Book: The Consolation of Philosophy

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[Greek:
homos de kai en toutois dialampei to kalon,
epeidan phere tis eukolos pollas kai megalas
atychias, me di analgesian, alla gennadas
on 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 saeviant mali, sapienti tamen corona non
decidet, non arescet.

Melioribus animum conformaveris, nihil opus est judice praemium
deferente, tu te ipse excellentioribus addidisti; studium ad pejora
deflexeris, extra ne quaesieris 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 praetorian 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.

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