BOOK V.

FREE WILL AND GOD'S FOREKNOWLEDGE.

I. CHANCE 229

II. THE TRUE SUN 233

III. TRUTH'S PARADOXES 241

IV. A PSYCHOLOGICAL FALLACY 250

V. THE UPWARD LOOK 255

BOOK I.

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.

BOOK I.

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.

BOOK II.

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.

BOOK II.

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!

BOOK III.

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.

BOOK III.

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.'