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Title: The Consolation of Philosophy

Author: Boethius

Translator: H. R. James

Release date: December 11, 2004 [eBook #14328]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14328

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY ***

[Greek:
homôs de kai en toutois dialampei to kalon,
epeidan pherê tis eukolôs pollas kai megalas
atychias, mê di analgêsian, alla gennadas
ôn kai megalopsychos.]

Aristotle's 'Ethics,' I., xi. 12.

[Illustration: Diptych representing Narius Manlius Boethius, father of
Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius. The inscription in full would run
thus:--

NARIVS MANLIVS BOETHIVS VIR CLARISSIMVS ET INLVSTRIS
EXPRAEFECTVS PRAETORIO PRAEFECTVS VRBIS ET
COMES CONSVL ORDINARIVS ET PARTICIVS

(_For description vid. Preface, p. vi_)]

THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY OF BOETHIUS.

Translated into English Prose and Verse

by

H.R. JAMES, M.A., CH. CH. OXFORD.

Quantumlibet igitur sæviant mali, sapienti tamen corona non
decidet, non arescet.

Melioribus animum conformaveris, nihil opus est judice præmium
deferente, tu te ipse excellentioribus addidisti; studium ad pejora
deflexeris, extra ne quæsieris ultorem, tu te ipse in deteriora
trusisti.

LONDON:
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW.

1897.

PREFACE.

The book called 'The Consolation of Philosophy' was throughout the
Middle Ages, and down to the beginnings of the modern epoch in the
sixteenth century, the scholar's familiar companion. Few books have
exercised a wider influence in their time. It has been translated into
every European tongue, and into English nearly a dozen times, from King
Alfred's paraphrase to the translations of Lord Preston, Causton,
Ridpath, and Duncan, in the eighteenth century. The belief that what
once pleased so widely must still have some charm is my excuse for
attempting the present translation. The great work of Boethius, with its
alternate prose and verse, skilfully fitted together like dialogue and
chorus in a Greek play, is unique in literature, and has a pathetic
interest from the time and circumstances of its composition. It ought
not to be forgotten. Those who can go to the original will find their
reward. There may be room also for a new translation in English after an
interval of close on a hundred years.

Some of the editions contain a reproduction of a bust purporting to
represent Boethius. Lord Preston's translation, for example, has such a
portrait, which it refers to an original in marble at Rome. This I have
been unable to trace, and suspect that it is apocryphal. The Hope
Collection at Oxford contains a completely different portrait in a
print, which gives no authority. I have ventured to use as a
frontispiece a reproduction from a plaster-cast in the Ashmolean Museum,
taken from an ivory diptych preserved in the Bibliotheca Quiriniana at
Brescia, which represents Narius Manlius Boethius, the father of the
philosopher. Portraiture of this period is so rare that it seemed that,
failing a likeness of the author himself, this authentic representation
of his father might have interest, as giving the consular dress and
insignia of the time, and also as illustrating the decadence of
contemporary art. The consul wears a richly-embroidered cloak; his right
hand holds a staff surmounted by the Roman eagle, his left the _mappa
circensis,_ or napkin used for starting the races in the circus; at his
feet are palms and bags of money--prizes for the victors in the games.
For permission to use this cast my thanks are due to the authorities of
the Ashmolean Museum, as also to Mr. T.W. Jackson, Curator of the Hope
Collection, who first called my attention to its existence.

I have to thank my brother, Mr. L. James, of Radley College, for much
valuable help and for correcting the proof-sheets of the translation.
The text used is that of Peiper, Leipsic, 1874.

PROEM.

Anicus Manlius Severinus Boethius lived in the last quarter of the fifth
century A.D., and the first quarter of the sixth. He was growing to
manhood, when Theodoric, the famous Ostrogoth, crossed the Alps and made
himself master of Italy. Boethius belonged to an ancient family, which
boasted a connection with the legendary glories of the Republic, and was
still among the foremost in wealth and dignity in the days of Rome's
abasement. His parents dying early, he was brought up by Symmachus, whom
the age agreed to regard as of almost saintly character, and afterwards
became his son-in-law. His varied gifts, aided by an excellent
education, won for him the reputation of the most accomplished man of
his time. He was orator, poet, musician, philosopher. It is his peculiar
distinction to have handed on to the Middle Ages the tradition of Greek
philosophy by his Latin translations of the works of Aristotle. Called
early to a public career, the highest honours of the State came to him
unsought. He was sole Consul in 510 A.D., and was ultimately raised by
Theodoric to the dignity of Magister Officiorum, or head of the whole
civil administration. He was no less happy in his domestic life, in the
virtues of his wife, Rusticiana, and the fair promise of his two sons,
Symmachus and Boethius; happy also in the society of a refined circle of
friends. Noble, wealthy, accomplished, universally esteemed for his
virtues, high in the favour of the Gothic King, he appeared to all men a
signal example of the union of merit and good fortune. His felicity
seemed to culminate in the year 522 A.D., when, by special and
extraordinary favour, his two sons, young as they were for so exalted an
honour, were created joint Consuls and rode to the senate-house
attended by a throng of senators, and the acclamations of the multitude.
Boethius himself, amid the general applause, delivered the public speech
in the King's honour usual on such occasions. Within a year he was a
solitary prisoner at Pavia, stripped of honours, wealth, and friends,
with death hanging over him, and a terror worse than death, in the fear
lest those dearest to him should be involved in the worst results of his
downfall. It is in this situation that the opening of the 'Consolation
of Philosophy' brings Boethius before us. He represents himself as
seated in his prison distraught with grief, indignant at the injustice
of his misfortunes, and seeking relief for his melancholy in writing
verses descriptive of his condition. Suddenly there appears to him the
Divine figure of Philosophy, in the guise of a woman of superhuman
dignity and beauty, who by a succession of discourses convinces him of
the vanity of regret for the lost gifts of fortune, raises his mind once
more to the contemplation of the true good, and makes clear to him the
mystery of the world's moral government.

INDEX

OF

VERSE INTERLUDES.

BOOK I.
THE SORROWS OF BOETHIUS.

SONG PAGE
I. BOETHIUS' COMPLAINT 3
II. HIS DESPONDENCY 9
III. THE MISTS DISPELLED 12
IV. NOTHING CAN SUBDUE VIRTUE 16
V. BOETHIUS' PRAYER 27
VI. ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR NEEDFUL ORDER 33
VII. THE PERTURBATIONS OF PASSION 38

BOOK II.
THE VANITY OF FORTUNE'S GIFTS.

I. FORTUNE'S MALICE 47
II. MAN'S COVETOUSNESS 51
III. ALL PASSES 55
IV. THE GOLDEN MEAN 62
V. THE FORMER AGE 70
VI. NERO'S INFAMY 76
VII. GLORY MAY NOT LAST 82
VIII. LOVE IS LORD OF ALL 85

BOOK III.
TRUE HAPPINESS AND FALSE.

I. THE THORNS OF ERROR 93
II. THE BENT OF NATURE 99
III. THE INSATIABLENESS OK AVARICE 105
IV. DISGRACE OF HONOURS CONFERRED BY A TYRANT 109
V. SELF-MASTERY 113
VI. TRUE NOBILITY 116
VII. PLEASURE'S STING 118
VIII. HUMAN FOLLY 121
IX. INVOCATION 130
X. THE TRUE LIGHT 141
XI. REMINISCENCE 150
XII. ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE 158

BOOK IV.
GOOD AND ILL FORTUNE.

I. THE SOUL'S FLIGHT 166
II. THE BONDAGE OF PASSION 177
III. CIRCE'S CUP 182
IV. THE UNREASONABLENESS OF HATRED 194
V. WONDER AND IGNORANCE 197
VI. THE UNIVERSAL AIM 212
VII. THE HERO'S PATH 219

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.
Some