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Title: The Mediaeval Mind (Volume 2 of 2)

Author: Henry Osborn Taylor

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
MEDIAEVAL MIND (VOLUME 2 OF 2) ***

THE MEDIAEVAL MIND

MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
London · Bombay · Calcutta
Melbourne

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
New York · Boston · Chicago
Atlanta · San Francisco

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO

THE

MEDIAEVAL MIND

A HISTORY OF THE DEVELOPMENT
OF THOUGHT AND EMOTION
IN THE MIDDLE AGES

BY

HENRY OSBORN TAYLOR

IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1911

CONTENTS
BOOK IV
THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL: SOCIETY (continued)
PAGE
CHAPTER XXV
The Heart of Heloïse 3

CHAPTER XXVI
German Considerations: Walther von der Vogelweide 28

BOOK V
SYMBOLISM

CHAPTER XXVII
Scriptural Allegories in the Early Middle Ages; Honorius of
41
Autun

CHAPTER XXVIII
The Rationale of the Visible World: Hugo of St. Victor 60

CHAPTER XXIX
Cathedral and Mass; Hymn and Imaginative Poem 76
I. Guilelmus Durandus and Vincent of Beauvais.
The Hymns of Adam of St. Victor and the Anticlaudianus of
II.
Alanus of Lille.

BOOK VI
LATINITY AND LAW

CHAPTER XXX
The Spell of the Classics 107
I. Classical Reading.
II. Grammar.
III. The Effect upon the Mediaeval Man; Hildebert of Lavardin.

CHAPTER XXXI
Evolution of Mediaeval Latin Prose 148

CHAPTER XXXII
Evolution of Mediaeval Latin Verse 186
I. Metrical Verse.
II. Substitution of Accent for Quantity.
III. Sequence-Hymn and Student-Song.
IV. Passage of Themes into the Vernacular.

CHAPTER XXXIII
Mediaeval Appropriation of the Roman Law 231
I. The Fontes Juris Civilis.
II. Roman and Barbarian Codification.
III. The Mediaeval Appropriation.
IV. Church Law.
V. Political Theorizing.

BOOK VII
ULTIMATE INTELLECTUAL INTERESTS OF THE TWELFTH
AND THIRTEENTH CENTURIES

CHAPTER XXXIV
Scholasticism: Spirit, Scope, and Method 283

CHAPTER XXXV
Classification of Topics; Stages of Evolution 311
I. Philosophic Classification of the Sciences; the Arrangement of
Vincent’s
Encyclopaedia, of the Lombard’s Sentences, of Aquinas’s
Summa theologiae.
II. The Stages of Development: Grammar, Logic, Metalogics.

CHAPTER XXXVI
Twelfth-Century Scholasticism 338
I. The Problem of Universals: Abaelard.
II. The Mystic Strain: Hugo and Bernard.
III. The Later Decades: Bernard Silvestris; Gilbert de la Porrée;
William of Conches;
John of Salisbury, and Alanus of Lille.

CHAPTER XXXVII
The Universities, Aristotle, and the Mendicants 378

CHAPTER XXXVIII
Bonaventura 402

CHAPTER XXXIX

Albertus Magnus 420

CHAPTER XL
Thomas Aquinas 433
I. Thomas’s Conception of Human Beatitude.
II. Man’s Capacity to know God.
III. How God knows.
IV. How the Angels know.
V. How Men know.
VI. Knowledge through Faith perfected in Love.

CHAPTER XLI
Roger Bacon 484

CHAPTER XLII
Duns Scotus and Occam 509

CHAPTER XLIII
The Mediaeval Synthesis: Dante 525

INDEX 561

BOOK IV
THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL: SOCIETY
(Continued)

CHAPTER XXV

THE HEART OF HELOÏSE
The romantic growth and imaginative shaping of chivalric love having been
followed in the fortunes of its great exemplars, Tristan, Iseult, Lancelot,
Guinevere, Parzival, a different illustration of mediaeval passion may be
had by turning from these creations of literature to an actual woman, whose
love for a living man was thought out as keenly and as tragically felt as any
heart-break of imagined lovers, and was impressed with as entire a self-
surrender as ever ravished the soul of nun panting with love of the God-
man.
There has never been a passion between a man and woman more famous
than that which brought happiness and sorrow to the lives of Abaelard and
Heloïse. Here fame is just. It was a great love, and its course was a perfect
soul’s tragedy. Abaelard was a celebrity, the intellectual glory of an active-
minded epoch. His love-story has done as much for his posthumous fame as
all his intellectual activities. Heloïse became known in her time through her
relations with Abaelard; in his songs her name was wafted far. She has
come down to us as one of the world’s love-heroines. Yet few of those who
have been touched by her story have known that Heloïse was a great
woman, possessed of an admirable mind, a character which proved its
strength through years, and, above all, a capacity for loving—for loving out
to the full conclusions of love’s convictions, and for feeling in their full
range and power whatever moods and emotions could arise from an

unhappy situation and a passion as deeply felt as it was deeply thought
upon.
Abaelard was not a great character—aside from his intellect. He was vain
and inconsiderate, a man who delighted in confounding and supplanting his
teachers, and in being a thorn in the flesh of all opponents. But he became
chastened through his misfortunes and through Heloïse’s high and self-
sacrificing love. In the end, perhaps, his love was worthy of the love of
Heloïse. Yet her love from the beginning was nobler and deeper than his
love of her. Love was for him an incident in his experience, then an element
in his life. Love made the life of Heloïse; it remained her all. Moreover, in
the records of their passion, Heloïse’s love is unveiled as Abaelard’s is not.
For all these reasons, the heart of Heloïse rather than the heart of Abaelard
discloses the greatness of a love that wept itself out in the twelfth century,
and it is her love rather than his that can teach us much regarding the
mediaeval capacity for loving. Hers is a story of mediaeval womanhood,
and sin, and repentance perhaps, with peace at last, or at least the lips shut
close and further protest foregone.
Abaelard’s stormy intellectual career[1] and the story of the love between
him and the canon’s niece are well known. Let us follow him in those parts
of his narrative which disclose the depth and power of Heloïse’s love for
him. We draw from his Historia calamitatum, written “to a friend,”
apparently an open letter intended to circulate.
“There was,” writes he, referring to the time of his sojourn in Paris, when
he was about thirty-six years old, and at the height of his fame as a lecturer
in the schools—
“There was in Paris a young girl named Heloïse, the niece of a canon,
Fulbert. It was his affectionate wish that she should have the best
education in letters that could be procured. Her face was not unfair, and
her knowledge was unequalled. This attainment, so rare in women, had
given her great reputation.
“I had hitherto lived continently, but now was casting my eyes about,
and I saw that she possessed every attraction that lovers seek; nor did I
regard my success as doubtful, when I considered my fame and my
goodly person, and also her love of letters. Inflamed with love, I

thought how I could best become intimate with her. It occurred to me to
obtain lodgings with her uncle, on the plea that household cares
distracted me from study. Friends quickly brought this about, the old
man being miserly and yet desirous of instruction for his niece. He
eagerly entrusted her to my tutorship, and begged me to give her all the
time I could take from my lectures, authorizing me to see her at any
hour of the day or night, and punish her when necessary. I marvelled
with what simplicity he confided a tender lamb to a hungry wolf. As he
had given me authority to punish her, I saw that if caresses would not
win my object, I could bend her by threats and blows. Doubtless he was
misled by love of his niece and my own good reputation. Well, what
need to say more: we were united first by the one roof above us, and
then by our hearts. Our hours of study were given to love. The books
lay open, but our words were of love rather than philosophy, there were
more kisses than aphorisms; and love was oftener reflected in our eyes
than the lettered page. To avert suspicion, I struck her occasionally—
very gentle blows of love. The joy of love, new to us both, brought no
satiety. The more I was taken up with this pleasure, the less time I gave
to philosophy and the schools—how tiresome had all that become! I
became unproductive, merely repeating my old lectures, and if I
composed any verses, love was their subject, and not the secrets of
philosophy; you know how popular and widely sung these have
become. But the students! what groans and laments arose from them at
my distraction! A passion so plain was not to be concealed; every one
knew of it except Fulbert. A man is often the last to know of his own
shame. Yet what everybody knows cannot be hid forever, and so after
some months he learned all. Oh how bitter was that uncle’s grief! and
what was the grief of the separated lovers! How ashamed I was, and
afflicted at the affliction of the girl! And what a storm of sorrow came
over her at my disgrace. Neither complained for himself, but each
grieved at what the other must endure.”
Although Abaelard was moved at the plight of Heloïse, he bitterly felt his
own discomfiture in the eyes of the once admiring world. But the sentence
touching Heloïse is a first true note of her devoted love: what a storm of
sorrow (moeroris aestus) came over her at my disgrace. Through this

trouble and woe, Heloïse never thought of her own pain save as it pained
her to be the source of grief to Abaelard.
Abaelard continues:
“The separation of our bodies joined our souls more closely and
inflamed our love. Shame spent itself and made us unashamed, so small
a thing it seemed compared with satisfying love. Not long afterwards
the girl knew that she was to be a mother, and in the greatest exultation
wrote and asked me to advise what she should do. One night, as we
agreed on, when Fulbert was away I bore her off secretly and sent her to
my own country, Brittany, where she stayed with my sister till she gave
birth to a son, whom she named Astralabius.
“The uncle, on his return to his empty house, was frantic. He did not
know what to do to me. If he should kill or do me some bodily injury,
he feared lest his niece, whom he loved, would suffer for it among my
people in Brittany. He could not seize me, as I was prepared against all
attempts. At length, pitying his anguish, and feeling remorse at having
caused it, I went to him as a suppliant and promised whatever
satisfaction he should demand. I assured him that nothing in my conduct
would seem remarkable to any one who had felt the strength of love or
would take the pains to recall how many of the greatest men had been
thrown down by women, ever since the world began. Whereupon I
offered him a satisfaction greater than he could have hoped, to wit, that
I would marry her whom I had corrupted, if only the marriage might be
kept secret so that it should not injure me in the minds of men. He
agreed and pledged his faith, and the faith of his friends, and sealed
with kisses the reconciliation which I had sought—so that he might
more easily betray me!”
It will be remembered that Abaelard was a clerk, a clericus, in virtue of his
profession of letters and theology. Never having taken orders, he could
marry; but while a clerk’s slip could be forgotten, marriage might lead
people to think he had slighted his vocation, and would certainly bar the
ecclesiastical preferment which such a famous clericus might naturally look
forward to. Nevertheless, he at once set out to fetch Heloïse from Brittany,
to make her his wife.

The stand which she now took shows both her mind and heart:
“She strongly disapproved, and urged two reasons against the marriage,
to wit, the danger and the disgrace in which it would involve me. She
swore—and so it proved—that no satisfaction would ever appease her
uncle. She asked how she was to have any glory through me when she
should have made me inglorious, and should have humiliated both
herself and me. What penalties would the world exact from her if she
deprived it of such a luminary; what curses, what damage to the Church,
what lamentations of philosophers, would follow on this marriage. How
indecent, how lamentable would it be for a man whom nature had made
for all, to declare that he belonged to one woman, and subject himself to
such shame. From her soul, she detested this marriage which would be
so utterly ignominious for me, and a burden to me. She expatiated on
the disgrace and inconvenience of matrimony for me and quoted the
Apostle Paul exhorting men to shun it. If I would not take the apostle’s
advice or listen to what the saints had said regarding the matrimonial
yoke, I should at least pay attention to the philosophers—to
Theophrastus’s words upon the intolerable evils of marriage, and to the
refusal of Cicero to take a wife after he had divorced Terentia, when he
said that he could not devote himself to a wife and philosophy at the
same time. ‘Or,’ she continued, laying aside the disaccord between
study and a wife, ‘consider what a married man’s establishment would
be to you. What sweet accord there would be between the schools and
domestics, between copyists and cradles, between books and distaffs,
between pen and spindle! Who, engaged in religious or philosophical
meditations, could endure a baby’s crying and the nurse’s ditties stilling
it, and all the noise of servants? Could you put up with the dirty ways of
children? The rich can, you say, with their palaces and apartments of all
kinds; their wealth does not feel the expense or the daily care and
annoyance. But I say, the state of the rich is not that of philosophers; nor
have men entangled in riches and affairs any time for the study of
Scripture or philosophy. The renowned philosophers of old, despising
the world, fleeing rather than relinquishing it, forbade themselves all
pleasures, and reposed in the embraces of philosophy.’”
Speaking thus, Heloïse fortified her argument with quotations from Seneca,
and the examples of Jewish and Gentile worthies and Christian saints, and

continued:
“It is not for me to point out—for I would not be thought to instruct
Minerva—how soberly and continently all these men lived who,
according to Augustine and others, were called philosophers as much
for their way of life as or their knowledge. If laymen and Gentiles,
bound by no profession of religion, lived thus, surely you, a clerk and
canon, should not prefer low pleasures to sacred duties, nor let yourself
be sucked down by this Charybdis and smothered in filth inextricably. If
you do not value the privilege of a clerk, at least defend the dignity of a
philosopher. If reverence for God be despised, still let love of decency
temper immodesty. Remember, Socrates was tied to a wife, and through
a nasty accident wiped out this blot upon philosophy, that others
afterwards might be more cautious; which Jerome relates in his book
against Jovinianus, how once when enduring a storm of Xanthippe’s
clamours from the floor above, he was ducked with slops, and simply
said, ‘I knew such thunder would bring rain.’
“Finally she said that it would be dangerous for me to take her back to
Paris; it was more becoming to me, and sweeter to her, to be called my
mistress, so that affection alone might keep me hers and not the binding
power of any matrimonial chain; and if we should be separated for a
time, our joys at meeting would be the dearer for their rarity. When at
last with all her persuasions and dissuasions she could not turn me from
my folly, and could not bear to offend me, with a burst of tears she
ended in these words: ‘One thing is left: in the ruin of us both the grief
which follows shall not be less than the love which went before.’ Nor
did she here lack the spirit of prophecy.”
Heloïse’s reasonings show love great and true and her absolute devotion to
Abaelard’s interests. None the less striking is her clear intelligence. She
reasoned correctly; she was right, the marriage would do great harm to
Abaelard and little good to her. We see this too, if we lay aside our sense of
the ennobling purity of marriage—a sentiment not commonly felt in the
twelfth century. Marriage was holy in the mind of Christ. But it did not
preserve its holiness through the centuries which saw the rise of
monasticism and priestly celibacy. A way of life is not pure and holy when
another way is holier and purer; this is peculiarly true in Christianity, which

demands the ideal best with such intensity as to cast reflection on whatever
falls below the highest standard. From the time of the barbarian inroads, on
through the Carolingian periods, and into the later Middle Ages, there was
enough barbarism and brutality to prevent the preservation, or impede the
development, of a high standard of marriage. Not monasticism, but his own
half-barbarian, lustful heart led Charlemagne to marry and remarry at will,
and have many mistresses besides. It was the same with the countless
barons and mediaeval kings, rude and half civilized. This was barbarous
lust, not due to the influence of monasticism. But, on the other hand, it was
always the virgin or celibate state that the Church held before the eyes of all
this semi-barbarous laity as the ideal for a Christian man or woman. The
Church sanctioned marriage, but hardly lauded it or held it up as a condition
in which lives of holiness and purity could be led. Such were the sentiments
in which Heloïse was born and bred. They were subconscious factors in her
thoughts regarding herself and her lover. Devoted and unselfish was her
love; undoubtedly Heloïse would have sacrificed herself for Abaelard under
any social conditions. Nevertheless, with her, marriage added little to love;
it was a mere formal and binding authorization; love was no purer for it. To
her mind, for a man in Abaelard’s situation to be entangled in a temporary
amour was better than to be chained to his passion, with his career
irrevocably ruined, in marriage. In so far as her thoughts or Abaelard’s were
influenced by the environment of priestly thinking, marriage would seem a
rendering permanent of a passionate and sinful state, which it were best to
cast off altogether. For herself, as she said truly, the marriage would bring
obloquy rather than reinstatement. She had been mistress to a clerk;
marriage would make her the partner of his abandonment of his vocation,
the accomplice of broken purposes if not of broken vows. And finally, as
there was then no line of disgrace as now between bastard and lawful issue,
Heloïse had no thought that the interests of her son demanded that his
mother should become his father’s wife.
“Leaving our son in my sister’s care, we stole back to Paris, and shortly
after, having in the night celebrated our vigils in a certain church, we
were married at dawn in the presence of her uncle and some of his and
our friends. We left at once separately and with secrecy, and afterwards
saw each other only in privacy, so as to conceal what we had done. But
her uncle and his household began at once to announce the marriage and

violate his word; while she, on the contrary, protested vehemently and
swore that it was false. At that he became enraged and treated her vilely.
When I discovered this I sent her to the convent of Argenteuil, near
Paris, where she had been educated. There I had her take the garb of a
nun, except the veil. Hearing this, the uncle and his relations thought
that I had duped them, ridding myself of Heloïse by making her a nun.
So having bribed my servant, they came upon me by night, when I was
sleeping, and took on me a vengeance as cruel and irretrievable as it
was vile and shameful. Two of the perpetrators were pursued and
vengeance taken.
“In the morning the whole town was assembled, crying and lamenting
my plight, especially the clerks and students; at which I was afflicted
with more shame than I suffered physical pain. I thought of my ruined
hopes and glory, and then saw that by God’s just judgment I was
punished where I had most sinned, and that Fulbert had justly avenged
treachery with treachery. But what a figure I should cut in public! how
the world would point its finger at me! I was also confounded at the
thought of the Levitical law, according to which I had become an
abomination to the Church.[2] In this misery the confusion of shame—I
confess it—rather than the ardour of conversion drove me to the cover
of the cloister, after she had willingly obeyed my command to take the
veil. I became a monk in the abbey of St. Denis, and she a nun in the
convent of Argenteuil. Many begged her not to set that yoke upon her
youth; at which, amid her tears, she broke out in Cornelia’s lament: ‘O
great husband! undeserving of my couch! Has fortune rights over a head
so high? Why did I, impious, marry thee to make thee wretched? Accept
these penalties, which I gladly pay.’[3] With these words, she went
straight to the altar, received the veil blessed by the bishop, and took the
vows before them all.”
Abaelard’s Historia calamitatum now turns to troubles having no
connection with Heloïse: his difficulties with the monks of St. Denis, with
other monks, with every one, in fact, except his scholars; his arraignment
before the Council of Soissons, the public burning of his book, De Unitate
et Trinitate divina, and various other troubles, till, seeking a retreat, he
constructed an oratory on the bank of the Ardisson. He named it the
Paraclete, and there he taught and lectured. He was afterwards elected abbot

of a monastery in Brittany, where he discovered that those under him were
savage beasts rather than monks. Here the Historia calamitatum was
written.
The monks of St. Denis had never ceased to hate Abaelard for his assertion
that their great Saint was not really Dionysius the Areopagite who heard
Paul preach. Their abbot now brought forward and proved an ancient title to
the land where stood the convent of Argenteuil, “in which,” to resume
Abaelard’s account,
“she, once my wife, now my sister in Christ, had taken the veil, and was
at this time prioress. The nuns were rudely driven out. News of this
came to me as a suggestion from the Lord to bethink me of the deserted
Paraclete. Going thither, I invited Heloïse and her nuns to come and
take possession. They accepted, and I gave it to them. Afterward Pope
Innocent II. confirmed this grant to them and their successors in
perpetuity. There for a time they lived in want; but soon the Divine Pity
showed itself the true Paraclete, and moved the people of the
neighbourhood to take compassion on them, and they soon knew no
lack. Indeed as women are the weaker sex, their need moves men more
readily to pity, and their virtues are the more grateful to both God and
man. And on our sister the Lord bestowed such favour in the eyes of all,
that the bishops loved her as a daughter, the abbots as a sister, the laity
as a mother; and all wondered at her piety, her wisdom, and her gentle
patience in everything. She rarely let herself be seen, that she might
devote herself more wholly to prayers and meditations in her cell; but
all the more persistently people sought her spiritual counsel.”
What were those meditations and those prayers uttered or unuttered in that
cell? They did not always refer to the kingdom of heaven, judging from the
abbess’s first letter to her former lover. After the installation of Heloïse and
her nuns, Abaelard rarely visited the Paraclete, although his advice and
instruction was desired there. His visits gave rise to too much scandal. In
the course of time, however, the Historia calamitatum came into the hands
of Heloïse, and occasioned this letter, which seems to issue forth out of a
long silence; ten years had passed since she became a nun. The
superscription is as follows:

“To her master, rather to a father, to her husband, rather to a brother, his
maid or rather daughter, his wife or rather sister, to Abaelard, Heloïse.
“Your letter, beloved, written to comfort a friend, chanced recently to
reach me. Seeing by its first lines from whom it was, I burned to read it
for the love I bear the writer, hoping also from its words to recreate an
image of him whose life I have ruined. Those words dropped gall and
absinthe as they brought back the unhappy story of our intercourse and
thy ceaseless crosses, O my only one. Truly the letter must have
convinced the friend that his troubles were light compared with yours,
as you showed the treachery and persecutions which had followed you,
the calumnies of enemies and the burning of your glorious book, the
machinations of false brothers, and the vile acts of those worthless
monks whom you call your sons. No one could read it with dry eyes.
Your perils have renewed my griefs; here we all despair of your life and
each day with trembling hearts expect news of your death. In the name
of Christ, who so far has somehow preserved thee for himself, deign
with frequent letters to let these weak servants of Him and thee know of
the storms overwhelming the swimmer, so that we who alone remain to
thee may be participators of thy pain or joy. One who grieves may gain
consolation from those grieving with him; a burden borne by many is
more lightly borne. And if this tempest abates, how happy shall we be to
know it. Whatever the letters may contain they will show at least that
we are not forgotten. Has not Seneca said in his letter to Lucilius, that
the letters of an absent friend are sweet? When no malice can stop your
giving us this much of you, do not let neglect prove a bar.
“You have written that long letter to console a friend with the story of
your own misfortunes, and have thereby roused our grief and added to
our desolation. Heal these new wounds. You owe to us a deeper debt of
friendship than to him, for we are not only friends, but friends the
dearest, and your daughters. After God, you alone are the founder of
this place, the builder of this oratory and of this congregation. This new
plantation for a holy purpose is your own; the delicate plants need
frequent watering. He who gives so much to his enemies, should
consider his daughters. Or, leaving out the others here, think how this is
owing me from thee: what thou owest to all women under vows, thou
shalt pay more devotedly to thine only one. How many books have the

holy fathers written for holy women, for their exhortation and
instruction! I marvel at thy forgetfulness of these frail beginnings of our
conversion. Neither respect of God nor love of us nor the example of
the blessed fathers, has led thee by speech or letter to console me, cast
about, and consumed with grief. This obligation was the stronger,
because the sacrament of marriage joined thee to me, and I—every one
sees it—cling to thee with unmeasured love.
“Dearest, thou knowest—who knows not?—how much I lost in thee,
and that an infamous act of treachery robbed me of thee and of myself
at once. The greater my grief, the greater need of consolation, not from
another but from thee, that thou who art alone my cause of grief may be
alone my consolation. It is thou alone that canst sadden me or gladden
me or comfort me. And thou alone owest this to me, especially since I
have done thy will so utterly that, unable to offend thee, I endured to
wreck myself at thy command. Nay, more than this, love turned to
madness and cut itself off from hope of that which alone it sought, when
I obediently changed my garb and my heart too in order that I might
prove thee sole owner of my body as well as of my spirit. God knows, I
have ever sought in thee only thyself, desiring simply thee and not what
was thine. I asked no matrimonial contract, I looked for no dowry; not
my pleasure, not my will, but thine have I striven to fulfil. And if the
name of wife seemed holier or more potent, the word mistress (amica)
was always sweeter to me, or even—be not angry!—concubine or
harlot; for the more I lowered myself before thee, the more I hoped to
gain thy favour, and the less I should hurt the glory of thy renown. This
thou didst graciously remember, when condescending to point out in
that letter to a friend some of the reasons (but not all!) why I preferred
love to wedlock and liberty to a chain. I call God to witness that if
Augustus, the master of the world, would honour me with marriage and
invest me with equal rule, it would still seem to me dearer and more
honourable to be called thy strumpet than his empress. He who is rich
and powerful is not the better man: that is a matter of fortune, this of
merit. And she is venal who marries a rich man sooner than a poor man,
and yearns for a husband’s riches rather than himself. Such a woman
deserves pay and not affection. She is not seeking the man but his
goods, and would wish, if possible, to prostitute herself to one still

richer. Aspasia put this clearly when she was trying to effect a
reconciliation between Xenophon and his wife: ‘Until you come to
think that there is nowhere else a better man or a woman more
desirable, you will be continually looking for what you think to be the
best, and will wish to be married to the man or woman who is the very
best.’ This is indeed a holy, rather than a philosophical sentiment, and
wisdom, not philosophy, speaks. This is the holy error and blessed
deception between man and wife, when affection perfect and
unimpaired keeps marriage inviolate not so much by continency of body
as by chastity of mind. But what with other women is an error, is, in my
case, the manifest truth: since what they suppose in their husbands, I—
and the whole world agrees—know to be in thee. My love for thee is
truth, being free from all error. Who among kings or philosophers can
vie with your fame? What country, what city does not thirst to see you?
Who, I ask, did not hurry to see you appearing in public and crane his
neck to catch a last glimpse as you departed? What wife, what maid did
not yearn for you absent, and burn when you were present? What queen
did not envy me my joys and couch? There were in you two qualities by
which you could draw the soul of any woman, the gift of poetry and the
gift of singing, gifts which other philosophers have lacked. As a
distraction from labour, you composed love-songs both in metre and in
rhyme, which for their sweet sentiment and music have been sung and
resung and have kept your name in every mouth. Your sweet melodies
do not permit even the illiterate to forget you. Because of these gifts
women sighed for your love. And, as these songs sung of our loves, they
quickly spread my name in many lands, and made me the envy of my
sex. What excellence of mind or body did not adorn your youth? No
woman, then envious, but now would pity me bereft of such delights.
What enemy even would not now be softened by the compassion due
me?
“I have brought thee evil, thou knowest how innocently. Not the result
of the act but the disposition of the doer makes the crime; justice does
not consider what happens, but through what intent it happens. My
intent towards thee thou only hast proved and alone canst judge. I
commit everything to thy weighing and submit to thy decree.

“Tell me one thing: why, after our conversion, commanded by thee, did
I drop into oblivion, to be no more refreshed by speech of thine or
letter? Tell me, I say, if you can, or I will say what I feel and what every
one suspects: desire rather than friendship drew you to me, lust rather
than love. So when desire ceased, whatever you were manifesting for its
sake likewise vanished. This, beloved, is not so much my opinion as the
opinion of all. Would it were only mine and that thy love might find
defenders to argue away my pain. Would that I could invent some
reason to excuse you and also cover my cheapness. Listen, I beg, to
what I ask, and it will seem small and very easy to you. Since I am
cheated of your presence, at least put vows in words, of which you have
a store, and so keep before me the sweetness of thine image. I shall
vainly expect you to be bountiful in acts if I find you a miser in words.
Truly I thought that I merited much from you, when I had done all for
your sake and still continue in obedience. When little more than a girl I
took the hard vows of a nun, not from piety but at your command. If I
merit nothing from thee, how vain I deem my labour! I can expect no
reward from God, as I have done nothing from love of Him. Thee
hurrying to God I followed, or rather went before. For, as you
remembered how Lot’s wife turned back, you first delivered me to God
bound with the vow, and then yourself. That single act of distrust, I
confess, grieved me and made me blush. God knows, at your command
I would have followed or preceded you to fiery places. For my heart is
not with me, but with thee; and now more than ever, if not with thee it is
nowhere, for it cannot exist without thee. That my heart may be well
with thee, see to it, I beg; and it will be well if it finds thee kind,
rendering grace for grace—a little for much. Beloved, would that thy
love were less sure of me so that it might be more solicitous; I have
made you so secure that you are negligent. Remember all I have done
and think what you owe. While I enjoyed carnal joy with you, many
people were uncertain whether I acted from love or lust. Now the end
makes clear the beginning; I have cut myself off from pleasure to obey
thy will. I have kept nothing, save to be more than ever thine. Think
how wicked it were in thee where all the more is due to render less,
nothing almost; especially when little is asked, and that so easy for you.
In the name of God to whom you have vowed yourself, give me that of
thee which is possible, the consolation of a letter. I promise, thus

refreshed, to serve God more readily. When of old you would call me to
pleasures, you sought me with frequent letters, and never failed with thy
songs to keep thy Heloïse on every tongue; the streets, the houses re-
echoed me. How much fitter that you should now incite me to God than
then to lust? Bethink thee what thou owest; heed what I ask; and a long
letter I will conclude with a brief ending: farewell only one!”
Remarks upon this letter would seem to profane a shrine—had the man
profaned that shrine? He had not always worshipped there. Heloïse knew
this, for all her love. She said it too, writing in phraseology which had been
brutalized through the denouncing spirit of Latin monasticism. How truly
she puts the situation and how clearly she thinks withal, discerning as it
were the beautiful and true in love and marriage. The whole letter is well
arranged, and written in a style showing the writer’s training in Latin
mediaeval rhetoric. It was not the less deeply felt because composed with
care and skill. Evidently the writer is of the Middle Ages; her occasional
prolixity was not of her sex but of her time; and she quotes the ancients so
naturally; what they say should be convincing. How the letter bares the
motives of her own conduct: not for God’s sake, or the kingdom of heaven’s
sake, but for Abaelard’s sake she became a nun. She had no inclination
thereto; her letters do not indicate that she ever became really and
spontaneously devoted to her calling. Abaelard was her God, and as her
God she held him to the end; though she applied herself to the consideration
of religious topics, as we shall see. Moreover, her position as nun and
abbess could not fail to force such topics on her consideration.
Is there another such love-letter, setting forth a situation so triple-barred and
hopeless? And the love which fills the letter, which throbs and burns in it,
which speaks and argues in it, how absolute is this love. It is love carried
out to its full conclusions; it includes the whole woman and the whole of
her life; whatever lies beyond its ken and care is scorned and rejected. This
love is extreme in its humility, and yet realizes its own purity and worth; it
is grieved at the thought of rousing a feeling baser than itself. Heloïse had
been and still was Heloïse, devoted and self-sacrificing in her love. But the
situation has become torture; her heart is filled with all manner of pain, old
and new, till it is driven to assert its right at least to consolation. Thus
Heloïse’s love becomes insistent and requiring. Was it possibly burdensome
to the man who now might wish to think no more of passion? who might

wish no longer to be loved in that way? In his reply Abaelard does not
unveil himself; he seems to take an attitude which may have been the most
faithful expression that he could devise of his changed self.
“To Heloïse his beloved sister in Christ, Abaelard her brother in the
Same.”
This superscription was a gentle reminder of their present relationship—in
Christ. The writer begins: his not having written since their conversion was
to be ascribed not to his negligence, but to his confidence in her wisdom; he
did not think that she who, so full of grace, had consoled her sister nuns
when prioress, could as abbess need teaching or exhortation for the
guidance of her daughters; but if, in her humility, she felt the need of his
instruction in matters pertaining to God, she might write, and he would
answer, as the Lord should grant. Thanks be to God who had filled their
hearts—hers and her nuns—with solicitude for his perils, and had made
them participators in his afflictions; through their prayers the divine pity
had protected him. He had hastened to send the Psalter, requested by his
sister, formerly dear to him in the world and now most dear in Christ, to
assist their prayers. The potency of prayer, with God and the saints, and
especially the prayer of women for those dear to them, is frequently
declared in Scripture; he cites a number of passages to prove it. May these
move her to pray for him. He refers with affectionate gratitude to the
prayers which the nuns had been offering for him, and encloses a short
prayer for his safety, which he begs and implores may be used in their daily
canonical hours. If the Lord, however, delivers him into the hands of his
enemies to kill him, or if he meet his death in any way, he begs that his
body may be brought to the Paraclete for burial, so that the sight of his
sepulchre may move his daughters and sisters in Christ to pray for him; no
place could be so safe and salutary for the soul of one bitterly repenting of
his sins, as that consecrated to the true Paraclete—the Comforter; nor could
fitter Christian burial be found than among women devoted by their vows to
Christ. He begs that the great solicitude which they now have for his bodily
safety, they will then have for the salvation of his soul, and by the suffrage
of their prayer for the dead man show how they had loved him when alive.
The letter closes, not with a personal word to Heloïse, but with this distich:

“Vive, vale, vivantque tuae valeantque sorores,
Vivite, sed Christo, quaeso, mei memores.”

Thus as against Heloïse’s beseeching love, Abaelard lifted his hands, palms
out, repelling it. His letter ignored all that filled the soul and the letter of
Heloïse. His reply did not lack words of spiritual affection, and its tone was
not as formal then as it now seems. When Abaelard asked for the prayers of
Heloïse and her nuns, he meant it; he desired the efficacy of their prayers.
Then he wished to be buried among them. We are touched by this; but,
again, Abaelard meant it, as he said, for his soul’s welfare; it was no love
sentiment. The letter stirred the heart of Heloïse to a rebellious outcry
against the cruelty of God, if not of Abaelard, a soul’s cry against life and
the calm attitude of one who no longer was—or at least meant to be no
longer—what he had been to her.
“To her only one, next to Christ, his only one in Christ.
“I wonder, my only one, that contrary to epistolary custom and the
natural order of things, in the salutation of your letter you have placed
me before you, a woman before a man, a wife before a husband, a
servant before her lord, a nun before a monk and priest, a deaconess
before an abbot. The proper order is for one writing to a superior to put
his own name last, but when writing to an inferior, the writer’s name
should precede. We also marvelled, that where you should have
afforded us consolation, you added to our desolation, and excited the
tears you should have quieted. How could we restrain our tears when
reading what you wrote towards the end: ‘If the Lord shall deliver me
into the hand of my enemies to slay me’! Dearest, how couldst thou
think or say that? May God never forget His handmaids, to leave them
living when you are no more! May He never allot to us that life, which
would be harder than any death! It is for you to perform our obsequies
and commend our souls to God, and send before to God those whom
you have gathered for Him—that you may have no further anxiety, and
follow us the more gladly because assured of our safety. Refrain, my
lord, I beg, from making the miserable most miserable with such words;
destroy not our life before we die. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil

thereof’—and that day will come to all with bitterness enough. ‘What
need,’ says Seneca, ‘to add to evil, and destroy life before death?’
“Thou askest, only one, that, in the event of thy death when absent from
us, we should have thy body brought to our cemetery, in order that,
being always in our memory, thou shouldst obtain greater benefit from
our prayers. Did you think that your memory could slip from us? How
could we pray, with distracted minds? What use of tongue or reason
would be left to us? When the mind is crazed against God it will not
placate Him with prayer so much as irritate Him with complaints. We
could only weep, pressing to follow rather than bury you. How could
we live after we had lost our life in you? The thought of your death is
death to us; what would be the actuality? God grant we shall not have to
pay those rites to one from whom we look for them; may we go before
and not follow! A heart crushed with grief is not calm, nor is a mind
tossed by troubles open to God. Do not, I beg, hinder the divine service
to which we are dedicated.
“What remains of hope for me when thou art gone? Or what reason to
continue in this pilgrimage, where I have no solace save thee? and of
thee I have but the bare knowledge that thou dost live, since thy
restoring presence is not granted me. Oh!—if it is right to say it—how
cruel has God been to me! Inclement Clemency! Fortune has emptied
her quiver against me, so that others have nothing to fear! If indeed a
single dart were left, no place could be found in me for a new wound.
Fortune fears only lest I escape her tortures by death. Wretched and
unhappy! in thee I was lifted above all women; in thee am I the more
fatally thrown down. What glory did I have in thee! what ruin have I
now! Fortune made me the happiest of women that she might make me
the most miserable. The injury was the more outrageous in that all ways
of right were broken. While we were abandoned to love’s delights, the
divine severity spared us. When we made the forbidden lawful and by
marriage wiped out fornication’s stains, the Lord’s wrath broke on us,
impatient of an unsullied bed when it long had borne with one defiled.
A man taken in adultery would have been amply punished by what
came to you. What others deserved for adultery, that you got from the
marriage which you thought had made amends for everything.
Adulteresses bring their paramours what your own wife brought you.

Not when we lived for pleasure, but when, separated, we lived in
chastity, you presiding at the Paris schools, I at thy command dwelling
with the nuns at Argenteuil; you devoted to study, I to prayer and holy
reading; it was then that you alone paid the penalty for what we had
done together. Alone you bore the punishment, which you deserved less
than I. When you had humiliated yourself and elevated me and all my
kin, you little merited that punishment either from God or from those
traitors. Miserable me, begotten to cause such a crime! O womankind
ever the ruin of the noblest men![4]
“Well the Tempter knows how easy is man’s overthrow through a wife.
He cast his malice over us, and the man whom he could not throw down
through fornication, he tried with marriage, using a good to bring about
an evil where evil means had failed. I thank God at least for this, that
the Tempter did not draw me to assent to that which became the cause
of the evil deed. Yet, although in this my mind absolves me, too many
sins had gone before to leave me guiltless of that crime. For long a
servant of forbidden joys, I earned the punishment which I now suffer
of past sins. Let the evil end be attributed to ill beginnings! May my
penitence be meet for what I have done, and may long remorse in some
way compensate for the penalty you suffered! What once you suffered
in the body, may I through contrition bear to the end of life, that so I
may make satisfaction to thee if not to God. To confess the infirmities
of my most wretched soul, I can find no penitence to offer God, whom I
never cease to accuse of utter cruelty towards you. Rebellious to His
rule, I offend Him with indignation more than I placate Him with
penitence. For that cannot be called the sinner’s penitence where,
whatever be the body’s suffering, the mind retains the will to sin and
still burns with the same desires. It is easy in confession to accuse
oneself of sins, and also to do penance with the body; but hard indeed to
turn the heart from the desire of its greatest joys![5] Love’s pleasures,
which we knew together, cannot be made displeasing to me nor driven
from my memory. Wherever I turn, they press upon me, nor do they
spare my dreams. Even in the solemn moments of the Mass, when
prayer should be the purest, their phantoms catch my soul. When I
should groan for what I have done, I sigh for what I have lost. Not only
our acts, but times and places stick fast in my mind, and my body

quivers. O truly wretched me, fit only to utter this cry of the soul:
‘Wretched that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’
Would I could add with truth what follows:—‘I thank God through
Jesus Christ our Lord.’ Such thanksgiving, dearest, may be thine, by one
bodily ill cured of many tortures of the soul, and God may have been
merciful where He seemed against you; like a good physician who does
not spare the pain needed to save life. But I am tortured with passion
and the fires of memory. They call me chaste, who do not know me for
a hypocrite. They look upon purity of the flesh as virtue—which is of
the soul, not of the body. Having some praise from men, I merit none
from God, who knows the heart. I am called religious at a time when
most religion is hypocrisy, and when whoever keeps from offence
against human law is praised. Perhaps it seems praiseworthy and
acceptable to God, through decent conduct,—whatever the intent—to
avoid scandalizing the Church or causing the Lord’s name to be
blasphemed or the religious Order discredited. Perhaps it may be of
grace just to abstain from evil. But the Scripture says, ‘Refrain from evil
and do good’; and vainly he attempts either who does not act from love
of God. God knows that I have always feared to offend thee more than I
feared to offend Him; and have desired to please thee rather than Him.
Thy command, not the divine love, put on me this garb of religion.
What a wretched life I lead if I vainly endure all this here and am to
have no reward hereafter. My hypocrisy has long deceived you, as it has
others, and therefore you desire my prayers. Have no such confidence; I
need your prayers; do not withdraw their aid. Do not take away the
medicine, thinking me whole. Do not cease to think me needy; do not
think me strong; do not delay your help. Cease from praising me, I beg.
No one versed in medicine will judge of inner disease from outward
view. Thy praise is the more perilous because I love it, and desire to
please thee always. Be fearful rather than confident regarding me, so
that I may have the help of your care. Do not seek to spur me on, by
quoting, ‘For strength is made perfect in weakness,’ or ‘He is not
crowned unless he have contended lawfully.’ I am not looking for the
crown of victory; enough for me to escape peril;—safer to shun peril
than to wage war! In whatever little corner of heaven God puts me, that
will satisfy me. Hear what Saint Jerome says: ‘I confess my weakness; I

do not wish to fight for the hope of victory, lest I lose.’ Why give up
certainties to follow the uncertain?”
This letter gives a view of Heloïse’s mind, its strong grasp and its capacity
for reasoning, though its reasoning is here distraught with passion.
Scathingly, half-blinded by her pain, she declares the perversities of
Providence, as they glared upon her. Such a disclosure of the woman’s mind
suggests how broadly based in thought and largely reared was that great
love into which her whole soul had been poured, the mind as well as heart.
Her love was great, unique, not only from its force of feeling, but from the
power and scope of thought by which passion and feeling were carried out
so far and fully to the last conclusions of devotion. The letter also shows a
woman driven by stress of misery to utter cries and clutch at remedies that
her calmer self would have put by. It is not hypocrisy to conceal the desires
or imaginings which one would never act upon. To tell these is not true
disclosure of oneself, but slander. Torn by pain, Heloïse makes herself more
vile and needy than in other moments she knew herself to be. Yet the letter
also uncovers her, and in nakedness there is some truth. Doubtless her nun’s
garb did clothe a hypocrite. Whatever she felt—and here we see the worst
she felt—before the world she had to act the nun. We shall soon see how
she forced herself to act, or be, the nun toward Abaelard.
Abaelard replied in a letter filled with religious argument and consolation. It
was self-controlled, firm, authoritative, and strong in those arguments
regarding God’s mercy which have stood the test of time. If they sometimes
fail to satisfy the embittered soul, at least they are the best that man has
known. And withal, the letter is calmly and nobly affectionate—what place
was there for love’s protestations? They would have increased the evil,
adding fuel to Heloïse’s passionate misery.
The master-note is struck in the address: “To the spouse of Christ, His
servant.” The letter seeks to turn Heloïse’s thoughts to her nun’s calling and
her soul’s salvation. It divides her expressions of complaint under four
heads. First, he had put her name first, because she had become his superior
from the moment of her bridal with his master Christ. Jerome writing to
Eustochium called her Lady, when she had become the spouse of Jerome’s
Lord. Abaelard shows, with citations from the Song of Songs, the glory of
the spouse, and how her prayers should be sought by one who was the

servant of her Husband. Second, as to the terrors roused in her by his
mention of his peril and possible death, he points out that in her first letter
she had bidden him write of those perils; if they brought him death, she
should deem that a kind release. She should not wish to see his miseries
drawn out, even for her sake. Third, he shows that his praise of her was
justified even by her disclaimer of merit—as it is written, Who humbles
himself shall be exalted. He warns her against false modesty which may be
vanity.
He turns at last to the old and ceaseless plaint which she makes against God
for cruelty, when she should rather glorify Him; he had thought that that
bitterness had departed, so dangerous for her, so painful to him. If she
wished to please him, let her lay it aside; retaining it, she could not please
him or advance with him to blessedness; let her have this much religion, not
to separate herself from him hastening to God; let her take comfort in their
journeying to the same goal. He then shows her that his punishment was
just as well as merciful; he had deserved it from God and also from Fulbert.
If she will consider, she will see in it God’s justice and His mercy; God had
saved them from shipwreck; had raised a barrier against shame and lust. For
himself the punishment was purification, not privation; will not she, as his
inseparable comrade, participate in the workings of this grace, even as she
shared the guilt and its pardon? Once he had thought of binding her to him
in wedlock; but God found a means to turn them both to Him; and the Lord
was continuing His mercy towards her, causing her to bring forth spiritual
daughters, when otherwise she would only have borne children in the flesh;
in her the curse of Eve is turned to the blessing of Mary. God had purified
them both; whom God loveth He correcteth. Oh! let her thoughts dwell with
the Son of God, seized, dragged, beaten, spit upon, crowned with thorns,
hung on a vile cross. Let her think of Him as her spouse, and for Him let her
make lament; He bought her with himself, He loved her. In comparison
with His love, his own (Abaelard’s) was lust, seeking the pleasure it could
get from her. If he, Abaelard, had suffered for her, it was not willingly nor
for her sake, as Christ had suffered, and for her salvation. Let her weep for
Him who made her whole, not for her corrupter; for her Redeemer, not for
her defiler; for the Lord who died for her, not for the living servant, himself
just freed from the death. Let his sister accept with patience what came to
her in mercy from Him who wounded the body to save the soul.

“We are one in Christ, as through marriage we were one flesh. Whatever
is thine is not alien to me. Christ is thine, because thou art His spouse.
And now thou hast me for a servant, who formerly was thy master—a
servant united to thee by spiritual love. I trust in thy pleading with Him
for such defence as my own prayers may not obtain. That nothing may
hinder this petition I have composed this prayer, which I send thee: ‘O
God, who formed woman from the side of man and didst sanction the
sacrament of marriage; who didst bestow upon my frailty a cure for its
incontinence; do not despise the prayers of thy handmaid, and the
prayers which I pour out for my sins and those of my dear one. Pardon
our great crimes, and may the enormity of our faults find the greatness
of thy ineffable mercy. Punish the culprits in the present; spare, in the
future. Thou hast joined us, Lord, and hast divided us, as it pleased thee.
Now complete most mercifully what thou hast begun in mercy; and
those whom thou hast divided in this world, join eternally in heaven,
thou who art our hope, our portion, our expectation, our consolation,
Lord blessed forever. Amen.’
“Farewell in Christ, spouse of Christ; in Christ farewell and in Christ
live. Amen.”
In her next letter Heloïse obeys, and turns her pen if not her thoughts to the
topics suggested by Abaelard’s admonitions. The short scholastically
phrased address cannot be rendered in any modern fashion: “Domino
specialiter sua singulariter.”
“That you may have no further reason to call me disobedient, your
command shall bridle the words of unrestrained grief; in writing I will
moderate my language, which I might be unable to do in speech.
Nothing is less in our power than our heart; which compels us to obey
more often than it obeys us. When our affections goad us, we cannot
keep the sudden impulse from breaking out in words; as it is written,
‘From the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh.’ So I will withhold
my hand from writing whenever I am unable to control my words.
Would that the sorrowing heart were as ready to obey as the hand that
writes! You can afford some remedy to grief, even when unable to
dispel it quite. As one nail driven in drives out another, a new thought
pushes away its predecessor, and the mind is freed for a time. A thought,

moreover, takes the mind up and leads it from others more effectually, if
the subject of the thought is excellent and of great importance.”
The rest of this long letter shows Heloïse putting her principles in practice.
She is forcing her mind to consider and her pen to discourse upon topics
which might properly occupy an abbess’s thoughts—topics, moreover,
which would satisfy Abaelard and call forth long letters in reply. Whether
she cared really for these matters or ever came to care for them; or whether
she turned to them to distract her mind and keep up some poor makeshift of
intercourse with one who would and could no longer be her lover; or
whether all these motives mingled, and in what proportion, perhaps may
best be left to Him who tries the heart.
The abbess writes:
“All of us here, servants of Christ and thy daughters, make two requests
of thy fathership which we deem most needful. The one is, that you
would instruct us concerning the origins of the order of nuns and the
authority for our calling. The other is, that you would draw up a written
regula, suitable for women, which shall prescribe and set the order and
usages of our convent. We do not find any adequate regula for women
among the works of the holy Fathers. It is a manifest defect in monastic
institutions that the same rules should be imposed upon both monks and
nuns, and that the weaker sex should bear the same monastic yoke as
the stronger.”
Heloïse, having set this task for Abaelard, proceeds to show how the
various monastic regulae, from Benedict’s downward, failed to make
suitable provision for the habits and requirements and weaknesses of
women, the regulae hitherto having been concerned with the weaknesses of
men. She enters upon matters of clothing and diet, and everything
concerning the lives of nuns. She writes as one learned in Scripture and the
writings of the Fathers, and sets the whole matter forth, in its details, with
admirable understanding of its intricacies. She concludes, reminding
Abaelard that it is for him in his lifetime to set a regula for them to follow
forever; after God, he is their founder. They might thereafter have some
teacher who would build in alien fashion; such a one might have less care

and understanding, and might not be as readily obeyed as himself; it is for
him to speak, and they will listen. Vale.
The first of Heloïse’s letters is a great expression of a great love; in the
second, anguish drives the writer’s hand; in the third, she has gained self-
control; she suppresses her heart, and writes a letter which is discursive and
impersonal from the beginning to the little Vale at the end.
Abaelard returned a long epistle upon the Scriptural origin of the order of
nuns, and soon followed it with another, still longer, containing instruction,
advice, and rules for the nuns of the Paraclete. He also wrote them a letter
upon the study of Scripture. From this time forth he proved his devotion to
Heloïse and her nuns by the large body of writings which he composed for
their edification. Heloïse sent him a long list of questions upon obscure
phrases and knotty points of Scripture, which he answered diligently in
detail.[6] He then sent her a collection of hymns written or “rearranged” by
himself for the use of the nuns, accompanied by a prefatory letter: “At thy
prayers, my sister Heloïse, once dear to me in the world, now most dear in
Christ, I have composed what in Greek are called hymns, and in Hebrew
tillim.” He then explains why, yielding to the requests of the nuns, he had
written hymns, of which the Church had such a store.
Next he composed for them a large volume of sermons, which he also sent
with a letter to Heloïse: “Having completed the book of hymns and
sequences, revered in Christ and loved sister Heloïse, I have hastened to
compose some sermons for your congregation; I have paid more attention to
the meaning than the language. But perhaps an unstudied style is well suited
to simple auditors. In composing and arranging these sermons I have
followed the order of Church festivals. Farewell in the Lord, servant of His,
once dear to me in the world, now most dear in Christ: in the flesh then my
wife, now my sister in the spirit and partner in our sacred calling.”
At a subsequent period, when his opinions were condemned by the Council
of Sens, he sent to Heloïse a confession of faith. Shortly afterward his
stormy life found a last refuge in the monastery of Cluny. His closing years
(of peace?) are described in a letter to Heloïse from the good and revered
abbot, Peter the Venerable. He writes that he had received with joy the letter
which her affection had dictated,[7] and now took the first opportunity to

express his recognition of her affection and his reverence for herself. He
refers to her keenly prosecuted studies (so rare for women) before taking
the veil, and then to the glorious example of her sage and holy life in the
nun’s sacred calling—her victory over the proud Prince of this World. His
admiration for her was deep; his expression of it was extreme. A learned,
wise, and holy woman could not be praised more ardently than Heloïse is
praised by this good man. He had spoken of the advantages his monastery
would have derived from her presence, and then continued:
“But although God’s providence denied us this, it was granted us to
enjoy the presence of him—who was yours—Master Peter Abaelard, a
man always to be spoken of with honour as a true servant of Christ and
a philosopher. The divine dispensation placed him in Cluny for his last
years, and through him enriched our monastery with treasure richer than
gold. No brief writing could do justice to his holy, humble, and devoted
life among us. I have not seen his equal in humility of garb and manner.
When in the crowd of our brethren I forced him to take a first place, in
meanness of clothing he appeared as the last of all. Often I marvelled,
as the monks walked past me, to see a man so great and famous thus
despise and abase himself. He was abstemious in food and drink,
refusing and condemning everything beyond the bare necessities. He
was assiduous in study, frequent in prayer, always silent unless
compelled to answer the question of some brother or expound sacred
themes before us. He partook of the sacrament as often as possible.
Truly his mind, his tongue, his act, taught and exemplified religion,
philosophy, and learning. So he dwelt with us, a man simple and
righteous, fearing God, turning from evil, consecrating to God the latter
days of his life. At last, because of his bodily infirmities, I sent him to a
quiet and salubrious retreat on the banks of the Saone. There he bent
over his books, as long as his strength lasted, always praying, reading,
writing, or dictating. In these sacred exercises, not sleeping but
watching, he was found by the heavenly Visitor; who summoned him to
the eternal wedding-feast not as a foolish but as a wise virgin, bearing
his lamp filled with oil—the consciousness of a holy life. When he
came to pay humanity’s last debt, his illness was brief. With holy
devotion he made confession of the Catholic Faith, then of his sins. The
brothers who were with him can testify how devoutly he received the

viaticum of that last journey, and with what fervent faith he commended
his body and soul to his Redeemer. Thus this master, Peter, completed
his days. He who was known throughout the world by the fame of his
teaching, entered the school of Him who said, ‘Learn of me, for I am
meek and lowly of heart’; and continuing meek and lowly he passed to
Him, as we may believe.
“Venerable and dearest sister in the Lord, the man who was once joined
to thee in the flesh, and then by the stronger chain of divine love, him in
thy stead, or as another thee, the Lord holds in His bosom; and at the
day of His coming, His grace will restore him to thee.”
The abbot afterwards visited the Paraclete, and on returning to Cluny
received this letter from the abbess:
“God’s mercy visiting us, we have been visited by the favour of your
graciousness. We are glad, kindest father, and we glory that your
greatness condescended to our insignificance. A visit from you is an
honour even to the great. The others may know the great benefit they
received from the presence of your highness. I cannot tell in words, or
even comprehend in thought, how beneficial and how sweet your
coming was to me. You, our abbot and our lord, celebrated mass with us
the sixteenth of the Calends of last December; you commended us to the
Holy Spirit; you nourished us with the Divine Word;—you gave us the
body of the master, and confirmed that gift from Cluny. To me also,
unworthy to be your servant, though by word and letter you have called
me sister, you gave as a pledge of sincere love the privilege of a
Tricenarium, to be performed by the brethren of Cluny, after my death,
for the benefit of my soul. You have promised to confirm this under
your seal. May you fulfil this, my lord. Might it please you also to send
to me that other sealed roll, containing the absolution of the master, that
I may hang it on his tomb. Remember also, for the love of God, our—
and your—Astralabius, to obtain for him a prebend from the bishop of
Paris or another. Farewell. May God preserve you, and grant to us
sometime your presence.”
The good abbot replied with a kind and affectionate letter, confirming his
gift of the Tricenarium, promising to do all he could for Astralabius, and

sending with his letter the record of Abaelard’s absolution, as follows:
“I, Peter, Abbot of Cluny, who received Peter Abaelard to be a monk in
Cluny, and granted his body, secretly transported, to the Abbess Heloïse
and the nuns of the Paraclete, absolve him, in the performance of my
office (pro officio) by the authority of the omnipotent God and all the
saints, from all his sins.”
Abaelard died in the year 1142, aged sixty-three. Twenty-one years
afterward Heloïse died at the same age, and was buried in the same tomb
with him at the Paraclete:

“Hoc tumulo abbatissa jacet prudens Heloïssa.”

CHAPTER XXVI

GERMAN CONSIDERATIONS: WALTHER VON
DER VOGELWEIDE
A criticism of the world of feudalism, chivalry, and love may be had from
the impressions and temperamental reactions of a certain thinking atom
revolving in the same. The atom referred to was Walther von der
Vogelweide, a German, a knight, a Minnesinger, and a national poet whose
thoughts were moved by the instincts of his caste and race.
In language, temperament, and character, the Germans east of the Rhine
were Germans still in the thirteenth century. They had accepted, and even
vitally appropriated, Latin Christianity; those of them who were educated
had received a Latin education. Yet their natures, though somewhat
tempered, showed largely and distinctly German. Moreover, through the

centuries, they had acquired—or rather they had never lost—a national
antipathy toward those Roman papal well-springs of authority, which
seemed to suck back German gold and lands in return for spiritual
assurance and political betrayal.
A different and already mediaevalized element had also become part of
German culture, to wit, the matter of the French Arthurian romances and the
lyric fashions of Provence, which, working together, had captivated modish
German circles from the Rhine to the Danube. Nevertheless the German
character maintained itself in the Minnelieder which followed Provençal
poetry, and in the höfisch (courtly) epics which were palpable translations
from the French.[8] The distinguished group of German poets whose lives
fall around the year 1200, were as German as their language, although they
borrowed from abroad the form and matter of their compositions.
There could be no better Germans than the two most thoughtful of this
group, Wolfram von Eschenbach and Walther von der Vogelweide. Most
Germanically the former wrestled with that ancient theme, “from suffering,
wisdom,” which he pressed into the tale of Parzival. His great poem,
achieved with toil and sweat, was mighty in its climaxes, and fit to
strengthen the hearts of those men who through sorrow and loneliness and
despair’s temptations were growing “slowly wise.”
The virtues which Wolfram praised and embodied in his hero were those
praised in the verses, and even, one may think, strugglingly exemplified in
the conduct, of Walther von der Vogelweide,[9] most famous of
Minnesingers, and a power in the German lands through his Sprüche, or
verses personal and political. Less is known of his life than of his whole and
manly views, his poetic fancies, his musings, his hopes, and great
depressions. Many places have claimed the honour of his birth, which took
place somewhat before 1170. He was poor, and through his youth and
manhood moved about from castle to castle, and from court to court,
seeking to win some recompense for his excellent verses and good
company. Thus he learned much of men, “climbing another’s stairs,” with
his fellows, at the Landgraf Hermann’s Wartburg, or at the Austrian ducal
Court.

Walther’s Sprüche render his moods most surely, and reflect his outlook on
the world. His charming Minnelieder bear more conventional evidence. The
courtly German love-songs passing by this name were affected by the
conceits and conventions of the Provençal poetry upon which they were
modelled. A strong nature might use such with power, or break with their
influence. Walther made his own the high convention of trouvère and
troubadour, that love uplifts the lover’s being. Besides this, and besides the
lighter forms and phrases current in such poetry, his Lieder carry natural
feeling, joy, and moral levity, according to the theme; they also may express
Walther’s convictions.
To take examples: Walther’s Tagelied[10] imitates the Provençal alba
(dawn), in which knight and truant lady bewail the coming of the light and
the parting which it brings. Far more joyous, and as immoral as one pleases,
is Unter der Linde, most famous of his songs. Marvellously it gives the
mood of love’s joy remembered—and anticipated too. The immorality is
complete (if we will be serious), and is rendered most alluring by the utter
gladness of the girl’s song—no repentance, no regret; only joy and roguish
laughter.
Walther was young, he was a knight and a Minnesinger; he had doubtless
loved, in this way! His love-songs have plenty to say of the red mouth,
good for kissing—I care not who knows it either. But he also realizes, and
greatly sings, the height and breadth and worth of love the true and stable,
the blessing and completion of two lives, which comes to a false heart
never.[11] He seems to feel it necessary to defend love for itself, perhaps
because marriage was taken more seriously in this imitative German
literature than in the French and Provençal originals: “Who says that love is
sin, let him consider well. Many an honour dwells with her, and troth and
happiness. If one does ill to the other, love is grieved. I do not mean false
love; that were better named un-love. No friend of that, am I.” But his
thoughts turn quickly to love as a lasting union: “He happy man, she happy
woman, whose hearts are to each other true; both lives increased in price
and worth; blessed their years and all their days.”[12]
Giving play to his caustic temper, Walther puts scorn upon the light of love:
“Fool he who cannot understand what joy and good, love brings. But the
light man is ever pleased with light things, as is fit!”[13] This Minnesinger

applied most earnest standards to life; lofty his praise of the qualities of
womanhood, which are better than beauty or riches: “woman” is a higher
word than “lady”[14]—it took a German to say this. “He who carries hidden
sorrow in his heart, let him think upon a good woman—he is freed.”[15]
With a burst of patriotism, in one of his greatest poems Walther praises
German women as the best in all the world.[16]
But even in the Minnelieder, Walther has his despondencies. One of the
most definite, and possibly conventional, was regret for love’s labour lost,
and the days of youth spent in service of an ungracious fair. The poet
wonders how it is that he who has helped other men is tongue-tied before
his lady. Again, his reflections broaden from thoughts of unresponsive fair
ones to a conviction of life’s thanklessness. “I have well served the World
(Frau Welt, Society), and gladly would serve her more, but for her evil
thanks and her way of preferring fools to me.... Come, World, give me
better greeting—the loss is not all mine.” He knows his good unbending
temper which will not endure to hear ill spoken of the upright. But he
thinks, what is the use? why speak so sweetly, why sing, when virtue and
beauty are so lightly held, and every one does evil, fearing nought? The
verse which carries these reflections is tossing in the squally haven of
Society; soon the poet will encounter the wild sea without. Still from the
windy harbour comes one grand lament over art’s decline: “The worst songs
please, frogs’ voices! Oh, I laugh from anger! Lady World, no score of mine
is on your devil’s slate. Many a life of man and woman have I made glad—
might I so have gladdened mine! Here, I make my Will, and bequeath my
goods—to the envious my ill-luck, my sorrows to the liars, my follies to
false lovers, and to the ladies my heart’s pain.”[17] He makes a solemn
offering of his poems: “Good women, worthy men, a loving greeting is my
due. Forty years have I sung fittingly of love; and now, take my songs
which gladden, as my gift to you. Your favour be my return. And with my
staff I will fare on, still wooing worth with undisheartened work, as from
my childhood. So shall I be, in lowly lot, one of the Noble—for me
enough.”
To relish Walther’s love-songs, one need not know whether she was dark or
fair, kept forest-tryst or listened by some castle’s hearth, or in what German
land that castle stood. Likewise in his Sprüche, which have other bearing,
the roll of his protesting voice carries the universal human. To comprehend

them it were well to know that life was then as now niggardly in rewarding
virtue; beyond this, one needs to have the type-idea of the Empire and the
Papacy, those two powers which were set, somewhat antagonistically, on
the decree of God; both claiming the world’s headship; the one, Roman in
tradition, but in strength and temper German, and of this world decidedly.
The other, Roman in the genius of its organization, and Christian in its
subordination of the life below to the life to come, if not in the methods of
establishing this consummation; Christian too, but more especially
mediaeval, in its formal disdain for whatever belonged to earth. In Germany
these two partial opposites were further antagonized, since the native
resources recoiled from the foreign drain upon them, and the struggling
patriotism of a broken land resented the pressure of a state within and above
the state of duke and king and emperor.
In Walther’s time Innocent III. swayed the nations from Peter’s throne. Just
before Innocent’s accession, Germany’s able emperor, Henry VI., died
suddenly in Sicily (September 1197), leaving an heir not two years old. The
queen-mother, dying the next year, bequeathed this child, Frederick, to the
paternal care of Innocent, his feudal as well as ghostly lord, since the queen,
for herself and child, had accepted the Pope as the feudal suzerain of their
kingdom of Sicily. In Germany (using that name loosely and broadly) Philip
Hohenstauffen, Henry’s brother and Duke of Suabia, claimed the throne.
His unequal opponent was Otto of Brunswick, of the ever-rebellious house
of Henry the Lion. The Pope opposed the Hohenstauffen; but was obliged
to acknowledge him when the course of the ten years of wasting civil war in
Germany decided in his favour—whereupon, alack! Philip was murdered
(1207). Quickly the Pope turned back to Otto; but the latter, after he had
been crowned king and emperor, became intolerable to Innocent through the
compulsion of his position as the head of an empire inherently hostile to the
papacy. To thwart him Innocent set up his own ward, Frederick. Soon this
precocious youth began to make head against pope-forsaken Otto; and then
the excommunicated emperor was overthrown in 1214 by Philip Augustus
of France, who had intervened in Frederick’s favour. So Otto passed away,
and, some time after, Frederick was crowned German king at Aix-la-
Chapelle.[18] In the meanwhile Innocent died (1216), and amity followed
between Frederick and the gentle Honorius III., who crowned Frederick

emperor at Rome in 1220. This peace ended quickly when the sterner
Gregory IX. ascended the papal throne on the death of Honorius in 1227.
Walther’s life extended through these events. Though apparently changing
sides under the stress of his necessities, he was patriotically German to the
end. First he clave to the Hohenstauffen, Philip, as the true upholder of
German interests against Otto and the Pope. On Philip’s death, he turned to
Otto; but with all the world left him at last for Frederick. It is known that
Walther, an easily angered man, felt himself ill-used by Otto and justified in
turning to the open-handed Frederick, who finally gave him a small fief. To
the last, Walther upheld him as Germany’s sovereign. Probably the poet
died in the year 1228, just as Gregory was succeeding Honorius, and the
death-struggle of the Empire with the Papacy was opening.
With no light heart, as well may be imagined, had Walther looked about
him on the death of the emperor Henry in 1197. “I sat upon a rock, crossed
knee on knee, and with elbow so supported, chin on hand I leaned.
Anxiously I pondered. I could see no way to win gain without loss. Honour
and riches do not go hand in hand, both of less value than God’s favour.
Would I have them all? Alas! riches and worldly honour and God’s favour
come not within the closure of one heart’s wishes. The ways are barred;
perfidy lurks in secret, and might walks the highroads. Peace and law are
wounded.”[19]
The personal dilemma of the poet with his fortune to make, but desirous of
doing right, mirrors the desperate situation of the State: “Woe is thee,
German tongue; ill stand thy order and thy honour!—I hear the lies of
Rome betraying two kings!” And in verses of wrath Walther inveighs
against the Pope. The sweeping nature of his denunciation raises the
question whether he merely attacked the supposed treachery of the reigning
pope, or was opposed to the papacy as an institution hostile to the German
nation.
The answer is not clear. Mediaeval denunciations of the Church range from
indictments of particular abuses, on through more general invectives, to the
clear protests of heretics impugning the ecclesiastical system. It is not
always easy to ascertain the speaker’s meaning. Usually the abuse and not
the system is attacked. Hostility to the latter, however sweeping the

language of satirist or preacher, is not lightly to be inferred. The invectives
of St. Bernard and Damiani are very broad; but where had the Church more
devoted sons? Even the satirists composing in Old French rarely intended
an assault upon her spiritual authority. It would seem as if, at least in the
Romance countries, one must look for such hostility to heretical circles, the
Waldenses for example. And from the orthodox mediaeval standpoint, this
was their most accursed heresy.
It would have been hard for any German to use broader language than some
of the French satirists and Latin castigators. If there was a difference, it
must be sought in the specific matter of the German disapproval viewed in
connection with the political situation. Was a position ever taken
incompatible with the Church’s absolute spiritual authority? or one
intrinsically irreconcilable with the secular power of the papacy? At any
time, in any country, papal claims might become irreconcilable with the
royal prerogative—as William the Conqueror had held those of Gregory
VII. in England, and as, two centuries afterwards, Philip the Fair was to
hold those of Boniface VIII. in France. But in neither case was there such
sheer and fundamental antagonism as men felt to exist between the Empire
and the Papacy. Perhaps it was possible in the early thirteenth century for a
German whose whole heart was on the German side to dispute even the
sacerdotal principle of papal authority. It is hard to judge otherwise of
Freidank, the very German composer or collector of trenchant sayings in
the early thirteenth century. Many of these sneer at Rome and the Pope, and
some of them strike the gist of the matter: “Sunde nieman mac vergeben
wan Got alein” (“God alone can forgive sins”). This is the direct statement;
he gives its scornful converse: “Could the Pope absolve me from my oaths
and duties, I’d let other sureties go and fasten to him alone.”[20] Such words
mean denial of the Church’s authority to forgive, and the Pope’s to grant
absolution from oaths of allegiance. Freidank is very near rejecting the
principles of the ecclesiastical system.
Walther, Freidank’s contemporary, is more picturesque: “King Constantine,
he gave so much—as I will tell you—to the Chair of Rome: spear, cross,
and crown. At once the angels cried: ‘Alas! Alas! Alas! Christendom before
stood crowned with righteousness. Now is poison fallen on her, and her
honey turned to gall—sad for the world henceforth!’ To-day the princes all
live in honour; only their highest languishes—so works the priest’s election.

Be that denounced to thee, sweet God! The priests would upset laymen’s
rights: true is the angels’ prophecy.”[21]
On Constantine’s apocryphal gift, symbolized by the emblems of Christ’s
passion, rested the secular authority of the popes, which Walther laments
with the angels. “The Chair of Rome was first set up by Sorcerer Gerbert!
[Queer history this, but we see what he means.] He destroyed his own soul
only; but this one would bring down Christendom with him to perdition.
When will all tongues call Heaven to arms, and ask God how long He will
sleep? They bring to nought His work, distort His Word. His steward steals
His treasure; His judge robs here and murders there; His shepherd has
become a wolf among His sheep.”[22] The clergy point their fingers
heavenward while they travel fast to hell.[23] How laughs the Pope at us,
when at home with his Italians, at the way he empties our German pockets
into his “poor boxes.”[24] Walther’s hatred of the foreign Pope is roused at
every point. And at last, in a Spruch full of implied meaning, he declares
that Christ’s word as to the tribute money meant that the emperor should
receive his royal due.[25]
These utterances, considered in the light of the political and racial situation,
seem to deny, at least implicitly, the secular power of the papacy. Yet in
matters of religion Walther apparently was entirely orthodox, and a pious
Christian. He has left a sweet prayer to Christ, with ample recognition of
the angels and the saints, and a beautiful verse of penitent contrition, in
which he confesses his sins to God very directly—how that he does the
wrong, and leaves the right, and fails in love of neighbour. “Father, Son,
may thy Spirit lighten mine; how may I love him who does me ill? Ever
dear to me is he who treats me well!”[26] Walther’s questing spirit also
pondered over God’s greatness and incomprehensibility.[27] His open mind
is shown by the famous line: “Him (God) Christians, Jews, and heathen
serve,”[28] a breadth of view shared by his friend Wolfram von Eschenbach,
who speaks of the chaste virtue of a heathen lady as equal to baptism.[29]
The personal lot of this proud heart was not an easy one; homelessness
broke him down, and the bitterness of eating others’ bread. Too well had he
learned of the world and all its changing ways, and how poor becomes the
soul that follows them. Mortality is a trite sorrow; there are worse: “We all
complain that the old die and pass away; rather let us lament taints of

another hue, that troth and seemliness and honour are dead.”[30] At the last
Walther’s grey memory of life and his vainly yearning hope took form in a
great elegy. After long years he seemed, with heavy steps, and leaning on
his wanderer’s staff, to be returning to a home which was changed forever:
“Alas! whither are they vanished, my many years! Did I dream my life, or
is it real? what I once deemed it, was it that? And now I wake, and all the
things and people once familiar, strange! My playmates, dull and old! And
the fields changed; only that the streams still flow as then they flowed, my
heart would break with thinking on the glad days, vanished in the sea. And
the young people! slow and mirthless! and the knights go clad as peasants!
Ah! Rome! thy ban! Our groans have stilled the song of birds. Fool I, to
speak and so despair,—and the earth looks fair! Up knights again: your
swords, your armour! would to God I might fare with your victor band, and
gain my pay too—not in lands of earth! Oh! might I win the eternal crown
from that sweet voyage beyond the sea, then would I sing O joy! and never
more, alas—never more, alas.”[31]

BOOK V
SYMBOLISM

CHAPTER XXVII

SCRIPTURAL ALLEGORIES IN THE EARLY
MIDDLE AGES; HONORIUS OF AUTUN
Words, pictures, and other vehicles of expression are symbols of whatever
they are intended to designate. A certain unavoidable symbolism also
inheres in human mental processes; for the mind in knowing “turns itself to
images,” as Aquinas says following Aristotle; and every statement or
formulation is a casting together of data in some presentable and
representative form. An example is the Apostles’ Creed, called also by this
very name of Symbol, being a casting together, an elementary formula, of
the essentials of the Christian Faith. In the same sense the “law of
gravitation” or a moral precept is a deduction, induction, or gathering
together into a representative symbol, of otherwise unassembled and
uncorrelated experience. In the present and following chapters, however,
the term symbol will be used in its common acceptation to indicate a thing,
an act, or a word invested with an adventitious representative significance.
All statements or expressions (through language or by means of pictures)
which are intended to carry, besides their palpable meaning, another which
is veiled and more spiritual, are symbolical or figurative, and more
specifically are called allegories.[32]
These devices of the mind have a history as old as humanity. From
inscrutable beginnings, in time they become recognized as makeshifts; yet
they remain prone to enter new stages of confusion. The mind seeking to
express the transcendental, avails itself of symbols. All religions have
teemed with them, in their primitive phases scarcely distinguishing between

symbol and fact; then a difference becomes evident to clearer-minded men,
while perhaps at the same time others are elaborately maintaining that the
symbol magically is, or brings to pass, that which it represents. Such
obscuring mysticism existed not merely in confused Egypt and Brahminical
India, but everywhere—in antique Greece and Rome, and then afterwards
through the times of the Christian Church Fathers and the entire Middle
Ages. Fact and symbol are seen constantly closing together and becoming
each other like the serpent-souls in the twenty-fifth canto of Dante’s
Inferno.
Allegory properly speaking, which involves a conscious and sustained
effort to invest concrete or material statements with more general or
spiritual meaning, played an interesting rôle in epochs antecedent to the
patristic and mediaeval periods. Even before Plato’s time the personal
myths of the gods shocked the Greek ethical intellect, which thereupon
proceeded to convert them into allegories. Greek allegorical interpretation
of ancient myth was apologetic to both the critical mind and the moral
sense.
With Philo, the Hellenizing Jew of Alexandria, whose philosophy revolted
from the literal text of Genesis, the motive for allegorical interpretation was
similar. But the document before him was most unlike the Iliad and
Odyssey. Genesis contained no palpably immoral stories of Jehovah to be
explained away. Its account of divine creation and human beginnings
merely needed to be invested with further ethical meaning. So Philo made
cardinal virtues of the four rivers of Eden, and through like allegorical
conceits transformed the Book of Genesis into a system of Hellenistic
ethics. Not cosmogonic myths, but moral meanings, he had discovered in
his document.
Advancing along the path which Philo found, Christian allegorical
interpretation undertook to substantiate the validity of the Gospel. To this
end it fixed special symbolical meanings upon the Old Testament
narratives, so as to make them into prefigurative testimonies to the truth of
Christian teachings.[33] Allegory was also called on to justify, as against
educated pagans, certain acts of that heroic but peccant “type” of Christ,
David, the son of Jesse. Such special apologetic needs hardly affected the
allegorical interpretation of the Gospel itself, which began at an early day,

and from the first was spiritual and anagogic, constantly straining on to
educe further salutary meaning from the text.
The Greek and Latin Church Fathers created the mass of doctrine, including
Scriptural interpretation,[34] upon which mediaeval theologians were to
expend their systematizing and reconstructive labours. Through the Middle
Ages, the course of allegory and symbolism strikingly illustrates the
mediaeval way of using the patristic heritage—first painfully learning it,
then making it their own, and at last creating by means of that which they
had organically appropriated. Allegory and symbolism were to impress the
Middle Ages as perhaps no other element of their inheritance. The
mediaeval man thought and felt in symbols, and the sequence of his thought
moved as frequently from symbol to symbol as from fact to fact.
The allegorical faculty with the Fathers was dogmatic and theological;
ingenious in devising useful interpretations, but oblivious to all reasonable
propriety in the meaning which it twisted into the text: controversial
necessities readily overrode the rational and moral requirements of the
“historical” or “literal” meaning. For the deeply realized allegorical
significance was a law unto itself. These characteristics of patristic allegory
passed over to the Middle Ages, which in the course of time were to
impress human qualities upon the patristic material.
The Bathsheba and Uriah episode in the life of David was of course taken
allegorically, and affords a curious example of a patristic interpretation
originating in the exigencies of controversy, and then becoming
authoritative for later periods when the echoes of the old controversy had
long been silent. Augustine was called upon to answer the book of the
clever Manichaean, Faustus, the stress of whose attacks was directed
against the Old Testament. Faustus declared that he did not blaspheme “the
law and the prophets,” but rejected merely the special Hebrew customs and
the vile calumnies of the Old Testament writers, imputing shameful acts to
prophets and patriarchs. In his list of shocking narratives to be rejected, was
the story “that David after having had such a number of wives, defiled the
little woman of Uriah his soldier, and caused him to be slain in battle.”[35]
Augustine responds with a general exclamation at the Manichaean’s failure
to understand the sacramental symbols (sacramenta) of the Law and the

deeds of the prophets. He then speaks of certain Old Testament statements
regarding God and His demands, and proceeds to consider the nature of sin
and the questionable deeds of the prophets. Some of the reprehended deeds
he justifies, as, for instance, Abraham’s intercourse with Hagar and his
deceit in telling Abimelech that Sara was his sister when she was his wife.
He also declares that Sara typifies the Church, which is the secret spouse of
Christ. Proceeding further, he does not justify, but palliates, the conduct of
Lot and his daughters, and then introduces its typological significance. At
length he comes to David. First he gives a noble estimate of David’s
character, his righteousness, his liability to sin, and his quick penitence.[36]
Afterwards he considers, briefly as he says, what David’s sin with
Bathsheba signifies prophetically.[37] The passage may be given to show
what a mixture of banality and disregard of moral propriety in drawing
analogies might emanate from the best mind among the Latin Fathers, and
be repeated by later transitional and mediaeval commentators.
“The names themselves when interpreted indicate what this deed
prefigured. David is interpreted ‘Strong of hand’ or ‘Desirable.’ And
what is stronger than that Lion of the tribe of Judah that overcame the
world? and what is more desirable than him of whom the prophet says:
‘The desired of all nations shall come’ (Hag. ii. 7)? Bathsheba means
‘well of satiety,’ or ‘seventh well.’ Whichever of these interpretations
we adopt will suit. For in Canticles the Bride who is the Church is
called a well of living water (Cant. iv. 15); and to this well the name of
the seventh number is joined in the sense of Holy Spirit; and this
because of Pentecost (the fiftieth), the day on which the Holy Spirit
came. For that same festival is of the weeks (de septimanis constare) as
the Book of Tobit testifies. Then to forty-nine, which is seven times
seven, one is added, whereby unity is commended. By this spiritual, that
is ‘Seven-natured’ (septenario) gift the Church is made a well of satiety;
because there is made in her a well of living water springing up unto
everlasting life, which whoso has shall never thirst (John iv. 14). Uriah,
indeed, who had been her husband, what but devil does his name
signify? In whose vilest wedlock all those were bound whom the grace
of God sets free, that the Church without spot or wrinkle may be
married to her own Saviour. For Uriah is interpreted, ‘My light of God’;
and Hittite means ‘cut off,’ or he who does not stand in truth, but by the

guilt of pride is cut off from the supernal light which he had from God;
or it means, he who in falling away from his true strength which was
lost, nevertheless fashioneth himself into an angel of light (2 Cor. xi.
14), daring to say: ‘My light is of God.’ Therefore this David gravely
and wickedly sinned; and God rebuked his crime through the prophet
with a threat; and he himself washed it away by repenting. Yet likewise
He, the desired of all nations, was enamoured of the Church bathing
upon the roof, that is cleansing herself from the filth of the world, and in
spiritual contemplation surmounting and trampling on her house of
clay; and knowledge of her having been had at their first meeting, He
afterwards killed the devil, apart from her, and joined her to himself in
perpetual marriage. Therefore we hate the sin but will not quench the
prophecy. Let us love that (illum) David, who is so greatly to be loved,
who through mercy freed us from the devil; and let us also love that
(istum) David who by the humility of penitence healed in himself so
deep a wound of sin.”[38]
Augustine’s interpretation of the story of David and Bathsheba was
embodied verbatim in a work upon the Old Testament by Isidore of Seville.
[39] The voluminous commentator Rabanus Maurus took the same, also
verbatim, either from Isidore or Augustine.[40] His pupil, Walafrid Strabo, in
his famous Glossa ordinaria, cited, probably from Rabanus, the first part of
the passage as far as the reference to the well of living water from John’s
Gospel. He abridged the matter somewhat, thus showing the smoothing
compiler’s art which was to bring his Glossa ordinaria into such general
use. Walafrid omitted the lines declaring that Uriah signified the devil. He
did cite, however, again probably from Rabanus, part of a long passage,
taken by Rabanus from Gregory the Great, where Bathsheba is declared to
be the letter of the Law, united to a carnal people, which David (Christ)
joins to himself in a spiritual sense. Uriah is that carnal people, to wit, the
Jews.[41]
Thus far as to the comments on the narrative from the eleventh chapter of
the Second Book of Samuel, otherwise called the Second Book of Kings.
When Rabanus came to explain the sixth verse of the first chapter of
Matthew—“And David begat Solomon from her who was the wife of
Uriah”—he said: “Uriah indeed, that is interpreted ‘My light of God,’
signifies the devil, who fashions himself into an angel of light, daring to say

to God: ‘My light of God,’ and ‘I will be like unto the Most High’ (Isaiah
xiv.).”[42] Here pupil Walafrid follows his master, but adds: “Whose
bewedded Church Christ became enamoured of from the terrace of His
paternal majesty and joined her, made beautiful, to himself in
matrimony.”[43]
With Rabanus and Walafrid, as with Isidore and the Venerable Bede who
were the links between these Carolingians and the Fathers, the interest in
Scripture relates to its allegorical significance. Unmindful of the obvious
and literal meaning of the text, they were unabashed by the incongruity of
their allegorical interpretations.[44] Rabanus, for instance, had unbounded
enthusiasm for Exodus, because of its rich symbolism:
“Among the Scriptures embraced in the Pentateuch of the Law, the
Book of Exodus excels in merit; in it almost all the sacraments by
which the present Church is founded, nourished, and ruled, are
figuratively set forth. For there, through the corporeal exit of the
children of Israel from the terrestrial Egypt, our exit from the spiritual
Egypt is made clear. There again, through the crossing of the Red Sea
and the submersion of Pharaoh and the Egyptians, the mystery of
Baptism and the destruction of spiritual enemies are figured. There the
immolation of the typifying lamb and the celebration of the Passover
suggest the passion of the true Lamb and our redemption. There manna
from heaven and drink from a rock are given in order to teach us to
desire the heavenly bread and the drink of life. There precepts and
judgments are delivered to the people of God upon a mountain in order
that we may learn to be subject to supernal discipline. There the
construction of the tabernacle and its vessels is ordered to take place
with worship and sacrifices, that therein the adornment of the
marvellous Church and the rites of spiritual sacrifices may be indicated.
There the perfumes of incense and anointment are prepared, in order
that the sanctification of the Holy Spirit and the mystery of sacred
prayers may be commended to us.”[45]
The same commentator compiled a dictionary of allegories entitled
Allegoriae in universam sacram scripturam,[46] saying in his lumbering
Preface:

“Whoever desires to arrive at an understanding of Holy Scripture should
consider when he should take the narrative historically, when
allegorically, when anagogically, and when tropologically. For these
four ways of understanding, to wit, history, allegory, tropology,
anagogy, we call the four daughters of wisdom, who cannot fully be
searched out without a prior knowledge of these. Through them Mother
Wisdom feeds her adopted children, giving to tender beginners drink in
the milk of history; to those advancing in faith, the food of allegory; to
the strenuous and sweating doers of good works, satiety in the savoury
refection of tropology; and finally, to those raised from the depths
through contempt of the earthly and through heavenly desire
progressing towards the summit, the sober intoxication of theoretical
contemplation in the wine of anagogy.... History, through the ensample
which it gives of perfect men, incites the reader to the imitation of
holiness; allegory, in the revelation of faith, leads to a knowledge of
truth; tropology, in the instruction of morals, to a love of virtue;
anagogy, in the display of everlasting joys, to a desire of eternal felicity.
In the house of our soul, history lays the foundation, allegory erects the
walls, anagogy puts on the roof, while tropology provides ornament,
within through the disposition, without through the effect of the good
work.”[47]
This work, alphabetically arranged, gave the allegorical significations of
words used in the Vulgate, with examples; for instance:
“Ager (field) is the world, as in the Gospel: ‘To the man who sowed
good seed in his field,’ that is to Christ, who sows preaching through the
world.
“Amicus (friend) is Christ, as in Canticles: ‘He is my friend, daughters
of Jerusalem,’ for He loved His Church so much that He would die for
her....
“Ancilla (handmaid) is the Church, as in the Psalms: ‘Make safe the son
of thine handmaid,’ that is me, who am a member of the Church.
Ancilla, corruptible flesh, as in Genesis: ‘Cast out the handmaid and her
son,’ that is, despise the flesh and its carnal fruit. Ancilla, preachers of
the Church, as in Job: ‘He will bind her with his handmaids,’[48]

because the Lord through His preachers conquered the devil. Ancilla,
the effeminate minds of the Jews, as in Job: ‘Thy handmaids hold me as
a stranger,’ because the effeminate minds of the Jews knew me through
faith.[49] Ancilla, the lowly, as in Genesis, ‘and meal for his handmaids,’
because Holy Church affords spiritual refection to the lowly.
“Aqua is the Holy Spirit, Christ, subtle wisdom, loquacity, temporal
greed, baptism, the hidden speech of the prophets, the holy preaching of
Christ, compunction, temporal prosperity, adversity, human knowledge,
this world’s wealth, the literal meaning carnal pleasure, eternal
reflection, holy angels, souls of the blessed, saints, humility’s lament,
the devotions of the saints, sins of the elect which God condones,
knowledge of the heretics, persecutions, unstable thoughts, the
blandishments of temptations, the pleasures of the wicked, the
punishments of hell.
“Mons, mountain (in the singular) the Virgin Mary, montes (in the
plural) angels, apostles, sublime precepts, the two Testaments, inner
meditations, proud men, the Gentiles, evil spirits.”[50]
Thus Rabanus dragged into his compilation every meaning that had ever
been ascribed to the words defined. In him and his contemporaries, the
allegorical material, apart from its utility for salvation, seems void of
human interest or poetic quality, as yet unstirred by a breath of life. That
was to enter, as allegory and all manner of symbolism began to form the
temper of mediaeval thought, and became a chosen vessel of the mediaeval
spirit in poetry and art. The vital change had taken place before the twelfth
century had turned its first quarter.[51]
There flourished at this time a worthy monk named Honorius of Autun, also
called “the Solitary.” It has been argued, and vehemently contradicted, that
he was of German birth. At all events, monk he was and teacher at Autun.
Those about him sought his instruction, and also requested him to put his
discourses into writing for their use; their request reads as if at that time
Honorius had retired from among them.[52] This is all that is known of the
man who composed the most popular handbook of sermons in the Middle
Ages. It was called the Speculum ecclesiae. Honorius may never have
preached these sermons; but still his book exists with sermons for Sundays,

saints’ days, and other Church festivals; a sermon also to be preached at
Church dedications, and one “sermo generalis,” very useful, since it
touched up all orders of society in succession, and a preacher might take or
omit according to his audience. Before beginning, the preacher is directed
to make the sign of the cross and invoke the Holy Spirit: he is admonished
first to pronounce his text of Scripture in the Latin tongue, and then
expound it in the vernacular;[53] he is instructed as to what portions of
certain sermons should be used under special circumstances, and what parts
he may omit in winter when the church is cold, or when in summer it is too
hot; or this is left quite to his discretion: “Here make an end if you wish; but
if time permits, continue thus.”
Most of these sermons are short, and contain much excellent moral advice
put simply and directly. They also make constant use of allegory, and
evidently Honorius’s chief care in their composition was to expound his text
allegorically and point the allegory’s application to the needs of his
supposed audience. Neither he nor any man of his time devised many novel
allegorical interpretations; but the old ones had at length become part of the
mediaeval spirit and the regular means of apprehending the force and
meaning of Scripture. Consequently Honorius handles his allegories more
easily, and makes a more natural human application of them, than Rabanus
or Walafrid had done. Sometimes the allegory seems to ignore the moral
lesson of the literal facts; but while a smile may escape us in reading
Honorius, the allegories in his sermons are rarely strained and shocking,
likewise rarely dull. A general point from which he regards the narratives
and institutions of the Old Testament is summed up in his statement, that for
us Christ turned all provisions of the law into spiritual sacraments.[54] The
whole Old Testament has pre-figurative significance and spiritual meaning;
and likewise every narrative in the Gospels is spiritual.
Two or three examples will illustrate Honorius’s edifying way of using
allegory. His sermon for the eleventh Sunday after Pentecost is typical of
his manner. The text is from the thirty-first[55] Psalm: “Blessed is the man to
whom the Lord will not impute sin.” Opening with an exhortation to
penitence and tears and almsgiving, the preacher turns to the self-righteous
“whose obstinacy the Lord curbs in the Gospel for the day, telling how two
went up into the temple to pray, the one a Pharisee, to wit, one of the Jewish

clergy, the other a Publican.” After proceeding for a while with sound and
obvious comment on the situation, Honorius says:
“By the two men who went up into the temple to pray, two peoples, the
Jewish and the Gentile, are meant. The Pharisee who went close to the
altar is the Jewish people, who possessed the Sanctuary and the Ark. He
tells aloud his merits in the temple, because in the world he boasts of his
observance of the law.
“The Publican who stands afar off is the Gentile people, who were far
off from the worship of God. He did not lift up his eyes to heaven,
because the Gentile was agape at the things of earth. He beat his breast
when he bewailed his error through penitence; and because he humbled
himself in confession, God exalted him through pardon. Let us also,
beloved, thus stand afar off, deeming ourselves unworthy of the holy
sacraments and the companionship of the saints. Let us not lift up our
eyes to heaven, but deem ourselves unworthy of it. Let us beat our
breasts and punish our misdeeds with tears. Let us fall prostrate before
God; and let us weep in the presence of the Lord who made us, so that
He may turn our lament to joy, rend asunder our garb of mourning, and
clothe us with happiness.”
Honorius lingers a moment with some further exhortations suggested by his
parable, and then turns to the edification to be found in fables wisely
composed by profane writers. Let not the congregation be scandalized; for
the children of Israel despoiled the Egyptians of gold and gems and
precious vesture, which they afterwards devoted to completing the
tabernacle. Pious Christians spoil the Egyptians when they turn profane
studies to spiritual account. The philosophers tell of a woman bound to a
revolving wheel, her head now up now down. The wheel is this world’s
glory, and the woman is that fortune which depends on it. Again, they tell of
one who tries to roll a stone to the top of a mountain; but, near the top, it
hurls the wretch prostrate with its weight and crashes back to the bottom;
and again, of one whose liver is eaten by a vulture, and, when consumed,
grows again. The man who pushes up the stone is he who toilsomely
amasses dignities, to be plunged by them to hell; and he of the liver is the
man upon whose heart lust feeds. From that pest, they say, Medusa sprang,
with noble form exciting many to lust, but with her look turning them to

stone. She is wantonness, who turns to stone the hearts of the lewd through
their lustful pleasure. Perseus slew her, covering himself with his crystalline
shield; for the strong man, gazing into virtue’s mirror, averts his heart’s
countenance (i.e. from wantonness). The sword with which he kills her is
the fear of everlasting fire.
Then, continues Honorius, we read of a boy brought up by one of the
Fathers in a hermitage; but as he grew to youth he was tickled with lust. The
Father commanded him to go alone into the desert and pass forty days in
fasting and prayer. When some twenty days had passed, there appeared a
naked woman foul and stinking, who thrust herself upon him, and he,
unable to endure her stench, began to repel her. At which she asked: “Why
do you shudder at the sight of me for whom you burned? I am the image of
lust, which appears sweet to men’s hearts. If you had not obeyed the Father,
you would have been overthrown by me as others have been.” So he
thanked God for snatching him from the spirit of fornication. Many other
examples lead us to the path of life.
Honorius closes with the story of the “Three Fools,” observed by a certain
Father: the first an Ethiopian who was unable to move a faggot of wood,
which he would continually unbind and make still heavier by adding further
sticks; the second, a man pouring water into a vase which had no bottom;
and, thirdly, the two men who came bearing before them crosswise a beam
of wood; as they neared the city gate neither would let the other precede
him even a little, and so both remained without. The Ethiopian who adds to
his insupportable faggot is he who continually increases his weight of sin,
adding new sins to old ones unrepented of; he who pours water into the
vase with no bottom is he who by his uncleanness loses the merit of his
good acts; and the two who bear the beam crosswise are those bound by the
yoke of Pride.[56]
Such are good examples of the queer stories to which preachers resorted.
One notices that whatever be the source from which Honorius draws, his
interest is always in the allegory found in the narratives. Another very apt
example of his manner is his treatment of the story of the Good Samaritan,
so often depicted on Gothic church windows. For us this parable carries an
exhaustless wealth of direct application in human life; it was regarded very

differently by Honorius and the glass painters, whose windows are a
pictorial transcription of the first half of his sermon.[57]
“Blessed is the man who walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly”—this is
the text; and Honorius proceeds:
“Adam was the unhappy man who through the counsel of the wicked
departed from his native land of Paradise and dragged all his
descendants into this exile. He thus stood in the way of sinners, because
he remained stable in sin. He sat ‘in the seat of the scornful,’ because by
evil example he taught others to sin. But Christ arose, the blessed man
who walketh in the counsel of the Father from the hall of heaven into
prison after the lost servant. He did not walk in the counsel of the
ungodly when the devil showed Him all the kingdoms of the world; He
did not stand in the way of sinners, because He committed no sin; He
did not sit in the seat of the scornful, since neither by word nor deed did
He teach evil. Thus as that unhappy man drew all his carnal children
into death, this blessed man brought all His sons to life. As He himself
sets forth in the Gospel: ‘A certain man went down from Jerusalem to
Jericho, and robbers attacked and wounded him, stripped him and went
away. And by chance there came that way a certain priest, who seeing
him half-dead, crossed to the other side. Likewise a Levite passed by
when he had seen him. But a Samaritan coming that same way, had
compassion on the poor wretch, bound up his wounds and poured in oil
and wine, and setting him on his own beast, brought him to an inn. The
next day he gave the innkeeper two pence and asked that he care for
him, and if more was needed He promised to repay the innkeeper on His
return.’
“Surely man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho when our first parent
from the joys of Paradise entered death’s eclipse. For Jericho, which
means moon, designates the eclipse of our mortality. Whereby man fell
among thieves, since a swarm of demons at once surrounded the exile.
Wherefore also they despoiled him, since they stripped him of the riches
of Paradise and the garment of immortality. They gave him wounds, for
sins flowed in upon him. They left him half-dead, because dead in soul.
The priest passed down the same way, as the Order of Patriarchs
proceeded along the path of mortality. The priest left him wounded,

having no power to aid the human race while himself sore wounded
with sins. The Levite went that way, inasmuch as the Order of Prophets
also had to tread the path of death. He too passed by the wounded man,
because he could bear no human aid to the lost while himself groaning
under the wounds of sin. The wretch half-dead was healed by the
Samaritan, for the man set apart through Christ is made whole.
“Samaria was the chief city of the Israelitish kingdom whose chiefs
were led away to idolatry in Nineveh, and Gentiles were placed in her.
The Jews abhorred their fellowship, making them a byword of
malediction. So when reviling the Lord, they called Him a Samaritan.
The Lord was the true Samaritan, being called guardian (custos) since
the human race is guarded by Him. He went down this way when from
heaven He came into this world. He saw the wounded traveller,
inasmuch as He saw man held in misery and sin. He was moved with
compassion for him, since for man He undergoes all pains.
Approaching, He bound his wounds when, proclaiming eternal life, He
taught man to cease from sin. He bound his wounds together with the
two parts of the bandage when He quelled sins through two fears—the
servile fear which forbids through penalties, and the filial fear which
exhorts the holy to good works. He drew tight the lower part of the
bandage when He struck men’s hearts with fear of hell. Their worm, He
said, does not die, and their fire is not quenched. He drew tight the
upper part when He taught the fear which belongs to the study of good.
‘The children of the kingdom,’ said He, ‘shall be cast into outer
darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.’ He poured in
wine and oil when He taught repentance and pardon. He poured in wine
when He said, ‘Repent ye’; He added oil when He said, ‘for the
kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ He set him upon His beast when He bore
our sins in His body on the Cross. He led him to the inn when He joined
him to the supernal Church. The inn, in which living beings are
assembled at night, is the present Church, where the just are harboured
amid the darkness of this life until the Day of Eternity blows and the
shadows of mortality give way.
“The next day He tendered the two pence. The first day was of death,
the next of life. The day of death began with Adam, when all die. The
day of life took its beginning from Christ, in whom all shall be made

alive. Before Christ’s resurrection all men were travelling to death;
since His resurrection all the faithful have been rising to life. He
tendered the two pence the next day—when after His resurrection He
taught that the two Testaments were fulfilled by the two precepts of
love. He gave the pence to the innkeeper when He committed the
doctrine of the law of life to the Order of Doctors. He directed him to
tend the sick man when He commanded that the human race should be
saved from sin. The stench drove the sick man from the inn, because
this world’s tribulation drives the righteous to seek the things celestial.
Two pence are given to the innkeeper when the Doctors are raised on
high by Scriptural knowledge and temporal honour. If they should
require more, He repays them on His return; for if they exemplify good
preaching with good works, when the true Samaritan returns to
judgment and leads him, aforetime wounded but now healed, from the
inn to the celestial mansion, He will repay the zealous stewards with
eternal rewards.”[58]
Here Honorius proceeds to expound the allegory contained in the healing of
the dumb man and the ten lepers, and closes his sermon with two narratives,
one of a poor idiot who sang the Gloria without ceasing, and was seen in
glory after death; the other of a lay nun (conversa) around whose last hours
were shed sweet odours and a miraculous light, while those present heard
the chant of heavenly voices.
The parables of Christ present types which we may apply in life according
to circumstances. In the concrete instance of the parable we find the
universal, and we deem Christ meant it so. Thus we also view the parables
as symbols, which they were. Honorius, with the vast company of
mediaeval and patristic expounders, ordinarily directs the symbolism of the
parables in a special mode, whereby—like the stories of the Old Testament
—they become figurative of Christ and the needy soul of man, or figurative
of the Christian dispensation with its historical antecedents and its Day of
Judgment at the end.
The like may be said of Honorius’s allegorical interpretation of Greek
legends. These ancient stories have the perennial youth of human charm and
meaning ever new. They had been good old stories to the Greeks, and then
acquired further intendment as later men discerned a broader symbolism in

them. Even in classic times, Homer’s stories had been turned to allegories,
philosophers and critics sometimes finding in them a spiritual significance
not unlike that which the same tales may bear for us. But with this
difference: the later Greeks usually were trying to explain away the
somewhat untrammelled ways of the Homeric pantheon, and therefore
maintained that Homer’s stories were composed as allegories, the wise and
mystic poet choosing thus to veil his meaning. To-day we find the clarity of
daybreak in Homer’s tales, and if we make symbols of them we know the
symbolism is not his but ours. Honorius chooses to think that allegory had
always lain in the old story; he will not deem it the invention of himself or
other Christian writers. Here his attitude is not unlike that of the apologetic
Greek critics. But his interpretations are apt to differ from theirs as well as
from our own. For his symbolism tends to abandon the broadly human, and
to become, like the mediaeval Biblical interpretations, figurative of the
tenets of the Christian Faith.
There is an interesting example of this in the sermon for Septuagesima
Sunday, which was written on a somewhat blind text from the twenty-
eighth chapter of Job. Honorius proceeds expounding it through a number
of strained allegories, which he doubtless drew from Gregory’s Moralia; for
that great pope was the recognized expositor of Job, and the Book of Job
was simply Gregory through all the Middle Ages. Perhaps Honorius felt
that this sermon was rather soporific. At all events he stops in the middle to
give a piece of advice to the supposed preacher: “Often put something of
this kind in your sermon; for so you will relieve the tedium.” And he
continues thus:

“Brethren, on this holy day there is much to say which I must pass over
in silence, lest disgusted you should wish to leave the church before the
end. For some of you have come far and must go a long way to reach
your houses. Or perhaps, some have guests at home, or crying babies; or
others are not swift and have to go elsewhere, while to some a bodily
infirmity brings uneasiness lest they expose themselves. So I omit much
for everybody’s sake, but still would say a few words.
“Because to-day, beloved, we have laid aside the song of gladness and
taken up the song of sadness, I would briefly tell you something from
the books of the pagans, to show how you should reject the melody of
this world’s pleasures in order that hereafter with the angels you may
make sweet harmonies in heaven. For one should pick up a gem found
in dung and set it as a kingly ornament; thus if we find anything useful
in pagan books we should turn it to the building up of the Church,
which is Christ’s spouse. The wise of this world write that there were
three Syrens in an island of the sea, who used to chant the sweetest song
in divers tones. One sang, another piped, the third played upon a lyre.
They had the faces of women, the talons and wings of birds. They
stopped all passing ships with the sweetness of their song; they rent the
sailors heavy with sleep; they sank the ships in the brine. When a
certain duke, Ulysses, had to sail by their island, he ordered his
comrades to bind him to the mast and stuff their ears with wax. Thus he
escaped the peril unharmed, and plunged the Syrens in the waves.
These, beloved, are mysteries, although written by the enemies of
Christ. By the sea is to be understood this age which rolls beneath the
unceasing blasts of tribulations. The island is earth’s joy, which is
intercepted by crowding pains, as the shore is beat upon by crowding
waves. The three Syrens who with sweet caressing song overturn the
navigators in sleep, are three delights which soften men’s hearts for vice
and lead them into the sleep of death. She who sings with human voice
is Avarice, and to her hearers thus she tunes her song: ‘Thou shouldst
get together much, so as to be able to spread wide thy fame, and also
visit the Lord’s sepulchre and other places, restore churches, aid the
poor and thy relatives as well.’ With such baneful song she charms the
miser’s heart, until the sleep of death oppresses him. Then she tears his
flesh, the wave devours the ship, and the wretch by fierce pains is

waked from his riches and plunged in eternal flame. She who plays
upon the pipe is Vainglory (Jactantia), and thus she pipes her lay for
hers: ‘Thou art in thy youth, and noble; make thyself appear glorious.
Spare no enemies, but kill them all when able. Then people will call
thee a good knight.’ Again will she chant: ‘Thou shouldst win
Jerusalem, and give great alms. Then thou wilt be famous, and wilt be
called good by all.’ To the lay brethren (conversis) she sings: ‘Thou
must fast and pray always, singing with loud voice. Then wilt thou hear
thyself lauded as a saint by all.’ Such song with vain heart she makes
resound till the whirlpool of death devours the wretch emptied of worth.
“She who sings to a lyre is Wantonness (Luxuria), and she chants
melodies like these to her parasites: ‘Thou art in thy youth; now is the
time to sport with the girls—old age will do to reform in. Here is one
with a fine figure; this one is rich; from this one you would gain much.
There is plenty of time to save your soul.’ In such way she melts the
hearts of the wanton till Cocytus’s waves engulf them suddenly tripped
by death.
“They have the faces of women, because nothing so estranges man from
God as the love of women. They have wings of birds, because the desire
of worldlings is always unstable, their appetites now craving one thing,
and again their lust flying to another object. They have also the talons of
birds, because they tear their victims as they snatch them away to the
torments of hell. Ulysses is called Wise. Unharmed he steers his course
by the island, because the truly wise Christian swims over the sea of this
world, in the ship of the Church. By the fear of God he binds himself to
the mast of the ship, that is, to the cross of Christ; with wax, that is with
the incarnation of Christ, he seals the ears of his comrades, that they
may turn their hearts from lusts and vices and yearn only for heavenly
things. The Syrens are submerged, because he is protected from their
lusts by the strength of the Spirit. Unharmed the voyagers avoid the
peril, inasmuch as through victory they reach the joys of the saints.”[59]

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE RATIONALE OF THE VISIBLE WORLD:
HUGO OF ST. VICTOR
Just as the Middle Ages followed the allegorical interpretation of Scripture
elaborated by the Church Fathers, so they also accepted, and even made
more precise, the patristic inculcation of the efficacy of such most potent
symbols as the water of baptism and the bread and wine transubstantiated in
the Eucharist.[60] Passing onward from these mighty bases of conviction,
the mediaeval genius made fertile use of allegory in the polemics of Church
and State, and exalted the symbolical principle into an ultimate explanation
of the visible universe.
Notable was the career of allegory in politics. Throughout the long struggle
of the Papacy with the Empire and other secular monarchies, arguments
drawn from allegory never ceased to carry weight. A very shibboleth was
the witness of the “two swords” (Luke xxii. 38), both of which, the
temporal as well as spiritual, the Church held to have been entrusted to her
keeping for the ordering of earthly affairs, to the end that men’s souls
should be saved. Still more fluid was the argumentative nostrum of
mankind conceived as an Organism, or animate body (unum corpus, corpus
mysticum). This metaphor was found in more than one of the Latin classics;
but patristic and mediaeval writers took it from the works of Paul.[61] The
likeness of the human body to the body politic or ecclesiastic was carried
out in every imaginable detail, and used acutely or absurdly by politicians
and schoolmen from the eleventh century onward.[62]
We turn to the symbolical explanation of the universe. In the first half of the
twelfth century, a profoundly meditative soul, Hugo of St. Victor by name,
attempted a systematic exposition of the symbolical or sacramental plan
inhering in God’s scheme of creation. Of the man, as with so many monks
and schoolmen whose names and works survive, little is known beyond the
presentation of his personality afforded by his writings. He taught in the
monastic school of St. Victor, a community that had a story, with which
may be connected the scanty facts of the short and happy pilgrimage to
God, which made Hugo’s life on earth.[63]

When William of Champeaux, according to Abaelard’s account, was routed
from his logical positions in the cathedral school of Paris,[64] he withdrew
from the school and from the city to the quiet of a secluded spot on the left
bank of the Seine, not far distant from Notre-Dame. Here was an ancient
chapel dedicated to Saint-Victor, and here William, with some companions,
organized themselves into a monastic community according to the rule of
the canons of St. Augustine. This was in 1108. If for a time William laid
aside his studies and lecturing, he soon resumed them at the solicitations of
his scholars, joined to those of his friend Hildebert, Bishop of Le Mans.[65]
And so the famous school of Saint-Victor began. William remained there
only four years, being made Bishop of Chalons in 1112, and thereafter
figuring prominently in Church councils, frequent in France at this epoch.
Under William’s disciple and successor, Gilduin, the community flourished
and increased. King Louis VI., whose confessor was Gilduin himself,
endowed it liberally, and other donors were not lacking. Saint-Victor
became rich, and its fame for learning and holiness spread far and wide.[66]
Abbot Gilduin lived to see more than forty houses of monks or regular
canons[67] flourishing as dependencies of Saint-Victor. He died in 1155,
some years after the death of the young man whose scholarship and genius
was the pride of the Victorine community.
Notwithstanding a statement in an old manuscript, that Hugo was born near
Ypres in Flanders, the ancient tradition of Saint-Victor, confirmed by the
records of the cathedral of Halberstadt, shows him to have been a son of the
Count of Blankemberg, and born at Hartingam in Saxony.[68] His uncle
Reinhard was Bishop of Halberstadt, where his great-uncle, named Hugo
like himself, was archdeacon. Reinhard had been a pupil of William of
Champeaux at Saint-Victor, and after becoming bishop continued to cherish
a profound esteem for him. The young Hugo renounced his inheritance and
entered a monastery not far from Halberstadt; but soon, in view of the
disturbed affairs of Saxony, his uncle Reinhard urged him to go and pursue
his studies at Saint-Victor. The young man persuaded his great-uncle Hugo
to accompany him. By circuitous routes, visiting various places of pious
interest on the way, the two reached Saint-Victor, where they were received
with all honour by the abbot Gilduin. This was not far from the year 1115,
and Hugo was about twenty at the time. He was already an accomplished
scholar, and doubtless it is to his previous studies that he refers when he

speaks as follows in his book of elementary instruction, called the
Didascalicon:
“I dare say that I never despised anything pertaining to learning, and
learned much that might strike others as light and vain. I practised
memorizing the names of everything I saw or heard of, thinking that I
could not properly study the nature of things unless I knew their names.
Daily I examined my notes of topics, that I might hold in my memory
every proposition, with the questions, objections, and solutions. I would
inform myself as to controversies and consider the proper order of the
argument on either side, carefully distinguishing what pertained to the
office of rhetoric, oratory, and sophistry. I set problems of numbers; I
drew figures on the pavement with charcoal, and with the figure before
me I demonstrated the different qualities of the obtuse, the acute and the
right angle, and also of the square. Often I watched out the nocturnal
horoscope through winter nights. Often I strung my harp (Saepe ad
numerum protensum in ligno magadam ducere solebam) that I might
perceive the different sounds and likewise delight my mind with the
sweet notes. All these were boyish occupations (puerilia) but not
useless. Nor does it burden my stomach to know them now.”[69]
Not long after Hugo’s arrival at Saint-Victor he began to teach at the
monastery school, and upon the death of its director, in 1133, succeeded to
the office, which he held until his death in 1141.[70] Colourless and grey are
the outer facts of a monk’s life, counting but little. The soul of a Hugo of
Saint-Victor did not soil itself with any interest in the pleasures of the
world: “He is not solitary with whom is God, nor is the power of joy
extinguished because his appetite is kept from things abject and vile. He
rather does himself an injustice who admits to the society of his joy what is
disgraceful or unworthy of his love.”[71]
Hugo belonged to the aristocracy of contemplative piety, with its scorn of
whatever lies without the pale of the soul’s companionship with God. In his
independent way he followed Augustine, and Augustine’s Platonism, which
was so largely the Neo-Platonism of Plotinus and Porphyry. He also
followed the real Plato speaking in the Timaeus, with which he was
acquainted. Plato would have nothing to do with allegorical interpretation
as a defence of Homer’s gods; but he could himself make very pretty

allegories, and his theory of ideas as at once types and creative intelligences
lent itself to Christian systems of symbolism. In this way he was a spiritual
ancestor of Hugo, who found in God the type-ideas of all things that He
created. Moreover, if not Plato, at least his spiritual children—Clement of
Alexandria, Origen, Plotinus—recognized that the highest truths must be
known in modes transcending reason and its syllogisms, although these
were the necessary avenues of approach. Hugo likewise regarded rational
knowledge as but the path by which the soul ascends to the plateau of
contemplation. The general aspects of his philosophy will be considered in
a later chapter. Here he is to be viewed as a mediaeval symbolist, upon
whom pressed a sense of the symbolism of all visible things. An
examination of his great De sacramentis Christianae fidei will disclose that
with Hugo the material creation in its deepest verity is a symbol; that
Scripture, besides its literal meaning, is allegory from Genesis to
Revelation; that the means of salvation provided by the Church are
sacramental, and thus essentially symbolical, consisting of perfected and
potent symbols which have been shadowed forth in the unperfected
sacramental character of all God’s works from the beginning.[72]
Hugo’s little Preface (praefatiuncula) mentions certain requests made to
him to write a book on the Sacraments. In undertaking it, he proposes to
present in better form many things dictated from time to time rather
negligently. Whatever he has taken from his previous writings he has
revised as seemed best. Should there appear any inconsistency between
what he may have said elsewhere and the language of the present work, he
begs the reader to regard the present as the better form of statement. His
method will be to treat his matter in the order of time; and to this end his
work is divided into two Books. The first discusses the subject from the
Beginning of the World until the Incarnation of the Word; the second
continues it from the Incarnation to the final Consummation of all things.
He explains that as he has elsewhere spoken at length upon the primary or
historical meaning of Holy Writ,[73] he will devote himself here rather to its
secondary or allegorical significance.
Hugo further explains the subject of his treatise in a Prologue:
“The work of man’s restoration is the subject-matter (materia) of all the
Scriptures. There are two works, the work of foundation and the work

of restoration, which include everything whatsoever. The former is the
creation of the world with all its elements; the latter is the incarnation of
the Word with all its sacraments, those which went before from the
beginning and those which follow even to the end of the world. For the
incarnate Word is our King, who came into this world to fight the devil.
And all the saints who were before His coming, were as soldiers going
before His face; and those who have come and will come after, until the
end of the world, are as soldiers who follow their king. He is the King
in the centre of His army, advancing girt by His troops. And although in
such a multitude divers shapes of arms appear in the sacraments and
observances of those who precede and come after, yet all are soldiers
under one king and follow one banner; they pursue one enemy and with
one victory are crowned. In all of this may be observed the work of
restoration.
“Scripture gives first a brief account of the work of creation. For it
could not aptly show how man was restored unless it had previously
explained how he had fallen; nor could it show how he had fallen,
without first showing how God had made him, for which in turn it was
necessary to set forth the creation of the whole world, because the world
was made for man. The spirit was created for God’s sake; the body for
the spirit’s sake, and the world for the body’s sake, so that the spirit
might be subject to God, the body to the spirit, and the world to the
body. In this order, therefore, Holy Scripture describes first the creation
of the world which was made for man; then it tells how man was made
and set in the way of righteousness and discipline; after that, how man
fell; and finally how he was restored (reparatus).”
In these first little chapters of his Prologue, Hugo has grouped his topics
suggestively. The world was made for man, and therefore the account of its
creation is needed in order to understand man. Moreover, that man’s body
exists for his spirit’s sake, at once suggests that a significance beyond the
literal meaning is likely to dwell in that account of the material creation
which enables us to understand man. The soul needs instruction and
guidance; and God in creating the world for man surely had in view his
most important interests, which were not those of his mortal body, but those
of his soul. So the creation of the world subserves man’s spiritual interests,
and the divine account of it carries spiritual instruction. The allegorical

significance of the world’s creation, which answers to man’s spiritual needs,
is as veritable and real as the facts of the world’s material foundation, which
answers to the needs of his body. Thus symbolism is rooted in the character
and purpose of the material creation; it lies in the God-implanted nature of
things; therefore the allegorical interpretation of the Scriptures corresponds
to their deepest meaning and the revealed plan of God.
These principles underlie Hugo’s exposition of the Christian sacraments,
whose unperfected prototypes existed in the work of the Creation. No fact
of sacred history, no single righteous pre-Christian observance, was
unaffiliated with them. An adequate understanding of their nature involves a
full knowledge not only of Christian doctrine, but of all other knowledge
profitable to men—as Hugo clearly indicates in the remaining portion of his
Prologue:
“Whence it appears how much divine Scripture in subtle profundity
surpasses all other writings, not only in its matter but in the way of
treating it. In other writings the words alone carry meaning: in Scripture
not only the words, but the things may mean something. Wherefore just
as a knowledge of the words is needed in order to know what things are
signified, so a knowledge of the things is needed in order to determine
their mystical signification of other things which have been or ought to
be done. The knowledge of words falls under two heads: expression,
and the substance of their meaning. Grammar relates only to expression,
dialectic only to meaning, while rhetoric relates to both. A knowledge of
things requires a knowledge of their form and of their nature. Form
consists in external configuration, nature in internal quality. Form is
treated as number, to which arithmetic applies; or as proportion, to
which music applies; or as dimension, to which geometry applies; or as
motion, to which pertains astronomy. But physics (physica) looks to the
inner nature of things.
“It follows that all the natural arts serve divine science, and the lower
knowledge rightly ordered leads to the higher. History, i.e. the historical
meaning, is that in which words signify things, and its servants, as
already said, are the three sciences, grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric.
When, however, things signify facts mystically, we have allegory; and
when things mystically signify what ought to be done, we have

tropology. These two are served by arithmetic, music, geometry,
astronomy, and physics. Above and beyond all is that divine something
to which divine Scripture leads, either in allegory or tropology. Of this
the one part (which is in allegory) is right faith, and the other (which is
in tropology) is good conduct: in these consist knowledge of truth and
love of virtue, and this is the true restoration of man.”[74]
Hugo has now stated his position. The rationale of the world’s creation lies
in the nature of man. The Seven Liberal Arts, and incidentally all human
knowledge, in handmaidenly manner, promote an understanding of man as
well as of the saving teaching contained in Scripture. This was the common
mediaeval view; but Hugo proves it through application of the principles of
symbolism and allegorical interpretation. By these instruments he orders the
arts and sciences according to their value in his Christian system, and
makes all human knowledge subserve the intellectual economy of the soul’s
progress to God.
An exposition of the Work of the Six Days opens the body of Hugo’s
treatise. God created all things from nothing, and at once. His creation was
at first unformed; not absolutely formless, but in the form of confusion, out
of which in the six days He wrought the form of ordered disposition. The
first creation included the matter of corporeal things and (in the angelic
nature) the essence of things invisible; for the rational creature may be said
to be unformed until it take form through turning unto its Creator, whereby
it gains beauty and blessedness from Him through the conversion which is
of love. Thus the matter of every corporeal thing which God afterwards
made, existed from the time of His first creation, and likewise the image of
everything invisible. For although new souls are still created every day,
their image existed previously in the angelic spirits.
Then God made light, the unformed material of which He had created in the
beginning.
“And at the very moment when light was visibly and corporeally
separated from darkness, the good angels were invisibly set apart from
the wicked angels who were falling in the darkness of sin. The good
were illumined and converted to the light of righteousness, that they
might be light and not darkness. Thus we ought to perceive a

consonance in the works of God, the visible work conforming to the
issue of the invisible in such wise that the Wisdom which worked in
both may in the former instruct by an example and in the latter execute
judgment.”
The severance of light from darkness is the material example of how God
executes judgment in dividing the good from the evil. In this visible work
of God a “sacrament” is discernible, since every soul, so long as it is in sin,
is in darkness and confusion. All the visible works of God offer spiritual
lessons (spiritualia praeferunt documenta). They have sacramental
qualities, and yet are not perfected and completed sacraments, as will
hereafter appear from Hugo’s definition.
Following the order of creation, Hugo now speaks of the firmament which
God set in the midst of the waters to divide them:
“He who believes that this was made for his sake will not look for the
reason of it outside of himself. For it all was made in the image of the
world within him; the earth which is below, is the sensual nature of
man, and the heaven above is the purity of his intelligence quickening
to immortal life.”
The rational and unseen are a world as well as the material and visible. The
sacramental quality of the material world lies in its correspondence to the
unseen world. When Hugo speaks of the “sacramenta” in the creation of
light and the waters divided by the firmament, he means that in addition to
their material nature as light and water, they are essentially symbols. Their
symbolism is as veritably part of their nature as the symbolical character of
the Eucharist is part of the nature of the consecrated bread and wine. The
sacraments are among the deepest verities of the Christian Faith. And the
same representative verity that exists in them, exists, in less perfected
mode, throughout God’s entire creation. So the argument carries out the
principles of the sacraments and the principles of symbolism to a full
explanation of the world; and Hugo’s work upon the Sacraments presents
his theory of the universe.
“Many other mysteries,” says Hugo, closing the first “Part” of his first
Book, “could be pointed out in the work of the creation. But we briefly
speak of these matters as a suitable approach to the subject set before

us. For our purpose is to treat of the sacrament of man’s redemption.
The work of creation was completed in six days, the work of restoration
in six ages. The latter work we define as the Incarnation of the Word
and what in and through the flesh the Word performed, with all His
sacraments, both those which from the beginning prefigured the
Incarnation and those which follow to declare and preach it till the end.”
It is unnecessary to follow Hugo through the discussion, upon which he
now enters, of the will, knowledge, and power of the Trinity, or through his
consideration of the knowledge which man may have of God. In Part V. of
the first Book, he considers the creation of angels, their qualities and nature,
and the reasons why a part of them fell. With Part VI. the creation of man is
reached, which Hugo shows to have been causally prior, though later in
time, to the creation of the world which God made for man. From love God
created rational creatures, the angels purely spiritual, and man a spirit
clothed with earth.[75] Hugo considers the corporeal as well as the spiritual
nature and qualities of man, and his condition before the Fall. The seventh
Part is devoted to the Fall itself, and discusses its character and sinfulness.
At length, in the eighth Part, Hugo reaches the true subject of his treatise,
the restoration of man. Man’s first sin of pride was followed by a triple
punishment, consisting in a penalty, and two entailed defects, the penalty
being bodily mortality, the defects carnal concupiscence and mental
ignorance.
“Regarding his reparation three matters are to be considered, the time,
the place, the remedy. The time is the present life, from the beginning to
the end of the world. The place is this world.[76] The remedy is
threefold, and consists in faith, the sacraments, and good works. Long is
the time, that man may not be taken unprepared. Hard is the place, that
the transgressor may be castigated. Efficacious is the remedy, that the
sick one may be healed.”
Hugo then sets forth the situation, the case in court as it were, to which
God, the devil, and man, are the three parties. In this trial
“... the devil is convicted of an injury to God in that he seduced God’s
servant by fraud and holds him by violence. Man also is convicted of an
injury to God in that he despised His command and wickedly gave

himself to evil servitude. Likewise the devil is convicted of an injury
toward man, in first deceiving him and then bringing evil upon him. The
devil holds man unjustly, though man is justly held.”
Since the devil’s case against man was unjust, man might defeat his
lordship; but he needed an advocate (patronus), which could be only God.
God, angry at man’s sin, did not wish to undertake man’s cause. He must be
placated; and man had no equivalent to offer for the injury he had done
Him; for he had deserted God when rational and innocent, and could deliver
himself back to God only as an irrational and sinful creature. Therefore, in
order that man might have wherewithal to placate God, God through mercy
gave man a man whom man might give in place of him who had sinned.
God became man for man and as man gave himself for man. Thus He who
had been man’s Creator became also his Redeemer. God might have
redeemed man in some other way, but took the way of human nature as best
suited to man’s weakness.
After our first parent had been exiled from Paradise for his sin, the devil
possessed him violently. But God’s providence tempered justice with
mercy, and from the penalty itself prepared a remedy.
“He set for man as a sign the sacraments of his salvation, in order that
whoever would apprehend them with right faith and firm hope, might,
though under the yoke, have some fellowship with freedom. He set His
edict informing and instructing man, so that whoever should elect to
expect a saviour, should prove his vow of election in observance of the
sacraments. The devil also set his sacraments, that he might know and
possess his own more surely. The human race was at once divided into
opposite parties, some accepting the devil’s sacraments and some the
sacraments of Christ.... Hence it is clear, that from the beginning there
were Christians in fact, if not in name.”
Hugo proceeds to show that the time of the institution of the sacraments
began when our first parent, expelled from Paradise, was subjected to the
exile of this mortal life, with all his posterity until the end.
“As soon as man had fallen from his first state of incorruption, he began
to be sick, in body through his mortality, in mind through his iniquity.
Forthwith God prepared the medicine of his reparation through His

sacraments. In divers times and places God presented these for man’s
healing, as reason and the cause demanded, some of them before the
Law, some under the Law and some under grace. Though different in
form they had the one effect and accomplished the one health. If any
one inquires the period of their appointment he may know that as long
as there is disease so long is the time of the medicine. The present life,
from the beginning to the end of the world, is the time of sickness and
the time of the remedy. When a sacrament has fulfilled its time it ceases,
and others take its place, to bring about that same health. These in turn
have been succeeded at last by others, which are not to be superseded.”
Having followed Hugo’s plan thus far, one sees why it is only at the
commencement of the ninth Part of his first Book that he reaches the
definition and discussion of those final and enduring sacraments which
followed the Incarnation. He has hitherto been developing his theme, and
now takes up its very essence. Laying out the matter scholastically, he says
“there are four things to consider: first, what is a sacrament; second, why
they were instituted; third, what may be the material of each sacrament, in
which it is made and sanctified; and fourth, how many sacraments there are.
This is the definition, cause, material, and classification.”
Proceeding to the definition, he says that the doctors have briefly described
a sacrament as the token of the sacred substance (sacrae rei signum).
“For as there is body and soul in man, and in Scripture the letter and the
sense, so in every sacrament there is the visible external which may be
handled and the invisible within, which is believed and taught. The
material external is the sacrament, and the invisible and spiritual is the
sacrament’s substance (res) or virtus. The external is handled and
sanctified; that is the signum of the spiritual grace, which is the
sacrament’s res and is invisibly apprehended.”
Having thus explained the old definition, Hugo objects to it on the ground
that not every signum rei sacrae is a sacrament; the letters of the sacred text
and the pictures of holy things are signa rei sacrae, and yet are not
sacraments. He therefore offers the following definition as adequate:
“The sacrament is the corporeal or material element set out sensibly,
representing from its similitude, signifying from its institution, and

containing from its sanctification, some invisible and spiritual
grace.”[77]
This, he maintains, is a perfect definition, since all sacraments possess these
three qualities, and whatever lacks them cannot properly be called a
sacrament. As an example he instances the baptismal water:
“There is the visible element of water, which is the sacrament; and these
three are found in one: representation from similitude, significance from
appointment, virtue from sanctification. The similitude is from creation,
the appointment from dispensation, the sanctification from benediction.
The first is imparted to it through the Creator, the second is added
through the Saviour, the third is given through the administrator.”[78]
Passing to the second consideration, Hugo finds that the sacraments were
instituted with threefold purpose, for man’s humiliation, instruction, and
discipline or exercise. The man contemning them cannot be saved. Yet God
has saved many without them, as Jeremiah was sanctified in the womb, and
John the Baptist, and those who were righteous under the natural law. “For
those who under the natural law possessed the substance (res) of the
sacrament in right faith and charity, did not to their damnation lack the
sacrament.” And Hugo warns whoever might take a narrower view, to
beware lest in honouring God’s sacraments, His power and goodness be
made of no avail. “Dost thou tell me that he who has not the sacraments of
God cannot be saved? I tell thee that he who has the virtue of the
sacraments of God cannot perish. Which is greater, the sacrament or the
virtue of the sacrament—water or faith? If thou wouldst speak truly, answer,
‘faith.’” One notes that the twelfth century had its broad-mindedness, as
well as the twentieth.
While passing on discursively to consider the classification of the
sacraments, Hugo considers many matters,[79] and then opens his treatment
of the sacraments of the natural law with a recapitulation:
“The sacraments from the beginning were instituted for the restoration
and healing of man, some under the natural law, some under the written
law, and others under grace. Those which are later in time will be found
more worthy means of spiritual grace. For all those sacraments of the
former time, under the natural or the written law, were signs and figures

of those now appointed under grace. The spiritual effect of the former in
their time was wrought through the virtue and sanctification drawn from
the latter. If any one therefore would deny that those prior sacraments
were effectual for sanctification, he does not seem to me to judge
aright.”[80]
The sacraments of the natural law were as the umbra veritatis; those of the
written law as the imago vel figura veritatis; but those under grace are the
corpus veritatis.[81] The written law, though given fully only through
Moses, began with Abraham, upon whom circumcision was enjoined as a
sacrament and sign of separation from the heathen peoples. In obedience to
its precepts lies the merit, in its promises lies the reward, while its
sacraments aid men to fulfil its precepts and obtain its reward. Hugo
discusses the sacraments of circumcision and burnt-offerings which were
necessary for the remission of sins; then those which exercised the faithful
people in devotion—the peace-offering is an example; and again those
which aided the people to cultivate piety, as the tabernacle and its utensils.
Hugo’s second Book, which makes the second half of his work, is devoted
to the “time of grace” inaugurated by the Incarnation. It treats in detail the
Christian sacraments and other topics of the Faith, down to the Last
Judgment, when the wicked are cast into hell, and the blessed enter upon
eternal life, where God will be seen eternally, praised without weariness,
and loved without satiety. This blessed lot flows from the grace of the
salvation brought by Christ, and is dependent on the sacraments, the
enduring means of grace. On their part, the sacraments, whatever more they
are, are symbols, in essence and function connected with the symbolical
nature of God’s creation, with the prefigurative significance of the fortunes
of God’s chosen people until the coming of Christ, with the import and
symbolism of Christ’s life and teachings, and with the symbolism inherent
in the organization and building up of Christ’s holy Church. Symbolism and
allegory are made part of the constitution of the world and man; they
connect man’s body and environment with his spirit, and link the life of this
world with the life to come. Hugo has thus grounded and established
symbolism in the purposes of God, in the universal scheme of things, and in
the nature and destinies of man.[82]

CHAPTER XXIX

CATHEDRAL AND MASS; HYMN AND
IMAGINATIVE POEM

I. Guilelmus Durandus and Vincent of Beauvais.
II. The Hymns of Adam of St. Victor and the Anticlaudianus
of Alanus of Lille.

Under sanction of Scriptural interpretation and the sacraments, allegory and
symbolism became accepted principles of spiritual verity, sources of
political argument, and modes of transcendental truth. They penetrated the
Liturgy, charging every sentence and ceremonial act with saving
significance and power; and as plastic influences they imparted form and
matter to religious art and poetry, where they had indeed been potent from
the beginning.

I
In the early Church the office of the Mass, the ordination of priests, and the
dedication of churches were not charged with the elaborate symbolism
carried by these ceremonies in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries,[83] when
the Liturgy, or speaking more specifically, the Mass, had become
symbolical from the introit to the last benediction; and Gothic sculpture and
glass painting, which were its visible illustration, had been impressed with
corresponding allegory. Mediaeval liturgic lore is summed up by Guilelmus
Durandus in his Rationale divinorum officiorum, which was composed in
the latter part of the thirteenth century, and contains much that is mirrored
in the art of the French cathedrals. It is impossible to review the elaborate

symbolical significance of the Mass as set forth in the authoritative work of
one who was a bishop, theologian, jurist, and papal regent.[84] But a little of
it may be given.
The office of the Mass, says Durandus, is devised with great forethought, so
as to contain the major part of what was accomplished by and in Christ
from the time when He descended from heaven to the time when He
ascended into heaven. In the sacrifice of the Mass all the sacrifices of the
Ancient Law are represented and superseded. It may be celebrated at the
third hour, because then, according to Mark, Christ ascended the cross, and
at that hour also the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles in tongues of
fire; or at the sixth hour, when, according to Matthew, Christ was crucified;
or at the ninth hour, when on the cross He gave up His spirit.
The first part of the Mass begins with the introit. Its antiphonal chanting
signifies the aspirations and deeds, the prayers and praises of the patriarchs
and prophets who were looking for the coming of the Son of God. The
chorus of chanting clergy represents this yearning multitude of saints of the
Ancient Law. The bishop, clad in his sacred vestments,[85] at the end of the
procession, emerging from the sacristy and advancing to the altar,
represents Christ, the expected of the nations, emerging from the Virgin’s
womb and entering the world, even as the Spouse from His secret chamber.
The seven lights borne before him on the chief festivals are the seven gifts
of the Holy Spirit descending upon the head of Christ. The two acolytes
preceding him signify the Law and the Prophets, shown in Moses and Elias
who appeared with Christ on Mount Tabor. The four who bear the canopy
are the four evangelists, declaring the Gospel. The bishop takes his seat and
lays aside his mitre. He is silent, as was Christ during His early years. The
Book of the Gospels lies closed before him. Around him in the company of
clergy are represented the Magi and others.
The services proceed, every word and act filled with symbolic import. The
reading of the Epistle is reached—that is the preaching of John the Baptist,
who preaches only to the Jews; so the reader turns to the north, the region
of the Ancient Law. The reading ended, he bows before the bishop, as the
Baptist humbled himself before Christ.

After the Epistle comes the Gradual or responsorium, which relates to
penitence and the works of the active life. The Baptist is still the main
figure, until the solemn moment when the Gospel is read, which signifies
the beginning of Christ’s preaching. The Creed follows the Gospel, as faith
follows the preaching of the truth. Its twelve parts refer to the calling of the
twelve apostles. Then the bishop begins his sermon; that is to say, after the
calling of the Twelve, the Word of God is preached to the people, and it
henceforth behoves the Church to hold fast to the Creed which has just been
recited.[86]
The authoritative allegorizing of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries
extended the symbolism of the Mass to the edifice in which it was
celebrated; as the Rationale sets forth in its opening chapter entitled “De
ecclesia et eius partibus.” There it is shown that the corporeal church is the
edifice, while the Church, spiritually taken, signifies the faithful people
drawn together from all sorts of men as the edifice is constructed of all sorts
of stones. The various names ecclesia, synagogue, basilica, and tabernacle
are explained; and then why the Church is called the Body of Christ, and
also Virgin, also Spouse, Mother, Daughter, Widow, and indeed Meretrix, as
it shuts its bosom against no one seeking it. The form of the church
conforms to that of Solomon’s temple, in the anterior part of which the
people heard and prayed, while the clergy prayed and preached, gave thanks
and ministered, in the sanctuary or sacred place. Solomon’s temple in turn
was modelled on the Tabernacle of the Exodus, which, because it was
constructed on a journey, is the type of the world which passes away and
the lust thereof. It was made with the four colours of the arch of heaven, as
the world consists of the four elements. Since God is in the world, He is in
the tabernacle (which also means the Church militant) and in the midst of
the faithful congregation. The anterior part of the tabernacle, where the
people sacrificed, is also the Vita activa, in which the laity labour in
neighbourly love; and the portion where the Levites ministered is the Vita
contemplativa.
The church should be erected in the following manner: the place of its
foundation should be made ready—well-founded is the house of the Lord
upon a rock—and the bishop or licensed priest should sprinkle it with holy
water to dispel the demons, and should lay the first stone, on which should
be carved a cross. The head of the church, that is the chancel, should be set

toward the rising sun at the time of the equinox. Now if the Jews were
commanded to build walls for Jerusalem, how much more ought we to build
the walls of our churches? The material church signifies the Holy Church
built of living stones in heaven, with Christ the corner-stone, upon which
are set the foundations of Apostles and Prophets. The walls above are the
Jews and Gentiles, who believing come to Christ from the four quarters of
the world. The faithful people predestined to life are the stones thereof.
The mortar in which the stones are set is made of lime, sand, and water.
Lime is fervent love, which takes to itself the sand, that is, earthly toil; then
water, which is the Spirit, unites the lime and sand. As the stones of the wall
would have no stability without the mortar, so men cannot be set in the
walls of the heavenly Jerusalem without love, which the Holy Spirit brings.
The stones of the wall are hewn and squared, which means sanctified and
made clean. Some stones are borne, but do not themselves bear any burden,
and these are the feeble in the Church. Other stones are borne, yet also bear;
while still others bear, but are not borne, save by Christ alone, the one
foundation; and the last are the perfect.
The Jews were subject to hostile attack while building the walls of
Jerusalem,[87] so that with one hand they set stones, while they fought with
the other. Likewise are we surrounded by hostile vices as we build the walls
of the Church; but we oppose them with the shield of faith and the
breastplate of righteousness, and the sword of the Word of God in our
hands.
The church edifice is disposed like the human body. The chancel, where the
altar is, represents the head, and the cross (transept) the arms and hands.
The western portion (nave and aisles) is the rest of the body. But indeed
Richard of St. Victor deems that the three parts of the edifice represent in
order of sanctity, first the virgins, then the continent, and lastly married
people.
Again, the Church is built with four walls; that is, by the teaching of the
four evangelists it rises broad and high into the altitude of the virtues. Its
length is the long-suffering with which it endures adversity; its breadth is
love, with which it embraces its friends in God, and loves its enemies for
His sake; its height is the hope of future reward. Again, in God’s temple the

foundation is faith, which is as to what is not seen; the roof is charity, which
covers a multitude of sins. The door is obedience—keep the
commandments if thou wilt enter into life.[88] The pavement is humility.
The four walls are the four virtues, righteousness, (justitia), fortitude,
prudence, and temperance. The windows are glad hospitality and free-
handed pity.
Some churches are cruciform, to teach us that we are crucified to the world,
or should follow the Crucified. Some are circular, which signifies that the
Church is spread through the circle of the world.
The apse signifies the faithful laity; the crypts, the hermits. The nave
signifies Christ, through whom lies the way to the heavenly Jerusalem; the
towers are the preachers and prelates, and the pinnacles represent the
prelates’ minds which soar on high. Also a weather-cock on top of the
church signifies the preachers, who rouse the sleeping from the night of sin,
and turning ever to the wind, resist the rebellious. The iron rod upholding
the cock is the preacher’s sermon; and because this rod is placed above the
cross on the church, it indicates the word of God finished and confirmed, as
Christ said in His passion, “It is finished.” The lofty dome on which the
cross is set, signifies how perfect and inviolate should be the preaching and
observance of the Catholic Faith.
The glass windows of the church are the divine Scriptures, which repel the
wind and rain, but admit the light of the true sun, to wit God, into the
church, that is, into the hearts of the faithful. The windows also signify the
five senses of the body.[89]
The door of the church (again) is Christ—“I am the Door”; the doors are
also the Apostles. The pillars are the bishops and doctors; their bases are the
apostolic bishops; their capitals are the minds of the doctors and bishops.
The pavement is the foundation of faith, and also signifies the “poor in
spirit,” also the common crowd by whose labours the church is upheld. The
rafters are the princes and preachers in the world, who defend the church by
deed and word. The seats in a church are the contemplative in whom God
rests without offence. The panels in the ceiling are also preachers who
adorn and strengthen.

The chancel, the head of the church, by being lower than the rest, indicates
how great should be the humility of the clergy. The screens by which the
altar is separated from the choir signify the separation of heavenly beings
from things of earth. The choir stalls indicate the body’s need of recreation.
The pulpit is the life of the perfect. The horologe signifies the diligence
with which the priests should say the canonical hours. The tiles of the roof
are the knights who protect the church from pagans. The spiral stairways
concealed within the walls are the secret knowledge had only by those who
ascend to the heavenly places. The sacristy, where the holy utensils are kept
and the priest puts on his vestments, signifies the womb of the most holy
Virgin, in which Christ put on His sacred garb of flesh. From thence the
priest emerges before the public, as Christ went forth from the Virgin’s
womb into the world. The lamp signifies Christ, who is the light of the
world; or the lamps signify the Apostles and other doctors, whose doctrine
lights the church. Moses also made seven lights, which are the seven gifts
of the Holy Spirit.
Durandus next devotes a whole chapter to the symbolism of the altar, and
another to the significance and function of ornaments, pictures, and
sculpture. The latter opens with the words: “The pictures and ornaments in
a church are the texts and scriptures (lectiones et scripturae) of the laity.”
This chapter is long; it explains how Christ and the angels, also saints,
Apostles and others, should be represented, and describes the proper kinds
of church ornament and utensils. Much of the detail is symbolical.
Thus Durandus devised or brought together meanings to fit each bit of the
church edifice, its materials and furnishings. In the work of a contemporary
are stored the allegorical meanings of the subjects of Gothic sculpture and
painted glass. The thirteenth century had a weakness for the word
“Speculum,” and the idea it carried of a mirror or compendium of all human
knowledge. The chief of mediaeval encyclopaedists was Vincent of
Beauvais, a protégé of the saintly King Louis IX. An analysis of his huge
Speculum majus is given elsewhere.[90] It was made up of the Mirror of
Nature, the Mirror of human Knowledge and Ethics, and the Mirror of
History. The compiler and his assistants laboured during the best period of
Gothic art, and from their work, industry may draw an exhaustive
commentary upon the series of topics presented by the sculpture and glass
of a cathedral.[91]

The Mirror of Nature appears carved in the sculpture of Chartres or
Bourges. In rendering the work of the Six Days, the Creator is shown
(under the form of Christ)[92] contemplating His work, or resting from His
toil; here and there a lion, sheep, or goat, suggests the animal creation, and
a few trees the vegetable world. This is the necessary symbolism of the
sculptor’s art. But Gothic animals and plants sometimes have other definite
symbolic meanings, as in the instance of the well-known signs of the four
Evangelists, the man, the lion, the ox, the eagle. The allegorical
interpretations of Scripture were an exhaustless source of symbolism for
Gothic sculptors; another was the Physiologus and its progeny of Bestiaries,
with their symbolic explanations of the legendary attributes of animals.
Intentional symbolism, however, did not inhere in all this carving, much of
which is sheer fancy and decoration. Such was the character of the splendid
Gothic flora, of the birds and beasts that move in it, and of the grotesque
monsters. They were not out of place, since the Gothic cathedral was itself a
Speculum or Summa, and should include the whole of God’s creation, not
omitting even the devils who beset men’s souls.
Vincent may have drawn from Hugo of St Victor the current doctrine that
the arts have part in the work of man’s restoration; a doctrine abundantly
justifying the presence of the sciences and crafts (composing the Mirror of
Knowledge) in the sculpture and painting of the cathedral. There the Seven
Liberal Arts are rendered, through allegorical figures; and the months of the
year are symbolized in the Zodiac and the labours of the field which make
up man’s annual toil. Philosophy is shown and Fortune’s wheel; the Virtues
and Vices are represented in personifications, and even their conflict, the
Psychomachia, may be shown.
At last the Mirror of History is reached. This will teach in concrete
examples what has been learned from the figures of the abstract Virtues and
Vices. Its chief source is the Bible. Those Old Testament incidents were
selected which for centuries had been interpreted as prefigurements of the
life of Christ; and each was presented as a pendant to the Gospel scene
which it typified. These make the chief subjects of the coloured glass of
Chartres and Bourges and other cathedrals where the windows are
preserved. Here may be seen the Passion of Christ, surrounded by scenes
from the Old Testament typifying it; likewise His Resurrection and its
ancient types; and other significant incidents in the life of the Saviour and

His virgin mother.[93] The latter is typified by the burning bush, by the
fleece of Gideon, by the rod of Aaron, even as in the hymns of Adam of
Saint-Victor.[94] Besides these incidents, leading personages of the Old
Testament are presented as prefigurative of Christ, as in the great series of
statues of Melchizedek, Abraham, Moses, Samuel, David, on the north
portal of Chartres; while the four greater and twelve minor prophets are
shown as types of the four Evangelists and the twelve Apostles. Christ
himself is depicted on a window at St. Denis, between the allegorical
figures of the Ancient Law and the Gospel,—figures which are allied to
those of the uncrowned and blinded Synagogue and the triumphant Church,
so frequently seen together upon cathedrals. Everywhere the tendency to
symbolize is strong. Parts of the Crucifixion scene are rendered
symbolically, and many of the parables. That of the Good Samaritan
constantly appears upon the windows, and is always designed so as to
convey the allegorical teaching drawn from it in Honorius’s sermon.[95]
Obviously this Mirror of History was chiefly sacred history. Pagan antiquity
was scantily suggested by the Sibyls, who stand for the dumb pagan
prophecy of Christ. Scenes from the history of Christian nations were more
frequent; but they always told of some victory for Christ, like the baptism
of Clovis, or the crusading deeds of Charlemagne, Roland or Godfrey of
Bouillon. God’s drama closed with the Last Judgment, the damnation of the
damned and the beatitude of the elect. The Last Judgments, usually over-
arching the tympanums above cathedral doors, are known to all—as at
Rheims, at Chartres, at Bourges. They are full of symbolism, and full of
“historic” reality as well. The treatment becomes entirely allegorical when
the sculptor enters Paradise with the redeemed, and portrays in lovely
personifications the beatitudes of the blessed, as on the north portal of
Chartres.
Those bands of nameless men who carved the statues and designed the
coloured glass which were to make Gothic cathedrals speak, faithfully
presented the teachings of the Church. They rendered the sacred drama of
mankind’s creation, fall, redemption, and final judgment unto hell or
heaven: they rendered it in all its dogmatic symbolism, and with a plastic
adequacy showing how completely they thought and felt in the allegorical
medium in which they worked. They also created matchless ideals of
symbolism in art. The statuary of the portals and façades of Rheims and

Chartres are in their way comparable to the sculptures of the pediment of
the Parthenon. But unlike those masterpieces of antique idealism, these
Christian masterpieces do not seek to set forth mortal man in his natural
strength and beauty and completeness. Rather they seek to show the
working of the human spirit held within the power and grace of God. Theirs
is not the strength and beauty of the flesh, or the excellence of the
unconquerable mind of man; but in them man’s mind and spirit are palpably
the devout creatures of God’s omnipotence, obedient to His will, sustained
and redeemed by His power and grace. Attitude, form, feature, alike
designed to express the sacred beauty of the soul, are not invested with
physical excellence for its own sake; but every physical quality of these
statues is a symbol of some holy and beautiful quality of spirit. These
statues attain a symbolic, and not a natural, ideal in art. Yet many of them
possess the physical beauty of form and feature, inasmuch as such may be
the proper envelope for the chaste and eager soul.[96]
On the other hand, in the filling out of the illustrative detail of life on earth,
of handicraft and art, the sculptor showed how he could carve these
actualities, and present earth’s beauty in the cathedral’s wealth of vine and
flower and leaf. The level commonplace of humanity is deftly rendered, the
daily doings of the forge and field and market-place, the tugging labourer,
the merchant with his stuffs, the scholar with his scrolls. He knew life well,
this artist, and had an eye for every catching scene, also for Nature’s subtle
beauties. Sometimes a certain passing show was represented because a
window was given by some drapers’ guild, desirous of seeing its craft
shown in a place of honour; and the artist loved his scenes from busy life,
as he loved his ornament from Nature. Such scenes (which rarely held
specific allegory) were not unconnected with the rest of the drama of
creation and redemption mirrored in the cathedral, nor was the exquisitely
cut leaf and rose without its suggestion of the grace incarnate in the Virgin
and her Son. Daily life and natural ornament had at least an illustrative
pertinency to the whole, of which they were unobtrusive and lovely
elements; and since that whole was primarily a visible symbol of the unseen
and divine power, these humble elements had part in its unutterable
mystery, and were likewise symbols.
Finally, have not these nameless artists—even as Dante and our English
Bunyan—presented by their art a synthesis of life’s realities? Their feet

were on the earth; with sympathy and knowledge their hands worked in the
media of things seen and handled, and fashioned the little human matters
which are bounded by the cradle and the grave. Such were the materials
from which Dante formed his Commedia, and Bunyan drew the Progress of
his Pilgrim soul to God. Yet as with Bunyan and Dante, so with these artists
in stone and coloured light, the mortal and the tangible were but the
elements through which the poem or story, or the carved or painted picture,
was made the realizing symbol of the unseen and eternal Spirit.

II
Beneath the Abbey Church of Saint-Victor there was a crypt consecrated to
the Mother of God. Here a certain monk was wont to retire and compose
hymns in her honour. One day his lips uttered the lines:

“Salve, mater pietatis,
Et totius Trinitatis
Nobile triclinium;
Verbi tamen incarnati
Speciale majestati
Praeparans hospitium!”

Whereupon a flood of light filled the crypt, and the Virgin, appearing to
him, inclined her head.
The monk’s name was Adam,[97] and he is deemed the best of Latin hymn-
writers. Breton born, he entered Saint-Victor in his youth, about the year
1130. He was favoured with the instruction of Hugo till the master’s death
in 1141. Adam must have been of nearly the same age as Richard of Saint-
Victor, that other pupil of Hugo who makes the third member of the great
Victorine trio. Their works have been the monastery’s fairest fame. Hugo
was a Saxon; Adam a Breton; Richard was Scotch. So Saint-Victor drew her
brilliant sons from many lands. Richard, whose writings worthily
supplemented those of his master Hugo,[98] died in 1173; his friend Adam
outlived him, and died an old man as the twelfth century was closing. He

was buried in the cloister, and over him was placed an elegiac epitaph upon
human vanity and sin, in part his own composition.
Adam’s hymns were Sequences[99] intended for church use. Their author
was learned in Christian doctrine, skilled in the Liturgy, and saturated with
the spirit of devotional symbolism. His symbolism, which his gift of verse
made into imagery, was that of the mediaeval church and its understanding
of the Liturgy; he also shows the special influence of Hugo. Adam’s hymns,
with their powerful Latin rhymes, cannot be reproduced in English; but a
translation may give the contents of their symbolism. The hymn for Easter,
beginning “Zyma vetus expurgetur,”[100] is an epitome of the symbolic
prefiguration of Christ in the Old Testament. Each familiar allegorical
interpretation flashes in a phrase. Literally translated, or rather maltreated, it
is as follows:
“Let the old leaven be purged away that a new resurrection may be
celebrated purely. This is the day of our hope; wonderful is the power of
this day by the testimony of the law.
“This day despoiled Egypt, and liberated the Hebrews from the fiery
furnace; for them in wretched straits the work of servitude was mud and
brick and straw.[101]
“Now as praise of divine virtue, of triumph, of salvation, let the voice
break free! This is the day which the Lord made, the day ending our
grief, the day bringing salvation.
“The Law is the shadow of things to come, Christ the goal of promises,
who completes all. Christ’s blood blunts the sword the guardians
removed.[102]
“The Boy, type of our laughter, in whose stead the ram was slain, seals
life’s joy.[103] Joseph issues from the pit;[104] Christ returns above after
death’s punishment.
“This serpent devours the serpents of Pharaoh secure from the serpent’s
spite.[105] Whom the fire wounded, them the brazen serpent’s presence
freed.[106]

“The hook and ring of Christ pierce the dragon’s jaw;[107] the sucking
child puts his hand into the cockatrice’s den, and the old tenant of the
world flees affrighted.[108]
“The mockers of Elisha ascending the house of God, feel the bald-
head’s wrath;[109] David, feigning madness, the goat cast forth, and the
sparrow escape.[110]
“With a jaw-bone Samson slays a thousand and spurns the marriage of
his tribe. Samson bursts the bars of Gaza, and, carrying its gates, scales
the mountain’s crest.[111]
“So the strong Lion of Judah, shattering the gates of dreadful death,
rises the third day; at His father’s roaring voice, He carries aloft His
spoils to the bosom of the supernal mother.[112]
“After three days the whale gives back from his belly’s narrow house
Jonas the fugitive, type of the true Jonas. The grape of Cyprus[113]
blooms again, opens and grows apace. The synagogue’s flower withers,
while flourishes the Church.[114]
“Death and life fought together: truly Christ arose, and with Him many
witnesses of glory. A new morn, a glad morn shall wipe away the tears
of evening: life overcame destruction; it is a time of joy.
“Jesu victor, Jesu life, Jesu life’s beaten way, thou whose death quelled
death, bid us to the paschal board in trust. O Bread of life, O living
Wave, O true and fruitful Vine, do thou feed us, do thou cleanse us, that
thy grace may save us from the second death. Amen.”
From the time of that old third-century hymn ascribed to Clement of
Alexandria,[115] hymns to Christ had been filled with symbolism, the
symbolism of loving personification of His attributes, as well as with the
more formal symbolism of His Old Testament prefigurements. Adam’s
symbolism is of both kinds. It has feeling even when dogmatic,[116] and
throbs with devotion as its theme approaches the Gospel Christ. Prevailing
modes of thought and feeling may prescribe topics for verse which a
succeeding age will find curiously unpoetic. Yet if the later time have a
sympathetic understanding for the past, it will recognize how fervid and

how songful was that bygone verse—the verse of Adam’s hymns, for
instance. In one for Christmas Day, beginning:

“Potestate, non natura,
Fit Creator creatura,”[117]

a stanza touches on the reason why the Creator thus became creature. It
would be impossible to render its feeling in English, and much
circumlocution would be needed to express even its literal meaning in any
language but mediaeval Latin. This stanza has twelve lines:

“Causam quaeris, modum rei:
Causa prius omnes rei,
Modus justum velle Dei,
Sed conditum gratia.”

“Thou askest cause and modus of the fact: the causa rei was before all,
the modus was God’s righteous willing, but seasoned with grace.”
These lines are scholastic. In the next four, the feeling begins to rise, yet the
phrases repel rather than attract us:

“O quam dulce condimentum
Nobis mutans in pigmentum,
Cum aceto fel cruentum
Degustante Messya!”

“Oh! how sweet the condiment changing for us into juice, as the
Messiah tastes the bloody gall and vinegar.”
The feeling touches its climax with the four concluding lines, in which the
parable of the Good Samaritan is invested with the special allegorical
significance set forth in the sermon of Honorius:[118]

“O salubre sacramentum,
Quod nos ponit in jumentum
Plagis nostris dans unguentum
Ille de Samaria.”

“O health-giving sacrament which sets us on a beast, giving ointment
for our stripes,—he of Samaria.”[119]
Two stanzas from another of Adam’s Christmas hymns will show how
curiously intricate could be his symbolism. Having spoken of the ineffable
wonder of the Incarnation, he proceeds:

“Frondem, florem, nucem sicca
Virga profert, et pudica
Virgo Dei Filium.
Fert coelestem vellus rorem,
Creatura creatorem,
Creaturae pretium.

“Frondis, floris, nucis, roris
Pietati Salvatoris
Congruunt mysteria.
Frons est Christus protegendo,
Flos dulcore, nux pascendo,
Ros coelesti gratia.”[120]

“A dry rod puts forth leafage, flower, nut,[121] and a chaste Virgin brings
forth the Son of God. A fleece bears heavenly dew,[122] a creature the
Creator, the creature’s price.
“The mysteries of leafage, flower, nut, dew are suited to the Saviour’s
tender love (pietas). The foliage by its protecting is Christ, the flower is
Christ by its sweetness, the nut as it yields food, the dew by its celestial
grace.”
One observes that here the symbolism first touches Christ’s birth, the dry
rod and the fleece representing the Virgin. Then the leafage, flower, nut and

dew typify His qualities. The remaining stanzas of this hymn carry out in
further detail the symbolism of the nut.
Besides the hymns devoted to the Saviour, the greater part of Adam’s
hymns are symbolical throughout. Those written for the dedication of
churches are among the most interesting. One beginning “Quam dilecta
tabernacula”[123] sketches the Old Testament facts which prefigure Christ’s
holy Church. The keynote is in the lines:

“Quam decora fundamenta
Per concinna sacramenta
Umbra praecurrentia!”

“How seemly the foundations through the appropriate sacraments, the
forerunning shadow.”
The shadow is the Old Testament, and these three lines sum up the teaching
of Hugo as to the sacramental nature of the Old Testament narratives.
Throughout this hymn Adam follows Hugo closely.[124] In another
dedicatory hymn[125] Adam gives the prefigurative meaning of the parts of
Solomon’s temple. There is likewise much symbolism in the grand hymns
addressed to the Virgin. One for the festival of the Assumption[126] gives the
figures of the Virgin in the Old Testament—the throne of Solomon, the
fleece of Gideon, the burning bush. Then with more feeling the
metaphorical epithets pour forth, voicing the heart’s gratitude to the Virgin’s
saving aid to man. A still more splendid example of like symbolism and
ardent metaphor is the great hymn beginning:

“Salve mater Salvatoris,
Vas electum, vas honoris,”

which won the Virgin’s greeting for the poet.[127]
The lives of Honorius, of Hugo, of Adam, from whose works we have been
drawing illustrations of mediaeval symbolism, vie with each other in
obscurity; and properly enough since they were monks, for whom self-
effacement is becoming. This personal obscurity culminates with one last

example to be drawn from monastic sources. The man himself was an
impressive figure in his time; a sight of him was not to be forgotten: he was
called magnus and doctor universalis. Nevertheless it has been questioned
whether he lived in the twelfth or the thirteenth century, and whether one
man or two bore the name of Alanus de Insulis.
There was in fact but one, and he belongs to the twelfth century, dying
almost a centenarian, in the year 1202. The cognomen de Insulis has also
been an enigma. From it he has been dubbed a Sicilian, and then a Scot,
born on the island of Mona. But the name in reality refers to the chief town
of Flanders, which is called Lisle; and Alanus doubtless was a Fleming.
He became a learned man, and lectured at Paris. That he was possessed with
no small opinion of his talents would appear from the legend told of him as
well as of St. Augustine. He had announced that on a certain day in a single
lecture he would set forth the complete doctrine of the mystery of the most
Holy Trinity. The afternoon before the day appointed, he walked by the
river, thinking how he should arrange his subject so as to include it all. He
chanced upon a child who was dipping up the river water with a snail shell
and dropping it into a little trench. Smiling, he asked what should be the
object of this; and the child told him that he was putting the whole river into
his trench. As the great scholar was explaining that this could not be done,
he suddenly felt himself chidden and taught—how much less might he
perform what he had set for the next morning. He stood speechless at his
presumption, and burst into tears. The next day ascending the platform he
said to the crowd of auditors, “Let it suffice you to have seen Alanus”;[128]
and with that he left them all astonished, and himself hastily set out for
Citeaux. On arrival he asked to be admitted as a conversus, and was given
charge of the monastery’s sheep. Patient and unknown, he long plied this
humble vocation. But at length it chanced that the abbot took him to a
council at Rome, in the capacity of hostler. And there he beat down the
arrogance of a heretic with such arguments that the latter cried out that he
was disputing either with the devil or Alanus, and would say no more.
Such is one story. By another he is made to seek the monastery of
Clairvaux, and there become a monk under St. Bernard. It is also written
that he became an abbot, and then a bishop, but afterwards resigned his
bishopric. However all this may have been, he died and was buried, and

was subjected to many epitaphs. On what purports to be an old copy of his
tomb at Citeaux, he is shown with St. Bernard, and called Alanus Magnus.
The title Doctor universalis has always clung to his memory, which will not
altogether fade. For if Adam of Saint-Victor was the greatest of Latin
mediaeval hymn-writers, Alanus has good claim to be called the greatest of
mediaeval Latin poets in the field of didactic and narrative poetry.[129]
The many works ascribed to Alanus include an allegorical Commentary on
Canticles, a treatise on the art of preaching, a book of sententiae, another of
theologicae regulae, sundry sermons, and a lengthy work “contra
haereticos”; also a large dictionary of Biblical allegorical interpretations,
entitled Liber in distinctionibus dictionum theologicalium.[130] All these are
prose. He composed besides his Liber de planctu naturae,[131] and his
Anticlaudianus, a learned and profound, and likewise highly imaginative
allegorical poem upon man.[132] Its Preface in prose casts a curious light
upon the author’s enigmatical personality, which combined the wonted or
conventional humility of a monk with the towering self-consciousness of a
man of genius.
“The lightning scorns to spend its force on twigs, but breaks the proud
tops of exalted trees. The wind’s imperious rage passes over the reed
and drives the assaults of its wild blasts against the highest summits.
Wherefore let not envy’s flame strike the pinched humility of my work,
nor detraction’s breath overwhelm the driven poverty of my little book,
where misery’s wreck demands a port of pity, far more than felicity
provokes the sting of spite.”
More sentences of turgid deprecation follow, and the author begs the reader
not to approach his book with disgust and irritation, but with pleasant
anticipations of novelty (not all a monk speaks here!).
“For although the book may not bloom with the purple vestment of
flowering speech, nor shine with the constellated light of the flashing
period, still in the tenuity of the fragile reed the honey’s sweetness may
be found, and parched thirst can be tempered with the scant water of a
rill. In this book let nothing be made vulgar (plebescat) with ribaldry,
nor let anything be open to biting reproof, as if it smacked of the
coarseness of the moderns [to whom does he refer?]; but let the flower

of my talent be presented, and the dignity of diligence; for pigmy
humility, thus raised upon a height, may overtop the giant. Let not those
dare to tire of this work, who are squalling in the cradles of elementary
instruction, sucking milk from nurses’ paps; nor let those seek to cry it
down, who are pledged to the service of the higher learning; nor those
presume to discredit it, who strike heaven from the top-notch of
philosophy. For in this work, the sweetness of the literal meaning will
tickle the puerile ear; moral teaching will instruct the more proficient
understanding; and the finer subtilty of allegory will sharpen the
finished intellect. Wherefore let all those be kept from ingress who,
abandoned to the mirrors of the senses, are not charioteered by reason,
and, pursuing the sense-image, have no appetite for reason’s truth,—lest
indeed what is holy be defiled by dogs, and the pearl be trampled by the
feet of swine. But such as will not suffer the things of reason to rest
with the base images, and dare to lift their view to forms divine, may
thread the narrow passes of my book, while they weigh with discretion’s
scales what is suited to the common ear, and what should be buried in
silence.”
This Preface of strained sentence and laboured metaphor, of forced humility
and overweening self-consciousness, hardly augurs well for the poem of
which it is the prelude. But prefaces are authors’ pitfalls, and, moreover,
many writers have floundered in one medium of speech while in another
they have moved with ease. From the ungainly prose of the Persones Tale,
no one would expect the ease and force of Chaucer’s verse. And the reader
of Alanus’s Preface need not be discouraged from entering upon his poem.
Its subject is man; its philosophic or religious purpose is to expound the
functions of God, of Nature, of Fortune, of Virtue and Vice, in making man
and shaping his career. The poem is an allegory, original in its general
scheme of composition, but in many of its parts following earlier allegorical
writings.
The opening lines tell of Nature’s solicitude to bestow her gifts so that the
finished work may present a fair harmony: as a patient workman she forges,
trims and files, and fashions with reason’s chisel. But when she seeks to
invest her work with qualities beyond her giving, she is obliged to call on
the Celestial Council of her Sisters. Responding, pilgrim-like the Crown of

Heaven’s soldiery comes from on high, brightens the earth with its light,
and clothes the ground with blessed footprints.
Leading this galaxy, Concord advances, foster-child of Peace; then Plenty
comes, and Favour, and Youth with favour anointed, and Laughter, banisher
of mental mists; then Shame and Modesty, and Reason the measure of
good, and Honesty, Reason’s happy comrade; then Dignity (decus) and
Prudence balancing her scales, and Piety and true Faith, and Virtue. Last of
all Nobility (nobilitas), in grace not quite the others’ equal.[133]
In the midst of a great wood blessed with fountains and multitudinous bird-
song, a cloud-kissing mountain rose with level top. Nature’s palace was
erected here, gemmed and golden; and within was a great hall hung upon
bronze columns. Here the painter’s art had rendered the ways of men, and
inscriptions made plain the pictured story. “O new wonders of painting,”
exclaims the poet; “what cannot be, comes into being; and painting, the ape
of truth, deluding with novel art, turns shadows to realities, and transforms
particular falsehood into (general) truth.”[134] There might be seen the
power of logic pressing its arguments and conquering sophistry. There
Aristotle was preparing his arms, and, more divinely, Plato mused on
heaven’s secrets. There Seneca moralized, and Ptolemy explained the stars
in their times and courses. There spoke the word of Tully, while Virgil’s
muse painted many lies, and put truth’s garb on falsehood. There was also
shown the might of Alcides and Ulysses’ wisdom, Turnus’s valour prodigal
of life, and Hippolytus’s shame, undone by Venus’s reins.[135] Such and
many other tropes of things and dreams of truth, this royal art set forth.
Here, standing in the midst of her Council, Nature, with bowed head, spoke
her solemn words: “Painfully I remake what my hand’s solicitude has
wrought. But the hand’s penitence does not wipe out the flaws. The
shortcomings of our works must be repaired by some perfect model, some
man divine, not smelling of the earth and earthly, but whose mind shall hold
to heaven while his body walks the earth. Let him be the mirror in which
we may see what our faith, our potency, and virtue ought to be. As it is, our
shame is over all the earth.”
When the Council had approved these words, Prudence arose in all her
beauty.[136] She discoursed upon man’s dual nature, spirit and body. Nature

and her helpers may be the artificers of his mortal body, but the soul
demands its heavenly Artificer, and laughs at our rude arts. God’s wisdom
alone can create the soul, as Prudence shows by an exposition of its
qualities.
Now Reason raised his reverend form, holding his triple glass in which
appear the causes and effects and qualities of things. He humbly disclaimed
the power to instruct Minerva,[137] and applauded the plan by which a new
Lucifer should sojourn in the world. May he unite all the gifts which they
can bestow, and be their champion against the Vices. Now let their suppliant
vows be sped to Him who alone can create the divine mind. A legate should
be despatched above, bearing their request. For this office none is so fit as
Prudence, to whom the secrets of Heaven are known, and whose energy and
wisdom will surmount the difficulties of the way.
Prudence at first refuses; but Concordia rises, the inspirer of chaste loves,
she who knit the souls of David and Jonathan, Pirithous and Theseus, Nisus
and Euryalus, Orestes and Pylades. Persuasively she speaks, and points out
all the ills the world had suffered by disobedience to her behests. Prudence
is won over to the task, and now wills only as her sisters will. She thinks
upon the means and way. Wisdom orders a chariot to be made, in which the
sea, the stars, the heavens may be traversed. Its artificers are her seven
daughters, wise and fair, who unite the skill and knowledge of all those
wise ancients who had excelled in any Art. First Grammar (her functions
and great writers being told) forms the pole which goes before the axle-tree
(temo praeambulus axis). Then Logic makes the axle-tree; and Rhetoric
adorns the pole with gems and the axle with flowers. Arithmetic constructs
one wheel of the chariot, and Music the second, Geometry the third, and the
fourth wheel is made by Astronomy.[138]
Now Reason, at Nature’s nod, yokes to the chariot the five horses, to wit,
the Senses disciplined and controlled, Sight, Hearing, Smell, Taste, and
Touch. He himself mounts as charioteer, and bids Prudence follow. Amid
the farewells and plaudits of all, the chariot soars aloft. As it speeds along,
Prudence investigates atmospheric phenomena, and then the spirits of evil
who wander through the air. They passed on through the upper ether,
reached the citadel and fount of light, where the Sun holds sway; next was
reached the region where Venus and the star of Mercury sing together and

Lucifer exults, the herald of the day. Then to their rapid flight appeared
Mars’ flaming palace, seething with fire and wrath. Onward they passed to
the glad light and unhurtful flames of Jupiter, and then to Saturn’s sphere.
At length they ascended the stellar region where the Pole stars contend in
brightness, where are seen Hercules and Orion, Leda’s twins, the fiery Crab,
the Lion, and the rest of the Zodiac’s constellations.[139]
Here at heaven’s entrance the chariot halted. Those five horses of the
Senses, charioteered by Reason, could ascend no farther. But a damsel was
seen, seated upon the summit of the Pole. She scrutinizes the hidden Cause
and End of all things, holding scales in her right hand and in her left a
sceptre. On her vestments a subtile point traces God’s secrets, and the
formless is figured in form. Reverently Phronesis, that is Prudence, saluted
this Queen of the Pole, and set forth the purpose of her journey, telling of
Nature’s desire and her limitations. In reply Theology, for it is she,[140]
offered herself as a companion, and bade Prudence leave her chariot, but
keep the second courser (Hearing) to bear her on. Prudence now
surmounted the starry citadels, and marvelled at heaven’s nodes, where the
four ways begin and the crystalline waters flow, shot with agreeing fires; for
here, in universal harmony transcending Nature’s laws and Reason’s power,
Concord unites those elements which war below. Onward leads the way
among those joys celestial which know no tears, where there is peace
without hate, and light above all brightness. Here dwell the angel bands, the
Thunderer’s princes, regulators of the world; here glow the seraphim, and
cherubim drain draughts from the mind of God; and here are the Thrones
whereon God balances His weighed decrees, and with His band of Powers
conquers the tyrants.[141] Here also rest the saints, freed from earth’s dross
and passion, clothed in virgin white or martyr’s purple, or wearing the
Doctor’s laurel. Joyful alike are they, yet diverse in merit, shining with
unequal splendour.[142] Here finally, in honour surpassing all, is the Virgin
Mother, clad in the garb of our salvation—Star of the Sea, Way of Life, Port
of Salvation, Limit of Piety, Mother of Pity, Garden closed, Sealed Font,
Fruitful Olive, Sweet Paradise, Rose without Thorn, Guiltless Grace, Way
of the Wanderer, Light of the Blind, Rest of the Tired—untold,
unnumbered, and unspeakable are her praises.[143]
Phronesis cannot bear the sight. Queen Theology calls to her sister Faith to
aid the fainting one. Faith comes and holds her Mirror before the eyes of

Phronesis; and in this glass her eyes can endure the shaded glory of the
overpowering vision. She staggers on, her trembling steps supported by
Faith and Theology. In the glass she sees the eternal and divine, the
enduring, moveless, sure; species unborn, celestial ideas, the forms of men
and principles of things, causes of causes and the course of fate, the
Thunderer’s mind; why God condemns some, predestines others, prepares
that one for life and from this one withdraws His rewards; why poverty
presses upon some and want is filled only with tears; why riches pour on
others, why one is wise, another lacking, and why the worthies of the past
have been endowed each with his several gifts.[144]
Marvelling at all these sights, Prudence, supported by the sisters, reached at
last the palace of the King, and fell prostrate before God himself. He bade
her rise, and speak. Humbly she set forth Nature’s plight and the evil upon
earth, and presented her petition. God accedes benignantly. He will not
destroy the earth again, but will send a human spirit endowed with heavenly
gifts, a pilgrim to the earth, a medicine for the world. Prudence worships.
God summons Mind, and orders him to fashion the type-form, the idea of
the human mind. Mind searches among existing beings for the traces of this
new idea or type.[145] His difficult search succeeds at last, and in the Mirror
which he constructs, every grace takes its abode: Joseph’s form, the
intelligence of Judith, the patience of righteous Job, the modesty of Moses,
Jacob’s simplicity, Abraham’s faith, Tobias’s piety. He presents this pattern-
type to God, who sets an accordant soul therein, and then entrusts the new-
made being to Phronesis, while Mind anoints it with an unguent against the
attacks of the Vices. Phronesis, with her prize, turned to the way by which
she had ascended, regained her chariot and Reason her charioteer. Together
they sped back to the congratulations of Nature and her Council.
For this perfect soul Nature now forms a beautiful body. Concord unites the
two, and a new man is formed, perfect and free from flaw. Chastity and
guardian Modesty endow him with their gifts; Reason adds his, and
Honesty. These Logic follows, with her gift of skill in argument; Rhetoric
brings her stores, then Arithmetic, next Music, next Geometry, next
Astronomy;[146] while Theology and Piety are not behind with theirs; and to
these Faith joins her gifts of fidelity and truth. Last of all comes Nobility,
Fortune’s daughter. But because she has nothing of her own to give, and
must receive all from her mother, she betakes herself to Fortune’s house of

splendid mutability. What will Fortune give? The two return to Nature’s
palace, and Fortune’s magnificence is proffered by her daughter; but
Reason, standing by, will allow only a measured acceptance.[147]
The report of this richly endowed creature reached Alecto. Raging she
summoned her pests, the chiefs of Tartarus, doers of ill, masters of every sin
—Injury, Fraud, Perjury, Theft, Rapine, Fury and Anger, Hate, Discord,
Strife, Disease and Melancholy, Lust, Wantonness and Need, Fear and Old
Age. She roused them with a harangue: their rule is threatened by this
upstart Creature, whom Parent Nature has prepared for war; but what can
his untried imbecility do against them in arms?
All clamour assent, and in a tumult of rage make ready for the strife. The
hostile ranks approach. The first attack is made by Folly (Stultitia) and her
comrades, Sloth, Gaming, Idle Jesting, Ease and Sleep. But faithful Virtues
protect the constant youth against these foes. Next Discord leads its
mutinous band, but only to defeat. Onslaughts follow from Poverty, next
from Ill-Repute, from Old Age and Disease. Then Grieving advances, and is
overthrown by Laughter. More deadly still are the attacks of Venus and
Lust; then Excess and Wantonness take up the fray; and at the end Impiety
and Fraud and Avarice. But still the man conquers with the aid of his
Virtues ever true.
The fight is over. The Virtues triumph and receive their Kingdoms; Vice
succumbs; Love reigns instead of Discord; the man is blessed; and the
earth, adorned with flowers in a new spring of youth, brings forth
abundance. The Poet sums up his poem’s teaching: From God must
everything begin and in Him end. But our genius may not stand inert; ours
is the strife as well, according to our strength and faculty. Let the mind
attach itself to the things which are and do not pass, even as Plato sings,
from things of sense reaching on ever to the grades Angelic and Olympus’s
steeps. Then it shall behold the universal praise of God and the true
ascription of all good to Him. He in himself is perfect, Part and likewise
Whole, and everywhere uncircumscribed. Nothing has power in itself, but
all would fall to nothing, did He close the flux of hidden power.
Alanus, a good Christian Doctor, is also an eclectic in his thought. A
consistent system is hardly to be drawn from his poem. It suggests Christ.

But its hero is not the God-man of the Incarnation. Its figures are semi-
pagan. The virtue Faith, for example, is the Fides, the Good Faith, of the
antique Roman, though it is the Christian virtue Faith as well. In language
the poem is antique; its verse has vigorous flow; its imagery lacks neither
beauty nor sublimity. It is in fact a poem, a creation, having a scheme and
unity of its own, although the author borrows continually. Martianus
Capella is there and Dionysius the Areopagite; there also is the
Psychomachia of Prudentius and its progeny of symbolic battles between
the Virtues and the Vices.[148] Yet Alanus has achieved; for he has woven
his material into a real poem and has reared his own lofty allegory. His
work is another grand example of mediaeval symbolism.
Thus we see the ceaseless sweep of allegory through men’s minds. They felt
and thought and dreamed in allegories; and also spent their dry ingenuity on
allegorical constructions. It was reserved for one supreme poet to create, out
of this atmosphere, a supreme poem which is as complete an allegory as the
Anticlaudianus. But the Divina Commedia has also the power of its human
realities of actually experienced pain and joy, and hate and love. Compared
with it, the Anticlaudianus betrays the vapourings of monk and doctor,
imaginative indeed, but thin. The author’s feet were not planted on the earth
of human life.
But the Middle Ages did not demand that allegory should have its feet
planted on the earth, so long as its head nodded high among the clouds—or
its sentiments wandered sweetly in fancy’s gardens. In one of these dwelt
that lovely Rose, whose Roman once had vogue. In structure the Roman de
la rose is an allegory from the beginning of the first part by De Lorris to the
very end of that encyclopaedic sequel added by De Meun. The story is well
known.[149] One may recall the fact that in De Lorris’s poem and De
Meun’s sequel every quality and circumstance of Love’s sentiment and
fortunes are figured in allegorical personifications—all the lover’s hopes
and fears and the wavering chances of his quest.
In this respect the poem is the courtly and romantic counterpart of such a
philosophical or religious allegory as the Anticlaudianus. Personifications
of the arts and sciences, the vices and virtues, current since the time of
Prudentius’s Psychomachia and Capella’s Nuptials of Philology, were all in
the Anticlaudianus, while in the Roman de la rose figure their secular and

romantic kin: in De Lorris’s part, Love, Fair-Welcome, Danger, Reason,
Franchise, Pity, Courtesy, Shame, Fear, Idleness, Jealousy, Wicked-Tongue;
then, with De Meun, others besides: Richesse, False-Seeming, Hypocrisy,
Nature, and Genius.[150] The figures of the Roman de la rose have diverse
antecedents scattered through the entire store of knowledge and classic
literature possessed by the Middle Ages; perhaps their immediate source of
inspiration was the scheme of courtly love which the mediaeval imagination
elaborated and revelled in.[151] The poem of De Lorris was a veritable
romantic allegory. De Meun, in his sequel, rather plays with the allegorical
form, which he continues; it has become a frame for his stores of learning,
his knowledge of the world, his views of life, his wit and satire, and his
great literary and poetic gifts. Yet it ends in a regular Psychomachia, in
which Love’s barons are hard beset by all the foes of Love’s delight, though
Love has its will at last.

BOOK VI
LATINITY AND LAW

CHAPTER XXX

THE SPELL OF THE CLASSICS

I. Classical Reading.
II. Grammar.
III. The Effect upon the Mediaeval Man; Hildebert of Lavardin.

I
During all the mediaeval centuries, men approached the Classics expecting
to learn from them. The usual attitude toward the classical heritage was that
of docile pupils looking for instruction. One may recall the antecedent
reasons of this, which have already been stated at length. In Italy, letters
survived as the most impressive legacy from an overshadowing past. In the
north, save where they lingered on from the antique time, they came in the
train of Latin Christianity, and were offered to men under the same
imposing conditions of a higher civilization authoritatively instructing ruder
peoples. Moreover, between the ancient times which produced the classic
literature and the Carolingian period there intervened centuries of
degeneracy and transition, when the Classics were used pedagogically to
teach grammar and rhetoric. Then grammars were composed or revised, and
other handbooks of elementary instruction. The Classics still were loved;
but how shall men love beyond their own natures? Gifted Jerome, great
Augustine, loved them with an ardour bringing its own misgivings. Other
lovers, like Ausonius and Apollinaris Sidonius, were pedantic imitators.

Both north and south of the Alps another and obviously enduring cause
fostered the habit of regarding the Classics as storehouses of knowledge:
the fact that they were such for all the mediaeval centuries. They included
not only poetry and eloquence, but also history, philosophy, natural
knowledge, law and polity. The knowledge contained in them exceeded
what the men of western Europe otherwise possessed. As century after
century passed, mediaeval men learned more for themselves, and also drew
more largely on the classic store. Yet it remained unexhausted. The twelfth
and thirteenth centuries constitute the great mediaeval epoch. Men were
then opening their eyes a little to observe the natural world, and were
thinking a little for themselves. Nevertheless the chief increase in
knowledge issued from the gradual discovery and mastering of the works of
Aristotle. These centuries, like their predecessors, make clear that men who
inherit from a greater past a universal literature containing the best they can
conceive and more knowledge than they can otherwise attain, will be likely
to regard every part of this literature as in some way a source of knowledge,
physical or metaphysical, historical or ethical. And the Classics merited
such regard; for where they did not instruct in science, they imparted
knowledge of life, and norms and instances of conduct, from which men
still may draw guidance. We have outlearned the physics, and perhaps the
metaphysics of the Greeks; their knowledge of nature, in comparison with
ours, was but as a genial beginning; their polities and their formal ethics we
have tried and tested; but we have not risen above the power and inspiration
of the story of Greece and Rome, and the exemplifications of life in the
Greek and Latin Classics. It has not ceased to be true that he who best loves
the Classics, and most deeply feels and glories in their unique excellence as
literature, is he who still draws life from them, and discipline and
knowledge. Their true lovers, like the true lovers of all noble literature, are
always in a state of pupilage to the poems and the histories they love.
Obviously then no final word lies in the statement that through the Middle
Ages men turned to the Classics for instruction. They did indeed turn to
them for all kinds of knowledge, and for discipline. Often they looked for
instruction from Ovid or Virgil in a way to make us smile. Often they were
like schoolboys, dully conning words which they did not feel and so did not
understand. But in the tenth century, and in the twelfth, some men admired

and loved the Latin Classics, and drew from them, as we may, lessons
which are learned only by those who love aright.
It would be hard to say what the men of the Middle Ages did not thus gain.
The pagan classical literature was one of humanity in its full range of
interests. This was true of the Greek; and from the Greek, the universal
human passed to the Latin, which the Middle Ages were to know. In both
literatures, man was a denizen of earth. The laws of mortality and fate were
held before his eyes; and the action of the higher powers bore upon mortal
happiness, rather than upon any life to come. When reflecting upon the use
and influence of the Classics through the Middle Ages, it is always to be
kept in mind that the antique literature was the literature of this life and of
this world; that it was universal in its humanity, and still in the Middle Ages
might touch every human love and human interest not directly connected
with the hopes and terrors of the Judgment Day.
So whenever educated mediaeval men were drawn by the ambitions or
moved by the finer joys of human life, it lay in their path to seek instruction
or satisfaction from some antique source. If a man wished the common
education of a clerk, he drew it from antique text-books and their
commentaries. Grammar and rhetoric meant Latin grammar and Latin
rhetoric; dialectic also was Latin and antique. Likewise the quadrivium of
arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music, could be studied only in Latin.
These ordinary branches of education having been mastered, if then the
man’s tastes or ambitions turned to the interests of earth (and who except
the saintly recluse was not so drawn?) he would still look to the antique. A
civilian or an ecclesiastic would need some knowledge of law, which for the
most part was Roman, even when disguised as Canon law.[152] Did a man
incline toward philosophy, and the scrutiny of life’s deeper problems, again
the source was the antique; and when he lifted his mind to theology, he
would still find himself reasoning in categories of antique dialectic. Finally,
and this was a broad field of humane inclination, if a clerkly educated man
loved poetry, eloquence, and history, for their own sakes, he also would turn
to the antique.
There is scarcely need to revert again to the use of the Classics in the earlier
Middle Ages. We have seen that in Italy they never ceased to form the
conscious background to all intellectual life; and that in the north, letters

came a handmaid in the train of Latin Christianity—a handmaid that was
apt to assert her own value, and also charm the minds of men. From the
first, it was the orthodox view that Latin letters should provide the
education enabling men to understand the Christian religion adequately.
This is the object set forth in Charlemagne’s Capitularies upon education.
[153] Three hundred years later Honorius of Autun says in his sermonizing
way:
“Not only, beloved, do the sacred writings lead us to eternal life, but
profane letters also teach us; for edifying matter may be drawn from
them. In view of sacred examples no one should be scandalized at this.
For the children of Israel spoiled the Egyptians; they took gold and
silver, gems and precious vestments, which they afterwards turned into
God’s treasury to build the tabernacle.”[154]
Honorius used Augustine’s reference to the Egyptians, and followed this
Augustinian view, always recognized as orthodox in the Middle Ages. It
was narrower than the practice among those who followed letters. Gerbert
at the close of the tenth century loved to teach and read the pagan writers,
and drew from them training and discipline.[155] In the next century, the
German monk Froumund of Tegernsee, with Bernward and Godehard,
bishops of Hildesheim, are instances of German love of antique letters.[156]
Yet lofty souls might choose to limit their reading of the Classics, at least in
theory, to the needs of their Latinity. Such a one was Hugo of St.-Victor,
scholar, theologian, man of genius;[157] he professed to care more for the
Christian ardours of the soul than for learning even as a means of
righteousness, and chose to take the side of those who would read the
classic authors only so far as the needs of education demanded:
“There are two kinds of writings, first those which are termed the artes
proper, secondly, those which are the supplements (appendentia) of the
artes. Artes comprise the works grouped under (supponuntur)
philosophy, those which contain some fixed and determined matter of
philosophy, as grammar, dialectic and the like. Appendentia artium are
those [writings] which touch philosophy less nearly and are occupied
with some subject apart from it; and yet sometimes offer flotsam and
jetsam from the artes, or simply as narratives smooth the road to
philosophy. All the songs of poets are such—tragedies, comedies,

satires, heroics, and lyrics too, and iambics, besides certain didactic
works (didascalica); tales likewise, and histories; also the writings of
those nowadays called philosophers, who extend a brief matter with
lengthy circumlocution, and thus darken a simple meaning.
“Note then well the distinction I have drawn for thee: distinct and
different (duo) are the artes and their appenditia, ... and often from the
latter the student will gain much labour and little fruit. The artes,
without their appenditia, may make the reader perfect; but the latter,
without the artes, can bring no whit of perfection. Wherefore one
should first of all devote himself to the artes, which are so fundamental,
and to the aforesaid seven above all, which are the means and
instruments (instrumenta) of all philosophy. Then let the rest be read, if
one has leisure, since sometimes the playful mingled with the serious
especially delights us, and we are apt to remember a moral found in a
tale.”[158]
Temperament affected Hugo’s view. He was of the spiritual aristocracy,
who may be somewhat disdainful of the common means by which men get
their education and round out their natures. The mechanical monotony of
pedagogy grated on him and evoked the ironical sketch of a school-room,
which he put in his dialogue on the Vanity of the World. The little
Discipulus, directed by his Magister, is surveying human things.
“Turn again, and look,” says the latter, “and what do you see?”
“I see the schools of learners. There is a great crowd, and of all ages,
boys and youths, men young and old. They study various things. Some
practise their rude tongue at the alphabet and at words new to them.
Others listen to the inflection of words, their composition and
derivation; then by reciting and repeating them they try to commit them
to memory. Others furrow the waxen tablets with a stylus. Others,
guiding the calamus with learned hand, draw figures of different shapes
and colours on parchments. Still others with sharper zeal seem to
dispute on graver matters and try to trip each other with twistings and
impossibilities (gryphis?). I see some also making calculations, and
some producing various sounds upon a cord stretched on a frame.
Others, again, explain and demonstrate geometric figures; and yet

others with various instruments show the positions and courses of the
stars and the movement of the heavens. Others, finally, consider the
nature of plants, the constitution of men, and the properties and powers
of things.”
The Disciple is captivated with this many-coloured show of learning; but
the Master declares it to be mostly foolishness, distracting the student from
understanding his own nature, his Creator, and his future lot.[159]
These are examples, which might be multiplied indefinitely, of the pious
mediaeval view that the artes, with a very little reading of the auctores,
were proper for the educated Christian, whose need was to understand
Scripture. Sometimes, stung, at least rhetorically, by fear of the lust and
idolatry of the antique, mediaeval souls cry out against its lures, even as
Jerome’s Christianly protesting nature dreamed that famous dream of
exclusion from heaven as a “Ciceronian.” Alcuin, who led the educational
movement under Charlemagne, gently chides one whose fondness for Virgil
made him forget his friend—“would that the Gospels rather than the Aeneid
filled thy breast.”[160] Three hundred years later, St. Peter Damiani, himself
a virtuoso in letters and a sometime teacher of rhetoric, arraigns the monks
for teaching grammar rather than things spiritual.[161] Damiani speaks with
the harshness of one who fears what he loves. In France, about the same
time, our worthy sermon-writer, Honorius of Autun, liked the profanities
well enough, and drew from them apt moral tales, which preachers might
introduce to rouse drowsy congregations. Yet he directs his pulpit-thunder
at the cives Babyloniae, the superbi, who after their several tastes finger
profane literature to their peril: “Those delighting in quibbling learn
Aristotle: the lovers of war have Maro, and the lustful idlers their Naso.
Lucan and Statius incite discords, while Horace and Terence equip the pert
and wanton (petulantes)—but since the names of these are blotted from the
book of life, I shall not commemorate them with my lips.”[162]
This with the excellent Honorius was pious rhetoric. Yet the love and fear of
antique letters caused anxiety in many a mediaeval soul, deflected by them
from its narrow path to the heavenly Jerusalem. Indeed the love of letters
and of knowledge was to play its part, and might take one side or the other,
according to the motive of their pursuit, in the great mediaeval
psychomachia between the cravings of mortal life and the militant

insistencies of the soul’s salvation. This conflict, not confined to mediaeval
monks, has its universal aspects. It echoes in the sigh of Michelangelo over
the

“affectuosa fantasia,
Che l’ arte si fece idolo e monarca,”

—which had so long drawn his heart from Eternity.[163]
Commonly, however, this conflict did not greatly disturb scholars who felt
in some degree the classic spell so manifold of delight in themes delightful,
of pleasure somehow drawn from clear statement and convincing sequence
of thought, of even deeper happiness springing from the stirring of those
faculties through which man rejoices in knowledge. To be sure, readers of
the Classics, who drew joy from them or satisfaction, or humane
instruction, were comparatively few in the mediaeval centuries, as they are
to-day. And undoubtedly in the Middle Ages the Classics usually were read
in unenlightened schoolboy fashion. Yet making these reservations, we may
be sure that letters yielded up their joys to the chosen few in every
mediaeval century. “Amor litterarum ab ipso fere initio pueritiae mihi est
innatus,” wrote Lupus in the ninth.[164] Gerbert might have said the same,
and many of the men who taught at Chartres in the generations following.
So likewise might have said John of Salisbury. In studying the Classics he
certainly looked to them for instruction. But he also loved them, and found
companionship and solace in them, as he says, and as Cicero before him
had said of letters.
We may ask ourselves what sort of pleasure do we get from reading the
Classics? not necessarily a light distracting of the mind, but rather a deeper
gratification: thought is aroused and satisfied, and our nature is appeased by
the admirable presentation of things admirable. At the same time we may be
conscious of discipline and benefit. There is good reason to suppose that a
like pleasure, or satisfaction, with discipline and instruction, came to this
exceedingly clever John from reading Terence, Virgil and Ovid, Horace,
Juvenal, Lucan, Persius and Statius, Cicero, Seneca and Quintilian—for he
read them all.[165] John is affected, impressed, and trained by his classic
reading; he has absorbed his authors; he quotes from them as spontaneously

and aptly as he quotes from Scripture. A quotation from the one or the other
may give final point to an argument, and have its own eloquent suggestions.
Sometimes the tone of one of his own letters—which usually are excellent
in form and language—may agree with that of the pithy antique quotation
garnishing it. A mediaeval writer was not likely to say just what we should
when expressing ourselves on the same matter. Yet John makes quite clear
to us how he cared for antique letters, in the Prologue to his Polycraticus,
his chief work on philosophy and life; and we may take his word as to the
satisfaction which he drew from them, since his own writings prove his
assiduity in their cult. This prologue is somewhat cherché, and imbued with
a preciosity of sentiment putting one in mind of Cicero’s oration Pro Archia
poeta.
“Most delightful in many ways, but in this especially, is the fruit of
letters, that banishing the reserve of intervening place and time, they
bring friends into each other’s presence, and do not suffer noteworthy
things to be obliterated by dust. For the arts would have perished, laws
would have vanished, the offices of faith and religion would have fallen
away, and even the correct use of language would have failed, had not
the divine pity, as a remedy for human infirmity, provided letters for the
use of mortals. Ancient examples, which incite to virtue, would have
corrected and served no one, had not the pious solicitude of writers
transmitted them to posterity.... Who would know the Alexanders and
the Caesars, or admire Stoics and Peripatetics, had not the monuments
of writers signalized them? Triumphal arches promote the glory of
illustrious men from the carved inscription of their deeds. Thereby the
observer recognizes the Liberator of his Country, the Establisher of
Peace. The light of fame endures for no one save through his own or
another’s writing. How many and how great kings thinkest thou there
have been, of whom there is neither speech nor cogitation? Vainly have
men stormed the heights of glory, if their fame does not shine in the
light of letters. Other favour or distinction is as fabled Echo, or the
plaudits of the Play, ceasing the moment it has begun.
“Besides all this, solace in grief, recreation in labour, cheerfulness in
poverty, modesty amid riches and delights, faithfully are bestowed by
letters. For the soul is redeemed from its vices, and even in adversity
refreshed with sweet and wondrous cheer, when the mind is intended

upon reading or writing what is profitable. Thou shalt find in human life
no more pleasing or more useful employment; unless perchance when,
with heart dilated through prayer and divine love, the mind perceives
and arranges within itself, as with the hand of meditation, the great
things of God. Believe one who has tried it, that all the sweets of the
world, compared with these exercises, are wormwood.”[166]
Hereupon, still addressing himself to his friend and patron, Thomas à
Becket, John suggests that these recreations are peculiarly beneficial to men
in their circumstances, burdened with affairs; and he puts his principles in
practice, by launching forth upon his lengthy work of learned and
philosophic disquisition.
To supplement this outline of John’s appreciation of the Classics, it will be
interesting to look into the literary interpretation of a classical poem, from
the pen of one of his contemporaries. So little is known of the author,
Bernard Silvestris, that he usually has been confused with his more famous
fellow, Bernard of Chartres. We may refer to both of them again.[167] Here
our business is solely with the Commentum Bernardi Silvestris super sex
libros Aeneidos Virgilii.[168] The writer draws from the Saturnalia of the
fifth-century grammarian, Macrobius; but his allegorical interpretation of
the Aeneid seems to be his own. He finds in the Aeneid a twofold
consideration, in that its author meant to teach philosophic truth, and at the
same time was not inattentive to the poetic plot.
“Since then Virgil in this poem is both philosopher and poet, we shall
first expound the purpose and method of the poet.... His aim is to unfold
the calamities of Aeneas and other Trojans, and the labours of the exiles.
Herein disregarding the truth of history as told by Dares the Phrygian,
[169] and seeking to win the favour of Augustus, he adorns the facts with
figments. For Virgil, greatest of Latin poets, wrote in imitation of
Homer, greatest of Greek poets. As Homer in the Iliad narrates the fall
of Troy and in the Odyssey the exile of Ulysses; so Virgil in the second
Book briefly relates the overthrow of Troy, and in the rest the labours of
Aeneas. Consider the twin order of narration, the natural and the artistic
(artificialem). The natural is when the narrative proceeds according to
the sequence of events, telling first what happened first. Lucan and
Statius keep to this order. The artistic is when we begin in the middle of

the story, and thence revert to the commencement. Terence writes thus,
and Virgil in this work. It would have been the natural order to have
described first the destruction of Troy, and then brought the Trojans to
Crete, from Crete to Sicily, and from Sicily to Libya. But he first brings
them to Dido, and introduces Aeneas relating the overthrow of Troy and
the other things that he has suffered.[170]
“Up to this point we show how he proceeds: next let us observe why he
does it so. With poets there is the reason of usefulness, as with a satirist;
the reason of pleasure, as with a writer of comedies; and again these two
combined, as with the historical poet. As Horace says:

‘Aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae,
Aut simul et iucunda et idonea dicere vitae.’

“This kind of a historical poem is shown by its figurative and polished
diction and in the various mischances and deeds narrated. If any one
will study to imitate it he will gain skill in writing. The narrative also
contains instances and arguments for following the right and avoiding
what is evil. Hence a twofold profit to the reader: skill in writing,
gained through imitation, and prudence in conduct, drawn from
example and precept. For instance, in the labours of Aeneas we have an
example of endurance; and one of piety, in his affection for Anchises
and Ascanius. From the reverence which he shows the gods, from the
oracles which he supplicates, from the sacrifices which he offers, from
the vows and prayers which he pours forth, we feel drawn to religion:
while through Dido’s unbridled love, we are recalled from desire for the
forbidden.”
The above is excellent, but not particularly original. It shows, however, that
Bernard could appreciate the Aeneid in this way. His allegorical
interpretation is of a piece with current mediaeval methods. Yet to take a
poem allegorically was not distinctively mediaeval; for Homer and other
poets had been thus expounded from the days of Plato, who did not himself
approve. With Bernard, each Book of the Aeneid represents one of the ages
of man, the first Book betokening infancy, the second boyhood, and so
forth. Allegorical etymologies are applied to the names of the personages;

and in general the whole natural course and setting of the poem is taken
allegorically. “The sea is the human body moved and tossed by drunkenness
and lusts, which are represented by waves.” Aeneas, to wit, the human soul
joined to its body, comes to Carthage, the mundane city where Dido reigns,
which is lust; this allegory is unfolded in detail. So the interpretation ambles
on, not more and not less jejune than such ingenuities usually are.

Classical studies reached their zenith in the twelfth century. For in every
way that century surpassed its predecessors; and in classical studies it
excelled the thirteenth, which devoted to them a smaller portion of its
intellectual energies. The twelfth century, to be sure, was prodigiously
interested in dialectic and theology. Yet these had not quite engulfed the
humanities; nor had any newly awakened interest in physical or
experimental science distracted the eyes of men from the charms of the
ancient written page. The change took place in the thirteenth century. Its
best intellectual efforts, north of the Alps at least, were directed to the study
and theological appropriation of the Aristotelian encyclopaedia of
metaphysics and universal knowledge.[171] The effect of Aristotle was
totally unliterary. And the minds of men, absorbed in mastering this giant
mass of knowledge and argument, ceased to regard literary form and the
humane aspects of Latin literature.
Until the thirteenth century, dialectic and theology were not completely
severed from belles lettres. The Platonic-Augustinian theology of the
twelfth century had been idealizing and imaginative, not to say poetical.
Such an interesting exponent of it as Hugo of St. Victor appears as a literary
personage, despite his stinted advocacy of classical study. One notes that for
his time the chief single source of physical knowledge was the Latin
version of the Timaeus, certainly not a prosaic composition. Thus, for the
twelfth century, an effective cause of the continuance of the study of letters
lay herein: whatever branch of natural knowledge might allure the student,
he could not draw it bodily from a serious but unliterary repository, like the
Physics or De animalibus of Aristotle, which were not yet available; he
must follow his bent through the writings of various Latin poets as well as
prose-writers. In fine, the sources of profane knowledge open to the twelfth

century were literary in their nature, and might form part of the literature
which would be read by a student of grammar or rhetoric.
One sees this in John of Salisbury. There may have been a few men who
knew more than he did of some particular topic. But his range and readiness
of knowledge were unique. And it is evident from his writings that his
knowledge (except in logic) had no special or scientific source, but was
derived from a promiscuous reading of Latin literature. As a result, he is
himself a literary man. One may say much the same of his younger
contemporary, Alanus de Insulis.[172] He too has gathered knowledge from
literary sources, and he himself is one of the best Latin poets of the Middle
Ages. Another extremely poetic philosopher was Bernard Silvestris, the
interpreter of Virgil. His De mundi unitate is a Pantheistic exposition of the
Universe; it is also a poem; and incidentally it affords another illustration of
the general fact, that before the works of Aristotle were made known and
expounded in the thirteenth century, all kinds of natural and quasi-
philosophic knowledge were drawn from a variety of writings, some of
them poor enough from any point of view, but none of them distinctly
scientific and unliterary, like the works of Aristotle. Formal logic or
dialectic, as cultivated by Abaelard for example, appears as an exception. It
had been specialized and more scientifically treated than any branch of
substantial knowledge; for indeed it was based on the logical treatises of
Aristotle, most of which were in use before Abaelard’s death, and all of
which were known to Thierry of Chartres and John of Salisbury.[173]
The contrast between the cathedral school of Chartres and the University of
Paris illustrates the change from the twelfth to the thirteenth century. The
former has been spoken of in a previous chapter, where its story was
brought down to the times of its great teachers, Bernard and Thierry, of
whom we shall have to speak in connection with the teaching of grammar
and the reading of classical authors. The school flourished exceedingly until
the middle of the twelfth century.[174] By that time the schools of Paris had
received an enormous impetus from the popularity of Abaelard, and
scholars had begun to push thither from all quarters. But it was not till the
latter part of the century that the University, with its organization of Masters
and Faculties, began visibly to emerge out of the antecedent cathedral
school.[175] Chartres was a home of letters; and there Latin literature was
read enthusiastically. But in Paris Abaelard was pre-eminently a

dialectician; and after he died, through those decades when the University
was coming into existence, the tide of study set irresistibly toward theology
and metaphysics. Students and masters of the Faculty of Arts outnumbered
all the other Faculties; nevertheless, counting not by tumultuous numbers,
but by intellectual strength, the great matter was Theology, and the majority
of the Masters in the Arts were students in the divine science. The Arts were
regarded as a preparatory discipline. So through its great period, which
roughly coincides with the thirteenth century, the University of Paris was
for all Europe the supreme seat of Dialectic, Metaphysics, and Theology,
and yet no kindly nurse of belles lettres.
The tendencies of Oxford were not quite the same as those of Paris, yet
Latin literature as such does not seem to have been cultivated there for its
own fair sake. This apparently was unaffected by the fact that a movement
for “close” or exact scholarship existed at the English university.
Grosseteste, its first great chancellor, teacher and inspirer, unquestionably
introduced, or encouraged, the study of Greek; and his famous pupil, Roger
Bacon, was a serious Greek scholar, and wrote a grammar of that tongue.
But neither Grosseteste nor Bacon appears to have been moved by any
literary interest in Greek literature; both one and the other urged the
importance of Greek, and of Hebrew too and Arabic, in order to reach a
surer knowledge of Scripture and Aristotle. They sought to open the
veritable founts of theology and natural knowledge, an intelligent aim
indeed, but quite unliterary. In spirit both these men belong to the thirteenth
century, not to the twelfth.[176]
In Italy, one does not find that the passage from the twelfth to the thirteenth
century displays the decline in classical studies which is apparent north of
the Alps. The reasons seem obvious. The passion for metaphysical theology
did not invade this land of practical ecclesiasticism and urban living, where
pagan antiquity, dumb, broken, and defaced, yet everywhere surviving, was
the medium of life and thought and temperamental inclination in the
thirteenth as well as in the twelfth century. Nor was Italy as yet becoming
scientific, or greatly interested in physical hypothesis; although medicine
was cultivated in various centres, Salerno, for example, and Bologna. But
for the twelfth, and for the thirteenth century as well, Italy’s great
intellectual achievement was in the two closely neighbouring sciences of
canon and civil law. These made the University of Bologna as pre-eminent

in law as Paris was in theology. There had been schools of grammar and
rhetoric at Bologna and Ravenna, before the lecturing of Irnerius on the
Pandects drew to the first-named town the concourse of mature and seemly
students who were gradually to organize themselves into a university.[177]
Thus at Bologna law flourished and grew great, springing upward from an
antecedent base of grammatical if not literary studies. The study of the law
never cut itself away from this foundation. For the exigencies of legal
business demanded training in the scrivener’s and notarial arts of inditing
epistles and drawing documents, for which the ars dictaminis, to wit, the art
of composition was of primary utility. This ars, teaching as it did both the
general rules of composition and the more specific forms of legal or other
formal documents, pertained to law as well as grammar. Of the latter study
it was perhaps in Italy the main element, or, rather, end. But even without
this hybrid link of the dictamen, grammar was needed for the interpretation
of the Pandects; and indeed some of the glosses of Irnerius and other early
glossators are grammatical rather than legal explanations of the text. We
should bear in mind that this august body of jurisprudential law existed not
in the inflated statutory Latin of Justinian’s time, but in the sonorous and
correct language of the earlier empire, when the great Jurists lived, as well
as Quintilian. Accordingly a close study of the Pandects required, as well as
yielded, a knowledge of classical Latinity. Thus law tended to foster, rather
than repress, grammar and rhetoric; and had no unfavourable effect on
classical studies. And even as such studies “flourished” in Italy in the
eleventh and twelfth centuries, they did not cease to “flourish,” there in the
thirteenth, in the same general though rather dull and uncreative way. For it
will hereafter appear that the productions of the Latin poets and rhetoricians
of Italy were below the literary level of those composed north of the Loire
in France, or in England.

II
From the days of the Roman Empire, the study of grammar was, and never
ceased to be, the basis of the conscious and rational knowledge of the Latin
tongue. The Roman boys studied it at Rome; the Latin-speaking provincials
studied it, and all people of education who remained in the lands of western
Europe which once had formed part of the Empire; its study was renewed

under Charlemagne; he and Alcuin and all the scholars of the ninth century
were deeply interested in what to them represented tangible Latinity, and in
fact was to be a chief means by which their mediaeval civilization should
maintain its continuity with its source. For grammar was most instrumental
in preserving mediaeval Latin from violent deflections, which would have
left the ancient literature as the literature of a forgotten tongue. Had
mediaeval Latin failed to keep itself veritable Latin; had it instead suffered
transmutation into local Romance dialects, the Latin classics, and all that
hung from them, might have become as unknown to the Middle Ages as the
Greek, and even have been lost forever. It was the study of Latin grammar,
with classic texts to illustrate its rules, that kept Latin Latin, and preserved
standards of universal usage throughout western Europe, by which one
language was read and spoken everywhere by educated people. From
century to century this language suffered modification, and varied
according to the knowledge and training of those who used it; yet its
changes were never such as to destroy its identity as a language, or prevent
the Latin writer of one age or country from understanding whatever in any
land or century had been written in that perennial tongue.
Therefore fortunately, as the Carolingian scholars studied Latin grammar, so
likewise did those of all succeeding mediaeval generations, thereby holding
themselves to at least a homogeneity, though not an unvarying uniformity,
of usage. Evidently, however, the method of grammatical instruction had to
vary with the needs of the learners and the teachers’ skill. The Romans
prattled Latin on their mothers’ knees; and so, with gradually widening
deflections, did the Latinized provincials. Neither Roman nor Provincial
prattled Ciceronian periods, or used quite the vocabulary of Virgil; yet it
was Latin that they talked. Thenceforward there was to be a difference
between the people who lived in countries where Romance dialects had
emerged from the spoken Latin and prevailed, and those people who spoke
a Teuton speech. Although always drawing away, the natal speech of
Romance peoples was so like Latin, that in learning it they seemed rather to
correct their vulgar tongue than to acquire a new language. So it was in the
Christian parts of Spain, in Gaul, and, above all, in Italy, where the vulgar
dialects were tardiest in taking distinctive form. Nevertheless, as the
Romance dialects, for instance in the country north of the Loire, developed
into the various forms of what is called Old French, young people at school

would have to learn Latin as a quasi-foreign tongue. Across the Rhine in
Germany boys ordinarily had to learn it at school, as a strange language,
just as they must to-day; and every effort was devoted to this end.[178] It
was not likely that the grammars composed for Roman boys, or at least for
boys who spoke Latin from their infancy, would altogether meet the needs
of German, or even French, youth. Yet only gradually and slowly in the
Middle Ages were grammars put together to make good the insufficiencies
of Donatus and Priscian.
The former was the teacher of St. Jerome. He composed a short work, in the
form of questions and answers, explaining the eight parts of speech, but
giving no rules of gender, or forms of declension and conjugation, needed
for the instruction of those who, unlike the Roman youth, could not speak
the language. This little book went by the name of the Ars minor. The same
grammarian composed a more extensive work, the third book of which was
called the Barbarismus, after its opening chapter. It defined the figures of
speech (figurae, locutiones), and was much used through the mediaeval
period.
The Ars minor explained in simple fashion the elements of speech. But the
Institutiones grammaticae of Priscian, a contemporary of Cassiodorus,
offered a mine of knowledge. Of its eighteen books the first sixteen were
devoted to the parts of speech and their forms, considered under the
variations of gender, declension, and conjugation. The remaining two
treated of constructio or syntax. As early as the tenth century Priscian was
separated into these two parts, which came to be known as Priscianus
major and minor. The Priscian manuscripts, whose name is legion, usually
present the former. Diffuse in language, confused in arrangement, and
overladen perhaps with its thousands of examples, it was berated for its
labyrinthine qualities even in the Middle Ages; yet its sixteen books
remained the chief source of etymological knowledge. Priscianus minor
was less widely used.
The grammarians of the ninth, tenth, and eleventh centuries followed
Donatus and Priscian, making extracts from their works, or abridgements,
and now and then introducing examples of deviation from the ancient
usage. The last came usually from the Vulgate text of Scripture, which
sometimes departed from the idioms or even word-forms approved by the

old authorities.[179] The Ars minor of Donatus became enveloped in
commentaries; but Priscian was so formidable that in these early centuries
he was merely glossed, that is, annotated in brief marginal fashion.
It would be tedious to dwell upon mediaeval grammatical studies. But the
tendencies characterizing them in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries may
be indicated briefly. The substance of the Priscianus major was followed by
mediaeval grammarians. That is to say, while admitting certain novelties,
[180] they adhered to its rules and examples relating to the forms of words,
their declension and conjugation. But the Priscianus minor, although used,
was departed from. In the first place its treatment of its subject (syntax) was
confused and inadequate. There was, however, a broader reason for seeking
rules elsewhere. Mediaeval Latin, in its progress as a living or quasi-living
language, departed from the classical norms far more in syntax and
composition than in word-forms. The latter continued much the same as in
antiquity. But the popular and so to speak Romance tendencies of
mediaeval Latin brought radical changes of word-order and style, which
worked back necessarily upon the rules of syntax. These had been but
hazily stated by the old writers, and the task of constructing an adequate
Latin syntax remained undone. It was a task of vital importance for the
preservation of the Latin tongue. Word-forms alone will not preserve the
continuity of a language; it is essential that their use in speech and writing
should be kept congruous through appropriate principles of syntax. Such
were intelligently formulated by mediaeval grammarians. The result was
not exactly what it would have been had the task been carried out in the
fourth century: yet it has endured in spite of the attacks, pseudo-attacks
indeed, of the cinquecento; and the mediaeval treatment of Latin syntax is
the basis of the modern treatment. One may add that syntax or constructio
was taken broadly as embracing not only the agreements of number and
gender, and the governing[181] of cases, but also the order of words in a
sentence, which had changed so utterly between the time of Cicero and
Thomas Aquinas.
These general statements find illustration in the famous Doctrinale of
Alexander de Villa-Dei, whose author was born in Normandy in the latter
half of the twelfth century. He studied at Paris, and in course of time was
summoned by the Bishop of Dol to instruct his nepotes in grammar. While
acting as their tutor, he appears to have helped their memory by setting his

rules in rhyme; and the bishop asked him to write a Summa of grammar in
some such fashion. Complying, he composed the Doctrinale in the year
1199, putting his work into leonine or rhyming hexameter, to make it easier
to memorize. Rarely has a school-book met with such success. It soon came
into use in Paris and elsewhere, and for some three hundred years was the
common manual of grammatical teaching throughout western Europe. It
was then attacked and apparently driven from the field by the so-called
Humanists, who, however, failed to offer anything better in its place, and
plagiarized from the work which they professed to execrate.[182]
The etymological portions of the Doctrinale follow the teachings of the
Priscianus major; the part devoted to syntax, or constructio, shows traces of
the influence of the Priscianus minor. But Alexander’s treatment of syntax
is more systematic and elaborate than Priscian’s; and he did not hesitate to
defer to the Vulgate and other Christian Latin writings. Thus he made his
work conform to contemporary usage, which its purpose was to set forth.
He did the same in the section on Prosody, in which he says that the ancient
metricians distinguished a number of feet no longer used, and he will
confine himself to six—the dactyl, spondee, trochee, anapaest, iambus, and
tribrach.[183] In contradiction to classical usage he condemns elision;[184]
and in his chapter on accent he throws over the ancient rules:

“Accentus normas legitur posuisse vetustas;
Non tamen has credo servandas tempore nostro.”[185]

Alexander was not really an innovator. He followed previous grammarians
in condemning elision, and in what he says of quantity and accent. In his
syntax he endeavoured to set forth rules conforming to the best Latin usage
of his time, like other mediaeval grammarians before him. He was indeed
vehement in his advocacy of recent and Christian authors as standards of
writing, and he inveighed against the scholars of Orleans, who read the
Classics, and would have us sacrifice to the gods and observe the indecent
festivals of Faunus and Jove.[186] But others defended the Orleans school,
and perhaps still regarded the Classics as the best arbiters of grammar and
eloquence. There exist thirteenth-century grammars which follow Priscian
more closely than Alexander does.[187] Yet his work represents the dominant
tendencies of his time.
Twelfth and thirteenth century grammarians recommended to their pupils a
variety of reading, in which mediaeval and early Christian compositions
held as large a place as Virgil and Ovid. The Doctrinale advocates no work
more emphatically than Petrus Riga’s Aurora, a versified paraphrase of
Scripture. Its author was a chorister in Rheims, and died in 1209.[188] The
works of scholastic philosophers were not cited as frequently as the
compositions of verse-writers; yet mediaeval grammarians were influenced
by the language of philosophy, and drew from its training principles which
they applied to their own science. Grammar could not help becoming
dialectical when the intellectual world was turning to logic and
metaphysics. Commencing in the twelfth century, overmasteringly in the
thirteenth, logic penetrated grammar and compelled an application of its
principles. Often grammarians might better have looked to linguistic usage
than to dialectic; yet if grammar was to become a rational science, it had to
systematize itself through principles of logic, and make use of dialectic in
its endeavour to state a reason for its rules. Those who applied logic to
grammar at least endeavoured to distinguish between the two, not always
fruitfully. But a real difference could not fail to assert itself inasmuch as
logic was in truth of universal application, while mediaeval grammar never

ceased to be the grammar of the Latin language. Nevertheless its
terminology was largely drawn from logic.[189]
So dialectic brought both good and ill, proving itself helpful in the
regulation of syntax, but banefully affecting grammarians with the
conviction that language was the creature of reason, and must conform to
principles of logic. One likewise notes with curious interest, that, from their
dialectic training apparently, grammarians first found as many species of
grammar as languages,[190] and then forsook this idea for the view that, in
order to be a science, grammar must be universal, or, as they phrased it,
one, and must possess principles not applicable specially to Greek or Latin,
but to congruous construction in the abstract; “de constructione congrua
secundum quod abstrahit ab omni lingua speciali,” are the words of the
English thirteenth-century philosopher and grammarian, Robert Kilwardby.
[191] A like idea affected Roger Bacon, who composed a Greek grammar,
[192] which appears to have been intended as the first part of a work upon
the grammars of the learned languages other than Latin. It was adapted to
afford a grounding in the elements of Greek: yet it touches matters in a way
showing that the writer had thought deeply on the affinities of languages
and the common principles of grammar. Of this the following passage is
evidence:
“Therefore, because I wish to treat of the properties of Greek grammar,
it should be known that there are differences in the Greek language, to
be hereafter noted in giving the names of these dialects (idiomata). And
I call them idiomata and not linguas, because they are not different
languages, but different properties which are peculiarities (idiomata) of
the same language.[193] Wishing to set forth Greek grammar, for the use
of the Latins, it is necessary to compare it with Latin grammar, because
I commonly speak Latin myself, seeing that the crowd does not know
Greek; also because grammar is of one and the same substance in all
languages, although varying in its non-essentials (accidentaliter), also
because Latin grammar in a certain special way is derived from Greek,
as Priscian says, and other grammarians.”[194]
The dialecticizing of grammar took place in the north, under influences
radiating from Paris, the chief dialectic centre. These did not deeply affect
grammatical studies in Italy, or in the Midi of France, which in some

respects exhibited like intellectual tendencies. Grammar was zealously
studied in Italy, but it did not there become either speculative or dialectical.
To be sure northern manuals were used, especially the Doctrinale; but the
study remained practical, an art rather than a science, and its chief element,
or end, was the ars dictaminis or dictandi. The grammatical treatises of
Italians were treatises upon this art of epistolary composition and the proper
ways of drawing documents. These works were studied also in the North,
where the ars dictaminis was by no means neglected.[195]
Latin grammar, although over-dialecticized in the North, and in Italy made
very practical, remained of necessity the foundation of classical studies, and
of mediaeval literary effort, in prose and verse. As the basis of liberal
studies, it had no truer home than the cathedral school of Chartres.[196]
Contemporary writers picture the manner in which this study was there
made to perform its most liberal office, under favourable mediaeval
conditions, in the first half of the twelfth century. The time antedates the
Doctrinale, and one notes at once that the Chartrian masters used the
ancient grammatical authorities. This is shown by the Eptateuchon of
Thierry, who was headmaster (scholasticus) and then Chancellor there for a
number of years between 1120 and 1150. As its name implies, the work was
a manual, or rather an encyclopaedia, of the Seven Arts. Thierry compiled it
from the writings of the “chief doctors on the arts.” He transcribed the Ars
minor of Donatus and then portions of his larger work. Having commended
this author for his conciseness and subtilty, Thierry next copied out the
whole of Priscian. As text-books for the second branch of the Trivium, he
gives Cicero’s De inventione rhetorica libri 2, Rhetoricorum ad Herennium
libri 4, De partitione oratoria dialogus, and concludes with the rhetorical
writings of Martianus Capella and J. Severianus.[197]
So much for the books. Now for the method of teaching as described by
John of Salisbury. He gives the practice of Bernard of Chartres, Thierry’s
elder brother, who was scholasticus and Chancellor before him, in the first
quarter of the twelfth century. John has been advocating the study of
grammar as the fundamentum atque radix of those exercises by which
virtue and philosophy are reached; and he is advising a generous reading of
the Classics by the student, and their constant use by the professor, to
illustrate his teaching.

“This method was followed by Bernard of Chartres, exundissimus
modernis temporibus fons litterarum in Gallia. By citations from the
authors he showed what was simple and regular; he brought into relief
the grammatical figures, the rhetorical colours, the artifices of sophistry,
and pointed out how the text in hand bore upon other studies; not that he
sought to teach everything in a single session, for he kept in mind the
capacity of his audience. He inculcated correctness and propriety of
diction, and a fitting use of congruous figures. Realizing that practise
strengthens memory and sharpens faculty, he urged his pupils to imitate
what they had heard, inciting some by admonitions, others by whipping
and penalties. Each pupil recited the next day something from what he
had heard on the preceding. The evening exercise, called the declinatio,
was filled with such an abundance of grammar that any one, of fair
intelligence, by attending it for a year, would have at his fingers’ ends
the art of writing and speaking, and would know the meaning of all
words in common use. But since no day and no school ought to be
vacant of religion, Bernard would select for study a subject edifying to
faith and morals. The closing part of this declinatio, or rather
philosophical recitation, was stamped with piety: the souls of the dead
were commended, a penitential Psalm was recited, and the Lord’s
Prayer.
“For those boys who had to write exercises in prose or verse, he
selected the poets and orators, and showed how they should be imitated
in the linking of words and the elegant ending of passages. If any one
sewed another’s cloth into his garment, he was reproved for the theft,
but usually was not punished. Yet Bernard gently pointed out to
awkward borrowers that whoever imitated the ancients (majores) should
himself become worthy of imitation by posterity. He impressed upon his
pupils the virtue of economy, and the values of things and words: he
explained where a meagreness and tenuity of diction was fitting, and
where copiousness or even excess should be allowed, and the advantage
of due measure everywhere. He admonished them to go through the
histories and poems with diligence, and daily to fix passages in their
memory. He advised them, in reading, to avoid the superfluous, and
confine themselves to the works of distinguished authors. For, he said
(quoting from Quintilian) that to follow out what every contemptible

person has said, is irksome and vainglorious, and destructive of the
capacity which should remain free for better things. To the same effect
he cited Augustine, and remarked that the ancients thought it a virtue in
a grammarian to be ignorant of something. But since in school exercises
nothing is more useful than to practise what should be accomplished by
the art, his scholars wrote daily in prose and verse, and proved
themselves in discussions.”[198]
This passage indicates with what generous use of the auctores Bernard
expounded grammar and explained the orators and poets; how he assigned
portions of their works for memorizing, and with what care he corrected his
pupils’ prose and metrical compositions, criticizing their knowledge and
their taste. He was a man mindful of his Christian piety toward the dead and
living, but caring greatly for the Classics, and loving study. “The old man of
Chartres (senex Carnotensis),” says John of Salisbury, meaning Bernard,
“named wisdom’s keys in a few lines, and though I am not taken with the
sweetness of the metre, I approve the sense:

‘Mens humilis, studium quaerendi, vita quieta,
Scrutinium tacitum, paupertas, terra aliena....’”[199]

Bernard, Thierry, and other masters and scholars of their school, as the
advocates of classical education, detested the men called by John of
Salisbury Cornificiani, who were for shortening the academic course, as
one would say to-day, so that the student might finish it up in two or three
years, and proceed to the business of life. A good many in the twelfth
century adopted this notion, and turned from the pagan classics, not as
impious, but as a waste of time. Some of the good scholars of Chartres lost
heart, among them William of Conches and a certain Richard, both teachers
of John of Salisbury. They had followed Bernard’s methods; “but when the
time came that so many men, to the great prejudice of truth, preferred to
seem, rather than be, philosophers and professors of the arts, engaging to
impart the whole of philosophy in less than three years, or even two, then
my masters vanquished by the clamour of the ignorant crowd, stopped.
Since then, less time has been given to grammar. So it has come about that
those who profess to teach all the arts, both liberal and mechanical, are

ignorant of the first of them, without which vainly will one try to get the
rest.”[200]
Upon these people who seemed charlatans, and yet may have represented
tendencies of the coming time, Thierry, Gilbert de la Porrèe,[201] and John
of Salisbury poured their sarcasms. The controversy may have clarified
Bernard’s consciousness of the value of classical studies and deepened his
sense of obligation to the ancients, until it drew from him perhaps the finest
of mediaeval utterances touching the matter: “Bernard of Chartres used to
say that we were like dwarfs seated on the shoulders of giants. If we see
more and further than they, it is not due to our own clear eyes or tall bodies,
but because we are raised on high and upborne by their gigantic
bigness.”[202]
Echoes of this same controversy—have they ever quite died away?—are
heard in letters of the scholarly Peter of Blois, who was educated at Paris in
the middle of the twelfth century, became a secretary of Henry Plantagenet
and spent the greater part of his life in England, dying about the year 1200.
He writes to a friend:
“You greatly commend your nephew, saying that never have you found
a man of subtler vein: because, forsooth, skimming over grammar, and
skipping the reading of the classical authors, he has flown to the
trickeries of the logicians, where not in the books themselves but from
abstracts and note-books, he has learned dialectic. Knowledge of letters
cannot rest on such, and the subtilty you praise may be pernicious. For
Seneca says, nothing is more odious than subtilty when it is only
subtilty. Some people, without the elements of education, would discuss
point and line and superficies, fate, chance and free-will, physics and
matter and the void, the causes of things and the secrets of nature and
the sources of the Nile! Our tender years used to be spent in rules of
grammar, analogies, barbarisms, solecisms, tropes, with Donatus,
Priscian, and Bede, who would not have devoted pains to these matters
had they supposed that a solid basis of knowledge could be got without
them. Quintilian, Caesar, Cicero, urge youths to study grammar. Why
condemn the writings of the ancients? it is written that in antiquis est
scientia. You rise from the darkness of ignorance to the light of science
only by their diligent study. Jerome glories in having read Origen;

Horace boasts of reading Homer over and over. It was much to my
profit, when as a little chap I was studying how to make verses, that, as
my master bade me, I took my matter not from fables but from truthful
histories. And I profited from the letters of Hildebert of Le Mans, with
their elegance of style and sweet urbanity; for as a boy I was made to
learn some of them by heart. Besides other books, well known in the
schools, I gained from keeping company with Trogus Pompeius,
Josephus, Suetonius, Hegesippus, Quintus Curtius, Tacitus and Livy, all
of whom throw into their histories much that makes for moral
edification and the advance of liberal science. And I read other books,
which had nothing to do with history—very many of them. From all of
them we may pluck sweet flowers, and cultivate ourselves from their
urbane suavity of speech.”[203]
In another letter Peter writes to his bishop of Bath, as touching the
accusation of some “hidden detractor,” that he, Peter, is but a useless
compiler, who fills letters and sermons with the plunder of the ancients and
Holy Writ:
“Let him cease, or he will hear what he does not like; for I am full of
cracks, and can hold in nothing, as Terence says. Let him try his hand at
compiling, as he calls it.—But what of it! Though dogs may bark and
pigs may grunt, I shall always pattern on the writings of the ancients;
with them shall be my occupation; nor ever, while I am able, shall the
sun find me idle.”[204]
It is evident how broadly Peter of Blois, or John of Salisbury, or the
Chartrians, were read in the Latin Classics. Peter mentions even Tacitus, a
writer not thought to have been much read in the Middle Ages. We have
been looking at the matter rather in regard to poetry and eloquence—belles
lettres. But one may also note the same broad reading (among the few who
read at all) on the part of those who sought for the ethical wisdom of the
ancients. This is apparent (perhaps more apparent than real) with Abaelard,
who is ready with a store of antique ethical citations.[205] It is also borne
witness to by the treatise Moralis philosophia de honesto et utili, placed
among the works of Hildebert of Le Mans,[206] but probably from the pen of
William of Conches, grammaticus post Bernardum Carnotensem
opulentissimus, as John of Salisbury calls him.[207] In some manuscripts it

is entitled Summa moralium philosophorum, quite appropriately. One might
hardly compare it for organic inclusiveness with the Christian Summa of
Thomas Aquinas; but it may very well be likened to the more compact
Sentences of the Lombard[208] which were so solidly put together about the
same time. The Lombard drew his Sentences from the writings of the
Church Fathers; William’s work consists of moral extracts, mainly from
Cicero, Seneca, Sallust, Terence, Horace, Lucan, and Boëthius. The first
part, De honesto, reviews Prudentia, Justitia, Fortitudo, and under these a
number of particular virtues in correspondence with which the extracts are
arranged. The De utili considers the adventitious goods of circumstance and
fortune.
The extracts forming the substance of this work were intelligently selected
and smoothly joined; and the treatise was much used by those who studied
the antique philosophy of life. It was drawn upon, for instance, by that
truculent and well-born Welshman, Giraldus Cambrensis, in his De
instructione principum, which the author wrote partly to show how evilly
Henry Plantagenet performed the functions of a king. This irrepressible
claimant of St. David’s See had been long a prickly thorn for Henry’s side.
[209] But he was a scholar, and quotes from the whole range of the Latin
Classics.

III
When a man is not a mere transcriber, but puts something of himself into
the product of his pen, his work will reflect his personality, and may
disclose the various factors of his spiritual constitution. To discover from
the writings of mediaeval scholars the effect of their classical studies upon
their characters is of greater interest than to trace from their citations the
authors read by them. Such a compilation as the Summa moralium which
has just been noticed, while plainly disclosing the latter information, tells
nothing of the personality of him who strung the extracts together. Yet he
had read writings which could hardly have failed to influence him. Cicero
and Seneca do not leave their reader unchanged, especially if he be seeking
ethical instruction. And there was a work known to this particular compiler
which moved men in the Middle Ages. Deep must have been the effect of

that book so widely read and pondered on and loved, the De consolatione of
Boëthius with its intimate consolings, its ways of reasoning and looking
upon life, its setting of the intellectual above the physical, its insistence that
mind rather than body makes the man. Imagine it brought home to a
vigorous struggling personality—imagine Alfred reading and translating it,
and adding to it from the teachings of his own experience.[210] The study of
such a book might form the turning of a mediaeval life; at least could not
fail to temper the convulsions of a soul storm-driven amid unreconcilable
spiritual conflicts.
One may look back even to the time of Alfred or Charlemagne and note
suggestions coming from classical reading. For instance, the antique
civilization being essentially urban, words denoting qualities of disciplined
and polished men had sprung from city life, as contrasted with rustic
rudeness. Thus the word urbanitas passed over into mediaeval use when the
quality itself hardly existed outside of the transmitted Latin literature. For
an Anglo-Saxon or a Frank to use and even partly comprehend its
significance meant his introduction to a new idea. Alcuin writes to
Charlemagne that he knows how it rejoices the latter to meet with zeal for
learning and church discipline, and how pleasing to him is anything which
is seasoned with a touch of wit—urbanitatis sale conditum.[211] And again,
in more curious phrase, he compliments a certain worthy upon his metrical
exposition of the creed, “wherein I have found gold-spouting whirlpools
(aurivomos gurgites) of spiritual meanings abounding with gems of
scholastic wit (scholasticae urbanitatis).”[212] Though doubtless this
“scholastic wit” was flat enough, it was something for these men to get the
notion of what was witty and entertaining through a word so vocalized with
city life as urbanitas, a word that we have seen used quite knowingly by the
more sophisticated scholar, Peter of Blois.
Again, it is matter of common observation that a feeling for nature’s
loveliness depends somewhat on the growth of towns. But mediaeval men
constantly had the idea suggested to them by the classic poetry of city-
dwelling poets. Here are some lines by Alcuin or one of his friends,
expressing sentiments which never came to them from the woods with
which they were disagreeably familiar:

“O mea cella, mihi habitatio, dulcis, amata,
Semper in aeternum, o mea cella, vale.
Undique te cingit ramis resonantibus arbos,
Silvula florigeris semper onusta comis.”[213]

These are little hints of the effect of the antique literature upon men who
still were somewhat rough-hewn. Advancing a century and a half, the
influence of classic study is seen, as it were, “in the round” in Gerbert.[214]
It is likewise clear and full in John of Salisbury, of whom we have spoken,
and shall speak again.[215] For an admirable example, however, of the subtle
working of the antique literature upon character and temperament, we may
look to that scholar-prelate whose letters the youthful Peter of Blois studied
with profit, Hildebert of Lavardin, Bishop of Le Mans, and Archbishop of
Tours. He shows the effect of the antique not so strikingly in the knowledge
which he possessed or the particular opinions which he entertained, as in
the balance and temperance of his views, and incidentally in his fine facility
of scholarship.
Hildebert was born at Lavardin, a village near the mouth of the Loire, about
the year 1055. He belonged to an unimportant but gentle family. Dubious
tradition has it that one of his teachers was Berengar of Tours, and that he
passed some time in the monastery of Cluny, of whose great abbot, Hugh,
he wrote a life. It is more probable that he studied at Le Mans. But whatever
appears to have been the character of his early environment, Hildebert
belongs essentially to the secular clergy, and never was a monk. While
comparatively young, he was made head of the cathedral school of Le
Mans, and then archdeacon. In the year 1096, the old bishop of Le Mans
died, and Hildebert, then about forty years of age, was somewhat quickly
chosen his successor, by the clergy and people of the town, in spite of the
protests of certain of the canons of the cathedral. The none too happy
scholar-bishop found himself at once a powerless but not negligible element
of a violently complicated feudal situation. There was the noble Helias,
Count of Maine, who was holding his domain against Robert de Bellesme,
the latter slackly supported by William Rufus of England, who claimed the
overlordship of the land. Helias reluctantly acquiesced in Hildebert’s
election. Not so Rufus, who never ceased to hate and persecute the man that

had obtained the see which had been in the gift of his father, William the
Conqueror. It happened soon after that Count Helias was taken prisoner by
his opponent, and was delivered over to Rufus at Rouen. But Fulk of Anjou
now thrust himself into this feudal mêlée, appeared at Le Mans, entered,
and was acknowledged as its lord. He left a garrison, and departed before
the Red King reached the town. The latter began its siege, but soon made
terms with Fulk, by which Le Mans was to be given to Rufus, Helias was to
be set free, and many other matters were left quite unsettled.
Now Rufus entered the town (1098), where Hildebert nervously received
him; Helias, set free by the King, offered to become his feudal retainer;
Rufus would have none of him; so Helias defied the King, and was
permitted to go his way by that strange man, who held his knightly honour
sacred, but otherwise might commit any atrocity prompted by rage or greed.
It was well for Helias that trouble with the French King now drew Rufus to
the north. The next year, 1099, Rufus in England heard that the Count had
renewed the war, and captured Le Mans, except the citadel. He hurried
across the channel, rushed through the land, entered Le Mans, and passed
on through it, chasing Helias. But the war languished, and Rufus returned to
Le Mans, or to what was left of it. Hildebert had cause to tremble. He had
met the King on the latter’s hurried arrival from England for the war. Rufus
had spoken him fair. But now, at Le Mans, he was accused before the
monarch of complicity in the revolt. Quickly flared the King’s anger against
the man whom he never had ceased to detest. He ordered him to pull down
the towers of his cathedral, which rose threatening and massive over the
city’s ruins and the citadel of the King. What could the defenceless bishop
do to avert disgrace and the desolation of his beloved church? Words were
left him, but they did not prove effectual. Rufus commanded him to choose
between immediate compliance and going to England, there to submit
himself to the judgment of the English bishops. He accepted the latter
alternative, and followed the King, leaving his diocese ruined and his
people dispersed. In England, Rufus dangled him along between fear and
hope, till at last the disheartened prelate returned to the Continent, having
ambiguously consented to pull down those towers. But instead, he set to
work to repair the devastation of his diocese. The reiterated mandate of the
King was not long in following him, and this time coupled with an
accusation of treason. Hildebert’s state was desperate. His clergy were

forbidden to obey him, his palace was sacked, his own property destroyed.
Such were William’s methods of persuasion. Then the King proposed that
the bishop should purge himself by the ordeal of hot iron. Hildebert, the
bishop, the theologian, the scholar, was almost on the verge of taking up the
challenge, when a letter from Yves, the saintly Bishop of Chartres,
dissuaded him. At this moment, with ruin for his portion, and no escape, an
arrow ended the Red King’s life in the New Forest. It was the year of grace
1100.
Now, what a change! Henry Beauclerc was from the first his friend, as
William Rufus to the last had been his enemy. Hitherto Hildebert has
appeared weakly endeavouring to elude destruction, and perhaps with no
unshaken loyalty in his bosom toward any cause except his dire necessities.
Henceforth, sailing a calmer sea, he repays Henry’s favour with adherence
and admiration. He has no support to offer Anselm of Canterbury, still
struggling with the English monarchy over investitures; nor has he one
word of censure for the clever cold-eyed scholar King who kept his brother,
Robert of Normandy, a prisoner for twenty-eight years till he died.
Hildebert had still thirty years of life before him; nor were they all to be
untroubled. Shortly after the Red King’s death, he made a voyage to Rome,
to obtain the papal benediction. To judge from his poems, he was deeply
impressed with the ruins of the ancient city. Returning he devoted himself
to the affairs of his diocese and to rebuilding the cathedral and other
churches of Le Mans. In 1125, in spite of his unwillingness, for he was
seventy years old, he was enthroned Archbishop of Tours, where he was to
be worried by disputes with Louis le Gros of France over investitures. But
he acquitted himself with vigour, especially through his letters. A famous
one relates to this struggle of his closing years:
“In adversity it is a comfort to hope for happier times. Long has this
hope flattered me; and as the harvest in the fields cheers the
countryman, the expectation of a fair season has comforted my soul.
But now I no longer hope for the clearing of the cloudy weather, nor see
where the storm-driven ship, on whose deck I sit, may gain the harbour
of rest.

“Friends are silent; silent are the priests of Jesus Christ. And those also
are silent through whose prayers I thought the king would be reconciled
with me. I thought indeed, but in their silence the king has added to the
pain of my wounds. Yet it was theirs to resist the injury to the canonical
institutes of the Church. Theirs was it, if the matter had demanded it, to
raise a wall before the house of Israel. Yet with the most serene king
there is call for exhortation rather than threat, for advice rather than
command, for instruction rather than the rod. By these he should have
been drawn to agree, by these reverently taught not to sheath his arrows
in an aged priest, nor make void the canonical laws, nor persecute the
ashes of a church already buried, ashes in which I eat the bread of grief,
in which I drink the cup of mourning, from which to be snatched away
and escape is to pass from death to life.
“Yet amid these dire straits, anger has never triumphed over me, that I
should raise a hue and cry against the anointed of the Lord, or wrest
peace from him with the strong hand and by the arm of the Church.
Suspect is the peace to which high potentates are brought not by love,
but by force. Easily is it broken, and sometimes the final state is worse
than the first. There is another way by which, Christ leading, I can
better reach it. I will cast my thought upon the Lord, and He will give
me the desire of my heart. The Lord remembered Joseph, forgotten by
Pharaoh’s chief butler when prosperity had returned to him; He
remembered David abandoned by his own son. Perhaps He will
remember even me, and bring the tossing ship to rest on the desired
shore. He it is who looks upon the petition of the meek, and does not
spurn their prayers. He it is in whose hand the hearts of kings are wax.
If I shall have found grace in His eyes, I shall easily obtain the grace of
the king or advantageously lose it. For to offend man for the sake of
God is to win God’s grace.”[216]
Hildebert was a classical scholar, and in his time unmatched as a writer of
Latin prose and verse. Many of his elegiac poems survive, some of them so
antique in sentiment and so correct in metre as to have been taken for
products of the pagan period. One of the best is an elegy on Rome
obviously inspired by his visit to that city of ruins:

“Par tibi, Roma, nihil, cum sis prope tota ruina.”

Its closing lines are interesting:

“Hic superûm formas superi mirantur et ipsi,
Et cupiunt fictis vultibus esse pares.
Non potuit natura deos hoc ore creare
Quo miranda deûm signa creavit homo.
Vultus adest his numinibus, potiusque coluntur
Artificum studio quam deitate sua.
Urbs felix, si vel dominis urbs illa careret,
Vel dominis esset turpe carere fide!”

Such phrases, such frank admiration for the idols of pagan Rome, are
startling from the pen of a contemporary of St. Bernard. The spell of the
antique lay on Hildebert, as on others of his time. “The gods themselves
marvel at their own images, and desire to equal their sculptured forms.
Nature was unable to make gods with such visages as man has created in
these wondrous images of the gods. There is a look (vultus) about these
deities, and they are worshipped for the skill of the sculptor rather than for
their divinity.”[217] Hildebert was not only a bishop, he was a Christian; but
the sense and feeling of ancient Rome had entered into him. Besides the
poem just quoted, he wrote another, either in Rome or after his return,
Christian in thought but most antique in sympathy and turn of phrase.

“Dum simulacra mihi, dum numina vana placerent,
Militia, populo, moenibus alta fui;
· · · · · · · ·
ruit alta senatus
Gloria, procumbunt templa, theatra jacent.”

The antique feeling of these lines is hardly balanced by the expressed
sentiment: “plus Caesare Petrus!”[218] And again we hear the echo of the
antique in

“Nil artes, nil pura fides, nil gloria linguae,
Nil fons ingenii, nil probitas sine re.”[219]

Hildebert has also a poem “On his Exile,” perhaps written while in England
with the Red King. Quite in antique style it sings the loss of friends and
fields, gardens and granaries, which the writer possessed while prospera
fata smiled. Then

“Jurares superos intra mea vota teneri!”

—a very antique sentiment. But the Christian faith of the despoiled and
exiled bishop reasserts itself as the poem closes.[220] Did Hildebert also
write the still more palpably “antique” elegiacs on Hermaphrodite, and
other questionable subjects?[221] That is hard to say. He may or may not
have been the author of a somewhat scurrilous squib against a woman who
seems to have sent him verses:

“Femina perfida, femina sordida, digna catenis.

“O miserabilis, insatiabilis, insatiata,
Desine scribere, desine mittere, carmina blandia,
Carmina turpia, carmina mollia, vix memoranda,
Nec tibi mittere, nec tibi scribere, disposui me.

“Mens tua vitrea, plumbea, saxea, ferrea, nequam,
Fingere, fallere, prodere, perdere, rem putat aequam.”[222]

With all his classical leanings, the major part of Hildebert was Christian.
His theological writings which survive, his zeal against certain riotous
heretics, and in general his letters, leave no doubt of this. It is from the
Christian point of view that he gives his sincerest counsels; it is from that
that he balances the advantages of an active or contemplative life, the
claims of the Christian vita activa and vita contemplativa. Yet his classic
tastes gave temperance to his Christian views, and often drew him to sheer
scholarly pleasures and to an antique consideration of the incidents of life.

How sweetly the elements were mixed in him appears in a famous letter
written to William of Champeaux, that Goliath of realism whom Abaelard
discomfited in the Paris schools. The unhappy William retreated a little way
across the Seine, and laid the foundations of the abbey of St. Victor in the
years between 1108 and 1113. He sought to abandon his studies and his
lectures, and surrender himself to the austere salvation of his soul, and yet
scarcely with such irrevocable purpose as would rebuff the temperate
advice of Hildebert’s letter proffered with tactful understanding.
“Over thy change of life my soul is glad and exults, that at length it has
come to thee to determine to philosophize. For thou hadst not the true
odour of a philosopher so long as thou didst not cull beauty of conduct
from thy philosophic knowledge. Now, as honey from the honeycomb,
thou hast drawn from that a worthy rule of living. This is to gather all of
thee within virtue’s boundaries, no longer huckstering with nature for
thy life, but attending less to what the flesh is able for, than to what the
spirit wills. This is truly to philosophize; to live thus is already to enter
the fellowship of those above. Easily shalt thou come to them if thou
dost advance disburdened. The mind is a burden to itself until it ceases
to hope and fear. Because Diogenes looked for no favour, he feared the
power of no one. What the cynic infidel abhorred, the Christian doctor
far more amply must abhor, since his profession is so much more
fruitful through faith. For such are stumbling-blocks of conduct,
impeding those who move toward virtue.
“But the report comes that you have been persuaded to abstain from
lecturing. Hear me as to this. It is virtue to furnish the material of virtue.
Thy new way of life calls for no partial sacrifice, but a holocaust. Offer
thyself altogether to the Lord, since so He sacrificed Himself for thee.
Gold shines more when scattered than when locked up. Knowledge also
when distributed takes increase, and unless given forth, scorning the
miserly possessor, it slips away. Therefore do not close the streams of
thy learning.”[223]
Eventually William followed this, or other like advice. One sees Hildebert’s
sympathetic point of view; he entirely approves of William’s renunciation
of the world—a good bishop of the twelfth century might also have wished
to renounce its troublous honours! Yes, William has at last turned to the true

and most disburdened way of living. But this abandonment of worldly ends
entails no abandonment of Christian knowledge or surrender of the cause of
Christian learning. Nay, let William resume, and herein give himself to
God’s will without reserve.
So the letter presents a temperate and noble view of the matter, a view as
sound in the twentieth century as in the twelfth. And a like broad
consideration Hildebert brings to a more particular discussion of the two
modes of Christian living, the vita activa and the vita contemplativa, Leah
and Rachel, Martha and Mary. He amply distinguishes these two ways of
serving God from any mode of life with selfish aims. It happened that a
devout monk and friend of Hildebert was made abbot of the monastery of
St. Vincent, in the neighbourhood of Le Mans. The administrative duties of
an abbot might be as pressing as a bishop’s, and this good man deplored his
withdrawal from a life of more complete contemplation. So Hildebert wrote
him a long discursive letter, of which our extracts will give the thread of
argument:
“You bewail the peace of contemplation which is snatched away, and
the imposed burden of active responsibilities. You were sitting with
Mary at the feet of the Lord Jesus, when lo, you were ordered to serve
with Martha. You confess that those dishes which Mary receives, sitting
and listening, are more savoury than those which zealous Martha
prepares. In these, indeed, is the bread of men, in those the bread of
angels.”
And Hildebert descants upon the raptures of the vita contemplativa, of
which his friend is now bereft.
“The contemplative and the active life, my dearest brother, you
sometimes find in the same person, and sometimes apart. As the
examples of Scripture show us. Jacob was joined to both Leah and
Rachel; Christ teaches in the fields, anon He prays on the mountains;
Moses is in the tents of the people, and again speaks with God upon the
heights. So Peter, so Paul. Again, action alone is found, as in Leah and
Martha, while contemplation gleams in Mary and Rachel. Martha, as I
think, represents the clergy of our time, with whom the press of

business closes the shrine of contemplation, and dries up the sacrifice of
tears.
“No one can speak with the Lord while he has to prattle with the whole
world. Such a prattler am I, and such a priest, who when I spend the
livelong day caring for the herds, have not a moment for the care of
souls. Affairs, the enemies of my spirit, come upon me; they claim me
for their own, they thieve the private hour of prayer, they defraud the
services of the sanctuary, they irritate me with their stings by day and
infest my sleep; and what I can scarcely speak of without tears, the
creeping furtive memory of disputes follows me miserable to the altar’s
sacraments,—all such are even as the vultures which Abraham drove
away from the carcases (Gen. xv. 11).
“Nay more, what untold loss of virtue is entailed by these occupations
of the captive mind! While under their power we do not even serve with
Martha. She ministered, but to Christ; she bustled about, but for Christ.
We truly, who like Martha bustle about, and, like Martha, minister,
neither bustle about for Christ nor minister to Him. For if in such
bustling ministry thou seekest to win thine own desire, art taken with
the gossip of the mob, or with pandering to carnal pleasures, thou art
neither the Martha whom thou dost counterfeit nor the Mary for whom
thou dost sigh.
“In that case, dearest brother, you would have just cause for grief and
tears. But if you do the part of Martha simply, you do well; if, like
Jacob, you hasten to and fro between Leah and Rachel, you do better; if
with Mary you sit and listen, you do best. For action is good, whose
pressing instancy, though it kill contemplation, draws back the brother
wandering from Christ. Yet it is better, sometimes seated, to lay aside
administrative cares, and amid the irksome nights of Leah, draw fresh
life from Rachel’s loved embrace. From this intermixture the course to
the celestials becomes more inclusive, for thereby the same soul now
strives for the blessedness of men and anon participates in that of the
angels. But of the zeal single for Mary, why should I speak? Is not the
Saviour’s word enough, ‘Mary hath chosen the best part, which shall
not be taken from her.’”

And in closing, Hildebert shows his friend the abbot that for him the true
course is to follow Jacob interchanging Leah and Rachel; and then in the
watches of his pastoral duties the celestial vision shall be also his.[224]
Could any one adjust more fairly this contest, so insistent throughout the
annals of mediaeval piety, between active duties and heavenly
contemplation? The only solution for abbot and bishop was to join Leah
with Rachel. And how clearly Hildebert sees the pervasive peril of the
active life, that the prelate be drawn to serve his pleasures and not Christ.
Many souls of prelates had that cast into hell!
In theory Hildebert is clear as day, and altogether Christian, so far as we
have followed the counsels of these letters. But in fact the quiet life had for
him a temptation, to which he yielded himself more generously than to any
of the grosser lures of his high prelacy. This temptation, so alluring and
insidious, so fairly masked under the proffer of learning leading to fuller
Christian knowledge, was of course the all too beloved pagan literature, and
the all too humanly convincing plausibilities of pagan philosophy.
Hildebert’s writings evince that kind of classical scholarship which springs
only from great study and great love. His soul does not appear to have been
riven by a consciousness of sin in this behoof. Sometimes he passes so
gently from Christian to pagan ethics, as to lead one to suspect that he did
not deeply feel the inconsistency between them. Or again, he seems
satisfied with the moral reasonings of paganism, and sets them forth
without a qualm. For there was the antique pagan side of our good bishop;
and how pagan thoughts and views of life had become a part of Hildebert’s
nature, appears in a most interesting letter written to King Henry, consoling
him upon the loss of his son and the noble company so gaily sailing from
Normandy in that ill-starred White Ship in the year 1120.
Hildebert begins reminding the King how much more it is for a monarch to
rule himself than others. Hitherto he has triumphed over fortune, if fortune
be anything; now she has wounded him with her sharpest dart. Yet that
cannot penetrate the well-guarded mind. It is wisdom not to vaunt oneself in
prosperity, nor be overwhelmed with grief in adversity. Hildebert then
reasons on the excellence of man’s nature and will; he speaks of the effect
of Adam’s sin in loss of grace and entailment of misery on the human race.
He quotes from the Old Testament and from Virgil. Then he proceeds more

specifically with his fortifying arguments. Their sum is, let the breast of
man abound in weapons of defence and contemn the thrusts of fortune;
there is nothing over which the triumphant soul may not triumph.
“Unhappy he who lacks this armament; and most unhappy he who
besides does not know it. Here Democritus found matter for laughter,
Demosthenes (sic) matter for tears. Far be it from thee that the chance
cast of things should affect thee so, and the loss of wisdom follow the
loss of offspring. Thou hast suffered on dry land more grievous
shipwreck than thy son in the brine, if fortune’s storm has wrested
wisdom from the wise.”
After a while Hildebert passes on to consider what is man, and wherein
consists his welfare:
“To any one carefully considering what man is, nothing will seem more
probable than that he is a divine animal, distinguished by a certain share
of divinity (numinis). By bone and flesh he smacks of the earth. By
reason his affinity to God is shown. Moses, inspired, certifies that by
this prerogative man was created in the image of God. Whence it also
follows for man, that he should through reason recognize and love his
true good. Now reason teaches that what pertains to virtue is the true
good, and that it is within us. The things we temporally possess are
good only by opinion (opinione, i.e. not ratione), and these are about us.
What is about us is not within our jus but another’s (alterius juris sunt).
Chance directs them; they neither come nor stand under our
arbitrament. For us they are at the lender’s will (precaria), like a slave
belonging to another.[225] Through such, true felicity is neither had nor
lost. Indeed no one is happy, no one is wretched by reason of what is
another’s. It is his own that makes a man’s good or ill, and whatever is
not within him is not his own.”
Then Hildebert speaks of dignities, of wife and child, of the fruits of the
earth and riches—bona vaga, bona sunt pennata haec omnia. Men quarrel
and struggle about all these things—ecce vides quanta mundus laboret
insania.[226]
No one need point out how much more natural this reasoning would have
been from the lips of Seneca than from those of an archiepiscopal

contemporary of St. Bernard. One may, however, comment on the patent
fact that this reflection of the antique in Hildebert’s ethical consolation
reflects a manner of reasoning rather than an emotional mood, and in this it
is an instance of the general fact that mediaeval methods of reasoning
consciously or unconsciously followed the antique; while the emotion, the
love and yearning, of mediaeval religion was more largely the gift of
Christianity.

CHAPTER XXXI

EVOLUTION OF MEDIAEVAL LATIN PROSE
Classical antiquity lay far back of the mediaeval period, while in the nearer
background pressed the centuries of transition, the time of the Church
Fathers. The patristic material and a crude knowledge of the antique passed
over to the early Middle Ages. Mediaeval progress was to consist, very
largely, in the mastery and appropriation of the one and the other.
The varied illustration of these propositions has filled a large portion of this
work. In this and the next chapter we are concerned with literature, properly
speaking; and with the effect of the Classics, the pure literary antique, upon
mediaeval literary productions. The latter are to be viewed as literature; not
considering their substance, but their form, their composition, style, and
temperamental shading, qualities which show the faculties and temper of
their authors. We are to discover, if we can, wherein the qualities of
mediaeval literature reflect the Latin Classics, or in any way betray their
influence.
It is an affair of dull diligence to learn what Classics were read by the
various mediaeval writers; and likewise is it a dull affair to note in
mediaeval writings the direct borrowing from the Classics of fact, opinion,

sentiment, or phrase. Such borrowing was incessant, resorted to as of course
wherever opportunity offered and the knowledge was at hand. It would not
commonly occur to a mediaeval writer to state in his own way what he
could take from an ancient author, save in so far as change of medium—
from prose to verse, or from Latin to the vernacular—compelled him. So
the church builders in Rome never thought of hewing new blocks of stone,
or making new columns, when some ancient palace or temple afforded a
quarry. The details of such spoliations offer little interest in comparison
with the effect of antique architecture upon later styles. So we should like to
discover the effect of the ancient compositions upon the mediaeval, and
observe how far the faculties and mental processes of classic authors,
incorporate in their writings, were transmitted to mediaeval men, to become
incorporate in theirs.
Unless you are Virgil or Cicero, you cannot write like Virgil or Cicero.
Writing, real writing, that is to say, creative self-expressive composition, is
the personal product and closely mirrored reflex of the writer’s
temperament and mentality. It gives forth indirectly the influences which
have blended in him, education and environment, his past and present. His
personality makes his style, his untransmittable style. Yet a group of men
affected by the same past, and living at the same time and place, or under
like spiritual influences, may show a like faculty and taste. Having more in
common with one another than with men of other time, their mental
processes, and therefore their ways of writing, will present more common
qualities. Around and above them, as well as through their natal and
acquired faculties, sweeps the genius of the language, itself the age-long
product of a like-minded race. In harmony with it, not in opposition and
repugnancy, each writer must, if he will write that language, shape his more
personal diction.
Obviously the personal elements in classic writings were no more capable
of transmission than the personal qualities of the writers. Likewise, the
genius of the Latin language, though one might think it fixed in approved
compositions, changed with the spiritual fortune of the Roman people, and
constantly transmitted an altered self and novel tenets of construction to
control the linguistic usages of succeeding men. None but himself could
have written Cicero’s letters. No man of Juvenal’s time could have written
the Aeneid, nor any man of the time of Diocletian the histories of Tacitus.

There were, however, common elements in these compositions, all of them
possessing certain qualities which are associated with classical writing.
These may be difficult to formulate, but they become clear enough in
contrast with the qualities of mediaeval Latin literature. The mediaeval man
did not feel and reason like a contemporary of Virgil or Cicero; he had not
the same training in Greek literature; he did not have the same definitude of
conception, did not care so much that a composition should have limit and
the unity springing from adherence to a single topic; he did not, in fine,
stand on the same level of attainment and faculty and taste with men of the
Augustan time. He had his own heights and depths, his own temperament
and predilections, his own capacities. Reading the Classics had not
transformed him into Cicero or Seneca, or set his feet in the Roman Forum.
His feet wandered in the ways of the Middle Ages, and whatever he wrote
in prose or verse, in Latin or in his own vernacular, was himself and of
himself, and but indirectly due to the antecedent influences which had been
transmuted even in entering his nature and becoming part of his temper and
faculty.
Any consideration of the knowledge and appreciation of the Classics in the
Middle Ages would be followed naturally by a consideration of their effect
upon mediaeval composition; which in turn forms part of any discussion of
the literary qualities of mediaeval Latin literature. But inasmuch as
mediaeval form and diction tend to remove further and further from
classical standards, the whole discussion may seem a lucus a non lucendo
for all the light it throws upon the effect of the Classics on mediaeval
literature. Our best plan will be to note the beginnings of mediaeval Latinity
in that post-Augustan and largely patristic diction which had been enriched
and reinvigorated with many phrases from daily speech; and then to follow
the living if sluggish river as it moves on, receiving increment along its
course, its currents mottled with the silt of mediaeval Italy, France,
Germany. We shall suppose this flood to divide in rivers of Latin prose and
verse; and we may follow them, and see where they overflow their
channels, carrying antique flotsam into the ample marshes of vernacular
poetry.
There has always been a difference in diction between speech and literature.
At Rome, Cicero and Caesar, and of course the poets, did not, in writing,
use quite the language of the people. All the words of daily speech were not

taken into the literary or classical vocabulary, which had often quite other
words of its own. Moreover the writers, in forming their prose and verse
and constructing their compositions, were affected deeply by their study of
Greek literature.[227] If Caesar, Cicero, Virgil, and their friends spoke
differently from the Roman shopkeepers, there was a still greater difference
between their writings and the parlance of the town.
No one need be told that it was the spoken, and not the classical Latin,
which in Italy, Spain, Provence, and Northern France developed into Italian,
Spanish, Provençal, and French. On the other hand, the descent of written
mediaeval Latin from the classical diction or the popular speech, or both, is
not so clear, or at least not so simple. It cannot be said that mediaeval Latin
came straight from the classical; and manifestly it cannot have sprung from
the popular spoken Latin, like the Romance tongues, without other
influence or admixture; because then, instead of remaining Latin, it would
have become Romance; which it did not. Evidently mediaeval Latin, the
literary and to some extent the spoken medium of educated men in the
Middle Ages, must have carried classic strains, or have kept itself Latin by
the study of Latin grammar and a conscious adherence to a veritable, if not
classical, Latin diction. The mediaeval reading of the Classics, and the
earnest and constant study of Latin grammar spoken of in the previous
chapter, were the chief means by which mediaeval Latin maintained its
Latinity. Nevertheless, while it kept the word forms and inflections of
classical Latin, with most of the classical vocabulary, it also took up an
indefinite supplement of words from the spoken Latin of the late imperial or
patristic period.
In order to understand the genesis and qualities of mediaeval Latin, one
must bear in mind (as with most things mediaeval) that its immediate
antecedents lie in the transitional fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries, and not
in the classical period.[228] Those centuries went far toward declassicizing
Latin prose, by departing from the balanced structure of the classic
sentences and introducing words from the spoken tongue. The style became
less correct, freer, and better suited to the expression of the novel thoughts
and interests coming with Christianity. The change is seen in the works of
the men to whom it was largely due, Tertullian, Jerome, and other great
patristic writers.[229] Such men knew the Classics well, and regarded them
as literary models, and yet wrote differently. For a new spirit was upon

them and new necessities of expression, and they lived when, even outside
of Christian circles, the classic forms of style were loosening with the
falling away of the strenuous intellectual temper, the poise, the self-reliance
and the self-control distinguishing the classical epoch.
The stylistic genius of Augustine and Jerome was not the genius of the
formative beginnings of the Romance tongues, with, for instance, its
inability to rely on the close logic of the case ending, and its need to help
the meaning by the more explicit preposition. Yet the spirit of these two
great men was turning that way. They were not classic writers, but students
of the Classics, who assisted their own genius by the study of what no
longer was themselves. So in the following centuries the most careful Latin
writers are students of the Classics, and do not study Jerome and Augustine
for style. Yet their writings carry out the tendencies beginning (or rather not
beginning) with these two.
It was not in diction alone that the Fathers were the forerunners of
mediaeval writers. Classic Latin authors, both from themselves and through
their study of Greek literature, had the sense and faculty of form. Their
works maintain a clear sequence of thought, along with strict pertinency to
the main topic, or adherence to the central current of the narrative, avoiding
digression and refraining from excessive amplification. The classic writer
did not lose himself in his subject, or wander with it wherever it might lead
him. But in patristic writings the subject is apt to dominate the man, draw
him after its own necessities, or by its casual suggestions cause him to
digress. The Fathers in their polemic or expository works became prolix and
circumstantial, intent, like a lawyer with a brief, on proving every point and
leaving no loophole to the adversary. In their works literary unity and strict
sequence of argument may be cast to the winds. Above all, as it seems to us,
and as it would have seemed to Caesar or Cicero or Tacitus, allegorical
interpretation carries them at its own errant and fantastic will into footless
mazes.
Yet whoever will understand and appreciate the writings of the Fathers and
of the mediaeval generations after them, should beware of inelastic notions.
The question of unity hangs on what the writer deems the veritable topic of
his work, and that may be the universal course of the providence of God,
which was the subject of Augustine’s Civitas Dei. Indeed, the infinite

relationship of any Christian topic was like enough to break through
academic limits of literary unity. Likewise, the proper sequence of thought
depends on what constitutes the true connection between one matter and
another; it must follow what with the writer are the veritable relationships
of his topics. If the visible facts of a man’s environment and the narratives
of history are to him primarily neither actual facts nor literal narratives, but
symbols and allegories of spiritual things, then the true sequence of thought
for him is from symbol to symbol and from allegory to allegory. He is
justified in ignoring the apparent connection of visible facts and the logic of
the literal story, and in surrendering himself to that sequence of thought
which follows what is for him the veritable significance of the matter.
Yet here we must apply another standard besides that of the writer’s
conception of his subject’s significance. He should be wise, and not foolish.
Other men and later ages will judge him according to their own best
wisdom. And with respect to the writings of the Fathers viewed as
literature, the modern critic cannot fail to see them entering upon that
course of prolixity which in mediaeval writings will develop into the
endless; looking forward, he will see their errant habits resolving into the
mediaeval lack of determined topic, and their symbolically driven
sequences of thought turning into the most ridiculous topical transitions, as
the less cogent faculties of later men permit themselves to be suggested
anywhither.
The Fathers developed their distinguishing qualities of style and language
under the demands of the topics absorbing them, and the influence of modes
of feeling coming with Christianity. They were compelling an established
language to express novel matter. In the centuries after them, further
changes were to come through the linguistic tendencies moulding the
evolution of the Romance tongues, through the counter influence of the
study of grammar and rhetoric, and also through the ignorance and
intellectual limitations of the writers. But as with the Latin of the Fathers,
so with the Latin of the Middle Ages, the change of style and language was
intimately and spiritually dependent upon the minds and temperaments of
the writers and the qualities of the subjects for which they were seeking an
expression. A profound influence in the evolution of mediaeval Latin was
the continual endeavour of the mediaeval genius to express the thoughts and
feelings through which it was becoming itself. With impressive adequacy

and power the Christian writers of the Middle Ages moulded their inherited
and acquired Latin tongue to utter the varied matters which moved their
minds and lifted up their hearts. We marvel to see a language which once
had told the stately tale of Rome here lowered to fantastic incident and dull
stupidity, then with almost gospel simplicity telling the moving story of
some saintly life; again sonorously uttering thoughts to lift men from the
earth and denunciations crushing them to hell; quivering with hope and fear
and love, and chanting the last verities of the human soul.
As to the evolution of various styles of written Latin from the close of the
patristic period on through the following centuries, one may premise the
remark that there would commonly be two opposite influences upon the
writer; that of the genius of his native tongue, and that of his education in
Latinity. If he lived in a land where Teutonic speech had never given way to
the spoken Latin of the Empire, his native tongue would be so different
from the Latin which he learned at school, that while it might impede, it
could hardly draw to its own genius the learned language. But in Romance
countries there was no such absolute difference between the vernacular and
the Latin, and the analytic genius of the growing Romance dialects did not
fail to affect the latter. Accordingly in France, for example, the spoken Latin
dialect, or one may say the genius that was forming the old French dialects
to what they were to be, tends to break up the ancient periods, to introduce
the auxiliary verb in the place of elaborate inflections, and rely on
prepositions instead of case endings, which were disappearing and whose
force was ceasing to be felt. One result was to simplify the order of words
in a sentence; for it was not possible to move a noun with its accompanying
preposition wherever it had been feasible to place a noun whose relation to
the rest of the sentence was felt from its case ending. Gregory of Tours is
the famous example of these tendencies, with his Historia francorum, an
ideal forerunner of Froissart. He became Bishop of Tours in the year 573. In
his writings he followed the instincts of the inchoate Romance tongues. He
acknowledges and perhaps overstates his ignorance of Latin grammar and
the rules of composition. Such ignorance was destined to become still
blanker; and ignorance in itself was a disintegrating influence upon written
Latin, and also gave freer play to the gathering tendencies of Romance
speech.

Evidently, had all these influences worked unchecked, they would have
obliterated Latinity from mediaeval Latin. Grammatical and rhetorical
education countered them effectively, and the mighty genius of the ancient
language endured in the extant masterpieces. Nevertheless the spirit of
classical Latinity was never again to be a spontaneous creative power. The
most that men thenceforth could do was to study, and endeavour to imitate,
the forms in which it had embodied its living self.
In brief, some of the chief influences upon the writing of Latin in the
Middle Ages were: the classical genius dead, leaving only its works for
imitation; the school education in Latin grammar and rhetoric; endeavour to
follow classic models and write correctly; inability to do so from lack of
capacity and knowledge; conscious disregard of classicism; the spirit of the
Teutonic tongues clogging Latinity, and that of the Romance tongues
deflecting it from classical constructions; and finally, the plastic faculties of
advancing Christian mediaeval civilization educing power from confusion,
and creating modes of language suited to express the thoughts and feelings
of mediaeval men.
The life, that is to say the living development, of mediaeval Latin prose,
was to lie in the capacity of successive generations of educated men to
maintain a sufficient grammatical correctness, while at the same time
writing Latin, not classically, but in accordance with the necessities and
spirit of their times. There resulted an enormous literature which was not
dead, nor altogether living, and lacked throughout the spontaneity of
writings in a mother tongue; for Latin was not the speech of hearth and
home, nor everywhere the tongue of the market-place and camp. But it was
the language of mediaeval education and acquired culture; it was the
language also of the universal church, and, above all other tongues,
expressed the thoughts by which men were saved or damned. More
profoundly than any vernacular mediaeval literature, the Latin literature of
the Middle Ages expresses the mediaeval mind. It thundered with the
authority that held the keys of heaven; it was resonant with feeling, and
through long centuries gave voice to emotions, shattering, terror-stricken,
convulsively loving. When, say with the close of the eleventh century, the
mediaeval peoples had absorbed with power the teachings of patristic
Christianity, and had undergone some centuries of Latin schooling, and
when under these two chief influences certain distinctive and homogeneous

ways of thinking, feeling, and looking upon life, had been reached; when, in
fine, the Middle Ages had become themselves and had evolved a genius that
could create,—then and from that time appears the adaptability and power
of mediaeval Latin to serve the ends of intellectual effort and the expression
of emotion.
To estimate the literary qualities of classical Latin is a simpler task than to
judge the Latinity and style of the Latin literature of the Middle Ages.
Classic Latin prose has a common likeness. In general one feels that what
Cicero and Caesar would have rejected, Tacitus and Quintilian would not
have admitted. The syntax of these writers shows still greater uniformity.
No such common likeness, or avoidance of stylistic aberration and
grammatical solecism, obtains in mediaeval prose or verse. The one and the
other include many kinds of Latin, and vary from century to century,
diversified in idiom and deflected from linguistic uniformity by influences
of race and native speech, of ignorance and knowledge. He who would
appreciate mediaeval Latin will be diffident of academic standards, and
mistrust his classical predilections lest he see aberration and barbarism
where he might discover the evolution of new constructions and novel
styles; lest he bestow encomium upon clever imitations of classical models,
and withhold it from more living creations of the mediaeval spirit. He will
realize that to appreciate mediaeval Latin literature, he must shelve his
Virgil and his Cicero.[230]
The following pages do not offer themselves even as a slight sketch of
mediaeval Latin literature. Their purpose is to indicate the stages of
development of the prose and the phases of evolution of the verse; and to
illustrate the way in which antique themes and antique knowledge passed
into vernacular poetry. Classical standards will supply us less with a point
of view than with a point of departure. Nothing more need be said of the
Latin of the Church Fathers and Gregory of Tours. But one must refer to the
Carolingian period, in order to appreciate the Latin styles of the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries.
The revival of education and classical scholarship under the strong rule and
fostering care of the greatest of mediaeval monarchs has not always been
rightly judged. The vision of that prodigious personality ruling,
christianizing, striving to civilize masses of barbarians and barbarized

descendants of Romans and provincials; at the same time with eager interest
endeavouring to revive the culture of the past, and press it into the service
of the Christian faith; the striking success of his endeavours, men of
learning coming from Ireland, England, Spain, and Italy, creating a
peripatetic centre of knowledge at the imperial court, and establishing
schools in many a monastery and episcopal residence—all this has never
failed to arouse enthusiasm for the great achievement, and has veiled the
creative deadness of it all, a deadness which in some provinces of
intellectual endeavour was quite veritably moribund, while in others it
betokened the necessary preparation for creative epochs to come.[231]
Carolingian scholarship was directed to the mastery of Latin. Grammar was
taught, and the rules of composition. Then the scholars were bidden, or
bade themselves, do likewise. So they wrote verse or prose according to
their school lessons. They might write correctly; but they had no style of
their own. This was hopelessly true as to their metrical verses;[232] it was
only somewhat less tangibly true of their prose. The “classic” of the period,
in the eyes of modern classical scholars and also in the opinion of the
mediaeval centuries, is Einhard’s Life of Charlemagne. Numberless
encomiums have been passed on it, and justly too. It was an excellent
imitation of Suetonius’s Life of Augustus; and the writer had made a careful
study of Caesar and Livy.[233] There is no need to quote from a writing so
accessible and well known. Yet one remark may be added to what others
have said: if Einhard’s composition was an excellent copy of classical Latin
it was nothing else; it has no stylistic individuality.[234]
Turning from this famous biography, we will illustrate our point by quoting
from the letters of him who stands as the type of the Carolingian revival, the
Anglo-Saxon Alcuin. All praise to this noble educational coadjutor of
Charlemagne; his learning was conscientious; his work was important, his
character was lovable. His affectionate nature speaks in a letter to his
former brethren at York, where his home had been before he entered
Charlemagne’s service. Here is a sentence:
“O omnium dilectissimi patres et fratres, memores mei estote; ego
vester ero, sive in vita, sive in morte. Et forte miserebitur mei Deus, ut
cujus infantiam aluistis, ejus senectutem sepeliatis.”[235]

It were invidious to find fault with this Latin, in which the homesick man
expresses his hope of sepulture in his old home. Note also the balance of the
following, written to a sick friend:
“Gratias agamus Deo Jesu, vulneranti et medenti, flagellanti et
consolanti. Dolor corporis salus est animae, et infirmitas temporalis,
sanitas perpetua. Libenter accipiamus, patienter feramus voluntatem
Salvatoris nostri.”[236]
This too is excellent, in language as in sentiment. So is another, and last,
sentence from our author, in a letter congratulating Charlemagne on his
final subjugation of the Huns, through which the survivors were brought to
a knowledge of the truth:
“Qualis erit tibi gloria, O beatissime rex, in die aeternae retributionis,
quando hi omnes qui per tuam sollicitudinem ab adolatriae cultura ad
cognoscendum verum Deum conversi sunt, te ante tribunal Domini
nostri Jesu Christi in beata sorte stantem sequentur!”[237]
Again, the only trouble is stylelessness. In fine, an absence of quality
characterizes Carolingian prose, of which a last example may be taken from
the Spaniard Theodulphus, Bishop of Orleans, “an accomplished Latin
poet,” and an educator yielding in importance to Alcuin alone. The sentence
is from an official admonition to the clergy, warning them to attach more
value to salvation than to lucre:
“Admonendi sunt qui negotiis ac mercationibus rerum invigilant, ut non
plus terrenam quam viam cupiant sempiternam. Nam qui plus de rebus
terrenis quam de animae suae salute cogitat, valde a via veritatis
aberrat.”[238]
Evidently there was a good knowledge of Latin among these Carolingians,
who laboured for the revival of education and the preservation of the
Classics. The nadir of classical learning falls in the succeeding period of
break-up, confusion, and dawning re-adjustment. In the century or two
following the year 850, the writers were too unskilled in Latin and often too
cumbered by it, to manifest in their writings that unhampered and
distinctive reflex of a personality which we term style. A rare exception
would appear in such a potent scholar as Gerbert, who mastered whatever

he learned, and made it part of his own faculties and temperament. His
letters, consequently, have an individual style, however good or bad we
may be disposed to deem it.[239]
Accordingly, until after the millennial year Latin prose shows little beyond
a clumsy heaviness resulting from the writer’s insufficient mastery of his
medium; and there are many instances of barbarism and corruption of the
tongue without any compensating positive qualities. A dreadful example is
afforded by the Chronicon of Benedictus, a monk of St. Andrews in Monte
Soracte, who lived in the latter part of the tenth century. He relates, as
history, the fable of Charlemagne’s journey to the Holy Land; and his own
eyes may have witnessed the atrocious times of John XII., of whom he
speaks as follows:
“Inter haec non multum tempus Agapitus papa decessit (an. 956).
Octabianus in sede sanctissima susceptus est, et vocatus est Johannes
duodecimi pape. Factus est tam lubricus sui corporis, et tam audaces,
quantum nunc in gentilis populo solebat fieri. Habebat consuetudinem
sepius venandi non quasi apostolicus sed quasi homo ferus. Erat enim
cogitio ejus vanum; diligebat collectio feminarum, odibiles
aecclesiarum, amabilis juvenis ferocitantes. Tanta denique libidine sui
corporis exarsit, quanta nunc (non?) possumus enarrare.”[240]
No need to draw further from this writing, which is characterized
throughout by crass ignorance of grammar and all else pertaining to Latin.
It has no individual qualities; it has no style. Leaving this example of
illiteracy, let us turn to a man of more knowledge, Odo, one of the greatest
of the abbots of Cluny, who died in the year 943. He left lengthy writings,
one of them a bulky epitome of the famous Moralia of Gregory the Great.
[241] More original were his three dull books of Collationes, or moral
comments upon the Scriptures. They open with a heavy note which their
author might have drawn from the dark temperament of that great pope
whom he so deeply admired; but the language has a leaden quality which is
not Gregory’s, but Odo’s.
“Auctor igitur et judex hominum Deus, licet ab illa felicitate paradisi
genus nostrum juste repulerit, suae tamen bonitatis memor, ne totus reus

homo quod meretur incurrat, hujus peregrinationis molestias multis
beneficiis demulcet.”
And, again, a little further on:
“Omnis vero ejusdem Scripturae intentio est, ut nos ab hujus vitae
pravitatibus compescat. Nam idcirco terribilibus suis sententiis cor
nostrum, quasi quibusdam stimulis pungit, ut homo terrore pulsatus
expavescat, et divina judicia quae aut voluptate carnis aut terrena
sollicitudine discissus oblivisci facile solet, ad memoriam reducat.”[242]
One feels the dull heaviness of this. Odo, like many of his contemporaries,
knew enough of Latin grammar, and had read some of the Classics. But he
had not mastered what he knew, and his knowledge was not converted into
power. The tenth century was still painfully learning the lessons of its
Christian and classical heritage. A similar lack of personal facility may be
observed in Ruotger’s biography of Bruno, the worthy brother of the great
emperor Otto I., and Archbishop of Cologne. Bruno died in 965, and
Ruotger, who had been his companion, wrote his Life without delay. It has
not the didactic ponderousness of Odo’s writing, but its language is clumsy.
The following passage is of interest as showing Bruno’s education and the
kind of learned man it made him.
“Deinde ubi prima grammaticae artis rudimenta percepit, sicut ab ipso
in Dei omnipotentis gloriam hoc saepius ruminante didicimus,
Prudentium poetam tradente magistro legere coepit. Qui sicut est et fide
intentioneque catholicus, et eloquentia veritateque praecipuus, et
metrorum librorumque varietate elegantissimus, tanta mox dulcedine
palato cordis ejus complacuit, ut jam non tantum exteriorum verborum
scientiam, verum intimi medullam sensus, et nectar ut ita dicam
liquidissimum, majori quam dici possit aviditate hauriret. Postea nullum
penitus erat studiorum liberalium genus in omni Graeca vel Latina
eloquentia, quod ingenii sui vivacitatem aufugeret. Nec vero, ut solet,
aut divitiarum affluentia, aut turbarum circumstrepentium assiduitas, aut
ullum aliunde subrepens fastidium ab hoc nobili otio animum ejus
unquam avertit.... Saepe inter Graecorum et Latinorum doctissimos de
philosophiae sublimitate aut de cujuslibet in illa florentis disciplinae
subtilitate disputantes doctus interpres medius ipse consedit, et

disputantibus ad plausum omnium, quo nihil minus amaverat,
satisfecit.”[243]
The gradual improvement in the writing of Latin in the Middle Ages, and
the evolution of distinctive mediaeval styles, did not result from a larger
acquaintance with the Classics, or a better knowledge of grammar and
school rhetoric. The range of classical reading might extend, or from time to
time contract, and Donatus and Priscian were used in the ninth century as
well as in the twelfth. It is true that the study of grammar became more
intelligent in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and its teachers deferred
less absolutely to the old rules and illustrations. They recognized Christian
standards of diction: first of all the Vulgate; next, early Christian poets like
Prudentius; and then gradually the mediaeval versifiers who wrote and won
approval in the twelfth century. Thus grammar sought to follow current
usage.[244] This endeavour culminated at the close of the twelfth century in
the Doctrinale of Alexander of Villa Dei.[245] Before this, much of the best
mediaeval Latin prose and verse had been written, and the period most
devoted to the Classics had come and was already waning. That period was
this same twelfth century. During its earlier half, Latinity gained doubtless
from such improvement in the courses of the Trivium as took place at
Chartres, for example, an improvement connected with the intellectual
growth of the time. But the increase in the knowledge of Latin was mainly
such as a mature man may realize within himself, if he has kept up his Latin
reading, however little he seem to have added to his knowledge since
leaving his Alma Mater.
So the development of mediaeval Latin prose (and also verse) advanced
with the maturing of mediaeval civilization. That which was at the same
time a living factor in this growth and a result of it, was the more organic
appropriation of the classical and Christian heritages of culture and religion.
As intellectual faculties strengthened, and men drew power from the past,
they gained facility in moulding their Latin to their purposes. Writings
begin to reflect the personalities of the writers; the diction ceases to be that
of clumsy or clever school compositions, and presents an evolution of
tangible mediaeval styles. Henceforth, although a man be an eager student
of the Classics, like John of Salisbury for example, and try to imitate their
excellences, he will still write mediaeval Latin, and with a personal style if

he be a strong personality. The classical models no longer trammel, but
assist him to be more effectively himself on a higher plane.
If mediaeval civilization is to be regarded as that which the peoples of
western Europe attained under the two universal influences of Christianity
and antique culture, then nothing more mediaeval will be seen than
mediaeval Latin. To make it, the antique Latin had been modified and
reinspired and loosed by the Christian energies of the Fathers; and had then
passed on to peoples who never had been, or no longer were, antique. They
barbarized the language down to the rudeness of their faculties. As they
themselves advanced, they brought up Latin with them, as it were, from the
depths of the ninth and tenth centuries, but a Latin which in the crude
natures of these men had been stripped of classical quality; a Latin
barbarous and naked, and ready to be clothed upon with novel qualities
which should make it a new creature. Throughout all this process, while
Latin was sinking and re-emerging, it was worked upon and inspired by the
spirit of the uses to which it was predominantly applied, which were those
of the Roman Catholic Church and of the intimacies of the Christian soul,
pressing to expression in the learned tongue which they were transforming.
In considering the Latin writings of the Middle Ages one should bear in
mind the differences between Italy and the North with respect to the ancient
language. These were important through the earlier Middle Ages, when
modes of diction sufficiently characteristic to be called styles, were
forming. The men of Latin-sodden Italy might have a fluent Latin when
those of the North still had theirs to learn. Thus there were Italians in the
eleventh century who wrote quite a distinctive Latin prose.[246] Among
them were St. Peter Damiani, and St. Anselm of Aosta, Bec, and
Canterbury.
The former died full of virtue in the year 1072. We have elsewhere
observed his character and followed his career.[247] He was, to his great
anxiety, a classical scholar, who had earned large sums as a teacher of
rhetoric before natural inclination and fears for his soul drove him to an
ascetic life. He was a master of the Latin which he used. His style is
intense, eloquent, personal to himself as well as suited to his matter, and
reflects his ardent character and keen perceptions. The following is a

rhetorical yet beautiful description of a “last leaf,” taken from one of his
compositions in praise of the hermit way of salvation.
“Videamus in arbore folium sub ipsis pruinis hiemalibus lapsabundum,
et consumpto autumnalis clementiae virore, jamjam pene casurum, ita
ut vix ramusculo, cui dependet, inhaereat, sed apertissima levis ruinae
signa praetendat: inhorrescunt flabra, venti furentes hic inde concutiunt,
brumalis horror crassi aeris rigore densatur: atque, ut magis stupeas,
defluentibus reliquis undique foliis terra sternitur, et depositis comis
arbor suo decore nudatur; cum illud solum nullo manente permaneat, et
velut cohaeredum superstes in fraternae possessionis jura succedat.
Quid autem intelligendum in hujus rei consideratione relinquitur, nisi
quia nec arboris folium potest cadere, nisi divinum praesumat
imperium?”[248]
Anselm’s diction, in spite of its frequent cloister rhetoric, has a simple and
modern word-order. An account has already been given of his life and of his
thoughts, so beautifully sky-blue, unpurpled with the crimson of human
passion, which made the words of Augustine more veritably incandescent.
[249] The great African was the strongest individual influence upon
Anselm’s thought and language. But the latter’s style has departed further
from the classical sentence, and of itself indicates that the writer belongs
neither to the patristic period nor to the Carolingian time, busied with its
rearrangement of patristic thought. The following is from his Proslogion
upon the existence of God. Through this discourse, Deity and the Soul are
addressed in the second person after the manner of Augustine’s
Confessions.
“Excita nunc, anima mea, et erige totum intellectum tuum, et cogita
quantum potes quale et quantum sit illud bonum (i.e. Deus). Si enim
singula bona delectabilia sunt, cogita intente quam delectabile sit illud
bonum quod continet jucunditatem omnium bonorum; et non qualem in
rebus creatis sumus experti, sed tanto differentem quanto differt Creator
a creatura. Si enim bona est vita creata, quam bona est vita creatrix! Si
jucunda est salus facta, quam jucunda est salus quae fecit omnem
salutem! Si amabilis est sapientia in cognitione rerum conditarum, quam
amabilis est sapientia quae omnia condidit ex nihilo! Denique, si multae

et magnae delectationes sunt in rebus delectabilibus, qualis et quanta
delectatio est in illo qui fecit ipsa delectabilia!”[250]
In a more emotional passage Anselm arouses in his soul the terror of the
Judgment. It is from a “Meditatio”:
“Taedet animam meam vitae meae; vivere erubesco, mori pertimesco.
Quid ergo restat tibi, o peccator, nisi ut in tota vita tua plores totam
vitam tuam, ut ipsa tota se ploret totam? Sed est in hoc quoque anima
mea miserabiliter mirabilis et mirabiliter miserabilis, quia non tantum
dolet quantum se noscit; sed sic secura torpet, velut quid patiatur
ignoret. O anima sterilis, quid agis? quid torpes, anima peccatrix? Dies
judicii venit, juxta est dies Domini magnus, juxta et velox nimis, dies
irae dies illa, dies tribulationis et angustiae, dies calamitatis et miseriae,
dies tenebrarum et caliginis, dies nebulae et turbinis, dies tubae et
clangoris. O vox diei Domini amara! Quid dormitas, anima tepida et
digna evomi?”[251]
Damiani wrote in the middle of the eleventh century, Anselm in the latter
part. The northern lands could as yet show no such characteristic styles,[252]
although the classically educated German, Lambert of Hersfeld, wrote as
correctly and perspicuously as either. His Annals have won admiration for
their clear and correct Latinity, modelled upon the styles of Sallust and
Livy. He died in 1077, the year of Canossa, his Annals covering the conflict
between Henry IV. and Hildebrand up to that event. The narrative moves
with spirit, as one may see by reading his description of King Henry and his
consort struggling through Alpine ice and snow to reach that castle never to
be forgotten, and gain absolution from the Pope before the ban should have
completed Henry’s ruin.[253]
For the North, the best period of mediaeval Latin, prose as well as verse,
opens with the twelfth century. It was indeed the great literary period of the
Middle Ages. For the vernacular literatures flourished as well as the Latin.
Provençal literature began as the eleventh century closed, and was stifled in
the thirteenth by the Albigensian Crusade. So the twelfth was its great
period. Likewise with the Old French literature: except the Roland which is
earlier, the chief chansons de geste belong to the twelfth century; also the
romances of antiquity, to be spoken of hereafter; also the romances of the

Round Table, and a great mass of chansons and fabliaux. The Old German
—or rather, Mittel Hochdeutsch—literature touches its height as the century
closes and the next begins, in the works of Heinrich von Veldeke, Gottfried
von Strassburg, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Walther von der Vogelweide.
The best Latin writers of the century lived, or sojourned, or were educated,
for the most part in the France north of the Loire. Not that all of them were
natives of that territory; for some were German born, some saw the light in
England, and the birthplace of many is unknown. Yet they seem to belong
to France. Nearly all were ecclesiastics, secular or regular. Many of them
were notables in theology, like Hugo of St. Victor, Abaelard, Alanus de
Insulis (Lille); many were poets as well, like Alanus and Hildebert and John
of Salisbury too; one was a thunderer on the earth, and a most deft
politician, Bernard of Clairvaux. Some again are known only as poets,
sacred or profane, like Adam of St. Victor, and Walter of Chatillon—but of
these hereafter. The best Latin prose writing of this, or any other, mediaeval
period, had its definite purpose, metaphysical, theological, or pietistic; and
the writers have been or will be spoken of in connection with their specific
fields of intellectual achievement or religious fervour. Here, without
discussing the men or their works, some favourable examples of their
writing will be given.
In the last passage quoted from Anselm, the reader must have felt the
working of cloister rhetoric, and have noticed the antitheses and rhymes, to
which mediaeval Latin lent itself so readily. Yet it is a slight affair
compared with the confounding sonorousness, the flaring pictures, and
terrifying climaxes of St. Bernard when preaching upon the same topic—
the Judgment Day. In one of his famous sermons on Canticles, the saint has
been suggesting to his audience, the monks of Clara Vallis, that although the
Father might ignore faults, not so the Dominus and Creator: “et qui parcit
filio, non parcet figmento, non parcet servo nequam.” Listen to the carrying
out and pointing of this thought:
“Pensa cujus sit formidinis et horroris tuum atque omnium
contempsisse factorem, offendisse Dominum majestatis. Majestatis est
timeri, Domini est timeri, et maxime hujus majestatis, hujusque Domini.
Nam si reum regiae majestatis, quamvis humanae, humanis legibus
plecti capite sancitum sit, quis finis contemnentium divinam

omnipotentiam erit? Tangit montes, et fumigant; et tam tremendam
majestatem audet irritare vilis pulvisculus, uno levi flatu mox
dispergendus, et minime recolligendus? Ille, ille timendus est, qui
postquam acciderit corpus, potestatem habet mittere et in gehennam.
Paveo gehennam, paveo judicis vultum, ipsis quoque tremendum
angelicis potestatibus. Contremisco ab ira potentis, a facie furoris ejus, a
fragore ruentis mundi, a conflagratione elementorum, a tempestate
valida, a voce archangeli, et a verbo aspero. [Feel the climax of this
sentence, which tells the end of the sinner.] Contremisco a dentibus
bestiae infernalis, a ventre inferi, a rugientibus praeparatis ad escam.
Horreo vermem rodentem, et ignem torrentem, fumum, et vaporem, et
sulphur, et spiritum procellarum; horreo tenebras exteriores. Quis dabit
capiti meo aquam, et oculis meis fontem lacrymarum ut praeveniam
fletibus fletum, et stridorem dentium, et manuum pedumque dura
vincula, et pondus catenarum prementium, stringentium, urentium, nec
consumentium? Heu me, mater mea! utquid me genuisti filium doloris,
filium amaritudinis, indignationis et plorationis aeternae? Cur exceptus
genibus, cur lactatus uberibus, natus in combustionem, et cibus
ignis?”[254]
As one recovers from the sound and power of this high-wrought passage, he
notices how readily it might be turned into the form of a Latin hymn; and
also how very modern is its sequence of words. Bernard’s Latin could
whisper intimate love, as well as thunder terror. He says, preaching on the
medicina, the healing power, of Jesu’s name:
“Hoc tibi electuarium habes, o anima mea, reconditum in vasculo
vocabuli hujus quod est Jesus, salutiferum, certe, quodque nulli unquam
pesti tuae inveniatur inefficax.”[255]
With the music of this prose one may compare the sweet personal plaint of
the following:
“Felices quos abscondit in tabernaculo suo in umbra alarum suarum
sperantes, donec transeat iniquitas. Caeterum ego infelix, pauper et
nudus, homo natus ad laborem, implumis avicula pene omni tempore
nidulo exsulans, vento exposita et turbini, turbatus sum et motus sum
sicut ebrius, et omnis conscientia mea devorata est.”[256]

Extracts can give no idea of Bernard’s literary powers, any more than a
small volume could tell the story of that life which, so to speak, was magna
pars of all contemporary history. But since he was one of the best of Latin
letter-writers, one should not omit an example of his varied epistolary style,
which can be known in its compass only from a large reading of his letters.
The following is a short letter, written to win back to the cloister a
delicately nurtured youth whose parents had lured him out into the world.
“Doleo super te, fili mi Gaufride, doleo super te. Et merito. Quis enim
non doleat florem juventutis tuae, quem laetantibus angelis Deo
illibatum obtuleras in odorem suavitatis, nunc a daemonibus conculcari,
vitiorum spurcitiis, et saeculi sordibus inquinari? Quomodo qui vocatus
eras a Deo, revocantem diabolum sequeris, et quem Christus trahere
coeperat post se, repente pedem ab ipso introitu gloriae retraxisti? In te
experior nunc veritatem sermonis Domini, quem dixit: Inimici hominis,
domestici ejus (Matt. x. 36). Amici tui et proximi tui adversum te
appropinquaverunt, et steterunt. Revocaverunt te in fauces leonis, et in
portis mortis iterum collocaverunt te. Collocaverunt te in obscuris, sicut
mortuos saeculi: et jam parum est ut descendas in ventrem inferi; jam te
deglutire festinat, ac rugientibus praeparatis ad escam tradere
devorandum.
“Revertere, quaeso, revertere, priusquam te absorbeat profundum, et
urgeat super te puteus os suum; priusquam demergaris, unde ulterius
non emergas; priusquam ligatis manibus et pedibus projiciaris in
tenebras exteriores, ubi est fletus et stridor dentium; priusquam
detrudaris in locum tenebrosum, et opertum mortis caligine. Erubescis
forte redire, quia ad horam cessisti. Erubesce fugam, et non post fugam
reverti in proelium, et rursum pugnare. Necdum finis pugnae, necdum
ab invicem dimicantes acies discesserunt: adhuc victoria prae manibus
est. Si vis, nolumus vincere sine te, nec tuam tibi invidemus gloriae
portionem. Laeti occuremus tibi, laetis te recipiemus amplexibus,
dicemusque: Epulari et gaudere oportet, quia hic filius noster mortuus
fuerat, et revixit; perierat, et inventus est” (Luc. xv. 32).[257]
The argument of this letter is, from the standpoint of Bernard’s time, as
resistless as the style. Did it win back the little monk? Many wonderful
examples of loving expression could be drawn from Bernard’s letters;[258]

but instead an instance may be given of his none too subtle way of uttering
his hate: “Arnaldus de Brixia, cujus conversatio mel et doctrina venenum,
cui caput columbae, cauda scorpionis est, quem Brixia evomuit, Roma
exhorruit, Francia repulit, Germania abominatur, Italia non vult recipere,
fertur esse vobiscum.”[259] And then he proceeds to warn his correspondent
of the danger of intercourse with this arch-enemy of the Church.
Considering that Latin was a tongue which youths learned at school rather
than at their mothers’ knees, such writing as Bernard’s is a triumphant
recasting of an ancient language. One notices in him, as generally with
mediaeval religious writers, the influence of the Vulgate, which was mainly
in the language of St. Jerome—of Jerome when not writing as a literary
virtuoso, but as a scholar occupied with rendering the meaning, and willing
to accept such linguistic innovations as served his purpose.[260] But beyond
this influence, one sees how masterful is Bernard’s diction, quite freed from
observance of classical principles, quite of the writer and his time, adapting
itself with ease and power to the topic and character of the composition, and
always expressive of the personality of the mighty saint.
Hildebert of Le Mans was a few years older than St. Bernard. As an
example of his prose a letter may be cited, of which the translation has been
given. It was written in 1128, when he was Archbishop of Tours, in protest
against the encroachments of the royal power of the French king, Louis the
Fat, upon the rights of the Archiepiscopacy of Tours in the matter of
ecclesiastical appointments within that diocese:
“In adversis nonnullum solatium est, tempora sperare laetiora. Diutius
spes haec mihi blandita est, et velut agricolam messis in herba, sic
animum meum prosperitatis expectatio confortavit. Caeterum jam nihil
est quo serenitatem nimbosi temporis exspectem, nihil est quo navis, in
cujus puppi sedeo, crebris agitata turbinibus, portum quietis attingat.
“Silent amici, silent sacerdotes Jesu Christi. Denique silent et illi
quorum suffragio credidi regem mecum in gratiam rediturum. Credidi
quidem, sed super dolorem vulnerum meorum rex, illis silentibus,
adjecit. Eorum tamen erat gravamini ecclesiae canonicis obviare
institutis. Eorum erat, si res postulasset, opponere murum pro domo
Israel. Verum apud serenissimum regem opus est exhortatione potius

quam increpatione, consilio quam praecepto, doctrina quam virga. His
ille conveniendus fuit, his reverenter instruendus, ne sagittas suas in
sene compleret sacerdote, ne sanctiones canonicas evacuaret, ne
persequeretur cineres Ecclesiae jam sepultae, cineres in quibus ego
panem doloris manduco, in quibus bibo calicem luctus, de quibus eripi
et evadere, de morte ad vitam transire est.
“Inter has tamen angustias, nunquam de me sic ira triumphavit, ut
aliquem super Christo Domini clamorem deponere vellem, seu pacem
ipsius in manu forti et brachio Ecclesiae adipisci. Suspecta est pax ad
quam, non amore sed vi, sublimes veniunt potestates. Ea facile
rescindetur, et fiunt aliquando novissima pejora prioribus. Alia est via
qua compendiosius ad eam Christo perducente pertingam. Jactabo
cogitatum meum in Domino, et ipse dabit mihi petitionem cordis mei.
Recordatus est Dominus Joseph, cujus pincerna Pharaonis oblitus, dum
prospera succederent, interveniendi pro eo curam abjecit.... Fortassis
recordabitur et mei, atque in desiderato littore navem sistet fluctuantem.
Ipse enim est qui respicit in orationem humilium, et non spernit preces
eorum. Ipse est in cujus manu corda regum cerea sunt. Si invenero
gratiam in oculis ejus, gratiam regis vel facile consequar, vel utiliter
amittam. Siquidem offendere hominem proper Deum lucrari est gratiam
Dei.”[261]
John of Salisbury (1110-1180), much younger than Hildebert and a little
younger than Bernard, seems to have been the best scholar of his time. With
the Classics he is as one in the company of friends; he cites them as readily
as Scripture; their sententiae have become part of his views of life. John
was an eager humanist, who followed his studies to whatever town and to
the feet of whatsoever teacher they might lead him. So he listened to
Abaelard and many others. His writing is always lively and often forcible,
especially when vituperating the set who despised classic reading. His most
vivacious work, the Metalogicus, was directed against their unnamed
prophet, whom he dubs “Cornificus.”[262] Its opening passage is of interest
as John’s exordium, and because a somewhat consciously intending stylist
like our John is likely to exhibit his utmost virtuosity in the opening
sentences of an important work:

“Adversus insigne donum naturae parentis et gratiae, calumniam
veterem et majorum nostrorum judicio condemnatam excitat improbus
litigator, et conquirens undique imperitiae suae solatia, sibi proficere
sperat ad gloriam, si multos similes sui, id est si eos viderit imperitos;
habet enim hoc proprium arrogantiae tumor, ut se commetiatur aliis,
bona sua, si qua sunt, efferens, deprimens aliena; defectumque proximi,
suum putet esse profectum. Omnibus autem recte sapientibus indubium
est quod natura, clementissima parens omnium, et dispositissima
moderatrix, inter caetera quae genuit animantia, hominem privilegio
rationis extulit, et usu eloquii insignivit: id agens sedulitate officiosa, et
lege dispositissima, ut homo qui gravedine faeculentioris naturae et
molis corporeae tarditate premebatur et trahebatur ad ima, his quasi
subvectus alis, ad alta ascendat, et ad obtinendum verae beatitudinis
bravium, omnia alia felici compendio antecebat. Dum itaque naturam
fecundat gratia, ratio rebus perspiciendis et examinandis invigilat;
naturae sinus excutit, metitur fructus et efficaciam singulorum: et
innatus omnibus amor boni, naturali urgente se appetitu, hoc, aut solum,
aut prae caeteris sequitur, quod percipiendae beatitudini maxime videtur
esse accommodum.”[263]
One perceives the effect of classical studies; yet the passage is good
twelfth-century Latin, quite different from the compositions of the
Carolingian epoch, those, for example, from the pen of Alcuin, who had
studied the Classics like John, but unlike him had no personal style. One
gains similar impressions from the diction of the Polycraticus, a lengthy,
discursive work in which John surprises us with his classical equipment.
Although containing many quoted passages, it is not made of extracts
strung together; but reflects the sentiments or tells the opinions of ancient
philosophers in the writer’s own way. The following shows John’s
knowledge of early Greek philosophers, and is a fair example of his
ordinary style:
“Alterum vero philosophorum genus est, quod Ionicum dicitur et a
Graecis ulterioribus traxit originem. Horum princeps fuit Thales
Milesius, unus illorum septem, qui dicti sunt sapientes. Iste cum rerum
naturam scrutatus, inter caeteros emicuisset, maxime admirabilis
exstitit, quod astrologiae numeris comprehensis, solis et lunae defectus
praedicebat. Huic successit Anaximander ejus auditor, qui Anaximenem

discipulum reliquit et successorem. Diogenes quoque ejusdem auditor
exstitit, et Anaxagoras, qui omnium rerum quas videmus, effectorem
divinum animum docuit. Ei successit auditor ejus Archelaüs, cujus
discipulus Socrates fuisse perhibetur, magister Platonis, qui, teste
Apuleio, prius Aristoteles dictus est, sed deinde a latitudine pectoris
Plato, et in tantam eminentiam philosophiae, et vigore ingenii, et studii
exercitio, et omnium morum venustate, eloquii quoque suavitate et
copia subvectus est, ut quasi in throno sapientiae residens, praecepta
quadam auctoritate visus est, tam antecessoribus quam successoribus
philosophis, imperare. Et primus quidem Socrates universam
philosophiam ad corrigendos componendosque mores flexisse
memoratur, cum ante illum omnes physicis, id est rebus naturalibus
perscrutandis, maximam operam dederint.”[264]
These extracts from the writings of saints and scholars may be
supplemented by two extracts from compositions of another class. The
mediaeval chronicle has not a good reputation. Its credulity and uncritical
spirit varied with the time and man. Little can be said in favour of its
general form, which usually is stupidly chronological, or annalistic. The
example of classical historical composition was lost on mediaeval annalists.
Yet their work is not always dull; and, by the twelfth century, their diction
had become as mediaeval as that of the theologian rhetoricians, although it
rarely crystallizes to personal style by reason of the insignificance of the
writers. A well-known work of this kind is the Gesta Dei per Francos, by
Guibert of Nogent, who wrote his account of the First Crusade a few years
after its turmoil had passed by. The following passage tells of proceedings
upon the conclusion of Urban’s great crusading oration at the Council of
Clermont in 1099:
“Peroraverat vir excellentissimus, et omnes qui se ituros voverant, beati
Petri potestate absolvit, eadem, ipsa apostolica auctoritate firmavit, et
signum satis conveniens hujus tam honestae professionis instituit, et
veluti cingulum militiae, vel potius militaturis Deo passionis Dominicae
stigma tradens, crucis figuram, ex cujuslibet materiae panni, tunicis,
byrris et palliis iturorum, assui mandavit. Quod si quis, post hujus signi
acceptionem, aut post evidentis voti pollicitationem ab ista
benevolentia, prava poenitudine, aut aliquorum suorum affectione
resileret, ut exlex perpetuo haberetur omnino praecepit, nisi resipisceret;

idemque quod omiserat foede repeteret. Praeterea omnes illos atroci
damnavit anathemate, qui eorum uxoribus, filiis, aut possessionibus, qui
hoc Dei iter aggrederentur, per integrum triennii tempus, molestiam
auderent inferre. Ad extremum, cuidam viro omnimodis laudibus
efferendo, Podiensis urbis episcopo, cujus nomen doleo quia neque
usquam reperi, nec audivi, curam super eadem expeditione regenda
contulit, et vices suas ipsi, super Christiani populi quocunque venirent
institutione, commisit. Unde et manus ei, more apostolorum, data
pariter benedictione, imposuit. Quod ille quam sagaciter sit exsecutus,
docet mirabilis operis tanti exitus.”[265]
This Frenchman Guibert is almost vivacious. A certain younger
contemporary of his, of English birth, could construct his narrative quite as
well. Ordericus Vitalis (d. 1142) is said to have been born at Wroxeter,
though he spent most of his life as monk of St. Evroult in Normandy. There
he wrote his Historia Ecclesiastica of Normandy and England. His account
of the loss of the White Ship in 1120 tells the story:
“Thomas, filius Stephani, regem adiit, eique marcum auri offerens, ait:
‘Stephanus, Airardi filius, genitor meus fuit, et ipse in omni vita sua
patri tuo in mari servivit. Nam illum, in sua puppe vectum, in Angliam
conduxit, quando contra Haraldum pugnaturus, in Angliam perrexit.
Hujusmodi autem officio usque ad mortem famulando ei placuit, et ab
eo multis honoratus exeniis, inter contribules suos magnifice floruit.
Hoc feudum, domine rex, a te requiro, et vas quod Candida-Navis
appellatur, merito ad regalem famulatum optime instructum habeo.’ Cui
rex ait: ‘Gratum habeo quod petis. Mihi quidem aptam navim elegi,
quam non mutabo; sed filios meos, Guillelmum et Richardum, quos
sicut me diligo, cum multa regni mei nobilitate, nunc tibi commendo.’
“His auditis, nautae gavisi sunt, filioque regis adulantes, vinum ab eo ad
bibendum postulaverunt. At ille tres vini modios ipsis dari praecepit.
Quibus acceptis, biberunt, sociisque abundanter propinaverunt,
nimiumque potantes inebriati sunt. Jussu regis multi barones cum filiis
suis puppim ascenderunt, et fere trecenti, ut opinor, in infausta nave
fuerunt. Duo siquidem monachi Tironis, et Stephanus comes cum
duobus militibus, Guillelmus quoque de Rolmara, et Rabellus
Camerarius, Eduardus de Salesburia, et alii plures inde exierunt, quia

nimiam multitudinem lascivae et pompaticae juventutis inesse
conspicati sunt. Periti enim remiges quinquaginta ibi erant, et feroces
epibatae, qui jam in navi sedes nacti turgebant, et suimet prae ebrietate
immemores, vix aliquem reverenter agnoscebant. Heu! quamplures
illorum mentes pia devotione erga Deum habebant vacuas

‘Qui maris immodicas moderatur et aeris iras.’

Unde sacerdotes, qui ad benedicendos illos illuc accesserant, aliosque
ministros qui aquam benedictam deferebant, cum dedecore et cachinnis
subsannantes abigerunt; sed paulo post derisionis suae ultionem
receperunt.
“Soli homines, cum thesauro regis et vasis merum ferentibus, Thomae
carinam implebant, ipsumque ut regiam classem, quae jam aequora
sulcabat, summopere prosequeretur, commonebant. Ipse vero, quia
ebrietate desipiebat, in virtute sua, satellitumque suorum confidebat, et
audacter, quia omnes qui jam praecesserant praeiret, spondebat. Tandem
navigandi signum dedit. Porro schippae remos haud segniter
arripuerunt, et alia laeti, quia quid eis ante oculos penderet nesciebant,
armamenta coaptaverunt, navemque cum impetu magno per pontum
currere fecerunt. Cumque remiges ebrii totis navigarent conatibus, et
infelix gubernio male intenderet cursui dirigendo per pelagus, ingenti
saxo quod quotidie fluctu recedente detegitur et rursus accessu maris
cooperitur, sinistrum latus Candidae-Navis vehementer illisum est,
confractisque duabus tabulis, ex insperato, navis, proh dolor! subversa
est. Omnes igitur in tanto discrimine simul exclamaverunt; sed aqua
mox implente ora, pariter perierunt. Duo soli virgae qua velum pendebat
manus injecerunt, et magna noctis parte pendentes, auxilium quodlibet
praestolati sunt. Unus erat Rothomagensis carnifex, nomine Beroldus, et
alter generosus puer, nomine Goisfredus, Gisleberti de Aquila filius.
“Tunc luna in signo Tauri nona decima fuit, et fere ix horis radiis suis
mundum illustravit, et navigantibus mare lucidum reddidit. Thomas
nauclerus post primam submersionem vires resumpsit, suique memor,
super undas caput extulit, et videns capita eorum qui ligno utcunque
inhaerebant, interrogavit: ‘Filius regis quid devenit?’ Cumque naufragi

respondissent illum cum omnibus collegis suis deperisse: ‘Miserum,’
inquit, ‘est amodo meum vivere.’ Hoc dicto, male desperans, maluit illic
occumbere, quam furore irati regis pro pernicie prolis oppetere, seu
longas in vinculis poenas luere.”[266]
Our examples thus far belong to the twelfth century. As touching its
successor, it will be interesting to observe the qualities of two opposite
kinds of writing, the one springing from the intellectual activities, and the
other from the religious awakening, of the time. In the thirteenth century,
scientific and scholastic writing was of representative importance, and
deeply affected the development of Latin prose. Very different in style were
the Latin stories and vitae of the blessed Francis of Assisi and other saints,
composed in Italy.
Roger Bacon, of whom there will be much to say, composed most of his
extant works about the year 1267.[267] His language is often rough and
involved, from his impetuosity and eagerness to utter what was in him. But
it is always vigorous. He took pains to say just what he meant, and what
was worth saying; and frequently rewrote his sentences. His writings show
little rhetoric; yet they are stamped with a Baconian style, which has a
cumulative force. The word-order is modern with scarcely a trace of the
antique. Perhaps we may say that he wrote Latin like an Englishman of
vehement temper and great intellect. He is powerful in continuous
exposition; yet instances of his general, and very striking statements, will
illustrate his diction at its best. In the following sentence he recognizes the
progressiveness of knowledge, a rare idea in the Middle Ages:
“Nam semper posteriores addiderunt ad opera priorum, et multa
correxerunt, et plura mutaverunt, sicut maxime per Aristotelem patet,
qui omnes sententias praecedentium discussit.”[268]
Again, he animadverts upon the duty of thirteenth-century Christians to
supply the defects of the old philosophers:
“Quapropter antiquorum defectus deberemus nos posteriores supplere,
quia introivimus in labores eorum, per quos, nisi simus asini, possumus
ad meliora excitari; quia miserrimum est semper uti inventis et
nunquam inveniendis.”[269]

Speaking of language, he says:
“Impossibile est quod proprietas unius linguae servetur in alia.”[270]
(“The idioms of one language cannot be preserved in a translation.”)
And again: “Omnes philosophi fuerunt post patriarchas et prophetas ...
et legerunt libros prophetarum et patriarcharum qui sunt in sacro
textu.”[271] (“The philosophers of Greece came after the prophets of the
Old Testament and read their works contained in the sacred text.”)
In the first of these sentences Bacon shows his linguistic insight; in the
second he reflects an uncritical view entertained since the time of the
Church Fathers; in both, he writes with an order of words requiring no
change in an English translation.
In his time, Bacon had but a sorry fame, and his works no influence. The
writings of his younger contemporary Thomas Aquinas exerted greater
influence than those of any man after Augustine. They represent the
culmination of scholasticism. He was Italian born, and his language,
however difficult the matter, is lucidity itself. It is never rhetorical; but
measured, temperate, and balanced; properly proceeding from the mind
which weighed every proposition in the scales of universal consideration.
Sometimes it gains a certain fervour from the clarity and import of the
statement which it so lucidly conveys. In article eighth, of the first Questio,
of Pars Prima of the Summa theologiae, Thomas thus decides that Theology
is a rational (argumentativa) science:
“Respondeo dicendum quod, sicut aliae scientiae non argumentantur ad
sua principia probanda, sed ex principiis argumentantur ad ostendendum
alia in ipsis scientiis; ita haec doctrina non argumentatur ad sua
principia probanda, quae sunt articuli fidei; sed ex eis procedit ad
aliquid aliud ostendendum; sicut Apostolus i ad Cor. xv., ex
resurrectione Christi argumentatur ad resurrectionem communem
probandam.
“Sed tamen considerandum est in scientiis philosophicis, quod
inferiores scientiae nec probant sua principia, nec contra negantem
principia disputant, sed hoc relinquunt superiori scientiae: suprema vero
inter eas, scilicet metaphysica, disputat contra negantem sua principia,
si adversarius aliquid concedit: si autem nihil concedit, non potest cum

eo disputare, potest tamen solvere rationes ipsius. Unde sacra scriptura
(i.e. Theology), cum non habeat superiorem, disputat cum negante sua
principia: argumentando quidem, si adversarius aliquid concedat eorum
quae per divinam revelationem habentur; sicut per auctoritates sacrae
doctrinae disputamus contra hereticos, et per unum articulum contra
negantes alium. Si vero adversarius nihil credat eorum quae divinitus
revelantur, non remanet amplius via ad probandum articulos fidei per
rationes, sed ad solvendum rationes, si quas inducit, contra fidem. Cum
enim fides infallibili veritati innitatur, impossibile autem sit de vero
demonstrari contrarium, manifestum est probationes quae contra fidem
inducuntur, non esse demonstrationes, sed solubilia argumenta.”[272]
Of a different intellectual temperament was John of Fidanza, known as St.
Bonaventura.[273] He also was born and passed his youth in Italy. This
sainted General of the Franciscan Order was a few years older than the
great Dominican, who was his friend. Both doctors died in the year 1274.
Bonaventura’s powers of constructive reasoning were excellent. His diction
is clear and beautiful, and eloquent with a spiritual fervour whenever the
matter is such as to evoke it. His account of how he came to write his
famous little Itinerarium mentis in Deum is full of temperament.
“Cum igitur exemplo beatissimi patris Francisci hanc pacem anhelo
spiritu quaererem, ego peccator, qui loco ipsius patris beatissimi post
eius transitum septimus in generali fratrum ministerio per omnia
indignus succedo; contigit, ut nutu divino circa Beati ipsius transitum,
anno trigesimo tertio ad montem Alvernae tanquam ad locum quietum
amore quaerendi pacem spiritus declinarem, ibique existens, dum mente
tractarem aliquas mentales ascensiones in Deum, inter alia occurrit illud
miraculum, quod in praedicto loco contigit ipsi beato Francisco, de
visione scilicet Seraph alati ad instar Crucifixi. In cuius consideratione
statim visum est mihi, quod visio illa praetenderet ipsius patris
suspensionem in contemplando et viam, per quam pervenitur ad
eam.”[274]
And Bonaventura at the end of his Itinerarium speaks of the perfect passing
of Francis into God through the very mystic climax of contemplation,
concluding thus:

“Si autem quaeras, quomodo haec fiant, interroga gratiam, non
doctrinam; desiderium, non intellectum; gemitum orationis, non
studium lectionis; sponsum, non magistrum; Deum, non hominem;
caliginem, non claritatem; non lucem, sed ignem totaliter inflammantem
et in Deum excessivis unctionibus et ardentissimis affectionibus
transferentem.”[275]
Bonaventura’s fervent diction will serve to carry us over from the more
unmitigated intellectuality of Bacon and Thomas to the simpler matter of
those personal and pious narratives from which may be drawn concluding
illustrations of mediaeval Latin prose. Some of the authors will show the
skill which comes from training; others are quite innocent of grammar, and
their Latin has made a happy surrender to the genius of their vernacular
speech, which was the lingua vulgaris of northern Italy.
One of the earliest biographers of St. Francis of Assisi was Thomas of
Celano, a skilled Latinist, who was enraptured with the loveliness of
Francis’s life. His diction is limpid and rhythmical. A well-known passage
in his Vita prima (for he wrote two Lives) tells of Francis’s joyous
assurance of the great work which God would accomplish through the
simple band who formed the beginnings of the Order. This assurance
crystallized in a vision of multitudes hurrying to join. Francis speaks to the
brethren:
“Confortamini, charissimi, et gaudete in Domino, nec, quia pauci
videmini, efficiamini tristes. Ne vos deterreat mea, vel vestra
simplicitas, quoniam sicut mihi a Domino in veritate ostensum est, in
maximam multitudinem faciet vos crescere Deus, et usque ad fines
orbis multipliciter dilatabit. Vidi multitudinem magnam hominum ad
nos venientium, et in habitu sanctae conversationis beataeque religionis
regula nobiscum volentium conversari; et ecce adhuc sonitus eorum est
in auribus meis, euntium, et redeuntium secundum obedientiae sanctae
mandatum: vidique vias ipsorum multitudine plenas ex omni fere
natione in his partibus convenire. Veniunt Francigenae, festinant
Hispani, Teuthonici, et Anglici currunt, et aliarum diversarum
linguarum accelerat maxima multitudo.

“Quod cum audissent fratres, repleti sunt gaudio Salvatoris sive propter
gratiam, quam dominus Deus contulerat sancto suo, sive quia
proximorum lucrum sitiebant ardenter, quos desiderabant ut salvi essent,
in idipsum quotidie augmentari.”[276]
We feel the flow and rhythm, and note the agreeable balancing of clauses.
Francis died in 1226. The Vita prima by Celano was approved by Gregory
IX. in 1229. Already other matter touching the saint was gathering in
anecdote and narrative. Much of it was brought together in the so-called
Speculum perfectionis, which has been confidently but very questionably
ascribed to Francis’s personal disciple, Brother Leo. Brother Leo, or
whoever may have been the narrator or compiler, was no scholar; his Latin
is naively incorrect, and has also the simplicity of Gospel narrative. Indeed
this Latin is as effectively “vulgarized” as the Greek of Matthew’s Gospel.
An interesting passage tells with what loving wisdom Francis interpreted a
text of Scripture:

“Manente ipso apud Senas venit ad eum quidam doctor sacrae
theologiae de ordine Praedicatorum, vir utique humilis et spiritualis
valde. Quum ipse cum beato Francisco de verbis Domini simul
aliquamdiu contulissent interrogavit eum magister de illo verbo
Ezechielis: Si non annuntiaveris impio impietatem suam animam ejus
de manu tua requiram. Dixit enim: ‘Multos, bone pater, ego cognosco
in peccato mortali quibus non annuntio impietatem eorum, numquid de
manu mea ipsorum animae requirentur?’
“Cui beatus Franciscus humiliter dixit se esse idiotam et ideo magis
expedire sibi doceri ab eo quam super scripturae sententiam respondere.
Tunc ille humilis magister adjecit: ‘Frater, licet ab aliquibus sapientibus
hujus verbi expositionem audiverim, tamen libenter super hoc vestrum
perciperem intellectum.’ Dixit ergo beatus Franciscus: ‘Si verbum
debeat generaliter intelligi, ego taliter accipio ipsum quod servus Dei sic
debet vita et sanctitate in seipso ardere vel fulgere ut luce exempli et
lingua sanctae conversationis omnes impios reprehendat. Sic, inquam,
splendor ejus et odor famae ipsius annuntiabit omnibus iniquitates
eorum.’
“Plurimum itaque doctor ille aedificatus recedens dixit sociis beati
Francisci: ‘Fratres mei, theologia hujus viri puritate et contemplatione
subnixa est aquila volans, nostra vero scientia ventre graditur super
terram.’”[277]
Another passage has Francis breaking out in song from the joy of his love
of Christ:
“Ebrius amore et compassione Christi beatus Franciscus quandoque
talia faciebat, nam dulcissima melodia spiritus intra se ipsum ebulliens
frequenter exterius gallice dabat sonum et vena divini susurrii quam
auris ejus suscipiebat furtive gallicum erumpebat in jubilum.
“Lignum quandoque colligebat de terra ipsumque sinistro brachio
superponens aliud lignum per modum arcus in manu dextera trahebat
super illud, quasi super viellam vel aliud instrumentum atque gestus ad
hoc idoneos faciens gallice cantabat de Domino Jesu Christo.

Terminabatur denique tota haec tripudiatio in lacrymas et in
compassionem passionis Christi hic jubilus solvebatur.
“In his trahebat continue suspiria et ingeminatis gemitibus eorum quae
tenebat in manibus oblitus suspendebatur ad caelum.”[278]
This Latin is as childlike as the Old Italian of the Fioretti of St. Francis; it
has a like word-order, and one might almost add, a like vocabulary. The
simple, ignorant writer seems as if held by a direct and personal inspiration
from the familiar life of the sweet saint. His language reflects that
inspiration, and mirrors his own childlike character. Hence he has a style,
direct, effective, moving to tears and joy, like his impression of the blessed
Francis.
A not dissimilar kind of childlike Latin could attain to a remarkable
symmetry and balance. The Legenda aurea is before us, written by the
Dominican Jacobus à Voragine, by race a Genoese, and living toward the
close of the thirteenth century. This book was the most popular compend of
saints’ lives in use in the later Middle Ages. Its stories are told with
fascinating naïveté. We cite the opening sentences from its chapter on the
Annunciation, just to show the harmony and balance of its periods. The
passage is exceptional and almost formal in these qualities:
“Annunciatio dominica dicitur, quia in tali die ab angelo adventus filii
Dei in carnem fuit annuntiatus, congruum enim fuit, ut incarnationem
praecederet angelica annuntiatio, triplici ratione. Primo ratione ordinis
connotandi, ut scilicet ordo reparationis responderet ordini
praevaricationis. Unde sicut dyabolus tentavit mulierem, ut eam
pertraheret ad dubitationem et per dubitationem ad consensum et per
consensum ad lapsum, sic angelus nuntiavit virgini, ut nuntiando
excitaret ad fidem et per fidem ad consensum et per consensum ad
concipiendum Dei filium. Secundo ratione ministerii angelici, quia enim
angelus est Dei minister et servus et beata virgo electa erat, ut esset Dei
mater, et congruum est ministrum dominae famulari, conveniens fuit, ut
beatae virgini annuntiatio per angelum fieret. Tertio ratione lapsus
angelici reparandi. Quia enim incarnatio non tantum faciebat ad
reparationem humani lapsus, sed etiam ad reparationem ruinae
angelicae, ideo angeli non debuerunt excludi. Unde sicut sexus mulieris

non excluditur a cognitione mysterii incarnationis et resurrectionis, sic
etiam nec angelicus nuntius. Imo Deus utrumque angelo mediante
nuntiat mulieri, scilicet incarnationem virgini Mariae et resurrectionem
Magdelenae.”[279]
These extracts bring us far into the thirteenth century. Two hundred years
later, mediaeval Latin prose, if one may say so, sang its swan song in that
little book which is a last, sweet, and composite echo of all mellifluous
mediaeval piety. Yet perhaps this De imitatione Christi of Thomas à Kempis
can scarcely be classed as prose, so full is it of assonances and rhythms fit
for chanting.

CHAPTER XXXII

EVOLUTION OF MEDIAEVAL LATIN VERSE

I. Metrical Verse.
II. Substitution of Accent for Quantity.
III. Sequence-Hymn and Student-Song.
IV. Passage of Themes into the Vernacular.

In mediaeval Latin poetry the endeavour to preserve a classical style and
the irresistible tendency to evolve new forms are more palpably
distinguishable than in the prose. For there is a visible parting of the ways
between the retention of the antique metres and their fruitful abandonment
in verses built of accentual rhyme. Moreover, this formal divergence
corresponds to a substantial difference, inasmuch as there was usually a
larger survival of antique feeling and allusion in the mediaeval metrical
attempts than in the rhyming poems.

As in the prose, so in the poetry, the lines of development may be followed
from the Carolingian time. But a difference will be found between Italy and
the North; for in Italy the course was quicker, but a less organic evolution
resulted in verse less excellent and less distinctly mediaeval. By the end of
the eleventh century Latin poetry in Italy, rhyming or metrical, seems to
have drawn itself along as far as it was destined to progress; but in the
North a richer growth culminates a century later. Indeed the most
originative line of evolution of mediaeval Latin verse would seem to have
been confined to the North, in the main if not exclusively.
The following pages offer no history of mediaeval Latin poetry, even as the
previous chapter made no attempt to sketch the history of the prose. Their
object is to point out the general lines along which the verse-forms were
developed, or were perhaps retarded. Three may be distinguished. The first
is marked by the retention of quantity and the endeavour to preserve the
ancient measures. In the second, accent and rhyme gradually take the place
of metre within the old verse-forms. The third is that of the Sequence,
wherein the accentual rhyming hymn springs from the chanted prose, which
had superseded the chanting of the final a of the Alleluia.[280]

I
The lover of classical Greek and Latin poetry knows the beautiful fitness of
the ancient measures for the thought and feeling which they enframed. If his
eyes chance to fall on some twelfth-century Latin hymn, he will be struck
by its different quality. He will quickly perceive that classic forms would
have been unsuited to the Christian and romantic sentiment of the
mediaeval period,[281] and will realize that some vehicle besides metrical
verse would have been needed for this thoroughly declassicized feeling,
even had metrical quantity remained a vital element of language, instead of
passing away some centuries before. Metre was but resuscitation and
convention in the time of Charlemagne. Yet it kept its sway with scholars,
and could not lack votaries so long as classical poetry made part of the Ars
grammatica or was read for delectation. Metrical composition did not cease
throughout the Middle Ages. But it was not the true mediaeval style, and
became obviously academic as accentual verse was perfected and made fit

to carry spiritual emotion. Nevertheless the simpler metres were cultivated
successfully by the best scholars of the twelfth century.
Most of the Latin poetry of the Carolingian period was metrical, if we are to
judge from the mass that remains. Reminiscence of the antique enveloped
educated men, with whom the mediaeval spirit had not reached distinctness
of thought and feeling. So the poetry resembled the contemporary sculpture
and painting, in which the antique was still unsuperseded by any new style.
Following the antique metres, using antique phrase and commonplace, often
copying antique sentiment, this poetry was as dull as might be expected
from men who were amused by calling each other Homer, Virgil, Horace, or
David. Usually the poets were ecclesiastics, and interested in theology;[282]
but many of the pieces are conventionally profane in topic, and as
humanistic as the Latin poetry of Petrarch.[283] Moreover, just as Petrarch’s
Latin poetry was still-born, while his Italian sonnets live, so the Carolingian
poetry, when it forgets itself and falls away from metre to accentual verse,
gains some degree of life. At this early period the Romance tongues were
not a fit poetic vehicle, and consequently living thoughts, which with Dante
and Petrarch found voice in Italian, in the ninth century began to stammer
in Latin verses that were freed from the dead rules of quantity, and were
already vibrant with a vital feeling for accent and rhyme.[284]
Through the tenth century metrical composition became rougher, yet
sometimes drew a certain force from its rudeness. A good example is the
famous Waltarius, or Waltharilied, of Ekkehart of St. Gall, composed in the
year 960 as a school exercise.[285] The theme was a German story found in
vernacular poetry. Ekkehart’s hexameters have a strong Teuton flavour, and
doubtless some of the vigour of his paraphrase was due to the German
original.
The metrical poems of the eleventh century have been spoken of already,
especially the more interesting ones written in Italy.[286] Most of the Latin
poetry emanating from that classic land was metrical, or so intended.
Frequently it tells the story of wars, or gives the Gesta of notable lives,
making a kind of versified biography. One feels as if verse was employed as
a refuge from the dead annalistic form. This poetry was a semi-barbarizing
of the antique, without new formal or substantial elements. Italy, one may
say, never became essentially and creatively mediaeval: the pressure of

antique survival seems to have barred original development; Italians took
little part in the great mediaeval military religious movements, the
Crusades; no strikingly new architecture arose with them; their first
vernacular poetry was an imitation or a borrowing from Provence and
France; and by far the greater part of their Latin poetry presents an
uncreative barbarizing of the antique metres.
These remarks find illustration in the principal Latin poems composed in
Italy in the twelfth century. Among them one observes differences in skill,
knowledge, and tendency. Some of the writers made use of leonine
hexameters, others avoided the rhyme. But they were all akin in lack of
excellence and originality both in composition and verse-form. There was
the monk Donizo of Canossa, who wrote the Vita of the great Countess
Matilda;[287] there was William of Apulia, Norman in spirit if not in blood,
who wrote of the Norman conquests in Apulia and Sicily;[288] also the
anonymous and barbarous De bello et excidio urbis Comensis, in which is
told the destruction of Como by Milan between 1118 and 1127;[289] then the
metrically jingling Pisan chronicle narrating the conquest of the island of
Majorca, and beginning (like the Aeneid!) with

“Arma, rates, populum vindictam coelitus octam
Scribimus, ac duros terrae pelagique labores.”[290]

We also note Peter of Ebulo, with his narrative in laudation of the emperor
Henry VI., written about 1194; Henry of Septimella and his elegies upon
the checkered fortunes of divers great men;[291] and lastly the more famous
Godfrey of Viterbo, of probable German blood, and notary or scribe to three
successive emperors, with his cantafable Pantheon or Memoria saecularum.
[292] Godfrey’s poetry is rhymed after a manner of his own.

In the North, or more specifically speaking in the land of France north of
the Loire, the twelfth century brought better metrical poetry than in Italy.
Yet it had something of the deadness of imitation, since the vis vivida of
song had passed over into rhyming verse. Still from the academic point of
view, metre was the proper vehicle of poetry; as one sees, for instance, in
the Ars versificatoria of Matthew of Vendome,[293] written toward the close
of the twelfth century. “Versus est metrica descriptio,” says he, and then

elaborates his, for the most part borrowed, definition: “Verse is metrical
description proceeding concisely and line by line through the comely
marriage of words to flowers of thought, and containing nothing trivial or
irrelevant.” A neat conception this of poetry; and the same writer denounces
leonine rhyming as unseemly, but praises the favourite metre of the Middle
Ages, the elegiac; for he regards the hexameter and pentameter as together
forming the perfect verse. It was in this metre that Hildebert wrote his
almost classic elegy over the ruins of Rome. A few lines have been quoted
from it;[294] but the whole poem, which is not long, is of interest as one of
the very best examples of a mediaeval Latin elegy:

“Par tibi, Roma, nihil, cum sis prope tota ruina;
Quam magni fueris integra fracta doces.
Longa tuos fastus aetas destruxit, et arces
Caesaris et superum templa palude jacent.
Ille labor, labor ille ruit quem dirus Araxes
Et stantem tremuit et cecidisse dolet;
Quem gladii regum, quem provida cura senatus,
Quem superi rerum constituere caput;
Quem magis optavit cum crimine solus habere
Caesar, quam socius et pius esse socer,
Qui, crescens studiis tribus, hostes, crimen, amicos
Vi domuit, secuit legibus, emit ope;
In quem, dum fieret, vigilavit cura priorum:
Juvit opus pietas hospitis, unda, locus.
Materiem, fabros, expensas axis uterque
Misit, se muris obtulit ipse locus.
Expendere duces thesauros, fata favorem,
Artifices studium, totus et orbis opes.
Urbs cecidit de qua si quicquam dicere dignum
Moliar, hoc potero dicere: Roma fuit.
Non tamen annorum series, non flamma, nec ensis
Ad plenum potuit hoc abolere decus.
Cura hominum potuit tantam componere Romam
Quantam non potuit solvere cura deum.
Confer opes marmorque novum superumque favorem,
Artificum vigilent in nova facta manus,
Non tamen aut fieri par stanti machina muro,
Aut restaurari sola ruina potest.
Tantum restat adhuc, tantum ruit, ut neque pars stans
Aequari possit, diruta nec refici.
Hic superum formas superi mirantur et ipsi,
Et cupiunt fictis vultibus esse pares.
Non potuit natura deos hoc ore creare
Quo miranda deum signa creavit homo.
Vultus adest his numinibus, potiusque coluntur
Artificum studio quam deitate sua.
Urbs felix, si vel dominis urbs illa careret,

, ,
Vel dominis esset turpe carere fide.”[295]
The elegiac metre was used by Abaelard in his didactic poem to his son
Astralabius,[296] and by John of Salisbury in his Entheticus. The hexameter
also was a favourite measure, used, for instance, by Alanus of Lille in the
Anticlaudianus, perhaps the noblest of mediaeval narrative or allegorical
poems in Latin.[297] Another excellent composition in hexameter was the
Alexandreis of Walter, born, like Alanus, apparently at Lille, but commonly
called of Chatillon. As poets and as classical scholars, these two men were
worthy contemporaries. Walter’s poem follows, or rather enlarges upon the
Life of Alexander by Quintus Curtius.[298] He is said to have written it on
the challenge of Matthew of Vendome, him of the Ars versificatoria. The
Ligurinus of a certain Cistercian Gunther is still another good example of a
long narrative poem in hexameters. It sets forth the career of Frederick
Barbarossa, and was written shortly after the opening of the thirteenth
century. Its author, like Walter and Alanus, shows himself widely read in the
Classics.[299]
The sapphic was a third not infrequently attempted metre, of which the De
planctu naturae of Alanus contains examples. This work was composed in
the form of the De consolatione philosophiae of Boëthius, where lyrics
alternate with prose. The general topic was Nature’s complaint over man’s
disobedience to her laws. The author apostrophizes her in the following
sapphics:

“O Dei proles, genitrixque rerum,
Vinculum mundi, stabilisque nexus,
Gemma terrenis, speculum caducis,
Lucifer orbis.
Pax, amor, virtus, regimen, potestas,
Ordo, lex, finis, via, dux, origo,
Vita, lux, splendor, species, figura
Regula mundi.
Quae tuis mundum moderas habenis,
Cuncta concordi stabilita nodo
Nectis et pacis glutino maritas
Coelica terris.
Quae noys (νοῦς) plures recolens ideas
Singulas rerum species monetans,
Res togas formis, chlamidemque formae
Pollice formas.
Cui favet coelum, famulatur aer,
Quam colit Tellus, veneratur unda,
Cui velut mundi dominae tributum
Singula solvunt.
Quae diem nocti vicibus catenans
Cereum solis tribuis diei,
Lucido lunae speculo soporans
Nubila noctis.
Quae polum stellis variis inauras,
Aetheris nostri solium serenans
Siderum gemmis, varioque coelum
Milite complens.
Quae novis coeli faciem figuris
Protheans mutas aridumque vulgus
Aeris nostri regione donans,
Legeque stringis.
Cujus ad nutum juvenescit orbis,
Silva crispatur folii capillo,
Et tua florum tunicata veste,
Terra superbit.
Quae minas ponti sepelis, et auges,

Q p p , g ,
Syncopans cursum pelagi furori
Ne soli tractum tumulare possit
Aequoris aestus.”[300]
Practically all of our examples have been taken from works composed in
the twelfth century, and in the land comprised under the name of France.
The pre-excellence of this period will likewise appear in accentual rhyming
Latin poetry, which was more spontaneous and living than its loftily
descended relative.

II
The academic vogue of metre in the early Middle Ages did not prevent the
growth of more natural poetry. The Irish had their Gaelic poems; people of
Teutonic speech had their rough verse based on alliteration and the count of
the strong syllables. The Romance tongues emerging from the common
Latin were as yet poetically untried. But in the proper Latin, which had
become as unquantitative and accentual as any of its vulgar forms, there
was a tonic poetry that was no longer unequipped with rhyme.
Three rhythmic elements made up this natural mode of Latin versification:
the succession of accented and unaccented syllables; the number of
syllables in a line; and that regularly recurring sameness of sound which is
called rhyme. The source of the first of these seems obvious. Accent having
driven quantity from speech, came to supersede it in verse, with the
accented syllable taking the place of the long syllable and the unaccented
the place of the short. In the Carolingian period accentual verse followed
the old metrical forms, with this exception: the metrical principle that one
long is equivalent to two shorts was not adopted. Consequently the number
of syllables in the successive lines of an accentual strophe would remain the
same, where in the metrical antecedent they might have varied. This is also
sufficient to account for the second element, the observance of regularity in
the number of syllables. For this regularity seems to follow upon the
acceptance of the principle that in rhythmic verse an accented syllable is not
equal to two unaccented ones. The query might perhaps be made why this
Latin accentual verse did not take up the principle of regularity in the
number of strong syllables in a line, like Old High German poetry for

example, where the number of unaccented syllables, within reasonable
limits, is indifferent. A ready answer is that these Latin verses were made by
people of Latin speech who had been acquainted with metrical forms of
poetry, in which the number of syllables might vary, but was never
indifferent; for the metrical rule was rigid that one long was equivalent to
two short; and to no more and no less. Hence the short syllables were as
fixed in number as the long.[301]
The origin of the third element, rhyme, is in dispute. In some instances it
may have passed into Greek and Latin verses from Syrian hymns.[302] But
on the other hand it had long been an occasional element in Greek and Latin
rhetorical prose. Probably rhyme in Latin accentual verse had no specific
origin. It gradually became the sharpening, defining element of such verse.
Accentual Latin lent itself so naturally to rhyme, that had not rhyme
become a fixed part of this verse, there indeed would have been a fact to
explain.
These, then, were the elements: accent, number of syllables, and rhyme.
Most interesting is the development of verse-forms. Rhythmic Latin poetry
came through the substitution of accent for quantity, and probably had
many prototypes in the old jingles of Roman soldiers and provincials,
which so far as known were accentual, rather than metrical. Christian
accentual poetry retained those simple forms of iambic and trochaic verse
which most readily submitted to the change from metre to accent, or
perhaps one should say, had for centuries offered themselves as natural
forms of accentual verse. Apparently the change from metre to accent
within the old forms gradually took place between the sixth and the tenth
centuries. During this period there was slight advance in the evolution of
new verses; nor was the period creative in other respects, as we have seen.
But thereafter, as the mediaeval centuries advanced from the basis of a
mastered patristic and antique heritage, and began to create, there followed
an admirable evolution of verse-forms: in some instances apparently issuing
from the old metrico-accentual forms, and in others developing
independently by virtue of the faculty of song meeting the need of singing.
This factor wrought with power—the human need and cognate faculty of
song, a need and faculty stimulated in the Middle Ages by religious
sentiment and emotion. In the fusing of melody and words into an utterance

of song—at last into a strophe—music worked potently, shaping the
composition of the lines, moulding them to rhythm, insisting upon
sonorousness in the words, promoting their assonance and at last
compelling them to rhyme so as to meet the stress, or mark the ending, of
the musical periods. Thus the exigencies of melody helped to evoke the
finished verse, while the words reciprocating through their vocal
capabilities and through the inspiration of their meaning, aided the
evolution of the melodies. In fine, words and melody, each quickened by
the other, and each moulding the other to itself, attained a perfected strophic
unison; and mediaeval musician-poets achieved at last the finished verses of
hymns or Sequences and student-songs.
There were two distinct lines of evolution of accentual Latin verse in the
Middle Ages; and although the faculty of song was a moving energy in
both, it worked in one of them more visibly than in the other. Along the one
line accentual verse developed pursuant to the ancient forms, displacing
quantity with accent, and evolving rhyme. The other line of evolution had
no connection with the antique. It began with phrases of sonorous prose,
replacing inarticulate chant. These, under the influence of music, through
the creative power of song, were by degrees transformed to verse. The
evolution of the Sequence-hymn will be the chief illustration. With the
finished accentual Latin poetry of the twelfth century it may become
impossible to tell which line of rhythmic evolution holds the antecedent of a
given poem. In truth, this final and perfected verse may often have a double
ancestry, descending from the rhythms which had superseded metre, and
being also the child of mediaeval melody. Yet there is no difficulty in
tracing by examples the two lines of evolution.
To illustrate the strain of verse which took its origin in the displacement of
metre by accent and rhyme, we must look back as far as Fortunatus. He was
born about the year 530 in northern Italy, but he passed his eventful life
among Franks and Thuringians. A scholar and also a poet, he had a fair
mastery of metre; yet some of his poems evince the spirit of the coming
mediaeval time both in sentiment and form. He wrote two famous hymns,
one of them in the popular trochaic tetrameter, the other in the equally
simple iambic dimeter. The first, a hymn to the Cross, begins with the
never-to-be-forgotten

“Pange, lingua, gloriosi proelium certaminis”;

and has such lines as

“Crux fidelis, inter omnes arbor una nobilis
· · · · · · · ·
Dulce lignum, dulce clavo dulce pondus sustinens!”

In these the mediaeval feeling for the Cross shows itself, and while the
metre is correct, it is so facile that one may read or sing the lines
accentually. In the other hymn, also to the Cross, assonance and rhyme
foretell the coming transformation of metre to accentual verse. Here are the
first two stanzas:

“Vexilla regis prodeunt,
Fulget crucis mysterium,
Quo carne carnis conditor
Suspensus est patibulo.

Confixa clavis viscera
Tendens manus, vestigia
Redemtionis gratia
Hic immolata est hostia.”

Passing to the Carolingian epoch, some lines from a poem celebrating the
victory of Charlemagne’s son Pippin over the Avars in 796, will illustrate
the popular trochaic tetrameter which had become accentual, and already
tended to rhyme:

“Multa mala iam fecerunt ab antico tempore,
Fana dei destruxerunt atque monasteria,
Vasa aurea sacrata, argentea, fictilia.”[303]

Next we turn to a piece by the persecuted and interesting Gottschalk,
written in the latter part of the ninth century. A young lad has asked for a
poem. But how can he sing, the exiled and imprisoned monk who might
rather weep as the Jews by the waters of Babylon?[304] yet he will sing a
hymn to the Trinity, and bewail his piteous lot before the highest pitying
Godhead. The verses have a lyric unity of mood, and are touching with their
sad refrain. Their rhyme, if not quite pure, is abundant and catching, and
their nearest metrical affinity would be a trochaic dimeter.

“1. Ut quid iubes, pusiole,
quare mandas, filiole,
carmen dulce me cantare,
cum sim longe exul valde
intra mare?
o cur iubes canere?

2. Magis mihi, miserule,
fiere libet, puerule,
plus plorare quam cantare
carmen tale, iubes quale,
amor care,
o cur iubes canere?

3. Mallem scias, pusillule,
ut velles tu, fratercule,
pio corde condolere
mihi atque prona mente
conlugere.
o cur iubes canere?

4. Scis, divine tyruncule,
scis, superne clientule,
hic diu me exulare,
multa die sive nocte
tolerare.
o cur iubes canere?

5. Scis captive plebicule
Israheli cognomine
praeceptum in Babilone
decantare extra longe
fines Iude.
o cur iubes canere?

6. Non potuerunt utique,
nec debuerunt itaque

q
carmen dulce coram gente
aliene nostri terre
resonare.
o cur iubes canere?

7. Sed quia vis omnimode,
consodalis egregie,
canam patri filioque
simul atque procedente
ex utroque.
hoc cano ultronee.

8. Benedictus es, domine,
pater, nate, paraclite,
deus trine, deus une,
deus summe, deus pie,
deus iuste.
hoc cano spontanee.

9. Exul ego diuscule
hoc in mare sum, domine:
annos nempe duos fere
nosti fore, sed iam iamque
miserere.
hoc rogo humillime.

10. Interim cum pusione
psallam ore, psallam mente,
psallam voce (psallam corde),
psallam die, psallam nocte
carmen dulce
tibi, rex piissime.”[305]
Gottschalk (and for this it is hard to love him) was one of the initiators of
the leonine hexameter, in which a syllable in the middle of the line rhymes
with the last syllable.

“Septeno Augustas decimo praeeunte Kalendas”

is the opening hexameter in his Epistle to his friend Ratramnus.[306] To what
horrid jingle such verses could attain may be seen from some leonine
hexameter-pentameters of two or three hundred years later, on the Fall of
Troy, beginning:

“Viribus, arte, minis, Danaum clara Troja ruinis,
Annis bis quinis fit rogus atque cinis.”[307]

Hector and Troy, and the dire wiles of the Greeks never left the mediaeval
imagination. A poem of the early tenth century, which bade the watchers on
Modena’s walls be vigilant, draws its inspiration from that unfading
memory, and for us illustrates what iambics might become when accent had
replaced quantity. The lines throughout end in a final rhyming a.

“O tu, qui servas armis ista moenia,
Noli dormire, moneo, sed vigila.
Dum Hector vigil extitit in Troia,
Non eam cepit fraudulenta Graecia.”[308]

And from a scarcely later time, for it also is of the tenth century, rise those
verses to Roma, that old “Roma aurea et eterna,” and forever “caput
mundi,” sung by pilgrim bands as their eyes caught the first gleam of tower,
church, and ruin:

“O Roma nobilis, orbis et domina,
Cunctarum urbium excellentissima,
Roseo martyrum sanguine rubea,
Albis et virginum liliis candida:
Salutem dicimus tibi per omnia,
Te benedicimus: salve per secula.”[309]

This verse, which still lifts the heart of whosoever hears or reads it, may
close our examples of mediaeval verses descended from metrical forms. It
will be noticed that all of them are from the early mediaeval centuries; a
circumstance which may be taken as a suggestion of the fact that by far the
greater part of the earlier accentual Latin poetry was composed in forms in
which accent simply had displaced the antique quantity.

III

We turn to that other genesis of mediaeval Latin verse, arising not out of
antique forms, but rather from the mediaeval need and faculty of song. In
the chief instance selected for illustration, this line of evolution took its
inception in the exigencies and inspiration of the Alleluia chant or
jubilation. During the celebration of the Mass, as the Gradual ended in its
last Alleluia, the choir continued chanting the final syllable of that word in
cadences of musical exultings. The melody or cadence to which this final a
of the Alleluia was chanted, was called the sequentia. The words which
came to be substituted for its cadenced reiteration were called the prosa. By
the twelfth century the two terms seem to have been used interchangeably.
Thus arose the prose Sequence, so plastic in its capability of being moulded
by melody to verse. Its songful qualities lay in the sonorousness of the
words and in their syllabic correspondence with the notes of the melody to
which they were sung.[310]
In the year 860, Norsemen sacked the cloister of Jumièges in Normandy,
and a fleeing brother carried his precious Antiphonary far away to the safe
retreat of St. Gall. There a young monk named Notker, poring over its
contents, perceived that words had been written in the place of the
repetitions of the final a of the Alleluia. Taking the cue, he set to work to
compose more fitting words to correspond with the notes to which this final
a was sung. So these lines of euphonious and fitting words appear to have
had their beginning in Notker’s scanning of that fugitive Antiphonary, and
his devising labour. Their primary purpose was a musical one; for they were
a device—mnemotechnic, if one will—to facilitate the chanting of cadences
previously vocalized with difficulty through the singing of one simple
vowel sound. Notker showed his work to his master, Iso, who rejoiced at
what his gifted pupil had accomplished, and spurred him on by pointing out
that in his composition one syllable was still sometimes repeated or drawn
out through several successive notes. One syllable to each note was the
principle which Notker now set himself to realize; and he succeeded.
He composed some fifty Sequences. In his work, as well as in that of others
after him, the device of words began to modify and develop the melodies
themselves. Sometimes Notker adapted his verbal compositions to those
cadences or melodies to which the Alleluia had long been sung; sometimes
he composed both melody and words; or, again, he took a current melody,
sacred or secular, to which the Alleluia never had been sung, and composed

words for it, to be chanted as a Sequence. In these borrowed melodies, as
well as in those composed by Notker, the musical periods were more
developed than in the Alleluia cadences. Thus the musical growth of the
Sequences was promoted by the use of sonorous words, while the improved
melodies in turn drew the words on to a more perfect rhythmic ordering.
Notker died in 912. His Sequences were prose, yet with a certain
parallelism in their construction; and, even with Notker in his later years,
the words began to take on assonances, chiefly in the vowel sound of a.
Thereafter the melodies, seizing upon the words, as it were, by the principle
of their syllabic correspondence to the notation, moulded them to rhythm of
movement and regularity of line; while conversely with the better ordering
of the words for singing, the melodies in turn made gain and progress, and
then again reacted on the words, until after two centuries there emerged the
finished verses of an Adam of St. Victor.
Thus these Sequences have become verse before our eyes, and we realize
that it is the very central current of the evolution of mediaeval Latin poetry
that we have been following. How free and how spontaneous was this
evolution of the Sequence. It was the child of the Christian Middle Ages,
seeing the light in the closing years of the ninth century, but requiring a
long period of growth before it reached the glory of its climacteric. It was
born of musical chanting, and it grew as song, never unsung or conceived of
as severable from its melody. Only as it attained its perfected strophic
forms, it necessarily made use of trochaic and other rhythms which long
before had changed from quantity to accent and so had passed on into the
verse-making habitudes of the Middle Ages.[311] If there be any Latin
composition in virtue of origin and growth absolutely un-antique, it is the
mediaeval Sequence, which in its final forms is so glorious a representative
of the mediaeval Hymn. And we shall also see that much popular Latin
poetry, “Carmina Burana” and student-songs, were composed in verses and
often sung to tunes taken—or parodied—from the Sequence-hymns of the
Liturgy.
There were many ways of chanting Sequences. The musical phrases of the
melodies usually were repeated once, except at the beginning and the close;
and the Sequence would be rendered by a double choir singing
antiphonally. Ordinarily the words responded to the repetition of the

musical phrases with a parallelism of their own. The lines (after the first)
varied in length by pairs, the second and third lines having the same number
of syllables, the fourth and fifth likewise equal to each other, but differing
in length from the second and third; and so on through the Sequence, until
the last line, which commonly stood alone and differed in length from the
preceding pairs. The Sequence called “Nostra tuba” is a good example.
Probably it was composed by Notker, and in his later years; for it is filled
with assonances, and exhibits a regular parallelism of structure.

“Nostra tuba
Regatur fortissime Dei dextra et preces audiat
Aura placatissima et serena; ita enim nostra
Laus erit accepta, voce si quod canimus, canat pariter et pura conscientia.
Et, ut haec possimus, omnes divina nobis semper flagitemus adesse auxilia.
· · · · · · · · · · · ·
O bone Rex, pie, juste, misericors, qui es via et janua,
Portas regni, quaesumus, nobis reseres, dimittasque facinora
Ut laudemus nomen nunc tuum atque per cuncta saecula.”[312]

Here, after the opening, the first pair has seventeen syllables, and the next
pair twenty-six. The last pair quoted has twenty; and the final line of
seventeen syllables has no fellow. A further rhythmical advance seems
reached by the following Sequence from the abbey of St. Martial at
Limoges. It may have been written in the eleventh century. It is given here
with the first and second line of the couplets opposite to each other, as
strophe and antistrophe; and the lines themselves are divided to show the
assonances (or rhymes) which appear to have corresponded with pauses in
the melody:

“(1) Canat omnis turba
(2a) Fonte renata (2b) Laude jucunda
Spiritusque gratia et mente perspicua
(3a) Jam restituta (3b) Sicque jactura
pars est decima coelestis illa
fuerat quae culpa completur in laude
perdita. divina.

(4a) Ecce praeclara (4b) Enitet ampla
dies dominica per orbis spatia,
(5a) Exsultat in qua (5b) Quia destructa
plebs omnis redempta, mors est perpetua.”[313]

A Sequence of the eleventh century will afford a final illustration of
approach to a regular strophic structure, and of the use of the final one-
syllable rhyme in a, throughout the Sequence:

1
“Alleluia,
Turma, proclama leta;
Laude canora,
Facta prome divina,
Jam instituta
Superna disciplina,

2
Christi sacra
Per magnalia
Es quia de morte liberata
Ut destructa
Inferni claustra
Januaque celi patefacta!

3
Jam nunc omnia
Celestia
Terrestria
Virtute gubernat eterna.
In quibus sua
Judicia
Semper equa
Dat auctoritate paterna.”
· · · · [314]

As the eleventh century closed and the great twelfth century dawned, the
forces of mediaeval growth quickened to a mightier vitality, and
distinctively mediaeval creations appeared. Our eyes, of course, are fixed
upon the northern lands, where the Sequence grew from prose to verse, and
where derivative or analogous forms of popular poetry developed also. Up
to this time, throughout mediaeval life and thought, progress had been
somewhat uncrowned with palpable achievement. Yet the first brilliant
creations of a master-workman are the fruit of his apprentice years, during
which his progress has been as real as when his works begin to make it
visible. So it was no sudden birth of power, but rather faculties ripening
through apprentice centuries, which illumine the period opening about the
year 1100. This period would carry no human teaching if its
accomplishment in institutions, in philosophy, in art and poetry, had been a
heaven-blown accident, and not the fruit of antecedent discipline.
The poetic advance represented by the Sequences of Adam of St. Victor
may rouse our admiration for the poet’s genius, but should not blind our
eyes to the continuity of development leading to it. Adam is the final artist
and his work a veritable creation; yet his antecedents made part of his
creative faculty. The elements of his verses and the general idea and form of
the sequence were given him;—all honour to the man’s holy genius which
made these into poems. The elements referred to consisted in accentual
measures and in the two-syllabled Latin rhyme which appears to have been
finally achieved by the close of the eleventh century.[315] In using them
Adam was no borrower, but an artist who perforce worked in the medium of
his art. Trochaic and iambic rhythms then constituted the chief measures for
accentual verse, as they had for centuries, and do still. For, although
accentual rhythms admit dactyls and anapaests, these have not proved
generally serviceable. Likewise the inevitable progress of Latin verse had
developed assonances into rhymes; and indeed into rhymes of two syllables,
for Latin words lend themselves as readily to rhymes of two syllables as
English words to rhymes of one.
There existed also the idea and form of the Sequence, consisting of pairs of
lines which had reached assonance and some degree of rhythm, and varied
in length, pair by pair, following the music of the melodies to which they
were sung. For the Sequence-melody did not keep to the same recurring
tune throughout, but varied from couplet to couplet. In consequence, a

Sequence by Adam of St. Victor may contain a variety of verse-forms.
Moreover, a number of the Sequences of which he may have been the
author show survivals of the old rhythmical irregularities, and of assonance
as yet unsuperseded by pure rhyme.
Before giving examples of Adam’s poems, a tribute should be paid to his
great forerunner in the art of Latin verse. Adam doubtless was familiar with
the hymns[316] of the most brilliant intellectual luminary of the departing
generation, one Peter Abaelard, whom he may have seen in the flesh. Those
once famous love-songs, written for Heloïse, perished (so far as we know)
with the love they sang. Another fate—and perhaps Abaelard wished it so—
was in store for the many hymns which he wrote for his sisters in Christ, the
abbess and her nuns. They still exist,[317] and display a richness of verse-
forms scarcely equalled even by the Sequences of Adam. In the
development of Latin verse, Abaelard is Adam’s immediate predecessor; his
verses being, as it were, just one stage inferior to Adam’s in sonorousness of
line, in certainty of rhythm, and in purity of rhyme.
The “prose” Sequences were not the direct antecedents of Abaelard’s
hymns. Yet both sprang from the freely devising spirit of melody and song;
and therefore those hymns are of this free-born lineage more truly than they
are descendants of antique forms. To be sure, every possible accentual
rhythm, built as it must be of trochees, iambics, anapaests, or dactyls, has
unavoidably some antique quantitative antecedent; because the antique
measures exhausted the possibilities of syllabic combination. Yet
antecedence is not source, and most of Abaelard’s verses by their form and
spirit proclaim their genesis in the creative exigencies of song as loudly as
they disavow any antique parentage.
For example, there may be some far echo of metrical asclepiads in the
following accentual and rhyme-harnessed twelve-syllable verse:

“Advenit veritas, umbra praeteriit,
Post noctem claritas diei subiit,
Ad ortum rutilant superni luminis
Legis mysteria plena caliginis.”

But the echo if audible is faint, and surely no antique whisper is heard in

“Est in Rama
Vox audita
Rachel flentis
Super natos
Interfectos
Ejulantis.”

Nor in

“Golias prostratus est,
Resurrexit Dominus,
Ense jugulatus est
Hostis proprio;
Cum suis submersus est
Ille Pharao.”

The variety of Abaelard’s verse seems endless. One or two further examples
may or may not suggest any antecedents in those older forms of accentual
verse which followed the former metres:

“Ornarunt terram germina,
Nunc caelum luminaria.
Sole, luna, stellis depingitur,
Quorum multus usus cognoscitur.”

In this verse the first two lines are accentual iambic dimeters; while the last
two begin each with two trochees, and close apparently with two dactyls.
The last form of line is kept throughout in the following:

“Gaude virgo virginum gloria,
Matrum decus et mater, jubila,
Quae commune sanctorum omnium
Meruisti conferre gaudium.”

Next come some simple five-syllable lines, with a catching rhyme:

“Lignum amaras
Indulcat aquas
Eis immissum.
Omnes agones
Sunt sanctis dulces
Per crucifixum.”

In the following lines of ten syllables a dactyl appears to follow a trochee
twice in each line:

“Tuba Domini, Paule, maxima,
De caelestibus dans tonitrua,
Hostes dissipans, cives aggrega.

Doctor gentium es praecipuus,
Vas in poculum factus omnibus,
Sapientiae plenum haustibus.”

These examples of Abaelard’s rhythms may close with the following
curiously complicated verse:

“Tu quae carnem edomet
Abstinentiam,
Tu quae carnem decoret
Continentiam,
Tu velle quod bonum est his ingeris
Ac ipsum perficere tu tribuis.
Instrumenta
Sunt his tua
Per quos mira peragis,
Et humana
Moves corda
Signis et prodigiis.”

In general, one observes in these verses that Abaelard does not use a pure
two-syllable rhyme. The rhyme is always pure in the last syllable, and in the
penult may either exist as a pure rhyme or simply as an assonance, or not at
all.[318]
Probably Abaelard wrote his hymns in 1130, perhaps the very year when
Adam as a youth entered the convent of St. Victor, lying across the Seine
from Paris. The latter appears to have lived until 1192. Many Sequences
have been improperly ascribed to him, and among the doubtful ones are a
number having affinities with the older types. These may be anterior to
Adam; for the greater part of his unquestionable Sequences are perfected
throughout in their versification. Yet, on the other hand, one would expect
some progression in works composed in the course of a long life devoted to
such composition—a life covering a period when progressive changes were
taking place in the world of thought beyond St. Victor’s walls. We take
three examples of these Sequences. The first contains occasional assonance
in place of rhyme, and uses many rhymes of one syllable. It appears to be
an older composition improperly ascribed to Adam. The second is
unquestionably his, in his most perfect form; the third may or may not be
Adam’s; but is given for its own sake as a lovely lyric.[319]
The first example, probably written not much later than the year 1100, was
designed for the Mass at the dedication of a church. The variety in the
succession of couplets and strophes indicates a corresponding variation in
the melody.

1
“Clara chorus dulce pangat voce nunc alleluia,
Ad aeterni regis laudem qui gubernat omnia!

2
Cui nos universalis sociat Ecclesia,
Scala nitens et pertingens ad poli fastigia;

3
Ad honorem cujus laeta psallamus melodia,
Persolventes hodiernas laudes illi debitas.

4
O felix aula, quam vicissim
Confrequentant agmina coelica,
Divinis verbis alternatim
Jungentia mellea cantica!

5
Domus haec, de qua vetusta sonuit historia
Et moderna protestatur Christum fari pagina:
‘Quoniam elegi eam thronum sine macula,
‘Requies haec erit mea per aeterna saecula.

6
Turris supra montem sita,
Indissolubili bitumine fundata
Vallo perenni munita,
Atque aurea columna
Miris ac variis lapidibus distincta,
Stylo subtili polita!

7
Ave, mater praeelecta,
Ad quam Christus fatur ita
Prophetae facundia:
‘Sponsa mea speciosa,

p p ,
‘Inter filias formosa,
‘Supra solem splendida!

8
‘Caput tuum ut Carmelus
‘Et ipsius comae tinctae regis uti purpura;
‘Oculi ut columbarum,
‘Genae tuae punicorum ceu malorum fragmina!

9
‘Mel et lac sub lingua tua, favus stillans labia;
‘Collum tuum ut columna, turris et eburnea!’

10
Ergo nobis Sponsae tuae
Famulantibus, o Christe, pietate solita
Clemens adesse dignare
Et in tuo salutari nos ubique visita.

11
Ipsaque mediatrice, summe rex, perpetue,
Voce pura
Flagitamus, da gaudere Paradisi gloria.
Alleluia!”[320]
The second example is Adam’s famous Sequence for St. Stephen’s Day,
which falls on the day after Christmas. It is throughout sustained and
perfect in versification, and in substance a splendid hymn of praise.

1
“Heri mundus exultavit
Et exultans celebravit
Christi natalitia;
Heri chorus angelorum
Prosecutus est coelorum
Regem cum laetitia.

2
Protomartyr et levita,
Clarus fide, clarus vita,
Clarus et miraculis,
Sub hac luce triumphavit
Et triumphans insultavit
Stephanus incredulis.

3
Fremunt ergo tanquam ferae
Quia victi defecere
Lucis adversarii:
Falsos testes statuunt,
Et linguas exacuunt
Viperarum filii.

4
Agonista, nulli cede,
Certa certus de mercede,
Persevera, Stephane;
Insta falsis testibus,
Confuta sermonibus
Synagogam Satanae.

5
Testis tuus est in coelis,
Testis verax et fidelis,
Testis innocentiae.
Nomen habes coronati:

Te tormenta decet pati
Pro corona gloriae.

6
Pro corona non marcenti
Perfer brevis vim tormenti;
Te manet victoria.
Tibi fiet mors natalis,
Tibi poena terminalis
Dat vitae primordia.

7
Plenus Sancto Spiritu,
Penetrat intuitu
Stephanus coelestia.
Videns Dei gloriam,
Crescit ad victoriam,
Suspirat ad praemia.

8
En a dextris Dei stantem,
Jesum pro te dimicantem,
Stephane, considera:
Tibi coelos reserari,
Tibi Christum revelari,
Clama voce libera.

9
Se commendat Salvatori,
Pro quo dulce ducit mori
Sub ipsis lapidibus.
Saulus servat omnium
Vestes lapidantium,
Lapidans in omnibus.

10
Ne peccatum statuatur
His a quibus lapidatur

His a quibus lapidatur,
Genu ponit, et precatur,
Condolens insaniae.
In Christo sic obdormivit,
Qui Christo sic obedivit,
Et cum Christo semper vivit,
Martyrum primitiae.”
· · · · [321]
The last example, in honour of St. Nicholas’s Day, is a lovely poem by
whomsoever written. Its verses are extremely diversified. It begins with
somewhat formal chanting of the saint’s virtues, in dignified couplets.
Suddenly it changes to a joyful lyric, and sings of a certain sweet sea-
miracle wrought by Nicholas. Then it spiritualizes the conception of his
saintly aid to meet the call of the sin-tossed soul. It closes in stately manner
in harmony with its liturgical function.

1
“Congaudentes exultemus vocali concordia
Ad beati Nicolai festiva solemnia!

2
Qui in cunis adhuc jacens servando jejunia
A papilla coepit summa promereri gaudia.

3
Adolescens amplexatur litterarum studia,
Alienus et immunis ab omni lascivia.

4
Felix confessor, cujus fuit dignitatis vox de coelo nuntia!
Per quam provectus, praesulatus sublimatur ad summa fastigia.

5
Erat in ejus animo pietas eximia,
Et oppressis impendebat multa beneficia.

6
Auro per eum virginum tollitur infamia,
Atque patris earumdem levatur inopia.

7
Quidam nautae navigantes,
Et contra fluctuum saevitiam luctantes,
Navi pene dissoluta,
Jam de vita desperantes,
In tanto positi periculo, clamantes
Voce dicunt omnes una:

8
‘O beate Nicolae,
Nos ad maris portum trahe
De mortis angustia.
Trahe nos ad portum maris,

p ,
Tu qui tot auxiliaris,
Pietatis gratia.’

9
Dum clamarent, nec incassum,
‘Ecce’ quidam dicens, ‘assum
Ad vestra praesidia.’
Statim aura datur grata
Et tempestas fit sedata:
Quieverunt maria.

10
Nos, qui sumus in hoc mundo,
Vitiorum in profundo
Jam passi naufragia,
Gloriose Nicolae
Ad salutis portum trahe,
Ubi pax et gloria.

11
Illam nobis unctionem
Impetres ad Dominum,
Prece pia,
Qua sanavit laesionem
Multorum peccaminum
In Maria.

12
Hujus festum celebrantes gaudeant per saecula,
Et coronet eos Christus post vitae curricula!”[322]
The foregoing examples of religious poetry may be supplemented by
illustrations of the parallel evolution of more profane if not more popular
verse. Any priority in time, as between the two, should lie with the former;
though it may be the truer view to find a general synchronism in the secular
and religious phases of lyric growth. But priority of originality and
creativeness certainly belongs to that line of lyric evolution which sprang

from religious sentiments and emotions. For the vagrant clerkly poet of the
Court, the roadside, and the inn, used the forms of verse fashioned by the
religious muse in the cloister and the school. Thus the development of
secular Latin verse presents a derivative parallel to the essentially primary
evolution of the Sequence or the hymn.
It was in Germany that the composition of Sequences was most zealously
cultivated during the century following Notker’s death; and it was in
Germany that the Sequence, in its earlier forms, exerted most palpable
influence upon popular songs.[323] In these so-called Modi (Modus ==
song), as in the Sequence, rhythmical compositions may be seen
progressing in the direction of regular rhythm, rhyme, and strophic form. As
in the Sequences, the tune moulded the words, which in turn influenced the

melody. The following is from the Modus Ottinc, a popular song composed
about the year 1000 in honour of a victory of Otto III. over the Hungarians:

“His incensi bella fremunt, arma poscunt, hostes vocant, signa secuntur,
tubis canunt.
Clamor passim oritur et milibus centum Theutones inmiscentur.

Pauci cedunt, plures cadunt, Francus instat, Parthus fugit; vulgus exangue
undis obstat;
Licus rubens sanguine Danubio cladem Parthicam ostendebat.”

Another example is the Modus florum of approximately the same period, a
song about a king who promised his daughter to whoever could tell such a
lie as to force the king to call him a liar. It opens as follows:

“Mendosam quam cantilenam ago,
puerulis commendatam dabo,
quo modulos per mendaces risum
auditoribus ingentem ferant.

Liberalis et decora
cuidam regi erat nata
quam sub lege hujusmodi
procis opponit quaerendam.”
· · · · [324]

Here the rhyme still is rude and the rhythm irregular. The following dirge,
written thirty or forty years later on the death of the German emperor,
Henry II., shows improvement:

“Lamentemur nostra, Socii, peccata,
amentemur et ploremus! Quare tacemus?
Pro iniquitate corruimus late;
scimus coeli hinc offensum regem immensum.
Heinrico requiem, rex Christe, dona perennem.”[325]

We may pass on into the twelfth century, still following the traces of that
development of popular verse which paralleled the evolution of the
Sequence. We first note some catchy rhymes of a German student setting
out for Paris in quest of learning and intellectual novelty:

“Hospita in Gallia nunc me vocant studia.
Vadam ergo; flens a tergo socios relinquo.
Plangite discipuli, lugubris discidii tempore propinquo.
Vale, dulcis patria, suavis Suevorum Suevia!
Salve dilecta Francia, philosophorum curia!
Suscipe discipulum in te peregrinum,
Quem post dierum circulum remittes Socratinum.”[326]

This Suabian, singing his uncouth Latin rhymes, and footing his way to
Paris, suggests the common, delocalized influences which were developing
a mass of student-songs, “Carmina Burana,” or “Goliardic” poetry. The
authors belonged to that large and broad class of clerks made up of any and
all persons who knew Latin. The songs circulated through western Europe,
and their home was everywhere, if not their origin. Some of them betray, as
more of them do not, the author’s land and race. Frequently of diabolic
cleverness, gibing, amorous, convivial, they show the virtuosity in rhyme of
their many makers. Like the hymns and later Sequences, they employed of
necessity those accentual measures which once had their quantitative
prototypes in antique metres. But, again like the hymns and Sequences, they
neither imitate nor borrow, but make use of trochaic, iambic, or other
rhythms as the natural and unavoidable material of verse. Their strophes are
new strophes, and not imitations of anything in quantitative poetry. So these
songs were free-born, and their development was as independent of antique
influence as the melodies which ever moulded them to more perfect music.
Many and divers were their measures. But as that great strophe of Adam’s
Heri mundus exultavit (the strophe of the Stabat Mater) was of mightiest
dominance among the hymns, so for these student-songs there was also one
measure that was chief. This was the thirteen-syllable trochaic line, with its
lilting change of stress after the seventh syllable, and its pure two-syllable
rhyme. It is the line of the Confessio poetae, or Confessio Goliae, where
nests that one mediaeval Latin verse which everybody still knows by heart:

“Meum est propositum in taberna mori,
Vinum sit appositum morientis ori,
Tunc cantabunt laetius angelorum chori,
‘Sit Deus propitius huic potatori.’”

It is also the line of the quite charming Phyllis and Flora of the Carmina
Burana:

“Erant ambae virgines et ambae reginae,
Phyllis coma libera, Flora compto crine:
Non sunt formae virginum, sed formae divinae,
Et respondent facie luci matutinae.”[327]

Another common measure is the twelve-syllable dactylic line of the famous
Apocalypsis Goliae Episcopi:

“Ipsam Pythagorae formam aspicio,
Inscriptam artium schemate vario.
An extra corpus sit haec revelatio,
Utrum in corpore, Deus scit, nescio.
In fronte micuit ars astrologica;
Dentium seriem regit grammatica;
In lingua pulcrius vernat rhetorica,
Concussis aestuat in labiis logica.”

An example of the not infrequent eight-syllable line is afforded by that
tremendous satire against papal Rome, beginning:

“Propter Sion non tacebo,
Sed ruinam Romae flebo,
Quousque justitia
Rursus nobis oriatur,
Et ut lampas accendatur
Justus in ecclesia.”

Here the last line of the verse has but seven syllables, as is the case in the
following verse of four lines:

“Vinum bonum et suave,
Bonis bonum, pravis prave,
Cunctis dulcis sapor, ave,
Mundana laetitia!”

But the eight-syllable lines may be kept throughout, as in the following
lament over life’s lovely, pernicious charm, so touching in its expression of
the mortal heartbreak of mediaeval monasticism:

“Heu! Heu! mundi vita,
Quare me delectas ita?
Cum non possis mecum stare,
Quid me cogis te amare?
· · · · ·
Vita mundi, res morbosa,
Magis fragilis quam rosa,
Cum sis tota lacrymosa,
Cur es mihi graciosa?”[328]

IV
Our consideration of the different styles of mediaeval Latin prose and the
many novel forms of mediaeval Latin verse has shown how radical was the
departure of the one and the other from Cicero and Virgil. Through such
changes Latin continued to prove itself a living language. Yet its vitality
was doomed to wane before the rivalry of the vernacular tongues. The
vivida vis, the capability of growth, had well-nigh passed from Latin when
Petrarch was born. In endeavouring to maintain its supremacy as a literary
vehicle he was to hold a losing brief, nor did he strengthen his cause by
attempting to resuscitate a classic style of prose and metre. The victory of
the vernacular was announced in Dante’s De vulgari eloquentia and
demonstrated beyond dispute in his Divina Commedia.

A long and for the most part peaceful and unconscious conflict had led up
to the victory of what might have been deemed the baser side. For Latin
was the sole mediaeval literature that was born in the purple, with its stately
lineage of the patristic and the classical back of it. Latin was the language
of the Roman world and the vehicle of Latin Christianity. It was the
language of the Church and its clergy, and the language of all educated
people. Naturally the entire contents of existing and progressive Christian
and antique culture were contained in the mediaeval Latin literature, the
literature of religion and of law and government, of education and of all
serious knowledge. It was to be the primary literature of mediaeval thought;
from which passed over the chief part of whatever thought and knowledge
the vernacular literatures were to receive. For scholars who follow, as we
have tried to, the intellectual and the deeper emotional life of the Middle
Ages, the Latin literature yields the incomparably greater part of the
material of our study. It has been our home country, from which we have
made casual excursions into the vernacular literatures.
These existed, however, from the earliest mediaeval periods, beginning, if
one may say so, in oral rather than written documents. We read that
Charlemagne caused a book to be made of Germanic poems, which till then
presumably had been carried in men’s memories. The Hildebrandslied is
supposed to have been one of them.[329] In the Norse lands, the Eddas and
the matter of the Sagas were repeated from generation to generation, long
before they were written down. The habit, if not the art, of writing came
with Christianity and the Latin education accompanying it. Gradually a
written literature in the Teutonic languages was accumulated. Of this there
was the heathen side, well represented in Anglo-Saxon and the Norse; while
in Old High German the Hildebrandslied remains, heathen and savage.
Thereafter, a popular and even national or rather racial poetry continued,
developed, and grew large, notwithstanding the spread of Latin Christianity
through Teutonic lands. Of this the Niebelungenlied and the Gudrun are
great examples. But individual still famous poets, who felt and thought as
Germans, were also composing sturdily in their vernacular—a lack of
education possibly causing them to dictate (dictieren, dichten) rather than to
write. Of these the greatest were Wolfram von Eschenbach and Walther von
der Vogelweide. With them and after them, or following upon the
Niebelungenlied, came a mass of secular poetry, some of which was popular

and national, reflecting Germanic story, while some of it was courtly,
transcribing the courtly poetry which by the twelfth century flourished in
Old French.
Thus bourgeoned the secular branches of German literature. On the other
hand, from the time of Christianity’s introduction, the Germans felt the need
to have the new religion presented to them in their own tongues. The labour
of translation begins with Ulfilas, and is continued with conscientious
renderings of Scripture and Latin educational treatises, and also with such
epic paraphrase as the Heliand and the more elegiac poems of the Anglo-
Saxon Cynewulf.[330] Also, at least in Germany, there comes into existence
a full religious literature, not stoled or mitred, but popular, non-academic,
and non-liturgical; of which quantities remain in the Middle High German
of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.[331]
Obviously the Romance vernacular literatures had a different
commencement. The languages were Latin, simply Latin, in their inception,
and never ceased to be legitimate continuations and developments of the
popular or Vulgar Latin of the Roman Empire. But as the speech of
children, women, and unlettered people, they were not thought of as literary
media. All who could write understood perfectly the better Latin from
which these popular dialects were slowly differentiating themselves. And as
they progressed to languages, still their life and progress lay among peoples
whose ancestral tongue was the proper Latin, which all educated men and
women still understood and used in the serious business of life.
But sooner or later men will talk and sing and think and compose in the
speech which is closest to them. The Romance tongues became literary
through this human need of natural expression. There always had been
songs in the old Vulgar Latin; and such did not cease as it gradually became
what one may call Romance. Moreover, the clergy might be impelled to use
the popular speech in preaching to the laity, or some unlearned person
might compose religious verses. Almost the oldest monument of Old French
is the hymn in honour of Ste. Eulalie. Then as civilization advanced from
the tenth to the twelfth century, in southern and northern France for
example, and the langue d’oc and the langue d’oil became independent and
developed languages, unlearned men, or men with unlearned audiences,
would unavoidably set themselves to composing poetry in these tongues. In

the North the chansons de geste came into existence; in the South the
knightly Troubadours made love-lyrics. Somehow, these poems were
written down, and there was literature for men’s eyes as well as for men’s
ears.
In the twelfth century and the thirteenth, the audiences for Romance poetry,
especially through the regions of southern and northern France, increased
and became diversified. They were made up of all classes, save the brute
serf, and of both sexes. The chansons de geste met the taste of the feudal
barons; the Arthurian Cycle charmed the feudal dames; the coarse fabliaux
pleased the bourgeoisie; and chansons of all kinds might be found diverting
by various people. If the religious side was less strongly represented, it was
because the closeness of the language to the clerkly and liturgical Latin left
no such need of translations as was felt from the beginning among peoples
of Germanic speech. Still the Gospels, especially the apocryphal, were put
into Old French, and miracles de Notre Dame without number; also legends
of the saints, and devout tales of many kinds.
The accentual verses of the Romance tongues had their source in the
popular accentual Latin verse of the later Roman period. Their development
was not unrelated to the Latin accentual verse which was superseding
metrical composition in the centuries extending, one may say, from the fifth
to the eleventh. Divergences between the Latin and Romance verse would
be caused by the linguistic evolution through which the Romance tongues
were becoming independent languages. Nor was this divergence
uninfluenced by the fact that Romance poetry was popular and usually
concerned with topics of this life, while Latin poetry in the most striking
lines of its evolution was liturgical; and even when secular in topic tended
to become learned, since it was the product of the academically educated
classes. Much of the vernacular (Romance as well as Germanic) poetry in
the Middle Ages was composed by unlearned men who had at most but a
speaking acquaintance with Latin, and knew little of the antique literature.
This was true, generally, of the Troubadours of Provence, of the authors of
the Old French chansons de geste, and of such a courtly poet as Chrétien de
Troies; true likewise of the great German Minnesingers, epic poets rather,
Gottfried von Strassburg, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Walther von der
Vogelweide.

On the other hand, vernacular poetry might be written by highly learned
men, of whom the towering though late example would be Dante Alighieri.
An instance somewhat nearer to us at present is Jean Clopinel or de Meun,
the author of the second part of the Roman de la rose. His extraordinary
Voltairean production embodies all the learning of the time; and its scholar-
author was a man of genius, who incorporated his learning and the fruit
thereof very organically in his poem.
But here, at the close of our consideration of the mediaeval appreciation of
the Classics, and the relations between the Classics and mediaeval Latin
literature, we are not occupied with the very loose and general question of
the amount of classical learning to be found in the vernacular literatures of
western Europe. That was a casual matter depending on the education and
learning, or lack thereof, of the author of the given piece. But it may be
profitable to glance at the passing over of antique themes of story into
mediaeval vernacular literature, and the manner of their refashioning. This
is a huge subject, but we shall not go into it deeply, or pursue the various
antique themes through their endless propagations.
Antique stories aroused and pointed the mediaeval imagination; they made
part of the never-absent antique influence which helped to bring the
mediaeval peoples on and evoke in them an articulate power to fashion and
create all kinds of mediaeval things. But with antique story as with other
antique material, the Middle Ages had to turn it over and absorb it, and also
had to become themselves with power, before they could refashion the
antique theme or create along its lines. All this had taken place by the
middle of the twelfth century. As to choice of matter, twelfth-century
refashioners would either select an antique theme suited to their handling,
or extract what appealed to them from some classic story. In the one case as
in the other they might recast, enlarge, or invent as their faculties permitted.
Mediaeval taste took naturally to the degenerate productions of the late
antique or transition centuries. The Greek novels seem to have been
unknown, except the Apollonius of Tyre.[332] But the congenially
preposterous story of Alexander by the Pseudo-Callisthenes was available
in a sixth-century Latin version, and was made much of. Equally popular
was the debasement and intentional distortion of the Tale of Troy in the
work of “Dares” and “Dictys”; other tales were aptly presented in Ovid’s

Metamorphoses; and the stories of Hero and Leander, of Pyramus and
Thisbe, of Narcissus, Orpheus, Cadmus, Daedalus, were widely known and
often told in the Middle Ages.
The mediaeval writers made as if they believed these tales. At least they
accepted them as they would have their own audiences accept their
recasting, with little reflection as to whether truth or fable. But was the
work of the refashioners conscious fiction? Scarcely, when it simply recast
the old story in mediaevalizing paraphrase; but when the poet went on and
wove out of ten lines a thousand, he must have known himself devising.
The mediaeval treatment of classic themes of history and epic poetry shows
how the Middle Ages refashioned and reinspired after their own image
whatever they took from the antique. If it was partly their fault, it was also
their unavoidable misfortune that they received these great themes in the
literary distortions of the transition centuries. Doubtless they preferred
encyclopaedic dulness to epic unity; they loved fantasy rather than history,
and of course delighted in the preposterous, as they found it in the Latin
version of the Life and Deeds of Alexander. As for the Tale of Troy, the real
Homer never reached them: and perhaps mediaeval peoples who were
pleased, like Virgil’s Romans, to draw their origins from Trojan heroes,
would have rejected Homer’s story just as “Dares” and “Dictys,” whoever
they were, did.[333] The true mediaeval rifacimenti, to wit, the retellings of
these tales in the vernacular, mirror the mediaeval mind, the mediaeval
character, and the whole panorama of mediaeval life and fantasy.
The chief epic themes drawn from the antique were the Tales of Troy and
Thebes and the story of Aeneas. In verse and prose they were retold in the
vernacular literatures and also in mediaeval Latin.[334] We shall, however,
limit our view to the primary Old French versions, which formed the basis
of compositions in German, Italian, English, as well as French. They were
composed between 1150 and 1170 by Norman-French trouvères. The names
of the authors of the Roman de Thebes and the Eneas are unknown; the
Roman de Troie was written by Benoit de St. More.
These poems present a universal substitution of mediaeval manners and
sentiment. For instance, one observes that the epic participation of the
pagan gods is minimized, and in the Roman de Troie even discarded;

necromancy, on the other hand, abounds. A more interesting change is the
transformation of the love episode. That had become an epic adjunct in
Alexandrian Greek literature as early as the third century before Christ. It
existed in the antique sources of all these mediaeval poems. Nevertheless
the romantic narratives of courtly love in the latter are mediaeval creations.
The Eneas relates the love of Lavinia for the hero, most correctly
reciprocated by him. The account of it fills fourteen hundred lines, and has
no precedent in Virgil’s poem, which in other respects is followed closely.
Lavinia sees Aeneas from her tower, and at once understands a previous
discourse of her mother on the subject of love. She utters love’s plaints, and
then faints because Aeneas does not seem to notice her. After which she
passes a sleepless night. The next morning she tells her mother, who is
furious, since she favours Turnus as a suitor. The girl falls senseless, but
coming to herself when alone, she recalls love’s stratagems, and attaches a
letter to an arrow which is shot so as to fall at Aeneas’s feet. Aeneas reads
the letter, and turns and salutes the fair one furtively, that his followers may
not see. Then he enters his tent and falls so sick with love that he takes to
his bed. The next day Lavinia watches for him, and thinks him false, till at
last, pale and feeble, he appears, and her heart acquits him; amorous glances
now fly back and forth between them.[335]
To have this jaded jilt grow sick with love is a little too much for us, and
Aeneas is absurd; but the universal human touches us quite otherwise in the
sweet changing heart of Briseida in the Roman de Troie. There is no ground
for denying to Benoit of St. More his meed of fame for creating this
charming person and starting her upon her career. Following “Dares,”
Benoit calls her Briseida; but she becomes the Griseis of Boccaccio’s
Filostrato; and what good man does not sigh and love her under the name
of Cressid in Chaucer’s poem, though he may deplore her somewhat brazen
heartlessness in Shakespeare’s play.
It is not given to all men, or women, in presence or absence, in life and
death, to love once and forever. One has the stable heart, another’s fancy is
quickly turned. Sometimes, of course, our moral sledge-hammers should be
brought to bear; but a little hopeless smile may be juster, as we sigh “she (it
is more often “he”) couldn’t help it.” Such was Briseida, the sweet, loving,
helpless—coquette? jilt? flirt? these words are all too belittling to tell her

truly. Benoit knew better. He took her dry-as-dust characterization from
“Dares”; he gave it life, and then let his fair creature do just the things she
might, without ceasing to be she.
The abject “Dares” (Benoit may have had a better story under that name) in
his catalogue of characters has this: “Briseidam formosam, alta statura,
candidam, capillo flavo et molli, superciliis junctis, oculis venustis, corpore
aequali, blandam, affabilem, verecundam, animo simplici [O ye gods!],
piam.” He makes no other mention of this tall, graceful girl, with her lovely
eyes and eyebrows meeting above, her modest, pleasant mien, and simple
soul; for simple she was, and therein lies the direst bit of truth about her.
For it is simple and uncomplex to take the colour of new scenes and faces,
and of new proffered love when the old is far away.
Now see what Benoit does with this dust: Briseida is the daughter of
Calchas, a Trojan seer who had passed over to the Greeks, warned by
Apollo. He is in the Grecian host, but his daughter is in Troy. Benoit says,
she was engaging, lovelier and fairer than the fleur de lis—though her
eyebrows grew rather too close together. “Beaux yeux” she had, “de grande
manière,” and charming was her talk, and faultless her breeding as her
dress. Much was she loved and much she loved, although her heart
changed; and she was very loving, simple, and kind:

“Molt fu amée et molt ameit,
Mes sis corages li changeit;
Et si esteit molt amorose,
Simple et almosniere et pitose.”[336]

Calchas wants his daughter, and Priam decides to send her. There is truce
between the armies. Troilus, Troy’s glorious young knight, matchless in
beauty, in arms second only to his brother Hector, is beside himself. He
loves Briseida, and she him. What tears and protestations, and what vows!
But the girl must go to her father.
On the morrow the young dame has other cares—to see to the packing of
her lovely dresses and put on the loveliest of them; over all she threw a
mantle inwoven with the flowers of Paradise. The Trojan ladies add their
tears to the damsel’s; for she is ready to die of grief at leaving her lover.

Benoit assures us that she will not weep long; it is not woman’s way, he
continues somewhat mediaevally.
The brilliant cortège is met by one still more distinguished from the Grecian
host. Troilus must turn back, and the lady passes to the escort of Diomede.
She was young; he was impetuous; he looks once, and then greets her with
a torrential declaration of love. He never loved before!! He is hers, body
and soul and high emprize. Briseida speaks him fair:
“At this time it would be wrong for me to say a word of love. You
would deem me light indeed! Why, I hardly know you! and girls so
often are deceived by men. What you have said cannot move a heart
grieving, like mine, to lose my—friend, and others whom I may never
see again. For one of my station to speak to you of love! I have no mind
for that. Yet you seem of such rank and prowess that no girl under
heaven ought to refuse you. It is only that I have no heart to give. If I
had, surely I could hold none dearer than you. But I have neither the
thought nor power, and may God never give it to me!”[337]
One need not tell the flash of joy that then was Diomede’s, nor the many
troubles that were to be his before at last Briseida finds that her heart has
indeed turned to this new lover, always at hand, courting danger for her
sake, and at last wounded almost to death by Troilus’s spear. The end of the
story is assured in her first discreetly halting words.
Enough has been said to show how far Benoit was from Omers qui fu clers
merveillos, and what a story in some thirty thousand lines he has made of
the dry data of “Dares” and “Dictys.” His Briseida, with her changing heart,
was to rival steadier-minded but not more lovable women of mediaeval
fiction—Iseult or Guinevere. And although the far-off echo of Briseid’s
name comes from the ancient centuries, none the less she is as entirely a
mediaeval creation as Lancelot’s or Tristram’s queen. Thus the Middle Ages
took the antique narrative, and created for themselves within the altered
lines of the old tale.[338]
The transformation of themes of epic story in vernacular mediaeval
versions is paralleled by mediaeval refashionings of historical subjects
which had been fictionized before the antique period closed. A chief
example is the romance of Alexander the Great. The antique source was the

conqueror’s Life and Deeds, written by one who took the name of
Alexander’s physician, Callisthenes. The author was some Egyptian Greek
of the first century after Christ. His work is preposterous from the
beginning to the end, and presents a succession of impossible marvels
performed by the somewhat indistinguishable heroes of the story. Its
qualities were reflected in the Latin versions, which in turn were drawn
upon by the Old French rhyming romancers. The latter mediaevalized and
feudalized the tale. Nor were they halted by any absurdity, or conscious of
the characterlessness of the puppets of the tale.[339]
Further to pursue the fortunes of antique themes in mediaeval literature
would lead us beyond bounds. Yet mention should be made of the handling
of minor narratives, as the Metamorphoses of Ovid. They were very
popular, and from the twelfth century on, paraphrases or refashionings were
made of many of them. These added to the old tale the interesting
mediaeval element of the moral or didactic allegory. The most prodigious
instance of this moralizing of Ovid was the work of Chrétien Légouais, a
French Franciscan who wrote at the beginning of the fourteenth century. In
some seventy thousand lines he presented the stories of the Metamorphoses,
the allegories which he discovered in them, and the moral teaching of the
same.[340]
Equally interesting was the application of allegory to Ovid’s Ars amatoria.
The first translators treated this frivolous production as an authoritative
treatise upon the art of winning love. So it was perhaps, only Ovid was
amusing himself by making a parable of his youthful diversions. Mediaeval
imitators changed the habits of the gilded youth of Rome to suit the society
of their time. But they did more, being votaries of courtly love. Such love in
the Middle Ages had its laws which were prone to deduce their lineage from
Ovid’s verses. But its uplifted spirit revelled in symbolism; and tended to
change to spiritual allegory whatever authority it imagined itself based
upon, even though the authority were a book as dissolute, when seriously
considered, as the Ars amatoria. It is strange to think of this poem as the
very far off street-walking prototype of De Lorris’s Roman de la rose.

CHAPTER XXXIII

MEDIAEVAL APPROPRIATION OF THE ROMAN
LAW

I. The Fontes Juris Civilis.
II. Roman and Barbarian Codification.
III. The Mediaeval Appropriation.
IV. Church Law.
V. Political Theorizing.

Classical studies, and the gradual development of mediaeval prose and
verse, discussed in the preceding chapters, illustrate modes of mediaeval
progress. But of all examples of mediaeval intellectual growth through the
appropriation of the antique, none is more completely illuminating than the
mediaeval use of Roman law. As with patristic theology and antique
philosophy, the Roman law was crudely taken and then painfully learned,
till in the end, vitally and broadly mastered, it became even a means and
mode of mediaeval thinking. Its mediaeval appropriation illustrates the
legal capacity of the Middle Ages and their concern with law both as a
practical business and an intellectual interest.

I
Primitive law is practical; it develops through the adjustment of social
exigencies. Gradually, however, in an intelligent community which is
progressing under favouring influences, some definite consciousness of
legal propriety, utility, or justice, makes itself articulate in statements of
general principles of legal right and in a steady endeavour to adjust legal
relationships and adjudicate actual controversies in accordance. This
endeavour to formulate just and useful principles, and decide novel
questions in accordance with them, and enunciate new rules in harmony

with the body of the existing law, is jurisprudence, which thus works
always for concord, co-ordination, and system.
There was a jurisprudential element in the early law of Rome. The Twelve
Tables are trenchant announcements of rules of procedure and substantial
law. They have the form of the general imperative: “Thus let it be; If one
summons [another] to court, let him go; As a man shall have appointed by
his Will, so let it be; When one makes a bond or purchase,[341] as the tongue
shall have pronounced it, so let it be.” These statements of legal rules are far
from primitive; they are elastic, inclusive, and suited to form the foundation
of a large and free legal development. And the consistency with which the
law of debt was carried out to its furthest cruel conclusion, the permitted
division of the body of the defaulting debtor among several creditors,[342]
gave earnest of the logic which was to shape the Roman law in its humaner
periods. Moreover, there is jurisprudence in the arrangement of the Laws of
the Twelve Tables. Nevertheless the jurisprudential element is still but
inchoate.
The Romans were endowed with a genius for law. Under the later Republic
and the Empire, the minds of their jurists were trained and broadened by
Greek philosophy and the study of the laws of Mediterranean peoples;
Rome was becoming the commercial as well as social and political centre
of the world. From this happy combination of causes resulted the most
comprehensive body of law and the noblest jurisprudence ever evolved by a
people. The great jurisconsults of the Empire, working upon the prior
labours of long lines of older praetors and jurists, perfected a body of law of
well-nigh universal applicability, and throughout logically consistent with
general principles of law and equity, recognized as fundamental. These
were in part suggested by Greek philosophy, especially by Stoicism as
adapted to the Roman temperament. They represented the best ethics, the
best justice of the time. As principles of law, however, they would have
hung in the air, had not the practical as well as theorizing genius of the
jurisconsults been equal to the task of embodying them in legal
propositions, and applying the latter to the decision of cases. Thus was
evolved a body of practical rules of law, controlled, co-ordinated, and, as
one may say, universalized through the constant logical employment of
sound principles of legal justice.[343]

The Roman law, broadly taken, was heterogeneous in origin, and complex
in its modes of growth. The great jurisconsults of the Empire recognized its
diversity of source, and distinguished its various characteristics accordingly.
They assumed (and this was a pure assumption) that every civilized people
lived under two kinds of law, the one its own, springing from some
recognized law-making source within the community; the other the jus
gentium, or the law inculcated among all peoples by natural reason or
common needs.
The supposed origin of the jus gentium was not simple. Back in the time of
the Republic it had become necessary to recognize a law for the many
strangers in Rome, who were not entitled to the protection of Rome’s jus
civile. The edict of the praetor Peregrinus covered their substantial rights,
and sanctioned simple modes of sale and lease which did not observe the
forms prescribed by the jus civile. So this edict became the chief source of
the jus gentium so-called, to wit, of those liberal rules of law which ignored
the peculiar formalities of the stricter law of Rome. Probably foreign laws,
that is to say, the commercial customs of the Mediterranean world, were in
fact recognized; and their study led to a perception of elements common to
the laws of many peoples. At all events, in course of time the jus gentium
came to be regarded as consisting of universal rules of law which all
peoples might naturally follow.
The recognition of these simple modes of contracting obligations, and
perhaps the knowledge that certain rules of law obtained among many
peoples, fostered the conception of common or natural justice, which
human reason was supposed to inculcate everywhere. Such a conception
could not fail to spring up in the minds of Roman jurists who were educated
in Stoical philosophy, the ethics of which had much to say of a common
human nature. Indeed the idea naturalis ratio was in the air, and the thought
of common elements of law and justice which naturalis ratio inter omnes
homines constituit, lay so close at hand that it were perhaps a mistake to try
to trace it to any single source. Practically the jus gentium became identical
with jus naturale, which Ulpian imagined as taught by nature to all animals;
the jus gentium, however, belonged to men alone.[344]
Thus rules which were conceived as those of the jus gentium came to
represent the principles of rational law, and impressed themselves upon the

development of the jus civile. They informed the whole growth and
application of Roman law with a breadth of legal reason. And conceptions
of a jus naturale and a jus gentium became cognate legal fictions, by the aid
of which praetor and jurisconsult might justify the validity of informal
modes of contract. In their application, judge and jurist learned how and
when to disregard the formal requirements of the older and stricter Roman
law, and found a way to the recognition of what was just and convenient.
These fictions agreed with the supposed nature and demands of aequitas,
which is the principle of progressive and discriminating legal justice. Law
itself (jus) was identical with aequitas conceived (after Celsus’s famous
phrase) as the ars boni et aequi.
The Roman law proper, the jus civile, had multifarious sources. First the
leges, enacted by the people; then the plebiscita, sanctioned by the Plebs;
the senatus consulta, passed by the Senate; the constitutiones and
rescripta[345] principum, ordained by the Emperor. Excepting the rescripta,
these (to cover them with a modern expression) were statutory. They were
laws announced at a specific time to meet some definite exigency. Under
the Empire, the constitutiones principum became the most important, and
then practically the only kind of legal enactment.
Two or three other sources of Roman law remain for mention: first, the
edicta of those judicial magistrates, especially the praetors, who had the
authority to issue them. In his edict the praetor announced what he held to
be the law and how he would apply it. The edict of each successive praetor
was a renewal and expansion or modification of that of his predecessor.
Papinian calls this source of law the “jus praetorium, which the praetors
have introduced to aid, supplement, or correct the jus civile for the sake of
public utility.”
Next, the responsa or auctoritas jurisprudentium, by which were intended
the judicial decisions and the authority of the legal writings of the famous
jurisconsults. Imperial rescripts recognized these responsa as authoritative
for the Roman courts; and some of the emperors embodied portions of them
in formally promulgated collections, thereby giving them the force of law.
Justinian’s Digest is the great example of this method of codification.[346]
One need scarcely add that the authoritative writings and responsa of the
jurisconsults extended and applied the jus gentium, that is to say, the rules

and principles of the best-considered jurisprudence, freed so far as might be
from the formal peculiarities of the jus civile strictly speaking. And the
same was true of the praetorian edict. The Roman law also gave legal effect
to inveterata consuetudo, the law which is sanctioned by custom: “for since
the laws bind us because established by the decision of the people, those
unwritten customs which the people have approved are binding.”[347]
Simply naming the sources of Roman law indicates the ways in which it
grew, and the part taken by the jurisconsults in its development as a
universal and elastic system. It was due to their labours that legal principles
were logically carried out through the mass of enactments and decisions;
that is, it was due to their large consideration of the body of existing law,
that each novel decision—each case of first impression—should be a true
legal deduction, and not a solecism; and that even the new enactments
should not create discordant law. And it was due to their labours that as
rules of law were called forth, they were stated clearly and in terms of well-
nigh universal applicability.
The Laws of the Twelve Tables showed the action of legal intelligence and
the result of much experience. They sanctioned a large contractual freedom,
if within strict forms; they stated broadly the right of testamentary
disposition. Many of their provisions, which commonly were but
authoritative recognitions, were expressions of basic legal principles, the
application of which might be extended to meet the needs of advancing
civic life. And through the enlargement of this fundamental collection of
law, or deviating from it in accordance with principles which it implicitly
embodied, the jurists of the Republic and the first centuries of the Empire
formed and developed a body of private and public law from which the
jurisprudence of Europe and America has never even sought to free itself.
Roman jurisprudence was finally incorporated in Justinian’s Digest, which
opens with a statement of the most general principles, even those which
would have hung in the air but for the Roman genius of logical and
practical application to the concrete instance. “Jus est ars boni et aequi”—it
is better to leave these words untranslated, such is the wealth of significance
and connotation which they have acquired. “Justitia est constans et perpetua
voluntas jus suum cuique tribuendi. Juris praecepta sunt haec: honeste

vivere, alterum non laedere, suum cuique tribuere. Jurisprudentia est
divinarum atque humanarum rerum notitia, justi atque injusti scientia.”
The first pregnant phrase is from the older jurist Celsus; the longer passage
is by the later Ulpian, and may be taken as an expansion of the first. Both
the one and the other expressed the most advanced and philosophic ethics
of the ancient world. They are both in the first chapter of the Digest,
wherein they become enactments. An extract from Paulus follows: “Jus has
different meanings; that which is always aequum ac bonum is called jus, to
wit, the jus naturale: jus also means the jus civile, that which is expedient
(utile) for all or most in any state. And in our state we have also the
praetorian jus.” This passage indicates the course of the development of the
Roman law: the fundamental and ceaselessly growing core of specifically
Roman law, the jus civile; its continual equitable application and
enlargement, which was the praetor’s contribution; and the constant
application of the aequum ac bonum, observed perhaps in legal rules
common to many peoples, but more surely existing in the high reasoning of
jurists instructed in the best ethics and philosophy of the ancient world, and
learned and practised in the law.
Now notice some of the still general, but distinctly legal, rather than ethical,
rules collected in the Digest: The laws cannot provide specifically for every
case that may arise; but when their intent is plain, he who is adjudicating a
cause should proceed ad similia, and thus declare the law in the case.[348]
Here is stated the general and important formative principle, that new cases
should be decided consistently and eleganter, which means logically and in
accordance with established rules. Yet legal solecisms will exist, perhaps in
a statute or in some rule of law evoked by a special exigency. Their
application is not to be extended. For them the rule is: “What has been
accepted contra rationem juris, is not to be drawn out (producendum) to its
consequences,”[349] or again: “What was introduced not by principle, but at
first through error, does not obtain in like cases.”[350]
These are true principles making for the consistent development of a body
of law. Observe the scope and penetration of some other general rules:
“Nuptias non concubitus, sed consensus facit.”[351] This goes to the legal
root of the whole conception of matrimony, and is still the recognized
starting-point of all law upon that subject. Again: “An agreement to perform

what is impossible will not sustain a suit.”[352] This is still everywhere a
fundamental principle of the law of contracts. Again: “No one can transfer
to another a greater right than he would have himself,”[353] another
principle of fundamental validity, but, of course, like all rules of law subject
in its application to the qualifying operation of other legal rules.
Roman jurisprudence recognized the danger of definition: “Omnis definitio
in jure civili periculosa est.”[354] Yet it could formulate admirable ones; for
example: “Inheritance is succession to the sum total (universum jus) of the
rights of the deceased.”[355] This definition excels in the completeness of its
legal view of the matter, and is not injured by the obvious omission to
exclude those personal privileges and rights of the deceased which
terminate upon his death.
Thus we note the sources and constructive principles of the Roman law. We
observe that while certain of the former might be called “statutory,” the
chief means and method of development was the declarative edict of the
praetor and the trained labour of the jurisconsults. In these appears the
consummate genius of Roman jurisprudence, a jurisprudence matchless in
its rational conception of principles of justice which were rooted in a
philosophic consideration of human life; matchless also in its carrying
through of such principles into the body of the law and the decision of
every case.

II
The Roman law was the creation of the genius of Rome and also the
product of the complex civilization of which Rome was the kinetic centre.
As the Roman power crumbled, Teutonic invaders established kingdoms
within territories formerly subject to Rome and to her law—a law, however,
which commonly had been modified to suit the peoples of the provinces.
Those territories retained their population of provincials. The invaders,
Burgundians, Visigoths, and Franks, planting themselves in the different
parts of Gaul, brought their own law, under which they continued to live,
but which they did not force upon the provincial population. On the
contrary, Burgundian and Visigothic kings promulgated codes of Roman
law for the latter. And these represent the forms in which the Roman law

“We therefore command you to read and sift out from the books
pertaining to the jus Romanum composed by the ancient learned jurists
(antiqui prudentes) to whom the most sacred emperors granted
authority to indite and interpret the laws, so that the material may all be
taken from these writers, and incongruity avoided—for others have
written books which have been neither used nor recognized. When by
the favour of the Deity this material shall have been collected, it should
be reared with toil most beautiful, and consecrated as the own and most
holy temple of justice, and the whole law (totum jus) should be arranged
in fifty books under specific titles.”[358]
The language of the ancient jurists was to be preserved even critically, that
is to say, the compilers were directed to emend apparent errors and restore
what seemed “verum et optimum et quasi ab initio scriptum.” It was not the
least of the providential mercies connected with the compilation of this
great body of jurisprudential law, that Justinian and his commission did not
abandon the phrasing of the old jurisconsults, and restate their opinions in
such language as we have a sample of in the constitution from which the
above extract is taken. This jurisprudential part of Justinian’s Codification
was named the Digest or Pandects.[359]
Inasmuch as Justinian’s brief reconquest of western portions of the Roman
Empire did not extend north of the Alps, his codification was not
promulgated in Gaul or Germany. Even in Italy his legislation did not
maintain itself in general dominance, especially in the north where the
Lombard law narrowed its application. Moreover, throughout the peninsula,
the Pandects quickly became as if they were not, and fell into desuetude, if
that can be said of a work which had not come into use. This body of
jurisprudential law was beyond the legal sense of those monarchically-
minded and barbarizing centuries, which knew law only as the command of
a royal lawgiver. The Codex and the Novellae were of this nature. They, and
not the Digest, represent the influence upon Italy of Justinian’s legislation
until the renewed interest in jurisprudence brought the Pandects to the front
at the close of the eleventh century. But Codex and Novellae were too bulky
for a period that needed to have its intellectual labours made easy. From the
first, the Novellae were chiefly known and used in the condensed form
given them in the excellent Epitome of Julianus, apparently a Byzantine of

the last part of Justinian’s reign.[360] The cutting down and epitomizing of
the Codex is more obscure; probably it began at once; the incomplete or
condensed forms were those in common use.[361]
It is, however, with the Theodosian Code and certain survivals of the works
of the great jurists that we have immediately to do. For these were the
sources of the codes enacted by Gothic and Burgundian kings for their
Roman or Gallo-Roman subjects. Apparently the earliest of them was
prepared soon after the year 502, at the command of Gondebaud, King of
the Burgundians. This, which later was dubbed the Papianus,[362] was the
work of a skilled Roman lawyer, and seems quite as much a text-book as a
code. It set forth the law of the topics important for the Roman provincials
living in the Burgundian kingdom, not merely making extracts from its
sources, but stating their contents and referring to them as authorities. These
sources were substantially the same as those used by the Visigothic
Breviarium, which was soon to supersede the Papianus even in Burgundy.
Breviarium was the popular name of the code enacted by the Visigothic
king Alaric II. about the year 506 for his provinciales in the south of Gaul.
[363] It preserved the integrity of its sources, giving the texts in the same
order, and with the same rubrics, as in the original. The principal source
was the Theodosian Code; next in importance the collections of Novellae of
Theodosius and succeeding emperors: a few texts were taken from the
Codes of “Gregorianus” and “Hermogenianus.” These parts of the
Breviarium consisted of leges, that is, of constitutions of the emperors. Two
sources of quite a different character were also drawn upon. One was the
Institutes of Gaius, or rather an old epitome which had been made from it.
The other was the Sententiae of Paulus, the famous “Five Books of
Sentences ad filium.” This work of elementary jurisprudence deserved its
great repute; yet its use in the Breviarium may have been due to the special
sanction which had been given it in one of the constitutions of the
Theodosian Code, also taken over into the Breviarium: “Pauli quoque
sententias semper valere praecipimus.”[364] The same constitution
confirmed the Institutes of Gaius, among other great jurisconsults.
Presumably these two works were the most commonly known as well as the
clearest and best of elementary jurisprudential compositions.

An interesting feature of the Breviarium, and destined to be of great
importance, was the Interpretatio accompanying all its texts, except those
drawn from the epitome of Gaius. This was not the work of Alaric’s
compilers, but probably represents the approved exposition of the leges,
with the exposition of the already archaic Sentences of Paulus, current in
the law schools of southern Gaul in the fifth century. The Interpretatio thus
taken into the Breviarium had, like the texts, the force of royal law, and
soon was to surpass them in practice by reason of its perspicuity and
modernity. Many manuscripts contain only the Interpretatio and omit the
texts.
The Breviarium became the source of Roman law, indeed the Roman law
par excellence, for the Merovingian and then the Carolingian realm, outside
of Italy. It was soon subjected to the epitomizing process, and its epitomes
exist, dating from the eighth to the tenth century: they reduced it in bulk,
and did away with the practical inconvenience of lex and interpretatio.
Further, the Breviarium, and even the epitomes, were glossed with
numerous marginal or interlinear notes made by transcribers or students.
These range from definitions of words, sometimes taken from Isidore’s
Etymologiae, to brief explanations of difficulties in the text.[365] In like
manner in Italy, the Codex and Novellae of Justinian were, as has been said,
reduced to epitomes, and also equipped with glosses.
These barbaric codes of Roman law mark the passage of Roman law into
incipiently mediaeval stages. On the other hand, certain Latin codes of
barbarian law present the laws of the Teutons touched with Roman
conceptions, and likewise becoming inchoately mediaeval.
Freedom, the efficient freedom of the individual, belongs to civilization
rather than to barbarism. The actual as well as imaginary perils surrounding
the lives of men who do not dwell in a safe society, entail a state of close
mutual dependence rather than of liberty. Law in a civilized community has
the twofold purpose of preserving the freedom of the individual and of
maintaining peace. With each advance in human progress, the latter
purpose, at least in the field of private civil law, recedes a little farther,
while the importance of private law, as compared with penal law, constantly
increases.

The law of uncivilized peoples lacks the first of these purposes. Its sole
conscious object is to maintain, or at least provide a method of maintaining
peace; it is scarcely aware that in maintaining peace it is enhancing the
freedom of every individual.
The distinct and conscious purpose of early Teutonic law was to promote
peace within the tribe, or among the members of a warband. Thus was law
regarded by the people—as a means of peace. Its communication or
ordainment might be ascribed to a God or a divine King. But in reality its
chief source lay in slowly growing regulative custom.[366] The force of law,
or more technically speaking the legal sanction, lay in the power of the tribe
to uphold its realized purpose as a tribe; for the power to maintain its
solidarity and organization was the final test of its law-upholding strength.
Primarily the old Teutonic law looked to the tribe and its sub-units, and
scarcely regarded the special claims of an individual, or noticed mitigating
or aggravating elements in his culpability—answerability rather. It
prescribed for his peace and protection as a member of a family, or as one
included within the bands of Sippe (blood relationship); or as one of a
warband or a chief’s close follower, one of his comitatus. On the other
hand, the law was stiff, narrow, and ungeneralized in its recognized rules.
The first Latin codifications of Teutonic law are not to be compared for
breadth and elasticity of statement to the Law of the Twelve Tables. And
their substance was more primitive.[367]
The earliest of these first codifications was the Lex Salica, codified under
Clovis near the year 500. Unquestionably, contact with Roman institutions
suggested the idea, even as the Latin language was the vehicle, of this code.
Otherwise the Lex Salica is un-Christian and un-Roman, although probably
it was put together after Clovis’s baptism. It was not a comprehensive
codification, and omitted much that was common knowledge at the time;
which now makes it somewhat enigmatical. One finds in it lists of thefts of
every sort of object that might be stolen, and of the various injuries to the
person that might be done, and the sum of money to be paid in each case as
atonement or compensation. Such schedules did not set light store on life
and property. On the contrary, they were earnestly intended as the most
available protection of elemental human rights, and as the best method of
peaceful redress. The sums awarded as Wergeld were large, and were

reckoned according to the slain man’s rank. By committing a homicide, a
man might ruin himself and even his blood relatives (Sippe) and of course
on failure to atone might incur servitude or death or outlawry.
The Salic law is scarcely touched by the law of Rome. From this piece of
intact Teutonism the codes of other Teuton peoples shade off into bodies of
law partially Romanized, that is, affected by the provincialized Roman law
current in the locality where the Teutonic tribe found a home. The codes of
the Burgundians and the Visigoths in southern France are examples of this
Teutonic-Romanesque commingling. On the other hand, the Lombard
codes, though later in time, held themselves even harshly Teutonic, as
opposed to any influence from the law of the conquered Italian population,
for whom the Lombards had less regard than Burgundians and Visigoths
had for their subject provincials. Moreover, as the Frankish realm extended
its power over other Gallo-Teuton states, the various Teuton laws modified
each other and tended toward uniformity. Naturally the law of the Franks,
first the Salic and then the partly derivative Ribuarian code, exerted a
dominating influence.[368]
These Teuton peoples regarded law as pertaining to the tribe. There was
little conscious intention on their part of forcing their laws on the
conquered. When the Visigoths established their kingdom in southern
France they had no idea of changing the law of the Gallo-Roman
provincials living within the Visigothic rule; and shortly afterwards, when
the Franks extended their power over the still Roman parts of Gaul, and
then over Alemanni, Burgundians, and Visigoths, they likewise had no
thought of forcing their laws either upon Gallo-Romans or upon the Teuton
people previously dominant within a given territory. This remained true
even of the later Frankish period, when the Carolingians conquered the
Lombard kingdom in upper Italy.
Indeed, to all these Teutons and to the Roman provincials as well, it seemed
as a matter of course that tribal or local laws should be permitted to endure
among the peoples they belonged to. These assumptions and the conditions
of the growing Frankish Empire evoked, as it were, a more acute
mobilization of the principle that to each people belonged its law. For
provincials and Teuton peoples were mingling throughout the Frankish
realm, and the first obvious solution of the legal problems arising was to

hold that provincials and Teutons everywhere should remain amenable and
entitled to their own law, which was assumed to attend them as a personal
appurtenance. Of course this solution became intolerable as tribal blood and
delimitations were obscured, and men moved about through the territories
of one great realm. Archbishop Agobard of Lyons remarks that one might
see five men sitting together, each amenable to a different law.[369] The
escape from this legal confusion was to revert to the idea of law and custom
as applying to every one within a given territory. The personal principle
gradually gave way to this conception in the course of the ninth, tenth, and
eleventh centuries.[370] In the meanwhile during the Merovingian, and more
potently in the Carolingian period, king’s law, as distinguished from
people’s law, had been an influence making for legal uniformity throughout
that wide conglomerate empire which acknowledged the authority of the
Frankish king or emperor. The king’s law might emanate from the delegated
authority, and arise from the practices, of royal functionaries; it was most
formally promulgated in Capitularies, which with Charlemagne reach such
volume and importance. Some of these royal ordinances related to a town or
district only. Others were for the realm, and the latter not only were
instances of law applying universally, but also tended to promote, or
suggest, the harmonizing of laws which they did not modify directly.

III
The Roman law always existed in the Middle Ages. Provincialized and
changed, it was interwoven in the law and custom of the land of the langue
d’oc and even in the customary law of the lands where the langue d’oil was
spoken. Through the same territory it existed also in the Breviarium and its
epitomes. There was very little of it in England, and scarcely a trace in the
Germany east of the Rhine. In Italy it was applied when not superseded by
the Lombard codes, and was drawn from works based on the Codex and
Novels of Justinian. But the jurisprudential law contained in Justinian’s
Digest was as well forgotten in Italy as in any land north of the Alps, where
the Codification of Justinian had never been promulgated. The extent to
which the classic forms of Roman law were known or unknown,
unforgotten or forgotten, was no accident as of codices or other writings
lost accidentally. It hung upon larger conditions—whether society had