Episode 34 : The Book of Kells, Part I - An Uncertain History

Dia dhuit! That means "hello!" in Old Irish. This episode is the first in a two-part series on the world's most famous book: The Book of Kells. Part I focuses on the uncertain history of the book, a history that may (or may not, but probably does...) go back 1,200 years. That's real old, y'all. Come for the into-the-weeds tramp through the book's history, stay in spite of Scottish women throwing chairs.

Transcript

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Wait, am I recording? You are listening to Stuff About Things, an art history podcast. Alright, let's bango. Hello and welcome to Stuff About Things, an Art History Podcast. I'm your host, Lindsay. Hello. And I make this podcast because I love art history. I love it so much I got a PhD in it, and you don't do that unless you really, really love it, which I do. Thank you for joining me for episode 34. Apologies for the delay. I posted my last full-length episode in I think August, and it's now early March. So not my longest delay, but close to it. In those approximately seven months, I got a job, moved out of state versus job, got promoted, moved up the street, and spent two lovely holidays at home with my family. That stuff takes time, as does this podcast. But I am a bit more settled now, and I'm hoping that I can make episodes. I don't want to say faster, because that makes me nervous. So let's just say not so slowly. I appreciate your patience, and I especially appreciate the people who send me messages checking in, and those of you who take the time to leave reviews. You have my eternal gratitude. Episode 34 is the first in a two-part series. It also relates to the mini sode I posted in mid-February, so you should probably check that one out as well. The original plan was to publish episodes 34 and 35 together, but that didn't quite go as planned. Does it ever? No. So I will be posting them separately. However, episode 35 should be up in about four or five days. I just need the weekend. In the meantime, I have another podcast to recommend to you. That podcast is called What Is a Painting? And it's hosted by my personal friend, Gene Dahmermouth, who is a professional conservator, a dear friend, and now the host of What is a Painting, a podcast that pushes listeners to consider the materials and technologies used to create paintings, and explores how we as viewers look at and think about those paintings. I have listened to seven of those episodes. I think that there might now be an eighth, but each one is delightful. So please, if you are looking for another art history fix, go check out the brilliant Gene Domramus new podcast, What is a Painting? I will link that podcast on my podcast's website, StuffAboutThingspodcast.com. Go show my buddy Gene some love. Now, back to this podcast. The topic of all of these episodes was inspired by my favorite restaurant in my hometown of Green Bay, Wisconsin, which is an Irish restaurant called St. Brendan's Inn. It's like this little Irish jewel box, and it's the place I choose to go whenever I get to pick. Part of the reason why I love St. Brendan's Inn so much is because it reminds me of a trip I took with my mom and dad right before I started grad school, and that trip took us to Ireland. It's very sentimental. We have lots of good memories from that trip, even though I was a total witch. Because as it turns out, riding on a bus packed with 20 people and sleeping on a cot in your parents' room for two weeks has a way of doing that to a young woman in her early 20s. Do I feel bad about it? Yes. Would it probably happen again if the circumstances were repeated? Also, yes. I'm also on a bit of a library kick because the first thing I do when I move to a new place is get a library card from every library in the area that I possibly can. I love to read, I'm very impatient, and you know, having three different library cards really speeds things up. So there you have it. Irish stuff and books. That's how we got here. To the part where I tell you stuff about one of the most famous books in the entire world and the people who made it, used it, and have safeguarded it for over a thousand years. The Book of Kells Part 1: An Uncertain History. As the title suggests, this episode will cover the history of the Book of Kells, while the next episode, episode 35, will cover its contents and the material stuff of it, if you will. If I would have known that these weren't going out together, I would have recorded the episode about the book first, because that makes more sense. Does it though? Yeah, kinda does. If you would prefer to listen to the episode about the book first, you can do that. You'll just have to wait a little bit. It is what it is. There will be some overlap between the episodes, because talking about the history of the book necessitates talking about the book itself, and you know, vice versa. But for the most part, this episode will focus on context, while that episode will focus on content. That said, I very much see these episodes as working together rather than addressing separate things. Both of these episodes are complemented by Mini Sode 3, Illuminated Manuscripts and Their Making, which goes into greater detail about how books like the Book of Kells were made. For those of you listening to part one first, good on you, way to go in order. I decided to put the history first because the book itself is a product of its history, and knowing that history can help you better understand the book. I do realize, however, that not everyone wants to get as thick in the weeds as I go into the book's 1200-year history. In my defense, I have spent six months reading about the Book of Kells, and I have to put that information somewhere. If you're not up to that, please still listen to the early part of the episode where I recount the early history of the book. When I get to the 12th century, you can feel free to jump ship. Before getting into that history, let's do a little overview of the Book of Kells, what it is, what it contains, why it's famous, all of that good stuff. The Book of Kells is an illuminated manuscript, which, in the simplest of terms, is a handwritten book in which text and imagery coexist. The book contains 340 folios or individual leaves of parchment. By today's standards, we would say that it has 680 pages. Each of those folios measures in at around 11 by 13 inches, so a little bit bigger than your average sheet of printing paper. As for what's on those pages, the Book of Kells is a gospel book, meaning that the meat and potatoes of its pages are the four Gospels of the Christian Bible. Those Gospels tell the story of Christ's life and his teachings from the perspectives of four of his followers, Apostles Matthew and John, and two other guys named Mark and Luke. Funnily enough, though, you don't often hear people talking about the text of the book, because it's the images, the illuminations, that are the primary reason for its fame. Those illuminations range from tiny flowers in the margins to full-page extravaganzas. The book is especially renowned for its mixture of Celtic and Christian imagery, including a veritable profusion of things like Celtic knots, Celtic interlacing, and tracery. Because of that, the book is held up as perhaps the best example of how Christians in Ireland and Scotland co-opted Celtic artistic traditions. By the way, Celt, C-E-L-T, is a pretty general term to describe a rather diverse group of people who inhabited the areas of Ireland and Scotland, about which we shall talk, before the arrival of Christianity. And that, my friends, is where this story starts. At least we think. The origins of the Book of Kells are hotly contested, and ultimately we really don't know that much about its early years slash centuries, and we probably never will. That's just how it is when something is this old. Now, how old are we talking? Old. Like old, old. We know for sure that the book of Kells is at least 900 years old, but it's probably more like 1200. But Lindsay, that's a 300-year difference. I know. Like I said, we don't know that much about it. There is, however, a dominant theory about the book's origins, one that stretches back all of the way to the 6th century and a dude named Column Kill. Colum Kill was also known as Saint Columba. They are one and the same person, but I'm going to go with the Irish Column Kill. Makes me feel fancy. Colum Kill was a monk who lived in Northern Ireland in the 6th century, so the 500s. At that time, Christianity was still pretty new in Ireland, but it was fairly well established, thanks to the efforts a century earlier in the 400s, by a guy that everyone has heard of, Patricius. No? Not ringing a bell? Well, that's because you probably know good old Patricius by his anglicized name of Patrick. Yes, Saint Patrick, who is best known for his work converting pagans in Ireland to Christianity. And what better way to commemorate a man such as that than to become heathens ourselves as we drink copiously and dye everything we can green for an entire month? St. Patrick would not be amused. One of the critical tools of an early Christian missionary like St. Patrick was books. Books are mobile, they contain a lot of information, and they can be very pretty, which is important because packaging matters, especially when you're packaging an entire religious ideology and trying to push it onto people who don't speak the same language as you and probably want to kill you. Books are important. Converting pagans also takes time and it requires diligence. So in the 400s, St. Patrick and his buddies established a number of monasteries in Ireland, which is where monks lived, worked, and, you know, raged. Those monasteries served as the kind of headquarters of Christianity and conversion efforts on the island. A century after St. Patrick, our home fry Column Kill, is living in one such monastery in Northern Ireland. In addition to being a noted scholar and a gifted scribe, or someone who hand copies manuscripts, Column Kill is probably best known for spreading Christianity from Ireland to Scotland. So basically, St. Patrick Part 2: Scottish shenanigans. If historical rumors are to be believed, it is because of his work as a scribe that Column Kill wound up in Scotland. And by the way, I love a good historical rumor. I love it. This particular rumor begins with Column Kill getting a little sneaky sneaky in the scriptorium, where he worked as a scribe copying manuscripts. Allegedly, allegedly, Column Kill copied a manuscript that he then decided to keep, which the head scribe man was like, no the hell you won't. To be fair, Column Kill's actions were highly unusual. The manuscripts produced at a scriptorium were generally the property of that scriptorium and not the scribe who copied it. Even so, Column Kill decides to keep this book, and Boss Man finds out, and the two have a little, you know, scuffle. The king steps in and rules in favor of Bossman, a guy named Finnian, who would later also go on to become a saint. The king used the logic that, quote, to every cow belongs her calf, therefore to every book belongs its copy. End quote. Personally, I'd like to think he's making a joke because these books are actually made of baby calves, but I don't think he was. This hullabaloo was happening at a time of great political tension in this part of Ireland, and this act of illicit bookmaking was the final straw that broke the Irish camel's back. Long story short, there was a battle, a bunch of people died, and everyone was mad. While that story sounds a little bit far-fetched, we do know that a battle actually happened. That's not alleged, it's true. We just don't know how much the book part factored in. It is nevertheless quite telling that that battle, which happened in 560, the Battle of Cooldrumna, is sometimes referred to as the Battle of the Book. Which, I'm not gonna lie, kind of an awesome title for a battle. We also know for sure that sometime after the Battle of Koaldrumna, Column Kill left Ireland for Scotland on a quote-unquote pilgrimage. It's unclear if he chose to do this pilgrimage, uh, you know, by his own volition or if it was some kind of forced exile. Probably a bit of both, because between you and me, uh Homie wasn't very popular in Ireland at this point. Thankfully, he knew how to row a boat, so he and about a dozen other Irish guys get in a boat and head up to the western coast of Scotland. When they arrive, a Scottish king gives Colum Kill and his friends an island off of the coast to use as a home base. No big deal, just giving away islands. That island is known as Iona. This is where Colum Kill establishes an abbey, a type of monastery, which would eventually become ground zero for Christian missionary efforts in Scotland. He also established an on-site scriptorium to produce manuscripts, which was very on brand for him. Eventually, in 597, Column Kill dies. I know that's blunt, but it happens to all of us, and he does eventually become a saint, so he's doing better now as a pile of bone dust than I will probably ever do. And I'm only a little bit jealous about it. The abbey at Iona continues to flourish for the next 200 years, until the late 8th century, which is when a little group known as the Vikings became a big problem. Beginning in the 790s, Vikings began to periodically sack the island, which was basically a sitting duck given its location and a general lack of defenses. The Vikings would roll up in their little boats, or you know, float up, row up, whatever, and they'd wreak havoc, including killing a bunch of people and stealing a ton of stuff. This would happen every few years until a particularly vicious attack happened in 807, when I think something like 60 or 70 monks died. After that, a good portion of the monks who were left on Iona finally had the good sense to hightail it south to Ireland. It was there, in a town about 40 miles northwest of Dublin, that these monks established a sister monastery to the one on Iona. That town was called Kells. It is widely assumed, though not proven, that the Book of Kells was one of the objects that the monks brought with them from Iona to Kells. There are plenty of people, though, who also disagree with that theory. The second most popular scholarly opinion is that the book was actually made in Kells sometime after the new monastery was established. There's also a kind of third-party neutral opinion that the book may have been started on Iona, but completed in Kells. There are lots of people who have lots of different opinions on all of this, uh, far too many to go into here, so we'll just, you know, ignore them. Figuring out where the book was made would be a lot easier if we knew when the book was made. And wouldn't you know it? We don't know that either. I should say here that it's always difficult to date things this old with any degree of accuracy. The most common method for dating something this old is to compare that thing to other similar things that we know more about. It's by no means a precise method, but it's kind of the best that we have. Using that method, we can determine that the Book of Kells probably was not made before the early to mid-700s. We know that because it's a much more sophisticated product than the manuscripts dated to that time, like the Book of Duro and a little bit later the Lindisfarne Gospels. But even with those gospel books, we don't really know when they were made. We're just slightly more confident in our guesses. That said, the book definitely shares DNA with those manuscripts, but it's impossible to say if the Book of Kells was made 50 years after them or potentially 300. We just don't know. Most scholars of the Book of Kells date it to the 9th century, or the 800s. They also agree that the book had to have come from an established and very talented scriptorium. Naturally, those who believe the Book of Kells was made on Iona typically date the book to before 807, before that vicious Viking attack that basically kneecapped operations on the island. Those who believe the Book of Kells was made in Kells will date it to several decades after that, because it would have taken several decades to establish a scriptorion on site capable of making a book this sophisticated. When it comes to dates, people also like to point to things like inventories, because generally speaking, churches tended to keep pretty good records of this stuff under their roof. Some of those inventories continue to exist even after a thousand years. But that's also tricky tricky, because objects rarely have formal names, and everyone describes things differently. Case in point, sometime after 1007, someone in Kells records a curious event in the Abbey's Annals, a book in which the monks recorded all of the major events and stuff pertaining to the monastery year by year. An entry in 1007 mentions an object called the Great Gospel Book of Column Kill. To remind you, that's the dude who founded the original monastery in Iona. The reason that this monk mentions the great gospel book of Column Kill in 1007 is because it was in that year that this book was stolen. The entry states that the great gospel of Column Kill was stolen by knight from the Western sacristy of the Stone Church at Kells, and it goes on to describe this gospel book as, quote, the chief treasure of the Western world. Now I'm not sure if these monks were super qualified to be speaking to how this object compares to everything else in the Western world, but even so, that is some pretty high praise. Now, why would a thief want a book? A little light reading? No, not at all. A thief would have wanted this book because it sported a cover or was kept in some kind of box thing that was made of silver, gold, and covered in jewels. It was that part of the book, the cover, that likely earned it the title, the quote-unquote, chief treasure of the Western World. We don't know exactly what this cover looked like for reasons that will become clear in a minute. There are, however, still existing examples of these kinds of book shrines, which are called Kumdachs in Old Irish. They are gorgeous boxes often made of silver and decorated with golden accents, inlaid jewels, and stones, with Highly, highly intricate designs in the metalwork. The fact that this book was covered in gold and jewels obviously made it a very tempting item to steal, which someone did. One night in 1007, an unknown thief crept into the sacristy of the church, which is where priests prep for Mass and store stuff, like fancy books. The thief then absconded with the gospel of Column Kill and its bejeweled cover. The abbey quite rightly feared the book was gone forever, but two months and 21 days later, a monk found the book, minus its cover, hidden nearby beneath a layer of sod. The thief just pulled up some turf, plopped down the book, covered it back up, and then made off with the gold-bejeweled cover. It is very tempting to assume that the great gospel of Column Kill and the Book of Kells are one and the same. And as far as assumptions go, it's not a bad one. It's actually a pretty damn good one. We just can't say for sure that this assumption is correct, though it probably is. An event like this would explain a few things about the book itself, like why it's missing some of its early and its late pages, aka the ones that are more likely to come off if you pulled off a book's cover. Though I will say it's not completely clear how that cover was attached to the book. Personally, I think that this wreeks of an inside job, because really, did the monk just happen to stumble upon a book hidden under a layer of sod? I mean, we're still finding Easter eggs that were hidden around my parents' house literally decades ago. All I'm saying is I'm a little suspicious. Most historians, though, have said it was probably the Vikings. Now at first I thought that was kind of funny because, hello, would you not notice Viking henchmen sneaking into the church and stealing your book? You'd think they'd be hard to miss, especially if they look anything like the actors they cast in those Viking shows these days, who are very handsome. While I retain the right to my suspicions, it's not as if the town of Kells was immune to Viking attacks, even though it was about 30 miles inland from the Irish Sea. In the 10th and 11th centuries, there were a series of sackings at Kells, but somehow the Book of Kells was spared during those raids, with the exception perhaps of its three-month disappearance in 1007, or rather, the disappearance of a book that we assume to be the Book of Kells. It isn't until later in the 11th century and early 12th century that we have surefire proof that the Book of Kells was in Kells, and, you know, existed. That confirmation takes physical form in the book itself, starting on the recto of Folio 6. The section known as the Canon Tables concludes on this page, and it left about a two-inch blank margin at the bottom. The verso of Folio 6 and the Recto of Folio 7 were also blank at one point, but not anymore. That space from the end of the Canon tables to the full page illumination of the Madonna in Child on the Verso of Folio 7 has since been filled with records of property transactions in County Meath that are written in old Irish, when the rest of the book is written in Latin. At first I thought, damn, they must have been really low on parchment to use the blank pages in the Book of Kells for these transactions. It never occurred to me that there was anything more to it, because I'm a dum-dum. According to art historian Christopher de Hommel, it's possible that the transactions were recorded in the book because they were sworn on the book. If that's the case, it signals that the book was pretty damn important. You don't just swear these kind of agreements on any old book. You do it on the most important book. While all of these transactions were going down in the 11th and 12th centuries, there was also some political tension brewing between Ireland and England. In the mid-12th century, King Henry II spearheaded what's known as the Anglo-Norman Invasion of Ireland. These actions were sanctioned by Pope Adrian IV, who just so happened to be an Englishman. There were a lot of reasons for this invasion, but one of the big ones was to essentially take over the Irish Catholic Church, which was notoriously resistant to implementing reforms coming out of Rome. The Irish Church also retained a very strong connection to Celtic and Gaelic cultures and traditions, which people outside of Ireland didn't like. As a result, they painted the Irish as being barbarians and even semi-pagan in order to justify this forceful takeover. That takeover was very successful, and unfortunately, Ireland fell to King Henry II. This had massive consequences for Irish Christianity, which for centuries had been organized around monastic communities as sort of self-governing bodies. As of the Anglo-Norman invasion, that all changed, and monastic communities like the Abbey of Kells were dissolved and turned into parish churches under the control of a bishop. There's not a ton of information on what happened to the monks around this time, but I'm fairly confident they remained at the abbey. It's just that they were no longer a self-governing institution, but rather answered to the bishop. As far as we know, the Book of Kells remained at the former abbey and now the church, undisturbed for the next 300-ish years without much incident. That all changed in the late 1530s, when Henry VIII threw a truly epic hissy fit that resulted in the Church of England breaking away from the Catholic Church in Rome. Once that happened, the Crown of England waged war on just about every Catholic institution under its control, including the Church at Kells. In November of 1539, the last abbot, named Richard Plunkett, surrendered the Church and its contents to the English crown. Hypothetically, that would have included the Book of Kells, which was still being revered at that time as a relic of Column Kill. It's actually pretty amazing, if not miraculous, that the book survived this period of time, when many Catholic relics were being destroyed by Protestants, who thought that the business of relics was just silly and also dangerous. By 1568, the book had passed into the care of Gerald Plunkett, Gerald? Gerald G. G. Plunkett, who was surely some descendant of the last abbot. We know that Mr. Plunkett had the book because he made notes in it, including one on Folio 334, which reads, quote, This work doth pass all men's cunning that now doth live in any place. I doubt not there anything, but that ye writer hath obtained God's grace. End quote. Translation: This book is so dope, it's hard to wrap your head around it, and whoever made it probably went straight to heaven. Mr. Plunkett was not the first person to make his mark on the book, and he wouldn't be the last. There are also entries in the book from 1588, 1604, and 1621. The entries from 1621 are of particular importance, as they were written by a man named James Usher. Usher had been hired by the King of England, no big deal, to collect and catalog, for lack of a better word, Christian treasures from around the realm, which included the Book of Kells. While he didn't own the book, he certainly examined it closely. He even made some notes within its pages. He also compared the Book of Kells with another gospel book said to be by Column Kill. For the purposes of his own notes, he had to come up with distinct names for each of these volumes so he wouldn't get confused. Usher settled on designating the books based on where they were kept, creating the first known instance of our book, if I may be so bold, being called the Book of Kells. And I guess you could say it stuck, given that we're still using that name 402 years later. It is a little ironic, though, that it took 500 years for the book to become known as this, when 50 years after James Usher first calls it the Book of Kells, it would no longer be of Kells. Between 1649 and 1653, Ireland got caught up in what are now known as the Wars of the Three Kingdoms. Those wars started as a war between Scotland and England, when Charles I tried to meddle in the business of the Church of Scotland. That made the Scottish people real mad, and eventually a war broke out, with Scottish people demanding their own governance. I'm sure you can figure out how that ended because it's now 400 years later, and Scotland is still waiting for that to happen. Tangent. It is rumored that after months, if not years, of rising tensions, the war between England and Scotland broke out after a Scottish woman threw a chair at an English minister. Which is not funny because it did spark decades of war, but it's also not not funny. I don't know what would have been scarier in this situation. Her upper arm strength or her feminine rage. After about 10 years of watching all hell break loose in Scotland, Irish Catholics decided to do some rabble rousing of their own, and they caused a lot of trouble, which I support, uh, but they also murdered a bunch of Protestants, which I don't support. These situations, I guess you could say, were eventually stomped out, and Ireland was put under the military rule of a guy named Oliver Cromwell. In 1654, Cromwell and his army decided to hang out for a while in Kells and use the church there to camp out. At this point, the church was pretty much in ruins, so much so that the army ultimately used it as a place to house their horses, which is tough. It is unclear if the Book of Kells was still at the church leading up to this period. The fact that the church was in such bad shape suggests not, though it may have been kept in another structure on the grounds. It was definitely still in the town, though, because in 1653, with the arrival of Cromwell's army, the governor of Kells, Charles Lambert, took one look at Cromwell's army, another look at the Book of Kells, and thought to himself, girl, you in danger. And he sent the Book of Kells to Dublin for safekeeping. Whether or not the book was intended to come back at some point, uh, I'm not sure. But it never did, and it's been in Dublin ever since, much to the anguish of the people in Kells, who have at various points in history attempted to get the book back, asserting that Kells is, quote, the natural and spiritual home of the book. But Dublin don't care, and has answered all of those requests with a big no. At some point in the 1660s, the book passed into the collection of Trinity College, Dublin. And Trinity College is probably thanking its lucky stars that that happened, because the Book of Kells is without a doubt the highlight of its library's collection. That's saying something, because the Library of Trinity College has some pretty darn cool stuff. In fact, the library owns one of the largest, if not the largest, collection of medieval Irish gospel books in the world, including five, five that are older than the Book of Kells. That's huge. Because while Irish gospel books were popular in their day, 1200 years is a long freaking time for something like that to survive. For the next 120-ish years, the Book of Kells enjoyed a quiet life at the library of Trinity College. As of the late 17th century, it was even loanable. Yeah, you could check it out from the library. Though you did have to pay a hefty security deposit of £3.10 silvers. The building that now houses the Book of Kells is known as the Old Library, which was constructed in the early 18th century. The main room in the Old Library is the equally creatively named Long Room, which is in fact a long room. It's also one of the most beautiful libraries I have ever had the privilege of seeing, with rich, warm wood, a vaulted ceiling, and two open levels that, as a whole, display something like 200,000 books. Fun fact, the old library also exhibits another relic of Irish history, Brian Borew's harp, a medieval harp that not only appears on Ireland's coat of arms, but more importantly, is the very harp that Guinness uses as its logo. Moving on to a slightly different topic. In 1825, the Book of Kells was involved in a murder. To be more specific, it was the victim of involuntary manslaughter. Man, in this case, being short for manuscript. As you will know from listening to Mini Sode 3, manuscripts as old as the Book of Kells were almost always rebound over the years. Bookbindings did not last 1200 years. We don't know for sure how many times the Book of Kells has been rebound in its history, but we do know it has been rebound twice in as many centuries. The first of those times was in 1825. For whatever reason, the bookbinder, whose name will not be mentioned here, it was George Mullen, trimmed the book's folios by a significant amount, which included cutting off the margins of many illuminated pages. The intention was probably good, a likely effort to tidy up the book a little bit. It was soon, however, considered an atrocity, and in 1920, scholar Sir Edward Sullivan described it as thus quote: Unhappily, what Norseman and Dane had failed to effect in early and wilder centuries was accomplished by an ignorant and mischievous bookbinder some hundred years ago. And under the barbarous hands of this man, many of the outer margins of its priceless illuminations have been trimmed out of existence. End quote. Woof. As barbarous as it may seem, this was not an uncommon tactic, and bookbinders sometimes even kept the scraps for themselves as kind of professional souvenirs. I want to once again quote Christopher de Hommel. Quote: If your name is Mullen and you have an envelope at home with ribbons of parchment, please let me know and we'll decide whether or not to inform Trinity College. It was in that same century, the 19th century, that the Book of Kells started to gain attention, even fame. There are a few reasons for that, the first of which was religious. In the 19th century, the Book of Kells started to be lauded as, quote, the oldest book in the world, which of course wasn't true. To be fair, it is very, very old. And people started hoping that in being the oldest version of the Gospels in existence, again, not true, the Book of Kells might somehow be more authentic to the original Gospels than any other book in the world. That's because people thought maybe, just maybe, a tiny island off the coast of Western Scotland may have been immune to the historical changes made to the Gospels over the course of the Middle Ages. That bubble, however, has been bursted. Iona was fairly well connected to continental Europe, and the books being produced in its scriptorium were not immune from historical quote-unquote contamination. The book was also involved in political debates about whether the Church of England or the Church of Ireland could claim supremacy over the other. I'm not sure why people were arguing about this still in the 19th century, but hey, I also hold grudges. The book's profile also skyrocketed in the early 19th century because that's when it first went on public display, and it always helps when people, you know, know something exists. Over the course of the 19th century and early 20th century, the book was shown to the likes of kings and queens, including Queen Victoria and her husband Prince Albert, in August of 1849. Astoundingly, the Queen and her husband were allowed to write their names in the book. Thankfully, they wrote their names on a fly leaf, which are the blank pages you sometimes find at the beginning and the ends of a book. That fly leaf was not an original piece of parchment from the year, I don't know, 800, but one added later, and it's since been removed from the book. That fly leaf also has the signatures of two of Queen Victoria's sons, Prince Alfred, who signed the book in 1861, and his older brother, the future King Edward VII, who was king by the time he visited the book in 1903, along with his wife, Queen Alexandra, and a woman also named Victoria, who I assume is their daughter, Princess Victoria. How weird would it have been to sign a piece of paper that your parents and your brother also signed decades earlier? Maybe that was pretty commonplace for British royalty, but I think that that would have been very cool. Between the royal visits to the book in 1861 and 1903, something crazy happened. The Book of Kells was stolen from Trinity College. On November 5th, 1874, a newspaper reported, quote, Trinity College Dublin is in despair. One of its cheap treasures is missing, the Book of Kells, written by St. Colum Kill in 475. The oldest book in the world and the most perfect specimen of Irish art, with the richest illuminations and valued at £12,000. End quote. And it definitely wasn't written by Column Kill in 475, given that he, I don't know, hadn't been born yet. And if the Book of Kells was not written in 475, that would not make it the oldest book in the world. As for the price, £12,000, I have no idea where they got that number, because as far as I know, at no point in the book's history was it ever sold. Its possession was simply transferred. But it's interesting to note that if the book of Kells was indeed estimated to be worth £12,000, that is four times the amount of the most expensive book ever sold at that period in history, which was a copy of the Gutenberg Bible. There was much intrigue about the book's disappearance, and the newspapers reported on it like it was a tabloid story. Personally, I would have been buying those papers left, right, and center, because let me tell you, I am a sucker for drama. The story goes a little something like this. One day, the provost of Trinity College decided he wanted to show the college's greatest treasure to some visitors, who Christopher de Homel specifically refers to as quote unquote, some lady visitors. Mmm. When the provost went to show these lady visitors this treasure, he realized it was gone. He obviously started asking some questions of the library. Staff, none of whom could recall when they had last seen the book. Most annoyingly of all, the librarian, J. A. Mallet, was out of the office that day. How convenient. Then a clue was discovered. The library staff found a receipt stating that the book of Kells had been checked out by one, Mr. Bond, who had listed his employer as the British Museum in London. And Hubble did that cause a stir? Because, as some of us know, the British Museum has historically made something of a habit of acquiring objects through unsavory means. Which is kind of putting it politely. Naturally, the provost freaked, and he immediately put lawyers on the case, even sending one to England to demand the return of this seemingly stolen book. That lawyer tracked down Sir Edward Augustus Bond, who just so happened to be head librarian and keeper of manuscripts at the British Museum. Aha. The thief had been apprehended. Except, just kidding, because Mr. Bond had not stolen the book. Yes, he had the book in his possession, but he had not stolen it. Also, if you were going to steal a book, why would you leave a receipt saying you stole it? That would make him either super stupid or a super villain. But Mr. Bond was neither. He was a librarian who loved books and worked professionally alongside colleagues like the librarian of Trinity College, Mr. Mallet. Turns out that Mr. Bond's buddy, again, the librarian of Trinity College, had taken the manuscript for a little jaunt out of Trinity College's library all the way to the British Museum in London. He did so because he wanted his colleague, Mr. Bond's, professional advice on whether or not the book should get rebound.

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Mallet left the book with his colleague for him to further examine it, but instead of a few days alone with the Book of Kells, Mr. Bond found a lawyer on his doorstep beaten down the door, demanding the return of the book on behalf of the Irish government. Mr. Bond probably soiled himself and promptly gave the book to the lawyer, who hightailed it back to Ireland with the book in tow. That escalated quickly. Also, it's rather anticlimactic, though one should note that the 1870s were a pretty, uh, we'll call it intense, a pretty intense time with regards to the relationship between England and Ireland, which at that point was not good. Part of me almost wishes the book had been stolen, and that these gentlemen librarians were actually causing chaos and shenanigans, starting wars like the old times. But no, the Book of Kells was fine the entire time, and to my knowledge, no one died except perhaps of a heart attack from the freaking stress of it all. I am genuinely amazed that Mr. Mallet just took the Book of Kells to England without telling anyone. Maybe that was by design, because clearly the librarian staff was not keeping close tabs on the book. If the provost had never wandered down to see it with his lady friends, no one might have known it was missing. Also, keep in mind that the book at this point was a single volume that probably weighed about 20 pounds. Mr. Mallet's upper arm strength must have been bananas. I would like to see him arm wrestle with that Scottish lady who threw that chair at the minister. This would not be the last time that the Book of Kells was caught in the middle of tension between Ireland and England. A little more than 10 years after that incident, the Olympia Exhibition Center in London put on an exhibition of Irish art and requested that the Book of Kells be included. Trinity College didn't just say no to this ask. They implied it would be mean to the book to put it on display in England. Like Englishness was catching. That kind of response goes to show just how much of a treasure this book had become. Not just to a religious community, not just to Trinity College, but to all of Ireland. Yes, the book was probably made in Scotland, but the hands that made it were Irish. If not by birth, then by spirit and culture, given that they were living in a monastery founded by no less than an Irish saint. The Book of Kells is even recognized by UNESCO, a UN agency that promotes and protects world culture. In its entry on the Memory of the World Register, UNESCO calls the book, quote, Ireland's greatest historical treasure, and one of the most spectacular examples of medieval Christian art in the world. End quote. The Book of Kells is now ingrained in Irish culture and Irish patriotism. Details from the book have even appeared on Irish money, including the five-pound note, the two pence coin, and even a special edition of the 20 cent euro coin. It's even appeared on stamps. It's the kind of thing that is so iconic to Irish culture that you'll probably be able to buy Book of Kells merch at just about any major tourist shop in the country. To be clear, not just Dublin, but the entire country. Today the Book of Kells is now, technically, the Books of Kells. Because in 1953, renowned bookbinder Roger Powell took on what must have been the job of his career when he was hired by Trinity College to not just rebind the book, but to split it into four distinct volumes. There were a few reasons for doing this. Some of them were logistical. Dividing the book into separate volumes meant you could potentially display all four at one time. You could also display one or two and keep the other two or three volumes in a more secure and book-friendly environment. Because remember, books don't really like moisture and they also don't like light. Me neither. Splitting the book into four volumes would also relieve the stress on the book's spine, which was critically important because at the time that Roger Powell was hired for this job in 1953, the Book of Kells was falling apart. And I mean that literally. It was literally falling apart. According to records, over one-third of the book's pages had either fallen out completely or were on the verge of doing so. That's over 100 folios. Powell stepped in and used his professional sorcery to rectify this. The volumes that he produced feature very simple covers from oak boards and white leather, which are bound together by steel screws. But don't worry, those screws don't touch the manuscript. Instead, they hold together the binding components. When not on display, each of those books is kept in its own wooden box, and each of those boxes can slot into a larger wooden case. Encountering the Book of Kells today is a much different experience than it would have been 1200 years ago. Now that might seem like the most obvious statement I've ever made, but it's not just the environment that's changed. The actual book would be almost unrecognizable to the people who had made it. It's now four tidy volumes packed into a case, not made of gold and jewels befitting a relic, but one made of wood. That case is not designed to protect the books from the hands of greedy Vikings, but rather from exposure to environmental factors that on any given day threaten the book far more than any thief. And thank goodness for that, because the Book of Kells is very popular. Each year, over 500,000 people flock to the old library of Trinity College to see the Book of Kells. I myself have been privileged to see it twice, once in 2012 and again in 2014. As of 2020, though, the Book of Kells's exhibition space in the library, aptly referred to as the Treasury, received an upgrade. The book now sits at the center of a darkened room, whose walls bear magnified details extracted from the book itself. It's housed in a glass case, in which it sits on top of a wooden plinth. The base of that case emits a strong halo of light, making it seem as if the case itself is levitating. A single volume occupies the case at any given time, and its pages are lit by a subtle, warm light from above. The case was designed by the engineering group Gopian, who have also designed exhibition technologies for the Mona Lisa and the Crown Jewels of England. No big deal. That also goes to show just how important this book is to Irish culture and Ireland at large. It is the Mona Lisa of Ireland. Now a book is a hard thing to exhibit because it can only be opened to one page at a time, or you know, if it's laying open, I guess you could see two pages, but that's pretty darn limiting. And contrary to what you might have heard, the book's pages are not turned every day, every week, or even every month. Instead, they're turned about eight times a year, so you might want to stagger your visits. As beautiful as this display is, and for all of its technological advancements, I can't help but think of how a monk from 8th century Iona would feel walking into this space. Seeing this object that maybe he helped make in such a foreign environment, its pages trimmed and flattened, three-fourths of the book seemingly gone. It's hard, in this dark, temperature-controlled space, surrounded by dozens of other people elbowing you for a look, to imagine yourself in the place of that monk. But as you stand around the at-once darkened yet glowing case, beholding this 1200-year-old treasure, close your eyes. I know it's counterintuitive, but do it anyway. Close your eyes and imagine the tang of salts on the air and the sound of crashing waves hitting the shores of a rugged Scottish island. Feel the muscles tighten in your shoulders as you slouch over a desk, almost going cross-eyed as you scratch patterns of interlace on freshly prepped folios. Scrunch your nose against the light burn of incense in the air as goosebumps rise in your skin in response to the chill of a darkened stone church, where monks sing songs of God, saints, and men as a book sits before them on an altar. Hear the clash of Viking swords and the cries of the dying as your heart beats with an insistence on life that only the threat of death can bring. Feel the weight of the book in your hands as you rush to board a boat, knowing that you'll never return home to the island at your back. Think of the hundreds, if not thousands, of people who have touched the book's pages, protected it, cared for it, and maybe even stole it. Then open your eyes and behold the miracle that is the survival of these pages, ones that have and continue to mean so much to so many, not just from around the world, but from across 1200 years of history. It is my dearest hope that the Book of Kells sees another 1200 years. That might sound impossible, but crazier things have happened, and the Book of Kells has survived them all. And if that's not a miracle, I don't know what is. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the luck of the Irish. That is all I have for you today on the Book of Kells Part 1, an uncertain history. I will put all kinds of images on the podcast's website, along with a list of sources I used to write today's episode, including some older volumes that you can find and access online. Some of the books that I used to write the episode include Bernard Meehan's The Book of Kells, an illustrated introduction. Until 2016, Meehan was the keeper of manuscripts at Trinity College in Dublin. Yeah, that's a real job description. So he probably knows more about the book than just about anyone else. I also hugely enjoyed various texts by Christopher de Hommel, including his essay about the Book of Kells in his book Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts. Two words, pendulous breasts. You can listen to episode 35 to find more about that. His book, A History of Illuminated Manuscripts, is also very good. I also consulted various works by Sir Edward Sullivan, Francois Henry, Peter Fox, and George Henderson. You can find all of those and more on the podcast's website, stuffaboutthingspodcast.com. As for Gussie Corner, I get near-daily videos from my mom and dad proving that he is still getting his morning walks, lots of treats, and plenty of snoozes. His favorite spot to snooze is in front of the window. I bought him a very expensive dog bed last year, and we couldn't get him to use it until my mom had the brilliant idea of putting it on top of the coffee table and pushing the coffee table against the window, even providing Gussie with a little stool. He now lays in that bed all day long, soaking up the sun, all while guarding the yard from the comforts of 10 inches of premium American-made memory foam. He is a spoiled little prince and he deserves every inch of that foam. As for moi, I will be back in four or five days with another full-length episode. In the weeks to follow, I will also be posting, I hope, two extra mini sodes. I'm still writing those. One of them should be pretty short. The other one might be, like me, a little heftier. I promise that I'm working diligently on the podcast, even if I don't update it very often. Now that my listener numbers are going up, which is weird, because again, I've been doing this for five years, I am really going to make an effort to post more often. That said, I do work full-time and these episodes take a lot of work. So please be patient and know that I appreciate you. If you are enjoying the podcast, I would really appreciate it if you left it a rating and maybe even a review on iTunes or wherever you listen. That helps other people find the show, and it also lets me know that I'm doing a good job. You can also reach me through the podcast website or through Gmail at stuffaboutthingspodcast at gmail.com. It might take me a little while to reply, but I always do respond. Eventually.com and freemusicarchive.org for the royalty-free music that you hear in the podcast. The first song is a version of Box Brandenburg Concerto Number Four by Kevin McLeod, and the second jauntier tune is called Success Dreams. That is it from me. I'm gonna sign out. How long is this? Oh boy, it's pretty long. Alright, over and out. Don't forget to look at something beautiful today, and I will catch you here in a few days. A la próxima Michi. What was that? Oh my gosh. Goodbye.