano part that makes a dissonant suspension. Table 9.1 collects and summarizes all of the two-passo openings in both Cerone and Montanos; Cerone’s numbering appears in the leftmost column and Montanos’s in the rightmost column.48 In this way it is clear which examples Cerone borrowed from Montanos, how he reordered them, and which new ones he added. The two-passo openings could be subdivided into several categories based on which pair of voices begins (column 3), how far the duo is transposed when it reappears in the other pair of voices, and whether the second duo appears in invertible counterpoint (column 4). However, we will not dally here, in order to spend more time on the one-passo opening, which is more widely used.

The entrada with one passo In this type, all four voices sound the same passo in turn. In example 9.2 the duo is made of a brief fuga sciolta at the fifth below after a semibreve. The imitation breaks off into free counterpoint after five notes, and the tenor entrance initiates a repetition of the opening duo an octave lower. For the purpose of showing the structural module, we can disregard the distinction between imitative and free counterpoint, and merely label the vertical intervals as we did in example 9.1; this makes it easy to see how the tenor and bass replicate what the soprano and alto did.


The abundance of one-passo openings is apparently undifferentiated in both Montanos and Cerone. However, “lest a disorderly mass of materials produce confusion,” as Erasmus put it, we could introduce subdivisions based on which voice starts, on pitch interval of imitation, on whether imitation is above or below, etc. But by far the most fruitful source of “places” through which we can draw music in order to extract commonplace headings is the time-interval of imitation; a closer look at the openings in which each voice begins with the same passo reveals two large groups based on the time-interval separating the entries. These groups are among the five “presentation types” I identified in my article on Palestrina.49 Example 9.2 is based on a simple repetition structure, in which the imitative duos are paired; we will refer to it as “Imitative Duo,” abbreviated ID in the tables. Example 9.2 shows the time-intervals t1, t2, and t3 bracketed beneath the score. The time-interval that “forms” the first duo is replicated between the voices of the second pair of entries. The module “results” from the two melodies in the same time relationship. The time-interval between the second and third entries is usually longer, as here; when it is shorter, we call it “compressed” (see column 8 of table 9.2). The second large group is a special category of one-passo openings, in which the first three or four entries are separated by the same time-interval. We call this “Periodic Entries,” abbreviated PEn in the tables. As in the pair of duos, the module (i.e., the contrapuntal combination) is what happens after the first time-interval of imitation, and so in Periodic Entries, the length of the module is equal to the time-interval of imitation. Although there are several ways to present Periodic Entries, only two appear frequently among our commonplaces.50 In one type, the duo created by the second and third entries is a double-counterpoint transformation of that created by the first and second entries. This technique is called the “invertible canon” opening.51 Seven entradas conform to this structural pattern (nos. 8–10, 34, 42, 43, and 45). The other type uses tonal answer in order to accommodate the new pitch interval of imitation (nos. 38 and 46—“tonal ans” in column 8). An example of invertible canon is shown in example 9.3. The module consists of the first three notes of the theme in the soprano against the 4th–7th notes in the alto, which we can call the accompaniment.52 The combination is repeated between the tenor and soprano; that is, the same two melodic fragments are sounded together, but the 4th–7th notes of the alto are moved



up a fifth, while the first three notes of the soprano are transposed down an octave, resulting in invertible counterpoint at the twelfth. The extensive use of invertible counterpoint in imitative openings is not surprising, given its use by young improvisers, but not much attention has been paid to it.53


An example of tonal answer is shown in example 9.4. Here successive entries come at the fourth below and then the fifth below after the same timeinterval (two semibreves). The accompanimental continuation of the passo is altered too, to accommodate the tonal answer (marked with an asterisk).54 Table 9.2 summarizes the contents of Montanos’s forty-eight openings with one passo. The seven examples of free imitation are tallied in column 2 with the opening pitches of each entry. Imitative Duos are likewise tallied in column 3, and Periodic Entries in column 4. The pitch interval of imitation between the voices of the first duo is shown in column 5.55 The means by which the second duo is varied (transposed, etc.) is shown in column 6. Time-inter-


Table 9.2. Montanos’s commonplaces with one passo. R = order of pcs. reversed “diff. cont.” = no repeated module

1 #

2 Free

3 ID

4 PEn

5 6 imit. var.

7 time int’s (sb)

8 Comment

â•‡ 1 a'd'-ad -5 -8 1 3 1 2 â•‡ 2 a'd'-ad -5 -8 1 3 1 â•‡ 3 a'd'-ad -5 -8 1 2 1 â•‡ 4 da-d'a' 5 â†œ8 1 4 1 â•‡ 5 b'e'-be -5 1 2 3 â•‡ 6 da-d'a' â†œ5 â†œ8 1 4 1 â•‡ 7 a'a-d'd -8 -5 1 5 1 â•‡ 8 d'd-aA -8 ic12 1 1 1 â•‡ 9 gd'-g'd'' â†œ5 dc2 1 1 1 10 d'd-aA -8 ic12 1 1 1 11 ff'-c'c'' â†œ8 â†œ5 1 2 1 1.5 12 a'a-d'd -8 â†œ5 1 4 1 13 a'd'-ad -5 -8 2 3 2 14 da-d'a' â†œ5 â†œ8 1 3 1 15 da-d'a' â†œ5 â†œ8 1 2 1 16 a'd'-ad -5 -8 1 4 1 2 17 da-d'a' â†œ5 â†œ8 1 2 1 18 da-d'a' â†œ5 â†œ8 1 5 1 19 da-d'a' â†œ5 â†œ8 1 3 1 20 d'a'-da â†œ5 -8 1 2 1 21 da-d'a' â†œ5 â†œ8 1 3 1 22 a'd'-ad -5 -8 1 3 1 23 a'd'-ad -5 -8 2 2* 2 24 a'd'-ad -5 -8 1 3 1 1 25 d'a-dA -4 -8 1 2 1 26 a'e'-ae -4 -8 1 2 1 27 ae-a'e' -4 â†œ8 1 3 1 28 ae-a'e' -4 â†œ8 1 2 1 29 d'a-dA -4 -8 1 3 1 30 e'a'-ae â†œ4 1 3* 3* 31 ae'-da' 32 b'e'-be -5 1 2 1* 3 33 ea-e'a' â†œ4 â†œ8 1 3 1 34 d'a'-ad â†œ5 ic12 2 2 6 2 35 a'd'-ad -5 -8 2 3 2 36 a'd'-ad -5 -8 2 1 2 2* 37 d'a'-da â†œ5 -8 3 2 3 38 d'a-dA -4 -8 2 2 2 39 d'a'-ad 2 2* 2*

1&2 sim. 1st sp.

4&6 sim. 1st sp.

8&10 sim. 1st sp. alt. 4 + 5 (see fn. 50)

Cf. nos. 1&2 Cf. nos. 4&6, 17–21 Cf. nos. 4&6 Cf. no. 30 Nos. 17–21 sim. 1st sp.

ID + PEn; cf. no.2 Ave maris stella

Cf. no. 16, diff. cont., R NIm + ID Altered PEn + ID, R Compressed tonal answer diff. cont., R (continued on next page)



1 #

2 Free

3 ID

4 PEn

5 6 imit. var.

40 da-d'a' 41 d'a'-ad 42 d'a'-ad ic12 43 d'd-aA -8 ic12 44 a'e'-ae -4 -8 45 g'c'-c''g -5 ic12 46 d'a-dA -4 -8 47 a'd'-ad -5 -8 48 d''g-d'g -5 -8

7 time int’s (sb) 3 1 2 2* 2* 3 2 2 3 2 2 2 2 1 2 2 2 3 2 2 2 2 2 1 2 1 2

8 Comment diff. cont., R R Compressed PEn + ID, R tonal ans; cf. no. 38 Compressed

vals are shown in column 7 (for Imitative Duos, the first and third columns will have the same number; for Periodic Entries, the same numbers will appear in adjacent columns). Sometimes the same time-interval in two columns is not associated with modular repetition because the continuation after the head motive is different in different voices. Those time-intervals are marked with asterisks and “diff cont” in column 8. This offers the possibility of reversing the pitch classes of the first duo in the second (labeled “R” in column 8).56 The criteria at the heads of the columns in table 9.2 are “places” into which we have subdivided the openings, “commonplacing” them as editors did in the Adages of Erasmus published in Hanover in 1617 (see note 34), grouping all the Imitative Duos together, all the Periodic Entries, and all the free counterpoint, in their own columns under the appropriate headings. Even though he does not provide the explicit headings used in table 9.2, Montanos shows that he has indeed subdivided his openings according to such criteria by grouping likes together. For instance, in the first half of the series of forty-eight, the only pitch intervals of imitation used are the fifth and the octave; in the second half, the fourth accounts for ten of twenty-four. The time-interval of imitation between the voices of the first duo also reveals conscious grouping: it is one semibreve in thirty-one of the first thirty-three; by contrast, among the last fifteen, all but one have a time-interval of two semibreves or more. Thus, the shorter time-intervals and imitation at the fifth predominate in the first half of the collection, while longer time-intervals and imitation at the fourth are reserved for the end. Furthermore, Imitative Duos account for twenty-five of the first twenty-nine openings, while there are proportionally far fewer (seven) in the remaining nineteen; most of the openings in the second half are either free or periodic. The preponderance of reversals


of pitch classes of opening notes (“R”) and “compressed” presentations are likewise reserved for the later examples. The grouping, although not perfectly consistent, suggests fine subdivision, and the progression of difficulty and/or complexity implies a pedagogical intention. If we used other criteria for categorization (which voice starts, whether invertible counterpoint is used, whether tonal answer is used, etc.), one exemplum might fit under several more headings. In order to respond to that problem, and to make the examples easier to find, one could again follow the practices of the compilers of the Hanover 1617 edition of Erasmus’s Adagia, and number the examples and have separate indices for each criterion. Each “search term” could be followed by a list of numbers indicating the example to be looked up. With these materials so organized, the teacher could provide his student one type at a time to copy, or adapt “whenever the occasion demands” as Erasmus said. At the end of the seventy-two examples, Montanos adds instructions for adapting the commonplaces for practical use: Of the six dozen openings in four voices that are placed up to this point as commonplaces, regarding the two manners of common imitation, both those with two voices on a single passo, and those with two different ones (it is the latter I like best because it allows the words to be understood even though it is not used as much as the common one with all voices on one), you may profit from both, changing the notes according to the choice of mode you compose in, you may [also] add notes, or change a note, making of these openings many others for variety.57

Thus Montanos shows how flexibly one might use any of these short excerpts in one’s own composition. The classification in table 9.2 is made on the basis of only the first four entries in each example. However, a few (eight) have a fifth entry. Sometimes the last entry repeats a contrapuntal combination, making a more complex structure (no. 24 adds a Periodic Entry; nos. 34 and 45 add an Imitative Duo). As we will see, Cerone doubles the proportion of these longer points, bringing his commonplaces closer to the actual practice found in Palestrina’s openings.

Cerone At over eleven hundred pages, Cerone’s El melopeo y maestro can be understood as the largest selva of borrowed material in the history of music. Selve


are collections of writings excerpted from other sources and republished. Paolo Cherchi defines them as “those works that collect, without any clear order, fragments of histories, natural and anthropological curiosities, questions of etymology, lists of personages and historical events classifiable under a particular heading, sayings of illustrious people, names of inventors of things and similar subjects, treatable in short form.”58 Cherchi sees the “most authoritative model from antiquity” in Aulus Gellius, who characterized his own Nocte Atticae as a variam et miscellam et confusaneam doctrinam (“a varied miscellany of learning in no particular order”).59 Identifying the vernacular archetype of the genre as Pedro Mexias’s Silva de varia leción (Seville, 1540), Cherchi proposes that the selva is the beginning of the rhetorical process of invention; it is the collection of “primary matter” in its elemental stage, in “a temporary state of collection, not considered in terms of any organizing criterion, the simple heap of material prior to the classification according to the ‘seats of invention’.”60 The “theft” we find here of massive amounts of prose or poetry is not an issue for compilers of selve: “The explicit reliance on others’ works is of course in keeping with the genre of the selva, which does not require an author’s originality but instead his agility in gathering and piecing together curiosities.”61 A commonplace book differs from a selva in that the excerpts are generally shorter and grouped under rationally organized headings. As we have seen, Erasmus called his initial little collection of adages a selva. Occasionally, however, selve had some large-scale order, like L’idea del giardino del mondo of Tommaso Tomai, in which “there exists a certain taxonomy which starts off from the earth and ends with the sky.”62 Although occasionally accused of plagiarism, Cerone was doing exactly what a selva compiler was supposed to do.63 In fact, Cerone acknowledges his debt to the authors from whom he borrowed, including “the famous Montanos,” from whom he borrowed not only the idea of commonplaces but most of the specific examples.64 In his early chapters, Cerone is much more explicit about his interest in the field of rhetoric than Montanos, and these pages may well be his most original contribution after his “agility in gathering.”65 From Montanos, Cerone does not borrow the fabordones, and he puts the music for words requiring “widely-spaced” and “closely-spaced” consonances in a different section, one about word-painting.66 He adds accompañamientos ordinarios, four-voice passages arranged according to sequential motions of the bass and soprano voices.67 He vastly expands the collection of cadences and buries the fenecimientos (“cadential extensions”) among them.68


Table 9.3. Cerone’s commonplaces with one passo. Montanos nos. in column 8 R = order of pcs. reversed

1 2 3 4 5 C# Free ID PEn var.

6 7 time intervals (sb) Comment t1 t2 t3 t4 t5

8 M#

â•‡ 1 SA -8 2 7 2 tonal answer â•‡ 2 SA -8 1 4 1 tonal answer â•‡ 3 SA -8 4 3 5 3 tonal answer â•‡ 4 ATS ic12 2 2 5 tonal answer â•‡ 5 x 1/2 2 3 6 R â•‡ 6 SA -8 2 4 2 â•‡ 7 SA -8 2 4 ID + TBS ic12 2 2 1 PEn â•‡ 8 SATB -5,-4 2 2 2 tonal answer 46 â•‡ 9 SA -8 1 2 1 3 48 10 SA -8 2 1 2 21/2 47 11 STAB ic12 2 2 2 43 12 SA -8 2 1 2 44 13 ATS ic12 2 2 3 PEn + 45 TS -4 2 ID 14 x 3 1 4 40 15 x 2 2* 3 11/2 R 41 16 AST ic12 2 2 3 42 17 SA -8 2 1 2 2* 36 18 AS -8 3 2 3 37 19 SATB -5,-4 2 2 2 tonal answer 38 20 SA -8 2 3 2 13 21 BTAS +5,+4 1 1 1 â•‡ 9 22 x 1 3 2 14 23 BT â†œ8 1 2 1 15 24 STAB ic12 1 1 1 (Cf. nos. 11&19) 10 25 ST -5 1 4 1 imit. at 8ve 12 26 BA â†œ4 1 2 1 imit. at 8ve 11 27 STAB ic12 1 1 1 Cf. no. 11 â•‡ 8 28 SA -8 2 3 2 35 29 x 1 2 2* R 30 x 1 2 1* 3 32 31 BT â†œ8 1 3 1 33 32 x 1 3 3* 1* R 30 33 TBA ic12 2 2 4 1/2 21/2 34 x 2 1 4 35 BT ic8 1 2 1 R 36 TB â†œ8 1 2 1 28 (continued on next page)



1 2 3 4 5 C# Free ID PEn var.

6 7 time intervals (sb) Comment t1 t2 t3 t4 t5

8 M#

37 SA -8 1 2 1 25 38 TB â†œ8 1 3 1 27 39 SA -8 1 2 1 26 40 SA -8 1 3 1 22 41 AS -8 1 2 1 20 42 SA -8 2 2* 2 2* 3 23 43 SA -8 1 3 ID + 24 TBS ic12 1 1 PEn 44 BT â†œ8 1 3 1 19 45 SA -8, dc4 1 4 1 2 1 16 46 BT â†œ8 1 2 1 17 47 BT â†œ8 1 5 1 18 48 STAB ic12 1 1 1 Cf. no. 11 11 49 BT â†œ8 1 4 1 â•‡ 4 50 SA -8 1 3 1 2 â•‡ 1 51 SA -8 1 3 1 5th entry? â•‡ 2 52 SA -8, +8 1 5 1 5 1 little overlap 53 ST -5 1 4 1 imit. at 8ve â•‡ 7 54 AST ic12 3 3 2 3* 55 TB, BA â†œ8, ic12 2 3 2 3 MTI 56 x 1 31/2 1/2 R 57 x 1/2 11/2 1 R 58 AB +4, ic15 1 2 1 imit. at 8ve 59 x 2 3 3* R 60 BT â†œ8 2 3 2 61 BT â†œ8 3 4 3 62 x 1 3 2 R 63 x 1 3 2 R 64 SA -8 1 7 ID + TBA ic12 1 1 PEn 65 AS -8 1 2 1 2 new subs later? 66 SA -8 1 6 1 5 67 BT â†œ8 1 4 1 new sub later 68 ST -5 1 3 1 2 imit. at 8ve 69 AS -8 1 4 1 new sub later 70 SA -8 1 2 1 2 csj altered 71 TB â†œ8 2 3 2 new sub later 72 x 1 3 2 3* R


Example 9.5. Cerone no. 55.

As for the entradas, Cerone maintains groups with one and two passos, but he reverses the order of these groups, preferring perhaps to show the simpler one, that with two passos, first; or because, like Montanos, he believes this type “allows the words to be understood” more clearly, even though it is not used as often.69 He differs from Montanos in printing his examples in score, and not choir-book format; in enlivening the rhythm of the parts (by breaking longer notes into repeated notes, and sometimes replacing a semibreve with a minim rest and a minim); in adding cadential ficta; and in extending some examples. Table 9.3 shows how Cerone has regrouped Montanos’s entradas with one passo: he has scattered the Periodic Entries among the Imitative Duos and mixed up the various pitch and time-intervals of imitation as if, like Erasmus with his adages, he would prefer the variety and interest brought by the disorganization that characterizes a selva. Cerone further muddles Montanos’s order by inserting many examples of his own: thirty-one in the one-passo group (nos. 1–7, 29, 33–35, 52, and 54–72). By adding these primarily at the beginning and end of the collection, Cerone may be trying to make it appear more his own.70 Several of these added examples contain a fifth or even a sixth entry, creating Imitative Duos at different time-intervals or Periodic Entries and Imitative Duos combined. The lone example of the former is shown in example 9.5.71 One combination, A, begins when the second voice (the bass) enters after two semibreves; another, module B, begins when the soprano enters three semibreves after the bass. The melodies are the same, but they are combined in two different temporal relationships so they produce two combinations with different characteristic vertical intervals. Module A is later repeated between the soprano and alto, and module B is repeated between alto and bass.72 This complex, labeled “MTI” for “Multiple Time-



Intervals (of imitation),” occurs more frequently in Palestrina’s openings, as we will see. Another combined type can be analyzed as a Periodic Entry followed by an Imitative Duo or vice-versa.73 Example 9.6 shows a Periodic Entry and an Imitative Duo combined. These compound types (MTI, ID + PEn) adumbrate the even more elaborate points of imitation containing seven or eight entries that we will see below in Palestrina. For all his improvements to Montanos’s commonplaces, Cerone is quite modest about their contribution. While he repeats Montanos’s sententia about commonplaces belonging to everybody, and the possibility of changing them by transposition, adding notes, and so forth, he hastens to add, almost apologetically: I must observe that all of these openings are for beginners—for educated people they are a dime a dozen; and if you use them, the majority should be used in the middle of the composition, and rarely at the beginning; and thus I say that a good discourse can be expected from a good beginning, according to the knowledge and ability of the composer.74

In the italicized sententia we recognize Montanos’s introduction to his entradas, but now it has been turned against him: Cerone warns us that these commonplaces are not suitable for beginnings. Beginnings for Cerone presumably require greater individuality of character to make a good discourse, and only once the piece is under way may these commonplaces be used.75 It is typical of plundering and refashioning that Cerone also reinterprets the word dozenas, which Montanos used literally to describe his “six dozen” openings (seys dozenas)—Cerone now uses it in the figurative sense of dozenales (something worthless, a dime a dozen).


Table 9.4. Opening points in Palestrina 1564.

1 2 3 4 5 # Free ID PEn var.

6 time intervals (sb) t1 t2 t3 t4 t5 t6 t7

â•‡ 1 SA -8 2 13 2 â•‡ 2 x 2 4 8 6 â•‡ 3 SBA ic12 3 7 6 6 8 4 â•‡ 4 x 3 5 6 1 6* 6* â•‡ 5 AS, ST -8 4 8 8 4 6 â•‡ 6 TB â†œ8 2 10 2 8 8* â•‡ 7 x â•‡ 8 AST ic12 5 5 6 5* 7 â•‡ 9 AS -8 1 8 6 1 15 10 AS -8 4 7 BTS â†œ8 4 4 11 AS -8 4 7 9 4 6 5 1 12 SA -8 1 6 1 13 x -8 3 7* 7* 7* 14 SA -8 4 16 TBA ic12 4 4 10 15 SA -8 4 10 5 11 16 SAT -4 4 4 8 8* TB -8 4 17 SA 4 7 5 18 ATS ic12 4 4 8 8* SA ic8 4 5 4 19 TB, TS â†œ8 4 6 1 7 1 7 3 20 AS -8 4 6 10 4 21 AS 4 7 7 STB -5 4 4 22 SATB -4 4 4 4 7 SBA ic12 4 4 23 x 24 SA -8 1 6 1 4 5 4* 25 x 2 4 10 26 AS 4 6 8 6 9 27 AS -5 4 13 4 7 28 TASBT ic12 4 5 4 5 3 29 AS -8 3 9 3 30 x 2 4 10 31 SA ic8 4 8 4 10 2 7 1 32 x 33 SA, AT -8, ic12 4 6 8 4 6 10 34 AS -8 4 8 4* 4 10 35 SA -8 2 8 2 9 5 6 36 SA -8 4 11 4

7 Comment

MTI cantus firmus ID + PEn (tonal)

ID + PEn (inv) (extra sb; 4 = 5) PEn (tonal) + ID (extra sb; 4 = 5) PEn (tonal) + ID MTI MTI; ID + PEn (tonal) PEn (tonal) + PEn (inv)

(extra sb; 4 = 5)

cantus firmus MTI


Table 9.5. Percentages of presentation types by collection.

Montanos Cerone Palestrina 1564

Free 12 19 22

Pure ID

Pure PEn

Combinations

65 15 â•‡ 8 60 15 â•‡ 6 53 â•‡ 8 17

Palestrina’s First Book of Motets for Four Voices Both Montanos and Cerone recommend Palestrina to their readers, and Cerone refers specifically to the first book of motets in his discussion of writing four-voice music based on pairs of duos. He says: “Whoever wishes to learn to use duos appropriately, with art and judgment, should carefully examine the first [book of] four-voice motets of Palestrina.”76 Applying our commonplaces to the openings in Palestrina’s first book of motets, we can see how pervasive they are, tabulating their occurrences as in tables 9.1–3. Table 9.4 shows the presentation type for each motet opening in the collection. Of the thirty-six, eight are free, nineteen are simple pairs of Imitative Duos (including three MTIs), three are simple groups of Periodic Entries, and six are the combination types.77 Of these combination types, two are PEn + ID, three are ID + PEn, and one (no. 22) is PEn + PEn. Usually, MTIs are associated with pairs of Imitative Duos, but number 21 has the distinction of using the modules created by different time-intervals in both IDs and PEns. Several striking features emerge from table 9.4. The first is that the commonplace types, including combined forms, account for roughly three quarters of the openings, and free counterpoint for only one quarter. A comparison of the proportion of presentation types in table 9.5 reveals that our two commonplace collections faithfully reflect the incidence of free and pure Imitative Duo use in Palestrina. However, pure PEns are fewer in Palestrina, replaced by longer combined forms. Montanos and Cerone may have wanted to eschew these more complex items, expecting the student to learn the advanced lesson from a master composer like Palestrina. Another striking feature is the complete absence of Non-Imitative presentations. NIms are perhaps too texturally dense for the beginning of a piece, but occur frequently in later points within the motets.78 An important difference between Palestrina’s motet openings and those in the commonplace collections is Palestrina’s use of longer time-intervals of


imitation. The purpose may be to add gravitas, to accumulate density gradually, and to hide repetition and regular periods, making for the uniqueness that Cerone seems to require of “a good beginning.” Finally, table 9.4 reveals a certain mannerism or predilection on Palestrina’s part: three of the combined forms (nos. 10, 21, and 22) use the same time-intervals of imitation, four and seven semibreves in alternation.

Conclusion In polyphony, one means of achieving varietas would have been to change the structural principle governing the beginning of each piece or each successive section of the piece.79 Montanos provided the young composer with music to use “whenever the occasion demands,” with variety of time-interval, pitch interval, texture, or starting voice(s), and variety of thematic presentation. When borrowing these commonplaces for use in texted music, the composer can alter the rhythms in the commonplace to reflect the prosody of the text, choose a passo that reflects the meaning of the text (e.g., a big skip for O magnum), and transpose the commonplace to suit the mode. But the structure of the commonplace may be completely independent from the text. Finally, these commonplaces suggest that we should be focusing on very small compositional units. The ones given by Montanos and Cerone are just the beginning of the compositional process; like sententiae borrowed from famous authors, they are meant to be varied, expanded, and worked into long passages with more entries. Owens noted of Frosch’s substitute passages, that the “impression that these examples create . . . is of a piece constructed like a mosaic . . . The segments are often contiguous, and as a result we see a passage divided up into tiny components, too small to make much sense musically, but evidently large enough to be thought of as building blocks.”80 This study shows that the loose term “point of imitation” hides a rich and finely articulated variety of musical techniques that are equivalent to the phrases and sentences borrowed by young writers in the Renaissance.

Notes A shorter version of this essay was presented at the Joint AMS/SMT Meeting in Seattle on 14 November 2004, and at Reading and Writing the Pedagogies of the Renaissance: The Student, the Study Materials, and the Teacher of Music, 1470–1650, at the Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University, 2–4 June 2005. The author is grateful to Joseph Kerman, Alison Laywine, Lars Lih, Jessie Ann Owens, and Pilar Ramos for their suggestions and encouragement.

186â•… ·â•… Peter Schubert The epigraph is from William H. Sherman, “Editorial Introduction,” in Renaissance Commonplace Books from the British Library, Adam Matthew Publications; see www.ampltd .co.uk/collections_az/RenCpbks-BL/editorial-introduction.aspx (accessed 10 March 2006). 1.â•‡ The most comprehensive is Ann Moss’s Printed Commonplace-Books and the Structuring of Renaissance Thought (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1996). 2.â•‡ Francisco de Montanos, Arte de musica theorica y pratica (Valladolid, 1592); Pietro Cerone, El melopeo y maestro (Naples, 1613; repr. Bologna, 1969). 3.â•‡ See Howard Mayer Brown, “Emulation, Competition, and Homage: Imitation and Theories of Imitation in the Renaissance,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 35 (1982): 1–48. 4.â•‡ An example is described by Earle Havens in Commonplace Books: A History of Manuscripts and Printed Books from Antiquity to the Twentieth Century (New Haven, Conn.: Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, 2001), 22. It is that of Teodoro of Verona, a fifteenth-century preacher whose commonplace book contained “but the smallest, choicest fruits of the Church Fathers, the most modest bouquets of medieval ecclesiastics, and the merest classical smattering of Seneca, Virgil and Ovid” under 110 headings “ranging from divine grace (‘De gratia divina’) to adolescence (‘De adolescentibus’) to vineyards (‘De vineis’).” 5.â•‡ Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina, Motecta festorum totius anni cum communi sancÂ� torum quaternis vocibus, liber primus (Venice: Gardano, 1563); RISM P689. The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians only refers to the lost 1563 edition. For a modern edition see Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina, Il libro primo dei mottetti a 4 voci, which is vol. 3 of Le opere complete, ed. Raffaele Casimiri (Rome: Fratelli Scalera, 1939–1987); or Motecta festorum totius anni cum communi sanctorum quaternis vocibus, liber primus, ed. Daniele V. Filippi (Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2003). For complete analyses of all of the motets in this collection, see Peter N. Schubert, “Hidden Forms in Palestrina’s First Book of Four-Voice Motets,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 60 (2007): 483–556. A revised and corrected version of the table in the appendix may be accessed at www.music.mcgill.ca/~schubert. 6.â•‡ The term comes from Robert Ralph Bolgar, The Classical Heritage and its Beneficiaries (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1954), 272. Bolgar manages to avoid using the term “commonplace” in the main text, although it appears in a footnote about the Summa predicantium of John of Bromyarde (p. 432). 7.â•‡ The Epistles of Seneca, trans. Richard Gummere (London: William Heinemann, 1930), vol. 2, ep. 84, pp. 276–79. 8.â•‡ Martin L. McLaughlin, Literary Imitation in the Italian Renaissance: The Theory and Practice of Literary Imitation in Italy from Dante to Bembo (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 25–26, gives several examples of Petrarch rewording something he had borrowed, including Seneca’s image of the bees. 9.â•‡ Jessie Ann Owens, Composers at Work: The Craft of Musical Composition 1450–1600 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 191. The passage can be found in Johannes Frosch, Rerum musicarum opusculum (Strasburg, 1532; 1535), chap. 19. Owens reproduces his alternative passages and their application in plates 7.25a–b and 7.26a–b. Brown discusses the same passage in “Emulation, Competition, and Homage,” 41. 10.â•‡ Lodovico Zacconi, Prattica di mvsica vtile et necessaria (Venice: B. Carampello, 1596), III, 33, pp. 161–62. This passage is discussed in James Haar, “A Sixteenth-Century Attempt at Music Criticism,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 36 (1983): 191– 209. 11.â•‡ Cristle Collins Judd, Reading Renaissance Music Theory: Hearing with the Eyes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 129. 12.â•‡ Judd, Reading Renaissance Music Theory, 136. In the passage that she is referring to, Glareanus says: “Moreover, just as those who publish books of letters frequently inter-

Musical Commonplaces in the Renaissanceâ•… ·â•… 187 mingle with their own efforts the letters of others who do not speak as clearly, evidently so that the contrast of opposites, as philosophers say, may place their own in greater relief, as we see has been done a little before our time by Angelo Politian, so it has seemed necessary to do likewise in these examples, namely, that to those very learned songs of Josquin des Prez, and of other superior symphonetae, we should also add the less beautiful songs of others, so that through the antithesis the reader could make a somewhat clearer judgment than has been made thus far.” The reference to Politian connects Glareanus to the larger literary world of the Ciceronian debates. See Henricus Glareanus, Dodecachordon (Basel 1547), trans. Clement Albin Miller (Rome: American Institute of Musicology, 1965), III, 13, p. 248 (facs. 240). 13.â•‡ Joachim Burmeister, Musical Poetics, trans. Benito V. Rivera (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), chap. 12. He is like Aron, in citing passages from repertoire but not reprinting them. Burmeister’s approach has been explicated in Claude V. Palisca, “Ut Oratoria Musica: The Rhetorical Basis of Musical Mannerism,” in The Meaning of Mannerism, ed. Franklin W. Robinson and Stephen G. Nichols, Jr. (Hanover, N.H.: University Press of New England, 1972), 37–65. 14.â•‡ Adriano Banchieri, Cartella musicale (Venice: Vincenti, 1614), 235–48. The cadenÂ� ces, many with commentary, are all to G, and may be transposed. 15.â•‡ Girolamo Diruta, Il Transilvano, part II (Venice: Vincenti, 1609, 1622; repr. Bologna: Forni, 1969), 15. Diruta says “ho dolore di non poterle far stampare tutte, le quali son trecento, e vinti; n’ho fatto scelse delle più belle, e più artificiose, e da quelli essempii intenderete li variati accompagnamenti delle consonanze.” ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ I have omitted mention of ornamentation treatises, although these may be related to the commonplace tradition as well. 16.â•‡ Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam, On Copia of Words and Ideas, trans. Donald B. King and David Rix (Milwaukee: Marquette University Press, 1963), 80. 17.â•‡ I have only recognized one as borrowed from repertoire: Montanos’s two-passo opening number 7 is lifted un-transposed, with only the most minor alterations, from Palestrina 1564 (see note 6, above), number 27, mm. 91–92 (“magister meus Christus”), with overlapping notes removed. If others are borrowed, they would also most likely come from inner points of pieces because of their short time-intervals of imitation. The prevalence of chanson rhythms (b-sb-sb) may point to another source. It is probable other openings are borrowed and, since they are meant to be borrowed in turn by the reader, we can see that Montanos and Cerone have provided a book for “readers who did not have the patience or the resources to gather their own entries” (see epigraphs, above). 18.â•‡ Erasmus, On Copia, 87–88. 19.â•‡ Desiderius Erasmus, De duplici copia verborum ac rerum, ed. Betty I. Knott, Opera omnia 1.6 (Amsterdam: North-Holland, 1988), 259. Translation mine, in which I have tried to retain a distinction between “heading” and “place.” King and Rix have: “All of these topics can be treated along the following lines” (Erasmus, On Copia, 88). Betty Knott has: “These topics can be developed through all the standard treatments” (Desiderius Erasmus, Copia: Foundations of the Abundant Style, trans. Betty I. Knott, vol. 24 of Collected Works of Erasmus, ed. Craig R. Thompson [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1978], 636). 20.â•‡ Aristotle’s lines of inquiry for evaluating an argument include property, definition, genus, and accident. Beginning in book II, he shows how to use these criteria. See Topics, trans. W. A. Pickard-Cambridge, at http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/topics.html (accessed 21 November 2008). 21.â•‡ Moss, Printed Commonplace-Books, 6. 22.â•‡ Erasmus, On Copia, 88. 23.â•‡ Ibid., 88. 24.â•‡ Ibid., 90.

188â•… ·â•… Peter Schubert 25.â•‡ Moss, Printed Commonplace-Books, 110. 26.â•‡ Ibid., 120. 27.â•‡ Ibid., 126. 28.â•‡ Erasmus, On Copia, 89. 29.â•‡ Ibid., 89–90. 30.â•‡ Ibid., 89. 31.â•‡ Ibid., 90–91. Likewise, Melanchthon and his followers drew commonplaces from passages in the Bible to provide preachers with clear lessons for use in sermons. See Robert Kolb, “Teaching the Text: The Commonplace Method in Sixteenth Century Lutheran Biblical Commentary,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 49 (1987): 571–85. 32.â•‡ From a 1523 letter to John Botzheim, Collected Works of Erasmus, trans. R. A. B. Mynors (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1989), 9: 316; quoted in Kathy Eden, Friends Hold All Things in Common: Tradition, Intellectual Property, and the Adages of Erasmus (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001), 2. The word sylvam is one of many words used to describe a collection. 33.â•‡ Desiderius Erasmus, “The labors of Hercules,” in Adages III, trans. R. A. B. Mynors, vol. 34 of Collected Works of Erasmus (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1992), i, 1, p. 177. “Twice-served cabbage is death” is an adage that refers to unpleasant or inappropriate repetition; see Adages I, trans. Margaret Mann Phillips, vol. 31 of Collected Works of Erasmus (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), v, 38, p. 417. “Corinthus son of Jove” refers to a phrase that causes disgust when it repeatedly comes into conversation; see Adages II, trans. R. A. B. Mynors, vol. 33 of Collected Works of Erasmus (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991), i, 50, p. 44; and see also Margaret Mann Phillips, The ‘Adages’ of Erasmus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1964), ix. 34.â•‡ Moss documents several other instances of “commonplaced” editions of the Adages: “Of particular interest among later commonplace arrangements of the Adagia are the Adagia sive sententiae proverbiales . . . in locos communes redactae (Strasburg, 1596) of Josephus Langius . . . who on this occasion orders his commonplaces on the universal model progressing from God through heaven, earth, metals, plants, and animals, to man and his concerns” (Printed Commonplace-Books, 187 n. 3). In this downward progression we recognize the reverse of Tommaso Tomai’s plan for his selva, “L’idea del giardino del mondo.” A similar collection was published in Hanover in 1617, with additions by other authors. The editor of this vast tome (Desid. Erasmi Roterodami adagiorum chiliades iuxta locos communes digestae) had to decide on categories, then group the thousands of adages anew under headings, which were presented alphabetically. Although as seems inevitable, many headings are opposites of each other (iniustitiae / iustitiae, gratitudo / ingratitudo, etc.), the significance of opposites is lost since they are alphabetically arranged. The book proudly features three types of index: one by headings, which merely recaps the contents of the book without the commentary; one by first-words of the proverbs; and one by “rerum and verbum.” Such indices show what the compiler, on behalf of his audience, thought was important. Thus to find the famous adage dulce bellum inexpertis (“war is pleasant to those who have not experienced it”), you need to know either the first word of the adage or that the compiler thought it was about inexperience (imperitia), the locus under which it is grouped. If “war” is the only thing you can remember, you will be disappointed in your search, for no entry for “war” appears in any of the three indices. 35.â•‡ Judd, Reading Renaissance Music Theory, 175. 36.â•‡ Ibid., 129. 37.â•‡ Moss, Printed Commonplace-Books, 205–206. 38.â•‡ Strictly speaking, music can serve as a heading to other music under some restricted circumstances. Consider the case of a simple version acting as a heading for different ornamented versions of the same basic framework, as in the example by Montanos printed

Musical Commonplaces in the Renaissanceâ•… ·â•… 189 and discussed in Peter N. Schubert, “Counterpoint Pedagogy in the Renaissance,” in The Cambridge History of Western Music Theory, ed. Thomas Christensen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 518. 39.â•‡ Montanos intends his commonplaces to be used somewhat freely. 40.â•‡ Montanos, Arte de musica, fol. 28r; Cerone, El melopeo y maestro, 813. I have not found the origin of this sentence, nor do I know why the word for “place” is in the neuter, which more often applies to geographical places than to figurative ones. Montanos may have invented the sentence. In Printed Commonplace-Books, 260–61, Moss cites a seventeenthcentury French commonplace book by Charles Sorel (1671) that contains virtually the same sentence. 41.â•‡ These are what Burmeister calls supplementa in Musical Poetics, 150–51. 42.â•‡ Montanos, on lugares comunes, in Arte de musica, fols. 46v–47r. 43.â•‡ “El discurso bueno del buen principio se puede esperar segun la sciencia del compositor” (ibid., fol. 31r). 44.â•‡ Montanos, on compostura, in Arte de musica, fol. 11r. Although Montanos is typically laconic, this process is described in much greater detail by Sancta Maria, who focuses on the overlap between the end of the first duo and the entries of the voice of the second. See Thomás de Sancta Maria, Libro llamado arte de tañer fantasia (Valladolid: 1565; repr., Geneva: Minkoff, 1973), II: 37–50. 45.â•‡ Jessie Ann Owens has referred to such repeating combinations as “modules,” and we will retain this term. See Owens, “The Milan Partbooks: Evidence of Cipriano de Rore’s Compositional Process,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 37 (1984): 284. 46.â•‡ “. . . con especias buenas” (Montanos, Arte de musica, fol. 11r). 47.â•‡ Vertical sonorities should contain a third and a fifth or sixth. Gioseffo Zarlino, Le Istitutione harmoniche (Venice: 1558, 1573; repr. New York: Broude Bros., 1965); The Art of Counterpoint: Part Three of Le Istitutioni harmoniche, 1558, trans. Guy A. Marco and Claude V. Palisca (New York: Norton, 1976), III: 59. On Zarlino’s definition of the two-voice framework used as a soggetto, see Benito Rivera, “Finding the Soggetto in Willaert’s Free Imitative Counterpoint: A Step in Modal Analysis,” in Music Theory and the Exploration of the Past, ed. Christopher Hatch and David W. Bernstein (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 99ff. 48.â•‡ In borrowing from Montanos, Cerone generally took groups of three (which is how Montanos’s twenty-four appear on the page), but started at the end and worked his way backÂ�wards, perhaps in order to hide his tracks. 49.â•‡ Schubert, “Hidden Forms,” 490ff. 50.â•‡ A third type, based on alternating fourths and fifths, appears only once (no. 9 in table 9.2), and never in Palestrina’s openings. Consequently it has been omitted from the present discussion. 51.â•‡ Zarlino’s discussion of “doppia consequenza” was added to the 1573 edition of the Istitutioni harmoniche (III, 63, 314ff.). See Denis Collins, “Zarlino and Berardi as teachers of Canon,” Theoria: Historical Aspects of Music Theory 7 (1993): 103–23; and Peter N. Schubert, Modal Counterpoint, Renaissance Style (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), chap. 16. 52.â•‡ This term is used by Sancta Maria to denote something like a countersubject. See Sancta Maria, Libro llamado arte, II, 33, fol. 64v. 53.â•‡ See Schubert, “Counterpoint Pedagogy in the Renaissance,” 514–17. Joshua Rifkin has drawn attention to the importance of invertible counterpoint, remarking that “multiple counterpoint . . . typically refers to longer, non-imitative linear units.” See “Miracles, Motivicity, and Mannerism: Adrian Willaert’s Videns Dominus flentes sorores Lazari and Some Aspects of Motet Composition in the 1520s,” in Hearing the Motet: Essays on the Motet of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, ed. Dolores Pesce (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 245. While this is true of most treatise-presentations of the subject, here

190â•… ·â•… Peter Schubert (and in the Palestrina examples we will look at below) they occur often in shorter, imitative contexts. 54.â•‡ The characteristic vertical interval succession here begins 10-5. The “subject” rises a total of a seventh to make a third above the answer on A, then falls a third (*) to make a fifth above D. The answer, on the other hand, rises only a sixth to make a third above D, and falls only a second (*) to make a fifth above A. 55.â•‡ Generally, if the first duo uses imitation at the fifth above or below, both voices of the second duo will be an octave away; if the first duo uses imitation at the octave, the second duo will be a fourth or fifth away. Sancta Maria says that the bass and alto voices “correspond” at the octave, likewise the tenor and soprano. See Sancta Maria, Libro llamado arte, II, 35, fol. 74v. 56.â•‡ In the “Comments” column (8) are entered similarities between the various openings. “Sim 1st sp.” means that the opening duos would reduce to a similar first species structure. Such openings based on the same basic structure may be thought of as “synonyms.” The soggetto of number 25 is a paraphrase of the chant, Ave maris stella. 57.â•‡ “De seys dozenas de entradas, a quatro, que hasta aqui estan puestas por lugares comunes, de dos maneras de la ymitacion comun, y otras dos vozes un passo, y dos otro diverso, la qual tengo por muy buena, porque se dexa entender la letra aunque no tan usada como la comun de un passo todas De la una y otra se pueden aprovechar mudando los signos, segun pidiere el tono que compusieren, pueden poniendo mas figuras, o mudando algun punto hazer destas entradas otras muchas para diversidad” (Montanos, on lugares comunes, in Arte de musica, fol. 44v). 58.â•‡ “. . . spezzoni di storie, curiosità naturali e antropologiche, questioni di etimologia, liste di personaggi e di eventi storici classificabili sotto un esponente particolare, detti di personaggi illustri, nomi di inventori di cose, e simili soggetti, trattabili in forma breve” (Paolo Cherchi, “La selva rinascimentale: profilo di un genere,” Ricerche sulle selve rinascimentali, ed. Paolo Cherchi [Ravenna: Longo, 1999], 9). 59.â•‡ Quoted and translated in McLaughlin, Literary Imitation in the Italian Renaissance, 196. Gellius gives many synonyms for selva, among which we find florilegium, practica, exercitationes, osservationi, and others that we also find used as titles of music treatises. 6ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ 0.â•‡ “. . . allo stato di raccolta provvisoria, non pensata secondo alcun criterio organizzativo, il semplice cumulo di materiali anteriore alla classificazione secondo le sedes dell’inventio” (Cherchi, “La selva rinascimentale,” 13). 61.â•‡ Lynn Lara Westwater, “La nuova seconda selva of Girolama Giglio: A Case of RisÂ�critÂ� tura in Mid-Sixteenth-Century Venice,” in Ricerche sulle selve rinascimentali, 43. 62.â•‡ “Esiste dunque una certa tassonomia che prende avvio dalla terra e si conclude con il cielo” (Daniela Pastina, “L’idea del giardino del mondo di Tommaso Tomai,” Ricerche sulle selve rinascimentali, ed. Paolo Cherchi [Ravenna: Longo, 1999], 122). The contents of this selva move from the earth (including earthquakes and minerals) through man (including procreation, illnesses, and parts of the body), to the air (including comets and fire). The overlap between selva and commonplace book is exemplified in the title of another com-Â� monplace book, Sylva Sententiarum, Exemplorum, Historiarum, Allegorairum, Simultitudinium, Facietarum, Partim ex Reverendi Viri, D. Martini Lutheri, ac Philippi Melanchthonis . . . in Locos Communes ordine Alphabetico disposita (Frankfurt: Fabricium & Feyrabend, 1566). 63.â•‡ For a brief account of Cerone reception, see Robert Stevenson’s review of the Forni reprint of El melopeo in Journal of the American Musicological Society 24 (1971): 481–82. Another view of Cerone’s contribution is provided by Gary Towne in chapter 16 of the present volume, “The Good Maestro: Pietro Cerone on the Pedagogical Relationship.” 64.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo y maestro, I, 32, p. 87. For a list of theorists named in the treatise, see the introduction to that edition (pp. x–xvi). Moss cites many examples of such “plun-

Musical Commonplaces in the Renaissanceâ•… ·â•… 191 dering” of one commonplace-book author by another, just as Judd meticulously notes all of Glarean’s debts to previous theorists. 65.â•‡ To give but a few examples: Cerone, in El melopeo y maestro, says that the word maestro in his title refers to Quintilian’s “perfect orator” (I, 1, p. 7). The treatise is sprinkled with sententiae, and marginalia in italics are used to indicate the famous authors being quoted or the rhetorical device or type of embellishment being used. In talking about the overuse of certain intervals, he quotes a notorious sententia by Cicero that he calls a “verso sin gracia,” because it contains the same sounds too many times: O fortunatam natam me consule Romam (XII, 6, p. 674). Finally, he likens the seven species of musical interval to the letters of the alphabet, from which “thousands and thousands” of orations can be made (IX, 3, pp. 565–66). 66.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo y maestro, XII, 5, p. 668. 67.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo y maestro, XV, 1, pp. 829–32. These progressions are loosely based on Sancta Maria’s in the Libro llamado arte, II, 11–31. See Miguel Roig-Francolí, “Playing in Consonances: A Spanish Renaissance Technique of Chordal Improvisation,” Early Music 23 (1995): 93–103. Also see Schubert, “Counterpoint Pedagogy in the Renaissance,” 525–27. 68.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo y maestro, XV, 1, pp. 832–72. The means of expansion include a separate set of cadences for two to eight voices, and, within each set, separate cadences to D, E, F, and G. 69.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo y maestro, XV, 1, p. 813: “. . . dexa entender la letra.” 70.â•‡ As with the two-passo openings, those from Montanos are taken mostly three at a time beginning at the end. 71.â•‡ Cerone has replaced Montanos’s lone example (table 9.2, no. 11) with his own. 72.â•‡ Note that module B is repeated in invertible counterpoint at the twelfth, and the melody in the alto is altered to avoid a vertical seventh (the D sounds a minim earlier). 73.â•‡ Montanos had only three of this type (his nos. 24, 34, and 45); Cerone kept two, replaced one, and added a fourth. 74.â•‡ “Advierto que todas estas Entradas son para principiantes, que para gente professa son muy dozenales; y caso se sirvieren dellos, servirsehan la mayor parte en medio de la Composicion, y pocas vezes en el principio: y assi digo que el discurso bueno, dal buen principio de puede esperar, segun la sciencia y habilidad del Composidor” (Cerone, El melopeo y maestro, XV, 1, p. 829). 75.â•‡ Cerone is much more vigorous in his condemnation of plagiarism in El melopeo y maestro, XII, 6, p. 675. 76.â•‡ “Quien dessea deprender usar los Duos con Arte, juyzio, y a proposito, examine con diligencia los primeros Motetes a quatro bozes de Prenestina” (Cerone, El melopeo y maestro, XII, 11, p. 685). 77.â•‡ Three motets feature IDs and PEns whose modules are not the result of the same time-interval of imitation (nos. 15, 17, and 28). This is because Palestrina adds an extra semibreve between the entries of the second occurrence of the duo, in all three cases changing four sbs to five (noted in the rightmost column). The module is the same, but the rigorous periodicity is weakened. 78.â•‡ The reader may note two minor differences between the data in table 9.4 and that in the corrected appendix to “Hidden Forms”: (1) Some of the openings identified here as “free” contain modules presented “semi-imitatively”; and (2) I identified the full-textured opening of motet number 23 (“Salvator mundi”) as a NIm on the basis of a “module” of parallel thirds buried inside (p. 549)—this is one of the few debatable cases in the entire collection. 79.â•‡ I have shown different structural principles at play in successive sections of a Willaert ricercar, in “Recombinant Melody: Ten Things to Love About Willaert’s Music,” Cur-

192â•… ·â•… Peter Schubert rent Musicology 75 (2003): 91–113. Contrast of structural principle is not a hard and fast rule: Palestrina has structurally imitated himself a couple of times in the opening points of his 1564 collection. The time-intervals of motets 10, 21, and 22 have been discussed; likewise motets 16 and 18. In these groups, the thematic material is presented in the same way, on the same “scaffolding,” but of course has quite different themes, modes, etc. 80.â•‡ Owens, Composers at Work, 193.

10 Music Education and the Conduct of Life in Early Modern England: A Review of the Sources• Pamela F. Starr

• Polymathes: Stay, brother Philomathes, what haste? Whither go you so fast? Philomathes: To seek out an old friend of mine.

So begins the dialogue that launches one of the most frequently invoked music treatises published in England, Thomas Morley’s A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke.1 In it, as every cultural historian of the period knows, Morley builds on the social discomfiture of Philomathes to justify the construction of a carefully guided course of instruction in the practice of music. This treatise is aimed at the previously untutored, is scrupulously detailed in its content, and is based on the presumption that there would be a wide market for such a textbook. Morley’s presumption was, of course, right on the mark. There was, by 1597, a considerable demand for what he offered. And the evidence for this, as I have discovered, was not merely in the documented sales of the first edition, or in the publication of a second edition nine years

194â•… ·â•… Pamela F. Starr

later and the frequent citing of the work in the seventeenth century. Morley might have inferred the putative market for his treatise from the testimony of the courtesy and conduct manuals that were rolling off the press at this time. Within their covers could be found the “why” that prompted Morley’s “how-to” book. Not five years before the publication of Morley’s treatise, London playgoers would have heard one of the most eloquent examples of music instruction ever penned. The passage begins: How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony . . .

And it ends thus: The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted.

These words from act 5, scene 1 of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice enclose a justly famous passage of great poetic beauty, and one that also brings to our attention two important themes of the play. The beginning of the speech launches a stunningly evocative apostrophe to Harmony—the ancient Boethian, but still-prevalent worldview of the Music of the Spheres and its power over the minds and actions of human beings. Several scholars have recognized the role of music in this play as a symbol for characters in concord or in discord with each other and with society.2 The conclusion depicts the “outsider,” the self-excluded alien—unmistakably in this context, Shylock, and by extension, all Jews—who remain outside of and who threaten the “harmonious concord” of society. Not by coincidence, Shylock is the one character in this play who rejects the “touches of sweet harmony” as mere noise. Even Jessica, a converted Jew, allows herself to be instructed in the theory of the Music of the Spheres by her Christian husband. This passage prompted me to begin a study of the role of music, musicians, and music patronage in those segments of early modern English society that were viewed as marginal. Such a study, I felt, must necessarily be

Music Education and the Conduct of Life in Early Modern Englandâ•… ·â•… 195

preceded by an understanding of how the mainstream of English society had received, understood, and used music. I undertook this “baseline” study by examining not only the standard treatises and music theory texts—but also nearly one hundred manuals of conduct and instruction of young men and women published between 1500 and 1700. This latter group, I thought, might give a more balanced view of music in English society than the more specialized music treatises—which might be thought, as it were, to be preaching to the choir. From this assemblage of printed volumes, represented in the superb collections of the Folger, Newberry, and Huntington libraries, I identified and studied forty-five works that contained passages specifically on music and the teaching of music. Space does not permit the inclusion of all these passages here, of course, but the reader will find below, with contextual commentaries, a sampling of some of the most evocative and persuasive opinions about the value and power of music education. Conduct and courtesy books emerged, as Frank Whigham has put it, “as a repertoire of actions invoked by, and meant to order, the surge of social mobility that occurred at the boundaries between ruling and subject classes in late sixteenth-century England.”3 The new social mobility began under the early Tudors, as advancement through government bureaucracy was offered to the lesser landed gentry, and eventually, to members of the urban artisan and professional middle class. The road to preferment at court and a possible patent of nobility was opened through a mastery of the habits of mind and conduct set forth in the courtesy book. Works in this genre were frequently modeled on Il Cortegiano by Baldassare Castiglione, while individual translations of this seminal work were reprinted in England throughout the sixteenth and well into the seventeenth centuries as The Courtier. And like their distinguished progenitor, many of the volumes of courtesy and conduct that flooded the English market found a place for music as part of the formation of the young gentleman and young gentlewoman.4 Many others, however, inveighed sharply against it. Instead of an expected uniformity of view, I found a delightful farrago of opinion and rationale, both pro and con, which revealed a multivalent and inclusive reception of music in the lives of both children and adults. What follows will be a selective survey of views in the distinctive voices of the authors themselves, grouped by topic and by point of view. The first example (excerpt 1) is drawn from William Bates’s late-breaking apostrophe to the time-honored doctrine of the Music of the Spheres, and is immediately contrasted with Thomas Lodge’s rather cynical preference for


music that one can actually hear (excerpt 2). In excerpts 3–5, Philip Sidney, William Vaughan, and William Higford argue for the curative agency of music, while Léonard Marandé, Richard Whitlock, and Tommaso Buoni explore differing aspects of music and the Affections, in excerpts 6–8. Beginning with excerpt 9, specific attitudes toward the teaching of music to infants and children of both sexes are explored, in the words of such distinguished sixteenth-century pedagogues as Roger Ascham (excerpt 9), Thomas Elyot (excerpts 10a–c), and Richard Mulcaster (excerpts 11a–d). The latter, in an extensive treatise dedicated to Queen Elizabeth, argued forcefully for the civic and humanistic values of music education in the lives of young women. In the seventeenth century, women writers joined the groundswell of support for women’s education, including training in music. Anna Maria Schurman (excerpt 12), Hannah Woolley (excerpts 13a–b), and Bathsua Makin (excerpt 14) each have a different take on the specific value and use of music education for women, with Woolley presenting a “Miss Manners” list of dos and don’ts for women performers. But I have not omitted the contrarian views of Elizabeth Joscelin (excerpt 15), Thomas Powell (excerpt 16), Thomas Salter (excerpts 17a–b), and William Darrell (excerpts 18–19), all of whom saw music education as either a waste of time or a downright induction into folly or sin (this especially in regard to music education for young women). The reader will find brief contextual remarks about many of the authors of these excerpts, as well as information on the dedicatees of their treatises (following the individual passages). These illuminate the diverse and varied points of view regarding music instruction in the Early Modern era in England.

Excerpts from the Courtesy Books Excerpt 1 William Bates, The soveraign and Final Happiness of Man (London: Printed by J. D. for Brabazon Aylmer, 1680), 54.5

O, the unspeakable pleasure of this [Heavenly] concert! when every soul is harmonious and contributes his part to the full musicke of heaven. O could we hear but some Eccho of those Songs wherewith the Heaven of Heaven resounds, some remains of those voices wherewith the Sains above triumph in the praises in the solemn adoration of the King of spirits, how would it inflame our desires to be joyn’d with them? William Bates (1625–1699), BA, MA (Oxford), DD (Cambridge), served as a chaplain to the newly restored Charles II, but his inclinations toward moderate Puritan dissent led to his

Music Education and the Conduct of Life in Early Modern Englandâ•… ·â•… 197 ejection from the court and his pulpit at St. Dunstan’s, London. Bates argued that sensual pleasures distracted from the attainment of the highest good of mankind—namely, salvation and the experience of the bliss of the heavenly choirs. (ODNB Onl., accessed 9 July 2008; and Bates, The soveraign, preface and p. 12)

Excerpt 2 Thomas Lodge, A Reply to Gosson’s Schoole of Abuse (London, 1579; repr. Arthur Freeman, ed., New York and London: Garland Publishing, 1973), 29, 27.

What Homer’s music was, that was so different from today’s. . . . When I speak with Homer next, you shall know his answer . . . But to speak my conscience, methinks music best pleaseth me when I hear it. Thomas Lodge (1558–1625), a playwright, poet, travel-writer, and pamphleteer, was probably a secret Catholic. His “Defense of Poetry: A Reply to Gosson’s Schoole of Abuse,” was intended as a riposte to Gosson’s polemic against not only poetry, but all the arts, including music. Gosson invoked the same views of earthly versus heavenly music as Bates, in excerpt 1, to which Lodge averred his preference for music that he actually heard. (ODNB Onl., accessed 10 July 2007)

Excerpt 3 Philip Sidney, Correspondence, ed. Albert Feuillerat (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963), 133.

Now, sweete brother, take a delight to keepe and increase your musick; you will not believe what a want I finde of it in my melancholic times. The poet Philip Sidney (1554–1586) wrote to his younger brother Robert in 1580, urging the study of various subjects, including history, mathematics, military science, music, and horsemanship. Music in particular would serve to relieve the mind after the labors of serious study.

Excerpt 4 William Vaughan, Directions for Health, Naturall and Artificiall, 7th edition, reviewed by the author (London: Printed by Thomas Harper, for Iohn Harison, 1633), 129, 158–59.

Show me a diet for melancholike men. . . . Fourthly, musicke is meete for them. But indeed, Musicke, such as the Violl, the Irish-Harpe, &c. will allure the outward senses, and also temper the extravagant thoughts of the minde, more than any thing. . . . And even as faire colours doe please the eyes, sweet meates the taste, perfumes the nose, so melodious Musick will afford


delight, not onely to the eares, but also to the dejected spirit. Here also I cannot but highly commend the loud Musicke of our Countrey Coridons, Pipes, Tabours, and Bag pipes, so they sue them not to prophane the Sabbath day, as I have known some. William Vaughan (ca. 1575–1641), dubbed “Orpheus Junior,” was a writer, antiquarian, and an early colonist of Newfoundland. His family, including one dedicatee—his brother Robert, First Earl of Carbery—had strong ties with Essex, and may have been implicated in his 1601 rebellion. (ODNB 56: 207–208)

Excerpt 5 William Higford, The Institution of a Gentleman (London: Printed by A. W. for William Lee, 1660), 78, 80.

But you will be most compleat when you joyn the vocal and instrumental both together . . . When you are oppressed with serious and weighty business, to take your viol and sing to it will be a singular ease and refreshment. William Higford (1580–1657) was a member of a Gloucestershire family patronized especially by the Chandos family, loyal adherents to Charles I. Higford’s conduct manual was published from manuscript by Clement Barksdale, an Anglican clergyman, author, and devoted royalist. It was dedicated to Lord Scudamore of Sligo, a politically well-connected courtier of Charles I, also a devoted Anglican. The manual was modeled on the Basilicon Doron of James I, intended for the Prince of Wales. (ODNB 3: 907; 27: 52; and Higford, Institution, preface and dedication)

Excerpt 6 Léonard de Marandé, The Judgment of Humane Actions, trans. John Reynolds (London: Bourne, 1629), 35–36.

Hearing is nothing else but a feeling of the tune or sound in this part, which accordingly, more or less, as it strikes our eare, makes the sound grave or harsh, sweet or displeasing: and if it strikes us too rudely or violently, then it not only touches the eare, but all the whole body, as when a great noyse or thunder makes all things tremble or shake under us, and seems to strike and astonish the foundations of houses by this sudden and violent feeling. John Reynolds (1588–after 1655), the translator of Léonard Marandé’s original treatise, dedicated to Cardinal Richelieu, was a merchant and writer based in France, from 1619. He dedicated his translation to Edward Sackville, Fourth Earl of Dorset, another expatriate in France, and eventually Chamberlain of the household of Charles I’s French-born queen, Henrietta Maria. (ODNB 46: 542; 48: 532–34; and Marandé, Judgment, preface and dedication)


Excerpt 7 Richard Whitlock, Zootomia; or, Observations of the Present Manners of the English . . . With Useful Detection of the Mountebanks of both Sexes (London: Printed by Tho. Roycroft, and are to be sold by Humphrey Moseley, at the Princes Armes in St. Pauls Church-yard, 1654), 483, 486.

Musick hath had its use in the Wars of Passions, and routed discontents out of troubled minds. . . . It unsaddens the melancholy, quickens the dull, awaketh the drowsie, &c . . . The enemy of musick is one God loveth not. The publisher’s blurb praises Whitlock’s Zootomia for having been written after, and not before his rigorous research into all the arts and languages: it is not a mere compendium, but a synthesis and analysis of the facts. The Anglican clergyman and poet Jasper Mayne (1604–1672), a Royalist sympathizer and friend of John Donne, wrote a sincere encomium of Whitlock (b. 1615 or 1616) and his work. (ODNB 37: 603–605)

Excerpt 8 Tommaso Buoni, Problemes of Beautie and all Humane Affections, trans. S. L. [= Sampson Lennard] (London: Printed by G. Eld, for Edward Blount, and William Aspley, 1606), 130–31.

"Why doe Lovers delight in morning musicke?” Probleme 64 Perhaps to the end that by meanes of that delight which is in musicke, either vocall or instrumentall, and that willingnesse they expresse thereby to please, and consent, they may stir up the affections of those they love, to requite them againe with reciprocall affection, which many time doth happily succeed. . . . Or perhaps because there is not a thing that doth better expresse an angelicall minde, than an angelicall voice, which having something in it, though I know not what, that is divine, they desire by the worth thereof, to express their own worthiness. For every action of a Lover should bee such, as by the vertue and valour thereof, may stirre affection. Sampson Lennard (d. 1633), the translator of Buoni’s treatise, was an antiquarian and pursuivant in the College of Arms. He also translated a history of the papacy, in the hopes that he might “live to march over the alpes and trayle a pike before the walls of Rome, behind the Prince’s [i.e., Prince Henry’s] standard.” (ODNB 33: 348)

Excerpt 9 Roger Ascham, Toxophilus: The Schole of Shooting (1545), ed. Edward Arber (London: A. Murray & Son, 1868), 42.

For even the little babes lacking the use of reason, are scarce so well stilled in sucking their mothers pap, as in hearying their mother syng.

200â•… ·â•… Pamela F. Starr Roger Ascham (1515/16–1568), one of Renaissance England’s most distinguished humanists and pedagogues, served Princess and then Queen Elizabeth, first as tutor and later as Latin secretary. His most famous work, The Schoolmaster (published posthumously in 1570), made a place for music in the curriculum of a “gentleman’s” education, but strictly for recreation and diversion. In the earlier Toxophilus, Ascham specifically advocates the teaching of “plainsong and pricksong” to children of both sexes. (Ascham, Toxophilus, 41)

Excerpt 10 Thomas Elyot, The Book Named the Governor (London, 1531), ed. S. E. Lehmberg (London: Dent, 1962), 20–22.

a)â•‡ The discretion of a tutor consisteth in temperance: that is to say, that he suffer not the child to be fatigued with continual study or learning, wherewith the delicate and tender wit may be dulled or oppressed; but that there may be therewith interlaced and mixed some pleasant learning and exercise, as playing on instruments of music, which moderately used and without diminution of honour, that is to say without wanton countenance and dissolute gesture, is not to be contemned. b)â•‡ But in this commendation of music I would not be thought to allure noblemen to have so much delectation therein, that in playing and singing only they should put their whole study and felicity; as did the emperor Nero, which all a long summer’s day would sit in the theatre . . . and in the presence of all the noblemen and senators would play on his harp and sing without ceasing. . . . O what misery it was to be subject to such a minstrel, in whose music was no melody, but anguish and dolour! c)â•‡ And if the child be of a perfect inclination and towardness to virtue, and very aptly disposed to this science, and ripely doth understand the reason and concordance of tunes, the tutor’s office shall be to persuade him to have principally in remembrance his estate. . . . He shall commend the perfect understanding of music, declaring how necessary it is for the better attaining the knowledge of the public weal; which, as I before have said, is made of an order of estates and degrees, and by reason thereof containeth in it a perfect harmony . . . Sir Thomas Elyot (ca. 1490–1546), one of the earliest authors of English conduct manuals, was a courtier of Henry VIII and a friend of Thomas Cromwell. He studied with Linacre and probably met Erasmus, Colet, Vives, and Lily. His treatise, The Book Named the Governor, was dedicated to Henry, and purported to instruct the tutors of the ruling elite. (Elyot, Book Named, v–xii)

Excerpt 11 Richard Mulcaster, Positions Concerning the Training Up of Children (London, 1581), ed. William Barker (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994), 48–50, 179–83.


a)â•‡ But for the whole manner of Musick this shall be enough for me to say at this time, that our countrey doth allow it: that it is verie comfortable to the wearied minde: a preparative to perswasion: that he must needes have a head out of proportion, which cannot perceive or doth not delite in the proportions of number, which speake him so faire: that it is best learned in childehood, when it can do the least harme, and may best be had . . . Musick will not harme thee, if thy behavior be good, and thy conceit honest, it will not miscarry thee if thy eares can carie it, and sorte it as it should be. b)â•‡ Musick by the instrument, besides the skill which must still increase, in forme of exercise to get the use of our small joyntes before they be knitte, to have them the nimbler . . . Musicke by the voice . . . by the waye of Phisick, to sprede the voice’s instrument while they be yet but young. c)â•‡ And to prove that they [young maidens] are to be trained, I finde foure speciall reasons, wherof any one, much more all may perswade any their most adversarie, much more me, which am for them with toothe and naile. The first is the manner and custome of my countrey, which allowing them to learne, will be lothe to be contraried by any of her contreymen. The second is the duetie, which we owe unto them, whereby we are charged in conscience, not to leave them lame, in that which is for them. The third is their owne towardnesse, which God by nature would never have given them, to remaine idle, or to small purpose. The fourth is the excellent effectes in that sex, when they had the helpe of good bringing up. . . . What can be said more? Our countrey doth allow it, our duetie doth enforce it, their aptnesse calls for it, their excellencie commands it . . . d)â•‡ And is a young gentlewoman, thinke you, thoroughly furnished, which can reade plainly and distinctly, write faire and swiftly, sing cleare and sweetely, play well and finely, understand and speake the learned languages, and those tongues also wich the time most embraceth . . . For the later sixteenth century, Richard Mulcaster’s Positions Concerning the Training Up of Children was the indispensable educational treatise. Mulcaster, from 1561 to 1581 headmaster of the Merchant Taylor’s School, then the largest school in London, designed his curriculum not only for aristocrats but also for children of the middle class—with the paramount goal of training informed, loyal subjects of the English state, as well as future government bureaucrats. His treatise was dedicated to Queen Elizabeth, one of the most musically accomplished women of her day. (Mulcaster, Positions, xiv)

Excerpt 12 Anna Maria Schurman, The Learned Maid; or whether a Maid may be a scholar? A Logick Exercise Written in Latine by That Incomparable Virgin Anna Maria Á Schurman of Vtrecht (London: Printed by J. Redmayne, 1659), 4–5.


But especially let regard be had unto those Arts which have nearest alliance to theology and the moral virtues, and are principally subservient to them. In which number we reckon Grammar, Logick, Rhetorick, especially Logick, fitly called the key of all sciences; and then Physicks, Metaphysicks, History, etc. . . . The rest, i.e. Mathematicks (to which is also referred Musick), Poesie, Picture, and the like, not illiberal Arts, may obtain the place of pretty Ornaments and ingenious Recreations. [Emphasis added.] Anna Maria Schurman (1607–1678) was living proof of her own argument. While still in her twenties she was proclaimed “the Tenth Muse”: proficient in many modern and ancient languages, respected friend of Descartes, Huygens, theologian André Rivet, and other European intellectuals of the day, a carefully trained musician (voice, harpsichord, and lute), and a distinguished visual artist. (Miriam De Baar et al., Choosing the Better Part [Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1996], 24–34)

Excerpt 13 Hannah Woolley, The Gentlewomans Companion, or a Guide to the Female Sex: The Complete Text of 1675, intro. Caterina Albano (Totnes, Devon: Prospect Books, 2001), 115.

a)â•‡ Do not discover upon every slight occasion you can sing or play upon any Instrument of Musick; but if it be known to any particular friend in company . . . and he can perswade you to sing, excuse your self as modestly as you may; but if your friends persist, satisfie their desires, and therein you will express no part of ill breeding. . . . Having commenced your Harmony, do not stop in the middle thereof to beg attention, and consequently applause to this trill, or that cadence, but continue without interruption what you have begun, and make an end so as not to be tedious, but leave the Company an appetite: As you would desire silence from others being thus applied, be you attentive, and not talkative when others are exercising their harmonious voices. b)â•‡ Let your prudence renounce a little pleasure for a great deal of danger. To take delight in an idle vain Song without staining yourself with the obscenity of it, is a thing in my mind almost impossible; for wickedness enters insensibly by the ear into the Soul, and what care soever we take to guard and defend ourselves, yet still it is a difficult task not to be tainted with the pleasing and alluring poison thereof. Hannah Woolley (1622/23–ca. 1675) was one of several women authors who addressed the educational formation of young women in seventeenth-century England. A professional cook and former schoolmistress, she was the author of several popular cookbooks, as well as conduct manuals for young ladies, of which The Gentlewomans Companion was the most popular and most often reprinted. (Woolley, Gentlewomans Companion, 7, 16)


Excerpt 14 Bathsua Makin, An Essay to Revive the Ancient Education of Gentlewomen (London, 1673), repr. in Frances Teague, Bathsua Makin, Woman of Learning (Lewisburg, Penn.: Bucknell University Press, 1998), 130–31.

If any distinctly desire to know, what should they [i.e., women] be instructed in? I answer: I cannot tell where to begin to admit women nor from what part of learning to exclude them in regard of their capacities. The whole encyclopedia of learning may be useful some way or other to them. Respect indeed is to be had to the nature and dignity of each art and science, as they are more or less subservient to religion, and may be useful to them in their station. . . . [And after enumerating and describing the study of grammar, rhetoric, logic, physic, tongues, mathematics, and geography, she goes on to say that] Music, painting, poetry, etc. are a great ornament and pleasure. Some things that are more practical are not so material because public employments in the field and courts are usually denied to women. Yet some have not been inferior to many men even in these things also. Witness Semeramis amongst the Babylonians, the Queen of Sheba in Arabia, Miriam and Deborah amongst the Israelites, Katherine de Medici in France, Queen Elizabeth in England. The distinguished Englishwoman of letters, Bathsua Makin (1612–after 1673) was brought up in the Puritan tradition by her schoolmaster father and was a successful instructor at her father’s grammar school, before being engaged in 1640 as tutor to the nine-year old Princess Elizabeth, daughter of Charles I. Encouraged by Anna Maria Schurman, a mentor, Makin developed a curriculum for educating young women, and applied it in her own school for boys and girls that she opened in 1673. (Teague, Bathsua Makin, 28–29, 59, and 91–93)

Excerpt 15 Elizabeth Joscelin, The Mother’s Legacy to her Unborn Childe, ed. Jean Le Drew Metcalf (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000), 49.

I desire her [a female child’s] bringing up may bee learning the Bible, as my sisters doe, good housewifery, writing, and good works: other learning a woman needs not: though I admire it in those whom God hath blest with discretion . . . Elizabeth Joscelin (1596–1622) was brought up and carefully educated by her grandfather, Bishop William Chaderton of Lincoln. Her treatise, primarily a manual of religious instruction, was written just before the birth of her first child—and Joscelin died of purpureal fever nine days after giving birth. (Joscelin, Mother’s Legacy, 4)


Excerpt 16 Thomas Powell, Tom of all Trades, or the Plaine Pathway to Preferment (London: Printed by B. AlÂ� sop and T. Fawces for Benjamin Fisher, and are to be sold at his shop, 1631), sig. G 3.

Let them learn plaine works of all kind. . . . Instead of song and musicke, let them learne cookerie and laundrie. And instead of reading Sir Philip Sydneys Arcadia, let them read the grounds of good huswifery. Let greater personages glory their skill in musicke. . . . This is not the way to breed a private Gentleman’s daughter. Thomas Powell (died ca. 1635) was a lawyer, jurist, and (very) minor poet of Welsh extraction. His only conduct manual, designed for the children of minor gentry in search of preferment at court, included much information on educational practices in early seventeenthcentury England. (ODNB Onl., accessed 18 July 2008)

Excerpt 17 Thomas Salter, A Mirrhor mete for all mothers, matrons, and maidens, intituled the Mirrhor of Modestie . . . (London: Printed by J. Kingston for Edward White, 1579), sigs. Cvi, Di.

a)â•‡ But nowadaise it seemeth to some that it [music] is a godly ornament and a brave setting out to a young maiden . . . to be an excellent fine singer, or a cunnyng player upon instruments. . . . For my part, I do not only discommend, but judge that a thing of no little daunger, which ought in all women to be eschewed. b)â•‡ She learneth by looking into this mirrhor to abhor and disdain all foul and unseemly usages . . . how unseemly her cheekes swelleth when she plaid upon her wind instrument called a flute, and seeing how evil it was for one of her calling to have a face so difformed, she violently threw it from her and broke it upon the grounde, renouncing quite the use of it and all such like. Little is known about Thomas Salter (fl. 1579–1581), apart from the two books he wrote. In 1579 he published A Mirrhor mete for all mothers . . . , which was dedicated to Anne Lodge, the wife of Thomas Lodge—author of “A Reply to Gosson’s Schoole of Abuse,” quoted above as excerpt 2; and in 1580, a text with the suggestive title, A contention between three bretheren, that is to say, the whoremonger, the dronkarde, and the diceplayer to approve which of them three is the worste, which was published by Lodge’s antagonist, Thomas Gosson. (ODNB Onl., accessed 18 July 2007)

Excerpt 18 William Darrell, The Gentleman Instructed, 5th edition (London: Printed by J. Heptinstall for E. Smith, 1713), xli–xlii.


For music has a strange ascendant over our Passions. . . . How many for want of care have split upon the quick sands? Was not Madam W. plaid out of her reputation and violin’d into a match below her quality? And how many gentlemen have been sung out of their innocence at the playhouse and musick meetings? Though therefore musick itself be innocent, it’s often fatal in the consequence, and strikes us at a rebound.

Excerpt 19 William Darrell, “A Supplement to the 1st Part of The Gentleman Instructed, with a word to the Ladies. Written for the Instruction of Both Sexes,” in The Gentleman Instructed, 5th edition (London: Printed by J. Heptinstall for E. Smith, 1713), xxxv.

And now Miss leaves the nursery to plie at the Dancing School, and to finger the guitar or the Virginals, and when she has mastered a Minuet and an air alamode; when she can practice a brace of grimaces and wave the fan, good God! How mama titters. She is now fledg’d for the World and sets out for Company. William Darrell (1651–1721), a Jesuit trained at the English Colleges at St. Omer and Liège (where he later taught), was a nephew of the Earl of Castlemaine. Darrell’s conduct manual went into a fifth edition: the supplemental feature “A Word to the Ladies” made it particularly popular. Although a Catholic clergyman, Darrell dedicated his book to George Hickes, an Anglican bishop who was a supporter of the exiled Stuarts after 1688. (ODNB 15: 168)

Notes The author is indebted to the staff of the Folger Shakespeare Library, the Newberry Library, and the Huntington Library, and to the generous advice and assistance of Professors Carole Levin and Linda Austern. 1.â•‡ Thomas Morley, A Plain and Easy Introduction to Practical Music, 2nd edition, ed. R. Alec Harmon (New York: W. W. Norton, 1973), 9. 2.â•‡ See, for example, C. L. Barber, Shakespeare’s Festive Comedy: A Study of Dramatic Form and its Relation to Social Custom (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972), 188–89; Lawrence Danson, The Harmonies of The Merchant of Venice (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978), esp. 170–95; S. K. Heninger, Touches of Sweet Harmony: Pythagorean Cosmology and Renaissance Poetics (San Marino, Calif.: The Huntington Library, 1974), 4–5; John Hollander, The Untuning of the Sky: Ideas of Music in English Poetry, 1500–1700 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961), 150–53; Frank Kermode, “The Mature Comedies,” in Early Shakespeare, ed. John Russell Brown and Bernard Harris, Stratford-upon-Avon Studies 3 (London: Edward Arnold, 1967), 224; and Alexander Leggatt, Shakespeare’s Comedy of Love (London: Methuen, 1974), 144–50. 3.â•‡ Frank Whigham, Ambition and Privilege: The Social Tropes of Elizabethan Courtesy Theory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), xi. 4.â•‡ Ibid., 26ff.

206â•… ·â•… Pamela F. Starr 5.â•‡ All information on authors, translators, dedicatees, and preface-writers of the conduct books quoted here is taken from the printed Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, ed. H. C. G. Matthew and Brian Harrison (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 60 vols. (hereafter ODNB), from the online edition at www.oxforddnb.com (hereafter ODNB Onl.), or from information contained in the conduct books and related literature, as cited below.

11 Vandals, Students, or Scholars? Handwritten Clues in Renaissance Music Textbooks• Susan Forscher Weiss

• From Pictures to Words as Aids to Lear ning The Renaissance saw a flurry of teaching materials in the form of handbooks or manuals on music.1 A great majority of printed musical textbooks—particularly in areas where Catholicism reigned—contained the ubiquitous image of the so-called Guidonian hand. Hands, along with ladders, trees, and temples— among what we might label generically as memory theatres—were included in manuscripts and books from the Middle Ages on as a mnemonic device in music and a variety of other disciplines.2 Such images were key tools in the development of memory and in the organization of information dating back to the writings of Aristotle.3 The inscribed palm (and on occasion the back) of the left hand was an aid in learning that emphasized sight, sound, and memory.4 The presence of the hand is often a clue that a text was intended for teaching music to beginners. The writing on the hands themselves suggests authors coming to terms with changes in teaching methodologies concerning the hexachords.5

208â•… ·â•… Susan Forscher Weiss

A hypothetical music lesson might include having students review the visual image of the hand with a teacher, memorize the sequence of notes, and then trace the information on their own hands.6 In contrast to modern memorization techniques involving the use of lists and words, medieval memories employed vast “storehouses of visual images, disposed in structured ‘places,’ symmetrical and concrete.”7 In this context, images could stimulate the memories of those who relied on the literacy of others for acÂ�cess to texts.8 It was during my work with such hands that I first became aware of the significance of the handwriting on these images and elsewhere in music textbooks. Many early printed texts imitated the manuscripts from which they were copied, including the use of printed annotations in and around the margins.9 Alongside the printed marginalia in some of these texts, we often find handwritten notes, and some—but not all—are relevant to the subject matter. While the majority of early printed music-theoretical texts survive without annotations, a small percentage contain substantive and clearly decipherable markings, and some of these can be identified as the work of a particular reader or readers. Copies of a select few Renaissance music treatises contain notes by well-known Renaissance theorists such as Franchinus Gaffurius (1451–1522), Giovanni Spataro (ca. 1458–1541), Heinrich Glarean (1488–1563), and Gioseffo Zarlino (ca. 1517–1590), as well as by later musicians, such as the eighteenth-century music teacher and bibliophile Padre Giovanni Battista Martini, and twentieth-century teacher and concert pianist, conductor, editor, and collector Alfred Cortot. It is this interaction of readers with didactic music textbooks, a source of our understanding of musical literacy in the Renaissance, that is the focus of the present study—a subject that has for the most part escaped the attention of scholars.10 The annotations—words, musical notation, and other clues in the margins—not only reveal evidence of use, but on occasion provide the clues that can point to a network of writers, readers, printers, teachers, and students in the process of learning the rules and skills of music or refining methods of teaching the subject matter.11 Some early music textbooks contain images of a teacher holding a book, surrounded by students holding books or tablets.12 Among them is one that depicts a similar scene without any visible textbooks. In this instance, the teacher was imparting knowledge stored in his memory.13 Images such as these highlight the pedagogical importance of both senses: seeing and hearing. Identifying and decoding the various marginalia, doodles, and

Vandals, Students, or Scholars?â•… ·â•… 209

graffiti can reveal privileged information about specific writers and their readers.14 In his article “Lessons in Theory from a Sixteenth-Century Composer,” James Haar contends that young musicians received instructions orally, and most likely did not use treatises.15 In Haar’s opinion, the textbooks (he uses the words treatise and textbook interchangeably) were mainly for teachers rather than for students, who tended to receive oral instruction. While this is true in many instances, Haar’s case study takes up two short notational treatises attributed to composer-teacher Giovan Tomaso Cimello (fl. 1510–1580). These manuscripts (one residing in Bologna and the other in Naples) not only reveal links between Cimello and his students, but also offer glimpses into the pedagogical practices of a Renaissance music teacher.16 Evidence exists within the covers of printed textbooks and in related notebooks that demonstrates usage by both teachers and students. Some books contained only enough material for learning to sing, others for learning to play an instrument, but the content of most included basic music history, theory, and counterpoint. The multiplicity of types of textbooks matches the array of places in which music lessons were taught—homes, palaces, religious or secular schools—and reveals a variety of skills and backgrounds of their authors, many of whom were composers, performers, and teachers. An early sixteenth-century copy of Bonaventura da Brescia’s Regula musice plane (Bologna, Museo Internazionale, A 57) belonged to the eighteenthcentury music teacher and bibliophile, Padre Giovanni Battista Martini.17 Not only did Martini identify himself as the book’s owner by writing “P. Martini” on the cuff of the hand, he also annotated other parts of the text, adding comments, corrections, and his own musical excerpts (figure 11.1).18 Martini’s copy of another well-known early sixteenth-century treatise is annotated in two distinct hands. In a 1533 edition of Andreas Ornithoparchus’s De arte cantandi micrologus (published in Leipzig as Musice active micrologus in 1517), Martini’s comments appear alongside those of a Renaissance reader (figure 11.2). That Martini was still interested in sixteenth-century treatises, in particular a primer like Bonaventura’s Regula musice plane, is not surprising in light of his illustrious teaching career. In 1770, none other than the fourteen-yearold Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart came to study counterpoint and composition with Martini in Bologna at the prestigious Accademia dei Filarmonici. Martini and his sixteenth-century counterparts, teacher/theorists like Giovanni Spataro and Heinrich Glarean, were hired to teach both youthful beginners and university students while they engaged in more sophisticated dialogue

Figure 11.1. Bonaventura da Brescia, Breviloquium musicale (Brescia, 1497), sig. Aiii verso (Bologna, Museo Internazionale, A 57).


Figure 11.2. Andreas Ornithoparchus, De arte cantandi micrologus (Cologne, 1533), sig. A3v (Bologna, Museo Internazionale, B 129).

with seasoned theorists about matters concerning music theory and music pedagogy. Glarean’s textbook, Isagoge in musicen, published in 1516, contains ten chapters intended as a simple didactic treatise for school children, probably those he taught at a boarding school in Basel. His Dodecachordon, on the other hand (published in 1547), was a treatise for learned readers.19 Ten years later, Glarean published an abridged version, the Musicae epitome sive compendium ex Glareani Dodecachordo, as well as a version in German. These last books were most probably aimed at older students, many enrolled in music classes at the university. Glarean himself studied at Cologne with the German music teacher Johannes Cochlaeus (1479–1552), whose music textbook (and its revisions) undoubtedly served as models for his student.20 Cochlaeus’s students included the well-to-do children of Willibald Pirckheimer in Nuremberg. And Cochlaeus’s own models, in turn, included a fellow student, the Lotharingian music theorist and theologian Nicholas Wollick (Volcyr de Sérouville, ca. 1480–1541). Wollick wrote a music textbook in collaboration with their teacher in Cologne, Melchior Schanppecher (born ca. 1480). An-


other important influence on and source for Glarean was the Italian theorist and teacher Franchinus Gaffurius, whose music theory books were widely read and annotated. The connections between their treatises are strengthened by the knowledge that the writers knew one another personally. Gaffurius met with Glarean in Milan.21 Numerous copies of Gaffurius’s three treatises—known together as the Trilogia Gafuriana, and among the most influential treatises of the sixteenth century—survive with annotations.22 Gaffurius, together with one of his students, produced an abridged version of one of his earlier treatises, possibly for the use of nuns.23 Gaffurius annotated Spataro’s copy of his teacher Bartolomeo Ramos de Pareja’s treatise, and also marked up a copy of Wollick’s 1512 treatise, Enchiridion musices, and sent it on to Giovanni Spataro for review.24 Glarean’s library contained numerous annotated books, including his own musical treatises and two by Gaffurius.25 Cristle Collins Judd has demonstrated how Glarean’s annotations in his own copy of Gaffurius’s Practica musicae wound up as part of his treatise Dodecachordon.26 Glarean’s marginalia, in chapter 14 of Gaffurius’s Practica musica (Brescia: A. Britannicus, 23 November 1497), are a combination of musical and textual annotations.27 Judd also noted that Glarean’s copy of another of Gaffurius’s treatises, De harmonia musicorum instrumentorum opus (Turin, 1518), was bound together with eighteen folios of manuscript music in the late sixteenth century. Although the process of trimming the pages, common in rebinding, cropped many of the annotations, what does remain of the handwriting and music notation reveals at least four different hands including Glarean’s and one of his students, “Petrus Scudus” (Peter Tschudi).28 Unlike Glarean, who taught music in a school, Giovanni Spataro taught the children of his patrons Giovanni and Ginevra Bentivoglio in their palÂ� azÂ�zo in Bologna. Spataro’s letters provide insight into his teaching, into his particular relationship with Gaffurius and his students such as Ermes BenÂ�tivoglio, and into his interest in music textbooks, such as one of the two written by Nicolas Wollick and those of other theorists. A copy of the second of Wollick’s music textbooks, now in Bologna, contains not only Martini’s handwritten marginalia, but also annotations in a hand that is almost certainly that of Giovanni Spataro.29 It too bears a resemblance to the writings of Gaffurius. We will examine some of these sources, following descriptions first of the function and then of the form of annotations in scholastic books.


The Function of Annotations on Images and Text The subject of marginal notes has been a source of heated debate in scholarly circles, with one side proclaiming that the more extensive notes or glosses “reinforce the book’s authorship (e.g., citations from the church fathers) while others evidently subvert the authority (e.g., drawings of cheating merchants, fornicating nuns, and defecating monks).”30 The study of marginalia has been neglected for a number of reasons. Annotations are often cut off in the rebinding process, and publishers of facsimile editions routinely erase marginalia in an effort to print “clean” copies.31 Keepers of books—collectors and librarians—prefer to buy books in good condition, rather than well-worn, heavily marked-up exemplars.32 On top of this is the seemingly banal fact that the least-used books survive the longest. These factors, among others, make the task at hand all the more difficult. Recent studies of marginalia in early printed books, among them Anthony Grafton’s Commerce with the Classics (1997), Heather Jackson’s Marginalia: Readers Writing in Books (2001), and more recently Jackson’s Romantic Readers: The Evidence of Marginalia (2005), address the subject of readers writing in books.33 The process of annotating is in itself an aspect of the ars memorativa, as much as images of temples, theaters, hands, trees, and other visual aids. The markings and notes can be an attempt to construct “an orderly arrangement for the purpose of quick, secure recollection.”34 Annotating is done at various levels, as the books themselves fall into several categories: those owned and read by literati (treatises), others produced and marketed for institutions of learning, and those intended for use in the home (manuals, broadsides). The more substantive annotations appear in treatises where learned readers took notes, not only in order to recall important points, but also to comment, adjust, and correct the text. Some readers will write in one book, but not in another. Still others annotate in an external source, such as a notebook; some of these surviving manuscripts are bound together with the printed texts that were their sources. Jackson states, “readers’ notes in books are a familiar but unexamined phenomenon.”35 We don’t understand the practice well, but—to the chagrin of many librarians and bibliophiles—marking up a book is a traditional and important part of literacy.36 Roland Barthes says of all reading that “it is subject to the structure imposed by the text; it needs and respects it—but it also perverts it. Read-


ers try to declare themselves independent of the text, but their notes prove otherwise.”37 Marginal annotations abounded in the centuries when readers usually went through books with pen in hand (pencils were not routinely used until the eighteenth century, but ink colors varied from black to brown to red); they expose the often surprising messages that individuals have left on the page as they read. Many original writers and thinkers, such as Martin Luther, John Adams, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge have filled their books with notes that are indispensable to understanding their thought. Thousands of forgotten men and women have covered Bibles and prayer books, recipe collections, and political pamphlets with pointing hands, underlinings, and notes that give insights into which books mattered, and why.38 Before examining some specific annotations and determining what they represent, it is necessary to examine the various types and systems of marginalia.

Typology of Marginalia When present, handwritten inscriptions appear not only on images, but elsewhere in the book: on frontispieces, on flyleaves, in the margins, as well as within the text. A variety of annotations appear throughout books of music, not unlike those found in other disciplines. Some readers develop their own system of annotating with characteristics that offer clues to the identity of the reader. Markers such as cartoons of fingers, asterisks, crosses, underlinings, as well as interlinear and marginal verbal notes serve as indices to passages readers wish to recall. The pointer or index finger, also called a “manicule,” creates an index of the author’s key points as perceived and comprehended by a particular reader.39 Diagrams of fingers pointing to text transform the words from abstract sentences to organized thoughts, the marginal words or symbols forming a summary of the contents of the book. Select words and phrases and even musical notes are copied from the text into the margins as if the reader were using a highlighting pen. Insertions include comments, corrections, and translations. Some comments may be considered an early form of the footnote.40 These notes in the margins act as tabs, keywords, or indices and are known as “shoulder” notes (a moniker that references another part of the human anatomy).41 In some cases, the annotations are minor, but telling. The Flores musices, a manual written by the fourteenth-century music teacher Hugo Spechtshart


van Reutlingen (ca. 1285–1359), was one of the first music primers to attract the attention of the Strasbourg printer Johann Prüss, who published a number of incunables in the late 1480s and early 1490s.42 Surviving copies contain few markings. In one copy of Hugo’s primer, now at the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, there is a single inscription on the woodcut of the hand indicating that the book belonged at one time to a monastery in Salzburg. In another copy, now at the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York, the text is carefully rubricated (red handwriting to set off headings or directions); it also contains some manuscript additions, perhaps made by the same reader. These markings (particularly those in red ink) may be purely decorative—the reader’s attempt to recreate the appearance of a manuscript, perhaps along the lines of a hypothetical fourteenth-century copy of Hugo’s text, a more valued and valuable artifact than a printed book. Some books reveal signs of multiple owners. These include some with multiple comments by various readers whose identities are unknown.43 Another example turns up in a popular sixteenth-century music manual that was part of the cantorini tradition (named for the cantorinus, a small practical book of music theory popular in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries). Orazio Scaletta’s Scala di Musica was printed in numerous editions throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This little manual represents one of the simplest of textbooks aimed at the young singer and seems to be the kind of book held by students in a classroom. Each copy contains rules for singing chant, musical examples, and an image of a Guidonian hand.44 Written work may have been done in separate notebooks. One of the numerous surviving copies contains an inscription on the flyleaf with the names of two owners (figure 11.3).45 According to the inscription, Scaletta’s book was presumably bought on 9 March 1693 in the Piazza in Bologna by a Signor Giovanni Battista Diamanti. He may have been from the same family as a well-known singer by the name of Maria Diamante Scarabelli, detta “La Diamantina,” born in Bologna in the second half of the seventeenth century.46 On 13 March 1693, after owning it for a mere four days, he gave the book to a woman named Anna Maria Pomi, possibly his student or another teacher, although her handwriting has a youthful appearance.47 It is possible that Signor Diamanti bought the book for Anna to use in her lessons. Not surprisingly, there are no other markings in this copy of Scala di musica; relatively few annotations appear in any surviving copies of Scaletta’s manual, but those that do would seem to be the writing of youthful beginners.


Figure 11.3. Orazio Scaletta, Scala de musica (Venice, 1656), flyleaf (Bologna, Biblioteca Universitaria, AIV Q X 34).

Another category of annotations includes translations of the text. Ein Tutsche Musica, the so-called Bern manuscript of 1491, was written by an anonymous German musician, but is annotated in the same hand in the margins, in Latin.48 Nicolas Wollick, whose two musical treatises date from early in his career, is also the author of several texts on other subjects, both historical and theological. A manuscript and several of his printed books are written in French with Latin shoulder notes. A number of books appear to contain marks that suggest the reader as a reviewer or editor. These marks include corrections within the text and in the


margins: cross-outs and insertions. The first six or so handwritten folios of a copy of Andreas Ornithoparchus’s treatise, Musice active micrologus (Manual on practical music), now in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, were ostensibly copied from another source, most likely to replace pages that were missing from this single surviving copy of the 1517 Leipzig print (figure 11.4). Not only does the writer take pains to reproduce the missing text (perhaps copied from a later edition), complete with shoulder notes, but he makes his own annotations within and on the margins. The writer also takes pains to make corrections throughout the print. Martini’s copy of a later incarnation of Ornithoparchus’s treatise, De arte cantandi micrologus (Manual on the art of singing), was published in Cologne in 1533 and is now in Bologna. In the margin, Martini makes a note suggesting that he compare it with the Leipzig edition. Along with Martini’s eighteenth-century notes are those written in a contemporaneous sixteenth-century hand. The treatise, based on OrnithoÂ� parchus’s lectures at the University of Heidelberg, became a popular textbook in the sixteenth century. In 1539 it was used at Krakow University. In a 1547 edition of Angelo da Picitono’s Fior angelico di musica, published in Venice, are entire chapters copied from Ornithoparchus. Claudio Sebastiani copied large sections in his Bellum musicale, published in Strasbourg in 1563; and in 1609, John Dowland published his English translation of Ornithoparchus’s treatise. The earlier-mentioned copy of Heinrich Glarean’s Musicae epitome sive compendium ex Glareani Dodecachordo, published in Basel in 1559, contains a date of 1560 written at the bottom of the title page, under an image of the Guidonian hand. An inscription by Georgy Werdenstein, then eighteen years old, indicates that the book was given to him by Glarean.49 Werdenstein became a major collector of music prints; his extensive library, numbering in the tens of thousands of volumes, was purchased by the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek in Munich around 1592. Glarean’s text is filled with corrections and edits that could only have been made by someone familiar with the subject matter—someone like his stepson, editor, and translator, Johannes Litavicus Wonnegger (ca. 1512–c. 1577), or by the author himself.50 It seems less likely that Werdenstein is the annotator. The edits include spelling corrections and insertions for missing words or notes; asterisks in the margins signal changes within the text in almost all instances. The precision and meticulousness of the annotations suggest that the entries were made by Glarean himself. Comparisons of the signs and writing with Glarean’s autographs reinforce this hypothesis (figures 11.5a–c).51

Figure 11.4. Andreas Ornithoparchus, Musice active micrologus (Leipzig, 1517), sigs. A6v (above) and B1 (below) (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Rés V 2484).


Figure 11.5a. Heinrich Glarean, Musicae epitome sive compendium ex Glareani Dodecachordo (Basel, 1559), title page (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Mus. Th. 3765).

The absence of marginalia within a printed manual is not necessarily a sign of little interaction with the book. Copies of Bonaventura da Brescia’s Regula musice plane (Venice, 1510) and Adriano Banchieri’s La Cartella (Venice, 1610) in the British Library are devoid of any internal markings, but their rules and examples were assiduously copied onto blank pages and bound together with the printed textbooks. The handwriting on those pages matches the owner’s inscription in the books themselves. A copy of Bonaventura’s Regula plane that was owned by one Camillo Guidottis, is bound with a

Figure 11.5b. Heinrich Glarean, Musicae epitome sive compendium ex Glareani Dodecachordo (Basel, 1559), frontispiece (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Mus. Th. 3765).

Figure 11.5c. Heinrich Glarean, Musicae epitome sive compendium ex Glareani Dodecachordo (Basel, 1559), fol. 37 (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Mus. Th. 3765).

Figure 11.6a. Adriano Banchieri, Cartellina del canto fermo gregoriano (Venice, 1601), title page (London, British Library, Hirsch I. 49).

Figure 11.6b. Adriano Banchieri, Cartellina del canto fermo gregoriano (Venice, 1601), first page of manuscript tipped in (London, British Library, Hirsch I.49).


Figure 11.7. Regole di contrapunto di Bartolomeo Lazari, first opening (Rome, Vatican Library, Chigi, Q IV 22 1639).

five-page manuscript in Guidottis’s hand that contains rules and musical examples based on the text.52 A copy of another of Banchieri’s music manuals—his Cartellina del canto fermo gregoriano, printed in Bologna in 1614— belonged to a monk named Franciscis de Cattis, who not only signed the frontispiece but copied the rules from the printed text. Seventeen manuscript pages contain de Cattis’s exercises, written on four-line staves.53 The written notation for the Lamentations of Jeremiah and a copy of rules and counterpoint exercises are based on the materials in Banchieri’s manual. In lieu of writing notes in the margins, de Cattis made his notes in a separate notebook (figures 11.6a–b). The Chigi collection at the Vatican library contains a number of similar notebooks.54 Each is small and contains no more than few dozen pages of rules, examples, and exercises. One of them is the notebook of a student named Antonio Melendez. Still another, containing less sophisticated script, is not marked as belonging to him, but contains the signature “Antonio M” above one of the exercises. Another, a notebook containing the rules of counterpoint with examples illustrating good and bad resolutions, belonged to Bartolomeo Lazari. His name and a 1639 date appear on the first page above a verbal depiction of the hand, labeled “Mano.”55 It is likely that Lazari worked


Figure 11.8. Simon Quercu, Opusculum musices (Landeshut, 1516), Giiii verso–Gv recto (Washington, D.C., Library of Congress, ML171.Q4 1516 Case).

from a printed book in the same way as the students whose notebooks were attached to their models did (figure 11.7).56

Toward an Interpretation of Marginalia in Renaissance Music Textbooks One of the best ways to understand annotations is to compare multiple copies of the same book to see how different readers interact with the material. Some annotations have, in fact, little or nothing to do with the material in the text. A music theory book by Simon Quercu, a Netherlandish theorist in the service of Duke Lodovico Sforza of Milan and tutor to his sons, was published in Landshut in 1516. A copy now in the Library of Congress is awash in markings covering almost every white space on every last page. Strangelooking annotations from dots and deltas to little hearts and other symbols cover the text, with seeming disregard for its meaning and content. Rather, the extensive markings seem to be some sort of cryptographic message.57 This particular copy of Quercu’s textbook, one acquired by the library in the early 1950s, may have simply served as a handy surface for transmitting confidential information (figure 11.8).58


Figure 11.9. Franchinus Gaffurius, Practica musice (Milan, 1496), chap. 12 (Trinity College, Dublin).

John Dygon’s Proportiones practicabiles secundum Gaffurium, a manuscript written in the first half of sixteenth century, is an English adaptation of Gaffurius’s Practica musica, first published in the late 1490s.59 Dygon, a Benedictine and prior of a monastery in Canterbury from 1528 until its dissolution in 1538, supplicated for a B. Mus. at Oxford in 1512, with additional studies in 1521 at universities in Paris and Leuven, under the tutelage of the humanist Juan Luis Vives.60 Along the way, he undoubtedly encountered the treatises of Gaffurius. John Hawkins, the eighteenth-century music historian, presented his own copy of Gaffurius’s Practica musice to the British Library in 1778. Within the covers of this 1502 Brescian copy are Hawkins’s own marginal notes, partially obscuring another set of notes in a distinctly English sixteenth-century


hand; the marginalia is extensive in book IV of this copy of Gaffurius’s Practica, the source for Dygon’s treatise, suggesting that the hand may be that of Dygon himself. An unknown annotator of another copy of Gaffurius’s Practica now in Trinity College, Dublin, adopts a system of letters in the text that correspond to places on the musical example (figure 11.9).61 The textual and musical marginalia in several copies of Thomas Morley’s A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke reveal attempts on the part of various readers to work out selected examples. The variety of results attests to the wide-ranging appeal of Morley’s text. In a Library of Congress copy of Morley’s book, the reader was well enough trained to have realized the complex canon (figures 11.10a–b).62 A comparison with a copy of the treatise now in the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C., reveals a different sort of interaction. An EnÂ� glish gentleman by the name of W. Northall has made an effort to follow Morley’s rules by copying them from the preceding page into the left margins alongside the exercises. As there are no further annotations, we may surmise that his skills did not match those of the reader of the Library of Congress copy (figure 11.11).63 Renaissance theorists and teachers were buying, reading, translating, and commenting on a large number of one another’s treatises. Thomas Morley includes a list with the names of his sources on the final folio of his Plaine and Easie Introduction. Morley cites almost every known musical authority, grouping them in several categories, e.g., “late writers,” “ancient writers,” “English writers.”64 He borrows material from Gaffurius for his section on measured music. Among his other sources are Tinctoris, Ornithoparchus, Tigrini, and Zarlino.65 As if in response to all the theoretical texts he consulted—texts undoubtedly annotated by Morley and other readers—he includes his own printed annotations at the end of his treatise, claiming that it is “necessary for the understanding of the Booke, wherein the veritie of some of the precepts I proved, and some arguments which to the contrary might be objected are refuted.”66 By the seventeenth century, English textbooks frequently included printed annotations.67 Another author to be influenced by the writings of Gaffurius was Nicholas Wollick, mentioned earlier. His music texts were also read and copied by students and theorists from all over Europe during the Renaissance; many survive today in libraries across the world.68 The interest in Wollick is apparent both from the mention of his works in the correspondence of Renaissance

Figure 11.10a. Thomas Morley, A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke (London, 1597), 174 (Washington, D.C., Library of Congress, MT6.A2 M84, copy 1).

Figure 11.10b. Thomas Morley, A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke (London, 1597), 175 (Washington, D.C., Library of Congress, MT6.A2 M84, copy 1).

Figure 11.11. Thomas Morley, A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke (London, 1597), 8 (Washington, D.C., Folger Shakespeare Library, STC 18133, copy 1).


musicians, but also from the signs of use and wear in the surviving volumes. Why? Wollick did, after all, receive an appointment as the secretary to the Duke of Lorraine and subsequently turned his attention away from music toward history and theology. But Wollick’s contribution to the history and theory of music did not go unnoticed. He was one of the first to describe differences between art music and its refined singing and the artlessness of folk song, incorporating ideas gleaned from the writings of such late fifteenthcentury German theorists as Conrad van Zabern and Adam von Fulda, and perhaps even from the earlier writing of Hugo von Reutlingen, himself a collector of folk songs. Wollick drew distinctions between written counterpoint and sortisatio or improvised discant.69 Of further interest to his readers was his section on accent and text underlay. Much of his knowledge of grammar and accent is based on the early medieval writers Priscianus and Donatus, both of whose grammars were published ca. 1500 and became basic texts in the schools.70 Each of these grammarians, in turn, based their work on ancient Greek models.71 Wollick was quoted by a number of writers, mostly Italian; among them was Giovanni Maria Lanfranco, in his Scintille di musica of 1533. Gregor Reisch’s encyclopedia, Margarita philosophica, borrowed parts of Wollick’s treatise for its later editions (those published after 1508). Many copies of Nicholas Wollick’s two music texts exhibit signs of use. A letter from Wollick to his teacher Melchior Schanppecher reveals that the second half of his treatise Opus aureum (Cologne, 1501)—the section on mensural music—was supplied by the teacher. According to Ernest T. Ferand, Wollick’s treatise is the first book on music education to be printed in Germany.72 Although most copies of the treatise survive with blank staves, some contain notes drawn by a variety of hands, contemporaneous and modern.73 A 1505 copy of the Opus aureum (now in the Library of Congress) contains notes drawn on the empty staves that look like those we would find in a workbook intended for students doing their exercises. Most students probably copied the rules and the examples into their own notebooks; one reader annotated the section on rules and several other parts of the book, but left the staves blank.74 In certain copies the writing appears child-like; in others the script appears to be more mature. In the exemplar from a 1504 edition of Wollick’s Opus aureum (shown in figure 11.12), there is, underneath a doodle of a panpipe, a hexachord copied in the margin next to the text. The reader ostensibly copied the notation from the printed image of the Guidonian hand on the next folio, shown here in the center. Some surviving


Figure 11.12. Nicolas Wollick, Opus aureum musice (Cologne, 1504), sig. Av (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Rés P-V 381).

copies of Wollick’s Opus aureum contain musical notation written in on the staves following the various rules for counterpoint in the later two sections on mensural music supplied by Wollick’s teacher at Cologne, Malcior of Worms (Schanppecher). In the Paris copy published in Cologne in 1504, a few staves contain notation in a hand similar to that found in the first half of the book,


a hand that appears to have familiarity with the material. In the Washington copy published in Cologne in 1505, the reader seems to be less well-trained in the basics of musical notation (figures 11.13a–b). What are the connections between Wollick’s music textbooks and Italian music theory? In 1517, in a letter to Marco Antonio Cavazzoni, Giovanni Spataro informs him that he is reviewing Wollick’s Enchiridion musices, published in Paris in 1512 (an expanded version of the 1501 Opus aureum). Spataro mentions that Gaffurius sent him a copy of Wollick’s book, recommending it highly; he also states that the treatise is based heavily on the writings of Gaffurius.75 In a letter to his student Pietro Aaron on 27 November 1531, Spataro refuses to loan him the treatise of his own teacher, Bartolomeo Ramos, because his “is the only copy in Bologna and it was taken apart and annotated by Gafurio. . . . If I could find another one I would buy it and throw this one into the fire so that no one should ever see the comments he scribbled on my copy.”76 In another letter written by Spataro to Aaron and dated 30 January 1532, he mentions that he is sending him a motet based on a chant in “Wollick’s treatise, which I set for four voices and to which I added a fifth to check for errors.”77 A copy of Wollick’s Enchiridion that is now in the Conservatory library in Bologna is annotated in at least two hands, one of which is known to be Padre Martini’s and the other, that of Giovanni Spataro. Not surprisingly, there is an annotation on the page with the chant that Spataro used for his own motet. Another contemporary of Spataro, the theorist Giovanni del Lago (ca. 1490–1544), wrote in 1541 to Fra Seraphin paraphrasing the section on accents from Wollick’s 1512 Enchiridion. The issue of accents also comes up in letters between Spataro and Aaron. In the letter addressed to Aaron on 27 November 1531, Spataro berates Aaron for paying too much attention to grammatical considerations, stating that “Grammar is not our profession, and few composers observe grammatical accent in mensural music.”78 Spataro (and Martini later) use many of the tools in the reader’s toolbox. The Bologna copy contains pointing fingers, crosses, shoulder notes, and citations of historical figures, music theorists, and composers. Names appearing in the margins include: Guido d’Arezzo, Jean de Muris, Johannes Tinctoris, Heinrich Faber, and Franchino (as Spataro and others called Gaffurius). His interest seems focused on practical matters, perhaps because of his role as teacher (figure 11.14). More than any other duties (as singer, composer, and theorist), Spataro loved his teaching. He claimed that he hastily wrote a treatise on mensural

Figure 11.13a. Nicolas Wollick, Opus aureum musice (Cologne, 1504), sig. Gv (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Rés P-V 381).


Figure 11.13b. Nicolas Wollick, Opus aureum musice (Cologne, 1505), sig. Giii recto (Washington, D.C., Library of Congress, ML 171 V 67 1505 case).

music for the young Ermes (1482–1513), the tenth of eleven children of Ginevra and Giovanni II Bentivoglio. This may well be the treatise Utile e breve regule di canto composte per Maestro Zoanne de Spadari da Bologna, now in the British Library (Add. MS 4920) and dated 1510.79 According to a letter Spataro wrote to the Venetian theorist Giovanni del Lago in 1528, he later finished the incomplete tract, first expanding and then revising it, hoping to get it


Figure 11.14. Nicholas Wollick, Enchiridion Musices (Paris, 1512), sig. Diii (Bologna, Museo Internazionale, B 7).

published. He believed it would be a little volume of decent size (“seria meglio questo ultimo da me finito et complecto, el quale non è tanto breve, et per essere assai magiore [sic] volume”). But, on receiving del Lago’s critique and suggestions for revision, he replied that he was now seventy years old and was too busy teaching the choirboys. He also questioned whether anyone would still have interest in the rules of mensural music and bemoaned the fact that few paid attention to the rules anyway.80

Conclusions and Next Steps This study of annotations in music texts is a work in progress that only scratches the surface of a larger inquiry. The early fruits of my work suggest that there exist different categories of readers—from those who are beginning to learn the rudiments of music to those who have a marginal knowledge of the text, and on to a network of learned teachers and composers. Most of the surviving music textbooks contain annotations by unknown readers, some of whom leave little or no clue as to their identity. Unraveling the trace evidence left by these unidentified readers can help flesh out the picture of the importance of these musical textbooks. While some marginalia have a memorial


function, others indicate how readers interacted with the words and images in an effort to absorb the content. Some judgments and comments in the margins are rather extensive and reveal a writer who is learned; occasionally, the notes reveal connections that link a community of readers. We know from letters and other documents that the contents of some of the books stirred debates that were revealed in contemporaneous treatises and letters. The note-taking practices of a number of well-known readers such as Gaffurius, Spataro, Glarean, and Zarlino help to inform our understanding of how certain music texts were studied. The annotations in texts by other authors such as Ramos, Wollick, Quercu, Ornithoparchus, Listenius, Faber, and Morley—to name only a few—reveal information about the popularity of certain texts and, accordingly, which materials in these texts were of greatest importance. We still need to uncover details about age of readers, place of instruction (e.g., home, school, university), and assemble information about things sometimes studied in isolation from each other, such as the theorists’ correspondences and their annotations in treatises and textbooks. From their letters, we know that Italian musicians and theorists—among them, Gaffurius, Spataro, Aaron, del Lago—read and annotated the Enchiridion musices by Nicholas Wollick. This particular music textbook sparked the interest of Germans and Italians—scholars and students alike, if the number of annotated copies is any indication. The parts of the texts that seem to contain the most ink are those concerned with practical topics, e.g., the resolution of rules and canons, text underlay, rests, and mensural notation. Annotations also reveal patterns of borrowing. Certain musicians had interest in the works of distinguished authors as well as in those of less celebrated writers. As we have seen, John Dygon and Heinrich Glarean borrowed from the writing of Franchinus Gaffurius. In Glarean’s case, we have his annotations to prove it. As it becomes possible to identify more of the annotators by their handwriting or systems of marginalia, databases of hands and typologies of annotations can be shared and made widely available. A comparison of the annotations in several editions of the same work can reveal different approaches to the same material. Such studies may uncover traces of annotated passages folded into the annotator’s own work. Publishers should be urged to include the marginalia as a critical part of the text (instead of erasing them before going to press), and to seek technological advice in order to develop ways of deciphering annotations and of identifying specific hands.81


Notes 1.â•‡ This chapter builds on research that focused primarily on the materials and devices of teaching music, particularly those aimed at introductory training in singing plainchant. In this, I was inspired by the work and encouragement of a number of individuals, including James Haar, Margaret Bent, David Fallows, Kristine Forney, Jessie Ann Owens, Craig Wright, Richard Rastall, Cristle Collins Judd, John Kmetz, Bonnie J. Blackburn, Karol Berger, Claire Richter Sherman, Jamie van Horn Melton, Natasha Glaisyer, and Sara Pennell. They all encouraged my work in the history of musical learning. My interest in the inscribed musical hand dates to 1996 and an exhibition held at the Walters Art Museum that led to exhibits elsewhere and eventually to a catalogue edited by Claire Richter Sherman, Memory and Knowledge in Medieval Europe, completed in 2001. My chapter, “The Singing Hand,” led to a systematic study of hands and other images intended to aid in memorizing and learning music was published in 2005. See Susan Forscher Weiss, “Disce Manum Tuam si vis bene discere cantum: Symbols of Learning Music in Early Modern Europe,” Music in Art 30 (2005): 35–74. 2.â•‡ Several hands not included in previous publications were discovered in books selected for inclusion in the exhibition that was organized as part of the 2005 conference Reading and Writing the Pedagogies of the Renaissance: The Student, the Study Materials, and the Teacher of Music, 1470–1650, at the Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University. To complement this conference, the Sheridan Libraries of Johns Hopkins University organized an exhibition of didactic books, Art, Science, Spirit, Soul: Mastering Music in the Renaissance. The books were drawn from collections in neighboring libraries, including the Walters Art Museum, the Folger Shakespeare Library, the Library of Congress, and the George Peabody Library of Johns Hopkins University. Among those with instructional hands is an astronomy text by Peter Apian (Instrument Buch, Ingolstadt, 1533), where the hand served as a memory aid for recalling seasonal moons; another hand in Federico Grisone’s text on equestrian arts (Augsburg, 1570) displays the names of the planets, moon, and sun, and demonstrates the interrelation between science and other aspects of Renaissance life such as, in this instance, horseback riding. 3.â•‡ For more on Aristotle and memory, see Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001); Claire Richter Sherman, Imagining Aristotle: Verbal and Visual Representation in Fourteenth-Century France (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995); Richard Sorabji, Aristotle on Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006). 4.â•‡ The inscribed hand dates back ten thousand years to ones discovered in rock caves in Eastern Borneo. These hands inscribed with patterns of dots, dashes, and other markings aided in training healers or shamans to dance, sing, and tell stories. Luc-Henri Fage, “Hands Across Time,” in The National Geographic 208, no. 2 (August 2005): 32–45. 5.â•‡ See Weiss, “Disce Manum Tuam,” esp. 50–55 on changing patterns of navigating around images of the hand from the Middle Ages to Ramos to Gumpeltzhaimer. 6.â•‡ In James Haar’s contribution to the present volume (chap. 1), he distinguishes between cantorini for children or beginners and those for adults. There are accounts of domestic music-making involving the activities of families; some of the participants are parents and some are their children. 7.â•‡ Donald Howard, The Idea of the Canterbury Tales (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), 147. Howard is echoing Augustine, Confessions X.8 here: “And so I come to the fields and vast atriums of memory, where are stored the innumerable images of material things brought to it by the senses . . .” A well-known letter from Guarino Guarini to Leonello d’Este describes how to read by writing down lists in a notebook. He refers to Pliny

Vandals, Students, or Scholars?â•… ·â•… 239 who never read without taking notes, and advises that all students use the notebook as a means of collecting information. See Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine, “Humanism and the School of Guarino: A Problem of Evaluation,” Past & Present 96 (1982): 68. 8.â•‡ See Suzanne Lewis, Narrative Discourse and Reception in the Thirteenth-Century Illuminated Apocalypse (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 9.â•‡ William Slights in Managing Readers: Printed Marginalia in English Renaissance Books (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2001), 7–8, suggests that printers included marginal notes as a way of making a book seem more scholarly and more like a valuable manuscript in every detail, from layout to historiated initials to a typeface that mimics scribal hands. 10.â•‡ The one major exception is Cristle Collins Judd’s Reading Renaissance Theory: Hearing with the Eyes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 11.â•‡ Over the course of the last decade, in examining music texts in libraries all over Europe, the United Kingdom, and the United States, I have assembled detailed lists of annotated sources. Although I have looked at some manuscripts and prints of music, the greatest focus of my study has been on annotations made by teachers and students in music textbooks. 12.â•‡ Jessie Ann Owens, Composers at Work: The Craft of Musical Composition, 1450–1600 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 83, plate 5.1: “Anonymous, Music Lesson in Latinum ideoma Magistri Pauli Niavis (1501).” 13.â•‡ Anna Maria Busse Berger, Medieval Music and the Art of Memory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005). The jacket illustration reproduces a medieval classroom from a tenth-century commentary by Remigius of Martianus Capella (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, ms lat. 7900A. fol. 1279). Tropes survive as commentary to older sources that were transmitted aurally and therefore committed to memory. 14.â•‡ Owen Gingerich in The Book that Nobody Read: Chasing the Revolutions of Nicolaus Copernicus (New York: Walker Publishing, 2004), 61–83, maintains that the notes in the margins of Copernicus’s De revolutionibus, written in the sixteenth century, actually helped to advance the acceptance of the astronomer’s theory among scientists. 15.â•‡ James Haar, “Lessons in Theory from a Sixteenth-Century Composer,” in Essays on Italian Music in the Cinquecento, ed. R. Charteris (Sydney: Frederick May Foundation for Italian Studies, 1990), 51–81. 16.â•‡ Ibid., 52. 17.â•‡ Padre Martini possessed an extensive musical library, which contained more than 17,000 volumes. After Martini died, some of the books went to the imperial library at Vienna, although the majority remained in the conservatory library in Bologna (Civico Museo Bibliografico Musicale), now the Museo internazionale e Biblioteca della musica di Bologna. 18.â•‡ Martini’s library contains numerous examples of his interaction with books—there are markings not only on images, but on frontispieces and flyleaves, in the margins as well as within the text. Andreas Ornithoparchus’s Musice active micrologus was first published in Leipzig in 1517. The Bologna copy of Ornithoparchus’s Micrologus, printed in 1533, contains Martini’s notes as well as the marginalia of at least one sixteenth-century reader. John Dowland translated this version into English in an edition published in 1609. 19.â•‡ Judd, Reading, 121, mentions a number of humanist readers; the names are based on surviving presentation copies. Among them are professors of philosophy and theology from Ingolstadt and Nuremberg. 20.â•‡ My thanks to Ruth De Ford for sharing with me a heavily annotated copy of book 2 of the Musica of 1507 in the Biblioteca Colombina in Seville. The Cochlaeus is bound together with another treatise (or part of a treatise), listed in RISM but not in Grove, called Compendium in praxim atque exercitium cantus figurabilis (see note 81 below).

240â•… ·â•… Susan Forscher Weiss 21.â•‡ Bonnie J. Blackburn, “Gaffurius, Franchinus,” in Grove Music Online, at Oxford Music Online: www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/10477 (accessed 21 August 2008). Gaffurius also had contact with another northern theorist, Johannes Tinctoris, holding numerous conversations with him during his Naples years. For more on the relationship with Glarean, see Iain Fenlon, “Heinrich Glarean’s Books,” in John Kmetz, Music in the German Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 76. 22.â•‡ I have seen some other annotated copies, including one in Krakow, several in Munich, and two in the New York Public Library (Gaffurius, Practica musicae, 1512: Drexel 2660). A copy in the British Library contains only a few markings and these appear quite childlike. Copies in the Walters Art Museum and in the Biblioteca Ricciardiana, presumably bought for their value as incunables, are relatively free of marks. 23.â•‡ Gaffurius, with the help of his student Francesco Caza, undertook an Italian translation of his treatise Angelicum. In his preface to the treatise, Gaffurius apologizes for the use of Italian, explaining that its purpose was to enable the “molti illiterati” to read the materials. Caza published the treatise in 1493, retaining the Latin titles in an effort to give them more weight and respectability. See Clement A. Miller, “Early Gaffuriana: New Answers to Old Questions,” The Musical Quarterly 56 (1970): 385–86. 24.â•‡ Gaffurius’s annotated copy of Ramos’s treatise is now in Bologna, Museo Internazionale, A 80. Although Johannes Wolf ’s edition of Ramos’s Musica practica, published in 1901, includes Gaffurius’s marginalia (and the later annotations by Ercole Bottrigari), Miller’s 1993 edition only includes a few select examples. 25.â•‡ Fenlon, “Heinrich Glarean’s Books,” 74–102. Glarean’s own library has been catalogued, but all of his annotations have yet to be studied. See Donald W. Krummel’s “The Music Collections at the Newberry Library, Chicago,” Fontes artis musicae 16.3 (1969): 119–34. Krummel mistakenly suggests that the library’s copy of Glarean’s Dodecachordon includes the author’s inscription to Francesco Spinola. 26.â•‡ Judd, Reading, 124–25. 27.â•‡ Gaffurius, Practica musice, book III, chap. 3: “Eight Rules of Counterpoint”; shoulder notes and notes on the music. 28.â•‡ Judd, Reading, 155ff. Tschudi signed his name on fol. 10v. Glarean’s earlier work, the Isagoge, is a didactic work that treats the elements of music, solmization, and the eight modes. In Basel, where Glarean taught, the curriculum included music alongside studies in Greek (a language he felt to be superior to all others) and Latin grammar and literature. His interests were predominantly in the classics, Greek modal theory, Roman history, grammar (he relied on Donatus among others), mathematics, poetry, and geography. He owned a spectacular library with volumes of classics annotated in his own hand. 29.â•‡ I would like to thank the late Oscar Mischiati of the Civico Museo Bibliografico Musicale (now the Museo internazionale e Biblioteca della musica di Bologna), and Professors Bonnie J. Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Strevens for examining the handwriting and confirming my suspicions about Spataro. 30.â•‡ William Slights, Managing Readers: Printed Marginalia in English Renaissance Books (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2001), 6. Andrew Taylor, in “Playing on the Margins: Bakhtin and the Smithfield Decretals,” describes the margins of a fourteenthcentury manuscript as evocative of the “broader world of the storyteller and the common memory.” See Tobin Nellhaus, “Mementos of Things to Come: Orality, Literacy, and Typology in the Biblia pauperum,” in Printing the Written Word: The Social History of the Book, circa 1450–1520, ed. Sandra Hindman (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 292–321. 31.â•‡ A copy, now in Bologna, of a Spanish music text printed in 1495 in Milan is heavily annotated both with musical notation on the staves and text in the margins. The author, Guillermo de Podio, was a choir director and music professor in the employ of Ludovico

Vandals, Students, or Scholars?â•… ·â•… 241 Sforza, Duke of Milan, at the end of the fifteenth century. A facsimile edition of Podio’s Ars musicorum was published without any marginalia. Another copy of this music text published by Petrus Hagenbach, Leonardus Hutz, and others in 1495, now at the University of Madrid, was digitized in 2007 and includes some annotations, but not as many as the Bologna copy. Another instance of “bowdlerizing” involves a manuscript of music. The publisher of a facsimile edition of the manuscript Bologna, Museo Internazionale, Q 18, in an effort to make the edition more presentable, erased some important evidence; in particular, signs of a palimpsest that revealed another composition written beneath the one that presently appears on that folio. Such examples highlight one of the obstacles encountered by those wishing to study markings in books. A 1509 copy of Wollick, published in facsimile edition by J. M. Fuzeau, contains none of the markings visible in the original, which is now at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. 32.â•‡ Bibliophiles purchased a book more for its beauty than for its contents, acquiring books as they would other worldly goods, such as works of art. Henry Walters in the nineteenth century, or Romolo Ricciardi three hundred years earlier, bought many books for their intrinsic value and beauty. They each owned numerous books of music theory, few of which have any marginalia. 33.â•‡ Anthony Grafton, Commerce with the Classics: Ancient Books and Renaissance Readers (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 1997); H. J. Jackson, Marginalia: Reading Writing in Books (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002); and Jackson’s Romantic Readers: The Evidence of Marginalia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005). See also Anthony Grafton, “Renaissance Readers and Ancient Texts: Comments on Some Commentaries,” Renaissance Quarterly 38 (1985): 615–49; R. C. Alston, Books with Manuscript: A Short Title Catalogue of Books with Manuscript Notes in the British Library (London: British Library, 1994); Stephen Barney, ed., Annotation and its Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); Robert Evans, “Ben Jonson’s Library and Marginalia: New Evidence from the Folger Collection,” Philological Quarterly 66 (1987): 521–28; Lisa Jardine and Anthony Grafton, “‘Studied for Action’: How Gabriel Harvey Read His Livy,” Past and Present 129 (November 1990): 30–78; Lawrence Lipking, “The Marginal Gloss,” Critical Inquiry 3 (1977): 609–54; J. Manning, “Notes and Marginalia in Bishop Percy’s Copy of Spenser’s Works (1611),” Notes and Queries 31 (1984): 225–27; William Slights, “The Edifying Margin of Renaissance English Books,” Renaissance Quarterly 42 (Winter 1989): 682–716; Roger Stoddard, Marks in Books, Illustrated and Explained (Cambridge, Mass.: Houghton Library of Harvard University, 1985); and Evelyn B. Tribble, Margins and Marginality: The Printed Page in Early Modern England (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1994). Many of these authors insist that if you want to capture how a book was packaged and what it has meant to readers who have unwrapped it, you have to look at all the copies you can find, from original manuscripts to cheap reprints. There is only one article that addresses some of these issues in music: Alessandro E. Planchart, “Fragments, Palimpsests, and Marginalia,” Journal of Musicology 6 (1988): 293–339. Planchart examines the medieval musical repertories of tropes and sequences, not didactic musical texts. 34.â•‡ William H. Sherman, Towards a History of the Manicule (March 2005): www.livesand letters.ac.uk/papers/FOR_2005_04_002.html (accessed 29 May 2005). 35.â•‡ Jackson, Marginalia, 4. 36.â•‡ Jackson, Romantic Readers, 89. Jackson states that writing in books in the modern English-speaking world is looked upon with disdain—with some exceptions, such as the marks made by authors or editors. On the other hand, Jackson claims that readers in nineteenth-century Britain were encouraged, as part of their education, to annotate books. 37.â•‡ Roland Barthes, “Sur la lecture,” in Le bruissement de la langue (Paris: Seuil, 1984), 40: “la lecture ne déborde pas la structure; elle lui est soumise: elle en a besoin, elle la respecte; mais elle la pervertit.”

242â•… ·â•… Susan Forscher Weiss 38.â•‡ Anthony Grafton, “Future Reading: Digitization and its Discontents,” The New Yorker (5 November 2007): 50–54. In an even more recent review of two books—Books on Fire by Lucien Polastron, and Burning to Read by James Simpson—Grafton refers to the struggle between bibliophiles, like the Medici, who wish to preserve printed treasures, and biblioclasts like Savonarola who wish to destroy them. He also comments that the messages found in the margins and on flyleaves of books must not be ignored. See also Grafton, “Violence in Words,” Times Literary Supplement (25 July 2008): 3–5. 39.â•‡ This nickname comes from manus, the Latin for “hand” and source of “manipulate” and “manual.” In Greek chiro, the word for “hand,” is found as the title of a number of manuals: Enchiridion, Chirologia, etc. Hand is also the source of our “handle,” “handbook,” “handiwork,” etc. 40.â•‡ In his book, The Footnote: A Curious History (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997), 27, Grafton traces the history of the actual “foot”-note from a period at least a century later than the Renaissance. Prior to the invention of printing, annotations or glosses that were often written around the primary material found in the center of the page of a manuscript “eventually came to be seen as integral parts of the texts they explicated. These were regularly taught with their commentaries.” 41.â•‡ There is a well-known image of Thomas à Kempis sitting in his study surrounded by books, copying passages from them into his manual of devotion, De imitatione Christi (ca. 1418; first printed copies in a French translation of the Latin are Toulouse, 1488). 42.â•‡ See Hugo Spechtshart, Flores musicae, 1332/42, ed. Werner ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½�ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ GÃ¼mpel, Abhandlungen der geistes- und sozialwissenschaftlichen Klasse 3 (Mainz: Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, 1958). Many sixteenth-century German treatises reflect Hugo‘s influence. 43.â•‡ One such example is a copy of Heinrich Faber‘s Compendiolum musicae pro incipientibus, published in 1590, now in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. On the frontispiece are the signatures of two different early seventeenth-century owners. Heinrich Faber’s bestselling text was first published in 1548; it was reissued in more than forty-six diverse editions. Faber cited passages from book VI of Augustine’s De musica and from Adam of Fulda’s Musicae pars secunda, as well as citing treatises by Johannes Tinctoris, Georg Rhaw, Nicolaus Listenius, Andreas Ornithoparchus, Sebald Heyden, Johannes Cochlaeus, and other important theorists of the day. See Heinrich Faber, Compendiolum musicæ pro incipientibus, ed. Olivier Trachier (Baden-Baden and Bouxwiller: Éditions Valentin Koerner, 2005). Faber‘s work was then expanded and edited by Johann Reusch, one of Faber‘s older disciples; by M. Christoph Rid, master of a school in Schorndorf (1572); by David Wolckenstein, a Silesian musician who remained more faithful to the original than had Rid (1596); by Adam Gumpeltzhaimer, who translated it into German (1611); and by Melchior Vulpius (1665). Olivier Trachier, in studying the various editions, has suggested that Faber himself may have used Calvius and Galliculus (Leipzig, 1520) as his models. Trachier‘s excellent study of the various editions of Faber‘s work neglects the subject of annotations. 44.â•‡ La Scala di musica was one of two practical music texts written by this Cremonese composer and teacher. Scaletta’s popular manual was reprinted fourteen times in various formats from 1585 to a newly revised edition in 1685, fifty-five years after the death of the author. It is curious to see that at least one edition of the manual includes an image of the hand that differs from the conventional one. I discuss changes to the image of the hand in Weiss, “Disce Manum Tuam,” 50–55. 45.â•‡ Inscription on front flyleaf: “A dì 9 marzo 1693 in Bologna comprai questo libro in Piazza contro il Registro,” and then in another hand, “A dì 13 marzo 1693 il Signor D. Gio. Battista Diamanti impresto questo libro a me Anna Maria Pomi.” 46.â•‡ Carlo Schmidl, Dizionario dei musicisti, rev. edition (Milan: Ricordi, 1929), 2: 457. A volume of sonnets, La miniera del Diamante, was published in her honor in 1697 in Modena.

Vandals, Students, or Scholars?â•… ·â•… 243 47.â•‡ Anna Maria de Pomi may possibly be a descendent of the well-known Jewish family that included David de Pomi (1525–ca. 1593), who published a dictionary of Judeo-Italian in 1587 in Venice. 48.â•‡ A surviving copy of Porphyri’s Libri artis logicae, printed in late fifteenth-century Basel by the humanist publisher Johannes Amerbach, is a translation from Greek into Latin that contains printed shoulder notes in Latin, as well as handwritten notes in German. The German notes are possibly by Johannes Lapide, whose published commentary accompanies the ancient Greek text and whose book on grammatical accents is bound together with it. The Bern manuscript was edited by Arnold Geering (Bern: H. Lang, 1964). My thanks to Sarah Davies for sending a photocopy of this manuscript. The shoulder notes indicate that the scribe is referencing his Latin source. 49.â•‡ Richard Charteris, Johann Georg von Werdenstein (1542–1608): A Major Collector of Early Music Prints (Sterling Heights: Harmonie Park Press, 2006). Charteris does not include the Musicae epitome among the music books owned by Werdenstein, but mentions that two-thirds of the music books once owned by the collector are now missing. This may be one of those books that are thought to have gone missing, but it does, in fact, reside in the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek in Munich. 50.â•‡ Clement A. Miller, “Glarean, Heinrich” in Grove Music Online, at Oxford Music Online: www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/11256 (accessed 21 August 2008). Another copy of the Musicae epitome ex Glareani Dodechordo unà tum quinque melodiis super eiusdem Glareani Panegyrico de Helveticarum XIII urbium Laudibus, per Manfredum Barbarinum Coregiensem, also published in Basel in 1559, now in the Newberry Library in Chicago, is covered with marginalia, interlinear notes, and music writing. I am in the process of transcribing the annotations and hope to identify the reader. 51.â•‡ A copy of Glarean’s Dodecachordon at the Library of Congress includes an autograph presentation to Francisco Spinola. Four manuscript leaves are inserted at the end of the volume, containing (1) a presentation note; (2) an ode: “Ad ornatissimum virum p. franciscum Pinolam Glareani Trimetri”; (3) “Codex Glareani manu emendatus”; and (4) “Alia huius codicus errata. . . .” My thanks to Susan Clermont for bringing this important source to my attention. 52.â•‡ British Library, M.K.1.g.10(1). 53.â•‡ British Library, Hirsch I. 49. Banchieri’s Cartella, ouero regole utilissime à quelli che desiderano imparare il canto figurato, printed in Bologna in 1614, is also bound together with a manuscript notebook containing the written-out rules and musical notation (British Library, 7897. aaa.67). 54.â•‡ Regole di contrapunto di Bartolomeo Lazari (Rome, 1639), Vatican Library, Chigi Q IV. 22. 55.â•‡ The music notebooks of Antonio Melendez, Rome, Vatican Library, Q IV. 7, Quaderni di essercizi, ca. 1625–1630; Chigi Q IV.20, Diversi essercizi di contrapunto. 5ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ 6.â•‡ Musical notebooks border on the topic of musical scores, a huge topic that lies outside the scope of this chapter. Nevertheless, future studies might consider an examination of the annotations in scores. Musicians of all sorts, from composers to editors, performers, scholars, teachers, and students, include musical notation that can inform our understanding of pedagogy, of performance, and of the improvisatory traditions. The Pierpont Morgan Library, for example, contains items as diverse as Jenny Lind’s embellishments for her role in an opera and Mendelssohn’s violin and cello sonata with additions by famous performers of the day. 57.â•‡ Simon Quercu, Opusculum musices (Landshut, 1516), Washington, Library of Congress, MT 171.Q4, and a copy with far fewer markings published in Nuremberg (1513), MT 171. Q 14; another copy, published in 1509 with more substantive marginalia, is found in Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Res V-1577.

244â•… ·â•… Susan Forscher Weiss 58.â•‡ Several librarians and a cryptographer at the Library of Congress examined the notation, but no one to date has been able to decipher its meaning. Musically relevant annotations appear in other copies of several other surviving editions, one in Paris at the Bibliothèque Nationale and another at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C; in addition, there are two annotated copies at the Newberry Library in Chicago. 59.â•‡ Theodor Dumitrescu, John Dygon’s ‘Proportiones practicabiles sedundum Gaffurium’ (‘Practical Proportions according to Gaffurius’), New Critical Text, Translation, Annotations and Indices (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2006). 60.â•‡ Ibid., 15. Gaffurius’s treatises served as models for numerous sixteenth-century printed music texts, among them Nicolaus Wollick’s treatise, Opus aureum, published in Cologne in 1501, a continental source that appeared in Oxford along with Andreas Ornithoparchus’s Musice active micrologus. 61.â•‡ The next page in the Dublin copy of Gaffurius’s Practica contains horizontal and vertical verbal marginalia in lieu of lowercase letters. The Milan copy of the 1477 edition of the Practica also contains some red marginalia in chapter 2. Coincidentally, Gaffurius annotated his own copy of the Practica musice, now in the Ambrosian Library in Milan (Codex H 165 inf. F. 20v); these annotations reveal his disapproval of an assertion by an earlier theorist, as well as attributions to earlier sources, such as the treatise of Jean de Muris. 62.â•‡ Thomas Morley, A plaine and easie introdvction to practicall mvsicke (London, 1608), Washington, D.C., Library of Congress, MT6. A2, M 86, copy 1. 63.â•‡ See Weiss, “Didactic Sources of Musical Learning,” in Didactic Literature in EnÂ� gland, 1500–1800: Expertise Constructed, ed. Natasha Glaisyer and Sara Pennell (London: Ashgate, 2003), 40–62. 64.â•‡ Thomas Morley, A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke (London: P. Short, 1597); courtesy of the Library of Congress. Morley’s treatise—much of it borrowed from earlier sources—contains numerous diagrams and examples, such as a musical canon in the shape of a cross (see figure 11.10a in the present volume). He deliberately omits the image of the hand, commenting: “Some after him (or he himself [Guido]) altered his scale in form of organ pipes” (annotations, p. 2). The last page of the treatise includes his list of “Authors whose authorities be either cited or used in this booke.” He includes the names of contemporary and ancient writers and composers, and in a separate list, his fellow Englishmen. Among those at the top of his list of contemporary writers are Franchinus Gaffurius, Giovanni Spataro, Pietro Aaron, Andreas Ornithoparchus, Gioseffo Zarlino, and Heinrich Glarean. He credits Gaffurius with his material from Ptolomaeus, Aristoxenus, and Guido d’Arezzo. 65.â•‡ We do know from a comparison of Morley’s treatise with Zarlino’s Istitutione harmoniche that the English theorist copied lengthy passages from the earlier Italian work. He himself must have either annotated a copy of Zarlino’s treatise or copied the text into his own notebook. As neither Morley’s copy of Zarlino’s treatise nor a notebook has been found, we can only speculate on the means by which he cribbed the material. While Morley fails to give credit to all of his sources, his list reads like a who’s who of Renaissance theorists and writers of music textbooks. 66.â•‡ Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, (London: P. Short, 1597; repr. Amsterdam: Da Capo Press, 1969), unnumbered folio following the musical examples in table format. 67.â•‡ John Playford’s A Breefe Introduction to the Skill of Musick for Song and Viol, published in London in 1654, became the model for books by Christopher Simpson and Thomas Campion. The latter’s treatise, The Art of Descant or Composing Musick in Parts, with annotations by Simpson, served as the model for a similar handbook penned by Henry Purcell. 68.â•‡ See RISM for copies of Wollick’s treatises in libraries worldwide, bearing in mind that the list is not complete.

Vandals, Students, or Scholars?â•… ·â•… 245 69.â•‡ Ernest T. Ferand, “‘Sodaine and Unexpected’ Music in the Renaissance,” The Musical Quarterly 37 (1951): 10–27. 70.â•‡ Glarean owned and annotated a copy of Grammaticus Priscianus’s Opera, published in Venice in 1500. His edition of Donatus’s Grammaticae methodus videlicet . . . de octo orationis partibus libellus, was published in Cologne in 1525. See Fenlon, “Heinrich Glarean’s Books,” 74–102. 71.â•‡ Priscianus repeatedly expresses his gratitude to the third-century Greek syntactician Apollonius; see Rijcklof Hofman, The Sankt Gall Priscian Commentary (MÃ¼nster: Nodus, 1996). 72.â•‡ Ferand, “‘Sodaine and Unexpected’ Music,” 11. 73.â•‡ A copy in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris has only a few staves filled in. 74.â•‡ Stephano Vanneo’s Recanetum de musica aurea in the British Library (Hirsch I 589), contains an owner inscription as well as extensive marginalia in two hands. One of the readers appears to be summarizing the text. Zarlino’s handwritten notes at the end of the Newberry Library copy of Vanneo’s treatise (a theorist who did not meet with Zarlino’s approval) appear to be material copied from Guillaume Guerson’s Utilissime musicales regule of 1495; see Judd, Reading, 182. Zarlino also reproduced Glarean’s new system of modes in the Istiutioni harmoniche (Venice, 1558) without acknowledgment. These instances point to the strong association between German and Italian musical treatises that date back to the Middle Ages. 75.â•‡ Bonnie J. Blackburn, et al., A Correspondence of Renaissance Musicians (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), letter 2, pp. 203ff. Spataro refers to Wollick as “Nicolao Baroducense” or “uno francese chiamato” (Spataro to Marc’ Antonio Cavazzoni, 1 August 1517). It should be kept in mind that Gaffurius and Spataro had engaged in a rather confrontational correspondence since 1493. Many of Spataro’s letters are lists of errors he found in Gaffurius’s treatises. Spataro’s ongoing grudge against Gaffurius is revealed in his letter to Pietro Aaron, who had asked to borrow Ramos’s treatise. Apparently Gaffurius “reviewed” Ramos’s treatise and wrote some disparaging comments in the margins. Spataro refused to loan the marked-up copy to Aaron, saying it was the only copy in Bologna (A 80 in the Museo Internazionale, Bologna). Two years before his death Gaffurius published a polemic against Spataro, the culmination of many years of controversy between the two rivals (Spataro to Aaron, 27 November 1531). 76.â•‡ Blackburn et al., A Correspondence, letter 36, p. 455 (Spataro to Aaron, 27 November 1531). Gaffurius’s marginal notes are transcribed in Johannes Wolf ’s edition of Ramos’s Musica practica (Leipzig, 1901), but are not present in the 1993 American Institute of Musicology edition of the treatise by Clement Miller. 77.â•‡ Blackburn et al., A Correspondence, letter 37.6, pp. 459, 462. Spataro’s four-voice motet, Hec Virgo est praeclarum vas, is included in the San Petronio choirbook A XXXXV, folios 3'–4'. It is based on the chant Hec Virgo est praeclarum vas in Wollick’s Enchiridion musices, 2nd edition (Paris: F. Regnault, 1512), fol. C4. 78.â•‡ Blackburn et al., A Correspondence, letter 36.3, p. 412. 79.â•‡ Ibid., 59 n. 24. Facsimile edition, ed. Giuseppe Vecchi, Johannis Spatarii Opera omÂ� ina, vol. 2 (Bologna, 1962). The treatise is also transcribed in Quadrivium 5 (1962): 5–68. 80.â•‡ Blackburn et al., A Correspondence, 59, 334, 982. See also Weiss, “Bologna Q 18: Some Reflections on Content and Context,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 41 (1988): 63–101. 81.â•‡ One of the greatest challenges involves determining the age of the annotations. What may be helpful are radioactive carbon-14 dating and identification of pigments and materials used in writing. Anything written in pencil can almost certainly be dated after the eighteenth century. Over the past decade, I have kept detailed records of hundreds of annotated music textbooks found in libraries within the United States and abroad. Recently

246â•… ·â•… Susan Forscher Weiss (but too late for inclusion in this publication) I have worked with a heavily annotated copy of Cochlaeus’s Musica (Cologne, 1507), one not listed in RISM. The annotations include interleaved sheets that may contain the writing of both a student and teacher. I am also working with Professor Ruth De Ford at the City University of New York on the treatises of Cochlaeus, and with Dr. Inga Mai Groote and her students at the Institut fÃ¼r Musikwissenschaft in Munich on texts annotated by other students at the University of Cologne in the early sixteenth century, most particularly, Heinrich Glarean. I plan to publish our findings, along with analyses and comparisons of marginalia, in the near future.

Part Four

Music Education in the Convent•

12 The Educational Practices of Benedictine Nuns: A Salzburg Abbey Case Study• Cynthia J. Cyrus

• The impact of post-Tridentine educational reforms on women’s convents has not yet been adequately assessed in the literature.1 For education broadly speaking, and for the more specifically musical (or liturgical) education of the nuns who undertook the regular monastic duties of Office and Mass, there is not yet a comprehensive understanding of what women’s monastic education entailed, much less of how it was accomplished. An initial picture of the educational process has begun to emerge from studies of Italian monasticism, but studies of convents located elsewhere on the continent have yet to venture far into the concerns of intellectual and musical achievement that were central to lives devoted to the opus dei in the Early Modern era. German scholarship in particular has focused more on the political, social, and financial aspects of Tridentine undertakings than on shifts in both the knowledge base and the musical practices that stem from the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.2 The study presented here is an initial attempt at an intellectual corrective which draws on my work on monasticism in German-speaking lands. I come at this problem from the perspective of a book-lover; convent

250â•… ·â•… Cynthia J. Cyrus

libraries do, I believe, offer concrete clues into what was taught and when. But this research also relies heavily on convent politics as reflected in the various documents that survive from the period. In this essay, I attempt everso-briefly to place the story of Tridentine reform at one convent—Nonnberg Abbey in Salzburg—into the broader context of Benedictine educational practices of the Early Modern era. The reforms stemming from the Council of Trent itself were not directly aimed at education, of course. Rather, they were recommendations and directives that were to shape the course of education, particularly for the women monastics who fell under Catholic jurisdiction. Two themes in these reforms are particularly important for the education of women monastics: first are the liturgical reforms, comprising the tidying up of chant repertoire, redirection of polyphonic styles and practices, and a generalized goal of making music understandable; and second is clausura, the increased emphasis on keeping women monastics apart from the world through their physical isolation within the cloister walls. Tridentine reforms were often presented to women’s convents as a package. What makes the process so interesting is that in the course of imposing these reforms within the convent walls, the local bishops often commented on and attempted to improve the general level of education. Thus, this time of reform mirrors the previous rounds of convent renewal of the fifteenth century, in that educational improvements are often coextensive with the reform-impulse, happening at the same time and with the same ends as the formal incorporation of more intense and ascetic practices. Much ink has been spilled on the musical impact of the Council of Trent. We all know of the stories of the kinds of music that were deemed suitable, and have at least a rough understanding of the revisions to chant repertoire and the shift of musical aesthetic that accompanied and followed the work of the Council.3 This kind of information directly intersects with women’s monastic experiences, since most women’s convents, like their male counterparts, adopted the Tridentine liturgy over the course of the period extending from 1560 to 1640. Moreover, we have from our fellow scholars who work on Italian monasticism a picture of the rise of women’s virtuosic musical achievements in specific convents during this same period; I think here particularly of the work of Craig Monson and Robert Kendrick.4 Such stories of musical changes will form a part of the investigation undertaken here, for the NonnÂ� berg nuns were immersed in this culture of liturgical worship and enjoyed the benefits of musical enhancement for special occasions. Moreover, they had a particular, and not very flattering, view of the Tridentine reforms.

The Educational Practices of Benedictine Nunsâ•… ·â•… 251

The concerns of clausura are also reasonably well understood. Elizabeth Makowski’s book, Canon Law and Cloistered Women, only takes us up to 1545 but provides a solid juridical backdrop to the decisions of the Council of Trent regarding women’s enclosure. And, indeed, the Council itself cites Periculoso in its directives: Renewing the constitution of Boniface VIII which begins Periculoso, the holy council commands all bishops . . . to ensure that the enclosure of nuns in all monasteries . . . should be diligently restored where it has been violated, and preserved most carefully where it has remained intact; they should coerce any who are disobedient and refractory by ecclesiastical censures and other penalties, setting aside any form of appeal, and calling in the help of the secular arm if need be.5

In the Tridentine iterations of clausura, nuns—including abbesses—could not leave the convent under any pretext, nor could any non-monastic enter the enclosure without the permission of the bishop, “obtained,” as the Council points out, “in writing.” This led to a need for special permission for the entry of â†œ“physicians, barbers, carpenters, [and] dressmakers,” as Makowski enumerates.6 To this list should be added the special permission accorded to music teachers, who entered the convent with permission to teach both vocal and instrumental arts. At Nonnberg, for instance, both a general music teacher and an organist had permission to enter the cloister by the 1620s.7 As we shall see, however, the conjoined introduction of liturgical reform alongside clausura affected the response of convent women to Tridentine educational ideals. The Nonnberg nuns used their own educational practices at first to resist, and eventually to adapt and even co-opt, the Tridentine agenda.

Nonnberg’s Educational Outreach Nonnberg Abbey had a long history as an educational institution, and the abbey’s pedagogical agenda forms an important part of the history of the convent. The schooling of the daughters of local citizens at Nonnberg Abbey extends back into the twelfth century; a document from Archbishop Konrad of 3 November 1144 provides a donation to the convent and adds the proviso, “everything is held or will be held for the rearing of the girls.”8 Although the numbers of girls who were educated at the abbey cannot be determined from readily accessible records, the Nonnberg necrology lists four puellae in its fifteenth-century layer and lists an additional schoolgirl, Veronica Mautnerin,


in a sixteenth-century hand, demonstrating that education was an ongoing facet of the Abbey’s mission.9 We can get a glimpse into turn-of-the-century educational practice from the library volumes copied after the disastrous fire of 1423. The reforming abbess Agatha Haunsperger (abbess from 1446 to 1484)10 took charge of building the library collection, commissioning copies of writings of the Church Fathers as well as a collection of Vitae. Moreover, the convent library of the mid-sixteenth century already contained a handful of manuscripts explicitly aimed at the Novizen or the Kloster iunkchfrawn. These self-identified educational books with their audiences of monastic aspirants, range from interpretations of the Rule of Benedict and a treatise on consecration to books that will develop the novices’ spiritual lives such as a volume of Gute lehre for the novice.11 The A B C of Godly Love (Das A B C der göttlichen Myny), for instance, instructs the reader in the path to take in order to lead a holy, good life in God. At the end of the volume is appended a spiritual explanation of the material aspects of the liturgy—the vestments, altar, furnishings—and the parts of the Mass as well as the role of the Celebrant. Female students at Nonnberg at the turn of the sixteenth century, then, were learning their tasks as members of a convent community. They would have been given an underpinning of the writings of the Church Fathers, instruction in basic biblical teachings, and would also have acquired an interpretative toolkit for understanding their liturgical actions. The content of the nuns’ education at Nonnberg was largely undertaken in German, and Haunsperger’s manuscripts, like the vast majority of the nonliturgical manuscripts from her generation, were in German.12 The texts of the Church Fathers, for instance, appeared in translation, as did the numerous collections of Vitae. Standard liturgical prayers likewise made their way into non-liturgical manuscript collections in translated copies, presumably so that the nuns could better consider the meaning of the words they spoke during liturgical ceremonies. Intellectual heavy-lifting—the consideration of things holy—also largely took place in the vernacular. Nevertheless, the generous accompaniment of additions and emendations in a variety of hands in nearly all of the liturgical resources of the collection, demonstrates that the nuns were taught at least some basic familiarity with Latin and with details of the liturgy. Nonnberg Abbey, then, presumably followed the same educational model as the sister convents of Ebstorf and Marienberg at Helmstedt, in which the novices studied Latin, grammar, and “other school topics” with


the novice mistress.13 That practical immersion in the learning process would be extended into later life through the careful program of reading and contemplation that was mandated by the Benedictine Rule.

The Salzburg Sy nods of 1569, 1573, and 1576 For Nonnberg, the first rumblings of resistance to the Tridentine reforms came in 1569, during the Salzburg Synod. Three synods were called in short order by Archbishop Jakob Khun von Bellasy (archbishop 1560–1586), and were charged with three main tasks. They attempted to implement the decrees of the Council of Trent; they facilitated a revival of Catholicism (and reduction of Protestant influence) in the Salzburg region; and they grappled with the many grievances and petitions that emerged in the years immediately following the Council from the various chapters, monasteries, and individual priests in the Salzburg region. Formal sessions first began on 14 March 1569 and extended through much of the year, and subsequent conclaves took place in 1573 and 1576.14 A number of reforms emerged from discussions of the many complaints presented in session, and the synod eventually adopted the Sixty-Four Constitutions that codified their recommendations. Among the details addressed by the synod were several aspects of musical practice, as Karl Fellerer pointed out in 1953. For instance, constitutions 4 and 54 both emphasized liturgical practice within prescribed “ecclesiastical ceremonies,”15 while constitution 23 discussed the chief singer’s role in correcting the other singers.16 In grappling with such details of musical practice, the Sixty-Four Constitutions demonstrate the Province’s generally supportive outlook toward a sophisticated musical practice. For this, the nuns of Nonnberg might have been grateful; just as with their educational practices, the nuns were passionate about their musical traditions. They would have been less happy, however, about the decisions to shift toward a more unified liturgical practice. Thus, it was in the details of grievances that the Nonnberg nuns’ position regarding the Tridentine reforms came to the fore. The Nonnberg nuns petitioned the Synod to ask that the “severe clausura” be made milder; they appealed principally on the grounds of financial needs, arguing that clausura would have a negative impact on the cloister’s prosperity.17 Implicit here, but unstated, is a concern over the educational outreach that had been a lucrative part of the convent’s activities. To lose access to this portion of the convent’s income would be a hardship, particu-


larly since these events came at a time when the convent was facing a serious burden of debts. Although the synod took no action to alleviate the strictures of enclosure, the situation seems to have been left in a sort of status quo for over a decade. In short, during the 1560s and 1570s, the Nonnberg nuns went about their business without particular regard to the new rules. It would take outside pressure to convince the nuns to change their practices.

The Visitation of 1581 and Margaretha von Kuenburg’s Petition The Council of Trent had stressed increased supervision of convents by local bishops, and the Salzburg Synod had likewise emphasized diocesan control. The first of the post-Tridentine visitations, then, marked the beginnings of the local bishop’s attempts to enforce the Tridentine rules. This visitation, which took place in 1581, left the nuns dismayed. Strict clausura, he said, applied not just to the nuns but also to the abbess; no worldly wives were to enter the cloister (but maidens were evidently allowable); the washing should be done by the nuns or the lay sisters. Moreover, the Bishop dictated that the printed breviary should be used.18 More or less instantaneously, the Nonnberg nuns—perhaps spearheaded by the cantrix, Margaretha von Kuenburg19—responded with a petition against the imposition of these reforms.20 Almost as an aside, this petition included another plea that they not be required to observe strict clausura. In a savvy shift of focus, however, the nuns who wrote this petition singled out the liturgy as a focus for resistance. They wished to retain their old handwritten breviaries, for they had not been instructed in the new song as contained in the printed editions. Services would suffer because the chaplains and the choir nuns would be inadequate to the task. The new service books also omitted so much of the traditional service that it would be much work to bring them up to date. In short, they had neither been taught how to use the new books, nor had they learned the new service. What is interesting here is that the Nonnberg nuns cite their own absence of education in order to resist the “new practices.” They adopt the pose of the “ignorant nun”—a veritable cliché in visitation records—in order to sidestep compliance with what they consider to be an unattractive set of liturgical practices. They also expect to have been taught the (notated) songs, suggesting that a practice of learning repertoire by ear rather than by eye was normative for the cloister.


And, indeed, the sixteenth-century manuscript chant-books from NonnÂ� berg—including the half-dozen liturgical books owned by von Kuenburg herself—show no visible signs of liturgical reform, though seventeenth-century hands appear therein. There were, with a small handful of exceptions, no chants, prayers or readings hatched out, nor were special substitutions reflective of the reformed chant added to these older books. Likewise, new books that were copied in the last two decades of the century—after the abortive reforms of the 1560s and the 1581 “enforcement” of those reforms—align quite closely with the readings of the earlier chant-books, with this exception: they appear to be more detailed. There is an occasional extra prayer in one service, and cues to extra chants in another. In the liturgy for the convent’s patron saint and founder, St. Erintrude, for instance, the office expands from five chants (plus some cross-references) in an antiphonal from 1570, to twentythree musical numbers in the copy dating from 1619.21 In other manuscripts, navigation is cleaned up: it is easier to use these manuscripts after the layers of additions than it originally was, since cues get expanded to full sections, and repetitions are spelled out rather than left implicit. But practical reforms— shifts of feast, omission of tropes and sequences, simplification of liturgical practices overall—simply are not evident.

Reform in the 1620s Not until an entire generation had passed were Tridentine reforms successfully imposed upon Nonnberg, these early reform attempts notwithstanding. By the 1620s, however, the expectations of the nuns and of their surrounding community had shifted. The “new” nun of the seventeenth century was evidently prepared for the stricter observances and increased external control over liturgical content. In the 1620s, in short order, the bishop reassigned the chaplaincy to university-trained priests, undertook several visitations of the abbey, oversaw the bricking-up of an offending window, and imposed the use of the new liturgy. Perhaps as an olive branch, however, the bishop also approved a whole array of regular visitors who could enter the cloister in order to teach. The convent walls were, like those of their southern neighbors, porous. Thus, in the 1620s it was Magdalena Schneeweiss, author and abbess, who led the abbey into a period of true renewal; during her five years as abbess, from 1620 to 1625, the number of professions soared and the convent shifted to a new fiscal footing. Schneeweiss herself focused her book acquisitions around


prayer books, but she also may have overseen the copying of Form und Weiss, an early seventeenth-century instructional booklet intended as a preparatory guide for profession. This quaint and remarkably legible handwritten volume contains twenty-four questions and answers on the postulant’s person, on the meaning and validity of profession and vows, and on religious duties, as well as a beginner’s guide to the Benedictine Rule. Significantly, the guide contains two questions explicitly on practices of clausura: the convent was now firmly in the Tridentine orbit, and the novices were instructed in a form of religious life that was demonstrably uncomfortable to their predecessors. Yet this shift in convent affiliation does not seem to have limited the Nonnberg nuns as much as von Kuenburg and her ilk had feared. After the acceptance of the Tridentine reforms, Abbess Schneeweiss established a room that served as library and schoolroom.22 Instruction at the abbey now focused on Latin, on chant, on breviary prayer, and, with the assistance of a city-dwelling Mahlerin, on the painting of miniatures and of coats of arms—presumably an expansion of the handcrafts that had always been part of convent activities. Under Schneeweiss’s leadership, the convent also introduced both a singing teacher and an organist to provide more advanced musical instruction to the convent nuns. Two large teaching-antiphonals, the Pharetra manuscript volumes of 1622 and 1625, provided a basic introduction to the elements of the service. Moreover, die Schueler are named in manuscript rubrics of this era, suggesting that the educational mission of the abbey remained unimpeded by the version of Tridentine clausura that was imposed; and by the second half of the century, the convent had established a reputation for instrumentally accompanied polyphony.23 A Tridentine reform that could accommodate the educational mission of the convent met the cloister’s needs and was accepted—even embraced—by the members of the community.

Nonnberg in Context Nonnberg Abbey is similar to the many other Benedictine women’s houses in German-speaking lands in that the nuns’ concerns over education were at once philosophical and fiscal. Benedictine monastic practice privileged education; Benedictine women’s houses in Admont, Bassum, Buxtehude, Lamspringe, Vilich, and elsewhere were devoted to the education not just of their own novices, but also of other girls from noble or wealthy families.24 Though often described as “charitable work,” in fact such teaching was a major source


of income; for the Neukloster in Buxtehude, for instance, the income and donations of the mid-fifteenth century are presumed to be directly related to the education of daughters of wealthy Hamburg families.25 Indeed, in the face of post-Tridentine clausura, a number of women’s houses cited the income from schooling as a central financial underpinning; they faced significant financial hardship in letting that source of income go. Nonnberg’s story of resistance and eventual acceptance of Tridentine reform, then, is shaped by the educational goals and practices of Benedictine women’s monasticism as practiced in Germanic lands. The nuns of the abbey had a twofold educational mission: they needed to train their own novices and teach them the ways of convent life and its liturgical practices; and the Benedictine nuns also taught members of the external community. To achieve either goal, the nuns needed a flexible clausura that could accommodate the visits of specialists in some crafts (particularly art and music). Basic educational needs, however—those of Latin, chant, and “other school subjects”—were handled in-house. In the sixteenth-century account put forward by a musically literate member of the Nonnberg circle, the music of the liturgy was learned by most nuns by ear, and needed to be taught by someone who knew the repertoire. The purchasing of new chant-books did not in and of itself create a new body of knowledge; von Kuenburg cited the need for study as a reason for not adopting the Tridentine reforms. But eventually— and, notably, after von Kuenburg’s death—the nuns did choose to follow the Tridentine practices and began to use the new, printed chant-books. They also obtained instructional musical manuscripts—suggesting a rise in actual musical literacy—and learned to negotiate the square notation that was the norm for later chant-books. The nuns of this Tridentine era opted as well for an emphasis on elaborate ceremonial. In these changed circumstances, they had a demonstrable need for new instructors—professional music teachers who came from outside the convent walls. The shift from pre- to post-Trent, then, correlates to a shift in the practices of musical learning within the Nonnberg Abbey. We witness a shift from an aural environment to a literate one, and from an emphasis on traditional and localized plainchant to a supplemented liturgy in which instrumental music and vocal polyphony moved to the fore. Hence, in winning the tussle over the imposition of a simplified chant, the bishop may have lost the battle. The nuns, who had treasured and staunchly retained their own luxuriously melismatic practices of plainchant during the sixteenth century, found their joy in the seventeenth century not in the simplified chants of the Tridentine


era, but in substitutions of an elaborate and polyphonic nature. In short, the Nonnberg nuns used their education first to sidestep learning the Tridentine chants and then to replace them altogether.

Notes This work was supported in part by a Vanderbilt University Research Council Summer Award and Direct Research Grant and by the Blair School of Music. I would like to thank the staff of the Hill Monastic Manuscript Library (HMML) in Collegeville, Minnesota, for their assistance in this project. All of the manuscripts discussed in this study were consulted through microfilms held at HMML, with the exception of the Nonnberg processional sold in 1988 by the Antiquariat Klittich-Pfannkuch and cited in Fumiko Niiyama-Kalicki, “Quellen zu Musik und Liturgie im Stift Nonnberg im Mittelalter,” in Musica Sacra Mediaevalis: Geistliche Musik Salzburgs im Mittelalter, Salzburg, 6–9 Juni 1996: Kongressbericht, ed. ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ Stefan � Engels ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ and Gerhard � Walï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ terskirchen, Studien und Mitteilungen zur Geschichte des Benediktinerordens und seiner Zweige 40 (St. Ottilien: EOS-Verlag, 1998), 60. For information about the manuscripts themselves, I have relied heavily on the card files at HMML. Gerold Hayer is undertaking an index of the Nonnberg manuscripts to be titled “Die Handschriften des Benediktinerinnenstiftes Nonnberg,” as part of the collection of catalogues of medieval manuscripts from Austrian libraries in the series Kommission für Schrift- und Buchwesen des Mittelalters (der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften); see www.ksbm.oeaw.ac.at/_k3.htm. 1.â•‡ Particularly important contributions regarding women’s monastic culture in the Early Modern era have been provided in Craig Monson, Disembodied Voices: Music and Culture in an Early Modern Italian Convent (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), which focuses on Bologna; Robert L. Kendrick, Celestial Sirens: Nuns and Their Music in Early Modern Milan (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996); and Colleen Reardon, Holy Concord Within Sacred Walls: Nuns and Music in Siena, 1575–1700 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). Each of these major contributions speaks in important ways of the kinds of training that were available to monastic women; as does, for example, Garry M. Radke, “Nuns and their Art: The Case of San Zaccaria in Renaissance Venice,” Renaissance Quarterly 54 (2001): 430–59. The focus of most currently available historical studies, however, is on Italian monastic experiences, and the broader range of educational practice across Europe has not yet been addressed in a systematic way. 2.â•‡Exceptions that treat monastic education of German women in the Early Modern period include Charlotte Woodford’s important study, Nuns as Historians in Early Modern Germany (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002); and, for a slightly earlier period, see Anne Winston-Allen, Convent Chronicles: Women Writing about Women and Reform in the Late Middle Ages (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004); and Werner Williams-Krapp, “Ordensreform und Literatur im 15. Jahrhundert,” Jahrbuch der Oswald von Wolkenstein Gesellschaft 4 (1986–1987): 41–51. In contrast, for an earlier period, studies of medieval German women’s monasticism through the fourteenth century—by scholars such as Gertrud Jaron Lewis, Jeffrey Hamburger, and Eva Schlotheuber—are rich in educational detail. Gertrud Jaron Lewis, By Women, For Women, About Women: The Sister-Books of Fourteenth-Century Germany, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies: Studies and Texts 125 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1996); Jeffrey F. Hamburger, “Art, Enclosure and the Cura Monialium: Prolegomena in the Guise of a Postscript,” Gesta 31 (1992): 108–34; Eva Schlotheuber, Klostereintritt und Bildung. Die Lebenswelt der Nonnen im späten Mittelalter. Mit einer Edition des “Konventstagebuchs” einer Zisterzienserin von

The Educational Practices of Benedictine Nunsâ•… ·â•… 259 Heilig-Kreuz bei Braunschweig (1484–1507), Spätmittelalter und Reformation, Neue Reihe 24 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004). 3.â•‡ For an important corrective to our understanding the actions of the Council of Trent regarding polyphony, see the article by Craig Monson, “The Council of Trent Revisited,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 55 (2002): 1–37. Monson points out that the issue of textual intelligibility did not appear in the final findings of the Council. He also draws attention to a more central issue for women monastics: the attempts in 1562 and 1563 to restrict polyphony in women’s houses. As Monson demonstrates, the Council opted for local control over such matters. Likewise, Richard Agee addresses the mechanisms and the politicking involved in these late sixteenth and early seventeenth century liturgical reforms; see “Ideological Conflicts in a Cinquecento Edition of Plainchant,” in Music, Dance and Society: Medieval and Renaissance Studies in Memory of Ingrid G. Brainard, ed. Ann Buckley and Cynthia J. Cyrus (Kalamazoo, Mich.: Medieval Institute Publications, forthcoming). 4.â•‡ See for instance Monson’s Disembodied Voices and his The Crannied Wall: Women, Religion, and the Arts in Early Modern Europe, Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Civilization (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992); and see also Kendrick’s Celestial Sirens. 5.â•‡ Chapter (5), session 255 of the Council of Trent (1563), as quoted in Elizabeth Makowski, Canon Law and Cloistered Women: Periculoso and its Commentators (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1997), 128. 6.â•‡ Makowski, Canon Law and Cloistered Women, 99. 7.â•‡ Franz Esterl, Chronik des adeligen Benedictiner-Frauen-stiftes Nonnberg in Salzburg (Salzburg: Franz Xaver Duyle, 1841), 113. 8.â•‡ “Quidquid habent vel habiturae sunt ad puellarum educationibus.“ Regintrudis Reichlin von Meldegg, Stift Nonnberg zu Salzburg im Wandel der Zeiten (Salzburg: Anton Pustet, 1953), 20. Esterl provides the text of this letter; see Chronik, 204–206. 9.â•‡ Godfried Edmund Friess lists the Nonnberg “Educandinnen (puellae)” in his index to Das necrologium des Benedictiner-Nonnenstiftes der heil. Erentrudis auf dem Nonnberge zu Salzburg, Archiv für österreichische Geschichte 71 (Vienna: Carl Gerold’s Sohn, 1887), 195. According to Friess’s entries for each girl, four of the girls must have come from the fifteenth century or earlier, for they were listed by the fifteenth-century scribe who prepared the initial layer of the necrology. These girls are named Anna (d. 27 August), Beatrix (d. 11 November), Katharina (d. 22 November), and Veronica (d. 11 September). One of the many later scribes for this manuscript subsequently added the name of an additional girl, Veronica Mautnerin (d. 29 November), in what appears to be a sixteenth-century hand. 10.â•‡ Susanne Lang discusses the role of the abbess Agatha Haunspurger in building the Nonnberg library in her conference paper, “Monastic Reform and Manuscript Production at the Nunnery of Nonnberg during the Fifteenth Century,” presented at the ThirtySeventh International Medieval Congress, Kalamazoo, Michigan (2002). See also her “Die mittelalterliche Bibliothek des Benediktiner-Frauenstifts Nonnberg: Untersuchungen zur historischen Entwicklung, Zusammensetzung und thematischen Gewichtung des Bestandes bis 1600” (Ph.D. diss., University of Salzburg, 2004), esp. 34–43. 11.â•‡ The earliest manuscripts for novices that have been identified for the current study are Nonnberg 28 D 3, Auslegung . . . Regel hl. Benedikt/Regel fur “kloster iunkchfrawn” (which also includes a rule of St. Jerome), dated 1490; Nonnberg 23 E +14 (HMML 10952), Gute Lehren für einen Novizen (15th–16th c.); and Nonnberg 23 E 23 (HMML 10927), Das A B C der göttlichen Myny (15th c.). Several later volumes can also be added to the list, including Nonnberg 23 D 17 (HMML 10887), Pharetra (1622); Nonnberg 23 D +35 (HMML 10907), Pharetra (1625); and Nonnberg 23 D +27 (HMML 10899), Form und Weiss . . . Novizin (17th c.). This information stems from the HMML card files and from an examination of the various manuscripts in microfilm.

260â•… ·â•… Cynthia J. Cyrus 12.â•‡ On the mix of German and Latin within women’s convents, see Peter Ochsenbein, “Latein und Deutsch im Alltag oberrheinischer Dominikanerinnenklöster des Spätmittelalters,” in Latein und Volkssprache im deutschen Mittelalter 1100–1500: Regensburger Colloquium 1988, ed. Nikolaus Henkel and Nigel F. Palmer (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1992), 42–51; see also Marie-Luise Ehrenschwendtner, “‘Puellae litteratae’: The Use of the Vernacular in the Dominican Convents of Southern Germany,” in Medieval Women in Their Communities, ed. Diane Watt (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997), 52–53. 13.â•‡ On education at Ebstorf, see Conrad Borchling, “Litterarisches und geistiges Leben im Kloster Ebstorf am Ausgange des Mittelalters,” Zeitschrift des Historischen Vereins für Niedersachsen 4 (1905): 361–420. See also the more recent studies by Helmar Härtel, “Die Klosterbibliothek Ebstorf: Reform und Schulwirklichkeit am Ausgang des Mittelalters,” in Schule und Schüler im Mittelalter, ed. Martin Kintzinger (Cologne: Böhlau, 1996), 245–58; Karl-Werner Gümpel, “A Didactic Musical Treatise from the Late Middle Ages: Ebstorf, Klosterarchiv, ms V, 3,” in Music in the Theater, Church, and Villa: Essays in honor of Robert Lamar Weaver and Norma Wright Weaver, ed. Susan Parisi, Ernest Harriss, and Calvin M. Bower (Warren: Harmonie Park Press, 2000), 51–64; and Eva Schlotheuber, “Ebstorf und seine Schülerinnen in der zweiten Hälfte des 15. Jahrhunderts,” in Studien und Texte zur literarischen und materiellen Kultur der Frauenklöster im späten Mittelalter: Ergebnisse eines Arbeitsgesprächs in der Herzog August Bibliothek Wolfenbüttel, 24.–26. Febr. 1999, ed. Falk Eisermann, Eva Schlotheuber, and Volker Honemann, Studies in Medieval and Reformation Thought 99 (Boston: Brill, 2004), 169–221. The reform endeavors, including Latin training, brought by Tecla and two other sisters from Brunnepe in reforming the convent of St. Marienberg during the fifteenth century, are described in various places, including Anne Winston-Allen, Convent Chronicles: Women Writing about Women and Reform in the Late Middle Ages (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004), 107; and Wybren Scheepsma, Medieval Religious Women in the Low Countries: The “Modern Devotion,” The Canonnesses of Windesheim, and their Writings, trans. David F. Johnson (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2004), 126–28. 14.â•‡ The best summation of the work of the Salzburg synods can be found in Gerhard B. Winkler, Die nachtridentinischen Synoden im Reich: Salzburger Provinzialkonzilien, 1569, 1573, 1576 (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 1988). 15.â•‡ Karl Gustav Fellerer, “Church Music and the Council of Trent,” Musical Quarterly 39 (1953): 591 n. 67; he cites Johann Friedrich Schannat, Concilia Germaniae J. F. Schannat magna ex parte primum collegit, dein J. Hartzheim plurirum auxit, contiuavit, notis, disgrgressionibus criticis, charta, et dissertatione chorographics illustravit (Cologne: Simon, 1759–1796), VII, 360. 16.â•‡ Fellerer, “Church Music,” 591 n. 66; citing Schannat, Concilia, VII: 276. The details on singers’ performances come in constitution 23, chap. 4. 17.â•‡Esterl, Chronik, 97. 18.â•‡ Ibid., 111. 19.â•‡ Margaretha von Kuenburg (Khienburg, Küenburg) identifies herself as having been “born into the Kuenburg family” in the note of ownership to Nonnberg 23 B 14 (HMML 10835), a manuscript of Die sieben Tagzeit that she had copied in 1578. In an earlier manuscript, a breviary copied for her in 1558, she records her profession on St. Veit’s Day (15 June) in 1563; see Nonnberg 23 B 5 (HMML 10828), fol. 12b. She also owned a psalter and obsequial, Nonnberg 23 A +12 (HMML10806) from 1587; a separate Officium defunctorum of 276 folios, Nonnberg 23 A +13 (HMML 10810), copied by her brother Sebastianus and willed by Margaretha to Cordula on the inscription to the manuscript; the processional sold by Antiquariat Klittich-Pfannkuch (cited in note 1, above); and a prayer book, the Bruderschaftsgebete zur seligen Jung frau Maria, Nonnberg 23 A +11 (HMML 10805) from 1591. The Nonnberg necrology records her death on 24 September 1594 (Friess, Das necrologium, 137).

The Educational Practices of Benedictine Nunsâ•… ·â•… 261 Further details on von Kuenburg’s manuscripts can be found in Lang, “Die mittelalterliche Bibliothek,” 78–85, 240–65. Margaretha was presumably a member of the influential Kuenburg family, many of whose names are likewise recorded in the Nonnberg necrology and in other convent records. The Domkantor Johann von Kuenburg (b. 1530) for instance, was presumably the younger of the “Johann von Küenburg senior and junior” who helped with the 1552 election of Abbess Anna Paumann at the convent; see Esterl, Chronik, 95. Also, the HMML files note that Margaretha’s coat of arms in Nonnberg 23 B 5, fol. 1—and also found in Nonnberg 23 B 14, fol. 1—are identical with those of Archbishop Georg von Kuenburg (archbishop 1586–1587) as found “in the Codex Seminarii Dioecesani Salisburgensis Hn 808, f. 135, Saec. 16 (1587).” Margaretha may well have served as Nonnberg Abbey’s cantrix—a Sängerin, in the terminology of the abbey—though in the absence of further documentary evidence, this supposition must remain conjectural. She owned (or signed the flyleaves of) four liturgical manuscripts, and also had two prayer books of the same meditative flavor as Anna Paumann’s. It was Margaretha who would have been charged with instituting the liturgical details of the Tridentine reforms in the later 1560s, and it was she who would again have been tapped in the early 1580s to undertake reforms. By the 1580s, she had been a member of the convent for some twenty years and was invested in the status quo. 20.â•‡ I have not been able to consult the petition directly and rely here on the summary in Esterl’s Chronik (1841). 21.â•‡ Compare, for instance, the readings in Nonnberg, Antiphonal s.s. (HMML 10961) to the more expansive version of Nonnberg, Codex 23 C 6. 22.â•‡ Irmgard Schmidt-Sommer and Theresia Bolschwing, “Salzburg, Nonnberg,” in Germania Benedictina III/3: Die benediktinischen Mönchs- und Nonnenklöster in Österreich und Südtirol, ed. Ulrich Faust and Waltraud Krassnig (St. Ottilien: EOS Verlag, 2000– 2003), 244. 23.â•‡ On polyphony and instrumental music in Nonnberg, see Gerhard Walterskirchen, “Musica figuralis est in bonu statu: Musik im Benediktinen Frauenstift Nonnberg in Salzburg,” in Musik in den geistlichen Orden in Mitteleuropa zwischen Tridentinum und Josephinismus, ed. Ladislav Kacic (Bratislava: Slovenská Akadémia Vied, Slavistický Kabinet, 1997), 25–33; Schmidt-Sommer and Bolschwing, “Salzburg, Nonnberg,” 224; the forthcoming study by Barbara Lawatsch Melton, “Loss and Gain in a Salzburg Convent: Tridentine Reform, Princely Absolutism, and the Nuns of Nonnberg (1620–1682)“ (which details the activity of seventeenth-century Nonnberg nuns as string players, for instance); and, for the very end of the period in question, Eric T. Chafe, The Church Music of Heinrich Biber, Studies in Musicology 95 (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1987), esp. 22–24; and Ernst Hintermaier, “Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber von Bibern (1644–1704) und das BenediktinenFrauenstift Nonnberg,” in Deus Caritas—Jakob Mayr: Festgabe 25 Jahre Weihbischof von Salzburg, ed. Hans Paarhammer (Salzburg: Thaur bei Innsbruck Dr.- & Verl.-Haus Thaur, 1996), 207–31. Biber‘s daughter Anna Magdalena, who took the name Maria Rosa Heinrica upon entry to Nonnberg, became one of the convent‘s central musicians at the beginning of the eighteenth century. 24.â•‡ Charlotte Woodford provides the most accessible overview of women monastics’ education; see Woodford, Nuns as Historians in Early Modern Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 1–30. Further details on schools and schooling within individual convents can be gleaned from Matrix Monasticon, http://monasticmatrix.usc.edu/monasticon/, a website edited by Lisa Bitel, Katherine Gill, and Marie Kelleher. 25.â•‡ June Mecham, “Buxtehude, Neukloster,” in Matrix Monasticon at http://monastic matrix.usc.edu/monasticon/index.php?function=detail&id=1467 (accessed 7 September 2008); see especially under “Assets Property” and “Other Economic Activities.”

13 Nun Musicians as Teachers and Students in Early Modern Spain• Colleen Baade

• Francisco Pacheco’s Libro de descripción de verdaderos retratos de ilustres y memorables varones (Seville, 1599) makes reference to two female musicians who, according to Pacheco, were students of Francisco de Peraza (1564–1598), the esteemed but short-lived organist of the Seville cathedral. Peraza’s disciples, Pacheco informs us, held organists’ posts at the best churches in Spain; furthermore, two “Berber girls” who were students of Peraza went on to distinguish themselves as teachers at Seville’s Convento de San Leandro.1 These two berberisca organists are the only pupils of Peraza mentioned specifically in Pacheco’s account, and one wonders why Pacheco remarks about them at all. Had music-making by Augustinian nuns at one of Seville’s oldest houses of female religious captured public attention, or were these North African nun musicians merely a curiosity? Whatever the case, this fascinating vignette aptly illustrates the dual focus of the present essay on Spanish nun musicians as both teachers and students.

Nuns as Students and Teachers Outside and Inside the Cloister Pacheco’s eulogy for his musical contemporary and co-citizen brings to our attention the fact that it was not uncommon for girls who became nun musi-

Nun Musicians as Teachers and Students in Early Modern Spainâ•… ·â•… 263

cians to have studied music prior to their entry into religious life, instruction that was frequently carried out under the tutelage of Spain’s most prominent music professionals. Humanist author Juan Luis Vives (1492–1540), who was generally opposed to the idea of girls studying music, nonetheless approved of teaching “something of the organ” to young women who intended to become nuns.2 Francisco de Salinas (1513–1590) claimed to have given music lessons in exchange for instruction in Latin to a noblewoman who stayed at his boyhood home; the woman, he says, wanted to learn to play the organ so that she could become a nun (presumably with the benefit of a musician’s dowry).3 Music lessons were often a requisite part of the formation of girls who were destined—whether of their own volition or someone else’s—for the cloister, or so suggests the biographer of Doña María Vela (1561–1617), singer, organist, and mystic at the Cistercian Monasterio de Santa Ana at Ávila: “She was, of course, educated to become a nun, and she learned to read, and write very well—so well that no one would judge her handwriting to be that of a woman; she learned music and keyboard, and in all kinds of handwork and embroidery, she was very skilled.”4 Teaching private music lessons to girls who intended to become nuns was likely an important source of supplementary income for Spain’s professional church musicians. Juan Ruiz Jiménez has documented how organist Jerónimo de Peraza (ca. 1550–1617), elder brother of the aforementioned Francisco de Peraza, was hired to give music lessons to a teenage girl named Blasina de Mendoza, who subsequently entered Seville’s Monasterio de Santa Clara.5 Whether Doña Blasina intended from the start to become a nun is uncertain, though plausible. She entered religious life after giving birth to Jerónimo de Peraza’s illegitimate son and later transferred from Seville to the Monasterio de Santa Clara at Marchena where, according to one witness, she was known as an accomplished keyboard player. Doña Blasina’s son, Jerónimo de Peraza II (ca. 1577–ca. 1636), would become organist at the Granada cathedral. In the past, music historians have often overlooked female members of musical dynasties. In my own work on nuns’ music in seventeenth and eighteenth-century Toledo, I have seen that the city’s convent musicians included daughters, sisters, and nieces of organists, chapel masters, singers, and instrumentalists employed at the local cathedral and at churches in other parts of the country. For example, Joaquín Martínez de la Roca (ca. 1676–ca. 1756), who was succeeded by his son Joaquín Martínez Serrano (d. 1764) in his post as second organist at the Toledo cathedral, also supplied two organist daughters for Toledo’s Cistercian Monasterio de San Clemente: María

264â•… ·â•… Colleen Baade

Alberta Martínez Serrano (1707–1775) and her sister Lucía (1711–1771), were succeeded as organists at San Clemente by Isidora (1733–1788) and María San Martín y Martínez (1739–1780), daughters of Miguel San Martín, maestro de capilla at Calatayud. Doubtless, these and countless other Spanish nun musicians were trained by their musician parents, who were aware that providing musical education for their daughters could pay off in the form of a dowry waiver.6 It is difficult, however, to know what role mothers might have played in their children’s musical education. For girls who became convent musicians, music education was not necessarily limited to instruction prior to entering the cloister. When Doña Francisca González de Guzmán entered Toledo’s Dominican Monasterio de Santo Domingo el Real in 1726, the agreement to grant her a dowry waiver in exchange for her services as a singer included a clause mandating that during her year in the novitiate, she would be provided a male teacher (un músico) who would train her and perfect her musical skills. Doña Francisca’s teacher was to be paid for by her guardian, not by the religious community; in this case, because the convent had found her musical ability to be somewhat lacking, the novice musician and her parents or guardians were held financially responsible for improving her ability to the convent’s satisfaction.7 But female monasteries did sometimes lay out money to provide musical training for their members. Monastery account books record occasional payments to outside teachers who came to give music lessons to nuns. An example of this practice includes a payment registered in an account book from Madrid’s Franciscan Monasterio de la Madre de Dios de Constantinopla to an unidentified man (uno que enseña) who was teaching one of the nuns at Constantinopla to play the bajón.8 Accounts for the Augustinian Monasterio de San Torcuato at Toledo record payment to a Maestro de cantar who gave liciones de canto de órgano y contrapunto at the convent during the period 1597–1600.9 Most outside music teachers who gave lessons to nuns were probably men, though the accounts for Constantinopla contain an intriguing reference to a woman identified only as “Doña Francisca” (a nun from another monastery?) who had come to the convent to teach the singers (estuvo en el convento enseñando a las cantoras).10 Perhaps female teachers were not as uncommon as we think, since a ban against outside music teachers in the 1662 Constitutions for Ávila’s Carmelite Monasterio de la Encarnación prohibits both men and women from entering the monastery to teach.11 A significant number of payments to outside music teachers recorded in account books from Castilian female monasteries are for teachers of the


bajón (dulcian or curtal, the precursor of the modern bassoon). At Segovia’s Franciscan Monasterio de Santa Isabel, a ministril named “Bidal” (probably Pedro Vidal Arce, who played sackbut and bajoncillo at the Segovia cathedral) was paid for one and one-half year’s worth of bajón lessons provided to a nun named Doña Laurencia; the same nun also received singing lessons during this time from an unnamed teacher.12 Payments for bajón lessons at Santa Isabel as well as at various Franciscan monasteries in Toledo are recorded between the years 1618 and 1621, during which time purchases of the bajón and bajoncillo are also being recorded in the accounts of the same monasteries.13 Although the evidence comes from only a few monasteries, one gets the impression that Franciscan nuns were making a conscious effort to keep pace with musical developments in sister monasteries, as well as with general trends in Spanish churches staffed by male musicians.14 Interestingly, I have encountered in account books no record of any payments made for organ lessons or for outside organ teachers. This probably indicates that, by the seventeenth century (and surely even earlier), there was a well-established tradition inside the cloister of nun organists teaching other nuns. Witness the example of María Suárez de Robles, who having entered Toledo’s San Clemente as a toddler, at the time of her profession was unable to pay her dowry (presumably because her father had died in the interim). She offered to serve as convent organist—a skill she must have acquired as a child growing up in the cloister—until such time as she would be able to come up with the money to pay off her dowry (which she didn’t manage to do until twenty-four years later).15 Overall, music education inside Spanish cloisters probably depended more on the efforts of nuns who taught their sisters than on the hiring of outsiders. Indeed, nuns’ biographies and autobiographies often make a point of the important work of nuns as educators. One particularly enthusiastic example appears in a brief vida of a sixteenth-century nun named Sor Isabel de la Encarnación, the first Vicaress at Madrid’s elite Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales, who appears to have known how to do just about everything: She was exceptionally skilled in everything pertaining to the Divine Office and the choir. She knew Latin very well, and was so well read in many sacred books and in history, that to speak with her was to converse with one of the ancient holy hermits, or with one of the eminent learned ones. In the convent she was the teacher of everyone in all things, because in everything that had to do with religion, and in everything pertaining to the decorum and beauty of the convent she was highly accomplished. Therefore, everyone consulted


her as a teacher, in order to take lessons from her. To some she taught the rules of praying the Divine Office, to others the ceremonies of the religion, to others the tone that they must use for the Psalms and verses in the choir, to others to spin thread, to others the cutting and sewing of habits. In conclusion, of all the things it is important for a good and perfect female religious to know, there was nothing in which she was not a remarkable teacher.16

In most convents, basic instruction in chant must have formed part of the musical education of novices, and provisions for the musical instruction of novices often appear in the written constitutions that governed life in religious communities. One set of constitutions for Franciscan nuns orders that “all young nuns who have a good voice” attend two half-hour singing lessons to be given each day by the Vicaress of the Choir or the Mistress of Novices.17 Fray Antonio Arbiol’s eighteenth-century instruction manual for nuns recommends daily one-hour lessons in solfège for novices at convents where the Divine Office was sung in plainchant.18 Most constitutions entrust the Mistress of Novices with the job of teaching prospective nuns what they needed to know in order to fulfill their daily liturgical obligations—“the Psalter, the chant and the ceremonies, and the other things pertaining to the office of the Church,” as one constitution enumerates—but music education is seldom mentioned specifically.19 In requiring that the Mistress of Novices also be the Vicaress of the Choir, the constitutions for Madrid’s “Las Baronesas” imply that knowledge of music was an important asset for the nun to whom the education of novices was entrusted.20 Religious constitutions seldom address specifically whether nuns learned to sing vocal polyphony or to play musical instruments inside the cloister, though (as we have already seen) other sources confirm that they did. Doña María Pinel’s manuscript account of life at Ávila’s Monasterio de la Encarnación during the seventeenth century tells about the music education of twin girls Doña Mariana Rosa and Doña Isabel de Velasco, who having been orphaned of their mother, were brought by their father to La Encarnación as educandas at age four. Both girls received instruction in plainchant and polyphony and also learned to play various musical instruments, including organ, harp, guitar, psaltery, and bajón. By the age of eight the two little girls reportedly had begun teaching reading and singing to women in the community who were considerably older than they were, a job they continued to do after taking the novice’s habit at age seventeen and throughout their lives as regular members of the community.21 Documentation for nuns as music educators also comes from the recepción and profesión agreements drawn up for female religious who were granted


dowry waivers on the basis of their musical ability. It is clear that nun musicians were valued inside the cloister, not only as players and singers but also as teachers. This is especially true from the mid seventeenth century onwards: in documents from this period, nun organists, harpists, and players of the bajón are routinely required to teach their respective instruments to other nuns. Nun organists in particular were responsible for teaching singing—both polyphony and (perhaps more commonly) plainchant. During the eighteenth century, the overwhelming majority of nun organists who were granted dowry waivers at Toledo convents were also responsible for teaching plainchant. At Toledo’s MonÂ�asterio de San Clemente, nuns who served as organist during the eighteenth century were also routinely charged with teaching other nuns to read. For example, the escritura de profesión for María de San Martín y Martínez (one of two musician daughters of Calatayud maestro de capilla Miguel San Martín) states that her duties included teaching organ, plainchant, and “reading Latin.”22 The requirement that nun musicians teach is curiously absent from all of the recepción and profesión contracts I have examined dating from before 1650. Additionally, none of the account books I have consulted records payments to outside music teachers after 1621 (when bajón teachers were being hired in Toledo and Segovia). Elsewhere, I have proposed that the enforcement of the Council of Trent’s decrees on clausura might have been related to nuns’ greater involvement in music teaching.23 However, it may be that female monasteries were simply more likely to hire outside teachers in the face of new musical developments, such as the introduction of the bajón. Once a community had well-trained musicians of its own, as would have been the case early on for the organ, there would have been no need to hire secular teachers. The extent to which “hired” nun musicians (those granted dowry waivers in exchange for musical service) were expected to teach during the first half of the seventeenth century and before is not certain. An increasing demand from the late seventeenth century and throughout the eighteenth for nun organists who would teach plainchant to their sisters—a job which, according to religious constitutions, should have fallen to the Novice Mistress or perhaps to the Vicaress of the Choir—may hint at a decline in the level of musical education of the general population inside the cloister.24

Nuns’ Musical Competency Surely the best-known music publication associated specifically with Spanish nuns is Juan Bermudo’s El arte tripharia.25 Published in the mid sixteenth


century, the treatise is addressed to Doña Isabel Pacheco, abbess of the Monasterio de Santa Clara at Montilla (about forty kilometers south of Córdoba), and purports to have been written for the instruction of the abbess’s niece, Doña Teresa Manrique. Thus, Robert Stevenson has called the work “the first treatise designed specifically for female use.”26 El arte contains three main sections: the first deals with the rudiments of plainsong, the second with vocal polyphony, and the third discusses keyboard playing, which subject matter, says Bermudo, “is sufficient to give in some manner knowledge of music, especially for female religious who are studious and do not aspire to know anything more than the Divine Office.”27 A quick glance at Bermudo’s little treatise might give the idea that the musical training of Spanish nuns was quite limited. Indeed, it has been proposed that the disparity between the subject matter of El arte and that of the first edition of Bermudo’s weightier Declaración de instrumentos musicales, printed just eight months prior to El arte, reveals “the gender bias in women’s musical instruction.”28 There is no question that discrepancies existed between men’s and women’s education in early modern Spain, though writers such as Juan Luis Vives and Juan de la Cerda disagreed about how much musical knowledge a woman ought to possess.29 It is uncertain, however, whether El arte provides direct evidence of inequities in the respective music training of females and males. In fact, it seems that Bermudo did not actually write El arte (at least not initially) with a female audience in mind: Wolfgang Freis has argued convincingly that the chapters that compose El arte were extracted from an earlier, unpublished version of the Declaración.30 Furthermore, Freis observes, the contents of El arte reappear in book II of the second published edition of Declaración, where it “is not referred to as a book designed for nuns, but rather as a primer for those having no knowledge of music.”31 Clearly, the contents of El arte would have been suitable for the instruction of any musical novice, male or female, religious or secular. However, Bermudo’s putative selection and editing for use by female religious (evidenced by the inclusion of chants for the office of Saint Clare in El arte, where chants for Saint Francis are used in Declaración) of material specifically designed for beginners, does raise the question of whether nuns’ musicianship was ever expected to rise above the level of the amateur.32 Not quite two centuries after the publication of El arte, another Franciscan theorist, Pablo Nassarre, issued a large, two-volume music treatise in which he discusses, albeit briefly, the music curriculum for girls who were preparing to become convent organists.33 Nassarre was organist at the Real


Convento de San Francisco at Saragossa and teacher of many organists in his day. His Escuela música según la práctica moderna, though published in the second decade of the eighteenth century, is believed to have been written much earlier, and thus is considered to be representative of Spanish musical practices during the seventeenth century. Organist at the Real Convento de San Francisco at Saragossa, Nassarre purports to advise organ teachers on the particulars of instructing girls who are preparing to become convent musicians. His instructions occupy only about one and a half pages, following brief remarks about problems associated with teaching the blind and preceding his comments on teaching music to amateurs, or “those who are learning for fun.”34 It would be simplistic, however, to conclude from the arrangement of subject matter that Nassarre relegates girls—along with amateurs and the blind—to an inferior status as musicians, particularly since Nassarre himself was blind from birth. Rather, in this chapter Nassarre addresses some of the particular difficulties he associates with teaching these three types of students. Significantly, Nassarre consistently refers to his female pupils as niñas (little girls) rather than doncellas (maidens or young women).35 His frequent references to what he calls the inconstancia (capriciousness, fragility, instability) of the female sex reflect views that were, of course, not uncommon in his day. However, Nassarre’s comments suggest that many of the difficulties he associated with teaching little girls owed at least as much to their physical and psychological immaturity as to their sex: The teaching of little girls who are learning [for the purpose of becoming nuns] is scarcely any less work [than teaching the blind], although for different reasons: it is because of the inconstancy of their sex, their young age, and their small hands. Their young age and their sex are the reason for their disinclination to study; their small hands add more work for the teacher because it is necessary to accommodate the music to fit them so that it is easy for them to play it. The treatment of them must be very gentle and without any harshness because otherwise they do not benefit, since they are by nature excessively timid and pusillanimous.36

Nassarre emphasizes that, in particular, girls’ voices ought to be trained when they are muy niñas.37 This instruction accords with what Nassarre has to say elsewhere in his treatise, where he explains that the training of girls’ voices should begin during what he calls the “first stage” (which lasts up to about age eleven), rather than during the “second stage” (from age eleven or twelve until puberty), at which age girls’ voices tend to be unstable. Girls’


voices, Nassarre asserts, are therefore best trained “the younger the better.”38 Boys’ voices, on the other hand, should be trained during the second stage, which falls between ages eight or nine to fourteen.39 It appears, then, that in early modern Spain, girls who were destined to become nuns began their music studies even younger than the age at which boys initiated their musical formation. Nassarre does not say precisely how many years of training are required of a girl preparing to become a convent musician, but one gets the impression that it must have been common for girls to begin their studies as early as age six or seven. For Nassarre, the basic skills necessary for nun organists consist primarily of a good keyboard technique and the ability to sing plainchant and polyphony. Knowledge of plainchant is necessary, says Nassarre, because the convent organist is often the person who oversees the choir, and even if she does not have this obligation, it is useful for her to be able to teach plainchant to the other nuns in the community.40 (And as we have seen, recepción and profesión agreements witness the demand for nuns as teachers of plainchant during this time.) Knowledge of polyphony—in particular, the ability to sing one’s part at sight—is also useful since, as Nassarre tells us, there were many female monasteries in which polyphony was sung. Nassarre’s remarks make it clear that in many such monasteries, the organist functioned as both as head cantora and maestra de capilla; as the convent’s principal musician, she was the one responsible for determining what the nuns would sing, for teaching them how to sing it, for making sure they knew their parts, and for correcting them when they made mistakes.41 Nassarre’s catalogue of the duties expected of convent organists is consistent with the qualifications outlined in a letter from Martin de Barasoain (organist at the Pamplona cathedral from 1673 to 1683) to Miguel de Irízar (then chapel-master at the Segovia cathedral). Barasoain writes of an (unidentified) women’s convent in search of a musician; the ideal candidate, he says, should have a good voice, be trained as organist and harpist, serve as music teacher for the other nuns and be responsible for special music sung at fiestas.42 Nassarre likewise mentions that a nun organist ought to have a good voice and be skilled enough to sing her part and to accompany simultaneously, a practice facilitated, he remarks, by writing the singer’s part and the accompaniment on the same page. And Nassarre emphasizes that is important for girls to learn to accompany on the harp as skillfully as on the organ, since the harp is especially well suited for accompanying high voices.43 Concerning nun organists’ ability at the keyboard, Nassarre maintains that girls’ small


hands are more flexible than boys’ and that therefore, girls are able to acquire agility more easily than boys; however, he says, girls also have a tendency to play too fast, and need to be taught to keep a steady beat. Girls should learn to play from memory, Nassarre maintains, so that they will be able to variar, that is, to improvise glosas, or ornamented variations. Finally, nun organists should also know how to improvise free compositions so that they are able to lengthen or abbreviate organ versets when necessary.44 As in Bermudo’s El arte, Nassarre’s instructions for the teaching of future convent organists emphasize the acquisition of basic, practical skills. Indeed, Nassarre says that teachers of female pupils need only to see to it that their students acquire la habilidad necesaria (the necessary or fundamental, basic ability).45 Nassarre tells teachers they should instruct female students who are learning acompañamiento (continuo accompaniment) according to the rules his treatise provides for non-composers, since composition is not a necessary skill for nuns to learn.46 Nassarre’s reservations about teaching composition to girls appear to have little to do, however, with whether or not he believes girls are capable of learning to compose music. Rather, he says, if girls are to become composers, their studies will take longer, postponing their entrance into religious life, which is not recommended because of certain reasons owing to “the fragility of their sex”; the implication seems to be that it is best to get them off to the convent before puberty. Besides, Nassarre adds, in the end girls will benefit little from having studied composition because as nuns they will have little opportunity to apply their compositional skills.47 Bermudo’s El arte and Nassarre’s instructions for teaching girls in Escuela música give an idea what two respective Franciscan friars thought female religious needed to study in order to fulfill the duties of a nun musician. However, neither Nassarre nor Bermudo ought to be taken at face value as proof of what Spanish nun musicians actually learned or knew; indeed, other sources may inform more accurately as to what the musical capabilities of Spanish nuns really were. Descriptions of the musical abilities of women and girls who served as Spanish convent musicians are rare—most contracts for nun musicians’ dowry waivers include only a cursory statement about prospective nuns’ musical qualifications. One of the most informative documents I have discovered is a petition to the Papal Nuncio (shown in figure 13.1), attached to the escritura de recepción for a girl named María de Miranda—apparently a student of José Solana (1643–1712), first organist of the Toledo cathedral at the turn of the seventeenth century.48 In a written request for permission to grant a dowry waiver to the eleven-and-a-half-year-old candidate, the nuns at


Figure 13.1. (page 1) Dowry Petition for María de Miranda (Toledo, Archivo Histórico Provincial, Prot. 416, fol. 163r–163v).

Toledo’s Monasterio de Santa Clara described Doña María’s qualifications as follows: “[She] knows how to play the organ admirably well for her age, to compose in five parts, and to accompany all parts; she plays the harp, and she can skillfully sing her own part.”49


Figure 13.1. (page 2) Dowry Petition for María de Miranda (Toledo, Archivo Histórico Provincial, Prot. 416, fol. 163r–163v)

María de Miranda’s credentials—impressive for a girl her age—are echoed in descriptions found in extant written correspondence (which letters, incidentally, show that prospective nun musicians relied on a network of professional musicians for recommendations to monastery posts). A letter from Antonio de la Cruz Brocarte, organist at the Zamora cathedral, solicits the


assistance of Valladolid chapel-master Miguel Gómez Camargo in finding a post for a fellow countrywoman who “plays double harp extremely well,” “knows [how to construct] four-part counterpoint over a bass or tenor,” “plays the organ,” and is “a skillful singer and accompanist.”50 Similar qualifications are attributed to a student described by Barasoain in his letter to Irízar: the girl was able to play (and probably to improvise) versos and tientos de medio registro alto and de medio registro bajo (organ versets and pieces for divided keyboard with solo in the right or left hand) as well as tientos llenos (pieces for undivided registration); she could realize accompaniments on both the organ and the harp, sing her part in vocal polyphony, devise counterpoint and conciertos in three and four parts with a supplied bass or treble, and compose free compositions in five parts.51 The qualifications possessed (or expected to be possessed) by girls like María de Miranda and the other nun musicians cited above are generally consistent with Nassarre’s instructions about the kind of training a nun organist should receive. (Even the young age at which María de Miranda entered the Monasterio de Santa Clara accords with Nassarre’s advice that girls begin their musical formation very early.) In early modern Spain, a community seeking a girl to serve as convent organist could probably expect to find, at a minimum, a candidate who could play (and likely, improvise) the organ repertoire typical of the period, realize continuo accompaniments on organ and harp, sing plainchant and sight-sing her part in vocal polyphony. There is some indication that girls’ music education occasionally went beyond what Nassarre recommends, for despite his objections there appear to have been Spanish nun musicians who studied composition (including the girls whose musical abilities are discussed above). It is difficult to determine exactly what kind of instruction Nassarre intended his female students to do without when he said that it was not important for nuns to be composers. Although Nassarre was writing late in the seventeenth century, his use of the terms composición and contrapunto harkens back to that of Renaissance theorists who argued over the supposed distinction between contrapunctus/ contrapunctizare—counterpoint improvised over a preexistent melody—and compositio/componere—original, written-down composition not based on chant or another preexisting melody.52 Like his predecessors, Nassarre applies the word contrapunto to counterpoint devised over a plainchant cantus firmus: contrapunto suelto refers to two-part counterpoint, and contrapunto a concierto to counterpoint involving three, four, or even five voices.53 Certainly, Nassarre’s students were taught to invent contrapuntos without hav-


Example 13.1. Gracia Baptista, Conditor alme.

ing to write them down: Gracia Baptista’s Conditor alme (shown in example 13.1)—the only published musical work known to have been composed by a Spanish woman, and an example of what Nassarre would have called a concierto a tres—is the kind of piece the pupil described in Baraosain’s letter would surely have been able to improvise. Whether Spanish nun musicians were trained with any sort of regularity in the art of what Nassarre calls composición is hard to know.54 It remains uncertain what was required, for example, of the nun named Sor Ana de la Cruz Ribera (1606–1650), who writes in her spiritual autobiography that her religious community required her “to learn to compose music.”55 In fact, very little is known about Spanish nuns as possible composers of music that


was actually written down for performance by their sister musicians. We do know that Spanish nuns often solicited compositions—polyphonic villancicos in particular—from maestros de capilla for important festivals such as Christmas, Corpus Christi, or nuns’ profession ceremonies. Some nuns may well have written their own compositions for these celebrations, but occasional music such as this was often not preserved. To the extent that the word composición refers to the writing down of polyphonic vocal works, Nassarre was probably correct when he noted that girls who knew composition would have little opportunity to use their ability in the convent, since the number of feast days at which polyphony would have been sung by any capilla of nun singers was likely far less than such occasions at cathedrals and royal chapels. Doubtless, the caliber of nuns’ musicianship varied from one institution to the next, but the most prestigious among Spanish women’s monasteries must have been able to demand a high level of competency of the girls who were granted dowry waivers in exchange for their services as musicians. These “hired” convent musicians were subject to a formal examination of their skills in much the same way as were male candidates for positions at secular churches. In 1698, for example, seventeen-year-old Doña María Ibáñez de Isaba, candidate for a position at Madrid’s Monasterio de Santa María de los Ángeles, was examined in the presence of an official from the Royal Chapel. A petition requesting permission to grant a dowry waiver to Doña María relates that she “executed everything that was proposed of her with such great dexterity and skill” that, the examiner concluded, “she should not have been asked anything by way of dowry because of the excellence of her ability.”56 The petition does not provide any details about Doña María’s examination, though she must have proved her ability on harp, organ, and violón, all of which she is reported to have played excellently. The answers to questions about exactly what girls studied in preparation for a post as a convent musician await further discovery of documents like those that describe the abilities of María de Miranda and her sisters.

Notes 1.â•‡ Francisco Pacheco, Libro de descripción de verdaderos retratos de ilustres y memorables varones (Seville: [s.n.], 1599), ed. Pedro M. Piñero Ramírez and Rogelio Reyes Cano (Seville: Diputación Provincal de Sevilla, 1985): “. . . sus discípulos, por serlo, ocuparon los mejores de las iglesias de España, y dos berberiscas que lo fueron, llamadas las Alcáçares, merecieron ser maestras de muchas monjas en el convento de San Leandro de esta ciudad.”

Nun Musicians as Teachers and Students in Early Modern Spainâ•… ·â•… 277 A facsimile edition of Pacheco’s Libro de descripción is now available online via the library of the Universidad de Sevilla: http://fama2.us.es//fde/ocr/2006/libroDeDescripcion .pdf. 2.â•‡ Juan Luis Vives, De Institutione Feminae Christiane (Antwerp: Michel Hillen, 1524), Spanish trans. Juan Justiniano, Instrucción de la mujer cristiana (Valencia: [s.n.], 1528), ed. Elizabeth Teresa Howe (Madrid: Fundación Universitaria Española, 1995), 155: “. . . yo no permito, ni es de mi voto que las doncellas aprendan de música, ni menos que se huelguen de oírla en ninguna parte, ni en casa, ni fuera, ni a puerta, ni a ventana, ni de día, ni de noche, y esto no lo digo sin causa . . . Con todo yo otorgaré que la virgen cristiana, si quisiese aprender algo de órgano para monja, que aprenda mucho de enhorabuena” (my emphasis). 3.â•‡ Francisco de Salinas, De musica libri septem (Salamanca: Mathias Gastius, 1577), trans. Ismael Fernández de la Cuesta, Siete libros sobre la música (Madrid: Alpuerto, 1983), 25: “. . . debo decir que cuando era niño vino una mujer de noble linaje a mi patria, y, para hacerse religiosa, quiso aprender a tocar el órgano. Como ella sabía bien el latín y vivía en nuestra casa, me enseñó gramática a la vez que yo le daba lecciones de órgano.” 4.â•‡ Miguel González Vaquero, La mujer Fuerte, Por otro título La Vida de Doña María Vela, monja de San Bernardo, en el convento de Santa Ana de Ávila (Barcelona: Pedro Laca vallería, 1640), fol. 3v: “Crióse desde luego para monja, y aprendió a leer, y a escrivir muy bien: de manera que su letra nadie lo jugara ser de muger; aprendió música, y tecla; y en todo género de labores, y bordado, fue muy aventajada.” English translation and all subsequent translations mine unless otherwise noted. 5.â•‡ On the Peraza family of musicians and Blasina de Mendoza, see Juan Ruiz Jiménez, “La dinastía de los Peraza. Nuevos datos para la biografía de Jerónimo Peraza II,” Cuadernos de Arte 26 (1995): 53–63. 6.â•‡ On dowry waivers for nun musicians in Spain, see Colleen Baade, “‘Hired’ Nun Musicians in Early Modern Castile,” in Thomasin Lamay, ed., Musical Voices of Early Modern Women: Many-Headed Melodies (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), 287–310. 7.â•‡ Escritura de recepción for Francisca Gónzalez de Guzmán at the Monasterio de Santo Domingo el Real, Toledo, 29 July 1726 (Toledo, Archivo Histórico Provincial, Prot. 735, fol. 166r): “. . . Don Benito de San Martín se obliga a que asistirá un músico a la dicha Da Francisca González de Guzmán por su cuenta y costo para que la adiestre y enseñe perfectamente en la música hasta que lo esté y capaz para asistir a ella y a satisfacción de dicho real convento.” 8.â•‡ Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Clero, libro 7445, unnumbered folio (4.ix.1596). 9.â•‡ Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Clero, libro 14872, fol. 27r. 10.â•‡ Ibid., unnumbered folio (4.iii.1597). 11.â•‡ Constituciones, y decretos para . . . el convento de la Encarnación de Monjas de N. Señora del Carmen de la Ciudad de Ávila (Salamanca: Ioseph Gómez de Cubos, 1662), 40: “Iten ordenamos, que ninguna persona así hombre, como mujer, Eclesiástico, Seglar pueda ir al Monasterio a enseñar canto llano, ni canto de órgano, y para que aprendan a cantar las que no lo supieren, podrá una Religiosa diestra, y antigua a una hora competente enseñar a las demás” (my emphasis). 12.â•‡ Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Clero, libro 12583, fol. 110v (2.iv.1620). Pedro Vidal Arce was employed at the Segovia cathedral from 1601 to at least 1628; see José LópezCalo, Documentario Musical de la Catedral de Segovia, vol. 1: Actas Capitulares (Santiago de Compostela: Universidad de Santiago de Compostela, 1990), 71–72, 76–77, 92–93. 13.â•‡ In Toledo, the bajón purchases appear at two Franciscan monasteries—Santa Clara and Santa Isabel de los Reyes; see Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Clero, libro 15794, fol. 85r, and libro 15887, fols. 198v and 236r, respectively. 14.â•‡ See, for example, Michael Noone’s observation of a “growing musical requirement” during the first two decades of the seventeenth century for the use of the bajón at San

278â•… ·â•… Colleen Baade Lorenzo del Escorial, in his Music and Musicians in the Escorial Liturgy under the Hapsburgs, 1563–1700 (Rochester, N.Y.: University of Rochester Press, 1988), 124–25. 15.â•‡ Licencia for release from duties for María Suárez de Robles, Monasterio de San Clemente, Toledo, 25 March 1674 (Toledo, Archivo Histórico Provincial, Prot. 182, fol. 38r): “. . . por cuanto Doña María Suárez monja profesa en el Imperial Convento de San Clemente de esta dicha ciudad por petición del Cardenal mi Señor diciendo como se dotó a el tiempo de su entrada en mill y trescientos ducados y que habiendo al tiempo de su profesión impo sibilitádose de pagarlos y hallándose con la habilidad de órgano ofreció servir de organista mientras no satisficiese el dicho dote; que ha cumplido por espacio de veinte y cuatro años que ha que profesó.” 16.â•‡ Vida of Sor Isabel de la Encarnación in Fray Juan Carrillo, O.F.M., Relación histórica de la Real fundación de las Descalças de Santa Clara de la villa de Madrid (Madrid: Luis Sánchez, 1616), fols. 92r–92v: “Era habilísima en todo lo que tocava al Oficio Divino y coro. Sabía muy bien Latín, y era tan leída en muchos libros santos, y de historia, que tratar con ella, era conversar con alguno de los santos padres del yermo, o con alguno de los muy eminentes letrados. En el convento era maestra de todas en todas las cosas; porque en todo quanto se trata en la religión, y quanto pertenece al decoro y hermosura de un convento, era consumada: y así todas acudían como a maestra común, para tomar licciones della. A unas enseñava las reglas de rezar el Oficio Divino, a otras las ceremonias de la religión, a otra el tono que avían de dar a los Salmos y versos en el Coro, a otras a torcer el hilo, a otras, cortar y coser los hábitos. Finalmente, no avía cosa de quantas importa saber a una buena y perfeta religiosa, de la cual ella no fuese singular maestra.” 17.â•‡ Regla de las Sorores, y Monjas de la Gloriosa Madre Santa Clara . . . Con las Constituciones del muy Religiosísimo Convento de San Iuan Evangelista, de la Orden de Santa Clara de la villa de Cienpoçuelos. . . . (Madrid, 1624), fols. 37v–38r: “Ordenamos, que la Vicaria de Coro dé lección de cantar, o la Maestra dos vezes al día, una en saliendo de Prima, y otra de Vísperas, por espacio cada vez de media hora; y à estas lecciones mandamos acudan todas las Monjas moças que tuvieren voz.” 18.â•‡ Fray Antonio Arbiol, La religiosa instruida con doctrina de la Sagrada Escritura, y Santos Padres de la iglesia católica, para todas las operaciones de su vida regular (Madrid: Thomás Rodríguez Frías, 1734), 75: “Las Novicias del Coro, en los conventos donde se dice el Oficio Divino con el Canto Gregoriano, han de tener hora señalada para aprender la solfá con perfección.” 19.â•‡ Regla y Constituciones de las Religiosas, y Monias del Sagrado Orden de Nuestra Señora de la Merced Redempción de Cautivos. . . . (Burgos: Pedro de Huydobro, 1624), fol. 23v: “En el año del noviciado, aprendan el psalterio, el canto, y ceremonias, y las otras cosas to cantes al oficio de la Iglesia.” See also the Constituciones y estatutos ordenados . . . por el Illmo. Señor Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Roxas . . . para las Religiosas del Monesterio de S. Bernardo (Madrid: Luis Sánchez, 1625), which state that the Mistress of Novices should teach her charges to “leer, escrivir y contar [sic—should read ‘cantar’?] muy bien” (fol. 27v). 20.â•‡ Regla, y constituciones de las religiosas Carmelitas Descalzas del Convento de nuestra Señora de la Natividad y S. Joseph, que la Baronesa Doña Beatriz de Silveyra fundó en la calle de Alcalá de esta Villa (Madrid: Imprenta de Domingo Morras, 1662), 391: “Porque se escuse el aumento de oficios en diferentes sugetos, y la Maestra de Novicias puede con más como didad, y asistencia industriar a sus Religiosas, y governarlas en el Coro, sea Vicaria de Coro la Maestra de Novicias.” 21.â•‡ Doña María Pinel, Retablo de Carmelitas, ed. Nicolás González (Madrid: Editorial de Espiritualidad, 1981), 187–88: “Desta edad las faltó su madre, y su padre las trajo seglares al convento santo de la Encarnación, para que se criasen a la santa enseñanza y ejemplo de la venerable doña María de León . . . Esmeróse la sierva del Señor en su crianza, y enseñólas desde luego a cantar canto llano, y canto de órgano, porque tenían buenas voces, para dedi

Nun Musicians as Teachers and Students in Early Modern Spainâ•… ·â•… 279 carlas a las divinas alabanzas. Y doña Mariana aprendió a tocar órgano, arpa, guitarra y cítara. Doña Isabel empezó a deprender bajón pero no tuvo fuerza en el estómago para ello. Desde luego empezaron las niñas a seguir el coro, sirviendo en todo como religiosas, por no hallarse su padres con caudal para darlas el hábito. Desde ocho años enseñaban a leer y can tar a otras, que las llevaban muchos años, y en este santo ejercicio perseveraron hasta morir, porque decían que ellas alababan a Dios con todas aquellas almas, a quien enseñaban.” 22.â•‡ Escritura de profesión for María de San Martín y Martínez at the Monasterio de San Clemente, Toledo, 29 July 1754 (Toledo, Archivo Histórico Provincial, Prot. 847, fol. 114v): “. . . la dicha Da María San Martín se obliga que . . . tocará por su persona el órgano, enseñará canto llano y leer latín, canto llano [sic] y órgano a las demás religiosas de dicho ymperial combento, todo ello con el mayor esmero y formalidad que esté de su parte . . .” The teaching of reading is specified among the duties of all seven of the nun organists who entered San Clemente between 1700 and 1775, but is not mentioned in the contracts of the four nun organists who professed after 1775. 23.â•‡ See Baade, “‘Hired’ Nun Musicians,” 305. Clausura, the strict confinement of fe male religious to the physical enclosure of the cloister, was decreed at the 1563 meeting of the Council of Trent. 24.â•‡ Contracts for dowry waivers of “hired” nun musicians for whom teaching is speci fied as part of their duties uniformly state that they are required “to teach any of the other nuns who might want to learn” (“enseñar a las demás religiosas que quisieran aprender,” or similar wording). One also gets the sense that some of the teaching required of “hired” nun musicians may have served as a form of recreation for aristocratic nuns; see Baade, “‘Hired’ Nun Musicians,” 298. 25.â•‡ Juan Bermudo, El arte tripharia (Osuna: Juan de León, 1550); henceforth, El arte. 26.â•‡ Robert Stevenson, Juan Bermudo (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1960), 44. 27.â•‡ El arte, fols. 3v–4r: “Acordé de hazer tres artezicas breves, una de canto llano, otra de canto de órgano, y la tercera de tañer órganos. Todo quanto se pudieron abreviar, se abreviaron. Suficientes son para dar en alguna manera noticia de la música: mayormente a religiosas, que son estudiosas, y no pretenden saber, sino el oficio divino.” 28.â•‡ Maria T. Annoni and Kathleen E. Nuccio, “Gender as Text and Subtext: The Case of Renaissance Music Pedagogy,” Revista de Musicología 16 (1993): 2228. The first edition of Bermudo’s Declaración was printed on 17 September 1549 (Osuna: Juan de León), El arte on 20 May 1550. 29.â•‡ While both Vives and de la Cerda (Libro intitulado vida política de todos los estados de mujeres [Alcalá de Henares, 1599]) favored teaching women to read, de la Cerda was op posed to their learning how to write. On attitudes in early modern Spain toward women and music, see Pilar Ramos López, “Music and Women in Early Modern Spain: Some Discrep ancies between Education Theory and Musical Practice,” in Musical Voices of Early Modern Women, 97–118. On women’s education generally in early modern Spain see Mariló Vigil, La vida de las mujeres en los siglos XVI y XVII, 2nd edition (Madrid: Siglo Veintiuno de España Editores, 1994), 39–61; and Margarita Ortega López, “El período Barroco (1565–1700),” in Historia de las mujeres en España, ed. Elisa Garrido González (Madrid: Editorial Síntesis, 1997), 290–95. 30.â•‡ Wolfgang Freis, “Becoming a Theorist,” Revista de Musicología 18 (1995): 11–112. For an earlier example of a comparable revision, see Francesco Caza’s Tractado vulgare di canto figurato (Milan, 1492), an abbreviated vernacular translation of material later published as book II of Gaffurius’s Practica musice (Milan, 1496). 31.â•‡ Ibid., 45. The second edition of Bermudo’s Declaración de instrumentos musicales was published in 1555 (Osuna: Juan de León). 32.â•‡ Freis asserts that El arte was not written expressly for nuns’ use (“Becoming a Theo rist,” 44–45), nor was there necessarily any correlation between the content of El arte and

280â•… ·â•… Colleen Baade music practiced at the Montilla monastery (personal communication); rather, he proposes that for Bermudo, the work’s publication “may have been simply an attempt to get another one of his books into print,” and that Bermudo’s dedication of El arte to Isabel Pacheco, daughter of Marquis of Priego, and his mention of her niece, daughter of the Count of Os orno, were likely made in hopes of obtaining some kind of financial contribution from the women’s wealthy relatives (“Becoming a Theorist,” 60–61). Nonetheless, Freis’s statement, “Liturgical music [in the Franciscan order] consisted only of plainchant, while polyphonic or instrumental music was not performed” (ibid., 35), does not hold true for many houses of female Franciscans, as my own research amply demonstrates. There is even evidence that polyphony was sung at Montilla; see note 55, below. The same richness of musical practice is seen in Clarissan houses elsewhere in Europe; see for example Mary Natvig, “Rich Clares, Poor Clares: Celebrating the Divine Office,” Women & Music: A Journal of Gender and Culture 4 (2000): 59–70. 33.â•‡ Pablo Nassarre, Escuela música según la práctica moderna, 2 vols. (Saragossa: Here deros de Diego de Larumbe, 1723–1724), facs. edition, ed. Lothar Siemens Hernández (Sara gossa: Institución “Fernando el Católico,” 1980). 34.â•‡ The title of the section reads: “De el orden que se ha de guardar en enseñar a los que no tienen vista, niñas para Religiosas, y a sugetos que aprenden por diversión.” 35.â•‡ According to Juan de la Cerda (Libro intitulado, 8), a girl was considered a niña up until about age ten, and from then until her marriage—which should occur by age twenty— she was called a doncella. 36.â•‡ Escuela música, Segunda parte, 483: “Los principios de la niñas que aprenden, es muy poco menos el trabajo de su enseñança, aunque por diferente causa: y es por la incon stancia de el sexo, la poca edad, y la mano pequeña. La corta edad, y el sexo, es motivo de la poca afición al estudio; la mano pequeña, añade trabajo al Maestro; porque es preciso averles de acomodar la música, de modo, que les sea fácil su execución. El trato con ellas, ha de ser muy apacible, y sin nada de aspereza; porque de ser contrario no aprovechan: por la razón de ser sobradamente tímidas, y pusilánimes naturalmente . . .” Elsewhere in his treatise, Nassarre also notes that young boys “have flexible nerves” and are “naturally timid and pusillanimous” (Escuela música, Segunda parte, 463), so it would appear that a good deal of the difficulty Nassarre associated with teaching young girls had to do with age as much as gender. 37.â•‡ Ibid., 484: “Conviene también, que se les haga exercitar la voz quando son muy niñas, por tenerla muy atenuada ordinariamente, porque con el exercicio se aumenta.” 38.â•‡ Escuela música, Primera parte, 45: “La tercera especie de sugetos . . . en quien se hallava la voz aguda, o de tiple, es en las mugeres, en las que devemos considerar la voz en tres estados. El primero es hasta la edad de los onze, u doze años . . . El segundo estado, en que tienen la voz, es desde los onze, o doze años, hasta que las purifica la naturaleza. Y las que huvieren de aprender música, es el tiempo menos bueno este, para entrar en semejante exercicio, por dos razones principalmente. La primera, porque como la voz está tan incon stante, con dificultad comprehenden fixamente la entonación. La segunda es, que están rebueltos los humores con la mutación, de donde nace alguna falsedad en los sentidos, y como uno de ellos es el oído, y más principal para el asunto, aumenta mucho la rudeza, y la tardanza de la comprehensión . . . y así para entrar en este exercicio, es la mejor edad de más niñas” (my emphasis). 39.â•‡ Ibid., 43: “En los muchachos, o niños se deve considerar en dos estados, el uno en el tiempo de la infancia, que es desde que nacen, hasta los siete, u ocho años. El segundo estado, y en el tiempo de la puericia, que es de los ocho, o los nueve, hasta los catorze poco mas, o menos, que es quando la naturaleza hace la mutación. . . . En la segunda edad se halla la voz con más perfección, por hallarse la naturaleza con más rigor, y fuerças, y es ésta la mejor edad, para dar principio al estudio de la Música. . . .”

Nun Musicians as Teachers and Students in Early Modern Spainâ•… ·â•… 281 40.â•‡ Escuela música, Segunda parte, 483–84: “En lo que han de aprender, tan solamente deve poner el Maestro la eficacia en que tengan la habilidad necesaria; la qual consiste en tener soltura de manos con toda la execución posible: en que sean diestras en cantar Canto Llano, y Canto de Órgano. Canto Llano, porque es preciso que rija el Coro en muchos Con ventos: y quando no entre con esta obligación, por lo menos, conviene que sea diestra, para poder enseñar a otras Religiosas.” 41.â•‡ Ibid., 484: “En el Canto de Órgano, lo ha de ser de modo que pueda cantar su parte de repente; porque son muchos los Conventos donde cantan a Canto de Órgano: y en los más, es la Organista la Música principal; a cuya cuenta corre, así el disponer lo que se ha de cantar, como el enseñar a otras Religiosas, y cuydar de que canten con firmeza su parte; corrigiéndoles lo que erraren.” 42.â•‡ Letter from Martín de Barasoain to Miguel de Irízar, 1 February 1674, in José López-Calo, “Corresponsales de Miguel de Irízar (II),” Anuario Musical 20 (1965): 218: “Este correo recibí una carta de fray Domingo Olavarre, que trata en orden a la niña que está propuesta, donde me dice ha de tener voz, organista, arpista, ha de enseñar algunas de esas señoras, y las fiestas o lo que se canta ha de correr por su cuenta. Estos son muchos oficios para una mujer. . . .” Another portion of this letter is quoted in note 51, below. 43.â•‡ Ibid.: “Si tuviere voz, conviene que sea muy diestra, porque pueda cantar su parte, y acompañar a un tiempo. . . . [I]mporta mucho que toquen Arpa, y acompañen con ella de el mismo modo que con el Órgano; por ser Instrumento más acomodado para acompañar vozes agudas. Si la voz es suficiente para cantar su parte, será bien que se impongan en que a un tiempo acompañen, y canten; que a más de ser muy conveniente, imitarán en esta a Santa Cecilia; que según la Iglesia, en su Oficio dize, cantava al Señor con el Órgano. Y para facilitarse, importa que se les ponga en el mismo papel de la voz el acompañamiento.” 44.â•‡ Ibid., 484–85: “En quanto a la execución, generalmente sueltan las manos a menos trabajo que los varones, por tener más flexivilidad, así en ellas, como en los nervios. . . . Y es la causa el ser más pequeños, y por esto más prontos a la agilidad: y este es el motivo porque he dicho, que a menos trabajo en el estudio que los muchachos, consiguen el soltar las manos. Pero se deve tener mucho cuydado con ellas en que tañan a espacio, porque naturalmente son más fogosas, por ser de complexión húmeda, y cálida . . . y la misma fogosidad, como tienen facilidad en los movimientos de los dedos, es causa de apresurarse en la música que tocan, no dándole el ayre que se le deve dar, y faltando muchas vezes al compás . . . No es lo que menos importa el que sepan sacar la música poniéndola de el papel en la memoria; pues sabiéndolo hazer, podrán variar. También es conveniente que se les imponga en tocar de suyo, para que puedan más cómodamente alargar, u abreviar los versos, quando fuere necesario.” 45.â•‡ See note 42, above. 46.â•‡ Escuela música, Segunda parte, 484: “Quando tienen ya las manos suficientemente sueltas, y son ya diestras en el cantar, conviene, que se les enseñe a acompañar, dándoles las reglas que dexo escritas en la Primera Parte, Libro 3. Capítulo 20. que son para los que no son Compositores; y para Religiosas importa poco que no lo sean.” The chapter to which Nassarre refers is a guide to continuo accompaniment for players who have not studied composition. As for organists and harpists who have studied the rules of composition, ac cording to Nassarre, they will already know how to realize a proper accompaniment; see Escuela música, Primera parte, 353–59. 47.â•‡ Ibid.: “Porque si han de ser Compositoras, es preciso que se les dilate el tiempo de tomar estado, y no es muy conveniente por algunas razones que trae consigo la fragilidad de el sexo. Y también, porque acostumbran a no tener provecho de averla estudiado, quando son Religiosas, por su poca aplicación al trabajo de componer, y valerse de qualquier modo de trabajos agenos.” 48.â•‡ See José Solana’s last will and testament, reproduced in Louis Jambou, “José So lana (1645–1712). Trayectoria de un organista compositor,” Revista de Musicología 4 (1981):

282â•… ·â•… Colleen Baade 62–112, which includes a bequest to “Da María de Miranda religiosa en el convento de Santa Clara de esta Ciudad” (p. 110). 49.â•‡ Undated petition (1700) from nuns at the Monasterio de Santa Clara, Toledo, re questing permission to grant a dowry waiver to organist María de Miranda on the basis of her musical ability (Toledo, Archivo Histórico Provincial, Prot. 416, fol. 163r): “M.R.P.N. La Abadesa y religiosas de este convento de . . . Santa Clara de esta ciudad de Toledo dicen que . . . se han hecho diferentes diligencias en busca de persona que sirva de organista así en dicha ciudad como en otras partes, y se a hallado a Doña María de Miranda, natural de dicha ciudad de Toledo de edad de doce años poco más o menos, hija de Don Féliz de Miranda y Doña María Cercadillo sus padres vecinos de ella, la cual sabe tocar dicho órgano con admiración para su edad y componer a cinco y acompañar cualesquier papeles, y demás de ello sabe tocar arpa y cantar diestramente su parte, y se a ajustado con la susodicha y sus padres entre por religiosa de choro y velo en dicho convento con cargo de tocar órgano para los divinos oficios y cantar por todos los días de su vida sin que pague dote alguno ni propinas de en trada y profesión ni la pueden obligar a hacer oficios ningunos solo a que enseñe a cualquiera que quisiere dedicarse a estudiar música y órgano” (my emphasis). 50.â•‡ Letter from Antonio de la Cruz Brocarte to Miguel Gómez Camargo, 24 March 1678, in Carmelo Caballero Fernández-Rufete, “Miguel Gómez Camargo: correspondencia inédita,” Anuario Musical 45 (1990): 89–90: “. . . es que tengo en casa una paisana mía que me la dejó encomendada un beneficiado tío suyo de Nuestra Señora de Palacio, de Logroño, hasta que saliera una buena comunidad. . . . Las habilidades son las que voy a decir: ella toca excelentísimamente arpa de dos órdenes, sabe contrapuntos sobre bajo y sobre tiple a 4 muy bien; toca órgano también. La voz no es de mucho cuerpo, pero sola es buena para capilla. No es abultada; [es] diestra en el cantar y en el acompañar.” 51.â•‡ Letter from Martín de Barasoain to Miguel de Irízar, 1 February 1674, in José López-Calo, “Corresponsales de Miguel de Irízar (II),” 218: “. . . La niña tañe sus obras de partidos altos y bajos, así bien de lleno, versos de todos los tonos; acompaña cualquiera cosa en pasando el papel unas cuantas veces; así bien tañe sus pasitos de fantasía, que los saca de un día para otro, que con el ejercicio y tiempo se adquiere esto. En el arpa tañe los sones de palacio y algunas otras cosas curiosas. Acompaña como en el órgano. De música canta su parte, echa sus contrapuntos, conciertos a tres y a cuatro sobre bajo y sobre tiple, y compone a cinco suelto, que es lo que basta para que ella sea buena tañedora.” 52.â•‡ See Ernest T. Ferand, “‘Sodaine and Unexpected’ Music in the Renaissance,” Musical Quarterly 37 (1951): 10–27. A number of the theorists Ferand discusses make the point that the rules governing the making of counterpoint and composition are, in fact, the same. 53.â•‡ See Nassarre’s discussion of the various kinds of contrapunto in Escuela música, Segunda parte, Libro segundo, 140–261. 54.â•‡ See Nassarre’s discussion of composición in Escuela música, Segunda parte, Libro terÂ�cero, 262–374. 55. Sor Ana de la Cruz Ribera, “Quaderno Principal,” in María Victoria Triviño, O.S.C., ed., Escritoras clarisas españolas (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1992), 220: “Mandóme la obediencia aprender a tañer harpa (que el órgano lo aprendí de niña) y tam bién mandó que aprendiese a componer música” (my emphasis). Sor Ana de la Cruz Ribera was a nun at the Monasterio de Santa Clara at Montilla, the same monastery in which Isabel Pachecho and her niece, Teresa Manrique—the two nuns to whom Bermudo’s El arte is addressed—resided. 56. Undated petition (1698) from the nuns at Monasterio de Santa María de los Ángeles, Madrid requesting permission to grant dowry waiver to María Ibáñez de Isaba on the basis of her musical ability (Madrid, Archivo Histórico de Protocolos, Prot. 13384, fol. 1256r): “La abadesa y discretas de este convento de . . . Santa María la Real de los Ángeles de esta corte

Nun Musicians as Teachers and Students in Early Modern Spainâ•… ·â•… 283 dicen que habiendo dado cuenta a Vuestra Reverendísima del deseo que tenían y necesidad de recibir una religiosa música y que tenían noticia de una con grandes habilidades como es tocar arpa, órgano y violón siendo excelente en todas tres instrumentos y habiendo man dado que se examinase, se ejecutó asistiendo al examen el apuntador de la Capilla Real . . . y habiendo ejecutado todo cuanto se le propuso con gran primor y destreza y asegurando el dicho apuntador de la Capilla Real que en conciencia no debía pedírsele nada por vía de dote por lo insigne que es en sus habilidades.”

Part Five

The Teacher•

14 Isaac the Teacher: Pedagogy and Literacy in Florence, ca. 1488 Blake Wilson

• Twenty-five years ago, the late Howard Mayer Brown wrote about “emulation, competition, and homage” in Renaissance music.1 I was surprised to recently rediscover that his opening pages were essentially about pedagogy; surprised, because I had remembered the article to be about compositional process and theories of imitation. But Brown’s first example of “emulation” in fact illustrated a basic principle of pedagogy in that era: it centered on an inexperienced composer’s attempt, sometime during the second decade of the sixteenth century, to write a three-part chanson based on a model. This, I think, is a familiar experience to those of us who work in historical periods that predate the rise of formal pedagogical materials: we must turn to the music itself as the best evidence for how the craft of composition was taught and learned. Yet by the time we have moved beyond the scant surviving examples of student work and are looking at, for example, Isaac’s parody of Martini’s Martinella, we are looking at how mature composers practiced their craft, and not at how young ones learned it. Our topic, then, is an elusive one, and there are reasons for this. In most of fifteenth-century Europe, composition was not a formalized craft or profession, and much of the time the term did not apply very well to what was actually being performed and heard.2 One of the most well-known musicians

288â•… ·â•… Blake Wilson

Table 14.1. Feo Belcari’s Genitrice di Dio and its Giustinian models.

Giustinian secular song: Regina del chor mio non ti par tempo anchora, che mi socchora al mio tormento rio?

Giustinian lauda: Regina del cor mio a te con mente pia recorro tutavia, che me face de te sentire.

Belcari lauda: Genitrice di Dio, chi con buon cor t’adora sanza dimora adempie’l buon disio.

O tu, che già gran tempo in dolce focho mantien l’anima mia, per dio ti prego esti miei canti un pocho audir per chortesia! O fior di leçadria, a tte vegno cantando, merçè chiamando al mio tormento rio.

O tu che zà gran tempo in dolce focho tu tien l’anima mia, ormai te piaça ‘sto mio canto un pocho aldir per cortesia. O lume del’anima mia, a ti vegno cantando, mercede chiamando ch’io possa de te gaudere.

Tu se’ fornace ardente di quell foco d’ogni carità santa, del Paradiso gaudio, festa e gioco tutto’l ciel per te canta. sott’ombra di tal pianta trionfa ciascun alma, portando palma d’esto mondo rio. [cantasi come: Regina del mio cor]

in fifteenth-century Florence was the improvisatory singer Antonio di Guido (1418–1486), who represented the apex of a highly developed craft that was widely practiced on the Italian peninsula. He certainly created and arranged his own musico-poetic materials, but in 1449 a contemporary said of him that he was a “master of music and singing . . . but I don’t know if he really knows about music”—that is, written music.3 A few years earlier, a similar comment was made about the city’s other leading musician, the organist Antonio Squarcialupi (1416–1480), who was equally steeped in oral tradition; he struggled and ultimately abandoned the effort to set a ballata text in the style of Binchois, because “he doesn’t have a head for that sort of thing.”4 We have not a note of either man’s music, for musical notation and the kind of literacy it presupposes were neither congenial nor relevant to their craft. The nature of Florentine musical life as understood by most Florentines is revealed even more clearly in the city’s widespread devotional singing practice. Over ninety surviving manuscripts and prints spanning the late fourteenth to early sixteenth century record thousands of sacred poems bearing the rubric cantasi come (“sing it like . . .”), followed by textual inciÂ� pits of the songs to which they were to be sung.5 Around 1,800 unique links between sacred poems and their singing models detail a vast panorama of music and poetry actually known to and sung by many Florentines. One

Isaac the Teacherâ•… ·â•… 289

example will suffice to show how the process worked in its earlier stages (see table 14.1). The first two texts in table 14.1 show the refrain and first stanza of a ballata grande by the Venetian statesman and poet Leonardo Giustinian (ca. 1383–1446), set first as a secular song, and then as a Giustinian lauda directly modeled upon the secular text. This direct relationship is especially evident in the stanza where identical phrases are employed. The third text is a lauda by Feo Belcari (1410–1484), the most important author of devotional texts in fifteenth-century Florence, and someone familiar with all styles of secular music then circulating in the city. Genitrice di Dio was composed prior to 1464, and it appears in twenty-two sources bearing the rubric, cantasi come Regina del cor mio.6 A close look reveals which of Giustinian’s two Regina poems is the actual model for Belcari’s lauda. The refrain of Genitrice di Dio keeps much closer to the rhyme scheme of Giustinian’s secular song than did even Giustinian’s own lauda, but Belcari’s strophe shows a more complex modeling, and looks like a refraction of the analogous secular strophe. Enough of Giustinian’s language is retained (for example, key words like foco, canta, rio) to leave no doubt about a relationship, but Giustinian’s courtly language is muted, his imagery recast (Mary herself becomes the source of the foco, and the fior di leçadria is exchanged for a palm), and a troubadour’s solitary love-complaint is transformed into a congregational vision of a Palm Sunday procession unfolding beneath an eternal scene of the Regina coeli (in an indirect allusion to Giustinian’s first line). Unlike Giustinian’s lauda, Belcari’s is not a poem created directly from the materials of the original poem, but one conceived in the refracted light of Giustinian’s melody. To the extent that a melody, especially a Giustinian melody conceived in close relationship with its text, became “encoded” with certain formal and sonic qualities of that text, a new text conceived with this melody in mind might freely absorb or embody elements of the original text. Such a melody, in other words, might assume something of the function of a “model” for the lauda text.7 This proposes a very different creative process from the one we usually imagine, in which a poem is modeled on another poem, and a passive melody follows suit. Music is here essential, not ancillary, to the creative process, which explains in part why oral melody pervades these devotional anthologies. Its technical features are not autonomous, however; rather they are an outgrowth of the poetic text, which is the real focus of the act of “composition.” For Belcari, as for Antonio di Guido, the technical foundation as creator of songs was in the formal, sonic, and semantic properties of poetic language,


and the primary site for the creation, inscription, and performance of those songs was not the written page, but their trained memories.8 As Paul Gehl has shown in his study of Florentine grammar schools of the Trecento, for middleclass Florentines of Belcari’s and Antonio’s generation the pedagogical basis for these skills was inculcated from youth.9 From childhood, they would have learned that “the physical book . . . was merely an introduction to truth,” whereas “a greater prestige attached to the spiritually internalized, memorized text.”10 By the time both Belcari and Antonio di Guido had died in the 1480s, however, there are signs of a sea change in musical literacy in Florence. Here one might cite the usual evidence for the increased presence of polyphonic scores and their composers and singers: the establishment of a polyphonic chapel in 1438 to serve the city’s leading institutions, the gradual (if uneven) crescendo of northern musicians and, beginning in the late 1470s, the hiring of maestri at some churches and convents to teach polyphonic singing to novices.11 There is also the impressive collection of nine extant chansonniers beginning with the modest mid-century manuscript Vatican City, Urbinas latinus 1411, and culminating in the monumental Banco rari 229 of the early 1490s—the very collection that inspired Brown’s meditations on “emulation, competition, and homage.”12 But very little of this evidence tells us whether polyphonic literacy had moved much beyond the circles of a few patricians, clerics, and imported musicians during the previous decades. For this we might note the increase in polyphonic chapels in the city’s confraternities and churches, particularly the polyphonic choir at Santissima Annunziata, which I believe must have played a central role in the exposure of young Florentine musicians to polyphonic repertoire, scores, and performance.13 This kind of “learning by doing,” with its exposure to models for emulation, may have been the most common education in composition for some young Florentines, while others progressed to private lessons with the northern composer/singers who performed in the choir. This must have been the case for the thirteen-year-old Bartolomeo degli Organi, who joined the choir in 1487 and rubbed shoulders with a number of northern musicians. Bartolomeo’s later works show that he learned the craft from a master composer, and he in turn became a tutor to young Florentines; in 1527 he was teaching “singing, playing, and three-part counterpoint” to the young son of Niccolò Machiavelli.14 The cantasi come repertoire of the second half of the fifteenth century charts a spectacular rise in the penetration of polyphonic repertoire into the city’s oral singing traditions: first French


Table 14.2. Feo Belcari’s Poi che ’l cor and its secular model.

Secular model

Belcari’s lauda

Poi che vivo sopra la terra con tam mala e trista sorte, Dio volesse che la morte sola me facesse guerra.

Poi che ’l cor mi stringe e serra per la crudel pena mia, priego te, dolce Maria, ponga fine alla mia guerra.

La mia prima ioventute se consuma a poco a poco: merçé, pace nè salute non trovo, posa nè loco […]

La mia mala gioventute mi consuma a poco a poco, se da te non ho salute son condotto in mortal foco: Fammi grazia in questo loco, ch’ i’ non mora per tal via; Priego te, dolce Maria, ponga fine alla mia guerra.

chansons in the 1450s and 1460s, then carnival songs beginning in the 1470s, Neapolitan strambotti in the 1480s, north Italian frottole beginning in the 1490s, then on to the madrigals of Verdelot and Arcadelt in the early sixteenth century. The changes these new models brought to this oral tradition reflect the broader transformation of what many Florentines understood to be “music.” Prior to Belcari’s death in 1484, he composed the lauda, Poi che’l cor mi stringe, which he modeled upon the secular poem Poi che vivo sopra la terra (see table 14.2). This latter text, in fragmentary state, survives in only one source: the contemporaneous Pixérécourt Chansonnier (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, ms f.fr. 15123), where it comes with a three-part setting that in some form Belcari sought to appropriate through his modeling.15 When Belcari modeled his earlier lauda on Giustinian’s Regina del cor mio, the entire process was governed by an oral tradition: Giustinian’s poem and music were flexible templates that served many other lauda texts besides Belcari’s, and his lauda was sung to other melodies as well.16 It was a process Nino Pirrotta aptly called “the work of transferring tunes and adjusting lines.”17 But in the case of laude like Poi che’l cor that drew on poems with extant polyphonic settings, the modeling was invariably customized—Poi che’l cor was designed specifically to access the music of Poi che vivo. The same was true of Non fu mai pena maggiore, a lauda by Belcari’s younger contemporary Francesco d’Albizo. D’Albizo’s well-known lauda was


Table 14.3. Francesco d’Albizo’s Non fu mai pena maggiore and its secular model.

García Álvarez, canción

Francesco d’Albizo, lauda

Estrebillo A: â•‡ 1.â•‡ Nunca fué pena mayor â•‡ 2.â•‡ Ni tormento tan estraño â•‡ 3.â•‡ Que yguale con el dolor â•‡ 4.â•‡ Que rreçibo del engaño

Sestina 1: Non fu mai pena maggiore Né si aspra né crudele Quanto mirra, aceto e fele Ber fu dato al Salvatore

Mudanza B: â•‡ 5.â•‡ Y este consosçimento â•‡ 6.â•‡ Faze mis dias tan tristes â•‡ 7.â•‡ En pensar el pensamiento â•‡ 8.â•‡ Que por amores, me distes. Vuelta A: â•‡ 9.â•‡ Y me faze por lo major 10.â•‡ La muerte con menor daño 11.â•‡ Que el tormento y el dolor 12.â•‡ Que salió del engaño.

Per ciascun peccatore Pianger debbe amaramente. Sestina 2: Stette in croce alto pendente E di spine coronato E le mani e piè chiovato E battuto crudelmente Sopporto tant’umilmente Per far noi nel ciel salire. [cantasi come: Nunquam fuit poena major]

modeled upon the most famous of fifteenth-century Spanish songs, Nunca fue pena mayor, and the two songs are exclusively linked to one another in all ten cantasi come sources of this lauda. The poem is attributed to García Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba; the text was known throughout Spain and Italy, but survives primarily in music sources with a three-part setting by Johannes Wreede.18 Seven of ten sources of the main version are Florentine, and it was the work’s particular popularity in Florence that must have led d’Albizo to model his own work upon it. While d’Albizo retained the octosyllabic lines, incipit (both lines translate as, “Never was there greater pain”), and anguished mood of the original secular song, he chose to cast his vision of Christ’s pain on the cross into a pair of sestinas, rather than the three quatrains of the original (see table 14.3). In the bipartite form of Wreede’s music, the first quatrain (the estrebillo) was set in the first musical section (A), the second quatrain (the mudanza) to the second musical section (B), and the third quatrain (the vuelta) to a repetition of the A section. The twelve lines of d’Albizo’s two sestinas could be fit to this music exactly as were the twelve lines of the original’s three quatrains, with the only discomfort being the asymmetrical distribution of the sestinas


across this musical form (the two sestinas begin in different parts of the musical setting). Given the Florentine popularity of Wreede’s setting, the exclusive coupling of the texts in the cantasi come sources, and the relatively unusual poetic form d’Albizo was compelled to adopt, it is clear that d’Albizo’s lauda was designed specifically to take advantage of Wreede’s music. Even clearer in this case is that in the process of adapting his two sestinas to the tripartite musico-poetic form of the model, d’Albizo must have had access to the music in some form in order to understand how the poetry was distributed and underlaid. The point of both these examples is to briefly chart the dramatic incursions of non-Florentine polyphonic song into the city’s traditional oral song culture. In contrast to the adaptable aere of Giustinian’s songs and Florentine improvisatory formulas for the singing of balli and strambotti, this was music that no longer circulated easily among multiple texts, and Belcari, D’Albizo, and their readers now had to know something about the polyphonic language of their models. This was a situation that increasingly stretched the limits of oral tradition, but in so doing it still sidestepped a crucial aspect of musical literacy and pedagogy—the notated music. I would now like to turn to a group of letters that has recently come to light in the Florentine state archives.19 These were all written by a young Florentine named Ambrogio Angeni to an even younger friend, Antonio da Filicaia, during the 1480s and early 1490s; and thirteen of them, written during the years 1487–1489, contain some remarkable passages concerning their shared passion for music. Before turning to those which are most relevant to the issues of literacy and teaching, a brief summary of the contents of the letters will provide a bit of context. In 1487, the twenty-two-year-old Antonio was living in Brittany, in the city of Nantes, where he was engaged in the cloth business of his old patrician family. It becomes clear in the course of the letters that he was the patron of a brigata, a Florentine social circle characteristic of Antonio’s age group, which in this case nurtured a particular interest in music and music-related projects.20 The brigata included a local composer by the name of Ser Zanobi who was probably also a priest, and Ambrogio, a middleclass Florentine who possessed a very modest education and came from a family of stonemasons. He coordinated and facilitated the brigata’s projects, and seems to have functioned as a kind of factotum for Antonio’s interests in Florence. On the Florentine side of the correspondence, Ambrogio obtained manuscripts, copied them, and mailed them via the fam-


ily’s courier network to Antonio—some of the music was composed by Ser Zanobi, but most of it was music by “nostro Arigo,” that is, Heinrich Isaac, music which Ambrogio variously described as “novel,” “newly composed,” and “highly regarded here in Florence.”21 Early in the correspondence, Ambrogio tells Antonio about a new piece by Isaac, in which “I understand he has demonstrated great fantasia.”22 The work turns out to be one of Isaac’s most well-known extant works, Alla battaglia.23 It was planned for carnival of 1488, and since the secrecy surrounding it had been compromised (a friend obtained a copy of the work), Ambrogio promised Antonio that he would obtain a copy and send it to him. He did, in fact, lay hold of the manuscript and begin copying it, but in the end did not send it because, we are told, “it is very long, and in my hasty copying of it I made many errors.”24 Besides, he went on to report, the work was a novelty that in the end did not please the connoisseurs (i.e., the Medici). On the other side, Antonio (whose correspondence has not survived), was friendly with a group of musicians in Nantes, including a maestro with whom he studied composition, and from whom he obtained music. Antonio mailed several three-part secular songs to Ambrogio in Florence, including a setting of a poem written by Antonio, as well as a setting of the Stabat mater, and a small book of songs by the Nantes maestro. This latter was acquired by Antonio, at Ambrogio’s suggestion, after Antonio had asked his advice about what he could send to Lorenzo de’ Medici to please him. When the music was received by Ambrogio, it was immediately copied, either by him or a trusted scribe by the name of Ser Bandone. Ser Zanobi’s opinion of the music was frequently solicited, but the most telling evaluation of the pieces happened in a prova, a read-through by singers organized by Ambrogio. In two cases the singers are specified, and they are Isaac, singing tenor, and two of his professional colleagues from the Cathedral chapel, the contralto Bartolomeo de Castris and the soprano Ugo di Parisetto di Champagnia.25 On several occasions, copies of the music were also sent to Lorenzo de’ Medici, and to Antonio’s father Alessandro, a politically prominent Florentine who was married to a distant relative of Lorenzo’s.26 Several times Ambrogio got involved in trying to recruit musicians—including, on one occasion, a composer—from Nantes to Florence through Antonio, apparently so that the brigata could have someone in Florence with whom to collaborate. On another occasion, after hearing of the defections of two professional northern singers from the Florentine polyphonic chapel, Ambrogio wrote:


Let me say that if there was some good bass, tenor, or contralto voice over there, they would be well-received here in Florence, because Niccolò di Lore has left here. He quit the chapel and made an agreement with the King of Hungary, and Bartolomeo [de Castris] has done the same. Their departure without Lorenzo’s knowledge has displeased him very much. I tell you all of this so that if I can, I shall help any of your friends.27

The musical projects of the brigata were concerned primarily with carnival and Lent. During the summer of 1488, Ambrogio sent Antonio his ideas for a carnival song on the topic of grafters. He then asked Antonio to use his fantasia to fashion a poem, and then have his composer friend in Nantes set it to music. Who would imagine that a carnival song could be “outsourced” to France! For the Lenten season, besides the imported Stabat mater, the brigata was also involved with a locally commissioned setting of Lamentations. From this summary alone it should be clear that Antonio and his young Florentine colleagues—a brigata which at its core consisted of a merchant, a priest, and a friend/factotum—had by 1487 attained a remarkable degree of musical literacy. How had they learned to copy, read, and covet manuscripts of polyphonic music? We can speculate that Zanobi may have learned this in a clerical setting, and that Ambrogio through his good connections may have been instructed by a maestro as was Antonio in Nantes; clearly they were captivated by the possibilities of a medium that I suspect was still a novelty among young Florentines. Two documents in particular, however, shed some light on their pedagogical environment, as well as a likely source of the brigata’s inspiration. Both describe the prova of a three-part piece by Antonio’s Nantes composer. The first is described by Ambrogio in a letter of April 1488: . . . the person who set your poem to music is very given to delights, because I tried it out with the singers over here—that is, Arigo, Bartolomeo, and Ugo—who praised it very much. And moreover, Arigo asked of me a favor; he would like to add a fourth voice to this [music] to make it sweeter and better. If you and the maestro agree, I would like you to ask the maestro to do the same [i.e., fare a quattro], and to send me a copy in order to compare [and see] which one knows [better] how to compose. (Appendix, document 1)

And then Ambrogio wrote in the following September: In your letters you mentioned Ser Zanobi, that you were making a canzona for his appraisal. To all [of your letters] I responded and begged forgive-


ness for my past errors. Then you sent the said canzona, and with it a motet, which things you sent to Lorenzo [de’ Medici]. I made a copy right away, and gave Alessandro the letter so that he could follow your orders, and likewise I copied [all the pages?], and for now was unable to place [it] in the hands [of Ser Zanobi] because he was with his father at the fortress in Pisa. I had to await his return, and during that time I had tried [it] out, and found it good, and it was much praised, especially by Arigo, who wanted to add a bass part, and I promised to give it to him. But in order not to [complicate?] everything, I copied it before giving it to him. And then [Ser Zanobi] returned [and] I did as it was my duty and his desire [ . . . ?], and he thanked me and showed me that he was very thankful. (Appendix, document 2)

In these two extraordinary passages we see Isaac entering into the projects of Antonio’s brigata, a group of young Florentines with a keen interest in composition. They are musically literate—able to copy, read, and evaluate notated polyphonic music—and they have had access to the music of Isaac and other northern maestri. Those two directly involved with composition— Antonio and Ser Zanobi—would have already tried their hands at composing in three parts, the pedagogical foundation still in place in 1527 when Bartolomeo was teaching Machiavelli’s son. Having tried the brigata’s music by singing through it with his colleagues, Isaac stepped forward, apparently unbidden, and said to them, in effect, “let me show you how to make these pieces più dolce e buono by adding a fourth, bass part.” Isaac here appears to be spontaneously engaged by compositional process with and among the brigata, and to be acting for their benefit. He cannot have been proprietary about the actual compositional results; Ambrogio’s scheme—to have the Nantes composer also fashion a bass part so that the efforts of the two northern maestri could be compared—clearly indicates that he had a copy of Isaac’s added part, and the freedom to pass it around and evaluate it within the brigata. Although we learn in a subsequent letter that the Nantes composer did not agree to this, the exercise suggests that we may want to reconsider the motivation behind some of the many added and si placet parts found in works from just this period.28 In any case, Ambrogio cannot have been proposing an idle game, given the reputation of the composers involved, the seriousness of the brigata’s musical interests, and the particular skill being demonstrated. As Banco rari 229 and the other Florentine sources of this period demonstrate, four-voice composition was still an emerging technique in Florence of the 1480s. The summit of this technique was to be seen and heard in those


pieces in which all four parts were simultaneously conceived and coordinated, and each part occupied its own comfortable stratum—what we have come to call “harmonic composition.”29 Florentines had heard such a piece in 1488 when Alla battaglia was premiered, and Ambrogio may have recognized those qualities when, after examining the music that had been leaked to a broader public, he described the piece to Antonio as maravigliosa e singnorile e degna e idónia e chongiugha (“marvelous, refined, worthy, masterful, and well-puttogether”).30 That Alla battaglia was finally judged to be a work not only of masterful craftsmanship but of excessive novelty, suggests that the technique it exhibited was relatively new to Florence. Nor can there have been more than a few composers in the city at this time, and none more prominent than Isaac, who had attained mastery of such a technique. Is it a coincidence that the first person to describe harmonic composition was the theorist Pietro Aaron, a Florentine by birth who was probably living in Florence during Isaac’s tenure there? Aaron cites as his models of the new “art” Josquin, Obrecht, Isaac, and Agricola, “with whom,” he says, “I had the greatest friendship and familiarity in Florence.”31 Of these four, Josquin and Obrecht are not known ever to have visited Florence (though if they did, they are likely to have sojourned from the Ferrara court during their early sixteenth-century tenures there), and Agricola’s residence in Florence was only a matter of months from October 1491 to June 1492. If Florence was where Aaron first learned of the new technique, then Isaac is likely to have been Aaron’s primary source for it. But for inexperienced composers, the logical pedagogical approach to four-part composition would have been the one demonstrated by Isaac to the brigata, the extension of an older successive compositional method through expansion of a three-part texture. A good example of how an added bass can transform a three-part model is shown in Colinet de Lannoy’s Cela sans plus, a work especially well-represented in Florentine chansonniers, and transmitted in a Ferrarese source with a bass part attributed to Johannes Martini.32 Martini’s added bass does not really layer in more counterpoint, rather it was clearly designed to fill out triads, expand harmonic dissonance, and generally enhance the work’s euphony. As Isaac clearly understood with his offer to make the composition of the Nantes maestro più dolce e buono, this retrofitting of a bass part to three-part work was the next best way to achieve the “harmonic sweetness” that Aaron praised as the hallmark of the modern pieces.33 These two vignettes, among the others in Ambrogio’s letters, present us with a concept of “music” and musical literacy that is utterly familiar to us. But in the Florence of 1488, where oral song traditions and the “work of


transferring tunes and adjusting lines” retained their vigor, it is difficult to appreciate how novel and exciting to young Florentine musicians the world of polyphonic works and their composers must have seemed. The new priorities of this world were clearly represented in Isaac’s purely musical and compositional response to the prova; his first impulse was to adjust the sound fabric, which for him was autonomous and invested with its own technical qualities and possibilities. By 1488 these young Florentines had fully entered into this new musical literacy. For them, the creative site of music-making had shifted from memory to the written endeavor, which in turn had made possible the long-distance collaborations of the brigata. Ambrogio’s letters bear witness to the host of new preoccupations and possibilities that came with this literacy: the vulnerability to loss or premature discovery by others of an artifact no longer stored in memory; the possibilities for study, revision, and elaboration of a notated piece that now served as a relatively objective frame of reference for these activities; an entirely new status attached to the person and activity of the composer, who is now distinct from the performer; and new possibilities for the transmission, collecting, and ownership of music. In Ambrogio’s first letter to Antonio concerning music (27 December 1487), we find him awaiting the arrival of a polyphonic manuscript “with great desire”; the preoccupation with collecting and copying which is evident in subsequent letters suggests that the score had become for Ambrogio and his companions a coveted object that both encoded and revealed new modes of musical thought and creativity. Within the fluid social environment of Ambrogio’s Florence, the approaches to transmitting and acquiring this new musical literacy were as yet unformed and unfixed; on the spectrum from self-taught emulation to sustained apprenticeship with a maestro, we unexpectedly find Isaac conducting ad hoc workshops in four-part composition with a group of young Florentines. Given his evident willingness to engage younger composers, as well as his fertility and versatility as a composer, it is perhaps no coincidence that Isaac is the first musician who is consistently and in varied venues perceived primarily as komponist and compositore.34 In the course of his initial ten-year residence in Florence he married a Florentine woman, had close contact with local musicians, allowed his secular works to circulate freely, and enjoyed the patronage of the Medici. It seems likely that he exercised a singular influence on the Florentine musical environment of the late fifteenth century, modeling to an emerging generation of native composers not only the novel craft of composizione but the profession of compositore.


Appendix: Letters from Ambrogio Angeni to Antonio di Alessandro da Filicaia (Florence, Archivio di Stato, Corporazioni Religiose soppresse dal Governo Francese, 78 [Badia Fiorentina], vol. 319) Document 1 (fol. 274r) April 1488 . . . che chonpose la tua chanzona è molto atirato ale diluze, perché ò fatto provare a’ chantori di qua cioè a Arigho e Bartolomeo e Ugho la quale lodorno molto. E più che Arigho in piaciere mi richielse che la voleva fare aquatt[r]o sarebe asai più dolce e buono. Vorei parendo a tte che volendo il ma[e]stro la facessi fare anchora a lui e di questa me ne mandassi chopia per fare di loro chonparazione quale più sa < . . . inlo> chonporne.

Document 2 (fol. 257r) 20 September 1488 E in tutte alchun motto di Ser Zanobi e che facevi a suo chontemplatione fare una chanzona. A ttutte diei risposta ischusandomi de chomesi erori. Di poi mandasti detta chanzona e chon eso uno mottetto, il quale dirizasti a Lorenzo. Chopialo subito e diei a Alisandro letera a ciò che seguissi tuo ordine e simile chopiai piegho fino a le foglie e non pote per alora dar’t’in mano il perché [es]sendo lui a Pisa chon suo padre in rocha. Mi fu forza aspetare sua tornata, in tal tempo fe provare e trovai essere buona, e molto fu lodato, da Arigo più forte che voleva farli in chontroabasso, e promisili darle. Ma per non <empirne?> tutto prima che la dessi in prop[r]ia mano li chopiai. Di poi tornato feci tal quali fu mio debito e suo disederio a lui < . . . an>do di tuo essere il quale su nostro nuovo ringraziandami mostrando averlo molto a grato.

Notes 1.â•‡ Howard Mayer Brown, “Emulation, Competition, and Homage: Imitation and Theories of Imitation in the Renaissance,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 35 (1982): 1–42. 2.â•‡ On the late fifteenth-century appearance of the terms compositio (composizione) and compositor (compositore), see Rob C. Wegman, “From Maker to Composer: Improvisation and Musical Authorship in the Low Countries, 1450–1500,” Journal of the American Musi cological Society 49 (1996): 409–79, esp. 433–39. Jessie Ann Owens’s chapter on “Teaching Composition” in Composers at Work: The Craft of Musical Composition 1450–1600 (Oxford:

300â•… ·â•… Blake Wilson Oxford University Press, 1997) reveals how little evidence survives from before 1500 for how music was taught, and in fact bears out Brown’s earlier observation that “no treatises on ‘free composition,’ no books that tell the budding composer precisely how to go about his craft, were written so early as the first half of the sixteenth century” (“Emulation, Competition, and Homage,” 9–10). 3.â•‡ Michele del Giogante: “. . . nobili viro Maestro Antonio di Musica e di canto . . . quatunque della musica non sappia se n’è intendente”; cited in Lirici toscani del ‘400, 2 vols., ed. Antonio Lanza (Rome: Buolzoni, 1973), 1: 681; trans. and discussed in Blake Wilson, “Cicero Domesticated: the Arte della memoria and the Improvisatory Singers of Renaissance Florence,” paper delivered to the national meeting of the American Musicological Society in Columbus, Ohio, in 2002. 4.â•‡ Ugo della Stufa: “. . . poi che vego non na il capo a ‘mparare quella”; cited, translated, and discussed in James Haar, “The Vatican Manuscript Urb. Lat. 1411: An Undervalued Source,” in Manoscritti de polifonia nel Quattrocento europeo, Atti del Convegno internazionale de studi, Trent, 18–19 October 2002, ed. Marco Gozzi (Trent: Provincia Autonomo di Trento, 2004), 82–86; for a more recent assessment of Squarcialupi, see James Haar and John Nádas, “Antonio Squarcialupi: Man and Myth,” Early Music History 25 (2006): 105–68. 5.â•‡ See my database and accompanying study of this repertoire, Singing Poetry in RenÂ�ais sance Florence: The ‘Cantasi Come’ Tradition ca. 1375–1550 (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 2009). 6.â•‡ Giustinian’s secular text is edited in Berthold Wiese, Poesie edite ed inedite di Lio nardo Giustiniani (Bologna: Gaetano Romagnoli, 1883), 225–28; his lauda text is edited in Francesco Luisi, Laudario giustinianeo, 2 vols. (Venice: Fondazione Levi, 1983), 1: 285–86. Belcari’s text is edited in Gustavo C. Galletti, Laude spirituali di Feo Belcari [et al.] comprese nelle quattro più antiche raccolte (Florence: Molini e Cecchi, 1863), 8. 7.â•‡ Nino Pirrotta invokes the priority of melody in the poet’s creative process when he imagines Giustinian, troubadour-like, “composing his poems not by aligning the syllables on paper but by trying, with the help of his voice and his instrument, to adjust the rhythm of the words to that of the melodic phrases and to match the rhymes to the cadences of the music.” See “Ricercare and Variations on O rosa bella,” in Music and Culture in Italy from the Middle Ages to the Baroque (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 147. 8.â•‡ The Florentine improvisatory singing culture is discussed at greater length in my “Cicero Domesticated.” 9.â•‡ Paul F. Gehl, A Moral Art: Grammar, Society, and Culture in Trecento Florence (IthÂ� aca: Cornell University Press, 1993), chap. 1. 10.â•‡ Ibid., 28. 11.â•‡ On this development, see Frank D’Accone, “The Singers of San Giovanni in Florence during the 15th Century,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 14 (1961): 307–58; and “Some Neglected Composers in the Florentine Chapels, ca. 1475–1525,” Viator 1 (1970): 263–88. On the development of polyphonic chapels in the Florentine confraternities, see Blake Wilson, Music and Merchants: the Laudesi Companies of Republican Florence (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992). 12.â•‡ For an edition and study of this source see Howard Mayer Brown, A Florentine Chansonnier from the Time of Lorenzo the Magnificent: Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Cen trale, MS Banco rari 229, 2 vols., Monuments of Renaissance Music 7 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983). The other eight chansonniers are: Berlin, Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, Kupferstichkabinett, ms 78.C.28 (early 1470s?); Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, Magliabechiano XIX.176 (late 1470s); Florence, Biblioteca Riccardiana, ms 2356 (ca. 1480); Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, f.fr. ms 15123 (early to mid 1480s); Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, Magliabechiano XIX.178 (early 1490s); Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, ms Cappella Giulia XIII.27 (ca. 1492–1494); and Bologna, Museo Internazion-

Isaac the Teacherâ•… ·â•… 301 ale, ms Q17 (mid 1490s). On the dating of these sources see David Fallows, A Catalogue of Polyphonic Songs, 1415–1480 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 6–38; but on the recent redating of the Berlin ms, see Sean Gallagher, “The Berlin Chansonnier and French Song in Florence, 1450–1490: A New Dating and Its Implications,” Journal of Musicology 24 (2007): 339–64. 13.â•‡ In 1478–1479, the duties at Santissima Annunziata of Arnolfo Giliardi, a northerner appointed as a cathedral singer in 1473, included instruction of the convent’s novices in figural music (i.e., the principles of reading, writing, and performing polyphony); D’Accone, “Some Neglected Composers,” 265. One of the early Florentine polyphonists, Alessandro Coppini, entered the priesthood at Santissima Annunziata in 1475, and probably studied with Giliardi at this time. For a fuller biography of Giliardi, see Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart, 2nd edition, s.v. “Greban, Arnoul.” A teacher of figural music to novices is also recorded at Santo Spirito in 1486 and 1488; D‘Accone, “Some Neglected Composers,” 276. By 1436, the laudesi company of Orsanmichele began hiring such a teacher; Wilson, Music and Merchants, 84–86. 1ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½å°“ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ 4.â•‡ Frank D’Accone, “Alessandro Coppini and Bartolomeo degli Organi: Two Florentine Composers of the Renaissance,” Analecta Musicologica 4 (1967): 53. Baccio’s musical education is also addressed in Richard Trexler, “Newly Identified Works by Bartolomeo degli Organi in the MS Bologna Q17,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 23 (1970): 107–18. On composing in three parts, see also Bonnie Blackburn, “On Compositional Process in the Fifteenth Century,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 40 (1987): 210–84, esp. 259, 276. 15.â•‡ The three-part setting of Poi che vivo is found on fols. 98v–99r of the Pixérécourt Chansonnier, and is edited in Edward Pease, An Edition of the Pixérécourt Manuscript: Paris Bibliothèque Nationale, Fonds. Fr. 15123 (Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 1959), 283–86. Belcari’s text is in Galletti, Laude spirituali, 53. On the polyphonic song, see also Fallows, Catalogue of Polyphonic Songs, 556. 16.â•‡ Regina del cor mio was a cantasi come model for nine other laude, including Antonio di Guido’s Donna in cui venne il sole, while Belcari’s Genitrice di Dio was sung to the music of two other secular songs by Giustinian. 17.â•‡ Nino Pirrotta, “Ricercare and Variations on O Rosa Bella,” in Music and Culture in Italy from the Middle Ages to the Baroque (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 147. 18.â•‡ See Fallows, Catalogue of Polyphonic Song, 624–25 (where a number of reworkings are cited, as well), 725 (for a brief biographical sketch of Wreede, a northern singer in the employ of the Duke of Alba in 1476). The music is edited and briefly discussed in Leeman Perkins, Music in the Age of the Renaissance (New York: Norton, 1999), 492–94. D’Albizo’s lauda text is edited in Galletti, Laude spirituali, 75–76. 19.â•‡ Florence, Archivio di Stato, Corporazione Religiose soppresse dal Governo Francese, 78 (Badia Fiorentina), vol. 319 (hereafter BF 319). For a more extended discussion of these and other Angeni letters, see my “Heinrich Isaac Among the Florentines,” Journal of Musicology 23 (2006): 97–152. 20.â•‡ On Florentine youth brigades, see Richard Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Flor ence (New York: Academic Press, 1980), 225–33, 387–99; and, with particular relevance to the time and musical activities of Antonio’s brigata, William F. Prizer, “Reading Carnival: the Creation of a Florentine Carnival Song,” Early Music History 23 (2004): 185–252, esp. 192–93. 21.â•‡ BF 319, fol. 232r [July 1489]: “. . . in deta schatola e fuse mandato uno quade[r]nucio di più nuove d’Arigho e molta stimate qui.” 22.â•‡ Ibid., fol. 282v (29 December 1487): “. . . nuova alchuna chonposizione d’Arigho, ove intendo v’à dimostro in essa avere gran fantaxia . . .”

302â•… ·â•… Blake Wilson 23.â•‡ On this piece, see Tim McGee, “Alla battaglia: Music and Ceremony in FifteenthCentury Florence,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 36 (1983): 299–302; my “Heinrich Isaac Among the Florentines” presents revisions to McGee’s thesis, and further analysis and discussion of the work. 24.â•‡ BF 319, fol. 211v (5 February 1487 [1488]): “. . . perché è chosa lungha, e la fretta di chopiarla ò fatto molti erori . . .” 25.â•‡ The Florentine careers of these singers and those mentioned below are documented in D’Accone, “Singers of San Giovanni,” passim. 26.â•‡ Dizionario biografico degli italiani, s.v. “Filicaia, Alessandro da.” 27.â•‡ BF 319, fol. 258v [20 September 1488]: “Avisandoti che quando chostì fusti alchuna voce di chontroabaso buona, e di chontralto e tenoriste arebono qui buono richapito. Il perché Nicholo di Loro s’è di qui partito, lasciato la chapella ed esi achoncio chon Re d’Ungeria, e simile Bartolomeo che molto dispiaciuto à Lorenzo la loro partita sanza sua saputa. Tutto a tuo aviso perché posendo farò bene alchuno tuo amicho posi.” 28.â•‡ See Stephen Self, The ‘Si Placet’ Repertoire of 1480–1530, Recent Researches in Music of the Renaissance 106 (Madison, Wisc.: A-R Editions, 1996). 29.â•‡ Blackburn, “On Compositional Process,” 211. 30.â•‡ BF 319, fol. 211v. 31.â•‡ Blackburn, “On Compositional Process,” 212–19. 32.â•‡ Edited with bass part by Helen Hewitt, Ottaviano Petrucci: Canti B, Number Cinquanta, Monuments of Renaissance Music 2 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1967), no. 16. The relationship of this piece to shifting compositional processes in late fifteenth-century Florence is discussed in greater depth in my “Heinrich Isaac Among the Florentines.” 33.â•‡ It is tempting to regard as closely related Ambrogio’s use of the term congiuga (“well put together”) to describe Alla battaglia, and Aaron’s use (or at least that of his Latin translator, Giovanni Antonio Flaminio) of concinniorem (“more fitly joined together,” “appropriately arranged”) to describe harmonic composition. On the latter, see Blackburn, “On Compositional Process,” 213–14. 34.â•‡ Documents referring to Isaac as komponist and compositore are discussed in Frank D’Accone, “Heinrich Isaac in Florence: New and Unpublished Documents,” Musical Quar terly 49 (1963): 477; Martin Staehelin, Die Messen Heinrich Isaacs, 3 vols. (Bern: Paul Haupt, [1978]), 2: 19; and Rob C. Wegman, “From Maker to Composer,” 434–36, 465. The Isaac of Ambrogio’s letters—congenial and ever ready to compose—appears to be confirmed later in the famous report of Duke Ercole d’Este’s talent scout, Gian de Artiganova, who described Isaac as “good-natured and companionable, and he will compose new works more often [than Josquin]”; cited in Lewis Lockwood, Music in Renaissance Ferrara (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 204.

15 Zacconi as Teacher: A Pedagogical Style in Words and Deeds• Russell E. Murray, Jr.

• The act of teaching is an ephemeral one, in many ways held for only a moment by teacher and student. While it can be witnessed, and its contents and methodology can be chronicled, in the end it evaporates with the passage of time. The challenge of recovering such an act from the past is thus a formidable one. And yet, as the studies in this volume ably demonstrate, we do have indirect access to these moments through various types of sources, objects, and images. By investigating the materials used and the manner of their employment, we can, to a limited degree, recreate the conditions of this teaching and gain insight into the teachers and their students. The goal, of course, is elusive. Jon R. Snyder discusses this in the context of his study of the Renaissance dialogue. He notes that in these works, what can be called the “scene of speaking” is a mimetic fiction—we are not witnessing an actual conversation, but a fictional one that mirrors both the subject and the form.1 Yet careful reading of these texts can provide real insight into both ideas and epistemology. Renaissance treatises, like the other evidence presented in this volume, can likewise offer us similar insight into the “scene of teaching”—both its practice and its philosophy.

304â•… ·â•… Russell E. Murray, Jr.

The focus of this essay is the overarching concept of pedagogical philosophy—that is to say, how a teacher viewed his craft and how he saw his approach as distinct from that of others. I will explore this by focusing on the teaching of Ludovico Zacconi (1555–1627), and specifically on his manner of teaching counterpoint as outlined in the second part of his Prattica di musica.2 Zacconi (perhaps more than most) seemed interested in—and articulated clearly—what he thought constituted good and bad teaching, and by word and deed put that pedagogical philosophy into practice. Before looking in detail at Zacconi’s text, it will be helpful to explore the role of such texts in our understanding of pedagogy. Musical treatises can tell us many things about musical learning. First and foremost, these works tell us from their tables of contents something of the boundaries and the focus of learning. They also tell us something about the context of learning, and perhaps even the location. Take, as an initial example, Gioseffo Zarlino’s Istitutioni harmoniche (1558).3 Here is the classic textbook, written in the form of a disquisition. Examples are illustrative, carefully crafted or chosen, and designed to be perused at leisure. It is encyclopedic, and one can infer that Zarlino assumed that this knowledge would be gained by the reader through long, solitary study.4 Other treatises suggest different approaches to learning. Giovanni Maria Artusi’s Arte del contraponto (1586) takes Gioseffo Zarlino’s huge work and “reduces it in tabular form” as an outline of the material—almost like modern lecture notes.5 Similarly, Valerio Bona’s Regole del contraponto et compositione (1595) is “briefly collected from diverse authors.” Its purpose is to present a condensed version of others’ work—in Bona’s words, “to provide food that the stomach can digest.”6 In many ways, these two works are really formalized versions of the Renaissance commonplace book. Other sorts of teaching materials (broadsides, manuals, anthologies) provide different approaches to learning and inhabit different cultural strata.7 While all of these seem to promise a shortcut to learning, the material presented and the mode of learning are little different from what is found in their larger cousins. These examples generally represent a passive approach to learning and teaching as a whole. The student learns by reading and “digesting” the material, and the author/teacher’s job is to put the material in appropriate form. At the opposite end of the spectrum are the various theoretical dialogues of the time.8 The outward conceit of a dialogue, of course, is that we are listening in on a conversation, which allows to us to watch the process of teaching and learning as it unfolds. The student attempts the challenges that the master

Zacconi as Teacherâ•… ·â•… 305

presents and his successes (and even his failures) provide object lessons for the reader.9 Even the settings of dialogues provide information about musical learning, while at the same time setting a distinctive tone. For example, Thomas Morley’s A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke (1597) is set as a chance encounter between a learned musician and a student seeking to learn music as an important social skill.10 The setting is casual, and there is a clear demarcation of student and teacher, as befits the basic subjects being discussed. Pietro Pontio’s two treatises—both dialogues—go beyond the pragmatic approach of Morley to articulate a larger pedagogical approach. The Ragionamento (1588) is a beginner’s introduction to practical music and, like Morley’s text, is set as a chance encounter between a master and an eager student as the former waits to meet with the renowned ridotto of Mario Bevilacqua (to whom the volume is dedicated).11 Pontio’s Dialogo (1595), on the other hand, deals with more advanced and intellectual issues;12 here the setting is a conversation in the Veronese Accademia Filarmonica (to which this volume, in turn, is dedicated). One of the most famous members of the Accademia, Count Alessandro Bevilacqua, leads two Veronese noblemen, Giordano Sarego and Marco Verità, in their discussions.13 In the Dialogo we overhear an elevated conversation among equals, and from our privileged vantage point we can listen and learn. It is easy to assume that such conversations are reliable sources for looking at the act of teaching, but these glimpses into the teaching world need to be taken with a grain of salt. For example, if we believe Morley, the student Philomathes is the epitome of the diligent self-starter. After only the most basic instruction, he set himself diligently to apply my pricksong book that in a manner I did no other thing but sing, practising to skip from one key to another, from flat to sharp, from sharp to flat, from any one place in the scale to another, so that there was no song so hard but I would venture upon it, no Mood nor Proportion so strange but I would go through and sing perfectly before I left it; and in the end I came to such perfection that I might have been my brother’s master . . .14

Morley here evokes the diligent student; in the Ragionamento, on the other hand, we might believe the author to be the infallible teacher, for seldom is even the most difficult concept explained without the student responding, “I truly see it to be as you say,” or “I have understood these reasons of yours very well, and believe in truth that it is so.” While much of this can be


explained in terms of the norms of dialogic writing, such exchanges also can be viewed as encouragement to the putative student, in effect saying, “if you apply yourself in this manner, you, too, may succeed.” Other writers provide an insight into the realities of actual teaching, and even how students reacted to the instruction they received. They can provide us with an understanding of who was taught, and what they learned. According to Adrianus Petit Coclico, for example, Josquin believed in limiting the teaching of composition to those “who were drawn to this delightful art by a special natural impulse.”15 We know as well that there were accepted approaches to the daily routines of teaching, and that, as always, students reacted negatively to change. Pontio’s real-life students, for example, complained bitterly about the fact that he spent little time in one-on-one instruction, and that he didn’t teach “like the former maestro.”16 Such examples, especially those from dialogues, offer a seemingly direct view into the world of teaching. Zacconi’s treatise offers another, perhaps sidelong, glimpse into this world of musical pedagogy—one that is less idealized than the writings of the dialogist, and perhaps more reflective of actual practice. In his Prattica, Zacconi takes on a conversational tone—one in which the author famously comments on his contemporaries.17 He likewise turns a critical eye toward teaching and teachers, and pointedly draws attention to what he views as bad pedagogy. For example, while lauding the methods of his own teacher, Andrea Gabrieli, he complains about teachers who do not guide their students, who instead “teach a few principles of counterpoint, and then give the student complete liberty so that, as musicians are wont to say, they simply string notes together.”18 Zacconi also complains about those who, in presenting a problem to the student, badger him by saying things such as, “What would you do over these four notes? Think carefully in your mind what you want to do here, and let me hear it before you write any notes on the cartella . . .”19 These sorts of comments on teaching provide a unique and natural view of the process that may be more valuable than the unnaturally perfect world of the dialogue. But beyond the description of the behavior of other teachers, Zacconi provides us clues to his own pedagogical agenda in the materials that he provides his readers, and the way in which they are utilized. This is perhaps most evident in his discussion of counterpoint. As will be shown, Zacconi provides a distinctive approach, but one that proves to be firmly grounded in the musical realities of the day.


Contrapunto was an important part of Renaissance musical life and encompassed a wide range of practice. On one hand, it was a technique for creating simple polyphony (usually liturgical), either in improvised or written form. In this sense, it was primarily a performance practice, a skill to be learned. On the other hand, it was a technique of intervallic manipulation, used in the composition of formal polyphony. Here it became a discipline to be mastered step by step on the cartella or on the written page. The fullest realization of this is in the species method of counterpoint that eventually became the staple of musical instruction. However, much of the pedagogy of this time inhabited a middle ground, and that is the use of sung counterpoint as a transitional stage leading to composition. Pietro Pontio expresses this view in his Ragionamento when he states that counterpoint “is the beginning and the road that leads to composition, since from there come later many beautiful and varied compositions.”20 Zacconi echoes that ideal in his introduction, where he suggests that his intended reader is a young musician who wishes to become a composer—a task that can only be accomplished by way of counterpoint: “I am moved to create this work for no other reason than to shed light and help those eager youths who take great delight and joy in practicing music and singing it, and who desire to learn to become perfect composers. And this will not be done except by way of counterpoint.”21 Zacconi’s definition of basic counterpoint reflects this performance-oriented approach, defining it as a “melody above a subject” with the following important elements: 1)â•‡ The subject must be complete and unchanged (i.e., a borrowed chant). 2)â•‡ The subject will preferably be in even note values. 3)â•‡ The counterpoint will serve as a decoration to the chant.22

That Zacconi viewed counterpoint through a performative lens is also set out in his introduction to the volume. Here he points to composer Costanzo Porta as a model for the reader to aspire to, describing him as among the “most rare” of modern contrapuntists.23 Although Zacconi discusses a number of types of counterpoint (including multiple performers singing “on the book”), he concentrates in this treatise on the simple two-voice style. In many Renaissance treatises, instruction in counterpoint typically begins with a detailed discussion of what interval can pass to what other interval, and how. Turning back to Pontio’s Ragionamento, we see a good example of this as he begins his discussion with a systematic investigation of each interval. His strategy is straightforward: defining the interval and then


Example 15.1. Pietro Pontio, Ragionamento di musica (Parma, 1588), 53. Passage from a minor sixth to a fifth.

stating how many “passages” it has—that is, to what other interval it can pass. His introduction to the minor sixth is typical: The minor sixth, which comprises three sesquioctave tones and two semitones, will have seven passages. The first will be made from the sixth to the fifth, the second from the sixth to the third, the third from the sixth to the octave, the fourth from the sixth to the unison, the fifth from the sixth to the tenth, the sixth from the sixth to the second, and the seventh from the sixth to the fourth.24

For each passage there is an example, such as the one for the passage from the minor sixth to a fifth on the strong beat (see example 15.1). This process is repeated for all the intervals. Each example uses a different tenor, demonstrating a mix of canto plano and canto figurato. Some are clearly in the style of cantus firmus-based counterpoint, while others follow more the style of the equal-voice composed duo. In short, they exhibit that ground between counterpoint and composition and provide the widest possible variety. Pontio asks the student to learn by written example, and seems to concentrate on the internalization of discrete principles by exposure to good and bad examples. In this, his approach echoes Zarlino. He deals with abstract musical techniques, and his method suggests that the student would first learn these rules, and then learn to apply them in other situations. If we look again at example 15.1 with this in mind, we see that there is really only one crucial thing to learn—the passage marked with asterisks. The remainder is superfluous, and it is hard to tell whether the examples are intended to be sung or are merely there for study. The latter seems the most probable. As sung examples, they are too short to provide real experience for the contrapuntist. Instead, they seem to serve the needs of the contrapuntist as budding composer by teaching discrete rules and putting them in the context of a longer passage. Zacconi’s approach is markedly different. Like Pontio, he begins with definitions of counterpoint (though in much more detail) and a brief discus-


Example 15.2. Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica . . . seconda parte (Venice, 1622), 108. Counterpoints made from four Kyries.

sion of consonance and dissonance. However, his discussion of intervals is more generalized, listing allowable movements (e.g., moving from a perfect to an imperfect consonance by contrary or oblique motion) or prohibited movements (e.g., consecutive perfect intervals). The discussion of intervals is followed by a discussion of different types of counterpoint and some examples of specific principles to follow. This leads into the most extensive section, which begins with a brief discussion of how to learn counterpoint, focusing on three principles:


1)â•‡ Learn to use consonances and dissonances. 2)â•‡ Use the same cantus firmus for each new counterpoint. 3)â•‡ Never create counterpoints without obligations.25

Here, then, is the heart of his pedagogical program—a systematic approach in which increasingly sophisticated obligations are used to create counterpoints over a common cantus firmus that would serve as a model for the student’s own work. This is followed by a formidable collection of examples that follow the last two dicta, especially the use of obligations. What is interesting is that the obligations mainly consist of fitting well-known musical incipits over a chant tenor. The scope of this endeavor can be appreciated by referring to table 15.1, which lists the various contrapuntal combinations. The compilation is at once encyclopedic and problematic. Many of the examples contain errors in typesetting, and others produce counterpoints that are, at best, awkward. In general, the examples are more valuable as a guide to a technique than as a satisfying realization of that principle. In chapter 53 of the Prattica, for example, Zacconi begins a lengthy process of demonstrating various obligations on a single cantus firmus, the incipit to the Salve Regina. He begins with expected obligations such as the hexachord and the notes of the cantus firmus in various types of imitation. In chapter 61, however, he takes an interesting turn, and shows the reader how to sing different plainchants over the Salve Regina, beginning with four different Kyries—the Kyrie de gl’Apostoli (IV), Kyrie della Domenicale (XI), Kyrie della Madonna (IX), and Kyrie de morti (Requiem). Example 15.2 shows these counterpoints. This begins a stream of such combinative counterpoints, concluding with a demonstration in chapter 66 of the four Marian antiphons combined with each other in sixteen different permutations. Figure 15.1 shows the first four of these counterpoints. Here the melodies for Regina Caeli, Alma Redemptoris Mater, and Ave Regina Caelorum are to be sung individually against the tenor, which is taken from Salve Regina. The final counterpoint on the page combines the incipits of all three to be sung against the Salve. The other twelve counterpoints presented in this section repeat this process, rotating the chant used as the cantus firmus (see table 15.1). Chapter 67 presents a culmination of this process. Here, Zacconi combines abstract patterns, chant incipits, and madrigal incipits to create a counterpoint, all against the drone of church bells as imitated by the tenor (see figure 15.2). In the next chapter he repeats the process with a two-note “Cucu” as the cantus firmus in the upper voice.


Table 15.1. Ludovico Zacconi’s counterpoints on Salve Regina.

Chapter 53: On the obligation to sing continually ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la. Above the subject Below the subject Chapter 54: On the obligation, over the same subject, to sing continually la, sol, fa, mi, re, ut. Above the subject Below the subject Chapter 55: On the liberty that contrapuntists may take with the rules because of obligations. Chapter 56: On the obligation to continually sing the same [notes as the subject]. Above the subject Below the subject Chapter 57: How in the same manner this can be done in other ways, and with the same part. After one beat After two beats After three beats After four beats Chapter 58: On the obligation of singing the same notes as the subject in counterpoint, in reverse. The subject in retrograde The subject in retrograde inversion The subject in inversion Singing la sol fa re mi Singing la sol fa re mi in inversion Chapter 59: On the obligation of singing continually la, sol, la, re, which are the first four notes of the subject. Chapter 60: On the counterpoint to be made on the same subject of the Salve Regina by means of the proportion of inequality of the measure as well as the saltarello. Chapter 61: On obligating oneself, or being obligated to sing in counterpoint over this canto fermo the first Kyrie of the Apostles, of Domenica, of the Madonna, and for the dead. Counterpoints made from: Kyrie IV Kyrie XI Kyrie IX Kyrie from the Requiem Mass Chapter 62: On some other obligations more famous and unusual. Counterpoints made from: Ad caenam Agni providi Ave maris stella Iste confessor Veni creator spiritus

(continued on next page)



Jesu nostra redemptio Exsultet caelum Te Deum laudamus Magnificat Requiem aeternam

Chapter 63: On two and more subjects in a single obligation. Counterpoints made from: Da pacem and Requiem aeternam Gaudeamus omnes, Salva nos, Veni sponsa Christi, Asperges me, Libera me Domine, and Salve sancta Parens The incipits of the Magnificat in the festal tones Chapter 64: On obligations pertaining to the subjects of figured song. A counterpoint made from the incipits of Vestiva i colli, Ancor che col partire, Io son ferito ahi lasso, Nasce la pena mia, Il bianco e dolce cigno, and Liquide perle Amor Chapter 65: Reminders and specific advice about the obligations of fugues that can be given to a contrapuntist, or that he himself wishes to choose. Real and tonal answers Chapter 66: A universal demonstration of how, and by exchange, four subjects are placed on or combined with the first subject. Counterpoints made from: Regina caeli, Alma Redemptoris Mater, Ave Regina caelorum, and the three combined on the subject Salve Regina Regina caeli, Ave Regina caelorum, Salve Regina, and the three combined on the subject Alma Redemptoris Mater Salve Regina, Alma Redemptoris Mater, Regina caeli, and the three combined on the subject Ave Regina caelorum Ave Regina caelorum, Alma Redemptoris Mater, Salve Regina, and the three combined on the subject Regina Caeli Chapter 67: How, over the continuous sounding of the bell, placing it in one voice in place of the canto fermo so that it sings the same note, and in a continuous voice, and on this one can make all the obligations that a man could wish. Counterpoints made from: The hexachord, Salve Regina, and a saltarello Kyrie IV and Kyrie IX Kyrie XI, the Kyrie from the Requiem Mass, and Liquide perle Amor. Gaudeamus omnes, Salva nos, Libera me Domine, Vestiva i colli, and Ave maris stella Ad coenam Agni providi, Veni creator spiritus, Iste confessor, Veni sponsa Christi, and Anchor che col partire Magnificat on the 1st, 6th, 8th, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 7th tones Jesu nostra redemptio, Exsultet caelum, Te Deum laudamus, and Io son ferito ahi lasso Requiem aeternam, Salve sancta Parens, Il bianco e dolce cigno


Chapter 68: A Catholic protestation, necessary and specific, concerning some combinations and obligations that I wish to choose, in order to make my ideas clear to the student. Counterpoints on the subject “Cucu” made from: The hexachord, Te Deum laudamus, Veni sponsa Christi, and Alma Redemptoris Mater Kyrie IX and Kyrie XI Salve Regina, Salva nos, and Gaudeamus omnes Magnificat on the 8th tone and Asperges me Regina caeli, Exsultet caelum, Ave Regina caelorum, and Requiem aeternam Kyrie IV, Salve sancta Parens, Da pacem, and Requiem aeternam Ave maris stella, Ancor che col partire, Nasce la pena mia, and Libera me Domine Liquide perle Amor, Kyrie from the Requiem Mass, and Veni creator spiritus Counterpoints on the subject “O spazza camin” made from: The hexachord, Requiem aeternam, Te Deum laudamus, and Magnificat on the 5th tone Salve Regina Ave Regina caelorum, the Kyrie of the Requiem Mass, and Gaudeamus omnes Regina caeli, Da pacem, and Requiem aeternam Veni creator spiritus, Jesu nostra redemptio, and Exsultet caelum Il bianco e dolce cigno, Salva nos, and Liquide perle Amor Alma Redemptoris Mater Sancta Parens and Ad coenam Agni Kyrie IV Kyrie XI and Nasce la pena mia Ave maris stella, and Requiem aeternam Libera me Domine and Kyrie IX Iste confessor, Veni sponsa Christi, and Asperges me Magnificat in the 8th tone

What do these examples tell us about larger pedagogical principles, and what exactly is Zacconi attempting to accomplish with them? While other theorists explored the use of obligations, they did so in a very different way. Typically, these obligations served the purpose of creating challenges and difficulties for the advanced student, such as invertible counterpoint, counterpoint limited to specific kinds of intervals or rhythmic passages, etc. They are often the culmination of contrapuntal study, and tied closely to the techniques of canon. Here the intent seems just the opposite; that is, Zacconi makes the act of singing a counterpoint an easier matter, and thereby allows the student to take what he knows and apply it in practice in order to internalize a technique.

Figure 15.1. Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica . . . seconda parte (Venice, 1622), 115 (Rare Books Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library). Four counterpoints made from the Marian antiphons.

Figure 15.2. Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica . . . seconda parte (Venice, 1622), 120 (Rare Books Division, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library). Four counterpoints made on “il suono della Campana.”


Example 15.3. Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica . . . seconda parte (Venice, 1622), 112. Counterpoint made from Da pacem and Requiem aeternam incipits.

With that in mind, we can look at one of Zacconi’s simplest examples (see example 15.3). As can be seen, the opening notes of two chants, Da pacem and the introit of the Requiem Mass, are repeated over and over in alternation to form a counterpoint. Zacconi hints at the pedagogical underpinnings of this example when he addresses the question of whether the words of his examples should be sung, especially when the sacred and secular are mixed. “I don’t pretend to adopt the words,” he said, “but simply those musical notes on which these melodies are based, and simply to employ them so that the melodies and types may be heard.”26 The words, then, serve a distinct purpose. The notes of the quoted melodies are obligations, just like ut, re, mi, or any other abstract subject. In the present example, they are simply rising and falling figures, and the exercise could aptly be labeled “How to create a counterpoint using only upper and lower neighbor tones.” But the intervals are from well-known chant incipits and the words serve as a quick reference to what would have been well-known melodic patterns. They are not abstract combinations of notes; rather, they are internalized melodic formulas, and using them frees the singer from searching for notes, instead allowing him to focus on the skill of moving from consonance to consonance. Looking again at the first counterpoint in example 15.2, we can imagine how easily the notes of the well-known Kyrie would have flowed from the young singer. In this we recognize techniques—used by many in teaching (and performing) jazz improvisation—of quoting snippets of popular tunes where they fit a specific portion of the changes being played.


In these examples of simple counterpoint, Zacconi satisfies his core principles. A single cantus firmus is used, over which increasingly sophisticated obligations are placed, all designed to allow the student to make a connection between the melodic movement of the tenor and a wide variety of melodic formulas in the counterpoint. It is an active approach to learning, easily replicated by the reader of the treatise, and amenable to easy expansion. We can look at it and see teaching (or maybe more accurately, learning) in action. Having made the case that Zacconi articulates a coherent and effective strategy for the teaching of counterpoint, a few nagging questions remain. Zacconi’s work exists in the semi-vacuum of the dilettante. Nobody would doubt the credentials of any of the other theorists cited in this chapter: Zarlino, Pontio, and Morley; their accomplishments as teachers, writers and composers place them in a position of authority. But Zacconi, with an unfocused musical career, no identifiable students, and no musical compositions has—as James Haar has noted in his essay—little to place him in this echelon. Likewise, the pedagogical efficacy of the exercises stand in stark contrast to the aesthetic poverty they often represent. In many cases the constant repetition of an idea, the incessant use of quotation, and awkward rhythms needed to shoehorn the melodies into the patterns of the tenor might initially make us doubt that these pieces reflected anything approaching actual practice. But two musical sources testify to the authenticity of this practice. The first is Costanzo Festa’s many counterpoints on “La Spagna.”27 That these pieces had a pedagogical purpose is clear in a letter from Festa to Filippo Strozzi, in which the composer writes that it would be well to include his counterpoints in a print of Hymns and Magnificats because sono bone per imparare a cantar a contrapunto a componare et a sonar di tutti li strumenti.28 Festa’s counterpoints explore various techniques, and many use various obligations to create at least one of the voices. But of immediate interest are counterpoints 93–95 and counterpoint 115, all of which use paraphrased plainchant for one of the voices.29 Also of interest is number 98, in which Festa quotes the incipits of ten madrigals from Arcadelt’s Primo Libro. While less dense in quotation (and more elegant in composition), it is of a piece with Zacconi’s combinatorial examples. Festa’s examples testify to the widespread nature of the practice of using well-known melodies to generate musical material for contrapuntal writing, but they are carefully worked out artistic echoes of this practice and reflect the trained composer’s craft, not the practice of Zacconi’s audience. For a more realistic picture of that world—one in which some contrapuntists advanced


Example 15.4. Adriano Banchieri, excerpt from Festino nella sera del giovedi grasso avanti cena (Venice, 1608). “Contrappunto bestiale alla mente.”

no farther than singing small melodic fragments over and over in a vain attempt to create a real counterpoint, we need do no more than consider Adriano Banchieri’s famous (and popularly misunderstood) Contrappunto bestiale (see example 15.4). While this short piece can be taken at face value as a lighthearted musical joke, it is worth noting from the title that the animals are singing alla mente, and the parts that they sing are little more than the simplest of obligations. The owl’s part, for example, might be notated by Zacconi as “with the obligation of singing always sol and la in alternation.” Likewise, the dog’s baying “always on the note fa” is just as regular and mindless. The cat’s part is, far and away, the most complicated, having the widest variety of pitches and most complicated patterns. Perhaps he is the most advanced of the students. But it is the cuckoo’s part that is the most relevant. He must take his simple obligation “always to sing la fa” and move its rhythmic placement to match the changing notes of the cantus firmus. This is not at all different from the Da pacem and Requiem incipits used in example 15.3. It seems that Banchieri’s piece, then, also serves as a gentle parody of the animalistic sounds emanating from the kind of exercises proposed by Zacconi and, we can assume, other maestri of the period.


Having taken the measure of his technique, we must address the question of Zacconi as teacher and the nature of his audience. Perhaps Zacconi can best be viewed as something of a musical seeker. Often dissatisfied with the formal instruction he had received, his central experiences (as related in his many anecdotes) seem to have revolved around brief—and often chance— encounters with those he saw as inspired teachers in one-on-one settings. In large measure, the “seeker” label might apply to his intended audience as well. His agenda seems clear: others may provide information for the student, but without the active approach to learning that he outlines, the student will be frustrated. In many ways, I believe that he saw himself as a mentor and advisor—augmenting through pedagogy the easily obtained general knowledge of the contrapuntist. Further, he seems to be driven by the desire to share these secrets that other contrapuntists appear to have kept to themselves, thus providing to a larger readership a substitute for those chance encounters. Returning once more to his introductory chapter, we can see that he hints at this secretive nature, noting that many musicians seem to prefer taking their knowledge to the grave rather than writing it down, and that those still living keep these secrets “in their pockets,” refusing to share them with others, even if they are only of limited use.30 One of these secretive musici was Costanzo Porta who, according to Zacconi, once commented to a student (speaking of Zacconi’s first Prattica of 1592) that “for a thousand ducats I would not have given out the secrets that this Brother has.”31 Whether true or not, the story highlights Zacconi’s self-image as a teller of truths. Moreover, Porta’s valuation of this in financial terms portrays the information that Zacconi is imparting as something of both value and validity. Zacconi’s self-defined role, then, is that of pedagogical medium, and he gives every indication (and here I am inclined to trust him) that what he advocates reflects the pedagogical style of others, notably a group of musicians associated with Venice. He tells this story of his own teacher, Andrea Gabrieli: There was one student (not to name names) who had made many counterpoints on a cantus firmus. Being sick of it, he asked the Master to change it for him. The Master glared at him disapprovingly and said “Change what? Pay attention and you’ll see that you have learned nothing . . . Take the same lesson for another two months, and every day make all that you can on it.” Two months passed. The student returned and said “Please, sir, change this lesson, I don’t know what more I can do with it.” To this


Example 15.5. Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica . . . seconda parte (Venice, 1622), 84. Example for making counterpoint alla mente.

[Gabrieli] replied “Oh you poor little thing, you haven’t even begun.” And with that he picked up a pen and made four or five fugues on it, each more beautiful than the first.32

From this, we can surely credit Gabrieli for Zacconi’s insistence that the student work with only one cantus firmus. We can likewise find the roots of his approach to obligations in his observations of a lesser-known master, Ippolito Baccusi (ca. 1550–1609), whose first post was at San Marco during the tenure of Zarlino, and perhaps that of Cipriano de Rore. Having had an unsatisfactory experience with another teacher, Zacconi was amazed to see a young student of Baccusi’s create a counterpoint alla mente with ease.33 If we look at the example Zacconi uses to illustrate this (see example 15.5), we can see that it is nothing more than a series of stock figures, beginning at the third, fifth, or octave of each note of the cantus firmus.34 The student does little more than sight each beginning interval, and then apply the figures. It is a short step to the use of well-known chants as substitutes for those abstract figures. What stands out about the examples discussed here is an active and pragmatic approach to teaching. Zacconi’s method, as outlined in his writing, is experiential, and more importantly, each of his examples provides a model of a process that the student can then replicate. In fact, Zacconi closes his section on counterpoint by telling the student that his job is to experiment, and if he makes a mistake, to try it again. He illustrates this by telling another story, this one concerning his teacher Adrian Willaert improvising a third line to a duo. Having made a mistake, he made no apologies or justifications and simply did it over saying: “I got it right this time.”35 Zacconi’s final advice to his students is to take the ideas they have found in this section and, as he puts it, to “play around with the ideas.”36


Through his writings, Zacconi creates a window through which we can infer some of the pedagogical practices of the masters of his era. It may be that rather than watching Zacconi as teacher in action, what we really are watching is his teachers, and perhaps their teachers as well. Through his casual words he describes the act of teaching, and through his written examples he allows us to take part in that learning.

Notes 1.â•‡ Jon R. Snyder, Writing the Scene of Speaking: Theories of Dialogue in the Late Italian Renaissance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1989). 2.â•‡ Ludovico Zacconi, Prattica di musica seconda parte. Divisa, e distinta in quattro libri (Venice: Alessandro Vicenti, 1622; repr. Bologna: Arnaldo Forni, 1983). The full title makes clear that he will deal with both written (“in cartella”) and improvised (“alla mente”) counterpoint “sopra Canti Fermi,” as well as demonstrating “come si faccino i Contrapunti doppii d’obligo, e con consequenti.” 3.â•‡ Gioseffo Zarlino, Le istitutioni harmoniche (Venice: Francesco Senese, 1558). 4.â•‡ For a deeper look at this sort of approach within the context of the emerging book culture, see Cristle Collins Judd, “Reading Aaron Reading Petrucci,” Early Music History 14 (1995): 121–52. As Anthony Grafton points out in his contribution to the present volume (chap. 8), this was a standard approach to learning at this time. 5.â•‡ Giovani Maria Artusi, L’arte del contraponto ridotta in tavole (Venice: Giacomo Vincenzi & Ricardo Amadino, 1586; repr. Bologna: ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½�ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½� Arnaldo Forni, 1980). In his introduc� tion, Artusi makes clear his debt to Zarlino above all others. 6.â•‡ “. . . per dargli cibo, ch’il suo stomaco possi diggerire . . .” Valerio Bona, Regole del contraponto, et compositione brevemente raccolte da diversi auttori (Casale: Bernardo Grasso, 1595), sig. A 2. For a discussion of the treatise, see Russell E. Murray, Jr., The Voice of the Composer: Theory and Practice in the Works of Pietro Pontio (Ph.D. diss., University of North Texas, 1989), 394–405. 7.â•‡ Jessie Ann Owens’s contribution to the present volume (chap. 17) explores this largely neglected aspect of musical texts. The interaction of form, function, and cultural status can provide a nexus for our understanding of the teaching and learning process. 8.â•‡ The tradition of the musical dialogue in the Renaissance is a long one. The rise in in� terest in this ancient form coincided with the general humanist interest in the poetics of the dialogue. For an extended exploration of this, see Snyder, Writing the Scene of Speaking. 9.â•‡ The idea of the dialogue as a place where “error” can safely be introduced was an important element in contemporary theory about dialogues. Though often deployed in defense of satiric dialogues, these transgressions can be seen as a safe way to introduce controversial subjects. But here they serve the more prosaic function of strengthening an argument or presenting an object lesson. See Snyder, Writing the Scene of Speaking, chap. 3, esp. 101–106, for his discussion of Sperone Speroni’s defense of error. 10.â•‡ Thomas Morley, A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke, set downe in the form of dialogue . . . (London: Peter Short, 1597), ed. R. Alec Harman (New York: W. W. Norton, 1952). The same conceit can be seen in Thoinot Arbeau’s Orchésographie (Langres: Jehan Des Près, 1588). 11.â•‡ Pietro Pontio, Ragionamento di musica (Parma: Viotto, 1588); facs. edition, ed. Suzanne Clercx (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1959). Bevilacqua’s ridotto, alongside the Accademia Filarmonica of Verona, served as an important site for musical performance and discus�

322â•… ·â•… Russell E. Murray, Jr. sion. Among the musicians who dedicated works to Mario and the ridotta (and presumably visited), were Claudio Merulo, Philippe de Monte, Luca Marenzio, Orazio Vecchi, Orlando di Lasso, Girolamo della Casa, and Maddalena Casulana. 12.â•‡ Pietro Pontio, Dialogo del R. M. Don Pietro Pontio parmigiano ove si tratta della theorica, e prattica di musica et anco si mostra la diversità de’ contrapunti, & canoni (Parma: Viotto, 1595), electronic edition, ed. Frans Wiering and Russell E. Murray, Jr., at Thesaurus Musicarum Italicarum (http://euromusicology.cs.uu.nl/, 2002). 13.â•‡ Alessandro was Mario’s nephew, and Verità was also an important musical person� age with a number of musical collections dedicated to him (including Monteverdi’s first book of madrigals in 1587). This august company was more appropriate for a book that dealt with matters such as the invention of music, aesthetics, and complex canonic writing. For a discussion of the aesthetic dimensions, see my “The Theorist as Critical Listener: Pietro Pontio’s Nine Cause di varietà,” Theoria 10 (2003): 19–58. 14.â•‡ Morley, A plaine and easie introduction, 140. 15.â•‡ Andreas Petit Coclico, Compendium musices (Nuremburg, 1552; facs. edition, Kas� sel: Bärenreiter, 1954), sig. F2v. Cited and translated in John Milsom, “Analysing Josquin,” in Richard Sherr, ed., The Josquin Companion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 431. Jeffery Dean has, in a series of papers, explored the question of Coclico’s veracity. In any event, true or not, the statement stands as a valid perspective of the time. 16.â•‡ See my “On the Teaching Duties of the Maestro di Cappella in Sixteenth-Century Italy: The Processo against Pietro Pontio,” Explorations in Renaissance Culture 14 (1988): 115–28. The material comes from a processo that was instituted against Pontio when he was Maestro at the church of Santa Maria Maggiore in Bergamo, and eventually led to his dismissal. 17.â•‡ Most famously, Zacconi commented on the strengths and weaknesses of noted composers. See James Haar, “A Sixteenth-Century Attempt at Music Criticism,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 36 (1983): 191–209. 18.â•‡ “. . . insegnando di Contrapunto à Scolari; mostratoli un poco de principii, li lasciÂ� ano per longo tempo in libertà, come fra Musici si dice per proverbio d’infilzar note . . .” (Zacconi, Prattica, 83). 19.â•‡ “Che cosa fareste tu sopra queste quattro note; pensa bene nella tua mente quello che tu vi vuoi fare, e poi famelo sentire senza che quì in Cartella tu me ne facci mostra e nota alcuna” (Zacconi, Prattica, 84). The use of the cartella (an erasable wax or slate tablet) by students and professionals is explored in Jessie Ann Owens, Composers at Work: The Craft of Musical Composition, 1450–1600 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 74–107. 20.â•‡ “. . . è il principio, & la strada di poter giungere al componere; perche indi ne vengano poi tante belle, & cosi variate compositioni . . .â†œ” (Pontio, Ragionamento, 22). 21.â•‡ “. . . di non essermi mosso à compor quest’opera; se non per dar lume, & aiutar quei volonterosi gioveni, che pratticando la Musica, & in cantarla ne pigliano gran gusto, e piace� re, bramano di scolari, diventar perfetti compositori. E perche questo non si fà se no per via di contrapunto . . .” (Zacconi, Prattica, 5). The question of his intended audience (or indeed that of any theorist of the time) is a difficult one and will be addressed somewhat later in this essay. I am indebted to Honey Meconi for highlighting this issue in her comments to the spoken version of this article. Her other insightful comments have helped enormously in the revisions for the present version. 22.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica, 57–58. 23.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica, 5. As will be seen, his acknowledged mastery did not save him from Zacconi’s opprobrium. Porta himself made a clear case for the distinction between composer and contrapuntist in a letter to Carlo Borromeo recommending his student Giulio Cesare Gabuzzi for the position of maestro di cappella in Milan: “. . . e Contrapuntista da prova, Com� pone bennissimo . . . [e] ben dotato d’una bellissima voce de contr’alto et canta gratiosamente” (Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Lettere a San Carlo, F. 63 inf., fols. 398–398v).

Zacconi as Teacherâ•… ·â•… 323 24.â•‡ “La Sesta minore, quale contiene in se tre Toni Sesquiottavi, & due semitoni, havrà sette passaggi; Il primo farà dalla Sesta alla Quinta; Il secondo dalla Sesta alla Terza, Il terzo dalla Sesta alla Ottava; Il quarto dalla Sesta all’Unisono; Il quinto dalla Sesta alla Decima; Il sesto dalla Sesta alla Seconda, & il settimo dalla Sesta alla Quarta” (Pontio, Ragionamento, 53). 25.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica, 83. The use of obligations was a standard aspect of teaching and composition. This ranged from writing counterpoint without specific intervals to the exclu� sive use of repeated patterns (such as the hexachord) in the newly composed voice. 26.â•‡ “. . . io non pretendo di adattar le parole . . . ma purramente quelle note Musicali, con le quali esse cose sono state formate e fatte, e per puramente farne sentir i mede[se]mi aeri e maniere” (Zacconi, Prattica, 121). The tradition of using musical devices like the bell or birdsong in chansons and other vocal works was a longstanding one, and this connection to the secular world is at the heart of Zacconi’s seemingly defensive tangent. But while the rationale for this statement was indeed a defense—a Protesto Catholico—of mixing the sacred and secular in his examples, the final sentence is a telling description of the powerful association of words and music among the generally educated musical population. 27.â•‡ See Costanzo Festa, Counterpoints on a Cantus Firmus, ed. Richard J. Agee, Recent Researches in the Music of the Renaissance 107 (Madison, Wisc.: A-R Editions, 1997). 28.â•‡ Richard J. Agee, “Costanzo Festa’s Gradus ad Parnassum,” Early Music History 15 (1996): 1. 29.â•‡ Counterpoint no. 93 makes use of Ave maris stella (LU 1259); no. 94 uses Ave regina caelorum (LU 1864); no. 95 uses Da pacem Domine (LU 1867); and no. 115 uses Ut queant laxis (LU 1504). Each differs in the closeness of the paraphrase to the original, and in the degree to which the chant melody permeates the other voices. 30.â•‡ “. . . vedendo che fin quì molti Musici più che eccellenti morendo, quel tanto che di raro sapeano, più tosto si sono voluto portarlo in sepoltura, che lasciarlo in scrittura ad ogn’uno che ne l’havesse voluto havere. Et i vivi ch’ancor frà di noi dimorano, altresi tenen� dosi in ciò l meglio in saccoccia per ancor loro sorsi far il simile, se ne servano solamente in alcune occasioni, senza che la communanza de scolari n’habbino punto da participare” (Zacconi, Prattica, 5). 31.â•‡ “Per mille Ducati, io non haverei dato fuoir i secreti c’hà dato questo Frate” (ibid). 32.â•‡ “. . . ve n’era uno senza nominarlo c’havendo fatto molti Contrapunti sopra un Canto fermo, essendone stuffo, adimandò al Mastro che gli lo mutasse; & il Mastro guar� dandolo con occhio dispiacevole li disse; che mutare? attendi là che tu non sai niente . . . tenne la medema lettione da circa ancora due mesi; ogni dì facendovi qualche cosa sopra, e passato li due mesi, tornò à dirgli: di gratia Sig. Mastro mutatemi questo Canto fermo, ch’io non sò più che me vi fare; ed egli. Ò poveretto te, non hai ancora incominciato; e tut� to in un tempo pigliando la pena, vi formò sotto da quattro ò cinque fughe, una più bella dell’altra . . .” (Zacconi, Prattica, 83). 33.â•‡ Zacconi, Prattica, 84. According to Zacconi, the incident took place in 1583, when Baccusi was serving in Mantua. At the time, Zacconi was studying with an unnamed maestro in Pavia. 34.â•‡It should be noted that unlike the other exercises shown here, which are generally in partbook format, this example is in score format—making it easier for visual study as opposed to performance. See Owens, Composers at Work, 34–48, for a discussion of various formats and their uses. 35.â•‡ “. . . che la prima volta all’improviso facendove [Willaert] qualche cosa contra le buone osservate regole, facendolo ricantar un altra volta, dicea, a che lo stava ascoltare, hora io l’ho fatta bene” (Zacconi, Prattica, 127). 36.â•‡ “E così giuocandovi scherzare con le sudette maniere” (Zacconi, Prattica, 128).

16 The Good Maestro: Pietro Cerone on the Pedagogical Relationship• Gary Towne

• To scholars of the historical development of musical pedagogy, it is not necessary to apologize for the arcane fascination exerted by the music theory of a bygone age, nor for the forbidding dryness of its texts, nor for the obscurity of its authors. It is a difficult task to extract concrete information about pedagogy from this thicket of dense texts. Yet even within the erudite circle of these authors, there is at least one whose innovative consideration of the psychology of pedagogy has hitherto gone unremarked. It is time to ask why so little attention has been paid to the forward-looking pedagogical concerns that are sprinkled throughout book one of Pietro Cerone’s El melopeo y maestro (The composer and teacher). These chapters discuss general psychological and relational issues of pedagogy, rather than concrete methods for musical instruction. As such, though they may comprise one of Cerone’s most original contributions in the work, the relevant chapters have escaped notice by scholars delving for musical issues in this very large treatise. Several aspects of Cerone and El melopeo might explain scholars’ previous dismissal of this source. First, Cerone’s massive tome overwhelms even historians of music theory such that no complete translation has been published.1 It is, moreover, heavily derivative—as has been repeatedly noted.2 Second, Cerone’s travels may have contributed to his relative ignominy. He was born in Bergamo in 1566 (Gallo suggests 1561), something of a back-

The Good Maestroâ•… ·â•… 325

water in his time, although he has not yet been found in the records of any musical institution there.3 He later served in the Abruzzi chapel, beginning in 1584, and then at the cathedral of Oristano, Sardinia in 1588. Following a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in 1592, he became a chaplain at the Spanish court. In 1604, he became chapel-master at La Santissima Annunziata in Naples, and from 1610 until his death in 1625, he served in the viceregal chapel there.4 This odyssey over the length and breadth of Italy, on to Sardinia and Spain, and ultimately to Naples leaves Cerone appearing rootless and lacking in either Spanish or Italian advocates. Third, little was written about Cerone in his own time, and he was increasingly censured by later authors, despite the popularity of his text for musical instruction in Spain well into the eighteenth century. His book was also widely used in Spanish colonies in the Americas and probably elsewhere. The widespread adoption of Cerone’s text and its perpetuation of an increasingly antique musical style may explain the mounting vilification of it in later years, beginning with the libels of Antonio Eximeno y Pujades in 1701 and continuing over the generations, to culminate with the criticism of Felipe Pedrell in 1920. But Cerone’s reputation has been rehabilitated by twentiethcentury critics who have actually read his book, revealing an author who was exhaustive in his search for comprehensiveness, and who had a clear eye for the utility of his musical teachings.5 It is this utilitarian approach that contributed to the book’s longevity— and perhaps to its denigration—because Cerone was not content just to explain the principles of musical notation, construction, and style. His is not merely a text for the maker of music (el melopeo), but also for the teacher of music (el maestro). He says: What first inspired me to use such a title was that the towns and villages of Spain lack teachers of music, and the realization that, for the greater part, the few that do exist do not know what is necessary . . . The method used is that as if a teacher were teaching in person, namely, with ample reasons, simple words, examples from legends and histories, pleasing sayings, serious statements, [appropriate analogies], generous digressions, familiar concepts, and finally, with so many varieties that [it] all looks like a new Italian salad. This method of writing is suitable in that the novice scholar understands and learns more proficiently what is being stated.6

To Enrique Arias, this quotation illustrates “the reasons for the stylistic peculiarities of El melopeo. Its literary approach, even by the standards of the time, is cumbersome.”7 Cerone’s approach to his subject is an extreme example of the

326â•… ·â•… Gary Towne

commonplace-book technique of taking notes on every work that is read for digestion and regurgitation. In his aspiration for comprehensiveness, Cerone sorts, reorders, reproduces, reiterates, and amplifies material from musical, philosophical, theological, and historical texts—material culled over decades of careful study. The author’s technique is a paradigm of the scholarship of its era, and its expansiveness suits Cerone’s goal: to treat the whole art and process of the teaching of music, beginning to end. In twenty-two books, beginning with the moral background of music and its pedagogical corollaries, Cerone proceeded to explain the fundamentals of music, along with all the subjects a chapel-master needed to master, in logical sequence: plainchant, polyphony, counterpoint, composition, the use of musical instruments, and other musical considerations, ending with a book on musical enigmas and their resolutions. The first book of the work, “Moral Ornaments and Harmonies”—Cerone’s discussion of moral background—is our subject.8 Elaborating on a tradition only touched on by earlier Spanish authors, “the first book treats of the formation of the musician as a person (man in Cerone), presenting advice on his artistic and moral education and enunciating the rules of his deportment in society.”9 The lack of precedents for this portion of the book sets it apart as Cerone’s largest original contribution. The section’s philosophical rather than technical content permits him considerable liberty in choice of topics. Like many contemporaries, he veers between subjects like a tacking ship, from an introductory apologia to discussions of talent, virtue, diligence, the evils of drink, professional etiquette, adulation, slander, and Italian jingoism. These discussions are sprinkled among those chapters that deal with the pedagogical relationship between master and student. Some of these latter chapters deal with issues so commonplace in modern thought that they require little explanation. These include setting an example by the teacher’s own study of a variety of books and musical works, a discussion of which composers are worthy of imitating, and a warning against plagiarism.10 Other chapters show a deeper consideration of the interaction—almost the psychology—between student and teacher, including the approach to teaching, the obligations and qualities of a good maestro de canto, the criteria for choosing such a maestro, the appropriate disciplining of students, and the benefits of correction.11 Later, Cerone cautions against assuming the mere appearance of learning in search of renown, and he explores the choice of an appropriate audience.12 He emphasizes that a master must honor his singers, as students of a good master should revere him; and in concluding, Cerone exhorts both singers and masters to know themselves.13


Like the rest of Cerone’s magnum opus, this first book offers a surfeit of citations of venerable authorities. The difference is that in place of the musicians and theorists cited in later books, this introduction “on moral harmonies” profusely cites biblical and classical sources. Although the result is somewhat sententious at times, Cerone’s admonitions convey an innovative sensitivity to pedagogy with important ramifications for student learning. In the chapters under discussion, Cerone pairs his admonitions regarding the character and deportment of both master and students, with practical concerns. In chapter 26, he speaks: Of the obligation which Masters of singing have, to be very vigilant, so that their students do not adopt any defective manner. The Master who is complete and perfect in everything must not only be diligent that his student learn the lesson, but also must be wary, that the student not adopt any bad habit in singing through lack of caution. The Master must be the guide of the student; he must be the staff with which the student sustains himself in his first steps; and for this, it is necessary that the Master be without defect, since the child will learn to walk badly if the guide wavers . . . One should not attempt to persuade the Master that just good advice suffices for instruction of his students, because it also requires relevant examples; since the new singers don’t attend to what the Master says but to how and what he does in singing or playing: . . . With merit and reason one may attribute to the Master the bad practices and defects committed by the student: . . .14

In chapter 27, Cerone advises: That one needs to select good Masters. Among the greatest principles which appear to me to be necessary for bringing yourself quickly to perfection, and one of the most important, is that you choose at the beginning good Masters, who are (if possible) both theoreticians and practitioners, so that they can demonstrate in a finished manner whatever they want, and set you on the road to becoming a perfect musician.

It is also important that the master be experienced. Learn it very well, and keep your eyes open lest you be embarrassed by persons who know little and presume much, people who try to be Masters before being students. It is not proper that one who lacks experience should teach; and one who understands little can teach little, but he who has been working a long time can teach much; . . . You should try at the beginning to


find a good Master who will show you with a good manner what is relevant: because if the beginner avails himself of Masters who are not fit, nor good, nor patient in teaching, nor in setting before their students every point of perfection; before he [the Master] upsets, benumbs and irritates them with his manner of teaching, it is no different from that master builder or carpenter, who foolishly and crazily uses a ruler and level so crooked and untrue that he twists and destroys the whole work rather than decorating and placing it with the greatest grace and perfection . . .15

In chapter 28, Cerone delves more deeply into the actual character of the master. What attributes a good Master must possess. In spite of having advised you that in order to perfect oneself most quickly, it is necessary that at the beginning you choose Masters who separate Theory and Practice, now in the following chapter, the main argument is that one must find a good and complete Master. By this you can choose the best Master, that he have much knowledge, show signs of great experience in understanding how to teach, and additionally have great patience with students. These three are the most substantial qualities required of a good Master: . . . One would not call anyone a good Master [just] for being graceful in singing, for having a good voice, for being the chapel-master’s brother, for being a good clerk, good grammarian, good rhetorician, confidant of the bishop, friend of count, marquess, or duke, or for other qualities of this sort: . . . But one would only call good the one who has knowledge, patience, and experience in teaching: . . . After diligence, what one must consider in the election of a Master is that he has a method of teaching that is secure and sequential, not leaping about and disorganized nor filled with a thousand vanities and fooleries . . . It suits a Master to show grace and style in teaching. Facility in the sciences and liberal arts consists of knowing what helps others understand. I have known good Masters who, without being particularly good singers, nor exquisite composers, make, by their good industry and appearance, their students very perfect and skillful singers . . . so one recognizes if he understands teaching and if he teaches well, when those of his school have improved and students improve daily . . .16

In chapters 29 and 30, Cerone explores a more difficult topic—discipline. Of the things that demonstrate that a Master is good for teaching; of the method he should adopt in chastising the students, where succinctly, he praises humility and rebukes pride. Nothing adorns more an excellent Musician and a perfect Master than being [both] conversational and silent. Usually, those who are good


Masters understand these two conditions—that with courtesy to all, they give satisfactory answers to the questions they are asked, and that, however much or little they teach, they teach it with a pleasant disposition. They speak with much familiarity and grace as they strengthen their students; they repeat the same rule in different ways, for they know that repeating it is of benefit to the one who is receiving instruction; outside these discourses, you will find them calm and quiet, and without desire for any superfluous word.17

He continues: “There are youth[s] who learn without the whip, and others who, if it is not there for them, will profit nothing. The Master’s anger is very often appropriate when the occasions merit and demand it, always taking account of the time, the place, and the quality of the student.”18 The author then cites exhaustively several biblical passages often colloquially summarized as, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”19 These quotes, noted below, come from the Old Testament book of Proverbs (13.24, 23.13), and the (for many Protestants, apocryphal) book of Ecclesiasticus (7.25, 30.1, and 33.24/25). Cerone continues similarly, but then tempers his recommendations with a discussion of the appropriate use of clemency, augmenting these biblical authorities with quotes attributed to Plutarch, Seneca, Democritus, Cyrus the Persian, the Emperor Titus, and Saint Augustine. I say that whoever holds a legitimate mandate must become angry with the negligences and excuses of his students, and reprimand them when he is wont to do so, sometimes with hard words, and sometimes with bland ones, or another time with other punishment, as long as it does not pass the bounds of honest chastisement, given that he is Master and not a tormenter. To do otherwise would not merit the name of Master.20

Continuing his citations from biblical, classical, and early Christian authors, Cerone tempers harshness with his advocacy of judgment and moderÂ� ation. Beyond what I say, the Emperor Titus said that to show mercy was the right arm, and to chastise misdeeds the left one; thus it is a more glorious thing to encourage virtues than to chastise vices, because in the first, love shines forth, and in the second, fear. And this conforms with what was said by Saint Augustine—that he who rules must be greatly loved as well as feared, but that he who rules, rules better by love than by fear. The good Master has to be with his students like a father with his children, and not like any father, but a most benign and loving father, so that it must appear above all that he rebukes and chastises for love rather than for hatred. And


it is more than certain, that men are more inspired by affection than by fear; and they stir themselves to great things and excel in excellent virtue more for the hope of a future reward than for dread of chastisement. We hold testimony of this from Titus Livius, who says, “Rome increased its empire more by clemency than by victories.” It can be advised that correction must be exercised with much prudence, taking account (as I say) of the nature of each person: . . . From this, Masters should learn a lesson, being advised that the admonition of a Master should be dispassionate and born of love, it being unnecessary to use bitter and sanguinarious words rather than sweet and cheerful ones; especially when one sees that his student has tried everything possible to learn, and that [the Master] doesn’t excuse him his work to do him honor, having always in mind the very ancient adage, “Good shepherds clip the sheep, not skin them . . .” There are other students (as I say) who are rough, ill-bred, of a harder nature, who will never perform well unless you go after them with the whip in hand: . . . Finally, there are others who are incorrigible and proud, who do not take account of what is said any more than a deaf person, nor fear the rod any more than an ass; with whom the poor Master loses all his patience at once. These it is necessary to abandon to save his time, commending them every day to God, that he might hold them in his blessed hand, etc.21

Cerone also quotes Cicero, noting that anger in punishment is absolutely prohibited, for it corrupts the soul.22 In another quote, he observes: “For without a doubt, as the reverend father Gaspar Astete says, anger bewilders men, destroys humility, banishes charity, dries up virtues, smothers good intentions, disturbs calm, destroys peace, shortens life, consumes health, undoes counsel, distempers reason, and disarrays all the harmony and virtues of the soul.”23 Cerone concludes chapter 29 with a discussion of the virtue of measured and well-considered speech.24 In his advocacy of professional restraint in discipline, Cerone supports both positive and negative reinforcement, but only as appropriate for each student. The master’s actions must be calm and deliberate and his speech ample for instruction, but otherwise reserved and well-considered. Cerone expands further on virtues and modes of discipline in chapter 30: Of how the correction of the Master is very beneficial, and ought to be so. The new student does not abandon good principles on seeing that his Master corrects him at times with asperity, accompanying from time to time the words with blows, for in so doing, he performs the office of a good


Master, apprising [the student] that not all those who use blandishments are friends, nor all those who rebuke are enemies; and that love with severity is better than deception with mildness. . . . Just as honey placed upon a wound burns and hurts it, but has a sweet and beneficial effect, so the correction of the Master placed upon the fault, although it stings and hurts, withal is sweet and beneficial . . . “A fool spurns his father’s correction, but to take a reproof to heart shows good sense.”25 But to be most secure, the heedful student tries not to give his Master occasion to come to these ends; . . . The heedful student must take pleasure in the salutary counsels of his Master, in his honest and discreet correction, in his mild and prudent admonitions, in his beneficial and unique advice, and in his well-presented and well-worn examples, as much the venerable ones as the modern. For this, it is very necessary that the Master understand very well the way to correct and chastise, and knows that the rod of chastisement arises from the root of a love of justice, and not from hatred of the person . . . But whatever manner of correction one chooses, with whatever type of person, one must always be diligent that the one rebuked remains subdued and consoled, [and is] not left totally disconsolate and afflicted. . . . So likewise, those who correct a student conscientiously should not later shun him after making him bitter and rough, but with sweet conversations and smooth words, they should pacify and encourage him . . . So the wise and prudent Master, sometimes with gentleness, benevolence and grace, enfolding and delighting the student, attracts him to goodness and honesty; other times, when it is necessary, with chastisement, rebuke, bitter words, and the freedom to speak with authority, goes straight to the heart, telling him the truth though it be distasteful to him; and at other times correcting him with words and actions together, holding the truth of honor and reputation ever before the student.26

Cerone’s exploration of discipline reveals a sensitive (for its time) perspective on the appropriate use of corporal punishment and its effects and benefits for both the master and the student, with an emphasis on the importance of tempering harshness with gentle diplomacy and a balanced approach to chastisement with consideration of the individual student. Although some aspects of this approach seem extreme for our era, on the whole it belies the false image of ill-considered, unremitting brutality in the school discipline of earlier times. As noted above, chapters 31, 32, and 33 deal with issues so well enshrined in modern theories of education that they require little explanation. These


include setting an example by the teacher’s own study of a variety of books and musical works, and a discussion of which composers are worthy of imitating.27 Passing over these chapters, we arrive at chapter 34: How, in addition to following good Masters and books, it is necessary to consult and teach always the opinion of others. Even more than having the arts and treatises of music, and more than being comprehensively instructed by a good theoretical and practical Maestro, it appears to me that if one wishes to profit by these things as quickly as possible, it also suits one to maintain friendships with other Music Masters, and sometimes to confer with them about their studies and difficulties, for they can show more in a quarter of an hour with their living words than books with dead ones can in a whole day, and clearer and more distinctly.28

Chapter 34, as can be seen in the preceding quote, offers beneficial advice for both the master, who can profit from consultation with colleagues; and for the student, who, having already chosen a good master to study with, should also avail himself of opportunities to study with others. As an example, Cerone goes on to cite the example of Palestrina—not his works, but rather what Cerone divines or takes for granted of the Roman’s biography— including the composer’s (otherwise undocumented) travels to study with great composers and extraordinary efforts to procure, translate, and study musical treatises. The author cites no sources for his biographical assertions, but rather seems to have relied on assumptions or oral traditions arising from Palestrina’s reputation, papal recognition, and distinguished service in Roman churches.29 On a more personal note, Cerone relates his own profit from his four years of association with Jan van Veere in the Abruzzi.30 I know all this . . . from experience, especially from having had a very strong friendship with Juan Verio [of Flemish origin and chapel-master, who was in the service of Milady Marguerite of Austria who is in heaven. With whom, over the period of four years that I was employed in the Ducal City of Abruzzo in service of the Chapel of the Diocese, I pursued my studies, and] when I was in doubt, I asked his opinion. In any extremity, I delighted in talking from time to time with him, because never did I listen to his words without profiting from his advice. He was always revealing things unknown to many, and worthy of being known.31

Of particular interest is Cerone’s statement that, in Abruzzo, he served in the chapel of the diocese (presumably the cathedral) rather than that of


Marguerite of Austria, as has often been supposed. Investigation of capitular archives could lead to more concrete documentation of Cerone’s early life, which rests now entirely on his own statements in El melopeo. Such documents survive in the Biblioteca comunale di Ortona, according to Parlul.32 Not surprisingly, Cerone does not appear in documentation of Margaret’s chapel, although Veere (as Giovanni Verius) was prominent from 1567 to 1586.33 Cerone uses this illuminating autobiographical digression as a personal example of the main point of chapter 34, that the master must practice continuing education and seek constant self-improvement through his consultation with others. He continues: The soul of the musician who does not converse with other musicians exposes him as either (1) lazy for not upholding the one who incites and inspires him, by invoking [the colleague] for what he knows and disputing with him, or (2) puffed up with a vain conviction: because without comparing his talent with anyone else’s, he insolently attributes to himself the same. Contrariwise, he who in conversing undertakes to praise his studies is [seen as] greatly burning to perfect himself, and he who is the slightest bit negligent comes to be needled about his competence. And just as the studious man considers it shameful to yield to an equal, so he holds as a great honor the ability to surpass and win a greater one.34

Cerone’s account (however factual) of Palestrina and his own experiences in studying and associating with other musicians develops into a discussion of the relationship between such conversation and the esteem and deference due to a colleague or mentor. This thematic transformation in chapter 34 unfolds further in chapters 35 and 36, which deal with the student’s reverence or respect for his master, and the affront of a student’s ingratitude.35 Beginning with chapter 37, there is a shift of object in the discussion. From giving advice to the master about aspects of the student-teacher relationship, most of the subsequent chapters move toward giving advice on professional issues in the general direction of the student. Of course, since Cerone has advocated lifelong study for his maestro, these observations apply to the professional deportment of the master as well. These chapters deal with appropriate professional circumspection (chap. 37), misrepresentation of credentials (chap. 38), theft of intellectual property (chap. 39–40), and other subjects.36 These and subsequent chapters deal largely with issues of professionalism that extend beyond just the teacher-student relationship. Within this section though, there are a few informative, amusing, and cautionary parts.


In chapter 37, for instance, Cerone moves to a subject that might seem to us excessively prescriptive, if not perhaps even hypocritical in his case— the importance of silence and taciturnity in professional dealings. A brief example suffices to show the argument. Here follows the same material; where one demonstrates the peril and damage that can be caused by too much talk, and the virtue of silence. Do not be garrulous with Masters if they are not listening and are silent . . .37

Cerone then considerably weakens his argument by expounding on the virtues of taciturnity and brevity for five pages, quoting over twenty classical, biblical, and later works. Quotes from the Bible include Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Ecclesiasticus, Philippians, and James, while there are paraphrases of and allusions to Genesis, Judges, Romans, and I Corinthians.38 Classical authors quoted include Aristotle (Nicomachean Ethics), Diogenes Laertius (Life of Cato, probably quoting Iamblichus), Horace (Odes), Iamblichus (Life of Pythagoras), Isocrates (from Joannes Stobaeus’s Extracts), Lucian (Hermotimus, and The Cock), Ovid (Ars Amatoria), Plutarch (Apothegms, Lives, and De Garrulitate), Seneca (Ad Lucilium epistulae morales), Thales of Miletus (quoted in Erasmus’s Apothegms), Xenocrates (quoted in Valerius Maximus, Factorum et Dictorum Memorabilium), and Zeno (Fragments). Post-classical authors include St. Ambrose (De officiis ministrorum), St. Augustine (Ad Lucillam, City of God, and Confessions), St. Gregory the Great (Morals on the Book of Job), Isidore of Seville (Etymologies, book 15), Pseudo-Augustine (Sermones ad fratres in Eremo), Pseudo-Cato (Distichs), and Erycius Puteanus (Modulata Pallas). Other quotes, largely untraceable, include Aeschylus, Amasis (the last Egyptian Pharaoh, probably from Herodotus), Epaminondas (perhaps from Thucydides),39 Homer, Plotinus, Plutarch, Simonides, Socrates, Sts. Ambrose, Bernard, and Jerome—along with Latin, Greek, and Spanish proverbs. Hardly brief. The prolixity indicated by this list is more characteristic of the level of documentation found in these chapters of El melopeo, than what was described earlier. Cerone reveals himself (even without consideration of his musical knowledge) as a scholar of remarkable erudition and versatility. For him and other contemporary authors, this is the obvious justification for eschewing brevity in the commonplace-book approach to scholarship they took. In their thirst for acclaim, they eagerly seized the opportunity to cite all remotely relevant quotations gathered over a lifetime of reading and classifying—it is erudition by the yard. As noted, Anthony Grafton’s essay in this volume


(chap. 8) vividly describes the practice, which was familiar well beyond the Early Modern period. Chapters 38 and 39 expand on a refrain begun earlier, Cerone’s condemnation of the proud, the envious, and the unworthy; he anathematizes in this case the great lengths gone to and contrivances used by charlatans to acquire musical reputations.40 It is not clear whether Cerone had specific figures in mind, although in his long career, he must have worked with some colleagues whose methods he disapproved of. Chapter 40 vividly describes and goes on to condemn a method of theft of musical intellectual property, much as a modern professor would advise a student of today about plagiarism: “There are others (and they are everywhere) who acquire some compositions of unknown foreign composers, which, after getting new, soft paper, they show in public as their own, accompanied by a letter of arrival written in large apothecary letters, which says: Hulono made me.”41 “Hulono” does not seem to refer to a specific person, but appears to be a generic name, like John Smith or Jane Doe. Cerone’s subsequent report of a similar personal experience deals with musicians of other names. From this point on, the discussion centers on ethical issues of professional relationships: the ill effects of envy (chap. 41), flattery versus appropriate praise (chaps. 43, 47), true versus false friendship (chaps. 45–46), denigration of great composers and their works (chaps. 49–50), formative evaluation of music (chap. 51), appropriate occasions for musical discourse (chap. 52), all of which is interspersed with a few chapters of summary and supplement (chaps. 42, 44, 48).42 Chapter 52 also offers advice relative to the student’s relationships, not only with his master but with non-musicians.43 That it is not an appropriate thing to discuss Music with every type of person, nor all the time. Let us also place in the catalogue of the disturbed those indiscreet persons who, with a disordered appetite, exert themselves much too much discussing and speaking of Music with persons who are not of the art, nor even (which is worse) aficionados of it.44

He goes on to advocate the discussion of music only with those who appreciate the art, lest it be ridiculed or despised, reserving silence for other occasions.45 This echoes Cerone’s earlier advocacy for silence beyond necessary conversation (chap. 37). In both places, the advice serves as a navigational aid for the student in conversations with his master and other musicians, as well as with the uninitiated.


Chapter 53 begins with a rhetorical discontinuity, as Cerone leaps into an explanation of why there are more music professors in Italy than in Spain. But this discussion is less farfetched than it might at first seem. Cerone’s explanation for the superiority of Italian music teaching goes beyond jingoism to explore the pedagogical rationale and the centrality of good teaching that has developed in Italy, including appropriate relationships between students and their masters, as well as issues of cultural support and infrastructure: The reason why there are more professors of Music in Italy than in Spain. The first reason is because of the greater diligence of the Masters, because one could not imagine with what love and what diligence they teach, who could not teach their own children with greater affection and care than they bestow on everyone in general, without taking account . . . of whether or not it is the day of practice or the hour assigned for lessons . . . For just as the gardener receives pleasure in seeing the trees that he has planted growing and loaded with fruit, so the true teacher takes joy in seeing the students he has taught become able and sufficient, for they are the trees set by his hand and watered with the sweat of his brow . . . The second reason is because of the endurance and patience of the students, because, [although] being young men with beards, they always accompany their Master, and when they go to the Chapel or to practice (if needed), they take no affront at carrying [his] books, as if they were boys of eight or ten years. All of this servitude makes of them friends of Music, and the thirst that they hold for it spurs them to distinguish and advance themselves . . . The third reason is because of a particular affection that the Italian nation holds for Music . . . The fourth reason is because of the greater accommodations that there are for learning it, for in many cities of Italy, there are buildings called academies . . . The fifth reason is the continuous desire that [Italians] have to know more every day . . .46

It is significant that the first reasons advanced on Cerone’s list explore the characters of masters and students and of their pedagogical relationship. The frequent recapitulation of these subjects emphasizes again the importance of the theme of the pedagogical relationship among Cerone’s various subtexts. The juxtaposition of the conditions of music teaching in Italy and Spain and the explanation of the differences also reinforces Cerone’s initial apologia, that “the towns and villages of Spain lack teachers of music, and . . . for the greater part, the few that do exist do not know what is necessary,” and that his goal


in writing is to improve this teaching, “as if a teacher were teaching in person . . . so that the novice scholar understands and learns more proficiently what is being stated.”47 From his rhapsody on the Italian paradigm of music education, Cerone moves, with little strain, into panegyrics on the art of music itself and its composition, for several chapters. Only near the end of book I does he return, in three final chapters, to pedagogical issues, this time in the relationship between the maestro di capella and the singers in his choir. This relationship is different from but analogous to the relationship between the master and student, and yet in chapters 63 to 65, Cerone distills the essence of both relationships in a fundamental reciprocity of respect based on the humble acknowledgment of human fallibility. (63) Of Chapel-masters who attain to the teaching profession through favors; of their conditions, and of what they can expect from their Singers. It is proper that Chapel-masters take account of their singers and honor them . . .48 (64) Of how the Singer is obliged to honor and revere his Chapel-master, whoever he may be. Honorable and well-born singers delight in being obedient, and don’t trouble themselves about obeying others of lower station than themselves, because they do not remark on the mettle of which the master is made, if it is not the same as their own . . .49 (65) Of the recognition of the same, and an exhortation to Singers and Chapel-masters. However, concluding all this I say that the singers, just as much as the Chapel-masters, must use diligence to know themselves, considering all the faults and imperfections that every man carries; and for this reason they must empathize with one another and must have patience with all, and above all with the Masters, Subcantors, Cantors and others who govern . . .50

The hierarchy presented here of cantor, subcantor, and (chapel-)master provides another generic example for clarifying and amplifying Cerone’s most significant point—his exhortation in chapter 65. This chapter is an effective conclusion to and summary of all the previous chapters dealing with professionalism among students, singers, and their masters—that is, the majority of book I of El melopeo y maestro. These chapters establish the appropriate relationship between student (or singer) and master and place Cerone securely in the forefront of the pedagogy of his time, not because of earth-shattering developments in the material he is teaching, but rather due to Cerone’s own


deep understanding of the fundamental conjunction of teaching: the encounter of the teacher and the student, and its implied pedagogical contract—the teacher must be erudite, must balance benevolence and chastisement with compassion, and must set an example of professionalism. The student, in turn, must acknowledge this learning and follow this example. Both must regard each other with respect and empathy, and seek always to know themselves better; they must work together toward their goal of musical perfection. To us, these ideas may seem intuitive or even inherent in the educational process, but in 1613, they offered an innovative concept of pedagogical effectiveness that was predicated on interpersonal relationships—a concept that Cerone developed far beyond the mere allusions of his predecessors (Bermudo, Tapia, and others).51 Cerone’s exploration of these issues is particularly expansive, and infuses a sense of moderation and humanity into our perceptions of an era when corporal punishment with a birch rod or whip was a standard pedagogical method (even under Cerone), and the torture-master was an indispensable judicial officer. In this context, Cerone’s concern for humane and insightful pedagogy reveals in El melopeo y maestro a foreshadowing of modern education, which partially explains its currency and appeal throughout Spanish dominions worldwide for nearly two centuries.

Appendix Book and chapter headings relevant to the pedagogical relationship, from book I of R. D. Pedro Cerone, El Melopeo y Maestro. Tractado de Musica, 2 vols. (Naples: Gargano & Nucci, 1613; facs. edition, Bologna: Forni, 1969).

Book I . . . (which is of moral ornaments and harmonies), which contains some precepts, exhortations, and morals: after revealing some faults and vices, we will provide those precepts for proper behavior that a proficient singer and accomplished musician must have.52

Chapters 26.â•‡ Of the obligation which masters of singing have, to be very vigilant that their students do not adopt any defective manner. 27.â•‡ That one needs to select good masters. 28.â•‡ What attributes a good master must possess.


29.â•‡ Of the things which demonstrate that a master is good for teaching; of the method he should adopt in chastising the students, where succinctly, he praises humility and rebukes pride. 30.â•‡ Of how the correction of the master is very beneficial, and ought to be so. 31.â•‡ That masters, the better to give lessons, should study each day to inspire their students to do the same. 32.â•‡ That for most masters, it is necessary to read different methods and treatises of music, and to see many works in practice. 33.â•‡ Of which practicing composers we may imitate safely and without peril. 34.â•‡ How, in addition to following good masters and books, it is necessary to consult and teach always the opinion of others. 35.â•‡ Of the reverence that one owes to masters. 36.â•‡ Here follows the same material; wherein one abominates the detestable vice of ingratitude. 37.â•‡ Here follows the same material; where one demonstrates the peril and damage that can be caused by too much talk, and the virtue of silence. 38.â•‡ Of those ambitious ones who pass for a preeminent master among the ignorant, and of the crazy invention that some use to be acclaimed as excellent musicians. 39.â•‡ Of those who adorn themselves with the works of others in order to attain fame through them. 40.â•‡ Of those who regularly steal others’ works, attributing them as their own. 41.â•‡ Of the envious and of those with bad dispositions, particularly of those who do not wish to teach reliably, and of the effects of envy. 42.â•‡ Defense of the author regarding a few complaints that one could have with things that I say. 43.â•‡ Of the different limits of appropriate behavior, and of the various compliments and words of courtesy which a few minor musicians would soil by using when dancing attendance on musicians of excellence: and of that [which is appropriate] to present to [the excellent musicians’] hearing, that they are great musicians and good composers. 44.â•‡ Here follow other types of appropriate behavior, much more noteworthy. 45.â•‡ Of friendship and of the true friend. 46.â•‡ Of the feigned or false friend. 47.â•‡ Of the fawner or flatterer. 48.â•‡ Of how true friends must act in the correction of their friend, or of any other person. 49.â•‡ Of the irresponsible criticism and disparagement of famous masters and their compositions. 50.â•‡ Of those who speak ill of others’ compositions [while] always praising their own. 51.â•‡ The approach one must adopt in judging others’ compositions, in order to judge them in a productive way, and of other advice about similar issues.


52.â•‡ That it is not an appropriate thing to discuss music with every type of person, nor all the time. 53.â•‡ The reason why there are more professors of music in Italy than in Spain. 63.â•‡ Of chapel-masters who attain to the teaching profession through favors; of their conditions, and of what they can expect from their singers. 64.â•‡ Of how the singer is obliged to honor and revere his chapel-master, whoever he may be. 65.â•‡ Of the recognition of the same, and an exhortation to singers and chapelmasters.

Notes Early drafts of this chapter were read at the North Dakota University System Hu� manities Summit, on 16 October 2004, and at the University of North Dakota Graduate Symposium, on 23 February 2005, in addition to the conference Reading and Writing the Pedagogies of the Renaissance: The Student, the Study Materials, and the Teacher of Music, 1470–1650, at the Peabody Institute of the Johns Hopkins University, 2–4 June 2005. I am grateful for Dr. Francisco García’s generous assistance to me in my research for this article, and to Dr. Gene Dubois for checking my translations. Except where noted, all translations are my own. 1.â•‡ R. D. Pedro Cerone, El melopeo y maestro. Tractado de musica, 2 vols., intro. F. ï¿½ï¿½ï¿½�ï¿½ Al�� berto Gallo (Naples: Gargano & Nucci, 1613; facs. edition, Bologna: Forni, 1969). Francisco García, “Pietro Cerone’s El Melopeo y Maestro: A Synthesis of Sixteenth-Century Musical Theory” (Ph.D. diss., Northwestern University, 1978) is the most extensive discussion of Cerone’s magnum opus to date. On page iii of the dissertation, he observes that Cerone’s Spanish was virtually identical to what he learned as a child in northern New Mexico. As he told me, this linguistic advantage enabled him, in the course of his dissertation research, to translate Cerone’s entire work, a great accomplishment that was most regrettably lost in a flood after the completion of his dissertation in 1978. 2.â•‡ Karl Gustav Fellerer, “Zu Cerones musiktheoretischen Quellen,” Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kulturgeschichte Spaniens 11 (1955): 175–78; Lewis Lockwood, “On ‘Parody’ as Term and Concept in 16th-Century Music,” in Aspects of Medieval and Renaissance Music: A Birthday Offering to Gustav Reese, ed. Jan LaRue (New York: W. W. Norton, 1966), 570–72; James Armstrong, “How to Compose a Psalm: Ponzio and Cerone Compared,” Studi Musicali 7 (1978): 103–39; Enrique Arias, “Cerone and his Enigmas,” Anuario Musical 44 (1989): 1–103; Charles Jacobs, “Ornamentation in Spanish Renaissance Vocal Music,” Performance Practice Review 4 (1991): 116–85, and others cited herein are among the authors who have explored Cerone’s extensive borrowings. Such borrowing would have been a sign of erudi� tion in his own times, and can still be appreciated as evidence of thoroughness in research worthy of any modern doctoral dissertation. Although Cerone’s method of citation is not as meticulous as modern standards require, his capacity for attribution is very generous for his own time and belies any intent to plagiarize, something he specifically condemns. 3.â•‡ In his introduction to the facsimile edition of El melopeo y maestro, Alberto Gallo suggests 1561, based on Cerone’s age as cited in his portrait. Robert Stevenson initially ac� cepted Gallo’s hypothesis in his “Review of Pedro Cerone, ‘El Melopeo Tractado de Musica Theorica y Pratica,’” Journal of the American Musicological Society 24 (1971): 477 n. 1, but after further inquiry he rejected it in favor of the traditional date of 1566; see Stevenson’s “Pedro Cerone (1566–1625), Imposter or Defender of the Faith?” Inter-American Music Re-

The Good Maestroâ•… ·â•… 341 view 16 (1997): 54. Stevenson (ibid., pp. 4–5), citing Ramón Baselga Esteve (“Pedro Cerone de Bergamo: Estudio Bio-Bibliográfico,” Tesoro Sacro Musical 54 [1971]: 9–14), notes the ab� sence of the young Cerone from all surviving documentation in Bergamo—an absence that my research, alas, confirms. Cerone’s own allusions and asides in El melopeo y maestro are thus the only sources for firm biographical data. These are noted in the works of Stevenson and Baselga Esteve, as well as other authors cited herein. 4.â•‡ Barton Hudson, “Cerone, Pietro,” in Grove Music Online, at Oxford Music Online: www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/05304 (accessed 28 Septem� ber 2008); and Stevenson, “Pedro Cerone (1566–1625),” 4–14. Both give analytic biographies of Cerone, which build upon Stevenson’s earlier “Review of Pedro Cerone,” 477–85. In his two-part study, “Pedro Cerone de Bergamo: Estudio Bio-Bibliográfico,” Tesoro Sacro Musical 54 (1971): 8–15, 40–48, 71–79, 99–109, and 55 (1972): 2–6, 35–41, Ramón Baselga Esteve furnishes an admirable and very thoroughly researched biography. 5.â•‡ Stevenson, one of Cerone’s staunchest advocates, has discussed him in several publications, most recently in “Pedro Cerone (1566–1625)” cited above. On pp. 19–20, he discusses the book’s circulation and influence in Latin America; on pp. 1–3 and 14–25, Stevenson lists Cerone’s critics and defenders, with copious paraphrases of their libels and laudations. 6.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo,1: 1: 9. Translation from Arias, “Cerone and his Enigmas,” 87– 88, with my emendations in square brackets. Arias notes in the conclusion of this article: “Pietro Cerone must be considered one of the great synthesizers in the history of musical theory. His originality lay not so much in his thoughts as in their thorough presentation. Almost like a writer of a parody mass, he took the materials of the major theorists of his day and transformed and developed them. The El Melopeo represents a confluence of the finest Spanish and Italian theory of the later Renaissance together with the elaborations and elucidations of a man deeply experienced in the music of his time.” 7.â•‡ Ibid., 88. 8.â•‡ The full title preceded by the subtitle in parentheses is: “Libro primero. (que es de los Atavios e consonancias morales), en el qual se contienen unos Avisos, documentos, y moralidades: que debaxo el descubrir algunos defectos y viciosos, se dan los avisos de las buenas partes, que ha de tener un cumplido Cantante, y un perfecto Musico.” This is trans� lated in García, “Pietro Cerone’s El Melopeo,” p. x, as: “Book I. (which is of moral ornaments and harmonies), which contains some precepts, exhortations, and [morals]: after revealing some faults and vices, we will provide those precepts for proper behavior that a proficient singer and accomplished musician must have.” 9.â•‡ Gallo, intro. to Cerone, El melopeo, vii (cited in note 2, above). García, “Pietro Cero� ne’s El Melopeo,” x (also cited in note 2); and Francisco José Leon Tello, Estudios de historia de la teoria musical (Madrid: Consejo superior de investigaciones cientificas / Instituto español de musicologia, 1962), 262–63, discuss the near-absence of precedent for Cerone’s discus� sion in all but two earlier authors who influenced him. Fray Juan Bermudo, Declaración de instrumentos musicales (1555), trans. in George Lazanas, “Juan Bermudo, Declaración de Instrumentos musicales, 1555” (Ph.D. diss., University of Wisconsin, 1967; unavailable to me at present), merely touched on the “formación del músico”; and Martin de Tapia, Vergel de Musica (Burgo de Osma: Diego Fernández de Cordova, 1570), plagiarized liberally from Bermudo. Yet even these two authors barely allude to pedagogical concerns, which emphasizes the uniqueness of Cerone’s innovative and thorough investigation. A facsimile of Bermudo’s book (minus the two-part prologue) is published as Fray Juan Bermudo, Declaración de Instrumentos musicales, 1555, ed. Macario Santiago Kastner (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1957). This and Bermudo’s other writings are also discussed in Paloma Otaola González, Tradición y modernidad en los escritos musicales de Juan Bermudo, del Libro primero (1549) a la Declaración de Instrumentos musicales (1555) (Kassel: Reichenberger, 2000).

342â•… ·â•… Gary Towne 10.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo, 1: chaps. 31–33, 39, and 40. For a full listing of relevant chapter titles, see the appendix. 11.â•‡ Ibid., 1: chaps. 26–30. 12.â•‡ Ibid., 1: chaps. 38, 52. 13.â•‡ Ibid., 1: chaps. 63–65. 14.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: chaps. 72–73 15.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 73–74. 16.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 74–75. 17.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 76. 18.â•‡ Ibid. 19.â•‡ The following examples require both Latin Vulgate and Revised Standard Version texts, since they and their versification are not entirely concordant. Examples: Proverbs 13.24 (Cerone has chap. 12): Qui parcit virgae odit filium suum; qui autem diligit illum, instanter erudit. / He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him. Ecclesiasticus 7.25: Filii tibi sunt? [repeated in Cerone] erudi illos, Et curva illos a pueritia illorum. / Do you have children [sons]? Discipline them, and make them obedient from their youth. Ecclesiasticus 33 (Vulg. has 25; RSV, 24): Cibaria, et virga, et onus asino; Panis, et disciplina et opus servo. / Fodder and a stick and burdens for an ass; bread and discipline and work for a servant. Ecclesiasticus 30.1: Qui diligit filium suum adsiduat illi flagella. / He who loves his son will whip him often. Proverbs 23.13: Noli subtrahere a puero disciplinam, Si enim percusseris eum virga non morietur. / Do not withhold discipline from a child: if you beat him with a rod, he will not die. Cerone’s sources on clemency are all classical or early Christian, with quotes attributed to Plutarch, Seneca, Democritus, Cyrus the Persian, the Emperor Titus, and Saint Augustine. This degree of apologia, which may seem excessive to us, is actually relatively restrained for this section of Cerone’s work, as will be seen below. Such prolific documentation is the natu� ral consequence of the commonplace-book method of scholarship, which is aptly described in Anthony Grafton’s contribution to this volume. Cerone’s meticulous use of this approach demonstrates that the many borrowings for which he is often chastised reveal exemplary seventeenth-century scholarship practices. See also below. 20.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo, 1: 1: 76. 21.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 76–77. 22.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 77, citing Cicero, De Officiis, 1: 38: 136, and [Domitius] Marsus (?), Epistles, 5. 23.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 78. Gaspar Astete (1537–1601) was a Spanish Jesuit professor and cat� echist at Simancas and Valladolid who wrote several devotional works, of which the most famous is his Catecismo de la doctrina cristiana, the only one of his works that is still in print or available to me—and it is still in use, mainly in Latin America. The discussion of anger cited by Cerone is longer than that in the Catecismo, and thus must come from one of Astete’s works which is unavailable to me. See Inomos at Lucio Anneo Séneca Instituto de Estudios Clásicos: http://turan.uc3m.es/uc3m/inst/LS/humanastete.htm and http:// www.mercaba.org/FICHAS/CEC/catecismo_astete.htm. 24.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo, 1: 1: 80–82. 25.â•‡ Proverbs 15.5 (RSV). 26.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo, 1: 1: 83–85. 27.â•‡ Ibid., 1: chap. 31: “That masters, the better to give lessons, should study each day to inspire their students to do the same”; chap. 32: “That for most masters, it is necessary to

The Good Maestroâ•… ·â•… 343 read different methods and treatises of music, and to see many works in practice”; chap. 33: “Of which practicing composers we may imitate safely and without peril.” 28.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 91. 29.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 92. Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina may be viewed as Roman, not only by adoption, but because his native village, Palestrina, is well within territory controlled by Rome since republican times. Stevenson, in his “Review of Pedro Cerone,” 477–78, evalu� ates Cerone’s fascination with a composer (Palestrina) already falling from favor, in light of the polemic of Antonio Eximeno y Pujades in his novel, Don Lazarillo Viscardi (pub. Ma� drid: Sociedad de Bibliófilos Españoles, 1872; written 1798–1802), as also cited by Stevenson in “Pedro Cerone (1566–1625),” 1–3. Further information about Eximeno can be found in Allice Pollin, “Toward an Understanding of Antonio Eximeno,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 10 (1957): 86–96. 30.â•‡ My orthography of the name Jan van Veere is an attempt to adapt to his probable native town the name of a composer who appears under several variants: Jean Van Veere— in Edmond Vander Straeten, La musique aux Pays-Bas avant le XIX e siècle (Brussels: G. A. Van Trigt, 1882), 482–84, cited in Stevenson, “Pedro Cerone (1566–1625),” 7; Juan Verio—in Cerone, El melopeo, 92; Joanne Verius or van Vere—in Howard Mayer Brown and Kristine Forney, “Joanne Verius,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd edition (London: Macmillan, 2001), 26: 478. Brown and Forney note two lost chanson-books and five surviving chansons (two in lute intabulations only) by this composer. I have preferred a Flemish form of his name, based on his probable native town, Veere on the Walcheren Peninsula in Zeeland, Netherlands. Nearby municipalities of greater size where Jan van Veere may have advanced his study of music include Middelburg, Bergen op Zoom, and especially Antwerp. Bruges and Ghent are further by land but closer if one boats across the Westerschelde; see www.eupedia.com/netherlands/veere.shtml, www.deltawerken.com/ History/394.html, and http://maps.google.com. 31.â•‡ Unbracketed segments as translated by Robert Stevenson, in “Pedro Cerone (1566– 1625),” 6–7. The bracketed section has been translated by the author. 32.â•‡ Parlul, “La Cappella Musicale della Cattedrale di San Tommaso Apostolo ed il suo regolamento nel XIX° sec.,” Abruzzo Oggi 37 (June 1984), posted on the internet at www .portaleperortona.it/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=463 (accessed 8 January 2008). 33.â•‡ Seishiro Niwa, “‘Madama’ Margaret of Parma’s Patronage of Music,” Early Music 33 (2005): 29–34. 34.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo, 1: 1: 93 (enumeration the translator’s). 35.â•‡ Ibid., 1: chap. 35. “Of the reverence that one owes to masters”; chap. 36: “Here fol� lows the same material; wherein one abominates the detestable vice of ingratitude.” 36.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: chaps. 37–40 (see appendix). 37.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 100. 38.â•‡ Psalms 140.3; Proverbs 10.19, 16.1, 18.21, 21.23, 28.16–17; Ecclesiastes 3.7; Ecclesiasticus 32.11, 11.8; Philippians 4.5; James 3.2, 5, 7–10. The paraphrases of and allusions to Genesis, Judges, Romans, and I Corinthians are too ranging and diffuse to be identified here. 39.â•‡ Epaminondas was leader of the Theban forces in their defeat of the Spartans at the Battle of Leuctra in 371 bce. Plutarch’s life of Epaminondas is lost, but he is mentioned in numerous other of the Lives, including that of his lover, Pelopidas; see Louis Crompton, Homosexuality and Civilization (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003), pp. 2, 70ff. 40.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo, 1: 1: chaps. 38–39. 41.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 109. 42.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: chaps. 41–52 (see appendix). 43.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 147–48.

344â•… ·â•… Gary Towne 44.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 147. 45.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 147–48. 46.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 148–51, also translated and discussed at greater length in Ruth Hannas, “Cerone, Philosopher and Teacher,” Musical Quarterly 21 (1935): 410–12. 47.â•‡ Excerpted from Arias, “Cerone and his Enigmas,” 87–88. 48.â•‡ Cerone, El melopeo, 1: 1: 182. 49.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 186. 50.â•‡ Ibid., 1: 1: 188. Outside the formally prescribed Holy Orders, the governing offices of the pastoral and musical staff were at least somewhat unique to the situation of each church. For instance, in Bergamo the staff of the cathedral (after the amalgamation of the two separate cathedrals in 1561) included two chapters of Canons: San Vincenzo, led by an archdeacon, an archpriest, and a primicerius (precentor, often a musical title); and Sant’ Alessandro, led by a praepositus (provost) and a cantor. The separate chapters had entirely different governing structures, sharing only their bishop at the top. The Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore—next door to the cathedral—was governed by a lay confraternity that was outside the bishop’s jurisdiction. The clerical staff included a chapel of chaplains (and a school), led by a rector, master of ceremonies, chapel-master, major sacristan, preceptor (of the school), and a decanus (another title that was often musical). Positions subordinate to those listed changed in name, functions, and capacities within certain limits according to the current administrative prescriptions, as well as to the needs and talents available. Similar variability would also have occurred in Spain. These heirarchies in Bergamo are discussed in Bruno Cassinelli, Luigi Pagnoni, and Graziella Colmuto Zanella, Il duomo di Bergamo (Bergamo: Edizioni Bolis, 1991), 31; and Francesca Cortesi Bosco, Il coro intarsiato di Lotto e Capoferri per Santa Maria Maggiore in Bergamo (Bergamo: Credito Bergamasco / Edizioni Amilcare Pizzi, 1987), 103–104. 51.â•‡As noted above, the discussion of Bermudo and Tapia comes from García, “Pietro Cerone’s El Melopeo,” x; and Leon Tello, Estudios de historia de la teoria musical, 262–63. 52.â•‡ Book title translation from García, “Pietro Cerone's El melopeo,” x.

Perspective 3

17 You Can Tell a Book by Its Cover: Reflections on Format in English Music “Theory•” Jessie Ann Owens

• My purpose in this essay is to provide a lens through which to view the huge array of books from the Early Modern period that we call music “theory,” by investigating the small subset of titles that were published in England. I put scare quotes around “theory” because I want to problematize words that we use without giving them much thought: theory, theorist, treatise.1 In casual parlance, everyone who writes about music is a “theorist,” every text is a “treatise,” and every topic is “theory.” Tellingly, the editions and facsimiles of everything from schoolboy trots to learned tomes sit side by side in our libraries, under the Library of Congress subject heading “Music—Theory— History—Early Works to 1800.” We see this usage in even the most distinguished scholarship. In his introduction to The Cambridge History of Western Music Theory, Thomas Christensen offers a very useful sketch of the history of the enterprise of “music theory,” reviewing the topics writers addressed and the major trends of each period. Paragraph after paragraph describes music theory, sometimes in quotation marks, sometimes not. He notes that many of the writings do

348â•… ·â•… Jessie Ann Owens

not bear the title “theory” or “music theory,” and yet he can’t escape working within our contemporary conceptual framework that applies this category to all writing about music.2 Penelope Gouk points out the difficulties of this pervasive usage in her thoughtful review of Rebecca Herissone’s Music Theory in Seventeenth-Century England: Like most of the people who will read this book, Herissone takes for granted (i) that “music theory” is a body of knowledge about music’s structure and nature that is generated chiefly for and by composers and musicians, and (ii) that the term “music theorist” can be used unproblematically for anyone who contributes to this body of knowledge, regardless of their actual occupational or social identity. These assumptions unnecessarily constrain what can be said about these texts, which were written by authors from a variety of different backgrounds.3

This observation is a useful reminder that we need to be able to distinguish the range of writing about music in the early modern world—to differentiate, for example, textbooks from the equivalent of scholarly monographs or journal articles. Instead of catch-alls like “theorist” or “theory,” we need to find words that are specific to the particular activity and reflect the character of the audience and social function of the text(s) under consideration. One approach to discovering both context and audience, as Cristle Collins Judd has shown, is to investigate the specific communities of readers and writers of these books.4 Another is to decipher the clues about function that are imbedded in the nature of the book as an object, namely, its appearance— size, number of pages, layout, format, etc. This approach is well known to historians of the book as well as to the musicologist-bibliographers who have studied individual printers, but it has not been a major part of the scholarship on music “theory.”5 A classic application of this way of thinking about the material form of books is found in Paul Grendler’s seminal article, “Form and Function in Italian Renaissance Popular Books”: Form and function are closely connected in books. The physical appearance of books indicates purpose and intended readership. A combination of size, type, and page layout offers visible signals informing the reader of the content before he begins to read a book. Books that look different are different. They have different subject matters, purposes, and readerships.

You Can Tell a Book by Its Coverâ•… ·â•… 349

Anyone browsing in a bookstore in the late twentieth century knows this. Today an illustration on the cover provides the most obvious clue concerning the subject matter and purpose of a book. When the cover shows a handsome man with a scowl on his face and a gun in his hand along with a beautiful young woman in distress—and possibly some degree of undress—we know that the book is a “thriller.” When the cover shows a spaceship, we know that the book is science fiction. And when we see a perfectly plain monocolor cover with no picture but just the title and the name of the author, we know that the book is a work of scholarship. Today the cover signals the content and purpose of a printed book.6

Grendler analyzes four popular texts from the perspective of their appearance—physical features such as size, layout on the page, kind of lettering. One of the conclusions he draws from his investigation is that . . . traditional form, rather than the preferences of individual printers and publishers, dominated in the printing of popular books. When a publisher who did not specialize in popular titles decided to print one, he conformed to the traditional form. Exceptions were few; the uniformity was noticeable. Indeed, such consistency was very remarkable in the large, unregulated and individualistic publishing enterprise. Although no guild or government imposed on the printing trade regulations for the size, appearance and production of books, publishers adhered to a common form for popular books. Reader expectation and preference created a very strong tradition which publishers honored. (pp. 483–84)

Grendler’s observations are broadly applicable, and certainly relevant to books about music printed in England during the period from roughly 1575 to 1690.7 The point that I would like to emphasize is that there is a strong correlation between format and kinds or genres of books. I would go so far as to say that you can almost always predict the contents of a book from its format—you can tell a book by its cover. No doubt a primary consideration in the match between type of book and its function and audience was price. Price was determined in part by the amount of paper that was needed, since paper was one of the most expensive items in producing a book.8 Paper came in various sizes, and was printed in a variety of formats. To quote from Gaskell’s classic explanation of imposition, “The compositor imposed the pages for each side of a sheet[. . .]; the order of the pages in each forme (as the pages imposed in this way for each side of the sheet were called) being such that, when a sheet of paper printed from them was folded to make a section of a book the pages followed each other in the


proper sequence.”9 A book’s cost was determined in part by the number of sheets required, which in turn depends on the format (a rough calculation is the number of pages divided by the format).10 Format in this context refers to “the arrangement of its [the book’s] formes and the subsequent folding of the printed sheets as indicated by the number and conjugacy of the leaves and the orientation of the paper in the gatherings, and is expressed in the terms folio, quarto, octavo, etc.”11 The books under consideration in the present study were for the most part printed in one of the formats that I list here by size (from largest to smallest): broadside or broadsheet (a single page printed on one side, or sometimes both sides, of a sheet); folio (four pages on a sheet, two each on front and back); quarto, in both upright and oblong orientations (eight pages); and octavo (sixteen pages). Technically speaking, format alone does not define the size of the book, but rather the size of the paper combined with format; thus, one can speak of a small, medium, or large folio.12 But format does also correlate with and can stand in for size as a kind of shorthand. In the discussion that follows, I focus on both format and orientation (oblong or upright), without making further distinctions based on paper size. The sample size, I believe, supports general conclusions about the profile of each format, but not a further refinement based on paper size. Concrete evidence for the importance of format can be found in the series of catalogues of books printed in England or available for sale dating throughout the period under investigation.13 These include: 1.â•‡ Andrew Maunsell, The first [-seconde] part of the catalogue of English printed bookes (1595, STC 17669) Listing by printer, date, format (folio, 4, 8) 2.â•‡ John Playford, A catalogue of all the musick-bookes that have been printed in England, either for voyce or instruments (1653, Wing C1268A)14 First section (books printed between 1571 and 1638): one column of books in folio, two columns of books in quarto; alphabetical order Second section: “musick bookes lately printed” (no indication of size or price) 3.â•‡ Robert Clavell, A catalogue of all the books printed in England since the dreadful fire of London [1666–1672] (1673, Wing C4598)15 Three sections: “Musick in folio,” “Quarto,” “Octavo,” listing price and publisher/printer/seller 4.â•‡ Robert Clavell, The general catalogue of books printed in England since the dreadful fire of London [1666–1674] (1675, Wing C4600) First section (identical to Playford 1653): A catalogue of “all the musickbooks that have been printed in England” (folios first, then quartos, without prices)


Second section: “Musick books lately printed” (folios, quartos, octavos; within each section, ordered by price) 5.â•‡ Robert Clavell, The general catalogue of books printed in England since the dreadful fire of London [1666–1680] (1680, Wing C4601) Folios first, then “quarto, octavo, & twelves” (without prices), using the alphabet for headings (conflates the two sections from the 1675 edition) 6.â•‡ A Curious Collection of Musick-Books . . . to be sold by Henry Playford (1690, Wing P2428) Sizes and prices 7.â•‡ A Catalogue of ancient and modern musick books . . . to be sold . . . 1691 (1691, Wing C1278) Most of the “treatises” are in one section: “folio’s” listed first (nos. 169–75), then “quarto’s” (nos. 176–201), but some are to be found elsewhere, either in a section defined by size or with the size specified; among the treatises supposedly in quarto are some octavos (e.g., Simpson, Playford). The only book listed as octavo is Birchensha’s Templum musicum (discussed below)

Although these catalogues are not entirely reliable, they do help us see how books might be categorized. While some, but not all, of the lists distinguish between quarto and octavo, all of them identify folios. Clearly format was worth recording. As we consider the formats in turn, it will be helpful to keep in mind a further distinction, namely, whether the book consists essentially of music or of text (prose). In books of music, instruction is typically limited to a brief didactic introduction, and the format is dependent on conventions associated with the particular instrument or ensemble. In books consisting primarily of prose, some of which may also contain musical compositions, format is determined by factors such as price, audience, purpose, and of course, conÂ� tent. What follows is both an overview of English “treatises” from the perspective of size and format, and a somewhat personal narrative—the “ah-ha” moments that helped me understand the importance of the material form of these books. Rather than proceed in order of size (e.g., from large to small), I have chosen to organize the discussion according to the characteristic profile of the various formats.

Oblong Quarto The particular book that prompted me to consider the nature of books produced in oblong quarto is a 1637 reissue, acquired by the Huntington Library in 1998, of an anonymous treatise that was first published in 1596 by the Lon-


Figure 17.1. Anonymous, The pathvvay to musicke (London, 1596), title page (London, British Library).

don draper William Barley (see figure 17.1), under the following title: The pathvvay to musicke, contayning sundrie familiar and easie rules for the readie and true vnderstanding of the scale, or gamma-vt: vvherein is exactlie shevved by plaine deffinitions, the principles of this arte, brieflie laide open by vvay of questions and answers, for the better instruction of the learner. Whereunto is annexed a treatise of descant, & certaine tables, vvhich doth teach hovv to remoue any song higher, or lovver from one key to another, neuer heretofore published (1596, STC 19464).16 In a 1970 study, John Ward established that the 1596 Pathway, though given bibliographical independence by library cataloguing, was actually part of Barley’s A nevv booke of tabliture, containing sundrie easie and familiar instructions, shevving hovve to attaine to the knovvledge, to guide and dispose thy hand to play on sundry instruments, as the lute, orpharion, and bandora: together vvith diuers nevv lessons to each of these instruments. VVhereunto is added an introduction to prickesong, and certaine familliar rules of descant, with other necessarie


Figure 17.2. William Barley, A nevv booke of tabliture (London, 1596), title page (London, British Library).

tables plainely shewing the true vse of the scale or gamut, and also how to set any lesson higher or lower at your pleasure. Collected together out of the best authors professing the practise of these instruments (1596, STC 1433) (see figure 17.2).17 The discovery of another exemplar strengthens the case that Barley had constructed the volume in modular fashion so that a reader could purchase one or more of its four sections: instructions and lessons for the lute; lessons for the orpharion; lessons for the bandora; and the “introduction to prickesong, and certaine familiar rules of descant . . .”18 Each has its own title page, letter to the reader and signature starting anew with A, though only the lute section contains the full apparatus of dedication and verses. The surviving copies all differ from one another and attest to the composite nature.19 The pathway appeared close in time to Thomas Morley’s A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke (1597) and William Bathe’s A briefe introduction to the skill of song, now securely dated to 1596.20 These three books were quite different in purpose, and, not surprisingly, in format: Bathe’s in octavo, Morley’s in folio, and Barley’s in oblong quarto.


Figure 17.3. Adrian le Roy, A briefe and plaine instruction (London, 1574), title page (London, British Library).

Barley was looking to publish small, cheap books of instrumental music for an audience of amateur music lovers, particularly those who did not have access to or could not afford a teacher. The pathway functions like a didactic preface for a collection of pieces, although it could also be sold on its own. Its model is likely to be the 1574 translation of Adrian le Roy’s A briefe and plaine instruction to set all musicke of eight diuers tunes in tableture for the lute. With a briefe instruction how to play on the lute by tablature, to conduct and dispose thy hand vnto the lute, with certaine easie lessons for that purpose. And also a third booke containing diuers new excellent tunes. All first written in French by Adrian Le Roy, and now translated into English by F. Ke. Gentleman (1574, STC 15487), also an oblong quarto (see figure 17.3), or Barley’s lost 1593 “new booke of Citterne Lessons with a plaine and easie instruction for to learne the Tableture . . .” registered by Danter as “a moste perfect and true Instruction whereby a man maye learne by his own industrie to playe on the Cytterne without the helpe of any teacher.”21 By their very nature, didactic prefaces, which constitute only a small portion of a book of music, appear in the format used for the repertoire


Figure 17.4. Anonymous, The pathvvay to musick (London, 1637), title page. Reproduced by permission of the Huntington Library, San Marino, California.

they explicate. Convention is a powerful determinant of the format associated with particular repertories. The 1637 reissue was published by John Benson (“Printed for Iohn Benson, and are to be sold at his shop in St. Dunstans Church-yard Fleet-street”) with a new title-page: The pathvvay to mvsick. Contayning sundry familiar and easy rules for the ready and true understanding of the scale, or gamma-ut: wherin is exactly shewed by plain definitions, the principles of this art, briefly layd open by way of questions and answers, for the better instruction of the learner (1637, not in STC; ESTC S126482) (see figure 17.4). Benson shortened the title, eliminating the reference to descant even though that material is present. He may have been making use of stock that was still available to be sold some thirty-five years after the book’s publication or even selling a foul copy. The unique Huntington copy has a few mistakes corrected in the surviving exemplars from the 1596 edition; for example, the woodblock of the gamut is upside down (sig. Aii v).22 It is not easy to explain why Benson would reissue in 1637 a didactic preface that was already out of date in 1596.23 Whatever the commercial reasons


Figure 17.5. John Playford, A musicall banquet (London, 1651), title page. Reproduced by permission of the Huntington Library, San Marino, California.

might be, the book does provide continuity in the relationship between format and content. The original issue of Barley’s The pathway and A new booke of tabliture worked within existing conventions that defined oblong quarto as the preferred format for didactic prefaces associated with collections of instrumental music. It is significant that John Playford, whose publications would dominate the second half of the seventeenth century, was apprenticed to Benson. In 1651 Playford and Benson issued an anthology called A musicall banquet, set forth in three choice varieties of musick. The first part presents you with excellent new lessons for the lira viol, set to severall new tunings. The second a collection of new and choyce allmans, corants, and sarabands for one treble and basse viol, composed by Mr. William Lawes, and other excellent authours. The third part containes new and choyce catches or rounds for three or foure voyces. To which is added some few rules and directions for such as learne to sing, or to play on the viol (1651, Wing P2489), in oblong quarto with a brief didactic preface (see figure 17.5). From this publication Playford spun off a series of prototypes beginning in 1651 and 1652 that became the dominant forms of music publication for the rest of the


century. These include many popular titles in oblong formats, some of which contain prefaces designed to instruct the beginner on fingerings, tablature, and other aspects of the instrument.24 There was one other music textbook in this format that was not a didactic preface, namely, William Bathe’s Introduction to the true arte of musicke.25 No copy is now known to exist—the text survives only in a late manuscript copy—but Sir John Hawkins transcribed the title page (“Imprinted at London by Abel Jeffes, dwelling in Sermon-lane neere Paules Chaine anno 1584”) and most helpfully described its format as “small oblong quarto, black letter.”26 It is also described in the 1595 Maunsell catalogue as quarto.

Octavo An examination of the didactic portion of the 1651 A musicall banquet shows that oblong quarto does not work very well for prose. Playford actually divided the page in half and presented the text in two columns, each containing the amount of text that would fit on a typical page in octavo. A comparison of an excerpt from the 1651 quarto and the similar passage from the 1683 octavo edition is telling (see figures 17.6 and 17.7). When Playford decided to spin off the didactic preface to A musicall banquet as a free-standing title, he chose octavo format and created a textbook, A breefe introduction to the skill of musick for song & violl by JP (1654, Wing P2447) that would become a best-seller and go through over sixteen editions in the seventeenth century.27 This choice of format harkens back to Bathe’s A briefe introduction to the skill of song (1596) and Thomas Campion’s A nevv vvay of making fowre parts in counter-point, by a most familiar, and infallible rule. Secondly, a necessary discourse of keyes, and their proper closes. Thirdly, the allowed passages of all concords perfect, or imperfect are declared. Also by way of preface, the nature of the scale is expressed, with a briefe method teaching to sing (ca. 1613, STC 4542).28 In fact, in editions between 1655 and 1679 Playford included Campion’s counterpoint text, with annotations by Christopher Simpson. Octavo became the standard format for instruction books intended for amateurs consisting primarily of prose rather than of musical compositions (although some octavos also included some musical compositions). Playford’s lead would be followed by Christopher Simpson, who published The principles of practical mvsick delivered in a compendious, easie, and new method: for the instruction of beginners, either in singing or playing upon instruments. To which are added, some short and easie ayres designed for learners in 1665 (Wing S3814),


Figure 17.6. John Playford, A musicall banquet (London, 1651), sig. A3r. Reproduced by permission of the Huntington Library, San Marino, California.

revised and enlarged in 1667 (Wing S3810) as A compendium of practical musick in five parts: teaching, by a new, and easie method, 1. The rudiments of song. 2. The principles of composition. 3. The vse of discords. 4. The form of figurate descant. 5. The contrivance of canon (with at least four later editions). Possibly in this tradition, though without commercial appeal, is Templum musicum: or The musical synopsis, of the learned and famous Johannes—Henricus—Alstedius, being a compendium of the rudiments both of the mathematical and practical part of musick: of which subject not any book is extant in our English tongue (1664, Wing A2926). This translation by John Birchensha of a German “rudiments of music” dating from many decades earlier could hardly have found much of an audience in Restoration England.29 Indeed, Samuel Pepys’s view was scathing: “This day in the barge I took Berckenshaw’s translation of Alsted his Templum, but the most ridiculous book, as he has translated it, that ever I saw in my life, I declaring that I understood not three lines together from one end of the book to the other.”30


Figure 17.7. John Playford, An introduction to the skill of musick (London, 1683), sig. B4v–B5r (pp. 10–11) (Private collection).

The importance of octavo format for amateur instruction in music was brought home to me when I was looking at the Houghton Library copies of Playford’s Introduction to the Skill of Musick. The library possesses exemplars of nearly every edition from 1654 through 1730. As I was working through these copies in chronological order, I found an anomaly in the call numbers, which were generally “Mus 286” followed by the last two digits of the year, as “Mus 286.54*” for the first edition in 1654. Strangely, the 1667 edition had a call number “Mus 286.67.5*,” which I thought must have been a mistake, and so I decided to call up “Mus 286.67*.” What appeared was Nivers’ Traité de la composition de musque [sic] of 1667, a work I had known only in the translation by Albert Cohen.31 It had never occurred to me to wonder what it looked like. Seeing this French “treatise on composition,” identical in size to the row of Playford introductions, made me understand at a glance that it belonged to the genre of elementary instruction in counterpoint. Clearly, printers on


both sides of the channel were using identical formats for these books, and the formats reinforced their kinship. Nivers and Playford were in effect close cousins, to be sure, speaking in different languages. One final example sheds further light on the octavo. William Holder’s A treatise of the natural grounds, and principles of harmony (1694, Wing H2389) seems at first far too high-brow to fit the general type of books in octavo format. Holder (1616–1698) was not a professional musician but rather an accomplished amateur; he described himself on the title page as “William Holder, D. D.[,] Fellow of the Royal Society and late Sub-Dean of Their Majesties Chappel-Royal.”32 Thanks to the fortuitous preservation of extensive correspondence about the production of this book, we can see the deliberate decision to position it alongside the best-known octavos of its day, Playford and Simpson.33 The correspondence records efforts over sixteen months (from August 1692 to November 1693) to see Holder’s treatise through the press.34 Most of the letters were written by John Bayard, whom Holder had commissioned to serve as editor and intermediary between the various tradesmen involved in the production. We see in excruciating detail the progress of the book, sheet by sheet, as proofs were reviewed by Bayard, sent to Holder, and back to the publisher (John Carr) and printer (John Heptinsall). In his letter of 3 November 1693, Bayard accounted for the cost of printing 500 copies (£23 11s.), and concluded, “I do think it convenient when it is published to sell them at 2 shillings ye Book bound in sheepes leather and 2 shill. 6 pence if they are bound in calf which is the same price as Simpson’s Compendium and Playford’s Introduction is sold at, which are of the same volume with your Book.”35 For our purposes, it is telling that Holder’s treatise would be paired in price and size with Playford and Simpson, especially since fitting the text—and the tables and diagrams—onto the small octavo pages had proven a challenge. In fact, one of the British Library copies of the 1694 edition (shelfmark 1042.e.11) is bound with the 1694 edition of Playford’s Introduction. While in some ways not a typical octavo, Holder’s treatise, with its curious blend of musical rudiments and mathematical explanations of tuning, enjoyed enough success to merit two posthumous editions (1701 and 1731).36 In Holder’s book, as well as in others at both ends of the chronological spectrum, we sometimes see octavo having a function other than as a “massmarket” textbook. During the 1580s it was used for two learned disquisitions on the nature and use of music, both published in Oxford: Anonymous, The praise of musicke: wherein besides the antiquitie, dignitie, delectation, & vse thereof in ciuill matters, is also declared the sober and lawfull vse of the same in


the congregation and church of God (1586, STC 20184), and John Case, Apologia musices tam vocalis quam instrumentalis et mixtæ (1588, STC 4755).37 In the second half of the seventeenth century, Thomas Salmon published his attempt to reform musical clefs—An essay to the advancement of musick, by casting away the perplexity of different cliffs. And uniting all sorts of musick lute, viol, violin, organ, harpsechord, voice, &c. in one universal character (1672, Wing S417)—in octavo, maybe hoping for readership from Playford’s audience, and Matthew Locke used the same format for his vitriolic responses.38 In these examples, octavo can be seen simply as a very inexpensive way of bringing out a book.

Broadside (Broadsheet) When Playford was deliberating about how to expand the “Principles of the Theorique part of Musick” from the 1651 volume, he considered another format in addition to octavo. He writes in the 1654 A breefe introduction: Courteous Reader: I was desired by some Masters to Print the Scale of Musick, or Gam-ut, in a halfe sheet of Paper, to put in a Schollers Book, to save the pains of writing; which I intended onely to have done; but upon second thoughts I have altred my minde, and made the addition of some necessary plain Rules for the better understanding thereof, and the help of Beginners. (sig. A2)39

In other words, he considered putting all the information on a fold-out page—a “halfe sheet of Paper”—inserted into a book, just as Bathe (or his publisher) had done in A briefe introduction to the skill of song, even calling it out in the title: Also a table newly added of the companions of cleues, how one followeth another for the naming of notes: with other necessarie examples, to further the learner. This format, known as broadside or broadsheet, offered a convenient way to fit a great deal of information on a single page. The page could be attached to a wall or kept ready to hand, or it could be tipped into a volume as a fold-out sheet. This format has not been sufficiently studied as a method of elementary music instruction, perhaps because the survival rate is poor and the bibliographical trail hard to follow.40 Table 17.1 lists a sampling of European broadsides from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. From surviving examples we can imagine that the subjects covered a wide range of elementary instruction in music. One type provides instruction on a particular instrument. For example, Dinko Fabris has identified seven broad-


Table 17.1. A sampling of European didactic broadsides.

a) Intabulation, fingering charts Regole per accordare il liuto (Rome: Antonio Strambi, [before 1540?]) Bologna, Museo Civico Bibliografico, B.145 Dinko Fabris, “Lute Tablature Instructions in Italy: A Survey of the Regole from 1507 to 1759,” in Performance on Lute, Guitar, and Vihuela: Historical Practice and Modern Interpretation, ed. Victor A. Coelho (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 16–46; see esp. 42–44 for a discussion of the lute broadsides Michele Carara, Regola ferma et vera per intavolare nel liuto (Rome: Ettore Ruberti, 1585) Fabris, “Lute Tablature Instructions,” 43; Michele Carrara, Intavolatura di Liuto, 1585, ed. Benvenuto Disertori (Florence: Leo S. Olschski, [1956]) b) Rudiments of music Giovanni Francesco da Ferrara, Principium et ars totius musicae (four editions: Rome, Modena, Antwerp, and an unidentified location; dating from the early sixteenth to the early seventeenth centuries) Eugeen Schreurs and Jan Van der Stock, “Principium et ars tocius musice: An early example of mensural music printing in the Low Countries (ca. 1500–1508),” Music Fragments and Manuscripts in the Low Countries, Yearbook of the Alamire Foundation 2 (1997), 171–82 Anonymous, Monochorum. Regula musica (sixteenth century) Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, 2.o Mus. Pr. 156/11 Laura Youens, “Forgotten Puzzles: Canons by Pieter Maessens,” Revue belge de musicologie 46 (1992): 86; my thanks to Dr. Katelijne Schiltz for sharing copies of broadsides from the Munich collection. Sigismundus Salminger, Gradatio, siue scala principiorum artis musicae, pro tyronibus, iam primum incipientibus (Augsburg: Philipp Ulhard, [ca. 1545]) Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, 2.o Mus. Pr. 156/8 Regola universale facile et sicura di rova tutte le note overo mutationi di canto in qual si voglia chiave (Rome: Nicolo van Aolst, 1587; lost, survives in Philip Hainhofer’s lute manuscript of 1603) Fabris, “Lute Tablature Instructions,” 42 Jacques Cossard, Pour apprendre à chanter (Paris, 1633), reproduced from Cossard, Méthodes pour apprendre à lire (Paris, 1633); preserved in Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale mss. N.a.f. 4671, f. 51 Kate van Orden, “Children’s Voices: Singing and Literacy in Sixteenth-Century France,” Early Music History 25 (2006): 209–56, esp. 249; my thanks to Professor van Orden for sharing this material in advance of publication. c) Counterpoint, thoroughbass Francesco Bianciardi, Breve regola per imparar a sonar sopra il Basso con ogni sorte d’istrumento (Siena: Enrico Zucchi, 1607) Bologna, Civico museo bibliografico musicale, C.96


sides among Italian lute sources from 1507 to 1759.41 He describes them as follows: “Engraved on only one side, the sheet typically contains the figure of a lute, a short piece of vocal music transcribed into several different types of tablature, and brief rules for reading music and intabulation.” Sometimes the broadside simply contains an illustration of the instrument, showing the fingering. For example, Henry Playford advertised in 1694 “A Table Engraven on Copper, shewing any Note with the Compass of the Bass-Viol; very Beneficial to Young Practitioners on that Instrument.”42 These sorts of illustrations are also frequently included in music textbooks, for example, the bass viol on page 88 of the 1683 An Introduction to the Skill of Musick (sig. G3v). Another type of didactic broadside attempts to present the entire range of musical rudiments—gamut, notation of pitch and rhythm, modes and psalm tones, etc. A widely disseminated and enduring example is Principium et ars totius musicae (various spellings), known to have been published from the beginning of the sixteenth century to the beginning of the seventeenth, both north and south of the Alps.43 Broadsides of this sort typically include a Guidonian hand, an illustration of the hexachords and mutation, mensural notation, and rules for psalm tones and modes. An English example of this type is “The Scale, or Basis of Musick” (see figure 17.8).44 It does not exist as an independent bibliographical entity, but is found as a folded sheet in some of the copies of James Clifford’s The Divine Services, the second, much enlarged edition of anthem texts that was published in 1664. Clifford’s publication can be viewed as part of the enormous project of restoring the liturgical practices of the Book of Common Prayer following the restoration of Charles II as King of England in 1660—and of addressing the need for music education. This sheet contains the rudiments of music written by Ralph Winterton, a physician and professor of medicine at Cambridge.45 Although it was known to W. Barclay Squire,46 it has not been recognized as a pedagogical tool in its own right. It contains the scale with mnemonic verse about the rule of mi, a method for determining solmization based on the key signature frequently found in English pedagogical texts, including Playford (see figures 17.6 and 17.7).47 “The Scale, or Basis” also has examples for practicing solmization that show transposition by clef and signature, and a staff showing the duration of notes and rests. The bottom third of the sheet is an explanation in prose of the rudiments presented above in the “Table.” Other broadsides covered more advanced topics, such as counterpoint and thorough bass. One that has not survived, which Playford advertised in


Figure 17.8. Ralph Winterton, “The Scale, or Basis of Musick,” in James Clifford, The Divine Services (London, 1664), Shelfmark: Bliss B 274, fold-out between pp. 428 & 429 (Bodleian Library, University of Oxford).

1682 and 1683, is “A Sheet of plain Rules and Directions for Composing Musick in Parts. by Mr. John Birchenshaw Price 6 d.”48 It could conceivably be the “great Card of the body of Musique,” which Birchensha used in 1662 when he was teaching Samuel Pepys. Pepys writes that Birchensha “cries [it] up for a

Figure 17.9. Anonymous, A compendium, containing exact rules to be observed in the composing of two or more parts (London, 1673) (*EB65 A100 B675b v. 3, Houghton Library, Harvard University).


Figure 17.10. John Playford, An introduction to the skill of musick (London, 1683), sig. I4v–I5r (pp. 2–3) (Private collection).

rare thing; and I do believe it cost much pains, but is not so usefull as he would have it.”49 Field and Wardhaugh speculate that it may be “a chart of consonant and dissonant intervals in all keys.”50 A second example of this type has survived in a unique copy in the Houghton Library; apparently overlooked until now, it provides a brief account of concords and discords, a description of the possible kinds of motion in two-voice counterpoint, and then four rules for handling concords and four for discords. Entitled A compendium, containing exact rules to be observed in the composing of two or more parts, either for vocal or instrumental musick (Wing C5609A), it was “printed for William Gilbert at the Half-Moon in St. Paul’schurch-yard” in 1673 (see figure 17.9).51 This title found its way into Robert Clavell’s 1675 catalogue of books printed in England among the octavos as “A Compendium or Rules for Composing two or more parts, either for Vocal


Figure 17.11. John Playford, An introduction to the skill of musick (London, 1683), sig. I5v–I6r (pp. 4–5) (Private collection).

or Instrumental Musick. Printed for W. Gilbert.” In the 1680 catalogue, it appeared among the “quarto, octavo, & twelves” as “Compend. for Vocal or Instrumental Musick, a sheet.” I suspect that the catalogues are listing the same item. Ten years later, in 1683, Playford altered the tenth edition of An introduction to the skill of musick to offer a new explanation of counterpoint, described on the title page as The third [book], the art of descant, or composing of musick in parts, in a more plain and easie method than any heretofore published (see figures 17.10 and 17.11). He writes in the preface: “Also I have in a brief method set forth the Art of Composing Two, Three, and Four Parts Musically; in such easie and plain Rules as are most necessary to be understood by Young Practitioners, which were never before Printed, but now in this Tenth Edition.” His claim that the material had never been printed is false: he has in fact used the text of the 1673 broadside verbatim.


Whatever the borrowing may tell us about how literally we should take any of Playford’s statements, it surely reinforces the kinship between the small octavos and the large broadsides for pedagogical use. The close connection between the contents should not be surprising because both are inexpensive ways of providing elementary instruction in music.

Upright Quarto The two remaining formats, upright quarto and folio, need to be seen as somewhat rarified, especially in contrast to broadside and octavo. In England, at least, upright quarto seems to be associated with learned volumes, including what we would today call vanity publications, financed by the author. (In the discussion that follows, I will refer to upright quarto simply as quarto.) The distinction between quarto and octavo was brought home for me while I was working on Charles Butler’s The principles of musik, in singing and setting: vvith the two-fold use therof, ecclesiasticall and civil (1636, STC 4196). I was using the Da Capo facsimile edition of Butler’s Principles. Because it was almost identical in size to the facsimile of Playford’s Introduction, I had not realized that there was a difference in format.52 Even facsimiles, ostensibly reproductions of the original, can obscure the material form of a book. It took working with the actual books to make clear that Butler’s quarto belongs to quite a different world from Playford’s octavo. Over the course of his long life (he lived from 1560 to 1647), Butler published extensively; the correlation between format and content is telling.53 After university, he worked as a schoolteacher from 1595 to 1600, and in 1597 published one of the myriad adaptations of Ramus’s Rhetoric that went to many editions, all but one of them either octavo or the even smaller duodecimo. His other title in octavo was a treatise about bees, The feminine monarchie, published in 1609; an enlarged edition would appear in quarto in 1623. The rest of his titles—a book on marriage law (1625), one on oratory (1629), one combining the rhetoric and oratory treatises (1629), one on English grammar (1633 and 1634), an edition of the bee treatise in reformed spelling (1634),54 and finally one on music (1636)—all appeared in quarto, mostly at his own expense (impensis authoris), and from 1634 in his idiosyncratic version of English spelling. Butler’s The principles of musik consists of two separate essays—one an introduction to music, the other a reflection on the social uses of music; they bristle with erudition, including marginal notes and end notes with their own marginal references (see figure 17.12). The divide we see in his books

Figure 17.12. Charles Butler, The principles of musik (London, 1636), 19. Reproduced by permission of the Huntington Library, San Marino, California.


between the school texts in small, cheap formats running to many editions and the heavily researched, self-published titles underscores the meaning of quarto as a signifier of erudition, not destined for the commercial market. That this understanding was widely held can be seen in the correspondence concerning the publication of Holder’s 1694 treatise, discussed above. The letters reveal a significant amount of customization in the production. For example, some sheets were printed on higher quality paper, some in a larger size. There were also four different title pages.55 Holder was evidently very displeased that books had been printed as published “by the author” rather than by John Carr. Bayard, in a letter written in December 1693, addressed the issue of the title pages: [I] found, that the books of that sort of paper [smaller size], which were bound up in hast in sheeps leather [the cheapest binding] for the Feast [of St. Cecilia], had the title different printed from those of that paper I sent you [larger size]; and were not printed for the Author, and this I do assure you of now; and that there was not one of this larger paper exposed at that time. It seems ‘tis very usual to print books with such different titles; and that those of larger paper they commonly express to be printed for the Author [italics added for emphasis]; so that as I said, you have not the least reason to be discomposed any further about it.56

Larger paper, and by implication, quarto format, normally indicated selfpublished works. Among the books printed in quarto are two titles associated with the Royal Society—William Lord Brouncker’s translation, Renatus Des-Cartes excellent compendium of musick: with necessary and judicious animadversions thereupon. By a person of honour (1653, Wing D1132) and Francis North, Baron Guilford’s A philosophical essay of musick directed to a friend (1677, Wing G2216).57 Also in quarto is a curious pamphlet, possibly the work of Thomas Salmon, The musicall compass (1684, Wing M3162), which presents the rudiments of music by means of three engraved illustrations and an accompanying four-page poem.58 The category of books published in upright quarto also contains a number of titles that could be described as collections of music with some sort of didactic introduction. For example, Thomas Ravenscroft began a collection of four-voice part-songs with a treatise on the notation of rhythm: A briefe discourse of the true (but neglected) vse of charact’ring the degrees, by their perfection, imperfection, and diminution in measurable musicke, against the common


practise and custome of these times. Examples whereof are exprest in the harmony of 4. voyces, concerning the pleasure of 5. vsuall recreations. 1 Hunting, 2 hawking, 3 dauncing, 4 drinking, 5 enamouring (1614, STC 20756).59 The treatise takes the format of the music it precedes, written in a “choirbook” format with four parts on each opening. Another example is Thomas Robinson’s brief tutor that begins his New citharen lessons, with perfect tunings of the same, from foure course of strings to fourteene course, euen to trie the sharpest teeth of enuie, with lessons of all sortes, and methodicall instructions for all professors and practitioners of the citharen (1609, STC 21127), published by Barley and similar in function, though not in format, to the 1596 Pathway. Given the widespread use at this time of upright quarto for vocal music, it is no surprise that Elway Bevin would publish his A briefe and short instruction of the art of musicke, to teach how to make discant, of all proportions that are in vse: very necessary for all such as are desirous to attaine to knowledge in the art; and may by practice, if they can sing, soone be able to compose three, foure, and five parts: and also to compose all sorts of canons that are usuall, by these directions of two or three parts in one, upon the plain-song (1631, STC 1986) in that format. This is a book with many more notes than words, one that mostly teaches by example rather than by explanation.60 In these instances, the prevailing practice for the printing of music dictated the format for the pedagogical texts.

Folio Thomas Morley was the first English writer to use folio format for a music textbook. He published A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke, set downe in forme of a dialogue: deuided into three partes, the first teacheth to sing with all things necessary for the knowledge of pricktsong. The second treateth of descante and to sing two parts in one vpon a plainsong or ground, with other things necessary for a descanter. The third and last part entreateth of composition of three, foure, fiue or more parts with many profitable rules to that effect. With new songs of, 2. 3. 4. and .5 [sic] parts (STC 18133) in 1597, and a second edition appeared posthumously, in 1608 (STC 18134).61 Morley seems consciously to be setting his book apart from the two 1596 music texts discussed above—Bathe’s octavo and Barley’s oblong quarto. His models may well have been ambitious folios such as those published on the continent by Gaffurius, Glarean, Zarlino, and Zacconi, but he is also familiar with quartos such as Tigrini and Ornithoparchus, and with octavos such as Beurhusius and Lossius.62

Figure 17.13. Thomas Morley, A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke (London, 1597), 2 (Private collection).


Morley’s use of an elaborate woodcut for the title page heightens the impression of authority created by the format.63 Yet the book is far from a luxury item (see figure 17.13). It is in small folio format, and the surviving copies attest to the considerable difficulty of printing an accurate copy: a significant number of formes exist in more than one state. Morley’s text did not enjoy the popularity later enjoyed by Playford or Simpson, but the large number of surviving copies of the two editions and the evidence of hard use by readers attest to its significance. Only two other seventeenth-century writers would use folio format for their treatises, John Dowland and Thomas Mace. Dowland, for reasons that have yet to be established, published a translation of Andreas Ornithoparchus’s Micrologus, which was first published as an oblong quarto in 1517 (with many subsequent editions), in folio in 1609 (see figure 17.14).64 This musica practica consists of four books, the first, second, and fourth of which cover standard topics: “the principles of plaine song” (i.e., pitch), “Mensurall Song” (rhythm), and “Counterpoint.” The third book deals with “ecclesiastical accent”—how to intone the Latin of the epistles, gospels, and other parts of the Catholic liturgy. The value of Ornithoparchus’s nearly century-old German school-text, with its connections to Catholic practice, for a musician in Jacobean England is far from clear. Perhaps the reasons are to be found in Dowland’s biography. He dedicates the book to Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, one of the most influential politicians of his time.65 In his letter of dedication, Dowland, who had returned to England but was still seeking a place at court, seems to acknowledge the datedness of the endeavor, but nonetheless seeks the benefits of Cecil’s patronage: “am I emboldened to present this Father of Musicke Ornithoparchus to your worthyest Patronage, whose approoued Workes in my trauailes (for the common good of our Musitians) I haue reduced into our English Language. Beseeching your Lorship (as a chiefe Author of all our good) graciously to receiue this poore presentment, whereby your Lordship shall encourage me to a future taske, more new in subiect, and as memorable in worth.” Copies were still available in 1690. Thomas Mace used folio format for his massive Musick’s monument; or, A remembrancer of the best practical musick, both divine, and civil, that has ever been known, to have been in the world. Divided into three parts. The first part, shews a necessity of singing psalms well, in parachial churches, or not to sing at all directing, how they may be well sung, certainly; by two several ways, or means; with an assurance of perpetual national-quire; and also shewing, how cathedral

Figure 17.14. Andreas Ornithoparchus, Micrologus (London, 1609), 8. Reproduced by permission of the Huntington Library, San Marino, California.

Figure 17.15. Thomas Mace, Musick’s monument (London, 1676), 79. Reproduced by permission of the Huntington Library, San Marino, California.


musick, may be much improved, and refined. The second part, Treats of the noble lute, (the best of instruments) now made easie; and all its occult-locked-up-secrets plainly laid open, never before discovered; . . . directing the most ample way, for the use of the Theorboe, from off the note, in confort, &c. . . . In the third part, the generous viol, in its rightest use, is treated upon (1676, Wing M120) (see figure 17.15). Musick’s monument was self-published, financed by the 304 subscribers whose names were listed at the beginning of the book, each of whom committed to pay the pre-publication price of 12s (in sheets, unbound, with binding available at cost).66 Mace, identified on the title as “one of the Clerks of Trinity Colledge, in the University of Cambridge,” was sixty-three years old and eager to hold onto a musical world that had long since vanished. It is possible that he chose the format to accommodate both the length of his text and the large number of musical examples and compositions. He announced his music text, then entitled A Remembrancer, at the end of his 1675 pamphlet (quarto), Profit, conveniency, and pleasure, to the whole nation. Being a short rational discourse, lately presented to His Majesty, concerning the high-ways of England, and listed the names of friends and relatives in York, Nottingham, Cambridge, Norwich, and London where subscribers could pick up and pay for their books. The other didactic texts in folio format are all associated with collections of instrumental music that by convention appeared in folio rather than oblong quarto. In this category are the didactic prefaces in: 1)â•‡ Thomas Robinson, The schoole of musicke: wherein is taught, the perfect method, of true fingering of the lute, pandora, orpharion, and viol de gamba; with most infallible generall rules, both easie and delightfull. Also, a method, how you may be your owne instructer for prick-song, by the help of your lute, without any other teacher: with lessons of all sorts, for your further and better instruction (1603, STC 21128) 2)â•‡ Varietie of lute-lessons: viz. fantasies, pauins, galliards, almaines, corantoes, and volts: selected out of the best approued authors, as well beyond the seas as of our owne country. By Robert Douland. VVhereunto is annexed certaine obseruations belonging to lute-playing: by Iohn Baptisto Besardo of Visonti. Also a short treatise thereunto appertayning: by Iohn Douland Batcheler of Musicke (1610, STC 7100) 3)â•‡ Christopher Simpson, The division-violist: or An introduction to the playing upon a ground: divided into two parts. The first, directing the hand, with other preparative instructions. The second, laying open the manner and method of playing ex-tempore, or composing division to a ground. To which, are added some divisions made upon grounds for the practice of learners (1659, Wing S3813; three additional editions)


• It is clear that format—and its corollary, size—does matter. This survey of early modern English texts suggests that the small (octavo) and very big (broadside) formats were destined to be inexpensive tools for student or amateur instruction.67 Pedagogical prefaces accompanying musical editions were also common, and came in the formats standard for the particular type of music (upright quarto, oblong quarto, folio, etc.). Upright quartos were clearly designed for a more elite audience, and typically were in effect self-published. Folios were too rare to make generalizations possible. Morley may have had continental models in mind for his A plaine and easie introduction to practicall musicke; the other folios were generally associated, directly or indirectly, with lute or viol music. Format is also a powerful, if not always appreciated factor in historiography. It plays a role in the survival of printed material. The larger books tend to be more durable; they are less likely to be read and consumed, and then once they ceased to fill their original function they were more valuable to collectors than smaller books. Perhaps because of this survival rate, or perhaps because larger books also tended to be more substantive, the larger formats also dominate our “histories of theory.” For example, Gustave Reese’s survey, Fourscore Classics of Music Literature, published in 1957, cites some twenty-six titles in the Renaissance section, eighteen of which were published between 1500 and 1600.68 Of these eighteen, over half (10) are folios (Aron, Glarean, Bermudo, Vicentino, Zarlino, Sancta Maria, Salinas, Galilei, Zacconi, and Diruta), two are oblong quartos (Virdung and Silvestro de Ganassi), four are upright quartos (Schlick, Heyden, Finck, and Bottrigari), only one is an octavo (Agricola); none are broadsides. This is a history based on large books. And Reese is not alone; this is the standard stuff of histories of theory. This view doesn’t reflect the actual production of books during this century. We can get a much better read on actual production by using Åke Davidsson’s catalogue of sixteenth-century printed music treatises.69 An analysis of two random slices of his data (about one-third of his 613 titles) shows that over half (56 percent) were octavos, about a third quartos, and only 7 percent folios. It is also important to be cautious about how large books were consumed. For example, Judd posits for Glarean’s tome “a rather narrowly de-


fined community of university-trained northern humanist readers”; the survival of presentation copies suggests a particular “group of humanist readers, often with training in philosophy and theology.”70 And for Zarlino, who reissued Le istitutioni harmoniche (1558) two times (1561, 1562) with new title pages, she imagines a printing strategy not so much tied to a commercial market but to career advancement.71 We take figures such as Glarean and Zarlino to be the pillars of “music theory”; we can’t help but be influenced by their heft. But are we writing a history of books bought by few and read by even fewer? It would be interesting to write a “history of theory” from the perspective of format: the story told by octavos would be far different from that by the folios. We are now at a curious moment in the “history of the book.” Thanks to the industry of several centuries of musical scholarship by Hawkins and Gerbert and Coussemaker, and now to the miracles of technology, we can be virtually divorced from the texts in their original forms. Thesaurus musicarum latinarum (TML) and its companion databases have harnessed digital technology and the internet to create the ultimate anthology of theoretical texts. These texts are available in a curiously disembodied form; we can search individual words but we have precious little sense of the materiality of the books or manuscripts from which these texts have been drawn. The original form disappears—and with it, more often than we realize, a sense of the function that the form can communicate. While I revel in the access to the texts that TML makes possible, I nonetheless want to underscore the central message of this essay: the importance of working directly with the books themselves, and of learning to understand the significance of their material forms.

Notes I read a version of this article as a keynote address at the 2005 NEH conference in Baltimore, Reading and Writing the Pedagogies of the Renaissance: The Student, the Study Materials, and the Teacher of Music, 1470–1650, and an earlier version under the title “Catch as Catch Can: The Material Form of Musical Instruction in Early Modern England,” at the 2003 Annual Meeting of the American Musicological Society. I am indebted to Professors Jane Bernstein, Ellen Harris, Cristle Collins Judd, Kate van Orden, Jeremy Smith, and Peter Stallybrass for valuable suggestions. STC and Wing numbers are taken from the online English Short Title Catalogue (ESTC, British Library). I generally provide the full title as it is given in ESTC the first time I refer to a book, and use a short title thereafter. 1.â•‡ The late Harold Powers first drew my attention to this problem in his critical and yet sympathetic assessment of Pietro Aaron’s work on mode; see his “Is mode real? Pietro Aron, the octenary system, and polyphony,” Basler Jahrbuch für historische Musikpraxis

You Can Tell a Book by Its Coverâ•… ·â•… 379 16 (1992): 9–52; trans. Annie Cœurdevey as “Le mode est-il une réalité? Pietro Aaron, le système octonaire et la polyphonie,” in Lire, composer, analyser à la Renaissance (Paris and Tours: Minerve, 2003), 177–238. 2.â•‡ The Cambridge History of Western Music Theory, ed. Thomas Christensen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 1–23. 3.â•‡ Journal of Seventeenth-Century Music 8 (2002): www.sscm-jscm.org/v8/no1/gouk .html (accessed 16 May 2009). 4.â•‡ Cristle Collins Judd, Reading Renaissance Music Theory: Hearing with the Eyes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000). 5.â•‡ For example, Robert D. Hume, Reconstructing Contexts: The Aims and Principles of Archaeo-Historicism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 79, laments the lack of attention to format: “We must also remember that the material text itself often sends out powerful signals about how it is to be interpreted—folio, quarto, pamphlet, and broadside produce very different impressions, as can typography and contextual content.” My thanks to Ellen Harris for this reference. See, for example, Daniel Heartz, “Typography and Format in Early Music Printing: With Particular Reference to Attaingnant’s First Publications,” MLA Notes 23 (1967): 702–706. D. W. Krummel, English Music Printing 1553–1700 (London: The Bibliographical Society, 1975), while focused primarily on type, never strays far from considerations of convention, market, and format. And the recent article by Kate van Orden, “Children’s Voices: Singing and Literacy in Sixteenth-Century France,” Early Music History 25 (2006): 209–56, also considers format in the context of music pedagogy in France. 6.â•‡ Paul F. Grendler, “Form and Function in Italian Renaissance Popular Books,” RenÂ� aissance Quarterly 46 (1993): 451–85; the passage quoted is from pp. 451–52. 7.â•‡ There are a number of surveys of the surviving texts, including Morrison Comegys Boyd, Elizabethan Music and Music Criticism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1940; 2nd edition, 1962; rev. edition, 1974); a series of articles by Lillian Ruff in The Consort (1964–1970); Barry Cooper, “Englische Musiktheorie im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert,” in Entstehung Nationaler Traditionen: Frankreich, England (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1986); and Rebecca Herissone, Music Theory in Seventeenth-Century England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), with useful appendices listing printed sources in alphabetical and chronological order. As a rule, the focus in these studies is on content rather than on the physical characteristics of the books. Another angle from which to view these texts is through their social function in the educational system. See Jane Flynn, “The Education of Choristers in England During the Sixteenth Century,” in English Choral Practice 1400–1650, ed. John Morehen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 180–99; and Susan F. Weiss, “Didactic Sources of Music Learning in Early Modern England,” in Didactic Literature in England 1500–1800: Expertise Constructed, ed. Natasha Glaisyer and Sara Pennell (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003). See also my study “Concepts of Pitch in English Music Theory, 1560–1640,” in Tonal Structures in Early Music, ed. Cristle Collins Judd (New York: Garland, 1998), 183–246. 8.â•‡ Philip Gaskell, A New Introduction to Bibliography (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972; paperback edition, 1995), 177, estimates that in the sixteenth century the cost of paper was as high as 75 percent of the total. 9.â•‡ Ibid., 78–117; citation from p. 78. 10.â•‡ David Gants (“A Discussion of Project Methods,” Early English Booktrade DataÂ� base: www.lib.unb.ca/Texts/Gants/EEBD/methods.html) reviews various measures of productivity (for example, title, lines of type, or edition sheet), and explains why the latter is chosen for the Early English Booktrade Database. My thanks to John Buchtel for this reference. A vivid example of the cost of producing a music book in England can be seen in Margaret Dowling’s fascinating study of the litigation surrounding the publication of John

380â•… ·â•… Jessie Ann Owens Dowland’s 1600 lute song folio (“The Printing of John Dowland’s Second Booke of Songs or Ayres,” The Library, ser. 4, no. 12 [1932]: 365–79); the folio edition was to consist of 1025 copies of twelve and a half sheets each. My thanks to Jeremy Smith for reminding me of this article. See below, for a discussion of the production of Holder’s 1694 A treatise of the natural grounds, and principles of harmony. 11.â•‡ Gaskell, A New Introduction, 80. 12.â•‡ An interesting snapshot of book sizes, as measured by the cost of various kinds of bindings, is the 1619 price list “A generall note of the prises for binding of all sorts of bookes” (STC 16768.6). The rough categories are folio, 4, 8, etc., but within folio are the further qualifiers large, small, medium. The price lists have been published by Mirjam Foot, “Some Bookbinders’ Price Lists of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in Studies in the History of Bookbinding (Brookfield, Conn.: Scholar Press, 1993). But see the recent study by Stuart Bennett, Trade Bookbinding in the British Isles 1660–1800 (New Castle, Del.: Oak Knoll Press and the British Library, 2004). My thanks to Peter Stallybrass for this reference. On paper sizes and printing formats see Bennett, Trade Bookbinding, 168; and Gaskell, A New Introduction, 73–75. 13.â•‡ My thanks to Peter Stallybrass for suggesting this line of inquiry. 14.â•‡ ESTC, following Wing, gives the date as “[1670?].” Lenore Coral dated it 1653 on the basis of the address of Playford’s shop. She transcribed and analyzed the contents in “A John Playford Advertisement,” RMA Research Chronicle 5 (1965): 1–12. Krummel, English Music Printing, 115, suggests that Playford might have come into possession of the stock of unsold music from the last of the music patentees. 15.â•‡ On Clavell see Bennett, Trade Bookbinding, 20–23. 16.â•‡ The title page claims that The pathway has “a treatise of Descant, & certaine Tables, vvhich doth teach hovv to remoue any song higher, or lovver from one Key to another, neuer heretofore published.” While some scholars have suggested that these “certain tables” are missing, Theodore Dumitrescu (personal correspondence) argues that we should be looking for something allowing one to read a piece in a different clef, and not to perform transposition in the modern sense. He points out that near the opening of the counterpoint sections of The pathway, a number of examples make mention of “sight” for changing written pitch into a different sung pitch, connected to music where a single note is supplied with an additional number indicating a sounding interval in a different octave. The table of four examples at the bottom of sig. F iir is a good example, with the text, “In these fower your sight euer by duplication, triplication, and quadruplication of voyce.” The sight technique had never received a printed explanation before, as all other known examples come from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, where it is discussed similarly in a number of counterpoint treatises. Thomas Morley (A plaine and easie introduction [London, 1597], sig. *3v) certainly recognized the source used by the author of The pathway: “And the last part of his booke treating of Descant, he tooke verbatim out of an old written booke which I haue. But it should seeme, that whatsoeuer or whosoeuer he was, that gaue it to the presse, was not the Author of it himselfe, else would he haue set his name to it, or then hee was ashamed of his labour” (cited from Texts in English on Music, directed by Peter Lefferts: www.chmtl .indiana.edu/tme/ [accessed 18 March 2008]). 17.â•‡ John M. Ward, “Barley’s Songs without Words,” Lute Society Journal 12 (1970): 5–22, esp. 14–15. ESTC still treats them as separate titles. A note to A new booke (STC 1433) reads: “‘An introduction to prickesong’ = ‘The pathway to musicke’ (STC 19464, possibly edited by Barley), with which this was intended to be issued” (accessed 27 December 2008). 18.â•‡ Ian Harwood, Wire Strings at Helmingham Hall: an Instrument and a Music Book (Lute Society Booklets 10 [2005]). Harwood provides a detailed study of the copy discovered at Helmingham Hall in the library of Lord Tollemache. (I thank Lord Tollemache for permission to examine the volume; I am also grateful to Ruth Smith for her assistance on

You Can Tell a Book by Its Coverâ•… ·â•… 381 this visit.) See also Matthew Spring, The Lute in Britain: A History of the Instrument and its Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 138. 19.â•‡ The British Library owns all four parts, originally bound together, but now bound separately as A new booke and The pathway; the Huntington Library possesses the lute section (1596) and a 1637 reissue of The pathway; the Helmingham Hall copy, which is missing some leaves, contains The pathway, the orpharion and the bandora sections; the Royal College of Music copy contains the three instrumental sections. See Ward, “Barley’s Song,” 14–15, and Harwood, Wire Strings, 38–41. 20.â•‡ The dating is by Jeremy Smith on the basis of watermark evidence and the business practices of the printer Thomas East; see Thomas East and Music Publishing in Renaissance England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). Smith makes clear the significance of 1596 for music publication. England had a complex system that included “registration” of individual titles by the Company of Stationers and patents or monopolies issued by the Crown for classes or categories of books. The music patent was not assigned between 1596 and 1599. East took advantage of this gap to register a number of titles, including the Bathe treatise. Barley, who was not a stationer, could have registered the book through the printer, J. Danter, but chose not to. The gap in the patent meant that East and Barley could publish music with no adverse consequences. 21.â•‡ Cited from Ward, “Barley’s Songs,” 17. For a discussion of Barley’s indebtedness to LeRoy, see Harwood, Wire Strings, 46. 22.â•‡ I would like to thank Jane Bernstein, Ronald Broude, and Jeremy Smith for their observations about this volume. I am also grateful to Stephen Tabor (Huntington Library) for his assistance. The 1637 issue supplies legible text for sig. E, which was poorly inked in the British Library copy of 1596. 23.â•‡ It was not uncommon to try to market unsold sheets by adding a new title page, sometimes claiming (falsely) to be a revised or corrected edition; see Bennett, Trade Bookbinding, 14. On Zarlino’s use of this strategy, see below. 24.â•‡ Adrienne Simpson, “A Short-Title List of Printed English Instrumental Tutors up to 1800, Found in the British Library,” RMA Research Chronicle 6 (1966): 24–50. Titles include: English Dancing Master, 1651 (many eds.); A Booke of New Lessons [Cithern Gittern], 1652; Musick’s Recreation [Lyra Viol], 1652 (several eds.); Davidson, Songs and Fancies, 1662 (two later eds.); Musick’s Hand-Maide [Virginals, Harpsycon], 1663; Apollo’s Banquet [Treble Violin], 1669 (many later eds.); Greeting, The Pleasant Companion [Flageolet], 1672; Locke, Melothesia, 1673; “A.B., Philo-Mus.,” Synopsis, 1680 (now edited by Rebecca Herissone [Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006]); Hudgebutt, Vade mecum (recorder), 1679. On Playford see most recently, Stacey Jocoy [Houck], “John Playford and the English Musical Market,” in ‘Noyses, sounds, and sweet aires’: Music in Early Modern England, comp. and ed. Jessie Ann Owens (Washington: Folger Shakespeare Library, 2006), 48–61. 25.â•‡ On the 1584 book and its relationship to Bathe’s 1596 publication, see William Bathe, A briefe introduction to the skill of song, ed. Kevin Karnes (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005). 26.â•‡ John Hawkins, A General History of the Science and Practice of Music (London: Novello, Ewer & Co., 1875), 497. 27.â•‡ The anonymous and rare sales catalogue, Playford’s Brief introduction to the skill of musick. An account, with bibliographical notes, of an unique collection comprising all the editions from 1654 to 1730. In the possession of Messrs. Ellis, London (London: Messrs. Ellis, 1926; copies at Houghton Library and the Huntington Library), provides a listing of all extant editions with a bibliographic essay. The Huntington Library catalogue describes the collection as being made by R. E. Brant, and lists Brant as an alternate author. Many of the volumes listed in the catalogue are now in Houghton Library. See also Lillian M. Ruff, “A Survey of John Playford’s ‘Introduction to the Skill of Music,’” The Consort 22 (1965): 36–48; and Herissone, Music Theory, app. C.

382â•… ·â•… Jessie Ann Owens 28.â•‡ STC 4542, listed in ESTC as “[1610].” For the dating, see Christopher R. Wilson, ed., A new way of making fowre parts in counterpoint by Thomas Campion. And, Rules how to compose by Giovanni Coprario (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), 4–7. Another example is the lost treatise, “A Briefe Instruction of Musicke, collected by P. Delamote Frenchman, Prin. By Tho. Vautrollier. 1574. 8 [= octavo],” listed in Maunsell’s 1595 Catalogue of English Printed Books (STC 17669). 29.â•‡ Birchensha writes, “It was for your Profit and Benefit that I undertook this Translation: and that you might thereby understand the Rudiments and Principles both of the Mathematical and Practical Parts of this Science” (sig. A7r). He doubtless thought he was translating Alsted’s own work from his multivolume encyclopedia (1630); he would have had little chance to recognize Alsted’s source as Johannes Lippius’s Synopsis musicae novae of 1612. See John Howard, “Form and Method in Johannes Lippius’s Synopsis musicae novae,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 38 (1985): 524–50, at 543–44. See the forthcoming edition John Birchensha: Writings on Music, ed. Christopher Field and Benjamin Wardhaugh (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2010). It is noteworthy that Birchensha explicitly acknowledges that he is part of a longer history of translating musical writing that includes Dowland and Meibom. 30.â•‡ 5 March 1667, cited from: www.pepys.info/1667/1667mar.html (accessed 15 May 2009). 31.â•‡ Guillaume-Gabriel Nivers, Treatise on the Composition of Music, trans. and ed. Albert Cohen (Brooklyn: Institute of Mediaeval Music, [1961]). 32.â•‡ John Aubrey, Brief Lives, ed. Oliver Lawson Dick from the original manuscripts, with a life of John Aubrey and a foreword by Edmund Wilson (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1957), 160: “He is very Musicall, both theoretically and practically, and he had a sweete voyce.” 33.â•‡ British Library, Sloane ms 1388, fols. 56–108. See Edward J. L. Scott, Index to the Sloane Manuscripts in the British Museum (London: British Museum, 1904). 34.â•‡ H. Edmund Poole, “The Printing of William Holder’s ‘The Principles of Harmony,’” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 101 (1974–1975): 31–43. While this fascinating article surely captures the important features of the correspondence, my cursory reading suggests that there is additional material not quoted by Poole; the correspondence certainly merits being published in full, in conjunction with a study of the surviving exemplars of the 1694 edition. 35.â•‡ Poole, “The Printing,” 37. By 14 December 1693 the total had climbed to £26 6s. 1d.: printer £14, paper £6 18s. 4d., wood cuts £1 14s., binding £1 14s. 7d. (this from a passage not quoted by Poole). 36.â•‡ It was also well thought of by both Burney and Hawkins. For a recent study of Holder see Jerome Stanley, William Holder and His Position in Seventeenth-century Philosophy and Music Theory (Lewiston: Mellon, 2002). 37.â•‡ J. W. Binns, “John Case and ‘The Praise of Musicke,’” Music & Letters 55 (1974): 444–53, established that Case was not the author of The praise of musicke; Binns’s translation of Apologia musices is in progress. 38.â•‡ Field and Wardhaugh, John Birchensha, forthcoming. 39.â•‡ Playford continued, in the next paragraph: “The Work as it is I must confesse is not all my owne, some part of it was collected out of other mens writings, which I hope will the more commend it” (sig. A2v). 40.â•‡ John Milsom, “Songs and Society in Early Tudor London,” Early Music History 16 (1997): 235–93, provides a sobering view of the loss (and chance survival) of sixteenthcentury song-sheets. My focus is on didactic broadsides; for recent scholarship on the many broadsides that contain musical canons, see Michael Lamla, “Musical Canons on Artistic Prints from the 16th to the 18th Centuries,” in Music Fragments and Manuscripts in the Low

You Can Tell a Book by Its Coverâ•… ·â•… 383 Countries, Yearbook of the Alamire Foundation 2 (1997), 479–510; and Thomas Röder, “Verborgene Botschaften? Augsburger Kanons von 1548,” in Canons and Canonic Techniques, 14th–16th Centuries: Theory, Practice, and Reception History, ed. Katelijne Schiltz and Bonnie J. Blackburn (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 235–51. 41.â•‡ Dinko Fabris, “Lute Tablature Instructions in Italy: A Survey of the Regole from 1507 to 1759,” in Performance on Lute, Guitar, and Vihuela: Historical Practice and Modern Interpretation, ed. Victor A. Coelho (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 16–46; see esp. 42–44 for a discussion of the lute broadsides. 42.â•‡ In Thesaurus Musicus (London: J. Heptinstall for Henry Playford, 1694); also advertised in A Choice Collection of New Songs and Ballads (London, 1699) as “A Sheet Engraven on Copper, being Directions for the Bass Viol. Price. 6 d.” and in the sixth edition of John Playford’s The whole book of psalms (London, 1700) as “Also a large Sheet of Directions for the Bass-Viol. Price 1 s.” 43.â•‡ Eugeen Schreurs and Jan Van der Stock, “Principium et ars tocius musice: An early example of mensural music printing in the Low Countries (ca. 1500–1508),” in Music Fragments and Manuscripts in the Low Countries, Yearbook of the Alamire Foundation 2 (1997), 171–82. 44.â•‡ I discuss this text at greater length in my forthcoming “Ralph Winterton and ‘The Scale, or Basis of Musick’: A Seventeenth-Century English Broadsheet.” 45.â•‡ See Norman Moore, “Winterton, Ralph (1601–1636),” rev. Michael Bevan, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford, 2004) at www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/29776 (accessed 3 January 2005). 46.â•‡ W. Barclay Squire, Catalogue of Printed Music Published Between 1487 and 1800 Now in the British Museum (London, 1912), I: 279, description of James Clifford, Divine Services (1664 ed.): “wanting ‘the Scale or Basis of Musick’ between pp. 428 and 429.” See also “Clifford, James” by W. B. Squire, rev. Peter Lynan, in the online edition of the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography: http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/printable/5653 (accessed 3 January 2005). 47.â•‡ Playford described the verses he included in the 1651 A Musicall Banquet as “a Copy of Verses which I have had by me for a long time, and though they be Ancient, the method is true, and much matter couched in a few words” (sig. A2v). It seems likely that Playford and Winterton were both drawing on a received method for teaching solmization. For an explanation, see my “Concepts of pitch,” 212–15. 48.â•‡ Choice Ayres and Songs to sing to the Theorbo-lute or Bass-viol (1683). I owe this reference to the late Lenore Coral. Christopher Field and Benjamin Wardhaugh, in their forthcoming edition of Birchensha’s writings, note its appearance a year earlier in John Playford, Musick’s Recreation on The Viol, Lyra-way, 2nd edition (London, 1682), sig. A4v. 49.â•‡ www.pepysdiary.com/archive/1662/02/24/ (accessed 15 May 2009). See Leta Miller, “John Birchensha and the Early Royal Society: Grand Scales and Scientific Composition,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 115 (1990): 63–79. 50.â•‡ Field and Wardhaugh, John Birchensha, forthcoming. 51.â•‡ Houghton Library, p EB65 A100 B675b v. 3 [No. B9 of the Marquess of Bute broadsides]. Edward Arber, The Term Catalogues, 1668–1709 (London: Arber, 1903), I: 151: “A Compendium, Containing exact Rules to be observed in the composing of two or more parts, either for Vocal, or Instrumental, Musick. Price 6d. Printed for W. Gilbert at the Half Moon in St. Paul’s Churchyard.” William Gilbert was a bookseller in London, from 1671 to 1673; see Donald Wing, A Short-title catalogue of books printed in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and British America, and of English books printed in other countries, 1641–1700, 2nd edition (New York: MLA, 1972–1998), IV: 371. 52.â•‡ John Playford, An introduction to the skill of musick, with new intro., glossary, and index by Franklin B. Zimmerman (New York: Da Capo Press, 1972), 282 pp. illus., 23 cm.;

384â•… ·â•… Jessie Ann Owens Charles Butler, The principles of musik in singing and setting, intro. Gilbert Reaney (New York: Da Capo Press, 1970), xv, 135 pp. illus., music, 23 cm. [actually 22 cm.]. 53.â•‡ ESTC shows thirty records between 1597 and 1704. 54.â•‡ The feminine monarchie had a number of posthumous editions in both Latin and English. 55.â•‡ Three were identified by Poole (“The Printing,” 40 n. 4): (1) Printed by J. Heptinstall, for John Carr, at the Middle-Temple-Gate, in Fleet-street, 1694; (2) Printed by J. Heptinstall, for the author, and sold by J. Carr, 1694; and (3) Printed by J. Heptinstall, and sold by J. Carr at the Middle-Temple-Gate in Fleetstreet, B. Aylmer at the Three Pidgeons in Cornill, W. Hensman, at the King’s-Head in Westminster-Hall, and L. Meredith at the Star in St. Paul’s Church-Yard, 1694. Richard Luckett informed me in 2004 that he was aware of a fourth title cancel. 56.â•‡ Poole, “The Printing,” 40. 57.â•‡ For a study and edition of North’s essay, see Jamie C. Kassler, The Beginnings of the Modern Philosophy of Music in England (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004). 58.â•‡ Benjamin Wardhaugh will include this text in his edition of Thomas Salmon’s musical writings. The text is a valuable witness to the understanding of key. 59.â•‡ Edition in progress by Ross Duffin for the series Music Theory in Britain 1500– 1700: Critical Editions (Ashgate). 60.â•‡ Elway Bevin, A Briefe and Short Instruction of the Art of Musicke, ed. Denis Collins (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007). 61.â•‡ Thomas Morley, A Plain and Easy Introduction to Practical Music, ed. R. Alec Harman, with a foreword by Thurston Dart (London: Dent, 1952; 2nd edition, 1963). There is also a modern language edition: Thomas Morley, A Plain and Easy Introduction to Practical Music, ed. Ben Byram-Wigfield (Great Malvern: Cappella Archive, 2002). John Milsom and I are preparing a critical edition for the Ashgate series, Music Theory in Britain 1500–1700: Critical Editions. 62.â•‡ On English writers’ awareness of continental treatises, see Theodor Dumitrescu, The Early Tudor Court and International Musical Relations (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 261. For Morley’s indebtedness, see the rich documentation provided by R. Alec Harman in the footnotes of his edition, A Plain and Easy Introduction; and Herissone, Music Theory, 275–76, 286–88. Gustave Reese and Steven Ledbetter posit that Morley had access to one of the Cologne editions of Ornithoparchus, all of which were in upright quarto; see Andreas Ornithoparchus, trans. John Dowland, A compendium of musical practice: Musice active micrologus, intro. Gustave Reese and Steven Ledbetter (New York: Dover, 1973), viii–x. 63.â•‡ More than one writer has even attempted to read connections between the woodcut and the treatise, without realizing that it was commissioned for William Cunningham’s The Cosmographical Glasse (1559) and used until 1613 for books on a variety of subjects. See Stephen Orgel, “Textual Icons: Reading Early Modern Illustrations,” in The Renaissance Computer: Knowledge Technology in the First Age of Print, ed. Neil Rhodes and Jonathan Sawday (London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 59–94, esp. 61–62 and figs. 6–7; and R. B. McKerrow and F. S. Ferguson, Title-page Borders Used in England & Scotland, 1485– 1640 (Oxford: Bibliographical Society, 1932), no. 99, pp. 92–93. 64.â•‡ For a facsimile of both Ornithoparchus and Dowland, see A compendium of musical practice. The edition of Ornithoparchus chosen for the facsimile is the second Leipzig edition of 1517 (OL17ii), which belongs to a different branch of the transmission from that of the Cologne branch probably used by Dowland. 65.â•‡ Lynn Hulse, “The Musical Patronage of Robert Cecil, First Earl of Salisbury (1563– 1612),” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 116 (1991): 24–40; and Lynn Hulse, “‘Musique Which Pleaseth Myne Eare’: Robert Cecil’s Music Patronage,” in Patronage, Culture and Power: The Early Cecils, ed. Pauline Croft (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 139–58.

You Can Tell a Book by Its Coverâ•… ·â•… 385 66.â•‡ Thomas Mace, Musick’s Monument [London, 1676], vol. I: Reproduction en facsimilé; vol. II: Commentaire par Jean Jacquot, transcriptions par André Souris (Paris: CNRS, 1958; 1966). Jacquot (pp. xxix–xxx) suggests that Mace came to London in 1692 to sell his library, instruments, and the remaining copies of his book. The advertisement for the sale—An advertisement to all lovers of the best sort of musick (listed in ESTC as “London?: Ratcliffe and Thompson?, 1676, Early English books tract supplement interim guide: Harl. 5936[384],” and transcribed by Charles Burney in A General History of Music, annot. Frank Mercer [New York: Dover, 1957], 2: 377–78)—unfortunately does not list the titles in his library. On Mace see Spring, The Lute in Britain, 424–36. 67.â•‡ To put this into a larger context see, for example, Tessa Watt, Cheap Print and Popular Piety, 1550–1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991). 68.â•‡ Gustave Reese, Fourscore Classics of Music Literature (New York: Liberal Arts Press, 1957; repr., 1970). 69.â•‡ Åke Davidsson, Bibliographie der musiktheoretischen Drucke des 16. Jahrhunderts (Baden-Baden: Heitz, 1962). Although additional material has come to light since its publication over forty years ago, this catalogue continues to be a valuable resource. 70.â•‡ Judd, Reading Renaissance Music Theory, 121. 71.â•‡ Ibid., 184–98.

Contributors

Charles M. Atkinson is Arts and Humanities Distinguished Professor of Music at the Ohio State University. He has also taught at the University of California at Irvine, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and at the Sorbonne in Paris. His scholarly work is devoted primarily to music within the intellectual history of antiquity and the Middle Ages. The recipient of various prizes and awards, he has served as President of the American Musicological Society. Colleen Baade is currently Visiting Assistant Professor of Spanish at Creighton University in Omaha, Nebraska. She holds a Ph.D. in historical performance practice from Duke University, as well as graduate degrees in musicology, organ performance, and Spanish languages and literatures. She works as a church musician and sings with the early music vocal ensemble, Dulces Voces. Her research deals primarily with aspects of nuns’ music-making in early modern Spain. Susan Boynton is Associate Professor of Historical Musicology at Columbia University. Her book, Shaping a Monastic Identity: Liturgy and History at the Imperial Abbey of Farfa, 1000–1125 (2006), won the Lewis Lockwood Award of the American Musicological Society. She has co-edited books on music in childhood, young choristers, and the customs of the monastery at Cluny. Her forthcoming book, Silent Music: Echoes of Medieval Ritual and the Construction of History, focuses on the study of Iberian liturgical manuscripts in eighteenth-century Spain. Cynthia J. Cyrus, Associate Dean of the collegiate program of the Blair School of Music, Vanderbilt University, also serves as Affiliated Faculty in European

388â•… ·â•… Contributors

Studies and in Women’s and Gender Studies. She is the author of Scribes for Women’s Convents in Late Medieval Germany (2009), and is completing studies on the libraries of women’s monasteries in late medieval Germany, and literacy—particularly musical literacy—in late medieval France. She has also edited the chanson settings of Hayne van Ghizeghem’s “De tous biens plaine.” Kristine K. Forney is Professor of Music at California State University, Long Beach. She specializes in Renaissance music printing, performance practices, and women’s studies, with publications in major journals and essay collections as well as in The New Grove Dictionary of Music. Her research has been supported by grants from the Fulbright Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Gladys Krieble Delmas Foundation, and the American Philosophical Society. She is the author of The Enjoyment of Music and editor of The Norton Scores. Anthony Grafton, Henry Putnam University Professor of History at Princeton, is interested in the history of books and readers, and in the history of scholarship and education in the West. His books include Joseph Scaliger (1983–1993), Defenders of the Text (1991), The Footnote (1998), and Worlds Made by Words (2009). He has been the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, the Balzan Prize for History of Humanities, and the Mellon Foundation’s Distinguished Achievement Award. John Griffiths works extensively in Spanish Renaissance music as well as music for lute and vihuela. In addition to editions of Renaissance instrumental music, his research encompasses style studies, the history of music printing, biography, musical relations between Spain and Naples, and the social history of music, particularly in the urban sphere. He holds a chair in Music at the University of Melbourne. James Haar is W. R. Kenan, Jr., Professor Emeritus of Music in the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.Â€His interests in Renaissance music include the sixteenth-century madrigal, and currents of humanism, music theory, poetic tastes, and stylistic change.Â€His most recent work, done jointly with colleague John Nádas, is centered on fifteenth-century topics. The results of this research may be seen in articles on Antonio Squarcialupi, John Hothby, and sacred polyphony in Florence, ca. 1430–1450.

Contributorsâ•… ·â•… 389

Gordon Munro is Head of Undergraduate Programmes and Creative and Contextual Studies at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama, in Glasgow. He studied at the RSAMD and Glasgow University, completing his doctoral thesis, “Scottish Church Music and Musicians, 1500–1700,” in 2000. Gordon is also Assistant General Editor and Trustee of Musica Scotica. Russell E. Murray, Jr., Professor and Associate Chair of Music at the University of Delaware, directs the Collegium Musicum and is a faculty member in Women’s Studies. He earned his Ph.D. at the University of North Texas. His research on musical theory and practice in Northern Italy in the Renaissance has appeared in numerous venues and he is a contributor to The New Grove Dictionary of Music. His work has been supported by grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Fulbright FoundaÂ�tion. Jessie Ann Owens is Professor of Music and Dean of the Division of Humanities, Arts, and Cultural Studies at the University of California at Davis. She has served as President of the American Musicological Society and Renaissance Society of America, and is a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. She is author of Composers at Work: The Craft of Musical Composition 1450–1600 (1997), and currently serves as series editor of Critical Editions of Music Theory in Britain 1500–1700. Dolores Pesce is Professor of Music at Washington University in St. Louis. Her publications include The Affinities and Medieval Transposition (1987), Hearing the Motet (1997), and Guido d’Arezzo’s Regule rithmice, Prologus in antiphonarium, and Epistola ad Michahelem: A Critical Text and Translation (1999). Professor Pesce also writes about music of the late nineteenth century, focusing particularly on Edward MacDowell and Franz Liszt. Peter Schubert is Associate Professor at McGill’s Schulich School of Music. His publications include articles and chapters in the Journal of Musicology, Music Theory Spectrum, the Cambridge History of Western Music Theory, and the Journal of the American Musicological Society. His recording of Pierre de la Rue’s magnificats was released on the Naxos label in 2007. He has been working on Renaissance improvisation, and has recently presented papers in Ghent, Basel, and Utrecht.

390â•… ·â•… Contributors

Pamela F. Starr is Professor of Music History at the University of NebraskaLincoln, and current Secretary of the American Musicological Society.Â€She has been Review Editor of the Journal of the American Musicological Society.Â€Her research has focused on music and music patronage at the papal court and other fifteenth-century court institutions, music and music patronage in sixteenth and seventeenth-century England, and music and film. Gary Towne, Professor of Music and Director of Music Graduate Studies at the University of North Dakota, has degrees from Yale University and the University of California at Santa Barbara. He has received grants from the Gladys Krieble Delmas Foundation and Fulbright, and has investigated Pietro Cerone’s early life, text underlay in Renaissance polyphony, civic wind bands, and early cori spezzati performance practice. He is editing the masses of Gaspar de Albertis, and writing a book on music in medieval and Renaissance Bergamo. Susan Forscher Weiss holds a joint appointment in Musicology at the Peabody Conservatory, and in German and Romance Languages at the Johns Hopkins University. She earned her Ph.D. from the University of Maryland, with additional studies at New York University, the University of Michigan, the Juilliard School, and with Nadia Boulanger. Her numerous publications include a study of the manuscript Bologna Q 18, articles in leading journals, and entries in Grove Music Online. She is the recipient of grants from Harvard University, the Folger Library, and the National Endowment for the Humanities. Blake Wilson is Professor of Music at Dickinson College and a former fellow of Villa I Tatti. He is the author of Music & Merchants: The Laudesi Companies of Republican Florence (1992), and has articles in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and in Journal of Musicology, Early Music History, and other journals. He has just completed a book on the traditions of singing poetry in Renaissance Florence, and is currently completing an edition of Heinrich Isaac’s music for Florence and a study of Florentine improvisatory singing traditions.

Index

Page numbers in italics refer to figures and tables. Abelard, Peter, 32, 35n23 L’Abraham sacrifiant, 103 Accademia dei Filarmonici (Bologna), 209 Accademia Filarmonica (Verona), 305 accents, prosodic, 41–42 Act of 1560 (Scotland), 65 Act of Parliament, “tymous remeid” (1579, Scotland), 67, 73–75, 77–78 Adages (Erasmus), 148, 149, 166–67, 176–77, 178, 188nn33,34 Admonitio generalis (Charlemagne), 37–38, 39, 47–48n2 Adore un Dieu, le pere tout-puissant (Sermisy), 99, 122n27, 123n34 Aerde, Jacomyna van, 88 Agricola, Rudolf, 144 “Alabanças de Música” (Bermudo), 135n4 Alcuin of York, 37, 40, 49n9 Alla battaglia (Isaac), 294, 297 Almande de la Nonette, 107 Alme rector, 27–28, 28 Alsted, Johannes Henricus, 359, 382n29 Ambrose of Milan, 55 ancient texts, teaching of, 37–51 Andrewes, Lancelot, 146 Angeni, Ambrogio, 293–99 Anne of Denmark, 67, 71, 75 annotations/marginalia, xiv, xv, 42, 147, 208; age of, 246n81; coded systems, 225, 244n58; conclusions and next steps, 236–37; corrections, 216–17; in external sources, 213; function of, 213–14; shoulder notes, 214, 216, 217;

by students, 231, 232; translations, 216; typology of, 214–25 anthologies, xvi Antica musica ridotta alla moderna prattica (Vicetino), 10 antichi, 12–13 Antwerp, xiv, 84–125; Antwerp Cathedral, 100, 101; Church of Our Lady, 88, 91; communal schools, 88, 91; School of the Laurel Tree, 103; texts, 91–95, 92, 93, 94, 95–98, 99–100; women’s education, xiv, 84–125 Aphorisms (Erasmus), 151 Apologia musices tam vocalis quam instrumentalis et mixte (Case), 361 Arbiol, Antonio, 266, 278n18 Arcadelt, Jacob, 317 Arce, Pedro Vidal, 265 Aretino, Pietro, 85 Arias, Enrique, 325, 341n6 Aristotle, 32, 144, 164, 187n20, 207 Arithmetica (Boethius), 40 armarius (Iibrarian), 53–54, 57 Arning, Henricus, 149 Ars grammatica (Donatus), 40 The Art of Descant or Composing Musick in Parts (Campion), 245n67 “The Art of Music” (Scottish manuscript), 73, 74 Arte de musica teorica y pratica (Montanos), 161, 168–77; commonplace headings, 169; entradas, 169–77; examples and tables, 170, 171, 172, 174, 175–76; treatise on composition, 170, 189n44

392â•… ·â•… Index Arte de tañer (Santa María), 134 Arte del contraponto (Artusi), 304 El arte tripharia (Bermudo), 267–68, 271, 279–80n32 Artusi, Giovanni Maria, 304 Ascham, Roger, 196, 199–200 associative learning, 27–30, 35n25 Atkinson, Charles, xiv, 52 Attic Nights, 143, 150 Atto of Reichenau, 54 audience, 268, 317, 319, 321n21; reader as reviewer/editor, 216–17. See also students Augustine, St., 12, 238n7 Aurifodina (Drexel), 145 Azzaiolo, Filippo, 106 Baade, Colleen, xiv–xv Baccusi, Ippolito, 11, 320 Bacon, Francis, 146 bajón (dulcian, curtal), 264–65 Banchieri, Adriano: Cantorino (Banchieri), 7–9, 8, 14, 16, 20nn11,12; La Cartella, 20n14, 219, 243n53; La Cartellina del canto fermo gregoriano, 222, 223, 224; “Contrapunto bestiale alla mente,” 318, 318 Banco rari 229 manuscript, 290, 296 Bandone, Ser, 294 Baptista, Gracia, 275, 275 Barasoain, Martin de, 270, 274, 275, 281nn42,43,44, 282n51 Barbireau, Jacques, 106 Barksdale, Clement, 198 Barley, William, 351, 351–53, 352, 371, 380n17 Barthes, Roland, 213–14, 241n37 Basilicon Doron (James I), 198 Bassano, Augustine, 106, 124n67 basso continuo, 132 Bates, William, 195, 196–97 Bathe, William, 73, 353, 357, 361, 371, 381n20 Baxandall, Michael, 142 Bayard, John, 360, 370 Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, 217 Beaulaigue, Barthélemy, 102–103 Beguines, 99 Belcari, Feo, 288, 289–90, 291, 293, 301n16 Bellasy, Jakob Khun von, 253

Bellum musicale (Sebastiani), 217, 244n65 Bembo, Cardinal Pietro, 85 Benson, John, 355–56 Bentivoglio, Ermes, 212, 233, 235 Een bequaem maniere on jonghers soetlijck by sanck te leeren (Sonnius), 91–95, 92, 93, 94, 95–98, 99–100, 117 Bermudo, Juan, 126–27, 130–34; El arte tripharia, 267–68, 271, 279–80n32; Declaracion de instrumentos musicales, 126–27, 130–34, 135n4, 136–37n18, 136n14, 137nn20,21, 258 Bern manuscript (1491). See Ein Tutsche Musica (Bern manuscript) Berthout, Jehan, 124n56 Bevilacqua, Alessandro, 305, 322n13 Bevin, Elway, 371 bicinia/tricinia, 101–102, 111–12 Birchensha, John, 359, 364–65, 382n29 Black, John, 74 Blackhall, Andrew, 71 blind musicians, 4, 269 Boethius, 12, 32–33, 40, 41, 135n4; glosses on, 45–47, 50n23, 51n26 Bona, Valerio, 304, 321n6 Bonaventura de la Brescia, 5, 6–9, 14, 209, 219–20, 220 Boniface VIII, 251 book format and size, 348–49, 377–78, 379n5; broadside (broadsheet), 361–68, 362; catalogues, 350–51; costs of production, 379–80n10; cover, 348–49; covers of books, 348–49; didactic prefaces, 354–56, 357–58, 376; folio, 350, 371–76, 372, 374, 375; format, 350–51; octavo, 350, 357–61; paper and price considerations, 349–50; quarto, 350, 357–61; quarto, oblong, 351–57; self-published titles, 368–70; title page, 355, 356, 370, 373, 378, 381n23, 384n63; upright quarto, 368–71 The Book Named the Governor (Elyot), 200 Book of Common Prayer, 363 Book of Discipline (1560), 66 borrowing: commonplace books and, 141; commonplace entradas and, 172, 177– 78, 185, 186n8, 187nn7,17, 189n48; marginalia and, 227, 231, 236–37, 241n31, 244n64; in treatises, 244n65,

Indexâ•… ·â•… 393 307, 340n2, 342n19, 367–68, 380n16, 382n39 Bottegari, Cosimo, 130 Boyle, Leonard, 40 Bracciolini, Poggio, 144 Die Brandung (Canetti), 144 A Breefe Introduction to the Skill of Musick for Song and Viol (Playford), 245n67, 358, 361 breviaries, 254–55 Breviloquium musicale (Bonaventura de la Brescia), 5, 6–9, 209, 219–20, 220 A brief introduction to the skill of song (Bathe), 353, 358, 361, 371, 381n20 A briefe and plaine instruction (Le Roy), 354, 354 A briefe and short instruction of the art of musicke (Bevin), 371 A briefe discourse of the true (but neglected) use of charact’ring the degrees (Ravenscroft), 73, 370–71 brigata (youth brigade), 293–99 broadside (broadsheet), 304, 350, 361–68, 362 Brouncker, William Lord, 370 Brown, Howard Mayer, 287, 290, 299–300n1 Bruto, Giovanni Michele, 85, 121n3 Budé, Guillaume, 151–52 Buoni, Tommaso, 196, 199 Burel, John, 71–73, 75 Burger, Anna Maria Busse, xvii Burmeister, Joachim, 163, 187n13 Burnets of Leys, 75 Burnett, Duncan, 75 Bushnell, Rebecca, xvii Butler, Charles, 368–70, 369 Butt, John, xvii Byrd, William, 75, 127 Caccini, Giulio, 13 cadences, 169, 178 Calcagnini, Celio, 147 Calvin, John, 91, 122n28 Calvinism, 91–92, 100 Camargo, Miguel Gómez, 274, 282n50 Camillo, Giulio, 148 Campion, Thomas, 245n67, 358–59 Cancionero de Palacio, 131 Cancionero de Uppsala, 131 Canetti, Elias, 144

Canguilhem, Philippe, 134, 137n22 cantasi come (“sing it like . . .”) rubric, 288, 289, 290–91 canto figurale (mensural polyphony), 12, 308, 312 canto plano, 6, 9, 308 cantorino, 6, 12, 14–16, 18, 215 Cantorino (Banchieri), 7–9, 8, 14, 16, 20nn11,12 cantors, 12, 25–26, 53–54 cantus firmus, 308, 310, 317, 319–20 Carolingian writings: Admonitio generalis (Charlemagne), 37–38, 47–48n2; De litteris colendis, 38–40; glosses and commentaries, 40–51; Guido d’Arezzo, 25–36; harmonic theory, 42–43; library catalogues, ninth-century, 40; treatises, 40–41 Carr, John, 370 Carruthers, Mary, 35n25 cartella, 306, 322n19 La Cartella (Banchieri), 20n14, 219, 243n53 La Cartellina del canto fermo gregoriano (Banchieri), 222, 223, 224 Casaubon, Isaac, 146, 156n16 Case, John, 361 Cassiodorus, 40, 48n3 Castiglione, Baldassare, 128, 130, 195 Castris, Bartolomeo de, 294, 295, 296, 302n27 Castro, Jean de, 101–102, 111–12 Catherine of Aragon, 84–85 Cattis, Franciscus de, 224 Cavazzoni, Marco Antonio, 233 Caza, Francesco, 240n23 Ceasar, Sir Julius, 147 Cecil, Robert, Earl of Salisbury, 373 Cela sans plus (Lannoy), 297 Cellini, Benvenuto, 4 Cerone, Pedro (Pietro), xv, 11, 21n19, 161–62, 189n48, 191nn67,74,76, 324– 44; background, 323–24, 340–41n3; entradas with one passo, 172, 174, 175– 76, 179–80; entradas with two passos, 170–72, 171, 181; studies, 332–33. See also El melopeo y maestro (Cerone) chansonniers, Huguenot, 99 chansons, 101, 102, 104, 111–12 chansons spirituelles, 101, 105, 108, 108–109

394â•… ·â•… Index chant-books, 56–57, 254–55, 257 Chapel Royal (Scotland), 66, 70, 74, 75, 78 Charlemagne, 37–38, 47–48n2 Charles I (England), 78, 198, 203 Charles II (England), 363 Charles V (Emperor), 91 Cherchi, Paolo, 178, 190nn58,60 Chi passa per questa strada (Azzaiolo), 106 children, xvii, xviii, 9; Antwerp, 88, 91, 99–100; early modern England, 196, 200–201, 203–204, 211–12, 236, 238n6; oblates, 53–57, 62n18, 252; singing lessons, 4–6. See also nuns; song schools (Scotland) Chrestienne resjouyssance (Beaulieu), 105 Christe qui lux es et dies, 100 Die Christelycke Leeringhe (Velpius), 100, 117 Christensen, Thomas, 347–48 Church Fathers, translations of, 252 Cicero, 144, 148, 150, 151, 153, 162, 165, 300, 330, 342 Ciceronians, 150–51, 187, 191 Cimello, Giovan Tomaso, 209 clausura (cloister), 250, 251, 253–54, 256, 279n24 Clavell, Robert, 350–51 clefs, 6, 16 Clemens non Papa, Jacob, 99–100, 101, 105 Clifford, James, 363, 364 Cluny, abbey of, 53–54, 57 Cochlaeus, Johannes, 211, 239n20 Cock, Symon, 99 Coclico, Adrianus Petit, 306 Colenuccio, Pandolfo, 147 Collège de France, 151 colors, visual use of, 27–28, 36n26 Comenius, Jan Amos, 146 commentarii (Gellius), 143 common places (loci communes), 144, 145, 161, 164–65, 168 commonplace books, musical, 161–92; formal structure and, 168–85; inferior examples as teaching device, 163; notebook and heading methods, 162–63, 184–85n38, 184n36; published collections and, 163–64 commonplace books, non-musical, xiii, xiv, 73, 141–57, 304; bees, image of, 141–42, 162; categories of inquiry,

164–65; as creative art, 152; criteria for, 163–64; effects on habits of reading and argument, 149–50; as hermeneutical tools, 154; images of commonplacing, 146; indices, 149, 177, 188n34; instructions for, 144–45; literary, 164–67; mechanical devices, 147; need for memorization, 143–44; plagiarism and, 162; private and public, 148; as published genre, 149; retrieval schemes, 147; techniques used in treatises, 325–26, 334–35, 342n19; title books, 146 commonplacing, 142–43, 148–49, 167; modal commonplaces, 163, 167–68. See also entradas “A compendium, containing exact rules to be observed in the composing of two or more parts” (Anonymous), 365, 366–67 composers: list of, in Zacconi, 12–13; nuns as, 271, 274–76; respect for, 14; song schools and, 70–71; teachers as, 9–10 composition: counterpoint leads to, 307–308, 322n23; four-voice, 102, 106, 161–62, 170, 178, 184, 296–97 composition studies, 9–10 Compostin, Gian Battista, 88, 110–11 Conditor alme (Baptista), 275, 275 contrafacts, 107, 125n74 “Contrapunto bestiale alla mente” (Banchieri), 318, 318 Contreni, John, 40, 47–48n2 Coornhert, Dirck, 153 Coppini, Alessandro, 310n13 copying, 18, 21–22n27, 130, 132 Correspondence (Sidney), 145, 197 Cortot, Alfred, 208 Council of Mechelin, 93 Council of Toulouse, 99 Council of Trent, 91, 250–51, 259n3 counterpoint, 9, 12, 133, 274–75; based on Kyries, 309, 310, 311, 312, 316; combinative, 310; composition and, 307–308, 322n23; discussion of how to learn, 309–10; extemporizing, 134– 35; invertible, 173–74, 174, 175–76, 189n53; mixture of sacred and secular, 316, 318, 323n26; obligations, use of, 310, 311–15, 313, 316, 323n25; “passages,” 307–308; as performance prac-

Indexâ•… ·â•… 395 tice, 307; from Requiem and Da pacem incipits, 316, 316; on Salve Regina, 310, 311–13; species method, 307; teaching of, 304, 306–17; three principles of, 309–10, 317; traditional methods of teaching, 307–308, 308 Counter-Reformation, 84, 91 courtesy and conduct manuals, 193–206; on music education for women, 195– 96, 201–205; Music of the Spheres in, 194, 195, 196–97; women writers of, 196, 201–203 The Courtier (Castiglione), 128, 130, 195 Cromwell, Thomas, 200 Curtis, Alan, 106, 107 customaries, 52–54, 57 Dachstein, Wolfgang, 91 D’Albizo, Francesco, 291–93 dance music, 88, 106 Darrell, William, 196, 204–205 David, King, 56, 60, 61n13 Davidson, Patrick, 78 Davidson, Thomas, 74 Davidsson, Åke, 377 De arte cantandi micrologus (Ornithoparchus), 217 De commendatione cleri, 40 De copia (Erasmus), 163, 164–67 de fastigo. See De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii (Martianus Capella) De harmonia musicorum instrumentorum opus (Gaffurius), 212 De institutione clericorum (Hrabanus Maurus), 40 De institutione feminae christianae (Vives), 84–85, 121n2, 277n2 De institutione musicae (Boethius), 40, 41, 45–47, 50n23, 51n26 De interpretatione (Aristotle), 32 de la Cerda, Juan, 268, 279n29, 280n35 de la Cruz Brocarte, Antonio, 273–74, 282n50 de la Cruz Ribera, Ana, 275, 282n55 de la Encarnación, Isabel, 265–66, 278n16 De libris quos legere solebam et qualiter fabulae poetarum a philosophis mystice pertractentur (Theodulf of Orléans), 40 De litteris colendis, 38–40 De musica (Stuber), 73–74

“De musicæ elementis primis,” 73 De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii (Martianus Capella), 40, 41, 43–45; de fastigo, 41 De politia litteraria (Decembrio), 150 de Rore, Cipriano, 13, 189n5, 320 Decembrio, Angelo, 150 Declaracion de instrumentos musicales (Bermudo), 126–27, 130–34, 135n4, 136n14, 136–37n18, 137nn20,21, 258 del Lago, Giovanni, 233, 235–36 Den lustelijcken Mey, 107, 125n71 d’Este, Leonello, 143 devotional songs (lauda), 288–90 Dialogo del R. M. Pietro Pontio (Pontio), 305 dialogue, conceit of, 304–306, 321nn8,9 Dialogus de musica (Pseudo-Odo), 40–41 Diamanti, Giovanni Battista, 215 diesis, 17 Dioscorides, 147 Directions for Health, Naturall and Artificiall (Vaughan), 197–98 Diruta, Girolamo, 163, 187n15 divine office, 53 The Divine Services (Clifford), 363, 364 The division-violist (Simpson), 376 doctors (song school assistants), 67 Dodecachordon (Glarean), 10, 211, 212, 243n51 Donatus, 40, 231, 240n28 Donckers, Franciscus, 100–101, 119 Donne, John, 199 Douglas, Gavin, 72 Dowland, John, 217, 239n18, 244n65, 373, 376, 379–80n10 Dowland, Robert, 376 Dowling, Margaret, 379–80n10 Drexel, Jeremias, 145 Duchez, Marie Elizabeth, 41 Dumitrescu, Theodore, 380n16 Duncan Burnett’s Music Book, 70 duos, 172–73, 190n55; imitative (ID), 173, 174–76, 175–76, 179–80, 181, 182, 183, 184; Non-Imitative (NIm) presentation, 170, 184, 189n53 Durie, John, 79n7 Dyck, Adrian, 101 Dygon, John, 226, 237 dynasties, musical, 263–64

396â•… ·â•… Index Edward, Robert, 73 Eighty Years’ War, 107 Elizabeth, Princess, 203 Elizabeth I, 196, 200, 201 Elyot, Thomas, 196, 200 emulation, 287, 290 Enchiridion musices (Wollick), 212, 233, 236, 237, 242n39, 245n77 Encina, Juan del, 131 England, early modern: children, 196, 200–201, 203–204, 211–12, 236, 238n6; courtesy and conduct manuals, 193–206; marginalized groups, 194–95 entradas, 169–77; Imitative Duo, 173, 174–76, 175–76, 179–80, 181, 182, 183, 184, 184; invertible canon opening, 173–74, 174, 175–76, 189n53; with one passo, 172–77, 174, 175–76, 179–80; Periodic Entries, 173, 174–76, 175–76, 179–80, 181, 182, 183, 184, 184; tonal answer, 173–74, 174, 175– 76, 179–80; with two passos, 170–72, 171, 181 Epistola ad Michahelem (Guido d’Arezzo), 25–36, 27, 33n3; associative identification of modes, 27–30; musical understanding in, 25, 31–32; sensory perception and intellect in, 25–33; Ut queant laxis, 27, 27, 28–31, 29, 34n12 Erasmus, Desiderius, 86, 99, 104, 144–45, 147, 168; Adages, 148, 149, 166– 67,176–77, 188n34; Aphorisms, 151; on Ciceronians, 150–51; On Copiousness in Words and Ideas, 144, 148; De copia, 163, 164–67; on sententiae, 163; textbooks by, 148–49 Escuela Música según la práctica moderna (Nassarre), 269–71, 274–75, 280nn36,37,38,39, 281nn40,41,46,47 Espinosa, Dawn, 135n4 An Essay to Revive the Ancient Education of Gentlewomen (Makin), 203 An essay to the advancement of musick (Salmon), 361 Eton College, 145 Etymologie (Isidore of Seville), 40 Eucharistic debate, 31–32, 35n22 eumlation, 278 Eustorg de Beaulieu, 105, 124n59 exemplum, 165, 166, 168

Eximeno y Pujades, Antonio, 325 expression, 17 extemporization, 134–35 Faber, Heinrich, 242n43 fabordones, 169, 178 Fabris, Dinko, 361–62 fantasia, 133–35 Fantasia sopra Anchor che col partire (Galilei), 134 Fassler, Margot, 54 Fattorini, Gabriel, 163 Fellerer, Karl, 253 fenecimientos, 169 Festa, Costanzo, 317 Field, Christopher, 366 Filicaia, Alessandro de, 294 Filicaia, Antonio de, 293–99 Fior angelico di musica (Picitono), 217, 244n65 Flacius Illyricus, 153–54 Flecha, Mateo, 131 Florence: brigata (youth brigade), 293–99; lauda (devotional songs), 288–92; oral tradition, 288–93; pedagogy and literacy in, 278–302 Florentine Camerata, 142 Flores musices (van Reutlingen), 214–15, 242n42 Floris, Frans, 86 folio, 371–76, 372, 374, 375 footnote, early form, 214, 242n40 Forbes, John, 74 “Form and Function in Italian Rensaissance Popular Books” (Grendler), 348–49 Form und Weiss (Anonymous), 256 Four Centuries of Music Teaching Manuals, 1518–1932 (Rainbow), xvii Fourscore Classics of Musical Literature (Reese), 377 Foxe, John, 147 Francesco de la Ferrara, Giovanni, 363 Freigius, Johann Thomas, 73–74, 82n38 Freis, Wolfgang, 268, 279–80n32 Il Fronimo (Galilei), 133, 134, 137n22 Frosch, Johann, 162–63, 185, 186n9 frottole, 291 Fuenllana, Miguel de, 131 fugue, 13, 312 Fulda, Adam von, 231

Indexâ•… ·â•… 397 Fuller, Thomas, 156n16 funeral wakes, 76–77 Gabrieli, Andrea, 11, 306, 318–19 Gaffurius, Franchinus, 208, 212, 240nn21,23,24, 245n75; De harmonia musicorum instrumentorum opus, 212; Practica musicae, 10, 11–12, 20n8, 21n23, 73, 226, 227, 244n61 Galilei, Vincenzo, 130, 133, 134 Galliarde quÿ passa, 106 Gaskell, Philip, 349 Gehl, Paul, 290 Gellius, Aulus, 143, 149, 178 Genevan psalter, 107 Genitrice di Dio (Belcari), 288, 289–90, 301n16 The Gentleman Instructed (Darrell), 204–205 The Gentlewomans Companion, or a Guide to the Female Sex (Woolley), 202 Giliardi, Arnolfo, 301n13 Giustinian, Leonardo, 288, 289, 291, 293, 301n16 Glarean, Heinrich, 114, 208–209, 237, 240n25, 377–78; commonplace books and, 186–187n12, 163, 167, 168–69; Dodecachordon, 10, 211, 212, 243n51; Isagoge in musicen, 211, 240n28; Musicae epitome sive compendium ex Glareani Dodecachordo, 211, 217, 219, 243n50, 377–78 glosses, 40–47; hymnaries, 52, 54, 54–57, 57–60; syntactical, 55–56; theological, 56 Gombert, Nicolas, 132–33 gorgia, 19 Gosson, Thomas, 204 Gouk, Penelope, 348 Grafton, Anthony, xvii, 213, 242nn38,40, 321n4, 334–35 grammar, 40, 41–42, 55 Greek theory, 10 Grendler, Paul, xvii, 348–49 Guarino, Battista, 143, 156nn9,11 Guarino of Verona, 143, 150, 238–39n7 Guerson, Guillaume, 245n74 Guicciardi, Ludovico, 85–86, 109–10 Guido, Antonio di, 287–88 Guido d’Arezzo, xiii–xiv, 7, 25–36, 33nn3,4,8, 34nn10,11,12,14,15,17,

35nn19,20; colored staff lines, 27–28, 36n26; Micrologus, 26, 27, 31, 33n3; Prologus, 26; Regule, 26 Guidonian hand, 5, 6–7, 9, 14–16, 15, 74, 207–208, 210, 215, 219 Guild of St. Ambrose, 88–91, 102, 111, 114–16 La guirlande des jeunes filles (Meurier), 103–104, 112–13 Gunzo of Novara, 40, 49n10 Gushee, Lawrence, 33n3 Guzmán, Francisca González de, 264 Haar, James, 209, 238n6 hands, 238nn2,4; in Banchieri’s Cantorino, 8, 9; Guidonian, 5, 6–7, 9, 14–16, 15, 74, 207–208, 210, 215, 219 harmonic composition, 297, 302n33 harmonic theory, 41–43 Harmony and the Music of the Spheres (Teeuwen), 45, 49n17, 50n20 harp, 72, 270 Harrison, Thomas, 147 Haunsperger, Agatha, 252 Hawkins, John, 226, 244n65, 357 Heemskerck, Maarten van, 107 Henry VIII, 200 Herissone, Rebecca, 348 hexachords, 6–7, 16, 207 Heyden, Sebald, 167 Heyns, Peter, 103 Hickes, George, 205 Higford, William, 196, 198 history of theory, 10 Holder, William, 360, 370, 382n34 homophonic music, 131–32 Howard, Donald, 238–39n7 Humanism, xvii; commonplace books, role in, 152; transformation of music and, 142–43 Hume, Robert D., 379n5 hymnaries, glossed, 52, 54, 54–57, 57–60 Ibáñez de Isaba, Doña María, 276 imitatio, 162 imitation: imitative duos (ID), 173, 174– 76, 175–76, 179–80, 181, 182, 183, 184; Multiple Time-Intervals (MTI), 181–82, 184; time-intervals, 173, 174– 77, 175–76, 179–80, 184–85 Index expurgatorius, 93

398â•… ·â•… Index individual tutelage, 9 The Institution of a Gentleman (Higford), 198 Institutiones divinarum et humanarum lectionum (Cassiodorus), 40, 48n3 institutions, xiv, 52. See also monasteries and convents; Nonnberg Abbey (Salzburg); nuns instrumentalists, amateur, xiv, 126–37; musical style and, 129; Scotland, 74– 75; vocal polyphony and, 127–28, 130 intellectus, 34n9 intervals, 7, 26; Multiple Time-Intervals (MTI), 181–82, 184; six-interval system, 27–29, 34n11, 35n25; time-intervals, 173, 174–77, 175–76, 179–80, 184–85; vertical-interval succession, 172, 190n54 intonation formulas (enechemata), 34–35n18 An introduction to the skill of musick (Playford), 358, 359, 360, 363, 366, 367, 367–68 Introduction to the true arte of musicke (Bathe), 73, 357 invention, selva and, 177–78 Isaac, Heinrich, 278, 294, 296, 297–98, 302n34 Isagoge in musicen (Glarean), 211, 240n28 Isidore of Seville, 40, 41 Istitutioni harmoniche (Zarlino), 10, 189n51, 244n65, 245n74, 304, 378 Jackson, Heather, 213, 241n36 James, First Earl of Abercorn, 75 James I (Scotland), 198 James VI (Scotland), 67, 71, 77–78, 80n17 Jeffes, Abel, 357 Jiménez, Juan Ruiz, 263 Jonson, Ben, 153 Joscelin, Elizabeth, 196, 203 Josquin des Prez, 14, 131–33, 168–69, 187n12, 297, 306 Judd, Cristle Collins, 163, 167–68, 212, 321n4, 348, 377–78 The Judgment of Humane Actions (Marandé), 198 Kareest, Joes, 87 Kemp, Andrew, 70, 75 Kendrick, Robert, 250

Ker, Lady Anne, 73 Kinloch, William, 75 kirk session, 66, 76 Kmetz, John, xvii Knox, John, 65 Krakow University, 217 Kuenberg, Margaretha von, 254–55, 257, 260–61n19 Kyries, counterpoint based on, 309, 310, 311, 312, 316 La Santissima Annunziata, 324 Landini, Francesco, 4 Lanfranco, Giovanni Maria, 231 Lang, Susan, 259n10 Langius, Josephus, 188n34 Lannoy, Colinet de, 297 Lapidge, Michael, 56 Lasso, Orlando di, 9–10, 20–21n16, 108, 163 lauda (devotional songs), 288–92 laus musicae, 135n4 Lazari, Bartolomeo, 224–25, 243n54 Le Roy, Adrian, 354, 354 The Learned Maid; or, whether a Maid may be a scholar? (Schurman), 201–202 Ledbetter, Steven, 384n62 Lennard, Sampson, 199 Liber tramitis, 54 libraries, 54–55; Antwerp, 101; Folger, 195; Glarean’s, 212, 240nn25,28; Houghton, 359; Huntington, 195, 351, 355, 381n27; Mace’s, 385n66; Martini’s, 239nn17,18; Newberry, 195; Nonnberg Abbey, 252; student, 149; Vatican, 40, 224; Werdenstein’s, 217 library catalogues, ninth-century, 40 Libro de descripción de verdaderos retratos de ilustres y memorables varones (Pacheco), 262, 276–77n1 L’idea del giardino del mondo (Tomai), 178, 188n34, 190n62 Lied (Virdung), 106 Lieto, Bartolomeo, 130 Lippius, Johannes, 382n29 Lipsius, Justus, 144, 152–53 literacy, xi, xv–xvi, 57, 70, 257, 288–290, 293–295, 297–298 liturgical texts, sacred tunes used for, 99–100, 288, 288–89, 291, 291–92, 292, 301n16, 323n26

Indexâ•… ·â•… 399 loci communes. See common places Locke, John, 148 Locke, Matthew, 361 locus, 164–67 Lodge, Anne, 204 Lodge, Thomas, 195–96, 197, 204 Long, Michael, xvii Lore, Niccolò, 295, 302n27 Louis de France, 74 lute, 74, 128; manuscripts, 129, 134–35 Luther, Martin, 99 Mace, Thomas, 373, 375, 376, 385n66 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 290 Macrobius, 141 madrigals, 291 maestro di cappella, 19 El maestro (Milán), 126 Makin, Bathsua, 196, 203 Makowski, Elizabeth, 251 Malcolm, Noel, 147 manicule, 214, 242n39 Manrique, Doña Teresa, 268 manuscripts, xv–xvi, 10, 40; lute, 129, 134–35. See also individual manuscripts Marandé, Léonard de, 196, 198 marginalia. See annotations/marginalia Marguerite of Austria, 332–33 Marian antiphons, 310, 312 Marot, Clément, 99, 100, 103, 105 Marrow of the Transitions Most Used in Orations (Arning), 149 Martianus Capella, 40, 41–45, 50n23 Martin of Laon, 42, 43, 47, 50n20 Martínez de la Roca, Joaquín, 263 Martini, Giovanni Battista, 208, 209, 212, 217, 233, 239n17 Martini, Johannes, 297 Mass, 7, 13, 57, 249, 252; Spanish, 132–33 Matins, 55 Maunsell, Andrew, 350 Maurus, Hrabanus, 40 Maxwell, John, 75 Mayne, Jasper, 199 McKitterick, Rosamond, 48n2 McTaggart, Timothy, 105–106 Medici, Lorenzo de’, 294, 295 Melancthon, 165, 188n31 Melendez, Antonio, 224 melody: role in counterpoint, 307; sonus, 45, 47, 50–51n24, 50n23, 52n26

El melopeo y maestro (Cerone), xv, 11, 161–62, 177–82, 324–44; “Moral Ornaments and Harmonies,” 326–28, 338–39, 341n8. See also psychology of pedagogy Melton, James van Horn, xvii Melville, Andrew, 66, 71, 73, 74 Melville, James, 66, 71 memorization, 6, 7, 54, 57, 207–208, 238n2; ars memorativa, 213; colored staff lines, 27–28, 36n26. See also commonplace books, musical; hands memory theatres, 148, 207 Mendoza, Bernardino de, 152 Mendoza, Blasina de, 263 mensural notation, 9, 12, 130 Merchant of Venice (Shakespeare), 194 Merchant Taylor’s School, 201 Mes, Gherardus, 100 Meurier, Gabriel, 103, 112–13 Mexias, Pedro, 178 Micrologus (Guido d’Arezzo), 26, 27, 31, 33n3 Middle Ages, xiii–xiv Milán, Luis, 126, 129 Millar, Edward, 74 MIML (Musical Instruction and Musical Learning) website, xviii Miranda, María de, 271–73 A Mirrhor mete for all mothers, matrons, and maidens (Salter), 121n3, 204, 206 Missa L’homme armé (Palestrina), 13 modal antiphons, 34–35n18 moderni, 13 modes, 7, 10–11, 16, 20n9, 41; associative identification of, 27–30; commonplace books and, 163; fifteen tropes, theory of, 44–45; tonus, 42, 46–47; wing diagram, 46–47 modules, 172–74, 175, 181, 184, 189n45, 191nn72,77,78 Moens, Symoen, 88, 122n16 monasteries and convents: Convento de San Leandro, 262; customaries, 52–54, 57; Ebstorf, convent of, 252, 260n13; education of women in, 251–53, 256–57; Fruttuaria monastery, 57; in German-speaking lands, 249–50, 256– 57; glossed hymnaries, 52, 54, 54–57, 57–60; Marienberg, convent of, 252, 260n13; Monasterio de la Encarnación

400â•… ·â•… Index (Ávila), 263; Monasterio de Santa Ana (Ávila), 263; Monasterio de Santa Clara (Montilla), 268, 279–80n32, 282n55; Monasterio de Santa Clara (Seville), 263; Monasterio de Santa María de los Ángeles (Madrid), 276, 282–83n56; Neukloster (Buxtehude), 257; Real Convento de San Francisco (Saragossa), 269. See also Nonnberg Abbey (Salzburg) monochord, 26, 27, 34n15 Monson, Craig, 250, 259n3 La montaigne des pucelles/Den MaeghdenBergh (Valéry), 104–105 Montanos, Francisco de, 161–62, 164, 168–77, 187n17, 189nn40,44, 190n57 Morales, Cristóbal de, 13, 132, 137n20 Morley, Thomas, 74, 193–94, 227, 228, 229, 230, 244n64, 305, 377; borrowing from, 380n16. See also A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke (Morley) Moss, Ann, 167, 188n34, 190–91n64 motets, 101; of Palestrina, 184–85, 191n77 mother and child (double) virginal, 86 The Mother’s Legacy to her Unborn Childe (Joscelin), 203 Mouton, Jean, 131 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 209 Mulcaster, Richard, 196, 200–201 Murray, Russell, 21n20 music, etymology of term, 4 Music of the Spheres, 194, 195, 196–97 music schools (Scotland): disorderly pupils, 76, 83n64; instrumental tuition, 74–75. See also song schools (Scotland) Musica (Boethius), 40 musica ficta, 181 Musica getutsct (Virdung), 106 Musicae epitome sive compendium ex Glareani Dodecachordo (Glarean), 211, 217, 219, 243n50, 377–78 A musicall banquet (Playford), 356, 356– 57, 357, 358 The musicall compass (Solman?), 370 Musice active micrologus (Ornithoparchus), 209, 211, 217, 218, 239n18, 244n65, 373, 374, 384n64 Musick’s monument; or, A remembrancer of the best practical musick (Mace), 373, 375, 376

musicus, 12, 25–26, 127, 135n4 Musyck boexken (Susato), 101, 105–106, 119 mutations, 6–7, 16 Mutianus Rufus, 151 Nantes (Brittany), 293–94 Narvaéz, Luis, 136n17 Nassarre, Pablo, 268–71, 274–75, 280nn36,37,38,39, 281nn40,41,46,47 Natural History (Pliny), 142, 147 New Aberdeen music school (Scotland), 74, 78 “new booke of Citterne Lessons” (Barley), 354 A new booke of tabliture (Barley), 352, 352–53, 356, 380n17 New citharen lessons (Robinson), 371 A new way of making fowre parts in counterpoint (Campion), 358–59 Nicholas of Cusa, 143 Niemöller, Klaus, xvii Nivers, Guillaume Gabriel, 359–60 Nocte Atticae (Gellius), 178 Non fu mai pena maggiore (D’Albizo), 291–93, 292 Nonnberg Abbey (Salzburg), xiv, 250; educational outreach, 251–53; effect of clausura on, 253–54; historical context, 256–58; polyphony at, 256, 257–58, 261n23; post-Tridentine visitations, 254–55; reform in 1620s, 255–56; resistance to Tridentine reforms, 253–54 Noone, Michael, 277–78n14 North, Francis, Baron Guilford, 370 North, Roger, 155 Northall, W., 227 notation, 6; mensural, 9, 12, 130; tablature, 126, 129–32; in Zacconi, 14–17, 17 Notre Dame, xvii numeri sonori, 13 Nunca fue pena mayor (Álvarez), 292, 292 nuns, xiv–xv; clausura (cloister), 250, 251, 253–54, 256, 279n24; composition and, 271, 274–76; constitutions, 266, 278nn17,19,20; dowry waivers, 266–67, 271–73, 272–73, 282n49, 282–83n56; instruction manuals for, 266; Mistress of Novices, 266; musical competency, 263, 267–76; organists,

Indexâ•… ·â•… 401 262–65, 270, 279n23; recepción and profesión agreements, 266–67, 270, 277n7, 279n22; Spain, 262–83; as students and teachers, 262–83; Vicaress of the Choir, 266. See also Nonnberg Abbey (Salzburg); women oblates, 53–57, 62n18, 252 obligations, 310, 311–13, 313, 323n25 Ockeghem, Jean de, 14 octaves, 16 octavo, 350, 357–61; for amateur instruction, 358–60; for learned disquisitions, 360–61 Odhecaton (Petrucci), 13 On Copiousness in Words and Ideas (Erasmus), 144, 148 On Invention (Cicero), 151 On the Passage from Paganism to Christianity (Bude), 152 Opus aureum (Wollick), 231–33, 232, 234, 235, 244n60 oral tradition, Florence, 288–93, 297–98 Organi, Bartolomeo degli, 290 organists, nuns as, 262–65, 270–71, 279n22 organum, 45 Orme, Nicholas, xvii Ornithoparchus, Andreas, 209, 211, 217, 218, 239n18, 244n65, 373, 374, 384n64 Orphénica lyra (Fuenllana), 131 Owens, Jessie Ann, xvi, 162–63, 185, 186n9, 189n45, 321n7 Oyons la Loy que de sa voix (Calvin), 91 Pacheco, Doña Isabel, 268 Pacheco, Francisco, 262, 276–77n1 Pædogogus (Freigius), 73–74 Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 13, 162, 192n79, 332, 343n29; entradas, 182, 184, 184–85, 185, 191n77 The Palice of Honour (Douglas), 72 part-books, 74 partsongs, Scots, 74 passaggi, 11, 13, 19 passos (head-motives), 169–70; entradas with one, 172–77, 174, 175–76, 179– 80; entradas with two, 170–72, 171 The pathway to musicke, 351–53, 352, 355, 355–56, 380n16, 381n19 pedagogue, 3–4

pedagogy, xv, 3–4; complex set of practices, 141; context of learning, 304; copying, 18, 21–22n27, 130; in Florence, ca. 1488, 278–302; good and bad examples, 306, 308; lack of written documentation, 128–29. See also psychology of pedagogy; individual pedagogical works Pedrell, Felipe, 325 Peebles, David, 70 Pepys, Samuel, 359, 364, 366 Peraza, Francisco de, 262 Peraza, Jerónimo de, 263 Peraza, Jerónimo de, II, 263 performance, 4, 10–11, 13–14, 25–26, 307; glosses and, 45–46 Periculoso, 251 personal communication, in textbooks, 12, 17–18 Pesce, Dolores, 52 Petrarch, 162 Petrucci, 13 Philippics (Cicero), 153 A philosophical essay of musick directed to a friend (North), 370 Picitono, Angelo da, 217, 244n65 Pinel, Doña María, 266, 278–79n21 Pirckheimer, Willibald, 211 Pirrotta, Nino, 291, 300n7 pitch-training devices, 26–29, 27, 28, 29, 34n11 Pixérécourt Chansonnier, 291 Placcius, Vincentius, 147, 148 plagiarism, 162, 178, 335 plainchant: canto chorale, 12; canto plano, 6, 9, 308; nuns and, 254–55, 257, 267; taught in song schools, 71, 72, 73, 81n33 A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke (Morley), 74, 227, 228, 229, 230, 244n64, 305, 353; demand for, 193–94; folio, use of, 371–73, 372, 374, 375, 377 Plantin, Christopher, 93 Playford, John, 356–59, 363–64, 382n39; A Breefe Introduction to the Skill of Musick for Song and Viol, 245n67, 358, 361; An introduction to the skill of musick, 358, 359, 360, 363, 366, 367, 367–68; A musicall banquet (Playford), 356, 356–57, 357, 358; sales catalogue, 350,

402â•… ·â•… Index 381n27; “A Table Engraven on Copper, shewing any Note with the Compass of the Bass-Viol,” 363 Pliny the Elder, 142, 143, 147, 238–39n7 Pliny the Younger, 142 Podio, Guillermo de, 240–41n31 poetry, lauda modeled on, 289–90, 291 Poi che ’l cor (Belcari), 291, 291 Poi che vivo, 291, 291 Politian, Angelo, 187n12 Politica (Lipsius), 152 polyphony, 11, 16, 261n23; canto figurale, 12, 308, 312; Florence, 295–99; lute as transmitter of, 128; nuns, instrumentally accompanied and, 256, 257–58; taught at song schools, 70–71; vocal, 127–28, 130, 170, 270, 274. See also counterpoint Pomi, Anna Maria, 215, 243n47 Pontio, Pietro, 305–306, 307–308, 308, 321–22n11, 322nn16,20, 323n24 Porta, Costanzo, 307, 319, 322n23 Positions Concerning the Training Up of Children (Mulcaster), 200–201 post-Tridentine period, xiv–xv, 249–50, 253–55 Pourbus the Elder, Frans, 86 Powell, Thomas, 196, 204 Practica musicae (Gaffurius), 10, 11–12, 20n8, 21n23, 73, 226, 227, 244n61 pragmatic aspects of music education, 52 The praise of musicke (Anonymous), 360–61 Prattica di musica (Zacconi), 11–19, 15, 309, 320, 323n30, 31, 32, 35, 36; comments on teaching, 306; composers, list of, 12–13; counterpoint, teaching of, 304, 306–17; delivery of text, 18–19; intrinsic and extrinsic qualities of music, 13–14; musical examples in, 13, 17, 18; notation in, 14–17, 17 precentor/song school master, 66–67 presentation copies, 239n19, 243n51, 378 presentation types, 173, 174, 184, 184; Non-Imitative (NIm), 170, 184, 189n53. See also entradas pricksong, 72, 81n33, 200 Primo dierum omnium, 55, 57–60 Il Primo Libro di madrigali (Arcadelt), 317 Primum querite, 30, 31, 34n18

Principium et ars totius musicae (Francesco da Ferrara), 363 The principles of musik, in singing and setting (Butler), 368–70, 369 The principles of practical mvsick (Simpson), 359, 360, 361 printing, xvi, 126, 128, 130 Priscianus, 231 Problemes of Beautie and all Humane Affections (Buoni), 199 Profit, conveniency, and pleasure, to the whole nation (Mace), 376 Prologus (Guido d’Arezzo), 26 Proportiones practicabiles secundum Gaffurium (Dygon), 226 proportions, 16 proprietas (properties of tones), 25, 27–28, 30 prosodic accents, 41–42 prova, 294 Proverbes de Salomon, 102 Prüss, Johann, 215 psalm tones, 7, 11, 73 psalm tunes (Scottish Reformation), 66, 74, 81n27, 103 psalm-commentaries, 55 Psalms, book of, 56, 60, 61n13 psalm-settings (Souterliedken), 99–100, 101, 105, 107, 118 psalters, metrical, 99–100, 103 Pseaulmes LXXXIII de David, 102 Pseudo-Odo, 40–41, 47 psychology of pedagogy, 324–44; consulting with colleagues, 332–33; discipline of student, 328–31, 342n23; Italian and Spanish music teachers compared, 336; professional issues, 333–35; relationship between maestro di capella and singers, 337, 344n50; teacher’s interaction with student, 326–28, 336 Pythagoras, 12 Pythagorean tuning, 6 quarto, upright, 368–71 Le quatroisiesme livre, 109 Quercu, Simon, 225, 225 Quintillian, 191n65 Ragionamento di musico (Pontio), 305– 308, 308, 321–22n11, 322n20, 323n24 Rainbow, Bernarr, xvi–xvii

Indexâ•… ·â•… 403 Ramis de Pareja, Bartolomeo, 212, 233, 240n24, 245n75, 76 Ravenscroft, Thomas, 73, 370–71 Reading and Writing the Pedagogies of the Renaissance: The Student, the Study Materials, and the Teacher of Music, 1470–1650 conference, xvii, 238n2 Recanetum de musica aurea (Vanneo), 245n74 Reese, Gustave, 377, 384n62 Reformation: Northern Europe, 88, 99; Scotland, xiv, 65–66, 74 Regina del cor mio (Giustinian), 288, 289, 291, 301n16 Regole del contraponto et compositione (Bona), 304 Regole di contrapunto (Lazari), 224, 243n54 Regula musicae plana. See Breviloquium musicale (Bonaventura de la Brescia) Regule (Guido d’Arezzo), 26 Remigius of Auxerre, 44, 45, 47 Renaissance: amateur instrumentalists, 126–37; Florence, pedagogy and literacy in, 278–302; textbooks, 207–46 Renatus Des-Cartes excellent compendium of musick (Brouncker), 370 A Reply to Gossons’ Schoole of Abuse (Lodge), 195–96, 197, 204 Reutlingen, Hugo Spechtshart von, 214–15, 231 Reynolds, John, 198 rhetoric, 142, 178 Rhetoric (Ramus), 368 Rice, Eric, xvii Rifkin, Joshua, 189n53 Rivington School, 145 Robert, First Earl of Carbery, 198 Robert of Basevorn, 25n25 Robinson, Thomas, 371, 376 Royal Society, 370 rubrication, 215 Sackville, Edward, Fourth Earl of Dorset, 198 Sacrarum ac aliarum cantionum trium vocum (Turnhout), 101 Salinas, Francisco de, 263, 277n3 Salmon, Thomas, 361, 370 Salter, Thomas, 121n3, 204

Salve Regina, counterpoints on, 310, 311–13 Salzburg. See Nonnberg Abbey (Salzburg) Salzburg Synod (1569), 253–54 Sancta María, Tomas de, 134, 189n44, 190n55 Santissima Annunziata, choir at, 290 Saturnalia (Macrobius), 141–32 Saunier, Antoine, 95, 99 Scala di Musica (Scaletta), 215, 216, 242n44 “The Scale, or Basis of Musick,” 363, 364 Scaletta, Orazio, 215, 216, 242n44 Scarabelli, Maria Diamante, 215 Schanppecher, Melchoir (Malcior of Worms), 211, 231, 232 Schneeweiss, Magdalena, 255–56 The Schole of Shooting (Ascham), 199–200 Scholiers, Adrian, 102–103 schollage fees, 67–70, 68–69, 76–77, 77 The schoole of musicke (Robinson), 376 schools. See Antwerp; institutions; music schools (Scotland); song schools (Scotland) Schubert, Peter N., xiv, 191–92n79 Schurman, Anna Maria, 201–202, 203 scientia of music, 14 Scintille di musica (Lanfranco), 231 Scolica enchiriadis, 40 scores, 173, 181, 243n56, 290, 298, 323n24. See also tablature Scotland, xiv, 65–83; Act of 1560, 65; Act of Parliament, “tymous remeid” (1579), 67, 73–75, 77–78; choirs, 67, 79n12; composers, 70–71; funeral wakes, 76– 77; instrumental tuition, 74–75; kirk session, 66, 76; lack of music teachers, 75–76; psalm tunes, 66, 74, 81n27, 103; Reformation, xiv, 65–66, 74; women and music, 79n7. See also music schools (Scotland); song schools (Scotland) Scottus, John, 44, 45 “Scrinium literatum” (Placcius), 147 Scudamore of Sligo, Lord, 198 Sebastiani, Claudio, 217, 244n65 secular tunes, used for liturgical texts, 99–100, 288, 288–89, 291, 291–92, 292, 301n16, 323n26 self-instruction, 126–37; advent of printing and, 126, 128, 130; extemporization, 134–35; music copying and analysis, 130; octavo for, 358–60

404â•… ·â•… Index selva/selve, 177–78, 181 senario, 10, 21n17 Seneca, 141–42, 162 sensory perception, 25–33; colors, visual use of, 27–28, 36n26; pitch-training devices, 26–29, 27, 28, 29, 34n11 sensus, 26 sententiae, 144, 162, 163–64, 182, 185, 191n65 Sermisy, Claude, 99 Serrano, Joaquín Martínez, 263 Serrano, Lucía, 264 Serrano, María Alberta Martínez, 263–64 Seville cathedral, 262 Sforza, Lodovico II (Duke of Milan), 225, 227, 240–41n31 Shakespeare, William, 194 “A Sheet of plain Rules and Directions for Composing Musick in Parts” (Birchensha), 364–65 Sherman, William, 147 shoulder notes, 214, 216, 217 Si amores me han de matar (Flecha), 131 Sidney, Philip, 145, 196, 197 Silva de varia leción (Mexias), 178 Simpson, Christopher, 351, 359, 360, 376 singers: delivery of text, 18–19; lessons for children, 4–6; pitch-training devices, 26–29, 27, 28, 29, 34n11; techniques and styles, 13. See also song schools (Scotland) six-interval system, 27–29, 34n11, 35n25 Slim, H. Colin, 107 Smith, Alexander, 71 Smith, Jeremy, 381n20 Snyder, Jon R., 303 Socrates, death of, 166 soggetto, 162, 172, 190n56 Solana, José, 271 Soldt, Susanne von, 106–107, 109 Solman, Thomas, 370 solmization, 35n25, 363; Bonaventura’s method, 5, 6–9; Guido’s system, xiii– xiv, 5, 6–7, 25–36; Zacconi’s method, 16 song schools (Scotland), 65–66; Act providing for, 67; composers, 70–71; literacy promoted, 70; number and location of, 78–79n2, 79n6; polyphonic music taught at, 70–71; precentor/song school master, 66–67; schollage fees,

67–70, 68–69, 76–77, 77. See also music schools (Scotland) Songs and Fancies (Forbes), 74 songs of praise, 99 Sonnius, Francismus, 91–95, 92, 93, 94, 95–98, 99–100 sonus, 45, 47, 50n23, 50–51n24, 52n26 sortisato, 231 Souterliedkens, 99–100, 101, 105, 107, 118 Souterliedkens (Clemens non Papa), 99– 100, 101, 105, 118 The soveraign and Final Happiness of Man (Bates), 195, 196–97 “La Spagna,” 317 Spain, nuns, 262–83 Spataro, Giovanni, 208, 209, 212, 233–36, 245n75 speculative philosophy, 31–32 Squarcialupi, Antonio, 288 Squire, W. Barclay, 363 Squyer, John, 73 St. Leonard’s College (Scotland), 66 staff, 6, 9 Stevenson, Robert, 268, 340n3, 341n5 Stock, Brian, 35n22 Stoic philosophy, 152 strambotti, 291 Strozzi, Filippo, 317 structure, 134 Struthers, William, 83n70 Stuber, Conrad, 73–74, 82n38 students, 306–307, 316, 317–20; dialogue format and, 304; discipline of, 328–31, 342n23; interaction with teacher, 326– 28; oblates, 53–57, 62n18, 252. See also audience; self-instruction Sturm, Johannes, 145–46 Suárez de Robles, María, 265, 278n15 Sunday schools, 91 Susann’ un jour (Lasso), 101, 108, 108–109 Susanne von Soldt manuscript, 106–107, 120 Susato, Tielman, 105–106, 118 sustenida cadences, 169 Synopsis musicae novae (Lippius), 382n29 syntactical glosses, 55–56 tablature, 106, 107; books, 126, 129–30; directions for producing, 130–34. See also scores

Indexâ•… ·â•… 405 “A Table Engraven on Copper, shewing any Note with the Compass of the BassViol” (Playford), 363 tactus (tatto), 16, 18 Te Deum, 30, 100 teachers: character of, 328; as composers, 9–10; contracts for lessons, 87–88; nuns as, 262–83; student interaction with, 326–28; visual images of, 208; wages, 76–77, 77, 88–91, 89. See also Bermudo, Juan; Cerone, Pedro (Pietro); music schools (Scotland); psychology of pedagogy; song schools (Scotland); Zacconi, Lodovico teaching routines, 306 Teeuwen, Mariken, 41, 45, 49n17, 50n20 Téllez, Baltasar, 132 Templum musicum: or The musical synopsis (Birchensha), 351, 359 tempo, 16, 18 Ten Commandments, musical settings of, 91–99, 95–98 Teodoro of Verona, 186n4 textbooks: on commonplacing, 148–49; in dialogue form, 93, 103–104, 124n56, 321nn8,9; elementary, 6–9; multiple owners, 215; on note-taking, 144–45; personal communication in, 12, 17–18; Renaissance, 207–46. See also annotations/marginalia; Cerone, Pedro (Pietro); Zacconi, Lodovico texts: Antwerp, 91–95, 92, 93, 94, 95–98, 99–100; classical, xiii, 37–51; glosses and commentaries, 40–51. See also annotations/marginalia; book format and size; glosses; treatises; individual authors and texts Theatre of Human Life (Zwinger), 149 Théodore de Bèze, 103 Theodulf of Orléans, 40 theological gloss, 56 theorico, 12 Timber, or Discoveries (Jonson), 153 timbres, 99–100, 118 Tinctoris, Johannes, 240n21 titulus, 164, 165, 167 Tobyas om sterven gheneghen, 107–108 Tom of all Trades, or the Plaine Pathway to Preferment (Powell), 204 Tomai, Tommaso, 178, 188n34, 190n62

tonal answer, 173–74, 174, 175–76, 179–80 tones, proprietas, 25, 27–28, 30 tonus, 42, 46–47 Topics (Aristotle), 164 Tours, school at, 40 Towne, Gary, 21n19 Toxophilus (Ascham), 200 Tragédie d’Abraham, 103 Traité de la composition de musque (Nivers), 359–60 Tratado ultimo de los lugares communes (Montanos), 168–69 A treatise of the natural grounds, and principles of harmony (Holder), 360, 370, 382n34 treatises, xii, xvi, 10; borrowing in, 244n65, 367–68, 380n16, 382n39; Carolingian, 40–41; commonplace book techniques in, 325–26, 334–35, 342n19; commonplace tradition and, 163–64; presentation copies, 239n19, 243n51, 378; tables of contents, 304; variety of materials, 304–305. See also book format and size; textbooks triads, 131–32 Tridentine reform, 249–55 Trilogia Gafuriana (Gaffurius), 212 tropes, theory of, 44–45 Tschudi, Peter, 212, 240n28 Tudors, 195 Turnhout, Gérard de, 100 Ein Tutsche Musica (Bern manuscript), 216, 243n48 Ulrich of Zell, 53 University of Heidelberg, 217 Urbinas latinus 1411 manuscript, 290 Ut queant laxis, 27, 27, 28–31, 29, 34n12 Utile e breve regule di canto composite per Maestro Zoanne de Spadari da Bologna (Spataro), 235–36 vaghezze, 13 Valéry, Magdaleine, 104–105 Valla, Lorenzo, 144 van den Bossche, Jan, 88, 110–11, 122n17 Vanhulst, Henri, 104 Vanneo, Stephano, 245n74 Varietie of lute-lessons (Robert Dowland), 376

406â•… ·â•… Index Vásquez, Juan, 132 Vaughan, William, 196, 197–98 Veere, Jan van, 332–33, 343n30 Vela, María, 263 Velpius, Rutgeert, 100, 117 Veni sancte spiritus, 100 Verità, Mario, 305, 322n13 vertical sonorities, 172, 189n47 vertical-interval succession, 172, 190n54 Vicentino, Nicola, 10, 17 vihuela, 126, 129; printed tablatures, 130, 131, 132 villancicos, 131–32, 136–37n18, 276 Villancicos i Canciones (Vásquez), 132 Villani, Fillipo, 4 violeros, 128, 135–36n6 Virdung, Sebastian, 106 Virgil, 150, 162 Virgin, songs for, 100 virginals, 86, 87 visual aids, 213; colored staff lines, 27–28, 36n26. See also hands visual images of music teachers, 208 Vitae, 252 Vives, Juan Luis, 84–85, 121n1, 263, 268, 277n2 vocal polyphony, 127–28, 130, 170, 270, 274 Een vrolic wesen (Barbireau), 106 Vuillaerth. See Willaert, Adrian Ward, John, 352 Wardhaugh, Benjamin, 366 Weber, Edith, xvii “Wedding of the Painter Joris Hoefnagel” (Pourbus the Elder), 86 Wendland, John, 125n74 Werdenstein, Gregory, 217 Werneix, François, 88, 121–22n15 West, Richard, 151 Whigham, Frank, 195 Whitlock, Richard, 196, 199 Wieland, Gernot, 56 Willaert, Adrian, 320 Winterton, Ralph, 363

Wollick, Nicholas, 211, 216, 227, 231–36, 232, 241n31; Enchiridion musices, 212, 233, 236, 237; Opus aureum, 231–33, 232, 234, 235, 244n60 women: Antwerp, education of, xiv, 84–125; Beguines, 99; bicinia/triciania as pedagogical works for, 101–102, 111–12; characterized as domineering, 85–86; contracts for music lessons, 87–88; dance music and, 88, 106; instrumental music and, 86, 87, 103–106; merchant class, 87–88, 103–104; music education, early modern England, 195, 196; in musical dynasties, 263–64; paintings, 86–87; song schools and, 79n7; teaching of young girls, 269–71; textbooks for, 103–105; writers on conduct, 196, 201–203. See also monasteries and convents; Nonnberg Abbey (Salzburg); nuns Wonnegger, Johannes Litavicus, 217 Wood, Thomas, 70, 74 Woolley, Hannah, 196, 202 workshops, 9–10 Wreede, Johannes, 292–93 Wright, Craig, xvi, xvii Zabern, Conrad von, 231 Zacconi, Lodovico, xiii, xv, 11–19, 21nn24,25,27, 22n33, 163; as musical seeker, 319; as teacher, 303–23 Zanobi, Ser, 293–96, 299 Zapata, Luis, 136n17 Zarlino, Gioseffo, 13, 14, 17, 21n17, 172, 208, 245n74, 304, 308; Istitutioni harmoniche, 10, 189n51, 244n65, 245n74, 304, 378 Zeeuw, Cornelius de, 86–87, 86, 87 Zootomia; or, Observations of the Present Manners of the English (Whitlock), 199 zotte liedken (Flemish folkore songs), 105–106 Zuichemus, Viglius, 148 Zwinger, Theodor, 149

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