It is a well-known fact that Old English is rich in Latin loan-words. Although the precise number is not yet known, it is a fairly safe assumption that there are at least 600 to 700 loan-words in Old English. This compares with 800 Latin loan-words borrowed in different periods in the Brittonic languages (Welsh, Cornish, Breton), and at least 500 early Latin loan-words common to the West Germanic languages. These rather vague overall numbers do not lend themselves, however, to a serious analysis of Latin influence on the Germanic and Celtic languages, because they include different periods of borrowing which are not really comparable to each other. The basis of these estimates, moreover, is often not stated very clearly. Although the establishment of a complete list of Latin loan-words in the various Germanic languages is a desideratum, it can only be achieved in a later stage of our studies.

In August 1939 I drove from Cambridge with Hector and Nora Chadwick to see the Sutton Hoo dig. Phillips and Chadwick had never met and both were slightly apprehensive. The encounter turned out to be a great success. As we were leaving Chadwick said to Charles ‘It's the grave of King Rædwald you know. I've no doubt of that.’

Glyn Daniel (address given at the funeral of Charles Phillips at Teddington on 2 October 1985)

Around the year 695 Aldhelm, abbot of Malmesbury, wrote a collection of one hundred Latin enigmata or riddles to illustrate the rules of Latin metrics and versification, hoping that through that exercise ‘the rudiments of his small talent’ might grow sufficiently to enable him to write eventually ‘of more important subjects’. Almost instantly his Enigmata gained universal popularity: they were read as a primer of Latin poetry, they inspired other Anglo-Saxons (such as Tatwine and Eusebius, whose combined Latin enigmata make another hundred-piece collection) to follow in his footsteps, and they are said to have influenced the vernacular Old English riddles of the Exeter Book.

In an article published in 1986 Michael Lapidge1 noted the occurrence of the term Umbrensium (from Humbrenses/Umbrenses) in both the U-text of Theodore's Indicia2 and the anonymous, eighth-century Whitby Vita S. Gregorii.3 This is by no means the only point of contact between the two works. Perhaps the most memorable episode in the Vita S. Gregorii is that of Gregory's weeping for the soul of Trajan, his tears having the effect of baptizing the dead emperor.

Although there can be little doubt that Bede's works were widely known on the Continent by the end of the eighth century, the evidence supporting this assumption has been largely confined to the number of early manuscripts containing his works, together with requests for copies of his works contained in letters from continental scholars. The number of identified cases where his work is quoted before the beginning of the ninth century is very limited; and yet one clear case has been overlooked, as a result of a misattribution made more than one hundred years ago.

In the course of a long letter written in 797 to Speratus, bishop of an unnamed English see, Alcuin declares:

Verba Dei legantur in sacerdotali convivio: ibi decet lectorem audiri, non citharistam, sermones patrum, non carmina gentilium. Quid Hinieldus cum Christo?

Nowhere else in the substantial corpus of his letters does Alcuin name a known figure in early Germanic legend and literature – the Ingeld of Beowulf and Widsith – or refer specifically to the vernacular literature of his home country. Unsurprisingly, since the publication of the first complete and correct text of the letter in 1873, this passage has been quoted in toto (in varying translations) or alluded to in virtually every history of Old English literature and every commentary on Beowulf. Jaffé, however, in the notes he left with his transcript when he died prematurely in 1870, had proposed an identification of the addressee, Speratus, with Bishop Hygbald of Lindisfarne, recorded from 780 to 803. Dümmler adopted Jaffé's view in his editions of the letter: and he has been followed without demur by every subsequent scholar who has quoted or referred to it. Furthermore, for most of the century it has been tacitly assumed that the letter was directed not merely to the bishop in person but also to the community of which he was head – a monastic one, even after the disasters of 793; and that Alcuin's exhortations, whether or not they were a response to the actual practice of Lindisfarne and other Northumbrian houses, are evidence of the acceptability (and indeed, cultural importance) of secular vernacular verse in eighth-century English monasteries.

According to Aediluulf's poem De abbatibus, written in the early ninth century, the Irish priest Ultán was ‘a man called by a famous name’ (preclaro nomine dictus), who ‘could ornament books with fair marking’ (comptis qui potuit notis ornare libellos). Active during the first half of the eighth century in Aediluulf's otherwise unknown monastery located most probably in the area of what is today southern Scotland or northern England, Ultán has also won growing renown in modern art-historical writing, on the basis of Aediluulf's text, our only source for his life and work. Several of the older general reference works for artists include his name, Thieme-Becker terming him ‘Kalligraph und Miniator’, Bénézit ‘enlumineur et calligraphe’ and Bradley more cautiously ‘calligrapher’ while repeating the statement of the sixteenth-century antiquary John Leland, that Ultán was scriptor et pictor librorum optimus. In other words, these early sources agree in making Ultán not only a scribe but also a painter or illuminator.

During 1981, excavation of a large sand and gravel pit in Tattershall Thorpe, Lincolnshire, revealed many traces of Neolithic occupation and three Roman pits (fig. 8). In the southwestern part of the site, a sub-rectangular feature, aligned approximately east-west (pl. IIa), was found to contain a large number of iron tools and other objects, including Roman coins and glass which initially caused the material to be reported as Romano-British. Subsequently, however, a few objects were identified as post-Roman, and they are enough to show that the material was buried in the seventh century or possibly a little later. Because the soil in the area is very acid, conditions for the survival of organic material were poor, but a few fragments of human bone were recovered nevertheless, and it is therefore assumed that the feature was a grave with an inhumation. The objects had been deposited in two discrete assemblages, at each end of the grave.

Among the fragments in the Newberry Library listed by Michael Masi in 1972,1 his item no. 15 was described as ‘ninth century’ and ‘insular’. When I examined them, the two leaves of this fragment proved to contain portions of three letters of Alcuin, written to Charlemagne in the late 790s.2 Copies of these letters are found in several ninth-century Carolingian manuscripts, but the only copy hitherto known to survive from Anglo-Saxon England is an elegant volume now in the library of Lambeth Palace, bound as the third part of manuscript 218, from the library at Bury St Edmunds.3 Both the Newberry fragments and Lambeth 218 deserve consideration both on palaeographical grounds and for what they reveal about the literary interests of Anglo-Saxon England. This study explores the circumstances in which they were produced, copied and read, in an effort to restore to them ‘the place, the traditions, the influences, the sources which explain the various aspects of its composition and contents; its destination and its purpose; the people who were involved’.4

The main part of this paper will deal with the typescene of the beasts of battle, and will describe its content and use as rigorously as possible in formulaic terms. In particular, the relationship between the conventional and the original will be examined in order to show that the scene is more traditional than has been thought and that many of the variations occur within conventional parameters. The term ‘typescene’ has been used with too much flexibility by Anglo-Saxonists, and will here be used with the meaning outlined by G. S. Kirk:

In a letter written to King Æthelred of Northumbria in or soon after 793, Alcuin bewails the appalling aftermath of the Viking attack on Lindisfarne. He writes, ‘vineam electam vulpes depredarunt, hereditas Domini data est populo non suo. Et ubi laus Domini, ibi ludus gentium. Festivitas sancta versa est in luctum.’1 Alcuin's horror at Viking merriment is shared by a great many other medieval historians in their accounts of the depredations of the Norsemen. Adam of Bremen, for instance, laments the Vikings' assault upon the Franks in 882, in which they made so bold as to attack King Charles III himself, and generally ‘made sport of our people‘.2 Florence of Worcester similarly deplores the brutality of Sveinn Forkbeard's men, who invaded East Mercia in 1013, all the while ‘revelling in acts of savagery‘.3 William of Malmesbury remarks on the ungentle sense of humour of Cnut the Great, who, after inviting Earl Uhtred of Northumbria to surrender himself into his custody, promptly had his hostage put to death, as William puts it, ‘with inhuman levity‘.4 In short, it is not unusual to find medieval chroniclers expressing their distaste for the evident pleasure invading Scandinavians occasionally derived from committing acts of atrocity.

The ‘Old English Vision of Leofric, Earl of Mercia’ was first printed in a philological journal in 1908. It contains extremely interesting information about the arrangement and furnishings of two major Anglo-Saxon churches, Christ Church, Canterbury, and St Clement's Church, Sandwich. The Visio Leofrici is the only testimony, written or (apparently) archaeological, to the existence of St Clement's before the Conquest; it confirms and deepens aspects of our exclusively documentary knowledge of the Anglo-Saxon cathedral at Canterbury, which was destroyed by fire in 1067. Thus, it is particularly unfortunate that the Vision of Leofric, which has had but slight attention from students of language, literature or religious visions, has attracted even less notice from archaeologists, art historians and students of medieval liturgy.

It would be a truism among Anglo-Saxonists to say that we depend for our knowledge of a fair proportion of pre-Conquest literary and historical texts on the labours of scholars active in the sixteenth, seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Among the many important texts which were casualties, for example, of the Cotton fire on 23 October 1731, and for which we now depend on early modern transcripts and printed editions, one thinks immediately of Asser's Life of King Alfred and of the poem on the battle of Maldon (in Cotton Otho A. xii), of manuscript G of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (in Cotton Otho B. xi), and of Ealdorman Æthelweard's Chronicle (in Cotton Otho A. x). Should one choose to venture into the realm of Anglo-Saxon charters, the importance of antiquarian transcripts of manuscripts now lost becomes ever more apparent. The most spectacular addition to the corpus of charters made since the publication of Professor Sawyer's catalogue in 1968 arose from the examination of a sixteenth-century cartulary of Ilford Hospital preserved at Hatfield House, which proved to contain the texts of eleven pre-Conquest charters derived ultimately from the archives of Barking abbey in Essex; of course this manuscript is an ‘original’ cartulary, as opposed to an antiquarian transcript, but it serves here as a salutary reminder of the treasures which may lurk as yet unidentified in libraries and archives throughout the country. Other ‘discoveries’ include a seventeenth-century copy of a charter by which King Edgar granted an estate at Ballidon, in Derbyshire, to his thegn Æthelferth, Sir Henry Spelman's extracts from a lost cartulary of Abbotsbury abbey, and notes made by the jurist John Selden from a charter-roll formerly preserved in the archives of St Paul's Cathedral in London.