The village recluse, avowed to remain in his or her cell, was a feature of the later medieval landscape, but in what circumstances did recluses and the notion of a distinct reclusive vocation emerge? Examining the earliest recluses identifiable, this article contends that reclusion as such, though not without precedent, gained popularity in England in the third quarter of the eleventh century and acquired a terminology (already current on the Continent) in its last third as an expression of the ascetic movement within the emerging parish.

The Old Testament translations in the compilation known as the Old English Hexateuch or Heptateuch are based on good Vulgate exemplars. That is to say, where variation can be demonstrated between the version associated with Jerome's late fourth-century revision and the pre-Hieronymian ‘Old Latin’ versions, the Old English translations can be shown to derive from exemplars carrying the former. The opening of Genesis–‘On angynne gesceop God heofonan 7 eorðan. seo eorðe soðlice was idel 7 æmti’–illustrates this general rule. Behind it is the Vulgate ‘in principio creauit Deus caelum et terram. terra autem erat inanis et uacua”, not a version with the characteristic ‘old’ readings, such as fecit for creauit and inuisibilis et inconpositas for inani et vacua. Indeed, much of the Old English translation, especially in Genesis, is sufficiently full and faithful for the identification of specific Vulgate variants in the exemplar text to be made with some confidence and for the influence on it of the important Carolingian revisions asssociated with Orléans and Tours to be demonstrated. There is, however, a small number of Old English readings throughout the Heptateuch for which Latin parallels in the thirty or so collated Vulgate manuscripts are unknown or hardly known. Instead, they appear to derive from models available in pre-Hieronymian texts. Uncertainty often surrounds their identification, owing to the complexities both of the translation process and the history of the Latin Bible. Understanding their origins involves consideration of the influence of patristic literature and the liturgy, as well as the availability of ‘contaminated’ exemplar texts.

The relationship between the book and the body in the Middle Ages is complex and has been the focus of much recent attention. At a most basic level the dead, dismembered, yet living body of the book was united with the bodies of author, scribe, artist and reader in the act of reading. Medieval readers from the age of Augustine on left their marks in books in the form of glosses, personal comments, sketches, signatures, and the traces of kisses, caresses, or of simple repeated readings that have worn away parts of numerous illustrations. Michael Camille, in particular, has explored the sensual nature of the relationship between book and reader in the act of reading. Perhaps nowhere is this union of bodies so vividly enacted as in the works of the fourth-century Spanish poet Prudentius, whose poems remained extremely popular for centuries. They were copied, translated, rearranged and illustrated to suit the needs of a variety of patrons and readers across medieval Europe.

Ælfric, in the Preface to Genesis, comments about what we do not find in the first book of the Old Testament: ‘Seo boc ys gehaten Genesis, Þæt ys “Gecyndboc”, for Þam Þe heo ys firmest boca and spricÞ be ælcum gecinde (ac heo ne spricð na be Þæra engla gesceapenisse).’ Although he proceeds to explain what is contained in the opening verse, noting that creation ‘on annginne’ refers at once to the literal act of creation and, ‘æfter gastlicum andgite’, to Christ through whom all creation was formed, he makes no further comment here upon the angels. In other works, however, where the topic could be more appropriately introduced, Ælfric enthusiastically engages with the problem of angelic history. The sermon De initio creaturae, the Interrogationes Sigewulfi, the Exameron, the Letter to Sigeweard and the Letter to Wulfgeat all contain accounts of the angelic creation and fall. Because Ælfric is a writer actively concerned with orthodoxy and sound doctrine, we would do well to ask why he has such an interest in the angels–about whom such an authority as Bede would say almost nothing–and to investigate precisely how, and from what sources, he presents their extra-scriptural history.

Several studies in recent years have contributed to the discovery that the early-sixth-century sermons of Caesarius of Arles had considerably more influence on Old English literature than had been realized. The extent of that influence may not be fully apparent even now, partly because many of the recent studies discuss examples in isolation, each in its own context, and partly because many of the earlier studies cited certain anonymous Latin sermons which have been only later identified as the work of Caesarius. My aim here is to offer new evidence for Caesarius's influence on five Old English texts and to recapitulate the evidence for his influence upon the corpus of Old English literature as a whole.

When the Handlist of Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts was published ten years ago it was clear that it could not claim to be perfect or complete, not only because of the well-known problems and remaining uncertainties of the subject, but also on account of the ever-increasing research work on medieval manuscripts. As a result, a first set of addenda and corrigenda to the Handlist appeared in Anglo-Saxon England 32 (2003), 293–305, and the time has now come for a second supplement intended to update and, where necessary, to correct the Handlist.

Like the first supplement, the second has profited from recent publications and, above all, from kindly provided information by friends and colleagues. Once again I owe a special debt of gratitude to Michael Gullick, who generously shared his expert knowledge with me and read a draft version of this article. What I owe to him this time is acknowledged in the individual entries; Appendices 2 and 3 could not have been written without his help and advice. I am grateful to Richard Gameson, Drew Hartzell and Rebecca Rushforth for letting me know about discoveries they made before these appeared in print. As always, Birgit Ebersperger helped to solve my bibliographical problems. All debts I have incurred, whether from personal communications or from publications, have been recorded in the respective entries. As most readers will have noted, a serious drawback of the Handlist – the lack of any references to musical notation – has been made good by Professor Hartzell's comprehensive Catalogue of Manuscripts Written or Owned in England up to 1200 Containing Music.

Recent investigations into the sources of Holinshed's Chronicles, both in the latter's text and in the collections of the late-sixteenth-century antiquaries responsible for its compilation, have brought to light a number of passages derived from the eleventh-century Vita Ædwardi regis, some in Latin and others translated into English. In most cases, corresponding passages occur in the single surviving manuscript of the Vita, but this is not invariably so. It is argued here that the antiquaries had access to a manuscript of the Vita which was at one time in the keeping of John Stow, but has since been lost, and that certain passages missing from the extant manuscript of the Vita can now be reconstructed on the basis of the passages derived from Stow's manuscript. Prominent among them is the complete poem describing the magnificent ship and other gifts given by Earl Godwine to King Edward the Confessor in 1042.

The scattered nature of references to dance and the ambiguity of its vocabulary have obscured Anglo-Saxon dance practices, but evidence suggests that dance was a significant cultural phenomenon. The earlier centuries of the Anglo-Saxon period saw the depiction of weapon dances, and later sources also allow us a glimpse of lively secular dance. Performance traditions may have included dance combined with satirical songs, as well as possible secular ritual dance. Finally, scripture provided examples of both holy dance and lascivious female dance. Contemporary iconography of these dance practices, combined with continued associations between dance and music, allow us to understand the conventions in the depiction of dance, and in turn these suggest that the figure of ‘Hearing’ on the Fuller Brooch, traditionally regarded as running, is in fact dancing.

The twelfth-century Textus Roffensis contains a collection of early English laws, of which the first is attributed to Æthelberht of Kent, who reigned c. 580–616. Although these laws remain to us only in a copy made some six centuries later, there are strong linguistic grounds, first proposed by Sievers and Liebermann, and recently elaborated on and expanded by myself, to assume that the text as we have it genuinely reflects a copy of an early original, albeit much changed by generations of scribal modernization. Yet problems of interpretation often arise, among them the difficulty in the definition of hapax legomena: words which occur in the corpus of Old English only in this text. One such term is contained in Æthelberht, ch. 12, which states: ‘Cyninges fedesl XX scillinga forgelde.’ This is presumably formulated along the lines of Æthelberht, ch. 8, which reads: ‘Cyninges mundbyrd L scillinga.’

There is basic agreement among scholars as to the meaning, if not the precise interpretation, of mundbyrd: most would agree with Bosworth's definition of ‘protection, patronage’. Along these lines, the clause can be interpreted as: ‘[For violating] the king's protection: 50 (of) shillings.’ Using this as a template, one might translate iEthelberht, ch. 12, as: ‘[For violating] the king's fedesl: let [the perpetrator pay] 20 (of) shillings.’

The item which Napier printed as no. xxx in his collected edition of the homilies of Archbishop Wulfstan and which is extant complete only in Oxford, Bodleian Library, Hatton 113, written at Worcester in the third quarter of the eleventh century, has long been recognized as a compilation in which a few sentences of undoubted Wulfstan authorship are fitted into a remarkable patchwork of extracts from pseudo-Wulfstan and tenth-century anonymous writings. Karl Jost has stated that the opening and concluding sections consist of extracts from the Institutes of Polity and from Napier's homilies xxiv, xlvi and ii, while in the middle section he has identified parallels to two Vercelli homilies, nos. iv and ix, and to Napier xlix, which also occurs in the Vercelli Book as homily x. He has speculated that for another passage the compiler may have drawn upon an earlier version of a text now surviving in London, British Library, Cotton Tiberius A. iii, but he missed a parallel with Vercelli xxi which had been noted by McIntosh. What in effect Jost and others have shown is that in a ‘scissors and paste’ homily in which no more than a few sentences can be ascribed to the compiler (and these perhaps only because he took them from books since lost) we find extracts from a considerable number of works. The purpose of this article is to examine again the sources of the compilation, to show that very probably more than half of it was drawn from a single codex similar to the Vercelli Book, and to illustrate the influence Wulfstan's writings and style had on its author.

One of the most crucial and problematic periods in the history of English medieval art is the tenth century. Already in the first half of the century there were signs of renewed artistic activity after the comparatively barren period of the ninth century when the Viking invasions rent the fabric of Anglo-Saxon society. But a full revival did not occur until the second half of the tenth century under the impetus of monastic reform and strong royal support. It was then that English artists created the so-called ‘Winchester Style’, which was to exercise a powerful influence in England and also on the continent for more than a century. Despite the research of many scholars, most notably Homburger and Wormald, there are still many more questions than answers about the sources and development of tenth-century English art. Among the most important works from this time are the Anglo-Saxon drawings and initial which were added to the so-called Leofric Missal (Oxford, Bodleian Library, Bodley 579). Through a consideration of their style, technique, ornament and iconography I hope to take a step towards a clearer understanding of this period of artistic renaissance.

Ælfric's Colloquy is, of course, first and foremost, a dialogue between a master and his pupils to give practice in the use of Latin at a conversational level. The pedagogic intention of the work is evident from the interlocutors' habit of lingering over commonly used words in various grammatical forms: for example, in a few opening lines (2–11) the deponent loqui appears as loqui, loquimur, loquamur and loqueris, together with the noun locutio, and within a little more than fifty lines (66–119) we find seven forms of the verb capere, two of them occurring four times each and one twice. Yet, equally certainly, this colloquy has more to it than just schoolboy exercises in declensions and conjugations. It has escaped the oblivion that has been the lot of its more humdrum fellows who – to use Garmonsway's personification – were assigned the rôle of literary Cinderellas, labouring ‘in obscurity in monastic classrooms to help boys learn their lessons’. It has long been acclaimed for its realism and for its ‘sociological picture of the occupational strata’ of Anglo-Saxon society; and, in our own day, Stanley B. Greenfield has called attention to its literary merits, ‘its fine organization and structure, dramatic in effect, with its pairing and contrasting, for example, of the king's bold hunter and the independent, timid fisherman…and with its lively disputation toward the end about which occupation is most essential’. In the present study I hope to demonstrate that it also draws on a background of ideas and that its longevity is partly due to this ingredient.

Old English manuscript poetry, including the text that we now call The Wanderer, remains close to its oral roots in its reliance on audible structures and traditional expressions, in its fluid relationship to other compositions and in its anonymity. It is not oral, however, and its existence in a manuscript is more than a physical fact. This change in medium has begun to affect the poetry's semiotics. Having lost the social context of oral performance, the poet attempts to provide a viewpoint in other ways. But this manuscript presentation does not share all the workings of a modern printed composition.

There is a lingering notion among Beowulf scholars, despite Chauncey Tinker's effort to dispel it eighty years ago, that the Beowulf manuscript is slowly but inexorably crumbling away in its modern home in the British Library. The gloomy news for a general audience is that the manuscript, ‘charred at the edges by the fire’ that decimated the Cotton Library in 1731, ‘continues to deteriorate year by year’. A scholarly audience gets the same impression from Norman Davis, who gives us a reproduction of an old transliteration beside new photographs of the manuscript. He says, ‘Zupitza's transliteration … has permanent value as a record of what he could see in the manuscript in 1880–2’, a comment that certainly implies that Zupitza was able to see more in the manuscript a century ago than we can see today. In fact, with the aid of modern artificial lighting, notably fibre-optic and ultra-violet light, we can see far more in the manuscript today than Zupitza was able to see in 1882.

In medieval literature there are a number of examples of a type of writing which provides an outline of Christian cosmology and Christian history. These works deal, usually briefly, with the following: God and his creative powers, the creation, the fall of the angels, the creation and fall of man, biblical history, the redemption, Christ's life, the crucifixion, the descent into hell, the resurrection, the ascension, and the second coming and last judgement. The subjects vary somewhat; the fall of man and his redemption are of central importance, and some outline versions are reduced to these essentials.

A single leaf may be a valuable witness to an early manuscript that does not otherwise survive, even when it raises as many questions as it answers. Such is the case of the first fragment in a collection of some 217 leaves and fragments of medieval manuscripts owned by the University of Missouri and housed in the Rare Books Department of the Ellis Library on the Columbia, Missouri, campus. This collection, titled Fragmenta Manuscripta, derives largely from that assembled in the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century by John Bagford (d. 1716), an eccentric shoemaker-turned-bookseller. Bagford was, however, not responsible for the first two leaves in the collection. They were added to the collection by the trustees of Archbishop Tenison's School in preparation for sale on 3 June 1861. The first fragment and the second, an Insular leaf of not later than tenth-century date containing grammatical excerpts, had both been removed from the binding of another volume owned by the Tenison Library. That manuscript, now London, British Library, Add. 24193, a continental codex containing the poems of Venantius Fortunatus with replacement quires supplied in two tenth-century English Caroline minuscule hands, has attracted the attention of Anglo-Saxon scholarship, but the early Insular binding fragments removed from it have remained largely unknown.

The article assesses the rhetorical uses of the main kinds of non-functional alliteration that are attested in Old English poetry, and gives complete lists of their incidence in all of the poems. Two main general types are isolated. Supererogatory alliteration does not depart from the known alliterative rules, and is deployed ornamentally with some freedom by at least some of the poets. Five sub-types are examined in turn: double alliteration in the a-verse, consonant cluster alliteration, alliteration which is continued across lines, patterned alternation of alliteration across lines, and enjambed alliteration (where the last stress of a line initiates the alliteration of the next). Secondly, licentious alliteration draws a line‘s final stress into alliteration in its own line. Four sub-types are considered: crossed, postponed, and transverse alliteration, and double alliteration in the b-verse. Whilst crossed alliteration appears quite freely, the primary alliteration of a line on the final stress is shown to be avoided almost completely. Most of the unusual uses of extra alliteration congregate in non-traditional or late poetry.

This paper is offered in the hope that it will provide reliable evidence for those wishing to make use of episcopal dates during the century 850–950. The original editors of the Handbook of British Chronology were assured by experts that ‘until all the available charter-evidence had been critically sifted, it would be useless to try and revise the available lists of Anglo-Saxon bishops’, so they used for their lists the information available in W. Stubbs's Registrum Sacrum Anglicanum, 2nd ed. (Oxford, 1897) and W. G. Searle's Anglo-Saxon Bishops, Kings and Nobles (Cambridge, 1899). We are still far from the desired state of charter study, but a good deal has been done on this and related studies in the last few decades, and perhaps the time has come to look again at the bishops' dates. In many cases the episcopal witnesses can corroborate or impugn the genuineness of a charter, and it is sometimes the misfortune of the Anglo-Saxon historian, in using the appearance of a certain bishop to strengthen the validity of a charter, to find that the date of the bishop's episcopate is determined by the very charter in question. So the critical sifting of all the available charter evidence must include a study of episcopal dates – one cannot take place without the other.

Some years ago I published a study of the moneyers' names from Edgar's reform of the coinage in the last years of his reign up to the death of Æthelred in 1016. Since then Dr Fran Colman has made a study of the moneyers of Edward the Confessor. The object of this paper is to complete the record of moneyers' names on the late Anglo-Saxon coinage by surveying the period when the Danish dynasty of Cnut and his sons ruled England. Although at this period personal names may no longer be directly indicative of nationality, and the relationship between the named moneyer and his stated mint may be in some cases fluid, nevertheless such a record can still provide a measure of cultural influence and the intensity of settlement.

After Janet Bately's several articles and her recent edition of the Old English Orosius there is little need to analyse further what the Anglo-Saxon translator did to his source. The translator made substantial cuts in the Latin text: he deleted much of Orosius's commentary on the events he narrated, made a number of minor, probably accidental, omissions, rather surprisingly left out some details which should have interested the Anglo-Saxon audience, and carried out a wholesale chopping of events and entire sections, reducing his translation to perhaps one-fifth the length of its source. He also made some additions, primarily explanations of institutions and details which would have been obscure to his audience, but also circumstances and rationalizations taken from secondary sources or from his own whimsy. Finally, he made some changes in the organization of his source and altered Orosius's polemical tone to that of a more objective but still Christian world history. Given the large number of changes, it is important now to ask why the translator might have made such a thorough redaction, and to consider how his translation could have been an appropriate vehicle for the transmission of this standard authority to an Anglo-Saxon readership. We are not unfamiliar today with historical revisionism and the motives for it, and the practice reveals the culture of its modern practitioners; the present study seeks similar information about the culture of Alfred's age.