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containing over twenty texts, both printed books and manuscripts, on subjects as diverse as the pay of British land forces, Horace, and reform efforts at Oxford.30 In this case, it was not the Shakespearean text but the manuscripts that were extracted in the twentieth century and given a new classification.31

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      Making Shakespeare in Early Modernity

      Behind the modern-looking, individually bound book lies a significantly wider range of material contexts within which Shakespeare’s works might have been encountered. It is a point made clear in the example of the AB catalog at Cambridge, but here we find a measure of consistency across libraries in ways of treating books in the early period and in modernity. The difference is in the broadest sense curatorial but with profound ramifications for readers. Where once it was acceptable and in most cases financially necessary to bind rare books into larger volumes to ensure their preservation, the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries saw the same books disbound and reshaped into individual units for precisely the same reason, only under different assumptions about the relative value of aspects of the book to be preserved.32 These library and collecting routines go beyond simple preservation: they reify notions of a text’s canonicity; they selectively impose the value systems and bibliographical expectations of the culture in which the collector is situated. An autonomous Shakespearean text today is a desired Shakespearean text, free from the clamor of intertextuality and resubmitted to later readers shorn of its history, “for all time.” Such texts reflect and reinforce notions of stylistic unity, authenticity, and other modern desires that now seem intrinsic to these works. The anthologies and multitext volumes of earlier owners reflect a different set of desires—desires less familiar to us because of biases inherent in modern ways of making (and making available) Shakespeare’s books.

      Moving back beyond the work of modern collectors, for whom early printed texts were necessarily secondhand acquisitions, to that of Shakespeare’s first readers, for whom rarity, exchange value, and conservation were less obviously determining factors, we find similar principles of assembly reflecting bias in the structure of books—though the bias is of a different kind. Figure 13 reproduces a manuscript table of contents from a composite volume of early printed plays now held at the Folger Shakespeare Library.33 The volume, which contains copies of Shakespeare’s 1 Henry IV (1632) and Richard III (1629), resembles the collections of play quartos explored above, except that it was bound up much earlier, shortly after the date of its latest imprint, 1635. The reader, who likely bought most or all of the texts firsthand, seems to have had interests in the lives of the major political figures of the past. Alongside the two history plays by Shakespeare are, among others, Thomas Heywood’s King Edward the Fourth (1626); The Troublesome Raine of King John (1622), attributed at the time to Shakespeare; Ben Jonson’s Cataline his conspiracy (1635); George Chapman’s Caesar and Pompey (1631); the anonymous Tragedy of Nero (1633); and Heywood’s two-part play, The Troubles of Queen Elizabeth (1632).34 This arrangement may reflect the same desire to preserve that would motivate eighteenth- and nineteenth-century collectors to construct similar composite volumes. But it also reflects the more immediate bias of readerly selection, the buyer having chosen the texts and commissioned the binding at the time of the initial sale, not in accordance with the dictates of a preexisting literary canon but out of his or her own intellectual preferences or needs. Where the value systems of modern collectors such as David Garrick, William Hunter, and the British Library are often hidden in seemingly neutral curatorial practices, those of firsthand readers such as this one are visible in the artifact itself. The collection, a kind of personal anthology, documents one reader’s interest and partiality, impressed into the comparatively malleable structure of a premodern codex.

      Of the surviving early assemblages of printed material containing one or more works by Shakespeare, many, like this historical “lives” volume, have a degree of thematic coherence that we can recognize and therefore interpret: they comprise a set of books, likely sold unbound or stitched, organized into an anthology or a collection based on their associated content. We can presume the involvement of a reader or collector in the absence of identical extant configurations (which would reflect a part-edition sold ready-bound by a retailer).35 But more practical, producer-initiated schemes of organization are also apparent in these early compilations. Texts of similar size or works printed by the same shop could be bundled together, creating volumes of consistent form but seemingly arbitrary content (a practice that, scholars have shown, has roots in incunabular culture).36 Texts that were conceived and sold in segments—multipart plays, for example, or works with “continuations”—also seem to have encouraged the production of composite bound volumes. One volume now at the Folger combines copies of Shakespeare’s I Henry IV (1604) and 2 Henry IV (1600) into a single contemporary binding, with a provenance traceable to the seventeenth-century owner in whose collection they stood together as a unit.37

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      Other methods of organizing such texts were idiosyncratic and depended on the particular sites in which they were to be used. The archepiscopal library at Lambeth Palace, for example (which in the early modern period took no great interest in literary texts), bound small-format books like Shakespeare’s into compilations by publication year, each volume thus serving as a partial record of that year’s printed output or perhaps that year’s reading. This “yearbook” approach to text management seems to have affiliations with Archbishop Parker’s own collecting habits, as it produced, at Lambeth as in Parker’s library at Cambridge, an abundance of flexible, parchmentbound resource anthologies that are indifferent to modern distinctions between literary and nonliterary, canonical and ephemeral.38 When the archepiscopal librarians acquired a copy of 2 Henry IV, for example, they bound the play with other material printed in 1600. The Shakespearean text became the fifth of six booklets in a parchment binding, including a verse tribute to Queen Elizabeth called E. W. his Thameseidos, the political poem England’s Hope Against Irish Hate, a declaration of war by the king of France against the Duke of Savoy, and two collections of funerary elegies in Latin and English.39 Sure enough, when attitudes toward printed books began to shift in modernity, this volume was remade according to the systems of literary value that I have been outlining. But this time it was a thief, not a dealer or owner, who separated the Shakespearean book from the others, leaving a gap in the binding that is still visible today.40

      Here we can take up Henry IV as a way to begin considering the interpretive implications of the patterns of assembly that I have sketched out in this and the previous chapter. In my discussion of Hunter’s collection at Glasgow, I identified a volume, now disbound, that once contained comedies, masques, and histories, including two Shakespearean texts, 1 and 2 Henry IV. Such an assemblage, it seems, would square with the current critical consensus that the plays blend history with comedy, evoking a world in which, as David Scott Kastan has shown, “exuberance and excess will not be incorporated into the stable hierarchies of the body politic.”41 But another volume that I described above, the Folger “lives” compilation from the 1630s, presents a different readerly context, bringing 1 Henry IV together with Richard III, The Troublesome Raine of King John, Chapman’s Caesar and Pompey, Heywood’s Troubles of Queen Elizabeth, and other plays concerned with political figures and the (frequently vexed) maintenance of power. In this volume, we might speculate, the subversive energies of Falstaff and Eastcheap would be more easily eclipsed by the problem of succession and Henry’s tenuous control over his territories. Moreover, the Lambeth volume just discussed, assembled by the archepiscopal librarians, brings the play even further into the realm of ideological orthodoxy. In this case, the

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