Tag: Georg Tannstetter

Tannstetter’s Wall Calendar for 1513

The top and bottom sections of Georg Tannstetter’s astrological wall calendar for 1513. This calendar, like thousands other like it, has suffered through the centuries. The middle portion of the calendar has been lost. BSB Einbl. Kal. 1513a.

From about 1505 until the late 1520s Georg Tannstetter produced astrological wall calendars like this one, often in both Latin and German. Most of his calendars were calculated for Vienna, where he was a master at the university at first in the liberal arts faculty and later in the medical faculty. His name and reputation was also attached to a few calendars printed for more distant cities. These calendars offered a range of astrologically useful information, e.g., the place of the moon for every day of the year, phases of the moon (new, first quarter, full, last quarter), good and mediocre times to let blood, when to take medicines, to bathe, to wean children, and when to plant or sow seeds. A handy legend graced the top of most calendars, explaining the common system of symbols used to denote these various activities.

Detail of the top woodcut showing the Nativity scene on the left and the scene of the magi on the right.

The calendars were always adorned with woodcuts across the top and down the sides. In some cases, such as Tannstetter’s wall calendar for 1517, the woodcuts were related to the heavens. On most calendars, however, these woodcuts seemed merely decoration and were almost certainly recycled by the printer. On this calendar for 1513, the woodcuts across the top show the Nativity (including the Star of Bethlehem) and the magi. A common exception to this practice was the woodcut at the bottom of the calendar that usually depicted the rulers of the year and any eclipse that might occur that year.

Detail of the astrological woodcut at the bottom of the calendar. In this case, Mars and Venus are rulers of the year, and there is lunar eclipse in Pisces.

This woodcut not only conveyed relevant information about the coming year, so recycling them would be difficult, it also linked visually the calendar to the printed judicia or annual prognostication for that year.[1] Like other authors of calendars, Tannstetter also composed each year a new judicia in which he forecast what would likely happen in the coming year, including the likelihood of war, famine, or plague, the fortunes and setbacks for various people—e.g., farmers, university masters, clergy, merchants, aristocrats—kingdoms, and rulers. He also offered weather predictions for the coming year, sometimes up to three days on either side of each quarter moon. As with the wall calendars, these annual prognostications were often published in both Latin and German. The title-page woodcut on these judicia were often the same one found at the bottom of the calendar.

The title-page woodcut from Tannstetter’s Judicium Astronomicum for 1513 is the same one found on the bottom of his calendar for that year. BSB Res/4 Astr.p.510,25.

Both the wall calendars and the annual prognostications were hugely popular in the early 16th century. Unfortunately, ephemeral printings were not valued enough to be saved in large numbers. In the case of wall calendars, their large format made them difficult to save, so even fewer survive.

  1. Sometimes the woodcut at the bottom of the calendar was the generic zodiacal man.  ↩

Controlling Panic in Renaissance Europe

The recent essay in The New York Times, “A Brief History of Panic,” highlights the ways that epidemics have caused widespread panic as well as the ways authorities have tried to control that panic. Such efforts are by authorities are by no means new but extend at least back to the fourteenth century.

Town councils and local physicians have long tried to quell the panic that comes with any epidemic. During outbreaks of plague, town councils tried to compel physicians to treat residents. As can be expected, this met with limited success. So, instead, they encouraged physicians to write short pamphlets with instructions and guidelines for residents on the best ways to avoid contracting the pestilence or curing it if already infected.1 The famous fourteenth-century physician Gentile da Foligno’s Consilium contra pestilentiam became something of a model for these texts, which continued well into the sixteenth century.2

Johannes Engel’s Tractat von der Pestilentz Joanni Engel (Augsburg, 1518) is typical of these texts. Written in the vernacular, it opened with a short discussion of the causes of the recent pestilence, usually a combination of remote, astrological causes and more local corrupt air. Engel identified a series of malefic planetary conjunctions and the always detrimental “30 revolutions of Saturn” as the astrological causes that had corrupted the air with poisonous vapors and dampness. But lest his reader despair, Engel explained how to act and what to eat and drink to avoid contracting the pestilence. He also offered some guidelines for recognizing who had been infected and what to do to treat them.

Johannes Engel’s Tractat von der Pestilentz Joanni Engel (Augsburg, 1518).
Johannes Engel’s Tractat von der Pestilentz Joanni Engel (Augsburg, 1518).

Pestilences took many forms. We often think most readily of the Black Death. But for people at the end of the fifteenth century, the new and frightening epidemic was the French Disease.3 Just as physicians in the fourteenth century had tried to explain the advent of the plague, in the 1490s and early 1500s physicians argued vehemently about the origins, symptoms, and cause of the French Disease. One of the more heated debates occurred between the German physicians Martin Pollich and Simon Pistoris. Their debate began as an academic disputation but soon spilled over the walls of the university and into the popular pamphlet literature.4 Simon Pistoris’s Ein kurtz schon und gar trostlich regiment wider die schweren und erschrecklichen kranckeyt der pestilenz (Leipzig, 1517) offers a range of generic advice on how to avoid a pestilence. The simplest advice was the best: flee, flee far and fast. For those who couldn’t flee, he offered a range of advice about the source of the pestilence, what and how much to eat and drink, when to sleep, when to bathe, when to purge, and a host of other activities that would help the reader stay healthy during an outbreak.

Simon Pistoris’s Ein kurtz schon und gar trostlich regiment wider die schweren und erschrecklichen kranckeyt der pestilenz (Leipzig, 1517).
Simon Pistoris’s Ein kurtz schon und gar trostlich regiment wider die schweren und erschrecklichen kranckeyt der pestilenz (Leipzig, 1517).

In addition to advice about what to do and what to avoid, these pamphlets often included recipes and prescriptions. Johannes Stocker’s Ain kurtz Regiment für die Pestilenz ([Augsburg], [1520]) offered readers a number of prophylactic recipes. In some cases, readers were instructed to roast the mixture over hot coals in the morning and at night, in order to cleanse the air. Another recipe produced a “Pestilenz pillule” that included, among other ingredients, precious stones. The reader should take early in the morning or one hour before dinner.

Johannes Stocker’s Ain kurtz Regiment für die Pestilenz ([Augsburg], [1520]).
Johannes Stocker’s Ain kurtz Regiment für die Pestilenz ([Augsburg], [1520]).

For readers unfortunate enough to have already been infected by the “poisonous substance” Stocker offers a recipe for a patch or bandaid of some sort (a “pflaster”) that, he claimed, was effective in drawing out the poisonous substance.

In 1521 Georg Tannstetter, an important member of the medical faculty at the University of Vienna and physician to Archduke Ferdinand, wrote a short text for the citizens of Vienna during an outbreak of the plague: Regiment für den lauff der Pestilentz (Vienna, 1521). Like other pamphlets, Tannstetter’s was intended to calm the populace by giving them both a familiarity with the causes of the epidemic and various measures to avoid it. Gesturing to the strong tradition of materia medica in Vienna, Tannstetter did not offer recipes but encouraged his readers to buy prescriptions from the local apothecaries.

Well into the sixteenth century such pamphlets continued to appear with the latest epidemic in cities across Europe. Along with the newly composed pamphlets, printers often simply recycled older pamphlets, apparently responding to healthy market for such consilia. For centuries people have looked to their authorities for reassurance and comfort in when confronted by different epidemics.

1 It is important to remember that not everybody who suffered from the pestilence was suffering from what we label bubonic plague. Reported symptoms and diagnostic categories do not map directly onto our categories. So while some people suffering from the plague died, as we would expect, some people were, reportedly, cured and survived.

2 On Foligno’s and other early consilia, see J. Arrizabalaga, “Facing the Black Death,” in Practical Medicine from Salerno to the Black Death (CUP, 1994), 237–288.

3 We often equate the French Disease with syphilis. For a critique of this equation, see J. Arrizabalag, J. Henderson, and R. French, The Great Pox (Yale, 1997), 1–19.

4 On Pistoris and his debate with Pollich, see R. French and J. Arrizabalaga, “Coping with the French Disease,” in Medicine from the Black Death to the French Disease (Ashgate, 1998), 248–287, esp. 263–269.

Plagiarism in 17th-Century Pamphlets?

Wholesale plagiarism is was common in early printed books. Printers, book sellers, and readers even had a word for it: piracy.[1] When dealing with short, cheap pamphlets, this piracy often took the form of wholesale plagiarism. A printer would acquire a copy of one pamphlet, reset the type, find a handy woodblock lying around the shop to use as a title-page illustration, and print up a bunch to sell locally. This is precisely what happened in the case of Georg Tannstetter’s judicia for 1512.

Astrologers produced judicia or practica each winter for the following year. These short pamphlets contained general predictions for the coming year based on the relevant astronomical phenomena—the planetary ruler of the year and any eclipses or conjunctions. In addition, judicia contained predictions related to crops, war, famine, disease, success or failure of the different groups of people, e.g., merchants, farmers, princes, priests, academics, and finally weather. They were frequently produced by a local astrologer associated with the court or the university, for a specific city, and appeared in both Latin and the vernacular.

By 1512 Tannstetter had been at the University of Vienna for a number of year, had worked his way into imperial court ciricles in Vienna, and had produced judicia for at least five or six years. In the winter of 1511 he produced his Judicium Viennense for 1512, which was printed by the Nuremberg printer Wolfgang Huber.

Title-page wood-cut from the Wolffgang Huber edition of Tannstetter’s Judicium Viennense (This is a screen shot from the copy is in the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich, Sig. 4° Astr.P 510.22).

Huber also printed Tannstetter’s wall calendar that accompanied his judicium. The two were linked visually by a shared woodcut illustrating the title page of the judicium and the bottom of the wall calendar. This woodcut depicted the planetary ruler and co-ruler for the year: Jupiter and Mercury. Almost immediately, Henricus Nussia in Cologne produced a quick knockoff of Tannstetter’s Judicium Viennense.

Title-page wood-cut from the Nussia edition of Tannstetter’s 1512 Judicium Viennense ((This is a screen shot from the copy is in the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich, Sig. 4° Astr.P 510.21).

Nussia dug around his shop for a reasonable woodcut—a crowd of astrologers and onlookers pointing up to the stars—for his title page. The text of the judicium is largely unchanged, except for various errors introduced in the typesetting process. He does not appear to have pirated the wall calendar, which would have been much more labor intensive and expensive to reproduce. In this case, Nussia’s motivation seems pretty clear: profit. Judicia were inexpensive to produce and sold well.

It seems a different goal motivated the plagiarism in a pair of pamphlets from the late 1650s. In 1658 an anonymous pamphlet was published offering interpretations and predictions of a recent comet along with other celestial phenomena: The Most True and Wonderfull Relation of a Starre of a Great Magnitude, and casting for a flame as big as any Bushell.

The anonymous pamphlet, The Most True and Wonderfull Relation of a Starre of a Great Magnitude, and casting for a flame as big as any Bushell (1658), printed for F. Coles in London, offered an interpretation of a recent comet.

The pamphlet opens by establishing its authority and thereby the authenticity of the observations and interpretations it contains:

Before I proceed to give you an account of the many admirable formes in which this Prodigious Comet, for many nights together, hath been seene from Thursday December the second, untill Munday [sic] December the sixth, and which may yet continue its dreadfull Apparition (for on that day the Letter sent from thence by a good Hand doth beare its date) it will not bee amisse to represent unto you that at the same Towne of Halling a little before the Warres began their Rained showers of Blood from the Clouds as it is not onely witnessed by some Books at that time published by Authority, but is still to bee attested by many hundred Witnesses that were spectators of it, …

The details—dates, locations, events—in this passage encourage the reader to imagine the events as if he (or in a few cases, she) had witnessed them directly.[2]
The next paragraph seems to anticipate a skeptical audience, one that no longer readily accepts prodigious events and that, consequently, was not persuaded simply by a detailed description. To persuade this audience, the pamphlet reminds the reader that not all towns and places equally fit to experience prodigious events:

It is the observation of a Learned man, that some places by the divine Providence are more appropriate for Miracles then [sic] others, not that the hand of GOD is confined to any place, but that hee is pleased there more particularly to exercise his Power, and to manifest eyther his [sic] Indignation or his good pleasure to the Sons of men; of this the Histories both Sacred and prophane can furnish us with abundant examples, had wee the leasure to prosecute so large a Theame.

As is common, the pamphlet then discusses comets in general, citing no less an authority that Tycho Brahe amongst the “many great Schollers [who] have written large Treatises” on them. It then detours into historical examples of comets. It recounts a story of when King James and his court were hawking and hunting. The king was startled by the appearance of a “Blazing-Starre” and sought the advice of learned mathematicians at Cambridge. In the end, however, the king rejected their ambiguous interpretation and offered his own: “it [the comet] fore-telleth, that the greatest Smart of it, and the sharpest Execution of all shall befall on Me, or my Children.” In 1658 every reader would have appreciated how true King James’s prediction turned out to be. Finally, the pamphlet returns to the particular comet that occasioned its printing. The predictions are, well, ambiguous. Often, the pamphlet claims, comets presage wide-scale death and dying and the deaths of princes. But other times they have presaged wonderful events, like the “Starre in the East” that guided the three wise men to Jesus.

While the whole pamphlet is fascinating, I want to look now at a pamphlet printed the following year. The Dreadful and most Prodigious Tempest at Markfield in Leicestershire promises to interpret a series of prodigious hailstones, claps of thunder that sounded like two armies clashing in the heavens, lightning, and a storm that uprooted trees, walls, and houses.

The anonymous pamphlet, The Dreadful and most Prodigious Tempest at Markfield in Leicestershire (1659), printed for W. Gilbertson, interpreted hailstones, claps of thunder, and a prodigious tempest.

Again, what evidence is taken as prodigious and how the predictions are grounded in that evidence are both interesting, as is the poem at the end describing George Booth as a hermaphrodite. But what caught my eye here was a similarity in particular passages with the previous pamphlet. As before, The Dreadful and most Prodigious Tempest opens with an identical effort to establish its authority:

Before I proceed to give you an accompt of the many admirable and prodigious formes of haile-stones, which in a great storm of thunder and lightning, were taken up and shewed to many at Markfield in Leicestershire, on Thursday the 7th of this present moneth of September, it will not be amiss to represent unto you, that it is the observation of some learned men, that some places by the Divine Providence, are more appropriate for miracles then [sic] others; not that the hand of God is confined to any peculiar place, but that he is pleased there more particularly to exercise his power, and to manifest either his Indignation, or his good pleasure to the Sons of men: Of this the Histories both sacred and profane, can furnish us with abundant examples, had we the leisure to prosecute so large a Theam.

We might explain this similarity away as merely a trope, though to do so undervalues the power and function of tropes, but there is another passage that these two pamphlets share that seems to point to something more. Both invoke a particular historical example to justify the power of prodigious celestial events:

…but in the shapes of Men and Coaches drawn by horses. In Germany about twelve years since, there was seen the shape of a Man in the Air, sitting in the clowds, and cloathed all in white, on his brows were to be seen the rays of Divinity. Those that behled it, did entertain in their hearts the preparations for Repentance, and amendment of Life, believing they had seen some sign whereby they might justly suggest unto themselves that the Resurrection was at hand.

In The Most True and Wonderfull Relation of a Starre of a Great Magnitude the text is identical, except the author noted that it had been “eleven years since.” In neither pamphlet do we learn what consequences resulted, if any. All we learn is that the people who witnessed this man crowned with “the rays of Divinity” encouraged people to amend their ways. We don’t even learn any more about this prodigious apparition, such as where in Germany he was seen. What event in Germany occurred in 1647 that was so significant to an English audience? Diplomats were working to bring the 30 Years War to a conclusion, but the Peace of Westphalia was still a year or more away. Was there a significant, more local event that attracted English and perhaps international attention? And did this example get reused in other English pamphlets during the 1650s?

These passages seem too similar to be explained away as mere coincidence. Perhaps both The Most True and Wonderfull Relation of a Starre of a Great Magnitude and the later The Dreadful and most Prodigious Tempest borrowed from an earlier pamphlet, or perhaps the later pamphlet borrowed from the former. Or perhaps they both borrowed from and in turn propagated a broader set of meaningful practices, tropes, and structures that readers expected when they turned to this pamphlet literature. These two pamphlets alert us to those practices, tropes, structures, and expectations and encourage us to think about how they functioned and what sort of authority authors, printers, and readers attributed to them.

  1. For how printers and readers dealt with piracy, see A. Johns’s recent Piracy (Chicago, 2009). For early versions of his work, see Johns The Nature of the Book (Chicago, 1998), esp. chaps 3 and 7.  ↩

  2. This is related to the virtual witnessing that Shapin and Schaffer detailed in Boyle’s air pump experiments. See Shapin and Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air Pump (Princeton, 1985), esp. chapters 2 and 6.  ↩