Tag: Notarial Archives Foundation

Grand Harbour Revisited

Grand Harbour Revisited Speaker: Joanna Spiteri Staines Language: English Abstract: In the light of the recently published plans for…

Read More
30 July 2026
No Comments

From Sacred Music to Legal Records: Conserving the Many Lives of a Manuscript

From Sacred Music to Legal Records: Conserving the Many Lives of a Manuscript

by Hoa Perriguey

Fig. 1: Detail of the illuminated initial on the front cover before treatment

At first glance, a seventeenth-century notarial register might seem little more than a record of legal transactions. This 1647 register, drawn up by Notary Tommaso Agius, however, has a much richer story to tell. The parchment that now wraps this notarial register was not made specifically for it but was originally a leaf of an earlier choir book, where it had already lived a very different life.

This register is just one example of the many volumes preserved at the Notarial Registers Archive (NRA), each with the potential to reveal something that extends beyond the legal purpose for which it was produced.[1] Conserving such manuscripts always presents a challenge; every intervention must balance the need to stabilise the volume so that it can be handled safely and studied, while also preserving the material evidence that makes it historically significant.

The Fate of a Choir Book

Fig. 2: front and back covers before treatment

This kind of reuse was not unusual. Parchment was a highly valuable material, as were the gold leaf and pigments used to decorate medieval and early modern manuscripts. When manuscripts were no longer needed, their materials were often repurposed rather than discarded, both to reduce costs and because materials were too valuable to waste. There is a certain irony in this: today recycling helps us manage the consequences of our excess, whereas in the past it was driven by scarcity.

What may have once been a purely practical decision is now a remarkable asset, precisely because it preserves traces of the original manuscript while providing valuable insights into the people, materials and circumstances that shaped both the original choir book and the register it eventually came to bind.

But what circumstances could lead to a choir book being dismantled and its leaves reused?

The reuse of leaves from antiphonaries is likely linked to liturgical reforms, which led to the removal of amended musical sections from manuscripts.[2] This kind of reuse is separate from the broader and well-documented recycling of medieval manuscripts, which followed the rise of Protestantism.[3]

One such example appears on the cover of Agius’ register, where a verse from Psalm 94, used in the Epiphany Matins, can still be identified (cf. fig. 2). Notably, the binding is made of a complete bifolio, whereas most reused material more commonly survives in fragmentary form.[4] Interestingly, the bifolio has been mounted upside down, likely to display a gold illuminated initial prominently on the front cover (cf. fig. 1, 2). Its central fold has been aligned with the spine, integrating the manuscript page neatly into the book’s structure.

Despite these insights, the object still holds many mysteries. Where was this choir book originally produced? How did it make its way to Malta? And who owned it before it was taken apart?

The Life of a Register

Fig. 3: Detail of blotting sand still present on the ink and  inside the gutter

Beyond the recycled parchment cover, the textblock has its own story to tell. Like many seventeenth-century documents, the register was written in iron gall ink. Although prized for its indelibility over carbon black ink, iron gall ink could become corrosive over time. In this manuscript, the first 370 pages had suffered severe damage, with the paper support gradually breaking down as the ink oxidised. The decorated initials were particularly affected, as the heavier application of ink further weakened the paper. To stabilise these fragile areas, a very thin Japanese tissue (3.6 g/m²) was applied to one or both sides of the affected pages using a 5% solution of Klucel G in ethanol.

The examination of the textblock also revealed tiny grains of blotting sand still preserved in the gutters and, in some cases, adhered to the surface of the ink (cf. figs. 3 and 4). Sprinkled onto the freshly written text more than three centuries ago to accelerate drying, these grains have survived remarkably well.

Recent studies highlight the importance of preserving and analysing blotting sand, which was widely used in the Western world between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries.[5] Although the term “sand” refers to grain size, its composition may be mineral, metallic, or organic (including gum, wood, or bone).[6] Such materials were carefully selected and purchased by users. Analysis of grain size and morphology, in collaboration with geologists, can help identify the geographical origin of mineral sands.

Some blotting sands at the NRA have already been analysed by Dr Joseph Buhagiar, Professor of Biology at the University of Malta; they were found to consist mainly of grains of marine origin or resin. In this manuscript, however, the composition and provenance of the grains still await further research and analysis.

20260514_105337(1)

Fig. 4: Blotting sands under microscopy

Holding Four Centuries Together

Fig. 5: Quires before treatment are attached directly to the cover, possibly because of the broken sewing support

Beneath the parchment cover lies a completely non-adhesive binding: the cover, boards and textblock are held together almost exclusively by sewing. After nearly four centuries of use, however, this structure had begun to fail.

One of the leather sewing supports had broken near the upper joint. During a past repair, the first two quires were attached directly to the cover, unintentionally placing additional strain on the spine. The parchment overbands had also become deformed, while around half of the cord tackets that secured the textblock to the cover had broken.

Treating the sewing required particularly careful planning, as every intervention would influence the way the book opened and how the first folios moved. Because the previous repairs had introduced strain into both the sewing structure and the parchment spine, the first step was to reverse the earlier intervention, a process referred to as de-restoration.[7] The repairs were removed, the leather sewing support was reconstituted, and the quires were reattached to it. This relieved the strain on the parchment while preserving the original structure of the binding.

Fig. 6: The extension made of parchment and Japanese paper (left) and the quires reattached with linen thread (right)

Fig. 6: The extension made of parchment and Japanese paper (top) and the quires reattached with linen thread (bottom)

To reconnect the detached quires, an extension was created from thin parchment reinforced with layers of Japanese paper adhered with a mixture of wheat starch paste and EVA (cf. fig. 6).[8] The extension was carefully shaped to match the contour of the spine while remaining flexible enough to accommodate its natural movement.

2026-02-26_R11-14_During (18)

Fig. 7: Reattachment of the cover to the textblock

Fig. 8: Treatment of the overband and spine tackets

The fragile parchment overbands and broken spine tackets also required stabilisation (cf. fig. 8). Rather than replacing these elements, the aim was to preserve them while preventing further deterioration. The deformed overbands were gently humidified using a Sympatex semi-permeable membrane before being reinforced with Japanese paper. The broken tackets were then reattached by extending the surviving threads with twisted strips of pre-toned kozo paper adhered with wheat starch paste and reinserting them into their original holes. Inspired by Katherine Beaty’s treatment of similar bindings, this approach stabilised these fragile elements while avoiding further damage to the original material.[9]

Preserving the Cover

2026-03-05_R11-14_After (3)
2026-03-05_R11-14_After (4)

Fig. 9: Front cover (left) and back cover (right) after treatment

Fig. 9: Front cover (top) and back cover (bottom) after treatment

Large losses in the parchment cover (approximately 13 × 9 cm and 11 × 8 cm on the front cover, and 12 × 20 cm on the back cover) made the volume difficult to handle safely, particularly given its considerable size and weight. Some of this damage may have been caused by rodents.

The losses were infilled using 40 g/m² kozo paper, chosen because its thickness closely matched that of the original parchment. Before being applied, the paper was pre-toned with acrylics and burnished with a bone folder to recreate a surface texture that more closely resembled parchment (cf. fig. 9).

As an additional precaution, a custom Melinex wrapper was produced to protect the binding, particularly the fragile elements along the spine.

This conservation treatment offered a glimpse into parchment reuse in seventeenth-century Malta, particularly the practice of repurposing discarded musical folios into covers for notarial registers. In this case, the bifolio was even turned upside down so that the illuminated initial would appear prominently on the front cover, suggesting that aesthetic considerations were valued too.

Conservation as Discovery

Conserving a manuscript of this size and weight required balancing safe handling with the preservation of its historical evidence. Every intervention had to be carefully considered: enough to restore the binding’s function, yet restrained enough to preserve the original materials and construction techniques that make the volume historically significant. Perhaps one of the most remarkable aspects of this register is that its completely non-adhesive semi-limp binding has remained functional for almost four centuries without significant damage to its spine or joints. Its longevity demonstrates that historical binding structures were often remarkably effective and suggests that they still offer valuable lessons for modern conservation practice.
Fig. 10: Opening of the front cover before (left) and after treatment (right)

Fig. 10: Opening of the front cover before (top) and after treatment (bottom)

The treatment was carried out in February 2026 by Hoa Perriguey under the supervision of warranted Book & Paper Conservator, Chanelle Mifsud Briffa, Head of Conservation at the NAF.  Learn more about our Conservation Department

Endnotes

  1. Joan Abela, ed., “A Recycled Cover,” in Salvate Nos: Saving the Notarial Archives (Malta: Notarial Archives, Office of the Notary to Government, 2020), 71–73.
    ↩
  2. Joan Abela, ed., “A Recycled Cover,” in Salvate Nos: Saving the Notarial Archives (Malta: Notarial Archives, Office of the Notary to Government, 2020), 71–73; Theresa Zammit Lupi, “Grand Master Lisle Adam’s Recycled Liturgical Manuscripts as Notarial Bindings,” in At Home in Art: Essays in Honour of Mario Buhagiar, ed. Charlene Vella (Valletta: Midsea Books, 2016), 221–234.
    ↩
  3. Nicholas Pickwoad, “The Use of Fragments of Medieval Manuscripts in the Construction and Covering of Bindings on Printed Books,” in Interpreting and Collecting Fragments of Medieval Books: Proceedings of the Seminar in the History of the Book to 1500, ed. Linda L. Brownrigg and Margaret M. Smith (Oxford: Red Gull Press, 1998), 1–20.
    ↩
  4. Jennifer Bain and Anna de Bakker, “Traces of Liturgy: Analysing Manuscript Fragments from the Binding of the Riesencodex,” Fragmentology 7 (2024): 9–51.
    ↩
  5. Birgit Reissland et al., “Blotting Sand on Writing Inks: An Underestimated Source of Information,” in Pre-Conference Proceedings (Extended Abstracts), 2nd Iron Gall Ink Meeting and Final European Thematic Framework Meeting for Transitional Metals in Paper (MIP), ed. Jana Kolar and Matija Strlič (Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: MIP, 2006), 31–32.
    ↩
  6. Rainer Milke, “Geomaterials in the Manuscript Archive: The Composition of Writing Sands and the Regional Distribution of Writing-Sand Types in Southwest Germany and Northern Switzerland, 14th to 19th Century,” European Journal of Mineralogy 24 (2012): 759–770. https://doi.org/10.1127/0935-1221/2012/0024-2207; Margarida Nunes et al., “Uncovering Blotting Sands on the Portuguese Inquisition Documents,” Journal of Cultural Heritage 61 (2023): 211–216. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.culher.2023.04.003; Margarida Nunes et al., “Multi-Analytical Characterisation of Blotting Sands on Documents from Religious Orders in Portugal (16th–19th Centuries),” Spectrochimica Acta Part A: Molecular and Biomolecular Spectroscopy 303 (2023): 123204. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.saa.2023.123204.
    ↩
  7. De-restoration is the process of reversing a previous restoration by removing modern additions or alterations from an object or structure. Its aim is to reveal the original core and recover a state that more closely reflects the object’s historical condition. In this case, the earlier sewing repairs had altered both the structure of the binding and the movement of the first folios. Their removal allowed the original sewing to be repaired while restoring the manuscript to a state that more closely reflected its original appearance and function.
    ↩
  8. Parchment is often used as a stay when extending broken sewing supports. In this case, however, Japanese paper replaced leather because the earlier repair secured only the quires and not the cover. This allowed the repair to match the thickness of the original support while adhering more readily to the parchment and accommodating the natural movement of the spine.
    ↩
  9. Katherine Beaty and Kelli Piotrowski, “From Florence to Rome: Conserving Italian Stationery Bindings at Harvard University,” in Care and Conservation of Manuscripts 18, ed. M. J. Driscoll (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2023), 31–53.
    ↩
Read More
23 October 2025
1 Comment

Finding Family in the Archives

Finding Family in the Archives

by James Farrugia, with input from Sarah Watkinson

Introduction

When British notary William Stevens began working in Malta in 1806, he had no idea that his name would still be spoken in the same island capital city over two centuries later. Recently, some of his descendants visited the Notarial Registers Archive in Valletta. They were shown the volumes in which their ancestor had recorded hundreds of legal acts. Though the visit was quiet and informal, it was rich in meaning. It brought together the past and the present in the very city that had once shaped William Stevens’ professional life, and where his handwritten legacy still rests on the shelves of the Archives.

The Notary in Question

William Stevens practised as a notary in Malta for nearly fifty years, from 1806 to 1854. He was the first of a small group of British notaries working on the island in the British Period, during a time of significant social and political change. In fact, this put him in a position to be able to record the activities of many mercantile and enterprising ventures by British and Maltese alike. His work was also extensive, but he was more than just a name and signature at the end of each deed.

As it turns out from his correspondence and those of his son William John Stevens, who followed in his father’s footsteps and became a notary in his own right, he and his wife, Giovanna, had fifteen children. The family was far-reaching, and travelled extensively, with his adult children working and raising their own children in Turkey, Ukraine, Iran, Azerbaijan, Georgia, England, India, Ireland, Brazil, and Saint Thomas in the Caribbean (now the US Virgin Islands). Stevens himself was even imprisoned briefly in 1833, a trial that became the talk of the town, full of personal and political intrigue.

The archive preserves dozens of volumes of notarial acts written by both father and son. In recent years, they have become the focus of a long-running research project by Sarah Watkinson, whose connection to the Stevens family began with a brush and a curiosity.

 
Marbled cover of Notary William Stevens, 1821

The cover of R450 Volume 2, of Notary William Stevens, 1821.

Discovery and Early Research

Sarah first visited the Notarial Archives in 2012, not long after moving to Malta. What she found was not a pristine research library, but a building in poor condition. The roof leaked, papers were stacked in boxes, and many of the rooms were filled with volumes in various states of disrepair. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, she felt drawn to the place. Encouraged by Dr Joan Abela, she began volunteering, carefully brushing dirt off centuries-old pages.

At first, she was frustrated. The early modern Italian was difficult to read, and her efforts to understand the handwriting led nowhere. Joan suggested she look at the English-language acts of the few British notaries who had worked in Malta during the 19th century. These included William Stevens, William John Stevens, and Charles Curry. With no catalogue in place, Sarah and a team of volunteers helped build a database.

Opening folio of R451 Volume 1, Notary William John Stevens (son of William Stevens), 1831

Title page of R451 volume 1, Notary William John Stevens (son of William Stevens), 1831–1832.

Seal of Notary William John Stevens, from R451 Volume 2, 1833.

They started with William John’s volumes, as the handwriting seemed more legible. The first document she read, about a ship quarantined in Messina, felt disappointingly mundane. But the second deed caught her attention. It was dated 1831 and had been drawn up to protect William’s wife, Giovanna, from an “embarrassment” caused by her husband seventeen years earlier. The act was prepared by one son and witnessed by another. It raised questions. Why record such a thing so long after the fact? What exactly had happened? And why did the family choose to document it in this way? From that moment, Sarah was drawn into the story of the Stevens family, and the deeper she went, the more there was to find.

Finding the Personal Documents

As the archive continued to be sorted and reorganised, Sarah came across boxes of loose documents. Among them were personal letters, notes, invoices, and scribbles written by William, William John, and other members of the family. These papers had likely been swept from an office desk after William John’s death. While the culprits are unknown, Sarah suspects his sisters. They were never meant for public reading, but for Sarah, they were a treasure trove.

The letters weren’t easy to read. Frederick, one of the sons, often wrote a full page, then turned the sheet sideways and wrote across it again to save paper. William John used extremely thin sheets that made the ink bleed through. The handwriting was messy. Spelling and punctuation were unpredictable. But what they revealed was remarkable. Here were the voices of a family that had lived across continents. Their joys, struggles, and daily routines were preserved in their own words.

These letters filled in the human details that the notarial acts had left out. They showed the emotional weight behind the legal documents. Sarah learned about the family’s travels, illnesses, arguments, and affections. And while she could not use these letters in her Master’s thesis, which focused on notarial content, they became the foundation of her forthcoming book instead.

A Visit Across Generations

A recent visit by descendants of William Stevens took place at the Notarial Registers Archive, where they viewed a selection of original documents linked to their ancestor’s notarial work. While it wasn’t the first time Sarah had met them, the timing carried a particular weight. With her book on William Stevens’ personal life nearing publication, the opportunity to share parts of the original material with his descendants felt especially significant.

The fact that a notarial attestation written in the 1800s could still hold personal meaning for his family in 2025 speaks to the lasting human relevance of these records. It also highlights the vital role of the archive, not just as a legal repository, but as a space where history remains connected to the present and open to discovery, interpretation, and even human connection. It also aptly demonstrates that the notary himself—his professional life, personal life, and relationships, and the networks in which he moved—is a valid subject of interest and research in his own right.

“People often assume legal records are dry or impersonal,” Sarah reflects. “But they can be incredibly rich when you know how to read them. Notaries didn’t just passively record legal transactions or events, but were active parts of those societies, with their own opinions, families, and conflicts. And all of that shows up in the margins, in the choices they made, in what they chose to record, and in the miscellanea that never made it onto the notarial acts.”

Photos from the recent visits of William Stevens’ descendants, together with Sarah Watkinson.

A Living Archive, A Knowledge Trove

The story of William Stevens and his descendants is just one example of the kind of research that can come out of the Notarial Registers Archive. The archive holds thousands of volumes, many of which have yet to be fully explored. They contain records of marriages, debts, adoptions, business dealings, dowries, and disputes. But they also contain human moments. Behind every legal formula is a person. And behind every signature is a story.

For students, researchers, and scholars alike, the Notarial Registers Archive offers a rich and largely untapped field of study. Whether your interest lies in history, law, gender, migration, social relationships, or material culture, there is something here for you.

And sometimes, as Sarah’s work has shown, the story you end up telling is more surprising, more layered, and more personal than you could ever have planned.

Read More

Ad servandum posteritati


Phone:+356 21226152

Website:nafmalta.org

Monday to Friday: 07:00 - 15:30
Saturday & Sunday: Closed

READ OUR PRIVACY POLICY

Copyright © 2024. All rights reserved.