I have just posted a wee discussion of the book donation list of William of St Calais and how it includes precisely the sort of books monks need to live by the Rule of St Benedict. It’s linked below. Enjoy!
Last night I had the pleasure of attending the inaugural lecture of the Durham Centre for Ancient and Medieval Philosophy (DCAMP), delivered by Prof. John Magee of the University of Toronto. I have long had respect for Magee since he taught me Greek prose composition and supervised my MA research on John Cassian back in Toronto, and it was a pleasure to see him in action, showing us what philology can do as well as the intimate links between ancient and medieval philosophy.
His lecture was about the text of Boethius’ elementary commentary on Aristotle’s De Interpretatione. Being fond of Boethius, as readers of this blog will know, I was happy to encounter an aspect of this Late Antique philosopher I was unacquainted with. What Magee did was use philology and manuscript studies to narrow our gap between the death of Boethius in 524 and the first manuscript of this commentary. This was done by considering references and quotations from Boethius in sources related to Cassiodorus’ monastic centre at Vivarium in Italy and by looking at traces of editorial intervention before the appearance of the manuscripts.
In short, what we see is Aristotle being read in Latin in western Europe, alongside Boethius’ commentary, between 580 and 800, and particular uses of Boethius’ translations being made in western Frankland. This is the sort of thing I like, and it inevitably made me think of Leo the Great and the period between his death in 461 and 600 or 700 when the first manuscripts with his letters appear. The methodology is the same.
It is also important because the way this Aristotle and this Boethian commentary were being used anticipates some of the developments in the study of philosophy in the High Middle Ages, such as the Logica Vetus. Moreover, we are reminded that parts of Aristotle were current in western Europe before 1123, and, in fact, were being read before we even have manuscripts that survive.
And, for those who are less interested in the history of philosophy, perhaps, this Aristotelian world also helps us see Charlemagne and his court and that Renaissance more clearly.
It was a pleasure to engage with a talk that brought into play philosophy, philology, palaeography, manuscript studies, and history — and even a moment of art history for good measure!
I look forward to DCAMP’s upcoming events.
Since before my Ph.D., my research has focused on a largely fifth- and sixth-century cast of characters. For my Ph.D. and subsequent research, I’ve been looking at the following players amongst others: chiefly Pope Leo the Great (of course); Emperors Valentinian III, Theodosius II, and Marcian (but also various predecessors and successors, especially Justinian); other bishops such as (as they come to mind) Hilary of Arles, Cyril of Alexandria, Nestorius of Constantinople, Flavian of Constantinople, Cyril of Alexandria, Severus of Antioch; Leo predecessors in Rome, especially Damasus, Siricius, Innocent I, Zosimus, Celestine I; successors, especially Hilarus, Gelasius I, Vigilius; other secular people such as Empress Pulcheria and Empress Galla Placidia; historical writers such as Prosper of Aquitaine, Hydatius, Marcellinus Comes, Evagrius Scholasticus, Pseudo-Zachariah Rhetor; and monks like John Cassian and Eutyches. These are only a few of the Late Antique people in my research, let alone a medieval cast including Pope Hadrian I, Charlemagne, Lanfranc of Bec, Pope Gregory VII, Gratian, and the moderns from Giovanni Bussi in 1472 to Hubert Wurm in 1939.
Now I’m working on a project involving related manuscripts, but in a very specific context — Durham Cathedral Priory. So a new cast is emerging. The texts transmitted in these manuscripts see many of the old cast — the popes, the councils, St Augustine of Hippo — but the new, High Medieval cast is taking shape for me now.
I am beginning with William of St Calais, after a monastic career in Normandy, he was Bishop of Durham 1080/1-1096. He refounded the religious house here as a Benedictine priory to which he donated at least 49 books, listed here, and some identified in modern locations here. One book not identified in that link is the Decreta Pontificum, now Cambridge, Peterhouse MS 74 — the Collectio Lanfranci.
So Lanfranc here and in the Ph.D. After a monastic career in Normandy, Lanfranc was Archbishop of Canterbury 1070-89. Lanfranc and William were both learned men, and they both used the Collectio Lanfranci in various disputes and claims regarding law and ecclesiastical custom. Of interest is the fact that, when William of St Calais was hauled before the court of King William Rufus (r. 1087-1100) in 1088, Bishop William used Lanfranc’s collection as preparation, but Lanfranc’s denied its validity in what was a secular court over feudal law. More on that once I’ve looked at their manuscripts.
Here we have a king — William Rufus, son of William the Bastard, or Conqueror (r. 1066-1087). My working through a manuscript this week has also brought me into contact with the era of the Conqueror’s other son, King Henry I (r. 1100-35), but those particular documents were largely canon law, about the Investiture Controversy, the Concordat of Worms of 1122 and the First Lateran Council of 1023 — documents by King/Emperor Henry V and Pope Calixtus II.
This I had recently read about in the Historia Regum of Symeon of Durham (d. c. 1130), who also wrote a little book about the history of the church of Durham and possibly even our primary source for Bishop William vs King William Rufus, the De iniusta vexacione, but my research into secondary materials has not got that far yet.
Others, more briefly: Anselm of Canterbury (who did not get along with William of St Calais), Pope Gregory VII, Gratian, Anselm’s biographer Eadmer. It is a new, medieval cast of characters, and some are more than a little colourful. People who use canon law are a varied lot, and we’ll see what I make of their manuscripts.
As you may know (since the 11 people who read this blog are my friends and family), I recently started a new job at Durham University after seven happy years of life, study, and work in Edinburgh. And what, you may ask, is my new job?
I have a one-year post-doctoral research post associated with the project ‘Durham Priory Library Recreated‘, focussing my research on Durham Priory’s collection of canon law manuscripts. I am starting my research with a canon law manuscript that William of St-Calais (Bishop of Durham, 1080-93) brought to Durham when he became bishop and refounded the religious house associated with the cathedral as a Benedictine Priory. He also started the rebuilding of the cathedral into its Norman/Romanesque magnificence in 1093. Bishop William brought 50 manuscripts with him, including the manuscript I’m initially looking at, a copy of Collectio Lanfranci, a canon law collection brought to England from Normandy by Lanfranc of Bec, Archbishop of Canterbury 1070-89; this collection is a trimmed version of the collection associated with the name Pseudo-Isidore (on whom/which I turn your attention to the work of Eric Knibbs). After, or alongside, William of St-Calais’ Collectio Lanfranci, I’ll be studying the cathedral priory’s other, later, canon law manuscripts.
If canon law doesn’t float your boat, perhaps William’s Bible will.
The research project is a digitisation project bringing together in one digital place all of the manuscripts and early printed books that belonged to the pre-Reformation priory. This means not only the ones at Durham Cathedral and Durham University but also manuscripts that have gone off wandering to London, Cambridge, Oxford, etc. Besides studying the priory’s manuscripts for the creation of new scholarship, I will also contribute to the project blog and engage in public outreach — public lectures, seminars, that sort of thing — besides organising a scholarly workshop in 2018 about Canon Law in Medieval Durham.
I have already settled into my new desk and started ploughing through the material about Durham and William of St-Calais, much of which was written by Symeon of Durham (d. 1129ish). Perhaps I’ll write about him soon! I’ve also visited the cathedral a couple of times and walked down by the river and generally enjoyed living in a city with a big, famous cathedral and a castle.
It looks to be an exciting year.
The other day, I slipped downstairs to borrow a copy of Christine Delaplace, La fin de l’Empire romain d’Occident from my boss/colleague/former PhD supervisor. While I was there, mid-chat, I picked up Adrian Goldsworthy’s The Fall of the West and scanned his index for ‘Majorian’ and ‘Leo, emperor’.
‘I’m becoming obsessed,’ I said. ‘Most people don’t even address the question of the relationship between Majorian and Leo.’
Our chat went on to a discussion of his intended trip to follow Rutilius’ Namatianus trip up the Italian coast, as detailed by the Gallo-Roman aristocrat in his 418 poem, De Reditu Suo.
That morning I had been at the National Library of Scotland doing more research on the question of Majorian and Leo, looking at C.D. Gordon’s The Age of Attila. Gordon’s book is a fascinating (and dangerous) idea and illustrative of why so few people address questions like East-West relationships in the mid- to late 400s, or how consuls are promulgated and recognised, etc. The Age of Attila covers the years 395 to 498. After an introductory chapter describing the state of affairs at the death of Theodosius I in 395, Gordon proceeds to give translations of the fragmentary classicising Greek historians who give us narrative accounts of fifth-century Roman history. He arranges them in a logical order and then stitches the narrative together with his own words to fill in the gaps. The translated passages are italicised whereas Gordon’s passages are not. You can see why it is both fascinating and dangerous.
The reason Gordon did this is because we lack for the fifth century something we take for granted for the Early Empire and the Peloponnesian War — a traditional, narrative history, in either Latin or Greek. For the fourth century, we have a good portion of Ammianus Marcellinus. For the age of Justinian (r. 527-65), we have Procopius. For the sixth-century Franks, we have Gregory of Tours. For church history, we have three fifth-century historians who end in the 430s, and then a sixth-century historian who takes up their narrative.
But all of our traditional narrative historians from the fifth century survive only in fragments. After Gordon’s 1960 venture, all the surviving fragments of Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus, and Malchus were edited and translated by R.C. Blockley in The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire in 1983.
How do we fill in the gaps left by these fragments? Through careful use of other historiographical genres, saints’ lives, documentary evidence, inscriptions, coins, and even such items as sermons. The big historiographical genre for the 400s is the chronicle.Chronicles are great for what they do — they give you the series of years all organised chronologically with major events under each year. They are very helpful, and a lot can be gained from them. But they are not narratives proper, and thus a lot of questions cannot be answered no matter how carefully you read them. A lot questions are not even hinted at in many chronicles.
In Latin, we have three overlapping chroniclers — the ‘Gallic Chronicle of 452’, Prosper of Aquitaine (455 final edition), and Hydatius (468), as well as sixth-century chronicles that had access to other sources we have lost, such as Victor of Tunnuna (c. 565), John of Biclar (up to 589), as well as the eastern Latin writer, Marcellinus comes (534 last edition). We also have Greek chronicles, many of them a lot later. These we can combine with Consularia, lists of consuls, and other computational genres that have to do with time, like Easter tables and the like.
One historiographical text that helps us out in the fifth century is the so-called Chronicle or Chronographia of John Malalas. This is not a chronicle like Prosper, et al., but that doesn’t make it uninteresting or unhelpful. Taken with the Life of Daniel the Stylite, the narrative of Basiliscus’ reign/usurpation is fleshed out, for example.
And so, alongside such texts, we also have saints’ lives. One such text that is helpful for Constantinople in the 470s, just mentioned, is the Life of Daniel the Stylite in which we learn some on-the-ground perspectives on the usurpation of Basiliscus (475-6). These require their own way of being handled, of course. Nonetheless, they can give us valuable information about social life and the views of non-episcopal Christians, even when they do not address political life.
Other evidence? Imperial laws edited into the Codex Theodosianus (438) and the Codex Justinianus (529, 534), other imperial laws such as the Leges novellae of Theodosius II, Valentinian III, Majorian, Marcian, Severus, and Anthemius drawn from various sources. We have papyri from Egypt that document all sorts of things, including shipping invoices as well as taxation. Letters from popes, other bishops, rich aristocrats, et al., further enrich our fragmented vision of the 400s, along with poems and inscriptions and coins and sermons and theological treatises and ascetic treatises and philosophical tractates and the acts of church councils and probably a range of things I’ve forgotten at the moment.
It’s a lot of evidence. Far more than almost any other period of ancient history. But because it exists in the short chronicles or redacted laws or fragments of papyrus or documents that aren’t concerned with things we want to know — or the aforementioned fragmentary historians — straightforward questions (‘Did the Emperor Leo acknowledge the Emperor Majorian? How did Majorian respond?’) are not always easy to answer.
That’s what makes it frustrating and fun all at once.
Every once in a while you are confronted with ‘important’ periods in history — 135 BC to AD 14, for example, takes us through the collapse of the Roman Republic to the death of Augustus, the first Emperor. Or the fourth century, with the continuation of Diocletian’s reforms, Constantine’s conversion to Christianity, the various church councils and associated theologians, all culminating in what Peter Brown calls the ‘second’ Golden Age of Latin literature. Or the 16th century, an age of Reformation and print and philosophy and war.
The 12th century is similarly important, especially its middle decades.
The final year of the 11th century is the year the Crusaders took Jerusalem. The final decades of 1000s also saw the Investiture Controversy and the Gregorian Reform, which continued beyond 1100 and adjusted the balance of secular and ecclesiastical power in Europe. In the midst of this is St Anselm (1033-1109), whose Cur Deus Homo was completed in the year 1100; this brilliant logician and theologian was to die in 1109.
Not that Latin theology was left with no new lights in the upcoming decades — St Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153) helped drive forward the new Cistercian Order and is a high point in western mysticism, particularly his sermons on the Song of Songs, begun in 1135; he is often called the Last of the Fathers and is a ‘Doctor’ of the church. Bernard sharpened his wit in intellectual combat against Peter Abelard (1079-1142), who is an early ‘scholastic’ theologian (whereas Bernard was a monk) who was more given over to Aristotle than to Plato, to logic than to mysticism, and who was involved in the methodological revolution in the universities that we call ‘Scholasticism’.
Abelard was important and is known even to non-medievalists today, often because of his relationship with Heloise and their illegitimate son, Astrolabe (we have even a Penguin Classics translation of their letters!). However, some of his controversial conclusions were rejected by the succeeding tradition; one of his successors, Peter Lombard (1100-1160), on the other hand, wrote what would become the standard textbook of theology for the Middle Ages, the Sentences (1147-50), on which the luminaries of the next century, such as St Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274), would write commentaries. Although his orthodoxy, like Abelard’s, was challenged, his memory was acquitted at the Lateran Council of 1215.
Around the same time as Peter Lombard’s greatest work and the mystical masterpieces of St Bernard, but in the final years of Abelard, Gratian wrote his Decretum — or, rather, ‘Concord of Discordant Canons’. This is one of the most influential works of canon law from the Middle Ages, drawing together the various sources of the law under systematised headings and providing Gratian’s own dicta to sort out the discrepancies between. It is at once a source for canon law, a juristic text for legal principles, as well as a study in Christian sacraments. The Decretum is a wondrous piece of 12th-century learning, born in the university at Bologna in 1139 with final edits in the 1140s. Like Lombard’s Sentences it would become a standard textbook for the rest of the Middle Ages.
These are what initially inspired me to write this post. Nonetheless, this is also the century of the birth of Gothic art under the vision of Abbot Suger of St-Denis; the great architecture of Norman Sicily comes this century as well. Towards the end of the century the Nibelungenlied — Germany’s great vernacular epic — was written (I’ve blogged on it here often in the past). The latter half of the century also sees Chrétien de Troyes (1130-1191), Marie de France (fl. 1160-1215), and Hartmann von Aue (1160-1210s). This the century of that medieval stereotype, the troubadour.
No piece about the twelfth century should go without mentioning the dubiously historical work of Geoffrey of Monmouth (1095-1155), that famous History of the Kings of Britain was written, including many famous tales of King Arthur. More reliable was William of Malmesbury (1095-1143), who wrote several important works of English history in Latin prose.
One could go on. It’s interesting to see these convergences, especially the significant pieces written 1140-60.
It’s been a while since I blogged about a manuscript. Today, I came across this blog post about the curious fact that the Durham Gospels — Durham Cathedral Manuscript A.II.17 — has five folios numbered 38! The post also includes an image from the Durham Gospels of Christ crucified, from folio 38v3. I think I read the Creative Commons Licence correctly, so here is the image:Not, I admit, the Lindisfarne Gospels, but, interestingly enough, of similar date (eighth century). Hugh Houghton says that both manuscripts ‘may have been produced in the same place, and the same corrector made alterations to both manuscripts.’ (The Latin New Testament, 73)
It’s probably just the coincidence of colours, but this page in toto reminds me of the Book of Kells (late eighth century), if less full-on. It is a common enough artistic conceit — the cross divides the page into quarters, in which we find angels. Sometimes we find the four beasts of the Apocalypse, in fact. Here, the top two quadrants have angels facing out, the bottom two have the soldiers, one with a spear, and one with the sponge of gall reaching up to Christ’s mouth in the image above. The historical and spiritual intersect; time is transcended, as in the world of Ephrem the Syrian.
Before the Gothic era, the Cross was the triumphant throne of Christ in mediaeval art (think on the Anglo-Saxon Dream of the Rood). He does not hang limp and lifeless here but stands enthroned between the angels (cherubim?). The full image is here; note that, since the Durham Priory Library Recreated Project uses IIIF, you can modify the contrast and brightness of the image using the ‘Toggle image manipulation’ button on the left, below the speech balloons. This will really help with being able to see the details of this particular page.
Not many images survive in the Durham Gospels, although the opening page of the Gospel of John is strikingly similar to the Lindisfarne Gospels:
The rest of the images seem to be the sort of illuminated initials that even canon law books get in an Insular context.
Textually, this is the Latin Vulgate but of a different tradition from the Lindisfarne Gospels.
Manuscripts such as this are important pieces of material culture and the visual arts from the age whence they come. It is clearly part of the cultural milieu of the Lindisfarne Gospels, written in a similar book hand with similar illustrations. It has been dated to the era of Bede, the Dream of the Rood, and the Ruthwell Cross. Since so few buildings survive from this era in England — having been rebuilt in Romanesque or Gothic style later on — a manuscript such as this takes on even greater importance.