William Fowler, His Booke

Uncovering a 17th-century scholar’s identity.

By Ava Jolley

Illustration by Justin Chen

As I skimmed through each volume, my eyes were inexplicably drawn to a small, tightly-bound book with an inscribed cover, marking his presence on the page: “William Fowler, His Booke, 1680.” Perhaps what enticed me was the mystery of the fragmentary, incomprehensible scribbles below his name: “and you shall see/and dear/and you shall dear Sir/William dear” on the first, “W For/dear” and “dede/Will” on the second. What these scribbles mean remains a mystery. But the inscription reveals an impulse to claim ownership over the knowledge within the pages. There is a clear thematic link between each journal entry; they are all copies of philosophical and scientific treatises of noteworthy Catholic scientists. The omission of a thematic title, then, suggests that Fowler cared more about signifying himself than signifying the content. Early modern manuscripts were much less private than today and were often circulated among friends. It is no reach to assume Fowler wished to see his name written on these pages.

The self-making of a scholarly identity becomes particularly interesting amid the backdrop of Fowler’s family. Leaving the RBML, I became obsessed with finding this William Fowler—the man who etched his name into the archives, who used a handwritten notebook to craft his identity. The question ate at me: How did a Fowler journal find its way into the Belasyse archives?  After hitting dead end after dead end, I tentatively found a marital link between the Belasyse family and the descendants of Constance Aston Fowler, mother of William Fowler. 

Constance was an agent of literary production in her own right. She would copy poems into notebooks, both from the literary greats and from her Catholic friends. Circulating these journals among her friends, she was crucial in forging a literary identity for her religious community. It seems William followed his mother’s footsteps, although forging his individual identity instead of a communal one. Bringing together radical Catholic scientists with his scribal hand, Fowler did not advance scientific knowledge in this notebook—but he did insert himself within a Catholic philosophical tradition.

As a student in the secular academy, I did not expect to connect so deeply with Fowler. And yet as I read more of his journal, a strange intimacy grew. I could hear the rustle of his notes echoing through the past. I could feel the knot in his neck as he poured over tomes of religious-scientific literature, just as I craned my neck to flip through volumes of manuscripts. I could see his mind seeking ways to organize the information, just as I sought to organize this overwhelm of written text. And I yearned to acknowledge him as a scholar, to see him as he wanted to be seen—just as every student makes themselves through the texts we read, the academic traditions we choose to inherit, the papers we choose to write.