Wreaths of Time: Perceiving the Year in Early Modern Germany (1475-1650)

Nicole Marie Lyon October 12, 2015 Previous Degrees: Master of Arts Degree to be conferred: PhD University of Cincinnati Department of History Dr. Sigrun Haude ii

DISSERTATION ABSTRACT “Wreaths of Time” broadly explores perceptions of the year’s time in Germany during the long sixteenth century (approx. 1475-1650), an era that experienced unprecedented change with regards to the way the year was measured, reckoned and understood. Many of these changes involved the transformation of older, medieval temporal norms and habits. The Gregorian calendar reforms which began in 1582 were a prime example of the changing practices and attitudes towards the year’s time, yet this event was preceded by numerous other shifts. The gradual turn towards astronomically-based divisions between the four seasons, for example, and the use of 1 January as the civil new year affected depictions and observations of the year throughout the sixteenth century. Relying on a variety of printed cultural historical sources— especially sermons, calendars, almanacs and treatises—“Wreaths of Time” maps out the historical development and legacy of the year as a perceived temporal concept during this period. In doing so, the project bears witness to the entangled nature of human time perception in general, and early modern perceptions of the year specifically. During this period, the year was commonly perceived through three main modes: the year of the civil calendar, the year of the Church, and the year of nature, with its astronomical, agricultural and astrological cycles. As distinct as these modes were, however, they were often discussed in richly corresponding ways by early modern authors. Rather than extricating these strands of understanding, each chapter engages a site of entanglement or tension between multiple notions of the year’s time, drawing attention to the rich conceptual syntheses that characterized temporal understandings of the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century world. The picture that emerges sheds light on an era during which the year changed and solidified as a temporal concept. While, to some degree, the year’s time gave way to greater uniformity during the sixteenth century, this process was highly nuanced and marked by the hallmarks of early modern German mentality, imbued with Lutheran apocalypticism and humoral astrology, among other things. Moreover, time and the perception thereof were strongly tied to spiritual paradigms that viewed the year and its temporality as created and sustained by God. The various religious and calendrical reforms of the sixteenth century did little to dissuade this spiritualization of time perception. More often than not, they prompted new ways of envisioning time’s sacredness, and as such led not to the desacralization but rather the resacralization of the year’s time.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Intellectual endeavors have a way of intersecting with real life in enriching and unforeseen ways. I could not have predicted how many new “calendars” my own life would adopt over the course of completing this project. Researching in Germany, relocating to Canada, marrying into a Greek family, and continuing on as a graduate student are all changes that have enriched my life with new interplays of yearly time, most of which I’m still adjusting to

More than abstract coordinate systems, these calendars represent collections of people who have given their time, effort and expertise, for whom I am deeply grateful.

The Academic Calendar. I would first like to thank the stateside academic mentors, colleagues and institutions who have supported this project. My first foray into all things early modern began with the courses of Dr. Richard Schade in the Department of German Studies at UC, from whose expertise, intellectual passion and wisdom I continue to benefit—as a scholar and as a human being. Since beginning my PhD studies, the UC History Department has always been a formative, supportive environment that genuinely seeks to instill curiosity and rigorous thought in its students. The early encouragement and feedback I received from Dr. Sylvia Sellers-Garcia, as well as from Dr. Maura O’Connor and my fellow students in her graduate research seminar (2010-11) fueled my initial research and analysis on the historical contours of timekeeping. I was fortunate to receive generous funding from a number of groups, without which the research for this project would not have been possible: the Taft Research Center, the University Research Council and the UC Gradate School Dean’s Fellowship.

I also wish to express my appreciation to my committee members. To Dr. Tracy Teslow, your unique perspective and ideas as a modernist has helped me see and communicate my project from a broader perspective. And to Dr. Robert Kolb, since we first met in Wolfenbüttel (to discuss, as I recall, the end(s) of the world), you have never flagged in your enthusiasm for my work and ideas, an encouragement that has bolstered my spirit on more than one occasion. Last but certainly not least, my primary advisor, Dr. Sigrun Haude, has been a great supporter of this project since the day I walked into her office with the vague notion I wanted to “write my dissertation about time.” That initial spark of an idea would have remained incomplete had you not had faith in the possibilities and given so generously of your time, expertise, kindness and honesty, all of which have helped me convert a once vague notion into what I hope is a cohesive work of research. I am truly grateful for the thorough, challenging and understanding advisor I found in you.

The American Calendar. From the earliest that I can remember, my parents have been selfless in their efforts to give me intellectual and creative opportunities they themselves never had while growing up. The many facets of the world they helped me experience shaped me into the curious, creative and communicative thinker I am today. I would never have begun—or finished—this project were it not for the countless ways you helped me become a life-long learner, passionate about the intricacies of the world around me. To my siblings, Matt (and Christina) and Sean: you have become some of my best friends and have shaped me through the years more than you will ever know (but I’m still the oldest).

I have been further blessed my countless friends and family outside of academia who, in their own way, have encouraged and strengthened me over the long course of graduate school. To Kim Schneider: it does v

not seem that long ago that I was sitting in your class, a slightly distractible and yet zealous-to-learn high school student. The wise words you surrounded me with then, and the friendship we continue to share to this day, have touched my mind and heart for a lifetime. And to the whole Schneider clan: my sanity has been tremendously abetted by your hospitality and your continual openness to Basil and me into your lives. To Pat Engler and her family, for the loads of encouragement and home-away-from-home they offered me many times throughout graduate school: I will never forget the depths of the kindness and honest friendship you have shown me. Finally, to Sarah. It’s been absolutely a pleasure leading nearly parallel lives these last four years—relocations, dissertating, Orthodoxy, marriage. I know you’ll be agreeing when it’s your turn to finish, but our friendship has been an indispensable resource in completing my dissertation. For this, and so many other things, I am profoundly thankful that you are in my life.

The German Calendar. I was fortunate to spend the entire research phase required for this project at the Herzog August Library in Wolfenbüttel, Germany and found the convivial environment and hardworking staff of the library to be a great boon to my work. In addition to the Kolbs, I would like to thank Scott Hendrix, Austra Reinis, Mara Wade, Charlotte Colding-Smith, Kathleen Smith, and Trish Ross for their ongoing conversation, advice and sincere interest in my project. In addition, the staff members of the HAB—especially Jill Bepler, Volker Bauer and Elizabeth Harding—provided helpful source leads and questions to push my thinking on the topic. While in Germany, I also participated in a workshop on early modern time perceptions and practices organized by Stefan Hanß at the Freie Universität in Berlin. The questions I received from fellow participants helped move my work forward at a pivotal juncture in my research, especially a conversation I had with Gabrielle Jancke about entangled history and time perceptions. Finally, I wish to acknowledge the generous funding I received from the Rolf and Ursula Schneider Scholarship at the HAB as well as the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD), without which the research for this project would not have been possible.

The Canadian Calendar. During the two years I spent writing the draft of this thesis, I found an academic home at the Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies (CRRS) at Victoria College in Toronto. Sharing ideas with other early modernists and Renaissance scholars from a variety of disciplines has enriched my project in countless ways. In particular, I wish to thank the members of my dissertation writing group who have so often given me the gift of human contact and collaboration (and coffee breaks) during the seemingly endless writing process: Jacqueline Taucar, Tianna Uchacz, Sarah Richardson and Elizabeth Moss.

The Greek Calendar. Marrying into the Greek culture in the midst of dissertating heightened my awareness of the tension between liturgical and civil modes of time that have persisted—for many—even in modern society. I am grateful for my Greek family and community, who have shown me love and support while finishing this project. I will never forget the countless feast days, holidays and name days that meaningfully interrupted my work over the last two years—they brought me into community with others and allowed me to experience some of the same temporal questions that underline much of this project. Additionally, my project has been greatly strengthened by the warmth and hospitality of the Roccas family since coming to Canada. Στα πεθερικά μου, Κωνσταντίνο και Ελευθερία Ροκκά, θα ήθελα να εκφράσω από τα βάθη της καρδιάς μου τις θερμότατες ευχαριστίες μου για την καλοσύνη και την φιλοξενία που μου δείξατε καθώς ολοκλήρωνα αυτό το έργο. Η φροντίδα και τα περιποιημένα σπιτικά φαγητά σας με βοήθησαν να είμαι αμέριμνη γι'αυτά, αλλά και υγιής, κατά τη διάρκεια μιας πολύ μακράς διαδικασίας γραφής. Είμαι τόσο χαρούμενη, αλλά και ευγνώμων, να είμαι η νύφη σας! I particularly would like to thank my parents-in-law, Constantine and Eleftheria Roccas. I will never forget the generosity you showed in hosting me my first year in Canada—your thoughtfulness and plentiful home vi

cooking allowed me to focus more closely on my thesis work. The luxuriousness of this experience was intensified by the baffling plates of calamari, tyropita, roast lamb, fresh salads and fruits that silently materialized beside my computer in the midst of many a writing trance. I still don’t know where all that delicious food came from (Eleftheria), but am truly grateful for whoever went through so much time and effort to make sure I would lose not a single pound during this process.

Most of all, I wish to thank my husband, “The Basil” Roccas. When we first met, I was barely beginning this project and unsure where it would lead. Yet (no word of a lie!) you always believed not only in me, but also in the importance of my work—many times even more than I myself did! I never imagined I would meet (not to mention get to marry) someone who was as fascinated by time as I am—but you proved me wrong, and I am so glad! Thank you for your endless support, encouragement, errand-running, draft-proofreading, pep-talking, love and honesty—you have truly embodied what it means to be a helpmate these last four years and I consider the completion of this project a shared accomplishment.

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CONTENTS DISSERTATION ABSTRACT ...... II ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... IV LIST OF TABLES AND FIGURES ...... IX LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ...... X INTRODUCTION ...... 1 A YEAR’S DEFINITIONS ...... 2 “PERCEIVING THE TIME” ...... 5 ORGANIZATION ...... 8 SOURCES, GENRES, AND AUTHORS ...... 11 HISTORIOGRAPHY ...... 18 ANNUAL ENTANGLEMENTS ...... 31 CHAPTER 1: YEAR(S) OF NATURE AND NATURE(S) OF THE YEAR: MAKING TEMPORAL SENSE OF NATURE IN THE LONG SIXTEENTH CENTURY ...... 35 I: IN THE BEGINNINGS ...... 44 II: THE FOUR SEASONS AND ALL THE TRIMMINGS ...... 61 III: ANALYSIS AND CONCLUSION ...... 66 CHAPTER 2: SEASONS OF HEALTH: THE YEAR’S TIME AND MEDICAL ASTROLOGY IN SIXTEENTH-CENTURY GERMANY ...... 72 I. A TIME TO LET BLOOD: HUMORALISM AND THE YEAR’S TIME (1500-1550) ...... 78 II. TO LET BLOOD, OR NOT TO LET BLOOD? PHLEBOTOMY ADVICE IN SIXTEENTH- AND EARLY SEVENTEENTH- CENTURY PRINTED CALENDARS ...... 87 III: SUN, MOON AND PHLEBOTOMIES: LOCATING HUMORAL MEDICINE IN EARLY MODERN ASTROLOGY ...... 104 CONCLUSION ...... 116 CHAPTER 3: READING THE YEAR: REDEEMING CALENDARS IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY ...... 118 I: CALENDARS, CULTURAL HISTORY AND EARLY MODERN GERMANY ...... 121 II: DIVINELY INSPIRED: WRITING CALENDARS IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY...... 125 III: INSPIRED READING: HISTORICAL CALENDARS AND SPIRITUAL DISCIPLINE ...... 138 IV: IDOLATROUS READING: CALENDARS AS A SPIRITUAL DETRIMENT ...... 144 V: SYNTHESIS & ANALYSIS ...... 156 CHAPTER 4: REFORMING THE YEAR: HOLIDAYS, TIME AND THE GREGORIAN CALENDAR REFORM IN GERMANY (1582-1605) ...... 161 I: THE GREGORIAN CALENDAR REFORM AND HISTORIOGRAPHY ...... 163 II: A TIME TO TEAR, A TIME TO MEND: LUTHERANS, CATHOLICS AND HOLIDAY TIME ...... 169 A Time to Tear: Lutherans, Christian Holidays and the New Calendar ...... 170 A Time to Mend: Catholics, Christian Holidays and the New Calendar ...... 181 III: A TIME TO EXPAND ...... 190 SYNTHESIS, ANALYSIS AND CONTEXTUALIZATION ...... 190 CONCLUSION ...... 201 CHAPTER 5: BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR’S: TOWARDS A NEW NEW YEAR IN LATE SIXTEENTH- AND EARLY SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY GERMANY ...... 205 I. IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE YEAR: COMPLICATED CONTEXTS OF 1 JANUARY ...... 208 II. FROM THE CIRCUMCISION TO A NEW YEAR: PREACHING A “NEW” NEW YEAR IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY ...... 220 viii

CHAPTER 6: YEARS TO REMEMBER: BEGINNING(S), MIDDLE(S) AND END(S) OF TIME IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY ...... 232 I. BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS: FROM BIRTH TO DEATH ...... 236 II. FROM CREATION TO APOCALYPSE ...... 253 III. THE MIDDLE OF TIME: LOCATING THE NEW YEAR IN THE TIME OF SALVATION ...... 266 IV. TYING UP LOOSE ENDS: ENTANGLED ESCHATONS AND A CYCLICAL ENDING ...... 270 CONCLUSION: FROM THORNS TO ROSES: REVISITING THE WREATH AS A SYMBOL OF THE YEAR’S TIME ...... 273 BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 284 APPENDIX: WALKING THROUGH A SIXTEENTH-CENTURY CALENDAR…………………………………………………………………………315

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LIST OF TABLES AND FIGURES

Table 1: Source Base Categorized by Genre ...... 11

Figure 1: Barber-Surgeon Letting Blood from a Man’ ...... 76

Figure 2: Circular Diagram of the Winds and Four Seasons (1518) ...... 81

Figure 3: Johannes Schöner’s Phlebotomy Table (1543) ...... 92

Figure 4: Typical Bloodletting Symbols of Early Modern Calendars ...... 96

Table 2: A comparison of indications for bloodletting and cupping in April (1566) ...... 99

Figure 5: Man and Scroll (1510) ...... 127

Figure 6: Death in skeleton form with hourglass (1591) ...... 250

Figure 7: “Time Brings Roses” Emblem and Enlarged Detail (1617) ...... 277

Table A.1: Outline of Thurneisser’s Calendar and Descriptions (1577) ...... 317

Figure A.1: Title page and Translation of Almanac and Writing Calendar (1577) ...... 319

Figure A.2: Legend and Symbol Gloss for Thurneisser’s Almanac and Writing Calendar (1577) ...... 323

Figure A.3: January calendar and writing page in Thurneisser`s Almanac and Writing Calendar (1577) ...... 327

Figure A.4: Expanded Detail of January ...... 329

A.5: January Writing Page ...... 333

Figure A.6: “January” in Jacob Cnespelius’ calendar (1590) ...... 339

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LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS d. Ä.: the elder. d. J.: the younger. NS: new style, referring to historical dates as they occurred on the Julian calendar. OS: old style, referring to historical dates as they occurred on the Gregorian calendar.

Note: All Bible passages, unless otherwise noted, are quoted using the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV). xi

1

INTRODUCTION

On occasion of New Year’s Day in 1600, Augsburg pastor Caspar Sauterus offered a brief reflection on the symbolic beauty of the year’s time. Looking ahead to the upcoming year, he lauded the abundant beauty and comforting recurrence that annual circuits of time bring about:

The whole year is like a circle, or ring, which has no breaks, but rather possesses a certain continuity, with one year ever flowing into the next. […] Yet the year resembles not just any kind of circle, but specifically a crown or wreath. For a crown has a bowed cross on the top, so that even as it is complete within itself, it is also divided into four parts. In the same way, God divided the course of the entire year into four parts and four distinctive times of year, i.e. spring, summer, fall and winter.1

Issued around the turn of the century, Sauterus was not the only seventeenth-century writer to envision the year as a wreath or crown. A symbolic connection as old as the Psalms, numerous authors in early seventeenth-century Germany breathed new life into temporal depictions of the wreath or crown.2 Such verbal emblems reveal a striking belief in the year’s goodness: not only due to the consoling certainty of its cyclical repetition, but also to its abundance, beauty, and unbroken unity. 3 Both crowns and wreaths involve masterfully weaving together of different strands, flowers or metals into a harmonious whole that has no beginning or end.

Sauterus’ words are penned near the end of the long sixteenth century, a period during which the year and its times underwent many conceptual transformations in response to wider social changes. From the late fifteenth through the early seventeenth centuries, the year was described and contemplated in a vast number of texts whose authors sought to apprehend time, even as many conceptual aspects of the year were in a state of flux. What can be gathered from their diffuse comments is that the year was a rich temporal space that, like a highly ornamented

1 Caspar Sauterus, Christliche Newe Jahrs Predigten (Augspurg: Müller, 1602), 82. All translations mine unless otherwise stated. 2 “You crown the year with your bounty; your paths overflow with richness” (Ps. 65:11). 3 See also: Georg Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum (n.p.: Heinrich Chorhammer, 1643), 16. 2 crown or wreath, was wrought with the multifaceted trappings of seasons, parts, times, months and more. Likewise, these facets also changed over the course of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.

This dissertation is first and foremost about a year. That year in question is not any specific twelvemonth of the past, but rather a type of historical year: the year as it was perceived from the late fifteenth through the early sixteenth centuries. The textual and experiential accoutrements of this year are many: calendars, Church cycles, solstices, holidays, weeks, months, seasons and many more. Together, they constitute the “year’s time,” the unit of time early modern individuals deemed to be an annual circuit, whether measured with astronomical, civil or ecclesiastical increments. As an intersection between various temporal and cultural cycles, the year in early modern Germany constituted a conceptual site that witnessed rupturing shifts and transformations reflective of wider social and religious changes.

A Year’s Definitions Delineating what a year was from the vantage point of early modern authors is an ambivalent task. The parlance of time is one of staggering continuity. Day, week, month; second, minute, hour—temporal nomenclature has remained relatively constant over the course of centuries and even millennia, a reality that risks obscuring subtle shifts in understanding and perceptions that have occurred. At least one anthropologist has suggested that all annual time constructs —from the agricultural years of ancient Babylonians to emerging notions of a civil and fiscal year in classical Rome—signify “closed loops” of temporality; all the routines and rhythms that structure a year “go round and round, the ending of one cycle immediately followed by the beginning of another.”4 These “closed loops” came and went in early modern Germany in much the same fashion as they do today. The earth’s revolution around the sun has continued largely

4 Anthony Aveni, “Happy New Year! But Why Now?” In Anthony Aveni, The Book of the Year: A Brief History of Our Seasonal Holidays (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 11-12. 3 unchanged,5 and at the very least, learned authors of the period were well aware that the annual celestial circuit lasted a problematically incongruous 365 ¼ days.6 Then as now, people found various aspects of the year’s time to complain about: years going by too slowly, too quickly, too arduously. They lamented the extremes of seasonal weather, especially the dull drear of winter.7

There is ample evidence to suggest that most people bought new calendars at the start of the year, a popular custom during the latter half of the fifteenth century, by which time the printing press made single-year calendars widely available and generally affordable.8 Similarly, authors marveled at the prospect of writing the new numbered year for the first time each January.9 Upon first pouring over early modern sources, then, one is struck by the vast continuities that has surrounded the year’s time for at least half a millennium.

Yet this very continuity conceals deeper conceptual gaps between understandings of time held by inhabitants of the past and present. A closer analysis of sixteenth- and early seventeenth- century sources reveals that their notion of the year bore numerous connotations and caveats that were uniquely early modern. The year’s time was sprinkled with myriad dates and other

5 For the sake of simplicity, we will leave axial precession out of the discussion—interestingly, however, this phenomenon was first proven scientifically by Isaac Newton at the close of the early modern period. James Evans, The History and Practice of Ancient Astronomy (New York: Oxford Universtiy Press, 1998), 245-88. 6 Berthold Saxer, for example, a lesser known calendar author, communicated this knowledge plainly for a lay audience: “The ancients took the six hours that are left over after the 365 days and set them together after [every] four years, which makes 24 hours, a natural day [natürlicher Tag]. [...] If one didn’t have a leap year and just left the six hours, it would happen that in seven hundred and thirty two years, Christmas would occur in the middle of summer and the feast of St. John in the middle of winter.“ Berthold Saxer, Ein schöner und newer Kalender- welcher wehret vom Jahr Christi unsers HERRN Geburt 1581 biß man zehlt 1613 (Nuremberg: Nicolaum Knorn, 1581), Br-Biir. 7 E.g. Johann Schopff describes winter as the time “when the cold and frost are right at their most severe, and there is much shivering and teeth-clapping.” In Guelding Kleinot/ Welches Christus Seiner Lieben Gespons/.../ Hinderlassen (Tübingen: Cellis, 1603), 21: “da die Kalte und frost eben zum gestrengsten ist/ und es vil Zitterns und Zanklapfens gibt.“ 8 Elisheva Carlebach, Palaces of Time: Jewish Calendar and Culture in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2011), 28; Rudolf Wendorff, Tag und Woche, Monat und Jahr: eine Kulturgeschichte des Kalenders (Opladen: West Deutscher Verlag, 1993), 166-70. 9 E.g. Johannes Conradus Goebelius, Außgang deß Alten, und Eingang des Newen Jahrs (Augsburg: Langenwalter, 1626), 55. 4

“temporal landmarks”10 that, for the most part, are absent from our shared and personal conceptual calendars today—one thinks of the numerous saint and other feast days that had come to fill sixteenth-century civic and ecclesiastical life, not to mention the astral effects and humoral advice that populated the pages of early modern calendars.11 Not even the date upon which the year started or ended was self-evident, as Chapter Four of this dissertation examines in more detail. In the midst of this, Pope Gregory’s XIII’s inauguration of a new civil calendar in 1582 did not simplify the situation of the year’s time. The new, Gregorian calendar only made way for a divisive split throughout the Holy Roman Empire, since Catholic and Protestant territories would adhere to two different calendars until 1700. Along with introducing a host of improvements to the calendar, the debacle brought to the forefront of social discourse divergent notions of sacred and natural time.

Along with these various events and meanings that abounded in early modern perceptions of the year, one must also factor in the ways that ideas about eternity informed temporal reality during this period. Throughout the sixteenth century, years were seen not only as absolute timeframes (e.g. a specified number of days or months), but were also understood through the lens of spiritual and eternal realities. As Chapters Three and Six will show, the year was commonly thought of as a mode of time God originally instituted in his creation of the cosmos, which (according to some) likely occurred on 25 March, the date traditionally associated with the spring equinox in antiquity. Likewise, years and their relentless cyclicality were seen to be journeying towards their ultimate culmination, the end of the world, or as some put it, the start of

10 I have borrowed this term from the rhetoric of psychology and neurology. Michael S. Shum defines temporal landmarks as times that are difficult to forget, and which serve as “organizing principles” for memories and a means of sorting and decoding new events. Psychologists recognize three nearly universal categories of temporal landmarks: vivid public events (e.g. assassination of a national figure), vivid personal events (e.g. death of a relative), and repetitive reference points in calendars (e.g. Christmas). Michael S. Shum, “The Role of Temporal Landmarks in Autobiographical Memory Processes,” Psychological Bulletin 124, no. 3 (1998): 423-42, here 423. 11 Calendars, as well as their changing content and reception, shall be explored in Chapters 1-2 of this dissertation. 5 the “eternal New Year.”12 Such understandings reveal the vivid apocalypticism that dominated understandings of time and history well into the seventeenth century. Apocalypticism was particularly influential among Lutherans in Germany, who, Robin Bruce Barnes argues, held the most apocalyptic worldview of any group in western history.13 For late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Lutherans, the world was caught up in a dynamic salvific drama of good versus evil that would soon culminate in Christ’s imminent return. This eschatological expectation was not relegated to the fringes of society; the learned and unlearned alike held vigil for the Lord’s return—though usually not as devotedly as countless pastors would have liked.

Amid a milieu in which all of reality was aimed at the end of time, religious understandings and the sense of eternity were never far removed from discussions of the year’s time.

“Perceiving the Time” Now that the early modern year is better understood, what did it mean to perceive it?

Authors of this period, particularly those writing in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, had much to say about perceiving time (die Zeit wahrnehmen). The act of perceiving the temporal fabric of reality was not a passive nor neutral process, but tied to important facets of everyday life and spiritual piety. Catholic composer and amateur botanist Johann Rasch (d.

12 E.g. Stephan Cöllen, Eine christliche Newe Jahrs Predigt (Hamburg: Wolder, 1626), 40. 13 Robin Bruce Barnes, “Time, History and Reckoning,” in idem, Prophecy and Gnosis: Apocalypticism in the Wake of the Lutheran Reformation (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1988), 2-3. The significant role that Lutheran apocalypticism played in influencing early modern cultural mentalities and discouses in Germany cannot be overlooked. A crucial, albeit somewhat outdated, foundation to this topic is: Norman Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium: Revolutionary Millenarians and Mystical Anarchists of the Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970). In addition to Barnes’ Prophecy and Gnosis, Heiko A. Oberman’s Luther: Man Between God and the Devil is a groundbreaking study into the reality of apocalyptic beliefs among early modern Lutherans (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006). More recent studies that lend further insight into historical understandings of apocalypticism include Jonathan Green, Printing and Prophecy: Prognostication and Media Change 1450-1550, Cultures of Knowledge in the Early Modern World (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2011); Volker Leppin, Antichrist und Jüngster Tag. Das Profil apokalyptischer Flugschriftenpublizistik im deutschen Luthertum 1548-1618 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1999); Ibid., “‘...das der römische Antichrist offenbaret und das helle Liecht des heiligen Evangeli wiederumb angezündet’. Memoria und Aggression im Reformationsjubiläum 1617,” in ed. Heinz Schilling, Konfessioneller Fundamentalismus. Religion als politischer Faktor im europäischen Mächtesystem um 1600 (Munich: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 2007), 115–34; Bernard McGinn, The Continuum History of Apocalypticism (New York, New York: Continuum, 2003). 6

1612), for example, wrote that, “in everything the human begins, creates or prepares for on this earth, he should perceive time […]. (In all things time must be perceived.) Which attests to what is said, that each and every thing has its own time.”14 Here, Rasch pointed to the everyday utility of perceiving time—one must do so to order one’s tasks and know the right time for all things.

He went on to concede that perceiving time was rather difficult, because people are constantly surrounded by and immersed in it in their daily lives and manual labors. Nonetheless, he advises that people ought to heed the different times “with special discipline and compunction” in their lives. 15

In a similar vein were authors who admonished readers in various ways and terms to heed time or use it well. On the occasion of the 1591 New Year, Michael Iulius wove together two

Bible verses, and applied them to the cultivation of one’s temporal awareness. Beginning with a quotation from the book of Romans, Iulius iterated: „Do not conform to this world,16 that is to say, do not drift through the day with the wild and foolish world [...] like the dumb cattle, without any contemplation of the seasons.“17 Instead of being like beasts who have no awareness or recollection of time’s passing, Iulius maintained that humans were called by God to

[b]e attuned to the times.18 This is to God’s liking not only because it is necessary and helpful in civil and public life to know, because of the harvest when it is summer or winter, [...] and also that we know how to govern and order all our actions, affairs and business accordingly, but particularly that we should learn to distinguish the eternal God from ourselves and all other creatures. For God alone

14 Johann Rasch, Neu Kalendar, das erste Buch: von Computistischen Kirchcalenders Besserung vnd Wunder... (Rorschach am Bodensee: Straub, 1590), Div: “Alles das so der mensch auff diesem erdrich anfahen/ schaffen/ und zuberaitten welle/ das er alwegen der zeit […] warnemen solle (die zeit muß in allen dingen wargenummen werden) welches dann dieses bezeugt/ das geredt worden/ das ein jedes/ und derhalben alles/ sein aigne zeit hab.” 15 Rasch, Neu Kalendar, Div. 16 Rom. 12:2. 17 Michael Iulius, Von dem newgebornen lieben Jesulein [...] sampt einer newen Jarßspredigt (Erfurt: Baumann, 1591), Hiv: “Stelet euch nicht der Welt gleich/ das ist/ lebet nicht dahin mit der Tollen/ und Nerrischen Welt in tag/ wie das dumme Vieh/ ohn einige betrachtung der Jahr zeiten.“ 18 C.f. “[M]aking the most of the time, because the days are evil.” (Eph. 5:16). 7

is eternal and remains eternal—for Him there is no season. We and other creatures, however, have a beginning and end.19

To adapt oneself to time was to delineate between God’s eternity and the created world’s finitude. Iulius further enumerated specific reasons the knowledge of time ought to be cultivated.

On the one hand, it helps people reflect on the past acts of God.20 The contemplation of God’s past deeds, revealed in time, allows Christians to have certainty regarding the reality of God’s future actions—specifically of the second coming of Christ: „Christ warned us of the last days, when He will return to judge the living and the dead [...] so that we will [be obedient], maintaining our calendars from year to year, in which we see how it has gone from the beginning of the world until now.”21 In a later passage, Iulius once again stated that people should be aware of time “so that we will not miss [fehlen] the [second advent of] the messiah.”22 For Iulius, then, time perception was crucial if faithful Christians did not want to be caught unawares when their savior returned to judge the living and the dead.

His example is illustrative of the trend for early modern authors to understand time perception as a God-given faculty differentiating human beings from beasts, who remained oblivious to time’s passing. Humans, by contrast, possessed the ability to perceive time, to steward it, to reckon it into hours, days, seasons, and years. This was not a mere intellectual exercise—measuring dates and years enabled people to clearly distinguish between creation, which is temporal, and God who is eternal. Establishing one’s place in time supported the idea

19 Iulius, Von dem newgebornen lieben Jesulein, Hv: „Schicket euch in die Zeit. Und zwar solches hat Gott nicht allein darumb gefallen/ weil es sehr nötig und nüz ist/ in burgerlichem und eusserlichem leben/ als das man wissen möge/ wegen der Erndenzeit/ wann Sommer oder winter were [...] Item das wir wissen/ wie wir alle unser thun/ unser hendel un gescheffte darnach richten und anordenen: Sondern fürnmelich/ das wir / ihn den ewigen Gott sollen unterscheiden lernen/von uns/ und allen andern Creaturen/ Dann gott ist allein ewig/ und bleibet Ewig/ bey ihm ist kein Jharzeit. Wir aber und andere Creaturen/haben ein Anfang/ und ende.“ 20 Ibid., Hvi. 21 Ibid., Hiv. 22 Ibid., Hvi. 8 that the world had begun at a specific point in the past, and that someday, it would end and

Christ would return. This points to the reality that for the vast majority of early modern authors—whether clergy or laity—time perception and reckoning served just as much of a spiritual role as it did a societal or civil one.

Bearing in mind the above descriptions of time and perception offered by contemporary authors, I view the intersections between temporality and spirituality as integral to the ways time was generally perceived in early modern Germany—there were no distinct “sacred” and

“secular” understandings of time. Indeed, to make such a differentiation greatly risks missing the point: for the vast majority of authors during this period, time itself was sacred. Perhaps more than any other dimensional or perceptual aspect of human life, these writers regarded time as the realm via which God had revealed Himself to humanity in the flesh, the space in which people

(and all of creation) were brought into existence, and the mode by which people came to grasp salvation. As will become clear throughout the unfolding chapters, this reality pervaded even the most mundane or everyday temporal tasks, from purchasing a yearly calendar to remembering one’s birthday.

Organization This dissertation is organized into six chapters, each of which revolves around a site of discourse on temporality, or “crossing” to borrow from the language of entanglement. While such sites include textual, conceptual and historical crossings, they all signify fulcra around which early modern authors shared perspectives on one or more aspects directly related to the year’s time.

The chapters are ordered to follow one another analytically, and are to some degree chronological as well.

The first two chapters revolve around the observation of nature as it relates to the year’s time. Chapter 1 (“The Year(s) of Nature and Nature(s) of the Year”) discusses perceptions of 9 both nature and the natural year from the late fifteenth and throughout the sixteenth centuries. In particular, it traces the diverging ways people made temporal sense of nature’s year by the start of the sixteenth century, and how this variety had begun to evolve into a more singular conception by the end of the century. Chapter 2 (“Seasons of Health: The Year’s Time and

Medical Astrology in Sixteenth- and Early Seventeenth-Century Germany”) examines the seasons of the year from the vantage point of medical astrology, focusing on the practice of bloodletting, a risky procedure whose success was thought to depend on proper timing in regards to sundry astrological phenomena. Given the importance of timing in medicine, during the sixteenth century, printed calendars emerged as sites of humoral wisdom, often proliferating incongruous and even contradictory medical advice. In tracing the changing medical role of calendars, this chapter contextualizes the timing of bloodletting within wider questions and tensions that surrounded astrology and medicine in the early modern period.

Chapter 3, “Reading the Year: Redeeming Calendars in Early Modern Germany,” turns from nature towards calendars and religious understandings of them. The rising popularity of calendars throughout the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries engendered new attempts to spiritualize the act of calendar reading. On one hand, sermons affirm the increasing use of and esteem for calendars, as well as a sense of wonder for the year and the celestial lights and seasons that comprised it. On the other, they reveal an increasing tension concerning the burgeoning sway calendars seemed to hold over public consciousness.

Chapter 4 (“Reforming the Year: Holidays, Time and the Gregorian Calendar Reform in

Germany”) investigates debates between Catholics and Lutherans in Germany over the proper time(s) for Christian holidays in the ongoing controversy surrounding the Gregorian calendar reforms. While the 1582 reforms were adopted relatively quickly by Catholic territories, 10 numerous Protestant lands repudiated it until 1700, during which interval both old and new calendars were used on an official basis across the Empire. Yet, the new civil calendar was not the only issue at stake in this debate. Particularly during the first three decades following 1582, the reforms brought to the forefront vastly divergent ideas about time, the year and the sacredness of both. In examining these views, it becomes clear that for both Catholics and

Lutherans, the year’s religious holidays were important, but often for very different reasons.

Building on the preceding discussions of calendars and reception, Chapter 5 (“Between

Christmas and New Year’s: Towards a New New Year in Late Sixteenth- and Early Seventeenth-

Century Germany”) considers the legacies of change that surrounded 1 January and the civil new year. By the beginning of the sixteenth century, the start of the civil year in the German lands was gradually remitted from Christmas—as had been practiced throughout the middle ages—to 1

January. This chapter broadly traces this shift, as well as the processes by which authors of the late sixteenth century grappled with both old and new New Year’s. By the end of the sixteenth century, 1 January was firmly in place as the civil new year. Nonetheless, certain authors continued to actively create and promote knowledge of the “old” New Year to strengthen the contours of personal and religious identities.

Finally, Chapter 6 (“Years to Remember: Beginning(s), Middle(s) and End(s) of time In

Early Modern Germany”) analyzes the role New Year’s served in conjuring up spiritual ideas about time during the first half of the seventeenth century. It focuses primarily on New Year’s sermons, a homiletic genre that often used the civil new year to promote spiritual awareness of time and eternity, by drawing attention to time’s various beginnings, middles and ends. The temporal experience of beginning an entirely new year was used to underscore the eschatological tension between birth and death, creation and the imminent apocalypse. In highlighting these 11 temporal poles, authors sought to elevate temporal awareness in the lived present, the realm of time in which Christians were called to vigilantly await salvation. Exploring these depictions of time and the new year provides an opportunity not only to see with more fullness the rich, interwoven character of the year’s time in early modern Germany, but also to take stock of the various themes traced throughout the dissertation.

SOURCES, GENRES, AND AUTHORS To draw documentary parameters on a time-related project is not an easy task. Time and perception being omnipresent informants of human existence, with careful reading, virtually any source bears insight into the world of temporality. Accordingly, my research has relied on a wide variety of cultural historical documents published from the late fifteenth until the mid- seventeenth centuries, from emblem books and literary sources to broadsides, chronicles and journals. Three categories of sources, Table 1: Source Base Categorized by Genre Calendars and Almanacs 35% however, speak directly to early Sermons and Postils 33% Treatises 21% modern notions of the year and thus Other (emblems, chronicles, literature, journals, and 11% pamphlets) form the largest body of primary evidence: calendars and almanacs, sermons and intellectual treatises (See Table 1 above). The rich observations concerning annual circuits of time found in these sources allow one to glimpse what this unit of time meant during the early modern period.

a. Calendars and Almanacs

Calendars of the sixteenth century were a diverse genus of textual artifacts. With publications of calendars being promulgated almost as soon as the printing press was invented, these documents number among the oldest form of printed periodical literature in Europe.23 By the beginning of the sixteenth century, the utility of the printing press meant that the multi-year (or “perpetual”), hand-copied calendars of the late middle ages were slowly disappearing, although many printed

23 Andreas Würgler, Medien in der frühen Neuzeit (Munich: Oldenbourg Wissenschaftsverlag GmbH, 2009), 102. 12 calendars during the first decades of the sixteenth century retained the form of perpetual calendars.24 By and large, calendars were one of the cheapest and most widely distributed media of the early modern period.25 Among the most easily acquired examples were single-page calendars (Einblattkalender), suitable for hanging on the wall. These artifacts contained the numbered dates through the months as well as each date’s corresponding feast day, not to mention a variety of other information, such as health proverbs or verses from major Gospel readings throughout the year.26

Due to the abbreviated form of one page calendars, and the difficulty to find extant copies,27 I have opted to focus instead on what could be termed “astronomical calendars”

(astronomischer Kalender), compact booklets that contained not only relevant dates but also a multitude of pertinent astronomical and astrological information for the year at hand.28 While a more detailed exploration of this genre can be found in Appendix I of this dissertation (“Walking through a Sixteenth-Century Calendar”), several brief points on such texts are helpful to elucidate here. Similar to today, these calendars typically consisted of twelve concise tables or grids, one for each month of the year. In addition, however, the tables also featured various points of historical, liturgical, meteorological and astrological information pertaining to each day of the year. The longer format of astronomical calendars allows one to see more vividly the preferences and idiosyncrasies of each calendar author, and in some cases even to gain insight into their beliefs on such issues as astrology. Astrology was a highly popular but no less

24 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens. Die Entwicklung der in Nürnberg gedruckten Jahreskalender in Buchform” Archiv für Geschichte des Buchwesens 9 (1969): 965-1396, here 998. A prime example of this is Regiomontanus‘ German Kalender, published in various editions from 1474 until 1539. Johannes Regiomontanus, Kalender (Nuremberg: n.p., 1474). 25 Würgler, Medien in der frühen Neuzeit, 102. 26 Kerstin te Heesen, “Das Illustrierte Flublatt als Wissensmedium der Frühen Neuzeit” (PhD diss., Ruhr- Universität Bochum, 2009), 124-25, 129, 429. 27 Würgler, Medien in der frühen Neuzeit, 102-3. 28 C.f. Rudolf Wendorff, Tag und Woche, Monat und Jahr: eine Kulturgeschichte des Kalenders (Opladen: West Deutscher Verlag, 1993), 166-70. 13 controversial aspect of calendar making during the sixteenth century (as Chapter 2 of this dissertation examines more closely).

That calendars could speak to the range of perceptions and beliefs held by particular authors was even more the case when such texts were published with corresponding almanacs

(Practica or Prognostica), as was frequently the case from the mid-sixteenth century on. These appendectical booklets translated into prose the astrological and meteorological symbols conveyed in the calendar’s more abbreviated, tabular form. Increasingly throughout the sixteenth century, these almanacs came to furnish extended predictions and prognostications of one form or another—from meteorological speculations to forecasting war, famine, disease outbreaks or political developments.29

The authors of both calendars and almanacs came from a variety of backgrounds and locations throughout the German-speaking lands of the Holy Roman Empire. A basic knowledge of mathematics and astronomy was necessary to make a simple calendar with the correct dates during this period. If one wanted to create a more elaborate calendar, with health proverbs and advice on blood-letting, then training in medicine was also beneficial (the convergence of early modern medicine, astrology and calendars forms the basis of Chapter 2 of this dissertation). The authors of calendars used in this dissertation were all males, and most held positions as astronomers, mathematicians, physicians and, occasionally, theologians. At times, as was the case with the Viennese organist and botanist Johann Rasch (cited above), there was no clear connection between an author’s profession and his ability to write calendrical texts—though, conceivable, any university training involved basic mathematics and astronomy and thereby the ability to reckon the computations—like the date of Easter—featured in calendars.

b. Sermons

29 Wendorff, Kulturgeschichte des Kalenders, 169-70. 14

In addition to calendars and almanacs, sermons form a second major grouping of sources.

Many of the single sermons that feature in this project derive from larger sermon collections or postils. While sermon collections could be homilies bound together concerning any topic, occasion or scriptural passage—from patience and proper Sabbath behavior to hail storms and comet observations—postils were intended to provide sermons on the pericopes (or lectionary readings) for all Sundays and feast days of the Church year.30 Typically, they were published in two to three volumes: the first contained sermons for each Sunday from the first Sunday of

Advent (the start of the ecclesiastical calendar) until Easter Sunday, the second volume from

Easter to the last Sunday of Pentecost, and the third containing sermons for immoveable feast days, such as saint days or the Annunciation (25 March). The intended audience for these sermon collections was often “pastors who encountered occasional difficulties in sermon preparation or for those who respected the homiletic insights of master preachers and theologians.”31 Among

Protestants, the bulwark postil was Martin Luther’s, though many of his friends and followers

(among them Veit Dietrich, Paul Eber and Johannes Brenz), published their own postils throughout the sixteenth century and these were widely proliferated as well.32 There was a high demand for and proliferation of printed postils from the early decades of the Reformation into the seventeenth century—a new postil edition made its way to the prominent Frankfurt book fair every year or so.33 Though traditional scholarship has casually assumed that Lutherans

30 John M. Frymire, The Primacy of the Postils: Catholics, Protestants, and the Dissemination of Ideas in Early Modern Germany (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 12. 31 Patrick T. Ferry, “Confessionalization and Popular Preaching: Sermons against Synergism in Reformation Saxony,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 28, no. 4 (1997): 1143-66, here 1147. 32 Beth Kreitzer, “The Lutheran Sermon,” in Preachers and People in the Reformations and Early Modern Period, ed. Larissa Taylor (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 34-64, here 54-55. 33 Hans-Christoph Rublack, “Lutherische Predigt und gesellschaftliche Wirklichkeiten,” in Die Lutherische Konfessionalisierung in Deutschland: Wissenschaftliches Symposion des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte 1988, Schriften des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte 197, ed. Hans-Christoph Rublack (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1992), 344-95, here 347-48. As Susan C. Karant-Nunn notes, most pastors turned first to Luther’s postil—though they usually did not have the resources to own enough volumes to cover the entire year. “Preaching the Word in Early 15 dominated the publication of sermons,34 scholars are increasingly recognizing the prevalence of

Catholic sermons that abounded, particularly after the Council of Trent. As John Frymire has recently pointed out, postils were a genre in which Catholic authors also published abundantly from the late middle ages on.35

c. Treatises

The third category of sources include treatises, an umbrella term encompassing informational, expository texts on a given topic or situation. This description spans a large range of documentary manifestations, including medical handbooks, biblical expositions on the end times, and amateur writings on such subjects as comets, wonders, and meteorology. Given that I am particularly interested in cultural views on the year’s time, the treatises used throughout this project—like calendars and sermons—were generally published by (and for) lay intellectuals rather than by “eminent culture heroes,” to borrow a phrase from Elizabeth L. Eisenstein (one thinks of such figures as Nicolaus Copernicus and Johannes Kepler).36 These writers were university educated and went on to adopt practical careers, often as physicians or pastors, which necessitated (along with intellectual competence) engaging a variety of people and their everyday concerns. As such, they were some of the many inhabitants of the porous space

Modern Germany,” in Preachers and People in the Reformations and Early Modern Period, ed. Larissa Taylor (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 193-220, here 202-3. On the purchase and use of postils among Lutheran clergy, and the confessionalizing function of these sermon collections, see also Ferry, “Confessionalization and Popular Preaching,” particularly 1147-48. 34 Kreitzer, “The Lutheran Sermon,” 59. 35 Frymire, Primacy of the Postils, 11-15. Frymire also makes reference to the words of Nikolaus Hermann (d. 1561), a prominent Lutheran hymnist, who in 1559 reflected back on his boyhood days before the Reformation, and how well everyone knew the pericopes simply from hearing them so often throughout one’s life. Hermann writes:

“Because of [the lectionary being repeated annually], the common people grew accustomed to the same gospel pericopes year in and year out. In fact, they came to memorize most of them. During my youth, I saw and knew old, gray-haired folks, simple laypersons, and peasants who could wonderfully repeat the Sunday and feast day gospel pericopes aloud and, along with that, tell you upon which Sunday this or that gospel fell or was read.”

In: Nikolaus Hermann, Die Sontags || Euangelia/ vnd von den || Fuernembste Festen vber das gantze || Jar/ jn Gesenge gefasset (Leipzig: Jakob Bärwald, 1560), B3v-4r; qtd. in: Frymire, The Primacy of the Postils, 17. 36 The Printing Revolution in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 109. 16 between so-called elite and common culture—a distinction that historians have recognized as

“fluid” to begin with.37 They published in the vernacular rather than Latin, at times with an explicit objective of instructing the “common man.”38 Rather than presenting original findings, these documents often synthesized knowledge from other sources—depending on the topic of the text, this could range from the medical advisements from Avicenna to Martin Luther’s Bible commentaries—and explained it in simple, accessible language.

d. Blurred lines

As salient as these three document categories of sources are, there was often considerable overlap between them. This is particularly evident in the case of single authors—the writers of sermons, for example, often published treatises, and vice versa. There was also a degree of conceptual and textual intersections between genres. Calendars and almanacs were hardly exempt from containing devotional or didactic passages not unlike a homiletic text—neither were sermons void of calendrical reflections on the past or upcoming year.

Occasionally, the lines between genres were manipulated in intentional and creative ways to produce wholly novel document categories, as was the case with satirical calendars and almanacs, which can be found as early as the 1540s and were still being printed until at least the

1640s. These texts borrowed the rhetorical forms of calendars but employed the devotional and didactic strategies of sermons. While they occasionally bore the title of “grandmother” or

“grandfather almanacs,”39 these documents were more often termed “spiritual calendars”

(geistliche(r) Practica or Kalender). Their authors took issue with what was perceived to be a

37 C. Scott Dixon, “Popular Beliefs and the Reformation in Brandenbug-Ansbach,” in Popular Religion in Germany and Central Europe, 1400-1800, eds. Bob Scribner and Trevor Johnson (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 119-39, here 120; Kaspar von Greyerz, Religion and Culture in Early Modern Europe, 1500-1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 12. 38 E.g. Matthaeus Baderus, Praedictiones Meterologicae et Physicae (Straßburg: Wyriot, 1578), Aiir; Jakob Hornstein, Reformirter Reichs Calender (Ingolstatt: Wolfgang Eder, 1596), title page and Aiir. 39 E.g. Hans Christoph Becker, Aller Practicken unnd Pronosticken Großvater (n.p.: 1570); Johann Fischart, Aller Practick Grossmutter (n.p.: 1572). 17 spiritual reliance on almanacs, a point that will be explored more thoroughly in Chapter 4, which explores various examples of this genre. Whether through humor or admonishment, prose or verse, Catholic or Protestant, authors of such spiritual almanacs actively sought to redirect people’s gazes from written calendars and back to God. They did so in part by playing to the expectations of calendar readers in order to impart the objectives of homiletic admonishment.

e. Authors

Regardless of the genres they wrote, the authors in this project hailed from throughout the

German-speaking Holy Roman Empire, including Switzerland. About half practiced careers ranging from physicians, mathematicians, astronomers, alchemists, musicians, general literati or creative combinations thereof. The remaining half were trained as clergymen. On this point, it is worth mentioning that Lutheran pastors of this period were generally university educated in theology, as well as in Latin and the liberal arts.40 Particularly in smaller communities, pastors were among the most educated figures in a given area, and their households served a vital role in disseminating bourgeois culture to the countryside. 41 As Kaspar von Greyerz has noted, some of the greatest minds of early modern Germany grew up in parsonages.42

In terms of confession, authors came from either a Lutheran or Catholic context.

Although writers in other confessions were not mute on the topic of time, in Germany, it was the

40 Thomas Kaufmann notes variations in the extent of theology training and the duration prospective clergy members spent in university, particularly during the early phases of the Reformation, depending on their prior level of acuity in Latin and the liberal arts as well as whether they planned to serve in a rural or urban community. By the end of the sixteenth century, most pastors had obtained the standard liberal arts education along with theology training, though several cases exist in which pastors received no degree at all before taking a clerical post. Thomas Kaufmann, “The Clergy and the Theological Culture of the Age: The Education of Lutheran Pastors in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” in The Protestant Clergy of Early Modern Europe, eds. C. Scott Dixon and Luise Schorn-Schütte (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 120-36, here 123-25; see also R. Po-Chia Hsia, Social Discipline in the Reformation (London: Routledge, 1989), 15. 41 Greyerz, Religion and Culture, 74. 42 Ibid. 18

Lutherans and Catholics who wrote most prolifically to questions of the year.43 Of the two, the majority of authors I study were Lutheran, while about ten or fifteen percent were Catholic. This asymmetry arose naturally from the fact that most of the genres examined were heavily dominated by Protestant authors. This confessional incongruity reflects an important reality with regard to the year’s time in early modern Germany. Lutherans were at first glance far more vociferous than Catholics about their notions of the year and its times, indicated in part by the fact that calendars and sermons that spoke most lucidly to the topic at hand were more frequently authored by Lutherans. This is not to say Catholics were not preoccupied with time perception, but their concerns were of a different nature, one that encouraged them to express their thoughts in different ways and at different times than Lutherans. Despite the lower absolute number of

Catholic-authored sources, one can still find a similar qualitative expressions about time perception in Catholic sources as in Lutheran ones. While German Lutherans were more vociferous and prolific immediately following the 1582 calendar reform, Catholics soon responded in kind over the following decade; moreover, among the longest and most thematically wide-ranging treatises published in German for a lay audience was written by the

Catholic organist and amateur mathematician, Johann Rasch (†1612).44 While the discourses I explore are most often at work in Lutheran circles, I discuss them within the larger confessional context with an eye to the continuities and discontinuities between the two groups and their time perceptions.

HISTORIOGRAPHY The historical study of “time perception” is concerned with the way past societies perceived, experienced and expressed the passage of time. While the objective nature of time

43 E.g. Max Engammare, On Time, Punctuality, and Discipline in Early Modern Calvinism, trans. Karin Maag (Cambdrige: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 44 Johann Rasch, Neu Kalendar. 19 may remain constant across all societies and eras, the ways in which it is perceived, reckoned and calculated is situated in the social and historical dimensions of a given culture. Previous historical studies on this subject have largely focused on what has been termed “clock time,” i.e.

“time as shown or measured by a clock.”45 The historiography of time keeping can be broadly divided into three categories, as Paul Glennie and Nigel Thrift have pointed out in their recent history of clock time in England.46 The first category consists of works primarily concerned with the history and development of technology surrounding time-keeping. Social historical accounts of time and clocks, which tend to focus on the social and socializing function of timekeeping, constitute the second category. A final grouping consists of the way time is conceptualized, particularly as an aspect of modern cultural mentalities.47 Exploring these groupings of historical literature on the history of clock time highlights longstanding trends concerning historiographic views of time in society. Although the account of literature below generally adheres to the categories Glennie and Thrift have drawn attention to, it differs in several significant ways as will be indicated throughout the ensuing section.

The first two categories above, technological histories and social histories of time, occupy extremes on the spectrum of time-related historiography: at one end are works that depict history of time through the lens of technological objects while tending to overlook the social meanings they acquired, i.e. “the embodied, situated and concerted work that went into making the [usage of clocks] social facts.”48 Spearheading this movement was Lewis Mumford, for

45 Oxford English Dictionary Online, s.v. “Clock-time,” under “Clock” (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), www.oed.com.proxy.libraries.uc.edu/view/Entry/34516?redirectedFrom=clock+time& (accessed February 12, 2015). 46 Glennie and Thrift, Shaping the Day: A History of Timekeeping in England and Wales 1300-1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 22-64. 47 Ibid., 22. 48 Ibid., 29. 20 whom clocks stood as an iconic symbol, catalyzing western ingenuity.49 For Mumford, More than any other machine, the clock—with its steady pulse that remained undeterred by the natural elements—epitomized the emerging spirit of “modernity”:

By 1370 a well-designed ‘modern’ clock had been built by Heinrich von Wyck at Paris. […] The clouds that could paralyze the sundial, the freezing that could stop the water clock on a winter night, were no longer obstacles to time keeping: summer or winter, day or night, one was aware of the measured clank of the clock. […] The regular striking of the bells brought a new regularity into the life of the workman and the merchant. The bells of the clock tower almost defined urban existence. Time-keeping passed into time-serving and time-accounting and time-rationing. As this took place, Eternity ceased gradually to serve as the measure and focus of human action. The clock, not the steam engine is the key machine of the modern industrial age.50

For Mumford, a historian and philosopher of technology, the clock is unequivocally

“modern,” although the meaning of the term is not clarified. Regardless, it is the clock more than any other invention that brought about industrialization. As the clock face became the organizing principle for life, eternity and sacral time, by contrast, dwindled in significance. The contrast that emerges from this rationale delineates the “time” of modernity, which is rationed by the clock, from the time of pre-modernity, experienced qualitatively against eternity and subject to the caprice of the natural elements. Of the two, modernity’s time (characterized above by the

“regular” tolling of the hours) is the more standardized and regimented. The line of thought

Mumford embarked upon can be traced through the works of other historians of technology, including Carlos Cipolla, Lynn T. White, Jr., and David S. Landes.51 The value of these works

49 Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization (San Diego: Hartcourt Inc., 1934). Mumford was among the first modern historians to appropriate the clock into historiographical notions of modernity. To a lesser degree, Herbert Butterfield’s Origins of Modern Science 1300-1800 does the same for the history of science. According to Butterfield, clocks, in addition to barometers and other measuring instruments, paved the way for modern science, i.e. a realm of knowledge based on inquiry and experimentation rather than a priori truths passed down from the ancients: (New York: The MacMillan Company, 1959), 94-95. 50 Mumford, Technics and Civilization, 14. 51 Carlo M. Cipolla, Clocks and Culture 1300-1700 (New York: Walker, 1967); David S. Landes, Revolution in Time: Clocks and the Making of the Modern World (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1983); Lynn Townsend White, Medieval Technology and Social Change (London: Oxford University Press, 1964), esp. 118-28. 21 lay in that they provide detail-rich studies on the development of clocks, with particular emphasis on the economic context surrounding technological innovation. In doing so at the expense of other contexts, however—particularly wider social and cultural contexts—such works helped set in motion an oversimplified but nonetheless persuasive set of assumptions regarding the relationship between clock time and modernity, envisaging the latter as a self-evident social fact best exemplified by the rise of clock time.

At the other end of the spectrum lay explorations centered on the measurement of clock time and industrialization, without taking into account the cultural, material and experiential texture of time and time-keeping. This view of clock time is rooted in the social sciences, in particular the works of Émile Durkheim and Max Weber, both of whom viewed the societal utility of time to have grown more regulated and mechanized due to the industrial revolution.

Their concern for time was rooted in the development of capitalism and urbanization. The way time is measured and calibrated, for Durkheim, was a “social fact” that was known and believed universally by members of a society, and reflected the organization of that culture. It was the rhythms of life within a society, and the types of tasks and livelihoods a society was equipped to carry out, from which systems of time measurement emerged, rather than vice versa.52 Weber emphasized the historical roots of modern time keeping, highlighting the role that early

Protestant temporal values played in shaping the rise of disciplined time mores. Even before the rise of capitalism, it was the early generations of Protestants who first viewed time as something

52 Peter Burke, “Reflections on the Cultural History of Time,” Viator: Medieval and Renaissance Studies 35 (2004): 618. 22 to be managed and stewarded, like money. For them, according to Weber, management of time was a form of this-worldly asceticism, while wasting time was akin to “the deadliest of sins.”53

After Durkheim and Weber provided the social scientific foundation for studying time,

E.P. Thompson's widely influential Time, Work-Discipline and Industrial Capitalism solidified the social dimension of timekeeping as a topic of historical inquiry. 54 From the 1300s to 1650, according to Thompson, society’s “apprehension of time” witnessed a widespread transformation, exemplified by a greater sense of “time-discipline.”55 This new relationship to time-keeping originated in the labor and commercial sectors of pre-Industrial England, and was marked by increased precision, mechanization and regulation of time. Although public clocks had begun their dispersal throughout Europe in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, communities' relationship to time remained largely task-oriented rather than clock-oriented until the onset of industrialization, when notions of time-discipline and time-thrift were imposed by factory employers, educational institutions, and the devotional literature of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Puritanism.56

From the 1970s on, the notion of time-discipline has remained an influential paradigm among historians concerned with time and economy, many of whom took for granted that the rise of industrialization could be causally reduced to the rise of clock time.57 The majority of

53 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Talcott Parsons (New York: Scribner, 1930), 157-58. Weber’s view was perpetuated by the Marxist historian Christopher Hill, Change and Continuity in Seventeenth-Century England (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1974). 54 E.P. Thompson, “Time, Work-Discipline and Industrial Capitalism,” Past & Present 38, no.1 (1967): 56-97. 55 Ibid., 56. 56 Ibid., 85-91. 57 J.D. Chambers, Population, Economy and Society in Pre-Industrial England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972), 149; Emma Griffin, “Popular Culture in Industrializing England,” The Historical Journal 45, no. 3 (2002): 619-33, here 621-22; Herbert G. Gutman, “Time, Culture, and Society in Industrializing America, 1815- 1919,” The American Historical Review 78, no. 3 (1973): 531-88, esp. 536; Douglas A. Reid, “The Decline of Saint Monday 1766-1876,” Past & Present 71 (1976): 76-101, here 76-77, 93-94; Leonard N. Rosenband, “Productivity and Labor Discipline in the Montgolfier Paper Mill, 1780-1805,” The Journal of Economic History 45, no. 2 (1985): 435-43. While Rosenband critiques certain historical aspects of Thompson’s notion of time discipline (suggesting, for example, that productivity and regulated time schemes for labor were already in place in Montgolfier before the 23 these works were written by social and economic historians, who were concerned for the societal shifts that temporal innovations engendered. At the same time, Thompson's notion of time discipline coalesced with the self-evident notions of modernity and clock time underlying the technology-oriented accounts of time keeping described above, creating a dichotomous antagonism between the traditional, qualitative sense of time in pre-modernity and the quantified timekeeping of “modernity.” The time of modern, western societies is the precise time of the clock; the time of pre-modern, non-western, or non-capitalist societies is that of nature, experience, subjectivity and vagueness. In line with his latent Marxism, Thompson’s depiction of time-discipline serves as a tacit critique on western society. For many others, however— including Durkheim, Weber and Mumford—the dichotomy between time attitudes of modern and pre-modern societies assumes a triumphal tone—a laudation of western, industrial temporal mores over others. Peter Burke, in his review of time-oriented social history, has rightly appraised the basic binary at work here to be more than a polarity between modernity and pre- modernity, or between western and non-western societies. Instead it is ultimately an opposition between the Self and the Other. Accordingly, the time of the modern Self—with its exactness and uniformity—is cast against that of the pre-modern or nonwestern Other, whose local and imprecise view of time Burke describes as “organic.”58 In such a dichotomy, there are only two

rise of steam-driven machinery in factories, 435-36), his approach still equates modern “labor as we know it” (443) with the systematized ideal of clock time. See also Mark M. Smith, “Time, Slavery and Plantation Captialism in the Ante-Bellum American South” Past & Present 150 (1996): 142-68. While offering a slight corrective to certain elements of Thompson’s essay (e.g. the “brittle” distinction between task-oriented and time-discipline labor patterns, pp. 143-45), in this article, Smith expands notions of time discipline to apply to Ante-bellum south slave owners which were less influenced by the cultural milieu of Puritan devotion as Thompson’s British textile workers were. Tom E. Terrill, Edmond Ewing and Pamela White, “Eager Hands: Labor for Southern Textiles, 1850-1860,” The Journal of Economic History 36, no. 1 (1976): 84-99, here 95-96; Hans-Joachim Voth, “Time and Work in Eighteenth-Century London,” The Journal of Economic History 58, no. 1 (1998): 29-58. Voth critiques the weak source base of Thompson’s essay (30) but provides a more rigorous quantified model using printed labor reports published after 1748 in London to offer more support for a Thompsonian depiction of regulated time and labor practices (see esp. 35-40). 58 Burke, “Reflections on the Cultural History of Time,” 619. 24 modes of time, “irrespective of whether the [historical] context was ancient Greece, medieval

Europe, sixteenth-century France, the Nuer or the Kabyle.”59

With the rise of cultural historical and historical anthropological methodologies, a third approach can be observed that applied new frameworks and methods to examine the history of time not only from a technological or social perspective, but also from a conceptual one that emphasized the need to contextualize the meaning(s) of time pieces, practices and principles.60

Forerunners to these emphases include the works of Jacques Le Goff and Gerhard Dorhn-van

Rossum. Le Goff’s Time, Work and Culture in the Middle Ages distinguished between two competing strains of clock time at work in the high and late middle ages: the Church’s time, marked by a theological and qualitative understanding of time, and the Merchant’s time, which became increasingly regulated and clock-oriented as the rising merchant class’s economic enterprises grew more complex and geographically diffuse.61 Gerhard Dohrn-van Rossum’s

History of the Hour detailed the rise of clock time and urban temporal practices from the middle ages to modernity.62 At first glance, their works on time history fall victim to the same set of binary paradigms that had dichotomized modern and premodern, western and nonwestern understandings of time in historiography. Occasionally, for example, Le Goff depicts the qualitative time of the church and that of the merchant to be antagonistic to one another: the merchant’s time was “the beginning of the organization of work, a distant precursor to

59 Ibid. A similar critique was made in regards to anthropological discourses, and formed the central thesis of Johannes Fabian’s Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983). 60 In their third category of historiography, concerning conceptualizations of time, Glennie and Thrift orient discussion towards ways in which historical works have been underpinned by problematic or reductionist conceptualization of so-called modern time discipline (45-53). Dominant historical narratives concerning time history operate from the assumptions that clock time has triumphed over all other perspectives of time, that it is antithetical to natural time, and that it fuels an increasingly standardized, regulated experience of time (45-46). 61 Jacques Le Goff, “Merchant’s Time and Church’s Time in the Middle Ages,” Time, Work and Culture in the Middle Ages, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 29-42. 62 Gerhard Dohrn-van Rossum, History of the Hour: Clocks and Modern Temporal Reckoning, trans. Thomas Dunlap (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1996). 25

Taylorism” and “an instrument of class,” i.e. a modern, capitalist and capitalizing force.63

Similarly, Dohrn-van Rossum’s account intermittently brandishes the clock as a “modern” approach to hour-reckoning, vis-à-vis the earlier “canonical hours,” signaled by bells that rang at changing intervals, depending on the season.64

Yet, both historians broke with polarized depictions of time and modernity in new and significant ways. On an analytical level, Le Goff envisioned the relationship between the

Church’s time and the merchants’ time as something far more complex than a simplistic reduction between modern and pre-modern notions of time. The merchant’s time, for Le Goff, was a multifarious realm of temporal experience; he surmised that merchants dwelt in two temporal horizons simultaneously, and these two horizons often complemented rather than contradicted one another.65 More significantly, this temporal complexity in which medieval merchants lived was likely one of countless examples in which past people experienced multiple strands of time at once. Le Goff invites historians to explore “in a particular historical society the interaction between objective structures and mental frameworks, between collective adventures and individual destinies, and between the various times within Time.”66 Here Le Goff challenges historians to hunt for the multiplicity of simultaneous times in past societies, to view time in the plural rather than in the singular, a need that Peter Burke has reiterated more recently.67

In a similar fashion, Dorn-van Rossum’s work takes this line of thinking still further when he directly challenges the “cliché” assumption that pre-industrial European societies were more ignorant of regulated notions of time.68 Drawing attention to the continuities between the

63 Le Goff, “Merchant’s Time and Church’s Time in the Middle Ages,” 35-36. 64 See esp. Dohrn-van Rossum, “The Ordering of Time: the Introduction of Modern Hour-Reckoning,” in ibid., History of the Hour, 217-88. 65 Le Goff, “Merchant’s Time and Church’s Time in the Middle Ages,” 37. 66 Ibid., 37-38. 67 Burke, “Reflections on the Cultural History of Time,” 626. 68 Dohrn-van Rossum, History of the Hour, 9-10. 26 rise of clock time and temporal notions that preceded it, Dohrn-van Rossum sought to elucidate

"processes of change in urban temporal orders" that occurred alongside technological progress in time-keeping. In doing so, his work acts as both a historical and conceptual corrective of preexisting historiography: if the rise of clock time came from a preexisting understanding of time as something to be regulated, how did that shape meanings and understandings of clocks and time in the centuries to come?

In the decades since Le Goff and Dohrn-van Rossum, while the clock time paradigm still lives among many historians,69 new vistas have opened in the historiography related to time, offering historians an expanding repertoire of vantage points from which to explore past temporalities. In general, the number of historical studies that broadly engage temporality has increased, with works being published in a growing number of geographic and historical specialties, particularly in American and ancient history.70 Moreover, the time of the clock no longer presides over historiographical discussions of time. In its place, scholars have engaged a

69 One example of this is Chris Humphrey’s “Introduction” and “Time and Urban Culture in Medieval England” in Chris Humphrey and W.M. Ormrod, eds., Time in the Medieval World (Woodbridge, UK: York Medieval Press, 2001), 1-4 and 104-118, respectively. Humphrey frames this edited volume by noting that the Middle Ages occupy an “ambiguous place” in the history of time because they are “on the one hand recognizably pre-modern, and yet also arguably the birthplace of modern temporal sensibilities” (2). In his essay “Time and Urban Culture,” Humphrey defines this same “modern” sense of time as the tendency to measure the day with equal hours that are not subject to seasonal or other fluctuations (“Time and Urban Culture,” 105-6). 70 Recent historiographies which engage the topic of time and perception include: Thomas M. Allen, A Republic in Time: Temporality and Social Imagination in Nineteenth-century America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2008); Ian R. Bartky, Selling the Time: Nineteenth-century Timekeeping in America (Standford: Stanford University Press, 2001); Gertrud Bodmann, Jahreszahlen und Weltalter: Zeit und Raumvorstellungen im Mittelalter (Frankfurt am Main, 1992); Lin Foxhall, Hans-Joachim Gehrke and Nino Luraghi, eds., Intentional History: Spinning Time in Ancient Greece (Stuttgart : F. Steiner, 2010); Ross Hassig, Time, History, and Belief in Aztec and Colonial Mexico (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2001); Lee Jarvis, Times of Terror: Discourse, Temporality, and the War on Terror (New York : Palgrave Macmillan, 2009); William E. Jarvis, Time Capsules: A Cultural History (Jefferson: McFarland & Company Inc. Publishers, 2003); Giordano Nanni, The Colonization of Time: Ritual, Routine and Resistance in the British Empire (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); Ralph M. Rosen, Time and Temporality in the Ancient World (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, 2004); Hans Ruin & Andrus Ers, eds., Rethinking Time: Essays on History, Memory, and Representation (Huddinge: Södertörns högskola, 2011); Duncan Steel, Marking Time: the Epic Quest to Invent the Perfect Calendar (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 2000); Leofranc Holford-Strevens, The History of Time: a Very Short Introduction (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2005); Hugh F. Watson, Keeping Time: a History of Clocks, Watches and Barometers in a Provincial Town from 1700 until 1900 (Grantham : H.F. Watson, 2008); Cheryl A. Wells, Civil War Time: Temporality & Identity in America, 1861-1865 (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2005). 27 growing panoply of temporal modes and realms. Historical time,71 century time,72 liturgical time,73 play time,74 lifetimes,75 apocalyptic time,76 punctuality77 and eternity78 signify only some of the many new conceptual sites of analytical inquiry on this subject. In addition, those works which have continued to take up the subject of clock time have done so in new ways. A prime example of this is Glennie and Thrift’s study, which has focused neither on the clock-as-object nor on the divisive social disciplines that they produce, but rather on the complex “micro- practices” that make up the everyday, lived experiences of clock time.79 The aim of their study is not to produce a history of a singular clock time, but rather to elucidate the “degree and type of

71 Daniel Rosenberg and Anthony Grafton, Cartographies of Time: A History of the Timeline (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2010). See also: Reinhard Koselleck’s works on conceptual history, particularly his Zeitschichten. Studien zur Historik (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Verlag, 2000). In this, the last substantial work he published on time and concepts, Koselleck advocates a layered view of history that merges singular and recursive elements of the past. Koselleck’s work is best described as a theoretical examination of historical time, rather than a historiography in its own right—it signals a groundbreaking change in the way historians approach the study of the past in general, and historical time in particular. 72 Arndt Brendecke, Die Jahrhundertwenden: eine Geschichte ihrer Wahrnehmung und Wirkung (Frankfurt: Campus Verlag, 1999). 73 Richard W. Pfaff, “Telling Liturgical Times in the Middle Ages,” in Bryan Gillingham and Nancy Van Deusen, eds. Procession, performance, liturgy, and ritual: essays in honor of Bryan R. Gillingham (Ottawa: Institute of Mediaeval Music, 2007), 43–64; Gabrielle M. Spiegel, “Memory and History: Liturgical Time and Historical Time,” History and Theory 41 (2002): 149–62. 74 Amy Orrock, “Play Time: Picturing Seasonal Games in the Sixteenth Century,” in Spiritual Temporalities in Late-Medieval Europe, ed. Michael Foster (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2010), 165-185; Clifford Davidson, “Playing and the Ritual Year,” in ibid., Festivals and Plays in Late Medieval Britain (Burlington: Ashgate Publishing House, 2007), 1-48. 75 Thomas Duve, “Die Bedeutung des Lebensalters im frühneuzeitlichen Recht,” in Die Autorität der Zeit in der Frühen Neuzeit, eds. Arndt Brendecke, Ralf Peter-Fuchs, and Edith Koller (Berlin: LIT-Verlag, 2007), 93-118; Dagmar Freist, “Lebensalter und Konfession. Zum Problem der Mündigkeit in Religionsfragen,” in Die Autorität der Zeit in der Frühen Neuzeit, eds. Arndt Brendecke, Ralf Peter-Fuchs, and Edith Koller (Berlin: LIT-Verlag, 2007), 69-92; Michael Stolberg, “Zeit und Leib in der medikalen Kultur der Frühen Neuzeit,” in Die Autorität der Zeit in der Frühen Neuzeit, eds. Arndt Brendecke, Ralf Peter-Fuchs, and Edith Koller (Berlin: LIT-Verlag, 2007),49-68. 76 Albert I. Baumgarten, ed., Apocalyptic Time (Leiden: Brill, 2000); Elisheva Carlebach, “Jews, Christians, and the Endtime in Early Modern Germany,” Jewish History 14 (2000): 331–44; Andrew Escobedo, “The Book of Martyrs: Apocalyptic Time in the Narrative of the Nation,” Prose Studies: History, Theory, Criticism 20, no. 2 (1997): 1–17. 77 Max Engammare, On Time, Punctuality, and Discipline in Early Modern Calvinism, trans. Karin Maag (Cambdrige: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 78 Carlos Eire, A Very Brief History of Eternity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010); Jaritz Gerhard and Gerson Moreno-Riaño, eds., Time and Eternity: The Medieval Discourse (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003). 79 Glennie and Thrift, Shaping the Day, 29. 28 interaction and mutual construction among several coeval time-senses,” or the development of multiple perceptions and experiences of time within a single culture or situation.80

The ever-widening approach towards time among historians can be understood as a movement towards studying time as an experienced phenomenon, rather than as an external object to be measured or a social good to be controlled. As Karl Brunner posits, time is first and foremost understood via experience, and the systematically-regulated time of the clock and calendar are little more than an artificial grid system that reflects only a very limited component of experienced time (erlebte Zeit). The historian must add to the external, quantitative measurements of time’s passing the qualitative aspects of time experience.81 As fascinating as this is, however, it presents historians with a host of new questions and difficulties concerning the study of temporality. The time perceptions latent in many written sources from the past reveal that notions of time are multifarious and multidimensional—tied less to straightforward clocks, tolls, calendars and numbers, and much more to a manifold array of cues from natural and personal worlds of experience. Mapping out this complexity, and developing analytical strategies to articulate it, has become a new and important task for historical works on time.

Part of this trend is the recent edited volume Frühe Neue Zeiten.82 Each essay in the volume seeks to elucidate a realm of temporal practices—from how (or whether) early modern people remembered their birthdays, to how they pictured the hour of death—that were characterized by variegation and change in Europe from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries.

One of the main theoretical bases for this work is what Achim Landwehr has termed “plural

80 Ibid., 58. 81 Karl Brunner, “Anmerkungen über die Zeit,” in Zeit und Geschichte: Kulturgeschichtliche Perspektiven, eds. Erhard Chvojka, Andreas Schwarz and Klaus Thien (Vienna: Oldenbourg Wissenschafts-Verlg, 2002), 10. 82 Achim Landwehr, ed., Frühe Neue Zeiten: Zeitwissen Zwischen Reformation und Revolution (Bielefeld: Transkript Verlag, 2012). 29 temporality” (Pluritemporalität), the phenomenon by which societal groups—like Le Goff’s

Christian merchant—can hold different time perceptions in comparison to one another:

Pluritemporality critically challenges the misleading idea that we are only dealing with one form of time in the past, which is self-evidently expressed by clocks and calendars. On the contrary, societies do not live in a cocoon of a monolithic time- regime, and thus they do not experience one singular simultaneous time, but rather countless forms of time existing in parallel to one another. [Societal groups] exist thus in a world of synchronicities. One can realize this understanding […] when one […] keeps one’s eyes open for the [temporal] tug- of-war that goes on around people. Then one will actually be able to confirm that not everyone [who lives at the same time] lives in the same time. […] This phenomenon of Simultaneities, i.e. the multiplicity of times in one present moment, is what is meant here by pluritemporality.83

Landwehr provides methodology and terminology for what Le Goff pointed out decades earlier, which is the propensity for different perceptions of time to exist in one historical society. Like Le

Goff, Landwehr’s interest lay in the dissonan time perceptions that exist within single societies.

New temporal systems take hold in a society, but not all groups adapt to the new time perception evenly. According to this view, new time constructs do not simply replace old ones but instead they exist in tandem with the old for a while. Likewise, old time perceptions dissipate very slowly, only fully disappearing when they lose their social function.

Yet in light of the ever-increasing vantage points from which historians have explored questions of time, it is surprising that more attention has not been paid to the year’s time. Despite its more direct temporal correlation to clock time, the year’s time remains largely unexplored and

83 Landwehr, ed., Frühe Neue Zeiten, 24-6, emphasis author’s: “Pluritemporalität bezeichnet den methodischen Zweifel an der irreführenden Idee, wir hätten es nur mit einer einzigen Form der Zeit zu tun, die mit der Zeit der Uhren und Kalender zur Deckung zu bringen wäre. Gesellschaften leben nicht im Kokon eines monolitischen Zeitregimes, kennen also nicht nur eine singuläre Form der Gleichzeitigkeit, sondern pflegen zahlreiche, parallel zueinander bestehende Zeitformen, existieren also in einer Welt der Gleichzeitigkeiten. Zu der Einsicht […] kann man bereits gelangen, wenn man—gänzlich unbeleckt von zeittheoretischen Debatten—die Augen offen hält für das gesellschaftliche Mit- und Gegeneinander, das um einen herum vor sich geht. […] Dieses Phänomen der Gleichzeitigkeiten, also der Vielzahl der Zeiten in einer Gegenwart, soll hier unter dem Stichwort der Pluritemporalität werden.” 30 even unrecognized as a temporal mode worthy of historical inquiry.84 Two notable historians are exceptions to this trend. David Cressy drew attention to the year as a parcel of time in his study of how calendars were transformed following the English Reformation.85 His exploration of letters, church records, sermons and pamphlets reveals an intricate collection of continuities and discontinuities between pre- and post-Reformation calendrical norms. Even after the

Reformation, which sought to renounce adherence to saints and religious feasts, the year persisted as a palimpsest of both new and old temporal behaviors and beliefs; printed calendars continued to be “layered with a combination of astronomical, agricultural, pagan, Christian, legal, dynastic, national, local and customary seasons and dates.”86 Supplementing Cressy’s work is that of Ronald Hutton, whose Rise and Fall of Merry England outlines the changing historical contours of the English ritual year.87 Analyzing the financial records kept by church wardens, Hutton shows that the ritual year as it was celebrated in Pre-Reformation England of the early sixteenth century was relatively new. Having developed quickly throughout the late middle ages in response to social and economic factors, it was not rooted in the traditions of time immemorial, contrary to the depiction of rituals as such given not only by modern scholars but

84 Here my comments refer primarily to conceptual historiographies on the year’s time, i.e. works that expressly engage the ways in which people related to the year or calendars as temporal constructs and concepts. I am not, for example, taking into account the many works charting the development of various calendars used throughout history. 85 David Cressy, Bonfires and Bells: National Memory and the Protestant Calendar in Elizabethan and Stuart England (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). 86 Ibid., 32. 87 Ronald Hutton, The Rise and Fall of Merry England: the Ritual Year 1400-1700 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). The ritual year in England, first studied by Charles Pythian-Adams, lasted about a half-year beginning around Christmas, and consisted of both religious and secular or political holidays celebrated in widespread public festivals and rituals. While the religious feasts were common across much of Western Christendom, many of the political ceremonies were unique to England or its regions. Hutton, Rise and Fall of Merry England, 5-6; Charles Pythian-Adams, “Ceremony and the Citizen: the Communal Year at Coventry” in Crisis and Order in English Towns, 1500-1700, eds. Peter Clark and Paul Slack (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1972), 57-85. 31 also by early modern people.88 The meanings of festivals and dates can fluctuate over time according to cultural, religious and economic factors.

In a similar fashion, Elisheva Carlebach’s Palaces of Time takes to task a specific sub- category of Reformation-era calendar, namely early modern Jewish calendars in Europe.

Carlebach’s work is based on the premise that “(c)alendrical systems often appear to be static, neutral and unchanging, but they are in fact dynamic systems that are continually being modified and reshaped as new considerations and calculations emerge.”89 Her groundbreaking work establishes the time of the calendar as a category of social and cultural historical analysis, demonstrating not only the central place that calendars occupied in the consciousness of early modern Europeans in general, but in particular the ways that Jews contested and negotiated religious and cultural identities and temporal perceptions by use of their own calendars.

ANNUAL ENTANGLEMENTS

Discourses on entangled history have informed my methodology and understandings on the topic of time perception. French Historians Bénédicte Zimmermann und Michael Werner first described entangled history (histoire croisée, Verflechtungsgeschichte) in the early 2000s as a corrective to the shortcomings of the comparative approach.90 As they saw it, comparative methodology was foundationally tied to notions of binary opposition—usually between objects of inquiry that have been artificially situated by the historian to elucidate certain historical phenomena rather than allowing them to surface organically. In order to do so, the objects or events under historical inquiry must remain analytically separate so as to better highlight their

88 Hutton, Rise and Fall of Merry England, 49-68. 89 Carlebach, Palaces of Time, 1. 90 Their groundbreaking essay is still the best primer to this methodology: Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmermann, “Beyond Comparison: Histoire Croisée and the Challenge of Reflexitivity,” History and Theory 45, no. 1 (2006): 30–50. 32 differences and similarities. Moreover, the two (or more) items must be compared by isolating them not only from one another, but also by isolating them in time. Comparative history, according to Zimmermann and Werner, too often must resort to synchronic, static comparison.

The French term histoire croisée literally means “crossed” history, crossed here having two meanings: to “place or fold crosswise one over the other” and to “meet in passing, especially from opposite directions.” Thus, a historical crossing signifies a “point of intersection where events occur that are capable of affecting to various degrees the elements present depending on their resistance, permeability or malleability, and on their environment.” If history is a cord woven together of various strands, entangled history seeks to illuminate the points at which these distinct strands cross and intersect, rather than disentangling the cords to examine them separately. These points of intersection arise organically from historical sources and discourses, and are not construed or sought out beforehand. Moreover, the elements that are crossing over one another ought not to be examined in relation to one another, but rather in and through one another, “in terms of relationships, interactions, and circulation,” and with a focus on its evolution approach that considers how the crossing came about and what the effects were afterwards.91

At least one historian has expressed the need to merge the language of entanglements and historical time perceptions. Gabriele Jancke conceptualizes time perception as a phenomenon characterized first and foremost by entanglements, i.e. points at which various streams of time perception cross over one another and become inextricably bound.92 As such, the perception of time is neither cyclical nor linear, organic nor mechanized, micro- nor macro; people tend to

91 Michael Werner and Bénédicte Zimmermann, “Beyond Comparison,” 38. 92 Gabriele Jancke, “Zeithorizonte: Zugehörigkeit, Gebrauchsvergangenheit und Zukunftsorientierung in Selbstzeugnissen der Frühen Neuzeit” (paper presented at the interdisciplinary workshop “Zeit-Geschichte(n):” Zeitwahrnehmungen und –praktiken ca. 1400–1700, Berlin, 21 June 2013). 33 integrate many aspects and perceptions of time to suit social necessities and individual experiences. It is not that time perception is both cyclical and linear, for example; the interaction, or entanglement, between the two constitutes novel and unique time perceptions that must be explored, articulated and evaluated by the historian on a case-by-case basis. To disentangle them, even for heuristic or analytical purposes, in many cases denies the integrity of these unique time perceptions. All of this Jancke sums up with the term entangled temporalities (verflochtene

Zeitigkeit) a term she developed in contrast to Landwehr’s pluritemporality to emphasize that the multifarious aspect of time perception extends even past societal groups and into individual understandings of time. As Jancke argues, it is not uncommon to find multiple, at times even contradictory, ideas regarding time expressed by single authors. The historian’s job is to probe time perceptions even on the level of subjective entanglements as expressed in the sources.

The language and vocabulary of entanglement, of a braided and multi-stranded picture of things, is not foreign to the pictures early modern authors had of the year’s time. Writing in the first decade of the seventeenth century, Hessen pastor Hartmann

Braun vividly illustrated this aspect of the year when he wrote: “Just as a girl makes a beautiful wreath, winding and adorning it with all sorts of lovely, fragrant flowers, so too is the year a round and variegated wreath, [full] of beautiful and lovely little flowers of

God’s bounty.”93 One pictures the process of making a wreath: wrapping and winding stems together into an endless circle. A year was a composite whole, one worked together of various munificent items.

93 Hartmann Braun, Eine christliche Dancksagungs Predigt, für die newe lutherische Academia zu Giessen im Ober Fürstenthumb Hessen, über den 96. Psalmen deß Propheten Davids. Item, Corona anni: Das ist, Die runde und bunde Jahrs Krone, der vielen und mancherley Edelgestein (Darmstadt: Hofmann, 1608), 31: “Wie aber nun ein Jungfräwlein einen schönenen Kranz machen und mit allerlei lieblichen wolriechenden Blümlein bewickeln und zieren kann / also ist auch das ganz Jar wie ein runder und bunter Kranz von schönen und lieblichen Blümblein der Güter unnd Gaben Gottes.“ 34

Among the numerous elements that early modern authors pointed to as they described their perceptions of the year, three temporal modes surfaced most often: the year of the civil calendar, the year of the Church, and the year of nature, with its seasons and cycles. If the year can be likened to a wreath, perhaps these were the three underlying

“stems” it was made of. As distinct as these three years were conceptually, they were inextricably tied to one another in the day to day scheme of time, and descriptions of it in the sources. Rather than parsing out single elements or strands of the early modern time perception, it is only by exploring the points at which divergent elements interacted, collided and crossed over one another that one gains the fullest awareness of and appreciation for the complex phenomenon of the year’s time in sixteenth and seventeenth century Germany. The episodes and topics focused on throughout the dissertation signify temporal crossings, “junctures” at which the three years can be seen to function in tandem with one another. 35

CHAPTER 1: YEAR(S) OF NATURE AND NATURE(S) OF THE YEAR: MAKING TEMPORAL SENSE OF NATURE IN THE LONG SIXTEENTH CENTURY

In compiling his 1581 almanac,1 pastor and astrologer Georg Caesius faced something of a dilemma.2 This quandary did not involve reconciling his seemingly opposing vocations of clergyman and stargazer—for Caesius, almanacs functioned as an extension of his homiletic voice, and the stars were “simply a window on God’s mind.”3 The copies of Caesius’ works that still remain suggest he had been publishing yearly calendars and almanacs from at least 1570 and continued to do so until 1604. Although some criticized the “dabbling” of pastors in astrology,

Caesius’ yearly prognostica reflect a perception of the heavens in which stars, planetary alignments and rogue comets were preaching just as clearly as any biblical text the need for the

German people to repent or face future perils.4 For his part, Caesius felt the study of astronomy helped Christians observe the divine order in nature (Göttliche Ordnung in der Natur), which in

1 Georg Caesius, Practica || Von den vier Zeiten/ Fin=||sternussen/ Cometen/ etc. vnd derselben bedeu=||tungen/ Auff das Jar nach Christi ... || Geburt M.D.LXXXII (Nuremberg: Fuhrmann, 1581). Note: the publication date of almanacs and calendars are typically one year prior to the year they were based on. Thus, Caesius’ 1581 almanac contained predictions relevant to 1582. Throughout the dissertation, I refer to the publication year rather than the calendar year unless otherwise stated. 2 Consortium for European Research Libraries (CERL) Thesaurus, s.v. “Caesius, Georg,” Online Version < http://thesaurus.cerl.org/record/cnp00443589>. Ceasius’ son, Georg Friederich Caesius, (d. 1607) followed in his father’s footsteps, receiving his theology degree and publishing calendars and almanacs. Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1092-93. 3 C. Scott Dixon, “Popular Astrology and Lutheran Propoganda in Reformation Germany,” History 83 no. 3 (1999): 403-18, here 411; for a wider discussion of Caesius’ homiletic/almanac works, see 414-15. 4 In 1588 Caesius persuaded fellow clergyman Michael Stiber to critique an almanac by Johannes Schülein (also a pastor), whose predictions ran against the grain of Caesius’ own depiction of that year. Stiber acquiesced, noting the deficiencies of Schülein’s work and requesting the margrave not publish it. At the end of his critique, however, he had this to say on the topic of pastors “dabbling” in astrological prognostication: “For myself, I cannot see […] that pastors should dabble in such work. It would be better if the practitioners of astronomy were ordered and commissioned, and that they write only what is well-grounded in astronomy and in harmony with the Holy Word of God.” Georg Caesius, Landeskirchliches Archiv Nuremberg, Markgräfliches Konsistorium Ansbach, Spez. 942, Wallmersbach Miscellanea: Kalendarium des Pfarrers Johann Schülein 1588-91, qtd in: C. Scott Dixon, “Popular Astrology,” 411-412 and footnote 31. Klaus Matthäus describes Ceasius’ almanacs as characterized by a pastoral rhetoric that never tired of calling people to repent. Klaus Matthäus, “Die offiziellen Nürnberger Kalenderschreiber,” in Astronomie in Nürnberg, ed. Gudrun Wolfschmidt (Hamburg: Tredition Science, 2010), 1085-96, here 1090. 36 turn made it possible to discern natural signs like equinoxes from supernatural ones

(übernatürlichen Zeichen), like comets. This task was all the more needful because the Last Days were approaching, and with them a whole host of celestial portents of scourges such as war and pestilence.5

However, in addition to the prospect of the world ending, Caesius deliberated over an even more basic question: when would each season end? This was a pertinent question since the various meteorological and astrological predictions of almanacs during this period were typically organized by season. The start and end date of each season were noted, sometimes even down to the hour and minute of a particular astronomical event, such as a solstice.6 In his 1581 almanac,

Caesius’ references to these termini imply a slight ambivalence. For example, he writes that he

“would like to begin autumn on [the feast of St.] Bartholomew [24 August], or from the full moon that falls before the equinox. But astronomy puts autumn’s beginning when the sun enters into the sign of Libra, making day and night equal.“7 In other words, although Caesius conceives of autumn beginning around the late-August celebration of Bartholomew’s Day or the September full moon, astronomers begin measuring the season from the time of the autumnal eclipse,

“which happens this [15]82nd year on the 13th of September, 6 hours and 28 minutes after noon.”8 This latter time—the autumnal equinox—is the point from which Caesius begins his predictions for the autumn months of 1582. Nonetheless, given his passing reference to other

5 Georg Caesius, Practica (1581), Aiir-v. 6 Note: this level of precision—timing astronomical events down to the hour of day—was typical of early modern almanacs, calendars and astronomical treatises. Pointed measurements such as minutes, however, were derived not from clocks (which lacked minute hands until the end of the seventeenth century) but astrolabes and armillary spheres. Willis I. Milham, Time and Timekeepers (New York: MacMillan, 1945), 195. 7 Caesius, Practica (1581), Ciir: „Den Herbst mochte ich wol von bartholomei anfahen/ oder vom Volmond / so vor dem Aequinoctio einfelt/ Aber astronomice [sic] hat der Herbst seinen anfang/da die Sonn in das zeichen Wag eintritt/und tag und nacht zum andern mal gleich werden.“ 8Ibid., Ciir: “welchs dis 82. Jar geschicht/ den 13. Septembris/ 6 Stund 28. Minuten nach mittag.” 37 means of commencing the season, the question remains: when did autumn, and the other seasons, begin and end in sixteenth-century Germany?

This chapter explores the ways in which people perceived the year of nature and made sense of time via nature’s annual circuits. My analysis focuses on the issues of temporality in the year of nature, from questions of timing to methods of measuring and calibrating natural events against other time frames such as the civil calendar. Yearly almanacs of this period provide the most relevant material for such an endeavor. The authors of these texts were usually university trained, going on to work as astronomers, physicians, mathematicians or (as in the case of

Caesius) clergymen.9 Until the late sixteenth century, almanacs were most often printed as stand- alone texts that offered astrological prognostications for the year at hand, ranging from meteorological and agricultural predictions to the hazardous effects of eclipses and planetary alignments on human life. During the latter part of the century, however, almanacs came to be printed together with calendars as a single book that Klaus Matthäus has termed a “calendar- almanac” (Kalenderpraktik).10 In such instances, almanacs functioned as an appendix of sorts, expanding on the astrological and meteorological implications contained in the more abbreviated, tabular pages of calendars.11 As Dieter Kempens has shown, consumers preferred to

9 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1005-1006; C. Scott Dixon, “Popular Astrology,” 403-18. 10 Matthäus, “Die offiziellen Nürnberger Kalenderschreiber,” 187; idem, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1002-1003. Exactly when this became standard practice is unclear, in part because there are more extant almanacs than calendars for much of the sixteenth century. Matthäus points out that this trend is likely due to the fact that calendars, used and consulted in a variety of ways, succumbed to the rigors of everyday life more than almanacs did, which were a purely written text unsuitable for constant referencing (Ibid., 1006). On a related note, Harald Tersch attributes the great success of writing calendars (Schreibkalender) during the seventeenth century to the almanacs with which they were frequently printed, which provided a foundation for educating oneself on various topics pertinent to weather, agriculture and social problems like inflation. Harald Tersch, Schreibkalender und Schreibkultur. Zur Rezeptionsgeschichte eines frühen Massenmediums, Schriften der Vereinigung Österreichischer Bibliothekarinnen und Bibliothekare 3, ed. Wolfgang Neugebauer (Graz-Feldkirch: WEKA-Verlag Gesellschaft, 2008), 24. 11 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1005-1006. 38 buy calendars with almanacs as the latter contained foundational astrological explanations to complement the concise indications of calendars.12

The year as perceived through nature provided an organizing framework for most almanacs, whose introductory chapters typically corresponded to the four seasons. Following a brief discussion of what “nature” and the “year” meant to these authors, the chapter progresses to the increments that comprised the year of nature: the first section discusses when the year of nature was thought to begin and how long it lasted, while the second focuses on the four seasons.

The picture that emerges indicates that the year of nature and its timing was a mutable and flexible concept throughout the sixteenth century. In exploring these facets of the year’s time, it must be noted that this chapter does not attempt a cultural history of the year or nature.13 It concentrates instead on the many ways in which people sought to make temporal sense out of nature’s yearly cycles and movements. Events of nature’s year—such as the start of seasons— could be seen to occur on several different dates. To some extent, during the decades leading into the seventeenth century this diversity surrounding the year of nature’s timing gave way to broader consensus and uniformity.

Before moving on to the body of this chapter, it is necessary to explore what was generally understood by the “year of nature” from the vantage point of early modern sources. In the concluding section of the 1518 almanac above described, Regiomontanus set out to define what a year was according to the apparent path the sun takes throughout the year:

It is to note that we observe our year, with Christian orderliness [cristlicher ordnung], according to the sun's course through the 12 signs of heaven, and as long

12 Dieter Kempens, “Der Erfolg der Prognostica auf dem Buchmarkt in der Frühen Neuzeit” Jahrbuch für Kommunikationsgeschichte 16 (2014): 5-27, here 7-8. 13 In regards to the year and nature, Bridget Ann Henisch’s work is the closest anyone has come to such a cultural historical endeavor. Solidly situated as an exploration of medieval pictorial calendars, her intensive analysis and deft ability to read images of the monthly labors allow her to speak lucidly and critically to the social reality of the monthly labors throughout the high and late Middle Ages: The Medieval Calendar Year (University Park: Penn State University Press, 1999). 39

of a time the sun takes to go through all twelve signs is the time we hold to be a year. Now this takes the sun 365 days and a little less than 6 hours, and as many days and hours that make fifty two weeks and one day.14

Three decades later, physician Eucharius Rößlin the younger15 likely borrowed from

Regiomontanus when he featured a nearly identical description of the year in his 1547 almanac:

“As much time as the sun needs to cross through the twelve signs we take as a year. Now the sun needs 365 days and a little less than 6 hours [to complete this]. For this reason, a year has as many days and hours as to comprise 52 weeks and one day.”16 Both authors define the timeframe of the year according to the sun’s circuit through the zodiac belt; as the sun’s position in the sky changes according to season, it crosses through the first degree of the next zodiac sign about every thirty days.17 In modern terminology, this is known as the solar or tropical year. In early modern usage, the same year was most frequently termed the “astronomical year”

(astronomisches Jahr), though “Sonnenjahr” (solar year) was not uncommon.18 While written definitions of this year, such as those offered by Regiomontanus and Rößlin above, did not surface often in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century almanacs, definitions and understandings concerning the astronomical year appear to have remained largely constant. In his 1667 almanac,

Gottfried Kirch, the court astronomer of Berlin, differentiated “astronomical types”

(Astronomische Arten) of years from the civil and liturgical years. Unlike the latter two, the

14 Regiomontanus, Kalender (Augsburg: n.p., 1518), Qv. 15 Not to be confused with his more famous father of the same name. Eucharius Rößlin the elder (d. 1526) was well known for publishing the first midwifery manual in Europe: Der Swangeren Frauwen und Hebammen Rosegarten (Straßburg: n.p., 1513). For bibliographic information on Eucharius Rößlin the younger, see: Consortium for European Research Libraries (CERL) Thesaurus, s.v. “Eucharius Rößlin ,” Online Version < http://thesaurus.cerl.org/record/cnp00116065>. 16 Eucharius Rößlin, Calender, mit Underrichtung astronomischer Wirckungen (Frankfurt: Egenolph, 1547), 2r: “So viel die Sonnzeit bedarff/ Daß sie durchlauff die 12.Zeichen/ nemen wir für ein jar. Nun bedarff die Sonn 365 tage und 6 Stund/ ein wenig minder/ Darumb hat das jar so vil tag und stunden / die bringen 52 Wochen und einen tag.“ 17 For diagrams and historical context concerning how the times of equinoxes and solstices were measured, see Evans, History and Practice of Ancient Astronomy, 76 and 205-44; Margaret J. Osler, Reconfiguring the World: Nature, God and Human Understanding from the Middle Ages to the Early Modern World (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 2010), 14. 18 E.g. Rasch, Neu Kalendar, Bv. 40 astronomical types of year are bound neither to the calendar nor the church but were “tied to heaven itself.”19 Kirch thought of the sun as the “measuring wheel” (Maß-Rad) by which this kind of year was to be reckoned, because its path through the sky “describes the year (inasmuch as it wanders from one place in the heavens through the zodiac, until it comes back to the same place).” 20 Kirch’s definition of the year is similar to that of Regiomontanus and Rößlin earlier in the period—all three measure the year in accordance with the sun’s path through the zodiac.

Unlike Regiomontanus and Rößlin, however, Kirch refers to the astronomical year in the plural

(“astronomical types” of the year). His purpose in doing so was not to say there were multiple varieties of astronomical years themselves, but rather that different groups of people (all adhering to the same way of measuring the astronomical year) chose different times at which to begin the year—a point that will be discussed in greater detail in the following section.

While early modern authors favored the term “astronomical year” for this mode of the year, throughout this chapter and dissertation, I frequently refer to this same mode of the year as the “year of nature.” Doing so draws analytical attention to the fact that, in the wider conceptions of early modern people, the solar year entailed far more than an abstract unit of measurement based on the sun’s charted path through the sky. While the sun’s apparent motion was the

“measuring wheel,” to borrow Kirch’s term, it was also the fulcrum at the center of all temporal circuits, rhythms and events in the created world. As will become clear, the sun and the year it described held the keys to influence and propel temporal rhythms and events throughout all realms of nature.

19 Gottfried Kirch, Christen-, Juden- und Türken-Kalender für das Jahr 1667, reprinted in: Klaus-Dieter Herbst, ed., Christen-, Juden- und Türken-Kalender für das Jahr 1667, Acta Calendariographica 1 (Jena: Verlag HKD, 2008), A2v: “an den Himmel selbst bindet.” 20 Kirch, Christen-, Juden- und Türkenkalender, A2v. 41

“Nature” in early modern Germany was not a unified concept either but signified vast and diverse categories of reality.21 At the very least, it entailed all creation, consisting as one author put it of the great “OPERA NATUR, the work of creation, of heaven and earth and everything within

[them].”22 As such, the vast territory of nature stretched from the furthest reaches of the cosmos, i.e. the “highest” (höchste)23 or “heavenly” (himlische)24 nature, down to the workings of the innermost organs of the human body. Within this great territory, there were two distinct realms— that of the heavens and of earth. On one hand, these two realms were inextricably linked, both subsisting from the hand of God as part of the same creation. On the other, the two realms of nature differed from each other in a vital way. Earthly life—or, rather, everything below the moon—was composed of the four material elements: wind, water, earth and fire. As a result, nature on earth was subject to change and decay, and was highly influenced by the power of planets and stars. This was the jurisdiction of winds and waves, storms and sickness, comets and clouds, birth and death. By contrast, celestial nature (everything beyond the sublunary realm) was composed of the fifth element, the quintessence. As such, the heavens were immutable and fully immune to degeneration and corruption. Too, the heavens—its planets, stars, and all their movements and angles towards one another—had the power to influence life on earth.

All this is to say that nature in the early modern sense was not something distantly removed from the human person or society—it was not the untamed wilderness or what you encountered when one stepped outside. Nature, in a sense, was everywhere, even inside

21 C.f. Kathleen Crowther-Heyck, “Wonderful Secrets of Nature: Natural Knowledge and Religious Piety in Reformation Germany,” Isis 94 no. 2 (2003): 253-73, here 273. Conversely, Lorraine Daston’s essay on concepts of the “unnatural” and “supernatural” provides an insightful exploration of the non-natural world through early modern eyes: “The Nature of Nature in Early Modern Europe,” Configurations 6 (1998):149–72. 22 Elias Ehinger, Cometen Historia (Augsburg: Schultes, 1619), Aiir: “die OPERA NATUR, die werck der natur/ als himmeln und Erden/ und alles was darinnen ist” [emphasis author’s]. 23 Johann Baptista Hebenstreitt, Cometen Fragstück, auß der reinen Philosophia, Bey Anschawung deß in diesem 1618. Jahr, in dem Obern Lufft schwebenden Cometen (n.p., 1618), Ciii. 24 Ehinger, Iudicium Astrologicum (Augsburg: Schultes, 1618), Aii. 42 miniscule parts of the human body.25 At the same time, each item in nature possessed its own distinctive nature, its own essence and rules. Borrowing from Aristotelian physics, understanding nature meant understanding each thing, each item in creation, separately—its substance and form, and the changes it underwent.26

In many respects, then, nature was not fully straightforward, which may have contributed to the popularity of almanacs as a printed medium throughout the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The complex combinations by which celestial movements could interact with one another and influence earthly events were limitless; the enigmatic whims of nature most often provoked fearful and awestruck responses.27 In a world where cosmic movements held sway over earthly events, people relied heavily on printed media to instruct and comfort them in the face of nature’s uncertainties—a point Kaspar von Greyerz argues in the case of chronicles and comet broadsides, but which also pertains to almanacs.28 Almanacs acted as a guide through this labyrinth of natural influence; their often errant predictions could occasionally be overlooked, given the staggering volume of natures and influences they had to consider when making any sort of calculation.29

25 The title of a recent volume on nature in early modern Germany captures the omnipresence of nature: Sophie Ruppel and Aline Steinbrecher, eds. “Die Natur ist überall bey uns”. Mensch und Natur in der Frühen Neuzeit (Zürich: Chronos Verlag, 2009). 26 Margaret J. Osler, Reconfiguring the World: Nature, God and Human Understanding from the Middle Ages to the Early Modern World (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010), 6. As will be discussed in Chapter 2 of this dissertation, the inextricability of earth and the heavens accounts for why certain seasons could affect people in different ways, according to each individual’s complexion or temperament. 27 Kaspar von Greyerz, “Religion und Natur in der Frühen Neuzeit: Aspekte einer vielsichtigen Beziehung,” in “Die Natur ist überall bey uns”. Mensch und Natur in der Frühen Neuzeit eds. Sophie Ruppel and Aline Steinbrecher (Zurich: Chronos Verlag, 2009), 41-58, here 42. 28 Ibid. 29 The conclusion of a 1548 prognostication text attributed to the late astrologer Johann Carion (d. ca. 1538) makes this point somewhat apologetically. In particular, Carion defends himself against the possibility that some of his predictions as to the effects of upcoming eclipses may turn out to be wrong: “For it’s a difficult task to reckon the meaning of a year. It often happens that the influence [of a celestial event such as an eclipse] has a different effect four or five miles away, or in one locality over another.” One village, Carion gives as an example, might be afflicted with pestilential air, while a neighboring village remains unpoisoned. Bedeutnus vnd offenbarung warer himlicher influentz/ Alle Landtschrafft vnd Stende/ mit jrem glück vnd vnglück klerlich betreffend/ Von dem 1540. Jar zu jaren werende/ biß man schreibt 1550. Jar (n.p., 1548), Diiiv-Divr. 43

These various notions at work in early modern Germany drew largely on Aristotelian cosmology. Aristotelianism, despite the new Copernican astronomy beginning in the second half of the sixteenth century, continued to “form the basis of the education of virtually every literate person in early modern Europe.”30 At the same time, the form this Aristotelianism took in the sources under review was unique to early modern Germany. Here, Aristotle’s principles were infused with a dynamic, Christian outlook that emphasized the theological basis of reality. At the center of the great work of nature stood God Himself; to perceive nature, to read and discern its signs, was to perceive God.31 More specifically, particularly after 1550 and into the first quarter of the seventeenth century, views of nature were also colored by Lutheran apocalypticism, which viewed nature to be in a state of accelerated demise leading up to Christ’s imminent second coming.32 Contributing to this general state of corruption was human sin, which could have a negative effect on nature by transforming it into a realm that was “wild, savage, and terrifying.”33

Almanacs of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries are firmly situated in this distinctive fusion of Aristotelian and Lutheran cosmology. This is not to say that expressions of apocalypticism or perceptions of celestial decay always took the same form. Almanacs actively grappled with the tension field that surrounded human agency in the face of the heavenly heralds of the eschaton. Many shared Caesius’ views that the study of comets and other supernatural signs would lead the faithful to repent, which might provoke God to be merciful, and withhold scourges like war and pestilence.34 One author expressly published his almanacs in the hopes that

30 Daniel Garber, “Physics and Foundations,” in Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston, eds., Early Modern Science, The Cambridge History of Science 3 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 19-69, here 25; c.f. Osler, Reconfiguring the World, 5. 31 Sophie Ruppel and Aline Steinbrecher, “Einleitung,” in “Die Natur ist überall bey uns”. Mensch und Natur in der Frühen Neuzeit,” eds. Sophie Ruppel and Aline Steinbrecher (Zurich: Chronos Verlag, 2009), 9-18, here 14. 32 Robin Bruce Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis: Apocalypticism in the Wake of the Lutheran Reformation (Stanford: Standford University Press, 1988), 73-74, 174-75. 33 Crowther-Heyck, Wonderful Secrets of Nature, 268. 34 Caesius, Practica (1581), Aiir-v. 44

“when the stars threatened something evil,” his readers would “be admonished by me to better

[their] lives and pray honestly to God the Almighty to mercifully turn away the punishment and rod of his wrath.”35 Yet as imminent as the apocalypse was, it did not fully distract authors from seeking methodological accuracy in their astrological predictions—or at least purporting to do so. Not infrequently did almanacs lament the “common errors” of astronomy and astrology

“which daily experience indicates.”36 The assumption among almanac writers, however, was that one could implement more careful methods in interpreting heavenly signs. Only later in the seventeenth century would almanac scholars increasingly seek out alternatives to Aristotelianism by emphasizing the strictly material and mechanistic underpinnings of nature. However, the sources consulted in this chapter—stemming from sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries by lay literati far from the cutting edge of new science—remained largely steeped in theology and

Aristotelian cosmology.37

SECTION I: IN THE BEGINNINGS Throughout the early part of the sixteenth century, there was no unanimous understanding concerning when the year of nature began. This was, in part, because the year was pictured as a circle—a shape, early modern almanac authors recognized, which has no clear beginning. The circular contour of the year was particularly evident in descriptions of nature, whose year rested on the circular (or at least elliptical) rotations and revolutions of earth, moon

35 Cyprian Leowitz, Prognosticon Vnd Weyssagung der fürnemsten Dingen so vom M.D.LXIIII. Jar biß auff das M.DC.VII. sich zutragen werden auß den Finsternussen vnd grossen Ephemeri des Hochgelerten Cypriani Leouicij vnd auß dem Prognostico Samuelis Syderocratis gezogen vnd zusamen gestalt (Bern: Apiarius, 1564), Aiiv. 36 Victorin Schönfeld, Prognosticon astrologicum, auff die Revolutiones und zuhauffügungen der Planeten des Jahrs ... 1562 (Wittemberg: n.p., 1562), A2v: “die gemeinen errores, welche die tägliche erfahrung angezeigt.” 37 In her study of early modern natural histories in Germany, Kathleen Crowther-Heyck pays similar attention to the views of nature held among this “borderland between the elite world of scholars and well-educated literati and the newly emerging world of vernacular printers, authors, and readers.” The attitudes towards nature among authors of this group, she argues, have been overlooked by cultural historians (who tend to focus on works of art and literature when it comes to nature) as well as historians of science, who gravitate towards the treatises of well-known scholars like Copernicus and Vesalius. Crowther-Heyck, Wonderful Secrets of Nature, 255. 45 and the planets. Regiomontanus pointed out that the year runs as a circle, and as such its beginning points are multifaceted:

Christianity begins the year on the eighth day of the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, and according to this we set the calendar [1 January]. But the astronomers begin it in the middle of March, when the sun goes into Aries. Some begin [the year] in the middle of summer, others in autumn, like the Jews. Thus the year is begun unevenly (ungleich), and that is not a bad thing, because the year is like a circle. Now you can make an entrance into or exit from a circle wherever you want; the same applies to the year.38

Importantly, Regiomontanus does not view this absence of homogeneity negatively; a circle’s lack of clear beginning or end points lends a certain degree of freedom as to when groups and nations commence a year. Thus, despite the diversity of points at which people enter each new year, their years are all ultimately of the same duration. While Christians begin the year on the octave of Christmas, Jews (according to Regiomontanus) do so in autumn.

In his brief list of people and their alternative years, Regiomontanus also includes astronomers. Tasked with tracking the motions and paths of celestial bodies, astronomers, we are told, have their own unique year’s beginning: “the middle of March, when the sun goes into the sign of Aries,” an event that also coincides with the Spring equinox.39 The statement can be read in several ways. On one hand, Regiomontanus may be describing the year not so much as a parcel of time that governs social time and mentality, but as a measuring device, a means astronomers used in certain contexts to gauge the progress of the sun in its celestial trek. Indeed, the use of this equinox to date and measure the year in astronomical terms hearkens back to the

38 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1518), Qiiv: “Die Cristenhait facht das iar an an dem achteten tag der Geburt unsers Herren Jesu Cristi/ und nach dem sezten wir den Kalender. Aber die astronomi fahen es an zu mitten Merz/ so die Sonn gat in den Wider. Ettlich fahen es an zu mittem Sommer/ ettlich in die Herbst/ als die Juden. Und also facht man das iar ungleich an/ und das ist nitt billich/ wann das iar ist als ain zirckel/ nun mag man in ain zirckel ain eingang unnd auch ain außgang nemmen wo man wil/ und also ist es gleich umb das iar zu verstön.” 39 Until 1520, this occurred on 10 March—thereafter more frequently on the following day. Those territories following the Gregorian calendar after its inception in 1582 saw the spring equinox most often on 20 March until the last quarter of the seventeenth century, and on 19 March roughly every five or six years. See H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, HTML version, s.v. “Berechnung der Jahreskennzeichen,” under “Rechner,” http://www.manuscripta-mediaevalia.de/gaeste/grotefend/kopf.htm. 46 foundations of western astronomy. Hipparchus (d. 120 BCE), the first to develop a formula to determine the length of the tropical (or solar) year, measured the year from equinox to equinox, and others followed in his path.40 On the other, Regiomontanus’ allusion to the astronomers’ year also implies that—inasmuch as they were practitioners of their craft—astronomers observed and lived in a year unto their own. He enumerates astronomers and their years alongside the years of

Christians and Jews—groups who lived according to their own self-enclosed years. Astronomers, for Regiomontanus, lived in a similarly unique year-bound space. This is an important point, since his texts were not necessarily intended for an elite audience of trained stargazers. Written in accessible, conversational German prose, Regiomontanus communicated complex calendrical ideas to a wide readership. His works helped initiate the growing popularity of printed almanacs among a wide range of audiences, most of whom likely had no knowledge of or use for

Hipparchus, not to mention the precise measuring of solar years. Was the astronomical year, then, only observed by astronomers, or was it becoming relevant in other areas of society as well?

While it is difficult to answer this question in terms of the inner perception of early modern individuals, it is nonetheless clear that the majority of almanacs from the late fifteenth century on were based on the astronomical rather than the civil year—that is, they began with spring rather than January. Johann Engel, for example, astronomer and physician in Vienna, centered his almanac around the astronomical year: “The astronomers commence the year as the sun enters into the first degree of Aries, which in the present year occurs on the 10th day of

March [20 March, NS] between 8 and 9 in the evening.”41 Although Regiomontanus and Engel specified that it was astronomers who commenced the year at this time, many almanacs simply

40 J. Meeus and D. Savoie, “The History of the Tropical Year,” Journal of the British Astronomical Association 102-1 (1992): 40-42, here 40. 41 Johann Engel, Deutsch Practick [...] Auff das Jahr LXXXVIII. Practica (Nuremberg: Ayrer, 1487), Aiir. 47 started their description of the year with spring with no clarification as to the astronomical significance or context of the date. In 1524 Johannes Volmar wrote of spring as the first of the four seasons, though he did not give a reason why.42 So did Christopher Stathmion, physician in

Coburg, calculating the start of spring for the upcoming year on 10 March, at 12 hours and 18 minutes in the afternoon.43 Similarly, Theodore Stimitz wrote that “(t)he 1562nd year takes its beginning on the 10th day of March,44 around 7 o’clock PM and 13 minutes.”45 In 1566 Wilhelm

Hieronymous wrote that, “according to true astronomical calculation,” the year begins when the

Sun enters into Aries.46 Likewise, Nicolaus Weys’ multi-year almanac, based on the years 1572-

88, described the beginning of 1572: “The future 1572nd year takes its beginning on the 11th day of March, around 6 o’clock in the morning, when the sun enters into the first point of Aries.”47 In the almanac pages that follow, Weys continued this phraseology sixteen more times, commencing descriptions of each subsequent year with spring. Andreas Rosa made the following statement in the introduction to his 1578 almanac: “According to certain and foundational astronomical reckoning, I deem and set this 1579th year’s beginning, and 5541st after the creation of the world, at the sun’s entrance into the first point of Aries […] on the tenth day of

March, right at ten in the evening.”48 Later in the text, Rosa refers to this date as the

42 Joannes Volmar, Practica Wittembergensis ... (Leipzig: Nickel Schmidt, 1524), pagination missing, see “Das xviii Cap. Von der natur der vierzeit in disem iar.” 43 Christopher Stathmion, Practica: durch Christophorum Stachmron/ [...] mit fleyss getestelt (correct?)/ auff das Jar: M D LXVIII. (Nuremberg: Newber, 1567), Aiiir. 44 Note: Grotefend dates the vernal equinox of 1562 as 11 March, not the previous day as Stimitz recorded. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Berechnung der Jahreskennzeichen,” under “Rechner.” 45 Theodor Stimitz, Progosticon (Franfkurt: n.p., 1562), A5v. 46 Hieronymous Wilhelm, Practica auff das Jar MDLVII. Nach der Geburt vnsers Herrn Jesu Christi (Nuremberg: Knorr, 1566), Aiiiv. 47 Nicolaus Weys, Prognosticon astrologicum. Von dem 1572. bis auff das 1588. Jhar werende (Erfurt: Baumann, 1571), Aiir: “Das zukünfftige 1572. Jar / nimpt seine anfang den 11. Tag Martiij frü vor Mittag umb 6 Uhr/ da die Sonne in ersten punct des Widers gehet.” H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Berechnung der Jahreskennzeichen,” under “Rechner.” 48 Andreas Rosa, Practica oder Prognosticon, auff das M.D.LXXIX. Jar (Nuremberg: Neuber, 1578), Aiiir: “aus gewisser und gründlicher Astronomischer Rechnung/ befindt und seze ich dises 1579. und von erschaffung der Welt/ deß 5541. Jars anfang. mit der Sonnen eingang/ in den ersten punct des erste grads des Widers […] auff den 48

“astronomical new year” (astronomische[s] new[e] Jahr).49 In 1590, in a tract on the new

Gregorian calendar, Johann Rasch referenced the “astronomical new year […] that is, when the sun in March enters into the first point or 0 degree of the sign of Aries.”50

The frequency with which almanacs began their descriptions of the year with spring makes one wonder why authors looked to spring as the start of the year in the context of nature and heavenly movements. The astronomical use of the spring equinox has already been noted, and some almanac authors explained this point to their readers. Hieronymous Wilhelm stated that, “(f)or common, civil uses, we start our year on the first day of January, using Julius

Caesar’s order of the year [Jahresordnung].”51 He went on to remark, however, that almanacs

(and calendars, strangely enough, which always began on 1 January) have a different reference point: “Calendars and almanacs are—according to the teachings of the famed astrologer,

Ptolemy—based on the four cardinal points, and reckon their year from the vernal equinox.

Especially since Moses and the Jewish people, as well as the patriarchs, had to follow God’s commandment with regard to their ordering of the year and their feasts, as their histories reveal.”52 Calendars and almanacs—unlike the civil calendar—correspond to a different way of measuring the year, one which begins in spring, a practice Wilhelm attributes to Ptolemy.53 Here, though, the traditions of astronomy are supported with Jewish calendrical customs as old as

Moses. Although Regiomontanus had argued that the Jews began their year in autumn, Wilhelm

10 tag deß Merzen/ gleich umb 10 Uhr nach mittag.” Grotefend notes the date of the 1579 vernal equinox to be 11 March (OS). Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Berechnung der Jahreskennzeichen,” under “Rechner.” 49 Rosa, Practica, Bv. 50 Johann Rasch, Neu Kalendar, 1 [pagination mine]: “[A]stronomisch[es] neujahr/ das ist/ wenn die Sunn im Merzen den ersten punct oder 0. Grad des Zeichens Wider erreicht und antrifft.” 51 Wilhelm Hieronymous, Prognosticon oder Practica, auff das 1571. Jar (Nuremberg: Fuhrmann, 1570), Aiiir. 52 Hieronymous, Prognosticon (1570), Aiiir: “Ob wir wol in unsern calendariis/ Julii cesaris seine jarsordnung brauchen/ und also gemeiner bürgerlicher weis das jar von de ersten tag januarii anfahen. So richten sich doch die so Calender und Prognostica schreiben/ laut der instruction des hochberümpten astrologi Ptolomei/ nach den vier punctis Cardinalibus/ und rechenen ir jar von dem Aequinoctio verno an. Sonderlich da moyses und das Judische Volck/ wie auch die ersten vätter/ sich auch musten nach gottes gebott/ nach demselbige in irer jars ordnung und befolhenen festen hlaten/ wie auss iren historien offenbar.” 53 C.f. Ptolemy Tetrabiblios, Chapter XII. 49 claims they did so in spring, and he sees this as lending further legitimacy to Ptolemy’s notion of the astronomical year.54 Importantly, Wilhelm saw the springtime start of the year primarily as deriving from astronomical custom, one that was chiefly used in calendars and almanacs.

Those who relayed the astronomical significance of spring tended to emphasize the circular characteristic of the year—the fact that the movements of celestial bodies all appear to be cyclical in nature—and saw Aries or springtime as the natural point of commencing that circle. The 1539 edition of Regiomontanus’ calendar almanac explains that “Aries is a head and beginning in the circle of signs.”55 Munich schoolmaster Matthias Brotbeihel wrote in 1545 that

“the great circle of heaven has its circumferential movement and no one can find or imagine a beginning in this same circle [or] say with certainty […] today on this day the year begins.”56

Continuing, Brotbeihel sums up his thoughts by saying that the celestial bodies move in a circle just like fortune’s wheel (Glücksrad).57 Even a century and a half later, another almanac described Aries as a place (Ort), at which “all points [and] winds in the reckoning [Zehlung] take their beginning.”58 Explanations such as these echo Ptolemy’s understanding of the year as described in his Tetrabiblios. Here, Ptolemy expresses the difficulty in positing a true beginning to the four seasons, since the zodiac band is a round circle. Nonetheless, he notes that the start of the year occurs when the sun enters Aries, which precipitates the vernal equinox. For Ptolemy, this was an appropriate time to begin the year because the primary quality associated with spring was moisture, and was thus analogous to the beginning of all animal life, as creatures are made

54 There is truth to both authors’ claims regarding the Jewish calendar. While the first month of the ancient Hebrews’ lunisolar calendar is Nissan, which falls in spring and during which Passover is commemorated, Jewish custom also recognizes Rosh Hashanah (literally “Head of the Year”) in the seventh month, which falls during the Gregorian September and/or October, depending on the year. 55 Regiomontanus, Kalender (Augsburg: Stainer, 1539), Ar. 56 Matthias Brotbeihel, Practica vffs M.D.XLVI. (Zurich: Froschauer, 1545), Av: “der groß kreiß deß himmels rings umb syn bewegung hat/ unnd niemands in dem selben zirckel ein anfang fürnemmen oder ynbilden kann/ das einer gewüßlich möch darthün und sagen/ hüt uff disen tag facht das iar an.” 57 Ibid. 58 Nicolaus Schmidt-Küntzel, Prognostico Astronomicum et Astrologicum (Nuremberg: Endter, 1698), Aiir. 50 of moisture in the first stage of their existence. According to this logic, just as moisture gives way to life in living beings, so too it recommences life and warmth in nature.59

Like Ptolemy, sixteenth-century almanacs believed spring signified the beginning of life and emphasized the life-giving, resurrectional characteristic of the year’s beginning. Brotbeihel stated that the year begins in spring because it is then that “all creatures and growing things begin to grow green once again, renew themselves and become alive.”60 Erfurt physician Johann

Hebenstreidt61 expressed joy about the way the earth receives [the sun’s] warm rays, and all natural living things begin to move and spring forth “when the sun enters into Aries.”62 The reappearance of the sun’s warmth causes the life of nature to spring forth—one of the main reasons why astronomers sought to begin the year in Spring. Another almanac also commented that just as the life and liveliness of earthly creatures recommences each year, so too does the natural, astronomical year.63 The two processes—the resurrection of nature and the beginning of the year —were seen to align with each other.

And, finally, springtime held significance as a time to begin the year due to the belief that the spring equinox was the anniversary of the beginning of creation, although this belief was not without its share of controversy. In 1609 physician-astronomer David Herlicius argued that the year begins in spring because this is when God created the world. „The true astronomical beginning to this 1610th year,“ Herlicius began, „is [...] when the sun once again comes to the

59 Ptolemy, Tetrabiblios 1.12. 60 Brotbeihel, Practica, Aiir: "[H]ebind an alle geschöpff und wachsende ding widerum grünen/sich ernüwern/ und läbendig werden." 61 Note: The historical record is replete with numerous “Johannes Hebenstreidts” of varying spellings. To avoid confusion, I remain consistent with the following spellings throughout the dissertation: Johann Hebenstreidt (d. ca. 1566), referred to here, was a physician in Erfurt and should not be confused with Johann (Baptista) Hebenstreitt (d. 1638). The latter, whose comet text was cited earlier, was a rector in Ulm. 62 Johann Hebenstreidt, Prognosticon Historicum, Auffs 1568. Jhar (n.p.: 1567), Aiiir: “Wenn die Sonne in den Widder gehet/ so entpfindet die Erde/ ihre warme Stralen/ derwegen auch alle natürliche Gewechse sich begwegen/ und zum Theil herfür dringen. Daher haben auch die alten Astronomi/ des Jhars anfang/ ab Aequenali Vernali genommen vnd vom selben der Sonnen eingang/ Anni initiuum constituiert.” 63 C.f. Paul Nagel, Prognostico astrologo-harmonicum (…) ausführliches Prognosticon uber drey oder mehr Jahr beschrieben von 1620 an zu rechnen (Hall: Bismarck, 1619), Aiiiv. 51 place it was at the time when our Lord God created it.“ This occurs „every year at the same time,“ that is, „when the lovely sun [...] enters into the firey sign of Aries in the zodiac, or starry heaven,“ which makes „day and night equal throughout the entire world.“64 This time of year,

Herlicius noted, is called in German Spring (Frühling), Springtime (Lenz) or pre-year

(Vorjahr).65 This latter term engages an older word that derives „from the conception of the year as beginning in spring.“66 Interestingly, however, in a calendar Herlicius published the same year, he discouraged people from speculating as to when certain salvific-historical events occured in history, especially creation and the crucifixion. His concern was not only that such speculations could be historically false, but that they ultimately lead to discord (Zweispalt) among Christians who might rest their opinions on divergent dates for the same events. In particular, he notes with dismay that many Christians disagree as to whether the world began in spring or autumn.67 Several decades later, the great range of opinions concerning the time of creation was outlined in a 1636 handbook by Franconian mathematician and astronomer,

Andreas Goldmayr.68 Throughout his career as astrologer and calendar-maker, Goldmayr (whom

Klaus Matthäus called the “retrospective astrologer”) showed a keen interest in using astronomy to determine the specific times of events throughout Christian history, from the creation to the

64 David Herlicius, Groß Prognosticon und Practica des 1610. Jahrs (Alten Stettin: Rheten, 1609), Biiiv-Bivr: „Der rechte Astronomische anfang dises 1610. Jahres / und seine revolution/das ist/ do die Sonne wider an die Stelle undorth kompt/an welcher sie gewesen ist/ zu der zeit/als sie unserherre gott erschaffen wird von uns Deutschen der Früling, Vor jahr oder Lenze genennet. Dis geschicht alle Jahr einmahl nemblich/ wenn die liebe Sonne aus dem lezten Meridional oder Mitagigem Zeichen der Fische in das erste Septentrional oder Mitternachtliche Signum den Himlischen fewrigen Wieder/ im Zodiaco, oder gestirnten Himmel eintritt/ und also von Tage zu Tage unserm Zenith oder Heuptpunct näher kompt/ auch Tag und Nacht in der ganzen Welt gleich machet.“ 65 Ibid. 66 Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, s.v. “Vorjahr,” in Deutsches Wörterbuch 26 (Leipzig: 1971), online version: http://woerterbuchnetz.de/DWB/?sigle=DWB&mode=Vernetzung&lemid=GV13551#XGV13551 ; c.f. Schmidt-Küntzel, Prognostico, 3 (pagination mine). 67 David Herlicius, Alt und New Schreibcalender (Alten Stettin: Jochim Rheten, 1609), B. 68 Andreas Goldmayr, Bereschith, oder Mundi natalis : d.i. Kurze ... Beschreibung von dem Jahr, Monat, vnd von den Tagen der Erschaffung Himmels und der Erden (Straßburg: [Marx Von der Heyden], 1696) 52

Annunciation and life events of the apostles.69 In the case of creation, Goldmayr aligned himself with church fathers (such as Josephus and Nicephorus) and “not a few chronologists” who opted for an autumnal date for the creation of the world. Yet he is also aware that many other church fathers, not to mention Martin Luther, believed the world was created in spring, at the time of the equinox.70

Nonetheless, seven years later, Georg Albrecht opted for the springtime cosmogony.

According to Albrecht, the sun’s course—and the heavens themselves—began in the sign of

Aries. This belief, Albrecht commented, is supported by ancient theologians,71 who evidently thought the sun was created in Aries in the beginning of the world. Due to the imperfections of the Julian calendar, Albrecht speculated, creation had originally occurred on 25 March, the date of the spring equinox when Julius Caesar originally mandated his civil calendar in 45 BCE, rather than 10 (OS) or 20 (NS) March, the date on which it typically occurred by the mid- seventeenth century, when Albrecht was writing.72

Thus far it is clear that the start of spring was widely influential in early modern

Germany, signifying the beginning of the year from the vantage point of almanacs and nature. At the same time, however, the beginning of the year was a more complicated issue; other dates, too, vied for use as the beginning of the year in these texts. In rare instances throughout the sixteenth century, almanacs aligned the start of the solar year with that of the civil calendar by

69 “Rückwärts gewandter Astrologe.” Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” here 1060- 1061. 70 The fathers Goldmayr listed were Eusebius, Basil the Great, Athanasius, Ambrose, Cyril, Augustine, Gregory of Nazianzus, Damascenes, Bede, Isodore as well as Martin Luther. Goldmayr, Bereschith, 18. 71 The biggest proponent of this view among early Christian fathers was Dionysius of Alexandria. Pavel Kuzenkov, "How Old is The World? The Byzantine Era and its Rivals," in Proceedings of the 21st International Congress of Byzantine Studies, eds. Elizabeth Jeffreys, Fiona K. Haarer, Judith Gilliland (London: Ashgate Publishing, 2006), 23–24; Elias J. Bickerman, Chronology of the Ancient World (Aspects of Greek & Roman Life) (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1980), 73. 72 Georg Albrecht, Tuba Novissima! Die Letzte Gerichts-Posaun ... von dem Jüngsten Gericht und Ende der Welt. Inn Neun und Siebentzig Predigten (Nördlingen: Heinrich Chorhammer, 1645), 243. 53 beginning their discussions of the four seasons with the first day of January. In both his 1545 and

1548 almanacs, pastor and almanac writer Anton Breloch began his weather predictions for the upcoming year on 1 January, and made no mention of spring as the start of the year.73

Mathematician Andreas Nolthius also began his almanac for the year 1579 with the season of winter—not with the winter solstice or the true start of winter, however, but rather the beginning of January.74 Yet later in the text, Nolthius refers to the sun’s entrance into Aries as the “true astronomical beginning of this year, for day and night are equal across the whole, wide world.”75

Consequently, his discussion of the four seasons ends not with the end of fall, but rather the beginning of winter, which “hoists itself up, according to astronomical calculation, with the entrance of the sun into Capricorn on the 12th of December, by us, at 12 hours and 23 scruples76 in the afternoon.”77 The 1582 almanac of Danzig-area physician and astronomer Wilhelm

Misocacus was fashioned along similar lines.78 He divided the season of winter into two halves,

“post-” and “pre-winter” (Nach- and Vorwinter). 79 This section of the almanac thus began with post-winter, that commenced from the beginning of January until the start of Spring (Lenz), which Misocacus calculated from the March full moon (16 February, OS) rather from the Spring

73 Anton Brelochs, Practica auff das Tausent Fünffhunderst und fünff und viertzigst Jar (Nürnberg: Gutknecht, 1547), B2r; idem., Practica Teutsch, auff das 1548. Jare (Nürnberg: Gutknecht, 1547), Biir. 74 Andreas Nolthius, Practica: Auff das 1579. Jar, nach Christi vnsers Herrn Geburt/ Aus beverter Astrologia/ ohn alle Superstition gestellet vnd geschrieben (Erfurt: Baumagmailnn, 1578), Aiiir. 75 Ibid: “der rechte astronomische anfang des Jhars/da tag und nacht vergleichet werden/uber die ganze weite welt.” 76 From scrupula, which the author uses here to mean minutes (emphasis author’s). 77 Ibid., Br: “hebt sich nach Astronomischer rechnung an/mit dem eingang der Sonnen in den Steinbock/ auff den12. Decembris bey uns/ umb 12 uhr/ 23 scrupula/ zu mittag” (emphasis author’s). 78 Dieter Kempens discusses the wider context of Misocacus’ almanacs and their reception, with particular attention to the political situation in Danzig during the early part of the Eighty Years’ War (1568-1648). Dieter Kempens, “Der Erfolg der Prognostica,” 8-10. 79 Wilhelm Misocacus, Prognosticum oder Practica / auffs Jahr [...]1583 (Danzig: Rhodum, 1582), Br. Simon Menz used similar terminology in his 1602 almanac, refering to the “first part” (erste[r] theil) of winter with the Latin term “new winter” (hyems nova) For Menz, this began at the beginning of January and lasted until the Spring equinox. Grosse Prognosticon Astrologicum auff das Jahr unsers Herrn und Heylands Jesu Christi 1603 (Magdeburg: Frencke, ca 1602), Aiir. 54

Equinox.80 In addition to 1 January, numerous almanacs began with the start of the winter season, either with the Winter solstice or the coterminous entry of sun into the sign of Capricorn.

Among the earliest examples was the 1532 almanac of Peter Apian, who initiated his discussion of the year’s seasons with winter, starting “on the 12th day of December in the past year 1531 around one in the afternoon.”81

Despite the predominance for the natural year to begin with Spring and the vernal equinox throughout much of the sixteenth century, there were nonetheless indications of changes. The earliest such example is found in Hebenstreidt’s almanacs. In 1563, Hebenstreidt began his almanac by clarifying the origins the year’s beginning in winter:82

Because many astronomers, in accordance with the Roman calendar, are in the habit of beginning every year with the calends of January [1 January] […] at which time the daily light, the sun, can be found in the celestial sign […] of Capricorn, which Julius Caesar himself mandated, I also wish to briefly describe this time before beginning the year from the vernal equinox, as is my habit.83

Following this statement, Hebenstreidt begins his almanac with the sun’s entrance into

Capricorn, in that year on 12 December. Although the date is still several weeks before 1

January, Hebenstreidt cites the civil (“Roman”) calendar—which which Julius Caesar ordered after the sign of Capricorn--and the astronomers who followed as the reason for beginning his almanac with winter. One wonders if these are the same astronomers Regiomontanus and others cite as starting their year in Spring. In any case, one senses that Hebenstreidt was attempting to

80 Wilhelm Misocacus, Prognosticum oder Practica (1582), Br. 81 Petrus Apian, Practica auff d[a]z 1532. Jar (Landshut: Apian, 1531), Biir: “Xii. Tag Decembris des vergangenen 1531. Jar umb ainß nachmittag.” 82 I have not been able to access the earlier editions of Hebenstreidt’s almanac to see whether these works began with spring or winter. The earliest publication of his almanac seems to date back to Prognosticon von allerley seltzamen zufellen des 1559. Jhars (Erfurt: n.p., 1558). 83 Joannes Hebenstreidt, Prognosticon astrologicum (Erfurt: Georg Baumann, 1563), Aiir: “Dieweil viel astronomi/ nach dem gebrauche des römischen kalenders/ a Calendis Ianuarij/ Das ist / vom ersten tage des jenners/ welche zeit das teglich Liecht/ die sonne/ in dem himlischen zeichen/ welchs die astronomi den steinbock heissen/ gefunden wird/ wie solchs c. Julius caesar selbst geordnet/ jedes Jhar anfahen/ wil ich auch dieselbige zeit kürtzlich erzelen/ und als denn/ meinem gebrauche nach/ des jhars anfang/ ab aiquioctio vernali/ nemen.” 55 merge the natural year with the civil calendar, which he termed the “Roman” calendar. Yet,

Hebestreidt commences his almanac several weeks before the start of the civil year. That the solstice occurs before 1 January does not seem to be an issue with his earlier reasoning of starting the almanac near the time of the civil calendar. For Hebenstreidt, 1 January and the advent of winter are seen to correspond and even, to some degree, coincide with one another.

Hebenstreidt’s new adoption of winter as the start of the year does not appear to have stuck. “When the sun enters into Aries,” so began his 1567 almanac four years later, “the earth receives its [the sun’s] warm rays, and all natural living things begin to move and spring forth.

For this reason, too, the old astronomers took the beginning of the year from the vernal equinox and the sun’s entrance [into Aries.] Thus I find that the sun reaches Aries on 10 March […] at 11 o’clock, 30 minutes, 6 seconds in the afternoon.”84 While Hebenstreidt does not explicitly state that he agrees with these spring-leaning astronomers, the statement forms the foundation for his almanac’s construction—unlike his 1563 work, the sections of this later almanac begin with spring and end with winter.

We know little as to why Hebenstreidt deemed it necessary to alter his almanac in

1563—the reasons he gives (astronomical custom and the civil calendar) do not explain why he had not based his almanacs on winter from the start. We know even less as to why he switched back (or rather, forth) to Spring four years later. Hebenstreidt, perhaps, made the shift to winter too soon. What can be said with some certainty, however, is that Hebenstreidt’s oscillations indicate some of the seeds of change being sown in almanacs of the last part of the sixteenth century. One can add to this Lutheran pastor Georg Caesius, who in an almanac based on the year 1571 issued a similar clarification as to why he was reckoning the year from winter: “I concluded my almanac of this current 1570th year with autumn and therefore will start once again

84 Johann Hebenstreidt, Prognosticon Historicum (1567), Aiiir. 56 from winter, for the new year falls during this time.”85 This clarification may have served the purpose to alert his readers (who were accustomed to almanacs starting in spring) to the thinking behind his anomalous almanac: the new year falls in winter, reasoned Caesius, thus it makes sense to start his almanac in the same season.

Whatever Caesius‘ reasons, by the end of the sixteenth century, winter had become the norm in the way almanacs began and reckoned their years. Some of these works started with the

December full moon (the lunar start of winter),86 while a small but slowly increasing number commenced with the first of January.87 The vast majority of almanacs, however, began with the winter solstice and the sun’s entrance into Capricorn.88 Still, exceptions to this rule persisted into the early seventeenth century, many of which continued to cite the „old custom and practice of astronomers“ in beginning the year with spring.89

85 Georg Caesius, Practica teutsch, auff das Jar ... 1571 ... (Nuremberg: Fuhrman, 1570), Aiiv: “Ich hab in meinem prognostico diss nochwerendes 1570 Jar mit dem herbst beschlossen/ wil derhalben abermal vom Winter/ diewil das newe Jar in diese zeit gefellet / anfahen.” This is the earliest extant almanac from Caesius’ publishing career, which lasted until 1604. In referring to how he ended his previous almanac, though, it is implied there was at least one previous almanac. 86 The almanacs of pastor/astronomer Georg Kreslin are one such example of this. The editions of his yearly almanac stretch from 1600 to 1614 and regularly begin with the December full moon, usually around 7 December. Georg Kreslin, Deutsche Practica Auff das Jahr nach der seligen und freudenreichen Geburt und Menschwerdung unsers lieben Herren und Heilandes Jesu Christ/ 1600 (Leipzig: Nerlich, 1599), Aiir; Prognosticon Astrologicum Auff das Jahr nach der seligen vnnd frewdenreichen Geburt vnnd Menschwerdung vnsers lieben Herrn vnd Heylandes Jesu Christi MDCXV (Nuremberg: Laur, 1614), Aiir. Kreslin did not offer any explanation as to why he reckoned the year according to lunar rather than solar cycles, an somewhat anomalous structure for almanacs of this period. 87 E.g.Georg Galgemair, Newer Alter Schreibkalender/ auff dz Jar nach der Geburt Jesu Christi M.DCII. (Augsburg: Schultes, 1602), chapter heading “Jenner/Januarius” (pagination missing). 88 E.g. Moritz Hübner, Prognosticon Astronomicum Auff das Jahr 1599. Nach der Gnadenreichen und Seligmachenden Geburt unsers Herrn und Heylandes Jesu Christi (Dresden: Bergen, ca. 1598), Aiir; Simon Menz, Grosse Prognosticon Astrologicum Auff das Jahr unsers Herrn und Heylands Jesu Christi 1603 (Magdeburg: Frencke, ca. 1602), Aiir; Bernard Messing, Prognosticon Astrologicum oder Praktica auf des Jahr ... 1602 (Salzburg: n.p., 1602), Aiir; Albin Moller, Practica Astrologica, Oder grosses Prognosticon ... Auff das Jahr (...) 1610 (Leipzig: Nerlich, 1609), chapter heading “Von dem Winter” (pagination missing); Johann Wittich, Prognosticon Astrologicum Oder Practica auff die vier Jahrzeiten ... 1605 (Passau: n.p., 1605), Aiir. 89 E.g. Herlicius, Groß Prognosticon, Biiiv-Bivr; Josias Müller, Prognosticon Astrologicum oder Practica. Auff das Jahr nach der Gnadenreichen Geburt unsers Herrn Jesu Christi dieses M.DCVI. (Nuremberg: Laur, 1605), Bivv. Interestingly, however, and reminiscent of Hebenstreidt’s oscillations between winter and spring, Müller’s earlier almanac started the year with the winter solstice: Prognosticon Oder Practica Auff das Jar nach der Gnadenreichen und seligmachenden Geburt Jesu Christi. M. D. XCIX (Nuremberg: Laur, 1598), Biir. 57

In the midst of shifting practices concerning the beginning of the year of nature, authors sought to lend legitimacy to one beginning of the year over the other by contextualizing the start of the year within a wider religious or salvific-historical context. Nicolaus Winkler, for example, attributed the practice of starting the year with the winter solstice to longstanding Christian custom: „According to age-old custom, we always begin a new year in winter, namely when the sun begins to enter into Capricorn.“ In Winckler’s view of things, God in His foresight made the winter solstice the „gateway to the year“ (Hinforter des Jahres) to signal the coming birth of His son, Jesus Christ. It is for this reason that He had inspired Julius Caesar, author of the Julian civil calendar, to start the calendar year around the time of the winter solstice, when the day is at its shortest. Winkler continues: „By such old usage, [...] we [in Christendom] commence the [...] future year also in Winter, namely the 12th [OS] or 22nd [NS] day of December.“90 In this way,

Winckler legitimized the start of the year by tying it to the birth of Christ and wove together these events with the divinely inspired inauguration of the Julian calendar, which also begins in winter. Like others, such as Hebenstreidt, Winckler seems to picture these events as occurring at or around the same time, even though the solstice occurred earlier in December than Christmas, let alone 1 January. The 1602 almanac of Simon Menz, professor of mathematics at the

University of Helmstedt, describes the winter solstice and Christmas as the very nearest (am

90 Nicolaus Eberhard Winkler, PRACTICA (Nuremberg: Wagenman, 1605), Aiir-v: “Nach Uralten brauch/ so fangen wir allwegen ein newes Jahr/ am winter an/ wenn nemblich die Sonne inn den Steinbock pflegt einzugehen: Solches hat nun ohne zweiffel/ die heimliche fursehung Gottes/ die Zeit der geburt christi/ im anfang der letzten Monarchi/ durch den Iulium caesarem zum Rom/ wegen seines grossen verstands / in des Himmels Lauff hocherfahren/ andeuten wollen/ in dem er/ als der erste Romische keyser funf und vierzig Jahr vor Christi geburt/ diese ordnung gesezt hat/ das Hinforter des Jahrs/ allwegen im Winter/ wann das Solstitium Hybernum, da der Tag am kürzten ist/ sol angefangen werden. Bey solchem alten herkommen/ ist in der Christenheit jederzeit verblieben/ heben wir als dann bis kunfftig Jahr/ auch im Winter an/ nemblich den 12. oder 22. Tag Decembris/ des Morgens frü vor tag [...]Umb dieweil so kompt die Sonn auß der Revolution autumnali, in das Winterisch zeichen Steinbocks/ so dann in dem zu endlauffenden 1605 Jahrs sich anlest.“ 58 aller nehesten) to one another.91 According to him, it makes sense to start the year in winter not only because it aligns with astrological practice, but also because the winter equinox is the date on which even the ancient church commemorated Christ’s birth. Only because of the flaws of the

Julian calendar were the two dates (12/22 and 25 Dec) now separated in time.92

Contextualizing the onset of the year of nature in religious and salvific frameworks was done not only by those starting the year in winter. One recalls Herlicius’ 1609 almanac, cited earlier, which went to great pains in establishing the connection between the beginning of the year in Spring and the creation of the world—this although Herlicius, in other contexts, thought it unwise to speculate on such historical reckonings for fear it may cause discord among

Christians.

As these examples demonstrate, almanac authors looked to religious and salvific- historical reference points to contextualize the various beginnings of nature’s year. Yet even while claiming compliance with one longstanding tradition or another, no almanac author disparaged other views as to when the astronomical year (or any other kind of year) began. This complete absence of criticism and strife towards other means of beginning the year stands in stark contrast to contemporaneous discourses on the Gregorian calendar reform, as examined in the Final Chapter of this dissertation.

Situating the various beginnings of the year of nature in salvific historical events reveals a set of inherited ideas about the past as well as an effort to reconsolidate and disseminate those ideas anew, a process that can be described as “knowledge making.” In the context of almanacs and the year’s beginning, making knowledge entailed appropriating a pre-existing oeuvre of

91 Simon Menz, Grosse Prognosticon Astrologicum auff das Jahr unsers Herrn und Heylands Jesu Christi 1603 (Magdeburg: Frencke, ca 1602), Aiir. 92 Menz, Grosse Prognosticon Astrologicum, Aiir-v; chapter 4 of this dissertation explores in greater detail the flaws of the Julian calendar. 59 information into a new medium (in this case almanacs).93 Here, one might recall the tendency for almanac authors to attribute their claims concerning the year’s beginning to the old traditions of astronomy or the church fathers. One senses in these efforts to re-locate old knowledge in new, more widely consumed texts and contexts a possible desire to preserve information.94 This interpretation, however, is not without questions. For example, some authors passed on older ideas even while demonstrating clear awareness that such ideas may no longer be accurate. One thinks of how Herlicius drew attention to the belief that God had created the world in spring, while acknowledging elsewhere that this claim was not necessarily historically viable. This raises the question of what function this type of knowledge served for these authors.

One answer is that, in connecting prior claims about salvific-historical events to current ideas about the year’s time, almanac authors sought to contextualize the beginning of the year of nature within a wider framework and coordinate system than just the year at hand. They did so by grounding the particular year’s beginning within an event of the redemptive past. These redemptive coordinate points need not align exactly with the dates they foreshadowed—e.g.

Christmas did not need to align with the current date of the winter solstice or the start of the civil year. Overlooking these slight discrepancies, many authors seemed to marvel at all the ways in which layers of time, nature and salvation seemed to divinely echo and confirm one another. For

93 C.f. Pamela H. Smith and Benjamin Schmidt, “Knowledge and its Making in Early Modern Europe,” in Making Knowledge in Early Modern Europe Practices, Objects, and Texts, 1400 – 1800, eds. Pamela H. Smith and Benjamin Schmidt (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2008), 1-16, here 4-5. The concept of making knowledge is part and parcel of an upsurge in historical interest concerning the various ways information was created and consumed via early modern printing and archiving, as well as the new functions different forms of knowledge came to serve during the period. For an overview of these trends, see Ann Blair, “Introduction,” Archival Science 10 no. 3 (2010): 195-200; Randolph C. Head, “Preface: Historical Research on Archives and Knowledge Cultures: an Interdisciplinary Wave,” Archival Science 10 no. 3 (2010): 191-194. 94 In her introductory essay on the history of archival formation and organization, Ann Blair points out the “heightened awareness of the risk of loss” of information during the early modern period, particularly in regards to losing old texts and manuscripts. Ann Blair, “Introduction,” Archival Science 10 no. 3 (2010): 195-200, here 195. Almanac authors did not explicitly cite the fear of losing information or particular texts as a reason to engage patristic or astronomical traditions in their writing. Nonetheless, the frequent tendency to invoke older, traditional aspects of knowing the year indicates that such knowledge was worth hanging on to, even as new forms of starting the year or seasons had won out. 60 those who chose winter as the start of their almanacs, there was an additional layer to revel in: the prophetic harmony between the start of the civil calendar year and the start of nature’s year— both of which began in winter and coincided with the entrance of God into this world through the birth of Christ.

Thus far it has become evident that the early modern year of nature was a malleable concept. This malleability, during the early part of the sixteenth century, allowed almanac authors to associate the beginning of the solar year with different points in time, from the spring equinox to the winter full moon or solstice. By about the 1570s, however, almanacs increasingly spoke of winter as the beginning of the year of nature—citing either the solstice, full moon or 1

January of the civil calendar. Looking beyond this timeframe, by the mid-seventeenth century more almanacs spoke of winter rather than spring as the beginning of the year of nature.

Nonetheless, the vestiges of the earlier use of spring as the start of the year were not altogether absent. In his 1667 description of the year, Kirch acknowledges that the “true” beginning of the astronomical year occurs when the sun enters the sign of Aries in the Spring.95 He further reasoned, however, that since this date is so far from the civil new year, he and many others consider the natural year to begin on 11 or 21 Dec (OS and NS respectively), the day of the winter solstice and at which time the sun enters into Capricorn.96 On one hand, it appears that for

Kirch, a court astronomer, the desire to align nature’s calendar with the civil one had won out over the traditions of astronomy. On the other, however, this is not entirely the case, for Kirch upheld the need to place the beginning of the year on one of the four cardinal points of the year.

95 Kirch, Christen-, Juden- und Türkenkalender, A2v. 96 Ibid.: “an den Himmel selbst bindet.” 61

In Kirch’s Protestant Berlin, which still followed the Julian calendar, the winter solstice was nearly twenty days before 1 January.97

SECTION II: THE FOUR SEASONS AND ALL THE TRIMMINGS Having discussed the divergent and changing notions as to when the year of nature began, this section moves on to an exploration of the four seasons. In doing so, we begin once again with Regiomontanus’ German calendar. Here, one finds an intriguing, if somewhat enigmatic, statement: “The first season is spring, which begins on St. Peters day before

Fasching.”98 Not to be confused with the more famous summertime feast of saints Peter and Paul on 29 June, St. Peter’s day before Lent (more frequently referred to as Peters Stuhlfeier in

German)99 commemorated the throne of St. Peter in Rome and was observed on 22 February.

Regiomontanus continues, outlining the beginning and end dates of the remaining seasons: spring would end and summer would begin on St. Urban’s Day (25 May), fall would begin on St.

Bartholomew’s Day (24 August) and winter on the feast of St. Clement (23 November).100 Even in this simple enumeration of the seasons, Regiomontanus lists spring first, again bearing witness to the tendency for spring to commence the year in natural and astronomical contexts. Perhaps even more surprising is that he dates the start of spring not from the equinox—which in the

Julian system began on 10 or 11 March—but from 22 February. The same outline of the seasons is found in the 1518101 and 1539102 edition of Regiomontanus’ calendar, as well as an anonymous

1530 Regimen of Health. Introducing health treatments to complete during each of the four seasons, the Regimen began: “There are four times of year, the first is spring and has its

97 Berlin and the whole of Brandenburg-Prussia did not accept the Gregorian calendar until 1700. Dirk Steinmetz, Die Gregorianische Kalenderreform von 1582 (Oftersheim: Verlag Dirk Steinmetz, 2011), 376-378. 98 Regiomontanus, Kalender 1512, Iiv. 99 H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, HTML version, s.v. “Peterstag” under “Glossar.” 100 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Iiv. 101 Idem, Kalender (Augsburg: n.p., 1518), Rr. 102 Idem, Kalender (Augsburg: Stainer, 1539), Ir. 62 beginning on St. Peter’s day, called the throne celebration (Stulfeier).”103 The remaining seasons follow the same outline as Regiomontanus’ calendar.104 In addition, an analogous structure of the seasons is found in both the 1539 and 1566 editions of Martin Luther’s prayer book, which also featured a calendar.105 Consisting of four titled quatrains, the verses specified the dates of the solstices and equinoxes as well as the start of each season:

When day and night are equal, and when they are longest: St. Vitus has the longest day [13 or 15 June]106 Lucia the longest night [13 December] St. Gregory [12 March] and the Cross107 [14 September] make The day as long as night.

On the four parts of the year: St. Clement to us the winter brings St. Peter‘s Chair breaks in the spring St. Urban brings the summer on And with Bartholomew commences autumn.108

These verses, in simple meter and rhyme suitable for easy memorizing, indicate the dates of seasons, solstices and equinoxes by referring to major feast days on which they occurred—or

103 Regiment der Gesundheyt (1530), Aiir. 104 Regiment der Gesundheyt (1530), Aiir-Aiiir. 105 Martin Luther, Ein newe Betbüchlin (Eisleben: n.p., ca.1566), Ciiir. 106 In his index of saints, Grotefend attributes this feast day to 13 June. H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, HTML version, s.v. “Viti” under “Heiligenverzeichnis.” However, most local and regional church calendars placed the feast instead on 15 June, as did the calendar printed in this same edition of Luther’s prayer book. Luther, Betbüchlin (1566), “Brachmond” (pagination missing). 107 “The Cross“ refers to the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (crucis exaltatio), also known as the Feast of the Cross or Holy Cross Day, commemorating St. Helena’s legendary discovery of the true cross on which Christ was crucified in Jerusalem in the early fourth century. 108 Luther, Betbüchlin mit dem Calender vnd Passional (Wittenberg: n.p., 1539), 18r: „Wenn tag und nacht gleich/ und wenn sie am lengsten sind. S. Veit hat den lengsten tag Lucey die lengste nacht vermag S. Gregor und das Creuze macht Den tag so lang/ gleich als die nacht.

Von dem vier Teilen des Jars. S. Clemen uns den winter bringt. S. Petersstuel den Lenz herdringt Den Somer bring uns S. Urban Der Herbst feht mit Barthlmei [sic] an.“ 63 the major feast day closest to when they occurred, as is the case for solstices and equinoxes.

While these typically occurred on the tenth or eleventh calendar date of the month (OS),109 the verse above places them several days later, likely to align with the nearest major feast day that readers would have comprehended. Together, these verses clearly communicate that each season began at least three weeks ahead of its corresponding solstice or equinox.

The examples above evidence older traditions of demarcating seasons that were prominent throughout the middle ages, when diverging conceptions abounded as to when the seasons began and ended.110 Common to many of these traditions was that the equinoxes and solstices signified the mid-point of each season [temporis] rather than the beginning or end.111

The precise beginning or ending of seasons, though, was at times a matter of debate. In the early eighth century, Bede wrote that the seasons began on the seventh of the ides of each corresponding month (e.g. winter began on 7 Nov, spring on 7 March), a schema he attributed to the Greeks and the Romans.112 A century earlier, however, Isidore had placed the starting point of each season more than two weeks later. Accordingly, winter began on the 8th calends (22nd day) of February, summer on 9th calends of June (24 May), autumn on the 10th calends of

September (24 Aug) and Winter on the 9th calends (23rd day) of November. By the late middle ages, for reasons not entirely clear, this Isidorian conception of the year and its four seasons

109 Note: these verses rely on the old (Julian) style. In moving the civil calendar ahead ten days in 1582, the new, Gregorian calendar did not alter the order of immoveable feast days--these feasts (like the saints’ days in these verses) remained tied to the same numerical, civil calendar dates. Thus, for example, while the winter solstice occurred around the feast of St. Lucia (13 December, though actually it occurred on 10 or 11 December) according to the old calendar, according to the new calendar, it occurred 10 days later, closer to the feast of St. Thomas (21 December). 110 Here, I draw attention to two of these traditions. The true scope of divergences within medieval norms of starting seasons, however, can be found in H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, HTML version, s.v. “Jahreszeiten” under “Glossar,” http://www.manuscripta- mediaevalia.de/gaeste/grotefend/kopf.htm. Also, for an exploration of norms concerning the seasons in pre- medieval, Germanic Europe, see Karl Weinhold, Über die deutsche Jahrtheilung (Kiel: Mohr, 1862), esp. 4-5. 111 Reginald L. Poole, Medieval Reckonings of Time (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1935), 25-26. 112 C.f. “The Four Seasons, Elements and Humors,” in Bede, The Reckoning of Time, ed. Faith Wallis (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1999), 100-101. 64 prevailed.113 By that point, saint days had become more popular than the Roman calends in conveying calendar dates, and the breakdown of seasons resembled that of Regiomontanus calendars and Luther’s prayer book calendar, with spring beginning on St. Peter’s Day (22

February), summer on St Urban’s Day (25 May, the closest major feast day to the 9th calends of

June), autumn on St. Bartholomew’s Day (24 August) and winter on the feast of St. Clement (23

November). For the sake of clarity, I shall refer to this notion of seasonal divisions, in which solstices and equinoxes signify the mean of each season, as “Method 1” throughout this section.

In addition to method 1, there was at least one other dominant strand of understanding seasonal boundaries in the middle ages. This second mode (henceforth “Method 2”) was more prevalent in astrology- and astronomy-based discussions of the four seasons that drew upon a

Ptolemaic construction of the year, in which the solstices and equinoxes themselves demarcated seasons. In other words, seasons in the context of astronomy were said to begin roughly a month and a half later in the year, at the time of its respective solstice or equinox.114 Evidencing this schema was a 1533 almanac by physician Eucharius Rößlin, who determined that spring begins when the sun enters Aries, summer when it enters into Cancer, autumn when it enters Libra and winter when it enters Capricorn.115 Further, the numerous authors mentioned in section one who begin spring—and with it the year—at the time of the vernal equinox rely on this way of dividing the seasons.

As the excerpts from these authors indicate, discrepancies between methods 1 and 2 had not been fully resolved by the end of the late middle ages and played out into the sixteenth century, a point which Grotefend also acknowledges.116 In my exploration of calendars and

113 Poole, Medieval Reckonings of Time, 25-26. 114 Ptolemy Tetrabiblios 1.12. 115 Eucharius Rößlin, Kalender mit allen astronomischen Haltungen (Frankfurt: Egenolph, 1533), A2r. 116 Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Jahrzeiten” under “Glossar.” 65 almanacs, references to method 1—such as those made by Regiomontanus and Luther—largely disappear after the 1540s. A singular exception to this is Caesius’ 1581 almanac discussed in the beginning of this chapter. Concerning winter 1582, Caesius wrote:

Although […] wintertime begins with us and others in cold, northern lands around St. Martin’s [11 November] or St. Clement’s day [23 November] in November, astronomers nonetheless describe winter with the course of the sun through these three celestial signs: Capricorn, Aquarius and Pisces. The beginning [of winter], when the day is shortest and the sun enters into Capricorn, occurs Tuesday 12 December of this current [15]81st year.117

Caesius attributes the difference in the two methods of seasons on one hand to climate— people in the northern climes, where winter lasts longer than southern regions, begin the season sooner. Of interest on this point is that Caesius lists two candidates for the start of winter in this climate (St. Clement’s and St. Martin’s day). Most likely, either of these dates may have served to mark the beginning of winter in regions of Germany—Grotefend includes both feasts (among others) among those associated with the start of winter in the middle ages, depending on locality.118 In contrast to people in northern climates, the astronomers begin winter when the sun enters the sign of Capricorn. While Caesius refers to the earlier start of winter, in practice he casts his lot with the more astronomically-based demarcation of seasons (Method 2). Not only does he ultimately declare the start of winter to occur on 12 December (above), but the winter weather predictions that follow start with the end of December, not November.

The scenario repeats itself to some extent when Caesius gets to autumn. In this chapter,

Caesius declares that he “would like to begin autumn on Bartholomew, or from the full moon

117 Caesius, Practica, 1581, Aii: „Ob wol diese Winterszeit bey uns und andern Mitternechtischen kalten Lendern umb Martini oder Clementis im Wintermon anzufahen were/so beschreiben doch die Astronomi den Winter mit dem Lauff der Sonnen durch dise drey himmlische zeichen/ Steinbock/ Wasserman/ Visch. Der anfang/ da der tag am kürzten/ und die Sonne in das mitteglich zeichen des Steinbocks trit/ geschicht Dienstag 12 Dezembris dises zu endlauffenden 81. Jahres zu fru ein zwelfftheil oder 5 minuten weniger dann 2 stund vor der Sonnen auffgang/ auff die furstliche Statt Onoltzbach.“ 118 Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Jahrzeiten” under “Glossar.” 66 that falls before the equinox. But astronomy puts autumn’s beginning when the sun enters into the sign of Libra, making day and night equal.”119 Regardless of when he “would like to begin autumn,” for the sake of his almanac at least, Caesius once again upholds the astronomical basis of the seasons, and starts his description of autumn’s weather with the September equinox and sign of Libra.

It is not surprising that Caesius ultimately comes down on the side of the more astronomically-based start of the seasons--by this point, almanacs (not to mention other historical documents) were firmly rooted in measuring seasons from equinox to solstice to equinox. More unexpected and unique is that he pays lip service at all to the earlier starting point of seasons

(method 1). Even if this way of dividing up the seasons had fallen out of practice in printed sources, Caesius‘ comments shows him in conversation with historical views of the season. He leaves open the possibility that perhaps remnants of it still held sway among certain groups of people during the late sixteenth century. In any case, what can be said with certainty is that, during the early sixteenth century, there were at least two dominant methods of partitioning the year into its four seasons—one method viewed the solstices and equinoxes as the mean of a season, while the second viewed them as the end or beginning of seasons.

SECTION III. ANALYSIS AND CONCLUSION This chapter has examined the ways in which almanac authors timed and measured the year of nature throughout the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. At many junctures, authors described this particular mode of the year in terms of circuity. Metaphors used included not just circles but also various sorts of wheels. Far more than recurrence or cyclicality, these pictures expressed the idea that the year of nature—like circles—had no clear point of departure.

119 Caesius, Practica (1581): „Den Herbst mochte ich wol von bartholomei anfahen/ oder vom Volmond / so vor dem Aequinoctio einfelt/ Aber astronomice hat der Herbst seinen anfang/da die Sonn in das zeichen Wag eintritt/und tag und nach zum andern malgleich werden.“ 67

Almanac authors were well aware of the variety of times at which the year could begin or end.

Their works often demonstrate a conscious effort to not only select the most applicable time to begin the astronomical year, but also to explain and justify their choice in doing so.

Until about the 1570s, almanacs most frequently referred to the spring equinox (or the sun’s simultaneous entry into Aries), as the beginning of the year in accordance with longstanding astronomical tradition. While this use of the vernal equinox did not completely fall away during the early modern period, the 1570s marked the rise of winter as the start of the astronomical year. However here, too, there was diversity—authors most commonly referred to the winter solstice as the start of winter and the astronomical year, but others cited 1 January or

(still less frequently) the December full moon. To some degree, the shift towards winter can be viewed as an effort to collate nature’s year and that of the civil calendar—even the winter solstice, occurring some two weeks before 1 January (before the advent of the Gregorian system), was seen to coincide with the start of the civil calendar more nearly than the spring equinox had.

It is tempting to view this merging of natural and civil time frames as driven by some new impulse of modern time consciousness. A more tangible catalyst, however, may have been the changing relationship between the genres of printed almanacs and calendars during the second quarter of the sixteenth century. Heretofore, almanacs and calendars had most often been printed as separate, stand-alone texts.120 This changed towards the last quarter of the sixteenth century, when it became increasingly common for almanacs to be printed alongside calendars, translating the brief indications of calendars into astrological and meteorological predictions for each season or month of the year. From this vantage point, the decision to merge the year of

120 For a more closely examined example of a sixteenth-century calendar, see Appendix I. Moreover, Chapter 2 of this dissertation examines the humoral information promulgated by calendars. 68 nature with the calendar makes perfect sense—an almanac beginning in spring would be akin to an index that only contained notes for the last two thirds of a book. At the very least, such an almanac may have been confusing and impractical for certain readers. More to the point, however, it would also have been difficult to market. For one, readers would have had to already own the preceding year’s almanac for information on the current year’s winter seasons. While some calendars corresponding to an almanac began in spring, such examples were by no means the majority. While most of the authors cited in this chapter did not publish calendars that directly corresponded to their almanacs, I view their shifting attitudes towards the start of the year of nature as impelled at least in part by wider changes between calendars and almanacs at this time.

Many authors shared in common the tendency to tie the natural year to a salvific- historical event, regardless of whether they began their almanacs with a spring or wintertime terminus. Starting the year of nature at the spring equinox corresponded to Judeo-Christian ideas about cosmogony, which often pictured the creation occurring in the spring. Winter, particularly the solstice, correlated with Christ’s birth into the world. In forging conceptual relationships between events of nature and the salvific past, these authors were merging much more than civil and natural time frames—they sought to root the temporal cycles of nature within the story of salvation and the incarnation, which was itself the merging of eternity (God) and temporality

(man).

In addition to new ideas as to when the year of nature began, almanacs of this period also bore witness to the confluence of two traditions that concerned the division of the year into seasons. One one hand was the Isidorian view of seasons (method 1) that saw solstices and equinoxes as the mid-point of seasons. Ptolemaic notions, on the other (method 2), regarded 69 them as the seasons’ start- and end-points. During the sixteenth century, almanacs saw this latter view, which had long been prevalent in astrological and astronomical contexts, win out. While early sixteenth-century almanacs divided the year using method 1 (here one thinks of the various editions of Regiomontanus, reprinted until 1539), most almanacs by the 1530s and 1540s utilized the Ptolemaic method, which continues to be the standard way of dividing the seasons.

As visible as this change was, even later in the century it was not without its share of questions. Here we return to the almanac of 1581 by Georg Caesius. While he ultimately structures his depiction of the seasons around method 2, his work also bears witness to a certain degree of ambiguity that seems to have persisted surrounding these ideas. For Caesius, using the solstices and equinoxes to divide seasons meant aligning with the practices of astronomy. As quoted earlier, Caesius begins winter “with astronomers,” who consider winter to be the season when the sun is in Capricorn, Aquarius and Pisces, a duration of time that starts at the winter equinox, although, “wintertime begins with us and others in cold, northern lands around St.

Martin’s [11 November] or St. Clement’s day [23 November] in November.” 121 This particular statement is about as illuminating as it is opaque. On an epistemological level, one is still left to wonder whether winter begins with the astronomers and Caesius, or on one of these other dates.

Most likely Caesius simply meant that, in terms of weather and temperature changes, winter-like conditions already begin long before astronomers calculate the start of the season—a vexatious climatic phenomenon that northern dwellers continue to lament to this day.

It is worth noting, however, that the ordinary discrepancy between seasonal conditions and the four cardinal points of the year was likely more apparent in Caesius’ day, due to what historians and climatologists have since termed the Little Ice Age. This period of climate change, which lasted from the late fourteenth through the nineteenth century was characterized by

121 Caesius, Practica (1581), Aii. 70 problematically cold, moist seasons.122 Numerous observations found in a variety of cultural historical sources indicate that, particularly during the decades of 1570 to 1630, this meteorological cooling perceptibly shortened crop seasons and contributed to an overall decrease in temperatures, contributing to failed crops and other agricultural problems.123 For Caesius, whose earliest almanac on record coincided with the start of this period, it is not difficult to understand why he and others in northern Europe perceived winter as starting long before the solstice.

Although the solstices and equinoxes did not necessarily align with seasonal weather patterns, it is not surprising that authors of the sixteenth century increasingly favored the astronomical measures as opposed to calendar dates (or feast days) in their delineation of the seasons. Thanks to the growing lag of the Julian calendar, dates and feast days were not suitable as permanent coordinates in describing the year of nature. They had fallen—and continued to fall—some fourteen days behind the solar year since the calendar’s inauguration in 45 BC.

Solstices and equinoxes were the visible benchmarks of this discrepancy—their dates in the calendar tarried behind an increase of roughly one day every 130 years. Simon Menz, cited earlier, alluded to these flaws when he pointed out that the winter solstice was no longer observed on the day of Christmas.124 And unbeknownst to Caesius as he wrote his almanac in advance of 1582, this same year would witness Pope Gregorius XIII’s contentious reform of the civil calendar. In the decades after its inauguration, both sides of the debate surrounding the new

122 C.f. Wolfgang Behringer, Hartmut Lehmann, and Christian Pfister, „Kulturelle Konsequenzen der „kleinen Eiszeit“? Eine Annäherung an die Thematik,” in Kulturelle Konsequenzen der “Kleinen Eiszeit,” Veroffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 212, eds. Wolfgang Behringer, Hartmut Lehmann, and Christian Pfister (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005), 7-30, here 9. 123 Ibid., 11. Christian Pfister, “Weeping in the Snow. The Second Period of Little Ice Age-type Impacts, 1570- 1630,” in Kulturelle Konsequenzen der “Kleinen Eiszeit,” Veroffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 212, eds. Wolfgang Behringer, Hartmut Lehmann, and Christian Pfister (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005), 31-86, here 65-66, 83. 124 Menz, Grosse Prognosticon Astrologicum, Aiir-v. 71 calendar utilized solstices and equinoxes to legitimize and contest the Gregorian calendar, a point that Chapter 4 shall explore with closer attention. Although Catholic territories of Germany adopted the new calendar starting in 1583, most Protestant areas held to the Julian calendar—in spite of its errors—until 1700.

Making temporal sense of the year of nature was not always an easy process. The picture of the year’s time that emerges from sixteenth-century almanacs is one of tension between sites of malleability, change and continuity. Dates and times along the continuum of nature’s year moved from multiplicity and variety towards broader uniformity. And yet, this growing consensus developed in part due to incongruities in other areas of the year’s time: astrological means of dividing the seasons, for example, became more widely accepted in the face of a changing climate and increasingly defective civil calendar. In the midst of these widespread changes, almanac authors anchored seasonal termini in a salvific-historical framework that emphasized the sense that God was present in time and across time. These efforts, then, can be viewed as a means of imposing order on the chaos of calendar and climate—both of which seemed to be degenerating. Relying on the traditions of astronomy and orienting the year within the divine will of God lent a sense of stability to the ongoing reality of change and uncertainty. 72

CHAPTER 2 SEASONS OF HEALTH: THE YEAR’S TIME AND MEDICAL ASTROLOGY IN SIXTEENTH-CENTURY GERMANY

In 1527, Marbach physician Alexander Seitz published an informational tract on bloodletting (Aderlaßen). A longstanding cornerstone of humoral medicine, bloodletting (also known as phlebotomy) was regarded as a panacea of sorts that worked by mitigating plethora and restoring the body’s homeostatic balance. Following in this tradition, Seitz emphasized not only the general importance of this procedure, but also the need to perform it at its optimal time in regards to nature and other environmental factors.1 In his chapter on the correct timing of bloodletting, Seitz briefly outlined a whirlwind enumeration of rules used to determine better and worse times for bloodletting throughout the year; the four seasons, humors and lunar phases, not to mention particular feast days, zodiac signs and other phenomena all contributed to bloodletting’s advantageousness (or lack thereof) on any given day. Perhaps mindful of the confusion such a dense inventory may have elicited in the minds of his readers, Seitz ultimately recommended using calendars to best time the crucial procedure, particularly those that included planetary aspects.2

His advice reveals the growing role printed calendars played in addressing medical needs by this point in the sixteenth century. However, within five decades, physicians increasingly painted quite a different picture of the medical content in these calendars. Thomas Erastus— physician in the Franconian town of Henneberg—lamented that people would rather consult a

1 Alexander Seitz, Ein Nützlicher Trachtat... (Landshut: Weyssenburger, 1527), Biir. 2 Seitz, Ein Nützlicher Trachtat, Biir. In the language of astrology, an “aspect” refers to the angular relationship between two or more planets in the course of their movements. There were many possible aspects that could occur, depending on which planets were involved and what type of angle they formed. While this form of astrology dates back to ancient practice, it was also integral to early modern astronomers such as Kepler. See: Udo Becker, ed., “Aspekte,” in Lexikon der Astrologie (Freiburg: Herder, 1981), 23-24. 73 calendar for bloodletting advice than the wisdom of a medic.3 Nearly thirty years thereafter,

Carlsberg physician Philip Fesel launched a much more expansive diatribe against the medical advice of calendars. His 1609 treatise against judicial astrology bemoaned how “the common man gets so zealous about [the calendar’s blood-]letting indications that some allow their veins to be opened at great peril to one’s health, as long as one sees a single [bloodletting] symbol in the calendar.”4 For Fesel, the health claims found in calendars were synonymous with divinatory astrology. His treatise is among the most thorough critiques of medical astrology printed in

German during the early modern period.

This brief excursion into the changing attitudes of physicians draws attention to the ways in which calendars had begun to reshape medical information and its consumption during the sixteenth century. The use of calendars in the realm of bloodletting had become popular throughout the high and late middle ages, particularly in monastic settings. 5 The late fifteenth and early sixteenth century, however, saw a dramatic upsurge in sheer variety of calendars available to lay readers in the wake of the printing press. These cheaply acquired works proliferated time-sensitive health indications to an ever-widening readership, the majority of whom had little familiarity with the underlying medical philosophies of humoral cures. In a sense, the indications of calendars replaced the bandages and barber’s poles that late-medieval barber-surgeons were required to display outside their windows on favorable bloodletting days, the timing of which was often regulated by local medical faculty.6

3 Thomas Erastus, De Astrologia Divinatrice Epistolae D. Thomae Erasti (Basel: Pena, 1580), 1; as referred to in Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 992. 4 Philippus Fesel[ius], Gründtlicher Discurs Von der Astrologia Judicaria (Strasbourg: Zetzner, 1609), DIr: “SIhet man nicht in täglicher erfahrung, wie der gemein Mann auff solche loßzeichen so eyferig gehe, das mancher mit großem nachtheil seiner gesundheit last ader öffnen, wann er nur ein solch zeichen im Calender sihet.” 5 Mary Katherine Keblinger Hague Yearl, “The Time of Bloodletting” (Yale: PhD Diss, 2006), 2-3. 6 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 989-94. Except in cases of emergency, barber- surgeons remained primarily responsible for performing bloodlettings from the twelfth through the eighteenth century. Bonnie Karen Davis, Phlebotomy: From Student to Professional (Clifton Park: Delmar, 2010), 12. 74

The new presence of calendars in the domain of bloodletting is depicted poignantly in

Valentin Butzlin’s 1549 calendar almanac, whose title page features a woodcut of a barber- surgeon letting blood from a man’s wrist (See Figure 1 below). Although barber-surgeons continued as the main practitioners of bloodletting in the sixteenth century, the critical “when” of the procedure was increasingly informed less by guild regulations or practicing physicians (as had been the case in the middle ages), but by calendars and the patients who read them. Under these conditions, it became increasingly difficult to standardize or regulate up-to-date medical information. Klaus Matthäus cites numerous instances throughout the first half of the sixteenth century in which surgeons were penalized for following bloodletting guidelines of calendars that had not been pre-approved by a local city council or medical board.7 If the comments of Erastus and Fesel are any indication, the situation did not get any easier as time went on: Fesel implicated not only barber-surgeons but the “common man,” who by the early 1600s had also managed to gained his own opinions as to when his veins ought to be opened.8

This chapter addresses the year’s time from the vantage point of human health during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The seasons of medicine and the timing of health regimens were dominant modes by which people perceived the year during this period.

Humoralism, the reigning paradigm of medicine since antiquity, understood human health to consist of balancing the body’s four main humors. As Seitz had explained in his phlebotomy tract, bodily equilibrium was easily affected by a variety of cosmic, natural and environmental factors. These same factors influenced the efficacy of all health-related activities and procedures—from bathing and nail-trimming to sleeping and eating—but especially bloodletting.

The maintenance of health and the success of bloodletting therefore depended upon properly

7 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 993-94. 8 Fesel, Gründtlicher Discurs, DIr. 75 timing it vis-à-vis a complex variety of fluctuating dynamics in nature. To better discern the times of health, humoral medicine by the sixteenth century had come to rely on astrological principles that sought to comprehend the celestial causes of bodily processes. Humoral medicine survived the early modern period largely unscathed, but its fusion with astrology was becoming increasingly problematic for some physicians, as Fesel’s treatise indicates. To a certain degree, their qualms about medical astrology can be contextualized within wider contentions that grew in intensity during the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.

Considering the complex range of factors which could affect health at any time, printed calendars emerged as sites of practical information concerning the timing of both preventative and remedial health regimens. Calendars of the sixteenth century supplied readers with a rising swell of medical advisements for each month of the year. This allowed for the proliferation of more succinct, date-specific medical guidance than that which could be found in lengthy medical handbooks. At the same time, however, this medical-calendrical advice was hardly immune from incongruities and contradictions. The question remains whether the bourgeoning medical indications of early modern calendars clarified or obscured the “right time” for human health during this period.

Throughout the discussion of this chapter, commonly printed, vernacular medical tracts like those of Seitz are used extensively to contextualize and expand upon the medical claims of calendars and almanacs. The basis of the chapter, however, is centered around calendars and calendar-almanacs. From the earliest days of printing, almanacs (whether published independently or bound together with a calendar) led the way in disseminating yearly health advice, often featuring lengthy chapters on bloodletting and other aspects of humoral medicine. 76

Figure 1: Barber-Surgeon Letting Blood from a Man’

Source: Valentin Butzlin, Laassbüchlin sampt der Schrybtafel und der Practick uff das M.D.L. Jar / [gepracticiert durch Valentinum Bützlin von Wangen, der Artznyen Doctor und Stattartzet zuo Uberlingen (Zürich: Froschauer, 1549), title page.

Image Courtesy of: Zentralbibliothek Zürich Digital Collections http://dx.doi.org/10.3931/e-rara-18344 77

Calendars soon followed suit—from at least the 1520s on, they contained crucial guidance in the form of favorable bloodletting days and monthly health verses (Monatsversen) and, slightly later, symbols next to the calendar dates indicating days that were advantageous for bloodletting. As health information shifted to calendars, almanacs began to include less specific advice on bloodletting by the second half of the sixteenth century, focusing more on judicial astrological prognostications for the year at hand.

The first section (Section I) of this chapter broadly explores common understandings of humoral medicine and bloodletting theory during the sixteenth century. Bringing the humoral advice found in almanacs into conversation with contemporary medical tracts provides a dynamic understanding of medical ideas about the times of year, as well as the effects of seasonal fluctuations on the body. Section II focuses specifically on bloodletting advice found in calendars and almanacs. Here it becomes clear that the timely guidelines purported by the authors of these documents were not always consistent with one another, let alone with the accepted teachings of humoral medicine. Often enough, calendars hindered rather than helped find the proper time for bloodletting. Bearing in mind the medical incongruities found in calendars and almanacs, Section III contextualizes the astrological accoutrements of humoralism within early modern astrology, a vast realm of thought that was both widely accepted and heavily scrutinized by the early seventeenth century. Like the medical advisements of humoral theory, the timing of other astrological indications throughout the calendar year was often latent with incongruities, which did not dissuade astrology’s opponents. Medical astrology in Germany has yet to be integrated within the wider narrative of early modern astrology and its gradual decline. 78

I. A TIME TO LET BLOOD: HUMORALISM AND THE YEAR’S TIME (1500-1550)

The four seasons of the year herald visible alterations in the natural world. In early modern Europe, it was widely believed that these changes were reflected not only in plants and weather patterns, but also within the processes of the human body. Medical treatises and almanacs of the early sixteenth century provide rich explanations of these changes. As the almanac portion of Regiomontanus’ 1518 calendar explained, the seasons and other fluctuations of nature made it necessary to "(p)roperly keep up with eating and with drinking, with sleeping, with bathing, with bloodletting and other things [...] so that they are [applied] at their proper and natural time and keep the person healthy. He who does not do this will necessarily become sick."9 Correctly timing even basic bodily necessities like eating and drinking, as well as more complex medical procedures like bloodletting, was tantamount to preserving human health.

To understand the relationship between seasons, timing and health procedures, it is necessary to step back and examine the larger paradigm at work, one that had informed understandings of medicine and biological reality from the time of Hippocrates, whose medical treatises were published in a “flood” of new editions during the sixteenth century.10 As they had

9 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1518), Riiv (emphasis mine); NOTE: Throughout this chapter, I attribute the words of Regiomontanus to the particular calendars published under his name, instead of to Regiomontanus himself. Though the great German astronomer and polymath died in 1476, his calendrical works lived on for several generations to come in the form of subsequent posthumous editions. It is assumed that these editions featured additions and adjustments by editors and printers. For more information on the differences between these printings as well as the various editors at work, see Ernst Zinner, Regiomontanus: His Life and Work, trans. Ezra Brown (New York: North-Holland, B.V., 1990), 125-28. 10 Harold J. Cook, "Medicine," in Early Modern Science, The Cambridge History of Science 3, eds. Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 407-34, here 411. In becoming acquainted with the intricacies of humoralism, I am greatly indebted to the scholarship of Nora Arikha, whose seminal historiography on the topic has made this counterintuitive medical framework comprehensible to a modern audience. Concerning the long-standing validity of this paradigm, she writes: “For over two thousand years […], humoral theory explained most things about a person's character, psychology, medical history, tastes, appearance, and behavior. Doctors continued to work on the assumption that the body and the mind were intimately connected, that emotions were corporeal, that vapors caused headaches, and that a cold caused indigestion. It was on the authority of humoral theory that they would advocate leechings, bleedings, cataplasms, and fomentations as a cure 79 for millennia, humoral explanations for health and illness formed the foundation of medical science through the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Retrospectively termed humoral theory, this paradigm saw medicine as the pursuit of homeostasis between the four fluids of the body. These liquids, or humors (from the Latin [h]ūmor)—phlegm, blood, yellow bile and black bile—were believed to be produced in the body, but could become imbalanced as a result of sickness, malnourishment, physical activity, weather, cosmic influences, seasonal fluctuations and other environmental situations. Only with the rise of “new science,” especially William

Harvey’s discovery of systematic circulation in 1628, did humoral theory begin its centuries-long decline.11 Nonetheless, throughout much of the early modern period, the humors profoundly shaped common conceptions of health maintenance.

The logic behind the four humors rests in part on a quadripartite division of the cosmos, rooted in ancient philosophical notions of the four elements: earth, water, air and fire. In turn, each of these elements was associated with a quality, a particular combination of hot or cold and dry or moist. By the early modern period, humors had long been linked to this four-fold system of elemental qualities: blood was hot and moist, yellow bile or choler was hot and dry, black bile was cold and dry, and phlegm was cold and moist. Along with humors, countless other components of nature could be fit within the four elemental categories, including the four seasons. Illustrating this is an image found in Regiomontanus’ calendar (See Figure 2 below).12

Here, each concentric circle signifies distinct aspects seen to correspond to the four elemental groups. The outermost circle of text, beginning at the top with “midday” (Mittag) or

for all ailments, from stomach aches to fevers, from skin rashes to chest pains.” Nora Arikha, Passions and Tempers: A History of the Humours (New York: HarperCollins Books, 2007), xvii. 11 Nora Arikha, Passions and Tempers: A History of the Humours (New York: Harper Collins, 2007), 187; c.f. Harold J. Cook, "Medicine," 432. As Arikha points out, however, humoral theory persisted in various subdued forms until a century and a half later, when modern notions of germ pathology prevailed. Arikha, Passions and Tempers, xviii. 12 Johannes Regiomontanus, Kalender (Augsburg: n.p., 1518), Jir. 80

“south,”13 proceeds clockwise through the eight directions of the compass rose. From the next outermost circle of text to the center, the diagram details the twelve winds, the twelve signs of the zodiac, the twelve months of the civil calendar, the four humors and elements, and the four combinations of qualities associated with each humor: hot, cold, dry, moist. At the center of the diagram is a miniature illustration of each season, from a city scape and freshly-ploughed fields of autumn to the fiery furnace of summer. In between is a lake frozen over in winter and two clouds blowing in the mild air of spring.14

13 Deutsches Wörterbuch von Jacob und Wilhelm Grimm, online version, s.v. “Mittag,” http://www.woerterbuchnetz.de/DWB?lemma=mittag. 14 Johannes Regiomontanus, Kalender (Augsburg: Syttich, 1512), Jir. 81

detail:

Center of diagram, enlarged to show four seasons seasons to show enlarged four of diagram, Center > (emphasis added).

. r /display/bsb10158950_00005.html (Augsburg,1518), Ji

Figure 2: Circular Diagram of the Winds and Four Seasons (1518) Seasons and Four Winds of the Diagram Circular 2: Figure Kalender us, sammlungen.de/de/fs1/object - http://reader.digitale Source: Johannes Regiomontan Image courtesy of: Bavarian State Library (BSB), Digital Collections, < 82

The relationship between the humors and other four-fold realms of reality provides the basis for vast and far-flung areas of life and nature to be intimately linked to one another—for the zodiac signs to correspond to calendar months, for example, or for human temperament to be linked to seasons, elements, months and more.15 Accordingly, the human body was a microcosm of the heavens—events among planets and the zodiac caused changes in every subsequent realm of nature, from the sublunary skies to the inner workings of bodily processes and illnesses.16

Bridging the macro- and microcosms were the combinations of elemental qualities (hot and cold; dry and moist), which were particularly susceptible to the ravages of cosmic events, like comets or shifting planetary alignments. The results could be grim--Regiomontanus’ calendar, for example, cited too much or too little moisture in the body as the underlying cause of all disease, a teaching he attributed to the medieval Arabic scholars Avicenna and Rhazes.17

Since each of the four humoral temperaments were associated with a different ratio of moisture to dryness, it followed that medicinal practices and environmental surroundings could affect people in a variety of ways.18 To give an example, the air in summer was considered hot and dry, which stimulated the production of black bile and inclined individuals towards the choleric temperament—a potential danger for anyone, but especially those who were choleric by nature.19

15 Daniel Garber, “Physics and Foundations,” in Early Modern Science, The Cambridge History of Science 3, eds. Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 19-69, here 28. 16 Charles West Clark points out that in humoralism, the micro- and macrocosm relationship between the body and heavens was one of hierarchy. Paracelsus (d. 1541), the most formidable opponent of humoralism during the sixteenth century, interpreted the micro- and macrocosm anew, emphasizing true correspondence (rather than mere hierarchical causation) between heavenly, earthly and bodily realms. Charles West Clark, “The Zodiac Man in Medieval Medical Astrology” (PhD diss., University of Colorado at Boulder, 1979), 363. 17 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Ii iiir. Rhazes, a medieval Persian polymath, wrote several medical treatises. A full Latin translation of his “Treatise for the King of Almansor” was published in 1497, while the ninth chapter of this work (outlining methods for treatment of diseases) had been a foundational part of medical curricula in certain German universities into the fifteenth century. See Plinio Prioreschi, A History of Medicine: Byzantine and Islamic Medicine (Omaha: Horatius Press, 2001), 238-40. 18 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Ii iir-v. 19 C.f. Regiment der gesundheyt, Wie sich eyn ieglich mensch halten soll durch das gantze jar, mit essen, trincken, schlaffen... (Worms: Meihel, 1530), Aiiv. This text refers to choler as “black blood” (schwarzes blut) through traditionally choler is associated with yellow, not black, bile. 83

In sum, maintaining humoral balance was a delicate process that required keen attention to the movements in bodily and cosmic reality.

Ordinary activities of daily life—e.g. sleeping and eating—were also associated with particular combinations of heat and moisture and thus exerted their own influence on the humors.

Consequently, they were best performed at suitable times in relation to other environmental and humoral factors. Sleep, while acknowledged to be of “great use” in making “the mind pliable and the memory sharp,” made the body “warm by nature.”20 There was a distinct danger in sleeping too much or too little—the former made “the body dry and lean,” (trucken und mager) while the latter made the body cold and moist, inciting the growth of phlegm.21 Accordingly, it was generally better to sleep longer in winter than in summer.

Like sleep, bad eating habits were defined as eating too much or too little, or eating certain foods outside their proper time—all of which could throw off the body’s homeostatic balance between the four humors and their principal qualities of hot and cold, dry and moist.22 A

1533 almanac by Eucharius Rößlin the younger outlines touches on several beneficial eating practices in regards to the four humoral seasons:

The first [time of year] is spring, which begins on S. Peter’s day before Shrove Tuesday and lasts until St. Urban’s day. This season is warm and moist in nature and is similar to air. In spring, blood grows and that is also warm and moist. […] The second season is summer, hot and dry, during which time choler grows […] which is similar to fire, because it is also hot and dry. […] This season lasts from St. Urban’s day to St. Bartholomew’s day. The next time of year is autumn, cold and dry, and there grows a moisture called Melancholia, which is similar to the earth. During this time, it is healthy to drink good wine and eat warm dishes. […] Autumn lasts from St. Bartholomew until St. Clement’s day. The fourth time of year is winter, cold and moist. The moisture called Phlegm grows inside of people

20 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Ii ivv: “Der Schlaff [ist] viel nuz und ser hilffe thut dem menschen so man in ordenlich braucht. Er benimbt der sel ir arbaitt und macht subtil die vernunft und scharpff gedechtnus [...] und macht den leichnam faisst und warm vonn natur." 21 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Ii ivv. Sleeping too little makes the body “voll fluess die da haissent flegma und kelt den leichnam besunder die grossen faissten leichnam." 22 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Ii iiiv-r. 84

during this time. During winter, hot dishes are good to make use of, especially those that are well seasoned. People drink more at this time than in Summer, because the stomach is at its hottest. 23

Monitoring one’s food and drink throughout the year provided a way to actively maintain one’s health, suggesting that people were not necessarily helpless in the face of nature’s humoral caprice. To some degree, they could actively participate in preserving their own health by observing a diet regimen that changed throughout the seasons of the year, eating and avoiding specific foods in order to preserve the body’s equilibrium.24

As important as proper sleep and eating hygeine was, bloodletting was the jewel in the crown of humoral remedies. Regarded as the most efficacious of the many “retentions and evacuations,” physicians enlisted it alleviate plethora, the superabundance of one or more humors.25 While phlebotomy’s main benefit was to rid the body of an excess of blood, evidence suggests the procedure was used to mitigate other humors as well, since blood was thought to contain “an admixture of all four humors.”26 From the times of antiquity, treatises on medical practice generally distinguished between prophylactic and therapeutic bloodletting. The latter form was performed after a patient had already fallen ill, an acute method of treating sickness or injury. Conditions that most often called for bloodletting included fever, inflammation, gout, quinsy (tonsillitis) and pleurisy (lung infection).27 In such cases, less attention was paid to the

23 Rößlin, Kalender mit allen Astronomischen haltungen, XXIX. For a wider discussion on the timing of the four seasons during the sixteenth century, refer to Chapter 1. 24 Published much later in the sixteenth century, Adelar Rhote’s pharmaceutical tract provides a highly detailed (and loosely hexametered) catalogue of foods and their humoral effect on the body, from figs to fennel seeds: Leibes Apoteck/|| Das ist/|| Feiner bericht/|| Wie sich ein Mensch or=||dentlich vnd mässig halten soll/|| in Essen/ Trincken/ Schlaffen/ gehen || vnd stehen/ Deßgleichen von Aderlassen/ (Heidelberg: S.L., 1581). 25 Other “excavations” included purgation, emetics and diuretics. Harold J. Cook, "Medicine," in Early Modern Science, The Cambridge History of Science 3, eds. Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 407-34, here 410. Georg Pictorius lists a staggering 12 modes of evacuating various bodily fluids from all possible orifices, including “nose bleeding” and “the work of love.” Georg Pictorius, Ein ganz fruchtbare Ordnung, die Gesundheit zu erhalten (Mülhausen: n.p., 1561), Kiiv. 26 Linda E. Voigts and Michael R. McVaugh, “A Latin Technical Phlebotomy and Its Middle English Translation,” in Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 74, no. 2 (1984): 1-69, here 5. 27 Ibid. 85 timing of phlebotomy: early modern medical treatises acknowledged that in cases of emergency, bloodlettings could be performed at any time.28

The bulk of this chapter is concerned not with therapeutic bloodletting but instead its prophylactic counterpart. This form of bloodletting was supposed to be performed periodically throughout the year to stave off humoral imbalance. The benefit of this procedure, however, came with a catch: bloodletting, whether performed therapeutically or preventatively, was always dangerous—early modern people did not need modern knowledge of blood circulation and germ pathology to know that bloodletting was the riskiest routine health procedure. In his bloodletting manual, physician Georg Pictorius put it bluntly when he invoked an old proverb

(gemein Sprichwort) that still rang true in his day: “More die by the needle (flieden) than from the sword.”29

Due to the risky nature of the procedure, phlebotomy—more than any other common health procedure—required adept timing to ensure there was an ample supply of blood in the body. In line with teachings as old as Galen, the almanac of Regiomontanus’ 1512 calendar explains that the best time to perform a bloodletting was in the autumn or springtime.30 These were the mildest seasons, during which the “four humors are equally tempered,” and when there

28 E.g. Johann Hebenstreit, Aderlaßbuch (Erfurt: n.p., 1559), Biiir; Johannes Schöner, Nothwendige Regel, welche Zeit man ein yetliche Ertzney bereyten und brauchen soll (Nuremberg: s.l., 1543), Bivr. 29 Georg Pictorius, Lasz buechlin: Clarer bericht das aderlassen nit so in geringem bruch soll gehalten werden, wie dan an allen orten gemeinlich beschicht, unnd mancher hiemit im selber sin lebenn abbricht (Basel: Kündig, 1555), Aiiv: “Es sterben me [sic] vonn der flieden dann von dem Schwert.” 30 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Kkv. According to Klaus Matthäus, this teaching belonged to the common parameters of humoral medicine throughout the early modern period. Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 988. Galen, drawing on Hippocrates and others, advised that bloodletting was most suitable during spring time because that is when blood was thought to grow in the body, and because spring was the most temperate of all seasons. Peter Brain, Galen on Bloodletting: a Study on the Origins, Development and Validity of His Opinions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 7. Averroes transmitted this knowledge, maintaining that spring was the only time of year advisable to let blood, excepting cases of emergency (Colliget 7-3). See also Despar’s commentary on the canon of Avicenna, in Faith Wallis, ed., Medieval Medicine: a Reader (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010), 324. 86 was likely to be an excess of blood in the body.31 Renowned Nuremberg astronomer Johannes

Schöner later corroborated this advice. In his Necessary Rules Concerning What Time Each

Remedy Should Be Implemented (1543), Schöner argued that only autumn and spring were suitable seasons for bloodletting, since they were the most temperate times of year—neither too moist, dry, cold or warm.32 On the other hand, the same calendar contraindicated bloodletting during the months of summer and winter, when blood was believed to be scarce in the body.

Thus the procedure was prohibited, for example, during December, “the last month of the year, during which one has less blood than in any other month of the year.”33 In other words: no phlebotomies for Christmas.

In addition to the seasons of blood’s growth and scarcity in the body, there were also other ways of partitioning bloodletting practice throughout the year. Numerous texts throughout the first half of the sixteenth century advised letting blood from the right side of the body during summer, and the left during winter. 34 Moreover, specific saints were singled out as advantageous for letting blood, namely those of Sts. Blaise (15 February), Philip and James (1

May), Bartholomew (24 August) and Martin (11 November).35 The advantage of letting blood on these days likely had little to do with the saints or their patronage per se. The timing of these feasts—particularly that of St. Bartholomew—should be familiar from the first chapter of this dissertation as the markers of seasons according to the Isidorian method of dividing the year during the middle ages (method 1). Evenly spaced throughout the year, the use of these feast

31 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Kkv. 32 Johannes Schöner, Nothwendige Regel, welche Zeit man ein yetliche Ertzney bereyten und brauchen soll (Nuremberg: s.l., 1543), Aiiiv. 33 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Llr. 34 Johannes de Ketham, Wundarzney zu allen Gebrechen ... des ganz ... Leibs (Frankfurt: n.p., 1552), Ev; Alexander Seitz, Ein Nutzlicher Tractat... (Landshut: Weyssenburger, 1527), Biir; Djser Kalender Zeygt Dir Clarlichen Die Eygenschafft Und Natur Der Syben Planeten, 12 Zaichen Und Monaten, Auch Die 4 Complexion Eins Jeden Menschen, (n.p., 1521), Hiiir; Regimen Sanitatis: Diß ist eyn gut Regiment/ der Gesundheyt durch alle Monate ds gantze(n) Jares (Moguntie: Hewman, 1509), B. 35 C.f. Hebenstreit, Aderlaßbuch, Biiiir; de Ketham, Wundarzney, 84. 87 days with bloodletting most likely dates back to the medieval monastic custom of periodic bloodletting, a form of prophylactic bloodletting that sought to aid spiritual as well as physical health.36 New and full moons were unanimously harmful for bloodletting, as were the solstices, equinoxes and particular planetary aspects.37

II. TO LET BLOOD, OR NOT TO LET BLOOD? PHLEBOTOMY ADVICE IN SIXTEENTH- AND EARLY SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY PRINTED CALENDARS

Keeping in step with the “proper and natural time” 38 of the human body throughout the year was a delicate task, requiring that people consider an array of cosmic and environmental influences simultaneously. While health manuals of the period explained in detail how to properly time medical regimens vis-à-vis such coordinates as the four seasons and twelve months, practically carrying out such instructions in the “real time” of everyday life was increasingly achieved with the aid of calendars. During the 1520s, health information gradually began to shift to calendar pages rather than almanacs.39 It was in the midst of this trend that Alexander Seitz had recommended the use of calendars with medical indications to time bloodletting regimens.40

One of the earliest forms of health information to be added to calendars were short health proverbs for each month of the year.41 An early example of this in printed calendars is found in

36 The monks of at least one German monastery, the Benedictines of Tergensee, fixed their monastic bloodletting schedule to these feasts. Keblinger Hague Yearl, “The Time of Bloodletting,” 158. 37 Hebenstreit, Aderlaßbuch, Biiiir; Schöner, Nothwendige Regel, Bivv. 38 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1518), Riiv. 39 Djser Kalender zeygt dir clarlichen die eygenschafft und natur der syben Planeten, 12 zaichen und monaten, auch die 4 Complexion eins jeden menschen (Basel: Pamphilus, 1521). 40 Alexander Seitz, Ein Nützlicher Trachtat, Biir. 41 As Klaus Matthäus points out, no singular lineage or origin can be traced for these rhymes. Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1186-87. Likely, they were German iterations of the anonymous medieval “Salernitan Rule of Health” (Regimen Sanitatis Salernitanum), a collection of hexameters containing advice on various facets of humoral health: diet, balneology, sleep, bloodletting, as well as monthly health insights in regards to the twelve zodiac signs. German translations of this text date at least as far back as 1506. Regimen Sanitatis, das ist von der Ordnung der Gesundheit (Augsburg: Hüpfuff, 1506), see Biiir-Bvv for monthly rhymes. However, direct German translations of this work (which were published numerous times during the first half of the sixteenth century) yielded rhymes that bore little formal resemblance to those of calendars. According to Gundolf Keil, calendrical health proverbs were likely the descendants of a variety of fragmentary Latin and Middle German 88 an anonymous calendar of 1521, which featured paragraphs in each month full of health guidelines. According to this calendar, in January people should avoid letting blood, hydrating the body, eating duck and anger (among other things). Instead, they were encouraged to drink white wine and eat other meats besides duck, especially fish.42 Yet, as this example demonstrates, calendars tended to offer less thorough medical explanations than contemporary almanacs did (one thinks of the almanac appendices of Regiomontanus’ 1512 and 1518 calendars, although almanacs were usually published separately from calendars during this period). While almanacs of this period tended to explain underlying reasons for seasonal health guidelines, this calendar offered only the guidelines themselves.

Nonetheless, it is possible to deduce broader explanations by reading calendars in the context of contemporary health manuals, particularly an anonymous Regimen of Health.

According to this health guide, wine (along with many meats) brought warmth, moisture and strength to the body, abating the havoc that winter, as the coldest and moistest time of year, could wreak on the body.43 Regimen of Health even advised its readers to heighten warming effect of such foods—wine, for example, was to be heated during winter to intensify the heat it brought to the body,44 and warming spices like ginger could be added to the hot wine in

January.45

The indications of some calendars, however, could not be fully explained even when read in tandem with contemporary medical literature. Such was the case with calendar-almanacs of iterations of the Regimen dating back to the 1200s. These collections of verses have been classified according to their repository location, the most prominent being the so-called Grazer, Limburger, Utrechter and Kesseler Monatsregeln variations. Keil notes, however, that the urtext whence these variations derive (if there was one) has not yet been discerned. Gundolf Keil, “Monatsregeln,” in Enzyklopädie Medizingeschichte 2, eds. Werner E. Gerabek, Bernhard D. Haage, Gundolf Keil, Wolfgang Wegner and Walter de Gruyter (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, 2007), 1003-1004. 42 Djser Kalender zeygt dir, Aiiv. 43 Regiment der gesundheyt, Ciir. 44 Regiment der Gesundheyt, Ciiiv 45 Regiment der Gesundheyt, Aiiir. 89

Eucharius Rößlin the younger. Like the anonymous calendar above, every month of Rößlin’s calendars featured brief health proverbs and advice in the same way that the margins of today’s calendars might feature inspirational quotations. In Rößlin’s calendar, this advice was given in the form of clumsily-rhymed quatrain verses, a feature that was quickly becoming a mainstay in sixteenth-century calendars. As was the case with Rößlin’s calendar, few authors of these verses cited the source of their medical advice. For the most part, however, the guidance found in these rhymes were clearly rooted in humoral perceptions of the body and the year’s fluctuations. These verses offered advice on numerous issues such as which foods to eat or avoid that month; how much to drink, sleep, eat, or exercise; whether the month was fit for taking baths or pharmaceuticals; and what medicines were to be administered at that time of year. In addition to these points of guidance, a recurring feature in calendar health rhymes was the advisability of bloodletting during each particular month.

So it was that Rößlin’s 1533 calendar gave his readers the following guidance for the month of January:

In Aquarius, letting blood is said to strengthen, except from the shin.46

Here the advice is given that letting blood in January (when the sun enters Aquarius) lends strength to the body, except when letting blood from the shin. If this is indeed what Rößlin intended to communicate, his instruction stands in direct contrast not only to the practice of humoral medicine in general but also to the almanac portion of the same calendar. In this portion of the text, which featured a lengthier outline of bloodletting practices, Rößlin included monthly health rules ascribed to Hippocrates. The advice for January in the almanac stated unequivocally

46 Rößlin, Kalender mit allen Astronomischen haltungen, 2 (pagination mine): “Im Wassrer magst du zur adern lan/ on die schinbeyn solt stercken than/ die dewend [dauernd? Dauuung?] Krafft/ Arznei bey Zeit/ Solt Schwein/ pflanzen/ har beschneid.” 90 not to let blood during January.47 This latter advice resonated with the wider practice of humoral medicine throughout the early modern period, which commonly prohibited blood letting during

January.48 Regiomontanus had cautioned against performing the procedure in the wintry month of January, when the body’s blood was scarce.49 As Regiomontanus saw it, the only exception to this rule was in the case of emergency, and even then, only a very small amount of blood was to be extracted from the body from the “main artery” (the hauptader, most likely referring to the cephalic vein running through the crook of one’s arm).50 Like Regiomontanus, the Regimen of

Health prohibited phlebotomy in January as well.51

Given that bloodletting was generally prohibitive in January, why would Rößlin recommend doing so in his calendar? The question comes down to the reference point he specifies for letting blood: the sign of Aquarius. While it was ill-advised to let blood when the sun was in Aquarius (which it entered mid-January), Rößlin may have instead been referring to the moon’s entrance into the same sign. The moon, after all, was thought to affect bodily humors more strongly than the sun, since it was closer to earth and visibly affected liquids in nature, especially the tides.52 Rößlin’s proverb gave no clear indication that it referred to the lunar sign of Aquarius, as a 1588 calendar did in a similarly-worded health proverb.53 Nonetheless, since

Aquarius was traditionally associated with the qualities of hot and wet (good conditions for the growth of blood in the body), it is not inconceivable that Rößlin believed bloodletting to be more advantageous when the moon entered that sign, which according to one calendar occurred every

47 Rößlin, Kalender mit allen Astronomischen haltungen, XLVIII: “Im Jenner […] nit aderlassen.” 48 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1187-89. 49 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Kkiiv; Regiomontanus 1518, Siir. 50 Ibid.; c.f. Deutsches Wörterbuch von Jacob Grimm und Wilhelm Grimm, s.v. “Hauptader.” See also Johannes de Ketham’s definition of Hauptader and cephalic vein in: Wundarzney zu allen Gebrechen ... des ganz... Leibs (Frankfurt: n.p., 1552), XX. 51 Regiment der Gesundheyt, Aiiir. 52 Ptolemy Tetrabiblios, Book 1.1. 53 Moller, Schreibkalender (1588), Aiiir: “When the moon [is] in Aquarius/ it is bad to let blood from the shins”; “Wenn der Mon in dem Wasserman/ ist bös an Fußschenckel zu lahn.” 91

27 days.54 In this scenario, he may have intended to advise readers to let blood during the lunar sign of Aquarius if they must do so in January.

That Rößlin is talking about the lunar sign of Aquarius and not the zodiac month itself is further evidenced by the fact that he cautions against letting blood from the shin. Schöner, whose health manual had encouraged readers to use calendars as reference guides in timing bloodletting, clarified in the same text that each major body part was inversely associated with different lunar signs, a point that was reiterated by numerous similar health guides throughout the period.55 Accordingly, when the moon was in a particular sign, administering bloodletting (or any other kind of medicine [Arzney]) on its respective body part was to be strictly avoided. To further illustrate this, Schöner included a phlebotomy table (Laßtafel also known as a bloodletting man or Laßmann), whose various appendages were labeled with the twelve zodiac signs (see Figure 3 below).56

54 Valentin Butzlin, Laassbüchlin sampt der Schrybtafel und der Practick uff das M.D.L. Jar / [gepracticiert durch Valentinum Bützlin von Wangen, der Artznyen Doctor und Stattartzet zuo Uberlingen (Zurich: Froschauer, 1549), 4 (pagination mine). 55 Although Schöner’s work was first published in 1528, in the 1543 reprint edition, the section on phlebotomy is slightly expanded to feature (among other things) the bloodletting man. Johannes Schöner, Ein nutzlichs buchlein, viler bewerter Artzney lange zeyt versamlet vnd zusammen bracht (Nuremberg: Stüchs, 1528); Ibid., Nothwendige Regel, welche zeit man ein yetliche Ertzney bereyten und brauchen soll (Nuremberg: Petreo, 1543). Regarding the inverse relationship of body parts and lunar signs, see also Georg Pictorius, Lasz buechlin: Clarer bericht das aderlassen nit so in geringem bruch soll gehalten werden, wie dan an allen orten gemeinlich beschicht, unnd mancher hiemit im selber sin lebenn abbricht (Basel: Kündig, 1555), 45; Martin Pansa, Consilium Phleboticum, Das ist Ein gantz newes ausführliches und wolgegründets Aderlaßbüchlein (Leipzig: Henning, 1615), 85-86. For a treatment of this concept in secondary literature, see Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 997. 56 Interestingly, in 1527, Schöner’s bloodletting indications received official approval by the Nuremberg city council as the only ones that local barber-surgeons were permitted to adhere to. This approval was reinstated in 1543. Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1020-22. 92

Figure 3: Johannes Schöner’s Phlebotomy Table (1543)

Source: Nothwendige Regel, welche zeit man ein yetliche Ertzney bereyten und brauchen soll (Nuremberg: Petreo, 1543), Cr. Image courtesy of BSB Digital Collections.

93

Emblazoned across both of the man’s lower legs is a double wavy line—the Aquarius symbol— indicating that the shins and calves were the worst place to perform a phlebotomy when the moon was is in that sign.57 Although this provides a possible interpretation for Rößlin’s otherwise enigmatic advice to let blood in January, it does not fully resolve the question at hand.

Rößlin, in his almanac, had included a phlebotomy chart similar to that of Schöner’s. Here, however, Aquarius was evidently looked on favorably for letting blood from the shin—a further instance in which Rößlin contradicts contemporary health practice, not to mention the original advice he had given in the first place, not to let blood from the shin in January.58

Tracing these discrepancies further through Rößlin’s work only sheds light on additional layers of complexity surrounding the time of bloodletting in this work. Although his almanac lists detailed charts of planetary aspects and their influences on bloodletting, the information in the charts does not help explain the incongruities concerning letting blood from the shins in

January (or rather Aquarius).59 Because Rößlin’s calendar did not list the progression of planetary aspects day-by-day throughout the year (very few calendars did so before 1550), to make use of his charts, readers themselves had to map the heavens on a continual basis throughout the year, which in turn required the use of a highly-complicated astrolabe chart elsewhere in Rößlin’s almanac.60

The problematic bloodletting advice given in January of Rößlin’s calendar almanac is one example of the many perplexities in this document surrounding the timing of phlebotomy. The

57 Schöner, Nothwendige Regel, Cr; c.f. Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Hhvr. 58 Rößlin, Kalender mit allen Astronomischen haltungen, see especially XLVIIr: “[Aquarius symbol] Die Schinbeyn/ gut arzneien und lassen.” 59 Rößlin, Kalender mit allen Astronomischen haltungen, LIIr-LIIIIr 60 Rößlin, Kalender mit allen Astronomischen haltungen, Xv- XIr. 94 calendar section, for example, advises bloodletting during the month of March,61 while the almanac contraindicates it.62 Still, despite its incongruities, it is difficult to fully dismiss Rößlin’s work. He was a practicing physician whose calendar almanacs were popular enough to garner multiple editions through the 1530s and ‘40s. Moreover, the inconsistent medical advice in the above examined 1533 version were tolerable enough to make their way into all subsequent printings of the text. Bearing all of this in mind, Rößlin’s work evidences on a small scale the convoluted nature surrounding the process of determining advantageous times for bloodletting.

Although the incongruities in Rößlin’s calendar almanac were on the extreme end of the spectrum, it is not the only example of contradictory information found in calendars regarding bloodletting. Whereas most authors generally contraindicated bloodletting during January

(except in case of necessity), many differed as to where a phlebotomy ought to be performed should this dire need arise. As mentioned above, Regiomontanus’ calendar advised letting blood from the veins of the ☌arm (Hauptader) in January, a bit of advice that appears to have held constant throughout the period, and was reiterated by phlebotomy manuals at least as late as

1615.63 Nonetheless, certain calendars instead advised doing so from the thumb.64 Mattäus provides examples of calendars which advised this into the 1550s, but the teaching persisted even later into the century.65 A January verse in physician Gallus Emmenius’ 1574 calendar reads:

In January, medicine is not good Let from the thumb, otherwise keep your blood.66

61 Rößlin, Kalender mit allen Astronomischen haltungen, A3r: “Lass/ doch nicht zum Haupt.” 62Rößlin, Kalender mit allen Astronomischen haltungen, XLVIIr: “Solt nitt Aderlassen.” 63 Regiomontanus, Kalender (1512), Kkiiv; Regiomontanus 1518, Siir; Martin Pansa, Consilium Phleboticum, Das ist Ein gantz newes ausführliches und wolgegründets Aderlaßbüchlein (Leipzig: Henning, 1615), 84-85. 64 Caspar Wolf, Kalender oder Laassbüchli sampt der Schreybtafel, Mässen und Jarmärckten uff das M.D. und LXIX. Jar / gestelt uff den Meridianum der uralten loblichen Statt Zürych durch Caspar Wolffen, der Artznyen Doctor daselbst (Zürich: Froschauer, 1568), Aiir. 65 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1188-89. 66 r E.g. Gallus Emmenius, Almanach und Schreib-kalender auffs 1575. Jahr (Budissin: Wolrab, 1574), Aiii . 95

Similar advice was offered by Jacob Cnespelius in 1590:

Bathe often, drink little, do not let blood Spices, wine and warm food are good. […] Beware of medicine Only pierce the veins of your thumb.67

Cnespelius’ advice in particular is rather jarring. First, he advises not to let blood, and to avoid medicine in general. In the last line, however, he adds to “only” let blood from the thumb. Was this a contradiction? Cnespelius does not spell things out for his readers, but when his advice is read in the broader context of bloodletting practice, it is not difficult to imagine he meant “only” in emergencies should one let blood, and in such cases one should do so on the thumb.

67 Jacob Cnespelius, Alter und Newer Schreibkalender mit Beschreibung deß Gewitters Auff das Jar nach der Geburt (...) Christi M. D. LXXXX (Nuremberg: Fuhrman, 1590), Br: “Bad offt/ trinkt wenig/ laß kein Blut/ Wurz/ Wein und warme Speiß ist gut […] Vor Arzeney sollst du hüten dich/ Nur am Daumen die Ader brich.” 96

Monthly proverbs were not the only way by which calendars informed readers on advantageous times for bloodletting. By the 1560s, most calendars included symbols next to specific calendar

dates thought to be advantageous for phlebotomy as

Figure 4: Typical Bloodletting Symbols of well as blood-cupping (schräpfen) (see Figure 4). Early Modern Calendars A red double-dagger was the most commonly used Good bloodletting day Gut Aderlaßen symbol to indicate a good bloodletting day, while a

Average bloodletting day cross was used for average days. Often included in Mittelmässig Aderlaßen bloodletting indications were favorable days for Good blood-cupping day Gut schräpfen blood-cupping. As physician Georg Pictorius

Source: Valentin Butzlin, Kalender mit dem Waetter explained in 1555, the latter had similar health vffs LXVII. Jar (Zürich: Froschauer, 1566), 8 (pagination missing). Image courtesy of: Universitäts- und Landesbibliothek Sachsen-Anhalt benefits to bloodletting but was gentler and more Digital Library urn:nbn:de:gbv:3:1-194015 suitable for those who could not undergo the extremes of venesection.68 It involved placing a heated cup on the body, creating a suction environment that drew blood to the surface of the skin—sometimes the skin was also pricked beforehand to release more blood.69 Reminiscent of the small pots used in this procedure, the calendrical symbol for an advantageous blood-cupping day was a tiny, inverted cup, printed with either red or black ink, depending on the calendar. Generally, the same rules that governed the timing of bloodletting also applied to that of blood-cupping—spring and autumn were the best times for such procedures, and cupping was contraindicated during hot and cold times.70 These

68 Pictorius, Lasz buechlin, Fvr. 69 Ibid., Fviir-Fviiiv. 70 Ibid., Fvr-v. 97 bloodletting and cupping indications were among the most often consulted parts of calendars during this period.71

The growing prevalence of these symbols in calendars, however, did not necessarily translate to universal consensus as to precisely which days were actually advantageous for bloodletting. All too often, calendars differed greatly in the quantity of yearly dates they deemed suitable for the procedure(s), a point that can in some cases be attributed to the fact that most authors lived in different latitudes. The measurements of many astronomical and astrological events—e.g. the times of equinoxes and eclipses—vary based on an observer’s geographic location. Since humoral timing was often based based on such things as lunar phases and signs, it is not surprising to find a certain degree of variation between calendar authors located in different cities and regions. Given the scarcity of exitant sixteenth-century calendars (especially in comparison with those of the following century), it is rare to find calendars produced within the same location for the same year.

A notable exception to this is found in two calendars by Valentin Butzlin and Caspar

Wolf for the year 1567.72 Both men practiced medicine near Zürich and their calendars were published from the same printing house (Wolf practiced in Zürich, Butzlin in Überlingen).

Wolf’s calendar featured the same three bloodletting symbols as Butzlin’s calendar (Figure 2), distinguishing between dates that were good (gut) and average (mittel) for bloodletting, as well as advantageous days for blood-cupping. The overlap between both authors’ biographical data and the similarities their calendars bore to one another provide a truly rare opportunity for comparison. Given the authors proximity to one another, one would expect to find significant consensus between the bloodletting indications of each day.

71 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 991-92. 72 Butzlin, Kalender mit || dem w#[ae]tter (1566); Wolf, Kalender oder Laassbüchli (1566). 98

In comparing the two calendars, six sample months were chosen to investigate more closely—the first six months of the year. Of these six months, Butzlin and Wolf provided indications for the procedures for a mean of 50 days (Butzlin gave indications on some 52 dates, while Wolf did so on 48). Interestingly, the indications given by both aligned on only 16 dates of the sample months. Table 2 (below) depicts the range of differing indications Butzlin and Wolf depicted for bloodletting and cupping during April, the month in which both authors featured a high number of favorable days for the two procedures. 99

Table 2: A comparison of indications for bloodletting and cupping in April (1566) Valentin Butzlin, Kalender mit || dem Caspar Wolf, Kalender oder Laassbüchli w#[ae]tter vffs || LXVII. Jar (Zürich: […] uff das M.D. und LXVII. Jar (Zürich: Froschauer, 1566), 11-12 (pagination Froschawer, 1566), Avr. mine). Good for Average for Good for Date Good for Average for Good for Cupping Bloodletting Blood- Bloodletting Bloodletting cupping letting X X 2 Apr. X X 3 X X X 4* X X X X 7 X X 8 X X 14* X X X X 15 17 X X X 21 24 X X X X 26 X X 30* X X In this table, “x” represents that the days on which the corresponding symbol (good or middle for bloodletting and cupping) applied in each calendar. An asterix (*) indicates the calendar dates on which Butzlin and Wolf’s indications for bloodletting and cupping coincided. A blank space in columns 1-3 and 4-6 indicated that the author gave no such indication for that date.

100

As is evident from this table, there was a significant degree of divergence between bloodletting indications in both calendars. During April, Butzlin and Wolf’s calendars in only three instances:

4, 14 and 30 April. In some cases, the incongruity between indications was slight—Butzlin, for example, noted 3 April as good for bloodletting, while Wolf designated it as only average. On other days, however, one author featured indications for good bloodletting and cupping, while the other gave none at all (e.g. 7, 15, 24 April).

There are a number of reasons that could account for this variety, which continues throughout both calendars. As has been explained above, discerning the best times for bloodletting involved considering a multitude of astrological and environmental factors, from the season of year to the temperature during the day and the individual’s constitution. Of the influences that could be predicted in advance and recorded in a calendar, none were as significant as the moon’s phases and place in the zodiac each day, data that could be gleaned from the Alphonsine tables or by simple computations.73 A significant divergence between

Butzlin and Wolf’s account of lunar phases and signs would constitute a clear methodological reason for the differences in bloodletting indications. Yet the lunar calculations—both the sign and phase of the moon—correspond throughout both calendars. Although planetary alignments did not play a role in the timing of bloodletting (at least insofar as early modern phlebotomy handbooks indicated), even these generally corresponded throughout Butzlin and Wolf’s texts.

Bearing all of this in mind, the reckonings of bloodletting times in Butzlin and Wolf’s calendars are difficult to explain. At the same time, these sorts of discrepancies were hardly atypical when compared with other sets of calendars throughout the remaining part of the century. Bloodletting indications in the 1588 calendars of Georg Caesius and Moritz Moller

73 Regarding the role lunar phenomena played in bloodletting practice, see Pictorius, Lasz buechlin, Cviiv-Div. 101 agreed on only 13 day throughout the same six sample months—all the more striking since both works contained a higher number of bloodletting days than those of Butzlin and Wolf.74

What is surprising about the calendars of Butzlin and Wolf, however, is not that their indications were so divergent, but that they were so similar. Although the two physicians rarely agreed on the precise dates suitable for these medical procedures, the vast majority of inconsistencies were only one day apart from each other. For example, Wolf designated 15 and

16 January as good and average for phlebotomy (respectively); Butzlin recorded only that 16

January was good for the procedure. The inverse was true for 1 and 2 June, which Butzlin noted were good for bloodletting, although Wolf did so only for the latter. A close assessment of the calendars yields numerous such instances. Nonetheless, there is no consistent way to interpret these “near-coincidences”—neither calendar was consistently “ahead of” the other or vice versa, nor did either author follow certain patterns in relation to lunar phenomena. The differences in bloodletting indications are too similar to be random. Both sets of designations danced around each other in no identifiable pattern, coinciding about twenty percent of the time.

This tension of similarities and divergences moves discussion past the question of why these calendars were so dissimilar in their bloodletting advisements and on to a more nuanced inquiry: why were these calendars so similar—and yet not identical? Several hypotheses can be offered by way of explanation. Perhaps both men adhered to the same set of specific rules regarding bloodletting—but had come to slightly different conclusions as a result of practical

74 Caesius indicated 63 days out of six months and Moller indicated 68. Georg Caesius, Alt vnd Newer || SchreibKalender/ Mit || den Aspecten aller Planeten/ Auff das Jar || nach Christi Geburt/ M.D.LXXXVIII.|| Gestellt ... || Durch M.Georgium Caesium Rotenburgensem Pfarrherrn zu || Burckbernheim ... || (Nuremberg: Fuhrmann, 1587); Moritz Moller, Schreibkalender:|| Der alten Numeration/|| auff das Jahr nach der Gnadenreichen || Geburt ... Christi/|| M. D. LXXXVIII.|| (Dresden: Stoeckel, 1588). 102 experience.75 Both living and practicing medicine near Zürich, it is not unlikely that Butzlin and

Wolf knew of each other—they may have even consulted regarding bloodletting practice or calendar making, though there is no extant record of contact between the two. A shared relationship could account for similarities in their work, as well as a certain degree of differences—giving slightly different accounts of bloodletting days may have been viewed as one author’s strategy to differentiate himself and gain readers. Verifying this, however, proves difficult—the imprints of both calendars listed only the author and publisher. Finally, it is not impossible that one calendar was printed long enough ahead of time that the second author may have had time to copy or amend his calendar to coincide (or not) with the first—or perhaps there was even a third source from which they copied.

Although Butzlin and Wolf’s calendars bore unique similarities and contrasts to one another, the complexity and contradiction that surrounded bloodletting days in their calendars is a microcosm of trends generally found in calendars of this period. While virtually all calendars of this period contained advantageous bloodletting days, they differed greatly as to the frequency of these dates. For some calendars, such as those of pastor Leonhard Mayr, advantageous bloodletting and cupping days occupied more than a third of the year.76 Other calendars listed scarcely more than thirty, as was the case in a 1603 calendar by mathematician Johannes

Krabbe.77 All evidence suggests that such divergences stemmed more from particular authors’ tastes rather than any celestial phenomena recorded for particular years. Krabbe, for example, who (like many calendar authors) published multiple calendars over the course of their careers,

75 While theoretical knowledge carried more weight in medical writings of this time, there is some indication that the sixteenth century witnessed a budding appreciation for experiential knowledge in regards to bloodletting. Keblinger Hague Yearl, “The Time of Bloodletting,” 27. 76 Leonhard Mayr, Schreibkalender auf das Jahr M.DCI. (Passau: Nenninger, 1600). 77 Johannes Krabbe, Alt und New Schreibkalender Auff das Schalt Jahr nach der gnadenreichen Geburt unsers Herrn Jesu Christi M. DC. IIII (Erfurt: Beck, 1603). 103 was consistently conservative in the number of bloodletting days he indicated in his works.

Other authors (in addition to Mayr, one could also mention mathematician Jakob Cnespel) applied bloodletting indications more liberally in their calendars.78 This subtle divergence in the number of bloodletting days between individual calendar authors does not necessarily correlate to their professions. Krabbe and Cnespel, for example, were both trained in mathematics (which tended to carry more authoritative weight in the realm of calendar authorship),79 yet the indications given by Cnespel were far more numerous than those of Krabbe. If there was a rhyme or reason behind these differences, it eludes discernment.

By now, the problematic medical claims of calendars have been explored to a degree that begins to explain why Erastus and Fesel may not have shared the same appreciation for calendars as their colleague Seitz had earlier in the sixteenth century. The guidance that calendars and their almanacs of this period provided on matters of health was inconsistent on a number of levels. A close reading of January health verses yields discrepancies regarding the timing of phlebotomies, as well as the part of the body from which blood should be let during the month. Such a comparison also reveals inconsistencies as to which dates in a particular year were suitable for bloodletting. If, by the end of the sixteenth century, there was still such a thing as a “proper time” for bloodletting and other health regimens, as Regiomontanus had suggested in 1518, the variety of guidelines set forth in calendars and almanacs did not seem to make that time easy to discern. It is thus not difficult to empathize with a poignant line from Fesel’s treatise: “Whence comes the great disagreement between almanac writers? One [writes] this, the other the opposite, if not in all then in parts. If one held their yearly almanacs alongside one another, one would

78 Jacob Cnespelius, Alter und Newer Schreib-Kalender Mit beschreibung deß Gewitters Auff das Jar nach der Geburt unsers Herren Jesu Christi M. D. LXXXX (Nuremberg: Fuhrman, 1590); Mayr, Schreibkalender Auff das Jar M.D.LXXXXVIII. (Passau, Nenninger, 1597). 79 Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 1005. 104 observe such things with astonishment.”80 Although Fesel’s question was in reference to both the medical indications of almanacs and their many other astrological claims, the question nonetheless remains: where did calendars’ incongruous medical advice come from?

SECTION III: SUN, MOON AND PHLEBOTOMIES LOCATING HUMORAL MEDICINE IN EARLY MODERN ASTROLOGY

Inasmuch as cultural history is concerned, astrology can be broadly defined as “the practice of relating the heavenly bodies to lives and events on earth, and the tradition that has thus been generated.”81 Behind this succinct explanation, however, lies an immensity and variety of meanings and expressions that no historical exploration can avoid. The roots of astrology are immemorial and the ways it has been appropriated by cultures and individuals over time are vast.

Even in the select case of early modern Germany, astrology is not a singular, linear school of thought that can be mapped out with ease, but rather an expansive realm of belief, whose historical forms have been multifarious and (not infrequently) muddled. Moreover, astrological practice has manifested itself in countless ways, for example as “[a] form of magic, a system of prediction, a model for psychological growth, a science, a spiritual tool, a religion and a system of divination, definitions which are not mutually exclusive.”82 A rubric for humoral medicine could well be added to this list.

For much of the early modern period, the practice of medicine made great use of astrology in understanding the causes of disease and explaining health. 83 As Schöner put it: “A

80 Fesel, Gründtlicher Discurs, Fv: “Waher [sic] komt dann die grosse widerwertigkeit der practickschreiber/ da einer diß/ der ander das widerspiel/ wo nicht in allem/ doch in mehrem theil seyet. Man halte ihre Järlichen practicken gegeneinander/ würd man solches mit verwunderen befinden.“ 81 Patrick Curry, “Astrology,” in The Encyclopaedia of Historians and Historical Writing 1, ed. Kelly Boyd, (London: Fitzroy Dearborn, 1999), 55. 82 Nicholas Campion, A History of Western Astrology Volume II: The Medieval and Modern Worlds (New York: Continuum, 2011), x. 83 Sachiko Kusukawa, “Aspectio divinorum operum: Melanchthon and Astrology for Lutheran Medics,” in Medicine and the Reformation, eds. Andrew Cunningham and Ole Peter Grell (New York: Routledge, 1993), 33-56, here 33; Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 987-88; Ann Moyer, “The Astronomers’ 105 doctor without astrology is like a blind person without a leader.”84 By the middle of the fifteenth century, medicine was the primary reason why most European universities taught astrology as part of the quadrivium.85 Medical astrology, along with astrometeorology, was considered to be a branch of natural astrology, which sought to understand the causes of change in the natural world that (as addressed in Chapter 1) extended from the heavens into specific organs of the human body.86 In addition to instructing proper times for medical procedures, medics employed astrological methods retroactively to explain the origin and development of illnesses. By mapping celestial configurations at the initial time a patient took sick, physicians of the period deduced an understanding of how the illness the progressed through the body—fulfilling a function not dissimilar to that of the autopsy today.87 In its various forms, medical astrology remained among the most widely accepted uses of astrology throughout the early modern period.88 It was not uncommon even for critics of astrology to make allowances in the case of medicine, as Johann Rasch did in his 1584 Contra-Almanac. In this work, Rasch briefly noted that the use of astrology for medicine (as well as for agriculture and sailing) was acceptable—

Game: Astrology and University Culture in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries,” Early Science and Medicine 4, no. 3 (1999): 228–50, here 229. Nancy Siraisi is skeptical of the monolithic statement that astrology was a universal aspect of medical practice by the sixteenth century. At the very least, physicians of this period paid attention to lunar phases and the “critical days” (dies critici) of an illness. Nancy Siraisi, History, medicine, and the traditions of Renaissance learning, Cultures of knowledge in the early modern world (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2007), 6. 84 Johannes Schöner, Nothwendige Regel (1543), Aiir: “Ein Artzt on die astrologey [ist] gleich wie ein blinter on einen Führer.” C.f. Klaus Matthäus, “Zur Geschichte des Nürnberger Kalenderwesens,” 987-88. 85 Kusuakwa, “Aspectio divinorum operum,” 33-56, here 34. As Ann Moyer explains, astrology was often considered the practical application of astronomy. Ann Moyer, “The Astronomers ’ Game: Astrology and University Culture in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries,” Early Science and Medicine 4, no. 3 (1999): 228–50, here 228-9. 86 S.J. Tester, A History of Western Astrology (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 1987), 183. 87 Anthony Grafton and Nancy Siraisi, “Between the Election and My Hopes: Girolamo Cardano and Medical Astrology,” in Secrets of Nature: Astrology and Alchemy in Early Modern Europe, Transformations: Studies in the History of Science and Technology, eds. William R. Newman and Anthony Grafton (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2001), 68-132, here 95. 88 In his defense of more controvercial forms of judicial astrology, Melanchthon took for granted the widespread acceptability of medical astrology. Kusuakwa, “Aspectio divinorum operum,” 39. Medics who repudiated astrology were in the minority throughout the sixteenth century. Grafton and Siraisi, “Between the Election and My Hopes,” 89. 106 such activities required discerning the best “opportunity in time,” (Gelegenheit der Zeit) and making such decisions did curtail human free will.89

However, Rasch distinguished these acceptable uses of astrology from “prophecies,” which arose from people being “very zealous to know future things.” Following a similar rationale, contemporaries and historians alike typically delineate the natural astrology of medicine and meteorology from its more divinatory counterpart, judicial astrology. The latter sought to discern celestial influences over future events by using a variety of means (e.g. horoscopes and nativities) that Albert Magnus had famously described and categorized in the

1260s.90 A 1654 treatise against judicial astrology defined it as “the art of speaking or prophesying […] future things from the stars.”91

Throughout the sixteenth century, new life was breathed into judicial astrology by the

Protestant Reformation and Lutheran theology, which emphasized that God was dynamically present in history and His creation. Countless texts and genres of this period—from broadsides and pamphlets to prophetic treatises, almanacs and calendars—thrived on disseminating astrological knowledge to lay audiences. In many cases, astrology complemented Lutheran

89 Johann Rasch, Gegenpractic Wider etliche außgangen Weissag Prognostic vnd Schrifften (Munich: Berg, 1584), Aivr. This acceptance of medical, agricultural and navigational uses of astrology was widespread among Renaissance critics of astrology. Grafton and Siraisi, “Between the Election and My Hopes,” 80 90 Magnus distinguished between four types of inquiries this mode of astrology addressed. “Revolutions” concerned large, seismic changes induced by the stars, particularly in weather patterns but also affairs of state, like the death of a ruler. “Nativities” formulated prophecies about a person’s life based on astrological configurations of heavenly bodies at the time of his or her birth. “Interrogations” involved questions of personal importance, such as celestial influences over a business transaction. Finally, “elections” related to the proper times at which to undertake new activities like planting, sowing, or erecting a new building. Magnus was particularly hesitant on the topic of elections, which often relied on interpreting images and talismans. While Magnus supported accreted methods of these interpretations, gleaned from the writings of the ancient Greeks and the Arabics, he repudiated the use of black magic to lend power to talismans. Nonetheless, he was generally supportive of the art, and his work greatly contributed to the legitimacy of astrology at the university level during the middle ages. See H. Darrell Rutkin, “Astrology” in Early Modern Science, The Cambridge History of Science 3, eds. Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 541-61, here 543-44. 91 Ablainung und Widerlegung der Astrologiae Iudiciariae, und aberglaubischen Calendermacher, sonderlich derjenigen, welche solche Wunderding von dem 1654. und 1656. Jahr prognosticiert (Augsburg: Weh,1654), 4: “Das ist die Kunst von den sternen zu reden/ oder weissagen/ welche sich berumpt auss dem Gestirn zukünfftige ding […] unfehlbar zu erkennen und weisszusagen/wird auss H. Schrifft dess Alten und Newen Testaments widerlegt.” 107 concepts of reality and history, because it supported the notion that God was present in the vast inner workings of His creation. Sachiko Kusukawa’s ground-breaking article, among the first to closely examine astrology in Post-Reformation Germany, applies the term “Lutheran astrology” to this current of thought.92 Her work has been followed up by Claudia Brosseder, who has shown that for Melanchthon, God had endowed planets and constellations with certain qualities, so that their movements would affect and enact a proper balance in life on earth.93

Simultaneously, however, he took issue with the notion that planetary movements and aspects eliminated human free will. Melanchthon and his students, instead emphasized that while God was sovereign over planetary movements, astrology could only discern an individual’s general inclinations, not predict his actions.94 Among adherents to this rationale, one of the primary uses of astrology was to persuade believers to repent. The skies were the scroll upon which God wrote the “signs of the heavens” Christ foretold Christ in the Gospels (specifically Matthew 24).

Harmful planetary aspects and rogue comets were the “preachers” that made His message of repentance clear to all mankind. Accordingly, numerous early modern clergymen took up astrology as a means to communicate the reality of the Gospel and Final Judgment to their flocks—the least of which was Georg Caesius, whose pastoral use of astrology was described in

Chapter 1.

Like medicine, early modern calendars and almanacs gave ample voice to the claims of judicial astrology. Along with bloodletting indications, by the close of the sixteenth century, most calendars notated meteorological forecasts and planetary aspects for a majority of days throughout the year. Almanacs focused on central facets of judicial astrology, typically including

92 Kusuakwa, “Aspectio divinorum operum,” 46. 93 Claudia Brosseder, “The Writing in the Wittenberg Sky: Astrology in Sixteenth-Century Germany,” Journal of the History of Ideas 66-4 (2005): 557–76, here 563. C.f. Nicholas Campion, A History of Western Astrology Volume II: The Medieval and Modern Worlds (New York: Continuum, 2011), 114. 94 Brosseder, “Writing in the Wittenberg Sky,” 564. 108 chapters that predicted future outcomes such as war outbreaks, political developments, crop yields, pestilence and other scourges.95 Like the humoral information that has been examined throughout this chapter, the depiction of judicial astrological information in calendars and almanacs was often accompanied by a range of incongruity and contradiction. A variety of contemporaries commented on the unreliability of the planetary aspects and judicial predictions contained in almanacs and calendars. Catholic author Rasch went so far as to call these works

“books of lies” (Lugenbücher), whose prophecies did not agree with one another and are subject to fail.96

Thus, despite having been sanctioned by the likes of Melanchthon, judicial astrology was met with increasing criticism and scrutiny throughout the sixteenth century.97 Detractors predominately followed two lines of reasoning. One assessment sought to reform astrology’s methods, under the belief that a refinement of measuring techniques would yield greater accuracy in astrological calculations and predictions. Of this ilk were many learned mathematicians and astronomers, such as Johannes Kepler and Francis Bacon—both active practitioners of astrology while also championing the reformation of astrological theory. For his part, Kepler rejected the significance of the zodiac signs and the notion of planetary rulerships, i.e. that each planet ruled over a certain sign and thus has a stronger effect when positioned in that sign.98 Similarly, in his 1623 De augmentis scientiarum, Francis Bacon called out the growing superstitions that had come to afflict popular astrology and greatly curtailed the scope by which astrology could be used to infer future events.99

95 Rudolf Wendorff, Tag und Woche, Monat und Jahr: eine Kulturgeschichte des Kalenders (Opladen: West Deutscher Verlag, 1993), 169-70. 96 Rasch, Gegenpractic, Aivv-Br. 97 Brosseder, “Writing in the Wittenberg Sky,” 570-71; Campion, A History of Western Astrology, 115. 98 Rutkin, “Astrology,” 549-50. 99 Rutkin, “Astrology,” 541-61, 550. 109

A second line of critique raised against astrology during the late sixteenth century was based in theological and religious concerns. It disputed whether humans were supposed to peer behind the veil of God’s cosmic handiwork to predict future events, which only God had sovereignty over. When carried further (as it often was), this line of reasoning also doubted whether humans even possessed the capacity to accurately comprehend the seemingly innumerable combinations of celestial influences.100 These theologically-rooted positions towards astrology were most often expressed by Lutheran clergymen who saw in the popularity of astrology a spiritual crisis. Pastor Severus Bersche, for example, noted that calendars were useful “so that one can see through the whole year when the moon will be new or full, [when] to plant, sow, cup [schräpfen] and bathe […] so that every endeavor of human sense has an orderly procedure and that the body will be kept in health.”101 Bersche’s positive esteem for calendars, however, was not without its limits. He continued, disparaging calendars’ use of astrology to make predictions or assign superstitious beliefs to things like comets.102 His reasoning was that calendars and their astrology encouraged people to place more emphasis on their body and its health than on their souls.103 Zacharias Rivander expressed similar thoughts in a 1586 New

Year’s sermon when he wrote that “we should not trust or believe in the predictions of astrologers but on the word of God.”104 From this vantage point, calendars and almanacs opened

100 Campion, A History of Western Astrology, 115. 101 Severus Bersche, Ein geistlicher Kalender sampt der Practik, uff alle Jar, biss zur End der Welt (Constenz: Manglt, 1543), Aiir: „...Hab ich gesehen,die thorheit viler menschen/in dem [...] uf das nuw ankommend Jar ein yeder Hussvatter (wie wolan im selbs nit unrecht) ein Kalender koufft/ hefft in an die Wand/ uff das err durch das ganz Jar sähe wenn der Mon nuw oder alt/ zu pflanzen/ säyen/ schräpffen und baden ein bequemlich zyt sey/ damit ye die anschleg des menschlichen sinns ein ordenlichen fürgang habind/ unnd der lyb by gesundtheit erhalten werde.“ 102 Idem., Aiiiiv. 103 Idem., Aiiiiv. 104 Zacharias Rivander, Christliche Erinnerung zum Newen Jahr: vom Alten und Newen Calender, wie sie Erstmals erfunden (Wittemberg: Matthäus Welack, 1586), 21: “das wir doch den praedictionibus astrologicis nicht zu viel trawen /oder glauben/Sondern uns an Gottes Wort halten.” 110 the flood-gates for people who trusted astrological predictions and the concerns of this world more than the promises of scripture regarding eternal life.

Nonetheless, the battle lines against astrology were often porous and at times difficult to predict. Pastors chided the authors of astrological texts—but often enough, pastors themselves took part in writing such texts.105 In such scenarios, clergymen found themselves on the receiving end of astrology’s criticisms, as was the case in Fesel’s critique of the medical astrology in calendars. His regard for medical astrology was part of a larger treatise written in response to the 1608 and 1609 almanacs by Mentzing pastor Melchoir Schaerer. While

Schaerer’s almanacs are no longer extant, his subsequent publications suggest that he prided himself on being a self-taught calendar-maker. In his almanacs, Schaerer described astrology as a recognized branch of physic (Physik), the field that one often studied in order to become a physician.106 Fesel, however, disagreed with Schaerer’s authority in making such a claim, and in general repudiated the liberal and unreliable use of astrology to explain and predict events.

Although Fesel titles his text as a “Foundational Discourse on Judicial Astrology,”107 much of the work is devoted to discussions of medicine and meteorology, areas that traditionally belonged to natural astrology. In doing so, his work calls into question the conventional

105 C. Scott Dixon, “Popular Astrology and Lutheran Propoganda,” esp. 410-12. As Barnes indicates, “pastor- astrologers” often implemented astrology in their End Times prediction. Robin Bruce Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis: Apocalypticism in the Wake of the Lutheran Reformation (Stanford: Standford University Press, 1988), 161. 106 Melchoir Schaerer, Verantwortung und Rettung der Argumenten und Ursachen/ welche M. Melchior Scherer/ in den Vorreden seiner zweyen Prognosticorum verschiener 1608. und 1609. Jahren/ zur Behauptung/ daß die himlische Liechter und Sternen/ so wol als alle andere Creaturen/ ihre besondere von Gott eingepflantzte Eygenschafften/ Kräfften und Wirckungen haben/ [et]c. die sie duch ihren Lauff und schein in diese untere Welt exerirn und außgiessen/ eingeführet (Nuremberg: Fuhrmann, 1611), 220. As cited in: Claudia Brosseder, Im Bann der Sterne: Caspar Peucer, Philipp Melanchthon und andere Wittenberger Astrologen (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2004), 301, fn. 22. For a wider discussion of medieval and early modern Physic, see: Harold J. Cook, "Medicine," in Early Modern Science, The Cambridge History of Science 3, eds. Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 407-434, here 407-410. 107 Fesel, Gründtlicher Discurs, title page (emphasis mine). 111 boundary between judicial and natural astrology, a “distinction” that T.J. Tomlin describes as “a mainstay of astrological practice across early modern Europe.”108

Fesel argued that avid astrologers (Astrologi) bring superstition to the field of medicine.

He found the division (Außertheylung) of the parts of the body according to the zodiac signs to be repugnant, especially in combination with the teaching that certain signs bode better or worse for bloodletting. Rather than following the common wisdom of calendars and astrological medical principles, Fesel argued that “[w]hen a purgation is necessary, it is more sensible for both the medic and patient to consult more their urine than the stars, and to pay more attention to the pulse than a constellation.”109 He then recounts an anecdote attributed to Johannes (Giovanni)

Menardus (d. 1536), a reputable doctor in Italy.110 The story tells of a patient (a robust young man who had fallen ill) who was seen by both a physician (Medico) and a medical astrologer

(Medico Astrologo). The physician prescribed an immediate bloodletting, but the astrologer argued against it because there was a new moon at the time. While the physician continued to insist on the bloodletting, others entered the scene who further deliberated as to which vein should be opened per the moon’s sign and whether the day was an unlucky one for bloodletting, and so on and so forth. Finally, the astrologers agreed that the phlebotomy should be postponed several days, by which time there would be a better zodiac sign. In the meantime, however, the patient died.

108 TJ Tomlin, A Divinity for All Persuasions: Almanacs and Early American Religious Life, Religion in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 30. 109 Fesel, Gründtlicher Discurs, Civv: “Es ist beydes dem Arzen unnd dem Krancken rhatsamer/ wann einer purgation vonnöten ist/ das sie mehr den harn/ dann die Stern besichtigen/ und mehr achtung geben/ wie es umb den Puls beschaffen/ dann wie die Stern gestaltet seyen.” 110 Grafton and Siraisi allude to a similar story often told about Menardus, though their version ends on a somewhat different note than that recounted by Fesel. Evidently, the event transpired between Menardus’ teacher, Franceso Benzi, and the famed Italian astrologer Girolamo Manfredo of Bologna, who both attended the same patient. In the version that Grafton and Siraisi describe, however, Manfredo forecasted certain death for the patient, while Benzi prescribed medical treatment. The patient was eventually restored to health, thanks to Benzi’s advice. Grafton and Siraisi, “Between the Election and My Hopes,” 89. 112

In response to this disheartening story, Fesel anticipated that many of his responders

(astrology adherents or not) would argue that a bloodletting should always be performed in cases of emergency—that signs and aspects should only be used for routine, preventative bloodletting.

“But where would one find such a distinction in the calendars?” Fesel wondered. He continued:

Do [the calendar authors] not set their little red bloodletting crosses […] regardless for all people, young and old, man or woman, whatever complexion they are? […] So it is with all of their prognostications, out of the excuse that they don’t have [enough] space.111

Fesel’s overall problem with astrology, as it had come to be practiced in contemporary almanacs, was that they “stayed with the stars themselves,” that is, judicial astrology focused only on the stars’ power without looking at the wider wonder of the whole heavens, not to mention the role that environment, circumstances and God’s sovereignty played in bringing about earthly events.112 For Fesel, it was not the moon and stars themselves that caused certain times to be advantageous for bloodletting. Rather, it was the changes in air and environmental conditions coinciding with celestial events which had an effect on the body. The heavenly lights, he thought, were signs only for the benefit of this life—not the prediction of future events, whether medical or political or otherwise.

Fesel’s critique of medical astrology reveals a number of important points that must be considered in reflecting back on the year’s time as it related to medicine during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. First, it demonstrates that not everyone was convinced of the humoral prescriptions of calendars and almanacs, despite how widespread they had become by the early seventeenth century. Second, his work shows that humoral medicine was not entirely separated from the criticism that judicial astrology faced during the sixteenth and seventeenth

111 Fesel, Gründtlicher Discurs,Dr: “Sezen sie nicht ihre rote Laßcreuzlin […] durchauß ins gemein für alle Menschen/ jung und alt/ Mann oder Weibs personen/ sie seyen was complexion sie wöllen? […] Also ist es mit allen ihren prognosticationibus beschaffen/ derowegen diese Außflucht nicht plaz haben mag” (emphasis author’s). 112 Fesel, Gründtlicher Discurs, Bv: “Man bleibe nur bei den Sternen selber.” 113 centuries. Historians have generally depicted medical uses of astrology to be among the least disputed and longest lasting forms of astrology, persisting by some accounts through the entire seventeenth century.113 While famous physicians like Cardano refuted the use of astrology in medicine, their arguments have not been fully integrated into wider historiography that traces the retreat of early modern astrology.114 Particularly in regards to early modern Germany where astrology resurged after the Protestant Reformation, Fesel’s treatise could provide an important stepping stone in bridging the historiographical gap between medicine and the decline of judicial astrology in the seventeenth century.

At the same time, one would do well to view Fesel’s criticisms of astrology within the context not only of the history of astrology but also that of medicine. Fesel’s treatise bears witness to the ongoing disputes concerning astrology in medical circles starting in the late fifteenth century that had particular prominence in Italy. As Grafton and Sairasi have demonstrated, medical theory during this time was marked by a movement back to classical

Hippocratic medical texts, which were becoming more easily obtainable in the wake of the printing press.115 This turn ad fontes questioned the extent to which Hippocrates actually endorsed astrology. One of the earliest and most formidable critics of medical astrology during this period was Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (d. 1494), who repudiated not only astrology in general, but specific medical doctrines rooted in medical astrology, especially the notion of critical days, which held that certain days during the progression of a disease were particularly dangerous for astrological reasons.116 Among others, Mirandola was followed by sixteenth-

113 Mary Lindemann, Medicine and Society in Early Modern Europe, New Approaches to European History (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 29; Rutkin, “Astrology,” 541-61, here 553. 114 Lois N. Magner states that numerous medical treatises ignored or even condemned medical astrology throughout the Renaissance. A History of Medicine (New York: Marcel Dekker, 1992), 168. Likewise, Lindemann alludes to criticisms of the entanglement between medicine and astrology. Lindemann, Medicine and Society, 29-30. 115 Grafton and Siraisi, “Between the Election and My Hopes,” 79 116 Ibid., 80. 114 century physicians Menardus and Gerolamo Cardano. Though such strong opponents of medical astrology were in the minority for most of the early modern period, their concerns were not altogether distant from most practicing physicians, who “constantly had to compete with unlicensed empirics (quacks in the eyes of the elite medici) who offered their patients not the officially sanctioned remedies of high medicine but the promise of a cheaper […] cure.”117 Given the scant biographical information available on Fesel, it is difficult to determine the extent to which Fesel’s thinking was influenced by Mirandola and the like. Fesel’s reference to Menardus, however, suggests that he was at least conversant with their anti-astrological leanings.

Properly situating Fesel’s attack on medical astrology also requires that one recognize the limits of his criticisms. Although he largely refuses the role of astrology in medical practice, the general principles of humoralism are never in question for Fesel. On numerous occasions, he affirms the therapeutic value of bloodletting—in the story about the Italian medic, for example, the patient dies for lack of phlebotomy. In this instance, astrology stands in the way of prompt medical action. In other instances, however, astrology leads to an over-zealous attitude in bloodletting—one recall’s Fesel’s lament over the tendency for people to unnecessarily let blood at the mere sight of a bloodletting symbol in the calendar. In both extremes, astrological fervor obscures sound medical advice. The antidote that Fesel continuously calls for is not a reform of astrology, but its repudiation. Instead of astrological medicine, Fesel envisioned a return to integrative humoralism that embraced a wide range of individual and environmental factors— gender, season, temperament, for example—before diagnosing and treating a patient. Fesel’s treatise, then, speaks to the widespread continuity and persistence of humoralism as a medical paradigm throughout the early modern period and beyond.

117 Ibid., 89 and 105. 115

As conservative as this embrace of classical humoral medicine may seem to modern readers, Fesel was something of a revolutionary in his own cultural milieu—scandalous enough that famed astronomer Johannes Kepler issued a warning (Warnung) to Fesel personally, admonishing him to “not shake the baby out with the bath” in his repudiation of astrology.118 In this document, Kepler upheld many principles of basic judicial astrology, especially nativities.

At the same time, he called for a refinement of these practices which included paring away numerous fantastical accoutrements that astrology had accumulated (among them the division of the body into the twelve zodiac signs).119 We will likely never know if Kepler’s arguments had any effect on Fesel’s thinking—Fesel never publicly responded to Kepler, nor did he publish again after his treatise. His critique on astrology, perhaps, had come too soon. Only in the later seventeenth century would contentions surrounding astrology incorporate new science and naturalist understandings of the cosmos, which Fesel’s criticism of celestial aspects had begun to hint at. By the eighteenth century, astrology was in its final descent from the curriculum of universities, a highly complex process that is still not fully understood by historians.120 In the meantime, however, humoral medical therapies continued to necessitate proper timing, and calendars persisted in providing this temporal information well into the seventeenth century.

118 Johannes Kepler, Tertius Interveniens. Das ist, Warnung an etliche Theologos, Medicos und Philosophos, sonderlich D. Philippum Feselium, daß sie bey billicher Verwerffung der Sternguckerischen Aberglauben, nicht das Kindt mit dem Badt außschütten, und hiermit ihrer Profession unwissendt zuwider handlen (Frankfurt: Tampach, 1610). 119 For a closer examination of this text, see Max Caspar, Kepler, trans. Doris C. Hellman (Mineola: Dover Publications, 1993), 182-85. 120 Rutkin traces this descent from the vantage point of curriculum and official university policy. He suggests that the last nail in the coffin of astrology was its separation from astronomy and mathematics in universities during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. See H. Darrell Rutkin, “Astrology” in Early Modern Science, The Cambridge History of Science 3, eds. Katharine Park and Lorraine Daston (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 541-61, here 552-58. Brosseder attributes the decline of astrology to numerous factors, including the rise of new science and heliocentricity as well as the later descent of Galenic medicine. Claudia Brosseder, “The Writing in the Wittenberg Sky: Astrology in Sixteenth-Century Germany,” Journal of the History of Ideas 66, no. 4 (2005): 557-76, here 575-76. 116

CONCLUSION This chapter has traced the year’s time from the vantage point of medical practice during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Humoral theory, in particular the procedure of bloodletting, greatly shaped the ways in which early modern authors engaged with concepts of the year and temporality. Conventional ideas about health and humoral balance lent conceptual contour to the seasons and yearly times. The effects of routine activities like eating and sleeping affected the body differently depending on the season of the year. In addition, the seasons were associated with different phases of growth and fallowness in the body. Each humor grew and abounded in the body at different times. Accordingly, spring and autumn were opportune times for bloodletting, while the same procedure was prohibited during the months of winter and summer. The moon and zodiac signs, too, had their own unique effects on bodily health.

Translating such a multitude of temporally-based health needs into the “real time” of everyday life was often made possible via early modern calendars and almanacs. Throughout the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, indications on bloodletting and other health advice became an indispensable mainstay of calendars, solidifying the notion of medicine’s proper time throughout the year.

Yet this bourgeoning of medical advisement found in calendars paved the way for contradiction and incongruity among calendars, and finding the “right time” for health maintenance was far from a straightforward task during this period. The brief proverbs and advisements found in calendars did not necessarily agree whether a particular month of the year would be advantagous for bloodletting or from which part of the body blood ought to be let. As the Zürich calendars of Butzlin and Wolf demonstrate, noticeably divergent daily bloodletting indications could be found even in calendars produced in the same locale. To some degree, the problematic information conveyed by calendars was acknowledged by contemporaries—the 117 criticism of Philip Fesel, here, is indispensable. The astrological underpinnings of medical understanding, as it emerged in the early seventeenth century, was not immune to the wider criticisms facing judicial astrology during this period.

Given the controversy and contradictions that accompanied the timing of humoral health procedures, what purpose did the health indications of calendars and almanacs serve in wider medical and temporal perceptions? Among other things, the idea that health regimens had proper times may have imbued the experience of illness and suffering with greater reason and purpose.

Unlike many aspects of so-called judicial astrology, medical astrology—when applied in the context of humoral theory—lent people a sense of agency in the face of nature’s incomprehensibility. With proper attention to the cycles of nature and the human body, medical astrology of the calendrical ilk held out the promise that health could be attained and maintained, with or without the expertise of a trained physician.

118

CHAPTER 3 READING THE YEAR: REDEEMING CALENDARS IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY

As 1628 came to a close, nearly eleven years into the Thirty Years’ War (1618-48),

Augsburg pastor Leonhard Lutz observed what had, “by [his] times,” become a regular custom: purchasing a new calendar for the start of each year.121 In his words, there was scarcely “a housefather or housemother […] [who] is not furnished with a calendar for the new year.” 122

These calendars, he wrote, relied on the prognostications of astronomers who discerned from planetary movements and angles how the whole year would go in terms of weather and human affairs. Although Lutz acknowledged such predictions were made by highly learned men, he believed the only real certainty one had in this world was the Word of God. Given to man by the

Holy Spirit, the Scriptures (and the insight they shed on life and future events) were the most trustworthy of “calendars”:

In the church of God […] we have no better calendar than that which was set long ago by the Holy Spirit Himself, [which is] good not for a single year, but rather for the entire time of our lives and is much more certain than the almanacs of all astrologers.123

Unlike the calendars of astronomers, Lutz continued, the calendar of God did not need to be purchased anew each year—and it is not based on the predictions of man. Instead, it is perpetually valid; God always knows what the future holds.

121 Leonhard Lutz, Geistliche Practica, Auff ds Jahr ... M. DC. XXIX (Ulm: Saur, 1629), 14. Entire quotation: “Zu unserer Zeit pfleget man jährlich Prognostica und Calender oder Practicken zustellen/ unnd von der Witterung deß Jahrs über/ aus dem Lauff und Aspectn der Planetten/ zu prognosticieren; wie dann kein Haußvatter oder Haußmutter ist/ welche sich nicht auch auff das new Jahr mit eim Calender versehen sollten. In der Kirchen Gottes aber können wir kein bessern Calender haben/ dann der schon längsten von dem Heil. Geist selbsten gestellet/ und nicht nur auff ein Jahr/ sondern auff die ganze Zeit unseres Lebens gerichtet ist/ welcher viel gewisser ist/ dann aller Astrologorum Practicken.” 122 Lutz, Geistliche Pratica, 14. 123 Lutz, Geistliche Pratica, 14. 119

God’s plan for all of time was hardly an irrelevant comfort for Lutz and many of his contemporaries. He gathered his comments concerning calendars and God into two sermons, delivered to his Augsburg parish on the two Sundays before and after New Year’s Day, 1629.124

By 29 January that same year, on the Conversion of Paul the Apostle, he finished preparing the homilies into a publishable version which he entitled a “Spiritual Almanac” (Geistliche

Practica).125 This almanac, Lutz hoped, would elucidate keys to the future found in Scripture and enable everyone to “help themselves to a good year.”126

Unfortunately, if the historical record is any indication, his optimistic almanac was not as efficacious as he imagined (at least from an earthly vantage point). Scarcely a few months after

Lutz published the almanac, the Edict of Restitution deprived him and many of his fellow

Lutheran ministers of their pastoral duties.127 Mandated by the Catholic Emperor Ferdinand II, the Edict sought to restore the confessional and territorial boundaries as stipulated in the 1555

Peace of Augsburg. Marking the height of Catholic power during the Thirty Years’ War, the

Edict forcibly required Protestants to return all properties and territories that had been seized since 1555. In doing so, it greatly curtailed the rights of Protestants in Augsburg and other territories of the Holy Roman Empire.128 While Lutz’ post was restored in 1632 (after Protestant

Swedish forces had seized control of Augsburg from the Catholics), his prosperity was not to last long. The year marked the beginning of a prolonged military occupation of Augsburg, during

124 Lutz, Geistliche Pratica, title page. 125 Lutz, Geistliche Practica, 10; c.f. H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, HTML version, s.v. “Palsmessa,” under “Glossar,” http://www.manuscripta- mediaevalia.de/gaeste/grotefend/g_p.htm. 126 Lutz, Geistliche Pratica, 16: “ein jeder […] könne ihm selbst zu einem guten Jahr helffen.” 127Katalog der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Online catalogue, s.v. “Leonhard Lutz,” http://d- nb.info/gnd/1011596539. 128 For a detailed study of religious dynamics in Augsburg at this time, as well as the fate of Lutherans following the Edict of Restitution, see Emily Fisher Gray, “Lutheran Churches and Confessional Competition in Augsburg,” in Andrew Spicer, ed., Lutheran Churches in Early Modern Europe (Burlington: Ashgate, 2012), 39-62, esp. 51. 120 which disease and hunger claimed the lives of about three quarters of the population.129 In the winter of 1635, not long after imperial forces recaptured Augsburg in a devastating, seven-month long siege, Lutz died at forty years of age from causes that have been lost to history. Given the suffering and tumult that likely surrounded Lutz in the last years of his life, one hopes he was able to find comfort in his own words as to the certainty and resilience of God’s plan, that is, His

“calendar.”

That Lutz encouraged his flock by depicting God’s word as a calendar signifies an important point of entry into the variegated ways people related to calendars and almanacs in early modern Germany. This chapter discusses how such texts were supposed to be made and used throughout the sixteenth and until the middle of the seventeenth centuries (in particular according to the views of Lutheran clergy members). Printed calendars and almanacs were largely understood within a Christian cosmology that rooted calendars and the year within God’s ongoing presence in time from the dawn of creation. Starting during the second half of the sixteenth century, this conceptual parallel between calendrical and spiritual layers of time engendered a variety of responses to the growing popularity of calendars and almanacs. Many authors correlated the making and reading of calendars with spiritual devotion and discipline. At the same time, others voiced rising concerns as to the significant place these texts were occupying in people’s lives.

My arguments rest on two bodies of sources. The prefaces of calendars and their corresponding almanacs provide a starting point for analyzing attitudes towards calendar making and reading. Here, among other things, authors voiced their intentions in publishing their work as

129 C.f. Katalog der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek, Online Catalogue, s.v. “Leonhard Lutz,” http://d- nb.info/gnd/1011596539; Historian J.N. Hays estimates that during the Swedish occupation of Augsburg (1632- 1635), the city’s population decreased from 70,000 to 16,000, with typhus and plague being the main killers. J.N. Hays, “Epidemics and the Thirty Years’ War, 1618-1648,” in J.N. Hays, Epidemics and Pandemics: their Impacts on Human History (Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 2005), 97-102, here 98. 121 well as directives for how to read and interpret calendars. Secondly, I look to non-calendrical sources—especially sermons and tracts—to gauge how people thought about and related to calendars, particularly in the context of one’s spiritual life.

The first section of this chapter explores how the genre of printed calendars changed and transformed itself throughout the sixteenth century. Thereafter follows a discussion of calendar making as a vocation during the period. The final section analyzes two emerging views on the use and reading of calendars. The inquiry, here, seeks to address not how people actually read calendars, but rather how authors thought calendars were read or ought to be read.

SECTION I: CALENDARS, CULTURAL HISTORY AND EARLY MODERN GERMANY

As complex textual artifacts, calendars represent a highly valuable repository of cultural historical information. In her study on Jewish calendars in early modern Europe, Elisheva

Carlebach describes the many, wide-ranging areas of life and society that calendars—past and present—speak to:

A calendar can tell us a great deal about the place of its creators and users within larger social, religious and cultural contexts. Calendars keep members of a society working in synchrony with one another. They determine our workdays, our school days, and our holidays not to mention the days we shop for the best buys. [They] merge personal time (such as birthdays), sacred communal time (holidays), and civic time (independence days) onto a grid that aligns these measures with natural rhythms and a historical framework. These temporal rhythms define who we are as surely as our names, our social identities, and our professions do.130

In other words, calendars (then as now) are much more than passive grids to organize time--they process time’s manifold modes into cultural configurations, which both orient and

130 Carlebach, Palaces of Time,, 1. J.D. North makes a similar and equally lucid point. As he puts it: “Although a calendar is essentially a means of referring a particular event to a day or year unambiguously, so that other events may be correlated with it, the calendar is a system of names that have taken on a life of their own. It is a system of associations--of religious sentiment with season, for example, and of season with name.” In J.D. North, “The Western Calendar – ‘Intolerabilis, Horribilis, et Derisibilis’: Four Centuries of Discontent,” in The Gregorian Reform of the Calendar. Proceedings of the Vatican Conference to Commemorate its 400th Anniversary 1582-1982, eds. G.V. Coyne and M.A. Hoskin (Vatican City: Pontifical Academy of Sciences, 1982), 75-116, here 75. 122 organize, unify and divide a society. This is true even of calendars today; the calendars on our walls detail not only the numbered dates in each month, but also the major holidays (both religious and secular) observed in public society, days of national or civic commemoration, and even certain events in nature—the dates of solstices and equinoxes, for example, or new and full moons. One could say, then, that the typical calendar of today is actually a collation of several distinct calendrical frameworks and cycles, from the astronomical to the civil.

This multi-stranded characteristic of calendars was no less present in those of early modern Germany. By the sixteenth century, calendars contained not only relevant dates but also a growing range of medical, astronomical and astrological information for the year at hand.131

Towards the end of the sixteenth century, almanacs (Practica or Prognostica) were often published in tandem with calendars, functioning as appendices that expanded on the astrological and meteorological symbols conveyed in the calendar’s more abbreviated, tabular form.

Increasingly throughout the sixteenth century, these almanacs came to furnish extended predictions and prognostications of one form or another—from meteorological speculations to forecasting war, famine, disease outbreaks or political developments.132 Many of these predictions were based on a complex interpretation of celestial events—e.g. eclipses or angular

“aspects” between planets—distilled from the works of Ptolemy, Avicenna and numerous other famed astronomers.133 The terms “calendar,” “almanac,” and (somewhat less frequently)

131 C.f. Rudolf Wendorff, Tag und Woche, Monat und Jahr: eine Kulturgeschichte des Kalenders (Opladen: West Deutscher Verlag, 1993), 166-70. A more detailed exploration of this genre can be found in the Appendix of this dissertation. 132 Wendorff, Kulturgeschichte des Kalenders, 169-70. 133 In the language of astrology, an “aspect” refers to one of various types of angles and distances formed between planets in the course of their movements. There were many possible aspects that could occur, depending on which planets were involved and what type of angle they formed. While this form of astrology dates back to ancient practice, it was also integral to early modern astronomers such as Kepler. See Udo Becker, ed., Lexikon der Astrologie, s.v. “Aspekte,” (Freiburg: Herder, 1981), 23-24. 123

“prognosticon” were often employed interchangeably to convey year-specific, calendrical texts that sought in one form or another to make predictive inferences on the year.

Throughout the sixteenth century, Germany witnessed a surge in popularity and dissemination of these calendars and almanacs. This trend is noted not only by historians;134 contemporaries themselves bore witness to the rising prevalence of calendars in society. As Lutz alluded to in 1629, there were very few households by that point which lacked yearly calendars.135 Nearly a century early, Johannes Carion had observed that “in these times of ours”

(in diesen unsern Zeiten), it seemed all manner of new almanacs and prophecies were published daily, all with catchy titles to attract new readers.136 Numerous authors from the second half of the late sixteenth century on spoke of the now “common custom” of purchasing a new calendar

“before or at Christmas […] and looking up in it how the future new year and its weather will go, whether it will be fruitful or unfruitful, also what one can expect for good luck or bad, peace or war, prosperity or famine, good air or dying.”137 Captured in this description were the wide ranging predictions and prognostications calendars had commonly come to feature by the late sixteenth century. As the previous chapter has shown, the timing of theses astrological projections did not always align with conventional teachings, nor was there always a strong consistency between calendars. As a result, the medical and astrological claims of calendars and almanacs came under increasing scrutiny by the last quarter of the sixteenth century.

134 Carlebach, Palaces of Time, 28; Wendorff, Kulturgeschichte des Kalenders, 166-70. 135 Lutz, Geistliche Practica, 14. 136 Johannes Carion, Bedeutnus und Offenbarung warer hymlischer influentz von jaren ... biß man schreibt 1550. (n.p.: 1531), Aiir. 137 Georg Zeämann, Apostolischer Wecker- und Wetter Glöcklein (Ulm: Müller, 1625), 23: “Es ist ein gemeiner brauch/ dz fast ein jeder Haussvatter/ vor oder umb Weynachten/ sich mit einem NewenCalender versihet/ und darinn nachschlegt/ wie das kunfftig newe jahr d‘ Witterung halb sich anlassen/ ob es Frucht oder Unfruchtbar seyn/ auch was man sonsten fur Gluck oder Unglück/ Fried oder krieg/ Wolfaile oder thewrung/ gute Lufft oder Sterbens läuff zu gewarten haben möchte.“ C.f. Johann Hesselbach, Postilla, Das ist, Außlegung der Evangelien so nach alter Catholischer römischer Kirchen, unnd der heiligen Vätter Lehr unnd Meynung, auff alle Fest und Feyertäg durchs Jahr gepredigt (Mainz: Demen, 1631), 202. See also Lucas Osiander, Bedencken, ob der newe päpstische Kalender ein Notturfft bey der Christenheit seie, unnd wie trewlich diser Papst Gregorius XIII. die Sachen darmit meine ... (Tübingen: Gruppenbach, 1583), 3. 124

This chapter contributes to the growing interest in early modern calendars. Cultural historians have only begun to scratch the surface of calendars and almanacs as historical sources, and the scholarship which does exist has focused on the seventeenth century, when so-called writing calendars (Schreibkalender) dominated the printed calendar market. These hybrids—part calendar, part diary—included empty spaces for each date so that owners could record important meteorological, astrological or autobiographical events.138 Spearheading cultural historical attention to this genre is Klaus-Dieter Herbst’s various works, whose source base is the

Altenburg city archive’s vast calendar collection. Herbst’s most significant contribution concerns the changing views of knowledge and the heavens made evident in seventeenth-century writing calendars. By analyzing the astrological and astronomical discourses in both calendars and their corresponding almanacs, Herbst makes the case that the erosion of astrological worldviews was well underway by the second half of the seventeenth century—earlier than had been previously speculated.139 His argument rests on an examination of meteorological and astronomical descriptions in two sample groups of writing calendars, each published around a year that witnessed exceptional astronomical occurrences during the second half of the seventeenth century (1654-56 and 1670-72). Building on Herbst’s research, Jana Maroszová’s essay has examined forms of apocalypticism in 38 calendars published around 1670, the year that Philipp Nicolai (†1608) had once prophesied would be the end of the world. Using an online calendar collection of seventeenth-century writing calendars (a project initiated by Herbst),140

138 Klaus-Dieter Herbst, Die Jahreskalender – Ein Medium für gelehrte Kommunikation, in Klaus-Dieter Herbst und Stefan Kratochwil, eds., Kommunikation in der Frühen Neuzeit (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2009), 189– 224, here 191. 139 Klaus-Dieter Herbst, Die Schreibkalender im Kontext der Frühaufklärung, Acta Calendariographica 2.1 (Jena: Verlag HKD, 2010), 14-17. 140 The Kalenderblätter project is supported by the University of Thüringen library (ThULB), the DP Bremen and the Altenburg city archives, and is in the process of digitizing around 1,500 writing calendars published between 1644 and 1710. To access the project’s alphabetical index of calendars, available for viewing online, see: http://zs.thulb.uni-jena.de/content/main/calendarList.xml#A (last accessed: 24 July 2014). 125

Maroszová employed keyword searches of terms pertaining to the second advent in order to determine the degree to which calendars acted as disseminators of apocalyptic expectation.

While the majority of the 38 calendars she sampled made mention of the imminence of the end times, none predicted a specific time Christ would return.141 According to her argument, calendars lent themselves to the expression of apocalyptic expectations because one of their primary purposes was to predict future events—meteorological, astrological, or otherwise—thus bearing something of a revelatory quality already close to the spirit of apocalypticism.142

SECTION II: DIVINELY INSPIRED: WRITING CALENDARS IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY

Making a calendar in sixteenth-century Germany was no small feat. Over the course of the sixteenth century, calendar “writing” (Kalenderschreiben) came to be regarded as something of a divine vocation by numerous writers (especially the calendar authors themselves, incidentally). Accordingly, calendar authors were seen to have been preceded by such literary giants as Moses and God the Creator. The preface to Regiomontanus’ 1512 calendar opens with an excerpt from the first chapter of Genesis that reflects on the link between calendars and creation:

God the almighty set the earth in the middle of the firmament so that the outer [celestial] bodies [obern corper], through their movement, would have effect [wirckung] and influence [einfluß] over the earth and all creatures, both rational and irrational [...] that the rational creature (that is, man) could come to name and recognize such working and influence, and so that he could [....] govern himself according to sign, time, year and day. It is for the glory [...] of God the creator and for the utility of man this calendar has come to press, in which one finds the time of year according to the sun’s course through twelve celestial signs, and that of the moon, new and full.143

141 Jana Maroszová, “Die Kriegs- und Endzeit-Thematik in den Kalendern um 1670,” in Klaus-Dieter Herbst, ed., Astronomie- Literatur- Volksaufklärung. Der Schreibklaender der frühen Neuzeit mit Seinen Text- und Bildbeigaben (Jena: Verlag Historische Kalender Drucke, 2012), 341–60, here 357. 142 Marosava, “Kriegs- und Endzeit-Thematik in Kalendern um 1670,” 342. 143 Johannes Regiomontanus, Kalender (Augusburg: Syttich, 1512), Ai-Aii. This edition of Regiomontanus’ German calendar saw a marked expansion to the preface section, in comparison to previous versions of the calendar whose publication stems from 1474. As evidenced in the excerpt cited, the preface to the 1512 calendar sought not 126

The movements of sun, moon and stars originated in the creation act. Making calendars, whose purpose (among others) was to gauge the movement of celestial lights, meant exercising one’s god-given rationality. God had given certain individuals a special acuity to know, measure and reckon these movements. Moreover, as this edition hints at, the calendar maker was called upon to discern the influences and effects that celestial movements had over earthly life. Just as God created the heavens to influence and guide events on earth, so those entrusted with the knowledge of the heavens created calendars—a task that brought glory to God and also benefited mankind.

Leonhard Reynmann in 1515 revived a well-worn trope in describing creation: in the beginning, God had “written” the celestial bodies, such as the sun and moon, “into the heavens like a book”—an allegorical picture that Reynmann credits to Plato and the Psalmist David.144 In other words, “God made the heavens as a vellum [haüt] or book.” A vivid picture of this is suggested by the title page of one of Reynmann’s other publications, a popular weather prediction manual, which was printed in various editions throughout the early

only to explain the features of the calendar which followed, but also to place the calendar within the Judeo-Christian account of creation. 144 As Peter Harrison has pointed out, Plato emphasized that the world is knowable, capable of being understood or being read in the same way a book would, in Peter Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism and the Rise of Natural Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 56; c.f. Plato, Timaeus, 92C. As far as the Psalmist is concerned, Reynmann was likely referring to Psalm 19: 1-4: “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.” (New International Version). 127

Figure 5: Man and Scroll (1510)

Source: Reynmann, Von warer erkanntnuß des wetters (München: Schobssers, 1510), title page.

Image: Bavarian State Library (BSB), Digital Collections . 128

1500s (See Figure 5 above).145 The image features a long scroll, unfurled to cover the space above the man. One thinks, first, of New Testament imagery which speaks of the heavens rolled back as a scroll.146 Here, the man gestures and points towards the unfurled vellum, as though expounding upon its meaning.

Reynmann comments that the book of the heavens was first read by specific ancient thinkers (e.g. Abel and Noah) and others (such as Ptolomy, Abū Ma’shar and Reynmann himself), who were skilled in the “highly useful art of astronomy.”147 The basic knowledge of this book had been gleaned through God’s providence and long-term experience and observation.148 Reading of the heavens over the generations of human history has determined which “planets and their aspects [are] good and bad […] for the lives of all humans […] From this, it follows that at one time, one person is healthy, happy and joyful while another sad, sick and unfortunate.”149 The ability to read the pages of the heavens was key to unlocking the nuances of planetary and celestial influences on human life.

In describing the heavens as a book of sorts, Reynmann engaged a longstanding metaphorical connection between nature and the written word. Numerous Christian thinkers throughout the middle ages spoke of the cosmos as a book; as Hugo of St Victor (d. 1141) put it, the whole of material creation consisted of letters written “by the finger of God.”150 As

Reynmann rightly points out, the nature- or heavens-as-book trope has its root in Platonic

145 Reynmann, Von warer erkanntnuß des wetters (München: Schobssers, 1510); ibid., [Wetterbüchlein]: Von warer erkanntnuß des wetters (Augsburg: n.p., 1538). 146 Revelations 6:14. 147 Leonhard Reynmann, Welcher woll sein Leyb unnd Leben fursehen und bewarn eben auch allem Ungluck entrynnen... (Nuremberg: Peypus, 1515), i-ii. 148 Ibid. 149 Ibid. 150 Hugh of St. Victor, De tribus diebus 4, qtd. in Peter Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism and the Rise of Natural Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 44. 129 thought, which emphasized the rational and effable quality of nature, whose meaning could only be discerned by the highly skilled.151 In the Christian imagination, this understanding of nature was carried further, implying that creation was something to be “read, expounded, investigated”—more specifically, that the hermeneutical strategies applied to Scripture could also be similarly applied to creation, which was, like the Bible, a reflection and expression of

God.152 Peter Harrison has demonstrated the extent to which metaphorical understandings of nature as a divine book gained currency after the Protestant Reformation and persisted in framing understandings of nature throughout the seventeenth century. 153

Reynmann’s allusion to the heavens as a book aligns with this resurgence of the nature- as-book metaphor around the time of the Reformation. One wonders, too, if Reynmann also saw his enterprise of calendar making as one that resembled the divine act of creation. Not dissimilarly to God, who had written the stars and planets upon the great scroll of the heavenly firmament, Reynmann and his contemporaries communicated the meanings of heavenly bodies and motions into the medium of printed books, almanacs and calendars. Reynmann, perhaps not unlike God Himself, saw his task as that of fashioning celestial reality into words.

A calendar being a sort of timepiece, it is at first glance tempting to conflate this metaphor with the so-called “watchmaker analogy” that gained currency during the

Enlightenment. This line of thought held that God had created the world as an intelligently-

151 Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism and the Rise of Natural Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 56; c.f. Plato, Timaeus, 92C. 152 Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism and the Rise of Natural Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 57. 153 Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism and the Rise of Natural Science, esp. 138 and 193. Harrison argues that the more literal interpretation of Scripture prevalent in various denominations of early modern Protestantism led to a dismantling of allegorical views of nature. In Kathleen Crowther’s exploration of similar themes, she takes issue with Harrison’s main premise. Instead, she demonstrates that Protestant-authored natural philosophical texts of this period reveal the extent to which Lutherans continued to hold on to allegorical understandings of such things as plants, animals and gems. Kathleen Crowther “The Lutheran Book of Nature,” in The Book of Nature in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, eds. David Hawkes and Richard G. Newhauser (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 19-40, esp. 22-25. 130 designed, self-regulating clock. The watchmaker analogy was bolstered by the wonder with which mechanical clocks had long been regarded—since the middle ages, a clock “not only measured time; it was the embodiment of precision, order and control.”154 As true as this was, however, to speak of God as a clockmaker is much different than to describe Him as a calendar maker.

One would do well to recall that as innovative as clocks and clock making were seen to be, clocks occasionally provoked different associations in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries than they did during the early Enlightenment. At this time, clocks still needed to be wound regularly and lacked the trustworthy accuracy they gradually attained during the seventeenth century. When God was described as a clockmaker during the earlier period, the limits of technology at the time prevented Him from fully stepping back from His perfect machine of a creation. Instead, God, the “master clockmaker” was yet ever-present, winding the clock of creation as needed; in His mercy, He could even “wind back the clock of our sins” if mankind repented.155 In other contexts of this period, clocks and the regularity they imposed on social life were most often tied to the virtues of discipline and temperance. It was only later in the 1600s, with René Descartes and Isaac Newton, that the clock-maker analogy become a more widespread metaphor for God and the regularity of the cosmos.156

154 Robin Bruce Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis: Apocalypticism in the Wake of the Lutheran Reformation (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988), 103. 155 Elias Ehinger, Iudicium Astrologicum Von dem Newen Cometa Welcher den 1. Decemb. 1618. am Morgen vor und nach 6. uhren zu Augspurg von vilen Personen gesehen worden (Augsburg: Schultes, 1618), Aiir-v. It should be noted that, according to Max Engammare, the Frenchman Pontes de Tyard made a somewhat related point in 1587, reasoning: “[W]ould not a clockmaker who has built a spring-loaded bell on his clock […] not still have full and free right to take apart or even break his clock and make it unable to mark time or ring? Does God not have the same power over the heavens, the stars and planets which he created as a sign and reference point, and as it were an alarm bell and warning about the things of this world?” Max Engammare, On Time, Punctuality, and Discipline in Early Modern Calvinism, trans. Karin Maag (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 26 (see note 71). 156 For the connection between clocks and discipline, see Adam Max Cohen, Technology and the Early Modern Self (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), esp. 29-31. Merry E. Wiesner argues the metaphor of God as clockmaker began with the works of Newton and Descartes, both of whom emphasized the regular, mechanical 131

To speak of God as a calendar maker also engaged a different set of qualities or assumptions about God and His creation than the clockmaker analogy. A calendar (even that of the heavens) was not something God set in motion like a machine, but something He wrote into existence. God had created the heavens at the beginning of time by “writing” each singular celestial light into existence as a word or letter. Since the relationships between stars and planets was in a constant state of flux and development from day to day, the “words” and “signs” of the heavenly calendar were constantly communicating new meanings. To speak of God as calendar maker underscored the notion that God spoke to his creatures through the language of the cosmos, that each heavenly light had the potential to communicate something from or about God.

Early modern calendars signify one means of attempting to understand God via His heavenly writ, to exposit on a yearly basis the language of eclipses and epicycles, planets and portents.

Petrus Apian (d. 1552), a Catholic astronomer and mathematician at the University of

Ingolstadt, delved further into the process of this verbal communication of the heavens. For

Apian, like Reynmann, both rationality and long term observation played a crucial role in calendar making. God succored these extraordinary human capacities and in return, the ability to reason and perceive celestial change culminated in calendar making, which ensured order and stability in human society. In the preface to his work, Apian distinguished between the two different ways that animals and people know the future. While God gave animals instinctive knowledge (Empfindlichkeit) to sense future events (migratory birds, for example, instinctively sense the coming winter and know when to fly southward), God gave man rational knowledge

(Vernunft) of the future, that is, the ability to rationally discern what is to come by observing and charting indicative signs in the present. While all humans possess some degree of God-given

principles that governed the universe. Merry E. Wiesner, Early Modern Europe, 1450-1789 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 384-85. 132 rationality, however, discerning the specifics of the future is only achieved by a select few, and primarily through astronomy, a highly difficult art that can be mastered only through long-term experience (auß langer erfarung) and record keeping.157

Jeremias Brotbeihel, an avid almanac writer throughout the 1550s and 1560s, deemed such individuals “natural theologians” (natürliche Theolog[i]). Like ordinary theologians who exegete meaning from the words of the Scriptures, natural theologians do so from the words God wrote in the book of the heavens. In this “vellum or book […] are written all past and future things that are to happen in this world.”158 God endowed natural theologians with the skills to

“measure and observe the course of the stars, as well as the conjunctions and aspects of planets and eclipses of both sun and moon.”159 Yet, as Brotbeihel points out, people ought not to fear the signs in the heavens but hope in God’s mercy. In reading the heavens, natural theologians were to call people’s attention to heavenly signs and wonders, encouraging people to repent. Such was the “correct use of this art.”160

Just as one might conflate the notions of God as calendar maker with the clockmaker analogy, it is also appealing to wonder where the “book of nature” paradigm fits within this discussion. Calendars are, after all, a kind of book, one whose substance is unavoidably grounded in the natural world. As Harrison and others have pointed out, since the middle ages the book of nature metaphor emphasized that nature can be read—that it is legible, expressive and accessible to humans, or at least to astronomers. Were calendars really “books” in this sense of the word? On one hand, calendars looked like books: they contained words and writing, they had authors and they usually consisted of bound pages. From a conceptual perspective, however,

157 Petrus Apian, Practica auff d[a]z 1532. Jar (Landshut: Apian, 1531), Aiiir. 158 Jeremias Brotbeihel, Practica Teutsch auf das 1551. Jar (n.p., 1550), Aiv. 159 Ibid. 160 Ibid., Aiir. 133 calendars differed from books in at least one crucial way: one did not necessarily “read” a calendar in early modern Germany—one consulted it, referenced it, and flipped back and forth between its pages to understand the symbols. Carlebach notes, for example, that such calendars could be said to have consisted of pure “paratext,” rather than a combination of the main text and paratext (as are most books). Ordinarily, paratexts (e.g. reference cues, page numbers, symbols and glosses) served to “accompany the text and help orient the reader.” 161 The entire function of calendars during this period, however, was similar to that of paratext, helping readers locate themselves within the year as a whole:

In most books, the reader turns a page to get to the next part of the text. The number on the page is unimportant to the text itself; readers often ignore it completely. […] Simple calendars come close to being pure paratext, volumes in which the very act of turning the pages—to follow the days, months, or years— conveys the primary message.162

It is possible that authors who spoke of the heavens as a calendar may have intended to illustrate something different than the heavens’ legible, communicative qualities. Accordingly, in making a calendar during this time, perhaps one could say that it was not only necessary to read the heaven but to search them, to “look up”—not only to physically cast one’s gaze skywards, but to simultaneously look up what was relevant for humans to know, finding and communicating what was needed from the heavens for each year.

The idealism surrounding early modern calendar writing reached a high point in the work of Andreas Rosa during the last quarter of the sixteenth century. In his 1579 calendar almanac,

Rosa comments that the long term observation process of astronomy yields the “ordering of the whole year—taken yearly, monthly, weekly, daily, even hourly, from its beginning through to the year’s end.” The principles of this temporal structuring were as follows:

161 Carlebach, Palaces of Time, 2-3. 162 Ibid. 134

Now, the whole year’s order […] yearly, monthly, weekly, daily and even hourly—was given by God and maintained by the holiest patriarchs [...] [who] brought it together into such an order [...] and wrote it down. For did Moses, the man of God, not write the first calendar for us? Thereafter, did not the Holy Fathers at the Council of Nicaea greatly labor to organize our calendar according to our feast days, so that the feasts would be certain and the Sundays would not be missing? […] For all good order is from God.163

For Rosa, a physician as well as an avid calendar writer, Moses was the first calendar maker, organizing the Hebrew year in the Torah. 164 The Church fathers continued the divine calendar by organizing the Christian calendar around feast days. Central to Rosa’s conception of calendar time, then, are days of religious observance. The orderliness of the Christian year is also centered around the regularity of weekly observance of Sundays, which (thanks to the calendar) are never forgotten.

Several contemporary calendar makers and pastors shared Rosa’s notion that Moses wrote or participated in the first calendar. In a 1586 sermon, for example, pastor Zaccheus

Rivander referenced Moses in regards to the first calendar. In this case, however, Moses—in rendering the Genesis creation account in writing—was simply articulating the creative commands of God, who had been the true author of the first almanac:

Him who wishes to know who wrote and made the first calendar, that is, who ordered and compiled time for the first time, Moses answers [with the words] and

163 Andreas Rosa, Practica oder Prognosticon (1578), Aiiir: “Nun ist je des ganzen jars Ordnung von seinem anfang/ durch un durch/ biß zu ende darauss jarlich/ Monatlich/ wochenlich/ und täglich/ ja stundlich genommmen/ und von den heiligsten Altvattern getrieben/ und hernach auff gottes eingeben/ in eine solche Ordnung zusammen/ uns zu bester Ordnung und nachrichtung verfallet und auffgeschrieben. Denn hat moises der mann Gottes/ nicht uns den ersten calender geschrieben? Haben die hiligen Vatter nicht im Concilio Niceno auch hernach darunter hoch gearbeitet/ den/ nach unseren festen richtig anzuordnen/ damit man der feste gewiß und der Sontags nicht also fehlet/ und damit als im finstern tappet/Denn je alle gute ordnung von Gott ist.” 164 In viewing the Mosaic writings in part as a calendar, the view of Rosa and other likeminded authors in this chapter (see Rivander below) was relatively uncommon in the context of early modern readings of the Pentateuch and creation account. While many literati of this period mined the books of Moses for cosmological and natural philosophical information, understanding them as a calendar does not appear to have been a similarly dominant interpretation. Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism and the Rise of Natural Science, 138-47. Harrison recounts the work of various early modern Protestants who searched the books of Moses for cosmological and scientific clues relating to the age of world, heliocentricity and sundry areas of natural philosophical thought. 135

God said,165 etc. This is what God the almighty did etc. If you inquire further as to what he wrote his almanac with (because at that time there was no paper, or even letters), here Moses answers thus: And God set them in the firmament of heaven, etc. That is: he wrote [the heavenly lights] into his large book, which is the great, wide heavens, that all the world would see them and be able to govern themselves accordingly.166

Rivander’s description merges both of the tropes we have thus far been tracing in this section: the heavens as a book and the original calendar author. Here, the celestial canopy is not just any kind of book, but in particular a calendar, written by God, who set the heavenly lights in the sky to mark the seasons, days and years.167 God was, in this sense, not only the author of time, but also of calendars; the essence of calendar making was to “order and compile” time for mankind.

A distinction, too, could be inferred from Rivander’s words between calendar making and calendar writing, since he notes that God both “wrote and made” the first calendar. That is to say that God was not only a calendar maker—fashioning calendrical time out of the fabric of the cosmos—but simultaneously a calendar writer inasmuch as He spoke creation into existence— not with paper or letters (Rivander reminds his audience that these items had not even been invented yet) but with His word. The heavens are a calendar in both essence and form for

Rivander.

In their essence, the celestial lights were time—their motions are the wellspring of time’s movement. But they also visibly indicated time, in all its calibrations and nuances. Like the

165 Here, Rivander refers to the frequent refrain in the story of creation as recounted in Genesis, often referred to in German as the “first book of Moses” (1. Buch Mose). 166 Zaccheus Rivander, Christliche Erinnerung zum Newen Jahr: vom Alten und Newen Calender, wie sie Erstmals erfunden (Wittemberg: Welack, 1586), 24: „Wer nu gern wissen wolte/ wer den ersten calendar beschrieben und gemacht/ das ist/ wer erstlich die Zeit also verordnet und gefasset/ dem antwortet Moyses hier als.Und Gott sprach etc.q.d. das hat gott der all mechtige gethan etc. Fragest du weiter (worhin oder wormit er solch sein Allmanach geschrieben/ weil domals noch kein Papier/ja noch kein Buchstaben gewesen/ Do antwortet Moses abermal: Und gott sezet sie an der Feste des Himmels etc. Das ist/er hat sie in sein grosses Buch geschrieben/ welchs ist der grosse weite Himmel/das sie alle Welt sehen / und sich darnach richten kann.“ 167 Genesis 1:14. 136

Scriptures, the heavens contain the utterances of God (sun, moon, and stars) and, like printed calendars, they ordered and compiled time visibly for the benefit of humanity.

Rivander’s line of thought is reiterated in Pomeranian physician David Herlicius’ 1605 refutation of the new calendar. 168 Herlicius, like Rivander, attributes authorship of the first calendar to God:

Calendars are as old as the heavens, earth, sun, moon and stars. The first calendar maker and giver of time (Zeitstiffter) was our Lord God Himself, who wrote His almanac at the beginning of creation not with black and red letters, or with characters on paper (which did not exist at that time) but rather on a great world- book (Weltbuch), [...] the great high, wide heavens. Therein He wrote the sun, moon and stars and set them in the heights, form[ing them] large and roughly hewn that all the world could see them.169

Herlicius’ description of God and calendar making is so similar to Rivander’s that one wonders whether he had read Rivander’s sermon. Here as well, God spoke the heavenly lights into being with words, the celestial canopy being a book of sorts. Also, in the same spirit as

Rivander, Herlicius points out that letters and the like had not yet been invented when God created the world—God’s calendar thus consisted of the heavens, not papers and characters.

Likewise, both Rivander and Herlicius describe that God wrote His calendar in the heavens so that everyone could see.

Similar references to God as the first calendar maker can be found sporadically throughout the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. By the 1610s, though, such

168 David Herlicius, PRODROMVS und erster Theil gründtlicher Wiederlegung oder Refutation des newen bäbstischen Calenders (Alten Stettin: Joachim Rheten, 1605). For a broader exploration of the calendar reform, see chapter 4 of this dissertation. Herlicius also published numerous yearly calendars and almanacs beginning in about 1592 to his death in 1636. Thereafter, his calendars were edited and reprinted in subsequent years until about 1650. In: Theodor Pyl, „Herlitz, David,“ Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie (1880), S. 118 [Online version]; . 169 David Herlicius, PRODROMVS und erster Theil gründtlicher Wiederlegung oder Refutation des newen bäbstischen Calenders (Alten Stettin: Joachim Rheten, 1605), 7: “Und ist der erste calender macher und zeitstiffter unser Herr Gott selbst/ welcher seinen Allmanach im Anfang der Schöpffung nicht mit schwarzen und roten Buchstaben/ oder charactern auffs Pappier (welcher keins domal noch nicht gwesen) geschrieben sondern hat ein grosses Weltbuch/sinvosa voluminacoeli, wie der Poet artig sagt/ den grossen hohen weiten Himmel/ darein hat er geschrieben Sonn/ Mond und alle Sternen/ und in die Höhe gesezet/ auch so grob und gros formiert/ das sie in der ganzen Welt können gesehen werden.“ 137 allusions waned significantly. Two late exceptions are found in the homiletic writings of Georg

Albrecht (d. 1647), a Lutheran pastor in Nördlingen, and the almanacs of Berlin astronomer

Gottfried Kirch (d. 1710). In the 1640s, Georg Albrecht published several sermon collections in the last years of his life that reflected, among other things, on the intersection between God’s creation and the lofty enterprise of calendar making. In the beginning, God had set the stars in the firmament to “distinguish day and night, and to give signs, times, day and year.” These stars created a “world calendar, to show when the weather will change, and when the world will end.”170 God had imbued the year with a differentiation of times, from months and weeks to days and hours. Albrecht believed that out of this arose the practice of astronomy, bringing “time into a specific order, composing [this order] into curious books [bilcher] that are renewed every year and called a calendar.”171 God gave special ability to renowned people in order to discern “the beginning, end and middle of time, how the day waxes and wanes, how the seasons change, how the year winds around and where the stars stand.” From this special, God-given knowledge

“arose astronomers, astrologers and calendar writers, who know down to a minute when a solar or lunar eclipse will occur […] and everything from the principles that God allows to be known.”172 The God-given knowledge astronomers possess reveals the natural causes and events that can be predicted and measured. In this description, Albrecht makes no mention of the astrological insights that calendar makers also seemed to be able to glean from the heavens.

170 Georg Albrecht, Tuba novissima! Die letzte Gerichts-Posaun: Das ist, Gründtliche und weitläluffige Erklärung deß höchstnützlichen Artikels von dem Jüngsten Gericht und Ende der Welt. Inn Neun und Siebentzig Predigten, auß sonderbaren Biblischen Texten also abgehandelt (Nördlingen: Chorhammer, 1645), 406-407. On a slightly different note, Albrecht also described the celestial lights as the “world’s alarm clock” (Weltuhrwecker): “The hour hand (ganze Zeiger) is the sun, which completes its trek in 365 days and 6 hours; the half-hour (halbe Zeiger) is the moon, who completes its course in four weeks; the stars are the small quarter clock (kleine viertel werk)—who can count them?” 171 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 3-4. 172 Georg Albrecht, Tuba Novissima! (Nördlingen: Chorhammer, 1645), 206-7: “Der Herr hat [berühmpte(n) leute(n)] gegeben gewisse Erkäntniß alles Dings/ daß sie wissen der Zeit Anfang Ende und Mitel/ wie der Tag zu und abnimmt/ wie die Zeit deß Jahrs sich ändert/ und wie das Jahr herumb laufft/ wie die sterne stehen […] Daher sei kommen die Astronomi, Astrologi und Calenderschreiber/ da weiß bey einer Minuten wann ein Sonnen- oder Mondfinsterniß sich begeben werde/ und solches aus den principiis, die Gott zu wissen zugelassen.” 138

In my exploration of the sources, the last reference to God-as-calendar-maker is found in a 1666 almanac by Gottfried Kirch.173 In the introduction to his Christen-, Juden- und Türken-

Kalender, a unique calendar almanac that amalgamated the Julian and Gregorian civil calendars with non-western calendrical systems, Kirch described God as the first calendar writer because he dictated to Moses “the year complete with its twelve months.”174 Kirch, however, cited not the

Genesis story of creation but rather Exodus 12 and Leviticus 23, passages in which the dates of the holy feasts for the Hebrew people were mandated and explained to the Hebrew populace.

Like Herlicius and Rivander, then, Kirch rooted his understanding of God as calendar maker in the Old Testament Mosaic writings. A crucial difference is that Kirch saw in the written commands of Jewish law pertaining to times and holidays the predecessor to the written calendars of his own time, which he defines as “nothing more than a time-measuring book”

(Zeit-Meß Buch).175 Even as Kirch went on to describe different notions of the year, pointing to the precisely-measured motions of the sun and stars, he makes no mention of creation or the heavens as calendrical signs. His understanding of God as calendar-maker stands in subtle contrast to that of Rivander and Herlicius: he meant it literally, not metaphorically or typologically. Kirch regarded the excerpts he cited as a definite, textual forerunner to the genre of printed calendars. Implied is that while Christians now follow a different calendar, the whole idea of a book to measure time originated in the sacred writings of the ancient Hebrews.

SECTION III: INSPIRED READING: HISTORICAL CALENDARS AND SPIRITUAL DISCIPLINE

Just as making calendars was related to God’s divine nature, so too spiritual significance was placed on the practice of reading calendars, particularly during the second half of the

173 Gottfried Kirch, Christen-, Juden- und Türken-Kalender : Für Das Jahr 1667. In Klaus-Dieter Herbst, ed., Acta Calendariographica 1.1 (Jena: Verlag HKD, 2008). 174 Kirch, Christen-, Juden- und Türken-Kalender, A2. 175 Ibid. 139 sixteenth century. In a New Year’s sermon, parish superintendent in Gotha, Michael Iulius, summed up the religious significance of calendar, exclaiming:

How it pleases the Lord God when Christian hearts always have their computu, diaries and year-reckonings. This one can glean and observe from His own example […] for He is a God of order.176

Earlier in the sixteenth century, feformer Philipp Melanchthon had also seen the devotional potential of calendars. Throughout his adult life, Melanchthon purportedly consulted calendars in his morning devotions, a routine that consisted of a trifecta of prayers, Bible study and calendar meditation.177 Including the calendar in his religious devotions provided an opportunity to deeply reflect on time, history, and the workings of God. A daily glimpse into the calendar called to mind the important historical and political events that had occurred on that day, and helped commemorate lives that had been lived in exemplary Christian faith (though it must be noted that reflection on saints’ lives played an increasingly limited role in the later years’ of Melanchthon’s life).178 In combining calendar meditation with other devotional practices, Melanchthon imbued a given date with religious contemplation, being mindful of God’s providential hand in the stream of time and history as well as the particular place in time that he occupied therein. In addition to the vestiges of Catholic saint veneration, Melanchthon’s religious regard for calendars likely also stems from his prolific interest in world history and chronology, through

176 Michael Iulius, Von dem newgebornen lieben Jesulein [...] Sampt einer Newen Jarßspredigt (Erfurt: Georg Baumann, 1591) Hiv: “Wie Gott dem Herren gefalle/ wann christliche Herzen immerdar ihren steten Computu, Diarium und Jharrechnung haben/ das kann man auß seinem selbst eigenen exempel abnemen und mercken/ [...] weil er ein gott ist der Ordnung.“ 177 Martin H. Jung, Frömmigkeit und Theologie bei Philipp Melanchthon (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 71. Melanchthon’s tripartite prayer ritual is also alluded to by other early modern Lutherans such as Georg Albrecht, who reflected in 1643 that “one writes of the learned man, Philip Melanchthon, that he lived his life as a pious Christian according to many wonderful rules. [...] [Melanchthon] wrote that when a Christian wakes up in the morning, he should complete three works.” Albrecht went on to describe the routine of prayer (oratio), Bible reading (lectio) and taking a glimpse at the calendar (Calendarii inspectio), that is: “A Christian should go over his calendar, devotedly looking at it and thinking every day what God has given to Him that day, considering the examples of the saints and trying hard to follow in their faith.” Georg Albrecht, Calendarum Christianum Perpetuum, (n.p.: Heinrich Chorhammer, 1643), 1-2. 178 Jung, Frömmigkeit und Theologie, 79. 140 which he sought to discern God’s unfolding, salvific plan through the ages and events of the past.179 Martin H. Jung describes this facet of Melanchthon’s spiritual life as an early example of

“Lutheran calendrical piety” (evangelische kalenderbezogene Frömmigkeitspraxis) that, Jung briefly argues, remained largely dormant among wider Lutheran populations until the early decades of the piety movement in the late seventeenth century.180

Melanchthon’s devotional use of calendars was influential in bringing about a handful of spiritualized, or perhaps better stated “re-spiritualized” Lutheran calendars around the middle of the sixteenth century.181 Printed under the Latin epithet of “historical calendars” (calendarii historicis, not to be confused with the German historischer Kalender or Geschichtskalender),182 the calendars Melanchthon had in mind functioned as a combination of perpetual calendar, martyrology and historical chronicle. Initiating this trend were Paul Eber’s Calendarium

Historicum183 originally published in 1550, and Kaspar Goldwurm’s 1553 Historisch

179 Jung, Frömmigkeit und Theologie, 80. 180 Jung, Frömmigkeit und Theologie, 79. 181 Jung, Frömmigkeit und Theologie, 86. 182 Historische Kalender (historical calendars), a sub-category of very early writing calendars at the end of the sixteenth century, featured a column in each monthly calendar table that retold historical events of the previous year. See, for example: Samuel Dilbaum, Historischer Kalender, In welchem, auff das kürtzest beschriben wirt, was sich inn dem abgelauffnen 1593. Jar (Augsburg: Dilbaum, 1594). By contrast, Geschichtskalender (story or history calendars) were more visible towards the end of the seventeenth century and prominently featured the retelling of a single historical event—often a war or invasion of recent memory—in one of the calendar’s margins. The story thus unfolded over the course of the entire calendar, alongside all of the other calendrical information listed on the tables. See Christian Juncker, Curieuser Geschichts-Calender/ darinnen Die vornehmsten Thaten und Geschichte Derer Durchlauchtigsten Chur-Fürsten Zu Brandenburg/ so von Anno 1598. biß auff gegenwärtige Zeit regiert haben/ nach den Jahren/ Monaten und Tagen/ zusammen getragen und ausgefertiget worden (Leipzig: Gleiditsch, 1697). 183 Paul Eber, Calendarium Historicum (Wittenberg: Rhau, 1550). Eber’s work was later republished in the vernacular. Ibid., Calendarium Historicum: das ist ein allgemein Calender, in welchem uff ein jeden Tag durchs gantze Jar eine namhaffte Geschichte [...] kürtzlich vermeldet wird vor XXX Jaren in das Latein zusammen getragen (Wittenberg: Krafft, 1582). Eber’s calendar is an important source to consider when thinking about Lutheran attitudes towards the veneration of saints. While the calendar does not advocate the liturgical or sacramental veneration, it nonetheless makes important strides in filling a void that Lutheran diminishment of saint days had created: commemoration. Robert Kolb, For all the Saints: Changing Perceptions of Martyrdom and Sainthood in the Lutheran Reformation (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1987), 29-32. Hans-Peter Hasse also draws attention to the preface of the calendar, in which Eber expressed his intention for the calendar to strengthen the daily commemoration of God’s workings—His scourges as well as His mercies—throughout history. Has-Peter Hasse, “Paul Ebers Calendarium Historicum (1550),” in Paul Eber (1511-1569): Humanist und Theologe der Zeiten Generation der Wittenberger Reformation, eds. Daniel Gehrt and Volker Leppin (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2014), 288-319, here 291. 141

Calendarium.184 As was the case with Eber and Kaspar, authors of historical calendars were aligned with the ongoing Lutheran reformation and most of them shared a personal relationship with Melanchthon.185 The exception to this was the Marburg lawyer Abraham Saur, who (while

Lutheran) had no direct relationship to Melanchthon; his calendarium historicum was published in 1594, the last of its kind.186

Devoting a single page to each calendar date, calendarii historicis listed the important political and salvific events that had occurred on each day of the year--from the death of dignitaries or Protestant reformers and prominent saints, to the adjournment of notable wars in history, and the occurrence of biblical events like the start of the flood. In Eber’s calendar, for example, 1 January lists the 1469 birth of Sigismund I of Poland (actually born in 1467), the

1514 birth of famous physician and anatomist Andreas Vesalius (“at 45 minutes after the fifth hour of the morning”) as well as the deaths of classical writers Livy and Ovid.187 Goldwurm’s calendar, conversely, listed the circumcision of Christ first, and secondly the marriage of

Joachim and Anna, the parents of the Virgin Mary according to apocryphal tradition.188 The effect was to superimpose multiple macro-frameworks of time—salvific time, historical and political time—on to each year’s time. As Anthony Grafton and Daniel Rosenberg explain, for readers of these works, calendars “became a map of the past as well, one wrapped cyclically

184 Kaspar Goldwurm, EJn Newes lustig Historisch Calendarium/ darinn nicht alleyn/ die Monat/ Tag vnnd Fest des Jars/ sonder auch darneben/ merckliche vnnd lustige Historien/ so sich vor alten vnnd jetzigen zeitten zugetragen haben (...) (n.p.: 1553). 185 Robert Stupperich, “Eber, Paul” in Neue Deutsche Biographie 4 (1959), 225 [Onlinefassung]; URL: http://www.deutsche-biographie.de/pnd118681524.html; Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon (BBKL) 23 (2004), s.v. “Goltwurm, Caspar,” 542-43. 186 Abraham Saur, Calendarium Historicum (Frankfurt: Basse, 1594); Saur began his studies at Wittenberg five years after Melanchthon’s death. Yet Melanchthon’s intellectual influence touches this work, too, as Saur included in his preface a sermon from Melanchthon regarding the importance and spiritual benefit of historical stories ()(iii). 187 Eber, Calendarium Historicum, 50. 188 Goldwurm, EJn Newes lustig Historisch Calendarium, 3. 142 around the 365-day solar year rather than ordered as a line from Creation to the Apocalypse.”189

Each calendar page affirmed that God was present and active in history, and that His dealings with mankind throughout past and present came together in unique configurations for His glory.

Along the way, history was subtly recast—the deaths of new, Protestant martyrs and thinkers were marked on these calendars alongside traditional saint days.

In a similar sense, each new date provided a prismatic wormhole through which to survey the past and thereby contextualize the present, supporting a sense of temporal context and continuity. As Robert Kolb puts it:

[Historical calendars] informed readers of important historical events that had occurred on each day, but emphasized the festivals of biblical and ancient martyrs and saints on the days on which, they suggested, the confession and sacrifice of contemporary martyrs and confessors should be remembered. [They] provided a substitute for the medieval lives of saints in so far as their pious readers could find in these works an Evangelical framework for the passing of the days through the annual cycle. [Readers] found no theological critique of the implicit suggestion that the observation of these signposts of the year might insure order in their world.190

In this way, historical calendars indicated a fusion between various temporal templates—the salvific time of God’s saving presence in Old and New Testament events and the ongoing providence of God through unfolding political and social events throughout history. Each successive calendar date was a prism through which one could glimpse the full harmony and configuration of God’s historical providence.

Even after the popularity of historical calendars like Eber’s began to wane, Lutheran pastors continued to exhort their flocks to pay serious spiritual attention to time. As the years turned from 1599 to 1600, Lutheran preacher Jacob Gräter admonished readers to remain

189 Daniel Rosenberg and Anthony Grafton, Cartographies of Time: A History of the Timeline (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2010), 73. 190 Robert Kolb, For all the Saints: Changing Perceptions of Martyrdom and Sainthood in the Lutheran Reformation (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1987), 28-29. 143 faithful—not only to God, but to the perception of time. He made the point that Christians are to

“give attention to time,” understanding that their “aim and end stand in God’s hands alone.”

Unlike the “dumb and senseless cattle, which drift along [hinleben] with no retrospection

[hinterdencken] or knowledge of numbers and reckoning,” Christians were to “carry their chronicles and calendars always in mind [Kopf] [...] and properly make the most of the present and approaching time, letting [...] the eternal father be their portion and salvation, waiting for

Him with every hour and moment.”191 A Christian attitude towards time consisted of holding within one’s awareness the numbers and dates of time, both of historical and the present times, almost as an internal calendar or history book. Cultivating this attitude was to spur Christians on toward vigilance, anxiously awaiting the return of Christ. For many pastors of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, this spiritual vigilance was the epitome of time perception.

This call to perceive time continued throughout the early modern period. As late as 1645, pastor Georg Albrecht published a calendar sermon in which he outlines the two primary uses of calendars, both of which helped dissuade people from sinning. The first use of calendars was to apprehend time (die Zeitbeschreibung). People ought to refer to their calendars to know the correct timing of things—not only when to perform certain tasks for one’s work, but also to know what is to be done at each time for proper health, because everything under heaven has its appropriate time. Secondly, people should use calendars to aid in rich spiritual reflection (feine geistliche Meditationes).192 By observing their calendars and all of time from a spiritual perspective, Albrecht hoped that people would be built up in their faith (in ihrem Christenthumb erbawet).193

191 Jakob Gräter, Jubeljahrs Predig. Auff das Jar nach vnsers Herrn und Seligmachers Geburt/ Tausent sechshundert (Strasbourg: Jost, 1599), Aiiir-v. 192 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, ):( (:( iii. 193 Ibid. 144

SECTION IV: IDOLATROUS READING: CALENDARS AS A SPIRITUAL DETRIMENT

While Melanchthon and his followers praised the spiritual use of calendars, others came to adopt a more wary attitude towards calendars, almanacs and the predictions they made. Many of the criticisms against calendars and their potential for spiritual detriment came from pastors concerned about the growing place of importance calendrs were acquiring in people’s lives. Such texts, pastors feared, were becoming idols for people, supplanting the place of Scripture. From their vantage point, too many people were beginning to place their trust in calendars and predictions rather than in God.

Pastor Severus Bersche’s 1543 remarks about calendars constitute the earliest hints of criticism in my research:

I have seen the folly of many people [...] when at the start of the new year, every head of household buys a calendar (which is not in itself a bad thing) and hangs it on the wall, so that he can see through the whole year when the moon will be new or full, [when] to plant, sow, cup [schräpfen] and bathe […] so that every endeavor of human sense has an orderly procedure and that the body will be kept in health. Aside from this, no one wants to pay heed to what concerns the poor and sick soul, which should be considered with heart and mind before all else. 194

First, Bersche deems the widespread practice of purchasing yearly calendars to be a folly. At the same time, however, he allows that many of the activities and events calendars forecasted were beneficial for ordering human endeavors. Christians could make use of calendars’ predictions in the areas of medicine and planting, for example, to lead healthier, more orderly lives. Bersche’s criticism, however, is that people pay too much attention to predictions related to bodily health rather than the health of one’s soul. In his estimation of things, people take astronomical

194 Severus Bersche, Ein geistlicher Kalender sampt der Practik, uff alle Jar, biss zur End der Welt (Constenz: Manglt, 1543), Aiir: “...Hab ich gesehen,die thorheit viler menschen/in dem [...] uf das nuw ankommend Jar ein yeder Hussvatter (wie wolan im selbs nit unrecht) ein Kalender koufft/ hefft in an die Wand/ uff das err durch das ganz Jar sähe wenn der Mon nuw oder alt/ zu pflanzen/ säyen/ schräpffen und baden ein bequemlich zyt sey/ damit ye die anschleg des menschlichen sinns ein ordenlichen fürgang habind/ unnd der lyb by gesundtheit erhalten werde. Darnebend was die arm un krank seel betrifft wil man nit achten /welches vorab mit herzen und sinn one underlass solt bedacht werden.” 145 occurrences like new moons seriously enough to amend all manner of behavior—from bathing to cutting hair and chopping wood—while ignoring their spiritual behavior when such signs appear, which Bersche believes are calls from God for people to repent.195

To counter the sway that calendrical predictions held over vast areas of life, Bersche points out particular aspects of calendrical texts that could be used to deepen one’s spiritual life.

After admonishing his readers to heed the celestial signs and lead more repentant lives, Bersche winds through the entire gamut of symbols and vocabulary commonly found in almanacs—e.g. symbols indicating good hair-cutting, nail-trimming, blood letting, bathing days. As he discusses each one, he redefines them in metaphorical, spiritual terms. Explaining good bloodletting days, for example, Bersche wrote:

[On the day of this sign] is good blood letting The believer must hate himself Because of his evil nature Into which he was conceived The original sin is in his blood For this reason, letting [blood] is good For God, through the cross, did the same on your behalf.196

Here Bersche draws a parallel between the practice of bloodletting as prescribed in yearly calendars and how Christ poured out his blood for believers. One recalls the red-colored cross symbols calendars of the period used to indicate favorable bloodletting days. Bersche was not the only early modern pastor to highlight the spiritual parallels of the bloodletting cross and that of

Christ. Exactly a century later, Albrecht recognized: “In the calendars one finds a double red cross [‡], meaning that day is good for blood-letting.” On these days, according to one’s

“spiritual church-calendar” (geistlichen Kirche-Calendar) one ought to remember “persecution and the spilling of blood! O, it is a hard blood-letting when one must shed blood for the sake of

195 Idem., Aiiiiv. 196 Idem., Ciiiv. 146 the holy Gospel.”197 In his sermon, it was not only the bloodletting crosses that had a spiritual parallels—Albrecht discussed every symbol conventionally found in calendars and almanacs of the period, assigning each one a new spiritual meaning.198 In such descriptions, Bersche and

Albrecht went beyond merely encouraging repentance—they essentially sacralized ordinary practices depicted in calendars, transforming calendrical symbols into sites of spiritual reflection and remembrance of God.

Bersche’s and Albrecht’ sermons, respectively, can be viewed among the earliest and latest examples of spiritual almanacs, a mode of homiletic writing popular throughout the second half of the sixteenth and first half of the seventeenth centuries. Spiritual almanacs reflect an emerging effort among religious clergy, mostly of Lutheran persuasion, to refocus people’s gaze on God’s word rather than on the swell of printed calendars and almanacs. Part sermon, part almanac, this genre fused calendrical rhetoric with the didactic, devotional impetus of sermons; pastors borrowed various phraseologies and structural devices from calendar almanacs, but infused both with scriptural—rather than astrological—content. Throughout the second half of the sixteenth century, these “spiritual” or “biblical almanacs” became an increasingly popular mode for pastors to exhort their flock and readership on how to relate in a godly way to the various activities and daily rituals that comprise temporal life.

197 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 74: “Verfolgung/ und Blutvergiessung! O das ist ein schwere aderlass/ wann man umb dess H. Evangelii willen Blut vergissen soll.“ 198 For example, for the sign of Aries, Albrecht admonishes his flock „not to recall an animal standing with wool, flesh and horns in the sky, like a ram.” Instead, people ought to see the thirteen stars the constellation consists of as “Christ and his twelve apostles, through whom He began the course of the Gospel.” Likely, Albrecht was hinting here at a connection between Aries as the beginning of the sun’s annual circuit (described in Chapter 1) and the beginning of the spread of the Gospel. Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 46: “Wider da sollen wir nicht gedencken/ dass ein Thier mit Wollen/ Fleisch und Hornern am Himmel stehe/ wie ein Wider/ Sondern es seyn 13. Sternen/ [...] dass man ein solch bild Christi und seiner 12 Apostel/ durch welche Er den Lauff dess Evangelisii angefangen hat.“ 147

In response to a 1567 solar eclipse, the “likes of which no one has seen in many years,”199

Jacob Andreä published a spiritual almanac in the form of five apocalyptic sermons based on

Luke 21. Throughout the first several sermons, Andreä made frequent references to God as an almanac writer, stating at the outset that “God himself compiled a constant, full-proof, perfect almanac,” so that His people would have certainty regarding the signs to occur in heaven and on earth. “So simple, short and comprehensible” is His almanac “that one would not be mistaken in calling it a farmer’s almanac (Bawrenpraktik).”200 Farmer’s almanacs, one of the most popular and least esoteric forms of early modern almanacs, catered specifically to agricultural interests, containing simple rules for meteorological predictions and weather proverbs.201 Thus, Andreä makes a contrast between the almanac of God—pithy and practical—and other almanacs, which were implicitly longer or less straightforward.

One is tempted to interpret these descriptions of God’s almanac in line with the God-as- calendar-maker trope discussed above. Yet Andreä draws out a different nuance by placing particular emphasis on the predictive intentions of almanacs, a point that becomes more evident as one delves deeper into his argument. In writing an almanac for humankind, God recognized:

It is part of human nature […] to always want to know something ahead of time, such as what the weather will be like in the upcoming year, whether the winter will be cold or warm, whether the summer will be dry or wet, as well as what types of sicknesses will prevail.202

199 Jacob Andreä, Christliche, notwendige und ernstliche Erinnerung, Nach dem Lauff der jrdischen Planeten gestelt, Darauß ein jeder ... Christ zusehen, was für Glück oder Unglück, Teutschlandt diser zeit zugewarten : auß der vermanung Christi, Luc. 21. in fünff Predigten (Tübingen: Morhart, 1567), Aiir. 200 Andreä, Christliche, notwendige und ernstliche Erinnerung, Nach dem Lauff der jrdischen Planeten gestelt, Darauß ein jeder ... Christ zusehen, was für Glück oder Unglück, Teutschlandt diser zeit zugewarten : auß der vermanung Christi, Luc. 21. in fünff Predigten (Tübingen: Morhart, 1567), Aiiiv. 201 Hartmut Beckers, ed., Bauernpraktik und Bauernklage: mit Einleitung, Übersetzung und Anmerkungen sowie einem neuen Gesamtverzeichnis der Lupuspressendrucke (Cologne: Bibliophilen-Gesellschaft, 1985), 11-12, 16-17. 202 Andreä, Christliche Erinnerung, Aiiiv. 148

As much praise as Andreä has for God’s almanac, however, his comments are not to be read in support of contemporary, printed calendars and almanacs, especially not the predictive meteorology or astrology with which they were increasingly imbued. Even the best almanacs by the most rigorous mathematicians failed to foretell events of the future reliably; they did not adhere to consistent rules and computations but were more akin to a “game of dice, which is completely uncertain.”203 By contrast, the aphorisms and rules of God’s almanac are “sure, constant and unfailing.”204 While the calendars and almanacs of the natural philosophers

(natürlichen Meister) must be thrown away after every year, the almanac of God “is for all years good, permanent, constant, useful, healing […] and [it] changes less than the moveable feasts do throughout the whole year.”205

So what, exactly, does God’s almanac consist of? Andreä did not have in mind the Bible in general, but a particular passage, namely Deuteronomy 28. In this excerpt, Moses exhorts the

Israelites to follow after God as they enter the land He has promised to them. Moses then juxtaposes the sundry blessings that will follow the Israelites if they obey the voice of God alongside the curses they will encounter should they turn away from Him.206 According to

203 Ibid., Aiiv. 204 Ibid., Biir-v. 205 Ibid., Biir-v. 206 Ibid., Aivr. Deuteronomy 28, the chapter Andreä explicitly references, reads as follows: “1If you will only obey the LORD your God, by diligently observing all his commandments that I [Moses] am commanding you today, the LORD your God will set you high above all the nations of the earth; 2 all these blessings shall come upon you and overtake you, if you obey the LORD your God: 3 Blessed shall you be in the city, and blessed shall you be in the field. […] 7 The LORD will cause your enemies who rise against you to be defeated before you; they shall come out against you one way, and flee before you seven ways. 8 The LORD will command the blessing upon you in your barns, and in all that you undertake; he will bless you in the land that the LORD your God is giving you. […] 13 If you obey the commandments of the LORD your God, […]14 and if you do not turn aside from any of the words that I am commanding you today, either to the right or to the left, following other gods to serve them. 15 But if you will not obey the LORD your God […] then all these curses shall come upon you and overtake you: 16 Cursed shall you be in the city, and cursed shall you be in the field. […] 20 The LORD will send upon you disaster, panic, and frustration in everything you attempt to do, until you are destroyed and perish quickly, on account of the evil of your deeds, because you have forsaken me. 21 The LORD will make the pestilence cling to you until it has consumed you off the land that you are entering to possess. 22 The LORD will afflict you with consumption, fever, inflammation, with fiery heat and drought, and with blight and mildew; they shall pursue you until you perish. […] 24 The LORD will change the rain of your land into powder, and only dust shall come down upon you from the sky until you are destroyed. 149

Andreä, this “godly farmer’s almanac” given to Moses foretells the blessings and punishments humanity can expect in the coming years—not based on the alignment of the sun or stars, but on the course of worldly events, human affairs, and whether or not people chose to obey God.207

The need to repent, to re-turn to God and seek His blessings, was more important now than ever; in Andreä’s mind, the world was standing in its “last hour, of which not many quarter[-hour]s remain.”208

In drawing a connection between a solar eclipse and the Last Days, Andreä was hardly alone. Even Luther, who was notoriously skeptical when it came to making astrological predictions, believed that eclipses almost always portended something evil, such as monstrous births.209 In addition, he maintained that eclipses were occurring much more frequently in the sixteenth century than in previous eras, a sign he attributed to the nearness of the Last Days.210

Andreä was convinced that the approaching return of Christ would pour out grievous and terrible punishments over the Germans—not because God was bloodthirsty, but because He wanted to warn His people and draw them back to Himself.211 While traditional almanacs used eclipses to predict coming natural or political disasters on earth—outcomes that, in Andreä’s mind were uncertain—Andreä instead employed the language of almanacs to “predict” the certainty of

Christ’s return in the language of almanacs.

25 The LORD will cause you to be defeated before your enemies; you shall go out against them one way and flee before them seven ways. You shall become an object of horror to all the kingdoms of the earth. […] 58 If you do not diligently observe all the words of this law that are written in this book, fearing this glorious and awesome name, the LORD your God, 59 then the LORD will overwhelm both you and your offspring with severe and lasting afflictions and grievous and lasting maladies.” 207 Andreä, Christliche Erinnerung, Aivr-v. 208 Ibid., Biiir. 209 Anthony Grafton, “Some Uses of Eclipses in Early Modern Chronology,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64 no. 2 (2003): 213-39, here 213. 210 Ibid. Luther’s thoughts on this point derive in large part from his interpretation of verses like Matthew 24:29, in which Jesus describes signs of the Apocalypse: “Immediately after the suffering of those days, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers of heaven will be shaken." 211 Andreä, Christliche Erinnerung, 6-7. 150

Many authors of spiritual almanacs shared Andreä’s general concern for spiritual admonishment and repentance. In 1583 pastor Killian Fischer, in the preface to his Almanac and

Prognostication for All Time and Years, expressed the hope that his work would encourage others to "heed the promises and faithfulness of God's word more [...] than the uncertain almanacs of the astrologers, aligning their lives and paths to partake in God's temporal and eternal blessings."212 The world, as he put it, “wants nothing more around new year's than to sit

[with] God in His little counsel chamber [Rathstüblein] and apprehend what kind of good luck or bad luck the coming year will bring [...] For this reason, stargazers occupy themselves with all sorts of almanacs [...] in which they err more often than not.”213 Like Andreä, Fischer compared the preparation of almanacs and calendars to a game of dice, explaining that “if [the prediction] happens, it happens; if it misses, it misses.”214

Instead of looking to the abounding number of almanacs and calendars, people ought to trust in God’s word, which provides insight as to what the future holds for each person.

Christians already knew "what to expect from God for good and bad fortune, not only during this year but also every year, as long as the world stands." Unlike the almanacs of stargazers,

Fischer's "almanac and prognostication is simply [...] [based on] the holy Godly Scriptures."215

Fischer aims to bring together passages of Scripture that "embody God's merciful and blessed acts towards the faithful, and his wrath [ungnaden], punishments and scourges against the wicked.”216 The body of Fischer’s almanac consists of section headings one could expect to find in any other contemporary almanac, with categories that pertained to such things as health,217

212 Killian Fischer, Prognosticon und Practicam auff alle Zeit und Jare, so lang diese Welt stehet (Laugingen: n.p., 1583), Aiir. 213 Fischer, Prognosticon, Aiiir. 214 Ibid. 215 Fischer, Prognosticon, Aiiiv. 216 Ibid. 217 Ibid., Aivr. 151 war and peace,218 and weather.219 But rather than the interpretations of astrological signs and their effects that one would expect to find in a typical almanac of this period, Fischer’s categories each featured a single paraphrased Bible passage, usually from the Old Testament. In his description of coming weather, for example, he wrote: “The Lord will open his good bounty, the heavens, to give rain to one land in His time and to bless all works of His hands,” a loose iteration of Deuteronomy 28:12.220 The main message, here, is that God is in control of life and earthly affairs—the Scriptures give people insight into God’s actions and reasons, not the stars or planets. As Fischer concludes, God's word is an "almanac and prognostication that will never fail or deceive us in all eternity."221 To know what sort of fortune, health or times to expect, one need not painstakingly inquire as to the stars' constitutions and influences, but rather to reflect on one's behavior and life to see if one has been obedient or disobedient to God.222

In a similar spirit, Chemnitz pastor Laurence Drabitius included the following verses on the title page of his 1593 New Year’s sermon, fashioned under the guise of an almanac:

The most certain calendar for a devoted Christian is to live according to God's word and will to apply it and govern oneself by it.223

Like Fischer, Drabitius upheld the value of the word of God, which is sure and certain.

Here, though, he equates the “certain calendar” of God not with His word exactly, but rather with

“living according” to it, and “applying it and govern[ing] oneself by it.” Again, this points to an eschatological, or future-oriented understanding of what calendars and almanacs were. Even

218 Ibid., Avr. 219 Ibid. 220 Fischer, Prognosticon, Avr; Deuteronomy 28:12: “The LORD will open for you his rich storehouse, the heavens, to give the rain of your land in its season and to bless all your undertakings.” 221 Fischer, Prognosticon, Cr. 222 Ibid. 223 Laurentius Drabitius, Der aller gewisseste Calender Und unfeilbarste Practica vor alle Stende aus Gottes heilsamen Worte Der reinen alten Kirchen Lehrer und Herrn D. Lutheri Büchern zusammen getragen und in einer Predigt abgehandelt zum seligen lieben Newen Jahre (Leipzig: Berwald, 1593), title page. 152 when not described in overtly apocalyptic language, it is evident that Drabitius viewed calendars on some level as texts that had influence over one’s future, indeed that necessitated one take an active role in determining one’s future. As mentioned in Chapter 2, a typical calendar almanac of this period often suggested foods to avoid during certain months or seasons, for example, to maintain one’s health in the coming year. In Drabitius’ “calendar,” in contrast, the best steps one could take for the future was to live according to God’s commands. As with all other spiritual almanacs, obedience to God’s word was always a more trustworthy means of ordering one’s future than dietary rules or other astrologically-based precautions.

This calendrical depiction of Scripture resonated with a 1602 spiritual almanac by

Augsburg pastor Caspar Sauterus. Like many similar almanacs before him, Sauterus commented on the propensity for people to purchase calendars and almanacs at the start of the year, in order to „study and inquire with great desire what the year will bring.“ In particular, wrote Sauterus, people „like to read almanacs, so that [they] can know ahead of time the course, weather, good fortune and bad fortune of the whole year.“ Unfortunately, however, these almanacs „often fail miserably,“ and for this reason, Sauterus encourages his flock to „take on a new [almanac] that will never fail, namely God’s word, which accurately prognosticates [prognosticirt] not just this whole year but the course and changes of our whole life.“224 Though Sauterus affirmed the whole of Scripture as being valuable and trustworthy, he led his readers specifically to the book of

Psalms, which most resembles an almanac because it guides believers “into the true astronomy

[...] in which the Holy Spirit teaches how the heavens proclaim God’s honor, the firmament, sun and moon, stars and lightning, snow, wind—everything praises God.” The “true astronomy,” for

Sauterus, was that which praises the creator who made the heavens and all their workings. To have a good year, one need only look so far as the first Psalm, in which one finds that “the pious

224 Sauterus, Christliche Newe Jahrs Predigten, Aivr- Aivv. 153 have good fortune, while the evil find corruption.”225 To avoid having a bad year, one needed to live an upright life devoted to God, i.e. to obey God’s almanac. And unlike ordinary almanacs, which needed to be purchased every year, the almanac of God was “old [and] valuable.” It had already lasted some 3,400 years without failing (one assumes this is the age Sauterus believed the Psalms to be, though he does not specify), and Sauterus concluded that, surely, the almanac will last all the way “until the end of the world and into eternity.”226

Among his peers, Leonhard Lutz—with whose words I began this chapter—occupied an extreme stance in his warines of calendars. Since the earliest times, learned men tried to discern from the course of the heavens “what will befall every person at every time, whether good or bad.”227 It is in this same spirit that people procure calendars every year—to know what the future holds:

In our times, every year one goes about setting prognostications and calendars or almanacs, discerning the weather for the whole year from the course and aspects of planets. Scarcely a housefather or mother can be found that is not furnished with a calendar for the new year. 228

225 Ibid., Aivr- Aivv: „...wie das Jar sich anlassen und begehen möchte: Und sonderlich lesen wir gern Practicken/ damit wir den Lauff/ Witerung/ Glück oder Unglück deß ganzen Jars/ gleich zuvor [...] wissen mogen/ [...] Nun felt es offt den Practicanten gar weit: So lasst uns nun ein solche Practica fur uns nemmen/ die uns nicht fehlen kann: nemlich Gottes Wort/ darinn uns nich allein dieses ganzen Jars/ sondern unsers ganzen lebens Lauff und Wesen/ so eygentlich prognosticirt wirdt: als wann wirs an einem schnierlein hetten. Und zwar ist ein Buch inn ganzer H. Schrifft nach Mose/ das uns inn die recht Astronomiam fuhret/ so ists der Psalter/ da lehret der H. Geist/ wie die Himmel die ehre Gottes erzehlen/ das firmament/ Sonn/ Mond/ Sternen/ Bliz / Schnee/ Wind und alles muß gott rühmen. Wir wollen aber Gott zu Ehren/ unnd unz zu einem christlichen eingang des Newen jahrs/ für uns nemmen den jez verlesnen Ersten psalmen: da werden wir finden von der Frommen Glück/ und der Gottlosen verderben. Unnd wann wir je lust zu Practiciren haben/unnd wolten gern wissen/ wie es diss ganz Jar ergehen/ und Wittern solte: so ist inn diesem Psalmen ( so kurz er auch ist) ein rechte Practic des H. Geistes uns gestelt.“ 226 Ibid., 2: “Es ist darzu ein alte bewehrte Practic/ die uber 3400 Jar numehr gewehret/ unnd noch nit gefehlet hat; sie wirdt aber währen biss ans Ende derWelt/ und inn ewigkit.” 227 Lutz, Geistliche Practica, 13: “was jedem Menschen auf jede Zeit/ gutes oder boeses begegnen solte.” 228 Ibid., 14: “Zu unserer Zeit pfleget man jährlich Prognostica und Calender oder Practicken zustellen/ unnd von der Witterung deß Jahrs über/ aus dem Lauff und Aspect der Planetten/ zu prognosticieren; wie dann kein Haußvatter oder Haußmutter ist/ welche sich nicht auch auff das new Jahr mit eim Calender veresehen sollten. In der Kirchen Gottes aber können wir kein bessern Calender haben/ dann der schon längsten von dem Heil. Geist selbsten gestellet/ und nicht nur auff ein Jahr/ sondern auff die ganze Zeit unseres Lebensgerichtet ist/ welcher viel gewisser ist/ dann aller Astrologorum Practicken.” 154

Here, however, Lutz decried not only judicial but also meteorlogical astrology, a discipline that many critics of astrology largely accepted. People purchased almanacs to know future weather and astrological conditions. Predicting the weather was part and parcel of predicting the future, for Lutz, which constituted knowledge only God possessed. The most that Christians needed to know about the future was clearly indicated in Scripture, namely the good and bad events awaiting each person as a result of their spiritual choices.229

Lutz thus created his spiritual almanac to elucidate the keys to the future found in

Scripture. He did so “not […] in order to prognosticate future things according to the heavens’ course, but according to spiritual reflection.” 230 Like Andreä’s almanac some sixty years prior,

Lutz looked to Moses’ exhortations at the end of the book of Deuteronomy for guidance. Just as ordinary almanacs sought to foretell good and bad events, Lutz delineated between “two types of

[…] aspects; life and the good, and death and the bad […] that Moses set in his calendar.”231 The passage amounts to a calendar of sorts, a guide to how to have a good future:

Here, Moses puts forth a calendar that can neither lie nor deceive, but rather the good and bad aspects he placed in [his calendar] are unfailingly true […] If you want to have a good year, indeed one better than this past [year] in which there were few good aspects, due to the dearth of good hearts, then just turn around and take Moses’ calendar as your own. See to his good aspects and allow these to be found in the heart.232

In expositing the text, Lutz listed various commands found in Scripture, which he described as the “aspects of Moses’ calendar,” all of which stem from the admonition to love the Lord with a

229 Ibid., 14. 230 Ibid., 8. 231 Ibid., 14. 232 Ibid., 17: “Hie stellet uns Moses einen solchen Calender für/ der nicht liegen noch triegen kann/ sonder unfehlbarlich war wird/ was er von guten und bösen Aspecten hinein sezet [...] Wiltu nun ein gutes Jahr haben/ und zwar ein bessers als dieses vergangne gewesen/ darinnen wenig guter Aspecten/ auss mangel guter Herzen sich erzeiget/ so kehre nun umb/ und nemme Mosis Calender für dich/ und besihe seine gute Aspecten/ und lasse dieselbe in dem Herzen sich finden.” 155 pure and undefiled heart.233 Thereafter, Lutz outlined the effects or “outcomes” (Würckungen) of following these commands: for example, people will be “blessed when they come in, and blessed when they go out (Deuteronomy 28:6). They will be blessed in their domestic affairs;

God may bestow luck on everything they do (Genesis 39:5).”234 To sum things up, those who walk in the paths of God’s law will “not have to protect themselves from the evil aspects and signs of the heavens, but the same evil operations and outcomes will pass over them and do them no harm, what blessings the stargazers otherwise ascribe to good aspects shall happen to them.”235

Here and elsewhere, Lutz’ usage of the terms “aspect” and “outcome” was continuously conflated with astrological notions—in astrology, an aspect signifies an angular relationship between planets that cause certain outcomes in earthly events, such as war, sickness or prosperity. For both Lutz and traditional astrology, aspects were causal agents—but for Lutz the causation comes not from celestial influences, nor from the angular alignment of various planets, but from whether a person aligns his heart and life with the law of the Lord prescribed throughout the Scriptures.236 “People have the free choice,” he noted “each person can help themselves to a good year.”237

A natural consequence of this freedom was that not everyone availed themselves of the good aspects of Scripture. For example, just as the most deadly planetary aspects can cause uproar and strife on earth, so an unrepentant and ungodly life can cause Satan to wage war in a

233 Ibid., 16 (emphasis mine); Deuteronomy 28:1, Lutz also compares this verse with 1 Timothy 1:5. 234 Lutz, Geistliche Pratica, 17: “Gesegnet sollen sie seyn wann sie eingehen/ gesegnet wann sie auss gehen/ 5. Buch Mos 28 vers 6. Gesegnet sollen sie seyn in ihrem Hausswesen/ das was sie thun wolle der HERR glück zugeben/ 1 Buch Mos. 39 vers 5.” 235 Ibid., 17: “[…] [d]ie sich nichts nicht vor den bösen Aspecten und Zeichen dess Himmels zubefahren haben/ sondern alle derselbigen bösen operationes und Würckungen sollen leer bey ihnen abgehen/ hergegen aller Segen/ was sonsten die Sternseher den guten Aspecten zuschreiben/ solle uber sie kommen.” 236 Ibid., 16; c.f. idem., 28, 32. 237 Ibid., 16: “ein jeder […] könne ihm selbst zu einem guten Jahr helffen.” 156 person’s heart.238 Likewise, bad planetary aspects might be able to spoil entire crops, but indifference to God’s word most definitely causes an entire heart to rot and decay.239 Lutz concluded by arguing that even if these earthly outcomes (Würckungen) were ten times worse, the aspects and outcomes at work in one’s hearts should be of greater concern, since that is what

God takes into account.240 In comparing the outcomes of both celestial and spiritual aspects, Lutz paid lip service to the idea that bad events on earth were portended or even caused by the movements of celestial bodies, although how seriously he actually took these astrological principles is open for interpretation. The thrust of his comments, however, was aimed squarely at admonishing his readers on the importance of taking God’s word seriously in their hearts and lives. And yet, this seemingly strident exhortation was not bereft of consolation. For Lutz (and likely a great number of his readers who found themselves hedged in by wartime poverty, politics and sickness), obedience to God’s word was among the only tangible way to retain a sense of choice and agency in the face of an uncertain future.

SECTION V: SYNTHESIS & ANALYSIS This chapter has explored changing understandings of printed calendar almanacs in early modern Germany. At the center of this conversation are the ways in which authors situated calendars within a Christian cosmography, lending a sense of spiritual significance to the making and reading of calendar almanacs. In the early decades of the sixteenth century, calendar making was seen to reflect certain attributes of God. Using human faculties granted by God, such as rationality and observation, those skilled in astronomy and astrology were entrusted to create calendars that marked time for social utility and also sought to describe the vast influences of stars and planets over future events.

238 Ibid., 41. 239 Lutz, Geistliche Pratica, 43. 240 Ibid., 49-50. 157

Calendar authors were inspired in their task by the belief that God had written the celestial lights into the heavens like words into a book. To make a calendar, then, was to “read” this book of the heavens and reveal it in plain language to others—a task that only those literate in the language of the heavens, i.e. astronomy and astrology, could undertake successfully. To a certain degree, this metaphorical depiction of the heavens can be seen as analogous to notions of the “book of nature,” a popular paradigm for understanding nature that resurged after the

Protestant Reformation. According to this rationale, calendar makers could be regarded as something like exegetes of the heavens. For just as theologians and reformers communicated insights and meaning from Scripture, so calendar makers sought to deduce God’s plan from the words He had once written into the sky—the sun, moon, stars, planets, and their ongoing courses.

As perceptions of calendar writing were undergoing subtle conceptual shifts, new ideas were also surfacing concerning how these texts were to be read. In particular, the mid-sixteenth century witnessed many examples of authors who attempted to salvage spiritual lessons from calendars and almanacs—a pursuit which manifested itself in dominant forms throughout the second half of the sixteenth century, both of which were expressed most vociferously by

Lutheran clergy members. On one hand, a number of writers sought to highlight the devotional function of calendars by drawing attention to the spiritual virtue of perceiving time. One the other, in a second vein authors saw in them the likelihood of spiritual detriment. The growing popularity of printed calendars excited critical commentary from the mid-sixteenth century onward. Those who criticized calendars did so due to what they perceived as excessive trust being placed in the prognostications of calendars and their almanacs. Interestingly, however, until later in the seventeenth century, these religious criticisms often had little to do with whether 158 astrological predictions were intellectually viable. Instead, the bulk of clerical criticisms were more immediately concerned with whether their flocks were shifting their gaze away from the

Scriptures.

Making this point more complicated was the fact that, occasionally, calendars and almanacs were also authored by Lutheran pastors. One thinks of Georg Caesius, whose almanacs grappled with the termini of seasons (Chapter 1), and Melchoir Shärer, whose no longer extant almanacs of 1608 and 1609 garnered the criticism of physician Philip Fesel (Chapter 2). In the latter example, while we do not know exactly what use Schärer’s almanacs made of astrology, it is evident that he was more supportive of judicial astrology than Fesel, a physician. Here, the normal lines of criticism are reversed—a pastor was a proponent of astrology, while a physician—whose trade ordinarily made use of natural astrological principles—repudiated it.

The instance demonstrates well that the battle lines between early modern astrology, calendars and Lutheran religious understandings were not always firmly drawn in expected ways.

One gleans from these various developments in regards to early modern German views and attitudes towards calendars new ways in which the year’s time was interlaid with spiritual realities and ideas. Calendars and almanacs, the texts early modern people relied upon most often to navigate their way through the year, elicited discourse spurred by ideals and criticisms, both of which were grounded in spiritual concerns. These discourses increasingly saw the popularity of calendars to be threatening spiritual formation.

In a larger sense, the growing concern over calendars and their use points to the possibility that the year—as a parcel of time—was a realm that was ripe for dynamic interaction and struggle between God and His creatures. The year, as it unfolded via heavenly signs and wonders like eclipses and comets, could remind a person to repent. Just as easily, though, people 159 could forego repenting, and instead concern themselves with the proper times for less spiritually beneficial activities such as when to plough a field or plant crops. In short, the year forced people to choose between their Bibles and their calendars—or the Bible as their calendar. 160 161

CHAPTER 4 REFORMING THE YEAR: HOLIDAYS, TIME AND THE GREGORIAN CALENDAR REFORM IN GERMANY (1582-1605)

In 1590 Catholic Viennese organist, mathematician and amateur botanist Johann Rasch authored a treatise in favor of the new, Gregorian calendar that had been inaugurated by Pope

Gregory XIII eight years prior. Much of his praise for the new civil calendar rested on the desire for correct correspondence between the civil calendar and the solar year, with its solstices and equinoxes. As Rasch saw it, the new calendar enabled these “time-markers” (Zeitzeichen) to maintain a steady and unmoved day-place (Tagesort) in the calendar for all time. No longer would they endlessly “slip and slide” (schleichen und weichen) through the year. Had the old calendar remained unreformed, a disconcerting situation would have arisen according to Rasch, who wrote that "over some thousands of years, spring and the true Easter will imperceptibly end up on Christmas."1 Since Christmas is a fixed holiday—tied to the same calendar date every year—and Easter is a moveable one, Rasch was concerned that eventually, the two holidays would collide.

Similar to Rasch, contemporary Catholics often voiced desires for correspondence between liturgical and natural timeframes. Lutheran critics, on the other hand, took issue with this need for alignment. Physician and astronomer Helisaeus Röslin, for example, deemed it a “a great idolatry” to insist on celebrating Christian holidays on particular days of the year or in regards to the sun’s course—it made a god out of the calendar dates.2 His thought was that “[i]f this is how highly they [the Catholics] esteem the days of Christmas and Easter, [the historical dates of] which aren’t even known, how much more idolatrous would it be if we did know the

1 Rasch, Neu Kalendar, B7r. 2 Helisaeus Röslin, Kurtz Bedencken von der Emendation deß Jars, Durch Bapst Gregorium Den XIII. (Strassburg: Rihel, 1583), 36. 162 right dates?” 3 In the same year, prominent Lutheran theologian Lucas Osiander affirmed that

“[i]t does not matter to God on what day one celebrates [a religious feast], if only on the same day God’s Word is preached loud and clear, and the holy sacraments are practiced according to the manner Christ mandated.”4 Compared with the necessity of preaching the word of God, and honoring the sacraments of Christ, it was irrelevant when exactly holidays were observed.

This chapter engages the divergent spiritual meanings Catholics and Lutherans assigned to the calendar time of holidays during the first three decades following the Gregorian calendar reform of 1582. Major religious feasts, and the times at which they need (or need not) be celebrated, are the nexus of this discussion. For members of both confessions, the new calendar raised questions of how to honor God in and through time. Catholics were as compelled by the harmonizing effect of the calendar as they were by its civil utility. For them, the calendar assured

Christian holidays would be celebrated at their proper times, i.e. at the correct time in the solar year. By contrast, however, Lutherans generally found fault with the notion of synchronizing holidays and the year of nature—God’s word (more than any calendar date or equinox) was the new anchor, not only for Christian holidays but for all of time. These views, in turn, relate to broader historical, cultural and theological currents.

The first section of this chapter details the background of the Gregorian calendar reform and how its inauguration was felt in the late sixteenth-century Holy Roman Empire. Following this discussion, the second section concentrates on depictions of holidays and timing found in several of the most widely distributed German-language tracts on the new calendar. In doing so,

I address not only how ideas about the timing of Christian holidays differed between Catholics and Lutherans, but also how the topic of holidays and the solar year fit within broader concerns

3 Ibid., 38. 4 Lucas Osiander, Bedencken, Ob der newe päpstische Kalender ein Notturffi bey der Christenheit seie (Tübingen: Gruppen bach, 1583), 32. 163 about the new calendar. The third section takes a wider, analytical approach to these questions, situating understandings of holidays, the solar year and the calendar within pertinent doctrinal, conceptual and cultural realities at the time, and how these currents contributed to the views held by members of both confessions.

SECTION I: THE GREGORIAN CALENDAR REFORM AND HISTORIOGRAPHY

On 24 February 1582 Pope Gregory XIII issued a papal bull entitled Inter Gravissimas,

(“among the most serious of matters”), an attempt to correct the Julian civil calendar used throughout European countries, which had lagged some thirteen days behind the solstices and equinoxes since its inception in 45 BC. Most palpable among the emendations made by the calendar reforms, which included slight adjustments of the leap year system and the method for calculating the Easter date, was the mandate to strike ten calendar days from the following

October 1582 in order to “restore the spring equinox to the date on which it was fixed by the fathers of the first Nicene Council.” To do so, the bull explained that “the ten days which go from the third before Nones through the day before the Ides be removed from October of the year the 1582. The day which will follow the fourth of Nones, when one traditionally celebrates the feast of Saint Francis, shall be the Ides of October.”5 Thus, after 4 October 1582, the calendar would jump ahead to 15 October.

5 Pope Gregory XIII, “Inter Gravissimas,” Papal Encyclicals Online, last accessed 20 February 2014, http://www.papalencyclicals.net/Greg13/. The terms Nones and Ides, along with Calends, denotes the three reference dates used in ancient Roman calendrical practice to subdivide the each month into three parts. The terms were familiar to many early modern authors and occasionally printed in sixteenth and seventeenth century calendars alongside the typical numbered dates or saint days. Calends (Calendae) referred to the first day of each calendar month (e.g. 1 January = the calends of January), the Ides of each month occurred on the thirteenth or fifteenth day of the month, depending on how many days the month contained (e.g. 15 March= Ides of March). Finally, the Nones occurred in between the calends and the Ides, on the fifth or seventh day of a particular month. The inclusion of Roman calends was a common inclusion in sixteenth-century printed calendars, as evidenced in the appendix of this dissertation (see especially subject heading “Roman calends”). For more insight into the creation and reception of Inter Gravissmas, see M.A. Hoskin, “The Reception of the Calendar by Other Churches,” in The Gregorian Reform of the Calendar. Proceedings of the Vatican Conference to Commemorate its 400th Anniversary 1582-1982, eds. G.V. Coyne and M.A. Hoskin (Vatican City: Pontifical Academy of Sciences, 1982), 255-64; and August Ziggelaar, 164

Perhaps not surprisingly, the calendar reform incited mixed reactions across Europe.

Only four countries adopted the calendar reform in 1582, all of them Catholic. Protestant countries, such as Sweden, Denmark and England, waited over a century to implement the calendar—England was the last to do so in 1752.6 A microcosm of the Europe-wide division over the calendar, the Holy Roman Empire was the only place that allowed both calendars to be used in one national realm, with each territorial prince designating the official calendar for his region. Catholic territories began to do so in October 1583, in accordance with a mandate sent out by Emperor Rudolf II some months prior, though there was delay in some cases due to extenuating political circumstances in particular areas as well as the slow process of transmitting written decrees across the numerous territories.7 Most Protestant territories, however, did not adopt the new calendar until 1700, when a revised imperial calendar (verbesserter

Reichskalender) was inaugurated that resembled the Gregorian calendar in every way except its new method of calculating the Easter date. The Gregorian calendar was officially adopted by all territories of the Holy Roman Empire in 1776.8

“The Papal Bull of 1582 Promulgating a Reform of the Calendar,” in The Gregorian Reform of the Calendar. Proceedings of the Vatican Conference to Commemorate its 400th Anniversary 1582-1982, eds. G.V. Coyne and M.A. Hoskin (Vatican City: Pontifical Academy of Sciences, 1982), 201-42. Regarding the dates of the calendar reform vis-à-vis the Roman calends, see O. Pedersen, “The Ecclesiastical Calendar and the Life of the Church,” in The Gregorian Reform of the Calendar. Proceedings of the Vatican Conference to Commemorate its 400th Anniversary 1582-1982, eds. G.V. Coyne and M.A. Hoskin (Vatican City: Pontifical Academy of Sciences, 1982), 17-74, here 21. 6 Eastern Orthodox countries, among them Russia and Greece, did not adopt the Gregorian calendar until the twentieth century. Owen Gingerich, “The Civil Reception of the Gregorian Calendar,” in The Gregorian Reform of the Calendar. Proceedings of the Vatican Conference to Commemorate its 400th Anniversary 1582-1982, eds. G.V. Coyne and M.A. Hoskin (Vatican City: Pontifical Academy of Sciences, 1982), 265-80, here 276-77. 7 Dirk Steinmetz, “Die Gregorianische Kalenderreform von 1582” (PhD Diss., Ruprecht-Karls-Üniversität Heidelberg, 2011), 158-214. 8 There was some exception to the confessional affiliation with the old and new calendars between 1582 and 1700. The (Lutheran) Duchy of Prussia, for example, under pressure from the (Catholic) Polish crown, adopted the new calendar in 1610. Likewise, Osnabrück adopted the new calendar in 1624 as a result of re-Catholization during the Thirty Years’ War. When the city was conquered by (Protestant) Sweden in 1633, the old calendar was reinstated. Finally, after the Peace of Westphalia (1648), Osnabrück readopted the new calendar for good. Several similar examples are discussed in Steinmetz, “Gregorianische Kalenderreform,” 367-68. 165

In the interim, although one or the other calendar was predominately used within individual territories, the presence of both was a regular factor in everyday life across the

Empire: the majority of printed calendars contained two columns of numbered dates, and two columns of the corresponding feast days. The dates of markets and fairs, which drew merchants from across the empire, had to be painstakingly advertised and clarified. Prominent holidays of the Christian year, like Christmas and Easter, were celebrated on different days depending on one’s confession. Felix Stieve crystalizes the vexing consequences of the divergent calendars:

[The doubled observances of feasts] brought about various inconveniences and detriments in trade and commerce, courts and in every task involving an area belonging to an authority of a different confession. [...] The output of merchants' wares were at times regulated by one calendar, at times by another. Yearly markets, which had once been purposefully organized so their dates followed one another in succession, now occurred simultaneously. Precaution had to be taken by those who owned fields on the other side of a confessional boundary, so they would not have to pay rents twice.9

The tension brought about by the two calendars was particularly heightened in bi-confessional imperial cities like Augsburg, where contemporaries referred to the calendar reform as the

Kalenderstreit, the “calendar controversy.”10 In this chapter, I use the same term (calendar controversy) to apply not only to proceedings in Augsburg, but to the entire era of tension and debate which surrounded the Gregorian calendar throughout the Empire, from 1582 until the adoption of the revised imperial calendar in 1700.

9 Felix Stieve, Der Kalenderstreit des Sechzehnten Jahrhunderts in Deutschland, in Abhandlungen der Historischen Classe der Königlich Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 15, no. 3. (München) 1880, 86-87. 10 c.f. Anonymous, Calender-Streitt, so sich in der Reichstatt Augsburg … zugetragen (S.L., 1585); Georg Mylius, Augspurgische Handel so sich daselbsten wegen der Religion und sonderlich juengst vor zwey Jahren im werenden Calender Streit (Wittenberg: Welack, 1586), emphasis mine. C. Scott Dixon describes the breaking point of this calendar war, which on 4 June 1584 led to a full-scale riot after the Augsburg city council initially attempted to enact in the Gregorian calendar. See “Urban Order and Religious Coexistence in the German Imperial City: Augsburg and Donauwörth, 1548-1608,” Central European History 40-1 (2007): 1–33, here 12-13. While the calendar controversy was particularly severe in Augsburg, other biconfessional cities—in which both calendars were officially adhered to—included Kaufbeuren, Dinkelsbühl, Biberach and Ravenbsburg. Dirk Steinmetz, “Die Gregorianische Kalenderreform,” 210-14. 166

Since the seminal works of late nineteenth-century historians Ferdinand Kaltenbrunner and Felix Stieve, historiography on this topic has traditionally focused on the politics of calendar implementation, and the polarized, confessional polemics which surrounded it.11 Attention to the calendar controversy in Germany resurged in the wake of the confessionalization thesis, advanced by Heinz Schilling and Wolfgang Reinhard.12 According to this paradigm, the period between the Peace of Augsburg (1555) and the Thirty Years’ War (1618) was characterized by the formation of stricter confessional identities. The development of these identities occurred not only along religious and doctrinal lines, but also through territorial politics and social disciplining, by which confessional authorities sought to enforce and regulate norms and behaviors.13

Although more recently historians have contested the confessionalization paradigm, the storyline of the calendar reform in Germany continues to be one of confessional tension and identity. Benedikt Mauer, for example, describes the calendar controversy as “confessionally determined, confined to and contingent upon a specific group.” 14 The situation was particularly

11 In the first modern historiography on the subject, Kaltenbrunner argued that the first five years of the calendar controversy were largely fueled by problems of implementation among political authorities, as well as by confessional apprehensions—particularly Lutheran concerns for preserving their territorial and doctrinal sovereignty. Ferdinand Kaltenbrunner, Die Polemik über die Gregorianische Kalenderreform (Vienna: Kaiserliche Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1877), esp. 503-30. Following closely on the heels of Kaltenbrunner’s work, Stieve’s 1880 examination of the calendar conflict in sixteenth-century Germany addressed other motivations for the prolonged confessional tension surrounding the issue, by discussing in greater detail the ways in which Lutheran apocalypticism and views of nature perpetuated the conflict. Yet, as influential as apocalypticism and other conceptual differences between the two confessions were, Stieve ultimately considers the “true” reasons for the calendar conflict to be confessional or doctrinal; apocalyptic rhetoric (especially allusions to the anti-Christ) were Lutherans’ way of expressing their hatred of the pope. Felix Stieve, Der Kalenderstreit, 51. 12 Wolfgang Reinhard, "Konfession und Konfessionalisierung in Europa," in Bekenntnis und Geschichte. Die Confessio Augustana im historischen Zusammenhang, ed. Wolfgang Reinhard (München: Vögel, 1981), 165-89; Idem, "Reformation, Counter- Reformation, and the Early Modern State. A Reassessment," in Catholic Historical 8Review 75 (1989): 383-404; Heinz Schilling, "Confessional Europe," in Handbook of European History, 1400- 1600: Late Middle Ages, Renaissance and Reformation. II. Visions, Programs and Outcomes, eds. Thomas A. Brady, Jr., Heiko A. Oberman and James D. Tracy (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 641-75. 13 Po-Chia Hsia, Social Discipline, esp. 2, 3, 122-25, 184-5. 14 Benedikt Mauer, “Kalenderstreit und Krisenstimmung. Wahrnehmungen von Protestanten in Augsburg am Vorabend des Dreißigjährigen Krieges,” in Zwischen Alltag und Katastrophe: Der Dreissigjährige Krieg aus der 167 tense in Augsburg since it was there that the two calendars were observed side-by-side, with adherents proving “themselves to be Protestant or Catholic by the way they lived their daily lives: the one worked in spite of it being the other's feast days and vice versa. In this way, [the calendar war] brought with it the opportunity to carry confessional identity far outside the church walls.”15 Similarly, Tom Brady, Jr. views the episode primarily through the lens of rising confessional tensions—the calendar controversy was a "polemical donnybrook" that disrupted even "strongly constituted convivencias" between Protestant and Catholic factions. Echoing

Mauer, Brady also draws attention to the fact that the controversy fomented the most problems in bi-confessional cities, "where the celebration of the great Christian feasts on different days pointed up the claims of each confession to possess and practice the true faith."16 Ute Lotz-

Heumann sums up the situation succinctly in writing that in the Holy Roman Empire, time itself was confessionalized between Catholics and Protestants.17

While not discounting the significant role that confessional politics and identity played in shaping debates over the new calendar, historians are increasingly recognizing that the calendar reforms served as a stage on which many other aspects of cultural mentality were engaged and negotiated. Edith Koller points out that maintaining a strictly confessionalized focus on the calendar war leads to a "one-sided interpretation" that cannot fully explain what was actually happening.18 Her investigation of the ways weather proverbs (Bauernregel) were used to

Nähe, eds. Benigna von Krusenstjern und Hans Medick (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 345-56, here 355. 15 Benedikt Mauer, “Kalenderstreit und Krisenstimmung,” 355. 16 Thomas A. Brady Jr., German Histories in the Age of Reformations, 1400-1650 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 334. 17 Ute Lotz-Heumann, “Confessionalization,” in Reformation and Early Modern Europe: A Guide to Research, ed. David M. Whitford (Kirksville: Truman State University Press, 2008), 136-57, here 140. 18 Edith Koller, “Die Suche nach der richtigen Zeit—die Auseinandersetzung um die Gregorianischen Kalenderreform im alten Reich,” in Die Autorität der Zeit in der Frühen Neuzeit, eds. Arndt Brendecke, Ralf-Peter Fuchs and Edith Koller (Berlin: LIT Verlag, 2007), 233–55, here 234. Just as the final draft of this dissertation was nearing completion, I became aware that Koller’s habilitation (from which the above article was culled) was recently 168 legitimize one calendar over the other shows that the calendar debate was driven just as much by the pursuit to comprehend nature as it was by the need for confessional identity. Both Catholics and Lutherans looked to nature to shed light on which calendar seemed most correct. Moreover,

Protestants’ adoption of (most aspects of) the new calendar in 1700 occurred not merely because confessionally-driven politics had waned, but also because a new conceptual paradigm, that of astronomical correctness (rather than astrology, increasigly regarded as superstition), had become more widely accepted as a means for solidifying nature’s legitimizing function.19

In a similar vein, Heribert Smolinsky recognized that it was not just doctrine that fuelled confessional strife over the new calendar, but also two contradictory ideas about time. For both

Catholics and Lutherans, he argues, the organization of calendar time rested on a central need for orderliness (Ordnung) in society—but the characteristics of this order were envisaged differently between the two confessions. The organizing principle for social life among Catholics was locating and observing holy times, which also corresponded to their attitude towards holy places and pilgrimage sites. They saw the Gregorian calendar as a restoration of these sacred temporal spaces, bringing the civil calendar back in tandem with them. The organizing principle for time from the Lutheran vantage point, however, was the imminent Second coming of Christ.

Accordingly, the Gregorian calendar was seen as an emendation or deformation of time, a stick in the spokes of prophecy and a sure sign of the Antichrist.20

Building on the insight of Koller and Smolinsky, this chapter draws attention to some of the temporal and conceptual underpinnings of the confessional contention surrounding the new

published as a book. As the work is not widely available in libraries, I was unable to access it in time for submission, aside form brief excerpts on google books. Becaue of this, I have decided not to incorporate the work presently, but will do so in future iterations of my research. Edith Koller, Strittige Zeiten: Kalenderreformen im alten Reich 1582- 1700 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014). 19 Koller, “Die Suche nach der richtigen Zeit,” 251. 20 Heribert Smolinsky, Deutungen der Zeit im Streit der Konfessionen (Heidelberg: Winter Verlag, 2000), 28. 169 calendar. Like the political and social issues that hindered unity on the calendar issue, concepts and ideas about time and the calendar, too, were often driven by confessional persuasion.

Examining the conceptual infrastructure behind divergent notions of the liturgical year aids in contributes to historical understandings of how two distinct civil calendars came to persist for an extended period of time within one national realm.

SECTION II: A TIME TO TEAR, A TIME TO MEND LUTHERANS, CATHOLICS AND HOLIDAY TIME

Less than a year before the winds of the Gregorian calendar reforms swept through Germany, calendar maker Berthold Saxer noted the shortcomings of the Julian calendar. Little is known about Saxer’s life or his confessional affiliation, although the fact that his calendar (his only extant work) was published in Nuremberg suggests he was most likely Lutheran. The calendar also demonstrates Saxer was well acquainted with the problematic nature of the Julian calendar.21 He began his comments on this topic by explaining the purpose of leap years:

The learned combined the six hours left over from the 365 days of the year in the fourth year, which then makes 24 hours, which amounts to a natural day. For this reason, one adds a day during the fourth year, which makes it one day longer than other years. If one did not observe the leap year and did not concern oneself with the six hours, in 732 years, Christmas would be in the middle of summer, and St. John the Baptist day in the middle of winter.22

Despite the corrective of leap years, Saxer was well aware that it was still possible for the two holidays to switch places over time. This was already occurring, he clarifies, since the amount of time saved up from each solar year should actually be some twelve minutes less than six hours.

21 Saxer, Ein schöner und newer Kalender. According to the Consortium for European Research Libraries, this 1581 calendar was Saxer’s only published work; his career and geographic location remain undocumented. Consortium for European Research Libraries (CERL) Thesaurus, s.v. “Saxer, Berthold,” Online Version . 22 Saxer, Ein schöner und newer Kalender, pagination missing, see section titled “Von dem Schaltjahr”: “Es haben die Gelehrten die sechs Stund/ welche allwegen verblieben an 365 tagen/ zusammen gesezt/ biss auffs vierte Jahr/ darauss werden dann 24. stund/ die machen ein naturlichen Tag/ darumb schaltet man im vierten jahr ein Tag zu/ hat also eines Tags mehr/ dann ein ander Jahr/ so man das schaltjar nicht hielte/und die 6 Stunden also unterliess/ so geschehe es in sieben hundert und zwey und dreyssig jahren dz die Weinacht dem mitten des sommers/ und S Johannes des Täuffers Tag/ in mitten des Winters.” 170

“For this reason,” Saxer continues, “in our times the sun enters Capricorn on the eleventh day of

December, but over 1580 years ago, this happened on the day of the blessed [...] birth of Jesus

Christ [25 December].”23 To keep the feasts “unturned” (unverwandelt), it would be necessary to omit one leap year every one hundred and twenty years. Such an act, however, “is forbidden.

[Unless] it happens throughout all of Christendom, we must suffer this error.”24

Likely to the chagrin of Saxer, whose multi-year calendar was supposed to be valid thorough 1613, his readers only had to “suffer this error” for the better part of a year, at which point the upcoming Gregorian calendar reform started being publicized throughout the Holy

Roman Empire.25 By the time the new calendar was implemented, those in the German lands had an arguably greater issue to suffer through: embroiled confusion and debate over the two distinct calendars now in use throughout the Empire.

A Time to Tear: Lutherans, Christian Holidays and the New Calendar

Lutherans, defending themselves against the perceived threat of papal and Catholic imperial power, led the way in bringing their disgruntlement to press. Within a year of the calendar reform, several authors published detailed, strident diatribes against the new calendar—foremost among them Röslin and Osiander, whose works were mentioned in the introduction of this

23 Ibid.: “Auß der ursach […] sehen wir in den järlichen Laßzedlen/ wie zu unsern zeiten die Sonn umb den 11. tag christmonats in den Steinbock gehet/ und aber vor 1580 Jahren/ geschicht solcher eingang auff den tag der Heilsamen Menschwerdung und Geburt Jesu Christi.” Though Christian notions of Anno Domini historical reckoning would hold that Christ was born about 1580 years prior to Saxer’s time, in my reading, he is referring to the calendar date of Christmas as a holiday, not the historical event of Christ’s birth. His point is an astronomical one: the dates of the winter solstice (or sun’s entrance into Capricorn) have shifted. In other words, he is explaining that the winter solstice (or the sun’s entrance into Capricorn) used to occur on 25 December around the time of Christ’s birth—not that Christ was necessarily born at the same time as the winter solstice. 24 Ibid.: “[Wir] müssen je in hundert un zwenzig jaren/ ein Schaltjar unterlassen/ so bleiben die Fest unverwandelt/ aber solches ist verboten/ es geschehe dann durch gemeine christenhit/ müssen wir also diesen irrthumb leiden.” 25 Evidence suggests that word of the intended reform did not reach the rulers of many countries in Europe until Autumn of 1582, just before (or in some cases not in time for) the reforms were to actually take place: Steinmetz, “Gregorianische Kalenderreform,” 122. 171 chapter.26 These early critics of the calendar reform were most immediately worried about preserving religious freedom in the face of what they felt was aggrandizing papal power. A

Würtemberg pastor, Osiander’s case against Pope Gregory’s “illegitimate monstrosity” of a calendar sought to defend confessional autonomy and religious freedom. In no uncertain terms,

Osiander states at the outset that the Pope’s calendar constitutes a “destruction […] of religious peace and Christian freedom,” and a breach of the Peace of Augsburg (1555), which had guaranteed confessional freedom for Catholics and Lutherans in the Empire on a territorial basis.27 He likewise compares the calendar (which he believed would be costly to reprint and disseminate) to the lucrative letters of indulgences Rome had benefitted from in Luther’s day.28

Osiander was under the suspicion that the real reason for the calendar’s emendation was not to produce a more correct calendar nor to improve the calculation of Easter dates, but rather to ensure Catholics could pray to the particular saints on the right days. He wrote: “according to the old calendar, the blessed saints’ and martyrs’ feasts were no longer on the day upon which they suffered.” Osiander believed that in the eyes of Catholics, this diminished the efficacy of the saints’ intercessions.29

For Osiander, however, the times of feasts and holidays constitute adiaphora. As Jakob

Heerbrand defined them a year later, adiaphora were “actions, rites, rituals and circumstances in the Church […] that are neither mandated nor prohibited by God in word or essence.”30 Osiander argued that the times of important holidays were adiaphora because it was not clear in Scripture when they are to be celebrated, and therefore their observance is part and parcel of Christian

26 Osiander, Bedencken; Röslin, Kurtz Bedencken. 27 Osiander, Bedencken, 1, c.f. 24-25. 28 Ibid., 3. 29 Ibid., 18. 30 Jakob Heerbrand, Disputatio, de adiaphoris, et calendario Gregoriano (Tübingen: Hockius, 1584), 11, 14. 172 freedom. What was most important was not when a person celebrated Christmas and other feasts, but how:

It does not matter to God on what day one celebrates [a religious feast], if only on the same day God’s Word is preached loud and clear, and the holy sacraments are practiced according to the manner in which Christ mandated.31

In other words, Christian holidays are to be marked by the Scriptures and sacrament—not a particular time, necessarily. What Osiander, however, is not advocating is that each person chose individually when to celebrate holidays—nor does he mention not celebrating holidays. Instead, the decision of when to celebrate ought to be made in an orderly fashion and on a church-wide basis—similarly to when the early Christians celebrated Sunday as the Lord’s day rather than the

Jewish Sabbath on Saturdays. 32

In his tract published the same year as Osiander’s, Röslin echoes many of the same concerns as Osiander, such as the need to protect Christian freedom.33 In addition, however,

Röslin adopted an overtly apocalyptic interpretation of the calendar reforms. His primary objection to the new calendar is that it is an instrument of the antichrist, the pope—a point Röslin returns to on nearly every page of his treatise.34 In this sense, the new calendar is both a sign and catalyst of the end times—a sign, because in reordering time, the Pope proves himself to be the antichrist, based on interpretations of Old Testament prophecies; a cause, because this emendation brings with it “deception and falsity” (Verführerey und Irrthumb), thereby exacerbating the depravity of the end times.35 Given that Christ would soon be returning, Röslin also held that an improved calendar—and the brouhaha it had created—was all but unnecessary.

Citing the calculations of Lutheran astronomer Michael Maestlin, Röslin reckoned it would take

31 Osiander, Bedencken, 32. 32 Ibid. 33 Röslin, Kurtz Bedencken, Aiiiir-Aviv. 34 Ibid., see esp. Aiir-Aiiiir. 35 Ibid., 90. 173 some 49 thousand for Easter and Christmas to coincide, and concluded cryptically that: “We know quite well, however, that the world will not endure so long.”36 Röslin’s apocalyptic take of the new calendar was hardly an anomaly—Heribert Smolinsky and Robin Bruce Barnes have aptly demonstrated that the apocalyptic mentality of sixteenth-century Lutherans played a crucial role in shaping their responses to the new calendar.37 Countless Lutherans were compelled by the belief that the Pope to be the Antichrist. Accordingly, they suspected the Gregorian calendar was not merely an effort to correct the errors of the Julian system, but part of Satan’s ploy to bewilder God’s faithful, and preventing them from discerning the true time in relation to the impending Apocalypse.38 Heribert Smolinsky, in particular, has documented how apocalypticism exacerbated the tension between Lutherans and Catholics over the new calendar. As he argues,

Lutherans had a fundamentally different view of time and its purpose, informed primarily by eschatological expectation. The heavily apocalyptic nature of Protestant thought saw the world in a state of decay, in which new, destabilizing signs arose every day to foretell the coming end, including the new calendar and its antichrist promulgator. While Catholics approached the calendar as a true reformation (reformatio), a return to the “right time” of saints' and other holy days, Lutherans were apt to see the calendar as an unnecessary and detrimental innovation in the world’s last days.39

How is it that Röslin, like many other Lutherans, was so critical of a calendar which, by his own admission, brought the “days and month and church feasts [around again] to the time in the sun's course where they were the first time”?40 Much of Röslin’s logic on this question stems

36 Ibid., 58. 37 Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis, 100-140; Smolinsky, Deutungen der Zeit. 38 Idem, “Time, History and Reckoning,” in idem, Prophecy and Gnosis, 100-140; c.f. Ute Lotz-Heumann, “Confessionalization,” 140; Ulinka Rublack, Reformation Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 69, 91. 39 Smolinsky, Deutungen der Zeit, 28-35. 40 Röslin, Kurtz Bedencken, 24. 174 directly from Martin Luther’s prescient On the Councils and the Church, published over four decades before the new calendar came into existence.41 Luther addressed the foibles of the Julian calendar while discussing the Nicene council, and acknowledged that although a reformation of the calendar was “highly necessary,” it should only be undertaken by political leaders who alone had the power to enforce unanimity across all of Christendom.42 In Luther’s mind, the general notion of Easter as a moveable holiday was a remnant of Mosaic passover tradition that had been unnecessarily accepted into Christian practice. He compared the tension over Easter’s moveable date to fastening a new patch of unshrunk fabric onto an old cloth—an analogy lifted from the

Gospel, when Jesus suggested his apostles need not fast according to the prescribed Jewish rules.43 It would have been more practical, Luther argues, if the Nicene fathers had simply made

Easter immoveable, fastened to the solar course as Christmas and the other holidays were—the

Mosaic law, after all, had been fulfilled by Christ.44 However, by now the matter had become relatively inconsequential from a spiritual perspective, because what made Easter the Lord’s day was the Gospel, not its place in the solar or lunar year: “[L]et the festival of Easter take its course

[…] Let Easter be moved backward and forward until the last day […] We may keep Easter everyday with the preaching and believing of our Lord Jesus Christ.”45

Although Luther did not live to see the new calendar, Röslin applied his thoughts on the

Nicene council to the Gregorian reforms. In short, he believed the pope’s desire to repair the calendar and the Easter date signified a return to the ritual-based worship that had characterized

Jewish worship before Christ fulfilled the law. The Nicene Council had retained the moveable

41 Originally published as: Martin Luther, Von den Conciliis und Kirchen (Straßburg: Muller, 1539). For English translations, I have relied on: Martin Luther, Of Councils and Churches, trans. C.B. Smyth (London: Painter, 1847). 42 Martin Luther, Of Councils and Churches, 78. 43 c.f. Matthew 9:14-17, Mark 2:21-22, Luke 5:33-39. 44 Martin Luther, Of Councils and Churches, 81. 45 Ibid., 83. 175 nature of the date of Easter from the tradition of the Jewish Passover, and yet tried to imbue the day with new, Christian meaning. Like a new patch shrinking away from old cloth, it was no wonder for Röslin that the Easter date had torn away from the old, Julian calendar—the Nicene fathers had used a flawed calendar to pin a new holiday onto the old, Jewish system of calculating the Passover.46

Yet the bulk of Röslin’s criticism was aimed not at the Nicene fathers but the pope, who once again tethered the date of Easter to an old cloth—the “old cloth” being not the new or old calendar per se, but the belief that it was necessary to honor holidays on particular dates or in particular ways. Whether one held to the old or new calendar, or changed the date of Easter,

Röslin points out that one can never adhere to the correct dates on which Christ was born or died because such dates had not been given in the Scriptures. By leaving such important times unrevealed, God wanted to show His followers that the “worship of the new Testament is not dependent on external ceremonies [eusserlicher Ceremonien], feasts and holidays like the Old

Testament and Mosaic law.” Being faithful to Christ is not contingent on observing Easter at a particular time, but rather on “grieving and decrying your sins and misdeeds and [...] in mortifying your flesh and putting to death the old man, [...] to following after Christ in love towards God and one's neighbor.”47 That is, the spirit of Christian faith shows itself in one’s spiritual countenance and acts of faith—not by the time and regulations one attaches to Christian days of observance. But even in reforming the calendar, Röslin believed there were better ways of making Christ more evident in the calendar. He argued that the pope should have “taken as many days out so that the equinoxes would match the first inauguration of the Julian year and not

46 Röslin, Kurtz Bedencken, 25. 47 Ibid., 36. 176 where they stood [in the calendar] at the time of the Nicene council.”48 In doing so, as Röslin continues, the calendar would be brought back to the time of Christ, which would be more useful for chronology and it would fit better with the experience of the first churches.49 He also suggests that Easter should be a fixed feast rather than a moveable one, effectively eliminating the remnants of Mosaic law as it pertained to Easter—the date of the holiday would be tied to a specific calendar date and follow the solar year rather than the lunar one.50 At first glance, this conflicts with Röslin’s earlier statements about not revering specific calendar dates. His point, however, is that if the date of Easter were fixed, there would be less mystery and need for precision in finding its correct date. People did not need to know whether the moon would be full or new to celebrate Christmas, he argued, and the same should be true of Easter. 51

A similar position was articulated three years later by Zacharias Rivander. At first glance, his “Christian reflection” on the new calendar appears to take a more moderate stance in comparison to that of Osiander and Röslin, as he acknowledged that on the old calendar “neither

Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, nor any other feast is on the same day […] that was mandated at the Nicene Council.” Everything is ten days “too slow,” as he puts it.52 Furthermore, if the calendar were to remain unchanged, there was the irksome possibility that “with time, if the world should last longer, the feasts that now occur in winter would [occur] in summer, and those

[now] in summer [would occur] in winter.”53 He acknowledged that on the old calendar “neither

Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, nor any other feast is on the same day […] that was mandated at

48 Ibid., 39. 49 Ibid. 50 Ibid., 38. 51 Ibid. 52 Zacharias Rivander, Christliche Erinnerung, 34. 53 Ibid., 35, “so würden mit der Zeit/ so die Welt lenger stehen solte die Fest/ so izund im Winter/ im Sommer/ und so izund im Sommer/ im Winter gefallen/ welches ergerlich.” 177 the Nicene Council.” The pope, as Rivander saw it, had been trying to prevent this from happening, which in itself was not a bad thing. 54

Eventually, however, Rivander resumes some of the more typical Lutheran arguments contra the Gregorian calendar. Like Röslin, he compared the disparity between the old calendar and the course of the sun to that of a tear between an old cloth and a new patch. The church fathers at Nicaea, he argued, retained the vestiges of Jewish worship and practice by keeping the date of Easter contingent on the full moon and vernal equinox. In his opinion, they should have instated Easter as a fixed feast, like Christmas, rather than amending the formula used to calculate the Jewish Passover according to the lunar cycle.55 The new patch (in this context the

Christian observance of Easter) did not fit seamlessly with the old garments of Jewish practice and the Julian calendar:

Christ […] through his suffering and resurrection [...] eternally tore the temple curtain in two and therewith broke […] with Jerusalem, its priesthood, principalities and law. Therefore [the church fathers] should have reckoned the day[s] of his suffering, burial and resurrection according to the sun's course [...] and placed it in the calendar on a specific day, like they did with Christmas, New Year's, Epiphany, Candlemas, Annunciation, St. John and other feasts [...] Then one would know every year for certain when Easter and its dependent feasts were coming.56

By placing Easter on a particular calendar date, Rivander is actually suggesting that the Christian sacral year be reduced to a strictly solar calendar instead of maintaining its traditional, lunisolar character, based on a combination of moveable feasts governed by the solar year and immoveable feasts governed by lunar cycles. Many would critique this idea, since it broke with the traditions of the church and would not keep Easter on a Sunday, the day historically devoted to honoring Christ’s resurrection on a weekly basis. Rivander notes, however, that the Latin

54 Ibid.; Rivander, however, does briefly express doubt as to whether the pope should mandate others to follow his decrees, or whether he should even be the one to amend the calendar in the first place—a point that he says he will leave for others to dispute. 55 Ibid., 65-66; Numbers 9:1-5. 56 Ibid., 66 178 word for Sunday is “Dies Dominica, the Lord’s day, that is [a day on which] the Lord

[performed] a special work.”57 According to this definition, then, Rivander wondered whether

Christmas could also be considered the Lord’s day, regardless of its calendar date or the day of the week on which it fell. Building on this logic, he reasons that any day on which Easter fell would be the “Lord’s day,” simply by virtue of it being Easter, not because it was a particular day of the week.58

Unfortunately, Rivander complained the church fathers had retained the moveable characteristic of Passover in stipulating the date of Christianity’s Easter, and now the Spring equinox was moving further and further away from the feast of Sts. Jacob and Philip (1 May).59

He took comfort in the fact that it was not all that necessary anymore to make Easter an immoveable feast—the second coming of Christ was close at hand, an event that would render such drastic measures irrelevant. Given the brevity of the world, he advocated sticking with the solution already outlined in the council of Nicaea:

Because the fathers did not do otherwise, the old cloth is to stay with its huge rip, and will remain this way until the final judgment [...] For the old cloth has tattered and torn [sich flicken und reissen lassen] itself for well-nigh 1400 years and it will [go on], tattering and tearing another hundred years [...] For this reason it is my opinion, that one should let Easter keep going [...] as it now is, and let the old cloth tatter and tear, and [let] the Easter feast rock back and forth until the final judgment.60

Although it was not pleasant to think about the date of Easter moving around so much on the calendar, the general principle did not seem alarming to Rivander, who wrote that the faulty

57 Ibid., 67 58 Ibid., 66 59 Ibid., 67: “Die Jare im Calender [sind] zu langsam [...] deshalb je lenger je mehr wuerde der Gleichstag je lenger je ferner von Philippi und Jacobi und andern Festen komen.” Here, Rivander is likely drawing attention less to the changing date of the Spring equinox itself but the latest possible date Easter could occur. On 1 May, the feast of Saints Philip and Jacob were not usually associated with the Spring equinox. On the other hand, the date was the nearest major feast day to 5 May, the latest possible date Easter could occur according to the old calendar at the end of the sixteenth century. 60 Ibid., 68. 179 calendar “breaks no one's leg, and St. Peter's little ship [the Church] will not suffer, because this is not a heresy [...] but an error in astronomy, which is more helpful for worldly order than that of the church.”61 Just as Christ claimed to be Lord over the Sabbath, He is also Lord over the date of Easter and other feasts.62 It is more important to honor this at all times than to lose one’s salvation for the sake of adhering to specific days and feasts.63

In short, Rivander believes that the faulty calendar is not something Christians should be all that alarmed by—it was more important to make every day a type of spiritual Easter. Even if the date of Easter eventually cycled around the whole calendar and ended up back on the feast of

Philip and Jacob (although Rivander reckoned this possibility highly unlikely, given that the world would never last that long), Christians should remember that they are to “hold every day as Easter, with preaching and faith in Christ.”64 Ideally, Easter does not come once a year but every day people listen to the Gospel and respond in faith. Rivander continues by stating that

“[i]t is enough that Easter be held as a […] public [...] commemoration [gedechtnis] one time in a year, on a special day, […] so that one can treat the story of the resurrection more thoroughly for the people.” Preaching and articulating the Gospel thus played a central role in the celebration of

Easter. The purpose of commemorating the resurrection, in Rivander’s mind, was so that at least one day would be set aside for conveying teachings and Scriptures related to this all important facet of Christian belief. When, exactly, that day was set aside was not significant.

The last Lutheran critique of the calendar to be explored here is that of physician and mathematician David Herlicius. In his 1605 refutation of the new calendar, Herlicius included a chapter entitled “That the church is not compelled to observe their feasts according to the

61 Ibid., 69. 62 Ibid. 63 Ibid., 70. 64 Ibid., 67. 180 celestial course,” in which he insists—like Osiander—that “binding” particular Christian holidays directly to the solar year was an adiaphoron, a spiritually neutral practice not mandated in the Scriptures.65 Herlicius’ statements on this topic build on a premise he made earlier in the text—stating that there was no correct time at which Christians ought to celebrate holidays, since the historical accuracy of these dates could not be verified:

Someone might say wouldn’t it be nice to celebrate Easter and other feasts on the same exact day that they actually happened in history? [...] But it has not yet been proven or substantiated, neither by theologians nor astronomers, on what day the Lord Jesus Christ was crucified. Concerning this question, many books have been written [...] Some say it was 25 March, others (who are in the majority) say 3 April. And the holy scriptures mentioned neither the birthdate nor death of Christ. If it were necessary for man to know the date [of these events] to rightly commemorate them, then no one would be having to guess when to observe the birth or death of Christ.66

For Herlicius, the determination of the proper time to celebrate Christian holidays was something of a historical exercise, a pursuit of the historically accurate times for these biblical events. But

God had left the most important dates of Christian history unrevealed, along with many other aspects of time. The pope had erred in trying to bring perfection to the various cycles of time; as

Herlicius wrote, the solar year will never line up with the lunar year, and eclipses do not occur at the exact time ancient tables say they will. “God did not reveal everything to mankind,” he continued, “but held back much of His omniscient, heavenly substance, so that we are not overwhelmed.”67 Instead of scrutinizing time, Christians should celebrate holidays in a way that honored God. Like Rivander, Herlicius acknowledged that it was good to have certain days set

65 David Herlicius, PRODROMVS und erster Theil gründtlicher Wiederlegung oder Refutation des newen bäbstischen Calenders (Alten Stettin: Joachim Rheten, 1605), 112. 66 Herlicius, PRODROMVS, 59. 67 Ibid., 56. 181 aside in order to come together in church and listen to God’s word—but these days did not need to occur at a specific time of year and could be selected by the church as needed.68

A Time to Mend: Catholics, Christian Holidays and the New Calendar

Even as Lutheran authors declaimed the spiritually dubious implications of the new calendar, Catholic authors lauded its reforms. What remains to be investigated is precisely what was meant by this notion of a “right” time.69 Among the first German-language publications in support of the Gregorian reforms was an anonymous report whose primary objective was less to respond to Lutheran criticisms than to explain to fellow Catholics how the new calendar was to be used.70 The author’s first task was to adequately demonstrate why a new civil calendar had been necessary in the first place. He did so via an extensive historical exploration—narrating the history not of the civil calendar itself but of methods of calculating the date of Easter. The fulcrum of this historical rendition is the Council of Nicaea (325), where clergy members gathered with astronomers and worked diligently to determine the best way to reckon Easter each year. While Easter was the oldest Christian holiday, the author of this tract acknowledges that by the fourth century there were several competing notions as to when it should occur, and the

Nicene council had been enacted to bring order to this chaos. Keeping Easter as a moveable

68 Ibid., 134. 69 This section in particular has benefited from reading widely the works of historians of liturgy. My understanding of the logistics of the Christian calendar has been greatly abetted by Roger T. Beckwith, “The Three Cycles of the Christian Year,” in Calendar, Chronology and Worship: Studies in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. Roger T. Beckwith (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 91-98. Equally elucidating have been the following works on the historical development of the liturgical year and its feasts: Adolf Adam, The Liturgical Year: its History and its Meaning after the Reform of Liturgy (New York: Peublo Publishing Company, 1981); John F. Baldovin, “Christian Worship to the Eve of the Reformation,” in The Making of Jewish and Christian Worship, eds. Paul F. Bradshaw and Lawrence A. Hoffman (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1991), 156-83; Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson, The Origins of Feasts, Fasts and Seasons in Early Christianity (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2011); O. Pedersen, “The Ecclesiastical Calendar and the Life of the Church,” in The Gregorian Reform of the Calendar. Proceedings of the Vatican Conference to Commemorate its 400th Anniversary 1582-1982, eds. G.V. Coyne, M.A. Hoskin (Vatican City: Pontifical Academy of Sciences, 1982), 17-74. 70 Warer Bericht/ Warumb das alte römisch Calender dieser Zeit nothwendig ersehen und gebessert worden (Mainz: Casparium Behem, 1584). 182 feast, attendees of the council developed a common method for determining the date of Easter not only so that Easter would be celebrated at the same time throughout all of Christendom, but also that Easter would not conflict with the Jewish Passover. The problem was that the civil calendar used at Nicaea was not fit properly to the actual duration of the solar year, and now “the sun ends its revolution [umblauff] a few days earlier than our calendar.”71 According to the 1584 tract, the attendees of the Nicene council were already aware of the calendar’s failings; it was known that the spring equinox typically occurred on 21 March, rather than 24 March as it had in the day of Julius Caesar.72 Unfortunately, they did not know how to fix the calendar. Therefore, though it was not ideal, the members of the council assumed that their “successors would know

[…] how to help matters.”73 According to this logic, the Council of Nicaea was intended to be an impermanent solution until such time as human knowledge could ascertain a better calendar.

Making the abstract faults of the old calendar concrete for a wide audience, the author pointed to the growing divergence between nature’s cycles and the times of major Christian holidays according to the old, Julian calendar:

Not only is the spring equinox misplaced [in the old calendar] but also the other in autumn, as well as both solstices (in Summer and Winter), and our calendar does not correctly indicate the right and infallible [unfehlbar] course of the Sun. […] Because of this, we do not celebrate our Easter, Pentecost, Christmas and other feasts at their due times [gebührenden Zeiten].74

The author juxtaposes the time of holidays and the termini of the sun’s course as evidence that the old calendar was defective. For him, the common denominator of time—whether that of the civil calendar or holidays—is the sun, which travels along an infallible course. In case there was

71 Ibid., Br. 72 Ibid., A3. Actually, it was 25 March that was regarded as the date of the Spring Equinox in the Julian system. According to O. Pedersen, however, it is not a given that everyone at the Nicene council knew the true date of the equinox; ignorance as to the vernal equinox’s true calendar date may have persisted even into the fifth century, particularly among clerics in Rome. See O. Pedersen, “The Ecclesiastical Calendar,” 44. 73 Warer Bericht, A2-B. 74 Ibid., B. 183 any confusion, the author explains at several junctures that the fault lay not in nature or the sun, but in the calendar: “While the sun, with its yearly, heavenly revolution, begins the New Year at the right time, we lag behind some ten days, fourteen half-hours and six minutes, led by the old calendar.” 75 The sun is keeping the right time, but the calendar has become delayed.

The perfection of the sun’s course and calendarical reckoning is reminiscent of Genesis

1:14, a verse which is also inscribed in Latin on the front page of the 1584 tract: “[And God said,] ‘Let there be lights in the dome of the sky to separate the day from the night; and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years’.”76 In this way, the author’s concept of the right time is bound up with the placement of particular Christian holidays during the solar year.

This remains consistent throughout the treatise, in which the author occasionally reiterates the need to observe feasts either at their due [gebührende] or true [rechte] times.77

The avidity to observe holidays at the right times applies not only to Easter—whose problematic date was the primary catalyst for the calendar reform—but also to Christian feasts never mentioned in the papal bull mandating the new calendar. The author particularly emphasizes that Christmas must be celebrated at its correct time, explaining that “our savior

Jesus Christ was born in the night of the Winter solstice; this same solstice, in our times, occurs on 11 December [on the old calendar], while Christmas falls on 25 December.” Given the “errant course of time and the feasts, which increases more and more,” wrote the author, the Church had to bring the calendar back to the time of the Nicene Council.78 Once the calendar was corrected and the date of Easter reformed, all Christian feasts could follow at their “right [rechter] times, especially the holy birthday of Christ […] when the night is at its longest, and the wonderful

75 Ibid., B. 76 Genesis 1:14; Warer Bericht, title page. 77 E.g. Warer Bericht, B, B3. 78 Ibid., B2. 184 light daily increases once again.” 79 This is a surprising point since, from the perspective of the calendar (even a flawed one), Christmas and other feast days had never been observed at the

“wrong” time—they had been tied to the same calendar date all along. The author, however, seems to make the case that the fixed feats, too, had a “right” time that extended beyond the calendar dates and were bound instead to a terminus within the solar year—in this case,

Christmas was paired with the longest night of the year, which was now occuring some two weeks prior to 25 December. Thus, as the calendar was diverging from the solstices and equinoxes, the times of even the fixed holidays were becoming just as misplaced as that of

Easter.

The necessity of observing prominent Christian holidays at their “right” times also resonated with Johann Rasch, with whose comments this chapter began. Like the 1584 tract,

Rasch esteemed the restoration of Christian feasts to their place in the solar year to be one of the primary benefits of the calendar reform.80 Just as important, the calendar was amended such that the feasts could not “tarry” (literally, take a walk [haben ein spaciergang]) from their places over the long course of time.81 Reforming the civil calendar to the solar year was necessary in regards to the cycle of Christian holidays, since Easter, the most central feast of the Christian year, was moveable, and could only occur after the spring equinox.82 Among the most telling features of

Rasch’s case is not merely what he says in describing the new calendar, but what he omits. The civil aspect of the new calendar is hardly factored into his picture of the calendar. Instead of praising the new calendar for its benefit to social and political utility, for example, his interest

79 Ibid., B3. 80 Rasch, Neukalender, Hr. 81 Ibid., Hr. 82 Easter cannot take place before the Spring equinox because Jesus’ death is described in the Gospels as having occurred after the Jewish Passover, which is observed the first full moon following the vernal equinox. C.f. Luke 22:7-18. 185 lies in the new calendar’s ability to align (or, more correctly, re-align) the annual sequence of

Christian holidays with natural seasons and events of the solar year. Here, the civil calendar is little more than a tool to rectify the Church year with nature—that both time cycles also occur on a particular date on the civil calendar appears to be less important of a detail for Rasch.

Rasch was not only concerned that Easter be celebrated at the right time, but also

Christmas. He pointed out that, at earlier times of Christian history, the winter solstice nearly coincided with Christmas; in Nicene times the solstice typically occurred around 21 December.

By 1582, however, the winter solstice had slid back further than St. Lucia’s Day (13 December,

OS). As the Julian calendar grew out of sync with the solstices and equinoxes, the various cycles of holidays in the church year fell out of sync not only with the civil calendar but also with each other. In essence, this set the two systems of the Christian calendar on a collision course, albeit an infinitesimally slow one. Thus, it followed that one day the spring equinox would end up in the calendar month of December and could coincide with Christmas. Thankfully, the new calendar righted the issue; the new solstice was now “almost on Christmas” (jetzt fast auff

Weihnachten).83

The potential for Easter to be celebrated on or even near Christmas was intolerable not only for Rasch but also for other contemporaries. Like Rasch, Catholic priest Jakob Hornstein used Christmas to illustrate his concerns with the old calendar. Had the calendar remained unreformed,

Christmas day would, before long, come on St. John [the Baptist] in Summer [24 June], which likewise would fall on Christmas, such that in a short time, the holy time[s] and fast days would not be held at the right, orderly time [zu rechter ordentlicher zeit].84

83 Rasch, Neu Kalender, B2v. 84 Jakob Hornstein, Reformirter Reichs Calender (Ingolstadt: Wolfgang Eder, 1596), Bii. 186

This brief statement warrants closer investigation. Astonishingly, Hornstein does not even mention Easter here or any other moveable feast, looking instead to two fixed feasts to illustrate the deficiencies of the Julian calendar. His concern for the two holidays is reminiscent of the pre-

Calendar reform calendar by Saxer, who explained that if leap years were not observed,

“Christmas would be in the middle of summer and St. John the Baptist day in the middle of winter.”85 While Saxer and Hornstein are making a similar argument, Hornstein’s juxtaposition does not clearly distinguish between the feast days and seasons—i.e. Christmas (a holiday fixed to the calendar) was not going to end up in Summer, but on St. John’s day (also a fixed holiday).

At first glance, this may seem an insignificant detail—but Hornstein’s description is actually impossible when interpreted from a calendrical perspective. Both holidays, after all, are tied to two different dates that were not moving in relation to one another but in relation to the solstices, equinoxes and the four seasons. Upon rereading Hornstein’s statement, one realizes he is subtly conflating two different notions of dates or times for the holidays at hand: their date on the calendar (i.e. their numbered date) and their astronomical termini—that is, when they occurred in the scheme of the solar year. His concerns could be restated thus: before long, the date of

Christmas (25 December) would occupy the same place in the (solar) year as St. John’s day had traditionally occurred—and vice versa. This suggests that perhaps, on some level, the true St.

John’s day would perpetually occur at a certain point in the summer, even if the faulty calendar came to indicate otherwise—and the same for Christmas.

The question of the true times for holidays, and the possibility of the calendrical placement of them changing, is an especially vivid one in the context of Christmas and St. John’s day. Six months apart from one another on the calendar, both holidays occurred near the time of a solstice. Elsewhere in this same document, Hornstein articulates the proximity between St.

85 Saxer 1581, pagination missing, see section titled “Von dem Schaltjahr.” 187

John’s Day, for example, and the solstice: “The longest day should be right about on St. John’s

Day in summer; the shortest day, though, around [um] Christmas.”86 The difference between

Christmas and the feast of St. John, then, was not a random one, consisting merely of numbered dates or an arbitrary temporal distance. For Hornstein, there was an essential, qualitative difference between the two holidays: one occurred at the height of winter, the other at the peak of summer. Hornstein was not the only one who felt this way; Rasch’s praise for the new calendar, too, rested on the desire for correct correspondence between the civil calendar and the solar year, with its solstices and equinoxes. He described these solstices as time-markers (Zeitzeichen) that ought to remain perpetually on the same day.87 For both Rasch and Hornstein, the notion that

Christmas and St. John’s day could switch places amounted to a complete reversal of temporal order in the Christian calendar.

Johannes Eck’s Catholic Postil offers additional insight into the relationship between the solstices, equinoxes and Christian feast days.88 On a sermon written for the feast of St. John the

Baptist, Eck expounds on the divinely ordained intersections between the liturgical year, the life of Christ and the solstices and equinoxes. He begins by stating that there are four months of the year that are particularly devoted to “joy, solemnity and holy days”: March, June, September and

December. March contains the conception of Christ (Annunciation, 25 March), June the birth of

St. John the Baptist (24 June), September the conception of St. John (25 September) and

December the birth of Christ.89 As Eck points out, these days are also

86 Hornstein, Reformirter Reichs Calender, B. 87 Rasch, Neu Kalender, B2r. 88 One of the most vociferous critics of Luther, Eck’s collection of sermons for the ecclesiastical year was widely published in German and Latin editions during the early 1530s, and a reprint of the German edition was published a year after the Gregorian calendar reform was enacted. See Johannes Eck, Christenliche außlegung der Evangelienn (Ingolstadt: Apian, 1530); Idem, Homiliae Sive Sermones doctissimi viri Ioh. Eckii adversum quoscunque nostri temporis haereticos, super Evangelia de tempore (Cologne: Cervicornus, 1534); Idem, Postilla Catholica Evangelorium: der ander Theyl (Ingolstadt: Eder, 1584). 89 Johannes Eck, Postilla Catholica Evangelorium: der ander Theyl (Ingolstadt: Eder, 1584), 89. 188

the four days [on which] the four biggest changes of the whole year used to occur,90 called the […] solstices and equinoxes. For during the fall, when day and night are equal, St. John was conceived, and born when it was the longest day in summer. […] And […] Christ was conceived in Spring, when the day and night are equal, but born when the day is at its shortest. […] and the sun is at its lowest.91

The solar interplay between the lives of Christ and St. John the Baptist, writes Eck, goes back to

John 3:30, in which John the Baptist says of Jesus: “He must increase, but I must decrease.” For

Eck, who attributes the original thought to John Chrysostom,92 this plays out literally in the light of the sun—which increases in the year after Christ is born, but decreases after the birth of St.

John, which the Gospels say happened six months before that of Christ.93

And although Christ was conceived at the height of the earth’s (and heaven’s) cycle of regeneration, he was born into the world in winter, when everything was in darkness—a true light to “bring light to the whole world.”94 This, according to Eck, was the reason Christ’s birth was to be celebrated during the darkest time of year.95 Christmas, it seems, just wouldn’t be

Christmas without its proximity to the winter solstice—when the days are darkest, just as the world was darkest when Christ was born. The same could be said of the annunciation on 25

March, when Christ was not only conceived but also crucified, according to tradition.96

Elsewhere in his postil, Eck reflects on the fact that God has made some days more holy than

90 Here, Eck is likely referring to the dates of the solstices and equinoxes in antiquity, when their dates were typically set on the eighth day before calends. Sacha Stern, Calendars in Antiquity: Empires, States, and Societies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 292. 91 Eck, Postilla Catholica, 89-90. 92 Ibid., 89. Eck cites “the seventeenth sermon” of Chrysostom, yet I have not been able to locate any sermons by Chrysostom that speak to the ideas Eck is discussing. It is probable he was actually referring to a later tract, De solstitiis et equinoctis, erroneously attributed to Chrysostom as it was originally found in a collection of his sermons during the tenth century. The tract sets out the births of Christ and John the Baptist at two polar points of the year, testifying to the wonder of God who constructed creation and salvific history so as to align with one another on anniversaries. Susan K. Roll, Toward the Origins of Christmas (Kampen: Kok Pharos Publishing House, 1995), 97. 93 Luke 1:36 states that the annunciation of Mary—the date Christianity traditionally attributes as the conception (i.e. incarnation) of Christ—occurred when Elizabeth was six months pregnant with John. 94 Eck, Postilla Catholica, 90. 95 Ibid., 21-22, 89-90. 96 Ibid., 89. 189 others. Easter is the holiest of all days, but there are other fasts and feasts—Christmas, for example—that God holds above other days.97 He contrasts this with the belief of Protestants, or

“new Christians” (Newchristen) who “want to have all days be equal” (welche alle tag gleich wöllen haben).98

This brief excerpt from Eck sheds light on future comments by supporters of the calendar reform, which posit connections between Christian holidays and the solar year. From the perspective of Catholic authors, the most prominent holidays of the Christian calendar were significant not merely for their theological content, but also for their “correct” placement in the annual scheme of time—correct, here, referring not only to the historical accuracy of an event’s date but also to its typological significance in relation to the solar year’s interplay of light and darkness, life and regeneration. The occurrence of these holidays throughout the year signified rich, orienting intersections between civil, ecclesiastical and natural time frames. It was important to observe these holidays at their proper times in relation to solstices and equinoxes, as well as in relation to traditions of the church. As Hornstein concludes, he praises that the

Gregorian calendar restored the holidays of the Christian church to their “right” times, i.e. when they had been instituted in the past, making the observation of these days more pleasing to God:

It is meet and godly to hold and observe the holy times and feast days when they were instituted in the beginning by God and His holy Christian Church. Through the correction and renewal [erneurung] of the calendar, time (which had slid back too far […]) has been restituted and rectified.99

In short, the new calendar had mended the divergence between Church holidays, the civil calendar and the year of nature. It was important to observe holidays at their proper times in

97 Ibid., 6. 98 Ibid., 6. 99 Hornstein, Reformirter Reichs Calender, Ciii. 190 relation to solstices and equinoxes, as well as in relation to the canons of holy tradition, because solar time was a metaphor of salvation and its entrance into the world.

SECTION III: A TIME TO EXPAND SYNTHESIS, ANALYSIS AND CONTEXTUALIZATION

The divide between the two confessions on the question of holiday time was influential not only in regards to the calendar itself, but also to notions of when and why Christian holidays were to be celebrated throughout the year. Doctrinally, Lutheran writers emphasized that the timing of holidays constituted a spiritual practice that Scripture left unspecified, and churches were thereby under no compulsion to observe them at definite times. Consequently, it was considered unnecessary and at times even idolatrous to adopt the new calendar, since one of its primary purposes was to restore the date of Easter and fixed holidays to their original places. By contrast,

Catholics were compelled by the idea that the timing of holidays was an important aspect of

Christian worship. Not all days were equal—some of them were to be set aside at particular times as holy. This had been affirmed in the traditions of the Church, especially in the council of

Nicaea.

As divergent as Catholic and Lutheran sensibilities were towards the new calendar, their thoughts shared a common basis in late medieval theology. In the context of the calendar reform, Lutherans believed that to insist on observing holidays at specific times was bound up with the larger issue of obtaining salvation through works rather than grace. Not only was the timing of holidays never mandated in scripture, history also shrouded their original dates in mystery. In dismissing the principle of observing holidays at particular times, both Herlicius and

Röslin point out that the true dates of holidays like Christmas are unknown. 100 The historical dates on which Christ was born or died were neither articulated in Scripture nor agreed upon by

100 Herlicius, PRODROMVS, 59; Röslin, Kurtz Bedencken, 42. 191 chronologists, and this negated the need to be concerned for the timing of these holidays. 101 It is worth noting that interest in chronology was on the rise among Protestants at this time, accompanied by new methods of historical scrutiny. This renewed turn towards the past, which reached its apex in such thinkers as Josef Justus Scaliger (d. 1609), drew attention to the difficulties of accurately discerning the dates of historical events.102 In contrast to previous historical methods, which reckoned dates and genealogies from clues found in ancient and biblical literature, practitioners of this new form of chronology acknowledged the historical cues of literary documents to be inexact and vague. Scaliger and others thus began to constellate the dates of historical events in reference to celestial events recorded by astronomers, such as solstices, equinoxes and (especially) eclipses.103 When Herlicius alluded to the “many books” that had been written in pursuit of the right date of Christ’s crucifixion, it is not difficult to consider that he was referring to these growing trends in the field of chronology.104 Nonetheless, while new chronology made great strides in reckoning the times of historical events, speculation and contradictory hypotheses still surrounded such happenings as Christ’s birth and resurrection.

The inscrutability of historical dates—even those associated with the most significant salvific events—was a point that strengthened rather than undermined the faith of Lutherans.

Herlicius alludes to this in a comment he made in regards to making accurate calendars and determining dates: “God did not reveal everything to mankind, but held back much of His omniscient, heavenly substance, so that we are not overwhelmed.”105 God had shrouded the

101 Herlicius, PRODROMVS, 59. 102 Anthony Grafton, “Joseph Scaliger and Historical Chronology: The Rise and Fall of a Discipline,” History and Theory 14-2 (1975), 156-85, here 169-71. 103 Grafton, “Some Uses of Eclipses in Early Modern Chronology,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64-2 (2003): 213-39, esp. 214. 104 Herlicius, PRODROMVS, 59: „But it has not yet been proven or substantiated, neither by theologians nor astronomers, on what day the Lord Jesus Christ was crucified. Concerning this question, many books have been written.” 105 Ibid., 56. 192 particularities of historical time by His hidden, unrevealed part of Himself—an act of mercy, since He obscures that which may cause humans to stumble. This notion is rooted in the thought of Luther, who made “an important distinction in [God’s] nature and activity […].There is a revealed or preached God who works for the salvation of sinners; and then there is another God, hidden in majesty, who neither deplores nor removes death but works life, death, and all in all.”106 According to John M. Headley, this distinction had less to do with the nature of God for

Luther, but rather reflected the different ways God deals with His creatures: God is always moving and acting in the world, but often instead of dealing directly with men, He works in and through other estates—Christ, angels, objects in creation, even evil—thereby concealing

Himself. Otherwise, “God’s direct activity […] would cut the nerve of man and vitiate his significance.”107 Instead of revealing Himself all at once in His actions, Luther believed God did so only gradually over time, keeping certain things a mystery. In doing so, God validates the temporal aspect of creation, since “Ggod with His creation calls man into an historical and not merely a natural existence. If God were to reveal Himself in His majesty […], historical existence would lack all sense of reality.”108

The understanding of time’s divine hiddenness runs as a red thread through many

Lutheran discourses of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, playing out most fully in regards to apocalypticism. Here, it was not the dates of the salvific past that were impenetrable, but those of the eschatological future. While most Lutherans were convinced the last times were quickly approaching, the exact details of the final days were clothed in mystery.

God had left the date of Christ’s return unspecified and, thus, unnecessary for true faith, a point

106 John M. Headley, Luther’s View of Church History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963), 3. 107Ibid. 108 Ibid. 193 that was not lost on Lutheran authors critiquing the calendar. 109 Röslin declared in his treatise, for example, that humans cannot know the day nor hour of Christ’s second advent, though they often try. His problem was not that people were making so many predictions, but rather, that they did not concern themselves with what he called “properly perceiving time.” Perceiving time, for

Röslin, was not about making predictions of an unknown time, but about recognizing the present times for what they were, and adopting a spirit of vigilance, because Christ could return at any moment.110 Enquiring into the exactitudes of time—whether past or future—was tantamount to trying to figure God out, when in fact one should acknowledge God’s omnipotence and the hiddenness of His decisions – including His timing.

The Lutheran appreciation for time’s inscrutability—both that of the salvific past as well as the apocalyptic future—has yet to be fully integrated within the historical narratives of both the calendar controversy and Lutheran apocalypticism. To be sure, numerous scholars have demonstrated the significant role apocalypticism played in delaying the adoption of the new calendar in the Protestant territories of Germany. 111 These studies attribute this to the Lutherans’ reticence to accept a calendar promulgated by the supposed Pope-Antichrist. Yet, undergirding this dynamic, apocalyptic regard for the pope were Lutheran understandings of time as a hidden,

109 Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis, 2. 110 Röslin, Kurtz Bedencken, Aiir-v. 111 Heribert Smolinsky, Deutungen der Zeit im Streit der Konfessionen (Heidelberg: Winter Verlag, 2000), 28. The association of the pope as antichrist was particularly evident among so-called “Gnesio-lutherans” as opposed to philosophically and historically-oriented Lutheran thinkers. Volker Leppin, Antichrist und Jüngster Tag. Das Profil apokalyptischer Flugschriftenpublizistik im deutschen Luthertum 1548-1618 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1999), 130-50, 169-205, 229-37, 289-71. Additionally, Barnes argues that from a Lutheran vantage point, the Gregorian calendar was not an effort to correct the errors of the Julian system, but rather Satan’s ploy to fully bewilder God’s faithful, preventing them from discerning the true time in relation to the impending Apocalypse. Robin Bruce Barnes, “Time, History and Reckoning,” in Robin Bruce Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis: Apocalypticism in the Wake of the Lutheran Reformation (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1988), 100-140. C. Scott Dixon expands further upon this line of thinking, identifying the nexus of eschatological beliefs through which Lutherans tended to approach the new calendar: “The Lutheran theologians had a distinct understanding of sacral history, a complex narrative derived from Scripture, history, prophecy, and number reckoning, and for most orthodox thinkers, the Day of Judgment was at hand. In the trajectory of Lutheran belief, time had an order and an end.” C. Scott Dixon, “Urban Order and Religious Coexistence in the German Imperial City: Augsburg and Donauwörth, 1548-1608,” Central European History 40, no. 1 (2007): 1–33, here 14. 194 divine mystery. In medieval theology, this obscure dimension of God is referred to as the Deus

Absconditus, the God who has secreted parts of Himself away from view, as though protecting a treasure. The Deus Revelatus, conversely, is the side of Himself God has revealed to His creatures via Jesus Christ. 112 In His life on earth, Christ had revealed to man the general arc of time, thrust towards His second coming. Specific dates along that arc, however, remained unrevealed and thereby inscrutable by humans, so the Lutheran rationale went. Rather than calculations and knowledge, vigilance and anticipation—both future-oriented attitudes—were the oft-prescribed strategies for living in the face of this mystery. In the meantime, the pure preaching and manifesting of God’s word were the staples of Christian holidays—whenever they occurred during the year. The need to celebrate holidays on particular dates, for Lutherans, was perceived in part to be a way of encroaching upon the unknown, hidden aspect of God.

While Catholics shared a wholly different set of priorities in regards to timing, their thought—like Lutheran appropriations of the Deus abscanditus—was largely informed by theological and exegetical traditions preceding the early modern period. Although Lutheran authors chastised their Catholic counterparts for holding the dates of Christian holidays in too high a regard, the Catholic reasoning had little to do with historical veracity or trying to figure

God out. Catholics shared a wholly different set of understandings and priorities in regards to holidays and timing. For them, the right time of holidays was that which was revealed by God not through the words of Christ in the Gospel but rather through the stream of holy tradition. The timing of prominent feast days signified a nexus of tradition, liturgical practice and nature, with the poles of the Christian year—Christmas, for example, and Annunciation—occurring in tandem with the cardinal points of the solar year. In reading the remarks by authors like Rasch

112 David C. Steinmetz, Luther in Context (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 23-31; Laura Welker, “The God who Hides from His Saints: Luther’s Deus Abscanditus” (MA thesis, Briercrest Seminary, 2006). 195 and Hornstein, one is left with the sense of wonder in the ways that the temporal cycles of nature, church and state could be seen to correlate and imbue one another with meaning.

According to the works of liturgical scholars, the Catholics authors featured in this chapter were writing at a time when the liturgical year was newly becoming a cohesive, salient concept. For most of Christian history, as Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson note, the holidays of the liturgical year were seen as disparate days of observation—the moveable and immoveable aspects of the calendar constituting “entirely unrelated cycles” that overlapped coincidentally and haphazardly. However, throughout the sixteenth century the “liturgical year,” as a term, first came into common usage, and the fasts and seasons of the year came to be seen as

“forming a unity, a single entity.”113 Likewise, Robert W. Scribner has shown that the religious year in early modern Germany saw “a more complex range of ritual ordering” that sought to bridge manifestations of the sacred with cycles of life and natural seasons.114 Rituals of the church year, often characterized by local and regional variations, came to provide an ongoing framework that communicated the mysteries of the Christian faith and engaged the sacred in the normal routines of life.115

The concept of a Christian year—with distinct, holy times that told a story throughout the year—is reflected in Catholic publications that supported the new calendar. For these authors, the historical dates of Christ’s birth and resurrection are inconsequential indications of the right time for Easter and Christmas. Of far greater significance were the meanings that nature and its

113 Paul F. Bradshaw, and Maxwell E. Johnson, The Origins of Feasts, Fasts and Seasons in Early Christianity (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2011), xiii. 114 Robert W. Scribner, Popular Culture and Popular Movements in Reformation Germany (London: The Hambledon Press, 1988), 3. Scribner’s interest in this topic lies in the way people used rituals and sacramentals to deal with the problems of everyday life. 115 Ibid. 196 cycles revealed about these holidays, their practice in tradition and the narrative arc created by these holidays throughout the year.

More than the historical dates of Christian feasts, Catholics appreciated the pairing of prominent holidays with solstices and equinoxes, the chief landmarks of the natural year. These intersections of salvific and solar coordinates affirmed and illustrated notions of Christ as light and salvation, a point that Johannes Eck expanded upon in his postil. 116 According to this understanding of holiday time, one could say that the form and content of the Catholic festal cycle were self-reciprocating—the structure of the holiday calendar conveyed the same story of salvation as the holidays themselves. For Catholics, the locations of holidays in proximity to solstices and equinoxes symbolized the holidays themselves. The winter solstice was a type of

Christ’s birth, just as the summer solstice was a type of St. John the Baptist’s birth; the waxing and waning of sunlight and shadows through the year spoke to Christ’s incarnation into the darkness of this world.

Holidays, in this sense, were not only historical anniversaries but also salvific typologies—a starkly different and counter-intuitive approach to history than the new chronology of the Lutherans. As Erich Auerbach writes, a typological interpretation of events

“establishes a connection between two events or persons, the first of which signifies not only itself but also the second, while the second encompasses or fulfils the first.”117 When two events are related typologically, the first event reveals the meaning of the second—the winter solstice reveals the true meaning of Christ being born as the light of the world. In this mystical understanding of history, chronology is uprooted and reversed: while the winter solstice came

116 Eck, Postilla Catholica, 89-90. 117 Erich Auerbach, “Figura,” in Scenes from the Drama of European Literature, trans. Ralph Manheim (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 11-76, here 53. 197 first historically speaking (solstices having occurred since the beginning of time), the birth of

Christ is “first” in significance, since it is the object of revelation.

Typology is more frequently recognized within the context of medieval scriptural exegesis. Along with literal, historical and anagogical meanings of Scripture, typology

(alternatively termed “tropology”) was one of the fourfold modes of interpreting the Bible

(quatuor sensus scripturae).118 Accordingly, the Old Testament was read as a revelation of the

Christ: His resurrection, for example, was the fulfilment and redemption of Adam’s sin; the three days Jonah spent in the whale prefigured the three days Christ spent in the tomb; the Church becomes the Temple. Typology, and the vast layers of allegorical meaning it ascribed to scripture and reality, persisted in the interpretations of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Catholic theologians, but declined after the Reformation among Protestants, who increasingly read the

Bible and other texts for their literal and historical content. 119 It is important to note that Luther

“gave particular attention to the tropological or moral sense” of scripture, but “established his own rules for allegorical interpretation.”120 For Luther, all tropes and types—indeed all of

Scripture, including the Old Testament—pointed typologically to Christ. In doing so, Luther broke with the “multiplicity of scopes” that allegories could reveal, such as God, angels and

Mary, and directed them to “the reality of faith in Christ.”121

Typological interpretations, however, were not limited to formal scriptural exegesis. As

Arndt Brendecke has pointed out, typology characterized medieval views of history and time as well. Typological interpretations of history were inherent to medieval time perceptions, according to which events did not (only) follow one another in a linear, horizontal fashion, but

118 Henri de Lubac, Medieval Exegesis: The Four Senses of Scripture, Vol. 1 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1998), 1-14; Ibid., Vol. 2 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2000), 127-178. 119 Auerbach, “Figura,” 53. 120 Headley, Luther’s View of Church History, 21-22. 121 Ibid. 198 were rather related vertically and atemporally to one another—single events, though vastly separated in time, nonetheless fulfilled and explained one another as God had ordained them to.122 If late sixteenth-century Catholic concerns for the timing of holidays is any indication, typology was also instrumental in thinking about the year’s time. Equinoxes and solstices bore predictive, pre-figural relationships to salvific events—the waxing and waning of sunlight through the year spoke to Christ’s incarnation into the world. The liturgical year, as a parcel of time, embodied and encapsulated these interconnected typologies. This attention to holiday time challenges the historiographical assumption that early modern Catholics were primarily concerned with notions of space, while Lutherans (or Protestants in general) were more fixated on notions of time.123 Clearly, questions of time and timing were important for these authors. For

Lutherans, however, the temporality of holidays appears to have been less significant.

This is not to say that sixteenth-century Lutherans had no concept of a liturgical year. It is apparent that the rise of Protestantism throughout the sixteenth century meant a diminishment of holy days and rituals.124 The Reformation, however, did not spell the end of all rites associated with the sacral year. The popularity of Lutheran postils, for example, demonstrates that the annual cycle of pericopes persisted throughout the early modern period. Furthermore, it is right to question, as Scribner and others have, whether prescriptions on the part of theologians and

122 Arndt Brendecke, Die Jahrhundertwenden, 42. 123 E.g. Max Engammare, On Time, Punctuality, and Discipline in Early Modern Calvinism, trans. Karin Maag (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 7-8. Here, Engammare acknowledges that while “it would be simplistic to suggest that [… ] Catholic spirituality focused on space and left time aside,” it appears that Catholics placed much more emphasis on notions of space. The view is somewhat problematic, not only because there were numerous discursive contexts, in which Catholics express important thoughts about time and worship (as Engammare does point out), but also because time and space were often less dichotomously distinct in the Catholic mentality than Engammare portrays them. One thinks, for example, of religious processions on feast days, which could be seen as a way of sacralizing both temporal and spatial topographies. 124 Po-Chia Hsia, Social Discipline, 183-85; Robert W. Scribner, The German Reformation, Studies in European History (Atlantic Highlands: Humanities Press International, 1986), 61. 199 clergy were always efficacious in abolishing all such observances and beliefs among the laity.125

While not eschewing these arguments, the larger point to be made is that late-sixteenth century

Lutherans did have a concept of a Christian year, but defined its contours quite differently than contemporary Catholics did. Lutheran respondents to the new calendar envisioned a year whose cardinal point(s) consisted neither of solstices nor equinoxes, Christmas or even Easter, but rather of Christ Himself. What made times special or sacred was not the day upon which they were observed, however much such days conveyed important salvific symbolism, but that they manifested Christ through the preaching of God’s word.

The Gregorian calendar reform was not the only event of this period to incite debates over holidays, timing and sacrality among Catholics and Lutherans in Germany. Less than twenty years after the calendar’s inception, Lutherans used strikingly similar arguments in their repudiation of the Papal Jubilee year of 1600.126 Augsburg pastor Bartholomäus Rülich saw jubilees, which were held every quarter-century, as the Pope’s attempt to bind (binden) salvation

125 Scribner, The German Reformation, 62-63; idem, “The Reformation, Popular Magic, and the ‘Disenchantment of the World’,” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 23, no. 3 (1993): 475-94, especially 484- 85; idem, Religion and Culture in Germany (1400-1800) (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 279-282. C. Scott Dixon asks a similar question regarding the Reformation’s efficacy in reforming the laity’s belief in magic and witchcraft in sixteenth-century Brandenburg-Ansbach: “Popular Beliefs and the Reformation in Brandenbug-Ansbach,” in Bob Scribner and Trevor Johnson, eds., Popular Religion in Germany and Central Europe, 1400-1800 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 119-139, esp. 125 and 138-39. 126 Papal jubilees had been held periodically, most likely since 1300. The intervals at which jubilees were declared had varied throughout history, by the sixteenth century they were held roughly every twenty-five years. During the year, pilgrimages to Rome were encouraged among the faithful, as well as prayer, fasting and almsgiving. In addition, the pope marked each jubilee by giving out an abundance of plenary indulgences. The jubilee of 1600 in particular incited tense discussion in Germany among the Catholic and Lutheran confessions, reviving Luther’s attack on the sale of indulgences, among other confessionalized arguments. For an analysis of the jubilee in the context of confessionalization, see Thomas Kaufmann, Konfession und Kultur: Lutherischer Protestantismus in der zweiten Hälfte des Reformationsjahrhunderts (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 413-54. For a broad exploration of jubilees throughout the early modern period, and their role in shaping modern historical consciousness, see Arndt Brendecke, Die Jahrhundertwenden; Michael Mitterauer, “Anniversarium und Jubiläum. Zur Entstehung und Entwicklung öffentlicher Gedenktage,” in Hannes Brix and Emil Stekl (eds.), Der Kampf um das Gedächtnis: öffentliche Gedenktage in Mitteleuropa (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 1997), 23–90; Winfried Müller, “Das historische Jubiläum. Zur Gesichitlichkeit einer Zeitkonstruction,” in Winfried Müller (ed.), Das Historische Jubiläum: Genese, Ordnungsleistung und Inszenierungsgeschichte eines Institutionellen Mechanismus (Munster: LIT Verlag, 2004), 1–76. 200 to a specific time. 127 For this author, there was no need for a special year to attain redemption, since

whatever time of year (Zeit im Jahr) that repentance and forgiveness of sins are preached in [Christ’s] name, there is certainly at the same time remission of guilt and anguish for all those who believe in it. Of what necessity, then, a special year?128

Since Christ’s salvation extends to anyone hearing His words, regardless of what time of year, the need for an especially salvific year is eliminated. Of primary importance was the need to preach God’s word during whatever time of year—a concern Rülich shared with many of his fellow pastors in regards to the new calendar and its timing of holidays.

It is tempting to interpret Lutheran disparagements of sacred times as a “de-sacralization” of time, a “decline in the capacity to experience the sacred” in temporal reality.129 Accordingly,

Lutheran repudiation of the particular, sacred times for each holiday could be seen as part of a much larger process by which the symbolic, liturgical perception of time throughout the medieval and early modern periods was gradually shorn of its sacramental, holy quality. This interpretation correlates to the disenchantment thesis, which is increasingly questioned and debated by scholars.130 One could argue that Lutheran attitudes towards holidays did not amount

127 Bartholomaeus Rülich, Christlicher Gegenbericht Von Dem Bäpstischen Römischen JubelJar Und Ablaß/ so Auff Diß 1600. Jahr Nach Christi Geburt Außgeschrieben Worden Ist. (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Saur, 1600), 75. 128 Rülich, Christlicher Gegenbericht, 75. 129 Robert W. Scribner, “Reformation and Desacralisation: from Sacramental World to Moralised Universe” in Problems in the Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Europe, eds. R. Po-Chia Hsia and R. W. Scribner, Wolfenbütteler Forschungen 78 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1997), 75-92, here 75, note 1. 130 For overviews of these critiques, see Euan Cameron, Enchanted Europe: Superstition, Reason and Religion, 1250-1750 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), esp. 10-15; Robert W. Scribner, “The Reformation, Popular Magic, and the ‘Disenchantment of the World,’” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 23 no. 3 (2003): 475–95; Alexandra Walsham, “The Reformation and ‘the Disenchantment of the World’ Reassessed,” The Historical Journal 51, no. 2 (2008): 497–528. Robert Scribner’s chapter “The Impact of the Reformation on Daily Life” presents an open critique of the desacralization (Entzauberung) thesis, showing through a myriad examples the ways in which rituals and beliefs persisted in Lutheran territories of early modern Germany. Some of these rituals were observed in continuity with prior existing Catholic practices, e.g. name day celebrations and the consecration of physical structures like bells and churches. Others appear to have been new or intensified among Protestants, like the heightened belief in the sacred power of Bibles and hymnals. Regardless of the origins of particular traditions, Scribner’s conclusion is unambiguous: “Protestantism may have removed the stronger form of Catholic 201 to a simple de-sacralization of time but rather a re-sacralization, a redefinition of time that aligned more closely with new Protestant teachings on the nature of sacraments. Concerning notions of sacred rituals in sixteenth-century Germany, Scribner notes that “[o]ften, the process of religious reform worked not by repudiating traditional thought modes but by presupposing them in order to modify or transform them.”131

Christ Himself, the incarnate Word of God, was at the heart of the sacraments in the

Lutheran Church. By the same token, the Eucharist functioned not only as a sacramental embodiment of Christ, but also as a commemoration of his death and resurrection. Holidays, according to the authors explored here, served a similar role: they both revealed Christ through the preaching of the Gospel and commemorated an event in His life. Christ Himself was becoming the new center of life for Luther’s followers, and for Lutherans contra the new calendar, Christ was evidently to be the center of the year as well.

CONCLUSION The inauguration of the Gregorian calendar reforms in Germany incited discursive tension between Catholics and Lutherans regarding the proper timing of Christian holidays. The new calendar proved its value for Catholics inasmuch as it harmonized the Christian calendar not only with its Nicene antecedent, but also with the solar year and its solstices and equinoxes.

Lutherans, in contrast, found it unnecessary and even harmful to insist holidays be celebrated at particular times.

sacramentalism, in which created things could be the bearers of sacrality, but it did not remove the division of the world into sacred and profane by means of bounding lines and activities.” Robert W. Scribner, “The Impact of the Reformation on Daily Life,” Religion and Culture in Germany (1400-1800) (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 275-301, here 299. Walsham presents the idea of “re-sacrlization,” and with it the notion that desacralization of religion and society occurred in waves and cycles rather than taking a single, linear path. Walsham, “The Reformation,” esp. 527.By contrast, Cameron has suggested a turn back to the theological ideas and objectives of reformers, rather than emphasizing the gap between elite and common culture. While belief in magic and superstitious practices continued after the early modern period, the Reformation helped cultivate skepticism rather than fear towards such notions, a vital step in the “disenchantment” process. Cameron, Enchanted Europe, 14. 131 Scribner, Religion and Culture, 276. 202

Both views are rooted not only in the doctrinal teachings of each confession, but also in conceptual differences that pertained first to notions of time and Scripture, and secondly to understandings of sacraments. For Catholics, the new calendar resolved a crisis that had been a long time in the making, namely, the growing distance between the dates of certain holidays and the solstices and equinoxes to which they were typologically bound. In doing so, Catholic authors continued to assign meaning to biblical events through typologies rooted in the solar year. On the other hand, Lutherans criticized the claims of Catholics in regards to holidays, which they viewed to be not only historically erroneous but an encroachment upon the sacred hiddenness of God, who veiled human knowledge of exact times in salvific history. Important to note, however, is that both concepts—that of typology and God’s hiddenness—functioned to assign meaning to events and time in light of Scripture.

The positions of Catholics and Lutherans on this topic highlight important points to consider when it comes to early modern perceptions of the year’s time. For authors of both confessional persuasions, the question of whether to accept the civil calendar stemmed largely from religious beliefs and practices. For Catholics, accepting the new calendar signified faithfulness not only to the Pope but also to God, as revealed in sacred tradition, namely the proper times of Christian holidays as articulated at the Council of Nicaea. Yet Lutherans, too, saw their own repudiation of the new calendar as faithfulness to God—not the God revealed in tradition, but in Christ. Even when it came to sixteenth- and early-seventeenth-century notions of the “civil” calendar, then, religious proclivities still remained at the forefront of discussion and debate.

In this particular discourse, Lutheran authors largely disavow the need to celebrate

Christian holidays at certain times during the year—a point that, if overemphasized, risks 203 painting an unrealistic picture of the year’s time in Lutheran Germany. Despite the vehemence of their claims concerning the Gregorian calendar, none of the Lutheran authors cited here were advocating a complete elimination of Christian holidays from the calendar, civil or otherwise.

Although many saint days were abolished throughout the sixteenth century, the discousrses of this chapter illustrate that the cardinal holidays of the Christian year—especially Christmas and

Easter—were alive and well among Lutheran authors. In question was not whether to observe these crucial termini, but how and when. The authors here unanimously held that such holidays were still to be adhered to in a communal, ecclesastical setting. Their solemnity, however, stemmed from Christ and the preaching of His gospel rather than from the sacredness of a particular date, time or astronomical event in the heavens. 204 205

CHAPTER 5 BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR’S: TOWARDS A NEW NEW YEAR IN LATE SIXTEENTH- AND EARLY SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY GERMANY

During the week of Christmas 1560, at forty-two years of age, Cologne councilman

Hermann von Weinsberg endeavored upon a new project: he started a journal, or (as he termed it) a “memory book” (Gedenckbuch). Weinsberg envisioned this first-person, autobiographical work

“as a private conversation with his descendants,”1 ensuring that the “lineage and house of

Weinsberg” would not “fall into oblivion.”2 The retreat of past lives into obscurity was a sobering and grievous possibility for Weinsberg, who lamented at the outset of his memory book that

whatever is said, heard, happened, done or read by a person usually dies with the person, or if it stays for a brief time through narrative and reiteration, it quickly fades […] because the human memory is weak and forgetful. For this reason, God gave the wonderful art of writing, that the weakness and forgetfulness of human memories […] can be helped, holding all occurrences in immortality, and reviving, generating and enlivening what has been forgotten and dead.3

With these words, Weinsberg commenced a sweeping, chronological account of his life, that— with the aid of calendar pages he bound together with blank writing pages—retraced the dates of memories and family history up to about 1560.4 Thereafter, Weinsberg continued his memory

1 “Als vertrauliches Gespräch mit seinem Nachfolger.” In: Manfred Groten, “Zum Werk Hermann Weinsbergs,” in Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs — Digitale Gesamtausgabe, http://www.weinsberg.uni-bonn.de/Projekt/Weinsberg/Weinsberg.htm. 2 Hermann Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, Digital Edition, “Liber Iuventutis,” http://www.weinsberg.uni-bonn.de/Edition/Liber_Iuventutis/Liber_Iuventutis.htm, 1-1’. 3 Hermann Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, Digital Edition, “Liber Iuventutis,” http://www.weinsberg.uni-bonn.de/Edition/Liber_Iuventutis/Liber_Iuventutis.htm, 1-1’: “Dan was von dem menschen immer geredt, gehort, geschein, gedain und gelaissen wirt, das verstirbt auch gemeinlich mit dem menschen, oder verpleibt es schoin ein zit lank durch verzellung und nachsagen, so verfelt es doch gern balde ader es wirt nit eigentlich ader recht behalten, dan der menschen gedechtnis ist swach und vergeslich. Derhalb hat got der her die wonderschone schreibkunst gegeben, das dadurch der swacheit und vergeslichheit menschlicher memorien und gedechtnis verholfen mogt werden, wilche alle beschene dingen in einer unsterblicheit erhelt und was vergessen und verstorben ist, widderumb erneuwert, hervurbringt und lebentich macht.” 4 Wolfgang Herborn, “Hermann von Weinsberg (1518-1597),” in Hermann Weinsberg (1518-1597) Kölner Bürger und Ratsherr: Studien zu Leben und Werk,” ed. Manfred Groten (Köln: SH-Verlag, 2005), 1-34, here 16. 206 book into the “real time” of his life, beginning each entry with the calendar date of that year.

Now counted among the most prescient sixteenth-century accounts of daily life, by the time he died in 1597, Weinsberg’s memory book came to encompass three chronological volumes, corresponding to his childhood and adulthood (“Liber Iuventutis,” ca. 1517-1577), old age

(“Liber Senectutis,” 1578-1587) and senility (“Liber Decrepitudinis” 1588-1597).5 Each of these three volumes are further subdivided into chronological, year-long sections.

It is in this annual structuring of Weinsberg’s memory book, however, a striking discrepancy is evident. For most of the memory book, each yearly section commenced from the civil New Year. Following this pattern, the first section of his “book of old age” begins “In the year 1578, 1 January,” (Anno 1578 den eirsten tag janvuarij), otherwise described as the “new year” (neu jahr).6 This arrangement of things, however, wavers the following year: the 1578 section ends not with 31 December 1578, but rather with an entry dated “In the year 1579, 31

December, New Year’s eve” (which, incidentally, Weinsberg and his wife spent “alone and were

5 Herborn describes Weinsberg as the most significant middle-class annalist of sixteenth-century German- speaking Europe. Herborn, “Hermann von Weinsberg (1518-1597),” 15-34, here 15. The tripartite schematization of the memory book is one that Weinsberg himself incorporates, and is loosely based on the six ages of man in classical and early Christian thought. Weinsberg, however, includes the first three life phases (infancy, early childhood, and adolescence) with the first volume, on adulthood—likely because Weinsberg was only writing retrospectively on memories during his childhood and early adulthood. Weinsberg further departs from classical notions by subdividing his old age into two stages, seniority (senectus) and senility (decrepitudinis). On his birthday entry shortly after the beginning of his second book, he writes that he has turned 60 and thus “has begun [his] seniority” (“After [sic] dissem tage senarii decimi, sol ich senior sin worden.”) Hermann Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, Digital Edition, “Liber Senectutis,” http://www.weinsberg.uni-bonn.de/Edition/Liber_Senectutis/Liber_Senectutis.htm (17 April 2015), 57`: “Anno 1578 den 3. januarii war min natalis und geburtztag, an wilchem ich sesszich jar alt sin worden und in min alterdom getroden.” This, although the classical understanding of “old age” (senectus) lasted from age 40-60. Shannon Lewis- Simpson, “The Challenges of Quantifying Youth and Age in the Medieval North,” in Youth and Age in the Medieval North, ed. Shannon Lewis-Simpson (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 1-16, here 3. 6Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, “Liber Senectutis,” 57`. Since Weinsberg’s birthday was 3 January (a point that Chapter 6 shall return to), there was little discord between the three volumes Weinsberg’s book (organized by his age and life stages) and the yearly sections organized by calendar year. 207 happy together this evening and concluded the old year.”)7 Following this entry, a new section begins with one that is dated 1 January 1579.8 This habit--writing the following year in entries prior to 1 January—had also occurred in three previous years of Weinsberg’s text.9 The perplexity is ultimatley explained twelve months later in an entry written on Christmas 1579, or as Weinsberg reckoned it: “25 December in the year 1580 […] Holy Christmas, on which (day) the new year begins, even though it is still in December.”10 Like those of 1578, entries during this year’s section were attribued to the year “1579” until 1 January 1580.11 Such vacillations recur until the end of Weinsberg’s life and memory book, raising the question of which date he truly considered as the start of the new year: Christmas or 1 January.

The duality between these two dates and the unique way Weinsberg ultimately resolves it in his work provides a preliminary glimpse into notions of the civil New Year in early modern

Germany. The purpose of this chapter is to examine Weinsberg’s approach to New Year’s observance in more detail and in conversation with other textual genres that grappled with the date, namely New Year’s sermons. The first section situates Weinsberg’s memory book within the historical roots of competing New Year’s dates in medieval and early modern Germany— namely 1 January and Christmas (25 December). While the historical roots of these two dates lay in the late Roman Empire and middle ages, I also explore how these long-standing customs competed with one another and congealed into a more universal observance of New Year’s on 1

January in sixteenth-century Germany. It becomes necessary, then, to examine the degree to

7 Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, “Liber Senectutis,” 108`: “Anno 1579 den 31. decemb., neu jarß abendt, sin mir allein under unß frolich den abendt gewest und daß alt jar gesclossen [sic].” 8 Ibid., 109. 9 See especially 1554, 1558 and 1560, each of which years begin prior to 1 January. C.f. Wolfgang von Herborn, “Kalendae Januarii—Circumcisio—Neujahrstag: Zur Geschichte von Neujahr und Silvester im Rheinland bis 1600,” in Rheinische Vierteljahrsblätter 72 (2008): 1-34, here 26. 10 Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, “Liber Senectutis,” 164: “Anno 1580 den 25 decemb. war der heilige christach, uff wilchen das neu jar anfengk, ob es wol noch in december ware.” 11 Ibid. 208 which 1 January was recognized as New Year’s, and how the start of the civil year functioned in tandem with the alternative beginnings to the years of Church and nature.

The shift towards 1 January as the start of the civil year is evidenced in part by the growing appearance of New Year’s sermons (Neujahrspredigten), whose popularity peaked in the early seventeenth century. The temporal reflections offered by New Year’s sermons provide insight into the rituals and perceptions that accompanied the start of a new civil year. Also evident in these sermons is a novel interest in the spiritual significance of beginning a new year in time. The emphasis on religious understandings of time drew attention to the place Christmas had once held as Germany’s civil new year, an allusion that can be seen as a means of creating— rather than neutrally transmitting—knowledge about the past. By drawing cursory attention to

Christmas as the “old” new year, pastors were able to maintain a sense of continuity with

Christian society of the past, while making sense of new calendrical practices.

I. IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE YEAR: COMPLICATED CONTEXTS OF 1 JANUARY Cultural anthropologist Anthony Aveni speaks of the new year (i.e. a specific time at which a year begins afresh) as a “point of entry” into a recurring loop of time that would otherwise be barred from access.12 1 January is one such point in time that has offered many people and cultures an opportunity to pause and reflect before marching forward into the new year. The path cut through history by 1 January, however, is a winding trail that is not always easy to follow from the cues of written sources. Adhered to by civil calendars throughout the world today, calculating each year from 1 January to 1 January is a tradition rooted in the beginning of the Julian calendar (45 BC), which officially placed the start of Rome’s fiscal and

12 Aveni, “Happy New Year! But Why Now?” 11-12. 209 juridical year on the calends of the first month.13 In this context, the new year was heralded not only by the transition of funds and political power, but also by bawdy pagan celebrations—by the late Roman Empire, it was customary to extend the saturnalia, the pagan festivals in honor of

Saturn that ordinarily began on 17 December, into the new civil year.14 Despite the legalization of Christianity in 325 CE, 1 January retained its celebratory, and sometimes pagan, practices for all too many Christians. This is at least the sense one gets from several extant homilies written by

Church fathers, who repudiated the celebrations.15 To admonish their flocks in the face of the new year, such clergy members preached special sermons lamenting the new year’s excessive celebrations and encouraging Christians to arrange their upcoming year to allow for spending more time hearing and heeding the Gospel.

In addition to homiletics, the post-Nicene Church erected a further safeguard against the influence of paganism by gradually pushing the civil New Year back from 1 January to

Christmas, which by that time was increasingly observed on 25 December.16 By doing so, annual temporal circuits were aligned with the Anno Domini scheme of historical time. Although common knowledge of 1 January as the Roman New Year never fully disappeared, the early

13 Roman months were split into three categories of days. The calends (kalendae, “the called”) were the first day of each month and are thought to have once corresponded to the new moon. The ides, which once may have corresponded to the full moon, began on the thirteenth to fifteenth day and lasted until the end of the month. In between were the nones, which began eight days before the ides, roughly five to seven days after the first calendae. 14 For a fascinating modern historiography on the Roman calendar, see: D. C. Feeney, Caesar’s Calendar: Ancient Time and the Beginnings of History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007). 15 Bonnie Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Strevens, The Oxford companion to the Year (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 6-7. Two prominent preachers of New Year’s sermons include St. Augustine and Bishop Asterius of Amasea (d. 410). The following works are helpful for locating early Christian examples of New Year’s sermons: Sister Mary Sarch [sic] Muldowney, ed., The Fathers of the Church: A New Translation (New York: Fathers of the Church, 1959), 49–58; Bishop Asterius of Amasia, “On the Festival of the Calends,” in Ancient Sermons for Modern Times, trans. Galusha Anderson and Edgar Johnson Goodspeed (New York: The Pilgrim Press, 1904), 113–30. 16 Thomas J. Talley, The Origins of the Liturgical Year (Colledgeville, Minnesota: The Liturgical Press, 1986), 91. As Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson indicate, though, Epiphany was probably much older than this and in its original form had been a composite celebration not only of the coming of the magi, but also Christ’s birth and resurrection. Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson, The Origins of Feasts, Fasts and Seasons in Early Christianity (Collegeville, Minnesota: Liturgical Press, 2011), xv. 210 middle ages gave way to a flowering of New Year’s dates across Europe. Depending on one’s geographic location, the old Roman new year was replaced by Christmas (25 December), the spring quatember (01 March), the vernal equinox (10 March, approximately, according to the old, Julian calendar), the Annunciation (25 March), and the autumnal quatember (01

September).17 In German-speaking areas of medieval Europe, the Christmas-style (25

December) of New Year’s was the norm for juridical and political purposes.18

Meanwhile, as the many alternative manifestations of New Year’s spread across Europe,

1 January likewise took on new commemorative meanings that diverged from its former role as the Roman civil New Year. By the middle ages, the date was synonymous with the feast of

Christ’s circumcision, which at least since the sixth century had been observed on the octave, or eighth liturgical day, of Christ's birth.19 It is also worth reiterating that well into the early sixteenth century, the annually recurring cycle of major feasts and saint days was the most commonly used means of date-keeping. For this reason, then, it could be stated that the feast of the circumcision was not on the first of January—more precisely, by the high middle ages, it simply was the first of January.

The late middle ages were marked by a long-lasting transition towards the so-called

“Circumcision style” civil New Year, so named because 1 January and the feast of the

17 Engammare, Time, Punctuality, and Discipline, 5; Hermann Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Jahresanfang” under “Glossar.” 18 Ibid., s.v. “Weihnachtsanfang” under “Glossar.” 19 Luke 2:21. For the sake of simplicity, in this chapter I refer to this feast solely as the Feast of the Circumcision. In actuality, however, early modern churches also observed a related feast on the same day, known as the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus. The origins of the latter stem from the nature of the Jewish circumcision, which entails not only the circumcision itself, but also a ceremony in which the name of the child is revealed by the parents. Though the Catholic Church decoupled the two feasts in the 1530s, moving the Name Day feast to 3 January, Lutherans typically continued to recognize both feasts on the first of January. Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, one finds the two feasts addressed often inextricably in Circumcision Day sermons, with reflections on the theological significance of Christ’s circumcision occurring alongside lengthy extrapolations as to the meaning and salvific power of Jesus’ name. The councils of Tours (567) and Toledo (633) mandated this trend, which had been gaining popularity in western Christendom, further dislodging the association between 1 January and the old, Roman civil year. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Circumcisio domini” under “Glossar.” 211 circumcision were synonymous. The precise details and impetus for this shift are not yet fully understood by historians. Sources of the late medieval and early modern period remain surprisingly mute on the topic, Weinsberg’s writing being one of the very few exceptions to this rule. Nonetheless, several points can be made to better understand this shift. To some extent, the general awareness of the Roman New Year never fully disappeared throughout the medieval centuries. The date still bore the title of “New Year’s Day” in most vernacular languages throughout Europe during the middle ages.20 As Wolfgang von Herborn has demonstrated, sporadic references to the “New year’s day” (Neujahrstag) and “New year’s eve”

(Neujahrsabend) can be found in German-language sources at least as early as the thirteenth century.21 Moreover, traditional Roman New Year’s customs—such as gift-giving and wishing one’s neighbor’s well—persisted during the middle ages, likely transmitted through literary sources such as Ovid.22 And if the disgruntled commentary of at least one early seventeenth- century pastor are to be believed the whole gamut of pagan saturnalia had also persisted into the early modern age.23 Whatever the case may be, an organic transition that saw the New Year gradually remitted to 1 January began in the twelfth century and lasted into the sixteenth century.24 Yet, as Thomas Kaufmann and others have noted, the Christmas style of New Year’s may have persisted in some form until at least the mid-sixteenth century.25

20 Blackburn and Holford-Strevens, The Oxford companion to the Year, 7. 21 Herborn, “Kalendae Januarii,” 33. 22 Dorothea Baudy, “STRENARUM COMMERCIUM: Über Geschenke und Glückwünsche zum römischen Neujahrsfest,” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 130 (1987): 1-28, here 2. 23 David Cerameus, Eteotyxia Perpetva oder stettes Jarglück (n.p., 1606), Biir. 24 Herborn, “Kalendae Januarii,” 33. In his survey of legal and cultural manuscripts of the Rhineland, the author argues that terms such as “New year’s day” (Neujahrstag) and “New year’s eve” (Neujahrsabend) began to appear occasionally in German-language documents as early as the late thirteenth century. Documents written in Latin, however, continued to follow the nativity-new year style and described 1 January as the circumcision. 25 Kaufmann, Konfession und Kultur, 418-19 (c.f. footnote 21 on these pages). What I have just described applies most directly to territories of the Holy Roman Empire. One should note that similar processes were occurring in countries throughout Europe beginning in the 13th century, though with slightly different nuances. Venice, as an interesting example, continued to use 01 March (and in some cases 25 March, or Annunciation) as the 212

Given the significant insight Weinsberg’s work lends to historical understandings of the

New Year, it is worth investigating his attitudes towards this event. For about the first half of his memory book, until the late 1570s, Weinsberg begins each section of his work with 1 January, which he usually refers to as “New Year’s Day.” Several times in the early part of his work, however, the final entries of the outgoing year referred to the practice of ending the year with

Christmas instead, as was the case on 25 December 1570, when Weinsberg noted that “[today] I should begin and reckon the 1571st year with Christmas, how fittingly, since one writes from the birth of Christ, not from the circumcision.”26 Weinsberg refrains from doing so, however, keeping with the common custom of almanacs and calendars, which always started on 1

January.27 By the end of the decade, however, Weinsberg begins to show more preference for the

Christmas-style New Years, describing the date in 1579 as “25 December in the year 1580 was

Holy Christmas, on which (day) the new year begins, even though it is still in December. For one writes after the birth of Jesus Christ and not after the circumcision.”28 Here, Weinsberg employs

Anno Domini phraseology for conveying the year’s numbered place in history since Christ’s birth.29 This way of labeling the year was also frequently used in contemporary calendars also followed, an example of which is Leonhardt Thurneisser zum Thurn’s Almanac and Writing

Calendar, whose title page is labeled “for the year after the merciful birth of Jesus Christ our

new year even as late as 1797. For more detailed comments regarding processes across Europe, see Engammare, On Time, Punctuality, and Discipline, 5. 26 Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs,“Liber Iuventutis,” 595`: “Anno 1570 den 25. dec. Hie sult ich setzen und uff christag das 1571. jar ansetzen und rechnen, wie recht, dan man schribt van der geburt Christi das jar an, nit van der besnidung.” 27 Ibid. 28 Hermann Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, “Liber Senectutis,” 108’. 29 Or at least as the event was erroneously calculated by Dionysius Exegiuus in the sixth century. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Chistliche Zeitrechnung,” under “Glossar.” 213

Redeemer 1580.”30 Weinsberg seems to imply that to stay in line with an Anno Domini scheme of reckoning history, it was most logical to commence the year also from Christ’s birth rather than 1 January.

Despite his growing proclivity for the Christmas new year, Weinsberg still places this entry in the “1579” section of his diary, eight days later mentioning that he has begun “Anno

1580 with God” and had invited his niece and nephew over to drink wine and “commence the new year” (das newjar untfangen).31 Weinsberg attributes the tension between the two dates primarily to his locale: he perceived the use of Christmas as New Year’s as a “custom […] of the city of Cologne,” while 1 January is the New Year of common calendars and almanacs. For this reason, Grotefend cites Weinsberg’s journal as evidence that the Christmas style of New

Year’s persisted in Cologne through the sixteenth century.32

Finally, in 1591, Weinsberg’s preference for the Christmas style of New Year’s comes full tilt—not only does he begin reckoning the number of the coming year from 25 December, but begins organizing the yearly sections of his work according to Christmas rather than 1

January. Acknowledging this change, Weinsberg viewed himself to be aligning with the Pope, who begins the year with Christmas. 25 December, Weinsberg added, was also more suitable from the standpoint of “nature and the heavenly circuit” (natur und himmelsslauff) than 1

January, since the winter solstice occurs sometime around 22 December (NS). Even so,

Weinsberg knows he is in the minority: “Many people (including my brother Gottschalk) err and doubt as to whether one begins the year with Christmas on the 25th of December, at the end of

30 Leonhardt Thurneysser zum Thurn, Allmanach || vnd SchreibKalender/|| sampt verenderung dess w#[ae]t=||ters/ mit eingefürter Practick/ auff || das Jar nach der Gnadenreichen Geburt || Jesu Christi/ vnsers Erl#[oe]sers.|| M.D.LXXX. (Berlin: Hentzken, 1579), title page. Note: A similar calendar almanac by Thurneisser, published a year prior to this one, forms the basis of the Appendix. 31 Hermann Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs,“Liber Senectutis,” 165. 32 Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Osteranfang” under “Glossar”; Weinsberg, “Liber Decrepitudinis,” 200. 214 the month, or else the first day of the month of January.” These individuals, Weinsberg notes, would like to begin the year with Christmas, but they believe it would cause problems in official documentation of accounts and payments.33 Whatever the case, Weinsberg sticks to his decision—the remaining sections of his memory book continue to commence the new year with

25 December.

In doing so, one can view Weinsberg’s memory book—both its form and content-

-as a means of time keeping and regulating. The link between diary writing—a novel genre in the early modern period—and the emergence of new temporal norms has been explored by such historians as Stuart Sherman and Rudolf Dekker.34 Both operate from the supposition that the emergence of accurate clocks and watches during the seventeenth century contributed to the birth of autobiographical writing. As Dekker argues, daily diaries and the clock resulted from “the rise of modern time awareness and the diurnal form.”35 Although it is not a diary strictly speaking, Weinsberg’s autobiographical memory book suggests that a similar type of awareness of the calendar year as a temporal form preceded early modernity’s discovery of clock time—the year as a time frame is that within which Weinsberg frequently locates himself temporally. Moreover,

Weinsberg’s switch to a different new year was not confined to his writing habits—he also remits all his typical New Year’s activities back to 24 and 25 December. After affirming Christmas as New Year, Weinsberg henceforth reckons his financial accounts

33 Weinsberg, “Liber Decrepitudinis,” 200`-201. 34 Rudolf Dekker, “Watches, Diary Writing and the Search for Self-Knowledge in the Seventeenth Century,” in Making Knowledge in Early Modern Europe, eds. Pamela H. Smith and Benjamin Schmidt (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2007), 127-143, see esp. 127-129; Stuart Sherman, Telling Time: Clocks, Diaries, and English Diurnal Form, 1660-1785 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), esp. 8-9. 35 Rudolf Dekker, “Watches, Diary Writing and the Search for Self-Knowledge,” 141 215 for the year and gives people New Year’s salutations, activities previously performed on

1 January.36

Like so many other aspects of his memory book, Weinsberg’s temporal oscillations and ultimate decision to shift New Year’s back to 25 December serves as a unique case for historical inquiry. At the very least, in no other contemporary source on record are personal attitudes towards the new year articulated with as much exapnsiveness or gravitas. Initially, it is appealing to see in Weinsberg a man who has been “left behind” in the stream of historical transition to a

“new” New Year’s, to interpret his wavering as evidence of genuine confusion or trepidation in the face of a novel development. Yet this does not quite capture the enigmatic complexity of

Weinsberg’s attitude: if indeed he was left behind in the matter, it was largely the result of a self- aware choice on his part. As Wolfgang Herborn asserts, Weinsberg was born into a world in which the majority of the population began the year on 1 January.37 It is not inconceivable that the transition to this date continued in certain corners, but by his own admission, Weinsberg was surrounded by people who observed New Year’s on 1 January: he ultimately failed to convince those in his local vicinity to observe the Christmas-style because they were worried the shift would pose problems in public documents. Their concerns, inasmuch as they were depicted by

Weinsberg, imply that the city was already adhering to 1 January as its civil New Year. Nor can it be overlooked that for most of his memory book, Weinsberg himself portrayed 1 January as

New Year’s.

Weinsberg sheds further light on these issues in 1594, several years after he had made the switch back to the Christmas New Year’s:

For all years before 1591, I began [the year] on the first of January. I followed the common custom, just as the printed almanacs do until this present time, even

36 E.g. Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs,“Liber Decrepitudinis,” 339’. 37 Wolfgang von Herborn, “Kalendae Januarii,” 32. 216

though I became aware many years ago that one should [...] make 25 December or the 8th calends of January the beginning of the year.38

Weinsberg legitimizes his by now three-year-old habit of formally observing the New Year on

Christmas by alluding to a realization he had had “long ago.” Yet, he remains silent as to what new information had incited this awareness, and why it still took “many years” before he finally switched to Christmas. The larger point, however, is that the Christmas style New Year’s was a new practice to Weinsberg—it is something he “became aware of” at an unspecified point in his life.

What purpose did Weinsberg’s anachronistic New Year’s decision serve? Of primary improtance, Weinsberg depicts the Christmas style tradition as a Colognian one.39 The supposed local heritage of the tradition likely played a significant role for Weinsberg, who had served as a council member of his city since 1543 and had been preceded in this political office by his father,

Christian Weinsberg (d. 1549).40 The preservation of his family legacy, one of his stated motivations in writing the memory book, was intertwined with honoring the traditions and identity of Cologne.

Along with the Catholic city of Cologne, “many other lands and rulers” reputedly followed in this “praiseworthy use and style” of the new year: the Holy Roman Emperor and

Germany (“Deutzland”) as well as Italy, France and Spain—incidentally the most prominent

38 Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, “Liber Decrepitudinis,” 340: „vor hin hab ich biß an daß jar 91 alle jarß daß jar angefangen den eirsten janvarij. Ich hab dem gemeinen brauch wol gefolgt wie auch die getruckte almanachen jeder zit daß noch uff disse stunde thoin, ob ich wol vur vil jaren gewist daß man auff christagh daß ist den 25 decemb. aut 8 calend. janva. damit dem jar sinen anfanck geben und machen sult.” 39 Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, “Liber Iuventutis,” 595`. 40 Weinsberg’s father was an extremely influential figure in his life and someone Weinsberg sought to emulate. Christian Weinsberg, in his proclivity to chronicle family events in an heirloom Bible, was perhaps an impetus for Weinsberg to begin his work of memory. Wolfgang Herborn, “Hermann von Weinsberg (1518-1597),” in Hermann Weinsberg (1518-1597) Kölner Bürger und Ratsherr: Studien zu Leben und Werk,” ed. Manfred Groten (Köln: SH- Verlag, 2005), 18. 217

Catholic nations in Europe. 41 In adhering to the Christmas New Year’s, Weinsberg locates himself within the counter-Reformation world of early modern Catholicism—or at least within his own perception thereof. Although Weinsberg may have been right about the calendrical practices of the papal state, the German lands of the Holy Roman Empire had already switched to 1 January, as had Spain by the late fifteenth century and France did so in 1563.42 Northern

Italy had never used the Christmas New Year’s style but began on the Feast of the Annunciation

(25 March).43 Whether Weinsberg was misinformed about true state of New Year’s across

Europe or not, in representing the Christmas New Year’s as a supposed Catholic custom he actively shaped knowledge concerning what was and was not part of Catholic identity. Historians of the Counter-Reformation have drawn attention to the role that the creation and reformulation of knowledge during the Post-Tridentine period played in molding Catholic understandings of the world.44 By redefining how (or when) Catholics observed the civil New Year and aligning his own practices accordingly, Weinsberg affirms his Catholic identity against the temporality of the

Protestant Other.

For Weinsberg, however, the distinction between Catholic and other Christians arose not from a sense of Catholicism’s superiority or triumph, but instead from an awareness of

Catholicism’s (even Tridentine Catholicism’s) shortcomings and failings. Throughout his life,

Weinsberg remained faithful to the old Catholic faith in which his parents raised him, taking care to maintain a schedule of confession, communion and mass attendance throughout the year.45

41 C.f. Weinsberg, “Liber Iuventutis,” 595`; Ibid., “Liber Senectutis,” 543; Ibid., “Liber Decrepitudinis,” 160- 160`, 200`-201. 42 Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Circiumcisionsstil” under “Glossar.” 43 Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Circumcisionsstil” and “Annunciationsstil” under “Glossar.” 44 E.g. Carina L. Johnson, “Stone Gods and Counter-Reformation Knowledges,” in Making Knowledge in Early Modern Europe, eds. Pamela H. Smith and Benjamin Schmidt (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2007), 233-47, esp. 246-47. 45 As he articulates in his memory book, Weinsberg strove to go to confession at least twice annually—for much of his life [doing so in Latin] rewrite. He was a member of his parish council, received communion every 218

Throughout his adult life, however, Weinsberg harbored a bitterness towards clerics, whom he once described as pigs, driven by licentious vice and lust for power. While clerics tended towards gluttony and corruption, Jesuits, who forced an overly ascetical lifestyle on people, occupied the other extreme for Weinsberg.46 Towards Protestants, he maintained a distant, albeit empathetic, tolerance. Yet although he came into contact with Lutherans and Anabaptists in his tenure as concilor, he never expressed an interest in converting, desiring instead to “stay with the old” and “occupy a middle path” of religion, praying that God would carry out His peace in all things. From this perspective, it was not only the Protestants but also the Jesuits who had strayed from true faith. At the same time, Weinsberg did not believe it apt to fight to bring about this

“middle path,” since he viewed religious reform as a matter to be dealt with by higher authorities.47 Bearing this in mind, Weinsberg’s depiction of a Catholic temporal sense of the year must be seen as a desire for a better Catholicism, rather than a symbol of its triumph.

Furthermore, it was not only on behalf of himself that Weinsberg sought to assert a distinct temporal identity—Catholic or otherwise—but for the sake of his household and progeny. In 1592, once again lamenting the “misunderstanding among the common man […] who believes that Christmas belongs in the previous year,” Weinsberg draws attention to the frequency with which he must correct or deny official documents—among them quittances and manuscripts—that bear the false date or year number. According to Weinsberg, many people

Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday and strictly observed the major fasts of the church until old age. However, Weinsberg did not see himself as pious, observing on one occasion that, while he enjoyed going to church and listening to sermons, he did not pray or read the Scriptures as often as he should and often felt more interested in worldly matters rather than spiritual ones. Wolfgang Herborn, “Hermann von Weinsberg (1518-1597),” in Hermann Weinsberg (1518-1597) Kölner Bürger und Ratsherr: Studien zu Leben und Werk,” ed. Manfred Groten (Köln: SH- Verlag, 2005), 25. 46 Wolfgang Herborn, “Hermann von Weinsberg (1518-1597),” in Hermann Weinsberg (1518-1597) Kölner Bürger und Ratsherr: Studien zu Leben und Werk,” ed. Manfred Groten (Köln: SH-Verlag, 2005), 25. 47 For a summary of Weinsberg’s religious position, see Wolfgang Herborn, “Hermann von Weinsberg (1518- 1597),” in Hermann Weinsberg (1518-1597) Kölner Bürger und Ratsherr: Studien zu Leben und Werk,” ed. Manfred Groten (Köln: SH-Verlag, 2005), 25-27. 219 commit this error because they follow the common reckoning of calendars and almanacs. To avoid this pitfall, Weinsberg reports that he has commanded his household and heir to adopt the

Christmas style of New Year’s: “I desire and have […] exhorted and taught, and warned, my heir and […] members of the Weinsberg household, that they are to begin to write the year of

Christmas with the number of the coming year, that they know to protect themselves from [that] error, from which harm and disturbance can come.”48 Weinsberg went on to outline in greater detail how one ought to date all of the days that fell between Christmas and 1 January, giving the sense that Weinsberg may have envisioned his exhortation would eventually serve to instruct distant generations on the issue of the New Year. As benevolent as Weinsberg’s concern for his household appears, however, the problem of denied or falsely dated documents had hardly seemed significant in earlier years, when Weinsberg first opted for the Christmas-style. It was only after adopting the anachronistic practice whe Weinsberg deems the the circumcision style an error, and a fairly pervasive one at that.

Weinsberg’s memory book serves as both an exceptional and representative artifact of early modern understandings of the civil year. They were on the one hand exceptional; the particularities of his New Year’s views was not part and parcel of a wider trend back towards the

Christmas-style New Year’s, although such a movement would likely have been welcomed by

Weinsberg. In this instance at least, Weinsberg marched to the beat of his own temporal drum, one that he had largely manufactured. As idiosyncratic as it was, however, certain aspects of

Weinsberg’s attitudes illustrate broader temporal perceptual trends in the early modern period, an era during which various modes of year’s time often served as sites where religious identities

48 Weinsberg, “Liber Decrepitudinis,” 246: “Will auch minen erben den hausfatter und hausgnossen zu Weinsbergh und menniglich ermant und gelert, auch gewarnt haben, daß sie daß jar jarlichs uff den christag 25 decemb. mit der jarzalln deß fort an lauffende jar willen anfangen schriben halten und sich vor irthumb daruß schade und unrauwe untstain kan, wissen zu hutten.” 220 was constructed, asserted or negotiated. At times, this use of the year’s time took precedence over social convenience or straightforwardness—the persistance of two civil calendars throughout Germany after 1582, for example, hardly engendered greater simplicity in time keeping. Yet the two calendars functioned as touchstones to clarify confessional identities as well as to buttress broader, confessionally-based ideas about time, sacrament and history.

Weinsberg’s doggedness in reverting to an old New Year’s—even if it incurred misunderstandings or inconveniences from others—is more comprehensible when understood as a similar means to staking a claim on his identity, not only for himself as an individual, but also

(so he hoped) for his household, his descendants and in some sense the Catholic world.

II. FROM THE CIRCUMCISION TO A NEW YEAR: PREACHING A “NEW” NEW YEAR IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY

Weinsberg’s struggles notwithstanding, most people of the sixteenth century were not in doubt as to when the year began. The prominent use of the so-called Circumcision style of New

Year’s is evidenced in part by the appearance of a growing number of printed New Year’s sermons throughout the second half of the sixteenth century. Traditionally, the first of January had been reserved for sermons on the feast of the circumcision of Christ, which—according to the Gospels—happened eight days after His birth. A so-called “high feast” (hochzeitlich[es] fest) day, the date was marked by reduced working hours and, ideally, religious services that recounted the circumcision and naming of Christ.49 The early modern period had witnessed a growing number of pastors stray from this traditional practice. This bourgeoning homiletic attention being given to the New Year had not escaped the notice of Martin Luther, who began disparaging the rise of such sermons as early as 1523, expressing his criticisms, ironically, in

49 [Martyrologium: Viola Sanctorum ] Martilogium [!] der heiligen nach dem kalender (Straßburg: Johann Prüss , 1484), Air. 221 what is perhaps the earliest extant New Year’s sermon printed in German. Though inscribed as a sermon for New Year’s Day (am neuen Jarstag), the homily was far from a New Year’s sermon.

Luther’s main focus—in continuity with late medieval homiletic practice—was the Feast of the

Circumcision. In doing so, however, Luther makes mention of pastors who were increasingly using 1 January to preach about the start of the civil year—a practice he curtly repudiates:

On this day, some have begun to expound from the pulpit about the New Year, as if they had nothing else useful and beneficial to preach so that hold forthupon such unnecessary fables instead of God’s Word, and turn the serious office [of preaching] into a game and shame. The Gospel demands that we preach about the circumcision and about the name of Jesus – we will want to have our eyes set on these matters.50

For Luther, talk of the New Year detracted from expounding on message of this crucial event in

Christ’s life. According to Jewish custom, Luther explained, the circumcision was the time at which a male child received his name51 The name of “Jesus” was given to the son of God, which means “salvation” (Heylandt), and by this, His followers are to understand that Christ came to save His people from sin, death and the Law.52 A year later, Luther once again introduced the topic of circumcision by attacking the new year: “[In this sermon] I will leave the idiocy regarding the new year alone. We received a new year at baptism—let’s see to it that we keep it, we are not in need of another.”53 In other words, every person gets a perfect fresh start in the

50 Martin Luther, Ausslegung der Epistelen und Evangelien/ die nach Brauch der Kirchen gelesen werden ... (Colmar: Farckall, 1523), CXLIX: “Auff disen tag pflegt man das new Jar zu teylen auff der Canzel/ als het man sunst nit gnug nüzlichs/ helsams dings zu predigen/ das man solich unnuze fabelen an statt göttliches worts fürgeben müste/ und auß solichem ernsten ampt ein spiel und schimpff Machen. Von der beschneidung fordert das Evangelium zu predigen und von dem namen Jhesus/ da wöllen wir auff sehen.” 51 Ibid., CLIr-v. 52 Ibid., CLIr-CLIIr. 53 Martin Luther, Ain Sermon, von der beschneydung am newen Jahrs tag : Item ain gaystliche außlegung der Zaychen in Son, Mon vnnd gestirn (Augsburg: Steiner, 1524), Aiiir-v: “Das narrenwerck wye man pflegt das newe jar zugeben wil ich aufsteenlassen/ wir haben ain newes jar kriegt in der tauffe/ da last uns zusehen das wirs behalten/ wir dürffen kains meer.” Given Luther’s ill regard for trumping up New Year’s day in church, one can only imagine his chagrin had he lived to see excerpts of his own writings and sermons posthumously combined and repackaged into true new year’s sermons, e.g.: Laurentius Drabitius, Der aller gewisseste Calender Und unfeilbarste Practica 222 waters of baptism—all other “new years” are superfluous and detract from the significance of this sacrament. Luther preached that for Christians, who lived according to the new covenant of

Christ, physical circumcision had been replaced by spiritual circumcision. “We must grow more and more pure from day to day,” he wrote, “this is a spiritual circumcision which we undergo in the New Testament.”54

However, Luther’s criticism of New Year’s sermons did not impede the genre’s growing popularity. These homilies were preached exclusively by Lutheran clergymen and were issued either as single sermons or included within larger sermon collections. Themes frequently touched upon memories of the past year, time’s fleetingness, affirmation of Protestantism and its doctrinal heritage, spiritual wisdom tailored to each estate (Stand) of society, as well as admonishments to give thanks and repent of one’s sins committed in the past year. While these topics remained relatively constant throughout the early modern period, certain others came and went depending on historical conditions at the time they were preached. During the Thirty Years’

War (1618-48), for example, New Year’s sermons occasionally recounted the scourges of the preceding year and encouraged parishioners to trust in the promise of peace—if not in this world, then surely in the Hereafter.55 Thus, the New Year’s sermon, as a homiletic sub-genre, serves as a rich repository for studying early modern cultural perceptions on such issues as memory, historical reckoning, life and death, time and eternity, religious upheaval, concerns for war and peace, and many more.56 After their popularity peaked in the early seventeenth century, the New

vor alle Stende aus Gottes heilsamen Worte Der reinen alten Kirchen Lehrer und Herrn D. Lutheri Büchern zusammen getragen und in einer Predigt abgehandelt zum seligen lieben Newen Jahre (Leipzig, 1593). 54 Luther, Ain Sermon, von der beschneydung, Aiiir: “Wir müssen vonn tage zu tage/ rainer und rainer werden/ diß ist ain gaystliche beschneydeng/ die wir im newen testament begeen.” 55 E.g. Nicodemus Lappius, HISTORICA SECULI NOVO--ANTIQUI COMPARATIO. Das ist/ eine historische Vergleichung des neulichst vergangenen 1642 Jahrs/ mit dem/ so vor hundert Jahren verflossen ... (Gotha: Peter Schmiden, 1643); Wilhelm Weber, Schöner Spruch zu einem glückseligen/ fried- und frewdenreichen Newen Jahr (n.p., 1645). 56 That I am aware, there is no historiographical work that thoroughly analyzes early modern manifestations of 223

Year’s sermon was gradually overshadowed by other specimens of New Year’s literature such as occasional poetry or felicitations (Glückwünschungen).57

At first glance, these homilies appear to have remained unscathed by the ambiguity of

New Year’s dating with which Weinsberg’s so poignantly grappled in his memory book. After all, they were written and preached on the specific occasion of the new civil year, which sermons regarded as 1 January without exception. Occasionally, however, the sermons revealed lingering vestiges of the Christmas New Year’s. For example, in his collection of New Year’s sermons for

1600, Braunschweig pastor Jakob Gilbert paints a complex picture of status of 1 January:

Today [1 January] the New Year commences according to the Roman calendar. It is true that we Christians begin our year earlier on the holy day of Christmas, as we reckon and name the year not from the day of the Lord’s circumcision but from His birthday. 58

Gilbert’s statement suggests that, for him, the term “New Year’s Day” was largely one of commemoration—memorializing the start of the Roman calendar—while Christians begin the year with Christmas. One wonders if is a statement about how Christians are to theoretically interpret time, or about an actual civil practice. Either way, Gilbert’s use of the present tense in this regard suggests that the idea or practice of a Christmas New

the New Year’s sermon. 57 Felicitations, as I have termed them, typically consisted of well-wishes on occasion of the New Year, often from an author towards his patron or prince. They ranged from the brief expression of hopeful sentiments for the upcoming year, to sonnets and poetry collections, to entire sermons or collections. In many cases, the authors of such texts connected the purpose of their writing with the well-known tradition of giving gifts (strenarum commercium) and well-wishes for the New Year, a custom early modern authors thought was to have arisen in classical antiquity. 58 Jacob Gilbert, Das newe Jar in sieben Predigten gefasset (Magdeburg: Duncker, 1600), 35: „[H]eute das Newe jar nach dem römischen calender anfehet. Es ist wol war/ wir christen fahe das newe jahr als bald an am heiligen Christage/ wie wir dan die Jahrzahl nennen unnd rechnen/ nicht von des Herrn Christi beschneidung/ sondern von sienem geburtstage. Aber doch weil uns die Beschneidung Christi eben auff den 1. Januarii des Römischen Calenders einfelt/ hat mans mit dem Newen jahr bey diesem Ersten tage des jenners/ vielleicht umb mehrer richtigkeit willen/ auch bleiben lassen.“ 224

Year’s was still relevant in his time. Continuing, however, he explains that this Christian

New Year’s had been superseded by 1 January:

But because the circumcision of Christ coincides precisely with the Roman calendar’s 1 January, the new year has been left to the first day of January, perhaps for the sake of a more proper use.59

Thus, while still holding on to the concept of the Christmas New Year’s, the first of January seems to have become the real New Year’s. The innovation was tolerable not only because it was official or ensured clarity, but also because it coincided with the circumcision of Christ. Gilbert’s comments speak to an overlap of sorts between old and new customs surrounding the date(s) of

New Year’s.

A similar overlap is present in David Cerameus’s 1606 New Year’s sermon. Here,

Cerameus describes not two but three different beginnings of the year (dreierley Anfang deß

Jahrs) currently in practice among Christians. The first date listed is the start of Advent, which

Cerameus—in keeping with ecclesiastical practice--deems the beginning of the church year.

Advent started four Sundays before Christmas, with the earliest possible starting date being 27

November.60 The first Sunday of Advent served a practical ecclesiastical function since, as

Cerameus put it, “at that time, [the lectionary of] Epistle and Gospel readings for the whole year start over and are explained from scratch.”61 Thus, the Gospel readings in Sunday church services began anew in the season leading up to Christ’s birth. According to Cerameus, the cyclical repetition of Sunday Scripture readings was helpful for the „laity and common simple folk, who have neither time nor opportunity to read and study Holy Scriptures. Since each text is

59 Jacob Gilbert, Das newe Jar in sieben Predigten gefasset (Magdeburg: Duncker, 1600), 35. 60 Grotefend, Zeitrechnung, s.v. “Adventus Domini” under “Glossar.” 61 Cerameus, Eteotyxia Perpetva, Br. 225 explained and exposited anew every year, they can comprehend [the Bible] much better and hold it in their memory.”62

After the start of Advent, Cerameus lists two further New Year’s: Christmas (the start of the year for Christians, as he puts it) and the first of January (the common, or gemeines, new year). Cerameus regards the second and “Christian” New Year as the most important. It occurs on

[t]he first feast day of Holy Christmas [25 December]. […] For us Christians, this is our principal and unique new year that is distinguished from the new years of all other peoples, nations and sects. For, unlike the Romans long ago, we do not reckon our years from the calends of Januarii, nor from the establishment of the city of Rome (ab urbe condita), nor from the first Olympiads like the Greeks, not to mention from the Arabs’ eras etc. Instead, we reckon and count our years a Christo nato, from our savior’s birth and incarnation that happened well-nigh 1,600 and 6 years ago.63

Cerameus’ statements here are reminiscent of Weinsberg, who opted to begin the new year on

Christmas in order to more fully align the year with Anno Domini reckoning. For Cerameus, the

“Christian new year” is part and parcel of Christian identity, one that stands in contrast to that of the ancient Romans and other nationalities. In fact, according to Cerameus, the third new year he draws attention to—1 January—originated in the pagan customs of Rome. Given this insidious background of 1 January, it was not a bad thing for Christians to count their years from the birth of Christ and not from 1 January. Cerameus, however, does not suggest Christians actually start the civil year on Christmas, since 1 January helps give a “fine regularity to the months” (eine feine Richtigkeit der Monaten). Instead, he envisions Christmas as the basis for a Christian, Anno

Domini historical reckoning, in which Christmas serves as a historical reference point just as the founding of Rome (anno urbe conditae) did for the Romans or the Olympics for the Greeks.

62 Ibid., Bv. 63 Cerameus, Eteotyxia Perpetva, Biir. 226

As with Weinsberg, one can view Gilbert’s and Cerameus’ references as a form of knowledge-making and sharing. Pointing to the Christmas style of New Year’s went beyond the level of historical trivia—in doing so, they reimagined a shared Christian year that could be clearly delineated from that of past nations and religions. While heeding 1 January as the start of the civil year, Gilbert and Cerameus nonetheless manufacture the awareness that Christians begin their year otherwise—for Cerameus, this particular year is differentiated even from that of the Church, which begins at the start of Advent. Unlike Weinsberg, however, neither Gilbert nor

Cerameus move to readopt Christmas as the civil New Year. Their comments, instead, engage the start of a different, spiritual year alongside the civil one—a year that is to be the basis of one’s faith but not necessarily of one’s calendar. Interestingly, although both authors are

Lutheran ministers, neither associates the Christmas new year’s with a particular confession.I In contrast to Weinsberg, who relates the Christmas New Year’s with Catholicism, Gilbert and

Cerameus portray Christmas as commencing a common, Christian year, not a specifically

Lutheran or Protestant one.

CONCLUSION

Presumably by the late sixteenth century, the first day of January was widely recognized as the civil New Year and had replaced 25 December, which had been the date the new year commenced until the late middle ages. As widely accepted as the former was, however, awareness of the older, Christmas style New Year’s persisted in a number of texts. This chapter has compared and explored attitudes towards the “old” and “new” New Year’s of early modern

Germany, with particular regard for the ways in which authors sought to redefine knowledge of past temporal practices in order to shape those of the present and future. In doing so, these authors contributed to the sense of a shared understanding of yearly and historical timeframes. 227

Yet the hallmarks of this understanding differed between the authors examined here in several crucial ways.

Weinsberg’s shift back to the Christmas and away from the already normative

Circumcision-style reflects his overall pursuit of posterity—preserving his life through writing and being remembered by his descendants. By not only reverting to the old New Year’s in his day-to-day life, but also restructuring the yearly sections of his memory book, Weinsberg contemporized a fading temporal habit, retrieving it from potential obscurity. This pursuit extended outside the boundaries of his writing—by his account, he also tried to convince his family, friends and future heir to adopt the same habit. Yet Weinsberg’s inclination towards the old New Year’s stems not necessarily from an antagonistic attitude towards novelty per se—

Weinsberg himself did not use the descriptors of “old” and “new” when it came to the two dates of the New Year. His aim, instead, appears to be that of redefining, or recovering, a shared temporal understanding among Catholic Europe. It could well be argued, too, that Weinsberg saw the New Year’s timing as a means of locating Cologne’s place—the stalwart of the

Christmas New Year’s—within the Catholic world. In retaining the old New Year’s, Cologne was on par with the great Catholic nations of Europe, so Weinsberg infers. Foremost among

Cologne’s inhabitants, it was Weinsberg’s own household—both present and future—that were to carry on the correct New Year’s practice. In a sense, he envisioned his progeny as the keepers of the proper year, a year that aligned not only with Catholicism (as perceived by Weinsberg) but also with Christ’s birth.

Like Weinsberg, Gilbert and Cerameus participated in the production of knowledge concerning the New Year and its temporal practices, drawing attention to an essential, Christian year reckoned from Christ’s nativity. This particular year, however, was not associated with 228

Catholicism, nor was it a distinctly Lutheran one, despite both Gilbert and Cerameus being

Lutheran pastors. The year that Cerameus envisioned in particular placed Christian society in line with the great nations and civilizations of the past: ancient Greece and Rome, and “the

Arabs,” all of which had possessed an integral yearly reference point from which to reckon historical time. The Christian New Year’s Cerameus highlighted—whether or not he advocated its formal use—aligned Christian hearts with Anno Domini time and thereby clearly distinguished Christian temporality from those of other “peoples, nations and sects.”

All three authors nonetheless shared a similar tendency to imbue the timing of New

Year’s—whether the old or new style—with a degree of agency. This is epitomized in the case of Weinsberg, who decided for himself to adopt the old New Year whilst surrounded by those who opted for 1 January. For Gilbert, people have let or allowed the old Roman New Year to continue on 1 January, seemingly because it coincides with the celebration of Christ’s circumcision. Cerameus, too, infers that one can inwardly chooses to reckon the years of history from the date of Christ’s birth rather than the calends of January—even while still adhering to the latter as the civil New Year’s. In this respect, the start of the civil year—the element of the year’s time in which one would expect to find the fewest permutations—was perhaps the most variable facet of the year’s time in sixteenth-century Germany. One could choose, as in the unique case of Weinsberg, when to observe it. More broadly speaking, however, one could choose to perceive a different new year even while keeping in step with common civil practice by assigning new meanings to past practices. Doing so solidified social and religious identities in an era of widespread change. The use of New Year’s as a site to elicit different perceptions of the year at hand signals the start of a conversation that will culminate in the following chapter. 229

In the end, on this matter as on many others, human memory proved even more forgetful and tragic as Weinsberg had initially lamented when he first set out to write his book. He died sometime in the middle of March 1597, leaving his wealth and memory book behind for the benefit of his descendants. Yet in many ways, the burden of Weinsberg’s legacy and fortune were too heavy for his remaining family members. Not having had any children of his own,

Weinsberg entrusted his assets (much to the resentment of the rest of his relatives) to his now elderly brother Gottschalk, the same Gottschalk who had earlier resisted Weinsberg’s fervor for the old New Year’s date. Whether Gottschalk adhered to his brother’s dying wishes on this matter is unknown and largely irrelevant—shortly after receiving the inheritance, he attempted suicide, and the inheritance, which had already caused a great deal of scandal in the family, was passed on to his son, Hermann Weinsberg the Younger. Evidently, though, the inheritance was not satisfactory for him; within less than a year, Weinsberg the Younger murdered his aunt to hasten the dispersal of her will. He was later imprisoned where he died in 1604. To avoid further bloodshed, the city of Cologne repossessed Weinsberg’s fortunes in the early 1600s, and the memory book sat in obscurity until 1859, when it was rediscovered.64 By this point, the city of

Cologne had long done away with the last vestiges of the old New Year’s.

Were Weinsberg able to survey the immediate impact of his legacy, the failure of his

New Year’s effort would likely be the least of his sorrows. On this topic, however, as on many others of historical interest, Weinsberg’s diaristic tome speaks to a broader audience than his immediate descendants. His oscillations between Christmas and New Year’s provide a point of entry into the changing horizons of the civil New Year in early modern Germany, one man’s

64 Tobias Wulf, “Bestandsaufnahme und Perspektiven der Weinsberg Forschung,” in Hermann Weinsberg (1518-1597) Kölner Bürger und Ratsherr: Studien zu Leben und Werk,” ed. Manfred Groten (Köln: SH-Verlag, 2005), 35-58, here 41-42, footnote 22. 230 pursuit of a new New Year—not only a new date but a new way of making temporal sense of the civil year.

231

232

CHAPTER 6 YEARS TO REMEMBER: BEGINNING(S), MIDDLE(S) AND END(S) OF TIME IN EARLY MODERN GERMANY

In a New Year’s sermon published in 1643, pastor Georg Albrecht posed a “New Year’s

Riddle” (New-Jahrs Räzel) to his audience: “There is a day in the calendar, and yet no one knows where it is, whether it is black or red, [or] at the top, middle or bottom. What day is it?”653

There is a certain date, in other words, that exists on every person’s calendar, and yet it is a mystery. In actuality, Albrecht had two days in mind, but his description holds true for both: no one knows for certain when either of the days in question were, or whether they would occur on a black- or red-letter feast: their timing remained ever elusive.654

By this point in the dissertation, it is evident that in early modern Germany, there were numerous days and times throughout the year that proved difficult to specify on a calendar. In certain contexts, perceiving the year during this period required navigating variety and ambiguity, as was the case in the multiple dates used to connote the start of the four seasons or the civil year. In other contexts, it meant taking into account a vast constellation of temporal modes, from those of civil society and history, to ecclesiastical, astronomical, astrological and salvific-historical timeframes. Indeed, any previous chapter could well produce a time whose exact calendar date was questionable. Nonetheless, Albrecht had something very different in mind. Yet in true eschatological fashion (and by way of a hint), the day(s) in question shall

653 Georg Albrecht Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum (n.p.: Heinrich Chorhammer, 1643), 30: “es stehet ein tag im Calender/ und weiss doch niemand/ wo es steht/ bo er schwarz oder roth/ oben /mitten oder unten stehe/ Wasmag wol das fur ein Tag seyn?“ 654 Note: in early modern calendars, prominent feast days—on which commerce was limited and religious services were attended—were printed in red letters. All other feasts were printed in black ink. For an illustration of this, refer to Figure A.4 in the Appendix. 233 remain a mystery until the proper time, although one can be assured that “nothing [is] concealed that will not be disclosed” by the End of the chapter.655

As the previous chapter indicated, New Year’s sermons rose in popularity by the early seventeenth century, and their themes often reflect spiritual sensitivities towards the start of the civil year. At the heart of this homiletic genre was the spiritual significance of starting a new year in time. Employing a number of tropes and leitmotifs, 1 January provided sermon authors the opportunity to reflect on the conceptual contours of time. The shape most often lent to time, and the focus of this chapter, was tripartite in nature, consisting of a beginning, middle and end.

Braunschweig pastor Jacob Gilbert, for example, structured his 1600 New Year’s sermon around three points of spiritual meditation, which he called “time-mirrors” or “reflections" (Zeitspiegel), as they entered the new year: the past (das Vergangene), present (das Gegenwertige) and the future (das Zukunfftige)—the same structure that Arnstadt church superintendent Nicodemus

Lappius employed in a 1643 sermon.656

Also drawing attention to time’s beginning, middle and end is what I have termed the

“Annus topos,” a popular motif in New Year’s sermons of this period in which authors ephasized multiple conceptual or symbolic “years” (Anni) that faithful Christians were to remember whilst heading into a new civil year. These years typically included several of the following: the year of creation (Annus creationibus), one’s year of birth (Annus nativitatis), the year of regeneration or baptism (Annus regenerationis), the year of salvation (Annus redemptionibus), the year of jubilee (Annus Iubilaei), the year of one’s death (Annus Mortis) and the year of the final judgment (Annus gloriae). Albrecht’s 1643 sermon, the same that features his new year’s riddle,

655 Luke 12:2 (New International Version). 656 Nicodemus Lappius, HISTORICA SECULI NOVO--ANTIQUI COMPARATIO. Das ist/ Eine historische vergleichung des neulichst vergangenen 1642 jahrs/ mit dem/ so vor hundert jahren verflossen/ In einer Predigt auff den newen JahrsTag Anno 1643 (Gotha: Peter Schmiden, 1643), see especially Aiir-Bir 234 constitutes the the last and most numerous example of the Annus topos—containing all of the aforementioned Anni, which he believed “each and every Christian ought to bear in mind” on

New Year’s. 657 Such years drew attention to the beginnings, middles and ends of time, both on a global scale (from creation through Christ’s resurrection and ending with the apocalypse) and an individual one (from birth through salvation and ending with one’s death).

This chapter interprets these various motifs and tropes as rhetorical tools that encourage a vision of time as a tripartite phenomenon, progressing from beginning, middle to end. As one sermon author put it in 1607, “[t]he world has its specific beginning, its durations, appointments, end and cessation.”658 Although this three-part view of time dates back to the philosophy of

Augustine, New Year’s sermons assimilated it into a temporal schema that was distinctly early modern and Lutheran in nature.659 This overtly eschatological, future-oriented view of time and reality was aimed at the climactic end(s) of temporal experience—not only the apocalypse, but also death. It was a concern that New Year’s sermons shared with numerous other early modern textual categories, from funeral sermons to historical chronologies. In preparing readers for the eventuality of either End, authors of New Year’s sermons during this period were imbued with a tangible sense of origins and endings, as well as an interest in the present, “real time” of the spiritual life.

The discussion begins (Section I) with the admonition frequently found in New Year’s to meditate on the “years” of one’s birth and death, the beginning and end of time as experienced in a lifespan. The call to remember death and be spiritually prepared for it is one that abounded in

657 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 12. 658 Paul Jenisch, Fünff Newjahrspredigten [...] (Leipzig: Börner, 1607),111: “Die Welt hat ihren gewissen anfang/ hat irn periodum, termin, end und auffhoren/ist mit all ihren wercken der eitelkeit unterworffen/ und wird doch vom dinst des vergenglichen wesens frey werden.“ 659 Herman Hausheer, “St. Augustine’s Conception of Time,” in The Philosophical Review 46, no. 5 (1937): 503–12, esp. 503. See also James Wetzel, “Time after Augustine,” in Religious Studies 31, no. 3 (1995): 341-57, here 343. 235 cultural historical sources of this period, most notably the funeral sermon. Sermons on occasion of both funerals and the New Year shared in common the need to temporalize death—to make death’s mysterious timing tangible and worth spiritually preparing for. By reflecting back on the exact time of one’s birth and the number of years in one’s life thus far, readers could more readily understand the finite-ness of life and the reality of their eventual death. Section II explores the cosmic ramifications of time’s beginning and end, examining the admonition frequently found in New Year’s sermons to imagine the years of creation and the apocalypse. In drawing attention to these two times—the cosmic beginning and end of all time—authors were able to express the impermanence of the world and the likelihood of Christ’s return, an event that many Lutherans believed was impossible to predict. In the middle of all the beginnings and endings of time found in these New Year’s sermons was the present, the “real time” inhabited by each person as he or she lived. Section III enquires how the remembrance of time’s beginnings and endings sought to perceive the present, middle of time differently.

In many ways, this chapter lies on the periphery of the wider dissertation.

Chronologically, it tends toward the decades following 1600. Although this is not a strict focus, as many points require contextualization, this final chapter intentionally inquires beyond sixteenth- and very early-seventeenth-century time perceptions. More significantly, however, this exploration strays outside the lines of perceiving the year’s time. While its point of departure is early modern New Year’s sermons, aspects of time perception that surface here also pertain to the early modern apprehension of historical time, clock time and other realms of temporality. By involving these wider aspects, I seek to convey the wider matrix of time perception and human imagination during this period within which the year’s time had its place. 236

I. BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS: FROM BIRTH TO DEATH Along with the creation and apocalypse, birth and death were recurrent topics in New

Year’s sermons. Albrecht’s and other’s iterations of the Annus-topos encouraged readers to recall the year of their birth and meditate on the year of death. Even those sermons that did not employ this motif frequently pondered the significance of holding the beginning and (especially) end of one’s life in mind. Despite occurring at opposite ends of an individual’s life, these two concepts—birth and death—were inextricably tied to each another. Just as the year of creation served to communicate the finiteness of the world, remembrances of the time of one’s birth made death’s mystery and unforeseen timing more concrete. Reflecting on one’s eventual death lent a future-oriented, eschatological contour to time understandings in general, and those of the year’s time in particular. Death—i.e. the end of one—imbued concepts of birth with the same sense of future-oriented tension that fused creation to the apocalyptic “end of all things.”660 This section explores the ways in which the temporal aspects of birth and death were depicted in New Year’s and other sermons, particularly funeral sermons (Leichenpredigten).661 In doing so, I also seek to contextualize homiletic portrayals within wider early modern understandings of birth and death, and how they shaped perceptions of the year’s time.

660 1 Peter 4:7. 661 The works of Rudolf Lenz are largely to thank for appropriating funeral sermons into the realm of viable sources for cultural history, especially his Leichenpredigten als Quelle historischer Wissenschaften, Volumes 1–4, (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1975-2004). Since then, historians, in particular Cornelia Niekus Moore, have drawn on and furthered Lenz’ textual and methodological work when utilizing funeral sermons: Marion Kobelt- Groch and Cornelia Niekus Moore, eds. Tod und Jenseits in der Schriftkultur der frühen Neuzeit (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2008); Cornelia Niekus Moore, “The Magdeburg Cathedral Pastor Siegfried Saccus and Development of the Lutheran Funeral Biography,” in The Sixteenth Century Journal 35, no. 1 (2004): 79–95; idem, Patterned Lives (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2006); Ronald K. Rittgers, “Grief and Consolation in Early Modern Lutheran Devotion: The Case of Johannes Christoph Oelhafen’s Pious Meditations on the Most Sorrowful Bereavement (1619),” in Church History 81, no. 3 (2012): 601–30. Also relevant, though dealing with early Reformation dying manuals (Sterbebücher) in addition to funeral sermons is Austra Reinis’s Reforming the Art of Dying: The Ars Moriendi in the German Reformation (1519–1528) (Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2007). Reinis delineates between the various genres that served as ars moriendi literature, counting many funerary sermons among them (12). 237

An early conflation between the civil new year and the year of birth occurred in New

Year’s 1590. Gotha superintendent Michael Iulius summoned his readers to recall the year of their birth—encouraging them to remember the ways God had been merciful in the intervening years:

At this time of year, every Christian ought in particular to remember his Annos Nativitatis, that is, how old are you now? How long has it been since you were born into this world, since God let you be born as a rational creature, gave you body and soul, allowed you to grow this old , and kept you in mercifully fresh health? […] Is this not a great mercy of God that he lets us not only be born into this world, but when we are born, a calendar and register is written about the whole course of our life, so that we have a sure and certain prognostication how we will fare from one day and year to the next.662

Here, Iulius conjures up the awe-invoking potential inherent to each human life when it is “born into this world,” drawing his readers’ imaginations back to the their first breaths as living creatures, miraculously endowed by their creator with both body and soul. In Iulius’ view, one’s life is lived not according to human chronologies but God’s timeline. Just as the pages of a calendar unfold gradually during the year, so one’s life unfolds, and the course of one’s days wind themselves not unlike the sun’s “course” through the heavens. And through it all, God knows everything that will occur.

For Iulius, then, one’s age and year of birth served to remind readers of all the previous ways God had proven Himself to be merciful, mainly by bringing people into the world and sustaining them throughout their earthly lives. For Braunschweig pastor Jacob Gilbert, however, the recollection of one’s birth year was not only a consolation, but ought to encourage people to

662 Iulius, Von dem newgebornen lieben Jesulein, Iiv-Iv: „Bey diesen Jharzeiten/soll ein jederChrist in sonderheit bedenken /annos nativitatis/ wie alt bistu nun wol? Wie alt ists/das du bist auff dise welt geborn worden/das dich unser herr Gott hat lassen einen vernünfftigen Menschen geborn werden/ die Leib und Seel geben/ dich lassen so alt werden/ und so gnediglichin frischer Gesundheit erhalten/ [...]Ist nu das nicht ein grosse wolthat Gottes/ das er nicht allein uns lesset auff die Welt geboren werden: sondern wann wir geboren sind / uns einen Calender und Register geschrieben/ des ganzen lauffs unsers lebens/ dabey wir ein gewiss Prognosticon haben sollen/ wie es uns von eim tag/ von eim Jhar zum andern gehen werde.“ 238 cultivate a more diligent attitude towards the present time. For New Year’s in 1600, he advised his flock to “calculate the time of [their] age or years. Where is your blooming youth? Your manly age? How [well] have you managed your affairs and used your time? What have you studied or learned?” Alluding to Proverbs 10:5, which praises those who gather crops in the summer, Gilbert swiftly pulls his readers‘ gazes to the present moment: “Right now, it is the summer and harvest for you, during which you should sow, plant, gather—that is, perceive time and opportunity and do not let it pass by. The hours, days, months and years go by. Be alert, plan

[these intervals] well.”663 One senses a dynamism in Gilbert’s writing, the pressure that one’s birth year should yield fervent action in the present and stifle idleness.

Writing more than a generation later, Albrecht’s New Year’s sermon continued to draw people’s gaze to the beginning of life, as he encouraged his readers to recall their year of birth and regeneration (Annus Nativitatis & Regenerationis), i.e. “the year in which we were born and reborn through water and spirit of holy baptism.”664 For Albrecht at the very least, one’s biological birth was fused to that of spiritual re-birth experienced at baptism. His notion of baptism as a site of meditation reflects crucial understandings of this sacrament among

Lutherans. Martin Luther, who in his Reformation retained the practice of infant baptism, had understood baptism as no less than a complete regeneration and “total renewal of the soul.”665 It must be noted, however, that for Luther and his followers, it was not merely the one-time act of baptism which brought about salvation, but the way believers remembered and related to their baptism on an ongoing basis throughout their lives. Believers were called to lead lives of

663 Gilbert, Das Newe Jar, 12: “[...] zurechnen die Zeit unsers Alters oder jaren. Wo ist die Bluende Jugend? Dein manliches Alter? Wie hastu darin haus gehalten oder dieselbe zeit angelegt? Was hastu studieret und gelernet? [...] Jezt ist bey dir der Sommer und Erndte/ da soltu seen/ pflanzen/ samlen/ das ist/ der zeit und gelegenheit warnehmen/ und dieselbe nicht lassen füruber lauffen. Die Stunden/ Tage/ Monat und Jar gehen nach einander hin. Sehe zu/ lege sie wolan.“ 664 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 12: “das Jahr/ darinn wir gebohren und in der H. Tauff durch wasser und geist wider gebohren worden.“ 665 Euan Cameron, The European Reformation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 186. 239 repentance, which for Luther meant returning to the baptismal state of the heart again and again.

In doing so, they were assured of finding comfort in God’s grace given in the waters of regeneration on a continual basis. According to Jonathan D. Trigg, baptism in the Lutheran imagination was not a moment in the past but a “daily, lifelong process.” 666 That is to say, it was not a “closed past event” or an “accomplished fact.” Rather, faith was to be lived out in the

“present tense of baptism” which warranted continual remembrance and an active response to one’s baptism in the form of repentance.667 Albrecht’s admonishment to recall this sacramental event along with the year of one’s birth must be interpreted within the Lutheran idea of baptism as an ongoing site of memory and faith.

The reflections of Iulius, Gilbert and Albrecht regarding the time of birth indicate the range of attitudes early modern pastors recommended to their readers in regards to the remembrance of one’s birth: gratefulness to God, remembrance of His grace, repentance, and industriousness in the present. Yet, discussions about the year of birth raise questions about the temporal ways in which early modern people knew about or kept track of births. Lucien Febvre has argued that, at best, most people of this period could associate their times of birth with vague, qualitative memories transmitted to their parents, who usually conflated a child’s birth with an event in the natural world of dubious exactitude: “The month [of one’s birth] was generally known--a month in a year that was itself poorly organized, since the vernal equinox had moved back little by little from March 21 to March 11.” For Febvre, parents tended to remember their children’s births by constellating them with seasonal conditions, easily recalling that “the baby had come into the world at haymaking time, at the time of the wheat harvest or grape harvest; there had been snow.” While birthdates could be pinned to specific times of year,

666 Jonathan D. Trigg, Baptism in the Theology of Martin Luther (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 79-80. 667 Ibid., 79-80. 240 the calendar date (which Febvre deems “an abstract notion”) eluded parents’ knowledge and memory. He continues:

To find birth certificates in good order we have to turn to the world's great--or the sons of doctors and learned men, those for whom a horoscope was cast and whose birth, as a consequence, was surrounded with astonishingly accurate details. They knew (or rather their astrologers provided for them) the year, the day, the hour and the minute, not only of their birth but of their conception. [...] Now that is being precise!668

While the general European populace had little need to record “precise” dates and times of their children’s births, those in higher-ranking social and political positions went to great lengths to determine the exact time that a child was delivered or conceived.

Speaking to the picture Febvre paints is the memory book of Hermann von Weinsberg, discussed in the previous chapter. In his journal, Weinsberg (who had been born on 3 January

1518) makes mention of his birthday every year on the same date—on 3 January 1578, for example, he comments that “The third of January is my nativity and birthday, on which I have become sixty years old.”669 The date proved to be of longstanding significance over the course of Weinsberg’s life. Not only did he maintain the habit of writing about his birthday each year, he also celebrated the anniversary of his birth with an annual “birthday party” (Geburtzfest), as was the case in 1554, when he writes that his mother, brother and “a few friends” came over, and that they were all “happy together” (sint samen frolich gewesen).670 The attention Weinsberg pays to his birthday in an era when relatively few people even knew their birthdays, let alone had yearly parties to celebrate them, cannot be extricated from his lifelong preoccupation with

668 Lucien Febvre, The Problem of Unbelief in the 16th Century: The Religion of Rabelais, trans. Beatrice Gottlieb (Harvard University Press, 1982), 395-96. 669 Hermann Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs, “Liber Senectutis”: “Anno 1578 den 3. Januarii war min natalis und geburtztag an wilchem ich sesszich jar alt sin worden.” 670 Weinsberg, Die autobiographischen Aufzeichnungen Hermann Weinsbergs: Digitale Gesamtausgabe, “Liber Iuventutis,” s.v 3. Januar 1554. For further references to “Geburtzfest” from Weinsberg’s journal. see: “Liber Inventutis,” s.v. 3. Januar 1565 and “Liber Senectutis,” s.v. 3. Januar 1582. 241 posterity and remembrance.671 But despite this penchant for autobiographical details, not he even

Weinsberg can escape vagaries of sixteenth-century record keeping—in his old age, he confesses he cannot actually prove when he was born: “I can produce neither a letter nor seal as proof [of my birthday.] My parents indicated my birth year (geburtzjar) and the same for my sisters and brother. I myself recorded it from my youth and thus remembered it from year to year. Whether the priest […] stamped into his register when I was baptized […] that I do not know.”672 One wonders, then, whether the birthday Weinsberg reputedly celebrated throughout his life had actually been transmitted to him, or if it was only the “birth year,” his parents had kept track of.

Whatever the case, Weinsberg received knowledge of his birthday only through informal means from his parents and did not have any official documentation to substantiate it, a point that did not hinder Weinsberg’s belief as to when his birthday was.

Incidentally, the Gregorian calendar reforms presented a bit of a hiccup for Weinsberg when it came to his birthday. In January 1584, his first birthday since Cologne’s 1583 adoption of the new calendar, Weinsberg wrote: ““On the third of January in the year 1584 according to the new style […] I turned 66, but […] if Cologne had not begun the reform [of the calendar] this year, this third day of January would have fallen on the 23rd of December, [the feast of] Saint

Dagobert. […] So neither the 23 December nor the present 3 January are my right birthday according to the old calendar.”673 Weinsberg goes on to explain that he actually is ten days shy of his 66th birthday (a clarification he repeats nearly every birthday thereafter). Technically

671 Weinsberg himself describes this as the main motivation for beginning and maintaining his memory book: “Liber Iuventutis,” s.v. “1539.” 672 Weinsberg, “Liber Decrepitudinis,” s.v. 3. Januar 1588: “Hie von kan ich kein brief noch siegel vor beweiß aufflagen. Min eltern haben minen geburtzjar also angezeignet min sustern und broder derglichen. Ich hab in selbst von jongs auff oftmail uffgezeignet und also von jar zu jar behalten. Ob in der alte pastoir sant Jacob dominus Petrus Fuystgin durensis wan ich geteufft sin in sin register pragt hab […] deß kan ich nit wissen.” 673 Weinsberg, “Liber Senectutis,” s.v. 3. Januar 1584: “Anno 1584 den 3 janvarii novo stilo […] ist min geburtzstag daß ich 66 jair alt sin worden doch […]wan sulche reformation diß jar in Coln nit angefangen were so hette disser 3 tag janvarii zu ruck uff den 23 decemb. S. dagoberti […] Also ist der 23 decemb. noch der eitziger 3 janvarii nach der alter regnong und stilo min rechter geburtzs tag nit.” 242 speaking, he should now observe his birthday on the new calendar’s 13 January.674 Yet he is adamant that he will continue to observe his birthday on the new calendar’s 3 January—even if it is not the same day he was actually born on, Weinsberg considers himself to be in a favorable situation because his new calendar birthday—exactly ten days after 25 December—directly coincided with Christmas on the old calendar.675 The confluence between 3 January and

Christmas seems to have been rather meaningful for Weinsberg: even before the advent of the new calendar, he occasionally referred to his birthday as occurring ten days after Christmas.676

And when Weinsberg turned 74 in 1592, he commented again on the connection: “Also on this, my birthday, it is to be held in memory that it comes ten [days] after Christmas and eight after St.

John the Evangelist [27 Dec].”677 The fleeting comment causes one to wonder whether Christmas was a temporal landmark Weinsberg used to calculate and remembered his birthday.

If that is the case, it aligns with the findings of Stefan Hanß. In his survey of ego- documents of this period, Hanß argues that people located their births less within a cosmological framework rather than a calendrical one. The coordinates by which people located their birthdays, although perhaps imprecise from the standpoint of calendar dates, were actually recognizable landmarks, informed by events in nature, astrology and salvific history. According to Hanß, people often described their birth in an all-encompassing salvific-historical cosmology, in which time intervals, stellar constellations, zodiac signs and humoral-pathological awareness

674 In other words, when Weinsberg was born on 3 January 1578, it would have been 13 January on the Gregorian calendar, had it existed at the time. Thus, on 3 January 1584, he was still 65 years of age. 675 Ibid.: “Edoch wa ich noch lenger leben worde will ich den 3. tag janva. gliche wol umb des alten brauchs willn vor minen geburtzs tag nennen und halten ob schoin 10 tage weniger da sint, dar an den 3. ja. ich einen gutten gefallen gehat hab dweil es der zehnde tag von christag ware, daß sich eitz wol steif ungeferlich mehe und nit min dan zweimail zehen tage ertragt dan von christi geburt herwartzs haben sich die 10 und mehe tage verlauffen.” 676 C.f Weinsberg, “Liber Senectutis,” s.v. 3. January 1580 and 3. Januar 1582. 677 Weinsberg, “Liber Decrepitudinis,” s.v. 3. January 1592: “Auch ist disser min gebutz tag das bei in gedechtniß zu behalten, daß er der 10 von christag und der 8 von s. johannis evangelisten tag kompt.” 243 as well as other religious and astrological descriptions were used as landmarks.678 With this in mind, he presents the notion that the early modern reckoning of birthdays can no longer be interpreted as either precise or vague, traditional or modern. Instead, birthdays during this period were simply understood through a different constellation of events than today.679 Weinsberg’s comments suggest that to some degree, Christmas was a temporal landmark, an orientating point by which he knew and remembered his birth—a point that is all the more fascinating given

Weinsberg’s penchant for the older tradition of commencing the civil year on Christmas, as was documented in the previous Chapter of this dissertation.

To some degree, Weinsberg’s knowledge of his actual date of birth appears to be something of an anomaly in comparison with others born during the sixteenth century. One way of gauging this is by consulting funeral sermons (Leichenpredigten), a genre that rose in popularity during the latter half of the sixteenth century. Part homily, part obituary, these sermons often noted important details of a person’s life, including when they were born. Yet, it was often the case that sermons preached for people born before the early seventeenth century noted a person’s birth month rather than date. Such was the case for Margaret Scholtz (daughter of Leipzig burgher Lucas Scholtz), who was said to have “lived 20 years and 8 months in this world and therefore in the twenty-first year […] her temporal life ended” in 1613.680 Likewise,

Silesian nobleman (Herren Fürst) Hans von Langenau, who died in 1619 or 1620, “was born in

678 Stephen Hanß, “’Bin auff diße Welt gebohren worden’ Geburtsdatierungen in frühneuzeitlichen Selbstzeugnissen,” in Frühe Neue Zeiten: Zeitwissen zwischen Reformation und Revolution, ed. Achim Landwehr (Bielefeld: Transkript Verlag, 2012), 105–53, here 134. 679 Hanß, “Geburtsdatierungen in frühneuzeitlichen Selbstzeugnissen,” 134. 680 Erhart Lauterbach, Lehrhaffte Leichpredigt: Bey Christlicher Begräbnis der ... Margarethen/ Des ... Lucas Scholtzen/ Bürger/ Kramers ... in Zeitz geliebten einigen Tochter/ Welche den 16. Octobris ... entschlaffen/ und folgenden tag ... in ihr Ruhebettlein geleget worden/ Gehalten (Leipzig: Glück, 1613), 15 (pagination mine): “welche 20. Jahr und 8. Monden in dieses Welt gelebet/ und als im eim [sic] und zwainzigsten jahr/ […] ihr zeitlich leben geendet hat.” 244 the year 1572, around the month of June.”681 Though Langenau and Scholtz came from very different levels of society, it appears that for both their time of birth had been preserved down to the month.

The situation begins to change for deceased individuals who were born during the very late sixteenth century or later. In these instances, funeral sermons were much more likely to note a specific date (or even time) of birth.682 For example, when George—the toddler young son of duke Karl of Munsterberg—died in 1609, his funeral sermon purported him to be exactly 2 years,

13 weeks, 5 days and 13 ½ hours old at the time of death.683 This case, albeit eloquent, is not altogether surprising, especially given Febvre’s explanation that noble families often calculated their children’s birth down to precise clock times for astrological purposes. More surprising, however, were the rising number of middle-class individuals whose funeral sermons transmitted similar information. Twenty-five-year-old Jacob Puetscher, a quarryman in Ehrenfriedersdorf, was said to have been born in “the year of Christ 1596, on the 24th of March, between ten and eleven o’clock after noon.”684 The rising tendency for funeral sermons to note a person’s time of birth down to dates and even hours suggests that more detailed records were being kept for babies born as of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century. By whom these records were being kept and why remains elusive. Nonetheless, the possibility that more detailed record keeping was at play in the temporal comments of funeral sermons would also account for why

681 Johann Neomenius, Kriegs: und Heldenmutt. wie und woher der zu nehmen ... In einer Christlichen Leichpredigt beym Begräbnüs Des weilandt Edlen ... Hansen von Langenaw ... (Brieg: Sigfrid, 1620), Eiiiv: “ist gebohren Anno 1572. ungefehr im Monat Junio.” 682 Although not a funeral sermon, it should be noted that Paul Eber’s Calendarium Historicum listed the times of certain births and deaths down to the minute, when such data was known. In the same introduction to this spiritual calendar, Eber recommended readers record their own times of birth on the appropriate date, listing as an example his own birth: 8 November, 1511, in the first hour after midnight. Hans-Peter Hasse interprets Eber’s interest in specific temporal data as a means of meditating on the divine coincidences of historical dates and events, and a means of practicing piety (Frömmigkeitspraxis). “Paul Ebers Calendarium Historicum (1550),” 288-319, here 310- 11. 683 Melchoir Eccard, Christliche Leichpredigt (Olssen: Bössemesser, 1609), title page and FiiV. 684 Samuel Pufendörffer, Adams Fundgrub und Todesschacht (Freiberg: Hoffmann, 1620), Cr: “Anno Christi 1596. Den 24. Martij, zwischen 10. und 11. Uhr zu mittag.” 245 these same works vary in the amount of details given surrounding the time of a person’s birth— the varying depictions stemmed not necessarily from when the sermon was printed, but when the deceased had been born. One thinks, for example, of the sermons for Langenaw (b. 1572) and baby Georg von Munsterberg (b. 1607), both of whom were born into noble families. At face value, this example suggests that a change in attitudes towards the timing and remembrance of birth was underway by the early seventeenth century.

Another possibility as to why funeral sermons began including more specific temporal data is that the shift was simply the result of stylistic preference, with earlier authors (e.g. those of Scholtz’s and Langenaw’s sermons) simply deciding not to include or inquire further into the specifics of their births. Most likely, however, it was a combination of both factors—funeral sermons began including more specific times of birth as records became more widely available, and this contributed to a stylistic preference that generally emphasized the specifice of birth and death. The latter, too served to convey theological teachings: if ordinary people could know the time and hour of a person’s birth, how much more so did God? This point will be returned to following an exploration of death in New Year’s sermons.

Opposite birth, the prospect of a coming year prompted the call among sermon writers to remember death and contemplate life’s all important end. As Schmuck explained on occasion of

New Year’s 1600, it is part of human nature to think about ends, and in the closing of a new year to think about the end of one's life.685 On New Year’s 1606, theologian Paul Jenisch instructs his audience to reflect upon “the time and day of our departure, for [death] is unknown.”686 While the timing of each individual’s death is impossible to discern in advance, he later mentions that

685 Vincentius Schmuck, Neu Jars Predigt (Leipzig: Lanzenberger, 1602), Eiiir. 686 Jenisch, Fünff Newjahrspredigten, A3: „[Es ist zubedencken] die Zeit und Tag unsers abschieds. Den er [Tod] ist ungewiss/ eilt als ein Lauffer und Postbot schnell davon/ wie ein adler der zur Speis fleucht/ wie ein Schiff auff dem Meerfehrt/ des man keine Spur noch bahn in der Flut sihet.“ 246 few people live beyond 80 or 100 years.687 Zeämann wrote that “with the old year we have all

[…] become one year closer to death, and are going with the year in that [direction].”688As

Albrecht put it, people ought to bear in mind the “Annus mortis,” the time at which “each human must bid farewell.”689 Life’s transient nature prompted sermon writers on the brink of a new year to task their readers with remembering death, so that they will not forget to praise God before the ultimate end of life: death.

New Year’s sermons were hardly the only homiletic genre of this period to draw attention to death and its timing. Death and memento mori were an ever present part of social consciousness in late sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Germany, and scholarly interest in this facet of cultural mentality is growing.690 One facet that should be explored, however, involves the role that temporal perceptions played in shaping death-related discourses during this period.

687 Jenisch, Fünff Newjahrspredigten, 114. 688 Zeämann, Apostolischer Wecker- und Wetter Glöcklein, 3: “Mit dem Alten Jahr seyn wir alle und jede dem Todt umb ein Jahr näher worden/ unnd seyn mit dem Jahr dahin gefahren.” 689 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 13. 690 After Philippe Ariés’ seminal The Hour of our Death (New York: Knopf, 1981), the first major cultural- historiographical study of death specifically in an early modern context was Clare Gittings’ Death, Burial and the Individual in Early Modern England (London: Croom Helm, 1984), which sought “to trace how and why the modern reaction [against death] has come about, by examining English attitudes towards death since the Middle Ages,” and focusing on survivors’ reactions rather than people’s feelings about their own impending death (7-18). Since then, numerous studies have emerged that continue to bring nuance and depth to historians’ understandings of death in an early modern context. The majority of these studies have focused on England, e.g. Lucinda M. Becker, Death and the Early Modern English Woman (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003); David Cressy, Birth, Marriage and Death: Ritual, Religion and the Life-Cycle in Tudor and Stuart England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997); Ralph Houlbrooke, Death, Religion and the Family in England, 1480-1750 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998); Sara Tarlow, Ritual, Belief and the Dead in Early Modern Britain and Ireland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). Currently, however, the only full-length historiography on death in early modern Germany is Craig M. Koslofsky, who holds that the Reformation accelerated the growing trend of burying the dead in extramural cemeteries, thereby separating communities of the living and dead due to both theological, social and sanitary reasons. “Neither purgatory, the repository of the souls of medieval Christians, nor the urban churchyard, the traditional resting place of the bodies of the Christian dead, had any place in the Protestant world.” Craig Koslofsky, The Reformation of the Dead: Death and Ritual in Early Modern Germany, 1450-1700 (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000), 76-77; c.f. Susan Karant-Nunn, The Reformation of Ritual: An Interpretation of Early Modern Germany (London: Routledge, 1997), 138-79. While this argument has incited minor scrutiny, it remains as the most substantive treatment of death in the generations following the Protestant Reformation in Germany: Peter Marshall, review of the Reformation of the Dead: Death and Ritual in Early Modern Germany, by Craig M. Koslofsky, The Journal of Modern History 74-4 (December 2002), 886-88. 247

Depictions of death in printed texts throughout Germany often featured an overlapping repertoire of symbols and allegories, all of which contributed to portray death as an end-oriented, destination-bound process. Inherent in these symbols was the use of temporal frameworks to convey beginnings, ends, and the journey towards death. The mention of years, days, hours and moments helped to convey the reality of death and reinforced the need to prepare for it spiritually. Funeral sermons, once again, serve as a point of entry into this discussion.

Funeral sermons of this period recognized the time of death as an unknown, its timing shrouded by God in mystery until it came to pass. As Melchoir Eccard wrote upon the death of young Georg of Munsterberg, the “purpose and end of our life is hidden, so that no one can know when and at what time death will come to claim him.”691 As grim as this sounded, however, the inscrutability of one’s time of death was depicted as a comfort more than a cause for despair, since God was behind the mystery. As creator, God knew and planned precisely when all of his children would depart this earth. While many sermons expressed this point, perhaps none did so as poignantly as that of Christoph Gruner, who in 1603 preached on the occasion of the tragic death of David Laurwaldt, a local boy who was killed in an accidental shooting. Gruner began his sermon commenting that ordinary experience testifies that the worst events are those that are untimely (unzeitlich), that is, things “done or said at the wrong time.”692 Such acts, wrote Gruner,

“not only forebode evil but are aggravating and usually more harmful than beneficial.”693 At first glance, one assumes he is referring to the murder of David Laurwaldt—if any kind of death is untimely, surely it is that of a young person killed from something that could have been

691 Heinrich Bachmann, Leichpredigt Auß dem Trostreichen Lobgesangk Simeonis Luc. 2. ... : Geschehen zu Derßheim Bey der Begrebniß deß ... Güntlarß von Werder (Goßlar: Vogt, 1609), Ciir: “ziel und zeit […] [ist] verborgen/ also das niemand wissen kann/ wann und zu welcher zeit er durch den […] Todt soll abgefordert werden.” 692 Christoph Gruner, Leichpredigt auß dem Spruch Job 14 […] (Hall in Sachsen: Kruseke, 1603), Aiir: “Wenn etwas zur unzeit gereet oder gethan wirdt.” 693 Ibid. 248 prevented. Yet, the point Gruner implies repeatedly is that death is hardly untimely, because it always happens according to God’s timing, not our own. Even in the face of such a horrific circumstance, it held true that God has promised “to each person [their] own time to live and to die […] [He] has counted out [our] months, yes even years and days, hours and minutes.”694

Each person’s life has its own, unique duration, determined and ordained by God, who (Gruner explains) has hidden “on what day, at what hour, in which year of [a person’s] age, whether in the night or daytime, in the evening or in the morning a person will die.”695 For Gruner, this explained why some people died young and tragically, while others died old and peacefully—as he eloquently put it: “our hour-hand, and the clock of our Lord God, do not […] always point and chime the same.”696 For some, the bell of death tolled sooner than for others.

The metaphor Gruner used to convey God’s timing, here, is that of a clock striking the unique and irreversible hour of death for each person. In early modern funeral sermons, as elsewhere in the western tradition, the hour was the unit of time most frequently associated with death.697 It is worth noting that for much of the population of this period, the hour was among the most finite and pointed units of time for the majority of the population, whose time-keeping devices were limited to sundial or public clock-faces, which did not yet have minute hands. Thus it is helpful to consider that in many contexts, not the least of which are funeral sermons, an hour represented a point in time rather than a duration of time. Illustrating the shortness with which hours were regarded, Stummel commented in one sermon that people often drew death as a

694 Ibid., Ciiir. 695 Ibid., Ciiv. 696 Ibid., Civr: “Denn unser Zeiger und unsers Herrn Gottes Uhr/ die weisen und schlagennicht all zeit gleich.” 697 Even into the late seventeenth century, the majority of funeral sermons listed the time of death only down to the hour of day. In rare instances, some noted the time down to the nearest half-hour increment, as was the case in Melchoir Eccard’s sermon for Georg of Münsterberg. Eccard, Christliche Leichpredigt, title page. One recalls that until the very late seventeenth century, there were no minute hands to show the time on clock faces. The time- keeping regimens of this period were usually sustained by an admixture of hour-glasses, sundials (which were often more accurate than clocks), and the hourly tolls from the nearest clock tower, which may or may not have also sounded shorter chimes at 15- or 30-minute intervals. 249 skeleton holding an hourglass. This, he thought, is because death arrives quickly and unexpectedly: “a person today is fresh and young, tomorrow, though, he is dead,” Stummel wrote. A title page of a 1591 funeral sermon by Johann Strack features an image similar to the one Stummel may have had in mind (See Figure 6 below). Here, death is depicted as a skeleton standing over the coffin of the deceased, holding an hourglass. Death—although unexpected and unbidden—was at least punctual. 250

Figure 6: Death in skeleton form with hourglass (1591)

Johann Strack, Eine Christliche Leich=||predigt.|| Bey dem begrebnis des ||Erbarn ... Jünglings || Christiani Weinmans (Erfurt: Beck, 1591), title page. Image source: Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Digital Collections http://digital.staatsbibliothek-berlin.de/werkansicht/?PPN=PPN78261003X&PHYSID=PHYS_0005 251

The hour-based timing of death was further reinforced by funeral sermons of the late sixteenth century, which increasingly noted the hour the deceased had departed this world in the same way they had begun to list specific dates and times of birth. Stephan Wigand, for example, a secretary to the prince-elector Johann Georg of Brandenburg, reputedly “fell asleep peacefully in the Lord on the 16th of April, around 2 o’clock in the afternoon […] in the year 1580.”698 Similarly,

Leipzig burgher Ann Grävin was reported to have died “(d)uring this 1594th year, the Monday following Holy Ascension, between five and six o’clock in the morning.”699 Austrian Archduke

Maximillian III supposedly “gave up his spirit around 5 o’clock just as the clock chimed.”700

Finally, the quarryman Georg Puetscher died on “21 October, 1620 between two and three o’clock […] at the age of 24 years, thirty weeks and one day.”701

Treating death as an “hour”—not just in symbolic terms, but an actual hour as signaled by a clock or hourglass—quickly extricated it from the realm of temporal abstraction. Such allusions gave the impression that one’s own death, although its exact timing remained a mystery, would occur at a particular, tangible hour in time. Just as Stephan Wigand had died at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, so too everyone would depart this earth at a real and specific hour of time. A similar case could be made regarding why funeral sermons of the same period conveyed the birth of the deceased with increasingly specific timeframes. The reality of birth’s timing, too,

698 Otto Zander, Leichpredigt uber den Begrebnis des Erbarn Wolgelarten und Fürnemen Stephani Wigandi Churf. Brandenburgischen Secretarii in der Regierung zu Cüstrin, Seeliger gedechtnis, der von dieser Welt uff den 16. Aprilis umb 2 uhr nach Mittage, in Christo seeliglich abgescheiden ist (Frankfurt an der Oder: Eichorn, 1580), title page. 699 Gallus Hartmann, Ein Christliche LeichPredigt, Weylundt der Wolgebohrnen Gräuin vnnd Frawen, Frawen Anna, Gräuin von Hohenlohe, vnd Frawen zu Langenberg, [et]c. Gebornen Gräuin von Solms, [et]c. … (Tübingen: Cellius, 1594), title page. 700 Theobald Schwab, Catholische Leichpredigt bey der Besingknuß […] Maximiliani III. (Innsbruck: Paur, 1619), 34. 701 Pufendörffer, Adams Fundgrub, title page, c.f. Ciiv: “Am verganenen Sonntag abend nach Mittage zwischen 2. Und 3. Uhr sanfft entschlaffen lassen/ seines Alters 24. Jahr/ 30. Wochen und 1. Tag.” 252 underscored the impermanence of life and the irreversible temporal boundaries that bookended a person’s years on earth.

This concretization of the time span of the human life was not intended to lead people into despair or rumination, but rather to encourage active preparation for death. As one sermon put it: “we ought to spend and use our time here in this life so that our souls go to God after death.”702 Yet, in order for this pastoral appeals to have its full impact, it was crucial for pastors to impress upon their hearers not only the reality of death but also the reality of its timing, as unknown and inscrutable as it was. Treating the time of death as a specific hour was one way to achieve this. In doing so, authors could more effectively encourage people to start repenting, to adopt and maintain a saving faith in Christ now, rather than waiting until the actual hour of their death, when it might be too late. One sermon writer explained in 1610 that a person ought to

“focus oneself on the hour of death and prepare [for it], and thus live as though you could die at every hour.”703 The author goes so far as to claim that this is why God allows very young people to die once in a while, so that “everyone else will take note, and take their time more seriously.”704

This sentiment was one that funeral sermons shared in common with New Year’s homilies. The task of preparing for death was one that the “still living” ought to participate in on a “daily and hourly” basis.705 As many New Year’s sermons portray it, however, death ought to be prepared for on a yearly basis. Drawing on New Year’s power to conjure up the sense of time’s passing, pastors used the occasion of New Year’s day to bring readers closer to the reality

702 Eccard, Christliche Leichpredigt, Biir. 703 Anton Bachröder, Leichpredigt bey der Christlichen Begräbnuß […] Jungrawen Elisabeth Zenglin (Lemgo: Kock, 1610), Biir. 704 Friedrich Balduin, Christlicher Leichsermon... (Wittenberg: Gorman, 1614), 12-13. 705 Caspar Herrnschwager, Leychpredigt von Der Todes Betrachtung Vnd Teglichen Vorbereitung Zum Sterben/ Aus Dem 90. Psalm/... Zur Sepultur Weyland Der Edlen ... Barbare̜ von Rensperg/ [et]c. Der Durchleuchtigen ... Frawen Margrethe̜ / Geborner Hertzogin (Schmalkalden: Schmuck, 1589), Evir. 253 of their death. They highlighted a palpable, temporal juncture at which one could sense the tension between life and death perhaps more acutely than at other times. The passage into an entirely new year resonated as an illustration of life’s brevity, so wrote Albrecht: “when twelve months, fifty two weeks, three hundred sixty five hours [sic] have passed, the year is over. The years of our life are as fleeting as a vapor (Psalm 90:9).” Continuing, Albrecht laments (or rather rejoices) that “we are already one day closer to our death and dying—God be praised!”706 Such reflections on death—when viewed in the context of wider early modern attitudes towards death and pathos—imbued New Year’s sermons with a teleological view of life and time. In accordance with this portrayal, all the hours, days, and years of life were building up to the anticipated, albeit unknown, arrival of death.

II. FROM CREATION TO APOCALYPSE

As central as the themes of birth and death were in early modern New Year’s sermons, one also finds a parallel teleology that emphasized creation and the apocalypse. The first of the seven years mentioned by Albrecht is that of Creation (Annus Creationibus), at times referred to by other authors as the Annus Mundi.707 The purpose of recalling this year, according to Jenisch, was to “remind oneself that just as the world has its beginning, so it will have its set period, aim and end.”708 For many during the early modern period, the year of creation was understood as a historical point in time, whose precise year could be calculated in regards to other historical

706 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 13. 707 Elias Ehinger, Cometen Historia (Augsburg: Schultes, Ehinger, 1619), Ar; Michael Iulius, Von dem newgebornen lieben Jesulein [...] sampt einer newen Jarßspredigt (Erfurt: Georg Baumann, 1591), Ivi; Bartholomaeus Rülich, Christlicher Gegenbericht von dem Bäpstischen Römischen JubelJar und Ablaß/ so auff diß 1600. Jahr nach Christi Geburt außgeschrieben worden ist (Frankfurt am Main: Johann Saur, 1600), 13. 708 Jenisch, Fünff Newjahrspredigten, A3: “das jahr der schoppfung/ sich dabey zu erinnern/ die welt/ so ihrn anfang genommen/ werd ihren gewissen Periodum, Ziel und end haben.“ 254 years, an understanding that stems from the early church and medieval Judaism.709 Throughout the early modern period, it was not uncommon for the Anno Mundi epoch to serve as a historical designator alongside (or instead of) that of Anno Domini. As Elisheva Carlebach underlined,

Jewish calendars of the period frequently noted the Anno Mundi. Such works were often published “with the ‘year from the world’s creation’ emblazoned on their title pages, reinforcing the impression that they had had been calculated and presented in this immutable form over the ages.”710 The same could be said in regards to a small number of Christian calendars throughout the sixteenth century, such as a 1599 almanac by physician Caspar Bucha entitled “Astrological

Prognostication […] for the year after the creation of the world 5561, [after] the birth of Christ

Jesus 1599.”711 Although few calendars by Christian authors featured the Anno Mundi on the title page, the majority of them listed the year of creation in the chronology (Zeittafel) that typically prefaced each calendar and listed the relation of major historical events to the year at hand.

Like calendars, the Annus Mundi featured prominently in early modern chronologies, particularly in the generations following Luther’s Reformation.712 As with calendars, chronologies sought to convey the year of creation in tangible historical measures. Although it was not uncommon for chronologies before the Reformation to commence with the biblical story

709 Theophilus of Alexandria (d. ca. 181) is credited with having created the first Christian account of history dating back to the creation. Theophilus of Antioch Theophilus of Antioch to Autolycus III.XXIV and XXVIII. Similar methods of reckoning were kept alive during the middle ages, particularly by Jewish scribes who sought to circumvent the Christian use of Anno Domini. Carlebach, Palaces of Time, 190-92. 710 Carlebach, Palaces of Time, 189. 711 Caspar Bucha, Prognosticon Astrologicon oder Grosse Deutsche Practica auff das Jahr nach erschaffung der Welt, 5561. Der Geburt Jhesu Christi 1599: Aus warer Astronomia, wirckung der Finsternissen, lauff der Natur, Stande und Aspecten der Planeten (Magdeburg: Francke, 1599), title page. 712 The rise of printed chronologies of universal history were symptomatic of the rising interest in historical reckoning and chronology among Lutherans. Anthony Grafton, “Some Uses of Eclipses in Early Modern Chronology,” in Journal of the History of Ideas 64, no. 2 (2003): 213–39, here 214. According to Robin Bruce Barnes, the popularity of these texts, which peaked in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century, “suggests a strong desire to retain a sense of assurance in the midst of historical change.” Robin Bruce Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis: Apocalypticism in the Wake of the Lutheran Reformation (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1988), 114. 255 of creation (as was the case in Hartmann Schedel’s 1493 chronicle), Lutheran authors did so with a new tone of historical specificity, reckoning an exact number of years between creation and other historical events.713 The first historical event described by Johannes Carion’s immensely popular Chronica, published in collaboration with Philipp Melanchthon in 1532, was the creation of heaven and earth, an event he calculated to have occurred some 3,962 years before the birth of

Christ.714 Throughout the chronology, Carion lists events—particularly those that occurred during the first two to four millennia—in terms of how many years after creation they occurred.715 Carion’s chronicle marked the beginning of numerous attempts to calculate the year of creation in a way that fully aligned with scriptural cues and other historical indicators. The chronicles of Georg Nigrinus, Leonhard Krentzheim, and numerous others brought to the table additional speculations of the Anno Mundi and the times of other historical events. The proliferation of chronologies and other similar works thus translated to a growing variety of opinions and disagreements as to when the world had begun. In the preface to his 1570 chronicle,

Lutheran theologian Georg Nigrinus summarized the divergent calculations that abounded in his day:

The blessed Luther […] reckoned 3,960 years from the beginning of the world until the birth of Christ. Philipp [Melanchthon] also […] in Carion’s [chronicle] […] sets it two years further. However some, like [Johann Funck] and others, who have also diligently calculated, set it three years after that. Guilielmus Santfurdius716 reckons 3,967 but [Heinrich] Pantaleon [reckons] 3,970 [years], and so on. Thus there are some that are up to 10, others up to 7 or 8 years apart from one another.717

713 Hartmann Schedel, Liber Chronicarum (Nuremberg: n.p., 1493). 714 Johannes Carion, Chronica: Durch M. Johan Carion vleissig zusamen gezogen, meniglich nützlich zu lesen: Sampt einem Register, darin alle fürnemste Geschichte und trefflichste Historien von anfang der Welt bis jetzt kürtzlich angezeigt sind (Wittenberg: Rhaw, 1532), 66. 715 E.g. Carion describes the fall of the Sumer Empire to have occurred 3240 years after creation. Carion, Chronica, 28. 716 Likely a reference to Lüneburg theologian Wilhelm Sandfurd (d. 1564). 717 Georg Nigrinus, Ein wolgegründe Rechnung vnd Zeitregister, von anfang der Welt, die Jarzal vnd Zeit begreiffend bis auff vns: Aus heiliger Schrifft vnd bewertsten Historien vnd Büchern der Gelerten zusamen gezogen 256

These discrepancies hardly dissuaded Nigrinus from adding his own calculations to the mix.

Instead, the incongruities “moved” him to the work of chronicling and calculating. Nigrinus was hopeful that his calculations were correct, because he had based it on scrupulous reading of the years mentioned in Scriptures and the works of other learned people—a hope that virtually every other chronicle author shared.718 In the end, the Nigrinus’ calculations led him to the belief that

3,970 years had passed between creation and the birth of Christ, a calculation he notes agrees with that of the Swiss humanist Heinrich Pantaleon.719 The instance is a rare example of agreement between chronology authors of this period as to the timing of the world’s creation.720

Despite the frequent disagreements among chronicle authors regarding the year of creation, they shared a common objective to communicate God’s salvific presence through history and human life. In the eyes of sixteenth-century Lutheran authors, inquiries into the precise year of creation was not an intellectual exercise, but one that served to communicate spiritual lessons, as the knowledge of history was bound up with understandings of God and the ways He had acted and intervened in time. Melanchthon had led the way in this line of thought, seeing history as “the record of God’s work” and encouraged study of the past to discern how

(n.p.: Vrsel, 1570), B2r-v: “Luther seliger […] rechnet von Anfang der Welt/ bis auff die Geburt uners Herrn Jesu Christi 3960. Jar. Philippus auch […] im Charione/ […] sezen zwey Jar weiter/ Etliche aber/ die auch vleissig gerechnet/ als Funccius und andere sezen drey Jar darzu. Guilelmus Santfurdius find in seiner rechnung 3967. Henricus Pantaleon aber 3970. Und so fort an. Sind also etliche/ bis auff 10. Ezliche bis auff 7. oder 8. Jar von einander.” 718 Ibid., B2v. 719 Ibid., B3r. Precisely what work by Pantaleon Nigrinus was referring to is difficult to determine. Pantaleon’s Chronology of the Christian Church provides years only for events since the birth of Christ: Chronographia Ecclesiae Christianae: Qva Dilvcide Patrvm Et Doctorvm Excellentivm Ordo ; Cvm omnium Haeresum origine, & multiplici innouatione Decretorum & rituu[m] in Ecclesia ... à Christi natiuitate ad nostra tempora usq[ue] ostenditur (Basel: Brylinger, 1551). Meanwhile, his Historical Diary (published two years after Nigrinus’ chronology) organizes historical events by calendar date. On 25 March, Pantaleon notes that Adam, the first man, was created, but does not give a year as to when he believed this occurred. Ibid., Diarivm Historicvm: Ex sacris Et Prophanis Omnivm Nationvm Et Temporvm Fastis, Annalibvs, Chronicis, & Historiis, magna diligentia excerptum, & nunc primùm in lucem aeditum (Basel: n.p., 1572), 91. 720 Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis, 111. 257

God’s promises and prophecies of God would be worked out in global reality.721 The foremost lesson to be gleaned from the Anno Mundi—whenever one calculated it to be—was that the world had not existed eternally, and thus would not endure forever. Nigrinus, not unlike many

New Year’s sermons, pointed out that creation “reminds us of the beginning, middle and end of the world.”722 Countless contemporaries shared his understanding of the world’s impermanence, a belief that was often depicted in contrast with ancient paganism (and, not infrequently, contemporary Catholicism), which presupposed the world to be eternal, without beginning or end. The temporal character of the world—characterized by change and mutability over time— was considered integral to a Christian outlook—the world was not eternal because the eternal

God had created it at a specific point in time and for a specific end. Even Albrecht commented that, in living with the year of creation in mind, people were to remember “the world’s beginning, as well as its specified duration, purpose and end.”723 To ascertain the year of creation was to plumb the depths of the world’s finitude.

Driving this lesson home in New Year’s sermons was the resounding call to heed not merely the beginning of creation but the end, the Last Days—as pastor Michael Iulius wrote, to bear in mind the “year of the final judgment.”724 Readers were to “imagine the year and day of the last judgment, when we will appear before the judgment seat of Christ, and everyone will receive according to how he has acted in this earthly life, whether good or bad.”725 In other words, according to Antonius Schraderus, one should also start the new year by keeping the Last

Days in sight, to conduct oneself in the event that this passing year suddenly comes to an end

721 Ibid., 106. 722 Nigrinus, In wolgegründe Rechnung vnd Zeitregister, B2v. 723 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 12. 724 Iulius, Von dem newgebornen lieben Jesulein, Kiv 725 Jenisch, Fünff Newjahrspredigten, A5: “[…] Jahr und Tag des lezten Gerichts einbilden/ da wir fur dem Richstul Christi müssen offenbar werden/ das ein jeglicher empfahe/ nach dem er gehandelt hat bey leibs Leben/ es sey Gut oder bose.“ 258 when Christ returns.726 In the same spirit, Albrecht encouraged Christians—with the conclusion of an old year fresh in their minds—to recall the the “joyful judgment-year (Gerichtsjahr),” the year when all years on earth would take their end.727

For much of the sixteenth century, speculations of the year of Christ’s return were hardly deemed irrelevant among German Lutherans. The most widely believed possibility for the

Second Advent was 1588, when astronomers had predicted for nearly a century that several significant astrological signs were to occur, including two lunar eclipses and a conjunction of several planets. 728 These signs, so it was thought, would precipitate some monumental change in society, if not the end of the world itself. The belief was promulgated in an immensely popular rhyme that made its way into numerous written artefacts, such as this 1571 almanac by astronomer and mathematician Nicholas Weys:

Fifteen hundred and eighty eight That is the year that I await If the world does not collapse at that time Then there still happen wonders notable and great.729

A prophecy attributed at times to Johannes Stöffler (d. 1531) and at other times to

Regiomontanus (d. 1476),730 this rhyme warned that 1588 would bring either the Apocalypse

726 Anthonius Schraderus, Eine kurtze einfältige NewJahrsPredigt/ Vber Das Gebett der Gottseeligen Alten: Das alte Jahr vergangen ist/ [et]c. (Hannover: Glaser, 1649), 21. 727 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 13. 728 1588 was not the only year in which people predicted the end of the world. Osiander’s Conjectures name the possibility of 1656 or 1670. Johannes Funck did so for the year 1595. Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis, 129-30. 729 This rhyme can be found in numerous texts, usually with slight variances that Barnes attributes to its popularity in oral culture as well as in written texts. Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis,125-26. My translation was based on the following: “Wenn man zelt fünfzehen hundert achtzig und acht/ das ist das Jhar das ich betracht/ Geht in dem die welt nicht unter/ So geschehen doch grosse merckliche Wunder,” in Nicolaus Weys, Prognosticon Astrologicum: von dem 1572. bis auff das 1588. Jhar werende (Erfurt: Baumann, 1571), Aiii. 730 The exact origination of the 1588 rhyme is unknown. Felix Stieve attributed it to Regiomontanus, in Der Kalenderstreit des sechzehnten Jahrhunderts in Deutschland (München: Verlag der Kaiserlichen Akademie, 1880), 26; Weys attributed it to Johannes Stöffler (Prognosticon Astrologicum, Aiii); pastor and theologian Johannes Schülin attributed it to Cyprianus Leovicius, Johannes Schülin, Entschuldigung und Ableinung [...] Wegen der Praefation oder Declaraction/ den newen päpstischen Kalender (Tübingen: Georg Gruppenbach, 1584), 14. Moreover, Barnes notes the rhyme was occasionally attributed to Melanchthon (Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis, 125- 26). 259 itself or a multitude of cataclysmic “wonders.” In a multi-year almanac published in 1578, Adam

Ursinus described the cataclysm people could expect 1588 to bring about:

The 1588th year will be an amazing year, the likes of which have not been witnessed in a thousand years. The Lord be gracious and merciful to us (…) For it appears as though everything shall be reduced to rubble and wreckage. (…) No one should doubt this, for it is certain that a great change will occur over the entire world.731

Short of the Apocalypse, the “great change” to which Ursinus referred would include earthquakes, furious storms that would strip fields and gardens of their fruits, great wars and uproar, fires, inflation, hunger, pestilence, and countless other ravages known only to “the highest majesty of God.”732 Though no one could know for sure when the “Bridegroom will come,” 1588 seemed the most likely possibility. 733

That the Lord did not return in 1588 did little to dissuade apocalyptic fervor. Weys, in his original dissemination of the prophecy, had already expressed the hope that God might

“mercifully avert our well-deserved punishment” if His people would “honestly repent and lay

[their] diligent prayers in God’s ears.”734 Along with instilling comfort Weys’ original audience, one imagines his appeal to God’s forbearance also afforded him a credible explanation when

1588 came and went with no Apocalypse in tow. God had mercifully tarried in his judgment, a reality that elicited gratitude for years following—in 1600, Samuel Henricus’ recollected the mercy God had shown the world in twelve years prior:

Without a doubt, we all have fresh in our memory [the rhyme] one used to write concerning the 88th year […] Many Christian hearts esteemed that year with no small degree of fear, believing that they would not survive it. But the wonderful God who alone is most wise, and who holds our time, life and heart in his hands, and who directs the

731 Adam Ursinus, Prognosticon: auff das Jhar, nach der Geburt Jhesu Christi, unsers waren, einigen Erlösers, Meßiae und Seligmachers M.D.LXXIX (Erfurt: Baumann, 1578), Biv v. 732 Ursinus, Prognosticon, Bvr. 733 Ursinus, Prognosticon, Bvr. 734 Weys, Prognosticon Astrologicum, Aiii v. 260

beautiful clockwork of heaven and earth according to His will in order to discipline mankind on to devotion, not only allowed us to live through the 1588th year but also some years since, and we come now to the 1600th year after the birth of Christ our Salvation [...] [In 1588] Few people could foresee that we would live to see the start of another century before the Son of God comes in the final judgment.735

The memory of God’s mercy, not to mention how close humanity had come to its demise, still loomed large in Henricus’ mind. Yet, there is also a sense of tension: God could still come in judgment at any time. The experience of starting an entirely new century, a prospect that only twelve years prior had seemed highly unlikely, was thus all the more astounding.

Three decades following the prophecies of 1588, Paul Felgenhauer (d. 1677) made similar prognostications in 1620. In his Right, True and Completely Accurate Chronology,

Felgenhauer not only included a timeline of historical events dating back to the beginning of the world, but also made significant statements portending the end of the world. In doing so,

Felgenhauer implied that God had already revealed to him the year of the final judgment, which may be as soon as 1656. Felgenhauer adhered to the popular calculation that there had been

1,656 years between the time of creation and the time of the flood—in Felgenhauer’s case, however, apocalyptic significance was assigned to the number, inasmuch as he intimated there would likely be the same number of years between the birth of Christ and the final judgment.736

Felgenhauer’s predictions evidently failed to gain the widespread credence as Weys’ proliferations had concerning 1588. In a commentary on the numerology of St. John’s

Apocalypse published months after his chronology, Felgenhauer addressed criticisms he had ostensibly incurred after venturing to speculate as to a specific year in which Christ would return.

Felgenhauer showed no shame in the face of his critics, since he believed “God revealed to [him]

735 Samuel Henricus, Seculi Noui Introitus. Vier Newe Jahrs-Predigten (Leipzig: Voigt, 1600), 2. 736 Paul Felgenhauer, Rechte warhafftige und gantz richtige Chronologia oder Rechnung der Jahre/ von der Welt und Adams Anfang an/ Biß zu diesen jetzigen Jahr Christi 1620 (n.p.: 1620), Br. 261 the year-- not the month, let alone the day nor hour because as Christ says, no one will know the day or hour.” Felgenhauer believed that Christ’s famous forewarning against trying to guess the

“day or time” of His return, did not apply to calculating “the year of the final judgment, much less the month or week, but only the day and hour.”737 Thus Felgenhauer deemed it within the realm of Christian freedom to venture speculations as to the year of His return. Something of a renegade theologian, Felgenhauer was at the time residing in Prague; his theological ideas had been largely dismissed by many of his Lutheran brethren for his chiliast and anti-Trinitarian tendencies.738

But it was not only Felgenhauer’s problematic theological leanings that got him into trouble with his contemporaries; the vast landscape of early modern apocalyptic thought had also witnessed marked shifts in the decades since the late sixteenth century. Around 1588 it was still possible among mainstream thinkers to speculate as to a specific timeframe in which Christ would return. The year, as a duration of time, it seems, was not seen to be finite enough as to apply to Christ’s disparagement of predicting day or hour of his return.739 By 1620, however, the mainstream Lutheran readership had grown wary of speculations and prognostications, evidencing a trend towards what Robin Bruce Barnes has termed the “prophetic” strand of early modern apocalypticism. Rather than “gnostic” forms of apocalyptic thought, prophetic apocalypticism sought to both warn and console people by contextualizing the disparate struggles of life between the tension of cosmological beginnings and endings. Authors so inclined remained in a state of vigilance, fueled by the belief that Christ’s return was undoubtedly, albeit vaguely, imminent. Gnostic apocalypticism, by contrast, sought to attain and

737 Felgenhauer, Speculum Temporis, Gv-Giir, emphasis mine. 738 Neue Deutsche Biographie Online, s.v. “Felgenhauer, Paul” under “Namen A-Z” < http://www.deutsche- biographie.de/sfz15757.html> 739“But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, but My Father only” (Matthew 24:36, emphasis added). 262 disseminate insight and secret knowledge concerning worldly events, Biblical interpretation, and the final judgment. It was this second element of apocalypticism that, in early modern Germany, spurred certain authors on to make tangible predictions and speculations concerning what was to come. Relying on the use of detailed, numbered dates and chronological systems to predict the

Last Days, gnostic apocalypticism reached its height at the end of the sixteenth century, while the more cautious, prophetic Gnosticism persisted throughout the seventeenth century.740

The admonition of New Year’s sermons to remember Christ’s return, and even the “year” judgment, should be read not as an overt prediction of Christ’s return but as a manifestation of gnostic apocalypticism. In encouraging his readers to remember the “year” of judgment, Iulius was quick to state that Christ has not revealed the actual hour of His return.741 The objective, here, was not to encourage speculations on when that year would come, but to engage the awareness that it would occur. As readers embarked upon a wholly new journey through the year’s circuit, authors sought to strengthen perceptions on how that year lined up with the future and eternity, a point that is well articulated in 1625 by Kempten pastor George Zeämann:

Today we begin a New Year. This very thing has happened oftentimes before, namely 5584 times (for that is the number of years that have flowed past since the creation of the world) and may possibly happen once again. But the world (as the Holy Scriptures report) will not stand for very much longer; the Last Days and therefore the last world-year (Weltjahr) is right at the door.742 Zeämann’s statement elevates the ritual of new year from the level of ordinary time to salvific history, a means of gauging the flow of time from the world’s origins to its swiftly approaching

End. In their depictions of both the creationary and apocalyptic “years,” New Year’s sermons positioned the Christian squarely within the Spannungsfeld of past and present, beginnings and endings, time and eternity.

740 Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis, 126-27, 256-57. 741 Iulius, Von dem newgebornen lieben Jesulein, Kiv. 742 Zeämann, Apostolischer Wecker- und Wetter Glöcklein, 2. 263

This gnostic apocalypticism is evident in early modern chronologies, which along with calculating the year of creation, embodied the apocalyptic thrust of early modern cosmogony.

Even before the Reformation and the rise of Lutheran apocalypticism, Schedel’s famed world history—whose entries began with the seven days of creation-—ended with a brief outline of the final judgment.743 For Barnes, this attested to what “[Schedel] clearly expected to be the short remaining history of the world."744 Carion’s chronology structured history according to the so- called prophecy of Elias, a six-thousand-year schema of world history stretching from the beginning to the end of the world. 745 Popularized in the middle ages by Joachim of Fiore, this tripartite periodization split history into the age before the law, the age after the law, and the age of Christ, with each segment lasting two thousand years.746 References to and uses of the Elias prophecy and its division of history can be found well into the seventeenth century, even after year-specific speculations on Christ’s return had fallen out of favor.747 Although the sixteenth and early seventeenth early modern period lay well before the end of six thousand year mark, in accordance with interpretations of Mark 13:20, many believed the two millennia following

Christ’s earthly life would be foreshortened to spare the elect—though by the early sixteenth century, few chroniclists ventured to guess exactly how foreshortened this interim would be.748

Nonetheless, the overtly eschatological tension that characterized these texts illustrates that the vanishing point of history in the understanding of early modern German Lutherans was not the

743 Schedel, Buch der Croniken, CCLXIv-CCLXIIv. 744 Rosenberg and Grafton, Cartographies of Time, 40. 745 Carion, Chronica (1532), 7s; Anthony Grafton, Joseph Scaliger: A Study in the History of Classical Scholarship (Oxford/ New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 383. 746 Barnes, Prophecy and Gnosis, 22. 747 E.g. Johann Doeling, Eine außführliche Predigt und Bericht Vom Bevorstehenden Untergang des Babstumbs und der gantzen Welt : Auß der heimlichen Offenbahrung Johannis cap. 17,11. / Am Tage Urbani Papae Anno 1631 (Rostock: Fuess, 1632), 65 and 95. 748 Doeling, Eine außführliche Predigt und Bericht, 96; “And if the Lord had not cut short those days, no one would be saved; but for the sake of the elect, whom he chose, he has cut short those days”; c.f. Matthew 24:22. 264 present moment, but the apocalyptic future, the end of time. Even if this cataclysmic End of all things lay beyond the grasp of human awareness and calculation.

At first glance, a number of New Year’s sermons appear to have taken their cue from contemporary chronologies, not only in their general apocalyptic overtones, but also in their references to the periodization of the salvific and eschatological future. In a sermon collection published on occasion of the approaching new century, for example, Lutheran pastor Samuel

Henricus divided history into seven weekdays. 749 God had given humanity a calendar in order to show that the world was not eternal, but consisted rather of a succession of foreordained beginnings and periods (Anfänge und Perioden), the course of which would soon end. The first two thousand years of the world, according to Henricus, were history’s Monday and Tuesday and lasted from creation to the time of Moses. The two millennia thereafter occupied the time of the law, i.e. the Wednesday and Thursday of the world. The third and final two thousand years, the

Friday and Saturday of history, endured from the time of Christ into the present. Of these latter days, Friday was already over in Henricus ‘estimation, and even Saturday was nearly at its end.

„We are now singing the vespers,“ he wrote, „for now we write 1600 after Christ’s birth; at every hour and moment we await the blessed Sunday or Easter day.”750 Following his periodization of history, Henricus continued with a devotional reflection on each of the seven days so as to provide his readers and listeners with a spiritual morsel as they lived out their workaday routines. His religious reflections corresponded to his earlier historical schema and helped fuse the week days in real-time to keys events of salvific past and future. Thursday, for example, which in Henricus’ original conception of history had represented the time of the law,

749 Samuel Henricus, Seculi Noui Introitus. vier newe jahrs-predigten. Zum heylwertigen guten Eingang deß newen hunderten Jahres/ welches nu im Jahr nach der Geburt vnsers Erlösers Christi M. DC. Eingetretten/ Nach Gottes Willen leufft/ Etc. ... (Leipzig: Voigt, 1600), 50. 750 Henricus, Seculi Noui Introitus, 50. 265 in his following devotions was to remind his listeners of Moses’ thunder and the wrath of God against the Israelites. Later, Henricus spoke of Saturday as an omen of the swiftly approaching final judgment, i.e. the time of „the long awaited and hoped for twilight (Feierabend) of the world, [when] the children of God shall rejoice and find comfort. Christ will not remain distant with the finale for much longer. In this last vesper time, he will break through (herein brechen) and let shine one Sabbath after another. “751

Johann Leon, a contemporary pastor and fellow New Year enthusiast of Henricus, construed history in a similar way. Like Henricus, Leon compared the history of the world to the seven-day week, whose origins lay in God’s act of creation:

Our Lord God fashioned the heavens and the earth in six days [...] and on the seventh day rested from his labors. These six days [...] signify six long work days (Wercktage), that is, six thousand years that the world is to last. [...] But for the sake of the elect, the days shall be foreshortened, as Christ told us.752 The final thousand years shall not be completed (voll). On the evening of the sixth day, the seventh and long-awaited Sabbath will commence, and with it shall hoist up an eternal, joyful and blessed new year.753

In this quotation, one senses that, for Leon, the seven day week was more than a symbol for the septenary structure of salvific history. On a much deeper level, he understands the week to have been intentionally created by God to embody salvific history and the present experience of it. In other words, the week’s prototype was the temporal development of salvation from the beginning of time, culminating in Christ’s death and resurrection. Likewise, Jenisch commented that the week consists of a perfect number (numerus perfectus) of days “that signify something whole (vollkommens), for (within a week) Christ consummated the seed of Abraham with an

751 Ibid., 53-55. 752 Cf. Matthew 24:22 753 Johan Leon, New Jhars Geschenk/ Das ist/ Drey kurtze/ einfeltige/ und doch tröstliche Predigten- von dem lieben Newen Jhar (Erfurt: Wittel, 1607), 45; c.f. Jenisch, Fünff Newjahrspredigten, Aiii. 266 offering [that would last] for eternity.”754 The recurrent duration and temporal rhythm of the week, with its work and rest days, functioned as a coordinate system to help the faithful Christian locate both his temporal and eternal place in the world. When portrayed in this way, the septenary division of time elevated daily experiences of time in normal, workaday weeks to the materialization of salvation’s time.

The examples of Henricus and Leon illustrate that the historical discussions in New

Year’s sermons shared with contemporary chronologies an appreciation for heuristic divisions of global history, which was quickly leading up to Christ’s return. Yet the temporality of historical depictions in New Year’s sermons differed from those of chronologies in at least one crucial way: they often depicted salvific history with metaphorical units of time rather than literal ones.

Instead of making their apocalyptic descriptions of history more abstract, however, these metaphors did much to paint the final judgment with temporal brushstrokes that were tangible rather than ephemeral. Thus, in place of millennia and monarchies, the eras of salvific history in

New Year’s sermons were often captured allegorically with shorter units of time that everyone had experiential knowledge of—months, weeks, and symbolic years and the like. In doing so, writers of these texts achieved a form of apocalypticism that had an unmistakably concrete temporal texture, well-anchored within the world of experienced time, space and language. This tendency sought not necessarily to predict the time of Christ’s final return, but rather to re-(or pre)actualize it, that is, to bring the Second Coming into the experiential knowledge of life in a world of time.

III. THE MIDDLE OF TIME: LOCATING THE NEW YEAR IN THE TIME OF SALVATION

754 Jenisch, Fünff Newjahrspredigten, 8. 267

Between the temporal poles of birth and death, creation and apocalypse, lay the middle of time, expressed by some New Year’s as the “present” (das Gegenwertige),755 the years of one’s life (Annum Vitae), i.e. the “time and days of life, which are short, transient, futile and rushing on.”756 As significant as time’s beginnings and endings were, it was really for the benefit of the present that New Year’s sermons were written, in the hopes that Christians would understand the spiritual significance of beginning a new year—or more importantly, of living their lives in vigilance, with attention to the final end. Cultivating this awareness was crucial, since the the middle of time—the era of Christ, and the experience of the present in an individual’s life—was the only timeframe in which one could work out one’s salvation. Yet, this was no easy task.

Sermon writers recognized the difficulty of persevering in faith when immersed in the transient flow of temporal existence. Time, as Henricus stated, was in and of itself good, since God created it in the beginning, but Satan made time evil and prone to tyranny. Christians must stay vigilant in the stream of time, otherwise, just as there is no room for a leap day during the leap year, there would be no room for them in heaven.757

Given the difficulties of remaining faithful to God over the course of one’s life, sermon writer’s capitalized on the experience of beginning a new year. The sense of having completed a year, and “setting foot” in the untouched snows of the one to come, was a tangible, experiential bridge that invited the faithful to reflect upon the future-oriented direction of time and the state of one’s redemption.758 Just like the course of global history, the year could be felt as both a long and short duration. On the one hand, it was short enough to be experienced repeatedly throughout one’s life. On the other, years—unlike shorter timespans like days, hours or weeks—

755 Gilbert, Das newe Jar in sieben Predigten gefasset, 13. 756 Jenisch, Fünff Newjahrspredigten, A3: “Zeit und Tage des lebens/ die Kurz/ vergenglich/ nichtig/ hinflüchtig sind.“ 757 Henricus, Seculi noui introitus, 56. 758 Gilbert, Das Newe Jar, 35. 268 were long enough to cause a sense of awe as one stood upon their threshold, wondering whether

“good or bad fortune, life or death” was to come in the coming twelvemonth. It was long enough to lose one’s way, and find it again by keeping one’s homeland ever in view.759

Interestingly, 1 January was never typologically paired with a salvific-historical event, as was the case with other new year’s alternatives such as Christmas. Yet even if the first day of the civil year was not a fulfillment of any redemptive prototype, it was nonetheless construed symbolically with the figure of Noah. As one frequently reads in New Year’s sermons, the month’s name “January” was thought to have derived from the pagan god Janus, whose head had two faces, so that he could look both backwards and forwards. The thought of Janus taught pagans that „on new year’s day one ought to look both backwards into the past year and forwards into the present, future new year.“ As this same author continues, Ianus was no more than the pagan understanding of Noah, „because [Noah] saw both worlds: the first and old world that existed before the flood, and also the other, new world that came after. “ 760 On New Year’s, in the example of Noah, one ought to maintain an ambivalent perspective towards this transitory life, looking backwards with one’s spiritual eyes on the old, sinful year and pray for God’s mercy. At the same time, though, one should also be gazing toward the future, not so much to the upcoming year at hand, but much more to the “coming and eternal New Year.”761 Standing in the present, one ought to gaze to both the past and future.

Many pastors hoped that the temporal encounter with a new year would help people better to understand the pristine and infinite majesty of heaven. Both in New Year’s sermons and in other devotional literature, the phrase “the eternal new year” (das ewige Neujahr) connoted heavenly existence, but only seldom did authors elaborate further upon the conceptual

759 Ibid., 9. 760 Ibid., 3-5; c.f. Cöllen, Christliche Newe Jahrs Predigt, 12. 761 Leon, New Jhars Geschenk, 46. 269 relationship between New Year’s and eternity. This example from a 1626 sermon by Stephan

Cöllen offers a rare glimpse into this symbolic connection:

[In the eternal new year] will be (....) spring’s loveliness, (...) summer’s beauty, (...) autumn’s bounty, (…) winter’s tranquility. The years of this world are anni numeri, number years (zahl Jahre), because they can be counted. The years of yonder are absque numero, without number, because in that place, one neither counts time nor month, day nor hour. Rather, there shall be an eternal eternity (ewige egiwkeit). The years of this world are transitory, they pass more quickly than a postal messenger (Botenläuffer) […] Yonder world’s New Year’s, however, are not transitory; they last always and forever, and have no end, they never cease. [...] Oh wonderful year, where no fear is! O healthy (gesundes) year, where no sickness is! Oh peaceful year, where no war is! Oh serene year, where no labor is! Oh blessed year, where no tribulations are!762

An interesting paradox lay in this conception of heaven; eternity is a kind of year, but one within which are no calibrating time units. Inasmuch as Cöllen sees it, eternity is not entirely time-less.

Rather, he anticipates that in eternity the experience and perception of time will be different. The terrestrial experience of the year and its corresponding durations is marked by constant change and the transience of decay. Time on this earth is evident through sickness, war, toil, and other phenomena. In the eternal year, that is, in eternity, time shall be somehow perceived through stillness rather than change, peace rather than turmoil, endless health rather than ongoing sickness. According to that perception of time, or rather of eternity, various aspects of calendar time are simultaneously actualized; every season’s potentiality is perpetually reached. They permanently coincide with one another, not as seasonal but eternally coterminous superlatives. In contrast to Aristotelian notions of time as movement, time in eternity is a byproduct of stillness.

For Albrecht, following the year of final judgment would be the “year of glory” (Annus

Gloriae), when Christ would take His elect:

to [live with] Him in heaven, where there is no more time, day or night, but one Sabbath after the other […] That will be the great year (Annus Magnus, das

762 Cöllen, Christliche Newe Jahrs Predigt, 40-41. 270

Grosse Jahr), not the one that the Philosophers talked about and reckoned for 12,000 years, but rather the year that will last in secolorum secula, from eternity to eternity.763 The eternal year, for Albrecht, would commence after the final judgment and last for all eternity—longer than even the “Great Year” of the ancients.764

IV. TYING UP LOOSE ENDS: ENTANGLED ESCHATONS AND A CYCLICAL ENDING This chapter has examined ways in which notions of time’s beginning, middle and ends of time were engaged in early modern New Year’s sermons, and how these imaginations connected with other cultural historical sources of the period. Perceptions of time in this context often revealed a strongly eschatological picture of time, whether the temporal “End” in mind was that of the world or a single human lifespan. Death—the end of one—and the Apocalypse—the end of all— loomed large on the temporal horizons as viewed on the occasion of the new year. The final answer to Albrecht’s riddle, then, should not be all too surprising. What two days are on everyone’s calendar but whose timing remains a mystery? The first answer, in Albrecht’s words, is one’s “day of death” which is “certain in the calendar, but you don’t know where it is, whether it is black or red, on the top, bottom or in the middle.” The second unknown day was the “Last

Day,” which “also stands in the calendar, for God has ordained a specific day, on which He will judge the world with justice.”765 While these days are not ordinary events one would think to

763 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 13. 764 The Great Year, or the Platonic Year of philosophers to which Albrecht refers is one that is described by Plato in Timaeus as the “perfect year” in which the stars and other celestial bodies return to their original places after their nearly 26,000 year rotation around the ecliptic. This “axial precession,” by which the entire nighttime sky appears to shift roughly one celestial degree every seventy two years, means that constellations appear at different places in the sky depending on what time or century during which they are being observed. After Plato, axial precession was observed more closely by Hipparchus and Aristarchus in the second century BC, and reiterated by Cicero and other philosophers. Newton discovered the cause of axial precession to be a consequence of gravity, and proposed estimates for the yearly rate of precession which were revised by future scientists. James Evans’ work on the history of astronomy has been of great help in deciphering the familiarity with which early modern authors described the complex motions of the heavens. For information on axial precession in particular see Evans, History and Practice of Ancient Astronomy, 245-88. 765 Albrecht, Calendarium Christianum Perpetuum, 30: “Dein Sterbens-Tag ist gewiss im calender/ du weisst aber nit/ wo er stehet/ ober er schwarz oder roth/ oben/ unten oder in der mitte stehe. Der Jungsttag steht auch eim Calender: Dann Got hat ein gewisen Tag bestmbt/ an welchem Er richten will den Kreys dess Erdbodens mit Gerechtigkeit/ Geschicht 17:31.“ C.f. Acts 17:31. 271 schedule on a calendar, Albrecht’s point was that both one’s death and Christ’s return would occur on an actual (albeit inscrutable) calendar day in the future—they were not abstract or hypothetical possibilities, they were certainties. According to Albrecht, God had kept these days

“hidden so that we would diligently observe all days.” He believed that if people thought to themselves everyday “this is my last day in this world, today I will die,” then they would “never do evil again.”766 Thus, every day that was on the calendar was to be lived as though it were the

End, thus fueling the lifelong process of repentance.

This mentality, however, was not merely a contrivance aimed at avoiding the wrath of

God. The ultimate hope, as expressed by Albrecht and numerous other New Year’s sermon authors, was not in the year at hand but the “year” of eternity. As they found themselves on a liminal threshold between the old and the new year, pastors sought to instill in their flocks and readership a particular strategy for perceiving time, namely a temporal conception of eternity. In the process, they shepherded others through specific contours of earthly time that, in their minds, most directly resembled eternity.

These trends suggest the need to briefly revisit prevailing historiographical notions of early modern time perception in general, and our understanding of apocalypticism at the turn of the sixteenth-seventeenth century in particular. The pastors and other authors discussed in this chapter were convinced that the Last Days were approaching “soon,” albeit with various perceptions as to what “soon” meant. Nonetheless, although they all referred to the imminent end of time and commonly extrapolated on various meanings and approaches to time, not one prognosticated a specific terminus for the second coming. Instead, authors chose drew on

766 Ibid.: “Got that uns einen tag verborgen/ damit wir alle tag fleissig mercken. [...] So offt du einen Tag erlebst/ so gedencke/ das ist mein lezter Tag in diesr Welt/ heut muss ich sterben/ so wirst du nimmer mehr ubels thun.“ 272 intuitive temporal frameworks, activating their audience’s spiritual perception of time in its fullness—past, present and future.

To achieve this purpose, pastors often relied upon temporal cycles and rhythms that any human could identify with, not only intellectually but, more importantly, experientially.

Henricus‘ and Leon’s seven-day salvific-historical time perception can be viewed as an attempt to guide their readers and listeners by the hand through familiar concepts of time, with the goal of making concrete not merely the end of the world, but more so the experience of time itself.

For believers already convinced of the Last Days’ imminence, the biggest spiritual struggle was not the believability of a beast with seven horns, but the problem of time itself: to procure God’s mercy and salvation at the final judgment, it was imperative that one remain vigilant and repentant over the course of his or her life. Yet in a world of time and endless durations, as countless authors throughout the early modern period lamented, repentance and faithfulness all too often fell by the wayside. The antidote to complacency was take stock of time, as Gilbert advised: „Perceive time and possibility, and do not let them just go by. The hours, days, month and year are quickly passed. Be vigilant and apply yourself to them fully.”767 For one could never be sure which hour of which day, month or year of the calendar would be one’s last.

767 Gilbert, Das newe Jar, 12: „[...] der zeit und gelegenheit warnehmen/ und dieselbe nicht lassen füruber lauffen. Die Stunden/ tage/ Monat und Jar gehen nach einander hin. Sehe zu/ lege sie wol an!“ 273

CONCLUSION FROM THORNS TO ROSES: REVISITING THE WREATH AS A SYMBOL OF THE YEAR’S TIME

This project set out to explore the year as a temporal concept in Germany over the course of the long sixteenth century, shedding light on an epoch during which the year’s time witnessed unprecedented changes. Following the invention of the printing press, the consumption of printed calendars rose greatly. Far more than the nearly vacant grids of today, sixteenth-century calendars conveyed temporal treasure troves that often included medical, astronomical, astrological, ecclesiastical and historical information believed to be pertinent to the year at hand.

The growing place that calendars occupied in people’s lives, as well as the expanding authority with which they reported on astrological matters, illicited anxiety in numerous individuals, primarily clergy.

The rising importance of yearly calendars was accompanied by a number of other shifts in yearly timekeeping. Beginning in the fifteenth century and lasting into the early sixteenth, medieval methods of dividing the four seasons gradually shifted towards astronomical measures, which understood the seasons as beginning at the time of a solstice or equinox. A further development involved the civil New Year’s, which had shifted to 1 January from its medieval counterpart of 25 December. Although this transition was well underway by the sixteenth century, knowledge of medieval New Year’s practices persisted into the early 1600s, abetted in part by the confluence of Christ’s birth with the winter solstice.

Just as natural and spiritual conceptions of the year shifted, the civil calendar also witnessed profound changes throughout this period. The inauguration of the new, Gregorian calendar in 1582 engendered disagreement over the proper time for Christian holidays within the 274 civil year. By the early seventeenth century, some of these changes (such as the transition to 1

January) had found more resolution than others. The Gregorian calendar controversy, on the other hand, not to mention the spiritual concerns over calendars and astrology, would continue to be felt throughout the remaining century.

As chaotic as these many changes may appear, the prevailing picture of the year as a temporal duration throughout the early modern period was one of beauty and harmony. It is worth considering that by the early 1600s, the most frequently employed metaphor to describe the year was that of a Kranz, a wreath or crown. For contemporaries, the image conveyed the fullness and abundance the year brought forth, speaking to God’s provision of beauty and bounty that unfolded regularly every year. “What a beautiful crown the year is,” wrote Hartman Braun in a 1608 sermon:

It is [...] a time of twelve months, fifty two weeks, three hundred and sixty five days: that is a year. […] Now just as a young lady might make a lovely wreath by wrapping and fashioning an assortment of fine-smelling flowers, […] yes, just as a golden crown is artistically wrought and bestudded with so many priceless gems and pearls, so too is the year; like gems and pearls inlayed on a costly crown […] every month of the year has its own special gift for both man and beast to enjoy.768

A unified harmony characterized the year, even in the diversity of its seasons and times—just as stems of flowers are woven together, and gems are wrought into metal, God guided the times of the year together into an integrated whole. In 1643 Albrecht commented the year is just like a wreath “made from an assortment of flowers set on the band one after the other until the wreath is completely full.”769 One could say that that the year was a unit of time that was filled with

768 Hartman Braun, Eine christliche Dancksagungs Predigt, Für die newe Lutherische Academia zu Giessen im ober Fürstenthumb Hessen, über den 96. Psalmen deß Propheten Davids. Item, Corona Anni: Das ist, die Runde und Bunde Jahrs Krone, der vielen und mancherley Edelgestein (Darmstadt: Hofmann, 1608), 31. 769 Albrecht, Calendarium Perpetuum, 16: “gemacht wird von mancherley Blumen/ und an der schinen eine Blume nach der andern angesezet ist/ biß der Kranz gar voll wird“ 275 time, that is, resplendent with seasons who in due course brought forth their own particular bounty to complete the year.

The wreath/crown symbol imbued the recursive element of the year’s time with a paradoxical sense of recurring eschatology, an awareness of time’s yearly culminations. Both the year and wreaths were circular, but not necessarily cyclical. In the words of Caspar Sauterus: “A year is round, not just like a circle, but like a crown.”770 According to Sauterus, a crown is not just circular and round, but it aso “has a curved cross on the top, so that, despite its roundness one can divide it into four parts.” His description conjures up the image of a hoop crown, popularized during the Carolingian empire, which covered the wearer’s head with two rounded bands intersecting in a cruciform, dividing the circlet band of the crown into four parts.771 As

Sauterus saw it, God had similarly “divided the course of a whole year into four distinctive times and seasons, namely spring, summer, autumn and winter.”772 According to this line of thought, both a year and a crown had distinctive, well-ordered parts and peaks. The year contains four seasons, each adding its own special character to the larger masterpiece. In this way, it was not merely the crown/wreath’s cyclical nature that made it a formidable symbol for the year, but rather the fact that they were abundant with beauty, and integrative of multiple parts and strands.

They were objects that were whole in themselves, signifying beauty and majesty. In this way, one might say that every year contained an annually recurring teleology, an ascent towards the year’s beauty and abundance that replayed itself each twelvemonth.

This sense of cyclical teleology comes to the forefront in an emblem by Leipzig-area artist Andreas Friedrich entitled “Time brings roses,” published in the centennial year of Luther’s

770 Sauterus, Christliche Newe Jahrs Predigten, 82. 771 Hartmann, Peter W., ed. Kunstlexikon (Salzburg: Beyars, 1996), s.v. "Spangenkrone, Bügelkrone." < http://www.beyars.com/de_kunst-lexikon-hartmann.html>. 772 Sauterus, Christliche Newe Jahrs Predigten, 82. 276 reformation (see Figure 7 below).773 In the center of the image stands (or flies) a winged hour glass, whose lower bulb is nearly filled with a faintly visible mound of sand. Only a small fraction of the sand has yet to trickle down from the upper chamber of the hourglass, suggesting that the time is nearly finished. Surrounding the hourglass is a wreath of branches bound together at the bottom. These branches begin as thorny twigs, as wind upwards toward the other side, they gradually transform into copious, rose-covered branches. In this two-fold symbol (the wreath and hourglass) both linear and cyclical aspects of time are intertwined. The hourglass, which featured in many images Friedrich included in his emblem book, underscored in Friedrich’s work a forward-oriented motion of time towards one’s teleological end—either death or the apocalypse.

It surfaced in emblems where judgment or life’s brevity were common themes.774 In this particular image, this burdensome sense of time’s dwindling is tempered by the wreath’s circuitous, barren bramble that is transfigured into leaves, foliage, and finally roses. Above this landscape hovers the resplendent face of the sun as overseer, hearkening back to the sun’s purpose in marking the seasons and God’s role in ordaining creation and times. In all its recursion, time is culminating towards something beautiful.

That Friedrich’s emblem utilizes the year’s time in mind to convey the meaning of time:

773 The coincidental publishing of this work with the historical anniverary of the reformation is not something the author acknowledges in his work, yet the coincision may likely have factored into his objectives in printing the emblem book, which featured several images that counseled readers to remain patient in the face of adversity. Andreas Friedrich, Emblemata nova, das ist, New Bilderbuch : darinnen durch sonderliche Figuren der jetzigen Welt Lauff vnd Wesen verdeckter Weise abgemahlet, vnd mit zugehörigen Reymen erkläret wirt : den Ehrliebenden vnd Frommen zu mehrer Anreitzung der Gottseligkeit vnd Tugend : den Bösen aber vnd Ruchlosen zu trewer Lehr vnd Warnung (Frankfurt: Zetter, 1617), e.g. Jr. 774 Friedrich, Emblemata nova, e.g. Eiiir, Jiiir, Kr and Zr. 277 se se sen aber ö

ity Library

. r Niii me Brings Roses” Emblem and Enlarged Detail (1617) Detail Enlarged and Emblem Roses” me Brings Champaign Univers - =http://emblemimages.grainger.illinois.edu/emblematanovadas00frie/JP2Processed/emblematanovadas00frie_0 ret wirt : denret wirt Ehrliebenden vnd Frommenzu mehrer Anreitzung der Gottseligkeit vnd Tugend: den B (Frankfurt: Zetter, 1617),

Figure 7: “Ti 7: Figure rigen Reymen erklä Emblemata nova, das Bilderbuch ist, New darinnen : durch sonderliche Figurender jetzigen Welt Lauff vnd Wesen Wei verdeckter ö

0185.jp2&crop=false - Source: Andreas Friedrich, abgemahlet, vnd mit zugeh vnd Ruchlosen Lehr zu trewer vnd Warnung Image made available Universityby: of Urbana Illinois http://djatoka.grainger.illinois.edu/index.html?url 184 278

How lovely is the summer time? […] How pretty is the form of roses How beautiful is the flower’s miscellany And yet they do not grow perpetually but only at particular times of year: in winter [one] sees gnarled thorns as though all hope were lost. But when the time comes, [it] brings roses of all kinds. So it is in other things that time brings with it. Wait on time and hope in God And you will never be scorned. He will take care of you When you must leave this life.775 In the same way that the year’s time culminated in the splendor of roses, so one’s time on earth would eventually culminate in God’s eternal embrace. The year, as a duration of time, was a unit of time in which one could learn to see the fullness of time in all its thorny beginnings and beautiful endings. Through it all, God was present and active, watching over the thorns of time and bringing about roses—often when one least expected it. One images that, for Friedrich and many other Lutherans, this extended beyond the personal experience of time and also to that of the cosmos and salvific history: just as Jesus had entered the world in time, God had orchestrated

775 Friedrich, Emblemata nova, Niiv-Niiir: “Wie lieblich ist die Sommers Zeit? [...] Wie schön ist der Rosen Gestalt/ wie hubsch der Blumen manigfalt!/ Doch wachsen sie nicht immerdar/ Sondern zu gwisser Zeit im Jahr: im Winter sicht der rawe Dorn/ Als wer all Hoffnung gar verlorn; Aber wann die Zeit kompt herbey bringt sie die Rosen allerley/ Also gehts auch in andern Dingn/ Welche die Zeit thut mit sich bringn; Wart nur der Zeit/ und hoff auff Gott/ So wirst du nimmermehr zu Spott. Er wil sich deiner nemmen an/ Wann du diss Leben must verlahn.” 279 the “rose” of Lutheran teaching at an important juncture in history a century previously, and would not abandon His faithful.

Along with conveying the bounty and paradoxes of the year’s time, for historians, the wreath symbol lends a vivid symbolic language to the entangled understandings of year’s time in early modern Germany. Just as a wreath was wrought together “by wrapping and fashioning an assortment of fine-smelling flowers,” so too the year consisted of various perceptions, understandings and historical trends.776 To highlight this complex, multi-stranded character of early modern time perceptions, analysis has been centered loosely around three temporal modes of the year and their intersections: the year of nature, the year of the Church and the year of the civil calendar. Although these three years persisted as entangled concepts throughout the early modern period, the configuration of their relationships to one another changed in distinctive ways. By the start of the seventeenth century, the year of the civil calendar and that of the

Church were in many ways more closely aligned than previously. This was in large part due to the rising proliferation and use of printed calendars that were based on the Julian or Gregorian civil calendar. As explored in Chapter 3, for some, the growing presence of printed calendars in the everyday temporal routines provided for new option of spiritual devotion. Historical calendars and spiritual almanacs heightened people’s awareness of the spiritual dimension of calendar time, providing a way of perceiving the sacred time of the Church and salvific history.

At the same time, New Year’s sermons effectively elevated the start of the civil year to a feast day in its own rite, placing more emphasis on it than on the Feast of the Circumcision. This converging relationship between the civil and ecclesiastical modes of the year’s time, however, was problematic for some, who saw in the rise of calendars and (to a lesser degree) New Year’s sermons the risk of turning away from the Word of God.

776 Braun, Eine christliche Dancksagungs Predigt, 31. 280

In specific contexts, the year of nature became an arbiter of both the civil year and that of the Church. Until the late sixteenth century, both Catholics and Lutherans perceived the yearly cycles and signs of nature as types of salvific historical events commemorated throughout the year. Accordingly, the winter solstice typified Christ’s birth into the world, for example, while the spring equinox—i.e. the yearly rebirth of nature—was the anniversary of both creation and the Annunciation of Mary. For Catholics, this view would hold steady at least through the mid seventeenth century, bolstered by the implementation of the Gregorian calendar, inasmuch as it realigned Christian holidays with the solstices and equinoxes. By contrast, Lutheran detractors largely deemphasized the symbolic link between religious holidays and the cardinal points of the natural year. The initial decades of the calendar debate marked a shift in the way Lutheran authors talked about salvific history in regards to nature. Although certain dates—namely 25

March and 25 December—retained their significance as anniversaries of such salvific events as the creation and birth of Christ, Lutheran authors seldom conflated them with the solar cycles of nature after the late sixteenth century.

Contentions over the Gregorian calendar were likely not solely responsible for this shift of thought. The timing of nature was a topic that had become somewhat problematic by the end of the sixteenth century. This was evident in the contrary and convoluted depictions of astrological events found in calendars, and emerging skepticism towards the synchronicity of humoral health and nature’s seasons. The sense of nature and her time(s) being impenetrable played an especially palpable role in the writings of Lutherans, who not only produced and consumed printed calendars (and their astrology) at a higher rate than Catholics, but who also believed that nature was bound up with the world’s deterioration into the last times. While

Catholics perceived order and stability in the regularity of nature’s seasons and times, the 281

Lutheran milieu of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century was fixated on instances of nature’s abberation—unseasonable storms, for instance, or disturbing meteors. Yet even in these cases, nature still served a legitimizing function: instead of indicating the right calendar or the correct time for holidays, nature confirmed the reality of the last times, the imminence of the last and great new year of eternity. And it was there, in eternity, where the full beauty nature’s year—the bounty of all her seasons—would be actualized.

Alongside the three years of early modern Germany, there were additional areas in which multiplicity and variety held sway over the year’s time. The assorted dates and times that at various junctures of the sixteenth century served as the starting point of the four seasons, the

New Year, the best time to let blood—to name a few contested termini throughout the early modern year—exemplify the complicated situation one encounters in historicizing concepts of the year. It is a sober reminder that the year (not merely as a perceived concept and but also as a unit of temporal measurement) is among other things a historical phenomenon, subject to change over time, continuity and discontinuity. This point fruitfully complicates historical nomenclature—what does it mean to refer to “years” or “a year” of the past, when such terms and concepts are themselves historical processes? Far from despairing over such questions, the findings of this project illustrate the advantage of situating temporal terms—and their fluctuations—within their own history. By engaging the definitions, measures and conceptual implications that attended sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century temporal perceptions, one gains a more nuanced, phenomenological awareness of what a “year” meant in a particular historical context. Such explorations lend further insight into the specific ways individuals and a society encounter, accommodate and make sense of shifts in temporal practices, opening new avenues of scholarly inquiry—not only in regards to temporal practices and perceptions, but also 282 on the historical dimensions of cultural mentality, knowledge production, ritual, science and medicine.

Throughout the various episodes and examples that have surfaced in the chapters of this dissertation, I have purposefully evaded certain hallmarks of historiography’s parlance with regards to time, opting instead to rely inasmuch as possible on the words, symbols and images from early modern sources. Accordingly, perceptions and situations were not analyzed on the grounds of being linear or cyclical, modern or pre-modern, quantitative or qualitative, precise or imprecise. Not only do such descriptors evoke connotations largely foreign to the early modern world, but also to the lived phenomenon of human time perception in all eras of history, which is more nuanced, paradoxical and ambivalent we would like to admit. Applying the prevalent notion of time-discipline to these sources, for example, is problematic. Cultural historical sources of the sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Germany are replete with calls to perceive and be aware of time, yet this admonishment had little to do with the emergence of time thrift or discipline. Rather, time perception was tantamount to spiritual understandings, being tied to apocalyptic expectations that interpreted temporal reality to be swiftly culminating towards it

End. Entangled with this effort to nurture eschatological vigilance was the novel emphasis placed on to 1 January by homilies. Although New Year’s sermons affirmed the growing awareness of 1

January as the civil new year (rather than as the Feast of the Circumcision), they did so in large part to bolster spiritual awareness of time sub specie aeternitatis. Also illustrating this were

Lutheran understandings of holiday time that emerged in response to the Gregorian calendar reforms. On the one hand, Lutheran authors eschewed Catholic understandings of “sacred time” regarding prominent feasts of the Christian year. They advocated instead not a secularization of 283 time, a divestment of its sacramental potential, but rather invested it with a new sense of the sacred, an innovative emphasis on the centrality of Christ and the Gospel in time.

The picture that emerges from this study features an era during which the year changed and solidified as a temporal concept. Some of the variety and ambiguity that had characterized aspects of the year’s time by the late middle ages was gradually gave way to greater uniformity and standardization. However, the path of the year’s time from the medieval period to that of modernity was not an inevitable or strictly linear path. Understandings of the year during the sixteenth century were uniquely early modern, imbued among other things with an overtly apocalyptic worldview and astrological reference points. It is the picture that highlights the complex relationships between various realms and modes of time, and the way these strands of perception became entangled with one another in a society whose times were, quite literally, changing. 284

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—–. Ein wolgegründe Rechnung vnd Zeitregister, von anfang der Welt, die Jarzal vnd Zeit begreiffend bis auff vns: Aus heiliger Schrifft vnd bewertsten Historien vnd Büchern der Gelerten zusamen gezogen. n.p.: Vrsel, 1570.

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—–. Archidoxa|| : Dorin der recht war|| Motus, Lauff vnd Gang/ auch heymlikait/|| wirkung vnd krafft/ der Planeten/ Gstirns/ vnd gantzen|| Firmaments, Mutierung, vnd ausziechung aller Suptilite=||ten, vnd das Finfte wesen/ auss den Metallen/ Mineralia,|| Krey. Munster: Ossenbrug, 1569.

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APPENDIX: WALKING THROUGH A SIXTEENTH-CENTURY CALENDAR

Printed calendars of early modern Germany form a cornerstone in investigating understandings of the year’s time over the long sixteenth century, and serve to affirm Elisheva

Carlebach’s statement that there are few textual artifacts as beneficial to cultural history as calendars.777 As valuable as this source category is, however, reading and interpreting an early modern calendar is not for the faint of heart. By at least the mid sixteenth century, calendars relied on a growing density of symbols and abbreviations to convey myriad calendrical, meteorological, astrological and ecclesiastical pieces of information. Many of these aspects have become unintuitive to readers of subsequent time periods such as our own. The following appendix thus provides an overview of one sixteenth-century calendar, inventorying significant details of its construction and content.

Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn’s Almanac and Writing Calendar, published in 1577, provides the focus for this endeavor.778 Thurneisser zum Thurn (d. c. 1596) led a colorful life.

After taking over the goldsmith trade of his father, Thurneisser took a break from metallurgy to become an assistant to Dr. Johann Huber. Through Huber, Thurneisser first became acquainted with the writings of Paracelsus (d. 1531), a Swiss Catholic physician and alchemist who rejected the Galenic principles dominating medical philosophy at the time in favor of hermetical views of human health. Taking his cue from Paracelsus, Thurneisser believed that all aspects of nature were held together by God, who imbued material things with spirit and also orchestrated changes and events through the activity of stars and planets.779 Stars, so the

777 Elisheva Carlebach, Palaces of Time: Jewish Calendar and Culture in Early Modern Europe (Harvard University Press, 2011), 1. 778 Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1577). 779 Bruce T. Moran, “Art and Artisanship in Early Modern Alchemy,” Getty Research Journal 5 (2013), 1-14, here 6. 315 philosophy went, were the main harbingers of poisons and disease among humans.

After working for Huber, Thurneisser’s life spiraled into a series of travels throughout

Europe and Asia, failed business ventures, and two dissolved marriages. In 1569 he published his Archidoxa, in which he endeavored to reveal the “many hidden mysteries of medicine, alchemy and other liberal arts.”780 Self-taught though he was, Thurneisser eventually managed to procure a position as physician to Johann Georg, Prince Elector of Brandenburg. While in

Berlin, Thurneisser also funded a prolific printing shop, where he disseminated several treatises and calendars—among them the 1578 calendar examined here. Increasingly, however, his success was put in jeopardy as his Paracelsian views were met with harsh criticism from Berlin contemporaries. Finally, in 1584, Thurneisser fled to Prague and later to Italy, commencing a decade-long period of wandering, during which he left little trace of his whereabouts save for several sporadic calendars and texts he managed to publish in German cities. Impoverished, he died in a Cologne monastery in 1595 or 1596.781

One finds in Thurneisser zum Thurn’s 1577 calendar a prime example of early modern printed calendars. The work bears many emerging hallmarks that were coming to characterize the genre of printed calendars during the later 1500s. At the same time, there was no “typical” calendar of this period. The exact inclusion and configuration of information was still in flux, and often differed depending on author, location and printing house. While Thurneisser’s

Paracelsian leanings were unique, this does not appear to have had a marked effect on the form or content of his calendars, which are largely representative of contemporary trends in the genre.

780 Leonhardt Thurneysser zum Thurn, Archidoxa (Munster: Ossenbrug, 1569), title page: “viel vierborgener mysterien/ der medicin, alchemey/ und anderer freyen Künsten” (emphasis author’s). 781 J. Heidemann, “Thurneisser zum Thurn, Leonhard,” in Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie (1894), 226-29 (online version): http://www.deutsche-biographie.de/pnd118622447.html?anchor= adb. 316

The inventory that follows is divided into sections, each of which corresponds to a single page of the calendar. It proceeds from the title page through the front pages and the month of January. Each section begins with a digitally scanned image of the page in question and a detailed explanation of its contents.782 In most cases, this explanation employs a list- form structure, using labels to enumerate items and features of Thurneisser’s calendar.

Readers thus have the option of reading the appendix all the way through or consulting it as a reference tool.

782 The digital version of Thurneisser’s calendar is currently available in its entirety online, courtesy of the Bavarian State Library’s digital holdings. Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1577), digital version. Bavarian State Library (BSB), (Last accessed 15 May 2015). http://reader.digitale-sammlungen.de/resolve/display/bsb11164247.html. 317

I. THURNEISSER’S 1577 CALENDAR: AN OVERVIEW

Table A.1: Outline of Thurneisser’s Calendar and Descriptions (1577) Folio Absolute Item Description number783 pagination Ar 5784 8 Title Page Includes the title, year and publication info of the calendar as well as a small vignette illustration (See Section II below). Av 6 Page intentionally left blank Aiir-Biiir 7-17 Preface (Vorrede) A brief introduction to Thurneisser’s calendar and esteem for astrology (see Section III below). Biiv 18 Legend A list of the various symbols used in the calendar and their meanings (See Section IV below). Biiir 19 “Der siben Planeten A flow chart that briefly outlines the und zwelff various planets’ and zodiac signs’ effects Himmelischen with regards to the air. gebildeten Zeichen Character […] und Wirckungen inn besunderen theilen der Welt.” Biiiv-Eiiir 20-43 Calendar pages Traditional calendar tables that occupy two pages for each of the twelve months, starting with January 1578 and ending with the following December (see Section V below). Eiiiv-Fr 44-45 “Von einer kleinen Thurneisser reports on the date and time of Finsternüs des the only eclipse that will take place in Mohns […]” 1578, which would occur in Berlin on 18 September around one o’clock in the morning. Although Thurneisser believed this eclipse to be so small that it would not have a noticeable impact on life, he postulated that the poisonous effects of the previous year’s eclipse—which had been much more noticeable—would continue to be felt. He concludes by briefly admonishing people to be more thankful to God, who can ameliorate all the evil influences of celestial events.

783 Only several pages in the calendar are paginated, hence the folio numbers listed above are only general guides. 784 Page numbers as counted from the front cover of the bound calendar. 318

Fv-Giiir 46-52 Kurze Practick Thurneisser concludes the calendar with a brief almanac written in rough dactylic tetrameter, although most almanacs of this period were written in prose. Here Thurneisser mostly reflects on the general utility of astrology and astronomy. In the final two pages, he vaguely alludes to the perils that awaited several European countries during the upcoming year. He concludes by admonishing people to turn away from their ungratefulness (undanckbarkeit) and their heavy sins (schweren Sünden) and return to Christ, who alone can stave/avert eternal condemnation and punishment.

319

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785 Most likely a reference to the Graues Monastery in Berlin, a Franciscan community that was claimed by Protestants and converted into a Gymnasium in 1574. In its holdings, the Bavarian State Library lists this calendar as having been printed by Thurneisser himself. Thurneisser’s printing shop may have been located in the vicinity of the prominent monastery, prompting Thurneisser to list the monastery rather than his printing house. 320

The bottom center of the title page features a vignette engraving, at the center of which stands a

Pegasus, an ancient symbol of strength and intellectual aspiration. The animal’s front hooves are raised over an armillary sphere and a coat of arms, likely belonging to the Tyrolean princely family of Thurn and Taxis. The inscription around this image reads “Festina lente,” or “hasten slowly,” a classical adage that emphasizes the need to perform tasks with both efficiency and fastidiousness. In the border surrounding the inscription are found various instruments (among them a sundial and astrolabe) that, like the armillary sphere, aided in making the computations necessary for a calendar. The image underscores the pride that Thurneisser took in his work as a calendar maker, giving his audience readers an impression of the specialized knowledge involved with creating such a work and the thoroughness of his endeavors. While not all calendars of this period featured images on their title pages, many of them did, with the most common themes ranging from illustrations of the author, astronomical motifs with heavenly bodies and measuring instruments, or personified depictions of the year’s “ruling planet(s).” 321

I. CALENDAR PREFACE

Following the title page, Thurneisser’s calendar proceeds to a sizable preface, a feature that was relatively uncommon during the sixteenth century; prefaces added superfluous pages and costs to calendars, a genre whose popularity hinged in part on its affordability and practicality.786 Nonetheless, most of the calendars Thurneisser produced during this part of his life contained substantial prefaces—that of the 1577 calendar numbered 11 pages, expanding the length of the calendar by about a third.

Thurneisser began by dedicating the calendar to Joachim III Friedrich of Brandenburg (d.

1608), the son of Thurneisser’s employer, John George, Elector of Brandenburg (d. 1598).

Thurneisser then segues into a discussion of the interrelationships between heaven and earth, with attention to the particular ways in which celestial bodies influence life on earth. He frames his entire explication of astrology in scriptural terms, arguing that, according to the book of

Genesis, it is evident that celestial bodies (die Gestirn) have at least one “effect” [Wirckung]:

“they give signs, times, day and year, and they are lights.”787 The word Thurneisser uses for

“effect” is the same that contemporaneous astrologers used to describe the agency of celestial bodies and movements to influence life and circumstances on earth. His reading of Genesis

(orthodox as it may seem) imbues the stars with a degree of sovereignty and influence; they are not just neutral indicators of signs and times, but they “give” them (geben). In addition to biblical depictions, Thurneisser argues that experience itself clearly demonstrates that the stars have other influences on human affairs. Not elaborating as to what these influences may be,

Thurneisser is quick to add that the stars’ power is an extension of God’s hand in creation: "For

786 The opposite was true of sixteenth-century almanacs, which often began with prefaces and dedicatory pages. It became more common in the seventeenth century for calendars to contain prefaces. 787 Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1577), Aivr. 322 even if the heavens are the teacher [Lehrmeister] of mankind and all creatures [on earth], leading and warning them, [stars] nonetheless remain the student[s] and apprentice[s] of God the

Almighty."788 The clearest indication of superstition, for Thurneisser, is when people give too much praise to heavenly luminaries without recognizing the power of God the almighty, who in

His glory punishes the evil and upholds the righteous.789

The preface in Thurneisser’s 1577 calendar depicts a somewhat restrained, theistic astrology, in which celestial bodies are merely conduits of God’s sovereignty over events on earth. However, the preface to his calendar published the following year articulates a much more expansive astrology that in many ways departs from the scriptural underpinnings found in the 1577 calendar. Here, he leaves readers with little doubt as to whether the motions of planets and stars in relation to one another cause “deaths of high […] people; […] occupation of [political] regimes, rulers, lordships, industries; novelties; […] discord in marriages, friendships and families; uproars; wars; murders; cataclysms; fires; […] instability; barrenness; pestilence; monstrous births and other things.”790 As he states, calendars and almanacs are necessary for people to gain awareness of the planets’ role in fomenting earthly events.

Nonetheless, Thurneisser is all too aware that, “except for a very few, select examples,” most calendar maker make false predictions because they do not have enough knowledge of the magia naturalis—a shortcoming he purports to have evaded, as he assures his readers.791

788 Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1577), B2r. 789 Ibid., Br and B2r. 790 Ibid., Allmanach und schreib kalender sampt verenderung deß waetters mit eingefürter practic auff das jar M.D. LXXIX (Berlin: Hentzke, 1578), Avr: “Absterbungen hocher […] Personen/ […] Besizungen der Regiment/ Furstenthumen/ Herschafften/ Gebwerben/ Neuwerunge/ […] Zertrennunge under Ehleutten/ Gefreunde und Verwante / Auffrüren/ Kriegen/ Todschlegen/ Verherungen/ Brand […] Witterungen/ Unfruchtbarkeiten/ Pestilenze/ Mißgeburten/ und andere.” 791 Ibid., Avr-Avv. 323

II. LEGEND

Figure A.2: Legend and Symbol Gloss for Thurneisser’s Almanac and Writing Calendar (1577)

Source: Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1577), Biiv.

Image courtesy of: Bavarian State Library (BSB) Digital Collections, http://reader.digitale- sammlungen.de/resolve/display/bsb11164247.html

324

A: Auff das 13. Newscheinig Jar […] 1578, “For the 13 new moons year […] 1578.” This inscription reiterates the year on which the calendar is based (1578) and indicates that it contains an extra new moon beyond that of the usual twelve. This occurs roughly every two and a half years, due to the duration of lunar months (~29.5 days) being slightly shorter than most calendar months.

B: Aureus Numerus, Die Güldin Zal, “The Golden Number.” Ranging from one to nineteen, the golden number corresponded to a year’s place in the moon’s nineteen-year metonic cycle. The golden number acted as a cipher, providing the foundation for numerous medieval computations used to determine the dates of and relationships between various events throughout the year, particularly Easter.792

C: Cyclis Solis, Der Sonnen Circkel, “The Solar Cycle.” The solar cycle is the 28-year period of the Julian calendar, during which 1 January of seven consecutive leap years cycles through each day of the week. The number value associated with this cycle (here “19”) indicates the year’s place within this 28-year cycle. The pattern does not occur as such when using a Gregorian calendar, which omitted leap years at the start of centuries divisible by four (e.g. 1600, 1800, 2000).793 NOTE: this solar cycle connotes only a calendrical pattern and does pertain to modern astronomical understandings of the solar magnetic activity cycle.

D: Littera Dominicalis, Der Sonntags Buchstab, “The dominical/ Sunday Letter.” The dominical letter was a system for determining the day of week for any given calendar date, and—like the golden number--was a necessary tool in determining the date of Easter (which necessarily falls on a Sunday).794 The dominical letter for each year corresponded to the letter of the first Sunday of the year, 1 January always being assigned the letter “a,” regardless of the weekday. In 1578, the first Sunday occurred on 5 January, meaning that the dominical letter for the same year was “E.”

E: Indictio, Der Römer Zinszal, “Roman Indiction Number.” The Roman interest number, an item frequently noted in dates found on medieval records, connoted the year’s position in a fifteen-year cycle whose precise historical origins are unclear. This was an alternative way of tracking the year’s place alongside its Anno Domini value—though, interestingly, the Indiction did not serve a historical purpose; it only specified each year’s number within the specific 15-year cycle at hand and did not note the number of cycles that had elapsed through history.795 The reason for including the Indiction is

792 H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, s.v. “Goldene Zahl” under “Glossar.” The metonic cycle was a cycle of nearly 19 years, after which the new moon occurs on the same day as it did in the year at the beginning of the cycle (depending on the number of leap years that occurred during the 19 years). 793 H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, s.v. “Sonnencyclus” under “Glossar.” 794 H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, s.v. “Litera dominicalis” under “Glossar.” Grotefend also includes a table by which to proof the Sunday letter for any historical year, which I have used to cross-check all calendars discussed in this dissertation: s.v. “Tafel II. Sonntagsbuchstaben” under “Tafeln.” 795 H. Grotefend, Zeitrechnung des deutschen Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, s.v. “Indiction” under “Glossar.” 325

unclear—it served no astrological, religious or political purpose, but nonetheless found its way into many calendars from the medieval period and persisted beyond the Enlightenment.796

F: I nte r val lum, “Interval.” Here, calendars noted the interval between Christmas and Shrove Tuesday, the day before the start of Lent (in this case 6 weeks and 4 days, hence Shrove Tuesday occurred on 9 February 1578).

H: Bedeutung ettlicher Character, “The Meaning of the Following Symbols.” Here Thurneisser listed various symbols used throughout the calendar pages, which derive from the moon’s activity. In addition to symbols that noted lunar phases, Thurneisser included six symbols that pertained to particular activities, such as good bloodletting (gut aderlassen), weaning children (Kinder entwehren), and unlucky days (bös […] Tage). These activities and characteristics were largely contingent on the moon’s phase and place in the zodiac. Thurneisser also included one-letter abbreviations for AM times (“V,” Vormittag) and PM times (“N,” Nachmittag) which could be used alongside the previous symbols to specify that an activity was luckier during a particular pat of the day.

I: Symbols for planetary aspects. Thurneisser also included a second set of symbols that denoted planetary aspects, ranging from a conjunction (when two or more planets were separated by less than 10˚) to an opposition (a separation of 180˚). As old as the Babylonians, aspectual astrology associated particular combinations of planetary aspects with different outcomes, effects and influences on earthly life. Explaining this point of astrology, Thurneisser wrote in his 1578 calendar: “It is true, in accordance with the teachings of the ancients, when […] Saturn and Mars are in conjunction, [there is] discord, envy, confusion, murder and fire, but when they are in squares, almost all people, especially their children, are unlucky in new beginnings […] On the other hand, when [Saturn and Mars are] in trines, there is much luck in all affairs of war and making alliances.”797

796 If Herder’s encyclopedia is any indication, the indiction continued to surface in calendars as late as the mid- ninteenth century. Published in 1854, the lexicon noted that the number “appears in all our calendars.” Attributing the indiction number to the reign of Contantine the Great, the encyclopedia concluded in a rather quizzical manner that “what this [method of historical reckoning] still has to do with our calendars is not known.” Herders Conversations-Lexikon Vol. 3, s.v.“Indiction” (Freiburg: Herder’sche Verlagshandlung, 1854), 406. 797 Ibid., Allmanach und schreib kalender sampt verenderung deß waetters mit eingefürter practic auff das jar M.D. LXXIX (Berlin: Hentzke, 1578), Avr: “Und ob wol war ist/ daß nach Leer der Alten/ der gemeine lauff gibt/ das ann Saturnus und mars in der coniunction zwytracht/ Neid Unwirzheit/ Mordt un brandt/ so sy aber [gevierdter] stann / fäst allen Menschen/ sunderlich aber iren kinderen /in allen anfengen unglückhafftig/ […] hinwiderumb so die in [gedritter schein] stand/ groß glock zuallen kriegshendlen/ bundtnus machen/ […] und was sonsten zu Kriegsgewalt/ und dergleichen gehört/.”

326

V. CALENDAR PAGES “Ianuarius,” Jenner The Monthof January

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Figure A.4: Expanded Detail of January

Source: Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1578), Biiiv. Image courtesy of: Bavarian State Library (BSB) Digital Collections, http://reader.digitale- sammlungen.de/resolve/display/bsb11164247.html

A`. The column beginning beneath A` vertically lists the days of the calendar month (1-31 in January). Thus, the information contained in each horizontal line pertains to the calendar date at the start of the row.

B`. This column contains the dominical letter for each day of the week. Sundays always listed a capital letter (“E” in Thurneisser’s calendar) and the remaining days of the week were noted with lowercase letters.

C`. This wide, central column of the calendar page was a multipurpose space used to convey numerous categories of information. Given the rigid format of printed calendars, it was in this middle space that one sees the greatest variety between calendar authors and the types of information they chose to include here.

In earlier calendars, this area was primarily used to indicate the feast day, whereby prominent feasts and those observed on Sundays were always printed in red letters. Even among Lutheran authors, this continued to be the case in many calendars throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The listing of even obscure feast days in calendars likely served an economic role, as each town or city’s annual market— which drew merchants from long distances—took place on the same saint’s feast every year. 330

Nonetheless, in his 1577 calendar, Thurneisser lists the feasts for only about a third of the days of the year, a staggeringly low number in comparison with contemporary calendars.

In lieu of feast days, Thurneisser includes a number of other points of information. Interspersed throughout the year, one finds brief weather forecasts798 and astrological predictions.

found mashed together on single dates in unintentionally poetic—and at times puzzling— ways. "The beginning of a big meeting" was forecast for Christmas Eve on 24 December. Following this prediction was "Christ's birth morning snow" on 25 December. For 27 December, "Murder" (Todtschlag) was predicted (no further explanation given) while—ironically—for 28 December was listed the feast of the Holy Innocents, the children Herod killed on his quest to do away with the Christ child, whom he feared would grow up and become king.799

Also in this column, the name of the Sunday gospel reading is listed on Sundays in black letters beside a hand pointing (). While these features were typical of calendars, Thurneisser also included a novelty in this column.

One of the most striking peculiarities of Thurneisser’s calendar is his notation (usually in red-inked, italicized Latin) of rising constellations not within the zodiac. He typically made mention of these constellations next to prominent feast days, and was the only author in my experience to do so. On the feast of the circumcision (1 January), for example, Thurneisser expected “M” (likely the moon) to be near the β-star of Orion800 (“…in B.Ori. orit.”). Similarly the feast of St. Hilarion (13 January) was accompanied by the rising of the constellation Asellus Australis (today Delta Cancri). At no point in his calendar, nor in its preface or almanac, did Thurneisser explain this particular feature. One might interpret his inclusion of rising stars, for example, within the wider context of Paracelsianism, the medical approach Thurneisser ascribed to in the face of mounting critique. Paracelsus lent stars a high, albeit ominous, degree of significance as harbingers

798 The basis for these predictions—and for meteorology in general during the early modern period—rested on Aristotelian and Ptolemaic notions of air and environmental fluctuation. For Aristotle, whose Meteorology was standard reading in university curricula from at least the fourteenth century, weather changes—particularly with regard to meteors—could be explained by the disturbed interactions between the four elements, due to the divergent properties of warm and cold vapors. Ptolemy built on Aristotelian explanations and developed a system to forecast future meteorological patterns that was based on astrological, environmental and planetary obervations. By the early modern era, this Ptolemaic astrometeorology found resonance in calendars and almanacs that endeavored to predict specific weather occurences up to a year in advance. For general reading on the roots of early modern meteorology, see Craig Martin, Renaissance Meteorology: Pomponazzi to Descartes (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 2011), especially 4-11; Rienk Vermij, “A Science of Signs. Aristotelian Meteorology in Reformation Germany,” in Early Science and Medicine 15 (2010): 648–74, especially 652-53. In my research, one of the first German-language calendars to employ such specific weather forecasts was philologian Jeremias Brotbeihel’s 1560 calendar. Jeremias Brotbeihel, Kalender (n.p., 1560). 799 Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1577), E4r. 800 Beta stars are the second-brightest stars in any given constellation. Using the Greek letters to “number” the magnitude of stars dates back to Ptolemy’s Almagest. 331

of noxious vapors and diseases. Based on comments made in his preface, however, it is possible that Thurneisser saw salvific and spiritual significance in the rising and setting of stars:

[Stars] are lights not only for the eye but also for the countenance (gemüet), knowledge (vernunfft) and for the heart (herzen) to remind you all of your [own] setting and dying (Niedergang eüwers absterbens) […] and at [the stars’] rising and bright shine, to be certain of the return of [God’s] beloved Son, that is, your resurrection and salvation.801

The inclusion of these constellations is one example of how calendar makers, while working within a rigid format, could add their own touch to their work.

D`. This column signified the moon’s measured position (Degree. Minute) within a zodiac sign (E`).

E`. This column noted the moon’s zodiac si gn, a point many believed was important to consider when selecting a time for blood-letting and numerous other endeavors.

F`. In this column, Thurneisser listed favorable symbols from the first prefatory page for various activities that were favorable to perform on certain days, such as wood cutting and bloodletting. Occasionally, Thurneisser lists symbols not included in the calendar’s legend (on 5 February, for example, there is a scissors symbol). One explanation for this is that the symbols used in calendars were relatively stable, the same ones being employed to convey the same activities even among different authors and printing locations. By this point in the sixteenth century, it is not unfathomable that readers would know that scissors, for example, denoted days favorable for hair cutting.

G`. This column indicated the solar zodiac sign, i.e. the sign that the the sun could be seen to rise into each morning. To avoid confusion, Thurneisser uses a different set of zodiac symbols in this column than the lunar signs conveyed in column E` above.

H`. Here Thurneisser lists the time of the sunrise down to the minute, albeit abbreviated when one of the digits was zero (e.g. “7.9” on 1 January translates to 7:09 in the morning). The times were most likely derived from astrolabes, as clocks were not yet constructed with minute-hands.

I`. Finally, Thurneisser includes a last column, primarily to note each day’s planetary aspects, implementing symbols from the legend included with the calendar.802 The format used to convey an aspect often involved listing the symbols for the two planets,

801 Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1577), Br. Although Thurneisser does not cite it, the rising of the morning star is a biblical typology for the return of Christ (Revelations 22:16). 802 While aspectual astrology dates back to ancient practice, it was also integral to early modern astronomers such as Kepler. Udo Becker, ed., “Aspekte,” in Lexikon der Astrologie (Freiburg: Herder, 1981), 23-24.

332 preceded by an additional symbol that denoted their angular relationship or aspect to one another. On 3 January, for example, Thurneisser lists a conjunction (☌ ) between mars (♂) and the moon (☽).

333

A.5: January Writing Page Figure

Source: Leonhart Thurneisser zum Thurn, Allmanach vnd Schreib Kalender (Berlin: Thurneisser, 1578), Cr. Image courtesy of: Bavarian State Library (BSB) Digital Collections, http://reader.digitale-sammlungen.de/resolve/display/bsb11164247.html

334

A. Number of Days in the Month: In the top heading of the second page of each month, Thurneisser clarifies the number of calendar days for that particular month in Roman numerals: 31 (XXXI) days in the case of January.

B. Hebrew Month: In the right corner of the page, Thurneisser lists the Hebrew month that corresponded to each Julian month. January corresponds with Tevet, the fourth month of the Hebrew civil year. Because the Hebrew calendar is lunisolar, the dates on which its months begin and end do not remain constant from year to year on the Julian or Gregorian calendars. Nonetheless, Tevet generally commences during late December or January.

C. Latin Health Proverbs: In the second horizontal line below the header is the following Latin proverb (Monatsvers):

Ianus vino gaudet, sanguinem non minuit, Annum claudit praeteritum & aperit futurum.

Janus delights with wine, blood does not diminish The past year closes & the future opens.

The short rhyme personifies January as the Roman god Janus, associated with beginnings, transitions and the start and end of years. As well, one finds subtle health advice—the picture of Janus rejoicing in wine iterates the humoral teachings regarding the consumption of wine, believed to ameliorate the effects of winter’s chill on the body.803 That “blood does not diminish” during January was likely intended as a warning not to let blood during this time. Proverbs of this sort were highly common in calendars of the sixteenth century, although the Latin was often omitted in favor of German equivalents (which Thurneisser also includes in the bottom margin, see “H” below). Tracing the historical origins of these rhymes, however, proves difficult— although such proverbs most certainly date back at least to the high middle ages, there is likely no singular origin for them.804

D. Similar to the first page of the month of January, this column lists vertically the days of the calendar month (1-31 in January).

E. The column to the right of “E” lists the calendar days according to the Roman calends system, which conveyed the date by stating its proximity to one of three reference dates that fell around the same time each month, the Calends, Nones and Ides. Calends (Calendae) referred to the first day of each calendar month, while the Ides of each month occurred on the thirteenth or fifteenth day of the month, depending on how many days

803 Djser Kalender zeygt dir clarlichen die eygenschafft und natur der syben Planeten, 12 zaichen und monaten, auch die 4 Complexion eins jeden menschen (Basel: Pamphilus, 1521), Aiiv; Regiment der gesundheyt, Wie sich eyn ieglich mensch halten soll durch das gantze jar, mit essen, trincken, schlaffen… (Worms: Meihel, 1530), Ciiiv. For a wider exploration of humoral health as it related to the times of year, see Sections I and II of Chapter 2. 804 For a more detailed summary of the textual history of calendrical health proverbs, see Chapter 2, footnote 40. 335

the month contained (13 January above). Finally, the Nones occurred in between the calends and the Ides, on the fifth or ninth day of a particular month (9 January above).

Thurneisser also included an additional set of reference dates by signaling the day before (pridie) the Nones and Ides. Little attention has been given to the common appearance of the Roman calends in calendars throughout the early modern period. In my interpretation, these served little true calendrical purpose—i.e. the Roman calends were not used in public life to convey calendar dates. Their inclusion can be viewed as an ornamental embellishment, hearkening back to the Roman imperial origins of the civil calendar. Moreover, it likely functioned as a reference tool for the learned, who may have encountered such dates while reading classical authors and literatures.

F. In the right-hand margin, Thurneisser placed three astrological quatrains, rhymed verses that (unlike monthly health proverbs) focused solely on astrological aspects and planetary signs that would play a significant role during the month.

G. For every month, Thurneisser left a sizable blank area to be used as a writing section (Schreibtafel). Here, brief notes could be made for any of the calendar dates, a tendency whose popularity is evidenced by the many existent calendars from this period that have survived with handwritten notes intact. Most frequently, calendar owners recorded weather events, the births or deaths of loved ones, and brief autobiographical notes.805

H. Finally, in the bottom margin, Thurneisser included a German health proverb for the month (Monatsvers):

Bad vil/ trink wenig/ laß kein Blut/ Gwürz/ Wein/ und warme Speis ist gut Schlaff nit zu viel/ den Lufft mutier Mit Zucht/ Maß/ nüchtern [da]s Weib regier.

Bathe often, drink little, let no blood. Spices, wine and warm dishes are good. Do not sleep too much, the air is changing Govern the wife with discipline, proportion, and sobriety.

Such verses—which commonly featured in contemporary calendars—often correlated to foundational humoral strategies for maintaining health throughout the year (See Chapter 2). As such, one finds that the same rhymes resurfaced in the works of other calendar authors across time and space. This same rhyme, for example, can be found in Jacob

805 In regards to the written notes found in calendars of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a number of historians have examined the role they served in cultivating writing habits and awarenss of the self. C.f. Helga Meise, Das archivierte Ich: Schreibkalender und höfische Repräsentation in Hessen-Darmstadt 1624-1790 (Hessische Historische Kommission: Darmstadt, 2002); Ute Maas, “Schriftlichkeit und das ganz Andere: Mündlichkeit als verkehrte Welt der Intellektuellen -Schriftlichkeit als Zuflucht der Nichtintellektuellen,” in Kultur als Lebenswelt und Monument, eds. Aleida Assmann and Dietrich Harth (Frankfurt: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1991), 211-32. 336

Cnespelius’ 1590 calendar for the month of January.806

806 Jacob Cnespelius, Alter und Newer Schreibkalender mit Beschreibung deß Gewitters Auff das Jar nach der Geburt (…) Christi M. D. LXXX (Nuremberg: Fuhrman, 1590), Br.

337

338

V. FURTHER CONSIDERATIONS

Thurneisser’s 1577 calendar provides an example of typical forms and informational content used in calendars by the last quarter of the sixteenth century. Bearing in mind that each calendar had its own unique facets, the overall appearance, format and organization of calendars that have been discussed above remained largely constant through the first half of the seventeenth century. The most significant exception to this rule involved the commencement of the Gregorian calendar reforms approximately five years after Thurneisser’s 1577 calendar.

Although only the Catholic territories of the Empire initially accepted the reforms, by the 1590s, printers—regardless of confessional (or calendrical) affiliation—were incorporating both old and new systems within the already cramped pages of calendars. However unwieldy it made for reading, the move to include both Gregorian and Julian calendars was likely born of societal and entrepreneurial necessity, ensuring the widest possible readership. Moreover, merchants—and one assumes other professionals as well—needed to know the dates on both calendars to conduct long-distance business. Thus, calendars from the 1590s often featured the set of calendar dates—and feast days— for the old and new calendars in the right-most and left-most columns of the calendar pages. In the middle was a column with astrological symbols and weather predictions. This format is illustrated in a January calendar page found in Jacob

Cnespelius’ 1590 calendar (See Figure A.6 below). 339

Figure A.6: “January” in Jacob Cnespelius’ calendar (1590)

Source: Jacob Cnespelius, Alter und Newer Schreibkalender mit Beschreibung deß Gewitters Auff das Jar nach der Geburt (…) Christi M. D. LXXX (Nuremberg: Fuhrman, 1590), Aiiv.

Image courtesy of: Bavarian State Library (BSB) Digital Collections: http://bildsuche.digitale- sammlungen.de/index.html?c=viewer&l=en&bandnummer=bsb00021154&pimage=00008 &v=100&nav=. 340