Boethius — The Consolation of Philosophy

THE SORROWS OF BOETHIUS.

SUMMARY.

Boethius' complaint (Song I.).--CH. I. Philosophy appears to

Boethius, drives away the Muses of Poetry, and herself laments

(Song II.) the disordered condition of his mind.--CH. II. Boethius

is speechless with amazement. Philosophy wipes away the tears that

have clouded his eyesight.--CH. III. Boethius recognises his

mistress Philosophy. To his wondering inquiries she explains her

presence, and recalls to his mind the persecutions to which

Philosophy has oftentimes from of old been subjected by an ignorant

world. CH. IV. Philosophy bids Boethius declare his griefs. He

relates the story of his unjust accusation and ruin. He concludes

with a prayer (Song V.) that the moral disorder in human affairs

may be set right.--CH. V. Philosophy admits the justice of

Boethius' self-vindication, but grieves rather for the unhappy

change in his mind. She will first tranquillize his spirit by

soothing remedies.--CH. VI. Philosophy tests Boethius' mental

state by certain questions, and discovers three chief causes of his

soul's sickness: (1) He has forgotten his own true nature; (2) he

knows not the end towards which the whole universe tends; (3) he

knows not the means by which the world is governed.

SONG I.

BOETHIUS' COMPLAINT.

Who wrought my studious numbers

Smoothly once in happier days,

Now perforce in tears and sadness

Learn a mournful strain to raise.

Lo, the Muses, grief-dishevelled,

Guide my pen and voice my woe;

Down their cheeks unfeigned the tear drops

To my sad complainings flow!

These alone in danger's hour

Faithful found, have dared attend

On the footsteps of the exile

To his lonely journey's end.

These that were the pride and pleasure

Of my youth and high estate

Still remain the only solace

Of the old man's mournful fate.

Old? Ah yes; swift, ere I knew it,

By these sorrows on me pressed

Age hath come; lo, Grief hath bid me

Wear the garb that fits her best.

O'er my head untimely sprinkled

These white hairs my woes proclaim,

And the skin hangs loose and shrivelled

On this sorrow-shrunken frame.

Blest is death that intervenes not

In the sweet, sweet years of peace,

But unto the broken-hearted,

When they call him, brings release!

Yet Death passes by the wretched,

Shuts his ear and slumbers deep;

Will not heed the cry of anguish,

Will not close the eyes that weep.

For, while yet inconstant Fortune

Poured her gifts and all was bright,

Death's dark hour had all but whelmed me

In the gloom of endless night.

Now, because misfortune's shadow

Hath o'erclouded that false face,

Cruel Life still halts and lingers,

Though I loathe his weary race.

Friends, why did ye once so lightly

Vaunt me happy among men?

Surely he who so hath fallen

Was not firmly founded then.

I.

While I was thus mutely pondering within myself, and recording my

sorrowful complainings with my pen, it seemed to me that there appeared

above my head a woman of a countenance exceeding venerable. Her eyes

were bright as fire, and of a more than human keenness; her complexion

was lively, her vigour showed no trace of enfeeblement; and yet her

years were right full, and she plainly seemed not of our age and time.

Her stature was difficult to judge. At one moment it exceeded not the

common height, at another her forehead seemed to strike the sky; and

whenever she raised her head higher, she began to pierce within the very

heavens, and to baffle the eyes of them that looked upon her. Her

garments were of an imperishable fabric, wrought with the finest threads

and of the most delicate workmanship; and these, as her own lips

afterwards assured me, she had herself woven with her own hands. The

beauty of this vesture had been somewhat tarnished by age and neglect,

and wore that dingy look which marble contracts from exposure. On the

lower-most edge was inwoven the Greek letter [Greek: P], on the topmost

the letter [Greek: Th],[A] and between the two were to be seen steps,

like a staircase, from the lower to the upper letter. This robe,

moreover, had been torn by the hands of violent persons, who had each

snatched away what he could clutch.[B] Her right hand held a note-book;

in her left she bore a staff. And when she saw the Muses of Poesie

standing by my bedside, dictating the words of my lamentations, she was

moved awhile to wrath, and her eyes flashed sternly. 'Who,' said she,

'has allowed yon play-acting wantons to approach this sick man--these

who, so far from giving medicine to heal his malady, even feed it with

sweet poison? These it is who kill the rich crop of reason with the

barren thorns of passion, who accustom men's minds to disease, instead

of setting them free. Now, were it some common man whom your allurements

were seducing, as is usually your way, I should be less indignant. On

such a one I should not have spent my pains for naught. But this is one

nurtured in the Eleatic and Academic philosophies. Nay, get ye gone, ye

sirens, whose sweetness lasteth not; leave him for my muses to tend and

heal!' At these words of upbraiding, the whole band, in deepened

sadness, with downcast eyes, and blushes that confessed their shame,

dolefully left the chamber.

But I, because my sight was dimmed with much weeping, and I could not

tell who was this woman of authority so commanding--I was dumfoundered,

and, with my gaze fastened on the earth, continued silently to await

what she might do next. Then she drew near me and sat on the edge of my

couch, and, looking into my face all heavy with grief and fixed in

sadness on the ground, she bewailed in these words the disorder of my

mind:

FOOTNOTES:

[A] [Greek: P] (P) stands for the Political life, the life of action;

[Greek: Th] (Th) for the Theoretical life, the life of thought.

[B] The Stoic, Epicurean, and other philosophical sects, which Boethius

regards as heterodox. See also below, ch. iii., p. 14.

SONG II.

HIS DESPONDENCY.

Alas! in what abyss his mind

Is plunged, how wildly tossed!

Still, still towards the outer night

She sinks, her true light lost,

As oft as, lashed tumultuously

By earth-born blasts, care's waves rise high.

Yet once he ranged the open heavens,

The sun's bright pathway tracked;

Watched how the cold moon waxed and waned;

Nor rested, till there lacked

To his wide ken no star that steers

Amid the maze of circling spheres.

The causes why the blusterous winds

Vex ocean's tranquil face,

Whose hand doth turn the stable globe,

Or why his even race

From out the ruddy east the sun

Unto the western waves doth run:

What is it tempers cunningly

The placid hours of spring,

So that it blossoms with the rose

For earth's engarlanding:

Who loads the year's maturer prime

With clustered grapes in autumn time:

All this he knew--thus ever strove

Deep Nature's lore to guess.

Now, reft of reason's light, he lies,

And bonds his neck oppress;

While by the heavy load constrained,

His eyes to this dull earth are chained.

II.

'But the time,' said she, 'calls rather for healing than for

lamentation.' Then, with her eyes bent full upon me, 'Art thou that

man,' she cries, 'who, erstwhile fed with the milk and reared upon the

nourishment which is mine to give, had grown up to the full vigour of a

manly spirit? And yet I had bestowed such armour on thee as would have

proved an invincible defence, hadst thou not first cast it away. Dost

thou know me? Why art thou silent? Is it shame or amazement that hath

struck thee dumb? Would it were shame; but, as I see, a stupor hath

seized upon thee.' Then, when she saw me not only answering nothing, but

mute and utterly incapable of speech, she gently touched my breast with

her hand, and said: 'There is no danger; these are the symptoms of

lethargy, the usual sickness of deluded minds. For awhile he has

forgotten himself; he will easily recover his memory, if only he first

recognises me. And that he may do so, let me now wipe his eyes that are

clouded with a mist of mortal things.' Thereat, with a fold of her robe,

she dried my eyes all swimming with tears.

SONG III.

THE MISTS DISPELLED.

Then the gloom of night was scattered,

Sight returned unto mine eyes.

So, when haply rainy Caurus

Rolls the storm-clouds through the skies,

Hidden is the sun; all heaven

Is obscured in starless night.

But if, in wild onset sweeping,

Boreas frees day's prisoned light,

All suddenly the radiant god outstreams,

And strikes our dazzled eyesight with his beams.

III.

Even so the clouds of my melancholy were broken up. I saw the clear sky,

and regained the power to recognise the face of my physician.

Accordingly, when I had lifted my eyes and fixed my gaze upon her, I

beheld my nurse, Philosophy, whose halls I had frequented from my youth

up.

'Ah! why,' I cried, 'mistress of all excellence, hast thou come down

from on high, and entered the solitude of this my exile? Is it that

thou, too, even as I, mayst be persecuted with false accusations?'

'Could I desert thee, child,' said she, 'and not lighten the burden

which thou hast taken upon thee through the hatred of my name, by

sharing this trouble? Even forgetting that it were not lawful for

Philosophy to leave companionless the way of the innocent, should I,

thinkest thou, fear to incur reproach, or shrink from it, as though

some strange new thing had befallen? Thinkest thou that now, for the

first time in an evil age, Wisdom hath been assailed by peril? Did I not

often in days of old, before my servant Plato lived, wage stern warfare

with the rashness of folly? In his lifetime, too, Socrates, his master,

won with my aid the victory of an unjust death. And when, one after the

other, the Epicurean herd, the Stoic, and the rest, each of them as far

as in them lay, went about to seize the heritage he left, and were

dragging me off protesting and resisting, as their booty, they tore in

pieces the garment which I had woven with my own hands, and, clutching

the torn pieces, went off, believing that the whole of me had passed

into their possession. And some of them, because some traces of my

vesture were seen upon them, were destroyed through the mistake of the

lewd multitude, who falsely deemed them to be my disciples. It may be

thou knowest not of the banishment of Anaxagoras, of the poison draught

of Socrates, nor of Zeno's torturing, because these things happened in

a distant country; yet mightest thou have learnt the fate of Arrius, of

Seneca, of Soranus, whose stories are neither old nor unknown to fame.

These men were brought to destruction for no other reason than that,

settled as they were in my principles, their lives were a manifest

contrast to the ways of the wicked. So there is nothing thou shouldst

wonder at, if on the seas of this life we are tossed by storm-blasts,

seeing that we have made it our chiefest aim to refuse compliance with

evil-doers. And though, maybe, the host of the wicked is many in number,

yet is it contemptible, since it is under no leadership, but is hurried

hither and thither at the blind driving of mad error. And if at times

and seasons they set in array against us, and fall on in overwhelming

strength, our leader draws off her forces into the citadel while they

are busy plundering the useless baggage. But we from our vantage ground,

safe from all this wild work, laugh to see them making prize of the most

valueless of things, protected by a bulwark which aggressive folly may

not aspire to reach.'

SONG IV.

NOTHING CAN SUBDUE VIRTUE.

Whoso calm, serene, sedate,

Sets his foot on haughty fate;

Firm and steadfast, come what will,

Keeps his mien unconquered still;

Him the rage of furious seas,

Tossing high wild menaces,

Nor the flames from smoky forges

That Vesuvius disgorges,

Nor the bolt that from the sky

Smites the tower, can terrify.

Why, then, shouldst thou feel affright

At the tyrant's weakling might?

Dread him not, nor fear no harm,

And thou shall his rage disarm;

But who to hope or fear gives way--

Lost his bosom's rightful sway--

He hath cast away his shield,

Like a coward fled the field;

He hath forged all unaware

Fetters his own neck must bear!

IV.

'Dost thou understand?' she asks. Do my words sink into thy mind? Or art

thou dull "as the ass to the sound of the lyre"? Why dost thou weep? Why

do tears stream from thy eyes?

'"Speak out, hide it not in thy heart."

If thou lookest for the physician's help, thou must needs disclose thy

wound.'

Then I, gathering together what strength I could, began: 'Is there still

need of telling? Is not the cruelty of fortune against me plain enough?

Doth not the very aspect of this place move thee? Is this the library,

the room which thou hadst chosen as thy constant resort in my home, the

place where we so often sat together and held discourse of all things in

heaven and earth? Was my garb and mien like this when I explored with

thee nature's hid secrets, and thou didst trace for me with thy wand

the courses of the stars, moulding the while my character and the whole

conduct of my life after the pattern of the celestial order? Is this the

recompense of my obedience? Yet thou hast enjoined by Plato's mouth the

maxim, "that states would be happy, either if philosophers ruled them,

or if it should so befall that their rulers would turn philosophers." By

his mouth likewise thou didst point out this imperative reason why

philosophers should enter public life, to wit, lest, if the reins of

government be left to unprincipled and profligate citizens, trouble and

destruction should come upon the good. Following these precepts, I have

tried to apply in the business of public administration the principles

which I learnt from thee in leisured seclusion. Thou art my witness and

that divinity who hath implanted thee in the hearts of the wise, that I

brought to my duties no aim but zeal for the public good. For this cause

I have become involved in bitter and irreconcilable feuds, and, as

happens inevitably, if a man holds fast to the independence of

conscience, I have had to think nothing of giving offence to the

powerful in the cause of justice. How often have I encountered and

balked Conigastus in his assaults on the fortunes of the weak? How often

have I thwarted Trigguilla, steward of the king's household, even when

his villainous schemes were as good as accomplished? How often have I

risked my position and influence to protect poor wretches from the false

charges innumerable with which they were for ever being harassed by the

greed and license of the barbarians? No one has ever drawn me aside from

justice to oppression. When ruin was overtaking the fortunes of the

provincials through the combined pressure of private rapine and public

taxation, I grieved no less than the sufferers. When at a season of

grievous scarcity a forced sale, disastrous as it was unjustifiable, was

proclaimed, and threatened to overwhelm Campania with starvation, I

embarked on a struggle with the prætorian prefect in the public

interest, I fought the case at the king's judgment-seat, and succeeded

in preventing the enforcement of the sale. I rescued the consular

Paulinus from the gaping jaws of the court bloodhounds, who in their

covetous hopes had already made short work of his wealth. To save

Albinus, who was of the same exalted rank, from the penalties of a

prejudged charge, I exposed myself to the hatred of Cyprian, the

informer.

'Thinkest thou I had laid up for myself store of enmities enough? Well,

with the rest of my countrymen, at any rate, my safety should have been

assured, since my love of justice had left me no hope of security at

court. Yet who was it brought the charges by which I have been struck

down? Why, one of my accusers is Basil, who, after being dismissed from

the king's household, was driven by his debts to lodge an information

against my name. There is Opilio, there is Gaudentius, men who for many

and various offences the king's sentence had condemned to banishment;

and when they declined to obey, and sought to save themselves by taking

sanctuary, the king, as soon as he heard of it, decreed that, if they

did not depart from the city of Ravenna within a prescribed time, they

should be branded on the forehead and expelled. What would exceed the

rigour of this severity? And yet on that same day these very men lodged

an information against me, and the information was admitted. Just

Heaven! had I deserved this by my way of life? Did it make them fit

accusers that my condemnation was a foregone conclusion? Has fortune no

shame--if not at the accusation of the innocent, at least for the

vileness of the accusers? Perhaps thou wonderest what is the sum of the

charges laid against me? I wished, they say, to save the senate. But

how? I am accused of hindering an informer from producing evidence to

prove the senate guilty of treason. Tell me, then, what is thy counsel,

O my mistress. Shall I deny the charge, lest I bring shame on thee? But

I did wish it, and I shall never cease to wish it. Shall I admit it?

Then the work of thwarting the informer will come to an end. Shall I

call the wish for the preservation of that illustrious house a crime?

Of a truth the senate, by its decrees concerning me, has made it such!

But blind folly, though it deceive itself with false names, cannot alter

the true merits of things, and, mindful of the precept of Socrates, I do

not think it right either to keep the truth concealed or allow falsehood

to pass. But this, however it may be, I leave to thy judgment and to the

verdict of the discerning. Moreover, lest the course of events and the

true facts should be hidden from posterity, I have myself committed to

writing an account of the transaction.

'What need to speak of the forged letters by which an attempt is made to

prove that I hoped for the freedom of Rome? Their falsity would have

been manifest, if I had been allowed to use the confession of the

informers themselves, evidence which has in all matters the most

convincing force. Why, what hope of freedom is left to us? Would there

were any! I should have answered with the epigram of Canius when

Caligula declared him to have been cognisant of a conspiracy against

him. "If I had known," said he, "thou shouldst never have known." Grief

hath not so blunted my perceptions in this matter that I should complain

because impious wretches contrive their villainies against the virtuous,

but at their achievement of their hopes I do exceedingly marvel. For

evil purposes are, perchance, due to the imperfection of human nature;

that it should be possible for scoundrels to carry out their worst

schemes against the innocent, while God beholdeth, is verily monstrous.

For this cause, not without reason, one of thy disciples asked, "If God

exists, whence comes evil? Yet whence comes good, if He exists not?"

However, it might well be that wretches who seek the blood of all honest

men and of the whole senate should wish to destroy me also, whom they

saw to be a bulwark of the senate and all honest men. But did I deserve

such a fate from the Fathers also? Thou rememberest, methinks--since

thou didst ever stand by my side to direct what I should do or say--thou

rememberest, I say, how at Verona, when the king, eager for the general

destruction, was bent on implicating the whole senatorial order in the

charge of treason brought against Albinus, with what indifference to my

own peril I maintained the innocence of its members, one and all. Thou

knowest that what I say is the truth, and that I have never boasted of

my good deeds in a spirit of self-praise. For whenever a man by

proclaiming his good deeds receives the recompense of fame, he

diminishes in a measure the secret reward of a good conscience. What

issues have overtaken my innocency thou seest. Instead of reaping the

rewards of true virtue, I undergo the penalties of a guilt falsely laid

to my charge--nay, more than this; never did an open confession of guilt

cause such unanimous severity among the assessors, but that some

consideration, either of the mere frailty of human nature, or of

fortune's universal instability, availed to soften the verdict of some

few. Had I been accused of a design to fire the temples, to slaughter

the priests with impious sword, of plotting the massacre of all honest

men, I should yet have been produced in court, and only punished on due

confession or conviction. Now for my too great zeal towards the senate I

have been condemned to outlawry and death, unheard and undefended, at a

distance of near five hundred miles away.[C] Oh, my judges, well do ye

deserve that no one should hereafter be convicted of a fault like mine!

'Yet even my very accusers saw how honourable was the charge they

brought against me, and, in order to overlay it with some shadow of

guilt, they falsely asserted that in the pursuit of my ambition I had

stained my conscience with sacrilegious acts. And yet thy spirit,

indwelling in me, had driven from the chamber of my soul all lust of

earthly success, and with thine eye ever upon me, there could be no

place left for sacrilege. For thou didst daily repeat in my ear and

instil into my mind the Pythagorean maxim, "Follow after God." It was

not likely, then, that I should covet the assistance of the vilest

spirits, when thou wert moulding me to such an excellence as should

conform me to the likeness of God. Again, the innocency of the inner

sanctuary of my home, the company of friends of the highest probity, a

father-in-law revered at once for his pure character and his active

beneficence, shield me from the very suspicion of sacrilege.

Yet--atrocious as it is--they even draw credence for this charge from

_thee_; I am like to be thought implicated in wickedness on this very

account, that I am imbued with _thy_ teachings and stablished in _thy_

ways. So it is not enough that my devotion to thee should profit me

nothing, but thou also must be assailed by reason of the odium which I

have incurred. Verily this is the very crown of my misfortunes, that

men's opinions for the most part look not to real merit, but to the

event; and only recognise foresight where Fortune has crowned the issue

with her approval. Whereby it comes to pass that reputation is the first

of all things to abandon the unfortunate. I remember with chagrin how

perverse is popular report, how various and discordant men's judgments.

This only will I say, that the most crushing of misfortune's burdens is,

that as soon as a charge is fastened upon the unhappy, they are believed

to have deserved their sufferings. I, for my part, who have been

banished from all life's blessings, stripped of my honours, stained in

repute, am punished for well-doing.

'And now methinks I see the villainous dens of the wicked surging with

joy and gladness, all the most recklessly unscrupulous threatening a new

crop of lying informations, the good prostrate with terror at my danger,

every ruffian incited by impunity to new daring and to success by the

profits of audacity, the guiltless not only robbed of their peace of

mind, but even of all means of defence. Wherefore I would fain cry out:

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The distance from Rome to Pavia, the place of Boethius'

imprisonment, is 455 Roman miles.

SONG V.

BOETHIUS' PRAYER.

'Builder of yon starry dome,

Thou that whirlest, throned eternal,

Heaven's swift globe, and, as they roam,

Guid'st the stars by laws supernal:

So in full-sphered splendour dight

Cynthia dims the lamps of night,

But unto the orb fraternal

Closer drawn,[D] doth lose her light.

'Who at fall of eventide,

Hesper, his cold radiance showeth,

Lucifer his beams doth hide,

Paling as the sun's light groweth,

Brief, while winter's frost holds sway,

By thy will the space of day;

Swift, when summer's fervour gloweth,

Speed the hours of night away.

'Thou dost rule the changing year:

When rude Boreas oppresses,

Fall the leaves; they reappear,

Wooed by Zephyr's soft caresses.

Fields that Sirius burns deep grown

By Arcturus' watch were sown:

Each the reign of law confesses,

Keeps the place that is his own.

'Sovereign Ruler, Lord of all!

Can it be that Thou disdainest

Only man? 'Gainst him, poor thrall,

Wanton Fortune plays her vainest.

Guilt's deserved punishment

Falleth on the innocent;

High uplifted, the profanest

On the just their malice vent.

'Virtue cowers in dark retreats,

Crime's foul stain the righteous beareth,

Perjury and false deceits

Hurt not him the wrong who dareth;

But whene'er the wicked trust

In ill strength to work their lust,

Kings, whom nations' awe declareth

Mighty, grovel in the dust.

'Look, oh look upon this earth,

Thou who on law's sure foundation

Framedst all! Have we no worth,

We poor men, of all creation?

Sore we toss on fortune's tide;

Master, bid the waves subside!

And earth's ways with consummation

Of Thy heaven's order guide!'

FOOTNOTES:

[D] The moon is regarded as farthest from the sun at the full, and, as

she wanes, approaching gradually nearer.

V.

When I had poured out my griefs in this long and unbroken strain of

lamentation, she, with calm countenance, and in no wise disturbed at my

complainings, thus spake:

'When I saw thee sorrowful, in tears, I straightway knew thee wretched

and an exile. But how far distant that exile I should not know, had not

thine own speech revealed it. Yet how far indeed from thy country hast

thou, not been banished, but rather hast strayed; or, if thou wilt have

it banishment, hast banished thyself! For no one else could ever

lawfully have had this power over thee. Now, if thou wilt call to mind

from what country thou art sprung, it is not ruled, as once was the

Athenian polity, by the sovereignty of the multitude, but "one is its

Ruler, one its King," who takes delight in the number of His citizens,

not in their banishment; to submit to whose governance and to obey

whose ordinances is perfect freedom. Art thou ignorant of that most

ancient law of this thy country, whereby it is decreed that no one

whatsoever, who hath chosen to fix there his dwelling, may be sent into

exile? For truly there is no fear that one who is encompassed by its

ramparts and defences should deserve to be exiled. But he who has ceased

to wish to dwell therein, he likewise ceases to deserve to do so. And so

it is not so much the aspect of this place which moves me, as thy

aspect; not so much the library walls set off with glass and ivory which

I miss, as the chamber of thy mind, wherein I once placed, not books,

but that which gives books their value, the doctrines which my books

contain. Now, what thou hast said of thy services to the commonweal is

true, only too little compared with the greatness of thy deservings. The

things laid to thy charge whereof thou hast spoken, whether such as

redound to thy credit, or mere false accusations, are publicly known. As

for the crimes and deceits of the informers, thou hast rightly deemed

it fitting to pass them over lightly, because the popular voice hath

better and more fully pronounced upon them. Thou hast bitterly

complained of the injustice of the senate. Thou hast grieved over my

calumniation, and likewise hast lamented the damage to my good name.

Finally, thine indignation blazed forth against fortune; thou hast

complained of the unfairness with which thy merits have been

recompensed. Last of all thy frantic muse framed a prayer that the peace

which reigns in heaven might rule earth also. But since a throng of

tumultuous passions hath assailed thy soul, since thou art distraught

with anger, pain, and grief, strong remedies are not proper for thee in

this thy present mood. And so for a time I will use milder methods, that

the tumours which have grown hard through the influx of disturbing

passion may be softened by gentle treatment, till they can bear the

force of sharper remedies.'

SONG VI.

ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR NEEDFUL ORDER

He who to th' unwilling furrows

Gives the generous grain,

When the Crab with baleful fervours

Scorches all the plain;

He shall find his garner bare,

Acorns for his scanty fare.

Go not forth to cull sweet violets

From the purpled steep,

While the furious blasts of winter

Through the valleys sweep;

Nor the grape o'erhasty bring

To the press in days of spring.

For to each thing God hath given

Its appointed time;

No perplexing change permits He

In His plan sublime.

So who quits the order due

Shall a luckless issue rue.

VI.

'First, then, wilt thou suffer me by a few questions to make some

attempt to test the state of thy mind, that I may learn in what way to

set about thy cure?'

'Ask what thou wilt,' said I, 'for I will answer whatever questions thou

choosest to put.'

Then said she: 'This world of ours--thinkest thou it is governed

haphazard and fortuitously, or believest thou that there is in it any

rational guidance?'

'Nay,' said I, 'in no wise may I deem that such fixed motions can be

determined by random hazard, but I know that God, the Creator, presideth

over His work, nor will the day ever come that shall drive me from

holding fast the truth of this belief.'

'Yes,' said she; 'thou didst even but now affirm it in song, lamenting

that men alone had no portion in the divine care. As to the rest, thou

wert unshaken in the belief that they were ruled by reason. Yet I

marvel exceedingly how, in spite of thy firm hold on this opinion, thou

art fallen into sickness. But let us probe more deeply: something or

other is missing, I think. Now, tell me, since thou doubtest not that

God governs the world, dost thou perceive by what means He rules it?'

'I scarcely understand what thou meanest,' I said, 'much less can I

answer thy question.'

'Did I not say truly that something is missing, whereby, as through a

breach in the ramparts, disease hath crept in to disturb thy mind? But,

tell me, dost thou remember the universal end towards which the aim of

all nature is directed?'

'I once heard,' said I, 'but sorrow hath dulled my recollection.'

'And yet thou knowest whence all things have proceeded.'

'Yes, that I know,' said I, 'and have answered that it is from God.'

'Yet how is it possible that thou knowest not what is the end of

existence, when thou dost understand its source and origin? However,

these disturbances of mind have force to shake a man's position, but

cannot pluck him up and root him altogether out of himself. But answer

this also, I pray thee: rememberest thou that thou art a man?'

'How should I not?' said I.

'Then, canst thou say what man is?'

'Is this thy question: Whether I know myself for a being endowed with

reason and subject to death? Surely I do acknowledge myself such.'

Then she: 'Dost know nothing else that thou art?'

'Nothing.'

'Now,' said she, 'I know another cause of thy disease, one, too, of

grave moment. Thou hast ceased to know thy own nature. So, then, I have

made full discovery both of the causes of thy sickness and the means of

restoring thy health. It is because forgetfulness of thyself hath

bewildered thy mind that thou hast bewailed thee as an exile, as one

stripped of the blessings that were his; it is because thou knowest not

the end of existence that thou deemest abominable and wicked men to be

happy and powerful; while, because thou hast forgotten by what means the

earth is governed, thou deemest that fortune's changes ebb and flow

without the restraint of a guiding hand. These are serious enough to

cause not sickness only, but even death; but, thanks be to the Author of

our health, the light of nature hath not yet left thee utterly. In thy

true judgment concerning the world's government, in that thou believest

it subject, not to the random drift of chance, but to divine reason, we

have the divine spark from which thy recovery may be hoped. Have, then,

no fear; from these weak embers the vital heat shall once more be

kindled within thee. But seeing that it is not yet time for strong

remedies, and that the mind is manifestly so constituted that when it

casts off true opinions it straightway puts on false, wherefrom arises a

cloud of confusion that disturbs its true vision, I will now try and

disperse these mists by mild and soothing application, that so the

darkness of misleading passion may be scattered, and thou mayst come to

discern the splendour of the true light.'

SONG VII.

THE PERTURBATIONS OF PASSION.

Stars shed no light

Through the black night,

When the clouds hide;

And the lashed wave,

If the winds rave

O'er ocean's tide,--

Though once serene

As day's fair sheen,--

Soon fouled and spoiled

By the storm's spite,

Shows to the sight

Turbid and soiled.

Oft the fair rill,

Down the steep hill

Seaward that strays,

Some tumbled block

Of fallen rock

Hinders and stays.

Then art thou fain

Clear and most plain

Truth to discern,

In the right way

Firmly to stay,

Nor from it turn?

Joy, hope and fear

Suffer not near,

Drive grief away:

Shackled and blind

And lost is the mind

Where these have sway.

THE VANITY OF FORTUNE'S GIFTS

Summary

CH. I. Philosophy reproves Boethius for the foolishness of his

complaints against Fortune. Her very nature is caprice.--CH. II.

Philosophy in Fortune's name replies to Boethius' reproaches, and

proves that the gifts of Fortune are hers to give and to take

away.--CH. III. Boethius falls back upon his present sense of

misery. Philosophy reminds him of the brilliancy of his former

fortunes.--CH. IV. Boethius objects that the memory of past

happiness is the bitterest portion of the lot of the unhappy.

Philosophy shows that much is still left for which he may be

thankful. None enjoy perfect satisfaction with their lot. But

happiness depends not on anything which Fortune can give. It is to

be sought within.--CH. V. All the gifts of Fortune are external;

they can never truly be our own. Man cannot find his good in

worldly possessions. Riches bring anxiety and trouble.--CH. VI.

High place without virtue is an evil, not a good. Power is an empty

name.--CH. VII. Fame is a thing of little account when compared

with the immensity of the Universe and the endlessness of

Time.--CH. VIII. One service only can Fortune do, when she reveals

her own nature and distinguishes true friends from false.

I.

Thereafter for awhile she remained silent; and when she had restored my

flagging attention by a moderate pause in her discourse, she thus began:

'If I have thoroughly ascertained the character and causes of thy

sickness, thou art pining with regretful longing for thy former fortune.

It is the change, as thou deemest, of this fortune that hath so wrought

upon thy mind. Well do I understand that Siren's manifold wiles, the

fatal charm of the friendship she pretends for her victims, so long as

she is scheming to entrap them--how she unexpectedly abandons them and

leaves them overwhelmed with insupportable grief. Bethink thee of her

nature, character, and deserts, and thou wilt soon acknowledge that in

her thou hast neither possessed, nor hast thou lost, aught of any worth.

Methinks I need not spend much pains in bringing this to thy mind,

since, even when she was still with thee, even while she was caressing

thee, thou usedst to assail her in manly terms, to rebuke her, with

maxims drawn from my holy treasure-house. But all sudden changes of

circumstances bring inevitably a certain commotion of spirit. Thus it

hath come to pass that thou also for awhile hast been parted from thy

mind's tranquillity. But it is time for thee to take and drain a

draught, soft and pleasant to the taste, which, as it penetrates within,

may prepare the way for stronger potions. Wherefore I call to my aid the

sweet persuasiveness of Rhetoric, who then only walketh in the right way

when she forsakes not my instructions, and Music, my handmaid, I bid to

join with her singing, now in lighter, now in graver strain.

'What is it, then, poor mortal, that hath cast thee into lamentation and

mourning? Some strange, unwonted sight, methinks, have thine eyes seen.

Thou deemest Fortune to have changed towards thee; thou mistakest. Such

ever were her ways, ever such her nature. Rather in her very mutability

hath she preserved towards thee her true constancy. Such was she when

she loaded thee with caresses, when she deluded thee with the

allurements of a false happiness. Thou hast found out how changeful is

the face of the blind goddess. She who still veils herself from others

hath fully discovered to thee her whole character. If thou likest her,

take her as she is, and do not complain. If thou abhorrest her perfidy,

turn from her in disdain, renounce her, for baneful are her delusions.

The very thing which is now the cause of thy great grief ought to have

brought thee tranquillity. Thou hast been forsaken by one of whom no one

can be sure that she will not forsake him. Or dost thou indeed set value

on a happiness that is certain to depart? Again I ask, Is Fortune's

presence dear to thee if she cannot be trusted to stay, and though she

will bring sorrow when she is gone? Why, if she cannot be kept at

pleasure, and if her flight overwhelms with calamity, what is this

fleeting visitant but a token of coming trouble? Truly it is not enough

to look only at what lies before the eyes; wisdom gauges the issues of

things, and this same mutability, with its two aspects, makes the

threats of Fortune void of terror, and her caresses little to be

desired. Finally, thou oughtest to bear with whatever takes place within

the boundaries of Fortune's demesne, when thou hast placed thy head

beneath her yoke. But if thou wishest to impose a law of staying and

departing on her whom thou hast of thine own accord chosen for thy

mistress, art thou not acting wrongfully, art thou not embittering by

impatience a lot which thou canst not alter? Didst thou commit thy sails

to the winds, thou wouldst voyage not whither thy intention was to go,

but whither the winds drave thee; didst thou entrust thy seed to the

fields, thou wouldst set off the fruitful years against the barren. Thou

hast resigned thyself to the sway of Fortune; thou must submit to thy

mistress's caprices. What! art thou verily striving to stay the swing

of the revolving wheel? Oh, stupidest of mortals, if it takes to

standing still, it ceases to be the wheel of Fortune.'

SONG I.

FORTUNE'S MALICE.

Mad Fortune sweeps along in wanton pride,

Uncertain as Euripus' surging tide;

Now tramples mighty kings beneath her feet;

Now sets the conquered in the victor's seat.

She heedeth not the wail of hapless woe,

But mocks the griefs that from her mischief flow.

Such is her sport; so proveth she her power;

And great the marvel, when in one brief hour

She shows her darling lifted high in bliss,

Then headlong plunged in misery's abyss.

II.

'Now I would fain also reason with thee a little in Fortune's own words.

Do thou observe whether her contentions be just. "Man," she might say,

"why dost thou pursue me with thy daily complainings? What wrong have I

done thee? What goods of thine have I taken from thee? Choose an thou

wilt a judge, and let us dispute before him concerning the rightful

ownership of wealth and rank. If thou succeedest in showing that any one

of these things is the true property of mortal man, I freely grant those

things to be thine which thou claimest. When nature brought thee forth

out of thy mother's womb, I took thee, naked and destitute as thou wast,

I cherished thee with my substance, and, in the partiality of my favour

for thee, I brought thee up somewhat too indulgently, and this it is

which now makes thee rebellious against me. I surrounded thee with a

royal abundance of all those things that are in my power. Now it is my

pleasure to draw back my hand. Thou hast reason to thank me for the use

of what was not thine own; thou hast no right to complain, as if thou

hadst lost what was wholly thine. Why, then, dost bemoan thyself? I have

done thee no violence. Wealth, honour, and all such things are placed

under my control. My handmaidens know their mistress; with me they come,

and at my going they depart. I might boldly affirm that if those things

the loss of which thou lamentest had been thine, thou couldst never have

lost them. Am I alone to be forbidden to do what I will with my own?

Unrebuked, the skies now reveal the brightness of day, now shroud the

daylight in the darkness of night; the year may now engarland the face

of the earth with flowers and fruits, now disfigure it with storms and

cold. The sea is permitted to invite with smooth and tranquil surface

to-day, to-morrow to roughen with wave and storm. Shall man's insatiate

greed bind _me_ to a constancy foreign to my character? This is my art,

this the game I never cease to play. I turn the wheel that spins. I

delight to see the high come down and the low ascend. Mount up, if thou

wilt, but only on condition that thou wilt not think it a hardship to

come down when the rules of my game require it. Wert thou ignorant of my

character? Didst not know how Croesus, King of the Lydians, erstwhile

the dreaded rival of Cyrus, was afterwards pitiably consigned to the

flame of the pyre, and only saved by a shower sent from heaven? Has it

'scaped thee how Paullus paid a meed of pious tears to the misfortunes

of King Perseus, his prisoner? What else do tragedies make such woeful

outcry over save the overthrow of kingdoms by the indiscriminate strokes

of Fortune? Didst thou not learn in thy childhood how there stand at the

threshold of Zeus 'two jars,' 'the one full of blessings, the other of

calamities'? How if thou hast drawn over-liberally from the good jar?

What if not even now have I departed wholly from thee? What if this very

mutability of mine is a just ground for hoping better things? But listen

now, and cease to let thy heart consume away with fretfulness, nor

expect to live on thine own terms in a realm that is common to all.'

SONG II.

MAN'S COVETOUSNESS.

What though Plenty pour her gifts

With a lavish hand,

Numberless as are the stars,

Countless as the sand,

Will the race of man, content,

Cease to murmur and lament?

Nay, though God, all-bounteous, give

Gold at man's desire--

Honours, rank, and fame--content

Not a whit is nigher;

But an all-devouring greed

Yawns with ever-widening need.

Then what bounds can e'er restrain

This wild lust of having,

When with each new bounty fed

Grows the frantic craving?

He is never rich whose fear

Sees grim Want forever near.

III.

'If Fortune should plead thus against thee, assuredly thou wouldst not

have one word to offer in reply; or, if thou canst find any

justification of thy complainings, thou must show what it is. I will

give thee space to speak.'

Then said I: 'Verily, thy pleas are plausible--yea, steeped in the

honeyed sweetness of music and rhetoric. But their charm lasts only

while they are sounding in the ear; the sense of his misfortunes lies

deeper in the heart of the wretched. So, when the sound ceases to

vibrate upon the air, the heart's indwelling sorrow is felt with renewed

bitterness.'

Then said she: 'It is indeed as thou sayest, for we have not yet come to

the curing of thy sickness; as yet these are but lenitives conducing to

the treatment of a malady hitherto obstinate. The remedies which go deep

I will apply in due season. Nevertheless, to deprecate thy

determination to be thought wretched, I ask thee, Hast thou forgotten

the extent and bounds of thy felicity? I say nothing of how, when

orphaned and desolate, thou wast taken into the care of illustrious men;

how thou wast chosen for alliance with the highest in the state--and

even before thou wert bound to their house by marriage, wert already

dear to their love--which is the most precious of all ties. Did not all

pronounce thee most happy in the virtues of thy wife, the splendid

honours of her father, and the blessing of male issue? I pass over--for

I care not to speak of blessings in which others also have shared--the

distinctions often denied to age which thou enjoyedst in thy youth. I

choose rather to come to the unparalleled culmination of thy good

fortune. If the fruition of any earthly success has weight in the scale

of happiness, can the memory of that splendour be swept away by any

rising flood of troubles? That day when thou didst see thy two sons ride

forth from home joint consuls, followed by a train of senators, and

welcomed by the good-will of the people; when these two sat in curule

chairs in the Senate-house, and thou by thy panegyric on the king didst

earn the fame of eloquence and ability; when in the Circus, seated

between the two consuls, thou didst glut the multitude thronging around

with the triumphal largesses for which they looked--methinks thou didst

cozen Fortune while she caressed thee, and made thee her darling. Thou

didst bear off a boon which she had never before granted to any private

person. Art thou, then, minded to cast up a reckoning with Fortune? Now

for the first time she has turned a jealous glance upon thee. If thou

compare the extent and bounds of thy blessings and misfortunes, thou

canst not deny that thou art still fortunate. Or if thou esteem not

thyself favoured by Fortune in that thy then seeming prosperity hath

departed, deem not thyself wretched, since what thou now believest to be

calamitous passeth also. What! art thou but now come suddenly and a

stranger to the scene of this life? Thinkest thou there is any stability

in human affairs, when man himself vanishes away in the swift course of

time? It is true that there is little trust that the gifts of chance

will abide; yet the last day of life is in a manner the death of all

remaining Fortune. What difference, then, thinkest thou, is there,

whether thou leavest her by dying, or she leave thee by fleeing away?'

SONG III.

ALL PASSES.

When, in rosy chariot drawn,

Phoebus 'gins to light the dawn,

By his flaming beams assailed,

Every glimmering star is paled.

When the grove, by Zephyrs fed,

With rose-blossom blushes red;--

Doth rude Auster breathe thereon,

Bare it stands, its glory gone.

Smooth and tranquil lies the deep

While the winds are hushed in sleep.

Soon, when angry tempests lash,

Wild and high the billows dash.

Thus if Nature's changing face

Holds not still a moment's space,

Fleeting deem man's fortunes; deem

Bliss as transient as a dream.

One law only standeth fast:

Things created may not last.

IV.

Then said I: 'True are thine admonishings, thou nurse of all excellence;

nor can I deny the wonder of my fortune's swift career. Yet it is this

which chafes me the more cruelly in the recalling. For truly in adverse

fortune the worst sting of misery is to _have been_ happy.'

'Well,' said she, 'if thou art paying the penalty of a mistaken belief,

thou canst not rightly impute the fault to circumstances. If it is the

felicity which Fortune gives that moves thee--mere name though it

be--come reckon up with me how rich thou art in the number and

weightiness of thy blessings. Then if, by the blessing of Providence,

thou hast still preserved unto thee safe and inviolate that which,

howsoever thou mightest reckon thy fortune, thou wouldst have thought

thy most precious possession, what right hast thou to talk of

ill-fortune whilst keeping all Fortune's better gifts? Yet Symmachus,

thy wife's father--a man whose splendid character does honour to the

human race--is safe and unharmed; and while he bewails thy wrongs, this

rare nature, in whom wisdom and virtue are so nobly blended, is himself

out of danger--a boon thou wouldst have been quick to purchase at the

price of life itself. Thy wife yet lives, with her gentle disposition,

her peerless modesty and virtue--this the epitome of all her graces,

that she is the true daughter of her sire--she lives, I say, and for thy

sake only preserves the breath of life, though she loathes it, and pines

away in grief and tears for thy absence, wherein, if in naught else, I

would allow some marring of thy felicity. What shall I say of thy sons

and their consular dignity--how in them, so far as may be in youths of

their age, the example of their father's and grandfather's character

shines out? Since, then, the chief care of mortal man is to preserve his

life, how happy art thou, couldst thou but recognise thy blessings, who

possessest even now what no one doubts to be dearer than life!

Wherefore, now dry thy tears. Fortune's hate hath not involved all thy

dear ones; the stress of the storm that has assailed thee is not beyond

measure intolerable, since there are anchors still holding firm which

suffer thee not to lack either consolation in the present or hope for

the future.'

'I pray that they still may hold. For while they still remain, however

things may go, I shall ride out the storm. Yet thou seest how much is

shorn of the splendour of my fortunes.'

'We are gaining a little ground,' said she, 'if there is something in

thy lot wherewith thou art not yet altogether discontented. But I cannot

stomach thy daintiness when thou complainest with such violence of grief

and anxiety because thy happiness falls short of completeness. Why, who

enjoys such settled felicity as not to have some quarrel with the

circumstances of his lot? A troublous matter are the conditions of human

bliss; either they are never realized in full, or never stay

permanently. One has abundant riches, but is shamed by his ignoble

birth. Another is conspicuous for his nobility, but through the

embarrassments of poverty would prefer to be obscure. A third, richly

endowed with both, laments the loneliness of an unwedded life. Another,

though happily married, is doomed to childlessness, and nurses his

wealth for a stranger to inherit. Yet another, blest with children,

mournfully bewails the misdeeds of son or daughter. Wherefore, it is not

easy for anyone to be at perfect peace with the circumstances of his

lot. There lurks in each several portion something which they who

experience it not know nothing of, but which makes the sufferer wince.

Besides, the more favoured a man is by Fortune, the more fastidiously

sensitive is he; and, unless all things answer to his whim, he is

overwhelmed by the most trifling misfortunes, because utterly unschooled

in adversity. So petty are the trifles which rob the most fortunate of

perfect happiness! How many are there, dost thou imagine, who would

think themselves nigh heaven, if but a small portion from the wreck of

thy fortune should fall to them? This very place which thou callest

exile is to them that dwell therein their native land. So true is it

that nothing is wretched, but thinking makes it so, and conversely every

lot is happy if borne with equanimity. Who is so blest by Fortune as not

to wish to change his state, if once he gives rein to a rebellious

spirit? With how many bitternesses is the sweetness of human felicity

blent! And even if that sweetness seem to him to bring delight in the

enjoying, yet he cannot keep it from departing when it will. How

manifestly wretched, then, is the bliss of earthly fortune, which lasts

not for ever with those whose temper is equable, and can give no perfect

satisfaction to the anxious-minded!

'Why, then, ye children of mortality, seek ye from without that

happiness whose seat is only within us? Error and ignorance bewilder

you. I will show thee, in brief, the hinge on which perfect happiness

turns. Is there anything more precious to thee than thyself? Nothing,

thou wilt say. If, then, thou art master of thyself, thou wilt possess

that which thou wilt never be willing to lose, and which Fortune cannot

take from thee. And that thou mayst see that happiness cannot possibly

consist in these things which are the sport of chance, reflect that, if

happiness is the highest good of a creature living in accordance with

reason, and if a thing which can in any wise be reft away is not the

highest good, since that which cannot be taken away is better than it,

it is plain that Fortune cannot aspire to bestow happiness by reason of

its instability. And, besides, a man borne along by this transitory

felicity must either know or not know its unstability. If he knows not,

how poor is a happiness which depends on the blindness of ignorance! If

he knows it, he needs must fear to lose a happiness whose loss he

believes to be possible. Wherefore, a never-ceasing fear suffers him not

to be happy. Or does he count the possibility of this loss a trifling

matter? Insignificant, then, must be the good whose loss can be borne so

equably. And, further, I know thee to be one settled in the belief that

the souls of men certainly die not with them, and convinced thereof by

numerous proofs; it is clear also that the felicity which Fortune

bestows is brought to an end with the death of the body: therefore, it

cannot be doubted but that, if happiness is conferred in this way, the

whole human race sinks into misery when death brings the close of all.

But if we know that many have sought the joy of happiness not through

death only, but also through pain and suffering, how can life make men

happy by its presence when it makes them not wretched by its loss?'

SONG IV.

THE GOLDEN MEAN.

Who founded firm and sure

Would ever live secure,

In spite of storm and blast

Immovable and fast;

Whoso would fain deride

The ocean's threatening tide;--

His dwelling should not seek

On sands or mountain-peak.

Upon the mountain's height

The storm-winds wreak their spite:

The shifting sands disdain

Their burden to sustain.

Do thou these perils flee,

Fair though the prospect be,

And fix thy resting-place

On some low rock's sure base.

Then, though the tempests roar,

Seas thunder on the shore,

Thou in thy stronghold blest

And undisturbed shalt rest;

Live all thy days serene,

And mock the heavens' spleen.

V.

'But since my reasonings begin to work a soothing effect within thy

mind, methinks I may resort to remedies somewhat stronger. Come,

suppose, now, the gifts of Fortune were not fleeting and transitory,

what is there in them capable of ever becoming truly thine, or which

does not lose value when looked at steadily and fairly weighed in the

balance? Are riches, I pray thee, precious either through thy nature or

in their own? What are they but mere gold and heaps of money? Yet these

fine things show their quality better in the spending than in the

hoarding; for I suppose 'tis plain that greed Alva's makes men hateful,

while liberality brings fame. But that which is transferred to another

cannot remain in one's own possession; and if that be so, then money is

only precious when it is given away, and, by being transferred to

others, ceases to be one's own. Again, if all the money in the world

were heaped up in one man's possession, all others would be made poor.

Sound fills the ears of many at the same time without being broken into

parts, but your riches cannot pass to many without being lessened in the

process. And when this happens, they must needs impoverish those whom

they leave. How poor and cramped a thing, then, is riches, which more

than one cannot possess as an unbroken whole, which falls not to any one

man's lot without the impoverishment of everyone else! Or is it the

glitter of gems that allures the eye? Yet, how rarely excellent soever

may be their splendour, remember the flashing light is in the jewels,

not in the man. Indeed, I greatly marvel at men's admiration of them;

for what can rightly seem beautiful to a being endowed with life and

reason, if it lack the movement and structure of life? And although such

things do in the end take on them more beauty from their Maker's care

and their own brilliancy, still they in no wise merit your admiration

since their excellence is set at a lower grade than your own.

'Does the beauty of the fields delight you? Surely, yes; it is a

beautiful part of a right beautiful whole. Fitly indeed do we at times

enjoy the serene calm of the sea, admire the sky, the stars, the moon,

the sun. Yet is any of these thy concern? Dost thou venture to boast

thyself of the beauty of any one of them? Art _thou_ decked with

spring's flowers? is it _thy_ fertility that swelleth in the fruits of

autumn? Why art thou moved with empty transports? why embracest thou an

alien excellence as thine own? Never will fortune make thine that which

the nature of things has excluded from thy ownership. Doubtless the

fruits of the earth are given for the sustenance of living creatures.

But if thou art content to supply thy wants so far as suffices nature,

there is no need to resort to fortune's bounty. Nature is content with

few things, and with a very little of these. If thou art minded to force

superfluities upon her when she is satisfied, that which thou addest

will prove either unpleasant or harmful. But, now, thou thinkest it

fine to shine in raiment of divers colours; yet--if, indeed, there is

any pleasure in the sight of such things--it is the texture or the

artist's skill which I shall admire.

'Or perhaps it is a long train of servants that makes thee happy? Why,

if they behave viciously, they are a ruinous burden to thy house, and

exceeding dangerous to their own master; while if they are honest, how

canst thou count other men's virtue in the sum of thy possessions? From

all which 'tis plainly proved that not one of these things which thou

reckonest in the number of thy possessions is really thine. And if there

is in them no beauty to be desired, why shouldst thou either grieve for

their loss or find joy in their continued possession? While if they are

beautiful in their own nature, what is that to thee? They would have

been not less pleasing in themselves, though never included among thy

possessions. For they derive not their preciousness from being counted

in thy riches, but rather thou hast chosen to count them in thy riches

because they seemed to thee precious.

'Then, what seek ye by all this noisy outcry about fortune? To chase

away poverty, I ween, by means of abundance. And yet ye find the result

just contrary. Why, this varied array of precious furniture needs more

accessories for its protection; it is a true saying that they want most

who possess most, and, conversely, they want very little who measure

their abundance by nature's requirements, not by the superfluity of vain

display. Have ye no good of your own implanted within you, that ye seek

your good in things external and separate? Is the nature of things so

reversed that a creature divine by right of reason can in no other way

be splendid in his own eyes save by the possession of lifeless chattels?

Yet, while other things are content with their own, ye who in your

intellect are God-like seek from the lowest of things adornment for a

nature of supreme excellence, and perceive not how great a wrong ye do

your Maker. His will was that mankind should excel all things on earth.

Ye thrust down your worth beneath the lowest of things. For if that in

which each thing finds its good is plainly more precious than that whose

good it is, by your own estimation ye put yourselves below the vilest of

things, when ye deem these vile things to be your good: nor does this

fall out undeservedly. Indeed, man is so constituted that he then only

excels other things when he knows himself; but he is brought lower than

the beasts if he lose this self-knowledge. For that other creatures

should be ignorant of themselves is natural; in man it shows as a

defect. How extravagant, then, is this error of yours, in thinking that

anything can be embellished by adornments not its own. It cannot be. For

if such accessories add any lustre, it is the accessories that get the

praise, while that which they veil and cover remains in its pristine

ugliness. And again I say, That is no _good_, which injures its

possessor. Is this untrue? No, quite true, thou sayest. And yet riches

have often hurt those that possessed them, since the worst of men, who

are all the more covetous by reason of their wickedness, think none but

themselves worthy to possess all the gold and gems the world contains.

So thou, who now dreadest pike and sword, mightest have trolled a carol

"in the robber's face," hadst thou entered the road of life with empty

pockets. Oh, wondrous blessedness of perishable wealth, whose

acquisition robs thee of security!'

SONG V.

THE FORMER AGE.

Too blest the former age, their life

Who in the fields contented led,

And still, by luxury unspoiled,

On frugal acorns sparely fed.

No skill was theirs the luscious grape

With honey's sweetness to confuse;

Nor China's soft and sheeny silks

T' empurple with brave Tyrian hues.

The grass their wholesome couch, their drink

The stream, their roof the pine's tall shade;

Not theirs to cleave the deep, nor seek

In strange far lands the spoils of trade.

The trump of war was heard not yet,

Nor soiled the fields by bloodshed's stain;

For why should war's fierce madness arm

When strife brought wound, but brought not gain?

Ah! would our hearts might still return

To following in those ancient ways.

Alas! the greed of getting glows

More fierce than Etna's fiery blaze.

Woe, woe for him, whoe'er it was,

Who first gold's hidden store revealed,

And--perilous treasure-trove--dug out

The gems that fain would be concealed!

VI.

'What now shall I say of rank and power, whereby, because ye know not

true power and dignity, ye hope to reach the sky? Yet, when rank and

power have fallen to the worst of men, did ever an Etna, belching forth

flame and fiery deluge, work such mischief? Verily, as I think, thou

dost remember how thine ancestors sought to abolish the consular power,

which had been the foundation of their liberties, on account of the

overweening pride of the consuls, and how for that self-same pride they

had already abolished the kingly title! And if, as happens but rarely,

these prerogatives are conferred on virtuous men, it is only the virtue

of those who exercise them that pleases. So it appears that honour

cometh not to virtue from rank, but to rank from virtue. Look, too, at

the nature of that power which ye find so attractive and glorious! Do ye

never consider, ye creatures of earth, what ye are, and over whom ye

exercise your fancied lordship? Suppose, now, that in the mouse tribe

there should rise up one claiming rights and powers for himself above

the rest, would ye not laugh consumedly? Yet if thou lookest to his body

alone, what creature canst thou find more feeble than man, who

oftentimes is killed by the bite of a fly, or by some insect creeping

into the inner passage of his system! Yet what rights can one exercise

over another, save only as regards the body, and that which is lower

than the body--I mean fortune? What! wilt thou bind with thy mandates

the free spirit? Canst thou force from its due tranquillity the mind

that is firmly composed by reason? A tyrant thought to drive a man of

free birth to reveal his accomplices in a conspiracy, but the prisoner

bit off his tongue and threw it into the furious tyrant's face; thus,

the tortures which the tyrant thought the instrument of his cruelty the

sage made an opportunity for heroism. Moreover, what is there that one

man can do to another which he himself may not have to undergo in his

turn? We are told that Busiris, who used to kill his guests, was himself

slain by his guest, Hercules. Regulus had thrown into bonds many of the

Carthaginians whom he had taken in war; soon after he himself submitted

his hands to the chains of the vanquished. Then, thinkest thou that man

hath any power who cannot prevent another's being able to do to him what

he himself can do to others?

'Besides, if there were any element of natural and proper good in rank

and power, they would never come to the utterly bad, since opposites are

not wont to be associated. Nature brooks not the union of contraries.

So, seeing there is no doubt that wicked wretches are oftentimes set in

high places, it is also clear that things which suffer association with

the worst of men cannot be good in their own nature. Indeed, this

judgment may with some reason be passed concerning all the gifts of

fortune which fall so plentifully to all the most wicked. This ought

also to be considered here, I think: No one doubts a man to be brave in

whom he has observed a brave spirit residing. It is plain that one who

is endowed with speed is swift-footed. So also music makes men musical,

the healing art physicians, rhetoric public speakers. For each of these

has naturally its own proper working; there is no confusion with the

effects of contrary things--nay, even of itself it rejects what is

incompatible. And yet wealth cannot extinguish insatiable greed, nor has

power ever made him master of himself whom vicious lusts kept bound in

indissoluble fetters; dignity conferred on the wicked not only fails to

make them worthy, but contrarily reveals and displays their

unworthiness. Why does it so happen? Because ye take pleasure in calling

by false names things whose nature is quite incongruous thereto--by

names which are easily proved false by the very effects of the things

themselves; even so it is; these riches, that power, this dignity, are

none of them rightly so called. Finally, we may draw the same conclusion

concerning the whole sphere of Fortune, within which there is plainly

nothing to be truly desired, nothing of intrinsic excellence; for she

neither always joins herself to the good, nor does she make good men of

those to whom she is united.'

SONG VI.

NERO'S INFAMY.

We know what mischief dire he wrought--

Rome fired, the Fathers slain--

Whose hand with brother's slaughter wet

A mother's blood did stain.

No pitying tear his cheek bedewed,

As on the corse he gazed;

That mother's beauty, once so fair,

A critic's voice appraised.

Yet far and wide, from East to West,

His sway the nations own;

And scorching South and icy North

Obey his will alone.

Did, then, high power a curb impose

On Nero's phrenzied will?

Ah, woe when to the evil heart

Is joined the sword to kill!

VII.

Then said I: 'Thou knowest thyself that ambition for worldly success

hath but little swayed me. Yet I have desired opportunity for action,

lest virtue, in default of exercise, should languish away.'

Then she: 'This is that "last infirmity" which is able to allure minds

which, though of noble quality, have not yet been moulded to any

exquisite refinement by the perfecting of the virtues--I mean, the love

of glory--and fame for high services rendered to the commonweal. And yet

consider with me how poor and unsubstantial a thing this glory is! The

whole of this earth's globe, as thou hast learnt from the demonstration

of astronomy, compared with the expanse of heaven, is found no bigger

than a point; that is to say, if measured by the vastness of heaven's

sphere, it is held to occupy absolutely no space at all. Now, of this so

insignificant portion of the universe, it is about a fourth part, as

Ptolemy's proofs have taught us, which is inhabited by living creatures

known to us. If from this fourth part you take away in thought all that

is usurped by seas and marshes, or lies a vast waste of waterless

desert, barely is an exceeding narrow area left for human habitation.

You, then, who are shut in and prisoned in this merest fraction of a

point's space, do ye take thought for the blazoning of your fame, for

the spreading abroad of your renown? Why, what amplitude or magnificence

has glory when confined to such narrow and petty limits?

'Besides, the straitened bounds of this scant dwelling-place are

inhabited by many nations differing widely in speech, in usages, in mode

of life; to many of these, from the difficulty of travel, from

diversities of speech, from want of commercial intercourse, the fame not

only of individual men, but even of cities, is unable to reach. Why, in

Cicero's days, as he himself somewhere points out, the fame of the Roman

Republic had not yet crossed the Caucasus, and yet by that time her

name had grown formidable to the Parthians and other nations of those

parts. Seest thou, then, how narrow, how confined, is the glory ye take

pains to spread abroad and extend! Can the fame of a single Roman

penetrate where the glory of the Roman name fails to pass? Moreover, the

customs and institutions of different races agree not together, so that

what is deemed praise worthy in one country is thought punishable in

another. Wherefore, if any love the applause of fame, it shall not

profit him to publish his name among many peoples. Then, each must be

content to have the range of his glory limited to his own people; the

splendid immortality of fame must be confined within the bounds of a

single race.

'Once more, how many of high renown in their own times have been lost in

oblivion for want of a record! Indeed, of what avail are written records

even, which, with their authors, are overtaken by the dimness of age

after a somewhat longer time? But ye, when ye think on future fame,

fancy it an immortality that ye are begetting for yourselves. Why, if

thou scannest the infinite spaces of eternity, what room hast thou left

for rejoicing in the durability of thy name? Verily, if a single

moment's space be compared with ten thousand years, it has a certain

relative duration, however little, since each period is definite. But

this same number of years--ay, and a number many times as great--cannot

even be compared with endless duration; for, indeed, finite periods may

in a sort be compared one with another, but a finite and an infinite

never. So it comes to pass that fame, though it extend to ever so wide a

space of years, if it be compared to never-lessening eternity, seems not

short-lived merely, but altogether nothing. But as for you, ye know not

how to act aright, unless it be to court the popular breeze, and win the

empty applause of the multitude--nay, ye abandon the superlative worth

of conscience and virtue, and ask a recompense from the poor words of

others. Let me tell thee how wittily one did mock the shallowness of

this sort of arrogance. A certain man assailed one who had put on the

name of philosopher as a cloak to pride and vain-glory, not for the

practice of real virtue, and added: "Now shall I know if thou art a

philosopher if thou bearest reproaches calmly and patiently." The other

for awhile affected to be patient, and, having endured to be abused,

cried out derisively: "_Now_, do you see that I am a philosopher?" The

other, with biting sarcasm, retorted: "I should have hadst thou held thy

peace." Moreover, what concern have choice spirits--for it is of such

men we speak, men who seek glory by virtue--what concern, I say, have

these with fame after the dissolution of the body in death's last hour?

For if men die wholly--which our reasonings forbid us to believe--there

is no such thing as glory at all, since he to whom the glory is said to

belong is altogether non-existent. But if the mind, conscious of its own

rectitude, is released from its earthly prison, and seeks heaven in free

flight, doth it not despise all earthly things when it rejoices in its

deliverance from earthly bonds, and enters upon the joys of heaven?'

SONG VII.

GLORY MAY NOT LAST.

Oh, let him, who pants for glory's guerdon,

Deeming glory all in all,

Look and see how wide the heaven expandeth,

Earth's enclosing bounds how small!

Shame it is, if your proud-swelling glory

May not fill this narrow room!

Why, then, strive so vainly, oh, ye proud ones!

To escape your mortal doom?

Though your name, to distant regions bruited,

O'er the earth be widely spread,

Though full many a lofty-sounding title

On your house its lustre shed,

Death at all this pomp and glory spurneth

When his hour draweth nigh,

Shrouds alike th' exalted and the humble,

Levels lowest and most high.

Where are now the bones of stanch Fabricius?

Brutus, Cato--where are they?

Lingering fame, with a few graven letters,

Doth their empty name display.

But to know the great dead is not given

From a gilded name alone;

Nay, ye all alike must lie forgotten,

'Tis not _you_ that fame makes known.

Fondly do ye deem life's little hour

Lengthened by fame's mortal breath;

There but waits you--when this, too, is taken--

At the last a second death.

VIII.

'But that thou mayst not think that I wage implacable warfare against

Fortune, I own there is a time when the deceitful goddess serves men

well--I mean when she reveals herself, uncovers her face, and confesses

her true character. Perhaps thou dost not yet grasp my meaning. Strange

is the thing I am trying to express, and for this cause I can scarce

find words to make clear my thought. For truly I believe that Ill

Fortune is of more use to men than Good Fortune. For Good Fortune, when

she wears the guise of happiness, and most seems to caress, is always

lying; Ill Fortune is always truthful, since, in changing, she shows her

inconstancy. The one deceives, the other teaches; the one enchains the

minds of those who enjoy her favour by the semblance of delusive good,

the other delivers them by the knowledge of the frail nature of

happiness. Accordingly, thou mayst see the one fickle, shifting as the

breeze, and ever self-deceived; the other sober-minded, alert, and wary,

by reason of the very discipline of adversity. Finally, Good Fortune, by

her allurements, draws men far from the true good; Ill Fortune ofttimes

draws men back to true good with grappling-irons. Again, should it be

esteemed a trifling boon, thinkest thou, that this cruel, this odious

Fortune hath discovered to thee the hearts of thy faithful friends--that

other hid from thee alike the faces of the true friends and of the

false, but in departing she hath taken away _her_ friends, and left thee

_thine_? What price wouldst thou not have given for this service in the

fulness of thy prosperity when thou seemedst to thyself fortunate?

Cease, then, to seek the wealth thou hast lost, since in true friends

thou hast found the most precious of all riches.'

SONG VIII.

LOVE IS LORD OF ALL.

Why are Nature's changes bound

To a fixed and ordered round?

What to leaguèd peace hath bent

Every warring element?

Wherefore doth the rosy morn

Rise on Phoebus' car upborne?

Why should Phoebe rule the night,

Led by Hesper's guiding light?

What the power that doth restrain

In his place the restless main,

That within fixed bounds he keeps,

Nor o'er earth in deluge sweeps?

Love it is that holds the chains,

Love o'er sea and earth that reigns;

Love--whom else but sovereign Love?--

Love, high lord in heaven above!

Yet should he his care remit,

All that now so close is knit

In sweet love and holy peace,

Would no more from conflict cease,

But with strife's rude shock and jar

All the world's fair fabric mar.

Tribes and nations Love unites

By just treaty's sacred rites;

Wedlock's bonds he sanctifies

By affection's softest ties.

Love appointeth, as is due,

Faithful laws to comrades true--

Love, all-sovereign Love!--oh, then,

Ye are blest, ye sons of men,

If the love that rules the sky

In your hearts is throned on high!

TRUE HAPPINESS AND FALSE.

SUMMARY

CH. I. Boethius beseeches Philosophy to continue. She promises to

lead him to true happiness.--CH. II. Happiness is the one end which

all created beings seek. They aim variously at (_a_) wealth, or

(_b_) rank, or (_c_) sovereignty, or (_d_) glory, or (_e_)

pleasure, because they think thereby to attain either (_a_)

contentment, (_b_) reverence, (_c_) power, (_d_) renown, or (_e_)

gladness of heart, in one or other of which they severally imagine

happiness to consist.--CH. III. Philosophy proceeds to consider

whether happiness can really be secured in any of these ways, (_a_)

So far from bringing contentment, riches only add to men's

wants.--CH. IV. (_b_) High position cannot of itself win respect.

Titles command no reverence in distant and barbarous lands. They

even fall into contempt through lapse of time.--CH. V. (_c_)

Sovereignty cannot even bestow safety. History tells of the

downfall of kings and their ministers. Tyrants go in fear of their

lives. --CH. VI. (_d_) Fame conferred on the unworthy is but

disgrace. The splendour of noble birth is not a man's own, but his

ancestors'.--CH. VII. (_e_) Pleasure begins in the restlessness of

desire, and ends in repentance. Even the pure pleasures of home may

turn to gall and bitterness.--CH. VIII. All fail, then, to give

what they promise. There is, moreover, some accompanying evil

involved in each of these aims. Beauty and bodily strength are

likewise of little worth. In strength man is surpassed by the

brutes; beauty is but outward show.--CH. IX. The source of men's

error in following these phantoms of good is that _they break up

and separate that which is in its nature one and indivisible_.

Contentment, power, reverence, renown, and joy are essentially

bound up one with the other, and, if they are to be attained at

all, must be attained _together_. True happiness, if it can be

found, will include them all. But it cannot be found among the

perishable things hitherto considered.--CH. X. Such a happiness

necessarily exists. Its seat is in God. Nay, God is very happiness,

and in a manner, therefore, the happy man partakes also of the

Divine nature. All other ends are relative to this good, since they

are all pursued only for the sake of good; it is _good_ which is

the sole ultimate end. And since the sole end is also happiness, it

is plain that this good and happiness are in essence the same.--CH.

XI. Unity is another aspect of goodness. Now, all things subsist so

long only as they preserve the unity of their being; when they lose

this unity, they perish. But the bent of nature forces all things

(plants and inanimate things, as well as animals) to strive to

continue in life. Therefore, all things desire unity, for unity is

essential to life. But unity and goodness were shown to be the

same. Therefore, good is proved to be the end towards which the

whole universe tends.[E]--CH. XII. Boethius acknowledges that he is

but recollecting truths he once knew. Philosophy goes on to show

that it is goodness also by which the whole world is governed.[F]

Boethius professes compunction for his former folly. But the

paradox of evil is introduced, and he is once more perplexed.

FOOTNOTES:

[E] This solves the second of the points left in doubt at the end of bk.

i., ch. vi.

[F] This solves the third. No distinct account is given of the first,

but an answer may be gathered from the general argument of bks. ii.,

iii., and iv.

I.

She ceased, but I stood fixed by the sweetness of the song in wonderment

and eager expectation, my ears still strained to listen. And then after

a little I said: 'Thou sovereign solace of the stricken soul, what

refreshment hast thou brought me, no less by the sweetness of thy

singing than by the weightiness of thy discourse! Verily, I think not

that I shall hereafter be unequal to the blows of Fortune. Wherefore, I

no longer dread the remedies which thou saidst were something too severe

for my strength; nay, rather, I am eager to hear of them and call for

them with all vehemence.'

Then said she: 'I marked thee fastening upon my words silently and

intently, and I expected, or--to speak more truly--I myself brought

about in thee, this state of mind. What now remains is of such sort that

to the taste indeed it is biting, but when received within it turns to

sweetness. But whereas thou dost profess thyself desirous of hearing,

with what ardour wouldst thou not burn didst thou but perceive whither

it is my task to lead thee!'

'Whither?' said I.

'To true felicity,' said she, 'which even now thy spirit sees in dreams,

but cannot behold in very truth, while thine eyes are engrossed with

semblances.'

Then said I: 'I beseech thee, do thou show to me her true shape without

a moment's loss.'

'Gladly will I, for thy sake,' said she. 'But first I will try to sketch

in words, and describe a cause which is more familiar to thee, that,

when thou hast viewed this carefully, thou mayst turn thy eyes the other

way, and recognise the beauty of true happiness.'

SONG I.

THE THORNS OF ERROR.

Who fain would sow the fallow field,

And see the growing corn,

Must first remove the useless weeds,

The bramble and the thorn.

After ill savour, honey's taste

Is to the mouth more sweet;

After the storm, the twinkling stars

The eyes more cheerly greet.

When night hath past, the bright dawn comes

In car of rosy hue;

So drive the false bliss from thy mind,

And thou shall see the true.

II.

For a little space she remained in a fixed gaze, withdrawn, as it were,

into the august chamber of her mind; then she thus began:

'All mortal creatures in those anxious aims which find employment in so

many varied pursuits, though they take many paths, yet strive to reach

one goal--the goal of happiness. Now, _the good_ is that which, when a

man hath got, he can lack nothing further. This it is which is the

supreme good of all, containing within itself all particular good; so

that if anything is still wanting thereto, this cannot be the supreme

good, since something would be left outside which might be desired. 'Tis

clear, then, that happiness is a state perfected by the assembling

together of all good things. To this state, as we have said, all men try

to attain, but by different paths. For the desire of the true good is

naturally implanted in the minds of men; only error leads them aside out

of the way in pursuit of the false. Some, deeming it the highest good to

want for nothing, spare no pains to attain affluence; others, judging

the good to be that to which respect is most worthily paid, strive to

win the reverence of their fellow-citizens by the attainment of official

dignity. Some there are who fix the chief good in supreme power; these

either wish themselves to enjoy sovereignty, or try to attach themselves

to those who have it. Those, again, who think renown to be something of

supreme excellence are in haste to spread abroad the glory of their name

either through the arts of war or of peace. A great many measure the

attainment of good by joy and gladness of heart; these think it the

height of happiness to give themselves over to pleasure. Others there

are, again, who interchange the ends and means one with the other in

their aims; for instance, some want riches for the sake of pleasure and

power, some covet power either for the sake of money or in order to

bring renown to their name. So it is on these ends, then, that the aim

of human acts and wishes is centred, and on others like to these--for

instance, noble birth and popularity, which seem to compass a certain

renown; wife and children, which are sought for the sweetness of their

possession; while as for friendship, the most sacred kind indeed is

counted in the category of virtue, not of fortune; but other kinds are

entered upon for the sake of power or of enjoyment. And as for bodily

excellences, it is obvious that they are to be ranged with the above.

For strength and stature surely manifest power; beauty and fleetness of

foot bring celebrity; health brings pleasure. It is plain, then, that

the only object sought for in all these ways is _happiness_. For that

which each seeks in preference to all else, that is in his judgment the

supreme good. And we have defined the supreme good to be happiness.

Therefore, that state which each wishes in preference to all others is

in his judgment happy.

'Thou hast, then, set before thine eyes something like a scheme of human

happiness--wealth, rank, power, glory, pleasure. Now Epicurus, from a

sole regard to these considerations, with some consistency concluded the

highest good to be pleasure, because all the other objects seem to bring

some delight to the soul. But to return to human pursuits and aims:

man's mind seeks to recover its proper good, in spite of the mistiness

of its recollection, but, like a drunken man, knows not by what path to

return home. Think you they are wrong who strive to escape want? Nay,

truly there is nothing which can so well complete happiness as a state

abounding in all good things, needing nothing from outside, but wholly

self-sufficing. Do they fall into error who deem that which is best to

be also best deserving to receive the homage of reverence? Not at all.

That cannot possibly be vile and contemptible, to attain which the

endeavours of nearly all mankind are directed. Then, is power not to be

reckoned in the category of good? Why, can that which is plainly more

efficacious than anything else be esteemed a thing feeble and void of

strength? Or is renown to be thought of no account? Nay, it cannot be

ignored that the highest renown is constantly associated with the

highest excellence. And what need is there to say that happiness is not

haunted by care and gloom, nor exposed to trouble and vexation, since

that is a condition we ask of the very least of things, from the

possession and enjoyment of which we expect delight? So, then, these are

the blessings men wish to win; they want riches, rank, sovereignty,

glory, pleasure, because they believe that by these means they will

secure independence, reverence, power, renown, and joy of heart.

Therefore, it is _the good_ which men seek by such divers courses; and

herein is easily shown the might of Nature's power, since, although

opinions are so various and discordant, yet they agree in cherishing

_good_ as the end.'

SONG II.

THE BENT OF NATURE.

How the might of Nature sways

All the world in ordered ways,

How resistless laws control

Each least portion of the whole--

Fain would I in sounding verse

On my pliant strings rehearse.

Lo, the lion captive ta'en

Meekly wears his gilded chain;

Yet though he by hand be fed,

Though a master's whip he dread,

If but once the taste of gore

Whet his cruel lips once more,

Straight his slumbering fierceness wakes,

With one roar his bonds he breaks,

And first wreaks his vengeful force

On his trainer's mangled corse.

And the woodland songster, pent

In forlorn imprisonment,

Though a mistress' lavish care

Store of honeyed sweets prepare;

Yet, if in his narrow cage,

As he hops from bar to bar,

He should spy the woods afar,

Cool with sheltering foliage,

All these dainties he will spurn,

To the woods his heart will turn;

Only for the woods he longs,

Pipes the woods in all his songs.

To rude force the sapling bends,

While the hand its pressure lends;

If the hand its pressure slack,

Straight the supple wood springs back.

Phoebus in the western main

Sinks; but swift his car again

By a secret path is borne

To the wonted gates of morn.

Thus are all things seen to yearn

In due time for due return;

And no order fixed may stay,

Save which in th' appointed way

Joins the end to the beginning

In a steady cycle spinning.

III.

'Ye, too, creatures of earth, have some glimmering of your origin,

however faint, and though in a vision dim and clouded, yet in some wise,

notwithstanding, ye discern the true end of happiness, and so the aim of

nature leads you thither--to that true good--while error in many forms

leads you astray therefrom. For reflect whether men are able to win

happiness by those means through which they think to reach the proposed

end. Truly, if either wealth, rank, or any of the rest, bring with them

anything of such sort as seems to have nothing wanting to it that is

good, we, too, acknowledge that some are made happy by the acquisition

of these things. But if they are not able to fulfil their promises, and,

moreover, lack many good things, is not the happiness men seek in them

clearly discovered to be a false show? Therefore do I first ask thee

thyself, who but lately wert living in affluence, amid all that

abundance of wealth, was thy mind never troubled in consequence of some

wrong done to thee?'

'Nay,' said I, 'I cannot ever remember a time when my mind was so

completely at peace as not to feel the pang of some uneasiness.'

'Was it not because either something was absent which thou wouldst not

have absent, or present which thou wouldst have away?'

'Yes,' said I.

'Then, thou didst want the presence of the one, the absence of the

other?'

'Admitted.'

'But a man lacks that of which he is in want?'

'He does.'

'And he who lacks something is not in all points self-sufficing?'

'No; certainly not,' said I.

'So wert thou, then, in the plenitude of thy wealth, supporting this

insufficiency?'

'I must have been.'

'Wealth, then, cannot make its possessor independent and free from all

want, yet this was what it seemed to promise. Moreover, I think this

also well deserves to be considered--that there is nothing in the

special nature of money to hinder its being taken away from those who

possess it against their will.'

'I admit it.'

'Why, of course, when every day the stronger wrests it from the weaker

without his consent. Else, whence come lawsuits, except in seeking to

recover moneys which have been taken away against their owner's will by

force or fraud?'

'True,' said I.

'Then, everyone will need some extraneous means of protection to keep

his money safe.'

'Who can venture to deny it?'

'Yet he would not, unless he possessed the money which it is possible to

lose.'

'No; he certainly would not.'

'Then, we have worked round to an opposite conclusion: the wealth which

was thought to make a man independent rather puts him in need of further

protection. How in the world, then, can want be driven away by riches?

Cannot the rich feel hunger? Cannot they thirst? Are not the limbs of

the wealthy sensitive to the winter's cold? "But," thou wilt say, "the

rich have the wherewithal to sate their hunger, the means to get rid of

thirst and cold." True enough; want can thus be soothed by riches,

wholly removed it cannot be. For if this ever-gaping, ever-craving want

is glutted by wealth, it needs must be that the want itself which can be

so glutted still remains. I do not speak of how very little suffices for

nature, and how for avarice nothing is enough. Wherefore, if wealth

cannot get rid of want, and makes new wants of its own, how can ye

believe that it bestows independence?'

SONG III.

THE INSATIABLENESS OF AVARICE.

Though the covetous grown wealthy

See his piles of gold rise high;

Though he gather store of treasure

That can never satisfy;

Though with pearls his gorget blazes,

Rarest that the ocean yields;

Though a hundred head of oxen

Travail in his ample fields;

Ne'er shall carking care forsake him

While he draws this vital breath,

And his riches go not with him,

When his eyes are closed in death.

IV.

'Well, but official dignity clothes him to whom it comes with honour and

reverence! Have, then, offices of state such power as to plant virtue in

the minds of their possessors, and drive out vice? Nay, they are rather

wont to signalize iniquity than to chase it away, and hence arises our

indignation that honours so often fall to the most iniquitous of men.

Accordingly, Catullus calls Nonius an "ulcer-spot," though "sitting in

the curule chair." Dost not see what infamy high position brings upon

the bad? Surely their unworthiness will be less conspicuous if their

rank does not draw upon them the public notice! In thy own case, wouldst

thou ever have been induced by all these perils to think of sharing

office with Decoratus, since thou hast discerned in him the spirit of a

rascally parasite and informer? No; we cannot deem men worthy of

reverence on account of their office, whom we deem unworthy of the

office itself. But didst thou see a man endued with wisdom, couldst thou

suppose him not worthy of reverence, nor of that wisdom with which he

was endued?'

'No; certainly not.'

'There is in Virtue a dignity of her own which she forthwith passes over

to those to whom she is united. And since public honours cannot do this,

it is clear that they do not possess the true beauty of dignity. And

here this well deserves to be noticed--that if a man is the more scorned

in proportion as he is despised by a greater number, high position not

only fails to win reverence for the wicked, but even loads them the more

with contempt by drawing more attention to them. But not without

retribution; for the wicked pay back a return in kind to the dignities

they put on by the pollution of their touch. Perhaps, too, another

consideration may teach thee to confess that true reverence cannot come

through these counterfeit dignities. It is this: If one who had been

many times consul chanced to visit barbaric lands, would his office win

him the reverence of the barbarians? And yet if reverence were the

natural effect of dignities, they would not forego their proper function

in any part of the world, even as fire never anywhere fails to give

forth heat. But since this effect is not due to their own efficacy, but

is attached to them by the mistaken opinion of mankind, they disappear

straightway when they are set before those who do not esteem them

dignities. Thus the case stands with foreign peoples. But does their

repute last for ever, even in the land of their origin? Why, the

prefecture, which was once a great power, is now an empty name--a burden

merely on the senator's fortune; the commissioner of the public corn

supply was once a personage--now what is more contemptible than this

office? For, as we said just now, that which hath no true comeliness of

its own now receives, now loses, lustre at the caprice of those who have

to do with it. So, then, if dignities cannot win men reverence, if they

are actually sullied by the contamination of the wicked, if they lose

their splendour through time's changes, if they come into contempt

merely for lack of public estimation, what precious beauty have they in

themselves, much less to give to others?'

SONG IV.

DISGRACE OF HONOURS CONFERRED BY A TYRANT.

Though royal purple soothes his pride,

And snowy pearls his neck adorn,

Nero in all his riot lives

The mark of universal scorn.

Yet he on reverend heads conferred

Th' inglorious honours of the state.

Shall we, then, deem them truly blessed

Whom such preferment hath made great?

V.

'Well, then, does sovereignty and the intimacy of kings prove able to

confer power? Why, surely does not the happiness of kings endure for

ever? And yet antiquity is full of examples, and these days also, of

kings whose happiness has turned into calamity. How glorious a power,

which is not even found effectual for its own preservation! But if

happiness has its source in sovereign power, is not happiness

diminished, and misery inflicted in its stead, in so far as that power

falls short of completeness? Yet, however widely human sovereignty be

extended, there must still be more peoples left, over whom each several

king holds no sway. Now, at whatever point the power on which happiness

depends ceases, here powerlessness steals in and makes wretchedness; so,

by this way of reckoning, there must needs be a balance of wretchedness

in the lot of the king. The tyrant who had made trial of the perils of

his condition figured the fears that haunt a throne under the image of a

sword hanging over a man's head.[G] What sort of power, then, is this

which cannot drive away the gnawings of anxiety, or shun the stings of

terror? Fain would they themselves have lived secure, but they cannot;

then they boast about their power! Dost thou count him to possess power

whom thou seest to wish what he cannot bring to pass? Dost thou count

him to possess power who encompasses himself with a body-guard, who

fears those he terrifies more than they fear him, who, to keep up the

semblance of power, is himself at the mercy of his slaves? Need I say

anything of the friends of kings, when I show royal dominion itself so

utterly and miserably weak--why ofttimes the royal power in its

plenitude brings them low, ofttimes involves them in its fall? Nero

drove his friend and preceptor, Seneca, to the choice of the manner of

his death. Antoninus exposed Papinianus, who was long powerful at

court, to the swords of the soldiery. Yet each of these was willing to

renounce his power. Seneca tried to surrender his wealth also to Nero,

and go into retirement; but neither achieved his purpose. When they

tottered, their very greatness dragged them down. What manner of thing,

then, is this power which keeps men in fear while they possess it--which

when thou art fain to keep, thou art not safe, and when thou desirest to

lay it aside thou canst not rid thyself of? Are friends any protection

who have been attached by fortune, not by virtue? Nay; him whom good

fortune has made a friend, ill fortune will make an enemy. And what

plague is more effectual to do hurt than a foe of one's own household?'

FOOTNOTES:

[G] The sword of Damocles.

SONG V.

SELF-MASTERY.

Who on power sets his aim,

First must his own spirit tame;

He must shun his neck to thrust

'Neath th' unholy yoke of lust.

For, though India's far-off land

Bow before his wide command,

Utmost Thule homage pay--

If he cannot drive away

Haunting care and black distress,

In his power, he's powerless.

VI.

'Again, how misleading, how base, a thing ofttimes is glory! Well does

the tragic poet exclaim:

'"Oh, fond Repute, how many a time and oft

Hast them raised high in pride the base-born churl!"

For many have won a great name through the mistaken beliefs of the

multitude--and what can be imagined more shameful than that? Nay, they

who are praised falsely must needs themselves blush at their own

praises! And even when praise is won by merit, still, how does it add to

the good conscience of the wise man who measures his good not by popular

repute, but by the truth of inner conviction? And if at all it does seem

a fair thing to get this same renown spread abroad, it follows that any

failure so to spread it is held foul. But if, as I set forth but now,

there must needs be many tribes and peoples whom the fame of any single

man cannot reach, it follows that he whom thou esteemest glorious seems

all inglorious in a neighbouring quarter of the globe. As to popular

favour, I do not think it even worthy of mention in this place, since it

never cometh of judgment, and never lasteth steadily.

'Then, again, who does not see how empty, how foolish, is the fame of

noble birth? Why, if the nobility is based on renown, the renown is

another's! For, truly, nobility seems to be a sort of reputation coming

from the merits of ancestors. But if it is the praise which brings

renown, of necessity it is they who are praised that are famous.

Wherefore, the fame of another clothes thee not with splendour if thou

hast none of thine own. So, if there is any excellence in nobility of

birth, methinks it is this alone--that it would seem to impose upon the

nobly born the obligation not to degenerate from the virtue of their

ancestors.'

SONG VI.

TRUE NOBILITY.

All men are of one kindred stock, though scattered far and wide;

For one is Father of us all--one doth for all provide.

He gave the sun his golden beams, the moon her silver horn;

He set mankind upon the earth, as stars the heavens adorn.

He shut a soul--a heaven-born soul--within the body's frame;

The noble origin he gave each mortal wight may claim.

Why boast ye, then, so loud of race and high ancestral line?

If ye behold your being's source, and God's supreme design,

None is degenerate, none base, unless by taint of sin

And cherished vice he foully stain his heavenly origin.

VII.

'Then, what shall I say of the pleasures of the body? The lust thereof

is full of uneasiness; the sating, of repentance. What sicknesses, what

intolerable pains, are they wont to bring on the bodies of those who

enjoy them--the fruits of iniquity, as it were! Now, what sweetness the

stimulus of pleasure may have I do not know. But that the issues of

pleasure are painful everyone may understand who chooses to recall the

memory of his own fleshly lusts. Nay, if these can make happiness, there

is no reason why the beasts also should not be happy, since all their

efforts are eagerly set upon satisfying the bodily wants. I know,

indeed, that the sweetness of wife and children should be right comely,

yet only too true to nature is what was said of one--that he found in

his sons his tormentors. And how galling such a contingency would be, I

must needs put thee in mind, since thou hast never in any wise suffered

such experiences, nor art thou now under any uneasiness. In such a case,

I agree with my servant Euripides, who said that a man without children

was fortunate in his misfortune.'[H]

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Paley translates the lines in Euripides' 'Andromache': 'They [the

childless] are indeed spared from much pain and sorrow, but their

supposed happiness is after all but wretchedness.' Euripides' meaning is

therefore really just the reverse of that which Boethius makes it. See

Euripides, 'Andromache,' Il. 418-420.

SONG VII.

PLEASURE'S STING.

This is the way of Pleasure:

She stings them that despoil her;

And, like the wingéd toiler

Who's lost her honeyed treasure,

She flies, but leaves her smart

Deep-rankling in the heart.

VIII.

'It is beyond doubt, then, that these paths do not lead to happiness;

they cannot guide anyone to the promised goal. Now, I will very briefly

show what serious evils are involved in following them. Just consider.

Is it thy endeavour to heap up money? Why, thou must wrest it from its

present possessor! Art thou minded to put on the splendour of official

dignity? Thou must beg from those who have the giving of it; thou who

covetest to outvie others in honour must lower thyself to the humble

posture of petition. Dost thou long for power? Thou must face perils,

for thou wilt be at the mercy of thy subjects' plots. Is glory thy aim?

Thou art lured on through all manner of hardships, and there is an end

to thy peace of mind. Art fain to lead a life of pleasure? Yet who does

not scorn and contemn one who is the slave of the weakest and vilest of

things--the body? Again, on how slight and perishable a possession do

they rely who set before themselves bodily excellences! Can ye ever

surpass the elephant in bulk or the bull in strength? Can ye excel the

tiger in swiftness? Look upon the infinitude, the solidity, the swift

motion, of the heavens, and for once cease to admire things mean and

worthless. And yet the heavens are not so much to be admired on this

account as for the reason which guides them. Then, how transient is the

lustre of beauty! how soon gone!--more fleeting than the fading bloom of

spring flowers. And yet if, as Aristotle says, men should see with the

eyes of Lynceus, so that their sight might pierce through obstructions,

would not that body of Alcibiades, so gloriously fair in outward

seeming, appear altogether loathsome when all its inward parts lay open

to the view? Therefore, it is not thy own nature that makes thee seem

beautiful, but the weakness of the eyes that see thee. Yet prize as

unduly as ye will that body's excellences; so long as ye know that this

that ye admire, whatever its worth, can be dissolved away by the feeble

flame of a three days' fever. From all which considerations we may

conclude as a whole, that these things which cannot make good the

advantages they promise, which are never made perfect by the assemblage

of all good things--these neither lead as by-ways to happiness, nor

themselves make men completely happy.'

SONG VIII.

HUMAN FOLLY.

Alas! how wide astray

Doth Ignorance these wretched mortals lead

From Truth's own way!

For not on leafy stems

Do ye within the green wood look for gold,

Nor strip the vine for gems;

Your nets ye do not spread

Upon the hill-tops, that the groaning board

With fish be furnishèd;

If ye are fain to chase

The bounding goat, ye sweep not in vain search

The ocean's ruffled face.

The sea's far depths they know,

Each hidden nook, wherein the waves o'erwash

The pearl as white as snow;

Where lurks the Tyrian shell,

Where fish and prickly urchins do abound,

All this they know full well.

But not to know or care

Where hidden lies the good all hearts desire--

This blindness they can bear;

With gaze on earth low-bent,

They seek for that which reacheth far beyond

The starry firmament.

What curse shall I call down

On hearts so dull? May they the race still run

For wealth and high renown!

And when with much ado

The false good they have grasped--ah, then too late!--

May they discern the true!

IX.

'This much may well suffice to set forth the form of false happiness; if

this is now clear to thine eyes, the next step is to show what true

happiness is.'

'Indeed,' said I, 'I see clearly enough that neither is independence to

be found in wealth, nor power in sovereignty, nor reverence in

dignities, nor fame in glory, nor true joy in pleasures.'

'Hast thou discerned also the causes why this is so?'

'I seem to have some inkling, but I should like to learn more at large

from thee.'

'Why, truly the reason is hard at hand. _That which is simple and

indivisible by nature human error separates_, and transforms from the

true and perfect to the false and imperfect. Dost thou imagine that

which lacketh nothing can want power?'

'Certainly not.'

'Right; for if there is any feebleness of strength in anything, in this

there must necessarily be need of external protection.'

'That is so.'

'Accordingly, the nature of independence and power is one and the same.'

'It seems so.'

'Well, but dost think that anything of such a nature as this can be

looked upon with contempt, or is it rather of all things most worthy of

veneration?'

'Nay; there can be no doubt as to that.'

'Let us, then, add reverence to independence and power, and conclude

these three to be one.'

'We must if we will acknowledge the truth.'

'Thinkest thou, then, this combination of qualities to be obscure and

without distinction, or rather famous in all renown? Just consider: can

that want renown which has been agreed to be lacking in nothing, to be

supreme in power, and right worthy of honour, for the reason that it

cannot bestow this upon itself, and so comes to appear somewhat poor in

esteem?'

'I cannot but acknowledge that, being what it is, this union of

qualities is also right famous.'

'It follows, then, that we must admit that renown is not different from

the other three.'

'It does,' said I.

'That, then, which needs nothing outside itself, which can accomplish

all things in its own strength, which enjoys fame and compels reverence,

must not this evidently be also fully crowned with joy?'

'In sooth, I cannot conceive,' said I, 'how any sadness can find

entrance into such a state; wherefore I must needs acknowledge it full

of joy--at least, if our former conclusions are to hold.'

'Then, for the same reasons, this also is necessary--that independence,

power, renown, reverence, and sweetness of delight, are different only

in name, but in substance differ no wise one from the other.'

'It is,' said I.

'This, then, which is one, and simple by nature, human perversity

separates, and, in trying to win a part of that which has no parts,

fails to attain not only that portion (since there are no portions), but

also the whole, to which it does not dream of aspiring.'

'How so?' said I.

'He who, to escape want, seeks riches, gives himself no concern about

power; he prefers a mean and low estate, and also denies himself many

pleasures dear to nature to avoid losing the money which he has gained.

But at this rate he does not even attain to independence--a weakling

void of strength, vexed by distresses, mean and despised, and buried in

obscurity. He, again, who thirsts alone for power squanders his wealth,

despises pleasure, and thinks fame and rank alike worthless without

power. But thou seest in how many ways his state also is defective.

Sometimes it happens that he lacks necessaries, that he is gnawed by

anxieties, and, since he cannot rid himself of these inconveniences,

even ceases to have that power which was his whole end and aim. In like

manner may we cast up the reckoning in case of rank, of glory, or of

pleasure. For since each one of these severally is identical with the

rest, whosoever seeks any one of them without the others does not even

lay hold of that one which he makes his aim.'

'Well,' said I, 'what then?'

'Suppose anyone desire to obtain them together, he does indeed wish for

happiness as a whole; but will he find it in these things which, as we

have proved, are unable to bestow what they promise?'

'Nay; by no means,' said I.

'Then, happiness must certainly not be sought in these things which

severally are believed to afford some one of the blessings most to be

desired.'

'They must not, I admit. No conclusion could be more true.'

'So, then, the form and the causes of false happiness are set before

thine eyes. Now turn thy gaze to the other side; there thou wilt

straightway see the true happiness I promised.'

'Yea, indeed, 'tis plain to the blind.' said I. 'Thou didst point it out

even now in seeking to unfold the causes of the false. For, unless I am

mistaken, that is true and perfect happiness which crowns one with the

union of independence, power, reverence, renown, and joy. And to prove

to thee with how deep an insight I have listened--since all these are

the same--that which can truly bestow one of them I know to be without

doubt full and complete happiness.'

'Happy art thou, my scholar, in this thy conviction; only one thing

shouldst thou add.'

'What is that?' said I.

'Is there aught, thinkest thou, amid these mortal and perishable things

which can produce a state such as this?'

'Nay, surely not; and this thou hast so amply demonstrated that no word

more is needed.'

'Well, then, these things seem to give to mortals shadows of the true

good, or some kind of imperfect good; but the true and perfect good they

cannot bestow.'

'Even so,' said I.

'Since, then, thou hast learnt what that true happiness is, and what men

falsely call happiness, it now remains that thou shouldst learn from

what source to seek this.'

'Yes; to this I have long been eagerly looking forward.'

'Well, since, as Plato maintains in the "Timæus," we ought even in the

most trivial matters to implore the Divine protection, what thinkest

thou should we now do in order to deserve to find the seat of that

highest good?'

'We must invoke the Father of all things,' said I; 'for without this no

enterprise sets out from a right beginning.'

'Thou sayest well,' said she; and forthwith lifted up her voice and

sang:

SONG IX.[I]

INVOCATION.

Maker of earth and sky, from age to age

Who rul'st the world by reason; at whose word

Time issues from Eternity's abyss:

To all that moves the source of movement, fixed

Thyself and moveless. Thee no cause impelled

Extrinsic this proportioned frame to shape

From shapeless matter; but, deep-set within

Thy inmost being, the form of perfect good,

From envy free; and Thou didst mould the whole

To that supernal pattern. Beauteous

The world in Thee thus imaged, being Thyself

Most beautiful. So Thou the work didst fashion

In that fair likeness, bidding it put on

Perfection through the exquisite perfectness

Of every part's contrivance. Thou dost bind

The elements in balanced harmony,

So that the hot and cold, the moist and dry,

Contend not; nor the pure fire leaping up

Escape, or weight of waters whelm the earth.

Thou joinest and diffusest through the whole,

Linking accordantly its several parts,

A soul of threefold nature, moving all.

This, cleft in twain, and in two circles gathered,

Speeds in a path that on itself returns,

Encompassing mind's limits, and conforms

The heavens to her true semblance. Lesser souls

And lesser lives by a like ordinance

Thou sendest forth, each to its starry car

Affixing, and dost strew them far and wide

O'er earth and heaven. These by a law benign

Thou biddest turn again, and render back

To thee their fires. Oh, grant, almighty Father,

Grant us on reason's wing to soar aloft

To heaven's exalted height; grant us to see

The fount of good; grant us, the true light found,

To fix our steadfast eyes in vision clear

On Thee. Disperse the heavy mists of earth,

And shine in Thine own splendour. For Thou art

The true serenity and perfect rest

Of every pious soul--to see Thy face,

The end and the beginning--One the guide,

The traveller, the pathway, and the goal.

FOOTNOTES:

[I] The substance of this poem is taken from Plato's 'Timæus,' 29-42.

See Jowett, vol. iii., pp. 448-462 (third edition).

X.

'Since now thou hast seen what is the form of the imperfect good, and

what the form of the perfect also, methinks I should next show in what

manner this perfection of felicity is built up. And here I conceive it

proper to inquire, first, whether any excellence, such as thou hast

lately defined, can exist in the nature of things, lest we be deceived

by an empty fiction of thought to which no true reality answers. But it

cannot be denied that such does exist, and is, as it were, the source of

all things good. For everything which is called imperfect is spoken of

as imperfect by reason of the privation of some perfection; so it comes

to pass that, whenever imperfection is found in any particular, there

must necessarily be a perfection in respect of that particular also. For

were there no such perfection, it is utterly inconceivable how that

so-called _im_perfection should come into existence. Nature does not

make a beginning with things mutilated and imperfect; she starts with

what is whole and perfect, and falls away later to these feeble and

inferior productions. So if there is, as we showed before, a happiness

of a frail and imperfect kind, it cannot be doubted but there is also a

happiness substantial and perfect.'

'Most true is thy conclusion, and most sure,' said I.

'Next to consider where the dwelling-place of this happiness may be. The

common belief of all mankind agrees that God, the supreme of all things,

is good. For since nothing can be imagined better than God, how can we

doubt Him to be good than whom there is nothing better? Now, reason

shows God to be good in such wise as to prove that in Him is perfect

good. For were it not so, He would not be supreme of all things; for

there would be something else more excellent, possessed of perfect good,

which would seem to have the advantage in priority and dignity, since it

has clearly appeared that all perfect things are prior to those less

complete. Wherefore, lest we fall into an infinite regression, we must

acknowledge the supreme God to be full of supreme and perfect good. But

we have determined that true happiness is the perfect good; therefore

true happiness must dwell in the supreme Deity.'

'I accept thy reasonings,' said I; 'they cannot in any wise be

disputed.'

'But, come, see how strictly and incontrovertibly thou mayst prove this

our assertion that the supreme Godhead hath fullest possession of the

highest good.'

'In what way, pray?' said I.

'Do not rashly suppose that He who is the Father of all things hath

received that highest good of which He is said to be possessed either

from some external source, or hath it as a natural endowment in such

sort that thou mightest consider the essence of the happiness possessed,

and of the God who possesses it, distinct and different. For if thou

deemest it received from without, thou mayst esteem that which gives

more excellent than that which has received. But Him we most worthily

acknowledge to be the most supremely excellent of all things. If,

however, it is in Him by nature, yet is logically distinct, the thought

is inconceivable, since we are speaking of God, who is supreme of all

things. Who was there to join these distinct essences? Finally, when one

thing is different from another, the things so conceived as distinct

cannot be identical. Therefore that which of its own nature is distinct

from the highest good is not itself the highest good--an impious thought

of Him than whom, 'tis plain, nothing can be more excellent. For

universally nothing can be better in nature than the source from which

it has come; therefore on most true grounds of reason would I conclude

that which is the source of all things to be in its own essence the

highest good.'

'And most justly,' said I.

'But the highest good has been admitted to be happiness.'

'Yes.'

'Then,' said she, 'it is necessary to acknowledge that God is very

happiness.'

'Yes,' said I; 'I cannot gainsay my former admissions, and I see clearly

that this is a necessary inference therefrom.'

'Reflect, also,' said she, 'whether the same conclusion is not further

confirmed by considering that there cannot be two supreme goods distinct

one from the other. For the goods which are different clearly cannot be

severally each what the other is: wherefore neither of the two can be

perfect, since to either the other is wanting; but since it is not

perfect, it cannot manifestly be the supreme good. By no means, then,

can goods which are supreme be different one from the other. But we have

concluded that both happiness and God are the supreme good; wherefore

that which is highest Divinity must also itself necessarily be supreme

happiness.'

'No conclusion,' said I, 'could be truer to fact, nor more soundly

reasoned out, nor more worthy of God.'

'Then, further,' said she, 'just as geometricians are wont to draw

inferences from their demonstrations to which they give the name

"deductions," so will I add here a sort of corollary. For since men

become happy by the acquisition of happiness, while happiness is very

Godship, it is manifest that they become happy by the acquisition of

Godship. But as by the acquisition of justice men become just, and wise

by the acquisition of wisdom, so by parity of reasoning by acquiring

Godship they must of necessity become gods. So every man who is happy is

a god; and though in nature God is One only, yet there is nothing to

hinder that very many should be gods by participation in that nature.'

'A fair conclusion, and a precious,' said I, 'deduction or corollary, by

whichever name thou wilt call it.'

'And yet,' said she, 'not one whit fairer than this which reason

persuades us to add.'

'Why, what?' said I.

'Why, seeing happiness has many particulars included under it, should

all these be regarded as forming one body of happiness, as it were, made

up of various parts, or is there some one of them which forms the full

essence of happiness, while all the rest are relative to this?'

'I would thou wouldst unfold the whole matter to me at large.'

'We judge happiness to be good, do we not?'

'Yea, the supreme good.'

'And this superlative applies to all; for this same happiness is

adjudged to be the completest independence, the highest power,

reverence, renown, and pleasure.'

'What then?'

'Are all these goods--independence, power, and the rest--to be deemed

members of happiness, as it were, or are they all relative to good as to

their summit and crown?'

'I understand the problem, but I desire to hear how thou wouldst solve

it.'

'Well, then, listen to the determination of the matter. Were all these

members composing happiness, they would differ severally one from the

other. For this is the nature of parts--that by their difference they

compose one body. All these, however, have been proved to be the same;

therefore they cannot possibly be members, otherwise happiness will seem

to be built up out of one member, which cannot be.'

'There can be no doubt as to that,' said I; 'but I am impatient to hear

what remains.'

'Why, it is manifest that all the others are relative to the good. For

the very reason why independence is sought is that it is judged good,

and so power also, because it is believed to be good. The same, too, may

be supposed of reverence, of renown, and of pleasant delight. Good,

then, is the sum and source of all desirable things. That which has not

in itself any good, either in reality or in semblance, can in no wise be

desired. Contrariwise, even things which by nature are not good are

desired as if they were truly good, if they seem to be so. Whereby it

comes to pass that goodness is rightly believed to be the sum and hinge

and cause of all things desirable. Now, that for the sake of which

anything is desired itself seems to be most wished for. For instance, if

anyone wishes to ride for the sake of health, he does not so much wish

for the exercise of riding as the benefit of his health. Since, then,

all things are sought for the sake of the good, it is not these so much

as good itself that is sought by all. But that on account of which all

other things are wished for was, we agreed, happiness; wherefore thus

also it appears that it is happiness alone which is sought. From all

which it is transparently clear that the essence of absolute good and of

happiness is one and the same.'

'I cannot see how anyone can dissent from these conclusions.'

'But we have also proved that God and true happiness are one and the

same.'

'Yes,' said I.

'Then we can safely conclude, also, that God's essence is seated in

absolute good, and nowhere else.'

SONG X.

THE TRUE LIGHT.

Hither come, all ye whose minds

Lust with rosy fetters binds--

Lust to bondage hard compelling

Th' earthy souls that are his dwelling--

Here shall be your labour's close;

Here your haven of repose.

Come, to your one refuge press;

Wide it stands to all distress!

Not the glint of yellow gold

Down bright Hermus' current rolled;

Not the Tagus' precious sands,

Nor in far-off scorching lands

All the radiant gems that hide

Under Indus' storied tide--

Emerald green and glistering white--

Can illume our feeble sight;

But they rather leave the mind

In its native darkness blind.

For the fairest beams they shed

In earth's lowest depths were fed;

But the splendour that supplies

Strength and vigour to the skies,

And the universe controls,

Shunneth dark and ruined souls.

He who once hath seen _this_ light

Will not call the sunbeam bright.

XI.

'I quite agree,' said I, 'truly all thy reasonings hold admirably

together.'

Then said she: 'What value wouldst thou put upon the boon shouldst thou

come to the knowledge of the absolute good?'

'Oh, an infinite,' said I, 'if only I were so blest as to learn to know

God also who is the good.'

'Yet this will I make clear to thee on truest grounds of reason, if only

our recent conclusions stand fast.'

'They will.'

'Have we not shown that those things which most men desire are not true

and perfect good precisely for this cause--that they differ severally

one from another, and, seeing that one is wanting to another, they

cannot bestow full and absolute good; but that they become the true good

when they are gathered, as it were, into one form and agency, so that

that which is independence is likewise power, reverence, renown, and

pleasant delight, and unless they are all one and the same, they have no

claim to be counted among things desirable?'

'Yes; this was clearly proved, and cannot in any wise be doubted.'

'Now, when things are far from being good while they are different, but

become good as soon as they are one, is it not true that these become

good by acquiring unity?'

'It seems so,' said I.

'But dost not thou allow that all which is good is good by participation

in goodness?'

'It is.'

'Then, thou must on similar grounds admit that unity and goodness are

the same; for when the effects of things in their natural working differ

not, their essence is one and the same.'

'There is no denying it.'

'Now, dost thou know,' said she, 'that all which is abides and subsists

so long as it continues one, but so soon as it ceases to be one it

perishes and falls to pieces?'

'In what way?'

'Why, take animals, for example. When soul and body come together, and

continue in one, this is, we say, a living creature; but when this unity

is broken by the separation of these two, the creature dies, and is

clearly no longer living. The body also, while it remains in one form by

the joining together of its members, presents a human appearance; but if

the separation and dispersal of the parts break up the body's unity, it

ceases to be what it was. And if we extend our survey to all other

things, without doubt it will manifestly appear that each several thing

subsists while it is one, but when it ceases to be one perishes.'

'Yes; when I consider further, I see it to be even as thou sayest.'

'Well, is there aught,' said she, 'which, in so far as it acts

conformably to nature, abandons the wish for life, and desires to come

to death and corruption?'

'Looking to living creatures, which have some faults of choice, I find

none that, without external compulsion, forego the will to live, and of

their own accord hasten to destruction. For every creature diligently

pursues the end of self-preservation, and shuns death and destruction!

As to herbs and trees, and inanimate things generally, I am altogether

in doubt what to think.'

'And yet there is no possibility of question about this either, since

thou seest how herbs and trees grow in places suitable for them, where,

as far as their nature admits, they cannot quickly wither and die. Some

spring up in the plains, others in the mountains; some grow in marshes,

others cling to rocks; and others, again, find a fertile soil in the

barren sands; and if you try to transplant these elsewhere, they wither

away. Nature gives to each the soil that suits it, and uses her

diligence to prevent any of them dying, so long as it is possible for

them to continue alive. Why do they all draw their nourishment from

roots as from a mouth dipped into the earth, and distribute the strong

bark over the pith? Why are all the softer parts like the pith deeply

encased within, while the external parts have the strong texture of

wood, and outside of all is the bark to resist the weather's

inclemency, like a champion stout in endurance? Again, how great is

nature's diligence to secure universal propagation by multiplying seed!

Who does not know all these to be contrivances, not only for the present

maintenance of a species, but for its lasting continuance, generation

after generation, for ever? And do not also the things believed

inanimate on like grounds of reason seek each what is proper to itself?

Why do the flames shoot lightly upward, while the earth presses downward

with its weight, if it is not that these motions and situations are

suitable to their respective natures? Moreover, each several thing is

preserved by that which is agreeable to its nature, even as it is

destroyed by things inimical. Things solid like stones resist

disintegration by the close adhesion of their parts. Things fluid like

air and water yield easily to what divides them, but swiftly flow back

and mingle with those parts from which they have been severed, while

fire, again, refuses to be cut at all. And we are not now treating of

the voluntary motions of an intelligent soul, but of the drift of

nature. Even so is it that we digest our food without thinking about it,

and draw our breath unconsciously in sleep; nay, even in living

creatures the love of life cometh not of conscious will, but from the

principles of nature. For oftentimes in the stress of circumstances will

chooses the death which nature shrinks from; and contrarily, in spite of

natural appetite, will restrains that work of reproduction by which

alone the persistence of perishable creatures is maintained. So entirely

does this love of self come from drift of nature, not from animal

impulse. Providence has furnished things with this most cogent reason

for continuance: they must desire life, so long as it is naturally

possible for them to continue living. Wherefore in no way mayst thou

doubt but that things naturally aim at continuance of existence, and

shun destruction.'

'I confess,' said I, 'that what I lately thought uncertain, I now

perceive to be indubitably clear.'

'Now, that which seeks to subsist and continue desires to be one; for if

its oneness be gone, its very existence cannot continue.'

'True,' said I.

'All things, then, desire to be one.'

'I agree.'

'But we have proved that one is the very same thing as good.'

'We have.'

'All things, then, seek the good; indeed, you may express the fact by

defining good as that which all desire.'

'Nothing could be more truly thought out. Either there is no single end

to which all things are relative, or else the end to which all things

universally hasten must be the highest good of all.'

Then she: 'Exceedingly do I rejoice, dear pupil; thine eye is now fixed

on the very central mark of truth. Moreover, herein is revealed that of

which thou didst erstwhile profess thyself ignorant.'

'What is that?' said I.

'The end and aim of the whole universe. Surely it is that which is

desired of all; and, since we have concluded the good to be such, we

ought to acknowledge the end and aim of the whole universe to be "the

good."'

SONG XI.

REMINISCENCE.[J]

Who truth pursues, who from false ways

His heedful steps would keep,

By inward light must search within

In meditation deep;

All outward bent he must repress

His soul's true treasure to possess.

Then all that error's mists obscured

Shall shine more clear than light,

This fleshly frame's oblivious weight

Hath quenched not reason quite;

The germs of truth still lie within,

Whence we by learning all may win.

Else how could ye the answer due

Untaught to questions give,

Were't not that deep within the soul

Truth's secret sparks do live?

If Plato's teaching erreth not,

We learn but that we have forgot.

FOOTNOTES:

[J] The doctrine of Reminiscence--_i.e._, that all learning is really

recollection--is set forth at length by Plato in the 'Meno,' 81-86, and

the 'Phædo,' 72-76. See Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 40-47 and 213-218.

XII.

Then said I: 'With all my heart I agree with Plato; indeed, this is now

the second time that these things have been brought back to my

mind--first I lost them through the clogging contact of the body; then

after through the stress of heavy grief.'

Then she continued: 'If thou wilt reflect upon thy former admissions, it

will not be long before thou dost also recollect that of which erstwhile

thou didst confess thyself ignorant.'

'What is that?' said I.

'The principles of the world's government,' said she.

'Yes; I remember my confession, and, although I now anticipate what thou

intendest, I have a desire to hear the argument plainly set forth.'

'Awhile ago thou deemedst it beyond all doubt that God doth govern the

world.'

'I do not think it doubtful now, nor shall I ever; and by what reasons

I am brought to this assurance I will briefly set forth. This world

could never have taken shape as a single system out of parts so diverse

and opposite were it not that there is One who joins together these so

diverse things. And when it had once come together, the very diversity

of natures would have dissevered it and torn it asunder in universal

discord were there not One who keeps together what He has joined. Nor

would the order of nature proceed so regularly, nor could its course

exhibit motions so fixed in respect of position, time, range, efficacy,

and character, unless there were One who, Himself abiding, disposed

these various vicissitudes of change. This power, whatsoever it be,

whereby they remain as they were created, and are kept in motion, I call

by the name which all recognise--God.'

Then said she: 'Seeing that such is thy belief, it will cost me little

trouble, I think, to enable thee to win happiness, and return in safety

to thy own country. But let us give our attention to the task that we

have set before ourselves. Have we not counted independence in the

category of happiness, and agreed that God is absolute happiness?'

'Truly, we have.'

'Then, He will need no external assistance for the ruling of the world.

Otherwise, if He stands in need of aught, He will not possess complete

independence.'

'That is necessarily so,' said I.

'Then, by His own power alone He disposes all things.'

'It cannot be denied.'

'Now, God was proved to be absolute good.'

'Yes; I remember.'

'Then, He disposes all things by the agency of good, if it be true that

_He_ rules all things by His own power whom we have agreed to be good;

and He is, as it were, the rudder and helm by which the world's

mechanism is kept steady and in order.'

'Heartily do I agree; and, indeed, I anticipated what thou wouldst say,

though it may be in feeble surmise only.'

'I well believe it,' said she; 'for, as I think, thou now bringest to

the search eyes quicker in discerning truth; but what I shall say next

is no less plain and easy to see.'

'What is it?' said I.

'Why,' said she, 'since God is rightly believed to govern all things

with the rudder of goodness, and since all things do likewise, as I have

taught, haste towards good by the very aim of nature, can it be doubted

that His governance is willingly accepted, and that all submit

themselves to the sway of the Disposer as conformed and attempered to

His rule?'

'Necessarily so,' said I; 'no rule would seem happy if it were a yoke

imposed on reluctant wills, and not the safe-keeping of obedient

subjects.'

'There is nothing, then, which, while it follows nature, endeavours to

resist good.'

'No; nothing.'

'But if anything should, will it have the least success against Him whom

we rightly agreed to be supreme Lord of happiness?'

'It would be utterly impotent.'

'There is nothing, then, which has either the will or the power to

oppose this supreme good.'

'No; I think not.'

'So, then,' said she, 'it is the supreme good which rules in strength,

and graciously disposes all things.'

Then said I: 'How delighted am I at thy reasonings, and the conclusion

to which thou hast brought them, but most of all at these very words

which thou usest! I am now at last ashamed of the folly that so sorely

vexed me.'

'Thou hast heard the story of the giants assailing heaven; but a

beneficent strength disposed of them also, as they deserved. But shall

we submit our arguments to the shock of mutual collision?--it may be

from the impact some fair spark of truth may be struck out.'

'If it be thy good pleasure,' said I.

'No one can doubt that God is all-powerful.'

'No one at all can question it who thinks consistently.'

'Now, there is nothing which One who is all-powerful cannot do.'

'Nothing.'

'But can God do evil, then?'

'Nay; by no means.'

'Then, evil is nothing,' said she, 'since He to whom nothing is

impossible is unable to do evil.'

'Art thou mocking me,' said I, 'weaving a labyrinth of tangled

arguments, now seeming to begin where thou didst end, and now to end

where thou didst begin, or dost thou build up some wondrous circle of

Divine simplicity? For, truly, a little before thou didst begin with

happiness, and say it was the supreme good, and didst declare it to be

seated in the supreme Godhead. God Himself, too, thou didst affirm to be

supreme good and all-complete happiness; and from this thou didst go on

to add, as by the way, the proof that no one would be happy unless he

were likewise God. Again, thou didst say that the very form of good was

the essence both of God and of happiness, and didst teach that the

absolute One was the absolute good which was sought by universal nature.

Thou didst maintain, also, that God rules the universe by the governance

of goodness, that all things obey Him willingly, and that evil has no

existence in nature. And all this thou didst unfold without the help of

assumptions from without, but by inherent and proper proofs, drawing

credence one from the other.'

Then answered she: 'Far is it from me to mock thee; nay, by the blessing

of God, whom we lately addressed in prayer, we have achieved the most

important of all objects. For such is the form of the Divine essence,

that neither can it pass into things external, nor take up anything

external into itself; but, as Parmenides says of it,

'"In body like to a sphere on all sides perfectly rounded,"

it rolls the restless orb of the universe, keeping itself motionless the

while. And if I have also employed reasonings not drawn from without,

but lying within the compass of our subject, there is no cause for thee

to marvel, since thou hast learnt on Plato's authority that words ought

to be akin to the matter of which they treat.'

SONG XII.

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.

Blest he whose feet have stood

Beside the fount of good;

Blest he whose will could break

Earth's chains for wisdom's sake!

The Thracian bard, 'tis said,

Mourned his dear consort dead;

To hear the plaintive strain

The woods moved in his train,

And the stream ceased to flow,

Held by so soft a woe;

The deer without dismay

Beside the lion lay;

The hound, by song subdued,

No more the hare pursued,

But the pang unassuaged

In his own bosom raged.

The music that could calm

All else brought him no balm.

Chiding the powers immortal,

He came unto Hell's portal;

There breathed all tender things

Upon his sounding strings,

Each rhapsody high-wrought

His goddess-mother taught--

All he from grief could borrow

And love redoubling sorrow,

Till, as the echoes waken,

All Tænarus is shaken;

Whilst he to ruth persuades

The monarch of the shades

With dulcet prayer. Spell-bound,

The triple-headed hound

At sounds so strangely sweet

Falls crouching at his feet.

The dread Avengers, too,

That guilty minds pursue

With ever-haunting fears,

Are all dissolved in tears.

Ixion, on his wheel,

A respite brief doth feel;

For, lo! the wheel stands still.

And, while those sad notes thrill,

Thirst-maddened Tantalus

Listens, oblivious

Of the stream's mockery

And his long agony.

The vulture, too, doth spare

Some little while to tear

At Tityus' rent side,

Sated and pacified.

At length the shadowy king,

His sorrows pitying,

'He hath prevailèd!' cried;

'We give him back his bride!

To him she shall belong,

As guerdon of his song.

One sole condition yet

Upon the boon is set:

Let him not turn his eyes

To view his hard-won prize,

Till they securely pass

The gates of Hell.' Alas!

What law can lovers move?

A higher law is love!

For Orpheus--woe is me!--

On his Eurydice--

Day's threshold all but won--

Looked, lost, and was undone!

Ye who the light pursue,

This story is for you,

Who seek to find a way

Unto the clearer day.

If on the darkness past

One backward look ye cast,

Your weak and wandering eyes

Have lost the matchless prize.

GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE.

SUMMARY.

CH. I. The mystery of the seeming moral confusion. Philosophy

engages to make this plain, and to fulfil her former promise to the

full.--CH. II. Accordingly, (a) she first expounds the paradox that

the good alone have power, the bad are altogether powerless.--CH.

III. (b) The righteous never lack their reward, nor the wicked

their punishment.--CH. IV. (c) The wicked are more unhappy when

they accomplish their desires than when they fail to attain them.

(d) Evil-doers are more fortunate when they expiate their crimes by

suffering punishment than when they escape unpunished. (e) The

wrong-doer is more wretched than he who suffers injury.--CH. V.

Boethius still cannot understand why the distribution of happiness

and misery to the righteous and the wicked seems the result of

chance. Philosophy replies that this only seems so because we do

not understand the principles of God's moral governance.--CH. VI.

The distinction of Fate and Providence. The apparent moral

confusion is due to our ignorance of the secret counsels of God's

providence. If we possessed the key, we should see how all things

are guided to good.--CH. VII. Thus all fortune is good fortune; for

it either rewards, disciplines, amends, or punishes, and so is

either useful or just.

I.

Softly and sweetly Philosophy sang these verses to the end without

losing aught of the dignity of her expression or the seriousness of her

tones; then, forasmuch as I was as yet unable to forget my deeply-seated

sorrow, just as she was about to say something further, I broke in and

cried: 'O thou guide into the way of true light, all that thy voice hath

uttered from the beginning even unto now has manifestly seemed to me at

once divine contemplated in itself, and by the force of thy arguments

placed beyond the possibility of overthrow. Moreover, these truths have

not been altogether unfamiliar to me heretofore, though because of

indignation at my wrongs they have for a time been forgotten. But, lo!

herein is the very chiefest cause of my grief--that, while there exists

a good ruler of the universe, it is possible that evil should be at all,

still more that it should go unpunished. Surely thou must see how

deservedly this of itself provokes astonishment. But a yet greater

marvel follows: While wickedness reigns and flourishes, virtue not only

lacks its reward, but is even thrust down and trampled under the feet of

the wicked, and suffers punishment in the place of crime. That this

should happen under the rule of a God who knows all things and can do

all things, but wills only the good, cannot be sufficiently wondered at

nor sufficiently lamented.'

Then said she: 'It would indeed be infinitely astounding, and of all

monstrous things most horrible, if, as thou esteemest, in the

well-ordered home of so great a householder, the base vessels should be

held in honour, the precious left to neglect. But it is not so. For if

we hold unshaken those conclusions which we lately reached, thou shall

learn that, by the will of Him of whose realm we are speaking, the good

are always strong, the bad always weak and impotent; that vices never go

unpunished, nor virtues unrewarded; that good fortune ever befalls the

good, and ill fortune the bad, and much more of the sort, which shall

hush thy murmurings, and stablish thee in the strong assurance of

conviction. And since by my late instructions thou hast seen the form of

happiness, hast learnt, too, the seat where it is to be found, all due

preliminaries being discharged, I will now show thee the road which will

lead thee home. Wings, also, will I fasten to thy mind wherewith thou

mayst soar aloft, that so, all disturbing doubts removed, thou mayst

return safe to thy country, under my guidance, in the path I will show

thee, and by the means which I furnish.'

SONG I.

THE SOUL'S FLIGHT.

Wings are mine; above the pole

Far aloft I soar.

Clothed with these, my nimble soul

Scorns earth's hated shore,

Cleaves the skies upon the wind,

Sees the clouds left far behind.

Soon the glowing point she nears,

Where the heavens rotate,

Follows through the starry spheres

Phoebus' course, or straight

Takes for comrade 'mid the stars

Saturn cold or glittering Mars;

Thus each circling orb explores

Through Night's stole that peers;

Then, when all are numbered, soars

Far beyond the spheres,

Mounting heaven's supremest height

To the very Fount of light.

There the Sovereign of the world

His calm sway maintains;

As the globe is onward whirled

Guides the chariot reins,

And in splendour glittering

Reigns the universal King.

Hither if thy wandering feet

Find at last a way,

Here thy long-lost home thou'lt greet:

'Dear lost land,' thou'lt say,

'Though from thee I've wandered wide,

Hence I came, here will abide.'

Yet if ever thou art fain

Visitant to be

Of earth's gloomy night again,

Surely thou wilt see

Tyrants whom the nations fear

Dwell in hapless exile here.

II.

Then said I: 'Verily, wondrous great are thy promises; yet I do not

doubt but thou canst make them good: only keep me not in suspense after

raising such hopes.'

'Learn, then, first,' said she, 'how that power ever waits upon the

good, while the bad are left wholly destitute of strength.[K] Of these

truths the one proves the other; for since good and evil are contraries,

if it is made plain that good is power, the feebleness of evil is

clearly seen, and, conversely, if the frail nature of evil is made

manifest, the strength of good is thereby known. However, to win ampler

credence for my conclusion, I will pursue both paths, and draw

confirmation for my statements first in one way and then in the other.

'The carrying out of any human action depends upon two things--to wit,

will and power; if either be wanting, nothing can be accomplished. For

if the will be lacking, no attempt at all is made to do what is not

willed; whereas if there be no power, the will is all in vain. And so,

if thou seest any man wishing to attain some end, yet utterly failing to

attain it, thou canst not doubt that he lacked the power of getting what

he wished for.'

'Why, certainly not; there is no denying it.'

'Canst thou, then, doubt that he whom thou seest to have accomplished

what he willed had also the power to accomplish it?'

'Of course not.'

'Then, in respect of what he can accomplish a man is to be reckoned

strong, in respect of what he cannot accomplish weak?'

'Granted,' said I.

'Then, dost thou remember that, by our former reasonings, it was

concluded that the whole aim of man's will, though the means of pursuit

vary, is set intently upon happiness?'

'I do remember that this, too, was proved.'

'Dost thou also call to mind how happiness is absolute good, and

therefore that, when happiness is sought, it is good which is in all

cases the object of desire?'

'Nay, I do not so much call to mind as keep it fixed in my memory.'

'Then, all men, good and bad alike, with one indistinguishable purpose

strive to reach good?'

'Yes, that follows.'

'But it is certain that by the attainment of good men become good?'

'It is.'

'Then, do the good attain their object?'

'It seems so.'

'But if the bad were to attain the good which is _their_ object, they

could not be bad?'

'No.'

'Then, since both seek good, but while the one sort attain it, the other

attain it not, is there any doubt that the good are endued with power,

while they who are bad are weak?'

'If any doubt it, he is incapable of reflecting on the nature of things,

or the consequences involved in reasoning.'

'Again, supposing there are two things to which the same function is

prescribed in the course of nature, and one of these successfully

accomplishes the function by natural action, the other is altogether

incapable of that natural action, instead of which, in a way other than

is agreeable to its nature, it--I will not say fulfils its function, but

feigns to fulfil it: which of these two would in thy view be the

stronger?'

'I guess thy meaning, but I pray thee let me hear thee more at large.'

'Walking is man's natural motion, is it not?'

'Certainly.'

'Thou dost not doubt, I suppose, that it is natural for the feet to

discharge this function?'

'No; surely I do not.'

'Now, if one man who is able to use his feet walks, and another to whom

the natural use of his feet is wanting tries to walk on his hands,

which of the two wouldst thou rightly esteem the stronger?'

'Go on,' said I; 'no one can question but that he who has the natural

capacity has more strength than he who has it not.'

'Now, the supreme good is set up as the end alike for the bad and for

the good; but the good seek it through the natural action of the

virtues, whereas the bad try to attain this same good through all manner

of concupiscence, which is not the natural way of attaining good. Or

dost thou think otherwise?'

'Nay; rather, one further consequence is clear to me: for from my

admissions it must needs follow that the good have power, and the bad

are impotent.'

'Thou anticipatest rightly, and that as physicians reckon is a sign that

nature is set working, and is throwing off the disease. But, since I see

thee so ready at understanding, I will heap proof on proof. Look how

manifest is the extremity of vicious men's weakness; they cannot even

reach that goal to which the aim of nature leads and almost constrains

them. What if they were left without this mighty, this well-nigh

irresistible help of nature's guidance! Consider also how momentous is

the powerlessness which incapacitates the wicked. Not light or

trivial[L] are the prizes which they contend for, but which they cannot

win or hold; nay, their failure concerns the very sum and crown of

things. Poor wretches! they fail to compass even that for which they

toil day and night. Herein also the strength of the good conspicuously

appears. For just as thou wouldst judge him to be the strongest walker

whose legs could carry him to a point beyond which no further advance

was possible, so must thou needs account him strong in power who so

attains the end of his desires that nothing further to be desired lies

beyond. Whence follows the obvious conclusion that they who are wicked

are seen likewise to be wholly destitute of strength. For why do they

forsake virtue and follow vice? Is it from ignorance of what is good?

Well, what is more weak and feeble than the blindness of ignorance? Do

they know what they ought to follow, but lust drives them aside out of

the way? If it be so, they are still frail by reason of their

incontinence, for they cannot fight against vice. Or do they knowingly

and wilfully forsake the good and turn aside to vice? Why, at this rate,

they not only cease to have power, but cease to be at all. For they who

forsake the common end of all things that are, they likewise also cease

to be at all. Now, to some it may seem strange that we should assert

that the bad, who form the greater part of mankind, do not exist. But

the fact is so. I do not, indeed, deny that they who are bad are bad,

but that they _are_ in an unqualified and absolute sense I deny. Just as

we call a corpse a dead man, but cannot call it simply "man," so I would

allow the vicious to be bad, but that they _are_ in an absolute sense I

cannot allow. That only _is_ which maintains its place and keeps its

nature; whatever falls away from this forsakes the existence which is

essential to its nature. "But," thou wilt say, "the bad have an

ability." Nor do I wish to deny it; only this ability of theirs comes

not from strength, but from impotence. For their ability is to do evil,

which would have had no efficacy at all if they could have continued in

the performance of good. So this ability of theirs proves them still

more plainly to have no power. For if, as we concluded just now, evil is

nothing, 'tis clear that the wicked can effect nothing, since they are

only able to do evil.'

''Tis evident.'

'And that thou mayst understand what is the precise force of this power,

we determined, did we not, awhile back, that nothing has more power than

supreme good?'

'We did,' said I.

'But that same highest good cannot do evil?'

'Certainly not.'

'Is there anyone, then, who thinks that men are able to do all things?'

'None but a madman.'

'Yet they are able to do evil?'

'Ay; would they could not!'

'Since, then, he who can do only good is omnipotent, while they who can

do evil also are not omnipotent, it is manifest that they who can do

evil have less power. There is this also: we have shown that all power

is to be reckoned among things desirable, and that all desirable things

are referred to good as to a kind of consummation of their nature. But

the ability to commit crime cannot be referred to the good; therefore it

is not a thing to be desired. And yet all power is desirable; it is

clear, then, that ability to do evil is not power. From all which

considerations appeareth the power of the good, and the indubitable

weakness of the bad, and it is clear that Plato's judgment was true; the

wise alone are able to do what they would, while the wicked follow their

own hearts' lust, but can _not_ accomplish what they would. For they go

on in their wilfulness fancying they will attain what they wish for in

the paths of delight; but they are very far from its attainment, since

shameful deeds lead not to happiness.'

FOOTNOTES:

[K] The paradoxes in this chapter and chapter iv. are taken from Plato's

'Gorgias.' See Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 348-366, and also pp. 400, 401

('Gorgias,' 466-479, and 508, 509).

[L]

'No trivial game is here; the strife Is waged for Turnus' own dear

life.'

_Conington_.

See Virgil, Æneid,' xii. 764, 745: _cf_. 'Iliad,' xxii. 159-162.

SONG II.

THE BONDAGE OF PASSION.

When high-enthroned the monarch sits, resplendent in the pride

Of purple robes, while flashing steel guards him on every side;

When baleful terrors on his brow with frowning menace lower,

And Passion shakes his labouring breast--how dreadful seems his power!

But if the vesture of his state from such a one thou tear,

Thou'lt see what load of secret bonds this lord of earth doth wear.

Lust's poison rankles; o'er his mind rage sweeps in tempest rude;

Sorrow his spirit vexes sore, and empty hopes delude.

Then thou'lt confess: one hapless wretch, whom many lords oppress,

Does never what he would, but lives in thraldom's helplessness.

III.

'Thou seest, then, in what foulness unrighteous deeds are sunk, with

what splendour righteousness shines. Whereby it is manifest that

goodness never lacks its reward, nor crime its punishment. For, verily,

in all manner of transactions that for the sake of which the particular

action is done may justly be accounted the reward of that action, even

as the wreath for the sake of which the race is run is the reward

offered for running. Now, we have shown happiness to be that very good

for the sake of which all things are done. Absolute good, then, is

offered as the common prize, as it were, of all human actions. But,

truly, this is a reward from which it is impossible to separate the good

man, for one who is without good cannot properly be called good at all;

wherefore righteous dealing never misses its reward. Rage the wicked,

then, never so violently, the crown shall not fall from the head of the

wise, nor wither. Verily, other men's unrighteousness cannot pluck from

righteous souls their proper glory. Were the reward in which the soul of

the righteous delighteth received from without, then might it be taken

away by him who gave it, or some other; but since it is conferred by his

own righteousness, then only will he lose his prize when he has ceased

to be righteous. Lastly, since every prize is desired because it is

believed to be good, who can account him who possesses good to be

without reward? And what a prize, the fairest and grandest of all! For

remember the corollary which I chiefly insisted on a little while back,

and reason thus: Since absolute good is happiness, 'tis clear that all

the good must be happy for the very reason that they are good. But it

was agreed that those who are happy are gods. So, then, the prize of the

good is one which no time may impair, no man's power lessen, no man's

unrighteousness tarnish; 'tis very Godship. And this being so, the wise

man cannot doubt that punishment is inseparable from the bad. For since

good and bad, and likewise reward and punishment, are contraries, it

necessarily follows that, corresponding to all that we see accrue as

reward of the good, there is some penalty attached as punishment of

evil. As, then, righteousness itself is the reward of the righteous, so

wickedness itself is the punishment of the unrighteous. Now, no one who

is visited with punishment doubts that he is visited with evil.

Accordingly, if they were but willing to weigh their own case, could

_they_ think themselves free from punishment whom wickedness, worst of

all evils, has not only touched, but deeply tainted?

'See, also, from the opposite standpoint--the standpoint of the

good--what a penalty attends upon the wicked. Thou didst learn a little

since that whatever is is one, and that unity itself is good.

Accordingly, by this way of reckoning, whatever falls away from goodness

ceases to be; whence it comes to pass that the bad cease to be what they

were, while only the outward aspect is still left to show they have been

men. Wherefore, by their perversion to badness, they have lost their

true human nature. Further, since righteousness alone can raise men

above the level of humanity, it must needs be that unrighteousness

degrades below man's level those whom it has cast out of man's estate.

It results, then, that thou canst not consider him human whom thou seest

transformed by vice. The violent despoiler of other men's goods,

enflamed with covetousness, surely resembles a wolf. A bold and restless

spirit, ever wrangling in law-courts, is like some yelping cur. The

secret schemer, taking pleasure in fraud and stealth, is own brother to

the fox. The passionate man, phrenzied with rage, we might believe to be

animated with the soul of a lion. The coward and runaway, afraid where

no fear is, may be likened to the timid deer. He who is sunk in

ignorance and stupidity lives like a dull ass. He who is light and

inconstant, never holding long to one thing, is for all the world like a

bird. He who wallows in foul and unclean lusts is sunk in the pleasures

of a filthy hog. So it comes to pass that he who by forsaking

righteousness ceases to be a man cannot pass into a Godlike condition,

but actually turns into a brute beast.'

SONG III.

CIRCE'S CUP.

Th' Ithacan discreet,

And all his storm-tossed fleet,

Far o'er the ocean wave

The winds of heaven drave--

Drave to the mystic isle,

Where dwelleth in her guile

That fair and faithless one,

The daughter of the Sun.

There for the stranger crew

With cunning spells she knew

To mix th' enchanted cup.

For whoso drinks it up,

Must suffer hideous change

To monstrous shapes and strange.

One like a boar appears;

This his huge form uprears,

Mighty in bulk and limb--

An Afric lion--grim

With claw and fang. Confessed

A wolf, this, sore distressed

When he would weep, doth howl;

And, strangely tame, these prowl

The Indian tiger's mates.

And though in such sore straits,

The pity of the god

Who bears the mystic rod

Had power the chieftain brave

From her fell arts to save;

His comrades, unrestrained,

The fatal goblet drained.

All now with low-bent head,

Like swine, on acorns fed;

Man's speech and form were reft,

No human feature left;

But steadfast still, the mind,

Unaltered, unresigned,

The monstrous change bewailed.

How little, then, availed

The potencies of ill!

These herbs, this baneful skill,

May change each outward part,

But cannot touch the heart.

In its true home, deep-set,

Man's spirit liveth yet.

_Those_ poisons are more fell,

More potent to expel

Man from his high estate,

Which subtly penetrate,

And leave the body whole,

But deep infect the soul.

IV.

Then said I: 'This is very true. I see that the vicious, though they

keep the outward form of man, are rightly said to be changed into beasts

in respect of their spiritual nature; but, inasmuch as their cruel and

polluted minds vent their rage in the destruction of the good, I would

this license were not permitted to them.'

'Nor is it,' said she, 'as shall be shown in the fitting place. Yet if

that license which thou believest to be permitted to them were taken

away, the punishment of the wicked would be in great part remitted. For

verily, incredible as it may seem to some, it needs must be that the bad

are more unfortunate when they have accomplished their desires than if

they are unable to get them fulfilled. If it is wretched to will evil,

to have been able to accomplish evil is more wretched; for without the

power the wretched will would fail of effect. Accordingly, those whom

thou seest to will, to be able to accomplish, and to accomplish crime,

must needs be the victims of a threefold wretchedness, since each one of

these states has its own measure of wretchedness.'

'Yes,' said I; 'yet I earnestly wish they might speedily be quit of this

misfortune by losing the ability to accomplish crime.'

'They will lose it,' said she, 'sooner than perchance thou wishest, or

they themselves think likely; since, verily, within the narrow bounds of

our brief life there is nothing so late in coming that anyone, least of

all an immortal spirit, should deem it long to wait for. Their great

expectations, the lofty fabric of their crimes, is oft overthrown by a

sudden and unlooked-for ending, and this but sets a limit to their

misery. For if wickedness makes men wretched, he is necessarily more

wretched who is wicked for a longer time; and were it not that death, at

all events, puts an end to the evil doings of the wicked, I should

account them wretched to the last degree. Indeed, if we have formed true

conclusions about the ill fortune of wickedness, that wretchedness is

plainly infinite which is doomed to be eternal.'

Then said I: 'A wonderful inference, and difficult to grant; but I see

that it agrees entirely with our previous conclusions.'

'Thou art right,' said she; 'but if anyone finds it hard to admit the

conclusion, he ought in fairness either to prove some falsity in the

premises, or to show that the combination of propositions does not

adequately enforce the necessity of the conclusion; otherwise, if the

premises be granted, nothing whatever can be said against the inference

of the conclusion. And here is another statement which seems not less

wonderful, but on the premises assumed is equally necessary.'

'What is that?'

'The wicked are happier in undergoing punishment than if no penalty of

justice chasten them. And I am not now meaning what might occur to

anyone--that bad character is amended by retribution, and is brought

into the right path by the terror of punishment, or that it serves as an

example to warn others to avoid transgression; but I believe that in

another way the wicked are more unfortunate when they go unpunished,

even though no account be taken of amendment, and no regard be paid to

example.'

'Why, what other way is there beside these?' said I.

Then said she: 'Have we not agreed that the good are happy, and the evil

wretched?'

'Yes,' said I.

'Now, if,' said she, 'to one in affliction there be given along with his

misery some good thing, is he not happier than one whose misery is

misery pure and simple without admixture of any good?'

'It would seem so.'

'But if to one thus wretched, one destitute of all good, some further

evil be added besides those which make him wretched, is he not to be

judged far more unhappy than he whose ill fortune is alleviated by some

share of good?'

'It could scarcely be otherwise.'

'Surely, then, the wicked, when they are punished, have a good thing

added to them--to wit, the punishment which by the law of justice is

good; and likewise, when they escape punishment, a new evil attaches to

them in that very freedom from punishment which thou hast rightly

acknowledged to be an evil in the case of the unrighteous.'

'I cannot deny it.'

'Then, the wicked are far more unhappy when indulged with an unjust

freedom from punishment than when punished by a just retribution. Now,

it is manifest that it is just for the wicked to be punished, and for

them to escape unpunished is unjust.'

'Why, who would venture to deny it?'

'This, too, no one can possibly deny--that all which is just is good,

and, conversely, all which is unjust is bad.'

Then I answered: 'These inferences do indeed follow from what we lately

concluded; but tell me,' said I, 'dost thou take no account of the

punishment of the soul after the death of the body?'

'Nay, truly,' said she, 'great are these penalties, some of them

inflicted, I imagine, in the severity of retribution, others in the

mercy of purification. But it is not my present purpose to speak of

these. So far, my aim hath been to make thee recognise that the power of

the bad which shocked thee so exceedingly is no power; to make thee see

that those of whose freedom from punishment thou didst complain are

never without the proper penalties of their unrighteousness; to teach

thee that the license which thou prayedst might soon come to an end is

not long-enduring; that it would be more unhappy if it lasted longer,

most unhappy of all if it lasted for ever; thereafter that the

unrighteous are more wretched if unjustly let go without punishment than

if punished by a just retribution--from which point of view it follows

that the wicked are afflicted with more severe penalties just when they

are supposed to escape punishment.'

Then said I: 'While I follow thy reasonings, I am deeply impressed with

their truth; but if I turn to the common convictions of men, I find few

who will even listen to such arguments, let alone admit them to be

credible.'

'True,' said she; 'they cannot lift eyes accustomed to darkness to the

light of clear truth, and are like those birds whose vision night

illumines and day blinds; for while they regard, not the order of the

universe, but their own dispositions of mind, they think the license to

commit crime, and the escape from punishment, to be fortunate. But mark

the ordinance of eternal law. Hast thou fashioned thy soul to the

likeness of the better, thou hast no need of a judge to award the

prize--by thine own act hast thou raised thyself in the scale of

excellence; hast thou perverted thy affections to baser things, look not

for punishment from one without thee--thine own act hath degraded thee,

and thrust thee down. Even so, if alternately thou turn thy gaze upon

the vile earth and upon the heavens, though all without thee stand

still, by the mere laws of sight thou seemest now sunk in the mire, now

soaring among the stars. But the common herd regards not these things.

What, then? Shall we go over to those whom we have shown to be like

brute beasts? Why, suppose, now, one who had quite lost his sight

should likewise forget that he had ever possessed the faculty of vision,

and should imagine that nothing was wanting in him to human perfection,

should we deem those who saw as well as ever blind? Why, they will not

even assent to this, either--that they who do wrong are more wretched

than those who suffer wrong, though the proof of this rests on grounds

of reason no less strong.'

'Let me hear these same reasons,' said I.

'Wouldst thou deny that every wicked man deserves punishment?'

'I would not, certainly.'

'And that those who are wicked are unhappy is clear in manifold ways?'

'Yes,' I replied.

'Thou dost not doubt, then, that those who deserve punishment are

wretched?'

'Agreed,' said I.

'So, then, if thou wert sitting in judgment, on whom wouldst thou decree

the infliction of punishment--on him who had done the wrong, or on him

who had suffered it?'

'Without doubt, I would compensate the sufferer at the cost of the doer

of the wrong.'

'Then, the injurer would seem more wretched than the injured?'

'Yes; it follows. And so for this and other reasons resting on the same

ground, inasmuch as baseness of its own nature makes men wretched, it is

plain that a wrong involves the misery of the doer, not of the

sufferer.'

'And yet,' says she, 'the practice of the law-courts is just the

opposite: advocates try to arouse the commiseration of the judges for

those who have endured some grievous and cruel wrong; whereas pity is

rather due to the criminal, who ought to be brought to the judgment-seat

by his accusers in a spirit not of anger, but of compassion and

kindness, as a sick man to the physician, to have the ulcer of his fault

cut away by punishment. Whereby the business of the advocate would

either wholly come to a standstill, or, did men prefer to make it

serviceable to mankind, would be restricted to the practice of

accusation. The wicked themselves also, if through some chink or cranny

they were permitted to behold the virtue they have forsaken, and were to

see that by the pains of punishment they would rid themselves of the

uncleanness of their vices, and win in exchange the recompense of

righteousness, they would no longer think these sufferings pains; they

would refuse the help of advocates, and would commit themselves wholly

into the hands of their accusers and judges. Whence it comes to pass

that for the wise no place is left for hatred; only the most foolish

would hate the good, and to hate the bad is unreasonable. For if vicious

propensity is, as it were, a disease of the soul like bodily sickness,

even as we account the sick in body by no means deserving of hate, but

rather of pity, so, and much more, should they be pitied whose minds are

assailed by wickedness, which is more frightful than any sickness.'

SONG IV.

THE UNREASONABLENESS OF HATRED.

Why all this furious strife? Oh, why

With rash and wilful hand provoke death's destined day?

If death ye seek--lo! Death is nigh,

Not of their master's will those coursers swift delay!

The wild beasts vent on man their rage,

Yet 'gainst their brothers' lives men point the murderous steel;

Unjust and cruel wars they wage,

And haste with flying darts the death to meet or deal.

No right nor reason can they show;

'Tis but because their lands and laws are not the same.

Wouldst _thou_ give each his due; then know

Thy love the good must have, the bad thy pity claim.

V.

On this I said: 'I see how there is a happiness and misery founded on

the actual deserts of the righteous and the wicked. Nevertheless, I

wonder in myself whether there is not some good and evil in fortune as

the vulgar understand it. Surely, no sensible man would rather be

exiled, poor and disgraced, than dwell prosperously in his own country,

powerful, wealthy, and high in honour. Indeed, the work of wisdom is

more clear and manifest in its operation when the happiness of rulers is

somehow passed on to the people around them, especially considering that

the prison, the law, and the other pains of legal punishment are

properly due only to mischievous citizens on whose account they were

originally instituted. Accordingly, I do exceedingly marvel why all this

is completely reversed--why the good are harassed with the penalties due

to crime, and the bad carry off the rewards of virtue; and I long to

hear from thee what reason may be found for so unjust a state of

disorder. For assuredly I should wonder less if I could believe that all

things are the confused result of chance. But now my belief in God's

governance doth add amazement to amazement. For, seeing that He

sometimes assigns fair fortune to the good and harsh fortune to the bad,

and then again deals harshly with the good, and grants to the bad their

hearts' desire, how does this differ from chance, unless some reason is

discovered for it all?'

'Nay; it is not wonderful,' said she, 'if all should be thought random

and confused when the principle of order is not known. And though thou

knowest not the causes on which this great system depends, yet forasmuch

as a good ruler governs the world, doubt not for thy part that all is

rightly done.'

SONG V.

WONDER AND IGNORANCE.

Who knoweth not how near the pole

Bootes' course doth go,

Must marvel by what heavenly law

He moves his Wain so slow;

Why late he plunges 'neath the main,

And swiftly lights his beams again.

When the full-orbèd moon grows pale

In the mid course of night,

And suddenly the stars shine forth

That languished in her light,

Th' astonied nations stand at gaze,

And beat the air in wild amaze.[M]

None marvels why upon the shore

The storm-lashed breakers beat,

Nor why the frost-bound glaciers melt

At summer's fervent heat;

For here the cause seems plain and clear,

Only what's dark and hid we fear.

Weak-minded folly magnifies

All that is rare and strange,

And the dull herd's o'erwhelmed with awe

At unexpected change.

But wonder leaves enlightened minds,

When ignorance no longer blinds.

FOOTNOTES:

[M] To frighten away the monster swallowing the moon. The superstition

was once common. See Tylor's 'Primitive Culture,' pp. 296-302.

VI.

'True,' said I; 'but, since it is thy office to unfold the hidden cause

of things, and explain principles veiled in darkness, inform me, I pray

thee, of thine own conclusions in this matter, since the marvel of it is

what more than aught else disturbs my mind.'

A smile played one moment upon her lips as she replied: 'Thou callest me

to the greatest of all subjects of inquiry, a task for which the most

exhaustive treatment barely suffices. Such is its nature that, as fast

as one doubt is cut away, innumerable others spring up like Hydra's

heads, nor could we set any limit to their renewal did we not apply the

mind's living fire to suppress them. For there come within its scope the

questions of the essential simplicity of providence, of the order of

fate, of unforeseen chance, of the Divine knowledge and predestination,

and of the freedom of the will. How heavy is the weight of all this

thou canst judge for thyself. But, inasmuch as to know these things also

is part of the treatment of thy malady, we will try to give them some

consideration, despite the restrictions of the narrow limits of our

time. Moreover, thou must for a time dispense with the pleasures of

music and song, if so be that thou findest any delight therein, whilst I

weave together the connected train of reasons in proper order.'

'As thou wilt,' said I.

Then, as if making a new beginning, she thus discoursed: 'The coming

into being of all things, the whole course of development in things that

change, every sort of thing that moves in any wise, receives its due

cause, order, and form from the steadfastness of the Divine mind. This

mind, calm in the citadel of its own essential simplicity, has decreed

that the method of its rule shall be manifold. Viewed in the very purity

of the Divine intelligence, this method is called _providence_; but

viewed in regard to those things which it moves and disposes, it is

what the ancients called _fate_. That these two are different will

easily be clear to anyone who passes in review their respective

efficacies. Providence is the Divine reason itself, seated in the

Supreme Being, which disposes all things; fate is the disposition

inherent in all things which move, through which providence joins all

things in their proper order. Providence embraces all things, however

different, however infinite; fate sets in motion separately individual

things, and assigns to them severally their position, form, and time.

'So the unfolding of this temporal order unified into the foreview of

the Divine mind is providence, while the same unity broken up and

unfolded in time is fate. And although these are different, yet is there

a dependence between them; for the order of destiny issues from the

essential simplicity of providence. For as the artificer, forming in his

mind beforehand the idea of the thing to be made, carries out his

design, and develops from moment to moment what he had before seen in a

single instant as a whole, so God in His providence ordains all things

as parts of a single unchanging whole, but carries out these very

ordinances by fate in a time of manifold unity. So whether fate is

accomplished by Divine spirits as the ministers of providence, or by a

soul, or by the service of all nature--whether by the celestial motion

of the stars, by the efficacy of angels, or by the many-sided cunning of

demons--whether by all or by some of these the destined series is woven,

this, at least, is manifest: that providence is the fixed and simple

form of destined events, fate their shifting series in order of time, as

by the disposal of the Divine simplicity they are to take place. Whereby

it is that all things which are under fate are subjected also to

providence, on which fate itself is dependent; whereas certain things

which are set under providence are above the chain of fate--viz., those

things which by their nearness to the primal Divinity are steadfastly

fixed, and lie outside the order of fate's movements. For as the

innermost of several circles revolving round the same centre approaches

the simplicity of the midmost point, and is, as it were, a pivot round

which the exterior circles turn, while the outermost, whirled in ampler

orbit, takes in a wider and wider sweep of space in proportion to its

departure from the indivisible unity of the centre--while, further,

whatever joins and allies itself to the centre is narrowed to a like

simplicity, and no longer expands vaguely into space--even so whatsoever

departs widely from primal mind is involved more deeply in the meshes of

fate, and things are free from fate in proportion as they seek to come

nearer to that central pivot; while if aught cleaves close to supreme

mind in its absolute fixity, this, too, being free from movement, rises

above fate's necessity. Therefore, as is reasoning to pure intelligence,

as that which is generated to that which is, time to eternity, a circle

to its centre, so is the shifting series of fate to the steadfastness

and simplicity of providence.

'It is this causal series which moves heaven and the stars, attempers

the elements to mutual accord, and again in turn transforms them into

new combinations; _this_ which renews the series of all things that are

born and die through like successions of germ and birth; it is _its_

operation which binds the destinies of men by an indissoluble nexus of

causality, and, since it issues in the beginning from unalterable

providence, these destinies also must of necessity be immutable.

Accordingly, the world is ruled for the best if this unity abiding in

the Divine mind puts forth an inflexible order of causes. And this

order, by its intrinsic immutability, restricts things mutable which

otherwise would ebb and flow at random. And so it happens that, although

to you, who are not altogether capable of understanding this order, all

things seem confused and disordered, nevertheless there is everywhere an

appointed limit which guides all things to good. Verily, nothing can be

done for the sake of evil even by the wicked themselves; for, as we

abundantly proved, they seek good, but are drawn out of the way by

perverse error; far less can this order which sets out from the supreme

centre of good turn aside anywhither from the way in which it began.

'"Yet what confusion," thou wilt say, "can be more unrighteous than that

prosperity and adversity should indifferently befall the good, what

they like and what they loathe come alternately to the bad!" Yes; but

have men in real life such soundness of mind that their judgments of

righteousness and wickedness must necessarily correspond with facts?

Why, on this very point their verdicts conflict, and those whom some

deem worthy of reward, others deem worthy of punishment. Yet granted

there were one who could rightly distinguish the good and bad, yet would

he be able to look into the soul's inmost constitution, as it were, if

we may borrow an expression used of the body? The marvel here is not

unlike that which astonishes one who does not know why in health sweet

things suit some constitutions, and bitter others, or why some sick men

are best alleviated by mild remedies, others by severe. But the

physician who distinguishes the precise conditions and characteristics

of health and sickness does not marvel. Now, the health of the soul is

nothing but righteousness, and vice is its sickness. God, the guide and

physician of the mind, it is who preserves the good and banishes the

bad. And He looks forth from the lofty watch-tower of His providence,

perceives what is suited to each, and assigns what He knows to be

suitable.

'This, then, is what that extraordinary mystery of the order of destiny

comes to--that something is done by one who knows, whereat the ignorant

are astonished. But let us consider a few instances whereby appears what

is the competency of human reason to fathom the Divine unsearchableness.

Here is one whom thou deemest the perfection of justice and scrupulous

integrity; to all-knowing Providence it seems far otherwise. We all know

our Lucan's admonition that it was the winning cause that found favour

with the gods, the beaten cause with Cato. So, shouldst thou see

anything in this world happening differently from thy expectation, doubt

not but events are rightly ordered; it is in thy judgment that there is

perverse confusion.

'Grant, however, there be somewhere found one of so happy a character

that God and man alike agree in their judgments about him; yet is he

somewhat infirm in strength of mind. It may be, if he fall into

adversity, he will cease to practise that innocency which has failed to

secure his fortune. Therefore, God's wise dispensation spares him whom

adversity might make worse, will not let him suffer who is ill fitted

for endurance. Another there is perfect in all virtue, so holy and nigh

to God that providence judges it unlawful that aught untoward should

befall him; nay, doth not even permit him to be afflicted with bodily

disease. As one more excellent than I[N] hath said:

'"The very body of the holy saint

Is built of purest ether."

Often it happens that the governance is given to the good that a

restraint may be put upon superfluity of wickedness. To others

providence assigns some mixed lot suited to their spiritual nature; some

it will plague lest they grow rank through long prosperity; others it

will suffer to be vexed with sore afflictions to confirm their virtues

by the exercise and practice of patience. Some fear overmuch what they

have strength to bear; others despise overmuch that to which their

strength is unequal. All these it brings to the test of their true self

through misfortune. Some also have bought a name revered to future ages

at the price of a glorious death; some by invincible constancy under

their sufferings have afforded an example to others that virtue cannot

be overcome by calamity--all which things, without doubt, come to pass

rightly and in due order, and to the benefit of those to whom they are

seen to happen.

'As to the other side of the marvel, that the bad now meet with

affliction, now get their hearts' desire, this, too, springs from the

same causes. As to the afflictions, of course no one marvels, because

all hold the wicked to be ill deserving. The truth is, their punishments

both frighten others from crime, and amend those on whom they are

inflicted; while their prosperity is a powerful sermon to the good, what

judgments they ought to pass on good fortune of this kind, which often

attends the wicked so assiduously.

'There is another object which may, I believe, be attained in such

cases: there is one, perhaps, whose nature is so reckless and violent

that poverty would drive him more desperately into crime. _His_ disorder

providence relieves by allowing him to amass money. Such a one, in the

uneasiness of a conscience stained with guilt, while he contrasts his

character with his fortune, perchance grows alarmed lest he should come

to mourn the loss of that whose possession is so pleasant to him. He

will, then, reform his ways, and through the fear of losing his fortune

he forsakes his iniquity. Some, through a prosperity unworthily borne,

have been hurled headlong to ruin; to some the power of the sword has

been committed, to the end that the good may be tried by discipline, and

the bad punished. For while there can be no peace between the righteous

and the wicked, neither can the wicked agree among themselves. How

should they, when each is at variance with himself, because his vices

rend his conscience, and ofttimes they do things which, when they are

done, they judge ought not to have been done. Hence it is that this

supreme providence brings to pass this notable marvel--that the bad make

the bad good. For some, when they see the injustice which they

themselves suffer at the hands of evil-doers, are inflamed with

detestation of the offenders, and, in the endeavour to be unlike those

whom they hate, return to the ways of virtue. It is the Divine power

alone to which things evil are also good, in that, by putting them to

suitable use, it bringeth them in the end to some good issue. For order

in some way or other embraceth all things, so that even that which has

departed from the appointed laws of the order, nevertheless falleth

within _an_ order, though _another_ order, that nothing in the realm of

providence may be left to haphazard. But

'"Hard were the task, as a god, to recount all, nothing omitting."

Nor, truly, is it lawful for man to compass in thought all the mechanism

of the Divine work, or set it forth in speech. Let us be content to

have apprehended this only--that God, the creator of universal nature,

likewise disposeth all things, and guides them to good; and while He

studies to preserve in likeness to Himself all that He has created, He

banishes all evil from the borders of His commonweal through the links

of fatal necessity. Whereby it comes to pass that, if thou look to

disposing providence, thou wilt nowhere find the evils which are

believed so to abound on earth.

'But I see thou hast long been burdened with the weight of the subject,

and fatigued with the prolixity of the argument, and now lookest for

some refreshment of sweet poesy. Listen, then, and may the draught so

restore thee that thou wilt bend thy mind more resolutely to what

remains.'

FOOTNOTES:

[N] Parmenides. Boethius seems to forget for the moment that Philosophy

is speaking.

SONG VI.

THE UNIVERSAL AIM.

Wouldst thou with unclouded mind

View the laws by God designed,

Lift thy steadfast gaze on high

To the starry canopy;

See in rightful league of love

All the constellations move.

Fiery Sol, in full career,

Ne'er obstructs cold Phoebe's sphere;

When the Bear, at heaven's height,

Wheels his coursers' rapid flight,

Though he sees the starry train

Sinking in the western main,

He repines not, nor desires

In the flood to quench his fires.

In true sequence, as decreed,

Daily morn and eve succeed;

Vesper brings the shades of night,

Lucifer the morning light.

Love, in alternation due,

Still the cycle doth renew,

And discordant strife is driven

From the starry realm of heaven.

Thus, in wondrous amity,

Warring elements agree;

Hot and cold, and moist and dry,

Lay their ancient quarrel by;

High the flickering flame ascends,

Downward earth for ever tends.

So the year in spring's mild hours

Loads the air with scent of flowers;

Summer paints the golden grain;

Then, when autumn comes again,

Bright with fruit the orchards glow;

Winter brings the rain and snow.

Thus the seasons' fixed progression,

Tempered in a due succession,

Nourishes and brings to birth

All that lives and breathes on earth.

Then, soon run life's little day,

All it brought it takes away.

But One sits and guides the reins,

He who made and all sustains;

King and Lord and Fountain-head,

Judge most holy, Law most dread;

Now impels and now keeps back,

Holds each waverer in the track.

Else, were once the power withheld

That the circling spheres compelled

In their orbits to revolve,

This world's order would dissolve,

And th' harmonious whole would all

In one hideous ruin fall.

But through this connected frame

Runs one universal aim;

Towards the Good do all things tend,

Many paths, but one the end.

For naught lasts, unless it turns

Backward in its course, and yearns

To that Source to flow again

Whence its being first was ta'en.

VII.

'Dost thou, then, see the consequence of all that we have said?'

'Nay; what consequence?'

'That absolutely every fortune is good fortune.'

'And how can that be?' said I.

'Attend,' said she. 'Since every fortune, welcome and unwelcome alike,

has for its object the reward or trial of the good, and the punishing or

amending of the bad, every fortune must be good, since it is either just

or useful.'

'The reasoning is exceeding true,' said I, 'the conclusion, so long as I

reflect upon the providence and fate of which thou hast taught me, based

on a strong foundation. Yet, with thy leave, we will count it among

those which just now thou didst set down as paradoxical.'

'And why so?' said she.

'Because ordinary speech is apt to assert, and that frequently, that

some men's fortune is bad.'

'Shall we, then, for awhile approach more nearly to the language of the

vulgar, that we may not seem to have departed too far from the usages of

men?'

'At thy good pleasure,' said I.

'That which advantageth thou callest good, dost thou not?'

'Certainly.'

'And that which either tries or amends advantageth?'

'Granted.'

'Is good, then?'

'Of course.'

'Well, this is _their_ case who have attained virtue and wage war with

adversity, or turn from vice and lay hold on the path of virtue.'

'I cannot deny it.'

'What of the good fortune which is given as reward of the good--do the

vulgar adjudge it bad?'

'Anything but that; they deem it to be the best, as indeed it is.'

'What, then, of that which remains, which, though it is harsh, puts the

restraint of just punishment on the bad--does popular opinion deem it

good?'

'Nay; of all that can be imagined, it is accounted the most miserable.'

'Observe, then, if, in following popular opinion, we have not ended in a

conclusion quite paradoxical.'

'How so?' said I.

'Why, it results from our admissions that of all who have attained, or

are advancing in, or are aiming at virtue, the fortune is in every case

good, while for those who remain in their wickedness fortune is always

utterly bad.'

'It is true,' said I; 'yet no one dare acknowledge it.'

'Wherefore,' said she, 'the wise man ought not to take it ill, if ever

he is involved in one of fortune's conflicts, any more than it becomes a

brave soldier to be offended when at any time the trumpet sounds for

battle. The time of trial is the express opportunity for the one to win

glory, for the other to perfect his wisdom. Hence, indeed, virtue gets

its name, because, relying on its own efficacy, it yieldeth not to

adversity. And ye who have taken your stand on virtue's steep ascent,

it is not for you to be dissolved in delights or enfeebled by pleasure;

ye close in conflict--yea, in conflict most sharp--with all fortune's

vicissitudes, lest ye suffer foul fortune to overwhelm or fair fortune

to corrupt you. Hold the mean with all your strength. Whatever falls

short of this, or goes beyond, is fraught with scorn of happiness, and

misses the reward of toil. It rests with you to make your fortune what

you will. Verily, every harsh-seeming fortune, unless it either

disciplines or amends, is punishment.'

SONG VII.

THE HERO'S PATH.

Ten years a tedious warfare raged,

Ere Ilium's smoking ruins paid

For wedlock stained and faith betrayed,

And great Atrides' wrath assuaged.

But when heaven's anger asked a life,

And baffling winds his course withstood,

The king put off his fatherhood,

And slew his child with priestly knife.

When by the cavern's glimmering light

His comrades dear Odysseus saw

In the huge Cyclops' hideous maw

Engulfed, he wept the piteous sight.

But blinded soon, and wild with pain--

In bitter tears and sore annoy--

For that foul feast's unholy joy

Grim Polyphemus paid again.

His labours for Alcides win

A name of glory far and wide;

He tamed the Centaur's haughty pride,

And from the lion reft his skin.

The foul birds with sure darts he slew;

The golden fruit he stole--in vain

The dragon's watch; with triple chain

From hell's depths Cerberus he drew.

With their fierce lord's own flesh he fed

The wild steeds; Hydra overcame

With fire. 'Neath his own waves in shame

Maimed Achelous hid his head.

Huge Cacus for his crimes was slain;

On Libya's sands Antæus hurled;

The shoulders that upheld the world

The great boar's dribbled spume did stain.

Last toil of all--his might sustained

The ball of heaven, nor did he bend

Beneath; this toil, his labour's end,

The prize of heaven's high glory gained.

Brave hearts, press on! Lo, heavenward lead

These bright examples! From the fight

Turn not your backs in coward flight;

Earth's conflict won, the stars your meed!

FREE WILL AND GOD'S FOREKNOWLEDGE.

SUMMARY.

CH. I. Boethius asks if there is really any such thing as chance.

Philosophy answers, in conformity with Aristotle's definition

(Phys., II. iv.), that chance is merely relative to human purpose,

and that what seems fortuitous really depends on a more subtle form

of causation.--CH. II. Has man, then, any freedom, if the reign of

law is thus absolute? Freedom of choice, replies Philosophy, is a

necessary attribute of reason. Man has a measure of freedom, though

a less perfect freedom than divine natures.--CH. III. But how can

man's freedom be reconciled with God's absolute foreknowledge? If

God's foreknowledge be certain, it seems to exclude the possibility

of man's free will. But if man has no freedom of choice, it

follows that rewards and punishments are unjust as well as useless;

that merit and demerit are mere names; that God is the cause of

men's wickednesses; that prayer is meaningless.--CH. IV. The

explanation is that man's reasoning faculties are not adequate to

the apprehension of the ways of God's foreknowledge. If we could

know, as He knows, all that is most perplexing in this problem

would be made plain. For knowledge depends not on the nature of the

thing known, but on the faculty of the knower.--CH. V. Now, where

our senses conflict with our reason, we defer the judgment of the

lower faculty to the judgment of the higher. Our present perplexity

arises from our viewing God's foreknowledge from the standpoint of

human reason. We must try and rise to the higher standpoint of

God's immediate intuition.--CH. VI. To understand this higher form

of cognition, we must consider God's nature. God is eternal.

Eternity is more than mere everlasting duration. Accordingly, His

knowledge surveys past and future in the timelessness of an eternal

present. His foreseeing is seeing. Yet this foreseeing does not in

itself impose necessity, any more than our seeing things happen

makes their happening necessary. We may, however, if we please,

distinguish two necessities--one absolute, the other conditional on

knowledge. In this conditional sense alone do the things which God

foresees necessarily come to pass. But this kind of necessity

affects not the nature of things. It leaves the reality of free

will unimpaired, and the evils feared do not ensue. Our

responsibility is great, since all that we do is done in the sight

of all-seeing Providence.

I.

She ceased, and was about to pass on in her discourse to the exposition

of other matters, when I break in and say: 'Excellent is thine

exhortation, and such as well beseemeth thy high authority; but I am

even now experiencing one of the many difficulties which, as thou saidst

but now, beset the question of providence. I want to know whether thou

deemest that there is any such thing as chance at all, and, if so, what

it is.'

Then she made answer: 'I am anxious to fulfil my promise completely, and

open to thee a way of return to thy native land. As for these matters,

though very useful to know, they are yet a little removed from the path

of our design, and I fear lest digressions should fatigue thee, and thou

shouldst find thyself unequal to completing the direct journey to our

goal.'

'Have no fear for that,' said I. 'It is rest to me to learn, where

learning brings delight so exquisite, especially when thy argument has

been built up on all sides with undoubted conviction, and no place is

left for uncertainty in what follows.'

She made answer: 'I will accede to thy request;' and forthwith she thus

began: 'If chance be defined as a result produced by random movement

without any link of causal connection, I roundly affirm that there is no

such thing as chance at all, and consider the word to be altogether

without meaning, except as a symbol of the thing designated. What place

can be left for random action, when God constraineth all things to

order? For "ex nihilo nihil" is sound doctrine which none of the

ancients gainsaid, although they used it of material substance, not of

the efficient principle; this they laid down as a kind of basis for all

their reasonings concerning nature. Now, if a thing arise without

causes, it will appear to have arisen from nothing. But if this cannot

be, neither is it possible for there to be chance in accordance with the

definition just given.'

'Well,' said I, 'is there, then, nothing which can properly be called

chance or accident, or is there something to which these names are

appropriate, though its nature is dark to the vulgar?'

'Our good Aristotle,' says she, 'has defined it concisely in his

"Physics," and closely in accordance with the truth.'

'How, pray?' said I.

'Thus,' says she: 'Whenever something is done for the sake of a

particular end, and for certain reasons some other result than that

designed ensues, this is called chance; for instance, if a man is

digging the earth for tillage, and finds a mass of buried gold. Now,

such a find is regarded as accidental; yet it is not "ex nihilo," for it

has its proper causes, the unforeseen and unexpected concurrence of

which has brought the chance about. For had not the cultivator been

digging, had not the man who hid the money buried it in that precise

spot, the gold would not have been found. These, then, are the reasons

why the find is a chance one, in that it results from causes which met

together and concurred, not from any intention on the part of the

discoverer. Since neither he who buried the gold nor he who worked in

the field _intended_ that the money should be found, but, as I said, it

_happened_ by coincidence that one dug where the other buried the

treasure. We may, then, define chance as being an unexpected result

flowing from a concurrence of causes where the several factors had some

definite end. But the meeting and concurrence of these causes arises

from that inevitable chain of order which, flowing from the

fountain-head of Providence, disposes all things in their due time and

place.'

SONG I.

CHANCE.

In the rugged Persian highlands,

Where the masters of the bow

Skill to feign a flight, and, fleeing,

Hurl their darts and pierce the foe;

There the Tigris and Euphrates

At one source[O] their waters blend,

Soon to draw apart, and plainward

Each its separate way to wend.

When once more their waters mingle

In a channel deep and wide,

All the flotsam comes together

That is borne upon the tide:

Ships, and trunks of trees, uprooted

In the torrent's wild career,

Meet, as 'mid the swirling waters

Chance their random way may steer.

Yet the shelving of the channel

And the flowing water's force

Guides each movement, and determines

Every floating fragment's course.

Thus, where'er the drift of hazard

Seems most unrestrained to flow,

Chance herself is reined and bitted,

And the curb of law doth know.

FOOTNOTES:

[O] This is not, of course, literally true, though the Tigris and

Euphrates rise in the same mountain district.

II.

'I am following needfully,' said I, 'and I agree that it is as thou

sayest. But in this series of linked causes is there any freedom left to

our will, or does the chain of fate bind also the very motions of our

souls?'

'There is freedom,' said she; 'nor, indeed, can any creature be

rational, unless he be endowed with free will. For that which hath the

natural use of reason has the faculty of discriminative judgment, and of

itself distinguishes what is to be shunned or desired. Now, everyone

seeks what he judges desirable, and avoids what he thinks should be

shunned. Wherefore, beings endowed with reason possess also the faculty

of free choice and refusal. But I suppose this faculty not equal alike

in all. The higher Divine essences possess a clear-sighted judgment, an

uncorrupt will, and an effective power of accomplishing their wishes.

Human souls must needs be comparatively free while they abide in the

contemplation of the Divine mind, less free when they pass into bodily

form, and still less, again, when they are enwrapped in earthly members.

But when they are given over to vices, and fall from the possession of

their proper reason, then indeed their condition is utter slavery. For

when they let their gaze fall from the light of highest truth to the

lower world where darkness reigns, soon ignorance blinds their vision;

they are disturbed by baneful affections, by yielding and assenting to

which they help to promote the slavery in which they are involved, and

are in a manner led captive by reason of their very liberty. Yet He who

seeth all things from eternity beholdeth these things with the eyes of

His providence, and assigneth to each what is predestined for it by its

merits:

'"All things surveying, all things overhearing.'"

SONG II.

THE TRUE SUN.

Homer with mellifluous tongue

Phoebus' glorious light hath sung,

Hymning high his praise;

Yet _his_ feeble rays

Ocean's hollows may not brighten,

Nor earth's central gloom enlighten.

But the might of Him, who skilled

This great universe to build,

Is not thus confined;

Not earth's solid rind,

Nor night's blackest canopy,

Baffle His all-seeing eye.

All that is, hath been, shall be,

In one glance's compass, He

Limitless descries;

And, save His, no eyes

All the world survey--no, none!

_Him_, then, truly name the Sun.

III.

Then said I: 'But now I am once more perplexed by a problem yet more

difficult.'

'And what is that?' said she; 'yet, in truth, I can guess what it is

that troubles you.'

'It seems,' said I, 'too much of a paradox and a contradiction that God

should know all things, and yet there should be free will. For if God

foresees everything, and can in no wise be deceived, that which

providence foresees to be about to happen must necessarily come to pass.

Wherefore, if from eternity He foreknows not only what men will do, but

also their designs and purposes, there can be no freedom of the will,

seeing that nothing can be done, nor can any sort of purpose be

entertained, save such as a Divine providence, incapable of being

deceived, has perceived beforehand. For if the issues can be turned

aside to some other end than that foreseen by providence, there will not

then be any sure foreknowledge of the future, but uncertain conjecture

instead, and to think this of God I deem impiety.

'Moreover, I do not approve the reasoning by which some think to solve

this puzzle. For they say that it is not because God has foreseen the

coming of an event that _therefore_ it is sure to come to pass, but,

conversely, because something is about to come to pass, it cannot be

hidden from Divine providence; and accordingly the necessity passes to

the opposite side, and it is not that what is foreseen must necessarily

come to pass, but that what is about to come to pass must necessarily be

foreseen. But this is just as if the matter in debate were, which is

cause and which effect--whether foreknowledge of the future cause of the

necessity, or the necessity of the future of the foreknowledge. But we

need not be at the pains of demonstrating that, whatsoever be the order

of the causal sequence, the occurrence of things foreseen is necessary,

even though the foreknowledge of future events does not in itself

impose upon them the necessity of their occurrence. For example, if a

man be seated, the supposition of his being seated is necessarily true;

and, conversely, if the supposition of his being seated is true, because

he is really seated, he must necessarily be sitting. So, in either case,

there is some necessity involved--in this latter case, the necessity of

the fact; in the former, of the truth of the statement. But in both

cases the sitter is not therefore seated because the opinion is true,

but rather the opinion is true because antecedently he was sitting as a

matter of fact. Thus, though the cause of the truth of the opinion comes

from the other side,[P] yet there is a necessity on both sides alike. We

can obviously reason similarly in the case of providence and the future.

Even if future events are foreseen because they are about to happen, and

do not come to pass because they are foreseen, still, all the same,

there is a necessity, both that they should be foreseen by God as about

to come to pass, and that when they are foreseen they should happen, and

this is sufficient for the destruction of free will. However, it is

preposterous to speak of the occurrence of events in time as the cause

of eternal foreknowledge. And yet if we believe that God foresees future

events because they are about to come to pass, what is it but to think

that the occurrence of events is the cause of His supreme providence?

Further, just as when I _know_ that anything is, that thing

_necessarily_ is, so when I know that anything will be, it will

_necessarily_ be. It follows, then, that things foreknown come to pass

inevitably.

'Lastly, to think of a thing as being in any way other than what it is,

is not only not knowledge, but it is false opinion widely different from

the truth of knowledge. Consequently, if anything is about to be, and

yet its occurrence is not certain and necessary, how can anyone foreknow

that it will occur? For just as knowledge itself is free from all

admixture of falsity, so any conception drawn from knowledge cannot be

other than as it is conceived. For this, indeed, is the cause why

knowledge is free from falsehood, because of necessity each thing must

correspond exactly with the knowledge which grasps its nature. In what

way, then, are we to suppose that God foreknows these uncertainties as

about to come to pass? For if He thinks of events which possibly may not

happen at all as inevitably destined to come to pass, He is deceived;

and this it is not only impious to believe, but even so much as to

express in words. If, on the other hand, He sees them in the future as

they are in such a sense as to know that they may equally come to pass

or not, what sort of foreknowledge is this which comprehends nothing

certain nor fixed? What better is this than the absurd vaticination of

Teiresias?

'"Whate'er I say

Shall either come to pass--or not."

In that case, too, in what would Divine providence surpass human opinion

if it holds for uncertain things the occurrence of which is uncertain,

even as men do? But if at that perfectly sure Fountain-head of all

things no shadow of uncertainty can possibly be found, then the

occurrence of those things which He has surely foreknown as coming is

certain. Wherefore there can be no freedom in human actions and designs;

but the Divine mind, which foresees all things without possibility of

mistake, ties and binds them down to one only issue. But this admission

once made, what an upset of human affairs manifestly ensues! Vainly are

rewards and punishments proposed for the good and bad, since no free and

voluntary motion of the will has deserved either one or the other; nay,

the punishment of the wicked and the reward of the righteous, which is

now esteemed the perfection of justice, will seem the most flagrant

injustice, since men are determined either way not by their own proper

volition, but by the necessity of what must surely be. And therefore

neither virtue nor vice is anything, but rather good and ill desert are

confounded together without distinction. Moreover, seeing that the whole

course of events is deduced from providence, and nothing is left free to

human design, it comes to pass that our vices also are referred to the

Author of all good--a thought than which none more abominable can

possibly be conceived. Again, no ground is left for hope or prayer,

since how can we hope for blessings, or pray for mercy, when every

object of desire depends upon the links of an unalterable chain of

causation? Gone, then, is the one means of intercourse between God and

man--the communion of hope and prayer--if it be true that we ever earn

the inestimable recompense of the Divine favour at the price of a due

humility; for this is the one way whereby men seem able to hold

communion with God, and are joined to that unapproachable light by the

very act of supplication, even before they obtain their petitions. Then,

since these things can scarcely be believed to have any efficacy, if the

necessity of future events be admitted, what means will there be whereby

we may be brought near and cleave to Him who is the supreme Head of all?

Wherefore it needs must be that the human race, even as thou didst

erstwhile declare in song, parted and dissevered from its Source, should

fall to ruin.'

FOOTNOTES:

[P] _I.e._, the necessity of the truth of the statement from the fact.

SONG III.

TRUTH'S PARADOXES.

Why does a strange discordance break

The ordered scheme's fair harmony?

Hath God decreed 'twixt truth and truth

There may such lasting warfare be,

That truths, each severally plain,

We strive to reconcile in vain?

Or is the discord not in truth,

Since truth is self consistent ever?

But, close in fleshly wrappings held,

The blinded mind of man can never

Discern--so faint her taper shines--

The subtle chain that all combines?

Ah! then why burns man's restless mind

Truth's hidden portals to unclose?

Knows he already what he seeks?

Why toil to seek it, if he knows?

Yet, haply if he knoweth not,

Why blindly seek he knows not what?[Q]

Who for a good he knows not sighs?

Who can an unknown end pursue?

How find? How e'en when haply found

Hail that strange form he never knew?

Or is it that man's inmost soul

Once knew each part and knew the whole?

Now, though by fleshly vapours dimmed,

Not all forgot her visions past;

For while the several parts are lost,

To the one whole she cleaveth fast;

Whence he who yearns the truth to find

Is neither sound of sight nor blind.

For neither does he know in full,

Nor is he reft of knowledge quite;

But, holding still to what is left,

He gropes in the uncertain light,

And by the part that still survives

To win back all he bravely strives.

FOOTNOTES:

[Q] Compare Plato, 'Meno,' 80; Jowett, vol. ii., pp. 39, 40.

IV.

Then said she: 'This debate about providence is an old one, and is

vigorously discussed by Cicero in his "Divination"; thou also hast long

and earnestly pondered the problem, yet no one has had diligence and

perseverance enough to find a solution. And the reason of this obscurity

is that the movement of human reasoning cannot cope with the simplicity

of the Divine foreknowledge; for if a conception of its nature could in

any wise be framed, no shadow of uncertainty would remain. With a view

of making this at last clear and plain, I will begin by considering the

arguments by which thou art swayed. First, I inquire into the reasons

why thou art dissatisfied with the solution proposed, which is to the

effect that, seeing the fact of foreknowledge is not thought the cause

of the necessity of future events, foreknowledge is not to be deemed any

hindrance to the freedom of the will. Now, surely the sole ground on

which thou arguest the necessity of the future is that things which are

foreknown cannot fail to come to pass. But if, as thou wert ready to

acknowledge just now, the fact of foreknowledge imposes no necessity on

things future, what reason is there for supposing the results of

voluntary action constrained to a fixed issue? Suppose, for the sake of

argument, and to see what follows, we assume that there is no

foreknowledge. Are willed actions, then, tied down to any necessity in

_this_ case?'

'Certainly not.'

'Let us assume foreknowledge again, but without its involving any actual

necessity; the freedom of the will, I imagine, will remain in complete

integrity. But thou wilt say that, even although the foreknowledge is

not the necessity of the future event's occurrence, yet it is a sign

that it will necessarily happen. Granted; but in this case it is plain

that, even if there had been no foreknowledge, the issues would have

been inevitably certain. For a sign only indicates something which is,

does not bring to pass that of which it is the sign. We require to show

beforehand that all things, without exception, happen of necessity in

order that a preconception may be a sign of this necessity. Otherwise,

if there is no such universal necessity, neither can any preconception

be a sign of a necessity which exists not. Manifestly, too, a proof

established on firm grounds of reason must be drawn not from signs and

loose general arguments, but from suitable and necessary causes. But how

can it be that things foreseen should ever fail to come to pass? Why,

this is to suppose us to believe that the events which providence

foresees to be coming were not about to happen, instead of our supposing

that, although they should come to pass, yet there was no necessity

involved in their own nature compelling their occurrence. Take an

illustration that will help to convey my meaning. There are many things

which we see taking place before our eyes--the movements of charioteers,

for instance, in guiding and turning their cars, and so on. Now, is any

one of these movements compelled by any necessity?'

'No; certainly not. There would be no efficacy in skill if all motions

took place perforce.'

'Then, things which in taking place are free from any necessity as to

their being in the present must also, before they take place, be about

to happen without necessity. Wherefore there are things which will come

to pass, the occurrence of which is perfectly free from necessity. At

all events, I imagine that no one will deny that things now taking place

were about to come to pass before they were actually happening. Such

things, however much foreknown, are in their occurrence _free_. For even

as knowledge of things present imports no necessity into things that are

taking place, so foreknowledge of the future imports none into things

that are about to come. But this, thou wilt say, is the very point in

dispute--whether any foreknowing is possible of things whose occurrence

is not necessary. For here there seems to thee a contradiction, and, if

they are foreseen, their necessity follows; whereas if there is no

necessity, they can by no means be foreknown; and thou thinkest that

nothing can be grasped as known unless it is certain, but if things

whose occurrence is uncertain are foreknown as certain, this is the very

mist of opinion, not the truth of knowledge. For to think of things

otherwise than as they are, thou believest to be incompatible with the

soundness of knowledge.

'Now, the cause of the mistake is this--that men think that all

knowledge is cognized purely by the nature and efficacy of the thing

known. Whereas the case is the very reverse: all that is known is

grasped not conformably to its own efficacy, but rather conformably to

the faculty of the knower. An example will make this clear: the

roundness of a body is recognised in one way by sight, in another by

touch. Sight looks upon it from a distance as a whole by a simultaneous

reflection of rays; touch grasps the roundness piecemeal, by contact and

attachment to the surface, and by actual movement round the periphery

itself. Man himself, likewise, is viewed in one way by Sense, in another

by Imagination, in another way, again, by Thought, in another by pure

Intelligence. Sense judges figure clothed in material substance,

Imagination figure alone without matter. Thought transcends this again,

and by its contemplation of universals considers the type itself which

is contained in the individual. The eye of Intelligence is yet more

exalted; for overpassing the sphere of the universal, it will behold

absolute form itself by the pure force of the mind's vision. Wherein the

main point to be considered is this: the higher faculty of comprehension

embraces the lower, while the lower cannot rise to the higher. For Sense

has no efficacy beyond matter, nor can Imagination behold universal

ideas, nor Thought embrace pure form; but Intelligence, looking down, as

it were, from its higher standpoint in its intuition of form,

discriminates also the several elements which underlie it; but it

comprehends them in the same way as it comprehends that form itself,

which could be cognized by no other than itself. For it cognizes the

universal of Thought, the figure of Imagination, and the matter of

Sense, without employing Thought, Imagination, or Sense, but surveying

all things, so to speak, under the aspect of pure form by a single flash

of intuition. Thought also, in considering the universal, embraces

images and sense-impressions without resorting to Imagination or Sense.

For it is Thought which has thus defined the universal from its

conceptual point of view: "Man is a two-legged animal endowed with

reason." This is indeed a universal notion, yet no one is ignorant that

the _thing_ is imaginable and presentable to Sense, because Thought

considers it not by Imagination or Sense, but by means of rational

conception. Imagination, too, though its faculty of viewing and forming

representations is founded upon the senses, nevertheless surveys

sense-impressions without calling in Sense, not in the way of

Sense-perception, but of Imagination. See'st thou, then, how all things

in cognizing use rather their own faculty than the faculty of the things

which they cognize? Nor is this strange; for since every judgment is the

act of the judge, it is necessary that each should accomplish its task

by its own, not by another's power.'

SONG IV.

A PSYCHOLOGICAL FALLACY.[R]

From the Porch's murky depths

Comes a doctrine sage,

That doth liken living mind

To a written page;

Since all knowledge comes through

Sense,

Graven by Experience.

'As,' say they, 'the pen its marks

Curiously doth trace

On the smooth unsullied white

Of the paper's face,

So do outer things impress

Images on consciousness.'

But if verily the mind

Thus all passive lies;

If no living power within

Its own force supplies;

If it but reflect again,

Like a glass, things false and vain--

Whence the wondrous faculty

That perceives and knows,

That in one fair ordered scheme

Doth the world dispose;

Grasps each whole that Sense presents,

Or breaks into elements?

So divides and recombines,

And in changeful wise

Now to low descends, and now

To the height doth rise;

Last in inward swift review

Strictly sifts the false and true?

Of these ample potencies

Fitter cause, I ween,

Were Mind's self than marks impressed

By the outer scene.

Yet the body through the sense

Stirs the soul's intelligence.

When light flashes on the eye,

Or sound strikes the ear,

Mind aroused to due response

Makes the message clear;

And the dumb external signs

With the hidden forms combines.

FOOTNOTES:

[R] A criticism of the doctrine of the mind as a blank sheet of paper on

which experience writes, as held by the Stoics in anticipation of Locke.

See Zeller, 'Stoics, Epicureans, and Sceptics,' Reichel's translation,

p. 76.

V.

'Now, although in the case of bodies endowed with sentiency the

qualities of external objects affect the sense-organs, and the activity

of mind is preceded by a bodily affection which calls forth the mind's

action upon itself, and stimulates the forms till that moment lying

inactive within, yet, I say, if in these bodies endowed with sentiency

the mind is not inscribed by mere passive affection, but of its own

efficacy discriminates the impressions furnished to the body, how much

more do intelligences free from all bodily affections employ in their

discrimination their own mental activities instead of conforming to

external objects? So on these principles various modes of cognition

belong to distinct and different substances. For to creatures void of

motive power--shell-fish and other such creatures which cling to rocks

and grow there--belongs Sense alone, void of all other modes of gaining

knowledge; to beasts endowed with movement, in whom some capacity of

seeking and shunning seems to have arisen, Imagination also. Thought

pertains only to the human race, as Intelligence to Divinity alone;

hence it follows that that form of knowledge exceeds the rest which of

its own nature cognizes not only its proper object, but the objects of

the other forms of knowledge also. But what if Sense and Imagination

were to gainsay Thought, and declare that universal which Thought deems

itself to behold to be nothing? For the object of Sense and Imagination

cannot be universal; so that either the judgment of Reason is true and

there is no sense-object, or, since they know full well that many

objects are presented to Sense and Imagination, the conception of

Reason, which looks on that which is perceived by Sense and particular

as if it were a something "universal," is empty of content. Suppose,

further, that Reason maintains in reply that it does indeed contemplate

the object of both Sense and Imagination under the form of

universality, while Sense and Imagination cannot aspire to the

knowledge of the universal, since their cognizance cannot go beyond

bodily figures, and that in the cognition of reality we ought rather to

trust the stronger and more perfect faculty of judgment. In a dispute of

this sort, should not we, in whom is planted the faculty of reasoning as

well as of imagining and perceiving, espouse the cause of Reason?

'In like manner is it that human reason thinks that Divine Intelligence

cannot see the future except after the fashion in which its own

knowledge is obtained. For thy contention is, if events do not appear to

involve certain and necessary issues, they cannot be foreseen as

certainly about to come to pass. There is, then, no foreknowledge of

such events; or, if we can ever bring ourselves to believe that there

is, there can be nothing which does not happen of necessity. If,

however, we could have some part in the judgment of the Divine mind,

even as we participate in Reason, we should think it perfectly just that

human Reason should submit itself to the Divine mind, no less than we

judged that Imagination and Sense ought to yield to Reason. Wherefore

let us soar, if we can, to the heights of that Supreme Intelligence; for

there Reason will see what in itself it cannot look upon; and that is in

what way things whose occurrence is not certain may yet be seen in a

sure and definite foreknowledge; and that this foreknowledge is not

conjecture, but rather knowledge in its supreme simplicity, free of all

limits and restrictions.'

SONG V.

THE UPWARD LOOK.

In what divers shapes and fashions do the creatures great and small

Over wide earth's teeming surface skim, or scud, or walk, or crawl!

Some with elongated body sweep the ground, and, as they move,

Trail perforce with writhing belly in the dust a sinuous groove;

Some, on light wing upward soaring, swiftly do the winds divide,

And through heaven's ample spaces in free motion smoothly glide;

These earth's solid surface pressing, with firm paces onward rove,

Ranging through the verdant meadows, crouching in the woodland grove.

Great and wondrous is their variance! Yet in all the head low-bent

Dulls the soul and blunts the senses, though their forms be different.

Man alone, erect, aspiring, lifts his forehead to the skies,

And in upright posture steadfast seems earth's baseness to despise.

If with earth not all besotted, to this parable give ear,

Thou whose gaze is fixed on heaven, who thy face on high dost rear:

Lift thy soul, too, heavenward; haply lest it stain its heavenly worth,

And thine eyes alone look upward, while thy mind cleaves to the earth!

VI.

'Since, then, as we lately proved, everything that is known is cognized

not in accordance with its own nature, but in accordance with the nature

of the faculty that comprehends it, let us now contemplate, as far as

lawful, the character of the Divine essence, that we may be able to

understand also the nature of its knowledge.

'God is eternal; in this judgment all rational beings agree. Let us,

then, consider what eternity is. For this word carries with it a

revelation alike of the Divine nature and of the Divine knowledge. Now,

eternity is the possession of endless life whole and perfect at a single

moment. What this is becomes more clear and manifest from a comparison

with things temporal. For whatever lives in time is a present proceeding

from the past to the future, and there is nothing set in time which can

embrace the whole space of its life together. To-morrow's state it

grasps not yet, while it has already lost yesterday's; nay, even in the

life of to-day ye live no longer than one brief transitory moment.

Whatever, therefore, is subject to the condition of time, although, as

Aristotle deemed of the world, it never have either beginning or end,

and its life be stretched to the whole extent of time's infinity, it yet

is not such as rightly to be thought eternal. For it does not include

and embrace the whole space of infinite life at once, but has no present

hold on things to come, not yet accomplished. Accordingly, that which

includes and possesses the whole fulness of unending life at once, from

which nothing future is absent, from which nothing past has escaped,

this is rightly called eternal; this must of necessity be ever present

to itself in full self-possession, and hold the infinity of movable time

in an abiding present. Wherefore they deem not rightly who imagine that

on Plato's principles the created world is made co-eternal with the

Creator, because they are told that he believed the world to have had

no beginning in time,[S] and to be destined never to come to an end. For

it is one thing for existence to be endlessly prolonged, which was what

Plato ascribed to the world, another for the whole of an endless life to

be embraced in the present, which is manifestly a property peculiar to

the Divine mind. Nor need God appear earlier in mere duration of time to

created things, but only prior in the unique simplicity of His nature.

For the infinite progression of things in time copies this immediate

existence in the present of the changeless life, and when it cannot

succeed in equalling it, declines from movelessness into motion, and

falls away from the simplicity of a perpetual present to the infinite

duration of the future and the past; and since it cannot possess the

whole fulness of its life together, for the very reason that in a manner

it never ceases to be, it seems, up to a certain point, to rival that

which it cannot complete and express by attaching itself indifferently

to any present moment of time, however swift and brief; and since this

bears some resemblance to that ever-abiding present, it bestows on

everything to which it is assigned the semblance of existence. But since

it cannot abide, it hurries along the infinite path of time, and the

result has been that it continues by ceaseless movement the life the

completeness of which it could not embrace while it stood still. So, if

we are minded to give things their right names, we shall follow Plato in

saying that God indeed is eternal, but the world everlasting.

'Since, then, every mode of judgment comprehends its objects conformably

to its own nature, and since God abides for ever in an eternal present,

His knowledge, also transcending all movement of time, dwells in the

simplicity of its own changeless present, and, embracing the whole

infinite sweep of the past and of the future, contemplates all that

falls within its simple cognition as if it were now taking place. And

therefore, if thou wilt carefully consider that immediate presentment

whereby it discriminates all things, thou wilt more rightly deem it not

foreknowledge as of something future, but knowledge of a moment that

never passes. For this cause the name chosen to describe it is not

prevision, but providence, because, since utterly removed in nature from

things mean and trivial, its outlook embraces all things as from some

lofty height. Why, then, dost thou insist that the things which are

surveyed by the Divine eye are involved in necessity, whereas clearly

men impose no necessity on things which they see? Does the act of vision

add any necessity to the things which thou seest before thy eyes?'

'Assuredly not.'

'And yet, if we may without unfitness compare God's present and man's,

just as ye see certain things in this your temporary present, so does He

see all things in His eternal present. Wherefore this Divine

anticipation changes not the natures and properties of things, and it

beholds things present before it, just as they will hereafter come to

pass in time. Nor does it confound things in its judgment, but in the

one mental view distinguishes alike what will come necessarily and what

without necessity. For even as ye, when at one and the same time ye see

a man walking on the earth and the sun rising in the sky, distinguish

between the two, though one glance embraces both, and judge the former

voluntary, the latter necessary action: so also the Divine vision in its

universal range of view does in no wise confuse the characters of the

things which are present to its regard, though future in respect of

time. Whence it follows that when it perceives that something will come

into existence, and yet is perfectly aware that this is unbound by any

necessity, its apprehension is not opinion, but rather knowledge based

on truth. And if to this thou sayest that what God sees to be about to

come to pass cannot fail to come to pass, and that what cannot fail to

come to pass happens of necessity, and wilt tie me down to this word

necessity, I will acknowledge that thou affirmest a most solid truth,

but one which scarcely anyone can approach to who has not made the

Divine his special study. For my answer would be that the same future

event is necessary from the standpoint of Divine knowledge, but when

considered in its own nature it seems absolutely free and unfettered.

So, then, there are two necessities--one simple, as that men are

necessarily mortal; the other conditioned, as that, if you know that

someone is walking, he must necessarily be walking. For that which is

known cannot indeed be otherwise than as it is known to be, and yet this

fact by no means carries with it that other simple necessity. For the

former necessity is not imposed by the thing's own proper nature, but by

the addition of a condition. No necessity compels one who is voluntarily

walking to go forward, although it is necessary for him to go forward at

the moment of walking. In the same way, then, if Providence sees

anything as present, that must necessarily be, though it is bound by no

necessity of nature. Now, God views as present those coming events which

happen of free will. These, accordingly, from the standpoint of the

Divine vision are made necessary conditionally on the Divine

cognizance; viewed, however, in themselves, they desist not from the

absolute freedom naturally theirs. Accordingly, without doubt, all

things will come to pass which God foreknows as about to happen, but of

these certain proceed of free will; and though these happen, yet by the

fact of their existence they do not lose their proper nature, in virtue

of which before they happened it was really possible that they might not

have come to pass.

'What difference, then, does the denial of necessity make, since,

through their being conditioned by Divine knowledge, they come to pass

as if they were in all respects under the compulsion of necessity? This

difference, surely, which we saw in the case of the instances I formerly

took, the sun's rising and the man's walking; which at the moment of

their occurrence could not but be taking place, and yet one of them

before it took place was necessarily obliged to be, while the other was

not so at all. So likewise the things which to God are present without

doubt exist, but some of them come from the necessity of things, others

from the power of the agent. Quite rightly, then, have we said that

these things are necessary if viewed from the standpoint of the Divine

knowledge; but if they are considered in themselves, they are free from

the bonds of necessity, even as everything which is accessible to sense,

regarded from the standpoint of Thought, is universal, but viewed in its

own nature particular. "But," thou wilt say, "if it is in my power to

change my purpose, I shall make void providence, since I shall perchance

change something which comes within its foreknowledge." My answer is:

Thou canst indeed turn aside thy purpose; but since the truth of

providence is ever at hand to see that thou canst, and whether thou

dost, and whither thou turnest thyself, thou canst not avoid the Divine

foreknowledge, even as thou canst not escape the sight of a present

spectator, although of thy free will thou turn thyself to various

actions. Wilt thou, then, say: "Shall the Divine knowledge be changed at

my discretion, so that, when I will this or that, providence changes its

knowledge correspondingly?"

'Surely not.'

'True, for the Divine vision anticipates all that is coming, and

transforms and reduces it to the form of its own present knowledge, and

varies not, as thou deemest, in its foreknowledge, alternating to this

or that, but in a single flash it forestalls and includes thy mutations

without altering. And this ever-present comprehension and survey of all

things God has received, not from the issue of future events, but from

the simplicity of His own nature. Hereby also is resolved the objection

which a little while ago gave thee offence--that our doings in the

future were spoken of as if supplying the cause of God's knowledge. For

this faculty of knowledge, embracing all things in its immediate

cognizance, has itself fixed the bounds of all things, yet itself owes

nothing to what comes after.

'And all this being so, the freedom of man's will stands unshaken, and

laws are not unrighteous, since their rewards and punishments are held

forth to wills unbound by any necessity. God, who foreknoweth all

things, still looks down from above, and the ever-present eternity of

His vision concurs with the future character of all our acts, and

dispenseth to the good rewards, to the bad punishments. Our hopes and

prayers also are not fixed on God in vain, and when they are rightly

directed cannot fail of effect. Therefore, withstand vice, practise

virtue, lift up your souls to right hopes, offer humble prayers to

Heaven. Great is the necessity of righteousness laid upon you if ye will

not hide it from yourselves, seeing that all your actions are done

before the eyes of a Judge who seeth all things.'

FOOTNOTES:

[S] Plato expressly states the opposite in the 'Timæus' (28B), though

possibly there the account of the beginning of the world in time is to

be understood figuratively, not literally. See Jowett, vol. iii., pp.

448, 449 (3rd edit.).

EPILOGUE.

Within a short time of writing 'The Consolation of Philosophy,' Boethius

died by a cruel death. As to the manner of his death there is some

uncertainty. According to one account, he was cut down by the swords of

the soldiers before the very judgment-seat of Theodoric; according to

another, a cord was first fastened round his forehead, and tightened

till 'his eyes started'; he was then killed with a club.

_Elliot Stock, Paternoster Row, London_

REFERENCES TO QUOTATIONS IN THE TEXT.

Bk. I., ch. iv., p. 17, l. 6: 'Iliad,' I. 363.

" ch. iv., p. 18, l. 7: Plato, 'Republic,'

V. 473, D; Jowett, vol. iii., pp. 170, 171

(3rd edit.).

" ch. iv., p. 22, l. 6: Plato, 'Republic,'

I. 347, C; Jowett, III., p. 25.

" ch. v., p. 30, l. 19: 'Iliad,' II., 204, 205.

Bk. II., ch. ii., p. 50, l. 21: 'Iliad.' XXIV.

527, 528.

" ch. vii., p. 78, l. 25: Cicero, 'De

Republicâ,' VI. 20, in the 'Somnium

Scipionis.'

Bk. III., ch. iv., p. 106, l. 10: Catullus, LII., 2.

" ch. vi., p. 114, l. 4: Euripides, 'Andromache,'

319, 320.

" ch. ix., p. 129, l. 3: Plato, 'Timæus,'

27, C; Jowett, vol. iii., p. 448.

" ch. xii., p. 157, l. 14: Quoted Plato,

'Sophistes,' 244, E; Jowett, vol. iv.,

p. 374.

" ch. xii., p. 157, l. 22: Plato, 'Timæus,'

29, B; Jowett, vol. iii., p. 449.

Bk. IV., ch. vi., p. 206, l. 17: Lucan, 'Pharsalia,'

I. 126.

" ch. vi., p. 210, l. 23: 'Iliad,' XII. 176.

Bk. V., ch. i., p. 227,l. 16: Aristotle, 'Physics,'

II. v. 5.

" ch. iii., p. 238, l. 20: Horace, 'Satires,'

II. v. 59.

" ch. iv., p. 243, l. 3: Cicero, 'De Divinatione,'

II. 7, 8.

" ch. vi., p. 258, l. 8: Aristotle, 'De

Cælo,' II. 1.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Consolation of Philosophy, by Boethius