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Secret names: Remembering rather than hiding (Part 3)

Editor’s Introduction: The DMNES staff are super delighted to host a three-part guest blog by Dr. Anna Dorofeeva. Dr. Dorofeeva is a historian specialising in Western Latin book history and culture, and her current work focuses on ciphers and cryptography in medieval manuscripts; you can follow her on Twitter at @LitteraCarolina. In this series of posts, she talks about how personal names were rendered in code form in the Middle Ages.

Part 1 is here; Part 2 is here; Part 3 is below.

Secret names: Remembering rather than hiding (Part 3)

Dr. Anna Dorofeeva, ZKS Barker Junior Research Fellow, Durham University

Ultimately, these sorts of codes were made to be seen, and the names encoded within them were meant to be remembered. This was the intention of the eighth-century abbess who wrote this message by substituting the vowels with abbreviations for ordinal numbers:

Ego una Saxonica nomine Hugeburc ordinando hec scribebam

I, a Saxon nun named Hugeburc, wrote this.

This message appeared in the prologue to Hugeburc’s own work, the Hodoeporicon: a life of the Anglo-Saxon missionary saint Willebald. In it, she called herself ‘a little ignorant creature’, but both her skilled Latin and her use of code showed how untrue this was. [1] While claiming modesty, she ensured that she would be remembered for her learning.

Most ciphers seem to have been written by adults – even high-status ones, who composed their own works and were entrusted with the copying and decoration of books. But we do have one instance of a cipher used by a child, in a ninth-century manuscript of poetry probably used in an early medieval classroom. At the beginning of the book, there is a marginal note, written in a cipher in which dots were substituted for vowels. Here, however, they are also arranged roughly in the shape of the vowel itself. The note reads:

Bernardus puer me fecit.

Bernardus, a boy, made me [i.e. the note]

Many of these ciphers were written by substituting vowels, which was both common and not difficult to crack. But concealment wasn’t the point. Medieval ciphers can be compared to computer languages, encoding and recording metadata about manuscripts, and the people who made them. Ciphers were therefore meant to draw attention, to communicate their contents, and ultimately to ensure that names – and the people behind them – weren’t forgotten.

References

[1] https://thijsporck.com/2017/05/15/anglo-saxon-cryptography/.

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Secret names: What’s in a name? (Part 2)

Editor’s Introduction: The DMNES staff are super delighted to host a three-part guest blog by Dr. Anna Dorofeeva. Dr. Dorofeeva is a historian specialising in Western Latin book history and culture, and her current work focuses on ciphers and cryptography in medieval manuscripts; you can follow her on Twitter at @LitteraCarolina. In this series of posts, she talks about how personal names were rendered in code form in the Middle Ages.

Part 1 is here; Part 2 is below; Part 3 is here.

Secret names: What’s in a name? (Part 2)

Dr. Anna Dorofeeva, ZKS Barker Junior Research Fellow, Durham University

Not all monks were quiet or modest! In this manuscript from France, containing some works by St Jerome and dated to 806 CE, the scribe Agambertus covered an entire page in ciphers.

The first is a monogram, a series of letters joined together and spelling out the name of the woman who commissioned the manuscript: Hlottildis or Theodildis (since the final S is missing, this interpretation is uncertain). The monogram also contains the abbreviation ‘abbat.’ for ‘abbatissa’, meaning ‘abbess’, indicating that Agambertus’ commissioner was fairly powerful.

The second code is Agambertus’s name and an invocation, all written in Greek letters mixed in with a made-up alphabet (known as the alphabet of Aethicus Ister) and ‘Marcomannic’ runes.

After that, there is a plaintext referring to the sixth year of Charlemagne’s imperial reign, followed by a request to the reader to pray for the scribe, written by replacing each vowel with the following consonant.

The lower part of the page is filled with palindromes: three squares playing around with the words SATOR, AMOR, and AMEN; and two anagrams of the scribe’s name, one of which is arranged in the form of a cross. [1]

Agambertus evidently enjoyed experimenting with ciphers, which enabled him to show off his skill as a scribe. This page of puzzles would have intrigued its readers in the ninth century, as it does today, but it was also a more serious sign of a belief in the written word as the Word of God. This was reflected in human language and in the stories of the Bible, but it needed decoding and interpreting before it could be truly understood.

Agambertus wasn’t the only one who enjoyed visual puzzles. Monograms and monogrammatic writing, in which letters nestle within or on top of each other, were especially popular in the early Middle Ages. In this book, made in ninth-century France, the scribe Audgarius first wrote the title of the legal text he was copying. At the bottom, he added his own name and the Latin word ‘nomen’, ‘name’, as if they were also part of the title – but in a much more complicated arrangement on top of each other.

References

[1] I. Garipzanov, Graphic Signs of Authority in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, 300–900 (Oxford, 2018), pp. 260–62.

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What’s really in a name? Onomancy in the Middle Ages (Part 2)

Editor’s Introduction: The DMNES staff are super delighted to host a two-part guest blog by Dr. Joanne Edge. Dr. Edge’s PhD research focused on “onomancy”, a type of medieval magic based in a person’s name, a topic we thought would be of interest to readers of the blog!

Part 2 is below; you can read Part 1 here.

What’s really in a name? Onomancy in the Middle Ages (Part 2)

Dr. Joanne Edge, Latin Manuscripts Cataloguer at the John Rylands Library, University of Manchester

On first impressions, onomancy might seem pretty ridiculous. How can the numbers that correlate to the letters of someone’s name tell you anything about them? To answer this, we need to consider various modes of medieval European thought. The first issue to note is that, since the late Roman Empire, divination had been condemned alongside magic as illicit, and, from at least the time of Augustine of Hippo (354-430 CE) was against orthodox Christianity for three reasons. Firstly, divination went against the idea of man’s Free Will; secondly, it was counter to the notion of Divine Providence (that only God can know the future); and finally, it worked via the agency of demons – whether the operator knew it or not. So, divination was decidedly illicit in a Christian context; though whether those doing it knew that is another matter.

BL MS Royal 6 E.VI

A magician practices geomancy while demons watch. London, BL MS Royal 6 E VI, f. 535v.
Photo © The British Library

Setting aside these theological objections, what gave this method of divination its agency? Let’s first take names. The debate over whether names were signifiers or whether they contained some essence of the bearer had been lively since at least ancient Greece, with a discussion of the meaning of names in Plato’s Cratylus (written c.360 BCE). Written as a dialogue between Cratylus and Hermogenes, here is what it says about names:

Cratylus, whom you see here, Socrates, says that everything has a right name of its own, which comes by nature, and that a name is not whatever people call a thing by agreement, just a piece of their own voice applied to the thing, but that there is a kind of inherent correctness in names, which is the same for all men, both Greeks and barbarians.1

Later Neoplatonic philosophers of the third to the sixth centuries CE held that an individual’s name contained an essence of the bearer. So, in the Neoplatonic tradition, names were much more than signifiers: someone’s name said something about them.

Numbers, too, held great significance in mainstream scholastic thought. Ancient number-theory was transmitted to the Middle Ages largely via Plato’s Timaeus which conceived of numbers as the building-blocks of nature. Here he describes the creation of the world:

So god placed water and air between fire and earth, and made them so far as possible proportional to one another, so that air is to water as water is to earth; and in this way he bound the world into a visible and tangible whole. So by these means and from these four constituents the body of the universe was created to be at unity owing to proportion; in consequence it acquired concord, so that having once come together in unity with itself it is indissoluble by any but its compounder.2

Following the Neoplatonists, fifth-century thinkers such as Augustine and Macrobius emphasised the importance of numbers in creation, and from the late eleventh to the early thirteenth centuries, there was a revival of Augustinian study, which placed number theory at its centre.3

So, far from an illogical method of working out the future, onomancy’s agency was grounded in the authority of Plato, Augustine and high medieval scholasticism. Anxieties about the future – and especially around death and dying – meant that medieval manuscripts contained a variety of predictive methods, and onomancy – in the form of the Sphere – seems to have been the most popular. There are several possible reasons for this: it was relatively short, and therefore a handy space-filler; and its diagram made it look authoritative. But perhaps the most convincing explanation is that provided by Jean-Patrice Boudet, that the Sphere‘s corruption in translation, as copyists and translators tried to find the ‘correct’ version, meant that multiple examples carried on being copied together in a bid to discover the original.4

Notes

[1] Plato, Cratylus, in Plato in Twelve Volumes vol. XII, trans. Harold N. Fowler (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London, William Heinemann Ltd., 1921), p 383.

[2] Plato, Timaeus V:32, in Plato, Timaeus and Critias trans. H. D. P. Lee (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971), p. 44.

[3] Russell A. Peck, “Number as a Cosmic Language”, in Essays in the Numerical Criticism of Medieval Literature, ed. Caroline D. Eckhardt (Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, Inc., 1980), p. 16.

[4] Jean-Patrice Boudet, Entre science et nigromance: astrologie, divination et magie dans l’occident médiéval (XIIe-XVe siècle) (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2006), p. 43.

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What’s really in a name? Onomancy in the Middle Ages (Part 1)

Editor’s Introduction: The DMNES staff are super delighted to host a two-part guest blog by Dr. Joanne Edge. Dr. Edge’s PhD research focused on “onomancy”, a type of medieval magic based in a person’s name, a topic we thought would be of interest to readers of the blog!

Part 1 is below; Part 2 is here.

What’s really in a name? Onomancy in the Middle Ages (Part 1)

Dr. Joanne Edge, Latin Manuscripts Cataloguer at the John Rylands Library, University of Manchester

What can our names tell us about our fate? According to some modes of medieval thought, quite a lot. Here, I will describe a divinatory practice called onomancy. Onomancy – haplological for onomatomancy – means ‘divination by names’, and, if surviving manuscript numbers are any indication, the most common form of divination in the later Middle Ages.1 Divination is an ancient and cross-cultural phenomenon. Benedek Láng provides a succinct definition: it is ‘the procedure of foretelling the future and discovering hidden knowledge through the interpretation of signs’.2 There are many forms present in medieval sources, which fall into two categories – ‘active’, or set up (such as dice throwing); and ‘passive’, or spontaneous (such as omens and portents). Onomancy falls into the first category, along with other types of divination such as geomancy (drawing dots), chiromancy (palm-reading) and bibliomancy (randomly opening books, usually the Bible).

To demonstrate how onomancy works, I will use the example of the most commonly-occurring variety in medieval manuscripts, the Sphere of Life and Death or Sphere of Pythagoras. Here is an example from a manuscript produced in England c. 1375, now Oxford Bodleian Library MS Digby 46. The Sphere is most often used to predict whether a sick person will live or die, but is also used for any question about an individual requiring a yes/no answer. The six-line verse at the bottom of the page instructs the operator to take the name of the sick person and convert the letters of their name into numerical equivalents (which are found in the two outer rims of the diagram). You add these up into a total. Add the number of the day of the moon on which they first fell sick (a number between 1-30), and the number of the planetary weekday (each day has a corresponding number, usually located in or next to the diagram). These three numbers are added into a grand total and divided by 30. If the remainder is in the top hemisphere, the person will live, if in the bottom, they will die. The three columns of numbers indicate whether recovery or death will be quick, medium or slow.

MS Digby 46, f. 107r

A Sphere of Pythagoras. Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Digby 46, f. 107r. Photo: © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford

The Sphere is first attested in a Greek papyrus made in the fourth century CE, but it probably has much older roots. It was translated, and the earliest surviving example in Latin dates from around 805 CE.3 However, there was an inherent problem with translation into Latin. Every Greek letter has a corresponding number, but not every Latin letter does. This led to confusion as medieval Latin translators and copyists tried to find the ‘correct’ original and ascribed numbers to letters without any rationale. The result was that multiple versions of the Sphere survive with different number-letter correlations and different remainders in the centre. Another problem was posed by non-Latin letters like K and W. Most Spheres leave these out, but the copyist of a physician’s almanac, now London British Library MS Harley 5311, made in 1406, added:

Note that if there is a double letter taken from another language it should not be two numbers but one, so for William first V and then I should be used and so too of the rest.4

So, using a Sphere was not an exact science, and there was plenty of space for ambiguity.

BL MS Harley 5311

Physician’s folding almanac containing a Sphere. London, BL MS Harley 5311, leaf J. Photo: © The British Library Board

The Sphere was not the only onomantic method circulating in medieval manuscripts. Here is an experiment found in at least four manuscripts of English provenance produced in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries:

If you want to know who will die first, a husband or wife, calculate their names, and find out the numbers of the letters and divide by nine. If the number is even the wife will lead the husband to the grave. If odd the husband will be buried by the wife.5

It is not difficult to imagine why such knowledge might have been desirable to either party in a marriage!

Yet more onomantic texts survive from the later Middle Ages, such as the Victorious and Vanquished, which pits two values against one another. This was used for working out which of two generals or parties might succeed in a battle or duel.6 But by far the most commonly-surviving onomantic method is the Sphere.

Read Part 2 here.

Notes

[1] For an overview of onomancy see Joanne Edge, Nomen omen: The Sphere of Life and Death in England, c.1200 – c.1500, Ph.D. thesis, Royal Holloway, University of London (2015).

[2] Benedek Láng, Unlocked Books: Manuscripts of Learned Magic in the Medieval Libraries of Central Europe (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2008), p. 123.

[3] Cologne, Erzbischöflichen Diözesan-und Dombibliotek: MS 83.II, f. 218v.

[4] My translation. London, British Library MS Harley 5311, leaf I.

[5] My translation, Oxford, Bodleian Library MS 177, f. 1v.

[6] On this tract see Charles Burnett, “The Eadwine Psalter and the Western Tradition of the Onomancy in Pseudo-Aristotle’s Secret of Secrets”, Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 55 (1988), pp. 143–67.

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