Tag Archives: carolingian canon law

The story in a canon law manuscript

One of the manuscripts that I had to consult both for my PhD and for my current research lives at the Biblioteca Vallicelliana. Its shelfmark is A.5. Like most of the manuscripts I study, this is a manuscript about canon law; wait, no, it’s a manuscript of canon law. Before you fall asleep, I direct your attention to this piece about making canon law sexy. (That’s actually a potential book title; I claim it now!)

Manuscript A.5 is very large. 35.5 x 45.5 cm large. It’s over 300 pages long, written in two columns. The main text is in Caroline minuscule with capitalis rubrics. Here’s some Caroline minuscule to keep you happy:

Page of text (folio 160v) from a Carolingian Gospel Book (British Library, MS Add. 11848), written in Carolingian minuscule. From Wikiwand.

Page of text (folio 160v) from a Carolingian Gospel Book (British Library, MS Add. 11848), written in Carolingian minuscule. From Wikiwand.

As I say, the manuscript under discussion is a canon law manuscript. Its contents list the Concordia Canonum of a fellow named Cresconius, the Collectio Dionysio-Hadriana, and then a bunch of other material we call the Collectio Dionysiana adaucta, closing with some selections of St Augustine about the Trinity (I didn’t take time to determine which selections).

Cresconius’ Concordia is a rearrangement of the Collectio Dionysiana by theme, rather than chronology. So passages from church councils and papal letters are taken from the their original context in the Dionysiana and given together by topic. It was made to be a handbook for bishops who try cases.

It’s not here.

A fragment of Cresconius’ introduction is. But of what follows, all we find is a list of the tituli (chapter headings). This moves straight into a catalogue of popes that ends with Nicholas I (858-67). Catalogues of popes are one of the ways we can date either a manuscript or the collection of documents it contains. In this case, it has generally been assumed that Vallicelliana A.5 is from the papacy of Hadrian II (867-72). Mordek, in Biblioteca Capitularium (1995), simply states that the manuscript is from the mid-ninth century.

However, it was clear to me when viewing this manuscript that the words for Pope Nicholas were written by one hand and the numbers by another. Unlike the earlier popes. I suggest, therefore, that the manuscript was penned during the pontificate of Nicholas I, and that the dates for his papacy were filled in by a second hand during the pontificate of Hadrian II — or later.

After this catalogue of popes comes the preface of Dionysius Exiguus to his canonical collection, then a list of all of his tituli, then the text of the augmented version of Dionysius’ collection called the Collectio Dionysio-Hadriana (so called because Hadrian I sent a copy to Charlemagne whence all others come). After the Dionysio-Hadriana comes the Dionysiana adaucta.

Pretty straightforward. These are the things in the manuscript.

But manuscripts are not simply repositories of texts. A manuscript tells a story. As Rosamond McKitterick argues in History and Memory in the Carolingian World:

Chronologically-ordered canon law collections are essentially history books, for they offer a progression of ideas and decisions of the church issuing from the great councils and popes of the church, all securely dated and geographically located. (255)

There are various ways ms A.5 can tell its story. One is simply by telling the story of the Dionysio-Hadriana adaucta — a story wherein the government and regulation of the church is taken care of by church councils and popes. And what makes that story especially interesting is that papal letters pertinent to canon law (decretals) become much thicker on the ground in this collection at the same time that local councils thin out. The only fifth-century local council that I recall seeing in this collection is the anti-Pelagian Council of Carthage of 418, presided over by Bp Aurelius of Carthage (but ratified by Pope Innocent I!). Whereas the fourth century was dominated by local and ecumenical councils, the fifth is dominated by popes and ecumenical council.

Worth thinking about.

A second way (and then I’m done!) this manuscript can tell us its story is paratextual elements. Paratextual elements are, things beside the text — the layout of the page, the size of writing, the choice of bookhand, the behaviour of a scribal corrector, the decoration, the order of contents, etc.

The most interesting paratext in this manuscript runs folios 33v-35v — that is, two spreads of open pages and the back of one (manuscript pages are numbered only once for front and back, then recto and verso). Here we meet what has been seen as one of the defining moments of Church history since the later fourth century, and especially since the Council of Ephesus (431).

33v-34r contain four purple rectangles (2 per side) containing text in golden uncial writing and beautiful litterae notabiliores (‘more notable letters’) to start each section of the text herein. The litterae notabiliores have Carolingian knotwork in them that would make many an eye think, ‘Celtic’. 33v begins:

INCIPIT CONSTITVTIO ET FIDES NICENI CONCILII

The Nicene Creed (‘Credimus in unum…’) begins on 34r with its own beautiful littera notabilior C. That page ends at ‘homousion hoc’ — choosing to transliterate but not translate the once-contentious homoousion. Which is normal behaviour in Latin manuscripts (overall, their use of Greek characters is mixed — see Aaron Pelttari, ‘Approaches to the Writing of Greek in
Late Antique Latin Texts’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 51 (2011) 461–482).

The Creed runs for 34v-35r, still golden uncials in four purple boxes, but no start of a text, so no litterae notabiliores. 35v gives us two final purple boxes, but this time they are in a golden capitalis instead of uncial, smaller than the preceding uncials, giving a preface to the canonical material of Nicaea. Here’s a page from Codex Amiatinus, a Bible (‘Bede’s Bible’?) written in a form of uncial from Britain (to give something of an idea; the image is from Wikipedia):

Codex_Amiatinus_(1_Cor_1,1-21)Most medieval books display what McKitterick calls a ‘hierarchy of scripts’ (‘Script and book production’, in Carolingian Culture: Emulation and Innovation, 222) — but especially the Carolingians. Here we see the hierarchy: uncial – capitalis – minuscule.

If you wish to find a text dear to the heart of Christians across the world, there is none — besides the Bible — more popular than the Nicene Creed. A version of it (not this, a Latin translation of the original) was introduced into the liturgy by Emperor Justin II (r. 565-574). Justin did so as an attempt to restore unity to a fractured Christianity in his empire, since it was a text that Chalcedonians (both Neo-Chalcedonians who supported Justinian and those in Northern Italy who resisted the condemnation of the Three Chapters in 553) and their ‘Monophysite’ (Miaphysite/conservative Cyrillian) opponents. I doubt it was much of a concern for Justin II, but the ‘Nestorian’ Church of the East — which existed outside the Empire in Persian territory and beyond — also approved this Creed. And today, it is affirmed by the descendents of those ecclesial communities; even certain Protestants who protest its use believe it!*

The prestige of this Creed, then, goes a long, long way back.

And it was clearly seen as the most important thing in manuscript A.5 by whoever put it together, giving the Creed the royal treatment (literally, if you think about it).

This love of Nicaea, with its anti-Arian anathemas (these are included in the version in this ms!!) and all, helps explain why A.5 ends with the teaching of Augustine on the Trinity. Augustine was/is the most pre-eminent of the Latin Church Fathers, and Carolingian Christianity embraced the Church Fathers as an integral part of its own heritage. Who better than Augustine, then? And so the manuscript concludes.

Thus I conclude: This manuscript tells a story. The story is that of the rise of the papacy and the church councils. The story of church order from the (apocryphal) Canones Apostolorum (‘Canons of the Apostles’) to the reforming work of Pope Zacharias in the 700s. The person who created it believed strongly in the Trinity, so the climax of the story is the Council of Nicaea and its Creed. The last word is given by Augustine — about the Trinity.

Every manuscript is unique. Every manuscript tells a story. We just need to learn how to read those stories.

*But not Christadelphians, Oneness Pentecostals, Hillsong (I think?), Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Unitarians of any sort, and undoubtedly other groups.

Why do canon law manuscripts have lists of Roman provinces in them?

IMG_20150224_141618The other day I was examining a manuscript of canon law documents and found something quite unexpected — a list of Roman provinces. This was not one of those manuscripts of miscellanea stitched together from different, fragmentary manuscripts. It is an integral whole, put together by a single scriptorium in the eleventh century. It starts with the canons of church councils, and ends with papal decretals (which in contemporary canon law have a universal jurisdiction). So, imagine my surprise when at the end of the church councils I found:

Noticia in prouintia galliarum

The text then lists all of the provinces and civitates of the Gauls in the Later Roman Empire. Then we find:

Nomina omnium prouinciarum

This lists the names of the provinces of the Roman Empire, divided by dioecesis, but missing out Gaul and Hispania — the former because it was already thoroughly described. Some quick e-mails to more experienced colleagues and a bit of searching showed me that the former was the ‘Notitia Galliarum’, the latter the ‘Nomina Provinciarum’ from the Laterculus of Polemius Silvius (mid-5th c.). Both texts were edited by Theodore Mommsen in Chronica Minora Vol 1 back in 1892. Mommsen used this manuscript for the ‘Notitia Galliarum’ but not for Polemius Silvius.

All well and good.

When I looked at Mommsen’s Conspectus Siglorum for these two texts, I observed that a number of familiar shelfmarks were there — Vat. lat. 630, for example, an important ninth-century manuscript of Pseudo-Isidore. In fact, a series of manuscripts of the Carolingian Collectio Dionysio-Hadriana, a collection of canon law documents sent to Charlemagne by Pope Hadrian I in 774, also includes the ‘Notitia Galliarum’. These are manuscripts that I only consulted for Leo’s letters, not being of a mind to consider their other contents.

The question that now strikes me, sitting here this morning, is why did the compilers of canonical collections include these documents — usually the ‘Notitia Galliarum’?

Mommsen argues that this ‘Notitia’ was originally composed between 390 and 413. Some versions, however, have latter emendations, such as ‘hoc est Agustedunum’ following ‘civitas Aeduorum’ (this is what my manuscript has; today ‘Autun’). With these emendations, the text becomes more useful in the Carolingian age; it is in the interest of a Carolingian user of a book to know that the late Roman ‘civitas Agrippinensium’ is ‘Colonia’ (and for a modern reader, ‘Cologne’).

Furthermore, we can see why a detailed list of the major civitates of Gaul and their old Roman provinciae would be helpful to a Carolingian — after all, in the world after 800, were they not living in a revived Roman Empire (most of it in Gaul and Germania)? So this is certainly a useful text. Carolingians are putting it in their useable manuscripts.

And canon law manuscripts are certainly useable and useful. These are books that bishops and others will have used in the daily running of church affairs. No doubt, for most clergy knowing which city was the old metropolis from the Later Roman Empire would be unhelpful. But I can imagine that several Carolingian bishops would have been pleased to know. Especially if they lived in that city.

The Carolingian world was not one where the idea of a separation of church and state existed. The secular authorities were heavily involved in ecclesiastical politics, and the clergy were involved in secular politics. Bishops were often made and unmade by kings. And popes could be involved in the legitimation of one monarch against another in moments of civil war. Kings were wont to bestow privileges upon loyal ecclesiastics — legal privileges, tax benefits, power over monasteries (or, for monasteries, freedom from episcopates).

If you were an ecclesiastic, a compendium of canon law such as the Dionysio-Hadriana would become even more useful if you knew where in the imagined secular order your own civitas stood. Were you a metropolitan? Who was your metropolitan? Was your civitas listed? Was the civitas of an ally or enemy listed? If so, who was his metropolitan? Could you use any of the canons in that book to protect yourself or prosecute your enemies, based upon the organisation of the Roman world (your world) as found in the ‘Notitia Galliarum’?

So perhaps the presence of the ‘Notitia Galliarum’ in canon law manuscripts is not, as it first seemed to me, an aberration. Perhaps, in the end, it makes perfect sense.