In a brief discussion of the Vespasian Psalter in 1898, Albert S. Cook offered a statement that set the tone for subsequent debate about the relationship between the Old English gloss of the Vespasian Psalter (A = London, British Library, Cotton Vespasian A. i) and that of the junius Psalter (B = Oxford, Bodleian Library, junius 27): ‘It seems not improbable that it [i.e. the gloss to the Vespasian Psalter] is the original from which all later Old English glosses on the Psalms have been derived, undergoing in the process such modifications as were due to the language of the particular dialect or epoch.’ With regard to the Junius gloss specifically, Cook printed the text of Psalm XCIX [C] from the Vespasian Psalter, which he collated with the Junius, Cambridge (C = Cambridge, University Library, Ff. 1.23), Regius (D = London, British Library, Royal 2. B.V), and Eadwine (E = Cambridge, Trinity College R. 17.1) psalters; he concluded that ‘B stands nearest to A, but is carelessly written, and changes Anglian peculiarities in the direction of West Saxon (in to on, all to eall, &c.) while retaining, in general, a comparatively early and Anglian cast (weotað, scep, leswe, &c.)’. Although Otto Heinzel, writing in 1926, disagreed with Cook's assertion that the Vespasian gloss was the source from which all other psalters ultimately derived their glosses, he reiterated, after a fashion, the idea that the Junius gloss is related to that of the Vespasian Psalter, although, like Cook, he did not argue for a direct relationship between these two works. In Heinzel's stemma, from the Urtext*0 derive *α, which stands as the model for B, and *β, which in turn stands as the model for both A and C. The stemma, in its full form, taking the Dtype (Regius Psalter) tradition into account, has justly been termed ‘fanciful’ by Kenneth Sisam. The relationship between the glosses in these two psalters formed the subject of an extended study by Uno Lindelöf published in 1901.

Since their excavation in the 1950s and early 1960s, the palace buildings at Yeavering (Northumberland) and Cheddar (Somerset) have exemplified the physical impact of kingship on the Anglo-Saxon landscape. When, in 1980–2, massive eighth- and ninth-century halls were found at the heart of Northampton, the temptation to recognize a major residence of the Mercian kings was irresistible. Thanks to archaeology, the image of the king's tūn as the one fixed point in a shifting, uncertain world, encouraged by poetic sources and adopted in the first detailed studies of Anglo-Saxon local organization, was assuming concrete reality.

In the dramatic confrontation between Moses and Pharaoh that preceded the Israelites' departure from Egypt, Pharaoh's magicians played a prominent role: they turned their rods into serpents, if only to have them devoured by Moses's serpent, and then matched the first two plagues brought down on the Egyptians before failing to perform the third (Ex. VII. 11–VIII. 19). Although not named here or elsewhere in the Old Testament, they were identified in II Timothy III.8 as ' ιανν⋯ς and ιαμβρ⋯ς (the Latin forms are usually ‘Iannes’ or ‘Iamnes’ and ‘Mambres’) in a remark that suggests that a considerable tradition had already arisen concerning them: ‘Now just as jannes and Mambres resisted Moses, so these also resist the truth, men corrupted in mind, reprobate concerning the faith.’ Two fragmentary Greek papyri (Pap. Vindob. G 29456 verso, in the Nationalbibliothek, Vienna; and Pap. XVI, in the Chester Beatty Library and Gallery of Oriental Art, Dublin), dated to the third and fourth centuries respectively, confirm the existence of at least one early apocryphon about the brothers. The problem of interpreting these fragments, however, is complicated by a bewildering array of references to the two in various languages, which results from both the importance of Exodus to Jews and Christians, and the connection of the brothers to magic. Albert Pietersma and R. Theodore Lutz note that ‘the precise relationship between the loose traditions and the written composition’ is ‘not yet entirely clear’.

In March 1992 a diminutive decorated disc was submitted for comment to the Department of Medieval and Later Antiquities, British Museum. The owner had found it by using a metal detector in an arable field south of the M25 motorway at Limpsfield Grange in the parish of Limpsfield near Oxted, Surrey (NGR TQ 4053). The disc appeared to be an isolated find and a Coroner's Inquest was not held. The piece was subsequendy sent for auction and acquired by the British Museum acting in cooperation with Guildford Museum. There is no Anglo-Saxon material recorded from the immediate area.

The editio princeps of the works of the Venerable Bede was published in 1563 by Johann Herwagen the Younger († 1564) in Basel; the edition had been begun by his father, the well-known printer and publisher, Johann Herwagen (†1557), who was active first in Strasbourg, then in Basel, and was a friend and associate of Johann Froben. In his edition of Bede's De temporum ratione and De natura rerum, Herwagen printed glosses on these two works under the name of Byrhtferth of Ramsey along with Bede's texts. To date, no manuscript of these glosses has ever been found, so our knowledge of them depends entirely upon Herwagen's edition.

To offer a solution to Riddle 57 must seem to many like a fool rushing swiftly in where others have swallowed gnats – and raindrops, hailstones, thunderclouds, musical notes, bees and more. Yet for a long time I have been convinced that everyone else had got it wrong, and that the answer could only be ‘swifts’. On further investigation, it turned out that some scholars, indeed, had had the same idea – it was Moritz Trautmann's final solution, and Cyril Brett thought of swifts but rejected them in favour of starlings – and that it was only (as it were) half-right. However, it still seems worthwhile attempting to demonstrate that, at least on the literal level, swifts are the only possible answer. I shall therefore dissect Riddle 57, discussing the identity of its subject under four headings: appearance, locomotion, habitat and call. Though initially ignoring the riddle's last half-line, I shall not forget it.

The Fonthill letter has recently been described as ‘one of the most interesting of the corpus of documents which illustrate the working of the Anglo-Saxon law’. It tells a story that is too complicated to summarize here, but the text is now readily accessible alongside a translation and wide-ranging commentary. For present purposes it may be sufficient to say that the letter was written to King Edward the Elder of Wessex (899–924) by the godfather of a troublesome character called Helmstan. The first and longest section of the letter begins with an allusion to Helmstan's theft of a belt and ends with his surrender to his godfather of five hides of land at Fonthill (Wiltshire). Helmstan gave up this land in return for his godfather's support in an oath that Helmstan had to take to defend his title to it against a third party. His godfather promised that Helmstan could continue to occupy the property for his lifetime, provided that he behaved himself. He thus held it under what was in effect a life-læn or lease. All this happened in the reign of King Alfred, some years before the letter was written. The story was told to Alfred's son and successor after the author had exchanged the Fonthill land with the bishop of Winchester and wanted the king to confirm the arrangement. The account is written in the first person but the godfather's name is not given. J. M. Kemble, however, took it that the author of the letter was a man called Ordlaf who is mentioned, in the third person, in the second section of the letter.

Exeter, Cathedral Library, 3501, fols. 8–130, the celebrated Exeter Book of Old English Poetry, preserves approximately one-sixth of the surviving corpus of Old English verse, and its importance for the study of pre-Conquest vernacular literature can hardly be exaggerated. It is physically a handsome codex, and is of large dimensions for one written in the vernacular: c. 320 × 220 mm, with a written area of c. 240 × 160 mm (see pl. III). In contrast to many coeval English manuscripts, particularly those in the vernacular, there is documentary evidence for the Exeter Book's pre-Conquest provenance. Assuming it is identical with the ‘i mycel Englisc boc be gehwilcum þingum on leoðwisum geworht’ (‘one large English book about various things written in verse’) in the inventory of lands, ornaments and books that Leofric, bishop of Crediton then Exeter, had acquired for the latter foundation, then it has been at Exeter since the third quarter of the eleventh century. This, however, is at least three generations after the book was written, and it has generally been assumed that it originated else where. Identifying the scriptorium where the Exeter Book was made is clearly a matter of the greatest interest and importance. A recent, admirably thorough monograph has put forward a thought-provoking case for seeing Exeter itself as the centre responsible, and has proceeded to draw a range of literary and historical conclusions from this. The comprehensive new critical edition of the manuscript has favoured the thesis, and it has been echoed elsewhere. If correct, this is extremely valuable and exciting – but is it correct? The matter is of sufficient importance to merit further scrutiny.

Two masterpieces stand out of the mass of Anglo-Saxon religious poetry: The Dream of the Rood and the sequence of liturgical lyrics in the Exeter Book variously known as Christ I, the Advent Lyrics or simply Advent. The two works are similar in focus and technique as well as in quality. Both express the mystery of Incarnation in terms of a riddle: how can it be that Deus and Homo make their impossible contact? What terms can make this meeting graspable by the imagination? Both give eloquent voice to human suffering and human hope, and seem to recognize that it is only through appealing to these feelings that theology can come to life for us by being experienced.

The subjects of this paper are four eleventh-century Anglo-Saxon gospel-books and their patron, Judith, countess of Flanders. Two of them, with their distinguished late Anglo-Saxon illuminations and their precious silver-gilt bindings, are among the more celebrated treasures of the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York. The remaining two, which are now preserved at the Hessische Landesbibliothek in Fulda, and at the Archives of Monte Cassino, may no longer have jewelled covers, but are still luxury books of the highest quality.

The work entitled Libellus quorundam insignium operum beati Æthelwoldi episcopi, in both of the manuscripts in which it is preserved as an independent text, is an account of how the endowment of Ely Abbey was accumulated in the years following the refoundation of the abbey in 970, and how it was defended in the difficult times which followed the death of King Edgar in 975. The Libellus was produced by an Ely monk writing early in the twelfth century, who says in the prologue to the work (LE, Appendix A) that Hervey, first bishop of Ely (1108–31), suggested to him the project of translating into Latin certain vernacular records concerning Æthelwold, bishop of Winchester (963–84), the founder of the monastery, to supplement the vita composed by Wulfstan Cantor. The text includes verses in praise of Æthelwold, and in praise of the village of Downham: similarities in vocabulary and metre to a metrical vita of St Æthelthryth composed by a monk of Ely called Gregory, also during the time of Bishop Hervey, suggest that the author of the Libellus was probably the same man. The Libellus has long been known as a work in its own right, but it has been printed as such only once, over 300 years ago, and it has been accessible to scholarship primarily in the form in which it was incorporated into bk II of the twelfth-century history of Ely Abbey known as Liber Eliensis, whose compiler used it as the basis for his own account of the refoundation of the abbey and its fortunes during the succeeding decades.

Cambridge, Corpus Christi College 303 (hereafter CCCC 303) is an extensive mid-twelfth-century vernacular manuscript produced at Rochester from a variety of Old English source materials. According to the medieval foliation, forty-four leaves are missing at the beginning of the codex and an indeterminate number at the end. As extant, CCCC 303 comprises seventy-three texts which are arranged according to the Temporale and Sanctorale for the church year (the first complete homily is for the Third Sunday after the Epiphany), thus showing that an initial plan of the contents was decided upon by a compiler. Godden distinguishes five groups of texts in all, the last such group being relevant here. This final portion of the manuscript (pp. 290–362, from the middle of quire 19 to the end of the final quire 23) contains twelve texts designated by Godden as ‘Miscellaneous items, mainly by Ælfric’. The first nine of these ‘miscellaneous items’, however, seem to be linked by their suitability for the Lenten period and their emphasis on sin, repentance and prayer. It is within this part of the codex, at pp. 338–9 (between the Ælfric texts De oratione Moysi in media Quadragesima and Quomodo Acitofel 7 multi alii laqueo se suspenderunt), that the Latin formula for excommunication and a unique Old English parallel text are copied as the eighth item in this particular group.