Category Archives: Monks and Monasticism

An allusion to Leo the Great in Anselm of Canterbury

Anselm; image from Wikipedia

Today I found a convergence between my current reading and my Ph.D. (plus my 2016 article in Studia Patristica). Anselm of Canterbury, in his philosophical discussion of the ‘supreme essence’, and shortly before attempting to use logic to prove the Trinity (a dubious task at best), writes:

Videtur ergo consequi ex praecedentibus quod iste spiritus, qui sic suo quodam mirabiliter singulari et singulariter mirabili modo est, quadam ratione solus sit, alia vero quaecumque videntur esse, huic collata non sint. (Monologion 28)

Therefore, it seems to follow from the preceding that that spirit, who exists in a certain marvellously singular and singularly marvellous way, for some reason, exists alone; although everything else seems to exists, it does not exist compared to it [that is, the supreme essence].

The phrase that catches the eye is, ‘mirabiliter singulari et singulariter mirabili‘, which I have translatedm ‘marvellously singular and singularly marvellous.‘ Although in the ablative, this is a direct quotation of Leo’s Tome (Ep. 28):

singulariter mirabilis et mirabiliter singularis

It’s a nice turn of phrase, a happy little chiasmus. The context of the phrase is different in Leo; he is talking about the Incarnation, that Christ’s birth was ‘singularly marvellous and marvellously singular’. Singularis could also be translated as unique.

Is the allusion conscious? I do not know. It is clear, however, that Leo’s most famous dogmatic letter is part of Anselm’s reading list. One of the points made by Jean Leclercq’s classic work, The Love of Learning and the Desire for God is the fact that monastic writers tend to make allusions to and quote classical and patristic authors almost unconsciously. Their formation as monks, their study of grammatica, was filled with those authors considered to be the best stylists by the medieval monks, both pagan and Christian: Vergil, Ovid, Horace, Cicero, Augustine, Jerome, Gregory the Great. Beauty is an attribute of God; therefore, even Ovid is worth reading because he is beautiful.

Anselm was the principal teacher at the monastery of Bec, 1063-1078. In 1078 he was made abbot. The Monologion whence comes the Leonine allusion under consideration was his first major work, published, he says, at the insistence of his students. His Proslogion would follow as well as De Grammatico. All of these works show the imprint of the school room and the necessity to teach grammar and literature to students and young monks.

As a result of his textual immersion in the ancient pagans and church fathers, Anselm’s mind was formed by more than just logic. It was shaped by Latin, by the art of teaching grammar. These texts would be imprinted on his mind and heart by constant reference to them, time and again. The Tome of Leo, I am given to understand, has often been monastic reading at Christmastide. I wonder if such was the case at Bec in the 1060s?

Anyway, Anselm is trying to demonstrate the logic of belief in God using pure reason. It is an almost impossible task, especially when you start to spot the Platonist assumptions that lie behind some of his premisses. Nonetheless, this naked approach to discussing God was not always well met by his contemporaries. His teacher Lanfranc, having moved on to the Archbishopric of Canterbury (a position Anselm would hold himself), criticised the Monologion for not making reference to Augustine of Hippo.

Yet I have no doubt it does, in the sense of allusion. It alludes to Leo the Great. Augustine is a much bigger source for medieval thought than Leo, although Leo is important for setting the boundaries of belief held by catholic churchmen.

What does the allusion to Leo mean? Obviously the Tome is Anselm’s intertext. That is easy. And no doubt throughout, his bare logic is interwoven with other intertexts I have not seen. For Leo, it is (to borrow a phrase from G.K. Chesterton, The Thing) the ‘stereoscopic vision of the two natures of Christ’ that holds his vision and guides his meditation. Leo does not necessarily work from logic; indeed, the chief complaint from Leo’s posthumous adversary, Severus of Antioch, is that Leo does not use logic well enough and falls into heresy. Leo’s argument is driven by rhetoric, by an innate sense of western catholic thought, by scriptural authority.

Anselm, on the other hand, is driven by logic. Moreover, this meditatio that he has produced is a sustained reflection on the nature of divinity and deducible by logic. Leo and Augustine intrude not as conscious sources but as unconscious guides. By transplanting the Leo quotation from the context of the Incarnation to the context of the divine essence, to the realm of logic and pure theology, Anselm has elevated the phrase to the highest heights of the seventh heaven, beyond even the primum mobile. His mind is not bound by the original use of the phrase, and he takes what is a lovely rhetorical device and deploys it in the midst of an exercise in logic that tires the modern mind.

This allusion to Leo’s Tome sets out for us precisely what sets Anselm apart. He is so thoroughly steeped in the classical-Christian Latin tradition of Bec’s school room that when he engages in the philosophy of religion and seeks to use logic alone to prove the core dogmas of catholic thought, he cannot help bringing with him these monastic and classical and, indeed, dogmatic intertexts. He is a man of two worlds; not yet a scholastic but strongly contrasted with the poetic monastic discourses of Bernard of Clairvaux in a few decades.

The 12th century


The Ambulatory at St-Denis, the birth of Gothic architecture

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.

The Durham Gospels

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.

The rediscovery of Greek and the ‘death’ of Latin

I can hardly believe this exists!

One of the defining periods in the history of the Latin language is the beginning of the Central Middle Ages — at this time, the Romance languages started to emerge more and more as distinct, local vernaculars separate from Latin. However, Latin continued to be used and learned in the same way second languages are today — it was used from Ireland and Britain through the Romance nations across into such far-flung lands as Denmark, Bohemia, Hungary. Latin would not truly ‘die’ as a living (albeit learned) language until the 1800s, as recently argued in Latin: Story of a World Language by Jürgen Leonhardt (Harvard, 2013).

I haven’t read all of Leonhardt’s book (full disclosure!), so I am not sure if today’s musings align with his evidence and arguments.

Nevertheless, I shall venture the following thoughts arising from reading Hugh Houghton’s brand-new The Latin New Testament: A Guide to Its Early History, Texts, and Manuscripts (Oxford, 2016). Part I of Houghton’s book is a chronological history of the Latin New Testament, the final chapter of which is ‘The Tenth Century Onwards.’ In the final section of this chapter (pp. 108-110), the ‘rediscovery of Greek’ is discussed.

In the twelfth century, knowledge of Greek was returning to Latin Europe; our first bilingual Greek-Latin New Testament after some ninth-century Irish examples is from that century. I have always appreciated the twelfth and thirteenth centuries for their renewal of Greek knowledge — by the time of Thomas Aquinas, all of Aristotle had been translated out of Greek, so the greatest philosopher-theologian of the Middle Ages was able to use that translation rather than the earlier translations from Arabic (that are all that people like to mention, as though Spain were the only place of cross-cultural interaction in the Mediterranean). Houghton notes that we have twelve surviving Greek-Latin bilingual New Testament manuscripts from between the late thirteenth and fifteenth centuries.

Now, part of what makes the history of the Latin Bible interesting is its ongoing relationship with the original texts from which it was translated. Jerome revised the Gospels and the Old Testament (I’m not sure how much of the OT, though), and around the same time, other portions were also revised — these revised versions eventually come to be ‘standard’, Vulgate. There were in existence a few varieties of ‘Old Latin’ or Vetus Latina translations of the Bible, and they continued in use for centuries in various circumstances and locations. Many biblical manuscripts show a mixed Vulgate-Vetus Latina text.

Jerome was not the only one revising and checking the translations over time; hence the ninth-century bilingual Greek-Latin Irish manuscripts mentioned above. In the twelfth century, for example, Stephen Harding, abbot of Citeaux (the mother house of the Cistercians), undertook a revision of the Latin Bible that still survives. He tells the story of how he consulted the local Jewish community about certain places in one manuscript that had passages not in others; they confirmed for him that these passages were not in the Hebrew originals, so he did not include them in his revised Bible. (This story is translated in The Cistercian World by P. M. Matarasso; Penguin, 1993.) The Latin point of reference in all of these translations and revisions was the language as spoken. The language as living and lived.

While Latin was primarily a living language — whether the mother tongue as for Jerome, or a learned language as for Stephen Harding — the primary focus of Greek-Latin biblical scholarship was ensuring the accuracy of the Latin text. Indeed, Jerome explicitly states that he left the style alone unless it affected the meaning because of how beloved the Latin text was in many church communities. Many Bibles provide alternate renderings of the Latin in interlinear or marginal glosses.

By the day of Erasmus, we see that Latin is in ill health. Its chief ailment is not from some sort of parasitical disease from the vernacular languages; Latin’s place in western European literature and scholarship was assured for a few centuries yet, for an Englishman could read a German’s Latin, but not his Hochdeutsch, and a German could read a Spaniard’s Latin but not his Spanish.

The evidence of Latin’s ill health is found in what sorts of changes Erasmus made to his text of the Latin Bible. Erasmus did not simply correct corruptions or inaccuracies in the text. Nor did he simply make the Latin align with his Greek Textus Receptus, the way Kurt and Barbara Aland would in the twentieth-century Nova Vulgata. Instead, he changed the Latin text on the basis of its style and Latinity — a thing not even Jerome did (Jerome, a man who claimed to have been told by Christ in a dream that he was a Ciceronian, not a Christian!).

Until then, the Latin Bible had been one of the instrumental and pivotal texts of the Latin world. It was something that represented the ongoing life of the Latin language beyond Cicero. However, as the humanists came to laud and magnify the Ciceronian style, this living Latin began to fall into disfavour. Erasmus’ new Latin Bible is clear evidence of this.

Furthermore, the rediscovery of Greek, and then Erasmus’ printed Latin Bible, combined with the Protestant Reformation, led to a reduction in the new of the old Vulgate versions. Scholars and theologians would have access to Erasmus’ Greek edition. Clergy would have access to vernacular translations — Luther’s, Tyndale’s — based on the new Greek editions. The Vulgate would be required for Roman liturgical purposes and as the official text when used in other Roman Catholic contexts. But that is all.

Latin’s days were limited, even if the ‘final decease’ of the language would not come for a. few centuries more. Greek, the humanists, and print had begun the slow process that a change in Latin tutelage would ultimately complete.

Mind you (I feel compelled to say), Latin is not yet actually ‘dead’, it is merely obsolescent, but still of enormous use, power, and influence.

Other patristic/late antique texts I’d like to study: monks and letters

Last night I had my first academic job interview — over Skype! It went well, and I believe that I gave them accurate and coherent answers that reflected me positively. The question is whether I am what they want for the job. I do think, though, that I stumbled a little on one question, and I’m not sure why. The question was what patristic or late antique authors I’d like to study besides Leo.

I answered that I would like to study Cyril of Alexandria and the Acts of the Council of Chalcedon, as well as autobiography, such as Augustine’s Confessions and Rutilius Namatianus.

That answer was not untrue, but I feel that I could have said the first part better, for one thing — that I am interested in studying Christological controversy from Chalcedon (451) to the Istrian Schism (553-700) in the West and the Sixth Ecumenical Council in the East (681).

But I wonder (because, even after a good interview, one can’t help but wonder these things!) if I might have done better to emphasise the breadth of my interest. I have a long-running interest in things monastic, you see. Indeed, it was the Desert Fathers that drew me into the study of Patristics; having had an interest in St Francis and St John of the Cross in undergrad, I wanted to hunt down the roots of the monastic tradition.

So, other patristic authors I would like to study are, in the West, John Cassian, The Rule of the Master, The Rule of St Benedict, the Latin transmission of the Life of St Antony, and the Rule of St Augustine. In the East, I want to study the Apophthegmata of the Desert Fathers, John Climacus, Evagrius Ponticus, Simeon the Stylite, the letters of Barsanuphius and John —

Letters. Epistolography is another area of interest. Cyprian, Ambrose, Augustine, Jerome, Symmachus, Sidonius, Ruricius in Latin, Basil and Cyril of Alexandria in Greek.

But I answered truthfully, at least! And remembered to smile, which always helps.

We’ll see what they decide.

Discover Fifth-century Religion and Literature

Preamble (you can scroll down to Content if you like)

Because I inevitably blog about Late Antiquity here (3rd century-ish to 6th or 7th century-ish history), I’ve been intermittently writing posts about Discovering Late Antiquity. So far, I’ve explained why you should discover this period, encouraged you to discover Roman history more generally, then talked about discovering the third century, as well as discovering fourth-century religion and literature and fourth-century politics.

What ought to have come next was something about fourth-century art and architecture, which has kind of happened, since what followed were musings and photographs of Late Antique things I saw in Rome, in these posts: Late Antique Rome? Where? followed by Late Antique Rome: Mausoleo di Santa Costanza then Roman Basilicas: Hunting Late Antiquity and The Baths of Diocletian: More from Late Antique Rome. I also wrote a review of a book on imperial/Late Antique Roman art, although it’s not in this post category.

Logical progression would urge me to contextualise the Roman posts with one about fourth-century art and architecture or to finish them off with my planned post about non-monumental things from Late Antique Rome. Instead, I would like to introduce to you the fifth century (if you’ve survived this preamble).

St Jerome, d. 420

Content of this piece

Given that I’ve just submitted a PhD dissertation about the manuscripts that contain letters of Pope Leo the Great (pope 440-461), it will come as no great shock that this is ‘my’ century of Roman history. It is also, therefore, where I am most aware of my shortcomings — shortcomings I hope to address over the years to come through an analysis of the surviving sources, of which we have many.

Why should you care about the fifth century? Well, in the first place, this is the century when Rome ‘fell’ (however, see Victor of Tunnuna on that). That’s kind of a big deal. It is also the century of the first enduring schisms within the Christian church, lasting to this day. It’s the century when King Arthur — if there was one — would probably have fought battles in Britain. It is the century of Augustine’s greatest writings and Jerome’s final writings. It is the century of St Patrick’s mission to Ireland. It is a very big century of change, in short. Such centuries are always worth knowing. In this post, I’ll just look at religion and literature.

Religion and Literature

The landscape of fifth-century religion, unlike that of the fourth, is entirely Christian. Very soon within the century, we have no more pagans. Their descendants have all converted to Christianity. They have not, however, given up on Classical culture. Evidence for this is found in the Christian literature of the century.


Sidonius Apollinaris. I like Sidonius; some people find him distasteful, a bit too ‘decadent’. However, his is the jewelled style of the age, and it is no fault if he writes like a fifth-century man. If you read his poetry, you will find the endurance not only of classical poetic forms but of classical, ‘pagan’ imagery in the works of the consul-turned-bishop. If you are acquainted with Latin letters in the tradition of Cicero or of Pliny, Sidonius will seem perfectly Roman to you.

The letters of his friend Ruricius of Limoges strike you in the same way. At the end of the century are the similarly classicising poems and letters of Ennodius.

Augustine of Hippo. I suppose one would expect Augustine with religion, not literature. Nonetheless, he belongs in both. In 397 he wrote the first three books of his On Christian Teaching, in 426 the fourth. This text introduces some major concepts of rhetoric as well as of theory of language. His City of God is one of the great Latin classics. His polished corpus of sermons is a body of rhetorical exegesis well worth a read.

St Jerome was also active at the start of the century — as with him Augustine, many fifth-century churchmen demonstrate a rootedness in classical education. It would be tedious to list them all.

Rutilius Namatianus, unlike these others, was a pagan aristocrat who wrote a great poem De Reditu Suo about his journey home to Gaul from Rome in 416. If you want to see a pagan’s response to the growing Christian culture around him, including its ascetic elements, read Rutilius.


Heresy. Whether you agree with the official church’s definition of who was or was not a heretic in the fifth century, there were certainly disputes about doctrine. Early in the century was Pelagianism, condemned 418-419; this was a western controversy that continued to simmer over the century, although the teaching defined as ‘Pelagian’ was rejected by those on either side.

In the East we see the rise of ‘Nestorianism‘, a belief I am not certain anyone actually held, although Nestorius sometimes sounds like he does. Nestorius, Bp of Constantinople, was ultimately condemned as a heretic in the Council of Ephesus, 431. Those who refused to condemn him founded the ‘Church of the East’ that extended from ancient Persia to modern China. Nestorius chief opponent was Cyril of Alexandria, one of the greatest theological minds of the age. In the late 440s, an extreme Cyrillian named Eutyches was condemned for heresy at a local synod in Constantinople. This led to the Second Council of Ephesus which reinstated him; Pope Leo the Great called a ‘latrocinium’, a lair of robbers. Leo lobbied for its reversal, which came in 451 after a change in the imperial regime in Constantinople.

The reversal of Second Ephesus happened at the Council of Chalcedon. Here, Cyril and Leo were proclaimed the foundations of orthodoxy, and Leo’s teaching that Christ exists in two natures (human and divine) was accepted as the official teaching of the imperial church. Conservative Cyrillians rejected Chalcedon; they are later called Monophysites, today often Miaphysites, and now include the Coptic Orthodox Church, Syrian Orthodox Church, Ethiopian Tawahedo Church, and Armenian Apostolic Church (these are the ‘Oriental Orthodox’ Churches). The followers of Chalcedon have as their descendants Roman Catholicism, most Protestants, and the Eastern Orthodox Churches.

Asceticism. The young ascetic/monastic movement that gained popularity with the Egyptian monks in the previous century continued to expand. This is the century of Sts Shenoute of the White Monastery, Euthymius, Simeon the Stylite, Daniel the Stylite, Savvas, Jacob of Serugh, and others in the East. In the West, we have John Cassian, the Jura Fathers, monks of Lérins such as Vincent of Lérins, as well as the final years of Paulinus of Nola and Sulpicius Severus.

Through the different crises of the fifth century, the ascetics and bishops provided their own versions of leadership and support to the Christian community. This is the age when we see the papacy gain greater authority and honour beyond Italy, as well as articulating a theology of papal primacy in the writings of Leo the Great. We also see more and more aristocrats becoming bishops, although first aristocratic pope was Felix III (pope 483-492). Alongside that, though, there are still ascetic bishops, such as Salvian of Marseille and Hilary of Arles. Thus, the trends of western Middle Ages are starting to become visible over the course of this century.

In the East, we see Constantinople rise to greater and greater prominence in ecclesiastical politics, much to the chagrin of Alexandria and Antioch. We also see ascetics acting with what people call parrhesia before emperors — an openness and frankness that the average citizen would not have the freedom to use. Trends are thus emerging here that will later be called Byzantine or Orthodox.

The fifth century — it’s well worth exploring. I hope you have the time to try.

Kingship, reform, and the arts in the Early Middle Ages

Louis the Pious, ca. 826

Louis the Pious, ca. 826

I’ve been revising a section of my thesis where I discuss the main driving force behind the Carolingian Renaissance, and thought I’d share some of my findings/thoughts with you. The main driving force, if you were wondering, is correctio — the moral, religious, and legal reform not just of the ruling class but of the entire people. The idea is not Carolingian but Roman.

For examples of the Later Roman Imperial ideal of the princeps providing such reform, the laws in the Theodosian Code (culled from sources dating ca. 312-438) against pagans, heretics, and Jews serve as prime examples of what these emperors thought a good ruler should be up to — such laws are the stick that would promote religious reform, while the tax benefits given to orthodox/catholic clergy are the carrot. Another reflection of the good ruler’s commitment to healthy religious life is the long list of churches built and patronised by the emperors, such as St John’s Lateran and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (by Constantine) or Old St Peter’s Basilica (by his son, Constantius). The Theodosian Code is a tangible example of the secular aspect of correctio, since a ruler’s commitment to justice (iustitia) lies in the everyday as well as the sacred.

Hagia Sophia today

Hagia Sophia today

Justinian (r. 527-565) is one of our clearest examples. In the secular sphere, he sought out clarification and codification of Roman law in the Institutes and the Digest. He also sought to reintegrate the lost western provinces, not only seeking personal glory, but also following a vision that a good ruler should look out for the interests of his citizens — including those under foreign domination. In the ecclesiastical sphere, he rebuilt Hagia Sophia after its destruction during the Nika Riots as one of the greatest architectural achievements in world history. He also attempted to reconcile Chalcedonians and non-Chalcedonians through various laws and debates and the Second Council of Constantinople (553).

These Late Roman examples are taken up by their ‘barbarian’ successors. It was seen as good kingship not only to promulgate laws and rule by law, but also to strive for the moral and religious correction of the people. In the secular sphere, we get a few different ‘barbarian’ law codes beginning in the fifth century that help to establish rule by law.

Lindisfarne Gospels, opening of Matthew

Lindisfarne Gospels, opening of Matthew

Ecclesiastical reform takes different shapes in these new kingdoms. In Anglo-Saxon lands, it begins in the form of missionary enterprise, as, for example, King Oswald of Deira and Bernicia (Northumbria) inviting St Aidan to evangelise (see Bede, Ecclesiastical History of the English People 3.3-5). In later years, we see Anglo-Saxon correctio in royal sponsoring of church buildings, church councils, monasteries, and monastic reform. King Alfred the Great sponsored correctio through the translation of ‘essential’ books into English and the training of the clergy in the liturgy.

In Visigothic Spain, St Isidore of Seville (d. 636) says that ‘he who does not correct does not rule’ (Etymologies 9.3.4); the Visigoths took this to heart, visible in the vast number of royally-sponsored church councils — eighteen councils were held in Toledo, seventeen of which come after the Visigothic conquest, the last held ca. 702 (Spain fell to the Muslims in 711).

In the Frankish lands which the Carolingians were to rule, early law codes exist such as the Lex Salica which dates to around the lifetime of Clovis I (r. 481-511), the Merovingian who united the Franks under his rule (through war, treachery, and assassination when necessary) as well as defeating his Arian neighbours and eventually ruling all of Gaul. Gregory of Tours, writing in the 590s, sees Clovis’ conquest of Arian Gaul as driven by Clovis’ religious correctio (see Historiae Francorum 2.37), and when the Burgundian Gundobad converts from Arianism to Catholicism, the bishop of Vienne counsels him not to keep his conversion a secret so that he may publicly encourage his people to religious reform and give them a good example.

However much Merovingians such as Chlotar II (r. 584-629, full power from 597) and Dagobert I (r. 623-629) may have sought correctio, the final decades of the seventh century were a time of cultural decline in Merovingian lands, and the effective power of Merovingian kings to bring about reform was rarely very strong. The results of their inability to produce real correctio in line with these ideals of kingship is visible in the paucity of manuscripts from this period generally as well as the number of reforming councils thought necessary by their successors.

The Carolingians officially supplanted the Merovingians with Pippin III ‘the Short’ in 751, although they wielded great power since Charles ‘the Hammer’ Martel, who kept the Muslims out of France at the Battle of Tours (or Poitiers) in 732. Pippin and his brother Carloman were the secular sponsors of the evangelistic and reforming action of St Boniface in the 740s when they were still not officially kings — that is, they sought to fulfil ideals of kingly correctio before they had kingly authority.

Harley Golden Gospels, fol. 109r, from Aachen ca. 800-825

Harley Golden Gospels, fol. 109r, from Aachen ca. 800-825

But it is Charlemagne (literally ‘Charles the Great’, r. 768-814, sole ruler from 771, ‘Emperor’ from 800), Pippin the Short’s son, who takes things into high gear for the Carolingians. He sets about correctio in a big way — the secular law, ecclesiastical law, the activities and authority of his own royal representatives, the rights and privileges of monasteries and bishops, the text of the Bible, the text of the liturgy. All of these felt the touch of Charlemagne’s reforming zeal. He got Pope Hadrian I (772-795) to send him copies of canon law books and liturgical books, and the York ecclesiastic Alcuin, whom Charlemagne sponsored on the Continent, is associated with one of the major recensions of the Latin Vulgate Bible. The result is a proliferation of manuscripts of the Bible, canon law, and liturgy, as well as a proliferation of laws, charters, etc, so that everyone could have not only a copy but a correct copy.

Charlemagne’s success, in contrast to the Merovingians, lay in his own long reign of political stability, his own effective power to rule the Frankish lands, and his wealth. Charlemagne’s wars of conquest, especially the destruction of the Ring of the Avars in the 790s and the addition of their entire national treasury to his own, brought in the wealth necessary to fund the various aspects of correctio — an average manuscript can take 700 sheep- or goat-skins. Books are not cheap — and monasteries and cathedrals cost money, as well as the pay for the royal representatives and advisers. Without a vast treasury at his disposal, Charlemagne would not have been able to promote the reforms throughout his kingdom that occurred.

The knock-on effect of correctio, especially when combined with wealth, was the production not only of manuscripts, but of beautiful ones. And not only of manuscripts of the necessary texts for reform, but of classical texts. And not only of old texts, but of new compositions. The funding of the ecclesiastical realm meant the building of beautiful churches and monasteries and reliquaries and other forms of ecclesiastical art.

The Carolingian Renaissance did not die with Charlemagne — over 7,000 Latin manuscripts date to the ninth century. Only 2,000 exist from before then. This grand production was driven by the royal desire to rule well and make his kingdom better, not a dispassionate funding of ‘the arts’. But it did well — many texts that might have been lost were saved. Art and architecture took a new turn that would endure in Europe for a long time to come. All because kings wanted to make the world a better place.