Writing, as I have done, about the Bodleian’s holdings of Jane Austen or Byron is all very well, but our most prolific author is Anon. He (or she) leaves his (or her) elusive traces everywhere – in ancient papyrus fragments, clerkly rolls of the middle ages, early-verse anthologies, copperplate accounts of long lost estates. Or, in one case, a manuscript volume of rhymes and songs just acquired from our friendly neighbour, Blackwell’s.
The book dates from around 1800 and is barely bigger than a playing card. Its physical format suits the person for whose little hands it was intended, an infant girl in the nursery. It is barely holding together (another one for the conservators) and features a chaos of pencil loops and swirls on its few blank pages: adult handwriting may change through the ages, but baby script doesn’t.
The manuscript, which includes musical notation, mostly comprises rhymes that my own five year old girl could sing along to.
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