Sitting with the Book of Martyrs

The author of this post was a participant in the Folger Institute undergraduate colloquy “Whose Sovereignty?” led by Urvashi Chakravarty. Participants examined problems of power and authority as they relate to different overlapping spheres of consent, including political, sexual, social, and economic consent. Students read both early modern and contemporary sources and discussed them with invited guests, learned about the Folger’s special collections materials and public-facing resources, spoke with curators and practitioners, and concluded the program with an in-person visit to the Folger.

The Folger Shakespeare Library stands in the public eye as an asylum for those seeking academic freedom. Upon entering the Reading Room and glimpsing the countless tables of studious researchers, I heard my heart thundering in my ears. This academic community signified a culmination of everything I’d hoped for as an undergraduate student. When discussing literature, a common refrain of my father was, “Smoke is coming out of my ears!” The Folger represented, to me, a place in which these discussions would be welcomed and expected. However, upon sitting down with the 1583 edition of John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, all thoughts of dignified conversation fled my mind. Actually, all thoughts vanished in a matter of seconds. For a moment, the edition and I sat together, and that quiet conversation has not left my mind since.

Foxe’s Book of Martyrs is a detailed history of the suffering of Protestants under the Catholic Church. While officially bearing the title Actes and Monuments, its gruesome contents resulted in a rather flashy title that still graces the headlines of articles and syllabus reading lists even now. Having explored the Book of Martyrs for a previous research project on Shakespeare’s Henry VI: Part II, I was well acquainted with the entries of relevant years and particular reigns. Many nights, the online PDF display on my computer screen was the only light in my darkened apartment. Upon lightly flipping the pages of the enormous (ten pounds, at least!) 1583 edition, I felt as though I were learning an astonishing secret about a long-time friend. I stood dismayed, betrayed, and unbelievably excited to reconfigure my idea of what the Book of Martyrs truly was.

The sheer size of this edition takes one’s breath away (both from its majesty and the effort taken to lift it). Two thick metal clasps hang over its opened frontispiece, a collection of scenes with burning martyrs and trumpeting angels. Within the pages, scribbled in the margins, lurk manicules (pointing fingers made by a reader, to emphasize important passages). Additionally, an engaged reader has corrected the pagination in varying shades of ink. For instance, a handwritten 312 corrects the printed 313, a testament to a past reader’s steady scrutiny. A hastily written manicule expresses interest in the fate and religious significance of Thomas Beckett. These impossibly human notations hold the secret to my quiet astonishment.

When one examines the 1583 edition of John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, they do not reread familiar words they once scrolled over on a computer screen. Beyond the academic value and literary content of such a work, one is struck by the material weight of its history. Standing awkwardly over the edition, I felt the weight of four centuries rise like vapor from the pages. Just as I bent over the pages, so had readers from a century past. Maybe these readers, for a second, felt the eyes of the past on them, as well. For a moment, I read alongside those who came before me. Simultaneously, I read alongside those who will, inevitably, come long after I am gone.

The value of a Folger resource comes not only from the academic content within it, but also from its unspoken material history. Prior to examining the 1583 edition of the Book of Martyrs, I could imagine the problems that faced the Duchess of Gloucester, Thomas Beckett, and countless other historical figures were stuck strictly in the past. However, with this edition, there came unavoidable material proof that these problems only seemed to be in the past because I allowed them to stay there.

In our undergraduate colloquy, we explored themes of sovereignty, power, and consent. We examined contracts for indentured servants, articles that detailed the historical discourse surrounding indigenous people, and maps that depicted the spheres of consent that inextricably tint talks of colonialism. At times, it seemed easier to place these issues solidly in the past. With this avoidance, one might feel better about the present, as it surely could not be as bad. However, by positing historical issues as purely historical, we often abandon our responsibility to improve the present.

This analysis of material importance certainly does not act as a declaration against the value of online resources — scanned pages often constitute the only way any research can get done. However, amidst the computer scrolling and the endless blue light, I would suggest visiting archives and exhibitions like those in the Folger Shakespeare Library. To sit with a material resource is to remember that history cannot be severed from the present. The material weight of four centuries has followed me since, clinging to my fingers as I read and write. For a moment, the future looks brighter, not because any particular event has changed, but because I have. When given the chance, sit with a material resource. Quiet your thoughts and listen. Every material resource contains an astounding history, one which very well might include you.